Everything becomes the novel. I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about what to write and how to write it—then rewriting what I’ve in my mind, sometimes airing it out-loud, and still other times allowing for the words to die on the page. I wish I had the energy and motivation to write down everything. I wish I had the emotion, say mirth, to feel good about what I think the project will evolve into: I don’t.
I feel like I’ve allowed for hundreds of pages to go on into the afterlife of thought. I’ve dreams where I feel loved and write hundreds of pages at a time and laugh without care or worry. The book writes itself. In dreams, I even read what I believe I’m writing. Writing notes in the margins, writing notes on the inside cover, writing notes writing notes writing. I don’t care to stop. Writing evolves, becomes. I hear laughter. I turn and there’s someone there offering the warmth of love.
Often I feel excited about what this next book could be. Perhaps it can last past my inattention. Perhaps it can change me. I want change.
The troubles I had with the 1st book still trouble me. I don’t want to relive what I have written, yet so often I feel I can’t escape… A few friends, and I use that term very loosely, say things in the crudest of ways (they believe it helps). I try to understand them. Ultimately, they’re just assholes, many of them… And issues of family stay the same. The 2nd book will give more information, more background, perhaps more thought. Time still plays its role. Scenes and fragments won’t be clearly displayed so much as allowed to stream freely into one another. Writing against streams of Time, trying to caress an unstoppable force, writing the act of falling, drowning into –