I’m halfway through the writing of New Book. It’s intended to be a sequel to my previous book, TIME MACHINES REPAIRED WHILE-U-WAIT (which makes an ideal gift for all occasions; get your copy today!).
In the course of reaching this halfway point, I’ve had many days where I’ve sat and scribbled up a storm, only to come back the following day and delete most or even all of the previous day’s labour, and start over. This is all part of the deal. You try stuff. Sometimes it works, and sometimes it truly does not, and leaves a horrible nasty smell coming from your keyboard, like something in the back of the fridge that’s gone off.
So, two steps forward, one step back, then another two steps forward, often in a new or at least different direction, trying stuff all the time. I do have more than 50,000 words of notes, with lots of thoughts on how the whole thing is more or less meant to play out. These notes are sometimes very useful; sometimes they are just hilariously wrong. The book, or more precisely the characters in the book, seem to know better, and just look at me mockingly when I try to steer them in various directions. "But it says in my notes that you…" "Don’t talk to me about your precious bloody notes, white man!"
And so it goes. In the course of these daily struggles, there’s a lot going on in my head, often in the musty back rooms where I can’t even hear what’s happening. Periodically they send a note through to my conscious mind ("we need more sandwiches!") telling me about some new idea they’ve had, or some exciting new development. "Cool!" I say, and set about trying to implement this bold new vision. And, one time out of three, bold new vision is more a damp and soggy squib.
So. Voices in my head. Mostly deeply critical voices. Are you sure about this? Does that bit sit properly with the previous bits? Would that character really say/do that? Why doesn’t s/he do this instead? What are you thinking? Why are you even in this stupid business? You’re clearly no good at it. Oh, you’ve won awards! How lovely. You’ve got a couple of bits of etched glass to call your very own and keep you warm at night. The fact is, you’re useless, and everybody knows it, they’re just too polite to tell you the grim truth–which is why I’m here, your one true friend. And, inter alia, if you were any good, you’d be on the bestseller lists. You’d be in Locus. The people who know people in the sf biz would know your name without you having to tell them and remind them. It’s time you quit this book. It’s clearly going nowhere, it’s a complete mess, you’ve stuffed it up (again, just like all those other stuffed up books you’ve got back there on your flash drive), and you should just quit and get a proper job. It’s the least you could do for Michelle.
<slaps self silly with large tuna; eyes spin around like in a poker machine>
Ah. Right. Back again. Welcome to my world. This is what I’ve got in my head, just about all the time. And worse, too. I left out all the rude stuff (sorry). All the time. Pick, pick, pick. Mock, mock, mock. It’s a withering, exhausting line of attack. Mostly, I can more or less ignore it. Though it is true that I don’t have my two Aurealis Awards anywhere I can see them from where I sit here; and one is almost completely hidden behind a stack of books. I don’t want them giving me foolish ideas about my own importance or ability. I still start writing books thinking of them as "first novels". Probably I need to get past this mindset.
Which brings me to my current situation. I’m halfway through the Time Machines sequel. That book has done rather well (though never as well as I would wish). People seem happy about it. People around me say, "I can’t wait to see what Spider does next!" or, "You’ve got a lot to live up to there." Which, honestly, doesn’t help. The pressure is getting to me.
So. Halfway through new Book. Currently at a point where I think it needs *Something*. Last Friday I banged out 1900 words, but today, while at the pain clinic, ostensibly paying attention to the speakers, I was brooding about Book. Should I toss Friday’s stuff, and try something else–again? Worse, is it all a sign that Book is fatally flawed? Yes, obviously, time travel and mystery are two genres that, like matter and antimatter, ought never to meet on a dark night in a back alley. Combining the two things is clearly nuts. So is that the problem I’m having, or is there something more fundamental about the entire project?
This, in other words, is the very sort of moment in the course of writing a novel (for me, at least), when I’m most sorely tempted to let the patient die on the table, and walk away–and mope extensively for months and months. My psychiatrist, believe it or not, would encourage me to do just this, and has done on previous occasions (the last time, memorably, led to me quitting an abortive attempt at writing a follow-up to ECLIPSE, called UMBRA, and which…<shakes head in self-horror>…just wasn’t happening. Like trying to resurrect a few kilos of minced beef into some kind of cow. The thing is: the *day after* I quit UMBRA, I got the idea for Time Machines Repaired.
Today, I was at the pain management clinic, ostensibly to learn various things about how to handle my epic headaches better. One of the key points was this: that there is no magic cure. They’re going to happen, regardless. You can let them rule your life, and squeeze you down to the point that your whole life is about your headaches, where you do nothing, see nobody, and feel like crap–or you can try and live your life *despite* the headaches. Which, for instance, is exactly the attitude I take to my depression attacks.
When I get an episode of depression (which I usually call "the glums"), I regard it as something like waking up and finding it raining outside. Ah, weather’s crap today. Oh well, nothing to be done about it. We’ll just go about our business indoors, a bit subdued, but not worried because it will all blow over in a few days.
Today was the first time someone pointed out that I could take the same attitude to my headaches. My world rocked. Also: all these negative, critical voices in my head all the time when I’m working. Ignore them. They’re full of crap. They don’t know anything. If you get such thoughts, sit there a minute, pay attention to them, but just kind of look at those thoughts and those ideas, the way a scientist looks at dead insects pinned through their guts. "How very curious! Look at that! A critical comment from the subconscious! Fascinating!" Think of them like that. Like dead bugs with pins stuck in them, in a glass case, dead and inert. They are not your boss. You are not their bitch. Observe them, take notes, as if you’re alien scientists visiting this planet, studying the humans, and thinking they’re all a bit colourful and very odd. "Fancy someone having that thought!" "Yes, fancy that! Better make a note."
I am not sure how much help these two days at the pain clinic will be for my headaches. But I am sure, now, that they will prove utterly decisive in helping me deal with those voices. Hostile thoughts? Snide remarks? You call yourself an author? Hardly! Well, in point of fact, yes. I’m an author. I hardly ever get paid, it’s true, but I yam what I yam, sucking down the authorial spinach of writerosity.
About the book, and about last Friday’s bit: Probably last Friday’s bit is going away. Spider needs to be more focussed on worrying about Molly’s situation. And about the weird thing that’s happening in his head. And Dickhead’s severed head. In the fridge. Talking to him.
I’m not killing the book. Even if it kills me (and some books feel like they’re definitely trying to do so), I’m going to finish this sucker. Even if it proves dreadful, I’m going to finish it. You watch. The only critical voice I’m going to listen to? My editor. (This is advice I’ve come across from Robert A. Heinlein, btw; I should have listened the first time.)
That is all. If you got this far, thank you for reading.
[NB: I also posted this to my page on Facebook. This way everyone I know can have a read.]
Recent Comments