It really doesn’t matter what it is. It could be my life’s great opus doing the rounds of literary agencies. It could be some flash fiction entered into a magazine competition. Or my latest chapter submitted for an MA workshop.
Whatever the material, two things seem to happen once I put it out there for someone else to consider.
The first is that I suddenly see it for what it is. The magic sheen fades away and this sublime creature of my imagination morphs into the literary equivalent of a cockroach with bad breath. My peachy prose shrivels like a prune. My intricate plot line suddenly reveals it has more holes than Blackburn, Lancashire. Profundity becomes pretension, originality becomes cliché and ham-fisted similes stand out like ham-fisted similes.
It’s amazing how the very act of popping a jiffy bag into the post box, or clicking on ‘send,’ has such an instantaneous and dramatic effect. It’s like a camera panning out after an extended spell in macro mode. I may have thought I knew the work back to front, inside out and upside down but, take a step back, and it turns out I knew nothing about it at all.
I seek consolation by telling myself this isn’t the best I can do. After all, I wrote it in an awful rush, right? Two thousand words in as many months – that’s nowhere near enough to do myself justice. And all those crazy things that were going on in my life at the time that prevented me from giving of my best: the worry over my children’s Coca Cola habit; days lost in the disorientating vortex of Olympic ticket online applications; Season Two of The Killing.
The second thing that happens once I’ve sent off my work is I go into freeze dried mode. I am simply unable to produce any more until the boiling water of feedback, be it positive or negative, is poured over me.
I procrastinate. I know I should carry on, but I can’t, not until I’ve heard the worst. It’s absurd because, even if the worst is very, very bad indeed, even if it’s a damning critique of a two hundred thousand word epic that has taken me ten years of blood, sweat and neglected children to write, even then, I will carry on writing. I have no choice. It’s simply too late in the day for me to be the next Olga Korbut.
My submitted work is a piece of me floating out there in the ether. I must wait for it to return to the mother ship before I can carry on with my mission.
So, what happens when the work does eventually come back to me?
Of course, this depends on the feedback but, even if it’s not that great, I generally feel much better. There isn’t a part of me missing any more. It’s come home. I take the criticisms on the chin and get down to work, improving and perfecting. All of a sudden, I can write again.
But for how long does this peace last? Usually until I hit a sticking point. Then I start to doubt the feedback . How honest was it? How insightful? And what do they really know anyway? Even top agents and publishers can get it wrong. How can I be sure any of their comments, good or bad, is worth listening to?
And so, I’m back where I started; with a bunch of words on the page and another case of paralysis setting in.
I’m not someone easily given over to blind faith. I generally need hard evidence to support my beliefs. But in the case of writing, blind faith is sometimes what it takes. Olga may have been subject to rigorous coaching, physical and mental conditioning, but when she stood alone on that beam and prepared to wow the judges with her Korbut Flip, it all came down to self-belief.