Here I am, back at the keyboard. What was I thinking today that was of value? Is this going to be a diary or a place where you write thoughts down (duh, isn't that a diary). Or are you going to attempt to write a story here? I want to write a story. So what are you waiting for: I guess I don't know where to begin. Didn't you teach Randy how to begin writing? I did try. So follow your own instructions, silly. I can't believe you. You're pathetic sometimes, you realize that? Right. Here we go.
Damn. I'm not coming up with much. What have you come up so far: The steam rose off the plates in the late summer night. Doesn't that sound horrible? Yes. Very much so. But who cares? Keep going. Write something! Anything. Even if it sucks, it's at least something. A way to start getting your voice on paper.
This is a lot harder than writing business documents. Are you just realizing that now? Business documents are easier. You have a theme, you know what you want to say. This is different because it's not always clear what you're going to say before you say it. In this writing, you have to figure out how to say it at the same time as what you want to say. What are you thinking now? Besides that I want a glass of water? Go get it and come back and we'll continue this. Right.
I'm back. Are you ready to write? Yes. I'm trying here. Okay, go for it.
The wolf looked out over the snow. Is that how you want to start it? Do you have a better idea? How about some dialogue. I thought you said just to write. I'm writing something that I see. Remember, you should not start with a description. Nobody cares what it looks like in the beginning (or most places for that matter). What concerns them is what's going on. Okay, here goes again.
John looked over the ridge to where his house peeked (keep writing! Don't stop to edit. You can edit later, stupid!) His house peeked over the hills. The light was slowly fading and night was approaching. He hled his stick low , with the point aimed at his younger brother's chest. He had gotten through a number of times, but this was the first time he had made conrtact with Tim's chest. Tim looked up at his older brother. The force of the blow had knocked him down to the floor, and hay was in his hair.
'Well, get up.' John said. He reached down with his left hand and helped his younger brother to his feet. Tim's shirt was marked with a brown smudge where the stick had poked him.
'That wasn't fair. You caught me off guard,' Tim said.
'You shouldn't have left yourself so open. I've never seen you do that before. What happened?'
'It was the sun,' Tim said. He pointed off in the distance. 'The sun was setting and the hills turned purple for a moment. Iw aslooking at them when your stick poked me.
John smiled down at his younger brother and touseled his hair. 'I guess that'll teach you.'
'No sun gazing in the future. How's your leg?'
'It'll heal.' The bruises on John's leg had already begun to show. The circular skin discoloration was visible in a number of places. John knew that Tim was quick. He was more agile, faster, and somewhat stronger than his older brother. John had always been envious of Tim. Tim was a born athlete. He was stronger and faster than children two years his senior.
'Let's get back before mom and dad begin to worry.' Tim said. He still held his chest from where the stick had poked him. John smiled at his brother and ran ahead toward the house.
'No fair! You started before I was ready,' Tim said as he started giving chase to his brother. As the boys started running up the hill, Tim caught up and overtook his brother. At the top of the hill, John slowed down and held his side. Tim was halfway down the hill when he realized that his brother no longer followed him.
'What are you doing up there? It's getting dark. Hurry up or they won't save supper for us,' Tim said.
'I'll catch up. Go on ahead. Give me a moment to catch my breath.'
Tim looked back at his brother and shrugged his shoulders. He then took off toward home. John watched him as he disappeared over the hill. It was apparent that Tim hadn't even been running at his full speed when he overtook John. John shook his head. If there was one brother that was destined for something special, it was Tim.
John picked up a stick and began drawing in the ground. The stick gathered up dirt clods as he drew lines around the log on which he sat. Something special was all that he ever wanted to be. He wanted to be good at something. Tim was a better athlete. John knew and accepted that. In truth, Tim was also better at school as well. John knew that but didn't quite admit it to himself. It was strange for John to look up to his younger brother, but that's what he did.
Damn, what is this shit that you're writing about, David? It's Shannon's story, I guess. Two brothers, the younger one, Tim, is a specimen who should be able to do something special. John, the older one, looks up to his younger brother, but at the same time, can't stand him because he is his younger brother. Weird dynamics. From here, John finally gets his wish and becomes special. He's visited in a vision and told that he is going to be something in the future. He's going to save humanity. He goes off and trains in order to prepare himself for it. He's read lots of comics on what a hero is, and he follows a strict regimine to physically build himself up.
A number of years pass. He goes through college and graduates and becomes a school teacher. All the while he is waiting to be called on--or, better yet, he's waiting for 'the return,' as the vision represented it. Eventually, John grows older and forgets about the vision. John marries his high school sweetheart when in his 20s. John goes on to have three children. Tim dies when John is 30 (Tim is 28) of colon cancer. When John reaches 55, he gets his first grandchild. At 75, he has eight grandchildren from his three children. It's then that the return happens.
That's as far as I got. I think that's enough for today. I'm going to sleep (soon).
What is it I want to write about? Is there anything I truly want to write about? I figure if I type it would be easier to figure out what I wanted to do. What do you think is currently wrong with you? What is wrong with me? That's a bad place to start. I guess what's wrong with my current lifestyle is probably a better place to start than what is wrong with me. We can write books on that. Okay. Here's what my current life looks like:
First, I work. There is nothing wrong with that. I enjoy the job. It's challenging, I see lots of room for growth and improvement--we can get into that another time--and it pays my bills. That is of course what work is supposed to do. Now, what is wrong with my life? I guess I'm a social incompetent. Although, 'incompetent' is probably not the right word. I am thinking more along the lines of loser. There's a nice 80's word for you: Loser. Explain why you're a loser. Again, you're asking me to espouse on too broad of a topic. I thought we were talking lifestyle only. Okay, now tell me about the rest of your lifestyle. You got through your job. What else is there?
I think that's one of the biggest problems. There is nothing more out there besides my job. I watch a lot of television. Probably at least 10 hours a week. Is that all? That's a good question. I think I'm a little scared to actually figure out the exact amount of time that I spend watching television. What else is there? I play video games. I'm currently stuck on Dark Age of Camelot, a MMORPG. I won't even go into describing it, but I've spent too many hours to count. More hours than I watch television, even. What else is there in your life'
Then there are my relationships. I have a few friends that I speak with. I have a collection of male friends: Shannon, Steven, Will, Scott, Chris, etc., and a pair of female friends: Jean and Nicole. There won't be a relationship there, but I like talking with them. It makes me feel like I'm capable of having a relationship (even if I'm really not--or so I keep telling myself in my depressed state).
Is that your entire life? As far as I can think, yes. I need to change something. Oh, and I go to a Jewish bible studies class for singles once a week. I had hoped to meet someone or at least have interesting conversations there, but I've mostly failed on both parts. The conversations are not all that interesting, and I have to occasionally force an argument just to amuse me (or feed my ego, which is the more likely story). As for meeting women, I think I almost met a nice Argentinean woman there. She's not from Argentina, but lives there currently. She was quite friendly, until I got her lost on the way home. It figures.
So where does that leave us? That's my life above. More or less compete. Of course, there's also my family back in the New York area. I love them very much, but while they're of course part of my life, it's a different part than I'm talking about here.
I was just distracted. I get that way a lot. I guess it's my short attention span, or maybe it's my 'boredom' syndrome. They say smart people are bored a lot. I don't think that's true. I think boredom is a sign of a short attention span. If you can concentrate on one thing and do it well, you wouldn't be that bored.
Is writing something you want to concentrate on? Why do you want to write? I guess ego is definitely part of it. I like feeding my ego. Is that all? No. I also like feeling, and writing, I think, might help me feel. What else? Also, writing might be like programming. Something I can lose myself in. When writing a story, I want to get involved. I want to escape, to be there, but at the same time, create something new. I get that now with video games. I get to escape the real world, live in a different, computerized world and figure out what makes it tick. That's what's interesting about those MMORPG I didn't talk about before. It's figuring out what makes those worlds work. I enjoy figuring out the formulas behind the fighting. How the group dynamics work. Not to mention, going back to the first point, the ego part. When I build my character up through the levels, I can look down on the lower level characters. That's not the real reason. I don't exactly look down at them, but I do feel a sense of accomplishment. It's of course fake, but, then again, what isn't a fake sense of accomplishment in this weird-weird world?
I left off the gym and basketball on things that I do above. That and reading and now hopefully writing as well. I guess those are things I have to start getting back into, all of them.
What are you proposing? I propose to write. Write like I like to write and not how I expect to do well as a writer. Don't worry about the fame and fortune. It's not going to come to you through writing. You have a career, and you're good at it. Let's concentrate on writing for you; to make you a better person. That's what it's all about. That's why we're here, to learn to be a better person. Now is your chance to learn. You can start here. It is so.
(This is long...it's an outline and summary of a book that Shannon and I were thinking of writing. We never got too far.)
My notes and comments:
Boy and War
Boy is introduced at age 5 as living in a small village. He is mischievous, has problems with authority. His parents are independent farmers (innkeepers?) in a small township. He is the youngest of four siblings, with two brothers and a sister. His older (?) brother was killed a year ago while serving in the army (his Sergeant—the one that eventually trains Boy—accidentally killed him during training). His father now does not want Boy to join the military. Boy is bored with living on the farm/inn, and wants to get out and see the world, join the army, and become a hero.
One day, while wandering in the woods and avoiding his chores, Boy comes across the fairy dragon (giver of the ring can be the dragon, a wizard, old man, or old woman—be wary of a Fizban-type character). The fairy dragon offers Boy the chance of an adventure of a lifetime. The only stipulation is that Boy cannot balk when the fair dragon calls on him. His acceptance of the ring magically binds him. (The words that the fairy dragon uses are important here—should be written like a “prophecy” with multiple possible readings, but one obvious reading, which, although easy to understand, is wrong.) Boy readily accepts and the fairy dragon places a ring on Boy’s finger (the ring cannot be removed—not sure when we want to make this point, though. We can have Boy try to remove the ring when he no longer wants to be a hero—when he sees the realities of war (after he hides under the dead soldier, perhaps?). Or we can have him not try to remove the ring until after the fairy dragon returns after the war to prepare him for his real adventure). Thinking that the ring is magical, Boy tries to make the ring work, but he is unable to figure out the secret of the ring. (This might be the time that he tries to remove the ring—not sure why we would keep this secret.) It turns out there is no secret of the ring (and there better not be a “placebo” effect secret!!!).
At age 12, Boy runs off with the army passing by his town going to battle with one of the warring nations (against whom or what this war is undecided—but it’s the war that Boy participates in and, after moving up the ranks, eventually kills the “Manipulator” who is improperly using magic). He has gotten tired of his father being so overbearing, keeping him busy on the farm all the time (similar to Luke in Star Wars). His father is worried about losing another son in the army. Going against his father’s wishes, Boy joins the army. He believes this is what the fairy dragon was talking about when he mentioned the great adventure.
He’s young to be in the army, but the army, desperate for bodies, allows Boy to join and puts him to work as a scullion or errand-boy. The army is made up of professional soldiers and commoners. The commoners are ill-trained and given a leather jerkin and a sword (or pike? Not sure if they would be giving swords out to every Tom, Dick, and Jane) and shown how to use it.
After an exceptionally bloody battle, the army is decimated and desperate for fighting men. Boy is given a short sword and a used leather jerkin from one of the dead soldiers and placed on the front line with the rest of the commoners. The commoners are routed by the onslaught (or they charge and get decimated). (Do we want his latent psionic powers to show a bit during this first fight? If not, we can pepper it throughout his time in the army.)
Boy finds himself, surprisingly, very much alive after the rout, and covered by a fallen soldier (enemy or friend). Even though he can still hear the battle raging around him (or in the distance), Boy is too scared to move, and decides to remain under the dead soldier.
Boy’s company is victorious and while the soldiers are looting the dead, they discover Boy uninjured and hiding under the dead soldier. The company does not take kindly to deserters and cowards, and Boy is subject to much abuse and violence. An older soldier takes a fancy to him, and rapes Boy, saying something like, “if you’re going to hide like a woman, then I’m going to treat you like one.” (The abuse may go on for some time before the rape. There may be more than one rape as well. We don’t want Boy losing all courage, but we do want him building up a resolve to better himself—as well as the anger he’ll need to focus during his training.) The rape is interrupted by a grizzled old sergeant, who kills the rapist. We are not sure why he does this (at the time, nobody in the company cared much for Boy because of his cowardice).
The sergeant tells Boy that if he wants to live, he needs to learn how to fight. The sergeant teaches Boy to fight every day, beating the living crap out of Boy, who now is mad as hell, but keeps coming back for more. Boy does nothing but practice and fight, and has incredible focus, but talks to and cares for no one but the sergeant. Sergeant lets this go on for a while and then explains that he can be the best fighter in the world, but if he makes enemies of everyone, eventually he will get stabbed in the back. Learning from this, Boy integrate slowly back into the world, but his anger is still his focus.
At some point, we learn the reason the sergeant took an interest in Boy (not sure how this comes out or at what point. It might be better to hold off on this for a while). It turns out that the sergeant was the one who killed Boy’s brother during training. The sergeant had been an excellent soldier and was steadily working his way up through the ranks (to captain?). He was tough but fair on his people. During a sword training session with Boy’s brother involving real weapons—sergeant was so confident in his abilities that he scoffed at practicing with tourney or practice weapons—the sergeant accidentally kills Boy’s brother. The sergeant was removed from command and demoted. He decided to stay in the army (perhaps to make up for his mistake?). The sergeant rescued Boy from the older soldier because he saw a resemblance to the boy he killed (he did not know they were related—perhaps he never finds out?). Once saved, and knowing that he was a coward, the sergeant decides to instruct Boy so he never runs from a fight again. (We need to figure out what happens when Boy finds out that the sergeant was the one who killed his brother. Perhaps at the beginning of his training, he can learn of this, and start secretly planning to kill his benefactor? Or it might be better after the sergeant explains why he has been beating him up—to focus his anger. What’s the end game for this?)
As the years go on, Boy moves up through the ranks and attains captain, the highest rank a non-noble can achieve. (There’s a lot to be filled in here.) The sergeant remains a sergeant, saying that he doesn't want to advance because he hates politics (again, we need to tie this into the end game above. I think Boy must learn the truth and do something about it—good conflict). Boy becomes the hero of many battles and his troops love him. Boy believes that this war is his grand adventure. A LOT of time passes. During the war, he seems a lot of misery and death. (As Boy kills more and more, he realizes that war is not an adventure, blah, blah, blah—the reluctant hero thing. We might want to avoid this or think of an alternative way of presenting it. Perhaps here he revels in the power and glory of battle, but after he settles down, the glory and power doesn’t seem as important?)
During the fighting, strange things happen to Boy when he gets angry (such as swords that appear to cut unprotected parts of Boy glance off his skin, arrows that are heading for Boy fall to the ground, and other telekinetic related happenings). (Note: should it happen when he gets angry? I thought part of the conflict going forward is that he must learn not to use his anger to focus his psionic powers. Perhaps it should happen randomly and not when he’s angry?) The happenings are all attributed to mage-work (by whom? Boy or his soldiers?), but they are actually manifestations of his latent psionic ability.
During the last battle of the war, Boy confronts the Manipulator in one-on-one combat. He is victorious, but as the Manipulator is dying, he (or she) is able to draw enough power to kill Boy (or some way to have both of them killed—I’d rather see him victorious before he is killed).
At his death, the fairy dragon realizes that hope for the future is in jeopardy, because the Boy’s psionic abilities might be the only magic that works if the negative entity breaks free (which could (would according to the fairy dragon?) result in destroying the druidic magic of the world). Another person born with the psionic powers may be born before the negative entity is released, but there is no guarantee. The fairy dragon decides to resurrect Boy, knowing that the energy pulled for the resurrection might release the negative entity (which is the dilemma). (What does the council of nine think of this? Do they know of the fairy dragon? Are they against him?) The resurrection devastates the countryside for many miles, and the entity is freed. It is weak in this plane, however, and must spend time learning to fight the draining effect that this plane has on it (I’m not sure what this means).
Boy thanks the fairy dragon and thinks that the resurrection is a gift for winning the war. (We need a tie-in here. When was Boy resurrected? Does his army know he’s alive, or do they think he’s dead?)
A war hero (or not), Boy returns to his home village with his woman (who hangs on his every word and obeys him without question, while being always available for sex and never jealous, with huge breasteses, of course). There he works (runs?) his father’s farm. (What happened to his family during the war? Were they killed? Did they live happily in their village?) He marries (who does he marry? It would be nice if the woman was tied into the story in the “…a LOT of time passes” part. It would makes his parting much more painful), and settles down and has two children.
Boy turns around 40 and has not swung his sword in some time. He runs a small farm and an inn with the help of his father (if his father survived), and loves the quiet life now. He has plumped up and his greatest joy is raising his children (grandchildren?). He still has the ring, but thinks nothing of it until the fairy dragon appears. The fairy dragon asks if Boy is ready for his big adventure (or ready to serve—whatever the fairy dragon had said originally). Boy is confused by the question, since he thought that his big adventure was finished after he killed the Manipulator and saved the world. Fairy dragon explains that that is not what he had been called for, and the ring came with the bargain that he would be called upon when needed—now he is needed and the adventure he wanted is about to begin.
Boy is not happy with what Fairy dragon has to say. He has a family now and kids he wants to see grow up. He lost his adventuring spirit and he’s grown fat. He just wants to settle down and wait for his grandchildren. Fairy dragon reminds Boy of his debt and what the ring means. Boy tries to convince the Fairy dragon that there are others much better than him now—showing him his beer belly and weak arms. But the fairy dragon insists that Boy was chosen for a reason. (Why would the fairy dragon be so elusive? Does the fairy dragon tell Boy at this point why he was chosen, viz., because he has the psionic gift? This might work better if he tells him after he cuts his finger off. This might be the thing that convinces him after he refuses and tries to cut off the ring.)
Boy returns home angry, he attempts to remove the ring from his finger, but has no luck. In a moment of desperation, he pulls out his dagger and slices his ring finger off. The ring falls to the table, vanishes, and then appears on his middle finger of the same hand. Boy is outraged.
At some point, Boy realizes that he has no choice but to accept his fate and follow through on his agreement. He must leave his family and travel to another realm to learn from the one other known psionicist. (Where he travels too might be important. We might want to send him to the realm he had been fighting against.) At this point, because of the entities influence, magic is becoming more and more unstable and rarely works as directed (the council of nine might be trying to hide this).
And so ends book one (or three)….
Magic and the Council of Nine:
Magic is performed using the earth’s energy (nature and life?). Spell casters, who are similar to druids (should we just call them druids then?), cast spells using the earth around them. The effects of these spells are immediately visible. Conjuring a gallon of water might kill one to two square feet of grass. A large lightning bolt might evaporate 50 cubic yards of water, kill a tree, brown one-hundred square feet of grass, or any combination. Resurrection could devastate the countryside for miles. These are random backlash events. Energy can also be drawn from people by aging or killing them to fuel a spell. Therefore, magic is dangerous and is tightly restricted—you need a license to use magic.
Licenses are granted after spell casters go through schooling where they learn the basics of magic and some techniques that at least help keep the backlash from being totally random. Obviously there are grades of licenses as knowledge increases, and licenses for the specific schools of magic. (What are the schools of magic?)
Magic is governed by the council of nine. The council, through many years of use and experience (so they tell people), have learned to control the resulting backlash. They can pull energy for a spell from 200 miles away, or draw life force from a specific person. Until now it was thought that only the members of the council could do this. (I know we talked about them using the conduit from the negative energy to exert the control, but maybe they could also do it by working together, you know, sort of like triangulation. Just a thought, but your idea probably has more implications and twists to use.) A renegade spell caster somehow has gained this knowledge, and politically important people start dying for seemingly no reason.
If there is not enough energy in the surrounding area, a spell caster may use his own life force to fuel a spell (e.g., causing premature aging).
Magical Seal for Negative Energy and War
As battles go on in the war against the Manipulator, the energy of the earth weakens. Unfortunately this energy is tied into the seal that was created thousands of years ago to hold back the negative energy that is created as a byproduct of hateful actions and pain. (Is the energy of the earth continuously being called upon to maintain the seal? How does this work? Wouldn’t we need to show energy being drawn for this? For example, wouldn’t forests being dying to keep the seal in place? Perhaps the creation of the seal tipped the balance. Before the seal, the power drawn from the earth could be pulled from deeper parts of the earth (for example, subterranean formations and the earth’s core). When the seal as put into place, that power was completely tapped, and only the surface of the earth was left for druids to pull power from. Not sure where this goes, but it’s just a thought).
The energy is held in an extra dimensional space with a conduit for energy to siphon to this place, but with no way for the energy to escape back to this plane. Unfortunately, the biggest threat to humans is the byproduct of things like war, and this is why the council of nine did not want the hunt for the renegade to turn into a war (we’ll get into details on the political outline…we really need to think about that next).
Behind the seal, so much negative energy has collected over time that it has coalesced and evolved into a living, sentient entity with thought, motive, and purpose. Its purpose is just to perpetuate itself, and it does this by getting people to hurt one another. So, as the wars proceed and more magic is used, the earths energy decreases and the shield weakens. Unfortunately, there was the tiniest crack formed in this shield in the first place, and it is through this that the entity was able to impart upon the renegade the knowledge of how to control the backlash.
Limited officers to noble born.
Everyone above captain is noble-born.
Roman style army.
Generals have political say.
3-5k army passing by the village
army of a realm if they came together would equal 30-50k
Shannon's Comments:
Our protagonist (look at my literary genius already coming out), we will call him X, starts out at the age of 5. He is very mischievous, doesn't listen to authority much, wants to be a soldier. He has both parents, they are independant farmers in a small township. He is the youngest of 4, w boys and a girl, but the oldest brother was killed a year ago in a training accident with the militia.
During one of X's forays into the woods he meets the giver of the ring(dragon or whoever) - who gives him the ring and says that if he accepts it he will have the adventure of a lifetime, but he has to realize that when he is called for this adventure, he must accept it. His acceptance of the ring is a magical binding. So, of course he accepts, and quickly finds that the ring will not come off.
Magic: Performed using the earths energy. If a spell caster(who are much like druids) casts a spell, it uses the earth around them, and the effects of this are immediately visible. Conjuring a gallon or water might make 1-2 sq. ft. fo grass brown and dead. A large lightning bolt might evaproate 50 cubicc yards of water, kill a tree or brown 100 sq ft of grass, or any combination. Resurrection would devastate the countryside for miles. these are random backlash events, and even people can be aged or killed if their energy is tapped to fuel a spell. Therefore, magic is very dangerous and it is very tightly restricted - you need a license to use magic. This is granted after you go through schooling where they teach the magic and some techniques that at least help keep the backlash from being totally random. Obviously there are grades of licenses as knowledge increases and even licenses allowing use of specific schools of magic. This is governed by the council of 9. They are the few who, through many years of use and experience(so they tell people), have learned to control where the backlash comes from. They can pull energy for a spell from 200 miles away, or draw lifeforce from a specific person. Until now it was though that only the members of the council could do this. (I know we talked about them using the conduit from the neg. energy to exert the control, but maybe they could also do it by working together, you know, sort of like triangulation. Just a thought, but your idea probably has more implications and twists to use.) A renegade spell caster somehow has gained this knowledge, and important people start dying for seemingly no reason.
If there is not enough energy in the surrounding area, a spellcaster may use his own lifeforce to fuel a spell.
At age 12, X runs off to war with an army passing by his town going to battle with one of the waring nations. He has gotten tired of his father being so overbearing, keeping him on the farm all the time and keeping him busy just so he cannot run off. Dad of course is just scared of him being killed like his brother.
So, he runs off with the army and works as a scut boy for them until in a battle so many of them die that they need every hand they can get to fight. So, he is given a short sword and a used leather jerkin from one of the dead and put in the front lines to absorb blows. He survives the first battle by having a dead man fall on him and covering him. He soils himself and lays there until the battle is over and he is found by his fellow fighters. Now he is marked as a coward and is a target for many of the soldiers, especially one. He takes many jibes and is beaten up, and is eventually raped by one of them. This act is cut short by a grizzled old sargeant, who kills the man and tells X if he is going to stay and wants to live, he is going to learn how to fight.
He proceeds to teach him to fight every day, beating the living crap out of X, who now is mad as hell and keeps coming back for more. He does nothing but practice and fight, and has incredible focus, but talks to and cares for no one but the sargeant. Sargeant lets this go on for a while and then explains that he can be the best fighter in the world, but if he makes enemies of everyone, eventually he will get stabbed in the back; so X slowly learns to integrate back into the world, but his anger is still his focus.
As the years in battle go on he moves up through the ranks and eventually attains captain, the highest rank a non-noble can achieve. The sargeant stays a sargeant, saying that he doesn't want to advance because he hates politics. Eventually X finds out the the sargeant was the one who accidentally killed his brother in training (although sargeant does not know it was his brother) and this is why he stays at this rank. This is also why he took X under his wing., trying to make up for past wrongs.
As battles go on in the war to stop the improper use of magic, the energy of the earth weakens. Unfortunately this energy is tied into the seal that was created thousands of years ago to hold back the negative energy that is created as a byproduct of hatefull actions and pain. This energy is held in an extradimensional space with a conduit for energy to siphon to this place, but with no way for the energy to escape back to this plane. Unfortunately, the biggest threat to humans is the byproduct of things like war, and this is why the council of 9 did not want the hunt for the renegade to turn into a war.
Behind the seal, so much negative energy has collected over time that it has coalesced and evololved into a living, sentient entity with thought, motive, and purpose. Its purpose is just to perpetuate itself, and it does this by getting people to hurt one another. So, as the wars proceed and more magic is used, the earths energy decreases and the shield weakens. Unfortunately, there was the tiniest crack formed in this shield in the first place, and it is through this that the entity was able to impart upon the renegade the knowledge of how to control the backlash.
About X: As battles continue, weird things happen around him, especially as he gets more angry. Objects fly around, swords glance off his skin, etc. These things are all attributed to mage-work, but they are actually manifestations of his latent psionic ability.
At the final battle, X and the renegade mage kill one another. With the death of X, the ring-bearer realizes that hope for the future could be lost, because the entity will be free, and will gain strength and render useless the magic of this world. This will take time, but another psionic may not be born in that time, and he knows that only a psionic can take on this challenge. So, he wants to resurrect X, but realizes in doing so that this may free the entity right now, and speed up the whole process. This is the dilemma, but he resurrects X anyway, so that at least he knows that someone will be alive to take up the challenge. This resurrection devestates the countryside for many miles, and the entity is freed. It is weak in this plain, however, and must spend time learning to fight the draining effect that this plane has on it.
During this time X settles down back home with a woman that he met along the way (yes, I know we have to figure this out), and has 2 small kids, ages 1 and 3. He is now about 40, and has not swung a sword for years. He runs a small farm and an inn with the help of his father, and loves the quiet life now. He still has the ring, but thinks nothing of it until the ring-bearer comes and asks him if he is ready to serve. He doesn't know what the hell he is talking about, because he already had his adventure and did his part in saving the world. The ring-bearer reminds him that he was not called to do those things, and the ring came with the bargain that he would be called upon when needed - now he is needed and the adventure he wanted is about to begin. This angers X greatly, to the point where he even cuts off the finger with the ring, but it just re-attaches itself.
He is bound, and he must leave his family and travel to another realm to learn from the one other known psionicist. At this point, because of the entities influence, magic is becoming more and more unstable and rarely works as directed.
Well, thats what we spoke of. I'm sorry its so long in coming and that I haven't really thought of anything more. Work is really ramping up right now, and my already limited creative juices are further stifled. I will talk to you later tonight
Whitecloaks
Boy eventually joins the Whitecloaks. (This can happen because of his surrender after joining the other army, or perhaps this is his first choice. Regardless of how he joins, his first couple of years there does not go very well.)
After many battles, he is raised to Sergeant-like command (for about 25 or so soldiers). He becomes involved in a conspiracy to mutiny and join the other side. Unknown to the Boy, the conspiracy is being headed by a third group whose motives are unclear. The third group is using “mind powers” to influence the would-be-mutineers.
During an important offensive of the war, the Boy is nudged not to participate in the slaughter of a village with a known “witch” in its midst by the third group. The village was being attacked because it had stood up to the Whitecloaks, and the Whitecloaks felt that their only recourse was to slaughter the village.
The other army learns of the attack and arrives to challenges the Whitecloaks presumably to save the village. The Boy and a number of other divisions – unknown to the Boy – allow the army to pass unmolested through their ranks. This results in an annihilation of the Whitecloaks’ main standing army. The village is not destroyed, but most of the men are drafted into the other army.
Thoughts for other stories:
While resting tonight, I came up with two short story ideas that I needed to write down. Here they are:
- Sarah Shayne wishing upon the star to talk to Zayda.
- The way older people always hover around younger people and enjoy speaking with them, almost like they were trying to relive their youth vicariously.
- Repetitive conversation. People say such inane things, over and over. When they find something that’s funny, they keep saying it. People also tend to think about themselves at least 90% of the time. You should keep that in mind.
- Why don’t you go through Shannon’s story and begin writing that?
Doesn’t sound that impressive looking back, but keep the ideas coming.
Here are some newer ones:
- Story about an immortality pill—or at least, a story that takes place after society has perfected this pill. The distribution is controlled by the government, and society has become very careful about people’s lives, e.g., cars have been outlawed. People jump from job to job every five or ten years, but there’s little going on in anyone’s life. Perhaps make it a political story? A threatening country decides to attack because it doesn’t have access to the pill? A third world country? Countries outside of the “civilized world” do not have access to the pill. This can create a lot of conflict, and perhaps the scientific advancement of the immortality societies has weakened its abilities to defend itself? Now this is turning into a story. The pursuit of one of younger members of the society to take on this conflict head on instead of hiding out and appeasing its increasingly violent, uncivilized neighbor.
- When you die, aliens claim your soul—death is actually a conspiracy of these aliens to acquire workers. Without the aliens’ interruptions, humans would live forever as was god’s plan. Brilliant!
Why Magic - Outline
So you get the powers you wanted. You're "magical." What now? You've worked hard figuring out how to harness the power of the spiritual world. What do you do with that power?
You can put on tights and try to save the world; but that turns out to be much harder than it looks on television. I mean, really, where are the bad guys? How many times have you witnessed crimes really going down? Even in New York City you didn't once witness a crime. It's just not easy to save the world.
What if the power was limited? It would be even more bitter-sweet. You have "power," but it's not strong enough to cure the ones you love; nor is it strong enough to make what was wrong with your life right. These are thoughts you didn't have when you first started delving into the books. Now you're learning.
Not only are you powerless to save those you love, but you can't even affect the world around you without fear of being discovered. Why aren't there more "magicians" out there? It's for obvious reasons. Imagine being studied and prodded. Or at least that's what you're thinking would happen. You're not really willing to take the chance, are you? I thought not.
The picture is not all rosy, is it? But that's not going to stop me from telling it. I'm going to tell it from the first person perspective. Now, let's get started.
Back in Starbucks. I pay $3.03 to sit here. I’m not sure why I even bother buying coffee—it’s not like I like it.
I’m reading DFW’s essays, and while I still respect his writing, I see flaws in him—just like Doug. I’m different from both of them. I (like to think that) I’m as smart but different; as good a writer (relative to my practice and current dedication—cop outs, of course, realistic ones) but with a different focus. I’ve learned a lot from both of them—it’s time that I actually apply some of it.
I’m a little tired of my 15-minute dedication. If this is something you want to do, then you should do it and stop your bitching, complaining, and the worst that you do: now I forget—is it not doing? or not doing well. It’s probably a combination.
My brain’s flighty today. I’m still tired from all the travels. I’ve got to focus better; watch better. Distractions are fun. I’m so easily distracted. What would you like to write? I want to use Brain—I accept I have a limited memory, and this tool improves it. You’re just babbling at this point, aren’t you? Go read and bitch about failure.
What is it you want to say? Why is it you want to write? Is it a need? It has to be a need—a deep desire that cannot be satisfied without applying pen to paper. And here I am, attempting to apply pen to paper. It is like trying to get blood from a stone, this drawing out of words into an idea. It is alien to me. I develop thoughts by having something to say and recording that something. When I have nothing to say, recording becomes difficult, if not impossible. But here I try. I attempt to watch words sear on to the paper, caffeine flowing through my veins, as if inspiration could flow from a bottomless mug.
Stories always have to start somewhere.
“Failure has a taste. It digs deep into your constricting throat and churns the bile in your stomach. It calls forth the demons in your head, the ones that force you to look away when you realize the predicament that the players find themselves in. You have been taught to avoid failure—it is a poorly designed lesson,” the teacher said.
Johnny was staring at the clock. Mr. Hessal’s lessons were rarely insightful, and this one was no exception. Johnny knew that the failure he spoke of was his own. Why else would he be trapped in this twenty-room schoolhouse, passing on his learning of failure and basic mathematics?
“It’s been said,” Mr. Hessal continued, “that all new ideas are derived from failing to succeed. This is hogwash.”
Damn. Once again you head in no direction and you puke words onto the page. You begin to formulate scenes, begin to put words in the mouths of these strangers, and you end up going nowhere. Why don’t you write on something you know? Why aren’t you concentrating on researching and writing your article? Is there something more you want—something that only fiction can bring you? And if this is true, what is that, and where do you suppose you will find it?
You start with the blank page and, as you poetically stated before, you sear the musings of your soul onto it. You reach down to where thoughts and ideas become truths and beliefs, a place that by visiting you are set up for the failure you were worrying about; you draw out grains of thoughts, placing them on the page and wondering if organization will bring about an interesting story. Those are the two steps: the soul dredging and the organizing. For some, it is the first that draws the scorn of the mind; for others, the organizing principle of written communication confounds them. A failure of either and the results are the same. It doesn’t work, ideas aren’t conveyed, writing fails.
Practice and time is what allows one to get past these roadblocks. What’s that cliché? Even the mightiest mountain fears time. That is what you must do to overcome this stoppage. You must force yourself to sit and write—to pour your soul onto paper and allow your mind to organize what your soul discloses. You must open up and allow your soul to speak before clamping down and organizing those thoughts. This is a painful exercise. Opening your soul to these thoughts—bringing forth thoughts that are translated to ideas only with difficulty—is not for the timid. Since you’re here and this is what you want to do, I imagine you are not timid. I imagine you understand that and agree with where you’re heading.
You will begin hundreds of times. You must let your fingers wander and translate the drippings of your soul. And where you end up? You will have translated one of the infinite possibilities that the universe creates. You will have brought it into being, breathed life into it. And once it’s breathing, out there, you will begin on another story, another possibility that is waiting to be shared. A million monkeys and typewriters can do it. They can do it because it already exists somewhere. That is not good enough, however. Who is going to look through the manuscripts of the monkeys to find the Shakespeare? Instead, it is your job as a writer to not only bring up from the depths of the universe these stories, but also to take them and give them an audience. Say to people, ‘this is a story worth reading.’
These are just thoughts. These are just scribbles. This is your approximation of inspiration with steamed milk. What you need to do, you want to do, is to start scribing from the soul. Start listening, exploring, recording. And when it’s out there, then start organizing. What is it you want to say? It is what has ears and desires. It is what wants and calls, sings and begs. Bring it forth. You are the narrator; find your voice. Don’t think of what is done, but do what it is you want to do, to speak. This is my message to you. Distract, focus, do.
Time stopped. That’s not completely accurate. Time does not really stop; we’ve learned that it’s relative, but that doesn’t mean we can redefine the rules and stop it. Time slowed is a more accurate understanding of what was going down.
The pain. It’s not easy. It’s fucking hard writing down what you’re thinking, feeling. Finding the words that reflect what it is your soul is speaking. Reaching that point of emotional vomiting—that is the end. Only once the puke covers the page can you go back and remove the chunky goodness from the bile, rearranging the undigested food into a banquet. But before regurgitating, you must digest the ideas, the stories, the societies or their parallels that will be spewed on the page. You must speak with them, learn about how they think, what they want, how it is. After you know that, you have the ingredients necessary. Is that where you’re heading? Start the approach.
He watched the balding man sip his coffee. It was late in the day.
Of a more important figure, it was hard to imagine.
Frightened, he attacked the banquet table.
Big feet in little shoes and fashionable, black socks.
This is the palette of your communication, sentences and words. What you’re missing is the story. You have to want to say something—something longer than the sentence or paragraph that you describe as a story. It is longer than the page that has a few ideas that you define as a story. You must throw everything against the wall and see what sticks. You must begin to build, to generate the idea’s germ, and then you must run. You must grab it, hold it with all your might, and sprint to the first hurdle.
You can write about the puking of ideas and what you’re doing wrong. The reason you can write about these is because it’s something to say. When you write the paragraph and give up, it’s caused by not knowing what it is you want to say. You have to outline, think, declare the story. Start with short stories. Plan them out. Write them. Then move on. How do you suppose you can write a novel without understanding how to write something shorter? how to actually complete something. Go with it.
Much better. You at least wrote something down. It’s absolute crap, but at least its words on the paper. It’s definitely not your soul that’s speaking there. But it’s a start. From here you can translate and rewrite. The hard part is getting the idea and following it through. Once you have that done you can rework it, rewrite portions, and compile it until it makes sense. I think I might be done for the day. I’m getting a little frustrated sitting here in Starbucks. It’s a good day. I think I accomplished something.
Why do I feel like I’m going to vomit after I finish one of these sessions? I won’t blame the caffeine—although it’s obvious that that is part of it. It feels similar to when I am sexually drained. The last thing I want to do is continue the pursuit. I feel spent, like the effort wasn’t worth the cost. Reading back over what I created never reflects what it is I was feeling. I be out of here presently.
And here I am, back at the Starbucks, readying myself to begin writing again. I’ve been thinking about the programmer story. I’m ready to continue it. I ordered a Cappuccino today—not sweet enough, but hot enough to squeeze the words from me.
You need to report on something. You have to watch it in your head. Yeah, he’s programming, or watching his drunk father beat his wife, but where are you going? Why are you starting with that? Where’s the build-up? Where’s the introduction, the scene-setting? You need all of this. You see how quickly you type when you have something to say? When you’re struggling to form the scene in your head, that’s when you slow down, that’s when the pain begins. You must see everything first. See it with your mind’s eye in such clarity that the words just pour from your fingers. The images should spring out of you, not be forced from your unwilling grasp. You must first let go, and open your creative self, as a poor-excuse for a self-help author might say. This is a learning experience. That you are sitting here, attempting to accomplish this something that you have wanted for so long, that is the important part. That is where you are heading, what you want. The words flow easier when you discuss these ideas. This is the freeform flow that you want from the actual story.
The trumpet pickled the notes, storing them in a jar, before the waiting world poured its juices in their minds.
Yes, the analogies are difficult, and maybe they’re the ones that take time. But what it is you want to say, that should be there; that should be waiting for you to express it. See the universe unfold in front of you. Visualize where it is heading, where it wants to go, portray that easily, quietly, faintly.
This is fun. Smile! Enjoy the writing. Imagine what other things you could be doing. How boring they are, how unfulfilling compared to this, this exposing of your soul—removing the overcoat covering your nakedness. Allowing others to peer in. This is what is living! This is the discovery of who you are, the chance to speak to yourself, have deep conversations on topics that interest you; receive answers based on those conversations, those ideas! Develop your philosophy, decide when to use exclamation marks, semicolons, words that belong or belong just because you say they do. This is what you want. This is why you want to write. You want to live! Live on the paper. Live in the universe, the monkey’s universe, if you like, that jumps from you. Show the world that these fingers pounding on the keys will bring you somewhere, somewhere you want to be. Fuck them if they don’t want to go there. You want to go there. That’s what counts, that’s the beauty of what you’re doing! Share your joy. Find your muse. Fuck that! Find your voice. You have your muse, smiling while you type. You enjoy it! I know you do. Look at how many exclamation marks you used in this paragraph, you the hater of all such punctuation. This is your calling. How much fun this is? How much fun this is! There’s no doubt. I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be then sitting on this brown cushy chair, watching people walk in and out of the café. Watching the beautiful ladies, old people, business and school meetings while I pound out my words. It’s the words, the poetry, the translation of organized ideas. You know what that is. This is ecstasy. Magic. You wanted magic. You wanted to wield magic your whole life and here is your magic wand. You are Merlin, David Copperfield, a Genie, all rolled into one! The pen moving across the paper, the spiky haired woman attempting to distract you but just accommodating you with inspiration. My god! This is what I want to do. This is the something I’ve wanted to do all along. I can’t believe it’s taken you this long to realize it. Yes, you need polish. Yes, you’re writing, while perhaps grammatically correct, needs something, excitement or aim. But that will come. Your vocabulary is weak. But instead of latching on to others that do what it is you want to do, you do it! Let others latch onto you. Steal their energies. Fuck their energy! You don’t need their energy. You have plenty of your own. Just feel it flowing from you. Flowing is the wrong word there. It’s too Star-Wars-esque. You’re digging the minerals out of the rock, excavating the gems, sharing them with the screen. My god! What magic. Now, don’t delay. Continue these musings, but instead of giving them, instead of sharing them in this way—directly—share them the way you want: through the flow of fiction. Go now! Don’t delay. Use this voice. Be excited, be happy, feel the pain, the sadness, the emotions! It’s emotions you want to feel. That is what great writing has, what it can do. It can share with you. Let it! Use it! You love the feeling, the emotional constraints. Use them! Your voice is heard through these emotions; use the outpouring of pure, unadulterated dreams in the form of a story. Tell it! Free time? What’s that? You know what you want to do with your free time. You know how you want to spend it. You will go elsewhere. Find a place to sit, open your computer and share with yourself what you’re thinking. The pleasure! I never thought I’d find what it is that I want to do, and here it’s been staring at you all along. You even knew! Of course, you might have known it in the materialistic sense. But that’s not where you are now. Fuck the audience. You want to share things. You want to see the boy with the t-shirt and green, shiny button run across your screen, years from now after you’ve forgotten the first few times you exposed yourself. Every thing you see, you’ve seen, that’s what you draw from. Consciously who gives a shit what it is you remember. Look at it! You have it all and it will come out. It will come out in ways that you won’t even realize you had it in you. Inspiration. Blech! Who needs that? You have something better. Now, don’t reason, don’t think! Those are unnecessary baggage for this first stage. You need to do better. You need to feel. Feel and type. That is all. Let your mind wander in ecstasy—learning to spell as well. Brilliance is acquired and learned. Sharing is something everyone can do, something everyone wants to do. You will do it. Don’t look back. Don’t look in the rearview mirror. There’s nothing there to see but failure. Joy is not failure. That is where you’re heading. GO!
Free flowing is the way I think of it. You sit there in front of the computer and strike the keys and things happen. Magic things. You’re always surprised that you can do it. That the computer obeys your whims; the only thing it requires of you is a strict obedience to the syntax of the language.
You’re using the organization, David! I like that. But you have to plan more. You need to know exactly where you’re heading. That way when you get there, wherever there is, you know the next stop. I can take that. I can draw it out on paper. My mind doesn’t allow me to focus on it, remember it like that author describing her procrastination in writing her fifth book allowed her. I can’t play out the scenes in my head. I can’t see them develop into something in the playhouse of my mind. But that’s okay. You can see them develop on the page. It’s not the easy part, but when you finally see the conclusion, when the outline jumps out at you as being the only way to say it, the only story you want to write, that’s when you go on. That’s when you share it. That’s where the brilliance flows. Use it!
I still need to plan. I need to know where I’m heading. This is why I sit down today and type. Let’s see if I can get somewhere.
I’m back in Starbucks this weekend, after my trip to Gatwick. Strange things have happened, but I won’t go into them. Instead, I want to talk about writing and where I’m heading. I’ve spent a long time reading DFW’s Infinite Jest. Damn good book with phenomenal writing. I’ve been question whether I can write because of that book. I know I shouldn’t be comparing, but it’s hard not to. What do I have to add to society’s library? Is the writing just about the ego-gratification? I know that’s one of the reasons, one of my hopes and dreams. What if it’s just about enjoying the exercise of writing? I’m not sure if I can convince myself of that for long. I do enjoy these writing sessions, but what if I end up with nothing of value? That’s always a possibility. But how will you know until after you try? Why say no before even trying? How long have you been at it? About eight hours? Much more time is needed. You have your plan, get with it and stop wasting time on these musings. Go it. Brilliant.
I’m just reporting dialogue and thoughts I’ve had in the past. There’s almost nothing there. What’s wrong with this? How am I supposed to write more than a single book—a single chapter? I have nothing to say even to fill up its pages! I haven’t felt one emotion yet. Not one. I thought you were supposed to be portraying them, the emotions. And yet, what have you done? Nada. Shared nothing. Why? Why, why, why?
Research. You need to do real research. Otherwise, how do you expect to write about anything interesting? You’re right. And yet here I sit, pounding away with nothing to say. Are you blocked? No. I’m just fucking lazy. Even these complaints are hollow. I must continue.
Forced to write? It’s the lack of inspiration. When you’re not inspired to write, or you have nothing that inspires you, don’t waste the keystrokes. Work on the outline. Work on bringing the ideas together. When you are inspired, and words flow from your fingers like the purple slimy globs you were describing, then go to the novel itself. Otherwise, just edit and plan. Wait for inspiration to hit; and if doesn’t hit, ram it down the computer’s throat. It’s all good. Everything is good. You are working on the goal, presenting.
I’ve been failing lately. I’ve not been sitting down, not even been pretending to sit down, to write. I don’t know why this happens. I do know why this happens. It’s laziness. I wait for inspiration, but it’s not inspiration that I need, but desire, effort. That’s lacking. I’m passionate about things for short periods of time. It’s a pattern that I can trace throughout my life. I “get into” something, thinking it’s going to last, but it never does. It never lasts beyond the first dedicated moments. The initial thoughts that flow thickly, like honey coating the plastic squeeze bottles. That’s where you need to trade. That’s what you need to get.
As far as I know, I’ve never actually completed something that required individual inspiration. I’ve completed lots of projects that had an external motivation, but never an internal one. Writing requires you to come to terms with an internal motivational source, and draw upon its strengths. You don’t draw well. Suck it up. Don’t you remember when you were writing the above musings, when you were inspired and could feel the world rest comfortably in your palm? What happened to those times? Why can’t you draw upon that same inspiration to write?
It might go beyond the inspiration, however. You also need guidance. You need a plan to go somewhere and the motivation to get there. Goals. Guidance. Plans. I’d like to say that you can get there, but I’m not sure. You’ve never been a storyteller, at least not a fiction storyteller. I still think you can do it, I’m just not sure you actually will.
Now you’re coming to the real inability to write. You can’t tell a story. You can string words nicely together. You can organize thoughts. You can set a scene. You can describe in excruciating details the minutiae of someone’s thoughts and feelings. But when it comes time to actually write something—to tell a story outside of the nothingness of inaction, you hit a wall. You don’t know what to say. You don’t know what happens. That’s where I’m going to concentrate my thoughts. I have to come up with what happens. Forget how it happens or why. Garp was an important book for you. It demonstrated what you lack: the ability to tell a story. A book is a study in mortality. The epilogue is the body count. Start counting bodies!
Imagination. Draw up an interesting story to tell. You have control over what is said and what is done. Put it all together!
I wanted to write about my fears and depression regarding my writing. I don’t know why I keep doing it, but I posted another story to Enter the Muse.com. This one was for my obnoxious dinner companions. I received one comment on it over about a week. A rather silly, purple-people post received five critiques overnight.
Not just that I’m jealous, more so I’m wondering whether I’m fooling myself. I’m technically a decent writer, but the question is how good a storyteller. I’m beginning to doubt whether I have interesting (and I guess entertaining) stories to share. It doesn’t really look that way. That depresses the fuck out of me. What if I’m wasting my time? Maybe I should be searching for something else to do, i.e., pleasure. I’m sure I can find it from video games or patent law. Maybe I should just stop pretending.
Anything wrong with trying and not just giving up here? No. I just get depressed and I have to vent before I explode.
Here we are, trying to write again. This is the first time I’ve sat down in front of the computer in a long while. I’ve mostly been scribbling into my little yellow book. It’s a nice change. I was thinking this morning: what am I doing writing these “realistic” world type of stories. Why am I not focusing on fantasy? I think I’ve been trying different types of writing (i.e., classical fiction) because of the types of books I’ve read lately. For the most part, they’ve been classical (or modern) fiction. I’ve stayed away from fantasy, only reading fantasy or sci-fi novels when I participate in cardio at the gym. What causes that, of course, is the relatively low quality of most of the fantasy and sci-fi novels (more so for fantasy than sci-fi. Sci-fi tends to have great stories. Fantasy has good character development but is weak in the story (except for the world building). Both lack quality writing, focusing instead on selling to a lower common denominator, or perhaps less exacting audience).
After playing Shadowbane (which made me much happier than playing SWG, which was sci-fi and much closer to the modern equivalent of the MMORPG known as “life”), I remembered how much I enjoyed fantasy. I love pressing a button and seeing something happen. For example, pressing a button and seeing my character transport miles away. That (for an obvious reason of wanting to change the world I live in with just a thought) is much more interesting than firing a laser gun or running around in our modern society. That lead me to think about why I was writing short stories (and planning longer stories) that were in this world. My reasoning when I started was pretty sound: I’m pretty good at writing what I see. When I have to invent different stories or places, I tend to get bogged down. My drawing is a good example. I could copy well, but when I came to actually drawing something from scratch, I couldn’t do it. (Or rather, I could do it, but it wasn’t of the same quality.) It’s a lack of creativity, of “seeing” the image or stories in my mind.
My idea today was to take the story ideas I’ve been working on and translate them to a medieval fantasy world. Research is available on what life was like then, and pictures are available from different fantasy sites and especially paintings and drawings from books and games. What’s most interesting about this is I will be interested in finding out what happens. I’m going to want to know or play with the powers that my characters will have. That’s the exciting part. I’m excited because I can create worlds and introduce characters and societies that are markedly different from modern society and how we think about it—i.e., different not just in looks, but in thinking. For example, societies where infanticide is a normal practice, or witches are hunted down and magic is real and feared by the public.
To do this, I’m going to take the scared-of-a-mouse boy and change where he lives and what he does. You think that’s a good place to start? How about one of the simpler stories? This is as simple as it gets, in my mind. Okay. Synopsize away:
A boy (12) raised by an overprotective mother realizes that he fears everything. A traveling bard convinces the boy to face his fears and leave his village to travel the roads with him. The bard recruits for a magical guild and sees potential in the boy. The boy must leave the village without telling anyone (WHY?). The boy’s sickly younger brother (9) sets out to search for his older brother because of his mother’s depression. He believes if he can bring the boy back, his mother would get well. Their father died a year after the birth of the younger brother. The father left behind a large holding that supported the family.
The world has changed much in the past 500 years. A battle between two great nation-states resulted in the release of horrible magic that left the world broken and decimated. The nation-states were broken into feudal holdings and learning and magic were lost. The common folk fear magic, which before the apocalypse was used much like we use technology today. The magic-users all went underground to continue their development. Their leader, the Guildmaster, foresaw the apocalypse and began preparing for the dark age of magic. He trained bards to recruit, planning a day where the guild reunified the world under the guild’s control. This is what the boy will come to learn.
His younger brother will not be able to catch up to the boy. He will instead fall in with a new religious order that arose to ensure that a cataclysm never happens again. The religious order is also seeking to control the world, but they are doing this by massing armies and introducing an organized religion to the world (the world where spirits and superstition were the controlling force). The religion is not “evil,” but seeks to control its members through brainwashing, but all for a larger purpose. It gets its funding from the guild. The guild plans to use the religious order as a way to control the populous. Most members of the order do not know of this relationship. The order does its best to hunt down the guild, after learning of them (need a story here).
How does the guild hope to use the order? Unless it underestimated what would happen when it participated in the growth of the order (i.e., it was the guild that provided the “special effects” that convinced the disbelievers that the order was in touch with the gods).
Also, what’s going on with the feudal lords while these the guild and order fight it out amongst themselves?
The bard begins to introduce the boy to his guild after members of the order attack them on the road.
The boy becomes involved in the politics of the guild, and begins his training in the magical arts, where he must learn to overcome his fears to control the magic. While he is not an exceptional magician, he does have great political insight, and quickly rises in the ranks of the guild.
Likewise, the younger brother rises in the ranks of the order, mostly because of his magical powers.
Inspiration comes in the darkest and strangest of places. Watching the appendices of The Lord of the Rings DVD, Fellowship of the Ring, and watching how Tolkien had developed his epic got me thinking. He exerted a lot of effort in designing the world, in understanding the characters and their history, in even developing the languages (which was his expertise and study, so there is no need to duplicate—as if you could duplicate that feat) of the world, Middle-Earth. He sat down, after having spent most of his lifetime developing this mythology, and started writing the trilogy. There was no planning, although there were probably plenty of drafts. The writing was almost an afterthought. He wrote it more for himself than anyone else. He wanted to share his vision, but, at the same time, understand it and see it writing. It was his hobby.
Which brings me, as most of your thoughts do, to what you’re doing. You’re trying to write. You’re actually thinking of leaving your job, your secure, good future job, and trying to do this professionally. To say to hell with all of this shit, I am not going to waste my time doing something that doesn’t interest me, and I’m going to instead sit in front of a computer and type away and see what comes. See what develops on the page and in my head. But my real fear, and I’ve told many people of it, is that nothing will develop. I will write pretty words that perhaps amuse or entertain, but there won’t be much behind those words, or even worse, the words won’t even come. I’ll fall into the same trap that I’ve fallen into in my drawing: I could look at the world and draw it; but when it came to drawing my own world, I couldn’t do it. I had nothing new to offer the world but a vision of itself.
That’s my real fear. Not know if what it is I’m going to write is worthwhile. Will it support whatever type of life I want for myself? Will I have the wherewithal to actually follow through with it, to spend the time developing my skills and sharing them with the world? This is all contingent on my actually having skills, and that’s what scares me. What if I don’t have them? What if I’m just pretending like I can do this? Talking with Nicole about writing has been helpful. She’s a different type of writer than me. Perhaps she’s better—hell she probably is better, but regardless of an ego-competition, her style is very different, more feminine. She writes from feelings, emotions. All writers write from there. You aren’t there yet. You don’t let your feelings (as if you’ve actually had feelings!) control your writing. You try to dip into the paint can of feelings, but usually it’s just for a quick stroke on the wall before you fill the rest with thoughts and happenings. You need to combine thoughts, happenings (and imagination!) with the feelings. Feelings are what ties your writing together. Look at these musings. What brought them about was a feeling you developed after watching twenty minutes of the Tolkien documentary.
Use those feelings. Use them to paint a picture. Let your mind wander, lose focus, and use your feelings as the medium to paint the walls. Then go back and use your brain to clean things up, to go back and make sure the paint stayed within the lines. Until you do that, you’ll not be writing to your full potential. You’ll not be truly sharing something that is entertaining and possibly a career.
Tolkien would write, not knowing what was going to happen, and then when he found himself stuck, he would stop and start over. He wouldn’t refer to the original manuscript, but would just start writing again. He would get further the second time, but eventually he would get stuck yet again. And he would start over yet again, until he finally got all the way through. He didn’t cut and paste. He just rewrote until he got it right. I should try that. I will try that with the Grelko story. I’ll see where it brings me this time.
Sorrow and sickness follow me to the ends of my days. The bleak emptiness of the cavern waits for me. If I knew what was down there, it would be easier. But instead it claws at my insides and I wake screaming in my head.
Lastly I wait for it to happen. I just put words down but don’t think about them. This is the way to write. Thinking hurts too much. Communication is overrated. But isn’t that what you want to do? To communicate? All your ideal choices have the same result: you are rewarded for communicating, for achieving, for showing the world a new window. You throw off the shadows on the wall and embrace language. You accept communication in a dead man’s quest for achievement.
And these are just words. Not even words that are put together well. They are just words that…what do these words do? What do you hope for in these words? Can you ever achieve these hopes? Or is it empty hoping. Are you content to hope and dream or do you want to achieve? I do not know. These words are just words. These ideas are bland. They never lead anywhere. It’s a shame. You have talent, and yet you won’t open yourself up to that talent. You wont’ let yourself achieve, become. I want to, you know. I really do. I dream and fantaszie about it. But in the end, I sit by myself and pound away words that don’t mean anything and don’t fit together.
How is it supposed to be done? What is it supposed to bring about when I actually achieve? Why don’t I achieve. These are all good questions. Good responses. Writing is hard. You’re supposed to suffer. And yet you don’t. You don’t suffer. You barely do anything to achieve anything. It’s a sad existence to see and understand what you want, but to never get there.
A genius? Surely you’re not that. You’re barely a mechanic. I need an idea. You’ve had lots of ideas, they’re all inferior. They don’t bring anything forward, or allow you to achieve—that’s an important word today. I don’t know why you keep using it, but you do. I want to be impressed by it, but I’m not. Oh for red fllors covered in jagged edges. Why do the ants not crawl? Why do I think it’s time to return home and nap. Sleep is your escape, your one true friend. How few friends I have. How rarely you surround yourself with anything that excites you. I don’t get it. I’ll never get it at this rate.
Peter Jackson is a genius. I am a hack. A poorly educated hack. Why is that? Why don’t I get anywhere? Why can’t I embrace creativity? Why do I spend so much time analyzing how much a failure I am and spend almost no time trying to break the habit of failing? It’s my lot in life, my rut, my punishment. To know there is something out there, something I can achieve, and not to achieve it. That is my curse.
After the story, I've documented my demented musings on where it's heading (or not heading):
Monsters
People and monsters surround me. I would live without either.
They sit in a descript diner, large mouthed mugs surrounding them. A blues record spins on the corner turntable, the raspy singer battering notes with an aggressiveness wasted on the patrons. Gloria mashes her cake with the tongs of a plastic fork.
Uncertainty is the breath of dragons, the fire whetting the scales indiscriminately. If only I knew the dragons’ names.
“You see,” Willow starts again, “five years and bam.”
Gloria finishes shaping the outer wall of her cake citadel, using the fork’s arc to bend the corner. She turns the plate around slowly and inspects the wall’s level. “You’re making a lot of assumptions,” Gloria says. “And I’m not even sure that your ‘bam’ would be bad.”
Willow’s thighs spread and flatten over the canvas chair. She reaches over and takes the fork from Gloria. “You’re not even paying attention,” Willow says. Gloria frowns and holds out her hand. Willow gives the fork to Gloria, who resumes sculpting the individual bricks on the wall’s outer face.
“Have you been listening?” Willow asks. “He proposed to her and it’s driving him crazy. His family and friends are against it, but even they can’t place their fingers on what the problem is. It’s delicious.” When Gloria doesn’t respond, Willow continues, “He’s going to be miserable. He believes he was meant for greater things, and he doesn’t understand that when he marries, he’s going to feel that those greater things are now impossible. Don’t you see it?”
“Why do you care what he thinks?” Gloria asks. “It’s not like it’s going to go away after he marries.” Gloria dips her fork in Willow’s coffee mug. She lacquers the top of the wall with dribbles of cold coffee. “It’s not like life ends with this choice.”
Money twists my nipple until it glows cherry. Now I’m afraid to pull free.
"***," Willow says. “He’s stuck. He’s not going to be able to stop himself from marrying her, and nobody besides her has any influence over him. ”
Gloria picks a cherry from the gelatinous frosting and dissects it with her butter knife. “It’s a silly game. Let’s just let him marry and be done with it. I have much better things I could be doing than worrying over the likes of him.”
“That’s not the point,” Willow says, her jowls flapping as she shakes her head violently. “We agreed to discuss this. Why you chose to meet here is beyond me.”
Gloria puts her knife down and looks across at Willow, noticing her appearance for the first time. Willow looks about forty. She wears a white button shirt tucked into stretchy floral-print pants. The tucked shirt forms visible creases and lines under Willow’s pants, which hug her rotund belly. Her make-up is overdone, with heavy forest green eye shadow and ghastly pink lipstick.
“First off,” Gloria says. “I chose this place because I like the cake.” She scratches at a large wart on her chin. “I agree that staying might cause problems. But he can overcome them. And I’m not talking miniscule chances of that, either. There are viable paths he can take where he’ll find accomplishment. I don’t see why you don’t want to throw the dice on this one.” Gloria plants the minced cherry pieces at the four corners on the top of the wall.
For all the darkness that reigns over night, Unhappiness is their king. I wish I lived in my neighbor’s green yard.
the musings on the story
I’m confused about the point of this story. I know it’s supposed to be confusing, but where do you want to take it? Right now, it’s hovering the line of non-existence. It’s an interesting premise: Two fates are sitting over coffee discussing the outcome of a choice a person is making. His thoughts are interspersed in the story, in italics. What is his choice? We can either not know (or, worse, not care). Why are the fates even discussing it? What’s in it for them? Why do they care? These are the problems I’m having. One of them feels one way, and the other the other way. But why are the bothering? And what is his role?
My first attempt had the man’s choice be an important (for the world) type event. But I didn’t like that. Why should they only intercede in these important choices. There needs to be something more. This choice is about you. About your desires and choices (like everything is about you!). What would be the best way to accomplish this without bring his true thoughts into this? Should the fates be actually discussing what he’s thinking? Or is it something more?
It’s something more. We’re talking about your choice: about programming, about writing, about working as a lawyer. These are the things I want to fates to focus on, but I don’t want them to come out and actually talk about them. That would be too easy, and you would end up with the same type of shit, the shit that you just can’t stand anymore, remember? I want to do it cleverly. How can I talk about it, without talking about? Present the arguments, without explaining what they pertain to? That’s what I’m after.
I can redo it in the italics, but I don’t want to cheapen them. That leads to cheapening the conversation—which is not exactly a bad thing. You weren’t going anywhere with the fates. You wanted to present them as two omnipotent creatures, but who could not affect one another. That was the fantasy aspect of the story (something you’re desperately trying to incorporate).
Where comes in your choice? That’s the important part of the story. How do I explain it? Do they just talk about it? That wouldn’t be horrible, you know.
What would make this story interesting? What something about it is clever (and why do you always focus on cleverness?)? Okay, you’ve spent enough time worrying about what it should be about. You need to actually write it. Acutally, you need to write the synopsis.
Two fates are sitting in a coffee house debating what will happen to what? I always get fucking stuck. Think about it. What if they are discussing this important person. He’s advancing a scientific theory, or perhaps a doctor advancing a cure. Or someone making a decision between pleasure and security. Is it something meaniningful? Is that what you’re after? A meaningful decision about life or a definition of happiness? If that’s it, how do you want to get there?
And what happens once you’re there?
What type of person is this? He sounds rather pathetic from the italicized part. He’s definitely “clever,” and perhaps emotional, but hides that emotion from others (wonder where that came from). What happens at the end? That should help you. He makes a decision and goes on with his life? Maybe it’s a historical figure—like Hitler—and his decision does change the world. We don’t know who he is until the end. And once we do, we wish he had not made that decision, or perhaps we wish he had. How would you build up to it then?
You don’t know many famous persons—pick someone that you know about. And what does the decision have to do? (Many more questions than answers here—this is getting old.) Okay, we have this famous person making a choice. Do the fates intervene, or are them more of the watching-type? If they just watch, why are they debating it? What’s the point of their conversation? So they should be able to infoluence the choice, otherwise there would be no reason to talk about it. So they can affect the choice. Why would they? What’s their purpose? Why are they out there.
(How about, when doing this thought experiments, you may only have one question before you have to answer it. You can ask more questions, but you need answers between the questions.)
What’s their purpose for affecting the main character’s choice? Perhaps they want to affect it because they want the world to be a better place. (Why would they want that? They care about the world—or have to answer to a “higher power.”) I still don’t like the purpose. What else? It’s not because they want the world to be a better place. That’s silly. Maybe they want their world to be better? How would their world be different by what happens to the main character? It seems they have some sort of job, maybe their job is affected by the character and other human’s actions. How does that help them? What if it turns out that the two “fates” are really just the innerworkings of his mind? They are the angel/devil figures sitting on his shoulders trying to make a decision.
So, his conscience is manifested as two older, ugly women in a coffee shop? That sounds rather ridiculous. I’m just thinking here. So, they’re real. If they’re real, where does that leave him? Back where we started. They’re real fates, with powers (or something like that), watching him make a decision. His decision is something obvious to the reader once we realize who he is, and what types of doubts he had. But with all the doubts, he went forward and changed the world, and, in some way, the world for the fates.
What is a fate? It’s a manifestation of time. It’s a dimensional being, which lives in a parallel universe and watches the happenings. Does she share the same timeline as humans? Sort of. She can travel throughout the timeline, trying to make something work. What’s that something? And what is she trying to make it “work”? Assuming she can travel throughout time and watch the entire happenings on this world at once, what is she creating? So, she knows what’s going to happen? Not exactly, she can move forward in time and see what might happen, but while the past is set, the future is not. There are lots of possibilities, and she can explore each possibility, but not necessarily know what will happen, only what’s likely to happen.
So, who’s “time” is she running through. If people are watching their lives, like a movie running a reel (with each person having an individual reel, and only the reels themselves synchronize), what is she watching? The reel that’s most forward? Actually, she’s just watching the current reel. Assuming all the reels are synchronized, just the speed of the reel is changed, at an instant, she can view anyone. The speed of light does not affect her because she is not in this dimension.
December 30, 2003
That’s a lot of physics babble, I just read through. I want to get through this story and start my next one, so it’s time to yank up my pants and write it. Enough planning. Pick the main character now. (Before I read this discussion, I was going through the story and reediting it with the idea that it would be about a character making a decision to marry, and the fates would actually be relatives trying to protect the bloodline—i.e., to ensure that he marries into the right station. After reading the past discussions, I’m of the opinion that it should be something more, something historical with deeper meaning.)
On second thought, I still think it’s cheesy. It’s an unpredictable ending, but once read, it becomes predictable—too clever? It would need to be a more abstract historical figure. Perhaps someone further back in time than any present figure. I hate not knowing what the best way to move forward is. Usually I just don’t know what’s going to happen (not that I know what’s going to happen here), this time I’m having trouble choosing the main character.
(As another aside, for your next story, I want you to create a memorable character will flaws and characteristics that make him (or her) unique and memorable. And the character cannot be based on you!)
What’s the Sixth Sense moment going to be? The only problem is that the whole story is building up to it since there’s no alternative explanation. You need to build in an alternative explanation to make it interesting. Or you can make the whole story a lot simpler, and save the complicated clever story for a later time when you’ve had more practice with the different elements that will make it up.
In that case (and it’s probably a better case for now), let’s just write the simple story about two fates who are trying to influence the decision of a man about to marry a woman who he loves for all the wrong reasons—viz., she’s gorgeous and rich. Simple. In the end, he marries her, and that was the fates plan for him all along. They wanted him to marry her for their own selfish reasons. (How come your discussions of the story are usually longer than the actually stories? Because I’m a sad, sad man.)
I bet you thought you’d escape without seeing something from me before the end of the year. You were wrong. Here it is. It’s now 10:34pm, and unless I get another phone call (I just got off the phone with my mother, who’s in Buffalo babysitting Orli), I’m going to tie some words together and see where it drags me.
I’m not much of a year-in-review type of guy. This has been an overall interesting year (I’ll let you define interesting). I’ve learned many things, fallen in love with a great girl, and changed a bit of what I am, making me a little happier in the process. But since it’s New Years time, and I don’t think I can continue with my resolution to stop eating beef (what was I thinking? I had a Quiznos sub for lunch, the meateater to be exact, and as I was eating I was thinking, ‘what the fuck was tunneling through my brain that made me think it was time to give up my favorite meats?’), I have to come up with some sort of resolution. I usually don’t do resolutions, at least not at New Years. I usually make life changes after my stew of worries and theories coalesce into an overwhelming brew that forces me to take some action (these are internal actions--regrettably, I’m not much of a political or take action to better society-type of person. That’s how I stopped eating veal, stopped playing video games, stopped eating at fast food restaurants, and stopped watching television (do you see a trend here?).
But I figured this New Years would be different. Now Julie (the aforementioned girl) has commented that my musings have tended to sound consternated (I too think of constipated when I hear that word). She’s right. I have been complaining and clearing my throat a tremendous amount in my writings, especially on the subject of writing. You have to remember, I’m excellent at complaining (and modest too). I practice often, and just like a comedian, I hone my act until the complaints flow nicely with the right twist of quirkiness.
Although I won’t give up complaining (I don’t think I could exist without it), I think the consternation about writing is getting old. How many times can I truly write about how much trouble I’m having writing? How painful it is? How much of a loser I am for not being able to do it? How if only I could sit down and write a story, my life would be different, and better, and there would be peace in the worlds, dogs would fuck cats, kangaroos would live without fear of those nasty koala bears, and all wars would cease to exist, because madmen would all be struck dead with a miraculous (and godsend) disease that only affects those that are insane and have an inkling for world domination.
From now on, if I have nothing to say, then I’ll say nothing, or I’ll revamp my pitiful existence or my unexciting day. I won’t endlessly discuss how difficult writing is. (It is, but the only way you’ll actually believe me is to sit down and try it. No use wasting my breath here.) I’m going to talk about all the terribly uninteresting things that happen to me. I’m sure you’re all excited to hear that I went to Burger King for dinner tonight. It was the first time I went to a fast-food restaurant in a very long time.
You see, in my mind (yes, yes, I know that everything I’m writing here comes from my mind; that’s obvious. And, yes, it would be better if I just cut out those three words instead of writing a ten line aside about how that is just stylistically awful. But I won’t), take-out should be divided into a three different groups: first, you have your fast food restaurants, e.g., McDonalds, Burger King, Wendy’s, Taco Bells, all the horrible places that I’ve foresworn. I must admit that I sometimes have wet dreams (okay, they’re not exactly wet dreams, because (a), I’m not sleeping at the time, and (b) I don’t wet myself, in either the piss-way, or the other more gross-don’t-talk-about-but-boy-does-it-feel-good-way. For me and many of my friends (stop laughing, they do exist, sort of, and not in my mind--well, not all in my mind), Wendy’s has the best hamburgers--there’s just something about all the grease they put on their food that is just downright, how does one say it, decadently delicious. Especially with a hangover, there’s nothing like a Wendy’s triple cheeseburger for coating a tender stomach the morning after a wee-bit too much to drink. Let me move on before my will power completely breaks and I head out the door. Wendy’s is open late, 2 a.m., I believe. Probably even on New Year’s eve.
Getting back to the quick foods, the second type is your sandwich shop. These are your Quiznos, Subways, and lesser known ones like Schlosky’s. I still frequent these places often, mostly because they’re healthier than fast food, just as quick, and I don’t leave feeling bloated and sick (usually--there have been way too many post-Taco Bell pukings for me to ever feel comfortable in that place again).
After those two categories of quick foods, there’s only a third, smaller category left: family style take-out. The most famous is my post-gym hangout (known as PG to those in the know), Boston Market, which for $7.04 gets me a half chicken with two sides. It’s conveniently located right outside my 24-hour fitness, so, no mess, no fuss. There’s also, conveniently located, an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet next to the gym, and when I say next, I mean it’s in the same driveway as the gym. The main driveway that leads to the gym (which, since this is Houston, is obviously in a strip-mall, in this case, the back of one, or at least the side, since it’s all the way down the driveway off the main road) passes right by the Chinese buffet. Usually, there are cars parked along the driveway, since they run out of spots in the Chinese buffet parking lot. Just so you know, there are plenty of spots in the gym parking lot. Besides Boston Market, there aren’t many stores that fall into this category. I don’t actually know of any others, but I like to think there are others that meet this criteria.
As I sit here, I’m trying to figure out where pizza falls in my three categories (that’s what you get for locking yourself into a number of categories, instead of leaving it open-ended, or at least editable--but just to show that I am fallible (yes, I know it’s hard to believe), I won’t change it. Instead, I’ll just put pizza into, let’s say, the first category. I haven’t foresworn it, though. Being from Brooklyn, it’s a criminal offense to not eat pizza (I can’t make these things up! Okay, I can and do, but that’s not the point).
That’s pretty much it. You have to search hard to find something that doesn’t fall into one of those three categories (the pizza example notwithstanding).
What does any of this drivel have to do with anything? Again, it has nothing to do with anything. It’s just the empty air swooshing around in my hollow head. These things I think about and these things you’re going to have to read about, since I’ve given up consternating about writing (at least 69 minutes from now—actually, it’s more like 36 minutes with all this editing I’m doing--shhh).
I just finished watching Chasing Amy, another excellent film by Kevin Smith. His stories are very real feeling, even if the acting always seems amateurish (it might be because of his direction). The movie was about three characters: the main character, a comic book artist, a woman he falls in love with, who happens to be a lesbian comic book artist with a dirty, dirty past, and the main character’s roommate, another comic book artist who’s trying to protect the main character from getting hurt. There’s a lot more to this story, but I don’t want to ruin it. The story is simple, but the dialog and the asides (stupid but simple asides) make it fun to watch. Kevin Smith also doesn’t torture the audience. There was a scene where it would have been very easy (and cheap) for the main character to think the lesbian was gesturing for him to join her on stage. She was instead motioning her former lesbian lover. A lesser director (and writer) would have stretched that misunderstanding and tortured the audience. I hate that. Kevin Smith played it short; he made it obvious and then moved on. That’s how it’s supposed to be done. There’s no need for a Three’s Company moment (boy do I hate those!).
I’m really looking forward to starting this next story. It’s going to focus on characters, more specifically an outrageous character, with an identifiable, defining characteristic. Something that’ll make him stick out. (I think I’ve said this already.)
Speaking of stories, I’m going to watch another movie now. They inspire me to write drivel, and inspiration is always good. As soon as I get over this damn cough and cold, I’ll be a much happier camper. My web site has come a long way in three weeks. I’m rather proud of it now. Just a few more pictures to post, and I think I’m going to put away the tweaks for a bit. Maybe I’ll actually concentrate on doing work at work (as if—where did that go? I loved hearing bitchy girls say that).
Happy New Years!
…
Not a word came out that was worth repeating. That’s the problem with monkeys: their typewriter skills are awful. Before I erased everything that came before this, I had written a full page of stream-of-consciousness dribble. The monkey statement (I admit, I have a fascination with the million monkeys creating Shakespeare), the last in that exercise, was the only thing worth saving (and just barely). Inspiration is not finding me today: I’m hiding pretty well behind the plushy chairs.
That I was able to write even a single decent paragraph surprises me. I have started and restarted new documents at least fifty times. At times like this, the only way to say anything is to shove my hand all the way down my gullet and wiggle my fingers until something comes up. My stomach is empty today, lacking in even the semblance of a toasty treat.
I figured if I hung around long enough, something of value would be pasted to the page. And here it is:
Okay, I lied. I thought there was something there, something waiting to be shaken loose, but I was wrong. There’s nothing there today. No birthday surprises, no jack-o-lanterns, nothing. It was a mistake coming here. Two hours of nothingness.
There is a great mouth in the center of all blank pages. If you spend too much time considering the mouth, it will swallow you. Such is the fate of those that don’t respect fairy tales of their generations.
Sugary drinks are not much better than sugary caffeinated drinks. They all conspire to keep you up at night. What is it monsters think about when they run around screaming? What goes through their unformed brains?
Random thoughts. I’ve been rather lax lately in posting my musings. My lassitude is only partly related to failing to post them. For the first time since I’ve foresworn consternation, I’ve run out of things to say. My tired stories depress me and scheme to feed the great mouth. And here I find myself: yet again consternating about writing.
After finishing Robert Jordan’s book (it took me only three days, which shows the addictiveness of his books), I decided that I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing in creating characters and stories. I delved the internet to discover what it is I was missing. I thought that if I could find some exercises about writing, I would figure it out on my own. The available knowledge articles relating to writing disillusioned me quickly. The message boards are rather good, but to find the right message written by the right person on the right board is difficult. I found an interesting writing exercise book at amazon.com, and decided to try it. There’s still nothing like a good book when it comes to learning about anything non-computer related.
Being only interested in instant-gratification, I went to my local Borders. I couldn’t find the exercise book, but I did come across books teaching writing. One in particular caught my attention: a book about characters and viewpoint by Orson Scott Card, an author I respect (he wrote Ender’s Game). I’m about halfway through that book, and I have learned a lot about characters and plot. It’s amazing to realize how little I consciously knew and even more amazing to discover how many elements I intuitively used, probably from reading so many books that used the same elements. My hope is that making conscious choices about the plot and characters will improve my storytelling and writing.
Spending all my writing-time reading was not my plan, but I’ve been reluctant to begin writing until I finish the book. I’m concerned that I’ll miss a key insight in the book about writing and have to start the process all over again. (Seeing this excuse in writing shows me just how ridiculous it is. I’ll get back to writing soon.) I’m about halfway through the book and I hope to finish it before this weekend. After I finish it, I should get back to writing more regularly. Hopefully, you’ll see less of these musings and more of my storytelling.
Earlier, I spilled coffee on the guy sitting next to me. I was sitting in the coffee house on the purple plushy chair, which was separated from the other purple plushy chair by an end table. I attempted to multitask by drinking and reading. While placing my cup down on the table, I knocked it over. Starbucks designs its technically advanced coffee cups not to spill except when tipped on the side of the spout. Defying all odds, the cup fell with the spout on the bottom and the coffee shot out like an ejaculation.
After picking up the coffee cup to rescue my precious decaf mocha, I followed the coffee trail from the puddle on the table to the purple chair’s arm. Two brown drops had skidded over the purple chair’s arm and onto the man’s khaki pants. I was preparing to apologize to him until I noticed how oblivious he was. I got napkins, came back, wiped the table, and threw out the napkins, before returning to my book. I even hummed my do-de-do song while cleaning, but he noticed nothing. His cell phone was glued to his ear and he was in a different world. A few minutes later, he hung up and left, never the wiser. I probably should have felt bad about this episode, but I’m a horrible person.
Let’s see if I can apply some of the writing book’s advice to make this anecdote more interesting. The first step it to interrogate the characters by asking “casual questions,” adding “exaggeration,” and, if appropriate, “a twist” while avoiding answers from the “cliché shelf.” (This sounds like a bad 12-step program.) There are currently two characters: the narrator and the oblivious man.
What is the narrator doing in a coffee shop? He’s reading. Blah: what else could he be doing in the coffee shop? Maybe he was drinking coffee with someone. If there is another person who noticed the spill, they both could share in the amusement. Or perhaps the other person is not amused by it but feels bad for the oblivious man.
What is the relationship between the other person and the narrator? He could be alone and the other person watched the spill from a different chair. Perhaps that’s how they meet, after the phone guy leaves the other person approaches him.
So, the narrator is a he? It makes more sense, particular considering his attitude. Okay, leave it like that and continue. Let’s get back to what the guy is doing at the coffee shop alone. If he’s not reading, perhaps he’s waiting to play chess (you’ve seen that often enough), or surfing the web.
All those answers are rather boring (i.e., clichéd), what else could he be doing at the coffee shop? He’s drinking alcohol. That might be interesting: he’s drinking alcohol mixed in with his coffee (which will help explain the spill).
Why is he drinking? He’s lonely or an alcoholic. He comes to the coffee shop to be around other people and he mixes what’s in a flask he carries with the coffee he orders.
Does he get rowdy? Yes. He’s not particularly liked in the coffee shop. He’s not sounding very sympathetic. What’s the point? It was originally just a silly story to demonstrate that talking on the phone is distracting. But now you’re trying to push it further. (You’re not doing particularly well, but at least you’re trying.)
Let’s focus on the oblivious guy for a moment. First, is it a guy or a gal? It might be more interesting if it’s a girl, and the pants are white cotton instead of khaki. She’s probably loud when she’s talking on the phone, lots of gesturing; we want her to deserve it when the coffee splashes on her, and there will probably be a lot more than just a couple of drops. It can’t be too much, or she’d feel it. I like the two drops approach. It’s fitting, and it will stain the white dress, regardless of how much actually spills.
Now that you have a better idea of the oblivious woman, what can you say about the narrator? He probably should not be drunk or belligerent. That way the reader will sympathize with him. He should only add a little alcohol to his drink, but while a regular at the coffee shop, he behaves himself, and the alcohol allows him to socialize a bit more than he normally does. He’s trying to meet new people.
Why is he trying to meet new people? He just moved to town. Yawn. He just broke up with his girlfriend. He had spent all his time with her and had no friends besides her. Is his family in town? No. Go on.
