The Brain Drain And A Deadline
I am going back to bed to work.
Today is the day I start the seventh edit of my eleventh novel.
My eyes are fuzzy, I am doubting every single word I’ve written, and I can’t remember when I last washed my hair.
This is what happens when a deadline looms like a fanged, mean monster.
One would think that after writing ten novels this would get easier.
It does not.
One would think that I would have this writing stuff down, understood, memorized.
I don’t.
One would think that I could toss an imaginary character into the universe, with a twirl and a swirl, and a story would emerge like magic, with cool characters and a throat gripping plot line, and I’d slug down coffee, fill in the blanks and that would be that.
Tra la la.
Never. That has never happened.
In fact, in some ways it’s gotten harder to write books over the years.
It’s a brain boggler (I think I just made that phrase up) to try to think up new characters, issues and sub plots, structures and themes, that are completely different from what you’ve written before.
It’s like trying to pull out your molars with a toothpick.
It’s like trying to stand on your head while tap dancing.
It’s like trying to do a back flip through sludge.
Which is why I’m going back to bed.
To edit. Slash. Delete. Write. Repeat.
I may well lose my mind. My brain might drain out of my head.
Wishing you a happy day from bed.
But we did. We survived. My father barely, my mother only through endless grit and determination, but now we are here, in Oregon, a noisy family, who does not talk about what happened back in Russia, twenty-five years ago. It is best to forget, my parents have told us, many times.
