So, we met last week at the coffee shop/liquor store that I was so excited to try, and it was kind of a bust. My coffee was good, and my scone was fresh-baked, but the atmosphere was kind of weird. I don't think we'll be going back any time soon, but we Tried a New Place, so pats on the back all around, I say.
Jen made the mistake of telling me that her daughter has embarked on a Stephen King phase. Book pusher that I am, I immediately offered to give her all of my Stephen King books (minus the Gunslinger ones, and "On Writing.") and Jen graciously accepted. Hurrah! I love to give my old books to a good home once I am past the point of wanting to reread them over and over again.
I can't lie, though - the most exciting part for me is the chance to get The Scariest Book in the Entire World out of my house. Like Joey from "Friends," I don't feel safe unless "The Shining" is packed away someplace where it can't sneak out in the dead of night and get me. Unlike Joey, I don't keep it in my freezer; instead it's nestled in a large box surrounded by Gideon Bibles.
If you've never read "The Shining," you really should. It's phenomenal; the more so because it's not a horror novel in the traditional sense. In this book, the monsters are human failings and how they affect those around us - child abuse, alcoholism, and a failed marriage. Seeing the movie is not equivalent; King himself abhors the Nicholson version, which is based loosely, at best, upon the novel. If you have read the book, you know my fear and admiration, and probably have your own copy hidden in a secure location. I've read the book twice in my adult life now (both times in the company of others and only during daylight), and it's etched so firmly on my psyche I don't think I need to read it ever again. And that's okay. In a way, I'm passing it on to the next generation, and I'm kind of excited that it's going to fascinate and terrify and thrill a new reader, who will hopefully come up with an even better secure location than a box of stolen hotel Bibles.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Skipping School
We didn't meet this week. I called in sick. It was the first time that we haven't met, and I felt a little empty inside. Funny how not meeting felt so empty and not-quite-right! Although it was the right thing to do- I was contagious and a sniffling mess-, my universe was a little off kilter.
I did honor my commitment to write, I did not accomplish as much as I had wanted. Nor was I as inspired. Stepping outside my environment and into a book club has been very helpful. Every week, I feel as though I accomplished something. The magnitude of the warm, happy feelings didn't hit me until I missed the book club.
I did honor my commitment to write, I did not accomplish as much as I had wanted. Nor was I as inspired. Stepping outside my environment and into a book club has been very helpful. Every week, I feel as though I accomplished something. The magnitude of the warm, happy feelings didn't hit me until I missed the book club.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Going Dutch
One of my challenges with writing is that I tend to be verbose. This works in my favor when doing NaNoWriMo, but that's about it. If allowed, I will constantly edit my work in search of the perfect phrasing. It's becoming a sickness, and I blame Norman Maclean and Elmore Leonard.
Norman Maclean is best known for his novella (and the subsequent movie) "A River Runs Through It." In both, the writer reminisces how, as a child, he would give his homework to his father to correct. The elder Maclean would make grammatical corrections, and hand the paper back to the son and admonish him to rewrite it, at half the length. This would be repeated, over and over again, until Norman achieved perfect brevity. The idea of so brutally editing yourself (by at least half every time!) is both appalling, and appealing to me. In practice, I can't do it very well, but I do make the effort.
I can't say anything new about Elmore Leonard; any fan will already know my pain. I am completely in awe of, and intimidated by, his writing. In his books, the plot is a vehicle for the characters, and his characters are second only to his dialogue and pacing. Everyone should read him, and often.
Leonard very famously wrote in his "10 Rules of Writing" to leave out the parts that people skip. I've been trying to keep that in the forefront of my mind these days, and I do think it helps. Going over some of my recent writing, I pulled out the mental red pen, prepared to do some Maclean-style editing, and was pleased to find that there was not a whole lot of stuff that I would skip as a reader. But, since I had my Maclean hat on, I ruthlessly did strikethroughs on everything I thought I could safely excise. I went back a couple of days later to re-read for clarity, and ending saving more than I thought I would, and editing out far less than I originally marked. I feel really good about the progress, and that I'm still keeping my characters and pacing on track without sacrificing plot. My word count may not be where I'd like it to be, but my story is where it needs to be, and that's the important thing.