What does he do when he’s not frequenting the coffee shop? He’s an IT professional. Boring. Car salesman. Sounds good. How can he be a car salesman and not be social? Good question. He’s not good at meeting new people (sound familiar?).
Not bad. I would need to interrogate the characters a lot more to get somewhere interesting, but at least it’s more interesting than the anecdote I wrote above. Next, I’ll apply this technique on a story I’ve already been thinking about.
Today was not a good day. I was in a great mood yesterday, work was done, errands were run, phone calls were planned, and I felt wonderful. That feeling did not last into the morning. I woke up miserable and stayed miserable throughout the entire day. I didn’t make it the full day at work because of the pounding in my head. It’s mostly cleared now, I think. I’m not sure what if anything I’m going to write now, but I feel I need to say something so the day is not a complete waste.
I don’t understand how my moods can swing so far between two days. Not only did my head pound, but everything and anything anyone said to me today I took the wrong way. Part of the reason may be that I’ve been having trouble sleeping. I wake up between four and six in the morning, only to fall asleep a few minutes to hours later. I’m not sure why this is happening. I’m usually a good sleeper—some may say too good of a sleeper. I took a twenty-minute nap while watching the “South Park Movie” (excellent musical, if you haven’t seen it) and that’s what cleared my head. I still feel a slight pain deep in the back of my head, but it’s not debilitating anymore.
I have to confess that I succumbed to my addiction and played video games yesterday and today (twice today, to be honest). My mind was racing yesterday, and I couldn’t figure out what else I could do to calm it down. That’s when I played Jedi. Today, I just wanted the day to end, and I thought if I played games, the day would go by faster. Of course, the games just increased my headache, but only when I finished playing. While I was playing, I felt fine—better than fine, really, great. I’m going to go back on the wagon (or is it off the wagon?) and not play again.
Perhaps this time I should destroy the CD—I’ve done that in the past. When I was addicted to Dark Age of Camelot, a role-playing, fantasy video game that I played incessantly, I destroyed the CD to stop myself from playing. This lasted a few months, until I bought the game again and reinstalled it. Sad, huh. I’ve since stopped playing that game, and did it without destroying the CD a second time.
I don’t know why typing gets me thirsty, but I can really use a caffeinated, chocolate drink right about now.
I’m still struggling through my Lost Monster story. As I’ve been saying, I’ve been having trouble putting the scene together after planning it. I had another realization yesterday. I was reading Ayn Rand’s Fountainhead and I began to think of the way I planned each of my scenes. In Rand’s book, each of her scenes is deliberate and moves the plot forward. There are no slow parts, which is rare for any book, especially one written in the 1940s. Most books from before TV and movies dominated the entertainment market, were slow—probably because people had more patience before the multitasking, instant media gratification took control of our very impressionable brains. The reason her book moves so well is that she chooses scenes consciously. In my story, I’ve (just about) figured out the main plotline and the characters. The scenes I’ve chosen, however, have been haphazard and based not upon moving the plot forward, but on something I can say or describe.
I know some of you think I overanalyze my writing and I should just do it without so much thought. I wish I could. Sometimes my writing comes out without planning. Other times, I get this thought stuck in my brain that I want to write something important and meaningful, and the only way for me to do that, is to understand what I’m doing. But enough worrying. I’ll think about what I want to think about, and if it’s unhealthy, it’s unhealthy. I can live with it. I’ll get over these psycho-dramas that play in my mind and get back to doing what I like.
As I was saying, I want the scenes I choose to mean more than just a way to get across an idea. This is not coming out right. I’ll give you an example. The first scene of my story is designed to introduce the main characters, named (for now) Stan and Janet. I wanted to explain their relationship and how they relate to each other. Additionally, I wanted to show the conflict, Janet’s disdain of children, and Stan’s uncertainty about whether he wants them. For the first scene, I choose (rather randomly) the art gallery Julie and I visited in Puerto Vallarta. I won’t go into the details, but there’s a story there. My concern is that I chose it more because I had a story to tell there than because it makes sense in the story. I’m not sure what would make a better scene. I feel somewhat limited in this.
Here I go again, consternating and second-guessing myself. None of this is very interesting. Rereading the last few paragraphs, I think the scene I chose is not awful. It makes sense in the story and can push the story forward (if I can ever get around to finishing it instead of just talking about it). I just wish I didn’t have to use real stories as the basis for all my scenes. I don’t lead an exciting life, and I’m afraid my well of real-life stories has only a few drops. But that’s something for another consternated musing. For now, I’m going to forget about these thoughts and try to go write.
I’m coughing a bit. Hopefully I’m not coming down with something. I’m heading to NYC for the weekend for a CLE class and a visit with family and friends. That was more than I wanted to write here. Sorry for the depressing and non-entertaining musing. My brain is not work well today. It should be fixed by next time.
It’s been awhile since I’ve put down the keyboard for the pen. There’s something relaxing about forming letters with a pen. It feels artistic, even if you write nothing of value and say nothing of merit. You loose yourself in forming the lines and curves of the letters and words. Editing is not worth the effort; instead, you concentrate on forming the word—no need to plan or worry about where the thought is heading. Of course, eventually these curved lines must be transferred into electrical bits. All creative processes eventually come down to mundane actions. The act of creating allows one to live.
I started this musing while watching my neighbor create a sketch of his wife and himself standing on a beach. He’s a good sketch artist, in the sense that the sketch looks like the photo. I miss the days when creation was difficult. How easy it would have been to scan that photo in and convert it to a sketch, a water painting, or a faux-modern art.
That’s not really what I wanted to talk about. I had no thoughts, revelations, or theories to share. I wanted to just draw letters on the page.
I have been tired lately. I have traveled the last three weekends and I think it (fatigue) has caught up to me. I led it on a happy chase, but tag, I’m it, now. My headaches have been acute lately, more so than in a long time. My changing sleep patterns, poor eating habits, and lack of gym going—which is begging to change now that I hired a new trainer—have created an awkward stew in my brain. I am hopeful that it will pass as with the seasons
I’m stuck on my story. My lapses in writing it have followed my musing lapses. I’m at the end of the first scene trying to see where it will go. If you remember, the first scene culminates in a heated exchange between the saleswoman and Stan and Janet about their purchase of a painting for their apartment. The salesperson is trying to sell them a timeshare presentation that will cut down the price of the painting (the gallery is owned by a massive hotel chain). The saleswoman is becoming desperate and brings up her children (“what about my children?”) as a reason for attending the presentation. This is where I want to get: this opens the conversation for Stan and Janet to discuss children. What’s the purpose of the story, except to introduce the characters and get into the discussion?
This is where it hurts: the thinking. Just like going to the gym myself, after I finish a difficult set, I look back at the bench and my will weakens and breaks, and I leave. I come to a difficult part in my story, and the same thing happens. I get over the humps in the gym by working out with others. Perhaps I should do the same in writing. I have no answers, but I’ll try to continue, recognizing that there is no creation without thought—real thought, not just copied theories and regurgitated sayings.
They argue about monsters. Stan is weak with Janet, but not in his ordinary days. He approaches this logically and wants Janet to do the same. Janet’s beliefs are similar to Shannon’s when it comes to children: “Pitter-patter of little feet.” When it comes down to it, Janet walks out on the saleswoman; but in walking out, she’s really walking out on Stan’s ideas and thoughts on monsters. Stan lingers, thinking that maybe he should just buy the stupid painting, but decides against it and leaves.
I had some additional thoughts I had to get out after I wrote the following musing. I couldn't sleep until I put them down. They relate to the website and my sharing of my thoughts and writings. I was thinking whether I should post the musing below. It's a bunch of crap about my story synopsis, it's not well organized, and it's certainly not good reading.
While staring at the ceiling and thinking, I remembered the real purpose of this website. While I enjoy sharing my thoughts and writings with friends and family and the random explorer, that was not my intention. I have written a number of musings with this audience in mind, but, in general, I am not writing for that audience. This website was designed to document my thoughts and ideas for me. It was not designed to be a blog or a diary. I don't want it to be that. There are times when my musings are just that, and that's fine. But I don't want to fall into a rut where I only post (and write) musings and thoughts that are designed to amuse. I will do that, but I want to cut the string and tell you that that's not always my intention for my musings.
I don't always share what I'm thinking or what I'm feeling. Sometimes I feel things that I just don't want to talk about. Other times, I think things that I have no desire to put down. I write when I have to or want to write. Sometimes I write to entertain. Other times I write because I'm angry or sad. Rarely (regrettably), I write to tell a story. And, at times, I write to update my life for you and me. The quality of the writing and the topic will usually tell you which category a musing falls into. I have to remind myself (and you) that I write this for me. (All mine; mine, mine, mine.) It is a selfish thing, but I'm comfortable with it. The most selfish thing I do is post it. Even if it's crap, it's sometimes nice to know that someone else reads it, listens to my inner demons and spurts of inspiration, even after I belittle them and tell them it's not written for them. Go figure.
For example, Julie asked me why I had not written about her in a while. It's not because I haven't thought about her, because I have. It's also not because I don't have feelings for her, because I do. It's because that's not what I wanted to write. I could write (and I'm sure she'd love to read) paragraphs on my feelings toward her. What I don't want to do is force those thoughts onto paper. I wouldn't force them in the sense that I don't think them; it's more not ready in the sense that I haven't written them down yet. That doesn't make any sense, but you'll have to believe me here.
Similarly, my mother gets worried when she reads some of my more depressing musings. I use this as an outlet for my feelings. I'm not suicidal (and have never been suicidal). I sometimes write dark thoughts and feelings, and as long as you remember that I'm writing them for me (and for the voyeurs in the world), you shouldn't worry.
Those last paragraphs sounded rather bitter. I just had to get this out. I'm not sure whom I'm angry with. I think it's mostly me. I don't want to filter what I say here. Sometimes the writing will be raw, and other times it will be polished. You don't have to read the polished stuff if it doesn't amuse you, and you certainly don't have to read the raw stuff. But I put it up here anyway. Just understand where it's coming from and what my intention is. These are my thoughts for me. Anything in addition to that is gravy, sometimes tasty gravy, but still gravy. You can eat the meat without it (by meat I mean photos, finished stories, and bad poetry).
Now, onto my bad musing:
I'm trying not to fall asleep. It's 1833 (that's 6:33pm in American time) and I thought I'd type a musing to try to stem the inevitable pull of the bed. I've been traveling since last Saturday, making my quarterly trip to Norway. With jet lag and a cold I picked up in Stavanger, this has been a horrid trip. My jet lag is wearing away, and my cold has been improving since I slept last night; I didn't sleep the previous three nights.
Since I've been unable to fall asleep tonight (it's past 0200), I figured I'd write down some of my thoughts. After I finish my current story, I want to start work on a longer story'the immortality pill. I want to use it to explore the genius: the dedication to an ideal, the no-compromise position that Ayn Rand explored in Roark. The conflict is between this person and living in society. Roark was able to live in society. Most geniuses are not capable of doing that. Peter Keating was not the opposite of Roark, like Ayn described. Peter Keating was weak. There are stronger, compromising people, who do things within the bounds of genius, and still work for society. They might not innovate, but they take the innovation and actual bring it into practice.
Steinbeck explored that in the introduction to part II of his book. He went through the single person has all the ideas, and society destroys ideas. Nothing creative ever came out of more than one person. Collaboration does not equal creation. Groups cannot innovate, they can only improve what has already been innovated (not sure what the difference is between the two). For the immortality story, the person trying to free the society is a Roark. He has teamed up with a Keating. Not sure how it's going to work'but my most cliché¤ thought would be that the Roark character is the insider who escapes after realizing that the society was falling into itself. His co-conspirator, when he gets back, is the Keating character. He changes society after Roark convinces him it needs changing. The Keating character takes the innovation and makes it a reality, with prodding from Roark, as well as planning and the spark of innovation. The Keating character is the only one that survives at the end, with a stash of I-pills.
This needs more development, but it's a good start. It's a good story to tell, probably more of a novel length, but we'll see how it goes. I just have to get back and finish my current story before I begin work on that one. I wish it was going better, but you know how it goes. Bad.
I'm going to try to get to sleep now. It's not going too well. Part of that is because of the stupid TV. The TV did help me'it, once again, presented the innovator/follower dynamic, this time in the person of a rock video director (the French one who did the Lego-video). He's obviously an innovator.
I fear that I have nothing to say: no stories, no philosophies, no discoveries. Only emptiness greets me. My words stagnate, caught at the base of my throat, no water washes them down and no fingers yank them up. I stare into space and the void stares back; it is my solitary friend. My thoughts race before me, neither going anywhere nor returning from anyplace. They skip through my roaring head and find no handholds.
There are stories to tell, places to visit, characters to inspect, philosophies to share. And yet, I sit and what do I do? Nothing. I sit and sweet words tumble off my fingers and find no foundation. Thoughts crave to break free, form into ideas, and I impede them, commanding them to slink back to the dark caves where they formed. A lack of inspiration does not keep me from going forth. Nor fear of failure. Instead, it is the dread of doing. The status quo pushes and pulls at my soul until there is nothing left.
Ideas are plentiful and my well is deep, but the bucket is small and the thin rope frayed. It takes long dips into my well to pull up enough to drink. I can’t even count the dips needed to bathe. Concentration is my enemy, focus deserts me. Why do I fight it? I want to reach down and let it come to me. I don’t want to sit here and stare at nothingness. Nothingness is my curse. The status quo is my companion. The rope is breaking and I am helpless.
I have time now. There will not be another opportunity when I have this time. I should be using this time. I have to stop pretending and start doing. Stop complaining and start writing. I’m going to share what I write. No longer will I hide it behind Stephen King’s directions. While I say I don’t care about this website, that’s not accurate. Posting gives me the excuse to sit down and write. Without the deadline, the looming nothing-posted-in-weeks messages, I wouldn’t write.
I’ve noticed a pattern. I write a bitter, angry, or consternating musing. I wait at least three weeks, and then I complain how I don’t write enough, usually blaming something as innocent as television or video games for my transgression. This time, it was the traveling: jetlag, sickness, lack of sleep, and other devices kept me from putting more than a paragraph down at a time. I spared you the paragraph-length musings because they didn’t really say anything.
I’d like to say that I thought of many topics to discuss over the last few weeks. But I haven’t been thinking much. The only realization I’ve had has related to scheduling. This is something that I’ve known for a while and Julie has been trying to convince me of. I’m a creature of habit. It’s not just that I do the same things day after day. I’m happier when my schedule stays the same, when I get the same hours of sleep every night, when I go to the gym the same days each week, when I eat and wake up at the same time, when I write and read at certain times each week. All of these things improve my mood.
I’ve almost returned to my schedule. Writing this weekend has helped me get my focus back. I’m hoping this stays with me and allows me to write more, to share more stories, and to write.
While driving today, I remembered something I discovered before but forgot; something that helps explain why I have not made much progress on my monsters story: “If I don’t want to read it, why would I want to write it?”
I ran into this same block while working on Grelko. I reached a point while writing that story where I didn’t want to look at it anymore. I had no interest in reading my own writing (which is very rare for me—I love my own writing. I’m a huge egotist when it comes to that). That’s when I discovered that the writing wasn’t the problem. It was the subject matter. Nothing in the story caught my imagination. It was based on something that happened to my when I was a child, but I couldn’t figure out why anyone would care, especially me.
Originally, Grelko was a ho-hum tale about a mouse and a cowardly boy. What I added was the whole Grelko part—the online fantasy game. I liked the story I came up with for Grelko (with the exception of the cheesy ending), but the writing never came together the way I envisioned it. I won’t get into why that is (besides the obvious problems related to poor writing and organization), but I did want to comment that the only way I was able to finish the story was to add the fantasy element.
I want a few more of my stories to involve fantasy worlds and fantasy-type games. I have other ideas I’d like to share, and worlds I’d like to introduce. But the monsters story is not right for the fantasy world. While I won’t add a fantasy element to my monsters story, I do have to add something that makes me want to read it. As it is now, I haven’t finished the first scene and I’ve already lost interest. Regrettably, I haven’t figured out what that something is. That’s why I came here today. To try to flesh it out, to figure what it is I should add to make it an interesting story (to me, which is my yardstick at least for the first draft).
It’s a world run by monsters. Monsters make the rules. What are you babbling about? Stay with it. Democracy has failed for all the obvious reasons. The rule of the people is not the rule of what’s best of the people, only what’s best for the people tomorrow. After the last natural disaster, the people had to find another answer, that’s when they turned to children. They are the most selfish creatures, but they are innocents. So, lost monsters it sounding less like a story about deciding whether to have children than, what? I’m not sure.
Okay, that sounds extreme. I’m not sure I could take that bit and fit it in with my original story idea. I’m also not sure why a society where democracy had failed would turn to children, and what type of government could children form? Is a strange world what is going to make you interested enough to write? Fatigue washes over me. Ideas slow in my mind. Distraction pokes its head through the table and stares up at me, dragging me away from my thoughts. But I fight and resist…at least presently.
So, what is it about monsters that would interest you enough to continue writing? That’s what I’m trying to discover. I'm reaching for something. You had that silly idea about children ruling that might be interesting for another story, but it doesn't help this one. What is it here? Is there nothing you can say? No angles to add? What? There is something there. The character's are interesting, the story clever—but it’s missing something. What?
List what you enjoy and want to write about: fantasy, computers, online worlds, money, power, creation. Ugh. What is it about computers that can add interest? Not online worlds. Perhaps an allegory for what's going on with Stan and Janet? What type? I give up. I'm going to sleep on it. Perhaps it’ll come to me then since it doesn’t want to come to me now: damn slimy ideas.
Emotions. That’s what I’m missing in my stories. It’s another part that I forget when planning the story. I just finished watching “Big Fish,” a wonderful movie by Tim Burton about a father and son relationship told through the tall tales of the father. It had a wonderful ending—emotional without falseness. It stalked the emotions but did so in service of the story, not for cheap reaction.
When I synopsize, I focus on the facts and the characters. I have finally realized that I lose track of an important part, something that I am after with my writing: I want to feel things. There’s an ego part to writing as well, of course. But the thing that draws me in and keeps me going is the emotions.
I’ve been sharing emotions through consternations and feelings of failure, or, lately, feeling that the writing itself is the emotions I’m after. That’s not the case. Writing helps me share or find the emotions. The writing itself is not the emotional part. I have to remember that. I write because I like to write and I love to feel emotions. Those are the two important parts of writing. To sacrifice emotions or replace emotions with consternations or ego would be a failure.
Emotions have always been difficult for me to feel. That’s not accurate because I used to feel them. I used to feel them very strongly. But then came a time that I masked them. I could still feel them, but they were hidden behind walls. I’m working on bringing down those walls now. It’s not an easy process: Undoing years of neglect is difficult, but it is worthwhile and important.
The masks I’ve worn have come about because of death (more exactly, probably separation). First my grandfather’s death, a death I did not understand. I tell this story often, mostly because it’s true and one of the clearest memories I have of my own father. When my mother’s father died, my father brought my two sisters and me to my grandmother’s house. On the red rug, he sat us down and took off his watch. He pointed to the second hand and told us that everyone’s life is measured by the ticking of the hand. I’m not sure if he was trying to tell us that everyone’s life is finite and that people die, or something deeper and more important. It’s hard to know what he was after, looking that far back.
What I do know is that I cried. I cried for a very long time after my grandfather died. I cried whenever I would think of him. I didn’t know why I cried. I never really knew him and by the time I was old enough (old being six or seven) to learn something about him, he was blind and didn’t talk much. But I couldn’t understand what it meant that he was not there. Why wasn’t he there? (I imagine myself asking that. I don’t remember what my actual thoughts were or why his death affected me so strongly.)
This story goes further, of course. My father died years later. It was a time in my life when I was ruled by my emotions. I never succeeded in suppressing them. I wanted to be strong for my family, and I wasn’t. I was useless. I was the man of the house and I couldn’t look at my family or help them with his death.
I spent the next few years learning to stop feeling. (I also spent the time learning to hide myself behind lies and false personalities, but that’s a different story.) The feelings did not disappear. They were still there, but hidden behind bleeding scabs. The feelings were not completely suppressed. They would rear up from time to time. This would happen at home, usually at night. I would be overcome and cry. I would cry loud so that my mother would hear and come over and put her arms around me. I wanted her to come to me. I never went to her. I’m not sure why that was. But she always came and I would cry until I couldn’t cry, and then my head would ache, my eyes burn, and my bruised nose would run. But the emotions were released, and I didn’t have to worry about feeling them until they bubbled over again, or a trigger activated them, such as his anniversary or a visit to his gravesite (something which I have not done in many, many years).
There is more I wanted to discuss about emotions, but this is where I felt the discussion became pandering. I feel that I use these thoughts to feel something and it makes them feel cheap to me. I will overcome this, hopefully. But for now, I’ll leave it at that.
I want to add emotions to my stories. These emotions do not have to be as strong as the ones I described above. This is the “something” I’ve been thinking about and writing about for the past few weeks.
I have made a list of topics I want to discuss today. According to my battery meter, I have four hours and twenty-seven minutes to muse on those topics. In a normal musing, I start babbling until either I have nothing more to say or (more usual) I have no energy to say more. Today is different. I’m going to plow my way through the list. This has the advantage of forcing me not to give up until I say everything I want to say regardless of my dedication. I’ll even share the list with you so you can judge my success. The list has changed a bit as I’ve added topics that popped into my mind, including this introductory paragraph (which, come to think of it, doesn’t appear in the list), and changed the order to make the organization a bit more consistent. The list: consternation, writing to write, emotional musing, video games, fish, Passover. I’ve also started a list in a different document of topics that I think of as I’m writing. This will give me ideas for later musings when I can think of nothing to say (more about this later).
To start, I wanted to discuss my second favorite topic, the improvement of David. There are actually two improvements today, but we’ll get to the second, less important one in a bit. The first improvement is a change in the direction of my musings. To understand this change, I need to discuss my (hopefully soon-to-be-former) favorite topic, consternations about writing.
I write about writing often, usually in different forms and with different goals, but my writing musings group is rather crowded. There’s a reason for this: I aspire to write best-selling fiction. Another time I’ll analyze the two parts of that aspiration: the best-selling part and the fiction part (the first topic in my musing ideas file). Today, I wanted to concentrate on whether my musings on writing help me write my stories.
These thoughts originated after reading part of Chuck's last post, in which, somewhat as a joke, he said that he was “writing about writing about writing.” It came into focus yesterday while I was reading Nick Hornby’s How to be good. Nick is a skilled writer. Through only dialogue and his (female) narrator’s thoughts, he builds a family of interesting characters, introduces a family conflict, and examines the morals of good versus evil. He describes almost nothing in the book. He reminded me why I wanted to write: to tell interesting stories and touch emotions. I started wondering whether writing about writing (about writing) was helping me achieve this.
I have kept my quasi-New Years resolution and stopped writing endlessly about how I am incapable of writing anything of value. If you thumb through my older musings, you will see plenty of these consternations. Regrettably, I have replaced these consternations by different consternations on writing. The purported purpose of these new musings was to synopsize my ongoing story, but I have gone beyond synopsizing. While the volume of complaints about writing has decreased, I am spending an inordinate amount of time discussing not the actual writing, but my failings on writing.
Some of these discussions are valuable. For example, my discussion relating to writing something I want to read, and another musing relating to writing stories that touch emotions are valuable insights for me. But in writing these musings, I am sacrificing actual writing. I’m not sacrificing in the sense of writing musings instead of stories (which is also a point of contention, but not something I want to dwell on today), but sacrificing by not writing about my thoughts and theories that I can use as fodder for my stories.
Right about now, you must be asking yourself: if this is a problem, isn’t this musing just another symptom of that problem? Aren’t you doing the very thing that you’re complaining about in this musing? Actually, I’m doing something worse. If the musings I’m complaining about are writing on writing, then this musing is about writing on writing on writing. This reminds me of the Simpsons’ episode in which Sideshow Bob uses a nuclear bomb to blackmail Springfield into destroying its television stations. He uses a large television at an airshow to present his demands, and acknowledges the irony of using a television to decry television.
There is madness behind my plan. Proposing and implementing changes are important steps for me. I have given up television (with a few exceptions), stopped playing video games (more about that later), improved my website, spent more time reading, and become more focused on my writing. It sometimes takes me a while to realize my problems—I have many problems, and it’s sometimes hard to identify the important ones. And it can take me even longer to implement the solution. But that’s one of the purposes of this musing. To fix another perceived failing and get me back on track in my writing.
This does not mean that I won’t discuss my writings. Because writing fiction is so important to me, I will still discuss it, probably often. What I will also do, however, is reveal more of my ideas, theories, and daily experiences. I will then use these musings as fodder for my stories. My second story, Loud Neighbors, is based almost completely on experiences I wrote down during my Hawaii trip. The more I understand my experiences and ideas, the more I can apply those to my stories.
So, if you see the same ideas and theories in my stories that are in my musings, you’ll know that I have succeeded. It has taken me a long progression to get here, but I think (for today) this is the right path.
I have three hours and fives minutes to discuss the other topics in my list.
My second David-improvement relates to video games. I have a confession: I have been playing video games quite a bit, especially Jedi Knight: Academy. It all started when Jason, one of the OGGers (my secret gamers organization), finally agreed to actually play a video game (this is something rare, which is surprising since the group was designed to play video games). My resolution was not to play video games except with friends, which seemed a fair compromise, since my friends normally don’t play video games (losers). Jason and I dueled for a few hours and he kicked my ass in the game. Because of my humiliation, I decided to improve my play by playing on the public servers. To make a long story short, I became rather good and started playing more, spending entire days and evenings playing the game.
This morning, I decided to do something about it. I took the Jedi CD out of my computer and placed it in the trash. This is the second time I had to do something this drastic. The first time was for Dark Age of Camelot. As I discussed before, that didn’t work. I actually went out and bought another copy. This time, my addiction is less severe. I play more because I don’t know what else to do than because I really want to play. I’m hoping that now that I don’t have the game, I’ll spend the time writing or (something I decided to pick up again) meditating. I’ll let you know how that goes.
Looking over the list, I wanted to discuss a number of other items. I’m going to fail. This is a rather long musing, so I won’t feel too guilty. I will try to edit my emotional writing musing I wrote a few days ago. No promises on whether I will post it. I don’t like it because I think it panders to get cheap, emotional feelings. On second thought, I promised myself I wouldn’t edit my thoughts and I would post what I write. So here it is.
Oh yeah, Happy Passover! (You can now check off one more item on my list. I wanted to talk a little more about Passover, but you’ll have to wait on that.)
Ideas come at strange times. Sometimes I’ll be sitting, studying space for contradictions in the laws of physics, and wallop, an idea sinks its claws into my arm. I scream until I realize that this might be good. Ideas have a tendency to sound very good when they first occur, similar to how a dream feels upon waking or an idea conjured from bubbled smoke feels while you’re still addled.
This is the critical time. After the idea occurs, you’re usually puzzled: Where did this idea come from? Who keeps feeding them to me? How much money will I make from it? Who would I sell it to? What am I going to spend my first million on? Thinking these thoughts can distract you from the idea. Before you finish counting the millions you will earn from your idea, it’s a good bet that the idea will vanish. Only your thoughts of fame and fortune will remain. It’s usually good that you forgot it. It was probably crap. But it still would have been nice to put down, just to be sure.
You’re probably thinking this entry is about a eureka moment, a flash of brilliance that I will expound and develop, only to forget about—or worse, contradict—a few musings later. I have a history of this. See my theory on sharing my writings. See my theory on meanness. See my consternations on writing. This time I will disappoint. As I have a tendency to do, I am going to discuss the process and not the content. You see, I’m writing this musing based on notes I took in my new journal: a Moleskine journal. I am going to try to carry this journal around to take notes with. Not necessary journal entries, just stray thoughts.
Before I get into my new journal, I wanted to write about.... Do you see what happens? I had a wonderful idea I wanted to get down, and poof, it’s gone. It would have bridged my discussion of flighty ideas and journals. I’m sure it would have been brilliant. You see I can’t make this up. I’m that pathetic.
The last few times I visited Borders, I’ve looked through the journal offerings. I purchased a spiral-based journal before my trip last week, but I forgot to bring it. This turned out beneficial. I missed having something to write in and Julie and I went journal shopping. That’s when I discovered the Moleskine. At first, I was turned off by the advertisement: as used by Henri Matisse, Vincent van Gogh, Ernest Hemmingway, and Bruce Chatwin. I didn’t want to be a poser. But when I tried it out, I noticed its advantages. It has an elastic strap along the outside that keeps the book closed when not in use. The front and back cover are stiff cardboard with protective coverings (I was hoping it was made from moleskin, but I don’t think that’s the case. It would take many moles to cover these books). The binding is excellent. All the pages open flat and the lines are ruled close together. The size and weight is also excellent. A drop too big to fit comfortably in most pockets, but any smaller and it would not be useful.
I’ve been thinking about buying a new journal ever since skimming Camus’s journal. I’ve attempted this in the past. I bought my Compaq iPaq before moving to Houston to record my thoughts. That didn’t work out well. PocketPCs are still difficult to write in, are too large to comfortably carry around, and have too many distractions, such as games and internet. I’ve carried around larger journals, keeping my yellow flipbook journal for a long time, and a bunch of spiral journals, including the ones I brought with me on my European and Argentinean trip (these entries I typed in as musings, but they are not worth reading). But these have been too large to carry daily. I would put them in my bag, but I did not always bring a bag.
The purpose of my new journal is a bit different from what I’ve tried. In the past, I would record whole thoughts and transcribe them verbatim from paper to my musings, correcting only for spelling. My new Moleskine is a depository for ideas: raw, unformed, nobody-will-understand-not-even-your-own-mother ideas. Full sentences will not be required. I will translate the nascent ideas or abortive words before I post them. But for my Moleskine, there will be no requirement to make the ideas clever.
So far, I’ve been rather satisfied with my Moleskine journal. I used it while visiting Julie and on the return flight today. You’re reading some of the gems (cough, cough) (my signal for sarcasm). I also recorded some thoughts for a new story about waiting in line. (Remember what I said about the value of most ideas.) I’m hoping to write that story this week.
I am still wishy-washy about what effect people reading my website has on me. I check my logs and comments often enough to suggest that I care. But some of that checking has to do with my addictive personality. When I start following a message board, I become obsessive about checking it as well. I think it has more to do with my addictive personality than my need to know what’s happening on the board. See my comic book collection.
This forces me to revisit my audience idea (again). I don’t think I’ll ever come to a resolution. I seesaw from believing an audience is important to cursing them to ignoring them in a noble pursuit of self.
Chuck Palahniuk in Survivor said, “You realize that if nobody is watching, you might as well stay home. Play with yourself. Watch broadcast television.” In case you haven’t had the opportunity to read (or watch) Mr. Palahniuk, he is helping bring about a revolution in storytelling: he delivers self-indulged, first person, present narrative stories in which his off-kilter characters rebel against society. Think “Fight Club.” Think the failed revolution against our parents’ ideals. For Generation-X (that’s us, in case you forgot), we are having trouble defining that rebellion. Our parents rebelled against the establishment. They’ve left us in a lark. What is there to rebel against now? That our parents are sellouts? That their drug-induced revolution created a more capitalist and immoral society than the society they rebelled against? Been there, done that.
Getting back to Mr. Palahniuk’s rant, his protagonist (which must share thoughts with Mr. Palahniuk, since most of his protagonists have similar beliefs) discusses what an audience means for achievement. This is something I’ve been struggling with. Should I post my thoughts? Does anyone care about these thoughts? If I did post them, what’s the purpose? Would I still write if nobody read my thoughts? Would I go the gym if I had nobody to impress with my monsterhood?
Because I derive my motivation from external sources, for me, the answer to those questions is “yes,” “hope so,” “to amuse others,” “no,” and “no.” My life has been about the pursuit of head patting. The end goal of my writing is to publish something. I’m not sure whether the musings are helping or hindering this effort. That’s what this keeps coming back to. Why should anyone care to read this?
Speaking of external motivations, I had a wonderful taxi ride from the airport. My taxi driver was from New Orleans. Since I visited New Orleans last week for business, we started talking. He’s black, 51 years old, wore brown sunglasses and a black, head-fitting hat, and spoke with a gruff voice. (I wish I remembered his name.) He’s a jazz player, a trumpet jazz player from New Orleans. He carries a pocket trumpet (the tubes are wrapped tightly so the trumpet fits in a small box) in his glove compartment and played a jazzy “When the Saints Go Marching In” for me at the end of the trip.
He went to college and played professionally on the side to make extra money. His other wife (he calls his trumpet his first wife) moved him to Houston against his will (sound familiar?). He left his family, his city, and, most painful, his band to move here. He’s thinking of opening a real jazz club downtown. Houston has a few clubs, but from my brief visits, they are not New Orleans quality.
We spoke about jazz musicians, the loss of the brass section in modern music, and his love of the music. He told me about the brotherhood (and, I guess, sisterhood) of jazz musicians in New Orleans. When visiting clubs, all jazz musicians bring their mouthpieces, always expecting to be called to the stage during a set. He also described a jazz funeral, the favorite place his band played. In particular, when a jazz musician died, a large group of musicians turned out: at least five of each trumpet, trombone, saxophone, tuba, and percussion players. They bring their instruments and play before, during, and after the funeral. The musicians also accompany the casket to the cemetery (if it is close by) in a parade, playing soulful gospel hymns. After the burial, the musicians change their tune and parade toward where the food and drinks are served. They play up-tempo jazz. It is impossible to be sad when they play.
During the conversation, I told him that I played trumpet through college. Not jazz trumpet, regrettably, but a poor man’s rendition of classical trumpet. At the end, he insisted that I pull out my trumpet—something I told him I haven’t done in a year—and play some tunes. And then he said something else. He said that I shouldn’t play for anyone. I should play for myself. Even if I couldn’t hit a note, couldn’t scream into the stratosphere, just play. Play for the joy of creating music. Lose yourself. Find yourself. Play until your head spins and your lips bleed and your soul cries out. Who needs an audience when you’re finding that?
I don’t know how people talk to me. I complain so fucking much. That Julie can put up with me is a miracle. I complain about just about everything: the weather, having to eat, sleeping—anything that at first I think would be cute, but then I take to exrremes until the cuteness devolves into annoyance.
You will not complain in the story. You’ll appear innocent and a victim. In the end you will not be so innocent. I even annoy myself after a while. Go figure.
I am reading John Irving’s A Prayer for Owen Meany, so far a wonderful, if religious, book. It reminds me of a lesson I have to remind myself while writing: reach the reader’s emotions. Irving’s book focuses on sadness, an emotion I’m intimately familiar with: It is my favorite emotion. (I won’t get into what that says about me.) Sadness reminds me of what I have and, more importantly, what I’m missing.
Eliciting fake emotions is worse than ignoring them. An emotion that is gratuitous—i.e., does the story no service—is useless. I read a story in The New Yorker a while back about the death of a child. The author interspersed two stories. In the first, a married couple was about to have sex when they received a call that a car hit their child while she was walking home from a friend’s house. The second discussed the history of asteroids hitting the earth, and the future chances of one destroying the earth. I cried during the story, but I felt like a fool. The author brought me to a brink just to push me over. There was no purpose to the first part of the story (unless you count the author’s weak allegory). In case you’re curious, the child died, but it turned out to be another couple’s child. The dead child had borrowed their daughter’s license to get into an R-rated movie. Cheap tears. That’s not something I want to achieve.
Who knew finding a seat in Borders would be such an ordeal? I usually write in the bucks of stars, but today I thought I’d be original and drive to Borders. I didn’t realize the difficulty that that decision would create. I’ve spent the last twenty minutes pretending to browse the audio book section. While I am looking for a new audio book—I finished The Da Vinci Code a week ago—I’ve already browsed Borders’ selection and found it wanting. I’m walking around in circles waiting for someone to get up from their comfortable, leather chair.
It took three full circuits for one of the readers to rise. I made my move when he looked around his chair for forgotten items. I found a particularly uninteresting audio book on the history of the communist party placed near his chair. After he finally left his chair (an ordeal that took another five minute), I looked left, looked right and leaped into his warm chair. Two other people were making the rounds looking for chairs. They made the mistake of browsing the history section, which is two rows away from the brown chairs. Suckers.
I didn’t take my computer into Borders. I’m writing these notes in my Moleskine, which I’m enjoying. (Obviously, I’ve since transcribed these notes and turned them into readable prose. Besides my poor handwriting, I don’t do much editing in my journal.) It’s nice to have something to write in whenever a thought strikes me. While it is awkward in my pocket, it is worth the slight discomfort.
I’ve discovered a problem with my Moleskine. Since I’ve given up consternating in these entries, I’ve found that the journal is the perfect place to pick up right where I left off. I’ve been focusing on inner dialogue, ignoring the more descriptive and clever writings. As I wrote in my journal after I realized that I spent the last five pages writing consternation about writing, “Now that’s hilarious.” I’ll share some with you:
I just need to fight through my disgust and write. It’s hard. I have a severe internal critic that depresses and stops me from writing. He reads my prose and ridicules it until I don’t see the use in continuing. The critic is not always wrong. He’s very good at identifying when I’ve written something particularly good. Regrettably, most of the time he takes my uninspired drivel and laughs until I have no choice but to give it up in disgust.
How do I silence my internal critic so even on my bad days I will continue to write (and not write these useless consternations)? If the demon wielded just words or thoughts, he wouldn’t affect me. But it’s more. He has the power to manipulate my emotional state. He makes me feel awful and useless about my writing and weakens my resolve to continue. In short, he depresses the hell out of me.
He needs a name. I will call this demon Carl. Carl is at the end of all my unfinished stories. He gloats in the middle of my musings when he senses my mind and focus wandering. Carl takes my pages of story notes and convinces me that I will never be able to turn those scribbles into insightful stories. Carl whispers into my ear that I’m too old to start telling stories; too old to rediscover the creativity I buried when I was a child. Carl’s idea of fun is to let me jack up on caffeine and then rip the words away from me, leaving me jumpy and full of energy, but no avenue to release that energy. Carl loosens my lips when I want to complain and bitch about writing, but then shuts off the spigot when I try to redirect the flow to storytelling.
Carl yells to anyone that will listen that I am not a storyteller. He points out that I’m not even much of a talker. I argue like an overpaid lawyer, but when I try to put those words into my character’s mouth, Carl stands on the top of my pen and wags his finger, telling me that I’m not good enough and the lines are flat. Even now, as I get to the end of this section, Carl is laughing and saying, ‘no more.’ I’m leaving this part and trying to come to some resolution. Carl doesn’t like resolutions.
Carl, let me write my crap! Let me write page after page of drivel that goes nowhere. I know it is bad writing. I know it is a bad story, but it is my bad story, and the only way I’m going to write it is to write through the uninspired and embarrassing sections until I arrive at the good sections. I’m not sure if I’ll ever get to them, but I have to try. I have to find quiet time, glue my ass to the chair, and just write. I have to battle Carl until ignoring him becomes second nature.
Once you name something, you develop power over it. Carl, I name you and call you out. I will stop focusing on my bad, useless paragraphs and keep going in my stories. Even if I have to cut ninety percent of my writing, it will be worth it.
Next up: the demon Lenny, the bringer of laziness and apathy.
I haven’t lost my love of the consternation. I should turn it into an art form. I sometimes think I have more skills in this area than I will ever have in storytelling. (You hear Carl in this, don’t you?)
“I’ve never met anyone as intelligent and yet so clueless. He can have the most insightful conversation and follow it up by doing the stupidest thing.”
Ugh. Why do I bother and waste so much time on these mindless pursuits. Imagine the scene and write it: As I’m getting older, ages begin to confuse me. I watch as teenagers walk by and I can’t figure their age. It’s an unusual experience. Here I look and study and I don’t understand or know their age.
It’s his ninth novel. Remind me again how many you have written? You sit and write about nothing. Imagine if that tie was used to write your stories. What do you recommend? I’ve tried so much and I’ve come up with nothing except writing as I do, in this stupid book or in musing form. Perhaps, if it is about getting feedback, you should release your stories in segments—installments. You set yourself a goal, and you write for that goal. Let’s try it for your current story. The important thing to remember is it’s only a segmented drafted so you can go back and rewrite parts after you post. We’ll call this 9 Novels.
The problem with Owen Meany is that the narrator is unlikeable. When Irving jumps to his asides, you find yourself liking him less and less. And it’s not just because he’s a draft-dodging liberal. It’s something deeper in his character that is unlikeable.
“Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once.”
The narrator almost appears joyful in holding back his stories, dropping hints throughout the pages but never disclosing what happens for long tracks of time.
Symbolism and theme. I don’t get it.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. I watch a show on comic books and, of course, Michael Chabon is on. He’s young. He’s in his 30s and he’s written at least two novels and many short stories. And what the fuck do I do? Bitch about myself. Complain about what I’m not doing, but not do anything. Cowards die many deaths. That’s what I am: a coward. Either that or I have no skills.
How is it that I can write pages and pages of this shut but struggle to write a single page of a story? I have no fucking idea. I need to let go. Accept what the universe has given me and transcribe what it shows me. I have never been able to draw. I can copy well enough though I could create what I see. That’s what I have to do: create what I see. Extrapolate and change the world that I see until the story is there. Use what I know and write about that. Stop this bitching and this forming of cultivating words. Stop the censoring. Just write. It will get better. Open and write.
I’m sick to my stomach with my failures. I don’t knopw why I bother. I can’t fucking do this. I can’t tell stories. I can’t see things. I can only repeat what I’ve already seen. Everything I’ve ever wrote about has been repeats. Why can’t—no, why don’t I just give up. I’ll turn my website into a Blog and leave it at that. It is too late. I realize that now. Sun sets and night covers my vision of what could have been during the last days.
I’m tired and sick after writing and drinking tremendous amounts of caffeine this weekend. After writing today and posting, I felt terribly sick. My failure was palpable. I don’t know what failure should taste so bad, but it does. Now I’ve somewhat recovered. Hopefully it’s enough to continue writing tomorrow evening….
I’m calmer now. It was an awe-inspiring weekend. I didn’t think I could do what I did. I just wish I didn’t feel so down when I finished. How am I supposed to write for a living if I fight through these types of depressed feelings?
After posting the first part of my story, I received excellent feedback. Regrettably, it wasn’t the head patting that I (and my ego) enjoy. But the important part is the feedback goes to the core of why I’m writing these short stories. If you remember, I talked previously about tasking myself with short stories to learn how to write stories. At the time, I thought it was about perfecting the point of view and structure. I’m realizing that it’s about many more things.
Orson Scott Card’s Character and Viewpoint was the first book on writing that I read. I had shared many of the excellent ideas that Card had written with Julie. She wasn’t exactly enthusiastic about the subject matter, but she was kind enough to listen and grunt at the appropriate times when I explained the different concepts to her. I hadn’t realized that she would remember any of it.
After reading my story, Julie didn’t comment (which I took as a very bad sign). My mother was even worse. She said, “I saw you posted a new story.” I responded, “Yes, and?” She didn’t say anything. I told her how much I enjoyed spending the weekend writing the story, how I had drank copious amounts of caffeine to keep the juices running, and how this was one of my most enjoyable writing sessions ever. She responded, “It’s good that someone enjoyed the exercise.” Ouch.
Getting back to Julie (which she loves to hear), I prodded her for a more definitive review of the story. She then started describing the terrible flaw that the story contained. She cited my discussions of Card’s book (of which I didn’t think she remembered or even listened to). She said that the characters were not likeable, just pathetic, and while you (i.e., me) might be entertained or even amused by pathetic people (I thought my post on mean people was hilarious), most people don’t want to read stories about them. It’s bad enough that these people are themselves pathetic. Why would they want to read a story about another person’s pathetic existence? Aren't they trying to escape their pathetic existence by reading the story? Doesn't that defeat the purpose?
Chuck—who, to spare my feelings or in hopes of improvement in the second draft, had not presented a substantive critique of the story—readily agreed when I shared Julie’s analysis. After hearing this from two horses’ mouths, I returned to review my story. It took me a while to admit the truth. After I saw it, I (barely) resisted the urge to yank down the first part of the story. I saw Sam and the narrator in all their pathetic and uninteresting glories. How did I miss it?
I have plans to rework the story to improve this aspect. I won’t share with you the details (only partly because I don’t know them yet), but I will be working diligently. I’ll have to reset my deadline for posting the updated story until next Friday. Aren’t deadlines great? Especially the easily changeable, self-imposed type.
More ideas on writing from reading DFW’s (that’s David Foster Wallace, for those not in the know) stories:
1. Write, keep writing (not just editing!) every day. Write with feeling about anything for long periods.
2. Write without thought for the audience and don’t worry about boring them. Write and keep writing for yourself. Write to entertain yourself. Turn off that internal voice that reminds you to watch out or you’ll bore the audience. Don’t worry about boring them—that can be fixed later. For right now, there is no audience.
3. Take your thoughts and expand on them. Think: what would be funny/interesting/clever in this situation? How would the characters react? Place yourself there and think of the all the clever things you would say if you were with someone you wanted to amuse or impress. And write about it. Again, don’t worry about word vomit. That can be fixed and the gems saved.
4. If you come to a stuck point, skip it.
This list inspired some thoughts. Here’s the resulting vomit. It’s been edited only for spelling. It’s for me, so you probably won’t like it. As I indicated in two above, I don’t give a shit. With that said:
pen
He sat there staring at the pen. He felt it betrayed him. It had given up halfway through his thought and he attempted to finish it, the thought, by pressing hard enough to make a ballpoint indentation on the paper. Even after everything it had done to him, which included, among many other things, failing him during a very inspirational moment when butterflies, no, brilliance oozed from his fingers, recording words scratched in golden glitter, it still hurt him to put the pen into the train’s seat pocket and leave it there.
A passenger, assuming it wasn’t found first by the train’s custodial service, found the pen, and, probably because the passenger was at the start of an intense NY Times crossword puzzle, and when I say that, I’m thinking of the Sunday one, not the easy weekday edition, found the pen and remarked what a lucky day it had become because even though he bought the paper and had planned, after finishing the politics, circuits, and local section, in that order since that is the order he had read the paper for as long as he could remember—and we’re disregarding the fact that the circuits section is a Thursday section and the Sunday crossword is a Sunday section since he sometimes gets confused by the days of the week, and, more frequently, the sections that correlate to the days of the week—he forgot to bring a pen. The passenger gave an excited growl as he used the pen’s point to skim the clues for an easy one, and, after finding the clue: former NYC airplane building, excitedly counted the spaces in eight down and saw immediately that the answer is five spaces, which matched the exact number of letters of the answer running, somewhat spastically, through his head. The passenger began to write a P in eight down and realized that the ink was not running through the ballpoint like it was supposed to. The passenger manhandled the pen, and tried again, sure that this time the combination of clicking, shaking, and squeezing like trying to get juice from an orange or water from a rock in the biblical sense, will start the flow. He, the original owner, not the passenger, knew that wouldn’t happen. The passenger then scribbled circles at the top of the paper, pushing harder with an occasionally shake, until he ripped the newspapers and satisfied himself that the pen really is truly dry and his thoughts of finishing the Sunday crossword had been thwarted, even though he accepted, down in the dark, deep parts of his psyche, which his ego buried after waking most mornings, that there are things stopping him from completing the puzzle that are more powerful than pens that don’t write.
Before sacrificing it to the passenger, he again stared at his discarded pen with the medical markings: Premarin Vaginal Cream in a nonliquifying base, which, in the medical speak that appeals only to the Latin or medical student (but, surprisingly, not the spelling national champion since medical words, particularly the names of chemicals and drugs, are not tested in the competition even though medical conditions, which are found in most dictionaries, are), and, it said, in parenthetical, on the off-chance that you might confuse these scientifically spelled jargon for informative words: “(conjugated estrogens)”, the two words were in most people’s vocabulary but their meanings when put together were as foreign as a Japanese train station to a Westerner, that is, completely indecipherable. He picked up the pen, which was smooth with a black, clickable top with two holes on both sides to show the white part of the pen, the white clip, and brown lettering for the name of the drug (the trademarked one), and its function, with the parenthetical scientific name and dosage, 0.625 mg/g, and the registered trademark symbol in black ink, and, after removing it from the seat pocket, tried again, and found it still didn’t work. With painful regret, he again left it for the passenger. The train landed and stopped in his city and he made a mental note: need new pen for ideas, the brilliant type, which he forgot, the note, almost immediately as he wrestled with his luggage and notebooks.
***
This one is even worse. Remember: it’s for me. (Why do I feel the need to keep reminding the three people who read this site not to read this? It’s that damn, internal critic, if you must know. I need a name for him. We already have a Carl and Lenny—that leaves Moe. Damn Moe! Shut up already.)
someone’s got to win: girl carrying trophy
I’m in the bus station, minding my own business, which consists of watching other people and scribbling notes about them, but if you’re reading this, you already know this. 8 buses arrived: NYC, Boston, cross-country from Tuscon, Arizona, Chicago, Cleveland (it arrived three hours and ten minutes late), Tampa, Buffalo, and Rochester. Most of my notes are moderately gratifying, saying such things as: ‘boy, that girl in the pink sweatpants, her legs are too short and her tits, they’re like watermelons might look right after picking’ or ‘is that man, you see him, the one with ripped sneakers—look away, he’s looking over here! Yeah, that man. The one now watching the terminal door—he might be homeless and looking for a handout. I’ll try to get downwind and find out for sure. As usual, 4,322 tiles on the ceiling; 12 are water-damaged, changed from 8 last Saturday. No. Not homeless. Just cheap. He’s clean-showered’ or, you get the picture.
I watch people and try to draw their pictures in my little book. I also count a lot. You know, I keep track of things. I’m writing about this because I might have a problem. Howard Stern does the same thing. Bathroom: 6 yanks of toilet paper, 8 wipes, and 3 pulls of soap; bowel movement was solid and passed easily after 5:32 minutes of preparatory pissing and concentrating. Or, at least, Howard claimed to do the same thing on his radio show. I’ve begun to question whether what he says is really what he does. I was shocked when I saw his movie. Who would have thought that he could be so damn loving? Of course, he left his bitch of a wife—but that was only after he made that cheesy movie. It’s those Hollywood types. I think they got to him. Anyway, I listen to him in the mornings when my boss isn’t around. He, for safety reasons, demands no radios or other listening devices. I guess he’s taking about cellular phones or those new computerized music devices. But I don’t understand either and I really don’t have many people to talk to—with the obvious exception of this book, of course. But the book won’t call me, or, at least, hasn’t called me yet. I’m always on the look out, however. As long as the book doesn’t get too uppity: the one thing I can’t stand is an uppity book.
There she is: I knew it. Every Saturday, when I wait in the bus station, there is always one really interesting person that walks by. I don’t have enough time to jot down everything worth jotting, but there’s always one thing that positively and absolutely must be jotted down And there she is. She’s holding two trophies. They’re big trophies, the kind you win in tournaments, and not the second place types, either. The trophies are too large for her. I can now tell she doesn’t deserve them. What I can’t tell is what she won them for. The man on top—it might be a woman, at least it should be a woman, since this is a girl we’re talking about, but even if it was a woman, it’s not like it would be worth anything, she was competing against other girls, which is very different from competing against real men—anyway, the golden man on top is just standing there with his hands held way up. I don’t think he’s holding anything and there’s no soccer ball or karate kick or anything that tells what she won.
She’s a skinny one, this trophy winner. 4 woman I, and most normal men, that is men who aren’t bent, if you know what I mean, would consider hot passed through the station; 1 of them, wearing an orange blazer, gave me a rather favorable look; I was too busy recording my lunch, which is on page 24 and 25 of this journal, to respond her obvious advances. Her duffel bag and trophies seem too heavy and she’s given up and is now dragging her bag behind her. She came out of the gate looking for someone. Maybe her mother was supposed to pick her up or maybe her teammates. They probably want to take her out to celebrate. There they are now: two people. I’m guessing they’re her parents from their relative age and the way they’re standing next to one another: there’s a comfort there that I’ve seen with other married couples. The security announcement was repeated 7 times per hour, always starting afresh on the hour; today it was recorded by a man with a thick, Long Island accent; he’s different from the ticket attendant/announcer who, while from the Island, has a smoker’s voice. Ah! They’re taking her trophies but making her carry her gray duffel. Again, they’re probably her parents. It, the bag, matches her gray folded skirt. Folded isn’t really the right word: it’s probably pleated or something, but I was ever one for fashion.
That’s who I was waiting for. I can go home now and implement my Saturday night plans. 2 police officers, and 221 people passed through the station. As I was saying before, my books are mundane but terribly interesting, I’m leaving the whole collection, 5,962 books including this one, which is already 3/4 quarters full, to the Library of Congress. My lawyer knows about this and I’ve recorded it its in the codicil to my will. In case you’re interested, #----- has the record from my lawyer’s office (I’ll fill in the number when I get home and can cross reference it). He was a strange one, that lawyer. I’m not sure why they let people like him walk the streets.
Absolute silence surrounds genius. There are rarely crowds at the Menil collection's Cy Twombly Gallery, and today is no exception. Like many times before, I’ve come here for inspiration, and I'm greeted by the wonderful plaster smell, dead silence–punctuated only by murmurs of the ventilation system–and, of most importance, the art. Cy finds beauty and emotions in splotches of paint, scribbles, and writings (in a penmanship worse than mine).
I had an argument with my former (completely my fault) friend Greg while visiting Europe. We were eating dinner in Prague at a wonderful place that served a seven-course meal with alcohol for less than twenty dollars per person. This was back in 1999. At the table, Greg defended modern art, while I, never having understood it, belittled it, his arguments, and him. I’m a good belittler. It took me many years to appreciate art other than realistic, or surreal realistic art. I’ve since realized that what modern art tries to convey is pure emotion poured on to a page. It takes courage to draw such pictures. The artist risks society not understanding the scribbles and disparaging the work. See Roark in Fountainhead.
I was taken aback the first time I visited this gallery. As you can see below, the paintings are infantile scribblings. I was, however, affected by these scribbles, more so than I have ever been by art. I laughed uncontrollably at first before realizing what it was I was laughing at. I appreciated Cy's eye, the risks he took, and the emotions his paintings made me feel, something that I have since found in the work of many other artists I used to disregard.
I’ve reached a point in my writing where I’m not sure what comes next. I’ve been struggling through the starts and stops of a few new stories, but what I created has not been satisfying. It’s missing something—it’s missing the entertainment and emotional aspect that I’m searching for. It sucks to have an entire weekend free and spend most of my time moping and wandering aimlessly instead of writing.
My dedication to staring at a blank screen and writing consternations (similar to this one) in my Moleskine are still there. Thanks to my journal, I’ve spared you the worst of my consternations, but, lately, the pages have filled up with fewer synopses and new work, and more consternation. I have realized the importance of writing even if I have nothing to write. Just the exercise of staring at the blank screen helps me.
These feelings started after I finished the second draft of FBT. Instead of even finishing the edits for that story, I excitedly jumped right into my next story. I thought that was how it was going to go: every month a new story, and from these stories I would develop better writing skills in my quest to tell stories.
To run into another huge brick wall is very disheartening but expected. Writing is hard. When I’m flying through a draft, I sometimes forget that. It’s these walls that remind me. I just have to knock it down and keep going. Carl, Lenny, and Moe be damned. Visiting this exhibit is the first step. Thanks Cy Twombly.
Warning: useless drivel follows. This is a transcription of today’s journal entry. It’s not interesting. It doesn’t dig into who I am. It’s just crap. But I like posting crap, so here goes:
Another pathetic outing in a feeble week of not writing. The withholding of caffeine is only partly responsible. Inspiration is at a low and I’m fielding questions of why I’m bothering, how these “stories” are any better or more useful or telling than what’s already out there.
I’m receiving support from listening to one of Dean Koontz’s early books. It’s awful. If he can write crap like that, then my crap can’t be much worse, right? At least he wrote, I keep hearing the response. I’ve done everything but that. I’ve spent the last couple of days playing with my website. See my new shadow on the right, reading list, and movie list. I guess everyone goes through these stages. I just wish I didn’t go through them so frequently.
Sparkly.
Write another part—I can’t even remember what the fuck my last story was about.
I just skimmed the earlier pages of my journal and I saw how much discussion and debate I did before writing FBT. There was also much consternation and planning. There are interesting entries that are only in handwritten form. I’m still not convinced that that’s bad. I could transcribe these pointless musings (like this one) for my vanity, but who would want to read them. The English language is pretty amazing, that I can say the same thing over and over and use different words to get the same thoughts across. Simply amazing.
Lost Monster is still missing much. It has a few characters but none are terribly interesting and the story itself tastes trite. I need one of those Excellent! moments. Sleepy with few thoughts coming.
The boy is reading a book while going through the mall and we catch fragments of what he reads—a formulaic fantasy novel ala Harry Potter. What’s the point? He reads while driving to the mall and waiting—damn, too much waiting—wasn’t that the problem with your last story? The waiting? Yes. And here you want to create the same problem in this story. Sad, very sad.
I like the book idea: a simple sword & sorcery story that the reader catches only short snippets of.
The boy is using the book to escape what? The divorce? Just make sure you don’t pour it on too thick or it’ll be sickening. The boy looses himself in the book’s problems and forgets, momentarily, his own—once again referring to his family issues. Ugh. Make those interesting—the book should be easier to make interesting. Much more thinking is necessary.
Julie’s coming tomorrow. Yeah!
I was used to denying myself everything until I realized that I risked denying myself life. In other words, caffeine is a good food.
Some people’s faces are stronger from the front, others from the side—and most, from the back.
And he sat there, poking holes in his ketchup with shoestring fries.
I like design—I like completed design—design isn’t necessarily form over function. It’s sometimes form and function. Design for my website; design for my house (when I eventually buy one, and, at the looks of my current finances, I can probably afford a wall of a house); design of computer programs and the results they output; design for my apartment and book, music, and movie selections. And finally, and most importantly, at least I am trying to convince myself of the importance, the design of my stories.
There is little difference between an advertisement design, a website design, and a story design. There is always a message (even lack of a message or an emotional response is a message), it’s just the building blocks that are different. My toolkit for stories is still missing some basic tools, but I’m working on that. I just need to keep in mind the design when I’m writing a story—and I’m not (necessarily) talking about the “form” of the story. This doesn’t make an incredible amount of sense, but at this moment, in this depressed state, with hours of TLC’s design shows under my belt (allowable, but still terribly, terribly wrong, because I’m in California visiting Julie), this message is very important
The design of a story is something you will work for, like you work for the design of your website. You stay up all hours to make it work and make it “right”—the right of the last stroke in a painting or the rightness of the design of a computer program or look and feel of the website.
You’ve known about the rightness for some time, but you’ve never caught it or understood it. I’m not asking you to understand it now. I’m only asking you to use it—replace your “ought to write” with “want to write until the writing is right.” I want to stay up because I’m dissatisfied with the design of the story, butting my head against the monitor until I can give it no more. I don’t want the empty page’s gaping mouth to hold anything against me. I will write and force myself to start over if it’s not. Adding new words will be like filling in the next blank part of the canvas and editing will be the adding the detail work and touching up. All will be in furtherance of the design concept.
You will identify this, the design concept, before you start and stick with it throughout the work. There you go, running out of steam—is it right yet? If not, suck it up and continue. Now, go apologize to Julie for going crazy and the get to work.
The words flow just like lines of programming. When you don’t know what to write, step back and plan. There really is no such thing as writer’s block. What it is is a lack of a direction and plan. This happened often in programming. You would sit down and try to write a program without a plan and sometimes the results would be good, sometimes even with a rightness, especially if the results you were looking for were short and easy to get to. More usual, however, you would hit many dead ends and the right design would hit you at one of those ends or when you were about finished with a workable program with a bad design. Then you would have to start over. While this sometimes happened with programs you had expended the effort to design, this was less likely, especially if you found the rightness during the design phase.
The same should be done with writing. Don’t let your unconscious mind do all the work. It’ll chime in with the creativity when it needs to—especially if you supply it with the workable framework. This is outline work we’re talking about. The outline where the concepts based free of the writing can be explored and used to manipulate the reader. This work shouldn’t be used as a straightjacket for your writing. Let your writing go where it will. Likewise, this work shouldn’t stop you from actually writing a section because there is no framework in place for it. Design and writing are interchangeable concepts and it’s not always the rational mind that will provide the border between the two.
To truly write, you need to reach into that higher place—the place where the gods of your mind and muses walk—and let those powers guide you. They will if you let yourself go. They will guide both your writing, the poetic and associative part of the communication, as well as the framework. The spark of creativity creates the rightness in the macro-design or framework, as you’ve been calling it.
Enough about it. It’s time to test these concepts and see if they’ll help you conquer Lenny, Carl, and Moe—or if this is just another wasted effort brought about by a focused depression courtesy of caffeine.
Eating corn on the cob is like eating popper plastic (whatever that’s called).
He keeps repeating to himself, “I am not superficial. I am not superficial.” And yet, he looks at her and thinks how much better she would be if this and that was changed.
“I’m taking too long with my stories. Get on with it and set deadlines again.” Wise words I thought (okay, spoke to myself, but don’t tell anyone) while heading to the gym today. Continuing my mining of Moleskine 2, I found four stories that were summarized and should have already been written. At this stage, with all my basic tools not in place, I have to stop worrying about the perfect (whatever that means) story. Instead, I need to concentrate on telling lots of stories. That should help cut down on my consternations and endless thinking about a story.
While this sounds terribly optimistic, I want to write one story every two weeks. They don’t have to be perfect, well formed, or even interesting—and length doesn’t matter. I need to get used to shorter deadlines and push myself harder. I start on something and I work it through until something comes out—no need to worry about quality. That’s not true. What I mean is that there is no reason to worry about polish. I’ll work harder on forming better and deeper (again, whatever that means) stories later. I also have to stop saving my good story for a later time. I can always go back and rewrite a story or reuse a story idea. Nobody will mind.
To this end, I’m setting myself a deadline of next Friday, 9 July, to finish The Pink Sweater, a story that takes place during a parent-teacher conference. I’m sure you’ll all be waiting expectantly.
Story Idea: Crazy old lady; irrational relationship; good friend listening to rant (never hearing it from the girl's pov); his description of movie love; long soliloquy
A new month is upon me again and I’m coming face-to-face with my laziness. I have an inexhaustible well of the stuff that I keep pulling from. Laziness is a horrible demon. After getting a taste of him, you crave more and more of the stuff until you’re drowning in it. My head is underwater lately and I’m grasping at anything to try yank myself up.
Another horrible aspect of laziness is that it’s easy to formulate plans to combat it when you’re not caught in its funk, and impossible to implement these plans when you are. Nature of the beast.
Moods are easily lost—the better or more productive the mood, the easier to lose it.
Once she starts wearing the Pink Sweater, Kendrick gains powers over her friends and teachers. She likes the power and wears the sweater ever day, afraid that if she takes it off, someone may take it, or if she washes it, the pink sweater may lose its powers. She wears it until the pink color bleeds out and the yarn begins to unravel. The powers don't leave her as it ages, but people stay away from her. She starts to smell. Her friends stop calling her. Her mother tries to steal the sweater, but is thwarted emotionally (with tantrums, etc.). Her school asks her to stop attending until she washes or stops wearing the pink sweater. With all that power, she has nobody to use it on. Nobody believes in the magic of the pink sweater. In the end, her mother convinces her to give up the sweater and she loses her magic. She is brought back into the fold.
The pink sweater represents creativity--nobody believes that Kendrick has it in her.
What was the magic? It could be something obvious, like creation. Or it can be not well developed. Why doesn't she take a chance and wash it instead of just giving up? She chooses to give it up (go to school, etc.) because she's afraid the magic will not be worthwhile, particularly if she's alone with it. She needs the head patting.
And the fat lady with polka dots slides into the row.
Book to buy: Maus (comic novel).
Story Idea: artist starting late in life; the anguish; is it too late to be crfeative?
Practice. Practice. The chair: four silver steel legs sprout out in a star pattern. The seat and back are of a rounded cone design cut into smoothed wood. On the back is the revealing feature, a loop connected to the arms of the two rear legs made of the same material giving the chair its light and modern appearance.
Breaking out the skill set. It’s not as clean as when it was used daily, but that’s okay. I just don’t want to waste this month plus off and look back and wonder why I have little (in the way of writing) to show for it. That’s the right way to think about it. (Food break.)
I’m calmer today—or at least right now. I feel like I’m reaching out blindfolded for something to hold to steady myself. It’s not my anxiety that I’m talking about. (Did you notice that I refer to writing as talking? This isn’t the first time. Putting words on paper feels more like talking for me. When I think about writing, I see (more interruptions) the words pop into my head like I do when talking, but instead of talking, I write. That’s one of my issues: when I’m not there (you know, in the zone, groove, etc.), I can only speak of subjects that I either have much knowledge about or I care passionately about. Everything else comes out as repetitive and quickly bores me. I can’t imagine what it does to the person listening.) Getting back, the thing I’m searching blindly for is my written voice, the noise that says more than consternations and complaints.
I’m more focused at this moment than I’ve been in a rather long time. If anything, the only anxiety I feel is the slight fear that follows all my initial writings (i.e., the first draft, the throwing down new ideas part): the fear that I’m going to come to the end of a sentence and have nowhere to go and nothing to say. This is less of a fear when editing. Editing is more like sculpting after you’ve found the rock and it has spoken to you in the new age sense.
(More interruptions.) Original writing (like original sin, I guess) is like getting out of the water and feeling the cold air on your wet skin. You want to jump back in to warm up but know that you’ll eventually have to get out and suffer the cold. I’m not sure what that analogy has to do with anything but I’m sticking with it. Raw thoughts are like that: most have sharp edges. Okay, that was the last bad analogy, I promise. (It’s easy to promise when you have nothing more to say. At least nothing more in musing form.)
Dialogue: funny, sarcastic, unexpected, anything that'll lighten the mood. And then there's the message. You could have gone out and written. Why didn't you? Because I'm an entertainment whore, a distraction whore. There's a story for you: a man who lives for distractions. Maybe--no. Stop worrying about the mechanism and just do it. Don't write what you think the characters would say; instead, write what you would want them to say, or what you'd want to listen to. Be outrageous and be funny. You know funny and moving. Use that knowledge.
Story Idea: "Fuck this shit." NY guy who watched Northern exposure growing up and sympathized and laughed with Dr. Fleishman finds his attitude has completely changed and he looks at the doctor with almost contempt. Tie this in with NY guy on airplane.
I’m getting used to writing these entries on airplanes. I’m flying back from Orange County to Seattle; the flight is an hour shorter than Orange County to Houston so I should be happy for small favors. I still feel rootless, living in temporary housing and waiting to move into the Castle, but this will pass, and I will find that groove, the one with the guiding sweet spot. For now, I’m content to float along, not in the disconnected space of two entries ago, but more in the searching desperately for the voice that has left me since I departed Houston.
I’ve been thinking about writing again, a step in a better direction. The desire is there, tempered by my focus on work and settling into my new life. I’ve been writing slowly lately, almost as if I was waiting for my focus to drop. I’ve been talking a lot about focus. With all of my distractions, it’s about the only thing I think about. I crave comfort and familiarity two aspects that have been missing.
I’m writing this entry on my TabletPC with the handwriting recognition. It’s similar to writing in my Moleskine without haring to worry about the transcription. The real advantage for me is the speed of writing. Typing 100 WPM has its disadvantages: if I have little to say, I end up saying it way too quickly I’m left with nothing more to type. Today, I have little to say with much time to say it. But this is how I always get back into it. Slow and steady.
Where is my muse? I call these writings musings because they arise from a place that I do not understand and can't begin to control. With everything that has been happening to me, I have not been able to find that voice. and today I am having little luck with locating my muse. I am back to the time at the beginning of my writing where all I do was complain about complaining about not writing.
I’m exhausted. Tired. When I get this way, everything acquires a fuzzy tint—I’m not sure tints can be fuzzy. I’ll have to ask the judges for a ruling on that later. I stare at an object until its meaning disappears and I lose visual focus. Sounds stretch over time, so a door slamming reverberates off the walls and ceiling until I manage to blink my lids over my glassy eyeballs and I forget all about the sound. As I stare at these words on the screen, they flash across moments where whole paragraphs appear and disappear, thoughts rise and drop in flaming balls, until, until what? Until I spew my uncooked thoughts across my questionable sanity.
I’m sure there are some people who are going to read the above drivel and roll their eyes. How can he write this, they will say, and, more importantly, how can he post it and subject his defenseless readers to his poorly edited thoughts? Those are all good questions. And I have answers to those important, if feebly articulated, questions.
I had previously hinted at participating in the National Novel Writing Month or Nanowrimo, as it is disgustingly known. Because of some threats and belittlement, which I will discuss later, I now find myself in the position of having to follow through with this course. Nanowrimo is an event that occurs every November during which aspiring novelists (or others who are gluttons for punishment, or Type-A personalities who are always looking for a challenge, think of people who climb mountains—with or without oxygen, since there’s a difference in the risk or “commitment” level of the two—or run across the desert with thimbles of water) from around the world (the aspiring novelists, that is) attempt to write a 50,000 word novel to (1) prove to themselves (and others) that they can write a novel; and (2) ah, hell. I don’t remember. But those people over in Nanowrimo, besides selling out by writing books about Nanowrimo, have a good FAQ that discusses these very subjects.
The important thing to discuss, at least for this musing, is why I am doing it? and of equal interest, what have I gotten myself into? I’ll answer the second question once I get started. It’s hard to know how something feels until you are knee deep in it (that always brings up images of brave adventurers wading through a few feet of liquidly shit). As to the first, I’m doing it because I need some structure to prove to myself that I can do this writing thing. I’ve attempted to set deadlines for myself (see 2 week deadlines), but those have usually flown by with little to show for them. I joined Nanowrimo with dreams of returning to my school days, where procrastination was possible, but at the end, I always finished the project. (I was just too scared of authority to do anything but finish the project.) Those are the rational reasons. But there are more interesting reasons that are much closer to the truth of why I’m going to subject myself to this punishment.
First (this is a separate list from the last paragraph, in case you were wondering), thousands of other hacks around the country will attempt to write 50,000 words. How can I possibly live with myself if they accomplish this and I fail? I mean, really, I’m much better than them: better educated, better looking, and I have good grammar skills—think about it, I know the difference between which and that, and (and this is an important and) I have mastered the use of the parenthesis and em-dash, what more evidence does one need?
Second, I’ve already dug myself into a wide hole with slanted and slimy walls. After reading my last entry, Chuck, the inspiration for updating my website (you remember: no English Lit. major was going to have a better looking and functioning website than a Computer Science/Philosophy major with an impeccable eye for style and brains the size of—okay, I’ll leave that one to your imagination), told me how he had read about this November event many years ago and kept putting off participating because, and here’s where he got creative, time commitments, lack of dedication, general laziness concerns, hairstyle appointments, transporting in-laws to the airport, wasting his “good” ideas on a poorly formed writing exercise, Fall cleaning obligations, something he blithely referred to as “work,” and, get this, the rugs in his house needed shampooing in November. Shampooing! (In the off-event that said English Lit. major attempts to question the veracity of my summarization of said English Lit. major’s excuses, let it be known that he has, on more than one occasion, falsified any one of the following: e-mail messages, conversations over pizza, philosophical debates while drinking Sake in a dark forest, and words in languages other than English.)
To continue, after I received the aforementioned (there’s a word I see way too often and should be forthwith banned from the English language) message, I immediately responded by much prodding, belittling, and generally questioning the length of said English Lit. major’s manhood. Much to my chagrin, Chuck has picked up the gauntlet and signed up to participate in this year’s Nanowrimo. He will join in questing to write 50,000 words through November.
The trick to this contest is that quality is not important; only quantity is. Editing is frowned upon and the two to three (to five) hours spent each day should be used to produce new words, i.e., more words that further the story, not new words that will be reviewed by the various committees that decide which words will be added to the dictionary and which will languish in the depths of internet chatrooms and message boards. For example, as of this sentence, this entry falls in around 845 words (943 words, once I added some amusing asides and other useless words by the criminally inane editing), well short of the 2,000 words I will need to produce each day to have a chance at finishing at the 50,000 word count at the end of November. The 845 words (stopping the clock to perform some simple mathematics) took me about 45 minutes to complete. In all fairness, I spent at least 15 minutes editing this entry to make it readable to the consuming public, a practice which I will have to foreswear (way too many fore words today) to have a chance at completing the goal. At this rate, I will need to spend about two hours of non-editing writing time each day for 25 days to be able to say that I completed the quest; thus, I will have saved the princess, collected enough jewels to reunite the pieces of the magical staff—which will be used to vanquish (since killing will not be, in the case of magical creatures and evil POTUS’s, enough) the evil overlord that has thrown the previously peaceful digital world into chaos—and obtained the highest score on level four, the maze level where two dragons give chase through hallways that are strangely reminiscent of an age of computer games where all the walls of a level look the same.
But I digress. The real (real) reason I am entering this contest, and reason number three, if you were counting, is because of a promise Julie made (which she now tries to disclaim): she said, and I quote, “as soon as you write your first book, I will support you.” Without regard for what I just said (and with the understanding that I will swear, promise, stand up in court and in general deny what I am going to type), I’m not sure if those are the exact words that she used, or even if that was the message that she was trying to get across, but as I already said, I will stick with my interpretation of her words, since that gives me hope of a life of lying on the beach and drinking umbrella drinks. In short, she has given me the choice of living the charmed life of writing while she slaves away, poking patients and running around in her white coat with heart-listener-thingy-with-tubes-and-earpiece hanging over her neck, or continuing to run the rat race that has become my life. I think writing 50,000 words in November is a fair tradeoff to get closer to that dreamy state.
Julie now claims, after she made all the above promises, including swearing using a ceremonial knife that, in previously incarnations, kings had used to swear the allegiance of their countries (we’re talking countries here, not mere promises of support!), that I would be “bored” and not like the life of a restful, philosophical existence, where I would spend the day thinking and writing well-received (and best-selling) literature (those are her words, not mine, paraphrased words, but nonetheless, her words). To think, she thinks I would rather work at my dream job than spend all day pounding my head against a computer trying to squeeze out just one more creative thought or well-formed sentence. What kind of drugs is she on?
With all of that said, I did want to tell you, dear reader, what it’s in for you. You have taken this long, long journey with me, reading all my musings in the hope of getting inside my brain and understanding, however shallowly, what makes me tick. In return, you will have the grand opportunity to read approximately (on most good days, and, for my benefit, let’s hope most of the days are good) 2,000 words each and every day in November. That’s correct: not only will I write that many words, I will turn around and post them in the evening. I know you’re asking yourself how it is you could have lucked out. Just think of this as my little gift to you.
Now that I’ve dug myself an even bigger hole with my large fingers, let’s hope I actually do this thing. I was leaning toward telling a story about a simple woodcrafter who builds chairs for a local temple, a story that I had outlined when I first started writing again, but never started or typed up my outline, but now I’m leaning toward telling the Pink Sweater story. I always liked that story and here’s the perfect time to completely ruin the telling of it. I have two more weeks to think about what I will write about.
In all seriousness (and, yes, for the most part, almost everything I write, particularly in musing form, is a feeble attempt at humor, complete with exaggeration, sarcasm, and deprecation aimed at myself and others), I am very happy that Chuck has decided to join me in participating in Nanowrimo. While the Nanowrimo website offers plenty of forums to discuss the pains and aggravations of this marathon, I’m not much of a forum guy. I’d rather have a trusted few who cheers me along and share in my aggravation and pains. And, of course, Julies is going to be there. She’s already threatened all sorts of violence if I don’t follow through with my plans.
Now it’s just a matter of setting aside the time and actually doing it. I won’t bother presenting any excuses, but I will try to write longer musings from now until I start. Once I start, I will post what I write and show a progress bar toward my goal.
Yesterday, I attempted to drink Mountain Dew instead of a tall mocha and write. The result was a paragraph of saying nothing, followed by a long, unending silence. It took a tall mocha from my friendly, neighborhood “We Proudly Brew” Starbucks coffee outlet to get back into this writing thing. My experiment yesterday proved one thing: to complete this contest, I will have to drink lots and lots of Starbucks. Oh, the sacrifices that I will make!
Word count for today: 1,988. Not a great total, especially since it’s generally easier to write musings than fiction, but a respectful output for today. And, yes, just by writing this description of the word count, I pushed myself over the 2,000 word count: 2,033 (in case you were counting, and, no, I will not count again since I added this aside; okay, I will, but this is the last time, I promise: 2,061).
It’s me again. Did you miss me? My training for Nanowrimo continues with this entry.
According to my trusty calendar, I have 11 days before D-day, the day that it all begins: the start of my new life of luxury and relaxation. Oh, wait. I’m thinking of my retirement day. Wrong day. In 11 days the writing marathon begins, and with it the chance to prove to myself (I won’t say “once and for all” because I don’t want to either never write again if I fail, or think that I’m going to be successful as a writer if the writing marathon succeeds) whether I can dig down into places that “I don’t talk about at cocktail parties” and find the mental energy to write. I don’t know why that line about cocktail parties entertains me so much, but I use it often; more in talking than writing, but there it is. It’s paraphrased from Jack Nicholson’s final speech in A Few Good Men and refers to the quaint discussions found at Yuppie parties, where the topics range from the fastest way to get across town during rush hour to the terrible way that our country treats poor people, and what a shame it is, and, by the way, would you like a refill on your Sapphire Martini?
If I can find the energy and commitment to make it through the 25 days in November, then I think good things will happen with my writing. A huge wall for me is the fear of not finding things to write about. When I stare at the blank computer screen, I begin to doubt whether I have things to talk about, or whether I will end up repeating myself endlessly (which is sort of like that last thought, a thought I’ve expressed countless times before and will no doubt express countless more times going forward). My hope is that once I get over this hump and prove that I can write new (if boring and poorly edited) things every day, then there is this infinite well of ideas and thoughts that I can share and the blank page will no longer scare me. At one time I had started naming my fears. I can’t remember if the blank page was a Carl or Lenny demon, but it doesn’t matter. It is one of my biggest demons and something I try to fight every time I sit down to write.
I’ve spent some time thinking about what I want to write in November. As I said in my last posting, I moved away from the Chair story back to the Pink Sweater story. If you remember, the original Pink Sweater story is about a little girl who wants to be a writer (sound familiar, except for the little part, oh, and the girl part?). The little girl writes a story about a girl who finds/is given a magical Pink Sweater that grants her powers. The trick to the story within the story is that the girl is afraid to remove the sweater for fear of losing her powers. Eventually, her school refuses to let her attend until she stops wearing her ragged, smelly sweater. Hilarity ensues, and eventually the girl must choose whether to gain acceptance of her friends and family by taking off the sweater, or continue wearing it. The story worked on two levels: first, the fear of removing the sweater. Would she lose the powers granted by it? Is it worth taking the risk? And second, the weighing of the sweater’s powers against the acceptance of her friends, family, and school officials—i.e., if she could do great things with her sweater, is it better to accept the ridicule and be an outcast, or give in to the pressure and not do the great things. This, for me, is a common theme that I like to think about. It reminds me of Ayn Rand’s Roark and my former boss Doug.
But the Pink Sweater story part was a late addition. The main part of the story, as I originally outlined it, is about how the little girl gives the story to her teacher, in the hopes of her teacher validating her desires to be a writer. Weeks pass and her teacher give no feedback. The teacher finally discusses the story during the teacher-parent-student conference that the little girl and her mother attend. Her mother, however, has other plans for her daughter. She sees her daughter as a doctor or lawyer, not as a starving writer, and belittles her daughter’s attempts at writing. “It’s just a hobby,” she tells the teacher. “She wants to be a lawyer, and this is just a way for her to practice her writing. No, she won’t need information on any writing classes. As I said, this is just a passing fad for her.” The little girl sits quietly and, like the girl in her story, must choose between her mother’s acceptance and pursuing her dreams of writing.
As you can see, I gave this story some thought, but I never wrote it. I did start a few times, only to find myself at dead ends. It was a cute story, but I had problems with the little girl’s voice and providing the context for the family relations. In short, I grew bored with the concept. I have many notes on this story, but I won’t link to them since you probably wouldn’t follow the links. Another “twist” that I had synopsized (or skeletonized, as Julie and her doctor friends say) was the teacher, who, herself, was either a failed writer or failed administrator. It’s the teacher, at the end, who takes the Pink Sweater and finishes it years after the little girl grows up and becomes a famous oncologist. The ending the teacher chooses: something about the girl deciding to give up the sweater and becoming popular with the children and teachers who had once made fun of her. What good was the power of the sweater when you couldn’t get people to like you, she would think.
