Zafalon ReViced

After a weekend filled with one revision after another, I finally handed in my second draft of Zafalon to The POD this morning. He wrote back: "Novel. Do it." That's it. Three words, two periods. Bu that says it all, doesn't it?

Truth be told, last week's first draft I felt was rubbish, but The POD saw potential in it. I was grasping at straws and was actually bored reading my own material which can be unusual as writers are usually such a narcisstic bunch that they have the tremendous flaw of falling in love with their own work, regardless of how bad it is. Word to the wise: this sort of thinking can be poisonous to any good writer out there. Let your words go, you don't own them. Put on your big boy/big girl pants on and get on with it and stop your whining and bitching and moaning.

But not this writer. I am the Queen of Revision. BLAH! EEK! WTF? What the Hell where you thinking? Garbage! Merde! I can destroy a day's hard work in a few minutes without blinking an eye or resorting to crying. Entire paragraphs will come out; entire pages, if need be; beautiful or clever words that the ego wants to keep but that the egoless clearly states, sweetheart, it's just not working, let it go.. Yep. That was me this past weekend.

I went to the library. I needed to channel the creepy and the scary if I was going to move this story forward and the little freak, Zafalon, was going to have life on paper. I put away Coelho's Alchemist because reading that right now will not help me one iota. Dark and light cannot occupy the same space at the same time. I haven't been to the library in over three years? I walked in and you would think I was new in town. Wow! This is nice! Yeah, they upgraded the town library and this chick that likes to read had no clue because she obviously has so much money that she buys her books and has no need to peruse the information that is sent to her home every quarter to let her know what's going on in her town. Shameful, isn't it?

So I walk up to the Help Desk and ask to be directed to the horror/sci-fi section because now I'm lost as everything has been changed around. I like horror. I love horror. My reading staple growing up was horror. But sci-fi, eh, I usually leave that to the visual outings at the movies or tv. I choose 3 books. Inspire, I tell them. Inspire, or I'll never take another one of you out again! I walk up to the check-out line and hand the libraby maven my little green library card. She starts laughing. "Oh, honey, you really haven't been here in awhile, have you?" she says. "This is expired. We have library cards now that have pictures and everything!" *sigh* Yeah. We talk, we become BFFs while she's making me a new card. I leave. I vow to return because now I'm digging this new, improved place. It's cool.

I go home and begin reading Mister B. Gone by Clive Barker. I didn't know this was the same guy that wrote the Hellraiser series. So the book is about a little demon that speaks directly to the reader and it's supposed to scare you out of your wits. *yawn* I've had dreams scarier than this, dude, trust me. It's not scary; it's revolting, more along the lines of Kafka revolting, but not scary. And it's pretty creative, I'll give him that too. The book is interesting and keeps the reader engaged if you're into this sort of thing. My husband asks me what the book is about. I tell him. He puts up his hand, "Stop. No more." You see, the Beloved is scared of the Devil. I tell him, "Dude, he doesn't exist. Come on. Grow a pair and stop being such a pansy."

"I.DON'T.WANT.TO.KNOW," he says.

"Dude, what kind of bedtime stories did your mother read to you growing up," I ask.

He walks out of the room because I won't stop talking and the only way to end the conversation is if he leaves. He shakes his head not being able to understand how I can read something like this. "Hey, it's interesting and I'm doing research here because I need to channel dark! D.A.R.K. DARK!"

The book is about 250 pages or so. By the end of the day I'm 100 pages in. Easy read, engaging, interesting, creative. Okay, so the little bugger is amusing. I don't think that was Barker's intention, but, hey, he's amusing to me. He's funny in his own sadistic, creepy way. But, this little guy? I'm just not scared of him yet. I feel for him because he had such a bad childhood and is so misunderstood. I think this is not what Barker intended, but, hey, that's me. The little monster sparks a thought.

I spend Sunday rewriting, revising, cutting, cutting, cutting. Out come the words previously written. I drink my coffee, look at the screen filled with words that right now I'm not digging, listen to some music, look out the window, think, think, think. Finally. The fingers begin their dance. They move fluidly. Yep, I can see it. Zafalon is beginning to morph into a character I'm beginning to understand. Yeah, kid, I think I'm finally getting ya! I stop writing, go eat lunch, go outside and help the Beloved with the leaves, and play with the dogs. I come back two hours later. More ideas, more writing, Oh, yeah, I'm in the groove now. A few hours later I stop and start dinner, sit and talk with the Beloved for awhile, and return to work. Last few pages in. A full day's work and the scenes are solid and have potential. I turn off the computer, turn out the lights and go to bed.

I hand in my second draft this morning. "Novel. Do it," is all he writes. I had an appointment to see him today to discuss my submission. The POD is happy. Do you know how hard it is to make the POD happy?

"Congratulations," he says. He has a big smile on his face.

I blush. He tells me I did it. It's a novel now, no turning back. And he is committed to helping me move it forward. First and foremost, he says, join a Writer's Group. He gives me the names of several places that offer this and informs me of the benefits of joining a group of creatives and being surrounded by them. He can't stop smiling. I can't stop blushing. He's excited; I'm excited. We spend the half hour throwing ideas around and he has some fantastic ones but holds back too; it's my novel and he won't tell me how to write it. "Zafalon is so complex and the story is so rich with possibilities. There is so much there to be told," he says. He's still smiling! I'm still blushing!

I leave his Space of Grace. "Congratulations," he says again. He's still smiling. I'm still blushing.