Norman Maclean is best known for his novella (and the subsequent movie) "A River Runs Through It." In both, the writer reminisces how, as a child, he would give his homework to his father to correct. The elder Maclean would make grammatical corrections, and hand the paper back to the son and admonish him to rewrite it, at half the length. This would be repeated, over and over again, until Norman achieved perfect brevity. The idea of so brutally editing yourself (by at least half every time!) is both appalling, and appealing to me. In practice, I can't do it very well, but I do make the effort.
I can't say anything new about Elmore Leonard; any fan will already know my pain. I am completely in awe of, and intimidated by, his writing. In his books, the plot is a vehicle for the characters, and his characters are second only to his dialogue and pacing. Everyone should read him, and often.
Leonard very famously wrote in his "10 Rules of Writing" to leave out the parts that people skip. I've been trying to keep that in the forefront of my mind these days, and I do think it helps. Going over some of my recent writing, I pulled out the mental red pen, prepared to do some Maclean-style editing, and was pleased to find that there was not a whole lot of stuff that I would skip as a reader. But, since I had my Maclean hat on, I ruthlessly did strikethroughs on everything I thought I could safely excise. I went back a couple of days later to re-read for clarity, and ending saving more than I thought I would, and editing out far less than I originally marked. I feel really good about the progress, and that I'm still keeping my characters and pacing on track without sacrificing plot. My word count may not be where I'd like it to be, but my story is where it needs to be, and that's the important thing.
Monday, February 7, 2011
The Creation
My sister is an artist. I don't mean that she is creative, which she is. I mean that she is an artist by profession. She makes her living creating art. The idea of making a living as an artist is both frightening and alluring. Expressing yourself so freely can also leave you vulnerable. It also promises fulfillment. I have spent the better part of 10 years trying not to be vulnerable. The more protected I am, the less fulfilled I am. I’m trying to fix that.
I listened to a podcast featuring Rainn Wilson, from The Office. He has a website, Soul Pancake, which is designed to talk about spirituality in a relevant manner. He also practices the Bahai Faith. One of the things he believes is that creating art is as godlike as you can get; that creating something is akin to god creating us; that self-expression is a revered thing. I didn't mention this to get spiritual, as I have no clue about my own spirituality. But in thinking about creating art from this perspective, having all of these feelings about being an artist made sense. Of course I would be scared and allured (and everything in between). Creating something personal and trying to share it without exploiting is a challenge. Sharing a piece of yourself with the world leaves you open to criticism. It leaves you vulnerable.
My sister asked me to contribute toward a project. My mission was to write about a specific memory. I could think of nothing more personal than to write about this particular experience. The process wasn't uncomfortable, as I expected. It was liberating. In writing about this memory, I gained insight that only time and experience could offer. I also was able go back in time and relive a wonderful experience with someone who was very precious to me. At the end of our session, I had gained far more than I risked. The process of writing is chipping away at my carefully created protective barrier.
I listened to a podcast featuring Rainn Wilson, from The Office. He has a website, Soul Pancake, which is designed to talk about spirituality in a relevant manner. He also practices the Bahai Faith. One of the things he believes is that creating art is as godlike as you can get; that creating something is akin to god creating us; that self-expression is a revered thing. I didn't mention this to get spiritual, as I have no clue about my own spirituality. But in thinking about creating art from this perspective, having all of these feelings about being an artist made sense. Of course I would be scared and allured (and everything in between). Creating something personal and trying to share it without exploiting is a challenge. Sharing a piece of yourself with the world leaves you open to criticism. It leaves you vulnerable.
My sister asked me to contribute toward a project. My mission was to write about a specific memory. I could think of nothing more personal than to write about this particular experience. The process wasn't uncomfortable, as I expected. It was liberating. In writing about this memory, I gained insight that only time and experience could offer. I also was able go back in time and relive a wonderful experience with someone who was very precious to me. At the end of our session, I had gained far more than I risked. The process of writing is chipping away at my carefully created protective barrier.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Come to Mama
On our writing search for fulfillment, Jen and I are also searching for the perfect coffee shop in which to write. No such place exists, it just gives us something to discuss, a reason to procrastinate, and something to blame when the muse is not forthcoming.
I don't think the "where," matters to a real writer; we all have our comfort zones for things, but if you truly want to write, you'll do it anywhere, with whatever materials are at hand. Laptop, notebook, cave wall; it's all just a place to express yourself.
