Tag: writing

While

While I looked out the window.

And studied the rainbow.

And thought about rainbows and the myths and science about them.

And admired its beauty.

While sleep was still being chased away.

And thoughts frolicked with dream remnants.

And the day’s planned activities opened in my mind like a hand of cards.

And I thought about making the first cup of coffee.

While I thought about what I was going to do today.

And what I needed to do.

I turned to my computer, and opened my file.

The file of the section of the novel in progress I’m working on.

And I typed.

A hundred words.

Five hundred.

One thousand.

Twelve hundred.

Fifteen hundred.

Then the scene was done.

And I reviewed what I’d written.

And closed the file.

And while I thought about what I’d just written.

And what was to be written.

And what it meant for what was already written.

I went to make my morning coffee.

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Risky Business

It’s a risky business,

this writing business,

trying to make stories out of your thoughts.

 

It’s a risky business,

this writing business,

putting the words in the write way.

 

You have these images,

these sounds and scenes,

Floating up through your head.

 

Yeah, and if you’re not fast enough,

not alert enough,

that stuff all fades to dead.

 

You know, it’s a risky business,

this writing business,

and all that it entails.

 

But if you keep trying,

and you never stop writing,

They can never say you failed.

 

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The Frustrated Writer

I’m not a fast or organized writer. I have more ideas and concepts than I can keep up with it.

It’s pretty damn frustrating. Just now, working on the novel-in-progress and starting a new section and chapter, I’m struggling to keep up with the writing. Meanwhile, I want this novel done so I can resume writing the rest of the series, and get on with writing other things. Being disorganized, though, I recognize a need to stop to organize.

I don’t want to do that. This is specifically about what volunteers, soldiers, platoons, and squads are in what scenes when things go down, and what happens to each. Who died, lived, went missing, set off the alarm? Who was on-planet, off-planet, on sentry, and on patrol?

Going through this reinforces my admiration and respect for writers like J.R.R. Tolkien, George R.R. Martin and J.K. Rowling and their respective series, or even Andy Weir, with The Martian. Once again, looking for secrets and magic formulas, I recognize, what must be done must be accepted and done. No way around it, except to have less characters. Unless most of my writing process, this is work, but the work has to be done. The conundrum is whether to carve out more time specifically to do this work, or use the writing time. Shortcomings exist for both solutions.

It’s a *shrug* matter. It must be done, just as bricklayers must lay the bricks one by one, and building a house requires each drawing and every nail. I’m petulant and whining, because that’s my personality. I think about the problem, realize there’s an issue, and then complain about it. Once that’s out of me, I put my head down and do what I must do.

For today, I’m going to write like crazy, one more time. Meanwhile, I’ll let my mind stew about my problem, and then address it later.

Procrastination is a good friend of mine.

2

My Character & Me

It’s apparently spring in my novel, because I’m experiencing a revolt. No blood has yet spread across anything. I don’t think it will. We’re pretty civilized here. Civilized people don’t kill one another to get their way, except in fiction…right…?

The main character and I are wresting with what’s going on in the novel. He’s moving into this new direction. Heavily dependent on technology, he insists on exploring how the loss of personal technology influences his behavior. He has become mentally, physically, and emotionally weaker. Although he’s staying fit and slender, he’s aging, and his energy level is drooping. He does not have the level of control with which he’s accustomed to living.

But he’s not seeing that in his people. Without technology, individuality is sprouting. His people see and hear better than him. Many have higher energy levels. Some are becoming bullies. While bullying had been psychologically and socially influenced over the course of time from now until the future, and diminished through socializing, technology in their recent history, those safeguards and safeties were removed when their nanotechnologies were removed.

Other emerging trends among his force are disturbing him. Binge drinking is becoming a problem. Without their sexes and free of their technology, people are becoming sexually active. Promiscuity is flowering. That’s causing jealousies and attachments that can affect discipline, good order, and the chain of command.

These changes, and how this unit copes with it, is the story, he insists. That’s what he believes should be written. I disagree; I sought more of an adventure story. I add elements of adventure, threats, and conflicts to increase that sense of adventure, but he keeps dragging me into psycho-analysis.

I dreamed about this problem last night. In the dream I was a military member on shift again. I’d been lazy and hadn’t completed the shift checklist. Hell, I didn’t know where to find it. I hadn’t inventoried the COMSEC materials, read the log, closed out the last log for the Zulu day, nor started another one, and shift change was coming on fast.

Anxiety suffused me; WTF was I going to do? 

Well, I started scrambling to make it right. But I was quickly sidetracked with my environment. It was disorganized, and poorly planned. I was appalled. Although I knew I was running out of time, organizing that place developed into my primary priority. Of course, once I did that, I developed a focus. Having a focus revitalized my energy level and determination, and wiped out my anxiety.

Pondering the dream this morning, I developed understanding that it wasn’t about my life, but the novel in progress. That bifurcation I experienced was causing anxiety because I didn’t know what the character was coming up with next. And, I’d developed him as a strong individual. I didn’t like seeing him losing his way.

Ah, hah, I understood, oh, there we go. This is about writing the novel in progress. My conflict with my character  —

Let’s put this more correctly. The change of direction in the novel from my original intention bothers me. With that, I’ve lost focus and energy. Thinking about this – because I write to help me think – I think my character is correct.

