This summer I have to go face-to-face with CJ and Brinkley, two characters in my head, the first the protagonist of my last novel, and decide what to do about them. I very much like the potential dialogue they can have, and partly already have had in my head. I like the premise of Brinkley bringing CJ's ashes home to Portland. I like the working title The Reluctant Suicide, which captures my theme perfectly. I've even written some opening chapters.
But the notion of this as a novel is not wearing well. At least as conceived. It's almost as if I need to invent a new literary form to do this right. Maybe a digital form, maybe even multi-media, a "novel" with embedded video. Or maybe it's a novel in verse. Or maybe it's a battle of monologues on stage. Brooding, brooding. But I love these guys, and I think what they have to say about the end of life is damn important. So the project is not dead. It just hasn't quite found its natural language yet.
I want to write this over the summer, but without obsession, because we have many house chores to do this summer.
What if this is the opera I've been wanting to do? Hmm.
Well, all options are open. I don't particularly like what I have. It's good -- but it's too ordinary. ORDINARY. I hate that word in the arts. At the same time, "form" can't draw attention to itself. It has to be so rooted to content that you can't tell the difference.
Between now and summer, I'll teach, I'll continue brooding, and I'll transcribe whatever poems pop into my head, now that this eccentric form of creation has returned. Fascinating.
