I wrote 1300 words this morning before work. They were a little poignant, because they are from the point of view of a young man who will, by the time Chapter One opens, be dead. He has always died in the prologue, from the inception of this story; he has been a revenant in my imagination since he was born into it.
I don’t know if it will translate into my words, especially in a messy November first draft, but I look at him and what happens as a tragedy of youth, of its energy and passion and hotheadedness. I hope that I can do his memory honor by making him earnest and well-meaning and driven by the invincibility of the young and strong, rather than a fool. Today’s holiday makes writing his last hours feel auspicious and somehow appropriate. I am enjoying celebrating Day of the Dead by writing a dead man’s story. What about you?