Writing, the ups and downs of finishing a novel…..

Maybe it's why  we write tooI think this is why we write as well, to touch other people, to reach out from the void and scream, I am not alone. I am here. I feel what you feel. I see what you see. We are not always, sometimes, we is.

That being said, it’s time for a rant….

Have you ever worked on a project so long that you just hated it? That’s how I’m starting to feel with my novella.

It all started 3 years ago, when an artist friend of mine wanted to do a graphic novel with me. Young, and naïve, I full heartedly agreed though my boyfriend (now ex) warned me that he might have ulterior motives.

I spent all summer, working a crappy job at a water tower theme park  (I sold tickets and gave a tour up an elevator that was frequently break), writing during the dead times until I had banged out a sort of script for the graphic novel.

Then I waited…for anything, some sign of him working on the project. I complained. He drew a view mock-ups, but eventually he complained that I wasn’t dedicated.

In reality, I told him we would never have a future (romantically) together, and thus he scraped the project.

For the next year, I let it sit. My world was in chaos and I wasn’t about to sit and retool a 100 page script thing.

And then one day I realized I wanted this idea to see the light of day.

But I hate it.

It isn’t yet what I envisioned.  I keep trying to rework it, but it isn’t yet what I want. I’m not sure it will ever be.

Part of me wants to scrap it and walk away, but still part of me is in love with it.

Maybe it’s because I don’t usually work in the genre or maybe its because I envisioned it in pictures.

Maybe it’s not any good.

But I know I’m going to just keep going, no matter how much I complain.

I guess in the end, It might not be perfect but it’s my baby and I need to give it the life it deserves.

Here’s a short excerpt:

Chapter 1

The arching skyline rose, casting a shadow over Santana Cooke, blocking the little light left from the rising night’s sun. The faux-goth architecture, arches and ornamentation, mated into awkward, menacing angles, dangling precariously over her head, threatening to crash down, a fierce hellfire of fused limestone and metal. Goblins, angels and gargoyles, their cameras tucked away, eyes stone-cold, stared down at her, fleetingly stealing glances of life and soul. Santana shivered, pulling her black leather jacket tightly around her Guns N’ Roses T-shirt.

She could feel the world on her, burning, the sun on a summer day.

Summer.

She’d lay for hours in her yard, listening to her mother’s humming through the kitchen windows, reaching for the clouds as the laundry hung over-head, waltzing back then forth with the breeze until her father returned home from work, a candy bar in his pocket for her to sneak before dinner.  Anything was possible then.

Santana shuttered at how quickly things changed.

Turning down a side alley, she paused, the pulse of the city lost in the cobblestone. No one noticed her in the herds of people muddling along to chew their cud, find a lover, or jump off a bridge. Thoughts collected, she ran on until the building Tek described came into view.

He better not be lying. I paid a pretty penny for this information.