A week ago a friend sent me a link to a site where a writer was talking about his writing process, about how he arrived at the final text through a somewhat random process of discovering things, but definitely not a process based on having a clear plan in mind from the beginning.
Writing random stuff? No plan in mind? Don’t really know where you’re going?
Hey, I have the same writing process!
I wonder if that writer’s process also includes going to kitchen every evening to get dark chocolate. And if so, does his writing process involve stopping in the kitchen to look at the dirty dishes in the sink and think, “Goddamnit. Who’s gonna wash this stuff?”
Because that’s how I write. I mean, you can’t just sit and push on computer keys while you’re writing. Who would do that? You’ve got to walk around some, go look in the mirror to see if you’ve changed in the last few hours, get out the vacuum cleaner and leave it standing in the middle of the living room, as a guarantee that you’re definitely going to vacuum within the next week.
I also think about the plot when I’m writing, things like “What reason does this character have to go to New York?” or “Maybe I’ll add a talking dog, people like dogs,” or “Do I want this book to be about trying to find the light of reason in the existential darkness of life, or about a man who finds a kitty?”
Being the observant writer that I am, I’ve noticed that people really like kitties. Or . . . wait a minute, I could have the kitty meet a talking dog. Hold on while I write that down.
Boy, that next novel is practically going to write itself. Sometimes it’s just a joy to be a writer.
Then there’s all those other times. I’ve mentioned on this blog, just last week, if your memory goes back that far, that I’m revising a novel I finished writing back in 2000. You understand that the word “finished” in that sentence means “wrote a piece of crap”. Which is disappointing, because at the time I didn’t think that, but now I do. So what if at some point in the future I look back at what I’m writing now and think “Oh, my God, why didn’t you just blind yourself before you wrote that?”
That’s a spooky thing about art, of any sort. What if it’s terrible, but while you’re doing it you don’t know that? What if it’s like being insane and everyone knows it but you? “No, I’m fine. Really. Here, did you read my novel?”
I’ll tell you something about the last two books, that is, the one I’m on now, plus the one before (The Invention of Colors). Both of those books at one point had four main characters, two male and two female. Over the course of floundering through both of them for years, like a really drunk mud wrestler, I came to the point with both books of taking the male characters and reducing them down to either background or secondary characters, focusing on the females. In both cases, the novel finally came together and started to make more sense. It wasn’t easy to throw away so much writing that I had worked on so hard for so long, but the books got way better, which did provide some compensation.
Here’s a little brainstorming for the next book. What if the talking dog and the kitty form a musical group? How great does that sound? Then they’ll have a reason to go to New York.