Made a list today. No surprise that writing was high on the list of things that make me feel essentially myself...
it's very difficult to work as a writer, teach writing and also love writing as a soulful part of your, um, soul. But that's what I do.
Daily, I hear stories and have ideas for books. Today, I got the idea for more adventures of Riley, my main character in one novel and a major/minor character in another one. This would be a collection of stories from his days as a cabbie. I'm sure it's been done, but Riley is so lovely and odd and special to me, his character would carry the thing. It would NOT be like Mr. Rourke on Fantasy Island.
Since I brought it up, here's a little slice of heaven: the intro to an episode from 1978. (Beware the intro and outro sound from the retrorebirth folks.)
Fantasy Island
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
December 15, 2010
December 11, 2010
Dog Stories: Betsy
George was my first Border collie, but his story can wait.
Betsy is the first BC puppy that I really got to know and love, and whom I ultimately failed through apathy and naivete. And hormones. Mine.
In high school, I was friends with a large family with five kids, ranging in ages from two older and ten years younger than me. Two of the kids were in my high school: one of my best friends Amy and her brother Wyatt. I would have to say that Amy probably didn't consider me her best friend. I was that kind of teenager. All fangirl but no fans. I loved her and that family like none other. They were close and raucous and gauche and godly - everything my family was not. Well-churched, with extended family all over the state, Amy's family had a big open door for "the lost" and I suppose I qualified. I spent lots of time over there, and it helped that the house was two blocks from high school.
After Amy went off to college (she was a year older than me), I still maintained ties with them, and specifically, had a massive crush on her little brother. He is two years younger, so it felt rather taboo, and I kept my feelings hidden.
For Christmas (I think this dog story has one of those typical elements to it), they got a puppy. A very very attractive and cute-as-a-button Border collie puppy. Any Border collie owner knows the upshot of this story, right?
At my house, I had just lost Suzy the beagle and Red the outdoor dog, and was left with Thomas who was around 7 or 8 at this time. I was looking for a project dog. And along came Betsy.
Betsy was a little terror, as most Border collie puppies will be if left to their own devices. No one in the family had ever thought of dog training. All the previous dogs in their network were retrievers or poodles or chihuahuas. Yes, these breeds can be a handful but less likely than BCs.
When she was little, Betsy was a cute little roly-poly with shark teeth, but her antics could be tolerated. As she grew taller, she spent more and more time in the backyard, and by the time my senior spring semester rolled around, I was feeling so sorry for Betsy. She spent hours in the back yard, destroying things. I piped up. "Betsy needs training. I can do that."
It was arranged that my two free periods after lunch could be devoted to coming to their house and letting myself in during the day (no one was home, except maybe for their maid). I could walk her, work her and turn her into a decent family pet.
For a month, I did just that. I enjoyed her, loved on her, taught her to sit/stay, and not to jump up.
What I didn't know (and I do now) is that it's not about training the dog, it's about training the people. I also didn't know that Border collies require a high level of exercise and action - they need jobs. Betsy had no job. I was her only highpoint of the day, and it was killing her. Idle Border collies are the Devil's playground.
Add to the mix the fact that Wyatt started coming home after his 5th period for some reason, and he and I overlapped at the house for about 30 minutes. The flirting was epic, and while no contact was ever made, I began spending more of my 75 minutes at their house hanging out with him. (Yes, this really is the truth. I was quite innocent in those days and never understood that that kind of unsupervised free time between teens is exactly how we get teen parents.)
In any event, as my interest in Betsy's training waned and in Wyatt increased, her behavior got worse, and eventually, the family decided to give her to an aunt or mawmaw "in the country" where she could "run free."
My guilt soared. Not only was my crush on Wyatt taboo (in my mind) but I had also failed to rescue this dog. I hadn't followed through on my promise and the lofty goal in my head to make her into the perfect family pet.
God only knows what happened to Betsy, and I hope something that I did served her in the future. As far as I know, everyone in the family and mawmaw loved Betsy a lot. No one was abusive or hateful towards her. It was just another case of a misplaced pet, and I truly hope Betsy found a good home at last.
I've made up for that over the years, to other dogs and specifically other Border collies. But Betsy was the first puppy I had long hours with. I can still feel her little cat feet and those baby shark teeth, and see her crazy eyes laser-punching holes in me from the other side of the glass, when I would sit on the couch and watch Wyatt play Simon (or some other electronic game that was emergent at the time).
What the family thought of me, I'll never know, and frankly, I don't want to know. I can sorta guess. Eventually, I was the stray that they gave away to someone else. After so many years of me looking into their lives, just as Betsy would stand at the sliding glass door in the backyard, I finally stopped my efforts to fit in, to be liked by them. I recall a conversation with Wyatt when we were both in college, where he was cruelly dismissive. In the same way that Betsy had been offloaded, so was I.
There's the catch phrase "You teach people how to treat you," and a subclause of this could be "Observe how people treat their dogs for clues as to how they will treat you."
Betsy, you deserved better and I'm sorry I couldn't make it happen. I hope you got the love, space and work you needed. I did, eventually.
