Louis Arata's Blog, page 23
January 10, 2014
Happy Birthday, Kenny
Kenny Reston will turn 21 this September. Actually, his birthday is June 6, 1973, but he came into existence in 1993. So, he's now a legal adult.
Kenny is the main character of my unpublished novel, Come Undone. A survivor of sexual abuse, he later agrees to be a case-study for a book on incest. When that book becomes an improbable bestseller, a filmmaker comes along to make it into a movie. Now Kenny watches as his life is transformed into entertainment, and it forces him to reconsider what his past actually means for him.
In the original version of the story (1993), he was an excessively passive individual -- walked on, pushed over, beaten down -- and yet at the end he was still standing.
In 2005, I rewrote the novel, and Kenny developed more backbone and was more an agent in his life. He found love and got professional help for his addictions.
I'm currently revising it again (2013-14), and no surprise, Kenny has changed again. He's more assertive, confident, and comes out stronger in the end.
What's happened to him?
Probably the more accurate question is what's happened to me. I've discovered that Kenny is something of an emotional barometer for me. Not quite an alter-ego, rather he has developed as a character as I take more challenges in my life. In other words, as I've learned, so has he.
My life is certainly not Kenny's, yet each time I've worked on the novel, I've invested it with my whole heart. So, I find it fascinating to revisit where Kenny was twenty-one years ago and recall where I was emotionally at the time, and realize (gladly) that I'm not still there. I'm not as far removed from my 2005 self, yet there are still significant changes.
Maybe when I send Kenny out into the world at the end of this revision, he'll appreciate standing on his own.
Kenny is the main character of my unpublished novel, Come Undone. A survivor of sexual abuse, he later agrees to be a case-study for a book on incest. When that book becomes an improbable bestseller, a filmmaker comes along to make it into a movie. Now Kenny watches as his life is transformed into entertainment, and it forces him to reconsider what his past actually means for him.
In the original version of the story (1993), he was an excessively passive individual -- walked on, pushed over, beaten down -- and yet at the end he was still standing.
In 2005, I rewrote the novel, and Kenny developed more backbone and was more an agent in his life. He found love and got professional help for his addictions.
I'm currently revising it again (2013-14), and no surprise, Kenny has changed again. He's more assertive, confident, and comes out stronger in the end.
What's happened to him?
Probably the more accurate question is what's happened to me. I've discovered that Kenny is something of an emotional barometer for me. Not quite an alter-ego, rather he has developed as a character as I take more challenges in my life. In other words, as I've learned, so has he.
My life is certainly not Kenny's, yet each time I've worked on the novel, I've invested it with my whole heart. So, I find it fascinating to revisit where Kenny was twenty-one years ago and recall where I was emotionally at the time, and realize (gladly) that I'm not still there. I'm not as far removed from my 2005 self, yet there are still significant changes.
Maybe when I send Kenny out into the world at the end of this revision, he'll appreciate standing on his own.
December 31, 2013
Best Books of 2014
It's the time of year for the Best of ... lists. Best movies, best moments in sports, best photography. And of course, best books.
I rarely am on top of the latest books. I'm too busy trying to catch up on my favorite authors while introducing myself to new ones, so it may take a while before I get around to a year's "popular reads" and "critically-acclaimed works."
In 2013, I read 53 books, and below are some of my favorites. Note that these were not published this year (or even recently, in some cases), but these are the ones that gave me the most delight and at times the greatest challenges.
Possession, by A.S. Byatt
A literary love story. Byatt's writing thrills me the same way that George Eliot's does. It was fascinating to watch the two stories converge -- past and present. I savored the language, especially Byatt's care with descriptive details. I often stepped away from the book with a greater sense of appreciation for the small artistry and craftsmanship that surrounds our everyday lives.
The Time Traveler's Wife, by Audrey Niffenegger
An unconventional love story. Given the premise -- he time-travels and she doesn't -- I expected a morose tale of longing. Instead, I found a story of two soul-mates who get to discover one another across the span of their lives.
Fahrenheit 451, by Ray Bradbury
Why did it take me so long to read this book?! It's one of those classics in which I knew the premise so I wasn't in a rush to read it. What I found, to my surprise, was a beautifully crafted, sensitively written tale. Completely unexpected.
Hard Times, by Charles Dickens
Not quite a favorite, but I include it because I read the book years ago and could not remember a single thing about it, other than a character named Gradgrind. An important examination of education and social responsibility, unfortunately it often reads like an outline for a Dickens' novel. Still, I'm glad I read it.
