Dreams are also come
Monday afternoon saw my finishing the edits on the latest novel. About a thousand words shy of 90k. I had been keeping a guesstimation of about how many words it would be and was happy to have undershot it. The first novel I ever completed was 55k, and every other book in the series after was 60k. At the time, I thought that was my average, or rather, my limit. I had seen submission guidelines asking for numbers as high as 120k and thought to myself back then that I would be unlikely to reach that. I had other curious thoughts, too, that somehow the word count also determined worthiness, substance, pedigree. This wasn't the first time I've written that many words in one piece, but I'm not hoping for anything. I'm just hoping that it all makes sense, that it's compelling, that at the end of each the reader feels fed, but also wants another helping.
Despite the difference in word count, the pace feels about the same. When I write 3rd person, it's 3rd person limited. I like the camera to sit on a given character's shoulder and everything kind of filter through their senses. Because of that, the novel introduces the various perspectives in the beginning, then moves into the middle part after establishing the central conflict, what various characters desire and hope to prevent, and complications arise as these wants overlap and conflict. Then the resolution is a massive narrative melee. It goes a little quick. I think this is a symptom of how I follow my characters, not very sure myself of where exactly they're going, but once the finish line is in sight, everyone starts sprinting and I'm just trying to keep up. I spend a good amount of time with my premises and characters and the novels always start very tentatively. A few chapters in and I have more confidence about what it is, and what it's about. The middle goes at medium speed comparatively, so I guess the whole thing just accelerates over time. Given no outside complication or distraction. I started sketching this idea early winter 2016. I took a hiatus because of those aforementioned setbacks, but I worked on it most of this year. I'm not sure I could've conceived then what it is now. I think I'm happy with that.
I had the usual imaginary production meeting in my shower yesterday of the book's film adaptation. I thought about what I would say to actors, if allowed, probably overstepping. I thought about interacting with costume designers and set designers. I thought about casting. In some cases the characters have a very specific idea going in; I had an anchor when I dreamed them up. In other cases, I think I would be very interested in back and forth with another creative professional about what they thought, how they saw it. I dried myself assuming that everyone would be agreeable enough to my face but discuss among themselves how I was some kind of ogre.
The last step will be throwing down some breadcrumb notes when I come back around to writing the continuation. I don't know if that's a skill I've worked on beyond of all the practice, but I'm very glad that when I come back to them, the notes generally make sense. Knock on wood. There are times when I come to them and some of it reads like gibberish, but for the most part, the last bit of energy I have for a project is in a kind of "okay this is what happens next, broad strokes" spirit. It's a little odd in this case because it was my objective, when I started, to write one book, no sequels. I had an arc in mind, a beginning, middle, and end and that was it. So maybe I failed at that.
After that though, I will be spending the rest of the month in unknown territory. It kind of fits. Maybe because when I wake in the morning, it's dark out of my window, and when I go to bed at night it is equally pitch black. The entire day feels like night, that I'm fumbling around unable to see. And so, the first act of the play, and the whole of the children's story. Both things I've fallen on my face over, and both things I am determined to begin and compete. I have no map, though, and no light to see if even if I did have one. I'm old enough now that friends of similar age are settled, in their lives and careers. They are locked in to a course, in a manner of speaking, so now questions come up about what they do with the precious free time they have, how do they fulfill themselves when they're alone. A few of them even wonder about what legacies they're leaving behind. The closest thing I can compare it to is looking for the next project, the next idea, the next exploration, and finding the folder empty. A very sobering, a very quiet horror. Cold, like the icy chill of the wintry room just beyond clutching blankets.
Well, it hasn't happened to me, yet, so I guess I'll turn over and dream a bit more.
Despite the difference in word count, the pace feels about the same. When I write 3rd person, it's 3rd person limited. I like the camera to sit on a given character's shoulder and everything kind of filter through their senses. Because of that, the novel introduces the various perspectives in the beginning, then moves into the middle part after establishing the central conflict, what various characters desire and hope to prevent, and complications arise as these wants overlap and conflict. Then the resolution is a massive narrative melee. It goes a little quick. I think this is a symptom of how I follow my characters, not very sure myself of where exactly they're going, but once the finish line is in sight, everyone starts sprinting and I'm just trying to keep up. I spend a good amount of time with my premises and characters and the novels always start very tentatively. A few chapters in and I have more confidence about what it is, and what it's about. The middle goes at medium speed comparatively, so I guess the whole thing just accelerates over time. Given no outside complication or distraction. I started sketching this idea early winter 2016. I took a hiatus because of those aforementioned setbacks, but I worked on it most of this year. I'm not sure I could've conceived then what it is now. I think I'm happy with that.
I had the usual imaginary production meeting in my shower yesterday of the book's film adaptation. I thought about what I would say to actors, if allowed, probably overstepping. I thought about interacting with costume designers and set designers. I thought about casting. In some cases the characters have a very specific idea going in; I had an anchor when I dreamed them up. In other cases, I think I would be very interested in back and forth with another creative professional about what they thought, how they saw it. I dried myself assuming that everyone would be agreeable enough to my face but discuss among themselves how I was some kind of ogre.
The last step will be throwing down some breadcrumb notes when I come back around to writing the continuation. I don't know if that's a skill I've worked on beyond of all the practice, but I'm very glad that when I come back to them, the notes generally make sense. Knock on wood. There are times when I come to them and some of it reads like gibberish, but for the most part, the last bit of energy I have for a project is in a kind of "okay this is what happens next, broad strokes" spirit. It's a little odd in this case because it was my objective, when I started, to write one book, no sequels. I had an arc in mind, a beginning, middle, and end and that was it. So maybe I failed at that.
After that though, I will be spending the rest of the month in unknown territory. It kind of fits. Maybe because when I wake in the morning, it's dark out of my window, and when I go to bed at night it is equally pitch black. The entire day feels like night, that I'm fumbling around unable to see. And so, the first act of the play, and the whole of the children's story. Both things I've fallen on my face over, and both things I am determined to begin and compete. I have no map, though, and no light to see if even if I did have one. I'm old enough now that friends of similar age are settled, in their lives and careers. They are locked in to a course, in a manner of speaking, so now questions come up about what they do with the precious free time they have, how do they fulfill themselves when they're alone. A few of them even wonder about what legacies they're leaving behind. The closest thing I can compare it to is looking for the next project, the next idea, the next exploration, and finding the folder empty. A very sobering, a very quiet horror. Cold, like the icy chill of the wintry room just beyond clutching blankets.
Well, it hasn't happened to me, yet, so I guess I'll turn over and dream a bit more.
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