Tag: novel writing

Computational Hardness

I was reading about John Nash and ending up on a quest to read more about computational hardness. Computational hardness struck a chord with me about the series I’m writing, Incomplete States.

In computational complexity theory, a computational hardness assumption is the hypothesis that a particular problem cannot be solved efficiently (where efficiently typically means “in polynomial time”). It is not known how to prove (unconditional) hardness for essentially any useful problem. Instead, computer scientists rely on reductions to formally relate the hardness of a new or complicated problem to a computational hardness assumption about a problem that is better-understood.

h/t to Wikipedia.org

The basic foundation about the Incomplete States series involves the arrows of time and character interaction through the framework known and accepted as reality. As I played with the concept behind the series, experienced epiphanies, and evolved my understanding of the concept I wrote about on a fictional stage, I struggled with the ending. I didn’t want me (or readers) to finish the series and say, “Well, that was a waste of time.” I eventually conceived of an ending that matched the story-telling, an ending that I could accept as a writer, and would probably be accepted by most readers. By that, I mean there’s a satisfactory completeness, if not a conclusion and closure in the traditional sense.

Sounds like science fiction. You could call it that. You can also call it speculative fiction.

Haruki Murakami

See, at my core, even though I’m an organic writer, I seek order and structure to what I’m writing and doing, something that defines the path(s) that I’m following and establishes goals. That helped me put my ass in a seat in front of a computer, type, revise, and edit day after day for the past two years. Computational hardness assumptions and falsifiability helped me understand that what I was doing as I was writing the interacting, nested, and overarching stories of the six main characters in the four novels in Incomplete States was processing reductions, creating and transferring problems to other problems.

In essence, the problems presented couldn’t be solved, but creating and transferring the problems to other problems helped elaborate on the problem for the me (the writer), the characters, and the reader. Doing this enabled me to eliminate solutions for the three of us, and drive and narrow focus. Through the characters and stories, I would go through best, worst, and average case resolutions for them for a given path being followed.

“The first draft is just you telling yourself the story.”

The beta draft is almost finished. With it done, I’ll have a much fuller understanding of what I set out to do. When I read the million words of output, I’ll see where I deviated or failed. Then I’ll be able to further shape, refine, and reduce the story that the series tells.

It’s been a challenging series to write. It feels like the series has absorbed much of my life energy. As I draw close to completing the beta draft, I’m eager to be done, and sad that this part is almost finished.

This part is the imagining. This part is where I plunged into the deepest oceans of creativity, diving down until I ideas and stories crushed me. Then I surfaced, sucked in a deep breath, and plunged in again.

This part was so much fun.

I don't know what I'm doing, but I'm doing it really, really well!!!

As I wrote, I created a document called “Epiphany”. It’s a compass to help me sort thoughts and establish consistently on a macro level. I developed thirteen epiphanies as I wrote the series.

The epiphany that grew as the greatest one to keep in mind was, “The key to consistency is consistent inconsistency.” Frankly, it scares me. I get anxious thinking about those words. It seems like an oxymoron, yet, once established, I was surprised how well it works. I imagine readers writing it and clearly understanding what and why is going on. It doesn’t just spring up; I like my readers to think for themselves.

Douglas Adams

My coffee is at hand and my ass is in the chair. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.

 

 

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The Loops

The characters have become weary and cynical near the end of the Incomplete States series. I wonder how much they influence me and the converse. It’s an interesting loop on its own.

But of course I taste what they feel. It’s necessary. Regardless of my process, whether it’s all deeply in me and I’m mining the story, or it’s being fed to me or channeled through me from some other existence, as it sometimes feels (thanks to the power of focus and imagination), I taste the words, and they affect me.

Balancing the scales, writing and progress continues, and I’m enjoying it. It’s an empowering experience. (The end is nigh!) Thinking about it, it’s almost the opposite of the Doom Loop. It’s the Success Loop. (Weird that as long as I’ve heard of the Doom Loop, I’ve never thought about the Success Loop. I looked it up, confirming, yes, such a creature exists – of course.)

Like the Doom Loop, the Success Loop is a spiral. But where the Doom Loop takes you down (because you expect less, so you try less, etc.), the Success Loop lifts you up. You’re building on what you’ve achieved, adding success. As success is added, success is expected, so you work harder for that success. You learn to know and love the taste and feel of success, and the power and confidence that it generates.

