A year ago I started (returned to, actually), writing something every day.
“Every day” is not exact, and perhaps not even wise. I have settled into six days a week, with a day (Thursday) off. When advised to write every day, a writer should know that they should write regularly, at least four or five days every week. And try for a decent amount of time per day, at least one to two hours. Find a rhythm that works and stick to it unto death.
I began last year with the intent of finishing my novel, a thriller called The Bonner Prediction. That I have done, and edited twice. One more edit remains. That should be completed in a couple of months.
However, in the intervening year, I returned to a story I had started in the previous year. It’s genesis was less as a short story, and more of a character sketch. By that I mean my main interest was to write solely about this particular character which, other than for my novel about Franz Kafka, I don’t believe has happened to me. Setting was also well-established. Other than that, I follow the character, Alison Alexandra.
Alison Alexandra is taking me on a wild, unplanned and exciting ride. It is some of the most purely enjoyable writing I have done. Fifty or so pages so far. Obviously not a short story, but I don’t know to what extent it will go. Alison Alexandra is chock -a-block full o’ surprizes. Today she is taking a ride in a Rolls Royce “Ghost”. Oh – what will happen?
So – let me tell ya – write every day.
I wrote the following a year ago.
I did not plan a New Year resolution. What I had planned was to write something on my current novel the first day of the new year.
This is also not planned, but – so far – I have written every day of the year except two – one a travel day, and one a deliberate ‘take-a-day-off-day’. I am two or three chapters from the end of thisThriller. I have not written fiction so steadily for months. I hope it keeps on.
This is the part which I do nor know is related to my writing situation.
I have never dreamt about any of my writing – never. I know many artists dream about their work, get ideas about their work in dreams and such, but not me. So, I did not have a dream about my writing. However, I recently awoke from a dream where I was talking to my publisher. She said I should do another book of short stories about the Elephant. Is that close?
And, finally, the incident below. On Twitter, I came across an announcement of a restaurant/bakery in Calgary. The Corbeaux. This means The Ravens. They have a store sign which has noted similarities to one which I have described in a manuscript. And you can see their sign in this photo.
And then you can read what appears in my unpublished second Satan novel, where ravens play an important part.
Perhaps my creative stream is bubbling away.
From Places Of Evil
Mr. S. does rehearse what he plans to say to Breeze, both while he waits for the taxi, and then in the twenty minute ride to her restaurant. He is surprised Dorkas and Caleb made as such little protest. He suspects they agree with his concerns about the twins, even if not enthusiastic with his solution.
Mr. S. has the taxi stop a couple of blocks from the restaurant. Breeze has installed a new sign, and she wants his opinion of how effective it will be attracting customers. Although he helped – at her insistence – to choose the design, he has yet to see the finished object.
He walks along the street, pretending to be someone looking in shop windows for a gift. He actually wants to purchase Breeze a celebratory present, but that is for later. He tricks himself enough, that when he finally does look up at the sign, it is with a degree of surprise.
Breeze has not purchased a painted sign, as he had supposed. The design is similar to the ones they discussed, but she has not chosen an image imposed upon a wooden background. Instead, there are carved and painted shapes jutting from the front of the building, parallel to the wall.
A thick piece of wood, chiseled into the shape of a tree top, is attached over the lintel. Two branches sprout from the trunk of the tree, which tapers to an uneven and jagged tip. At the very top, a life-sized carved raven sits, its head tilted up. On each of the protruding branches sits another raven, their bills open as they look at each other.
Nailed to the bottom of the tree, a metal chain hangs to the door, holding a wooden sign printed in Old German script. It announces the name of the restaurant: The Hungry Ravens.
“As black as black can be.”
Mr. S. hums as he walks across the narrow street. He has reservations about her sense of humour, with this reference to the ravens. Their unfathomable connection to the work of the Organization, and their role of `familiar’ to Satan’s intentions, are beyond – in his opinion – the wryest of humours.
As he steps toward the front door, he notices a more subtle change. Breeze has sand-blasted the brickwork facing the street. The dark red hue enhances the outline of the tree and its occupants. They look as if they are silhouetted against a sunset.