At the end of my last writers’ group before the summer break, one of my colleagues approached me in the corridor and asked me if this was going to be the last draft of my novel. I could have read her wrongly, but it seemed to me she was suggesting that it should be the last draft. I understand. Thirteen drafts surely suggests that you’re just hacking over old ground. What about the liberation of new turf?
Except that in the course of the last eight years, by ploughing back and forth, changing characters, plot, dialogue – you name it – I have been learning how to write.
At the moment, I’m sowing in a new plot line. What has surprised me is the pleasure of doing so. A confidence in the voice. The way solutions have presented themselves. Perhaps it’s because I know the field (sorry about this, I’ve got stuck in a metaphor), and there are joys in staying here a while longer. I’ll finish when I know that I have truly transformed it to something I can happily leave behind.
I’m not there yet. There may be many drafts to come. I hope not too many. But I’m willing to stay.