Helloooo in there...

Been pretty quiet in my head of late.

Most people would be grateful. Not me. Used to be a time when the voices of my characters would clamor to be heard. They used to have a lot to tell me, most often things like where they were headed and how they would like to get there. Now, not so much. Matter of fact, not at all.

Nick and Flint MacAllister are arguing in a post-apocalyptic world, Randy's in a police station wondering what's become of his mother, young Sam's just gone out to steal breakfast in an oversized rainjacket, and Dottie's got a secret she hopes her husband doesn't discover. And Monk. Dear Monk. Monk sits on the top shelf pinging me with peanuts, his mad attempt to either juice up my imagination or at least keep me nourished until I can find it again. The rest eye me periodically wondering what's next on their agenda.

I've no idea. Literally. None. Does Nick save Flint's life and prove himself the next leader of the ragtag band of refugees? Is Randy's mom off getting married to the wealthy Mister Mister? Will Sam make it home before being beaten by the lowlife that lurk in the shadows, will Dottie's husband forgive her? And will Monk survive long enough to hear Kira say she loves him?

I dunno.

The ceaseless chatter of the internet is blocking my thoughts. I hope Monk has lots of peanuts.

"We're not going to Guam, are we?"

A  plane crash, a tropical island, a polar bear, a mad Frenchwoman, a series of repeating numbers.

A hole in the ground, a science project, a four-toed statue, the end of the world.

A smoke monster, a trek through time, a long-standing battle between good and evil, and an alternate universe where a plane didn't crash.

At some point in the next week or so, all these random pieces of information are going to come together into coherent whole. That's my hope, anyway. For 119 weeks, I have eagerly sat in front of my TV, remote control in hand, poised to leap into the strange and confusing world of LOST (created by Damon Lindelof, J. J. Abrams and Jeffrey Lieber.)  I visit that world with a large group of fans. I'm thankful for them. I'd hate to feel this confused all by myself.

I'm thankful for another thing, too.

This show inspired my writing. It begged me to put things on paper whether they made sense or not. It helped me to trust the process; it taught me to ask "what if..." I accepted the challenge to view the blank page with  a LOST perspective. I learned it is okay to take your readers on a ride, to keep some things a mystery, to take risks, to just write the damn thing and see where it ends up.

I'm not sure whether the LOST writers had it all planned from the beginning or if they've been making it up as they go along. What I know for sure is they've freed their imagination, and in so doing, have lit a fire under mine.

Not a bad way to spend a weeknight.

Nicknames

I blame my father.

Not that he had a lot of silly names for me, he really only had one, and it wasn't even all that silly, but he did have a lot of other silly sayings he used to direct at me along with a wealth of affection. Things I can't even try to spell, that's how invented they were.

In that same spirit of silliness, I nicknamed the dogs, my husband, our relationship, the canoe, our kids.

I use nicknames often enough that the animals respond to them as readily as they do their true names. (For a cat, that's saying something.) Tish-Tosh, Snoo-Boo, Smoreo, Peebs.

I called my son "Speedy Pete" long before he began actually traveling at the speed of light, and my daughter "Peach Fuzz" for the downy soft fluff that covered her head on the day she was born.

Recently, I've been playing around with nicknames for my characters. Not all of them. Some of them are too nasty to merit a nickname. But, for others, I think it might be a way of fleshing them out, of giving them an intimate history with another, of showing the reader a side of them that might be otherwise hidden or secret.

I think this bears some looking into.

Pencil and Paper

About a year or so ago, I began composing all my stories on the computer. I'd squirrel ideas in my head and type them out whenever I had a chance. It worked pretty well for quite a while. And then it didn't anymore.

For some time, I've been wondering why I can't finish a story. I came up with two reasons: one - I used to spend more time in my car. I do a lot of great brainstorming in the car. It's the only completely quiet place I have. Two - I used to write everything out longhand.

Here's the thing: I write in bits, nothing is linear. Sometimes I know the ending before I finish the middle. Sometimes I have a general idea of what gets talked about in the middle and then have to find a beginning. Sitting at the keyboard, I feel compelled to fill the page from top to bottom, beginning - middle - end.

Except.

I don't write that way.

The other day, I typed out a decent beginning, took a drive and daydreamed about the middle and then, over the next two days, I grabbed a notebook and jotted down ideas, sentences, snippets of dialogue. It's all very disjointed, with arrows and cross-outs and a few passages are circled (them's the good ones) and I can't tell (yet), but I think I'm going to end up with a decent story.

I'm glad I re-discovered this style of working. This post is here to remind me.