So I had been doing so well on this blog, and then (noise of something falling off a building into the air and down) Crash.
Friday was the bridal shower, where I received this amazing bracelet of the Deathly Hallows symbol. I am wearing it all of the times.
Saturday and Sunday, we volunteered at various things around town, including Mardra Sikora and Marcus Sikora's film debut of Black Day.
I also did research on one of the scarier things in my book. And something arose within the research and themes of my book that I hadn't really dove into. And that's how far do you go for research?
I'm not talking about how much research one should do versus how much writing one should do. I'm talking about the depths I've found that writers are willing to go in order to understand the reality of a situation.
One that comes to mind is Strindberg, who would date and/or marry women so he could set their relationships in situations that would mirror the stories he wanted to write. So he would manipulate his lover into some sort of scenario, and then he would write down their dialogue verbatim.
How awful is that?
This came to mind while looking at the scientific method, or how far science will go. How much some scientists have gone in their exploration, hurting themselves and others. I mean, think about Marie Curie.
It's a cousin to the question of how far you go in memoir, and the more I write, the more I think to myself that perhaps all art constantly butts heads against a personal life. Even outside of research, you also have the idea of personal responsibility to those who exist in our Muggle world.
It's a well known fact that artists are awful partners. Dickens was a brilliant author and an awful husband and father. I myself didn't date a lot when I was in high school and college, because I didn't want a distraction from my work. I decided a long time ago that I would only give a good chunk of my time to someone who I really loved, and look, the wedding's in a week.
So how do we balance our sense of self as a person and our sacrifice as an artist? I think there has to be a balance. I don't think we can give up our art, and I really don't think we should give up ourselves in order to create art. They need to work together, or neither will work.
In the immortal words of Ricky Bobby, "I don't know what to do with my hands."
So I finished the draft yesterday, and I know I'm supposed to wait two weeks before looking at it, but my brain is spinning around like my protagonist's brain does when he is in the middle of a project, and I need to write. But where do I start?
There are ghosts wisping out of the manuscript, whispering things that I should work on, but they dissipate before I can grip them and pin them down, and that's my grossly poetic and tired way of telling you that I don't know where to concentrate my efforts.
So instead of writing, I sat in my car this morning, listening to character playlists and staring straight ahead with that stare I get when the panic starts to rise. The guy next to me in the parking lot was weighing down his truck with furniture, and he kept looking at me as he nodded in and out of the apartment building. But I didn't move, I just let the anxiety come over me like a wave, and Alex was at work, and there were wedding programs to do.
What if I do all this work, and it doesn't amount to anything? What if the book is too late? I wouldn't have been able to write this book back in 2011 when the market looked ripe for it. Gramma was still alive. Wil was still alive. I wasn't completely, fully in love. I wasn't afraid of losing Alex to some car crash on the interstate. I hadn't had the conversation I had yesterday with my friend. And most importantly, I hadn't had my heart broken, and I had to have my heart broken in order to write this book.
So it's no fault of mine. But what if it's too late?
But as you know, I wrote a journal entry a few days ago, talking about my anxiety, and I said that I did not want to wonder who I could've been if I hadn't had some sort of mental whatever. So I got out of the car, texted Alex quickly, and I went into my apartment and finished my very gorgeous, very ribbon-tastic programs.
I made lunch. I kept listening to music on character playlists. I started planning on what I would work this afternoon. And now I'm sitting at Paradise with Kate and I have no idea what I'm going to write, but I'm going to write. I'm going to keep writing.
This book is special, especially now that it doesn't have a dumb ending. And no one ever knows where their writing is going to end up. So I can either tharn and give up now, never knowing what it could have been, or I can push forward and maybe fail.
But maybe not.
Suffice to say, the writing went well.
I'm posting this picture that I'm using as an image reference, and I am just so ecstatic that I found the ending I wanted all along.
Tonight is cause for celebration! A normal bed time!
What is this?
Dawson is a writer. This is her blog. In it, you shall read about reading. And writing. And cheeseburgers. Sometimes there are tangents. Huzzah.