There was a page 123 I did not post here. It was from my other novel-in-progress, a novel that lives in a box, or numerous boxes, under my couch, and in random other scribbled stages all over the apartment. It’s not so much “in progress” any longer—rather, it’s been left to rot because I haven’t brought it out to the trash yet.
Maybe I should.
Do you ever have those moments of pure clarity where you look back on something you’d written and see it as a stranger would and you just… cringe? Yeah, that’s what happened when I opened up to page 123, counted down to the sentence, and read from there. I’m just not feeling it any longer. Truth is, I should do better. Truth is, I want to do better.
But the question is—as the doubt bubbles up—can I do better?
I can’t figure out what is more useful for a writer to have: confidence, so the work gets finished, even if it’s not perfect; or insecurity, so the work is reimagined and repolished (and completely and totally rewritten??) until it shines.