On Novels and Self-Indulgent Essays

I wish I could report that I spent the last month diligently finishing the second draft of my novel.

No. Still working on that, but I have passed the 100,000 words mark. I have a feeling that I'll be up to at least 125 once I write the final chapter. I'm halfway through the third from the last right now, which is an incredibly scary place to be. In an ideal world, I could lock myself in my room for 36 hours, not sleeping, just writing, consuming candy and coffee for sustenance and peeing in a jar, until I finished up the final chapters. I feel like I've been in labor for six months, and I want the little bitch out of me already.

It's always the end, when you're finally wrapping up the "masterpiece", that you begin to see all the cracks and issues with the narrative, story, main character, everything. I reached the final descent on the rollercoaster, but I can see more than a few bits of track missing that might derail the whole thing. In order to deter me from declaring this venture a failure, setting myself on fire and dashing out into the street, I started a list of notes in another notebook, bits that need to be tucked in earlier in the narrative. Some say it's bad to dwell on the next draft while still writing the previous one, but I must do something to maintain a base level of sanity.



Another week, and I should be finished. I'd like to give it a rest for a month, but I don't see that happening. I might spend a couple weeks working on some other projects, short stories that popped into my head and flash fiction that I started but haven't finished. I started searching around for some literary magazines that are accepting submissions, and I was thoroughly surprised by how many are filled with personal essays written by twenty-somethings, awkwardly waxing poetic about their nerdy, disastrous existences.

I might have a go at that. If Lena Dunham can build an entire career about being a slightly-overweight social spazz, I should at least give it a try. Granted, my childhood doesn't include an extreme amount of twee and quirky characters. I didn't grow up in New York with kooky artist parents, but a small corner of the literary world remains for people who grew up with strict, emotionally distant mothers and free-spirited, drunken fathers, right?

All of my ideas for personal essays seem to stray from the standard "I used to be fat, but now I'm not, life is hard" and "I'm nearly thirty and my life is devoid of meaning" ones I've read lately. Most of mine involve online social circles, how the Internet has changed since I first began using it, and the bizarre and slightly mental realm occupied by fangirls. One in particular that I have quite a few notes on revolves around fanfiction. I remember reading quite a few Serious essays about fanfics when Fifty Shades of Gray became a bestseller, but they were all think pieces that paid more attention to literature fanfiction, like Harry Potter and Twilight stories, and the original author's reaction to this brand of fangirl nonsense. I'm more interested in the slashy underbelly, the fics starring actual people, and what motivates young girls to pen scenarios where men they find attractive have sex with one another.

Recently, I witnessed something occur that I have been waiting for since I was first introduced to fan porn starring celebrities. The thing about fics involving actual people as opposed to fictional characters, is that actual people have access to the Internet and therefore might accidentally find one of these horrible creations featuring themselves in ahem, compromising positions. A lesser-known British comedian, who performs in a sketch troupe, found a slash fic starring himself and the other troupe members. He documented the event via his Twitter feed, and it was every bit as horrible and fascinating as I always knew it would be. I must commend him for publicly maintaining a grateful composure. Yes, he admitted it was creepy, but ultimately decided that it only meant that someone was a really big fan of his and that he should feel flattered.

I wonder what he actually felt. If I had sharper investigative journalist skills, I might interview him and try to seek out the author of the fanfic in an attempt to figure out what exactly went through both parties' brains while writing/reading the slashy porn fantasy. Where does slash fall on the obsessive fan scale? Slightly above waiting behind the theater after a show to get a picture with the heartthrob, slightly below breaking into the heartthrob's home to sit in the closet and have a sniff at his underwear?

I'm unsure whether these essays will ever see the light of day, but it's definitely something that will offer a refreshing break from the fantastical realm of my novel. It's like a pornographic carrot on a stick that I can sink my teeth into as soon as I cross the novel finish line.