Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored" ... a slap of this ... a dash of that ... sprinkle generously with affection, do not overbake. Cool completely before serving. Six generous portions.
Don't mind me, I'm just playing in the metaphors again.
Maybe some of you who read "The Gods Are Bored" regularly will recall that I was anticipating the publication of my novel this fall. It appears that the publishing date will be delayed due to economic recession.
I'm willing to wait. Anyone who would write a novel purely in search of monetary gain would be far better served to buy a metal detector and go beachcombing where the tourists flock.
My chief joy in this life has been reading and writing. My mother taught me to read before I entered school. She said she had to teach me, because all I did was follow her around and ask her to read to me.
As a kid, the highlight of my week was the arrival of the Bookmobile. Even the cranky guy who drove it smiled when he saw me coming, my skinny arms crammed with dusty, well-thumbed library lit.
I became complete as a human being the summer before my freshman year of high school. That summer, much to my fury, my parents enrolled me in a typing class. Off I trundled to the school each day, and by August ... I could type! Fast!
When you're a teenager and people ask you what you want to do when you grow up, and you say, "I want to be a writer," they either scoff, laugh, or try to talk you out of it.
When you're an adult and people ask you what career you follow, and you say, "I'm a writer," they gape in amazement. Aren't all writers supposed to be rich and famous, with loads of autograph engagements on their calendars? How can someone be a writer and also clip coupons? Because if you're a writer and you're not famous, then you're not a writer.
For me as a writer, it's always been about the process and never about the product. Which is why I have to clip coupons.
I love dreaming along in my head, watching characters I've imagined as they gain depth, undergo trials, fall in love, overcome obstacles, make idiots of themselves, stand up for what they believe in ... the list is endless.
The novel I have completed (it took 15 years) is entitled Gray Magic. There are five major male characters in Gray Magic. I had a love affair with every one of them ... and never cheated on my spouse. They were in my head, you see, in all their glory.
If someone were to ask me to name the most fascinating person I've met outside my family since 1987, I would say Pierre de Bologna. Except I never met Pierre de Bologna. He was a Knight Templar. He disappeared in 1310 and was presumed murdered. The most comprehensive scholarly books on the Knights Templar might devote two or three pages (out of 300 or 400) to this man, but I feel like I have known him, and loved him, as much or more than anyone of his era knew him or loved him. Furthermore, I know my love was rightly bestowed, based solely on the few words Pierre de Bologna uttered that have passed into posterity.
I've been to Paris, but I've never been to Paris. How can that be? Well, I've immersed my imagination in Medieval Paris to such an extent that I've got no burning desire to see the Eiffel Tower. Paris? Been there ... in 1310.
Some people write brilliant novels, and recognize them as brilliant, and can't get them published, and commit suicide. This I find a little bit baffling. Because if you know you can write a brilliant novel, and you finish one, can you not just start another, damn the torpedoes?
This is my way of saying I'm starting a new novel, just exactly the same way I started the one that took me 15 years to write. For me it's not the destination, it's the journey. If I'm alone in the tour bus, worried about paying the bills, well ... at least I'm on the doggone bus, taking a journey, falling in love, rooting for heroes, designing villains...
Maybe I'll put a Bookmobile in this one. Its working title is My Merlin.
