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

Yeah, I’m a YES fan… Pretty hard to be my age and NOT at least be familiar with YES. And, yes, I’m “sorta” kyping the title of this blog entry from YES. Although the actual title of the song wasn’t quite right, so I had to dig a little deeper into the lyrics.

And now, I probably need to stop saying yes so much…

The truth is, my heart isn’t actually broken. To be perfectly honest, it isn’t even mortally wounded, nor is it shattered, cracked, dinged, chipped, or otherwise severely damaged. I will say, however, that my feelings are just a bit hurt. Not irreparably, but definitely a little dab. But, I have to admit, I saw it coming. In fact, I’ve seen it coming for better than a decade now. Screaming headlong in my direction, on its way to bowl me over without apology.

But, for any of it to make sense, as usual, I need to start at the beginning…

Christmas season last – that being 2009 – it was time to set about doing the limited shopping. I say limited because E K and I only trade small gifts – after all, I shower her with gems and such all year round. But all seriousness aside for a moment… Really and for true… We only buy small gifts for one another, and the rest of the budget goes to the O-spring and the nieces & nephews under the age of 18. It’s an overall family decision and it works well.

Now, in recent years, the O-spring has decided that perhaps she should purchase gifts for us as well. This is pretty neat in and of itself because it’s one of those hallmarks of growing up. Of course, we didn’t make her go out and get a job. She just saves up her allowance for a couple of weeks and then we supplement it a bit if necessary. Normal parenting stuff.

So… Christmas 2009 the O-spring kept joking around and telling me that she was going to buy me some BBQ’d ribs as a gift. Along came “national present opening day” and sure enough, there was a box under the tree with my name on it. When I dug into it I found that my daughter had definitely inherited my sense of humor, for while there were no actual BBQ’d ribs in the box, there were in fact two very important items which hinted at such:

A high-heat resistant silicone basting brush and a bottle of Carolina style BBQ sauce.

And, as I said, the munchkin’ inherited my sense of humor. She had executed this joke of her own accord, with only the absolute necessary help from E K – i.e. driving her to the store, etc…

So, we had a good laugh. Then, we decided that as soon as the weather was nice and I had some free time, we would do the Dad and Daughter BBQ thing. We would get ourselves a slab of ribs and have at it.

This past weekend just happened to be the one.

I was on schedule with my manuscript, the predicted weather was to be absolutely lovely, and the supermarket had ribs on sale. O-spring and I planned it and for the entire week I looked forward to it. After all, I’ve been trying to get the kid interested in cooking forever and she hasn’t really taken a shine to the idea. She finally seemed like this was something that just might hold promise where such was concerned. Plus, I would get to spend quality time with the kid, doing something fun…

The Q’ing day came round, and her friends starting calling. I didn’t think anything of it at first. After all, we had plans… Then, I found myself standing at the grill with a rack of ribs, a pair of tongs, a silicone brush, and a bottle of Carolina style sauce.

And, a beer. By the time all was said and done, several actually.

Because you see, there was no O-spring to join me in the Q’ing of the ribs. Her friends and social life took precedence over the plans of the day. Eventually, she came back. But, she was still hanging with her friends. E K convinced all of them to play Boccie Ball in the back yard where I was “manning the grill”, which at least put her in the general vicinity. However, as far as the ribs went, I was on my own – until time to eat them, of course.

I was just a little bit devastated, hence the multiple beers…

I’ll get over it. I’m a big boy, and I am well aware that this is just the beginning of a long string of dented feelings. Like I said, I’ve known it was coming since the day she was born. Hell, I was a kid once myself, so I know what it’s like, and I’m certain I hurt my parents feelings in similar ways as well.

But, she’s arrived at that age where her developing social life is all important, and E K and I, as her parents, are sort of like ATM’s that talk back but don’t say anything important – at least, as far as she’s concerned. That’s just how it goes and something I have to accept. Doesn’t mean I have to like it, of course, but there’s little I can do to change it.

Now, I just have to sit back and bide my time… After another decade passes by – or maybe just a little more –  she’ll come back around and realize Dad is an okay guy to hang out with. And, when she does, I’ll find a sale on ribs, Carolina style BBQ sauce, and a bag of charcoal.

With a little luck, maybe I’ll still have that silicone brush she gave me for Christmas in 2009.

More to come…

Murv