130 Pages Into Ghosts

I am 130 pages into the first draft of my book.  My book.  Those words feel like a 50 pound weight around my neck.  Which I put there myself right before diving into the deep end.  I am trying to find my way back in.  Already there have been distractions that have made it difficult to pick up the last thread.  Then there's the concern that I won't be able to go back and smooth it all out, make it work.  This is such a strange process-building fictional lives and finding a proper voice to tell it in.  I have three modes of telling this story and I feel I need them all but I'm worried that it won't be seamless, that it will rankle people.  I write, rather predictably, exactly like I always write: darting between humor, introspection, and the dark and dirty without warning, without big neon signs saying "Now be happy!" and then the cue card saying "OK, now be angry!" and "Caution: dread ahead!"

I find myself thinking about all of the books I've loved and I keep trying to figure out what kind of genre this story of mine would fit into and I'm completely stumped.  I don't want to be writing fluff, I think it would be dreadful to write something that could be described as "Chick Lit", but at the same time I don't want to write something as convoluted, dark, depressing, and dysfunctional (not to mention pompous) as the work of Faulkner.  Yes, he's so serious and no one would mistake his work for fluff with all his words dropping from the page like lead weights on your feet.  Do I need to know what my intention is ahead of time?  Do I need to fit in anywhere?  I never have before in life, why would it be different with the writing?

This blog is proof enough.

Here's my writing style: a bunch of heavy subjects occasionally treated with a little irreverence, or sometimes a lot, flitting around the universe on skates, sudden rain, sudden flashes of light, disjointed, rambling, fractured sentences, overabundant use of "and"s, run on sentences, and a breathless array of rich words cramped together then spread out so thin you think you're in the Dakotas.

That's not style.  That's chaos.

This book needs to happen.  So I'm not going to abandon it.  I'm not going to walk away because it feels completely necessary and has taught me so much much already and I'm staring at all my ghosts like I've opened the basement door and there they all are, crowding out into the light.  Crowding around me for attention. 

I am going to have to trust myself because the only other option is to disappoint myself and I don't think I can take any more disappointment in myself.  I have to believe that I will figure this all out.  That once I have the first draft I will be able to work on it all until it feels right, reads well, and makes me feel proud.

I'll be proud if I read it and it says exactly what I need it to say.  And I'll know when I get there.

I am 100% afraid that I will not really make the grade. 

But I'm going to keep giving it everything I have so that I never have to look back and wonder what might have happened if only I hadn't walked away.  Everyone needs something from me and right now, this is where it's all going.

The encouragement you have given me here has really helped me as well, so maybe I need to go reread some of your wonderful supportive comments because apparently some of you think I can do this.  You really are good to me!

I'm going to end this by mentioning something a really close friend of mine, Carrie, has said to me that I keep reaching for and keeping kind of close to me because she seems to have such faith in me and whether or not I deserve it, her words have given me such strength- she said I have a lot of books in me, as though it's just so obvious and thank god I'm finally getting down to the business of doing what I'm supposed to be doing.

Thank you Carrie.