A worry that I might be starting to repeat myself has crept into my head. And you might be thinking this is a little nuts. I’ve gone from a hit-man held-over from the Cold War to twenty somethings drinking in New York to I’m not sure that world Epp and Matthew exist in to a story that is (apparently) taking place in a laundromat with anthropomorphic clothes running wild. But if you strip away the bells and whistles I feel like I’m starting to repeat myself. I can see a pattern forming between all the stories. I guess this is perfectly natural. Someone wiser than me once said that there are only seven basic stories: Love, Hate, Revenge, Journey…um…I can’t remember them all…I think one involves some sort of hostage situation in a theme park. At any rate, it’s probably pretty hard not to get this feeling every now and then when one is making up stories as often as I am right now. I guess it really depends on my mood. For example, someone once gave me everything I’ve ever written summed up in one sentence. And depending on my mood this either strikes me as an interesting insight into my work or it feels like pigeonholing. The sentence, if you’re wondering, was as follows: “You write deeply flawed characters who at the end of the day find themselves hoping for nothing more than a shot at redemption.” Some days that strikes me as nice, some days I think maybe I should try writing something that doesn’t fit that statement. And who knows, maybe you disagree with that and have a completely different sentence in mind. Which brings me back to the whole, “I don’t enjoy telling my readers what they’re supposed to be seeing,” concept. I’d much rather you occasoinally floor me with a sentence like that which I don’t see coming.
Where was I? Oh. Right. A talking pair of pants. Yeah I’m still nowhere with this story.