After a few days of chatting and playing and doing things that might not be considered necessary for the art of writing, I flew into my story. It was done because I was ready to do and say thing that needed to be said, and I did those things.
I did it in two stages, because I had real life tell me I needed to do something, then I had free time, then I had to do something again, then it was Project Runway time, and then . . . I had six hundred words to write in the hour before I headed off to bed. But for the first time in a while, I felt like I wanted to tear up the keyboard and rocket the story like I hadn’t since NaNoWriMo.
So on with a little music, then into the story.
Keith was being lied to, of that I leave no doubt. This happened in the business world, where much of a day is spent dealing with the illusory bullshit that some people seem to think is important. He’s getting massive amounts of smoke blown up his ass as his human resources people try to tie an action they want him to take to an action they want to take. But he’s not going to take it; in fact, he’s starting to throw the truth back in their faces . . .
Six hundred and fifty words next came so easy. I was finished with my writing for the evening about 9:56, which means I was on a tear for about twenty-five minutes. Most of the time I’m a little more deliberate in what I want to say, but this time, the word were flowing like water from a new hose. I was on a rate of fifteen hundred and sixty words in an hour, and that’s something I haven’t done in–oh, maybe a year?
What brought forth is gush? Why was there a firestorm of creativity all of a sudden? Was it because I knew exactly what I wanted to say? That’s part of it: I’ve worked this scene over and over in my head for some time, so it wasn’t difficult to pull it out of my mind and into Scrivener. Or, was there something else I’m pulling upon? Something more personal?
One of my favorite stories is Harlan Ellison’s All the Lies That Are My Life, which is found in his collection Shatterday. It’s the story of two writers and the relationship they share while both are alive, and in the aftermath of the death of one of the gentlemen. I’ve always felt that the title is a good way of summing up any writer’s life, because as one person pointed out to me, writing is usually a hell of a lot better than any therapy you seek. You take people you like and make them your friends and lovers; you take people you hate and throw them into the Sarlacc. You take events that happened to you, and . . . you bend them, shape them, do anything you want to them, and turn them into the events you wish you’d lived through, rather than the ones you did.
Writers pull from this well and transform their experiences–and in doing so, transform themselves. When you look what “What could have been,” you start to see the outlines of “What could happen next,” and file that information away. For one never knows when a situation will arise where you can use that–
For your next story.