So. I have been a very busy bee the last couple of weeks, taking reams and reams of notes on all manner of subjects – philosophy, music, spirituality, psychology – not knowing what I was looking for (though I had a vague idea) but hoping I’d find the pieces of the puzzle I needed to put In the Face of the Sun back together again. A few days ago, I rewrote the first chapter based on a discussion I had with Ms. Agent, and then I decided to let it sit. It felt right at the time, but hindsight….well, does its hindsighty thing.
It’s taken me a fair amount of courage to take a look at that chapter, but I did just now.
I think I’ve unearthed the real story. I think. But, there’s this strange, indescribable feeling I get when I’m telling the right story – I had it with SHADOWS and HAMMERED, so though I can’t describe it, I *know* it.
And I found it when I read the opening chapter of SUN.
I’m amazed, sometimes, at how writing a novel is like giving birth (not that I know about giving birth, but…it’s the simile that fits). Some people give birth easily. Some people are in labour for hours and hours and hours. That last one is me, figuratively speaking. My novels don’t come into the world easily. They demand me to experience tremendous labour pains. And, though there are times when I’d like a writerly epidural, when the novel arrives all bloody and wet and born, I stare at it and think: There you are. You were worth every bit of agony.
No doubt, some of this sense of awe will evaporate when the novel reaches its Terrible Two stage. But I can think about that later. Right now, I’ve got work to do.