I had to kill my work in progress.

Ok, that’s a bit of an exaggeration. It’s more like my work in progress (the current manuscript

I’ve been writing) is in a medically-induced coma. It feels like a death though, and I think I’m still

grieving.

After a few conversations with my agent, I made the decision to hit pause on my WIP (work in

progress). I was (am – present tense) in love with the story and the real-life character who

inspired it. It was (is?) set in Manila during World War II. My agent’s advice amounted to this:

World War II is an oversold market, find a new time period.

I went through the stages of grief.

Denial – What does my agent know? (A lot, actually.) He just doesn’t understand how this story,

my story, is different from the other World War II novels on the bookshelf currently.

Bargaining – I asked my agent, begged him really. I explained how this is in the Philippines, not

Europe. Surely, that makes a different. I thought about just finishing this one. Then, I won’t

write the ideas I have in my head for books 2, 3 and 4 – all set during WWII.

Depression – I cried. I felt like I had lost a year of progress – the time I had been researching,

outlining and writing this WIP. I drank a big glass(es) of wine. I walked away from writing

anything for a few weeks.

Acceptance – My current location. I respect my agent’s opinion and I completely understand

what he’s saying. I find myself glazing over yet another Goodreads recommendation for a WWII

novel; so yes, I get it. As proof of Acceptance, I bought a stack of different nonfiction books,

from different locations and different time periods, to find the next story that inspires me and

makes me fall in love. There are other fishes in the sea – or some such nonsense like that.

And I remind myself that my WIP is not dead. It’s resting. It’s waiting, frozen in time, until it’s

the right time to shine. Until then, my naturally enthusiastic self is starting to get excited for my

next adventure. Sometime outside of WWII.