Category: Thinking, thinking

The Writing Purge

I was out of the writing slot this past ten days, venturing in but once. Life business demanded my attention.

As I traveled, I read The Watchers (Jon Steele, first book in the Angelis Trilogy) and Ready Player One (Ernst Cline). While writing, I often reflected on how my style and material compared to the two books, and what I liked and disliked about each novel.

Then I required a purge. Are you familiar with this? The purge is needed when others’ fiction is enjoyed, and I begin thinking that I need to do things in my novel to make it more like them.

Bad idea? No, terrible idea, worse idea in the bloody world. Almost inevitable, too. I’ve gone through this before. In early years, I tried changing my stories to be more like something just read.

The results sucked, but they were helpful. I learned, and I know, trying to write my book with inflections and concepts found in something recently read ends up torturing my story lines and prose, and dilutes my concept and originality.

That’s why the purge is needed.

Several steps are required for me to purge. I’ve been through this before. I know what to do. One, I need to recognize that I’m about to throw untested code to what I’m writing. Two, I need to understand why it’s so damn tempting.

The latter point is easier to cope with, and best for me to first approach, because the first point is so nebulous, harder to grasp, and is a challenge and affront to my confidence as a writer. Basically all of my writing is untested code. I’m an organic writer. I write it, modify it, and test it until it fits. So, naturally, I think, well, damn, can’t I make other things fit, too?

Yes, probably, but it’s pricey. I may end up muddying my developed story lines, something dangerous to do twelve hundred words and four books into a series, right?

This is why understanding why I want to change my books to incorporate what I’ve read is important. What I read entertained me. I admired their talent and skill. They’d developed concepts, characters, plots and sub-plots, and story lines in novel manners. Their books allowed me to escape.

That’s what I’m shooting to do, too: write stuff that entertains others and lets them escape. Steele and Cline’s books “win” over mine because I still offer a work-in-progress. It’s harder to pick my novel up to compare with their books. But once I stopped to review my WIP, I was surprised anew how entertaining it is. Yes, similarities with other novels and my novels exist, and will be spotted when mine are done, no matter what and how I write. I try to minimize these things but it’ll happen because I’m a product of my environment. Books and other authors fill that environment. Hell, they’re the foundation of what prompts my desire to write and publish.

With that thinking processed, the purge was completed.

Another day of writing like crazy done. Time for other things, like, umm…lunch.

1

Just Made It

You ever go to a restaurant, and find it quiet and with few customers, and then sit and order, and witness a sudden influx of people entering the restaurant and filling up the chairs, the noise level rising with their conversation and laughter?

Or maybe you reach the cashier in a store to make your purchases, and have no line, and then long lines form at all the registers?

These situations cause us to say, “Wow, we timed that right. We beat the rush.”

Traveling, we made it back home on Sunday. The weather served plunging temperatures and several inches of snow that night. “We made it home just in time.”

That thought, that somehow, you beat the crowds, the odds, the norms, the system, by just a little, fires a warm glow of satisfaction. It’s a little less satisfying when you fly home and see someone, and then they die the next day. Sure, there’s still some solace as we tell ourselves, “At least we saw them one more time before they died,” but the glow isn’t as warm nor satisfying.

0

Catching Yourself

Ever catch yourself ranting and raving at others for their behavior, like their driving or the speed of their walk, as though they have full and absolute control over themselves, and realize that your ranting and raving is a demonstration of the small measure of control over yourself?

No? Is it just me, then?

Damn.

4

The System Connections

I took an unplanned writing break. One of those things called death interrupted the usual progression.

A family member died. It was expected, sooner or later. The sooner seemed to be getting closer but it came as a surprise. She’d been hospitalized with flu, pneumonia, congested heart and lungs, things complicated by her Parkinson’s disease. We were originally certain, this might be it, but that morning the doctors said, “Hey, she’s doing better. She can probably leave the hospital in two or three days.” They were wrong. She left that day, but she was no longer alive.

I shut down the writing component in my brain. I know this about myself: the writing component demands a lot of energy. It puts me in another place, but removes me from the moment. Being removed from the moment means that my patience and empathy become compromised. That wouldn’t do. So, shut it down, I ordered.