Betsy is the first BC puppy that I really got to know and love, and whom I ultimately failed through apathy and naivete. And hormones. Mine.
In high school, I was friends with a large family with five kids, ranging in ages from two older and ten years younger than me. Two of the kids were in my high school: one of my best friends Amy and her brother Wyatt. I would have to say that Amy probably didn't consider me her best friend. I was that kind of teenager. All fangirl but no fans. I loved her and that family like none other. They were close and raucous and gauche and godly - everything my family was not. Well-churched, with extended family all over the state, Amy's family had a big open door for "the lost" and I suppose I qualified. I spent lots of time over there, and it helped that the house was two blocks from high school.
After Amy went off to college (she was a year older than me), I still maintained ties with them, and specifically, had a massive crush on her little brother. He is two years younger, so it felt rather taboo, and I kept my feelings hidden.
For Christmas (I think this dog story has one of those typical elements to it), they got a puppy. A very very attractive and cute-as-a-button Border collie puppy. Any Border collie owner knows the upshot of this story, right?
At my house, I had just lost Suzy the beagle and Red the outdoor dog, and was left with Thomas who was around 7 or 8 at this time. I was looking for a project dog. And along came Betsy.
Betsy was a little terror, as most Border collie puppies will be if left to their own devices. No one in the family had ever thought of dog training. All the previous dogs in their network were retrievers or poodles or chihuahuas. Yes, these breeds can be a handful but less likely than BCs.
When she was little, Betsy was a cute little roly-poly with shark teeth, but her antics could be tolerated. As she grew taller, she spent more and more time in the backyard, and by the time my senior spring semester rolled around, I was feeling so sorry for Betsy. She spent hours in the back yard, destroying things. I piped up. "Betsy needs training. I can do that."
It was arranged that my two free periods after lunch could be devoted to coming to their house and letting myself in during the day (no one was home, except maybe for their maid). I could walk her, work her and turn her into a decent family pet.
For a month, I did just that. I enjoyed her, loved on her, taught her to sit/stay, and not to jump up.
What I didn't know (and I do now) is that it's not about training the dog, it's about training the people. I also didn't know that Border collies require a high level of exercise and action - they need jobs. Betsy had no job. I was her only highpoint of the day, and it was killing her. Idle Border collies are the Devil's playground.
Add to the mix the fact that Wyatt started coming home after his 5th period for some reason, and he and I overlapped at the house for about 30 minutes. The flirting was epic, and while no contact was ever made, I began spending more of my 75 minutes at their house hanging out with him. (Yes, this really is the truth. I was quite innocent in those days and never understood that that kind of unsupervised free time between teens is exactly how we get teen parents.)
In any event, as my interest in Betsy's training waned and in Wyatt increased, her behavior got worse, and eventually, the family decided to give her to an aunt or mawmaw "in the country" where she could "run free."
My guilt soared. Not only was my crush on Wyatt taboo (in my mind) but I had also failed to rescue this dog. I hadn't followed through on my promise and the lofty goal in my head to make her into the perfect family pet.
God only knows what happened to Betsy, and I hope something that I did served her in the future. As far as I know, everyone in the family and mawmaw loved Betsy a lot. No one was abusive or hateful towards her. It was just another case of a misplaced pet, and I truly hope Betsy found a good home at last.
I've made up for that over the years, to other dogs and specifically other Border collies. But Betsy was the first puppy I had long hours with. I can still feel her little cat feet and those baby shark teeth, and see her crazy eyes laser-punching holes in me from the other side of the glass, when I would sit on the couch and watch Wyatt play Simon (or some other electronic game that was emergent at the time).
What the family thought of me, I'll never know, and frankly, I don't want to know. I can sorta guess. Eventually, I was the stray that they gave away to someone else. After so many years of me looking into their lives, just as Betsy would stand at the sliding glass door in the backyard, I finally stopped my efforts to fit in, to be liked by them. I recall a conversation with Wyatt when we were both in college, where he was cruelly dismissive. In the same way that Betsy had been offloaded, so was I.
There's the catch phrase "You teach people how to treat you," and a subclause of this could be "Observe how people treat their dogs for clues as to how they will treat you."
Betsy, you deserved better and I'm sorry I couldn't make it happen. I hope you got the love, space and work you needed. I did, eventually.
December 12, 2009
Writing Essentials
Writing is not about the words or the art or the stories, really. That’s reading. When you sit and read what someone has written, you are carried away by the beauty of the words, the engine of a great plot (or even a bad one), and the other world you occupy for just a while.
But writing itself? The essentials really boil down to this: the chair, the keyboard, the retreat.
Everything else is distraction.
Let’s define our terms. The chair: that place from which you apply pen to paper, fingers to keyboard. It might be standing up, as we hear reports of Hemingway having done. (That might explain his simpler sentence structure.) It might be a mahogany desk and carved matching chair, a camp stool in Africa, or a spare dining room chair pulled up to a card table.
