On May twenty-eighth 2007, I sat down around eleven p.m. in my dark, dingy Williamsburg apartment and impulsively started to write. I didn’t have an aim, a plan, or an intention, but words came out of me in a way that I had never known - and perhaps may never understand. For the rest of the summer, I banged away at the silver keys of my PowerBook in a sidewalk cafe on Bedford Avenue, sipping away at countless iced teas. I never picked up the taste for coffee, but I easily found the flavor of the neighborhood and wove its idiosyncrasies, its faces, and its personality into my characters and their surroundings.
For nearly two years, I’ve spent hours obsessing over, talking about, and slaving through the composition of a piece of writing that finally began to take enough shape that I could actually call it a novel. I’ve let the story consume my waking life, and even my dreams. I thought about what it’d tangibly be like to be one character lying next to another, to have a conversation with him and watch his eyes as he spoke, and even when I transitioned out of the waking world, I saw their faces in my sleep.
I’ve learned that characters have lives of their own, plots truly write themselves, and sometimes, there’s nothing to do but merely explore through the prose on the page, even when you’re unsure of where it’s going to take you. I’ve learned that you can have all of the ideas in the world, but confidence is the only thing that’s going to make them take shape on the page. And I’ve learned more about who I am than I ever have before by watching myself grow as a composer, seeing now I take criticism, and how I have conversations about people who are now as real to me as the friends in my life.
On Monday, sitting on a terrace overlooking the Carribean Sea, I finished the story. Two-hundred and fifty pages later, I have a beginning, a middle, and an end. Putting the period on the final sentence, I didn’t know what to think. I wasn’t filled with the overwhelming rush that I thought I’d be - a kind of zeal I imagined would be entirely alien - but rather simply shrugged, my eyes wide, and held my breath for a moment. I stared at the screen, mouth open, and sort of squinted in disbelief. Perhaps it was because I never thought the day would come, perhaps it’s because I know how many months of editing lies ahead of me, or perhaps there are reasons that I just don’t understand. I’m sure, at minimum, it’s all three.
But I’m proud of myself. I’m astounded by my own abilities, and now that I’ve stepped back from it for a few days, filled with an unparalleled warmth and joy. Perhaps that was the moment I was expecting to feel at inception of the last word. It’s given me the momentum I need to begin to plow through editing the big trouble spots I know I need to address immediately, and some of the nuances I’m finding along the way. There’s a knot in my stomach every time I look at the final chapter, and I’m glad I’m allowing myself to let a smile slip across my lips. I’m glad that I’ve built and retained that confidence. I’m proud to be able to say that I’m a writer.
Of course, the next part is the hardest. My skin is not thick, and besides having to pick apart every last scene and make every word matter, I have to face my toughest critic - myself. It will still consume me - probably now more than ever - but the scope of focus has been limited. I can’t distract myself from editing problem spots by creating new content. I hope I’ll be able to take a lot away both in being able to create a viable, marketable manuscript, as well as in learning how I edit and work with people whose job it is to look for holes in my prose.
For right this very second, though, I’m on top of the world. Everything else is just a detail.
M
