just one question…what hump?

So there’s this story about a mad scientist named Victor Frankenstein who creates a certain piece-meal monster that, upon being jolted to life, starts running amuck, terrorizing townsfolk, attempting to simultaneously learn Spanish and the salsa dance, and ultimately becoming a royal pain in Victor’s backside. Okay, okay, I realize some of my facts aren’t a hundred percent true, but I get most of my knowledge from Wikipedia, so cut me some slack.

Mary Shelley’s dark tale of a creator being overwhelmed by his creation is both poignant and perplexing. How often do the things we create impact the paths of our lives? Think kids. Think controversial films. Think that spicy quesadilla recipe you whipped up last Thursday. You know the one. Yeah, the one that had you hunched over cra…we’ll just stop there. See? The things we create impact our day-to-day lives. But what does this have to do with anything? This isn’t some philosophy lesson, right? Why would I go on and on about Frankenstein and created choices and Mexican delicacies if not for a purpose?

The purpose is this: As an author, it is your job to create. But think about what that means. You create plots, lives, intersecting identities and challenges. You foster relationships and tear families apart. You give birth to viruses and sometimes, if you’re in a good mood and Adam Levine selects your favorite contestant that week then maybe, just maybe, humanity gets the cure. As the creator of the tale, you can spin any web you wish. But every sticky strand begets another one perhaps more powerful and with deeper consequences. One wrong choice could mean not only the end of a character’s existence, but the end of your relationship with your reader. Think about it. As an author, you flirt with landmines every time you open that Word doc. And every time you hit save, you tempt Fate.

frankie

This probably isn’t what you were expecting. Some deep, probing, analytic exposé on the intricacies of telling a good story, but I couldn’t help it. I had to go there. Part of being a good writer is being able to explore the way things work, the way creations are manufactured, designed, and we are designed. So with that in mind, we can begin to work, creating identities and emotions and pitfalls and salvations. Will our protagonists thrive in a wondrous garden of adolescence or be tossed into the scorching furnace of maturity? I often wonder if I’m creating a dialogue with my readers or if I’m burning a bridge. But over the years, clarity has come: I can’t keep every reader. Not every monster is meant to be created by every scientist. Similarly, not every mad scientist will find empathy among the masses. Some have loved my books; others have hated them; still others scratch their heads wondering what they just read. What does it mean? It means that in order to stay relevant, one must travel far and wide. One must find his or her own Transylvania. One must get reacquainted with the shadows of their lives and the spider webs of others. Take shelter in a certain kind of castle. Dare to take that leap. Dare to tempt Fate. And when that giant, that mechanical, fearful creation takes his first breath, you, rippling with dreadful wonder, will wander back into the light, perhaps scratching your head, perhaps blending in with the townsfolk as a result of cowardice. Or maybe, just maybe, your creation will not get the best of you. Maybe you will be proud of the beast you have re-animated. Perhaps you will find your purpose, your place among the madmen.

Tell me, amigo, what does your monster look like?

-evega