Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
Mood: retrospective
Good morning. It’s Tuesday, October 3, 2023. 52 F outside, it’s foggy and wet. A light rain falls in Ashlandia, where the water is limited and the optimism is eternal.
A prepondence of Ashlandia trees have embraced autumn and show its effects in their color stylings. This isn’t true in my neighborhood slice. I guess the trees here are late adopters. All immediately outside my window remains verdant with a wet sheen. We’re warm and dry in the house, and the domino effect is that it’s a cozy fall morning. Coffee has brewed, embedding the ambiance with wistful nostalgia.
I’m happy that it’s still shorts weather.
Meanwhile, the cats take opposite approaches to the fall weather shift. Papi, the young ginger blade who likes being outside, came in from the rain and colder temperatures. Right now, he’s posing on the master bed, looking calm and majestic in the soft grey light through the windows. Tucker, a big old cat with thick back and white fur, has headed outside and is curled up and asleep by the front porch cairn, protected from rain by the eaves.
While it’s cool now, we’re going to work our way up to 69 F. People aren’t doing much of the work; the sun, wind, and air do the heavy shifting today.
I tried Amla — Indian Gooseberry — powder today. My wife is always searching for healthy additions to our diet and habits. She’d read about amla and ordered the powder off the net. I added a serving to my oatmeal this morning. The gooseberry powder infused the oatmeal with a sweet berry flavor that I much enjoyed. I’ll be on watch for its impact on my health.
I have “City of New Orleans” as covered by Arlo Guthrie in the morning mental music stream (Trademark screwy). The Neurons selected it because I was reviewing a bill last night from the City of Ashland. This is a utility bill – water, electric, sewer, storm drain, street and street lights. $104 for the month. Half of it is services, fees, and taxes. Part of that is because the electricity charges are offset by our solar panels. 2K, I had them installed back in 2010.
I see clearly how The Neurons were thinking: City of Ashland = “City of New Orleans”.
While I searched for a video version of the song I wanted, I discovered a fascinating video of Mike Campbell explaining how “Boys of Summer” was written. I’ve always enjoyed that song and had wondered who the guitarist was when it was first released. Turned out to be Mike Campbell.
Campbell, who played with Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, also backed Don Henley and Stevie Nicks. He’s a guitarist who I’ve long respected for his clean and simple playing style, so hearing this tale was a treat. It was also a fascinating reveal of some modern rock history, and an engrossing explanation in how he and Henley wrote the song, “Boys of Summer”. Many obstacles and near disasters were overcome. Check it out if you have a moment.
Campbell’s closing remarks reverberated with the writer in me. “When you hit a stumbling block, you gotta keep going. Don’t give up. Keep pushing, pushing, pushing, and working till you get it right.”
Stay pos and fresh, strong and optimistic. Coffee has been guzzled on my end. I’m ready to commence the day. With a morning like this, I’m expecting to have a good day.
Here’s the music. Cheers
I began a new novel project at the beginning of the new year, April Showers 1921. I’m in the exploratory phase. While the character, story, and its cover popped up in a dream, and I can see it and hear the characters and story, sometimes ‘watching it’ like I’m seeing it on a television or movie screen. Then I’m scrambling to capture all the details, translate them to words, get the order right, and get it on paper.
It’s difficult. The pace is fast and relentless. My brain power lacks the capacity to absorb it. Stopping to do and enjoy other things is hard because novel scenes are always popping out. Details spring into mind in the middle of conversations with other people. When I’m in an actual writing session and everything is channeled into a coherent order, the inexorable flow quickens. The faucet is opened but I have no control over the volume that pours into me. Becoming intense and exciting, I fall behind again, forcing me to break off and pace to regain control, take a deep breath, and go at it again.
I also want to jump ahead to learn more about the villains. They intrigue me, but my muses are being coy about them. They offer tantalizing glimpses but won’t let me see the whole thing yet.
Yeah, weird, but it’s my process. If I could, I’d just stay here with this novel, hour after hour, watching, listening, shaping and writing. I’d probably deprive myself of sleep and exercise, but not coffee, water, and food – a man needs to know his limitations.
I remind myself of my basic writing approach.
These sessions leave me spent, as you can probably understand. I vex others because most energy is being diverted into writing this novel while I submit my last finished work to agents in search of publication.
