It’s certainly not fun and games, writing a novel. Even if the characters are having fun.
I’ve been in better health before I started. I wasn’t in good health prior, so, in loading my leads with passion, it’s like I traded one disease for another. At first it was fun; I developed an unconscious dream I had into two chapters and an idea for the third, all in one day.
There’s definitely something fulfilling in the work, especially since the story is a love story. But I appear too attached in the way I’ve handled it. I’ve put too much of myself into it. There’s enjoyment in the moment, sure, even if it’s a little delirious. And a funny thing happened too: my mother had the same idea I had for the third. But I’m not addicted; I know that, given the days I’ve easily, lazily abstained from writing.
Some writers are known for being smokers and/or drinkers, addicts that come out the other end of their troubles via writing. Especially when some alcoholics are such major bullshitters that they become major successes in the world of fiction.
But my addiction doesn’t lie there. No, I don’t smoke or drink or anything for relief. Most of the relief I get is all on the inside. Much of that comes in the process of giving my characters life by running their actions and thoughts through me. Sometimes it’s calming, but sometimes it’s frustrating, most of the time failing to get the results I want.
My addiction lies with the sweetness and its repercussions. Sometimes with actual sugar… I’ve wondered about the possibility that I’m type-2 diabetic, given the symptoms. So I guess, my “death sticks” come in the form of candy and the sweetness of people, whether they exist or not… The internal tug of war when I write in bed may be worse.
I’ve poured heart and soul into this thing, with a plot that writes itself, and an emotional need in the rough. I could have gone the realistic route, and just have characters get together and break up with different people for a while. But instead I took the addicted sweet route and made the leads apparent soul mates—but only apparent (a twist)…I shouldn’t be giving the whole thing away. Often, because of the flawed, often sappy approach, I have to dial it back, with subtleties and even some actual nausea and health issues, and calamities. Whatever it takes to justify the message, really.
I’ve poured my heart into the story, but with that some of my personal despair. It’s a curse more than a gift—my “lazy fantasy” writing. Technically, we are all dying, but my mind is demanding in such a way that my heart is suffering.
I’m certainly not a very good example of a writer.
Truth in all things…including the information I took from other people.
Lifting Taking facts and figures and adopting styles isn’t plagiarism, but I never feel great that I have to get my ideas and inspiration from people who have lived, because I haven’t. I wouldn’t have started if it wasn’t for underrated movies and television shows on the cutting edge. But I am never satisfied. And because, so far I face the daily hygienic tasks and everything forever by myself, I am a workaholic.
When I should be finding friends, or getting a job, or seeing the doctor, I keep at it. Even if nothing comes out of it. An unfunded workaholic. The novel thing is yet another project I can’t expect to ever get paid for. Why?
It takes immense discipline to connect and effectively resonate with people.
Today, A Day in the Life (The Beatles, again) resonates. The song is a call for people to connect on sanity, and the song comes to a rising, insane crashing chord. It’s progressive…which means there’s a lot of emotional noise to go with its truth. And sometimes even more noise, with half a minute of reverberation. But there’s truth in the emotion too; something organic has always led up the result of now. [Addendum: the song was literally written like a bad drug trip to ‘the news.’ See the link to the Wikipedia page.]
It takes some kind of trauma to be so emotional in your work. Lennon even did a “bed-in” with Ono. But it takes discipline to connect; otherwise your just a guy in bed, with tears running down your face…like me, this morning, punching virtual keys on a screen to add another personal flaw to the male lead. And another personal flaw that is one of my own.
Maybe I should make it a New Year’s resolution to collaborate with others in 2015. That’s the cure to workaholism: force yourself to hand over some of the work. But I’d come off as lazy. I always come off as lazy.
Whatever happens, I’ll be working, even if the pen is down and the computer is off. Whatever happens, I will be pouring myself into those little moments of text. And I will continue to listen to these songs until I have them down. It’s insane, I know.
And-now they-know how-many holes it-takes to-fill the-Albert Hall…
I’d love to tu-u-urn…you-ou-ou…o-o-on… ……………………........... ..........……………