OK, so I just finished MASKED IDENTITES, well almost, it’s in the hands of Beta Readers now (or rather in the jaws of ruthless blood-thirsty wolves shredding my story into scrap paper).
Nearly four months in the making, I spent three of those months doing research alone. I collected enough 1890 Victorian history notes to write volumes on the subject. Yet only a very small portion of that research actually appears in the story. No, it’s not a “period” story, but rather an exterior contemporary story wrapped around an interior “period” tale. The plots of the two stories parallel each other. The contemporary story deals with a heterosexual college couple (high school sweethearts) in a US setting. The interior tale is of two young gay men in 1890 Victorian London. Now, exactly how weird is that?
Masked Identities came to me as a dream, as all of my story ideas do (if I only had the time to write all the back logged stories I have outlined). Guess I have an over active brain, I can’t shut the darn thing off at night. It’s like as soon as the lights go off, my brain kicks in creating all kinds of strange stories. Which leads to my purpose for writing today’s blog dribble in the first place. (Thank gawd no one reads this shit). I finally complete MI, after contemplating for weeks over several endings, none of which I really liked, then the ending came to me in another dream (I did not like the original dream ending when my night-time brain projected the story on a movie screen inside my warped head).
The new ending worked and I had a finished manuscript which I feel so-so about. However, I still can not figure out the genre, sub-genre or sub-sub-genre (if there’s such a thing). The story isn’t an M/M Romance, it’s not Hetro Romance, it’s got a little of BOTH. No gratuitous sex (now I have lost 99.9% of anyone reading this blog entry with that statement). And to now eliminate the 0.1% that are still reading, the manuscript has a double-whammy not-so-happy-ending. Geez! Now I have no one to finish reading my blog entry… maybe I’ll just close the entry here.
Maybe not, dag-nabit! I spent nearly five months on this short story and I’m not giving up on it. Maybe it doesn’t fit into the comfort niche of most readers, maybe it’s a story that will make some readers ponder relationship issues, maybe it’s more than just a quick, simple, brainless read. Then of course, I could put the manuscript under the sofa leg to level the dang couch.