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.
