Writer’s Pre-Game
Rituals
A fan recently asked me how
I was able to ‘get so deeply into the world of my characters’. My answer, of course, was that my characters
live in their own world and I simply visit them before returning to report what
I’ve seen.
While that is true, for the most part, I feel that I owe her
more than that simple answer. It is true
that I don’t make up the stories and that I’m merely an ethereal spectator to
them. It is also true that my characters
live out their lives on the other
side of my imagination’s door where I can hear them whispering and plotting
against me. If I don’t visit them often
enough, then they move furniture loudly enough to keep me up at night and, if I
visit them too often, they move the furniture in front of the door to block me
out.
So, the question is probably better stated, how do I become
a voyeur into the lives of my characters without influencing their
behaviors? Well, I’d like to say it was
simply the quality of the whisky, but it has always been much more than that
for me. There is a ritual that I must
follow to relax enough to go from story teller to transcriptionist. Some might consider it as some ceremonial
‘Pre-Game Writing Ritual’, like a fighter who punches the same bags to warm up before the fight—jab, jab, upper
cut. Others might think of it as a form
of visualization, like a receiver picturing the ball soaring over his
shoulder. Whatever it might be described
as, I know that I have to relax enough
to control the game without letting the game control me. No matter if I’m at my desk at home or in a
hotel or on a berm in Iraq, I try to follow some generic form of this ritual
and, if I don’t, then I inevitably find myself ready to write, but still
waiting to be let through that door into the world of my characters.
What constitutes that ritual doesn’t seem to matter as much
as the actual process of relaxing and allowing
my characters to unlock the door and waiting
for them to wave me inside. If
I’m at home and sitting
comfortably before my writing desk with bottles of whisky aplenty, my ritual
consists of tall glasses, warm candles, and classic Floyd. If I’m dead sober in the cockpit of my
helicopter at night in hostile territory (where I wrote the majority of my
first novel), then my ritual is simply to let the pen write what it can between
listening to radio calls and watching the world around me. But, no matter where I might be, the meat of
my ritual is to take a quiet moment to forget myself and let the characters
come to the door on their own. I don’t
try to control them or mandate their movements as I am simply a visitor to
their world and, in return, I can only hope that they will ignore me and play
as they might if I were not there.
So, to answer the question of how I get through that door, you must imagine
yourself as I see the world of literary creation. While I know all authors are different, this
is how I picture it:
I close my eyes and ignore the world around me. I feel my breathing slow and my chest rising
with each breath getting deeper. I knock
on creativity’s door and wait as the characters of a hundred stories scurry
behind it. Their whispers seem to filter
under the door, some beg for the door to open while others demand it barred
shut. I pray that they will let me in
and won’t seclude me from their lives.
Sometimes they do lock me out, but I can only consider myself blessed on
those few days that they actually open the door and play out their tales before
me. When they do, I type what I see and
hope that the reality of the world doesn’t distract me from the feel of my
fingertips bouncing against the keys as I watch and listen like a visitor to
the zoo’s greatest attractions. They
talk, they fight, they love, and they throw poop at each other as I watch and
transcribe their movements to paper.
Maybe one day I will be able to trap one of my characters
and hold them long enough to interrogate.
I will try to get the information without resorting to waterboarding,
but the truth is that I’ve been waterboarded myself and didn’t find it all that scary.
Until I capture a character and force it to do my work as a
novelist, I will continue to resort to relaxing and waiting at their front
door. Oh, and enjoying a few sips of
that lovely liquid—whisky.
Just when we think we've experienced zombies in every possible way, along comes a new twist. In comes the step, step, drag of the walking dead into the love-triangled filled world of Archie, Betty, and Vernoica. Yes, it's true an Archiepocalypse is expected to come out in comic book in 2013. 
In the comic, Reggie runs over his pet Hotdog and along comes Jughead and messes everything up by convincing a teenage witch to cast a spell and bring the dog back to life. Of course zombies have to come into the picture, so Jughead gets bit by the undead Hotdog. This leads to the apocalypse in Riverdale as the taste for human flesh takes over. 
This if for those of you that need some humor in your hectic day.... 
I am all for a woman feeling sexy and free enough to express herself. However, I wonder at what point is the zombie craze going a bit too far? The other day, my wife told me about some zombie lingerie that she discovered on the internet. Lingerie? Zombies? Those two words somehow don't seem to belong in the same sentence. I'm all for the panties and bras that say amusing zombie quips, but I think the blood soaked clothing and cuts are a little too extreme for 'intimate bedroom attire'. Anyone else agree or am I alone on this one? 
