When I think about what it takes to be a writer, multiple ideas immediately come to the fore—long hours slumped over a keyboard, deleting of numerous characters and insertion of countless others that may survive, the solitude of being left alone to tell a story that others will read in solitude to enjoy, and the aggravating unknowing knowledge that the story might come together and yet might not.
But I’ve discovered for myself finally that there is so much more that goes into it.
The hard way.
It took me a total of twelve months to write the first draft of The Dark Thorn, my contemporary fantasy that takes place in Rome and Seattle and weaves Arthurian Legend, Celtic Mythology, the history of the British Isles and the history of the Vatican. To me I felt like it should have been wrapped up six months earlier by some internal deadline I can’t even begin to explain. By the time I entered the final four-month stretch, I poured my heart into it. In the morning I wrote for Suvudu, usually only eating a very brief breakfast of wheat toast, before then jumping into the book. I would write until late afternoon and by that time I had the shakes from no lunch. After a good dinner out somewhere I would write some more at night before going to bed and begin anew the next day.
Once I finished the first draft, I felt good about it—but something was not right.
I thought it had to do with the book. I thought it had to do with my main character, Bran Ardall, who seemed devoid of personality. I gave the book to Terry Brooks, a close friend and someone I knew would not pull any punches. He read it right quickly. I soon received his comments and suggestions, and while very positive I still had a lot of work to do to make it a “great” book—and I of course want it to be great, not just good.
I spent a solid week thinking about nothing but his thoughts and how I could improve upon The Dark Thorn. I barely left the apartment. I kept away from friends and family as I mostly had for four months. Why the hell did I feel so terrible? Why had it taken me so long to finish the book? Why did I feel like my entire life had crumbled and I had nothing left?
It wasn’t the semi-rejection of the last twelve months of my life. After the first three of fifteen or so rejection letters on my first book, I had overcome the resentment and anger that usually surfaces from such denial.
So what was it?
As it turns out, having asked advice from Patrick Rothfuss, Vicki Pettersson, Tobias Buckell, Chris Evans, Jacqueline Carey, Robert V.S. Redick and Peter V. Brett, it is something that most writers deal with.
