Second book? Laugh. My first book, still a manuscript — a small 47-poem foster child of hushed violence — is hunting tirelessly for a home while hopping from book contest to book contest. And here I am, already attempting to conceive a second one. And not very well, I might add.
I have a problem. The problem is that I can't un-believe.
I'm so delusional (or optimistic or arrogant) that I sincerely believe that my first book is done. It's been done. It's simply ... not published (yet). "God willing," it'll happen eventually. Preferably sooner than later.
But my delusion extends beyond the hope of publishing those poems. I'm convinced that there's a second book — a magical book — lying dormant in my fingers.
There are 27 items in my file folder. I created the first item in June. In New York. A TextEdit file called, "CRAP."
A strange aside: I created the file on a Wednesday morning, and that very afternoon, exactly eight months ago today, I texted (for the first time) the man who would become my partner in crime. I revel in timing and coincidence.
The files have titles ranging from "Selah" to "Timing in War" to "Dream with alien green soul ring on index." Some notes ask vague, impatient questions: "Where do the broken people go???" I collect the ancient names of stars: Hassaleh.
And they all mean almost nothing to me.
Every note, which pulsed incandescent at the time of its creation, is flat. Nonsensical. And I'm about to lose my mind.
In my mind, there are nine thousand half-evolved creatures — each one juggling a hundred amputated stories. I don't know what to do with them. Some of them make me cry. Some of them threaten me in my sleep.
Others order me to pray, to whom I say, "How did you trespass my file folder? Who are you? What have you to say to me??" But before they can respond, new voices demand my attention.
So far, nothing. My second book is sheet after sheet of nothing.
*
On Valentine's Day, the mister and I visited an independent bookshop in the West Village. We browsed the store, then dawdled in front of the humble poetry section. I picked up a book from the shelf second to the bottom. And something which only happens in movies happened.
I picked up the book and felt a sudden flash in my mind. Like a memory from a separate lifetime. It was a story. I could make out its blurry skeleton in my mind's eye.
I ran the idea by the mister, who thought it could go somewhere. I consulted my nurse/editor best friend, who got excited about it. And last night, at a Jewish deli, I told it to my other best friend, who laughed at me and said, "You look like you're going to cry!"
This nine-day-old idea refuses to disintegrate. Unlike the others, this story is one that I secretly believe is true. As absurd, surreal and unlikely as it is, I believe that this story has happened (or will happen) in some alternate universe (or this one?!).
I've managed to spit out 610 words to try to flesh it out, but 566 of them are lies. They sound too much like me. I keep asking, what really happens in this story, but I hear only faint affirmations that seem to come from a time-space continuum far away from this one. How do I get to that place?
I came to this blog an hour ago to complain about my lack of inspiration and take a break from my day job as a non-fiction ghostwriter.
As I began to write this entry, I realized that I'm waiting for one of the people from that universe to make contact with me.
A few sentences ago, I paused and pulled up a file called, "Notes 7.18.10," where I ran into a stunning, quiet old man. I found him on top of the Empire State Building. He wore a pair of electrician gloves the color of cold sand.
I said, "Do you have a story for me?"
He said, "Sit down. And stop saying 'story.'"
He said, "This is important."
