By fits and starts I’ve been trying to write a novel ever since I read Goethe’s The Sorrows of Young Werther. It’s a small book with an emo story of young love.
My first attempt involved a clever ending where the protagonist kills his antagonist right in front of the cops, but due to the nature of the murder, gets away with it scott free.
My second attempt involved a magical realism attempt to portray life in San Francisco during the 90s.
I am now on my 3rd attempt.
The problem I’ve run into is that the world is changing quickly. Also, my passion for an idea soon fades away. I lose the inspiration that made it possible to write in the first place.
It’s tough to write a novel because I need my emotions to fuel it. To keep these emotions (jealousy, love, hate, pity) going, I need to have little reminders of them. This is where notebooks and photos are really helpful. They spark and re-ignite the dead fire of what was supposed to be chapter 3. They also provide a lose structure.
I am hoping that this final attempt will produce “the novel.”