BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

I’m sure the title of this post leads one to think I am talking about a festival where spaghetti is celebrated by pasta lovers from around the country –  maybe even from around the world. Honestly, looking at it right now, that’s pretty much what it says to me. However, as I am sure you suspect from the fact that I am rambling about such a thing, I am going to talk about something completely different. It’s just that I’m apparently too lazy to change the title – go figure…

Well, lazy AND my brain is still a bit fried from 3 1/2 days at PUF in Tennessee. Good fried, yes, but fried nonetheless.

So, let’s talk about PUF, because when you get right down to it, that is what this entry is really all about. You see, this year was the 13th PUF, and it was my 10th year of headlining same. In fact, I was their very first out of town “big name talent” ever. The fest has grown over the years, bringing in big names from all over the country, but no matter what, I am always on the schedule. I’ve been told that even if I die, they will dig me up and make sure I am at PUF. And, you know, oddly enough, that doesn’t bother me at all, because I absolutely adore the folks and the fest.

But, what does all this have to do with spaghetti?

Okay, I’ll tell you. One of the staples at just about any festival – pagan or otherwise – when trying to feed the masses is pasta. It’s inexpensive, quick, and just about everyone loves a good plate of spaghetti. If they didn’t, then you wouldn’t have all of these “Lodges” and Churches holding “Spaghetti Dinner” fundraisers. Therefore, PUF serves spaghetti. Not for every single meal, mind you. They actually have an amazing feast on Saturday night that is so beyond compare that I can’t even… well… compare it to anything. Suffice it to say, there is food for miles and I’ve never had a single thing that I didn’t like. PUF provides a portion of it, and then the rest is from “food donations” – that being various “covered dishes” brought by attendees.  The lunches  themselves are most excellent brown bag type fare. Breakfasts are cereals and fruits – although, I have to say, Rachel the Kitchen Goddess (aka VIP Chef) does up a major breakfast for those of us in the author cabin. However,  getting back to dinner, Thursday night is soup/stew night, and Friday night is spaghetti/pasta night.

“So what?” you ask.

Well, I’ll tell you.

At a PUF four or five years ago, the kitchen was short staffed during dinner on Friday night. Now, while it has always been customary at PUF for the staff to wrangle the “VIPs”, bring us in the back door, and run us through the chow queue before anyone else, on that particular occasion I saw a line of hungry people waiting to get in, and a frazzled half-staff that was trying to figure out how they were going to keep the line moving fast enough to avoid problems. For me, it was a no brainer, and over their objections, I put down my unfilled plate, rolled up my sleeves, and took up a position at the serving line. Suffice it to say, the attendees were surprised to see one of the Headline Author/Speakers slopping their choice of meat sauce or marinara onto their piles of pasta, but by the same token, they really enjoyed it.

And, so did I.

You see, sometimes folks can get the wrong impression of headline guests at festivals. They see us being pushed to the head of the line, dining at a private table – sometimes on display in a sense. We get the “VIP” treatment while they stand around and wait. For the most part these folks understand the situation, although there is the occasional person who doesn’t. Of course, I have to admit that when you get a VIP who carries about an attitude that matches the treatment, then folks aren’t getting the wrong impression, they are getting shafted. But, we won’t talk about those “big names,” because I already have to deal with them enough at events and I’ve come close to slapping the snot out of them on many occasions.

So, moving right along… The attendees generally  only get to see us at our workshops, or sitting behind a pile of books where they have to stand in line to obtain an autograph. For some – and I am definitely NOT saying all – but, for some, this seems a bit daunting and makes us appear unapproachable. For the record, this is something I have been told by the very same folks who feel this way. It’s not something I’m making up just because I have nothing to do.

On top of that, when you have vendors, multiple speakers, and all sorts of activities going on, people end up making choices as to what they will attend while on site. Therefore, when you have a fest with 300, 400, or even more folks, not everyone gets to have contact with you, even if it’s just to say “Hi.”

And that’s what this is really about. That experience all those years back allowed me to not only help out the frazzled staff and make sure everyone was fed in a reasonable time frame, it also provided something much, much more. I was afforded an opportunity to  at  the very least say “hello” to each and every person at the festival as they came through the queue for dinner. This is why I have made it a point to take a place in the serving line on Friday night ever since. It’s like a tradition of sorts. The doors open and people file in to have their plates filled with goodies from Rachel the Kitchen Goddess. (see photo above)…

I just stand wherever Rachel puts me – be it the spaghetti noodles themselves (as it was this year), or one of the various sauces, or salad, or dessert…  Rachel always objects, of course, saying that I’m a VIP and should be filling my plate instead of other folks’ plates.  But, I wouldn’t miss my kitchen time for anything.  It’s important to me that not only am I helping out the staff, but I am also able to say “Hi”, crack a few jokes, and even chat a bit with each and every PUF attendee as they come through the line. That way, if they are unable to be at my workshops, don’t run into me during the day, or for some reason see me as unapproachable, I have had the opportunity to come into contact with them. It’s my way of making sure I meet everyone I possibly can.

Afterward, once each person has had “firsts” and even a few have been through for “seconds”, I fill my plate and eat dinner in the kitchen with the staff, which is my chance to visit with them for a while. They work their tails off so that everyone – not just the VIP’s – can have a great time, and they have little to no chance of attending a workshop, or even getting to visit for any  decent length of time.

For other meals, it’s usually a different story…  Breakfast is at the author cabin where we are all trying to get our things together for the day and figure out where we are supposed to be and when. I eat lunch at my table, because I will be signing books between bites of “sammich”… And, for the feast I am on display at the head table – Please note that I’m not complaining about that.  It’s the way things are done, and I certainly understand that it puts the headliners in a central location – probably because they want to keep an eye on us so we don’t get into any mischief (although, we usually find a way to do so, even when being watched and wrangled)…  Besides, it also gives me time to visit with the other headliners who have been rushing from workshop to workshop.

Because of various logistics, I don’t get to do this at every festival where I present, but I do at PUF. Of course, if you don’t come through the chow line for Friday night pasta, well, I might not get to meet you. But hey, for 45 minutes to an hour at PUF, you know exactly where I am, and I’ll be happy to “sling hash” for you and say “Hi.” And, even though by the end of it, I am hot, sweaty, tired, and just want to get off my feet for a while, it has become one of my absolute favorite parts of the festival.

More to come…

Murv

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