Thursday, August 22, 2002
Nothing lasts forever. It's a nice rule, when you think about it. Not the universe. Not love. Not all-day suckers. It's a nice rule, like I said, because no matter how much you start out liking a thing, give it enough of eternity and it begins to wear thin. Sheesh. That sounds like the first paragraph from a Dashell Hammett novel. Maybe I'm writing in the wrong "genre."
But my point is that Low Red Moon is now mere inches (standard conversion from words to more traditionally spatial units of measurement) from being finished. I followed the record-breaking word count on Tuesday with another on Wednesday. Yesterday, I wrote the last 2,481 words on Chapter Thirteen, bringing the manuscript to (exactly) page 500. I've never written a 500-page manuscript before. I've never wanted to, for that matter. It seems like overkill. I weighed the damned thing and it tips the scales at five pounds. Regardless, all that's left is the epilogue, which shouldn't add more than another five pages. Lots of fives here. That's probably interesting. To someone. Today, I'll proof and correct Chapter Thirteen, which, considering its length and scope, I may split into chapters Thirteen and Fourteen. Tomorrow, I'll do the epilogue, after my head has cleared a little from the storm that is this novel's conclusion. Then I go to Atlanta on Saturday (and see how much tequila I can drink), clean this nasty apartment on Sunday, and receive my Rhode Islander on Monday. I was so exhausted last night that I passed out early, about 12:30 a.m., watching The Beast From 20,000 Fathoms. Then, annoyingly, I woke at 3:30 and was unable to get back to sleep. So, I finished rereading Lovecraft's "The Shadow Out of Time" and didn't get back to sleep until almost 5 a.m.
I can't even begin to believe I've made this deadline.
As for the novel, well, Jennifer's read the final chapter, as has Thryn, and both of them cried. I'm not sure I've ever done that before, made people cry. I almost did it to myself, towards the end. And it's odd, feeling good that you've made people feel bad. Neil and I were discussing this back in March at the World Horror Convention and we agreed it was rather strange, having someone say, "Oh, that was terrible. That made me cry (or that scared the beejeesus out of me, or that was really depressing, or whatever)," while we nod our heads sympathetically, thank them, all the while doing a little victory dance inside.
Low Red Moon is a strange novel. I always say that when I finish a book, but this time it's really, really true. It's sadder, in some ways, than Silk and way darker than Threshold. I've reached that point where I'm perfectly terrified of what critics and readers will say upon reading it.
Also, it's brought me back to that other point where, as an author who writes books wherein very bad things happen to people who often don't have it coming, I have to stop and wonder at the morality of this affair. The culpability of the writer. My obligation to the children of my mind. No one (except possibly Bill Gates) ever comes closer to being a god (or goddess) than does a writer. You fashion a world and nothing in that world happens without your say-so, nothing good and nothing bad. You create characters you love (you have to, or you can't expect anyone else to love them), and then you fail to protect them. And you do it for art, or you do it to entertain others, or you do it for the money (I'm not sure if I know which of those motives is less noble). And it makes me think of various naive objections to the existence of a supreme being that I've heard bandied about by the casually rebellious or loosely philosophical — how can they be expected to believe in a god who allows bad things to happen to his (or her, or its) creations. Maybe their answer lies in fiction. Maybe not. But it sure feels that way to me this morning.
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