I can tell when I need to write, because I'll look down and see writing on my hand. In today's case, the scrawling looks like this:
B
-- = ! :)
E
I also wrote this in my email today, when I was half asleep. I want to remember it so much that I am keeping it here as well, where I will remember sharing it with you:
You can't see the building blocks, but you can feel them, and that's what makes a story well told.
*
I used to be a novelist. All three of you readers may recall. I finished my novel in an apocalyptic crescendo last April. Twenty months of writing. And when I was done, I did what artists do when they finish something important to them.
I put it away.
The summer hit like an elemental fury, like a metaphor unfair to survivors of Haiti.
My life washed away. And I clung to my ideas, and the driftwood of scattered friendships.
One day, months after finishing the novel, I found myself alone, and bored.
And I read the whole thing.
Front to back.
Cringing and smiling in equal measure.
And then, I read it again.
...A stack of index cards beside me.The story so far is seven hundred pages, printed, and I needed help seeing the building blocks. Something to help my mind physically separate the moments as they occurred.
Writing the story was a lot like listening to a badly tuned radio, and hastily scribbling down what I thought I could hear. After getting to read it through, I find many of the voices and moments have become much clearer.
So I broke the writing down into what I think it should look like after a second draft. This took weeks. Mostly because I was just dipping my toes into the shimmering pool of writing. And That shit was cold.
When I was done I was delighted--DELIGHTED--to find everything broke down into a perfect three acts.
Next, I went through all the notes.
Even before I started writing the book, I started writing notes for it. I had one email account and about three phones filled with ideas. Countless moleskine notebooks as well. Most of the notes went into the story or were mutated or discarded.
The notes I had left over were mostly things I had heard through the tin radio when I wasn't writing. little clips and glitches of speech and narration. Skip-static news reports from three parallel worlds away.
So I took these notes, fifty or so pages of them, and put them in the order of the story. Figuring out which chapter they belonged in. Then, I worked on whittling (widowing? no that's dumb) the notes until I had pushed a 70 page document into 30 pages of very small font type.
It looks beautiful. Like little telegrams about another world.
It is January second, 2012.
Last year was the best year of my life. I finished a novel, created a game, and met the most beautiful person. Created the most amazing thing.
But now the days grow dark with winter. And the cold is coming closer with every fresh breath of wind. it is time to write again. And tick my fingers through a mess and make it beautiful.
Pray for me. To invisible fathers, and stone gods. To carved gourds, and the whispers in your heart. I have not a weapon but my wits, and God knows I'll reach their end.
-mE.
Writing the story was a lot like listening to a badly tuned radio, and hastily scribbling down what I thought I could hear. After getting to read it through, I find many of the voices and moments have become much clearer.
So I broke the writing down into what I think it should look like after a second draft. This took weeks. Mostly because I was just dipping my toes into the shimmering pool of writing. And That shit was cold.
When I was done I was delighted--DELIGHTED--to find everything broke down into a perfect three acts.
Next, I went through all the notes.
Even before I started writing the book, I started writing notes for it. I had one email account and about three phones filled with ideas. Countless moleskine notebooks as well. Most of the notes went into the story or were mutated or discarded.
The notes I had left over were mostly things I had heard through the tin radio when I wasn't writing. little clips and glitches of speech and narration. Skip-static news reports from three parallel worlds away.
So I took these notes, fifty or so pages of them, and put them in the order of the story. Figuring out which chapter they belonged in. Then, I worked on whittling (widowing? no that's dumb) the notes until I had pushed a 70 page document into 30 pages of very small font type.
It looks beautiful. Like little telegrams about another world.
*
It is January second, 2012.
Last year was the best year of my life. I finished a novel, created a game, and met the most beautiful person. Created the most amazing thing.
But now the days grow dark with winter. And the cold is coming closer with every fresh breath of wind. it is time to write again. And tick my fingers through a mess and make it beautiful.
Pray for me. To invisible fathers, and stone gods. To carved gourds, and the whispers in your heart. I have not a weapon but my wits, and God knows I'll reach their end.
-mE.
