Fatigue
Every writer I’ve known has gone through this.
You get the ultimate ah ha! moment, where the plot of a new book comes to you and there is no doubt—no doubt whatsoever—that this one’s the winner you’ve been awaiting. It may happen in the middle of the night or in the middle of a conversation. The book might get you—no, will get you—the Pulitzer, the movie deal, the three-book contract with a major. You’ll join the pantheon of the greats. You'll be pals with Updike, Camus, Twain, and whatshisname whom everybody agree is unreadable but nevertheless a genius. All those agents who turned you down will curl up and die painfully, foaming at the mouth and moaning your name.
It’s said there are only eight fiction plots, but this one, this is the ninth. The idea is so good you start writing without even doing a synopsis and in no time at all the pages begin to accumulate. Twenty? Ha! A walk in the park… Fifty, still going strong! Ninety-two, and there’s new plot twist that makes the book even better! One-hundred thirty-seven; the Post and Times critics will be doing somersaults and looking up your backlist. There’ll an excerpt—maybe two-in New Yorker. Marvel will call to do a graphic novel adaptation.
Page 183 and everything stops.
Why did you think this was such a great idea? It’s a crappy, stupid and unimaginative plot. The characters stink and the back-story is ludicrous. Your female lead is just a guy wearing skirts. It’s a concept that’s been done to death and you’ve just wasted two months of your writing life on it, you idiot.
I, personally, have had this happen to me many, many times. Here is the best of the worst:
• A book about an inventor somehow transported back to ancient times. Sort of like A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court, but better.
• A novel about a bigamist who gets involved in the Lindbergh baby kidnaping.
• A book about a man who falls desperately in love with a webcam girl (you know, the ladies who do live porn for call-in money on the Net) and decides to find her and woo her.
• A novel about a conquistador who accidentally falls into the fountain of youth and lives forever.
• A play about an Amish man who inherits a massage parlor (ok, this one was after a trip to Lancaster in Pennsylvania.)
• A fantasy about a musician with a magic Fender Telecaster that makes him a superstar (that was after a visit to Matt Baker’s Action Music store.)
.In the end, none of these works had legs, at least for me. It’s entirely possible that another author might find his or her fortune there, but I hit a wall, and there was a choice to be made. Persevere and finish what may ultimately not be a publishable work, or accept that this was an experiment that failed and go on to the next idea. I’ve always chosen the latter.
More recently, having finished and sent off three books to publishers, I’m finding myself plagued by creative fatigue. I’m currently involved in writing four sequels to existing works, and I’m terminally tired.
This is not good because writing is what I do. It is my skill and my occupation and there are no real fallbacks, so being tired of writing is actually very scary. There are only so many games of Solitaire and Mahjong I can play. I have cooked pounds of brown rice with meat, vegetables, mussels and mushrooms. My living space is acceptably clean and all the laundry is folded and put away. I have changed the sheets on the bed and scrubbed the tub, run the dishwasher, and answered emails ignored for too long.
True, I know this will pass, as it’s happened before and I’m still banging away at the keyboard. But in the meantime, I will entertain any and all ideas that may get me past this quandary, as long as the idea has legs.
Thank you.
You get the ultimate ah ha! moment, where the plot of a new book comes to you and there is no doubt—no doubt whatsoever—that this one’s the winner you’ve been awaiting. It may happen in the middle of the night or in the middle of a conversation. The book might get you—no, will get you—the Pulitzer, the movie deal, the three-book contract with a major. You’ll join the pantheon of the greats. You'll be pals with Updike, Camus, Twain, and whatshisname whom everybody agree is unreadable but nevertheless a genius. All those agents who turned you down will curl up and die painfully, foaming at the mouth and moaning your name.
It’s said there are only eight fiction plots, but this one, this is the ninth. The idea is so good you start writing without even doing a synopsis and in no time at all the pages begin to accumulate. Twenty? Ha! A walk in the park… Fifty, still going strong! Ninety-two, and there’s new plot twist that makes the book even better! One-hundred thirty-seven; the Post and Times critics will be doing somersaults and looking up your backlist. There’ll an excerpt—maybe two-in New Yorker. Marvel will call to do a graphic novel adaptation.
Page 183 and everything stops.
Why did you think this was such a great idea? It’s a crappy, stupid and unimaginative plot. The characters stink and the back-story is ludicrous. Your female lead is just a guy wearing skirts. It’s a concept that’s been done to death and you’ve just wasted two months of your writing life on it, you idiot.
I, personally, have had this happen to me many, many times. Here is the best of the worst:
• A book about an inventor somehow transported back to ancient times. Sort of like A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court, but better.
• A novel about a bigamist who gets involved in the Lindbergh baby kidnaping.
• A book about a man who falls desperately in love with a webcam girl (you know, the ladies who do live porn for call-in money on the Net) and decides to find her and woo her.
• A novel about a conquistador who accidentally falls into the fountain of youth and lives forever.
• A play about an Amish man who inherits a massage parlor (ok, this one was after a trip to Lancaster in Pennsylvania.)
• A fantasy about a musician with a magic Fender Telecaster that makes him a superstar (that was after a visit to Matt Baker’s Action Music store.)
.In the end, none of these works had legs, at least for me. It’s entirely possible that another author might find his or her fortune there, but I hit a wall, and there was a choice to be made. Persevere and finish what may ultimately not be a publishable work, or accept that this was an experiment that failed and go on to the next idea. I’ve always chosen the latter.
More recently, having finished and sent off three books to publishers, I’m finding myself plagued by creative fatigue. I’m currently involved in writing four sequels to existing works, and I’m terminally tired.
This is not good because writing is what I do. It is my skill and my occupation and there are no real fallbacks, so being tired of writing is actually very scary. There are only so many games of Solitaire and Mahjong I can play. I have cooked pounds of brown rice with meat, vegetables, mussels and mushrooms. My living space is acceptably clean and all the laundry is folded and put away. I have changed the sheets on the bed and scrubbed the tub, run the dishwasher, and answered emails ignored for too long.
True, I know this will pass, as it’s happened before and I’m still banging away at the keyboard. But in the meantime, I will entertain any and all ideas that may get me past this quandary, as long as the idea has legs.
Thank you.
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