In the previous past, I shared I’d quit writing novels. Too many things compete for my attention to waste time on stories that never go anywhere. Maybe I’ll pick it up again when I retire.
At first, not writing was a relief. The pressure to produce was gone. I caught up on chores around the house, spruced up the yard, and watched a ton of television.
But quitting nagged at my conscience. In truth, I hadn’t quit writing novels. For some reason (or reasons), I couldn’t do it anymore. I had tried and tried until I finally just gave up.
What was going on? The possible causes I could identify made no sense. They weren’t new, and for the most part, had been around since I started writing — long before I’d finished my fourth novel. Something else was going on, but what?
Then it hit me. A burning desire to tell the story had carried me to “the end” of my published novels. My abandoned manuscripts lacked that passion. What story was I just dying to write?
For years I’ve wanted to write a trilogy loosely based on Glass Houses — my unpublished memoir. Senior editors with my publisher, however, said the three stories don’t fit with any of its imprints. When the owner concurred, I moved on. Personal relationships make staying with Dreamspinner a priority.
Could my inability to finish anything else be the Universe telling me to work on the trilogy? Or was I just a spoiled brat who’s pissed because I didn’t get what I wanted? Either way, returning to the trilogy seemed the thing to do.
My 110,000-word memoir has way too many scenes and characters and is free of any dialogue or action. The story, however, is pretty good and the problems are fixable. Identifying critical scenes seemed like the best place to start.
The task was much harder than expected. Ultimately, I failed. To be honest, I didn’t even try. I didn’t need to. As I was trying to figure out how to move forward, I finally identified the problem with my abandoned manuscripts.
To be continued….