A couple months ago, I received a rather scathing critique of my novel-in-progress that was not necessarily wrong, most of the time, but very unnecessarily harsh in delivery. Coupled with the insults delivered to my pride and the level of skill I think of myself as being at, I ended up not writing much in the month or so after that.
And then I started playing Destiny 2, which I'll not expound upon at length here. Suffice it to say that it's sci-fi/fantasy, like my WIP, and something about the game rekindled my desire to write. Since then, I've reworked half my prehistoric mythos, ensured that my race of immortals has a cultural backstory that actually makes sense (egads!), and begun the real work of sorting through the messy plot of the middle of my book.
I've also begun the second novel, just to have some idea where I'm headed with all of this.
I remember, six years ago, being so in love with the idea of writing, that it didn't matter much whether the backstory for the characters made sense. After all, it was 'just' a fanfiction. It didn't have to be perfect, or even really good. It was just for me, and it just didn't matter how logical the motivations were.
I watched Avengers: Age of Ultron in theaters. I remember looking up at the screen, and seeing the terror in perennial alcoholic Tony Stark's eyes during his Wanda-vision. I saw that look when he said, "A suit of armor around the world." I grieved for him as Ultron flew away from the tower and it became clear how deeply Tony Stark had fucked up this time.
I still remember the spark of inspiration that grew into a wildfire after seeing Avengers. I knew that was the story I wanted, nay, needed to tell. Malchoir, my MC, was born shortly thereafter, though it was some time before the real work on the novel began because I couldn't decide on a voice for him.
Over the intervening four years between Avengers and now, I've picked this book up and set it down again as waves of depression, anxiety, and general schedule havoc crest and break. But I never forget the look in Tony's eyes, or the dream I once had of telling a story that really, truly meant something.
I do, however, on occasion forget to be fascinated with my setting. I've put so much work into it, even beyond the requirements of the immediate plot, that I just can't process the enormity of it. The possibility of it. I know it has holes, between the 'everyone and their brother runs a trading company' and 'remind me why the immortals care, again?', but it never seemed the right time to straighten out the kinks in a backstory that couldn't possibly matter.
Something, though, has recently struck me. I've rewritten mythos. I've shaped plotlines previously left vague. I've eliminated a whole useless planned character on account of a major plot twist (that I actually didn't myself see coming). Something has shifted in me, and I've gotten so much done.
Oh, for that muse of fire...for I have ascended the brightest heavens of invention.
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