I published my tenth work and second full-length novel last Friday. (YES!!) The Strike is a story about a selection of people, living in a city in America, and how their lives intertwine in the aftermath of the disappearance of the Sun. Some weird shit happens. Now that I think of it, The Strike resembles The Funeral more than I had ever hoped for.

Now – I had a tiny dilemma during the weeks before publishing the novel. I was both

  1. convinced that the draft was beyond repair, and
  2. convinced that I should never publish anything but the best that I could produce.

Then again, I didn’t want to just abandon the story I had spent two months writing in the beginning of 2020. So I came up with a plan. Here’s what I did.

First, I removed everything that was cringy. All the unnecessary adverbs and lines and chapters that didn’t drive the story forward.

Second, I put the draft down and let my brain work it out subconsciously over a few days, after which it became clear what needed to be done.

Third, I made the changes my brain suggested, and realized the story had turned out exactly as good as it ever could have; that even though I felt like I could do better, I knew this particular story couldn’t be made any better than what it was.

And now, it’s out, and I’m so glad I’ve finally got it out of my hands. At last I can focus on editing the story I wrote after it. Which is significantly better than the first.

It seems almost as if the process of becoming a better writer is just about writing, finishing, shipping, and moving on to the next idea that is always slightly better than the previous one.