Tentatively titled the new—secondhand new anyway, since I began the piece in November 2005, then abandoned it in January 2006—manuscript The Confession. Referred to the piece as a Time for Dying here on occasion, though I’d be surprised if anyone delineates a connection between the entries without the above explanation.

In between setting the story aside and the prodigal return, the former governor of New Jersey published a book entitled, feign surprise, The Confession. Frankly, though I disagreed with much of his public service career, Mr. McGreevey selected a fetching name for his memoir. For the interim, I’ll stick with The Confession until someone holding a check endorsed to me says the title must go. Since my boss does not read the site, that conversation lays safely beyond the horizon. No one told my boss about the Internet, right?

Titles are more finishing touch bits, and nothing to stress about so early in a piece’s genesis. I only divulge this background because going forward I’ll refer to manuscript as The Confession. Also, I want to note a few details that will help flesh out the backstory.

Consistent with my intent, followed the “surrender the universe, finish the sentence” mantra when straying mentally. Besides making the writing sessions more productive and keeping me grounded in the moment, productivity increased. One metric that reflects progress is size. The piece grew from around 8,000 words in late November to nearly 25,000 heading into this last week of December. Keep in mind much of the effort straddled two major holidays, a complete meltdown server crisis at work, and a vacation. Not quite Stephen King output, but far beyond my normal rates for roughly twenty sessions.

Now the story itself might be dictating the pace; it could the mantra. Maybe opting for the laptop with no wireless network card made a difference. All I know is it’s been easier making tracks when my primary agenda is staying on point. Checking email or Googling some random fact does not finish a sentence. Downloading software or researching character names does not either. Only writing one does. And that’s what I’m worrying about: Finishing the sentence. Not all the sentences. Just the sentence.

The growing size marks another development. At just below 100 pages, The Confession now far exceeds the dimensions of a short story. And though it’s a bit light for a novella, and way premature to be considered a novel, if it runs on like this it could meet the criteria for something besides a “longish short story”.

Or it may declare its own end tomorrow.

UPDATE: Forgot earlier, but RE: things done differently this project versus the last, my reading allowance stands at one book a week, alternating between fiction and nonfiction. On a subconscious level, that might also help if for no other reason than to accustom the mind to the sight of long strings of interrelated sentences.

So the trolls that threaten creative projects with interruptions, distractions and negative thoughts—or perhaps it’s more these critters are invited and then suddenly appear—are on holiday. Try though as I have, I can not spy them anywhere. A few weeks into a new manuscript, that’s a tasty discovery.

Outwardly I’m working as much on this piece as others; nothing changed, yet something is tangentially different. Time spent on this manuscript doesn’t feel like an effort, really, which I feel almost guilty about. And while it is possible there’s only enough steam powering the engine for a short story—maybe a very protracted one, it’s pushing the 20,000 word mark presently—whether it rises into novel territory or not is all right. The story wants out. I’m ducking and getting out of its way.

Caught up with three old friends that I lost touch with over the past year today; it’s funny how easily months without news from them slipped by, unnoticed and unmarked. Then we connected and it was old times again.

A more interesting corollary to the reach-out-and-just-say-hi vignette was that I only called two of them. While on the phone with the second, a third friend, who I hadn’t thought about phoning today, yet missed, suddenly returned a message left in August.
If I believed in such phenomena I might consider that sudden callback a coincidence, but I don’t. Nearly everything happens for a reason–in fiction and in life.

Two more scenes wrote themselves. Several occasions I wondered why that happened again. Why for once instead of scrapping around like a dog for ideas or plot points, the problem was keeping pace with the stream hitting the page. But I banished those thoughts quickly, right as they surfaced. The less energy invested in questions without any answers–at least revelations I’m perhaps not ready for–the better.

I’m letting this wave carry me until she breaks against the sandy shoal.

Had the sort of day I could relive again. Woke up, made breakfast, did the decaf coffee thing, and wrote. And then suddenly it was lunch, so I ate, wrote for a few more hours, and napped with Oedipus. Grabbed dinner to go and edited the day’s pages. Now I crave beer.

Today marks two weeks on a project I restarted with a much hesitation. Curiously, it was much easier to come back–once committing, anyway–than it was setting the manuscript down nearly a year ago. To say that the first day was like never ditching the story would be a lie. Still, I have been amazed how quickly my feel for what’s on those pages returned. When it really hums I hear the line as I’m typing it. More importantly, the holds keeps appearing when I reach for them, and they reveal themselves at moments when I’m not thinking about writing hooks to launch the characters forward. In fact when I start considering what the door into the next scene might look like, they shut, and the scene breaks down.

This type of experience is very new to me. Maybe I wasn’t ready for a ride like this in January, so I resisted climbing on board. Or maybe I just fought what stared me in the face because I couldn’t recognize it. I lacked the necessary trust in the process and turned the very momentum working with it could generate for me against myself.

Even the usual fears are different. A typical concern: whether the story has merit and is worth my time. Now I’m starting to think the reason this one didn’t let me go is because there’s something driving the scenes that’s bigger than my insecurities.

Which is even scarier.