In between processing disbursements and searching for a business awning in other projects, I find myself thinking about my “work.” I use such in quotation marks, because A) I don’t get paid for that, and B) I could scarcely call it something worth publishing. I constantly analyze my work in my head, going to and fro, drinking coffee, or writing out payroll. Sometimes I’ll find a problem, like a piece of gristle in a steak, and work it over my gums and teeth as a terrier would a rawhide bone.
I haven’t written much in a while, which for me is since late March. I have three chapters of a novel I’ve be futzing around with since I came up with the idea in 2013. That novel should have been done by late 2015, I figure. There have been so many times I’ve decided to blow the night off and drink my depression away that I have new psychological ammo to shoot myself with in the morning.
However, the idea has come to me in a bit of tobacco meditation: it’s too lean. Leaner than it should be, anyway. I understand I can’t be obsessed with word length but the reason I don’t appreciate what I’ve written so far is because it’s not rich enough. Sure, it’s tedious to describe a chandelier or speak of the minute detail of subterranean plant life but I still find it necessary. The reader may be damned to a degree in my writing, as I take a bullet proof attitude toward the feelings of the recipient, but it’s not fair to them to deny a larger picture of the story. It needs satisfaction of depth and in that depth, I may find resolution.
On my desk calendar, I’ve drawn a doodle: a plant. This is my step forward into a better, more motivating novel. It’s part of a method, of which I’m developing in my head as I type, to possible obtain a workable model that will improve my writing skills. Since I have little money to devote to steady writing, I need to figure something out to produce a finished piece and have some modicum of quality control.
I need something out there, or rather I want something out there. This isn’t necessarily the craving of “New York Times Bestseller” accolades or anything of the sort, rather a marker, a notch in the whipping post to say that I was here. I existed. I did something, and possibly did something right.