I have nearly finished the second draft of my book.
In trying to describe how this book writing stage feels I am going to say that I feel like the host and this thing inside of me – my story – now feels like a separate entity / another being.
It dawned on me recently that my story / book has to come out of me now. I have reached the point of no return.
I have never experienced this second draft book writing stage. Up until NaNoWriMo last year I would write 15k words and give up in a tearful, cheese induced, hallucinogenic state.
NaNoWriMo saved my writing life and gave me a first draft. Although I was eternally grateful to NaNoWriMo by the end of November I hated my first draft so much that I happily agreed to put it away for a period of time. I think I was advised to not go near it for a couple of months but I happily went six months without it seeing it darken my writing doorstep again.
In June the hatred passed. I took it out and decided to rewrite it. The lot! I have actually come to like it again on the second draft.
My book writing experience is now starting to feel very similar to the film Alien:
- My book is definitely like the alien in the film, it’s found a living host (me).
- My book is pretty much giving me an alien face hug at the moment (as per photo from film). I can’t see or think about anything else anymore other than my book. I open my eyes in the morning and its there waiting for me to wake up. When I go to bed its there wishing me goodnight. It is definitely sucking the life out of me. After 1000 words I have to now take a nap. I walk around with it stuck to my head all day. It won’t go away. Stick a blonde wig on that poor person in the photo and imagine the yellowish alien is my book – that’s basically where I am currently.
- When I finally finish writing my book (I am not naive to think that it will be finished after the second draft, I just know that it will be in a workable state) I imagine the feeling of finishing it and getting it out there will be pretty similar to the alien erupting from my chest or intestines as per the film. A combination of complete terror and wonder.
If we are really going to town with this film analogy:
- My book is growing in strength everyday inside of me.
- My book will eventually finish me off, the alien always kills it’s host (*nervous laugh*).
- I see my future editor as a Sigourney Weaver / Ripley type character who will bravely fight the alien / literary monster that I have given birth to (*loud sigh followed by faraway look out of the window*)
Anyone else experienced this?
Anyone else being alien face hugged by their draft novel at the moment?