Shithead

Have you ever looked back on something that happened and think, “Man, was I a shithead”? Best thing about knowing you were a shithead is that you can fight against letting the inner shithead come out. You know, apply lessons learned, and not be a shithead.

Cringe Writing

Philea continued to dominate my recent writing sessions. During yesterday’s effort, she took me down paths that had me cringing. It wasn’t the sort of stuff that I generally write. It was contrary enough to my normal voice and style that I considered whether it should be continued. I wondered if she’d breach the series’ borders and was taking off into the wrong direction.

This prompted a guidelines review in my post writing walk. They were good reminders.

  1. Write like crazy. I’m still finishing this book and series. (The series is Incomplete States, and this novel, the fourth, is Good-bye, Hello.) Basically, open the doors, portals, floodgates, valves, lit the fuse, whatever metaphor works, and let it go. Editing is for later, when it’s all done.
  2. The characters are allowed latitude to explore themselves and the story. This has the additional benefit of allowing me to explore the story and characters.
  3. I’m an organic writer. While I know where I expect to end up, the paths I follow are being created as I go. That’s the same with the characters. A compass is used to keep us going in the correct general direction, making corrections as necessary.
  4. Let the readers decide. Readers bring all kinds of conceptions and ideas to stories they’re reading. They find their own interpretation of truths and myths, and apply them. They won’t all enjoy the same books, or even the same parts of a book.

That last point, about readers deciding, emerged from early critique groups. I’d noticed several biases develop in a writing group. Not surprising, as they’re all readers before they’re writers.

  1. Some like to be told everything. They don’t want any gaps in what was said or happened. They don’t want it to be abstract. Others prefer that their imagination fill in the gaps, or that, this is like life, and we don’t always know all of the answers.
  2. Some writers/readers like a leisurely style. The want to slow down and breath in the atmosphere.
  3. Some prefer style over substance, or substance over style. 

I tend to write in a very active voice. It’s my preferred voice. But, I use multiple POV (sometimes first person, but third person dominates). In giving latitude to characters, I notice some of them don’t like a direct, active voice.

After thinking about that, I realize, well, of course. I don their skins and minds when writing from their POV. When I do that, I try staying true to them and their voice. Just like real individuals, they have styles of observing, thinking (and applying knowledge and lessons learned), interacting, and taking action. They carry emotional and physical baggage. These traits direct their voice when the story is being told via their POV.

This wasn’t something I developed on my own. I’m always developing on other writers’ shoulders. This specific point came through an epiphany I had while reading J. Franzen’s The Corrections about fifteen years ago. I later cemented my impressions while reading Wally Lamb, Michael Chabon, Louise Erdrich, Tana French, Kate Atkinson, and others.

Of course, in a qualifying pause, I change up styles to reflect pacing and tension. I use shorter sentences and words in confrontational scenes, epiphanies, fights, and arguments. That brevity contributes to a more direct and intense feel, speaking for myself — yeah, it’s my blog post, right, so who else could I be speaking (or writing) for? — as a reader and a writer. Your preferences might vary.

As a reader, I’m not married to any one style. I like enjoying books and taking what I can from every one of them. Many books end up surprising me, and I like that most of all, as a writer and a reader.

So I cringed and wrote Philea’s part about Holes and The Stipulations. I won’t predict whether it’ll make it into the published version.

Time to get back to writing like crazy, at least one more time. 

 

 

A Mech Life

Powerful as he felt he could be, he was limited by his space. Constantly turning, he looked for a way out but his program controlled his direction. He never regretted being a Roomba, but it was supposed to be a way-station, not a final destination. Despite that, he always cleaned in the best manner that he could, even as pieces broke and fell off, his brushes wore away, and his motor grew weaker. When, at last, he couldn’t move at all, he sat in the silence of his futility and waited for something else to carry him forward.

The Dance

Shuffle, shuffle, step, slide

Pivot, pivot, step, slide

They — the characters – know the dance steps and move smoothly around me on this dark floor. I’m a stranger, striving to follow their movements. Sometimes they slide in quickly, and step back out — one, two, gone — while I’m still trying to engage them. They dance in, say their pieces, and dance away again. Just when I think I’m discerning the rhythm the movements –

Pivot, pivot, step, slide

Another group of dancers have taken the floor, and the music has changed.

