Writer’s Blah

Why is writing literary fiction so hard?

I’ve been working at this project for more than two months, and all I have to show for it is twenty pages. Of course, I’ve thrown away at least that many, too. I’ve re-written the first chapter three times without changing what I want to say one whit.

When I’m writing a mystery in my series the pages breeze out of me. I’ll do five, ten pages at a sitting and hardly revise anything when I go back to edit later. I work to a page count, so I often fill in the blank spaces with more description, or maybe a new scene, but after two months the manuscript is complete in all its glory.

This story is different.

At first, I didn’t know where it was going. I have an autistic character who is born totally aware, with a perfect memory. At first he seems like a normal toddler, then … This is my dilemma. I need a story arc, a plot to squeeze my character into. I read what I can find about talented autistic people like Temple Grandin. I read Donna Williams and Dr. Asperger. It only helps a little. I am not writing a textbook, after all.

So I write the last chapter.

While writing mysteries, I type in linear time sequence, from beginning to end. The story is fully formed in my mind. I know who is going to die, when and why. I know what distracting difficulties will tug at my hero. I know what the subplots are all about and what’s going to happen.

It’s as though I’m dictating to myself. I’d be much quicker, turning out three or four books a year like Clive Cussler, if I could only touch type —and if I had an audience eager for the next installment.

This story isn’t like that. It’s like pulling teeth. It’s like I don’t want to eat my spinach, but unless I do, I’ll never become a superhero like Popeye. I’ve got the character in my head. He has a voice. I know the things he is going to experience as he struggles with his autism. I know how he rises into selfhood, and how he will capitalize on his strengths as an adult. If I could only get it into the computer.

Maybe I should quit wasting my time blogging. No one is listening, anyway.

This is my grand delusion. This will be my great work of literary fiction, my key to the big time. After I finish, I intend to flog it until the pages are tattered and torn, just like Kathryn Stockett did with The Help. She says she got over sixty rejections before finding someone to represent her. Now, the book has sold over five million copies.

My delusions are not that grand, but I think I’ve got something big.

If I could only make some progress with the writing …