What I will claim, however, is that the diatribe I was kind enough to italicize for you above is simply a description of a first draft.
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I decided to let them light some candles and knock boots out of empathy.
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So many of my literary and pop culture references are useless in this context. I find it a challenge, since we largely communicate through deconstruction and collage in the 21st Century.
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Certainly I am not alone in finding that international air travel is a bit…trying. It wears you down. Your head fills with goo.
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I am positively gleeful to know that while everyone else is barbecuing tomorrow, I will be listening to my writing playlist and hashing this beast out.
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Firstly, I will take your praise for not titling this post, “Murder, He Wrote.” I also could’ve gone with the much gayer, “Murder, She Wrote,” but my queer powers are at their nadir. Something to do with the moon or fucking Trump or having worked sixty hours this week. Probably all three.
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Nothing specific is “getting tough,” but I have begun to ask myself in internal whispers, “You gonna be able to land this goddamn plane, Wood?”
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I was not right the moment my alarm went off, and not just because of the existential crisis brought about each morning my iPhone screams at me.
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If I think of a tweak, an improvement, a mistake I can correct, why would I force myself to ignore it? That’s straight silliness.
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Please do not mistake me for someone who doesn’t value the hard won wisdom of people who are really good at this stuff. I’m not advocating style and content anarchy here.
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Booze. Boys. More booze. More boys. Sounds like my twenties. Okay, and the first half of my thirties. Also the late teen years. You get the point.
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I found some diagrams that were on Pinterest, which meant I needed a fucking Pinterest. This rolled into looking at hot dudes on Pinterest for inspiration for a hot dude character, which was time well-spent as far as I’m concerned. Looking at men is a bit of a strength of mine.
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But the horse must come before the cart. And making that horse move was a goddamn slog today.
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Very well. I will give him his space. I will let him make his mistakes. No fucking dragons, though!
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You people that use fine point pens: you know that we’re onto you, right? We are aware you are small animal murderers, every one of you.
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My first scene features an ugly speech. I don’t mean to say here that an evil character says evil things or that a righteous character has some unpleasant truths to convey. The speech is repellent because it is written so poorly. A fetid and unruly clunker of a paragraph.
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My previous attempts at novels have all had an A and a Z with nothing in between. Not so much as an LMNOP. I meandered. I despaired. I turned to unenthusiastic and too-frequent masturbation.
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This blog is the nothingness into which I will scream and spit and swear as I write my first novel. I am 44 years old. I have written many poems. I think two of them were good. When I say good, I mean not toilet paper, strictly speaking. I have taken several whacks at the same book. Each time I’ve gotten a third of the way in and found myself lost. This blog is not about that book. Fuck that book. Fuck it hard and don’t buy it dinner but maybe come back to it one day because of masochism.
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