Writing Quincey

I see society as being deceived into thinking that they can fight evil alone, by making it good in their own minds.

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God help me I’m ready to sit down to write, something I think about all day at work, I wake up thinking about it and pray about it – sit down into a hot flash.

It’s a perfect evening in Norther Indiana.  The rain is so gentle and once and a while I hear the rumble of thunder.  The green of spring still has that neon glow under the lowering gray sky.  The rain is so gentle that I still hear the distant sound of the birds.

Every once in a while, the subdued north wind softly seeps in.  The pattering of the rain calls for a cot next to the window and a languid feeling to settle in.  I think of cotton curtains and thick flannel shirts against my skin.  The distant train horn calls out, and I wonder how anyone could want to be anywhere but home.

It’s been a long day, and I’ve had little time to think about my novel, Quincey.  This novel has changed me.  It has taken me into places I thought I would never go.  To write it has not been a mere journey into research but into deep reflection and change.  Being reared a Protestant, I’ve entered the Catholic church.  Writing about the battle against evil has sent me searching for more than raising up my crucifix and hoping for the best.

I need to know how and why we got here.  And I need to know how in this 21st century how the evil I’m writing about has become good, and good evil.

I’ve been deceived in my life, and it’s a painful experience.  I’ve been deceived by people, and I’ve allowed myself to be deceived.  In writing Quincey, I see society as being deceived into thinking that they can fight evil alone, by making it good in their own minds.

Quincey is my attempt to combat the deception.

Never mind really  –  it’s just a ramble.

Onward.

A Writer of Whatever

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.

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.