But the important thing is that I did it. My plan, after much overthinking, was to have the first chapter serve as an introduction to the world without telling every single detail of the world Grace lives in. This was difficult for me. It would be so much easier to say, "And the house looks like this. And Grace is like this. And her town is like this. And her mother is like this. And then later This will happen and That will happen and you will be intrigued." Moving the story along while providing glimpses and hints is a big challenge for me.
I also discovered that I have a brevity problem. If I kept writing as succinctly as I began, the book would be five chapters long and would read like a section of the bible (you know, so and so begat so and so and then the sinner messed up and then things were fixed or they went to hell--a life story in as few words as possible). I found myself covering entire days in one paragraph. I had to return to each paragraph and flesh them out. This is where writing poetry is not helpful when writing a novel.
Discipline is not my strong suit. When I had the itch to write on Saturday, I realized I wouldn't be able to do it at home. I always think I''ll be able to sit at the little blue desk Ian made for me and pound out a couple of pages, but when I sit down, I find myself on Facebook after five minutes.
Because Saturday was a beautiful day, I decided to take my laptop to a coffee shop. Arlington is not Milwaukee, and finding a little coffee shop to spend your day at is as difficult as finding parking in Clarendon. So I went for convenience and headed to a place near my office, where I had seen outdoor tables.
The place was surprisingly dumpy. Not only were there cops inside taking notes when I arrived, but the coffee was bad and the outdoor tables were littered with cups with lipstick marks. I really hate lipstick marks. But I forged ahead. After an hour, I went back inside to order the crappiest bagel on the planet. I went in to pee and there was no toilet paper. After two more hours, I went to pee again, only to find the doors locked and the bitchy barista shooing me away with her yellow gloves.
It was 2:00 p.m. The hours posted stated the dive was open until 6 p.m. Bitchy barista knew very well that I was sitting right in front of the freaking store working away. There were no trash cans outside. So, nearly pissing my pants (I swear I felt a trickle) I carried not only my laptop but my empty coffee cup and the remainder of my wretched bagel with me to my car.
It didn't matter, though. Because I was on a writing high. Writing highs are kind of like running highs, but running highs don't come with the bitter hangover of a writing high. The hangover that says, "You fool! You thought you wrote something really good! HA! Read it again, Sucker. Read it again."
The same remorse, regret, and utter depression will occur after I finish Chapters 2, 3, 4, 5 . . . you get the idea. And I can live with that.
