Tag Archives: Writing

Pit Stop

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I’ve been writing nonstop for the past two-and-a-half, almost three years, whenever I can, wherever I can. It’s been nothing particularly profound, mostly silly magical adventures, with a few romances and one epic sci-fi/fantasy thrown in, but it’s my art and my reason. I have no doubt whatsoever that if I hadn’t been structuring my new life around writing, I never would have made it through this divorce. Even as I’ve been working these endless strings of fifteen-hour days, I’ve managed to find a cumulative hour a day to put pen to paper.  

And with that in mind, I don’t know what I’m going to do with myself. I just finished a novel that I think is good enough to shop to agents after I give it a once-over and a polish, and for the first time since I started this marathon in 2017, I don’t have an idea for my next piece. I’m not calling it Writers’ Block, because that connotates an outside force keeping me from inspiration, when in fact, I just haven’t let my mind wander as much as I usually have (probably those aforementioned fifteen-hour days). I’m also not sweating it. If I take some time off from writing, I might actually do things like finishing unpacking my room or read a book. I’ve committed to doing some editing next month, which I wouldn’t be able to do if I was scribbling and typing furiously away every time I wasn’t working, sleeping, or doing laundry. 

But I can’t deny, it’s weird not to be stressing out about when I can find some time to sit down with my notebook or wondering where the characters are going to go next. It’s like writing was a job, and I just got laid off. I talked about free moments earlier, but when I’m in full writer mode, I don’t have free moments. I’m constantly occupied by my novel or short story. Well, now I have free moments. Who knows how long that’s going to last until inspiration gooses me, and I get back to work. 

What to do, what to do … 

Hack the Planet

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The reason they won’t let me write suspenseful thrillers in Hollywood or TV Land is because all of my stories would end like this: 

*Our scene opens in the VILLAIN’S lair. The VILLAIN has been defeated, but he has left one dastardly trap for the heroes—a biological weapon that is primed to subject all of Los Angeles to an agonizing death. In a desperate attempt to stop it, the HERO and HEROINE confront the VILLAIN’S laptop.* 

HERO: The only way to stop it is to enter the password! 

HEROINE: We’ve only got two minutes left! Start guessing! 

HERO: There’s a catch! If you enter the wrong password three times, it automatically triggers the device! I know an algorithm that can bypass the security node and access the device! *HERO types furiously, but the screen flashes red, and he pounds the table* Dammit! There’s a firewall eating my code! I can’t get through! 

HEROINE: Two guesses left! 

HERO: There was only one thing that he loved in this life! One thing that made him human! His daughter! *HERO types the VILLAIN’S daughter’s name, but gets another red flash* Dammit! 

HEROINE: One guess left! 

HERO: There’s only one thing we can do, and it’s a long shot! Before the Villain murdered him and his family, my brother entrusted me with a worm he coded! If it works, it’s like an electronic skeleton key that can— 

HEROINE: *Slides the laptop over to herself and types P-A-S-S-W-O-R-D. With a dull hum, the device powers down* 

HERO. Goddammit. 

Putting it to Rest

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I realized I’m missing something: I have no ritual, no way of marking the occasion when I finish writing a novel. Since early 2018, I’ve completed six of them, and I’m a few pages away from I realized I’m missing something: I have no ritual, no way of marking the occasion when I finish writing a novel. Since early 2018, I’ve completed six of them, and I’m a few pages away from my seventh—which I will likely finish at work because it is so slow there—and the only thing I do when I’m finished writing one is flip the page and get started on the next one. I don’t go out partying with friends because I don’t have any friends to party with, I don’t treat myself to a nice dinner because I do that whenever I want (or never now that I’m broke), and I don’t pop open a bottle of champagne for obvious reasons. I don’t even give the book a once-over and prepare it for publication because a) I wait months before I reread something I’ve written, and b) it’s not getting published. (I love to write. I write not to be read, but for the act of writing itself.) I kind of wish I had something to do, though. I feel like writing an entire novel is something to be celebrated. 

Strong Female Protagonist

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According to the Legend of Joss Whedon, during an interview he was asked why he creates so many strong female characters. He responded, “Because you asked that question.” 

I write a lot of female characters—the main character in my six-and-growing unpublished book series is a woman. The villain in my fan fiction is a woman. But I’m not doing it to be political. I’m doing it because, “Why not?”  

My fanfic villain was conceived to be a man, but as I sat down to write, I scribbled an “S” in front of “he,” and now she is menacing the sweet holy hell out of Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, but as a petite, frequently underestimated Native American woman as opposed to the imposing badass I’d first considered. Why did I add the “S” in the first place? Because part of the character’s origin is in their spouse getting murdered, and do we really need another dead wife? 

The thing is, it’s not that hard to write women. I don’t know why the entertainment world has such a problem with it. Yes, there are differences between the genders that, as a cis het-male I’ll never fully understand, but I can always ask. And even so, the real lesson here is that there are more similarities than differences between men and woman from a character-building standpoint. Men and women both want things, and as long as you understand that, for women, these wants don’t stop at pretty dresses and a man, you’re on the right track. 

So yeah, if somehow my books got out in the world and I was asked about my female protagonists, the first thing I’d say is, “You know who could write women better than me, even? A woman.” Then I’d say, “Women are people. Try writing people. I don’t see why this needs to be spelled out for you.” 

The “Why not” principal also works for races that aren’t yours, as well as sexualities. Just don’t make cartoons out of characters, and you’ll be fine. 

Fic Fic Hurray!

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I’ve stated in the past that I would never write fan fiction before sitting down and writing fan fiction, but I want to clarify something. My own reticence about doing it doesn’t mean that I hate it. On the contrary, I think fan fiction is one of the best products of the Internet.  

