When I’m not writing, sleeping, or doing things on a computer, I need a hobby, and that hobby is watching television.

I find television writing very interesting because in many cases, the scripts are written by committee, and even when a single person has control, they are still subject to changes made by directors, producers, and actors. The fact that they produce anything palatable at all is a miracle, and when they miss the mark, they make for glorious train-wrecks.

Lately, I’ve been watching That 70s Show, the last season of which was a glorious train-wreck, and I noticed a phenomena which I have seen a few times in fiction. They play fast and loose with internal consistency. They do things that make no sense just to be funny. They even unapologetically  make fun of their mistakes. Still, as long as they kept making funny episodes, I didn’t really care. (Though I admit I watched the last season just to see the train-wreck pull into the station.

I pick on That 70s Show, but it isn’t the the only comedy show/novel/movie/play I’ve caught playing fast and loose for a quick laugh. So, the feeling I’m getting is that is you can be funny enough, you get a bit of a pass on making sense. Many times, I’ve told people that I will risk the hallowed rules of writing, Chekov’s gun, et al, for a cheap joke, but I often agonize over how far to go.

I’m currently 24,000 words into my latest (forth or fifth?) re-write of my work-in-progress. I’m really being pulled between my desire to tell a good story, tell a funny story, and make it seem natural and flowing–feedback from my critique group is that the story seems forced and rigid. I’ve even stopped going to my critique group because the story is causing a bit of a metaphysical crisis for me. I have this feeling like the way to tell this story lies deep inside my soul, not in external advice.

All I can do is keep writing and hope the answer comes in the next 24,000 words, or the 24,000 after that.

This weekend was both wonderful and harsh. In many ways, I feel like one of my characters right now. I had a wonderful time at my Paradise ICON workshop. And I had to watch a wonderful woman pass away.

On Thursday morning, I was asked to help out ICON, the local science fiction convention. They needed someone to pick up Jim C. Hines from the airport and take him to lunch, and since Catherine Schaff-Stump and I were the only two writers doing the workshop, could we take care of it? I was overjoyed.

On Friday, we started the workshop a little early so we would have time to pick up Jim. As we’re leaving the hotel to pick up Jim, I get a phone call from Stephanie. Her grandmother, who has not been well all summer, is in the final stages of death. Stephanie is going to spend the rest of the day in the hospice. I tell Stephanie that I can drop everything, but she insists she will be fine, and I should keep on my schedule.

Catherine and I picked up Jim, had a nice lunch a Zoey’s Pizzeria with lots of great conversation, and returned to the hotel. Then Cath and I finished the critiques. At this point, it was around 2 PM.

I drove to the hospice and stayed a couple hours, watching as wonderful a woman as I have ever met going through her last stages of life, barely conscious, as Stephanie talked with relatives on the phone.

That night, our friend Cat was celebrating her 50th birthday. Stephanie had really wanted to go to this, and had also wanted me to go with her, so I ditched the con to go along.

The next day, Stephanie plans to visit the hospice in the morning and join me in the afternoon. I go and hear Adam J. Whitlatch and his friend Gabe talk about martial arts in fiction with Jim C. Hines. Then as part of Paradise ICON, I get to sit in a three journeyman-level guest lectures from Jim C Hines, Stephen Erikson, and Sarah Prineas.

The lecture from Jim was about using stereotypes, and it was just about like every other interaction I had with Jim. He’s highly personable and easy to get along with. His lecture was more of an in-depth conversation.

The lecture from Stephen Erikson was intense. He came in and in an hour filled my head with information. He had some great definitions for things I had been doing by instinct. We also talked about process, and Stephen’s process blew my mind.

We finished up with Sarah Prineas. I’ve met Sarah a few times. She’s just a really nice lady. Cath nailed it when she said Sarah reminds you of a favorite teacher from high school. She talked about “Protagging,” her theory about what makes a protagonist a protagonist. Very interesting stuff.

Then I was off to the hospice for another couple hours. Much of the same. A few relatives had come to join us, Stephanie’s aunts and one of her great uncles. I spent a few hours there, and then I took Stephanie for a quick bite at McDonalds.

Back at the con, we attended Jim C’s reading, new material from his upcoming Libromancer sequel. Then we joined Cath and Jim at the bar for drinks–Cath had invited Stephanie, thinking she could use the release. We kept things loose and let people drift in and out. After Jim and Cath excused themselves, I ended up talking classic television with John Jackson Miller for about three hours. John writes Star Wars comics and novels, and I think he was just happy not to have to dodge questions about the Disney buyout.

We arrived home around midnight to find that grandmother had passed away earlier that evening. In the morning we discussed what we should do. At that point, I was emotionally drained enough that I didn’t really care much what I did, but Stephanie told me I should go. I really wanted to go to at least one panel with my old friend Lars Pearson, and Catherine had a reading in the morning.

After Catherine’s reading, I grabbed a soda from the consuite, and sat in the conference room where my reading was to be. I really didn’t expect much from a 1 PM reading time, especially with the Mindbridge Foundation meeting, which many of my friends belong to, opposite my time. However, Adam and Jess Whitlatch made it, along with a friend of theirs whose name I should know* (I’ve only seen him around various cons about 100 times.) And at the last minute, Stephanie showed up, which made me very happy.

I went home right after my reading, and decided to write about my weekend.

*It was Steve Todd.

For someone whose books are funny, I write some nasty things. Some people have told me this is a mistake. Some people have told me this is awesome. I don’t really have a choice–it’s just the way I see the world, as inseparably funny and tragic.

There are also roots in this if you look at what I love to read. I read all the funny authors–Terry Pratchett, Tom Holt, Christopher Moore, and Douglas Adams, but I also like grittier authors, like Max Allan Collins, David Weber, Chuck Palahniuk, and Michael Chabon.

“Tragedy is when I cut my finger. Comedy is when you fall down an open manhole cover and die.”
Mel Brooks

I’ve always found that Mel Brooks quote a guideline for what I find humorous. It is a constant reminder to me that humor has its roots not only in surprise but also in brutality. In Minion of Evil, Dave is killed by a pool cue to the head. But I can’t resist taking it a step further. I show Dave sticking his finger into the hole in his head. (This scene is also partially an homage to The Glamorous Life of Sachiko Hanai.) Many people thought this was too gross, but I felt it was right to show.

His pinky slid in to the first knuckle without any resistance at all, after that the hole provided more difficult, but he kept at it and made it to the second knuckle. He thought it would hurt, and it did, but not as much as pulling out a nose hair. He found it more disgusting than painful. Still, he felt compelled to continue. Finally, his pinky was all the way through his skull. His palm rested on top of his head. Out of curiosity, he wiggled that finger a little, putting pressure on his brain.

The other sene that really bothers people is in Fangs for Nothing, when I let Vinny kill an innocent, turning a silly situation into a tragic one.

I struck, and drained Kenneth Donahue to the point of death. Fear and adrenaline tinged the sweet ambrosia of his blood. His heart started to slow, and then he closed his eyes, never to open them again. I had killed my first human.

I rolled off from him and lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. What had I become? I was now truly a monster, a dead thing that murders innocent men in the night, and I had Brad to thank for my transformation. What a dick.

I felt like I had to show Vinny having real, serious consequences to being a vampire. He’s not a sparkly “vegetarian.” He’s a killer with fangs. No matter how warm and fuzzy he sees himself, he cannot fight his true nature. Like a bee, he has to sting. Or maybe it’s just a warning about peer pressure.