Greatness and Dead Limbs

For a work to be great, it cannot be merely the result of a moment's chance, but requires much skill and effort, the pouring out of one's very self into the making of it. This is especially true of a book, and in particular the novel where it is the writer's experience that makes the characters living and real and the writer's imagination that makes the story vivid and unique.

Yet to say that the writer must pour his very self into his work is by no means exaggeration or mere poeticism, but truth.

It is rather as if one were to grow an extra limb—an arm let us say for example's sake—and naturally to accomplish such a feat (leaving aside its practical if not its utter impossibility) one must exert all his strength and energy into it, as if it could be done by strength of will alone. At first it would be a mere protuberance, but gradually it would begin to take on a resemblance to the other arms. Thus, growing slowly, it would at last be complete. (That would be the point at which one's friends would begin to ask what it felt like to have three arms. Of course the response would disappoint them, for there would have been no abrupt transition from two to three, but rather a gradual growing accustomed to it until the usage of three arms was as natural as had been two.)

Then comes the time to remove the limb. It was not made to become part of the body and function as a third arm, but as a work of art. (My analogy begins to grow stranger.) Thus one would then remove the arm, leaving behind an open wound, though hidden to all the world.

Rather than merely letting the limb remain lying about to admire, one must decide to show it to his friends and acquaintances. (And, yes, here my analogy grows very strange indeed.) Without this step, one would never notice all the imperfections in it, from the misplaced wrinkle on a knuckle to a darkened fingernail to the malformed elbow.

Either then, or after a time of rest, it comes time to reattach the arm, and work out those imperfections, striving once again to make an arm as perfect as those two already at his sides, which grew there without any effort on his part. Sometimes he must begin all over again with only the idea in his mind of what worked and what did not. For the intent is not merely to make an arm of sorts, but to make such an arm that all would recognize it as an arm just like any other arm.

Again the finished arm must be removed. This time it is more difficult and leaves a larger wound behind, for the more perfect it is, the more greatly does it become attached. This might happen a number of times, but all is aimed toward the final goal of sharing it with the whole world that they might learn from it by examining it.

Thus is the analogy finished, at least insofar as is my regard for it. The truths of the matter might be better expressed in other ways, but only in ways less palpable.

It is this pouring out of one's soul into his work that is both a toll upon his strength and yet brings joy unmeasurable; it is both a hardship and a testing of one's strength and will, and also a fulfillment. Perhaps, too, it is why writers are known for their tendency toward insanity and suchlike.

Rejection

The other day—the day before yesterday to be precise— I was sent out (yes, it was a passive sort of sent-outedness, for the sending was not aimed directly at me necessarily) to get something, and, as I had seen the mail come, I decided to go out and get it. I do not know what made me decide this, as I rarely receive anything of interest, but it was at least a strange coincidence.

As soon as I saw the envelope on top with my name written on it as I had written it there hardly more than a week before, my immediate response was, "No, not already." Experience has told me that a hasty return means a rejection. (Not that my experience with a slow return has diverged significantly.)

I picked the envelope up. It was too thin to be more than a rejection. But I tore it open nonetheless.

It was, of course.

Then I returned to the house. My little sister saw me coming toward the door and asked if there were anything interesting. I hesitated but a fraction of a moment before I replied lightly: "No."

There was nothing interesting. Perhaps there are occasions when rejection slips are interesting, but this was not one of them. This was bloody annoying. I had not even had a chance to submit anything else yet and I find it better to always have at least one manuscript in a state of uncertainty. So much for that.

The Best Event of the Year

Three of us—my brother, a friend and I—started off along the railroad tracks, one pack to share amongst us. It was warm, warm enough to elicit the comment, "It's bloody hot out here." It may be difficult to believe that this happened in forty-nine degrees or so, but if you have prepared for rain and high winds because of a dangerous storm breaking upon the area, and you are walking swiftly, it forces you to realize how subjective is the feeling of warmth or cold.

We strode on in high spirits: nine miles to go, two hours until sunset.

