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.