I finally bit the bullet and sent the first 32 pages of BLAQUE to my screenwriter best friend in LA. Yes, it took waaay too long, but I almost didn’t send it to her.
I have a bad habit of constantly trying to “improve” the novel. It’s been in editing mode for months now. My friend finally made me put down a deadline, which was Memorial Day weekend. I read over it once more before I sent it.
It felt like the most boring piece of writing ever made.
I was upset with myself. How did something that seemed so amazing a year ago turn into such a dry piece of prose?
I weakly gave my friend an apology if the writing was boring. She laughed and asked, “How many times have you read this novel?”
After I moment of thought, I replied, “At least one hundred times, I guess.”
“Right,” she said. “So why the hell do you think it would still sound fresh to you? You’re the one who wrote it, and you’ve been drilling it into your head ever since. That script that I gave you to read over, remember that? I had only spent two months of that one, and I was sick of looking at it by the time it was ready for your eyes. You’ll get sick of anything if you stare at it long enough. It looks boring and dull to you because you read over it at least every other day. I told you to give it a break.”
She had definitely told me this.
I am now waiting for her required (read: school) reading to be over before she starts on mine, which she said she’ll be done with before the weekend is over.
I realized after our conversation that she had not seen the major edits I had done months ago, because I was too anxious to send it back then. So while the story was old as life to me, she would be reading something “new.”
I calmed down and started preparing the next 30 pages to go.