I haven’t blogged much lately. Mostly I’ve been editing my novel in anticipation to start shipping it out to agents and publishers. I’ve put all of that stuff on hold for awhile. I’ve read my novel three times now. The first two were rather quick reads, fixing major things and adding major things, making sure the book flows and that passages are not too long and whatnot. You know, busy shit. The most recent edit has been extremely slow and tedious and cutthroat. But I think I have something good here, something better than anything I’ve ever written, on a different level, even—dare I say it?!—a more literary level. I am, of course, bias, seeing as it’s mine, and it’s by far the most personal long piece of work I’ve ever written. Apocalyptic, distopic, and yes, extremely personal. Of course I’m bias! Of course it’s the best thing ever written.
But that’s the beauty of writing. There’s always of piece of ourselves in the writing. We write ourselves into everything.
So I’ve been sacrificing the blog a bit lately due to how much I’ve been editing, as well as working paying jobs and whatnot.
I’ve been wanting to brainstorm ideas, I have, but all my creativity and passion is invested so deeply within this novel. It has taken control of my life, as is usual with my books, but to a different level. I know it’s one source of my constant nightmares, and I know I’m partially to blame for that, for writing what I’m writing, but that’s okay. More than okay. You’re supposed to be close to your writing, supposed to invest yourself within it, become part of it, even live it. It’s supposed to possess you. Bret Easton Ellis agrees, and he’s more famous than I am.
Like I’ve said, my mom keeps asking me what’s wrong, why do you look so down—I really don’t feel that down, which is what I tell her—and so, when I finish editing this novel and print it out, I’m going to throw it at her and tell her to read it. Maybe, then, she will understand some of it—the things I can’t say with words, as I’m really not all that skilled with words. Spoken words, that is. I tend to think too fast, then speak too fast, and get excited. I must slow myself down. I hope I’m skilled with written words, or else I’ve just wasted most of my life.
Here’s another letter written by someone to someone else.
Letter (6)
The car stopped somewhere west of Michigan, in one of those northern states that seem unpopulated but aren’t. There’s snow here, and the snow was falling that day, covering the road so that I shouldn’t have been driving. But you know me; I make poor decision, I do what I shouldn’t and rarely regret it. I’m rash, blunt, quick to act and quick to admit my mistakes but be unable to fix them.
--
I stopped along the roadside and needed to get out of the car. I was alone, in the middle of nowhere, having not seen a light for hours and preferring it that way.
--
Remember, once, when you said how people bother you? How you prefer your solitude and silence and sometimes you can’t stand another living soul? You just want to be alone, to think in silence and live in silence. And remember how I said that I’ve always been that way? That I love people, I do, but I hate them at the same time. Most people, that is. And that I’ve always been a loner, many friends but still preferring to sit alone and ponder alone and fall deeply within my own thoughts? Alone. Because you and I , people like us, we’re meant to be alone with our thoughts buried so deep. Remember these things, and how I said them to you, once?
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Or did you forget? Did you make yourself forget?
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I stopped along the roadside and climbed over the stonewall and entered a field bright by moonlight shining against snow. The sky was cloudless, the night filled with countless stars. You remember those. Do you?
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I walked and walked through the snow. Now you’re calling me a moron. Alone, at night, walking through a field, through snow up to my knees, coldness soaking into my boots and through my jeans. The stars shone so bright, illuminating a lone tree deep within the field. Maybe miles away, but I had nowhere else to go, nothing to lose.
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Really, I’m not crazy or anything like that. But the greatest rewards lie at the end of the greatest risks. Nothing great is ever obtained easily. And the clichés continue, so on and so on. And we both hate clichés.
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And I arrived at the tree and I didn't know why. I was miles away from anything. The hike was longer than I thought, the field enormous and empty other than me and the tree. The tree, and its sprawling branches bare of leaves, its cold dark bark and shadows lengthening across the star-touched snow. Your star-touched eyes. The tree with its words carved deeply into its flesh, our sins carved so deeply into our flesh, so deep and clear I couldn't have overlooked them. I couldn't have overlooked you. Not ever. I think, in some ways, you gave me sight.
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There are messages in this world for us to find and to take meaning from. Life isn’t as random as it seems. When the worlds help you, you must accept that help and be thankful for it. We all need as much help as we can get. We’re all lost, so lost, until we find each other. But look at us. Lost, again.
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Hold on, the tree said. Give it time, the tree said. There’s always time, the tree said. The only moments that matter are the moments that make you wait, and wait, and wait…and wait.
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