I’ve been claiming it for two years now. Owning it, because the more I said it, the more I believed it, and shit got done. You know, the writer thing. And now, it’s finally true. No, don’t get excited, I haven’t published anything, yet. But that stuff that writers talk and joke about – like imaginary friends, living in a fantasy world, staring into space daydreaming, and forgoing food – that all happens now. I never thought I’d see the day when I would forgo food, but a few days ago when my boys wanted to go to Dickey’s BBQ for brisket, I actually hesitated because I was going to lose some quality writing time. Yeah, you read that right – I almost chose writing over brisket. Lastly, I have acquired this curse where I can’t watch a movie or a show without dissecting it into a million pieces.
The imaginary friend thing is as hilarious as it is terrifying. My characters don’t just talk to me when I’m writing, they also talk to me when I’m driving, washing dishes, or trying to go to sleep. They have become entities outside of the book, and why not? They have all the same things real people have, like birth dates, personalities, and strange habits, so it only makes sense that they would talk to me, and tell me what needs to happen next. Right? Or, maybe I’m schizophrenic. I have a woman named Emily, who is a bad ass in a Chanel dress, telling me that she wants to be more confident, and asking me if Nickolas really likes her, or if he is just dragging her along. I insist that if she can speak to me, then she is perfectly capable of finding her own confidence, because I’m sure not going to give it to her, and as for Nickolas, well, yeah, I think he likes you more than he says he does, but I can’t ask him, because he won’t stop nagging me and reminding me that just because he looks like George Alsford, he is in fact NOT Alsford, but a callous, Italian gangster, and that I need to focus on writing the damn book – and stop looking at the new men’s collection from Banana Republic, considering I don’t even wear men’s clothing, and I can’t get a word in edgewise. I’m like, fuck Nickolas, I need a break, and he’s standing over my shoulder, pointing at the screen, telling me in his part Italian, part New York accent, that he looks as good in a suit as that guy does. I shrug, and tell Nickolas to stop acting like a jealous twit, because he and George can both wear the shit out of a suit. Discussion closed. When he opens his mouth to speak again, I remind him that I created him and therefore can destroy him, and he shuts his fucking mouth. Yeah, who’s gangster now?
Thanks to Truman Capote, I don’t have to own any of my crazy. At least the crazy that stems from writing a book. And apparently, this is all good and healthy, because according to other writers, when the voices stop, the writer’s block hits, and that would be disastrous.
The curse though. I don’t know how to lose that. I’m watching the Fear Of The Walking Dead series premiere last night, and I’m breaking down the characters in my head, as to which one is the protagonist, antagonist, villain, and stuff, and then I start breaking down the story structure. Like, okay, use the drug addict to be the first person to see a zombie, because his credibility is going to be questioned – cliche, but it works, and no ideas are original anymore, really. Then, I’m like ‘that guy isn’t going to die, that one is, that one is a plot device.’ I did the same shit with the second season of True Detective, and I’m still wondering why the fuck Taylor Kitch’s character was even in the story. He started off as one of the cops investigating the case, but his character never tied back into the plot in anyway. It was complete waste of a good character idea. I used to never catch this stuff. Now I catch it all the time. What the hell has happened to me? Why did I ever choose to become a writer? Oh wait, it chose me.