“The only limits to our realizations of tomorrow will be our doubts of today.” — Franklin D. Roosevelt
Today I tried to do an act-by-act outline of the new book. It’s excrutiating when everything is still a general idea, but I decided to push as much as I could and I did manage to come up with some solid ideas, though I still don’t really know where this is headed. I have no idea what action the protagonist can take to rectify her situation. I still only have a nebulous idea of what her situation is and the setting details escape me entirely. I need to do a lot of research, so I wonder if I should dial down the expectations for the next 27-28 days to concentrate on creating an in-depth outline rather than a full draft.
And then I wonder if the thing that is really stumping me is doubt.
The story I’m trying to tell is daunting in scope. I’m writing something that will either make people laugh in my face at the sheer audacity and ridiculousness of it, or knot their foreheads at the juxtaposition of its diverse elements. In the end, the only person who I’m sure will understand this story is me. And maybe that’s the thing. I’d like to write this story just for myself; my own entertainment and my own opportunity to rant about Colossal Stupidity, but I’m not sure I can. There is a nasty little ambitious part of me that says, “If you’re not going to get paid for it, you’re wasting your time.” It’s a small, cold, white, slimy thing this destructive ambition of mine. And for this story, more than any other, I have to stamp it out.
Is that you, eynaK?