I made the mistake of telling people I was planning on writing a science fiction novel in a three month period. I qualified that it might be horrible, but that at least it would be a complete work. My boyfriend, as always, was supportive.
From there I told a perky ex-coworker who said over sushi and miso, “Longer pieces might not be your thing.” I corrected her for mispronouncing “nigiri”.
I told an overzealous friend who began making suggestions on the novel’s focus. While I found his vast knowledge of computers fascinating, his love of 80’s indy movies allowed him to make unsolicited and flat plot suggestions.
I spoke to an entrepreneur during a networking event and he laughed uncomfortably and shot gunned his beer.
It’s been almost two months, I’ve written ten chapters, scrapped six of them, and I’ve heard a great deal of awful advice and discouraging comments. Am I insane or do a good number of people get their kicks from knocking down an earnest effort?
Yesterday I met a woman to discuss a job she thought I might like. After I asked whether she wanted me to work for sweat equity, she began verbally attacking me. For forty minutes I sat turtling into my own skin while she droned on about me being a spoiled, inferior human being, with a skewed world view and a superiority complex. I don’t have a superiority complex.
I fear that my thoughts were less-than-articulate, sitting there, mouth agape, in that crowded coffee shop of unsavory latte lappers. Was I dreaming? Was I being Punk’d? Had my mother secretly paid her?
At the end of the conversation I sent the woman a tactful email alerting her to some useful links and wishing her the best. She replied, “Thank you for your note. I think you are a great blogger and will be successful in the right place. Please keep in touch.”
Even a woman who is hellbent on severing my life lie, who wants nothing more than to eat newborn babies and fuck dollar bills, thinks I have a future in writing. While the time limit may slide, the novel is back on.
