Too many people like to say that writing is a lonely passage, but while I agree with the sentiment, I often disagree with the reality of it.
Anything can be lonely if you want it to be. If you write with a wounded hand, I'm sure the text will reflect it, but it doesn't have to be that way. A person's life is a direct reflection of what they've wanted to see, no matter how dark, how bad and how detached. You can apply your social stratums and mores and you'll walk into a prison cell, a red-wood tree-sit or a corporate board room and see the exact same thing, respectively. It just might be the most beautiful thing you've ever seen, too, and maybe you've never seen its equal, but it won't be the only thing going on. It rarely ever is.
I recently finished, and finally released, the last version of Yellow Fever the other day after an absolute mountain of rework, retooling, rethinking and letting go. I'll probably never touch that book again, barring fame, a publishing contract or postmortem finagling. I'm glad to see the end of it without a doubt, and those that have had the luxury of reading all my novels have often stated that Yellow Fever stands alone, no matter how much I'd prefer for it to stand alone in a dark room and be forgotten. I had written another 80 pages to the book that I had contemplating re-inserting, but I didn't feel it was fair to subject the reader to something so unnecessary, so don't look for it. I know I stated the contrary a few times in the last few months, but somethings are best left unsaid.
I'll be honest, I had wished that someone suited for this book would've found Yellow Fever, picked it up and published it with a media campaign, but now it'll just be another title in the back catalogue. But in honesty, I always knew this to be the case anyways. So ... nothing lost, but lots gained.
Greyhound is also off my desk and minus a few basic revisions and changes, it will keep its form throughout this upcoming submission process. I've have higher hopes for this than anything else and can actually already see the light at the end of the tunnel, if that makes any sense at all. It's like knowing you have a winning lottery ticket. Your heart races all the way home as you want to double-check the numbers in privacy behind a locked door. That's an obscure and niche allegory for sure, but some will get it.
So on to the next project we go. But writing is like dying ... (or so they say – how would I know?) you do it alone.