Nocturnal Composition Decomposition Phenomenon: the mysterious principle by which any piece of prose or poetry, fiction or non-fiction-- which appears coherent, insightful and well-written one evening-- changes into a giant bubbling puddle of ectoplasmic goo and poop when you look at it the next morning.
How does this happen? I was thinking about this over the weekend as I rummaged through some boxes of aged creative writing. I was searching for the final draft of a humor book I'd written right after college.
I recall liking this novel. I recall feeling good about it.
I even recall proudly asking my friends Scoobie, Austin and Rhet to read some of it. (The poor dears. How they have suffered!)
Now, I didn't yet locate the final draft. Which I understand from Scoobie was a lot better than the steaming pile of equine excrement I seem to have stepped in.
But honestly, I don't have much hope for it. Based on what I've seen so far, I think Scoobie was simply trying keep me from setting fire to my entire body of work then and there-- in one massive smoldering flame-o-rama. She was probably trying to save her eyebrows from singing.
Who can blame her?
Because it's very clear Nocturnal Composition Decomposition Phenomenon has hit, big-time.
So, again, I ask you: how does it happen?
What chemical of delusion courses through a writer's brain during the act of writing that makes us misinterpret hideously malformed plot-lines... bloodless dialogue... and clammy satire... as something even remotely safe to see under the golden light of dawn?
As I've grown older, I've become more aware of this phenomenon. I've tempered my enthusiasm for new projects with a more guarded attitude. Sort of like you would each time you send your toddler up to bat in T-ball. You cheer the kid on with a: "Hey, do your best, little guy!" With some knowledge that no matter how much you love him, he could wet himself in front of everybody, or run entirely the wrong way around the bases.
But it makes me fearful for past blog posts, I have to say. How can we trust what will hold up to time, if the writing process makes us blind and brain-dead to the truth-- if only for a euphoric fleeting moment?
It's the writing equivalent of beer goggling, some might say. And I'd love to know, how can we face ourselves that morning after, when what we see just really ain't purty?
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