I’ve gotten to the end of small exorcisms. I’m down to the epilogue. The trouble is that I’m just shy of 30,000 words. A normal novel length is at least twice that, from what I’ve been able to determine from various articles about writing on the Internet here.
Seems I need to add a bit to the story, there. A bit = anywhere between 20,000 to 50,000 words.
I’ve been thinking of setting se aside for a while now, however. While I did come to the conclusion that it could potentially be made pleasing to God (I say potentially, because of course I have no way of knowing if it actually is pleasing to Him), I’ve been…tired with it for a while. So now I am thinking of what next to work on, in case small exorcisms decides to stay a short story.
I’ve had an idea for a romance, of all things, a historical romance. I think I could make it work. I checked out Avon’s Impulse page and noticed under “What we’re looking for right now” that they are searching for “high concept” romance. I had come across this term before, but wasn’t certain what it means. So I searched for it, and in a moment had found this helpful article from The Writer’s Store.
This, of course, led me to wonder if my latest idea is high concept. I’m not sure, but here is the idea in one sentence: What if an angel came to Earth to prevent Quantrill’s Raid on Lawrence in 1863?
Would anyone read that? Especially as a romance?
I find this somewhat annoying. After this much work, all the thought and time expended, I find myself perhaps unwilling to continue small exorcisms.
For years I have suffered from tremendous anger, a poisonous cloudy ball in my soul that had no source, or at least none apparent to me. What do I have to be angry about? Good, solid home, loving family, a career and good health. And yet I get just as angry over trivial matters (this person in front of me at the store is SO SLOW!) as I do about actual problems (Syria, poverty, Donald Trump).
But why? Every time I asked myself where my anger — at times so strong and senseless I feared for myself and/or my children — where it comes from, I get nowhere.
Until this past Sunday and Monday.
While listening to the sermon, the sun shone directly on us through a stained glass window. I felt it as a hug, as though God was saying “I am here, and you are loved.”
On Monday, I finally decided to get help. I sent an email to a therapist I found here in Manhattan through the power of Google. Within an hour or so, I had an appointment set for mid-November.
Since then, much of my anger has lifted. I don’t feel as though I have a new outlook on life or any large issues, but I feel lighter in spirit. I’ve had an outburst or three since then, but I think I’m doing better, thanks to God’s hug and the knowledge that I’m going to get help.
As I said, though, this lightness in spirit has muffled my willingness to work on my novel. I can’t seem to work up the want to spend time with those characters. Not at the moment, anyway.
Yesterday, Azrael and Jordan watched several episodes of one of their favorite Netflix shows, Veggietales in the House. One episode, involving Laura Carrot and painting, Bob sang a song about how what we make can be pleasing to the Lord. This also made me pause and think about small exorcisms and it’s plot — how can a story involving kidnapping, revenge and torture be pleasing to the Lord?
Now that I think about it, the primary themes are forgiveness and how love for one another can redeem… Maybe it can be made pleasing after all!