The Success Loop is often a strong but fragile thing in a writer. Like a spider web, it has impressive strength for what it is, but like a web, it’s easily broken. If I’m an average writer and others are like me, we worry about not having enough talent, skill, luck, drive, energy, or time to be the writer that we think we can be, that we want to be. We’re always worried that we’ll fall short.

That’s not bad. Those worries anger and inflame me, often encouraging me, try harder, work harder, and do not give up. 

The characters have become grittier as I come to the end. “I want to reach the end,” they tell themselves and one another. “This must be ended.” And they push, and push, thinking that they can succeed.

In this case, I know more than them. I know the ending. It’s been written. All of this action is the final bridge to what will be, what already is. What they do now will not affect their ending.

I think that with such confidence, knowing how I’m tricking myself. These are written words. They’re subject to change. Especially once editing and revising begins.

As a final loop, I wonder, has my ending been written? Is what I’m trying to write and achieve all for nothing because my destiny is established and sealed, and nothing will change it?

Maybe, but perhaps not. Perhaps there multiple loops.

Maybe I’ll leap onto one of those.

It’s been a good day of writing like crazy, once again. I’m hungry, the coffee is gone, and, man, my butt feels sore.

Time to go on to other things.

For now.

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July

“July,” he whispered. “Feel the passing year’s cold breath breathing down your neck?”

He flicked it aside. “It’s just time. It’s just air. It’s nothing that matters.”

Then he resumed writing like crazy.

It was all that mattered.

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Cold Coffee, Hot Writing

It was an exhausting, satisfying, and intense writing session today. All those muses who reside in the apartments of my being were silenced, except one. They knew exactly what I was to write, and one was the designated director.

Barely able to keep up, I hit that flow. The story’s complexities and this path that I’m following demanded that I first edit the two chapters I’d finished yesterday. Then, the muse dictated, start this chapter, and then another, and so on, until five chapters were being written in parallel. Had to be, because of the nature of the unfolding events. I typed, editing and revising, jumping between pages, paragraphs, characters, and chapters as ordered and needed, trying hard to keep up.

Finally stopping, I look up and engage in the coming-out period. Looking out the window, a line from “Uncle Salty” by Aerosmith comes to me: “Ooo, it’s a sunny day outside my window.”

Coming out after writing is always odd. These are the long seconds endured after intense writing when I re-enter life, my existence, reality, whatever you want to call it. I hear music and see other people. An air-conditioner’s chilly breeze teases my bare legs and neck. I feel detached from being there. What feels most real is that my butt cheeks feel sore and numb, and muscle strain stretches across my shoulders.

Still, I feel detached. I continue thinking about what’s been written, and what’s meant to be written yet, and how much work remains. Once the beta version of all four novels in this series are completed, I then need to edit and revise them until I have a first draft of all, something that I feel complete enough to regard as books. That will be a huge chunk of work. I think I’m looking at the rest of the year and beyond.

With those thoughts still strong, I drink my coffee, cold as an iceberg. Three-fourths of that cup remains. It’s time to stop writing like crazy; I can feel that, like the muse has said, “Okay, that’s enough for today. We’ll pick up here tomorrow.”

Still, I feel detached. My fictional world was so much sharper. I was engaged so much more deeply. It took a lot of energy to go that deeply into the flow, I realize. I’ve noticed this before without comprehending it. Going into the flow takes strength, energy, and commitment to induce myself to release enough to accept it.

I’m hungry, too, and realize that I’ve been hungry for a while, and I need to hit the restroom. Yes, time to stop writing like crazy today.

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The Walls

Thinking about what I’m doing in my writing and thinking, and writing and posting to understand what I’m thinking and writing.

See, I had to leave my characters behind and scale the walls once again. First I did it while I was walking, but once I glimpsed the territory, I needed to map it out on paper.

I don’t know if you’re familiar with the walls. I’ve never heard other writers use the expression as I use it. The walls establish the characters’ limits of knowledge. They’re different for each character — all remember, realize, experience, or know different aspects than others.

Beyond the walls are the other events taking place that will affect the characters. How much is happening and what you, the writer, decides to share, depends on the story you’re telling. For examples, walls are frequently employed in sitcoms. One character establishes some half-ass fact or understanding predicated on misheard or overheard information, or glimpse something and make a wrong assumption, initiating a chain of misguided decisions. We, the audience, knows what’s going on beyond the wall. That sets up the humor.

We see the walls in the Jason Bourne movie franchise, where many walls are employed, torn down, or penetrated. Secrecy, security, dirty histories, and personal agendas establish and maintain the walls.

