Tag: writing

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.

6

Between the Cracks

It may be the time,

the energy,

or the intentions,

or the hope.

It might just be the words or the dreams.

But you notice it slipping away,

through the cracks in the space of your life.

It’s the little things, at first.

Then you notice that much of it that you took for granted as yours has gone.

You never noticed the cracks.

You saw that it was two thousand.

Then it was twenty ten, twenty eleven.

Now it’s twenty seventeen.

It was January. Now it’s April.

Today, you order yourself, searching for the words and motivations in the cracks.

Today!

Before more is lost to the cracks,

today, you will write with abandonment.

Today, you will write like crazy.

At least one more time.

1

Dream Magic

My theme music for yesterday was Seal’s ‘Crazy’. The recurring refrain, “Yeah, we’re never gonna survive, unless we get a little crazy,” became my dream’s theme music last night.

Literally.

Last night’s dreams was like a television series. I binged on an entire season. Each episode followed its own arc. Each featured ‘Crazy’ as music after the episode’s climax.

The dreams began with one in which, I thought, how funny, I’m not even in this dream. I was witnessing a convention. It was a packed, happy, energetic crowd. Displays were being set up. Demonstrations took place.

I drifted into one demonstration, making my first appearance in the dream. It was about hacking. Interesting and amusing. No, not just about hacking, my dream persona observed, but hacking magic.

I was with friends. Everyone was perplexed about what was being demonstrated. Suddenly, I grasped it; when three cubes could be aligned and turned into one color, magic took place.

Like the old computer game, Tetris.

Okay.

But more magic hacking was being demonstrated. Fascinated, I separated from my friends to pursue learning this magic. Each episode took me further from there and deeper into a quest. By the season’s end, I was alone at a black magic convention. Other people were present but I didn’t know any of them. I was broke, gaunt, dirty and unshaven, with long, disheveled hair and threadbare clothing.

The setting was a dark, wet and decrepit abandoned arena. Others seeking magic and energy were present. An intense scene, we all knew of each other but didn’t know one another. We wanted to help one another but were also leery of the others. But this is where my quest for more had taken me.

Needing rest, I slept on the second floor, sharing a urine stained mattress and Army blankets with a stranger, another man. Although younger, he seemed in worse condition than me, sleeping the entire time while I tossed and turned. I was specifically seeking…a magic manuscript.

Three times, I tried finding and acquiring it. The fourth time, I succeeded.

And then I lost it.

The others knew this and were sympathetic. There were suggestions the manuscript had been stolen.

With some detective work, I found it.

But I was running out of time. The convention was ending. I wanted to present the manuscript to the convention leaders. A bus would take me to them. I missed the bus once…twice…. The manuscript disappeared again. I found it again but missed the bus again, even though others had helped me.

By this point, I was almost a filthy, barefoot beggar. On a tip from another, I learned that the convention leaders were coming through on their way to leave. I could intercept them. The rest encouraged me to do that. Which I did, presenting my manuscript.

It was a big, black, fat, unwieldy document. The leader, a suave man who looked like a young Jon Favreau, glanced at it as he walked by. “It’s not what we’re looking for.”

Yet, this was the magic. I knew it was.

Defeated and out of time, I headed home. I was broke and exhausted. It was a hard journey.

My wife was in the bathroom, getting ready for a party behind closed, locked doors. I could hear her humming. Others began arriving to set up. They were bringing in food and cakes. All were people I knew during my life, friends from other eras.

They were in good spirits, which spread to me. I began cleaning myself up to join the party. At that point, I knew the season was over, but the series was not. More was to come.

Cue ‘Crazy’ and the show’s ending.

I awoke despondent and sat alone in the living room for a while, watching the day grow brighter and thinking about my dream. Clearly, I thought, this was about my writing efforts and my career. I was seeking the magic. I’d missed.

But, it wasn’t over. As ‘Crazy’ streamed through my head and I began my daily routines, I took some solace from the hope, it wasn’t over.

There are more seasons to come.

0

When Writers Attack

Battling the usual monsters, I’m digging in for the fight. Fiction writing is supposed to be fun. Sometimes it gets ugly.

I respect the process of giving, taking, surrendering, losing ground and forging ahead. Every day seems like a fresh assault on my determination. Like others, I’ve learned that creativity is messy. Stay in it for the long haul, you need patience, endurance and stamina. Add a tincture of insanity, a cup of insecurity and a dollop of angst, and you pretty much have your standard writer. Bake at a secret temperature until undone or burnt to an unrecognizable crisp.

While girding my mind for the trip to this morning’s writing front, I procrastinated. I read others who I enjoy who’d just posted, like Dirty Sci-Fi Buddha, The Excited Writer and Seeds4Life, and caught up with Chris Rodell’s humorous post on the swim meet from Hell.

