The State of Things
No, this is not either of the things you expect.
First, it is not another chapter. There is a reason for that.
Second, it is not my telling you that the reason for there not being another chapter is that I have failed. For I have not failed, oh my brothers. Oh no.
It is the opposite of what you might call a failure. I have not just won NaNoWriMo. I have won something much greater, something much more exciting. I have won faith in myself. Trust in my abilities to tell a story, to capture attentions, and stir emotions.
Also I have won a greater understanding. Throughout this month I have read a great number of books, watched a great number of movies, and have been searching for each twining evidence of its success. Of its greatness. And I look at my story, a story that happens inside another, larger story (one you, my readers, have not seen) and I see great potential.
The book you have been reading is not the book I want to write.
It will of course, become a vital part of that which I will write. A living mythology, nested between the outside world and its mythology and that of the fertilized living within the Wall, a barrier that keeps others out and those in Meil from cultural genocide.
It is the essence of the book I need, and I will keep its essence alive. It will change, and many times. A writer's work is a million split-second decisions that at the time seem spontaneous and yet work to preserve the whole. At the end of the process that comes from spilling your mind onto the paper, the process of renewal begins. The ideas that you began with are challenged, weighed against others. Cuts are made, things are added. Plotlines, characters, events. Nothing is written in ink. Those experienced in the craft know what goes where, and why. They are blind men in the dark, whose minds can sense the way. I am a man lost in the dark, feeling my way to the end, clumsily knocking into obstacles I would later avoid. As a writer and and as a man I must teach myself to be blind in the dark. To trust what I feel and what I know. To practice my craft my own way despite the whisperings of others.
The book will be finished. It will be greater than anything you could have imagined from the reading of this rough drivel. It will be bound, and it will be sold. And only then will my journey truly begin.
I have no timetables for this. It will be finished when it is finished, and not before. For many that is no comfort. I am sorry. I am tempted to post the rest of what I have written for National Novel Writing Month, as I feel you have a right to know where my mind was going, and yet... And yet now that I've made my decision to transform this one of my projects into its truly living nature, perhaps it is best to keep the revelations suited for the climax of the book (and yes, this would not be the end, but the climax. The novel you have been reading was far from over when I crossed the line that others had marked as the finish). Is it wise to stop in the middle of the book and begin again? I have wondered, and I believe it is. For I know so much more now about everything, about Erich, about Essara, about Meil, about Mer'ka. There will no longer be one storyline, but a multitude, intertwining and dancing about each other as they connect and conflict and converge. Mer'ka will not be kept silent, its mystery hanging above the head of all readers. There will be no moment of utter revelation as to what the world outside the Wall has been all along.
When it is published there is no doubt that those who've read my writings up to this point will barely recognize it.
If I could choose my feelings, I would not choose to be ashamed. But I am. Not of what I've written so far, but of the state it's in when it is read. I know what it can be, will be, but how can I make anyone understand? That when someone tells me that my rough writing is good, I feel no joy. It is nothing, I know, not yet.
We are are own worst judges, and perhaps I'm harsher than most. But there are those harsher than me, and they are in charge of my future. They are in charge of my livelihood, of my career.
The pressure is on, and though I made it for myself, still I bear it. I often fear that my ambition is not enough, nor my resolve. Can I do this? Not the fifty-thousand words. Compared to the journey that is a step. Can I reach the goal I set for myself - make my words beautiful, cut readers to the core of their intellect, see beauty through my work in the world around them?
Lord, give me strength.
First, it is not another chapter. There is a reason for that.
Second, it is not my telling you that the reason for there not being another chapter is that I have failed. For I have not failed, oh my brothers. Oh no.
It is the opposite of what you might call a failure. I have not just won NaNoWriMo. I have won something much greater, something much more exciting. I have won faith in myself. Trust in my abilities to tell a story, to capture attentions, and stir emotions.
Also I have won a greater understanding. Throughout this month I have read a great number of books, watched a great number of movies, and have been searching for each twining evidence of its success. Of its greatness. And I look at my story, a story that happens inside another, larger story (one you, my readers, have not seen) and I see great potential.
The book you have been reading is not the book I want to write.
It will of course, become a vital part of that which I will write. A living mythology, nested between the outside world and its mythology and that of the fertilized living within the Wall, a barrier that keeps others out and those in Meil from cultural genocide.
It is the essence of the book I need, and I will keep its essence alive. It will change, and many times. A writer's work is a million split-second decisions that at the time seem spontaneous and yet work to preserve the whole. At the end of the process that comes from spilling your mind onto the paper, the process of renewal begins. The ideas that you began with are challenged, weighed against others. Cuts are made, things are added. Plotlines, characters, events. Nothing is written in ink. Those experienced in the craft know what goes where, and why. They are blind men in the dark, whose minds can sense the way. I am a man lost in the dark, feeling my way to the end, clumsily knocking into obstacles I would later avoid. As a writer and and as a man I must teach myself to be blind in the dark. To trust what I feel and what I know. To practice my craft my own way despite the whisperings of others.
The book will be finished. It will be greater than anything you could have imagined from the reading of this rough drivel. It will be bound, and it will be sold. And only then will my journey truly begin.
I have no timetables for this. It will be finished when it is finished, and not before. For many that is no comfort. I am sorry. I am tempted to post the rest of what I have written for National Novel Writing Month, as I feel you have a right to know where my mind was going, and yet... And yet now that I've made my decision to transform this one of my projects into its truly living nature, perhaps it is best to keep the revelations suited for the climax of the book (and yes, this would not be the end, but the climax. The novel you have been reading was far from over when I crossed the line that others had marked as the finish). Is it wise to stop in the middle of the book and begin again? I have wondered, and I believe it is. For I know so much more now about everything, about Erich, about Essara, about Meil, about Mer'ka. There will no longer be one storyline, but a multitude, intertwining and dancing about each other as they connect and conflict and converge. Mer'ka will not be kept silent, its mystery hanging above the head of all readers. There will be no moment of utter revelation as to what the world outside the Wall has been all along.
When it is published there is no doubt that those who've read my writings up to this point will barely recognize it.
If I could choose my feelings, I would not choose to be ashamed. But I am. Not of what I've written so far, but of the state it's in when it is read. I know what it can be, will be, but how can I make anyone understand? That when someone tells me that my rough writing is good, I feel no joy. It is nothing, I know, not yet.
We are are own worst judges, and perhaps I'm harsher than most. But there are those harsher than me, and they are in charge of my future. They are in charge of my livelihood, of my career.
The pressure is on, and though I made it for myself, still I bear it. I often fear that my ambition is not enough, nor my resolve. Can I do this? Not the fifty-thousand words. Compared to the journey that is a step. Can I reach the goal I set for myself - make my words beautiful, cut readers to the core of their intellect, see beauty through my work in the world around them?
Lord, give me strength.
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