Why I Love Survival Horror (or, Wasting Time Is Sometimes Okay)

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There are days when people look at me and see a vague, flighty girl with too much hair and not enough common sense. And yes, I’ll admit it—I don’t always do a lot to dispel that notion. And honestly, why should I? After all, that girl exists. She’s a real, true (-ish) version of me. Part, but not all.

Here’s the thing: when I’m on, I’m ON. I mean, it’s like being a person-sized nuclear reactor or some sort of freaky futuristic human battery that’s the opposite of those lazy, comatose ones in The Matrix.

I don’t need food or sleep or social interaction. I can literally live off the warm, quick-burning fuel of ideas. I dismantle things and put them back together and get stupidly ambitious. Sometimes, if I spend enough nights not sleeping, I make bloody anatomically-representational hearts out of cake. I go off on wild, incoherent tangents. I can’t tell the difference between a good idea and a bad idea, and what would be an unequivocally awesome idea if that last elusive piece would just drop into place. Basically, if I concentrated hard enough, I might accidentally catch on fire.

This is all starting to sound like a superpower, and it’s not. Or at least, it’s not a very good one. Similar to a number of chemical elements, when I’m in my most productive state, I’m also massively unstable, and I don’t mean in a mental-health way.* It’s more like I’m walking a fine line between sustained fission and full-scale meltdown. One false move and the whole structure will go up in a tower of flames.

It’s exhilarating, but unnerving. Let me just say, when I feel the productivity-switch flip, I tread very carefully.**

This is me taking an unnecessary number of paragraphs to say that I turned in my first draft of Paper Valentine, and then spent the last two days doing nothing.

And it was weird.

Oh, I did stuff—I slept ten hours a night and watched three different football games and made banana bread, and played video games. I read some books and did some Christmas shopping. I have yet to tackle my laundry.

But I didn’t do anything that really qualified as work. Later, I’ll probably make some floral-themed hair ornaments out of paper. I’ll snuggle up on the couch with a sandwich and a blanket and kill some more zombies. I’ll sleep really well.

Whenever I finish a project, it’s hard to adjust. There’s a big, important part of me that needs this—this complete powering down—but the quick, puzzle-solving mastermind part hates being put back in the box. That part panics and thrashes and tells me things like I’m falling behind, wasting time. Malingering.

No matter how stark and eerie sleep-deprivation starts to feel, it’s always kind of a rush to be in the heightened state. I can’t help it—I have a soft spot for the version of me where I write fourteen hours a day and bake ten pies and watch Arrested Development at three in the morning because it’s just going to be light in four hours anyway.

But she is not okay.

It wasn’t until grad school that I truly started to understand I was stuck with this part, maybe for the rest of my life. She wasn’t something I’d eventually grow out of (in fact, she was getting stronger), and so I was going to have to learn to deal with myself one way or another. I developed a strategy.

This is where the video games come in.

See, the mastermind part hates dithering or wasting time, but she loves survival horror. Whenever it’s time to ease her back into a normal schedule, I placate her with creaky ghost-towns and decrepit zombie-filled mansions, because if she feels useful and like she has a task, she shuts up. She lets vague, dreamy Brenna clean the kitchen and make barrettes and do Christmas shopping.

So, for the next few weeks, this is what’s going to happen: the hyperfocused, task-oriented part of me will sit quietly, shoot her zombies, hone her strategies and solve her puzzles. She will do this without complaint. Cheerfully, even. She will stop fidgeting and get a grip.

The rest of me will be doing good if I make it to the post office.

*I should check with D on this one, having lost absolutely all objectivity.

**Figuratively speaking. In real life, I bump into the furniture a lot.

Girl Friends

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Before I started high school, I had this big tight-knit group of really awesome friends. We grew up together, were homeschooled together, spent weeks and months and years together. It seemed like I’d known them forever, and when you’ve known someone forever, everything starts to seem simple and easy. Even the squabbles and the disagreements and the petty jealousies are just so incredibly easy.

You can lie on your back in the grass with your heads together and look at stars—spend your weekends hiking and camping, paddle around in canoes and catch snakes and toads and crawdads, swim in the river, play hide-and-seek in the train yards, sneak out after curfew, eat popsicles on the curb in front of Safeway, build tree forts and sleep out on the trampoline and pick all the worms out of the gutter when it rains and throw them back on the grass. You can understand each other without ever having to say anything.

So, I had all these really awesome friends. Who I’d grown up with. Who I’d known forever.

