I dig deep into buried past to draw out tempestuous memories, dark lined dreams and mysteries, like old friends without introduction, though these be unwelcome, cluttering spaces with exposed wanton, cobwebbed corners of untouched time, revealed by harsh light, reflecting from puissant mind, mine those tortured hallows, idle days of fictitious revelation, of delusional discovery, from which I'm still recovering, continually overturning, whilst learning new methods, ways distinguishing truth from lies, eyes betrayed by ghosts in mirrors, ever clearer through constant scrutiny, that self-deception creates frightening enmity, between two halves of sides aligned, formed divide, and hopes revealed in script and character, creation's painful labor, thought to reality, inspiring hearts in trepidation, as hand crafts stories bold from flesh and sinew and bared bones.
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I have completed nine chapters for my first true attempt at a novel (Nanowrimo notwithstanding). I'm quite happy with what I've done, and look forward to completing it sometime within the next year. I've got a lot to go. Already I see things which will need tweaking and research, but I'm pushing past and hoping to have a rough draft finished by the fall.
All that being said, I will still be writing some things in addition. It's a curious symptom of writing a larger piece, that others are created along the way.
This in particular is about the things which I find myself pulled by in the process; inspirations for the novel being resurrected along the way, looked over, analyzed, and picked apart. Ultimately remembering where I've been and what I've done, in the hope that what was becomes clearer in the here and now.
i'm over here reading still, just wanted you to know.
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