I do my very best to update my blog everyday.
I'm trying to include as much detail as possible to document my journey to a published novel.
January 29th 2020:
On a day to day basis. I think about words. I think about the dictionary definition. I wrangle with the way it'll be heard. I wonder if it's even correct. If only for a second. I imagine its uses. Is that how I would say it? Is that the correct use of punctuation? What does that word even stir in me? What's the origin? What's the synonym? You can wrestle with a thesaurus, you actually can. For the good it'll do you. You may as well fold. It won't like you in any such literally way. Not one little idiliy bit. That book you considered more holy than thou. Look at it weeping. Look it at now. Instead of worrying about sounding like this one or that one or the other one championed. I'd sound like yourself. After all, it's you writing this stuff down.
So, when I consider and look at my words. The words on a monitor. The words from my head. It's a satisfying feeling and an obsession all the same. My goal isn't to write as many words as I can. Far from the object of the task at hand. I'm merely reading from page one, not counting the lines. I indulge in my written creation and rhymes. Chapter one, edit the meaning. In fact, switched it around. I start from a sequence in the heart of the character. Notwithstanding, it introduces the setting. It's not a secret. It'll be defined. Which in itself becomes a character and therefore it must be introduced earlier. I'm embracing true meaning in the alluded dark message. Writing it seems, becomes more and more fun. I can see the page count increasing and the words doing the same. By going back over from the start of the page. Page 242 of (at the moment) 398. I'm not aiming or working to 400 or even a set total number of words. What appears to be naturally evolving. I suppose evolution is natural in itself. The way in which I read what I've written and realise it needs depth. It needs slightly more of me. My personality. You need to feel me in the page. I don't mean feel the character. I want you to know that it's me that's written it. The only fear I then may have, is that... I'm trying too hard to be something profound or something I'm not.
All I can say is. It's taking some time. It's time I have to spare and it's time I wish to invest. It helps that I'm enjoying reading it for essentially the millionth time. I guess if you enjoy the story, it stays within you in all times. It's tangible in my mind and I want that on the page. As long as it takes is as long as it'll take. When I know it's right. I'll know. I'm not far off now. The page count isn't growing because the story isn't finished. It's finished. I'm adding in the life. That's what I mean when I say; I want you to feel me. I want to be gripped as the author. Being gripped in a way that you can't control the life and passion you place within the words. Editing this draft. Now the second, is breathing individuality into my writing. I wouldn't go so far as saying 'I've found my voice'. Sometimes, I have no clue what I'm saying, doing or pretending to be. Other days I'm awash with confidence, positivity and direction. It's the persistence I think that is key. It's really helped me focus and I.... at the moment ....can't stop.
It's making me feel proud and pride is not something I feel all the time.
Sometimes we're winners, sometimes we're at work.
Whatever the person you decide to play........ Play it with vigour. Get to know yourself.
Until Next time....
Do Good Things
November 13th 2019:
Well....I haven't finished!
I've finished the story, sure. That though, isn't the end.
In terms of words, I'm at 131,034 - this is already the second draft. Word count remains relatively insignificant to me personally. This keeps on increasing and decreasing, either are fine with me. Much of my time is being taken up with reading, editing and adding in everything that I feel necessary to move it forward.
I haven't been religious in the pursuit of updating this blog because well I'm trying to get the 'work' done. I'm not though referring to this as work. It's enjoyable but I don't want to be one of those people who 'just talks' about things. Usually, I will admit myself when I say I'm going to do something. I do it. Which I've kept up with thus far in my life.
It's been one hell of a journey so far. I said from the beginning that I hoped to get it completed by September this year. That would then be a year and 'done'. I've dedicated so much time to this and you certainly need to focus on nothing but what you're writing. That in itself is difficult when work and other such distractions surround you. Like trying to complete IT certs, and changing jobs AGAIN. Commuting. Maintaining the enigma. Singing songs that no one will hear. Writing words that will never be read. I keep coming home with notepads. I fill them. One by one. I fill them with words. Words that make no real sense. Just a flood of subconscious.
I often times, consider not writing this or updating it. I no longer have an Instagram account. It was originally my choice. I then attempted to log in and seems it's been removed altogether due to copyright material. I'm not entirely sure what that relates to! All of the material was mine. So, seems odd. I may return one day. Not sure what I got from it to be perfectly honest, it became just another distraction and I myself could feel as if I was becoming ever more vacuous. There's only so much sun drenched perfection, scenes of fake happiness and pretension that I can digest. That's a very sweeping comment, but one I'll stick to for the time being. I'm not one for spying unless it involves voyeurism.
I'm excited to start another one, I make notes on that one too. Should come relatively easy. I have my characters. I have the tone I have the narrative. It's ready but like I keep saying. I can't or won't start that one until this is all done.
Not sure first person on this one - I'll see how it feels.
The only part of me that thought I was alive is the part I search for within you. It's the part that I now know is missing. In life, it seems my indecision has paved the way toward my future. A simplified passenger in all and everything. I continue to hunt. With it brings fear. A concern. What if I have everything that I once thought was real. Reveal a decision, so many would find a surprise. I can continue with hope in my heart. Will hope turn to fiction or will I be the star of my own biopic? The end only known if I choose the conclusion. Act on my impulse. I like the romance in the definitive decision. No one can misinterpret your intentions. You could leave a note with empty pages laced with intricate details of all your offerings, your misgivings and regrets. Then again, choose to disappear to a tree on a hill, decorated only in darkness. Illuminate the leafless branches with the full beams of your headlights. Lay out a record player. Perhaps power it off your car battery. Delicately remove the soundtrack you wish to dance the last experience to. Inform the authorities of your location. By the time they reach, the record will crackle in perpetuity. Never mind, it won't be taken seriously anyway and rightly so.
For each and every day I check. I keep looking. The day I left. You should have come running. You didn't. How unhealthy. I can't help but be completely jealous and I clearly, obviously and evidently have no right at all to be the one to feel it. If I spend too much time considering jealousy, it loses it's purpose. I lose my own. I can't go on like this. I won't.
Can I be saved by irrelevance. Should I be considered in the same breath as ruminative. I only lean with a heavy elbow, supporting a glass of liquor, chiming with melting ice cubes. That I think. I hope supports my creativity. My expulsion of tranquility. For that matter, any words that end abruptly with 'ity'. Shall I not learn to be horrified?
If I playfully imagine my finger upon this glass. It's no longer a glass. I'm closer to you. Albeit through the gin we shared. I can nestle in heavy, my mouth in your neck. With the warmth of my exhalation, you have no choice but to tilt your neck away through panic that we will devour each other. It's our waiting, our nuances that will cause this passion to conflagrate. You can avert your eyes all you wish. I can hold back my kiss. You know this has been inevitable. You know it's our time. With a beat, our foreheads rest upon each others and with the feeling of righteousness. That we owe this to ourselves. We owe it to each other. This moment is yours and mine. I lose myself in you.
I won't make excuses.
This one too, will write itself. Whether you appear within is self evident. This story is yours.
Until Next Time...
Do Good Things!