Thought-Drive

Chapter 13 was drafted, and with a bit of flourish. In my more quiet moments, I've wondered where the drafts of the first iteration stop and the benefits of the re-writing begins, and have come up with nothing. The net benefit is that this story is better, and more full, but there are times when I am making something I did in the go round better, and there are times I'm off the beaten path completely. I also don't know to what extent I should be aware of things I did previously, much less how to forget about those things. I think, "well, this happens next," and sometimes, sometimes, I catch myself in a reminder of, "no, anything could happen. Don't force it." Currently, I'm in a grouping of sections that all take place more or less concurrent with one another during a world event that came about in the development of the setting in preparation for the rewrite. Maybe because of the nature of the event, or maybe for some other reason, I'm fi...

I am almost at the conclusion of the break between semesters that constitutes my Spring vacation. Not a vacation from writing, but from the job description I send to the government every year. At the beginning of the break I had high expectations about how to use this free time. Twice the number of chapters was my first thought. I doubled down on that and imagined even that I could write every day. In fourteen days, I could finish the novel. With four days left of my vacation, I have two chapters written, and not even two complete chapters. I went in and worked on two which were short and unrealized and poorly executed. It took me time to figure out where I was in the story, and even then I don't find myself very well grounded. I rushed it. I panicked, thinking that if I didn't start, I would never start. And if I never started, how could I ever finish? The rest of the time was spent seeing friends, and I didn't even get to see them all. Maybe in general I am the type ...

The first round of edits is done, and I am less sad that it took this long to get into the mix for the fifth book. I used my freshest eyes yet to look at something that was going to be published, and I could better hear the voices of all the confused people that were frustrated by my writing style (a friend recently told me, after years, that sometimes I write "around" ideas). As I've gotten older, I've fallen out of love with being clever and become married to making sense. Doesn't mean I'm any closer to being intelligible, though. When I put the story down, I had a few conclusions. The first was, again, at how badly I committed to the initial book, not just because it was the most juvenile, but because the first book is the most important. I didn't read Harry Potter, or Twlight, the Hunger Games, or any of the others, but those series, that success, all started from those first books. A delicate amount of responsibility was assigned to them, and evide...

This time I am not going to harp on about how much planning I did, and how little doing. I am less productive, by the year, than what I am realizing was a golden period of flourishing proliferation. It may just be unrealistic to capture all of that again. Or maybe I should be searching for the rocket fuel that propelled me through all of those words and pages those years back. I have not written a single page on the sci-fi manuscript since last Fall. I went into grad school applications after completing the ten chapters, reached a stopping point, and thought I had laid all the ground work to get right back on that horse after I received all my feedback (read: rejections). And now here I am, a good few months after I finished submitting the last of the paperwork, and not one page. Instead, I went looking down a dry well, and found some poetry in myself. Going back to that form was sudden, unexpected, and fulfilling. I discussed the phenomenon with a friend who just as occasionally ...

So as per usual, I got done posting a bunch of stories, and then I just checked out. Need to stop doing that. I can say though that I much prefer posting writing on the blog more than I do actually blogging. Need to untwist that knot, as well. Was speaking with a new writing acquaintance and it turns out she writes almost exclusively in 2nd person. I had limited interaction with that point of view, stemming directly from my mentor in college telling me, "don't write in 2nd person." He didn't explain why, nor did I ask for an explanation. Looking back now, I realize that 2nd person has a lot of inherent problems that 1st and 3rd person free the writer of, and the author has a lot of responsibility to begin with, but 2nd person adds on a few more hats. Most importantly, for me, is that the reader has to instantly buy-in, which is far beyond being interested, or curious. In 1st and 3rd, the reader is reading about someone else. Someone that can have all the eccent...

When he caught up to Jarvis again, he was back at the bus stop, waiting. David wondered how long the other man had been coming to grips with the things that David was suddenly wrestling with. And even then, how had he. “I spoke of us, but,” Jarvis said, staring straight ahead. “I understand your kind to form groups. Packs.  What I learned from dying is the trouble with moving one finger one inch when not motivated to do so. However speaking is the most difficult part, as if telling secrets long after were the most impossible thing in all of this.” David watched, as Jarvis spoke. His chest was inert. His words did not disturb the air at all. It was almost as if he were moving his lips, and thinking his thoughts loud enough for David to hear. “When one has spent so much energy and focus in existing, to take lives to extend one’s own, everything else going into that becomes less complicated. I have never heard of one such as you, alive, and alone. I suppose your decisions will ...

David thought about the man in the garbage and his fighter of a dog, as the scenery outside transitioned from abandoned businesses and liquor stores to luxury boutiques and grocery stores. The bus took them even further past that, and eventually, when things got too nice, they were back to walking. David was dressed comfortably, but even if he was jogging his attire would not have been confused for workout clothes. Jarvis looked out of place from head to toe. “On your left,” the large man said, but didn’t stop walking. David turned his head to look across the street. He saw the gates of a closed community, thick and iron, but beyond it there were the flashing lights of police cars. “Walter Lancaster,” Jarvis said. “Was a man of great means. He had nothing left to consider in his life but how long it would take for him to die, despite his excess.” David watched the people passing by in their cars watch the two of them. He thought about the friends of his family, and their mea...