I’ve spent a few days giving the fiancee some TLC, hanging out, and overall connecting with my world. We watched Queer Eye on Netflix, drank beer for lunch, and shopped.
I also found some time to squirrel away and do some reading. In danger of showing everyone how big my head is, I prefer reading my work to reading anyone else’s. It’s transitory, reflexive, evolving, because I can shift, change, distend, remove. And I love what I write as a product. Absolutely adore it. The characters aren’t my babies. The ideas are. This weekend I read 77 pages of my BiP Mr. Roadkill.
On page 78 I hit the wall. The first ten chapters of this Romanture were blissful, vibrant, tense, traumatic. Two characters fighting themselves fighting each other. The eleventh chapter, though, went casual. If my book were a personality, it’d be an adrenaline junkie that, on page 78, decided to get married and watch Bob Ross. Total 180.
I blame my fiancee. The protagonist turned comfortable, casual, nearly carefree. His manic descriptions died. Everything froze.
It’s wonderful to find these issues: I put this work down a book ago (David and His Shade was birthed) without a real solid reason why. It lost my interest for some reason (a reason I clearly know now), and I didn’t want to work on it anymore. I mean, this book wrote itself! Until page 78. It was a flowing stream-of-consciousness journey of violence, pain, and a desperate need to know one’s self. Reading it was so personal, I laughed at how I cringed away at the pain of the protagonist. And it changed.
And I know it. Time to pop out the rewrite tools. Time to teak some nipples. I’ve found the wall.