When books are teenagers . . .
I'm in the middle of the book.
The beginning of the middle, but the honeymoon is over. I can tell you that.
There's none of that whooshing sort of sound you get when you first take off on a new book. No fingers flying over the keys desperate to get all the enthusiasm down before it evaporates. No yippee, these people are so much fun, I can hardly wait to see what they do next. Been there, done that. Spence and Sadie and I -- we're past it.
There's also no "it's downhill all the way" feeling, either, that you get when the end is in sight. There's no momentum now. No light at the end of the tunnel. No yippee, it won't be long until these people will be living happily ever after on the other side of the pond with my editor.
Nope. Right now they're mine. All mine. No one else even wants them.
Do I? Good question.
And the answer, I'm afraid, is yes.
They are like my children were in junior high. Irritating. Noisy. Cranky. Undirected. But with great potential. Occasional moments of enormous charm. And a sweetness they often hide under a veneer of surly adolescence.
It's the potential that makes me keep them around. I've raised them this far; I have a vested interest. And even though I'm quite sure it's going to get worse before it gets better, I'm determined to hang in there because I know they can be wonderful. And really, what else can I do? They're mine. And, for better or worse, I love them.
Right now, I keep reminding myself I love Spence -- even though he makes me want to scream. He's sitting on a park bench in New York City with a bottle of scotch. He's been sitting there for two days (mine, not his) trying to deal with a crisis he wasn't expecting.
They aren't crises if you expect them, I remind him. He doesn't appreciate my wisdom. He scowls and drinks scotch. Yesterday I left him to it while I went to the genealogy conference, figuring that he would have his act together by the time I got back. Today, though, he's still there. Hasn't moved an inch.
I want to give him a good swift kick. And I may if he doesn't get moving soon. All of his introspective navel-gazing is driving me insane. It's very unSpencelike, come to that. He's always been a man of action -- grabs bulls by the horns, rushes in where angels fear to tread.
Got a cliche for 'action hero?' That's Spence. Suffice to say, he doesn't cool his heels gladly. At least he never did.
Well, this has never happened to him before, he complains.
(Can't tell you what. It would spoil the story. Sorry.) But it doesn't really matter. What matters is that he do something! Heroes don't give up in chapter four.
They also don't whine, I tell him. So straighten up and do something. Get busy. Give me that scotch and get to work.
He mutters. He grumbles. He takes another swig straight from the bottle and glares at me defiantly. But under the defiance there is, I think, just a hint of doubt. As if he's wondering if he really can pull it off.
I know you can do it, I tell him -- whatever it turns out to be. And I firmly believe that's true, even if he doesn't, because I knew Spence when he was a cocksure eight year old, before he grew up, conquered the world -- and met Sadie.
You think, he says. It's almost a question. I nod. He doesn't reply. He stares at me, long and hard. Wondering whether to believe me? Or to believe in himself?
Finally -- ages later -- he shrugs with that peculiar combination of bravado and determined indifference. "Yeah. Right." I hear no enthusiasm at all. But I do spot a slight straightening of the spine and squaring of the shoulders.
Yes! I think. Yes! There is life beyond the scotch bottle and the park bench. We might get a book out of this after all.
He starts to move away, to deal with the future, to face the lions, to fall in love. Then he turns and gives me a backward glance, one last defiant stare. "Just so long as you realize it'll be your fault if I don't."
Yep . . . they're just like teenagers.
The beginning of the middle, but the honeymoon is over. I can tell you that.
There's none of that whooshing sort of sound you get when you first take off on a new book. No fingers flying over the keys desperate to get all the enthusiasm down before it evaporates. No yippee, these people are so much fun, I can hardly wait to see what they do next. Been there, done that. Spence and Sadie and I -- we're past it.
There's also no "it's downhill all the way" feeling, either, that you get when the end is in sight. There's no momentum now. No light at the end of the tunnel. No yippee, it won't be long until these people will be living happily ever after on the other side of the pond with my editor.
Nope. Right now they're mine. All mine. No one else even wants them.
Do I? Good question.
And the answer, I'm afraid, is yes.
They are like my children were in junior high. Irritating. Noisy. Cranky. Undirected. But with great potential. Occasional moments of enormous charm. And a sweetness they often hide under a veneer of surly adolescence.
It's the potential that makes me keep them around. I've raised them this far; I have a vested interest. And even though I'm quite sure it's going to get worse before it gets better, I'm determined to hang in there because I know they can be wonderful. And really, what else can I do? They're mine. And, for better or worse, I love them.
Right now, I keep reminding myself I love Spence -- even though he makes me want to scream. He's sitting on a park bench in New York City with a bottle of scotch. He's been sitting there for two days (mine, not his) trying to deal with a crisis he wasn't expecting.
They aren't crises if you expect them, I remind him. He doesn't appreciate my wisdom. He scowls and drinks scotch. Yesterday I left him to it while I went to the genealogy conference, figuring that he would have his act together by the time I got back. Today, though, he's still there. Hasn't moved an inch.
I want to give him a good swift kick. And I may if he doesn't get moving soon. All of his introspective navel-gazing is driving me insane. It's very unSpencelike, come to that. He's always been a man of action -- grabs bulls by the horns, rushes in where angels fear to tread.
Got a cliche for 'action hero?' That's Spence. Suffice to say, he doesn't cool his heels gladly. At least he never did.
Well, this has never happened to him before, he complains.
(Can't tell you what. It would spoil the story. Sorry.) But it doesn't really matter. What matters is that he do something! Heroes don't give up in chapter four.
They also don't whine, I tell him. So straighten up and do something. Get busy. Give me that scotch and get to work.
He mutters. He grumbles. He takes another swig straight from the bottle and glares at me defiantly. But under the defiance there is, I think, just a hint of doubt. As if he's wondering if he really can pull it off.
I know you can do it, I tell him -- whatever it turns out to be. And I firmly believe that's true, even if he doesn't, because I knew Spence when he was a cocksure eight year old, before he grew up, conquered the world -- and met Sadie.
You think, he says. It's almost a question. I nod. He doesn't reply. He stares at me, long and hard. Wondering whether to believe me? Or to believe in himself?
Finally -- ages later -- he shrugs with that peculiar combination of bravado and determined indifference. "Yeah. Right." I hear no enthusiasm at all. But I do spot a slight straightening of the spine and squaring of the shoulders.
Yes! I think. Yes! There is life beyond the scotch bottle and the park bench. We might get a book out of this after all.
He starts to move away, to deal with the future, to face the lions, to fall in love. Then he turns and gives me a backward glance, one last defiant stare. "Just so long as you realize it'll be your fault if I don't."
Yep . . . they're just like teenagers.
posted by Anne McAllister at 3:15 PM
4 Comments:
It looks like you still have some influence over Spence(just like a teenager).
How do you put youself on the map? I have tried to figure this out cause I don't see anyone else up here in Niaga Falls, Ontario, Canada.
Hi Christa,
I hope you're right about my having influence over Spence. We shall see!
You get on the map just by virtue of showing up here. The map sees where your computer is (or where your ISP is) and records it with a dot. If you click on the map and make it big, then go up to the line somewhere above the map where it says something about Navigation: and gives you a link to click on about seeing "smaller clusters" you can click on that and see the dots in greater profusion. Try it and let me know. It's kind of hard to see exactly where people are -- especially if some people have been there before from say, Detroit or Cleveland (it's not a really big map), but you'll contribute your dot, believe me!
And the more times you stop, the dot gets bigger (in increments -- not every single time).
cheers,
Anne
my book's a teenager right now too. ugh.
i feel your pain.
Good luck with yours, too, Anne. We can commiserate.
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