I finished the Baby Werewolf.
This writing project lasted for more than a year. It ended up being 88 Cantos and 77,000 words. I poured my soul into it. It burned up more writing energy than anything I have ever done before. Is it a good piece of writing? Maybe. Is it the best thing I ever wrote? No.
After the exhausting process ended, I have to regenerate. Like Doctor Who, I need a new life, a new face, a new adventure. If I don’t have something new to write, I might as well be dead.
So, here’s the plan.
I will turn this, my first completed hometown novel into a published novel on Amazon. That requires some serious editing and re-formatting. I have to tone down some of the risque things in the nudist camp section, including some things I have learned about nudists by becoming one. I intend to soften the language, because it is at times too salty to serve as soup in a young adult novel. I don’t intend to challenge people’s blood pressure limits. And you can’t always opt for realism and have kids talk the way they do in real life, totally uncensored. I don’t know how long this will take. But it will happen.
Then I will follow that with another story I’ve been itching to write since the 70’s.
Sing Sad Songs was originally titled The Little Boy Crooner. It is about a talented little orphan boy from France who is, by way of a fatal car accident and family relationships separated by too much time and distance, suddenly dropped into the middle of a dysfunctional and totally disillusioned family in Iowa. He doesn’t know them. He can’t talk to them. But, oh! when he puts on the clown paint and sings! Well, I am not ready to tell the story right here and right now.
Like it was with Recipes for Gingerbread Children and The Baby Werewolf, Sing Sad Songs will have a companion book. That is the story of a goofy family who harbor a talented child of their own, an autistic young man who can only talk through a ventriloquist puppet, but turns out to be a hidden genius.
It is a completely complicated and confusing mess of a writing plan. But what does it matter? I do it for me. I write what I want to. What I need to. Nobody is reading my novels anyway. Even beloved daughter has only read one of my published novels, about which she says, “Eh…” So I am not writing to become a millionaire. I am not committing acts of great literature. I am writing simply because I have to. Who knows, maybe one day in the far future, after Trump turns America into an impoverished irradiated wasteland, and aliens from Zeta Reticuli land to find out what humans have done to themselves, Zenu 231 will find a copy of one of my books in the rubble, read it with a dispassionate eye, and say, “Eh…” It could happen.