“I do not like to write. I like to have written.” Gloria Steinham.
I’ve been revising a manuscript I wrote several years ago. It’s an interesting experience, not unlike visiting old friends in a place where you used to live. You sit down, have a cup of coffee, chat. You remember why it was you loved these people. You recall, with some fondness and nostalgia, the adventures you took with them. And you remember how, on occasion, they drove you crazy.
|My old characters live in a neighborhood like this||Image thanks to Wikimedia.|
In some ways, it had been a relief to write the end—the story finished, you packed your bags into the trunk of your old Buick, gassed up the engine, and headed for parts unknown. There were other adventures to be had, new characters to meet and to live with and to share, for a time, your heart. But the leaving is always bitter sweet as you watch the characters of your old story grow smaller in the rearview mirror. A part of you wants to stay, never mind what’s around the next bend.
Going back is both easy and hard. You recognize (and cringe at) the mistakes you’ve made. You begin to wonder at the secondary characters and the stories they might tell. And, too, you are anxious to move on, to get back to the new manuscript you are creating. The new characters call you each day, wondering when you’ll be back to help them through the muddle they’ve created.
I want to reassure them. I’ll be back soon, don’t worry. I won’t leave you hanging. But for right now, I’m going to sit in this bright kitchen, drink some coffee with old friends, and reminisce.
Till next time,
Books by Ute Carbone