Not to be too melodramatic, but like the titular crack-whore (as represented so finely on TV), I think I might have an addiction to one of my novels. Its not a healthy addiction, either, but its also what consumed most of my writing time in 2012. And 2011. Maybe a part of 2010, come to think of it. I’ve tried to be clean. I’ve written some short stories, I’ve played with some other novel ideas, but in the end it always come back to that damned Urban Fantasy and the girl in the tight jeans, magic, and the goddess trying be born. I keep shoving back in the grave, but its like the mummy, rising up to strike me down for interfering with its true love. Its been a part of my writing life for the better part of two years, really, though there have certainly been long, extended gaps in between contributions.
So what brings me back? Its a feeling that the novel isn’t done. Even though I’ve said I was done working on it, I still know deep down that the novel isn’t finished, no matter how much it pains me to admit it. There are still some gaps towards the end that need filling (and its true, not just me making up excuses to revisit and revise). Sane, rational folks would call it a trunk novel and quite. I’ve even called it a trunk novel and quit. Multiple times. But like Mark Twain once said about smoking, “It’s easy to quick [smoking]. I’ve done it hundreds of times.”
But why revisit it now?
Because I want to send it out. Because if I don’t send it out, I have nothing to show for nearly two years worth of work. Because the year is coming to a close, and if I don’t send it out it will just be another missed opportunity in writing for me. I’m not going to ask anyone to read it, or try and get the attention of my friends that are published – making friends has never been about abusing the system.
But first I need to do some concrete writing. I have a short story that’s been festering for over a week now that needs to be set free, or at least aired out a little.