In this series that I’m writing, I use multiple walls. A huge part of what’s going on is happening beyond the walls. It’s stuff that wasn’t told to the characters or the readers. Now, though, the characters are storming the walls. They’re planning to tear them down, so I need to go see what’s happening on the other side. To get to that point, I pulled out pen and notebook. I resort to this methodology when I’m going my craziest. Pen and paper is less permanent, and more fluid and malleable. Typewritten words on screen or paper demands grammar, punctuation, and spelling be followed from years of conditioning. The notebook and pen shouts, “Scribble fight!” And off I go.

Got my coffee, and in position. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.

 

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Finishing

I’m reading the third novel in the Dire Earth series by Jason Hough. Like most books that I read, I research the author. I’m curious about who they are.

I liked what I learned about Jason Hough and his writing. The first novel in the series, The Darwin Elevator, was a NaNoWriMo effort in 2008. He didn’t finish it in 2008, though, but kept writing, and found publication for it in 2013. That’s persistence.

Others did it, too, like the author of Water for Elephants, Sara Gruen, Hugh Howey, who wrote Wool, and Erin Morgenstern, author of The Night Circus. Their books were all the results of NaNoWriMo efforts. They didn’t always finish in one November, or in one year. That’s the point: they kept going.

Persistence is invaluable for a writer. Let your vision flow, and let it carry the words. Becoming side-tracked isn’t a problem, as long as you come back and continue. Time isn’t a problem, either; just keep going as the days, months, and years lap you. Endure your self-doubts, and then put them aside and write.

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

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A Dream So Powerful

Last night’s main dream started out exhausting. I think of it as the main dream because I seem to recall snippets of other dreams. I know from other times that I often have several dreams that I remember in a night.

This one was the last dream of the night. I know that because I awoke from it, and it was morning. Like many recent dreams, chaos flushed the first part. I found myself in a crowd. It was extremely noisy. Everyone was walking, including me, but anxiety suffused me from a dozen different issues. First, I panicked about having my laptop with me. Then, after a weird struggle of turning around and looking for it, I discovered I was carrying a bag. Stepping to one side, I opened the bag and confirmed my laptop was inside.

One problem was solved, but now I worried about the date and time. I started walking again, but I seemed to be walking against the stream of people. Making eye contact with others, I asked them, “What time is it,” or “What’s the date?” Some answered, but I couldn’t understand or hear the answers.

That cranked my anxiety to higher levels. Around that time, I found myself at a crossroads between several corridors. Walls and windows were on either side. I realized that I was in an airport. It shocked me that I was in an airport without knowing it. Then I remembered that I’d flown in. Knowing that, I realized I needed to get my bags and leave the airport.

Nothing made sense in the airport, though. The signs seemed contradictory, and it was more crowded and noisier than before. People jostled me and ran into me, pissing me off. Somehow, I found the baggage area, got my bags, and left.

I needed to go to a hotel. I thought it was close and decided to walk. With a hot, humid, and sunny day outside, I was soon sweat covered. My feet hurt, and I was tired and thirsty. I also wasn’t sure where I was going, stopping to look at signs several times. I remember thinking, I wish I had a map, and I remember thinking about setting up my computer and trying to get online to find where I was.

I didn’t do that, though. I kept deciding which way to to and walking. Eventually, I realized that I was close to the ocean, and that’s where my hotel was. That excited me and gave me new hope. Seeing a sign for the beach, I went that way.

The beach wasn’t busy. It was flat, with white sand, and a bright blue sea. Walking toward the crashing waves with my luggage, I reveled in the smell, sight, and sound, and then stopped to enjoy it. There was a large rock off the coast about a hundred yards. I thought I recognized from my travels, but I couldn’t place it.

Looking back, I noticed a man in a black suit with a white shirt and a blue tie step onto the beach. I thought it was strange beach apparel, and that a suit was too hot for this weather. No one else was on the beach, so I wondered what he was doing.

I realized he was coming toward me. His approach made me anxious. I didn’t know him or what he wanted. Coming close, he called me by name, and said, “I’m glad I found you. We’re ready to start.”

“Okay,” I answered.

He took my luggage but I kept my laptop. “Is it far?” I asked.

“No, it’s just up here, around the corner,” he said.

I felt good because that meant that I’d been going in the right direction even though I’d been clueless.

