I took about 30 minutes of uncertain and out of practice baby steps in returning to writing my novel. It's the second time I've decided I should probably scrap a huge chunk of work I already put into it and re-figured how I want to begin, structure, and complete it. It's been almost a year now of research, fits and starts on this...much slower than other writing I've done, and I am intent on completing the thing within the year. Anyway, back on the horse. I don't think most of my work on this will find its way into this blog this month, but it's still a big chunk of what I am up to. As a teaser for anyone reading who might care...the novel opens in one of the 3 performance spaces that comprised the old St. James theater (before it was torn down) in 1899. Our protagonist is onstage beneath the gaslamps before a packed and silent audience. His ankles are shackled, and he raises his wrists to reveal thick, ropelike scars. Speaking into the hushed crowd, he begins to recount one of the greatest lies of his century.
R:
More staining. I'll be bring the table home tomorrow.
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