The writing component was kept shut down for three days. I was given writing time but chose not to indulge it. I knew what it would mean. I took the time to think of life and other matters instead of writing.

What I didn’t expect were the side-effects. I slept miserably, tossing and turning way more than the usual. I also didn’t dream, or didn’t recall any dreams, and I seemed a lot hungrier. I never felt rested.

I imagined the chemical and physiological reasons probably contributing to my side-effects. The drugs my body releases through the creative process and writing. The highs achieved, the flow of neurotransmitters and their interactions, and why writing is an addiction.

I kept the writing component off until today. Notifications of the death are completed. Grieving has commenced and progressed. Funeral and burial arrangements have been made.

When I turned the writing component back on, it was a deluge. Whoomp. I was slammed with words and thoughts to write.

Interesting experience. Fascinating, to me, at least. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.

0

Olympic Gold

Sometimes when I’m writing, I think about taking a break from the process. 

I’m thinking about that now, thinking, when I finish the first draft of this quadrilogy, I might take a break.

Yes, I’m almost at the end, and I’m tired of writing it, so it’s natural to think, I want a break. Focusing on the moving parts and the characters’ activities is intense and takes intellectual energy that straps my other energies.

Then, I realize, yes, I’m tired of writing that series, a series I’ve been working on since July of 2016. Not long, you say? Yes, but this is the first draft, and there’s work to be done on other projects. I deliberately choose not to work on other writing projects to focus on the complexity. I want to write them.

Then there’s the madness.

The madness is the standard writer’s angst about what has been done and what remains against the filter of, does this fucking work? Will others read it and think, “This guy is an idiot.” Worse, they’ll say, “He’s a talentless, pathetic hack.”

These words, coming through me from imaginary others, are wearying. I combat them by assuring myself that I don’t know if that’s how others will react, and reflect on why they might think that way – what makes me worry that they might think that way. 

It’s complicated, this writing business, done alone in shadows. Sometimes the shadows grab us, and tear us down.

But then, in saner, stiller moments, I read what I’ve written, and find myself engrossed by it, and pleased. Then I encourage myself, “There’s probably other nuts out there who like the kind of fiction you write because they share your taste in fiction.”

I hope to hell that’s true, I answer myself, but I don’t really sound convinced. I sound more like a person who left a job interview and answers, “How did it go?” with, “I think it went pretty good.”

Yeah.

Others will say, “Wow, you wrote a book. You wrote four books in that time, four books as part of one series? That’s amazing. Congratulate yourself.”

Well, yeah, that’s all nice, thanks. But that’s like getting to the Olympics and not winning a medal. See, a goal has been set. It’s not enough to write a draft, but to get it edited, published, and out there, and then have others read it, and enjoy it.

That’s the Olympic gold.

Yes, I can settle for less, but why limit myself? I’m putting time and energy into writing these novels. Yes, I’m afraid that others will not like many aspects of it, but there’s no reason for me not believe that I can’t take home the gold. Dare to dream, right? Put that dream out there in front of you, and try.

Others will say, “Hey, that’s beyond your control. You’re putting needless pressure on yourself.”

Yes, I tend to be my worst critic, that I know. (Maybe others are staying politely quiet.)  I know my flaws, shortcomings, failures, and mistakes, and can rip them off without a breath to think. Plus, you know, I’m a little down with health issues affecting friends and family. That is another variable in the equation.

I’d been writing like crazy for seventy-five minutes before taking this break to gain some distance, perspective and sanity. I’m hungry, and I’m thinking about sandwiches, and pie. I’ve only drunk about twenty percent of my cup of coffee, having put my head down and fingers to the keyboard. Stop, or go on? I ponder, decreasing the amount of remaining coffee by another twenty percent.

My stomach wins. It always does.

It always gets the gold.

0

The Ice Chip

It’s five thirty A.M., and cold and dark. Even the cats are all curled up and asleep.

The telephone connection is amazingly clear. The tension in the hospital room seems as substantial as the phone against my ear.

“She’s gurgling, and sounds wet,” the speech therapist said. “I’m going to see what she can swallow.”

