The Works of Nick Hayden

Writing is not a straight line. At least, not for me.

The Unremarkable Squire was started sometime in 2003, if my memory serves, and revised numerous times before I ever managed to write the last chapter. It’s just now seeing the light of day.

Trouble on the Horizon was published in 2004, and my poor, poor first fans are still waiting for the third novel.

Some projects, like What’s Left of My Life, begin in a spurt of creativity and sputter out because life crowds it out. Or because I get distracted.

I have stories like Twilight Dawn, Cipher, and 100 Letters, which may never get written. And I keep adding new ideas like “Snake Biter Renity Jones” and Children of the Wells. (Wait, what’s that last one, you ask? Stay tuned….)

Plenty of this is my fault. But, you know, it doesn’t bother me much. My brain needs to play. I don’t have a deadline, so I can wander off the path for a bit before coming back, refreshed for whatever project I was supposed to be working on.

And I always have something to work on. I always have something to dream about. I’m always learning. I could not have written Book 3 of The Eternal Night Saga back in 2004 when Trouble of the Horizon was published.

And someday, maybe, I’ll finally be able to express some of the ideas that drove me to writing in the first place.

Hartwig HKD via Compfight

One of the powers of the storyteller is that he makes you feel.

Say, for instance, there’s this guy. We’ll call him Tristan. And he’s madly in love with this princess, but she’s married. We’ll call her, I don’t know, Isolde.

For a time, they sneak around in passionate, forbidden love. It’s exciting and dangerous. They shouldn’t be doing it, but…. They can’t even finish the thought before covering each other in kisses.

The king finds out, puts a stop to it. Bad things happen all around. Feelings are hurt. People die. Maybe a war breaks out.

Isolde will never be happy again. Her true love is gone. The only light in her life has been snuffed out.

If some nun gives a closing speech about how these were the consequences to Tristan and Isolde’s sin, would we buy into it?

Or would the passion and heartache linger on as the intellectual argument faded away?

Rita M. via Compfight

Real life, in case you’ve forgotten, is that thing that happens outside of the stories that surround us.

Real life moves slower than stories. It makes less sense. It’s not as black-and-white. Usually, it’s far less entertaining.

In real life, you don’t know what chapter you’re in. Maybe you’re somewhere in the middle. Maybe you have 10 pages left.

Real life requires something of you. Actually, it requires everything, if you’re going to do it right.

Real life is first person, so the interpretation of events is likely to be skewed.

Revision is a bit trickier in real life.

But I believe there is an Author. It’s usually best if I work with him. He does, after all, know the whole story.

Mo Riza via Compfight

Occasionally, I look at the list of books I’d like to read and wish I could read faster.

That’s not the problem, though. Reading isn’t a race; it isn’t an attempt to cram more knowledge in your head, not with fiction. It’s a chance reconnect and recover.

Reading should take time. A year reading, say, Les Miserables, is a year well-spent. (Or longer, if you’re me.) The brain and soul need to soak in words and worlds. It is possibly more important than ever to find a place and time to stop “productive” work and read.

Today, I feel extremely busy. A whirlwind of activity does not lend itself to thoughtful consideration or soul-searching. Reading a good book almost always does.

Funkyah via Compfight

If a protagonist wakes up fully rested, eats breakfast, enjoys his day at work, comes home to his lovely wife and kids, fiddles on some project, and goes to bed, we might think one of two things:

1.) This is a terrible story.

2.) Uh-oh, everything’s going to hit the fan soon.

We expect conflict in the story. If our hero doesn’t get thwarted or beat up or dumped or magically teleported to a far-off land, we’re disappointed. We reach for a different story.

But if life thwarts us or gives us a black eye or dumps us or magically teleports us to a far-off land (or just another state), we’re liable to throw up our hands and ask God what we did wrong.

Interestingly, the Bible tends to find value in suffering. And perhaps there’s something to that. Heroes aren’t often made in a story without conflict, and maybe, just maybe, God thinks we’re hero material.

I know you do. You feel it when the credits roll and you’re glad you paid $9+ because it sparked something you haven’t quite identified yet.  You feel it when you look at some landscape; it’s not just beautiful, it’s saying something. Sometimes it’s a snatch of music, a few notes, maybe just a sound, that resonates in your soul.  Maybe it’s a nighttime musing–something clicks, and the world makes a little more sense than it did before.

And you have an idea.

Not just an idea, but an idea that needs to be shared. A revelation. An epiphany.

And you hold it in your hands, examining it, feeling its warmth, mesmerized by its glow. You want to soak it in, and you want, somehow, to make others feel and think the exact same way you’re feeling and thinking this very moment.

It’s nice, feeling creative.

Doing something about it. Well, that’s another matter entirely.

I’m in North Carolina right now. Since we have two young kids, we split the trip in half. Last night we camped.

(Note to self: Camping with young kids on the longest day of the year may not have been the brightest idea.)

My son Fyo was so excited about camping, but when it was time to finally go to bed, the long trip, early morning, and functionally non-existent nap caught up.

“I want to go home,” he cried.

It’s very hard to say, “We can’t go home,” to a sad, tired two-year-old.

So often, it seems the “I want to go home” character motivation is simply an excuse for another, more exciting plot. The audience doesn’t want the hero to go home; there’s no adventure at home. If the crew of the Battlestar Galactica or Voyager finds Earth, the show’s over.

But we all know that deep desire to go home. My son knows it, and he made me feel it. To really communicate that in a story would be to tap into something primal and powerful.