Work, holidays, rewriting a project from a corrupted file … it’s been a hell of a busy month. Hoping to complete NaClaMoMo before year’s end, but we’ll see.
In the meantime … a quick rumination on writing in general.
I’ve been writing for a long time. I was writing short stories by the time I was ten, was writing my own adventures for games shortly thereafter … but I never really thought about being a writer, if that makes any sense. Writing was something that I did, but it didn’t define who I was. I enjoyed writing, but it wasn’t a part of my very being. Yet.
End of eighth grade. I’m fourteen, and I’m playing in a baseball game. Stretch out to make a play at third base, with one foot on the bag, and the baserunner tramples my ankles. Just doesn’t break it, he shatters it. So I get to spend the summer between middle school and high school like Paul Sheldon in Misery, laid up and hobbled. Fun, fun, fun.
During that summer, the family goes to visit my aunt in Michigan, and I go with them. There’s not a hell of a lot I can do. So I read. A lot. It doesn’t take me long to go through all the books I brought with me, so eventually I start reading whatever I can find on the shelves in my aunt’s house. Most of it’s not to my tastes. But I find one that definitely is.
I’ve never read Stephen King before. But his stories and his writing style just resonates with me. It’s not just his gruesome horror and his black humor, either. He develops characters so wonderfully well, especially the supporting characters. He captures the way characters speak in a believable way. He has a real sense of pacing, of timing – he’s a natural storyteller, with a very matter-of-fact, almost folksy way of telling a tale. He writes in a way that makes me want to write my own stories. By the time I finish the 1,100 pages of IT, the thought occurs to me: I want to be a writer.
(And if you want to know where I get my fondness and overuse of ellipses from … you can probably thank Mr. King.)
I heal up, and go to high school. Inexplicably, I wind up with a free period in the middle of the day that is shared by none of the few friends I have. So I do what any painfully shy, antisocial dork would do from about 10:00 to 10:40 in the morning. I go to the library. And I discover their collection of Stephen King books. During my freshman year, I proceed to devour the likes of The Stand, Salem’s Lot, Christine, Firestarter, and a good number of other early works by King.
And then I start to write, because I know I'm a writer.
The early stuff, naturally, is nothing but short stories, nothing but horror, and is just a pale imitation of Stephen King. It’s crap, for the most part. But I don’t have my own voice as a writer just yet, and I don’t know quite what to write. So I’m just writing someone else’s stuff instead, trying to find my own original voice by using someone else’s first.
Meanwhile, I continue to read. I continue to devour King. Somewhere in there, I discover The Talisman, which was written by King and Peter Straub. I check out Straub, and books like Floating Dragon and The Throat (still one of my favorites of all time). I see how to write horror in a different way, in a more refined and elegant way. My stories and writings start borrowing elements of Straub as well as King.
And that’s how it goes for a while.
I discover the awesome works of Elmore Leonard, the crime novelist, who has the most amazing knack for writing believable, natural dialogue I’ve ever read.
I discover Neal Stephenson, who has an astonishing ability to seamlessly weave a host of strange and seemingly unrelated topics into a carefully crafted story.
I discover George R.R. Martin, the wonderful fantasy writer who puts unflinching grit into fantasy, and who effortlessly juggles dozens upon dozens of characters in his novels without difficulty.
And I discover dozens of others. I read. A lot.
Every time I discover one of these amazing authors, a little piece of what I admire in them gets added into my own style of writing.
And as I continue to write, the collection of pieces gets a little bigger … and the edges between them start to fade away. It’s not so much a collection anymore as a bunch of influences. For in the middle of them all stands my own unique voice, definitely shaped by these pieces, but ultimately something that’s completely my own.
I haven’t written a novel, or even short stories, in a long, long time. I stopped a couple of years ago to focus on writing for gaming companies. That was fun, and for the most part I enjoyed that experience immensely … but over the past year, I realized that it was time to leave the world of gaming for awhile, and get back into writing fiction. And that’s what I’ve slowly been doing for the past few months, as I wrap up my final gaming projects and obligations once and for all.
I recently started on a horror novel. It’s something I had kicking around for well over a decade, but never quite knew how to write it. Ten years ago, the story was beyond me. Now? I can see it. More importantly, I can see how to create it.
I jumped into the manuscript, which started falling together nicely. Almost too nicely. So I stopped, and took a critical look at it. I realized that in a roundabout way, the story does owe a few things to some of the works of one Mr. Stephen King – IT, for starters. And The Tommyknockers. And The Shining. I got a little uncomfortable.
Whose voice is this?
And that’s when I realized the voice was mine.
My story may be a bit like those novels or the surface, in a superficial way … but it’s definitely my story. Told my way, in my own style, and using my own ideas.
I felt good about that realization. In fact, I felt great.
So since then, I’ve continued to work on the story in earnest. Haven't slept much, but that's okay. I'm back in a creative groove.
I’ll let you know when it starts looking like something like a finished novel.