this damn novel

I don't know if I've mentioned this properly, but I'm an aspiring novelist. I've been writing ever since I was a pre-teen, mostly tongue-in-cheek poems and short stories about animals. Then, after I got to college, I realized two things: (a) I really couldn't stand advanced chemistry, and therefore probably couldn't be a zoologist; and (b) I actually really enjoyed writing. I began to wonder if I could do it for a living, in fact. I liked to write, and I liked animals, and science, and people, and culture...and I loved to travel, see new places and describe them floridly. Why not?

So I switched my major to journalism, got my degree, and set out on the road to become a travel writer. But even before that, the writer's madness began to take hold. My imagination has always been overactive. I read ravenously as a child and was instilled not only with the capacity to create fantasy-worlds from the whirling darkness of my mind, but also to put them on paper in an intriguing way. And so the short stories took shape. They were awful, undoubtedly. The writing may have been above average, but the plots were thin and the premises ludicrous. I wrote an entire novelette in high school about a family of nurse sharks who migrated across the perilous ocean floor to a new home in a secure reef. (Needless to say, it was inspired by Watership Down.)

When I was 19, something finally resembling an original idea began to coalesce in my head. An idealist. Yeah, there's this dissatisfied idealist. Unhappy with his lot, see? Working a dead-end job. Going nowhere, slowly. Him and his best buddy, both. And then what do they find out? They're reincarnated from history's heroes. The souls of humanity's most famous warriors, leaders and tricksters are bound up inside them. These two guys are privy to these famous men's powers, fighting prowess, intelligence, cleverness, and charisma.

The story underwent several permutations. At first, my two protagonists discovered a time-machine and became sort of like time-traveling private investigators. That didn't last too long. It's a rip-off, for one thing. There's half a dozen original Star Trek episodes just like that, not to mention that Sci-Fi Channel series TimeCop. I also wasn't happy with the realistic side of things, either. My idealist (let's call him Protagonist Number One, and his buddy Protagonist Number Two) was working in an antique clock shop in Los Angeles, inherited from his deceased parents. That coincidence seemed a little too corny. So I scrapped it.

I'm paranoid about plagiarism, so I won't say much about the plot of the story as it stands now. I will say that the theme is now post-apocalyptic. A global time disaster sucks these two guys in and spews them onto a new world, where (armed with their new-found metaphysical powers), they pursue their fortunes. The plot roughly parallels human history (beginning with ancient Sumer, hence all the stuff I've been reading about old Mesopotamia). I've got some rather weighty things to say about human civilization and social behavior along the way, too. Protagonists 1 and 2 will acquire a motley bunch of supporting characters over time, all of whom have something to contribute to the story (literally and allegorically). It's going to be a great adventure, a little bit preachy, grandiose, captivating, lucid, funny, rip-roaring, swashbuckling, touching, and all those other things that my favorite adventure novels and fantasy epics are.

Now, I've actually finished writing the damn thing. It's been sitting in my top desk drawer for months. Why could that be? I love writing. I love this story I've created with all my heart. I think other people are going to love it, too. So why am I hesitating yet again?

I'm scared. I'm scared of that manuscript. I know exactly how Victor felt when he looked down upon the monster he'd sewed together from corpses, and it opened its watery yellow eyes and grinned at him. I've created a monster. It's grown into something much larger than I thought it would. I think it could be great. But there's the terrifying thought that, after my editing is done, it might not be great. I want this to come out perfect, or as near to perfect as possible. And I'm not sure I can do it. And even if it gets to the point where I think it's good, and have grown as fond of it as a proud father of his child, and send it out into the world to seek its fortunes...where's the guarantee that other people will like it? What if they hate it? Or sweet mother of sassafras, what if they love it? What if it becomes the biggest thing since Harry Potter? What if this thing transcends genres, age groups, sexes, borders? What if the entire planet likes it? What if it becomes so popular that ravening fan groups on the Internet begin breathing down my neck for endless sequels?

All of these fears and apprehensions torment me daily—whenever I open that top drawer and see that manuscript sitting there, grinning at me with water yellow eyes. I'm afraid of imperfection, I'm afraid of failure, and I'm afraid of success.

But you know what? I've decided not to care anymore. I've waited long enough. I want to see people's eyes light up when they read this story, the way mine do. I want to get this thing revised, accepted, printed, published.

So I finally unleashed it from the desk drawer two weeks ago. It sat on my nightstand for two weeks, just sort of "airing out," as I told myself. But today, after a long bout of late-night soul searching the previous evening (during which tears were shed, Coldplay was listened to, mournful pamphlets written, and morose epigrams dispensed on Facebook)...

Today, after four years of daydreaming, writing, ripping, tearing, destroying, rewriting, rethinking, and reworking...

Today, after four months of equivocating, stalling, hiding, cowering, rationalizing, hemming and hawing...

Today I picked that manuscript up, sat down on my bed, and had a look at Chapter One.

And you know what? I reworked it. I rewrote some bits that other people had said weren't working. I switched some stuff around. I changed some information. I refined, expanded, revised, expounded, redid. My heart swelled with every word. And I got it done. The long-awaited second edit of the Postman's very first novel has commenced. It's not the last edit, certainly not. But it's a start. It's the first step down the long, leery, hardscrabble, soul-scouring road of revision. At the end lies the publication process, itself a trial, but the next link in the chain to everlasting glory.

I'm sitting here, typing this, that exhilarated feeling pounding through my torso, feeling like I've just run a marathon or survived the final round of a trivia contest. I'm on cloud nine. This feels good. I don't know why I waited this long. I ought to be ashamed of myself. Since when have I ever cared what other people think? Life's scary. So what? Overcoming uncertainties isn't easy. Who cares? That's how you're supposed to live life: conquering insecurity, dealing with uncertainty, and learning from your mistakes. I don't care if I get critiqued. I'll take whatever harsh edits my friends and editors throw at me, and use them to better the final product. The criticisms of the audience I'll use as ammunition against error in ensuing works.

I don't mean to be a name-dropper, but there are a few people who said what I want to say before I did, and I want to give them their due. It was Winston Churchill who gave us what is now my new favorite quote:

"Criticism may not be agreeable, but it is necessary. It fulfills the same function as pain in the human body. It calls attention to an unhealthy state of things."

Henry Ford had something else pithy to contribute:

"Whether you think you can or think you can't—you are right."

And it was Eleanor Roosevelt, bless her, who stated:

"Nobody can make you feel inferior without your consent."

I don't care if people say this is the single greatest flop in the history of literature. I'm going to fix it. I'm going to finish it. And I'm going to do my best with it. Then I'll sleep easy.

At least I'll have tried.