Let Me Tell You About It
The idea for the new book was conjured up over a couple of beers and a bit of food last summer in the beautiful city of Pittsburgh. Three "old" friends sitting around brainstorming. We wanted to just do it as a screenplay, but I am way more comfortable writing 300 pages than I am in writing 20.
So we talked, and then I drove home with my black notebook beside me. Pittsburgh to Buffalo is about three hours.
I had the entire outline done before I got home. I knew the beginning, the middle and the end. At that point I was still thinking it'd be a screenplay, but what the hell, why not fiddle around with it as a novel?
You'd think that writing a book is about a lot of long hours, and it is, but the hours when you're actually in front of the keyboard are minimal for me.
It's more about the black notebook.
Just scribbled thoughts. A lot of quotes. Nearly indecipherable notations that say things like this:
Chapter 12 - Fear - Rolando explodes
Just things that will jog me into place when I spend the two hours a week at the keyboard.
Most weeks it flows just fine. There are things that need to be done before the actual writing session, like:
No dishes in the sink, the house filled with food, all the things in my room in the perfect spot, no booze clouding my mind, not tired...feeling pretty good.
But even if those things aren't all checked off the list I can do it if my characters are strong.
And the characters come from inside.
I'm always a variation of the main guy. The villains are usually caricatures of people who've pissed me off in real life. The situations they get themselves into is a bit of exaggerated truth. You can bet some parts of each scene actually happened.
The funny lines?
They come from guys like Jim, Jeff and John, Sam, Jake and Matt and brilliant ladies like Corinne, Kathy and Carrie.
Just make 'em laugh.
Yet every once in awhile there is a weird thing at play. That's what happened to me on Saturday morning.
I figured I had at least two strong chapters left. Despite the fact that I wanted to get as much on paper as I could I honestly believed that 20 or 30 pages of material would take at least 3 hours on Saturday and a couple on Sunday. I knew where I wanted to go, but that's a lot to get done.
I sat down at roughly 8:00...set Knopfler on the I-pod and wrote the first sentence.
"On the way into the arena my cell phone buzzed."
A fairly innocent sentence. Just trying to set the scene.
And then it happened.
An absolute frenzy.
I glanced at the clock at ten minutes after eleven and my heart caught in my throat as I typed the last sentence.
"Because they understand."
And I knew I was done.
I'd written 32 pages.
Could it be?
I went over it.
Everything added up. Things I'd written in the last 32 pages had set up the scenes in pages 1 thru 220. The title of the second last chapter was the theme for what had been written and it matched perfectly. There were words there that I didn't even remember writing just minutes before.
"What the F&*k was that?" I asked.
Melky and Paris jumped from their positions of slumber.
"I'm done," I thought.
And there was no relief, no happiness. I'd done what I wanted to do, but there was a lot more to do.
And I felt a bit of dread because my five new friends would be leaving my mind. I'd put them in the perfect positions for nearly a year.
Now I just had to touch them up.
I headed downstairs for lunch after sending my sister an e-mail.
"I finished. God wrote the end."
So we talked, and then I drove home with my black notebook beside me. Pittsburgh to Buffalo is about three hours.
I had the entire outline done before I got home. I knew the beginning, the middle and the end. At that point I was still thinking it'd be a screenplay, but what the hell, why not fiddle around with it as a novel?
You'd think that writing a book is about a lot of long hours, and it is, but the hours when you're actually in front of the keyboard are minimal for me.
It's more about the black notebook.
Just scribbled thoughts. A lot of quotes. Nearly indecipherable notations that say things like this:
Chapter 12 - Fear - Rolando explodes
Just things that will jog me into place when I spend the two hours a week at the keyboard.
Most weeks it flows just fine. There are things that need to be done before the actual writing session, like:
No dishes in the sink, the house filled with food, all the things in my room in the perfect spot, no booze clouding my mind, not tired...feeling pretty good.
But even if those things aren't all checked off the list I can do it if my characters are strong.
And the characters come from inside.
I'm always a variation of the main guy. The villains are usually caricatures of people who've pissed me off in real life. The situations they get themselves into is a bit of exaggerated truth. You can bet some parts of each scene actually happened.
The funny lines?
They come from guys like Jim, Jeff and John, Sam, Jake and Matt and brilliant ladies like Corinne, Kathy and Carrie.
Just make 'em laugh.
Yet every once in awhile there is a weird thing at play. That's what happened to me on Saturday morning.
I figured I had at least two strong chapters left. Despite the fact that I wanted to get as much on paper as I could I honestly believed that 20 or 30 pages of material would take at least 3 hours on Saturday and a couple on Sunday. I knew where I wanted to go, but that's a lot to get done.
I sat down at roughly 8:00...set Knopfler on the I-pod and wrote the first sentence.
"On the way into the arena my cell phone buzzed."
A fairly innocent sentence. Just trying to set the scene.
And then it happened.
An absolute frenzy.
I glanced at the clock at ten minutes after eleven and my heart caught in my throat as I typed the last sentence.
"Because they understand."
And I knew I was done.
I'd written 32 pages.
Could it be?
I went over it.
Everything added up. Things I'd written in the last 32 pages had set up the scenes in pages 1 thru 220. The title of the second last chapter was the theme for what had been written and it matched perfectly. There were words there that I didn't even remember writing just minutes before.
"What the F&*k was that?" I asked.
Melky and Paris jumped from their positions of slumber.
"I'm done," I thought.
And there was no relief, no happiness. I'd done what I wanted to do, but there was a lot more to do.
And I felt a bit of dread because my five new friends would be leaving my mind. I'd put them in the perfect positions for nearly a year.
Now I just had to touch them up.
I headed downstairs for lunch after sending my sister an e-mail.
"I finished. God wrote the end."
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