The coffee shop is closing, and they’re kicking us out. It’s their usual Sunday thing. Done writing like crazy, at least for now.
I feel the same. Juggling, a scene, character, setting, or bit of dialogue crystallizes into a pattern. That’s the start. Then it’s a continual process of juggling, crystallizing, filtering, processing, and typing, exploring, finding, and filling the pattern.
Seems inevitable that I’d have a dream about cats. Four cats deign to let me live in the house with them. All were strays or left another house by their choice to come live with me. Besides them, Pepper from next door stays on our porch and wants me to feed her (which I do), and two other neighbor cats seek me for hand-outs. I’m a soft touch.
But when I started writing about the cat dream, I concluded the dream wasn’t about cats. They were symbols being used. The words I chose to explain what was happening indicated the dream was about other things.
It was another dream of chaos (like, straight out of the courts). So much was going on, and my dream started in the middle of it. I was carrying a cat (not one that I have, nor have ever had) from one end of a busy, hectic place, to another. People kept calling me over to come and see or do something, or help them out. I ended up multi-tasking, and ending up losing the cat.
Now the dream became a story about a flooftective. Calling the cat, asking others if they’d seen her, I walked around shaking a kibble box, my agenda re-arranged. Thinking I’d heard it back by my place, I went there.
The dream gets weird. My place didn’t have walls, but was framed for walls. Doors and windows had been installed, but there wasn’t a ceiling. There was a fireplace, and a wall-less bathroom. Instead of using it, I chose to go up the hill to a public restaurant, clean, but not convenient.
My place was also unbelievably disorganized, with boxes strewn about, including empty cracker boxes. Anyone who knows me will recognize how different that is from my real life.
Without walls, people walked in and out of my place at will, exasperating me. I became stern about stopping people as they did that. A cat fight erupted, distracting me again. As I hunted down those involved, I discovered a cat that wasn’t mine as at the fight’s center. He looked like my current cat, Tucker, with thick, black and white fur and a bushy tail. As I was talking to this cat, asking, “Who are you?” in a calm voice, I heard a woman calling for Harold. While I called over to her, asking if her cat was black and white, the black and white cat left. I decided it was probably Harold.
The dream, or my memory of it, ended.
***
Writing about the dream, I found myself using expressions like ‘multi-tasking’. I ended up applying it to my writing efforts.
Other clues were there, like being side-tracked, the missing walls, and the sense of chaos and disorganization. See, while writing this series this week, I became diverted into a fifth book in it. I soon recognized it would be a stand-alone novel that shared the concept and setting, much like the relationship between The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings trilogy.
Then, I realize how much I enjoy the creative side of writing. I dislike the rest of it. I don’t mind editing and revising – that’s like solving puzzles – but the business side is anathema to me. So, if I don’t finish, I’m working on a series, but there’s no pressure to finish and publish.
Cunning, aren’t I?
So, after thinking of the dream and situation, I knew that I had to stop working on the new, fifth novel, and finish the original series as envisioned. I can later go back to the fifth novel, if I want.
Right?
Right.
Recently traveling, socializing and visiting with family, I wasn’t able write as frequently as desired. I didn’t think that would be an issue. I’ve developed a source of pride about being able to sit down and write anywhere. I learned, yes, and no. After thinking more, I recognized that I follow the Rhythm Method.
There are a few easy steps to my process.
What I learned during these past few weeks is that if I’ve accomplished steps one and two, I can do three, four and five. Those first two steps are most critical to my entire process.
Deep thinking. This is all about connecting the dots by reviewing what I’ve written and what I expect to write, and discovering plot holes, new directions, and character issues. I usually do this while I’m walking or doing mundane chores, like yard-work or washing and waxing the car. It’s personal and private; others’ presence tends to mute it, although it will come alive while reading, or watching movies or television shows. Traveling with my significant other and visiting with family kept this repressed.
Realization and visualization. Deep thinking is significantly abstract. It can revolve around a setting, character’s appearance, plot twist or concept. Becoming a compilation of thoughts, ideas and insights, more concrete understanding emergences. From those come sentences, scenes, paragraphs and descriptions. I leap into the next step.
Writing in my head. Some people call this phantom writing, but writing in my head is my preferred expression. At this point, my understanding of what’s to come is so solid that I begin seeing it in a finished book. It’s a strange and eerie experience. My wife once read to me a quote from someone that said that everything that’s created already exists; we’re just creating it for this life experience. In this phase of the Rhythm Method, I can seriously believe and accept that.
