Category: writing

Bread Crumbs

And the muse, she’s just like, leading me down a path. I don’t know where I’m going or what’s happening. I’m trusting her. She just flits ahead, around trees, creating a path that I’m supposed to follow. I’m to follow it by finding the bread crumbs she dispenses as she skips, runs and twirls.

You have any idea how hard it is to find the bread crumbs in a forest? The crumbs she throws are smaller than croutons. Rotting logs and leaves carpet the thick rich forest ground. It’s usually wet and damp black dark. Light finds reaching the heart of the forest hard-going, hard as a sperm’s journey to an ova, maybe. When light does reach there, more confusion results. Shadows are created. Everything looks different with the light.

I never see her. Sometimes, I glimpse a foot or spray of clothes just past a tangle of fallen trees and branches. I think that I can catch up with her by rushing ahead. I want to see her face and ask her, can’t you just stop and be direct with me?

Sometimes, I think I’ve found all the crumbs and I’m forming a sense of what’s going on. Then the muse backtracks on me, and I discover old bread crumbs that I previously missed. “Where does this fit?” I shout into the dark forest.

Silence menaces me. The forest seems darker. Maybe rain is falling out there, past the high, thick boughs of this arboreal creative cathedral. Not given a hand, not given a sound, I get down on my hands and knees, and look for more bread crumbs.

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Truths, Re-discovered

I read a wonderful book during recent flights. ‘Ordinary Grace’, by William Kent Kreuger, won a few prizes since its publication. My wife recommended it to me. “It reminds me of ‘Peace Like A River’,” she said, a book we both enjoyed.

“Who wrote that?” I asked. We both came up with Leif and nothing else. We were in the car, without computers and the phone wasn’t picking up a signal, so we couldn’t look up the name. Finding the novel’s author was put on the to-do list.

Yes, ‘Ordinary Grace’ reminded me of ‘Peace Like a River’, but I also thought of some of Louise Erdrich’s novels, as well as ‘A Separate Peace’, by Thomas Knowles, and even Harper Lee’s treasure, ‘To Kill A Mockingbird’. Gorgeously written, it was beautiful story telling, the sort of writing that incites a riot of fears, envy and worry in me. I want to write novels like this, and after reading ‘Ordinary Grace’, I was afraid that I wouldn’t. I was afraid the current novel-in-progress (NIP) was a miserable failure.

After finishing the novel, I stewed while visiting with friends and family and suffering through the requirements of socializing. They say you’re not normal if you don’t socialize, if you fail to sit down and chat, making small talk or exchanging witticism and sparkling insights regarding movies, politics and the economy. Though I’ve lived sixty years, employing my tongue to make demands for food, answer questions, and make presentations and speeches, I remain a novice socializer. Contrary to some opinions, it’s not a choice I consciously embrace, but that’s an altogether different post.

When I was finally freed to sit down and write, I entered my NIP, prepared to revile it. Surprise instead comforted me, surprise that it wasn’t the miserable pastiche of words that I’d decided it was, because it came to me. After reading the opening chapters and correcting a sprinkle grammar, spelling and punctuation issues, I went away satisfied that I’m not the horrendous hack that I’d accused myself of being.

I continued to think about why I liked those books so much, what it was about their imagery, story-telling, pacing, arcs and characters that reduced my writing confidence. First, these stories all harkened to eras that I understood through living, television, movies or other books. That’s a helpful, useful advantage. Phrases and expressions of the times could be used without elaboration or explanation because we knew these things. 

Second, I recognized that I could love to read certain types of novels without being a writer in those genres. Third, I can create the imagery and other matters I regarded as so masterful. It is work, requiring more critical and ojbective appraisal of what I’ve written to refine, polish and improve.

Yet, another truth runs under the surface. Years ago, I learned about the window of five. Its application then was about approaching suppliers and customers, and viewing their requirements through five windows to develop deeper understanding and forge stronger relationships. I’ve since extended windows of five thinking into other realms, such as fiction writing. Without resorting to extensive diagnosis, dissection and explanation, it’s possible to utilize windows of five thinking to peel layers back and garner insights into novels.