This storm that was to break upon us had been likened to the Columbus Day Storm (considering the reaction this statement caused, it must have been a somewhat fearsome storm). Notwithstanding, we strode boldly on, watching for the slightest sign of falling tree or mudslide, except for when we were talking too intently to bother about these highly unlikely occurrences.

Then we saw a mudslide. The bottom of the hill washed out and only the top of the hill was left unsupported, which was rather frightening. Then the top of the hill was washed along too, carrying us along with it, but fortunately in the direction we wished to go, as the wind was coming from the opposite direction, south-ish.

We did get rather carried away.

On we went along the trail. It was not long before the sprinkle of raindrops that had eased the heat increased to a drizzle.

We stopped for a bit to eat bread and chocolate. We were damper when we started on, and beginning to be chilly. The whole outing was no longer the jolly lark it had been, but had taken on more serious significance.

For most of the way we followed the path, but for a time we had to continue along a rock-covered road, with a plow field stretching away to our left, and fields and trees surrounding us. "Unlike the hobbits, we have a warm fire and food to look forward to," I remarked. I confess I did not find the thought all that comforting at that point, but only imagined I would when darkness fell.

We returned to the path and went on mile after mile. We tried to guess how far we had gone and how far we had yet to go, but decided we knew only that we did not know either.

Sunset came and went without remark. The sun had been hidden behind clouds all day, so its setting behind the horizon scarcely caused much effect, except that the air began to grow cooler. It grew darker, but so gradually that it was of no consequence. The light gradually faded until the forest about us appeared in grey-scale with an almost greenish hue to it. All that still held any brightness were the piles of snow gleaming along the edges of the path.

On we went until we could see no more than a few paces before us. The path gleamed like a dark lake, and the forest grew dimmer.

It seemed we would go on and on forever. Our friend — whose idea the expedition had been—kept assuring us that it was not much farther. With each repetition, it grew less assuring until it caused my brother to state, "I no longer believe in the end of the trail."

Then he began to sing: "This is the trail that never ends..." We joined in: "...it goes on and on my friends; some people started walking it not knowing what it was and they'll continue walking it forever just because..."

We halted after only a few short verses. After all its place as the song that never ends had been usurped.

The fallen branches littered the path before us more thickly and the darkness grew more oppressive. It was decided to bring out a flashlight, though it seemed a pity to spoil the darkness which still glimmered with the last rays of light that lingered where they were trapped beneath the grey-clouded sky. With the flashlight, though, we were able to avoid tripping over the rest of the branches and the tree that lay across the path.

Then we saw two red headlights shining before us.

Even as we came to the end of our journey, footsore and weary, it was difficult to rejoice in that sight. I at least did not wish to end our journey so soon, nor leave behind the forest which seemed to hold so many forgotten secrets.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

"How many people would be tough enough?" we asked when we spoke of future hikes. "How many people would want to?"

As to how far we walked, I do not know precisely, but it was around ten miles. It only took us about three hours. I daresay with a whole day we might have been able to go at least twice that and enjoy a leisurely pace.

If this in any way appeals to you, I highly recommend it. If, however, you dismiss it as too tame or difficult or whatnot else, I suppose it may be too late for you. Before you begin, I do have a few bits of advice:

1. Do not, on any account, wear cotton socks with your hiking boots unless you enjoy the sensation of walking ten miles with a bloody blister.

2. Bring a flashlight, but do not use it unless necessary.

3. Bring an emergency kit, just in case, but the most important item would be the bandages.

4. Be prepared for slight discomforts so that you do not fail after the first mile or so.

5. Bring plenty of water.

6. Either plan a loop for your journey, or have someone agree to pick you up at the end. "There and back again" journeys are pleasurable only when the way back is not exactly the same as the way there.

7. Bring me with you, if it is at all feasible.

One In Three

Finally satisfied with a few stories, I thought the time had come to attempt publication, once again. This is not as easy as one might think, however.

I have this historical fiction short story that was rejected a while back, and I only found one magazine to submit it to, but when I went to do it, that magazine was closed to submissions until March or some other time equally far in the future. Searching was of no avail. If there is a market for that story, I have yet to find it.