House of Leaves, by Mark Z. Danielewski
This book blew me away. The story was fascinatingly chilling -- a house with a mysterious inner chamber that is larger than the house itself. Part of what makes the novel so compelling is the use of pseudo-critical analysis of what it all means. There are footnotes, and footnotes within footnotes that tell their own story as well. In essence, the novel has unknown depths similar to what the house contains, but it's left up to the reader to determine what it all means. Even the physical layout of the book mimics what is occurring in the story. This one will stay with me.
The Fault in Our Stars, by John Green
Reading Green's prose is like drinking a cool glass of water when you're parched. The story is certainly not lighthearted -- teens with cancer -- but Green makes them compellingly real. I want to emulate their humanity, with all its messiness and vibrancy.
Basket Case, by Carl Hiassen
Another cool glass of water. Hiassen knows how to construct a story. He starts off with the plot and doesn't let all that "David Copperfield crap" get in the way (I'm currently reading The Catcher in the Rye). You get to learn the characters' back story along the way. It all fits together nicely.
There were two novels I read this year that were frustrating because of the poor writing. Both had great premises, but the authors got so distracted by repetitive details and outlandish characterizations that they overlooked the basic tenets of good storytelling. I can handle a predictable story if the author keeps the language fresh. These two writers fell into some unnecessary traps. I choose not to mention their names because I know they have strong followings. Besides, my reaction is simply that -- my reaction. I'm glad others can enjoy their work.
Can't wait to see what books will inspire me in 2014.
I rarely am on top of the latest books. I'm too busy trying to catch up on my favorite authors while introducing myself to new ones, so it may take a while before I get around to a year's "popular reads" and "critically-acclaimed works."
In 2013, I read 53 books, and below are some of my favorites. Note that these were not published this year (or even recently, in some cases), but these are the ones that gave me the most delight and at times the greatest challenges.
Possession, by A.S. Byatt
A literary love story. Byatt's writing thrills me the same way that George Eliot's does. It was fascinating to watch the two stories converge -- past and present. I savored the language, especially Byatt's care with descriptive details. I often stepped away from the book with a greater sense of appreciation for the small artistry and craftsmanship that surrounds our everyday lives.
The Time Traveler's Wife, by Audrey Niffenegger
An unconventional love story. Given the premise -- he time-travels and she doesn't -- I expected a morose tale of longing. Instead, I found a story of two soul-mates who get to discover one another across the span of their lives.
Fahrenheit 451, by Ray Bradbury
Why did it take me so long to read this book?! It's one of those classics in which I knew the premise so I wasn't in a rush to read it. What I found, to my surprise, was a beautifully crafted, sensitively written tale. Completely unexpected.
Hard Times, by Charles Dickens
Not quite a favorite, but I include it because I read the book years ago and could not remember a single thing about it, other than a character named Gradgrind. An important examination of education and social responsibility, unfortunately it often reads like an outline for a Dickens' novel. Still, I'm glad I read it.
House of Leaves, by Mark Z. Danielewski
This book blew me away. The story was fascinatingly chilling -- a house with a mysterious inner chamber that is larger than the house itself. Part of what makes the novel so compelling is the use of pseudo-critical analysis of what it all means. There are footnotes, and footnotes within footnotes that tell their own story as well. In essence, the novel has unknown depths similar to what the house contains, but it's left up to the reader to determine what it all means. Even the physical layout of the book mimics what is occurring in the story. This one will stay with me.
The Fault in Our Stars, by John Green
Reading Green's prose is like drinking a cool glass of water when you're parched. The story is certainly not lighthearted -- teens with cancer -- but Green makes them compellingly real. I want to emulate their humanity, with all its messiness and vibrancy.
Basket Case, by Carl Hiassen
Another cool glass of water. Hiassen knows how to construct a story. He starts off with the plot and doesn't let all that "David Copperfield crap" get in the way (I'm currently reading The Catcher in the Rye). You get to learn the characters' back story along the way. It all fits together nicely.
There were two novels I read this year that were frustrating because of the poor writing. Both had great premises, but the authors got so distracted by repetitive details and outlandish characterizations that they overlooked the basic tenets of good storytelling. I can handle a predictable story if the author keeps the language fresh. These two writers fell into some unnecessary traps. I choose not to mention their names because I know they have strong followings. Besides, my reaction is simply that -- my reaction. I'm glad others can enjoy their work.