The truth about these novels was their power to engage, involve and inspire me is intimidating because it was artfully accomplished. Regardless of the genre or author, my goal as a reader it to find books like these, because, in the window of five about what they bring to me as a reading experience, I escape now, and am transported to somewhere else. I’m moved by the characters’ experiences and I identify with their issues. I learn some lessons, often about myself and how I think and feel about different matters.

Those are also my writing goals. I want readers to be engaged in my novels, to become transported to somewhere else. I want them to be entertained, but I’d also like them to think, without me prodding them to think.

Through all this thinking, I end up where I began as a writer, wanting to write something that I enjoy, that others will hopefully enjoy. I need to satisfy myself first as a reader when I write, understanding that others’ enjoyment will depend largely on what they bring to the book, but that it’s my writing skills that will help them enter the book and live through its experiences.

I can’t say with authority that this is what it’s all about; I’m self-taught. I’m probably often profoundly incorrect about my conclusions. That’s acceptable. What’s required is to keep thinking about what’s been learned and to keep striving to learn more and improve. I will probably never been completely satisfied with anything I write, which can be useful incentive to encourage me to keep attempting to improve myself.

It’s a truth I lose and find, again and again.

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Reasonable Questions

Do they honestly expect a writer to sit and read books, stories and essays without being given time to write? Don’t they understand how days without writing curdles our souls, impoverishes our moods, and devastates our spirits, especially when they’ve given us books to read? “Here,” they whisper. “I loved this book. I think you’ll enjoy it.”

They’re right, but the pain. You hunger to rush away and find time alone with your muse. At least, freed, a flood words are released one more time. You pleasure to a little temporary relief but you know, it’s gonna happen again.

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Five Chapters

I’m starting five chapters today:

Virus

Everything

Nothing

Ice Cream Headache

The Others

With each, I’ll put up the chapter title as a place holder. I’ll add the date beneath it in parentheses, and then a summary of what the chapter is about. I’ll highlight this in yellow and add <TK at the beginning, to help me remove it later. I know what I see and hear as the opening lines for each chapter, and I’ll add those lines. They will probably not be the first lines to the chapter but they’re a nugget around which to build the rest. After that process, one of those chapters will more sharply call, so I’ll take it up.

I always use <TK as an editing tool. Sometimes it’s a placeholder to insert some piece of necessary information, or to clarify or rewrite a passage. Sometimes I know the nugget, the critical piece that I want to immediately write, but know that I need a bridge to the rest of the novel, so I’ll insert <TK and explain what’s required.

I started and wrote five chapters in parallel before. Why five? I’m not certain. It’s not anything magical nor planned. Ideas are germinating. These all sprouted at the same time. I want to cultivate them so I can press on.

I suspect eight or nine chapters remain to be written in ‘Long Summer’. That includes the five I’m starting today.  I suspect that means I’ll write about thirty thousand more words. I won’t bet on whether I’m right but the beginning of the end of the first draft is cresting the horizon.

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

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Embrace

Embrace the cold to feel alive.

Embrace your uncertainty to work harder.

Embrace your fears to find your courage.

Embrace your doubts to push onward.

Embrace your successes to do more.

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The Cards

He was awake before I was, feeding thoughts of the novel into me.

“Ready?” DeeMichael shuffled the deck.

“No,” I answered.

DeeMichael proferred the cards. “Draw three cards.”

“I haven’t had my coffee yet.”

“Just draw three cards.”

“Why three?”

“Because I have three in mind.” DeeMichael shuffled and then he cut the deck. “Three is a lucky number, always in threes, all that crap.”

“Can’t it wait until after I’ve peed, drank some water and made coffee?”

“Jesus H, you could have been done already. Will you pick three cards? You’re ruining the mood.”

I cursed him a dozen ways that I’d picked up as a senior NCO and selected three from the fanned out offering.

“Let’s see them,” he said, putting his hand out.

Sulking and dispirited, I replied, “You know what they are.”

