This getting old . . . stuff . . . is not for the weak!
It’s rather infuriating, actually.
This getting old . . . stuff . . . is not for the weak!
It’s rather infuriating, actually.
The ideas, the characters, just won’t shut up and screaming at them that you only have so much time left and need to satisfactorily finish up a bunch of stuff already started . . .
Harumph! Their hearing is worse than mine! And they’re about as hard to ignore as the tinnitus . . . well, all right. I will admit that when the characters are loud, I flat don’t notice that annoying high-pitched tone.
And once they have your attention, they don’t let go easily “just a little bit more to finish the scene” when your bladder has apparently taken lessons from modern stores, that is to say, just in time. So long as you’re close to a bathroom.
Well, they’re right, in as much as stepping away from the computer means that the scene playing out in my head has lost momentum, and I’m likely to let one of the other characters grab control of whatever the heck is going on in my head.
It’s quite amazing really, how, once you’ve trained your brain to create . . . it gets addicted and can’t quit. No matter all the times you just can’t seem to write . . . the Muse/back brain just keeps on with the ideas.
At one time, I thought writers turning their worlds over to the kids, or bringing in other writers to basically flesh out their concept was . . . I dunno. Lazy? Giving up? Retiring?
Oh, Now I understand.
“Will someone Please take these ever loving ideas away so they’ll leave me alone?”
Now If you’ll excuse me, I have a cover to wrestle with because I did manage to finish one.
While starting three more.
Look at these adorable faces? How can you not want to adopt them?
7 responses to “The Aging Writer”
Impossible to write all the plot bunnies you have even if you start writing in your teens and do it as a full-time job. Such is life.
“It’s quite amazing really, how, once you’ve trained your brain to create . . . it gets addicted and can’t quit.”
I write in self-defense. My brain never -ever- stops churning out scenarios, it’s going all the time. Other people report that they don’t have this, and often hint that I’m a little weird with the story thing.
Unfortunately it is quite repetitive and once it gets latched onto something it won’t let go.
But! Lucky me, I discovered when I wrote my first book after watching the movie play out in my head for 20 years, if I write them down they SHUT UP! Which is awesome.
Of course a new scenario will start up, but at least its a NEW one. And I can kind of steer them a bit, so if the scenario is heading off into the long grass it can be brought back to the road. Or at least to the ditch.
Mental hygiene is key for this sort of thing, I can’t be consuming disturbing words/images and expect it all to be okay. And I can’t write down disturbing things, that seems to make them worse.
I often wonder how horror writers manage having all that in their heads. It seems a bit rash, from my point of view. There is the odd monster rattling around in here with me, but the lippy spiders are here as well to keep the monsters behaving properly.
For example, from WIP today, some spider action.
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One missile thudded down on the lawn across from the Divinity College, not too far from where a student had a canvas set up on an easel under a tree. She was attired as a Goth, wearing a frilly black dress, black Dock Martins and sporting some very white makeup. A black sun bonnet finished off the ensemble with panache.
The missile shed all its hexagonal skin panels in an untidy clatter. SAGC-393 spotted the artist and upon hitting the ground skittered across the scattered panels and went right up to her. “Hi!” she said brightly, blinking all eight eyes at her. “Are you doing Art? Can I see?”
“Hey,” said the girl with a frown. “I was doing art, but now not so much. You and your little friends dropped a mess into the middle of my painting, spider.”
“We’re Litter Bugs,” the spider said with aplomb. “We run around making messes for other people to clean up.”
“Funny,” snorted the girl. “Bugs only have six legs, try again.”
“Arachnids are branching out?” the spider offered, gaining a small smile from the girl. “It’s an evolution thing.”
“Sure,” said the Goth with a skeptical grin. “I know who you spiders are, I see you downtown all the time. Usually with a giant. Where’s yours?”
“Around,” SAGC-393 said, waving a foreleg vaguely. “It’s Gudrun today, she’s running over here from Locke Street right now.”
“Is something going to blow up or go on fire?” the girl asked pointedly. “You spiders and the giants always seem to be around when stuff like that happens.”
“Sometimes we’re a little late,” the spider said apologetically. “Stuff happens and we rush in to keep it from getting worse. We’re ahead of the game today, so far anyway. Hopefully nothing bad will come along.” The spider touched the easel with a foreleg, superstitiously grounding the ‘bad luck charge’ generated by her statement.
“Knocking on wood?” snorted the Goth girl. “What the hell, spider?”
“There’s some crazy sh1t going on,” SAGC-393 admitted. “Did you see the dragon yet, and the giant dogs?”
“I sure did,” agreed the girl. “And that really tall girl who looks like a queen. Aliens or magic?”
“Yes,” answered the spider, rolling her eyes. “But, lucky us, there’s no such thing as magic here in the real world. That’s a heads-up for you, ducky. Spread the word.”
“But there’s magic dragons?” she asked skeptically.
