So far I’ve only been able to write stories. Short ones. For those of us who are familiar with this genre, it doesn’t receive as much hoopla-hype as the full-bodied-many-chaptered-big-fat-book. Yes, you know what I mean: the novel.
The “work-in-progress” that looms in the recesses of the writer’s cluttered and imaginative (and sometimes talkative) mind.
That ambiguous thing filled with characters, plot, narrative, and style. Bound with what you hope is a great cover design. And stamped with approval by the publishing house with its detail-oriented word and grammar slashers, the editors.
That thing that a writer will work on for days, for months, maybe even a year, in solitude, in “hermitude,” and in very strange, mismatched clothing.
The thing that becomes a volatile child when the writer hasn’t enough discipline or courage to pound at his or her docile keyboard each and every day until, yes, that last chapter is finally near its end.
I want to finish writing one:
One that’s good enough to publish.
One that’s great enough to read.
One that’s brilliant enough to love.
That novel. That thing.
(c) Zara Alexis D. Garcia-Alvarez