Not every night is fraught with inspiration, and more’s the pity.
“For the love of god, write something cheerful for once!” he shouts from the kitchen. I try to think of a happy story. A really moving happy story. Once upon a time…
… there was a blank sheet of paper.
I think of myself as a generally happy person. I try to be cheerful. I study optimism and follow it’s doctrines religiously. I know that it is up to me and me alone to make myself happy. I accept that responsibility and work hard to fulfill it. So why are my books full of sad tales? I only like to read books and watch movies with happy endings, so why do all my stories end in tears? I don’t do it on purpose. Once, I purposely tried to write a sad story. A real tragedy. Where the only person who wins in the end is the bad guy.
“Did you succeed?” he asks, gazing over my shoulder and munching cereal. Did I ever! It was horrific, dashed dreams and slaughtered hopes from beginning to end. The innocent were punished, the guilty were rewarded, and every likable character died in a truly heart-wrenching way. It was so awful, I never wrote it down.
“Chicken.” he munches contentedly.
I can write funny stuff, no problem. I find it somewhat boring, unless I’m writing to someone specific and tuning it just right to their sense of humor, but I could write funny stuff all day long.
“Yeah but funny’s not really the same thing as happy, is it? I mean, lots of times a joke is funny because it’s magnifying a negative emotion to a comical degree. Or you’re making fun of something, being derisive, being sarcastic—” Yes, okay, yes that’s true. Fine. Let’s think of something happy.
“Puppies.” he suggests. Not particularly moving.
Love. “It’s been done to death. Come on, think of something new.” Flowers. Clouds. The Cabin. Dancing in tall grass with a tambourine. Driving down a tree-lined street and the sun flashing through the branches into your eyes. Being on a night train with a good mystery book. Eating a cream puff and drinking coffee in a café. Sitting in the window seat while it rains outside…
But wait! What about conflict? Isn’t that the basis of any story? There has to be conflict! It can’t all be clouds and cream puffs! “Sure.” he shrugs, “If you want to write stories like everyone else. If you want to go down in history as a formulaic wannabe. But if you want to write something that actually matters, you need to break the rules.”
I don’t even remember the rules anymore. I just write what my brain spins out, as it spins it, and I don’t believe in second drafts. Second drafts seem to rip the soul out of a piece. Or at least change the feel of it completely.
“Well, that’s one thing you’ve got going for you.” he says over his shoulder as he heads back to the kitchen.
Once upon a time…