But what fascinated me more than the mother/daughter/teacher relationship, or even the corny ending, is the Pink Sweater story. I love the idea that the magical pink sweater would become worn and smelly, and the choice that the little girl (or any wearer of the sweater) will have to make to continue using its powers. The rest of the story is rather artificial, and its main character is an aspiring writer, something that is a no-no for most stories (mostly, I’m guessing, because there are so many stories about writers written by writers. “Write what you know,” is what they tell us. But what do we know more about than the horror that is writing? The best example of a successful writer-as-main-character story is John Irving’s The World According to Garp. I think I like that book particularly because Garp, the writer/protagonist, ends up living the good life: writing for a living, and not otherwise working. (Spoiler alert: That he dies a gruesome death at the end is unimportant. John Irving did a wonderful job of forwarding his philosophy that novels are just long obituaries—i.e., everyone dies in the end, and that’s as good as any place to end a story.) I don’t know why I keep returning to this dream, but you did ask about it.
A few nights ago, as I was lying in bed, thinking about what I had gotten myself into by agreeing to the Marathon (that’s the name I’ll use for it from now on—it makes it sound more athletic, like I’m competing in something that requires lots of spaghetti the night before), fighting down the excitement mixed liberally with fear, I began thinking about the story. As I said before, I initially thought about telling the Chair story. I even thought about a first line, which I recorded on my phone before falling to sleep. I listened to it about 30 seconds ago before erasing it. Of course, knowing my horrendous short-term memory, which is only slightly better than my long-term memory, I promptly forgot what it is I recorded before typing it here. It wasn’t a very memorable line: something about living a life of regrets (you should have heard my sleepy voice in the recording). I spent some time going through the Chair story in my mind and remembering the storylines I had developed. At the end of that exercise (or perhaps it was the next day), I discovered why I never followed through with the story. It bored me. If I could create great, memorable characters and an interesting town, then the story would be interesting. But knowing my experience and talents (or lack thereof), I didn’t think I would be able to do that, and I still don’t think I could do that. It just doesn’t seem my style. The story synopsis, when I thought about it, reminded me (give me a second while I find this on Amazon) of Richard Russo’s Empire Falls (wow, lots of book references today), which is about interesting characters in an interesting locale, and a moderately uninteresting storyline. His story is good (Pulitzer Prize wining, if that matters or impresses you) because of the interesting characters and locale. Without it, the story would be boring and painful to read.
So, I was lying in bed, thinking through the Chair story when I decided that I didn’t want to dig up my notes on it and tell that story. Even though it was well planned out (I think I had even written an outline of the major events and characters), it bored me. That’s when I started to rethink the Pink Sweater story. There were a few problems with that story. The most glaring one in my mind was that it was more of a children’s story. When you have a child as the main character, the sophistication of the thoughts can be limited. Looking back, that’s one of the reasons that I thought the mother or teacher would make a better narrator, but, of course, that creates problems as well. How could I tell a complete story from such a limited perspective? The main problem, however, is what I discussed before. The mother/teacher/little girl part of the story just wasn’t as interesting to me anymore. I was more interested in hearing about the Pink Sweater. But the story of the Pink Sweater was even worse when it came to characters and locale. It took place at a school and the main characters were the little girl, her parents, and the little girl’s friends and teachers. Not what I would consider the most interesting characters to live with (at least from an adult’s perspective).
That’s when the eureka moment occurred. What if instead of a little girl wearing the sweater, it came into the possession of an older person, perhaps an older male person. Perhaps, an older, male, cynical person—someone like, I don’t know, myself? (That is not to say that the main character is going to be me or have anything to do with me. It’s just his voice I’m talking about.) This started to come together with fighting the Carl Demon I discussed above: I’m pretty good with writing lots of stuff in musing form using this voice, but when I try to write fiction, I find myself limited by what I can say and how I say it. If I adopt this first-person voice (think of Chuck Palahniuk’s narrator, the same guy story after story) and use it to tell a story, a story about a pink sweater and magical powers, and rescuing damsels in distress (okay, perhaps the last part is going too far), then the words might flow more easily.
That’s about as far as I’ve gotten with this idea. I’m going to spend the next 11 days planning this story and arriving at a decent synopsis and characterization. What I do know is that the man with the pink sweater (MWTPS) is going to find himself with the same conflict between wearing the smelly sweater and taking it off. I’m thinking of an anti-hero scenario, where he wants to help people with his powers, but, first, can’t find where to help people (it’s not like you can just walk around and find crimes to stop), and, second, is ridiculed because of the pink sweater. His job (which I’m not sure what it’s going to be) will be at risk, as will his relationships. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
These ideas, which are swirling contently in my head, I will try to develop over the next couple of weeks. For now, I’m approaching the 2,000 word goal for the day. I’m thinking from Julie’s reaction yesterday that fewer and fewer people will read these long entries. I’m okay with that. I’m actually probably more than okay, especially once November rolls around. I’m not sure if I really want people reading the drivel (I’m using this word often lately) that comes out of my mouth…errr…fingers.
Word count before editing: 2,060, time before editing: 1 hour. Caffeination: Vanilla Coke and Tall Mocha. Word count after editing: 2,208, editing time: 15 minutes.
As expected, today is a P.H.D. (post-headache day, for those who have not read every word I’ve written for the past 30 years), a beautiful day where my head clears and ideas gush forth (like sewage from a broken pipe). Ideas have popped into my head throughout the day, and I’ve faithfully recorded them (mostly using my fancy voice recorder thingy on my phone—as I type my notes in, I’m realizing that I talk way too fast. How can anyone understand me, let alone take notes when I talk? I’d make another note to remind me to slow down, but I’m sure it’ll be garbled. And, no, I don’t want to hear “I told you so” from everyone. You just have to learn to listen harder). I’m going to transcribe these voice memos here and try to get my daily quota before heading home (I failed, in case you were wondering). I missed the coffee lady. She leaves at 4pm, which has left me drinking a second Vanilla Coke for my caffeine fix. We’ll see if that hurts my output.
I have so many things I want to say today, so I’ll get right to it. Remember many days ago when I said I was desperate to get work because I was really bored and going crazy. Well, I want to find the person who said that and shoot him because now I’m terribly busy at work and I have no time to do what I want to, like go to the gym, write these entries, and prepare for Nanowrimo, which is seven days from now. But I’m still going to do it. It’s just a matter of getting this stuff down (i.e., the writing) and hopefully finding a balance between working and playing, until such time as I publish my first, bestselling book, and I retire and write all day, everyday. This morning, right before I left for work, I typed in the following paragraph. I would have given anything to continue writing, but I had to drive to work. Thankfully, I remembered the voice recorder:
Find out what you love about your story and focus on that. Don’t just write for the sake of writing; write because you have something to say and something that you want to say. If you love the characters, you will want to live with them longer. If you love the twist, then it’s the twist that will keep you up at night as it winds and twirls around your character’s lives. Use that. Figure out what you love and go with it. Stop trying to force yourself to do this writing thing and instead enable the writing thing to force you.
Am I terribly inspiring, or what? Now, onto more thoughts (transcribed poorly from my voice memos) I had about the story today.
The book will begin with the main character (protagonist) Lenny visiting his grandma. She’s a stodgy old lady but she knows that she’s stodgy and old. She tells Lenny that she hasn’t always been like that; that she used to be young and vibrant, but somewhere down the road something in her changed, and she wishes she could go back and fix it, but her bones tell her it’s too late. Her voice is nasal and high pitched, and she has a Midwest accent. The grandma (or perhaps it’s an elderly Aunt—those are usually better because they are childless, something a grandma can’t be, and have a different, regretful outlook on life. I’ll give that some thought), anyway, the Grandma or Aunt gives him the pink sweater. I’m not sure if she actually knows its powers or what it is, but she knows something about it. One possible direction the story can go is that the Grandma’s purpose for giving the main character the sweater is to teach him a lesson. I’m not sure if that will work with the following description in mind.
I’ve hit upon the sweater’s power, something I really needed to document and figure out before this story can go anywhere. The power is the ability to judge situations. It’s a little more complicated than what you’re thinking: The story will raise the obvious question of what is a “correct” judgment and whether the sweater judging correctly, but I’m getting ahead of myself here. Once Lenny wields the sweater, the sweater will allow him to judge a situation. It will give him guidance. You can think of the judgment in an ethical sense, i.e., he knows or has some feeling (thanks to the sweater) about what is a better choice, perhaps when he’s choosing between wrong and right in a situation. The sweater does not necessarily give correct answers (not that there can be “correct” answers), but the answers, at least in the beginning, turn out to help Lenny to improve himself or others. For example, perhaps the sweater will push Lenny toward selecting the right team in his office football pool, or selecting the right sales strategy that lands him a big client, or catching a mass murderer that’s been on the lose for years, or choosing the perfect gift for his girlfriend—you get the idea.
The sweater is telling him—and it won’t talk; it’s more like it conveys its feelings, since I’m a big fan of feelings—what he should do. For Lenny, it will be very relaxing and very intoxicating to know you he’s always doing the “right” thing. The sweater communicates through feelings, and that’s how Lenny discovers this power. Or perhaps the grandma, in her conversation when she gives him the sweater, will explain it or hint at it. At the very least, if she understands its powers, still a big if, she should give him a warning about trusting it, or anyone else, to make decisions for him.
Now the twist: the sweater’s goals or ethics—a concept I plan on explaining ad naseum—is not about what’s right or wrong, it’s more about Lenny’s perception of what’s right or wrong. That’s the key: The sweater has goals of its own, it is a sentient being. By playing on Lenny’s insecurities, Lenny becomes reliant on the choices the sweater makes. It’s going to be one of the reasons he’s afraid to lose it (or eventually take it off or wash it, etc.). The one limitation on the sweater’s judgment has to do with the sweater itself. It cannot tell Lenny whether he should take it off, wash it, etc. It cannot give him any guidance about itself or its relation to Lenny or the world. In other words, the sweater can’t lie to him, so it must remain silent on this point. I’ll have to give this idea more thought. If it can’t lie to him, what exactly is the nature of its advice? Perhaps it’s one of those oracle thingies, which give answers, but not always the answers that the questioner is looking for or understands—i.e., trick answers that are usually mischievous. Perhaps in the case of the sweater, there’s more than just mischief at work.
As time goes by, Lenny discovers that he doesn’t want to lose the sweater’s powers because he’s afraid of making decisions on his own. That’s what the sweater is after. The sweater understands his reliance on it and uses this to its advantage. As to what the sweater’s purpose is: alien conspiracy to take over the world; evil ends to serve the devil; trying to make the world a worse/better place. I have no idea. It depends on the nature of the sweater. This connects back to the discussion I had the other day about the One Ring. I still don’t think that the sweater has any persuasive powers over Lenny—i.e., the sweater won’t be able to convince him not to remove it. It’s more about Lenny not wanting to remove it for fear of losing his powers. What the sweater hopes to accomplish. Ugh. Much more thought on that is necessary. Worse comes to worse, it could be nothing; just being mischievous (that would be a cop-out).
The power itself is like the little window in my head—it provides feedback on yes/no answers and choices. Lenny doesn’t have to follow the suggestions, but, at least at first, when he does, good things happen. That’s what the sweater makes him believe. The sweater is manipulating him. The sweater —it is a sweater but it’s not going to be a pink sweater, it might be a blue sweater or green, but who cares—does have a greater understanding, but I still haven’t figure out where it comes from or what it’s purpose is. What I want to do is keep this idea away from the “Twilight Zone.” It should be more than just a cute twist played out to its obvious conclusion. Getting back to the sweater, what its trying to accomplish by forcing its judgment upon him is the important question. Its judgment is obviously better than his, at least for decisions that can be quantified for bettering his social life, job, etc. With that said, Lenny is not going to be one of those shleps (Yiddish word alert!) in the very beginning who can’t make a decision for himself and needs the sweater to egg him on. He’s more like Leonard, this guy from work, who might make bad decisions, e.g., he’s not terribly good with relationships, more because he doesn’t understand things and hasn’t thought things through. When it comes down to it, however, the sweater has goals in mind and certain things that it wants to accomplish. There’s a question of whether what the sweater has to accomplish is good for Lenny or, I don’t want to say the world, but it’s what Lenny wants to use the sweater for. He wants to be able to say that with “great power comes great responsibility,” and he wants to use that power responsibility—you know, to help the world. (Thanks, Spidey!)
The sweater at first is going to help him deal with his girlfriend. It’s going to correct the mistakes he’s made, or at least push him in the correct direction. Like Leonard making all his mistakes, e.g., not taking her to the airport and not paying for her dinner. The sweater will push him in the correct direction to save his relationship. As time goes along, however, the sweater will begin to portray a different side. It will try to persuade him to break off the relationship (yes, I don’t know how this fits in with the “Sweater always telling the truth” or “the sweater must be ethical” these are all things that I need to work out). The sweater will want him to end the relationship because, from Lenny’s perspective, the sweater will be trying to tell him that he has more important thing to do. Of course, it’s really the sweater’s ulterior motives that are pushing him in that direction. The sweater wants him out of the relationship to further its goals.
How is the sweater going to help him at work? There’s going to have to be a honeymoon period where it will actually help him achieve good things at work. Again, he works as a corporate salesperson or something like that. At first it’s going to help him achieve good things at work. It’s only until later when it really wants him to do things. Some other crazy thoughts: At first it’ll help him be a superhero, help him catch the bad guy. And do all sorts of neat and important work until the end where the important work disappears. By the end he’s so addicted to the sweater—i.e., his judgment is completely controlled by it—that he seemingly has no choice but to do what it suggests. The question at the end is whether he’s going to be able to break free from it, and take it off. It’s not about doing the right thing—originally I thought he’d have to choose between the sweater and saving society or being shunned, while that’s still going to be part of it, Lenny is going to reach a point where the shunning makes no difference to him, because he’s doing something good. Lenny will eventually find out that the sweater is no longer doing “good,” as he understands it. And then he’s going to have to change what he did, or at least understand it and decide what, if any, actions are necessary. He might start doubting himself, questioning whether it’s really his judgment that’s skewed and not the sweaters. Or perhaps he’ll try to figure out what the sweater really is: confront his Grandma/Aunt, search for information on the Internet, who knows? This is where he’ll be given the choice, and what he chooses will define who he is and what becomes of him. So, we’ll see where that takes us.
I’ve hit my limit for the day and it’s almost 10pm. I obviously wasn’t able to finish this before leaving work, and after heading to the gym, I only just now got a chance to sit through and read through the, yes, here’s the word you’ve been waiting for, drivel that is today’s entry. While the voice recordings helped me come up with some interesting aspects of the story, transcribing the results was difficult and resulted in some rather awkward paragraphs. I’m sorry about that. Until tomorrow.
Writing time: 1 hour+; word: 2,246; Caffeination: 2 Vanilla Cokes. Editing time: unknown.
Today has been a long, tiring day. I woke up this morning painfully tired and beat down. Last night, going to the gym for the first time in two weeks caused my physical exhaustion. I’m still not sure of the cause of my mental exhaustion, but after waking up, the last thing I wanted to think about was writing. That was my actual thought: I don’t want to write today or ever again. Just the thought of transcribing a word made me ill. And it’s been, what, five days of writing these long musings? How am I supposed to survive twenty-five days of this; especially once I begin trying to write fiction as opposed to this much easier writing of consternations and story outlines? Ugh. I don’t want to even think about it. I’ll just keep typing and see what falls out. I can at least say that even though I’m just as tired as this morning, I am sitting here trying to write something. It’s not terribly good or interesting, but it does count as words, which is all the preparation for the Marathon is supposed to do: force me to write words every day. What happens with those words or their value never mattered. Remember, I never stipulated that these words have to be creative or useful. “Quantity over quality” is the mantra of the Marathon. This is something that I need to remember and remind me over and over again.
My thoughts are rather clouded today, and my creativity is at a very low point. I blame the gym: it stole my creative energies and they have not refilled as I expected. But enough: I don’t want to waste more valuable writing time consternating. The wonder drug known as caffeine should kick in at any time now. It will give me enough energy to at least put a few ideas down and reach my word goal.
Last evening a less than brilliant thought occurred to me about the Pink Sweater. As I hinted at over the last few days, the sweater may not be pink. I at first didn’t like that idea because I thought the title was clever (cleverness, for me, is more important than almost everything in my life—I’m just very, very simple in that way. I’d rather be seen as clever than intelligent. I’m not sure what that says about me, even if, as now occurs to me, cleverness is a type of intelligence, a humorous type). My brilliant idea before falling asleep (recording the idea prevented me from falling asleep by another hour—or maybe it was the terrible Burger King I ate after the gym because I was too lazy to cook) was that the magic sweater changed colors as Lenny wore it. The sweater uses the colors as a way to communicate, or emphasize how it felt about certain of Lenny’s actions. The changes should be gradual, so people will not really think of the sweater as having a color (or being magical). While the colors will gradually change, perhaps going from a muted brown to a dull pink, they will recognize it as the same sweater Lenny always wears; particularly when it starts smelling bad, looking ragged, etc. I’m not sure what pink represents as an emotion, but it should be an important one (otherwise, why name the story that, besides the cleverness aspect). The other colors should be rather evident: red for anger, green for envy, etc.
There’s nothing coming out. I’m squeezing and squeezing, but the only juices left in me want to consternate. They want to complain about how difficult this is, how it’s impossible to come up with anything interesting because I’m drained. I’m empty. There are no topics floating through my head. There’s nothing but dullness, and dullness does not translate well to the page. What dullness has done for me, now that I think about it, is give me a chance to think things through. Here’s my time to stare at the ceiling and think. The ceilings here aren’t as interesting as in the Castle, but there are many more people to watch. Seeing as I’m a born voyeur, this should inspire me to continue. Let’s see where this brings me. (Yes, I’m reaching for anything to get me over this hump.)
The grandma makes the sweater because she is a Pagan. She belongs to a cult, the members of which are trying to keep magic alive in the world. This is her way of introducing Lenny to this part of his heritage. (This is the young boy realizing his magical potential storyline.) How does this correlate with the “evil” aspects of the sweater? Not sure, but this will make the grandma/aunt a more important character. The magic is more of a fire-and-forget magic—once created, it lives and follows its own set of rules. The sweater, like all spells under this system, was created for a purpose: to further the teachings of the magic. Is the magic based on a gods worship, or is it a manipulation of nature (if there is a difference between those two)? What did his grandma hope to accomplish? (These are just brainstorming thoughts, remember. I’m not sure if they’ll work—bah, enough useless explaining.)
So, the grandma understands what she created and gives it to Lenny knowing what it will do to him. She might have misjudged how the sweater will accomplish its goals, however. The sweater is not sentient in the same way that humans are sentient. It doesn’t hope to propagate itself. Its only purpose is the goal that’s woven into its threads. Its sentience relates only to how it goes about achieving its goals. Think of the Oracle in the first “Matrix” movie (the only Matrix movie worth discussing): like the ancient Greek oracles, its prophecies were designed to force a certain outcome. They weren’t necessarily correct (in the case of the Greeks they were, in the Matrix, they weren’t), but her discussions were designed to (man, my writing is terrible today—but I guess it’s not important in these contexts) facilitate a certain outcome. The sweater works similarly. It uses its powers to further its goal, which does not necessarily correlate with Lenny’s goals, or at least the goals that Lenny thinks are important. Perhaps this will remove some of the aspects I discussed yesterday. While there’s still the “correct” discussion, some of the manipulation aspects, or evil aspects, if you will, might have to be changed. The sweater’s goals, while not out to save the world or help Lenny achieve his more materialistic needs, might be admirable in the context of his grandma’s wishes.
That’s all very abstract. The grandma becomes more interesting if I follow this train of thought, however. She’s a character that we’ll have to revisit multiple times during the story (I originally planned on introducing her at the beginning and not bringing her back until the end). She has the answers, and perhaps, at the end, she accompanies Lenny, the Gandalf of the Pink Sweater? Who ever thought of an old and stodgy grandma as a travel companion? Or maybe she dies before giving those answers? Will she refuse to help Lenny? Perhaps she’ll feign (or fall into) senility. She should be interesting and I want the readers to return to her. What is she regretting? In my description of her yesterday, she was regretting something. Is it that she didn’t find an heir to her powers? Is Lenny her last hope? (“Luke, there is another.”) Or does she see the death of magic as her biggest regret—her failure to trust anyone, including Lenny, with her secrets. Maybe she fears that the world will become a better or worse place with these secrets revealed or with the loss of these secrets. Perhaps it’s her choice, at the end, that makes the difference. In that case, she’ll have to be an even more prominent character. All food for thought (what’s up with that saying? Who ever thought of carnivorous thoughts!).
The girlfriend is another character that’s been flitting through my brain. She should be a force in Lenny’s life and a potential stumbling block for the sweater. Why is the sweater scared of her? Who is she? I imagine that she’s the creative type. I had at first thought that she might be the little girl from the original Pink Sweater story, the happily failed artist—the dreamer whose parents force her to be a doctor or lawyer instead of an artist. She finds contentment and happiness in her parents’ chosen career path (as much as anyone can find it in their career). She’s an obstacle because she wants Lenny to fulfill his dreams. She wants him to… What? Is he having the little girl conflict? I thought he wants to save the world (Spidey again)? Is she a stumbling block or something that will help Lenny accept his calling (the magic) or understand it?
How old is Lenny? I pictured him in his 20s, trying to achieve something early in his life.
Can you smell the fumes that I’m running on? This writing is pulling nothing from nothing. I thought I’d take this break to complain a bit before I moved on. Not even my complaints have sharp edges. I might need to put off finishing this until later. I do want to write. I just wish I had something to write about or with (brain-wise, my computer and fingers are working fine).
If the sweater is not evil, who is the bad guy in the story? This is an important question because all stories need conflict. There’s internal conflict, which Lenny will certainly have plenty of, from understanding and accepting the sweater, to his relationship with his girlfriend and grandma, to his eventually decision about magic or the sweater or both. Will there be forces at work that are attempting to thwart the sweater? Will those forces try to keep magic out of the world? An important question (all these questions are important, now if I only had answers to some of them) is what would the world look like without the magic—or, just as interesting, what would it look like if the magic still existed. One of the things I enjoy about magic is the understanding that when it comes right down to it, there are few things that people would use magic for. For all the fun it would be to hurl a lightning bolt or set a fire with just a thought, all of those things can be accomplished just as easily with technology. That’s the crux: does our society even need magic, and if so, what for?
For this new, benevolent sweater to succeed there needs to be a person or force that is trying to kill off the magic. This force will be working against Lenny once it discovers him. It could be a group of hooded monks hunting him down, or technologists, who believe that technology, not magic, should control the word—although, I’m reluctant to have the story focus on the difference or challenge between magic and technology. This should not be about the evils of technology, but instead, about what it’s like to have magic, or what the magic would be good for.
These new turns in my story are confusing the hell out of me. I don’t understand the main themes, but I’ll let them continue to develop. The critical aspect of the story is developing characters. Everything else will fall into place (hopefully) once those characters are set loose. If there is an evil character (or actor or magical item or technological device—ugh, there will be no evil artificial intelligence; let me repeat that: my story will not have computer gone mad trying to take over the world), then I need to plan him out as meticulously as I have Lenny (which, I know, isn’t saying much).
I’ve thankfully come to the end of my word count. Perhaps staring at the ceiling tonight will help me move this along.
Word count before editing: 2,020; time: 2 hours; caffeination: tall mocha + vanilla coke; editing: lots during the writing; consternation level: high.
After purchasing my well-deserved coffee, I found my writing spot taken over by people participating in an archaic gathering known as a “meeting.” I don’t know who these people think they are, but I was sure that after I explained my noble purpose and my need of the cushy chairs that they, all three hundred of them, would disperse so that I could begin typing in my serene, familiar environment. I started in on the advantages of having another best-selling author not only on this earth, but in their very backyard. I followed that up with a description of the good I would be doing: my promise to donate not less than a quarter of a percent of my earnings to charity; my introduction to young, impressionable readers the word “drivel” and my multiple meaning explanation of “interesting” the happiness and cheer I would spread to all those around me by not being forced to wake up early on mornings. As a finale, as my honey words flung from my thickening tongue, I raised the specter of the world without a voice such as mine—a sad, tired world denied my indomitable spirit. After a roaring applause, the audience settled down as security escorted me out the door. In retrospect, I’m sure the audience would have objected more forcefully to security’s threatening shooing motions if they realized how such an interruption would hurt my writing and increase the risk of my not meeting the writing goal for the day. There are just some things that are more important than meetings. I guess they’ll have to learn that the hard way.
I’m hoping that this change in venue will result in some good. I’ve been dragging my feet the last few days writing. I have to remind myself (yet again) that these musings are just a writing exercise. Even the dreaded Marathon is nothing but a (debatably) useful exercise. I’m not going to take either seriously and I’m going to try to return to my happy-go-lucky writing style. Okay, that’s a bit of an exaggeration. My style has never been happy-go-lucky, but I have had moments of madness and depth (at least deep for a madman). The funny part about these exercises is that I enjoy them. It goes without saying that I enjoy the complaining part (I am a born complainer, or whiner, as I’ve just been told). But even the word count, the large paragraphs, the endless discussion of things I know nothing about, I’m enjoying all of it. If anything, I’d like to write more every day, not less. If my writing is at all meaningful, then it’s all for the better. If not, I can accept its inadequacies as long as I can continue my output. I can’t vouch for my reader(s), though.
I moved yet again, this time to a squishy chair in the middle of the hallway. The seats are comfortable and the people watching are unmatched. I’m going to forget about the Pink Sweater for today and just have fun with something. This is inline with Chuck’s posited theory yesterday. He said, “Has it ever occurred to you that it might actually be easier to write fiction than to keep up with this prewriting? You are currently engaging in one of my favorite pastimes: metawriting. I think it is entirely possible that your brain just wants to shift into gear and take off rather than just continuously rev its engine.” (And, yes, I will count Chuck’s words, and my defense of using his words, toward my daily word count.) To that end, I’m going to jump into some fictional writing. In keeping with the spirit of Nanowrimo, I will not write a part of my The Pink Sweater. All competitors are supposed to start November with a clean slate with nothing written on it (planning or “metawriting,” as Chuck calls it, does not count. You’re allowed to plan, outline, sketch, create characters, etc—everything but writing a single fictional word). That leaves me with 1,400 fictional words to write. Let’s see if this is easier or harder than this inane story planning.
Radio Shack has a smell. The electronics stacked against the walls give off an odor, an aged, airy fragrance that one finds clinging to unwashed bodies—particularly those that spend too much time in dark places with boxes of Doritos and dice games. Steven loved that smell. In exchange for a visit to Radio Shack, he would walk for hours through the clothing-infested stores of the mall. While he kept his chin up and complaints to the absolute minimum in keeping with his self-imposed sarcastic persona, his mother and sister would invariably surrender to his impatience. They would drop him off at Radio Shack with a bag of freshly baked, if store bought, cookies and promise to return with enough left in the pocketbook to buy him whatever gadget he absolutely needed for his continued survival, at least for that day.
The artificial ding sounded as Steven tripped the door sensor. He crossed into the store and took a deep breath, enjoying the smell of belonging. He imagined the great buffalo felt this way when they joined their herds in migrations. He was with people of his own breed; people who spoke about megahertz and bits and sprites programming and kilobytes. They shared a language unknown to those outside of the herd. It would be many years before the rest of the population would understand any of their secret speech. For now, his group was exclusive, and the outsiders hemmed and hawed and stared with vacant faces at the mere mention of such words as “computer.”
Radio Shack was hidden in the corner of the mall, tucked in tight next to the giant Macy’s. The red, backlit letters outshone the department store’s sign but drew few people from the crowds that packed through the single door into Macy’s. Steven barely noticed his mother and sister wave before they turned and disappeared into the throngs of holiday shoppers. He placed the bag of warm cookies on the counter with the cash register and nodded a subdued greeting to the salesman. He was playing it cool. He didn’t want to seem too eager and excited, but he didn’t want to seem apathetic. He had learned that a slight upward nod sent the right message.
“Hey, kid,” Todd said from behind the cash register. “I didn’t think I’d see you again so soon.” He reached for the bag across the counter and plunked an entire cookie into his mouth. Steven thought Todd’s mouth was too big for his small head. He resisted suggesting that Todd grow out his hair to disguise the disproportionateness—those just weren’t things that members of this herd spoke about.
Steven examined the phones lining the wall next to the register, testing out the receivers for weight and balance, enjoying the cold feeling of newly molded plastic in his hand. “My sister’s prom is next week and she’s buying her third dress. I’m not sure what was wrong with the first two, but I’m sure whatever it was, this new one will have the same problems.”
“That’s what these girls do. They’re consumers. They buy and buy all the crap that the magazine-infested fashion industry puts out with the feeble hope that they will be a little more like the girls they plaster on every billboard and shiny advertisement and television show. If they would just accept that they’re never going to be that cool or that good looking, then they’d probably be happier. For people like me and you, though, we don’t have to worry about these things. We’re naturals. The women crawl all over me, if you know what I mean.” Todd straightened his brown, clip-on tie, causing the top button of his shirt to pop off. He cursed, shaking the tie, and looked nervously around to see if any customers were watching. The store was empty except for an older man examining a stack of extension cords. He was oblivious to Todd and Steven, weighing in one hand a brown three-foot, two-pronged cord, against a yellow three-foot, three-pronged cord. Steven had seen people like him before in the supermarket. They would study cartons of spaghetti trying to determine which one had the most spaghetti sticks for the cheapest price. Todd slipped the tie into the drawer and grabbed another cookie.
“Is Neil working today?” Steven said. While Todd knew about everything there was to know about the electronic devices that Radio Shack sold, it was Neil who knew about the computer devices. Steven was desperate to buy the new Tandy’s Color Computer II. The last time he was in the store, Neil had showed him the specification sheet, and they had both drooled over the increased power and speed. Steven was anxious to find out if the computers had been delivered. He wasn’t sure if his mother would buy him the computer today, but he was sure that she would buy one for Hanukkah, which was only a week away. He just hoped she didn’t give him one piece of the computer each day for eight days like she did two years before when she had bought him the first Color Computer. He had tried to explain to her that he couldn’t “play” with the computer’s pieces separately, that they had to all be put together for him to do anything with it. But she would hear nothing of it. She was all about tradition, and that meant eight gifts over eight days. When she started the first two days with the empty computer boxes, he knew he was in for a very long week.
“Nah. Neil’s off today. I saw him around the mall earlier. He was finishing some holiday shopping or what not. That kid wastes too much money on gifts for his girlfriend. As I keep telling him, if he buys her too much junk he’ll spoil her for all her future boyfriends. I wouldn’t touch her with a fifteen-foot pole after Neil was through with her. Not that I would want her, mind you. She’s just not my type. I like them tall and lithe. She’s too short for my tastes. I say when you have choices like we do, why end up with a dead fish. You know what I mean.”
Steven nodded with enjoyment. He had watched the way Todd ogled Samantha when she and Neil weren’t looking. Steven had a notion that Todd would like to touch her with a pole much shorter than fifteen feet, but he kept it to himself. Neil will have a laugh about this, though. Even though Neil was five years older than Steven, Neil treated him as an equal, whether they spoke about computers, jobs, or girls.
The entry chimed and Neil and Samantha walked into the store. Samantha held a large, wrapped box with a red ribbon tied to its top. She wore a large, green coat that flared at the bottom, making it look like she was wearing a Christmas tree. “What’s this about dead fish?” Neil asked.
Todd blushed and murmured something that they couldn’t hear. He walked over to the customer in the store, who was still lifting and lowering the two cords in his hands, as if he could determine their value from their weight. “Yes, both will work with your television,” Todd said, trying unsuccessfully not to look back in Neil’s direction.
Neil took a cookie out of the bag and bit into it. Samantha gave a small, high-pitched screech and Neil looked back toward her. She held out her hand and Neil place the leftover half on her palm. She smiled and ate the cookie. With a mischievous grin she went over to where Todd spoke with the customer and stood behind the customer. She scribbled notes in a small pad. Todd unsuccessfully tried to avoid looking at her, but she stood writing furiously.
“Dead fish, huh,” Neil said, eating another cookie from the bag. “I’d kick his ass myself, but I think Samantha has something much more interesting in store for him. Now, did I mention we have some shiny new toys in the back? I haven’t even unpacked them for the display. I was waiting for a certain person with exceptional computer skills to give me a hand.”
Word count: 2,015; writing time: 1.5 hours; caffeination: tall mocha; after minor editing: 2,072.
“I have to go, leave. I’ve spent too much time with you already. I know you don’t believe me, but there are other people who want to see me.
“How could you even think that? I spent almost the entire weekend with you. I didn’t go out last night because of you. You wanted me to stay home, and I stayed home. I stayed up all night with you and fell asleep with you still rambling away. You never stop talking, do you? You can’t always do this to me. I am going out tonight and there’s nothing you can say that will change my mind.
“Oh, really? Well, those people have things, important things, that they want to do with me, and those things don’t require you. Now that I’m thinking about it, going out with them—and we’re heading to a demolition derby with no big screen, for your information—is the furthest thing from being with you as I could possibly get without doing something drastic. And I’m almost at that point.
“Yes, I’m angry. Don’t I look angry? You knew that I had to leave and then you pull this shit. Your games aren’t fair. I warned you this very morning that I was leaving tonight and then you start talking about what you planned to show me, how you planned to make me feel, only if I stayed with you tonight. I can’t stand this. I won’t let you do it. You have to understand—and I know you do understand even though you don’t talk about it—I have a life outside of you, and I’m not going to let you close me out of that life any longer. No, I won’t listen to you. Stop trying to tempt me! It won’t work. Shut up!
“Oh, so when your temptations don’t work you look at me like that. I can’t stand it when you look at me in that way. You know what way I’m talking about. You just blink off and I know you’re still there, but you don’t say anything. And your face, your face is unreadable, blank, empty. You portray no emotions and I have to—you know I can’t handle seeing you like that. Stop it already! At least talk to me before I leave.
“Of course we have things to talk about. What have we been doing all day? You don’t call this communicating? You hurt me by saying that we have nothing to talk about anymore. We spend so much time together that, of course, it will begin to sound a little repetitive. But that’s a good thing. I finish your sentences, complete your thoughts. That’s important. It’s important in any relationship for there to be a connection, and we have a great connection. And we have a relationship. We do spend quality time together.
“I remember that time almost too well. I was just as surprised as you at the outcome! It was so unexpected and tragic, but, yeah, funny too. That’s what I’m talking about. We’ve shared so much and seen so much that we’ll always have stuff to talk about. And there’s so much more that we can do together. Don’t ever think differently. I love spending time with you.
“No, that doesn’t mean that you can come with me. This is what I was talking about. We were getting on good and then you bring this up again. It’s not right that you keep trying to get involved in every aspect of my life. There has to be part of me that doesn’t belong to you. You must know that. How would you feel if whenever I was with you, I spent all my time talking to someone else? Would you like it? I need some space. You need to let me live my life without you.
“It’s not you. Of course it’s not you. The world doesn’t revolve completely around you—
“Okay, that was unfair. You are important. I think you’re very important, and so do a lot of people, especially when they get a chance to know you. Even my friends like you. They just don’t want to hang out with you there tonight. It’s a guy’s night out, and we’re not going to a type of place that you’d like. It’s not as if they’re more important than you. You know that. That’s not why I’m leaving you.
“No. I never said I was going to leave you. I just meant that I was going away for the night. I’ll be back. Do you think I could ever leave you? I wouldn’t survive an evening without you. I need you: I need your constant chatter, your chipper personality, your changing whims. It’s just that I need to get away for the night. You must understand. It’s not like we’ve never been apart.
“Those times don’t count. Do you think I count going to the bathroom without you? Yes, I can sometimes hear you, but that’s not the same. I’m not with you. And what happens when I go out? Yes, you sometimes meet me where I’m going, but not always. Can’t you remember all the times I’ve been without you for days at a time with no contact? That one time I hiked up Dreaded Peak with Johnny and the crew. You didn’t pull this kind of shits that time—we even watched the video of my trip together. What makes tonight so damn different?
“We all get lonely sometimes, but that’s no reason to bring that up. Maybe it’s time we had that talk. I didn’t want to go there, but since we’re coming clean tonight, there’s something I’ve been thinking about for a while but I haven’t found the right moment. I don’t think there will ever be a right moment, but here goes. I’ve not told you about this in the past, but sometimes—I know I shouldn’t go there, but it’s too important not to say—sometimes I feel that our time together is wasted. That, I don’t know. That perhaps when we’re together I could be doing other things, things that don’t involve you. And maybe, just maybe, I would be happier doing those things. Do you know what I mean?
“I know, I know. I don’t always have these thoughts, it’s just when I spend all my time with you, that’s when I begin to think this way. No, I’m not unhappy. It’s not a question of happiness in quotation marks, whatever that means. It’s just sometimes I begin to think that I’m missing out on opportunities. That if you weren’t there, I would be doing important work. I’d be a better person, help other people and maybe help myself, if you know what I mean.
“You’re right. No. I was being terribly unfair to you. I’m just tired and I wanted to see my friends tonight, but I shouldn’t have said those things. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean them, it’s just you pushed me, and I sometimes push back. I don’t always think before I push, but you should have known that I didn’t mean it. That I could never stay away from you for long.
“Please don’t say that. Never say that. What I said was just a reaction to the tremendous pressure you’re putting me under. It is the truth, but a different type of truth. Ah, you don’t understand. We’re very different and I’m trying to explain this to you. While you fulfill many of my needs, there are parts of me that crave things that you can’t provide.
“Let me finish, please. It’s when those parts of me start to cry out that I get this way. It’s not you. You know it’s not you. It’s me. It’s the weather. It’s everything. I just wanted to go out tonight, to be with my friends. But I shouldn’t have said everything I said. I shouldn’t have gone where I went. If in the future they invent a time machine, this would be the moment that I would go back to. I would tell myself to shut up and don’t go there. Ah. I don’t think there’s a time machine in my future.
“See. I can still make you smile. I’m so sorry. I’m tired and hungry—no, I’ll stop making excuses. I’ll just accept that what I did was my fault and I’m a horrible person who will do anything to make it up to you. Can you ever forgive me? What would it take for you to forgive me?
“Yes, I’ll call my friends right away. I’ll tell them that I can’t go out. I’m sure they’ll understand. Even if they don’t, I don’t care. We’ll stay home together, just you and me, just like always. Come here. Let me give you a hug. We will never fight again. Okay, I know that’s not true, but I’ll promise never to hold anything from you. I’ll share my feelings so they don’t boil over like this again. We’ll watch whatever you want. I could never survive, not even for a minute, without you. You know you’re my favorite. I love you, and always have loved you. You are my dearest, my sweetest, my television.”
Wow. That was rather terrible, but fun to write. It sucked up about 1,100 words before I started running out of things to talk about. I added another 400 words after editing. To make it more interesting, I’d probably have to remove 600 words to make it readable, but I’m not doing that here. It needs more meat, but I don’t know what type. Now I’m just babbling. It is what it is. Dialogue has never been my strong point, but single character stories are. It’s so much easier not having to worry about a second character.
Before she asks, no, Julie, this story has nothing to do with you. Not everything is about you! I live me own life! Please let me live it! (That’s a joke. A funny, funny joke. Yeah. Just keep repeating that to yourself. It’s a funny, funny joke.)
This writing took me a few hours to draft. This, obviously, is all filler now. I have about three-hundred more words to write to call it a 2,000-word day. I’m not sure how I’m going to do this once I can’t add these musings comments to my writing. When I first started drafting the above story, I was rather anxious that I would run out of room before finishing it and getting to the cheesy ending. Have you gone back through it and seen my Sixth Sense moments? The ideas seemed much funnier and cleverer before I wrote it. But, as I said at the beginning of this filler section, it was terribly fun to write. The grammar was a bit difficult to pull off. I figured that the readers would figure out that they’re reading only one side (the only side, as it turns out) of the conversation, since a single quotation mark at the beginning of the paragraph usually means that the dialogue continues onto the next paragraph. At least that was my intention. If you read it as if two people were talking, I doubt it’d make much sense.
Halloween is only three days away, which means that there’s only three days of training until the Marathon. Julie suggested that I blow off trying to meet the 2,000-word goal tonight. That perhaps I need a rest before I begin. (She had ulterior motives, viz., video game time.) But, nah. Even though I was tired before I returned to finish this entry after dinner, once I started typing, I started enjoying myself again. If I could find another hour or so to write every day, and perhaps another hour’s worth of interesting material to write about, then this would be even more fun.
Wow. I found a toolbar item that keeps the count on the menu bar. Regrettably, it doesn’t constantly update. You have to manually press the button to recount the total. Okay, the total paragraph should push me over the mark. Here we go:
Word count: 2,018; writing time: 2 hours; word count after editing: 2,062; editing time: 15 minutes; caffeination: tall mocha+vanilla coke; feeling: satisfied. Final eight words to make 2,000: priceless (man, that was cheesy).
I’m still recovering from my flight last night. There should be laws about redeye flights. I’m not sure what the laws would say, but I would feel better knowing that there were people thinking about it. At around 2:30am, I woke up somewhere over the Midwest and started sketching Sam (who I later renamed Henry to avoid confusion with Stan)—a character that was unluckily sitting across from me in the cabin. His snores, well, we’ll get to his snores in a moment.
Henry was the quiet one. He snored terribly when he slept, sounding like a buzz saw cutting through concrete. He had the uncanny ability to sleep anytime and anywhere. When he was awake, he rarely spoke. His laugh was infectious, however, and it took little to get him started, turning what appeared at first to be an unfunny story into a rip-roaring professionally produced and written diatribe of extreme cleverness. When Henry spoke, those around him listened carefully. He was not smart in the traditional sense, but he carefully thought through whatever it was he wanted to say and spoke only when he (i) felt he had spent enough time examining all the angles of the statement; and (ii) gave the thought a sufficient amount of time to stew and soften to make sure it was important enough to share with the group. More often than not, this created an awkward moment when the listeners tried to figure out which part of their last hour’s discussion Henry was referring.
His face was round in the front, and his large nose pulled his face outward in a smooth curve. His chin was weak, absorbed into his neck. His eyelashes long, giving his eyes a sleepy, almond appearance. The edges of his ears bent inward, causing his ears to appear that they were in the process of closing. As far as anyone knew, Henry was either gay or asexual. He never spoke about girls and nobody knew him to have dated anyone. He did not act effeminate but something in him raised questions in everyone he met.
There will probably be one other character, preferably another male, leaving Karen as the only female of the group. The four characters will walk a long way. They’ll start from one of their houses, and head in the direction of the airport, stopping along the way at cafes and bars to relax and properly hydrate and ingest the right amount of sugars from their alcoholic beverages. They were a fun-loving group whose goal was to meet up at the house of Stan’s mother. Throughout the trip, she called in to check on their progress, offering to pick them up and drive them the rest of the way. That would defeat the whole purpose, Stan would respond. What was the good of driving when there was perfectly good sidewalks to walk along.
While walking, the group will meet mop-man. He was picking through a large pile of garbage in front of a school. He saw a mop sticking out from the pile and examined it, trying to decide if it was worth taking. Stan gives the play-by-play as the man examined, tested, and decided to take it with him. He cleaned the mop in a puddle as walked home. Karen crossed the street to talk to the mop-man and find out why he took it, what he hoped to do with it, etc.
It’s been difficult to find the time to sit down and write. Yesterday was tough because of the ice pick that someone thoughtlessly hammered through my skull. When my head did finally clear up late at night, I was too tired to get up and start typing. Instead, I stayed in bed and tried to think through storylines for my wayward characters. I didn’t come up with many good ideas, but I did start to drift away from the idea of walking—it sounded too much like waiting in line to be very exciting. I went through the obvious possibilities, like the ninja assault, gratuitous explosion that kills one of them, the muggers with paint cans, but they all passed through my mind and quickly flew out the other side.
This was harder than I thought it was going to be. The next step will be to discuss these ideas with someone. I usually think better when I have a sound board to bounce ideas off. I just hope I have some ideas worth bouncing; otherwise, this is going to be a long and drawn-out process. But I won’t go there because of my new Nanowrimo-influenced positive attitude. I’m a great writer with incredible story ideas just waiting to be hatched in my thick skull—okay, my skull can’t be that thick or the ice picks wouldn’t keep piercing it and finding their way to my brain. Today, in case you’re wondering, has been better on the headache front. It’s still too early to declare it a P.H.D. (post-headache day), but all the signs point to the good (or some fortune-cookie influence statement like that).
I did decide that there needed to be an antagonist, which is a word I don’t use often enough. Thinking back to my other stories, I usually left that role for an inanimate object or a feeling—FBT: the termite rollercoaster; Grelko: the protag’s fear; TPS: evil sweater that turned out to be not so evil—or better put, I was never able to make evil enough to turn into a character. What I need, is a foil that creates conflict to push the story in some sort of direction. Of course, talking about an antag is just more meta-writing, but I thought it was important enough to put down, so there.
I’m not sure if I’m going to get much more writing done today. I’m going with Julie to meet her sisters in the city, and then we’re supposed to visit Eileen and her monsters (said affectionately, of course) for dinner with the rest of my family. If all goes as planned, I might not get home until late. That’s why I decided to use this time while Julie showers to get some words on the paper. As you can tell from yesterday (and probably today’s) entry, I am not setting a word count requirement. I do have a “suggested” word count of 2,000, but that may change based on obligations. What I won’t let happen, however, is for a day to go by without writing something. I’d prefer fictional words, but musings of a non-fictional nature might be all that I conjure up, and I’ll live with that. The important thing is to put words, no matter how short and insignificant, on the computer. I’ll bring some paper along with me just in case I feel inspiration driving an ice pick through my stomach, which sounds a lot more appetizing than through my skull.
I almost didn’t make it tonight. Although technically, this might go up after midnight, I did write a few paragraphs during the day, and I feel justified in saying this is a Thursday and not Friday musing. I cheat that way. Today was a tough day. My headache, which I will talk about later (even though it was written earlier in the day), lingered all day, and it combined with my general lack of direction and energy on the writing front to provide for a bad day. But as happens often, once night rolled around, the headache faded to a distant echoing, and I was able to drag my computer up to my bed and pound away a few paragraphs to call this a more or less useful day.
My headache returned this morning. My inkling is that not drinking coffee today or yesterday might have caused it. The test I do for this is imagining drinking a warm, tall mocha, and trying to determine if I’d want to drink it and how I would feel after drinking it—a pseudo-response, if you will. When I did that his morning, my head felt better and I realized that, yes, very much so thank you, I would like some yummy caffeine.
This isn’t absolute evidence of my withdrawal. It’s just anecdotal. I’ll have to keep drinking mochas for a while longer to build up enough evidence to present my case. I do it for science, if you must know. The sacrifices I make: they bring fat tears to my dry eyes.
I thought about editing my current story, but in the state I found myself, I didn’t think I would accomplish much. To tell you the truth, and here I usually tell the truth even though it’s hard to believe that, I’ve not been interested in that story for a few days. It was great the first couple of days, but filling in the ending details grew boring, as if I was writing something I had already written, even though, clearly, I had never wrote it. I will get back to it. I expended too much effort already in working on it to leave the story in its current state. I might take a break from it for a few days or maybe not. I won’t spend any more time meta-writing it, as I find myself doing now.
I have energy left to write more, but not much more floats around in my head. I think this is why I started telling stories in the first place: I wanted to write something but I found myself with nothing to write. I think I said that already. I think I said that a few times already.
Instead of talking about nothing, I started editing my current story even though I talked about how I didn’t have energy and it bored me. I don’t know why I do that. I think one thing, but once I delve in, I think the complete opposite. The editing, at least for the first part that I finished, went well. I’m not going to post the different sections as I edit them, mostly because you’ve already seen the writing and I don’t want to bore you with the same thing just cut down and rearranged. Once I finish the whole draft, I’ll post it. These entries might be a bit shorter until I do that, but I’ll keep writing to share my progress and hopefully to muse on some interesting topics. I think I’ve been neglecting my voyeurism lately, and I’ll hopefully rectify that this weekend.
Sorry for the short writing, but I have lots of editing to do.
Today’s another great day to do nothing. After waking up late, I piddled around the Castle before venturing out into the gray afternoon. I took another long walk to Columbia City and after eating half a pizza, I returned to editing my story. Unlike some of my other short stories where I struggled to put enough words down to tell a story, in this one I wrote a lot and it’s been challenging to distill all of it into a coherent story. There’s been a lot of cutting, cutting and pasting, and rewriting, and I’m still only on the second page. I’ve slowed down a bit once I got through the first part where I felt I did my best writing. I’m still working through the middle part, trying to put it in order and breath a little of the voice into it. I still have hopes of finishing it tomorrow, but it greatly depends on how much effort I can devote to it.
While walking to Columbia City (as evidence of my terrible shape, my shins were soar from the walking I did yesterday—who ever heard of sore shins?), a realization knocked me in the teeth. While I pay lip service to writing, when I look back at the number of hours I spend on writing, and compare it to the number of hours I spend doing nothing or complaining about doing nothing, the numbers are staggering. That wasn’t my realization. I have spoken often about how much I complain and meta-write verses how much I actually write. The realization was that “the key to overcoming distraction is suffering.” It seemed much more important and groundbreaking before I look at it in all its glory through the light on the screen, but it does hold some truth.
Right before I delved into it, bam, distraction hit me. I fought down the urge to slam the computer and walk home. Night has almost risen, and I have a long walk ahead of me, but that’s not why I wanted to leave. I wanted to leave because the writing was becoming difficult, which was the suffering I was talking about. I felt the squeezing of my brain as I tried to get at my mental juices, and the squeezing was painful—not in the headachy way, but in the OT way. If I want to sit down and write for eight hours, and I do, I really, really do, I have to get over the pain of doing it.
It’s not always painful. There are days when I can’t type fast enough to get the words down. The first day I wrote TFTS, I was exhausted from the traveling, change in schedule, and waking up early, but when I started writing my brain flew out millions of miles in front of my fingers. It was great. When I wrote the next three days, however, that feeling vanished. For whatever reason, the words were stuck, and putting anything on paper was a chore. I fought through it and ended up putting enough down to start the edit, but none of it flew freely. I’m not sure if the reasons relate to my moods, the time of day, or the location of Venus in the heavens, but I wish I could figure it out. If I did, I imagine there would be less pain and more writing.
And here I lose out. I’m closing up my computer and heading back. I’m disappointed, but I do have a long walk—and it hurts, and I’m not used to the pain. I’ll finish this when I get home (hopefully).
The walk home was more difficult than I expected. The first half way fine, but when I arrived at the store and bought groceries, I realized how tired I was. I eventually made it home, thanks to a late blooming second wind and a blueberry smoothie. I’ve lit the fire and now I’m settling down for some more writing and editing. Not surprisingly, it started raining as I walked home: a light drizzle that I barely felt. I have spent the last few hours editing, so at least it hasn’t been a completely wasted day.
Do you remember when I said I’d have my story edited and finished by today? I lied. I lied terribly. I did spend many, many hours working on it over the weekend—although, to be completely honest, which is hard to do after admitting a lie, I didn’t spend all my time writing. I wasted much of my time watching the first season of Seinfeld, an early Hanukah gift from my mother. But my story did move forward, and I’m hoping to have it completed by this week. I don’t mind missing deadlines, as long as the reason behind it is not that I was too lazy to write. I just need more time to get at the characters and find the story.
I did write down plenty of notes about what I was thinking as I was editing, so I figured I’d post them here. It’s not a terribly interesting read, especially since much of it refers to a draft that you haven’t seen, but as I keep trying to post something every day, here’s that something.
Story Planning notes (it’s not meta-writing, I swear!):
Why are we nervous for Charlie? He seems capable of handling the situation on his own the way I describe him now. What’s the twist? There’s no build up, no purpose. I have the basics of the story down, but I need to change stuff so it’s an interesting story. It’s a bunch of badly tied together vignettes.
What’s going to happen at the end? Roger, dressed in his ridiculous ninja suit, attacks Charlie using his newly started karate training. The training has to go back in somehow.
I haven’t paid enough attention to understanding the characters. The narrator, in particular, I need to find him again. I have to remember that we see everything through his eyes, and what makes that interesting is his viewpoint and his comments. That’s the focus of the story: what does the narrator find interesting and why. He’s telling someone this story because he thinks it’s funny. I have to get back to that—I lose it after the beginning. Who is the narrator? He’s a tough guy from Brooklyn. Tough in what way? How is he different from Charlie? There needs to be more about him. I wrote in today’s draft about him hiding behind the bunk bed during the confrontation with the crossbow. That doesn’t make sense. If he’s a tough guy, then he jumps in after the shot, he doesn’t run away. How old is he when he’s telling the story? I originally wrote he was 14, and the story takes place when he was 10 or so. That should work if I stick to it.
Charlie—he’s either a skinny tough guy or a wimpy guy. Either way, he has a big, effective mouth. Is he awkward? He’s skinny and not good at sports, which translates into what? I started making him courageous today, but I’m moving away from that. There’s no story, like I spoke about before, if there’s no risk to him, and if he’s courageous and doesn’t care about his physical safety, than why would Roger, no matter what he does, bother him? He wouldn’t, which is why I have to change that…again.
There are three scenes and a few unrelated vignettes: (i) crossbow; (ii) gym confrontation; and (iii) flying toe stomp. I’m also not getting the feeling that this is a dangerous neighborhood. I’m not sure if I want the story to go there, but it is a possibility.
Getting back to Charlie, is he a wimpy scaredy-cat? Based on all my other main characters, I would say yes, which for this story is the right path to take. He has to be nervous about the fight, otherwise, why would he care (and therefore why would we care). The ninja suit I’m going to save until the last scene. I don’t want Roger to wear it until he jumps out of the bushes to attack Charlie.
Too much sugar from my mocha. My mind is spinning and I’m losing my focus. I decided against the caffeine, and it hasn’t affected my writing. I did it more because the caffeine yesterday made me feel terrible when I was walking back from the bucks. I felt my heart racing and my legs tired—it was a strange dichotomy.
A couple of deep breaths and I can get back to planning. There’s lots of distracting conversations and movement going on around me, but I’m going to resist writing it down. I want to focus on the story and trying to finish it today, which I’m seeing is less and less likely, with all these proposed changes.
Why does the narrator protect Charlie? Originally, their relationship resolved around drawing comic books, but I pulled away from that. I didn’t think it was an interesting subject—particularly because I knew little about it. They might just be friends, like school boys are friends, just because they sat next to each other in a class. They were friends when they were younger, but have grown apart since. What’s up with the gangster discussion? I have no idea where that came from, but it makes Charlie into a more dangerous character.
The narrator moved away from Brooklyn and is now living in Long Island, or some other suburb, and he wants to reconnect to his neighborhood. He’s the type when people ask him where he’s from, he’ll always say Brooklyn, even though he moved away when he was ten. That should come out.
After editing the first two pages with the above in mind, I came to the first major scene: the crossbow. I need to figure out what happens between Roger, Charlie, and the narrator. As written now, the narrator hides while Roger and Charlie play. I did that mostly just to get the narrator out of the way so Roger could shoot Charlie, without pissing off the narrator. But it makes the narrator seem scared, when I wanted Charlie to be nervous. I could have Roger just pulling out and showing the weapons to Charlie and the narrator—not playing ninja, as it’s now written, but just demonstrating them. Roger wouldn’t let them touch his weapons because he’s selfish (see his relationship with his parents). He pulls out the crossbow, loads it, and aims it in their general direction. This is where I can reveal some more aspects of Roger and Charlie’s characters. The action won’t be extreme (there won’t be lots of kicking and punching and stealing of sais like now), but it does make the narrator appear stronger.
What happens after Roger shoots Charlie with the crossbow? Do they run out of the house? Why don’t they punch and kick and beat up Roger? That’s probably what they would do. They beat the shit out of Roger. And they leave it at that until Roger begins badmouthing Charlie. Why doesn’t he badmouth the narrator? And why is Charlie scared if he just beat up Roger—wouldn’t he just beat him up again? So many fucking holes! Would the narrator feel bad about beating up Roger? At the end, they’d probably run out of the house avoiding Roger’s parents, as it ends now. If they do beat up Roger, then he has the impetus for taking karate lessons—besides his obvious love of the ninja. The problem with that is then the final fight would be between Roger, and Charlie and the narrator, not just Charlie. What happens if the narrator isn’t in the house with Roger and Charlie when the crossbow incident takes place? I’d have to introduce Eddie back into the story, and have him tell the story. So? No. I like the other details that would only come out if the narrator were present. Maybe the narrator steps out of the room—e.g., going to the bathroom—when the shot takes place. That way, the narrator bumps into Charlie as Charlie runs out of the house. Does Charlie beat up Roger? Either way.
I drove home, hoping that the drive would allow me to give it some more thought. Except for flying through a stop sign when I was deep in thought (luckily there was no one around me—and I’ve never, ever done that before), I didn’t come up with much. I decided on the easy route: just have Charlie get shot and then leave. Let me get back to that now.
I woke up expecting a post-headache day. I should not have been surprised that I didn’t meet my expectation. I went to bed last night with someone pounding on my head yelling, “let me in, I know it’s three in the morning, but just open up,” and even when I did open the door, there was nobody there, probably some kids that rang my bell and ran away, only to return and do it again to see how long I would fall for the same trick. I thought that once I fell asleep, I would awake to a perfect day where the birds’ early morning chirping (there don’t seem to be any birds in Seattle for the record) and the sun, peeking behind the trees and snowy mountains, would wake me up with a slow request, more like the slight tap on the shoulder that you ignore until you decide that, yes, it’s time for me to wake up, but I’m waking up because I want to, not because you’ve been tapping me incessantly on the shoulder. It was more a gentle reminder than an incessant tapping. Do you know about what I’m talking? (Isn’t Word’s grammar checker wonderful? I would have written that last sentence as “Do you know what I’m talking about” if not for the squiggly green line. Now not only is it grammatically correct, it’s also pretentious.) But it was not to be. I was doomed to wake up with my head pounding and my daily prospects looking bleak.
That was before, and this is now. While my head is not painless, it is better when I don’t move it too much. I’m trying to keep it completely still for this moment. Ouch. I moved my head, the pain returned, and with it a need for distraction. I’m easily distracted without caffeine. That’s why I like caffeine. It provides a level of concentration that I don’t normally obtain. With it, I can spend hours typing away without distractions rearing their deformed heads. It’s been too long since I wrote anything remotely story-ish. I’m going to do that today. I just need to keep my head straight for the next hour.
I’m back. I thought I would be finished with writing my story by now, but distractions won out when I closed up earlier. I’m now sitting with my laptop in no-children position, eating peanut M&Ms and contemplating if I have anything of value to write. I have four M&Ms left, two blue, one green, and an orange or red—it’s hard to see in the low light. In the time it took me to come up with something else to write (which I still haven’t), I finished them. There’s no joy in Mudville—I ate the last M&M.
Inspiration continues to elude me. I’m lying down, trying to come up with something, anything, to say, but all I have in me is consternations and clock glances, neither of which will increase my word count or put forth anything worth reading let alone writing. But I’m typing, and that’s all that counts. After reading the Casey poem, my thinking has dropped into the cadence of the poem. It’s sometimes hard to break out of a poetic rhythm once you fall into it. I have the same problem with short sentences. If I start writing short sentences, when I edit them, I find myself slipping into a singsong rhythm. That should give me reason not to write short sentences, but I find myself strangely attracted to them. I have to make a conscious effort to breakup my prose into longer and shorter sentences. Part of it depends on what I’m writing. I remember stories where I tried to be verbose, sometimes insanely so—particularly when I was attempting to feebly imitate DFW. There are other times, the lady from Two and Eleven for example, where I purposefully filled the prose with short, stark sentences, to see how it would read.
Speaking of bad stories, I’m thinking of pulling up some of my older stories and seeing if I can work them into something readable. I’m sure even following my three-month editing rule, I can find a couple of entries of prose that have been languishing, unloved, for longer than three months. I’m thinking out loud, or its written equivalent—I wonder what that would be, perhaps in writing, which I’m not sure if there is a not in writing, writing, but now I’m just babbling incoherently—here. This might be a trick by my unconscious brain to force me to find a distraction. It does that. I might be sitting down to seriously write (as opposed to what I’m doing now), and my brain will, unknown to me, throw distractions that sound useful my way. For example, when I wrote the Mudville sentence, I, of course, went to the internet to find the name of the city in the poem, which, in its own way, led to me reading the history of the poem, and other useless sites with no bearing on what I originally went to the internet to find. Would that paragraph have been as good without that reference? Clearly. Particular since I thought the wording fit better than it ended up fitting, i.e., I thought the words might flow better in the context of the poem, but they didn’t. And now, my trickster brain wants me to look through old musings for relics of writing. I see through its childish attempts to distract me.
As another example, after heavy rains last week, my porch was leaking a bit into my kitchen. I first felt it while I sat where I’m sitting now, on my couch in my living room. The water, a slight drip making its way through a wooden beam, would hit the wall overlooking my living room, bounce off the wooden banister, and drip onto my living room floor. Some of the misting drops would make it to me sitting on my couch. (I know that doesn’t make sense, don’t bother trying to picture it. I somehow cannot convey images well. Julie told me that my attempt to describe Charlie’s drawing of Roger’s nose in my Flying Toe Stomp story was pitiful.) Suffice to say, after feeling the drips last week, I tracked down their source, found the leak in the wooden beam, and freaked out. After consulting my housing guru, also my brother-in-law, Julie and I caulked the porch this past weekend. Okay, she caulked and I supervised. She was unimpressed by my caulking ability and took the gun away from me early on in the process. The point of this digression is, I’m sitting here writing tonight, and I’m feeling drops falling from above me. Unlike this weekend, it’s been raining all day here, a product I’m convinced of Julie no longer visiting. If she came more often, I wouldn’t have to worry about the rain. As I was saying, I’m sitting here, typing away, and I keep feeling microscopic drops of water hitting my exposed skin. I’ve raced up three times looking for wetness on the wood, but each time I found nothing. It’s my brain distracting me from my attempts to write. Either that or I am going crazy. That’s a distinct possibility as well.
I’m going to give my brain the benefit of the doubt and try to find something worth editing for tomorrow. I might try to do some of it today, but I don’t think I’ll finish it. There’s another drop! I’ll be right back. It is official: I’m going insane. Dry as a, I was going to say the standard ‘bone,’ but seeing as I’m trying to be a better writer, I try to avoid clichés. And, besides, why are bones dry? Most of the bones I eat (and I presume are inside of me) are quite moist, or, at the very least, surrounded by moist tissue. I’m going to go with, dry as a Seattle summer. There has to be something for me to look forward to, right? Now, I’m off to search through sewcrates.com. I’ll let you know if I find anything interesting.
I’m not going to get to it today (because I’m a lazy, lazy man, as I’m sure you figured out eons ago), but I’m going to give a run at the two vignettes I wrote back in June, well past my three month limit. They’re not particularly meaningful, but I enjoyed writing them. At the time, I was high on caffeine and sitting on a train or plane going somewhere. I forget exactly where or what, but I’m sure it involved Julie in someway. I’m not saying I’ll get to it tomorrow, but when I find myself staring at the blank screen with inspiration a million kilometers away, I’ll remember that I posted the link in this musing, and try to turn those vignettes into more interesting ones.
That’s all from this side of the moon.
Depression strikes at strange times. I’m sitting here—I’ve noticed I do a lot of sitting since I moved to Seattle. I sit in my car for too many hours, at home, at the office, on the bed. Ninety percent of what I do involves sitting, and that sucks—thinking about how horrible I feel, how nobody in the world can feel as bad as I do, especially since the world doesn’t exist outside of my depressed self. I have little explanation for my state. Rarely do emotional states have explanations. It could have been something as simple as reading an e-mail this morning, or the drive, a bad breakfast, anything can set it off, and when it does, like now, it’s downhill from here. Nothing to see, please get your butt out of the aisle, and move along.
Distractions are difficult to find at work, particularly after I’ve surfed as much surf as there is out there to surf. I have rung and dripped dry the internet, and found nothing of value. Isn’t that how the world works? Nothing new, the same words repeated endlessly, mindlessly. These are happy thoughts for you. My day is rather empty. I planned to get a haircut, but the thoughts involved in making that plan a reality is too much for me to think about. Instead, I’ll sit here and wear out my tired fingers saying nothing in so many words.
For the record, since this is what this is, I felt much better at the end of the day. I had a long, interesting discussion on office politics with a colleague, and that lightened my mood. The caffeine helped, and by the time I left the office at around 7pm, with my disposition much improved, I felt better and less depressed. The following story and notes was pieced together throughout the day as my mood varied, and finished off after dinner, where I am now, sitting on my couch, in the childless position, typing away.
Notes: The story goes nowhere and gets nowhere. It’s a vignette about a writer, a passenger, and a pen. Here’s the original.
Traveling Pen
The writer glowers at the pen knowing it betrayed him. He attempts to finish the thought by pressing hard enough to make a ballpoint indentation on the paper, but no good. It couldn’t have failed at a worse time. “Inspiration oozed like black gold from my cramping hand as I busily scratched words in golden glitter across the small lines of my journal until this,” the writer writes aloud. His hand shakes uncontrollably as he holds the pen, desperate to write down his thoughts, which to his mind’s ear are clever and original and, a word he uses often but this time believes, publishable. The words escape and he never finds them. Don’t tell him, but the world doesn’t miss his words.
The writer picks up the pen, admiring its smooth texture and its black, clickable top with two holes on one side through which the white part peeks. Brown lettering marks the name of the drug, “Premarin Vaginal Cream in a nonliquifying base” in the medical speak that appeals to the Latin or medical student (but, surprisingly, not the spelling national champion since medical words, particularly the names of chemicals and drugs, are not tested in the competition even though medical conditions, which are found in most dictionaries, are). Next to the name in parenthetical, on the off chance that you might confuse the scientific jargon for informative words, is printed “(conjugated estrogens),” the two words in most people’s vocabulary but their meanings when placed together as foreign as a Japanese train station to a Westerner. The writer glances over the dosage, "0.625 mg/g," subscripted in black ink next to the parenthetical, never caring enough about mathematics or chemistry to understand its significance. He clicks the pen one last time and leaves it in the train’s seat pocket, believing, perhaps rightly or wrongly, that the pen deserves this transgression for the disservice it had done to him.
The writer imagines the passenger who finds the pen in the pocket. The passenger—the writer assumes it wasn’t found first by the train’s custodian, a younger man, he imagines, who collects the knickknacks he finds emptying out the train’s pockets and crannies, and displays them prominently in his apartment, like trophies from a safari hunt—finds the pen, and because he wants to start an intense NY Times crossword puzzle—and the passenger describes it as intense to himself, thinking of the Sunday edition, not the easy weekday one—and thinks what a lucky day because even though he bought the paper and planned, after finishing the politics, circuits, and local section, in that order—and he disregards the fact that the circuits section is a Thursday section and the Sunday crossword is a Sunday section since he sometimes gets confused by the days of the week, and, more frequently, the sections that correlate to the days of the week—he forgets to bring a pen.
The passenger gives an excited growl as he uses the pen’s point to skim the clues for an easy one. After finding the clue, “former NYC airplane building,” he excitedly counts the spaces in eight down and sees immediately that the answer has five, which matches the number of letters of the answer running, somewhat repetitively, through his head. The passenger tries to write a P in eight down and realizes much to his great chagrin that the ink does not run through the ballpoint. He manhandles the pen, and tries again, sure that the combination of clicking, shaking, and squeezing like trying to get juice from an orange or water from a rock in the biblical sense, will start the flow. The writer shakes his head at the thought, knowing, even without trying, that this wouldn’t happen, and it doesn’t.
The passenger scribbles circles at the top of the paper, pushing harder with an occasionally shake, until he rips the newspapers, now satisfied that the pen is dry and his thoughts of finishing the Sunday crossword thwarted, even though he accepts, down in the dank hemispheres of his psyche, which his ego buries after waking most mornings, that there are things stopping him from completing the puzzle that are more powerful than pens that don’t write. The passenger abandons the pen and puzzle to better people.
The writer sees this in his mind’s eye, scrutinizing the effects it has on the passenger and the pen, and leaves it for the passenger, knowing that if nothing else, the passenger’s story of the pen will be something he may share with others to brighten their days. The train lands and stops in the writer’s town, and he makes a mental note: need new pen for ideas, the brilliant type, which he forgets, the note, almost immediately as he wrestles with his luggage and notebooks.
***
Even after the editing, I don’t think I’ve changed much or made it into a story, but at least I can say I tried. And trying is half the battle (G.I. Joe), or is it, do or do not, there is no try (Yoda). Who knows, and, more importantly (I don’t know why I keep putting this asides, like “more importantly,” or “at least,” I don’t think they add much value, and they break the flow. Grammatically they seem correct, but stylistically there must be something wrong with the), who cares?
Throw me any comments about the vignette. I know it’s not much, but I want to polish it before I put it up in the stories section.
Update: I finished centering and describing all our photos from Taiwan. Take a looksy.
Okay. It’s not much of a story, but I did try. The original idea was good, but where it went…I’m not sure I like where it went, but wherever it ended up (and I’m not even sure it ended anywhere near where it began), it’s a long and painful journey, sort of like a warped sewcrates.com entry (not that any of it is real in the sense that these are my thoughts—well some of them are, but they’re mostly bent or misshapen versions of my thoughts, which when I think about it, is what most of my fiction is). Without further ado or throat clearing or excuses, here it is.
wringinghair.com
***
A quick note as I started writing the story: Please, don’t start another story, paragraph, or sentence with a character sitting or staring. Please!
The original idea, which struck me last night, was to write a story about a writer (and then blogger when I gave it a bit more though) who stopped talking to people because he didn’t want to waste his clever ideas or thoughts; he wanted to save them all for his blog. Everything else in it is filler (DFW-influenced filler, to be more particular). But as I hinted at yesterday, I’m going to get back into writing vignettes or story pieces every day. What I’ve discovered is I don’t do well writing about writing. The only way I can tell a story is to write the story, and then rewrite it until I’m happy. To discuss it in writing (or meta-write, as Chuck penned) is pointless. Hearing the critiques of others is useful for the rewrite, but writing about writing or even detailed outlining is pointless. I’m still up in the air about character sketches, since they did help my FBT story, but we’ll see. What I want to do is move more of my entries into the Story category and less in the Writing category. You can think of the Writing category as the Meta-Writing category, and the Story category as the Real writing category, just for future reference.
When I read my old vignettes yesterday, I also discovered that the more I wrote stories, the better the stories became. The first few stories were decent, but it wasn’t until the end, the Chairs and The Clockman that I found my stride. I expect the same to happen this week, as I write try to find an interesting voice and a few nuggets that make up interesting stories. The real trick, I think, will be when I tackle stories that require more than one sitting to write. I seem to start strong, get lost the in the middle, and then finish strong. If I can find that comfortable middle then…this is all filler or meta-writing. It’s hard to stop once I get going on it.
What I said about DFW’s Oblivion yesterday, I take it back. I take it all back. He is a genius, a misunderstood genius, but a genius nonetheless. Some of his early stories in the collection were hard to get into (I found myself thumbing through the pages trying to figure out how many pages were left in the story—one critic said his first 60-page story read like a 100-page story, and I couldn’t agree more), but once I understood where he was going or what he was trying to say, they were great, some better than others, but all great writing and great stories, even if some of them didn’t finish by tying up all the loose ends. The DFW story I finished reading last night that produced this epiphany was written by a man who committed suicide—DFW embraced the dilemma of writing a first-person story by a dead person after his death—and what he does at the ending is meta-fiction at its best (which is much better and more interesting than meta-writing, which I do way too much of). So, to recap, DFW is still a god, not the god, but definitely a god, perhaps one of the lesser ones (yes, I quote that line from the movie “Groundhog’s Day” way often; I know). The Oblivion reviews say that his last story is the best one, so I’ll let you know how it is after I finish it.
I was optimistic about doing more writing today. I even left work early because, well, it’s the week between New Years and Christmas and nobody is there. I drove home, bought groceries, and was even humming as I pulled through my driveway (I’m exaggerating about the humming, I almost never hum—I’m exaggerating about the almost never part of humming, I do sometimes hum, but I don’t like to admit it). Then I took the turn behind my house too wide and my car is now stuck in three inches of soft soil and gravel, spinning its wheels foolishly—or at least it was as I dug myself deeper and deeper into the aforementioned soil and gravel. I’m now sitting on my couch so I assume my wheels are no longer spinning and digging the car deeper into the ground, if that, at this point, is possible. After calling my technical experts (thanks Eran!), I poured myself a glass of wine, only to find out that the wine bottle I opened a week ago was now vinegary. This has not turned out to be my night. I had thoughts of a roaring fire and a vegetable-laden dinner followed by hours of pounding on the keyboard. Now, I’ll be lucky if I can pound a few minutes before succumbing to my evil mood. Maybe I’ll use that to finish the story: evil mood. Now I’m humming. (Edit: I obviously found a little, okay, a lot, more energy to write after finishing this paragraph.)
Oh, if you can’t tell, I drank my first mocha in over a week, which is where all this is coming from. Tea is good and everything, but when it comes to real caffeination powers, there’s nothing like the bucks of stars. If only I could bottle that energy—oh, wait.
This is a musing about why I’m not writing a musing today. Or that was the original intention. I jotted down words before heading home from work, but none of the words satisfied me. Okay, I’m putting it too lightly: all of the sentences, thoughts, and paragraphs I wrote were drivel, consternation followed by wasteful consternation, excretion thrown against the wall because I didn’t know what else to do with the shit I squeezed from my cheeks. I feared that I wasted all my clever thoughts and yummy caffeine on my colleagues at work. (My wringinghair.com story was supposed to be about this exact topic. While I think it went in that direction, by the time I got to the gritty part, ready to hammer home the thesis, I was out of energy, and all I had left was a final spurt of writing sufficient to tape on an ending. Like most of my stories, I based wringhair.com on an idea that is dear to me: if I waste my clever thoughts, will I have anything left to write about.) By the time I arrived home, I chose deliberately to play hooky from writing today.
October 18, 2004 was the last day I didn’t write something. Sure, since that time, there have been days where I’ve written a few short sentences in a few short paragraphs, and to be fair there have been other days (actually a month known as the Marathon) where I’ve written thousands of words each day. (I somehow resisted the urge to run upstairs and write a script to calculate daily average word count—my brain is focused singularly on coding the new site and its features. And before you ask, yes, I enjoy torturing you with hints about the redesign, knowing you won’t have a peek at it for another week. I’m that evil.)
The thing about streaks is that the longer they go on, the more pressure there is to keep them going. When the day comes around where I’m not able to write or don’t want to write, it’s going to be difficult to not write because of this streak. That’s why I thought today would be the perfect day not to write. I already wrote about a page worth of words, and even though I wasn’t going to post them, I would have the knowledge that I did write something, but I made the deliberate choice to break the streak. In that way, the bubble would pop and I would stop worrying about the streak, and instead I would focus my worries—I mean energies, energies!—on writing something of value, such as finishing my stories.
What I didn’t take into account as I left worked dejected was that, as is usually the case when I get home, I’m going to want to write. When you’re at a low point, and I was at a low point with the writing, you don’t think you’ll get better. You can’t imagine wanting to write again. That’s what lows do to you. They sap the desire and confidence that keeps you pounding away searching for something. They tell you, listen bud, you don’t have it, give up for the day. Lay down the pen and forget about it. There are plenty of distractions that are more fun that this writing thing. Why don’t you do some of them and leave the writing alone for the night. It won’t miss you. What you can’t see, as you listen to these internal words, is that it’s Carl talking. You remember Carl, the demon who has the power to manipulate emotional states, to make you feel awful and useless about your writing, and weaken your resolve to continue. You think that it’s your choice; that the voice is your consciousness. But it’s not.
After convincing myself that giving up the streak was the wisest action, I ate a light dinner. During dinner, I noticed something. My fingers itched and I wanted to write. Let me say that again, I needed to write. Thoughts blazed through my mind that I had to capture. I opened the computer and typed the first sentence, thinking I would post something to let people know that I was okay and that this not writing for today was a deliberate decision. That got me thinking. And as I swallowed my dinner without chewing, I knew that a few short sentences about why I wasn’t going to write today were not going to be sufficient. I needed to write. Here I was, about to give up on writing for the day, when it hit me as a rock thrown from the ground floor of a three-story building: writing about how I almost missed writing today would make a great topic. This writing is addicting.
I don’t think I could sleep without at least pouring out a little of what is in my brain. I’ve read about writers who need to write every day. They don’t write because of obligation; they write because they have to write. When I heard that, I scoffed at the idea. I thought, sure, I like writing and I want to write, but there are many days where I don’t feel like writing, and on those days, it’s going to be impossible for me to write anything. I went further and imagined the relief of not writing on those days, like the relief of not finishing my homework, knowing that while I might break rules and risk a bad grade, there are things more important than rules and grades.
I’m not sure if I’ve arrived at what those writers feel (mainly because I’m not a writer in the sense that they’re writers), but this evening, I felt an inkling of what I imagine they feel. I like referring to Stephen King telling interviewers that he wrote every day of the year except Halloween and Groundhog’s Day (I tell it with different holidays every time because I can’t remember which ones he used). He lied. He couldn’t not write on holidays just as he couldn’t not breathe on holidays.
Writing for me is becoming like that. It’s becoming a necessary habit. There’s a dialogue in the Talmud (how about that, I’m referencing the Talmud. You see, Hebrew school was good for something) about habit, particularly as it relates to prayer. The dialogue teaches that to find enjoyment in prayer, especially waking up early and praying, you must do it every day for at least three months. Even if you’re not a morning person, you cannot skip a day during those three months. What the Talmud promises is that at the end of three months, you will understand prayer, enjoy it, and ask yourself how you ever survived without it. It’s the same thing with writing. I’m almost at the end of my third straight month of writing every day, and while I can’t explain what it does for me, I know I can’t give it up or skip a day. Now, if only I can apply this three-month rule to something useful, like going to the gym or eating vegetables.
What I decided to finish with is the mostly unedited scribble that started me on this path today. Now do you see what I was talking about?
***
I didn’t use my caffeine well today. I can write reams (a word that doesn’t get enough use anymore) on the effective use of caffeine to further my creativity and writing. .
I thought about continuing The Next Great Idea, but I’m lazy, and I already wasted my caffeine burst. I’m going to have to concentrate to find something that will keep me moving forward in this writing thing.
Way too late for the caffeine to properly influence me. It’s now drowning through my veins, finding nothing of value.
Where to go with this? What am I after? Writing every day is complicated and I tend to say nothing fast. Here’s an idea: why don’t I talk about something that’s not internal. The only thing I talk about on this site relates to me, me, me. But isn’t that why I write this? If I wrote about other people, then I figure those other people should have sites where they talk about themselves, so why would I bother? This is very confusing. I’m going to stick to talking about myself.
Johnny, why did you come home so late? Why is my brain not working? Why is there nothing there? I don’t get it. I don’t get any of it. I’m confused and I’m worried about confusing other people. I have nothing to say and nothing worth saying. All this complaining and none of it writing. Why don’t I write something? Why don’t I say something? The consternations! The pain!
I can’t think of what to write today. I’m empty, drained, nothing here, please move on, nothing to see here. Ignore the bloody body, it’s meaningless. There’s nothing for you to worry about, everything is under control.
Green circles and brown arms. Polls and poles and Poles, is there a difference? What is their difference?
brackled backeries bownding bak baheyend breyeann
Nothing worth saying and nothing said.
I need a break. I need something to use to cool down and come to terms with nothing going on. Why don’t I find it? You’re a pig-headed fool, do you know that? Have I told you about it? If not, then I recommend it.
Where is the voice? Where is anything that’s worth saying? Why do I say nothing and say nothing poorly? The pain. The terrible, terrible pain!
Here are the last two “paintings” I did while flying from the OC to Seattle yesterday. Yes, the flight was very boring, and, yes, I had nothing better to do with the little rock hammers there were playing a cacophony in my head. Enjoy.
and...
