Woody

It’s no secret that writers are a finicky, superstitious, irritable, irascible bunch. I try not to play up this stereotype, and I do so mainly by keeping quiet about it while it’s going on. But yesterday was a bit more intense than others, and to some extent it was typical in a fashion that even while it’s going on I find comedic, so I’ll share. I finished the first edit of my novel last week, and this week began the second. The second goes like this. Each night I record myself reading a chapter in Garage Band. I transfer the file to my iPod and listen to it the next day while taking a walk. I try to hear things I want to tweak, outright change or just plain delete.

On Monday, I recorded chapter 1 and listened to it back on my Tuesday walk. “This is really good,” I thought. There were a few things I changed during the recording and a few more things I changed after listening to the playback, but overall I was pleased. On Tuesday, I recorded the second chapter and listened back on Wednesday. “Wow, these two chapters really move.” There are times as a writer when you return to something you wrote long ago, and it’s utter crap. There are other times when you go back and you’re kind of amazed you’d written certain passages, and on Tuesday this was the feeling I had. It wasn’t perfect yet. But I had a good feeling about the book. On Wednesday night, I recorded chapter three, and I listened to all three chapters played back during my walk on Thursday, and though nothing had really changed about the writing, my mood had shifted.

During the course of the week, I got two of those “Dear Writer” rejections most of us who submit know all too well. Like the journal just wants to send a message that your work is so bad they couldn’t be bothered to fill in the section of the CLMP submission manager that would automatically drop in your name. It was overcast, gray, rainy. And as I listened, walking, stopping every few feet to make a note about something I wanted to alter, I thought, “This is all garbage.” Like I said, nothing had changed but my mood. I was aware that my mood had shifted, but it’s still hard to correct my course, to step back and say, “This is the same material you were proud of yesterday.”

Then, of course, I returned to the office, and a friend who I’d asked to review a story wrote to me and said she had read it and would offer notes soon. And even though I’d given it to her with the exact intention of getting her honest reaction to help me make the story the best it could possibly be, in my current mood I was secretly like, “Couldn’t you just tell me it’s good and let it go at that?” But that’s mainly because that would be the easiest possible solution and then I wouldn’t have to put any more work on it, but in my right mind, I know that’s not what’s best for it.

To top it all off, I then returned home to discover I had received comp copies of a recent publication my story appeared in and opened it to find my story in the back and immediately told myself they put it there because they hate it. Which is obviously not true, and I know this. Editors don’t accept and publish work they hate. And even if placement is based on some kind of internal hierarchy, I still made the cut and should naturally feel grateful to be included, and the truth is I am. It’s just that this was one of those days where the dark side of my mood surfaces, and I can’t see the positive side of anything. I’m overthinking everything and drawing the most negative conclusions possible. When this happens, I usually just need to step back, get a few decent nights of sleep, and reassess things when I’m feeling stable again. I’m really not like this all the time. Really I’m not.