|
Fred |
As it turned out, there was nothing particularly revolutionary about wanting to write a novel. He was not even sure that there was anything particularly shattering about actually completing one. Whether this was disappointing or not would take some more thought, some time when his eyes could focus and the tips of his fingers didn't feel numb. As it was, there was no sense of release or accomplishment associated with it at all. Nothing other then a mild sense of relief. The closest analogue to the texture of the feeling was last week. He had briefly panicked when he realized that the garbage can he put out for collection was overflowing, and he needed to take out the trash in the kitchen. Then he relaxed when he realized that the trash was due to be taken out the next day. A terrible disaster averted, obviously.
Maybe it had something to do with the fact that he had not written the novel in a manner even approximating chronological order, instead writing a bevy of fragmented vignettes, then drafting little bits of connective tissue to fill the gaps and make it all cohere. There was thus no satisfying closure after writing the final sentences, as the last sentences he had written were rather utilitarian ones, a transition paragraph about three-fourths of the way in. He rolled his chair back from the desk and leaned back heavily, pressing his palms hard against his eyes. He wasn't entirely sure why he was still awake, or, for that matter, why he had been awake for the past 5 hours, picking up and then putting down magazines, repeatedly checking his email, vaguely tidying some papers on the side table, clipping his fingernails, running his tongue over his teeth. At least running his tongue over his teeth had reminded him to floss. Flossing. He really needed to go to bed. The unprecedented desire to voluntarily slice his gums with a piece of string should have been his cue. He got up unsteadily from his chair and sat on the edge of his bed, head down and hands loosely clasped. He was a bit hungry, probably to0 hungry to go to bed. but not hungry enough to walk to the kitchen, yet. He could wait for the hunger to build a little, enough to prod him down the hallway.
It had been 16 days since he had finished the novel, and he had not mentioned that it was done to anyone. He hadn't even read it. He didn't want to think about it for awhile, and he certainly wasn't in the mood to edit it. He was tired of thinking about metaphors, tired of trying to prod and pull the plot into the realm of plausibility, tired of typing the names of the characters. He needed a bit of emotional and psychological distance from it, and telling people wouldn't help that, and returning to it with a fresh mind would allow him to see things more clearly.
There was also the fact that his wasn't sure if the novel was any good at all. In fact, he could think of many entirely plausible scenarios in which it was completely unredeemable pap.
Labels: Fred
ARCHIVES
July 2007 August 2007 September 2007 October 2007 November 2007 December 2007 January 2008 February 2008 March 2008 April 2008 May 2008 June 2008 July 2008 August 2008 September 2008 October 2008 November 2008 December 2008 January 2009 February 2009 March 2009 April 2009
July 2007 August 2007 September 2007 October 2007 November 2007 December 2007 January 2008 February 2008 March 2008 April 2008 May 2008 June 2008 July 2008 August 2008 September 2008 October 2008 November 2008 December 2008 January 2009 February 2009 March 2009 April 2009
AUTHORS
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
||