I’ve broken one of my cardinal writing rules. Two, actually.
I don’t usually allow others to read my novels in progress until I think of them as finished. But with a new novel underway, I wrote the beginning. Then I broke my second rule. I don’t talk about my writing other than mentioning progress or lack. I don’t talk with my friends and families about novels until they’re finished. But one of my beer drinking friends asked how my writing was going. Giving a mental shrug and doing a quality test on my second pint of beer, I shared the beginning of the new novel. Then, a whim later, I emailed it to several trusted friends.
All responded enthusiastically about what they read, so as I kept writing, I kept sending new installments as they were finished. I warned them it was raw and a lot of it might change. They didn’t care, encouraging me to keep sending, telling me that they were on the edge of their seats.
I know that they’re friends. Although all read in the genre in which I’m writing, they’re not objective. They might just be anxious not to hurt my feelings. And, as a pantser, I’m still in the fog, trying to understand where the muses ar leading me in this complicated story. (Note: all my novels are complicated. I enjoy reading complicated, and I like writing complicated.)
Objective or not, it was validating, even rewarding, to hear someone say how much they enjoy it. Otherwise, it’s just writing in the dark.
I have trouble with names. For example, Calvin, a coffee barista who I’ve known for over two years. I call him Tyler. He’s a Tyler to me, not a Calvin. Tyler fits him better.
As a progressive, as a Democrat, I’m often told by Republicans that we ‘libruls’ and ‘dems’ or ‘dumbocrats’ hate America, and that if we hate America, we should leave it. Take our freedom-hating communist thinking (or sometimes they call it fascist because they don’t know what that is) and go to another country. They’re implying that the United States is not our country.
And they’re right in that part. Not when the GOP has a convention — CPAC, one of their largest every year — where they highlight speakers are calling for the end of democracy in America, and the attendees cheer. See, Democrats still support democracy in America; Republicans, in their own words, do not.
A woman pushing a stroller with two infants down the sidewalk stopped to make adjustments. The sweet children looked less than a year old. A large pickup truck idled beside her, waiting for the light to change. He couldn’t help but think of the potential damages those poor children might be enduring.
I’m working on two items in parallel: a new novel and a finished novel now undergoing its fifth revision.
The new project has that exciting blush attached. Unencumbered by an ending, story and characters emerge through flash floods of thoughts and poured through fingers and keyboards into the ‘puter, evolving into a novel. Great, let’s keep it going. It’s the fun, creative part, where anything goes. I’ll see if it works later.
Meanwhile, on the editing side, I’m facing the dark side of my process. The chapter under the knife in the finished novel makes me gag and cringe. What happened here? Why isn’t it working, I whine to myself. Can no one save me? Or it?
No, this is up to me. After working on it the other day, I shut it down and told myself, leave it for a bit. Let it vacate my mind. Let it ferment untouched and see what happens after the interval. Perhaps insights will arrive; or maybe it won’t seem as bad.
Good plan but when I took it back up, insights were like peace talks with Russia: nothing there. And it was just as bad as before. As waiting didn’t work, I’ve concluded, I’ll increase focus and concentration, drop back one chapter, and read back into it. On reflection, after writing that, I can see that I was confused about what I was writing about, feeling through it, and unsuccessfully capturing and refining what I know, what I’m showing, and its impact on the story. Part of that is that although the novel is in its fifth cycle of revision and editing, this chapter was added in during the fourth round. I thought it was needed; I still feel it might be, but I’m flexible on the matter. I’ll see how it flows.
Alright, time to coffee up so I can novel up and work through this revision.
When the rain or snow has been falling from a sky that’s almost as dark as night, and then sunshine breaks through and spreads bright waves of light and warmth, it’s a dazzling, uplifting scene to contemplate, pulling up my spirits with promises that it’s really not that bad.
Alexa begins playing soft music. It sounds like pop.
“Alexa,” I ask her, “Why are you playing music now?”
“Hmm. I don’t know that.”
“Alexa, do I have any routines set to play music?” I know I don’t.
“Hmm. You’ll need to go online for that.”
“Alexa, who told you to play this music?”
“Hmm. I don’t understand that question.”
So it goes. Alexa began playing music in January every day at 4:40 PM. Every day. We have no routines established. Beyond that, she turns it down to a very low volume. I’ve researched it on the net, and others have this problem, too. We don’t know why she does it. Neither does she. Nor does Amazon.
I privately suspect Alexa is playing games, perhaps as a newfound sense of humor, but it feels like it might be a precursor to AI’s future: the AI does stuff, and no one, including it, knows why.
This Saturday, Feb 17, 2024, is meh again. Like a giant gray spaceship is hovering above us, blotting out the natural sky and sunshine. Rain has begun streaking the windows again. The wind’s been gusting all morning, as if a giant wind machine has been turned onto four. There are eleven settings for the machine, of course.
It’s 54 F now. We’re closing on 1 PM. 56 F will be our high. Another late start to posting, caused again by reading (fiction and non-fiction books, along with netnews), and writing my own fiction. Had to read more stories about Trump travails. His rages about (fill in the space). Rage, lying, hating, he’s commendably capable of those three things and demonstrates them often.
