by Shelt Garner
It happened *again.* The first few chapters of the novel collapsed in on themselves and I realized I could not only make the first act shorter, but better. So, here I am, yet afucking again having to go through what I’ve already written.
The story is definitely getting better. A whole lot better. I’m really pleased with what I’ve managed to come up with on a macro level, if nothing else. The story flows really well. It’s just I keep finding a better way to tell the story. This causes me to feel like I’m spinning my wheels.
This is very, very frustrating.
And there’s going to have to come a moment when I just “give up” and accept that I have to move forward. Not only am I not getting any younger, the fucking “Fourth Turning” of autocracy or civil war / revolution starting in late 2024, early 2025 is careening towards all us at an alarming rate.
Though, I have to admit I know there is a real risk that people will boil down all 100,000+ words of the novel to “sex worker solves a murder mystery.” I suppose that’s a pretty good logline, but that’s not — at least in my mind — what’s going on with the novel’s story.
And, yet, lulz, it’s both human nature and the nature of marketing that the sex worker angle of the story will be what everyone wants to fixate on. I have no one but myself to blame. That’s the story I want to tell and, so, lulz, there you go.