Ten fucking years. A long time for a novel to come to fruition. Can you imagine that? God knows how many life changes have occurred since I first opened that new Word doc on my ancient Micron PC back in 2005. At the time I was 30, immature, still recovering from an eight year battle with cripping OCD and lost. Four years out from film school and I still wasn’t Oliver Stone. Things were changing, though; my creative juices no longer had patience for red tape and budget constraints; I needed immediate satisfaction; I couldn’t spend another four years in pre-production on a film; I didn’t have thousands of dollars for all the shit that goes into a film. I just wanted to get back to the story. My story. No rules, no boundaries.
So I divorced film and moved in with my first true love: prose. We were instant soul mates, connected on every level. We played, we fucked and soon had our first child together: “Into the Mountains.” A horror novel. 500 pages of rookie errors and clumsy prose. But I finished it and nievely loved it. I found a process, mined some gems, uncovered some horrors. My muse was a tough nut to crack; she played hard to get for years, flirting with me and toying with my heart and soul.
But when I finally caught up to her, she opened her heart for me and I never looked back.
So here we are at long last. One final draft to go. Mostly adjustments and formatting for Kindle, peppered with some hair pulling and hours of self doubt and dismay. It’s exhausting. But I’m here, limping over that finish line. December’s the deadline I set.
I… must… finish… this… now.