Living Without You

Cold-SkyI haven’t written since my father passed away some months back. There’s some sort of mental block pushing me away. Today, I’m going to make every effort to chip away at that obstacle. Before he died, I was five chapters into a new novel tentatively titled ‘Slow The Rain’. To the best of my knowledge, this blockage is due to the subject matter of the book. After having so recently experienced the death of a loved one, it’s proving difficult to write about a murderer and the impact he makes on the victims lives. My dad wasn’t murdered by anyone, but he was killed. By cancer, an unstoppable and malicious entity. My lead investigator, Selena Marrenger, says that there’s no such thing as closure, and I believe that. The loss of a loved one is something that you learn to deal with, but it’s a wound that doesn’t heal. Not ever.
Every once in a while, you’ll come across something that will remind you of what you lost. It could be a song, a particular joke or statement, or an old television program that you shared together. All I have left is memory. Sure, there’s photographs and other things that have been left behind, but it’s the memory that has the largest impact, a lasting one.
Well, enough of my babbling. Time to dive back into the book.
Wish me luck.

Exploring

 

bookstore

It’s been interesting to walk around a bookstore this afternoon, as when I went to such places in the past, things were completely different.  What once felt like a chapel, a holy treasure trove of innumerable stories, it was now just a suffocating place seemingly cordoned off with sharp sticks to warn anyone passing by that it will defend itself.  It should defend itself against the winds of change that threaten it’s little light.  Between the shelves, a lonely employee followed me as though I would inexplicably set the place ablaze.  The titles that I had in mind were difficult to locate, unlike my kindle where I can find a book in a matter of seconds, and that was if the store carried them at all.  So archaic was the place that it’s dust and lighting reminded me of an ancient temple that Indiana Jones would explore, and that is the very reason why I loved it.

 

 

First Draft Blues Part III

 

I do enjoy first drafts.  There’s nothing like hammering out a tale and getting caught up in the whirlwind!  Oh, the places they take me!  Of course, the reality of the first draft hits once the whirlwind stops and drops you out of the sky.  It hurts.  Then, it has to undergo surgery.  Slice and dice and replace and rearrange, like a madman laughing all the while.  Hopefully, something suitable to the masses will emerge from all of the agony.
I am writing The Runaway Train’s first draft in a class that requires me to write at least five pages a week.  It really whips me into gear, and demolishes any tiny bit of laziness.  One thing, though, is that it’s not the only course I’m taking this semester.  With that in mind, sometimes the deadline draws a bit too close for comfort, and I find myself rushing to get the words onto the page.  It’s actually quite liberating, albeit a bit panicked. The material actually has to be good because I submit it to a workshop for crits, like a bloody carcass being tossed into a shark tank no doubt, but in actuality, this story is getting quite a bit of positive feedback.  I look forward to sharing it with all of you.