I was reading this post the other day on Lady Glamis' blog about how she usually has a romantic affair with her books but was contemplating a divorce. From her current book, sillies, not from her lovely sword-wielding husband.
Anyway, it got me to thinking. So many people talk about falling in love with their books, like writing a book is like a romcom. I don't do that. My relationship with my books is more like a horror film. Actually, that's not entirely accurate: I write like a slasher film. I'm talking about the kind of book in which everyone gets chopped up into kibble except the one cheerleader, who decides to go out searching for her friends in the dead of night even though there's so much blood on the floor that no one could ever survive, and she's wearing only a baby doll nightie and no shoes. In the woods. As she's going out the door, she remembers that there's a bad guy out there and decides she'd better arm herself. With a ruler.
And you're sitting there on the couch (I always watch these kinds of movies on the couch because then I can heckle them. Loudly.) yelling, "Go back into the cabin, you bimbo! What're you going to do with a RULER? Measure the guy before he kills you? Put some fricking clothes on and call the police!" Only of course she doesn't, and then she ends up standing in the middle of a big field, looking around wildly for the bad guy who is standing right behind her, waving his big pointy knife around to get her attention.
Yeah, that's what my writing process is like. And in case you haven't figured it out, I'm the bimbo.
I keep getting myself into these seemingly unsolvable corners in my mannie. Outlining doesn't solve this problem, because I inevitably come up with a really kewl idea that totally blows the whole outline out of the water, so the whole thing is just a waste of time. Anyway, I end up blindly groping around for a solution kind of like the bimbo, only with more appropriate clothing. The solution, of course, is often blazingly obvious. It's not standing behind me waving around a big pointy knife, but it might as well be.
So much for feeling superior to the bimbo. I promise not to heckle you any more. Much.