Another grey day of rain, wind, and trying to ignore the news. I spent the afternoon outlining the nineteenth draft of the book I’ve been writing for the past five years, and I’m getting uncomfortably close to the optics of something that requires a conspiracy, a cartel, or a victim.
Why on earth did I try to tell a story that’s set in the near future? When I started this project in 2015, a subplot involving a game show host as the American president felt mildly clever. And in 2018, I liked the idea of a mysterious sound that kept people shuttered inside. I’m beginning to understand why so many novels and television shows are set in the past. But I’m determined to finish this thing so it’ll stop waking me up in the middle of the night and harassing me. This journal might become a space to house the killed darlings, orphaned ideas, and mental exhaust from the process.
