When I was a teen, or maybe a bit younger, my dad started to build his own pipe organ.
And I hated that new hobby of his with a passion over the years that followed. He built the wooden pipes by hand and that meant he walked around with them, constantly tuning. Those chirps and tweets got on my nerves. I grew to hate them so much that I usually walked away when he did it.
Now I have finished the first draft of my novel, I thought of that incessant tweeting and chirping and squeaking, and all of a sudden I understood my dad more than I have ever done.
He was on a quest to build an organ. To shape every piece of wood and metal and goodness knows what else goes into it, so he could make the perfect thing that lived in his mind only.
I feel that way about my book. I am on a quest to tell my character’s story. To make her sing wildly on the pages, which are now so horribly out of tune that some need to be destroyed to save others. That’s how it’s meant to be in a first draft.
I’ve decided I will dedicate my book to my dad —who died three years ago— because he’s taught me what it’s like to be on a creative quest. And that has been a very valuable lesson, tweets, chirps and all!