The Real Reason I Write

Do you know what I love about writing? Let me explain it to you. During the process of writing, I’m in charge of what hits the paper. I control everything. It’s a like playing God. I invent characters and after a few pages, I turn them loose.

I’ll know if it’s a good character because they either will actually demand things on their own, or they will fail miserably. 

That means if I create a wimp, the character should stay a wimp until I develop him through interaction and or a change of situation. The same is true if I put some kind of a pissant or an undying prick on paper. They stay the way I make them until I change them. I’m the author. That’s what I do. But the spooky thing is they start to demand things like any normal person. A good character will tell me and teach me when it is time to eat, time to sleep, or perhaps the time to make love or even kill someone.

I know it’s strange, and unless you write fiction, it’s hard to visualize what I’m talking about. A good character will often tell their author what the next move or reaction should be. All of the budding authors out there need to remember what I just jotted down.

I think that was what Mark Twain eluded to when he talked about the best writing is done when the story writes itself.

So why do I like to write, especially if the damn thing writes itself? The answer to that has two parts. The first part is this: it doesn’t really write itself, it suggests things to write and a way things should feel, see, taste, et cetera. The second reason is I get to be the first to read the story, and as an added bonus, if I don’t like the way it reads looks or sounds in my head I can change it. I do change things too. That turns back around to that feeling of godhood and waving my hand through the air to make a change.

My hand doesn’t actually wave through the air unless you count hunting and pecking on the keyboard. It’s not really a hunt and peck method either, and the old image of a bohemian writer, hat cocked back, and a smoke clench in teeth doesn’t fit either. I think maybe the poverty thing might. But that’s a different piece of literature yet to be written.

What might fit best is a picture from “Please, Don’t Eat the Daisies”. The writer can’t write because the kids are driving him nuts while his wife calmly sits, stands, or walks around in total control. That isn’t to say the kids always drive me nuts either.

By the by, what is so funny about the man in a sitcom nowadays who is a bumbling buffoon? I mean in every sitcom. I find women just as entertaining as men. The situation which forms the “sit” in a current sitcom is really boring because it’s totally predictable to see the father in all these sitcoms a fumbling ignoramus. He’s someone who by any natural means of selection should have failed to survive past puberty. Most are so stupid and seem to function so poorly that they end up being the equivalent of concrete shoes to the family’s ability to swim through life.

Oh well. That’s the popular notion of entertainment. So if I were a screenwriter, which I’m not, I would have to target the audience that likes to see that situation. That is if I wanted to sell anything in that market.

Oh pshaw. I don’t know how I became so distracted. Maybe there is more truth to the bumbling father than I care to admit. Here I am, my publisher has taken leave, I don’t have anything selling right now and I’m fumbling through my blog. Perhaps if I target an audience other than well-rounded adults I can return The Sigma Factor to the sales shelves, so more people can read it.

In the end it doesn’t matter because the book is definitely coming back, and soon, so be looking for it. Actually, I think I’ll double down. Look for my next book The Great Zero Sum too! That way life goes on.

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