1 pm Wednesday, a blank page taunts me, a skeleton of background story shambles around three incomplete characters, and an outline needs to grow broader. Deeper. Ideas rot and others fester. So I do what needs to be done: I smoke a pipe on my walkout and wonder if the project should die.
It’s all story within story, this novel writing thing. The characters’ lives shape the present. They forgot the past. But they love something that haunts them now. Even the locations mean something to someone. Always. Heavy duty stuff: Every element of a novel spins its own tale. I’m scared as hell to write all of this down. Will I drown in its web?
3 pm, I just keep thinking. And thinking. Something or someone pities me. Grace.
I peer into the story’s past. Rewrite tales of sacred objects and past sorrows. And new hopes. Doors open and the present travels somewhere. I can imagine an ending. I keep writing. I’m writing!
The novel continues…