And then school started and I realized that I had no idea how to make new ones.

This wasn’t a social emergency or anything. Or, it was, but it didn’t feel like one. On the very first day, I was adopted by a group of very nice girls who let me eat lunch with them and always talked to me before school and between classes. Nice girls who gave me fashion tips involving stores I couldn’t afford, and admired my hair, and who put up with me. Because no matter how nice they were, that’s how it always felt—like they were putting up with me.

I knew early on that I wasn’t a good fit. Too detached and too silent, I had no patience for things like stress or homework or senior boys who didn’t know we existed. Sometimes when I was with them, I started to feel like I had no patience for anything.

The last straw came somewhere around mid-January of my sophomore year. We were all sitting at one of the circular cafeteria tables for lunch, and I don’t even know why it was the last straw, just that it was. We were talking about sports and activities, and how you need a well-rounded transcript to impress colleges, and they asked me what extracurriculars I had.

I said soccer, and one of the girls suggested I rethink that, since it only really counted for colleges if you played for your school, and I nodded and said, “I’ll play for school in the spring.”

The look she gave me was tender as she carefully explained that in high school, a lot of people tried out but they didn’t all make the team, and I should probably have at least one choice that was more dependable, like Spanish Club.

And like that, I was done.

It was strange, because nothing about the conversation offended me. I wasn’t hurt or mad or even very surprised. It was just that in that moment, I understood that none of them knew me at all, not even a little, and more than that, even if they did know me, they probably wouldn’t like me that much.

The next day, I sat alone, with my sandwich and my book, and Catherine came and sat down next to me. She asked why I was by myself, if I’d had a fight with the girls I usually hung out with.

I shook my head and said, “I don’t think I belong there.”

And she just shrugged and got out her lunch. “Well, I can’t help with that. They’ve all hated me since eighth grade.”

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Some Thoughts on Time/Drafting

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I know I’ve said this before, but I’m not all that good with time.

Yes, I’m ridiculously punctual. Yes, I can execute a recipe or follow a schedule, and on a purely intellectual level, I understand that time is always passing and this particular moment—right now—is not the same moment it was even a heartbeat ago. I get that.

But I don’t really understand that it’s true.

Here is an example. I have a wedding ring, and I always wear it, except when I’m cooking or doing the dishes. In this picture, I’m not wearing it. That’s because when the box of ARCs for The Space Between showed up on my steps, I was doing the dishes, but I wanted to know what was in the box right away without waiting, so I opened it, and I was really excited and I took a picture.

And now, every time I see the picture, I irrationally panic and think I’ve lost my ring somewhere, even though I’m currently wearing it, because something in my brain can’t tell the difference between now-this-minute, and a photograph that happened six months ago. I do this every single time.

Basically, what I’m saying is, my brain is sort of like the Overlook Hotel—all times are now.

Which is why I find it so incredibly fascinating, so impossible, that my first draft of Paper Valentine is due to my editor in two days, when I’m pretty sure this deal was announced an hour ago.

Also, I should probably finish writing it.

Pharaoh

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I’ve spent a long time not wanting to write this post. In fact, I still don’t want to write it.

Because it’s not silly or fun. Because it’s hard.

But I’m writing it anyway, because I have this nagging feeling that if I don’t, I’ll be lying.

I’d rather be glib right now. I’d rather tell you all about fancy homemade candy and red pandas and the time my sister and I got in a punching fight over the TV remote, but this is something we need to talk about. And by we, I don’t just mean Us—You and Me. I mean anybody, all of us.

Pharaoh. From Spanish II, from Sophomore PE. Is dead.

They announced it this morning, during 1st hour, the same way they always do with suicides, right away, so no rumors get started

It’s weird. Last year, on the exact same day, Boxer died. But he was this thin sad junior, who faded like a whisper before anyone even had a chance to notice he was gone.

[With Pharaoh] it’s not the same. I knew Boxer on sight, and most people couldn’t even say that much. I’d never had a class with him, never said a word to him, this skinny boy that no one noticed. He didn’t exist to most people.

But Pharaoh, Pharaoh was one of Those People. The ones who play varsity sports and drive nice cars and always get in the school paper, and go to all the best parties, all that. The best girls, the most popular friends, you know. And even if they aren’t Homecoming royalty, well, they still got nominated, didn’t they?

Pharaoh’s whole life, right there. The kind of boy who always gets picked first in PE, always makes it to the district basketball tournaments, always calls you “Girl,” instead of your name.