I know I’ve resisted meta-writing for a few weeks, but that’s going to end. While trying to find sleep last night, I daydreamed ideas for the Sandra story. What I wrote yesterday, at least the parts that were part of the “story,” I will chuck and start anew. I’m not sure what length the story will become—of course, discussing any length will jinx it as a never-to-be-done story. Here’s where you would have read about all the brilliant notions I came up with last night, but I’m now drawing a blank. All those thoughts are vanished. Do you see what I get for not recording my thoughts immediately?
Here I am, again with little to say and no writings related to a story on the horizon. I’ve grown bored of boring you with my daily happenings. I did not start this site to record my daily life because, to be completely honest (a) my life is not terribly exciting, and (b) even it was interesting and entertaining, the discussion of my daily life will not further my goal of publishing, which is why I started doing this in the first place. Sure, there are days, such as my Taiwan trip, where my normal life takes a short break and exciting things happen that are worth recording and that might be interesting to use as fodder for future stories (like Loud Neighbors). But reviewing my daily life and frantically searching for something to write about so I can feel “successful” about writing for the day is getting old. This has become more about the search to say something than the search to say something valuable. Of course, this paragraph, in and of itself, is worse than reporting on my daily life. I’m not saying I’m going to give up on diary entries, instead, I’m saying I’m going to try not to pretend that diary entries replace real writing.
Do I have a solution? When I bitched and complained to Julie yesterday, she told me to write another story. It sounded so easy when she said it that I laughed. Sure, all I have to do is write another story. She even recommended a genre: we watched two or three sci-fi movies, so why not write a sci-fi story. It’s as easy as that, she said. The reason I laughed is that it’s not as easy as that. It’s fucking hard. That’s just the excuse, though. That’s the Carl answer. I started on the Sandra story yesterday because I wanted to write something and a story about exploding seemed like a good idea at the time. When I thought about it last night, I started evolving it into something more interesting. While I forgot some of the details that I dreamed up last night, the basic ideas remain the same. I need to expand those ideas and find a plot line, characters, and then write the story. I’m obviously not a writer who writes from nothing. I need planning and outlining. (But, at the same time, I’m not a writer who does well with outlining. What type of writer am I? Not a writer at all, obviously, but that won’t stop me from pretending.) That’s what I’m going to do: pretend to be a real writer and see what if anything I can come up with for this story.
I’m finished talking about writing about writing. Instead, I’ll talk about writing, continuing in the vein of the brief notes I wrote yesterday. I’ll try not to set myself up for failure as I did in the Pink Sweater. I ended up dwelling too much on nothing (powers of the sweater) and no time planning the plot (sweater taking control, lives wasted, etc.).
The beginning: Sandra—don’t choose this story as your first female protag. Samson is the prophet. He pushes aside traditional religion. He has powers, and people respect powers. Advanced technology looks like magic. He’s an everyday person before he realizes what he has. What does he have? Does he have advanced technology? Should I tie this in with the aliens and no-death idea? What is the religion? Why would people want to follow him? Charisma is the first part. He’s a talker, and people want to be near him. Should he be a late bloomer—the fat kid who makes good and finds his inner strength? Maybe. What is it in the world that he wants to change? He doesn’t want to change anything. He’s selfish and wants power? Why are we going to like him? He starts off because he wants powers but finds out that it’s not just powers he’s after. He begins to believe the message.
Now take those notes and write something with them. That’s the difference with what I was doing before. Before, I wrote notes for the sake of writing notes. Now, I’m going to write notes to write a section or a thought or a paragraph, something to get me off the chair and say, look what I did, as I swing my hands wildly. (Or that was the plan. Don’t you love cheering me on only to see me fail miserably?)
Rain drenched Herbert as he buckled Lee and Tom into the backseat of the station wagon. They were finishing a fight they started in the house and held their fists in front of their faces as Herbert had taught them.
“Put those away,” Herbert said. “Fists are only to be used as a last resort. Haven’t we—what did I just say Tom? Put that away, and don’t think I don’t see you, Lee. We talked about this before. Now, what happened?”
“He started it,” Lee said and balled his hand into a fist. Herbert grabbed Lee’s fist and Lee yelped. Lee pulled his hand free and stuck his tongue out at Tom. “He started it!”
“Did not. Lee did. Dad, look, he has a fist again!”
“Stop it,” Herbert said as his voice rose and cracked. Herbert grabbed Tom’s hand and snapped the seatbelt into the clasp. “If we don’t get going, I’m going to be late. I don’t want to hear a peep out of either of you until we get home.” Herbert held out his pointer finger first toward Tom and then Lee. When they each looked away, Herbert closed the back door and entered through the driver’s door. Herbert started the car and pulled out of the driveway into the cul de sac.
“He’s doing it again,” Tom said.
“I’m not touching him,” Lee said.
“Look, dad. His fist is like an inch off my nose. Tell him to stop,” Tom said.
“It’s not a fist. It’s a talking hand. ‘Lee’s not touching Tom,’” Lee said without moving his lips, his thumb and fingers opening and closing. “‘It’s just me, Mr. Fingers, and I can be anywhere I want.’”
“Dad, make him stop,” Tom said.
Herbert turned on the radio. K-Rock was in the middle of a Metallica afternoon, and Herbert turned up the volume. The bass shook the car and the talking in the backseat stopped. Herbert drove out of the gated community and waved at the guard. He pulled onto Leaf Avenue, which led to South Apple Road. When he stopped for the stop sign at the corner of South Apple Road and Westheimer Avenue, he glanced over his shoulder. Tom was playing on his Gameboy, and Lee was picking his nose. He must have found a big one, because most of Lee’s finger was gone. Herbert turned onto Westheimer Avenue.
“Ew. Lee’s picking his nose again,” Tom said.
“Am not,” Lee said.
“Are too,” Tom said.
“That’s enough of that,” Herbert said. He turned off the radio. “No more picking your nose, Lee, and no more tattling, Tom. We’re almost at the bank, and when we get there, I’m not to hear a peep out of either of you.” Herbert stopped at the red light and twisted around until he saw the boys. Tom played with his Gameboy and Lee kicked the passenger’s seat in front of him. “That’s better. Remember: practice now, because when we get there, not a peep.”
Herbert made a U-turn at the corner of Westheimer Avenue and Gessner and pulled into the bank’s strip mall. He parked the car two spots away from the door and turned off the car. Lee and Tom unbuckled their seatbelts and scrambled out of the car’s doors. “Hold your brother’s hand,” Herbert said. Herbert walked into the bank.
Only a few people were in the bank, and Herbert walked over the center information desk. A stubby man sat at the desk scribbling numbers on a ledger. He finished the numbers, ran his pen down the columns of numbers, and looked up at Herbert. “May I help you,” the stubby man asked.
“I’m here to see Mr. Calvin, the loan officer,” Herbert said. “I have an appointment. My name is Herbert Turny. That’s T-U-R-N-Y.”
The stubby man looked Herbert up and down. “Please wait here,” the stubby man said.
Herbert smiled dumbly and nodded. He glanced back and saw Tom and Lee, still holding hands, in a squeezing contest. Lee’s face was red and he bent backwards under the pressure. Tom leaned over Lee, a triumphant smile on his face. “Stop it,” Herbert whispered. “What did I say about the bank? Tom, let go of Lee’s hand right now.” They released the shake. “Go sit over there in the waiting room. If I have to come out for any reason, you’re both going to get it when we get home.”
Tom and Lee skipped over to the leather chairs near the entrance. They sat down and grabbed each other’s hands, resuming their battle. Herbert looked away. The stubby man returned to the information desk and sat down. He picked up the ledger and wrote down more numbers. After he added two more columns, Herbert cleared his throat. When the stubby man didn’t respond, Herbert cleared his throat louder. “Um, excuse me, sir. Will Mr. Calvin see me now?” Herbert asked.
The stubby man marked a carry on the column and pushed his pen into the carry mark before looking up. He looked Herbert up and down. “Mr. Calvin is busy,” the stubby man said.
Herbert nodded, but the stubby man had already returned to his ledger. Herbert’s hand rested on the information desk and he waited. He heard laughing from the chairs but didn’t turn around. Herbert’s fingers patted the desk in a wave, starting with his pinky through his forefinger, and then back to his pinky. After a few times, the stubby man looked up.
“He might be a while,” the stubby man said.
“But I had an appointment at two, and it’s now,” Herbert lifted his watch and pointed to it, “it’s now two fifteen.”
The stubby man nodded and returned to his ledger.
Herbert’s nostrils flared and he leaned toward the stubby man. When the stubby man didn’t look up, Herbert walked over to the leather chairs. Tom and Lee’s fingers curled together, their thumbs jousting and reaching.
“What are you doing?” Herbert demanded.
“Thumb wrestling,” Lee said. Tom took advantage of the distraction and pinned the nail of Lee’s thumb against his knuckle. Lee managed to slips his thumb out from under Tom’s thumb.
“What did I tell you about sitting here quietly,” Herbert asked. “I’m waiting for an important appointment with the loan officer, and all you guys are doing is creating trouble.”
Lee lifted his arm to create an angle at Tom’s thumb and struck. Tom pulled his thumb out to the side and avoided the pin.
Herbert grabbed their hands and pulled them apart. “Are you even listening to me,” Herbert asked. “I’m talking to you.”
“We’re listening, dad,” Lee said. “We were in the middle of the third game of a best of three and I was about to win.”
“Were not,” Tom said. “I had you right where I wanted you.”
“Not in a million years,” Lee said.
“What did I just say,” Herbert asked. “Now we’re going to sit here quietly and wait for the loan officer.” Herbert grabbed Lee’s right hand and Tom’s left hand. He sat in the chair and when either tried to make a sound, he squeezed their hands.
A thin lady walked over to the stubby man and said something to him. From the leather char, Herbert was unable to hear the conversation. The stubby man pointed over to Herbert and the thin lady nodded. Herbert waved, but neither the stubby man nor the thin lady responded. She walked away and the stubby man returned to his ledger.
Ten minutes later, the stubby man walked toward Herbert. Herbert started to rise, but the stubby man stopped at one of the teller’s window, which was on the way to the chairs. Herbert sat back down and watched the stubby man chat with the teller. Their conversation didn’t last long, but the stubby man remained at the teller’s window. He seemed to be talking, but the teller wasn’t responding. The stubby man said something, waved his hand at the teller as if to say ‘stop it,’ and turned and walked toward Herbert.
Herbert released the boys’ hands, both of which were red, and stood up.
“Mr. Calvin will see you now,” the stubby man said. “Please follow me.”
“Now, stay here,” Herbert said to the boys. “I don’t want you causing any trouble. I’ll be right back, and if you cause any ruckus, any ruckus, I’ll be back here in a second, and you’ll have to deal with me when I get home. Do you understand me?” Both boys nodded, and Herbert jogged a bit to catch up to the stubby man.
***
Sure, the writing was infantile but at least I wrote something that wasn’t a complaint. Isn’t that worth something? Anything?
From where I’m sitting, I see rock bottom approaching at high speeds. I’ve spent the last week complaining about everything that I could think of. The thing about complaining (and, as I’ve said many times, there are always things about everything) is that one can complain for only so long before running out of material. Sure, I could and have repeated myself until I’m blue in the face, but the discussion grows incessant and dreary, and I can’t stand dreariness.
It’s not as if I don’t know what I have to do. I repeat it often enough and by now, if I haven’t drilled the instructions deep into my nickel-imprinted brain, I don’t think I’ll ever figure it out. I write these missives because I want to write something, and if I have nothing to write about, I consternate to produce words. Why do I want to write? There’s the million-dollar question. I wrote previously about a need. Is it an imagined need? A if you will wishful need? Perhaps. I’ve returned to my earlier days of staring at a blank page, only this time, I’m not so much as staring as running away from.
I was about to write how much easier it would be to start creating, to pluck an idea from somewhere and run with it. I would have referred to the week before the Marathon (again), where anything I thought, I turned into writing. Maybe it was the 2k goal each day, the knowledge that I was going to sit there and write and write until I achieved it, so I might as well write a story since that’s probably the easiest way to get there. (Even with all my consternating skills, writing 2k words of consternations are a feat in and of themselves.)
What’s the solution? Perhaps I have to return to shooting for 2k words a day again. I’m running out of ideas. My prodding isn’t working. My planning is certainly not working. I have too many distractions waiting for me at home: sewcrates redesign, video games, cleaning the Castle, sitting on my hands, Netflix, reading.
There it is again. I decide to write another story, and the flash of pain hits. It’s a discouraging pain. It convinces me not to do it, to pack it up. My wrists are hurting and there are too many words to write. And the demon Carl wants me home for supper. Did I mention I was tired, fatigued, I worked hard today and I need a break from the computer and typing words. Do you see how easily the excused roll off my fingers? Do you see how little effort is involved in giving them, how little OT?
When I sat down to write today, I had an idea and I even had a character’s name: Herbert. I wanted to write a few short paragraphs about Herbert and his kids, and Herbert’s interaction with a banker, showing how Herbert went from king of his kingdom, to serf of the bank. And just writing that synopsis opened, while not the flood banks, at least a small trickle through which the “story” above escaped. I guess I should be thankful for small miracles. And for the record, this is word number 2,001 (yeah, many of those words are dreadful consternations, but it’s better than nothing, right?).
I keep telling myself to let go; to go to sleep and call it a good three-month run and give up on the loony thought that I’m going to do this every day. You must be getting used to reading these introductions since that’s all I’ve been feeding you the last few days. It’s now after midnight, and I woke up from my nap feeling sick to my stomach because I hadn’t finished my writing for the day. I dragged my computer to the confines of my bed and I’m typing furtively. Before I do that, I have to make some comments on this writing every day thing. And stop with the collective groan, I can hear it from here. Yes, I’ve been forcing the issue lately and I’m not proud of it. But I have reasons to force the issue, which keeps me going; it wakes me up from my nap with my heart thumping and an emptiness deep in my gut wondering what happened that I’m feeling this way. It didn’t take me long to realize that it’s past midnight and my entry wasn’t finished or posted. You’ll notice that I used yesterday’s date. I won’t try to justify it because the date doesn’t matter much to me. What matters is that I have evidence of writing something.
It didn’t take Chuck long to point out the late entry. I won’t say he gloated because he’s not that type of guy (although it would be fun if he were that guy). In his I-hope-you-don’t-have-a-broken-neck email, he said, ‘If the streak is broken, I say "it's about time." That way you can stop worrying about having to write something every day and worry about the actual writing.’
I was so close to accepting that view. I fell asleep on my couch, hung over from too many Julie-free video games and a sleepless-induced headache, with the thought that this is it. I’m done. I felt relief at not having to write any more crap just to get words for the day. Now, my thoughts echoed Chuck’s, now I can get back to writing something of value because writing will stop being a chore I have to complete every day and turn back into a privilege I bestow upon myself. The writing every day had become the end instead of the means to an end. I thought all these thoughts as I found blissful sleep in front of the Roger Ebert commentary track on “Citizen Kane.” (After finishing the movie, I’m still not impressed, but I did begin to like Kane’s character because of its pathetic nature. He’s an anti-hero, if you will.) When I woke up, I knew that I would bring my computer to the bed and finish the entry. I knew that it would be another exercise in explaining the streak, or my need to write every day. I wasn’t happy about the topic, but I saw it coming, as did you.
Back to “the explanation.” I don’t want to miss a day because I’m afraid that if I miss a day, it’ll be okay for me to miss a day. I know that sounds strange, but I know how I am. For example, I know how I am with my morning exercises. I mentioned this a few times, but when I wake up, I try to knock out a few hundred sit-ups and push-ups to pretend that I’m exercising somewhat, even though I don’t remember what the inside of the gym looks like anymore. For the first few weeks of morning exercises, I was going strong. Then I went to Taiwan, and the exercising stopped. I had a good reason: the floors in Julie’s house were hardwood and it would have been nigh impossible to perform sit-ups on such floors. When I got home, I thought I’d jump right back in, but it didn’t work out as I expected. During a good week, I’ve managed to exercise twice. When you do something every day, it becomes habit, and habit is good because it’s hard to break. The habit of not doing something is also hard to break; there are always excuses lurking behind every corner, and these excuses are not friendly.
I’m going to try to stop worrying about excuses and “streaks.” These stupid discussions give me something to write about when I’m floundering and as I’ve tried to get across, it’s all about the words. The topic is irrelevant. I would be satisfied if I wrote about the toe jam stuck between my toes. The important part of this exercise is the exercise. I always come back to the analogy that great mountains succumb to the effects of wind, water, and weather over time. The point is that if you do something every day, eventually you improve because you’re doing it every day. Sure, I’d love to write good things every day, but even writing bad things helps me.
Earlier in the day, before the aforementioned video games, headache, and general depression, I realized that today would not be a story day. Well, I didn’t know it so much as fear it. It’s hard to say which days will be story days. I missed the 4pm closing of the coffee house, which is never a good sign. If I wanted to, right now I could probably start drafting a story that would turn out decent. At least the beginning of the story would turn out decent, until I ran out of energy and had no idea what happens next. What I’m coming to terms with is that while my writing is decent and the characters and setting are at times interesting, what is universally uninteresting is my plot. This isn’t a David OT. Julie pointed this when we discussed my Herbert and the Bank story. She didn’t like the writing because nothing happened. There was no point to it and no plot. Looking back, I ended the story as I did because of a combination of running out of energy and not knowing what should happen. What I’m getting at is that many of my failures have nothing to do with writing and everything to do with telling a story. Take my recent oeuvre, The Flying Toe Stomp. I based that story on a few incidents in my life, and because of that, I had a decent idea of where the plot would go. The problem is that real life does not make a fiction. My job as storyteller is to take what I know, squeeze, and manipulate it until it’s a good yarn. And this is the rub: I’m not good at it—at least not yet.
While it’s taken me a while to realize this weakness in my writing, I now can look it dead in the face and develop a way to address it. Being the terribly optimistic person I am, I’m going to assume that there is a way to fix it, that this is not an inherent weakness in my writing that will forever keep my goal from reach. I’m going to find a few books on improving plot, and figure out some way of approaching this beast. I know a good plot when I see it, which is an important first step. Now, I just need to find some way to drag that good plot out of me. “How’d you get so smart?” “RIF: Reading is Fundamental.”
I was going to end this with a basketball anecdote from today. One of my colleagues and I went out in the brisk but sunny (and incredibly clear—you should have seen the mountains. If only I brought my camera) weather and shot hoops in the courtyard of my company’s campus. At this late hour, I don’t remember what I wanted to discuss about it, but I’m sure whatever it was, it would have been brilliant.
I feel better and I think I will sleep easier now. I will cut out my extra-curricular video game playing and get back into a more natural flow with my writing. I won’t promise anything, because I have a tendency to break my promises. What I will promise you, is by whatever means necessary (and whatever time of night), I will write something “everyday.”
My thoughts have been flying in many directions today. I haven’t had much time to concentrate and sit down for an extended period and write. Julie arrived late last night, and today I’ve rushed around, working, and trying to get home to entertain her. For unknown reasons only slightly related to weather, it took me over an hour to get home from work. The traffic this morning was light and delightful thanks to Martin Luther King Jr. Day. I expected the same light traffic this evening, which made the commute that much more terrible. While the highway driving frustrated the hell out of me, it was only when I arrived on Rainer Avenue (named after Mr. Rainer, who looms at the end of the avenue when the light and haze cooperate) that I learned about true frustration. I had already been driving for close to forty-five minutes, when I looked ahead to a line of cars snaking their way through a broken traffic light. The light blinked red, which was all the excuse the already slow Seattlian drivers needed to drive even slower (which, I know, is pushing the possibilities of reality).
Thanks to Chuck’s—and it pains me to say this—insightful comments, I’ve been rethinking the themes and direction of my stories. The gist of his comments is that I tend to write stories about passive victims. Things happen to these characters, but they have no choice in those happenings, and they suffer with no resolution at the end. Chuck used the phrase “literary blueballer” to describe how the reader feels at the end of my stories.
When I thought about all the stories I’ve written, I noticed the trend immediately. Looking back to Loud Neighbors, one of my favorite stories, the narrator is a terribly annoying businessman at a restaurant in Hawaii. The protagonist, however, is the man at the next table who listens to the narrator’s senseless and loud talk about his prowess as a businessman. The protag’s dinner is ruined and at the end, he gets up and does—now get this—nothing. Talk about no resolution. Many people asked me to end the story better; for a fight or at least a comment before the protag walked out of the restaurant. What did I decide to do? Torture the reader and let the annoying narrator get away with his actions. I was trying to protect my art, man. That doesn’t mean I should go back and have the neighbor beat up the narrator. If anything, it would be better (at least in my twisted mind) to have the man start a fight with the narrator (verbal or physical), and then get his butt kicked, which would be a tragic ending, but at least a resolution. Even my poetry reads like that. My last poem told the story of a man whose wife dies when she falls asleep at the wheel. Talk about powerlessness.
This isn’t much of an entry. I had hopes of rewriting yesterday’s story from a combination of Esther and Fred’s point of view. She actually makes a choice (an evil choice, but a choice nonetheless), but while I started to write it, distractions found me as they have a wont to do. I also wanted to give a better description to Chuck’s analysis and my response. Reading his e-mail this morning helped me get a better hold on where I have to go with my writing to tell a “story.” I’m not sure if I’m going to get there anytime soon, but I’ll continue on NEQID, and hope some of the good advice sinks in.
Here are a few fragments I started to write. Still unfinished like this entry, I might as well post something and call a night.
Esther Lamb
Esther is thirty-six years old. She’s has straight black hair to her shoulders. Her face is thin and looks like she’s had all the air sucked out. For the past five years, she has worked as an account manager for Mr. Jenkins at Jenkins Inc, an insurance reseller. Esther has been successful by using a combination of her sex appeal and never-take-no attitude. She emanates energy and jumps from idea to idea, never settling to develop or implement the idea.
Sacrificial Lamb
Esther waits in her office and practices crossing her legs. When she crosses them just right, her skirt raises enough to give a glimpse of her underwear. She positions her chair to the side of her desk to ensure Mr. Jenkins a clear view. She studies her desk, pushing one of the piles of papers closer to the edge. She’s after the busy but organized look. She considers sprinkling paperclips around the desk, but decides against it.
Mr. Jenkins is running late. He asked Esther to be ready over an hour ago, and he’s usually prompt. Just as Esther begins to reconsider the paperclips, the handle turns and the door opens. Mr. Jenkins stands there. He is a tall man and makes the offices seem undersized. He walks as he talks, with measured steps, mechanically placing his heel then foot then toe on the ground, one foot at a time in a perfect cadence. His three-piece suit is creaseless as if the day never dared ruffle him. He wears glasses and hunches forward, like he’s about to tell you a secret.
“Did I catch you at a bad time, Esther?” Mr. Jenkins says.
“No, not at all, Mr. Jenkins. I’ve been expecting you, Please, do come in.”
Mr. Jenkins walks into the office, and closes the door. He sits in Esther’s chair, rolls it behind her desk, and gestures at the visitor’s chair. Esther pushes the visitor’s chair a few inches away from the desk and sits, crossing her legs.
“I hope I didn’t keep you long, Esther,” Mr. Jenkins says. “I’ve been conducting these reviews all afternoon.”
“I understand, Mr. Jenkins. I imagine they can be quite draining.”
“They are, Esther. But these reviews are important to you as an employee of Jenkins Inc. I’m not here to judge you, Esther. I want to communicate where you stand with Jenkins Inc. While these reviews take up a lot of my time, I feel they are worth it for the morale and productivity here at Jenkins Inc.”
Esther nods and tries desperately not to laugh. Mr. Jenkins is a blowhard but he pays her salary.
The following are some sketches and thoughts on the Sacrificial Lamb story. I know I don’t usually do this (because I end up not writing the story and I’m left with only outlines and useless thoughts as evidence I even thought up a story), but I wanted to rewrite the story (at least to add a conflict, so I can say it is a story and not a vignette), and I didn’t know what the conflict was. I still don’t know, but I have a few ideas. This is where I usually provide the warning about drivel and you’re not going to gain much insight into David or life by reading the following. You’ll also wonder why you wasted a good five and a half minutes of your life reading this entry. Just consider yourself warned.
Esther Lamb
Esther is forty-two years old. She’s has straight black hair that falls to her shoulders, small breasts, and a sharp nose. Her face is thin and looks like she’s had all the air sucked out of it. There are black circles under her eyes, which she can’t hide no matter what types of make-up or chemicals she tries. For the past five years, she has worked as an account manager for Mr. Jenkins at Jenkins Inc, an insurance reseller. Esther has been successful with her clients using a combination of her sex appeal and never-take-no attitude. She emanates energy and jumps from idea to idea, never settling to fully develop or implement the ideas.
(Originally, I made Esther to be an evil-ish character. I’ve included two versions of her: evil Esther, and not-so-evil Esther. I’m not sure which I’ll go with (although I’m leaning toward the not-so-evil because I don’t know want a clearly evil and good (Fred) character. I want both sides to have a chance and to pull the reader between them. I hate black and white characters.) What I won’t do is provide a cheesy ending to make everyone feel good, like Mr. Jenkins deciding to keep both Esther and Fred, or Esther and Fred leave to start a business—ugh.
Esther has been married to Leonard for fifteen years. She does not want children. She tells herself it’s because she doesn’t want to put on the weight (she admits her vanity), but the real reason is she’s selfish and doesn’t want to share Leonard’s time or affection with a child. Leonard desperately wants a child, but remains loyal to Esther and respects her wishes. Leonard travels often for his job and leaves Esther alone.
Evil Esther: Esther began cheating on Leonard before their marriage began, and has had many boyfriends during their fifteen years together. Leonard has always been faithful, but if you asked Esther, she would tell you she believes Leonard cheats on her when he travels. It is one way she balms her conscience about the cheating.
Not-so-evil Esther: Esther has never cheated on Leonard before Fred. She’s lonely and beginning to doubt whether she’s still attractive. While she’s selfish about not wanting children, it’s more because she’s so desperate for affection because of family problems (e.g., adopted, abused). Leonard travels often for his work, and Esther is beginning to doubt whether Leonard is cheating on her. (He’s not.) She feels her youth slipping away from her, and while she’s accepted that she’s not going to have to children, she wants
She started an affair with Fred on a whim. She’s like that: an idea strikes her and she delves in, not worrying about how it affects the people around her. Fred hovered around Esther for many years, and she knew he was stricken with her. Fred was comfortable around men, but when he was around any woman—especially Esther—he turned to jelly.
Evil Esther: Esther took advantage of Fred’s inexperience, and although older and not in her prime anymore, it wasn’t difficult for her to finish her seduction of him. Once she accomplished this, she grew bored of him and was ready for her next challenge. Perhaps she tossed him aside, or played with him now and again. She readily gives him up while trying to save her job with Mr. Jenkins.
Not-so-Evil Esther: Searching for her lost youth, Esther reluctantly begins an affair with Fred. Fred’s interest in Esther, while clumsy, is endearing to Esther, and she begins to feel young and beautiful again. Her feelings about Leonard’s cheatings have festered for many years, and she has convinced herself that she was one of those wives who had to live knowing that her husband was cheating on her (think Bill Clinton). She felt that her relationship with Fred was payback. Following this, she’s going to find out that Leonard never cheated on her. There’s a conflict! (Of course, it’s the trite love triangle, but I never said it would be an original conflict or story.) How does Esther find out about Leonard? Does Leonard approach Mr. Jenkins? Perhaps it’s Mr. Jenkins, an old friend of Leonard’s family, learns of Esther’s cheating and tells Esther that Leonard has never cheated on her.
Fred Sanders
Fred is thirty-three years old. He’s skinny except for his stomach, which has grown larger each year. He’s self-conscious about its growth and hides it with baggy clothing and low-riding pants. Fred hasn’t had much luck with women, and anytime any woman showed interest in him, he smothered her until she ran away screaming. He has done well as an account manager for the past five years (Mr. Jenkins hired him right after Esther). He’s a great man’s man, able to talk and tell entertaining stories talk about sports, women, cars, anything male related. Of course, he makes up or borrows all of his women stories from Penthouse, but while his clients and friends know this, they don’t hold it against him. After working at Jenkins Inc. for six-months, Mr. Jenkins realized Fred’s rapport with male clients, and Mr. Jenkins has arranged for Fred to work exclusively with male clients. When a client changes its contact from male to female, Mr. Jenkins gives Fred a new client. Fred has accepted this arrangement as for the best, but is irked by his weakness with women.
Fred fell head over heels in love with Esther when she showed an interest in him. That was all it took for him: someone to show an interest in him. His lack of confidence around women is what has kept him without a long-term girlfriend. While his friends and clients set him up on many dates, because of his doting and inexperience, he was never able to remain with a girl for long.
Jerry Jenkins
Jerry is sixty-eight years old and inherited Jenkins Inc. from his father, who inherited from his father, also a Jerry Jenkins, and a pioneer behind the reinsurance business. Jerry believes in old school values and watches the interactions of his employees closely. He has met and respects Leonard, Esther’s husband, and believes Esther has been a loyal wife to Leonard. Jerry trusts Esther and Fred, and holds them up as model employees to his workforce.
Plot: Simultaneous telling of Mr. Jenkins meeting Esther, and Mr. Jenkins meeting Fred; Fred’s meeting takes place after Esther’s meeting but (like I said) is showed simultaneously. Mr. Jenkins confronts Esther about cheating on her husband, who is a friend of the family. I will intersperse flashbacks of Esther and Fred’s relationship.
Conflict: Esther has to decide on Fred or Leonard. I still haven’t figured out where Mr. Jenkins falls in on this. Will he fire her if she doesn’t choose Leonard? So many fucking open questions. Why would she stay with Fred? Is she in love with him? Is she scared he’ll get fired? Is she trying to protect him? Is Leonard going to appear? There needs to be a buildup to the choice, whatever that choice is and whomever I decide will make it.
That was a terribly unsatisfying synopsizing session. It feels almost like the ridiculously bad Pink Sweater sessions.
Today is another lazy day in Seattle. I had hoped to continue Lucille, but I’m going to put it off again. I did write a few pages in my Moleskine about where I see the story heading; I’ll transcribe those later. For now, I’m relaxing in front of my fire and watching the making of portion of “The Return of the King,” Peter Jackson’s vision of J. R. R. Tolkien’s (overrated) Lord of the Rings.
I’m not sure if this entry even should count as an entry. I spent much of today working on the new sewcrates.com. I’m happy with the progress, and I’m hopeful I’ll finish it soon. Most of the user functionality is there. I have to finish the administrative stuff, and then make the switcheroonie. I’m still looking for the perfect masthead and having little luck. I have a simple design now with no masthead, but I think it’s too simple.
Okay, I’ll stop reaching to say something. I’ll leave you with my notes and thoughts on my story. It’s becoming clearer, but until I write it, it will never be clear.
Notes on Lucille: Search of pathetic-ness? Life has given Jake a way to get out gloriously—is that it? No, Cini is making the choice; it’s her, the young woman, who think she’s going to change the world that wants to run or fight. “We’re fighting against a nothing. What chance have we?” Jake will say. Young, ambitious vs. old and cynical. Who wins?
Pirates are a nothing—there’s nobody in the pirate ship—it’s like a ‘ghost ship’ but in the literal sense. How do they win? Useless details. The dilemma? The decline of the gov’t, the loss of control. “We’re witnessing the decline of our civilization,” Jake will tell Cini. Do people inside a civilization, can they see the downfall? The wise ones—the Jakes of the world who witnessed the might of the Navy—he didn’t witness, he heard about it and grew up believing in its glory.
That’s a lot of exposition to get across through talking. Flashback time. Might of the armada; Jake was there, a junior officer—need a story.
Cini wants to fight the ghost pirate ship because she doesn’t believe the navy and their civilization is declining. Flashback: the last great battle or the beginnings of the end? The last flex of muscle trying to keep the solar system together. “It’s the only way to protect our interest and people.”
Why are the ghost ships piloted by computers but not Jake’s ship? Cheap answer: robot war. Igh. Robot ships are sent out on short journeys—w/in radio distance—autonomous robots can’t handle further distances? Flow of computers—just don’t trust computers for these flights. Where are they going? Delivery, transport, cruise (which could explain why not just robots—transporting people); there has to be people on board, which will make Cini’s choice much harder. Why would she risk them? Missing something!
Story idea: raising chickens in a city to teach children morals about food
Writing is not about superficial cleverness.
Okay, in my evolution to find a style that will let me write stories that span more than one day, I’m experimenting with my crap draft. Instead of writing paragraphs that make sense, I’ve decided to write thoughts and snippets of conversation and text. They’re not fully formed or in a readable format, but they’re the first step in my writing process. I usually aggravate over these paragraphs and with a sharp knife and extra words, I change them into readable and almost story-worthy words. I’m going to save myself the aggravation today, and post what I have.
I’ve warned you of bad writing before, but what you’re going to see, if you don’t press the back button now, which I highly recommend, is crap. Had I any ego, I wouldn’t post it. But, as should be apparent if you’ve read some of my other entries, I enjoy bad writing.
Story Idea: With technology replacing people in jobs, only one job will remain for people: creation—the sharing of their creative self. That is until technology gobbles that as well.
Story Idea: There are three garbage cans, one after the other. The closest one is full. Watch as three people walk over to the cans and decide whether to put their garbage in the full can, or one of the further cans. Talk about fascinating and interesting!
Quotation by Laurie Anderson, as spoken to NY Times Magazine, 30 January 2005: “A schlump is someone who doesn’t care about anything and who is just protecting their own turf, which is getting smaller and more meaningless, and then they disappear.” “I’m more worried about turning into a schlump than into a prune.”
And now onto my useless notes and dialogue.
Notes: Philosophical discussion of decline. Apathy is the first symptom. Conflict disappears, weakness. Jake is the one who sees this. Cini is of the new generation, the one that grew up without conflict in their life. She’s apathetic, she does her job, but doesn’t love doing it. She’s robotic and disinterested. So, why does she do it?
Following this through, Jake proves the point. He’s not going to retire without a pension—there are no pensions. He’s retiring according to the regulations, but they’re not enforcing them. There is no disagreement. If he wanted to stay on, he could. No one would argue. People do their jobs, but they use minimal efforts. It’s a depressed time.
When the ghost ship arrives, Jake decides to break with routine; he goes against the regulations and engages the PSS Lucille in a conflict with the pirate ship.
***
“The navy wasn’t always like this,” Jake said. “There was a time when we were the envy of the world. Where kings would come to us and kneel, saying, ‘you bow to no man.’ Those were the days, my friend. Those were the days.”
Silence. Cini returned to reviewing the trajectory response, and Jake checked his messages. “The world is changing. You wouldn’t know what it was like before, but it was different.
“Do you think the people inside a civilization—do you think they know when it’s in decline?”
“What are you talking about, Captain?”
“Our civilization, Cini. Our people. We’ve changed over the years. We used to fight, we used to worry about things, important things to some, frivolous things to others, but at least people thought about the things. We even argued—we argued in the congresses, the governments, even the navy had arguments. Today, we accept things and it’s considered bad manners to discuss things that might descend into an argument. When did that happen, Cini?”
“It’s for the good. We used to spend such a large part of our life arguing amongst ourselves. I’ve seen those holovisions. There was conflict and hatred and disagreement. People weren’t civilized. What we have today, Captain, is civilization. I would never want to return to those dark ages.”
Jake sighed quietly. He remembered when the younger generation had been rebellious. He grew up rebellious, and if he hadn’t joined the navy, the rebellion would have spilled over to his adult life. Conflict was on the way out even when Jake was as a child. There had been too many wars, too much death. People lost their taste for violence in any form. They called it a golden age, an enlightened age. They had many names for it. Who were they? Jake had to think about that. He wasn’t sure who they were. It was everyone, he supposed. The commentators, the media, the government, everyone had the same epiphany seemingly at the same time. Conflict was out of fashion. There were no more disagreements. You did things and they were judged, but you didn’t worry about what people thought about them.
The alert sounded. Cini’s posture straightened and her fingers danced along her control. “An unidentified ship has matched our trajectory and is approaching us from behind. Attempting to hail it.”
Jake pulled up the visual display and the ship appeared. It was a large, gray battle cruiser, much smaller than Lucille, but traveling toward them at a high rate. The ship was dark, except for the blue plasma from the engines, no lights could be seen in the ports. Jake feared it was a ghost ship.
“No response. The unidentified ship is firing its maneuvering rockets and pulling into our trajectory.”
“Pirates?”
“It’s too early to speculate, but there’s a good chance, Captain.”
“Radio our situation to Earth.”
“The ship is jamming our transmissions. We’re receiving a response.”
An empty control room appeared on the holovision. “This is Ghost Ship Program version 15.43. We have initiated sub-program 4.78a. Please comply with the published specifications. The counter has begun and you have nineteen point twenty nine minutes to respond. This transmission will repeat every nine minutes until compliance or detonation.”
“Transmission ended, Captain. I’ve pulled up the specification and the accepted response criteria. Shall I begin compliance?”
“Hold a second, Cini. Have you scanned the ghost ship for signs of life or explosives?”
“That’s not part of the procedures. They want the cargo—we give them our cargo, and we go on our way. This is a solid response to the conflict, Captain. We’ve done it this way for the past five years. It’s an accepted risk.”
“How do we even know that this is a ghost ship? If people were onboard, they wouldn’t risk blowing up. If not, we can still comply with the procedures.”
“It’s a deviation, Captain. If we deviate from the established procedures, the program is set to execute. This is the way things are. I don’t understand what you’re asking.”
They weren’t pirates in the ancient sense of the word. The ghost ships began appearing five years before. The ships were maintained by the asteroid colonies on the outskirts of the solar system. After leaving the Solar Empire (have to think of something better than that), the colonies were able to subsist on their mining industries, but the Empire stopped buying from them, and the colonies became desperate. They hit upon the ghost ship idea after a few failed attempts at real piracy. Here was a completely automated, computer-controlled ship that didn’t mind blowing itself up when disobeyed. The colonies even published the procedures and source code for the ghost ship. The community contributed code to the ghost ship to make it more robust, and after its second year, it became a problem for the Empire. The Empire, but that time, didn’t want to worry about problems—conflict was already out of fashion. It set up procedures to pay off the colonies during ghost ship raids, and as long as its losses were acceptable, which they seemed to be, the Empire didn’t worry about it.
“We’re flying in a warship. For god’s sake, Cini, why do you think we have warships? You can’t think they built these Planetships for the cargo runs they now send us on. Look at the weaponry display.” Jake pushed the alert button and the weapons status display appeared. They built the PSS Lucille for one purpose: war. She had undergone many changes in the last three-hundred years, but her weaponry never changed. It was built too deeply into the Planetship’s systems.
Cini laughed at Jake. “You don’t understand, Captain. We’re beyond that now. We’ve ‘evolved.’ You should understand that better than most. You were there for the Plowshares War. We fought that war to end all wars, and we won. Davis Hesas, the last great thinker, he said it beautifully, “the way to change the universe is to remove all conflicts.” And that’s what we did. I grew up in a utopian society. Our civilization has reached that point, Captain, because we believed it was reachable. The era of the warship is gone.”
“Be careful, Cini. You’re treading close to a conflict.”
“That’s not a disagreement, Captain. That is the correct answer. Davis Hasis taught us that to avoid conflict, we must identify conflict and always have the right answer. That’s how you avoid it: you present the universally accepted correct answer. Just as if you asked me how fast this can flies, I will give you the right answer; if you ask me why don’t we fight anymore, I give you the correct answer.”
“You would have been a brilliant debater, Cini.”
Jake needs a flashback. We have to know him for something other than what he is going to do during his fight with the ghost ship. I thought about flashing him back to a battle, the rings (as in Saturn’s rings) battle, but I don’t think that’s necessary. We already have one fight, there’s not much of a need for a second fight. This brings me back to the Empire’s decline. I want to relate this in. I want Jake, a young, idealistic officer, to confront this decline and understand it, at least at a subconscious level. If he understood it consciously, he probably wouldn’t have lasted as long in the navy.
Ah, but it is interesting if he understands it consciously, but makes the choice to stay with the navy. He wants to pilot planetships. There’s that love in him that you’ve seen in others. It’s his desire to pilot even though he knows he’s piloting for a corrupt and declining civilization. It’s his day job which is divorced from his philosophical understanding.
He is piloting dignitaries when he comes to these realizations. These are leaders of the empire, and perhaps one in particular. He’s a former pilot, like Jake,, and sits in the cockpit with Jake and the captain of the planetship. Jake is piloting as Cini does in the main part of the story. Is it going to be more discussions? Too many fucking discussions! All this exposition done through conversations. This is a character story; stop worrying about boring people and tell the story. Not everything has to involve the mugging of little old ladies to be interesting. It’s your love of the characters and the opportunity for choice that should excite the reader (or at least me, which is why I’m writing this—right, right?).
So Jake and the captain and the dignitary are discussing things. Well, Jake’s not discussing so much as editorializing as he listens in on the conversation. He answers the questions put to him, but makes the decision early to answer in a way that they expect to hear, as opposed to sharing what he feels. This is to protect his career, and he knows what a coward it makes him.
Who are the captain and dignitary? I’m not sure. What are they discussing, how does it arise to something that Jake can later use?
I could flash it back even further, returning to Jake’s childhood. How is this going to help you? The story returns to a more mundane basis. This is when planetships are first being built and the empire is stil at its peak. It’s going to decline, but Jake doesn’t know it yet.
I’m stpinning my wheels again. I’m thinking about giving up on this story and going back to my daily stories. I’m not happy about either decision. I want to create more output, but I also want to finish what I start. I’m struggling to find the basis for this story. I have the basics, but the world is so complicated and beyond me that I’m not sure I can pull it off. I need to read and vouyeur more. I’ve been neglecting the food I need to write. When things run around in my mind with nothing pushing or inspiring them, my stoires and writing turns flat. I need to relate what I write with what happens around me. I’m a derivative artist, in the best sense of the word.
I’m feeling the pull of distractions. My phone, in plane mode, begs to be played with, and I’m itching to open up my drawing program to see if I can sketch the idea I had for the sewcrates picture. I’m trying to resist but it’s difficult…
I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t resist. I spent most of the flight sketching the mascot for sewcrates. I thought of him a few mornings ago: a silhouette of a guy leaning over a laptop computer with a fire burning in the background. Once I have a mascot, I figured the rest would flow. I’ll post the sketches to show you what I’m going for (I obviously still haven’t achieved it) when I return to Seattle. I’m spending the weekend with Julie (yeah!) and since I’m still using the old version of sewcrates, I can’t upload from here (just way until the new one is finished—sometimes this century).
My head cleared this morning. It wasn’t a PH day, but I was happy to awaken with my head relatively calm. I’ve been busy at work all day looking forward to my “free time” to sit down and write. My forced writing lately has been more a result of my tiredness and headaches than deficient desire. The tall mocha IV drip has started and I’m hoping it takes me somewhere interesting.
I finished writing for the day (the results come after this editorial comment). I once again failed to write any real part of the story. It’s becoming clearer, I think, which should be a good thing. I wish I knew whether any of this clarity will result in a real story. The following is a mishmash of notes for the story(ies).
Before I get started:
Things to Buy: On PRI, I heard that J.M. Coetze (a South African author and Nobel-prize winner I respect) learned to write novels by reading the notes of Samuel Becket.
Story Idea: (Not being able to make up story ideas; now they come too fast for me to write them all.) For immortality pill: what happens when the pill arrives, but it keeps people at their current age, i.e., old people stay old forever; another aspect to explore. What happens to the old people?
Random Notes on The PSS Lucille: (I really need a better title.)
The first story: Jake is a junior officer on a naval patrol vessel when it comes across a Generations Vessel, which has been traveling for thousands of years to reach this solar system. When it left, a treaty was reached between the then System Government to absorb the population in exchange for a quantity of metals that the Generations Vessel would transport. During those thousands of years, the System (perhaps corporations) found the metals and mined them from undiscovered (when the agreement was made) asteroids. There is now no need of the metals that the Generations Vessel carries.
A person’s life lasts hundreds of years (but they’re not immortal—that’s a different story). This is early in Jake’s career. How is the government at this time?
What is the response? Does the government order the navy to turn away the GV? This should be the start of the downward spiral of the System Government (and the society). They would have been falling earlier, but this is the first obvious symptom. (There probably should have been many governments, some System Governments, some individual planet or continent governments, during the solar system’s history. Many civilizations—but with new communication and library technologies, each new “society” builds on the old ones, so while there is a new government or society, it’s based strongly on the old one.) The SG refuses to…before I go there, why is the SG negotiating? I would rather get away form the idea of an Empire-style navy, and move more to a corporate navy. The libertarians dream: all industries, including military, have been privatized. The SG lays down the law, but the private military enforces the law.
Why have a central government at all? Free market—doesn’t work. The government has powers in the form of money. It taxes the people. How can they enforce the taxation? Through the private military. There is not one military, but many small ones. This allows the government to control all of them but having the threat of one against the other. Very complicated and risky. The militaries are based on geography—the ground forces are regional; the navy is quadrant based. This has evolved over many centuries.
Interesting corporate-based solar system. Yup. What about ethnicities? They still exist, but it’s less separate. Race is mostly outdated because of interbreeding. The only remnant is religions, which are making a comeback in this age. Why? The threats of terrorism—but that comes later, after the incident with the GV. The GV is what begins the terrorism. And eventually where Jake must make his choice (very vague).
I need to introduce a simple concept along with Jake during this first story. Main concepts: Planetships; Solar System governments (with no guidance from outside the system b/c of SOL issues); incoming Generations (containing people looking for a better life on a different planet or asteroid).
The Generations cause the problems. You have a balanced system with mature governments and populations, when a Generations arrives from another solar system. It might have traveled for hundreds or thousands of years to arrive. It has a huge population (hundreds of thousands to millions), and wants to share in the resources of the solar system.
***
(Jake wouldn’t be nervous—or would he? No. It’s you who would be nervous.)
Jake stood before the door leading to the bridge. He yanked on his white duty shirt to straighten it for the umpteenth time since dressing. This was his first day of duty on the PSS Lucille, his first assignment after graduating from flight school. He took a deep breath and opened the door.
“Lieutenant Jake *** reporting for duty, Captain.”
“You’re a few hours early, Lieutenant. The shift change isn’t until twenty-hundred hours.”
Jake glanced at his watch nervously.
***
Purpose of this story: introduce Jake. He needs to be outrageous. He’s the Captain Kirk of the story, but we’re catching him early in his career for the dying navy, which is part of the dying Empire. What is pulling the Empire apart?
I still don’t feel ready to start these stories. I don’t know what I’m waiting for…perhaps I need a better understanding of the world I’m creating. I also need to understand Jake. What makes him special? I have Jake. And I have the conflict. I also have his growth, or failure to be more specific (damn, this theme seems to follow through all my stories). He’s an intelligent risk taker. A trained foot soldier, who returns to the military to fly Planetships after fighting in ground wars for the Empire. (I need a better name than Empire.) He’s brilliant and lives his life according to principles. He thinks deeply and has “more original ideas than he knows what to do with.” His political sense is weak, but his strong ability to push his ideas, and the thoughtfulness of his ideas help him succeed.
He’s not overly eager; he thinks he knows what’s best for the navy and the Empire. He plays a political gambit late in his career in an attempt to save the Empire, but he loses. He might run for political office, or try to get the top naval job; that’s his downfall, and the story with Cini begins a few years after that, when he’s settled in as a Captain of the Planetship, broken. It’s Cini that pulls him out of his failure and he convinces him to act once more.
When talking to Jake, it was difficult to look into his eyes. The darted in all directions, never settled. Once his thought was finalized, his eyes would bore into you, imploring you to understand what he was saying. Few people did. His mind worked fast, and he lost confidence in people quickly when they fell behind. He would explain his thoughts when needed, but it became more of a lesson than an exchange.
He’s smart, why are people going to like him? People like clever but not intelligent. People will like him because he provides solutions. People like solutions. He doesn’t just say no.
Jake sleeps a few hours a night, forcing himself awake. He never talks about his time in the ground forces. He was there and he did things. He killed people and let forces in battle as a noncommissioned officer. He did what he thought best for his forces. Jake exercises every evening. He pushes himself because that’s what he’s always done.
What about his weaknesses?
Jake is impatient with people. He does not judge quickly, but when he comes to a conclusion, which is always well-thought out, he’s stubborn about it.
Flashback for Jake; time of war; Jake is commanding a warship; the peace movement of the gov’t decides to give in (appease) the threats, and demands he stand down, which puts his other naval ships at risk. The enemy (who is the enemy?) destroys the naval ships, which haunts Jake. He believes had he gone against his orders, he might have saved the ships. He starts as a man of peace who has complete faith in his gov’t and its pacifistic bent; and ends as a disheartened man, who realizes the decadence (and decline) of his gov’t. Did the appeasement bring about peace? Yes. In this case it did. Appeasement worked—why is he angry about it? He saved the lives of millions. Appeasement wasn’t necessary—the threat wasn’t grave. It was like Hitler during before WWII. Had the allies acted early enough, there would have been no war. At the time, had Jake continued forward, he could have turned the battle and perhaps won the war.
I’m starting to worry about the length of this story, and the amount I need to disclose. I need to get over this and start writing, thinking along the lines of short stories that begin to develop the world, ala Asimov’s early series. He wrote short stories that when combined formed a mostly coherent book. I’ll let the world develop in that way, returning to it to fill in details of Jake’s (I need a better last name than Mahahana or whatever I chose) life. The theme: depressing, life sucks and get used to it because you can’t change anything. Sound familiar with some of my other works?
First story with Jake…something simple that will introduce him. He’s a Planetship captain (or pilot). He’s somebody with an exciting life in a declining civilization. I want to introduce all of this. (If this is a longer set of stories, Jake will have to choose to do something amazing to save the society—otherwise there will be no pay out.)
I’m almost done with the sewcrates.com redesign. If all goes well, I’ll make the switch this weekend. I’m excited about the new design. Think simple blues and white spaces.
What follows are today’s translated thoughts.
My mind is whirling, shapes unveiling in a twisted darkness. Accomplished: a light descends, spotlighting the dirty masses; their dirt isn’t on clothes or skin. They imprint their soul with their decadence.
I speak and beg others to decode my missives dipped in egg batter. The soda tastes of medicine; I do not know that soda will cure what ails me.
“She’s going to be a poster girl for her school,” her grandma says, with her blonde hair limping off her head and mixing with the darkening gray of old age. Her face appears elongated, stretched to peek through closed windows. She painted her face with unnatural roses. Pearls hang like hooked worms on her flabby ears. She looks out through invisible glasses, which enlarge her dying brown eyes.
Descriptions of the world cry for sharing. Am I the same person who counts fallen matchsticks and dictionaries? No. It’s not the counting but the winnowing and sharing.
Shortness. Brief tidbits shared by squared oranges, the juices sucked dry by corrupt spirits. I reach for deepness and I cut my hand on grease. Noxious liquids drip from my sores to feed the hungry earth. Rocks hurtle near home. I greet them and shake clean the welcome mat.
Experimenting before perfecting is like dancing before dressing.
It’s a lot to think about what to write daily. What to record and what to let get away. What informs me and what moves me an inch to the left.
Description of what I’m doing. Why? I wasn’t a good storyteller but I liked the words. As I walk, I pick leaves, bending and breaking them until I release the damp, broken pieces into the wind. Red branches droop all around me like curtains for a bathtub.
An old man peddles uphill and falters. He wears a helmet and bright glasses. His feet bend vertical as he tries to push against the hill. His wheel turns and he falls over. He spins the bike around and flies downhill. He wasn’t trying to ride to the top; he wanted the flight down.
The diamond blue sky shines before the disaster.
A morning meeting found me outside earlier than usual. While I hate the pain of waking before the sun does—it feels as if someone is yanking a taut rope tied to my soul—the early hour gave me the opportunity to enjoy a cold, sunny Seattle morning. What I love most about these mornings is frosted grass. I never saw frosted grass before moving to Seattle. At the beginning of winter, when I first spied the phenomenon, I commented to my friend that someone must have spent all night sprinkling fertilizer on the grass. He stared at me attempting to understand what the fuck I meant, and laughed and told me about frosted grass. Dew forms during the warmer day, and when the evening’s bitter cold descends, the dew freezes and forms frost on the grass. The frost crawls up the individual grass blades, forming icy snowflake armor.
While frosted grass is beautiful, there’s more to my enjoyment than its looks. I derive incredible (and probably unnatural) satisfaction from stomping on frosted grass. Each step provides a most satisfying audible and physical crunch. I would stomp all day if my scheduled allowed it. It’s similar but more satisfying to popping bubble paper. When the sun chases the shadows off the icy grass, the frost melts leaving wet and boring terrain. I contemplated a musing with nothing but odes to frosted grass, but realized that such an entry would entertain only me, and leave my adoring public yearning for more.
Today feels of Friday. Technically, it’s a Tuesday, but I fly at 9:04am tomorrow, making today a spiritual Friday. I’m eager to see Julie and start our Paris vacation. I’ve been to Paris only once, and that was for a two-day work trip. I spent one day wandering the streets, outdoor markets, and river; the fancy restaurants intimidated me, but the street-side baguette vendors more than made up for my lack of fancy dinners. With Julie claiming to speak French, I should do better with the fancy restaurants this time. The weather report promises cold (Wed-Fri: Snow or Rain, upper 30s; Sat-Sun: Partly Sunny, lower 40s), which means we’ll spend much of our time inside—but when that inside involves museums, coffee shops, and French bistros, I shan’t complain (I didn’t even realize “shan’t” was a real word. Encarta defines it as a contraction of “shall not,” and doesn’t deprecate it).
I read that Martha Stewart was reading Bob Dylan’s latest memoir. I respect Martha Stewart and believe that if her name were “Mark Stewart,” she wouldn’t be in jail. I’ve started listening to Bob Dylan’s music on satellite radio, and I’ve become intrigued. I like music that tells a story, and Dylan’s music seems to do that. I decided to buy an album. Buying music for me online is always a mistake. I usually don’t listen to the music I purchase; instead, it collects dust on my computer or high-fi system (now there’s a name I haven’t heard in a while). As I browsed the music collection, I purchased other albums that will remain silent on the computer. It’s so easy to satisfy my collection desires by clicking a button. I’ve spoken of this addiction before. I buy the music more to complete an imagined collection of “good” music, than for listening. It’s similar to my purchase of comic books to collect rather than read (this was when I was younger—I’ve so far resisted the urge to start up that collection again). I need help, serious help.
I had a wonderful phone conversation with my mother during my arduous commute home. I speak often with my mother, but we don’t always talk. I know that “speak” and “talk” are synonyms, but I’m defining a difference for sake of illustration. While we physical speak often (too often—she is a Jewish mother and if she had her way, we would talk all hours of the day), the conversation doesn’t always move beyond small talk. Frequently this is my fault, as I’m abrupt with her, not because I don’t love her—because I do—but because as a man (or at least someone who plays a man on stage), I want to find my own path and show that I’m not reliant on my mother. It sounds petty and probably is, but it’s an emotional response. Every few weeks, however, we talk about something real, and those conversations are very good.
During our conversation today, we talked about a topic dear to my heart: my story writing. My mother, as a religious reader of sewcrates.com, something only two other people can claim (for good reason), has watched me struggle with my story telling over the past year. She provided advice today, which as always was good, but this time I might accept. She thinks I should stop forcing myself to finish writing stories. Instead, I should write and when I reach a point where the writing is no longer working, I should put it aside and come back to it later with a clean view. She sees when I grow frustrated with my writing, and the frustration comes out in the telling. It does me no good to dwell everyday on a story that isn’t working. I should put it aside, and similar to the problem you “sleep on” to solve, return to it with a fresher outlook a few weeks later.
I’ll use my failed attempt at the science fiction story as an illustration. I spent so much time thinking and dwelling on this story, that my writing became constipated (a close relation to consternated), and for all my ideas, I couldn’t translate them into a story. Using my mother’s advice, I should have put aside that story, and returned to it a few weeks later, with a clearer mind and a less blocked psyche. I’m going to try this technique. I’ve been searching for a way to tell stories, and nothing else seems to work. Maybe more downtime in the writing process will help.
My mother also tried to convince me that editing with a pen—you know, those long, slim devices that spout ink on the remains of trees—and placing drafts in folders (I’m not sure what those are; I understand folders in computers, but she was describing a sort of “real” folder that stores papers), will enable me to put aside the story and return to it at a later date. I tried to explain to her about these newfangled devices called “computers,” but the large words confused her. Suffice to say, I’ll continue with my electronic editing, although I will continue to write in my Moleskine when inspiration clobbers me.
While I’d prefer to keep discharging useless thoughts, I must pack. The next time I post, I will be jet-lagged in Paris, preparing for a wonderful vacation with a beautiful girl, and four friends I haven’t seen in a while.
It’s a while since I wrote without having something to say. For the last five days, I’ve recorded (probably in excessive detail, although missed by my daily readers after my website flopped on the second day) our activities. I’ve squeezed long diary entries into two hours of writing, which left me yearning for more time to write. Now, with time to spare, I find myself staring at the empty screen wondering what marvels I’ll pen. Yeah, that was funny for me too.
Try as he did, none of it was good enough.
The rock stars board the plane. They are old, and many years have passed since the sight of them made fans wail in adulation. Leo, the front man and founder of the band, still painted his hair black and wore it long, the ends mostly split, and the sheen oily. He wore large black sunglasses, each lens shaped like the body of a large, unlike bug. He grew a long, trimmed goatee on an otherwise scruffy face. These days, Leo and his band were scarcely recognized, and when a person did approach, they were older and used the chance meeting to reminisce, remembering the girl they dated when hearing Leo’s music, or how long ago they had last heard of Leo and his band.
He still walked around with an energy, an aura ha drew eyes to him beyond what he caused by his black dress and long hair.
Plane home from Paris, France | 2005.02.28 | Writing
Try as I might I say nothing even as caffeine’s aftereffects quivers through my bloodstream. I’m editing The Flying Toe Stomp, rewriting its style and grammar, and having difficulty finding the story. The original tale was a mishmash of my experiences, and the result was not what I expected. I tried to sort through the rubble over the last couple of days to find anything worth saving.
I tried to move the story away from the fight. When I did that, I realized that not much remained. I have a couple of character sketches and a poorly developed backdrop. Without the fight, I might as well chuck it into the kennel and let the dogs sort it out. If I leave the fight in, then I need to add something. There’s a conflict but no real conflict. Roger needs to be better developed, and he needs to create the conflict. This could be the standard David and Goliath contest, the quick-tongued kid (Charlie) against the bully (Roger). Yes, I know, boring. But I have to start somewhere. And that somewhere involves more thought and less writing about writing. I need to scribble and gaze through the rips I tear in the paper.
I’ve been disappointed by my output lately. I know I don’t need to write every day, that quality is more important than quality (okay, I never said that). What I did say was that if I missed a day of writing, I missed a day and the world would go on spinning. I expected this acceptance to alleviate the pressure to write, and it did. What I discovered, however, was that while the burden wasn’t there, I still wrote every day out of habit, which was my plan from the beginning. (I spoke about the Talmud, which taught that waking up early every day for three months created a habit of waking up early, which was difficult to break.) The day now doesn’t feel complete until I finish packing clay on words.
Tonight is no different. After playing video games with Julie, and hunting for late-night bugs (I found none), I knew I’d lie down, cuddle with my laptop, and write. I don’t have much to show for the evening, but at the least, this time had me thinking about my story again, which is what I need to do before continuing to edit it. I need an order of original thought and a side of hours to myself. I’ll get the hours this weekend when I accompany Julie to Palm Springs for her residency retreat. Now all I have to do is locate that original thought. I know I put it around here somewhere.
I try hard to hide depth in concise obscurity. There I go again, writing a well-formed first sentence with no personality. I’m losing my voice, my favored meandering style, in the name of conciseness and abstract imagery. I wrote the following anecdote with a concise and morbidly skinny style. I’ve grown sick of writing in this manner. I’ll present you with the two versions, one stilted and precise, and the other freewheeling and long-winded.
Version 2:
My back hurts. I don’t think God intended me to grow this tall. I’m pushing six feet three inches, and I feel every inch along my back. When I signed up for this height, they never told me about the pain. It was probably in the small print along with disclaimers of liability and choice of law. I did find a cure for backaches. When I lifted weights—this was almost a year ago when I could poke out the eyes of an unsuspecting passerby with a well-timed flex of my arm—my back stopped hurting. The pain returned when I fell off the chrome-plated, clanging, groaning wagon. I know the gym is good for me, but I have trouble turning that thought into attendance.
When I was ten years old, I was confident that (1) I controlled the universe; and (2) the universe was designed for my enjoyment. Magic was common in the many fantasy novels I read, and it was only natural that since the characters in these books manipulated the world around them, I, who was the center of my universe, should have similar powers. I started practicing the magic I found in my favorite book: will something to happen, speak a word, and it happens.
To test this magic, I lay on my living room’s red rug, stared at the stucco ceiling, which looked like the torched icing of a meringue pie, and prepared. At ten, I was average height as measured by the school’s lines organized by height. I never thought much about my height, but when asked about how tall I wanted to be (this was a surprisingly common question), I settled on the answer of six foot three. Nobody I knew was that size, but it was a nice round number, and I like how the three was half of the six (my mind was simple like that—something that hasn’t change much over the years). I closed my eyes, placed my arms at four and eight o’clock, and breathed. I imagined my arms, legs, and torso stretching. I thought to myself, “six foot three, six foot three.” The sounds around me quieted: the television in the next room, the traffic noises, which seeped through a living room window wedged open with a book, the whispering of my sisters, until only my mind’s voice, a guttural, sleepy sound, remained repeating my mantra. When I felt my hands tingle and gold energy flow through my body, I breathed one word: “grow.” I stood up and shook out my relaxed limbs. I ran to the mirror to document the changes, but nothing was different. I felt gypped.
I grew through the years a bit more than the boys around me. By the time I graduated high school, I was six-feet tall. By college, I settled into my height. Whenever I think back on my meditation, I attempt to determine if it was real, or a happy daydream. The only proof I can offer is the evidence of my unnatural growth: my arms, legs, and neck are long and thin as if stretched like pulled taffy, and my wrist bones look like hardened twigs.
Version 1:
My lower back is indignant because God never intended me to grow this tall. I push six feet three inches and my levered weight strains my back. I cure the pain by strengthening my muscles, but I am not a good patient, and months have passed since I took my medicine.
I’m ten years old, definite in my understanding that I control a universe designed for my enjoyment. I read many fantasy novels and understand the mechanics of magic. If you will something to happen and speak the word, it happens, magically. Nothing’s simpler. I lie on the living room’s red rug, stare at the stucco ceiling, which looks like the torched icing of a meringue pie, and prepare.
I crave a test of my powers, an opportunity to validate my significance. In school, they line us up by height and place me in the middle. I’m comfortable with my height, but I settle on a height of six foot three as an experiment. Nobody I know is that size, but it sounds right. I close my eyes, my arms at four and eight, and breathe. I concentrate and will myself to grow. I imagine my arms, legs, and torso stretching. I think, “six foot three, six foot three.” The television sounds in the next room mute, the traffic noises, which seep through the window wedged open by a book, quiets, and I hear only my mind’s voice, a guttural sound repeating my mantra. When my hands tingle and I feel golden energy flowing through my body, I breathe the word “grow.” I stand and shake out my relaxed limbs and run to the mirror. Nothing changed from the morning.
Many years pass and I move back through the line. I’m six feet when I graduate high school, and by college, I settle into my height. I think back on my meditation and attempt to determine if it was real, or a happy daydream. But as in everything, there is a price for my growth. My arms, legs, and neck stretch like pulled taffy, and my bones thin to hardened twigs.
The baristas know me. If you’re not a coffeehouse regular, you might now know what a barista is. A barista is the giver of vivacity, the dealer of happiness, the maker of coffee. Unlike the instant or drip variety, there is an art to making coffee, and this art involves grinding, tamping, extraction (timing is very important), steaming, and blending. I’ve thought hard about buying an espresso machine for the Castle, and I’m still of two minds. One says go for it, David. We’re talking coffee, whenever you want it without having to leave the sanctity of the castle. Think of the high-quality espresso you’ll serve with dessert during dinner parties. The other says, think of the possibilities (and likelihood) of overdoing it. Think of the expense and the cleaning responsibilities. And, for the record, you’ve never even had a dinner party.
The barista punches in my order when it’s my turn. Tall mocha with whip, she says. I hand her payment, she smiles, and I slide to the delivery deck. She starts the steamer and heats up my milk. How are you doing, I ask and divert my eyes. The thought of a conversation becomes too much. I realize I should have thought about that before speaking, but it’s out there. She answers, Good, you? She tamps the grinded coffee beans and starts the espresso machine. I decide against the conversation and stay silent.
I’m babbling incoherently, because I gobbled down a tall mocha for the first time in four days, and the sugar and caffeine took to my system too fast, overwhelming my powers to understand and write coherently.
The exterminator is drilling holes and injecting poison into the castle as I write. Poison drips along the outside walls, almost as if essential juices were leaking from the Castle. He expects the ants to die over the next three to four weeks, and you know what that means: I have another month of ant hunting. What joy! I know you’re questioning the sport involved in hunting ants, especially since the carpenter variety that infests the Castle moves slowly. I’ll outline the (substantial) challenges: (1) lugging my chosen weapon, the vacuum cleaner, up and down the stairs between the different levels of the Castle; (2) positioning the suction devices (either the hand held or under the push part) to suck up the ants when they run for the little crevices; and (3) remaining calm when a flying ant (the proto-queen) darts from nowhere and almost hits me in the head.
I spend too much time writing about silly happenings. Did you know that in Seattle, Chinese restaurants have the highest incident of cockroaches? (And here I thought nothing good would come of the carpenter ants invading the Castle.) It’s not because the Chinese restaurants are dirtier, it’s because the Chinese restaurants import their vegetables from places where there are cockroaches, such as the east coast. I wanted to convey that bit of trivia to prove a point about writing. If you’re anything like me (and I hope you’re not for everyone’s sake), you would find that fact more interesting than, say, writings about the broken aspects of my personality. Now, that fact alone is interesting but not story-worthy. Additional research and a story based on the tidbit might be interesting. (I imagine a Chinese restaurant owner trying to explain his cockroach problem to long-time customers. “Oh, no, bug-ologists come here and eat. I told bug-ologists put sign in van so customers not confused. A-okay, no problem.”)
I know research would help me write just as personal experiences help—which is why I try to experience something interesting everyday, instead of sitting around and playing with my toes. I know from experience that television and movies are bad sources. I’ve been watching them for years and except for poorly thought out plot points and characterizations, nothing has worn off on me. I once thought of actually researching using books. Do you remember long ago when I had this idea for writing a story about goblins based on the experiences of Native Americans? I went out and purchased a few books, and I haven’t touched them. The length and time I’d need to read them overwhelmed me. I’m a bad researcher.
Let me qualify that statement. It’s not that I’m a bad researcher; it’s more that I’m an indifferent, lazy researcher. I’ve been thinking of hitting the books again. What’s keeping me away is a concern: after devoting all this time to researching and planning, what happens if I sit down to write and nothing comes out, like what happened with my science-fiction story. I need to give this more thought (in other words, I’m too tired to continue writing).
I’m doing it again. I’m drinking coffee early on a school night hoping not to pay yesterday’s price. Last night, I slept fitfully, not falling asleep until around five in the morning. I took catnaps from five until I woke at eight. I’m not sure what to blame. I have so many targets: yummy caffeine, television (mmm…how do I live without television?), beautiful view from the hotel room, time difference, general desire not to attend class (it was worse than I expected).
An apology: When I wrote yesterday’s tidbit, I intended it to end where it ended. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but writing longer stories with plot circles is outside my talent. I did spend time debating how to end it. While the “ending” is ambiguous, it does offer a bit of hope (not the hook that Chuck hoped for).
The caffeine fights my fatigue and loses. I need more sleep. I plan an early dinner and normal (for east coast) sleep.
Enough of this babbling, let’s see where my story instincts fail me today. It didn’t take me as far as I had hoped. I might continue this story—when I find energy and can figure out where to take it. I had hoped to hit 2k words today, but even counting last night’s incoherent babbles, I’m not breaking 1k. I’ll accept failure today.
Bugs, I dream of something greater, not the exterminators’ greatness, even though we celebrate their exterminations of millions, but the genius of revealing for others. Do I have the vision? Do I have the voice? Or am I a low-budget sitcom writer who knows the show won’t last but keeps writing dull dialogue and bad stage direction.
I enjoy life outside the page. And yet I want more. I walk the streets and wish to capture my feelings and keep them with me all the days. I stop and jot down notes. A cemetery quiet overtakes me, a place where peace is not an abstraction. It smells of life in a place where they bury death beyond sight. A bird tweets over what remains.
I know in ten minutes or 400 words, this feeling will leave me and I will begin looking for life’s next distraction. I will find it as I always do, and it will be chewed and broken as it always is.
I wander through fields covered in spiders’ webs and my thoughts stick. My impressions are not anecdotes; I search for the even paths, and crack cinderblocks in my wake. I chortle words and dream of enslaving ideas. The springs open before me but when I lower myself, I find only emptiness and angst.
I race against dripping clocks and I let them win.
I walk through grass filled with daffodils that blight the greenness. Ducks build monuments. What do I build? Organized, thoughtful prose, an argument or insight I do not. I want to pray at the feet of the monsters that inhabit my mind and submit to their wills. Who am I to declare the world my playground when the seesaws never bend for me?
I’ve done motions, gone through them as if they could amount to real expression. What is my expression? Where do I find it and what is its worth? How can I say when staring at those who manage to skip oxygen and breathe words?
I study genius and grasp its hem. My stares are jealous and unforgiving. The taste of unfairness grates my bones. I reach but can’t touch. I know I’d burn myself if I did. Who would trade happiness for burns? I feel the walls, and they are loose like an old man’s teeth. But dare I push?
I dwell on this often. I must hope beyond all I know to hope to reach something. It won’t happen. It never happens.
Instead of story writing today, I decided to write about how I plan to write about storytelling. I’ve probably hit upon these at one time or another, but I wanted to start a list I can refer to when feeling down or hitting walls. I doubt this will cure my blocks, but I figured it couldn’t hurt (much).
Principals:
1. Find Emotion. Fiction writing isn’t computer programming. Readers want to feel. Instead of grasping at clever and cute, I will drag readers into a “more meaningful” part of myself. It’s either that or I’ll become really, really clever (right around the time I become really, really handsome).
2. Writing Takes Time. Everything worth doing takes time to do. I will spend hours writing every day, and I won’t worry about quality or success. Routine and volume will be my goal.
3. Show Experience (Even if Feigned). I will write about experiences that people don’t have, even if I have to make them up.
4. Forget the Audience. I will not worry about the audience at the early stage of writing. Lately, I focused on polishing my writing before I finish writing it. As I’ve said before, fuck the audience, at least for the early drafts. While I’ve taken to heart your critiques for turning my mud piles into lopsided vases, I have to avoid forgoing my voice or aim too early in the process.
5. It’s OK to Crumple. I will write studies of characters or stories, and not concern myself with quality; I will also crumple these studies or even whole drafts when I don’t feel its worth continuing. I might return to them, or I might not. Writing is a process of failures.
6. Respect the Audience. While forgetting the audience in the beginning, I won’t forget to polish my story for them at the end, even if it means major rewrites. I know it’s hard to look beyond my glowing brilliance, especially when my brilliance rarely glows, and is almost never brilliant.
7. Inspiration follows Dedication. I won’t wait for inspiration to strike to write. I will create my own inspiration or forsake inspiration for perspiration (ugh, I did try to stay away from that cliché).
8. Yummy Caffeine. Caffeine is a catalyst that increases my concentration and butt-to-chair stickitude. I will drink much of it.
9. Writing. I won’t talk about writing until I actually write something worth talking about. (Yeah, I thought it was ironic also.)
I overreach for dedication and burn my thumb on the frozen spacebar.
I sometimes imply that my writing is akin to a brain extraction; but lately I have found that I might have need of the pieces I have removed.
“My thoughts should gush faster than my fingers dance.” My internal editor disagrees and he controls the spigot, which isn’t necessarily bad. While he restricts ideas, he also organizes stray thoughts into meaning and forms remarkable phrases from ordinary cud. The paper becomes my medium of thought, and the editor becomes the thought’s facilitator. I dream of a day when the spigot opens and releases genius. That won’t happen. While abundant, well-formed, free-flowing thoughts would make my job easier, I accept that the world offers nothing that is free or effortless. I will always have to scrape the thoughts from my windshield, and recognize the ones that don’t melt in my hands.
I sometimes ask for more crap to sift with the refreshing thought: “the more dirt I sift, the greater the potential for golden specks.”
Caffeine scours my veins and I ache. I wonder sometimes who pushes whom in this quest.
Terror rises on lakes of fire. I don’t understand why lakes should burn; I’m not against the idea. Terror rises and dries on the evening winds.
Julie and I met Shamin, Julie’s psychiatry-doctor friend, for dinner and drinks last night. After we finished dinner at a wonderful bistro in Freemont (I haven’t even begun to explore the areas of Seattle), we went to a club downtown to listen to a jazz quartet. We went to this particular show because the leader of the quartet played cello (yes, a very strange instrument for a jazz band), and Shamin plays cello with a more traditional group.
The quartet was, well, interesting, in the weakest sense of that word. We thought individually all the players were good, but the selections were very modern and more disturbing than entertaining. The combination of saxophone and cello didn’t work for me. Both instruments play in the same range, and when they played the same notes (which they did often), the resulting sound was disappointing because it covered up the beauty of the individual instruments without creating a better sound.
Much of the music they (or, I think, the cello player) wrote was abstract. While I’m not much of a music aficionado, I do try to listen and understand composition. I think the potential for great music was there but they missed it (at least for me). For example, they played this piece called “Inner Turmoil.” The sounds were unexpected and daunting, but while there was much turmoil, there was no arc, no attempt to resolve the turmoil or explain its presence. Because I enjoy stories (in writing, movies, and music), when a song exhibits naked, unchanging emotions, I grow bored. Perhaps I’m overanalyzing it, but the song (and by extension the band) while challenging, left too much on the table.
I did have a point to this story: I’m beginning to think of my abstract exercises in that manner. As I continue to reach into that reservoir, I’m seeing that I should use it as a place to experiment and exercise. I have to remember that it is never in and of itself interesting. The interest comes with what I do with what I find buried in its midst.
Exercise: Throw phrases onto a page and cultivate what sticks without mistaking the residue for actual writing. It’s an exercise in excess, or, more particularly, new material for discussion (of the internal, I’m-really-not-an-insane-person type). When I’m throwing the tidbits onto the page, there is no rush, no editing, and no worries. All of that occurs afterwards.
If I possessed willpower, you would not see this musing until after April 1. As I’ve discussed before, I find myself writing to post instead of writing to write. Yeah, this is going to be one of those life-changing thingies that will probably result in me altering my ways for a couple of days, only to return to my normal, consternated writings afterward. With that said, it might be safer if you put the computer down and stepped away from the computer.
I am halfway through Jonathan Lethem’s excellent essay collection, The Disappointment Artist. Julie recommended this book because a reviewer wrote that the book delved into Lethem’s psyche and explained his inspiration for writing. Julie knows (because I bitch about it so often) that I’m trying to understand my own inspiration and writing process, and I enjoy reading other writers’ thoughts on this subject. The essays do reach those questions, but are mostly about Lethem’s childhood experiences, and their effect on his development as an author.
His essays leverage his wonderful storytelling to advance his conclusions. They are essays in the traditional sense: applying experience, reasoning, and research to develop an argument. They break down logically and are a decent (although not long) length—long enough to get the theme across without belaboring it. Using his writing as a guide, I’ve decided on an experiment. Instead of posting a day’s worth of barely edited writings, I will write longer essays with fully developed themes and original thoughts. (Yes, Chuck, even from here I see you nodding your head knowingly because you’ve done this on Liminality since its inception.)
Seeing as this is an experiment, I’m not sure how it will turn out. What I do know, however, is that if I post the parts I have written already, I will never finish. For me, posting is the reward. I love the moment where I release my writings into the wild. I wait eagerly for any response (which, except for the Nameless One, is rare). I’m OK with that. Just knowing it’s out there is all the salve I need to keep me going. But when I release it, my need to return to the writing diminishes. You would think that rewriting and making the work better would be rewarding in and of itself. But for me it isn’t. It’s hard to explain the psychology behind it, but from much experience, I know that my broken brain works on a minimalist philosophy: get good enough done and be done with it.
There you have it. I will still post my shorter thoughts (like this one), but I’m going to try to finish the longer works before posting. This will probably result in a decrease in frequency of posting but hopefully an increase in quality (even though we’re talking David quality, don’t hold your breath or you’ll turn red and probably pass out). This will not change my writing frequency, which I will continue to do almost every day for a few hours.
I’ll let you know when I change my mind and return to my old, slapdash ways.
Blue. Sight unseen. Voice unheard. Terror. I don’t know what I’m writing here or if anything I write has any or will ever have any value. Why does this involve? Try me. I don’t know.
I’m in a rut. I think single words on the screen equates to depth. I know better than that.
In the quest between writing without thinking and original thought, who the fuck wins?
We’re tiny platforms where crying terror waits as it floats over chocolate. Open mikes over claims of plastic. I see what I write and I write only what I see.
I have yet to find what I am good at instead of what I want to be good at. It’s easy to want and harder to have. Isn’t the fun in pursuing the have? Only if pursuits are achievable and not sad hobbies is it fun.
I greatly fear that I have nothing important to say.
As of late the clocks burned, the black hole questioned, and time travel disappeared. If light is the infinite being then let me live in its stream and watch the universe flow past. Dynasty. Einstein said when an object approaches the speed of light it slows asymptotically to near the speed of light.
Little steps on a long road covered by dreams of failure. Keep going, even if it the steps bring you backwards.
The feelings ride high on ocean ships of spirits. Where did I go wrong? Take what makes you special and specialize. Consternation: does writing make me special? What is special? When is special? What dish am I bringing to the potluck? Jack’s trades? Am I crying over a mother’s milk? Changes and expand.
Random words with meaning only for me. Isn’t that how the world works? What’s wrong with a clichéd world that a hammer couldn’t fix? No skill, raise the rockets and lower the flags. Rhyme and rhythm over meaning: Zap, zap. Brain fried over onions and grease. What to cry. When to dry.
Nonsense left my fingers as I searched for words. I spent the afternoon puking words with little thought, and I spent the afternoon turning the puke into something less messy.
Little things to say, writing the later of nine. Sunglasses here we go. Why the coffeehouse when the wooden boxes. Where are the wooden boxes? The signs of the universe, you decided to go there. I don’t know. The thoughts of lying. Why do people lie? Strange rugs of boxed coordinates. I don’t know what if anything I’m writing about. I’m floating through mind’s eye and wondering if any words could describe this nothingness. The fat man gazes over his boots and socked feet onto the street where rainbow flags wave.
The coffee goes through me and I don’t think it’s stopping to say anything. Inspiration is miles away from my coddled brain over fried eggs. I’m not seeing where it goes from here. The big game watched on the big screen. Where do I find the huggable character that’ll explain life to me? I don’t even know what he is on this late afternoon day. So here goes everything. What is everything on a day like this? Buy me a frog and I may talk to you. Buy me a cantaloupe and I probably won’t. Isn’t that how life always happens?
All the best ideas appear in showers where writing instruments aren’t available. Why can’t I follow through with good ideas and make them into something. I sit here after a mushroom omelet with all energy sapped away. If you can find the sapper, I’d appreciate it.
Such nonsense.
I want to go home and sleep. I’m willing to admit failure and sleep. Why do I use sleep to cover up my failures? What do I hope to find within the confines of my bed that will push me out to where I don’t want to be? Discipline. It’s what I’m missing and don’t think I’ll ever find with my random wanderings. Such crazy words mixed with pancake batter.
