I’m writing a tragedy.
I didn’t realize it until about 25 minutes ago, sitting in a Very Queenly Chair in one lucky (read: real-estate-savvy) couple’s wet dream of a studio apartment by the sea.
I’m sitting in the aforementioned chair (and loving every second, cus damn, that’s a comfy chair) and writing the third-to-last chapter of The Quaking Aspen, the very first block of WTF text wherein Mitch Maslany drives the narrative solo, without the help of the Only Other Character, Sid Doyle.
It’s… a new experience.
I’m sipping my Apothic Red between longer sips of Earl Grey between even longer sips of Icelandic Tap Water (not a brand, but fuck, it should be), staring out at the North Atlantic and the dramatic, snow-spackled, tabletop spires rising like eager born-again Christians at a pastor’s revenant touch from the pancake plains around Reykjavik (are you choking on adjectives yet?).
It’s around this time that I type the words, smack-dab in the midst of Chapter Twenty-One:
There was no energy left in reserve to hate the way his voice cracked. Only enough to hate even more the lack of response.
And it’s around this time that I (accidentally) grabbed the whole wine bottle and pressed its corkedness to my lips – so disoriented was I – instead of my glass, ever-so-tastefully anointed with a strict milliliterage of Cabernet blend in accordance with my diet…
As the geese wailed and the waves purred just beyond the balcony, these were the few lines that made me pause and ask: Just what the fuck am I writing?
I think we’ve all had this experience, at one point or another. Writers are a folk more twisted than the corkscrew I used to open this bottle. And yet that doesn’t make it any less of a holy-shit moment or, for me, as a relatively new member of the scene, a what-the–actual-fucking-fuck moment.
For me, that WTFM was the disturbing epiphany that what I was writing would make Shakespeare giddy – not because it was so purple-prosey, but because it was truly messed up. I’d go on, but spoilers are a thing, so…
Now I’m stealing some time away from my actual writing of the scene in question, borrowing that creative currency and funneling it into the off-shore account of my need to whine about it via blog. But I needed to siphon some of these FEELINGS away, because pitiless horror writers can’t afford to labor under the weight of emotion. Gotta find a way to leech that stuff out, so it doesn’t bleed through your narrative.
I really don’t have much else to say, anyhow. I don’t have any profoundly quotable musings on the metaphysicality of breaking your own fourth wall mid-first-draft. I’m only writing to say that, damn, it’s a thing.
Damn, you get emotional.
Damn, it fucks you up for a little while.
And damn, you hop right back into it, cus DAMN, you love writing and your stories are more than worth being told to the world.