Have you ever driven in a snowstorm? I mean a real white-out. I've done it a few times and it's horrible. You waited one minute too long to get off the road and find a place to wait it out and now it's too late. If you pull over, you're stuck and at risk of getting hit by the next idiot who waited one minute too long. Now, all you can do is grit your teeth, lean over the wheel you have in a white-knuckle death grip, and stare at the two red dots in front of you. The tail lights of the car in front of you are all that exist. You are staying in the tire ruts by feel now, and praying for the driver of the car in front of you like he or she is your dearest love.
I am in the midst of a writing snowstorm. The wind is howling around me with the voices of characters. The snippets of scenes I was driving toward with such anticipation are swirling into a whiteout of indistinguishable blur.
Sitting here at the keyboard, with undeniably white knuckles, I am focused on the tail lights of the last scene I wrote but I have no idea where it is leading me. Right now, I just need to keep moving forward and not think about the possibility of it getting worse.
So, I'm writing about the writing which makes me think about the story which, in theory, should keep my wheels in the ruts until I can see again. (I'm still taking suggestions for Jackie's Homeword that pulls her out of the Vale and brings her to the waking world. That was a few posts back.)
Thanks for indulging me - if I brought up POV or plot structure to the dog once more . . .
So . . .
I have about 50 pages of something. Well, mostly nothing, but some of it could end up being something. Right now, it's a bunch of scenes that have popped into my head and demanded recording. Today, I have them spread out across my office and while it would seem the logical next step is to put these in order and read them, what I see in my head is a bunch of disgruntled actors.
The seven principle characters of this tale (as it now exists) are milling about the semi-lit, cluttered stage of a dusty theatre. They are each bent over their own script muttering about how little is available to them. I hear their questions from my place behind the typewriter in the fourth row:
"But my script starts half way through. What's happened to me before this? And where is the end of the script? What happens to me next?"
I have no answers for any of these questions, so I ignore them and pretend to write. See how I strike each key with confidence? C-o-n-f-i-d-e-n-c-e.
"Okay," mutters the lead. "I see where you're going with this, but what is my motivation?"
My head pops up. That one I can answer.
Jackie: Your motivation is to know your mom who you lost as a child. When you realize that the mysterious things occurring in your dreams are somehow connected to her, you grab that thin rope with both hands. When you begin to finally understand yourself after all your floundering, you tighten your grip. When the ramifications of the outcome are revealed, you plant your feet firmly and square your shoulders. But when you realize that your little sister Desi, is the key to it all - and is in grave danger - that's when you suddenly embody your best self. And you think that your superhero cloak is your mom's - that 'finding' her has changed the outcome. But no, Jackie, it was you all along.
See? That helps. Thanks for listening. I think I see the back bumper of the car in front of me.
No comments:
Post a Comment