WHILE I’M WRITING…

by Melodie Johnson Howe

Like Steve I was going to show pictures of my office today. But I’m not sure I’m ready for my close-up.

I went on the Murdurati Site and looked at some of the author’s offices, which I enjoyed very much. But I was struck by the sameness of the writing spaces. An empty chair is an empty chair. A desk is more or less like any other desk. Computers and lamps may vary in style and name brand but they all work basically in the same way. A stack of papers, a pile of boxes, a web of cords and wires look pretty mundane. Except for a couple of them there was something missing in most of the photos that would make one different from the other, and that was the author. The living breathing human being who saunters or creeps into her/his works space, sits down, and transforms it from static to vibrant. It’s like an actor walking onto an empty stage and suddenly it becomes what the actor wants it to be. Even the coffee shop photos had a sameness. But it wasn’t until Steve put up the picture of Gayle and himself that brought Starbucks alive.

I suppose if you really wanted to photograph a writer’s office you’d have to somehow crawl into her imagination.

I saw the new Ben Affleck move, The Town. I highly recommend it. It’s a good old fashioned Hollywood movie where you actually care about the people involved and it has a great car chase that finally out does the chase in Bullitt, the movie starring Steve McQueen and directed by Peter Yates.

But what holds The Town together and keeps it from being a slick, high tech, shoot-’em-up special effects wonder is the writing and the scene work. The characters relate to each other. They fall in love, they betray, they fear for their lives, and even try to change. It is also an homage to the gangster movies of the thirties. I expected James Cagney to come dancing down the sidewalk with both barrels blasting. I realized how much I love a good entertaining movie and how few of them there are.

On the way home from the movies Bones and I were discussing if this September and October were going turn into months of inferno. Yes, the rest of you have a fall season, we in Southern California have a fire season. I was beginning to panic about the possibility of another conflagration.

Trying to console me he said, “There isn’t much left to burn.”

“A fire will always find a place to burn,” I replied.

We drove in silence for then he said, “Remember that.”

“What?”

“A fire will always find a place to burn. It’s a good opening line.”

I thought about it. Yes, it set atmosphere, tone and created a sense of tension. What does it mean? I don’t know. Yet.

I wondered what I would do without Bones. I ramble on, words flowing more freely from my mouth than my pen. I am not one of those quiet writers that sits back and observes. I talk and observe. I’d talk to a tree if I had to. Alas, I don’t always listen to what I say. This of course can be deadly socially. I realized at that moment in the car that Bones has become my pointer-outer, my sieve that filters the good words from my endless stream of consciousness and yammering.

That night Bones and I tried to watch the Martin Scorsese HBO series Boardwalk Empire. We couldn’t get through it. The 1920’s costumes seem to be wearing the actors. There was a gratuitous sex scene that reminded me of the sex scenes from the 1970s when it was de rigueur to show women naked even if it wasn’t relevant to the script. But more importantly, I didn’t care about anybody. You still have to be able to identify with a character even in a Scorsese film.

Yesterday I was walking the dog and trying to take a picture of him at the same time. When I returned to the house I looked at what I had captured on my iPhone. It was then I discovered I have a video camera with sound. (Obviously high tech gadgets are lost on me.)

On the cell’s small screen I watched Dr. Watson’s furry ass with his long feather tail at half-mast scurrying in front of my legs as they strode in and out of frame. And then I head the sound of my voice ostensibly talking to the dog. But does he really care about the name of the tree he is lifting his leg on? Or how beautiful the pelicans are in flight? And then I head myself laughing, chuckling away like a crazy woman. Oh, God. It’s happening. And I’m unintentionally recording it all.

I am now revising my novel. When an author revises two things happen. First you read what you have written, and then you want to commit suicide. I had to remind myself, once again, that this is the process of writing. What did Ray Bradbury say? “Throw up in the morning, clean up at night.” The bulimic school of writing.

Over the trauma of seeing the reality of what I have written I begin to see the small wonders, the good scenes, even some gems. And my excitement sirs and my grasp of the book begins to take hold.

The odd thing is when I’m writing a novel I have trouble reading suspense or mysteries. During this period of time I usually read “straight fiction”. Joanna Trollope is my cup of tea right now and Kate Atkinson, who has become a mystery writer with her Jackson Brodie books. I like Atkinson because she has remained doggedly “literary” while diving into the genre. She dares to take her time and let her characters think and remember while confronting the shocking murders of loved ones.

It irritates me when I read what I think is a bad mystery. I’m not one of those writers who build myself up by knowing how bad some other writer is. Good work breeds good work. And that’s what keeps me going when I’m writing a novel.