Slogging Away

A quiet, if busy day.

Script work was reluctantly, painfully done. And the main event was, of course, the novel. It’s the halfway point of the book, but also the big set-piece chapter. Lots of things happen here, and I just hope it comes out close to what I have in my head, but of course, there are no guarantees. And of course, strange things keep happening which I never accounted for when characters say or do things because… well, because they feel like it and that’s what they wanted to do at that time.

This particular chapter takes place in Malaysia, specifically the capital city of Kuala Lumpur. It’s a relief to me to be here, because I’ve been to KL before and still remember what it feels and looks like, so suddenly it’s a hell of a lot easier to write, because I’m not relying on imagination so much and falling back on memory a lot more. Of course it’s also a wee bit nerve wracking in that mild, I’m-in-no-physical-danger-whatsoever way because, well, this is supposed to be a big chapter. I just hope I can pull it off.

Incredibly boring, no?

This is what happens when you sit down and say to yourself, “Okay, I’m just going to finish this damn thing.” Your life, or at least the interesting parts of it, such as they are, disappears. It’s just you and your brain, and one page after another with things that never really happened, and all it costs you is time that could have been spent, I dunno, doing volunteer work, or helping to make the world a better place somehow. Or even just going out and hanging with friends.

But then I guess that’s one reason why writers are writers. I know there are exceptions to every rule, but I think the mindset most writers have is that they’re not party animals to begin with. I mean, if you really DID find hitting the bars every night and the club every weekend to be the most fulfilling thing in your life, then you’d have very little motivation to sit down with only some music in the background and the clicking of keys to keep you company as you spend time with unreal people in unreal situations.

You are, after all, spending all this time constructing a huge, ornate lie. It’s a lie with all kinds of bells and whistles, and maybe a fundamental truth or two if you’re really lucky, but still, unlike a blog, unlike a news article, unlike a magazine column, it’s pure, intentional fiction. It’s lying for fun, and possibly profit.

The only difference is you actually own up to that in the first place.

Right. That’s my sage observation for the day.

52, 000+ words. And people are about to start dying.

‘Night, everyone.