I’ve been hemming and hawing for months now. Waiting for a lightning bolt to strike me or some other such supernatural event to make it clear that I need to get serious about making revisions to my novel. But man oh man is it hard!
It’s kind of like completing your goal–say, of swimming the English Channel. Now you’re back on land, wrapped in warm towels and ready to pop the cork on a nice bottle of champagne– only someone breaks the news that you missed a few yards and you’ll need to hop back in to really finish. Your skin is puckered and stinging from the saltwater. Every muscle in your body aches in the most desperate sort of way and so you decide to sit it out a bit, and sip some champagne anyway (which, sadly, tastes slightly brackish). Surely you’ll feel up to finishing that little part after you’ve recovered.
Only you don’t.
In the time you spent “recovering” you realized how crazy the whole idea was in the first place. How swimming that far is totally outside human ability or, at the very least, your ability. How it was probably just a fluke that you almost finished in the first place. Regardless, you can’t fathom putting on a swim suit much less training again.
But there are a lot of people that support you when you make a decision to do something monumental like swim the English Channel. Friends cheering you on, family members putting up with time away and the cost of training, support staff following you along in a boat to keep you on course. Same with writing. Though perhaps lacking in the wow factor, writing a novel carries the same burdens for friends and family. I didn’t just do this myself, there have been so many supporters along the way that I feel I owe it to them as much as to myself to see this thing across the finish line.
I’m coming to the realization that there is no external force that is going to kick me into gear. No conference, no writing group, no critiques can do this thing for me. Only I can make the decision to dive back in.
The champagne just won’t taste right until I do.