Category: Thinking, thinking

Crystallizing

I can certainly tell that Entangled LEREs was the first book written in the Incomplete States series. (Back then, the working title was The Long Summer.) I’m a third of the way through it in the initial editing and revising process, and I’ve deleted four chapters. Those chapters, written while I was exploring and developing the novel’s concept, no longer fit the overall story arc. To keep them in would be indulging myself.

So, off they went. The muse(s) didn’t argue at all, so I must have made the right decisions. Still, I saved each chapter intact as a file, with a note about where they came from, and updated the Editing Checklist to show what I did, and why.

The chapters were fascinating remnants of the genesis of the initial concept and the finalized concept. I remembered struggling daily as I wrote, trying to decide, what is this novel about? As the finalized concept crystallized, one novel became two novels, and then burgeoned into a series. Characters and their tales, plot twists and settings all arose. I didn’t include everything; sometimes I knew that what I was writing was writing to think, exercises to help me understand what I was learning and where I was going. They were saved, too, just in case I later veered.

In point of fact, the largest document of the twenty-five documents (including the four books) I created while developing this series is the document called “Circle (working doc)”. At five hundred pages, it’s one hundred ten thousand words and seventy-nine chapters. Some of the chapters made their way into the beta version of the four books. Many have notes about my intentions when they were written about where they should be in the narrative. Several of the chapters were written as snapshots of action, outcomes, or discussions between characters to help me understand the story arc but included information that I felt shouldn’t be ‘given’ to the reader.

They might still end up in the final first draft of the four books. I don’t know, and won’t know until I’ve completed this phase of editing and revision.

That’s what it’s all about.

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Tick

It seemed like a tick. It’d been Monday and now it was Saturday. May was beginning but now September was being celebrated. He’d just turned sixteen, and now he was sixty-two. 1968 became 1978, and 1998 became 2018.

Just a tick. He’d been beginning, and now he considered the ending.

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The Lesson

His backpack seems light. Walking along, he thinks, what did he forget? In a flash, he concludes, OMG, I forgot the power brick. As he walks, he considers options and decides, just stay off the net, edit, and work as long as possible before the power is gone.

It’s a downer because he was looking forward to the work session. Now it was all changed.

But unpacking, everything is there. He’d forgotten nothing. It would be business as usual.

Sipping his coffee, he thinks, I put all that energy into worrying about a possibility that didn’t come to be, a possibility based on a false perception.

There must be a lesson there, he decides, and then goes to work.

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Jumpin’

Jumpin’ from the fire into the pan

Burns the balls off this man

Changes the way he thinks and plan

Maybe he should go get a cat scan

 

Jumpin’ from the roof on the car

Knowing like this he wouldn’t go far

Still hoping maybe he’ll be a star

But probably should’ve learned to play guitar

 

Jumpin’ on the bed with her

Buying her clothes, jewels, and fur

Wishing she wouldn’t act like a cur

Feeling the cold, I shiver, brrr.

 

Jumpin’ on the paths

falling on my ass

gettin’ back up

smiling, wassup?

It’s old, it’s new, it’s jumpin’.

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A Twofer Dream

In the first dream, I was somewhere taking a test with others. We’d been together taking classes for a few days, so they were familiar, but they’re not anyone I know from life. All were male, but of various ages, physical builds, and races. Cluttered but comfortable, the classroom seemed like something from a form follows function design school. It had desks, windows, pale green walls, grey tile floors, and fluorescent lights.

The mood struck me as relaxed and comfortable. I didn’t feel any pressure or tension. Mustached and wearing glasses, the teacher was a short, white, overweight bald man in a white shirt and black suit with a black tie. He was a bit jocular.

For some reason, I began the test, was distracted, and came back to discover it was almost over. Although not distraught, I didn’t want to fail, but it seemed my fate was inexorable. Then I learned from watching another student that the test could be modified and administered orally. Hearing that, I pressed to have that done. I was confident in my knowledge and knew I could pass.

The administrator, a tall, white woman with blond hair in a bun, came in. She and the teacher discussed the option. It was agreed that would work for me. The oral test, of three questions, was given, and I passed in time to leave with the others.

The rest were in another room. They cheered me when I entered. Some joking followed, along with travel-plan conversations. They’d already eaten, but when they realized that I hadn’t, several got together to find me some food. I was telling them, “No, I don’t have time, I need to leave,” as I was putting up my coat. They brought me bags of food. I realized it was from McDonald’s. That amused me because it’s been over a decade since I’ve eaten at a McDonald’s.

They were excited to be leaving and eager to be home soon. One asked when I’d get home. I told them that I had to fly across the country, and that I’d be traveling for twelve to fourteen hours. Even as I answered, I reconsidered my response because I knew that weather delays were lurking.

