I am by no means a “professional” writer. I decided very recently that I was going to pursue a career as an author and since then it has been an uphill struggle.
I’ve spent as long as I can remember writing stories, hoping that someday I would write a novel. Seven years ago I finally began working on my first manuscript and three and half years ago, I self published the work online.
I was convinced, after only a single pass at editing (mostly for continuity) that it was complete and ready to be presented to the world. Six months ago, I took down the manuscript from where it had been published as I was working on its sequel.
I pulled it down because during the writing of the sequel. I had to look back and find something I knew I referenced in the first book (I was horrible at keeping notes when I wrote it) what I saw, written on only two pages of more than three hundred, I found appalling.
My first manuscript, my baby, my ego swelling accomplishment, was complete garbage. I say this not from an “artist is never satisfied with his/her own work” viewpoint, I say this because, objectively after so long not looking at it, the work was near unbearable to read.
The point of view switched too often, leading it’s own author to confusion, the dialog was too formal and didn’t flow well, and, finally, the grammatical error count was astronomical.
I have since finished the rough draft of the sequel, which now resides in a dark corner of my hard drive, and I have begun the process of truly writing on the first. In the few months since starting the daunting task of trying to capture my vision, I have learned more than I’ve ever thought possible, and I continue to learn every day.
My first lesson in writing, that I had to unfortunately needed to learn on my own, was to not rush the process and be prepared to start over. Furthermore, edit, revise, edit, edit, revise…