For me, it’s a really uncomfortable broken-down office chair that wants replacing. It squeaks. I have a Herman Miller Aeron chair in my Amazon shopping cart, but what is the guarantee that even a $600 chair won’t end up killing my back after three hours of sitting? A chiropractor told me that, after 45 minutes, ANY chair is going to be bad for you.
But the chair is that object that you keep your butt in so that you can continue to put words on a page. That's the only way I know for writing to get written.
The keyboard: The writing instrument, really. These days, it’s a keyboard. My fingers fly faster this way, and tap out words almost as fast as I can think them. I have a typewriter that got me started about 40 years ago, and every now and then, I tap on it. If I had to do that now, I think it would cause sudden and permanent carpal tunnel. I also have writing instruments called pens. My favorites are Uniball pens in purple and blue. It says “waterproof” but they are not.
Of course, you must connect the keyboard to a computer, or the typewriter and pen to paper, but these days, paper just doesn’t matter. I’m not sure I could make the cognitive switch to a Kindle or Sony reader, but that day is coming, sooner or later. I still write and imagine the feel of my book in my hands. But paper or screen, it matters not to me.
Finally, the retreat. By this, I mean the quiet house, the silenced cell phone, the kids occupied at something or out of the house so that the whispers from the Muse can get through. But also, the distractions must be minimized to keep one from checking email or seeing if Amazon has dropped the price on a box of pens or a new keyboard (because I need both). However, it cannot be too quiet. Birds outside the window, the pacing border collie wishing for a walk, the steady hum of the spin cycle. These are happy noises that keep the words coming....
Now that this writing is done, it’s time to tend to folding the laundry, putting away the dishes and walking the dog. But perhaps there will be more writing later today... unless I succumb to the thousand distractions conspiring to keep me from chair, keyboard and retreat.
But writing itself? The essentials really boil down to this: the chair, the keyboard, the retreat.
Everything else is distraction.
Let’s define our terms. The chair: that place from which you apply pen to paper, fingers to keyboard. It might be standing up, as we hear reports of Hemingway having done. (That might explain his simpler sentence structure.) It might be a mahogany desk and carved matching chair, a camp stool in Africa, or a spare dining room chair pulled up to a card table.
For me, it’s a really uncomfortable broken-down office chair that wants replacing. It squeaks. I have a Herman Miller Aeron chair in my Amazon shopping cart, but what is the guarantee that even a $600 chair won’t end up killing my back after three hours of sitting? A chiropractor told me that, after 45 minutes, ANY chair is going to be bad for you.
But the chair is that object that you keep your butt in so that you can continue to put words on a page. That's the only way I know for writing to get written.
The keyboard: The writing instrument, really. These days, it’s a keyboard. My fingers fly faster this way, and tap out words almost as fast as I can think them. I have a typewriter that got me started about 40 years ago, and every now and then, I tap on it. If I had to do that now, I think it would cause sudden and permanent carpal tunnel. I also have writing instruments called pens. My favorites are Uniball pens in purple and blue. It says “waterproof” but they are not.
Of course, you must connect the keyboard to a computer, or the typewriter and pen to paper, but these days, paper just doesn’t matter. I’m not sure I could make the cognitive switch to a Kindle or Sony reader, but that day is coming, sooner or later. I still write and imagine the feel of my book in my hands. But paper or screen, it matters not to me.
Finally, the retreat. By this, I mean the quiet house, the silenced cell phone, the kids occupied at something or out of the house so that the whispers from the Muse can get through. But also, the distractions must be minimized to keep one from checking email or seeing if Amazon has dropped the price on a box of pens or a new keyboard (because I need both). However, it cannot be too quiet. Birds outside the window, the pacing border collie wishing for a walk, the steady hum of the spin cycle. These are happy noises that keep the words coming....
Now that this writing is done, it’s time to tend to folding the laundry, putting away the dishes and walking the dog. But perhaps there will be more writing later today... unless I succumb to the thousand distractions conspiring to keep me from chair, keyboard and retreat.
December 9, 2009
Why I Teach
This is why I teach, because of moments like this.
I’m sitting here reading finals. I asked two essay questions. One posited some rather sweeping and outlandish proposals for “improvements” around the campus. Fewer parking spaces, reduction in tech support and access, etc.
The other prompt asked students to reflect on their writing selves - their process, their self-discoveries, how writing will help them in the future.
All of them are up at arms about the proposed changes. They are hanging on tooth and nail to keep their campus/college accessible, functional and NOT put up any more barriers to education. This is a demographic that has to fight traffic, the demands of home and work, the stigma of failure at other institutions, the delay of finishing college to come every day and get an education. They are PASSIONATE about keeping the opportunity to learn. I am moved.
One student is freakishly smart, making me wonder why he’s here. There’s a story, but I don’t need to know it. “Mark” is funny and tells me that I have saved his writing from being too dry and academic. He doesn’t need to erect that wall between his thoughts and his personality anymore. His paper made me laugh out loud. Truly.
