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The Writer Who Sees His Shadow
Quite some time ago, I was writing a story. The idea was this lab rat was being injected with this serum designed to make him smarter and larger. Of course, the rat gets *too* smart and WAY too large, and decides to get revenge on his captor, an anthropomorpic cat who thought it her right to experiment carelessly with the 'lesser races'. I was excited about the idea; it was NIMH only darker and fetishy. In my entirely warped mind, I thought Justin would make a pretty cool psychopath.
While I was writing an early draft of it, my cat character got really excited about the progress of the experiment. The rat had grown more than projected, and he was already asking questions that had never occured to him before. In her excitement (and mine too, I was in a groove), she ran to the phone and called her superior, a tiger who was also her boyfriend...
The problem is, I hadn't planned for her to have a boyfriend. I had no idea who this guy was, and why she was suddenly calling him out of the blue. I had been so swept up by the story I was no longer in control of it. It had grown legs and began running away without me.
Disturbed by that, I shoved the story in a draft folder on my laptop and never touched it again. In fact, I've only written one short story since then, and that was more a collection of half-thought set pieces than a real piece of fiction.
Most writers live for that moment, when suddenly a story becomes so real that you're not so much creating it as you are channeling it. When it happened to me, I was paralyzed by the uncertainty it represented. I couldn't handle the idea of losing control, of surrendering myself to a story, of no longer having any idea of what it was meant to be. Even today, I fear getting too wrapped up in fantasy. That fear has really killed my writing.
I've tried to replace it with a sense of obligation; I've taken on projects in the past several months that force me to produce something, even if it is sub-par work. I've tried to spur myself along with carrots ("If you finish this scene, you can have that apple danish"), sticks (public accountability, candy denial) and just about everything else I could think of. None of it's worked. Why? Because I haven't addressed the fact yet that I'm afraid of the ecstatic experience of being subsumed by the storytelling.
I'm sure I'm not alone here. There are so many would-be writers who freeze when faced with all of the moving parts of the story. You have to make sure your plot is paced well, makes sense, and won't spring a leak at rudimentary inspection. You have to make sure your dialogue sounds the way people talk (but not exactly the way they talk), and that it's smart and crackling. You have to make sure your characters are consistent and independent of the plot, not automatons who do what you need them to. It's a daunting thing, when you really care about creating a good story.
The thing to remember (and the thing I'm trying to learn here) is not to be afraid of your own shadow. Even when it surprises you, or leans in a direction you didn't anticipate, it's still a part of you. Sometimes it's a good thing to lose yourself to something greater. In fact, all of the people who've gotten really good at what they do manage just that on a regular basis.
So, how do you relearn ecstatic communion after quite some time away from it? Well, that's the dilemma. I imagine there's no one right answer to that, so I'll be trying different methods until I hit upon one that works. Feel free to offer your suggestions in comments. ;)
While I was writing an early draft of it, my cat character got really excited about the progress of the experiment. The rat had grown more than projected, and he was already asking questions that had never occured to him before. In her excitement (and mine too, I was in a groove), she ran to the phone and called her superior, a tiger who was also her boyfriend...
The problem is, I hadn't planned for her to have a boyfriend. I had no idea who this guy was, and why she was suddenly calling him out of the blue. I had been so swept up by the story I was no longer in control of it. It had grown legs and began running away without me.
Disturbed by that, I shoved the story in a draft folder on my laptop and never touched it again. In fact, I've only written one short story since then, and that was more a collection of half-thought set pieces than a real piece of fiction.
Most writers live for that moment, when suddenly a story becomes so real that you're not so much creating it as you are channeling it. When it happened to me, I was paralyzed by the uncertainty it represented. I couldn't handle the idea of losing control, of surrendering myself to a story, of no longer having any idea of what it was meant to be. Even today, I fear getting too wrapped up in fantasy. That fear has really killed my writing.
I've tried to replace it with a sense of obligation; I've taken on projects in the past several months that force me to produce something, even if it is sub-par work. I've tried to spur myself along with carrots ("If you finish this scene, you can have that apple danish"), sticks (public accountability, candy denial) and just about everything else I could think of. None of it's worked. Why? Because I haven't addressed the fact yet that I'm afraid of the ecstatic experience of being subsumed by the storytelling.
I'm sure I'm not alone here. There are so many would-be writers who freeze when faced with all of the moving parts of the story. You have to make sure your plot is paced well, makes sense, and won't spring a leak at rudimentary inspection. You have to make sure your dialogue sounds the way people talk (but not exactly the way they talk), and that it's smart and crackling. You have to make sure your characters are consistent and independent of the plot, not automatons who do what you need them to. It's a daunting thing, when you really care about creating a good story.
The thing to remember (and the thing I'm trying to learn here) is not to be afraid of your own shadow. Even when it surprises you, or leans in a direction you didn't anticipate, it's still a part of you. Sometimes it's a good thing to lose yourself to something greater. In fact, all of the people who've gotten really good at what they do manage just that on a regular basis.
So, how do you relearn ecstatic communion after quite some time away from it? Well, that's the dilemma. I imagine there's no one right answer to that, so I'll be trying different methods until I hit upon one that works. Feel free to offer your suggestions in comments. ;)