I think I’m losing my mind. Even at the best of times my inner narrator provides an occasional play-by-play of my existence, but my current level of running commentary is reserved for the times when I’m almost exclusively absorbed in my writing, as I am now.
The source of this narratus intrusionous? I spend hours recounting the lives of my characters, and then I can’t seem to find the switch to turn off the narration. This means that I can’t do anything without a witness in my own brain observing all and synthesizing it into giant globs of first-draft text. Believe me, there’s nothing that will point out how mundane your life can be like having a blow-by-blow account of petting your cat or going to the bathroom. To illustrate, let me provide an especially riveting example from last night:
Caryn pulled open the fridge door and scanned the shelves, searching for a snack. Nothing. The pantry? Still nothing. Perhaps the freezer would come through. Of course, last night the freezer yielded a half-empty bag of dehydrated peas and a frozen pizza, but there was always hope…
This commentary is disturbing for several reasons. First of all, I’m referring to myself in the third person. That in itself is a clue that I need to fire my narrator and get a new one. Nothing against third person — I use it in my writing all the time — but when it comes to my own thoughts, I should at least be the lead character in my own life. Which makes me wonder: if I’m not the one doing the narrating, who is? I’d like to say it’s a gorgeous muse with flowing hair and a benevolent smile, filling sheets of parchment with golden words. Her quill pen yields a graceful cursive, and every line is poetry. The truth is more likely a cranky woman named Dolores residing in a shadowed corner of my brain. She has a gravely voice, a smoker’s cough and the language of a longshoreman. In-between attempts to brush away the dust in the air, she bangs away on the keys of a typewriter that is at least as crotchety as she is.
Second of all, I hyperbolize, even when I’m the only audience for my self-narrations. Sure, the quest for dinner didn’t stop with the freezer, but we certainly have more than a frozen pizza and an old bag of peas in there. That doesn’t make for good copy, however, so Dolores reworked the truth to add a little tension.
And, finally, it’s boring, despite the venture into hyperbole. Which is what I rediscover about my life whenever my inner narrator kicks in: There’s not a lot of drama, and when any does come along the hag in the attic actually shuts up so I can focus. That’s why I write. I get to give my characters exciting lives full of adventure and mayhem. Not that I’m complaining, really. That excitement often includes betrayal, war, pestilence, murder, and mass amounts of family turmoil, none of which I want in my own life. What I do want is for the voice to go away when I turn off the computer so I can have a little peace. <!– ckey=”2942F58A” –>