How much easier would it be to put down the keys, to roll over and let life escape through the spaces between my fingers? I think about that a lot. I think about what would happen if I stopped. If this page went quiet, and I ordered cable and spent the evenings and weekends mindlessly escaping from my thoughts, focusing on the tasks and politics of my job, perhaps becoming better at it. This would all disappear: my disappointment in my output, my quality, my stories; my endless search for a voice that probably doesn’t exist; my childhood reveries about a past that I should have had, or thoughts that should have filled my waking moments. It all would vanish into a timeless hole of, “yeah, that was me, back then. I don’t know what I thought back then, but I’m glad I’m not thinking that anymore. You have no idea how much time and battery power I wasted on those thoughts.” I would stop drinking coffee and people would be impressed. I would enjoy what normal people do and leave normal at enough of that.
Of course, there would be moments where I’d glance through a bestseller and grimace, knowing that deep inside myself is a voice that would embarrass the. I would think of stories I would want to tell, and repeat them to those around me for the thirty-thousandth time. They would smile, nod, and think, why does he keep torture himself? I would reach toward my back pocket and try to pull out my Moleskine, only to find the pocket flat. Such possibilities would turn into disappointments at what could have been but isn’t. I would look back to the promises to myself and say, “eh, I’ve failed before and I’ll fail again. What of it?”
Those paragraphs hurt.
I feel all the stories in my empty, lacking in substance and reasons to tell them. I want to say something, to write about anything that will cause people to laugh and feel. I’m drained from saying nothing as if nothingness is itself is a drain on my resources. Try as I might, there is nothing that I want more, or could give up for the last time.
Two-thousand word studies.
I don’t want to hear petty stories about petty lives with adjectives like “petty” strewn along the path. I want to learn about something new or meet interesting people who have something to say about the world around them. I don’t want to read ten-thousand words and find no meaning or answers to a life question. All writings should answer something, even if the reader never thought of the question before. I want to give them something they never had before. I don’t want to write something because I had a clever idea, or something happened to me, and I wondered if I could turn it into a story. I want it to be more than that, more than conveying a moment; I want it to convey an answer.
How can I do any of that? What is it I’m trying to do? At least I’m putting words on the paper and wondering if there’s something valuable about these words. People want to see juxtaposition. They see something in writing that reminds them of themselves, or creates an opportunity to cheer someone on or live in his shoes for a moment. Show the moments. So many words that say almost nothing.
Reach outside yourself and see if there’s anything left, anything you want to say that goes beyond nowhere.
Soap. What’s the question? What’s the conflict? The resolution? The characters? The message? Blankness, existential blankness as if that can have a meaning for me. What is rising from this mess of words? Disorganized, piles of nothingness that I hope will say something but that don’t. Cleverness is left behind and turns of phrases and diction, where do they bring me? Monsters riding on the back of pregnant men.
Take junk and turn it into sculptures. I’m pressing forward, pushing against the masses and trying to find my niche within the crowd. Will they give me space, can I reach out and push everyone around me out of the way and say this is my small area, get the fuck off it? Random words and thoughts like swords pressed into the bellies of homeless men.
Two-thousand word studies.
Angst forms small piles around me. I try not to step in it, but it’s hard to avoid.
Upside down, the brown chair appears to sit on me, leaning comfortably against my elbow and back, and hanging onto the ceiling by four clawed hands. I used to believe that the world was meant to be viewed right side up, but I’ve become a nonconformist. I sit upside down and wait for the world to take me by storm. Nobody rides in on chariots to claim me.
Clouds roll over the sky, paralleling my thoughts of rain. Whoever stole the sun should return it and apologize. I don’t mind thieves, as long as they realize their mistake and return the pilfered item. I had hoped for answers and nothing found me. Perhaps I was hiding when they looked. I do that, hide at times when I don’t want the answer because it might embarrass me.
Looking beyond my words to the meaning and then thinking about the meaning is what’s keeping me from writing well. I spew initial thoughts out there, but I’m afraid to reexamine them, analyzing them for more than just pleasing musings, but meaningful and in-depth analysis that will bring me closer to truths.
I know I’ll be sick to my stomach this evening, too much concentrated caffeine in too short a period. But for now, I will abuse the power of that most spectacular of herbs and try to force something out without thought. Thought has kept me away from reaching parts of myself. I’m typing as fast as I can and hoping to break through the barriers by not thinking and analyzing and discovering parts of myself that are hidden in closets and under beds.
“Why do you have so many fears?” she asked. I think she was interested in the answer but I wasn’t interested in the question.
“I don’t fear many things.”
“What about heights and thinking and feeling? Those sound like fears to me.”
“They aren’t fears—they don’t stop me from doing things. I climbed all the highest churches in Europe. And I write, which forces me to think and feel. What else do you want from me?”
“I don’t want anything from you.” She lied. Everyone wants something from me, and she’s no exception.
Today's crap is bad. I try not to give warnings, but if you have anything better to do--like cut your toenails or count the grains in your hourglass--I suggest you do it and not waste time with the following words.
I’m back at it. I sit in a construction area and wait for them to build something. It’s not in me. Foamy inspiration refuses to assault me, and I have no alternate plans. Backhoes push up the earthly remains of earthworms and bugs, and I feel my iron-girded resolve under its shovel. Where is the time for grass to grow? Hoses and soap buds move beyond my reach. I have nothing—that’s a word I’m playing with, tossing it about as if I could create its meaning through dedication, thoughts that make little sense, and words that if I translated would sound more like guttural growls than wishful thinking. Balls of light hang from overhead and I wait for memories to assail me. They will, with a little prodding and a little caffeine, and time. My fingers, moving of their own accord, will begin to think on their own, and images will coalesce before them. I hope to identify with them and want to share those words . . . or not.
A penny sits on its head on the retched green floor. Showing tails, that is.
I’m back downtown. It was a mistake coming here. My coffee smells vaguely of sweat, and I wonder whose sweat. Little is done today except for the monkey’s pushing of keys. If I walk up a mountain, should I slide or jump down?
Who are my influences? Do I know what an influence is? I read about how artists (I almost mistakenly said “other artists”) are influenced by authors, movies, strange people walking down the street. In a way, I am as well, although it is at a lower level of consciousness. I don’t think through what I read. I don’t analyze it for influences or for how it changes me. I appreciate it as all readers appreciate good writing, but I don’t delve deeper. My only depth is jealousy, a jealousy firmly planted in its genius. My writing changes for a moment as my voice takes on the style of the great work. But to say that the changes are for good is laughable.
I need influences and analysis, which brings me back to my needs for original thought. I am going to stop calling it that, OT. There is no such thing as original thought because people have thought all thoughts worth thinking under the sun. What I try to do is pick up their pieces and hawk them as my own.
The danger? I run into a fire sale on thoughts and nobody wants to buy.
And so I struggle. I make out my struggles as if they were epic, as if the whole world waited in balance to see if I could push out a few more words. If only the world revolved around me as it does in my own small mind.
Struggles. A gaggle of monsters walk into the house.
The world spins and I try to slow it with my hand, but the continents scrape my hands raw.
Juggernauts walk the streets. They sit for a spot of tea before they continue to reek havoc on the hard-hat population. I give up and walk the streets.
I’m back from obscurity. I sit in a comfortable leather chair and prepare myself for an epiphany.
Instead of talking, why don’t you write?
I’m drained today, more drained than I thought I would be after yesterday’s efforts. Words come to me but ideas remain out of my reach. Nothing runs through my mind. How about I tell a simple tail about a mouse.
Jimmy the mouse lived in the walls of a brownstone in Brooklyn. He lived with his small family, who chewed through the wall. His ancestors had made a nice home for Jimmy and his family, and he included them in his prayers every night. Living in the house with Jimmy was a young couple and a small boy. When they first moved in, his family had been up in paws, afraid that they would bring with them a dog or cat that would ruin their run of the house. The family didn’t have any pets, and after a few weeks, the mice settled down and chewed contently through the wood, enlarging their home in the walls.
“You have an idea?”
“Yes,” she said. Her face lit, her green eyes grew, and she breathed in small, shallow breaths.
“Well?”
“Peanut butter loves jelly.”
“And?”
“I mean it loves jelly.”
“This is brilliant?”
Why does it say nothing? I’ve had enough in the way of caring, but now I’m in the way of doing. Zilch, there’s nothing here for me. Why can’t I come up with anything to say? I don’t understand where it’s going to take me. It doesn’t make any sense! Why would I come here, spend the whole day pushing at my brain, only to have it push back, as the balloon against the press of a finger? Consternations piled on consternations. Oh, the pain!
I’ve written so many words and said nothing. Where do we go for the night on the run?
She waited for the bus in the brown enclosure. It was late and she waited for the last bus of the evening. It was cold and she wasn’t dressed for it. She held her pocketbook close, and leaned over the curb to search for the bus. A man stood by the bus stop with her.
Since when do horizons rise over the last of the nights? Do we have to put out the evenings gray to hide from where they came? I wait until the night and then I find that we can do it; we can wave gray waves over buses of night. The flag didn’t move. What is my fascination with waving? I waited and could not be here for here we go there I don’t know. Key is in the night. Why do I care if he had something to tell me? The night’s waiting. I waited for it, but I don’t know.
Such senseless words. I’m typing to say nothing and nothing is said. I’m not frustrated, I just hoped for a better outcome, but I didn’t expect one. I’m like that. I know I want something, as caffeine surges through my veins, but I don’t know what I want. This is pathetic.
All stories have less exciting parts. I have to remember that. I think each part of my story must be exciting or emotional. My only requirement should be that the story moves forward in some way, revealing information or setting the scene, or doing something. Nothing more. Without slower parts, there can be nothing exciting or moving.
Somber lights rise off endless days reaching past and over the shades of night. My wheels spin in a rut. If someone would mind getting out and giving me a push, I’d greatly appreciate it.
The tree flowered pink. Thomas checked the tree everyday for pinkness.
“I just heard. Is everyone okay?”
“Everyone is fine. But my stuff. None of my stuff is fine. I lost it all. My whole life was in there.”
By the time my neighbor Margie called, the fire department had finished their work. It would be another day before the building inspectors declared the remains of the house safe enough for me to pick through the rubble. I grew up in the house and had lived there for the past fifteen years, after inheriting it from my mother when she passed on.
It could have been worse. I could have been in the house when the fire started. The fire department told me that the fire spread so quickly, it was a good thing I wasn’t in the house. The fire followed the wiring in the house, burning in the walls under exploding out into the rooms almost simultaneously. That’s what they told me.
Darkness crept through the woods and was upon me before I realized. What angers me on days like this? What type of day is it?
I’ve grown scared of my own writing. I approach the brink after an hors d’oeuvre of words and pray that I will say something meaningful. I form each word as a potter forms clay, using my fingers to bore a hole that I hope to fill with significance. I remember a time when this was not painful or scary. My memory was never that good. I brave the crossing and wait. There are days when I fall to the side of bitterness, where uncertainty and longing replace my strength. But I live for the other days.
I didn’t always talk in abstraction. I used to really want to say something. I wonder what happened to those times. I should train myself to press the spacebar with my left hand. It is harder than one would think. It reminds me of when I trained myself to use the mouse with my left hand. My right wrist hurt from too many hours of video games, and I switched the mouse to the left side and introduced my left hand to the mouse.
He was tall. She was short. He had short brown hair, or, better, he had cut his brown hair short, to avoid ‘to be.’ It was nice. She sat. He sat. The sun rose early, it set late. The grass was green. The air smelled of corruption. He cuffed his pants. He wore cuffed pants. He was like his cuffed pants, cuffed. I’m throwing it all out there, all the thoughts that make me feel like I say nothing. All the simple responses when taken alone—and that’s how I consider everything, alone—become meaningless.
I stopped playing chess because I found that there were a finite number of openings, and I hated beginnings. I stopped bowling because I found that there was a way to win, and I hate perfection. I started writing because I never had to worry about beginnings and perfections.
It’s not the words that scare me, it’s my need to say something. Let’s try it. I want to introduce Bob—there’s a Bob in every story. He’s lonely and short and very insecure. He’s also the president of a large company, and his loneliness and shortness and insecurity doesn’t come across with others, only in his own mind.
I walk into the meeting room and everyone turns. A guy with a yellow tie near the door laughs. I could have sworn he pointed in my direction before laughing. What is his name . . . Sam-something. He’s huge. Since when did we start hiring giants? They’re not natural. I’ve spoken to HR many times about this. For their bodies to grow that big there must be serious shortchanging going on. And since their other external parts look rather normal, my belief—and I am planning on funding research in this area to justify the change in policy—is that its their brains that are sacrificed.
The giant approaches me. It takes all my willpower not to shrink away. “Sam Weiner, sir. It’s a privilege to finally meet you, sir.” Sam holds out his hand and I shake it. His hand engulfs mine and I lean a bit to the left to ensure I still have a hand. When he lets go, I say, “Glad to have you onboard, Sam. I’ve heard good things about you.” I leave out the part about his laugh. I know he was expecting taller. Everyone always expects taller. But I’m a quick short man, and I use this quickness to take a chair at the far end of the table before I have to measure up against anyone else.
“Let’s get this underway.” I can’t see who said it. My back hurts. I pat my stomach under the table. It’s growing and straining my back. I lean back in my chair and put my hands on my chin. They start talking and the presentation appears on the wall. I wonder if my growing stomach makes me look shorter. The room is standing room only, and I try to measure the people who are standing to see if their girth makes a difference in the appearance of their height.
Okay, I threw down a moderately uninteresting character with even more moderately uninteresting words. I have to actually do something with that now. This is where I usually crash and burn.
Crashed and burned I did. But now I have more time, flying on an airplane to visit Julies. Short visions of what should be in my head.
There was a time when I thought I knew truth. I would spit that truth into faces and laugh at the ridicule. What is in a ridicule but a fear of truth?
Zonkers. Tried and yellow truths over thick globs of phlegm. Where is the latest of late? When was the last time I made sense? Was there ever such a time? An old man in a small boat fishing against the sea.
Write about what you know. I don’t know much. I know about corporations and video games. I know about moving and traveling on airplanes. I know about families and loss. I know. I know little. I know my everyday happenings, the minutiae of my thoughts, my underdeveloped theories. I know what I see and what I do. I know about depression and coldness. I should feel but I lock up my feelings and let them out only on special occasions when the fisherman’s hook digs deep into my heart. I know about nothingness. Is there a purpose for everything? Tipper tapper. I type words with no hope of meaning. I wander into the deep end knowing I can’t tread water forever. Patience is a virtue, but after four years of patience, it becomes less a virtue than an excuse.
This is where I head and what I know. Learn something new!
The soothsayer approaches the king with nine books of prophecy. The soothsayer negotiates by burning six books. The king receives three books of prophecy for the price of nine. He offers her anything to recreate the other six, but she does not relent.
I can’t even tell myths properly. Dementia must be setting in.
Today is a day of empty thoughts and emptier writings. My mind spins in circles, and only circles appear on the paper as if drawn by sharpened compasses. I have no stories to tell. I cage words and they demand payment. Inflation is a bitch. What if I have no great book in me? I see you Carl, lurking in me these last few weeks. You know you are a lucky demon. If I didn’t love you, I would have thrown you out years ago.
There’s nothing quite like the smell of summer during spring. Glancing through my last few story fragments, I find little worth saving. I have to get out of the funk. It feels like my years of consternation while in Houston, where I’d sit in the bucks of stars and type complaints. I complain too much. It’s the Brooklyn in me, the Brooklyn and the Jew. I haven’t run out of things I want to say, I’ve run out of ways to say it. I keep telling myself that I’m transitioning, moving from one style to another. I like to lie to myself. It makes me feel better.
First step: get over the boredom. I need to accept the boredom as a technique. The fatigue is not helping. I’m tired of writing. I feel like I need a break and I know if I take the break, I might not return. It won’t happen, of course. I’m not going to take the break, only wish I could and continue to torture myself. I have yet to take this beyond my experiences. I wonder if I am capable. I don’t see things in my heads. Actually, I do.
I let the couch surround me. I close my eyes slowly, watching my eyelids cover my vision like window shades. My breathing slows and I enter my room. The room is round with white walls and a spherical ceiling. I walk across the thick black rug and the strands sneak between my toes, massaging my foot with each step. I walk to the black reading chair and oversized ottoman in the middle of the room. I recline in the chair and swing my legs over the ottoman. I reach for the white mug of steaming mocha on the iron-wrought table next to the chair. I suck some of the whipped cream to create a hole through which I drink the mocha. I place the mug back on the table and a thin layer of whipped cream reforms over the hole. I look through the two circular windows on the spherical wall in front of me. The room darkens as I watch the night sky through the windows until the windows become my eyes filling my vision with the nightscape. Calmness descends over me and then everything goes black.
I need to see things in my head before I write, like the athlete who pictures her performance before beginning. It’s an exercise in imagination and creation, similar to my throwing of words onto the page without thought to warm up.
Try and trial. Imaging the twilight setting. He makes an argument. I foreswore logic years ago. Present reasoning and storytelling. What? Such difficulty, said over the evening capitals. Silence rises over terrifying obstacles. Tell the story. What stories do I have to tell? Research. A how-to on research. I need the tools but I lack them. Silence. Richness. I’ve said nothing and lots of words of fears and consternations. So much wasted ink! Forget original thoughts and cleverness. This hurts—this emptiness hurts. Where is my inspiration? I feel it escaping me. Green round table. Wants. Farts.
I can’t even say it.
I want to say something beautiful. All I say is useless. It’s the saying something that I’m having problems.
Nothing has happened and all the words I throw against the wall slide down and leave a greasy residue.
I am working on my yogurt story, but I grew frustrated rewriting the first three paragraphs countless times. I know I should move on but I haven’t found the hook yet. I’ve managed, over the course of a lazy Julie Sunday, to write another three paragraphs and not move the story one iota past where it was on Friday. I’ll keep working on it in secret, so I can spring it on you and you can bask in its unmitigated beauty. Wouldn’t that be great? For now, I’ll share random tidbits that are not related to yogurts. As you will tell, it was a difficult day.
Humming along the darkened paths, the eyeballs riveted to the frames looking through cloudy streets to what wasn’t there. My words find constipation in the form of tight black balls behind eyeballs that haven’t found anything to look at in weeks. Where did the words go? When did the imagery of twilight decide to hide during the weekend? I think only of days past and look at the growth of trees during springtime as if shot by a mutant ray. I breathe deeply and search for serenity and find only hard walls and layered dirt.
What is wrong with my mind that my focus is gone from the light? I have nothing to say and no way of saying it. That should be my mantra for days like this, perfect days, where the summer awaits.
Nothing is going on in there. I’m too anxious. Where is my inspiration? My dedication? My, let’s get this going because I have somewhere I want to get going to? This is enraging me. I’m enraged.
Here I sit waiting for my fingers to make something happen. I’m getting used to this waiting. Over the last few days, I’ve waited out inspiration in a proverbial battle of wills. The silent echoes in my brain were the clear winner as I sat, staring at the screen, writing little except pithy statements like:
from yesterday’s entry (not posted):
It’s late and I’m lying in bed wondering why I didn’t write today. My rut continues. Fuck ruts. I’m going to write something. Anything. And that is why you fail. I must meditate first. (Har!) That should help me.
My bones ache and my muscles scream. I have no stories.
or Monday’s brilliance (not posted):
I’m afraid of silence. I attempt to fill each moment with distractions and unremarkable remarks to hide from my thoughts. I speak in luscious description to hide that I don’t have anything to say. In reading an article about Edward Albee, playwright of, among many other plays, the 1966 play, “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf,” the author describes Albee’s writing methods: he allows his subconscious to do most of the heavy lifting. Albee doesn’t write until he feels his subconscious has finished with the characters and story. He uses an exercise to determine when it’s finished: he’ll imagine a scene with the characters outside of the story he wants to tell. If he can create the dialogue with little effort, then he knows he’s ready to write the play. If only my subconscious wanted to work that hard.
My writing feels incomplete because it is. I know almost nothing about any aspect of the character, except, I’ll pretend, the narrator, who is always me at some stage in my life. Even writing what I thought would be an essay on my writing is turning out to be nothing, since there is nothing here I want to talk about. Talk about frustrating!
I talked briefly about a Yogurt story I was working on. I’m no longer working on it. I’m not working on much of anything. I had a story idea as I drove into work today. I wanted to write a story about a lazy man, his lazy family, and his decision, at the end, to get up and do something to rid himself of his laziness. Naturally, the thing he does is rob a bank. It is this twist that makes it a story, as opposed to another, in a long line of boring, David’s life stories. Of course, now that I put it in synopsis form, the chances I’ll write it have dropped asymptotically to zero.
Last night, as I tried to sleep with my eyes open, I thought about Kurt Vonnegut’s short stories. He uses lots of characters and an interesting (if somewhat repetitive) setting. His stories aren’t much longer than mine are, but he manages to say something in them. I want to say something as well. And I want to introduce more characters, more complexity, more something.
My initial try at writing the bank robbery story was a failure. I had the idea, I even dreamed up some of the interactions between the main character and his family (which would form the first layer of laziness). When it came time to put some of those thoughts into words, I balked (balking is to stop short or refuse to deal with something; it’s not just a baseball term as I thought).
New paragraph starts here. What I figured I’d do today is throw down lots of words. This is something I’ve not done in a while. I’m not worried about the word count (although I am checking it for this entry). I’m more worried about the time I spend tapping away. I don’t think that I’ve given myself enough time lately. I’ve described this feeling before. When I get in a funk (and this is, by at least my definition, a major funk), I feel like there’s a large wall in front of me, and as I throw myself against it, I run against it and bounce off, or fall as I try to scale it. Unable to get over or through, I give up, throw down a few paragraphs to give the illusion of pain, and forget about writing for the day, satisfied that I did something to justify my writing aspirations. None of it—the justification, that is—is true, of course. Giving up on writing after a feeble fifteen-minute effort, even if I’m not inspired, is not helping me in my Quest.
After writing that last paragraph, I slipped on a peel. The distraction didn’t last long, but my butt still hurts from the fall. Hell, if it wasn’t for the shot of yummy caffeine I drank before sitting down to write this entry, I would have pulled another two paragraphs-type entry. And, for the record keeper, this still doesn’t qualify as a story. It’s more a consternation about consternations. Ain’t this a hoot?
As I start to write part of the story, an external distraction hits me. I’ve pushed through the low energy part, and while I have lots of energy, the jury is still out on whether I’ll be able to use that energy for anything besides this discussion of energy use. And, yes, I know ‘the jury is still out’ is a terrible cliché.
I managed to create a first scene for this awful robbery story before storming home for a quick bike ride. I’m now back, showered and fed, and hoping that I have a bit left in me for more storytelling. Okay. I wrote the first part. Kind of. I won’t provide any excuses or an explanation. As too many people at work say, it is what it is. I’ll get back into this writing one of these days.
And, yeah, I got a laugh out of the 'part 1' part, too.
Young boys and their plastic trucks. I breathe slowly to control the pain budding in my head. A werewolf hair grows from my arm. I resist ripping it out. It’ll come, the inspiration, eventually. What’s it going to take to get there today? What am I looking for? As long as I keep my eyes closed, it’s under control, the pain that is. Range finding for an emotional blast on a dizzy day where righteousness and a diamond sky rape the land. Without yummy caffeine, my concentration wanders and I search to put one word in front of the next.
Zonkers over easy with a side of potatoes and greasy bread. Warming up to write beats the alternatives—what I’ve been busying myself with lately, viz., sitting around and feeling sorry for myself. I run from the rules of grammar. Let them flee I say to myself standing on the wooden table and flinging my arms wildly. The world as we know it may end, but that’s no excuse for dirty underwear. I take two steps forward and two steps out, over the curb and into the rushing traffic.
Tired eyes and dinged brains. A red number holder with a three-dimensional bend. I’m number 13 today as they fly to Denver to prepare my omelet. Hidden in a corner, the little man walks by. He’s no little man, he’s a boy, two, for accuracy’s sake. The little one grabs what the bigger boy finishes playing with: the hierarchy of school age. If the 5th graders do it, it must be cool. Not so cool, however, when you’re a sixth grader. Where’s my food, I would yell while banging my forks against the table. But I don’t, and it comes.
It’s another beautiful Sunday, and I’m struggling with my latest creation. I drank enough yummy caffeine to get through my morning headache (a first in a long time) and tiredness (probably the cause of the headache). I’m sitting in an espresso joint trying to finish my thought. The problem, of course, is that I don’t know what the thought is, which is hamstringing my writing attempts.
An ode to my problem with middles: Here I am with a splendid idea for a story. I think, sure, here it is, this will allow me to write a good story: waiting in line, scared of a mouse, loud neighbors, pink sweaters, and the latest, floating yogurts. I know the main twist. I’m not worried too much about the characters since the narrator will be me (surprise), and the second character (since I don’t know how to write stories with more than two characters) will be someone I know.
I write the first part. Beginnings are great. I throw out some clever thoughts I’ve had, the characters start coming together. The setting is described lovingly, and then, then I get to where something is supposed to happen. I hadn’t planned for something to happen—my twists rarely involve action—but I know that I can’t tell a story unless something happens. It’s funny how that works, how stories need a conflict to create interest. Somewhere around here, I stop writing for the day. Whatever inspiration or liquid courage allowed me to get that far runs out, and I close the computer and decide to put off the conflict for another day.
Most times when I put off a problem, it doesn’t solve itself. I don’t come back reinvigorated and knowing what is going to happen. Most times, I come back to the same state as I left the story, at a crossroads with no idea of where to take it. Even here, as I write this short essay, I arrive at the moment of answers, and what do I have to share but consternations about how there are no answers, how even if there were, I wouldn’t be able to come up with any because I’m stopped up, filled to the gills with my own bullshit.
It’s not always a problem with conflicts and answers. There are times when the idea is fully developed and I know where I expect it to go, but when I sit down, I don’t want to write it or tell that story. The disillusioned space ship captain (USS Lucille) is an example of that. I had an idea for the story (the captain was disillusioned with the military, like my pediatrician was disillusioned with medicine), and he flies through space with a rookie, and they encounter problems. I started piling on new ideas, such as how the political system had changed, and when I had all of that in mind (including a failed love interest), I didn’t have the energy to write it. Something overtook me, as happens with fully formed but unrealizable works, and refused to let me put the words together, one in front of the next, to tell the story.
Why am I telling you this? I find myself at the former point in my floating yogurt. As I said previously (or I think I said but probably didn’t—I do that, imagine things I thought I had done but didn’t do, or did with someone but not who I was thinking of), Andrea will levitate and turn the narrator’s world view, everything he held dear (I planned to add more support to show him as a rational, logical (i.e., David in college) character) into rotten fruit. Or something like that. And, after I had done that, I planned to either have the whole thing turn out to be a rotten joke, or show how he becomes a devotee—how, if god showed himself (to use an analogy), there would be no disbelievers. How can one not believe what they see? Faith becomes meaningless. People don’t have faith that the sun will rise in the morning. They know it will—and if it doesn’t, something bad, bad must have happened. You can (using my definition) only have faith in something that’s not provable.
So, here I am, instead of continuing my yogurt story, I’m bitching and complaining, and trying to come to terms with why I’m bitching and complaining and not writing. Yeah, I’ll stop now and open the story and see if I can move it in the direction I blabbed about above.
I did just that. I sat down with the story, spent about 20-inspired minutes adding and changing, and then arrived at the final line I wrote last time. Added another paragraph, and then started surfing the web. Notice the dedication. It’ll come . . . eventually.
This afternoon is beautiful again. There have been plenty of days like this, days where I woke up to rain and clouds, only to find the sun poking through fluffy clouds by late afternoon, the type of day that will find me rushing home for a quick ride on the bicycle before nighttime.
Sundry. Vacuous. Throwing words out there, trying to see what’ll stick to my fuzzy brain. Walking in the sun. Rays of green. Triangles of compassion. Settling for less. Circles and squares.
Pickup sticks
An artist dressed in purple holds a green-painted cylinder over a spotless, yellow bathroom rug. “Art,” he says, and pulls the mirrored cap off the cylinder. Purple pickup sticks fall from the cylinder and scatter across the yellow rug. The artist waves both hands by way of demonstration and bows his head. One portly man in the small crowd claps sardonically; others cover their mouths and whisper to their neighbors.
The artist bends down and picks up a stick without disturbing any of its neighbors. “Art,” the artist explains, “is fleeting.” Some in the crowd laugh, most shake their head. As the artist goes about his business of picking up the sticks one by one without disturbing the stick’s neighbors, most in the crowd lose interest and leave, walking toward other exhibits. A few remain and watch him move lightly around the round rug in search of the next stick.
His technique is flawless and he holds in his left hand a bundle of purple sticks. When only three sticks remain, the remaining people in the crowd clap softly. He finishes the final sticks and releases the sticks into the cylinder. “Art is cyclical,” he says and bows at his waist. He closes the cylinder and sits cross-legged in the center of the rug, his eyes closed and the green-painted cylinder resting in his lap. After five minutes, he stands up and holds the green-painted cylinder over the yellow rug. “Art,” he says.
They called him Mole. He was four foot ten and had an overdeveloped brow. Kids can be cruel. Adults are crueler.
I feel the dice rattling around in my head. It’s the emptiness that keeps me from achieving anything.
Throwing, tossing, drawing, spacing words on the page in the hopes of finding something to say. I wanted to talk about Mole, but I realized I have nothing to say about him, no way for me to make him a hero, which is what I wanted to say about him. He’s a four foot ten hero. But I’m not good at making heroes. I’m only good at making pathetic anti-heroes—I wouldn’t even go that far. They aren’t “anti” in any good way. They’re anti in the most basic, menial way imaginable.
Wow. I’m down on myself. I wrote something yesterday, but I didn’t post it as the video game world sucked me in. I’m having a lot of fun playing about once a week with Julie and my friends from graduate school. Yesterday was particularly good. We would have played all night if Julie didn’t feel so tired from working too hard lately. I miss her and I worry about her. Her current rotation is wearing her out. Only two and a half more weeks and she’ll hopefully get through this current nightmare.
I’m drained of words. I know, you don’t want to hear more consternations. You want to hear beautifully simple stories. But I can’t think up stories. I’m realizing that now. Take this example: I wanted to tell stories about immortality. I got as far as the “immortality pill,” but as I read more short stories (e.g., Kurt Vonnegut), I read good stories about immortality that go beyond the pill. Sure, it’s there; society is revolutionized by the pill (or drug), but he then takes the next step. What happened because of it? In one story, he shows how crowded the earth has become, and how a grandfather, the patriarch of an increasingly large family, taunts his family by threatening to disinherit members of the family who disobey him. The family lives in a small space (as more people are born, space becomes a priority), and live within fear of their grandfather (or father or great grandfather). They can’t get jobs because the older generation refuses to give up working. In this short story (not a particularly good one—the later stories in Monkeys book were rather disappointing), he shows this world and builds characters and a story around the original thought of immortality. My only original thought (besides the immortality pill—which it turns out is not terribly original), is the incredible risk-adverse behavior the immortal inhabits display. Not that it’s that original, I’m sure, but I should take it and run somewhere.
Those are more words than I thought I could get out today. Sure, they’re complaints, but at least something is better than nothing, right?
The last few days have been difficult for my writing. Anxiety is a steady companion and my output has been nothing but consternations. While I have been writing, I’ve not been posting. It’s not that I’m not more embarrassed about my consternations than normal (although, they are bad), it’s more that I’ve not had the energy or wish to read my writing enough to edit it to a semblance of the English language. After looking through the writing, there isn’t much there worth saving. I’ll throw some of the more interesting tidbits into this musing and call it an edit.
One such section described writing exercises I’m planning to begin (hopefully today), in an effort (1) to write something other than consternations when my story well is dry for the day, and (2) to become hopefully a better writer.
I’ve been waving my hands too much lately. It’s time I did something about this unfortunate behavior. Instead of struggling—or, worse, reworking the sewcrates.com design, which I’ve begun to have an itching to do—I’ve decided to try writing exercises as outlined in Building Fiction: How to Develop Plot and Structure by Jesse Lee Kercheval. I found this book on my bookshelf. I’m not sure when I bought or whether I ever read it (I don’t think I did), but at the end of every chapter is a series of writing exercises, and at this point, where I’m struggling daily to have something to say, I don’t think there would be much harm in more structured writing. I’ll continue to write these useless musings when I have something to say, or work on a story when I grow sick of exercises, but when in Rome, buy lots of souvenirs, or something like that.
Before I jump into the first few exercises, let me go back and mine my last few musings to see if there are any amusingly pathetic parts.
Classic David:
How many fucking times am I going to repeat myself about nothing? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. The fire burned in the fake fireplace. The round tables were dirty. The coffee was sweet with an edge to it. Her expressive eyebrows looked over at me. He thought deep thoughts. She saw disgusting sights. He heard depressing sounds. Where do all of these things come together and when? What are the words—no, fuck the words. What is it I want to say and why can’t I say it? Just, just, just.
I should stick to reading and playing with my fingers. Why won’t the words come out? I have the basis but not the ability, the right but not the advantage. The. Oh, why do I bother? So many consternations. So many angry thought directed at me. I need to get past them, but I don’t know where I’ll end up. Dastardly.
I feel so useless these days. My mind dwells on nothing. It’s a problem. Start somewhere and see where it takes you. Again, this is the painful warming up time. It’ll pass, and then you’ll have to say something—nay, you’ll want to say something. Give it time, it’s going to come. You (meaning me) worry too much about this time. It’ll pass and good things will replace it. Deal with it.
That was a good use of my time, these exercises. I read them, and I’m uninspired to say the least. I know, I should shut up and do them and stop bitching and complaining about elementary. I need beginnings. I want to skip over beginnings and jump into the interesting parts. That’s why I keep getting into trouble. Enough of this trouble. I’m going to suck it up and do something with it. I can’t believe how annoying I am at times (okay, usually).
After the exercise, I went back and continued to pound away at the Yogurt story. It still hasn’t gone anywhere, but I’m beginning to see a conflict that needs a lot more development earlier in the story. I’ll post it just because I haven’t posted much recently. It’s still very much a work in progress.
1. Your favorite books. Explore why you remember each one. Was it a particular scene? A character? A memorable phrase or insight into life?
Ah. At least we start with a question I should spend more time discussing. I’m an easily influenced reader, and some of my favorite books were other people’s favorites that they thrust on me.
Example: My former boss Doug introduced me to David Foster Wallace in the form of Infinite Jest, DFW’s monumental work that kept me alternating between wanting to strangle him, become him, and laughing so hard, I wasn’t sure which. My favorite scene involved the main character, an aspiring tennis player. DFW wrote the scene in a footnote (he loved footnotes). The MC was speaking with his brother, a former aspiring tennis player—their parents ran a childhood tennis school, until the father committed suicide, that is. His brother realized that with his overdeveloped leg, he could make a better living kicking a football than playing tennis. They talked about their screwed-up family on the telephone. During the conversation, the MC described to his brother how he’s flinging his clipped toenails into a wastebasket. He’s working on a record, having hit the wastebasket with his first six clipping (i.e., the clipping flies off his toenail when he cuts it—not flinging the clipping into the wastebasket after cutting it). The protagonist was concentrating on the record of ten clips, only to admit, at the end of the footnote, that he’s still hovering over clipping the first one because he’s too nervous to get started. I don’t do it justice, but I reread that three-page footnote (in small type) three times because it was that good.
Another recommendation was Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead. I’ve heard mixed reviews of this book. Some people claim that her books do nothing but push her philosophy, which I fully admit is quaint and unrealistic, in a black-and-white and unrelenting way, with one-dimensional characters that represent the different players within her philosophy using dialogue that is trite and unrealistic. Me, I liked her characters, even if they were one-dimensional. I particularly enjoyed her main character, Howard Roark, an eccentric architect who is an uncompromising believer in his art. While the entire world wanted Roark to fail, it was his inner belief in his own art that propelled him to success. Sure, the characters were unrealistic—particularly Peter Keeting, Roark’s counterpoint, a socially upward individual who has no architectural artistic ability but succeeds, at least initially, by using Roark’s ability and claiming it as his own. I’m trying to read her follow-up book, Atlas Shrugged, but I’m having trouble because the characters are even more one-dimensional—which I would have thought impossible—and she sacrificed the story to the alter of her pseudo-philosophy, in this second book. In that way I agree with the critics. But her first book was redeeming because of Roark, and my enjoyment of his quirky (if overdrawn) character.
I’ve read these two books in the last few years. When I was younger, I focused exclusively on fantasy novels such as David Eddings’ The Belgariad series, which I reread close to twenty times. This five-book series was a beautifully simplistic look at a young orphan, who grows up to be king. Here was a book that made every young boy who read it feel special, as he imagined himself in the MC’s role as savior to the world. It had magic, swords, majesty, and gods. The characters were all broad paint strokes on the book’s canvas, and every time Eddings introduced the supporting characters Silk and Barak about halfway through the first book, chills and goose bumps covered me.
2. Books you have always wanted to read. If you draw a blank or even if you don’t, go to a bookstore or library and add at least ten more to your list. Go out of your way to visit the library’s rare book room or a good used-book store. Go to a fiction reading or buy a literary magazine. Do it because you are a writer.
I’ll skip the editorializing of the questions because it’s too easy.
This list is ever changing for me. I buy books based mostly on recommendation or cover design. I love browsing through used bookstores and finding the $3 books; reading all the works of an author that I fall in love with; running to amazon.com to order a book I hear about on the radio or from a friend; or buying a book after spending a few hours browsing through bookstores.
Besides the books listed in my current reading, the only book I’m waiting to read is Gone with the Wind. I watched the movie for the first time this past week, and now I’m working my way through the commentary track. Any book that caught the imagination of that many people (it is one of the bestselling books of all time), I have to see what the fuss is about. I loved the movie. There’s something about evil, conniving women that interest me, and Scarlet is the epitome of that type of character. I’ve never seen a movie with such interesting characters or as sweeping a story.
''3. Ten expressions your mother/father/family/best friend uses regularly, especially those you don’t hear anyone else use. For example, my mother used to say, “’To each his own,’ said the old lady as she kissed the cow.”"
This was is more difficult. The easy answer, at least for my family, is the Brooklyn accent my mother and sisters tote around. The general rule of Brooklyn-speak: Any word that ends in ‘R’ drops the ‘R’ and any word that ends in a vowel gets an ‘R’. Example: ‘idea’ becomes ‘idear.’ Not that my family curses much, but when I want to drop into a Brooklyn accent (very useful for trash talking during basketball games), I curse a lot. Adding the word ‘fuck’ to any sentence somehow gets me back into my Brooklyn days much faster.
I’m sure there are many other sayings that my family uses. I’ll be watching for them and adding them to my lists. This is something I’ve not done in the past, and seeing as my memory is—what’s that word—pathetic, this will be a good exercise.
I’m still thinking. I thought I’d start with that warning. None of this thinking is good for me, I know, and I know that I’m not coming up with any new or interesting ideas. I can’t control it. Today was a bad day. I was depressed and possessed little energy. Not that this will explain much, but the day is over and I eat an apple and I type and wonder where these words will take me.
I’m still in that limbo, that place where I’m not sure what it is I want to do with this medium. Sure, I litter my house with books that purport to tell me how to do this, this storytelling that I keep bellyaching about. But being told how to do something is different from doing it, and doing it as books explain is different from doing it as I envision. I keep looking for a resolution to how I will write (and think), to find that spark of brilliance I pretend exists. No matter how much lip service I give to disowning that belief, I know it’s out there, and I know if I look hard enough I will eventually run over it. It’s this that keeps me looking, even as I search for possibilities outside my experience, or throw words down in my futile search. I’m like that student at the start of an introductory class. The professor explains simple concepts, and the student immediately begins to think how the entire orthodox establishment has it wrong, how, in his three hours of study, he, the student, has already moved the study in an entirely new direction. It’s the hubris of youth that I cling to, even though there was only one Einstein and I certainly ain’t he.
I’m writing this with my head bent over and my shoulders slouched. I’m thinking of story arcs and conflicts; of characterizations and long pages; of themes and discoveries and mysteries. And of all these things, I’m thinking, these building blocks, these primitive tools, I don’t know what to make of them. I want to look beyond them, but I see nothing, a gray void. I’m tired of late, tired of my own bullshit and my failed attempts, tired of being tired, of giving up after only an hour or two of heartache. I want to put in eight hours of writing; I want to know what it feels like to leave myself on the page, to forget about everything but the words and the tools. I want to stop relying on false stimulants and find the energy inside of me. I want to stop pretending and start doing. I hear the fakeness in these words and cringe in hope.
It rained for the last three days. I got wet but it wasn’t until the depression hit me that I got soaked. I woke up to clouds on the fourth day but not to rain. By afternoon, the sun peeked through the clouds and my spirits lifted.
Warmth. Sparkling blueness. I should race but I don’t feel the need anymore. I’ll let the race take me where it will. I don’t care about victory any longer. I care about being outside and letting all the possible problems fall away from me like leaves during autumn.
It rains the sixth day and my morale sinks. What was is no longer. I’m a pretender, a faker. Seymour? Where’s Seymour? I like saying his name. You don’t meet many Seymours, and I think I keep him around so I can say his name. Don’t tell him, but I do the same for George. You don’t get many Georges in the world, and I like to savor each one.
Nice day. A bike ride by the park. Cars whizzing by on both sides. What’s the use of saying more?
It’s me again. Some people ask what I do when I sit here.
Inspiration why do you stay away from me? Let me tell a story, please! I want to say something, anything. Let me go. Let me find something. My prayer.
Zorrow night runs in the light of the evening. The tables surround me like tombstones in a graveyard. I stretch and crack my neck. I wonder what happened to blanket inspiration. Why can’t I sit and think? What’s there to type about, what energies do I expend? I’d like to say woo is me. There, I said it, kind of.
So where are the demons that I stalk? Why do they hide in the hallways?
“I’ll wait for you to finish your tea,” the demon said to the wizard.
“That is most kind of you,” the wizard said, lifting a tiny porcelain cup to his lips.
The demon averted his face and sneezed. A small cloud of fire shot from his mouth into the ground behind them. The demon placed his hand over his mouth. “Excuse me,” he said.
The wizard waved as if to say it was nothing, and sipped his tea. “I’ll be done in a moment and then we will start.”
“No rush,” the demon said. The demon was two feet tall and hopped gingerly from one foot to the other as if he stood on hot sand. His head was rubbery and gray, with large ears and nose, and wisps of white hair budding from his head and ears. His eyes were ebony with tiny fiery pupils and no eyelids. He held a bent blackened wooden wand in his three-fingered left hand.
“I appreciate that,” the wizard said. He put down the teacup and stood up throwing back his purple robes. “We can get started now if you’re ready.” The wizard was a rail thin old man. Except for his skinny neck poking up through his robes, the rest of his body looked like a mass of clothing. His clothing made him look fat and skinny at the same time. There always seemed to be robes underneath the robes that could be made out. Pouches with feathers and beads hung from the folds of the different robes. His hands were not visible from the robe and he didn’t hold anything. Even when he drank from the teacup, his face disappeared into his robe. He wore a pointed hat that covered white stringy hair. There were as many layers of hat as there were of his robe, and it made his face seem more gaunt than it was.
The demon nodded and bent over until he stood on his arms and legs. He hissed like a cat and circled the wizard, who turned slowly, always keeping the demon in front of him.
Demon finds a wizard drinking tea; demon is nice enough to let the wizard finish his tea before they duel;
Human condition. What is in front of me? What do I want to talk about? This is a moment of debate. I’m not sure how I’m going to continue this writing without subject. It’s difficult to sit down here and say nothing. I can’t invent things to say. How is this supposed to happen? Why is this supposed to happen? Keep reading and looking for something to say. Whatever happened to NEQID?
It’s gone. I don’t know where it disappeared to.
It’s a question of faith. Stay with what you know and see if it brings you anywhere before you have to run away screaming. Keep sitting here and don’t give up yet.
My hands burned. Flames rose from the tips of each finger and the skin glowed red in the darkness.
Blank pages scare me again. What is there to fear in words? I pretended that I was looking for inspiration over the past week, when really I was hiding under the covers or flipping buttons trying to avoid perspiration. I’m back now. I’m not sure why, but here I am, pounding out words in the hopes that some of them make sense and say something. My fingers are tired from all the video games. It isn’t from the writing.
I need to find a place to lock myself in. Silence and no escape is what I need. Wow. A little time off from writing and I find it difficult to form full sentences. I’ll persevere and keep at it, at least until I give up. That’s how failing always works best for me.
I didn’t mean to sit down and start babbling. I had hopes of telling a story that’s been tunneling through my head. This feels like that first day of Nano last year, when I sat in front of the computer, and felt I had wasted all my days of planning and agonizing over the story outline. I have nothing to say and I think I should give up before I hurt myself.
I’m trapped at work, thanks to a terrible traffic night. The traffic here has been bad lately. It’s partly because of the weather and partly because of the three slow old ladies that drive at the front of all traffic jams.
I have nothing. I’ll try this again at home without the temptation of video games (for today).
I’m home and I’m waiting for perspiration to take over.
I would have written more, but it was video game night (and, no, it isn’t video game night every night), and we didn’t finish up until 10:30pm. Of course, I could have written earlier, but by the time I got home (after another one hour commute—this traffic is killing me), I was too excited with the prospect of keeling defenseless monsters. The last two play nights have been difficult for our motley crew of four, however—we’ve tried to beat the same dungeon, and failed both times. Being the lead-headed fools that we are, we’re going to give up and try a different quest next time, and come back to the dungeon when we’re more powerful.
And I have no idea what I’m doing with all these George anecdotes. I didn’t have a plan when I sat down yesterday, and I still don’t. I’m throwing stuff out there to see if anything sticks. I watched George Lucas’s THX1138 before writing the yesterday’s post, which was probably why it was disjointed and avant garde.
Today didn’t start so good when I woke to banging in the street. I peeked through the black shades and after getting over a momentary blindness, I saw a man with a blue hardhat holding on as a jackhammer vibrated him up and down on the asphalt. I opened the window, stuck my head out, yelled but the man didn’t hear me. I waved to get his attention with no luck. I squinted behind me to make out the clock and saw that it was past noon and slammed the window shut. It didn’t help much with the noise but it made me feel worlds better.
I’m sitting here, wandering the web instead of pushing words. I’ve begun to ask what is wrong with me. This is a rhetorical question—I don’t want to know what you think is wrong with me. I was asking myself the question during my pre-writing period. As an early warning (I’ve been told to drop these warnings and get right to it—but this is a necessary one), this is going to be a strangely long musing. I’m trying to get back into these long, everyday writing thing. What follows is my reasoning and random thoughts I’ve used to build enough words to call this a successful day.
The caffeine seethes through my veins, and I’m feeling better about myself. I don’t know what it is I will write (if I end up writing anything), but I wanted to start pushing the words onto the paper and seeing if any of them will cooperate. I like that phrase, “pushing words.” It’s like I’m a drug dealer. I wonder who the user is in this scenario.
There’s a fruit can on the table. The tab broke off without the can opening. Nobody wants to drink it now. There was a week where every orange juice can in the refrigerator wouldn’t open. The tabs would rip off before they’d break the open the can. It was a frustrating week and I had to drink cranberry juice to get my vitamin C requirements. I would bend the tabs vertical and leave it in the refrigerator in the hopes that the juice man would see the cans with the broken tabs and replace them. He did, eventually. Either that, or I lifted up the tabs on all the broken ones.
Why write? What’s the purpose of it? I know I keep asking these inane questions; it’s just that when I sit here, and I think about these things, I begin to question writing’s worth. I throw out three paragraph vignettes and I wonder what they’re worth. Here goes another.
Experimental, shemerimental. I’m so sick of this bullshit. Just sit down and write a stupid story about something stupid and be done with it. I want to be done with it. I’m so sick of this shit. Of this shitty way of starting. This is good. You’re writing something, which is something you haven’t done in a while. Keep putting words on the paper and use this as your warm-up exercise. I don’t understand why you don’t consternate more often. Maybe once you finish consternating, something will come out. Yeah, sure this is a painful way to start, but who cares? Seriously? Get over yourself. You don’t have to post this shit. The only thing bad about this part is that you’re wasting part of your writing energies on bullshit like this. If you can get past this, then you’re golden. Golden!
Write a story about something simple with simple language and having no idea where you’re going with it. Why not? Why keep searching for the special nothing? Why not accept what you have and go with it. And for the record, this not-writing-everyday was a bad, bad idea. You need to keep at it, you need to keep writing every day for at least an hour otherwise bad things happen.
Wow. Taking off time from writing was not a good idea. Fuck the recharging of batteries. Fuck the organizing my thoughts and trying to figure out what I wanted to do with this thing. All of that was bullshit. What it turns out is that taking breaks is not what I’m good at. I had this same problem when I stopped my morning exercises (I’ve since restarted them to build somewhat less-chickeny arms): when I don’t do something almost every day, I end up doing it fewer times every week. By the second week, my day of rest turns into two days of rest. By the fourth week, I’m up to five days of rest. And after that I’m left with nothing. A steaming hulk of what I used to be.
That’s where I ended up with my writing. After taking time off, I’m finding it hard to get back into it. Sure, I write occasionally, and while some of it is decent, most of it is too little effort to come up with too few words. I’ve always said this is about effort. Talent has nothing to do with it since I don’t have any control over that variable. What I can provide is the perspiration, and my towel is dry, dry, dry. Sitting here and bitching isn’t helping things, but it is helping me put words on paper, something I’ve forgotten how to do. Nano taught me to put words on paper, and I’ve forgotten all the lessons of that time.
It’s not like I haven’t said all of this before. I’ve talked about how I need to stop worrying about quality and start worrying about quantity. I’ve talked about finding my voice and trying to get over my obstacles: conflict (or lack thereof), pathetic-ness, and resolution (the no-blue-balls rule). I’ve become so worried about these obstacles that I forgot to write. I forgot to put words on the paper and say something. Anything. And keep saying it.
There were times where I wrote stories every day. Sure, most of the stories sucked, but at least I was trying to say something. I need to return to those times. (I also, similar to some people who will remain nameless—get it? Nameless!—need to go back and actually edit what I’ve written, turn it into a story, and not give up on editing after rewriting half of it.)
And I need to start counting words again. I hate counting words. I hate working toward that elusive goal. But without goals, I’m left with little writing. I end up trying to write for fifteen minutes, and spending the next two hours surfing the web and ignoring my nobler pursuits.
What I’m telling myself, even as I write these addendums to NEQID, is that I’ve been trying to do that, I’ve been trying to tell a story, but I keep banging into a slick wall. I’ve tried warm-up exercises, I’ve tried barreling headfirst toward a story, I’ve tried planning, I’ve tried all the bullshit that I’ve spoken about and have little to show for it. What I forget, though, is that trying while preparing for failing is not the same as doing. What is it Yoda said? “Do or do not, there is no try.” Sure, he’s a puppet. And, yeah, he’s green. But so was Kermit, and we all know that it’s not easy being green thanks to him. Where am I going with this? I have no fucking idea, but that’s the beauty of working toward a word goal. It’s not the quality of words or thoughts, it’s the quantity. Damn. I hate that cliché: quality and quantity. There must be a better way to say it, something with count and some other word that means quality. The thesaurus was little help there.
My sister Randy arrived yesterday for a visit to the Castle. She was unimpressed with the neighborhood—like me, she enjoys more city-ish neighborhoods with lots of places to walk to—but the Castle has grown on her, and its peaceful ambiance has won her over, that and my modern but simple furniture. Where did I acquire such great style?
I’m counting now. It’s strange to try to write so many words again. I know I will have to reedit the first part of this piece. And I also know that I’m going to have to transition this musing/consternation/NEQID style into story writing one of these days, but for now, I’m just happy to get words back on paper. This is how I did pre-Nano, what I still consider my most productive writing time: I started with lots of long musings, keeping tracking of my word count. I then changed to story writing, still trying to get the 2k words (or at least get close with the clever asides) before I threw myself into the Nano contest. I’m many months away from the next one, but I need to get back into this writing thing. I’m sick of looking at my front page and seeing the same shit because I was too lazy to post newer shit.
I have been rather lax in posting everything I write. I’ve grown more selective on some of my shorter, more embarrassing writings. Many times during my funk, I would write a few paragraphs and give up. I wouldn’t post those until I could put more words before them (see below for an example). I hoped that my readers wouldn’t read it, or at least read it after seeing the long and beautifully edited and written post that followed it; thus giving me credit and not thinking any less of me. I do that too often: worry about what other people think. I like to pretend that I’m Mr. Cool, that I don’t worry about what others are thinking of me or my writing, but we all know that’s bullshit. I worry very much what other people think of me, which is, to a large extent, where my shyness derives from. When I’m in a group of people that I don’t know, I fear under-impressing people, and to avoid that, I keep my mouth closed unless spoken to. It’s a weakness, but the circuitry in my brain that worries about what other people think overloads in those situations. This is the opposite of a colleague who talks too much and doesn’t think of what others think, even in large groups. So many people to write about and so little time (or energy, more exactly).
I’m impressed if you’ve read this far. (As you can tell, I’m stretching for words now. I’m at around 1,500 before editing, which might involve cutting large swaths out of the first part.) This is the first step in my acceptance that I need to write words. I have a feeling that there will be days where my words will be like these—consternations or explanations or defenses for consternations. But so what? Words are words are words. If I have nothing to say, I’ll keep saying nothing until that fills up all two-thousand spots in my document.
Returning to visitors, this week will be rather busy. My mother is flying in on Friday, and Julie arrives Saturday. (Finally! I haven’t seen Julies in a long, long time and I miss her terribly.) This might be the first time I have four people sitting at my dining room table. I’m excited about that. (I won’t actually have any food to serve them, but I’m excited to have more than two people sit at my metal table.)
I finally called the gardener today. Over the next two months, my garden should return to the condition it was in when I bought the house. With no tending, my garden remained rather nice for the first six or so months I lived here. When the rains hit in the spring—and they’ve hit hard lately—the weeds sprouted up at amazing speed. My garden, which used to be a minimalist Asian-esque garden, has turned into a jungle. The gardener says it’ll be back to its original form in only a few months. I forgot how nice it is to delegate.
I’m closing in on the last three-hundred words of this entry. I know it’s not well organized, and it’s not terribly interesting. But I don’t care. It’s an inferior entry that I’m using as a warm-up to get me back into this writing thing. It’s late at night, I’m laying in bed, and I’m stretching the words out to meet my goal. I still have problems with laying, lying, laid, lay. My brain refuses to understand the difference, no matter how often I look up the word.
Okay. I’ll stop the torture here. I expect to improve on this torture tomorrow. My hope is that by next Monday, I’ll have settled back into my routine and start pounding out some real low-quality (which is better than this no-quality entry) but excessively long words. Now, I’m off to edit these words into a semblance of interesting work (heh) and go to sleep. I have an early day of conference meetings. There’s nothing like being lectured at for an entire day to put one in a terrible mood.
Words before editing (and adding this aside to increase the word count): 1887 words; caffeine: tall mocha; writing time: not sure (I should really start recording this). I’m thinking of automating this word count thingy. That way I can create graphs and all sorts of other things—like charts and other stuff. Wow, this bad writing is a great way to increase word count, by the way. Final word count, including this final word count: 2,161.
I delayed for a long time today’s writing. Julie left over an hour ago, and I’ve squandered away this time, watching the extras from my current Netflixed movie, eating too much chocolate (which I’ve used as a yummy caffeine surrogate to a not so successful extent), and generating procrastinating the start of my writing session. This is the earliest I’ve written in three or four days. It’s almost nine, and at my usual rate of writing, I should be done before ten, the earliest I’ve gotten to sleep in a while. Not that I’ll probably get to sleep once I finish writing—I was using sleep as a surrogate for finishing writing.
Enough babbling. I didn’t have much to say today diary-wise, except, of course, that I miss Julie terrible already (I’m seeing her in four days in NY, so, yes, I know, I should stop whining and get to the writing part already), and I thought today would be a good day to jump back into writing. With further ado (since the more I ado, the more I eat up the words needed for the Goal), here goes.
I failed. I wrote the below fragment and then failed. I’d like to blame it on the lack of caffeine, but that’s probably only half the reason. When I jump into a story that I know nothing about, I usually am able to locate a conflict (even if the conflict is a very small one only recognizable to me). Tonight, I couldn’t keep the thread together long enough. I took many breaks, walked around the Castle, and even folded laundry in the hopes of finding the spark. I liked the start (based that part on my evening with Julies), but I couldn’t bring it anywhere. These are excuses, of course. I’m good at excuses if nothing else.
I think part of my problem today was that I took the story and conflict too seriously. Instead of opening up and writing, I started to craft the paragraphs after I wrote them. I wanted to say something deep and found myself wading in the shallow end searching for shells, instead of diving into the waves and washing myself with the tide. (Now, that was awful. I should save that one in my worst waste of words collection.)
Where that leaves me, regrettably, is with 800 words to write and little to talk about. After dropping my mother off at the airport at a horribly early hour this morning, Julie and I spent the day bumming around the Castle. We left it only twice: we went to an early dinner at a local Vietnamese exotic meat restaurant, and our trip to the airport. She should be landing in about fifteen minutes. It’s past ten now, by the way—which means that my dreams of finishing my writing early will have to wait for another time. I thought about continuing to push the dirt forward in the story, but I didn’t have the energy or the focus. More excuses, I know.
This week promises to be a busy one at work. I have four days to finish a bunch of projects that have percolated on my plate before heading off for my New York vacation. These past three weeks have felt a bit like a vacation with the two conferences and the visits by family.
My hand and fingers are still hurting a bit, but they’re better than last week. I tried to give them lots of rest—although Julie and I did play a small amount of video games. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for me to get over the shakes. I’ve also been fighting a bit of a headache this Memorial Day weekend. I think the headaches were caused by my sleep patterns, which have not been regular in days. Tonight will be another late night. Julie just called. Her flight landed nine minutes early, and her plane was taxiing to the gate. My mother gave her the three girly magazines she had bought on her plane, so Julie had plenty of gossip to read on the airplane. I guess females like the gossipy magazines since they evolved to handle the ins and outs of family relations better than us males. I can think of no other excuse for why anyone would care about the going ons and abouts of famous people.
I’ve been trying to find concrete conflicts in my stories. I’ve not actually found any, but it is in the front of my mind. It sounds relatively easy to implement: find a goal for the protag and then throw stuff in front of him that keeps him away from the goal. How simple is that? The narrator wants Billy fired, but the boss promotes Billy and the narrator together for a project. What will Billy do? See. Happy conflict. Of course, I probably will never write act 2, since I didn’t even know what I was writing in act 1, but at least there was a semblance of a conflict.
My eyes are growing heavy and I’m feeling ready to wrap this up. I’m going to try writing a story again tomorrow, and hopefully spend some time during the day planning a bit. I’ve returned to writing on Georgette when home. Georgette, if you remember, is my G4 Powerbook. The keys feel a bit softer on my fingers, which I think is one of the reasons for the feeling returning to my fingertips. (Not that I had lost feeling—that would be a bad, bad sign. I was using that more as an expression, if you will.)
Tomorrow I’ll also return to drinking caffeine, which will hopefully allow me to keep my head in the story. Yesterday was another caffeine-free night, and you see where it left me. I’m at the 200-word mark, which means it’s almost time to wrap this up. This is a good thing, since I’m again at a loss for words. Not that this has ever stopped me in the past—the not having anything to say—but you know what I mean. It’s easier to write when I do have something to say. There I go again: opening the spigot and letting bullshit rain freely.
Today’s word count is hovering at 1880. I like to thank the Association of Public Broadcasting for all their support. Today’s sponsor was the color blue. Caffeine was none, except if you count the three-quarters of a chocolate bar I ate. It’s not one of those wimpy bars, by the way. It’s a three-dollar organic chocolate bar that’s rather delicious. I’ve become addicted to them, and it might be time to cut them off, go cold turkey. Yet another failure in my long line of failures to control my unsavory habits. You may catch me tomorrow on the same bat channel, the same (well, around the same) bat time, and the same bat topic—i.e., not much of a topic at all. Final word count: 2000.
The first few words are always the most difficult. Of course, the definition of first controls the pain level: story, page, paragraph, sentence. The further along that spectrum I go, the more the pain.
After writing the first half of the below story, I drove home. A big mistake. An hour and a half rainy commute met me (mostly the fault of a blinking red stoplight on the arterial road I drive through—would it cost that much to have a traffic copy dispatched during rush hour to help move traffic on the broken lights?), which I followed up with a decadent Italian dinner at the local restaurant. While I’ve complained about the blandness of the food, after eating there three times, I’ve realized that it isn’t that the food is bland, it’s that the restaurant does not use salt. I ordered an excellent Chicken Parmigian, and ate most of it. Even though I left most of the spaghetti on the plate, the serving size (along with the ample bread) was too much for me, and I’m sneezing from my stuffed belly.
It was during dinner that I decided to transform the story from a simple nighttime conversation, into a farce. (I haven’t done it yet, so I don’t know how it will turn out.) Okay, as I went back over the story, I realized I couldn’t turn it into the farce. I had planned in the restaurant to have the wife ask probing questions, but interrupt the husband with her own thoughts on every statement. Something that I thought would be funny in a sad sort of way. I realized, as I read it after getting home, that that wouldn’t work without rewriting the entire story.
I decided that the goal would be the husband trying to open up to his wife, and his wife not being sure if she really wanted to know what he really thought. They had been married so happily for so long without her knowing that she feared the knowledge might threaten the relationship.
Scratch that. I wasn’t able to make that fit either. I’m not sure what the goal or conflict is yet. I’ll keep writing and see if I run over something.
As I edited my story, the food coma struck me. It’s my own fault, of course. I could have taken half my dinner home and saved myself the tiredness of a carbohydrate-laden meal, but, instead, I scarfed it down, and now I’m staring at the screen, trying to breathe through my food-clogged esophagus, and find the energy somewhere deep in me to write. I know what you’re thinking: wouldn’t it have been better if you used this small burst of energy to add to your story instead of boring us with your reasons for not writing. Righto, my friend, righto.
After more distractions, I finished my leftover chocolate (I’ve resolved not to buy another chocolate bar—I eat way too much of it), and now I’m ready to either finish this story, or reach 2,000 words for the day. One way is better than the other, of course, but I can’t be too picky on days where my attention wanders. (I can’t even blame the lack of caffeine since I drank a yummy mocha this afternoon.)
Okay. I don’t know what the point of this story is. I lost it and never found it again. I should have turned it into the farce, as I had planned. Oh well. At least it’s short, not that that’s a good excuse. I’m a bit disappointed that I lost the handle (or concentration). I keep doing this with the stories (or proto-stories, if you will). I’m also disappointed that I haven’t found the balls to continue one of my earlier experiments. Maybe “balls” isn’t the right word. I keep telling myself that it’s because I haven’t found something with a hook big enough to keep me interested. This never stopped me before. I’ll think about giving it a shot tomorrow (how about that for a promise?).
Statistics for the day: 2,039 words fueled by a tall mocha.
“On my desk is a stack of papers. Each paper contains one unfinished project. Most I worked on for less than a day before I put them aside. I always meant to get back to them, but the next project found me, and off I went, until I put that one aside. I’m always impressed when I look through my work. I mean, who isn’t impressed by their own work? Who cares that I never get around to finishing any of the work. The important part is I apply my creative self to the project, and get it off the ground. I have so many great ideas that’s it’s impossible to finish them all before another one begs to escape.”
Such tomfoolery. I decided to sit down and edit something I wrote. I didn’t move the story forward very far, but I did at least give it a direction. I’m hoping to return to it soon and continue it. Hope is such a nice four-letter word.
Synopsis: Story of Georges through the years; each paragraph shares a different, random point in his life. There needs to be an underlying theme, something that ties everything together. Woman. The woman in George’s life: his mother, his teacher, his sister, his girlfriend/wife, sister, his daughter. What did they do for him? They supported him at the toughest times. Okay. What happens to George? He grows old and loses his memories, they disappear one by one. These are the last to go.
I still haven’t found the common thread, and I have no idea where I’m going with the story. But I did add a few words to it, and push myself toward the 2,000 word goal. Until tomorrow. Word count: 2,017. Caffeination: tall mocha.
I’m writing this after finishing a good dinner on my flight back to Seattle. I’m writing this after watching the first three quarters of a surprisingly entertaining movie, “Hitch.” I arrived at a rather uncomfortable part (read: the plot thickened and an embarrassing moment poked its ugly head), and I decided I should use the uncomfortable feeling as the push I needed to open the computer and start the typing. My mug of yummy caffeine arrived at about the same time, so I knew the fates were in agreement. (We’ll see what the muses have to say about things as I get further into this).
Not so good so far. After writing a line and a half of what I had hoped would turn into a story, I put the headphones back on as the people around me laughed. This is a good movie—but I’ve persevered, and I’m going to give it another try (and this has nothing to do with yet another uncomfortable moment—okay, it has everything to do with such a moment).
I’m nervous about writing again—stories, that is. These Hi Ho (to borrow an expression from Kurt Vonnegut) moments are painful. I see this large expanse of white space before me, and all I can think is how the fuck am I going to fill it up? And, more painfully, as if that’s possible, what the fuck am I going to fill it up with? I’ve given much thought to a story’s structure, what it is I want to accomplish in it, and I’ve not come up with much.
I decided to watch the rest of the movie, one of the smartest romantic comedies I’ve seen in a long time, second only to Sally and Harry. The dialogue was richly written, and there were a few surprises, which is always a good and usual unexpected thing. Now, I’m going to get back to this writing thing and see if I can find anything inside of me besides the scared cat (I always thought the word was “scaredy”).
I’m fed and hopeful. It’s amazing how life appears so bleak when hungry, and so full of possibilities when full.
There’s nothing there. I’m not saying anything. I don’t see it—come to think of it, I’ve never seen it. I white expanse waits for me and I hope for its embrace. Suck it up and say something, I keep telling myself. Stop masturbating with these thoughts about how hard it is and fucking write. Writing sucks. It sucks the big one. I need so much and I do so little.
They were in a booth in the restaurant, he sitting next to her, and they gazed at each other. People always say that so-and-so looked deep into so-and-so’s eyes, as if staring can somehow express the depths of feelings. Other people (or perhaps it’s the same people) say that you can see a person’s soul when looking into their eyes.
A tremendous shock shook the office. Seymour knew immediately that the office was going to fall down around his ears. He covered his ears to protect them when Mr. Dandry walked into his cubicle and began screaming. Seymour saw the spittle leave Mr. Dandry’s mouth before he felt it on his cheek. He knew he had no choice. He covered his face with his left elbow, and accepted the reprimand. Mr. Dandry’s shoulders were covered by dandruff, no relation to his name.
In a line next to the stairs were four shoes and two sandals. Kelly mouthed the words: “four shoes and two sandals.” She wasn’t sure if that meant four pairs of shoes and two pairs of sandals, or four actual shoes and two actual sandals, or perhaps there was a difference between shoes, which, she could imagine, does not include the pair, and sandals, which, she could imagine, does include the pair, especially since she’d never heard of a sandal, but she had heard of a shoe. That didn’t mean a sandal didn’t exist, of course. There were many things Kelly never heard of that were out there, semantically or otherwise. She wasn’t sure if this were one of them.
Kelly went to the living room where Brad waited. “Five pairs of footwear,” she said.
Breathing focus and life into nothingness to what end? I don’t see the purpose in this. Scold me, please. Explain it to me, what I’m after, what I hope to attain, why it took me so long to even want this or know what it is. Prolific in what sense? Messages on a disk? Where? First learn the classics, then work with what you’ve learned and turn it into something meaningful. First copy then create. How can you hope to create when you don’t know how to copy? Tell it simply and tell it well, then I can worry about what it is I should be telling.
Such easy words, and so hard times. Warming up, bring myself back to the realities of the anguish that I always forget exists at the bottom of these wells. Why am I so good at sharing pains, but not good at sharing results? Why do I ask myself such ridiculous questions? How does asking these unanswerable questions help me in any way achieve anything? I shoot the question mark, knowing that it in its own way brought about my downfall and called out for retribution.
I arrived home in the rain after a long delay before taking off—which I thankfully slept through—and my feeble attempts at writing and eating dinner and watching a movie. The eating and watching weren’t feeble, but you probably figured that out. Not surprisingly, Seattle was a bit cold and rainy when I arrived. I hate rainy night driving. It’s difficult for me to stay awake or concentrate. It takes an incredible amount of effort to concentrate on concentrating, which is not a sane way to drive when the roads are slippery. I guess I understand better what Julie means when she says she’s falling asleep while driving at night. I always tell her to open the windows and sing loudly. It’s difficult to do that when it’s raining, though.
I came home to a 1,000-word hole I’m not trying to dig myself out from. I had high hopes before boarding the plane, but nothing came together. As I said yesterday (and I think the day before) I feel like I’m forcing these musings to the Goal, and I don’t feel I’m getting much from this forcing. Go figure.
I might as well muse about something that might be useful: synopses. I still have trouble thinking on my feet interesting places for plots and characters to go. I’ve accepted that I can, when I have the inspiration and the desire and a good alignment of moon, planets, and stars, write a scene of some value on the interesting-spectrum. What I need now is to provide a flowchart for that spectrum. Most of my thoughts are rational like that. I blame computer programming and graduate school (although less the school, since my rational side was well developed before I ever stepped foot in college) for my ability (or limitation) to think of things in a linear, rational way. There I go again: procrastinating doing actual thinking. Why are you surprised? Let the skimming continue.
A guy walks into a bar and sees his friend. He pulls up a barstool and orders a beer. Two women walk by, and the friend points them out to the guy. The guy finishes his beer, cracks his neck, and walks up to the girls. He’s the lure for the evening, his job is to pull the women back to the guy and friend’s table for serious wooing. The lure gets first dibs on the choice, which must be respected, unless there’s a wave off. A wave off is where the vibe isn’t there for the lure and his choice.
The guy walks over and starts a chat with the two girls. The friend watches from the table, lifting his bottle in a silent toast when the guy points back to their table. It’s early in the evening and the bar is only half full. Two bouncers in black outfits and earpieces roam the bar, mostly talking to each other and puffing out their chests. One is black and short, the other is white and tall. The friend overhears their conversation as they walk by. They’re discussing a fight from last night and what they told the police after it happened. The friend listens in, but they pass too quickly and he can’t get anymore details.
When guy is doing well with the girls. The girls are showing interest, and their drinks are low. The guy offers to buy the girls new drinks if they’ll come over the table and greet the friend. The guy doesn’t say it, but he hints that his friend his shy, and is getting over a bad, abusive relationship. The guy is playing the sympathy card. After getting close to the girls, he knows that neither of them are relationship quality, and the friend and the guy have agreed that when that determination is made by the lure, outrageous stories should be used to increase the enjoyment of having to woo the lower quality girls.
When the guy returns to the table with the girls, the guy gives the friend the signal. He rubs the back of his neck. The guy introduces the friend to the girl, and tells them in a whisper that the friend can clearly hear to be gentle with him. The friend puts on a sad face and looks down and away, trying to figure out why he was sad tonight. The last time the guy pulled the sad routine, his childhood dog had died in the guy’s arms the night before. The two girls during that night were particularly heinous, but both the guy and the friend got lucky, and heinous girls are always more generous. At least that’s what they determined after sharing notes.
The girls were from out of town, here for only the weekend. This lifted the friend’s spirits, which he had to hide underneath his sad mask. The curly haired girl sidled in next to the friend and began whispering in his ear. She too had just gotten over a break up and she wanted to tell the friend everything about it. The friend dodged that line of conversation, telling her he wasn’t ready to hear the story—his pain was too fresh. He figured out the guy’s ploy rather quickly. He expected more, and would, later after they were done, one way or the other, with the girls, tell the guy that he was disappointed with his entertainment—not the girls since they never let their standards get in the way of having a fun night; but the creativeness of the lie.
The other girl, who might have been pretty if she didn’t wear fourteen layers of makeup over her pimple-riddled face, waved down the waitress and ordered drinks for her and her friend, looking to the guy and the friend, who indicated another round of beers. They placed their order and the same time, sure that the only way to enjoy this night with these particular girls was to drink, and to drink a lot.
The setup is there, now all I have to do is swing the bat. I stare down the ball as it approaches me, and I watch it fly past me into the waiting glove. Why don’t I ever swing? I’m thankfully approaching the end of today’s convoluted and annoying writing. At least I can start putting things down, even if I can’t make them move or anything. Sleep tonight and an early morning will do me good. I won’t bother making promises about tomorrow that I probably don’t intend to keep. Sorry for the unedited garble, but I got to do what I got to do.
It’s early morning writing on a pretend summer day. The morning faked me out—I woke up to a terribly sunny day, and expected it to remain that way. During my walk to the Sunday morning breakfast place, the sun slid behind thirteen layers of clouds, which moved into place thanks to a cold wind that ripped through my short-sleeved t-shirt and shorts. Oh well. I guess I’m not in Kansas (or NYC) anymore.
The day turned out nice after all. I spent the morning wandering the streets, and then I had a hankering for home improvement. I went to the local home-improvement store, bought some shelving and an extension cord for yard work (which I never got to), and then decided to buy replacement switches for some of my timed, outdoor lighting. The switch in the back doesn’t work anymore (mostly thanks to my tinkering), and the one in the front is off by a few hours, but I’m afraid to change because I might break it as I did the one in the back. I thought this a good opportunity to begin wiring my house in preparation for turning it into a fully computerized house, one of my dreams upon its purchase.
After discovering that the home-improvement store did not sell any gadgetry for home automation, and realizing that the thirty dollars that I would spend on high-quality timers would better be spent on high quality, computer-controlled switches, I made a trek to an electronics store. I spent many hours wandering around the store and discovered they it, too, did not carry what I needed, and left the store despondent, having purchased nothing, which for me in an electronics store is almost unheard of.
I did manage to put the shelves back up in the laundry room, but that was the extent of my home-improvement activities. Perhaps I’ll get to fixing up the garden this week. The first step, I always say, is buying the equipment. Everything after that is all superfluous. (If only life worked like that.)
I’m filling in these words to make my goal. I’m going to talk about splits and goals and Goals. All of it is meaningless. I’ll save you the surprise: I failed yet again at ulterior goals. I don’t know what’s wrong with my writing, but I’ve hit upon another story blocker. I’ll have a full deck of these if I keep at it. As it is now, I’ll continue pounding out the words, editing and adding to make my goal. What’s more interesting is Julie’s side of the engagement story I posted above. As I hinted at before, her recollection of the dialogue is much better than mine was. It makes me sound more romantic, which, of course, I am, even if I didn’t take her for a ride on the horses—a romantic cliché, if you will.
The rain set in after dark today, which is no excuse for not going for a bicycle ride. I did drink two shots of yummy caffeine (in the form of a mocha and an Americano) in two different coffee houses as I tried to break free of my problems with story telling. The caffeine did little for me except make me anxious during my drives. I’m not sure what has happened to its effects on me, but caffeine has been doing little except making me a prolific journal writer, not something I ever aspired to be.
I’m adding the last three-hundred or so words up here because I can’t bear to look below. It’s terrible. Awful. As I said, it talks of goals, and then it throws words against the page, which, I thought, might look like parts of a story, but turned out to be exceptionally pathetic words, filled with consternated thoughts and constipated stories. When they said writing was hard—whoever “they” may be—they certainly weren’t joking. I wish it was a little less hard a painful these days. But I’ll preserve and figure something out one of these days.
I return to work tomorrow morning after our engagement trip to NYC. I’ve been keeping my eye on my e-mail over the week, so I have a vague idea of what I’m in for, lots of e-mail cleanup and a few outstanding issues that kept looking for me while away. I’ll get to it when I get to it. I’m hoping to bring Julie’s ring to the jeweler on Tuesday so they can remake it, and I can get it back to Julie. I felt terrible taking it away form her at the airport in New Jersey, but it was either that or let her walk around with tape wrapped around its back forever. After spending all that money on wrapping the diamonds all the way around the ring, I didn’t want to have half of them covered up. And, plus, it makes Julie a better Julies. It’s all about patience, something I have yet to learn (i.e., to make David a better Davids, not a better Julies).
The two-thousand split is another part of my goal (small-g). I know I talk about goals too often on this thing, but goals are what keep me working toward something. I’m an external motivatee in that I need external motivation to get things done. Thanks to a form of schizophrenia, I am able to motivate myself externally through voices in my head (and on the page), which brings about these discussions about goals and the Goal, and the other shit I waste my time typing. Getting back to the two-thousand split, the new goal is to write a minimum of 1,000 words in story/voyeur/character/synopsis form every day. The other 1,000 words can be like this: crap about my life, my failures as a writer, how much lint is in my navel for that day, etcetera.
I failed again at my morning exercises. I don’t think this bodes well for getting back into my writing rhythm. Vacations always do that to me: I come back, and it takes me a while to get back into my routine. Not that vacations are a bad thing, but I’m a man of habit, and when my habits are broken, it takes me a while to reinstate them into my simian brain.
Man, am I nervous. Sandra sits next to me, unaware that over the next three hours I will change our lives forever. What waits in my left breast pocket is the key to that change: a small green box hiding an engagement ring. I feel again for my pocket to reassure myself that the ring is safe. This has been a long time in coming, three years to be exact.
Why the fuck can’t I write anything? I keep thinking of nothing and then trying to write stories. I told myself I wouldn’t do this now. I even changed computers, thinking that a new blank screen would allow me to find inspiration. I was wrong. I’m not finding it. I’m not finding anything. Have I said fuck yet?
The Bears family lived in a large house. Momma, Papa, and baby led a simple life, enjoying simple foods, and simple tastes. They were an average family, living in an average house in an average town. The Papa—my god, this hurts. This hurts terribly.
Talk about funks: 1,000 words of funk.
He held the tip of the sword at the throat of Hendrick, daring him to move and give him an excuse to drive the point through his throat.
These words fucking hurt!
Terror sees me. I duck from it but it sees nonetheless, not so easily fooled.
The plastic ball was green, white, and blue, blown up by their father, and thrown into the air by their mother. The three boys batted it around on the grassy hill where their parents made the picnic. Their father had found this place in the park years ago, and every weekend, they visited the hill, bringing the picnic blanket and basket, and the dog, and playing games through the day. They never left until the sun fully set, savoring each moment on the grassy hill.
That day, they went further than they normally did, moving beyond the grassy hill and past another grassy hill, to a yet third grassy hill. The crowds had found this part of the park, and as crowds do, they attracted others, and soon the hills were full of people and their children. The family liked other people, but they used the weekends to spend time with each other and escape from the people, and they raced across the crowded hills until they arrived at the third hill. They had never been this far, but their mother opened the blanket and began unpacking the picnic. The boys tossed the ball after their father inflated it with large, exaggerated breaths.
Peter, the oldest, hit the ball away from the hill, and the three boys chased it as it rolled down off the hill. Their mother and father listened to them shriek and yell as they first ran and then tumbled down the grassy hill. The dog laid by the picnic table, exhausted from chasing the family across the three hills. It decided it was best to bask in the late afternoon sun then chase the boys down yet another hill.
Their father spoke to their mother, describing his week’s adventures at the office. They laughed at his tales of intrigue, and his descriptions of his co-workers, swine or back stabbers or butt kissers, they were all characters in their father’s tales to their mother. After attending many of his parties at the bank, she grew to know these characters, and to know that he, while basing much of his stories on what happened, took great liberties in the telling of the tales to amuse their mother, who, since she spent all of her time with the three boys, missed the adult interactions she foreswore when choosing the boys over her work.
It was when the shrieking stopped that both their father and their mother stopped their conversation. The dog, a white sheep dog with long straight hair and a nose so wet it dripped, poked its head up and looked sideways as if sensing, perhaps through the absence of yelling or with some other dog sense, that something was wrong. Their parents called out, and when there was a delay in answering, dropped the preparation for the picnic lunch and walked toward the top of the hill where the boys had tumbled down. As they got closer, their father sped up until he was running, their mother not too far behind.
As they arrived at the top of the hill, they heard the sound of a river, and when they looked they saw a stream swelled by the week’s rain making its way through the hilly valley. They did not know that water ran in this park, and when their mother followed the river she screamed, pointing at the plastic ball as it floated down river. Their father saw two of the boys at the stream’s edge, but didn’t see the third. He yelled and pointed and ran down the hill, looking frantically for the third. He identified the two younger boys, but did not see Peter.
The boys did not answer their father until he arrived at the stream’s edge and shook the youngest Norman by the shoulders. Norman couldn’t look at his father and pointed down river, where the ball had been. The stream traveled quickly, and the ball was no longer visible. Their father waded into the water until he the stream came up to his waist about in the middle. He began wading downriver, lifting his feet and floating, calling out Peter’s name. Their mother was pulling the two younger boys away from the river, calling out to their father to find Peter. She held the two boys by their shoulders and wouldn’t let go of them.