Can't wait to see what books will inspire me in 2014.
December 26, 2013
December 22, 2013
Show and Tell
My nephew Derek read a late draft of Dead Hungry. His comments and critiques were thoughtful, insightful, as well as amazingly helpful in putting some polish on the final version.
One of his recommendations was that I show certain scenes rather than tell them. Generally, these are transitional scenes which supply the reader with necessary information before moving to the next section. They're the connective tissue between major events, and I often resort to telling for the sake of expediency.
Showing a scene, as opposed to telling it, helps the reader engage more directly with what the characters are going through. The reader becomes involved in the emotional arc of the story. When a scene is told, however, it may have a distancing effect; the reader may feel the author is intruding on the narrative, rather than staying in the background and allowing the story to unfold.
I think there is a place in fiction for telling. It can often distill a lot of information into a few sentences. For example, a friend of mine read a short story about parents who had lost a child. When she described the story to me, she emphasized how much the death scene dominated the entire story, yet when she looked back over the piece, the death scene was no more than three sentences. Rather than lessening the emotion, the brevity of the scene heightened it.
But I've been keeping Derek's suggestion in mind, particularly as I'm working on another novel, Come Undone. I have a three paragraph summary of Kenny's first girlfriend, and how his mother is jealous. The girlfriend, Lila, only appears in these three paragraphs, but it feels like an importance scene because of the dynamic between Kenny and his mother.
I could have kept those three paragraphs -- telling what happened rather than showing. But I took Derek's advice, and I rewrote the scene, focusing on a moment of the mother's jealousy and how it intrudes on Kenny's date with Lila.
I have to admit the new scene has more impact.
One of his recommendations was that I show certain scenes rather than tell them. Generally, these are transitional scenes which supply the reader with necessary information before moving to the next section. They're the connective tissue between major events, and I often resort to telling for the sake of expediency.
Showing a scene, as opposed to telling it, helps the reader engage more directly with what the characters are going through. The reader becomes involved in the emotional arc of the story. When a scene is told, however, it may have a distancing effect; the reader may feel the author is intruding on the narrative, rather than staying in the background and allowing the story to unfold.
I think there is a place in fiction for telling. It can often distill a lot of information into a few sentences. For example, a friend of mine read a short story about parents who had lost a child. When she described the story to me, she emphasized how much the death scene dominated the entire story, yet when she looked back over the piece, the death scene was no more than three sentences. Rather than lessening the emotion, the brevity of the scene heightened it.
But I've been keeping Derek's suggestion in mind, particularly as I'm working on another novel, Come Undone. I have a three paragraph summary of Kenny's first girlfriend, and how his mother is jealous. The girlfriend, Lila, only appears in these three paragraphs, but it feels like an importance scene because of the dynamic between Kenny and his mother.
I could have kept those three paragraphs -- telling what happened rather than showing. But I took Derek's advice, and I rewrote the scene, focusing on a moment of the mother's jealousy and how it intrudes on Kenny's date with Lila.
I have to admit the new scene has more impact.
December 19, 2013
Dead Hungry Giveaway
Dead Hungry Giveaway
Check out the Dead Hungry page for a chance to win a free e-book.
Contest runs December 20, 2013 through January 5, 2014.
Check out the Dead Hungry page for a chance to win a free e-book.
Contest runs December 20, 2013 through January 5, 2014.
Smashwords Signs Distribution Agreement with Scribd
Smashwords is the largest distributor of indie ebooks (and also the distributor for Dead Hungry). This sounds like an awesome agreement with Scribd.
Smashwords: Smashwords Signs Distribution Agreement with Scrib...: Smashwords today announced a distribution agreement with Scribd , which operates one of the world’s largest publishing platforms and onlin...
Smashwords: Smashwords Signs Distribution Agreement with Scrib...: Smashwords today announced a distribution agreement with Scribd , which operates one of the world’s largest publishing platforms and onlin...
December 15, 2013
In The Beginning
Long before Peter Jackson and Ralph Bakshi, even before Rankin-Bass, my friend Norma and I acted out the stories of Tolkien. We started with The Hobbit then proceeded to enact the entire Journey of the Ring. We even dabbled in some of the stories from the Appendices (this was before The Silmarillion was published).
