I sat down at my desk Monday morning with the pretty blue notebook I bought in Barcelona, my favourite pen and Draft 3 of my novel open on the computer. I began to write, allowing myself one sentence per scene. An hour and a half later I hopped on my bike feeling pretty proud of myself: the first draft of my synopsis was done.
Tuesday morning, I read it. Oh, dear God, it was awful. Stilted, confusing, boring--my thesaurus overfloweth. It would have sent any potential publisher running for cover, regardless of how stellar my opening chapter was. And, the worst part: I had no idea how to fix it.
Panic set in. I fired off desperate emails to my backup. I called my husband, my parents. I'd withdraw from the Bologna manuscript review. I wasn't ready. If I didn't know what my novel was about, how the hell would anyone else.
Then, amidst the supportive replies from my incredible writing buddies, the words of my fabulous family still ringing in my ears, I sat down and wrote draft 2, then draft 3, draft 4, and finally draft 5.
It's not done, but it's close. Thanks everyone! You talked me down.