I want to talk about Pieces. Just quickly, while I’m thinking about it.
I have found that I worry over the story as a whole. That even now, as it sits complete and finished in its first draft chrysalis.
I am not rewriting from sentence one. I don’t know how. I don’t even know exactly what I’m doing. I’ve stopped worrying though. Things are happening. Maybe it’s like everything else in life. You worry and plan but everything just falls into place. In pieces you never imagined.
The rewrite is coming in pieces. I have no control over them. I will be doing nothing, maybe listening to music. And then a great pressure of excitement. Words pour out of me in an erotic train wreck.
And these words are working. It’s as if the novel is fixing itself, Piece by piece. In no particular order. Scales growing on the wyrm that ends the world.
Stories do not appear in finished form. They are finished, somewhere in your head. Whole and beautiful in the future. You can see it when you close your eyes. Or listen to a song on repeat. That’s why you started in the first place. Why you typed those first words, guessing at a prophetic vision. Searching the horizon of your own thoughts.
What I ended up writing was a piece of the novel I had seen for a long time, but never knew how to it. Maybe I still don’t, but I will.