[cb_profit_poster Storytelling]Clinton, S.C., Monday, December 9, 2013, 2:31 p.m.
I might write a song … about writing a novel.
Maybe I can find common ground. I’m not going to plot a song. I’m just going to make some rhymes on how characters develop from taking parts of different real people and incidents and combining them. It’s about mixing and matching in a plausible way.
Well, I say I’m going to write a song. I’ve been saying it for several weeks, just like I’ve been going to write a friend a letter, and put my guitar on my back, take a walk on the farm, sit down on a stomp, sing to the birds and see if I can get the birds to sing back to me.
Today, of course, it’s raining, as it was yesterday and, quite possibly, tomorrow. Good excuse.
As a matter of fact, I’ve been living in blissful solitude, tweeting and posting and reading and, this very morning, writing the first two chapters of what I hope will become my fourth novel. I’d tell you its name if it had one. As soon as I get through with this blog, I’m going to, uh, freshen up a bit, then go to the post office to ship someone a copy of The Intangibles, my second novel. From there, it’s the grocery store. Most every day I work all morning and half the afternoon, venture outside for a few errands, and return home to watch sports or a movie and read, the amount of the last dependent on how entertaining the sports or movie is.
I’m slowly printing out the latest incarnation of the third novel, several chapters at a time, so that I can have someone read it as soon as I get it all together. This is something I’m going to be doing off and on for several days.
I went over to Presbyterian College on Saturday night, but that was only to watch a basketball game, so it’s not like it was something new and completely different.
I’m not complaining. I enjoy writing more than anything else, which is why I’m … a writer.
I like writing novels. I like writing songs. I like writing blogs. Why not write a song about how I write novels? It’s not going to be for the purpose of showing how I write. It’s more likely going to be for the purpose of being funny. Given the shrinking ranks of writers – the few, the proud, the destitute – it had better be funny to more than the literary community, much of which doesn’t realize I’m a member.
So I think I’ll write about how a party with college friends turns into a football team shindig, and how the rival coach isn’t really based on who you’d think, and how the guy who committed suicide wasn’t really the school principal, and how Fairmont in The Intangibles and Henry in The Audacity of Dope are a lot like Clinton, but Clinton isn’t a whole lot like Elmore in the next novel (Crazy by Natural Causes).
I might even write about how about a dozen people have allowed in confidence as how they realize they were the real Riley Mansfield, and I never even thought about a single one of them when I was creating him. I can’t tell you upon whom Riley was based because, in my mind, he looks like one person I know and acts like another. Well, he acts like him a little bit. Riley is as close to an original as this novelist can concoct.
That’s why it’s called fiction.