I do actually blog from time to time. Good lord, but it’s been a while. I’m so sunk into the writing that it’s almost always the same, each time I think I should write a post: working really hard on the novel. Writing lots. Would say more, but it’s not done. It’s going exceedingly well; I feel incredibly good about it.
Yes, I’m afraid I’ll jinx it by saying that.
That is basically what’s what these days. Summer – hot, sticky, sweaty summer – has arrived, and with it the attendant mosquito bites. I’m still walking home from work in the evenings, managing four and a half kilometres a day. The hotter it is, the sooner my water bottle runs dry.
I am lost in thought over this novel. Always thinking about it, mulling it over. I finish writing for the night, or revising work I wrote in the morning, and as I’m putting the computer away and getting ready for bed, I’m thinking about an adjustment to a phrase or a scene. It’s this ever-present awareness that I’m working on a project I really believe in, that I really enjoy. And oh, boy, I really want it to turn out. I want to hold it in my hands as a legit, for-real book.
When I need a break from the novel (and I do, from time to time), I work on my short stories. There are eight or so out on submission at the moment; one has just come back from a professional market with a rewrite request. This is a good thing…I’m getting closer to consistency. It’s like I can feel it, this itchy, oh-so-close-if-I-just-go-a-little-harder sense that it’s almost within my reach. Almost. I’m not there yet — I’ve had some incredible opportunities and breaks, but I still have the work to do.
It reminds of a fantasy novel I read when I was a teenager — I can’t remember what it was, but there was something in it about it taking twelve years, twelve again, and twelve more than that to become a bard (some kind of magical bard, I think). It’s not the story I remember but the idea that if you wanted something, if you really wanted it, you’d have to keep working at it and even then, you’d have to go farther again. And farther some more.
Maybe I’m somewhere in that third set of twelve, getting closer to my master ballad. I think this is what that novel was trying to get at, so long ago.
Maybe I’m getting closer.