Paper, pen, machine
whatever it takes to write
starts, middles, and ends
Wednesday’s Theme Music
Sorry, today’s song is a downer. Reading about recent White House statements, trends in different states, and education in America, my mind began streaming Pink Floyd’s “Another Brick in the Wall” (1979).
We don’t need no education. We just need walls. Walls will save us all.
Tuesday’s Theme Music
Today’s choice is a walking song. Rain hammered everything as I strode along. Into this streamed George Ezra’s song, “Shotgun” (2018). “Shotgun”‘s beat is conducive to keeping a good energetic song, and I enjoy his voice, especially in the chorus when he sings, “I’ll be riding shotgun underneath the hot sun feeling like a someone.” As always, I feel a need to mention that I’m always surprised when I see Ezra because his voice makes me imagine he looks differently.
Good song to help you feel amused, and feel like someone. Hope you enjoy it.
Scentways
Perfumes and French-fries
Grilled burgers and fried chicken
Scentways fly me back
Sunday’s Theme Music
I was streaming this song this morning as I walked through the damp early day. Weather, like many things in life, is on a spectrum of several sliding scales. Weak sunshine was trying to warm us up but had a long way to go, and the wind was being coy about which way it’d blow.
Love and relationships are other spectrums of existence. When you meet someone who attracts you sexually or stimulates you mentally, where will it go? It’s not usually a steady movement. Sometimes it all works, and it comes together, and then…their spectrum shifts. Suddenly, you find that they’re no longer in love with you. They’re having an affair. Although they haven’t told you, they’re moving on.
And you find it out in an unplanned way that sears your heart and numbs your senses.
This song tells a story of one such slide along the spectrum, the part of the spectrum after discovering the betrayal, the part where you’re trying to find a way to go on.
Dean Lewis, “Be Alright”, 2018.
White Hole in Flannel
He’s seven feet tall and chalky white with an unlined face. The sandy hair that’s swept to one side never seems shorter or longer. His eyes are as black and soulless as the eyes I’ve seen on a shark when I was underwater in a cage. They’re eyes that don’t judge or care; they only see.
This is what he is. His long fingers with their trimmed, polished nails lack whorls and ridges. Blinking seems beyond him. Speaking isn’t done, nor is touching. He’s always wearing the same blue jeans, sandals, and black and red flannel shirt. Smiles, as are other expressions, never find his face.
My friend, Emily, calls him a white hole, a person who takes everything in and puts nothing back out. True, except for his piano playing. When he sits and plays, we hear songs that seem to transcend our existence. When he’ll play, what he’ll play, why he play, these things are more mysteries. He shows up, and stands beside the piano until he’s given leave to play. Then he plays, and then he leaves. If we’re fortunate, we’re there to hear.
That’s why I decided that I needed to follow him. I wanted to know where he lives and who he was. It wasn’t my first mistake in life, but it was my biggest.
Thursday’s Theme Music
Walking through the town that’s my home, the many vacant faces I encountered coaxed “1979” by the Smashing Pumpkins (1996) into my stream.
So many people use vacant, unwilling or unable to look at others. Their faces are often empty and sad. Wealthy, poor, homeless, students, male and female, I wonder what’s going on with them? Does life have them distracted, or are they hollow people?
Always something to think about when you’re walking, you know? Distractions from the dreams, they often end up as additions to the writing in progress.
Cheers
TGIF
It’s been a week, hasn’t it? Peggy Lipton, Doris Day, and Tim Conway all passed away this week.
Losing stars isn’t anything new. Although I didn’t know them, they were part of the magic that we thought we had going for us after World War II. They helped us cope as the shit started happening. McCarthyism and the red scare. Korea. JFK’s assassination. Demonstrations and riots. Gulf of Tonkin incident. RFK and MLK’s assassinations. Vietnam. University of Texas shootings. USS Pueblo. Kent State. Watergate. Recessions and energy crises. Iran-Contra scandals. Iran hostages. John Lennon’s murder. Attempted assassination on Ronald Reagan. KAL 007 shot down. Beirut Barracks bombing. Challenger disaster. Operation Just Cause. Desert Storm. Oklahoma City bombing. Monica Lewinsky. Move On. Columbine. Hanging chads. Enron. 9/11. Hurricane Katrina. Virginia Tech University shootings. Housing bubble burst. Global banking meltdown. Umpqua Community College shootings. Sandy Hook Elementary School shootings. Global warming. Isla Vista, 2014 shootings. Hurricanes Irma and Maria. Wildfires. Sutherland Springs Church shootings. Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School shootings. Sante Fe High School shooting. Las Vegas shooting. Thousand Oaks shooting. Pittsburgh Synagogue shooting. Measles outbreak. College cheating scandal.
And that’s all just a small bit of America’s piece of it. To think of what’s happened in the rest of the world during those years is numbing.
Now, Conway, Lipton, and Day gone. What a week.
Thank God it’s Friday.
The Twelve Stages of Writing
Thoughts on a novelist’s life as they cope with conceiving, writing, revising, and publishing a novel.
- Jubilation! What a great idea! I must start thinking about this and writing. This is brilliant! Coffee, quick!
- Doubts. Wait…what was it about? I don’t know…that’s more complicated than I realized, and derivative as hell. What the hell…why would those characters do that? What’s their motivation? Man, I need some caffeine just to make sense of this. Better go get some coffee.
- Bargaining. Look, let me play a computer game and then get through just one day, just one hundred words, just one scene, just one paragraph today, and I promise that I’ll write more tomorrow and catch up. Give me some coffee.
- Denial. Why am I doing this to myself? I don’t have what it takes. I’m not smart enough or talented enough. I’m such an idiot! Why did I ever think that I could write a novel? Let me just finish my coffee and go.
- Acceptance. Well, I’ve gone this far. Might as well finish the damn thing. Then, maybe I’ll set it aside for a century, and take a look later, see if I can edit and revise it, and make something out of it. I need a fresh cup of coffee.
- Jubilation! Hey, this isn’t so bad. This is pretty good. It just needs some work. It’s all coming together. Give me some coffee.
- Doubts. I don’t know…what was I thinking when I wrote that? I don’t even remember writing that part. Who is that character? I don’t remember them. I have never seen so many typos in my life. Even the coffee tastes bad. What a waste.
- Bargaining. Listen, self. If I can just finish reading and editing this part and sleep on it, I know that I’ll find a way to make this all work, and then I’ll take a break from it all. More coffee, please.
- Denial. Who am I kidding? This is absolute garbage. I’ll never make it as a writer. I can’t even type. Even if I finish this, who will ever read it? Maybe I should work on something else. I need more coffee.
- Acceptance. No, you’ve come this far. You owe it to yourself to at least finish it. Maybe more coffee will help. Come on, you can do it. What’s the saying? Just open any vein. Sure. Give me some coffee.
- Jubilation! This is pretty damn good. Now all I need to do is find someone to publish it. Let me hunt for an agent. But first, some coffee.
- Doubts. I’ll never find an agent or a publisher. Maybe I should self-publish. But then I’d need to have a cover made, hire a copy-editor, and then do all the marketing once I publish it. Let me drink a cup of coffee and think about it…
How ’bout you, writers? Any thoughts on the stages of coping with your writing efforts?
Her Name
Her name is Simone. She doesn’t know why that’s her name. People ask her why she’s named Simone, and she tells them that she doesn’t know. Many people mention that it’s a French name, and she replies, “Yes, but my father is German.”
She looks away and becomes busy as she answers, as though there’s a story behind her name that she doesn’t want to explore.
Or maybe she’s just weary, at nineteen years old, of being asked about her name.
Michael Seidel, writer 