I have realized something about Adrian: He’s not a novel. He’s a novella.
If I write him the way I’ve chosen, as a collection of correspondence and journal entries, I don’t think there’s enough there there to fill a book. If I write him another a way, the story from the perspectives of the main characters, perhaps. To me, however, that way sounds unexciting and prone to repetition.
A novella, on the other hand, seems a length more suited to the epistolary style. At most, I think I can manage 30 pages, and that’s if I allow Adrian indulgence about his feelings and deteriorating physical condition. This is likely, as he’s the focal point. But I don’t think he’s the most vocal anymore, the most strident voice. That dubious honor has fallen to his best friend (for whom I have yet to decide on the perfect name). It’s he who opens the story, and it’s he who is likely to close it.
With this, writing Adrian seems much less intimidating. I could theoretically write the entire thing in a week with diligent work. (Ha! I’ve got a three-year-old daughter. It’d have to be very diligent work.) But once Adrian is done, I’ll be free to fully focus on Getting Hammered and other creative pursuits.
Woo! A novella it is!