It occurred to me the other day why, in the previous attempts to edit my novel, why I would stop at (around) the same place every time. I had assumed it was because of the monumental task of working out the logistics of one of my bigger plot twists. Yet, in one of my pursuits over the last 14 years I HAD gotten them squared. So, that was no longer a factor. Now I was just left with writing the chapters. For wanting to be a writer and loving it when I do in fact write, I certainly was terrified of that undertaking.

It is here where I thought was the crux of my problem. The resolution, obviously, being that I just needed to push forward and put thoughts to words. Simple enough, right?

This time I have done just that. In doing so, I have found myself becoming so invested in the process of writing that the time has literally slipped away from me. It’s been truly incredible. It’s as though I picked up “the writer me” I left in high school.

Feeling so energized, I have started looking to the future when it’s completed. How will I go about putting this into the world?

Here is where I discovered the true culprit of my fears rested. The fear that caused me to cease any effort into editing my manuscript.

The other night I was bored and wanted to watch some television. However there is a drought in original content so instead I scrolled over to YouTube and looked up “how to write a query letter.” Listening to these young ladies talk about the process caused me so much anxiety. I have no clue how to boil my plot down into four measly sentences. Overcome with immense dread, I stopped midway through the second tutorial.

The next day I had the hardest time committing my attention to writing. Instead I actually worked, can you imagine such a thing?! I could feel myself slipping away from my project. Like every time before.

I took the day to relax and that evening was recounting these same details to my brother (formerly brother-husband).

“I’m at the point in my book when I give up,” I had said.

In a moment of pure inspiration it dawned on me. Every prior effort, I was so enthusiastic about my progress I would start looking ahead to when it’s completed and ready to find an agent. The process of which I find absolutely daunting and truly terrifying. Like most people, I don’t handle rejection very well. And in that journey I have to remain strong in the face of potential repeated rejections until I get a yes. With that impending fear marinating in my brain, I stop myself. I stop writing entirely. Instead I resign myself to “wanting” to be a writer instead. Scratching the itch, periodically, with my online blogging.

With this crystal clear, it finally occurred to me that I need to not do that at all. (I mean… really.) At least, not while I am deep in the midst of such a monumental undertaking. Or… what has become my mantra through all things husband related “We’re not there yet.”

What bothers me is that took me so long to understand. How had I been so blind before? I guess I was weaker then, and gave in too easily to my fears.

Then the second piece of knowledge came to me: this time IS genuinely different.

After I had forced my polycule to endure my rough draft on a road trip to Salt Lake City (don’t ask), my husband told me, “Your story is really good, Dear.”

This was one of the only compliments he had ever given me. Not because he didn’t believe I was a good writer, but that this was the first time he had ever actually experienced my novel. Sure he had read everyone of my blogs, and had listened to my short story competition entries… But this had been something I had tried time and time again to do but failed because I didn’t believe in it or myself. His compliment, as small as it was in the moment, has meant so much to me now.

Whenever I begin to doubt myself I just repeat that moment in my mind. I’m once again renewed and I keep going.

When I become discouraged by the time this has taken me to edit, the years wasted, I tell myself that a lot of what is in the book now (that was never in the original draft) only came about because of my experiences over these lived experiences.