Looking over the precipice, you jump, expecting euphoria.
Euphoria never comes.
And that’s where I stand. On the precipice of the climax, unable to actually reach it. Argh. Is there anything more frustrating?
I’ve spent two years on this book. Two very long years. It’s undergone changes that would make most authors shudder. I’ve learned a lot. Enough to give it the type of life it really needs to thrive. For the past 9 months, I’ve cradled it, whispered sweet nothings into its ear, prepared it for this moment. And here were are.
But while many of our moments together have been intense, this moment fails to give me the shivers I expect from it. This moment has to be… what’s the word I’m looking for… electrifying. Breath-taking. It should make the readers mouths hang open in awe. I want to imagine them lying in bed, their eyes wide, their heads shaking from side to side. No, they would whisper, stunned.
Instead, my climax feels somewhat anti-climactic. Now, I could always go back and rewrite it, but… ok, who am I kidding? You guys know me! You know how badly I suffer from Writer’s OCD. I can barely write a chapter ahead, I doubt I can move on from an unfulfilling climax. *sigh*
I think I’ve psyched myself out. It is only the most massive part of my book. The point I’ve been building to for… well for as long as this idea has been in my head, really. Poor story.
Moving on. Because if I continue to obsess over it I may cry.
It is what you read when you don’t have to that determines what you will be when you can’t help it. ~Oscar Wilde
That’s intense in its simplicity. I mean, think about it. We are what we read. No, not ghosts, or vampires, or shapeshifting dragons. We find emotional release through our books. Laughter, tears, lust, anger, we experience them all through other people’s stories. So what we choose to read says a lot about who we are. Then there are those books that change your perspective on life forever. Those books turn us into the person we’ve always wanted to be. In the end, you benefit either way. 😉