And the Beat Moves On

I remember when I used to do these "I Remember" exercises every day. Every single day. And looking back on it now, I see I actually got a lot of work done. I wrote a lot. I found what I had written on my sad first attempt at a novel. The Val, Steve, Ken thing Steve at Vee’s, The Party Phone Call, Killing Harold.

Man! Everything was so organized and developed and I got quite a bit down before I went into short story mode. Of course, not much of what I wrote is very good. A lot of the newbie mistakes, passive voice, weak verbs, zillions of adjectives, telling not showing. Still, there was a lot of description there, a lot of detail. And salvageable, should I ever desire to do so.

The idea of writing a sort of mystery thriller type novel now just freaks me out. I was trying to write genre fiction because I thought it would be easier. Shit! I didn’t even have an idea, was just taking it day by day on what I determined from that writing book I was following. I didn’t believe I had anything spectacular to impart. All I knew was that I had a natural ability for the written word and I wanted to do something creative for a change. That was 4 years ago. My how the times have changed.

When I wrote The Lost, I didn’t particularly like it. It certainly wasn’t my favorite piece nor did I believe it to be the strongest. I wasn’t even certain if it was a story or not or what I was trying to do. Now, heaven help the man or woman that tells me it isn’t a work of art. Ignore those shallow critters who can’t see the message, because I am an artist and I’ve imparted something bigger than myself to the world. A crock of bull. All of it, but somehow I do feel I’ve grown.

There are messages in my stories now. Emotions, feelings, I want to show and share. I’ve come full circle, from just wanting to write entertainment and sell a lot of books to creating something unique and special, my message, and having a desire to share those feelings with an audience.

Like the leaves swirling in Limbo. Something bigger than me was at work with that. I didn’t come up with that on my own. I had never heard of the children in limbo. I’m not Catholic and know nothing about being so, besides what I’ve read in other people’s novels. And yet, there it was, waiting for me to find it and put it together. That was a gift.

And so I think if I’m getting gifts, something has changed. Of course, I’ll actually have to finish the piece or else I’ll be the only one who knows about it. Or will I? If I hesitate, will the gift be passed on to someone more up to the challenge?

That is something to consider.

Mood: melancholy
Drinking: Too much
Listening To: Everybody Hurts, REM
Hair: In an awkward stage of being