Forty-thousand words. Many of them meaningless out of context, and much of the content spurious. That is the current condition of my latest attempt to string the bullshit into some sort of story.
Not bad, you may think, but you’d be wrong.
As I embarked upon this literary adventure I took heed of advice from the great, the good and the prolific. They said, write about what you know. So I did that. Or, rather, I am doing that. But the results are not fun to read. There are great swathes of text where my character (whose name, is Appertan, or ‘Apt’, because it is appropriate. I am a funny man) just bumbles around not knowing what’s going on. The character is, of necessity, something of me, although not directly. There are elements of me (the self-deprecation, the scything wit and the idleness), but I have mostly just tried to make him flourish organically, rather than try to follow some masterplan. The way I see it is that if I try too hard it’ll become noticeable.
The same goes for the locale. I have set this particular tale in a place that reminds me very much of the hebridean isles of Scotland. Why? because it’s braw. This has allowed me to use my familiarity with the environs to give the some texture without too much in the way of being geographically creative. The result is a place and a person I am comfortable to write about. And lots of rain, heather, and a baddie with ginger hair (he may not be a baddie – I am undecided).
Unfortunately, I have found the actual plot somewhat difficult to pin down. Yeah, that really IS a big problem. I have plots ongoing (revenge, ambition, etc) but am struggling to forge them into a working tale.
But you don’t want to hear my griping, so I’ll shut up for now. I have some writing to do, and I have to inject it all with some drama and verve. So…that’ll be easy then. But if it were easy it wouldn’t be rewarding, would it?