I’m writing my first novel. It’s called Breaking Bread, and has nothing to do with that popular TV programme.
The short story is my default format. A comfort zone where I know what I’m doing.
Novel writing is a whole new ball of wax. Or maybe a large bowl of mercury. It shimmers seductively and dares me to understand its complexities. It knows that I’m afraid, and reminds me, from time to time, that too much exposure to its elusive essence (especially when it keeps me awake at night, and makes me forget to eat and exercise) could kill me.
Writing a novel, with the idea of a stranger’s eyes scanning it, feels like (I imagine) getting naked in public. People are going to see bits of me that they’d really rather not – but I’m going to do it anyway.
Writing this blog, which will probably be read by as many people who might read the finished novel, is also a first attempt (actually, a second. I wrote one an hour or so ago, on an unrelated subject) to expose myself through writing and publishing to The Web – maybe foisting is a better word.
When I hear back from a mentor who has her own website, and whose permission I have sought to include her details on my blog, I shall do just that.
In the meantime, I shall endeavour to knock out a few thousand words for Breaking Bread – that might, possibly, be read by someone other than myself.