It’s a beautiful thing, isn’t it? When we can get it, when we can find it, when we can make it … currently, I am making progress, of some sort, on my pet project of the moment: my murder mystery story. At 46,000 words (and counting!), it doesn’t look like much, but I hope it will be worth it. But the problem is, progress is such an ambiguous thing. How many hours, how much writing frenzy does it take to make a readable story? How many times do I need to change “he said” to “he whispered” to “he leered” before it’s acceptable? How many new characters need to be introduced to make it interesting, exciting, suspenseful? What do I do with the character who seems to have no purpose? Do I scrap her, or develop her? Is cutting progress? Is scribbling progress? What about staring blankly at a blaring-white computer screen?
said declared ranted, I am at least enjoying this vague and immeasurable progress. And when project has progressed into product, I hope you will too.
COMING SOON: What it’s all about!
I would just like to say, The Piano Guys’ version of “Titanium/Pavane” is one of those songs that makes you feel so very alive: if you close your eyes and curl your toes, the excitement will run up your back in gravity-defying cascades of shivers, making you believe you *could* almost fly … you might not know the lyrics to the song, but you could sing it all day without one intelligible word, without one audible utterance.
That said, hullo. Yes, it’s been ages. Again. Life continues to get in the way of living. Perhaps what I mean is that my needs get in way of my wants: I need to make money to pay for a car so I can drive to work to have a job … while I want to just sit at home and write. I still haven’t figured out whether my needs or my wants are selfish; both seem to be, but at times neither do. Thoughts?
I have continued to progress with certain stories — one in particular, which is a rather exciting and new experience. It’s a murder mystery, with no great plot twists or memorable dialogue, but as I blink in the darkness and hold my breath at that one, tiny, incredible sliver of light ahead of me in the proverbial Tunnel, I smile. It may not be Christie, or Sayers, or good heavens Chesterton, but it’s mine. And I love it. And someday, you will all love it too … because it *will* be published, and it *will* be read! Because I want it to be; because I need it to be. Is that selfish? I don’t know. But it is true.