We went around the corner of a building. I realized it was my hotel. But we didn’t go there, which surprised me. Without saying anything, the man in the suit led me across the street. People were lined up by a building. As I approached, some clapped. That confused me, and then some engaged me. I realized from talking with a few and looking around that they had a book that I’d authored, and were talking to me about it. They wanted me to sign it. So I stopped and started signing books and talking to people.

The man in the suit tried interceding. “We should go inside,” he told me. “It’s time to start.”

Apologizing to the people, I followed him, and then woke up.

Surprise and confusion filled me when I woke up. I knew where I was, but I didn’t think I should be there. Sitting up, I looked for my laptop bag, panicking when I didn’t see it, and then sought the man in the suit. As I didn’t see him, either, I realized that I’d been dreaming.

It astonished me because it felt so real. After thinking about it, I decided, what a hopeful, wishful dream.

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Funny to Think

Next month will mark the end of the second year of working on the Incomplete States quadrilogy. I hope to finish writing the fourth book in the series soon. At least, I sense the end feels near. Then I’ll have a beta version of all four books in the series.

Then the work begins, yeah, the real work. The creative writing part, hell, that’s fun and easy. Just turn your mind lose, and then tidy it up so it resembles correct written English and aligns with everything else written until then – to the best of my memory. I know from previous novels that I’ve finished that, in two years of writing these four books, I’ve forgotten a lot of what I’ve written. In fact, novel writing often feels like I’m a channel, a conduit through which the words and ideas flow. I write without remembering large swaths. That’s why the work begins after the beta versions are completed. Hidden in these four books are dead-ends and roundabouts, wandering paths and cliffs. Motivations have been established, shifted, and challenged. Facts must be checked and confirmed.

So on completing four books and about a million words in two years, it’s staggering and funny to realize, the work is just beginning to take the books from beta to first drafts to final drafts to publication. 

Once I finish the fourth book’s beta version – I call them beta because they tie in so completely with one another, they’re not truly a draft until the ties are cleaned up, so they have all the major features, but they’re not complete — I’ll probably take a break and write something simpler. Fans have been asking, where is the next book in Life Lessons with Savanna mystery series. Those books are usually less than one hundred thousand words, and a lot easier to write and finish.

Another day of writing like crazy has to be stopped to attend to real life. I love the tension of this moment, stopping while writing, when so much remains to be written. Makes me eager to jump back into it.

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The Cat Dream

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.

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The Plot Web

Yesterday developed into a sensational writing day, one of those joyful experience that has me shouting, “This is why I write.” I then want to tell everyone about it, but there’s no one to tell. They wouldn’t understand without extensive background explanation, anyway.

But this is my blog, so I’ll go into some of that here.

Essentially, I’d reach a cross roads. I was calling it a cross roads, but that was a convenient and sloppy label. Every character, backed by a muse, had ideas about where the story was to go at this point. I, the writer, was reluctant to embrace their suggestions. I had my reasons.

That foundation created a few days of slow writing. Slow writing isn’t like slow sex. Slow sex, from my understanding (I’ve never experienced it, being a quick little pecker), is sublime, packing in pleasure. Slow writing, though, is more like using a machete to hack your way through a tropical jungle with drums playing in the background, giant mosquitoes trying to carry you away, and huge snakes hanging from the tree branches.

This was the sort of slow writing, coming at my time of month, that made me think, maybe I should just quit writing. Who would care? Nobody would care! Shit, nobody would notice.

Shit replied to me, “That’s oh so true.”

Which ignited a stream of profanities from me at Shit.

Because there were/are so many directions, the crossroads is really the center of a beautiful  orbital web. Which strand do I pluck and follow?

Naturally, being me and the person that I’ve nurtured and developed for six decades, I over-analyzed it all. I am consistent. That was, of course, the greatest issue with the situation. After realizing for the tenth to the twenty-seventh power time that, creatively, I can’t logically and intelligently analyze it because I’m too deeply mired in the mess, and that I had to just suck it all up and write, damn it, I did so, and enjoyed the result. Naturally, too, the writing took me in unexpected directions that I couldn’t see when I was struggling to decide which way to go. Once again, naturally, I learned, just write.

Naturally, there’s a caveat to all of this.

The caveat is that yesterday’s writing experience set up unreasonable expectations for another glorious day of writing. Of course, that’s coming from my logical, emotional, and hopeful sides, and not from the creative and writing sides. I think I’m d20 die, part of a polyhedral dice existence. Roll me and see what comes up for the day.

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

 

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