urgle grue pt. 2 or so

i'm realizing that this story i'm currently working on (with reluctance--it's not an easy write, i think in part because it's been so long since i've written a first draft that i can't quite stop expecting more than is happening from myself) is, like, weird to try and pull together.

the early parts of a story seem to be mostly babble, for me (again, this is the first draft experience--it's interesting as such). i mean, i have a core idea, but of course, being me, i don't know what it is. it manifests itself as a symbol, or a...what's a word i can borrow from some other discourse, for kicks? a moment--a singularity. something that stays deeply meaningless. when i've hit the right singularity, then everything in me can draw up to the thing--like the jar up to which the hill came--and bits of myself start getting thrown at it, changed in the spectrum of the light that refracts from it, but still entirely identifiable.

the fact that i actually at this point know enough to SAY this, to put a process to the action of writing a story i've never written before, maybe means that this book will be better than the last. i doubt it, though. i think i might be villette-ing myself. not that the first book was even close to being a jane eyre, and not that villette isn't a freaking FABULOUS book in its own right, but it's not the same as jane eyre. it's not. villette is a work of genius, but maybe it's not a masterpiece--or it's both a work of genius and a masterpiece, but it's just...not jane eyre.

it might be that i'm addicted to rewriting the book i know.

none of this matters, of course. i am interested in the process, though. it's almost necessary to pontificate about the process precisely because i'm so damn unsure of myself. i like things like ground rules, boundaries...there aren't any with the new book, except to get everything in there that feels like it ought to be there, which is helpful, in a way, but only in a way. i'm going to forget something, is the fear, or lie about something--put something in there that doesn't need to be there. the last book was kind of a flight of fancy; this one is sticking low to the ground, said ground as defined by what i know.

which is, i'm afraid, making it boring. but it's a first draft. it doesn't have to be interesting until the second. i'm not sure why i'm so focused on the end product. i seem to be preoccupied with what my brain wants me to be preoccupied with, however--there's something to that.

oppositions, and the way they twist. and eternal love, unfortunately. depression, and not knowing yourself, and the weird possibilities that hover between memory and imagination. an uncomfortable display of my current preoccupations, in fact. rrr. but i have to write it. it'd be stupid to reject a gift like the end of plot-block just because i'm kind of afraid--kind of really really afraid.