"There is an internal landscape, a geography of the soul; we search for its outlines all our lives."
It was this sentence that kick-started something—the need to write again.
After completing my last novel, a year-long labour of love followed by six months of intense editing with a professional, I thought I was finally ready for my breakthrough. I braced myself for the grueling process of submission, sending out my manuscript, synopsis, sample chapters etc, to literary agents. To my delight, I received four full manuscript requests.
I couldn’t believe it. This was it—my shot at literary stardom. I ran around the house, doing a victory dance, shouting praises to the heavens. At last, all the work, the hours, the tears—it was about to pay off.
But, of course, it’s never that simple.
The promised calls never materialised. Emails went unanswered. Days stretched into weeks, and weeks into months, until the excitement that had once fueled my optimism turned ice-cold. Glacial. It was as though my manuscript, and all the dreams attached to it, had vanished into the abyss.
I couldn’t just sit there, waiting and hoping anymore. The torment was unbearable. AGONY.
So... I began to write again with the itch to create something new.
My fingers flew to the keyboard, driven by the idea of a writer determined to succeed in today’s cutthroat world of publishing. I had the perfect concept, one that was fueled by my own experience, and what began as a burst of inspiration quickly took the shape of a new novel.
It started as a TV script, one I wrote in a course with @curtisbrownliteraryagnecy—because why not? If I was going to plunge into this, I might as well go big. I submitted the script to various outlets, but just like my novel before it, it disappeared into the ether of unanswered emails. Silence. Again.
So, I did what writers do best: I adapted. I turned the TV script into a full-length novel. A fire-breathing, all-guns-blazing work of genius.
Fueled by that same burning fury, I worked relentlessly. Six weeks of non-stop writing, day and night, and the first draft was done. I poured every bit of myself into it, channeling my bipolar gift to harness inspiration at breakneck speed. After weeks of bashing at the keys in a frenzy I have completed the first draft.
This novel comes before my "darling novel," the one currently sitting in the hands of four literary agents—who the hell knows what will happen there? But regardless, here I am with another completed work.
And it’s not just this one. That makes three complete novels on my laptop. Plus poetry and whatever else I've written and forgotten about.
This journey, as maddening as it has been, has taught me something invaluable: writing is not about waiting for the perfect moment, the perfect response, or the perfect opportunity. It’s about keeping that internal fire alive, even when the world goes cold around you. It's about creating, regardless of whether anyone is watching.
I have remembered why I want to do this - there is an indescribable feeling when you get to read your novel back for the first time. You get to the end and it's so moving that it makes you cry. You can't even see the screen for tears at times. No one could know this feeling except another writer. It's absolute bliss.
BUT, and its a big BUT for me - the crash. Working like I just have (seeing nobody, day and night thrashing at the keys, plotting, writing, crafting, THINKING) catches up. You finish - are elated, euphoric, and then comes the realisation that you are back in the literary trenches again, writing your synopsis and cover letter, blurb for the cover, researching agents.
I am now ill. I am thoroughly exhausted. I have gold on my laptop and there's no one at the end of this horrific marathon with a little bottle of water and a shiny metallic cape to throw round me. There's nothing.
My brain is exhausted, my body aches, my fingers feel numb with bashing in such a frenzy. I am now at serious risk of a complete and utter mental collapse!!! (I'm not going to have one as I know how to deal with it).
There will be no submissions, no work, no nothing for me now all this week. I am going to bed. I don't have any shame or guilt, I've worked like an absolute TROJAN... AGAIN!
I am going to see a friend in Spain the following week. I am going to do absolutely diddly squat.
Perhaps an agent will get back to me? I can then tell them about the other novels and everything else, tempting them with the thought that I am a cash cow, an undiscovered literary sensation waiting to be discovered and splattered on the page.
Whatever!
I need to sleep!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
TR
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