Category: writing

Silently Working

I’ve been on pause from editing the novel in progress, “Incomplete States.” I’d become troubled that it was missing an overall aspect that could tie it together.

It wasn’t something I immediately jumped on. I let it flow through me for a while and considered what I’d written, the novel’s totality. I didn’t want to be rash. I convinced myself it was necessary to add a greater arc.

I didn’t have any idea what that arc would be.

I began addressing the problem by thinking and writing about it. Exactly what was it that I was looking for in the greater arc? The novels and series that are most in mind with this novel came back to me:

  • Roger Zelazny’s “Chronicles of Amber”
  • George R.R. Martin’s “A Song of Fire and Ice”
  • Frank Herbert – “Dune”
  • Isaac Asimov’s Foundation series
  • J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter series
  • J.R.R. Tolkien’s “Lord of the Rings” trilogy

To a lessor extent, I also thought of Elena Ferrante’s Neapolitan novels. All that reading helps.

This wasn’t a quest novel, though; I wanted to ensure I didn’t accept an easy route and create another quest.

Several aspects attracted me. One, the epic sweep. Two, was how these novels and series embraced multiple levels of acceptance about the past, legends and myths, and prophecies. As the past receded in them, the past blended with myth and legend. More people in the novels grew enamored with lessor concerns that gathered importance in their lives, like fortunes, empires, and revenge. These smaller concerns were magnified into important concerns that eventually dwarfed the true, greater threats. In a way, I saw mirrors with our own planet and human civilizations, and how often we put profits, nation, and empire ahead of civilization and the planet.

But —

These novels and series also attracted me because of the greater and lessor acceptance. Uniform agreement about what was to happen, what had happened, and why, didn’t exist. Elements told their own stories. The differences in these stories provided the foundations for tension and conflict.

I wrote a one paragraph summary of each of these novels and series, defining their greater arcs against the dominant sub-stories that often propelled most of the action. That helped me clarify what I though my novel lacked.

Then I turned my attention to my novel and the situation.

I began by organizing information. Hundreds of thousands of words had been written. Deciding I needed visual assistance, I created character cards for the six major characters. Keeping faithful to the novel’s concept induced me to create character cards for each of their major iterations. As this novel is about cosmic and other entanglements, several of the characters are sometimes male, and sometimes female, with and without children, and sometimes married to one another. Sometimes one is the other’s parent, and sometimes, they’re enemies. Cards were created for each of them.

Having the cards allowed me to tack them up and move them around, hoping to prompt new thinking and insights. That approach produced; I brainstormed potential ideas, and then walked, thinking through what attracted me to each, and discarding some. After doing this, I thought I’d come up with the structure for the greater arc.

About four days had passed.

I sat down to write this morning. While I’d been thinking through all of these angles, the muse, or the muses, were at work in me. Sitting down with the slimmest idea of what was now to happen, I began typing. Within a few lines, I was on a world I’d not conceived before this. Memory of Jack Chalker’s “The Four Lords of the Diamond” series flashed into me along with Brian Aldiss’ Helliconia trilogy. New characters jumped into action, along with the agenda they pursued, in accordance with the greater arc.

Finishing with thirty-five hundred words about an hour later, I felt excellent about where I was. There’s still a tremendous amount to be done, but I had the semblance of the direction, the outlines of a plan, and vague ideas about events.

It was a good day of writing like crazy.

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Going Retro

Yea, verily, I’m struggling.

I’m dissatisfied with an aspect of my novel in progress, “Incomplete States.” I love its sprawling sweep, but it sprawls too much. The sprawl dilutes focus on the characters, and I don’t think the typically reader will care about them.

Which, in thinking about writing this novel’s first draft, is understandable. Its concept consumed me, as did trying to understand and convey the concept to readers through the story. Thinking about it during the last several days was at first depressing. Then, I thought I began to more fully see the issue. I let my imagination off its leash. Ideas about what to do began streaming in.

Still not satisfied with the process, I pulled out a pen and notebook. I’ve done that several times while writing this novel, so the notebook is already in place. It’s a rawer and simpler way to process information for me, and that makes it faster.