Time to dance — sorry, write — like crazy, at least one more time.

 

Circle Dream

I was with my dad and lost in brown woods

and then we were on a boat and rowing

 

I kept asking him but he wouldn’t tell me

anything about where we were going

 

Feeling down

I was looking around

and wondering about the scene

 

didn’t know where I was

or where I’d been

or where I wanted to be

 

I thought I knew

and I thought I could

but nothing

was what it seemed

 

It was a circle of thought

and a circle of hope

a circle

going around a dream

 

Screwed

I finally did it!

I finally fixed my Roomba.

The Roomba robotic vacuum cleaner had become quieter. Its softer noise made us suspicious, so we conducted a paper test. The Roomba failed. Then I removed the collector, got down on the floor, and confirmed that the brushes weren’t turning. Bummer.

That was months ago. I began looking into repairing it, but then, I thought, maybe I should buy a new one. They were on special at Costco and seemed pretty damn attractive. The display models lacked the scratches and wear and tear plaguing my current beloved Roomba. The new ones had that great new Roomba smell, too.

I read reviews and comparisons, checked prices, and thought, and thought. Eventually, I decided the old one probably only has a couple thousand miles on it and deserved to be fixed. Besides, it now felt like part of the family. I reminisced about the time that poor sick Lady had decided she’d piss on the Roomba, and how you just need to pick it up to send Quinn through the pet door with a sonic boom. I wrestled with what I do with it if I got rid of it. Taking it to the Goodwill seemed wrong. I refused to even think of the landfill.

The parts, a new enhanced cleaning head (I don’t know how it was enhanced), purchased for $49 with free shipping, arrived yesterday. Three minutes later, the Roomba was repaired and making its rounds again.  The weird thing was that iRobot had sent new screws with the replacement part. I used them, which meant I had four perfectly good screws left over.

Perfectly good.

I’m like a compulsive scavenger. Whenever I have left over screws, nuts, bolts, or hardware, I add them to my collection. It’s a fine collection, begun when I first moved out when I was eighteen. At first, I integrated left over screws with others in my various drawers and containers. Then I began keeping them separate, with little notes. The notes had their original planned use and the date. That way, see —

I don’t know what was planned there. It was just an idea. What I’d realized was that most of the screws, bolts, nuts, and fasteners were too unique to be used elsewhere. Most of the time when a fastener was required, I’d go through the collection, testing their viability, conclude that what I have doesn’t work, and go buy new ones.

Having recognized this, I threw the four Roomba screws away. It required a lot of grit, opening the trash can, putting my hand with the screws over it, letting the screws go, and closing the lid. It took a lot of grit, and just five minutes, but I did it. I kept my eyes closed, though. I couldn’t bear to watch.

So that’s it. My days of being screwed are over.

Now, what do I do with the old, un-enhanced Roomba cleaning head? I could just trash it, I suppose, but I think I can make some room on a shelf. Because you never know when it might come in handy, right?

Don’t You Hate It?

Don’t you hate it when you’re stopped behind two other cars, because they’ve legally stopped for a person in the crosswalk, and the car coming up behind you whips into the other land and accelerates to about ten M.P.H. over the speed limit and just misses the pedestrian in the crosswalk?

Yeah, I don’t think the man in the crosswalk was happy, either. Mindful of people being like icebergs, with so much of them hidden out of sight, I wonder what kind of idiot is driving that car.

Day #101

I like the sun

I like the rain

I like how the day

smells this way

I like the breeze

that’s sometimes a wind

I like the scents

that tease and spin

I like the hours passing me by

and the time spent

with no one asking me why

 

 

Distance Calling

The distance calls me

I try to see

who it is and what they want from me

the distance calls me

from outside

full of hate and telling me lies

the distance calls me

the people I know

urging me to love and telling me to grow

the distance calls me

without knowing why

I hide away and slip inside

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