The dream ended, and the next one began.

I was at a swimming pool. A few others were there. Again, these weren’t familiars from my life but people that I’d just met. I decided to use the diving board. After climbing up, I dove in. It was a decent dive but I felt dissatisfied, thinking, I can do better. So I went up again.

I began to dive, and then tried to reconsider, but it was too late. My last minute indecision affected my form. It was off as I dove this time. I didn’t have time to bring my arms together, and my body was falling over as I hit the water.

I knew it hadn’t been a good dive. What amazed me though, was how deep I’d gone. I couldn’t see because of bubbles surrounding me, but when I swam toward the surface, it took so long that I wondered if I’d ever reach it.

Breaking the surface, I looked around. The others were still swimming about. I waited for someone to say something about my horrible dive, but no one said anything. I waited for someone to mention how long I’d been under, but nobody said anything. Nobody had seemed to notice anything, or maybe there wasn’t anything to notice.

With those thoughts, and with me paddling around the pool toward the side to get out, the dream ended.

 

2

Bravetoe

His socks had a hole which could have been put there by specification, designed to be part of the sock and inserted on the production line, because they were so regular, but it was the product of his left foot’s great toe. Although the toe and nail resembled common toes (and nails), the toe continually used its nail to cut its way out.

Although it’d been happening with his socks for years, it wasn’t until he saw it on his shoes that awareness took on significance. He liked to walk and purchased many shoes for that purpose. The latest generation of Adidas, New Balance, Nike, Under Armour, and Saucony activity shoes that he wore were made of a mesh material. He’d read the material was made of recycled plastic. (He’d never looked it up on the net because he didn’t trust the information on the net, and vetting it as truth required hours of work. He also privately admitted (that is, to himself) that he hoped it was true that the shoes were made of recycled plastic.) The thing is, his big toe was cutting up through his activity shoes’ mesh. There wasn’t anything on his right foot. It was only the left.

Because he had an active imagination, he began to watch the toe more often, specifically trimming its nail back in an effort to slow down its escape efforts. Imaging his toe crying, “Freedom,” as Mel Gibson had when he portrayed William Wallace in a movie, he nicknamed his toe Bravetoe. It was partly whimsy, but also acknowledgement that the toe had a personality and seemed to have a goal.

And a toe like that, who knows what it would do if it ever escaped its prison? He suspected it would probably inspire the rest of the toes to try to do the same, a possibility that he did not want to contemplate.

Although he did.

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Going On

Have you ever seen a movie or read a book about a prisoner who uses a spoon or other small implement to chip away their rock or cement prison and eventually escape? I was thinking about that the other day as I was editing Entangled LEREs and realized, that’s not how it feels editing the second book in the Incomplete States series.

It also doesn’t feel like I’m struggling to move the needle. Nor does it feel like I’m climbing a mountain or swimming an ocean.

It feels pretty damn good.

I miss writing like crazy each day, truly. I resent, too, that it’ll take sooooo looong before these novels will be published. By ‘sooooo looong’, I mean like months or more. Yes, I’m indulging in some hyperbole to expose my natural impatience.

I’m not good at this persistent, slow stuff. I eat fast, drive fast, think fast, and talk fast. I like doing things fast. I like being intense and immersed.

But, I’m enjoying this leisurely editing and revising. I’m reading other books as I edit, novels that are best sellers or prize winners, prizes like the Man Booker, Peabody, and Pulitzer, or books by authors who won a Nobel Prize for Literature. I used to avoid reading such lofty others while I’m writing or editing. Correcting myself, I used to avoid reading most published literature while I was reading and writing because I often felt that my writing could never achieve such heights, and it depressed and demoralized me.

I’m more confident about it now. While I still enjoy and admire the aforementioned sort of books, I’m not cringing from my efforts when I go back and forth between the two. More often, when I find something special by someone else that I’m reading, I pause to understand the passage’s impact on me and explore what the author did and how they did it, hoping that I can learn how to do it.

The process has helped. I can see improvement in my writing. I sometimes find beauty or insights in my work that startles me.

Like many writers, I’ve found that writing is a progression. With a little talent and heavy loads of persistence and determination, we can improve what we’re revealing and how it’s revealed as we tell the stories that flow through us. This progression shines in the editing process. Further away from the fiery crucible of creativity where the flow is so intense, I can apply the lessons that I perceive. I’m more mindful. While I’m doing this, my appreciation for the diverse processes of writing/creativity and writing/editing/revising increases. As with many facets of our existence, it’s a spectrum.

Of course, on the obverse of this coin, when I read portions of my earlier published works, I cringe. There’s a plan afoot to edit and revise some of that stuff stirring in my head. What’s that? Don’t look back? You might have a point.