Norma played all the noble figures: Gandalf, Aragorn, Theoden, Saruman. I played the character roles: the Hobbits and Gollum. Her backyard became Middle-Earth, and we tramped up-hill and over-dale, and the road went ever on and on.
When we completed The Lord of the Rings, we tried imagining what else might happen to these characters. Our favorite episode was a marital spat between Aragorn and Arwen that devolved into a swordfight.
As children of the seventies, we were well-versed in Tolkien. So, when I began to dabble in writing, of course I modeled my first stories on Middle-Earth-like lands.
You didn't have to squint too hard to see that my Greyhold the Wizard was a Gandalf knockoff. Long white beard, surly-sentimental temperament. Instead of the One Ring, I had the Sword of Pengol -- coveted by all. What its special powers were still eludes me.
I still have these original stories: all seven novels, written fast and furious when I was thirteen and fourteen. I cranked them out without forethought or concern for quality. I wrote what I wanted because I didn't know any better.
These seven novels were a great training ground because they were written without the internal censor. It wasn't until my late teens, when I began to seriously consider writing as a career, that I had to face the adage Write What You Know.
As I touched upon in my last post, writers write what they know when they ground their characters in human experience. When I empathize with my characters, I am writing what I know, regardless whether the setting is a fantasy wonderland or Chicago's Loop.
Someday I'll read those seven novels again. Occasionally I consider rewriting them, obviously with a more critical eye toward proper storytelling. But reimagining Greyhold the Wizard and all his cohort will never destroy what those original stories taught me as a young writer.
By the way, the title of this post, "In The Beginning," was the title of my very first short story.
Norma played all the noble figures: Gandalf, Aragorn, Theoden, Saruman. I played the character roles: the Hobbits and Gollum. Her backyard became Middle-Earth, and we tramped up-hill and over-dale, and the road went ever on and on.
When we completed The Lord of the Rings, we tried imagining what else might happen to these characters. Our favorite episode was a marital spat between Aragorn and Arwen that devolved into a swordfight.
As children of the seventies, we were well-versed in Tolkien. So, when I began to dabble in writing, of course I modeled my first stories on Middle-Earth-like lands.
You didn't have to squint too hard to see that my Greyhold the Wizard was a Gandalf knockoff. Long white beard, surly-sentimental temperament. Instead of the One Ring, I had the Sword of Pengol -- coveted by all. What its special powers were still eludes me.
I still have these original stories: all seven novels, written fast and furious when I was thirteen and fourteen. I cranked them out without forethought or concern for quality. I wrote what I wanted because I didn't know any better.
These seven novels were a great training ground because they were written without the internal censor. It wasn't until my late teens, when I began to seriously consider writing as a career, that I had to face the adage Write What You Know.
As I touched upon in my last post, writers write what they know when they ground their characters in human experience. When I empathize with my characters, I am writing what I know, regardless whether the setting is a fantasy wonderland or Chicago's Loop.
Someday I'll read those seven novels again. Occasionally I consider rewriting them, obviously with a more critical eye toward proper storytelling. But reimagining Greyhold the Wizard and all his cohort will never destroy what those original stories taught me as a young writer.
By the way, the title of this post, "In The Beginning," was the title of my very first short story.
December 9, 2013
Write What You Know
Write What You Know -- the adage all writers are supposed to follow. It's also the one that stops me in my tracks. I end up focusing on all the things I don't know.
I don't know how to be a secret agent.
I don't know how to be the Eiffel Tower.
I don't know how to hit a home run in the World Series.
There are way too many things I don't know! And what I do know sounds rather plebian.
I know how to balance my checkbook to the penny.
I know how to design a really good spreadsheet.
I know how to make a rocky road fudge brownie that my friends have deemed Death by Chocolate.
The funny thing is, when I act, I'm not too affected by what I know or don't know. If I'm playing a character that's not like me, I simply start looking for moments in the script that I can empathize with. Once I have those, I can start to discover who this person is.
Writing is an act of empathy, as well. If I approach writing from that vantage point, it's amazing how much I know.
I know the brittle cold of a 5 a.m. run when training for a marathon.
I know the banter of friends when they start riffing on really bad movies.
I know the hollowness in my gut when I learned my mother had died.
I know the rightness of feeling my soul mate in my arms.
If that's the case, then I'll write what I know.
I don't know how to be a secret agent.
I don't know how to be the Eiffel Tower.
I don't know how to hit a home run in the World Series.
