Never Tell Me

It’s the question every writer is asked, whether they look forward to waxing lyrical about their own work, are unsure about what their work is really all about, or balk at the audacity of the question itself.

So, what’s this book of yours about, then?

I’ll talk in generalities about the characters and plot, then get caught up in telling the story, complete with physical gestures, until the person asking the question stops nodding, looks confused and utters a non-committal ‘Oh’ while presumably wishing they hadn’t asked.

Not the answer they were looking for.

What is it really about … Life and death?  Love and loss?  Pain and pleasure?

Still too vague.

What they’re really asking for is a shortcut.  A succinct sentence that will tell them everything your novel is about without them having to read it, because life is too short to read them all.

And they are looking for the answer.

So am I.

It’s why I read and, I assume, why I write.

I want to uncover that one book in billions that will give to me the one answer I seek and when I am finished reading it, I will know the truth at last.

Every book I read gives me answers, sometimes to questions I had not even considered, but inevitably it leaves me with more to know, more to understand, more to seek out and uncover.

I may never read it.

I may never write it.

Perhaps it is hidden across many books, each with a piece of the puzzle, and when they are all added together, the whole becomes an answer to the sum of its parts.

It’s the journey that has me.

For every answer I receive, and the resultant nine questions it always brings, I feel the glow of knowing, and the excitement of not-knowing.  I know what is newly known and also know that there is more to be known than what I know, you know?

I think I lost myself a little there.

What I meant to say is, I don’t want a shortcut.

Of course life is short and the only thing you know for sure is where you’ll eventually end up, but how you get there is an act of sheer will and discovery, as you make mistakes, happen upon unexpected friends, or find yourself in the right place at the right time to experience something amazing.

So if someone tells you exactly what will happen and when to expect it, doesn’t that diminish the moment from being all that it can be?  Doesn’t that lessen your experience of it?

Say you listen to your favourite song because it exactly reflects the best moment in your life, does it help you to know exactly what every phrase means, what the songwriter intended to say, how they wanted you to feel when then wrote it?

I don’t think so.

The truth of what the songwriter intended can only, at best, confirm what you always believed it was about.  At worst, it can destroy the meaning you layered over the lyrics, and make you feel like you got it wrong.

It’s one of the few downsides to seeing your favourite band live, as they sometimes insist on telling you exactly what every song is about before they play it.  If you’re fortunate, the feedback will eat up their words or the people around you will be shouting to cover their voice.

I was not so fortunate.

A song I once loved has now become merely one I enjoy listening to, purely because I did not see its political meaning within the words, and when this was pointed out to me, it made me feel, quite frankly, stupid.

When I listen to it now, I can see what its' intended meaning is to those who wrote it, but it has lost its’ meaning for me.

So I prefer not to know.

I recently started watching a series called Songbook where great songwriters talk about their music and the song-writing process.  Being slightly musical and slightly writer-ish I find their processes fascinating, but am always wary of them revealing the meanings of their songs to me.

Thankfully, most of them seem to understand that their greatest songs have as many meanings as listeners, and refuse to divulge the true meaning despite protestations from fans and interviewers.

Quite right, too.

Never tell me.

What's in a Name?

A rose by any other would smell just as sweet.

Oh really?

The name we are given to last us our entire lives completely shapes our destiny and don’t you forget it.

I mean, who would you rather be?

Jack the saviour of the world (and take a moment to think of just how many heroes there are called Jack, by the way) or Cecil the saviour of…?  I’m struggling to think of anything Cecil could actually be the saviour of.

And no, I don’t have a problem with the name Cecil (you can insert your own least-heroic name in here), it just doesn’t evoke the kind of visual image I want to project when I think of someone who will do what it takes to win the day, then let his feelings out later when he is home, crying in the arms of the woman he loves.

Would a Jack actually do that, or would he cry alone?

I digress.

The name we are given is the one we have to live with our entire lives and is in no small part responsible for not only how others see us but how we see ourselves.

Personally I always wanted a name you could do more than one thing with, like Elizabeth or Roberta though I guess it's easier with a name a like Mary - harder to get wrong.

And so much fun being called Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary.

So much fun.  And the chanting.  All that chanting.

It doesn’t make me want to kill people at all.

Definitely not.

Seriously.

Where was I?  Oh, right.

So there are reasons why crime writers become crime writers (instead of murderers, but that’s a definitely a subject for another day) and how the names we are called  affect how we see ourselves and who we turn out to be.

I know for a fact that I cannot truly know someone unless I know their name and this is doubly important for characters, whom I cannot truthfully write until they tell me theirs.

Or, and this is closer to the actual process of naming my characters, they allow me to guess.

It’s the one thing guaranteed to bring me to a complete standstill in the middle of a sentence, and leave me stuck there until I can identify the new character by name.

They’re no help, of course, but stand and wait for me to identify their name like some twisted version of Guess the Guest.

And for someone who is traditionally ‘bad at names’ it’s a particular problem.

It doesn’t happen often, thankfully, and now I have a store of names put aside for just such an occasion, so I at least have somewhere to start.

Well, it’s a single sheet with a few names jotted down on it, but you get the idea.

Once their name is pinned down it’s there for the duration.  There are some I don’t particularly like or resonate with, but that’s usually because there’s some hidden aspect to their character that hasn't yet been revealed to me.

Sometimes they are shy and don’t want to tell me their secrets, sometimes they think it's more fun for me to guess, but the name they nod their heads in agreement with is the one that truly represents who they are.

I haven’t as yet come across a character who actively changes their name to fit who they think they are, I mean, even the undercover agents keep their first name in whatever persona they happen to find themselves working in.

