Dogzplot Interview

I had the good fortune last week of chatting with Peter Schwartz about The Singular Exploits of Wonder  Mom and Party Girl. Peter asked some great and pointed questions–cutting right to the chase with his first one: Have you ever tried cocaine? If you want to know the answer, check out the interview in Dogzplot.

A Novel Approach, pt. 10, (Sausage)

(Continued from yesterday.)

Ultimately, the thing to remember is that writing is a process. In fact, it’s a messy process that’s bound to look like a hopeless mess when you’re in the middle of it. But that’s okay. As my friend and colleague Tim Connelly always says, all we want is the sausage. We don’t want to know how you made it.

As a writer, you have the luxury of working at your own pace and of hiding all the messiness involved in the process behind closed doors. Sure, we always hear about writers who say wild things like, “Once I found my narrative voice, the novel just wrote itself.” But those writers are just a bunch of bastards and they can all go to hell. Meanwhile, the rest of us can hunker down and get on with the real work of writing.

Having said that, let me end with a little thought experiment.

Imagine you have to explain writing a novel to someone who’s never done any writing—or any reading for that matter. And I don’t mean the “fun” aspects of writing a novel. I’m talking about the grim, gritty details of the process: I sit down in front of my computer for hours at a time, every day, possibly for years on end, and try to construct a narrative that reveals something about humanity. Some days I wonder if I’m wasting my time.

Other days, I just sit there and stare at the screen, reading the same line over and over again and wondering what comes next. It’s not uncommon for me to be happy to squeeze a single good sentence out of my brain and onto the page in front of me. Most days, I’m stricken with doubt and, if I’m completely honest with myself, have to admit that I have no ideas what I’m doing.

“Oh,” your friend who doesn’t read or write says. “That sounds terrible. They must be paying you a lot of money to do that.”

“No,” you say.

“Well, at least a lot of people read your work.”

“Um, actually?”

“The important thing is that you enjoy it, right?”

“Not always, no.”

“So why do you do it?” your friend asks.

It’s a tough question, but it’s a fair question, too. The best answer I can give is that I do it out of love. To write for any other reason just doesn’t make sense.