Work has slowed down for me a tiny bit, so I am in full sequel-writing mode. My morning ritual is now waking up, taking my probiotic supplement, doing a 20-minute meditation, eating breakfast, and then going to my favourite coffee spot and having a couple cups while I bang on this contraption. I love it.
My next book will be a sequel to my first book The Awful Truth of Loving. I have a tentative name for the book I'm pretty sure I'm going to use, but I don't want to share it just yet in case it changes. But, yes, it is the name to a song that influenced the book like the first one was.
The biggest lesson I've had to learn about writing is that the first draft is just going to suck. I used to stop myself from writing because I would see things that my favourite singers, movie/TV writers, authors, etc. would put out and it would be pure gold! How did they come up with that?? I would ask myself while shamefully closing my laptop vowing to never attempt to write anything again.
Then I realized that writing doesn't work that way. At least not for me. It's not going to come out fully-formed and perfect. It's going to be messy and covered in goop like a newborn baby. And I'm going to have to clean off the goop and labor and stay vigilant while it cries and shits until, eventually, it can walk on its own. Too far with the baby analogy? Okay. Basically, it's going to take time and patience and loads of re-writes. I'm sure for some more prolific writers it is much easier and to them I say, "Go F yourself! You are not normal."
I am also learning to enjoy the process of writing. When I write my books now I am no longer pretending that I have all of the answers figured out. I am just getting to know the characters as if they are the ones telling me who they are and what they've been through. It is loosely based on my own life and experiences, but then a little magic comes in to fill in the rest of the blanks. It really feels like channeling to me sometimes.
I am starting to see that this next book is going to be somewhat more personal and darker than TATOL. I take that as a sign that I am growing as a writer and letting myself be more vulnerable. It scares me a little because I don't like sharing my feelings all the time, but as I'm writing, this is what is coming out. And so, I just have to go with it.
Here is the start of a chapter I wrote this morning.
“I am a human being, capable of doing terrible things.”
Anderson felt sick. He wanted to call Ramona and tell her the deal was off. He couldn’t be a father. He had never been sure that he ever wanted kids, so why on earth would he have one now? Is 7 months too late to have an abortion? The fact that he didn’t know the answer to that question only validated his idea that he simply was not ready for fatherhood. What could he possibly know about being a father anyway? It’s not like he ever had a shining example of what one was.
* * *
“Mom!” Anderson called to his mother as he burst through the back door of his childhood home. He dropped his backpack by the sofa and frantically looked around. “Mom! Where are you? I have something to tell you!”
“Anderson, hush!” scolded his mother as she came down the stairs. “Your father is sleeping. He was working all night.”
“Mom, I’ve got to tell you about school today,” Anderson continued with excitement.
“What on earth is it?” She took a seat on the sofa as Anderson jumped in front of her.
“We won.”
“You won what?”
Anderson looked disappointed. “You don’t remember? Today was the school’s battle of the bands and WE WON!!”
“Anderson!!” called a booming voice from upstairs. Both Anderson and his mother looked up in fear. “Get up here!”
Anderson looked at his mother. She couldn’t protect him. She nodded for him to do as he was told. Anderson picked up his backpack and headed up the stairs, each step filling his stomach with worry. He thought he might throw up.
Just as he was about to put his hand on the doorknob to his parents’ bedroom, his father yelled again, startling him so much his hands shook. He forced himself to go inside.
The door creaked open. It was pitch dark in their room, the windows had been covered in black fabric to keep out the daylight. It smelled like stale cigarettes. Anderson’s father worked the graveyard shift at a gas station down the street. He slept during the day while everyone was awake and was awake all night while everybody slept.
“H-h-hi, Dad,” Anderson stammered. “You w-w-wanted to see me?”
“Come here,” his father said as if it were a threat.
Anderson swallowed hard, tears already stinging his eyes. Once he was beside his father in bed, he smelled alcohol. It was always there. For a moment his father didn’t move. His breathing was deep and measured. Anderson started to relax, thinking his dad had fallen back to sleep as he sometimes did in the middle of one of his rampages. Just as Anderson was about to turn to leave, he was grabbed tightly by the collar of his t-shirt.
“Please, Dad!” Anderson squealed involuntarily. “Don’t.”
Anderson’s father sat up. He looked like a monster in the dim daylight coming from the hallway.
“Don’t you tell me what to do, boy,” his father said, angry spit flying from his lips. “Now, what in the hell is so goddamn important that you had to come in the house screaming like a retard?” Anderson looked away, too late to stop the tears from flowing down his reddened cheeks. “Are you crying? You fucking pussy! Answer me!!”
“Battle...bands,” was all Anderson could manage to say.
“What did you say?”
“My band won the school’s battle of the bands today.” Anderson pleaded, “Please let me go. I’ll be quiet.”
Before Anderson knew it, he was thrown to the floor. His arm burned from sliding against the shag carpeted floor.
“You’re damn right you’ll be quiet,” his father said. “Or I’ll make sure you stay quiet and I know you don’t want that, you crying sissy. Now, get the fuck out and let me sleep, goddamn it.”
Anderson scrambled to his feet with his backpack and headed out of the room. “And close the goddamn door!!”
Anderson wiped his face with his hands and turned to close the bedroom door behind him. He was thirteen years old.
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