Time to resume editing like crazy.

1

The Family Dream

IN THE DREAM’S BEGINNING —

I’m in a dim corridor with dusty, wooden floors, walls, and a ceiling. It’s not overly narrow, about wide enough for two people, but it’s rickety, uneven, and crooked. It’s also familiar in a way, as though I’ve been in here before. I’m walking slowly and carefully. Although the light is dim, I don’t know it’s source and I’m not certain where I’m at or what’s going on, so I’m being cautious.

I reach a juncture. The way is blocked by what I determine to be a paper wall. After some experimenting, I push the wall aside and advance. Another paper wall is encountered. This happens three or four times. By that point, I decide that I’ll attempt to smash through the wall instead of moving it. After doing that three or four times, I exit.

I discover myself exiting off a bus. I’ve arrived at my destination, and I’m happy. The destination is an old wooden building built on the side of a grassy slope. Others are there, as I’d hoped and expected, because I’m here for a family reunion.

Walking around, I meet others. I’m carrying a large orange doll of uncertain sex. The doll is precious to me and to the others. They’re impressed that I have the doll. I’m proud of it.

Arrangements and suggestions are made. I want to shower and clean up. Before I do, I want to bath the doll. Finding a wash basin, I fill it with warm, soapy water and gingerly lower the doll into the water until just the top of its head is visible. Beaming, I think and say, “Perfect.” Others come over to admire what I’ve done.

I don’t recognize any of the family from my current family, that is the people I know in this life. Five ideas come to me in this order.

  1. I’m in a movie.
  2. Or a book.
  3. Or another dimension.
  4. Or a past — or future — life.
  5. The people I’m meeting are all me.

The last idea seizes me. I like it. That they can all be me excites me. I think, I’m exploring myself. Walking around, I look at them more carefully for clues that they’re me. I don’t find any, but I’m undaunted.

Returning to the wash basin, I gently scrub the doll, and then rinse it off. This done, I show it to the others. They’re all impressed, clapping and making supportive and encouraging comments. With the doll clean, I’m free to clean myself. After some wandering around and talking to others, I’m pointed toward the showers. Other family members are present. As I strip down, shower, and shave, we talk about what to wear. My choice (which I can’t remember now) surprises some, concerns a few, but pleases the rest. I’m pleased and proud that most are pleased, and satisfied, that is what I’ll wear.

The dream ends.

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The Miracle Focus

Cars can surprise me. The Miracle Focus did. Gather ’round, o’ peers of the ‘net, and let me share the short tale.

We have two cars. One car ‘belongs’ to my wife, with the connotations attached that this is the car that she primary drives, and that I slip behind the wheel once in a while. This is a 2003 Ford Focus that we bought new that year. It was replacing the Nissan 200 that was my wife’s car then. Rear-ended, they declared the Nissan totaled.

Saying the Focus is my wife’s car implies the other car, the 2015 Mazda CX-5, is my car. That’s not true. My car was a 1993 Mazda RX-7 R1. I traded it in on the CX-5 at her behest in 2014. The Focus was then going to be traded in on a new sports car for me.

She reneged on the deal.

All that is beside the point, and just lengthens the story without adding to the plot, as did this sentence. The Focus has 105,000 miles on it, not bad for a fifteen-year-old vehicle. My wife drives it around town.

I take care of the maintenance.

I don’t do a good job.

Trying to make up for that, I took the Focus to an Oil Stop to have it’s oil changed, its fluids checked, air put in the tires, and so on. I did that last year, too, actually in January of 2017. It was supposed to be returned for maintenance somewhere in May of 2017.

That didn’t happen.

The maintenance this year, August, 2018, was well-overdue. I wasn’t too worried because no warning lights had come on, and only twenty-five hundred miles had been added since the last oil change.

When I took it into the same Oil-Stop as last year, they wiped out the dipstick and showed it to me. “It’s a little overfull,” the tech said.

That was surprising. I didn’t add oil to the car. No one else had, either. Oil Stop was the last place where anyone had added oil. As is their custom, once they changed the oil filter and put new oil in last year, they’d showed the dipstick to me to prove it was full. Now, a year later, it was overfull.

I was impressed. This car not only wasn’t using oil, but was apparently creating it.

That’s why it’s the miracle Focus.

That, plus I think it’ll be a miracle if my wife ever really does let me get rid of it.

Not that I’m bitter or anything. That would be petty. I’m just saying…

You know.

 

 

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Viet Said

I enjoyed several interviews with Viet Thanh Nguyen, finding them insightful about the fiction writing and the effort that it takes, including this article on ‘overnight success’.

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