I am writing on a novel right now.
-no, not an anthology,-no, not on a collection,-no, not on anything else; a novel. That mammoth of a genre; that defining piece of any authors journey; the holy grail, Prometheus’ fire, that one cheeseburger at 3 AM after a night of Jägerbombs and gin-tonics and bitter-golden ale. You know what I mean; the climax of the journey and the return to normalcy.
The problem is, I am still on the journey. I am waiting for that one magic entity that needs my help, and unlike most heroes, I am immediately ready to fulfill that destiny. I’m Bilbo sitting in front of the coal fire waiting patiently for Gandalf and telling him yes without any hesitation. (Would’ve been a complete different story huh?)
Okay, I know I sound dramatic. The motivation is there, don’t worry about that, and don’t worry about ideas either; those a rather plenty; thick and juicy peaches ready to be harvested. But I’m so intimidated about the form. So far, all I’ve been writing are short-stories and flash fiction and the occasional poetry. But novels? How are other writers so excellent at talking naturally about anything. I say things quick and short in the most gorgeous prose my limited vocabulary can amalgamate. But novels are a complete different beast. A humbling experience truly. My challenge and my temptations, but I cannot wait to fall into the abyss of personal struggle and die a terrible authorial death, being reborn as a novelist. And, maybe, that novel will be published; and maybe it wont, for these are the unforeseen circumstances of my atonement.
Until then, I guess, I’ll keep on writing and writing and writing…short-stories mostly, of course, but I’ll keep chipping away at the marble-like blank page with black bursts of sentences and words; carvings of delusional ideas; art of mine.
Cosimo D. Suglia.