Bob's melancholy tainted the trip for the first few days, till Greg had a long talk with him below deck one afternoon. I never learned what Greg said to Bob, but whatever it was, the moment his foot touched Paris' rain-wet cobblestones, Bob was a changed man--no longer deeply mourning his mother's passing, but wide-eyed and motivated to see our quest through to completion. He'd even given up the booze, and to me, that was a good thing. I might have underestimated Greg. Luckily, we had plenty of time to change that, on our six-hour coach trip into the countryside, where our treasure map led us.
"How long before we get there?" Bob asked, leaning against the plush velvet side of the coach's door.
What if your writing does nothing but confirm your fears? Not about content or plot issues or anything fixable with a redraft, but just that your writing style is dull and awful? And leaves you wondering whether the world really needs another shitty manuscript like a drop in a water treatment plant.
Trying to get inspired through reading or music just makes that feeling worse, really. Is there any solution to this other than to take a break and wait for (probably blinding) optimism to come around again?
"CGC: Looking back on that period in your career, what advice would you give to other young artists who wants to take their work to the next level?
AW: Well, it’s all about your willingness to do bad art in order to get to something better. You have to, first of all, have an unreasoning belief that whatever you want to do can be done. That you can learn anything and that you won’t stop trying until you do."
What if your writing does nothing but confirm your fears? Not about content or plot issues or anything fixable with a redraft, but just that your writing style is dull and awful? And leaves you wondering whether the world really needs another shitty manuscript like a drop in a water treatment plant.
"write it in a way other people would like it"