Typing and editing. This is the easy stuff of ‘writing like crazy’. I just let it pour out, trying to faithfully capture what I glimpsed on those pages when I was writing in my head. The essence is most critical. Spelling, grammar, pacing, character traits, and details are all shoved aside to stalk and bring in the essence of the scene. Once I have that, I can return to fix all the rest.
Editing, revising and expanding. This is a deeper follow-up to typing and editing. Often when I finish with the previous phase, I recognize that some decisions I made will affect chapters and scenes previously written. I’ll make notes to vet that belief and fix it. Sometimes more detailed research is required for verisimilitude. That happens in this phase. I’m always on alert in this phase to make the writing active and to eliminate clichés. I’ve also learned that while writing like crazy, I have a habit of telling what I see, and then realizing it and describing it, so I’ll go in to ensure I’m showing and not telling, and eliminate redundacies.
Repeat. Yep, do it all again. My writing process is organic. It often isn’t linear. I’ll usually realize more critical scenes early, scenes that define the essence and tone of the book. Then I’ll need to add bridge scenes. Sometimes I’ll uncover a plot twist. I’ll write it to keep it alive and fresh, but then need to go back in and add the pivot points to help the reader get from there to here. I also tend to write fast, and realize that I like more depth and detail to what I’m reading, so returning to the rhythm Method, I’ll begin with some deep thinking about the characters’ lives and motivations.
My favorite part of all this is that typing and editing phase but the entire process excites me. The first steps are about creativity and problem solving. It is fun. But typing and editing makes it real. Editing, revising and expanding turns it into a draft manuscript. Repeat it enough, and I’ll end up with a novel or short story.
And that’s what is most rewarding.
What of you, writers?
How do you write?
Writers, poets, musicians and artists all know this, I think, but I write to express my feelings to and for myself. I share it on the blog to find some validation and to give others encouragement, so I’ll share this today.
I’m riding the wave. The wave is when the work in progress is fully comprehended and effortlessly reached, providing a calming high. I’m buoyant and yet introspective, but I don’t mind being like that because I’m happy. Writing is going great. It’s constantly with me but I see that as a beautiful, wonderful state.
My friends probably wonder about my absence. I haven’t been out for beers for over a week. My wife probably thinks I’m losing some cognitive functions because I drive to the wrong place. I can’t and don’t explain that I’m still writing in my head. The story is so rich and real, I don’t want to disturb it, but just write and write. I also know that my enthusiastic descriptions of what I’m doing, what’s going on with me, and what’s happening in the novel tends to create an EGO state for her – eyes glazing over. Only other creative people, involved in their own realms of endeavor, can truly understand. I get that. It shades my existence with loneliness because I can’t share with all these others, these non-writers, non-musicians, non-artists and non-poets. They just don’t seem to get it. But then, I’m not social, so I don’t hunger with the urge to socialize, and it amuses me to watch others engage in that drive.
There are other drives I don’t have that others display. Hunting, dancing, hobbies, making money. Thinking about them and striving to gather insights into those activities and their influences on the people and societies is part of my writing enjoyment.
It’s been a long ride on this wave. I wonder when it’s going to break, so I’ve resisted writing about it, fearful my mentioning it will jinx it. Even as I finished writing this and I read it again, I think, do I really want to put this out there? This wave is so strong, I’m still with Handley on the bridge, peering over her shoulder and spying on her thoughts and actions, and contemplating what’s happening with Pram, Richard and Brett. This wave is strong.
Oh, the coffee is drained. Two thousand words have been written and edited, and ninety minutes have elapsed. A weather storm is approaching so there are real existence matters to attend. Selfishly, I hope we don’t have a power outage, that the storm isn’t strong, because I don’t want the wave to break. I know how shallow that seems, that in this world of life and death, I’m thinking of myself and my writing. I laugh at myself, mocking my priorities.
But of course I hope others safely survive, that the damages aren’t too great, that when they are great, people are able to rebuild and continue on. And of course, I understand, death is a natural part of life. Yet, even in those wishes, hopes, and acceptance, the writer within thinks of the scenes, emotions and dialogue, and imagines the emerging stories….
Writing really is a sickness.
But it’s such a beautiful thing.
Cheers
Michael Seidel, writer 