Well friends, I’m back to the rewrite blues. I spent the past week reworking the middle section of Part II (WHEN THE FALLEN ANGELS FLY), and I’m still trying to grasp the right plot point, construct the scene, tincture the perfect blend of show and tell. Romance is brewing between Richard and Rafi, you see. I was trying to leave that storyline alone, but it opens up so many possibilities. It’s irresistible. Yet excruciating. I guess I could take that as a good sign. Psychoanalytically, you could say I’m experiencing countertransference to my characters, tapping into what it’s like when you first feel the stirrings of attraction.
I’ve heard other writers say: “If only my main character would tell me what to do!!” I want Richard Carroll to explain himself. Guide me through this thing between him and Rafi. Let me know what it’s like to feel love afer everything he’s been through. But Richard wears it close to the vest. At least with me. Maybe we’re having our own lover’s quarrel. I ask myself: “What did I do wrong?” Have I mischaracterized him? Taken him places where he didn’t want to go? Heroes are tricky people. They need constant reassurance, ego stroking, the right lighting to show off their best sides, shade when they crave privacy. And they get grumpy when they’re misunderstood.
So what do I do? I’m at the point where I’m about ready to leave this part of the story, move on and see what kind of trajectory I’ve established from giving Richard and Rafi some momentum. Very physics-like, this writing thing, and it’s a process that can only be mastered by trial and error. Richard is going to have to understand: I may not always treat you right, but no one can love you like I do.
Meanwhile, I decided to catch up on some gay classics. I tore through Neil Bartlett’s Ready to Catch Him Should He Fall and started Andrew Holleran’s Dancer from the Dance. Dated stuff, I know. But I feel like I need some reference points for my novel, the great American gay novel, I delude myself.
Funny, I tried to read both books years ago and couldn’t get into them. In my twenties, I was a bit intolerant. I couldn’t take a story seriously if it was about the archetypical “gay scene” – sex, drugs and cattiness. I wanted to read stuff that reflected my own life or, alternatively, stories that took me out of reality completely. Now, my mind has opened up, I think. Bartlett’s story is full of gay cliche’s – tragic aging queens, sexual objectification (one of the main characters is simply called ‘Boy’) and grown men weeping at piano bars. But beneath this rather uninspiring though perfectly believable scene (the book is set in early 1980’s London), there’s an engrossing love story between two men described in beautifully-written, sometimes shocking passages. It’s sexy and sometimes challenging. I’m still sorting out how I feel about the violence in the main characters’ relationship. But it’s a book I would highly recommend.
lol.
I thought you might like this post, Gravy 😉