Been thinking about a bizarre contradiction in the way we
writers need to work, throughout our careers.
We have to choose projects which we properly love. Projects which mean something to us and which
we connect with in some way, even if we’re not entirely sure how. We need to carefully foster the idea, from
that initial brain-spark all the way through to final draft. It’s a long, laborious process, especially in
prose: and what keeps us at it is love.
That connection to the subject matter, the theme, the characters or even
sometimes just the genre. I’ve learned
the hard way that when I choose stories solely because they work, the end
result lacks va-va-voom. It just works,
like some expertly assembled Frankenstein’s Monster without soul. When I properly love a story and feel
connected to it, the fruits of those labours are always riper.
So we must love what we write and spend a great deal of our
time and effort nurturing it.
And then we must be prepared to ruthlessly drop it like a stone and
move on.
We’re surrogate mothers, if you’ll excuse the comparison (frankly, you don’t have much of a choice.)
Our progeny grow inside us, then after birthing them we’re often forced
to forget about them altogether. We move
on, stony-faced, like ships in the night, with a trail of illegitimate stories
behind us. Stories which we lost, due to rejection, malfunction, having to sign them over or suddenly realising that the
BBC will never buy a series about mechanical microscopic badgers inside Christ’s
left nostril.
This is all yet another reason why writing’s a
properly mad job. We build mighty towers
of narrative with the utmost love and care, only to tear them down and build brand new
ones. We love them, but can’t afford to
love them too much. How do you do
that? Many will fail: they’ll never
acknowledge the flaws in their offspring.
They’ll never move on.
The need to love and leave our work also exists at an atomic
level, right down to lines of dialogue, plot points, our turns of phrase. Ever heard of the expression “Kill your
babies”? In case you didn’t know, it
means your favourite bits of business are often royally screwing the
project as a whole. As you hack them
out, you’ll feel like you’re hacking out your own heart, but then you’ll stand
back and see how much better the big picture looks.
Love your babies, kill your babies. Again and again, over and over. The writer’s eternal contradiction.
Exhibit Q in the cosmic court case which seeks to prove we’re
all insane.
Of course, the way we cope lies in the cracks between love and
loss. Because our favourite brainspawn
will inevitably return in future work.
We’ll write them again and again until they fit, like children
repeatedly jamming jigsaw pieces against various puzzle-gaps.
And one day, one glorious day, they will fit.
Oh yes, one day our babies will be reborn.
Because we never really stopped loving them.
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