The Writing Moment
I feel liberated. Released. Like I’ve been locked up in a building and now the doors have been opened and I can go anywhere.
Yeah. Finished the first draft of another novel.
I also feel humbled and happy. Satisfied.
I struggled with finishing. Kept running into a wall with where those final chapters would go. I had to reach the odd realization and understanding that the character is not me. The character had much more to give, more to use. They understood things that I did not. I just had to let go and accept that. Once that finally took place, the ending fell into place, and here we are.
Now it must be edited, revised, etc. But the storyteller is free to start another tale. Almost as if signaled, I saw something and a new adventure began taking shape.
As it’s always been.
The Writing Moment
It’s been profitable but daunting work down in the novel mines. After chipping along with the pick for the right words, rich seams of plotting, story, character, and setting were found and worked out. Coming up each day, re-emerging into the real world, brought realizations of how deeply he was into it. Matters such as time, tasks, and news, were slipping past, undone, barely noticed. He promised himself, as soon as this novel is finished, he will take up other matters, work hard and catch up.
Yes, he makes the promise but other novels are out there, waiting to be written. He wonders if having a clone would help. It couldn’t be exact; the other fellow would need to be the one immersed in the real world, because he likes it too much, down in the novel mines.
The Writing Moment
Now I’m at that exciting, challenging, edgy time during the writing process. I’m in the first draft, and the middle. It’s all flow, bursting out like fast-moving magma. Like witnessing a huge event. Think seeing a disaster, a political rally, a football game. It’s almost overwhelming; focus must be found and kept. Everything is sucked in for processing, to be written in coherent fashion, coherent enough to keep moving the story toward the end.
The Writing Moment
All-consuming, a new novel is being written. He suffers from the usual issues. Eating is put off even though he’s hungry. His backside endures extended periods in a chair. Coffee cools, virtually untouched. Blog posts are thought of and dismissed. To converse with others means he must forcefully shift attention from the book to the people. He resents their intrusion.
The novel keeps hypnotizing him, drawing him in with its character, worlds, scenes, progression. He feels helpless. To resist the novel goes against everything he’s trained himself to do, because he wants to write.
He suffers; others suffer. It’s an odd conundrum because chasing words also exhilarates him. It’s the old writer’s curse.
The Writing Moment
Going well. He crossed his fingers and sacrificed a cup of coffee and a pen to ward off jinxing himself. One book was still being revised, the fourth go-around. Another novel, Yum, was being written. Spoon fed by the muses, he was tearing through the story. He envisioned a short novel, and so far, it was going to plan.
Knock on wood.
Michael Seidel, writer 