There you are!
It seems like only a week ago when I last posted something new. But in reality, months have gone by in a flash causing me to take a moment for reflection and wonder what the hell I’ve been doing all this time.
Truth be told, I have been busy. My primary job has continued to be a rewarding challenge, but with those challenges, there has been very little time for creative writing. Not that I’ve stopped completely. I like to think that I’ll be six days dead before I ever stop writing. The ideas for the stories just keep coming, or maybe it’s a scene I can implement into a bigger work. So I am still writing.
When I moved halfway across the state, I thought it would be worthwhile to find a writer’s group. Years ago a group of us who had met through a creative writing class would get together periodically and review each other’s efforts. There was nothing vindictive about the process. It’s a great practice to get some feedback and constructive criticism. Okay, maybe a dash of brutal honesty happens as well. But it can be extremely helpful. So I was fortunate to discover a couple of people in this area who share an interest in the creative writing process. We’ve formed a small group and we’re looking to add a few more writers. You just have to check your ego at the door and be willing to listen.
Someone asked me recently what one of the best traits a writer should have. After considering it for a moment, my reply was simple: A thick skin. Regardless as to how good your work may be (and it is work, no matter how you slice it) you can always make it better. It’s like cooking. A dash of spicy dialogue here, a twist in the plot, some orange zest and maybe a splash of wine can have a huge impact on a dish. You set the mood with the scenery, subtle observations, background music and then as the old entertainer Jackie Gleason used to say “Away we go!” I’ve lost count of the number of times someone has read an early draft of a story or chapter and said they didn’t like it. Maybe the storyline wasn’t to their liking. Or a character they liked gets into harm’s way. Or the pace wasn’t fast enough. Or they would say something like they already knew exactly what was going to happen next. Their comments were usually nothing even remotely close to what I had planned. Yet I would give a slow nod, as if I they completely understood the story, thanked them for their time went on my way. It’s the same approach I’ve taken with editors who have rejected my work. You can’t take the rejection personally. You just accept it, nod your head politely and then follow Gleason’s line: Away we go!
Sometimes the reaction I get takes me by surprise. Once I gave a friend named Kathy a copy of a short story I was working on to proofread. The next time I saw her she came up and punched me, hard, in the chest. No greeting, no warning, just “bam”, right in the chest. As I stood there staring at her, she told me that she had had nightmares after reading the story, believing that my killer was coming after her, chasing her. That’s the kind of reaction writers live for. Here’s another example. At a recent meeting of our writer’s group, I offered up the segment below as part of the latest novel I’m working on. To set the scene, this is the story of a serial killer. While most of the book is being written from the cop’s perspective, I want to include some segments with an omniscient narration on the killer. Now as part of the writers’ group process, I read the following passage aloud.
The killer was elusive. The killer was a cold, calculating, efficient machine. No computer could analyze the killer’s moves and predict where or when the next victim would be found. No one could determine the motive that lay beneath the actions. Only someone who had lived in the killer’s body, who had the same experiences, the same influences, the same events coursing through their veins would have even the slightest glimmer of a possibility of figuring this out.
“I’m too smooth,” the killer said softly, closely studying the reflection in the mirror. “That’s smooth spelled with seventeen Os.”
Everything was moving forward according to plan. The next victim was being developed, that timid bottle blonde from the bar last week. She was so uncertain of herself it was as if a strong wind could change the direction of her focus. Her name was Janet. She was a preschool teacher, helping four and five-year-olds learn their colors and the alphabet. For a moment the killer wondered if that was the extent of Janet’s own knowledge. She certainly didn’t appear to be experienced in the ways of the world when it came to dating.
It had almost been too easy to cut Janet from her small group of friends at the bar. With the crowd noise, the interactions of both men and women reveling in the music, the booze, the pheromones and the physical contact, it was only a matter of paying attention, of waiting for the right moment to pick her off. Each of her three friends had been drawn to the dance floor, where the press of bodies was intense.
“Janet, my dear, you are about to discover the world of excitement. The world of romance, of passion, of intensity that you could never imagine is all waiting for you. And I intend to be the one to introduce you to it.”
The killer spun from the mirror and snapped off the lights. It was time.
One of my associates in the group looked at me and said that this passage got her very excited in a way normally reserved for her husband. Now while that wasn’t exactly the reaction I was looking for, I’ll take that as a compliment.
