Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
A mug of steaming, fresh black coffee in hand, I strode back to the table where my laptop waited. “Okay,” I said, “Let’s write, brother.”
Write brother. That cracked me up. I’m a rainbow, and one broad band is definitely goofy.
Time to write like crazy, one more time.
So I settle in with coffee and thoughts, expecting to think away, type away, imagine away. I imagine I’ll be here a while, so see you later.
Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.
A northern wind slices off some of the sun’s warmth. It’s a surprisingly clear, bright sun, the kind of sun that appears after storms dump inches and feet of snow.
But there’s no snow today. Snow is as rare as found diamonds this year. Ashland’s traffic is light. Town’s energy emanates a feel-good vibe. Restaurants are gearing up for lunch. Enticing aromas tempt and tease on every corner and most doors. I identify grilled burgers, French fries, and grilled onions among the scents. There are others that tantalize but leave without identification. We have a lot of good eateries and abundant offerings. Fortunately, their plot to capture me is avoided.
The writer, editor, and I discuss today’s writing plans, works spoken only in my head, so others don’t pin unwanted labels on me. The plans are fully developed, and I’m eager to get to them.
Still, I walk, thinking about last night’s dreams. One in particular trots alongside my thoughts. I was doing dishes, and I had a plan, but I was falling behind…is that about writing, life, or something else? It involved a POTUS but not the current guy. Others want to step in to help me, but a woman instructs them, “Let him go.” I struggle, turning in different directions, becoming thoughtless and distracted about what I was doing. It occurs to me that the sinks in my dream were full of dirty dishes and hot, soapy water. I slip a reminder into my head to look that up.
Lifted by the day, I walk longer and farther than planned, but finally make the turns necessary to reach my office away from home, the coffee shop where I write. ‘My’ space is available, and I take to it.
Time to write like crazy, at least one more.
I was stalling this morning. I knew what I wanted to write. Several scenes were queued in the writing stream, ready for release.
But I was stalling. Why? I like to think I was limbering myself. So I checked news, stocks, sports, weather…idling my writing mind, passing time…ahem, stalling.
I know some of the stalling was due to uncertainty. While I knew these scenes, I wrestled with another aspect of the trilogy. That sort of excursion always slows me, no matter what project I’m working
My stalling ended abruptly with one line that I read:
“Browns find out how far down the rabbit hole goes”
A new angle of dialogue and thought were ignited. Like that, I went from stalling to impatiently writing.
Then I paused to write about it and share it with you.
I asked myself about that: why was I posting about it? But writing’s point for me it to help me think about what I was doing, and why I was doing it. I spare you deeper words and insights, because I’m writing for me, and doing just enough to unleash my thinking.
Okay, time to write like crazy, at least one more time, even if it is a new year.
A chapter was ‘completed’ yesterday. It was one of five chapters in progress in this portion of telling the story. I often work like this, because events happen in parallel, or results from one chapter affect the others.
Finishing the chapter, I didn’t think of it as a first draft as much as I thought of it as an alpha version. Playing with that idea, I decided a chapter isn’t a draft until the whole novel is completed as a draft. Beta is better, because it’s pretty complete, but subject to other possible changes, unknown at the point of first completion, because I’m an organic writer, and I don’t know what else is going to happen. Things that happen later can often force changes to chapters and scenes already written.
Calling it beta is something that just came to be yesterday, stolen from the software development world. Once I completed that chapter, I walked around, mumbling to myself, “Now what? What comes next?” I had no idea. The chapter was done, a pivot point established, and I no clue where it was pivoting to. Yes, I know the book’s ending, and how the trilogy ends, but that’s like saying that you know what a country is like because you know the country’s shape.
Coming in to write this morning, I still didn’t know was to happen. Walking, I distracted myself by thinking of other things, like cryptocurrency and politics. Then pop –
Write this. This will demonstrate that. Then write this, and this, and this.
