Arriving at the Summit

Yesterday, the wife and I took a drive over the border, the very first time I have driven such a great length. As I drove, taking in the quaint sights of small town America, and in between conversation, I drifted into the well-known terrain that is my imagination. But this was no mere trip into my subconscious. The time spent driving on a sunny day, with the road ahead clear, and a confidence that we would somehow get to our intended destination, was an opportunity to think about story ideas, fix nagging plot holes in my book and let the characters I created run rampant through my brain, doing what comes natural to them, whatever that may be.

It was a Summit of the Brain, if you will.

Occasionally, these things will be convened where characters show up from all corners of my mind to contribute to the conversation.

On this day, the main characters of my novel took the conference table, while ancillary characters milled around the room. Other characters sat in the shadows, brooding on the sidelines; some looked ready to burst in the light, but stayed still, knowing it just wasn’t time for their story to be told. The heroes of my story were the first to congratulate me on reaching the milestone of over 30 000 words written. After this, however, one of them harrumphed, stood and awkwardly pointed out that the first part of my story was, as he put it, “utter rubbish”. I had to agree and promised once it was all said and done to go back and rework the beginning. Another one asked if this was like the time I said that I would start exercising, to which I replied with a sheepish grin and a heartfelt, “No, I really will rework the beginning. In fact, what I will do is…”

I was interrupted by a chorus of fingers being put into ears. Characters are notorious for not wanting to know what is in store for them. Ruins the spontaneity for them, they say.

The next to have the floor was the villain, who stated matter-of-factly that he was appalled at the role he had been given. He moved that “villain” and “bad guy” be stricken from his record. That notion was shot down by all and sundry. He spent the next 20 minutes in a sulk, sinking to pilfering the pens and stuffing them into his pocket. This particularly frustrated those members of the ancillary crowd who were struggling writers and who desperately wanted something with which to record their ideas (I believe that all writers create these characters in their head for sympathy, so that when they run into a rough creative patch, there is someone there to commiserate with. Only one struggling writer appears in my book and I think he will become much more interesting once I take away his pen).

A few minor characters got into an argument which had to be separated by two brutes whose sole purpose is to keep the peace at these meetings. Their names are Morris and Steve. Both wish desperately for their own story where they open a detective agency. Morris would also like it to be known that he plays killer piano. None of this has bearing on this particular meeting, however, so they keep quiet and enjoy the small victories of escorting rowdy participants into another room where they can be convinced to retain a level head on matters.

The floor was then opened to others to hear their own concerns. Several characters made the pitch to be the lead in the short story I am working on. None of them were winners, but some had interesting ideas.

It was then that the floor heard from the others who had come to the meeting, non-characters who are just as vital to a writer. Themes, plot devices, personifications, metaphors and atmosphere also pay a visit. They sit in one corner, observing the circus that happens and wait patiently for their turns to speak. Oddly, they all speak in a British accent, lending elegance to the proceedings.

Back in the car, I turn off the highway; we have arrived at our destination. I adjourn the meeting for the day. Characters get up and leave, some laughing with each other, some drifting off deeper in the shadows and some with a flourish. When everyone is gone, I turn down the lights and go hand-in-hand with my wife to enjoy the day.

Back in the meeting hall, Morris and Steve sigh, turn the lights back on and start stacking the chairs. As they work, they formulate plans to pitch the detective agency again. Steve insists that it would work wonders for their case if they actually solved a crime. Morris agrees and they start looking for clues to the missing pens.

A Writer's Life for Me

It’s been a while since I’ve sat down at my computer and did some serious writing. A few hundred here and there, but today was the first time in a few weeks where I have had the energy to put in a full session. I was afraid that the characters would have lost their lustre after a few weeks; they may have decided to go off and do other things while waiting for me to get back to their story. I was sure one of them had opened a Tim Hortons’ franchise and was hawking donuts and coffee. I was relieved to discover that returning to these characters was easier than I had thought. I was also surprised to discover a twist in my story that I had not seen coming. My dialogue was working its way towards a specific goal, a situation I wanted to get one of the main characters into. I found myself instead listening to the villain, who was a lot smarter and a lot more charming then I gave him credit for, and following his lead instead. Now my character finds herself in a more interesting situation then I had originally planned, one which gives new dimension to the book and one which I am excited to see played out.

The lesson of the day? You are a writer, but you are telling the story of these characters’ lives. Let them live it; you just record it.

* * *

In book news, I recently saw the Watchmen movie, which prompted me to dig out my old copy of Watchmen, which I have already read three or four times. Each time I bring out this graphic novel (a misleading statement, since it was printed originally as a comic book miniseries and only collected and called a “graphic novel” when a marketing expert determined a “comic book” could never be considered to be literature), I discover something new, a nuance I missed, a background piece I missed, something in the dialogue that takes me by surprise.

This time, I was fascinated to compare the book to the movie, to recognize where scenes and even lines were lifted straight out of the comic book. Did the movie translate well? The resounding answer is yes, but it does not compare to the original source material, which never ceases to thrill me or inspire me to write better, to craft more carefully and to never be afraid to break out of any given mould.

If you have not read Watchmen, read it. If you have never read a comic book and think that they have nothing to offer you, read it. If you have already read it, read it. Again.

I am going back to writing now, to wring every last word out of my fingers before bed.

My Whereabouts

The last three weeks snuck up behind me and hit me over the head with a chair. When I awoke, I was tied to railroad tracks, the weeks twiddling its evil looking moustache. As weeks often do, it told me exactly what its plans were, rubbing its hands together in glee. Its plans were fiendish, but, as it often is with weeks, it failed to reveal every detail to me, forcing me to adapt and come up with new plans of how to break my bonds. Finally, when its back was turned, I was able to escape using a paperclip, rubber band and the latest issue of Newsweek. I am the Jewish MacGyver. When it had discovered that I had escaped, it wrestled with me as the train approached, it had my head down on the tracks, with moments to go until I would probably have a massive headache at the very least. Then, at the last moment, I remembered my jiu jitsu training (I am skilled in seven deadly martial arts but can seldom remember that I am). I threw the weeks over my head where it made a satisfying “splurch” sound as the train met it head on (“splurch” is the sound a week makes when it is hit by a train. Don’t try to look it up, though, just take my word for it).

I limped back home where I was embraced by the new week that will be coming up. It looks friendlier, but I will be on guard in case it turns on me.

As I struggled, I had to forego writing, including keeping this blog up to date. In the next few days, as I recover from my ordeal, I will get back into a routine of ranting, raving and generally making my presence on the Internet known to my legions of fans (all two of you).