Spark in the Umbra

You know you’ve passed a milestone (or is that millstone, or even worse, gallstone) when your doctor casually includes you in the class of middle-aged men for the first time.

You see, cholesterol is no longer my friend. Now I don’t have any of the true risk factors so whilst there is nothing to really worry about, she thinks it would be better for me to eat a little better and exercise a little more. No need to tempt fate.

Apparently, my situation is “classic for middle-aged men with young families”. Pow!

I suppose it’s fair enough – I have just turned 40 after all. But nevertheless, Ooof!

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It’s been a weird thing, deciding to actually post the initial drafts of the novel. Normally, what you see on the printed page is the result of much revision, editing, and rewriting.

First drafts are generally rough and flawed beasts, written to get the basics down. The author can take solace in the fact that no-one else ever needs to see them, with all their dialogue warts, plot holes, and missteps.

This helps to sustain the illusion that only polished, beguiling prose drips from the authors fingertips, like nectar. (Yeah, right!)

By choosing to post these drafts, I’ve effectively deprived myself of any such cover and that leaves me feeling rather exposed. I’m a bit of a perfectionist you see, and I have a bit too much tied up in maintaining that particular illusion.

So it’s probably healthy for me to push through this barrier, despite the fact that this pithy rationalisation is not doing much to calm my intemperate emotions.

Anyway, here is more of the introductory chapter which continues from where the previous post left off.

Please ignore the man behind the curtain.

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I can’t get to sleep. Too much coffee, too late perhaps. But I can usually get away with that for some reason. Maybe I metabolize coffee differently from normal humans. Whatever.

A swirl of ideas and images seem to clamor for release from the prison that is my head. Triggered perhaps by the clemency shown in finally freeing the prologue earlier. They too are crying out to be committed down to electrons for others to read and will give me no peace.

After much tossing and turning, I have finally yielded. Maybe once they’re out, they’ll let me alone. Don’t they know I have work in the morning? Writing is supposed to be a relaxing (hah!) night time hobby, not a torment in the wee hours, damnit!

After all, I still have to keep my day job.

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After a bit of a hiatus which included a crisis (or two) of confidence, I decided to take the plunge.

For real.

With no net. (Well, except the obvious one. You know what I mean.)

So this is the first piece of writing for what may someday vaguely resemble a novel. Or maybe a novella. Or perhaps I should aim for just a short story. Sigh.

It’s a prologue. After all, I’ve got to start somewhere. Don’t expect too much.

Writing beginnings is actually pretty hard. In fact, this little piece has haunted me for quite a while. So I figure it’s time to let this particular ghost wander the battlements.

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I took the plunge tonight and decided to buy some web hosting for this blog. To let it take it’s first faltering steps on the world stage. Sure, no-one will probably find it or read it, but at least the possibility exists that someone might, by some strange miracle.

This has turned out to be a somewhat dispiriting process.

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The books on fiction writing I’m currently reading (“The Writing Book” by Kate Grenville if anyone cares to know – and I have also Stephen King’s “On Writing” headed my way courtesy of Amazon) make the point that the line between fiction and non-fiction has become somewhat blurred.

As I was posting yesterday about the paradox of anonymity i.e. how it can both let writers be both more honest and less honest at the same time, I was struck by the parallels with the concept of fiction itself.

Can fiction be as “true” (whatever that means) as non-fiction?

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How rude of me. Here I go diving off into writing a blog without telling you who it is that’s writing.

And that brings up a whole bunch of issues for me.

So I’m going to write about them since that’s how this “write everyday about anything” deal that I made with myself (and you, gentle reader) works.

The Big Question: Do I write with my real name, or a pseudonym?

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So here it is. I want to write a novel.

There. I’ve said it. Can’t take it back now.

And I’m both excited and daunted by the idea by turns. Because in between the wanting and the actual doing seems an almost unfathomable gulf.

What makes me think I’m so special that anyone will want to read what I write?

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