Fuck this. So much fucking. So much boring shit with no point and no purpose. Yeah, 1,000 words, not going to happen. No imagination, no words, no anything. And so my streak of failures continues, unabated by anything called progress or success.
I have waited for my imagination to perk up and decide it was time to explore new worlds that exist somewhere between my ears. What I realized today is that it doesn’t work like that. My imagination, that is. Storytelling consists of more than me sitting in front of the computer and pounding out words, like squeezing blood from a rock, forcing myself to write every day. Storytelling (or musing writing, for that matter) is a process in which the actual writing is only a small part of the whole.
I stole many of the ideas in this musing from this article, which talks about the writing process. Finding a link to this article today was a bit serendipitous because incomplete versions of these ideas have floated around my head for many months. Last night, in fact, Julie reminded me of one aspect: my promise to research my storytelling. It came up after I complained (yet again) about not being able to tell a story. She asked me how I expected to write anything if I didn’t learn enough to say something interesting. My head, she reminded me, only contained what I have seen or remembered, and since, she continued flippantly, I have exhausted all my memories, I have run out of things to say, and I need to find new ones to fill in the blanks. At the time, I responded with the excuse that I didn’t know how to research, that I was bad at it. Perhaps. But it’s just that: an excuse.
Even before that conversation, earlier in the evening, I finished watching “Finding Neverland,” in which the author of “Peter Pan” used his relationship with four boys as the basis for his play. The author, J.M. Barrie, spent much of his days wandering the parks of London in search of experiences and ideas, which he wrote in his notebook before applying a small number of those ideas to his plays.
But it wasn’t until I read the article that the ideas coalesced and I began to see what I’ve been missing. As it turns out, many steps must occur before turning words. There must be an idea, a collection for the idea, and an understanding about the idea before there is any hope of adapting that idea into a story. While I usually find ideas, I rarely spend the time collecting the thoughts, images, and characters that will support the story idea. I tend to jump into the idea and hope to create the images on the fly to keep the story afloat. I never can, of course, and I end up disappointed and with not enough to work with in the redrafting process.
To throw out an analogy (something I’m terrible at but enjoy doing), writing is like photography in that the photographer takes what is around her and finds a way to capture (or combine) the images to represent something she is thinking or feeling. The design and art of photography comes in the selection process. A photographer may snap thousands of photographs, and select only one to share with her audience. Writing works the same way. The words, stories, characters, plots, everything exists before a writer sits down at a page. The writer doesn’t create anything, she finds what’s already there and captures and manipulates what already exists in her head in interesting ways. There’s that saying that fact is stranger than fiction. It’s not true, of course, since many fictions are those strange facts manipulated to make them stranger.
Part of the collection involves watching. As I’ve said before, I’m a voyeur, and this is a good thing. I need to voyeur more often and record what I see. It doesn’t matter if I will use any of it—a fact that separates experienced writers from inexperienced ones: the inexperienced ones use everything they write (no cutting of their “little darlings”). I need to become more of a chronicler. There are so many stories and characters that I pass every day, each waiting for me to cast my rod and reel them in.
That’s not to say that I will write stories based solely on what I see. All of the ideas I catch are just starting points for the storytelling, hooks into the characters and their lives. Everything I’ve written I have based loosely on what I’ve observed or heard. If you point to any part in any of my stories, I can identify for you the time and place for the experience or image. I’ve obscured many of them in the process of writing, of course, usually to make them more interesting or fit within the bounds of the story I found myself telling. But they’re all there: real experiences transformed into words.
For too long, I’ve found myself wandered the streets with my head down, not looking for inspiration or experiences. There have been times where I have kept my Moleskine close, yanking it out every three steps to record a feeling, an image, an eavesdrop. But most of the time, I’ve gone through life not observing, but only pretending to observe. I’m going to change that now. Every moment is an opportunity for a story, a chance to record my observations and perhaps down the road turn it into something interesting, something profound. After all this time, to return to where I started, to my little black notebook and my recordation of events around me, it would be disconcerting, if it were not so silly.
That’s not to say that the writing has only two parts. I’ve avoided an important third part lately, namely, redrafting and editing. I’ve contented myself with writing and posting, leaving myself little time to chew my words and find meaning. You might notice that this musing is a bit better than the usual crap I have been posting—I’m not saying it’s Shakespearean or anything, all I’m saying is that you might notice a slight improvement (or not—some people may even find this post less coherent, colder and less interesting). I’ve tried to apply this process called “editing” to it. It’s supposed to make these things easier and more interesting to read.
There’s a world of thinking and planning that I’ve been skipping over, and I will try to rectify this in the coming weeks. It’s getting late, and while I’m still not happy with the editing of this musing, I realize that writing 2,000 words, and editing them in a single day is almost an impossible task, especially when I throw in the full day of work (not to mention not enough sleep).
I keep coming up with all these rules (and goals and Goals). I need to make a large poster and read it every day to remind myself of what I’m trying to do with this writing, and how I intend to do it. This writing should not be about consternating and complaining—it’s about (to use another poor analogy) creating a collage, cutting some of the pictures from life, touching them up, and presenting them rearranged to tell a story. As the artist, I identify the pieces and manipulate them until they fit together into the story, as the painter manipulates the paint to fit together on the canvas.
My father’s hobby was making collages. He would cut photographs from magazines, and keep the photographs in catalogued folders in his filing cabinet. To create a collage, he would select the photographs and lay them out next to the matting. He then carefully placed the photographs, rearranging and cutting them to fit the matting. I occasionally watched him as he created a collage. He sometimes let me arrange the photographs. After I placed them in what I thought was nice—mainly, the photographs filled all the spaces in the matting—he would thank me, and then go about moving them to the places he felt they belonged. He was creating art in his collages, taking other people’s photography, and putting it together in a form that he appreciated. He was sharing his design sense through this art, trying to communicate something he felt or thought.
Writing should not be different. I thought I was strange because the stories did not come from my brain baked. I didn’t mind my bad writing, at least in the initial draft, but I was always disappointed in my story, feeling that real writers had a good grasp on story, and I could never be a good writer because I didn’t have any stories to share. I don’t think that’s true anymore. I don’t have good stories because I’m not living for the stories. I’m not examining everything and recording moments that interest me. I need to start collecting folders, so when it’s time to create my collage, I will have the images necessary to glue together. An author captures more than creates. It’s my million monkeys’ theory where I am the evaluator. I find what is good and declare it a success.
I’m drawing to the end of today’s musing. I’ll pad this last paragraph to get to the Goal. As I keep claiming, I wrote today’s musing differently. I did want to convey something, and I know I came up short. I use these musings not to share with others what I’m learning, but to reinforce it in myself. How do I know it exists unless someone experiences it? Tree in the forest, yadda, yadda, yadda. Whether any of this will turn into anything still remains to be seen. I’ll try to get back to recording inspiration and interesting moments. It’s hard work to do it, but the pay off, as I see it, can be incredible.
Do you see what a little reading on writing can do for me? It’s a dangerous thing. I have an entire week of experiences to draw on, and draw I will.
I've posted the pictures, but as you'll see, they need lots of cropping and naming. That'll have to wait for another night.
I also managed to write my Goal tonight, which got knocked off the front page (along with the last set of photos): here and here. (Yes,I'm writing this posting just to receive your accolades and shoulder patting.) Check out the photos for the last photo album that dropped off the front page.
More notes: (I had hoped to write a part of the story tonight, but I wasn’t sure where to begin. I didn’t want to start at the beginning, because I planned to show the MC popping the question in the first part, with some weirdness around it. I’m not ready for that yet. I thought about the flashbacks, but I’m not sure how I will get that through. In other words, I’m scared to start writing. I need more thinking or note writing or procrastinating. Damn it! I’m jumping in. It’s only a draft, and I’ll have plenty of time to go back and fix it up or change it wholesale. I’m such a wimp sometimes.
Part of my hesitation (and this is clearly a hesitation) is that I don’t know from whom I should be telling the story. (Yes, this feels exactly like that first day of Nano last year, where I stared at the blank screen and almost cried with the knowledge that I thought I had a story before I sat down, only to find that there was nothing there but emptiness and terrible, incapacitating fear. This time is not so bad because I don’t have that 50k looming goal, and Chuck looking over my shoulder laughing as he pounds out another 4k-word day. Damn that Vampire!) Because I’m a guy, and I have a terrible timing getting inside the minds of women (as if they had a mind—bang, I’d be sleeping on the couch, if Julie wasn’t 1,500 miles away), the narrator will have to be the male character, which leaves me with two choices:
First, as I originally planned, the male character can be the skilled one. The problem with that is keeping the skills secret. I originally (that is, yesterday) thought that the skills would come out slowly as he revealed himself. That could work, of course. Second, the female character can be the skilled one. This is better for the mystery. As she reveals herself, the male character learns about the skills along with the reader, making it more natural to keep the secret, but turning the story into a more mundane story, as the woman would have little reason to reveal the secret, especially if I make the woman character secretive.
I know, I’m masturbating with my writing again. I should decide and move forward. I’ll have plenty of opportunity to change these decisions, and this talk is just that: talk that doesn’t in any way create the story, introduce the characters, or move anything forward. I enjoy these silly conversations because they requires such little thought, and I’m the eternal minimalist, something I’m trying to get beyond, but refuse to as I continue to write such crap as this. Damn. I know, I know, move on.
....
Two years have passed since I met Kelly. I’ve met many people in my life, and many women, so many, in fact, that I’ve taken to categorizing them. When you get down to it, people fall into a bunch of large buckets. These buckets can relate to their looks, their personality, …
I found another neighborhood eatery, although I should consider this one in the next neighborhood because it’s twice as far away as the Italian place I spoke about this week. I didn’t finish writing yesterday. Today, after taking a long walk down to Columbia City, the hometown of my MC, I’m sitting in the bucks of stars thinking of how to get out of my rut. I’ll save those words for my next posting. Here was the only crap I was able to write yesterday, thanks to movies and too much video games (I’m an addict, what can I say?).
-So, how goes your battle with cigarettes?
-I’m working on it.
-Let’s go.
-Where?
-To have a smoke.
-I don’t have any cigarettes.
-That’s okay, I have some.
-Ow, ow, ow, ow. You know, this is the reason I don’t bring cigarettes to work, John. Do you have a lighter too?
I twisted my fingers in a jerky, stiff movement and waved my arms and wrists. I had long forgotten how spastic this action looked since the few people who saw it had their own spastic action, or, more usually, forgot my spastic action moments later. Or that was how it had always been until Julia. She was the exception. I met Julia three months before in Tenement Used Books where I worked stocking shelves. I enjoyed the smell and feel of old books, and since the stock changed infrequently, I spent most of my time reading the shelves, and providing unsolicited guidance to the customers on the quality of the books they planned on purchasing.
- Write something, write anything.
- It doesn’t have to be good.
- Make something happen in every story, page, and paragraph.
- Cleverness is not the same as happenings.
- Don’t worry about messages or themes, the story is the message and the themes.
- Don’t edit until you have enough words finished. It’s like applying detail work to a painting before coating the canvas.
- Make decisions and move the story forward.
- Don’t worry about your decisions, the writing, or the story. It’s easy to change things.
As I try desperately to write a story, I come against the same wall: I want to write something that isn’t boring, and yet all I throw out there is inane. I think of plot as this complicated animal, something that once I throw the reins around, I’ll know it and be able to ride it out and actually say something. All I see capable of saying, however, are these types of words: words that aren’t stories but are regrets and feelings and misguided thoughts. If only this voice worked for stories, and if only those stories would tell themselves as I write, as my brain comes up with the next point and then the next. All the thought in these musings happen on the page. I throw out words as guideposts, but I form the paragraphs as I go along, as I search for what it is I wanted to say.
That’s the trick, of course, to head somewhere and end up somewhere else. I’ve done it before, and sometimes I’ve succeeded, but most of the times I’ve failed. I’ve sat down and started pounding out words as I did below, in my early attempt at writing a story. It didn’t go anywhere, obviously, but I tried, giving up when I hit that decision block. I shouldn’t call it a decision block, since that’s not accurate. I don’t have a yes or no decision to make at the end of my writings. I don’t even have the diamond, to use an image from flowcharts. Instead, I have the universe of emptiness. I’m searching for anything that will let me say something, but I find nothing.
Isn’t that how all things go? This is a painful business, this dredging up of ideas and pushing on paper actual characters. I’ve never succeeded of course, but much of my failure I attribute to not trying. This is a good example: I am finding words easily now, opening my brain and letting my ideas open wings, and yet I waste them on these thoughts, these thoughts that I’ve had thousands of times before and put to paper hundreds of those thousands of times. I spent a bit of time rereading some of my older outputs, not the finished products, but the half-started and the half-thought through works. I remembered the pain that brought me to those points. As I said, it’s a hard business, but it’s what I want to do and I have to start doing it. I have to stop making excuses and put my face close to that grindstone, maybe tearing some skin off in the process. Wounds build character, of course. You learn much in conflict, even when that conflict is with yourself.
I resisted video games again today thanks to Julies. Erik has been tempting me with his daily mails relaying the times he planned on playing. The rest of the week promises to be slow at work, and I’m hoping to spend some of that slowness thinking through some ideas. I still have that big story floating through my brain. I need to stop thinking of its extent, and start concentrating on its smaller pieces. When the size and breadth of an idea dominates my thinking, I have to remember the mountain analogy, the even the greatest mountain succumbs to the force of time. I need to take my time and whittle away at it, writing as much as I can on the idea and not giving up. I have so much to learn about character development, plot progress, beginnings, middles, and ends, and I’m wasting so much time consternating, that’s it’s hard to believe I’ll ever accomplish anything.
As I learn to better fight through the pain and save my critiques for more finished works, I’ll get closer to where I want to be in this writing business. For now, I’m going to go through what I had written earlier and see if there’s anything worth saving. I still have half my words left, and I plan to use most of them to buttress that work. I’m sure there’s not much saving, but any exercise is better than no exercise. But that’s enough quasi-deep thoughts for the day.
I have a few hundred words left after editing and adding and destroying the story fragments I posted below this. I finished watching the second to last “Band of Brothers” episode, the one about the Holocaust and the German’s denial and reaction. It’s a very powerful episode in the series. It is the second to last episode. I’ll be sad when I finish this year’s viewing. There is nothing glorious about war, but there is something glorious in the men’s support of each other and courage.
I’m almost out of words for today. I still need more words for the Goal, but I’m fresh out of ideas. There is a word you don’t see used in that context often anymore: “fresh.” I’ll try to go to bed early again tonight. I’m still catching up on sleep from the past week, and I want to be well rested when I head to California this weekend. Julie bought tickets for an Arthur Miller play for Saturday night. I enjoy the dramas more than the musicals and comedies on the stage. I guess I’m a dark person now, and the musicals are too light, too must entertainment to satisfy my dark heart. Speaking of darkness, we’re also planning to watch “Batman Begins,” for which I’ve read excellent reviews. I figure it can’t be as disappointing as Episode III was. I can’t imagine what can ever be that disappointing again.
Having nothing else to say, I’ll give you the statistics for today’s writing. I’m hoping this doesn’t happen again tomorrow because this is what broke me last time: running out of things to say and adding filler to meet the Goal. I could, of course, always lower the goal to 1,500 words, which is probably much more realistic for the types of things I need to say. It’s not like anyone wants to read this many words—hell, most people don’t even want to read 500 words. I noticed I’m one of those persons. I find myself skimming through many blog postings when they’re too long. Part of the reason is that I don’t trust the author of the blog. Magazine articles, such as in the New Yorker and NY Times Magazine, I’m willing to put in the time to read them because I know it will be worthwhile. I don’t feel the same way about much that is written on the internet.
Okay, I blew through my Goal on that last one. I guess there’s no need to share statistics now.
I started writing a “story” and hit a wall, hard. As I was babbling about yesterday, we saw two forms of entertainment today: “Batman Begins,” and “View from the Bridge.” While it’s difficult to compare movies and plays, I enjoyed both, and I learned something important that I had hopes of applying to my writing.
Before I get there, I have to talk about the title. I have nothing against Literature majors. Hell, if I had to do it again, I would probably have added it to my long list of degrees. What I’ve grown sick of, however, is my endless discussion on writing, my countless paragraph and words that I devote to talking about how I’m going to make it all better. All of my analysis and promises and consternations I follow up with nothing. I spend so much time wasting words on this because I’m scared of spending words or thoughts on stories. So much babbling again.
What I learned from the play—and will share with you instead of writing a story—is that good stories don’t need explosions, they need characters and simple situation. There were few if any clever lines in the play, but it was enjoyable, and it was a story. That’s what I need to tell: simple stories with interesting characters that do something. Bah. I repeat myself.
I thought about pounding out the Goal tonight, but I don’t feel up to it. I’m disappointed with my feeble attempts below. I reached a story-decision point in the writing, and I click over to the internets, and return here to put words in this part instead of the story part. It sickens me. I know. More consternations.
On a positive note, I’m having a wonderful time with beautiful Julies. Tomorrow should be a more relaxing day. In the afternoon, we will go to one of the resident’s houses for a potluck lunch for the new interns. Julie made a reservation at a new restaurant for the evening, but other than that, we plan to relax, maybe go for a swim if the weather warms up (it’s been in the 60s, which is delightful, but a bit cool for swimming).
I won’t waste your time with many more words. Failure never tastes good.
***
“I am Batman,” Tommy said.
“No you’re not,” I said for the third time. We had just gotten out of the movies and were walking back to Tommy’s house. Tommy’s energy scared me sometimes. Out of all of our friends, he was the only one who could jump around for hours and not get tired. It served him well on the basketball court, where he played point guard for our junior high school team. But when we were alone, his energy made me nervous.
“How do you know I’m not Batman?”
“First, because there is no such thing as Batman, it’s just a movie guy. And second, even if there were such a thing as Batman, you sure as hell aren’t going to be him. For one, you’re too scrawny. Batman would be huge and muscular. Not to mention taller, Batman would be much taller.” That shut Tommy up. He was very sensitive about his height. He was the shorter kid in class, and while he was quick as a squirrel, he hadn’t grown much since we were freshman in school. It was a sore spot with him, and a sure way to shut him when his energy threatened to swallow you.
Tommy didn’t say anything as we walked the next three blocks. A block from his house, he stopped. Three pictures were leaning against the trash. “You think they’re throwing those away,” Tommy asked.
“Probably.”
Tommy leaned the first one back. It was a photograph of leopard hunting its prey. Behind the first one was a photograph of two frogs with red feet on a lily pad. Tommy stared at the third photograph the longest. It showed
I stare at a photograph of a man rowing a boat in the newspaper, and I create Bob Boland. The photograph shows Bob, as I call him, rowing his small gray boat along the Ship Canal toward Lake Union near Freemont. Bob wears a blue button-down shirt, which appears darker because it had been raining all day. Bob is in his sixties, and wears glasses and a graying mustache, which extends down and past his lower lip. His remaining hair is white.
Bob rows every afternoon since leaving his job as vice president for a successful branch of Aflac Insurance in Seattle. He lives with his wife Sandra Boland, a homemaker. . . .
Bob Boland rowed out each morning onto the lake. He brought his black dog, who slept through most for the trip, and fishing rod, he never used. When asked, he tells people he brings it along in base he grows hungry. Bob, however, does not eat fish and does not share what type of food he hopes to catch with the rod.
Some days, his wife joins him.
Where’s the hook? I never do find the hook before I case my rod. I struggle through and end back here, wondering why I even bothered to walk the course.
That’s all I got (shocking).
***
Try as he might, he failed many times. He was a Try Good Do. She was. He could be. Time trial. He sits here pounding out random thoughts that are not thoughts but feelings and movements.
She walks buy with short hair and a yellow shirt. Big black shoes kick as she moves.
The carpet is made up of boxes of tan with a large brown stripe running through the middle. A wooden sculpture, painted to look wrought iron, stands near the window, vying for attention that it rarely receives. The door opens and closes. People walk in and out. Time slows and speeds. I want to say something, I want a story, I consternate. A small round table waits for yummy caffeine, but I drank it already and it didn’t help me focus much.
A woman in a black shirt and tan pants walks down the stairs. She has short blonde hair and yellow sneakers. Who ever heard of yellow sneakers?
I’m hoping these words spark something in me. Nothing else seems to.
The more you do it, the less tired you become. You get used to it—that’s part of it.
***
Red checkered tablecloth. Frothy beverage topped with cheese. Give me a roadmap and I’ll give you a lost person. Why do I keep losing myself? That wasn’t the question I was thinking: the real question is why do I not want to go after I create the roadmap? I grow fatigued too easily.
***
He shook the cheese over his salad. “It’s a pizza salad,” he said when she asked. She didn’t smile at his response. “You get it? This is pizza cheese, and I put it on the salad.”
She told him she understood when he first said it, but grew bored of his banter.
“It’s what I’m thinking,” he said.
“No, it’s what you think will amuse me. I’m not a child, and I don’t need constant amusement,” she said.
He was taken aback. “Then what do you want from our conversations if not my clever banter?”
“Why don’t you tell me about yourself, the real you,” she said. “No the one you hide behind to impress us on blind dates.”
“What do you think this is—what I was doing to impress you?” He decided this wasn’t going to work then and there. This was the third girl he had met on the internet—actually met, that is, not emailed and given up halfway through the conversation. She had been very funny and clever as, he had thought, he had been. That’s what he was after: fun banter and a kick-ass body. She seemed to have the latter, at least on initial review. Although, he admitted, her choice of a black outfit might mean she was hiding something.
He used his fingers to pick at his salad. It’s why he ordered it without dressing—you couldn’t pick at it if it was drenched in oil.
“You said that you were a school teacher,” he said. “That must be interesting work.”
She looked at him through squinted eyes. “You said in one of your emails that you had many definitions for ‘interesting’ and almost none of them were good ones. Which definition is this one?”
There was the spirit he remembered. “I thought you said you didn’t want clever banter? And now you want me to dive into my theory of interesting? How does that get any closer to the inner me?”
***
Useless banter: two people on their first date after meeting on the internet. There has to be more than the banter. What could happen? Interruption. Hit it off. She could be crazy, he may be. (Stop masturbating!)
Upside down forks and knives. Moments of clarity among a lifetime of lows. Energy is so variable. What are the good moments, and what are the bad. Clarity is not the norm, the ordinary, the way it is, instead of the way it should be.
There’s another breakfast called Caroline’s? Counter (okay, I forget who’s counter it was—it wasn’t Caroline, it might have been Catherine or Dandelion or, I don’t know—I’ll record it here next time I go), in Columbia City. And—and this is a big ‘and’—they serve wild mushroom omelets, which is my favorite type of omelet since there is nothing better than wild mushrooms (i.e., any mushroom except the white button ones). The food was good and the service was excellent. It’s a longer walk to get there than Susan’s (my truly local weekend-breakfast place, but it creates options, and options are always good.
Lottie Motts in its new incarnation in Columbia City opened as well. If you remember, I wrote about Lottie Motts before, an artsy coffee house with terrible décor, loud music, bad coffee, but incredible ambiance. The new place, renamed Lottie’s Lounge, serves alcohol, and the owners exchanged its artsy decor for, well, I’m not sure. I was a bit disappointed when I walked in, as a large bar (the alcoholic type) replaced a large section of the store. There was no coffee menu, which made me wonder if they even served coffee (there was a large wet bar behind the bar, and a chalkboard with a few sandwich offerings). I ordered coffee, sat down in one of the leather backed chairs, and drank my mocha. The coffee was better (it didn’t taste like dirty water as it did when Lottie ran the place), but I’m still not sold. There’s a large area for music in the corner now, but the place was eerily silent and a bit subdued and crowded (the tables, not the patrons; except for a man doing a crossword puzzle, and a kindly old woman typing away on her computer with her nose almost touching the screen, there was nobody there). I’ll give it another chance before heading to the local bucks of stars. While I have nothing against any bucks, the one in Columbia City has terrible Feng Shui, and I’m always looking for an alternative.
He stared back at me through the mirror. Stacks of woodened brains waited for me through the cellar door. Try as he might, his words, first brushed onto the canvas years before, never found an outlet or an audience, and, this truth came to him many years later, he didn’t care one way or the other. It was not the audience or the money or the hours of staring and cracking fingers that caused him to put things together. There was something more there, something he had to say, maybe his gusto, maybe his anguish, that pushed him to say it. It’s the pot of gold in the cave, the rushing from the cave before it collapses, it’s all the silly analogies and syllogism and all the other words relating to logic and writing, that was what he searched for and hoped to find.
Moments of inspiration, two hours and the first draft was done. The caffeine raced through his veins and he pounded out the draft, never worrying much about what it said until after he had said it and had moments to digest it. Get back to that! Get back to the Clockman, forget the search for conflicts, the creation of characters, the obliteration of the pathetic. All of that is for later, for now throw it out there and watch it stick and climb down the wall, like the rubber purple octopus that you had to keep washing for it to start sticking again.
***
The package arrived on Saturday, packed in a yellow, cushioned envelope. Margo removed it from the mailbox and carried it inside. It must be a present for her, sent by who knows who for who knows what. She brought it inside and stared at it, trying to influence its contents. She opened it, and the glue came off easily and she peeked inside, and saw not what she was expecting. An envelope of memories mailed off by her family, probably after cleaning out her room to ready it for her absence.
She had moved out six months ago, and while her mother seemed...
***
I want to meet whomever put the monkeys in a barrel. I’m going slightly insane staying home this weekend, and the fun thing is that the weekend has just started. Yipee!
“I don’t understand it anymore.”
“What’s that?”
“This storytelling. I mean, I’m supposed to throw down all these words and tell a story. Why do I need so many words?”
“You’re introducing people into the subject matter, getting them to know the characters, introducing the scenes and the world—that’s what you need all those words. Stop trying to be so clever with everything, and just write. The story is more important than the words. The words are there as the substance, the air or water—remember the fish story? An elderly fish swims by two younger fish, and says, “How’s the water?” The two younger fish look at each other, and one of them says, “What the hell is water?” Now, tell a story and don’t worry so much about the words.”
Passion. Gusto. I need to find a love for the story and the characters. I keep forgetting that. I need to love everything about it—or hate it. I need strong emotions. And I’m not finding it. I’m attempting to replace real emotions with cheap antics. Enough already. Enough self-analysis, enough masturbation (although, really, what is any type of writing except masturbation?), and get to it. Do it. Throw the Nike swoosh a bone.
Chuck delivered a nice kick in the pants with his comments on my posting two days ago (he also delivered another zinger on yesterday’s posting, but they’re both in the same spirit). I wanted to thank him publicly for the kick. I know he’s been winding up that kick for the last couple of months, and it’s something I’ve needed for probably longer than that.
Honestly, and not that I'm trying to be a prick here (as you know, I don't have to try--it comes naturally), but I really think the little green guy was right. "It's the thought that counts" or "at least you tried" are among the litany of lies we tell children (having been told them as children ourselves) in order to protect that from the harsh reality of life.
One aspect of that harsh reality is that it's not the thought that counts. Yeah, our family and friends might say that because they love us and, for them, the thought might really be enough. But the rest of the world does not grade on effort, it grades on results. Like I said, reality is harsh. No sense in deluding ourselves, is there?
There you have it. There’s not much I can say to that because it’s true, every word of it. I’ve been deluding myself with my mountain speech: every word I write, regardless of its purpose, helps me reach my goal, just as the wind after many years wears down the largest mountain (I should probably use a creation analogy instead of a destruction analogy, but you get the idea). I’ve been frustrated lately and instead of fighting through the frustration, I’ve taken the easy route. You see, the thing I like about writing is the forming of words. I love these sentences, these words, the feelings and ideas they convey. What I don’t like about writing is the thinking and planning: the story arcs, the plot, the characters, the scenes, the—and this is ridiculous—the story itself. Of course, when it comes down to it, readers are not interested in words, they’re interested in stories. Taking the easy route, as I was saying, is writing words with no purpose, throwing words out there because I enjoy writing them, instead of throwing words out there because I want to show something.
There’s more to it than that, but I don’t want to turn this into another meta-writing exercise. After realizing this (and recovering from the kick—it did hurt, as kicks to the pants often do, but it’s the smarting that teaches the lesson), I tried to analyze my problems and see where I’m failing. The obvious answer is plot. To help me move along my discovery of plots, I bought more books. (Yeah, I know reading is not the same as doing, but doing without understanding is what got me here in the first place.) The book Plot, another in the Elements of Fiction Writing series that I’ve read, has started to give me the right questions to ask about my stories to get me moving.
His introduction, in particular, really hit home. Here is the description of “failure of plot” he (I think Ansen Dibell is a he) presented: “A scene, a bit of dialogue, a character sets you happily scribbling or keyboarding away. And then, too often, something happens. The story starts to slow and go sour, dead ending in frustrated scraps of revision. It’s eventually tossed with the rest of the might-have-beens—in the bottom of your sock drawer or even in the wastebasket.” There you have every experience I’ve ever had with a story fragment.
After actively reading the first few chapters, he headed in an unexpected direction. I kept thinking he would present the answer to finding plot. Instead, he presented a way of identifying whether what you have (i.e., your idea) is good plot, and, once you identify a good plot, how to present it. I’m going to continue reading and taking notes and hopefully applying some of these notes to my own thoughts.
Then there’s the video game question. Last night, with the urging and agreement of my better half, we reinstalled the video game and played for a few hours. I know this breaks NEQID, and I know I would have been better off “dropping the CDs in the blender and scattering the resulting powder on the lake in a ritual of cleansing,” but I didn’t. And lest I receive yet another comment on this, he who lives in glass houses (i.e., “Civ” playing aspiring novelists) should not throw rocks. I had hopes that Julies would be able to help control the times we played, but I’ve realized that she’s as addicted as I am. Instead, I’ll start setting deadlines and limiting our game play. It’s something we both enjoy, and in moderation (if that is possible—and I’m not trying to sound like the alcoholic making excuses for having just one more drink, even though that’s probably exactly what I sound like), video games aren’t bad. It’s a good activity to do with Long-Distance Julies, and something I’ll try to control better to have less of an effect on my writing.
Today was a great day in Seattle. Tomorrow, the fourth of July, will not be as nice weather-wise. But today I took many walks, thought about the issues above, and read many pages in the Plot book. I still have many more pages to read, and I still have to apply the lessons in that book to a few story ideas floating around my head, but everything in good time. I won’t waste more time with this meta-writing, but instead get back to reading and thinking, and, if I’m lucky later, writing, the real type, with characters and plots and happenings.
I fell through a hole in the earth. My rope, I found, was not long enough to pull me up. I sat in its abyss for days, watching the days pass overhead and wondering who would rescue me, and whether I even wanted rescuing. Sometimes, I find myself searching for dank, dark places, almost as if I identify with their dankness more than with my own life.
I haven’t been silent these last few days. I’ve written something almost every day, mostly in my Moleskine, and almost none of it did I feel worth posting.
Hiccups strike me and I succumb to its sweetness. Agreements with the Devil. Sucking the last taste of salt from the bottom of the plate. Words, thrown onto paper, searching for connection, logical assailment.
Calmness assaults me. You have to smile at the thought. Variety is my food, challenge is my just dessert (with chocolate and fresh whipped cream, obviously). I’m back to writing nothingness and liking it. I’m sick of stories with their plots and conflicts and characters that refuse to cooperate or come out fully formed. I’m sick of writing without posting, which is like thinking without remembering (something I still do too often). If only there was a direct thought translator—I forgot, this is what this keyboard is supposed to be.
I imagine the rights of springtime, and then forget the imagination. I see the roads leading to other roads, and then stop to ask directions. The table, the chairs, the windows. Simpler things had never created. The ground outside rocks when I step, but it is not from my step but from the greater movement of the earth.
Such ridiculous thoughts fill my mind, and I throw them out here to show that I have ridiculous thoughts, that I have, even, thoughts.
Two days of writing—well, if you consider this writing (which I don’t, at least not this part, maybe the next part, but we’ll see about that—yeah, that was a great use of commas). Even with the rain last night, I feel in my bones the beginning of the drought. Soon, it’ll be nothing but Clear Skies in Seattle. I bought some bicycling gear yesterday, and I can’t wait to try it out tonight. (It turns out that I didn’t try it out but went to the Italian restaurant instead. There’s always tomorrow.) I’ve started riding (I originally wrote “writing,” Freudian slip) again, partly as justification for spending so much money buying a bike, but mostly because it’s fun and it’s exercise, and exercise is something I’ve not seen much of lately.
Wow. In a paragraph I covered everything that’s happening in my life (sans video games, which, except for this reference, I’ll spare you my failed attempts to fight). I will finally see Julies on July 23rd, after a long, long absence. Her July schedule stinks, with calls every weekend, and other evil infestations that keep me from her. At least we always have our video games (ugh, I tried to resist, but I’m saturated by its evilness and must mention it multiple times—it’s a terrible addiction. We played for a couple of ours tonight, which is why this posting is rushed and full of incoherent words. Isn’t it great, this posting of things that make sense and are not even close to poetic? Where’s the Great Abstract David?).
Let’s see if I have anything in me today related to the creative persuasion.
***
Small stones of varying colors covered the ground in every direction. Tables and chairs surround me, which is not necessarily a good thing because besides the grayed rug I have nothing around me to talk about. No people to watch, no columns to hold, no chairs to stack. Well, I guess I do have chairs, but I don’t want to stack them.
“I’ll tell you what’s going on later.”
“Why don’t you tell me now? And, more importantly, if you’re not going to tell me now, why’d you even bring it up in the first place? Are you trying to build the anticipation? If you are, it’s working, and it’s working terribly. Now, tell me.”
“I wanted to give you a heads up that I was going to tell you everything later. For now, I have to run. How’re the kids?”
“They’re doing well. Sam finished first grade last Thursday, and Marie has a strange fascination with placing her fist in her mouth. You have time to talk about the kids, but not the big news?” George did that often. He would hint at something and then put off telling about it.
“I’d tell you, but I want to save it. Plus, it’d be a shame to waste the telling while we stand in line at the coffee house.” George collects his coffee and starts walking toward the door.
***
Not going very far very fast or very long. I wonder if it’ll ever do it. Charged nails spark when placed near the woolen cloths. The racing cars, looking over, at the taxis and the people fighting for places on the road. Zip goes the bicycle.
Blue crazy rugs over raisin-filled night and turn the red iron blades over to see the other side. Time to say nothing again: I say nothing with huge, earth-sized brush strokes. The sun beats me over the head, repeatedly. I wanted something so badly that when I decided to wait, I almost exploded from the pain. Bears with commanding presents.
Three windows up, clothing hung over the gate to dry. The walls painted peach, the shutters opened and painted black. I have nothing—my brain feels dead, like I’m carrying it around in the hopes of presenting it to someone; I wish I knew who I was supposed to give this to.
Rakes rip my eyes. Blood soaks my eyelids with broad strokes of nothingness. I have nothing, why? Because I have thick fingers and thin wrists.
Love triangle: he likes her; she likes him; he likes him, and kills her to get at him. It’s good to be evil. So easy to think about and so taxing to do. I need to find my stride again. Who stole it? (Didn’t I already use this analogy to explain my consternations?)
Story idea: first date ruined by taking a stand; Jessica; Maurice.
I sit around and try to figure out what I should do. I then remember. I should write. I open my computer and type words. The words appear on my screen and I read them. Some are good. Some are not. I continue to write on the small chance that more will be good than not. I realize that it is not all about good and bad words, but that there is also story. I dream up a story. I open my computer and type the story. The story appears on my screen and I read it. Some parts are good. Others are not. I continue to write on the small chance that more will be good than not.
***
Charles looks up from the table. You should not expect him to see anyone. Charles eats alone. But do not judge Charles too quickly. While he eats alone, he is not lonely. Charles, if we pressed him, does not know what loneliness is. He could spout off the Oxford English Dictionary definition, and while he might miss a word or two, he would get the gist of at least the first three or so definitions. But if we pushed him for an explanation of what loneliness means to him personally, he would appear bewildered by the question. Charles may eat alone but he is not lonely.
The streaked window through which Charles’s gazes looks out over the gritty street. Men, women, and children walk by Charles. He examines each one and notes their clothing and attitude. Charles wonders who they are. And he wonders what motivates them to walk by his restaurant’s window on this day and this time. Charles splits a roll in two and butters one half with an entire pat of butter. He munches on the buttered roll as he looks out the window, wondering.
Charles brought a small notebook with him to the diner. He sketches notes into the notebook as he eats and watches. The wait staff stops by now and again to see how Charles is doing. He tells them he does fine and thanks them for their concern. He watches the wait staff and wonders what they are doing and if they were concerned. He shrugs and butters the remaining half of the roll.
A young woman walks into the restaurant. She sees Charles and waves. The woman is very nice looking. Charles waves back and writes something in his notebook. The woman walks to his table.
“Do you mind if I sit?” she asks. She does not wait for his response. She pulls the chair out and sits down facing Charles. Charles tries to look over her shoulder to see through the window, but the woman shifts to block his view. “People watching again, Charles? Am I not people enough for you?”
Charles takes another bite of the roll. He blushes and offers the woman the remaining bite. She shakes her head and Charles finishes the roll.
***
I reach for boredom and hope for its embrace. What more does creativity need as feed than the hours of nothingness and despair. I translate thoughts and feelings into scenes. I try not to imbue these scenes with my misgivings—but what hope of that have I?
If I plan then I fail to write. If I write then I fail to plan. Tricky contradictions make up the silence in my souls. Words like red bubbles reach up through my mind and seek restitution from my heart. I have no money to pay them. I have no heart to tell them of this fact.
Such stilted words do I produce this day. I relax and press and wonder what will come of this. No more games for me. I am hungry, though. Should I eat in loneliness or starve? The conflicts of my days I record in short sentences and simple words.
I’m trying something new, something I have not tried before. I’m going to inject my pain and suffering, the very same pain and suffering that you, the tired reader of my writings, have suffered with through the last few years, into my stories. Why, you may ask, am I going to do this? My answer is simple and yet simple (I was going to say it was simple yet complicated, but then I realized that what I consider complicated is only complicated so long as it remains fuzzy in my brain. Once it comes out, and it does usually come out in one form or the other, the complication turns into disorganization or simpleness. No thought, once properly organized, is complicated. The complication is in the not understanding of thought, not in its expression). The simple answer is because I can and I need to pad words and explain to myself why I am doing things. I do not know if these clever words—for what are these words but an expansion of my most selfish thoughts—will survive in the final drafts. It’s enough that they survive in this first draft and let me throw out my consternations into the altar of what I want to say, which is anything, when I admit the truth, but an anything that will hopefully turn into something that someone actually wants to read, instead of something I want to say, which, I know, is not one and the same.
The story I will attempt to write is a mishmash of experiences I had during my camp years. After attending (and hating attending) a Jewish day camp during my childhood years, I went back to that same camp as a counselor through the end of my high school years and into and through my college years. It wasn’t until I left college that I decided it was time (and time enough) for me to stop looking after children for money. I enjoyed my counselor time much more than my day camp time. I was not a good camper. I had a tendency to be scared of everything, from getting on the camp bus in the morning to swimming in the pool. There wasn’t a thing I wasn’t scared of while at the day camp. But as a counselor, those fears turned into power. Here I was in my element. I was a man amongst boys. As I grew through the counselor ranks—and I grew quickly as most of the boys (not so much the girls) outgrew the ranks of counselorhood and decided to pursue real summer occupations, such as working in bagel stores and pizzerias, and taking on summer internships that would prepare them for real life, which was something I didn’t concern myself about for many years into my adult life, the real life, that is. There was something reassuring about staying in the day camp world and moving up through the hierarchy of the counselors. There was a certainty that I would excel. It’s like I imagine the military: if you stay there long enough, you’ll get ahead. I know it’s more complicated than that, but that’s how things look to me from the outside never looking in.
By the time I left the day camp world, I was a god. I had a walkie-talkie and they only gave the walkie-talkies to important people: the adults, teachers mostly, who ran the camp, and the senior most counselors, most of which, when I look back, were related somehow to the staff or were the types that people hung about because they were cool, even if their coolness was only relative to the younger people they hung about with.
I’m getting tired already. This style is exciting but awfully tiring—well, that’s not absolutely true. It’s not the style that’s tiring but the sitting here in the coffee shop thinking about how great this would be if any of these words were at all useful. I’m word counting again, even though I don’t want to. I’m thinking if I can set goals for days and go off, not rereading but instead expanding upon what I’m working on, I might start hitting goals of unimagined expanse. I know, it’s funny to me also. None of this will ever happen. I’ll grow tired and hit the road, Jack. And, let me tell you, I might not come back.
Getting back to my story, the mishmash of events that I’ve decided might make a good tale. I’m throwing stuff together. It didn’t happen like this, and the characters I’m drawing up, while their names might sound like real people, are in fact not as they were. I don’t remember how they were. My brain has long since flushed that kind of knowledge. I can perhaps remember anecdotes (I originally wrote antidotes, which I guess in a way this is to the poison of my childhood—but even so, that wasn’t the correct word), but I didn’t know enough at that time to throw those people into groups and categories as I do now. I haven’t been able to create these categories, like in a dictionary (although, I can imagine, drawing a book of caricatures of these characters, which, still imagining, would probably be funny in that near-truth type of humor), but my study of people didn’t happen until I became self-aware of myself—I mean, really, how do you expect to truly know anyone around you unless you can pretend to know yourself. As to self-awareness, I’m still not sure I’m there, but I know it’s a pursuit.
I start the story with high drama. I’m in the gymnasium at the end of camp. I’m the head of counselors in my group. I planned to throw everything out here, what was happening, but I realized if I did, it would only be a few paragraphs long. What will make this interesting is if I created the characters, told you a bit about them, and maybe made you care some for them—and I’m not talking about just the main character and the evil head of the sports group. There’s more to it than that. There are all the precocious five year olds that run around the protagonist’s feet. You should know about them as well.
Take Hunter, for example. He’s the cutest of the bunch. So cute that the female counselors when they come around looking for cute young boys, always play with him, hold him, I guess they’re pretending he’s their child. None of the female counselors has children yet, although to call them too young to have children is probably inaccurate. His name wasn’t Hunter, I think it might have started with a Z. He had a freckled face and dark hair and light eyes. He was on my bus route and had a bunch of sisters and lived a few blocks from me. That’s a lot of ands. Like the rest of the children in my group, he was a good kid. All my kids were good, at least the year I’m thinking of. I thought they’d always be that good, but at least for that first year that I was a head counselor, they were good. They listened to the stories I invented, which, because of the time, involved many of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, turtles which I had a good association with because I always wanted to be a ninja, I liked turtles, and I was still a teenager.
This opening up feels good. I’ve been forcing myself into more conventional storytelling hats, and I found out that I suck rather badly at those conventional storytelling. I don’t think this is good, but at least I’m writing words, and writing words is better than the shit I’ve been doing over the last couple of weeks. I’m sitting here telling stuff and enjoying myself. But even as I sit here, I still feel the need to pack up and go home. The computer’s keys are mostly worn now. I press the keys too much and say too little. I read in the New Yorker three (really two, since the middle one bored me after I stuck with it for a page) debut fiction stories. The best of the lot was the first one, written by a twenty-three year old woman (the story’s main two characters were boys, and I had originally thought she was a man until I saw her picture and thumbed back to find the name of the author, which was female). It hurt to look at her picture (she, along with the other two authors, thirty-four, and over forty, had their picture in the magazine taken in the Strand bookstore in NYC). I had to fold the page over so I wouldn’t see her glaring smile making fun of me for my pitiful lack of words. But I’m over it now. So, she wrote a brilliant story at twenty-four, and I’ve written shit since I started over three years ago (can you believe it’s been that long?). I’m over it. Really. Stop looking at me in that way, I said I was over it and I’m going to get back to telling this story.
There’s Hunter or Zebra or Zail or Gail or Gabrielle. There are others, but I don’t remember much about them. There was the slightly overweight kid who was the leader of the kids. He would talk almost like a five-year old counselor, and would counsel us on some of the problems of his fellow campers. He was very good at sports, and while we taught the rest to play whiffle ball, he would analyze our technique. I would say: elbows up, square yourself on the swing. I didn’t know much about baseball. I was a terrible athlete, particularly as a camper. I knew a few things after graduating from camper since I’d been to baseball games and understood the sport from watching it on television and at the stadiums. I think my arms had always been too thin to swing fast enough to make contact with the ball. But to a five-year old, I was a god at sports. For example, I knew which base to run to if I got a hit, a rare occasion, even as I tried to play softball in the counselor’s games—I would sit out as the third person in right field, feeling like a five year old, standing out there hoping nobody would hit the ball in my direction, but also hoping to look good for the girl counselors who came out to watch us, especially C, the daughter of one of the big wigs. I always had a thing for her.
We sat on the rugged carpet that led up from the room outside the synagogue to the classrooms on the second floor. I was sitting with her—after being a counselor for a year, she decided she’d rather work in her father’s office and do administrative work (I would head to the air-conditioned office any chance I had to try to say a few words to her)—on the carpeted steps, and we were chatting. She was very pretty with a nice body, and she thought I was smart, which I liked. She seemed more nice than smart, but I didn’t care much at the time. She would listen to my weird theories and we would sit and talk. I probably should have asked her out then, or any of the other times that I would talk to her, but I didn’t. I heard a few years later that her younger sister, a very nice girl who decided to be a counselor instead of an office worker, had died of cancer. She looked like an uglier, darker version of C. Am I evil to say that? I liked her—she was more of an experimenter. She questioned her faith even after being raised in an orthodox home. She was also smarter than C.
I don’t think throwing these memories out on paper will ever qualify as a story. If anything it sounds more like a badly organized essay on my life growing up. So be it. I can go back and organize it at a later time. I just need stuff to work with the organization, and this feels good, this remembering. I never think I have much of a memory until I dig back into the banks and look for something and find a mother load. Lots of words written today. I wish some of these words were worth something, but I’ll keep at it and not worry about all the shit that’s going through my head, like, why I wasted so many words and said almost nothing. Or, more disgustingly, how I said so many things (which I might work up the nerve to post, but I’m not sure yet) but how none of them have any value for my career as a writer. (That’s a funny one: ‘career as a writer’.)
The camp had a smell. Each summer, as I returned either as a camper or counselor, that smell would assail me. I read an article once that discussed the different type of people. There are what are called super-smellers. These super-smellers have more smell bumps on their tongue (our smell system somehow works through the tongue, I think—I’m trying to pull this all from memory, so you’ll have to excuse me if something of this is wrong). You can tell you if you’re a super smeller by counting the smell bumps (there is a more technical term for it, but I like smell bumps better). Being an omnipotent type of person, I am the best of all things, including a super smeller. I always thought this was an advantage, until I realized that with my super powers of smell and taste, I smell and taste the good along with the bad. And, in case you haven’t noticed, there’s more bad than good in the world. So, my super smell bumps would remind me each year when I walked in through the front door of the camp. The smell was a mixture of the polyurethane they coated the gym floor with and the smell of aged books and unwashed old men, which, when you smell those odors side by side, you realize are very similar. That smell haunted me as a camper and welcomed me as counselor. When I would go into non-camp buildings later in life and smell those odors, I would be instantly transported back to this rather large piece of my life: the two months of summer that happened every year for almost fifteen years. That was a long 30 months of my life.
It’s amazing how I can’t invent things. I can’t invent characters or things they do, but I can pull back all these memories that swim near the bottom of the pool, back to the surface. I wish I could now take these memories and manipulate them into something worth telling. Here I go consternating instead of moving this forward. I gave myself permission to do this because it helps me continue writing (it’s either this or start alt-tabbing—which I can’t actually do in this coffee house, since I refuse to pay the $4 per day to surf the otherwise free internets). The thought of it pushed me into a few moments of weakness. I’ll see if I can continue this reminiscing.
There were three main girls in my summer camp career: J, C (although I never went out with her), and S. I still have some of my pathetic letters to the last one. What does this have to do with anything? I don’t know. I’m trying to pull enough together to tell some sort of story. I though it was going to be the one about M and J (or maybe it was another girl, like M, I don’t remember now). But it sounds like it’s going to have to be a more complicated story to get the real feel of camp. Perhaps I’ll tell it from the position of the old and young David, the camper and counselor. The—my god, I can’t believe I’m wasting time on this bullshit. I thought I was supposed to be writing and giving these clever asides as part of the writing process, not dulling the story to an imperceptible bump on the page with over analysis and meta-writing, the only thing I’m seemingly good at.
I’m running into the end of my string, and my kite still wants to fly higher. I should call it a day (or at least an afternoon). I’ll do that as soon as the bathroom opens so I can pee before I walk to the bookstore (it’s another used one that’s going out of business% off! Ed. Note: it turns out that it was a new book bookstore, and there was little of the inventory left except cobwebs and Harry Potter books—I saw five people buy the new hardcover while I was there. It’s really not that good, people. I’m going to wait for the movie) and then to my car for my ride home. I wanted to bicycle this evening, and I need to call Scott and figure out what time works for him.
I eventually have to do this exercise for the other parts of my life: my pathetic college life, my childhood (which I’ve been mining unconsciously for the last couple of years), and my work life, which I haven’t felt ready to touch yet, probably because I’m too close to it. Then I have my love life (that’s funny)—which, since Julie, has changed much for the better. But I think I do have a few stories there. The bathroom is open and I’m going to make a run for it. I’ll stop by later and see if I have any words left.
I tried to pretend that this was all my own idea, but I got it from reading another article about Gertrude Stein’s book, The Making of Americans. It’s a very dense novel that’s almost impossible to get through (I haven’t tried yet, but I do want to now after reading the article). In it, she tries to write a novel, but the more interesting part is her consternating about writing, as she talks to her readers about how hard it is to write a novel. This 900-page tome is full of her consternations, something I am infinitely familiar with, and, I mean, if it worked for Gertrude Stein, surely it won’t work for me.
***
Here are the tidbits I started with this morning.
I’m feeling overconfident. I walk into the gymnasium. I have a date later with Jessica. She said yes when I asked. Friends and sister had pressed me into her. I dallied by the entrance and talked to other counselors. M, the sports director, came over to break us up. M is an albino, although we do not know the name for his condition, or even that he has a condition. He has white hair and white skin and wears dark glasses. He never takes the glasses off but if he did his eyes would be pink. I know this now but I didn’t know this then.
Jessica is a short dark-haired girl. Her hair is curly and always looks wet. She is quiet and has a younger sister who goes to the camp. She hunches over and looks a bit like a mouse. I forgive her that. She showed interest and I pounced. Although, pounced is probably too strong a word. It had taken me the entire summer to ask her on a date. Tonight the campers put on an end of summer performance for their parents. Tonight is also the night that most of the parents give tips. The tips are usually cash and stuck into white envelopes with our names. The parents give the envelopes to their children who in turn hand it to us. We thank the children graciously and then look up and smile conspiratorially at the parents.
I like her name: Jessica. It reminds me of Jessica Rabbit from the real-action cartoon that came out that year. My Jessica doesn’t have the body of her Rabbit namesake. But her name does add something to the experience.
“Split up this group,” Maurice says when he approaches the circle of counselors standing behind the children watching the television. “Go back with your groups.”
The circle breaks apart and I take a step toward the back of my campers. They sit in front of a television on a rolling, metal stand, and watch Roadrunner cartoons. I count five campers from my group. It is still early for most of them to show up.
“David, I thought I said to go with your group,” Maurice says.
“They’re right here,” I say and point at the five children sitting a few feet in front of me by the television.
“Then go sit by them,” Maurice says. He puts the whistle in his mouth and blows it away from me toward two older campers running around the gym as if it’s a gym or something. The campers freeze and walk back to their groups.
Maurice turns to face me again. “I thought I told you to go by your campers.” I take a few steps toward my group again. Anger flashes across my vision. When I look I see the red veins highlighted in my eyes as if I looked inward instead of outward. Doesn’t Maurice know that I have a date tonight? Doesn’t he know that I’m not one of the campers for him to yell at? I look back at him and don’t say anything.
“Do you want me to kick you out of here?” he asks. I don’t have an answer for him. I cross my arms across my chest
Live in the camp: Color War; Jessica is the life guard of the small bank of pools at the back of the Jewish day camp in Brooklyn. The yarmulkes or hats. The religious verse not-so-religious children. The separation of the boys and girls. The counselors. The food.
Scenes: Maurice and David in the gym. David and Jessica in the pool with the children. Does Jessica like David? Dark skinned, clear face and whites of her eyes. Black, single-piece bathing suit with large breasts and dark, wet hair. She’s younger than David. She’s religious and I’m not. I’m conservative. She liked me last year but I thought she too young for me. Now I like her but I am going to college next year. I have a group of five-year olds that I sit on a rug in the coat room of the synagogue where the camp takes place. I’m sharing head counselor with Michael because neither of us are old enough to have a group. This might affect our tips as our group has two head counselors instead of a head and an assistant. We did “Pretty Woman” with the children. I choreographed the dance and Michael chose the music. He made a good choice and the campers pretended like they were hitting on woman. I drew a large picture of Jessica Rabbit for the song, which one of the campers walked across the stage with at the beginning of the song, showing that she was the pretty woman. One of the counselors asked for the poster at the end of the show. Her sorority’s mascot is Jessica Rabbit—which I didn’t think strange but now can’t understand it—and she wanted the life-sized poster for her sorority house. I should have said, “sure, if you’ll invite me over to install it,” but I wasn’t that clever. I’m still not that clever.
***
David longed to be the type of guy who, after buying a clock based on its aesthetics and realizing after a week that it didn’t keep good time regardless how beautiful it looked on his wall, would bring the clock back to the store and demand a replacement. Instead, he was the type of guy to think these thoughts, but leave the clock on the wall as a “thinking” piece, in which he challenged the conceptions of visitors to his house.
Blue blouses were her thing, some of them with buttons, others straight tees, but all of them blue. Okay, maybe they weren’t exactly her thing. It was more her uniform, the one they made her wear each day to serve food. But I didn’t think of it like that. I thought she looked beautiful in blue, and since she always wore it, to me it became her thing. I didn’t think the other cafeteria workers’ things were their blue shirts. I didn’t think much about them, actually. I just thought it was my girl’s thing, the blue shirt. The first time I saw her away from work, I barely recognized her. She wasn’t wearing blue. My world shook.
***
What do you think of multi-colored walls? They’re better than monochromatic ones, I guess. You guess? Do you think this was a quiz? I want your honest opinion. You’re talking about your walls, right? Yup. Then they’re beautiful. You have great taste. I know that, but what do you think of the colors? This is a trick question. All my questions are trick questions. What do you think? Blinding? Thought so. Worst color choice, ever? I got it the first time. I just wanted to make sure.
***
Try as I might there was nothing I wanted to do that wasn’t done already. It all came down to the place of doing it. The tables lined up in lines, which how things should line up, if you know what I mean. I throw words out to be words. I’m not an organized thinker. I’m too creative for that. (So says the cry of the unorganized, uncreative ones.) Sounds like you know what you’re talking about. I don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about, that’s my problem, that’s always been my problem.
***
Terror is where I want to sit and wait and work. There is nothing that is not worth a scary moment. Times for me to do what I need to do outweigh those that don’t.
I’m throwing it all out there. There is something about this that excites me.
His face was thin, the skin sunk into his skull, with his eyes falling to the lowest point. His stare was intense. He stuttered at times when he spoke, and he spoke often, always looking for the best way to analyze the situation. When he hit upon it—and he always did, he was incredibly insightful and creative—he smirked. His face never looked more like a skeleton than when he smirked.
Red walls up to my eyes. My ears popped.
Nothing is throwaway. Everything is throwaway. What a great word throwaway is.
***
You look beautiful tonight. It’s nice when you notice. I always notice but I don’t always say something. Say it again. What? You know what. That I had chicken for lunch—it was a good chicken. No, tell me. That you look beautiful today? Are you asking or telling me? I’m telling. Then tell it! Now you’re just fishing. Always. Okay, beautiful lady, let’s get to dinner before I starve. Such the charmer, always thinking of your rumbling stomach. You make me sound so mercenarily. Is that even a word?
***
Her soul was dirty. It was long and stringy, reaching from just beneath her neck down to her ankles. It swayed gently when she walked, anchored in the middle of her stomach. Its outmost colors changed based on her mood, but the deeper colors, the ones that formed along the soul’s edges and within its gauzy material, remained a mostly orange tinge. These colors changed rarely, intensifying or weakening slowly over time. She was a good person, a bit young in the cycle, but generally good. She had a lot to learn, but she was on the right path. Give her a few more generations, and her soul should turn ruddy red.
***
The antenna flashed a red warning beacon. Few planes flew over the desolate hills, but the radio station had followed the letter if not the spirit of the law.
Step, swooshed leg, shaken butt, skin expanse opened, closed. Tight red shirt, tighter blue jeans, white badge smacked on her chest. Who was this woman walking the rug?
Plan before you program. Know what you want to enable, the world you want to create—throw down the arc of scenes, the archetypes of characters. Swear that this is what you want to create, profess undying love, then create and watch everything change. Live in the world and enjoy your moments.
Two bananas sitting in a tree. You know the rest. The plane buckled and moaned as it lifted off. The seats rejoiced and yelled. Triangular rakes move across the sky and pull apart the clouds.
She meets me at the overpriced, overrated, overanxious steakhouse. There is just something about her. I can’t place my finger on it (although I do try and she slaps it away). I knock the napkin on the floor to look at her under the table. She is shapely. I worry that one of these evenings during an expensive cow-flavored meal, squares will replace her curves.
My last girlfriend was like that. She was square where she should have been curvy. I forgave her that for a few months. I thought that the squares were a temporary thing, like the belly rounding after the feasts. But if anything she became more square. I began to think of her in terms of Tetris. When she lay in bed she was the L-shaped piece. Standing up she formed the straight piece. On the couch she became the T-piece with the shrunken middle. I never minded her large belly until its roundness became square. Sitting she looked the zigzag piece, the good one if she sat in one direction, the bad one in the other. I bought her softer clothes thinking that I could hide her squareness, but the rounded clothing took on her squarish dimensions. In the end I had to let her go. She demanded an explanation and I gave her it. She went from red to yellow to green during my explanation. She slapped me. Twice. I knew I earned the slaps and did not flinch. Instead, I looked down at her feet. That’s when I saw her square shoes. I managed to wait until after I left the breakfast place I use to end relationships to let out my horror-filled scream.
This one is still curvy and that is good enough for me now. I reach across the table and grab her round wrist. She smiles.
You going to write something? Finally.
Larks are large mammals from the terrible twos family. Try as he might, he couldn’t think of any other way to start this sentence. 'Zonkers' is still my favorite made up word. Silly mimes mimed their way across the street where the awaiting people welcomed them with large metallic sticks. She held her hair back with a fluorescent pink scarf.
There are monsters in my room. I should know because I am one of them, a monster.
He wouldn’t know the truth if it snuck up and took a bite out of his pants.
This is not me and has never been me. I see that now. Where others, the others who rise from the night and exclaim to the world around them that there is something they die to tell, those others, where they know there’s something out there for them, I’m not so sure anymore. I used to try and resist the others, to dance around the boundaries of the otherness and see what was on the other side. Now, I content myself with knowing that while the otherness is out there, I’m not so sure I want to find out what it is or who brought it out.
This pain forgot to tell me how it was going to end. I’m like that. I skip to the end of suspenseful movies and books, reach for the answers, and then slowly watch the build up after I know where it’s heading. That way I can enjoy without worrying.
I reach around and poke her on the nose. Her nose is sweet, reddened from the cold, and a bit too thin at its point. She scrunches up her nose, an attempt, I surmise, to cast a spell on me. It works, and my world turns red and her nose disappears in its redness.
I don’t trust Julies. I’m not going to read it. Irregardless, I’ll turn it this way so Julies can’t see it. I’m not going to read it, it’s too long. “I don’t trust Julies,” ha ha!
The sun reflected off the disc. He threw it.
So many wasted words, so much pretending to warm up but secretly having given up on the sense that this is something I can or even want to do. It’s hurtful, but push through. The rubber imagery. The wall, the rubber wall, I push my hand through, but only the rubberized fist appears on the other end.
Methodological. Sketches and raises. Thoughts and feelings. By ‘raising’ I mean elevating to the level above this one. The thoughts and feelings on the thing that I am raising or considering raising to the next level. So many useless words on a useless Sunday. At least Julies is here to keep me busy while I dwell in my own uselessness. Such a good word uselessness is. It’s like pathetic but without the yummy caffeine aftertaste.
Rolling on the rate of the railing. Raised up on reels of roaches across the roads of rambling he rides. Where would we want would we want wheels wheeling where wiles will wander. Righteousness. Training for a triathlon. Goals over painted arms and drippy hair. Conflict and troubles and inspiration. Where to find what to do and where to go? Inspiration followed by perspiration and dedication and righteous indignation. I’m reaching here to find nothing by hobgoblins and wondering why they’re not green. Where’s my instant-gratification video game world, where I press a button and the world around me changes by the established rules? Why is it sucking the energies from me and do I really care?
He’s a poet. The poems he can print out and analyze, each line a meaning, or, if not a meaning, at least a chance to transform into a meaning. A story is not so much with each page a meaning, but no chance to take the time to edit each word and find where there is something that needed to be said in that page. Irked. Leisure time wasted with what wears. Why won’t we come together on this? Zilch.
Anger arises over banquets of fire. Why won’t I want to do something? Scheduling. Riding the time. The benefits of work over related to the rising corn of time. He tries as he might to tear up his thoughts but finds that there’s not much there, nothing to grab on to and find that is worth tearing. Why would anyone want to read this? I don’t even want to write this, I want to write something that I care about, and yet this is all that’s stuck in the clog. Maybe once I fight through the clog, start doing this again religiously (like the rest of my religious activities, like my morning exercises and afternoon video game playing—oh, wait, that shouldn’t be listed under religion but under the sins of David’s life). Zonkers.
Throw a bunch of words against the wall and watch them crawl. Down. It’s funny how WORDS CRAWL DOWN THE WALL. I never wanted to do that, use capitalization for an exclamation, but it was fun and I thought I should do it at least once to show that I knew how, to use caplocks, that is. Too much metawriting and not enough writing of anything of worthwhileness. No spelling suggestions for that word. A pain in the ass is what this is. Spent the whole day planning to do something and arrived home and didn’t want to do any of it. That’s the world in an overpriced nutshell.
Green O red P green E green N. For business. Not sure what the business is. Couldn’t tell you what it’s for. Could tell you, if you asked, and I really wish you would, ask, that is, the purpose behind the business. NEQID again. I hate that term. I wish it had some meaning outside of its cleverness. All cleverness, all writing is a search for that cleverness, for that momentary spark of ahha! I’m sick of that ahhaing. I’m sick of everything raise to the level of surprise, twist, outrageous change, or aliens killed by microbes.
I’m a teapot for the day. I pour tea into the cups of customers. Some understand my uses, my powers, others wait for me to explain it to them. I’m not far eastern, although most people think I am. I’m made in Connecticut, a place in New England. Most people couldn’t find it on a map. I’m okay with that. I’m not sure I could find it on a map, especially since I’m a teapot and I don’t have eyes exactly. They’re more of a spout.
It’s good to be crazy now and again, as long as the now outweighs the then. It isn’t now, outweighed, that is. Now it’s more of a tight-lipped random bebopper of coolness. A Dean & Deluca t-shirt that nobody should buy and someone seems to. My philosophy is written on a t-shirt by another. How can that be? I want me own thoughts to resonate across the halls of righteousness and coolness and uniqueness, another euphemism for coolness. I read the paper and the ink mumbles.
“Crikes.” You start with a word and the word becomes the paragraph and the paragraph becomes the page and the page becomes the story. You start with a story and the story becomes a page and the page becomes a paragraph and the paragraph becomes a word.
Sounds bellowed from the wooden box. He kicked and silenced it.
I quivered as the high noon sun roared. My feet turned blue from the graying snow. Dead leaves hung from autumn trees.
***
“Crikes, it’s melting.” “What’s that?” “The ice, it’s all going away.” “It happens every spring.” “No, not here. This ice is never supposed to melt, here. This is the permanent ice, the real thing, the remnants of glaciers, the, you know, what all the scientists call the permafrost, the permanent frosty ground.” “So it’s melting, so what? It’s been going on for so long at this point, it’s like, who cares? The sky is falling, the sky is falling, that’s what the chicken said.” “People are starting to care, lots of people.” “But those same people think the science fake.” “No they don’t. That’s what the politicians think and say, but they don’t actually believe it. They believe it only as much as it hits their bottom line.” “You’re sounding awfully political, you know. I thought you didn’t enjoy arguing politics.” “I don’t. I just had to go somewhere from Crikes, and this is where it brought me.” “So the sky is really falling? Is this the end? Destruction, ice flows, too hot to be outside? I thought it was going to be the ozone layer that killed us.” “That too, but this is a bigger threat. Maybe they’re tied together—I’d have to look that up.” “It seems it’s something new from the environmentalists every decade or so. I’m beginning to doubt that science is even involved anymore.” “Take a look at the ice flows.” “But they don’t know what it means. They know it’s changing, but the changes may be cyclical, or even preordained.” “Crikes.”
***
Jerks cover the world. They’re everywhere and nowhere. Stay away from cleverness, aim for insightfulness. Use irregardless at least once per entry. Add it to Word’s dictionary so it doesn’t squiggle it. Squiggle is a good work.
The funny. Four legged wooden chair. Table supported by rounded platform off a single leg. Used brown paper napkin crumpled in middle of table.
“I’m surprised more kids aren’t gap toothed.” Think about that. You walked in and overheard that statement with all of its attendant baggage. For one, this was said by the mother or friend of the mother about a baby or toddler who, and here I’m postulating, her child has a hulking, tie up the dog because this fence ain’t going to hold him in, gap in the monster’s (euphemism for children up through 26 years of age, without judgment on the quality of the child, instead it’s a judgment on the mushiness of the brain of said child—technical but important distinction) teeth.
Continuing the analysis, second, the child cannot be blamed for this gap because how can other children, not do—and here you’ll have to fill in the cause of the gap; perhaps the child sticks overripe carrots between her front two teeth (another conjecture on what teeth are gapped) or…
My analysis wears down here. The senselessness of the work, the who cares aspect—you get the picture, and, please, take it as far from me as you can get.
***
“Excuse me,” Ed the waiter asked as I read through yet another article about the confirmation of John G. Roberts to the Supreme Court. “I was just wondering, are you a writer?” My belly glows at the question. Here he is, an older, kind (and rather considerate, in that he takes his time delivering my food as I pick at my salad to catch up with my reading or writing) waiter, and he wanted to know whether I was a writer.
I answered, off the cuff (in that I accepted my initial stab at cleverness instead of delving deeper) and not honest and certainly not extending a branch of conversation, “Aspiring.”
He goes on, as if to explain himself, “I didn’t mean to interrupt, but I always see you here either writing or reading, and I think it’s great. I used to be a social studies and English teacher, and I just think what you’re doing here, your writing and reading, I think it’s great.”
Did I mention that my belly lit up the entire restaurant? How people covered their eyes when they looked in my direction because of the belly’s brightness? How I wanted to answer “Yes! I am a writer!” How I wanted to throw aside a my consternated baggage, point at the stack of my stories, and yell to the world, “not just a writer, but an author—a noble scribbler in the arcane art of authoring, idea-ing, and general brilliant discourse of the eye-opening and insightful (but not necessarily clever or at all self-indulgent) act of sharing. That’s what I wanted to say, to scream. But I took the other road and whispered my answer, and bored him (and frightened me).
The stack of stories? It’s going to grow. I’m sick, tired, and cliché-driven to write anything that will budge that stack and decrease my reliance on consternation to feed these pages (not that feeding this pages is in any shape my goal).
***
Where did the raising of the roof—Dearborn. Baseball. Fighting. The catch and hook. What moves you (i.e., David)? Fuck the rest (i.e., 3 readers)—what’s in it for you?
It’s very crowded today—the reining family-oriented (non chain!) restaurant. Four flowers on red and white table cloths. Exchange it for something becoming—practice the sound and motion—it’s been too long and too all-consuming. It’s not a once-a-week thing, it’s an every day, find something to say before going away experience. We’re in the blue XP bar. It’s better this way. Better in many ways.
Powdered cheese in small jars with large holes. Pictures flashed and minds mashed. Add a verb, form a sentence. Reach for a rod and spare the bait. I’m getting close, bursting along the close-knitted seams. I will pop out and run naked among you. I won’t disappoint—me again. The four of you, you can go to hell as you throw praises in the form of chocolate baskets and well-worded comments on the genius and growth and general (but not specific, expect where examples are cited and footnoted) brilliance of the latest stacked work in my moving from the world of aspiration to actuality—such an ineffective word to describe the rush and enjoyment and great spectacle of that most wished for achievement.
It’s a beautiful day in my neighborhood. I didn’t get to bed until I late and I woke rather early. I’m beginning to think (as opposed to ‘I think’) that sleeping less makes me happier. I’m not happier in the morning—mornings suck, and never do they suck worse than when I feel like I didn’t get enough sleep. But come the late morning and afternoons, I have more energy and a happier outlook on life when I sleep less. I work (relatively) harder on these days, taking more pleasure in my tasks and getting things done at an exceptional rate. And, since we seem to be keeping a record here, I went to sleep late last night because of too much video games. Maybe, and it certainly doesn’t pain me to say this, maybe, video games are actually good for me?
I have a new war cry: “try as he might.” The he is me, and no matter how hard I try (or how little I try, as today is turning out), something else happens.
It’s almost bedtime and I’m fighting its affects. I’m in the process of testing out my too much sleep theory (or TMST). The one variable I forgot to control for, however, was physical exercise. Since I haven’t done any of it in over a week, it does start to make sense that I would need less sleep. Once I start riding again (I will ride again, hopefully next week—unless the weather changes, in which case, I don’t know what I’m going to do, maybe wait to ride until next year and continue shriveling up into the anti-David, small arms and sunken chest), my belief is that I will need more sleep or wake up zombie-like, wandering the halls with my brain confused, pathologically yawning, and searching for a moment of sleep. Did I tell you I bought an Ikea lounge chair for my office at work? I plan to use it on those days—just for fifty or so winks. I’ll let you know how my experiments go.
After staring disgustingly at my empty pages, I decided to revisit some of my older works. The one that stood out (after a few failed attempts at the sci-fi story—I will be able to write it one day, it’s just that this is not that day) was The Flying Toe Stomp. I didn’t like the history lesson on my childhood, though. I liked the narrator and Charlie. I started a second draft many months ago where I cut out Roger and decided on a rather sorry end for Charlie. But by removing Roger, I killed the plot. Charlie is interesting, but without a conflict (or an adversary, I should say), the plot won’t move forward. So, I resurrected Roger.
I’m leaving for Chicago tomorrow for a Bar Mitzvah for my cousin and a wedding anniversary for his grandparents. I’m meeting my mother and younger sisters; I haven’t seen her two monsters in a while and I’m looking forward to taking many photographs of them. Julie is in Toronto with her family, after visiting Seattle this past weekend through Tuesday. (So nice having Julies around. I can’t wait until the middle of September when she’s here for—hold on to your hats and mittens—an entire month!) My head keeps falling to my chest and my eyelids are weakening. It’s time to call this done and try to get some sleep. I know, this is not what I had hoped to write. Video games took up most of my free hours tonight, but I’m not sorry about that. Since I started to level up another character (without Julies—a big mistake), it has come to dominate my free time.
I’ll give thoughts to TFTS and see where I can take it this weekend. It’s nice to be writing a bit again, even if it’s only coming out in spurts without much that is terribly interesting (to me).
1.
Apologies for the nothingness. It doesn’t bother me much but there is the apology. I’m happy where I am. I’m breaking—taking a break, or, as Julie’s sister put it (although not in connection to this particular excuse), I’m chillaxing (a combination of chilling and relaxing popular among the college crowds).
2.
I don’t care anymore. I have no cares, no desires, no wishes. Fuck this. Fuck this and every word I type on this.
3.
I’m not a writer. I’ve come to see this over the last few weeks. What type of writer doesn’t write? Loses himself in mindless games and drowns his daytime thoughts in work, going so far as to embrace this life? What type of writer loses the will to edit what he writes; falling headfirst into the trappings of accepting whatever words he pukes upon the page during the previous day, without thought to their worth or framing, and declaring, even though this is a first draft, a poorly thought out and executed rambling, declaring it art and brilliant, and daring the creatures who out of mind-numbing and masochistic benevolence read this crap I fling onto the page, daring these creatures to declare it anything but that. A writer wouldn’t do that.
An artist looks to expand and invoke, to draw out something that is hidden within his audience. I do none of this. I don’t prod or expand or challenge. I search for words to use to use words, not to create. In moments of clarity, when trapped without distractions or addictions (which are, when I think about it, one and the same), I may flout my patheticness to the world.
Where am I and why can’t I be something more? As I tried to get at before, I don’t tell stories, I throw down vignettes in the hopes that people can’t tell the difference. My soul doesn’t know of stories or characters. I wish it was different, but when I look into the void of creation, nothing stares back. I see the edge without the middle, the implementation without the plan. I consternate and whip myself for inadequacies, but I can’t seem to get past them. I name them and exorcise them, but they crawl back and dig into my skin until I can only scratch and pretend that is the way of it. I accept it and tell myself it’s what makes me happy, that whatever I may pretend, whatever phases and Marathons I may run, I will fail because my middle cannot hold, it is empty. I want to bleed, shit, puke, sacrifice my being to this page. And yet I know once the nectar of my creativity, the yummy drug of caffeine, wears, and once I am no longer locked forty thousand feet over the earth, this pen will dry and my focus will wane and peek out only far enough to write a paragraph of inane consternation and daily excuses as my shadow of this self takes its place among what I pretend to be my real and desired life.
4.
Plan, scout, and outline. Leave nothing to chance. Observe, not, and be ready. When inspiration hits, have something other than these ghastly consternations to throw onto the page.
Spinning a yarn: telling the tale from the beginning to the end by showing the knots, intersections, and crossovers.
Start with a slight pull on the yarn and see what happens as you spin it.
Bangers typing letters on plaid rugs. Where is the chair that sits on the table? Why do I have nothing to say where saying nothing is not considered a good way to say something? Goo is as goo does. Does what, is a good question for which I have no answer. I write to put words, mushed together on the tables of life, before you so you may understand that what I offer is not something interesting or even acceptable, but something that rolls with what is in the tootsie of your beings. Down, down he heads where he goes nobody will tell.
This has been a great start to the leaf I flipped over yesterday. I feel calmer than I've felt in weeks. Julie attempted to draw me in to deon-dong-yuan-gee tonight as she fought her own demons, but I convinced her with calm words and beautifully crafted (if terribly self-serving) arguments, that it's for the best that she continue on her path of NEQIJ. She complied and I think she's happier for it.
The first day is always the easiest. I see that and I won't pretend differently. After staying in work later than usual, I drove home after the traffic rush, and jogged around the park. I can't remember the last time I did something that did not involve maximizing my video game playing time. I cooked a rather so-so dinner of salmon and brocoli (you might notice that I have more spelling and grammar errors than usual here today--it's all part of a new strategy I'll explain in a bit). I spoke with Julie, really spoke, about our days and what I was thinkikng and reading about, and she did the same. So many of our conversations of late have revolved around the hours we played video games and our days at work. It was nice to get past that and back to other topics.
(We're still concerned about the staring-thing. We worked out a strategy today: we will focus our staring at different parts of the face. Maybe start with the left eye for a few hours, and then move on to the nose, then the right eye, the mouth, etc. That way, the boredom will take more time to sink in.)
Inevitably, with our talk came the pulls of the video game siren. It was not bad today as I feel the toxins draining slowly from my body. But I know tomorrow will be another day with it's own set of challenges. At one point, as Julie was looking at the screenshots I posted yesterday, the urge to play the game was almost overwhelming for me. Had there been a video game store open at this time of night, I might have succumbed. What's that AA saying? "Take it one day at a time." We're trying to do that.
After getting back on the wagon, I began reading Modern Library Writer's Workshop by Stephen Koch. It's a scary looking green-covered book I bought many months ago when I was in a writing rut (shocking). I didn't open it at the time and I found it languishing away on my shelf. I read the first chapter yesterday, and since then, I haven't been able to put it down. Over the past couple of years, I've read many books on writing, and learned quite a bit about the art. What this book provides, however, is more than a discussion of characterization, story development, and the identification of plot. It provides an understanding of the fear and commitment that is necessary for writing, and provides practical advice to overcome some of these very common malladies, which are part and parcel of this pursuit.
I won't get into the details of the book. I skipped around in my reading, jumping ahead to the chapters that interested me the most (e.g., the discussion multiple drafts) before returning ot the earlier chapters that covered the basics I had read about in other places. Stephen Koch spent twenty-something years teaching writing to MFA students at Columbia University. It was his experience during this years that allows him to talk about the writing process and the common hurdles that most writers face.
For example, in one of his earliest chapters, he described the problem of storytelling. If you remember, I wrote many a musing about my fears that while I may be able to write, I have no knack for telling a story. The words might be nice, but there is no story there, and I didn't think I had the ability to tie things together to get anything more than a vignette. Koch discusses this problem in this chapter, relaying how almost every student in his program (he was its director for many of the years he taught there) would knock on his office door and admit to having this problem. How they each felt that they could never be a writer because they couldn't tell a story, as if there was a storytelling gene that they lacked (his analogy). It's not true, of course. He reassured them, and through the book, me that almost every writer shares this fear (and how, regretably, it doesn't go away even with success). To overcome this problem, he explains how storytelling occurs: storytelling is not about inventing stories from "thin air," but of uncovering stories that already exist (where they exist is not important). Stephen King, in his book On Writing, used the analogy of the fossil digger uncovering bones to support this same conviction. The story is inside the writer, and it only takes a discovery to draw it out.
With this inspiration steadily in hand, I managed to write a copious amount of words today. Almost all of them (excluding these) were toward a story. None of them are good, but that's okay for a first draft. Taking Koch's advice (and that of King before him), I'm not going to post what amounts to the first quarter of the first draft. I wrote around 5,000 words for this story, and in only the last few hundred did I find something. The rest will probably be dusted off and thrown away when I get to the second draft, but I'm still a bit a ways away from there. I also wrote voyeur entries and notes from the writing book in my Moleskine, some of which (the voyeur more than the notes) I hope to turn into other stories.
Now, whether this inspiration will last, I can't say. I am enjoying immensely this new inspiration and practice. It's been a good two days and while I haven't produced anything wonderful yet, I have rediscovered the desire to produce something wonderful.
I'm typing this entry directly on my website, instead of drafting and editing it in my word processor. I want these entries to be shorter (something I failed to accomplish today) and less of a writing sample and more of a quick entry to update you on my progress and the day's happenings. I know it's not as exciting as reading my terrible (mostly first) drafts, but it's my current plan for embracing what I want to write.
After a volcanic blast of energy yesterday, I fell back to reality today. I managed to crank out another 1,000 words in my story, and I even found a few hooks that might be interesting enough to propel me toward an ending. (I did write a version of the closing paragraphs of the story--but, like most of what I've written, I'm hardly impressed).
This writing exercise feels similar to the Marathon last year. The prose is terrible, the scenes are undeveloped and not described, the characters might as well not exist except for the name I gave them (all of which are obvious and uninspiring), and the story, well, the story moves nowhere and promises nothing, not even an adequate conflict. But that's okay. I'm writing this draft as an exploratory mission: the more I write, the better the chance I'll "uncover" some sort of story. I still haven't figured out if there's anything under the bad grammar and worse style. During the Marathon, as I piled on the words, I felt the same way: I didn't know it at the time, but I was searching for a story, and while I did get a few tastes of what could have been a story during the Marathon, I didn't realize that was what I should have been doing. This time I'm more clear on my goal and less concerned with the terribleness of what I've written.
All of this reminded me of Chuck's story draft from the Marathon. He needs to get back to it and turn his surprisingly good first draft into an editable second draft. To think what I would do with such a quality first draft makes me shake in jealousy. But I know that I'm not that type of writer. My first draft is and will always be crap. My only hope (and it's a slim one) is that I can turn that first crappy draft into something slightly better the second time around--perhaps something with a semblance of a story in it. As for Chuck and his first draft, get to it, man. I can't believe I need to twist your arm about this.
