Today's post is brought to you by a freakin' genius idea attributed to John Swartzwelder, a writer for the Simpsons. I almost scrolled past this on Tumblr because Tired™ and also Surely I've Read Most Writing Advice, especially the pithy stuff that can be fit into one paragraph.
I WAS WRONG I WAS IMMEDIATELY WRONG.
His brilliant answer was to the question: How much time and attention did you spend on these scripts?
SWARTZWELDER: All of my time and all of my attention. It's the only way I know how to write, darn it. But I do have a trick that makes things easier for me. Since writing is very hard and rewriting is comparatively easy and rather fun, I always write my scripts all the way through as fast as I can, the first day, if possible, putting in crap jokes and pattern dialogue- "Homer, I don't want you to do that." "Then I won't do it." Then the next day, when I get up, the script's been written. It's lousy, but it's a script. The hard part is done. It's like a crappy little elf has snuck into my office and badly done all my work for me, and then left with a tip of his crappy hat. All I have to do from that point on is fix it. So I've taken a very hard job, writing, and turned it into an easy one, rewriting, overnight. I advise all writers to do their scripts and other writing this way. And be sure to send me a small royalty every time you do it.
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I am going to bang the drum of this more than one time, I absolutely am because I love his crappy little elf with his crappy little hat and you can have a crappy little boy caterpillar or a pissy little girl crab or a tofu-eating non-binary alien whatever, just channel them and write everything as fast as you can right to the end and then come back later and fix it.
Try it. Once. Just try it. I did and I learned about fifty-eight damned things about a character I thought I knew so, go, go you good thing. Go.
(P.S. I think my 'elf' is an extremely shriek-y crow with a great many strong opinions.)
It might mean nothing at all. The light not coming on, I mean. Things break all the time, nothing lasts for long these days. It’s probably just a blown bulb. Water could have gotten into the workings, or maybe some critters chewed the wiring? Not everybody needs a porch light, anyway; some people just know their steps well enough to climb them blindfolded. Still, there I was, standing like a headlit possum (yes, I get the irony, thank you), unable to force my foot off the gravel and onto the first step. ‘Just dropping off’ the Wilsons’ order had sounded like the easiest of errands when I’d agreed to it this morning. Now, in the early dark of a winter evening, it had grown into a full-blown Hero’s Quest. Mrs Wilson was lovely – everyone said so. I was being ridiculous, and I knew it… but knowing that and fixing that were miles apart right now. Maybe the Wilsons never went out and just hadn’t noticed the light wasn’t on?
“Just get on with it,” said one voice in my head.
“Pathetic,” said another voice, also in my head.
I felt sweat start to prickle in my armpits – even as my breath made soft clouds in the air. I blinked a few times to clear my eyes. Nope, I wasn’t crying; the cold air just made my eyes water a bit, that’s all. Just one step. Then another. One step. On to the first step, which creaked but held steady.
“Of course it did!”
Up onto the second step – not even a creak this time, no monsters emerged, no tentacles from under the porch.
“Come on, chicken-shit, just one more!”
I got both feet on the porch; the only monsters were in my imagination and the forms of the shadows the streetlights cast around me. Starting to relax, I walked to the door, raised my hand – and then startled myself with the sharp rap of my knuckles on the solid wooden door.
Ow.
The door swung slowly away from my knock, smooth and silent. OK, that wasn’t creepy at all. I yelled (OK, it was more of a squeak) out, “Mrs Wilson! I’ve got your things! I’m at the front door. Hey, did you know your porch light is out…” I trailed off as a chill wind began to flow out from the door – cold enough to burn my cheeks. “I’m just going to, um, leave it here for you!” I turned to leave, not to run away, thank you, just walk briskly, it was cold. A scraping noise came from deep within the house, followed by a slow, steady thumping. Too heavy for footsteps, and yet… Screw this, I was out of here! I dumped the parcel, stumbled down the steps, slipped and skidded on the loose gravel pathway as I scrambled for the gate. I turned back (I’ve seen enough horror movies to know better, but I had to know) and saw – nothing. Nothing but the gate, the path and the shadowed porch. Huh.
Cursing my overly vivid imagination, I unlocked my car door and heard that rhythmic thump change tone to a hollow knock, then a knock-creak, and finally a gravelly crunch.
FLICKER
My porch light is broken.
Not all the time.
But increasingly.
It’s not my fault, really.
It’s been pelted with quite a few rocks over the years.
The odd boulder.
Although it was never the brightest bulb on the street, if I’m honest.
Always took a while to warm up, and had an overactive dimmer switch.
But yeah, it’s pretty broken now.
I’ve smashed it myself more than once.
Because the dark is so much easier.
No demands.
No expectations.
Easier to disappear if no-one’s looking.
Just fade away.
I can’t quite do it, though.
Not completely.
As long as there are people who still knock on my door, I have to keep the light on.
At least a little bit.
Just now and then.
If only so they don’t cut themselves on all the broken glass.
How many friends does it take to change a lightbulb?
Just one.
You mean to fix the porch light. The one that you heard crack last week. Probably never heard a lightbulb just…go like that. Why did it happen? Did a moth strike the old thing juuuust right? Was it from—
There.
There it is.
Your brain, the one that still hasn’t changed the bulb, wondering instead about what happened to it. Sometimes thinking feels like standing in a tide, it’s washing round your ankles and you know, you absolutely know the water will rise but it’s not right now, so you have time, and when it’s at your knees you still have time, and your waist is so far from your mouth so there’s more time, and they call stuff like this executive disfunction but that means nothing when you’re in the disfunction. “Change the bulb. It’s easy.”
Except it’s not, because if it was, you’d have done it a minute after the sound of that crack and the light going out, but instead you looked at the bulb and started wondering about the how, which is really the same as the why, and each second that slipped by made your arms heavier and your brain fuller so that the mere concept of fixing the broken porch light became heavier than your arms could lift and busier than your brain could comprehend, so it’s eight days later and you’re sitting on the porch as dusk falls, and you’d like to shout about the broken light, but you don’t, because your throat’s got the weight on it too so you do what you’re being taught in therapy, you break things down into smaller things, you remember body doubling, and that your sister’s calling tonight. Okay, okay, your small step will be to tell her about the light, and she’ll help you take the next step that—
Oh.
Oh look, look. A moth that must spend most nights flying against the porch light is sitting on one of the potted asters you have on the porch rail, her wings flapping slow. You’ve never seen one settled like this, unfrantic, at rest. She’s so tiny, wingspan barely wider than your thumbnail, green as a new bud.
While you watch, another moth lands on on the aster’s other side. It’s even littler.
Your phone rings beside you.
It’s your sister says the ringtone.
You’re going to have to call her back.