Another student "Callie" relates the therapy she discovered, when at age 10, she witnessed her father fall into the Grand Canyon on a family trip. In therapy, she started journaling and now wants to pursue a writing career. No, she MUST pursue that career.
I slag on students, I roll my eyes, and some of them do fluffy and silly things that are entertaining. “The Teacher’s Lounge” is a figurative and sometimes real place where we vent and cackle because it is a little bit like M*A*S*H sometimes. We laugh so we don't cry or beat our heads on the desk. This semester (with hamthrax, the usual complement of grandparent death, and late late papers) has been a long strange trip, but sitting here, reading finals, moved to tears is not exactly where I thought I would end the semester.
The privilege of associating with these funny, broken and tender souls, when they finally shyly reveal themselves, is worth the weeks of frustration. My time with them is over, but I hope I said or did something so that their time with me is not over. The privilege of being an influence is very very special, and not something I take lightly. It is an honor, and I will gladly go into the classroom again in five weeks, ready to take up arms against student ditziness and stupidity, hoping there’s at least one or two Callies and Marks in the crowd.
I’m sitting here reading finals. I asked two essay questions. One posited some rather sweeping and outlandish proposals for “improvements” around the campus. Fewer parking spaces, reduction in tech support and access, etc.
The other prompt asked students to reflect on their writing selves - their process, their self-discoveries, how writing will help them in the future.
All of them are up at arms about the proposed changes. They are hanging on tooth and nail to keep their campus/college accessible, functional and NOT put up any more barriers to education. This is a demographic that has to fight traffic, the demands of home and work, the stigma of failure at other institutions, the delay of finishing college to come every day and get an education. They are PASSIONATE about keeping the opportunity to learn. I am moved.
One student is freakishly smart, making me wonder why he’s here. There’s a story, but I don’t need to know it. “Mark” is funny and tells me that I have saved his writing from being too dry and academic. He doesn’t need to erect that wall between his thoughts and his personality anymore. His paper made me laugh out loud. Truly.
Another student "Callie" relates the therapy she discovered, when at age 10, she witnessed her father fall into the Grand Canyon on a family trip. In therapy, she started journaling and now wants to pursue a writing career. No, she MUST pursue that career.
I slag on students, I roll my eyes, and some of them do fluffy and silly things that are entertaining. “The Teacher’s Lounge” is a figurative and sometimes real place where we vent and cackle because it is a little bit like M*A*S*H sometimes. We laugh so we don't cry or beat our heads on the desk. This semester (with hamthrax, the usual complement of grandparent death, and late late papers) has been a long strange trip, but sitting here, reading finals, moved to tears is not exactly where I thought I would end the semester.
The privilege of associating with these funny, broken and tender souls, when they finally shyly reveal themselves, is worth the weeks of frustration. My time with them is over, but I hope I said or did something so that their time with me is not over. The privilege of being an influence is very very special, and not something I take lightly. It is an honor, and I will gladly go into the classroom again in five weeks, ready to take up arms against student ditziness and stupidity, hoping there’s at least one or two Callies and Marks in the crowd.
October 31, 2009
Insomnia
Can I turn this insomnia into a novel? It would certainly make good use of the time during National Novel Writing Month, in which I am participating again this year.
The day before, though, I am just rattling around in my own head, filled with anxiety about my two jobs, filled with dread about my parenting, and (so typical for a NaNo writer) wondering how I can turn this inner turmoil and personal life crisis into word count.
But first things first: I am going to get a new keyboard, going to set up another computer in the office, and liberate my laptop semi-permanently from the desk. I do have a dual hookup box thingey, where I used to have the lad's PC and Mac sharing the same monitor, but he stopped using the Mac a while back, and I took the computer when the laptop was in the shop.
Make no mistake: the laptop is on its last months of service. I may have to take it in as the mouse and touch pad are sorta hosed.... hmmm, it started after the last "fix" now that I think of it.
I will also spend a good deal of time cleaning house this weekend, in advance of starting to write at midnight Nov. 1. Either this will provide a "clean slate" for novel writing, OR it will remove certain procrastination objects from my sight.
However, all of this busyness comes at a price, and all of this insomnia exacts its own pound of flesh (but in reverse). I'm overweight-er than ever, and desperately in need of a vacation from "crunch time" at two jobs. One job will let up around Dec. 5th, and the other not until Jan. 23.
So, yeah, I'm pretty insane right now, and doubly so because I'm taking on NaNo yet again. The fourth year for me. Mind-boggling! I'll be following Julia Cameron's rubric of three pages a day, and also walking my dog daily. That's the extent of my plan. Perhaps it's diabolically simple, or perhaps it's just simple.
The day before, though, I am just rattling around in my own head, filled with anxiety about my two jobs, filled with dread about my parenting, and (so typical for a NaNo writer) wondering how I can turn this inner turmoil and personal life crisis into word count.
But first things first: I am going to get a new keyboard, going to set up another computer in the office, and liberate my laptop semi-permanently from the desk. I do have a dual hookup box thingey, where I used to have the lad's PC and Mac sharing the same monitor, but he stopped using the Mac a while back, and I took the computer when the laptop was in the shop.
