I've had to face the fact recently that I really am a terrible mum - abusive even, neglectful.
Before you dial the number for the RSPCC, my actual kids are fine - more than fine - I promise - they even get breakfast in bed these days in my pathetic attempt to wake them up in time for school in the morning. I know, huge mistake, but, hey, at least one of them has exams and the other, well, she doesn't take her medicine and it's the only way I can get it down her.
I'm talking about the other child I created. The one that is only (ONLY?) three years old. The same one that I struggled to conceive for years prior to that. She is now a bouncing 80,000 words long but has been locked away inside a document file for over two years - without so much as a dummy for comfort.
So what happened?
At first, I was proud of this kid, she was lively, fun and appeared to be growing well, doing all the right things. Then the toddler years hit and BAM! My 'little one' was out of control. She took one hell of a tantrum and all I could do was stand back and watch, helpless, as she wreaked havoc across the page. You know the kid from the supermarket that's pouring Cornflakes all over the floor, while YOUR child is sitting quietly in the trolley eating Guacamole and bread sticks? Yep, that's my baby.
To be fair, it's not entirely her fault. This poor child has been subject to gross misuse of language, (F****sake - that's not what's meant to happen - what are you thinking?) physical abuse (ripped pages, set alight or crumpled into a heap) and has suffered extreme mental anguish due to the fact that I'm never, actually, very nice to or about her. (Stupid thing, wish I'd never created her...she's just like her father!).
Sometimes I take her out, dress her up a bit, make her look a little fancy. But then she starts misbehaving again and I just can't hack it. I slam her back in to her cell and forget about her. I refuse to feed her, wash her, clothe her and more importantly, to spend any time with her. So how can she possibly grow?
I'm not looking for pity. I only have myself to blame. I hear her crying regularly, especially in the middle of the night, begging to be let out. But still I pretend she doesn't exist. I'm doing it right now. "You can't just leave her sitting there," my husband says. "It's a crime!"
He's right and I know. The problem is there's a problem. And I don't know how to fix it. There's an issue with an ending and an issue with an issue and I feel utterly and hopelessly lost. What do I do?
This is the first time I've attempted to create a novel and the thing that I find most challenging is the size of the damned thing. It's huge. It makes me feel like someone has dumped a truck load of clay in my tiny hands and said; 'Make something.' Then they have the cheek to act surprised when Frankenstein appears...(oh if only...he would!
How do authors get round this problem? I can not be the first to face it.
If it was a short story, I would stand back, consider and respond. It would come together quickly - I'd be seen as a model parent and would be like all the other proud relatives out there, standing back to wipe a tear from my eye during graduation. But with this beast of a story I'm just not sure - what bits of her should I nurture? What should I discourage? What if I never get her right - like ever?
These are the questions bubbling about in my mind. In all honestly, it may be my method that's problematic. I've rewritten the beginning many times, with the aim of rewriting the whole thing. But it's like playing Jenga - take out one bit and everything else tumbles down on top of you. I've had the same issue attempting to change the tense. It's SOUL DESTROYING!
It's keeping me awake at night because now I'm convinced I can't actually do it. I look at other people, read other work and think - how did they do it? What am I doing wrong? And there's no one out there to answer me... unless I want to pay and guess what? I'm skint.
The thought of giving up on three years worth of work is too painful and the thought of starting something new is terrifying. Maybe, the goblin on my shoulder whispers, "I'm not meant to be a novelist." If that's the case, what am I?
Is an author without a book still an author?