So being finished with second book only means one thing: Time to get on to number 3.
This time, I am trying to return to a book I started in Los Angeles 8 years ago. To me I thought it would be my first book, but it just never came to be. I have boxed of note, typewriter written pages that I have carried across the country and through various stages in my life. Always thought that at one point I would want to put them all together and do something amazing from those hot days living just above Sunset Boulevard.
The story is there. I know, but those notes – the years that have gone by – there’s nothing there that’s not in my head already. I kept pouring over them though in hopes I would find what I had been missing. Spent the last month going over each word. Then I realized, those notes might be what was holding me back. Today, I tossed them all. Now just another pile of papers waiting to be picked up in Brooklyn,
But I’m free. There is room to write even more. To fill in what didn’t work before. Been throwing tons of stuff out since the move. Books. Papers. Everything that I haven’t gone to in some time. I think tossing all my books allowed for Ray Kurzweil to come into my life. Also a new subscription to the New York Times.
There is now space, not being trapped by my own thoughts. Excited to start again. The thoughts all still there, and now, everything that didn’t work in the trash. Writers, and I’ll speak for myself here because everyone is different, have a tendency to hold to to their notes for ages thinking they’re precious. In a way they are. For awhile, they are the foundation.
However, if I’m not careful, they become an anchor when I’m looking for a sail.
My streets in Los Angeles are free to me again, and I’m going to be searching for that damn story I know is there. For me, I just plow through and keep writing until i find my plot. Do about 10 rewrites on books before I even show my editor because it’s only then that everything is crafted enough. Look back over the race that has been had an am amazed at the charts, notes, interviews and whatever else I needed to do to get it all completed. Can’t imagine copying another writer’s method for getting done.
I do take pleasure in knowing the madness that ensues. Still, I’m looking for that novel in Los Angeles that eluded me while I was there. Perhaps now, 3000 miles away, I can get a wide enough view of those damn streets to put it all down.
On Throwing Things Out
I’m pretty convinced now the way to get new energy is to toss out possessions. Everyone becomes Buddhist when they’re trying to write I guess. Come on universe, connect with me. Prayers into the night. I have my character I think – He wants nothing of fame, but it’s the only way he can survive. Thing is, what is he looking for in its place?
What I mean by this is: What is his purpose? Not only what he thinks, but what they world thinks?