#7 / Sometimes I forget how funny things are
Sometimes I forget how funny things are.
Like at three in the morning when I think about my four dollar avocado and whether it will make it through the night, where’s the cat, cheese (toasted mostly), my lines from The Pirates of Penzance when I was in grade seven, that stupid dress, where the third juggling ball went, etc.
But it’s a beautiful morning, my coffee is half full, and now I remember how funny things are, which might be the beginning of a problem.
I haven’t talked about my novels in a while and that’s because I thought I heard some eyes roll when I did, and I was feeling funny about it. So I’m working on a new blog category, easily ignorable by eye-rollers – and that’s where I’ll talk about the novels, stories, screenplays, and the sit-com I’m crazy about – and where those of you who are interested can curse along with me about all things writerly and wrongerly, including the blessings.
But in the meantime, allow me a few words.
My new novel involves a storyline to die for, surprises of the darkest kind perfectly suited for twisted souls like us, and levels of suspense you’ll barely be able to endure. The characters are utterly, carefully, and keenly messed-up – yet they’re pretty-much like you and me – until they’re not. The story arcs are like fireworks – beautiful, dangerous, shocking – and you don’t want to get too close but you also do. You do want to get too close.
It’s a real page-turner. Enter past-tense. And it seemed to be writing itself. I was charmed.
The story bloomed all dark and compelling, and it felt almost like I was only taking notes if you know what I mean, and it just kept on blooming, so darkly sometimes that it scared me and I had to turn on all the lights and feed Daisy popcorn one at a time so she’d stay close. I wondered where on earth – or where not on earth – all the darkness was coming from, but I didn’t wonder too hard about it because that’s exactly how you get it to stop.
But that was back in the days before everything was so funny, aka Before Blog.
I’ve been on the lookout for funny things since I started this blog around a month ago, and now everything is funny almost all the time, even when it’s three in the morning, because the sheep I count are a reasonably funny bunch, especially in retrospect. Also I’ve noticed that springtime sunrises are dazzling, the birds are loudly happy and not annoying in the least, the coffee is delicious, and I go to the gym practically skipping all the way these days. Which is nice considering Before Blog I skipped going to the gym in a different way.
Everything, as I said, is funny these days. Which is nice.
Would you like to know what else is nice? My last few chapters are pretty nice. My characters are thinking about bettering themselves. They are quipping and also they are wise-cracking. Things are looking up. They are considering new life strategies. They are going all mindful on me, a word I said I’d never use but look at that, and I feel another one coming on. Grace Pool herself had a mindful moment, albeit fleeting, during which she very nearly let one of her victims go. Now I ask you, how’s that going to work? And it looks like Stella is thinking of going sober, unless I can think of a few good reasons for her not to, which just might be your next FrivoList. Now I ask you again, how’s that going to work? And just yesterday, she started making amends as well as those cookies with marshmallow and raspberry jam, dipped in chocolate. Oh brother.
Seems I have practiced myself into a new way of thinking and although I could probably write a self-help book and make a bundle, I’d like to get this novel out of the way first.
The Pool Obits now is decidedly different from The Pool Obits then and I’m pretty sure it’s because of the rose coloured glasses, and if you could read my mind, dear, what a tale my thoughts would tell. But I’m not at all sure about the paperback novel any more what with all these changes going on.
So now what?
This is a weird juxta-ish-position to be in, but here, the downside of optimism.
Watch out for these clear indications that you, too, drank the Kool-aid:
You think everything looks good on you, even dresses
You reach the tipping point and decide, at this crucial time, GoT is just too violent
You think a few extra pounds makes you look better
You like the way your silver hairs catch the light
You think other people want to read your short stories
You think you can dance
You think you can stop after just one
You give eggplant another whirl
You start wearing hats
If things keep going this way, and it certainly seems they might, I will be forced to invent my own literary genre. I’m thinking Comic Thriller or possibly Knock-Knock Murder Mystery. And while I’m at it I’ll work on a more comfortable word for “genre” because when people ask what genre is your novel, my answer always feels forced and fradulent, but not quite as forced and fraudulent as my answer to what’s it about? which I stutter and stumble through as if I don’t even know.
And remember what Voltaire said. Something about thinking and being which involves a therefore, I am certain.