DeeMichael beamed. “You’re right, I do.”

I didn’t want to ask but felt the tableau wouldn’t end until I did. “What are they?”

“We’ll finished the card started yesterday, and then — ”

“The one called ‘You’?”

“Did we start another one? Fuck, no. So it has to be that one, right?”

“You say so.”

“Then we’ll work on ‘Untrue’.”

I knew he was excited about ‘Untrue’. Bleedover between the writing and real world had informed me about what was going on. “What’s the third one?” I asked.

“I don’t know. It’s about the Monad, but that’s all I know. Come on, get up, get dressed and take Tucker to the vet so we can start writing like crazy. Hurry, you’re burning energy.”

Sighing, I nodded. “Right. Time to go write like crazy, at least one more time.”

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Playing With A Full Deck

I’m riding on last week’s epiphany. To explain, only now exists. How now takes place and the scenes associated with it can be treated as a deck of cards. This has empowered my writing imagination. The principle isn’t mentioned in the novel, except one person notices it and treats it like a metaphor, but for me, understanding that each scene is another card permits more intelligent thinking and treatment.

The characters’ and their traits also open up. Pram’s decisions surprised him. He always thought he would put his team first. That it’s a challenge for him to do it opened up a window onto himself that he didn’t know was there. From this, he discovers weaknesses that he hid from himself but also grasps the observations others made about him. It’s a struggle to be stronger and more idealistic. He admires his team members even as he ponders betraying them. Exploring the scenes and permutations, I play with the frequency in which decisions are not value based or driven by logic or principles. Emotions, whims, weariness and frustration color and shadow choices. Sometimes our nature is stronger than ourselves. The battles with ourselves can be deep and endless.

None of the characters are inherently evil or good. Each seek to make the best choices they can, sometimes demonstrating callousness about others’ welfare, but justifying it through logical and philosophical acrobatics. Things happen fast. They make mistakes, and as now collapses on them, what’s going on isn’t always clear for them. Brett, in the center of this, is more removed from these debates and decisions. Being in the center puts him in a bubble where he can rarely see past the impacts on him and his existence.

Handley has been great fun to write. She surprises me. Her role grew. Her metamorphosis and the development process drove her into new territories. New skills were discovered, as was greater strength and determination. In all of this, I ended up asking and pondering, do we have one core person who dictates our behavior? One true being? 

Back to the Wrinkle, River Styx, Avalon, Lucky Gypsy and Mo Faux. Back to Handley, Pram, Brett, Richard, Forus Ker, and Philea. Back to the Travail, Humans, Sabard and Monad. Back to space.

Back to writing like crazy, at least one more time.

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Personal Levels

Eva Lesko Natiello, author of ‘The Memory Box’ questioned, “Do readers need to like the protagonist?” in a Huffpost essay.

I thought, no. I think a reader needs to care about what will happen, given the situation, morality and ambiguity but I changed my wording from care about to need to know what will happen to the character.

Deciding I needed more input, I asked my wife, the reader, what she thought of the question. “No, readers don’t need to like any of the characters.” She offered as an example, ‘We Need to Talk About Kevin’, by Lionel Shriver. “That book was beautifully written. The story seemed so real that some people were confused as to whether it was true or fiction. I enjoyed the book, but I didn’t like any of the characters.”

Spoiler Alert Warning.

She continued, “The mother was cold and seemed emotionally distant. Her son was a screwed-up killer, who killed his father and his sister.” She didn’t like the father/husband at all. The daughter was a minor character who didn’t really play into her feelings.

Ms Natiello’s question prompted further thoughts. First, not all readers will bring or take the same aspect from novels. Considering readers’ reactions to books become fascinating. As Ms Natiello mentioned, she read a book review where a book was given one star. The comment was, “Hated the main character.”

