I really wanted to post something about Thanksgiving. Like, I REALLY wanted to. These past few weeks have taught me what thankful really means. My mom told me a grateful heart is rarely unhappy. I was going to make momma proud. But I think I'm out of the Thanksgiving window now. According to the Christmas commercials I was out of the window before Thanksgiving even got here.
But this post is not about thankfulness or a rant on commercialism. It's about writing. And how I think I might be getting better.
Before the kiddo I think I was a decent writer. According to my wife I could be too wordy, but I really like words. I tended to gravitate toward darker things. I created intricate characters who had deep troubles which swam in secret thoughts (see! words). But as I pull up the novel I finished over the summer, Running out of Road, I realize I there is so much missing from my main character. I worked hard to give him quirks, but you could tell in my writing I didn't even believe they were real. Saying his flawed is an understatement, but I'm realizing it may be overstated. He is completely unaware of himself. I know we all struggle with becoming self aware, but I'm surprised at times my character knows when he's hungry. I'm also noticing he takes himself way too seriously. I'm having my hard time wrapping my mind around this given it's a quality I dislike in other people and in myself. No wonder I've had a hard time connecting with this guy. There was no levity to him. How are you going to want to read about a character if I don't like writing about him?
I believe this is where the parenting factor kicks in. All the things I just wrote about are problems with my book I'd been aware of when reviewing and revising, but could never recognize consciously. I just knew something is wrong. It's like I was hiding all this from myself to prevent having to do more work. Is that the reason all authors hate rewrites, or am I just lazy? Either way, I can't/won't hide from those things anymore. Not with the kiddo. She doesn't let me hide. My mistakes are my mistakes. I can't glaze them over with a bunch of pretty words. Words don't work on her. I can't pretend that my intentions aren't selfish at times. I also can't act like I'm totally cool and not goofy in love with this little creature. I care less what I look like to others and care more how she sees me. In other words I see myself more clearly, flaws and all. Sometimes it's good and I like myself, sometimes it's bad and I hate myself. But that's honesty. And that's honestly how we all feel as I talk to friends, clients, etc. This is the solution to my flat character. Now to go back and rewrite again.
Damn it.
