Tag: writing

Velvet Rain

A velvet rain is falling. It’s a rain that makes the world feel cozier and more intimate, inviting deeper thoughts.

I’d planned to walk ten minutes but the rain soothed me, inviting me to keep going. I did, until two miles and an hour had passed.

The rain didn’t appear to soothe all. Some drivers took the rain as a sign to go, “Faster! Faster!”

The walking time allowed for solitude and writing time. I’d dropped into my personal trough the other day in the cycles of buoyancy and depression. Oh, lord, that darkness. Daunting, it drinks me up and swallows me down. The sighs are heavy, the thoughts are bitter, and the world looks grim. Even the cats’ attentions are infuriating irritations.

Perspective helps me survive. Writing, walking, and solitude help me grind out perspective. Alas, Schedules and events kept me from consistently achieving two of the three. But yeah, I survived.

Our new microwave and range were delivered and installed yesterday. They look so modern, I was surprised to realize how ancient the replaced ten-year-old units looked, and the difference it makes to the kitchen. To celebrate, we went out to lunch, and then to a movie.

The movie is part of our annual Oscar Quest. Friends throw a party, and we like to be able to think and talk intelligently about the movies and performances. We’ve only seen a few noms, so we’re behind. We saw “The Post” yesterday. That increases our total to four. We have work to do in our entertainment. None of the previews (“Love, Simon,” “Red Sparrow,” “7 Days in Entebbe,” and “Film Stars Don’t Die in Liverpool”) didn’t inflame deep interest. Each struck me as something to stream and watch at home when it’s available through one of our subscriptions. Of the four, “Love, Simon,” sparked the most intrigue. I suppose I’m too picky and cynical.

As the lights dropped and the previews played, and then the movie opened, my writers emerged with scene ideas. When we returned home, I quietly sat down (quietly, so as to not attract the cats, who seemed determined to stop me from writing at home) at the laptop, opened the required doc, and wrote the scene and changes. Not interested in tempting fate (the cats! the cats!), I saved and closed the doc, but later, while eating, more writing visited me. I stole back into the document and added a few more pages. Best, it left me knowing exactly where to begin today.

It’s a fine feeling, to know what to write, to write it, and to look forward to writing more.

Liquid dripped onto the coffee shop table as I unpacked and set up. Rain or sweat? I don’t know; either were plausible. I suppose I could taste it, but it’s not a critical difference.

Tonight, Wednesday, is when I meet with my friends for conversation and beer. It’s a standing invitation. My attendance record is lackluster but the rain is whispering, “You should go.” I’m ambivalent, but contemplating it.

Meanwhile, the first gulps of hot, black coffee have scalded my lips and tongue. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.

 

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Assignments

Getting ready to write begins with walking, in my routine. This is when I’m preparing to make the physical transition and focus energy. As my wife has observed, “You’re always writing, aren’t you?”

Yes, the writer(s) within rarely sleeps. He/she/they – we’re not sure of Writersville’s precise population – are always busy. Every sensory, mental, or emotional input can play a role in triggering ideas. Some ideas directly pertain to works in progress. Other inputs spill into a massive mental junk drawer for possible later use.

Splash writing gets the most attention. Something splashes in, and I write it out in my head. Later, I sit down and type it out.

I like writing in the late morning or early afternoon, and typically leave the house about ten to ten thirty in the morning.  My writing period, of sitting at the computer and typing, is not long. This is exactly how I’ve worked all my life, thinking long about things that I need to do and then using intense, short periods to execute. I usually write for about ninety minutes. Output isn’t huge, a thousand to three thousand words. My norm is sixteen hundred words or so. Back when word counts were measurements of progress, I counted. I no longer count, but I have an awareness, probably due to habit and repetition, of how many words I’ve done.

When I start walking, I put away thoughts of life problems, plans and issues, and turn to writing. That generally takes about eight minutes. This, along with the weather and other plans, dictates how long I’ll walk before writing. My preference is to walk at least ten minutes, but I’ll also use my Fitbit to decide how long I’ll walk. More recently, I’ve taken to walking about two miles before writing, so my walking and exercise is spread more evenly across the day.

But this is about writing, not exercising, and how I prepare to write. Sometimes, what I’m planning to write is more involved, requiring deeper, more prolonged thinking. So more time as I walk will be spent on it. But perhaps eighty percent of the time, I know what I’m going to write. For that other percent, maybe fifteen percent will come from the unfolding process that I sometimes employ once I sit down.

Finally, there’s that less four to five percent that’s a greater struggle. On those days, I’ve found it best to put the writers to sleep. Give them the assignment, and tell them to come back to me when I have something.

Then I walk. I stream music in my head. Note changes to the town, and the weather. Drift through thoughts and observations about lives and bumper stickers, or think about other novel concepts in progress. I’ll think about catfinitions, and possible blog posts.

