Of Loss And Life

Tonight, we have to go to a memorial service. He was barely more than a kid, not even two years out of high school. Snap. Gone. Forever.

I haven’t been to a funeral since my friends buried their daughter, and I’m probably not alone when I say I don’t particularly like going. And that’s where this gets interesting for me, because I can read and write about death and its effects on individuals and whole communities, day in and day out, but going to a service for someone I know – knew – runs the risk of somehow becoming perverse. I want to keep it compartmentalized in my brain. I don’t want it to be fodder for my writing.

And that’s always a potential problem, but especially now. Where I’m at with the second book in this series is the point where it’s weighing on my brain night and day. I was writing notes in the dark, while lying in bed last night, and since it was dark I didn’t realize the pen had died. No matter. They were the first thing on my mind this morning. It’s all right there, just waiting to get out. And some of it has to wait, because I’m not quite ready for all the pieces that I can clearly see in my mind.

In the past, when I’ve been at this stage on a book, I’ve even gone so far as to sleep in my office. I lack the discipline to stop my brain from playing things out. Characters are speaking and I’m processing all of it. Although I’m not a plotter, and usually start a story with one piece of inspiration, in this case I can see through most of the book. I know where all the major lines are going to end.

Unfortunately, that hasn’t prevented my characters from throwing me the odd curve ball. Just yesterday, Ashlyn put her foot in her mouth twice, and now two of the people she’s closest to are both upset with her. Of course, in one case that’s perfect. In the other case I’m left to wonder how the hell they’re going to work it out. Don’t ask me. I haven’t got a clue, though it should make the next scene I’m going to write a hell of a lot of fun.

I had been banging my head against a wall for a while on this book. John Connolly recently wrote about what he calls The Doubting Stage, reassuring some of us that we’re not alone when we struggle with all the angst of self doubt when working on a book. Maybe if you don't write you just can't understand this, and so many "newbies" are afraid admitting to it will make them look like an amateur. Thank goodness we've got pros like John to reassure us this is normal, 'cos it also seems to be sort of taboo to talk about it. No, you have to compound the doubting stage by struggling with it alone...

The Book Otherwise Known As The Frailty of Flesh* has proven to be the hardest thing I’ve ever tried to write. “Oh, it’s a series book, you know the main characters. Shouldn’t it be easier?”

Um… NO. Not in my opinion. Particularly with series books, especially early on, every book should be stronger than the last. Too many authors fall prey to the week (that would be weak - duh!) second offering. In this series, WBW is the intro, and this book has to move deeper. Why should readers bother with this series if they don’t get to know the characters better? There has to be a compelling storyline, but it needs to develop the protagonists. I guess I’d say at the end of WBW I hope people think, “I really like them^, I want to know more” and that at the end of this book people are addicted to them.

In the midst of all the doubt and all the frustration, and wondering if you really wouldn’t be better as a shoe salesperson (despite the fact you can barely distinguish between Nikes and the things they call pumps, except for saying with confidence which ones are more comfortable and which ones you're supposed to wear with a dress) you keep pressing on and reach a point where the book is talking in your head, the scenes are begging to be written and you remember that (politics, criticism, and the cutthroat competition that comes with this business aside) this is why you do this – because you love to write, and when the writing is going well it’s the best feeling in the world.**

But tonight, I’m going to turn it all off to go and say goodbye to someone who died far too young, senselessly, the situation reminding me that part of the reason I write about death is to serve as a reminder that life is precious, sacred, and that taking that from someone is the worst sin.

I just wish more people understood that their cruelty and pettiness and need to tear others down in order to feel better about themselves often isn’t any different than physically killing another person. Badgering a person to the point where they’re unable to really live, remaining as a shell, having given up on their dreams… It doesn’t take someone special to do that to another human being. It takes someone pathetic.

And today, Ken Bruen writes of loss in a way that cuts to the core. That’s the post you should really read.


*The boss doesn’t like the title, so I’m contemplating alternatives…

**Next to how I feel about Evil Kev, of course.

^ Or, more appropriately, "I really like spending time with them, they're interesting." Others will agree with Brian that not everyone is likeable.