There is definitely something to be said for doing something just for the enjoyment of doing it. I've never picked up a hobby that I knew I'd hate. I enjoyed photography, the composition aspects of it; framing a shot just right, experimenting with lighting. At least half the time, my photos turned out disappointing, but many of them were eye-catching and unique.
I liked writing songs, too; the challenge of saying something meaningful within a tight window of words, which often required a lot of experimentation. Can I come up with a good rhyme and not just "love, above"? As with my photos, a lot of my songs were so-so, but a couple of them were pure gold.
Writing prose is definitely a challenge, and I generally enjoy the process. Of course I get frustrated at times, like every other writer, but when the words are flowing, it's very satisfying.
The trouble is, unlike with my other pursuits, I have no finished product to brag about. Some of my books are okay; a couple could be called good, but overall, I have not succeeded.
Pointless endeavors are a mystery to me. One can enjoy the process, definitely, but for me there needs to be some kind of reward in the end. I was into counted cross-stitch for probably ten years. It was a relaxing, almost Zen-like hobby; probably the most stress-free activity one could imagine. But in the end, I also had a collection of designs I could frame and hang on the wall. I had something to show for my time.
All this leads me to my novel. I need to seriously consider my motivation for publishing it. I'm not going to sit back and watch the sales roll in and sigh contentedly. Most likely, and I've already witnessed this in action, someone will buy it, leave a negative review, and I'll feel demoralized and incompetent. Why would I want to feel that way?
I have doubts about this novel, and shouldn't that be a red flag? It's missing something important ~ anything for a reader to get excited about. Its "highs" are okay, although perhaps overblown, and its lows are pitiful, as I intended them to be, but far overshadowing the highs and lows are entire sections that are just plain boring. There's really no getting around that.
As I've toddled along, listening to the readback, I hear parts that are little more than a travelogue. There's a damn lot of driving in this story, and if you've ever taken a long road trip, you know that most of it is mind-numbing. You can't wait to check into the hotel at the end of the day, just to break up the monotony.
I threw every idea I had into this manuscript, and ideas are great, right? That's what a writer needs; ideas. Except I had so many ideas that seemed fun and interesting, but led exactly nowhere in the end, except to the next idea. Nothing hangs around long enough for a reader to grab onto it.
This started out as a novella, then expanded into a vast, overlong novel, when it should have stayed a novella. Not the novella in its original form, but an improved one. The brevity would have forced me to focus.
I have to make a choice: I can certainly publish it and do zero marketing; hope that no one discovers it by accident. I'll still have a nice book cover I can display on my author site and pretend that I'm a legitimate novelist. It wouldn't cost me anything, at least. I designed my own cover and I don't pay for my website; publishing is free.
Or I can keep it tucked away on my hard drive. No risk.
I still don't know, but what I do know is, I keep slogging along trying to edit it into something decent, but all my cosmetic changes aren't doing the trick. The only way this novel would be fixable would be to rip it apart and try again, and I won't do it. I have no drive to do it, and no confidence it would transform the story into an interesting one.
The success of a pursuit, to me, is not just the "doing". I need to have something to show for it.
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