It turns out there is a lot it seems. I don't mean the the complete annoyed knowledge of how a name defines you and what exactly that means since I from the bowels of my existence dislike my name. It isn't so much that I detest other Susans. I am fine with them as a whole, I hate myself as a Susan. It's like a shirt that never fits and the tag always feels scratchy. It is my proverbial hair shirt it seems, that aside I will get to my point. I have been working rather drolly on my second novel that I lazily saved as, well, novel. I write my heart out, drop a few music references, tuck in some biblical illusion, sneak in a proverb or two, and hit save. What happens? Nothing. Why do I walk away and feel unfulfilled. I just purged but the cleansing feels weak. Is my ability already waned?
I read over it, not bad, but something is missing. In my dreams, my deeper thoughts, I have moved on by my frustration, I have mentally composed my third novel, researched my fourth. I toy with shelving Novel, knowing it would be injurious to the parts of my third, already tucked delightfully in my mind. Plus the concept of quitting makes me queasy.
At a glance of my saved documents I can pick out easily my babies. My literary abstractions. I see Finding Faith, The Reality of Sleeping Beauty, The odd Couple smiling at me. Hugging my broken spirit. My wordy little cheerleaders! The I see one titled blandly book. What the hell was that? Another says chpt 2? Chapter 2 of what, of book maybe? I am clueless at these discarded bits of imagination. Did I ever love them? Did I dance before my fingers hit the keys, clearing my mind. Did I cleave to Ian Curtis while I wrote them? I always listen to something( even now), are these my bastard children since I can't even place their inspiration? mental soundtrack blank!
Then it hits me, they are nameless bits. They have been pushed aside, souls ignored in the dark throws of my hard drive. Eureka! That is the root of my disconnection with Novel. There is reason you don't name farm animals, they seem less tasty when you put a title to your burger. Take eggs for example. Full of protein, how would that huevos ranchero taste if they were called embryos instead, because well that's what the hell they are. So that is the cause of my detachment, it was my egg. Enjoyed at the moment easily discarded because it had no life to it.
The Sacrificing of Grace, that's its name. It's lovely, joyfully endearing name. I reread it and I am in love again. I am inspired and I am found!
I wrote this while listening to The tallest man on Earth, FYI. ( the actual song, had to stoop to video since it won't let me post mp3, sigh)
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