Sunday, April 18, 2004
Have I ever mentioned how much I hate, detest, loathe, despise, and abhor writing synopses? It doesn't seem to matter how much time Spooky and I spend talking through a story, as soon as I sit down to do the in-a-nutshell thing, my mind goes absolutely frelling blank. Yesterday was spent staring into that endless expanse of nothing where there ought to be words. This may arise from my recognition that everything, be it Moby Dick or Hell Comes to Frogtown, sounds lame when reduced to a synopsis. Reduction robs, distorts, obfuscates and bears no genuine relationship to the act of writing. So, naturally, the publishing industry can't live without it. And always I am fooled, by my own self, into believing that this time it will be easy. This time I pretty much know what happens (which is not as important to a novel as you might think), so how hard could it possibly be to sit down and write two pages of synopsis? No, no, no, no, no. I have nothing to show for yesterday, except frayed nerves and empty space.
And today we're going to see Kill Bill, Vol. 2, so Daughter of Hounds will just have to wait.
But I have to begin the next short story very soon, so it can't wait long.
One sentence paragraphs are never a good sign...
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