Yesterday on Facebook I spent the better part of an hour phrasing
how I would announce the availability of my book on Amazon. I toyed with
sounding apologetic because, aw man, I
don’t want to look like I’m using my friendships for purposes of solicitation,
and then I considered being goofy and self-depreciating because, hey, this is a self-published work, and anyone
can self-publish, and then decided against that because Jeez, if I sound wishy-washy over the
quality of my book, how I can expect other people to want to read it? After
this, I wondered if I should warn people it’s a pretty dark story. We’re
talking borderline exploitative fiction. But I decided I shouldn’t go out of my
way to deter potential readers. The fetuses on the cover do a fine enough job suggesting
gruesome material.
In the end, I went with a flavorless straight-to-the-point
approach. The book is on Amazon. It’s
horror. I’d love for you to read it. You can get it for free on these dates.
This isn’t the first time I’ve wasted 30+ minutes trying
to structure and word what amounts to a couple measly sentences. I think the
best analogy for my relationship with status updates and messages is akin to me
getting ready for a big date. I try on different tones and words, dress up
basic information in different button-downs, examine them in the mirror and shake
my head—no, this just doesn’t work—move
on to something else, and then, frustrated, throw on a T-shirt.
In this case, with something as simple as a Facebook
status update, the plain T-shirt works.
While it’s exciting to be done with the manuscript, I’m disappointed in myself for believing the story was “finished” over a year ago. And then a few edits later, thinking it finished
again. And again. And done again. It’s why even though the book is up
and live on Amazon, I still experience a frequent heart-flutter and think, good God, what if you’re mistaken like those other times?! What if you were overlooking some detail or plot point that was so silly, everyone's going to think you're an idiot?
It’s such a difficult thing, determining when you can
end your project with finality and say, “Alright world. Enjoy it. Hate it.
Here it is.”
It doesn’t help that I believe in the artsy-fartsy
argument that there is no such thing as done.
Five years from now you'll look back on something you swore was polished to
the utmost sheen, and you’ll find ways you could mold and shine it further
(although who knows, you may accidentally break it). We’re always changing. Those
changes affect our perception. They influence our choices.
But we’ve also got to be realistic.
At a certain point it’s time to move on. Barring sequels,
an actor shouldn’t revisit and perfect a performance from a decade-old film. It’s
over. Sure he might come up with better choices after having had ten additional
years in life to gain experience and wisdom, but he’s better off dedicating his
energies to creating brand new characters as opposed to tinkering with past ones.
What I’ve learned with myself, however, is that I need to
take repeated hiatuses from a work to whittle it into a form that pleases me. This
isn’t me desiring time to grow as a person so I can look upon my story with enlightened
eyes. No. It’s that I get too easily sucked into my books. This may sound like a
good thing, but it’s like getting trapped in a single room of the building you
need to reassemble. You can’t see the big picture. Sure you might consider
repainting the walls—that’s what your editing will become—but if you were looking
at the house from afar—thinking outside the box—you’d realize the walls don’t
need painting, they need demolishing.
Readers/editors help in this department. They comment on
things you never saw, force you out of the room because they’re now leading
you to a cracked roof. They get you thinking in ways you weren’t before. But
when I reflect back on all the times I mistakenly thought A Collection of
Angels was done, I attribute it to my proneness to literary tunnel vision.
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