This always happens to me when I am in the skull-clenching middle of a book I am writing. I enter a twilight zone of the Other World, the one where my characters are trying to claw their way to resolution, and I am at the rim, writing it all down. I am not actually in their world, that would be creepy, but I am half in it. And half in mine, of course, and that’s not creepy – that’s chaos.
I get a little uppity at this stage of the novel. I sort of want to tell everyone to shut up and leave me alone. Don’t talk to me. Don’t ask me questions. For pity’s sake, don’t saunter. But I sort of need my normal life to make any sense of the fictive one. It is only by participating in my normal world (that means being a polite, civil person that sauntering people want to be around) that I get the inspiration to solve the problems in my fictive world.
It’s like this. I have Character A in a really important, plot-pivoting scene that I am finding very hard to write and My Real World beckons me. I grudgingly peel myself away from the fictive world, address the Real World issue at lightning speed (which can be as simple needing to use the bathroom, making a meal, or taking a child to a dentist appointment) all the while stewing over the interruption.
And yet when I come back to the story, the loathsome interlude has produced new insights I didn’t have before. The hateful disruption into all things real has made all things fictional easier to visualize.
Getting back into the stride is still just about the most dismal thing there is. It’s like trying to jump back into a swinging jump rope. It’s easier if I never have to step out of it.
But easier has never made for a better story. Not for me. My best stories have always been the hardest to write. Natch. There is probably wisdom somewhere in that but I gotta get outta this blog and back to the Zone.
Now go away and leave me alone.