Now, The Difficult Part Begins
(Photo of my marker board with daily word counts. I can see it right from my desk every day. I highly recommend doing this. This is how I will write moving forward.)
I have completed the first phase of my book. I started notes in October of 2022, and the real writing began in January. I say ‘phase’ instead of ‘draft; because it is different than anything I’ve tried before. The sketch or the blueprint of the story is done. Next, I will try to make it beautiful.
What the hell does that mean? I wish I knew exactly. I have to include more background, connective tissue between characters and scenes, and in this case, more fictional historical context. If it was music, I would say I’m spending more time in production. If it was a mural, I’d say I have penciled in the piece in its entirety, and now it’s time to paint.
I only mark this occasion because not only have I never really done this, but I also truly don’t know if I can. I don’t know if I have the stuff to make it happen. This isn’t grinding along with the plot of a story, hoping to take the reader with me. This is poetry. This is extra. This is what separates amateur from professional. These are paint brushes I’ve rarely used and never on a scale this big.
The goal is to make it an accurate reflection of my story. I can’t attempt to emulate another writer. It is just my best foot forward before I track down an editor to work with.
I am nervous. It could take a month. Maybe three? Maybe more. Who knows. It could add another 5,000 to 20,000 words if I’m doing it right. This is a challenge and most of us run out of challenges in our lives as we age. I had to invent one.
Challenges are scary, and we look to avoid that type of thing when you pass fifty. I like comfort. I like my bed and my couch and naptime. But my brain will not leave me alone. No matter what I try to do to assuage it, my mind just wants more and more stimuli. My ego has also informed me that I might be able to still sell books, especially if I nail this. My imagination is always on board for this shit. The unknown. The unsettled.
What on earth would I do if I didn’t dream about things?
Maybe that’s the whole point.
The book is the first part of two or three. I have a title, but it could change. The best I could say is that it is a mix of The Talisman and the French Revolution. Fantastical and leftist? I don’t know. It’s something I’ve never seen before, so that’s why I’m doing it.
It is more of an editing stage than full-on writing so that’s when I lean into my blog stuff to keep my fingers warm. So, I’ll post more frequently. At the very least, I can document the whole journey and maybe something cool will happen, maybe not.
Writing isn’t like physical art or music. It’s not like film. Enjoying those types of media doesn’t take as damn long as a book. I’m asking a reader to spend several hours with me, quietly, as I try to entertain them only with words. I’m asking to establish a relationship and that I won’t waste their time. I’ve had to overcome a lot in my head to realize that just my mere presence doesn’t waste a person’s time. Now I have to ask for others to acknowledge me and my ability to entertain them with a story. (That is how I see it. I’m not there to nurture any souls or uplift. I write to entertain. It’s how I have fun and that’s what I’m attempting to share.)
So, let’s see what happens.