I Am Deluded

Really, I am. I thought the first novel I wrote was incredible. Groundbreaking. A surefire success. Bound to get critics salivating, demanding more.

Never happened.

Ten years later I ploughed into my second. Ten drafts I wrote. A brilliant concept, I thought. Streets ahead of the first. Only a matter of time before an agent or publisher picks it up.

Never happened.

Then I spent a year learning story theory. McKee first. Then Truby. The brilliant Truby.

And I re-read my first two books.

They were [swearwords omitted].

I could see what I’d previously been blind to. Sure, the writing was good and there were few errors. But they were structurally naïve. They weren’t stories that gripped. The characters weren’t the kind you rooted for.

Upon realising my first novel was beyond salvation, I rewrote my second, with the benefit of my newfound knowledge.

Five more drafts. Another year’s work.

And I’m currently wallowing in the delusion that it’s streets ahead of the previous drafts. Only a matter of time before an agent or publisher picks it up…