It’s been far too long since I’ve had my grubby fingers on the latest draft of The Vampire’s Son, which was returned to me all bloodied and battered this week, after the severe beating my muse gave it. Not that she was out of order to do so, the thing is an abhorrence and in desperate need of whipping into shape.
She did her best with it, but the shambling horror is far from refined. It will be some time before this book can mingle amongst others of its kind with a glass of sherry in its hand, recollecting its own contents without
Muse said that there is definite promise, and that the beginning and up until at least the half way mark is fairly strong, but the last third or so is just…well, it’s made up entirely of notes and no actual writing.
After briefly scanning through it myself, I’ve noticed that essentially it is two completely different stories. One is a story about revenge, about one man’s struggle to cope with the entire world falling out from beneath him. The other story is a coming of age/love story, about one man’s struggle to learn about love and to cope with the changes in himself, both physically and mentally, and his ability to grow from such changes.
See how the themes are interlacing?
If it was written well, it would be a rivetting story about a man who loses everything while learning to love again and coming of age. Or something.
Instead, what am I reading? I’m reading lines like:
The silver object gripped so fiercely in her hand was indeed made out of silver.
Yeah.
Take a minute, if you want. That kind of eye-poppingly wonderful description doesn’t come across every day. Re-read it. Copy it. Make it your screensaver. Chinese proverbs don’t have that kind of insight.
And yeah, that is this draft in a nutshell.
I think it’s going to be a long year.
