I have this theory that only once I really hate what I’ve written, does it come to life.
Works in progress have this sort of hopefulness about them that I find stifling. ‘It’s only a first draft,’ I’ll say, when I’m too lazy add description to scenes or to worry about repeating words too often.
Making excuses. Everyone does it.
So what I’ve find works is this:
I give up all hope on it. ‘This is a piece of crap. I’ll just chuck it and start on something new.’
And when I do that, I can start viewing it a little more objectively. I can be ruthless with the changes. Cut characters. Cut entire scenes. Fuck around with the prose so it doesn’t read like a GCSE creative writing submission.
I’ve been working on this short story for a long time now. The actual premise is great, but I just couldn’t seem to get it off the page. It was only when I thought fuck this and ripped the guts out of it, that it came to life. Sort of like a literary zombie. (There are, however, no actual zombies in it.)
Anyway, I noticed that’s been the pattern for me. Hate what I’ve written and it will set me free. I’ll go to town on the motherfucker. Hack the thing up like braising steak.
That was certainly the case for Twenty-Seven. I absolutely hated it. Kept it in some Dropbox folder named Average. Opened it back up months later, tore it apart and the put it back together again.
So yeah, it’s out Thursday 15th December. Maybe you’ll hate it. I dunno. I think it’s pretty good now.