Dragon.

Back in November I wrote a short novel for NaNoWriMo and I am still editing it, but at the same time I have also returned to the novel I had been working on before that. It is a giant, grotesque monster of a thing and it has taken awhile for my head to get back into it. So I have spent some time going back and reading what I have so far (which is about a hundred and twenty pages) and it has been a very strange experience. I have been working on this one in one way or another for about six years (when I say “working” I mostly mean “thinking” and “researching” and “procrastinating”) and sitting down and reading it has kind of been like getting a drink with an old friend; it is a fun and pleasant experience, but there is some anxiety too. I read and I read and I read and I’m super pleased with how the author writes EXACTLY the way I do! How cool is that? But then I’ll come to a too-long paragraph describing a headboard or something and I’ll be all like, “Jesus H. Christ it’s like Henry James is writing a Restoration Hardware catalog or something!” (That is a joke that’s predicated on your being familiar with Henry James’s longwindedness AND ALSO the very manly home interior store Restoration Hardware [if I were a private detective I would furnish my private detective office exclusively with things purchased from Restoration Hardware]).

The novel has the working title “Elegant Mess” because that’s exactly what it is. It has at least three main storylines (one in both first and third person) and some tangential ones will be added later. There are connections between the storylines, but you don’t know that yet, but I still have to lay the groundwork as I’m writing, which means I have to fricken’ keep track of everything! Which is why my bedroom wall looks like this:



The long and the short of all of this though is that I’m sort of afraid of this novel and have been for a really long time. You see, I’m really good at writing small, pretty, interesting clockwork magic boxes of stories (I’m using only complimentary words here. One could just as easily say that what I do is write plot-less, existentially self-referential, gimmicky kafka-on-prozac structure-porn), but writing something that is SO MUCH BIGGER and LONGER and UNCUT is kind of terrifying! Especially when it is still supposed to be a magic box!

There is something freeing about it too though. Because it is SO f’ing BIG that you get to really stretch out and try things and experiment, and if something doesn’t work, well who the fuck cares? It isn’t like I have a three book deal with a publisher or anything. I’m writing because I want to. One of those note cards on my wall says this:

It seems counter-intuitive that I have to remind myself to do this, but it needs to be said. Writers are generally neurotic and so sometimes we have to remind ourselves that there’s a point to all of this self-created stress and that this is love. Love of this work. Love of the process and love of the end product (Other neurotics who must be reminded of this: photographers, painters, poets, sculptors, actors, and really anyone who has ever undertaken a project for the simple joy of it.)

So why bother working on something that’s scary? That’s difficult? That has already claimed six years of brain space?

Well, what’s the point of working on something that isn’t scary? That isn’t difficult? That isn’t kind of a sanity-threatening monster? When they read you those stories as a kid, the knight wasn’t trying to slay a dark cave full of kittens. No, it was a fire breathing dragon. SCARY!

Well I’m going to go back and tinker some more on my dragon*. You should go do the same to yours, whatever it may be.



* "Tinker on my dragon" is not a euphemism for masturbation. I thought this was worth mentioning.
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