The Suspense is Killing Me, I Hope it Lasts
06 Apr 2010 Leave a Comment
I am at a crucial point in my novel, Open Cut. The ‘set piece’ scene. I have been imagining this scene for years. It is the impetus for the entire novel, and the part of the book that everything else has been rushing towards. I have lived it in my mind many times, now all I have to do is write it.
In the Queensland Writers Centre’s Year of the Novel online course, Kim Wilkins has mentioned the Freudian terms known as ‘the pleasure principle’ and ‘the death drive’. She refers to that part of the book where the reader does not want the story to end, but also can’t wait to finish it. Feeling intense pleasure and simply not wanting it to end. In classical theory it refers to desire and death.
It’s the feeling you have when reading a great book, and you’re at the point where you think you’ve got the plot all figured out, and everything is starting to tie together. It has often been represented in films as the moment when the camera quickly circles the actor, and there are numerous rapid cuts to key events that have gone before. The spinning motion disorientates the viewer, and then suddenly the camera stops and there is a close-up of the actor’s face. The penny has dropped and it all makes sense.
I can vividly remember this feeling when I was a child. I’d stop reading, put the book down, and rush to tell my mother all about it, saying, ‘I’m nearly finished! I’m nearly finished! It’s so good.’ Then I’d relay the story to her scene by scene. I wanted to prolong the end; relish the excitement of being part of something that I thought was magical. But I also desperately wanted to finish the book, to know exactly what happened at the end. I can also remember going back to her after I had finished reading, feeling much more subdued and a little sad that it was over.
When my writing is going well, or I get a good idea, I can’t type quickly enough, my fingers fly over the keys. My skin tingles and I can feel every nerve in my body sharpened, on edge. I am awake, stretched. Sometimes I shut my eyes and type, feeling myself drawn into the story I’m creating. The computer is gone and my mind is running.
At this point I’ll often stop, stand up, go to the toilet, make coffee, talk to myself, pace, buzzing with energy. My mind is churning with fervour. I am not procrastinating. I am not unsure of what to write. I know what to write. It is clear and vivid. I am poised and ready to dive in, but I want to savour the moment, make it last. Just as I stop before reaching the climax of fantastic book.
I feel a little like this at the moment writing my novel. I have the sense that it is nearly over, and I really don’t want it to end. The writing of this novel has consumed me for almost five years, and the scene that I envisioned all those years ago is about to written. I feel excited, but also very scared. Part of this is because I don’t feel that I can do it justice. My expectations are high. I want it to be good. Really good. But, in the end, it is only words on a page. I have to transform those words so that the reader experiences the events with me and my characters, and I’m not sure I can do this.
Part of my hesitation though, is also the knowledge that once I write this scene, the book will be nearly finished. It has consumed my thoughts for so long. What will I do once it’s over? Some part of me will be missing. It’s a bit like saying goodbye to someone you know you probably won’t ever see again. I will be forced to move on, and it makes me sad.
Yet even as I baulk at writing this scene, I can feel that I am being pulled forward with a strange momentum. (Though part of that momentum is Kim’s voice telling me to ‘Cowboy the F*#k Up’, I must admit). The story is gathering speed. At the moment I’m in the wrong gear. I have to move into fifth if I want to stop that whirring, struggling, choking sound. I have that tingling, knowing feeling. It’s right. It all fits. The end is stretching out before me.
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