Category: Thinking, thinking

Thursday’s Theme Music

I awoke with Outkast’s “Hey Ya” streaming in my mind, but another song replaced it. The lyrics, sung by a woman went, “He’s the last of the secret agents, and he’s my man.”

I thought, was that Nancy Sinatra? Sure sounded like it to my brain. Thinking about Nancy granted permissions to stream “These Boots Are Made for Walkin'”, followed by a duet with Frank Sinatra, “Something Stupid”. Hearing Frank made the stream believe it was okay for him to join in, so I heard “Winchester Cathedral” and “Fly Me to the Moon”.

I’d decided I was becoming a basket case, which opened the ports for “Basketcase” by Green Day, followed by “Boulevard of Broken Dreams”. Thinking, enough, I went through a little of “Enough is Enough” by April Wine, followed by “No More Tears” (Streisand/Summers).

By then, I knew that it had been Nancy Sinatra streaming “Last of the Secret Agents” (1966). I never saw the movie, btw. Anyone know if it was any good?

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Progress

I finished editing and revising the beta version of Six (with Seven) today. That’s Book Three of the Incomplete States series. I began editing and revising it on September 24 of this year, so my editing and revising process has kept going at a decent pass.

The editing and revising process was draining, requiring most of my mental energy. Not surprising, as editing and revising your work forces you to confront weaknesses and doubts. I know that it’s made me more of pain in the ass to live with than usual. Although there are chapters that leave me a little wary, I feel good about the book and project. Part of that is the simple satisfaction of completing another step in the project, but there’s also the element that I’m satisfied as a reader that the writer wrote a decent tale. I was also pleased because some of my worries and fears were allayed. I kept thinking as I edited and revised the book that I needed to do more to clarify matters and tie together the disparate story lines. Then I discovered that hurrah, I did that when I wrote, edited and revised it back when it was the subject of my focus.

The chapters that leave me wary will confuse some readers. They’ll require close reading to follow them, patience, intelligence, and an open mind. So, do I dilute them to reduce those challenges, or leave them? I left them as is for now, as that feels right. This, of course, was the first go in editing and revising, so that can change in one of the next go-arounds.

Of course, the readers can skip these chapters and go on to the final two chapters, which strain the mud out.

I like how Six (with Seven) ends, moving the series’ stories forward, clarifying more, and setting up Book Four, An Undying Quest. I also have more appreciation for the title, Six (with Seven). It’s more whimsical and cleverer than I first realized. I’m not being immodest, but recognize that a lot of these decisions have subconscious insights going on that I don’t appreciate at first.

With three hundred twenty-two pages in Word and less than eighty thousand words, Six (with Seven) remains a slender book in my general pantheon of fiction writing.

Tomorrow, I begin editing and revising Book Four, An Undying Quest. Once it’s completed, I’ll have a first draft of all four. With some hope and luck, it’ll all make sense and flow together to a decent ending.

Now, the coffee is gone. Time to go for a walk, have lunch, do some yardwork, and maybe have a beer to celebrate.

Cheers

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The Cleaver Greene Dream

Richard Roxburgh as Cleaver Greene of Rake guest-starred in my dream. We were on an asphalt path under tale trees. I was just arriving. Grinning at me, he said, “Hungry? Would you like a sandwich? We have cold cuts.”

He gestured. I followed the gesture with my eyes and saw a huge plate of assorted lunch meat. The pieces were rolled up like fat joints. The variety staggered me.

“We have cake, too,” Greene said with another motion. I saw a huge, multi-layered cake. Each layer was slender and appeared to be a different flavor, as did the frosting flavors, things that I assumed because of their colors, but the cake’s overall appearance was that it was moist, fancy, and large. 

“There’s ice cream, too,” Greene said, drawing my attention to an enormous bowl. Scoops of different colors filled it, and again I inferred they were different flavors.

“Wow,” I said, seeing the amounts and flavors. “Wow.”

“You can have cake and ice cream,” Greene said. “Or sandwiches, or anything you want, if you don’t want that. There’s an entire table of food over there.”

He was pointing. Looking, I saw that out on a green shaded by trees under a clear blue sky was a long table filled with bowls of salads and fruits, and plates of breads and cheeses.