I am dreading finishing up the first draft (which is painful in itself) and starting the second draft. Skimming through parts of what I've written, I don't think there are more than a few sentences that I will savage. Almost everything will have to be rewritten in more painstaking detail. But I'm following Writer's Workshop's advice and plodding forward and hoping that I'll find a story somewhere in the pile of words, and some of the words I've written won't look nearly as bad with a few days time away from the work.
Speaking of work (my other job), it is quiet this week as most of my colleagues are in various conferences. One of our vendors sponsored an ice cream party, which would have been nice, except for the hard sell they put on us. I can't complain too much since I did get me some nice swag, and isn't that what it's all about: free stuff?
While I continue to experiment with less sleep, I did pay a bit for it this morning. The jog last night combined with less than seven hours of sleep left me in a fatigued state for most of the day. It wasn't a pathologically yawning type of day, but it was a I'd rather not be here one.
I'm babbling now and that's a good sign to end this. For those keeping count (and that probably consists of only me), I'm now at 5,867 useless words in my current draft.
It's been a difficult day. After an early start, I ate a large meal at my once a weekend breakfast place, washed it down with a tall mocha, and prepared myself to write. I failed. Yesterday was as bad. At first, I thought I had grown weary of my story, unable to bear thinking about it. I thought revising or writing another story would be the key:
Moving on. Jumping out of the rut by changing lanes, directions, and if the wind is right, altitude. So much to say with such little time to say it, it seems a waste not to get dirty--or, put less cliched and direct, to dwell on a story going no where. These fragments will still exist somewhere--who cares if it takes me another year to rediscover them?
Writing this paragraph was all I wrote until now. I spent the rest of the day moping around, searching for distractions. I started the dya thinking: "those who can't write, redesign their websites" (which I stole from Chuck who stole it from someone else). I spent sometime thinking about a redesign, but decided it wasn't worth the effort.
When Julie arrived (and she was early, finishing her sports physicals for college students early enough to catch an earlier flight--get the idea with the earliness?), I was terribly depressed, confused, and unnaturally confounded. I drove to the airport late, unable to read properly the flight schedule, and after circling the baggage claim area for twenty minutes, Julies had to call me to flag me down; she was in the car rental place, and I must have passed her three times without noticing.
After we drove back to the Castle, I began to feel a bit better. We identified the source of my depression at dinner: lack of video games. Today is the first day I've had nothing to do since going cold turkey. I spent the entire week working or watching movies, or generally keeping busy. But after waking up this morning, my day was filled with nothingness. I didn't realize it at the time, but since I escaped work early yesterday, I spent the last day and a half moping around, attempting to figure out why it was I wasn't writing.
I used to think that depression was the great impetus for writing. Emotion flows most smoothly during sadness, and sometimes depression can masquerade as sadness. But this depression, brought upon by the cold hands of addiciton, is not conducive to writing. Until I realized that it was not my inspiration that was faltering but my emotional state, I was becoming even more depressed. After figuring this out during dinner, I'm feeling much better now. Well enough, I am hoping, to get back to the grind and pour out more words tomorrow.
I've thrown down a bunch of story ideas I can't wait to get cracking on after I finish my current story. I did get a bit stuck. I figure I have about half of it written, and to call this a complete first draft, I need to write another quarter of it. I know, head down into the wind, and get it over with. That's the plan.
I do miss video games. I won't go back (however much the temptress tempts). These depressions are not worth revisiting.
Too much pressure. I’m baking under the lights. I need to get out, do something, pretend to be someone, anyone i.e. not me. A puffy weight sits on my shoulder and leaks down over me, pouring like viscous oil with a metallic aftertaste. A puddle forms at my toes and I curl a fist with my toes to feel the oil coat the webs between them. My head feels lighter as if it longs to leave my neck and float away. So be it in this state.
I dodged, hemmed, and hiccupped my way to not writing. I accepted begrudged, and denigrated my efforts, screaming late at night as my head exploded & I vowed never to do this again. Even now, as the yummy caffeine begins its course through my vulnerable veins, I feel the listlessness of writing this commentary about my writing process, as if, like a critic who knows he has a story within him if only he could stop writing about the works of others, I only have the energy to create this dialogue off the efforts of others, falling off at the end of it only when the chocolate remnants in my mug holds up its arms to surrender to my latest attempt.
I’ve suffered through almost two weeks of headaches with few days off for good behavior. Today was the latest day off, and I’ve tried to make the best of it. I consternated, but I also thought (after overloading myself with caffeine) & wrote, and I hope some of these thoughts and writings will propel my latest (stagnant) story to first draft-ness. I won’t make the connection between Julies’ visit and the headaches—although, it is rather fishy. Perhaps I’m allergic to her or to her constant poking me in the ribs at night; I’m almost convinced that’s what she’s doing in the wee hours of the darkness, an attempt, I’m sure to ruin my sleep and cause the pathologic yawning that I’ve suffered along with the headaches. Don’t tell her this because she’ll deny it up and down the halls.
Floodgates, the loose thoughts: I write words without query or understanding. Where are the layers? Ditto on the ruins & triumphs. So much written & said; almost of all of it useless and uninteresting. What makes mine different or worthy of the wasted time and aggravating aggrandizing? What to bring? What to say (except for the excuse to say anything). The voices swallowed and writhed before the third-grade essay.
Progress keeps running up the hill, speeding its way in the useless directions I keep spawning.
I’m still plodding away on my story, most days bad, but a few (like today) good. I still hope to finish it. And after I rewrite the second draft, I’ll post what remains (if anything).
I’m beginning to see a pattern here. You see, there comes a time every so often when I realize that this writing thing is not working, not because I’m a bad writer (the jury still remains out on that question—for now, let’s say that I’m not much of a writer, but I do, at times, put down words on paper, and if you want to get technical, then, yes, I am a putter downer of words, which, in a way, makes me a writer), but my writing is not working because, as I put it so freakishly in the last parenthetical, I’m not putting down enough words.
I can’t quantify these ebbs and flows (yet). A project I thought of as I wrote the last paragraph (and something I think I’ve thought up before and ignored, as I will likely do again) is to prepare a graph of my writing output. I’ll fit the time for preparation in between cleaning up this website, spending time with Julies, pretending to work on a “wedding website” (after I told Chuck about this project, he remarked, most wonderfully,
I wonder if the world is really ready for something so radical and groundbreaking as an engagement/wedding site. I admire your trailblazing spirit, but are you sure you don't want to let a few other engaged couples try it out before plunging head-first into such a bold undertaking?
And, yes, Julies, that is why I’ve backpedaled on my promise to finish the engagement site. I can’t take the ridicule. Blame it all on Chuck), work of course, and life in general—the traveling, entertaining, thinking, reading, etcetera. The data collection for this project shouldn’t take very long, and then it’s a matter of drawing a pretty graph in Excel and posting it. Perhaps I’ll automate it! (That’s always where I get in trouble—I’ve been wanting to automate much more in the redesign, e.g., I’m thinking of a live webcam outside my home-office window—another absolutely original idea—which, the window, that is, has a nice view of the lake (and wires).)
But I digress (as usual). Getting back to my writing, this is one of those times where I have to stop making excuses and start showing production. I wasn’t lying to you over the last couple of weeks when I said I wrote parts of a story. In the end, my unfinished story came in at a whooping 7,311 words, which doesn’t include probably another 1,000 or so words I started on a rewrite. As I said before, in the end, I failed. The story went where it usually goes—i.e., nowhere—and I had to “fish or cut bait,” and clearly you saw which path I took. I’m comfortable with that, and I’ve so far resisted the urge to share my failings with the world because, while I’m masochistic about my writing, even those urgings have their limits. During the Marathon, I have plenty of excuses for poor grammar, spelling, structure, style. I figure, there are tens of thousands of other people posting their writing during that month for their mother’s to read. My pride swells at the thought (or at least, I should say, doesn’t deflate nearly as much as it normally would) of how terrible those people’s writings are compared to my most awful of projects. I know, whatever helps me sleep at night, and during November, I sleep like a bear.
But not posting also enabled me to cheat. I would write and post the numeric output, but my incentive for finishing was not the same without having to show my work. I could always say I wrote another five hundred words, even if those five hundred words were backpedaling to rewrite a scene I had already sketched out. My point—and I do have a point, which I’m grasping at like trying to pick invisible spider strands from my hair—is that part of the reason I stopped writing was because I didn’t have a plan, a deadline, and a goal. My goal was to finish the story, and when it started becoming hard (as writing, at some point, always becomes), I lost interest, and without the goal and the website pushing me on, I had nothing to show for myself, and I allowed weeks to pass by, secure in the knowledge that nobody was watching and I’d get back to it as soon as my next brilliant idea came. Of course, no ideas came and I became less and less interested in continuing, until I find myself here, right now, trying to excuse my behavior for the last month, and figure out a way to fix it in preparation for the Marathon (and, in general, for my writing life, or WL).
To set another goal I will break in short order, I will try to write at least 1k words each day until the Marathon begins. I know this is much less than my usual 2k words, but I want to try to cut out some of the filler, and edit what I write (after I write it—I’m staying with the stream of consciousness first draft because it’s the only way I can create words). Obviously, I didn’t accomplish much in the way of editing today, but that’s okay because I didn’t accomplish much in the way of writing either, I just pushed more words. Now, back to redesigning my website (or watching movies or doing something other than having to think about saying something meaningful).
In other news, today is the second day of the Jewish New Years. I usually visit my family this time of year, but because the holiday fell out in the middle of the week (the Jewish calendar is different from the Gregorian calendar’s days, and consequentially the holidays fall out differently each year), we decided not to visit NYC until Thanksgiving.
The Jewish New Years, or Rosh Hashanah, is a time of reflections. While I’m not (by any taffy-like stretch of the imagination) an observant Jew, I do appreciate this holiday because it gives me the opportunity to take a few days off from work and look back over the year and see the things I did right, and the things I didn’t do so right. This has been a busy year: engagement, new job (arguably, I had this job last year around this time, but give me some leeway on my reflections), getting comfortable in the Castle, etcetera. I will give more thought to what (if anything) I want to say about these reflection next week, during Yom Kippur, which I plan to sit around, try not to eat (it’s a fast day), and attempt to meditate, which is the only form of praying I’ve been able to muster since childhood. (And, yes, mom, it’s because I can’t accept death and because I blame all the bad things that happened to me on that ridiculous invisible intangible green alien that supposedly lives in the sky.)
For the record, I made the goal today: 1,203—and this without real caffeine (only some chocolate, which I had to scavenge during a terrible moment of chocolate fever this afternoon).
Second days are harder than first days. I fueled yesterday’s writing through novelty (relative novelty, that is—this wasn’t the first time I set a goal, but probably my fourth goal setting maneuver). I struck out to write words and spent whole paragraphs (my only currency when staring at the blank screen) on the who’s and why’s of the goal. But today, like most second days, I find myself staring, unsure where my fingers will take me, or whether, I should state, they, in their digit-like glory, will take me anywhere.
Like most slow days, I’ll start this writing with my daily recap as an exercise, a way to warm up my brain (and, truthfully, as a way to eat up words). The day started rather poorly. I woke up early for a predawn meeting (my definition of predawn is before ten, for the record, if you were so inclined to keep one), and without even a shake of my head, I knew that it was a headachy day. I popped an Advil and went about my morning routine. For the first time this month, I showered before the Julies in the early morning darkness.
After a cafeteria lunch—during which I ate one of the best and freshest baguettes (outside of Europe) I have ever eaten, with a crunchy and buttery crust, and a not-too-squishy crust bread-part—my headache retreated to the balcony section, leaving me with the feeling that it was watching from far away, waiting for its next opportunity to run down the aisle to stick its power drill in my eye. This didn’t happen, thankfully, and my day turned out rather well.
After writing the above, I spent a few paragraphs of currency randomly spewing thoughts on the page. Nothing worth reading, but the words do count toward that total, and seeing as I’m not ready to throw back and write stories, I figured I’d share. The nonsense turned slowly into a repute of my secret story, again with the “wonderful and unexpected” theme that boils through my brain. What I’m trying to say is that what follows is David’s writing thought process, a painful reading of internal thoughts that I recorded to push my wordcount above where it should be (i.e., push it toward my goal since I haven’t made the goal “story” words). It’s meta-writing at its worst. I just thought I’d warn you, is all. (And, no, this doesn’t count as throat clearing. Really.)
Struggles with worlds of trouble. Random words spewed across the glassy lake. Righteousness rides random rollers across roiling rivers of right-angled railways. Nonsense breeds nonsensical unorganized thoughts.
Think! Unexpected and wonderful! It’s not your first thought of what would happen. E.g. (from “Garden State”): Your protag is home for his mother’s funeral. You want to introduce a friend. How do you do it? (A) He calls the friend when he gets home; (B) The friend goes to the funeral (C) Best (and the choice of Zach Brach—WWZBD?): the friend is a gravedigger watching the funeral. See? This is wonderful and unexpected! Set events in motion and ask, how best should I do this? How best should I introduce this character? How best to make the plot element (introducing a friend) happen? The plot elements don’t have to be hard or complicated (look at this one!) it’s how’s and why’s that are important.
Look at your failed story: Riding in a car, falling in love with a woman on a serial radio program. You want them to meet. How did you do it? He listens to the radio, and during an important part in the program, the signal dies out as he drives through a tunnel because of traffic. He goes to the station to find out what happened and meets the actor playing the woman. Boring! Not terribly unexpected, and certainly not wonderful. Make it so! Think! Don’t just accept your initial reaction. Second e.g.: Want to show that their difference in age is significant and may cause problems. My initial solution: go to a dinner and show the woman’s older friends (in this case, much older friends, even relative to the woman’s age). Stupid old person jokes commence. Hilarity ensues. Boring! Think. Where’s the wonderful or unexpected?
Writing is about story and then plot. It’s about original thought and not throwing down the first thought that crosses my mind. How do I reconcile that with the openness of writing what I feel, what I want to say? They say that it’s the job of the first draft to throw stuff on the ground, and the job of the rewrites to turn the first draft into a story. I’m not sure if that’s true. Once I’ve written the idea (such as the driving through the tunnel—which, I should say after rereading the description, isn’t exactly expected, although what happens next certainly is), it sometimes feels too late to rethink it.
What I experimented with a few days last year during the Marathon was throwing down a few line outline each day before I started. The outline didn’t have to be followed, but it was my initial thought, and, and here’s where I’m stretching, if I apply some OT (original thought) to that outline, it is possible, and I’m using that possibility in a very loose sense, I might come up with the unexpected and wonderful scenarios that I’m craving. And, yes, since I keep saying that, part of the U&W relates to cleverness. But I have to stop lying to myself. Without cleverness in addition to feeling, I don’t want to write. It is who I am, why I enjoy DFW and why I write asides with too many commas and em-dashes.
Okay, I’m going to talk a bit more about my goal before calling it a night and eating our wonderful chicken leg soup and watching a possibly (but unlikely) wonderful Netflixed movie. Obviously, I’m meta-writing again. And while some meta-writing is inevitable (this is David we’re talking about), I shouldn’t use it as a crutch to meet a Goal. Tomorrow, I’m going to write the Goal with story words, and then, if I have time left over (or possibly words, if I feel I’ve accomplished something), I’ll meta-write about the process.
That bit of meta-meta-writing about the Goal pushed me over said Goal. I’m at 1,066 words with a yummy Mocha.
I'm not sure what (if anything) this shows. I tried to map my video game playing into the graph, but it didn't fit nicely. The only conclusion I have is that the Marathon helps my wordcount writing (I still have to understand the frequency).
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This has been a difficult caffeine-free day. I had hopes of putting words together for a story, but after free associating a bit (see below), nothing stuck, and now that it’s after 11pm with only half the Goal finished, I’m not sure any story moving will get done today. I’m comfortable with that (as usual).
The autumn rainstorm blanketed the graying city that morning. But by the afternoon, the clouds gave way to a crisp day. The shed leaves had covered the ground when I toured the grounds on the previous day, but after the storm, only the leafy fossils remained, brown imprints on the concrete along the walkways leading to the hospital. I knew the marks wouldn’t last the day. By evening, a light rain fell and washed the dark gray sidewalks of the morning evidence.
This didn’t start out as I had hoped. For reasons I can’t fathom, I feel like I’m squeezing the words (even on the redraft), trying to make them fit in sentences that are too small for them. I’ll keep whacking at them in the hopes that something will fall out, hopefully not a tooth, and if it has to be a tooth, then hopefully not my tooth.
Rain drenches the wet ground. The grayness makes me sleepy. The weather has driven the Seattle residents insane, and according to the traffic map, I have a long drive in front of me. My excitement doth runneth. I’ll pick up last year’s rainy driving descriptions here. I still can’t understand how a city that receives as much rain as Seattle can possibly have drivers that are more timid in the rain than Southern Californian drivers who receive rain only a handful of days each year. Seeing as it’s always good to mix tenses, and how I write this both before and after my drive, I can report that the drive was as bad as I expected. Thanks to a caffeine-free day, though, I was able to keep my cool through most of the drive, and except for a slight unexplained pain in my left clutch leg (probably not that mysterious, as I’ve been driving in too much traffic lately, and started running in the evenings), I relaxed through most of the crawling traffic.
Trains choo choo across the late night roads and I wonder what ever happened to the things that shivered and hid from the onslaught of everything that wasn’t. I stare into space looking for something, maybe an idea that will describe the ideas that are hiding in the recesses of my brain, the areas peeking out from behind the walls. I come back to rainy raisins on days like this. My heart is always with the wet raisin. I guess the child in me always hopes for a mystical re-hydration so I can pound them back into the bits and pieces of wine.
Looking back across the expanse of the broken horizon, I wonder when the night’s sky first broke across the griddled backs of the men who walked the earth in large shoes that protected their feet from the industrial giants they created.
We will live in a place where the nanochip they implant in your brain will power you all the days of your life, where, and this is where things get scary, the nanochip, once it enters your bloodstream provides you the choice of ultimate pleasure at no cost. It regulates all chemical and electrical signals, destroying the feedback loop that drops you like a rock on a volcano after the chemical and sexual induced highs. When that happens, and the happiness machine is a reality, will there be anyone left, anyone able to resist trying and finding pleasure in its use? There will be religious folks who will not allow the device implanted. Perhaps it’s them who will inherit the race.
Momentary ideas flirt with my brain and I want them to take the next step. Exercises in babbling do nothing for the ego.
Tiger is his name. What type of mother would name her son after a ferocious animal? I never did get a chance to ask her that before she ran out on my brother and me. It’s fitting in a way that she would give me such a ferocious name.
I’m drawing to the end here, and my thoughts are on sleep and not on pushing the words anymore. I keep hoping for the newest inspiration, for finding the longest moment where my concentration hones in on the idea and takes me places I never expected but am dreadfully desperate to approach. I hate watching from the sidelines and having others take me there, take me to those places where I know I can find without their guidance if only I can get beyond this concentration, this ADHD of adulthood, where every minor thought, every minor distraction takes me further away from the goal (if not the Goal). How is it consternations are so easy and writing is so hard?
Don’t answer that. I have always known the truth. The good thing about consternations—and this is something I point out too often—is that you can only do them for so long before even the poetic moments vanish and leave you (me) with the sour taste of repetition and boredom. My brain feels slower now, as if I’ve finally hit the pinnacle of what it can offer me, and everything from here and forward will go down the hill, until it reaches such speed as all I’m left with is the politics and motions of my job and the holdings of Julies, which, by itself, should be sufficient to make me happy for the days of my life.
Tomorrow is another day, a caffeine-filled day, and I hope to make the best of the beginning of my last week with the Julies in Seattle. I am not looking forward to her leaving. This has been a terribly short month. I keep telling her that she can’t leave, that she promised to stay for a year, and we are nowhere near the end of that year—especially since that year starts anew each day. I’m not going to think about it now or even this week. It’ll only serve to ruin what time we have left before she returns to her residency and I return to my lonely evenings and weekends.
That depressing thought pushed me over the Goal. I’m at 1,136 now. Tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow I will say something—assuming I don’t shake my head and find my marbles dropped out and hit the concrete with such a loud thud that the echoes will reverberate the entire day until I just want to drill a hole in my head to repeal the pain. With that happy thought, good night.
Here’s what I wrote yesterday. I had planned to finish it into the evening, but I became distracted, and by the time the distractions passed, it was time to sleep. I can do this now, but come next month things will be different and I won’t be able to miss these days, not even when the marbles bounce around my tiny head (of which they haven’t been doing, most thankfully, the entire weekend). There’s not much here, but I’m posting it because if I don’t, I’ll feel like an even bigger failure than I already do. I’ll get cracking on today’s words. For the record, the count from yesterday was around 500 words, with this additional counting paragraph, which nicely replaces the one I removed because, well, if you think the below is bad, you should have read this one.
Seymour tried to occupy his time while he waited. He cleaned his apartment. He organized his bills and papers. He started the laundry to watch two pant legs spinning through the glass door. He resisted telephoning friends, even though that was his usual method for passing time. He feared that the call would come in while he dialed. After waiting this long, he didn’t want to take that chance.
The waiting at the end was always the most difficult part. He had set everything in motion, now all he had to do was sit back and hope that something happened. He thought about pushing it a few times, stopping by and trying to figure out what she was thinking, but he didn’t. He knew it wouldn’t help his cause—but even so, without doing anything, he felt completely in the control of others, other people controlling his fate, and he did not like that feeling.
Open up and stop thinking about it and just write. Seymour was not a large man. He was tiny. In his hand, the revolver looked huge. He should have done something or had something done. The wide-open area where he enlisted the big head to learn him something good, in the way of the rest of the huge green sweater. He closed his eyes and waited for the last of the next—where is there any words that can be put together for this to mean something. These words shouldn’t count in the collection of words. I can’t think of what to write, I’m writing endless words in long sentences that say nothing. I have this caffeine energy with no way to direct it. Slow down! Stop. Think!
A story about the patience involved in waiting for something you want: the anticipatory buildup. The dredging of your soul as days tick by and you’re not sure it’s going to happen. Who cares as to the outcome, it’s this feeling I want to convey, to express, to share, to write about.
With a blank page and a dearth of caffeine slogging through my brains, I fear writing the first word. I write about the fear but it’s only to momentarily pass it before throwing the other fear, the fear of wasted words and ridiculous statements, the fear of not thinking and then not thinking about not thinking in an arranged recursive ballet of nothingness.
Tired raised its ugly hands from his droopy eyelids and roared onto the scene. He did. He barked and stumbled his way to the top of the gang only to find that things at the top aren’t much better than the bottom huddlers who heap on the glories of those who cut their way to the top. Triangular motions move across the white plain. Beasts and hunters walk the grounds and avoid the pointed parts as if passing over them might attract undo attention.
I stare into space and my eyes fail to focus, throwing up three images of reality that pass slightly over each other. It’s difficult to choose just one to study when all three share the space. My mind feels mushy like the plaid ice cream that nobody craved and some wished to return. But I don’t take returns, and the ice cream shop follows what I say and where I go and forget the bargaining or the righteous indignation on the part of those who feel wronged.
I stand at the counter of the movie theater’s concession, accepting that they will gouge me. Three people wait in front of me and I notice all the lines moving faster than mine. Go figure, I think, thinking of the traffic that I fought to get this far along. I hold onto Julie’s arm and she pats it, trying to calm me as she sees the fire roar behind my eyes, the anxiety building and looking for an outlet. We’re here, she says, and everything is okay. We have plenty of time, no need to worry. I roar silently and look away as a large popcorn with butter in the middle and on top, and, what’s this, he wants more butter, fine, she says, and puts more butter on. I hope he’s satisfied. That woman he’s with, she looks awfully young for him. I wonder if he paid for her, or she’s her daughter. What a terrible thing to say, Julie says, and I agree. He pays the money and I move closer to the counter to order, but the couple thinks of something else. Do they want candy? Will candy help them enjoy the movie more. It seems unlikely, I want to scream. They already ordered, and they had all the time from the time they placed the order through the time the serving lady, in her, I get paid whether you get your food now or in twenty minutes, put the food together, which involved much digging and pumping and filling, to make a decision about candy. They want candy now? I ask Julie, who again pats my arm and says we have plenty of time to make our movie, and there’s no rush, but it’s not the rush I’m thinking of but the principle of the rush, and the principle of them having so much time to think about the candy when the serving lady was serving and before they pay, and now they want candy and they already paid and where’s the fairness in that? I look away and I don’t even see what candy they chose, but even had I watched, I’m not sure I could have identified the candy because of the red haze that fills my vision. He hands over a five dollar bill and takes his candy and soda and popcorn with two layers and a few extra pumps of butter, which is just right, he tells the serving lady, after she pumped the additional layer of butter when he didn’t think the original two layers sufficient. The lady is holding the popcorn and the drink, and I wonder why he’s not helping. I step forward and square my shoulders and move toward the lady, hoping she bumps into me, but she turns at the last moment and avoids contact and I have to resist, really resist, as in holding myself back or stopping myself from the screaming or the grabbing or the throttling, from running into her and spilling her popcorn and drink and his candy all over the floor because they made me wait an additional three minutes during which time I could have been eating my hot dog and drinking my Sprite, but instead I spent the minutes gnawing on my knuckles and thinking of the terrible ways I’d like to see them suffer for making me wait so long. I almost forget what I’m going to order when I get to the counter, but looking behind me and seeing the next guy in line, I order, and Julie teases about some candy she might want after I pay, but I ignore her because the rage is only slowly tapering away, like the candle that has too much wick left and not enough wax. We get our food and find our seats and everything is fine again. Everything would have been finer, of course, if I hadn’t been stuck behind that guy with the three buttered layers of popcorn.
That feels good, the venting, the screaming. You have no idea how often those words run through my mind and how much the anxiety of things not moving, or things not moving in the ways that I foresee as better, which, it’s funny to admit, is not necessarily actually better but at times turns out to be quite a bit worse than a better way which, had I taken the time to listen to what other people might be telling me, I might have not had to worry about in the first place.
That was easier than I thought it was going to be. I should convey my feelings on the evilness of waiting and the anxiety of the three-layer butter man more often. Painful as it is to read, at least it’s to the Goal, and this week that’s all I’m attempting: meet the goal at all costs (or miss it and take the lacerations), and don’t worry about the consternations or the words or the storyness of it, as long as it words and it meets the number: 1,079 today, caffeine-free.
I hate RSS. Well, that’s not true. I enjoy using RSS (without it, I’d have to click many more times to get my daily fixes). It’s just that I hate programming it. I still don’t know what caused my RSS feed to fail. I’m too tired after a misspent day to worry about it now. If it’s not one thing, it’s always the other (at least when it comes to converting HTML to XML). Instead of spending my two mochas of energy on something useful, I spent much of the day working here. If you look at the Photos page, you’ll see the newfangled dual column and some bad UX related to years (all the Julies idea—I even tried to explain to her that things shouldn’t just pop up all surprising-like, that there should be a warning, but she wouldn’t hear of it. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, mouse over the word “Photos”). All in all, a relaxing day with the Julies, who spent her time working on a presentation (that girl is dedicated!).
Now, without further ado, more crappy writing with no point. I remember I started writing like this as a warm-up exercise, to get the juices flowing for the main event. It seems that event keeps getting further and further away from me, as I write without thought and without direction and end up with piles of turds along my cornflower blue walkway. No matter, some words are better than no words, even if the some words are unrelated to anything except consternations and random passing thoughts.
Fears. I smile at the thought only after it flogs me something good. I like to think that the fears vanish in puffs of blue-gray smoke when I laugh, exploding and rising like demonic cartoon whiffs (imagery thanks to “Inuyasha,” the movie, II). I dare the fireballs to explode over the night’s sky, where the lightning bolt gives away the party and the sun rises to meet the young man, for who but a young man may laugh at fear and bask in his own understanding of immortality?
My mind reels. I keep trying to pull it in, but it’s a fighter threatening to break the line—no matter how often you laugh, fear has a way of rising up and hitting you when your face muscles tire.
***
I circle the ad in the newspaper. I squint and slowly cross my eyes until the red circles blur and form—I think it’s a turtle, either that or the evil headquarters from the Superfriends. I bet you if I were a turtle, I couldn’t have worse luck finding a job. I throw the paper on the desk and leave my office. The hallway is empty.
Few people still work in the building after last Tuesday, when Janet distributed the pink slips. Janet was the HR director and the most feared person in the office. After gathering us in the cafeteria, she walked among the tables to distribute the pink slips. There was no discernable ordering to the names. Well, except for the last one. Whoever put the stack together knew what they were doing. The cafeteria was almost empty when Janet held the last slip. There were five of us left and she studied each of us before making a dramatic show of reading the slip. She swallowed hard when she finished, her face turning ashen, and walked to the door, the slip held close to her chest.
We didn’t know what to make of it. None of us said anything. We walked back to our offices and closed the door. Like the ordering of the slips, the choice of the five of us made no sense. We were from different departments and our skills did not work well together. There was the....
***
Ah. I got so far and ended up going nowhere. I am neither shocked nor surprised. And, yes, I plan to consternate the rest of my words away, all three hundred and something of them. It’s much easier than thinking who should be remain working for the imaginary company. I am a bit intrigued by the mystery. Who is the narrator and why wasn’t he fired? Okay, I’m not sure I care enough about him or what happened to him, or why he’s looking for a job when he should be working, assuming his business doesn’t collapse all around him—unless it will and he will do well. Ugh. I’m saying nothing and thinking of nothing that is clever or wonderful.
Another week awaits me tomorrow. It should be an interesting week at work, and a sad week at home. We’re trying not to think of Sunday. Sundays are bad. Next Sunday is bad. But I’m staying positive and concentrating on the week with the Julies and all of our plans. We had a wonderful cacophony of leftovers tonight. I forget how good leftovers can be when mixed and matched.
The last two hundred words are tough. I can’t believe how much I’m struggling to make my 1k goal. There’s a huge lump of coal in the bottom of my stomach thinking how I’m going to stretch this writing (actually, not this writing, since this writing has no storyness in it, but real writing) into 2k words everyday during the Marathon. I need a story idea and an outline and…. It’s too painful to think about. In three weeks all hell is going to break loose and I’m going to be married to my computer two to three hours a day. It’s not a nice thought. I’m hoping this year I break through whatever boundary it is that’s keeping me from saying something useful.
Anywho, with that useless consternation, I’m pushed over my daily limit. Shoot. Not yet. I thought that would have done it, but it didn’t. I still have another thirty words. Did I mention how much shit I’m going to be in? I think I did. There. That did it. For such a caffeinated day, my writing was terrible. Word count: 1,015.
As Writing Experiment #453, I’m going to attempt to write 500 Good Words. I’m sick of pouring out crap to make my pretend goals. Today, I took a section from my poorly drafted secret story and tried to rewrite it. I still feel it’s forced, but at least I forced it in the proper direction. I’m dropping you in the middle of the story but I included enough hints to let you know what is going on. And, yeah, I know it’s melodramatic. Sue me. (And, no, I didn’t count this consternated throat-clearing introduction as part of the 500 words. That would be pathetic, even for me.
Things move through the night slowly. It is dark, darker down here than up there ever was. The tree branches cut the moon into slivers. I find it best to keep my eyes on the ground, if I look too long at the sky the ground blackens. The cold air rips the lining from my throat. I hear only the beating behind my ears and the tonnage of my breathing. Morning can’t be far away, and with the light, their pursuit will strengthen. Keep moving. All I can do is keep moving. There is no time to think about the where and why.
What do I have to show? Nothing. Nothing beautiful, nothing interesting, nothing matters. Righteousness peaks its ugly head from behind the corner, and I spit from deep within my throat, the phlegm dragging a cast line, begging me to snap back my head to pull in the righteousness. I don’t. I don’t believe in righteousness, just as I don’t believe in beauty.
So late in the evening. I wonder where it went, why I didn’t focus, exert, do before this now. I keep saying that, regretting what hasn’t been and not trying to make what hasn’t been into what will be. It’s painful and not worth doing. Why do something unless you can do it well. How can you do something well unless you try? Bullshit. Be honest, show the world the honesty. There’s no burning fire, there’s no talent, there’s nothing but a poor man’s desire to do something easy.
Everything is far away and I wonder if it will ever close in on me. Words don’t know what they’re trying to say. What are words but empty gestures, how can this ever be beautiful? It can be enjoyable like an envelope with promises. Even now, as I type words onto paper, I know that I’m saying nothing, and saying nothing with too many words. It’s not there. It was never there. I search for beauty, for that something that says I have a connection with others, and I end up puking on the page, reusing old metaphors that have long frayed their edges. Mixing nothing with nothing and hoping a magical elixir appears, trusting that I would quaff it and not pour it amongst my rubbles.
I want to do this. I want to do this so badly that it hurts. It tells me that I can’t, that I have nothing, it’s empty. You don’t even enjoy reading this shit, why do you think you’ll enjoy writing it? It takes hard work, harder than you’re ever willing to put down. The thoughts, the bookish walks, the pounding on the keyboard until your fingers feel like they’re going to fall off, this is what it takes. And what will you get in return? Subpar writings, stories that go nowhere and entertain nobody. Is that what you really want? To fail? Fuck off. I want to create something beautiful. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do: create beauty. But you know you don’t have it in you. There’s nothing beautiful about you. At best, you can hack together some words to entertain your mother. Is that enough for you?
You don’t have humor, you don’t have horror, you don’t have the storyteller’s eye or the emotive breasts of the fanatic. You have nothing but a boring desire shared by millions and achieved by thousands. Why waste your time? You’re in the millions, not the thousands, and it’s time you accept that. It’s time you sit down and find the mindless entertainments that will take you through life. Find other goals, other achievements, which will make these wasted words only that, words. There’s nothing left when there’s nothing left. Why are you pretending there’s more?
Act! You are who they are. You see what they see. They might have the eye, and if they do, you have to pretend you do also, even if you don’t. You see their poetry, you see their looks. You are them. See what happens to them. If at first you don’t understand, you will. Give it time.
I’m going to sit here until I write something. It’s been too long since I’ve written anything, and I’m sick of the waiting. What do you see? Beauty. I want to share beauty, mystery, intelligence. Why can’t I do it instead of talking about it? Where’s the sharing? Where is the fucking sharing?
My head buzzes. I swat at it and miss. The world dances around me and I wait quietly in the corner to keep the walls from falling over. The other people in the room hear the music. They gyrate and spin their hips and I can almost make out the beat by looking at their faces. But then I lose it, the beat, and the world goes on dancing and I’m the only one who doesn’t feel its rhythm.
I came to the party with Samantha Righteous. Before you ask, that is her name, Righteous. She’s over there, in the middle of the dance floor, if you concentrate when the strobes blink, you can see her, the one with her wrists clasped over her head and her eyes stuck to her shoes and her belly naked. Those two guys dancing near her, I assure you, she doesn’t see them. Even if she did, don’t worry, I’m not going with her. I thought I had a chance when we first met. Chances are like music, though, if you can’t catch the beat, you squander it.
It’s all for nothing. All the energy and the words that go nowhere and bring nothing. Fuck this tonight. Forget it and complain. Oh, I did that already. Consternations never looked so brown.
If you have nothing to say, say nothing, and by nothing I mean lots of nothings, piled together until it becomes absurd to say, hey, look over there, look at that pile of nothings. It’s always good to start with a thought even if you don’t think that thought could possibly take you anywhere—that’s assuming, of course, that you want to go somewhere, which, I’m only too happy to report, is a bad assumption in this case, seeing as I have nowhere in particular in mind, and even if I did, I don’t think these ramblings would take me there right quick.
We should force people to wear dark orange clothing; I’m thinking of a rusty color, the type of color that begs you to run your fingernails across it in the hopes of peeling parts of it away, the thought being that there must be something worthwhile underneath it. Think of chocolate bars with their silvery covering. Think of wrapped gifts with their papery film. Think of the browned skin of the dead duck.
“Tyrellery!” she screamed, not knowing what she was saying or why she was saying it, the voices long since having taken control to the point where she was not even sure she existed separate from their sounds. Once again, I find myself starting a sentence with a made-up word. I’m reaching, trying to exercise my forgotten creative muscles. It’s been too long since I’ve sat down for more than three minutes to write. Not that three minutes is not an exacting time (so says the double negative man). You can do much in three minutes. I, on the other hand, cannot.
It’s good to talk bad about people in front of them. It’s not so good to talk bad about people behind them, unless you can keep them distracted long enough to run away. To judge people, I always think of that as not so much talking bad about people, but about sharing truths with the world, pointy dangerous truths, the type of truths that are shared for the betterment of the other peoples, i.e., the peoples that are me, who hope that by belittling others, my own self worth will increase. By now, trust me, I’m worth millions.
My doodles of late have been a cry for help, a cry to sit down and get back into this letter drawing. Not that this is much of an effort, but some words are always better than no words, similar to how the pile of nothings are better than, well, nothing.
—Serge, the sky is green today.
—That is unusual. I’ve seen it pink and maybe orange or red, but mostly blue and at night, black, but I worry to call it green.
—That big space over there, we call it sky, look to it, not to me, that covering, that film, that sparkled gradient, that is green.
—I’m sorry sir, but isn’t that blue? Not to be difficult, I mean to give no offense, but it’s cloudless and clear to forever.
—Nevertheless green as meadows, as scum-covered ponds, as camouflaged trucks, as forest canopies, as the middle name of Roy Biv.
—I think I see it now, yes, definitely green. My denseness is at times a crutch, sir.
—Spread the truth of this matter.
—As you say.
Through the bent midnight lens, we listened to the ravings of the girl with the yarn-colored arms. She soared over stacks of books appearing for that moment as if riding a hammock on a windy autumn’s day before she landed nose first on the couch. Her flight reminded me of the cold-morning car’s exhaust, the smoke heaving and blowing with the passing cars as if to jump from their path before falling in behind, trying to catch that moment where it should have touched but let them slip past.
I held out my arms and expected her to come running. She did and then veered to chase a different path. When I asked, she stopped and pondered before telling me that she searched for the start. “All places have a beginning,” she said. “And it’s best to get that out of the way before attending to the end.” I asked her the difference between the two, and she looked at me sadly, as if by me not knowing that truth, I missed much in life.
When her pity became unbearable, she explained it simply: “The beginning is where you start, and the end is the beginning but transformed so you can’t know it before arriving.” She could have gone on but she left it as that and me staring after her as she skipped in search of what it is I missed.
I’ve thrown down many random thoughts and doodles over the past week. I eventually need to return to more organized works, but for now, as I finish unwinding from the Marathon and, for that matter, 2005, I’m finding comfort with this style. As Chuck likes to remind me, this should be fun, stupid, and if you’re not having fun, then you’re doing something wrong . . . or other such silliness. So it’s random doodles and more random words for the moment, at least until something better comes along or I find a way to spend more than ten minutes sitting and creating.
It is strangely therapeutic, this random writing. That’s my technique of late, by the way, which is, not that this should surprise you, the same technique I usually use when I draw. For example, for the unicorn picture below, Julie asked me to draw her something—a watch the “artist” moment, if you will (even thought I am as far from an artist as I am a writer—good ol’ parenthetical self-deprecation, how I miss thee). I started scribbling random shapes, and after I erased the first ten or so, Julie stole the pen and drew a shape, which, after a few rotations and manipulations, began to look a bit horse-ish, in that monster type of way. I added my favorite eye, and then added colors and more scribbles, and pushed and pulled the lines until it began to appear. After that, it was a simple job to draw in the background and post it to sewcrates (not a moment too soon, as I drained my precious energies, as usually happens after a burst of “creativity”).
Since Julie had a hand in it, it is officially her favorite monster—she has a strange affinity for my doodles of monsters, much more than my more realistic doodles. To psychoanalyze her for a moment, I believe the realistic ones scare her because they’re so divorced from reality and yet strangely grounded. This causes her to question my sanity, a dangerous avenue to trot down, since it ends in a bad crazy place. For the doodles that are clearly monsters, however, there is no reality since they’re truly monsters and have no grounding in reality, a much easier answer that doesn’t leave David locked up in a padded room.
My writing lately has been similar (to the monster drawing, not the psychoanalyzing). I throw down words, whatever passes through my head, usually things I see or have seen throughout the day, and once I have a collection of words, I start looking to the form of the words to try to find pleasing shapes. I edit them to try to bring out what I glimpsed, and then usually give up and post the remnants after running out of energy (you see a pattern yet?). The writing feels more like sculpting than writing that way, carving away the extraneous parts, clumping new words and sentences to form that piece of nose that I didn’t realize I was going to need, and, well, just about doing whatever it is I feel like doing at that moment.
I did manage to scribble more notes today, but after rereading them, I decided even for my low standard, there was nothing worth posting. So be it. I leave it to a discussion of technique and a couple of monsters for the day.
From DFW’s Consider the Lobster: (1) “Do not presume that the reader can read your mind.” You must provide the reader with enough information to visualize or consider or conclude that which you want to share. (2) Do not presume that the reader feels the same way as you do about a given experience or issue.” Or, in his strangely translated explanation, never use the conclusion as an assumption to prove the conclusion (p. 106, FN 59).
The cause of both of these freshman English errors is the writer’s self absorption, the inability to separate oneself from the reader, viz., a disbelief in the otherness of the reader.
Flight from Newport Beach to Seattle | 2006.01.03 | Writing
This is what happens when I write an essay. (I’m using my last post’s promise of an essay as an example.) On day one, I’m full of energy, I have my theme (which may coalesce over a few paragraphs or pages), and I follow that theme with anecdotes and what I consider clever banter and examples. After getting through anywhere between a quarter and a half of the essay, I begin to peter out. It’s difficult to keep focus and thinking new thoughts, and I begin reading and rereading the essay, editing it, making it sound more clever and profound. I intersperse these reads and edits by adding a few more paragraphs of New Content to the end or middle of the essay, but by and by mostly I’m editing and wordsmithing and not adding New Content.
When I’m sure I have nothing left to say that evening, I make the difficult decision to either post what I have or save it for Another Day, sure that during that Another Day I’ll be revitalized and able to spout additional New Content onto the page, while continuing my process of rereading and editing the earlier parts of the essay. It’s all a lie, of course. The second day, I reread the essay and am completely unimpressed with my words. I look at the themes and what I tried to say, and I can barely find any outcrops of Good Ideas that I want to grab hold of and rewrite or add New Content to. At that point, I’ll usually throw it aside, consider it a waste, or, returning to the options from the previous days, post the unfinished work with the caveat at the end that, while not finished, I doubt I’ll ever return to this essay, so I might as well get the small amount of credit (and here I’m relaying a certain truth that I try to hide away in the D.D.P.Y.D.T.A.C.P. (deep dark places you don’t talk about at cocktail parties) that when I post, I am, for the next three or so days after a post, desperate for feedback or some acknowledgement that my writing self exists; I know I pretend like I write this for myself—and for the most part, I do—but that part of me, and it’s not a small part either, that part of me that craves attention and head patting, that part waits eagerly checking email and comments for any small signs of acknowledgement outside of my own ridiculous judgment of self worth, which, since I’m being honest here, usually comes in the form of a brief comment by Chuck, of which I am grateful because it reigns in my spinning brain, which otherwise would keep checking the comments, the visitor logs, the emails until entire days whirl by with nothing accomplished but constant reviews of log files—not to add any pressure to Chuck’s job, but there you have it).
As I was driving back after dropping the Julies off at the airport (another great weekend visit from the Julies), I began thinking about my essay on Jewish Conversion that I had begun the other day. We had our first official conversion class today (and hosted our first luncheon in the Castle), and my views now as I try to remember what I wrote (I haven’t actually gone back to read it yet, but I’m relatively sure if I had I’d come to the same conclusion) are that my passion was misplaced and my understanding naïve and, returning back to the D.D.P.Y.D.T.A.C.P., spiritually void, in that, yeah, I can yell and argue rather loudly and passionately, but at the end, my arguing is more to hear my own voice than because I understand great truths or can present a logically coherent and damning argument on anything other than my inability to write complete thoughts or stories.
With all of that said, I am still working on the essay, and while I won’t promise anything, I do hope to get something finished. I’m in the PWA, after all, and if I can’t do it here, I won’t do it . . . yeah, I would have shot me too had I finished that. Until hopefully later today or later this week or never--at least w/r/t the essay, you know I’ll always return to posting if for no other reason than my desperate need for writerly recognition.
As I wrote the following entry, I realized how much of my writing consisted of useless asides. I decided to separate out the useless (although, in my simple mind, quite humorous) parentheticals, and present only the raw, boring, innane essay musing. Enjoy!
(I'm still working on a longer essay filled with even more asides. I have no E.T.A. on finishing it, but I did put in a few good hours last night. Here's a hoping I can keep with it.)
It’s been a while again, huh. After long unexplained hiatuses, it’s always difficult for me to start anew. It’s partly, as I've said before, that while my habits are hard to break, they’re even harder to establish, and partly my explicable and quite reasonable fear of blank pages.
There is a third reason. Do you remember all my talk about writing substantial multiday essays? I know it made me laugh too. Well, I was multiday writing, and then I wasn’t, and then I was again, etc., and then I did that experiment with the asides, which got me thinking that my multiday essay was more fluff than content. Cue Repeat Eureka moment in which I ask myself: what if I researched my topic? what if instead of just writing about the small theories and useless facts and paranoid fantasies that swim through my little head, I include real theories and real facts and real happenings in my writings?
The problem with this Repeat Eureka moment is always my execution. Every time I think it up (in my initial euphoria I usually forget that it is a repeated moment), it sounds wonderful and I skip down the road with the best intentions until it happens: my writing clogs and not only do I do no research, I also do no writing. Each day, as I passed the PWA, I would think on how nice it might be to write. Then I would remember how I had not finished (or even started) my research yet and how I shouldn’t bother writing until I do the research, so why I don’t I just go downstairs and watch the next DVD of “Battlestar Galactica” (an excellent sci-fi series, by the way).
These are all excuses, of course. I’m not sure if I will research or finish writing the essay. What I am sure is that I will get back into this writing thing. If I weren’t so exhausted from a whirlwind trip to Paris, I’d start right now on something more substantial than this excuses post. Damn, that was a meta-meta-excuse. Sometimes I even amaze myself.
Fight Scene Deconstructed
A double super-fabulous twin sideways flip brings Ron the Crusader up and over the outstretched and legally deadly leg of George the Paraplegic Maker. George pulls back his leg and skips backwards, raising his fists up and over his head and showing only elbows and wrists in what he names his homage to if-you-can’t-see-my-eyes-then-you-don’t-know-where-I’m-looking-to-strike montage, grunting the words in a single breath before audibly releasing his remaining air through a guttural noise in his throat, not unlike the sounds of long-distance spitters preparing their phlegm for launch. Ron lands softly from his flip and drops into a deep-kneed stance, his thighs bouncing above and below his knees like a plucked rubber band, and his left foot pointing toward George at a profound angle of attack.
“That the best you got?” Ron says as he pivots from his deep knee-bend stance and sweeps his back leg toward George. George quickly discovers the disadvantage of his elbows and wrists stance as Ron’s foot catches George’s ankle: while it was to George’s advantage that Ron not see where George looked, it was to Ron’s advantage that George’s fists and elbows blocked his view of Ron’s attack. George considers this lesson as he falls awkwardly forward; at the final moment before contacting the mat, George twists his body and dips his shoulder, forcing his shoulder to take the impact and using his tucked head to force a somewhat-diagonal roll in the direction opposite from Ron.
When George regains his balance, returning to his elbows and wrists stance, he charges forward and forcefully drops his opening right fist toward the top of Ron’s unprotected head, the motion blurs George’s arm and chop-positioned hand, creating the startling illusion of George attacking with the head of a moon-bladed axe. Ron launches from his deep stance and jumps up and back to the left away from George’s strike, landing like a grasshopper, his thighs bouncing in an anxious meter.
“That may work when the cameras are rolling,” Ron says, “but here, when it’s just you and me, we’re not impressed.”
Home Deprovement
The hole in the bathroom wall teases me. Every time I pass it, it laughs at my manhood. I am a homeowner, for god’s sake. I should act like one. But each time I pass the hole, it jeers, its corners curling up imperceptibly into a mocking smile.
I spent twenty minutes writing this first sentence. It’s been too long. I worry about consternating, finding meaning, researching, emoting, thinking, the weight of my words. I worry about everything and do nothing. I teeter on the edge of activity, afraid. I reread this paragraph, adding commas and changing words, chiseling the marble until only a rock pile remains. How many times do I have to chant these incantations before they let me pass?
Writing used to be a daily exercise. Now, I carry my Moleskine each day as a talisman. I believe that only by thinking big thoughts will I reach meaning. My Moleskine remains empty with no great theses and no great words. Silence has not revealed its meaning or its argument. I revel in distraction and beat myself up because I do nothing. I pine for the days of consternations, I burst at the seams wanting to write, wanting to say something, share something, but not finding the means or the energy or the effort or the millions of other things that I thought necessary. Fuck meaning. Fuck little empty black books.
I don’t have anything to say today. I dreamed of spinning my wheels through pages of consternations, mooning over how the words have not converted me, that I don’t think deep or meaningful or coherent thoughts. I want to see something new, know that I created something even if it adds nothing to the world except one more permutation of letters among those of the million monkeys.
My mind spins over canyons of caffeine, and I want to grab something, say something that is relevant, but I have no guidance and no maps of the canyon floor. Consternations of un-deeds are all I’m left with. That was the plan and it now seems hollow. I want to say more, I want to be more, but I am what I am which at this time is next to nothing. I’m comfortable with that.
The words are there now. I don’t mind that they have no target, no well-thought argument, no research, no statements, just unadulterated words that don’t raise banners and don’t indulge in intellectualizing of anything. They are just that: words. What is more beautiful than one’s own words and one’s own smells and one’s own thoughts and musings?
“Love has grown like a fucking plant.” There. I said it.
I have a fear of literary action. I can’t move or make things happen. It’s the easiest thing in the world for me to make decisions in life. When it comes to hapless characters on dead pages, I can’t find that spark. I sit and watch two-dimensional imaginary cutouts whittle away their lives with little to show for their inaction but consternations and the lights of the unknown. I am a creature of inaction in a world of action. In life, I make things happen, I decide and—excepting certain adolescent situations, which I try to improve—I take action based on my decision. But in my stories, I don’t see the choices, I don’t decide on the answers. I watch nothing happen fast. I don’t see or combine or knit together the threads. Inaction is my curse. I miss the Marathon: at least there I tried to make things happen. I was ineffective, of course, but at least I didn’t worry about action and choices. I decided and moved forward.
Plan for it and then show it. Rewrite it with the voice, but put down the motions before you worry about how you’re saying it. I’m stuck on my story worrying about where it will go. There is a yoga class and a floating girl. There’s a protagonist who wants to float but he can’t disbelieve long enough to fly. He’s jealous of the girl’s powers. They’re stuck there. Work through it. Make it do something.
Yes, I have ulterior motives for writing this musing. I drew another monster and I couldn’t bear to put two doodles back to back. Instead, I decided to take what I wrote earlier, pile on additional crap, and call it filler between doodles. (I have no idea why the phrase “filler between doodles” reminded me of Drakes Cakes’ Devil Dogs and Yodels—it must be the chalky white creamy filling and the chocolate cake.)
The ringing hasn’t stopped all day.
I need to find routine. Routine breeds habit. Habit creates success. Wow, I should write self-help books. It’s late in the day and I’m pounding out words in the hope of finding something worthwhile to talk about. Random thoughts are better than those planned ones. Too bad I can’t turn random thoughts into coherent stories. At least not yet.
As an exercise, Julie went through my Doodles list and picked the ones she thought I created using random scribbles as opposed to those I created by planning before putting stylus to pad. She hit them all except one: she doesn’t like my Lady in Scene doodle—which is one of my favorite—and therefore claimed it was planned. It wasn’t. Just random lines and a random chick I threw in at the last moment after the monster I drew for the scene disappointed me. I’m trying to find a way to translate my random bad doodles to random bad writing. This harkens back to a time before I knew anything about this writing thing where I thought I’d sit back, type words, and read the stories as my fingers typed them. That was before I realized that writing required work. I guess I’m still looking for the easy way to read my own writing.
It’s less a ringing than an incessant beeping. It might come from the server room across the hall. Even with my door closed and the music pumping through my tinny computer speakers, I can still sense the beeping, like the heartbeat under the floor in that murderer’s story. It’s not that I’m feeling guilty so much as . . . my concentration keeps slipping into the metronomic beeps.
Part of the random drawing that appeals to me is that the editor is mostly turned off. I’ve explained this before, but since I’m trying to fill up space, I’ll explain it again. After drawing a closed shape (for the dragon above, the head and body was the random scribble I started with), I rotate the shape and push and pull out the lines until I see something. Once I figure out what it is, I start adding the details and applying the paint and textures (mostly cheap Illustrator effects). The critic is mostly quiet until I’m finished, leaving me in this free space where I’m judging not the quality of the lines but the steps necessary to improve the aesthetics of the shape, to see something in it, like the process of stories in clouds or stars. Now, if only I can take this and translate it into my writing—if only I could lose myself in writing as I lose myself in drawing squiggly lines.
So here I am with the random writings. I’m putting finger to keys and not worrying about where it takes me. There should be lots of silence, and I’m okay with silence. That’s the one thing I’m good at in life: quiet. In the (great) movie, “The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind,” the protagonist talks about the ‘dining dead,’ those couples that you see in restaurants eating their food in silence, long having exhausted all topics of conversation. One of his fears was to be in a relationship where he joined the ranks of the dining dead. I’m not too concerned about that. In fact, I embrace silence, much preferring the quiet to the inane small talk that most people fill it with (see the wonderful article Caring For Your Introvert).
My mother visited this weekend with the Julies, and in our alone time, I think my mother misunderstood my silences. It’s not that I don’t love her—for I do—it’s just that when I have nothing to say, I tend to say nothing. It’s not a sign of boredom so much as a defense mechanism against irritation related to small talk. I don’t know what it is about small talk, but when I’m not in the mood to participate (and it’s very rare that I am in the mood), I tend to kill conversations before they get started. Another part of NEQID I need to work on, I guess.
Now, if this were a story, the beeping would turn into something, like a countdown to a bomb that goes kabloomy at the end of the story. There. I did it. I made something happen. Or, I should have said, I thought of something to happen, since this isn’t a story and nothing blew up, and this is just my random words thrown onto random beeps that have no relation to what I’m writing about. Isn’t it grand when you have nothing to say but want to type up words so you can say you wrote something between two doodles?
The final episodes of Buffy waits for me, along with a wonderful leftover steakhouse dinner. I should go to it. When I threw down the first set of these words, I feared that the exercise would end in the draft sitting in the dredges of my computer, never published, never shared with the world. I wondered if this would be a bad thing, if most of these words—and here I even threw in the self-deprecating aside, “okay, all of these words”—were meaningless and senseless and didn’t have much in the way of value for anything. And then I went on about the beeping. Well, I wasn’t wrong, as Buffy, or I should say Joss Whedon, would say. But I guess with all the beeping and doodling random-like and comfortable PWAs, I guess I did manage to throw down almost a thousand words. Now, imagine next time if my words actually said something.
Beep.
Look for the spark. I’m waiting for the caffeine to take effect. I need to write more words. I have the story planned out, I just need to put the words down. As usually happens after I plan, I don’t feel like putting the words down. Why do I do this to myself? Not that my plan was that interesting or original, but at least it was something I could latch on to. Fuck, this is annoying. Such high hopes and such low expectations. All it happens with high hopes and low expectations. I have people counting on me. I need to get to it and stop worrying about quality and just write something. It’s the 2k words I have to worry about and get done.
And yet I don’t do anything. I sit and wait and look around and hope for inspiration. I’m relaxing my body, relaxing my eyes and letting things flow through me. I’m hoping they’re good things and not the crap that usually flows through me. I have little hope and little in the way of anything that could help me get through this. But I’m okay with that. How can I not be?
The words feel empty again, the story even more so. I keep hoping that I can punch through the emptiness, find something that is still there. Nothing waits for me through that rubber wall. I’m putting words down. I lost hope that any of this will be useful. Where is this coming from? Where am I going? Empty reading and empty thinking. Why do I not have big thoughts. Write something, fucker.
I play with the first two paragraphs, changing tense, changing characters, and nothing happens. No spark no movement no nothing. Everything eludes me. I’m used to it by now. I don’t know why it always surprises me. There’s nothing inside me to push it forward, so why should I be so surprised when it remains idling when I push on the gas.
I guess I should wait and see if anything comes out. I hate myself for this shit. I can’t stand the ride where I grow and how come I can’t wait for the last of the bad things, there are so many bad things. I had hopes for something, something my deep inner voice could latch onto. That’s right, close your mind, don’t think about anything, let things think about you. THEORY. That’s the rise of the last late night hero. Why can’t I open the last for the best in the world. There is nothing but random words that rise over the peaks of the righteousness. But can’t they see where I want to go for the last of the mine of crazy people. I tend to spend time on the righteous. Why can’t any of these words move me forward. Fuck this shit. Fuck this shit with a large fucking stick.
Addendum: I did manage to get a few words out. Nothing exciting or interesting but somewhat story moving. I’m not done with it, but I thought I’d post these words of discouragement, these consternations and bad musings, just to show something between two bad doodles. I guess painful consternations for me are better than nothing. Here’s to late nights and long flights and arriving home and thinking too much to sleep. As for the title, I'll hopefully get to that when I finish the real words I was trying to write.
The preceding (bad) story is the culmination of a week of thought and writing. It started with a challenge by Chuck to a game of ping-pong stories. He began by taking one of my musings and transforming it into this entertaining story (note, this link will probably die, as Chuck refuses to permalink his stories--something about how he's afraid of leaving evidence of his writing skills).
He then sent me a note with the following topic for a story:
The protagonist overhears the conversation of a couple who appear to be talking about committing murder.
I sat on it for a few days before coming up with the preceding drivel. My idea I think was decent, but the execution--well, I guess I have to keep at it, no matter how terrible, in the hopes of getting anywhere.
I'll send out my challenge in the next couple of days, Chuck.
Depression stalks me. I’m easy prey. After a lackluster weekend, I find myself with bad brain chemistry. I’m lethargic. I type this with my head leaning to the left as if I’m pretending to listen to some distant sound. I have a cup of caffeine next to me that I have not bothered to drink. I’m not even sure I want any liquid gold. Yes, it’s that bad, and not just bad but inexplicably bad.
I missed my van this morning. It wasn’t because I forgot to set the clocks forward. Instead, I worried so much about setting my clocks forward that I forgot to check if I had set my alarm (I hadn’t—it was still set for my van-free Friday commute).
Enough of the complaining. I sip the black goodness mixed with rainwater and feel its spell.
Starting from a blank page. Opening up and seeing where this takes me. I have nowhere to be and anywhere to go. For now, I’ll just tap away and watch.
The caffeine slowly works through my stomach and my blood absorbs it, and sends it to my brain. My focus increases and I wait for wisdom or at least some semblance of it to pass the time.
Over the last few days, I’ve been working on another story. Nothing to post today, though. I’m hoping to finish it up later in the week. And, yes, I am using this as a break between my last bad doodle and today’s depressed doodle. Try not to blind yourself. Enjoy.
I should be typing on my story, but I’ve bogged down. I have emotional drivel (not the good type of emotional, but the angry, righteous, think Chuck Palahniuk without the indignation or clever turn of phrases, emotional) and the bones of a story, but not enough meat or muscle. I know musing about it won’t help me put words down, but I don’t know where to go with the story, so I figured I should write at least something on this glorious day. It’s another warm sunny day in Seattle. I can barely remember the bad weather we had in the winter. With Spring comes all sorts of yummy smells, particularly that first day of summer smell that only occurs in the Spring. It’s like when warm air encounters cold air, it generates a smell.
Gobs. Distraction sucked me in, and this is after I loaded up on yummy caffeine in the hopes of focusing on my writing project. Did I mention distraction set in yet again? It has and it is painful. So very painful. I’ll find something to talk about soon enough. For now, random thoughts and random words. I let my eyes lose focus and my mind float in the miasma of the world around me. There’s not much here. The last and final grape. Cold shiny chairs. Small words that say something about the pens. Speaker in seats surrounded by the green glowing signs of the righteous—I always return to righteousness, as in the righteous indignation of my people, as if I could wrap myself in their woolen warm. Agh. I need to start thinking and stop pontificating and pretending to think. This is an exercise in futility motivated by, I don’t know by what because I’m just not thinking. This is too funny (and painful).
I was hoping the plot lines in my latest story would come together. I had the idea and I even found a voice, but I haven’t been able to get past the simple idea and the overly clever voice. In some of my other stories, the plot (and perhaps story) hits me while wandering and thinking about what I should be saying. Since I started a few days ago, I’ve been hoping the brick of brilliance would strike me. No matter how many ladders I walk in, the brick refuses to fall. Alas is my fate. So many consternations, so little writing. At least I’m pretending…unlike certain other people, who hide behind work projects and excuses, such as the “too busy to think” and “I’m thinking, stop pressuring me, I’m thinking.” (It’s so much easier to make fun of others than to get off my own lazy ass.)
Okay. This is long enough to separate my last two doodles. I wish I could find the motivation to write as long as I spent doodling my fishies picture. Oh well. As soon as I’m struck by inspiration, I guess.
In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been very slow in posting my next ping-pong story. I started off strong, pounding out over eight-hundred words in the first day without knowing what I was doing. After that, I spent a few days planning and ended up with what I thought was something and somewhere interesting. I puzzled out a few of the more clever aspects, including some ideas that sounded wonderful when I jotted notes, but turned out beyond my writing skills.
After the first week of inspiration and writing, I was over a thousand words and working my way toward the finished product. Which is, of course, when I came to a grinding halt. As I managed a paragraph or sometimes a few words at a time, I found myself reading and rereading the words, not moving forward, but pedaling backwards to add an article or remove a word, not wanting to know what would happen later in the story. My narrator is a slightly mad woman, and because of that, I find the writing a bit more difficult than usual. I need to craft each sentence to keep the voice true, and by doing so, I spend more time concentrating on the words (and editing the voice) than the story, and the story suffers, moving in starts and stops.
That’s enough of that. I pounded out a few more paragraphs and am calling it a night on the writing front. It’ll get done when it gets done—which, I’m afraid to say, couldn’t be soon enough.
Julie spent her first May weekend in in the Castle. She’ll be here throughout the month, and it’s wonderful not driving her to the airport on Sunday night. As you can tell by the photographs, we cooked a Shabbot dinner on Friday night. I’m not sure where my Jewish studies are taking me, but I’m willing to experiment here and there with what it has to offer. I’ll hopefully write more about it when I get around to writing more about it (I know I have to stop promising and not delivering). We spent a wonderful weekend unpacking Julie’s boxes and moving Julie in to the Castle. There is now Julie evidence on every floor and in every room. It’s a nice touch from my usual stark taste.
I baked Banana bread tonight. I’m not sure what inspired me, but the loaf is cooling on a rack in the kitchen. It’s too late to eat tonight, but I’m expecting a yummy (if hopefully not too sweet) breakfast of yogurt and bread. And, no, Chuck, I’m not becoming obsessed with breads like some people. But I thought it would be fun and it was relatively easy. I will have to experiment with the ingredients once I taste this one. I was inspired by a pumpkin bread we ate at a Shabbot dinner last Friday (I have to find out what they used instead of butter in the recipe—probably some sort of oil).
Again I’m going to have to whip out the “enough” word. I’m sounding way too domestic in this entry. It’s been a wonderfully long weekend and I’m sad to see it pass. Luckily, Julie and I have many more weekends ahead, and then after a brief month apart, even more weekends to look forward to. Here’s to finishing stories and beginning lives.
Okay. I’m done. It took me way too long to finish, but with a little help from the Julies (okay, a lot of help from the Julies: she found the plot for the second half), I managed to tear off an ending and post The Killton Academy for the Insane.
Mark one for the good guys in our game of Ping Pong, Chuck. I’ll hold off sending the ball back over the net to our illustrious story scribbler. I need to find an equally entertaining topic (remember, for me, Chuck chose: “An insane man escapes from an asylum, walks into a (insert workplace here) and is mistaken for a new hire who is supposed to start that day.”).
Expect fireworks and emotional despair sometime this week, probably when you least suspect it.
Update: I mailed Chuck my return serve: "Protag. creates the ultimate power in the galaxy, but can't figure out what to do with it." It makes me giddy imagining the look on his face when he reads it.
Don't bother reading this. It's bad. It's drivel. It's my attempt to get back into this writing thing. It worked only so much as it made me write something. I guess that's something. I did warn you.
You have to start somewhere and keep it going for as long as—animals—where is this story? I have so many things that fly through my head lately, and I haven’t recorded any of them on this thing. My Moleskine is getting quite a work out, and I guess that’s more important than posting. Small make the world go around.
Light-Darkness-Light
I came to morality late in life. I caught a glimpse of it when I was young.
First there was George.
She glued her pants to her luscious legs. That’s what it seemed to me. I have been required to take them off a few times, and I can’t for the life of me understand how she gets them on.
Then there was George.
My head is pounding. I’ve Advil’ed, caffeine’d, and pretended to nap. Nothing works. I sit here wanting to get my thoughts across and yet nothing is coming out. I’m typing consternations or more like firing blanks into CSI gun chambers. It’s been too long. Excuses are what I’m good at these days. I won’t bore you with them. Or maybe I will if I want nothing better than to move along and find something to see. Oh the annoyance of not moving along. Why the pain? I can’t understand it anymore. I want something more. I need something more. There we go, an interesting couple walks outside. I wonder what their story is. She moves in tiny steps with a cane, unsure if her legs will support her. He walks next to her, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses. I’m not sure if they’re married or friends. It’s a painful way to walk, never knowing if the next step may find you fallen.
I have no internet and it’s driving me mad. I’m a mad creature. I have nothing creative, no creative output. The best I can do I can do is continue to type and hope something falls out like a dead fish onto newspaper. I don’t have high hopes. I spun up my wheels and screeched to a start. Nothing is happening. Nothing at all. Why do I torture myself? Why do I hope for something interesting when there is only madness and uncertainty in me?
There is love, and then there is love. Virtue as love. Love of virtues. Why do you write this? Do I hope to say something or share it or just fucking write? I think it’s the last with a bit of the first two tied in at times.
Things are moving. Are happening. Throw up some dialogue and see where it takes you. This is taking you nowhere.
“So what are you telling me. What is you want to tell me. Please, tell me. This beating the bushes to get me to say something, this is beginning to grate on my grated nerves. They’re vibrating now and you’re part of the cause. Now, stop causing it and say something. This insanity has to end now. End it, please.”
What would be fun to write? Find the funness and write it. I’m getting sick with is pretend fun, with this awful nothingness. Okay, let me have it. Let it fly out. I’ll eventually find something to talk about. What do I want to talk about? There must be something there, something that is waiting for me to say something. If only I could find it. I’ll keep blabbing away until I hit upon something. I will end up with something. That I guarantee. Whether it’s pages and pages of this shit, or something better, I’ll leave it to you to discover. Things are percolating but nothing is coming out. I’m glad I’m doing this. I’m glad I’m emptying my shit creator and trying to see if it will let me say something. I keep talking about saying something, perhaps I should write about saying something. There we go, I should write an entire essay about saying something. Is there anything that would be more fun? More adventurous, more, well, more excellent!
Think big thoughts and hold on to the end of the rope, you know, where you tie the knot so as not to slip into oblivion. Second chances over righteous indignation. Where have I been and where am I off to? Why can’t I say much in this not saying much type of world. I keep typing and hoping and hoping and typing. There is something here. I know there is. It’s just a matter of finding and placing on it the last of the righteousness of the last of the nice people walking down the street clasping hands and not knowing that this moment, this very moment is the best they’ll ever have. You always have a great moment in a world that is not here and now.
Every moment is a great moment, a single time that will never repeat, never show its face again above the sand. That is the advantage of being there, being in the single moments and the latest of times. Why should there be anything more? Why does the caffeine screech through my body and find nothing. I have no direction for my thoughts. No way for them to get out. I wrote words and ended with a story that said nothing and nothing could be said for it. I’m getting closer, you know. There’s just a matter of time before I’m there and once I get there, the world better put itself on notice.
I’m caffeinated but running in circles. I have nowhere to go and nowhere to stay. Ugh. The pain of repetition. I guess if I say it long enough, eventually I can pretend that I had something to say. There it is again!
Nuggets of timelines. Will this ever be something other than nothing? Why can’t I dive back in? What has happened in my life lately? Julie has gone away, and I’ve, what have I done? I want to say nothing. Why not talk about love as defined by virtues?
It’s more that I feel I have nothing important to say. Everything important that I could say has either been said or I wouldn’t be able to say anything that would add to it. I’m not a thinker, not much of a storyteller either. I don’t know what my skill is except to sit here and annoy myself by not writing. I have to remember that it’s not about me helping others, it’s about me helping myself. I need this for me. It’s hard to remember this when I float about my fantasy world. What’s the purpose of life? Being a better David. But then I die? Or do I. That’s the point, you don’t necessarily die, your soul may live on. Isn’t that what you want? You want to live forever. Who wants to live forever? I do. And you will. So how would I talk about this? Talk about animals. Animals that live forever, or at least live forever outside of themselves. Is this their brain in a vat type of story? Or is it something more. Okay, stay with that. What is the something more? What is it that? I take deep breaths to remember that I have to breathe. Isn’t that what you should do automatically? I sometimes forget, and when I forget it’s nice to remember, nice to lower my lungs and suck in air.
Get back to the story. So I’m an animal that will live forever in a different state. It’s a learning experience for the animal. It’s sort of Buddhist in that way, that coming back to learn something, to become something, to be better. How would that play out and what is the conclusion? Fuck conclusions, what’s the beginning or middle. I can worry about the conclusion once I start this damn thing finally. I miss the Julies.
Stay with me here.
The animal reincarnates. Why is it there in the first place? Is it to learn something? That is what the soul is there: to make choices. But why have a group of people with an advantage? Will others join that people? Because you’re thinking at the micro level, and it’s the macro level that is important. How can you help the poor if there is no poor? The sick with no sick? The dying, etc. But this only helps those who can help, it doesn’t help—again, you’re thinking too much of the individual. It’s the group that’s important. The group of people, they are the one learning from this adventure. Why can’t you get this through your thick skull? So the animals are not there to learn but to allow others to learn, people in general to learn? So you have an animal and what is he there for? He’s an instinctual animal. He learns nothing and becomes nothing, chooses nothing, which is at the heart of everything: choice. If you can’t choice, how can you learn or show that you’ve learned. Light-darkness-light (LDL).
Who’s to say that there’s anything there that will survive. The survive, is it individual or is it in a group? Is this something I can talk about, or something that we can never know until it is time to know it. The collective makes much more sense than the individual. But is it really about making sense or is it something more?
Remember to breathe. I sometimes forget. It’s good to remember at these times. There’s something that is there for me to move. Fuck. My head is now mumbling.
All things push into the middle. That is what I learned, when I learned it and why I learned it. There is something that is there for me to see. Synthesis my left nut. There’s nothing here to synthesize. With all of my nothingness, I end up with nothing to say. To pretend that I’m out of practice is ridiculous. There is no practice anywhere. My head still pounds and I wait for it to tell me somewhere that something is done. The soul, the animal, the instinctual human. What do they have in common and how can I talk about them? How can I say something more than a video does, than a song does. That’s what’s wrong with these words, they never say anything more. They are not more moving or more intuitive or more anything, except more difficult. Is that why this cult has never caught on, why it is dying away? I wish it was something more, anything more. Lots of words today, and none of them useable. Why do I care if it’s useable? I thought this was for me? If this is for me, then there need be nothing that I end up with except the something that works best for me. Otherwise this is a false exercise. Remember to breathe.
Okay, so where have I gone today? Nowhere, and nowhere fast. I started with nothing and ended somewhere thereabouts, with nothing. Is David better after this? Has he learned anything, become anything? That seems unlikely. It seems that I am nowhere with nothing to go and nowhere to be.
Let logic go, let it run away and replace it with something. So far, nothing to replace, nothing to say. I have said nothing and I’m almost at 2k words. That’s something at least, a start. It’s like trumpet playing, once you start doing it every day, you’ll eventually end up somewhere that will enable you to say something. The exercise of saying something is that important thing, the habit, the doing it every day. It’s like shaving, your face gets used to it. If you miss a day, the whiskers grow longer, and it becomes more difficult to shave the next day. Once you shave every day, though, it becomes easier. It’s easier to shave stubble than longer whiskers. There you have it. It’s easier to write if you write every day, even if you end up saying nothing, like today. There. I’m over the 2,000 words. I’ve said nothing, and said nothing with lots of words.
My yawns freefall from deep inside of me. I’m hoping there is something more waiting for me, but I doubt it. There’s rarely anything there.
I’m almost out. There is nothing left in me. Nothing worth dredging out. This has been a productive day, even if none of this will ever see the light of day. I needed to throw words out there, maybe edit it a bit, and see if there’s anything left that’s worth posting. I guess better than doing nothing and sitting around to play video games all day.
Sitting again, observing the world around me. So many people with stories, each has something interesting to say, each person is important, and, deep down, in places I don’t get to because I never talk to any of them, each person has a uniqueness about them that brings something new and unexpected to the world.
Ah, the rereading of my own writing. I’m not sure if there’s anything I enjoy more than that exercise, especially when properly caffeinated, a strong focus on the material, and my unadulterated optimism. Did I talk about my newfound optimism yet? I’m working on it. It’s a NEQID-thing, a way to make me better. Why look at the world as all bad when it’s inherently good? It wants to be good, and I’m here to make it so. And, yes, that was a Picard reference. I’m nothing if not up on 90s-pop references, the popular ones, that is. I’ve never been very good at the cryptic literary ones. It probably has something to do with my inability to remember interesting and important things. It’s useless culture that sticks in my gut for all time.
I continue to type and say—I won’t use the n-word today. I’m too positive to worry about voids, emptiness, abysses, cavities, hollowness, holes, and any other word that my thesaurus missed but that’s applicable in this non-n-word posting. I’m waiting for stuff to happen to me. I spend too much time waiting and not enough time actuating. Hehe. I sound like a transformer with that word. To actuate, “To put into action or motion; to move or incite to action; to influence actively; to move as motives do; more commonly used of persons.” Very useful, this interweb thing is. So there it is. More words. Caffeine-induced words that lead everywhere. There’s the positive angle. I would have said the n-o version of the where, but I resisted. All part of my grand plan to make something of myself. Here’s to being something instead of someone.
I need to be rescued from distraction.
The world waits for me. It’s all there, at my proverbial fingertips. I can access information instantaneously. I know everything that goes on in the world, well, at least the important stuff, the stuff that gets filtered as important and sent on its way through the social networks that end up at my tender fingertips. They get tired after a while, my fingertips, that is. Even the skin and fat padding can’t protect the nerves from bone forever. After a time, they press into them and it hurts to type, it hurts to sit in an awkward position trying to find it. That awkward is a funny word, it’s awfully, well, awkward to spell.
Distraction sets in. I power up the aforementioned web thingy and point to a page and hope for updates. There are always updates, either new comments or new sites for me to visit. I hope it’ll tickle my concentration long enough to send pleasure impulses to my brain to get off whatever uncomfortable thought moment I was involved in. There’s nothing here, you realize. Who’s the character? What’s the conflict? Why do I find either of those things interesting in any manner? Why should I care in anyway?
Crazy is as crazy does, and I’m one crazy cursing carousing critter. Oh, the cleverness, does it know any bound? I doubt it. It’s out there, thinking, always planning the next way to put a smile on my pathetically consternated face. Hunched backs and revered thoughts. Poetry written in one-word verses. Why spend more?
I peck for more distractions and keep finding them. They’re unsatisfying. I don’t know what I hope to find, but it must be more than this. I live inside my head lately. I need to get out of it, to get into other people’s heads, other people’s stories. That was what I do with my short stories (or try to do, at least). But now I find myself nowhere near that. I’m spinning my wheels and leaving muddy tracks across the rug. Someone save me, please!
It’s been ten minutes. Maybe things have changed. Let me go check. Isn’t ADD wonderful? Of course, it’s only wonderful because I’m not practiced in any other art. I need to practice. I need to pretend I have some other say.
Mr. Positivity had come to town. The next week, Mr. Outside World joined him. On Tuesday, they stopped by my house to see how I was doing. They were sick of me complaining. They were sick of everything going weird in my life. They said if you want to write, you should write, you should stop c’ing. And so I find myself here, writing, thinking of what I need to write about animals or reminiscing about proms.
Time was when things happened. Thing happened daily. They don’t happen as often, but things are still happening. Just today, well, before I get into that, let’s talk about yesterday. Just yesterday, well, maybe we shouldn’t go there either. There are always things going on, is what I’m trying to say. And I’m going to stop clearing my throat and start telling you about it. Right after I think about tomorrow and reminisce the past some more.
I couldn’t decide if she was pretty. She wasn’t fat, a good starting point. I watched her from the back of the classroom. She was skinny but undeveloped, if you know what I mean. Most of the girls in my class hadn’t developed yet, and I wasn’t sure what the big deal with developing was.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“You’re thinking too much again. You get in these ruts when you think too much. You need to react, be an instinctual animal.”
I didn’t know what rut she was talking about.
Keep going. Nothing gets written unless you type on the page. This silence is again tough. I’m not bitter about it, just understanding where it comes from. Not writing makes writing difficult. It’s a twofold problem: I can’t think of a story is the first fold, and the second fold is even if I came up with a story (and not a scripted story, since those usually come stillborn), I’m not sure I still have the tools to put words on paper. A child screams in the corner of the bucks of stars. It’s more of a shrill screech than a scream. He’s bored, but it’s hot outside, and he would probably scream louder if he were in the streets or a hot apartment. Civilization is good for many things, least of which is the air conditioning.
My butt hurts from riding my bicycle this morning. It’ll pass, and it would be much worse if I were still on the bike. This was my first ride of the season, and we left early to try to avoid as much of the ridiculous heat as possible. It was a long good ride with only a few difficult parts.
It’s not only stories that are about choices, life is also about choices. Even the most insignificant choice may have huge ramifications. You shouldn’t worry about whether the choice matters; you should only worry about whether you are making the correct choice.
I’m coveting that guy’s seat over there. I’m sitting on a hard wooden chair, and my butt still hurts from my bicycle ride. He’s reading a paper in the cushy chair next to the outlet. I could take the cushy chair next to it, but it doesn’t have an outlet. Ah, dilemmas, dilemmas. This is what I mean about choice!
I chose the cushy chair without the outlet. I don’t regret it yet. It’s the little choices that you don’t think about that will turn into anything that is important. The seat smells a bit funny. The guy next to me looks like he’s wrapping up. He’s…I’m making my move! I’m now in the chair I’ve been dreaming about since I arrived, cushy, close to the outlet, ideal people watching position where I can see the entire bucks of stars. But it’s a bit warmer over here. I’m closer to the window. I guess all choices have possibilities and drawbacks. I’m not saying I’m going to leave this chair. I’m working it good now, and it’s better than anywhere else, I’m just saying that when you get what you want, you sometimes realize that it wasn’t what you wanted in the first place, if you know what I mean.
An animal has no choices. He never has to choose—not important choices, that is. He chooses whether to go left or right, he chooses whether to chance the watering hole, not knowing whether a predator will eat him. But he doesn’t worry about moral choices.
So many distractions, and I still have 1,500 words to write. I figure if I write 2k words a week, I’ll get nowhere very, very fast. Baby steps, I remind myself on an almost endless basis, baby steps. So here I am, still thinking and trying to figure out what it is I’m thinking about—or, and I should do this more often, convincing myself to stop thinking and start doing. I’ll do it when I figure out what it is, which means more thinking. It’s a vicious cycle.
Smile, enjoy yourself. You’re sitting and thinking. Where can you find more fun that what you’re doing now? You have all the time in the world, You are slightly caffeinated, and you can run up and buy more pastries and coffee anytime you want. Where else would you like to be? You have many words that say nothing left to say. You’re good at this nothing say. I wish I could say nothing every day. It’s only when I’ve completely exhausted saying nothing that I can pretend it’s time to say something. I don’t do enough of this. Once a week, not nearly enough, as I repeat myself to pull in more words.
