Methuselah's Daughter, Part One, Chapters 5 & 6
J.A. Eddy
I re-read her accounting of our meeting the previous night, shaking my head. “It’s a little disconcerting reading your descriptions. I’m supposed to be the writer, you’re supposed to be the subject.” I was sitting comfortably in her hospital room that next morning, waiting for them to move her downstairs.
“You watch me, I watch you,” she replied, a bit distractedly. She sat up, turned a bit to her right, and began scooting to the edge of her bed.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Getting out of bed.”
I restrained myself from offering to help. If she wanted it, she’d ask. There was obviously no point in trying to talk her out of anything.
“These journals,” I asked. “How long have you been keeping them?”
“About 170 years,” she said offhandedly as she turned further to her right, and hooked her leg over the edge.
I laughed. I loved the deadpan way she said things like that. She was clearly a flake, but the most entertaining flake I’d ever met. She flicked a look at me, smiled, and then concentrated again on her leg. I didn’t know where this relationship was going, but there was no doubt that it would be interesting.
“Well, I can already see how parts of the project might be done,” I said. “I think I can use some of your journal entries directly. Not all of them, since you ramble a bit, but I can definitely see how with a little work and careful editing we can lift parts of your journals straight into the book, maybe weave it in with some of our interview transcripts. Could be tricky, but might work. Do you write these every day?”
She scooted some more, grabbed the rail, and put her foot to the ground. She scratched absently at the stump of her left leg.
“You’d know better than I, but that sounds workable,” she said. “And no, not every day, but frequently, whenever something I deem significant happens, or when something’s troubling me.” She was flexing her toes, testing the floor, wincing slightly at its cold temperature.
“They’re remarkably detailed. Do you have an eidetic memory?”
She shook her head. “No. But I’ve got a good one. Writing helps me remember things, keep my thoughts ordered.” She was rocking back and forth sideways, testing her balance.
“So where are the rest of them?” I asked.
Before answering, she startled me by standing straight up on her one leg, facing away from me. I noticed then just how very thin and tiny she seemed. She couldn’t have been much more than 5’3”, which astonished me because she had such a large presence about her. She didn’t seem to care at all that I could see her backside through the open back of the hospital gown. She looked like she had almost no fat at all on her, which looked very unhealthy. With her back to me like that, I could almost believe her missing forearm was simply bent forward out of my vision, but the left leg was still obviously, tragically, almost completely gone.
She then startled me again by leaning backwards like a ballerina and slowly bending her back into a “U” shape. I could hear it crinkle and pop a little, and then she was staring at me upside-down.
She said, “I have some that I wrote some time ago in a steamer trunk. The rest I mostly destroyed. Except for the web site, which I’m still thinking about doing away with.”
“Okay, that’s three questions I have to ask all at once.”
“Go,” she said, straightening up, the back of her head to me again. Her hand was still on to the bedrail.
“Well, why do you write them if you plan to destroy most of them?”
“Because I write them for me, not for anybody else, and I already told you why I write them: to help me organize my thoughts and memories. Once I’ve done it I don’t need them anymore, most of the time. Besides, most of them are trash, just rambles. Some would be dangerous if someone found them.”
She bent at the knee very deeply, almost touching it to the floor, then lost control and spun around, almost losing her grip. She sat there on the floor in an awkward, strained position facing me, her right arm and shoulder twisted severely. I jumped up, but she shot an angry look my way and I stopped. She was shaking a little, trying to pull herself up. Then her eyes relented.
“All right, this is very uncomfortable. I suppose I could use a hand.” She was sweating, and panting hard.
Methuselah's Daughter, A Novel
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My largest weakness is discipline- Dean forced me to work to a schedule of sorts. A very loose and changeable schedule, but a schedule nonetheless. Dean brought a no-nonsense practicality to the story that strongly countered my urge towards heavy-handed mysticism (and this was and remains a constant source of friction between us). Dean possesses a keen understanding of the story-telling art, being able to easily discern between what speaks to the story and what does not- an ability that turned my original concept of the story on its ear and resulted in something far more powerful and consistent. Dean also recognized something that I probably knew, but wasn't admitting to myself- that the story had the potential to speak to all aspects of the human condition in a way rarely if ever attempted before.