It does make me think, though, sometimes, of what Ondaatje wrote about Rudyard Kipling in "The English Patient;" that when reading his words, it was equally important to think of Kipling writing under the bright haze of the African sun, pen scratching slowly across the paper as he wrote in his rooms across the way from the Custom House. "Think of the speed of his pen." The dull heat slowed the thought and the hand, and one had to keep that in mind when reading his words, slowly, as he wrote them. Kipling is not for speed readers like me.
If Kipling can write anywhere, certainly so can I. However, good coffee and a comfortable work space definitely ease the way. And if the coffee shop also sells liquor, well, that's what I call Nirvana. I have learned of such an oasis today, courtesy of my oldest sister, and Jen doesn't know it yet, but we are totally meeting there next week. I don't know if it's the perfect place to write, but it might just be perfect for us.
I don't think the "where," matters to a real writer; we all have our comfort zones for things, but if you truly want to write, you'll do it anywhere, with whatever materials are at hand. Laptop, notebook, cave wall; it's all just a place to express yourself.
It does make me think, though, sometimes, of what Ondaatje wrote about Rudyard Kipling in "The English Patient;" that when reading his words, it was equally important to think of Kipling writing under the bright haze of the African sun, pen scratching slowly across the paper as he wrote in his rooms across the way from the Custom House. "Think of the speed of his pen." The dull heat slowed the thought and the hand, and one had to keep that in mind when reading his words, slowly, as he wrote them. Kipling is not for speed readers like me.
If Kipling can write anywhere, certainly so can I. However, good coffee and a comfortable work space definitely ease the way. And if the coffee shop also sells liquor, well, that's what I call Nirvana. I have learned of such an oasis today, courtesy of my oldest sister, and Jen doesn't know it yet, but we are totally meeting there next week. I don't know if it's the perfect place to write, but it might just be perfect for us.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
What a Character
I drove home from the book club thinking about how we arrive at decisions. Why do we do the things we do? I'm not talking about big, life-changing decisions. I'm talking about the little decisions, like why do some people wear socks that don't match and how does that fit into the overall scope of their persona. Mostly, I was trying to figure out this man I saw while I was writing.
What would possibly inspire a man to wear a coon-skinned cap to a coffee shop? Otherwise, this man was somewhat normal. He wore faded jeans with an elastic band, white tennis shoes, and a stable coat. Not what I would call fashionable, but certainly not weird. Underneath the carcass on his head, he wore a Bluetooth headset. Although slightly out of place, the Bluetooth completed the look.
I started thinking about character development. How could such a small, albeit furry, gesture speak to the type of man beneath the hat? I ruled out potential reasons for choosing the hat. This was not a random act, as in "oh I just grabbed the first thing I saw". He did not stand before his hat rack choosing between a baseball cap, stocking cap, and a coon-skinned cap. He did not look like a collector of rare hats. The decision to wear a coon-skinned cap must be purposeful.
I searched further for an answer. Perhaps he went small game hunting and caught his first coon. The taxidermist was too costly, so he made a hat out of the hide. Maybe his great-great grandfather bequeathed the dead varmint to him, and in honor of his relative he dons the hat on the last Saturday of the month.
I guess I will never know the real reason he wore the cap. I regret the decision not to ask him, but the fashion statement left me speechless. I later asked a friend of mine who hunts about this situation. His answer left me unsatisfied, yet maybe it was just that simple. My friend said, "It's warm."
What would possibly inspire a man to wear a coon-skinned cap to a coffee shop? Otherwise, this man was somewhat normal. He wore faded jeans with an elastic band, white tennis shoes, and a stable coat. Not what I would call fashionable, but certainly not weird. Underneath the carcass on his head, he wore a Bluetooth headset. Although slightly out of place, the Bluetooth completed the look.
I started thinking about character development. How could such a small, albeit furry, gesture speak to the type of man beneath the hat? I ruled out potential reasons for choosing the hat. This was not a random act, as in "oh I just grabbed the first thing I saw". He did not stand before his hat rack choosing between a baseball cap, stocking cap, and a coon-skinned cap. He did not look like a collector of rare hats. The decision to wear a coon-skinned cap must be purposeful.
I searched further for an answer. Perhaps he went small game hunting and caught his first coon. The taxidermist was too costly, so he made a hat out of the hide. Maybe his great-great grandfather bequeathed the dead varmint to him, and in honor of his relative he dons the hat on the last Saturday of the month.