Doing this today, I thought about how much the process really is like a teacher or manager giving out assignments, and then taking up the results later. Freeing mental energy by engaging in mundane issues and matters, or larger problems about which I can do little, frees the writers to use that mental energy and write. Then, sitting down, I’m generally well-prepared to begin. Well, eighty percent of the time.

The trick to all of this was that I’ve learned to be flexible about my approach, because I know more than one way will work. Deviations are acceptable. Even not writing, but thinking about writing, is acceptable, although it’s accepted with a grimace. Fortunately, that probably happens less than one percent of the time. In other words, of one hundred times sitting down to write, I’ll not actually write one time. And that’s cool; it’s not a reason to panic or to be afraid that I won’t or can’t write.

All this is evolved from those first efforts of sitting down with a notebook and pen, and mumbling to myself, “What can I write? What can I write?” The evolution has been helped greatly by the insights others provided, like Annie Lamott, Natalie Goldberg, Orson Scott Card, Stephen King, Damon Knight, and Elmore Leonard, and a plethora of blog posts and articles. Part of this, too, comes from understanding that my writing is a weaving process. Little of what I first write is how it appears in final form. That doesn’t matter, either, so long as I reach a point where I tell myself, “Fini.”

The other part of my process is that I like to have a cup of coffee or coffee drink when I write. Oddly, I’ll drink a quarter to a third of the cup in the initial writing session, and then the beverage will be forgotten until that point when I think I’m done for the day. Then I’ll pick up the cold cup and drink the cold beverage while I reflect about what I’ve done and what will come next. Drinking cold coffee disgusts my wife, but it doesn’t bother me at all.

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

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Settling In

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.

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The Pre-writing Walk

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.

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The Insights

Don’t you love it when you’re writing or working on a problem, and you stop because you’re uncertain about what to do next, and then, as you’re doing something else, it hits you, *bam*, and you get so excited about the insights that you want to immediately get back to it?

Yes, it’s a great feeling, but all too rare.

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The Pacing

So here I am, forced to pace around the coffee shop again, because I can’t keep up with the speed of thinking and typing. Words are firing at me like a Gatling gun is at work.

I’m writing the third book of the Incomplete States trilogy, and I love its direction, but then my mind snaps back to book two, and I think, I need to add this, this, and this to book two.

That’s when I’m set into pacing in an effort to separate thinking about the two books, and organize thoughts and define changes to the plots and arcs. I catch glimpses. That’s sufficient for now, because I know that I can walk away, and let my brain work on it, and when I come back, it’ll provide answers and directions about what I need to do and how to go about it

Now, though, done. Spent. I want to keep writing, but I understand that I must balance that enjoyment and activity with the rest of living and being. So, time to stop writing like crazy.

For now.

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Sue and Me

I haven’t personally known many published, established, successful writers.

There was Maya Angelou, met at a conference in San Francisco one year. Larry Niven, met at a computer conference in Europe while I was in the military. And there’s Ellen Sussman, met at a writing conference in Fort Ord, California, one year.

Then there are Lawrence Block, Orson Scott Card, and Sue Grafton. I met each of them in different years at writing workshops in Yellow Springs, Ohio. I enjoyed conversations with each, but especially Sue Grafton. “F is For Fugitive,” and “G is for Gumshoe,” were out and doing well, along with the earlier books in her series.

Doing well. Hah, what a cliche to portray that the books were on the New York Times bestseller list.

I was living in the dorms for that writing conference. I’d brought a bottle of white wine with me from Germany. Sue and I ended up at the same table in the dining room, and I shared my bottle with her. She’d just signed a big publishing deal. Her happiness and excitement were delightful to behold.

It was like that with Ellen Sussman, years later. She and Sue were fresh from the effort of trying for years to break through when I met them. As each put it at that time, “I’m living the writer’s dream.”

You know how encouraging that is to a writer striving for that dream? Yes, if you’re in any of the arts, you probably know full well the effort of struggling alone on your personal trek, wrestling with your demons and chasing your muse. There’s little encouragement. People often know you as that oddball who comes in with their computer or notebook and sits at a table, drinking coffee and scribbling or typing. Or you toil in secret, not daring to let light shine on your dreams of figuring out what’s in your head and spitting out stories and novels. Few know; fewer encourage.

All of these writers are met understood it, and were gracious and humbled by what they’d achieved, but Sue and Ellen were closer to it. The fire of struggle and the joy of catching fire still burned bright when I met them. I was happy to follow their success as it developed in the subsequent years.

I haven’t seen Sue since meeting her that year decades ago, except in newspapers, magazines, and on television. But her enthusiasm and determination helped me push to keep going and going, to never give up. There will be setbacks and diversions, and demands that can’t be refused, but if your dream is strong, you need to feed it and keep it burning, and keep going. It’s not over until you give up. That’s what I learned from her.

