March 14, 2016

Figment: Erotic Metafiction

In a way, I have been writing Figment forever. Seriously. Since I first became a writer, there have been elements of this story hidden in the alleys, crammed between the lines. Last night, I finished the first draft.

The piece needs more work, of course. I know that. But the pages no longer need a blowtorch or a jackhammer. I'm at the fine tuning stage, and I am... well... fucking relieved. I know what's missing. I know how to fix what doesn't work.

Yesterday, I found this note in my mess. I mean, on my desk. With help from Twitter (thank you Gray and Dom), I translated my insane handwriting:

Remind yourself: you're a writer.

You'd think after all these years, I wouldn't need reminding. But right now, the knowledge is precisely what I craved. Because I have to dig back in and add what is still in my head and not on the paper. The crazy part is how long this book has taken me and how short the book actually is. Right now? 80 pages. For all that work. I probably wrote more about the book than the book itself:

I called the piece "The Pet" on my hard drive, but Figment online.
I was working on Figment when I had this dream.
Maybe plotting would have helped. But I don't wear plots.
Here is where things started to get strange.
But I began to understand my characters.
And I refused to flinch.
I don't want to fight, I said.
But the meter kept ticking.
It's not my fault, I assured myself.
My characters wanted to go #home.
Even when they wanted to go to someone else's home.
It was the weirdest fucking dream.

And it's not over yet.

But I'm close.


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