I’m, of course, partially just disappointed. I wanted to be done with the damn book so I can move onto other projects. Yes, I’ve entered the stage when my beloved novel has become the damn book, a thorn in my side as much as a joy of creation. This is like that D.I.Y. project, like putting down new floor tile, that is progressing well until, halfway through, you realized you made a major error. You know it must be fixed, but first, a little venting and stewing is in order. Those who are more stoic would probably just begin fixing it immediately, but that’s not how I roll. I must simmer in emotions first.

But, issue thought out, choices considered, and decisions made, I’ve bounced back up. Here I go again.

2

After the Eclipse

It started a few days before the eclipse, with cats.

Cats and I are positive and negative magnets meeting. My ex-wife claims felines have secretly marked our house as a place for a nap and a meal. They’re always coming around, and often stay. But, two days before the eclipse, the cat count increased from seven to ten. The next day, the congress of cats doubled. Another eleven arrived on the day of the eclipse.

All were healthy and none fought, spooky, given how my four boys typically war with interlopers. The situation fed my imagination that cats knew something was happening. Sure, something was happening; it’s called an eclipse. Humans had been talking and writing about it, but none of my floofheads seemed concerned about the impending event.

That would be weird enough, but it wasn’t the weird, scary aspect of the post-eclipse day. Afterward, actually, that night….

I was in my study, as is my habit, imbibing a glass of tawny port, and watching a television show. Noises outside caused me to mute the sound, and then pause the show to investigate. Grabbing the flashlight, I turned on the front porch light and slipped out. It’d been a hundred and five degree day. Though we were slipping past ten P.M., the temp still shouldered eighty. Yet, it felt refreshingly cool.

The cats were on the front porch and yard. Every foot seemed to hold a cat. None watched me, or moved, but a few made soft mewling noises. They all stared outward. I turned my light in that direction.

Something was in the street past the rock rose.

The something stared back with large amber eyes. They narrowed as they watched me.

Not a raccoon or deer, I decided. Wolf? The shape behind those eyes were uncertain. Sweat dripping down my face and body, I crept forward with the flashlight. The amber eyes rose higher. I realized they were in a head on a neck as thick as my torso.

I realized it was a fucking dragon.

I realized that was fucking impossible.

I realized I was completely motionless.

I realized the fucking dragon was moving toward me.

I realized that I had no fucking idea of what to do. Some part of me seized the situation by the balls. I said, “Well, aren’t you a pretty dragon?” My tone suggested seeing a dragon was as common as seeing a cat.

Crawling forward, the dragon issued a creaky growl in response. The creature was bigger than my circle of light. My testicles climbed up into my body for protection. I tried swallowing, but there wasn’t anything there.

The cats all began meowing. The dragon shuffled forward, parting the rock rose like it was grass. My light revealed wings, scales, claws, a snout, and teeth. Yes, those were the primary dragon parts. I didn’t think running would do much good. I figured a dragon could probably take me, and that if it wanted to, I’d already be gnawed on like a bucket of chicken wings at a bar.

Stopping, the dragon thrust its head toward me. Taller than me, it lowered its head until our eyes were at the same level. Then it looked me over like a John sizing up a hooker. I did nothing but sweat and breath. I’m not positive about that latter, but I felt the sweat dripping off my hair onto my neck.

The dragon snorted. I jumped. I think I pissed myself a little. Realizing it was moving, I stumbled backward. With the cats meowing more loudly and intensely in a way that I’d never known, the dragon crawled forward into their midst on my front yard. Stopping, it curled up, drawing its tail around its body, and folding its wings against its sides. The cats swarmed over it. Many sniffed and licked the dragon.

He or she allowed it.

Finding body control and reasoning, I went into my house, brought out my cell phone, and took a photo.

The photo showed nothing there but the yard. Not even the cats were visible in the photo.

The felines were all settled against or on the dragon. All, dragon and cats, were looking at me. A chorus of purrs thrummed the air. Uncertain of what the fuck else to do – call animal control? – I stole back in the house. I left the front light on, opened the blind, and spent the night hours alternating between watching the dragon, searching the net for news about dragons, and trying to get a photograph of it.

It was still there in the morning, as the first people began their daily routines of biking, walking, jogging, and driving to appointments. None made it past my house. All drew up to stare, as I did, and try to photograph the beast and the felines on my front lawn. Dogs seeing the dragon, though, turned and fled.

