Writing gets harder

This quote from author Keith Ridgway (via Nathan Bransford) has been on my mind, lately:

I’ve written six books now, but instead of making it easier, it has complicated matters to the point of absurdity. I have no idea what I’m doing. All the decisions I appear to have made—about plots and characters and where to start and when to stop—are not decisions at all. They are compromises. A book is whittled down from hope, and when I start to cut my fingers I push it away from me to see what others make of it. And I wait in terror for the judgements of those others—judgements that seem, whether positive or negative, unjust, because they are about something that I didn’t really do. They are about something that happened to me. It’s a little like crawling from a car crash to be greeted by a panel of strangers holding up score cards.

When I was finally finished with the first real draft of LITTLE SUN, this is pretty much how I felt.  The part about how a book is something "whittled down from hope," the part about how a book just happens, the part about feeling like you're emerging from a car crash—basically everything. He nailed it.

And knowing that Ridgway said this after he had written six books doesn't make me feel that much better, frankly, since I've only written 1.3 books. (A draft of a children's book + semi-begun plans for a middle grade novel = .3, by the way, in case you were unfamiliar with literary math.) So Book 1 was hard, but learning that it only gets harder? Awesome.

But for some reason, it's worth it. For some reason, I feel compelled, even driven, to continue to write books. I don't know all of the reasons why. I know some of them, but not all. Much of the whole thing still remains a mystery. And I guess that's one of the reasons that continue to drive me—a need to solve this mystery. So that I will do: continue.