Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Isit down in front of my laptop, determined to get something done.
I’d finished my shift and closed Wanderlust about an hour ago and had picked up some takeout on the walk home, eating while jotting down various ideas in the journal I keep for that purpose.
It is full of random scribblings and disjointed notes that wouldn’t make sense to anyone else but me.
Honestly, I can’t say that I even remember what all of them mean either.
Some are pretty clear, like “a boy stumbles into a library of every story ever written, or started, or thought of and goes mad trying to find the answer to life in the stacks.” Others read as complete word salad, such as “dog food truck.” What the fuck does that mean?
A food truck that serves dog food? A food truck run by dogs?
A food truck serving dogs, in either a horrifying or not horrifying way?
No idea. Not really. Your guess would be as good as mine.
Here is the real issue: I’ll know what I want to happen in a story, but only individual scenes.
I can see my characters in these… snippets of time.
I can feel what they feel and see what they would see…
. For the scene, just for the scene. Can I see them in more than one scene?
Why, yes; yes, I can. I can see some characters in scene after scene after scene.
Now — can I plot those scenes into a cohesive story that anyone with a brain would actually want to read?
No. That’s where the failure comes in. I cannot plot a full novel.
I cannot tell you what the three act story is of what I’m writing.
Not ever. I can’t even do so in a short story format, as most of what I’m able to write is actually too short to even be considered a short story by the kindest of people.
I’ve often found myself wondering if part of my inability to write these cohesive scenes and overarching plot is due, in part, to the fact that most of my ideas come from the snippets of dreams that I’m able to remember when I wake up.
I guess that’s not entirely true. I also get flashes when I’m working, shopping, unloading laundry…
I may also have a fairly significant case of impostor syndrome, but that is neither here nor there.
With my own, angry music playing softly (it hypes me up but the neighbors have no taste in music), I boot up my laptop and spend a significant amount of time checking my email and scrolling through various social media sites.
I lose myself in doom scrolling passed adorable animals doing adorable things (alas, no gigantic, city destroying cats are present), book influencers discussing how much they loved “this book” or “that book” (which leads me to stomp down on a wave of anxiety because the idea of trying to hype up and market my own writing makes me feel ill), and the numerous masked men thirst traps (stop judging me).
When I scroll across a video reminding me that I could have an entire book if I spent half as much time writing as I do scrolling, I guiltily put my phone away and open up my unfinished document.
I skim what I had previously written, specifically the part about the cat, and I spend a few minutes trying to decide: do I want to keep it, edit it, or delete the scene? Possibly throw the whole computer out the window? Groaning, I drop my face in my hands.
Betsy’s words come back to me. Why does conflict have to be physical?
I snort a laugh. Clearly, it doesn’t. The amount of conflict I currently have internally is proof of that.
Undecided on the fate of the mega-cat, I open up a new document and shift gears. Maybe focusing on a different area will help.
The premise of the main character haunting my thoughts and dreams is a Fae princess.
My princess is able to draw power from the emotions of others and is defending her kingdom against the modern technology and robots the humans have created, who are bound and determined to wipe emotion from the world.
Things are so much better when you don’t feel anything, of course.
No pesky womanly hysterics to interfere with the way things should be done.
Without a doubt, there is some subterfuge going on with people in her kingdom aiding this infestation as a means of holding on to the patriarchy.
She has received her dragon, who she is able to meld powers with, as dragons are pure in their emotions and do not play games the way Fae and Humans do.
Thus, her dragon is able to amplify her own powers.
I’ve been debating introducing a love interest for my nameless princess, but this is where all those doubts come in.
Can I really write a fantasy novel about the bad-assery of women, the death of the patriarchy in a very “eat the rich” sort of way while simultaneously introducing a hot, touch her and die, love interest?
I mean… probably. Lots of authors do it and fucking own it.
Do I think I am capable of writing up a dream man that women across the land would read about and think “the things I would let that man do to me”?
Not exactly. I also severely lack the confidence or…
knowledge… to write spicy scenes, like those that Betsy so enjoys.
To be fair, I have minimal experience– (two to be exact – and both of those experiences left…
something… to be desired, if you catch my drift).
What the hell, I think. I can always delete him later, right? With my metal playing in the background, I set about trying to make a dream man out of words.
Messy black hair falls around his face, covering his forehead in wayward curls and waves.
His eyes, an intense blue, stare at me as he, again, repositions the…
animal?... In his arms. His nose is proud and straight, his lips full.
His cheekbones are pronounced enough to tell me he’s hella in shape under that — I think it’s a robe, maybe a cloak – but not so sunken that I’m worried about his calorie intake or that he has some form of disordered eating.
His hands and what I can see of his neck are covered in various swirls and dips of ink. He looks vaguely familiar.
When I resurface, I’m surprised to see that three hours have gone by whilst I’ve been trying to build a man.
Isn’t it supposed to rain men? Wasn’t that a thing in the past?
That seems much easier. Trying to create a man that is appealing – and not only to me – is daunting.
How the hell do some authors do this hundreds of times? It’s exhausting.
I decided to take the common writing advice, for once, and not reread what I’ve just written. Instead, I save and back up (we do not discuss the hard way I learned this lesson) and let the computer boot down. Not obsessing anymore. I will just let everything percolate in hopes that it will help.
A hot shower, a glass of wine, binging some mindless TV that doesn’t require my attention, and my newest advanced reader copy sounds like the perfect way to cap this evening off.
After being up so late hacking away at this story last night, I think losing myself in someone else’s world and actually getting some sleep tonight might improve my outlook.
Who knows? Maybe tomorrow the perfect man will come stumbling into Wanderlust and I won’t have to worry that I got this wrong.
Ha. Bitch, please.