The Optimistic Writer

He’d died, but he didn’t know it. He’d been writing his novel, and then editing and revising it. It wasn’t until he’d finished it that he came up for air and discovered he no longer had a body, and wasn’t a part of anyone’s earthly existence.

As far as he could ascertain, he’d been dead for several months. Probate of his meager estate was concluded, his clothing and personal items given away, and his name moved from one set of records to another. The cause of his death wasn’t clear. It seemed that he couldn’t see that, no matter how he tried to view it.

After some reflection, he wasn’t too concerned. Being dead meant no more concerns about money, health, politics, and the environment. He didn’t need to worry about being killed crossing the street or shot by some madman with a gun. The worst part about his death appeared to be that he was out of coffee.

That was going to put a crimp in his plans. On the other hand, he had a new novel idea.

He couldn’t wait to get started.

The Stairs Dream

Here’s a dream fragment from last night.

I was walking a carpeted hallway when I came to a doorway at the hallway’s end. Dark brown, it was a metal door, the kind found in office buildings in America as emergency exits. Not seeing any signs, I looked back and then decided to open it and go through. As I am in life, I was cautious when I use doors like this, and confirmed that it wasn’t locked, and that I could open it from the other side. I didn’t want to be trapped somewhere.

The other side was a well-lit landing. I seemed to be in the middle of a building. I didn’t see any signs, but I decided on an impulse that I’d go up.

Up I went, with my feet clattering on the stairs, which, I realized, were metal. Okay. After going to the next level, I saw a red sign that said in white lettering, “SECOND FLOOR”.

I paused to lean over the railings and look at the stairs above and below. I didn’t see how it could be the second floor. There were a lot of stairs below. It didn’t make any sense. If I was now on the second floor, than the floor I was on before was the first floor, right? Was the first floor the ground floor? I thought, well, maybe the steps going down past that level descend to a basement level or a parking garage.

I decided to go back down. Reaching that floor, I saw another red sign with white lettering, “FIFTH FLOOR”. That make no fucking sense. Facing the door to open it and leave the stairwell, I found a green door. I remembered that it’d been brown. The color change disconcerted me.

As I went to open the door, it opened. A young white male briskly came out. Dressed in business casual, with trim, short-brown hair, he smiled at me as he went by. Then he stopped and said, “Do you need help?”

I said, “What floor is this?”

Pointing at the sign, he said, “The second floor,” which was what the sign said.

As I tried to reconcile that with what’d already happened, he said, “Where are you going?”

“I’m not sure,” I said.

He laughed. “Are you looking for a particular office or person?”

I laughed. “I don’t know what the hell I’m looking for.”

The dream ended.

With a little surprise as I awoke, I thought that I remembering having a dream like this years ago. I thought of it as an ambivalent dream, reflecting my indecisiveness and uncertainty. Yes, where am I going? What do I want to do? I want to write, and I do write, but beyond that, I want publishing success, but I don’t want to market myself or jump through hoops to get published.

Yes, what am I looking for? Sometimes I rue being me.

A Dream Fragment

A canopy of dark green branches shielded me from sight and sun when I stopped. 

My head was wet. Breathing fast, I wiped water from my face with both hands and blinked my vision clear.

I was standing in running water. I was in it, but I don’t know how high it was, just that it was somewhere below my waist. To my right, the water ran in a hard and noisy rush, spilling over rocks with chaotic splashes. To my left was a calm pool.

Something white was in the calm pool. Wiping my face and blinking water out of my eyes, I squinted at the thing. I realized the white thing were words floating on the water’s surface. I leaned forward but I couldn’t make them out. Worried about displacing them, I waded toward them.

The words stayed in place. I moved forward until I was upon them. Though I looked down on them, I couldn’t understand them.

I have no idea what the words in white in the pool were.

Thinking about this part of the dream this morning, I chuckled. Classic writer angst dream, isn’t it?

Character Questions

My friends surprised me last night by asking questions about the writing process. They were interested in how I come up with characters (and whether I ever used people that I know as the basis), and how I know when a book was finished.

Coming up with characters isn’t difficult. Some people do huge sketches of the characters before they start, detailing everything possible about the character. I don’t, although I’ve tried doing that, because that’s what I read a writer should do. I don’t do it before I start, but I will do a physical appearance at some point to keep matters aligned. I usually also develop their backstory so that I’m aware of who they are, and document that, again, to keep matters aligned, but I don’t usually do these things until after the character has been introduced.

The thing is, when I introduce the characters, I know their general personality and behavior patterns, whether they’ll be optimistic, sullen, joyful, belligerent, dismissive, etc. All of them are composites. I do lean heavily on people I know in to establish a guide about how the character will think and behave, but the characters don’t share a physical appearance or name with the real people. Usually, too, I use more than one acquaintance as the character’s foundation. One acquaintance will be the guidance for political views while another provides the guidance for religious views, and another will be the foundation for attitudes about eating and exercising, etc.

Like people, each character exists on multiple spectra regarding how they think and act. The spectra are about the facets of life. Everything we think about and do exists on their own spectra, in my mind. I’ve noticed how people behave while driving vice their behavior in personal relationships and work relationships, their politics, and so on. I’ll often notice differences about their behavior. Naturally, I notice the same about myself. I know what I think and then do, sometimes surprising myself by my whims and impulses. Sometimes I rationalize that action, and sometimes I’m clueless about why I thought one way and did another.

I’ll decide, in a fashion, how much they slide along their spectra. Again, this is a reflection of what I think I see in people. I think of these spectra as one hundred point sliding scales. Zero means people won’t deviate on their spectrum. As you can imagine, that’s somewhat rare. Most people known to be true will still have a slight variation, recognizing that adhering to absolutes are difficult. And although someone might be low on the scale in their personal relationships, meaning they can be trusted in confidence, they can be high on the scale in other relationships, such as work, and thus, be considered less trustworthy.

I didn’t share all this with them, of course. That would be TMI and cruel, in a sense. They don’t need to know it. But their questions prompted the thinking, so I felt the urge to write about it to help me understand it.

As far as when the novel is finished, I begin with a sense of an ending when I first start on the concept. As with the concept, the ending changes and shifts as it develops, becoming sharper and clearer as the concept becomes clarified and the story lines and character arcs develop substance. The ending I want will often strike hot and hard in the middle of the writing process. I have no problem writing that sketch-up, knowing that the words will be changed, and some of the substance will be modified. But it gives me a firmer goal.

Sometimes, I find that that ending is wrong, that I missed, because the story took unexpected swings. That’s not a worry, but another challenge to put on my writing hat and find a new ending. In any case, from the writing process, I find an understanding of an ending that satisfies me, the reader.

Of course, that’s just the beginning. After finishing writing the novel, I read, edit, and revise it, and while doing that, I’ll adjust the ending as I think needs to be done.

Will I change it based on others’ input? I can’t say yes or no. First, it depends on the input. Readers find different things in books, especially if it’s a complex work. That’s great. I have a hope about what they’ll take away from my novels when I write them, but it’s based on what I wanted to find as a reader. So, I bear in mind that I’m writing for myself first. If their input finds appeal in me, then I’ll work with it.

Enough. I understand what I think. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.

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