So, nearly five-and-a-half years have passed since I started the story that would eventually become what will eventually become my novel. Five? you ask, eyebrow raised. Why, yes, I reply. Five. I know, not really that long, I explain in an attempt to ingratiate you, but I really was trying. Why, Tom Wolfe took eleven years to write a second fiction novel after Bonfire! How can anyone compete with that? The research! The detail! After all, I’m only just making things up and putting them on paper, I plead. As your brow inches further and further up your forehead (near your hairline surely is not natural) and I think it must simply pop off at some point, I realize what it means: five is pathetic for entirely the opposite reason; to you, this is not a test of stamina (perhaps), or attention equating with greatness. You must wonder how it could take anyone five years to write a measly little novel, especially one that’s not going to be anywhere near as good as Tom Wolfe’s worst day of writing ever. Well, I say meekly, turning my eyes shyly to the floor in an infantile attempt to hide myself, I do have a little bit of research. The only response I receive is an esteem-shattering scoff.
To make matters worse, the bit of knowledge I wanted to impart will not impress, I’m sure, especially if you already think I’m writing scum for having taken five years to get practically nowhere. But here it is anyway, because I’m going to tell you what I came to say, whether you like it or not. I note your pesky eyebrow again and plunge in, despite my misgivings. IfinallyfinishedmyoutlineandIthinkitsreallyreallygood, I intone quickly, hoping, like Band-Aids, to get the worst over quickly. A sneaky and superior smile spreads across your face and I’m reminded a bit of the Joker from Batman. Your condescendingness, however, causes me to react like a human being: I puff out my chest a bit, stand up straight and say rather nasally and as snobbishly as I can possibly muster at that moment (teetering on the edge of a British accent, even), I’ve finished an outline and I think it’s really quite fabulous, what do you think of that? Thankfully, I refrain from adding the old chap part.
An outline? you question, suddenly confused. But I thought you were writing a novel? Well, yes, I add hastily, clear that I’ve made entirely the wrong impression, but I have to know what I’m writing, so I outline it, put all the events in order, get a structure of some sort, then plan what I’m going to do in each section…a book doesn’t write itself, you know, one must really plan for these sorts of things…I trail off, each word driving me deeper and deeper into the pit of nonsense.
Didn’t you say you were just making things up? you ask, pregnant with irony.
I flush and smile in embarrassment. I scuff my toe on the sidewalk for nearly ten seconds before I do what everyone in my situation must do: make a break for it.
I can hear you laughing as I run away like a little girl, sure that you’ll never, ever see my novel (whatever that pithy thing may be) on a bookstore shelf. Then again, I had no idea who you were or why I was talking to you about such a personal thing as my creative outlets.
There you have it. I finished the outline. I think it shows promise. For now, however, I’ll renew my membership to the Ten-Year-Club. At least I’ll have Tom Wolfe for company.
