Book Two

I began work on book two this Christmas break.  After two years since I finished writing book one, and fooling around with other ideas, I have finally decided to listen to some Brand New, Rage Against the Machine, Aireline, Starflyer 59, and Sigur Ros, and allow angelic muses from the Lord above to pluck the harp of inspiration.  So far, it’s worked.  Writer’s block only exists if you play video games and stare in front of a TV or social networking site for ungodly hours.  The skeletal structure of book two is almost complete and there has been some sinew and muscle added as well.  Here in the next day or so I should complete chapter one and possibly two and three. 

Good news for the first book.  An old professor of mine offered to edit it for cheap.  So, I am going to take him up on it sometime after Christmas.  Sweet relief my way.  I finally feel like the book is progressing somewhere.  More on that later. 

Synopsis

Going to write out a synopsis and query letter tonight.  Hopefully, maybe, but damn sure going to pray about, I’ll get a response and someone will want to see my novel.  And if they want to see it, maybe they’ll like it and offer me a deal.  Don’t care to be rich, although it would be nice, just want to make enough so I don’t have to work another job. 

Off my adderal now.  Not sure what to think about that.  Feel like I’m more creative without it.  Shitty thing, I’m less organized and obviously without focus.  What do I do? Guess I toss the pills.  It was a beautiful year without emotion, guess it’s time to move on.  New Years are grand!

Anxiety

Now for high anxiety! Yesterday, I finished editing my novel.  And when I say finished I really mean that I inserted written corrections into the computer, hoping that I caught every mistake, but most likely missing a few.  So, I have sent my manuscript to four different friends/colleagues, three of which are fellow English Majors, another a grammar guru, one a doctor, and the last, a fellow novelist gone to the dark side of video game lust.  We are all praying to he makes a quick recovery. 

I fret over their handling of my work.  Not that they will bash it and say it is no good.  No, my self esteem has grown too strong to let that bother me.  It’s the time.  Will they spend a week, two weeks, a month, six months reading it?  When I call will they give stock responses such as, “Oh, I’m real busy right now but I cannot wait to read it.” All the while they are sitting on their couch, watching the latest episode of “True Blood” or “Family Guy” or deeply enthralled with a quest on Warcraft.  Let’s hope not.  A handful of seventh and eighth graders, a portion of my intended audience, read the four hundred pages in a week or less.  Let’s hope, for my sanity, that my peers can pull off a similar feet.  I would really appreciate that.  Seeing that I am waiting on their response, their insightful critiques, their editing eye before I proceed to self publish.  If not, then maybe I will beg my wife to let my shell out five hundred bucks for an editor.  That, or I will scour the universities in the area and entice a grad student to take my novel on as an editing project, all for the low low price of zero dollars.  Zero is better than five hundred.  So, until then, I bid my silent listeners farewell. 

The great debate

The great debate still ensues, but today, I am leaning toward self publishing, continuing with what I am doing now.  I enjoy it.  The creative process is mine. No one can take it away from me or tell me to change something integral to the story because the editor feels it won’t appease to the masses.  So, to hell with them I say.  This week at least.  Ah, the mind of the indecisive.  God love us.  However, I do have good news.  I am on page 125 of 260 (of a micro format I created.  The book is actually 400+ pages) of the final editing process.  It should take me only a day or two more to finish plugging in the hand written corrections to word.  Soon after, I will have a group of respectable people read it, trash it, trash it, and maim it, all for my benefit.  Until then, keep reading silent listeners. 

Alas, a deadline unmet

More than a month a goes by, and still no prologue.  It’s finished to be sure.  Read over it three times, scrutinizing every line and word in front of me.  Paranoia and fear run rather deep, however.  I need another detective’s eye, a fellow literary and writing guru as myself.  Luckily, blessed?  I have friends, fellow English Majors who will read over the story for me.  Hopefully they hold no punches.  I’m much too sensitive to be humored for the sake of feelings.  Besides, I have no time for that shit.  I really want to publish this book. 

And there in light is the real quandary, do I continue with the blog and through much effort and paranoia self publish?  Or do I attempt the traditional route, writing query letter, synopsis, outline, purchase a few hundred stamps and envelopes, and wait impatiently at the mailbox for that rejection letter?  Do I put my life’s work in the hands of an agent or myself?   

