Slowed to a mortal pace...
I did work on "CatsHeal" tonight, the horror novel that will NOT be titled that when I get it done. I might title it Death Weeps, or something like that, it'll have a horror title.
Unlike my high speed fantasy romps, this one is grinding out painfully slow. I had weeks of anxiety before beginning it yet constantly every day got tidbits of backstory about the character and situation and setting. I just talked about it and jotted notes. I finally began after a day of high-pain panic attacks and flashbacks and a lot of introspection about the worst parts of my own life. I got the first scene down -- half thinking it was going to fizzle again and be a half-finished false start. I relaxed and did something else, but the idea for the next scene started to nebulously show up and I was more nervous every time I thought of it, but could not get it out of my mind.
Same thing today. I got the first chapter done in two sessions and then tonight did a scene of about a thousand words that the first line hit me right at the height of the fibro attack. I knew the last words his mother would ever say to him would be to tell him to come home early because he had a lot of chores and errands to do.
I didn't know her that well but knew her part in the story.
Now that I've written those thousand words, the dithering, sweet, fluttering Southern Lady has made a character appearance and rendered herself indelible. She's not a one-dimensional horrible codependent controller. She's also sweet and charming and a little, maybe a lot ditzy, but she makes people laugh and they feel warm about her afterward -- even though she embarrassed the poor kid to death with it. She just went live and sizzled.
And the tragedy grinds on.
Come to think of it, I felt this way when I did the first chapter of Magic in the Streets and knew I was going to kill the kittens. And got surprises like that too, when a kitten turned out to die like a Norse hero rather than just a squeaking pathetic waif.
It's coming slow and it hurts to do it.
But this one is coming well. I guess Guy Krieg is a freaking masochist.
Unlike my high speed fantasy romps, this one is grinding out painfully slow. I had weeks of anxiety before beginning it yet constantly every day got tidbits of backstory about the character and situation and setting. I just talked about it and jotted notes. I finally began after a day of high-pain panic attacks and flashbacks and a lot of introspection about the worst parts of my own life. I got the first scene down -- half thinking it was going to fizzle again and be a half-finished false start. I relaxed and did something else, but the idea for the next scene started to nebulously show up and I was more nervous every time I thought of it, but could not get it out of my mind.
Same thing today. I got the first chapter done in two sessions and then tonight did a scene of about a thousand words that the first line hit me right at the height of the fibro attack. I knew the last words his mother would ever say to him would be to tell him to come home early because he had a lot of chores and errands to do.
I didn't know her that well but knew her part in the story.
Now that I've written those thousand words, the dithering, sweet, fluttering Southern Lady has made a character appearance and rendered herself indelible. She's not a one-dimensional horrible codependent controller. She's also sweet and charming and a little, maybe a lot ditzy, but she makes people laugh and they feel warm about her afterward -- even though she embarrassed the poor kid to death with it. She just went live and sizzled.
And the tragedy grinds on.
Come to think of it, I felt this way when I did the first chapter of Magic in the Streets and knew I was going to kill the kittens. And got surprises like that too, when a kitten turned out to die like a Norse hero rather than just a squeaking pathetic waif.
It's coming slow and it hurts to do it.
But this one is coming well. I guess Guy Krieg is a freaking masochist.