I spent the last two days reading a book that I've read at least six times. One of those books that haunt you. I shouldn't have, I know better. It's a great read but I end up weeping through many of its passages. It speaks to me. The characters are vivid and their relationships stirring and heart-warming and terrifyingly vulnerable. I haven't cried in quite a number of years. Not since the last reading *giggles* I forgot how eyes swell and burn after a bout of crying. My poor puppy, burdened with my pain, kept licking the tears from my face. Blessed puppy. (that only made the tears flow harder)
I look at 'Blue' - not that I want to make my readers weep - but I want them to feel. I am beset with angst as I try to tell Kathleen's story. I am burdened with it. I don't quite know how to make it work. I find that so very horribly terribly frustrating (did you like all the adverbs *giggles*)
I'm considering options. Do I send it to a service and pay them to critique it? The whole thing instead of these namby-pamby first ten pages that you 'get' to send for a conference. Should I send it to friends who might understand what I'm trying to do and see if they 'get it'? Should I throw it out the window, leave it hidden in my computer files, or burn it?
If I'm suffering so with the story, with self-confidence in what I've written, does that mean it sucks? I don't know. I'm all about 'I don't know' at the moment.
I love reading and I've read some glorious stuff over the years and I've read some trash. I know 'Blue' isn't trash, it just doesn't feel right. It doesn't feel like I'm saying what I want to say.
Oh drat it all. This is not the way to go into the Christmas holidays.
'The Other Side' is coming along really well, but I felt that way about 'Blue' before I started smelting it. Smelting is done with fire and I certainly feel like I've been burned.
Remembering Darcy's thoughts, I am trying to look at editing 'Blue' as playing with 'Blue' and playing with the characters and scenes within 'Blue'. I'll keep at 'her' for she is dear to me. Perhaps there is a light at the end of this particular tunnel.
Whatever happens, I'm still here and still plugging away and still writing.
Life is still.