Part Three. Lost Things.

          Writing a novel is a lot like looking for lost things: There are a trillion and seven places where the lost thing could be, the predicament being that there is only one place where it actually is. Looking for where a lost thing is not is very tedious work.

          An obstacle I have found (and continue to find) in writing a novel is this: There are a trillion and seven words that could come next, but I am only looking for one. Once published the novel will be immortal and unchangeable. It seems obvious, then, that the story was meant to be written and produced as that singular, clandestine train of words it has always and forever been. But how can one story be so different as to have nine completely unrelated rewritten beginnings? How am I able to write the same story sixteen different ways in a week? What is the meaning?

          This: These words are here to contribute to a feeling, a mood.

          Poetry is structured around the limited, the margins, the super selective. Novels, on the other hand, are an entirely different medium. The words are merely there to contribute to the feel, the mood, the message. If the old house is 'dreary,' then the old house could assuredly have a leak on the second floor and could sit beneath a sky the color of cement. The old house could be empty and strung with cobwebs and the echoes of a century's worth of dead dialogue. The old house could be slap full with miserable people. The old house could be alone in a wood or squashed between two pompous, modernly insulting houses in San Francisco. The old house may simply be an "old house," (as old houses, when left without any other supporting or altering adjectives, tend to be dreary enough in themselves).

          Ask yourself, as I had to, how many ways have we come up with to say 'hello?'

Part Two. The First Chapter

          The first chapter has proven to be the most difficult idea to complete. Arguably the most vital piece of the novel, it's no surprise that the first chapter has been equally the most daunting. It's the first impression. It's the catalyst to the entire adventure. I've been trapped for a while in the limbo of Chapter One, writing and rewriting, altering and removing, adding and trashing. The beginning of this book never fails to dissatisfy me. I feel that I need an invincible beginning, concrete and publishable, before I can sketch the opening sentence of the second chapter. That's a dangerously fruitless feeling.

          I've recently promised to present a polished depiction of the first chapter to a few people whose opinions I admire. I'm avid about sending off the chapter to some friends for a bit of honest feedback. Staring at the words and reading them literally hundreds of times has created a strange circuit that rarely arrives at a new destination. I would like a fresh point of view; one that doesn't know every twist, turn, and unspoken thought of the plot to provide a break in the monotony of omniscience. I know too much to judge successfully, but I'm far too self-conscious to hand the chapter over. I'm stuck in a storm of ambivalence.  

          Having the story screech to a halt before the ending of the first chapter is hardly a productive start. 

          A very close friend of mine made an interesting statement yesterday that really opened my eyes, though (this is important, so pay attention): she told me how the first chapter will usually be unfathomably incomplete until the entire book is finished. She explained how the writer won't really explore the full story or the extent of the characters until the last word is written. At that point it's far easier and more beneficial to reflect upon the beginning and limit or extend the descriptions and instances that define the birth of the story. In essence, the first chapter completes last. Thank you, Danielle.

          To those of you due to read the first chapter: sorry, guys, but it might be a little bit. 



     *Something interesting I've learned while researching the Jazz Age, the setting for my novel (just as a bonus for your reading pleasure): "Speakeasies" tended to be the more prestigious of the illegal drinking establishments during the Prohibition era. Other substantially less palatial establishments were often referred to as "Blind Tigers" or "Blind Pigs." The name was coined as an advertising front proclaiming something along the lines of "ten cents a sight" when referring to said tigers or pigs "caged inside." Really, people were just paying a service charge to booze it up. Since alcohol was only illegal to sell, not consume, the cover charge would ultimately allow the payer a complimentary drink (whether or not there happened to be any animals inside at all, blind or not).

Part One. The Hardest Thing

A few of the hardest things I've encountered:

- Breaking up with my girlfriend in the eleventh grade.
- Learning to cook Chicken Pontchartrain without stressing out.
- Overcoming my phobia of needles (still working on that one).
- Writing a novel (also in progress).

           In all honesty, the last one has been the toughest of them all. I've been attempting to write a novel since I was twelve. Not the same one, of course, but rather a series of ambitious daydreams that I've battered and butchered until I've ended up tossing the whole lot in the trash. For the last decade, the timeline has gone a little something like this:
          
               1. "That's a good idea."
               2. Mild storyboard
               3. "That's a GREAT idea."
               4. Begin Writing.
               5. "Is it 'your' or 'you're'?"
               6. "Does that sound right?"
               7. "Will this win the Pulitzer?"
               8. "I don't know what's next."
               9.  Reread what I've got.
             10. "This doesn't sound very good."
             11. Looking up at Shakespeare, Milton, Hemingway, Stoker, Bradbury, and other such authors on my shelf and thinking back to my story: "Wow. This does suck."

          At that point it's very indeterminable if it matters whether I've used big enough words or whether I've used too many big words. I've either tried too hard or not nearly enough. After a while of reading and rereading I'm forced to loathe the idea of working on a novel at all. But why? Is it my writing? I feel I'm a pretty decent writer. Is it my story? No, I'm pretty convinced that this is a bulletproof concept. So what is it?! If it's such a tedious, destined-to-fail process why in the heck do I continue to pursue it?
          Here's the point: I'm working on a novel that I intend to finish (I haven't said that one before). In the process I want to answer a million and one questions and track its progress (fly or fail). When I run into an issue that I feel ANYONE writing a book might encounter, I intend upon overcoming it and explaining how and why I did so.
          If nothing else I want this blog to motivate me to finish my own book and if it helps you along the way or provides you at least with an outlet of entertainment, that's work well done.

Note to readers: I tend to put comas wherever I feel I've paused or taken a breath in the sentence, grammatically correct or not. Apologies.