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This is the story of a failed manuscript.

I haven’t written a book in six years. That is, I have written several first drafts, but haven’t dived into the 18-24 months process it takes to go from there to a published book. It’s an intimidating proposition and there was always something shiny. Or not shiny, because living through a pandemic did not motivate me to bake sourdough bread or… Well, write a book.

I have felt really distanced from my dream journey of being an author. Which arguably I am, having several books out there and available, but I want to be the kind of author who releases books on a regular basis. Last year, I had the goal of finishing something, dammit, and in August, I began rewriting one of those first draft manuscripts so it could be published early this year. I picked the draft for a shorter e-book (because: attainable goals) and spent weeks revising it, rewriting it, making it as good as I possibly could. Then I sent it to my substantive editor. To clarify, this is the person who focuses on the content, the flow, and the tone, as opposed to my copy editor who makes sure I’m grammatically correct and consistent. Perhaps it’s because English is not my first language that my approach to grammar is completely instinctive. If in doubt, I add a comma. Both my editors spend a lot of time taking out commas.

But let’s get back on track. Aforementioned substantive editor shortly thereafter looked  at me very seriously and said these four words:

“We need to talk.”

This is never the start of a positive conversation. Which is not to say that the end result much further down the road can’t be positive, but in that moment and with those words? The dread immediately arrives.

David, a.k.a. The Boy, is my substantive editor. He has an eerie talent for identifying gaps, and combined with his in-depth knowledge of me, my approach to life and writing, and what I want to accomplish with these books, it makes for a super-talented editor. When he says something is not working, I take it seriously. I will consider his point in detail and most of the time, he’s right.

“Start with the good stuff,” I said, because there usually is good stuff and I needed a bit of a buffer before I heard the bad news. Except in this case, he ignored my plea.

Enter more dread.

And here’s the annoying thing. When he told me what was wrong, I instantly knew that he was right. The information in this particular e-book manuscript is all there, but the way it’s put together is wrong. More than that, it should be the third in a three-book series (the first two parts currently non-existent).

Did I mention that he is completely and totally correct? I was so far into this, so committed to finally finish something, to publish something again that I couldn’t see past my own nose. In that moment when I saw how right he was about this manuscript, I simultaneously watched my plans to actually publish a book again and especially to do so neatly timed for January disappear with a *pop* and a puff of smoke. To be replaced with another year (at least) of writing.

I needed some time after that. To have a cry, eat a significant amount of chocolate, and indulge in a low-level ongoing tantrum. I tried to do so discreetly because I didn’t want to my beloved to feel bad for telling me that my work sucked. He did need some reassurance that he had done the right thing and I gave that to him. I would much rather hear the truth that end up publishing something that isn’t helpful and enjoyable to those of you who buy my books.

But that doesn’t mean it was easy to hear.

When you have spent months writing and then rewriting and then rewriting again, you get attached to the work. It gets to be something precious, part of you. But sometimes, this collection of words that represent your blood, sweat, and tears is wrong. Perhaps even Wrong. And that’s when, in the words of several famous writers, you must kill your darlings.

Tantrum mostly done, I’m ready to do that now. Thankfully, the manuscript is not a complete loss. It’s got a lot of good bits, but it will become something else. When I’m ready to get back at this particular collection, I will be starting from scratch but with some of the work of the next first draft done. But I’m not ready for that quite yet.

I realized that if I start writing that particular series, I am in the fact creating another shiny object that will become a first draft manuscript, after which I will probably start something else that’s shiny. In the knitting community, it’s called startitis — the urge to abandon a half-finished object due to boredom to start  something else, something new. And if I keep doing that, there’ll never be another book out there for you to read.

Instead, I took a look at my other draft manuscripts that have the first hard part is done. At long last, I am rewriting the manuscript to Part II of Your Life with Rheumatoid Arthritis: Tools for Managing Treatment, Side Effects and Pain. And I’m excited!

There’s another saying in the writing world: rewriting your manuscript will take about as long as it took to write that first draft, so I’m looking at another 12 months of writing, if the universe plays along. So, likely no book this year, but I’m on the road to the next.

At the end of this process, I had a moment of gratitude for my chronic illness. It has given me plenty of opportunities to learn to pivot and start over. There is nothing quite like the constant interruptions of flares, weird symptoms, and new meds to teach you how to get back on the horse that threw you. I allowed myself a swish in the self-pity pool — because it is okay to express and process your feelings — but then I got out again. And it’s the getting out and moving on that matters.

When’s the last time you started over on something?

Do you want to help me write the book? You can support my work on Buy Me A Coffee.