Sixteen chapters in this thing. If I keep that as an outline, which I will, that means I have fifteen more chapters to write for the second protagonist. What the hell am I thinking? I could have been happy with a short novella.
But I like the new character. He adds context and gives both substance to the world I’m creating and realistic simplification to the over-arching plot. On a Jungian level, he’s the shadow.
How the hell does George R. R. Martin do what he does? I picture George in a room surrounded by words and pictures and string weaving a web that Sherlock Holmes couldn’t unweave.
Welll… It’d be atleast a five pipe problem for Holmes. And Watson wouldn’t abide him for months.
Fifty-two pages. Around fifteen thousand words. These are the stats for draft number one. A paltry sum. There are a few holes in the plot. You could drive little more than a vespa through them, but the damned plotholes are still there.
For a few moments it felt like I was on a mo-ped, bobbing and weaving between the potholes, er… plotholes. Regardless, the language is exquisite.
In the end… I’m a lover of words. Narrative is just complicated, requisite pretense. But goddamn is it beautiful when story breeds a glorious pun, a magical metaphor, or some majestic aphorism.
I think I found the solution: a new character, another perspective, a whole new set of complimenting, juxtaposing games. A new wrinkle of chaos. Another set of variables, initial conditions.
There are two options when facing stagnation, stasis, equilibrium which might as well be death: create or destroy.
Not to say it is a binary choice… every act of creation requires destruction of things past. But when the whole is greater than the sum of the parts, the magic of creation presides.
When I was a kid, I wrote all the time. Not because I had to, nor because I really had anything worth saying. Hell, as a teen I once wrote a serialized story in Nadsat. It was so vapid, so absurd. It bordered on criminal. I referenced every ridiculous piece of nonsense and trash I could think of. It was surrealist garbage I called “Lollipops, Wompas, and Guttiwurts”.
I wrote poetry so overwrought and pretentious that to call it ostentatious would be an insult to Louis the Thirteenth’s taste, and to claim it was self-indulgent would be an affront to a man who commits suicide by autoerotic asphyxiation.
Not that I’ve gotten any better…
But as an adult, writing became a dalliance, the sad dance of a dilettante turned motley fool.
Recently, I began writing a novel, and for once, I like where it is going. (Many thanks to some earlier readers who had excellent criticism. I will formally acknowledge those parties when I have completed something worthy.) My first draft is done.
But I am stuck away from my computer right now, and editing and rewrites just aren’t an option. So here I am. Writing just to write. It feels damn good.
It don’t make sense
Unless it all makes sense
And then, some of it’ll never make any fuckin’ sense
It won’t make sense
Until it all makes sense
But then, some if it’ll never make any fuckin’ sense
So there’s no use thinkin’ ’bout it
No sense trying
Some of it is truth
And then, some of it is lying
I do what I gotta do
When I gotta do it
And when I gotta make do
I make it do too
It don’t make sense
There seems no sense
There is a sense
Of something relentless
The rhythm is a trap
The pattern is a cage
I feel a strange attraction
To the entropic stage
When you think you’ve had your fill
And the will screams thats enough
Do you trust that he speaks true?
Or would you just be giving up?
When you know you’ve served your time
That any more would be too much
Do you fear what is uncertain?
Or struggle on?
Trust in love?
So I sang of tragedy
Until the amphora was bone dry
But this goat forgot the joke
There was chaos in my soul
But the empty had control
’til Nike gave birth to my star…
Everything is perfect
And touched by the divine
There’s wisdom in this chaos
In this joyful dream of mine
And I pled for sanity
Unless the nepenthe kept me high
Offbeat goat’s last chance to dance
So I sing of victory
Until Cana’s wine is watered down
And this goat has chance to laugh
Mirror, mirror everywhere
The funhouse game of I
I’ve stared so deep into them all
I fear to trust my eye
They twist, contort, stretch my form
So honestly they lie
But how I choose to see myself
Is nothing more than mine
Stranger, stranger everyday
This madhouse game of we
I swam so deep into abyss
I fear I near lost me
I twist, contort, gasp for air
Dishonestly I try
But in the end there’s nothing more
To be than I and I
A truth for none
A truth for all
Reflections of the light
A lie for one
A lie for all
Refractions of delight