Having spent the better part of six months wandering around through the same territory, realizing I’m lost, going back to the beginning and starting again, driving down deserted roads, checking my hastily scrawled map, passing familiar landmarks again and realizing that (a) I’m either making the same mistakes over again, or (b) I’m making new mistakes that very closely resemble my previous wrong turns . . . but I keep driving and tonight, as with many of the recent nights, I’ve got the feeling that I’m on the right track, finally — although that tree I just passed seems awfully familiar.
Well, yes, I’m talking about writing.
I’ve been writing about queens and teacups and snowboots and blindness and gardens. It’s been good to work through it, although very frustrating and discouraging at times. I know I’m heading in the right direction, but it is much more difficult than anything I’ve done in a long while. But each little bit, it gets easier.
There must be a reason for it. I can only assume that each little bit of refinement, each little layer that’s been added to the language and the characters over the past three and a half versions I’ve done of this section have somehow the story better.
There’s likely some half-retired muse somewhere who’s just looking for a little trust from me so that we can get over this rough patch together and get back on track.
Not that I mind. There are worse things than writing — not writing, for example.
And, truth be told, it’s getting closer. Just a few more nights of retracing my steps, and it’ll be back onto the open road . . . just in time for the Queen to tell her story.
I really like her, the Queen. I like writing her. She makes me happy.
This is a picture of her…
…although that’s not the only picture. There’s another one, one taken by the fashion photographer Nick Knight (couldn’t find it anywhere online, sorry) that captures a lot of who she is as well.
And then there’s the real picture of her, the one that I’ve had in my head for years now. The one that I’ve been trying, however poorly these past few months, to put together as I’ve been writing.
That’s the picture that started it all, really. That’s where this little story became a novel.
Okay. It’s time to pull over for the evening before I run off the road.
Good night…