The Dead Novel

Rubbing my heavy eyes at 1am. I should go to bed. The world slept outside, and my Mac purred on the desk. 

Yeah, 20,000 words. Sweet. Going well…

Nope. It’s shite. Plot all over the place. Characters wandering in and out. Bin it, mate. Try something new—

Sod off with that! 20k words. I’m not throwing them in the bin. Yeah, do it. This is shite. It’s wrong. You can’t fix it. I dunno. Leave it until tomorrow. You’re tired. Knock it on the head. 

Next day, after a long one at work. I sit there again. Looking at the same shite. And it is still shite. No doubt. I have to bin it. Start again. 

I don’t want to. I’ve written so much. Go through it. Edit it. Make it better. Then, that saying popped up didn’t it? 

You can’t polish a turd. 

Well. That was that. Manuscript binned. 

Now, sure, binning that many words? It hurts. I won’t mention the 18k I binned the week before. Because learning happened. Painful. But learning. 

Funny how tossing a dead manuscript teaches you exactly who you are. Here’s the thing. It’s fine to be a plotter. And it is fine to be a pantser. I’m a pantser. I let the characters tell me their story. It’s great. BUT at the point I was at here? I didn’t know that. 

Yeah, so I’d fly by the seat of my pants. Then, plot. Then fly again.

Nope.

Doesn’t work. Pick a lane. Stay in it. Novels happen then. I’ve written nine of the buggers now. So, that sounds like evidence to me. 

My Mac (a new one now) doesn’t even purr. It’s silent. I still write until dark o’clock. Fine. 

Plot or pants. It’s up to you. But pick one. Go on, write that novel.