An apt title for such a grey and dreary day. In my heart, however, the sun is shining. (I now have rhymes containing the phrases 'Easter bunny' and 'not so sunny' in my head. Because I like you, I'll spare you that particular little treat!)
I have now read the MS mentioned in my previous post. Do you know what ... it's not as bad as I remembered it. In fact, with some work, I think it could turn into something I'd put my name to. I've fallen in love with my protagonists again and am now itching to start cutting and stitching. Cinderella's raggedy dress can indeed become a sumptuous ballgown.
The revelation, which came to me in a flash this morning, is that I was slightly ashamed of what it is. I was convinced I should be aiming for an opus. An insightful literary exploration of the human condition that would touch hearts, open minds and contain flashes of brilliance that would echo, with Shakespearean eloquence, down the ages. I think this was partly overweening pride and partly a belief that whatever I produced, I could do better - a phrase I've had flung in my direction since the age of 7. Ah, what an easily dented thing is the ego.
What I have produced is a love story. And what's wrong with a love story? Love is, after all, supposedly what makes the world go round. I think my book was also tainted by a comment made at a very early stage: 'Well I suppose you could always try Mills & Boon' - as if that was the lowest rung on the writing ladder. I won't be going to that particular person for critiques in the future.
It feels as though I've reclaimed my child, rejected for not being good enough, now accepted for who it really is. I've even found the RNA (Romantic Novelists Association) - a collection of people, as the title would suggest, who also write love stories and aren't in the slightest discomforted by this fact. Their membership list for new, unpublished writers is closed until January of next year, but that's okay. I should have something to show them by then.
No comments:
Post a Comment