The Writer's Scrapbook

My “Monday” posts are slowly becoming “sometime-during-the-week” posts. Tuesday morning before 8 counts as Monday, right? It sure feels like it. In truth, I had a completed post ready to go last night, but I sat back and said, “This is boring.” So I had my wife read it just to be sure. She agreed a little too quickly, and I spend the rest of the evening sulking under the covers while she worked on our daughter’s 1^st Year Scrapbook.

     Scrapbooks are funny things. They’re basically just a collection of pictures with notes by them so you remember what the heck was going on that day you decided to pose with your foot behind your head, your tongue out, and a 5-foot tuna cuddled up in your lap. They’re conversation pieces and they’re a sort of lineage tracker in some ways… something you can sit down on the couch next to your kids with and talk about what life was like before you were stuck paying for their diapers, the tons of food they ingest, and that stupid pet they guilted you into buying because all the “good” dads that “loved” their children had bought them pets that cost more to maintain than a college education (I use the word maintain purposefully because I do not care for or nurture pets).

     My wife has made a scrapbook for each year of our marriage and has almost completed this new one for our daughter, and the coolest thing about them is the page by page growth. It’s like we have this little tome that transports us back in time and holds our hand as we reminisce. Sure… pictures can do that. But scrapbooks do it better. I can flip a few pages back and see what I looked like without a beard (which is actually how I think of myself, even though I’ve had one for almost two years now), I can see the different stages of my hair, and I can watch my waistline expand over the course of a few pages. (Curse you McDonalds Monopoly Month!!!!)

     I’ve been thinking of taking all my old writing and putting it together in a writing scrapbook of sorts; all the notes and character ideas and shorts stories and even all that really bad poetry I wrote my freshman year of college. I don’t believe that any writing is ever wasted, except perhaps on “The Happening.” That was just awful. Even when I’m doing re-writes I don’t like the idea of just tossing the old copy out. For one, there might be a gem or two in there that – while it didn’t seem to work for this piece – might go nicely with that idea I had for a zombie musical or something. Second, it shows how much I’ve grown and how much I’ve changed. Back in 2001 I started writing a book; just started writing away on what would eventually become my world. I got as far as the first chapter before spending the next few years just working on the world as a whole. But that story is the same tale as my current work: the tale of Polas Kas Dorian (no… that’s not what I’m calling it). Granted, that first chapter was almost an exact copy of the first chapter of Elvenbane by Mercedes Lackey and Andre Norton, but it helped to lay the ground work. I even went through a haiku phase. In fact, I have the outlines for six or seven novels summed up in to three lines of 5-7-5. Sure, most of that old stuff is really really bad, but, in most cases, it’s my foundation. It’s something I can pull out every once and a while and remind myself of how much I’ve grown and sometimes even find something great that I had dismissed after first writing it down. Like that scrap of paper that has “Mareness will protect them” scrawled across it. That’s all it says, but dang… it really makes me want to know about Mareness, who she’s protecting, and what the heck she’s protecting them from.  

Your Mom's an NPC

I’m having a major case of blog-writer’s block today. I’ve typed a first sentence to about nine different entry ideas now and backspaced my way through each of them shortly after. I even considered just making a top ten list of things to do when you don’t feel like writing. It would have been pretty great… and hilarious because each of the ten options was actually going to be writing. Heck, maybe I’ll save that for another day when I’m having blog-block.

     This has been a week in which everything really starts to pile up. The fence in my backyard is about to fall down, the plastic tarp I ordered to finish my landscaping in the front yard will be here tomorrow, I’ve got a pile of 2 x 4’s in the garage waiting to be made into the base for a built-in bookshelf/desk for my bedroom, and I just started writing “book 2” a few days ago. Thankfully, I have a bit of vacation time coming up pretty soon. I’m not planning anything fancy, but it will be nice to have time to get some of these things done (and probably take a few naps too).

     People sure love vacation time in the summer… and it usually leaves more work behind for the people stuck in the office. In fact, sometimes I almost feel guilty about taking time off and leaving my own tasks behind for someone else to pick up. But then I remember that I’m the protagonist. Right? Who knows if my office even exists when I’m not there. Maybe it’s just a sandbox setting and the plot won’t advance unless I’m there to trigger the next bit of action by – I don’t know – starting a small fire in my waste basket and watching while all the other employees rush to our fire-safety spot, saving a nun that’s stuck in a tree, being in my chair so that someone can come ask me some significant question, and/or driving down 2^nd street so that the crazy lady knows to pull out in front of me and cause me to need to wash my underwear earlier in the week than I had planned. Any of these things might unlock a new level or some area in which I can hunt higher level Pokemon in the tall grass.

     See, all of those other people are supporting characters and – I assume – they have absolutely no ambition in life outside of how their path crosses mine. In fact, they probably just go inert like some sad robot when I’m not around (except of course when they’re calling me or doing something that will later affect me). That’s just the way supporting characters work, right? But that doesn’t explain why these people think they’re just as important as me to the overarching… umm… story.

     As I said about nine inches earlier, I just started writing “book 2” and I’ve picked up with some of the supporting characters. We won’t see the “main” group for a few chapters, and I’m enjoying the heck out of it. In fact, I really don’t want to leave these guys alone. That’s one thing that J.K. Rowling and some (basically any that aren’t George Lucas) of the Star Wars authors do very well: give their supporting cast purpose and draw. Minor roles become multi-dimensional and we find ourselves caring about who Luna Lovegood ends up marrying, whether or not Tahiri Veila will ever be a Jedi again, or why Karrah has had such trouble stepping into the role of a true leader of the Dairbun.

     So, here’s to the NPCs in your life… and sorry this blog-block-breaking idea turned into such a long post.

Another Necro-Monday

So summer is officially here and my Monday through Thursday work hours have changed to something Adrian Peterson might equate with building the pyramids. However, my Fridays are now far grander than even a normally awesome Friday… they’re like Uber-Fridays. Why? Because I only have to work from 8 until noon. That’s hardly even worth the ten minute drive to and from work, right? I’m pretty sure Rebecca Black would crap herself if she got Uber-Fridays in middle school.

     While Uber-Fridays are all well and good, these other days are going to kick my butt. I just experienced my first Necro-Monday today, and I' m spent, done, kaput. I just want to curl up in a ball under the couch next to a honey-roasted peanut and a dime and hide here hoping that no one will ever find me. In this dark den, I start to see characters take shape and energy that I desperately need is drained from me as ideas leak out. Once the house is still and I'm certain no one will see me, I crawl out from my hidey-hole, strap myself down in front of the computer, dump a box of raisinettes into my mouth (which I hate, but feel a desire to eat about once a year anyway), and watch as the last of my soma trickles from my fingertips.

     And then a funny thing happens. The tiny bit of energy pools and waxes. The characters take what little energy I give them and amplify it and I find it redirected back through my hands, up my arms, down my back, and... well, sometimes it's just gas. But other times I am renewed and each keystroke charges me and draws me closer to the screen while pushing me further than I would have thought possible when I was hiding in the dark, damp places where words are only thought and dreams wither for lack of nourishment. I leave behind jobs that siphon off energy and people that use and take as they see fit. When I am here, though the first three gates may be depleted, I open the fourth and fifth gates and push myself beyond mortal coils of mindless drudgery, task laden monotony, and the doubt I have in my own abilities.

     I guess Nike always had it right: it's really fun to fly around battlefields and rewards soldiers with glory and fame. Nevermind... I thought there was an appropriate metaphor in there somewhere, but I guess I missed it.