I've been writing new parts of Guardians for a year. As the plot changes, as I get a better understanding of the characters, I add new pieces and tweak ones that I've already written. At each point every section seemed to fit perfectly and seemed like it would make the story better. Now though, as I go and formally type up my second draft, it's hard to see what will be happening.
I really want a machine that I can stick my notebooks into that will spit out a fully typed and copy-edited second draft. Because all I want to do right now is read through the second iteration of the novel. As I type everything up I keep worrying if I've put in the right amount of character development, or if a scene is actually necessary, or what the pacing is like. In short, I've grown some really nice trees but I'm not sure how they fit into the forest.
A year ago I wrote about whether or not I could conceivably call myself a writer. While I might be able to use the title occasionally, I still feel like an impostor whenever I think about what I'm trying to do. Can I really write something that shares a little bit about life? Can I really write believable relationships and an engaging plot? Sometimes I think so, whenever I read one of my little trees. But it's harder to believe that I can plant a forest.
For better or worse most of these posts focus on my self-doubt. Everyone has those moments, but I have chosen to publicly display them (I still can't tell you why). Whatever else, writing these posts are a sort of catharsis because then my fears are displaced into cyberspace and I can focus on the task at hand. And right now I just have to type what I've written. Which, when put that way, doesn't seem so scary.
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