Greene said, “We also have a Lithuanian cake.”

“What’s that?” I said, imagining a white layer cake featuring pearls.

“I don’t know,” Green said. “But we have it.”

The dream ended.

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The Jewish Things and German Place Dream

I know as part of the dream’s setting that I’d bought a place in Germany. It seemed like a condo or apartment in an older building. The building was a mysterious maze of rooms and halls. Most were not well lit. Rain lashed the windows and could sometimes be heard drumming.

The place I’d purchased was filled with things, which were mine, now. I was exploring, mostly in darkness, to see what these were. Spotlights lit the objects when I came across them.

One object was a black box with raised, golden letters in another language. Someone with me,  a female who was never seen and whose role wasn’t defined to me, said with excitement, “That’s Jewish.” They went on about the language on the thing. The object looked to me like it could be a complicated metal camera or something that stamped other materials to form or shape objects.

Focusing on my guide’s explanation, I heard her say, “The Nazis took things from the Jews.”

I was trying to understand how they’d come to be in this building, which now reminded me of a Nazi building I’d toured when I’d been stationed in Germany. It had apartments inside where government officials lived, along with offices.

“It belongs to you,” my mysterious female guide said.

I was excited to own something like this but also disturbed, because it had been stolen from others. My guide was going on about being able to make money from it.

I left her to explore more on my own and ended up back in my living quarters, which was part of the same building. I discovered more objects. I also discovered my quarters and new building seemed to be poorly maintained. Down in the lowest level was a ill-kept garage area. I discovered squatters had been using it, accessing the area by raising the garage door. I learned this from seeing one squatter open the garage door, revealing pouring rain, slip out, and close the door. Making a note of that, I continued walking about. Most of the flooring was missing from several levels, and animals were coming in via tunnels in some rooms.

Yet, I was excited by what I found left behind by previous tenants. My guide reappeared. Showing me something, she said, “You can sell this and easily make fifty thousand dollars.”

That pleased me, but I told her, “I’m not selling anything that was stolen from anyone.”

She said, “We don’t know if anything is stolen.” She must have known I was recalling what she said before, because she said, “Many of these things were made before world war two, but we don’t know how they got here. They could have been stolen from the Jews, or the Jews may have lived here and left them behind. They belong to you, now. That’s what was agreed when you bought the building.”

I wasn’t mollified, but I became cautiously optimistic that I could sell some things and make some money. Returning to that first black piece with the golden writing, I stood and admired it, framed in white light and surrounded by darkness.

***

As I edit and revise the Incomplete States series, I’d begun to become optimistic. I thought, maybe instead of self-publishing this series, I can find representation and a publisher.

It’s part of my never surrender approach. My hope became stronger this weekend. My wife and I saw Worlds of Ursula K. Le Guin. Listening to UKLG recount how difficult it had been to become published, how nobody got her when she sought publication, but how much she believed in herself, reminded me of my writing efforts and suspended publishing efforts. My writing, as she said about her writing, is not easily categorized. Yet, I thought, too, it’s arrogant to compare myself to her, for I’m in no way her measure as a thinker and a writer.

This dream, I think, reflects my doubts and concerns. Every day, as I edit, I enjoy what I’ve written. It excites me. But doubts haunt me.

It reminds me, writing is a lonely business, especially as a struggling novelist. That, I believe accounts for the dream’s darkness and the building’s dilapidated state, and the never ending rain, putting a damper on my hopes.

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Old Paths

Ah, more ME STUFF. Yes, it’s all about me, which sounds like a good movie title, except it seems so similar to the classic, All About Eve.

I’ve been editing the third book, Six (with Seven), in the Incomplete States series. It was the first of the four books that I wrote. I finished it over sixteen months ago.

Reading and editing the book rekindled memories of how I hunted for a writing process that worked for me. I was initially a staunch proponent of outline and research. I took that route because everything that I read said, that’s how you write a novel.

It didn’t work for me. I was restless, frustrated, and bored with the process. I tried modifying it. Reading of Orson Scott Card’s process, I attempted something of the same. I attempted to flow-chart what I would write. I used Post-its, white-boards, butcher paper, and story boards. As none worked, I chucked them all with the decision, I’ll just wing it.