Make no mistake: the laptop is on its last months of service. I may have to take it in as the mouse and touch pad are sorta hosed.... hmmm, it started after the last "fix" now that I think of it.
I will also spend a good deal of time cleaning house this weekend, in advance of starting to write at midnight Nov. 1. Either this will provide a "clean slate" for novel writing, OR it will remove certain procrastination objects from my sight.
However, all of this busyness comes at a price, and all of this insomnia exacts its own pound of flesh (but in reverse). I'm overweight-er than ever, and desperately in need of a vacation from "crunch time" at two jobs. One job will let up around Dec. 5th, and the other not until Jan. 23.
So, yeah, I'm pretty insane right now, and doubly so because I'm taking on NaNo yet again. The fourth year for me. Mind-boggling! I'll be following Julia Cameron's rubric of three pages a day, and also walking my dog daily. That's the extent of my plan. Perhaps it's diabolically simple, or perhaps it's just simple.
April 21, 2009
Too Much
"The Muse does not tolerate chaos." -- Stephen Pressfield, The War of Art
I stopped cold in my tracks when I read this very near the end of the book. I realized that I am so bogged down by clutter, stuff, things, chores, toys and oddments that my creativity is trying to swim in this bog.
Fully aware of this, I've been working to collect items for a yard sale. I halfheartedly planned to have it last weekend, but it rained. I realize that I was completely unprepared to hold a sale, but now, I'm eyeballing all the things that clutter corners, and see that they provide a rough surface for my mind's eye to catch on. So creativity is dampened. So much to do before I can really sit down and write, so much to keep at bay while I am sitting down writing.
I suppose I'm not making much sense, but I know it's an all-too-familiar problem with a deceptively simple solution. Sort the stuff: keep, sell, give away. While I try to whittle down my keep pile, I must face one simple truth. I have too many interests outside of writing. Too many books, too many hobbies, too many toys. Some of them required an investment of equipment or stuff, that still has value. That's the big problem now. Sell it? Yes, sell it! But that takes time and energy too.
Do I get rid of stuff with obvious value, store it safely against the day I'll get back to that, or just CLEAR IT OUT at any cost? That's where I am right now.
Another writer who struggled with juggling family and writing said, "Writing is a crime punishable by guilt." That rings true for me. Right now. I just want to sweep everything into the three piles and have it all just dealt with. So I can write.
Maybe it's time to get a bigger broom. Or blinders.
I stopped cold in my tracks when I read this very near the end of the book. I realized that I am so bogged down by clutter, stuff, things, chores, toys and oddments that my creativity is trying to swim in this bog.
Fully aware of this, I've been working to collect items for a yard sale. I halfheartedly planned to have it last weekend, but it rained. I realize that I was completely unprepared to hold a sale, but now, I'm eyeballing all the things that clutter corners, and see that they provide a rough surface for my mind's eye to catch on. So creativity is dampened. So much to do before I can really sit down and write, so much to keep at bay while I am sitting down writing.
I suppose I'm not making much sense, but I know it's an all-too-familiar problem with a deceptively simple solution. Sort the stuff: keep, sell, give away. While I try to whittle down my keep pile, I must face one simple truth. I have too many interests outside of writing. Too many books, too many hobbies, too many toys. Some of them required an investment of equipment or stuff, that still has value. That's the big problem now. Sell it? Yes, sell it! But that takes time and energy too.
Do I get rid of stuff with obvious value, store it safely against the day I'll get back to that, or just CLEAR IT OUT at any cost? That's where I am right now.
Another writer who struggled with juggling family and writing said, "Writing is a crime punishable by guilt." That rings true for me. Right now. I just want to sweep everything into the three piles and have it all just dealt with. So I can write.
Maybe it's time to get a bigger broom. Or blinders.
April 19, 2009
Meanwhile
Amidst all the drama and whining about my physical pain and its mystery, I am managing to spend at least an hour a day writing. Yesterday it was something like three hours.
I'm re-working the draft from the beginning. I have a tendency to overwrite scenes, having too much in the first draft but missing large pieces that make sense. Or missing obvious "moments" of show-don't-tell. This time, as well, I'm keeping a timeline with characters and locations for reference. It helps with chronology and minor characters, so that Robert doesn't become Roger halfway through the book.
There is also a young woman from Mexico in the drawing class, and I have her number. I need to call her and interview her to understand these little Mexican villages better. I don't think I'll be able to go visit one anytime soon, though that might be possible in the summer.
I'm reading a fantastic book called The War of Art: Break Through the Blocks and Win Your Inner Creative Battles
, which is a profound yet simple treatise on The Muse and the invisible but real threshold between amateur and professional writer. In some ways, I have been writing fiction as an amateur, and that has to stop. It's time to push the boat out and cast off. I recommend this book for anyone who wants to examine a plausible reason why they are "blocked" or why they struggle with finishing a project.
Next on the stack is Stephen King's On Writing
.