In a time when pop culture looms large, fan fiction allows people to really dive into the characters who are such a big part of their lives. A lot of fan fiction is erotica or relationship porn because exploring that aspect of life with beloved characters is something that helps people understand that side of their own lives.  

It also teaches writers how to write—rather than making big, rookie mistakes on your own characters and plots, which you would be super invested in, you can use someone else’s and really learn. You get a lot of feedback for it too, and most of it is positive and constructive. It’s the educational aspect that is responsible for the quality complaints Internet denizens have, but honestly, Leonardo Da Vinci’s first drawings and sculptures probably looked like hammered shit. They’re getting better. 

And then there’s the political aspect of it. The main reasons trolls hate fan fiction so much is that it’s the domain of young women. Even though it’s the twenty-first century, girls don’t get a lot of encouragement to do what they want to do, and fan fiction boards are friendly places telling them that they can. Anything that helps young women and tells them that they’re good is healthy and important. 

I’m writing Highlander fan fiction because the Highlander was my favorite movie when I was a teenager. I love the characters, I love the world, and I love all the little rules, and I have questions that I feel like I should ask (even if I don’t answer them because part of the world-building of the franchise is that these questions have no answers). I wanted to write dialogue like this: “So you keep saying you can’t die, but that guy over there with his head missing is very dead. You, sir, are a big, fat liar.” 

Basically I’m a fan of fan fiction, and if you’re writing some, or you have kids who are writing some, you have me behind you, with pom-poms. 

Comments of the Damned

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So in my current novel, a couple of college students catch the witch doing something extremely, visually magical on camera, and it gets posted on YouTube. The exposure of magic in a world where some very powerful, vindictive people want to keep magic all hush-hush was going to be a major plot point, until I thought about it.  

In real life, half of the comments on that post would be “FAKE!!!1!!” and other videos would pop up mocking or breaking down the special effects of the original video. And then there will be the memes. So basically, the reality of the Internet killed this storyline for me. 

Assembly Line of Inspiration

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In February of 2017, I ended my two-year writer’s block by cranking out a story for publication (rejected). I then signed up for a writing contest, and that kept me busy for a while until I got voted out. And then, that spring, I made the conscious decision to write a novel (I add that distinction because I wrote my first novel by accident). When that was done, I wrote another one. And another. I never knew what I was going to write, just that I should sit down and do it. And so, I proceeded to work on short stories and novels constantly through the next two and a third years, rarely missing a day, until the wall I just hit. 

I can’t overstate how many times I’ve finished a chapter and informed a friend, “I have no ideas for the next one,” only to start work on it the next day. This is different. But this is an unfamiliar feeling, thinking about my novel and coming up with absolutely nothing. 

I’m not worried, I will write again. But I am a little unsettled. 

Feeling Drafty

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Remember that almost-thirty-year-old book I’ve been working on? I just finished the first draft. Most writers will tell you that their first drafts are garbage and unreadable, but I am not most writers. I happen to think I write exceptional first drafts that need a little tuning up and hammering here and there. So what I wrote is pretty awesome. 

I feel that finishing this book fulfills a dream I’ve had for nearly three decades, and it feels really, really good. 

Review from the Top

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Between 2002 and 2004, I wrote these updates on Sunday, sharing the events of my week and sent them out to all my friends. They were action-packed, exuberant (more exuberant than I was most of the time), and bluntly honest about myself. I started them out because I vowed to myself that something interesting would happen to me every week. And it did. 

I saved these into a file on my hard drive that got destroyed when Newcastle sat on it. Luckily I had a hard copy that went into storage, never to be seen again, until now. Because I thought it would be fun to relive my glory days as Jack Murphy (inside joke, don’t ask), I dug it up. 

It was not fun. Jesus. I was not nearly as witty as I gave myself credit for. I am the last person to complain about his past writing—I feel like most of mine holds up, maybe with a polish—but Jesus.  

I feel like someone pulled the rose-colored glasses from my face and dropped them to the floor, smashing them with their boot. 

Infinity and Beyond

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Pretty much as long as I’ve known Marcelino Soliz, we’ve been talking about a comic we wanted to write together. It featured superpowers, badasses, gods, mutants, a world that had been conquered by an evil queen played by 1991-era Rebecca De Mornay, her rebellious daughter, and characters named after a really obscure eighties-nineties pop group. The concept evolved over the years, rebooted and restyled, each iteration being a little less embarrassing than the last, but it’s always kept the same title, Infinity. 

And yet neither of us actually sat down and wrote anything.  

Around 2000, we came up with what I consider to be the ultimate version of the story, and the most blasphemous, and the one most anchored to myths, heroes, and what I’d learned in college. I decided then that now was the time to actually write something. Sure we had no artist, but I wasn’t about to let that stop me. Dividing my time between work, my social life, and a comic I was being paid to illustrate, I developed ten issues and extensive, detailed notes for future issues. And then I put it down. My printouts and my notebooks got thrown into a box and started collecting dust.  

Fifteen years later, I’ve written six novels, one of them completing an unfinished idea I’d been working on for over a decade. I can do this. So one day a couple of weeks ago, I took the two-hour train and Uber ride to the storage locker where my belongings have languished since The Great Upheaval of December 2018 and found everything I’d written, and this week, I’ve started adapting my comic book scripts into prose (which is not nearly as easy as you’d think). When I finally do get a job, I’m going to lose a lot of my momentum, but I’m confident that, with my newfound literary tenacity, it’s only a matter of months before this nearly thirty-year-old dreams becomes a reality (though not in the form we’d originally hoped for).  

Wish me luck.