Damn, I’m tired today.Â I feel like I only got an hour or so of sleep.Â Amazingly, it’s not entirely the fault of Shawna’s dogs: Greta and Boris.Â Sure, they woke me up at five so they could be let out.Â They never try to wake up Shawna, but that’s because they’re her dogs and they like her better.Â Luckily, I was able to act like the 65 pound German shephard standing on my chest hadn’t woken me, so Shawna climbed out of bed, muttering the whole way.Â Maybe this is a good thing, and we’ll finally be able to lock the dogs out of the bedroom at night, which I’ve beenÂ promoting for six months or more.
But no, I cannot blame Greta and Boris, or even the cats Sadie and Simon, who Shawna lets me lock up at night because they irritate her (dog people…sheesh!Â love you, Shawna!).Â Nope, I’m tired because I was up until about one in the morning writing, and I never even left my bed.
See, I keep a notebook on my bedside table, and it’s full of little ideas that come to me as I’m laying down to fall asleep.Â I don’t know why my brain tends to kick into overdrive at that particualr time, I just know it irritates me more than the cats irritate Shawna.Â I probably irritates me more than my bedside lamp irritates Shawna (which is why I usually read in the other room for an hour or so before deciding whether to risk climbing into bed with her orÂ just sleepÂ in the guestroom).Â When I’m ready to sleep, I want to sleep, dammit!Â I don’t need some muse nudging my skull, saying, “Wake the fuck up and scribble notes about crazy celebs killing each other for shits and giggles.”
But shit like that happens, and it happens with startling regularity.Â The Thursday before Halloween, when I had friends coming over to watch horror movies the next night, I spent half the night scribbling notes for a story called Firewater that had popped into my head just before the first relaxing moments of slumber.Â I wanted to go to bed, but I had to get cracking because I loved the idea so much.Â In fact, it will be my next project (you can pick such things when you’re not contracted for jack or squat).
Last night, Firewater bit me on the ass again (and no, I wasn’t drinking).Â I was lying in bed, ready for some shut-eye, and I started thinking about the story and the voice I wanted to tell it in, sort of a gumshoe by way of wino thing.Â So, I’m thinking about this voice, and an incredible sentence materializes in my brain, so clear I can see it through tiny whisps of night fog.
Rebecca has eyes like dead raspberries.
Maybe that sounds dumb to you.Â It sure did to Shawna, who when I told her about itÂ said, “Okay,” in a voice that really said, “Sweet Christmas!Â I live with this weirdo?”
Yes you do, my love.Â And I ain’t going.
Anyway, there’s always a chance that sentence doesn’t do it for you.Â Personally, I think it’s the best line I’ve ever written, and it doesn’t matter that, until last night, there wasn’t a character in Firewater named Rebecca.Â You can’t bet your own sweet fuck there is now.Â Hell, I stayed up until one in the morning creating her.Â The muse doesn’t tolerate those who forget to pick up what she drops for them.Â You better be on the ball, or she will come back and break you in half.
So that’s today’s look into the writing proccess.Â I hope you enjoyed it, and I hope you learned something.
Oh, and if you try to steal that sentence, I will gouge out your eyes.
Happy Wednesday, everybody!