What I mean is someone who is born with one name.

Then they change it and become someone else because they aren’t who they think they should be.

They spend their lives constantly changing it and recreating themselves, until they finally grow to accept the name they were born with, realising it’s who they were meant to be all along.

Deep.

Very deep.

Or quite possibly bull-crap.

Not entirely sure I’ve made up my mind about that one, which is probably why that character has yet to appear.

When they finally do, it will be interesting, of that I have no doubt.

And what will they be called?

After all, what’s in a name?

A Place to Hide

I know it is a place to hide.

It may not be the happiest, or the shiniest of places to be at times, but it is mine to go to whenever I am in genuine need of escape from this world.

For years I made up different places, other worlds, casting them with characters from the world around me, people I know and people I don’t, those I imagine from pictures I have seen, and stories felt from songs I have heard.

With myself as the central character.

Obviously.

Whatever happened would revolve around me, particularly in the early days, when life was a lot more simple and I could bring the characters from my favourite television shows into my world, then have them act out roles I chose for them.

The likes of Dick Turpin mixing with the likes of Starbuck, and yes, I am talking about the original series.

I’ll let you work out the maths for yourself.

Regular characters came and went as teenage years, and the plots that evolved within my world became more complex and confusing, much like the real world, so confusing that I sought the realms of other writers to transport me completely out of my too-rapidly changing body and mind.

Entering the dark worlds of Koontz and King gave me so many more places to explore, where the blackest of dreams were not just allowed, but encouraged.

When eventually I found their worlds too frightening to stay inside for long, I sought refuge in my own, where those I had ignored still waited for me.

But my world had changed.

Their frightening worlds were so vivid and so real that I struggled to remain locked inside my own without theirs pushing on the boundaries, trying to get in

 I hid further and deeper inside, but still they would not go, so I began to create guardians that would keep them out.

Fuelled by the worlds of other writers, particularly Whedon and his quest for strong characters to take on the night and win, a new breed of character emerged within my own world, one that could face the dark ones but could even take them on.

As the boundaries became more secure, my world expanded again to include characters with greater depths, acting out their roles and allowing their dramas, both big and small, to be brought forth.

Without me.

I saw them play their scenes out, an observer now of the characters and their lives, sometimes taking part in the action, sometimes content to sit on the sidelines and watch from a distance, always engrossed with their events.

I have visited this ever changing and constantly evolving world for so many years now, with the characters who live and die there, who sometimes just want to dance or sing, and other times want to conquer the mountains or slay the monsters, that it takes little for me to return there.

Yet I am still surprised.

In the middle of writing a chapter, knowing that I need to bring in a necessary character to create tension, to bring intelligence and the sharpness of mind required for the part I need him to play, while understanding that I have done nothing by way of preparation for his character, in he comes.

He walks confidently into the scene, bringing every quality I need him to have, and a few more for good measure, fully-formed, as if he has been there all along, standing in the wings, waiting to be called.

It surprised me.

So much so, that it made me wonder where on earth he could have come from, without any preparation or decision-making on my part, other than selecting his name from a list.

Perhaps once his name was on that list, it was enough to spark a seed in the subconscious and create him from scratch so I would know how he looked, walked, talked, and took his coffee.

Black, if you’re wondering, with two spoons of Demerara sugar.

In fact, he came through so strong that I wondered after I had written him in, whether I should write him out and give him his own series of books.

Can’t have him stealing the spotlight, after all.

But my point, if in fact I have one, is this.

I have never truly understood before how necessary the world I have created is to me, not just in terms of having a place to hide, but also in being a place of making characters and understanding their stories.

Where characters are waiting to be called.

And no-one has to hide.

The Bad Man

You create him.

You conjure him up from the very depths of your imagination, breathe life into his dark mouth, give him a name, set him free on the page, and watch what happens as he cuts his bloody path through your story-world.

 The others of your creation have no idea who he really is, what he truly represents for you, they just know there's another monster to deal with, someone who has to be challenged, gotten the better of, captured, even killed.

But first they must understand him, and for them to understand him, so must you.  Plumbing the depths of his depraved mind, to see what makes him tick, what turns him on, the images inside his head, of the things he has done, the things he wants to do, needs to do, would do to you.

Given half a chance.

The thought of it repels you, makes you back away from the page and send in your most fearless warrior to challenge him.  But just as you sought to understand the monster within the man, your warrior begins to see the man behind the monster, the world from his point of view.

The darkness inside them both.

As they journey into the depths together, allowing you to tag along, do you stop to look around at where they are taking you, or do you race to keep up, running as fast as you can, desperate to stay with them in case they leave you behind.

Were you meant to go this way?

When your fearless warrior seems lost to the darkness, to the man behind the monster, you send a team in to fetch her out.  But were you both so caught up in the journey that you let them get too far, go too deep, beyond the reach even of those who could have brought them back.

If you let them.

You catch up with them at the end of their path, in the dark warmth of their own night-time, giving in to their desires, encouraging each other to take what they want from anyone around them, including each other.

Have you have only just come to know this man, to see him for who he really is?

Or did you know him all along?

The darkness is not bottomless, you have just never been deep enough before.  Is it only in the blackest depths that a light can truly shine?

When your warrior shows you just how true she always was, and takes the life of the monster you have both come to love, do you feel the tears that she cries as she kills him, or is it just the release of your own shared darkness?

As you carry each other upwards to the surface, a piece of you is left down there, in the cold, in the black, in the darkness that is as it always was; a place for no-one to dwell.

One day you will return to retrieve that piece of yourself, when the loss has been blunted by time and you are ready to make yourself whole again.

When you can accept the true identity of your creation.

The Bad Man.