I know from reading others that many writers wrestle with characters taking over. Some dismiss it; they’re the writer, they’re in control, and they decree what gets onto the pages. I live and work through my characters on the pages. We’re partners more than master and puppet. Perhaps it’s due to my organic writing style, which, on reflection, can look as complicated as layers of spider and cobwebs. And it’s not like I haven’t been down this path before. I often begin with an idea that grows into something else.

Although it makes me uncomfortable, I’ll probably write what the character wants. Then I’ll edit it down to find a compromise we can live with.

Characters; they can be the worse.

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

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Wrote That Scene

Wrote one of those scenes. You know what they’re like. You’re casting for something inside yourself and discover something hidden, so you drag it out and use it.

In this instance, I used a memory from when I was young. I’d seen a creepy movie that burned anxiety into me just in time for bed. Despite that, sleep managed to find me.

Awakening, though, I kept completely still in an all-embracing darkness. Even now, remembering, my blood pressure rises and my pulse thumps faster. In that darkness, I’d heard a noise while I was asleep —

Or did I?

Was it real or imagined? I listened and listened without daring to move, barely breathing to help me hear and minimize my presence. Just when I’d begun to accept the hypothesis I’d imagined it, I heard another sound. It sounded like slithering….

Snake, I thought.

A snake is in the room.

I couldn’t move. If I left the bed, I might step on the snake. It might be coiled on the floor, waiting to strike.

But I couldn’t remain in bed, because the snake might crawl up into the bed. Which was worse, waiting in bed, or stepping down and getting bitten?

It was a rush of words to write, but it fit the novel like a found puzzle piece. As for the young boy who feared what might be in the dark, he carefully stood up in bed. Balancing himself and profusely sweating, he leaped across the yawning gulf where the snake might be waiting, and threw on the lights.

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

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How Writing Isn’t Like Yardwork

I was raking and hoeing yesterday, preparing the back yard to seed it for the winter. My wife had already put one garden to bed. As freezes are striking, she’ll probably put the other to bed this week. Meanwhile, we have before us the question, should she plant garlic and, or, onions for winter? Probably so, but we veered away from the subject into collateral discussions before a decision was found.

Back in the yard, thinking about trimming back trees and bushes, I wrote in my head, as I often do when doing something that doesn’t require focus and will let me think about other things. Often, I think, writing is a lot like yard work. You’re always pruning and weeding, considering what’s been done and what else must be done.

But in yesterday’s internal dialogue, I realized how flawed that was. Yard work is continuous; it changes with the season, but you’re always out there, forever doing things. Plants grow, not only in the yard, but in the yards around you. Volunteers arrive, and trees grow taller and fuller, changing the exposure to the sun. Weather changes, like the super-hot summer of twenty thirteen, and the super-frigid winter of the same year, damages and kills plants. These need addressed, as much for fire safety as aesthetics.

Which is why novel writing’s comparisons with yard work should end. Eventually, I finish a novel. It becomes published and goes out into others’ hands and minds. The yard is always being attended; it’s only completed for a brief cycle. Although a novel may feel like it’s taking forever – this one of mine is now in its fifteen month of writing – I know it’ll be done someday. Then I’ll begin another, and it’ll feel like yard work again.

But it’s not.

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The Beginning

“A writer never forgets the first time he accepted a few coins or a word of praise in exchange for a story. He will never forget the sweet poison of vanity in his blood and the belief that, if he succeeds in not letting anyone discover his lack of talent, the dream of literature will provide him with a roof over his head, a hot meal at the end of the day, and what he covets the most: his name printed on a miserable piece of paper that will surely outlive him. A writer is condemned to remember that moment, because from then on he is doomed and his soul has a price.”

~ Carlos Ruiz Zafón, “The Angel’s Game”

An interesting perspective, but I would have more periods and commas in this paragraph.

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The Writing – Wait

On normal days, I sit down, and take a few sips of coffee. Then I turn on the writing mode and brace myself. Sights and sounds pummel me. Smells come last.

Seeing the scenes happen, hearing them, and smelling it, I struggle to keep up. I can’t type as fast as it comes. I barely think fast enough to keep up with what’s streaming into me. It’s more like a movie, with smells. I’m more like a man with a hammer, chisel, and stone table.

I begin with a stream of consciousness form to capture it all. My writing frustrates me, though, correcting me, and suggesting changes, improvements, and elaboration even as I still try to type what was already given. The replay is wonky, so it needs to be caught the first time. Sometimes there are leaps into other avenues that are to come, like coming attractions, or previews. Those are most exciting, the spur that digs in to sit down and repeat this process.

Not much time is consumed during my writing sessions. I’ll typically write forty-five to ninety minutes. I’d like to extend my writing period to a three hours in the afternoon. I envy those who can pace themselves, handle the onslaught, and pump out five thousand words in a day’s work. I’m below half that, and feel spent when I stop. Worse in this process, though, is that I’ll finish typing for the day, the writing mode doesn’t get turned off. So I walk, and remember what I’ve written, and what needs to be written. Sometimes a flash of a scene comes to me, and I remember, “Oh, yeah, I need to go in and add that.”

This methodology always prompts wonder in me about how others work. Please share, if you’re willing.

Now, time to turn on the writing mode. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.

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