I think this might be the beginning of a new era on Earth. Or maybe it was the return of an old cycle. You know.

Round and round.

 

1

The Wide Receiver

I once met a man who’d been a wide-receiver.

We’d gone through a new acquisition. Marketing asked me if I wanted a job. He was the Director of Marketing, and my new boss.

Our business was coronary and peripheral catheters. I was just learning the business. He took me to hospitals. We’d watch procedures. He’d explain things and introduce me to people.

We spent a lot of time on the road, and learned things about each other. He’d been a wide-receiver in high school and college. Small, he’d been fast, quick, intelligent, and disciplined. Good route runner. But as he progressed, he encountered competition from other wide-receivers. They were faster, bigger, and stronger, and just as intelligent and disciplined.

Eventually, he left that field, but he loved football, so he became a high school football coach. Through it all, from the first spark of desire, running was what kept him going. He ran five miles every day. One night, while sharing a bottle of wine with our dinner, he confided, “I run every day, because I’m afraid to stop. I’m afraid that if I stop, I won’t ever run again.”

I think of Jon tonight because I thought, I need a break from writing. Like Jon, I’m afraid, that if I take a break, the seed that defines the essence of who I believe I am will dry up and crumble.

 

4

The Inner Critic

I’ve been spying on my inner critic, shadowing him. I think he’s a him. He may be gender neutral.

Which isn’t the point. The point is, I have learned that he isn’t a night person. He’s usually asleep at night. My best writing often takes place after he falls asleep.

Unfortunately, he’s a light sleeper.

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The Block

A mass of words have been mined from his veins of creativity. They’re mostly sifted, sorted, and arranged. He’s beginning to see the complete story within the block. With more chiseling, polishing, and thought, it can be something special that others will enjoy.

Sitting, he sips his coffee. A few seconds of reflection are accepted to allow his mind to shift from one sphere to another. Then, he opens his document, and resumes his editing and revising.

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Errant Priorities

I caught myself in a neat trap. I set it, and walked myself into it. I’d been trapped in it for a few weeks before I realized what had happened.

To step back, I bought a Fitbit last January. I like it. I enjoy walking. Walking, like writing, helps me think. The Fitbit tracked my walking and gave me quantified results. That was beautiful. I had goals, and could stretch myself against those goals. Great.

Similar to playing video games, walking and measuring my progress and activities sucked me in. I play video games every day. They’re small, online games; I don’t let myself buy or enroll in more, because I know I’ll get sucked into them. It happened a long time ago with a computer game called “Empire.” The game with its attendant strategies and tactics sucked me in. Huge swaths of time and energy were lost to playing that game. It was an ugly lesson learned.

It was also an insight into myself. Like many people, I hunt validation about who I am, and my relative merits. They’re hard to come by in the modern world, especially when you’re in the military or working for a corporation. They like to give you “Atta-boys.” That’s a reward where they beam at you, and say, “Thanks. Well done!” Yes, it worked for a while, but as I realized the emptiness of those rewards, and the challenges became easier and easier, the rewards became meaningless for me. Winning video games became more rewarding in my schema, thus validating me.

Coping with myself and my tendencies, I began seeking things that can be tangibly measured to reward me. In turning to writing, I discovered, hey, I can achieve the same sort of satisfaction by writing one to two thousand words a day. That made me feel good about myself. Finishing a story made me feel better. Selling one made me feel great.

In the cascading process, I then went after another prize: writing a novel. Each step in the process was again a tangible reward, an objective achieved. From finishing a chapter to finishing a novel was a wonderful experience.

Selling it, however, was not easy. Dejected with the publishing process, I went the Amazon publishing route. The rewards fall miles short of my hopes and dreams. So….

Writing became less rewarding. Well, writing remains rewarding. I find writing novels to be akin to solving logic problems. They hold an inherent challenge and reward. But writing doesn’t provide me the validation from outside myself that I know I need. Being thin-skinned and insecure, I need huge quantities of validation.

Enter the Fitbit.

Just like that, I started increasing my goals and exceeding them. I stretched goals from ten thousand steps to fourteen thousand steps, from five miles to six, to seven, to eight.

