Liner notes

This morning's sky.

Well my novel is done. Done is a relative term, in that I reached a conclusion, although perhaps not The End. Or one possible end as to what might eventually be The End. There is a difference, although usually my novels don't conclude with so much ambiguity. Regardless of what happens to it, I can walk away with a semblance of relief that no one was left hanging for dear life, especially not myself.

But I wanted to explain a little of why I wrote this book, in case it never travels further than my computer and flash drives. At the end of my published novels, I include a short section called Liner Notes, complements of Silverchimes, a long-lost Last FM buddy who in my very early publishing days suggested such a title for what some authors call an afterwords or similar wrapping up of a story, not that it's related to the actual tale, but more to do with how the yarn went from one small skein to an entire comforter, to which a good book should truly aspire. Enjoyable books could be considered as comfort food, and my Liner Notes are like what is scribbled at the bottom of a recipe, not necessary to a dish's success, but fun to have as an aside.

Having said all that, the liner notes for this novel aren't altogether ecstatic, but life isn't always rainbows and ice cream. This year life for my family has been clouded by loss, both in our inner circle and on the periphery. It's been cold, oh my goodness, adding to the gloom. It's also been wet, a huge blessing for our dry West Coast, so my mood with the weather vacillates between gratitude for precipitation and weariness for the chill, similar to how I have felt toward this spate of writing; thankful for the word count while anguished for the uncertain sense of Where the hell is this story going? Timelines shift, characters disappear, and at the end, despite the great gift of a clever twist, a rather unpleasant spin into an abbreviated they did this and they did that and....The End! Really? REALLY? Really, ahem. Sometimes lives end and closure is limited.

If that's all I am to take from this book, okay. I didn't invest much in the plotting, I enjoyed the ability of writing without too much hemming and hawing (owning up to not much plotting). It was nice to spend the mornings tucked away in the office while the rain fell or the frost formed, or sometimes both. We had snow that accumulated (not quite two inches worth) and snow that drifted from the sky in huge flakes immediately melting upon impact. Perhaps that's the kind of novel this is, one that fell from heaven, dissolving into the daily routine, then slotted away as a memory. I wrote a book after someone I greatly loved died, a few steps taken on the ladder of grieving.

If it turns into something more, well, maybe I'll blog about it. Or maybe I'll quietly go about writing something that might continue to only be for Present Me and Future Me, but not Past Me, who is probably the most bothered by this novel. Past Me is used to books either being written with the clear intention of publication, or a troubled draft being left as-is then dragged into the books under construction folder on my computer. This whole I finished a novel by basically scrawling one last chapter then slapping The End at the end kind of pisses off Past Me, who is currently shrugging her shoulders HARD from afar, a definite scowl on her face. But Future Me smiles kindly, gently patting Present Me on the shoulder. She says, "I'm proud of you for finding the inner fortitude to put a wonky end to this story, as well as for writing it despite the heartache." My heart continues to brood, but maybe in one small manner this novel gives me a little breathing space.

Present Me is tired, heartsick, but still able to pound out a story. Where I go from here only Future Me knows. But Past Me, tread lightly on what occurs today. The wind's gusting hard, yet I'm still standing.