"Charlie there is no future in anything. I hope you agree. That is why I like it at a war. Every day and every night there is a strong possibility that you will get killed and not have to write. I have to write to be happy whether I get paid for it or not. But it is a hell of a disease to be born with. I like to do it. Which is even worse. That makes it from a disease into a vice. Then I want to do it better than anybody has ever done it which makes it into an obsession. An obsession is terrible. Hope you haven't gotten any. That's the only one I've got left."
Something horrible has happened this weekend. It is the most unimaginably awful thing that can happen to a fiction writer. It's hard to even speak of, it's so terrible.
|This is what happens when authors create their own temporary covers. Clearly, some things are still best left to professionals. Who is that unusually large headed fat man pushing on that tree?|
With my latest work (and first genuine attempt at market fiction (whatever the hell that term means))(and, oh yes, it's my damned blog and I will use as many of these things ((())) as I want to), Losing Meadow Brook, advancing through the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award competition, and my refurbished novella, Silence of Centerville, heading out the door, and this lovely little blog gaining steam, my plate was already full.
|Don't tell me I can't try this at home, you fascist bastards!|
...and not to mention my scientific research and experiments based on random thoughts and ideas, despite having no scientific background whatsoever, and I've been pretty busy.
|We've secretly replaced Buzz's coffee with Folgers crystals that have been brewed a week earlier and then left to sit in their own secretions and ferment. Let's see what Buzz thinks.|
|Ohhh. That is cutting edge 1980's special effects!|
Anyhow, despite it all, it happened this weekend. Like one of those bugs from an old Star Trek movie that crawl into your head and start gnawing away at your brain tissue...I got an idea in my pea brain and started the next novel.
|"Ideas come from a little voice inside my head. It might be my conscientiousness speaking, or that creepy Vladamir Putin guy who lives in my backyard and sneaks into my room at night, whispering ideas into my ear. I'm not sure. "|
Which brings me to the most asked question that I get. "Where do your ideas for books come from?"
|"Buzz, you will write a fiction novel about mundane human events. Then, if you ever want to get a literary agent to read it, you will include a vampire or some other overused undead thing and categorize it as a 'young adult' novel."|
I'd like to say that ideas and inspiration come from ascending the highest mountaintop in Tibet and meeting some spiritual guru or something, but that's not how it works with me.
For me, ideas come all the time, when I least expect them and I am trying to lay around in my underwear watching television.
"Hello, it's me, an idea for a story. Can I come in?"
"No thank you. Not today. I'm in my underwear trying to watch reruns of Everybody Loves Raymond."
Usually, by ignoring them, they simply go away and bother the next poor bastard down the street a ways (at least I assume that's what happens because bad ideas have to go somewhere, right?). Sometimes, however, an idea is a little pushier. They knock a little louder and are downright rude about not wanting to leave my head.
"Hey, Mr. Malone, it's me...a Big Idea. Let me in. I know you're in there!"
"Dave's not here, eh."
"I know that's you, Mr. Malone. You're over sixty days past due on writing anything about me. You can't hide forever."
"Go away and leave me alone, you bastard. I'm trying to finish watching The Big Lebowski, damn it."
"You should listen to me, Buzz. I've got a great story line about a young woman having really disturbing sexual relations with a wealthy, older gazillionaire. It's porn really, and has no literary merit, but we'll package it as mass market, and call it Fifty Shades of something. And the best part is, it's a friggin trilogy! They'll sell them in Wal-Marts and everything! You'll be filthy stinking rich. Listen to me."
"Go away. That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard of. They'll never sell porn at the Wal-Mart. It's owned by a bunch of bible belt baptists. It'll never work. Now go on and beat it, pal."
"You'll be sorry, Mr. Malone."
And sometimes, ideas come knocking and no matter how hard you try to ignore them, they just don't go away. They stick in your head and the characters and plots begin to develop until they come crashing through your defenses and force you to write about them, even when you'd rather be doing anything else at the moment.
And that is all I have to say about that...because I've got a bit of writing to do.
"An obsession is terrible. Hope you haven't gotten any. That's the only one I've got left."
Thank you for reading.