Is the writing better? After 365 3-hour days, I should be about a tenth of the way toward mastery, right?
Sometimes I look back and hear angel choirs. Who wrote this?! It’s amazing! Whoa, I wrote that? Maybe I am getting somewhere.
Other times I read it and it’s garbage. I should become a rubbish collector to repay the world for all the trash I’ve put out there.
But most of the time, I can’t decide.
Here’s a snippet from the sidelines of my rough draft notes that hasn’t been reworked, or added into or edited out of my novel yet. Its focus is a bit “internal” for my liking. What do you think?
What do you want? The question haunted her. She couldn’t drown it out of her mind any more than she could get the answer to surface. She lived her life for everyone else, without ever having considered if it made her happy. And now that she’d been asked to consider it, waves of emptiness and sadness and anger and despair crashed into her, throwing her again and again against the rocky bottom of the ocean of her unhappiness.
She was so tired of letting everyone be themselves while she floated around as a nobody, but too tired to start being who she should be or even think about figuring out who she was. Too tired of treading water to learn how to swim. Too stuck in the eddies of everyone else’s existence to make a break for the shore.
I’m not a good judge of my own work, but it feels purple.