Laying about, albeit working, on this sofa and waiting for my guts to -- What? I don't know. Something. -- I have been working on my novel sporadically, and got back into the swing of it a bit more today. Oh, what a tangled web we weave when we aspire to write a novel.
This time, it feels different. Of course, that's what Carrie used to say every time she got back together with Big, but, you know, she meant it! And sometimes it was. Hey, they got their happy ending.
Compared to previous incarnations, this time the novel is more of an internal monologue. It's Molly Bloom meets ... hm. Jack the Ripper? Metaphorically speaking, of course. More like Jack Horner, maybe. Not really. Somebody I met, in reality.
I'm trying to write it as on point as possible, which isn't easy, but the thought of rewriting this thing forever is just, you know, not that appealing. The fact of the matter is that I'm a better (er?) short story writer than I am a novelist. (That is a hilarious understatement.) I'm a sprinter not a marathoner, dammit. Or so I have been told (by myself).
So, tell 60 short stories, I tell myself. One more brick in the road to Oz. Get with the program! After this internal dysfunction, I thought I better try to be nicer to myself. I've spent the last, oh, five years, beating myself up for a variety of things. It might behoove me to be nicer. It might, ya' know, help. And what would be the harm in that?
Anyway, it's his monologue, his stream of consciousness, so any literary failings? They're on him -- my main character. Dude, I'm just channeling. If it's fucked up, it's on him. And who's he? Oh, he's a bad, bad man, doncha know.
[Image via This Isn't Happiness]