Writing for Fun
September 2017
Letting Go [A Crisis In Confidence]- Pete Norman
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.
There was a tingling in the fingertips which had typed those prophetic words into the keyboard but as I re-read the piece I felt an irrational surge of anger. They were words, they were only words. You could open any dictionary and shake it hard and every single one of those words would tumble out into your hand, willing slaves for you to arrange and rearrange into something magical, something that your reader would be moved by, be encouraged by . . . but did I really think for one moment that I could have written something like that?
No. Not if hell froze over.
I could not remember the rest of the sentence, it had been years since I had last read it but I knew that it continued with epochs and seasons and stuff – yet more of those ordinary words crafted into stimulating and thought provoking excellence.
How was it that he, more than a century ago, could write something as beautiful as that when I, who I had the temerity to believe was not completely stupid, was totally incapable of writing anything even close.
I wondered what was actually going through the mind of the great Charles Dickens when he dipped his quill and then watched as the words gradually morphed from the inkpot onto the blank sheet. Had he simply written down the first thing that had come into his head or had he agonised for hours, days, weeks to find something exceptional with which to commence his journey through his tale of two cities?
When he had written the words did he recognise them for what they were or did he rearrange them over and over again until he was finally satisfied that he could no longer improve upon perfection?
I hated the man – I really did at that moment in time hate the man – I hated him for his excellence when I myself was writing such dross.
I had been working on the book on and off for 21 months. I had started off with such enthusiasm, such fire, such passion but all of that was now history. So far I had typed just short of 70,000 words, which was not far short of the magical number that would turn it from a story into a novel, the point at which I could start winding down towards the conclusion. 153 A4 pages at font size 12 looked quite impressive on the screen, although the file itself was only just over 300k, which on the Windows Explorer page looked so insignificant.
Every time I sat down for a writing session full of hope and determination I would first go back over the last couple of chapters to get the feel of how the plot was developing. However, every time I would spent so much time editing, deleting and changing words and even whole paragraphs that any enthusiasm I had brought with me to the process would evaporate fast. The cold truth is that it was boring me and if the story is boring the author then it would sure as hell bore the reader.
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.
The words were still there before me on the screen. I had no idea why I had even typed them in the first place. I had no idea why my befuddled brain had chosen to use those words rather than to type something wonderful and meaningful of my own into the chapter I was currently agonising over. Perhaps my subconscious was trying to enthuse me, to kick start my conscious mind into producing something brilliant.
Or maybe it was trying to tell me that I had reached the point of no return, that if I had not managed to achieve it by now then I never, ever would.
I re-read the last chapter. I was appalled by what I had written and I knew now that my subconscious was most definitely pushing me towards the latter. Perhaps the time was right for letting it go.
I set the cursor to the right of Dickens’ words and reached for the backspace key. It was quite satisfying to see the letters and words disappearing one by one. I stopped with the cursor flashing at the end of the last word on the last line of my book. My finger hovered over the key for some time while I considered the enormity of what I was about to do. With each further press of the key one more letter, one more word, one more sentence would disappear from the screen, would pour down the plughole in the central processor into the literary graveyard where all the old words went to die. Could I stand to watch the product of months and months of hard work slide to their death? Somehow I knew that I could not, because my finger, tired of hovering, had moved back from the danger point to rest on the edge of the laptop, beside the ‘Intel Pentium Inside’ sticker where it was much safer.
I thought maybe it would be kinder if I was to simply delete the file itself with one click of the mouse. That would be quick and painless. I knew that the Recycle bin would keep the file safe in some dark and dusty part of the hard drive and that provided the storage in that folder did not reach its maximum then the file would not be destroyed unless I expressly forced the issue. However, even this wimp’s way out seemed such a callous way to behave with my precious work.
I was at a crossroads and my sat-nav was not working so I did what every self respecting author does when he requires time to think – I made a cup of coffee and let my mind drift any which way it chose, provided that books and words were not included.
While I sipped my hot caffeine fix I made a decision.
I would let it go.
It would be a kindness to put the poor sick thing out of its misery and then I could kick-start my life again after all this time.
I reached for the mouse . . .
. . . I chickened out.
I scrolled to the top of the file – Chapter 1.
I began to read.
It actually was not that bad in places.
A bit of editing might be needed here and there maybe.
I read until the end of the words, to the blank screen that followed the last line on the last page.
My fingers moved towards the keyboard and I began to write.
Let it go?
No possible way.