I have to wonder just how insane I sound when I start complaining about my characters and how I sometimes hate them because of the crap they pull. Didn't this get people lobotomized, once upon a time? I'm beginning to understand how that can be a blessed thing.
I'm having some great back and forth with Devlin Pope, right now, from Underground Guy. He was pushing me to get rid of the serial killer aspect of the story and make it about a couple of guys -- one gay, one straight -- coming to terms with themselves and things they've done. So I redid the first 28 pages of the book into that. Set that up. It moves faster. Stronger. Better. And then stops dead. Brick wall dead. A solid ten feet deep.
Reg -- Reginald Brewster Thornton, the underground guy -- doesn't like it. He doesn't know who or what he is, anymore. And Dev is sitting there thinking...well...maybe it wasn't such a good move, after all. No big deal to put it back the way it was, right? No, you little shit; it's just days of work wasted making it read correct.
Now Dev's pissed at me because I'm not being nice about him fucking around with me. And Reg is hurt and unhappy because he feels betrayed at not being asked about this. And other characters are not talking to me because they were being cut out. And I'm ready for my padded room.
It's times like these I wish I'd stuck with art. My sketches and paintings never talked back to me. Or if they did, I wasn't listening...or I was so in sync with them, there was no need for confrontative communication. I'm feeling the urge, right now, to dump the story and pull out my old acrylics and whip up a couple of things, even if all they do is let me vent.
Maybe I should just stick with The Vanishing of Owen Taylor.
I'm having some great back and forth with Devlin Pope, right now, from Underground Guy. He was pushing me to get rid of the serial killer aspect of the story and make it about a couple of guys -- one gay, one straight -- coming to terms with themselves and things they've done. So I redid the first 28 pages of the book into that. Set that up. It moves faster. Stronger. Better. And then stops dead. Brick wall dead. A solid ten feet deep.
Reg -- Reginald Brewster Thornton, the underground guy -- doesn't like it. He doesn't know who or what he is, anymore. And Dev is sitting there thinking...well...maybe it wasn't such a good move, after all. No big deal to put it back the way it was, right? No, you little shit; it's just days of work wasted making it read correct.
Now Dev's pissed at me because I'm not being nice about him fucking around with me. And Reg is hurt and unhappy because he feels betrayed at not being asked about this. And other characters are not talking to me because they were being cut out. And I'm ready for my padded room.
It's times like these I wish I'd stuck with art. My sketches and paintings never talked back to me. Or if they did, I wasn't listening...or I was so in sync with them, there was no need for confrontative communication. I'm feeling the urge, right now, to dump the story and pull out my old acrylics and whip up a couple of things, even if all they do is let me vent.
Maybe I should just stick with The Vanishing of Owen Taylor.
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