Tag: novel

The Writing Moment

I finished the third round of revision and editing for The Light of Memories. Don’t think the title is ever mentioned in the book BTW. When I read the last chapter, a short but sturdy creature, I cried. Not sure if the crying was for the character, ending, or being done with the process again. There I was at the coffee shop, a few years short of seventy, looking at my laptop and struggling against tears. Fortunately, I don’t think anyone noticed because I’m a man a few years short of seventy at a coffee shop.

I saved the doc and closed it, and then resumed writing another novel. I don’t know if time waits for anyone but I do know that when the muses say jump, I jump and then ask, “How high?”

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The Writing Moment

The final hundred pages were attacked. He brooded. My god, this was boring writing, wasn’t it? Did it advance the story? Not to his mind today. Slash, cut.

After tough decisions on two chapters, the rest went with stunning, engrossing speed. Fifty pages were read and edited in the next two hours.

Just fifty pages remained, for this go-around. Then there’d be another. Because he needed to ensure the book made sense with the cuts made. That he hadn’t inadvertently destroyed continuity and coherence.

But for today and now, he felt pretty damn good about it.

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The Writing Moment

He’d completed the second draft of the novel-in-progress. The Light of Memories.

Being done felt good but odd. Another round of editing and revising was needed, he felt. The Light of Memories has a complicated concept and story because he likes complicated. Huge cast of characters. Several betrayals and double crosses. He felt he’d gotten it all right, but another round wouldn’t hurt.

With a little surprise, he saw in his notes that he’d begun writing the novel on March 20, 2022. One year and two days later, here he was, done with the second draft. It feels very satisfying. He’ll see after the next round.

Now he’d go on a break from it. Let it recede from mind so he sees it with fresh eyes. It’d be hard. He’d been with those characters and their stories almost every day for a year. He was going to miss his time with them. Maybe he would start another novel. He had a dozen other concepts in mind. Had even written opening chapters for half of them. More was teeming in his head.

It felt too soon. Maybe tomorrow.

Maybe not. He’d have some coffee and see.

Tomorrow.

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A Writing Conference Dream

Fun dream. Happy, satisfying, and rewarding.

I was at a huge writing conference somewhere. Fair weather and a seaside location favored us. Though staying onsite, I’d rented a silver Ford Mustang to run around.

We were there to write novels. The intriguing aspect was that after I’d finished my novel, the other participants were able to live it to test its authenticity. They announced themselves impressed with the results, which pleased me. Meanwhile, I was mentoring a young writer. He’d not been able to write a novel but did turn out a short story. I read and critiqued it for him. It was a good story, and I told him that I thought he could sell it.

I’d also been helping a young foreign student who was present. He couldn’t speak much English. I’d ended up in the role of helping him navigate the conference. In thanks, he came to me and offered me, “Noelle.” I replied, “Noelle,” with confusion. ‘Noelle’ turned out to be a chocolate candy. I accepted it with thanks and laughter, and then ate it with gusto. He also later gave me a small ceramic basket, exquisitely done. I don’t know where it came from. I accepted it but with protests that he didn’t need to be giving me all of these gifts. It’d been a pleasure helping him. Yet, he returned one more time to give me another “Noelle.” By the way, that spelling comes from the dream. I actually think it was a subtitle.

In high spirits, I prepared to leave. The maid service had packed everything up for me. I’d also been given another ceramic basket as a gift by someone else. Since I had two, I offered it to the woman. She was tremendously flattered and embarrassed, insisting that she couldn’t take it because it was too beautiful, and I’d already tipped her and had done too much for her. After a few minutes of going back and forth, I finally won.

Then it was to the car to leave. I offered others rides but none were going with me, so I left in the Mustang to drive to the airport, alone but happy.

*Photo is for illustration purposes only. Wasn’t exactly like this in the dream; it was better.

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