Her voice becomes louder as she speaks to the elderly patient. “I’m concerned about your ability to swallow. Can you lick you lips? Can you lick your lips?”

Holding the phone, I lick my lips in response to the orders on the other end and urge the patient to do the same.

“No? You can’t lick them? No saliva?”

Damn.

“Okay. I’d like to give you an ice chip to see how you swallow. Would you like an ice chip?”

“Yes,” the patient says in a low, weak gravel.

“Yes, I bet you would,” the speech therapist says. “You’re probably pretty thirsty because you haven’t been able to swallow anything for a couple days.

“Can you stick your tongue out for me? Can you put it out a little further? There we go. Good, that’s good. Now, I’m going to put the ice chip on your tongue, okay? There we are. Good. Now take it in your mouth and let it melt. Feels good, doesn’t it? Yes, I bet it does. Don’t let it run out of your mouth okay? Keep it in your mouth.

“Okay, are you ready to swallow? Swallow it for me. Let me see you swallow. Okay, that’s good.”

I hear an odd sound and listen, trying to understand what it is. I imagine the process it takes to let ice melt, and the muscles and passages used to swallow.

The speech therapist’s volume drops to a normal conversational level. “She couldn’t swallow, and I can hear wet gurgling.”

That was probably the odd sound that I heard.

The speech therapist says, “The fluid is going down into her airways. Normally, when that happens, we violently cough. That’s a normal reaction. But she lacks the strength and energy to cough.”

My sister-in-law speaks. “She’s in advanced stages of Parkinson’s, and hasn’t had her meds for several days, because she’s had the flu and pneumonia, and hasn’t been able to swallow. They’re going to insert an NG tube and begin her meds again.”

“Yes, we’d expect to see an improvement in a Parkinson’s patient with their meds, so we’ll try the test again after the NG tube is inserted and her meds are given.”

Thanks are given, and comments about things that will be done later are made. I listen and absorb it, but I remain thinking about the importance of a melting ice chip and swallowing.

 

2

The Writing Processes

I enjoy reading about other writers and their processes. I’m primarily reading for ideas that I can incorporate or adapt into my processes, but I’m also curious about others’ takes on their creative processes. I’m often amused when people insist that writers must outline, or something like that. I tried outlining; it didn’t work for me. I felt that outlining drained the fun and creativity from my writing processes.

I was thinking about this today because I reached a pivot point. Writing organically, I’m journeying without a map. I like journeying without a map. I feel like an explorer crossing a new continent. Explorers decide, “There’s the sun; we’re following this river and heading that way for now. Let’s see where it goes.” I adapt that as, “There’s the ending; we’re following this path heading that way for now. Let’s see where it goes.”

Sometimes, as accounts of explorers will tell you, wrong turns are taken. Blind paths that lead to nowhere are followed. Yet, it’s not a loss, because they’ve expanded their body of knowledge.

That happens with me and my characters, too. They take a turn none of us expected. I don’t just follow then, though. I stop and ask, “Wait a moment. Where is this going? Are we sure we want to follow this path?”

As I’m also a non-linear writer, I’ll sometimes take a few days to write about other aspects while I think over the new potential path. By non-linear, I mean that I don’t write the novel in the order that the story is told, nor in the order of its final finish. I’m usually filling in expository bridges between action scenes during these periods. Action scenes, being sharper and more intense, come quickly, like a flash flood. In fact, I call it flash writing. A sudden inspiration strikes. It follows the general sense already created, so I let the flood happen. Other flash floods often occur in sequence as these major points are seen and grasped. After writing down their essentials, I edit and polish them, add details, and make changes for coherency and consistency.

By that point, they’re raw pearls. I want a necklace. Bridge scenes help me strand them together.

Sometimes, I make huge leaps. There’s an epiphany, and I spring forward to write it before I lose it. This is when I most feel like the novel already exists, and I’m just taking dictation.

Meanwhile, I write posts like this to help me understand what I think. As I thought about this little post and wrote it, my subconscious mind thought over the new piece and offered me some tent poles.

