tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12345550.post-3690978766293831802007-08-30T14:50:00.000-04:002007-08-30T14:52:13.549-04:002007-08-30T14:52:13.549-04:00"The words aren’t gushing out like a flood, like they usually do. My narrator is reluctant, you see. Reluctant, misanthropic, fed up and hopeless. He’d be angry if he weren’t so jaded by now. So every time I sit down to write, it’s a little bit of a struggle. I can’t just give him control of my hands, like I normally do, and let my conscious mind go out for a smoke or some sushi. It’s an interactive process. I have to pour him drinks, get him talking, draw him out little by little. He wants to tell the story, he really does; but he’s also so tired, so full of pain that runs so deep it doesn’t even feel like pain any more. He doesn’t give a damn about himself or about anything else. Hell, in the first chapter we find him lying naked on a beach, waiting for heat exhaustion or dehydration or the sea to take him away. Getting him out of that hole, getting him to come inside and pick up a pencil, takes some doing."<br /><br />- <a href="http://theshapeofdays.com/2007/08/30/about-that-novel-thing.html">Jeff Harrell</a>Douglas Cresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09059173578101717213noreply@blogger.com