In drawing, our teacher stands in front of us, ringing her hands. “I have some sad news,” she says. “This is very difficult to talk about. One of your classmates committed suicide last night.”

And we sit quietly, expectantly. She’s looking at us like she’s never seen us before, or like we scare her.

“He was involved in a number of school activities, and some of you may have known him through church or other organizations. The counseling center is available all day.”

Then she says Pharaoh’s name.

For a long time, no one says anything. Then behind me, Dweezil mutters something under his breath, so soft I can’t make it out. It sound like shit, or else, dick. Which are two very different sentiments.

I turn to look at him, but he’s staring down at the tabletop, enigmatic. The feeling in the room is like a strange, complicated humming, electrical and mute. I tear my Poptart wrapper into tiny little strips.

This is not supposed to happen. When you think of boys dying, you think of boys like Boxer—the ones who get made fun of on the bus and ignored at home and pushed into lockers in the halls.

Not the ones who do the pushing.

Suddenly, all I can think about is this day in Spanish class last year, how Pharaoh knocked Milo’s books out of his hands and Milo’s binder fell open when it hit the floor, and all the sheets of paper flew away like birds.

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Revision will eat your brain. (But that’s okay, because your brain will grow back.)

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This is not a scary story.

I feel like I needed to start with that, because looking at it head-on, revision can seem awfully bloodthirsty, and also like it wants you dead.

But your manuscript (my manuscript) is not some shambling monster, even when it kind of looks like one. It is not faster, stronger, or smarter than you (me).

Sometimes, you might leap to the daunting conclusion that it’s meaner, but that’s only because you’re feeling exhausted and overwhelmed. You let a few scenes get totally out of hand, and now the whole thing is well on its way to turning into one of those hideous fast zombies. You can hear the manic flurry of approaching footsteps, but have no idea what direction it’s coming from, which is insanely scary.

Do you know how to stop a fast zombie? Set it on fire.

Except, figuratively. The main point I’m trying to make is that even when you (I) feel like the situation has gotten very bad very quickly, there’s still a solution somewhere. So don’t actually set fire to your manuscript. That would be dangerous and irresponsible. Plus, it’s almost always unnecessary.

(Also, because I grew up watching Romero movies, I tend to use a lot of zombie/shopping mall/shotgun metaphors. I should probably stop.)

The thing is, it’s difficult to talk about revision in any sort of umbrella-way, because there’s not a one-size process. It depends on the writer, and on the book, and even though it’s pretty easy to hit up the internet for some blanket guidelines, the actual revising part is really personal. (There is no one-size-fits-all zombie apocalypse.)

So, instead of a neat set of precise step-by-step instructions, here is one big fat paragraph of generalization:

There’s a point in the lifespan of most stories—almost always sometime after the first draft—when the situation gets really ugly really fast. Suddenly, the flaws are taking over, seeping into the cracks, covering up every scrap of brilliance and goodness and light, and it’s up to you to put on your flak jacket and save your made-up world. And this isn’t easy, because all at once, the problems are EVERYWHERE. Maybe you hate the pacing. Or you hate the way that subplot plays out. Or you wish the characters were different people and the setting was glossier and the kiss happened on page 64 and the title wasn’t stupid.

To be clear, this is usually the place where I completely rewrite the book (burn it down), because the whole scenario just seems incredibly dire, and my default survival mode is to panic and start hacking up the place indiscriminately. In light of this, what I say next is going to sound kind of strange.

Revision is my favorite part of writing.

Seriously, it’s where all the good stuff happens. Everything that came before is just a big, sprawling mess of words and ideas. But once revision sets in, there’s hope for a better brighter future (one that actually makes sense). You discover meaning and nuance where there was none, and that those two characters should actually be combined. You realize that you’ve said the same thing three times, and you probably only need to say it once. And these are all realizations that improve a book.

There are a lot of different kinds of revision—big parts and little ones. Some people do all the parts all at once. They’ll overhaul a character or refine a plot point, while also making all the sentences the best sentences ever.

This is not how I do it. Which is kind of weird when you think about it, since I can usually be counted on to pick the most complicated thing (sewing patterns, recipes, friends). When it comes to revising though, I try to do all the big structural stuff first, and then the character development, and then go through and look at the scenes and sentences to decide if I like them, or which ones I would rather have. Then, once the last good sentence is in place, the book is done.*

This was supposed to be a how-to post, but I don’t know how.

I mean, I know how for me, but not for you, because you’re different. Your book is different.

There’s only one thing I can actually tell you—one overarching rule about revision, which is that you have to be willing to do it.

