Since this whole point-of-view thing started for me with my own writing, I’ve had great trouble trying to go back to my story and just get it done.
I’m still taking lots of notes for the story, though, to convince myself this isn’t a wasted effort and I still intend to go through with this goal to be published in some way this year.
However, while taking notes and trying to get my soul back where it belongs, I’ve also done a lot of reading.
I’ve come across countless instances where the published authors of romance write precisely the way I do. I said PUBLISHED authors. People who were on Best Seller lists.
Here is probably the best example I can find to prove to myself that what I am doing isn’t wrong or bad:
from Judith McNaught’s Perfect
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you’ve heard the shocking testimony and seen the incontrovertible proof…” Alton Peterson, the prosecuting attorney, stood perfectly still, his piercing gaze moving slowly over the faces of the twelve Dallas County jurors who were about to decide the outcome of a trial that had generated a holocaust of public attention with its scandalous revelations of adultery and murder among Hollywood’s superstars.
Outside the courtroom, the halls were packed with reporters from all over the world who were waiting to
discover the latest titillating developments in the trial of Zachary Benedict. Once, the media had fawned over him, now they reported every detail of Zack’s fall from prestige with even greater relish, serving up each juicy morsel of conjecture and allegation to fascinated Americans, who digested each
tidbit along with their dinners and the evening news.
Now, the main character is Zack. This is Chapter 9 and he hasn’t even gotten with the leading lady yet. She was introduced in an earlier chapter, but as a young girl.
Chapter 9 … courtroom trial of a murder … Zack’s trial, though he’s innocent. And, what is the author doing? The published, well-known, best-seller author? What is she doing here??
Interjecting, yes? Alton Peterson is being described, he has a piercing gaze. The jurors are from Dallas. And, we know that the trial has generated something. Something scandalous, among superstars. THEN she has the nerve to go outside this courtroom. Can anyone see through walls? A closed door? And yet, there goes the audacious author, telling her readers about what is taking place OUTSIDE the courtroom. We know the reporters are out there, they’re from around the world, and that the latest developments are even titillating. We discover that these reporters once felt one way and now seem to feel another way about the man on trial.
She used words to include prestige, detail, greater, relish, juicy morsel, conjecture, fascinated, Americans, digested, tidbit, and evening news.
These aren’t Zack’s words or thoughts or ideas. They come from the author. And, again, this isn’t the first time I’ve come across such instances in published works by well-known authors.
To tell me that I can’t do this makes me want to just scream. Scream bloody murder at the top of my lungs and wish there was a pill to erase all of the bad, stupid, useless, and wrong advice I’ve been handed over the years.
I knew I was right. I knew what I was doing had merit. I knew that I wasn’t writing some strange, alien code that makes no sense and had no business in any novel form under the sun.
I’m angry, but not for long. I’m angry that I listened and let their advice sway me. I’m angry that I became terrified to write anything besides he said/she said for fear of breaking some precious rule that would bring down the wrath of all things novel-sacred upon my head.
I’m furious that I wasted so much time trying to do something I wasn’t comfortable nor familiar with doing all the while questioning their advice and my stupidity in letting them sway me. I’m furious that I forgot how to write in my own style and feel like I’ve just wasted too much time and energy trying to get it ‘right’ when it was always right and didn’t need changing.
Tomorrow is a new day, and tomorrow I will find my voice again. The voice I lost to a lot of ignorance and stupidity and unhelpful advice about something I likely knew more about and have practiced longer than any of the people who offered such advice in the first place.
I apologize to myself for being an idiot to let anyone try convincing me I was wrong.
Tomorrow is another day, and tomorrow I write with the knowledge of conviction, purpose, and renewed energy.
BRING IT BACK! Please, dear Lord, give me back my old brain and wave the magic wand over my muddled head, clearing it of all things misleading.
So, now I must become a real writer again. The person who isn’t discouraged and led astray by bad advice. Come back to me inner child! Rescue me from this hell I’ve fallen into and lead me back to the you I once was, the writer without a care who loved to write for the sake of writing and not to try and please the ignorant masses!