Every once in a while a book comes along that refuses to be written in the usual way. Of course, there’s very little “usual way” when it comes to finding your path through a thicket of words. Every book requires a different weapon to hunt it down with, a different route. There’s commonalities, but then a book comes along that goes all weird and sideways.
I’m beginning to suspect Rattlesnake Wind is one of them. The protagonist has a very strong voice, and she wants to be scrawled in pen in a Mead 5-star notebook, as if I’m fifteen again and lonely. I hear wind from the high plains when I write, and see the way grass ripples in waves, over and over. Along with it, there’s a dry humming buzz of warning, and curved fangs flickering. I stumble into the book and stumble out later, blinking and surprised to find myself amid dripping trees, the wind vanishing and a chunk of handwritten text to clean up and transcribe into the word processor. There are certain times as a writer that you know you’re not writing the book, the damn book is coming through you, one way or the other.
So today, sleep-deprived and shaky, I lose myself again. God, I love my job.