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You know how I said the book had escaped and was sort of running free plot-wise? Well, I know where it was headed now. I did eight pages today, and either I’m in the end game. Which means about a hundred pages out. Or, I’ve just added about two hundred pages to the book. If the first, then a little over five hundred pages as I figured. If the second, then about seven hundred pages. I’m through hoping either way. I’m staying out of it. The book will go where the book goes.
Abraham Lincoln was reportedly asked, how long his legs were? His reply, “Long enough to reach the ground.” How long will this book be? Long enough to finish the story. Funny, looking back what happened today was set up, mentioned on stage, awhile back. But I had no idea it would be this important. It’ll be interesting to see once the book is out there and you guys get to read it, if you come to that clue and go, I knew it, right there, I knew it. If you catch it, and you’re right, then you will have figured it out before I did. Weird, huh?
I mean it’s my book, you’d think I’d get the clues first, but not always. Part of that is that when I write I am sort of in the book. It’s like the difference between living an event and just reading about it. When you’re reading you’re more separate, the emotions and events more distant. It’s easier to see clearly. When it’s happening, you miss more, because the life threatening events, or the emotional crushing ones, blind you to nuances like clues.
I’ve said before, I’m like a method actor, not pure method, but similar school. But every once in awhile I disturb myself. Anita got her arm badly injured in this last scene. I walked out of my office favoring my arm, as if I’d hurt it. Not as badly as she had, but for just a second I thought, how am I going to carry everything over to the house with only one good arm. It was a second, a moment, then my mind went, wait, hold on. Not my arm. Not my injury. I’m all right. But for that split second, I was deep in the book. I’ve reached that point where the book is very, almost, too real, to me. It’s a gift, and a curse. Me and Mr. Monk.
And as often happens we get on a plane on Tuesday. Interrupted when the book is so real, that it wakes me in the morning, chases me through the night, and brings me eager to the computer. Darla has also noticed that I often get more productive just before a trip. I have a theory. Fear. Or almost any strong emotion, really. Fear, anger, sorrow; it all translates into pages. Happiness? Maybe. I spent my childhood sort of unfamiliar with the emotion, so it’s not as easily turned into fuel for my imagination. But give me a negative emotion and that fuels me. They say if life gives you lemons make lemonade. Well, if something scares the hell out of you, write it down.
I don’t write about what actually scares me, the upcoming plane ride, but the fear, that drives me to my imaginary friends. That drives me to throw myself as far and deep into my imagination as I can manage. Though, sometimes, like today, I find that maybe, just maybe, I’ve thrown myself a little too deep. Time to grab a rope and crawl back up on shore. To lie wet and shivering, coughing up dark water, trying to catch my breath. Tomorrow’s another day. Tomorrow the water will be black and calm, until I dive in, and see what waits below.