..it...is...alive!!!!!!..
it's true. i've had a deep, profound breakthrough in the literary sense.
wednesday i was sitting at starbucks in the northgate mall, smelling aromatic oils that an isreali salesman had plied to my hands and wrist, and watching the expanse of sky outside the large front window. i had my book in my hand, closed, and my mind parted before me.
a path.
the tangled, chaotic congestion of stories and characters that i've inexpertly written about over the years and years finally, miraculously, for once, revealed a pattern to me that i could discern. an order through the madness that made sense.
the book in hand was 'drood' by dan simmons. funny, a book written about 2 writers. all this talk of writing, and the craft of writing amidst the excellent and compelling story must have shaken something loose inside me. i'm jealous of the skill and displays, but have also allowed myself to be humbled and learn. and each book is really a lesson in how to write isn't it? simmons is a master, so i'm learning from an expert wordssmith.
i went home and wrote the outlines for parts 1 & 2. part 3 is still swimming around in my head in a foetal state but i get lightning fork views of what is to come. parts of my stories told in the past are falling into place like tetris blocks, fitting neatly in as if they'd been waiting for connections.
amidst this i still feel lonely, and wonder if i'll ever touch, and be touched by, a woman that equals my care and love. however, this feeling has a deeper purpose, since ultimately i suppose i'm the main character now. always have been really, but couldn't allow myself what i assumed was the conceit. really, it' could be my saving grace. the Man in my story doesn't love himself, in the way i realize i don't either. his redemption, while realistically perhaps not my own to have, could be the stone shattering the cold, still surface that lays atop me.
for once the task doesn't seem impossible, or burdensome, to write a book. or short story. or novella. or whatever form it ultimately takes. i want to be addicted to the words like i was when i wrote young.
so, here's to 'a deal with cupid' (bad working title). the child i'm now pregnant with, incubating inside me, to your good health, surprising arrival, and mysterious nature.
wednesday i was sitting at starbucks in the northgate mall, smelling aromatic oils that an isreali salesman had plied to my hands and wrist, and watching the expanse of sky outside the large front window. i had my book in my hand, closed, and my mind parted before me.
a path.
the tangled, chaotic congestion of stories and characters that i've inexpertly written about over the years and years finally, miraculously, for once, revealed a pattern to me that i could discern. an order through the madness that made sense.
the book in hand was 'drood' by dan simmons. funny, a book written about 2 writers. all this talk of writing, and the craft of writing amidst the excellent and compelling story must have shaken something loose inside me. i'm jealous of the skill and displays, but have also allowed myself to be humbled and learn. and each book is really a lesson in how to write isn't it? simmons is a master, so i'm learning from an expert wordssmith.
i went home and wrote the outlines for parts 1 & 2. part 3 is still swimming around in my head in a foetal state but i get lightning fork views of what is to come. parts of my stories told in the past are falling into place like tetris blocks, fitting neatly in as if they'd been waiting for connections.
amidst this i still feel lonely, and wonder if i'll ever touch, and be touched by, a woman that equals my care and love. however, this feeling has a deeper purpose, since ultimately i suppose i'm the main character now. always have been really, but couldn't allow myself what i assumed was the conceit. really, it' could be my saving grace. the Man in my story doesn't love himself, in the way i realize i don't either. his redemption, while realistically perhaps not my own to have, could be the stone shattering the cold, still surface that lays atop me.
for once the task doesn't seem impossible, or burdensome, to write a book. or short story. or novella. or whatever form it ultimately takes. i want to be addicted to the words like i was when i wrote young.
so, here's to 'a deal with cupid' (bad working title). the child i'm now pregnant with, incubating inside me, to your good health, surprising arrival, and mysterious nature.