I am replacing one or two hours of television and movies each day with reading these books. It's much easier to zone out in other people's stories, but I just can't afford that kind of creative drain right now. I even find myself thinking in petulant almost resentful terms: hrmpf, the writers have done a story kind of like mine already on XYZ show so why should I bother? NOT GOOD for creativity. Period. So my Netflix is on hold, and the remote is farther away than the stack of books.
If I can push through the physical stuff, this book might get written.
I'm re-working the draft from the beginning. I have a tendency to overwrite scenes, having too much in the first draft but missing large pieces that make sense. Or missing obvious "moments" of show-don't-tell. This time, as well, I'm keeping a timeline with characters and locations for reference. It helps with chronology and minor characters, so that Robert doesn't become Roger halfway through the book.
There is also a young woman from Mexico in the drawing class, and I have her number. I need to call her and interview her to understand these little Mexican villages better. I don't think I'll be able to go visit one anytime soon, though that might be possible in the summer.
I'm reading a fantastic book called The War of Art: Break Through the Blocks and Win Your Inner Creative Battles
, which is a profound yet simple treatise on The Muse and the invisible but real threshold between amateur and professional writer. In some ways, I have been writing fiction as an amateur, and that has to stop. It's time to push the boat out and cast off. I recommend this book for anyone who wants to examine a plausible reason why they are "blocked" or why they struggle with finishing a project.Next on the stack is Stephen King's On Writing
.I am replacing one or two hours of television and movies each day with reading these books. It's much easier to zone out in other people's stories, but I just can't afford that kind of creative drain right now. I even find myself thinking in petulant almost resentful terms: hrmpf, the writers have done a story kind of like mine already on XYZ show so why should I bother? NOT GOOD for creativity. Period. So my Netflix is on hold, and the remote is farther away than the stack of books.
If I can push through the physical stuff, this book might get written.
April 12, 2009
Easter Rain
It rained this morning, Easter morning.
And I am writing. I mulled and stewed and stirred some ideas around yesterday, and have a direction for the new beginning to the novel. Not sure if it's any good yet, but it's more focused on the topic rather than the dark character sketches that began the first draft.
Thinking about the journeys that these characters undertake, eliminating some of the business, MAYBE even eliminating one of the characters... I still don't know where she fits in. She'll tell me, I guess.
(After composing this and editing it, I realized that Marge and Mike know each other, and are very similar. So... indeed Marge did tell me who she is and where she fits in.)
It is definitely a good thing to completely shut out the world - no TV, no radio, no talking, no phones. My stomach is growling though, and I'll have to go into the kitchen. Dishes, Easter eggs to dye and food preparation await, and I'll probably get sucked into my day.
But I'm back to liking my characters again. One of them is very dark but compulsive in his desire to help people. He's killing himself with that, but he helps people. So I have to cling to that in order to get myself into his head.
Makes me wonder what murder mystery writers do about their evil murdering characters. Do they create some unpublished backstory for them that makes it bearable to write about unspeakable things?
As the dog snores here close to me, I might write another 500 words before my stomach completely takes me over.
And I am writing. I mulled and stewed and stirred some ideas around yesterday, and have a direction for the new beginning to the novel. Not sure if it's any good yet, but it's more focused on the topic rather than the dark character sketches that began the first draft.
Thinking about the journeys that these characters undertake, eliminating some of the business, MAYBE even eliminating one of the characters... I still don't know where she fits in. She'll tell me, I guess.
(After composing this and editing it, I realized that Marge and Mike know each other, and are very similar. So... indeed Marge did tell me who she is and where she fits in.)
It is definitely a good thing to completely shut out the world - no TV, no radio, no talking, no phones. My stomach is growling though, and I'll have to go into the kitchen. Dishes, Easter eggs to dye and food preparation await, and I'll probably get sucked into my day.
But I'm back to liking my characters again. One of them is very dark but compulsive in his desire to help people. He's killing himself with that, but he helps people. So I have to cling to that in order to get myself into his head.
Makes me wonder what murder mystery writers do about their evil murdering characters. Do they create some unpublished backstory for them that makes it bearable to write about unspeakable things?
As the dog snores here close to me, I might write another 500 words before my stomach completely takes me over.
April 11, 2009
The Writer's Swamp
It's not writer's block, because I can open a window on a blog and blather away. Or an email to a friend.
But last night, I opened a new window in my novel, and was rather stumped. All the good ideas I had for a second draft were spent in about three sentences. Three very very bad sentences.
I have never had this problem. I've always seen things in my head and been able to write them down. I don't get it at all.
My plan is to read the stack of writing and creativity help books I have piled up, and take furious notes. It worked in the past. I'm not sure why this novel is so hard.
It's a little Christmas story. It's supposed to be charming, quirky and rather simple. There are some huge dark forces at play in the novel, as embodied in the characters (3 main characters, 2 minor), but the darkness and trouble is sorta suspended for the time of the novel, and in some cases, worked out and lightened. Maybe I'm all bogged down in the darkness right now.
