Time to Write

I had an interesting exchange with a friend of mine.

She's a mother of a four-year-old, and I know what that means. Hers is more than just a "real" job; it's a lifestyle. It's a full-time physical, mental, and emotional commitment to a long, demanding, no-way-out project. I have incredible respect for a mother who stays in control of her life despite the frantic pace presented by her job, and my friend does that fairly well.

So the other day my friend made a tiny, insignificant request on my time, and I was more than happy to help her out. However, it was the way she asked that left me scratching my head. She said, "I know how busy you are, but could you possibly do [x] for me?"

Well, I'm not busy. I'm a writer. Not only that, I'm an unpublished writer. [SNIP] That leaves me with tons of time, more than almost anyone I know.

Why, then, would my friend say, "I know how busy you are...", when she knows how much time I actually have?

Because she's sweet. In truth, she has absolutely no idea what I do with my time.

I'm sure she wonders about it, though. I would. "Why can't he talk on the phone? Why does it take him so long to answer my emails? Why can't he host a party once in a while? After all, he sees me doing much more than that, and all while herding a four-year-old!"

Sorry, dear. I wish I could tell you the answer.

[SNIP]

(Edited: In fact, I tried to offer an answer here, but I failed remarkably. It seems my answer sent the opposite of its intended message, which is always an impressive accomplishment for a writer. Best I not address this topic, methinks.)

Alert: Mcgonagall Has a Fetish for Dragon Hide

I don't agree with everything in this article from the Dallas News, Harry Potter and the Author Who Wouldn't Shut Up, but I agree with the basic intent of it.

Creativity is only half the job of an author; selectivity is the other half.

So you made your choices, Ms. Rowling. They were tough choices. Some of them you may even regret. Now you have to do what all authors do: live with those choices. That's your job. Or, if you just can't endure having all of those morbid darlings locked up inside of you, how about writing another book? I'm sure you'd find a hungry audience.

Drizzt and the Forgotten Novel

I told a friend that I was writing a kind of fantasy novel. He said, "Have you read anything by Salvatore?"

"No, I don't think so."

"Really?! Not anything by him?!"

"No," I repeated. How obnoxious! As if one author should know everyone else's favorite authors.

"I can't believe it!" he said. "You have to know about Drizzt du Orden. He spawned, like, everything." He went on from there, touching on just about every aspect of fantasy, from books to RPGs to movies and comics, and... Anyway, I got the impression that there wouldn't be any fantasy at all without this Drizzt character. Tolkien, Le Guin, M.Z. Bradley, et al — none of these even entered the picture.

"Maybe I've heard of Drizzt. Sounds familiar. But no, I don't think I've read Salvatore. Sorry."

"Huh. Interesting." Obviously he had lost hope that I would ever become a worthy successor of his main man Salvatore.

So I searched the web. Turns out my local neighborhood Powell's bookstore has about 10,000 copies of Salvatore's books (slight exaggeration). So I stop by Powell's and pick up the novel that started it all: The Crystal Shard. I thumb through the ragged copy before I buy it. By the end of the first page, I begin to feel myself entering familiar territory. By the middle of the first chapter, I know that I have already read this book, maybe twice.

This happens to me all the time. It seems I lack the ability to remember names of characters, authors, actors, or anyone else. What's more, I have read so many paperbacks, especially during a frenzied period in the 1980s, that I'll probably never remember some of them even if I were to read them all over again.

I suppose I could inform my friend that I've read about Drizzt after all, but I probably won't. I prefer to be underestimated.

And this leads directly to my next post, though on a slightly different subject. Stay tuned...

My Hero

I have discovered a most fascinating byproduct of being a writer, and a romantic one in particular.

I ride bikes with a group of triathletes and Masters athletes two to three times per week, although I only participate for the health benefits, not to compete.

I manage to keep up. To the extent that my body has enough fuel to keep moving, the most critical effort seems to be in my head. Like they say in those old fantasy stories, you've got to believe in your own power otherwise the magic won't happen.

Even so, there are times when I think that I'm going to die. It's usually when the coach has been driving us at, say, 80 - 90% max heart rate for forty minutes and through ten killer sets, then he says that we're going to kick it up a notch to 90 - 100%. "Not to worry," he says, "we only have five more sets to go." That's five more sets. Not one. Not two. But five. Okay, maybe I can handle four more sets out of sheer determination, but god help me on that last set.

But of course, god can't help me, because "he" is just a polyp in someone's imagination. I'm on my own. Well, not exactly. I recently discovered that I have a secret power. It's called My Hero, and he is the protagonist of my current novel.

When I reach that point of imminent death (figuratively speaking), beyond where most others would quit, past the point where I've already spent my own quite substantial reserves of determination and where my body starts to tell me that there's simply nothing left to give, then all I ever have to do is ask myself, "What would My Hero do?" Never fail, like some kind of gift of strength or a magic power, I find a will, not merely to survive and limp through those last few minutes, but to actually speed up and break through at one hundred percent.

My coach watches me. He compliments the way I finish sets. I appreciate his compliments, because they speak well of My Hero.