For two years I have been trying to write my third novel. In between work, my son’s college career, my house, my yard and my ageing parents I’ve been trying to write. There is something about this project that has pushed from having fun writing poetry and flash fiction to becoming this consumed haunted person.
My first two novels were different. The first was a rush. I sat down each night and pour forth scads of words and formed characters who I think about once in a while but they don’t consume me. My second novel was just plain fun because I wrote it with my son. Actually, it was his idea, his characters and the time we spent on that project was a joy.
My third novel I guess I can say is transforming. I’ve actually fought deep depression and a sense of worthlessness. Could I write it? Sure I could write it. I wrote it several times and each time about ten thousand words in I deleted the damn thing.
I’ve had the title for two years now – two. The title is Quincey. Quincey is the one that has almost defeated me. With my other novels I had spin off poetry, shortstories, flashfiction, with Quincey I have a half baked novella. No kidding a novella.
In short I’m the writer of whatever which is better than a writer with a blank page. And here’s the thing, when I tried to push it through, just write, I’d end up in tears. I’m way to old to cry, blubber, sob.
Then all of a sudden Quincey began to drop. The words started to come and the story line started to fall in line with my expectations. I know that when I have the first draft down the rewrite will be the real story. But the real goal is to complete this thing that has consumed the whatever writer in me.