Thus I turned to another story, one I wrote only recently. Though only one other person besides myself had read it, I felt fairly confident about it. Therefore, I decided to send it to a magazine I had submitted to before.

After going through all the necessary preliminary processes—verifying formatting, printing, checking it over, sticking it in an envelope, and then finding ninety-seven cents worth in stamps (with a 23 cent stamp and two old 37 cent stamps I actually managed to avoid paying extra without going to the post office) —I went out to mail it. Unfortunately, I was again foiled. The mail lady, thinking perhaps to be considerate by coming early, had thus rendered herself unintentionally inconsiderate. My manuscript would not go out for another day.

That was yesterday. It is gone now.

Gone. Utterly gone. No chance to change it now...

Based on previous experience and their estimated time, I should expect to receive a rejection within two to eight weeks, at which time I will post about it here. I would say wish me luck, but since I do not believe in luck, that would be rather foolish.

New Year's Resolutions

Yes, this is the time of year when people make New Year's Resolutions and I am telling you that not because you do not already know it, but because sometimes there are times when one feels like stating the obvious, especially when the obvious is going to be followed by something slightly less obvious, which means it is only the more obvious—or isn't.

In other words I am not going to here state my New Year's Resolutions. In point of fact, I haven't any.

I have always thought said resolutions were somewhat silly. After all it is just as easy to make resolutions the rest of the year, and most resolutions probably result in nothing anyway. I do now recognize the importance of setting goals and the benefit of telling them to others, so that it is harder to fail to accomplish them, but that is all.

Enough of that. This is your opportunity to suggest some for me.

Sad and Spooky

It is sad how in our society today God is being replaced by so many other things, but there is one thing I do not understand at all. (I had much time to think about this, being subjected to it each day at work, which—huzzah!—I am finished with.)

"He sees you when you're sleeping
He knows when you're awake
He knows if you've been bad or good..."

This sounds as if it were a description of God. But, no. They meant Santa Claus of all things. Since when is Santa Claus omniscient and omnipresent? I think someone forgot to teach me that when I was growing up, as so many other children are taught.

Somehow I do not find that a bad thing. I much prefer the legend of Saint Nicholas, which was in some almost-inexplicable way corrupted into the modern idea of Santa Claus. However, it is a great pity that this happened, as not only does Saint Nicholas have a better sense of fashion and a better sense of justice and generosity, but he is also the patron saint of pirates and sailors.

I may say they are equating Santa Claus with God, but some can derive an entirely different conclusion from the same set of facts (from Wikipedia):

A Calvin and Hobbes strip implied that if Santa "sees you when you're sleeping [and] knows when you're awake," he must be a "CIA spook."

Yuletide Analogy

Life is like fixing a string of Christmas lights.

No matter how much energy one puts into trying to be ahead, it never works.

No matter how many times one fixes the same problem, one has to keep fixing it each year, and in addition to all the old problems, there are always new ones, some of which are practically impossible to fix.

The result is always easier for others to appreciate.

It takes so much time and hardly seems worth it, though there can also be something that makes one suddenly glad for the effort.

As do all things, it has an end, sometimes good, sometimes not.

While one is doing it there are the small pleasures—or perhaps more accurately reliefs—of bringing light to something that hardly seems to be of any value.

And sometimes you just want to throw it out the window.

Honorificabilitudinity

Once upon a time there was a boy whose name was...

Well, his father—whose name was Athanasius Christopher Maximilian Augustine Wolfeschlegelsteinhausenbergerdorff—was born in Taumatawhakatangihangakoauauotameteaturipukakapikimau-
ngahoronukupokaiwhenakitanatahu, New Zealand, and his mother—whose name was Caoilfhionn Eileánóir MacGhilleseatheanaich—was born in Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch, Wales. The event of their marriage transpired approximately halfway between in Krungthepmahanakonbowornratanakosinmahintarayud-
yayamahadiloponoparatanarajthaniburiromudomrajniwesmahasat-
arnamornpimarnavatarsatitsakattiyavisanukamphrasit, Thailand, after his father attempted to circumexplorandiscover the world by a combined means of circumnavigation and circumambulation, which failed when he met Caoilfhionn. His brother's name is Marcellinus Alexander Nathaniel Johnathan, and his sisters' names are Francesca Gwendolyn Meredith Josephine and Cassandra Gabrielle Dominique Annabelle.

