SCENE: A QUIET STAGE. JACKIE STROLLS ON WEARING COWBOY OUTFIT AND 11-GALLON HAT (INFLATION). SHE TAKES A SEAT ON A CONVENIENTLY PLACED HAY BALE, SETS AN ELBOW ON ONE KNEE, AND SPEAKS TO THE CAMERA
The other day someone hit me with the dreaded question: "Are you almost done yet?" As if they were asking for me to pass the ketchup.
I am not.
And before you ask the next question: Four years in, Hoss, as of last week.
But I am almost almost done, practically tiptoeing through the tulips of nearly-donesville.
Let's back up this wagon just a bit. Between September 3, 2018, and August 21, 2019, I do-si-doed with a whole other book. Ended up euthanizing that sucker, Viking funeral-style, right in the midst of some critical s’mores crafting.
But not before I stripped that cadaver down like a goddamn apocalyptic scavenger and built anew.
I salvaged the salvageable, learned what stank like day-old fish, and realized that book was a Frankenstein’s-monster of ideas, stitched together in the unholy dark — destined to be misunderstood if it ever saw the light of day.
Four years.
Ever wish for a Handel’s "Hallelujah" moment? Y'know, where you’re divinely tickled and smash out a masterpiece in some sweat-soaked, fever dream of a month?
Yeah, no celestial cheatsheet for this click-clackin' cowgirl.
I gotta do it the ol' bone-grindin', soul-wrenchin', "human-inspired" way. That's me, face-slapping myself each morning, cozying up to the keyboard like it's an admittedly cute porcupine I am compelled to cuddle. Keystroke after keystroke. Draft after draft. Decision after decision.
Each decision's a whole mountain. Each keyboard clack's another step. And on the other side? Another freakin' mountain. Over and over, like that bear in the kiddie song, except my bear’s got a penchant for existential dread and there’s probably an errant Alpenhorn left to trip on by some irresponsible Ricola enthusiast.
Whoa, whoa. I know what you’re thinking. “Procrastination and avoidance.”
Nope. I’m not the paralytic, perfectionist type. When it's cooked, I'll know. It ain't there yet. I have scenes more mangled than a post-battlefield mech – sections that need ground-up reconstruction, not just a fancy new coat of paint.
Procrastination? Nah. Process. A burgeoning, spasmodic, glorious mess of a novel in the making. I want my best damn shot to be in there, every scrap of intentionality, every iota of 'me,' smeared across the pages like…you know what, very few analogies involving smearing work in anyone’s favor, so we’ll pull this buggy over right now.
But, oh boy, let me tell you, there's something magnetic about tearing off those narrative Band-Aids and spelunking straight into the gooey, haunted caverns of this beast
A ferocious, savage beauty in the unpeeling, of both book and writer.
So saddle up, word wranglers and story rodeo fans, this click-clackin' cowgirl is spurrin' this story-horse up the slope.
JACKIE TIPS HER 11-GALLON HAT TO THE CAMERA, GRABS A LEATHER-BOUND MANUSCRIPT FROM THE HAY BALE, AND EXITS THE STAGE, BOOT HEELS CLACKING, LEAVING BEHIND A TRAIL OF S'MORE CRUMBS.
Looking forward to its release. Consider this a pre-pre-order
Good grief can you write, woman! I will wait patiently for any (and all) of your books to be wrangled out into the world… and whenever they’re here I’m excited to hang out, for book-length(s), inside your brain.