Eva goes on about the things I’d thought. Some readers seem to think that it’s their duty to like the main character and base their reaction to the book on how they feel about the main character. It’s critical to one friend. A voracious reader, if she can’t like the main character, she can’t get into the book and won’t read it. Likewise, even if she reads the book, if she can’t relate to it on a personal level, she doesn’t like the book. Relating to the book on a personal level means that something she read in the book triggers a memory of a like experience. It’s a position that appalls me because it narrows the narrow aperture into which new experiences through books can enter.

Considering Eva’s question is a reminder of how personal books are to people, as readers or writers. I struggle with the idea of characters a reader will like or hate. My characters tend to be unreliable as narrators, betrayed by memory, expectations, emotions and intentions. It fascinates me to encounter people who believe they’re telling the truth but what they describe is completely contrary to what I witnessed. They’re not deliberately lying, but are viewing it through their own prism.

Likewise, because I will relate something different, it doesn’t mean that I’m correct, either. I can be just as flawed in what I witness and how I describe it.

Natiello’s post is an inviting read into these complexities. She concludes it as I would, “Most characters are not black and white. Personally, I love deeply flawed good guys and bad guys who elicit empathy. Other people like it when characters are strictly one or the other. Of course, I support anyone’s criteria for the books they choose to read. It’s a very personal decision, and it should be. I just don’t believe a book is bad because its characters may be.”

There you go. It’s an intriguing subject, and, like her, I wonder how other writers think about it.

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Time Suck

What does space travel, laundry, and cats have in common?

Why, they’re all time sucks, of course.

My wife shared information from an article about time savings and modern American life. Most households, particularly women, have seen a dramatic decrease in how long it takes to prepare meals. It used to require about two hours per meal. Of course, breakfast was rarer in those days.

On the other hand, laundry is an area where people don’t save time. The reasons derive from our attitudes toward hygiene, washing clothes, the increasing specialization in clothing, and fashion. We have and wear more clothes, and change them for more uses, whereas we used to accept being a little dirtier. The increased quantity and specialization equals more time doing laundry.

My time sucks today were more prosaic and had less to do with modern living. One involved a clogged toilet in one bathroom, a clogged sink in another bathroom, and a vomiting cat.

I’d just finished bathing and dealing with the clogged sink when Quinn puked. I was whining to myself about the sink and my hairiness. I’m sure that’s what caused it. The master bath has two sinks, and it was my sink that was clogged. He bugged me for food. He’s a small critter with a high anxiety level that causes him to leap up and race out of a room, so I’m always trying to fatten him up and encourage him to eat more. I fed him, per his request.

Then it was time for some morning business. All was successful, until the flush. Water rose and nothing went down. As I swore about that, I heard puking in the other room. I raced out in time to witness Quinn heaved a hair ball and his meal.

His deed was done on the hardwood floor. That means clean it up ASAP. I grabbed toilet paper and did the task. It was still warm, of course. Some dribbled onto my hand. I gagged reflexively, not a lot, and not as much as I would have in the past. Still, I wonder what it is about warm puke that causes me to gag.

Then it was back to the toilet. I’m not usually religious but facing a clogged toilet usually coaxes a prayer out of me. “Come on, flush,” I said, flushing. Then I corrected myself, “Come on, go down.” My prayers were answered, restoring my uncertainty about God’s existence.

Back in the office, I encountered another time suck. The story in my novel in progress requires Handley to take a shuttle. She enters the airlock but then what does she do? What’s the Avalon‘s layout? To address that, I needed to make a cup of coffee. Coffee helps me think.

Then I sketched the shuttle’s layout with pencil and paper. I should have been satisfied, but my secret geek required me to go to the computer and Illustrator and do it properly. That led to demanding details about the shuttle’s space capabilities, intended purposes, crew requirements, cargo capability, blah, blah, blah….

Done at last, ninety minutes later. By now, I was staring at the rear end of ten thirty. Gadzooks, time had been sucked up.

Of course, I need to point out that space travel wasn’t really the time suck; it was the creative process of writing about it. Does that count as a time suck? Maybe not. I suppose that I didn’t need to go into such detail to create the shuttle, but that’s my nature.

I reckon that’s a confession. It’s really my nature that’s the time suck.

 

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