Process

My literary voice has been silent for awhile now, and I feel as if I owe everyone (or at least the three people who will read this blog) an explanation. To prove once and for all how absolutely insane I am, I will go through my self-defeating literary process with you all.

My most recent endeavor has been the zombie book. As yet (after a mere two years of piddling with the thing), it is untitled. But I digress (as you will come to find, this is problem #378). Let's look at how I have gone about not finishing this book:

1. Idea sparks from a series of nightmares I had through most of college and graduate school; nightmares that probably stemmed from too many hours spent in front of video games and horror films.
2. I develop idea into something people might actually want to read. I brainstorm ways to combine family strife (my own) with horrific scenes (not at all difficult).
3. I create an outline - something new to my process. In the past, I started writing without ever thinking through how I was going to end the thing. This lead to a lot of cursing and revisions. Not this time, though. Take that, ye gods who are against me!
4. I start writing. Everything is going great. The first 125 pages or so flow out of me. I am a fucking rockstar!
5. Shit. I'm stuck. In the early planning stages, I had written in a half-assed love interest (well, it didn't seem half-assed at the time). Now I can't figure out how to get this stupid, unconvincing narrative drivle to work.

This is where the proverbial turds hit the proverbial fan. Any reasonable human being would just eliminate this from the plot. It's not exactly hard to hit the delete key. However, I am not a reasonable human being (ask anyone who has known me for longer than 20 minutes). Instead of taking a breath, and changing courses, I...

6. Go back to page one and start editing. My words, which once looked so brilliant, now look like the scribblings of a first grader. I take out my pen and start hacking and slashing. I more fully develop characters. I add in interesting tidbits about peoples' furniture and cars. I fix misspellings. I'm no longer a rock star, but I think I can patch this sinking ship.

7. I edit and rewrite all the way to the troublesome section. It's still troubling. In the two months I have spent rewriting, I have not had a single good idea for getting myself out of this dilemna. Just delete this fucking character, I tell myself. But then what about this scene later down the road? Deleting this guy is going to change, well, everything.

8. I sit and stare at my computer. Jesus I suck. I bet Ernest Hemingway had the balls to delete something when it wasn't working. So did Kurt Vonnegut. Even Stephen fucking King cuts when the cutting is good.

9. I go back to page one and start rereading. It really isn't very good at all. Should I even bother writing any more? Should I start from scratch? Should I bludgeon myself with my very expensive monitor? I know. I'll check my e-mail. Maybe God sent me a message telling me how to get out of this.

10. A year passes. Absolutely nothing has been accomplished. I tell myself at least once a week that I really should get back to work because writing (even writing the nonsense trash that I write) is one of the few things I really love.

11. It's baseball season.

And that leaves us here. I swore to myself I will pull out the manuscript (tomorrow, dammit) and just start writing again. I'm deleting the love story. Maybe, just maybe, I can finish this book. Wish me luck.