|Chapter 1 : On Writing|
|July 28, 1998
I've just gone and deleted about two pages worth of crap I had typed up to begin this first Chapter, and I never even saved it anywhere.
But, I was utterly unhappy with where it was going and the results. I'm obviously too mentally wiped out to bother with trying to start this today.
August 4, 1998
You know, I've never really succeeded in writing a novel. I've tried a couple of times. I never could figure out how to get that continuity of thought in there. Also, the dialogue always ran me down. I would get stuck in the miniscule details of "Hello", and she responded "Hey there," and the typical drivel of everyday conversation. Because, you know, in reality, no one talks about the benefits of the Bolshevik philosophy before Lenin got sick and Stalin began his quiet campaign to take over the party movement. But hey, it could make one hell of a conversation in a book.
Description, imagery, fine, no problem. I can describe the scene and walk the actors around, just as long as they don't actually talk to eachother, but sit and watch eachother's facial movements. I could do that.
Hey - maybe that's an idea. A book based purely on people's interpretations of other people's facial movements. Or at least, a short story.
If anyone steals my idea, I'll track you down. It's mine, I tell you, mine!