Novel Idea

I'd never expected to meet a fellow hopeful novelist at work, due to the heavy information technology slant at T.S. Nonetheless, I did, almost by accident. N.H. dreams as I dream. I know there are more of us out there, but I never really talked much with them when I was in class with them. Now, the main circles I move in, these people are all too rare. And the brief conversations about novels with N.H., and about the process of writing, reminded me that in order to be true to myself, I can never forget that, first and foremost, I write.

What I'd been afraid of admitting was that, despite all the work I'd put into the novel (tentatively titled "Saving Grace" in the fashion that "Final Fantasy" was named as it was to be the final game released by Square), I'd lost motivation and direction. Recently, I'd started editing chapter 1, and going through the thirty thousand words, reading parts here and there. There are plenty of things I don't remember writing, and several times, I thought to myself, "Damn, I wrote that?"

Part of the problem was that I was making it up as I go. Though I have fixed the climax of the story in my mind, all full of revelation and heartache and the necessity that my protagonist continue on despite said revelation, Rollie must still struggle through the story. He has to earn this climax that he will probably discover he does not want, and it is my job to get him there. Rollie does not believe in gods, which is for the best, as I am his creator. Right now, his fate and destiny are mine to sketch, and I am currently failing him.

Times like this make me question what reality is. Are all of you more real than the storied threads trailing in my mind? Am I really me, and the stories my dream, or are they what is, and I just an extended thought cobbled together by their collective mindset? Is this all a pile of metaphysical bullcrap? Probably, but it is nice to dream. And to write. But not so nice to dream about writing. I have to write. If I don't write, I have nothing. I am nothing.