I aborted the prior entry halfway through because my thoughts on The Confession were in stasis, and rather than dodge the the task until they gelled—which could have been days, and in fact that’s how much time passed between entries—I instead jotted a partial note and moved along. Writing what I could manage in the moment felt more effective than saying nothing at all for quite awhile.

The question stands. Just how is The Confession scary? Well, it’s not a horror story. Blood and gore don’t line the seams. I wouldn’t brand it a thriller, either. Right now there is a twist ending written before even the first chapter, though the scene could change substantially if the character arcs dictate it.

So it’s doubtful the subject matter frightens me. Perhaps fear came from writing quickly. Yes, it just could be that. What a handy culprit, too, one right at the edge of the keyboard. Why not cite the speed of travel? My experience with 1,500 word drive-bys for long periods is nil. Ah, but a few days of perspective betrayed a different cause entirely. My bias towards the material is the problem, I believe.

With the novel I planned, rethought, and designed scenes with an audience at the forefront. Time and again, a primary question guided the architecture. Can a reasonable person with limited or no exposure to the subject matter follow the action? When a situation felt flat, I amped it up. Wherever possible, cliffhangers rammed one scene to the next. At all times, I kept the ball rolling. In short, I wanted to write a story that I would pay for, moved at a hearty clip, and was a good escape from drear. And I did that. But The Confession is a different beast.

It’s about self-satisfaction, rather than entertaining others. My true fear is that the story is too personal. Five plus weeks invested so far, and not once have I thought about how a scene might read to an outsider, or whether a slight tweak could heighten the suspense. I sit, write, then repeat. All I know is that I like working on it. Which is very different from liking what’s on the page.

Very different, indeed.

Nearing the 30,000 word mark of The Confession, the odds of this manuscript ending in short story land–a very long short, so it seems–approximate zero. Can’t determine if it’s a novella or novel yet. Either form is equally possible, as I refuse to inject my preconceptions into the process. All I know: When making time for this project, the pages happen. The real fun is I have no idea what store the content rises from; the situations just appear. That mysterious genesis happened to me before, though only in the midst of a short story.

Speaking of narrative streaks, one of my favorite bits of writing lore is Ray Bradbury and Fahrenheit 451. Stone broke, he rented a typewriter at the rate of a dime per hour. The story went, he pumped less than ten bucks in the slot for a first draft. More amazing, his butt only left the seat for bathroom breaks and sleep. In other words, he wrote essentially straight through the days, ripping off an incredible stream of fiction. Just hearing that fact in his radio interview with Don Swaim, I had much to learn from Bradbury.

His achievement planted a seed in my subconscious.

I wondered if it was possible to write quickly. Well, now I know I can rack em up, particularly if I am scared. And I’m terrified. The fear is not because the piece has creepy elements or is in any way horror. No, it’s for another reason altogether.

To be continued…