Also, I lied. There is one other thing I can tell you.

No matter how hard the work is, you don’t have to be scared of your book. Revision is safe. It’s basically a no-risk proposition. Computers make adding and tracking changes so, so easy. When you rewrite a paragraph or gut a whole scene, or rip out 50 pages, or 100, it’s not like painting over something precious—those pages are still there, and you can always go back to the earlier version if it turns out that you’ve made some terrible mistake. Mostly though, you haven’t. Mostly, you did the right thing, even if it was hard.

In the end, it’s all going to turn out okay. The quirky genius scientist finds a cure and the dog doesn’t die.

But first, it’s going to be kind of complicated and bloodthirsty.

And that’s fine.

*Until I look through it again, and realize that it’s not. (Sometimes writing a book takes a long time.)

Happy-Happy

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Just really quick, I’m stopping in a day early to say hello. Also, that I like you guys! (And even though I’m still on crutches, I’m not even cranky anymore—it’s a miracle!)

Since tomorrow is Thanksgiving, I won’t be around to do a high school post. Instead, I’m going to bake a lot of pies and then go see my parents and my sister and my cousins and all my aunts and uncles (subtext: my family is really, really tremendous, both in terms of wonderfulness and sheer numbers).

High school posts will return next Thursday, and I’m thinking that for this coming Monday, I’ll even put together an actual writing-related post (What? Brenna, doing something organized and educational and possibly even prescriptive? I know!), where I talk about revision and how to gut a story and keep the good parts.

(We’ll see how it goes.)

Until then, I hope you all have a great week, and even if you’ve got nothing fun planned, just … do something fun anyway—do something that you love!

♥

One Good, One Bad, One SHINY!

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The Good

Hey, remember that time I made a heart out of red velvet cake and cream cheese and lots and lots of delicious cherry-based gore?

Also, remember how it was a contest?

Well! I am deeply honored to have Won a Prize, which recently arrived in the mail, and which I have posed with some lemon sandwich cookies for best effect:

IMG_0018

Many million thanks to all my fellow Creepy Cake N Bakers—and special thanks to Dawn Metcalf and Stacey Jay , for not only organizing the whole thing, but for presenting me with this delightful Bride of Frankenstein trophy!

The Bad

Okay, I’ll be the first to say that this past week has had way more than its fair share of awesome (like, oh, The Space Between hitting shelves). However, I immediately (sadly) complicated it/screwed it all up by blowing out my ACL. Which explains both my spotty internet presence and the fact that I have been uncommonly cranky—sorry, friends and family! (And Most Especially D.)

Right now, some of you may be saying, “Really, Brenna? Again? You managed to break yourself yet again? Aren’t you getting too old for these kind of hijinks? Also, you are a writer and your whole entire job revolves around sitting at a computer, which is markedly not-dangerous. Okay, you know what? Fine, whatever, I’ll humor you. How exactly did this happen?”*

To which I will reply that much like every injury I’ve ever sustained, it was purely the result of me being entirely too optimistic about my own physical capabilities. Also, soccer.

So, I’m currently the proud owner of two crutches and one full-leg brace.

Here is me looking askance at them.

askance

I plan to defeat them with my stoic-yet-plaintive stare. Also, being rigorous about my physical therapy.

The SHINY

Now for something much, much happier! As you may or may not know,** The Space Between is officially titled Smoulder in the UK, and here is definitive and sparkly proof:

smoulder

Smoulder is scheduled to come out next month, and even though it has a different name, in all important ways, it’s the very same book as The Space Between. (Except that characters will sometimes walk on pavements instead of sidewalks. Pavements? Is that the plural? Or is it all just one big pavement?)

And that’s the story of my post-TSB week!

*Only, I don’t actually think you sound aggressive or judgmental. I’m really just channeling myself. As you can see, myself is cranky.

**If you don’t know, it’s my fault. Because I never told you.

The Ice Girl, Redux

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It’s February. Which is another way of saying that it is brutally, unreasonably cold. In fact, it’s so cold that I’m perpetually obsessed with how cold it is.

In Drawing, Dill lets me wear his fingerless gloves. They’re too big and make me feel like an imaginary creature with very small hands. Which I like, because every imaginary thing is more fun than actual reality. Especially in winter.

He leans his elbows on our table and says, so casually it sounds fake, “Hey, me and Greg and Vee are going to a movie tonight. You want to come?”

