The Climactic Rush

Rarely do I write about writing. It's redundancy at its finest I think. Plus, who wants to read about the writing part of an author's life? It's the gossip, the daily grind that seems to entertain. Sure, I tell folks not to read People Magazine, as it's the dumbed down version of Hollywood. If you want the real scoop, what's truly happening, read Star and the Enquirer. And don't apologize for it. They are always right, and nearly always unearth the truth a year or two before the 'credible' papers deign to write a bit of gossip. But I digress...

I'm taking a break from writing the climactic scene in my latest book, a time-travel adventure for 18 yr olds, the classical "YA" category, with all the blood, gore, and 'adult' themes of a Robert Ludlum, sans the bad language of a Stephen King novel and not quite so much of the drawn-out, love story lines of a S. Meyer book. In other words, it's strong on plot, character and pacing, the action-packed type of book that makes my heart pump without the elements that don't appeal to me as a reader.

Two things happen to me at this stage. After writing more than 300 pages, my mind is racing and I'm typing so fast, I skip over words. Literally. I just can't keep up. My heart is beating wildly, just as if I'm the character in the book, getting chased, almost dying, killing the bad guys, saving the redeeming characters....and then BAM. My dog barks, I nearly wet myself, and have to start all over again. The lights on my property just went out, I have to yell for Rog to get up and turn them on (because pit-bull or not, I'm not going to load up my gun just to walk around this friggin place and do it myself)...

The second thing that happens is I realize that while I'm supposed to be sending every 50 pages off to the movie producer for approval, I keep thinking "just ten more pages..." All day long, while I'm busy driving my daughter to school, dealing w/a service repairman or changing diapers, I'm thinking plot lines. When I do get the chance to write, it flows, and then, I'm literally exhausted. It's as tiring as if I'd run ten miles, or had a wonderful thirty minute (or ten) horizontal mambo experience with Rog, swinging from the rafters in high-heels and stockings.

Truth is, I can't turn it off. For a week, I've been shuffling around several climactic scenes--and since this is the first book/movie in a five book/movie deal, it has to be nailed. I've got foreshadowing going on, multiple primary and secondary characters, motivation, and symbolic details that require alignment. The 5-series outline has been long done (finished that while in Tahoe over the summer), but now that I'm writing it out, I can-not turn it off.

Last night, I dreamt I was going through my own personal version of the second coming, complete with earthquakes (that I jumped over due to superhuman spider skills), escaped a Pompeii-like ash-searing experience by locking myself in a building, until the ash seeped through the windows and under the doors, causing me to flee, right in to a red river of flowing lava. Not to be deterred, (or melted, for this was a dream), I grabbed a hold of a tree, landed on the ground and then balanced myself as new volcanos erupted underneath me. It wasn't until I nearly died when three men chased me down and pulled out their guns that I finally woke up.

Of course, it was good timing. Little Sophia, our nine-month old, then decided to cry for three solid hours. Didn't want food, to be held, wasn't teething, nor did she have a dirty diaper. I think I projected my badness on to her little head, and she was just as freaked out as I was. We were both the walking dead today. Even my husband said I looked wasted.

The upper here, is that I'm probably two weeks away from being done, give or take. That's exciting. I might go get a pair of fake nails put on to celebrate. (writer's and piano players, of which I'm both) have terrible nails. Short and terrible, excepting perhaps, mom, who gets regular manicures. Mine-terrible. Rog wishes I could type flat-fingered, so I could scratch his back a bit more, but alas. It is not to be. I spend the money, then rip the nails off because I get antsy sitting for 40 minutes when I could be doing something productive. Like right now. I could be finishing my climactic scene, but I'm droning on about my micro-world of writing. I must go.

P.S. if you're interested in knowing the truth about Christina A, Courtney C and a few others, read the last two issues of Star. This time around, they got the juice right, not the others:-