the COW strikes

so...  i started this new writing group. it's pretty cool. if, by 'cool' i mean seven older ladies and me. then--yes, it's cool.
i had a great first meeting with them. felt like i actually knew what i was talking about when i would make comments (or, at least, no one looked at me funny when i did) and all was rosy.

then, in a moment of self-gratifying weakness, i submitted the first 18 pages of my novel (the one i wrote forever ago and have been obsessing over for fourteen years? yes. that one-- as if there were another?) to one of the ladies in the group.

i was expecting accolades.
i could imagine nothing but praise.
i was smiling to myself upon sending it as a deep, dark whisper said--from somewhere in the fleshy recesses of my neurotic psyche--heh, this'll show 'em.

i'll spare you the suspense and tell you that what i received was more red ink than prose.

now, if you are a frequenter of this blog, first: i commend you on your perseverance in the face of hopelessness! secondly, i know that this news does not come as a shock to you. but, being gifted as i am, with an extreme self-amnesia, i tend to forget that my prose is pathetic and my words are worse. to the point: i was shocked. i tried to take the criticism (all very well intended, indeed) with a stiff upper lip.

however...

i was deflated. not because someone had spilled coffee on their editor button while my document was open, but because a lot of what she said was right. in fact, most of it was right. which means that most of what i wrote was wrong. not because she said so, mind you, but because once it was said; i couldn't see anything else.

and here i sit. it has been a week or so since that email brought me to my knees. I have since tried with lackluster results to revisit the chapters i sent her. and i think the main reason i ache in the face of the redo is that it is a global change. i basically have to rewrite the whole fargin' thing again. as if infinite time were something i was able to conjure.

my novel-- the hook i was hoping to hang my author hat on-- is nothing more than an overworked piece of dribble (what? what do you mean you can te-- oh, like THIS overworked piece of... right... my point exactly.). 88,000 words that i have to comb through and edit. the problem with this daunting task is not the daunt. it is the fact that i have been working on its sequel for a few months now and i know too much now to go through my first epic without prejudice. that and my writing style is almost completely different now (thank God, right?). the rewrite would be almost an entirely new story.

to make matters worse (why, oh March, do you toy with me so!?!) i sent a query letter to an agent about this very story over the weekend! literally nano-seconds after my finger hit the send button (you don't have one of those? no? hmmm...) i realized that asking her if she would like to receive my completed manuscript was tantamount to author fraud. i had no completed manuscript! not now! what i had was a schoolboys attempt at writing fiction. it is almost as bad as my first story in which 40 handwritten pages i describe in thorough detail how i single-handedly took care of every family member and friend of mine who were stranded with me on a deserted island (what can i say? i was 11). 40 pages of "i got up, went fishing, caught a 90 pound sea bass and made lunch while building tents for everyone and did i mention i was also able to wrestle wild animals into a make-shift barn to domesticate them just before knitting together flax i had harvested into blankets so i could stay warm as i kept watch over the campsite for..." you get the idea: it was bad. 


anyway: i have to write my novel again. the silver lining, if you need that sort of thing, is that i was going to need to go through it anyway to format it for e-readers. i suppose this is a blessing in disguise.

and so, my first foray into a true writing group and i crumbled into a sniveling mess. from just one critique! i don't think i have thick enough skin to be an author!