Sixty Thousand Words

Like every Wednesday, we took a family trip to our local comic store to pick up this week's offerings from my husband's pull list.  The guys that work there greet us with "Hello, Rahamans!" and "How's the littlest Rahaman?"  They know that instead of following characters, my husband follows creative teams, like Matt Fraction and Kieron Gillen and Nick Spencer.  They know I was burned getting too involved in the X-Men during the 90s and then reading too much manga to fill the Fullmetal Alchemist shaped hole in my heart, and so they don't seem to mind that I never buy anything.

"Do you want paper or plastic?" James asked.

My husband said, "We really like the new paper bags you've got."  They're very nice bags.  Plain brown paper and just the right size to fit too many comic books. 

Then, because my husband likes to brag: "Carolyn's using one to hold the manuscript for her novel."

I actually need a new one, because mine has a tear in it, I've been carrying it around for so long.

"Oh really?" James asked.  "How long's your novel?" 

I appreciated this question, because it's kind of like we were still talking about the paper bags and how much paper could fit in one.  This was a professional question about packaging material instead of asking about my novel.  "Only sixty thousand words right now."

He scoffed.  "Only sixty thousand."

I didn't tell him the second draft would probably double, then the third would be something manageable, or that it was sixty thousand words of garbage that I regularly want to light on fire, amazing paper bag and all.

Sam slipped into the conversation. "You should dedicate it to us, since we gave you the bag that you use to carry it around."

"You'll be in the acknowledgements for sure."

My husband had that anxious bouncing, his mouth open like he wanted to say more about my novel or wanted me to take a more active part in this conversation.  Make friends.  Talk about my interests.  Stuff that I assume those mysterious normal people do.  But no.  The conversation was over and I shuffled him and the stroller out of the store before anyone could ask, "What's it about?"

Because then I'd have two choices then.  I'd either have to say something vague and by extension boring.  "There's a dog?  There's this magician guy, who's under a curse that makes him have anger management issues.  He brings people back to life?  He's got a not-girlfriend.  She's a monster.  And then there's a second dog.  And a serial killer."  Or, I'd have to tell the truth. "I don't know.  It's a first draft.  I'm still feeling it out."

Which is kind of like admitting what I didn't say earlier: I have sixty thousand words, but they're garbage.  Someday it'll be better, but now it's a mess without definite themes or purpose.  And there's no way I've thought about my pitch enough to express succinctly what it's about.

This week's reading gave me some vocabulary to think about this interaction (or lack of interaction).  Since my story is still in the fetal stages, I have the door closed and I don't want to talk about it.  In the next draft, I'm going to bring out the themes and find my story's purpose.  I'm going to find what it's about.