I’m not a fan of water. I’m not a fan of any activities surrounding the water.
I don’t want to swim in large bodies of it, or take tiny boats out to sea and explore the waves. I prefer to sit by the ocean, listening to the tranquil sound. But today, if it was possible, I would take a boat out to the vast blue ocean and drop my novel into the abyss.
A close friend enlightened me to a term, which perfectly applies to my current dearly departed book. The term is: wadder. In the sewing community, a wadder is referred to as a garment that has gone awry. The project becomes so bad, it is beyond salvaging, and therefore must be wadded up and thrown away.
In regards to my manuscript, I concur.
Unfortunately, in this modern realm of technology I am robbed of the tangible satisfaction to wad up paper and toss it in the trash. At most, I can slam my laptop shut and stomp away from the metal. It sucks really, because crumpling a crappy manuscript has to be therapeutic to the creative soul.
I bet you’re wondering how my second novel Mercy died, I’ll tell you.
Much like it’s birth, it was slow. Word by empty word, it withered away. The wounds developed tiny at first, with unnecessary dialogue, settings and characters. Attempts were made to correct the mistakes. While successful in the beginning, soon plot holes took over and it was too late to resuscitate.
Nothing more could be done. I will bow my head in condolence.
I’m not sure where or when this story veered off course, or if it was ever on it. Having wrote Mercy years ago, I assumed it was going to be a snap to edit. Only once I begun I found the problems to build. I’ve accepted I must begin again. I’ll review the dead manuscript, and chart a course to give me a stronger hold on the helm of the new improved story.
The wadder has been anchored and thrown overboard. Here’s hoping I made it through the first of many author storms, and shortly I’ll be able to shout, “Land, ho!”