50 005 words have been put down on my novel Book Worm (or Book Warm or anything else, titles become important at a later stage) and this is a boring fact.
The interesting is that I had promised to keep writing it as a top priority for the last five weeks of 2019, to write, to create, to imagine, to be at it, on it and inside it... and eventually I only spent two hours with it during these five weeks. Of course, I was feeling guilty all along and tried to talk myself into writing. It doesn't work like that.
In the first day of the new year I was sure that I have to start writing something new from scratch. I felt utterly and entirely detached from my characters and the voices in their heads, that also are my characters. Word count (his grace) was about 31000 and I scrolled through them, swallowing the bitter disappointment that the story went out of gas before even reaching the middle of the journey. I waved farewell to all my beloved fictional characters, slender and fat, short and tall (there is a height-related mystery I found across my portfolio, but it doesn't pour gas in the tank), naive and badass, young and old, before even learning whether they were brestfed of bottle babies (the importance of serving such information to the readers came in my perception field through the book The Diceman, which at fragments was like an encyclopaedia for useless information but nonetheless has to be given credit for changing my life or at least 40 hours of it), before finding out their childhood traumas, before letting them lust after each other alternating over 300 pages and the must for that genre, wrap it eventually up over a loose logic in a big bang. (not theory, the dirty, sweaty practice).
Sorry for the previous sentence. Apart from being not entirely ladylike, the length and texture of it must be inconvenient; it is part of my training in tolerance to chaos and letting go of the urge to put order.
Next morning I was reaching up for a chocolate bar, that have, with the help of the same almighty chaos, escaped to the very back of a cupboard shelf, higher than my capability. Talking about shelfs and chaos, here comes one of those.
Back to my chocolate, I never got to it, because the situation looked better on paper with a fictional damsel in despair that finds a helping hand at the end of long helping arm, than in reality with floppy morning me, lead by addiction. As I started writing it down, it showed to fit perfectly my characters needs for low-key push and pull appetizers. They enjoyed it, became more talkative, more willing to do stuff and on the verge of lusting after each other alternately for 300 pages, but not quite there yet. Thinking about why are they not there, when this is what they are employed for, I gathered that this is NOT what they are employed for. And must of a genre is a filthy excuse for lack of creativity. Especially for someone like me who sucks literary genres off the top of my fingers, ('sitcom novel' for example).
SO nobody is forcing me to flood the text with repulsive clichés, I have the freedom to develop the story in any way I possibly can think of (this looks obvious when you see it written, but feels like divine revelation when you cross from one of the lands it is bridging to the other). First think that crossed my mind is that crime and thriller genres benefit immensely from not knowing who the killer is, it is not fair the love novels to be deprived of such powerful leverage. Who is the kisser? (Comedy seems to be my fate :)
Unless...
The focus moves to the multifaceted personalities. Can we still call it love if desperation bring her to his arms and he accepts her only to fill a void? Of course not. Moreover, what created the void? Why is she desperate? There is much more. Apart from desperate, she is
playful, a competitor, a flirt, a misunderstood kid (who isn't?), a writer, a rebel, a crybaby to name a few. Apart from empty, he is ambitious, faithful, patient, disappointed, relaxed, latent, controversial, helpful, angry, calm...
And the search of who kissed whom and why leads me steadily page after page and surprisingly to the following scene where I made the effort to expand the description, aiming to become better at descriptions. (In my humble opinion effort is clearly visible and effort in writing inevitably leads to effort in reading)
Here comes the teaser kiss scene:
When Elena came back in the apartment, quarter past 2 am, everything was quiet all around and inside her. A single idea swirled in her head – wouldn’t it be nice if she gave sleeping Christopher a gentle, tiny, good-night kiss on his forehead, seizing a one-in-a-million opportunity to properly reach it. She walked towards her bed smiling. It was going to be magical. The idea was taking form already while she was changing to nightwear and blossomed fully when she cuddled herself into the duvet. A fairy. Elena carefully visualised her tall and slender body, made in the same mould as her own and dressed in green petal-like fabric, waving freely as she moved. The fairy had large, butterfly wings in a light shade of purple, with a gold contour blazing in the darkness. The wings were thinner than paper and a detail-oriented eye would notice rows of words in strong italic tiny oval handwriting transpire trough the purple base. The fairy turned like a ballerina in Elena’s vision and fluttered around the living room, her green dress twisting around her legs and the wings leaving a gentle trace of gold-coloured light. Flyover – Elena whispered – and wish him a peaceful night. The imaginary fairy flew past the living-room door, leaving for few seconds gleaming words on the door surface – the print of her wings. Enjoying the life and love that were given to her, she whirled in the entre, before entering the bedroom. There she spread her wings wide and flew on top of sleeping Christopher who was wrinkling his forehead in the dreams of overloaded mind. The fairy levitated above him, parallel to his body getting closer and closer, as much as she could, until an inch distance. Her glance caressed him from top to toe, before she bent her head a wee down and kissed his forehead. It relaxed and smoothened. The fairy smiled gently and ran her unsubstantial fingers through his messy hair. Christopher smiled in his sleep. The fairy floated above him. Joyful, flustering movements of her wings made a little snow storm of butterfly dust in which she dissolved.
In case I have failed to make a clear point up until now - here is the whole thing in a nutshell. A plan for finalising the book led to lack of ideas and complete stall. Reaching up for a chocolate resulted in 10 000+ words and the chocolate is still intact.
Moral of the story - don't force it.
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