How OCD Are You?

by Shannon Baker

In the famous words of W.C Fields, “Go away kid, you bother me.”

I’m closing in on a novel I started about a year ago. I haven’t been working on it all year, though. I wrote a couple of chapters and an outline, then turned my attention to another genre and cranked out two books. Those books are living in an undisclosed location under an assumed name.

In April I returned to this book. For a while I wrote like a sane person. I completed a draft, planned revisions, contracted an editor and we set a deadline. I can meet that deadline with certainty by working a challenging, yet rational schedule.

However, I lost my tenuous grip on reality four days ago. After a relaxing week of vacation with my guy, kayaking, hiking, cycling, camping in the Rocky Mountains, I headed down to Tucson. I have a ten-day stay planned in which I would inspect some work done on the house while we were gone, make some decisions on other house improvements and finish the revisions on my book. In the meantime, I wanted to trip up to Scottsdale to support fellow MI author, Maegan Beaumont with her release of Sacrificial Muse. All laid back and easy.

Somewhere in day two, I boarded the crazy train. Left to my own devices, with no one to expect company at meals or conversation over coffee, or to generally behave like a normal human, my engine heated up and I can’t seem to cool it down. I finished the revisions yesterday and now I’m filling holes and patching cracks. I can’t have a phone conversation because I’m distracted with my characters’ motivation and if I remembered to add that clue.

My neighbor, the sweetest woman in the world, is excited I’m here this week and has engaged me whenever I slip out front for any reason. I try to be friendly but I want to ignore her and run back to my computer. She invited me over for a cookout today and I am so irritated I have to interrupt my flow I feel like declining. But I didn’t. I even mixed up my killer Three-Bean Salad.

Then I had to stop a chapter spit and polish because my alert popped up that I have a blog post due tomorrow and as I’m writing, this happened:

I assume it was one of those desert thermals that landed on my house, because I had those pages anchored down. None-the-less, that’s the latest draft spread across the floor. And you know what? I’m not stopping to pick it up because I have two hours before the cookout and I have to finish this blog and get back to the edit.

 I should do yoga and I’ve got to pay some bills. And I have until the end of the month to finish this book and it’s very close to being done but I want to have time to read it out loud and I think I should send it to a beta reader or two and what if they think it doesn’t work and I wonder if I ought to change the part where the killer laughs and her motivation isn’t clear in the second part and, oh my god, I forgot she smashed her nose on the steering wheel in chapter 27 so people need to react to all that blood on her face in chapter 28….

This is why I shouldn’t do a private writer’s retreat. I need someone to speak slowly and maintain eye contact and tell me to step away from the manuscript.  

Tell me I’m not alone in this wacked-out behavior. Just how OCD are you?

Crazy like a...Writer

by Shannon Baker

There’s a chance I might not be crazy. The evidence, however, suggests otherwise.

Most of the time I can compartmentalize the worst of the fruitcake behavior and hopefully people don’t know how nuts I am.  I’ve learned to anticipate and warn those around me when an outbreak of lunacy is likely. It’s sort of like a good-hearted werewolf who  locks himself up on a full moon.

For instance, when I send a manuscript out for review I can turn off the anxiety for a time. But I know when that manuscript is returned there will be fallout. It’s predicable and The Man With Infinite Tolerance knows the drill.

There is a deep inhalation in preparation. As I read the comments I burn with embarrassment that I could be that stupid. How could I have sent this off when I know better than to make those kinds of mistakes? Then despair sinks in.  This manuscript cannot be salvaged. Repair is impossible. My deadline looms and I have to create a completely different story.  I’m doomed.

This stage lasts exactly two days.

On the third day I start to understand how to change the plot to make it better. I get a clear idea where to cut, where to add and how to make that device work. The literary worm turns and I get excited because when I make these changes, this book is going to be brilliant!

For the next two to three weeks I am possessed, obsessed and whatever other ‘ssed writers get when they go so deeply into their story the only time they surface is to 1) eat and 2) go to that pesky day job that supports this bat-shit habit.  The MWIT knows the only conversation I’m capable of is raving about the new insight into my character. He knows my checkbook will not get balanced and I’ll survive on pickles and saltines before going to the grocery store.  I have plenty of underwear to last this manic phase so laundry is up to him.

And then it’s done. You’d think I’d feel relief. Elation! Pride of accomplishment.

Maybe I would… if I weren’t crackers.

Instead, I have Manuscript Withdrawl. After having made all those changes I knew would make the story sing, I’m convinced I’ve failed. It’s drivel and my editor will reject it and I’ll end up in the gutter, my roots will grow out gray, and I’ll have chronic halitosis.

This was the deranged state I hit on Saturday, as I knew I would. I finished my major plot revisions and I texted MWIT, “I hate this. We need a new lamp. Going shopping.”  Later, when I showed him the lamp, he seemed surprised I’d finished the manuscript. He thought I was still working and was referencing our running joke about the movie, “The Jerk,” where Steve Martin leaves his wife and all he needs is the Thermos… and the lamp… and the chair. Silly MWIT thought if I’d finished the manuscript I’d be happy, not escaping the house with all those sharp objects.

Two days later I feel more stable and, well, hopeful. I’ve got some great ideas for the next scrub and polish and have confidence I’ll hit my deadline.   

I’ve heard it said that if you think you’re crazy, you’re not.  In my case, I don’t think there’s much doubt.

 Okay, time to ‘fess up. What kind of crazy are you?