My memoir has taken on a life of her own. A drunken recluse who has fallen off the wagon yet again, she swoons and curses with bitter irreverence. I’ve tried to reform her thinking, get her to go down to the sobriety meetings and commit to something solid, but without luck. And, doggonit, the masses are waiting!
…Okay, so maybe not the masses. But there’s this one agent waiting, and by the time I’m finished with this memoir, the market may have shifted and the opportunity may have passed me by. But which one of these major life events should I have sacrificed to complete it? Writers need to own up – sometimes you just can’t get stuff done when you say you will. Life happens. Interruptions happen. Drunken stupors? Well, they happen.
So now, its almost Spring – one year ago I queried. No progress. I have tried and failed. What’s left? According to the industry experts, I’m washed up before I’ve even gotten off the ground. But we’ll see. I’ll learn to glue this gluteus to the chair and produce…I’ll write it, and write it, and when it’s finally done, I’ll write about that, too.
I’m interested in process, not just progress. How does something become the thing we value most in the end? I’m tired of advice from writers who have a god-complex, as if they have conquered all the obstacles. I want to hear about the struggling alcoholic muse – the manuscript in the “I’ll get to that someday” file. And since few are willing to be so candid, I thought, why don’t I? After all, isn’t this just a draft?
Unfinished works – meet your match.
