“It was never about setting out to write a book—the point all along was to write this book.”
by Amy Gallo RyanThere seems to be a single answer to every predicament in which a writer might find herself; reached an impasse in your manuscript? Start something new. Need a distraction when you’re out on sub? Start something new. In a lull after your project sold? Oh, here’s an idea; start. something. new.
Yet as each of those occasions arrived, I did no such thing. For the past decade, rather than splinter my attention, accumulating second and third manuscripts in a drawer somewhere, I’ve had eyes for only one. That book hits shelves this week and given the many moments of stillness throughout the process of writing, querying, submitting, rewriting, tweaking and revising, it strikes me now as quite remarkable that I’ve managed to permanently avoid starting something new.
Each time I refused to redirect my gaze, I gained a greater understanding of my commitment, my tenacity, the wholeness of my belief in what this story should be.
I’m certainly aware of the advantages of being a writer with a drawer full of projects. More manuscripts mean improved odds for publication, to say nothing of the allure of distraction; when you’re stuck or bored or striking out, what could be more illuminating or productive than redirecting your attention, dazzling your brain with an entirely new set of words and ideas. I have a screenwriter friend whose head is full of such abundance. She concocts story after story, and then, perhaps even more impressively, actually writes them into existence. When we exchange updates on our work I have to qualify my questions, saying things like, “what’s happening with the one about…” and “which actress is reading the one where…” I have such deep admiration for her and for everyone whose drawers are stuffed with pages; mine contain stray batteries and Forever stamps.
I was told in a lecture once that the quality distinguishing a writer from an editor was that a writer couldn’t help but write. Putting pen to paper was a fact of existence, a matter of necessity. Who among us had a little pad on our nightstand, a stack of swollen notebooks beneath our bed, pages puffy with scrawl? The distinction has lived rent free in my mind ever since, just the lifetime supply of fuel my imposter syndrome needed.
Because the truth is that for ten whole years my writing has consisted of a solitary project.
Read the full article: https://lithub.com/forever-faithful-to-a-single-story-an-ode-to-monogamous-writing/