On November 7, 2015, at 4:33 PM, I finished the first draft of my second novel, which I am tentatively calling In the Land of the Lotus Eaters. For days, I wracked my weary, overworked brain searching for the perfect sentences that would lead into the final two paragraphs I had already written. In fact, I wrote part of the story’s end shortly after I started the beginning of the novel. At the time I had no idea if the story I had in mind would run as long as it did; in now way did I start it thinking, “This will be my second novel.”
I wanted the end of the story to mirror the beginning, a first paragraph of four sentences that I would repeat, with minor variations, at the end. By that time, which character dropped the severed head into a river from a low bridge, and whose head she disposed of in this shocking manner, would become clear. I planned to write the scenes in between like a serial, leaving the reader dangling with the characters from the edge of that one, while opening another and sustaining this level of tension throughout the text, until every loose connection fit neatly into each socket.
I loved writing this story, difficult as I made it for myself; manipulating the life of my characters, I do my best to make each one as unforgettable and genuinely flawed as all interesting living creatures are. Nothing worth doing right is ever easy. Every sentence is a struggle to maintain a level of craftsmanship that comes only from long hours of practice. When my characters bleed, I bleed with them, weep over their tragedies even as I create more situations for them, laugh at their jokes, and die a little when one is necessary to destroy. As one my creatures observed, “We die a little every day, each one of us.”
Too gloomy? Do you crave more lilting laughter, a more optimistic and comic outlook on great big Life? My brand of ironic humor not funny at all? To a certain extent, I agree. Let’s try this. “A gorilla walks into a bar on Broadway in New York City…”