And when I look back at him too long, it’s because I’m considering all the things I like best—the blue of his eyes, the width of his shoulders, how he never talks down to me, never treats me like I’m stupid. He drew my picture like I was a doll-version of myself, but so what? He’s interesting and fun. Handsome. Dependable. (Actual, when everyone else is just hypothetical.)

“Sure,” I say, wiggling the gloves so they flop like puppets.

“Cool. I’ll pick you up.”

We’re in the middle of the Self-Portrait unit and everyone has mirrors, but mine is broken into jagged shards. Every day, I arrange the pieces in order on the tabletop, matching them up to a map of pencil marks. It’s easier to think of my face as a series of individual features. Mouth, cheek, forehead. One dark, furtive eye. I don’t know why I decided to do it this way except that otherwise, everything starts to seem too complicated.

I don’t even ask what movie we’re seeing.

“Are you crazy?” said Catherine after lunch. “The last thing you need is to start dating him again. And anyway—” She cut her eyes significantly at Jane.

“What do I care?” Jane said.

“I’m not dating him,” I said. “It’s just a movie.”

“Yeah, and then another one and then—oh, great.” Catherine rolled her eyes grandly. “Now here’s your other helpless victim.”

Brody had broken off from his friends and was heading straight for us. He looked like several adjectives, but helpless wasn’t one of them.

“You want this?” he asked, coming in very close and grabbing his crotch.

I stood looking up at him. Sometimes, at the strangest moments, I can tell that my expression is inscrutable.

He lifted his shirt and pulled a Coke out of the gap behind his belt buckle. “It’s still cold. So, you want it?”

“Maybe,” I said, tilting my head. “It hasn’t got cooties on it or anything, does it?”

He cracked the can open, took a drink and handed it to me. “Now it does.”

I smiled at him, sly, coy, demure, pick-a-word. It was easy. He kissed me lightly on the forehead and walked away.

Jane gave me a dubious look, but didn’t comment.

Catherine said it was disgusting. She said it was repulsive. She said he wants to have sex with me. But I don’t even know what combination of those things is true.

“You’re not going to drink that, are you?” she said as we watched him go. “It’s contaminated.”

I just shrugged. It seemed a shame to waste it. He was right, it was still cold.

Passing over the wisdom of drinking from the same can as someone who makes out with a lot of girls, we need to address a more serious concern. (Even more serious, I mean.)

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Guess What Day it Is!

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Actually, that’s kind of ridiculous—I won’t make you guess.

So, for anyone who has not been listening to me yammer on incessantly for months, it is Space Between Day!

SpaceBetween

And to celebrate, I went out this morning and signed some books at my favorite local bookstore, the Tattered Cover . (Colfax location, for anyone who’s in the area and interested in snagging a copy.)

Also, D documented the event for posterity, so here I am signing copies with a vague, slightly worried look that has nothing to do with my feelings (elated) and everything to do with my Thinking Face looking kind of similar to other people’s Oh, Is it Monday Already? Face.

Signing TSB stock

TSB stock 2

See? It is proven! The Space Between has gone out into the world. And now, I am here on my couch, just smiling, smiling, smiling!

Varsity

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At this point, I’m going to go ahead and interrupt my tidy narrative timeline for a second. Basically, I need to address something I haven’t really talked about, but which is indisputably happening. And that is soccer.

I started playing soccer when I was five, and for the next, oh, six years maybe, I was really, really bad at it.

rec soccer

I was tiny and shy and way too timid to function. I would bound along beside the ball, skipping like a baby deer, never getting close enough to actually touch it.

But then something happened. I hit eleven or twelve and realized that despite all evidence to the contrary, I actually understood the game a little. Or maybe what happened is just that they started playing us in permanent positions instead of all over the field, and it turned out that I was kind of good at defense, because what I was really good at was following instructions.

For whatever reason, the next few years quickly evolve into a flurry of summer camps, try-out teams, pick-up games, jerseys with my number on the back. I get home from practice … and then go running. By fourteen, my goal is very simple. My one earthly desire is to be as good or better than any boy my age.

Let’s be clear—during all this time, I never consciously think of myself as a Soccer Player. Not even when I’m playing for three hours every day. Not even when I’m playing for the crazy German guy who spent eight years in the semi-pros. Not even when he makes the strikers practice taking free kicks at our faces so we’ll be conditioned never to duck. Not even when I run my arches flat. Not even when the day-camp boys start picking me first whenever it’s time to choose up teams.

Because even when it’s exhausting and demanding and kind of brutal, it’s still just something I do.

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