Tuesday, August 31, 2021
Never Can Say Goodbye
While the start of a novel of a thousand pages begins with the typing of a single word, it often ends with both a bang and a whimper.
The bang, of course, comes from both the climax of a hopefully exciting plot/character arch and the elation of finally finishing a long-awaited masterpiece, while the whimper comes from having to let go of a work you’ve poured so much time and effort into.
I discovered this odd dichotomy earlier this month when I finally finished writing a story I’ve been working on for almost 40 years. It’s taken many forms over the past four decades and while the plot and setting have changed many times, the main characters have mostly remained the same.
They’ve been with me for so long that they feel like real, flesh-and-blood people who have seen me though all the major changes in my life. They were my constant companions, with me day and night, whispering their secrets into my ears and keeping mine. And now that their story has concluded – at least for now – I feel like I’m leaving them behind.
Only I don’t want them to go.
I know. There is still the long and arduous editing process where I’ll need to do some rewrites to trim the bloat, streamline the plot and fix any continuity errors caused by writing the story out of sequence over such a long period of time. And then there are the enviable sequels that are already swirling around in my head. But it’s still kind of strange and sad knowing I’ve finished with them and their main story for now.
At the moment, I’m not sure how I’m supposed to spend my future summer vacations. I used to spend them in the pool, in my floaty-chair, pad of paper and pencil in hand scribbling away to finish this story. It was my way of removing myself from any distractions or temptation to do something else and let me concentrate on just writing. Every year, I’d tell myself, “This is the summer I’m going to finish it!” and inevitably I’d struggle to overcome writer’s block or my imaginary friends would stop whispering in my ears and my progress would slow to a crawl.
That seemed to change last year with the pandemic. Suddenly, they couldn’t shut up and I spent both this and last summer just trying to keep up with them. Not everything they told me turned out to be true, because I needed to rewrite some sections two or three times before they told me I’d gotten it write… er… I mean right. But at least they were filling in the remaining holes in their story. I guess they’d gotten tired of being locked down too.
So again, I spent every hour I could this summer either in my pool or on a hammock swing in my backyard away from all distractions, dutifully recording what my imaginary friends were telling me before they stopped talking again. Then, before I knew, it I was done.
At first, I couldn’t believe it. Part me of never thought I’d actually finish. I was ecstatic!
Then came the letdown, depression and listlessness. For a week or two after that, I didn’t have the motivation to type those last hand-written sections into the computer to complete the initial draft or do anything even remotely creative.
Fortunately, the feeling has faded and last weekend I began typing in those final sections, so that by the end of Labor Day weekend, I’m pretty sure I’ll have that initial draft assembled and truly know if that single word did indeed begin a journey of a thousand pages.
No comments:
Post a Comment