So, after leaving a book part way through do you think I can just pick up where I left off months ago?
I thought I could until I began looking at the dang thing. Forgot it’s got it’s own language and characters that I’ve now got to try and reacquaint myself with but damn it’s good. It’s just remembering the premise and the plot that I’m struggling with. The thing is it’s too good to leave unfinished. I know I had a very distinct idea of where it was going but the psycho novel ‘The Act’ (title may change, again) needed my full attention or I might never have finished it. Thank buggery that bitch is at first-draft stage, now the endless rewrites and proofreading begin but that’s cool, that can take it’s own sweet time, it’s getting the poxy thing down in the first place that is the killer.
In a way going back to Astaar feels a bit of a cheat because it saves me starting a new book from scratch but there’s always so many genres to choose from I can’t imagine ever struggling for ideas; well, not before the senility kicks in and luckily I’m not quite there yet but that’s why I’m peddling so fast.
Time is finite.
Our minds have only so many stories in them and age will ruin that so now it’s a race to get the good ones out before the cells crumble. I see all these old people who manage to keep going but there’s no guarantees I will be one of them so now I think I’ve got something worth saying and the ability to get it down in a way that’s good on the eye and the mind I want to enjoy it while I’ve got the gift.
I’ve wasted enough talents; could have been a great guitar player, could have been a far better photographer but this I can do and I’m just hitting it. Imagine what I’ll be like in five years? Fuck I wish I’d started years ago but what can you do? The oeuvre, the muse, the chicken, arrives when it’s ready or some such pretentious cock.
Anyway, I’ve never written a full-blown sci-fi thing before. Iain M Banks has helped but really it’s Hawkwind and Michael Moorcock who are the Masters of the Universe, obviously. I’d like to write a book that powers along like an Orgone Accumulator, (classic Lemmy line-up Hawkwind, early 70’s) in fact I’m going to find a place for that phrase somewhere in the book. Some sort of mind-doubler, sensation-enhancer, telepathy-inducer? I’ll think something up, that’s the great thing about reaching the plateau, you understand your ability to be creative and when the mood takes me I can just spin words like some people paint, it’s amazing but the cliche is correct, practise practise nonstop. How else are you ever going to get good at anything if you’re not born to it? I have a reasonable amount of talent but it’s having an interest and being prepared to hammer nails into your eyes to get better at it that sorts the true writers from the chaffe? The authors from the chaffinches? The writers from the chavs?
Think I might be getting tired now.
Anyway, Astaar 2062 is underway again, it’s going to be spacy, it’s going to be astral, it’s going to enhance sci-fi literature, it’s going to imbibe the spirit and concept of space travel, the starscape, the starkness of the capsule, the beauty of the myriad wave patterns of kortesian electristatins, the biorhythms of tork parameters stress-testing lymph-layers on Treega-five, so much to say, so many avenues to explore, so many light tunnels to disperse matter through…pip pip.