Right Writing

Over the past several months, I have been attempting the writing of a novel.  What was I thinking?  A great great novel is not likely to come off my hard drive unless the laptop is stolen by some thieving, but oddly articulate and verbose would-be author.

My issue is not time.  Strangely, I have been able to make plenty of time to write.  At least one hour per day - check!

Nor is the issue the children.  I have learned to tune them out when necessary.  Ignoring my kids - check!

Another issue that does not belong to me is lack of ideas.  The story is very, very clear in my head.  The habits, preferences, hair/eye color, clothing style of the characters is definite.  Beginning, ending, cause of action/reaction, timeline, setting... all decided.  I KNOW the story - check!

My problem is me.  Every time I manage to squeeze out a new page, my desire to edit, fix, enhance, reduce, replace, upgrade is irrepressible.  If I tear apart the first six paragraphs/first chapter again, my head may explode, resulting in a tumultuous jumble of grey matter covering every surface of my home.

Dreams of capturing the zeitgeist are unreasonable.  Clearly, I will never join the ranks of Melville, Fitzgerald, Hemingway or Steinbeck.  But I had hoped for something between the exhausting descriptions of wheat fields, buffalo and mountain ranges of Michener and the "airplane read" of Koontz.  Perhaps I hoped to be more like King - pandering to the common reader.  Or even Crichton, with his research and twisted medical perspective.

Reality is commanding a much more grounded goal.  Maybe I could shoot for Bombeck, Barry or that guy who wrote about his life in the Canadian marshes with his Asian wife, son and some large, wild cat in the house.  Yeah, that's about the level of success I can expect...  vague references to something written long ago by someone whose name I can't remember.

Folks will really line up to meet that author.  But then again, you read this drivel...