I’ve heard you can’t go home and, to some extent, it’s true. The home that I knew? It’s no longer there, and for good reason. I wouldn’t want it to be there. It’s far more grand and fantastical in my head as memories than actually being there. It’ll never be the same that I remember.
I woke with something in my head… but, I couldn’t quite settle on what it was. Get it? I’m the nervous magician waiting in the wings.
I wrote MONSTER to satisfy an urge–to scratch an itch–and it did just that. I feel good about it, I really do. I’ll continue to push it out there–revise, edit and make it better. I will make it perfect. Therein lies the rub, however, because I’m not sure how. Beneath the errors and misgivings lies my story’s heart. The blood red organ that gives life to my disastrous little tale may not be the most apparent, but its there, beating away, deep inside its dying corpse. I have to save it, but I’m no heart surgeon–hell, I barely know CPR.
I’ve grown a bit of what can only be described as postpartum depression in regards to my novel. They weren’t lying when they told me the illusion of grandeur would wear off. They said time would slowly whittle down the book to mere ink on a page, no longer the dreams that I aspired to build . . . and they were right. Part of me despises it now and holds it in contempt. I’m ready to move on–start my next big thing–but, much like my like my ragged protagonist, I’m a stubborn son of a bitch. I’ll finish this if it kills me.
I can’t say it was an easy thing. You hear of these writers regurgitating ink out onto their pages at incredible rates, a feat I’ve yet to accomplish. Even reading on forums of individuals with the superpower-like ability to churn out word counts in the upper thousands per day seemed impressive but off putting. It just wasn’t me, no matter how I tried.
I’ve been told I have a way about me, that can make for an enjoyable tale, but I find some trouble in bypassing the inherent stuttering that comes with my working mind. Eventually I’ll spit out what I feel sounds best, after much deliberation . . . trouble is, by then I’ve lost my way. My dream has always been to become a writer, glorifying and exaggerating tales pulled from the pockets of my deteriorating gray matter. Writing, to me, is the purest form of art. Music, painting, etc., can become masterpieces in a matter of minutes given the right circumstances. Books, however, they take time regardless of their simplicity; even short stories can take time to grow.
If I can write a novel, I can rule the world. Or, at least, reign over the one I create.
Starting over is hard, though, much easier when you barely progressed in the first place.
I liked my site, I really did. It was a marvelous achievement when I’d finally built it–the slider, the featured posts, the ever changing category headers. It was everything I’d hoped to create, but . . . part of me knew it was too much, too grand. My mind carries with it a certain scale that I always attempt to create, no matter the challenge. So, there it sat, for more than a couple years, unfinished and ugly. It had turned in the Winchester Mystery House of websites with many doors and avenues even I didn’t know where they lead.