Walking Stream

finer 

warmer

than yesterday

what was said who said it

the laughs the looks surprise

at the party

good pizza

okay cake

email Zee ’bout Mowgli

and Jeff?

good conversation

Goodwill the shoes clothing

televisions?

they work

don’t know if they’ll take them, need to check

old modems, other junk, have to check

Goo-goo Dolls

“Name”?

first heard in New Hampshire ninety-five

turn your mind

writing time

Pram with Kything – done

conversation on Wrinkle, unknown

Pram with red-beard, about to begin

how much more until this thing ends?

The rest is waiting to be written.

The Time Thing

Holy moly, writers, do you grok that it’s already April? March flashed by like the Flash (copyright DC Comics) in a super hurry, which sums up how 2018 is speeding by for me.

I know some of this phenomena of time speeding past is because I keep busy, writing and editing every day. A full schedule keeps me from contemplating too much of the present. Compounding this is how I live in my novels. I’m much more aware of my characters’ timelines and how they’re living their lives than my timeline and how I’m living my own.

That doesn’t bother me. I come up for a daily gulp of reality. Reality is not as much fun as fiction. Then, who said life is about being fun, right? Life is about surviving and procreating, right?

No, life is what you make it. I’m making mine into a writer’s life. I’ll probably pause someday, many books written, and wonder, what happened to the time? I’ll know, but I’ll still present the rhetorical query to myself, because that’s my mental and emotional construction.

Then again, this could be one of many universes where I exist, and when I die, all my selves will come together (cue the Beatles tune, or the Aerosmith cover, if that’s more to your taste) and compare notes. Maybe my other selves will hear about my writing life, and tell me how much they envy me, because I chose to live my life as I wanted. Others will probably chastise me for being selfish. Oh, well, you can’t please all your selves all the time. Best to quickly accept that and move on.

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

Nothing Spectacular

Aided by coffee, it was just one of those days.

I came in, drank coffee for about fifteen minutes, and then put my head down and typed. The scenes came without too much effort, along with the words to describe them. I wrote like crazy for about sixty minutes, finishing with over two thousand words. Another thirty minutes of editing what I’d written followed, and then hunger called time. Not much time spent on the actual mechanics of writing, but that’s typical for me.

Just one of those days, nothing spectacular, but progress was made. Time to go eat.

Pulling Threads Together

When I finished writing yesterday, I’d completed another chapter. Now I had three chapters that needed to be pulled together. Each was a thread that seemed unrelated to the others, even though I knew they were related.

Walking along, I thought about that writing process. I’d envisioned something happening to these characters, gone down several side trails (creating the three threads) and now had to tie them together to return to the original story line. I thought about how much of my writing seems like problem solving, and things I’ve done all my life, from solving math problems in school to logic problems done for pleasure, personnel issues because I’d become a manger, on to difficult business cases that required me to find, compile, and analyze data using spreadsheets.

I’ve heard people say that they wrote something but didn’t finish it, because they didn’t know what to do next. Resolving those things shouldn’t stop us, if we’re writers. We dig more deeply, searching for ways to finish the story we’re telling. How we get to that point that we find a way varies. I walk and noodle, and sometimes read other books. Reading fiction often seems to open another door in my mind. It’s a fresh reminder of the importance of reading if you’re writing. Reading stimulates my imagination and creativity.

While I walked and thought, I recognized that I was also intimidated. I was afraid of making a mistake, tying the three together. It’s a major moment in this series.

That amused me, since I knew that what I wrote when I write like crazy is rarely the finished product. I make mistakes, and correct them, trying to improve the story and how I’m telling it. But I also realized that I was over-analyzing what was going on, a regular problem I have with myself for everything from deciding what to order on a menu to, well, writing a novel.

I also laughed at myself because I thought, a million words written, and it seems like a million more to go. It staggered me to think that these four novels plus the support documents for this series added up to over a million words. It didn’t seem like a million words, but I never thought about the sum total when I wrote them. I just wrote, word by word, and it all came together.

It reminded me, too, of walking to get somewhere, and stopping partway through the journey because I’m hot, sweaty, and tired, and realized, I’ve come so far, but there’s more to go. So I pause, look around, accept that I have to walk on to get anywhere, and continue on the path that I began to follow.

So, deep breaths, I told myself. Just sit down, have some coffee, and write. I’ve written a million words; what’s a million more?

Okay, I’ve had the coffee, and I’m sitting down. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.

The Golden Egg Dream

I started out with a dream about eggs. Not surprising, given that Easter is soon. Coloring eggs was an entertaining annual experience when I was a child. We always had a big bowl of colored hard-boiled eggs for Easter.

But my dream eggs weren’t colored. I was looking for eggs, first in the kitchen refrigerator, which was an old, white Kelvinator model. Not finding the eggs in the refrigerator, I went out a side door to where I knew there was supposed to be a chicken coop.

I stepped out onto a small porch painted gray and went down rickety steps to a green hillside. Cumulonimbus clouds were mounding against a blue sky, partially obscuring the sun. A strong wind was blowing, whipping my jacket around me. People on the dream’s periphery were trying to draw my attention to other things going on. They had somewhere they wanted to go. It seemed like they were back in the house. Exasperated, I kept telling them, “Just a minute, I’m looking for eggs.” I was becoming angrier as they kept heckling me, refusing to be patient as I searched for eggs.

Entering a sagging chicken coop made of old graying lumber (I’ve never been in a chicken coop in my life), I finally saw some eggs, and then I saw a dusty half-hidden egg. It looked like gold. Disbelieving, I picked it up. Amazingly heavy, it taxed my strength. I had to use two hands to hold it. Wiping the dust away by rubbing the egg against my shirt, I confirmed, yep, it’s gold. The more I polished it, the shinier it became. As heavy as it was, I thought, it has to be solid. I couldn’t imagine anything being inside of it.

Unsure whether I should, I took the egg out to show the others. It was sunnier, but colder and windier outside. Nobody else was out there and the house was silent. I realized the others were gone. The dream ended with me standing alone by the chicken coop holding a golden egg. I awoke feeling isolated and alone.

Episodic, Hyperlink, Mash-up

I’m enjoying writing the Incomplete States series. I have worried about its structure and my style, until I came across the term hyperlink used to describe a form of novel.

Eureka! That lifted my bloody spirits. Until then, I was cringing over the shape and my methodology. People won’t like this, I told myself even as I answered, so fucking what, and acknowledged, you can’t please every reader, and reminded myself, I’m writing for myself as a reader first, and this is what I like.

I really like how the first volume’s beta version emerged, and I’m happy with the third volume. Number four is in progress and is coming along well.

A sharp reader will noticed that I skipped over number two. Volume two was the first one written. As Thomas Weaver noted in comments to me during some of my postings, most writers start out in the middle. That’s certainly what I usually do, and I did with this concept. I was definitely walking across a dark and unfamiliar room when I began writing it. It ends up as the most complex of the four volumes, with the greatest aspects of hyperlinks. Therefore, it worries me the most. But when I read and review it, I don’t come across anything that I want to change. An outside editor might have another view of that. Hell, come on, we know they will.

It’s not something to worry about now. Right now I’m giddy with satisfaction over my progress.

Guess what time it is? Yep, got my coffee. It’s time to write like fucking crazy, at least one more time.

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