Mark Bierman's Blog - Posts Tagged "write"
How to torture Charlie
How to torture Charlie
The time is 4:45 am. The blood red numbers of my ancient alarm clock are now outlined in my retinas after I’ve closed my lids again. The whippoorwill perched somewhere outside my window is still singing its namesake, going steady for a moment before falling silent, then starting again, as if confused by the early morning light that has begun to chase away the night.
Stupid o’clock, that’s what some might say. But this is my time. Time to write. Time to wake those characters up, or maybe one is already awake, paused in mid-air, after beginning a one- hundred-foot plunge from a cliff, hovering between life and death, defying gravity, defying logic.
My feet hit the faux-hardwood, that’s just a fancy description of laminate flooring. My brain is somewhere between a sleepy fog and alertness. But things are beginning to stir inside this old cranium, the other world is springing to life. By the time I creep past my slumbering daughter’s room, I feel the need to race downstairs and press the “On” button of my computer.
I move across my “office,” or the kitchen, as some in this household like to call it, towards the laptop sitting on the table. I halt mid-way. Not so fast Mister, I need some liquid brain food.
As the kettle slowly works the H20 into a bubbling mass, I power up the electronic portal. The screen lightens from midnight just before the desktop icons appear. The “New Book” shortcut icon is selected and the laptop’s internal circuitry labors to pull up the first draft of my fetus-staged novel.
*Charlie, the main character of the story, is there (not literally, of course, I swear). His arms are crossed and his mouth is bent into a sour puss expression that would push internet guru, Grumpy Cat, off the public radar. Charlie is seated in front of a steaming plate of terrestrial seafood creatively named, Rocky Mountain Oysters. These are the first cousins of Prairie Oysters. If you need to pause here to look it up, please be my guest.
“I am NOT going to eat that! You can’t make me!”
“Charlie, you are going to eat those. I told you before, this is a key part of the story.”
“Well then it’s a dumb story then!”
“Oh, so a story about you being the hero, becoming rich and getting the girl is foolish?”
“Well, not those parts. But eating something this disgusting is fatuous.”
Fatuous? When did this joker become such a wordsmith? Funny, I don’t remember building this trait into Charlie’s DNA.
A couple of keystrokes later and Charlie is savouring every bite, as though consuming a juicy burger loaded with extra bacon.
Sorry buddy, not my fault, this story needs to flow.
The kettle pops and I make the coffee before settling in to tackle the rest of the story.
The words necessary to make Charlie eat the delicacy have filled the remainder of the page and moved me on to the next.
The Blank Screen: On good days, a fresh palette to create a wordy picture. On bad days, a taunting reminder of why I am glad I kept my day job.
The exchange with Charlie seems to have converted this one into the latter.
“Do something! Type anything!” My inner critique, always close at hand, pleads.
I take a deep breath. No worries, I got this. Here I go, watch me now.
A quick stretch, another deep breath, and begin . . . nope.
My Encino Man fingers remain poised over the keys, held in place by ambivalence. The blank screen is now a billboard advertising my failure to string together a simple sentence.
Then, from somewhere deep inside a primitive nook in my brain comes an old, yet familiar elementary school tune. I begin a hunt and peck for the lyrics . . . ABCDEF . . .
Letters appear! The screen fills!
Huh? What am I doing? Get serious now!
No, I like this! Maybe I can turn this action/adventure novel into a musical. My index fingers take the lead and begin a spirited rendition of Chopsticks. The f and j keys take the hardest pounding and almost threaten to liberate themselves from the keyboard (if you are currently on a laptop, I’ll bet you just checked to see which keys I would have hit the most, didn’t you?).
The trick works. My writing neurons are now firing on all cylinders.
I spend the next while writing, reviewing, re-writing . . . undoubtedly frustrating poor Charlie as he tries to fend off bad guys and save the day. I can almost see him throwing his hands up in exasperation. “Didn’t I just defeat this guy? Why doesn’t he just stay down! This story is so puerile!”
Then, before I know it, there are foot steps in the upstairs hallway. The rest of the family is coming to life. The real world calls. Time to go. Sorry Charlie, I promise that tomorrow I will get past Chapter One.
