Bla Blah Blog About Writing...

I have, at long last, made it to the library and have managed to check out a couple of books that qualify as proper adult reading, previously unread by yours truly. I have not, however, made it past page ten of the first book. Now that I think of it, I never did finish "The Dome" by Stephen King, so maybe I should go back and finish that before taking on anything new. Regardless of the book I am reading, there is always a reason to put it down and do something more important: change a diaper, break up a fight, move the clothes from washer to the dryer, or (and this is my personal favorite) attempt (most futilely) to convince my four year old that writing upside down and backward is not going to fly when he gets to Kindergarten in August. By the time I find the book again, find the place I left off reading - because, no I do not believe in or own any bookmarks - and finally start reading, I am interrupted anew. This happens when I'm blogging, too. In order to avoid Einstein's definition of insanity, I inevitably quit trying to read, and as proved by the queue of yet unfinished blog entries (some of which are about quite interesting topics) saved on my dashboard, quit trying to write.

In my short return to reading (non-children's) books, a few things have occurred to me about writing. I am sure you'll recall my delusion of grandeur post and the fact that I'd like to write a book. The more I think about it, the more I like the idea. Maybe a novel about some profound truism of the human condition that evinces my more than passing interest in science. I could be 21st century Madeleine L'Engle (oooh my fascination with Maddy since childhood and my no longer secret desire to be her and belong to her family, and have interesting friends like hers-and oh the impossibility of it all...I could blog about that, maybe I will). I mentioned the LITTLE problem of what I would write about in the first place. This problem became even bigger as I was reading the prologue to "Straight Man" by Richard Russo (recommended to me by my brother-to whom I do not listen and therefore did not get the book at the time, and re-recommended to me by my sister-whom I copy in all things except liking tuna-fish sandwiches...INDIVIDUALITY VICTORY...and therefore I am now reading it). I realized that whatever story I think of that might make a good book is really only an anecdote that might be used within a larger story-line in a REAL book. Additionally, and even more depressingly, every subsequent story-line I drum up in response to this realization carries the same fatal flaw.

And then, in reading the several paragraphs used to describe the physical appearance of the protagonist's friend, I became overwhelmed by the amount of work that must go into developing each and every character. What does each character look like, what is he (or, she) wearing, what does that say about the person's personality and what are the things we cannot know about the person at the outset and what has to be conferred by writing between the lines...and who can just dream all of this up.

Lastly, because as it is with decorating and celebrity deaths my realizations come in threes, as I was transported to the very snow-covered hill William H. Devereaux, Jr. and his car were careening down, tail first, I couldn't even imagine how I would set the scenes in which my story would take place. Supposing the story takes place somewhere that actually exists, how would I remember all the sights, smells and subtleties of each endroit necessary to take the reader to my hometown, the "redrum" house of my teens or my college campus. My answer is that I would have to return to each place, experience it again, attempt to conjure the memories of how it was then, and then write about it there.

In that case, I have to conclude that for me writing a novel would mean years of character sketching and locational research. Then taking these muscles, organs, sinew, and skin and layering them one upon another in order for the story itself to take shape. Layered on what? On a skeleton, on the idea, the substantial well structured support system of the novel, protecting and guiding the characters along their way-and we've already established that is a rib or two at best.

Even as I think, OK-I can do this. Write it down bit by bit. When I think of the un-showering Professor Doofenschmirtz-esque man sporting wide wale, high-water, corduroy pants in the heat of Indian summer as if he hadn't recognized fall's temporary retreat and a peed on poodle color fisherman's cableknit sweater...and how the sweater is nearly the same color as his wild mane of would-be white if not for the aforementioned distaste for daily ablutions crowning glory...and how all of this was announced moments before he entered the room by a cacophonous orchestra of smells-coffee, oil, greasiness not to be confused with oil and a hint of wet dog (whence we know not, as it has been years since we had a dog), write it down. Put it away. Save it for another day, to edit, to weave into a larger tapestry that could become a character to place on a wall of the greater story that will one day become my novel. Even as I think this, the sneaking suspicion that writing is supposed to be an organic, ex-nihilo (well almost) sort of process and all of these contrivances are further proof that I am not at all a writer assails me and I feel like giving up before I've even started.

And such has been my constant inner monologue since starting this foray into literacy...and as such it is yet another reason not to read ever again. Well played, Jessica, truly well played.

Editor's Note: Since the editor sees fit to do NO editing, she thinks it only fair that once in a while she makes herself useful by writing a note. To those of you who take exception to the description herein because you imagine you know who is described thereby, my sincerest apologies. But fear not! You, too, will be featured, in no more glorious terms, in my novel, should my novel ever be written.