BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

I recently rambled about the -30- at the end of manuscripts. If you happen to follow me on Facebook, Twitter, or any of the other social networks I have linked to my ping account, you are most likely well aware that I just finished a writing project. Hence the sudden interest in the number 30…

But, while typing that symbolic notification of “the end” draws my “work in progress” to a close, I’m never quite finished. There are tweaks, editing, final revisions, and all that jazz – not to mention hopping onto the promotional bandwagon and “selling” the book. However, those aren’t the things I am talking about either.

Anyone who has been around me when I am working on a manuscript knows that I go through phases. Simply for the sake of explaining my process, I’m going to try to break them down for you here. By the time you are finished reading this, you will likely believe I need to be living in a padded cell.

PHASE ONE: I start out by diving into whatever research is necessary for that particular work. For instance, when I started the Miranda Trilogy, I knew next to nothing about Vodoun and Hoodoo. While I’m still no expert by any stretch of the imagination, I came out on the other side of that first book in the trio with more than just a passing knowledge of both. Granted, there are times throughout the penning of a manuscript where the story will take a direction I hadn’t foreseen, and this will require me to stop and take a day to research something in order to be accurate. But, for the most part, the reading, interviewing, and info gathering generally comes at the beginning of a project.

PHASE TWO: Next, I move into the, “Gawd, this is like pulling hen’s teeth” phase. I’ve started writing and at about 10-15K (word count) I hit this imaginary wall. It’s a barrier that is built out of my own self-doubt and inner fears about whether or not the story is going to be worthwhile. Suddenly, squeezing out a thousand words in a day is laborious. Nothing has changed quality-wise, but I spend so much time doubting myself that the characters decide to go sit at the bar and wait until I get over my one man pity party. I have even gone so far as to say to E K, “I don’t know what made me think I could write in the first place.” This is usually greeted by a couple of slaps, followed by a stiletto heel to the head. She’s all about negative reinforcement, ya’know…

Then, we move into PHASE THREE. Words are flowing, the story is unfolding, and I look forward to sitting down at the keyboard each day. Oddly enough, Phase Three is the least stressful of them all. (Not that the stress is all bad, mind you. There are definitely good kinds of stress…)

PHASE FOUR hits at about 40-50K, and things change again. No longer do I  merely look forward to sitting down at the keyboard, I begin to dread having to leave it. The story has not only continued to unfold, but I am now sleeping on the couch in my character’s home(s). I’m sitting in the back seat of their vehicles whenever they go somewhere. I am standing right behind them when something happens. I am a part of their world, and I belong. This is generally the point where I become very hard to live with – not because I’m an asshole or anything, although you might want to check with E K on that just to be sure. The primary reason is that I am not here. Brainpan-wise, I am no longer a resident of the here and now. 24 hours per day, 7 days per week, I am living in a different world inside my head. I am seeing all of the things that are happening behind the scenes. What I mean by that is simply this: I see the manuscript happening in real time, and all of the stuff that never makes it to the page. The boring interludes where Rowan and Felicity might be sleeping, or Ben is fixing himself a grilled cheese sandwich using a folded sheet of aluminum foil and an iron.

I am an observer in their world, and even though only a small fraction of their time is chronicled on the pages of that particular novel, I am witnessing it all. Every last second…

When I come downstairs from my office I am told there is a vacancy in my eyes. It’s flat out noticeable. The lights are on, but Murv is long gone. E K will see it right away, and now that my daughter is older she sees it too. They both give me a wide berth, and talk to me only about what is absolutely necessary – again, not because I’ve turned into an ass, but because my brain is somewhere else entirely.

PHASE FIVE is even worse. Not only do I live with my characters, I form an empathic connection with them at the basest of levels. What happens to them, happens to me. I feel their pains – physical and emotional. I weep with them, I fear for them, and I even become physically exhausted with them. At this point there is usually only 25-30K left to write. Now, the relationship between the manuscript and me becomes pseudo-sexual. The “foreplay” as I like to call it, is hot and heavy. The “climax” is only a few short chapters away. Everything quickens, and my daily word count, which started at 1K, then progressed to 2K, is now in the 3K or better range. My wife comes home to someone she doesn’t know. A taciturn and at times almost catatonic individual who stares into space while moving through the motions of life in a purely mechanical fashion. I am like a junkie looking for a fix. All I can think about is getting back to the keyboard, and although I take notes on a constant basis through every phase, by now if I am not at the keyboard I am scribbling on anything viable with anything that will make a mark, just to be sure I remember. I begin to spend all of my time sequestered away, living the lives of my fictional “family.”

PHASE SIX arrives when the “literary orgasm” occurs. Everything has come together into an explosive, emotional ejaculation that leaves me tangled up in the proverbial sheets on a bed of my own making. I’m spent, as are the characters, but it’s not over.

