That's right, darlings, No Tomorrow has suffered the same fate as just about every other story I've tried writing in the past. And I fucking hate myself for it. I'm starting to even question whether or not the Powers That Be were wise in bestowing me with an MFA.
I should have seen this coming. I really should have. When I failed with Undead and Inhuman a few months ago, in desperation to make up for lost time, I jumped onto the zombie bandwagon largely because largely because I needed to do something, anything, to fill in the gap. What I'm staring at now is three hundred pages of pseudo-Walking Dead complete with even a Governor-esque asshole.
Sure, I guess I could hid that fact and keep plugging away at it saying, "No! That town is sooooo NOT Woodbury!" Then, in the privacy of my on home, I can flog myself for it. Because the truth is that I can't do it. I can't go writing something that's clearly been done and hope to God that no one is going to notice.
Writers are always the first reader. We talk about there being an ideal reader out there, someone specific in the audience that we aim to please, but still, we have to please our own tastes first, and this simply isn't doing it for me.
There IS a book for me to write. I can be certain of this because I feel my bones creaking over it like the branches of a tree in the wind. And until I find it, you'll hear...nothing. I'm keeping my mouth shut about it, even when I do find it until I can be certain that it's going to stick with me for the long haul. I'm doing this to spare myself the agony of another raised hope (as I'm sure there probably will be), because the next one, if it's good, I don't want to ruin it by giving it air and light when it needs to first ferment in solitude.
Maybe that's what's jinxed me with past projects, talking about it before it's ready. Maybe there are some gung-ho, psychopathic commando robots out there that can jump me in case I get the urge to do that again.
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