Their family is unusual, for they are the only ones in the world to express their surprise by saying Supercalifragilisticexpealidocious. They have a habit of floccinaucinihilipilification. Also, they are the only ones to have both acquired Numanoultramicroscopicsilicavolcanoconeosis and to suffer from Pseudopseudohypoparathyroidism.

Athanasius Wolfeschlegelsteinhausenbergerdorff is a scientist and works with chemicals. His children enjoy hearing him repeat them, but this is their favorite: methionylglutaminylarginyltyrosylglutamylserylleucylphenylalany-
lalanylglutaminylleucyllysylglutamylarginyllysylglutamylglycylal-
anylphenylalanylvalylprolylphenylalanylvalylthreonylleucylglycyla-
spartylprolylglycylisoleucylglutamylglutaminylserylleucyllysyliso-
leucylaspartylthreonylleucylisoleucylglutamylalanylglycylalanylas-
partylalanylleucylglutamylleucylglycylisoleucylprolylphenylalanyl-
serylaspartylprolylleucylalanylaspartylglycylprolylthreonylisoleu-
cylglutaminylasparaginylalanylthreonylleucylarginylalanylphenylal-
anylalanylalanylglycylvalylthreonylprolylalanylglutaminylcysteiny-
lphenylalanylglutamylmethionylleucylalanylleucylisoleucylarginyl-
glutaminyllysylhistidylprolylthreonylisoleucylprolylisoleucylglyc-
ylleucylleucylmethionyltyrosylalanylasparaginylleucylvalylphenyla-
lanylasparaginyllysylglycylisoleucylaspartylglutamylphenylalanylt-
yrosylalanylglutaminylcysteinylglutamyllysylvalylglycylvalylaspart-
ylserylvalylleucylvalylalanylaspartylvalylprolylvalylglutaminylglu-
tamylserylalanylprolylphenylalanylarginylglutaminylalanylalanylleu-
cylarginylhistidylasparaginylvalylalanylprolylisoleucylphenylalany-
lisoleucylcysteinylprolylprolylaspartylalanylaspartylaspartylaspa-
rtylleucylleucylarginylglutaminylisoleucylalanylseryltyrosylglycy-
larginylglycyltyrosylthreonyltyrosylleucylleucylserylarginylalany-
lglycylvalylthreonylglycylalanylglutamylasparaginylarginylalanyla-
lanylleucylprolylleucylasparaginylhistidylleucylvalylalanyllysylle-
ucyllysylglutamyltyrosylasparaginylalanylalanylprolylprolylleucyl-
glutaminylglycylphenylalanylglycylisoleucylserylalanylprolylaspar-
tylglutaminylvalyllysylalanylalanylisoleucylaspartylalanylglycyla-
lanylalanylglycylalanylisoleucylserylglycylserylalanylisoleucylva-
lyllysylisoleucylisoleucylglutamylglutaminylhistidylasparaginyliso-
leucylglutamylprolylglutamyllysylmethionylleucylalanylalanylleucyll-
ysylvalylphenylalanylvalylglutaminylprolylmethionyllysylalanylalany-
lthreonylarginylserine.

The children are fond of words, and always enjoy coming across a new one such as honorific­abilitud­initatibus or Lopado­temacho­selacho­galeo­kranio­leipsano­drim­hypotrimmato­silph-
io­paraomelito­katakechymeno­kichl­epi­kossypho­phatto­perister­alektr-
yon­opte­kephallio­kinklo­peleio­lagoio­siraio­baphe­tragano­pterygon.

Now, what is the boy's name?