PHASE SEVEN is the cigarette and cuddling. All of us – characters and me as well – have to debrief. We talk it out among ourselves, making sure we understand what it is we just experienced.

And then comes the -30-, the scotch, and the cigar…

But, like I said, it isn’t over. There is a PHASE EIGHT… For several days following that numerical end mark, I continue to sleep on their sofas. I dine with them, I walk the dogs with them, I watch them when they sleep, like some kind of nebulous, fictional stalker. Then, slowly, I begin to fade from their world. I feel myself being tugged back into reality by those who need me here. And eventually, my life with Rowan, Felicity, Ben, Constance, and all the others becomes a bittersweet memory, underscored by a longing for my next foray into their world.

And… There you have it.

I’m relatively certain some – if not all – of you will probably think I am insane now that you have read this, and to be honest, I wouldn’t blame you. E K did the first time I confided all this to her, but thankfully she didn’t have me committed. A year or so later she was reading a book by another author (she does that a lot) and discovered in the afterword that I was not alone. That other authors develop these deep seated relationships with their characters, and see them as very real – even if the “real” only lasts for a very short time.

Even so, I know it sounds nuts. I actually think all fiction writers – myself included – are by definition just a little bit insane. But, you know what? I think maybe I like it that way.

More to come…

Murv

I hear that a lot.

And no, it’s not EKay’s way of saying “Are you through yet?” Sheesh, you people and your dirty minds…

Now, the truth is, I’m fairly certain I have waxed poetic, nostalgic, pedantic, and various other -ic sort of adjectives, on this particular subject in the past. However, I am far too lazy to go looking for that blog entry. And, since I am personally too lazy to look for it I can’t really blame anyone else for not chasing it down either. So, since I still get this comment tossed at me on a regular basis, I figure it’s time for a refresher answer.

So, here we go…

The “You Oughta Come” in question here is the countless number of times I am told by well-meaning folks, “You oughta come to XYZ festival/convention just to hang out,  have a good time, and relax.”

Now, before anyone gets their BVD’s lodged in the darkened recesses of their gluteus maximus, let me point out that I am NOT ranting, nor am I upset / angry / or in any way pissing and moaning at you about this. The truth is I sincerely appreciate the sentiment. I really do. The only point at which I become upset about this is when the person making the comment becomes upset with me because I won’t comply with their heartfelt advice.

So, allow me to explain so that maybe this makes sense…

As an author, yes, my “job” involves sitting behind a keyboard and typing. But, it also involves something else – promotion. This means I hit the road and travel across the country doing book signings and lectures. Many of these occur at the very events, or similar events, to the places I am being invited to come and relax. See where I’m going here? If not, please allow me to cite the following example:

I tried to go to an event one time, just to hang out and relax. True story. I arrived and wandered around as incognito as possible without going so far as to  disguise myself like Carmen San Diego in a trench coat and floppy hat. I bought a couple of things from merchants and chatted with folks about innocuous nothingness. Fifteen minutes into this endeavor I heard frantic whispering behind me. Then, I was tapped on the shoulder. I turned to face a person I had never seen before who said, “You’re M. R. Sellars!”

I lied and said, “You must have me confused with someone else.”

A nearby merchant picked up one of my books from her table, flipped to the author photo and held it up while laughing. “Nice try! But, you ARE him…”

I ended up doing a book signing and presenting two seminars, mainly because the organizers went around touting the fact that I was at the festival and was suddenly a special guest.

I went there to relax and hang out. Instead, I ended up working. Not that I don’t enjoy my work, mind you, but let’s think about it – I went there to hang out and NOT work… See the rub?

But, that wasn’t the worst part – Down the road, some other events heard about this. Then, I started being asked “Why” they had to pay my travel expenses and provide room & board for me to  headline at their event if that one didn’t. Obviously I was playing favorites and being an unfair, stuck up a$$hole… I’m here to tell you, it was kind of ugly for a bit.

And, yes… This really happened.

So, here’s my thing – There are a few basic reasons I can’t show up when folks say “You Oughta Come…”

1. As shown in the example above, it’s not very likely that I will be able to just hang out and relax, unless I spend all of my time hiding in my cabin / hotel room.
2. As amazing as it may sound, I don’t make that much money. So, I can’t just hop on a plane at a moment’s notice and fly halfway across the country to hang out.
3. If I show up at an event that didn’t pay for me to be there, then I torque off other events.
4. And last, but definitely not least, let’s look at the big picture – I go to countless of these events every year. They are more or less the equivalent of my “workplace”… So, me going there to relax is sort of like some guy who works at XYZ Widget Company taking his vacation and spending it in his office at, yes, you guessed it, XYZ Widget Company.

Now, this is not to say that I wouldn’t love to do some of these things. Believe me, I would. I have made some very good friends across the country and would dearly love to go hang out with them because they are a blast and I miss them.

I know. Sucks, doesn’t it?

More to (oughta) come…

Murv