Jerks

I like jerks.

That's my answer when somebody asks me about writing compelling characters.

I could go into a great laundry list of questions. Ask for definitions of words like compelling and character, or lists of likes and dislikes, but that would just mix all the whites with the bright or dark colors. Then everything comes out grey and you still don't know where the lost sock went.

Confusing, right? Exactly.

I like jerks. Like House. Tom Sawyer. Huck Finn. The Lorax. Clementine. Dorothy. Claudia. The Cat in the Hat. The little boy who planted a carrot seed. Vashti.

But especially House.

All spin cycle jokes aside, he is the most interesting, compelling character I've seen in recent times.

He is smart.

He is funny.

He is honest. And damaged. And pathetic. And he goes after what he wants, regardless of what stands in his way.

I don't always like him or agree with him. I AM always interested in what he'll do next.

Sort of like...my husband.

And that's what makes him compelling. House comes across as real. Heightened, of course. To superman proportions. It is a TV drama after all. But I bet he could probably find that freakin' lousy sock that always disappears in the dryer.

And he would definitely make laundry a whole lot more interesting.

DISCLAIMER: The above listed reference to my husband's personality is not meant to defame or damage said husband's reputation, esteem, or self-proclaimed sub-genius status.

Sa Whomped

I've been pitifully lacking about writing in my blog since returning home from the States. I will give you the equally pitifully excuse that I'm busy. Beyond busy.

Sa whomped.

But in between a boy throwing colossal tantrums, a girl full of middle school drama, a pouting, neurotic dog chewing off his nails, and a car that can go but doesn't stop, I do try to make an occasional foray into re-writing my second novel.

I've got writing goals. I've got ideas. I've got desire. I even have a plan.

What I don't have is time. Which is sort of irritating, because I had time all summer when I didn't know end from up about my story.

I'm ready to go, go, go with rewrites. But when I'm forced to one very slow 30-60 minute nightly session, I want to toss myself on the couch in a drama moment. Or chew off my nails. Or throw a tantrum and whomp the sa out of something.

Because I want to finish my book.

I realize that since I'm now...older, I don't really get to act this way. But am I the only person out there, writerly or otherwise, that has such a problem with patience?