Wednesday, November 21, 2012

Full body cast can't catch soul

Seems like that time of year again.

My editor for the next release contacted me, and I was relieved at her thorough professionalism and evident experience. The people I've met thus far that are near my age I can count on one hand, but in every respect age does not equal expertise, or even experience. Writing seems to come and go with people, stay with them in their youth and then vanish, only to reappear again in the middle of life, perhaps after children. I made sure to at least ask for advice, and she was very nice, and shared with me some of her experiences and thoughts.

And she thought the novel was "pretty solid" as well. "It was an interesting and exciting read... Overall, it reminds me of the King's Dark Tower series." Admittedly, I've never read the series in question (although I picked up the seventh book for super cheap, and at one point intended to collect and read them all). And also, there was half a paragraph between those two compliments of less flattering material. To sum up, I have some work to do. It seems to me, after a few years of this, that the novel I'm trying to write hasn't been written yet. I've written novels, but the only metaphor that comes to mind right this second is the crazily difficult stunt. I just keep hurtling down the ramp, over and over again, then fling myself into the air, spinning and twirling and flipping. Twice now I've fumbled into the kind of full body roll that everyone from the ground recognizes as a resigned and prayerful posture. "Wow," they all say, "I hope he's going to be okay."

But I guess since it's yet to kill me, I'm free to try again.

So that's what I'll be doing in the interim. I'm a little sad that I didn't squeeze out another chapter on the Winter project, but I feel ambitious about finishing it before Spring. I also might just get around to taking notes on a few other stories that have begun to jostle for my attention there in the backseat of my brain. I sort of miss hanging around a larger group of writers. Only sort of because writers who actually write are a bit rare. This less seen type is the hermit that spends most of their time underwater, swimming about their own ideas. They surface every now and again only long enough to tell people that they're alive. The other type is that one that talks about writing and that's pretty much it. But I do miss getting together every now and then and discussing. Much like the stunt competitor in the metaphor, it's not easy to talk about trying to touch the sky with people who have never pondered it.

However, I digress. As I was saying, it's that time of year. So, for myself, this year it's been about the little things. Air conditioning. Toilet paper. A smooth-running vehicle. Family. Friends. Laughter.


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