What about those Academy Awards, huh? Could you believe she won? I mean, that last thing was sure a surprise, wasn't it?
Okay, I admit it; I'm writing this before the Academy Awards airs, in fact a whole day before. I'm guessing Billy Crystal was funny and classy, the middle 90 minutes were tedious, Whitney Houston got the biggest ovation in the Memorium crawl, and The Artist won best picture (I promise I won't change that if I'm wrong). But I honestly have no idea.
Addition after Academy Awards: I had no idea when I wrote "Could you believe she won?" that Ms. Streep of the Jersey roots would take home her third over Viola Davis et al. Go figure. And there was NO applause during the Memorium crawl--you got the feeling the audience had been asked to refrain. All in all, I thought it was a pretty good Oscar show. Could have used more Chris Rock, less Ben Stiller, and Billy Crystal, while miles above last year's fiasco, looked annoyed a lot of the time. Hope he'll be back next year, though. I will.
But that's not what we'll be talking about this week. (Aside to Josh G: Don't read the rest of this post. You'll understand why when you read it.)
My wife and I went out to dinner with friends a couple of weeks ago, and I'm sure everyone was wondering why I was in such a bad mood. There was no question about it; I was grumpy. Yes, more than usual. (Very funny, wiseguy.) I didn't talk much, I wasn't trying very hard to be amusing, and when the evening was over, I just sort of shook hands, got back in the car and left.
I wasn't trying to be antisocial, but I was going through a difficult moment emotionally, one that writers have and rational people don't. I had left the character in the book I was writing in a very unsettling situation, one that was absolutely agonizing for him, and I was feeling the effects.
This is not an isolated incident, although it doesn't happen with every book. Quite some time ago when my children were small, my parents and my brother treated us to an anniversary gift: a long weekend in Bermuda. It was incredibly generous of them and we had a very lovely time.
But I remember leaving Newark that Friday morning in a funk: I was writing a screenplay and my character and his son were in an extremely precarious position I had not been able to resolve before we left. I won't say I was grouchy the whole time we were in Bermuda, but it took me a little while to shake it.
Writers go through an emotional roller coaster when we're working. To do the job right, we have to really experience--mentally--the situations we write. For me, it's more a sense of tension when things (in the story) are going badly for the main character, even when I know how I'm going to resolve it. Once I get to the ending, there's a relaxed sensation, a satisfaction that comes and stays. Until I start the next story.
This past opus, the one I just finished (which is not part of any series and doesn't feature any character you might have read from me before) was a tough one. It's scary to start anything new, particularly in an area you haven't explored before--it's not a mystery at all--and the character I was writing had to go through some really harrowing life moments, ones that caused him a lot of grief.
It was a difficult couple of months, and I don't think anyone--not even Jessica--realized it. The draft is now done and if it is what I believe it to be, anyone who ever reads it will not imagine for one second that the author was a complete lunatic while writing it.
Now, I'll be on tenterhooks until someone reads the damn thing and tells me if it's any good. And I don't want it to be an obligation (I'm serious about that; I don't--that's why I told you not to read this, Josh!), so I'm waiting patiently.
Except for the grumpiness. But nobody will notice that.
