I’ve been having problems coming up with a working title for my novel.  I just refer to it as Symilia, because that’s what the file is saved as on my computer.  However, I don’t see that being the title for the completed novel.  Each good idea that I had was taken.  The Return of the King is a Tolkien title.  Crap.  For Love of the King is a little-known Oscar Wilde title, and crap, but title theft might occur since it’s not that well known.  As far as I know, A/The Greater Story isn’t taken, though I do believe that it’s the name of a writing website.  The more I write and think about it, the more I like the title.  Though I do bounce back and forth between A and The quite a bit.  And I still love For the Love of the King, though it seems a little long when I’m tired.

I wrote for the first time in a few weeks today.  I’d been staying away because I was afraid that I was contaminating it.  I didn’t want to write the story (or an ending) that I wanted in real life but couldn’t have.  I needed to make sure that what I was writing was the story of my characters.  I didn’t want myself in the novel at all.  I never wanted myself in the novel.

So, today, I started writing again.  At first, nothing was coming.  Everything felt so forced and heavy.  I thought that I must be approaching the bitter end, then.  I don’t think I am, though.  It got much easier after some time.  That was a great relief.  Hedia had started talking a lot about herself.  It was wonderful.  Her life was so complicated.  She wasn’t really talking, so I decided to try Pallavi.  Pallavi had stormed out of a scene for no reason the last time I tried to write her story, and she talked for a little while, and then decided to shut up.  Back to Hedia.  Hedia’s story breaks my heart a little more each time I write her stories.  Even heartbroken, bitter me is moved by the unnecessary loss that Hedia experienced.  And, somewhere in the midst of all this, there’s Elliott who wants to hear every single story he can and who sees each story as a stitch in a beautiful tapestry, and who wants to heal everyone’s hurt, including Dama’s.  Though I’ll admit that sometimes Elliott’s innocence and naiveté annoy me a little, his perpetual search for beauty in everything and his true childlike nature endear him to me more sufficiently to outweigh any annoyances I have with him.  I think when all is said and done, I might have to dedicate this work to all who have loved and lost, like Hedia, rather than to the love that I wish I’d had here and now.

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