In Billy Collins' poem, "Workshop" he writes:
"In fact, I start to wonder if what we have here
is really two poems, or three, or four,
or possibly none."
I finished a rough draft of Chapter Three yesterday. In the third to last paragraph I made a note to self: This is all happening too fast. And so it is. At this pace, the book'll be done in five chapters - maybe 90 pages. While I appreciate an economy of words - especially those that carry heavy if not multiple loads - this chapter feels like someone's just come by in the middle of the night, spilled their guts and then ran off while I sat on the stoop smoking.
Fortunately, I can invite this person in, pour drinks for us both and let the story unwind in more depth through future revisions. Bits that are in this draft will be pushed into subsequent chapters so that this one is tight. Other parts will be expanded. There are squirt guns. Kinda proud of that one.
In the past I've written novellas of 90 and 120 pages. Some of my favorite books (Franny & Zooey, To The Lighthouse) have topped out around 200 which is where I'd like to be. I'd also like to be 6' tall, but that ain't gonna happen. It'll end where it will end; if I force it to be a specific length quality will suffer.
As in the past, writing's been therapeutic. A number of things I've written in the past have also foreshadowed future personal events, but I reckon it may be years before this batch bears that kind of fruit.
Good night. Good morning.
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