Why you have to be two-faced to be a writer

A new year. A new start. Or so I told myself.
Last year, I finished my novel. I edited it to within an inch of its life. I scrutinised every page, every line for excess baggage. I ruthlessly strangled, shot or poisoned my ‘darlings’ – those dearly-beloved phrases or paragraphs that Just Won’t Do in the cold light of day, however much one may secretly admire them. I made sure the timescales worked, that there was enough ‘light and shade’ in the writing, that the plot made sense. I wrote, and re-wrote my synopsis, my hook paragraph, my covering letter to agents. I checked my margins, my headers, my page numbering. I began to send my submissions out.
Time, then, to get on with the new one. And when better than in January, with its whispers of new beginnings, fresh starts?
I stalled.
It’s Second Novel Syndrome, I told myself. It’ll pass as soon as you get into the writing.
But still I stalled.
And then I remembered Janus, the god after whom January is named. God of – among other things – beginnings and endings. A god with two faces: one looking forward into the future, the unknown; the other looking backward over what has been. I think that Janus must be the God of Writers. We need to be two-faced.
The two faces of Janus remind me – since I’m into astrology – of the faces of Jupiter and Saturn. Jupiter – the forward-facing one – is expansive, optimistic, the Great Maximiser. The epitome of recklessness and courageousness, he’s an amalgam of Bob The Builder, Elvis and the NIKE advert:

‘Yes, We Can!’ he hollers. ‘More, More, Gimme More! Just Do It!’

Jupiter is the maker of first drafts.
Picture the severe figure sitting with its back to him. Here is Saturn, gazing sternly and pitilessly over What Has Been. Thin as a pin, he takes sips of water from a plain glass, dabbing at his lips with a fastidious handkerchief. He’s a mixture of Wise Man and Grim Reaper. He’s been there, done that, seen it all.

‘Watch Your Words,’ he whispers. ‘Gain Perspective. Be Objective.’

Saturn is the editor, the reviser, or as Belbin would have it, The Completer Finisher.
Jupiter begins things. Saturn completes them. Jupiter fires up the ideas while Saturn shoots the excess down. Jupiter is all energy and imagination and hope. Saturn is the reality check at the end of the game.
And whilst he doesn’t seem like a laugh a minute at first glance, Saturn is just as necessary as Jupiter, if we are to tread the stony road to publication.
‘Yo - this is the Big One, baby! Oh, yeah. It’s gonna be great –‘ croons Jupiter, as we begin our novel. With him, we grow a book. We express ourselves, pour forth a host of ideas, of what-ifs, of and-ands. Words accumulate into phrases, phrases into sentences, sentences into paragraphs, paragraphs into scenes, scenes into chapters. For first-time writers, the completion of this first draft may appear to be the completion of the whole endeavour. High on this achievement, it’s all too tempting to believe that this is, indeed, it: that the book is complete, ready to boldly go out into the world.
It’s not.
It’s time, instead, to turn our face the other way.
Living with Jupiter is like attending a Bacchanalian party. Excess Rules OK. Growth is Good. Quantity is Quality. Then along comes Saturn with his cold, assessing eye, his objective pragmatism. Compared with Jupiter, Saturn seems miserly, nit-picky, a niggardly task-master who ruthlessly insists on getting value for his money. Every turn of the plot, every character, every word must work for its place in the novel, or die. Saturn is the challenger. Faced with a flight of Jupiterian fancy, Saturn takes aim and fires. Only the very strongest survive the glacial Saturnian process.
Yet Saturn has his own attractions. If Jupiter is the lord of celebration, of over-eating and drinking, of expanding waistlines, Saturn is the cool, exhilarating breath of the New Year resolution to cut down, to sharpen and slim, to pare away the excess and reveal the lithe, sleek body beneath the fat.
Saturn and Jupiter. Each has its time in a writer’s life.
The transitions between them, however, can be problematic, as I’m discovering. A fellow writer puts it beautifully: ‘I'm finding it really difficult to put my writer's cap back on. I find myself scrutinising every word as it goes down and changing it back and forth, unable to make a decision and move forward. It's like being bladder-shy - I just can't go when someone's watching!’

Someone, in this case, is Saturn.
And with spring approaching, I need to turn again: to Jupiter, and his delights. But first I must wave a very firm au revoir to Saturn. Even though his bony fingers are scrabbling at the door, it’s no longer his time. New energy is stirring. New ideas are calling – distantly, faintly – and another voice, a hopeful, passionate, expansive voice is whispering:
‘Yo, this is the Big One, baby…’