I started writing in notebooks. I’d edit and revise each day’s work, typing it up on my computer, and doing further editing as I went. I later learned many writers use this organic process.

That first resulting novel was a disaster. I still have it, with promises to edit and revise it someday. Meanwhile, it was a tremendous learning experience. First, I’d written a novel. That buoyed my self-confidence, but then, it needed so much work that I sank like a house in a Florida sinkhole.

The next thing that happened is, I shoved that monster aside, and wrote another novel, and then several more. Each time, they needed work, and I was too impatient to fix them. Eventually, slowly, I gathered, ah, editing and revising is part of the writing process. I wrote more, I edited them, and published them. Then I grimaced because I see the errors in the published work.

They needed more work. I needed more patience.

With my panic and self-doubt somewhat subsiding, I began to think more about my writing process, and what that meant. Insights into myself and my process grew. 

When previously reading wonderful books, I lamented that I’d never be that good, capable, creative, or talented. Now, I think, how do I write and tell stories like that? Instead of bludgeoning me to the point of retreat, those other writers and novels establish goals.

Which brings me back to this novel and series. I started out blindly with a half-baked concept, and then went down different paths until I found a path that worked. Those other paths were still in the novel, and required that I read them and decide, keep them in, or cut them — or revise them.

Done writing, editing, and revising today.

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Thursday’s Theme Music

I was watching an episode of The Americans last night. I enjoy how clothing, cars, news, and pop-culture, like music, is used to convey the year.

They used “We Do What We’re Told” by Peter Gabriel (So, 1986) in the episode I watched. I thought the music was effectively employed, with the lyrics fitting the situation and the characters’ thinking and decisions.

The song’s words are simple and repetitive

we do what we’re told
we do what we’re told
we do what we’re told
told to do

one doubt
one voice
one war
one truth
one dream

h/t azlyrics.com

I thought the song’s appropriate for now, when so many people seemingly respond to news by saying, “Hey, I believe him,” without applying any critical thinking to it. I imagine them telling others in a few years, “Hey, I was just doing what I was told,” or, “I was just following orders.”

 

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Future Me

I read a recent article about how we see ourselves. The article’s essence was that a study showed that people could readily see how they’d changed, but didn’t think they would change in the future.

That’s an odd conclusion. Looking back on how and why I change, I can appreciate how the world changed, forcing me to change. Mentors, friends, and family members have died. Their influence remains, but it’s faded.

Sometimes, I think of it like dominoes. I’m in a long row that’s been set up to fall over when tapped, part of a pretty design. Matters that tap me over include my changing body. My hearing is damaged and my vision has lost its acuity. My metabolism has slowed, as has my physical energy, and my muscles are weaker. My joints are stiffer, and my athleticism and coordination have diminished. My sleeping patterns have changed. I endured illnesses and injuries which changed my trajectory. I’ve gained weight and developed gluten and dairy reactions.  I mostly bloat. Before I bloated, I didn’t understand what people meant when they said, “I feel bloated today.” Now I understand.

Our food chain has changed. What impact that has on me, I probably won’t ever know. I was introduced to new foods, and dishes from other cultures, and I was introduced to better quality food, increasing my awareness of what quality means, and how it influences me.

Technology has advanced, enabling me to hear more music, inviting me in as a witness to more amazing events and moments. I usually have a laptop or tablet nearby to keep me connected to others. I’ve never met many of the people who are in my circle of friendship. Science has advanced, giving me more to think about. Researchers, psychologists and sociologists have gained insights into how our bodies, societies, and civilizations function. Engaging TED Talks and blogs help socialize new information. Big data analytics keep expanding on what we know, or what might be going on.

Our society and government have changed. Events like 9/11 changed us. I make more effort to understand the world than I used to make. After traveling and living outside of the United States, I became more watchful about politics, equality, justice, and our environment. As our politics have changed, and groups like white supremacists and Nazis have grown, I’ve been forced to question what I know. Likewise, revelations of sexual assault, news of murders, and lies by politicians and others sharpen my desire to know the truth and understand.

I’ve read many more books since I was young. I’ve written books. Both activities encouraged thinking, and from the thinking has come change in my views, approaches, appreciation, and understanding.

