We’ve been knee-deep in the ass of a monstrous, sprawling, ungodly huge series of novels for almost a year now. It’s delicious, and exhausting, and the word counts for the notes are almost as high as the novels themselves. Unfortunately, there’s not a lot of immediate pay-off.
So I dug out the Novella.
It’s not much, really. A series of sketches, a loose idea, a theme, just the seed of an idea. I last chopped away at this particular project at least a year ago, maybe more.
But it’s close to… something.
And once I put it in Oliver’s hands, it’s much, much closer to… something.
Last weekend, I composed another 6000 words, typed (I write longhand, I know) another 11,000. I sat so long on the floor, hunched over my laptop that I walked like Frankenstein for two days.
But it’s good.
This week, Oliver edited, edited edited. Edited his ass off. He really busted his hump turning it into… something.
It also went out to our first test reader, who had very little to say in the negative so far, and enough to say in the positive to tell me that maybe it’s not just… something. Maybe it’s something good. Maybe really good.
The last two nights, we’ve walked the neighborhood for hours and hours, sweating the uphills, jamming out the downhills, talking about story all over the streets. Getting excited, getting inspired, bringing all the loose threads together, in the fragile, exquisite hope of entertaining a few people.
This weekend, the last 5000 words get composed, then typed (I know, I know), and then edited, and then tested. By October at the very latest, our first finished work as writers should be available. Even if it’s just… something, that’s alright. Getting done is a lot farther than most get.
But I don’t think it is just something. I think it’s something great.