Offerings

Friends bring me little virtual tidbits to include: flummery, a (human) knee bone found at Fort Funston, man overboard on the bay, galette. I like it. They are things outside this growing tumoristic novel that is taking over my imagination. It's fun to try and see where they might fit.

Right now, everything feels like fodder for the novel. And that's not just because the shear volume encourages me to stick just about anything I can think of onto the page. I come out of my apartment after writing for hours and am shocked to see some of my characters out and about, the corner where the body lay undiscovered perfectly calm and clean. And when I go back to the keyboard, coffee in hand, words roll out from where I do not know. Today, 1473 words appeared from nowhere. I felt like I was daydreaming on the page.

The boundary blurs between fantasy and reality. The novel is everywhere and everything is (potentially) in the novel. Is this a good thing? We shall see.

Spillover

The slog phase (or the first slog phase) has begun. Sitting and writing for hours, allowing unrepentant drivel to pour forth, is hard work. The inner critics are getting hoarse from all their shouting.

But are upsides, and they are these:

1. Exercise seems appealing. It couldn't be any more unpleasant and it doesn't require a keyboard.

2. Ditto on eating right. Comfort food just isn't up to the task of beating back the slog-energy so might as well fuel the mind and body well to reduce the suffering.

3. Story telling fatigue. Since all my creative juices are being poured into this "novel" it leaves little energy for making up stories about my own life. You know the ones, like why hasn't so-and-so called, do I belong, does my hair look nice. The stories we tell ourselves on a regular basis. No energy for that anymore.

NaNoWriMo . . . a much better escape than watching TV!

The Body has been found

Need I say more?

It's a murder mystery, right? So at some point a body must be found. But I've been a little nervous about the moment. Gone are the easy intro pages--all character development and context--now we have a murder to solve, facts to connect, the reader's critical eye to consider. Who should die (yeah, Allen . . . he deserves it)? And who's the killer? You'd think I'd know already but, to be honest, I'm really not sure at this point. 

Will I have enough content to get me from death (word 9737) to the end? Have I dropped the body too soon? 

Stay tuned for the answer.

Politics is in the air, and it smells sweet!

Like so many, I'm completely elated by Obama's victory  . . . and completely pissed off about Prop. 8. In the real world, I'm committed to action, optimism, and a focus on what's possible. In the fictitious world that is emerging in this novel, there things bleed over in interesting ways.

Tonight, one of my characters was introducing his new black, shepherd puppy to a friend.

"This is G.M." Rich said, "Short for Gay Marriage. We figure if we spend every day calling "Here, Gay Marriage" and "Come, Gay Marriage" and "Stay, Gay Marriage" we might send some karmic message out to the universe to overturn this hateful Prop. 8"

I'd heard this might happen, characters taking on a life and a voice of their own, but damn it's fun. Fiction, yes, but a satisfying way to channel the frustration. And who knows what other forces are aligning to our cause right this moment.

Trust is an interesting thing

Yesterday was a good day of writing. Characters came knocking at my door, plot lines fell into place, I could see (atleast a little bit) where things were heading. I could breathe.

Today, I'm nervous as I sit down to write. Will it flow again? Are the characters ready? Is this interesting in the least? Will the plot come to a screeching halt and the whole thing implode somewhere around word 5,555?

This mirrors the feeling in the air today on this election day. All across the country people are voting. Will he win or won't he? What'll be next? Hope or fear?

It makes me wonder if the real challenge is not about eliminating fear but rather about coming to expect its visit. Fear pounds on the door and yells, tracks mud in on the clean floor, demands our attention. Yet trust says open the door gracefully, stay calm as fear storms past, extend one arm politely towards the empty chair and say, "I'll be right with you after I finish this dream!"

Who are these people?

They said that, while writing, characters would just appear unbidden, each with a life of their own. I didn't believe that until today, when Allen showed up. He's a bit of a twit, actually, pompous and full of himself but with a lovely, long-suffering Boston Terrier named Skittles. I'd say he's at the top of the list of murder candidates right now. Funny thing about writing a murder mystery is you know that someone has to die. So as each character steps on stage I have to wonder: will they be the one? Sort of a perverse form of speed-dating, quickly assessing who I might kill.

Some characters are based on real people, or amalgams of real folks. But even then, there is an element of mystery that humbles me. I may know their name or appearance but in trying to imagine their thoughts or the color of their bathroom walls I find myself wanting to do justice to their human complexity.

Who knew making things up could bring such reverence.

Crack those gnuckles

This is when I feel age knocking at my door. Early Alzheimer's rooting in my brain. My fingers feel stiff and I feel the desire for a good crack of the  . . . "gnuckles"? No, that's not right, I think as I stare at the odd word. The spell-checker's red dots underneath knout me: wrong! "Gnuckles"? What are you thinking? Hey, I pout, there are words in the English language with a silent "g" at the start. I hit the backspace key. OK, smarty pants: nuckles. Uh oh, still not right. I've never had a knack for spelling but, for one frightening moment, I'm at a complete loss. I knit my brow in concern. Gnash my teeth. How do you spell the word that is those knobby joints, slightly achy in this damp weather? And why can't I piece it together? Terrifying gnosis of myself hunched over, drooling slightly, springs to mind. It jolt my spelling synapses back to life. Sparks fly. Oh yeah, I think, all cool and confident now: knuckles! Now that's what I'm talkin' about.