That caused a short interlude here as I explored the tent poles. I came to see how this new piece wasn’t all that new, but a latent piece I’d previously ignored. Indeed, I’d made a small reference to it once, back in the first volume’s first quarter. I’d flash-written some scenes without thinking about how to strand them together, but subconsciously, pieces were being put together. I just needed to remain persistent, let my mind work, accept what it gave me, and go for it. That, I think, sums up the whole writing like crazy philosophy.

I’ve got my coffee. Its smell helps me focus, its caffeine stimulates my creative energies, and it’s a component of my writing session routine. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.

4

Beginnings and Ends

As a writer, do you ever thing that every day is a new beginning and has a new end? Yes, but isn’t that true for everything? Once you’re done for the day, you start again tomorrow. Problems arise when you don’t start again.

0

Monthly Changeover

A new month has arrived. Hello? February, already? No way. Time continues to accelerate in an unseemly manner with months passing like weeks and hours flashing by like minutes.

I hypothesize that we each have time particles at a sub-atomic level in ourselves. Their interaction with others’ time particles and those embedded in other matter form how we perceive and use time, and how time treats us. We adhere to agreed standards for simplicity’s sake, but time is more personalized than realized. That’s my theory, and I’m sticking to it, at least for today. Someday, someone a lot smarter than me will figure all this out, and our thinking about time will undergo a monumental shift. For now, it’s one of those, we can’t make out the forest for the trees sort of perspective.

With the new month comes chores that rotate around the month’s arrival. Besides flipping over calendar pages, reviewing business plans, goals, and dreams, I also back up my writing work on something external that’s placed somewhere safe. While floppies of the five and a quarter and three and a half-inch varieties were used in the past, I moved on to zip drives, CDs, and now, flash drives.

Reviewing the month, I’m pleased with my writing progress, but I’m astonished that it’s taking so long to finish this quadrilogy, Incomplete States. I seem to be adding a new volume every few months; this week I was contemplating a fifth book in the series. Reining myself in, I sought ways to incorporate these new ideas into the fourth book being written. We’ll see how it goes. It’s not like the series is a raised garden bed, where everything must be contained. My motto is generally, write like crazy, and let the words go where they flow. I’m a trifled concerned; if I keep adding volumes like this, I’ll end up with something that rivals the Wheel of Time for the series’ length.

Now it’s time to write like crazy, at least one more time.

2

POV

Writing from multiple personal points of view as I like to do is a fascinating exercise. Each character has a different interior voice and private agenda. Less than putting them on, I marinate in them.

It’s engaging to explore them as their personalities emerge and these voices and agendas become stronger. The longer I marinate (write from their POV), the move they develop.

I have broad strokes about each. Kanrin is quiet, patient, and thoughtful. He likes to wait for more information before saying anything, and is careful about what he says. Richard is verbal, veers toward narcissism, and often becomes petulant, childish, and jealous, characteristics that make him unpredictable. Pram has less complexity and is action oriented. Not being able to act drives irritation and anger in him, facets that the others know about him, which cause them to worry about Pram and distrust him. (He knows it, and that angers him more.) Handley is younger and more mellow, with simpler needs, and Brett is a weary, older human who just wants to have a beer, chill out, and let the universe pass by.

Then we have Philea.

Philea is a scientist. Today’s writing unexpectedly took me through Philea’s thinking about chi-particles, qubits, unitary transformation, and quantum superpositions. Philea, a character that I supposedly created, is far more intelligent than me. I struggle to follow her thinking and put it into words.

I say I supposedly created Philea because it’s possible that she exists elsewhere (in another time or dimension), and what I’m writing as fiction is being channeled from another life elsewhere. That’s one possibility; another is that I’m just crazy. A third is that I have created Philea, and trying to think like her forces me into deeper focus and thinking, which can be done for a short period, but is ultimately unsustainable for me.

I’m agnostic about which of these are the truth. Perhaps they all are, in that I created her, which actually generated another universe of existence (sound familiar?), which then evolved, and is now feeding my thinking from her through a channel from that universe. Pondering it is fun, challenging, and harrowing.

Philea’s thinking has worn me out. Enough writing like crazy for today.

0

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