One of the best and worst things about having a full life is the quality of interruption. The hours spent mired in character, plot, research, tension and the world of fiction can be just as blissful as they are frustrating. For anything of note to happen on the page, sustained concentration is not only prescriptive, it’s imperative. But it’s hard. And one of the difficult elements has to do with emotional investment.
I was trying to explain this in the post-Thanksgiving drive home yesterday—the tendency to become invested in character to the degree that a writer, rather than being elated at the end of a manuscript, might actually become depressed. The same way a person might lament the end of a romance or other significant relationship, ending a journey with a character can be a let down.
On the drive home, my boyfriend referenced the main character in Stephen King’s “Misery” as an example of a writer who celebrates the completion of a manuscript with ritual, champagne and satisfaction.
I think the intention of the reference was to offer some sort of a carrot because I have been remiss in my daily word count. You know, the, “When you finish you can celebrate…won’t that be great,” sort of cheering squad encouragement. Bless his sweet little heart.
And because I’m such a bad girlfriend I didn’t take the bait (offered up as it was with such loving encouragement). No, I played the dark artist card. The, “What makes you think it’s a happy moment, finishing a book?” sour grapes retort.
Was I being defensive or honest? Hm.
No doubt, sinking into the heartbreak of invented characters costs. You examine the particular nature of pain, you’re looking into your own dark place. That’s what makes, IMHO, a satisfying read. An honest, accessible, real portrayal of the human condition.
“Do you think every character has to have a broken heart?” asked my boyfriend. “Do you think Dirk Gently had a broken heart?”
Nothing gets me snottier than evoking the success of genre fiction.
But back to the question at hand. The defensive versus honest one, I mean. Give me a corner of a room, my computer and the absence of distraction and then offer the counter to that: friends, family, alcohol, my boyfriend and a hot tub, a Scrabble board and a ball game booming in the background, the typical expansive Thanksgiving weekend. Which one looks more attractive?
Fuck the broken heart. Right?
Break the heart over and over again.
That's the difference between artists and mortals. Artists crack the casing on the nuclear reactor and put their hands inside when mortals just want the god-damned thing to run the lights. Radiation poisoning is both the price and the reward. Mortals find that rosy glow attractive, at first, and then repellent, when they understand what it might mean....
Fuck. Do you have a choice?
And mortals will never understand that you don't. Never, ever, ever, ever. And their "good health" drives me bat shit.
God I miss you Millstone! When are you moving back to Portland?????ReplyDelete
When I'm the man I can accept.ReplyDelete
Dirk Pitt, baby. Rugged, brave, smart, patriot. I don't think Dirk Pitts' inventor gets blue after he finishes yet another in his series of Smash! New! Thrillers!-----oops I forgot, that's genre fiction.ReplyDelete
Dirk Pitt, war hero, eh? WWII? Oh honey, you're right! I should try my hand at that sort of thing...but then again, that's sort of what I already do for my day job--slinging the words of commerce. Hit me with your croutons, baby!ReplyDelete