I have a manuscript box like that. Stashed in a dark part of the basement, it’s filled with stories that, through no fault of their own, just … well … stink. Yeah, I wrote them. At one time, I even thought they were good.

Fortunately, we all get a chance to evolve.

Looking at my earlier drafts (as if I’d ever let you), it’s clear my writing has been character-driven from the start — especially if you consider character sufficiently developed when he/she can be summed up in a word or two, as in “the sassy one”; “the troubled one”; “the one who surprises even herself.” (My earlier work is more accessible if you like stereotypes.)

You always knew exactly how my characters were feeling, because the adverbs attached to the dialogue tags told you. Readers were subjected to a lot of stuff like “she said questioningly,” and “he said evocatively.” If it still wasn’t obvious enough, there were many different ways to “say” things. Characters purred, chirped, and grunted. It was a regular zoo in each chapter. And, to make sure there was no doubt whatsoever, sometimes the dialogue tags were double-barreled, a fun reading experience for everyone: “she whimpered miserably,” “he snarled angrily,” “she commented pertly.” Dialogue tags, meant to be unobtrusive, were prominent enough to become their very own characters.

Plots were linear. Sure, there were stories to tell, but they lacked depth. Sometimes there was no hook, no compelling reason for anyone to want to turn the page to discover what happened next. Basically, I was writing for myself. Self-indulgent? You bet! Awful? Right again. And, yet, those stories have a special place in my heart. Those characters and I were friends.

There are some manuscripts a writer puts away knowing that they’ll be back. The plot, although in need of editing, is compelling enough to revisit. The characters have something to say. When the time is right, that manuscript will be revisited and edited into something sharp and readable.

The manuscripts in the box downstairs are not those stories. There’s a reason they live deep in the basement, out of sight.

If I remember my Rudoph correctly, the inhabitants of the Island of Misfit Toys are eventually picked up by Santa and delivered to children who will appreciate them. While nothing quite as heartwarming happens on the Island of Misfit Manuscripts, those early drafts do serve a purpose. Every once in a while, almost by mistake, I wrote a description or phrase back then that was actually good. There was effective use of imagery. There was a character who didn’t inspire cringing and/or eye-rolls. Like old cars that have outlasted their use, these old manuscripts can be mined for “parts” to use in newer stories.

Sometimes, when I’m feeling frustrated with my current manuscript, I re-read one of my oldies-but-baddies. It never fails to make me feel better.

(This post was originally published on Sept. 15, 2015.)

Why? What normal person sets themselves up for rejection over and over again? I’m a realist, after all; there’s no part of me that expects this dynamic to ever change. Still, I keep coming back for more.

I’m not the sort of writer who faithfully sets aside a few hours every morning to write, whether or not I have anything to say. That works for many authors, and I applaud them. It’s discipline, and ideas often flow if given the time and space. For me, however, that method produces only dry words that feel inauthentic. No matter how hard I try, just wanting to create isn’t enough. I can’t write unless I connect to a story that wants to be told. But once I do, some of the characters (let’s call them “the perps”) will not let go.

Every author has beloved manuscripts that never made it to book form. I have four. Two are early efforts that rarely rise above wince-worthy. Another is a manuscript that won’t be relevant without a major overhaul. These three are easily put aside – for now, they’re content to remain as is and have nothing to share. But the fourth manuscript … these characters will not shut up. They will not let me move on until I’ve exhausted every possible avenue. They’re chomping at the bit to burst into the world, and no matter how stupid it feels to keep flogging the same old story, they won’t let me tuck them away in a drawer until I’ve edited to a high polish and been rejected by (apparently) every single publishing house on the planet.

These characters are a lot like the ones in my three published works. Those characters pitched fits, too. They pushed and pushed until finally, years (and years) later, they got their way and appeared in print.

We could call me tenacious. We could also call me foolish. Or, we could just say that I’m curious to see what happens next, why these particular characters think they deserve to be “born.” My ego can stick it out, because here’s another thing: at the end of their journeys, each of my novels found readers who loved sharing their stories. That’s what makes the slog worthwhile.