I am addicted to Law and Order. Actually, not the new episodes. I’m not so keen on Cutter. Something I just don’t like about him or his character. But give me Jack McCoy as ADA any day and I’m a happy girl.
I even refer to Jack in my daily life, off the cuff. Like Sam Waterston’s character is someone I personally know. “You need to go Jack McCoy on him,” I told the hubby one day when he mentioned knowing a secret that would embarrass a colleague who’s a real jerk to others. “Jack McCoy would get the truth out of you so fast your head would spin,” I tell my son. “Less Serena, more Jack,” I tell myself when I have to be gruff with someone I don’t like. Stuff like that.
My theory is that it’s because Jack’s tactics are so unlike mine I have a secret crush on his ability to be direct, straightforward and sometimes even mean.
I gave up fiction writing at the start of the year. Flat-out cold turkey. Packed away all my notebooks, moved all my work-in-progress files to the thumb drive and off the laptop, told the muse to go home. I wasn’t feeling fiction. I haven’t been as successful in selling my fiction (all romance-based works) as I have been my nonfiction, and it frustrated me to no end. Several big things were happening in other areas of my life as well, and I think I just needed a break from the compulsion to escape my life and head to a fictional world where everything was just a plot step away from solving.
I immersed myself in nonfiction and memoir writing. Had some luck at it. Really enjoyed what I was doing. Unleashing memories is a powerful, exciting, scary thing to do. It got me back into the routine of daily writing, which I desperately needed. I’d missed my early AM sessions with me and a few thousand new words every day. Fictional ideas teased my muse, buzzed around my head now and then like the occasional mosquito, but I brushed them away. No more romance for me. I’m not good at it.
I kept the fiction ideas at bay (not an easy task, if you’re a writer. Giving up ideas cold turkey is so much worse than giving up smoking. If I were a smoker, I could keep cigarettes out of my house. I can’t keep thoughts from inside my brain) for quite some time. I don’t even get romance-based ideas now. Not even for short stories.
But the peace didn’t last. I got a mainstream novel idea from one of my essays the other day. Given my track record in fiction, I first dismissed it as my muse once again not listening to anything I had to say. The idea fizzled into a few airy words and evaporating mental pictures.
Fizzled until a few days later, when I saw something that again triggered a fiction idea. The same fiction idea. But this time, it was a different puzzle piece to the same story. Again, I threatened the muse with no more coffee dates if she led me astray from working on the memoirs I now love writing. She pouted and let the idea go reluctantly.
And then there was yesterday. She knows my favorite time of day is that time when I’m bordering on the edge of sleep, stepping from the lip of reality to the abyss of slumber and my brain is transitioning from reality to the dream state. So what did she do? She met me at 4:30 am, fully dressed with two crucial character names and part of a plot I have been unable to get out of my head for two solid days.
What did I do? I went Jack McCoy mean on her. Here’s part of the conversation from yesterday morning (I changed her name to protect the innocent)
Me: Why are you doing this? What’s your motive? You peddle ideas like crack, selling faulty ideas a dime a dozen around every dark corner. In writing circles, that’s creative murder with a deadly weapon.
Muse: This idea is a freebie. On me. You’ve never written first person fiction. It’s not romance. It’s a story about [classified info here]. It’s up your alley. I already have the heroine worked out, the mentor formed and part of the plot. I gave you the mental picture yesterday of a budding rosemary plant, didn’t I?
Me: Oh, you sure did. So crystal clear I had to stop at Lowe’s and buy myself a new rosemary plant on the way home from school. But rosemary isn’t going to make me come back to fiction willingly. I might be willing to make a deal for the right price.
Muse: It’s a beautiful story. And rosemary has beautiful blooms. The rosemary is just the start. The heroine is a woman, much like you, who…
Me: Bullcrap. The rosemary is a prop. You’re attempting to stage a crime scene, which is as much as an admission of guilt. You’re the worse kind of criminal. I’m willing to give you man 2. Fifteen years at Rikers. Or sealed in a Rubbermaid container in the basement with the notebooks you’ve made me fill with six unsold novels. I’m sure Rikers is much nicer.
Muse: But I can bring in more plot twists and enough motivation to keep you through to the black moment. Just give it a try.
Me: Oh, accomplices?
Muse: Friends. Mutual friends. I’m not guilty of leaving you in the middle of those other stories, anyways. I just saw a few pretty, sparkly things that were more interesting at the time. Admit it. You liked ‘em too.
Me: Where’s the evidence? Can you give me proof that you won’t do the same thing again?
Muse: Here’s increased motivation and an intriguing premise. That good enough for you?
Me: No deal. I want it all upfront or I’m taking you to jury. And don’t think they won’t notice your history of abandoned manuscripts covered in blood, sweat and tears. I don’t see a lot of mercy. No one’s giving your fiction idea a second glance.
Muse: I’ll give you the rosemary, two character names and an internal conflict. If I see you’re working, I’ll throw in the external conflict and a setting later.
Me: No deal. I want it all upfront, on the table. I don’t buy the evidence. See you in court.
With that, I slammed my portfolio closed and headed out of the interrogation room (aka the shower). I just can’t do the fiction thing again. Not yet. Not that the muse isn’t pestering me, almost constantly, now. I hate to ignore her, but she’s not held up her end of the bargain in the past.
If she brings anything else to the table, I’ll let you know. If she can pass the Jack test, I’ll listen to her offers…
(don’t act like you don’t talk to your muse! I know you do.)
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