Some of you may remember the thesis that I worked on for the past year. I didn’t chat about it a great deal on Saturday Jane, because trying to tell somebody the plot of the story you’re working on is like sharing your dream journal or elucidating on the precise brands of Friskies your cat will and will not eat. One’s imaginings are often not very well appreciated by others until they reach a sort of final narrative format.
Well, I am slowly, slowly nearing that final narrative format, in the effort of turning my thesis into a comprehensive book.
There are several wonderful things about writing a book, and there are several not-wonderful things about writing a book. The first not-wonderful thing is actually saying ‘i am writing a book’ which is about as pretentious as posting pictures of my collectible crystalline snifters or spending an hour each morning waxing my twirly mustache to perfection. The instant you say out loud that you are ‘writing a book’, you gain about sixty douchewad points, which is equivalent to three levels on the douchewadometer. Either that, or you get laughed off, seeing as how an unfortunate amount of people who claim to be ‘writing a book’ simply have a wonderful, elaborate plot rattling around in their heads but never touch pen to paper.
Here I could get stupidly elitist and talk about how these people are as much writers as I am a sky diver, being that I have thought about sky diving really a great deal, and I have analyzed sky diving technique in my brain to such a degree that if I ever did it, my plunging grace would be a spectacle to behold.
But I’m not going to get stupidly elitist today.
Honestly, though, I can sympathize greatly with these brain-writers, as another distinctly not-wonderful thing about writing a book is having the time, the inclination, and the means to write, all at the same moment. Often one will have the time but would much rather be watching reruns of Kim Possible. Or one will have the inclination and find they have left their goddamn computer in their Corvallis apartment aaaaAUAUAUGH. It is a rare nexus of fate when one has all of the proper ingredients to sit and write, and the giddy feeling it produces is not unlike opening the front door to get the paper and discovering Commander William T. Riker in a hot tub full of Froot Loops and Swiss Chocolate.
All of these unpleasant things about book-writing aside, though, it’s a fairly rewarding experience. When one of your characters takes on a life of its own and stubbornly refuses to adhere to the plot you’ve decided on, you get a little thrill as though your children are growing up. You get a feeling of accomplishment when somebody cries at a passage you’ve written, or when somebody laughs at one of your terrible, terrible puns. It’s like farming, or climbing a mountain, or any one of those analogies that could be described just by saying ‘satisfying’.
I’m writing a book, and it’s satisfying.
Now off to polish my snifters.