To Blog or Not to Blog

"Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia."—E.L. Doctorow

"Blogging is a socially acceptable form of talking to oneself." -Myself

Perhaps that is why I find blogging interesting and quite natural, for I have always been accustomed to talk to myself. Perhaps it is a habit like that of Gandalf, choosing to speak to the wisest person.

However, there is a difference between blogging and mere talking to oneself. Rather than addressing comments to myself as if I were another person (which generally is the form talking to oneself takes), I address my comments as if I were addressing all the inhabitants of the entire world, and any other worlds I do not yet happen to know about.

This, of course, is not true for all. There are numerous people out there blogging who are not talking to themselves, not even talking to themselves as if they were addressing the whole world, but instead are talking to a group of dedicated readers. I would guess, though, that even these people started out their blogging careers (if it can be called that) by talking to themselves as if they were the whole world; if not, then I daresay they must have been famous already, or have begun by bribing a whole bunch of people to read, and comment on, their blogs.

---------------------------------------------

Upon rereading that, I am not wholly certain it is true after all, though a good portion of it is. Now, I think perhaps that blogging is really more like addressing an entire audience that does not exist.

This, however, is a point of mere detail, for it is really no different than what I have stated above except in the form of my expression of the matter: addressing a group of people that does not exist is scarcely different—if at all—from addressing yourself as a group of people; either way you are projecting yourself into a group of people, whom you are then addressing.

--------------------------------------------

Then again, this may just be an excuse for why I receive no more than an occasional comment or two. Of course, that is entirely my own fault, since I have not really told anyone I even have a blog, let alone that they might actually want to read it. Perhaps I ought to. It may not be a good thing to talk to oneself all the time...

Mon Ami

"We live in a culture that often talks about community, connectedness, social networking, etc where very little true community actually exists and where we elevate acquaintances to friends and have very few true friends." -The Curt Jester, whose blog is both informative and entertaining.

This is something I have often thought about. It seems that the meaning of friend has been forgotten, or delegated to a far lower position than it previously held. People now communicate with people all across the world, but how many of these could truly be called friends?

Let us take a look at a definition:

From the American Heritage Dictionary:

friend

1. A person whom one knows, likes, and trusts.
2. A person whom one knows; an acquaintance.

So it seems that definition of ordinary usage has made its way into the dictionary as well. So much for the purity of the word friend. It is not the first to travel this road, though, nor shall it be the last. After all, "silly" once meant "innocent".

With our society's focus on quantity rather than quality and the ease with which we can communicate with hundreds upon hundreds of people, is it any surprise that we no longer have the time for true friendship? Friends—to use the more exclusive meaning of the word—are not made overnight. To have friends, you must learn to know and trust them, which takes time. People do not have energy for that when they scatter their time among so many different people and enterprises.

Perhaps I am in the minority with this viewpoint, but I do not think that acquaintances should be elevated to the level of friends. Friends are people you know and trust, whom you can rely on. They are people with whom you want to be and who want to be with you; to whom you want to talk, and who want to talk to you. When you need help, it is your friends to whom you look for help, and in turn you help them through their difficulties, easing the pains of this life in ways that no acquaintance of a brief moment could. Yet still my attempt to define the word falls short of its meaning. Thus is my thought, though perhaps it is no more than relic of ages past. As goes the old saying, "Make new friends, but keep the old; one is silver and the other gold."

Even with this view in mind, the matter is uncertain. Definitions are inherently arbitrary, based solely on our own perceptions, and one major question remains: when does an acquaintance become a friend?

Blast!

"The cold droplets of rain lashing against my bare head, soaking my hair, dripping down to run in rivulets across my face; the rush and roar of the wind, which presses upon the sails and whips through the rigging, tugging against my coat; the rushing waters of the seas all around, the waves crested with white; the roll and surge of the deck beneath my feet and the feel of the wheel in my hands, as I brace my feet to hold the ship upon her course; the fear that every moment one of the men might slip overboard or the sails rip to shreds in the wind or the rudder fail: thus it is to be a captain aboard a ship in a storm."

