There are times, now and again, during which I feel a strong desire to put some words on paper. It’s not that I’m quaint, or feel that electronic methods are unworthy of my would-be fantastic prose. I suspect that were I to try, the prose, in fact, would be found quite lacking. I think the desire goes back to the basic ideas of the tribal knowledge of our ancestors: if you have something to say, if your life has been worth something, you should communicate it. Tell a story, draw a picture in the sand, tell your children around the fire. Get the knowledge out there.
Get the knowledge out there. That’s what it is for me. Call me arrogant, but I occasionally feel very strongly that I have learned something in the course of my work, and, furthermore, my knowledge must be shared with others.
There are, perhaps, other motives involved. Some of your ideas stick around in a library somewhere, presumably until the heat death of the universe. Maybe I can have my atoms reconstituted into a book bearing my memoir. Hell of a collector’s item, if you can find an audience for it.
People always say you should write what you know. This sounds good until I think about fiction: from what well of personal knowledge does Ms. Holt draw her stories about witchcraft? And writers of historical fiction? Ha!
Yes, of course, the idea is to use your personal experiences as fuel for some masterpiece of character building, world building, or suspense building. Work your minute knowledge of some dead end job into a gripping tale set against an epic emotional backdrop. Make sure you explain to your readers exactly why your accountant main character must use ASPA Rule Three Oh Seven Dash Five when he is tallying up the value of the lives he may save by shooting the bad guy in the face.
This is, by the way, why we end up with pages upon pages filled with detailed descriptions of a person reloading a gun, and the various trials and tribulations he must face before he may attempt, once more, to put an end to his adversary. Don’t worry, he’ll be thwarted in the firefight by some convenient plot device but return at the last hour to achieve victory.
Titles are hard. I bet someone said this, and if they didn’t, I’m claiming this aphorism right now: the hardest words to write are the words that go on the cover.
But I’ve got this figured out.
The title of this book, this hypothetical book I write in my head, or at least think about from time to time, is How To Get The Shit Kicked Out Of You And Live To Tell The Tale.
I know you’ll come around to it, in the end.
I have to admit, the title is a sort of a hopeful one. It came to me while I was working in the North Port. Working, here, is a bit of a euphemism. I was sitting on a hard metal chair, arms and legs bound. The shadowed man in front of me was breathing heavily – clearly the act of breaking my nose and battering my midsection had caused some serious physical exertion. His breath was pungent, echoing the thousands of extra calories he had consumed over time. Still, overweight does not mean underpowered, and the throbbing mass that used to be my nose told me this man knew something about pain.
There weren’t questions, or at least not spoken ones. The man rested, for a moment, then attacked once again. I felt my face swelling under the blows, and thought about my book. It’d be a bestseller, if only I could prove its premise by making it out of here alive.
Because I knew something about taking a beating. It had happened to me before, and I had learned from the experience. Be ready to anticipate the blows. Tense your muscles in an appropriate matter. Prepare for disorientation. Keep your thoughts lucid by concentrating on hard reality. Don’t let yourself drift.
I was not doing a good job at that last point, but then again, I think the decision to allow myself to drift was rational. There were no questions, which indicated to me that either I should have known who these folks were and what they wanted, or that they were simply looking to kill me. Either way, allowing myself to fade may alleviate my sense of helplessness.
After some time, during which I came up with some chapter titles (Don’t Suck At Fighting, Have Backup, Maybe If You Ask Them Nicely They Will Stop Hitting You), I couldn’t support my head any longer. The blood, a trickle seemingly moments ago, was now pouring from my nose and pooling between my thighs.
My vision was fading, tunneling to gray. I thought of another chapter title. How To Get The Blood That Left Your Body Back Inside. Maybe that could be the sequel.
Maybe.
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