Behind every published author, there lurks a story or two hidden in a box, a closet, a file on a backup drive--a story which mostly likely will never see the light of day, will never be read by anyone outside the author's closest circle of friends and family, if then. These are the stories that the writer looks to with fondness or rue, knowing that without that embarrassing, unrefined, immature piece, greater works--publishable works--would not have been possible.
I pray Areia will not be that work for me. It was a gargantuan 1,000+ page labor of love. It was the first character that I knew as well as a best friend. It was my passion that guided me through college and toward career choices that would foster the writer within.
Let my sacrifices to the my muse be the screenplay I wrote, or the multiple short stories, or the novels that I half finished in my younger days.
Yet, the further I get into Madison--the more time it takes me to edit and polish each piece--the more Areia slips through my grasp. I have visions of how I want to edit it. I could tell you how I want to trim (definitely trim!) and increase character conflict. I can picture the scenes that need the most work and the ones that should be condensed to paragraphs rather than pages. But I look at how long it is taking me to get through Madison, through these short, 200-300 page novels, and I despair at ever getting back to Areia.
Perhaps I should hold off thinking about it at all until I'm in a more positive mood. After all, the my muse has sent me so many story ideas in the last week, I'm also yearning to be writing again--writing something different, something not Madison, not Areia, not novel.
Is this merely the insanity brought about by too much spreadsheet work?