*Not his real name. He’s asked that I conceal his identity.
The time is 4:45 am. The blood red numbers of my ancient alarm clock are now outlined in my retinas after I’ve closed my lids again. The whippoorwill perched somewhere outside my window is still singing its namesake, going steady for a moment before falling silent, then starting again, as if confused by the early morning light that has begun to chase away the night.
Stupid o’clock, that’s what some might say. But this is my time. Time to write. Time to wake those characters up, or maybe one is already awake, paused in mid-air, after beginning a one- hundred-foot plunge from a cliff, hovering between life and death, defying gravity, defying logic.
My feet hit the faux-hardwood, that’s just a fancy description of laminate flooring. My brain is somewhere between a sleepy fog and alertness. But things are beginning to stir inside this old cranium, the other world is springing to life. By the time I creep past my slumbering daughter’s room, I feel the need to race downstairs and press the “On” button of my computer.
I move across my “office,” or the kitchen, as some in this household like to call it, towards the laptop sitting on the table. I halt mid-way. Not so fast Mister, I need some liquid brain food.
As the kettle slowly works the H20 into a bubbling mass, I power up the electronic portal. The screen lightens from midnight just before the desktop icons appear. The “New Book” shortcut icon is selected and the laptop’s internal circuitry labors to pull up the first draft of my fetus-staged novel.
*Charlie, the main character of the story, is there (not literally, of course, I swear). His arms are crossed and his mouth is bent into a sour puss expression that would push internet guru, Grumpy Cat, off the public radar. Charlie is seated in front of a steaming plate of terrestrial seafood creatively named, Rocky Mountain Oysters. These are the first cousins of Prairie Oysters. If you need to pause here to look it up, please be my guest.
“I am NOT going to eat that! You can’t make me!”
“Charlie, you are going to eat those. I told you before, this is a key part of the story.”
“Well then it’s a dumb story then!”
“Oh, so a story about you being the hero, becoming rich and getting the girl is foolish?”
“Well, not those parts. But eating something this disgusting is fatuous.”
Fatuous? When did this joker become such a wordsmith? Funny, I don’t remember building this trait into Charlie’s DNA.
A couple of keystrokes later and Charlie is savouring every bite, as though consuming a juicy burger loaded with extra bacon.
Sorry buddy, not my fault, this story needs to flow.
The kettle pops and I make the coffee before settling in to tackle the rest of the story.
The words necessary to make Charlie eat the delicacy have filled the remainder of the page and moved me on to the next.
The Blank Screen: On good days, a fresh palette to create a wordy picture. On bad days, a taunting reminder of why I am glad I kept my day job.
The exchange with Charlie seems to have converted this one into the latter.
“Do something! Type anything!” My inner critique, always close at hand, pleads.
I take a deep breath. No worries, I got this. Here I go, watch me now.
A quick stretch, another deep breath, and begin . . . nope.
My Encino Man fingers remain poised over the keys, held in place by ambivalence. The blank screen is now a billboard advertising my failure to string together a simple sentence.
Then, from somewhere deep inside a primitive nook in my brain comes an old, yet familiar elementary school tune. I begin a hunt and peck for the lyrics . . . ABCDEF . . .
Letters appear! The screen fills!
Huh? What am I doing? Get serious now!
No, I like this! Maybe I can turn this action/adventure novel into a musical. My index fingers take the lead and begin a spirited rendition of Chopsticks. The f and j keys take the hardest pounding and almost threaten to liberate themselves from the keyboard (if you are currently on a laptop, I’ll bet you just checked to see which keys I would have hit the most, didn’t you?).
The trick works. My writing neurons are now firing on all cylinders.
I spend the next while writing, reviewing, re-writing . . . undoubtedly frustrating poor Charlie as he tries to fend off bad guys and save the day. I can almost see him throwing his hands up in exasperation. “Didn’t I just defeat this guy? Why doesn’t he just stay down! This story is so puerile!”
Then, before I know it, there are foot steps in the upstairs hallway. The rest of the family is coming to life. The real world calls. Time to go. Sorry Charlie, I promise that tomorrow I will get past Chapter One.
*Not his real name. He’s asked that I conceal his identity.
