dragonlady7

so I have this novel I first started working on circa 2003, that's been through a number of iterations and every few years I go back and poke at it again.
one of the characters in it is sort of kind of a paladin type, i guess, except I never played D&D and never consumed much media that has paladins in it, so when I do, I sometimes think of him and sometimes well... don't. He doesn't quite fit the archetype but he does hit some of the notes.
Anyway, I was thinking of him again, so I went back and reread a bunch of that old novel today, and.
I mean.
Parts of it are quite good but at this point what I could probably do is split it off and make five or six different books out of it, because the problem is that I was Way Too Serious about Writing A Novel and so I delved way too much into every possible choice I could ever make for any of those characters. And I never fucking finished a draft.
No, well-- actually that's not true, there exists one complete draft. It's like 80,000 words long and I reread it today and it's. Well, it's not bad, writing-wise, but there's an awful lot of whiplash in it, like shit springs out of nowhere and wraps itself up neatly and I... don't like it that much.

Anyhow. I was complaining to Dude how I've wasted literally twenty years now writing and rewriting novels and never finishing one. He said, but is finishing them the point? He's spent that time making things he never quite finishes too, and enjoying the making of them. I explained that even if I understand I'll never make a living by writing, I want to share these things I make with people, and I can't if I don't finish them. So he agreed, finishing things is a good goal.
So I'll try to let go of feeling bad about never finishing something, and just go on and finish something.

(Ohh, in 2004 I was So Serious about finishing that novel. I worked literally 100 hours a week on it, tracked by how I had playlists I'd listen to only while working, and iTunes gave me my stats and I added it up and realized I had literally, actually averaged 100 hours of work over several weeks, when I'd been fired from my job and was stuck in that apartment with no prospects of any kind, and I just wrote and wrote and wrote.
I wound up with a completely unusable 300,000 word draft, and then I scrapped the whole thing, rewrote it in first person, and then scrapped it and rewrote it in third again. But my god, I definitely figured out how to do a close third person POV, which had been my goal.)

Someday though I'm going to finish a draft I actually like of that novel, and then it's over for you hoes.

(OK I just like that phrase, I don't know what I mean by that though.)

excerpt
( warnings for character death, childbirth, drunkenness, terrible weather )

via http://ift.tt/1YMkxpi:
salvage from a dusty forgotten corner of the Mega Scrivener Doc O’ Fic. I wrote this a really long time ago. I think it was my first insight into what I wanted the Barnes family to be. Gabe Jones’s POV, at the point their captivity before the rescue by Steve when they started to realize that there wasn’t anybody coming for them.

The rustle of fabric, someone moving, alerted Gabe that someone was coming, and he wiped his eyes and turned his face so his state would be less obvious.

The warm bulk of a body settled next to him with a quiet sigh, and he recognized Sarge more by his breathing than anything else. They knew one another very well physically, by now; Gabe rather thought he could probably distinguish his cellmates by scent at this point. Not that he’d want to.

“Hey Jonesy,” Sarge breathed, leaning into his shoulder. “Want me to leave you alone or do you want me to tell you a story?”

Gabe laughed weakly. “You’re the oldest kid in your family, aren’t you,” he said.

Sarge huffed a breath, clearly a laugh. “How’d you know that?”

“Takes one to know one,” Gabe said. “How many little sibs you got?”

“Three,” Sarge said, “all girls,” and then there was a pause and his body language hitched a little, and he corrected, softer, “Two.”

Gabe sucked in his breath, and let it out slowly. “Sorry,” he said; it was pretty clear what that meant.

“Naw, naw,” Sarge said, “I mean— Kitty had pneumonia in, like, ’31, it’s been a long time, it’s just— I forget sometimes. She was like ten.” He shook his head. “I got a brother out of it instead, though, the nurse’s son had pneumonia the same time and he made it when Kitty didn’t, so I just kept him instead.” He glanced over at Gabe, teeth shining in the dark, a silent rueful laugh. “Like a sheepdog, hadda have the right number to herd.”

“Four’s a pile of kids,” Gabe said. “I only got one each, a brother and a sister.”

“Had so many cousins,” Sarge said, “we was more of a tribe than anything. People thought we was a gang. The Murphy boys, the terror a’ Brooklyn.” He laughed silently again, like a fox.

“Your name’s Barnes, though,” Gabe observed, puzzled.

“Mom’s brothers,” Sarge answered. “She was a Murphy.”

“Ah,” Gabe said.

“Your brother in the service too?” Sarge asked.

“Nah,” Gabe said, “still too young. Your sisters married yet?”

“Not last I heard,” Sarge answered.

“What about your brother?” Gabe asked.

Sarge laughed the same silent laugh again, which pressed his shoulder against Gabe’s harder for a moment. “Steve,” he said. “My best pal. Nah. He’s, the Army wouldn’t take him. He’s real sickly, got a heart defect, that kinda thing.” He glanced over at Gabe, expression unreadable in the dark. “I mean, bravest guy in the world, fights like a lion, y’know? But just, his body just can’t keep up with him. And I’m… it’s not that I’m glad, I just, I wouldn’t want him to be here, y’know?”

“Well,” Gabe said, “not like this.”

“Exactly,” Sarge said. They sat quietly a moment before Sarge continued, “Still and all, I hope I see him again before I see Kitty again, if you catch my meaning.”

“That I do,” Gabe said, “that I do.”