Some would argue vehemently for and against both options, and both sides would make valid points.  Maybe I’ll try both.  If anyone out there is listening, please, some advice would be wonderful.  I, and no one should for that matter, am above helpful suggestions. 

Construction Continues

As the title implies, construction continues.  Not only of this sight, but the novel as well.  Some friends and family members continually state that I am probably just being obsessive, paranoid, doing more damage than good.  Maybe they’re right.  But I cannot stop.  The story continues to speak to me in vibrations as I sing along to the radio in my car, whisper in a roar as I sleep, and pluck at my earlobes as I sit and think silently.  It is quite possible the angels thought God was being a tad obsessive taking seven days to do what He could have uttered in a millisecond.  Faster than a millisecond since it was He who created time. 

Joyce burned Portrait of the Artist and rewrote it years later. 

They were great though.  One God. The other an intelligent, sometimes insane, god at writing. 

The story though, the story.  She, he, it, whatever gender you want to attribute to it, controls me, lures me, begs me to make her perfect, a thing of beauty that eyes cannot look away from.  But I’m not poetic, I tell her.  Doesn’t matter.  I’m a man of faith who believes that all the work we do should glorify God our creator.  Basically, don’t do it half assed. When I flip through old drafts of this manuscript, I thank God for teaching me patience, to refrain from publication.  Basically, it was a piece of shit. 

No matter how much I think of the possibility of money, or fame (what’s fame for a writer, right?  There are only about ten who people would recognize on sight.) I remember that the story is a living, breathing entity that I have no control over anymore.  Basically, I’ve become a tad bit obsessed.

But I’m not the only one who will read the story.  I hope.  And for them, for you, it needs to be as flawless as this imperfect being can make it.   

C.S. Lewis wrote a book on the psalms.  At one part he discussed the artist, poet, in the Jewish Culture.  Hell, culture of that time.  It was there job, he said, what they did for King and kingdom. It wasn’t something they did on a whim, or only when they felt inspired.  They held such discipline (and no distractions like television, movies, video games, porno mags, or the internet) that they wrote every night.  Seems like that would produce pretty shitty poetry, huh?  And yet, these were the masters, the ones we try to mimic. Why do I say this?  I guess it is because I am trying to adhere to such a discipline that is probably no longer possible.  Basically, I’m waaaay too optimistic.

So that, is why it is still under construction.  Why I pray, obsess, write, rewrite, pray a bit more, think I’m finished, have the story tell me nu uh, and continue the entire process.  For those who have delved into the craft know what I am talking about.  And for those who haven’t, I have only made the strain seem lighter than it is.

Next week: The Prologue – eight pages of absolute excitement.  I hope you enjoy.

Opening Soon

For twenty-three grueling years I have searched the meaning of life, the point of it, how to use it for my benefit, and what I can do to alleviate boredom in the meantime.  I have succeeded in every facet mentioned, and also failed, but that is the wonderment of life.  During those twenty-three years I have tried to figure out what to do with my life (who hasn't, right!). And so, by the ripe age of twenty-four, I made a discovery--write novels.  I already enjoyed creating stories due to my inability to keep my attention on anything tangible for five minutes (Not so now, thank you adderal) so why not put it down on paper?  The stories were there.  Carefully crafted, dreamt, and fondled.  Just needed the right words.  A difficult, frustrating, and oh so heartbreaking task.  But after four, almost five years, it has paid off (Kind of.). I finished a book.  Or what a writer can consider finished.  They never really are.  Always nitpicking.  Never satisfied. But thirty-five chapters are there.  Printed.  Ready.  Waiting.  Soon the pages will grace this site.  When?  Soon.  Just a few more details to check, chapters to revise, dialog changes to be had.  This is art, not pop friendly sci-fi we’re dealing with here.  No, I admire Ray Bradbury, C.S. Lewis, Isaac Asimov, Robert Heinlein, and Frank Herbert too much for such degradation.   However, I will not gripe, complain, or shit on other authors.  That isn’t my place and too much time has been devoted to such waste.  So, coming soon, a link to an e-book of my sci-fi novel entitled Yahnolite Histories: The Pneuma Orb will grace the site.  I do hope you enjoy it and my future posts on writing and the novel itself.