In Which Our Protagonist Creates His Protagonist

Since going back to school, I've been reading books, writing essays, and making lesson plans that would dazzle the writers of even the most inspirational movie about teachers. But one task that has fallen woefully by the wayside for the last three or four weeks is that pinnacle of creative manuscripting... my novel.

I haven't touched the damn thing since moving to Pittsburgh, and I'm annoyed. I was really hitting my stride near the end of the summer. I'd knocked out about 30 typed single-spaced pages, and I'd figured out most of the ridiculously derivative plot. But when instructors cram deadlines up your ass with the force of a sadistic proctologist gleefully giving an enema and prostate exam (I've been working on my imagery), the temptation to concentrate solely upon that which will earn you a winning smile of approval or harsh tongue lashing of scorn becomes overwhelming.

Timing, of course, has a way of putting everything in perspective. Just two days ago while sitting in my Teaching Writing class, the class discussed the importance of encouraging students to write and demonstrating that writing is a continuous process, and we as teachers are constantly working on our own writing as well. The hypocrisy bubbling in my throat tasted of despair and regret (remember: imagery practice). While the discussion continued, I quietly bemoaned the fact that I'd been shamefully neglecting the life of Eugene, the gleeful protagonist from my novel. Through cosmic coincidence, Virgil mentioned just today that she sets aside time to write every week - a writing day as it were - and suggested I do the same. I must admit, the temptation is palpable. A day spent immersed in my fictional little hamlet based rather derivatively upon Morgantown sounds tantalizing.

Somehow though, I have trouble figuring out my main character's deal, which makes the writing process really hard to get into right now. Not understanding the main character's motivations results in my brain crashing head first into the writer's block. Eugene was originally loosely based upon me. Naturally, I made him dashing, charming, wildly intelligent, and a gripping public speaker with a wit that would make Oscar Wilde jealous. He enjoyed blogging, singing karaoke, and discussing the finer points of comic bookery with his Indian friend. Basing Eugene on this admittedly idealized vision of myself seemed fun at the time, but in the greater scheme of the plot, there was nothing for him to do. When your character starts out awesome, he has nowhere to go but down. I had no interest in creating a tragedy in which I destroy the fictionalized version of myself (delightfully masochistic though that may be). So I started adding faults to Eugene. Now he's rather arrogant... and socially awkward... and a milquetoast office assistant with no career ambitions... and he has a string of ex-girlfriends with bizarre character quirks that have left him emotionally battered. Now I have the opposite problem. Now he's too much like real JP. Confronting all of my own crippling social inadequacies on a weekly basis through this written prism (or perhaps "prison"... oh I'm so witty) seems even more daunting than just hammering out a few pages. Why does writing have to be so personally goddamned draining to my soul?

I think I need to split the difference. Eugene needs to be less like me and a bit more fictional... someone who can go through the ringer without it becoming an exercise in self-mutilation.

Then maybe I can leap back on the creativity wagon and churn out this novel that will earn me a Scrooge McDuck-sized money bin full of gold doubloons. Maybe I should make Eugene an angsty vampire if I really want to rake in the greenbacks.

--------------------------------
"Meanwhile, back at the Hall of Justice..."