“How’s the book coming?” asks no one, because let's face it, the world's too busy spinning off its axis for this to be anyone’s big concern at the moment. Also, folks may fear the question would be met with gnashing of teeth, rending of garments, and technicolor expletives.
Understandable.
But hey, surprise, it’s going fairly freakin’ well. Tomorrow I cannonball into the final round of revisions, loaded with an arsenal of edits and fix-em-ups. Revisions will be followed immediately by final edits to make sure my commas are behaving and my participles are tucked in with hospital corners.
ITTY BITTY REVEAL: there's a dog in this book. He survives. Thrives, even. He's a very good boy.
Lately, my writing desk feels like the skeevy interrogation room in some gritty NYC cop show where the lighting's as bad as the coffee. I'm playing both good cop and bad cop with myself (behave), with no right to remain silent because silence isn’t going to get ‘er done.
How should I tell the story? What are the contours and shape of it? The vibe? What’s missing? What’s incomplete? What stakes need to be raised? What the hell was I thinking there? What questions need to be answered? What needs to happen and at what cost? Have I developed specific plot points, character arcs, and interstitial content? Have I developed secondary characters adequately? Is there narrative coherence and thematic consistency?
Relentless. Necessary.
The novel juggles the chainsaws of politics and religion and pathocracy and food and weird art – things that America discusses VERY CALMLY AND NICELY over Thanksgiving meals and in poorly lit corners of the internet. Much of the work of the last few months was taking time to treat these issues with dignity, even if the characters do not. It’s a tightrope walk over a pit of rabid squirrels jacked up on espresso shots, and I’m not looking down. Send any leftover pumpkin pie for moral support.
This book has had a mind of its own, veering towards dark humor, which hopefully hides the bitter pill in the cheese. LITERARILY SPEAKING. If the humor and pathos are not balanced, the whole thing just may devolve into quite the spectacle de merde. ALSO LITERARILY SPEAKING.
The book’s had its joyride; now I'm the one driving. It’s time to grab the reins and make sure the reader will want to go on this adventure for a few hundred pages. I'm aiming for more excitement than Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, and slightly less existential dread.
Some scenes already nail that. Other times? I’m Frankenstein in the lab, wondering why the monster's got three arms and a case of the grumps. And still other times, I confess, I wrote terrible scenes, with terrible characters, in a manner didactic and riddled with rueful forbearance (SO FUN!)
But in this criminal justice system, I can go back and clean up the crime scene.
The heavy lifting's done. The “Figure This Out Later” sticky notes that have been breeding like rabbits? Figured out. The hard work of looking at the work with a critical eye, a certain defamiliarization? Done. Seven notebooks, a forest's worth of notepads, and countless scraps of paper grabbed when some idea hit me at an inopportune time then stuffed into my pockets? All been tamed.
Now it’s time to dance to The End.
But first, pie.
Jackie!!!
Best. Post. Ever.
HUGE. May your commas be cooperative and pie supply be steady... I cannot wait!!! ❤️
I cannot wait for it!