I Finished!

It felt right.  I began my journey three years ago in November and this November I finished.  As I typed the final words to my second novel, joyful adrenalin coursed through my fingers and a very satisfying peace encompassed me.  Even knowing that months of editing face my future, I feel the novel is complete.

So why did this feeling elude me when I finished my first novel?  No joy, no satisfaction, no completion came from the final words.  Perhaps the answer is entwined with my emotions.  My first story is my life’s work.  Like a journey, when I finished the plot, I realized that I’d evolved into a better writer and because of my transformation the beginning of the story no longer fit the middle and the ending.  Since then, I’ve worked diligently trying to edit the manuscript into the masterpiece I desire but each time I fall short.  I feel that my journey has not yet giving me all the skills I need to complete my first novel.

In the spirit of persistence, I began my second novel.  Unlike my first love, my second novel is a quick read, filled with interesting characters whose strong personalities possessed me and drew me seamlessly through the plot.  It’s a fun story which can be read at face value, although I layered it with axioms and prose for those who enjoy more depth.  And even though I enjoyed reading and writing my second novel, I am not as emotionally attached to it as my first.

As I journey forwards, towards publication, I hope that my lack of emotional connection will prove to be a strength; allowing me to critically assess and edit the novel.

The Passing

Driving to work, a song I hadn't listened to in years began to play. It was a song my mother was fond of and images of our long car trips with mom singing at the top of her lungs joined me as I sang now in a similar fashion. When the song ended, I realized that I've never told my mom how much I like that song. It was more than a memory, it was a piece of her.

The next day I watched as my niece sang with all her heart to one of my favorite songs, and even though the words were in Swahili, she never missed a beat.

I began to wonder, like tribes of old passed stories and oral histories through their generations, do we pass music through ours?

Try writing a scene where one generation passes something to another. Is more passed then just the intended subject?