I’ve seen it in other writers, ones who I haven’t met, but whose story I still know. John Scalzi. Andy Weir. Kathryn Stockett. Lisa Genova.

It can happen. Just don’t give up.

 

 

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Holiday

Betrayed by the calendar and swept up by traditions and norms, he ended up on a holiday. Religious holidays dominate the world, he ruminated. In America, there are usually Federal holidays. Most of them are “Monday” holidays. Then, they are banker holidays. They’re rarity in America in this century. The bankers take a holiday when the Federal government goes on break.

This was different from all those. This was a writer’s holiday. Writers rarely take a holiday. Indeed, although he never sat and put words into anything, they kept pouring into his mind, unaware of what a holiday is supposed to be. He couldn’t help but to keep writing in his mind, spinning the story and holding onto it until he could get back to a keyboard.

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The Halves Don’t Have It

I’m excited about Winter Solstice. It’s the shortest day and longest night. I’m ready for more sunshine and light.

So says one side of me. Another side of me corrects me. “Ahem. The day and night are not longer or shorter. You’re speaking of periods of sunlight.”

Yeah, whatever. You understand what I mean. Do you need to be such a meaning Nazi?

To which that half replies, “Nazi? Really? Do you really believe that’s an apt expression? You read what Thomas Weaver wrote on North of Andover, didn’t you?”

“Yes, yes,” several halves say, while another half of me says, “Oh, give us a break. Must you be so damn literal all the feckin’ time?”

Meanwhile, another half of me is still on the original topic. They say with a sigh, “Don’t you love these long, dark nights? Doesn’t it feel cozy under the winter stars, quieter, and stiller?”

“Yes, I agree,” says my second half. “I can hear myself think then.”

I began recognizing that, once again, all my halves – I have at least three, or maybe four (they can hide in plain sight without warning) – are not in complete alignment. I like longer days of sunshine because they provide me more light to do things. I can make lists of things of what’s to be accomplished without factoring in bad driving conditions associated with the short winter days, and the early darkness. I dislike saying, “Well, it’s three forty-five. The sun will be setting in less than an hour.” And I dislike getting up, looking out the window, and saying, “Seven thirty. The sun should be rising soon.”

And, I feel the lack of sunshine in my soul and body during these short days. I do walk in the winter, and soak in whatever sunshine comes available. It frequently doesn’t feel like enough.

I like getting up at six in the morning and having sunshine streaming in the windows. I like going out at nine in the evening in time to catch the sunset’s beginning.

But winter and its long days do have a soothing effect on me. The holidays are the exception, but they’re human creations. Without the holidays, I feel like winter and the long hours of darkness provide me with an environment that helps me recuperate from the rest of the year. Like the earth, I’m resting, and preparing to grow again.

Of course, weather and the circumstances accompanying seasons are the chunky ingredients that throw tastes into different directions. The heat of the summer can be endured, but then a drought becomes extended, wildfires begin, and smoke pollutes the air. Winter’s cold is refreshing, but then the wind blows, and the ground freezes, and you walk carefully, lest a fall claims you.

I recognize the problem. There’s just no satisfying me and all of my halves. I suffer this same dichotomy with other life facets. It’s probably because I have too many halves. Like, I want to eat healthier, but damn, some of that food is just too damn tasty to turn down. Yes, I’ll have another piece of pie, please. Yes, make it al a carte! Pizza? Don’t mind if I do. Yes, let’s have a beer with that!

Then, one of the other halves speak up. “Ahem. Need I remind you that you had to loosen your belt today? Have you seen your profile? You look like Alfred Hitchcock.”

That half is strict, principled, and patient — and critical. It’s the frugal, intelligent half. It’s the half that says, “A car is transportation. It does not need to go two hundred miles an hour. Even one hundred miles per hour is more than sufficient. There are far more important qualities to a car than its top speed.”

It’s the half that reads labels and eschews food choices based on fat, sugar, and salt levels, or the principles of the company selling the food. This is the half of me that always returns shopping carts to the cart corral, and doesn’t even complain about others who didn’t put their cart away.

They don’t hesitate to complain to me, however. “Moderation, Michael. Mindful eating, Michael. Patience, Michael. Think of your health, Michael.”

Another half of me often rises to my first half’s defense when the third half is chiding me for my choices. “Leave him alone,” he’ll say. “Michael’s worked hard all of his life, and listened to you most of the time. He deserves to relax, cut loose, and over-indulge.”

“Yeah,” the first half says. “Thank you.”

That’s when it goes well. Other days, it’s like a clowder of cats fighting over the same patch of catnip. We aim for detente. All the halves are quiet now. I think they’re napping, except for this half, which is drinking coffee and writing, and another half, who is singing “Clocks.”

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

 

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