[FONT="]You’re in a bookshop, browsing the newly released thrillers. One stands out and piques your interest. There it is, a heavy object in your hand, a beautifully designed jacket. You must have a closer look.
There is a cool wintery scene painted, and in the snow a large pair of bloody handprints. Interesting. Thirty Days of Ice. Check the author - you don't know him. But you know all the big players in the genre, and you know this fellow is new to the game. This could be you.
[FONT="]This is you. [/FONT]
[FONT="]Is there a difference? In your mind the letters rearrange and transform into your own name - your pen name, rather. Because this is not a standalone, this is a series, and you'd want to leave yourself flexible. Only, as you hold it in your hand, you feel miles away. [/FONT]
[FONT="]And suddenly this is not you any more. You are separated from it. Like your novel has just turned sixteen and betrayed you for the world.
The hand grasps the object. Smooth. Concrete and well defined, nothing like the creative process (read: torture) that lead up to it. Ninety thousand and thirty seven words disconnected from you. [/FONT]
[FONT="]Sure it’s impressive. But it doesn’t compare to the countless sleepless nights, to days of running one scene through your head, to months wrecking your head over what to call your MC.[/FONT]
[FONT="]Sadly, the parts feel greater than the whole. This feels like nothing you thought it would. Minus the emotional baggage, your baby is indiscernible between all the other babies on the stall.
Cover parts open. The smell of fresh print tickles your nostrils. It’s a beautiful smell. You read the first page - skip a lot just to get to the dialogue. It reads well. Realistic - this was tough. Very tough. You're not good with dialogue. You were not good with dialogue, but it doesn’t matter any more. Now, nobody would know the difference. It’s punchy, it fits the characters. At least, if it had bad dialogue, you could recognise yourself in it.[/FONT]
[FONT="]The hard part is letting go of what you’ve written. Accepting that people will plough through it in six hours, perhaps on a rainy afternoon, and forget all about it the next day. It might hang around the coffee table for a while, before it goes on the shelf, never to be seen again. It's not yours, anymore. [/FONT]
[FONT="]You don’t care. They can do what they want with it, you're just happy you have written it. At least until your next big thing. You have the idea in your head already, it is beautiful and marvellous and unique, like a little sun and when you finish it, it will be the greatest thing in the world.[/FONT]
[FONT="] [/FONT][/FONT]
There is a cool wintery scene painted, and in the snow a large pair of bloody handprints. Interesting. Thirty Days of Ice. Check the author - you don't know him. But you know all the big players in the genre, and you know this fellow is new to the game. This could be you.
[FONT="]This is you. [/FONT]
[FONT="]Is there a difference? In your mind the letters rearrange and transform into your own name - your pen name, rather. Because this is not a standalone, this is a series, and you'd want to leave yourself flexible. Only, as you hold it in your hand, you feel miles away. [/FONT]
[FONT="]And suddenly this is not you any more. You are separated from it. Like your novel has just turned sixteen and betrayed you for the world.
The hand grasps the object. Smooth. Concrete and well defined, nothing like the creative process (read: torture) that lead up to it. Ninety thousand and thirty seven words disconnected from you. [/FONT]
[FONT="]Sure it’s impressive. But it doesn’t compare to the countless sleepless nights, to days of running one scene through your head, to months wrecking your head over what to call your MC.[/FONT]
[FONT="]Sadly, the parts feel greater than the whole. This feels like nothing you thought it would. Minus the emotional baggage, your baby is indiscernible between all the other babies on the stall.
Cover parts open. The smell of fresh print tickles your nostrils. It’s a beautiful smell. You read the first page - skip a lot just to get to the dialogue. It reads well. Realistic - this was tough. Very tough. You're not good with dialogue. You were not good with dialogue, but it doesn’t matter any more. Now, nobody would know the difference. It’s punchy, it fits the characters. At least, if it had bad dialogue, you could recognise yourself in it.[/FONT]
[FONT="]The hard part is letting go of what you’ve written. Accepting that people will plough through it in six hours, perhaps on a rainy afternoon, and forget all about it the next day. It might hang around the coffee table for a while, before it goes on the shelf, never to be seen again. It's not yours, anymore. [/FONT]
[FONT="]You don’t care. They can do what they want with it, you're just happy you have written it. At least until your next big thing. You have the idea in your head already, it is beautiful and marvellous and unique, like a little sun and when you finish it, it will be the greatest thing in the world.[/FONT]
[FONT="] [/FONT][/FONT]
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) and don't forget it the next day.