I guess I will never know the real reason he wore the cap. I regret the decision not to ask him, but the fashion statement left me speechless. I later asked a friend of mine who hunts about this situation. His answer left me unsatisfied, yet maybe it was just that simple. My friend said, "It's warm."
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Just Do It
"The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed."
From the moment I read those words, they were seared into my brain as the greatest opening line of any novel I had ever read. For me, the brilliance in the line is not just in it's simplicity, but in the particularly American image it evokes; after all, did you not picture Our Hero chasing the Bad Guy across a dusty land, possibly with a setting sun in the background?
Here's the thing. When this story was first published, if someone said "The Man in Black,", odds are, your first thought was, Johnny Cash. Troubled, sure, but not exactly a villain. And a gunslinger isn't the local lawman; he's a bounty hunter, a gun for hire; and Dirty Harry is now part of our cultural lexicon. You can't tell a hero by his white hat, and suddenly things are a lot more complicated. Our classic Western trope has been turned on its ear in a simple and subtle way. The gunslinger may be chasing the Man in Black, but the reader may not want him to be successful. This is a world colored in shades of gray.
Stephen King wrote "The Gunslinger" in 1982, and I'm sure I first picked up a copy sometime in the late 80s or early 90s, after I had recovered from the psychological trauma of reading "The Shining", and was ready to dip my toe back into King-infested waters. I haven't read it in years, and have always intended to reread it and finish the rest of the books in the series, but just never got around to it. I loved it, though, and I think this one line made me fall in love with the written word in a way that nothing else did. I had read genre books before, but this book was like all genres in one: Western, thriller, romance, fantasy, time travel, science fiction - you name it, it was in there. And to top it all off, King based the whole series upon a poem by Robert Browning.
When I talk to people about doing NaNoWriMo, or about writing in general, the two things I hear most often are that people wish they had the time to write, and that they never know how to start their book. As far as the time thing goes, I think people can always find time to do the things they want to do, if they really want to do them. As to the other, that's never been a problem for me. I don't think that my opening line needs to be the Greatest Sentence in the History of Mankind. Stephen King beat me to it, and now the pressure is off. I'm the writer; this is my story, and only I know how to tell it. I picture my scene, put my fingers on the keyboard, begin at the beginning, and go from there.
From the moment I read those words, they were seared into my brain as the greatest opening line of any novel I had ever read. For me, the brilliance in the line is not just in it's simplicity, but in the particularly American image it evokes; after all, did you not picture Our Hero chasing the Bad Guy across a dusty land, possibly with a setting sun in the background?
Here's the thing. When this story was first published, if someone said "The Man in Black,", odds are, your first thought was, Johnny Cash. Troubled, sure, but not exactly a villain. And a gunslinger isn't the local lawman; he's a bounty hunter, a gun for hire; and Dirty Harry is now part of our cultural lexicon. You can't tell a hero by his white hat, and suddenly things are a lot more complicated. Our classic Western trope has been turned on its ear in a simple and subtle way. The gunslinger may be chasing the Man in Black, but the reader may not want him to be successful. This is a world colored in shades of gray.
Stephen King wrote "The Gunslinger" in 1982, and I'm sure I first picked up a copy sometime in the late 80s or early 90s, after I had recovered from the psychological trauma of reading "The Shining", and was ready to dip my toe back into King-infested waters. I haven't read it in years, and have always intended to reread it and finish the rest of the books in the series, but just never got around to it. I loved it, though, and I think this one line made me fall in love with the written word in a way that nothing else did. I had read genre books before, but this book was like all genres in one: Western, thriller, romance, fantasy, time travel, science fiction - you name it, it was in there. And to top it all off, King based the whole series upon a poem by Robert Browning.
When I talk to people about doing NaNoWriMo, or about writing in general, the two things I hear most often are that people wish they had the time to write, and that they never know how to start their book. As far as the time thing goes, I think people can always find time to do the things they want to do, if they really want to do them. As to the other, that's never been a problem for me. I don't think that my opening line needs to be the Greatest Sentence in the History of Mankind. Stephen King beat me to it, and now the pressure is off. I'm the writer; this is my story, and only I know how to tell it. I picture my scene, put my fingers on the keyboard, begin at the beginning, and go from there.
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