My brain has changed, apparently from triggers built in at some genetic level. I’ve become more impatient. Lessons learned through betrayal, resentment, success, and failure have fostered changes to my behavior. I work on improving myself more than I used to, when improving myself meant working out or taking classes.

I’ve lost hair on my head. My hairline recedes and my baldness expands. My hair thins and grays. Meanwhile, the rest of me becomes hairier. With my aging and changes, I became more invisible to a larger segment of population.

Or maybe that’s just me and my perceptions. They can change.

I can extrapolate some ways that I’ll probably change. I think I’ll be more withdrawn, speaking less, and enjoying small talk less. I hope to be writing and publishing more, but that’s a hope that I’ve been nurturing for over twenty years. My future diet will probably be more limited, I’ll be less active, and pop culture will seem more alien. I’ve always disliked talking on the telephone, and avoid it when I can. I suspect it’ll be hard to get future me on the phone.

I’ve been fortunate that I’ve escaped being caught in disasters. That luck can change. It feels, sometimes, like the hazardous air from the wildfires of the last few years have changed me. Certainly, that smoke, combined with the blazing heat, increased my depression, depleted my energy, and sapped my will. It certainly changed my summer and expectations.

Then, there are the other people in my life. Their changes, illnesses, success and failure will change me, too. That’s one constant that’s not likely to change.

All these variables will cause changes in me. I don’t know what I’ll be like in the future, but I don’t think that who I am now is who I will be.

2

Let Go

There had been decisions before, but things change, so new decisions were reached and accepted. What had been important became meaningless as priorities sifted like sand dunes.

Others ran into him, exchanging greetings, but then, privately told one another, “He’s really changed,” “Yes, he let himself go.”

They saw it as a bad thing.

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That Moment

Do you know that moment when you first smell the brewed coffee and lift a cup of it up to your lips, and feel the heat radiating toward you? You take that first sip and let it loiter in your mouth and slip down your throat, and think, “Wow, that’s so good.” You take another sip, and the sip becomes a long, lingering swallow that hefts a sigh in you as your lips finally part with your cup, and it comes to you, that might be the best thing of your day?

But then you go on, and there are other good things during the day, and you think, “This can be a pretty good life.”

Naw, that’s probably just the coffee talking.

4

All You

“All you men,” she said,

“All you women,” he said,

“All you Republicans,” she said,

“All you Libertarians,” he said,

“All you Democrats,” she said,

“All you Greens,” he said,

“All you people who don’t vote,” she said,

“All you people voting illegally,” he said,

“All you reactionaries,” she said,

“All you slaves,” he said,

“All you gays,” she said,

“All you lesbians,” he said,

“All you blacks,” she said,

“All you whites,” he said,

“All you elites,” she said,

“All you apathetic people,” he said

“All you cops,” she said,

“All you military,” he said,

“All you illegal aliens,” she said,

“All you people on welfare,” he said,

“All you rich people,” she said,

“All you poor people,” he said,

“All you thieves,” she said,

“All you drug-dealers,” he said,

“All you addicts,” she said,

“All you criminals,” he said,

“All you killers,” she said,

“All you corrupted government workers,” he said,

“All you CEOs,” she said,

“All you teachers,” he said,

“All you parents,” she said,

“All you working women,” he said,

“All you Mexicans,” she said,

“All you communists,” he said,

“All you ignorant, uneducated people,” she said,

“All you snobs,” he said,

“All you people clinging to old ideas,” she said,

“All you fascists,” he said,

“All you NAZIs,” she said,

“All you Japs,” he said,

“All you Southerners,” she said,

“All you Northerners,” he said,

“All you people in rural areas,” she said,

“All you people in the cities,” he said,

“All you idiots,” she said,

“All you foreigners,” he said,

“All you Chinese,” she said,

“All you refugees,” he said,

“All you old people,” she said,

“All you young people,” he said,

“All you conservatives,” she said,

“All you libruls,” he said,

“All you white Supremacists,” she said,

“All you feminazis,” he said,

“All you atheists,” she said,

“All you Evangelicals,” he said,

“All you hateful assholes,” she said,

“All you whiners,” he said,

“You’re the reason we’re in this mess,” they said.

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