"Someone turn me 'round. Can I start this again?"

[greygirlbeast]

It's bright out there. Cold, but bright. And there's another storm on the way, as I'm sure at least half the country is aware. The snow should reach us by morning. I'm thinking of all those six-foot heaps made by the snowplows, and wondering how they'll look as seven- and eight-foot heaps. We have to get out of here this evening, before the weather starts deteriorating. I have a 7 p.m. (CaST) doctor's appointment, and we'll need to make it to the market.

---

Something happened yesterday that's never happened before. It's remarkable, I suppose, that it's never happened before, given I've been writing pretty much full-time now for nineteen years. I'm hesitant to even speak of it here. But given how this journal is meant to be an honest record of my experiences as a writer and author, I would feel dishonest leaving it out. Yesterday, first time ever, I found myself crying because of what I was writing. It came on very suddenly, and I had to stop and step away for awhile before finishing the scene. I know I was crying for Imp. There are other reasons, too, which I'm not going to spell out. But, later, I found myself thinking that this has to be the last novel of this sort I write, at least for the foreseeable future. It's too terrible and too personal. I find myself not wanting to let anyone see this one, ever. I felt that way a little with Daughter of Hounds, then even more so with The Red Tree. But it's never been this strong, the urge to lock the book away and not subject it to editors and reviewers and Amazon reader comments and people mouthing off on their blogs. It's just too personal, and I suppose I have no one to blame but myself. No one forces me to write these particular stories, to keep picking at these particular scabs. But, yeah. Last time. And then I'm going off to write YA, and tell wondrous stories, and they'll be dark, sure. They'll be true. But they sure as fuck won't be this. It sounds melodramatic, I know, but the truth is I'm making myself sicker, writing this novel, and it's not worth the toll it's taking.

It's okay if that didn't make much sense. Like Imp's story, it's mostly just for me.

At best, I'm halfway through the novel.

Yesterday, I wrote 2,106 words on Chapter 5, and finally reached the end of the longest chapter I've ever written.

--

Not much else to say about yesterday. We watched the new episode of Fringe, which, of course, was very good. Then we watched the first two episodes of Season Two of Spartacus. Gods, I'd forgotten how much I love this show. Sheer and utter fucking debauchery and depravity, unabashed, unapologetic. All fucking id, top to bottom. It's nowhere near as well written as was Deadwood, but I think it has much the same appeal for me. Later, we played a little WoW. I think I got to bed about 3:45 a.m. (CaST).

Gonna go now. Comments would be especially welcome today.

Comments

Crying

[jessamyg.livejournal.com]

There are times when the opening up of old wounds breaks us down into little pieces of shit and doubt and loathing and we wonder if we will ever get over it. I wish somebody could tell me I will get over all the fucked up thoughts in my head and the fucked up childhood, but I just wouldn't believe them anyway. Sometimes you just need to know when to turn your back on the revelations and, it seems, you have reached that point. Whatever is best for your health, dear beast, and I wish I could follow that advice myself.

There's still a young adult in all of us, I hope, and some of us are quite willing to let them out to play every so often. Considering how much I enjoyed your story in Gothic! I am looking forward to following you back to that long-gone, but never forgotten, time. Some of us need writers like you, no matter what niche you get wedged into by the publishers.

[chiropteryx.livejournal.com]

It makes an absolutely perfect and symmetrical kind of sense.
For whatever reason you're doing it at the time; be that catharsis, or because you have no choice BUT to do it, or because it's just what you do, or because it's where those most powerful and terrible and beautiful words that resonate with the readers who *get* it come from; denuding those scabs onto the page and letting us glimpse something raw is part of why we devour your books. That sounds voyeuristic, it's knitting at the gallows, but it's brutally true. Raw calls to raw.
Whatever you write will always have some degree of that raw and rareness, I suspect - it is part of what makes us love you.
But even the greediest voyeur must realise that picking at scabs and letting them get horribly infected are two quite different things - we don't wish you septicaemia of the soul, that's for sure.
Get well. Bleed healthy.
*hugs* from down under.

[vidyarajah.livejournal.com]

For the record: thank you for the work.

The folks that "get it"...believe me when I tell you that we get it. On one level or another, some perhaps more than most, some perhaps a bit less...we intuit viscerally what the work can cost you to simply get it down. I'm in that demographic, for what it's worth.

We're here. We get it, we know...and speaking only for myself, from my heart to yours, it's appreciated in more ways than I can properly express.

With that, for whatever it's worth, in strength, love and solidarity: thank you so much. Cheers. **smiles at you**

[rai-ryu.livejournal.com]

Forcing myself to comment, because anxiety shouldn't keep me from posting on a journal like this.

I think sometimes what can make a writer good, isn't necessarily good for the writer. I...admire that you're still pushing your way through to complete this novel. I'm becoming increasingly eager to read it.

I remember while reading Daughter of Hounds, it had a very profound effect on me that hadn't been achieved before or since. I struggle to explain it correctly, but it was almost as if I was being pulled away from my body. I wanted to put the book away on many cases because of what it did to me, but I had to finish reading too. I really enjoyed it, it's the only book of its type that I've ever read.

And while on the topic of Daughter of Hounds, to me it seemed very "YA-ish", although I'm not sure what makes the distinction in my head. I think you will make a very good YA writer, and I hope it is easier on you.