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Storyland
I am almost done with Moth. Almost done in every sense, in writing, in editing, in completion.
Very few of you know what Moth is about. I haven't kept it secret, per se, but I haven't been telling everyone, either. I've held it close to my heart, this little, fluttering thing, and it's ready now. It's time now.
Almost.
Moth is my strangest baby, out of many strange babies. It has a very different life, already, than all of my others, and it has done strange things to and with me. I love it with all of my heart, but with a very different love than I have given any of my other stories. It is a patient love, and an unconditional love, because this book is very weighty and very strong and very strange. And it's going to make some people angry, and some people are going to love it, and some people are going to despise it, and I have done, as I always do, what I could by it.
I'm being cryptic, aren't I. Indulge me?
I have spent a great deal of time with this book, every day with this book, from sun up to sun down with this book. I have walked into its pages with a great deal of trust, and--oh baby--I trust all the time. But this time was different. There was a spark. There was a kiss of cool wind. There was a change in tides.
I never expected this book that came up to me, this brazen little thing, and demanded that I write it. "I don't want to write you," I told the story. But it tugged at my sleeve, insistent. "I can't write you," I told the story. But it clung to me, insistent. "But you're going to be hated," I whispered to it.
"But I need to be written anyway," it whispered back.
So I wrote it. I devoted time and love and sleepless nights to it. I nurtured it into creation, and molded it and made it, and when it was done (or, it is almost done), I took a breath. A single breath. And I thought many things, in the time it took to draw that breath, but in the end, the final thought was this:
You were meant to be. And: I am proud of you.
I am so very close to putting away the brushes, stepping back from the canvas, putting my hands to the small of my back and surveying it fully, this landscape, this storyland. I know each thumbprint of it, every line of it, and it is strange and painful and beautiful and weird, and I have put everything that I am or could be or ever was into it. I have given all that I have for it.
The last page is coming, and it requires even more of me, as any story must. When you have given all you are, it asks for one hairsbreadth more. And you give it, freely. With love.
That's how you know you were meant to write it.
Very few of you know what Moth is about. I haven't kept it secret, per se, but I haven't been telling everyone, either. I've held it close to my heart, this little, fluttering thing, and it's ready now. It's time now.
Almost.
Moth is my strangest baby, out of many strange babies. It has a very different life, already, than all of my others, and it has done strange things to and with me. I love it with all of my heart, but with a very different love than I have given any of my other stories. It is a patient love, and an unconditional love, because this book is very weighty and very strong and very strange. And it's going to make some people angry, and some people are going to love it, and some people are going to despise it, and I have done, as I always do, what I could by it.
I'm being cryptic, aren't I. Indulge me?
I have spent a great deal of time with this book, every day with this book, from sun up to sun down with this book. I have walked into its pages with a great deal of trust, and--oh baby--I trust all the time. But this time was different. There was a spark. There was a kiss of cool wind. There was a change in tides.
I never expected this book that came up to me, this brazen little thing, and demanded that I write it. "I don't want to write you," I told the story. But it tugged at my sleeve, insistent. "I can't write you," I told the story. But it clung to me, insistent. "But you're going to be hated," I whispered to it.
"But I need to be written anyway," it whispered back.
So I wrote it. I devoted time and love and sleepless nights to it. I nurtured it into creation, and molded it and made it, and when it was done (or, it is almost done), I took a breath. A single breath. And I thought many things, in the time it took to draw that breath, but in the end, the final thought was this:
You were meant to be. And: I am proud of you.
I am so very close to putting away the brushes, stepping back from the canvas, putting my hands to the small of my back and surveying it fully, this landscape, this storyland. I know each thumbprint of it, every line of it, and it is strange and painful and beautiful and weird, and I have put everything that I am or could be or ever was into it. I have given all that I have for it.
The last page is coming, and it requires even more of me, as any story must. When you have given all you are, it asks for one hairsbreadth more. And you give it, freely. With love.
That's how you know you were meant to write it.