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  Oh, man, sometimes I am just amazed by my own cleverness, and by my modesty, too, of course. You see that headline up above? It would take a regular Leonardo DaVinci to... oh, wait, you figured it out? Yeah, it's kind of a dumb gimmick, and I guess that proves that I'm not above dumb gimmicks.

  But I do write backwards. For the very literal-minded, I don't mean that I... no... no one thinks that I mean it yllaretil. Here's what I mean: let's say I have a scene, or a character trait I particularly want to have in my book. In Secret Spy (still the working title), for example, I wanted the main character, Terrence Tillberry, to be munching a Hostess fruit pie.

I will digress and explain why I wanted this: First, the character on whom Tillberry is based was a real FBI agent. However, all I really know about him is that he had a girlfriend who was a KGB operative, and that he--and this is true--ate donuts and other junk food every day. His boss described him as "lunchie." I don't know if he ate Hostess products or not. I, however, DID eat Hostess fruit pies every day for lunch when I was a freshman in high school. They're repulsive to me now, but I thought I could bring credible sensory detail to the myriad pleasures of consuming them.

Okay, so I have Tillberry eating a cherry-flavored Hostess fruit pie. Great! But then I started to ask, "Why?" This ultimately developed into an entire back story about Terrence as a young boy: When he was about to start seventh grade, he felt very insecure. He confided in his beloved Uncle Martin, who counseled him to start lifting weights. Martin was also a Special Agent for the FBI, and because of Uncle Martin's example, Terrence is inspired to become and FBI agent himself.

But why, I asked, did he start eating Hostess products? Well, how about if he had an aversion to going to lunch? Why would that happen? Well, what if there was a particularly traumatic event that happened in the FBI dining room? What would have happened? Well, how about if he is embarrassed for some reason? Who would embarrass him? His boss might embarrass him. What would his boss do or say to embarrass him? His boss might ridicule him. What would his boss ridicule him for? How about if his boss accuses him of being the beneficiary of favoritism? Remember, Terrence's Uncle Martin was in the FBI.

As you can see--and if you can't, I'll just tell you--the entire process of developing Terrence's story was one of asking questions, and then answering them, and it all started with "Why would an FBI agent eat a Hostess fruit pie?" Each question prompted multiple answers, and more questions, and as each question was asked and answered, Terrence got more real, and more interesting.

The novelist John Rechy, under whom I studied at USC's Master of Professional Writing program, said that "writers ask questions, and get answers." It's really as simple as that, and (drumroll for the approaching irony) as complex. That is, the bigger the question, the deeper the answer in terms of how it will influence your characters, their motivations, and the plot of the book itself. My first novel, Echo Valley, really started because I wanted to have a scene in which Tom Huttle, the protagonist, emerges, dressed in tin foil, from the back of a burning garbage truck that has just flown through the air. Now, this was a somewhat more difficult question to answer than, "Why would an FBI agent eat a Hostess fruit pie?" However, it led to the same type of question-and-answer sequence, and in ways far too complex to explain right now, became the spine of the entire plot of Echo Valley, which is about Tom Huttle's misadventures as he writes a book called Garbage.

So, as for the advice portion of our program: if you have a scene that springs to mind, by all means, write it! You may not know precisely where it might ultimately fit in your book, and perhaps you don't know what it means. That's okay. Ask yourself, and then answer the question.

Oh, by the way, in a craven effort to draw readers to this blog, I'll always put nude in the labels field. I have nothing against nudity, by the way, though typically don't practice it in a public setting. Now I can put public nudity in the labels field, too. I am that diabolical.

Ferpectionism

The rewrite stretches on. Just when I think I have, at last, trimmed, sharpened, modified, deepened, and adjusted every character, scene, conflict, and theme, I find... something that's out of place: a clunky description, an awkward transition, a bit of stilted or unrealistic dialog, a scene that just doesn't play. I fix them, and move on to the next part, which I thought was perfect, only to find that it, too, needs changes.

At this point, it feels as though the rewrite will take forever. Every time I read the manuscript, I find something else that displeases me. Lines that in earlier drafts made me laugh now fall flat. This is one of the hazards, of course, of writing comedy. Comedy is, by definition, surprise. In fact, the best description of humor I ever read is this: Surprise without promise or threat.

Well, nothing in this manuscript surprises me anymore, which... isn't any surprise, as I have read the manuscript dozens of times. So, I have to trust that the positive responses of my few readers--all of them intelligent, perceptive, and helpful--were genuine at the time, and know that I shouldn't mess with what amused, intrigued, or excited them. For the rest, I have to trust myself.

On the subject of rewriting, my wonderful writing teacher, the late, great, and much beloved Paul Gillette, said, "At some point, you've got to say, 'This is the quiche of the day.'" I guess that point has been reached when change would make the story different, but not necessarily better. Naturally, every significant change resonates throughout the manuscript. You give a character a different goal, and every thought, every line of dialog, is affected. In other words, there is a point, and I believe I am close to it, when the manuscript is good enough.

There is no such thing as ferpection, in other words. Mortals, and writers, can aspire to it, but only God and F. Scott Fitzgerald can attain it.