Tag: writing

Sunday’s Theme Music

More of the Kinks today, courtesy of nothing but the random firing of neurons that develop my neural stream.

In retrospect, I think I can track a rough, macro line of the neurons firing from a dream about kinetic energy to brainstorming about kinetic time (and imaginary- and anti-time), Chi-particles (and there most certainly must be anti-Chi-particles) and the arrows of time, to writing like crazy, to sitting back and thinking about the series in progress (Incomplete States) (and novel in progress (Good-bye, Hello)) to imagining people’s reaction upon reading the series that I must be ignorant and crazy. From there, I jump to fantasy, (because, I imagine them saying, “He’s living in a fantasy world, writing that stuff,”) and, voilà, I hear the Kinks’ recording of “A Rock ‘n Roll Fantasy”.

From the Misfits album of 1978, here’s “A Rock ‘n Roll Fantasy”

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The Kinetic Dream

I dreamed I heard crashing waves and knew it was the sea, and then entered a place. I wasn’t alone but was with friends (yet there was no one I recognized from my life).

We walked grassy paths which sometimes had stone pavers. The paths were narrow. It was a haphazard arrangement. It seemed like the lanes wove around multiple small cottages.

A sense of age permeated the settlement. Made of rough stone, the picturesque cottages had small, red or green doors, low roofs and soft, amber-toned walls. Yellow light, like candle or fireplace light, was shining through their four-pane windows. Many windows had flower boxes with red or white pansies growing in them. Sometimes I saw people, mostly children, in the cottages.

As I walked about the place, I had a sense that they’d been separate cottages which had then had a roof built over them to enclose them. I made that comment, which incensed an older man (tall and white, balding, with a dark, disheveled mustache and goatee), who was apparently the owner. I didn’t know why he was upset; it wasn’t anything derogatory, but he seemed to take it that way. I tried to explain what I meant and why, but he brushed me off.

Meanwhile, a younger white woman with short, light-brown hair, told me to remember to say things from time to time. I gathered from her I was there to give a speech. I was to talk about energy. She was a teacher; she wanted to ensure that I explained kinetic energy correctly.

She and I separated. She was with one group and I was in another. My group were adults. They were all friends. Children made up the teacher’s group. She was talking to the children about kinetic energy and explaining examples, showing how kinetic energy held things up. I started thinking, that’s not what kinetic energy is. She said that kinetic energy was what made walls and chairs stand up. Hearing her, I’d look at her, and she would make fists and cross her arms and say, “Kinetic energy.”

Even though I nodded at her in agreement, I was confused because that’s not what I thought kinetic energy was. I tried remembering other forms of energy so that I could talk to her. We came across a large window. In it were two chairs and a table. I looked from it to her. “Kinetic energy,” she said, smiling and nodding, her fists clenched and her arms crossed.

I awoke.

After writing this and thinking about it, I see how it fits into the series I’m writing, Incomplete States, but more thought is needed.

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Botcheck

I botchecked myself (another noun becoming a verb). Verification was returned that I’m a bot.

The results trouble me, of course. If I’m a bot, why have they made me so human? (And who is they who made me?) I don’t need to struggle with weight and mood swings to convince others that I’m human, do I? I know many humans without weight issues and mood swings who seem quite human to me.

Maybe they’re not human.

Also, if they made me a human-like bot, why did they push me to want to be a writer? Was this by original design specifications, or has something gone awry with my wiring? It sure feels like my wiring might be off, with the plethora of crazy dreams I experience and all the muse bullshit that I endure.

After running this information through my systems a few more times, I settled on several questions as more important than the others.

  1. Who made me, and what was their purpose?
  2. How long will I be here?
  3. Am I on assignment, or did I arrive here by accident?
  4. Finally, most importantly, am I still under warranty?

You’d think that, as a bot, I’d be able to find this information without great difficulty. You’d think that, and you’d be wrong. For some reason, my maker is keeping me in the dark about these things.

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Embedded Plans

A friend asked my wife, “Is Michael always so affable?”

I laughed, of course. The friend was encountering social Michael. He’s affable, but he has a very short half-life.

To her credit, my wife said, “Mostly. He has his moods. He’s okay as long as I don’t disrupt his writing time. Then he turns into a bear, and it’s not Yogi or Boo-Boo.”

My writing day doesn’t begin until about eleven A.M. I walk before my writing session as part of my process. When I’m writing, I target scenes to measure progress, and not word count. I’m frequently able to think about where I left off, and then resume writing it in my mind as I walk. When I get in and sit down, I usually know what I want to write.

This doesn’t always work because the muses have their own plans. I try to be flexible, but it’s a struggle. I like having plans. Plans provide me with structure and illusions of control.

When the muses throw me off with their reveals, I often need to stop to see where they’re taking me. Since my writing time is precious, I’ll frequently go back and edit what I’ve written when that happens. That keeps me engaged in writing while giving my subconscious mind the opportunity to meet with the muses and hash it out. (There’s not actually any hashing out. The muses know where they want to take the story. It’s up to me to do as told. I like to say we’re hashing it out because it gives me the illusion of it being a collaborative effort.)

My writing session only lasts about two and a half hours. Plans are embedded around it, especially walking. Walking is my number one form of exercise, and it helps me process information.

My walking plans change by season. That’s not just spring, summer, autumn, and winter, but the embedded seasons of hot, fucking hot, cold, fucking cold, wet, and smoky.

We’re into the fucking hot season now, defined by jokes like, “Look, the temperature has dipped. It’s ninety-seven.” The forecasted highs range between ninety-nine and one hundred two for the next ten days.

For all the seasons, I break my walking down into bite sized goals. My overall walking goals remain about twenty thousand steps and ten flights. During the FH season, I try to make fifty-five hundred steps before I start writing at eleven. After I write, I then target ninety-one hundred steps. That gives me four miles by three P.M.

After that, plans are flexible and adjusted according to what else the day requires. I frequently end up walking about two and a half miles in the evening, leaving the house about eight forty-five and returning an hour later. Because we live in a hilly area, my flights go up to about sixty one these days. (I can do that during this season because we have more hours of daylight. This doesn’t work as well when it’s cold and dark, so I adjust.)

For all that, they are just plans. They rarely survive reality. In the end, I ride the wave of the day, seizing moments and narrowing my focus as needed.

Okay, today’s therapy is finished. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.

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