Not Quite the Finish Line

Hate novel. Have spent two years on utterly rancid pile of pooh. Plot hopeless series of unconnected fragments, all characters utterly clichéd, might as well sling entire two-hundred-odd vile pages into Thames. Actually, should probably place same in bag, then put bag around neck and jump into Thames, lest am ever tempted to write anything ever again. Have obviously completely lost what small portion of writing ability might once have had.

Deadline only ten days away, when novel supposed to go out to those writing friends who have bravely committed selves to reading it and telling self what's wrong with it. Since cannot bear thought of them trying to find tactful way of suggesting that "what's wrong with it" is, pretty much, "every single word," am tempted to e-mail them all, admit whole thing an utter irredeemable disaster, and tell them am giving up writing. Should obviously take up pastime for which have some talent, or indeed one that doesn't require any, like collecting spoons.

But due to some remaining emotion which bears little resemblance to hope and must therefore be sheer bloody-mindedness, cannot bear to chuck away two years' work. Grit teeth and attempt, in ten days, to wodge some sort of coherent plot structure, decent characterization, etc., etc., into novel. Stay up stupidly late, abandon all attempts at housework and social life and retain personal hygiene levels only because boiling hot bath only thing that relieves agonizing shoulder-cramps. Catch occasional glimpses of self reflected in window behind desk. Look like Mad Scientist in last stages before cackles, gleeful hand-rubbings and application of lightning to Ghastly Creation.

Novel definitely comes under heading of Ghastly Creation. Wonder if lightning would help. Unfortunately South London flat lacking in appropriate mountain-top location and storm-ridden climate. Suspect depressing grey drizzle will not be sufficient.

Catch occasional glimpses of long-neglected garden behind reflection; Mad Scientist surrounded by ex-rainforest in last stages of dehydration. Looks like depressed suburban version of Rousseau; instead of rampant lushness and tigers, weed-strangled dying geraniums with occasional sulking cat. Feel horrible guilt about poor garden, not to mention incredibly tolerant boyfriend whose tolerance none the less beginning to show slightly. Cannot really blame him, after fifth phone call ended by self snapping, "Can't talk now have to get on, no, don't know when I'll see you, got to go, 'bye," before poor soul has even finished saying "hello."

Finally, in middle of night, get to point when really cannot think of single other thing to do to novel. Stare furiously at it, trying to wrench some kind of revelation from depths, and realize have actually finished. Well, not finished, but got as far as can before getting some sort of opinion on wretched misbegotten thing from someone other than self.

Compose e-mail to brave readers, with novel attached. Spend rather too long composing e-mail, look at it, and realize that several hundred words of apology for awfulness of novel before even more words about what I think is wrong with it may be excessive. Reduce entire thing to couple of curt paragraphs, sketching out major concerns, and hit send.

Lean back and realize have actually, finally, done it. Or at least for now: will not have to think about novel for several entire weeks, oh bliss! Pour large glass of wine and collapse on sofa.

Immediately begin to think of all things should have adjusted before sending novel out to readers. Bit like coming out of exams, huge relief followed by head-hitting realization of all stupidly obvious things one should have said, and didn't.

Don't care, can't do anything about it now. Too late. Indulge self by reading friend's novella that am due to critique; whole thing delightful, and v. funny; to point that really should not read it or recall lines from it while travelling on public transport as random eruptions of mirth causing consternation among other passengers.

Could almost hate friend for producing something so good when personally have spent so long on Pile of Pooh that is novel, but can't because enjoying her novella too much; also friend has been Tower of Strength during writing process and provider of much telephonic sympathy.

Ideas for next novel insist on sneaking into brain. Tell them to Go Away: am not novelist, am rubbish, am going to receive such awful responses to Pile of Pooh that will never write again, ever.

Fling self into massive housework fest, partly because wildly overdue and number of strange things in fridge that cannot even remember buying, never mind remember forgetting to eat; but also to take mind off thought of readers wincing, groaning, and flinging selves in front of buses to avoid having to read any more of Novel of Poohness.

Receive text from Tower of Strength friend, saying has read novel. Wince, and close eyes.

Open half an eye, fearfully.

Friend saying novel needs work, but potentially good.

Ye gods.

Try to convince self that friend Just Being Nice, but know that while friend very nice in life generally, in writing is woman of politely phrased but brutally incisive critique.

Maybe novel not total Pile of Pooh after all. Maybe retrievable.

Maybe have not wasted life, and should not abandon all thoughts of next novel. Maybe, since have a few weeks before critique session on Maybe-Not-Total-Pooh Novel, might sketch out a few thoughts for next one.

After all, have re-acquainted self with boyfriend, cleaned entire flat, watered (though not cut back) garden, and had drunken evening out with friends so have at least attempted to re-establish social life. Have to do something to keep self occupied until critique session.

Write down a few ideas for next novel and find self giggling. Suspect this may be a good sign. Either that or have been driven irretrievably mad by last novel, in which case, far too late to worry about it.

Gaie Sebold's short stories have appeared in, among others, Black Gate, City Slab, and Legend and she has received an Honorable Mention in Year's Best Fantasy and Horror. Her first fantasy novel (first publishable novel, that is) is now with an agent and she is currently working on her second. She is a member of T Party Writers and commits occasional poetry readings. Her first poetry collection, Urban Fox (The Tall-Lighthouse, 2001) is available at Amazon.co.uk. Contact her at urbancat<at>talk21.com.

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