So here I sit, at my desk. The blinds are drawn shut, behind me incense (Citrus Teakwood, which cultivates in me neither a sense of citrus or teakwood), burns on the mantle in the soap stone burner that Sam gave me for Valentine’s Day. To my right the halogen of my desk lamp shines a warm cone downward onto the keyboard and desktop. It’s light illuminates the ghostly strands of steam that rise up and out of my coffee cup. I have devoured my daily regime of vitamins, even going so far as to double up on the Ginkgo and the Ginseng. Surely the mood will strike me. Surely my eyes will glaze over in a haze of imagined happenings and I will write. I keep my ears tuned to hear the voices but none come. The silence is *insert cliche here* deafening. I put on the Pastor of Panic for a brief instant, but the inane ramblings of Glenn Beck do nothing to stoke the inner writer. Is there one amongst us who is not keenly aware by now that the Messiah is in all actuality, more mediocre?
This weekend was a mixed bag. It was back to the rental house which has been a drain on my sanity. What was avoided is now mission. The work must be done, the deeds completed. It is a mindset that spans the spectrum. I grabbed up the writing with the same vigor as I will all things. I powered through a scene that had me slowed to a crawl. I pressed on in spite of myself, a wonderful, courageous, feat if you’re me. No second guessing (other than about chapter length) and no introspective clap trap… I suppose I shall leave that to this bit of cyber obscurity.
I have bouyed my position in the positive, with all things. Where it concerns the writing, I have turned to comments I have received. Thus far with the exception of one, they have all been good. Constructive criticism was offered where people thought it needed. Not granting a name to the pro/an-tagonist of the the story until the final paragraph of the first chapter seems a common gripe. Usually that gripe carries a caveat, that the character is compelling in spite of it and that he is written with strength. That seems to me to indicate that I have done something right, and if it works regardless why change it? It was an editor that first brought this to my attention, I hadn’t noticed it. He said, “I’m invested in this guy within the first page and I don’t even know his name.” It’s the first draft, this is when you experiment. Could I rearrange the chapters, make the story more linear? Absolutely. For now though I’m doing it the way that works for me, the way in which I would like to read it. For now (in this first draft stage) it’s my story and I’m going to do it my way. I know, typical greedy bastard… I can accept that. And if in the end it doesn’t work, the chapters are easily interchangeable.
Another friend offered, “I was compelled to read it, I was drawn to it.” I took that as complementary, but then the demon spoke, “Car accidents are compelling, people are drawn to those too.” I am quite pleased to say that I stomped the ever living crap out of that demon, and the quote from my friend remains ever accessible in my saved email folder. One more weapon, one more inspiration, one more reason to try.
So, I sit here. The coffee cools, the spirit of the incense drifts high above my head, the vitamins turn my stomach sour, and the Pastor of Panic has taken a long commercial break. My long lament, like the remnants of my inane rituals serves as gentle reminder. “Hey Stupid, it’s time to get to work.”
Today’s goal? Fleshing out Victor Avila… no pun intended.
