Tuesday, July 21, 2015

The Death of a Novel

I know everyone has their own breaking points.  Maybe this is the bump just before the break.  Whatever it is, I quit.  On one, anyway.  Certain things that are not progressing in my life tell me to let this one go.  More will probably follow, but I can't say for sure.  It's been a pain to keep this manuscript alive.  Now, with a lopsided headache and shaking hands, I expel the pieces to the bottom of the drawer.

It will be out of sight for a time.  As days go by, perhaps I can make myself delete the fragmented tale.  The thing about stories ... you can pull the plug and let it die in your mind, but you don't have to arrange a memorial for it.  No one else knew it existed.  No one else knew the characters.  No one else knew the role.  Someone may have seen little shadows of it in passing, but not enough to miss in its absence. 

A part of me believes that to be sad.  Even still, I have to question ... is sadness an opinion or a fact?  It can be venomous and debilitating.  It feels everlasting.  But once you step away from one adventure, there is another waiting to erupt around you.  There always will be.  I have found this to be true as a quitter of many things.

No, it's not encouraging or anything I am proud of.  Yet, it has happened before and will undoubtedly happen again.  A hope evolves into a farce.  Recognize the waste of time and energy, acknowledge your losses, then go your way.  If you stand beside the wreckage too long, you will also begin to succumb into ruin. 

I do not see myself in any of my writings, but I feel something die within me when one fails to breathe.