writing – Page 130 – Michael Seidel, writer

It’s the blurt. This is the fun part of a new writing effort, when imagination spins up and the story rolls out like it’s on a fast-moving conveyor belt. Questions are asked about who and why, but answers are filled in fast. The story unwinds, teaching him what’s going on, and he spills it onto the page, connecting new dots, splicing in realized bits of stuffing about who these people are, why they’re together, their objectives and problems, their story.

He really doesn’t know where it’s going but that doesn’t matter. He’s writing, and it’s going somewhere. He’ll need to sweat some details later.

That’s later. Just enjoy the trip. Drink coffee and enjoy the trip.

He was doing nothing. By that, he meant that he was playing a computer game. The television was on. Picard. A cat slept on the desk to his right.

His wife was in the recliner to his left, on her computer, playing a game, too, but also voicing disapproval about the television show’s plot.

Suddenly, they were there, more substantial than ghosts, surrounding him. Two seated their asses on the desk on either side of his laptop.

He looked at them. They crossed their arms and smiled. “What’s this about you’re not going to write for a few days?” one said, classic New York accent.

His muses. He wasn’t surprised. “I thought I’d take a few days off.”

The muses laughed. “Why? Stories are waiting. You’re eager to write them.”

“I’m a little tired.”

All laughed again. “Aw, he’s tired,” one behind him said in mocking sympathy.

“So?” the muse on the right asked.

“That’s okay,” another muse said behind him. “Let him go. If he doesn’t want to write, that’s his choice.”

He nodded. “That’s right. Just for few days. My eyes are tired. I feel like I need a break, you know?”

Muses leaned in. They began whispering scenes. He paused his game and watched television.

Or tried. Eager and resigned, he opened a new file.

He’d just write a little. See where it went.

The muses nodded. “That’s the spirit.”

Was it too late for coffee?

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.

Excited. Worried. Exhausted. Determined.

He sits and begins — again — editing the final twenty-five pages of the second draft of the novel in progress. The first draft had multiple iterations. This draft has undergone changes and now ‘feels’ better, but he believes another go through, maybe two, will be required.

He has his coffee and is ready to begin again.