On the porcelain throne, just moments ago, I began to imagine my book as a novel. Again.
I keep coming back to that. And then, I have second thoughts.
A lot of ideas seem to be coming together for me. The book-as-novel does not, yet, make sense.
When it does, I will feel it. This odd piece of the puzzle. It never seemed to fit anywhere. Suddenly, it will either slip into place, with a click. Or, I will reach a point where I am done.
And the novel was never necessary.
Another epiphanic moment.
I began the actual book.
That’s how it felt. I slipped into voice after a mere two or three sentences. And I switched from writing a journal entry, to writing the opening to the book.
It is raw. It needs to be cooked, or polished. Maybe both. But, I can imagine the book in that voice. And the opening reading similar to yesterday’s words.
And after I wrote. And even as I wrote.
The book began to open up for me. I have a sense of the form of the narrative, from start to finish. It meanders. And in the end, it makes sense. But, in the moment, the reader will only have questions.
I want it to read as a series of questions, building on each other. I want it to read like it doesn’t make sense, until the end. And I want the reader to read with confidence that it will come together. I want the reader to trust the voice of the story to eventually make a big, epiphanic, point.