Echoes in a Hollow Space

I don't like unhappy endings. I know that in some sectors of the literary life, some people think that only stories with tragic outcomes are “serious fiction,” but so be it. The way I see it, life itself provides far too many of those, so in my fiction bittersweet is about as unhappy as it gets. Most times. I have cranked out an unhappy face here and there, but they’re rare.

But I also don't like artificial happy endings. I don't believe in magically-arrived at solutions that avert the tragedy at the last minute. Unless it's a story about tragedy-averting fairies or a romance or other stories that are required by law to have happy endings. Otherwise, it feels like cheating. If something sad or bad is the best thing for the story, no matter how much I love the characters, then that's where things have got to go. Usually I manage to stick those sad/bad things in the middle of the story and pull happy or bittersweet out of the fire by the end. Most times. I'm not sure I've always succeeded there.

I wish I could write straight comedy, I sincerely do, but it seems my brain isn't wired that way. I may set out to write a comedy, but somehow painful twists and kinks crop up. So when I set out to write my current WIP, although it was mostly meant as a comedy, I knew upfront it would most likely be a serio-comic novel. I knew that would be a difficult challenge. I was completely correct in that. Have I met the challenge? I have no idea. Only time, another draft, and reviews will help me determine that.

Currently, I've got comic and tragic elements battling for possession of the story. Your guess is as good as mine which will win. I know what should happen, but it's not what I want to happen. It's not what I set out to write. A serio-comic novel may be the trickiest thing to pull off—and underrated. Some people assume comedy is easy, but it's not. I think tragedy is easy. Perhaps not emotionally easy to write, but technically easy. You don't have to walk any fine lines with it (except the line between sad and melodramatic). You just uncork it and let it flow. The ride isn't easy, not if you're feeling what your characters feel. It can be a squirming, harrowing experience. But the story elements are generally straightforward. At least that’s the way it looks to me. I could be wrong.

Keeping the tone right when writing comedy with a side of tragedy is maybe the hardest thing I've ever tried. I do seem to like throwing these challenges at myself. I don't always pull them off and failure is always a depressing option. I could cheat. I could have some magic fairy come in, wave her wand, and yell, "Just kidding!" In fact, I came up with such a scenario last week, but it felt wrong, not what my story is calling for, and getting past that big lump of late-in-the-game-sad to the imminent quirky ending is giving me migraines.

For a week I've been staring at that ending (longer if I count the foot-dragging leading up to this point), alternately wondering if I have the cojones to unleash the magic bomb—or if the cojones are for writing things as they should be, then worrying about rescuing the tone for the ending. I guess the answer is: just write it. Rework the tone in the next draft. But I’m resisting both jumps and about to unseat the rider…

La di da la di da, tomorrow is another day. I think I'll go work on content for my website instead.

I've discovered that writing a comic novel is no more fun than writing Serious Stuff. When you get to the crappy middle, it's still the crappy middle and still a chore. I find the same level of resistance as I felt with my sturm und drang novels, the same desire to goof off and do anything but write the damned thing, the same unrelenting doubts, the same pounding forward just to get the words on the page, the same certainty that I've lost my voice and am drifting in a Sargasso of cliché.

Well, actually, I probably am drifting in a Sargasso of cliché. It's a first draft. It's supposed to stink like mats of decaying sea matter. But it is something of a revelation to me that the same processes occur in my tortured psyche whether I am sailing in sunshine or storm.

What a rip off.

The good thing? This feels much closer to my natural voice than the high fantasy/steampunk novel I'm editing. I've completely lost track of who I am on that one. I imagine some time away from it will help.

The other thing? Doing a close reading/edit on that other novel (one of the stormy ones) while trying to write the funny is schizophrenic, to say the least. In fact, much of my writing energy for days now has gone into finishing up the edit. I am closing in on the end of the edit (2 more chapters!) and will concentrate on getting that done before diving back into the WIP.

And the edit? That shining castle on the hill that I first envisioned is looking more like a shotgun shack in the swamp these days. The story is far more melodramatic then I thought it would be. I suspect I don't really know what it is at this point. Late in the late draft blues. I've floated on that Sargasso before, too.

What's new in the yard: The planter of amaryllis is in full bloom, but the first blooming flowers have started to fade. The pink and yellow lantana has been popping for awhile now. The Mexican poppies--a papery, pale lavender--have sprung up here and there throughout the yard. And the pink and white geranium has been joined by a maroon and pink one.

Writing talk of the day: A real good session yesterday. The final fight is well underway. A fairly good session today. I continued the fight, then spent a certain amount of time staring at the wall. But it was good staring at the wall, thinking about "If A happens, then B could happen, and lead to C..." I blocked out important elements of the rest of the fight and hope that means I can work steadily towards the conclusion now.

This late in the game I find myself second-guessing some of my decisions and that's slowed things down quite a bit. But I have to let go of the idea that everything will hang together perfectly at this point. First draft I keep repeating to myself.

A funny thing happened on the way to writing this book: I wrote two books. Two books, with a household move thrown in for good measure. I do not wish to repeat the experience.

And if Lois McMasters Bujold cannot sell a 200k ms. as one book, I haven't got a prayer because I am sooooooo not Ms. Bujold. I am not quite at 200k (SMF) yet, but so close it's not worth mentioning. When all is done, done, done, the epic will probably have to be taken apart and rearranged, and broken in two. And somewhere in there a third book will have to be written.

But not now. God no, not now.

Quote of the day:

"Miss Manners refuses to allow society to seek its own level. Having peered through her lorgnette into the abyss, she can guess how low that level will be."

—Judith Martin

LJ quirk of the day: All the old comments I've been missing for weeks because of LJ's server move have started showing up in my mailbox. But not altogether. One or two at a time, a trickle, then a big trickle this morning—and scattered randomly throughout the time scale. Who says computers don't have senses of humor?

Writing blah-blah of the day: Here's something I don't understand. The ending outline I did a week or so ago was very clear: "X does Y to Z. The End." So where did this whole extra chapter come from? Where has this unexpected but appropriate twist been hiding? And sex??? Where did that come from? From the infected part of my brain, clearly. jsgbits was speaking of the same thing yesterday, so clearly this infection is going around.

And considering I just wrote a savagely tender sex scene, I found this post by the Smart Bitches HEEEEElarious:

http://www.smartbitchestrashybooks.com/index.php/weblog/lexicon_of_eeeeeeevil/

And I've just thought of a new name for my novel: The Salmon of Desire (Taliesin and Douglas Adams in the same reference!). Or maybe Savage Fangs of Tenderness. Oh yeah, like that one. Manroot of Doom? Anybody?