Bada Bing, Bada Bang.

I was away for the weekend, in Raleigh, NC visiting with my in-laws and mulling over the next chapter I have to write. I didn't do any writing while there but I did do a lot of thinking about writing.

So, to my family, it seemed I was taking a break, but I was actually hard at work. Chapter 18 was the introduce the cops scene. And I wanted my main cop to have a crazy quirk. So, as I sat in the NC sun, getting bit by mosquitos and drinking lukewarm sweet tea, the attribute he would be remembered for came to me.

Dyed orange hair. He's got a good reason for it and it fits into the whole theme of the storyline quite nicely. And, at least to me, its funny.

I really get into a scene if I can add some humor. It's what I'm best at and it comes easy for me. Unlike writing in general.

After thinking the scene through in my head in NC, I came home to VA and sat my butt in the chair and an hour later, maybe two (I lose track of the time when I write), Bada Bing, Bada Bang, I have 10 and a half pages of very rough Chapter 18.

Hooray!

I've already erased "Chapter 18" off my kitchen chalkboard and replaced it with "Chapter 19". Almost halfway!!

I love this story. It's so quirky, just like me.

I'm on page 166 now. I've tried to outline the rest of this thing and can't. I don't know where its going exactly. I have a vague idea but every time I try and force it, I get blocked. So, for now, I'll maintain the seat of the pants writing with an idea what needs to occur to tie up all ends. I know the surprise ending. I know where my main characters will end up, more or less. Although, I'm fully aware that could change.I won't force them to do something ununatural for them. I'm open to whatever feels right.

It's unsettling sitting at the computer not knowing what I'm supposed to be writing about, but the funny thing is, it works out. Without a hint that my muse is nearby, I sit down, put fingers to keyboard and the words begin to flow and the characters tell me the story. And I record it, fascinated by their actions, wondering about their motivations until they tell me.

For instance, I wondered why my crazy pumpkin-haired cop was taking this particular hit and run so personal and then he told me. His daughter was born with a birth defect--one leg. The hit and run victim lost her legs in the accident. She's about the same age as his daughter. No wonder he's wants his man.

"Oh...," I say to myself as I tap. "That's why." Writing is a fascinating process. Subconcious talking to the concious. Every character revealing parts of me, the writer, I didn't know existed.

Now, at 0930 on July 4th, I'll go back and start polishing up my last chapter. Happy that no other eyes will see this early draft full of typos, inappropriate nouns, too many adverbs, and lack of sensory detail, emotions and interior monologue.

If anyone was to read what I just put on computer screen they would shake their head and tell me to keep my day job. I should keep my day job but the writing, I suspect for every author, is almost always bad the first draft around.