So it’s been roughly a month since I’ve brought out my tucked-away novel to read with fresh eyes.
As far as progress goes, I’ve completed a rough outline broken down into 3 acts (and each beat in the 3 acts). I’ve started a chapter by chapter breakdown as well, with most of the unfilled spaces being the elusive Act Two.
But rewriting itself seems to be the most difficult process. I’m afraid to start.
It’s silly. I tell myself that there will be dozens if not more rewrites of this. Might as well just start hacking away at the pages, right?
It felt much easier when I was pantsing this sucker, just stream-of-consciousness adventure of the mind to the screen in front of you.
Now I have to drop hints for the plot twist, choose my words more carefully, analyze the purpose of each scene (and whether or not it’s further developing character relationships and the action plot).
The thought of it feels overwhelming and intimidating.
And I keep putting it off, putting it off, putting it off.
Oh, wait till you finish the chapter by chapter breakdown, my mind says.
You don’t want to start yet, it tells me. Just wait till you have a better grasp of what to put on paper.
And yet part of me knows that it’s all bullshit. What I really need to do is just write. Because anything can be rewritten. You can’t rewrite till you actually write something down.
So write something down, yo.