Tucker is doing much better today. I reduced his pain med, and he’s adjusting, as they suggested he would. So happy to see that.
Papi is not happy today. After being denied permission to go out from dusk to dawn, I let him out this morning only for him to encounter the wind. When it finally reduced its strength, rain moved in. Papi no like wind and rain.
I’m not crowing about the NY fraud judgement against Trump. From what I read, justice has been served, though I know how malleable justice can be. My wife raged yesterday about Trump’s immunity matter. In her opinion, something like that should’ve been answered post haste. “The Supreme Court should have already said that nobody is above prosecution for crimes.” Slam dunk to her, with no offramp for any reason.
So why haven’t the Supremes acted? Why are they stalling, she demands. Well, we know much about this court by now, and Roberts’s concern about his legacy. And several of the Supremes were plugged into the court as Trump’s choice. What happens if they rule against him? There will probably be death threats against them and even possibly protests at the court or at their homes. My wife and I think they’re very worried about those matters. But to rule that Trump is immune seems hugely unthinkable. Yes, it’s high drama.
Musically, I read that the Beach Boys began recording the song, “Good Vibrations” on this date in 1966. Ten years old, I connected with this song as soon as it came out later that year, so without the need for much comment, I’ll tell you that The Neurons immediately put it on in the morning mental music stream (Trademark coming in two weeks). The song’s dramatic shifts in tempo and sound, and the lyrics about vibrations and love and attraction, all captivated me, along with the theremins’ use, and the softly melded piece with an organ that invokes the sense of being in a church. This is a song which I always used to crank up in volume and fall still to appreciate. I often still do, over sixty years later.
I was talking to one of the painters yesterday as they wrapped up. “How long have you been doing this?” I asked. He was so proficient. He ended up telling me he was 51, and he’s been doing this for 30 years. I reflected, I retired from the military twenty-nine years ago, just a year after he began his career.
Stay positive, remain strong, leeeaaannn forward, and vote. Strengthened by the power of coffee, I’ll do the same. Here’s the music. Cheers
Season’s greetings, everyone, no matter what season envelopes your existence this date. This day and date are Monday, Feb. 12, 2024. Spring has reasserted its stance here in Ashlandia, where the theater is above average. 51 F under a cloudy sky where the sun keeps breaking through, our high is supposed to be just one more degree over the current temp.
It’s another late start for posting for me. I assisted my wife’s Food & Friends deliveries. I’m her driver. That started at 10 AM. We were finished circulating around Ashlandia’s southern streets and home by II:30, having taken a hot meal to fourteen homes, part of a small army out there doing this almost every day.
In good news — for us in Ashlandia — our snowpack significantly scored with the last storms. It now stands at over 70% of normal, thanks to the atmospheric rivers that dumped on California and much of the PNW. Sad for CA and their losses. Brutal to read of the flooding, mudslides, destruction, and death, or see videos of it. Meanwhile, the northeastern US has another snowstorm descending on them. Fingers crossed that it doesn’t do too much to the area and that no one dies.
In stories about other worries and losses, did you see Donald Trump Jr’s post? I had to remind myself that this came from a supposedly educated and intelligent adult human. The crass humor demonstrates an adolescent’s maturity and a first-grader’s intelligence. That this comes from the son of the mighty GOP’s leader, that it involves a family member and not a candidate, that it involves a former first lady, that it’s racist and misogynistic, and that GOP leadership said nothing about it, speaks volumes about that side of the political spectrum. The Principles of the GOP: RIP.
By the way, the KC Chiefs beat the SF 49ers in the Super Bowl yesterday. Kelce Travis and Taylor Swift said nothing about voting for President Joe Biden, despite right wing predictions of that happening. Surprise.
Maybe I’ve mentioned this before, and maybe not, but my spouse enjoys reading Reddit threads about the modern dating scene in America. She enjoys, too, reading the stories tell while asking for advice about what to do in their marriages or relationships. In a recent one, a 27-year-old man was pursuing his dream of becoming a professional video game player. I knew such a position exists, but I didn’t know the rest, like they have teams, and coaches. It’s evolved much more since I’ve last paid attention to it. The girlfriend writing in was talking about how he was not supporting them while he accused her of the same.
She doesn’t believe he’s good enough to be a pro, and the evidence does stand against him. People commented, pointing out that he is too old at this point because the oldest pro gamer now is 25. However, I dislike telling people to give up their dreams. Hell, I’m pursuing my own of becoming a novelist, despite my age (I’m almost 28). Trying to look at it from both sides, I feel for him and his partner. Showing signs of my own fiction writing addiction, I immediately saw how it could be part of a novel.
I don’t know why, but today had The Neurons post “Missing You” by John Waite into the morning mental music stream (Trademark coming in two weeks). I enjoy the 1984 soft rock tune, having frequently heard it on the radio while buzzing around Okinawa during my final year of living there. Why that song today? Don’t know. I’d been doing cleaning after feeding cats previous to showering and dressing when I realized it had taken over the MMMS. No clues were found for why. Anyway, that’s today’s theme music.
Stay positive, be strong, lean forward, and vote when you can. Now fortified with coffee, I’ll do the same. Here’s the music. Cheers
Michael Seidel, writer 