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Okay, not a page to my name yet today. Why?
Because my schedule has been disrupted.
Yesterday I was in a frenzy to write the end of the Merry book. Now I’m lost, floundering, because all I can do is stare at the clock and realize I have only two hours to be somewhere else.
I wish I was one of those people that could use small bits of time well and placidly, but I am not. I am one of those people that needs tons of uninterrupted time to write. Normally, it takes me about an hour to two just to get into the groove for writing.
Yesterday was the exception. Yesterday we were out the door by eight o’clock, walked the dogs, and I was at my desk by eight-thirty. I also got to see dawn, but it worked. By 9:30 I had my five pages done. Which meant I was able to go to get allergy shots and my other appointment after lunch without feeling frantic. A LICK OF FROST has reached the frenzy stage where any interruption makes me want to scream and grab something sharp.
I just want to write and everything is a distraction. It’s a good sign that I feel this way about the book. It’s a bad thing because life doesn’t work that way. Or mine doesn’t.
Life doesn’t stop because the book is on high.
I guess if I was willing to give all my life over to other people, it might work that way, but I can’t. One, I’m a control freak. Two, I have trust issues. Three, did I mention I’m a control freak? But also, I love my friends and family. I want to see them.
Back in the day when I was only doing one book series at a time, I actually had regular time off between books. I could catch up with everyone. My schedule is more like a regular job now with no extended off periods between projects. Which means the schedule doesn’t loosen really.
I’m still struggling with that after about six, or seven years. I still tend to work as if I get those extended breaks. I write in a frenzy when it’s working. I write obsessively. I don’t know how to do little bits. I don’t know how to do it small.
I write large, and immerse myself in the world. Which, considering what I write, is sort of bothersome. I’m better able to separate out character voice from my own when I write Merry, because she isn’t as close to may natural voice. Anita still sounds like me, so it’s harder to step away from the computer and not carry her and all of it with me.
I tend to be depressed if she’s having a hard time in the book. I tend to be anxious if her anxiety is high. But since I’m high strung enough for both of us, I guess it’s okay.
My therapist suggested, could I stop writing such violent things. She thought it might be affecting me. You think?
I’m at peace with the violence again. I think I just needed a time away from the real crime research. I needed to step back for a little bit. Better now.
The sex, well, that’s still problematic. How do I feel about the sex? Sometimes I’m fine with it. Sometimes, I’m ready to cool it down.
Have any of you guys seen the new movie “INFAMOUS” about Truman Capote writing his book IN COLD BLOOD? We just got to see it this last weekend.
It was a different take on the same story as “Capote”. It tried to explain why Capote never wrote anything else much after IN COLD BLOOD. Whether they’re right about the reason, or not, it was Sandra Bullock playing Harper Lee who said the thing that stayed with me.
I’m going to paraphrase a little, sorry. She said, “That Frank Sinatra said in an interview about Judy Garland. That she died a little bit with every song. That’s how much she gave. Writing is like that, you die a little bit trying to get it right. And sometimes you don’t want to do it again, because now you know how much it costs.”
Harper Lee wrote one of the great books of all time, TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD, and never finished another book. Having her say the words made them all the more poignant to me.
Do you die a little bit with every book? Do you give that much of yourself?
I’m pretty sure that one of the reasons my first marriage broke apart was my devotion to my writing. Is that a high enough cost?
How high a price do we pay to get the book right? How much of ourselves do we give to you, the readers? How much of us do you get? For those of us who don’t hide behind our fiction, for those of us who put bits of our soul and heart on display, maybe too much.
Some days it’s the most glorious thing in the world to write my books. Some days, it is the hardest thing in the world to climb the stairs and sit down and make myself do it.
Today, it’s hard.
I’m stopping now. Gotta go put on make-up and get into something less comfortable. Gotta go put on the game face.