I’m headed back to North Carolina for a few days, writing
this on the plane. The countryside around Charlotte is rather nicely lit, as if
it were featuring in a Wes Anderson movie. The glass of wine that was supposed
to make me less aware of my sleep-deprived state has instead induced a sort of
toddleresque fidgetiness, which is always so popular on planes.
Hence my decision to finally impart to you, dear reader, an
update on the Awful Space Opera—I’m hoping a bit of frenetic productivity will
stop my inner three-year-old from staring out the window and yelling ‘Down!
Down!’
So, basically, I finished it. My draft I mean. Certainly not
the final one. It needs an immense amount of work still. The last few chapters,
in particular, are truly, utterly, definitively
more Awful than all the rest of them combined. But that’s to be expected. You
know, you go along, building your characters, juggling your plotlines, always
tossing a few more balls in the air, and if you can finish without dropping
every single one on the ground, you call it a win.
Closing the show with a flourish and a bow is for the third draft.
I’m not entirely sure what to do now. Do I jump straight
into yet another rewrite? Or do I take a break, work on something else for a
while? I’ve an idea for a screenplay—not the one I was working on before, a new
one—try to keep up—I’ve an idea for a screenplay about spies that I’d really
like to get down on paper, before Vladimir Putin invades anything else and
makes the whole concept hopelessly dated.
And changing gears again does have a certain appeal. Or I
could take a shorter break, write something just for me, a TV episode or
something.
I just don’t know.