For example, there's cancer, hospice care, Mexican drug cartel violence, poverty and crass commercialism. That just screams Christmas, doesn't it? Think Little Miss Sunshine or Love, Actually.
Anyway, I think I need to write this out, but cannot get past the beginning. I have one beginning but it starts too big, too far back. I need to roll those first draft beginnings into the seoncd draft as flashbacks.
Now, about those books: I have Twyla Tharp's The Creative Habit, The War of Art (How to win the inner creative battles, etc.), No Plot? No Problem by the NaNo creator, The Plot Thickens by Lukeman, The First Five Pages by Lukeman, and The Marshall Plan for Novel Writing. Usually what happens for me is that I read along for a few pages and then am overcome with the urge to write.
Let's hope that happens next, and that it's productive writing, not the usual self-indulgent noodling I've been doing.
And if I go too far down that road, ALL of novel writing is self-indulgent noodling. The purpose of the first draft is to get down the rough framework and see if you have any kind of spark, or even tinder that a spark can ignite. I think I've done that, at least, to my eye. I am not sure any outside reader could look at this drivel and see a novel. When I tell the plot to people, they do respond somewhat favorably.
So then, the purpose of a second draft is to actually make it something of a novel, with a beginning, middle and end. Adding what needs to be added, subtracting, deleting, altering, shifting and re-organizing (or organizing in the first place).
I am really not sure what mindset is required for this. And I'm not sure if it isn't a screenplay. However, I know that I want the end result to be a novel. Thinking in screenplay terms is NOT helping, and so I am thinking that I might need to declare a moratorium on TV and movies. Which will be terribly difficult for me... I really don't have much else going on but my handful of shows during the week. That's how I'm coping with the pressures of getting through the day.
Helping my son with a language arts project has been good. To hear/read the young adult fiction reminds me that I do have the skills. But seeing the book jackets, esp J.K. Rowling's monster fame, is strangely intimidating.
So, I'm at a somewhat bitter and scary crossroads, and maybe that's what writer's block is about. I have to choose to step off the road and into the swamp, wading knee-deep through the tangle of mud, reeds, vines and frogs. No breadcrumb trail is possible either. Tie a rope around my waist? If I pull three times, haul me in?
But last night, I opened a new window in my novel, and was rather stumped. All the good ideas I had for a second draft were spent in about three sentences. Three very very bad sentences.
I have never had this problem. I've always seen things in my head and been able to write them down. I don't get it at all.
My plan is to read the stack of writing and creativity help books I have piled up, and take furious notes. It worked in the past. I'm not sure why this novel is so hard.
It's a little Christmas story. It's supposed to be charming, quirky and rather simple. There are some huge dark forces at play in the novel, as embodied in the characters (3 main characters, 2 minor), but the darkness and trouble is sorta suspended for the time of the novel, and in some cases, worked out and lightened. Maybe I'm all bogged down in the darkness right now.
For example, there's cancer, hospice care, Mexican drug cartel violence, poverty and crass commercialism. That just screams Christmas, doesn't it? Think Little Miss Sunshine or Love, Actually.
Anyway, I think I need to write this out, but cannot get past the beginning. I have one beginning but it starts too big, too far back. I need to roll those first draft beginnings into the seoncd draft as flashbacks.
Now, about those books: I have Twyla Tharp's The Creative Habit, The War of Art (How to win the inner creative battles, etc.), No Plot? No Problem by the NaNo creator, The Plot Thickens by Lukeman, The First Five Pages by Lukeman, and The Marshall Plan for Novel Writing. Usually what happens for me is that I read along for a few pages and then am overcome with the urge to write.
Let's hope that happens next, and that it's productive writing, not the usual self-indulgent noodling I've been doing.
And if I go too far down that road, ALL of novel writing is self-indulgent noodling. The purpose of the first draft is to get down the rough framework and see if you have any kind of spark, or even tinder that a spark can ignite. I think I've done that, at least, to my eye. I am not sure any outside reader could look at this drivel and see a novel. When I tell the plot to people, they do respond somewhat favorably.
So then, the purpose of a second draft is to actually make it something of a novel, with a beginning, middle and end. Adding what needs to be added, subtracting, deleting, altering, shifting and re-organizing (or organizing in the first place).
I am really not sure what mindset is required for this. And I'm not sure if it isn't a screenplay. However, I know that I want the end result to be a novel. Thinking in screenplay terms is NOT helping, and so I am thinking that I might need to declare a moratorium on TV and movies. Which will be terribly difficult for me... I really don't have much else going on but my handful of shows during the week. That's how I'm coping with the pressures of getting through the day.
Helping my son with a language arts project has been good. To hear/read the young adult fiction reminds me that I do have the skills. But seeing the book jackets, esp J.K. Rowling's monster fame, is strangely intimidating.
So, I'm at a somewhat bitter and scary crossroads, and maybe that's what writer's block is about. I have to choose to step off the road and into the swamp, wading knee-deep through the tangle of mud, reeds, vines and frogs. No breadcrumb trail is possible either. Tie a rope around my waist? If I pull three times, haul me in?
