I figured out a way to place another character into small exorcisms, one who could lend support to Mischa during his ordeal, and take some of the pain for him. Doing so would require a lot of rewrite, and I’m not certain how well he will fit as yet, or if his presence would detract from the intimate arc between Mischa and Frank, and the latter’s redemption.
Part of me was very excited when I figured this out, as I’ve hit a creative dry spell, and this new angle would give me something exciting to do, and hopefully help me finish the novel.
Part of me recoiled. "This is just more doom and smiting! More pain, more darkness. WTF? Why cannot I not seem to focus or produce anything cheerful?"
Bleah. I’m trying to avoid True Art is Angsty, but it’s difficult. Is this more a reflection on my viewing and fictional consumption habits, that this is what I produce (GIGO, in other words); my subconscious desire to write Something Great (which falls back on the belief of True Art is Angsty)?
It’s frustrating, whatever it is.