On Tuesday night, I went to bed with a lead weight twisting in my stomach. When I woke Wednesday, it was still there -- heavy and churning before I was even awake enough to remember why.
Oh right, that's why.
I posted something I'd written on a forum. Random member #47 tore it to shreds. Shreds. Not just my writing. The story. Told me I was a mid-American housewife with pathetically typical fantasies. Cue all cliches about being punched in the gut.
By Wednesday night, I regained some composure and perspective. Maybe #47 is right and I can't write for shit. Or maybe she's just not into what I write. Or maybe the synopsis I posted is not representative of the novel. I don't know which is true. But the only way I can move forward is to assume that the first "maybe" is false.
Where to from here?
Going back through the novel. I'm doing a word-choice edit. Looking to pair down the number and make sure I don't get repetitive. It's soothing. The process also reminded me of something important: I like my story. The only reason I'm doing this is because I like my story.
After I get through this current round of edits, I will give it to beta reader J. While she has it, I will start that synopsis from scratch. After all, I still have that one good eye.
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