Suddenly I had a chain of beginnings and kernels of scenes. Computer fired up, coffee swallowed, I bent my head and typed streams of words. New alpha chapters were started. One of them reached beta. Even as I wrote them, I saw another pivot developing, but could not quite see how it all fit together. But, as I’ve learned, it’s best for me not to worry myself about it, but just to write to it. Writing to it will take carry me forward as needed. I don’t seem to consciously understand what’s happening, but on some sub-conscious level, the words and scenes are all known, like the book is already written somewhere else, and I’m just opening the pages and copying them.
Sounds crazy, doesn’t it? But it works. I’ll take it.
It’s odd, but I want to keep writing because it’s been fun and productive, and I feel like I’m riding a terrific wave, yet, my writer’s sense is telling me to stop. So, I’ll acquiesce to that voice.
Great day of writing like crazy. Time to go eat lunch.
The dreams, the dreams.
A tsunami of eclectic dreams lifted me up and carried me out. The numeral “seven” dominated. I know of at three instances. I believe that I counted seven dreams, and seven appeared in two of them.
An argument ensued, and a rift opened between two groups. I knew them all. I thought it was bullshit, and stayed loyal to my friend. The rest were throwing a party. My friend was being ostracized and wouldn’t go. I went anyway, to make a point. The host asked me if I was still friends with the other guy. I said, “Yes.” “Then you’ll need to pay seven dollars for a beer.”
Fine. WTF? went through my mind. Was that supposed to intimidate me?
I left the house through a back door, just to get fresh air. A Saint Bernard was there. He wanted out. I knew he wasn’t supposed to get out, but he got out when I opened the door. He ran around a moment, and then I said, “Get back into the house,” which he did. I returned to the party and went to the hostess. I had not finished my beer, but I wasn’t staying. I gave her the seven dollars and said, “Give this to your husband.” She didn’t understand and didn’t want to accept it. “Just give it to him,” I said. “Tell him it’s from me. He’ll understand.”
Seven appeared again later:
I’d been waiting with my friend to take a course. He remained ostracized. People avoided our table, and our so-called friends were rude to us. The instructor, noticing this, told my friend and I, “Pay me seven dollars. You’ve finished the course.”
“No, we haven’t taken it yet. We’re waiting to take it.”
“No, you don’t need it. You’ve already taken it. Here’s your certificates. Just give me seven dollars.”
Okay.
It was interesting that I was receiving seven dollars, and then giving seven dollars, all under the umbrella of seven dreams.
In another dream vignette, I didn’t like how matters were transpiring. I was being interrogated and told to sign a loyalty statement. That made everyone afraid. I was afraid at that point, but then asked, “Why should I be afraid? I will not.” So I endured, and signed. Everyone else told me that was a mistake. I said, “You’re thinking wrong about this. As long as they have you afraid to sign, they’ll control you. But because I’ve signed, I can never be controlled again.”
They did try to make me sign again, but I prevailed against them, twice, and felt damn good about it.
Then there was the scene where I was in someone else’s new house. It was very high-tech and expensive, with many windows, and even glass walls inside the house. Its layout bemused and amused me. I thought they were trying too hard. While walking through, I saw a wreath with a candle in a box. I’d seen this in portions of other dreams, sometimes in a box, but sometimes hanging on a door. I’d come to know that these were made and distributed by William Shatner.
Seeing this one, I pointed it out to my friend. I said, “They’re everywhere.” My friend said, “That William Shatner is an evil genius.” We laughed.
Out of all this, I awoke from dreaming and slipped into writing mode. I needed to write a chapter called “Circle,” I realized. “Circle” began acquiring substance as soon as the word was known.
So here I go, writing like crazy, at least one more time.
In today’s writing metaphor, I’m weaving a trilogy.
I’ve been writing here in the coffee shop for two hours. I still have three-quarters of my drink remaining.
Sitting down to write, I opened a floodgate to the dam of words – sorry, another metaphor – and they gushed out. Again came an unanticipated scene, and a surprising pivot. With it came more tangible substance about the third novel, and what’s to happen in it. And with that, I began writing the third novel of the “Incomplete States” trilogy (previously known as “Long Summer”). Still have some to write with the first novel to complete the initial draft, though. I was reluctant to do it, and that’s when the weaving metaphor arrived.