There are way too many things I don't know! And what I do know sounds rather plebian.
I know how to balance my checkbook to the penny.
I know how to design a really good spreadsheet.
I know how to make a rocky road fudge brownie that my friends have deemed Death by Chocolate.
The funny thing is, when I act, I'm not too affected by what I know or don't know. If I'm playing a character that's not like me, I simply start looking for moments in the script that I can empathize with. Once I have those, I can start to discover who this person is.
Writing is an act of empathy, as well. If I approach writing from that vantage point, it's amazing how much I know.
I know the brittle cold of a 5 a.m. run when training for a marathon.
I know the banter of friends when they start riffing on really bad movies.
I know the hollowness in my gut when I learned my mother had died.
I know the rightness of feeling my soul mate in my arms.
If that's the case, then I'll write what I know.
December 8, 2013
Morph
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/376605
My cat is smoking cigarettes. I found the butts next to the litter box, alongside Condé Nast and Cat Fancy.How do you deal with this? You never expect your cat will get addicted. He sleeps eighty percent of the day, so when does he have time to take on a vice?Maybe I should have recognized his addictive personality earlier. When he was a kitten, he loved catnip. I was running late for work and tossed him a sachet of catnip, figuring he’d bat it around for a while as I got out the door. Instead, he caught it with his teeth, and RIIIIP! An herbal explosion. He looked stunned, a kid in a candy store.Generally, catnip is harmless. Cats will play with it until the sensation wears off. When I returned that night, it was like walking into a mausoleum. The pile of catnip trailed into the bathroom. Behind the cold porcelain toilet lay my cat, stoned out of his gourd. He lazily lifted his head and blinked at me. I swept up the remnants. An hour later, he staggered out to his food bowl. A voracious attack of the munchies.So, now, cigarettes. I confronted him as he lay sprawled on the window seat. He is a long orange tabby with a crooked whisker. “I know about the cigarettes.”He stared stonily at me. Then he cleaned his butt.There’s no talking to him sometimes.At the dog park, I ran into my neighbor, Roy. His pug and my golden retriever are great buddies. I told him about the cigarettes. He wasn’t surprised.“What else do you expect him to do all day? He gets lonesome.”The divorce has been hard on him.“He won’t talk about it,” I said. “He just looks away.”Roy nodded. “Let him have his fun. Listen, what’s the life expectancy of a cat, anyway? Ten, twelve years? Fifteen tops. So proportionally, it’ll only shave off a year or two.”“I’m surprised you’d say that, given what you’ve been through.”“Yeah,” he sighed. We both looked at his pug, who had the spastic distraction of a cocaine addict. “I still remember finding those glass vials. Pugs, they snort, you know.”What I couldn’t figure out was how he was getting the cigarettes. He’s an indoor cat. So, who’s his supplier?Then I spied my golden retriever digging in the grass. When I stood over him, he looked at me guiltily – a kid pretending he hasn’t stolen a cookie. Lowering his head in shame, he vomited a wad of garbage – twigs, acorns, candy wrappers and – cleverly mixed inside – cigarette butts. Kools, Marlboros, Virginia Slims.Great. A co-dependent dog.I left a note for my dog-walker to make sure that the dog didn’t bring garbage into the house. Clearly she didn’t follow my request, because soon I was finding cigarette butts by the litter box again.What bothered me more was the shot glass next to them. I could smell the whiskey.I called my ex-wife, Marva. “The cat’s been drinking.”“Again? I thought he was on the wagon. Four years sober. That’s like twenty-eight for a human.”“That’s in dog-years.”“I read there’s a high rate of recidivism in cats.”“What are we going to do about it?”“We? He’s your cat, remember. He’s what you wanted out of the custody battle. Try explaining that to your daughters sometimes. Do you know why he’s smoking? Is anything upsetting him?”“He’s a cat.”“Animals can sense when humans aren’t happy. Maybe he’s picking up something from you.”I hung up. If Marva wouldn’t stay on the subject, I didn’t want to talk to her.At the dog park, I ran into the regulars: Roy and Josie, Celia and Ben. I told them about the cigarettes and whiskey.Josie said, “I had a turtle that was agoraphobic. Hid in his shell all the time.”“I had a hamster. Obsessive-compulsive. Running on that little wheel,” said Celia.Ben said, “I had a Doberman that chewed off his fur. We had to give him Ritalin.”Though they could commiserate, no one had a solution.I contacted the vet. He prescribed a nicotine patch. That didn’t work. Now my cat’s got a bald patch.I called my dad. He said, “I had a snake with an eating disorder. All my brother’s mice. Then a guinea pig.”