This was a nice little personal earthquake. Just a 7.8 on the Richter Scale. Smoldering ruins abound but so far I'm able to stand up and walk out of the chaos. I think. The sudden collapse of OT shook me up...but I'm too vested in the story to just toss it aside. So on Saturday, I'm going back to page 1 and stripping out everything that no longer works. Guess it's better to know now than after I'd sent it out for feedback.
I'm pretty fucking pissed about this. And my self-confidence is down around my knees. And all it took was one comment from one character to set the destruction going, like a massive line of dominoes lined up for miles. Thanks a lot, guys; all that work and I'm back to the beginning.
I still don't know what the hell happened. It may have been me trying to shoehorn in some ideas that just weren't right for the story. Like Owen insisting on defending himself at his trial for public indecency, when he knows a damn good lawyer who will take the case and do it right. Something I mention more than once as regards that lawyer with other characters.
Or maybe it's how I'm trying to find ways to tie Jake's growing uncertainty about Antony in with the anti-gay push by newcomers to the area. Or maybe it's just plain setting this in Palm Springs. Or maybe I was being too damned coy with the real reason for what's going on and got so damned coy, I lost sight of the narrative reality.
I don't know. I just know that right now my head aches and I'm damn near ready to give up on the whole stupid idea of writing. I don't know why this story is causing me such turmoil...or why it's become such a devil to deal with. It's just a mystery story. Shit.
And that may be the problem...it's really more than that and I'm denigrating it by suggesting I'm writing something like Earl Stanley Gardner's Perry Mason books. I'm not. I'm writing a story about a man coming to terms with the truth of himself. That's what the final chapter was always about -- Jake accepting his own horrifying reality...and how it nearly destroyed him...and could, still...
I don't know if I can handle that...
I still don't know what the hell happened. It may have been me trying to shoehorn in some ideas that just weren't right for the story. Like Owen insisting on defending himself at his trial for public indecency, when he knows a damn good lawyer who will take the case and do it right. Something I mention more than once as regards that lawyer with other characters.
Or maybe it's how I'm trying to find ways to tie Jake's growing uncertainty about Antony in with the anti-gay push by newcomers to the area. Or maybe it's just plain setting this in Palm Springs. Or maybe I was being too damned coy with the real reason for what's going on and got so damned coy, I lost sight of the narrative reality.
I don't know. I just know that right now my head aches and I'm damn near ready to give up on the whole stupid idea of writing. I don't know why this story is causing me such turmoil...or why it's become such a devil to deal with. It's just a mystery story. Shit.
And that may be the problem...it's really more than that and I'm denigrating it by suggesting I'm writing something like Earl Stanley Gardner's Perry Mason books. I'm not. I'm writing a story about a man coming to terms with the truth of himself. That's what the final chapter was always about -- Jake accepting his own horrifying reality...and how it nearly destroyed him...and could, still...
I don't know if I can handle that...
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