Novel three didn’t have a working title. Creating the Word doc, I just called it Book Three. I didn’t want to slow down to think of a title. I just wanted to get those words into the computer. Between books one and three, I wrote one chapter in book one, and the kernal of a chapter in book three, about thirty-two hundred words total.
It’s been an excellent day of writing like crazy. It’s fucking exciting, even though it’s also sometimes beautiful but terrifying. I put it like that because I see and know the scenes and the arcs, but I don’t know the words and the details, and I worry that I’ll lose them before the trilogy is finished. It became such an intense experience that sometimes I needed to get up and walk around to vent enough energy to focus and type.
It’s fun and exciting, too, being in these stories with these characters, on vivid other worlds and starships. Sometimes, it feels like I’m there, experiencing it through them, and then returning to this life to record what happened. Crazy, right?
Yes. I guess that’s a side-effect of writing like crazy.
After finishing one chapter, I bought a fresh cuppa coffee and began the next chapter. I’m excited. I know what to write, although, again, imagination and characters have taken me into unexpected directions.
Mixed in with my thoughts about writing this novel are a host of other matters to attend. I’ve been procrastinating about them, and worrying about them, even as I urge myself, “Just fucking do it.” And then, without warning, my dream about the cookies, and the job interview (to sell cookies) comes into focus. Understanding blooms. I know what it means, and it surprises me, but also makes me happy.
It’s just fascinating how our brains and minds work on so many levels. Been a great day of writing like crazy. Just a little more to do today, and then I’ll call it.
I was stymied in my writing yesterday. I’d written a bunch (technical writing slang for “many words and a long time”) yesterday, and made great progress. But —
As great comedians have noted, there’s always a “but.”
My but came because I didn’t write the scene I’d intended. I wrote the setup for the scene, and then went blank. I knew what happened after that scene, so I wrote the other end of it. Now I had bookends, with blank space to fill in the middle. I knew the subsequent scene to those scenes, and began writing them in my head after I’d stopped physically writing. But that scene I’d set out to write? Still blank.
I sporadically considered the scene’s elements, setup and outcome through the evening as I walked, ate, read books, and fed the cats. Nothing firmed. It was like Jello that wouldn’t set.
Come this morning, though, as I rose, fed cats, checked on the solar panels invertor, and made coffee, the scene swam into view. Confrontations and dialogue developed. Unexpected actions by the characters joined. As the scene expanded and crystallized, changes required to the setup, outcome, and the subsequent story being written in my head emerged. By the time I’d finished showering and shaving, and was dressing, words rushed into my head. That’s exciting and fun.
Got my coffee. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.
I just wrote a sentence in the novel-in-progress. Reflecting on its significance, I looked at the distant horizon of the novel’s conclusion and saw how this sentence impacted the outcome, tens of thousands of words away.
This reminds me of so many plans made. The long game needs to be played. I didn’t take up some vocations because of their long roads, like astrophysics and architecture. Oh, to study all those years, and learn all that math. Ugh. I lacked the patience, and the outcome seemed so tortuously distant and uncertain. Besides which, I probably wasn’t sufficiently smart or disciplined to pursue those courses. Thus comfortably rationalized out of trying those things, I set my sights on easier, and more comfortable targets.
Now I’m writing, what, the tenth novel? More? I’ve published four. More await editing and polishing. They need covers. More concepts queue to become novels. More stories stack up to be told.
I began writing because I thought I could do it. I’ve worked on it and continued working on it even as I sometimes slump over blank pages and screens, even as I read novels and admire others’ talents and skills, and wish I could attain half of their skill. I continue believing that I have so many shortages of skills, but I continuing writing and trying. I saw the long road demanded of writing a novel, but it didn’t matter. The other possible vocations interested and appealed to me, but writing is an addiction with the intangible draw of a true love.
Just some thoughts to conclude another day of writing like crazy.
Michael Seidel, writer 