I finished the second draft of my novella, Bloom. It’s just under 57k. I may have to do some tinkering with the third draft and consider designating it as a novel.
I do feel accomplished, but I also feel relieved. I’ve been chasing this ending for what feels like forever, and I am ready to be done with this draft.
On the other hand . . . I have never completed a second draft of any long piece of fiction. So this is a big victory for me.
I’m going to put it away for at least a month and go work on short stories. But when the time comes — look out third draft.
So day two of #writelifemay is “WIP”, aka, work in progress.
I wasn’t sure what to post and so settled on posting an excerpt from my work in progress.
The official blurb for my current work in progress is:
“Men ought to love men, and do.” Ben, a straight man, falls in love with his best friend, a gay man. Ben must navigate the precarious waters of friendship and love while exploring his sexuality.
In this excerpt, Ben has just kissed his friend, David, for the first time. Ben is, as per usual for him, having a “freak out”. Seeking guidance, he calls his sister Jess. This scene, which takes place at a small bistro, is between Ben and Jess. There might be typos and the like, since this is an unrevised draft.
Me: What a nice relationship and life you have there.
My Character: Yes. 🙂
Me: Wouldn’t it be a shame if —
My Character: No.
Me: I fucked you up next chapter.
My Character: 😥
I am five chapters from finishing the second draft of my book. It will be 11 months and a little over 50,000 words of work on this draft.
Edited to add: I will have written far more than 50,000 words for this draft. The 50k words are the words which survived editing and pruning to make it into the final draft.
My current main project is a novella tentatively titled “Bloom”. It’s about a man who believes he is straight, Ben, falling in love with his gay best friend, David. This is an excerpt. It occurs in the last third of the story, when Ben has begun really wrestle with the question of his sexuality. Is he straight? Is he bisexual? Hell if Ben knows.
There’s sexual content in this, and there might be typos and errors.
The tick-tock of the kitchen clock, a low wind murmuring through the cracked window. But nothing else; the house safely suffused in silence.
This is ridiculous. I’m scuttling around like I’m thirteen again, sneaking off with my sisters’ Victoria’s Secret catalogues to masturbate to. Thirteen year old desperate measures and all.
David won’t be home for awhile.
The bed isn’t the best place, really. The couch is better. But this feels too . . . intimate for sitting out in the living room. So. Laptop at hand, afternoon sunlight falling pale across the bedroom.
I hope I don’t get a million viruses.
Where to even start? Presumably there’s keywords of some kind, but I don’t know. Uhm.
My current main project is a novella tentatively titled “Bloom”. It’s about a straight man, Ben, who falls in love with his gay best friend, David. This is a short excerpt from the novella. It occurs in the last third of the novella, when Ben has begun to “come out” about his relationship with David. The fact their relationship has evolved into a romantic (and sexual) one is still not common knowledge to many people in their lives.
There’s some sexual content in this, and there might be typos and errors.
At least it never bores me. Everyone else, including the graduate students (who I spoil rotten) whinge and moan about having to teach it. What was it she said last week?
“Freshman creative writing makes me want to kill myself.”
But I love it. More accurately: I love the students. I love watching the students bounce and slouch and lumber and pirouette into the classroom, burdened with staggeringly heavy, overpacked backpacks, still smelling vaguely of the vegetable stew the dining halls served a few days ago because freshmen and showering are not natural allies. These are not earthly creatures. These are creatures underaware of proper hygiene, scruffy, blinking sleepily at one o’clock in the afternoon. Creatures who write three pages of unbroken prose about cabbage just to see if they can piss me off. And I annoy them right back by putting smiley faces next to my critiques.
All of these run-ons are not appropriate for this story. They add nothing to it. 🙂
Ah, well. They have to learn somewhere. I too was a grubby college freshman. And before my American Lit professor introduced me to Jack Spicer, I was thinking maybe I’d be some kind of piping designer. I was dopey, dull, and doomed to a life without poetry.
How’d that poem go?
People who don’t like the smell of — vomit . . . ?