"I love storms. There is something about the power of the elements--a power one cannot lessen, but only endure--that touches some instinct within. It touches a chord of defiance within the heart, for who willingly admits the insignificance of himself until pitted against such an ancient and powerful adversary as the sea? This defiance brings a thrill surging through every fiber of one's being."

-Captain Nic Blaknar

Yet for those who are landlocked, a storm means something far different. Especially for those who dwell near a river or creek.

As the rain pours down, the muddy waters rise, higher and higher until they spill over the bank, flooding across lowlands, running in ever-widening streams of brown. The waters continue to rise until shallow brown water flows across the pastures and through the forests, rushing ever onward, and still the waters continue to come, flowing higher and higher.



Children glory in such a flood. They play in the water-filled fields, finding grubs and voles, and they do not mind getting wet in the pounding rains. They care not for the damage it may wreak. The hours of hard work that may be ruined in a single day are as naught to them.

Yet as they grow older, they forget their careless enjoyment and think instead of the annoyance and sorrow, losing their wonder. The sight of the still falling rain can only depress them. They cannot think of the floods without sadness at what may be destroyed.

Some there are who stand between, like one lingering halfway between two worlds.
The two feelings tug at them and their hearts are divided.



Never before--at least as long as we have lived here--has this much water passed through our lands for this long. Ever before it was a brief: a quick rise and fall overnight so that we saw only the muddy desolation left behind. Now a whole day has passed and still the waters stream through, hardly less than before.

Three trees at least have fallen in this storm, and these on our side of the creek. Too many already have fallen. So few remain. It will be long before those we have planted grow tall enough to cast shade of much consequence, and meanwhile how many more will fall? Already there were too few trees. At this rate it shall not be long before the lands lie bare.



This brings to mind a story that occurred to me the last time the winds brought some of the trees to the ground. It was a sad story, a tragedy perhaps. The trees were falling, falling, falling...

EDIT: The water finally receded enough that I was able to go out yesterday morning and take stock of the damage. Except for two uprooted plants and the loss of four wire cages protecting plants, there was little more damage beyond the usual layer of fine mud wherever I looked and the places eroded even further by the rushing torrents. Deep pools still remain. This was a flood such as we have not seen before. Shortly after we moved in there was a flood of similar proportions, but it rose quickly and then passed away; we had hardly enough time to look at it before the waters had returned to the creek, leaving behind the eroded streams of mud through the overgrazed pasture. At least the damage was less than it might have been.

Finito--or is it?

Midnight of the last day of November is fast approaching. Once again I managed to finish my novel, but only barely in time. I am filled with the same strange mix of feelings always present after I have typed the words THE END on the last page: satisfaction at my accomplishment; sorrow that it had to end; an eagerness to read it; and a knowledge that there are many things I feel still need to be improved, which I would not allow myself to do at the time for fear I should not finish before the month was over.

There are many small things I left out of scenes that I must add, but most in mind is a whole new character, whose part I did not realize until now and am not yet certain belongs. This new character will not greatly change the story, but may add much of value to it. Yet this character is one whom I cannot easily understand, and therefore cannot easily write about, and that, I think, is the primary cause of my doubt.

Overall I think my month writing a novel went rather well. There were a few things I promised myself I would do and I think I mostly succeeded in this: firstly that I would try to end each chapter in such a way that it would draw the reader onward, leaving him in anticipation, while I shifted between characters; secondly that I would write only scenes I enjoyed, and not plow through boring sections that could only be boring to readers; thirdly that I would visualize what I was writing. These all helped to create a better story, I think. The first is more important for readers, and the latter two helped me to really get into the story, as I have never done before.

Usually I am thinking about so many things I have a hard time keeping track of all the different characters and events in my stories and how they all fit together, but this time I did not have that problem. I scarcely wrote any notes at all: only once or twice. The rest of the time I figured it all out in my mind.

