My beloved asks me all of a sudden, “What’s happened to your book?” I sort of stutter and shrug. “I hope you’re not giving up on it.” Well, I… “After spending all that money on editing,” she adds swiftly, as if to compound my woes.
Now’s not the time to admit I’ve been having doubts about it. “I’ve just been too busy,” I say. Sort of true. “I’ll get back to it eventually. Maybe one day. There’s no hurry.” But in all honesty, I don’t know when that will be. It all felt so urgent and necessary a year ago, but now feels superfluous and unimportant.
Maybe that’s just your standard writer’s doubt. Maybe it’s fear, or anxiety. Maybe it’s just moving on. Maybe it’s embarrassment. Maybe I just don’t think it’s good enough. Maybe I feel it’s a story I had no right to tell. Maybe I just can’t face the critic’s pen again. Maybe the thought of it makes me want to vomit.
What’s happened to my book? Life, I suppose