So, like a bad case of the croup, there’s a writing blog hop making the rounds. And
like a bad case of croup, I caught it.
This particular round requires
a regimen of antibiotics answers to four questions about writing. I’m not sure I have anything of value to say on the art of writing, or as I like to call it, ‘prosefaction,’ but rather than break the chain and have untold horrors befall me and my descendants, I’ll wing it.
Who was so generous as to push me onto this blog hop conveyor belt? Why none other than Kit Campbell. So send your complaints about this blog to her, thank you very much.
What am I working on?
Keeping a tenuous grip on my sanity. Oh, you mean writing-wise?
Keeping a tenuous grip on my sanity:
I’m editing Balloons of the Apocalypse, the next book in the Marlowe and the Spacewoman series, while holding a full-time job, dealing with toddlers when I get home from work, being awakened at the crack of dawn EVERY morning by said toddlers so I’m sleep deprived, trying to pull my weight in the whole marriage/relationship thing, and taking flight lessons.
Why did that come out ‘lesions’ when I first typed it? I may be just a wee bit utterly exhausted.
How does my work differ from others of its genre?
Hmm. How is it different? I’d say the absurdist element, though that probably isn’t unique to my books. I built a world that makes you scratch your head and hopefully laugh, but my main characters don’t see it as anything but the world they live in and must navigate.
Oh, and I have an immobile character named House who I always imagine being voiced by Stephen Fry (and not Hugh Laurie, who despite starring in the medical drama House also appeared with Stephen Fry in a number of things, including Jeeves and Wooster). House is Jeeves, only without the ability to sap you with a cosh.
At least directly…
And in the Marlowe-verse, David Hasselhoff played Philip Marlowe in the movies.
Why do I write what I do?
Why do any of us write? To keep those effin’ muses at bay, of course. Once they deliver an idea to me, they pester me until I use it.
Jump up and down on my head.
Pinch my cheeks.
Squeeze my buttocks.
Makes me yelp every time, which, given that the bastards are invisible, has caused no end of problems at work, during romantic moments ‘alone’ with the Missus, while passing through airport security, and during the bi-annual, court-order psych evaluations.
But once I’ve written it down, I have a few hours respite before they come up with what they think are brilliant new ideas.
It really sucks when the ideas are lame. They never see them as such.
If you’re reading something of mine and come across a passage that strikes you as particularly lacking, just remember: I thought it was lame too, but I had to put it in to stop the incessant badgering.
How does my writing process work?
Computer and fly swatter. Because though they may be invisible, those Muses are not incorporeal.
I used to pants it, but I’m experimenting with outlining now. I rarely stick with the outline all the way through, but it helps to have a nice, solid map of where I want to go and how to get there from where I am.
Of course, editing doesn’t have much outlining in it. I suspect I’d be doing it wrong if it did.
And there’s my contribution to the writing process.
Now, as I understand it, I’m supposed to
burden give a few more writers the opportunity to wax poetic (or prosetic) on these questions. Kit’s already dodged this bullet, as she’s the one who tagged me, so I choose:
Lisa Eckstein (a madwoman with a box and some writing utensils)
Tamela Buhrke (a madwoman who happens to write)
S.G. Browne (a very sane, sensible, and funny writer)
Stephen King (not holding my breath on this one)