My brain is busy. I went to a workshop at the excellent Writer’s federation this week and learned I should rewrite my novel from the beginning to make it sing. I’m blanking out a bit with horror at the thought as I’ve over 80,000 words invested already and I feel sad about sending them to perdition, a bit afraid that they may be insulted and never return.
I remember a story from my childhood where all the letters talked and had personalities. I still remember the illustrations, but can’t remember the title anymore. I even tried to poach it for a high school essay, but I’m sure mine wasn’t as mentally sticky as I can’t remember it at all. What I do recall is the idea that words had a life of their own, filled with opinions and prejudices and preferences. I wonder how they feel about the animosity toward adverbs, for example. Are adverbs the embarrassing relatives of the word family? Do they tell inappropriate jokes and pick their teeth at the table?
In any case, I think about them ganging up on me in my sleep and telling me off for wasting them. It’s a scary thought. Plus my fingers are already tired thinking about it, and my computer is in the shop.
But, it has to be done. I need to wrestle the novel to the ground and minute revisions aren’t doing it.
Meanwhile, in another portion of my brain, I’m revisiting an excellent book launch and having for the first time a wee fantasy about having one of my own.
But then my brain slides over to my trip to Newfoundland, and chatters about that for a bit. Or spring calls from outside the window. And time skitters away.
The letters are mumbling, though. They want me to get at them. Time to stop dreaming and get to work.