I'm looking at a picture. It's torn out of a magazine. It's of a girl and a boy and they're running. As soon as I saw the picture, I knew this girl and this boy were from the story that's been swirling about my head since late last year. I was supposed to start writing it in January, but Ghosts lured me back.
Ghosts and I are struggling.
I suspect Ghosts is a book that will make me work on it all year long and possibly all next year too. I've said before, I very much doubt I'll be querying agents this year. Ghosts isn't a book I can rush. Not that you should rush any book, but sometimes... Sometimes, you think you're ready before you are. I had a moment of madness in early January when I thought I might have the book ready for Angry Robot Books open month. January is one optimistic beast. We will not be ready. We won't even be a quarter ready.
So now I'm drifting towards the people in this picture. Running alongside them. I've laid out all my scribblings (actually neatly typed notes, but that's not as romantic) but there's no sense of order to them. Ghosts has order. It starts (I hope) in the right place and each of the scenes (I pray) has a purpose. I get to the point of the book early on, you know what she's about. We won't mention the characters--they're one of the reasons this book could take some time. With this new story, I know the people, they break my heart and yet...
...I'm loathe to set a proper schedule for them, to make everything they do matter. I want us to have a melodramatic time of it. I'll tear their hearts out while they (quite literally) are party to others having their hearts removed. I refuse to define them. Are they a short? A novella? A novel? I'm tired of defining what a story will be. I just want to enjoy the ride for a bit with no care if it's sellable or makes sense to anyone but me.
This really is the sort of day were you should remember your passion and forget the rest of the world exists. This story's for me.