March 26, 2009
Random
I've had quite a few thoughts in the past couple of days. Not sure if any of them will get fleshed out, but this is a journal, right?
It's high time I wrote a book, published it and all. Question is, which one? I have two novels in the works, a novella, a couple of short stories, more ideas for short stories. I have a number of guidebooks and e-books to write for "passive revenue streams!" Rock on. I have a couple of workbooks and a non-fiction book about creativity in draft somewhere.
I have a coloring book idea to develop, and a couple of patterns to write up (mostly embroidery and little felt figures for sewing).
I really should do something with my father's sketches - I have hundreds of them.
If I win the lottery, I want to get this house fixed up, buy another house with a pool, and a vacation home somewhere. Then I'll have enough wall space to hang all the art I own and want to make.
The car and garage need cleaning out. Working at home is very difficult for me, as I'm completely isolated and barely productive. But working FT in an office is hard because I get so tired, there's all that OFFICE nonsense and I despise wasting my day indoors.
I am filled with contradictory beliefs about life. "The Secret" for me is to reconcile them, not simply to (buy a book and then) imagine how it will be.
I believe chocolate is part of a balanced diet.
Incompetence and mediocrity (mine and esp. that of others) are the bane of my existence.
Sometimes even junk mail triggers my anxiety.
I would like a week's paid vacation, complete with maid service and a personal chef. Someone to do the morning school run would be heavenly too. Massage 4X that week, a hair and pedicure appointment, and perhaps a nice lunch in the sunshine with my erstwhile main squeeze.
The other night, when I wasn't sleeping, I had a complete and total epiphany about how Photoshop and Illustrator work, and the difference between them. It was rather profound, and everything has been easy since I figured that out. Now, THAT'S a Secret that works!
And here it is: Illustrator works as vector art, using points on the X/Y axes. Single points, and you tell those points what to do with each other. That's it.
Photoshop works like a grid, using ALL the points (72, 150, 300 dpi, or higher) in a square, along with "millions" of colors. Each pixel has be one of 256/1028/millions of colors, and they combine to make images. (When you think about inks, overlays and separations, it gets more complicated.)
But the simple explanation: Illustrator is a small collection of points in 2D, along the X or Y axis. Photoshop is a grid and each box in it must have a color value, even if it is black or white. And this stuff matters to the machines that are used to reproduce the images. It matters a LOT.
Neat, huh?
I dreamed the other night of asking for my old job and salary back. I think that's because I'm stressing about money, and also about moving forward. Going backwards in time is psychologically safer because it's a known.
My mind is a dark and scary neighborhood where no one should have to go alone.
It's high time I wrote a book, published it and all. Question is, which one? I have two novels in the works, a novella, a couple of short stories, more ideas for short stories. I have a number of guidebooks and e-books to write for "passive revenue streams!" Rock on. I have a couple of workbooks and a non-fiction book about creativity in draft somewhere.
I have a coloring book idea to develop, and a couple of patterns to write up (mostly embroidery and little felt figures for sewing).
I really should do something with my father's sketches - I have hundreds of them.
If I win the lottery, I want to get this house fixed up, buy another house with a pool, and a vacation home somewhere. Then I'll have enough wall space to hang all the art I own and want to make.
The car and garage need cleaning out. Working at home is very difficult for me, as I'm completely isolated and barely productive. But working FT in an office is hard because I get so tired, there's all that OFFICE nonsense and I despise wasting my day indoors.
I am filled with contradictory beliefs about life. "The Secret" for me is to reconcile them, not simply to (buy a book and then) imagine how it will be.
I believe chocolate is part of a balanced diet.
Incompetence and mediocrity (mine and esp. that of others) are the bane of my existence.
Sometimes even junk mail triggers my anxiety.
I would like a week's paid vacation, complete with maid service and a personal chef. Someone to do the morning school run would be heavenly too. Massage 4X that week, a hair and pedicure appointment, and perhaps a nice lunch in the sunshine with my erstwhile main squeeze.
The other night, when I wasn't sleeping, I had a complete and total epiphany about how Photoshop and Illustrator work, and the difference between them. It was rather profound, and everything has been easy since I figured that out. Now, THAT'S a Secret that works!
And here it is: Illustrator works as vector art, using points on the X/Y axes. Single points, and you tell those points what to do with each other. That's it.
Photoshop works like a grid, using ALL the points (72, 150, 300 dpi, or higher) in a square, along with "millions" of colors. Each pixel has be one of 256/1028/millions of colors, and they combine to make images. (When you think about inks, overlays and separations, it gets more complicated.)
But the simple explanation: Illustrator is a small collection of points in 2D, along the X or Y axis. Photoshop is a grid and each box in it must have a color value, even if it is black or white. And this stuff matters to the machines that are used to reproduce the images. It matters a LOT.
Neat, huh?
I dreamed the other night of asking for my old job and salary back. I think that's because I'm stressing about money, and also about moving forward. Going backwards in time is psychologically safer because it's a known.
My mind is a dark and scary neighborhood where no one should have to go alone.
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