For my part Dean has repeatedly commented on my ability to create a vivid scene surrounding a topic or event. I have a very detailed and engrossing imagination, and I've been dealing with Zsallia for 30 years now, so I have huge stores of concepts, encounters, revelations to draw upon even when the plot point is entirely of Dean's creation.
In general one of us would write out a part of the story, then hand it off to the other who would massage it, then hand it back. Rinse and repeat until we were satisfied with it. Of course, we had numerous arguments, some of them quite heated, one of them so fundamentally divisive that we stopped talking to each other for nearly six months, and that issue is still not completely resolved. It was very hard work and required tons of compromise to the point there are parts of the book I don't like and there are parts of the book Dean isn't thrilled about, but we're pretty happy with the whole of it.
So- we had complimentary skills, we discussed things in depth, and when necessary we agreed to disagree.
Back when I was writing a comic, I'd go to Evil Rob a lot for inspiration with one particular character, with the result that he ended up with an appealing absurdist flavor that I could never have gotten on my own. "What are you giving the happy couple" "Crystal." "Crystal what? Glasses?" "Aardvark."
Yeah, especially with Dean. ;-)
A large and complicated novel with numerous intertwining sub-plots and story arcs--which this is--is very hard to write all by yourself.
I think John and I both agree there would have been no novel without the other person. Both of us had always wanted to do one and yet we both lacked things to make it happen. Although I think that now that I've got one under my belt I could probably write another on my own, and I'll bet John could too. We learned from each other.
Mind you, the main reason I never completed a novel before was I never had an idea that excited me enough to try it. I wanted to do something genuinely original, and that also was more than just another detective novel or romance novel or action novel or whatever. I wanted to really have something to say to the world, and to be original. I firmly believe we achieved that here.
That the other thing: we were both committed to excellence from the beginning. We didn't want to just write a novel, but write one we would genuinely be proud of. We were also committed to making damn sure we finished no matter what.
So, collaboration is powerful, but yes it's difficult. On the other hand it has its strengths. When one partner starts to run out energy, the other can take the wheel.
You construct a long, complicated novel by creating a framework--a basic outline that describes your story. The characters start at point A and at the end they're at point Z. I thought of it like constructing a play in three acts: you create an act, wherein you have a good idea of most of what happens within that act. Then, you construct individual vignettes within each act wherein the important events take place.
We originally thought it was going to go three acts. But that's the thing about dividing it up that way in the beginning: as they say, no battle plan survives contact with the enemy, but planning is essential anyway. That way when we found ourselves somewhere and needed to go back and modify the outline, we did. But we had it, and we mostly stuck to it unless we could find a good reason to deviate from it.
Otherwise it was a matter of completing each section, and making sure we got everything important in, and that it flowed nicely and felt right. We'd trade each piece back and forth. The arguing is always painful, but on the other hand, when the collaboration is working it works just beautifully, and amazing things come out of the both of you that you didn't know was there. Although the creative frictions were tough, I'd have to say that the joyful parts of working together were intensely pleasant. When you're clicking along and sparking off of each other and then you look at a finished section and say, "My God that's great!!!" it's terribly rewarding.
We're both terrifically proud of this book. It is original, and it really has something to say about the world as we see it.
As Dean said above, I'm certain I could write another novel on my own at this point; however, I'd never made a serious attempt at it before. The closest thing I had was the blog.
The collaboration was difficult indeed- Dean and I fought like lions over some of what others would see as the most ridiculously trivial points. The thing is we both agree that the tensions between us are a significant part of what makes this story so compelling. When Zsallia argues with the interviewer what that usually means is Dean and I were arguing over the plot point.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that collaboration is a separate beast from individual writing. When I write for the blog I do whatever I want and I'm not particularly tied to the narrative of the novel. As Dean and I set up to launch the sequel it requires an entirely different mindset. Neither is easy, to be honest.
You are correct- many times in the process the stall points were resolved when one or the other of us just said to hell with it, picked it up and ran with it. Once the ball is started rolling again it's much easier to decide the problem holding you back wasn't as big as you thought it was.
I really want to write book 2. A big part of it is already written, but if no one gives a damn about it it's going to be hard to devote the time to it.
But we've got so much more there, and so much potential...
Of course we all lose our tempers now and then. Dean freely admits to being imperfect in this regard, which is why regulars to this establishment will generally be cut more slack than people who we don't know very well.
Still: behave like an adult, or go find somewhere else to play. Thanks.