Nichole on The Excited Writer linked to another post, ‘Patience Over the Long, Long Haul’, by Tracy Hahn-Burkett. Like Nichole, the piece spoke to me about the writing stew and how writers stew and simmer while struggling.

I was fortunate. Each of these posts gave me something that I needed today in their words, observations and messages. A large part of blogging for me isn’t just posting the strange thoughts bubbling through me, flexing myself to begin serious writing, or writing to understand what the hell I’m thinking, but also, and as importantly, to read others in my tribe. These posts today united in a nice synergy of humor and reminders that we may write alone but we’re not alone. They inspired me to press on.

I’m fortunate because I found that encouragement in these posts. I read many others who aren’t nearly as lucky. They struggle to find their voice, to cope with their lives and their pasts, and despair about finding their futures. I’m in a little bit better shape than most of them. That’s why I shared those posts. Maybe others will find the same strength that I found.

Now I’m ready to attack the novel. “Once more into the breach, lads, once more into the breach.”

Hold up; belay that order. I’m writing science fiction. We’re in space.

Let’s avoid the breaches, okay?

2

Fitbit Writing

I’ve had my Fitbit for three and a half months. My daily average for steps is eleven thousand, seven hundred. My daily miles are five point five two. My personal best for daily steps was seventeen thousand, five hundred.

Until yesterday. Yesterday, I achieved almost twenty-two thousand steps and ten miles. I confess, if I’d known I was so close to doubling my average, I would have done it. That’s how I’m wired.

Now it’s the morning after.

I feel great but I question myself about what my Fitbit goal and expectations should be. I will work to reach and exceed my daily goals. I want to attempt another big walking and exercising day.

It’s the same way with writing. I typically write about eleven hundred words a day. I also edit, revise and polish. That’s part of my pantser organic writing process. My writing mind is like a loom weaving the story. I move back and forth through it.

Some days, I catch fire. The most I’ve ever written in one day was five thousand words, five thousand very intense words. Just like walking twenty-two thousand steps yesterday, it felt awesome. The next day, I wanted to do again. Why, if I could do five thousand words a day, every day, I’d become impressively prolific.

But the next day’s writing session was a struggle to achieve my standard output. I fought to achieve one thousand words and felt exhausted and disenchanted afterwards. It’s been like that with other writing days when I’ve doubled or tripled my average. Why, I tested myself to understand.

After thinking about this over the years, I’ve concluded that I do have a finite daily energy level. Exceeding that can happen but it takes it toll on the next day. I don’t know if science and medicine back me up on this, or if others have had the same experience. I know through my military experience of working twelve plus hours a day through illness and terrible conditions that I can draw deeper from the well. But doing so requires me to shut out absolutely everything else.

That was easy to do in a military environment. We had an established mission with a high priority. Other missions and units were depending on us. If we failed, a domino effect began. The stakes were high. So was the visibility.

Our expectations also set us up for success. Everyone outside of ours – family, friends and other unit members – understood our focus. They knew we didn’t have time or energy for anything else, and they gave us space.

But the writing experience is different from the military experience and the Fitbit experience. With Fitbit goals, it’s a personal goal. If I don’t make it, well, that sucks, but c’est la vie. The military commitment was well-established and understood.

Writing, however, is a terribly personal beast that has a hold on me. While the Fitbit goals require physical commitment with some smaller levels of intellectual and emotional commitments, I have all that in me, no problem. The military commitments were drawn at higher levels from those same veins.

The veins of energy and activity required for writing are much, much different. Physically, sitting in a chair, thinking, reading and typing, it doesn’t seem like it should be taxing. Yet, it becomes physically exhausting. Writing takes more out of me than walking all those steps.

Likewise, from intellectual and creative points of view, writing is more of a debilitating challenge. I worked for a decade for IBM as a planner and analyst. I was often presented with unique business cases to analyze and consider for my recommendations, observations and inputs. Those were interesting and challenging logic problems, and required intensely creative problem solving approaches, but still, they fell way short of what’s called for when fiction writing. Yes, my stories, characters, situations and worlds tend toward being complicated and involved. I remain constantly astounded by the levels of commitment I give my writing.

Returning to my Fitbit goals, I understand that twenty-two grand was a terrific result for me. I’ll enjoy it and move on because my goal is not to beat myself every day, but to maintain and achieve an average that will help me toward greater goals of being healtheir. In other words, the daily steps are not an end of themselves but part of a larger process.

So it is, too, with the writing. The word counts, editing, revising and polishing are not the end results. They’re part of a larger process of conceiving, writing, finishing and publishing a novel.

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

 

1

Personal

Some days, you know?

You feel like asking all the gods of time and existence, when the hell will this all end? When will lasting change come?

You think of the fights you’ve been in and the efforts you’ve made. You think about the deeper, darker, harsher sacrifices that others endured to achieve their dreams.

You wonder, what needs to be done differently? You examine your life, actions and motives and question yourself about your direction and activities.

