The Finished Project

Or when do I get the oysters?

A few days ago, I completed the second edit of a book, which means it’s done. Draft, edit, then edit again. From beginning to end, the process takes about a year, though it’s not contiguous. I finished the first edit on June 30^th, and it’s now seven months later. In the period in between, I did the first edit of another book. The second edit is the big one, because I’ve had time to let it sink into my subconscious and I’m no longer as close to it, so I have no qualms about cutting out entire sections or simply reimagining.

When I finish a project, invariably I think it’s the best thing I’ve ever written. The feeling is incredible, and though I want to reach out and tell people, I don’t. It’s just how I am. Case in point, I find it impossible to promote my last book because I don’t think it’s that great, though when I first finished it, I was ecstatic. Now, I look at it with derision. I had a bunch of early editions, full of errors, and rather than keep them around, I chucked them all in our recycling bin. Not all at once, mind you, there was something like eighty copies. That was the last one, though, and this one is different.

In my mind, I entertain the idea that since I am done, now I deserve to go out and slurp a dozen oysters, sip a little champagne, and maybe savor a fancy dessert in celebration. None of this happens because I get a headache, and even if didn’t get one, probably it wouldn’t happen either because it’s no big deal. This is just what I do. I write. Some people take pictures, and some knit, craft, or construct. I won’t say I am good at it, but it is what I do. Write.

And anyway, it’s an amazing feeling to work on something, get transformed into that world, like it’s music, and it is to a degree, and then wrap it all up. Never mind that in a few days, the sensation will subside, like my headache, and I’ll be back where I was, where I always am, writing in obscurity. But this time, it could be different. This book is simpler, more accessible. My publisher will like it. The reviewers will write glowingly about the language, metaphor, and ambition. And better yet, I’ll sell some books, unlike the last time around.

Of course, now I remember, and it all comes back to me. It’s all in my head, these ideas, and grand notions I spill out on the page because I have no other outlet, no place to discuss such things. And that’s why I write. That’s why I’ve always written. I don’t write so much to connect to others, but to connect with myself. Some people pay a therapist to listen to them. Writing has always been my therapy.

What’s the book about? You might ask that, but I never ask because it’s always about a lot of things, some of which are obvious and matter, and others do not. There is symbolism, the light (the last line in the book) and the dark (the first one), metaphors for reality, and the endless question about what is real. All my work is existential, that is, existence precedes essence. That’s where we start, and what someone gets out of it, is up to them. Maybe nothing. I have to accept that. For me, my work means everything.

I often think about my influences, the things I’ve read which have changed me. Two nights ago, I finished reading Flowers for Algernon, one of those novels I’ve been meaning to read ever since I saw it on my dad’s bookshelf as a kid. When I read other writers, I often see the same ideas presented there, but in a different way, which acts as an affirmation. In some way, the Algernon book will influence future work (or future edits), but I don’t know. I might, for example, make a reference, however subtle. The opening lines of Play It as It Lays: “What makes Iago evil. Some people ask. I never ask.” That’s a great opening.

Now that this book is done, I can’t help but smile just a little. Five years ago, come May, while I was in the backseat of a car in Trieste, Italy, I decided this was the beginning of a five-year plan to write more, if for no other reason than just because I had lost focus for a decade, starting projects but never finishing them. This is my fifth book since that fateful day in May. One published, three in the editing phase, and now this latest one, polished and primed and ready to send off.

What’s next? I don’t know. Yesterday, my headache finally cleared, and I started walking, along the canal and across the bridge, and I had it in my mind that I was going to go up the hill to the Rock and get some oysters. That didn’t happen. I talked myself out of it. Maybe it’s not that good, this latest book. Maybe when I write something really good, then I can get the oysters. Until then, I guess I’ll just keep at it, keep on keeping on.