shiny

The thing you can do with a novel that you can't with most poems or short stories is make discoveries. Today, while working on a character I didn't really believe in yet, I began to write his motivations and discovered his raison d'etre was not only wacky and realistic and blessedly connected to another seemingly isolated character, but also demonstrated the kind of people who populate my novels and the world around us: people who act out in direct response to not being loved enough, or the way they wanted, by the people they loved; people whose passions in life caused them pain and have to make choices; people whose families let them down and compelled them to do things to prevent them from further disappointment or neglect; people who have to become more than what their pasts would dictate. While this is the stuff of tragedy, it is also a comedy mine/minefield. I strike my pickaxe carefully and take care to avoid stepping on any pressure-sensitive bombs, as I don't want the story to fall down on my head or blow up underneath me. It's a very delicate operation, but once in a while, I dig up something shiny -- and it's all worth it.

Just so long as I don't get the black lung.