By ‘riding the waves’, I mean riding the waves of emotion I’m feeling towards The Novel. Alternating surges of hatred and love have been washing over me the last few days.
Churchill said that at some point your book ‘becomes a Tyrant, then you slay the beast and throw it to the public.’
When I’m in the troughs, I find myself imagining the most horrific tortures to inflict on the thing. Tortures more horrific even than the Soft Cushions or the Comfy Chair.
From the peaks I can see the glimmers, brief glimmers, of brilliance. Whether real or imagined I don’t know yet. I’m still too close to the thing, to invested, to be sure.
When (if) I get done, I will be putting The Novel aside for a time. Maybe a few weeks. Maybe a month. Once I’m ready to revisit the vile carcass, I will be able to carve it up dispassionately, finding the tasty, meaty bits worth keeping and tossing the waste, the absolute garbage, onto the midden heap where it belongs.
Until then, I will keep the matches and gasoline locked away someplace safe. The manuscript, unlike the much maligned Village, has to survive to be saved.