by Joan Spilman

I believe that the greatness of a book is determined by its characters. We either connect with the work or we don’t because the character has been endowed with life, and life has the power to draw others into the nature of its reality. My apologies to the sinking Pequod and the thrashing whale, but it was Ishmael who lived to tell the story.

Some books are a pleasure to write. The characters come when called, say what they ought, and bring their histories folded like fresh laundry. They bring scenery and dress well.  Other times, characters come, not as fully-formed but malleable. They’re not sure who they are or what their job will be, but they acknowledge that it’s your story, and they aim to do the work. They don’t complain when they’re not made beautiful, smart, or popular. They play their roles whether large, small or nearly non-existent (taxi drivers are the politest characters I know), and if they’re written out, they don’t wake you up in the middle of the night, whining. 

 Then there are the nightmare characters who I’m sad to say, are produced by the same rational mind.  They barge into the book, boss everyone around (including the writer), change lines, change loyalties, demand to work with other characters (no, I want to fall in love with Regina!!!!), and tear into the plot until it is obscured. They demand other scenes with other lines and make it look more appealing. And so, the writer takes the bait and types for days until they realize it’s another dead end and then . . . the character appears, smirking.

This Textured Darkness is such a book. I’ve been trying to finish this book for years, have written, rewritten, finished, only to begin again at least three times. I’ve cut and polished, only to put the roughness back. I’ve changed the underlying myth; I’ve changed the rhyme, only to realize it’s the characters. They’re like kindergarteners gone wild. 

It’s my intention to blog This Textured Darkness every day until it’s finished. I hope you enjoy it.  I hope you enjoy it even though it’s taken up countless hours and produced in me the sort of despair that’s similar to rocking a newborn with colic for months on end.

And if you should drive by a school and see a teacher whose students are milling about, screeching, shoving, and trying to climb the fence to escape, don’t be fooled. Those aren’t real children, they’re my characters. I gave up writing and enrolled them in school. 

The book begins tomorrow.

All portions of “This Textured Darkness” copywright by Joan Spilman, 2023