I need to hire a Sikh with a cattle prod
… to stand beside me when I write.
When I stop, he’ll ask, “Why?”
If I say, “I’m not sure what happens next,” he’ll nod his bearded head.
If I say, “Well, I just can’t think of the right word - ”
***Zzzap!***
Or if I say, “I don’t know how to end this scene - ”
Brzap!
Or, “I’m not sure this is in character - AIEEE!”
Now, please don’t get the idea I don’t care about my characters staying in character, or the proper ending of scenes, or indeed about getting the right word. These things matter to me a great deal.
But if I let myself worry about these things when I write, I stop myself. Hard. It’s like a hard-charging watchdog hitting the end of his chain.
This - and allied forms of second-guessing myself - is my most destructive habit as a writer. It costs me money and misery.
I know the right way for me to write: flat out. First off, far more often than not, the right word is what comes out when I’m not thinking about it. Second, agonizing about it almost never proves productive.
And finally - I’ll catch it later. Not necessarily even in the rewrite. I cannot begin to count the times I’ve agonized over something - the right scene to get something vital across, the driving motivation for a character to do or say something - only to have the perfect way hit me suddenly out of nowhere, three days later, after I’ve forced myself past the stoppage.
I’ve fought for years to shed myself of this habit - this second-guessing. So far nothing’s worked. When I write, I’ll forget my pious intention and start worrying about the right way to do whatever - and screech to a jolting halt.
I caught myself doing it again this evening writing on Annja.
So driving over to my friend Joe’s house tonight it hit me: hire a Sikh with a cattle prod.
Joe approved the plan as we sat on his porch. He was drinking beer. Since I drink no alcohol I drank ice water. This is a tradition we’ve followed off and on since he quit being a lawyer and became a machinist: we get together to sit on his porch or mine to celebrate the end of his work week.
He did suggest a cheaper option, since right now it’d be a stretch for me to pay better even than a security company’s hourly rate for a Sikh. He said I might keep a rubber band handy, and when I catch myself agonizing, pop myself one on the arm or somewhere.
He told me not to dismiss the suggestion out of hand - that even such minor negative reinforcement might prove effective. I assured him I didn’t dismiss it; I’ve seen similar ideas before from people who seem to have a pretty good grip on things - and few indeed have a tighter grip than Joe.
Even when he’s drinking beer. And cradling a Chihuahua on his lap. It’s his teenage daughter’s (the dog, not the beer.) He’s become enamored of the beast, and contrives all manner of pretexts to get her to come stay with him. Then again, when he wasn’t cradling the dog, I was; I am a noted Cute Critter Mark, as I believe I’ve mentioned.
For some reason tonight Joe kept speaking German. Beer doesn’t usually do that to him. Don’t know what was up with that.
Anyway - in all seriousness, I am determined to bust this damnable habit of fetching myself up short in writing, when I should be loping like a deer. I’ll give Joe’s rubber-band idea a try. And I asked him, if he can think of any other way to bust the habit, please let me know.
You too. I’d be obliged.