Last week I hit 50,000K mark on the word vomit that is slowly becoming my book. It’s a nice little milestone to reach and one that I should be proud of. That’s me being humble. So fuck that.
I hit 50K words on “the book”, the mythical thing that has been in production for freaking forever. The ideas have been floating around the head for years but things kept getting in the way. There is an actual plot, plot points, characters and their development, subplots and interactions, themes, the whole shebang. I’m pretty pumped.
“The Book,” which should always be capitalized now and spoken about in whispers, has taken shape. The story that was abstract in my head is now in physical form. I’ve given this thing life and hopefully, there is a soul in there. But what if it’s an evil soul and causes world destruction as it matures into a finished manuscript? Is it the Hitler of books?
Screw it, so be it. It may be the most colossal piece of trash ever created but it has been CREATED and that’s the point. If it’s going to be evil then let it be the evilest. I will love it anyway.
There is no need for me to print off the pages, to actually have a physical manuscript. But I do it because sometimes late at night I like to pick it up and hold it. I like to feel it’s weight and pet its pages. Is it doing ok, does it need anything else? Perhaps a good plot twist, maybe more developing in the first act? The Book doesn’t talk back but one day it will.
It’s far from finished. I don’t have any magical word count to reach. But when I write I never really do. I just tell the story until the story is done. Most of the time, I have an idea in my head and see where it takes me, making little pit stops along with way.
But The Book is different. There’s an outline, a convoluted and large outline that is it’s own being as well. It took me two months just to do that outline and it’s constantly getting a makeover to make it look pretty. It does a good job of linking one plot point to another, to being the roadmap of The Book. I know where the story ends and I know how to get there. I just have to keep writing, keep chugging along to tell the story.
The Book is a funny story, the ups and downs of what happens when a grown man tells his children “Please stop breaking shit, the moms are starting to look at us weird.” Oh, there are hugs and kisses in there, on those beautiful pages. There are also stories of my son whacking my car with a hammer and my daughter flashing her goods to some Mormons.
The book will be finished sometime over the next month I think, maybe two. The first draft of it will anyway. Then I will go back and change it, dress it in something pretty, letting the words act as accessories to what I hope it will eventually look like. But for right now, it’s still a young book.
But it's MY BOOK and at 50K words it’s growing up just fine.