Naturally, these goals absorbed time and energy, especially in these summer months when it’s ninety degrees or more. Reluctantly, I realized, I needed to draw back from the Fitbit and the walking goals, because they were distracting me from my writing goals and activities. Why, of course, was obvious: the Fitbit goals were tangible and reachable. Writing goals of writing novels, publishing them, and selling novels were tangible, but not easy reached. Not reaching them despite the efforts made became a depressing effort. Mad sequences of Peggy Lee singing, “Is that all there is, my friends, then let’s keep dancing,” kept streaming into my head. “Let’s break out the booze, and have a ball. If that’s all. There is.”

So, seizing myself by my metaphysical scruff, I drag myself away from Fitbit goals and re-prioritized. Whereas I had been targeting six to ten thousand steps before writing, I now write first, and then hunt the steps and miles.

Someday, I believe, or hope, that I’ll find something more, something that will finally quiet the desperation and disillusionment in me. Meanwhile, I’m going to avoid boozing, except for a few beers and wine, reduce my Fitbit goals, and keep on writing.

1

The Last Name

Well, this is an embarrassing confession.

Here I am, on page three hundred thirty-four of the first half of the novel, when I encounter a little reminder to insert Brett’s last name. So, being a semi-pro, I open up the novel’s bible to look it up.

Damn if it’s not there.

I know I used it at least once elsewhere in the novel. Of course, this is a sequel, so the last name was used in the first book. But searching for it has proven daunting.

I’m surprised this happened, and it’s irking me. I keep documents to help me remember and understand who’s doing what to who, and what’s happened to everyone, to sustain internal logic. I can’t believe I can’t find his last name.

In my defense, this is a science fiction novel. Although the majority of space-travelers and colonists have westernized their names for public use, names aren’t critical in the future. Digital personal identifiers are what identify you and socialize who you are. You P.I.D. is constantly being broadcast and scanned. The P.I.D. defines you. Based on your birth date, time, location (including planet), universal master number (U.M.N., which includes your cultural and ethnic heritage, and is assigned sequentially), and D.N.A., it’s generated when you’re born. While first names are used in conversations, the last names are generally superfluous. There are cults that hold to traditional norms, bandying their last names about as though they’re greatly important, but you don’t need them.

It’s the second day of the search. A rational internal section cheers me to ignore it for now, that this can be found later, but finding it has become an obsession. Tangentially, I believe my writing soul is enjoying the departure from the editing routine. Plus, fortified with a quad-shot mocha, my confidence about finding it is racing along on wings of caffeine, sugar and chocolate.

Let the search commence! Or, recommence.

0

Odd and Intense

Differences struck me as I finished editing sequences. Diverting my thinking, I considered the differences.

The difference was external to me. I puzzled over that. The world surrounding me seemed calmer, quieter, and more relaxed than it had a short time before.

I thought about it more, trying to understand if it was quieter, or a false impression. I thought, instead, it’s spillover. The first chapter that I’d finished editing had been intense and chaotic. Reading through it and staying focused challenged me. It seemed like the surrounding coffee shop echoed with noise and activity while I worked on it, and I restlessly, almost anxiously, fidgeted while working on it.

The next chapter being edited began with a calmer scene, and stayed calm and thoughtful. The coffee shop around me seemed more relaxed, and quieter. I, too, became stiller.

Disbelieving, I considered these differences for a while, and then walked myself back through memories. Yes, writing battle, fight, disaster, and emotional scenes consumed greater energy, demanding deeper concentration and tighter focus. I often felt more physically, mentally, and emotionally spent when writing them.

Editing them affected me in the same way. Writing and editing more reflective scenes push me to become more reflective. What I wrote and edited seemed to impact my impression of the surrounding environment. It leaves me feeling disconnected with the world. My thinking feels disjointed, like I don’t belong where I’m at.

It’s probably something all writers experience. I don’t know why it surprises me; I know I experience it when I’m reading books and stories. It shouldn’t be a surprise that I experience while editing my own. Perhaps, it’s because my experiences seem more intense, because it is personal, and comes from within me, thereby amplifying the impact.

Does this post makes sense? What of you, writers? Do you, too, experience this?

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