This year was different than last year in another way as well. Last year I had far more free time and so was able to write a 100,000 word novel without difficulty. This year, however, what with working two days a week and teaching piano two days a week, and all the other responsibilites I have, it was more difficult. My mom pointed out that it was a good experience to have to be able to write while still doing all these other things (which could be considered a justification for why she does not let me off all my chores for the month as some people do, not that I think that is necessary), and I agree.

My parents thought it was amazing that I could start writing the novel on November 1st and finish it just a little before midnight of the last day of the month. I do not find it so. I knew I was drawing near to the end and thus wrote furiously to finish in time. That is the power of deadlines. Sometimes it is a good thing to have deadlines to meet, though in this case I do not know; I fear I may have rushed the ending a little more than I should have.

So now it is time to set it aside for a bit. I am eagerly looking forward to reading it, but that will have to wait until I have distanced myself from it a little. In the meantime there are some of my older writings I am eager to read again, and also I want to finish probably my slowest ever reading of the Lord of the Rings, which sadly is only my fifth time.

After I have revised my novel, then the time will come for it to be read. I told my brother he could probably read it, but I think I will look for other readers as well so that I may receive a good selection of criticism.

Then it will be on to other projects. At the moment I have at least two novels in mind I would like to start and one to rewrite and some others I do not remember just now, and I think I may work on these all at the same time to try something different for a while, varying which one I am writing with how I am feeling at the time.

If this all seems less coherent than usual, than I suppose it is due to the lateness of the hour and the fact that I already wrote over 12,000 words today. This would make it right around 13,000 I would imagine. Not the most I have ever written, but a goodly sum notwithstanding.

The Inspiration of Confidence , Or, Conversely, The Confidence of Inspiration

I had hardly thought about my novel from last year's NaNoWriMo for nearly a year, but for some reason it surfaced in my mind the other day. Remembering a scene near the end, I suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to read it. Thus, after writing a little more on my current NaNovel, I did.

Not only did it utterly absorb my attention and draw me into reading more than I had intended, but I was actually impressed to think that I had written it. There were of course a few things I thought could be improved; that, however, is always the case, even with my writing now. This means that my writing has reached the point where it is no longer improving at such a drastic rate, and I can be pleased with my work as a writer.

For a long time I have disparaged my writing, but that time is at an end. I have confidence in my work for the first time.

Now some might say that I should have discovered this a long time ago and it would have been more beneficial for me. I would not agree. The years in which I labored over my writing, feeling it was lacking and ever striving toward perfection, have not been in vain. It is through those struggles that I have reached the mountaintop upon which I now stand, and may look beyond to the higher mountains that I have yet to reach.

This summer of letting my mind lay fallow was not without benefit either. It made me realize how much I missed writing and allowed the ideas and the words to grow in more fertile soil when the time of growth came again.

Even as I realized all of this, though, I was afraid I should have waited to read part of last year's NaNovel until I had completed this year's, for after reading it I could think of little else. For the first time I wanted to revise more than to write, which was a strange feeling, as I have always preferred to seek out new stories and ideas.

Nevertheless, it turned out that the inspiration it gave me was invaluable. I was able to turn my mind to my current project and write onward.

I have now completed over 50,000 words on my novel and four days remain. The end of the story is at a distance still, but I hope that I may have time to finish it before the month runs out.

Some difficulties still remain, though none are insurmountable. The primary one is that I have many major characters and not all will live happily ever after, but I am reluctant to allow that anything will happen to them, whether suffering or death, or worse. I wonder if all writers feel this way.

Yet there is nothing I can do to prevent this from happening. The story must go as it will, and—unless I stop now— I will discover all their ends. I do not really feel as if I am choosing these ends and their choices leading up to them, but it is rather as if I am discovering these stories and recording them; that feeling is especially strong this month since I began my novel with no more than a single character and a single scene, not knowing where it would lead, and now I have a host of characters and a plot that draws me toward the still mysterious end.

Even though I recognize that not all can live happily ever after and I know that I tend to prefer tragic characters when I read, still I wish those in my story might find peace, for they are not strangers whose tragedies affect me not. These are my friends and their lives touch me deeply.