I have had a love affair with the written word from the moment I could read as a child and despite countless moves, I still own books that my late grandfather brought me for various birthdays before his death when I was eleven. The stories I loved were fantasy and I would slip away to Narnia or Wonderland on a frequent basis.
I have wanted to write since I was eleven years old. I would sneak books into my classes at secondary school and attempt to read them discreetly beneath the tables rather than pay attention to whichever dull class I happen to be in and I remember having a book taken away from me by my science teacher who appeared shocked at the book cover of some naked woman barely covered by a man’s precisely placed arms. Unsurprisingly, I failed at school because I would rather daydream about my characters than pay attention. Even English couldn’t tempt me – I didn’t want to read the classics, or books based in the depression. If I’d have been handed the Hobbit, or Lord of the Rings, I’d have been in my element.
The genre of my own writing has always escaped me. Back when I was a child, I was living in a house with two adults that made no secret of the fact that their love for each other was dead. A market stall in the town centre would sell Mills & Boon books for 25p and by the time I was thirteen I would scrape together whatever money I could find to buy them. I loved reading them and wanted desperately to believe that real love existed. I wanted to write the ultimate love stories myself.
At the age of sixteen I wrote the first few chapters of an outlandish and fantastical love story that I sent to Mills & Boon. We shall call this manuscript 1. It was utter nonsense and while, fifteen years later I am completely unsurprised my idea was rejected (probably with much sniggering involved) at that time I was completely devastated. A month or so later I experienced my first callous boyfriend and discovered first hand that love or romance do not necessarily equate to a happy ending. I put the Mills & Boon away and grew sceptical.
I didn’t stop writing. A decade ago I began a story that could only become a thriller, which will be known as manuscript 2. I barely read thrillers and the process of writing one was impossible. I continued trying for the best part of the last decade before deciding a few years back that the story should be laid to rest. It had a fantastic opening, but I could never seem to make my character move forward. It took me countless re-writes before I realised that I just couldn’t write it. I didn’t write for awhile after that. I’d spent so long focussing on the one story that I couldn’t see anything else.
About three years ago I had an idea for a children’s fantasy story, manuscript 3. I still think it’s a good story, except that I’d had no idea that writing for teens could be so hard. My writing style is naturally hard edged and I found the need to soften and simplify wearing. I re-wrote the story a dozen or so times. After awhile, I found myself falling out of love with it. I just couldn’t face the idea of going back to rectify it any more. But I persisted. I tried forcing myself to go through the motions.
I was sitting in a classroom when the inspiration for my current story, manuscript 4, came to me, back in September ’08. I wrote the opening while in the classroom and then tried to put it aside so that I could concentrate on my children’s fantasy. My resolve lasted almost a year before I gave up on the children’s story and began working on the newer idea instead. The work in progress started as black humorous fantasy. I’m finding it hard to inject it with humour now but it’s still dark fantasy.
Except that over the last few months I’ve had an idea swimming around in the back of my head, manuscript 5, that is nothing to do with the work in progress. It’s a dark fantasy. It has echoes of manuscript 2 that I’d put to sleep. It’s not a definitive idea, but when I have a free moment and I find my mind wandering, I find that I’ve been thinking about it.
I don’t want to concentrate on manuscript 5. Manuscript 4 is like an octopus with multiple legs I have to concentrate on to ensure that nothing gets missed. There are so many facets to the story that if I make the mistake of forgetting one thing, I’ll end up with dozens of untied strands and I hate reading books that don’t bother solving the loose strand problems – I don’t want to end up producing one myself.
I have also made the mistake of allowing somebody to read the opening to both manuscript 4 & 5. This person is completely unimportant and their opinion is irrelevant. I work with this person occasionally and this person makes it extremely clear that he thinks that manuscript 5 is the one. He wants me to throw away all of the hard work I have poured into manuscript 4 and work on the newer one. I have made it clear that I will not and he spends the entire time I work with him badgering me to continue writing the one he likes. He says that he is intrigued.
It’s beginning to make me doubt myself. And I find it hard to write when I doubt the story.
It occurs to me that I may well be my own worst enemy when it comes to my writing. I love writing, but I wonder if I should be stricter with myself and refuse to acknowledge the newer stories until I am done with my current manuscript? Is it the act of putting the skeleton of the other ideas on paper that begins the process of making their puzzle pieces present themselves?
But if I were to ignore them completely, by the time I am done with my current project, will I then have lost the voice of the other story?
And just what genre am I supposed to write anyway? If I write (and manage to publish) manuscript 4 I will be pigeon-holed as humorous fantasy. If I then send off manuscript 5, despite it being a strong fantasy idea, it isn’t humour (and it can’t be turned into humour – it just wouldn’t work).
And once I’ve had time to reconnect again, I’d love to work on manuscript 3 at some point, but again, it isn’t humour.
I think this may have to be something I think about again once manuscript 4 is finished.
