Monday, August 04, 2003
I think I am a method writer, if Stanislavski can be said to have any relevance to composition. It's the same principle, I think. If I cannot feel, to some degree, what a character is feeling, I cannot convincingly write that character. I cannot know the mind of the character. There is a sense in which I find it necessary to become a character, to gain access to their actions and reactions, their emotions and thoughts, and then I can begin to fathom a way to communicate what I imagine they are experiencing. It's rarely, if ever, perfect, of course, but the deeper I can immerse myself in the characterization, the more immediate and realistic he or she seems to be.
And I am trying to deal with a character in a very dark place, what seems, to her at least, to be the absolute end of her strength. And that's where I have to be, to see, to feel, to write. Having to go to bed at night knowing she's waiting for me in the morning, waiting for me to squeeze into her skin and soul and try to look out through her eyes. Knowing that the coming day cannot possibly be good because I have to struggle to know terrible pain and loss, to know it as my own because anything less is merely hearsay.
Sometimes it's like trying to smother myself.
Which is to say, it's been a difficult weekend and will likely be a difficult next few days. And if I am the god of my characters, then I am a wicked god, indeed. Job got off easy. I could whisper in their dreams, I know your pain, but if they are wise they'll know I'm a liar and I only imagine that I know their pain. I am trying, though, to follow them down to the places where I lead them.
There wasn't much of note from the weekend. Except a wonderful film called Spun, directed by Jonas Akerland, sort of Tarantino meets John Waters. Spooky and I saw it Saturday night, then watched it again last night with Jennifer. Mickey Rourke is amazing. Oh, there's Spooky's new pet, a gigantic wolf spider that lives in a hole behind our toilet. Saturday night, she began feeding it things. I suppose she was worried it was going hungry. We are such thoughtful little ghouls.
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