Day: January 6, 2017

Work Habits

Here we are, the six of us: writers. Meet Michael the Original and Michaels Two through Six. None want to be called a number, usually channeling Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band when that’s attempted. (“I’m not a number, I’m not a number, damn it, I’m a man.”)

Each writer has their piece to write. We’re seated around a large, round table. Each has their own space and quad-shot mochas. Each is on a computer and has their files open.

One is copy-editing the novel to date. The Original – that would be me – is doing the hard thinking to bring these drunkenly rambunctious stories together. The next four are working on the different storylines and scenes for Pram, Forus Ker, Brett, Philea, Richard, Kimi and Handley, onboard the Faux Mo, Pentagon, River Styx, and Wrinkle, on Willow Glen and the escape pod, in the stasis pod, and in the past, present and future, dealing with the Monad, Sabards, Humans and Travail Seth…and each other…. There are battles, revelations, duplicity, treachery and betrayal.

It’s a lot of work for the six of us.

Unfortunately, there is only me. Having the six wouldn’t be sufficient, either. I would need more, a committee of me to write and edit. Each story and its main character is drumming, “Write my story,” into me. I write a few lines, paragraphs, and then jump into another, tediously advancing on all fronts, advancing, but not anywhere near the desired pace. The process reminds me of a class I took decades ago, in 1988 or 1989.

I was stationed in Germany. Offered by the University of Maryland, the class was four days long, two weekends, eight hours each day. The subject was French literature. Four authors were being studied. Among them was Honore de Balzac.

Balzac was said to write fifteen hours a day. The claim presented to me in that class is that he wrote with a quill, standing up, sucking down cups of coffee. He was said to be always writing and created voluminous manuscripts, often with characters straying from one story to another, and frequently revised. How did he do it, I wondered then.

How did he do it, I wonder now.

But then I figure, man, if good ol’ Honore could write and edit so much on his own, I can as well.

Just give me more damn coffee.

Here we go: time to write like crazy, at least one more time.

 

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Flying into Egypt

I was served a rack of what the hell dreams last night and awoke confused.

The most sharply remembered dream had me in a small airport terminal. I was well dressed and very happy, wandering about the small building and its small rooms, flirting with woman and awaiting my flight. It came shortly later. Nothing significant from the flight took place until deplaning. Then I realized I was in an airport in Egypt. I’d flown over some terrible sights, looking down and seeing wasteland.

My pilot was Egyptian so I passed sympathetic comments on to him. He seemed little interested and accepted the comments with brusque impatience before going on to his business between flights. Which, in retrospect, made sense. He’s a pilot, with things to do and little time.

I needed to await my next flight. I spoke with others about what I’d seen. They also seemed little interested. A few were confused. I had no pants on and was naked from the waist down, further confusing them. Having my pants off was part of my plan, I assured them again and again, smiling and showing them my pants in my hand.

Meanwhile, a beautiful dark-haired women who seemed Italian was present. She intrigued me because she was in a red Ferrari racing suit. I finally struck up a conversation with her, asking why she was wearing a Ferrari racing suit. She seemed secretive, furtive but flirtatious, and was coy about telling me. This began a series in which people talked to me about what I saw as I flew into Egypt alternating with her and I teasing one another about why she was wearing a Ferrari racing suit.

It was close to departure time. I put my pants on. The beautiful woman beckoned me to her. We squatted down. Leaning in with a glance around to see no one else was there, she indicated her suit and said, “This is for the future.”

I was confused. “That’s a future racing suit for Ferrari?”

Widely smiling, she nodded. “Yes, yes, it’s for the future. It’s very special. I’m testing it.”

Before I could properly respond, she lifted up a bag and pulled out another racing suit. Yellow, this one was for the Jordan racing team. Jordan has been out of racing for a decade plus.

“This one, too,” she said. “It’s for the future.”

I was now greatly confused. There wasn’t time for further conversation as my flight was called.

And then I was off the aircraft and in a new terminal in America, with an unspecified friend. We were leaving the airport and discussing how to leave. One of us wanted to get a car or taxi; the other wanted to walk out to the gate and catch a ride there, or keep walking.

In retrospect, I think the friend may have been me, and I was both entities. If so, that begins to make some sense, moving the dream out of the ‘what-the-hell’ category and into the ‘huh’ realm. It’s into the ‘huh’ category because it has some sketchy sense – future and past, and confused, indecisive directions and courses. With Jordan and Ferrari Formula 1, some elements of highly advanced technology and cutting edge performance is referenced. I don’t understand its context completely. More thinking is needed.

And Egypt? I’m baffled. I’ve only been to Egypt a few times, strictly on military business, traveling on military aircraft.

I don’t know why I flew in and out of Egypt in my dreams.

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In the Night

my hands, my hands

your curves, your curves

your hands, your hands

my curves, my curves

our lips, our lips

past forgotten and remembered

brought up and pushed back

flaming and inflamed

in the night

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Today’s Theme Music

It’s a mellow Friday here in Ashland, a breath between storms. Temperatures remained down in the teens but we expect to hit thirty again. A warm front is coming in so temperatures in the thirties are expected, and lots of rain.

That’s why today’s song is appropriate. The warmer weather is still cold, like blue on black or tears on a river. But we’re mellow, reflective and waiting.

From 1998, the Kenny Wayne Shepherd Band, ‘Blue on Black’.

 

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