Editing your book is normally very difficult for all kinds of reasons bust most of all because it isn't real and you created this thing out of nothing. It's said and often believed that the toil of the writer comes from the heart and soul and I've written those books too so I know how it feels when it's true. In those babies the writer's opinion is that just about everything is good and to take out anything would be a crime and so it hurts like a bastard when you know that you should. Sometimes it is quite literally 'where do I start'.
'Level Crossing' was not that type of effort. From beginning to end it was a fabrication of my imagination and I struggled intellectually with each word. Harsh; I was constipated and there was no laxative I could take therefore every line was produced with heavy grunting and red cheeks with my head ready to pop off or blow. When it was time to edit, gutting it was the easiest thing in the world because I hated it and what I had to go through to get it on paper. The problem was obvious to me as I went along. I was committed to writing this log if it was the last thing I did all the while feeling that was probably true and that after this there would never ever be another one. I joked to friends that this would be the unfinished manuscript that I would still be talking about ten years from now. I had to purge it before I could move on to anything else. Well I didn't have to and it didn't have to be like that but that's who I am and denying that now I might as well just swallow a gun barrel and end it because it was really over if I thought about it at all.
Friends who I hadn't seen or talked to for months would say 'how are you?' and I would hang my head and mournfully reply 'editing'. I was rebuilding the story I hated so every day was spent in anguish. No moment even for a second of a good day's work I would type and think until my body couldn't stand the position any longer then I would stand up and be done until the same time tomorrow. I put my life on hold for over a year when a year in the life isn't throwaway any more. I used those up already in the last decade in the name of fun only it wasn't all that much worth it but what can I do now but smile and regret it.
The only thing accurate about this work was the theme and I nailed it when I called it an 'existential angst' saga. It is so dark that if there was a market for it the Scandinavian block were the only countries that could possibly be interested. Iceland for sure would get it especially the part about death and dying. Symbolically there is even more merit since my alter ego for the past thirteen years is killed on the first page. I hated it so much this was the only story left to tell. With this much done I am standing at the door step of 1997 and now I am depressed because of what that means to me.
Absent from this story of mine is any trace of a love angle which underlines no muse in my life when I wrote it.. Also M.I.A. no music. There is none in the story and there wasn't even the hint of a few bars in my head. Surprising in that jazz was playing in the background 24/7 or at least during the parts when I was sitting down in front of a keyboard.
So to wrap this up just like the book, the process like the story is all true except that it's not.
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