Since I've tumbled out of the Ivory Tower, I've been slummin' around more on the interwebs. I think after you've been holed up in a library, writing and reading for 12-14 hrs a day at a dumpy carrel, that that's to be expected. Perhaps I am wrong. Of course, I am proud to say that I've written a novel this year, too. And that's coming to an end as well. So, it hasn't been a total loss, and I'm still trying to determine if I should return to my graduate program.
I'm still working on a title for my fantasy novel. And in case you're wondering, I did kill of a child last night. As I wrote it, I cried. You see, my writing is that good. Ha! (I'm not that arrogant, at least not yet). Like I said, my fantasy novel is set in Kansas. It's filled with dragons, demons, crabby skeletons, and ghosts from the original Scooby Doo. Even E.T. is a character. That sounds wacky, just a random list of creatures, spirits, and a few things that typify popular film and TV programs in the '80s for children. But as I mentioned in my previous entry, the novel is pretty scary.
Where am I now? Presently I'm a stone's throw away from the Widener, and can see the lovely cupolas that overlook the Chaaarles river (oh, wow - that reminds me of Brideshead Revisited. If you haven't read the book
or seen the TV series, which includes stupendous parts played by Sir Laurence Olivier and the lovely Claire Bloom, not to mention Jeremy Irons, another one of my all time favorites, go out and buy both versions NOW. I still adore Irons, despite many of the wretched films he's made, but he's gotta pay the bills somehow). In any event, here I am holed up in Cambridge, MA. The point of mentioning this is . . . I'm longing for Kansas at the moment. I miss the wide open skies. You don't see skies like that on the East coast, because the topography is too hilly, filled with enormous trees. Plus, there is tremendous amount of light pollution. My novel has made me experience real heimweh, and that's far more brutal than you're run of the mill homesickness.
Of course, I love Cambridge. I love it's book stores and coffee shops. More than that, I love the conversations you hear in Cambridge. It's always nice to hop on the subway and see one person across from you reading Dostoevsky in Russian, while someone else, who's perhaps sitting right next you, skims Rimbaud in French. The books you see people reading seems random, like the two I just mentioned, but for those reading individuals, it makes absolute sense. I take comfort in knowing that these people, while their reading choices allow my own imagination to meander along the metaphorical path of everyday life's peculiarities, are actually on a set path. I am at the crux of a paradox: my thoughts touch upon all that is random and all that is intentional. It's a lovely place, just like Kansas's topography. See that image to the right? I wanna see that again, and not on the web. I wanna stand in that scene again.
And since I've come back to musing about Kansas, it's high time that I slap a decent title onto this monster-filled piece. The monsters are actual characters. They're not good. Of course not. Publishers don't want any kind of ambivalence like that. Oh, no. Kafka would be so screwed today. But a Kafka wouldn't exist today. I know that from all my years studying history, although I was on my way to earning a Ph.D. in literature. I am, at heart, a historicist. So, I know better than to comment as such. Anyways, the monsters are bad, but the children in the novel have choices, i.e. they are "born" good, but can go bad if they so choose (wow! It's parallel to our own universe, no?).
When I go back and re-read it, certain passages remind me of Alice in Wonderland. The monsters, who are always disguised when their trying to lure the little ones into their murderous dens, offer children cookies and cupcakes. The cookies come in the shape of My Little Pony figures or look like cabbage patch dolls, but the cupcakes are always the same thing -Bugs Bunny from the '40s. If they eat the Bugs Bunny cupcake, they're in for a frightful "trip" that takes them back to World War II. What's worse, they live out their parents' lives. That sends the children over the edge, and if they don't die, they turn black. So, Bugs Bunny cupcakes are pretty bad. When the children die, the monsters, naturally, devour them. But when they turn black, the children change (physically, too) and end up joining armies, aiding the monsters and their insatiable appetite for new children - they become bounty hunters, in search of the flesh of fresh children.
The main thrust: fantasy that's twisted around (false) memory, as the children cannot make sense of the images and emotions they experience once their viewing things through the lens of one of their parents.
I'd spent a lot of time developing the child who died last night. Although she reminded me of how my parents describe the way I was as a kid at the tender age of five, she was a lot funnier. I like how funny she was, so I made a decision early on about her: I wouldn't allow her silliness to wither away. I couldn't allow her to live on and join the monsters and their skeleton led armies. That would've been too difficult to write. That's why she chose the cookie and not the Bugs Bunny cupcake. I didn't want to see her turn black. May she rest in peace with all of her quirkiness.
With that said, I need to conclude this novel. I just have one chapter left, and I already have that sketched out. Now it's just a matter of writing it out from my outlines. As I draw this to an end, I need to get serious about a title. Most of the literary agents who have expressed an interest in the manuscript don't like the present title. (At the risk of exposing myself, I won't list it here).
I'm still anxiously waiting for the actual call(s). Given the amount of interest that I've received, I'm confident that it'll be any day now. Let's keep hoping! OK, back to the book.
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