Through experience, I’ve learned not to talk about a project I’m working on, especially if it’s creative and especially if it’s my writing or another project that I want to see succeed.
Talking about the details jinxes the project into incompletion. Reason: It “feels done” to the brain. And once it’s “done”, the mind releases it, never to return to it. Detrimental for my creative endeavours that I hope will one day soar in the world on their own merits.
So the lid is not coming off.
However, past projects can be discussed. They’re completed and will probably never see the publishing light — they’re not ready and never will be. They were first novels. Practice runs, if you will. Tests to see if I could do it. Yep. I could and still can.
The first novel was about a group of young adults who found themselves thrown into anotgher world. They had to save it. And in the process, they discovered their true selves. Encounters with the enemy taught them much, as did the stresses they struggled through. Perhaps one of the most telling moments was the turning point in the main character’s journey.
For a first novel, it was complex and quite the sprawling mess. However, it is complete.
A few years ago, I wanted to revisit it and edit, but discovered a virus infecting it. I haven’t opened it since. It remains locked in a ZIP file. But, I don’t miss it. Maybe there are some unique perspectives in there, but because I wrote it, I still have those viewpoints.
Salvage the novel? No. It isn’t the type of novel I write any more. And at this point in tiem, I doubt I have the skill to truly bring it to llife. Better to let it sit as a silent tesimtony to the fact that I can write a novel of acceptable length. Its wordcount was approximately 100K.
The second novel I wrote came in at around 90K and was about vampires. It too centered on crossing worlds, but was much smaller in scope. There were still “save the world” elements but the plot was simpler. This one took less time to complete than the first one. But it was also messier. Reason: The beginnings of novel-writing burnout. I pushed on, finished it then stopped for a while. Afterwards, I wrote more novels. They’re all hiding from the world because none is ready, and never will be, to be publisihed. They all stand as silent evidence that I am capable.
And perhaps that is all I really need to believe: I am capable.