it’s about the writing, future wife
So, hi. It’s been a while.
I was starting to miss you, you know.
I FINALLY got on a little roll with the new novel.
This is a good thing. You see, I am a bit of a crankypants when I want to write something and it just isn’t happening.
Periodically I even begin to slightly question whether or not I have any business trying to write at all.
I crumple up my notes.
I close my laptop.
I throw my hands in the air in disgust.
I curse writing.
I curse anyone who reads my writing.
I curse man-made fibers.
This happens, oh, once a week.
It’s a lot of fun.
I know me well enough to know that trying to force it (or anything, really) never works. The moment when I finally knew what my novella was going to be, hit me while I was in the shower. I was letting my mouth fill with water, and then trying to see if I could sing Jim Croce’s “New York’s Not My Home” when a realization smacked me.
I can’t sing for shit.
But also that I had the novella idea all along. It was actually a couple different ideas. But when looked at together…
I started writing an outline while I was still dripping and wrapped in a towel.
I’ve been jotting down notes for the new novel for ages. I even tested some of my ideas for bits of it here in the form of little fiction-y pieces. I’m cagey like that.
But there was something missing.
I had no idea what it was, but knew I’d recognize it when I found it. (Like love… or the perfect ass.)
So I was gchatting with a friend the other night and it suddenly occurred to me.
And it seemed so obvious.
I had the idea I needed to go ahead and really start writing.
Dialogue and scenes and all sorts of little ideas began bouncing around in my head.
And you know what?
The novel is sort of going to be about you.
Or these letters.
Actually, if I could find you, I’d want to send you little excerpts at points along the way.
Which, for you, might be both good and bad. Getting sneak previews might be fun. Figuring out how to tell me that a section doesn’t quite work might not be.
There are good ways to tell me things:
“Peter, baby, despite the fact that you are clearly a world class genius and have firm, yet gentle, hands that take me places I’ve never dreamed of, this scene in the bordello might not be your best work ever. It’s good, but I think someone of your immense talent could make it even more awesomer.”
There are bad ways to tell me things:
“That latest bit you showed me kinda sucked.”
At that point I might compare you to Hitler.
But even the gentle way could put me in a weird mood for a bit. I won’t be all lash-y out-y, but I will likely be quiet and overthink-y.
A day later, you’ll ask, “Are you still thinking about that?”
“Am not, woman! I was… Uhm… Wondering if Brainy Smurf and Smurfette would have had a chance together if he hadn’t been so shy.”
“You are so cute.”
“No I’m not! Well I am, but…”
“You even grrr cutely,” you’ll smilesay.
“That’s it! I’m going for a drive. A long drive.”
“Want to cuddle and watch Almost Famous instead?”
I’m starting to see why you’re remaining elusive. Good call.
My point is that I have the novel idea figured out. And that it is all thanks to you!
So, really, you’re inspiring me and we haven’t even met yet.
I don’t hate that.
I assume you’re being ridiculously cute someplace right now.
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