Questions bubble up again through the stew of thoughts, emotions, time and observation about who you are, what you’re done and what you’re trying to achieve. You seek your vision and wonder if you’ll ever accomplish anything close to what you see.

Doubts cause you to think, maybe this isn’t working. Maybe I need to change what I’m doing and how I’m doing it.

Because there doesn’t seem to be progress. No light at the tunnel’s end is starting to become noticeable. There’s no sign of dawn. Despite efforts to be confident and hopeful, you feel like you’re wilting under the pressure. Despair becomes your regular companion.

You look for signs and omens, and search for the keys to success and victory. You think, God, others have made it. What does it take? What does it take? 

Intellectually, emotionally, physically, you understand what it takes.

Some days, it seems like the reservoirs are empty. There’s nothing left in the tank. Sucking on fumes, you vow to stop and change, because this sure as hell ain’t working.

But you know no other way and grasp the conundrum of your existence. And you sort of smile because these thoughts are so familiar, they have their own place in your brain. And you know there’s so many others exactly like you. Somehow, there should be a measure of solace in that, but this is always so personal.

0

Writing & Creativity

Thinking about dreams, writing, creativity, food and sleep, I sought some outside input. Drifting into TED Talks, I found a presentation from 2009. Elizabeth Gilbert talks about creative minds and the different prevailing perception of creative people and their work. Part of this is are the dangerous assumptions that confront writers and other artists, and our anxieties and unmanageable expectations.

 

 

0

A Pick-Me-Up

It’s an odd expression, a pick-me-up. Slang, it’s an expression for anything that raises our spirits. It used to be that it was about tonics or drinks but it’s moved beyond that.

For me, a pick-me-up can be an inspirational story, its use today. While going through the inbox and surfing blogs last night, I encountered a 2016 article about famous rejections.

I love famous rejections. Like many struggling writers, I look for those tales of famous writers and novels being rejected only to find publication and vindication. This post featured five famous that I already knew. Still, it was fun reading and a nice pick-me-up. After those five, a list of fifty more famous, successful rejected novels was posted.

Need a pick-me-up for your writing day? Check out Michael David Wilson’s column, ‘5 Famous Bestsellers That were Rejected (And 50 More).

0

Opening Doors

“Every now and then one paints a picture that seems to have opened a door and serves as a stepping stone to other things.”
― Pablo Picasso

This quote was on Ed Lehming’s blog post, ‘The Breach’, today. The quote’s truth stormed me about other endeavors besides painting. I’d been thinking about this last night without Picasso’s quote, so I love the serendipity. I’d been thinking about how I will have been working on something, struggling to learn, understand or achieve, and then suddenly, everything lines up like a solved Rubik’s Cube. I’d done it many times in my life, facing the need to learn something and then struggling until it happens.

rubix_cube

Writing fiction is probably the greatest stretch for me. This struggle to learn happens with different elements with fiction writing. Writing is thought of as simple by many. What’s there to do but write words and tell a story?

Writers, editors and good readers understand that’s a simplistic summary. Fiction writing requires learning multiple pieces that are often taken for granted because most people only see the finished work. We know better. Sometimes the lessons learned about pacing, characters, story-telling, voice and everything else needs learned anew when writing the next project. Contemplating that, I believe that each novel or story in progress has a moment when a door opens, and the scene being worked becomes a stepping stone to other things.

It doesn’t come easily. The challenge remains to muster the focus, apply the time and energy, and accept the patience needed for me to reach the door, find and open it. These elements of focus, time, energy and acceptance are typically thought of on a conscious level. I think they work better on a subconscious level. I let the needs seep down in. Walk away. Do other things.

Eventually, the focus, time, and energy finds the path to the door. That’s a glorious exciting epiphany when the door is suddenly there. Another challenge arises then to open it and see what’s on the other side.

Within this process is the beauty of acceptance, of letting it work, of being strong and bold enough to believe it will work. It takes time. This time and patience is invaluable coin. When it works and the door opens and I step through, I create a positive loop of knowing I can face problems and challenges, and overcome them. That feeds me confidence to try again, and again and again, and to keep going. More, though, my journey becomes richer, more joyful and satisfying.

It really is a beautiful process, these exercises in imagination and creativity called writing.

Yes, I know, it’s a messy post, all over the place. I’m exploring territory. Writing helps me map the terrain.

To all, have a good writing day.

5

Those Exciting Moments

when you achieve a goal

reach a destination

or the day has come

AT LAST

Or when you sit down to write the next piece, a section that’s been growing in your head like a burst of spring on a time-elapsed film.

Reading, observing others, walking, thinking and watching television, scenes keep building. Small details are added to earlier chapters as the novel expands to fullness and nears its end. Epiphanies strike about cause and effect, action and reaction, directions and decisions, and revelations and choices.I didn’t know some of it. My inner writer has been waiting to spring it on me. His cleverness astonishes me once again.

Bring on the mocha. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.

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