I Hear Voices…Can’t You?

I Hear Voices…Can’t You?

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Voices. Voices everywhere.

What I consider to be the hardest part of starting a novel is not technical, exactly. It’s not the outlining or the descriptive note cards I might have scattered about the bedroom like so much detritus nor the initial formatting of the manuscript (which I’ve since learned is just foolish at the start). It’s not even putting down the first word that comes to mind.

The hardest part of starting any novel (to me) is putting the words down in a sensible order that proves I am in the mindset of the characters fully. I need to be immersed in a fictional character’s mind in order to write a scene from their point of view.

I think this is true of all writing: on those days when writing is smooth and seems to flow like lava down a mountainside, we act like that character, immersed in the role. Conversely, when our writing is chunky and it seems we’re just spinning our wheels on the tarmac of a chapter, we’re not in tune with our characters; we’re distracted by other voices, internal or external.

Castles was written by a voice in my head, one that told me a story I eventually transcribed. For nearly six years, however, I couldn’t hear the main character; there were too many distractions and–at least I think–Maggie didn’t want to talk to me anymore. I was actually crestfallen in the way you might be if your best friend (that’s “BFF”) ignored you.

But Castles was written in the first person, something I’m not keen on doing. Sketches from the Spanish Mustang, however, was written in the third person, and for each section of the story it took time for me to be immersed in that character’s life. On those days when I was not Benjamin, but Fulano or Nathan or Dan or Thomas or Veronica or Carolyn or the Artist, the words flowed onto the paper from my fingers in an effortless dance. But on those days when there were distractions and I couldn’t get into the spirit of things, I stumbled. Mind you, I still wrote, but only about a third of the volume of the other, more productive days.

But it was all okay. I didn’t have to stick to a rigid 2,000-word-a-day schedule. I could break it up as the spirits moved me. That was true for Castles, for Sketches, and for any one of my latest works in progress. To force words–to believe you must expectorate 10,000 words or more a week–is to take the fun out of writing. If we’re on deadlines, that enables poor quality writing.

What I’m saying is this: it’s okay for us to wait if it means the writing is pure in the end. What is pure?

Pure is being the character the writing calls for, not writing the character you think you need.

More proof that writers are insane.


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