“What happened to him?”“Choked to death. Bunny slippers.”I staged an intervention. After dragging my cat from under the bed, I placed him on the hassock in the middle of the living room.He growled, his ears back, his crooked whisker flush with the side of his head. This was going to take Tough Love.“It’s time to face the truth. You can’t hide it anymore.” I dumped the garbage pail right in front of him: cigarettes, whiskey bottles, catnip.He sounded like a freight train squealing to a halt. I never saw the claws. First blood.He disappeared into the basement. The sign of a true addict.Ben recommended a group. Al-A-Pet. I checked out their website. Before-and-after photos of a crack-addicted tabby. They blanked out his eyes to preserve his anonymity.They met in the basement of the local animal shelter. Most had brought their dogs or cats, in various stages of recovery. A chameleon, deep in denial, tried to blend into the background.The leader of the group, Alice, presented her Persian, a big fluffy monster. “I was powerless before her addiction. I kept her in diamonds. A little choker, a tiara. It got so bad, all she wanted was to watch the Home Shopping Network. But she’s been clean for two years.”We applauded. What bravery.A man told a story about his St Bernard who had died in a snowstorm. “A savior complex. He thought he could rescue everyone. But he couldn’t even save himself.” Overcome, he sat down.A woman had a horse that had been confined too long in its stable and would compulsively masturbate.I have to look up that one.By the end of the evening and all the stories, I felt a strange release. I wasn’t alone in this. Addictions are universal, and we all suffer our private grief.Still, I was going to break my cat’s habit if it killed me.Unfortunately, it killed him first. The next morning I heard him hacking. Then I heard the thump. By the time I got to him, he was gone. In his fall, he knocked over his whiskey, which the dog promptly lapped up.I was sad to see him go, but maybe it’s better this way. There’s a small pet cemetery in town. It was a quiet ceremony; no one else came. I wanted time alone with him. Maybe if I had tried harder. Maybe if I had cared a little more.As if on cue, a little boy and girl approached me. The girl took my hand. “Don’t cry.”I wasn’t crying.The little boy asked, “What’s his name?”“Morph.”“Like the computer animation?”“No,” I said, “as in anthropomorphic.”They didn’t understand and eventually wandered away.
December 3, 2013
The Saddest 5 Pages
I was writing about the death of Kenny's best friend, Bryan. They'd been buddies from childhood. I knew the scene was coming, but I didn't expect to be in tears while I wrote it. Not simply watering eyes but tears running down my face, and a great knot of grief in my throat.
For me, writing is an act of empathy. I try to conjure the emotions as I write about them. I'm certainly not a method-actor, and I don't know if there's such a thing as a method-writer. All I can say is that writing requires absolute honesty.
I had to coach myself through Bryan's death. I had to assure myself that everything would be okay.
I wrote that scene seven years ago. Since then, the novel has been sitting on my hard drive. I've made a few attempts to find an agent for it, but eventually I set it aside to work on other projects. A few months ago, I pulled it out again, and I've been cleaning it up.
Yesterday, I got to that scene. Again, the tears.
I'm not suggesting the scene is the epitome of pathos. The kind of scene that ends with an abandoned kitten. All I'm saying is that it touches me in a very personal way. An inexplicable way.
It's a scene that I could plan for, but I couldn't craft it until I wrote it, and what came out somehow transcends the writing experience for me.
For me, writing is an act of empathy. I try to conjure the emotions as I write about them. I'm certainly not a method-actor, and I don't know if there's such a thing as a method-writer. All I can say is that writing requires absolute honesty.
I had to coach myself through Bryan's death. I had to assure myself that everything would be okay.
I wrote that scene seven years ago. Since then, the novel has been sitting on my hard drive. I've made a few attempts to find an agent for it, but eventually I set it aside to work on other projects. A few months ago, I pulled it out again, and I've been cleaning it up.
Yesterday, I got to that scene. Again, the tears.
I'm not suggesting the scene is the epitome of pathos. The kind of scene that ends with an abandoned kitten. All I'm saying is that it touches me in a very personal way. An inexplicable way.
It's a scene that I could plan for, but I couldn't craft it until I wrote it, and what came out somehow transcends the writing experience for me.
