Years ago, I wrote six novels and in each one, I tried to conform to an idea of the “right” kind of romance novel. I would literally write it my way then go back through and smooth down the dialogue, remove curse words, tame any scenes of violence to a PG13 rating. I would actually pull out some of the raw, realistic brutality of action scenes and tone down the love scenes. I second-guessed my first, gut instinct all the time.
Bah.
No wonder they didn’t sell.
I did get the attention of a couple of editors, one who asked for rewrites, but I always felt that I was capable of better, edgier writing. To this day, I still sometimes have to fight the prudish, little internal editors I let set up shop back then. I used to think of them as these weird, morphed versions of my more religious family members. I’d be doing rewrites with these creatures pointing their razor-sharp, judgmental tipped fingers.
Then one day, I grew up. Clued in. Call it what you will, but I realized that this wasn’t about what anyone else thought. This was about me. My writing. I was holding myself back and I can’t really explain why. Possibly a childhood of being at the end of that pointing finger–something no child should ever experience. (Now, that is a whole other, very long discussion–the kind I can wax angry poetic on for hours. 😉 )
So, I gave myself permission to Just. Let. Go. Yeah, there are times when I fall into old patterns, where that membrane-like layer of self-doubt reigns in the stark, emotional writing I can sense just on the other side. We can easily set hard-to-break patterns for ourselves. Ones that sometimes feel as if they are sucking all of the creativity out of us.
But let me share. Breaking free feels like nothing else.
Did you know that all the wonders of the universe are yours?