“No, the dragon is an alien,” the spider explained. “The golden retriever is Spike, he’s a normal dog. Okay, he’s normal-ish,” she granted when the girl looked doubtful. “The two wolves and the wolfhound are from elsewhere. And no, I’m not telling. Chances are I’m doing you a favor. Okay?”
“I guess,” conceded the girl, becoming a little concerned. “Um, how bad is all this?”
“It’s probably nothing,” the spider said. “I’m not going to lie to you, if we weren’t here things could get pretty bad. People could die. But we are here, so it’ll probably be alright.”
“Oh,” she said uncertainly. “So, why are you talking to me then? I’m just an art student.”
“You’re cute,” shrugged the spider with her four front shoulders. “We like humans. I wanted to see your painting.”
“Honestly, I was going for ‘unsettling’ with this outfit,” the girl admitted.
“Fail!” chuckled the spider and rubbed her face on the girl’s shoulder. “You’re cute as can be, ducky. Want to hang out with a scary spider?”
“You’re not scary,” snorted the girl and gave the spider a friendly shove. “I mean, you should be, looking like that, but you’re not. I’m not scared at all. You’re nice.” She turned her easel so the spider could see. “I’m speed-running an oil painting of the quad here,” she explained, indicating the little touches of colour on the canvas. “I’m going to blend these trees in, do a little dry brushing and add some white dots for the light shining through. And add a big shiny missile skeleton,” she mentioned, glancing at the spider sidelong. “It’s not a bad addition, now that I’m getting used to it a little. How come it fell apart like that?”
“It’s supposed to,” shrugged the spider. “Battle stuff, you know? Tactical considerations. You probably wouldn’t be interested.”
“That’s a funny thing, a missile that falls apart on purpose,” the girl said in surprise. “Usually when people build big things they want them to last.”
“The parts that counted lasted,” said SAGC-393. “All it was meant to do was survive the launch and get me here in one piece. Added bonus, less upsetting to humans when it lands.”
“If you’re so worried about us, why do you have this huge gun?” she asked, eyeing the spider more closely. The machine had a lot of guns sticking out of its fur from different places, and a long gun barrel running lengthwise through its body.
“I did mention things could get bad, right?” the spider said unhappily, its eight eyes doing a quick scan of the area. “Occasionally something shows up that needs some of this,” she indicated the muzzle of the long barrel. “Eight-millimeter railgun, ten thousand feet per second, five thousand rounds per minute cyclic rate. Tungsten penetrators with an iron jacket.”
“Artist,” the girl said impatiently, pointing at herself. “What does that mean?”
“I can cut down the bell tower of the Divinity College,” the spider explained, pointing at the large concrete edifice behind them. “I’ve never needed to do anything like that myself, but some of my fellow spiders have seen some sh1t, if you know what I’m saying. Nothing like that planned for today, but you never know.”
“That’s so weird,” the girl said uncertainly. “I can’t believe you’d need all that.”
“Well, about that. My job is to carry all this heavy crap around and spend all my time doing nothing, waiting in case something might need to get shot. Your job is to be a human and do human stuff. I feel I have the better deal here, Miss Artist. You put up with an awful lot of sh1t in a day, if you ask me.”
“Do not!” exclaimed the girl. “I’m sitting under a tree, painting!”
“Uh huh,” said the spider doubtfully. “So why the unsettling outfit and ‘f- off!’ boots, hmm?”
“Some of the boys around here are creepy,” said the girl a touch angrily. “After a beer or two they stop understanding the word ‘no.’ That’s what the boots are for. The makeup scares away the foreign student weirdos, they think I’m a ghost. Which is good, because otherwise they just put their hands anywhere they want.”
“Like I said,” sniffed the spider irritably. “Okay, art girl. I’ve decided we’re going to hang out.”
“Aren’t you a robot?” she asked skeptically. “Can you really do that?”
“I am a semi-autonomous ground combat unit, designation SAGC-393,” she said and bowed comically. “You can tell me your name, or you can be ‘Art Girl’ the rest of the day.”
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You do good robots.
Harrumph! Harrumph i say!
I’ve read the “characters don’t shut up” thing here any number of times over the years. I think it’s impossible to understand until it happens to you, personally.
Howard, the point of your existence is to be the helpful guy running the hardware store. You are not destined to become a werewolf and go on adventures with the pack.
Deputy Reilly convinced me. He even got his own chapter about it.
What I’ve noticed about the aging writer is the references.
“The change in clarity was amazing, like VHS to 4K.” Uh. Who knows what VHS is?
Or the world ends and they check their phones for texts, but not X or Instagram.
Is this by-design or the world’s best typo?
In the large heap of rubble, there are very few rubles to fight over. It’s good either way.
Grabbed the book. Don’t know when I’ll read it though. I’m behind on this sub-series.
:: Sigh :: I are a Perfessional righter, Onest!