runnerland

So there was Dante. He’d banged out Paradise Lost, shown it to some friends, maybe sent a draft to the publisher, the stars were aligned. Hardcover release, lead fiction title for the fall, multi-agent, multi-country pub deal, interest from Hollywood. There was talk of tie-in merch, maybe action figures from the same guy who did those Spawn dolls. He was on top of the world. He was the man.
Except for the rewrites. The rewrites nearly killed Dante, because the rewrites nearly kill everyone. Remind yourself: this is normal. The pain is normal. This is not a sign you are unworthy. This is not a sign the book sucks. The pain is normal. The pain is normal. The pain is normal.
So Dante had nine great circles of hell, he was happy. He’d even put in the poets, which should be good for a laugh at the readings. Then it struck him: a 10th circle for poets in rewrites. Especially hot. Especially tight.
But his editor made him take it out.
So, now it’s my turn. Right now, I’m in Serious Coffee in Victoria. And in Chapter 7. And it’s getting hot in herre. Also, the music sucks (we’ve had “Send in the Clowns”, “Sunny Mind”, “The Gambling Song”). I’m iPodding Sabbath.