Cubes melted, scotch gone

I wrote a book once.  A 443 page grizzled ex cop detective novel that was both trite and immature.  There were a few solid sections and the overall story itself I liked – two dirtbags witness a public wedding proposal at a restaurant with a large rock and follow the couple home to home invade, female fiancée dies accidentally, one dirt bag gets caught, other gets away with the ring, cleans up his act and befriends devastated bereaved fiancée out of guilt, caught dirtbag gets off on a technicality, hunts down ex-crime partner, scotch soaked dick hired to find ring, intrigue ensues.

I wrote it when we were in New Zealand for a year and I was proud that I wrote it.  Started it on a previous blog actually and continued it during our jaunt.  Putting that many words to page is a significant accomplishment.  Even had it bound and it sits dusty on a shelf in my basement.  I think six or seven people have read it, including my father.  He didn’t like it, or liked some of it, but deep down agreed it was pretty juvenile.

Thing is, it wasn’t my voice. I tried too hard to be all smoky and slick.  And there are parts of it that give me shivers reading it – and the few that did read it were complimentary and I appreciate that.  Thing is, I am longing to have another run at it.  I have the ruminations of something kicking the can inside the cranium.  Something a bit more earthy and with more opportunity for humour.  And I realize by spouting off here to the two or three people who check out this blog is basically setting the bar of expectations at something more than its current state of zero.  Dangerous waters you swim young Jedi.

It’s the writing here that is obviously reminding me the absolute joy I get from stringing some coherence together.  Of course the adulation from others is another motivational trident jab.  We’ll see.  In New Zealand S. would take off every morning with Hud for 3-4 hours, leaving me by a word burning stove with a tiny computer and Dexter Machine drinking scotch from the bottle.   Now the distractions are infinite, time is even more valuable and my will once strong like ox is now weak like kitten.

So I got that going for me.  Let’s hope the exultation and attention will conquer some of these admitted roadblocks and kick my ass to the curb to get on this new work of fiction.