Revisions—the ego-deflating, soul-searing exercise of ruthlessly re-writing huge chunks of a book to make it even vaguely comprehensible to readers—have been completed for the second novel and my scotch-induced victory celebration hangover has subsided. Blogging resumes.
Hypothesis: Imagination is a good thing.
As a novelist, I make my living, such as it is, with my imagination. In this sense, it’s a case of the more the better, as it allows me to send my feisty heroine tip-toeing down creaky stairs to investigate the peculiar thumping noise coming from the cellar where her great-uncle Thaddeus stored the sarcophagi he brought home from his last trip to Egypt.
In real life, the combination of an overactive imagination and peculiar thumping noises has serious drawbacks, especially in the middle of the night.
I don’t have a great-uncle Thaddeus, and no one in my family has ever been to Egypt, so when I heard thumping, my first thought was SERIAL-KILLER! But what self-respecting serial-killer would waste time banging on the wall when there was a juicy victim cowering in terror in the bedroom, just waiting to be disemboweled? Then it occurred to me that I wouldn’t be cowering in terror if the serial-killer had just crept up on me. The thumping was a form of psychic tenderizing, intended to increase the fun of offing me. The noises stopped suddenly, leaving me with something much worse, eerie silence. Unlike my heroine, I am not in the least bit feisty. I just lay there—heart pounding so wildly I wondered if I would stroke out before the serial-killer found me—and prepared myself for a gruesome death.
I will never know what caused the thumping sounds. I’m sure it was quite prosaic, since I’m still alive. Maybe a blown over garbage can hitting the side of the house or my neighbor indulging in a spot of midnight carpet beating? However the experience, horrible as it was, has given me a fabulous idea for a chapter in the next novel.
Conclusion 1: Yes. Imagination is a good thing.
Conclusion 2: Wear earplugs while sleeping.
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