Me. Not necessarily in a bad way, at least not fatally bad. Just bad in that now that I have a little more experience and affirmation that I know what I’m doing, I’ll keep doing it.
I’m fascinated with Nick Adams right now. Hemingway’s character. There’s something there to be exploited, I just don’t know what. Do I mash him up with someone like Rust Cohle or develop him a little more into something else?
The answer is none of that. The correct answer, anyway. What I have to do with the character I’m thinking of is relate Nick Adams to him. Have my guy be an echo of that but in a really interesting Big Idea kind of way.
And that will be my doom. I will become obsessed. Hell, I already am. I can feel the stories worming in the folds of my brain, boring deep into the meat to ensure that I don’t forget them. I can see three separate opening scenes and I want to write them all RIGHT NOW.
But that’s impossible. There’s too much to do. THAT’S my doom. The weight of the Things. The number of plates I’ve got spinning on rods over my head.
I’m not a juggler. That’s my doom. Maybe.
Or maybe it’s all in my head and if I can get it out I can stop the clock ticking. Maybe the totem won’t stop spinning. Maybe those plates will continue to turn on their rods, wobbling but never quite falling.
I’m doomed. That’s all there is to it. The only thing I can do is run those things as long as I can then pick up the pieces when it crashes.