This Writing Thing

Well, I'm happier than I was a day ago. I've been sick for the last two days, but I managed to get six pages of writing done today on my novel.

Oh yes, THAT. People have heard about this damn book of mine for years, and I think nobody actually believes that it exists, since it's taken me all of ten years to write it. I have, let me check,....oh. Only 234 pages to my credit. Well, that's not much, is it? Really, actually, that's about a third of it finished, and for ten years, that's not a helluva lot. But, as my grandfather was wont to say, "It's better than nothing.”

Oh, you're wondering how I happen to know it's going to be two thirds longer than it is. Well, that's easy. I have the plot mapped out, and according to my synopsis (God help me if anybody ever sees THAT mess!) I've only written about one third of the story. Thank God it's finished, it's the only thing keeping this whole unwieldy mess intact and on track.

So why am I working on a blog when I should be working on my novel? Well, this unwinds me wee stone brain somewhat after the knots that Ethan, Brooke and Quinn manage to tie it up in. None of these jokers is a light hearted soul, and by the time I'm done with them, (or they're done with me) all I feel like having is a Scotch and cigarette, or a shot of morphine, which for a Scotch hating, morphine fearing (I saw Long Day’s Journey Into Night too many times) non-smoker is quite an accomplishment. So if it's a choice between drinking and smoking myself into an early grave, or bitching about them in my journal or venting on my blog, then fine, so be it, I’ll take the reasonably healthy lungs and liver anytime. Truthfully, I couldn't begin writing a goddamn thing until the whole mess was semi-coherent in my brain anway, that’s why it’s taken so long.

Sorry I'm swearing so much, it's Brooke's fault. The woman has a mouth on her like a brigand. It's catching. You know she once beat Hemingway at cribbage? Well, at least she SAID she did, but I'm not inclined to believe her. In the first place, I can't see old Papa with those big hands playing on such a small board with toothpicks, and secondly, he always seemed more of a poker player to me, which Brooke emphatically didn't like, after her days on the Toronto Telegram. She also said Radclyffe Hall had a crush on her, and I don't believe THAT either, but to be fair, she only said that because Quinn said it first, and in those days Quinn would say anything if he thought it would get a rise out of her. Oddly enough, it didn't, in fact, she seemed oddly pleased at the thought, for all that she really couldn't tolerate lesbians, "bulldaggers" as she called them contemptuously.

Anyway, where was I again? Sorry, you see how difficult it is to get rid of these people once they're in the room.

Oh yes, writing. Well, you see, now that I'm gainfully unemployed with more than enough time on my hands, I'm struggling with getting at least five pages down on paper a day, maybe more if I'm up for it. The writing is bad, don't get me wrong, and when a first draft is finally finished, the rewrites may well land me in the Home for the Terminally Muddled.

My great friend Alison believes that human beings only have a certain number of words in them per day, and that if you're a writer, you have to be especially stingy with them. I agree with her in part, but I also think we have a hidden cache of superfluous emergency words we keep in the back cupboard, so that if unexpected guests show up, we aren't stranded sounding like Cousin It or R2D2, with only growls, beeps, whistles and shrieks to illuminate the others as to what we’re thinking. So not expecting any visitors, I write in this.

It isn't really so odd. John Steinbeck used to write a daily letter to his editor Pascal (Pat) Covici daily on the left side of the page of the manuscript he was working on, which eventually became East of Eden. When he was done the manuscript, he built a wooden box to hold it and the letters in and mailed it to Covici. He used to say the letters were like warming up his pitching arm before a baseball game.

I liked that analogy, and so I usually scribble on this, or write a letter by hand before or after I work on the "book", as I've come to call it, in the most dreadful tones imaginable. It warms me up and/or cools me down, depending on what has gone on before. Sometimes a whole scene will hit me unawares, like today, Brooke and Ethan's showdown in the barn, in the cowstalls. I was washing dishes, and I stopped right in the middle of what I was doing, and sat down to write. (That reminds me, the dishes are still soaking in the sink. Damn.) It wasn't a pretty scene. It was a cold March day, back in Springhill, and if you've ever been in a barn in early spring with manure and straw, you'll know how cold and damp it can be. What with denunciations flying everywhere, it wasn't their finest hour as a couple. It is one of several confrontations they have, and maybe, if not the biggest, then perhaps the most vicious. Nobody can hurt you, I'm reminded, like those who love you. And nobody can wield the knife more sharply or damagingly than those who are wounded themselves. The scene came to me out of nowhere, and it changed slightly as I wrote it, because in my original sighting, Brooke attacked Ethan, and then I realized, the old Brooke would have attacked, this one, after being a wartime nurse, and parenthood and a bad marriage, had changed, and perhaps grew more, and wouldn't attack. She'd endure whatever accusations he threw at her, and reason them out. She could see he was in agony, and set that above her own pride, whereas before she could never have done as much. I hadn't realized until I started writing, and knew he was going to attack, that he was the one who needed help, more than she did, and in the end, it didn't matter anyway. He was in too much pain for her to do anything. It was awful to realize that, for them. There was nothing at that moment to be done. So she didn't. But it was good getting it down. Even if it was exhausting.

So I got six pages done. I literally couldn't pump out anymore. Drained. Sorry about the scatological inferences, but there it is. Writing drains you. No matter what you think it drains you of, it drains you. At least writing about this lot drains me. These people are so caustic and contrary and acrimonious so often and so much tragedy happens in their lives, that they're quite bleak and tiring to be around for any length of time. Oh, it sounds like a fun read already, doesn't it? Yeah, well, maybe they're just bleak for ME, I've lived with them for so long. They may not be for you. I mean, I love them, (you HAVE to love your characters, even the ones we're meant to hate, you have to love them if you're going to make them believable, just as actors have to love the characters they play to make them believable) but sometimes I don't like being around them very much because sometimes, they're just not very likable. You may find them hilarious, and yes, there are moments of hilarity, somewhere, I just can't remember where right now. Oh yes, waitaminute, the flying poop in the sock was funny, but in light of what happens after, it was so relatively minor. Right now, I'm just so busy concentrating on getting the damn story out that I can't recall a lot of what went on before. When it's done and on the table, I'll check it over for all its fingers and toes, and (God help me) a SPINE. For now, it's just enough to get through (what feels like) the longest bloody delivery on record.

Now. For a glass of wine.