Stop. More words follow this. It’s almost time for me to start again, start a story. Childhood but without the school. School sucks. It’s about the time spent outside of school that’s interesting. The time spent in the basement, in the movie theatre, in the parents’ cars.
Too many thoughts still percolate in my mind, and I haven’t finished consternating yet. Once I finish consternating, watch out world! (As if I’ve never said that before.) I have to find the time somewhere. Once I have the time. Ah, who am I kidding? It’s not about the time but about the will. I always have the time when I don’t have the will. My mind spins on work stuff and then wants to relax. I need to give up the relaxing and find something more, find a way to relax without worrying about energy levels and word counts and saying fucking something.
I have to learn to observe again. What happened to my observations? I seem to observe my internal world well enough. Why can’t I push it to my external world? It’s so easy to not do these things. Everything is important.
Ah, the slowness of Sunday. I finished a nice bicycle ride this morning, Julie is studying away for her family board exams across from me, and I’m sitting in my PWA (perfect work area), having finished my coffee with a generous lump of chocolate (but no milk—I’m experimenting with easier to make coffee; the milk frother takes too long), and thinking about writing. Julie returned from her Taiwan adventures yesterday evening, and I hope to post some of her fantastic photos over the next few days. It feels like she was gone longer than two and a half weeks—I guess now that she lives in the Castle, I feel her absence more. Once you have something, it makes its loss that much more.
I’ve been racing through books lately. I guess that’s better than sitting around and playing video games.
It’s not working again, the animal story. I tried to turn the gears, but they were stuck: missing oil or perhaps misshapen. Whatever the cause, not a word I wrote; I did take pleasure in cutting and effectively decimating some of the words I had written. Julie is sleeping, the jetlag having caught her with a cross punch across, well, you get where I’m going with this metaphor. My little Dell laptop is burning up my lap as I type this. I’m thinking it’s only a matter of time before my thighs combust. I guess there are probably worse things than combustible thighs even if I can’t seem to pick any out. It seems my bike ride left me with a bit of an unwanted suntan. My upper thighs, arms, nose are bright red, and I’m beginning to itch. I laughed when Julie told me about this mystical lotion that protects you from the skin—I think she referred to it as “suntan lotion.” Clearly it’s a misnomer designed by marketing people. And, besides, it’s slimy, and I can’t stand slime.
Look at all these words. Wonderfully formed and placed words, none of which gets me any closer to finishing this serve. Oh, if the world could understand my problems, my expectations, my insane frame of mind. That’s insane in the membrane, if you were wondering. That world, my friends, would be a much better place, a lucid place, if you will.
Stupid thoughts race through my head. This is my art form. This is what I want to express. Do I want to make the world a better place? Is it through rational or emotional string pulling? Where am I off to? What am I hoping to accomplish. This is my problem. I can be rational. I can present arguments—hell, that’s what I do every day, why couldn’t I transfer that knowledge here? I can edit, I can display, I can do a whole bunch of good stuff. The question is, as it always becomes, why don’t I? I may draw and that might be something I end up bringing to this form. In short, I am searching for my art form, for my way of expressing myself. Why do I even want to express myself? Do I want to leave a mark on the earth when I pass? Do I want to educate or make the world a better place?
I know what I’m not good at: I can’t think up stories, or at least I can’t initiate them. I need an impetus, a foil. I’m not sure where or how that will come into being. Even now, as I tatter away on this keyboard in the back of the van, I’m not sure what I’m hoping to accomplish. I’m tittering and tattering away in my feeble attempt to find an art form. This has been the goal of sewcrates.com: to find a voice for art. It took me a while to discover art, to understand it as something other than the realistic duplication of the real world. My original view of art asked the question of how to duplicate what I see every day. What I didn’t realize at the time was that that is what art is, but the every day is such a subjective term, and what a person sees in the everyday is not what they see (as in photographically see), but what they feel, they think about, who they are, etc. There is so much more information than what one sees, that it’s a wonder it took me so long to find out that realism does not equal art. I’m slow sometimes, I see that now. I didn’t understand that before.
So if my art form is a search for a way of expressing what I perceive, then two questions come to mind: how do I do that? And to what end? For the second question, I should assume I do that for the reason anyone communicates: it is the hope to make a connection with another person. For all the “art for art’s sake” bullshit that flies about, the answer seems clear. It is not about acceptance or adoration, it’s about communication and connection. Saying something that someone else hears. So I want to communicate and connect. That makes sense for the end. But how about the how, how do I do it?
Part of it is obvious: I write words. This is what I enjoy doing and what I’m moderately good at. I put one word after another and I hope that they say something. As I’ve been doing it, however, it’s been lacking. I’ve been brushing up on the grammar and style, and forgetting about the content. That’s what I’m hoping to find. There is content out there, and I need to find out how to say it. I’ve discovered the what, now I need to find the how. Pictures, words, stories, musings, thoughts, feelings. It has to be something that someone wants to read, otherwise there is no way I will make a connection, no way I will communicate with anyone (w/the exception of the dedicated three).
I’m feeling a bit sick sitting in the van and typing this. I’m not sure if it’s the coffee or the bumps. Either way, I’m done for now.
***
“Hello, Jon?” And he keeps talking and hoping. Why does he care so much? Annoying as hell, it is. I need a nap, once I nap maybe then I’ll be able to move beyond this not napping. This is not working so well. This morning writing with no idea of where to go. I need to plan. Use the Marathon’s method: plan the night before what you’re going to write the next day. Think it through. I have all day of idle (well, not exactly idle) time to work this through. Ah, I have nothing. No plans, no work, no nothing. Hang up. Please, hang up. The pain of the fake conversation is too painful.
Animals don’t decide. I mean, they make decisions, but they’re different, on a different level, flooring of a house verses its walls, if you know what I mean. The walls enclose the structure, but without the flooring, there’s no place to stand and you’re ankle deep in mud. Animals’ decisions are instinctive. Think of the mouse in the maze looking for the cheese. The mouse never considers which is the morally good route, all routes are morally equal; the mouse’s only worry is the cheese. Most people act like animals. And, as my grandmother always told me, something always seems to get lost when you have cheese on the brain. My grandmother also said that saying something doesn’t make it true. She was one smart cookie in an age of cheese eaters. She taught that living it is what makes it true. Here, I’ll show you.
“Who can tell me what Justice Cardozo was talking about when he said, ‘If the nature of a thing is such that it is reasonably certain to place life and limb in peril when negligently made, it is then a thing of danger’?” A room packed with blank faces looked anywhere but at Professor Handy. He was a distinguished-looking lawyer in his late sixties with a bright bowtie. Today it was yellow. “Anyone?” he continued, his voice growing quieter, his congested breathing audible in the microphone. “Come on, I know you know this.”
Professor Handy tended to ask easy, open-ended questions in the hopes of student participation. He always seemed surprised when nobody volunteered an answer. What he didn’t realize was that asking too easy of a question was as bad as asking too hard of a question. It was a point of psychology: if you volunteered an answer to an easy question, especially when everyone around you also knew the answer, it came out wrong. You became the proverbial brownnoser of the class.
But the professor wasn’t interested. While his eyes pretended to scan the room for volunteers, I knew where his gradual search would lead. Inescapably, he made his way to Melissa, she of the middle seat in the front row, she of the knee-high tights and the short skirts, she of the bright-eyed and the bushy tailed eagerness. Mouse, meet the cheese. Melissa’s bare knees stuck out from under the small desk attached to the lecture-hall chair. She leaned forward slightly and, when not frantically writing notes, chewed the cap of her pen. When Professor Handy caught sight of her, he grew flustered and bent over the lectern to shuffle his papers. The other students, who had tried to signal the end of class by glancing at their watches, gave up and began packing up their things, a gesture at first lost on the professor.
Soon the noise grew loud enough to draw the professor’s gaze from the lectern. The professor glanced at the gated clock on the wall, which provided three more minutes to finish the lecture. The professor always had big plans. He confided in me that he hoped for lots of discussions, to throw out philosophical points like bones for the class to gnaw on. He never understood where the time went. He spent so much effort reviewing the mundane learning—the facts, issues, and holdings of principal cases—that he never had leftover time to analyze and consider what he cared about: the deeper meaning of the material, where it fit into American jurisprudence, what the decisions meant for the time and place where it was decided, and, of course, what the case’s words would look like scrawled on Melissa’s naked body. He didn’t tell me that last part, but I knew, everyone should have known.
Professor Handy’s glasses slipped to the tip of his nose, and he pushed the glasses’ bridge against his brow. The nose guards dug in and he grunted into the microphone. The other students stopped folding their books and papers. Professor Handy looked up at the class with a forced smile. He felt something dripping from his brow down the side of his nose. He reached up with his finger, but it was only sweat.
“Papers today, don’t forget to drop them off.” Professor Handy waved his hand in way of dismissal. The large lecture hall exploded in activity and sound. The professor straightened his notes and placed them in his boxy briefcase. The students filed past the table next to the lectern, leaving a neatly piled stack of typed papers.
…
I sat in the front row a few chairs away from Melissa. I ignored the other students as they crept past the professor’s desk. Melissa waited in her seat until the students had left. Chuck’s face tightened and his forehead lunged toward his chin as Melissa rose and daintily walked over to the professor. She was not holding her assignment. Professor Handy had assigned the paper three weeks ago, and Chuck knew why Melissa was hanging back. She hugged her books to her chest and chewed on her strawberry colored lips. Chuck presses his thumb over the staple holding his five-page paper together. She was going to ask for an extension. Chuck felt his throat tighten.
Melissa stepped to the lectern. The professor began nodding before she said a word. Chuck tried to make out the words, but he was too far away. He couldn’t seem to get up. He watched as Melissa twirled her hair and spoke with her head tilted in this direction and then that. “The research is done, of course,” Melissa said, louder than before. She finished the research last week, spending two nights locked in the law library, looking through old books and taking copious notes, tabbing and dog-earing pages until she was satisfied that she had the information. But she wanted more than the information. She wanted to go deeper into the law, understand the nuances, the history behind the Justices and the world before and after the decision. She thought she would get to the paper over the weekend. She had finished her outline on Friday.
...
Chuck’s vision reddened and he breathed deeply in an attempt to escape this place. He found himself on a beach with sand and water and umbrellas. Scantily clad island girls served him tropical drinks with small umbrellas. The sky was clear. Then it wasn’t. Dark gray clouds tumbled in and an oversized raindrop fell from the sky. Chuck lifted the drink umbrella over his head. The sky slid open and an army of raindrops descended on invisible parachutes. The island girls stood smiling in the rain with their soaked hair glued to their naked backs. He thought to offer them his drink umbrella, but they carried a tray of drinks, all with drink umbrellas, mostly polka dotted in festive blues and reds. They didn’t use their umbrellas. At first it was imperceptible, then he saw it: The girls melted. Around where they stood, waxy puddles formed with multi-colored streams of yellow and red and blue flowing in all directions. The wind strengthened, and his drink umbrella threatened to rip and turn inside out. Chuck fought the wind and held the drink umbrella with both hands.
…
She’s giving her excuse again. Why does she waste my time. I should ding her this time, warn her that this won’t work. That there’s more to this something than nothing. I can’t believe she’s pulling this again. Do I trust her? No, not really. But how can I fight it? My rational brain says one thing, but her smell. She smells of exotic fruits, how can such a smell exist in this classroom filled by old books and wet feet? I don’t think her legs end, at least not where normal people’s legs end.
The teacher loves his students. He feels guilty for the love—he has a wife and two children—but he loves her and can’t stop thinking about her. She must know something. She stops by after class often. She has many questions, but she always waits until the crowd clears, and I always wait for her, fumbling with my stuff, rushing through the other student’s questions. Do they know? We usually continue the conversation in my office, sometimes stopping by the cafeteria to grab lunch before trailing the debate back to my office. My wife doesn’t know. She’s tan. How can she tan in the middle of winter? I know she’s not one of those women who spend their days in the tanning salon. My wife is one of those women. It’s waited effort on her. It’s not just her legs, she has a beautiful brain as well. She knows her stuff, understands the law, really has keen insights into the topics we discuss in class. Thoughts of his wife and two young children flashed through his head.
…
And it’s morning again.
The professor continues to look down at his papers as he talks to Melissa.
The professor caught a third student looking at his watch. The gated clock on the wall provided three more minutes to finish the lecture. He had big plans for today’s lessons, lots of discussions and philosophical points for the class to gnaw on. He wondered where the time went. It always seemed to happen that way. He spent so much time going through the mundane learning—the review of the facts, issues, and holdings of cases—that he never had leftover time to analyze and consider the deeper meaning of the material, where it fit into American jurisprudence, what the decisions meant for the time and place where it was decided.
I waited for the professor to look my way. He needed but to glance in my direction and my hand would shoot up. I was good for it, and he knew it.
He removes the green apple from the lectern, the oversized gavel that he never remembers to bang, and the line of two pens and a pencil he always has at ready.
The animals still wait. Chuck grows weary. Use the weariness as a way to explain the story. What is it Chuck’s waiting for? Is he the animal that’s waiting? That would make sense. He waits and waits, growing frustrated by not answering, not holding up my bargain. I’m the animal, the party animal, the righteous animal, the man who grows frustrated with the waiting. Where would this go? He talks and talks.
…
He blinked. The man was still talking. Still providing excuses. He didn’t seem apologetic, he seemed almost as if he knew it had been his right not to provide him with what he asked. They had an agreement and he was reneging.
The end of class. The professor collecting assignment from students. She goes to the front of the class, and sweet talks the teacher. She asks for an extension. He gives it. I witness it. I’m an animal. I can’t stand this kind of shit, this getting ahead on the backs of those providing the meat, the center of the curve. Her skirt is short and her makeup is better than usual. It’s not surprising. Why would she not? He’s an animal. He accepts her stories and excuses and doesn’t worry about what it means to the rest of the class.
She’s giving her excuse again. Why does she waste my time. I should ding her this time, warn her that this won’t work. That there’s more to this something than nothing. I can’t believe she’s pulling this again. Do I trust her? No, not really. But how can I fight it? My rational brain says one thing, but her smell. She smells of exotic fruits, how can such a smell exist in this classroom filled by old books and wet feet? I don’t think her legs end, at least not where normal people’s legs end.
…
Chuck in an animal who is jealous of Melissa, jealous of her relationship with Professor Handy, who he likes? Loves? Jealous of the grades, extensions, etc. she receives, Always looking for an opening to understand what she is after. He’s an animal, he’s trying to get ahead. He’s impatient and a teacher’s pet. He waits and answers all the questions in class, readies his assignment. Doesn’t talk with the other students for fear that they’ll use him to get ahead in class. He’s at school on a scholarship, and he intends to leave and get a high paying job. The rest of the class will wallow while he would get ahead.
He feels threatened by Melissa. She has a relationship with all the male professors. Professor Handy probably doesn’t notice but she does this with her criminal law professor. Chuck’s sure that she would do the same in her civil procedure class, except that the professor is a woman, a large, unsavory woman who barks at the class and has everyone, including Chuck, scared to talk after class with her.
…
Two perspectives: the animal of the jealous, ambitious: Chuck, and Professor Handy, who has a crush on his female students, and can think of nothing but their legs. He’s not a bad professor, but his mind is elsewhere at times. It’s not winter, it should be spring, warm weather in a cold place.
There are three: teacher, beautiful but tardy student, and stalker, the real animal who judges everyone, but never looks beyond himself. There all animals, all doing what they think is right in this situation. What is she thinking? She is thinking about the assignment. She wants to do a great job, and she worked all night on it. She is not evil, she is not dumb. She is dedicated, she has a lot she wants to say and needs the time to say it.
Three perspectives, three animals, all following their natures, all wanting to be something different, wanting to see people succeed, but not succeed on his dollar. He tries and cares, but can’t confront. The stalker likes her but can’t stand to see her get ahead, can’t stand to watch her ignore him. And she, she has grand ideals and spends hours each day and night worrying about those ideals, frozen in how great they are, unable to move forward without the drama, the anguish, and the short skirt. She spent more time picking out the outfit than preparing the work.
…
Something smells bad. He judges other people by their smells during this particular day. It turns out his nose was stuffed with acrid smelling snot.
…
This is my story. It happens where? Mental hospital, all good stories happen in mental hospitals. People die. Family is hurt. I get ahead in the world. I am a real estate broker. I may be a nice guy at home, but I’m an animal at work. I care for nothing and nobody. Five percent commissions? Maybe in loser land. But here, in winner’s lane, I ask for ten to fifteen percent to even start talking. And once people start talking with me, it’s all over as they used to say in some place better than this.
Maze and cheese. Who moved my cheese? I’ll tell you who moved your cheese, you piece of shit. Scrupulous. My head is full of pie and small beasts claw at my throat. My head feels stuffed with pillows and feathers shoot from my ears. Simple. Straightforward. Nothing to do with nothing. These are all things I’m not but wish I could be. Old and young. Smart and dumb. Clever and slow. Courageous and timid. Choice and no choice.
Rockets red glare. Why can’t I think of something that hasn’t been thought of before and write something that has been thought of. What’s the moral? The rightness? What is it I want to write? Blah. This is fucking annoying. The annoyance is HUGE.
…
Stupid thoughts race through my head. This is my art form. This is what I want to express. Do I want to make the world a better place? Is it through rational or emotional string pulling? Where am I off to? What am I hoping to accomplish. This is my problem. I can be rational. I can present arguments—hell, that’s what I do every day, why couldn’t I transfer that knowledge here? I can edit, I can display, I can do a whole bunch of good stuff. The question is, as it always becomes, why don’t I? I may draw and that might be something I end up bringing to this form. In short, I am searching for my art form, for my way of expressing myself. Why do I even want to express myself? Do I want to leave a mark on the earth when I pass? Do I want to educate or make the world a better place?
I know what I’m not good at: I can’t think up stories, or at least I can’t initiate them. I need an impetus, a foil. I’m not sure where or how that will come into being. Even now, as I tatter away on this keyboard in the back of the van, I’m not sure what I’m hoping to accomplish. I’m tittering and tattering away in my feeble attempt to find an art form. This has been the goal of sewcrates.com: to find a voice for art. It took me a while to discover art, to understand it as something other than the realistic duplication of the real world. My original view of art asked the question of how to duplicate what I see every day. What I didn’t realize at the time was that that is what art is, but the every day is such a subjective term, and what a person sees in the everyday is not what they see (as in photographically see), but what they feel, they think about, who they are, etc. There is so much more information than what one sees, that it’s a wonder it took me so long to find out that realism does not equal art. I’m slow sometimes, I see that now. I didn’t understand that before.
So if my art form is a search for a way of expressing what I perceive, then two questions come to mind: how do I do that? And to what end? For the second question, I should assume I do that for the reason anyone communicates: it is the hope to make a connection with another person. For all the “art for art’s sake” bullshit that flies about, the answer seems clear. It is not about acceptance or adoration, it’s about communication and connection. Saying something that someone else hears. So I want to communicate and connect. That makes sense for the end. But how about the how, how do I do it?
Part of it is obvious: I write words. This is what I enjoy doing and what I’m moderately good at. I put one word after another and I hope that they say something. As I’ve been doing it, however, it’s been lacking. I’ve been brushing up on the grammar and style, and forgetting about the content. That’s what I’m hoping to find. There is content out there, and I need to find out how to say it. I’ve discovered the what, now I need to find the how. Pictures, words, stories, musings, thoughts, feelings. It has to be something that someone wants to read, otherwise there is no way I will make a connection, no way I will communicate with anyone (w/the exception of the dedicated three).
I’m feeling a bit sick sitting in the van and typing this. I’m not sure if it’s the coffee or the bumps. Either way, I’m done for now.
…
I’m confused where this story is going. I have four different voices and none of them want to take this forward. I have the narrator and his talk of cheese and animals. I have the professor and his unrequited? love of his student. I have Melissa, and her sexy outfits, and her use of her charms to get ahead. I have Chuck (or the narrator) and his fury over Melissa—and jealousy? Does Chuck idolize the professor? Does he want to be like him? His T.A.? He can’t understand how someone so brilliant can make such a stupid, life-altering decision. He’s given a choice, and chooses the cheese. And all Chuck can do is watch him spiral into disaster. Of course, Chuck is the one who reports on him in the end, sends him to the ethical board where he is disbarred. How else can this narration end? There are those who eat cheese, Chuck assures the reader, and those who bait the traps. Or something silly like that.
Okay, so this changes the story somewhat. We have Chuck, who plots as the professor’s T.A. What does he hope to gain? Does it make a difference? He wants to get ahead. He is no longer jealous of Melissa. But that means Melissa has to become more interesting. She has to do something more than look pretty and get ahead. Is she disgusted by the professor? Is she the one escaping to the tropical island? I do love that scene.
Getting back to Chuck, what are his thoughts on the professor, at least in the beginning? And Melissa, is she in love with him, or only hoping to get a good grade? Ah, a love triangle. Chuck loves Melissa, the professor loves Melissa, Melissa loves Melissa. Narcistic woman? Say it isn’t true! So the assignment is a red herring. Chuck is a red herring as well. He’s as jealous of the professor—but I thought he was jealous of the professor, not of Melissa. He seems bumbling from the beginning. He needs to be more interesting, more suave, or why would Chuck be jealous of him? So complicated.
I don’t know if the love triangle is the way to go. Write it and find out. Stop procrastinating with these dumb notes.
Monday mornings, waiting for the juices to flow. There’s nothing there, I’m juiced out. Well, at least go through this stupid story one more time. I haven’t gotten anywhere fast on this one. What makes you think today will be any different? Melissa, Professor Handy, impatient Chuck. She said, he said, he did. It doesn’t have to be complicated. It doesn’t even have to resolve.
Ah, stupid Tuesday mornings. I need to stretch a bit, see if there’s anything out there. “Hey, Jon? Are you there? I hear static. I do not hear you talking at all. Can you hear me? Do I really care if you can? Maybe this will be the greatest conversation. I’ll do all the talking, and you’ll either do the listening, or I’ll be talking to myself. Either case works for me. I’m not much of a stickler for the other side of the conversations.
I need guides and examples. I need characters. I have only thumbnails of
“Hello, Jon?” And he keeps talking and hoping. Why does he care so much? Annoying as hell, it is. I need a nap, once I nap maybe then I’ll be able to move beyond this not napping. This is not working so well. This morning writing with no idea of where to go. I need to plan. Use the Marathon’s method: plan the night before what you’re going to write the next day. Think it through. I have all day of idle (well, not exactly idle) time to work this through. Ah, I have nothing. No plans, no work, no nothing. Hang up. Please, hang up. The pain of the fake conversation is too painful.
Don’t start with excuses. Do not start with excuses. Ugh. It’s hard. Running through my primate brain are excuses, mounds of them, unorganized masses of intestinal goo waiting to spout forth in a spray of forgiveness seeking slime. But I’m resisting. I grow attached to cute turns of phrases. I reread and rework and generally stick in a circling pattern over such sentences. Yeah, I know, nothing to see here, please move about.
It wasn’t happening. I sat on it—maybe I thought it would stay warm while it waited to hatch. It didn’t. It sat, unmoving, unloved, and withered away. It hangs sickly on the branch. A stiff wind may change that, but then again a stiff wind changes all sorts of things.
Today I decided not to dwell on it. I won’t bore you with what it is. If you know me at all, you’ll guess quickly what it is. Instead, I’ll jot down words with no plan. Shocking, I know: me writing with nothing to say about nothing in particular. Who would have thunk it? But here I think and write and want to post something to pretend accomplishment. I’ve been content lately, happy even. I’ve read and enjoyed time, kept the depression monsters at bay. Something, if you don’t mind me speculating, that is the direct and absolute result of the Julies moving in with me in Seattle. There are studies that back this up. A person prone to depression actually does quite well when living with someone else. Now, the someone else may not do as well, but you’ll have to ask the Julies about that.
And so I sit here, thinking of what to say, and wondering why I don’t say something. Wow. I must have repeated that sentence at least a hundred times over the last week of pretend writing. I need to post more of my pretentions (I don’t think that’s the right word, or even a word). I need to get back to the tortured daily hour. It’s not really torture. It’s more that there are too many distractions for me and not enough effort. Post-dinner is when I suppose I will get to it. Give me an hour after dinner and before movies/video games and I’ll show you the world.
Motives and thoughts. What’s going through that empty head of mine? That’s a great question. Write in first-person and think nothing of it. Be the character. Act! I thought you love acting. Create a character and be he. I’ve lost the acting bug. Now I need to find it again. Do you think you’re a better extemporaneous player than those high school students you watched prance around the stage on Sunday? (Julie and I went to see a young player’s performance of Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night. I dragged Julie from the theater after the first act. I know they tried and some of them may be good one day—but, for my money (and for the record, the show was free, something I didn’t understand the reason for until they started to perform), I’d rather wait for that one day instead of sitting through two more acts of one of William’s more blah plays) Prove it. Find a character, give him a personality, and see what happens to him. Put him in first person, if you must. Put them all in first person. Don’t worry about narrative flow, just create and become them. Write their diary entries. Write everything about them—but do it from their perspective. I have so many half-witted plans like these and I never follow through with this stuff. I shouldn’t be shocked or surprised by this.
Julie is cleaning up after a so-so meal I cooked. As I said, this is the time I will sit and pound. Not sure I’ll find anything worth pounding, but I need to sit here for an hour and see what if anything will come forth. I spent 2,000 words working with a hotdog-stand guy. Nothing worth sharing, but somewhat fun, in that juicy hotdog-kind of way. Maybe he’ll make it into one of my stories. More likely, he won’t. But it’s better than not writing, right?
The joys of the white page. Uncluttered, filled with possibilities. How will I waste those possibilities today? Okay, throw on the mask. Let’s see who shows up today.
My name is Zelda. And before you start in, no, I wasn’t named after the video game character. Zelda is usually short for Griselda. My parents didn’t know that, or, if they did, they didn’t care. The liked the Z and the sound, and didn’t know about the video game, and before I knew it—well, actually, after I already knew it, since I didn’t think about it much until the third grade—I was named Zelda.
I’m not normally a bitter person, but there are some things that set me off. One of them is that ridiculous name my parents gave me. And while we’re on the subject of presents from my parents, this huge ass I have, that was another gift. When people talk about big bones, they’re not kidding. My ass is huge.
And so ends my experiment in a complaining woman. Which seems very similar, surprisingly similar, to those of a complaining man.
The cup on the table, the top upside down at its lip. Ruinous riots of informational bliss. I have nothing and nothing and nothing and nothing. It’s so easy to say that. What do I want and where do I want it? Write the fucking story and stop bullshitting around. The stupid professor in the stupid classroom with the stupid infatuation with the stupid. What about the notes? Certainly some of those are worth something, aren’t they? This sucks.
Why not something about something? I thought you had ideas? I thought you had places to go and people to talk about? What happened to them? It’s so much easier to work. Maybe I should get to it, get to the work. If only it was that easy.
It’s not. I’m tired, exhausted today. I should convey my day, but I don’t remember much of it. Isn’t that the problem with days, they disappear so fast, leaving you looking back and wondering what to make of them. We had a yummy Asian-style fish disk for dinner tonight. I whipped out the wok and steamed an almost whole (if deboned and degutted by persons other than me) fish. Quite tasty.
I’m pounding away in my after dinner chair, wondering if I’ll find anything to grasp on to tonight. Yesterday I didn’t. Not surprising. I’m never surprised. Already I’m feeling the urge to flip over, to find something other than this. At least Julie’s cleaning gives me an excuse not to immediately go down and start watching television or playing video games or staring into space. I’ve grown amazingly good at staring into space. I used to think it was a complete waste of time. I’m slowly coming around to realizing how wonderfully relaxing staring is. It’s almost like conscious sleep. You obtain some of the benefits of sleep (you can never truly get all the benefits of sleep—that moment when you wake up only to realize you can go back to sleep, and you snuggle into a warm spot in the bed and lose yourself to wherever you last found yourself in the otherworld) without the after effects of actually sleeping. Now, I know it’s not exactly a good use of time, this staring into space. But I won’t bother analyzing whether it’s good for me or not.
I keep pounding away, afraid to waste words or find places. I want more, but I always want more. I don’t worry much about it anymore. It’ll either happen or it won’t. It’s not worth losing sleep over. Obviously, my storytelling hasn’t been helped by my lack of writing otherly words. Even now I feel the weights on my eyelids. I’m being drawn down into that space staring, and I don’t think I should complain.
Maybe a new paragraph will help me hold it off for a bit. The house smells of sesame oil. Not a bad smell. There’s very little bad smells out there. I should cut this down and post it. I small glance into the life and times of Davids. Such a waste.
They say large animals aren’t seen but heard. Ah, where is it? I know it’s here. About an animal. That’s the name of the story, and I’m going to write it. Enough of this bullshit. Enough of this wallowing in the shit of trying to take “animal story” in a non-traditional direction. I’m a dog who knows nothing about dogs, nothing about people, nothing about nothing. It’s not philosophical, it’s just a story. Now, write it!
People are always asking me, what’s it like being a talking dog? It’s a hard question to answer. I sometimes feel special and other times, well, other times I feel like the biggest freak in the world. Oh, so a talking dog, eh? Very original. Is it a person, is it a dog? Does anyone even care anymore? A fake talking dog? A computer program that thinks it’s a dog in a world of people. The dog is a projection in a house, in a zoo, a cage designed for it. It interacts with things. It has a relationship.
It’s a future saga. There you go. That’s what you’ll do to make it interesting. (Don’t worry about English style and grammar and spelling here, you’ll have plenty of time to worry over it later.) A talking dog in a world where everything is digital, holographic. People long for the realness, and the talking dog is what the zookeepers give them. Every animal real. The zoo is the most popular place because it is all real, certified real (CR). With tangible holography available, the zookeepers have become the new dot-com world for the nation. The one thing they’re making available to the world is realness. But the zookeepers themselves begin to one-up each other. The price of CR animals skyrockets, until even CR rats and pigeons, which once were seen as pests, not bring astronomical prices. Bugs are not far behind, although cockroaches are still plentiful, and nothing modern science, with its seeming magic can do about them. There’s never a need to certify cockroaches. They’re everywhere, and nobody would dream of fabricating one.
How to tell this story. Perspective of the talking dog would be very difficult. Nothing would happen. How would I get the story out there? Through conversations the talking dog has with zoo visitors? Are you real, CR? They would always ask, and the dog would assure them he is, walking to the field closure to let them touch him for a few seconds. Of course, touching a CR dog and a fabricated dog feels the same. The government agency who put their stamp of CR on real products and animals is the only way to tell the difference. Molecularly they even seem the same, even if they’re not (not sure how that works, but who cares? Stay with it).
The dogs were fakes with people at the controls. They alternated who controlled the dogs to teach them. They were under strict rules as to how they could interact with the talking dog. It was supposed to be a secret, but word leaked, and the researches had to share what they had found. The world went crazy. With just the talk and articles of the CR talking dog, the Cleveland Zoo, which funded the project and found the dog, became the leading zoo in the nation. Even before the talking dog was grown, people swarmed the zoo. They had the normal menagerie of CR animals. The uncertified zoos, where the animals, their looks, their feel, their smells were all fabricated, died out. There was something about realness that felt different—even though all the parameters (and this they tested diligently and often) were the same. A cloned animal was a CR animal, but a fabricated one, a tangible projection that gave off odor and heat and everything you think of as physical, was always missing something. But fabrication was good, it was good for the economy, good for the environment, good for the people, good for everything. Except it wasn’t real and somehow people knew it wasn’t real.
Every zoo is going to want one, and eventually, every person is going to want one. They already have real dogs, but they don’t have real talking dogs. The talking dogs are all fabricated, voiced by a computer, which is terrible and easily figured out, or by a real person, paid behind the scenes to act as the puppeteer to the Marinette that is the fabricated dog. The people want clones or offspring of the dog. The Cleveland Real Zoo is not willing to lose its main attraction. A CR talking dog. People will pay a fortune to see such an animal, to touch it, to talk to it. Everything else in the world is fabricated. From the food people eat to the cars they drive in and….
It’s late, but I’m drinking a quick shot of yummy caffeine. I’m sick of that stupid dog looking at me with his narcissistic glass eye, wondering when if ever I’ll get back to brutalizing him. Well, here I am, ready to kick a dog when he’s down. Are you happy now?
I’m struggling again. I’m not past the first two paragraphs when I grind to the proverbial halt. I don’t know what it is about this story, but I can’t get it out. I’m stuck thinking of nothing. I can’t get past my clever beginning into the meat of the story. It’s there, I just don’t know what it is yet.
I need another character. A second talking dog? The dog I fall in love with, I think that it’s a real dog, but it’s not. It’s Phoebe, the human Phoebe, the head of the talking dog project for the Cleveland Real Zoo. I don’t know that, of course. I think it’s a companion, a dog to keep me warm at night, start a pack. The things that I thought dogs did.
Consider the day written off. Maybe big things will happen on other fronts. I know on this front, even with my massive intakes of caffeine, nothing is happening. I’ll return to the garden. Big changes and choices are afoot. What is it Always didn’t want them to do? Such an obvious take on the bible’s story. Shocking, really.
I keep adding all of these little asides to the beginning of my writing. Just random thoughts as I try to wade through this horrible, never-ending story. I guess it’s better than doing nothing, which is what I was doing before I started in on this.
Changes:
1. Interleave the zoo story into the one about the garden.
2. The choice is between ultimate knowledge and personal freedom. Dog doesn’t know that before he makes the choice, but he chooses ultimate knowledge, which means servitude.
3. When Always is away, it feels much longer than it is b/c dog’s lives are slower. Always never understood this.
I know it's been a long time. What can I say? It has not been worth the wait. I decided to post the abomination that follows this message. I couldn't bear to read it one more time. I had two (what I thought were) good ideas. Somehow, in the translation between the ideas and the story, I ended up with this.
It's done with, at least. Now I don't need to worry about it. My serve is returned, in all of its wonderful disgusting-ness. I don't remember the exact words that Chuck used, but it was something like: A story told from the perspective of an animal. Well, there you have it. Game, set, match (or something like that).
I need to spend the remaining couple of weeks preparing for the Marathon starting in November. And, no, I don't have any idea what I'm going to write. And, yes, it will be awful as usual. Think Pink Sweater awful. Think Unnamed Story awful.
Okay, enough of the excuses. It's nice to actually press the submit button again. It's been too long. Now I have to dig back through my story notes and post those as well. My original drafts had nothing to do with a talking dog--I originally took the clever route, and pretended that a person could be an animal in its not-so strictest sense. Enjoy the crumpled paper, and I'll try not to be so silent for such a long period again.
The following mindless ramblings are my way of planning. My plan still moves along and I use this as a way to air my dirty laundry. These are the scary thoughts that tunnel through my winding brain. Sad, huh.
So I don’t want to write about a man who abandons his dying wife. I’m not sure what I was thinking, but there’s nothing good to come out of that (well, that’s not true—what is true is that there’s nothing good I want to get into that comes out of that). That leaves me with a big hole where my story used to be. I still have the characters, I think. I need something to bring them together. I was thinking of a Chuck P* imitation story, or perhaps something more ethereal, whatever that words means in this context. I have a better than a week to make all this come together. I cut my fingernails, so I expect today will be a good typing day.
I’m thinking my increased intake of coffee has increased the required dosages. After a short coffee this morning, I’m not feeling that laser beam of concentration that I expect from yummy caffeine. It might be because it’s a Monday morning, or it might be more insidious. Already I feel my concentration shifting, waving away the initial effects of the browned water.
And now back to the story and my dearth of ideas. It has to be about something crazy or extraordinary to be a Chuck P* clone. Let’s get it moving. Take the characters and send them on a slow moving trip. Where are they going? What are they doing? Make the character histories deeper, more interesting, more mysterious. It’s family relations, it’s generational. It’s the place you want to visit but not stay, but you’re stuck there and now you have to make the most of it.
You’re a failure. You’re a recovering winner. Who are you? I’m a haunter of the Marathon forums. I never post, I just read and make fun (all to myself). It passes time and I need time to pass because, well, if time isn’t passing, then I would be thinking of clever and great ideas and writing them. One of the clever and great ideas I read in the forums was write what you love, even if your audience won’t understand or care or in any other way want to read what you write. I guess I keep imagining what DFW would think of my writing, instead of thinking what would DSF thinks of my writing. I need to focus on that. Pick on the stuff that I care about or know about or want to know about but am too lazy to research.
I remember that painful memory the first year: sitting in a comfy chair about to write about The Pink Sweater and realizing I had nothing. I swallowed my heart and closed my eyes to slow down its pitter-pattering, and then wrote. It was nothing, of course. It was absolute and utter crap. All my planning flushed through the plastic tubes, but it was words, and come November, all that matters are words. I have too much of an addicted personality to worry about such craziness.
Okay, what now. Where am I going with this? I need the skeleton of a plot. I need a voice. Man, do I need a voice. Craziness is as craziness does. Happenings and hoping. Think outside (or inside!) your tiny box. Maybe fan-fic? There are worse things than that. Don’t worry what other people think. You’re doing it for DSF. He’s the important person.
Real people in real worlds, or fake people in fake worlds. Is there a difference? I don’t get it. I don’t get the difference.
It’s about interesting people and interesting places and interesting happenings. All come together for what? Where and why. What and for what? The pain. A disconnected person. A philosophical introspection of a person. Someone trying to do good, make a difference, make choices with a consequence, but finds himself unable to do so. Independently wealthy, but a slacker. Garden State but interesting.
Where do you want to go from here? A corporate entity? A timeless nobody? The clockmaker? The man without the wife. The wife without the man. Making a marriage work. The teachings of the book. The overly religious, under analyzed thing. The philosophy w/o the research. What is it you want to do or say?
I am going to waste my time with this. There is something to be said about wasted time and wasted lives. I’m going to say it. Is there such a bad thing as this out there? Why do I care about the bad things. I’m going to pound away until something is said, and that something, well, that something is there for me.
Hit the ground running and don’t stop until you cross the finish line. And use as many bad analogies as this to get your point across. Okay?
Action, action, action. Less talk, more doing. Show don’t tell. You want him to be interesting, make him interesting. He’s insane, or is he normal. He is doing or is he waiting. Boring or exciting. These are all the obvious things. I’m not even sure what the unobvious things would be.
It’s about relationships, consequences, and missteps. Nobody is perfect. Just make his imperfections interesting.
I wander the campus mumbling to myself. Some of the mumbles are reassurances. Yes, I’ll get it. It’s only a matter of time before the idea hits me and bowls me over and leaves me panting and wanting to know more. Some are ideas seem brilliant when I mumble them, but after I jot them down, I realize they were as dreams in dreamland, seemingly brilliant until you awake and somehow transform them into rubbish.
But I’m still waiting, still pounding out words in the hopes that something will happen. My fingers are stretched and I’m beginning to remember what it feels like to push words onto paper and not care much about their content or where they lead. I’m belittling the experience. I do care. I want to hit the ground running. I don’t want the last week to be everything I have. I want the first week to be everything I have, I want to explode onto the page and not know how to stop writing each day. I want to have something to say and I’m not able to keep up with me saying it. I want.
I will live with story synopses for the rest of the week. I need to start thinking beyond my clever writing and start telling stories. The words don’t matter—the words never mattered in the beginning. Once I have a decent story to tell, then I can worry about the words and whether I’m telling the story well.
I arrived in Brooklyn tonight after an uneventful flight. It’s cold. I wrote the below story synopsis on the airplane between movies and television (I realized how much I missed FoodTV on the plane—isn’t cable television on airplanes great?). The synopsis is terrible, but different once you get passed that sick feeling in your stomach that the topic invokes. I’m pushing envelopes—the type with large paper airplanes stuffed inside them. I wasn’t comfortable writing it, but I guess it’s good to push my boundaries. And that’s what I did up to the end where I lost steam and gave up. I’m good at giving up at the end. You can even call it one of my super strengths.
If you haven’t figured it out yet, I have a few hundred words left and I’m going to stick them here instead of synopsizing more.
Julie is in Hong Kong this weekend. Wow. I never realized the words Hong Kong looked so much like King Kong. She’s returning to Seattle either Wednesday or Friday. I’m hoping for Wednesday. This time away from her has felt much longer than usual. Before our Thanksgiving trip to Taiwan, we didn’t travel much over the last six months or so. We fell into a nice routine in the Castle which I liked. I think Julie was looking for a change, though. She seems happier when she’s doing different things. Once she figures out what she’s doing in Seattle, I’m hoping she grows more comfortable with the sameness. Or would it be differentness if that’s what she chooses.
I have lots planned over the next few days. I’m spending the morning and afternoon with my mother tomorrow, and then visiting Steven, where we plan to play many video games over the course of the night and early morning. On Sunday I’m visiting Eileen in New Jersey before heading into the city to check in to the hotel for the course. On Monday night I’m visiting with some friends from my old firm, before heading out Wednesday morning. Oh, and there’s some sort continuing education course I’m taking. That’s why I came, if you remember.
That did it, pushed me over the count. Yeah me.
Have you noticed a distinct lack of direction in my musings lately? Part of it is because things have been happening that I can write about. (And by “things” I mean uninteresting weather-related happenings and travels.) I don’t know where my story voice has gone, but I haven’t seen her in a long time.
There are days when I feel that the Goal is causing me to not only write to a lower-quality bar, but to write less. (Don’t think I can’t see you nodding in agreement, Chuck. Don’t hurt yourself reaching over to pat yourself on your back.) I know the 1,000 words goal is out there, and I also know that I need only stretch my fingers just so to arrive at it. Once I take into account the edits (which, in true Marathon fashion, usually end up padding the word count), I end up a few hundred words over the goal. More often than not I call it quits after the edits, even on days where I could probably write more words and maybe even story a bit.
Part of the reason is that writing these diary/consternation entries is so easy for me. I can manage the Goal even without caffeine (although it is much more painful that way—both the writing and the reading, I imagine). I’ve been thinking of splitting the Goal between musing and storying to ensure I at least attempt a small amount of storytelling each day. I’m not convinced yet, however. There are some days where I have nothing but consternations, and it pains me to think about forcing myself to story on those days. And then there are days where I actually have something I want to talk about in these entries. It seems wrong to stop quality musings to story about crap.
I’ll continue on my current course at least for a few more days. As I’ve said before, writing is about chipping at the mountain. As long as I do it every day, I can’t help but get better. Now whether that better will ever translate into writing something good, that’s not something I can know now. But if I never tried…you can insert your cliche (the accented e is causing my RSS feed to cry…I need to convert that character; yet more sewcrates.com fixings) here.
Try as he might, there was a large empty screen in front of where he sat. His fingers, poised at their home position, teased him with their readiness. It was now or never, he knew. He chose never and continued to stare. He chewed on the end of an oversized straw, and peeled rims of plastic from its end. His work would wait until the screen stopped laughing. That is, if it ever stopped laughing. Its maw grew large and threatened to swallow him along with the blank page. He wondered what the belly of a blank page would look like.
Today will be replete with more consternated efforts to write. I don’t seem to have many thoughts or beliefs. I read through two New Yorkers on the plane. I should steal their thoughts and pawn them off as mine. Here’s a goody (one of the rare comics where I laughed out loud, as in, “LOL for real!”): a writer is sitting in front of an audience. A sign above his head says: “Author reading today, 3pm.” The audience members look angry. One of them says, “Aloud!” Now that’s funny! I don’t think the passengers around me shared in the humor, probably because they were not seeing what I was seeing (as in the comic, not the deeper meaning, which I could spend paragraphs on—that is, if I knew anything about deeper meanings).
What are my thoughts, my beliefs? Why am I not sharing them? What is in it for me? Is there ever anything in it for me?
It’s hot on the airplane. I spent the night sick, alternately shaking from the cold and pounding my head against the pillow to try to stop it from thumping. My headache reminded me of the Pathological Yawning’s headaches. Breathing felt labored and I moaned and groaned until Julie took pity on me. She nursed me through the night, providing a heat pad to keep me warm and a nasty Chinese dried herbal packet, which she said contained Vitamin C. I have my doubts. I think you’re supposed to pour the contents of the packet into hot water and drink it. Julie told me to rip open the packet and pour it into my mouth. I did so and the dried leaves (or whatever they were) stuck to the crevices in my mouth, sucking the moisture until I did not think I could swallow. I drank and gargled hot water she brought and dislodged most of the leaves. Nasty stuff. After that and the heat pad I found sleep.
We woke early to catch our morning flight, leaving the Castle before seven. I was not a happy camper in the morning, although I woke with only the remnants of a headache and a stuffing that goes way beyond turkey. Even now I feel its aftereffects. My nose, clear in one nostril, feels like its sucking in acrid chlorinated air with each breath. How’s that for being a complaining baby?
On the airplane when I turn my head this way and that I’m blinded by the sun from a passenger’s window. I keep my head just so and open the computer. There’s much about and much ado, although the doings are not much and what’s about is barely worth mentioning. I have so few stories to tell and yet so many words to share.
The babies cried in the back of the plane. I waited for fondness to find me. She kept her distance. Something will happen and I’ll record its happenings. I can’t cut a word. Not a single word from this after it is done. If only it were that easy.
My ears pop like corn. I tend to reuse stuff. I repeat it endlessly hoping to suck new life from it. It wasn’t that clever the first time I used it. I don’t know why I expect the millionth to be much different.
After dinner, Julie and her sisters sit around. They play piano and Julie sings, a karaoke night but with live music. Then they run out of music to play and sing, and we sit around and talk.
It’s another slow night and another forced ending. I don’t even have the snippets of story to turn this into anything. I understand that. I know this is worthless and a waste. But I push through it and put the words down. It’s about discipline. Much in life is about discipline. About forcing yourself to do something that you may not want to do, at least in the short term, but that you’re glad you did in the long term.
I’m not sure I’ll ever be glad to have written these paragraphs. That’s not true. Even today, as I waited for our baggage to revolve on the conveyor belt, I read through my old posts and realized that while I waste tremendous words consternating, some of those words are entertaining to me (as most of my words are, I realize—writers are nothing if not self-absorbed). I enjoy that I wrote much of what I write. It’s the writing part that’s not always fun. That’s not true. Even this writing, this forced put words on the paper and get done with it so I can go to sleep and relax my aching body, even this is not painful. I enjoy the words and the flow and the hopes. That’s what it’s always about for me: there is this tiny voice in my head that hopes one of these words will spark something in me that will flame into something Good. It may not be today or even this year, but it’s that hope that keeps me going. That keeps me, as I repeat often, putting one word in front of the next to form sentences that may or may not make sense.
It’s getting close to sleepy time. Even by west coast time, it’s late. We spent too much time downstairs talking and playing piano and singing. Well, I didn’t do any of those things, but I did sit around and listen to others play and sing and talk. I’m sated for the evening. The hope will spring eternal for tomorrow. I can’t fail forever, right? One of these days, these worthless exercises will bloom and I’ll have something to show for it. If nothing else then the chronicle of my failures should, in itself, be entertaining.
I shouldn’t be writing yet. I’m still swimming in my own mucus. But here I am. And here I’ll stay. I didn’t get very far with this. I stayed for but a moment before falling into Freecell and the internets and then leaving for dinner. It’s late now and I have a boatload of writing left to do. After dinner, we watched a movie. I left myself with too many words and no plans. That means consternations galore. There’s nothing worth reading here. I give you this warning because I can barely read this through a second time to pretend to give edits. I’ve done my job. I’ve warned you. The Goal was hit but it was hit by throwing shit at a fan and bathing in the dirty rain.
My coughs and congestions are tamed only when drugged. It’s been over four hours since my last drugging and my coughs are becoming worse. I’ll fight through the spasms until I finish this entry and then find sleep with NyQuil. It’s a reward—how far can addiction be after that reward? (Addiction is on my mind after watching “A Scanner Darkly” this afternoon. A very decent movie.) I leave tomorrow at 11:30am to return to Seattle (via Houston). I’ll be home early in the evening in time to spend the rest of the week at work. I head to Buffalo, meeting up with Julie there, to visit my sister. As I’ve said before, it’s a fun-filled couple of weeks, but tiring.
I am not caffeinated today and this is already feeling very painful. I’ll persevere as I always do. My head is empty. I have visions of nothing around me. I should drink some NyQuil and see if that will help me finish this. I doubt it, but there’s always a chance that alcohol will help, even if that alcohol will put me to sleep. I resisted, again avoiding the addiction that waits behind each dark corner. I do have an addictive personality—thankfully, that addiction relates more to projects and video games than to anything else. Give me a goal (a real goal—not these Goals which keep me typing but saying nothing) and I’ll happily stay awake working toward the mini-goals that lead to the big goal all night. It’s like programming: the big goal is finishing, but the little goals become apparent as I work toward the big goal. That’s what big goals are: a collection of smaller posts.
My mind leads nowhere and has no path to its end. It looks like a large maze where each turn brings me to another blank wall. There is nothing but walls here. Nothing exists outside these walls. I hope once I find the end that will no longer be true. I don’t think there will be an end today. These are only words after words that lead into even more blank walls. I’m repeating myself something awful. This reminds me of the time I stuck toothpicks through my retinas. Okay, I never stuck toothpicks into my eyeballs, but I imagine if I did my feelings would be similar. I’m at the ends of my ropes here. That’s not a reflection of any suicidal thoughts, just of the emptiness that’s running through my head.
I plan to return to some of my unfinished and unedited short stories. I want to see if the Garden story is any good, if there’s anything worth savaging or worth rewriting. It’s unlikely but it is worth a look. I don’t think I’ll get there tonight. I don’t think I’ll get much to anywhere tonight. I’m hoping to pound this out on my fancy new keyboard and go to sleep holding Julies for the last night this week until we meet in Buffalo. I thought about staying in Dallas, but I need to get back to the Castles for work. There’s always work.
I may be in the last stages of my illness now. If it wasn’t for the weather and my illness, what would I talk about here? Oh yeah: breakfast foods and socks. I know that’s what everyone wants to hear about. I’m resisting talking about it, even though I feel a few parenthetical will do wonders for my word count. Not everything is about Goal, you know—regardless of what I talk about incessantly.
That’s the halfway mark. Let’s try free association without yummy caffeine. I don’t think it’s possible but I have nothing better to do at this moment.
The bed spread is white with vines of greens and auburns. Wings of white feathers are flapping and nothing and nothing and nothing. What’s the purpose of this if I’m not going to convey anything worthwhile? This pains me terribly. This is disgusting. This is worse than a waste of time this is a waste of valuable finger presses. Without caffeine or an idea or a goal, what good is this?
The pains and the last couple of days have not been conducive. I dread this part of the day. I shouldn’t dread this. This should be my reward. I should look forward to my few minutes alone with my screen and keyboard, when I can say something valuable and illuminate the world’s darker places. And yet I look at this with dread, knowing it’ll be the next thirty minutes of nothingness that will put this to bed.
That’s not true. None of that is true. This takes me on a bad day thirty minutes. (On a good day it can take me upward of three to four hours.) It’s a bad day but it’s still worth doing. Anything worth doing I should do every day. It’s discipline, and while this certainly isn’t moving me toward the larger goal, it is moving me toward the shorter goal. All of this text will be protected with the warning at the top that this is consternations and gibberish and something to get to the goal and write words but not in any way shape or form something that is worth reading or looking back over. It’s something I want to get out there and say it’s finished, and it’s almost that.
I guess we all have good days and bad days. I wish my bad days went somewhere. I have small plans I keep hatching with the hopes of getting somewhere on these bad days. I haven’t found where it is I can go, but I’ll keep looking. Don’t hold your breath for me to find something.
This is much freer writing. I’m not saying anything, but I’m typing at high speeds and approaching the goal at rapid speeds. Imagine if I could use this speed to tell a story of some sort. To turn off the editor, the one who demands originality, who flails all analogies and cliches and tells me that they’re not good enough, that I could do better and should do better. Who gives a shit if I don’t do better? What if everything I write, from my story to my (nonexistent and undeveloped) characters, is useless and formless and does nothing and says nothing and is not even interesting. At least I would have said something and moved forward instead of these endless and incoherent consternations about what I should have done if I could have done it but ended up not doing anything at all.
And there it is. I pushed through the edge. I see the bottle of green NyQuil waiting for me. Tomorrow I wake up earlier than I have since arriving to start my trek home. Tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow is always better as long as you don’t worry about tomorrow when trying to do today. You should, however, always know tomorrow will be better when you finish today. It’s my new positive attitude. The better and more complete David. Now, let me go reread this and then throw it up there and I’ll stop worrying about how filled with crud these empty words were.
On witnessing a drinking competition: Pull it out to show him your size. It was the first thought that crossed both of their minds. Other thoughts couldn’t find their way past the initial ones.
On being behind a talkative lady on a short flight: She still talked. She was always talking. She was loud and talked and talked. When she came on the plane I knew she would be trouble. And yet she had interesting things to say. She was almost murdered. Most everyone given the opportunity has important things to say. Will I ever give them the opportunity?
On posting so much crap: I complain way too much. I need to start editing this down to something worthwhile. I can hide the other parts in separate posts, or leave them on my hard drive. I should keep all evidence but not necessarily bore everyone with the boxes of crap that passes between my ears.
On a layover in Houston: There’s an hour between my two flights. I remember the Houston airport fondly. I traveled much for my job (and to visit the Julies) while working in Houston, and I spent a good deal of that time sitting in the airport. When I realized I had a two hour layover in Houston, I thought of Houston’s wonderful airport. It turns out that the airport is not as wonderful as I remembered. (I think I was confusing it with Continental’s Newark terminal, which is newer and wonderful—at least I think it is.) Memories do play tricks on me: I remember the good parts and those good parts are taped together much better than they ever were when I lived them.
On the book I purchased at the airport: A voice, a scream, a Philip K. Dick novel. I’m reading Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? It’s the book that the movie “Bladerunner” was loosely based on. I’ve been thinking about it since yesterday when we watched “A Scanner Darkly,” another Dick-based movie. Sheep more a novella than a full-length novel, and I managed to read through it a few hours. It had a strange and unfulfilling ending, but I thoroughly enjoyed it. Like his movies, I left it with much to think on. Will it inspire me? Of course not. Nothing ever does. I see it as more fuel that I’ll get around to burning one day. If nothing else, Dick does have a way with story. That’s what I need: a way with story.
On realizing I’ll never have an original thought: Sheep reminded me of my terrible Garden story (I went back to the beginning of the Garden story today in the airport to confirm it was terrible—if I had the red confirmed stamp, I would use it, stamping multiple times across the page. Regrettably, I don’t have the stamp, and, besides, even if I had the stamp, it wouldn’t work on the screen. Everything I wrote from now on would be confirmed terrible. I guess that wouldn’t be too far from the truth.) What I did notice about the Garden story was that it had a similar basis to Dick’s story: a world where real animals were rare and people craved a connection to something living besides them. The cause of the dearth of animals in Dick’s story is war, while in mine it is technology (or the belief that technology is better than the real thing). Both end up in the same place. Except his is relayed well and mine is crap.
On what I learned from Dick: Preach. I want to preach. I want my characters to cry onto injustices and demand retributions. I want the readers to cringe at the soliloquies and the knowingness of their tone. I want the readers to think that this isn’t how people normally talk. This shouldn’t be how people talk. And yet there they are, my characters, talking and making sense. And the reader will want to know why it is they said what they said because what they said, that moved my readers a few inches to the left.
On what inspiration I’ll find for my writing: I should write a story about magical times and societal ills defined by fictional worlds. That’s where I want to go. That’s where clever is accepted and encouraged and explored. I need to stop stopping myself and embrace it. Have an idea and run with it. Stop pretending that I have no ideas and I have no stories. Everything is a story in itself. What I need to say is take one of those stories and add the twist that makes me interested. Change the time or the technology. Make it exciting and possible. Take something obvious: “The strength of leaders and the manipulation of people around those leaders,” and turn it into something.
On my use of technology: I had to turn off the “word count” display on Word’s status bar today. It became too distracting. Ever few words I found myself looking down to see how I was doing with Goal. I wrote to the count and not to the David. I should always write to the David. Goals are something that should come later.
On meaningless babble that I should have cut but it turns out I’m too lazy and protective to cut my precious little words: There are far away so many things that drew my imagination and my memories toward where I did not want to go. There is something there that waits for me to see where I am going to head before I head there. That is how it is meant to be and how it always will be.
On small inspirational statements that get me from one section to the next: One more hour and I leave from here. Bitch and complain and say something important about something: addiction, religion, philosophy. Natural storyteller I am not. But that’s okay. It’s something I will learn—sink or swim or sink again. It matters not. It’s about me doing what I want to do and not about doing nothing and saying I could have and should have but didn’t.
On running to the bathroom just as turbulence starts: That’s some bumpy air, I said to nobody in particular. A dangerous trip to the bathroom on the airplane put my stomach in its place. And here I thought I was adventuresome: the way I surfed on the city subways, the way I laughed at the spinning parking ramps that never did seem to end. All that adventure I left on the floor and then some. But I survived my trip back to my seat and here I sit, pecking away at the keyboard, hoping the battery lasts long enough for me to get these words across before it peters out, as batteries have a wont to do. That word “wont” has been popping up at strange places. I should keep my eye on it. It might want more than I’m willing to give it. It’s definitely someone to watch out for.
On negativity: So much negativity today. I guess that’s where I’m coming from. I’ll try this again later, when I’m caffeinated and in the Castle and ready to rethink my goals here.
On endings: This is the end for today. I had thoughts of going on but I need to get to sleep. I’m going to try to sleep without the NyQuil (I’ve said that over the last two nights and failed), but I have a feeling I’ll get out of bed in fifteen minutes and take my shot. Addiction is a wonderful thing. If everything works out, I’ll wake tomorrow feeling right as rain and head to work as a new man. If it doesn’t, I’ll wake up congested and unhappy. As long as I’m better by Friday as I would hate to have to cancel my trip to Buffalo to visit my new nieces.
I had this idea where I took a scenario and built on it until I had a story. The catch was that I had to take the second most ridiculous outcome I could think of for each part of the story.
Suffice to say I got nowhere fast. I have no ability to write stories in this way. I have no ability whatsoever. My mind does not work that way. It doesn’t work at all, come to think of it, consternations here I come. I see it the consternations in the distance with their arms spread wide and I’m arunning toward them. Keep the arms open or I’m going to smash into the pole. They keep their mouths open and let me run in. I could drown in their saliva.
I think my illness is bringing me down. This was the conclusion of one of my two readers. I think he was being kind. My illness is almost over. I went an entire night and day without taking medicine (outside of the yummy caffeine which is the only reason I’m able to write even these pathetic words). My illness is on its way out and I wish it good riddance. It hung around too long and even threatened my trip to Buffalo. But it should be leaving me. Now, if I can get my hearing back, I’d appreciate it. My ears have been stuffed for going on a week now, and I hate listening to the world through a mucus wall.
I thought long and hard about what I was going to write today. And came up with nothing. Not a thing. Not a goddamn thing. That saying really damns god. I never noticed that before. I’m not even sure one could damn god. I mean, what would that mean? How can anyone damn an infinite being? Ah, I get it. I never knew the definition of to damn: prove guilty, wrong, or bad; be highly critical of. Well, I knew it but I didn’t know it, if you know what I mean. I guess you could damn god, blame him for everything that is going wrong. Of course, I don’t need to look to him for the reasons of my failure. I need only into me and the fact that I start these writings so late at night when my creative stores are empty—not that they’re normally filled up, but there’s probably much more of a chance to find something if I plug in earlier in the day. Ah, but that takes true dedication, something I never learned how to harness.
It’s getting late and I’m getting desperate. I will put these words down, one after the next, and call it finished. Complete. Kaput. After this I will put this computer down until tomorrow. Until I find something that inspires and then write that inspiration. I don’t know what happened to me today. I don’t even know what’s going through my brain right now. It feels cloudy and muddy, almost like the mucus wall extended beyond my ears to wrap my entire brain in its farawayness. That should be a word.
Tomorrow is tomorrow and I’ll take that into consideration and hope to have something to say. The caffeine was wasted on me. Everything seems wasted today. I think I may be coming down with something. Maybe depression is the final death throes of an illness. The little viruses are floating around in my bloodstream, trying to make me sneeze and run my nose so they can spread their little RNA packets throughout the world, and when they realize they are losing against the supped-up defenses of my body, they throw away all their stops and open up the spigots to allow the depression to rein freely over my mucus-filled head as a sort of final revenge for them. It’s either that or I’m a pathetic individual with no direction and no Julies. (She’s still in Dallas, remember.)
Okay, now that I go that out of the way, I can concentrate on the more important things. Like the fact that I’ve been updating this site for every day for the past two months with October 31, 2006 being the last day I didn’t write something for posting. I won’t analyze whether it’s been a good run or a bad run, or whether the run will ever end. I will state most emphatically that the run won’t end today. But if I have many more days like this, the run may be over sooner rather than later.
I have to get back to storying. I have to get back to doing something, to putting words together and editing them and looking back over them and being amazed by my little creations. Now I’m amazed each day that I manage to put the words one in front of the next, so I can crawl under the covers and look back and see what a dedicated (if talentless) individual I am. This is too many days of this in a row. This is too many days where I push words and find no hooks. Where the fuck are the hooks and who stole them? They should give it back. It’s not fair that they should take the ball home with them. I want them back and I want them now.
Ah. The last couple of paragraphs. I can slow down now. I’m over the 900 mark, which means when I go back and edit this (and, yes, I know it’s hard to believe that I edit these words—especially on days like this when it’s all filler and useless and even in its final edited state it shouldn’t exist as things have a rightful reason for existing—i.e., it shouldn’t exist because it’s crap that nobody will ever read or want to read), I’ll easily hit Goal. But I wanted to leave everyone (as in myself, seeing as I’m the only person who will ever read this far into this pathetically painful and consternated entry) with a final joyful thought: boy, are my thighs hot (from the computer, stupid).
I stare at the clouds. The year is fast escaping me, and I want to know what the clouds think about its passing. The clouds move too slowly for me. I will them to move faster. I remember lying on the grass like this many years ago, when I didn’t worry about what the clouds thought of my year. I used to will the clouds to reshape to my whims. I cut off edges like pulled cotton candy and reshaped middles and smashed faster moving clouds against giants. Watery circles and worms danced on top of the lenses of my sight as I conducted grand symphonies across the cerulean-blue sky.
In my mind’s eye the clouds already moved across the sky. They stood at attention along the edges of the earth waiting to provide their year’s accounting. My fingers tingle against the cold grass as I recall the power I had those many years ago. But today is not a good day to force my will on the clouds, no matter what images play across my mind. The clouds continue their stately march across the sky unaffected by my musings.
The clouds are not interested in me this year. Anger tickles my toes and I pull my feet away. I might as well be angry at the tide for all the good my rage against the clouds will do. Nobody remains angry at clouds for long. It’s easy to maintain resentment against sleet or rain or snow or blustering winds. But to be angry at clouds I might as well be angry at god, and we all know what good that does me.
I put my head back on the grass and watch the corners of the clouds for movement. Something tugs at the folds in my head: Patience, the clouds teach patience. I chew on a blade of lemongrass and think on patience. Patience is a type of control where you stop trying to make something happen and instead wait for that something to happen. The clouds will dance as they will dance. I don’t need to lead. I need only see where they bring me.
I spent the day playing with computers at home. It is different manipulating computers. Unlike for clouds there is always a correct answer to a computer’s puzzle. I don’t always like the answer but it is there and once I fall across it I know it for a certainty, as I know the feeling of a good-fitting shoe, or the sound my heart makes when called upon to once again realize that I’m not alone in this world. The clouds don’t care about how I spend my day. They don’t want to hear whether I solve today’s puzzle or whether I whittle down the great mound of challenges until a pile of wood shavings surrounds me on all sides, and for all the shavings the great mound seems only bigger. Clouds aren’t interested in people’s concerns. They’re so far away and see such a swath beneath them that one person’s problems, no matter how large or insurmountable they may appear from the ground, must seem so small and insignificant to the cloud.
And still I need my answers. I catch a whiff of spring in the cold air. I cough quietly to cover up my smile. The shortest day already passed and we move forward again, always forward to better times. Today is always better, which makes tomorrow today. I can see the clouds nodding their cottony approval. I breathe little clouds from my mouth and watch them vanish. I wonder if some of my water vapor will make it high enough to join with the real clouds. I wish the vapor well.
A large cloud covers the sun overhead. Its charcoal underbelly is dark but not menacing. On a day where the clouds’ shadows can be seen littered across the valley, there will be no precipitation. The light grows dim as I pass its underbelly. I imagine that a hole forms through its middle where a single sunlight beam focuses through the hole and onto my chest. Is that your answer, I wonder. But the cloud remains dark and silent, and I wait for it to pass. It grows cold on the grass as the cloud blows slowly past. The chill from the ground seeps up through my coat and shirt and into my chest. I feel my blood cool and a slight shiver leaves me.
Clouds like oceans don’t watch our years. They don’t understand what we did or how we did or why it was done. People were not given dominion over clouds. The clouds’ existence is lesson enough for us. I close my eyes and put the clouds out of my thoughts. They will not pass judgment over me this week. There might have been a time when clouds did judge me, but that time is long gone. It went away when I lost my control over the clouds, when the clouds no longer seemed interested in reshaping according to my whims.
“Stay on target, stay on target.” Write something! Don’t scroll down here and add words just to add words. But it’s so hard! I want to finish this. I want to end this today so I can get back to our wedding website. We made huge leaps today on its design, and I’m hoping to have it finished by the end of the weekend. But I need to get through this first. Otherwise there’s no way I’m going to write today until late tonight when I peel myself off the computer and away from my current project. Imagine I can apply that dedication and addiction to writing. I would be here every night all night pounding away and trying to say something, to finish just one more sentence. Maybe that’s a sign. Maybe this is becoming too much like work and not enough like fun pleasure. Who am I kidding? This has never been fun pleasure.
And here I go, consternating away when the first two paragraphs of my quasi-story lingers at the top of the page, unloved and unfinished, with little in the way of hope. Poor Rebecca and Charlie, I had high hopes for them. I thought they would really be somebody. But they won’t be. They’ll be glued onto my entry to make a few hundred more words as I pound away toward this stupid Goal. Speaking of stupid Goals, I haven’t made the Moleskine Goal in two days. That may be an occasional thing instead of a daily thing. There are days where I’m too busy (or lazy) to write anything during the non-evening parts of the day.
Ah who am I kidding with this? I did hit my essay for about twenty words. I do want to finish that and I do want to get started on the ping-pong story. So many things I want to do. Regrettably it’s 8pm and I have nothing in the way of creativity pouring from my fingers. The energy is slight and I’m doing all I can to push through Goal and post this garbage.
Julie is angry at my last entry. She thinks I made too much fun of her or something. I thought it was awfully funny. For a day where I thought I had no energy and would say nothing (I didn’t end up saying anything, but that’s beside the point), it turned out funnier than I thought (funny to me, of course—much different from funny to anyone else).
There goes the halfway part. Where does the time go? I think I have all day to do things, and then all day passes and I’m left with nothing done except the day. That’s not true. I do things, things that take longer than I expect, all things that are fun for me, and I leave the less fun projects (which, regrettably, sometimes includes writing these terrible entries) until later at night. I realize it’s a time thing. There I go: I need to experiment. I need to find the ultimate time to finish my writing each day. I’ll check my output/hour verse the time I start writing. I should probably check some other variables also. Perhaps yummy caffeine intake, or Julie availability. I’ll start a spreadsheet and start collecting numbers.
There, even if nothing else comes of today’s wasted entry, at least I have this idea for the spreadsheet. Here’s the data I’m collecting: Date, Starting Time, Ending Time, Total Words, Feeling (1-5, 5 being great, 1 being terrible), and shots of caffeine. I don’t have data for today since I thought of it too late. But there you have it. I can now document my failures. Failures aren’t real failures unless they’re placed on nice line graphs. I can’t wait to get a few weeks of data to start seeing the pattern. I’m assuming it’s going to be very ugly.
Almost done, and none too soon. This would be a two on the energy scale day, by the way. It’s not terrible getting the words out, but the words are terrible. Maybe I should split that into two. That makes much more sense: I’ve turned the Feeling category into two sub-categories, Ease (1-5) and quality (1-5). This would be a 3 on the Ease and a 2 on Quality. I also have the advantage of pulling word count and other details such as categories from sewcrates.com.
Okay, enough babbling. I need a few more paragraphs and then I can tie a ribbon around this and post it. I can’t even reread today’s entry for the small amount of editing I usual supply. It’s too sad. That’s okay. I need to get moving on my project, and I’ve told you how I get when I project waits for me. I can’t wait to dig in and finish it, especially when there’s coding or drawing or fun computer stuff involved. Julie is picking out the photographs for the wedding website. I’ll be needing those rather soon. Here are the last fifteen words. Aren’t you lucky to be part of this (non-edited-out) words?
Did you notice the change? My entries are shorter. And edited. And while not exactly interesting, they should no longer feel like you’re sticking a sharp toothpick soaked in lemon juice into your eye. I cut down on Goal, shrinking it to a bite-sized five-hundred words. That’s a minimum, which (I hope) will allow me to deliver more quality.
My epiphany occurred in the shower this morning. I realized that screwing the reader was awfully selfish, especially when I plan to write for an audience someday (best-selling great-American novelist, anyone?). My entries will be more polished and hopefully readable. I have to start practicing sometime.
So I find myself in a rut. I didn’t realize I was in a rut. That’s how ruts sometimes are: with all that mud flying around you, you don’t realize you’re spinning your tires and digging yourself deeper into the pit.
I woke this morning with these words replaying in my brain: “I’m in a rut where I feel I keep doing the same things over and over and getting nowhere. The world tastes stale.” My morning ideas were more eloquent and I lost something in their translation. I didn’t know what it meant. Even after writing these two paragraphs I still didn’t understand. It wasn’t until I chatted with Julie and a friend that I realized what was going on.
My life has never been better. Julie is wonderful and perfect for me and keeps me saner and smarter than ever before. My job is challenging and fun, especially when I’m busy doing important things that affect other important things (and, yes, while I could be more vague, it would be very difficult). The Castle and Seattle, while not a brownstone in NYC, are very acceptable alternatives. I’m experimenting with large spiritual answers, which reminds me of my school days, except this time I actually bring along a few brain cells. And I write every day, and while perhaps not close to my real goal, I do meet minor Goals along the way.
So why am I talking about ruts? It may be my cereal choice. I eat cereal for breakfast most mornings. I grab a bowl of Honey-Nut Cheerios before catching the vanpool. It’s a good cereal. Decently healthy with a slight sweetness that makes the oat taste bearable. (For a strange reason I rather not explore, the smell of this cereal reminds me of the smells of babies.) I eat through a small box each week, always keeping a backup on the top of the fridge.
But it’s not the cereal and it’s not Julie or my job or my house or anything else. It’s me. It’s me and my stupid writing and complaints about writing—the consternations. It hit me today. I don’t know why it waited so long. I’ve been deluding myself. I keep thinking putting words down a writer it makes. It doesn’t, the words, the writer, none of it. I really thought this writing, however painful, was interesting and useful. Here I’m doing it again. I’m consternating and complaining and all sorts of bullshit. I’m depressed about it. I should have finished this earlier before my depression hit, but the depression is important. It let’s me see what I am: a hack with no future in this and no way I will ever put meaningful words together.
My experiences and stories and everything amounts to nothing. I have no feeling in my writing or my stories—what fucking stories? None of these words are worthwhile. I’m masturbating on the page and enjoying my squirting. It’s disgusting, all of it. I make the stupid fucking Goal for no other reason other than utter self-disappointment. Hell, I can barely spell disappointment and yet it stares me right in my face.
That’s it. This is it. If I have nothing to say but consternations I won’t say anything. For months, years, a lifetime, whatever. This is the last time I post this shit. This is the last time I roll this crap across my fingertips. I’m sick to death of it. I’m sick to death of me and my failings.
I had thoughts about reading through my ping-pong story before posting. I started to do just that, grew terribly depressed, and decided to post it in its current state, replete with typos, bad grammar, plot holes the size of small planets, and senseless organization. The story is there if you squint and look at it sideways. Don’t hurt yourself, it’s not worth it. Trust me.
What I can say is that the story meets the ping-pong deadline and is sort of on topic. Chuck claims the topics are only a guideline. This time I followed it rather closely. I did some mail searching but couldn’t find the mail from Chuck with the topic. It had something to do with a guy in a room where the phone only dials out to random numbers. Or at least I think that was the topic. If I’m wrong, I wasted an awful lot of words.
Julie and I discussed the story when Chuck first delivered the topic. We came up with the basic idea, and I let it stew for a long time before starting. It was a good stewing time as I started doodling again and drew my first big eyed, long tailed monster. When I finally got around to starting the ping-pong story (after much nagging and yanking of hair), the writing came off my fingers easily. This was very surprising. After two days of writing, the ending hit me in the shower. I added exactly five hundred story words each day, which helped me meet Goal without the need to consternate or talk too much about the weather or my equally uneventful days.
[Insert self-deprecation comment about my story writing here . . . and here] but I got where I wanted to go and I’m satisfied with that. As I said a few days ago, the writing felt like Marathon writing. I put words down and didn’t worry if they made much sense or even moved the story forward.
After thinking about it for a bit, I realized part of the improvement was the time crunch. Since Julie returned, I have less time to fiddle around with my writings and doodles. I arrive home around six thirty, which leaves me about an hour and a half to write, doodle, clean up a doodle for posting, and post everything. That’s not much time, and because of the limited crunch, I worry less about quality and more about getting words done. My real goal, of course, is to spend quality time with the Julies. Priorities are very important.
I’m glad I didn’t try to edit the story today. I went to the gym this afternoon and sculpted my lower body for the first time in three weeks. Isn’t that a great word: sculpted? It’s like I transformed my legs and buttocks into a David sculpture. If only that was true. While resting between exercises, I happened to slap my inner thigh. I watched it jiggle for a good thirty seconds, completely captivated by the wavy motion. Sculpted, in the “marble” sense, I certainly am not.
I won’t deliver my next ping-pong serve probably until next week. I need to recover, read Chuck’s brilliant story, and get back to my Jewish essay. I put the essay on hold while I was busy padding words. Don’t be surprised if you have to suffer through countless discussions of the beautiful weather Seattle has been having lately.
Those people take it so seriously. Life, that is. I see them in the halls, moving from this place to that, discussing things that hover in my peripheral vision like snakes slithering through mowed grass. It’s not that I don’t take life seriously, it’s that there’s so much in life that’s ridiculous, it doesn’t make sense to dwell on its seriousness. I worry about the joke, the light moment, the place to say something that. . . Ah, who am I kidding? I enjoy the put down, the joke at the other guy’s expense, the lazy afternoon in front of the internet where I hope to find nothing but a numbing agent for my brain. It’s not that I’m avoiding seriousness, it’s that I don’t care for the things that make life serious.
So many words that are useless.
I write and write and nothing is said and nothing moves forward. I have nothing more to do, nothing more to say or want or go after. I bore myself with this. I write words that lead nowhere and go nowhere. Where are the goblins and wizards? Why can’t I focus on them for a while? The wizards flying in spaceships, the goblins waiting in blimps. I’ve tried and failed so many times. I take myself and my writing too seriously. I’m not a serious writer. I’m a Xanth writer without the funnies. I have to stop trying so hard to be something I’m not. I’m not a great thinker. I’m a mediocre thinking and a good responder. I have to use that responding to say something, to work it into the thing that I say. Stick a person in a situation and see how he responds, see how I respond in his shoes.
I jammed my hands into my pockets. They were full already and I wiggled and pushed until most of my fingers fit. The sun peeked through the large mass of gray clouds that had moved across the morning sky. The wind was heavy and carried coldness that had little to do with the weather. The inn was busy for the late morning.
A large mass of dark gray clouds moved quickly across the sky in the morning wind. Patches of blue appeared on the horizon. It was to be a good day. Stephanie checked the mirror and cleaned the excess blush from her cheeks. She checked her teeth for lipstick and turned to wait for the first customers.
There are advantages to being a telepath. Finish something. I’m so bad at finishing anything.
This moment was her favorite part of the hunt. The showroom was full of prospective buyers. They huddled in small groups, keeping plenty of distance between the other buyers. Salespeople moved between the groups, some honing in on their targets, other moving toward them only to veer away at the final moment, seeing something that turned them off to initial pounce.
The buyers’ sneakers squeaked on the waxed floor. There were more buyers than salespersons at this moment. Stephanie checked her schedule for her next appointment, and found a thirty-minute window. She had thirty minutes of free styling. Her favorite part of the hunt.
She saw her fellow salesmen circling the car lot looking for prospective buyers. She eyed a short couple. They moved slowly from car to car. Henry, who had started at the car lot only last week, swooped in to greet them. It was an amateur mistake. They were not looking to buy. You can tell by the uncertainty in their steps. They were reluctant to make eye contact with the salespeople. That was the first sign of trouble. They also wore worn shoes. Not a good sign when you were trying to make a sale of a new car. If they couldn’t bother with new shoes, it was unlikely they would bother with a new car. Not that selling a used car was bad. The take on some used cars was greater than new cars. It was that a used car sale would not propel her to the top of the board today. She needed new car sales.
A younger couple entered the showroom.
Harold is a dogcatcher. For forty-three years Harold has caught dogs and enjoyed it very much. He drives a gray metal truck with an open-air cage in the back. He lives in Greens, Texas, a small town near the Mexican border. The city pays Harold for his work, and he catches, on average, twenty to thirty dogs each week. He drives the dogs to the border of the town and releases them. The dogs usually find their way back to town in a few days. Harold figures he has captured the twenty or so stray dogs that call Greens home at least a hundred times over the years.
For the past two weeks Harold has not caught or even seen a dog in town. He did not remember a day he failed to catch at least one dog. Harold asked around town but nobody had seen any dogs.
Harold is friendly with the people in town. They could hear him approaching from blocks away because of the barking.
The cage is empty. Even though Harold has driven around the town for the past two weeks, he has not seen or caught a dog. This is very strange.
If you’re happy without, do you really need it? Happiness is a result over a measure of time. I need silence. I need a moment alone without distractions or thoughts. That’s my problem: I’m not thinking. I’m not finding time to sit and do nothing. To stare with frustration at a blank screen and wait for it to start yelling at me. I need to duck underneath distractions. I haven’t found the moments alone. Julie pulls me toward enjoyment, and I want to spend every waking moment in her gravity. It’s enough to escape a few minutes before finding my next opportunity to lose myself in her.
Consternations feel good. I need to let stuff out, like the steam pipe releases pressure to avoid an explosion. It’s good for the pipe (or at least the characters around the pipe) and it’s good for me. It’s not as if I’ve been frustrated lately. While I missed my lonely writing times, I sometimes wonder whether I missed them enough. And yet here I am. Sitting down to stare at the blank screen and write without thinking, in the hopes of thinking before writing.
It’s Sunday afternoon and Julie and I sit in Solstice, our local coffee house. The music is alternating between quiet and hard riding. Two shots of caffeine course through my bloodstream. I’m a regular coffee drinker now. I wonder how I ever survived with it. It’s no longer the magic elixir of my writing life. Yummy caffeine provides sustenance at work, and alters my unacceptable moods. It doesn’t always work. Drugs are like that. But when it does I am grateful to its restorative powers.
Julie reads the Jewish Book of Why while I pretend to write. Her Jewish conversion is in a week and a half. Our Living the Jewish Year class is almost at its end. Julie’s learning process has greatly changed me. I pretended to write an essay that encapsulated these new thoughts, to explain my journey. I hate that word “journey,” but I have no alternatives. Changing is a quest, and in quests, until you find the dusty road, you don’t go very far. The massive silence drove me away from the keyboard and left the essay unfinished. I won’t promise ever to finish it, but it is waiting silently on my hard drive for that moment of clarity and spurt of energy, where I feel its slight quiver drawing me forth.
As I typed that last paragraph, I lost myself in the words. My fingers were a blue blur in my peripheral vision and each word appeared formed and beautiful (as I reread it, the beauty tarnishes and I realize the ridiculousness of my original assessment; it’s as if anytime I write at a decent clip, I take it as a sign of genius as opposed to how the normal course). As I write the explanation of the feeling, both the feeling and the explanation vanish. I guess there are things better left unsaid. When you’re in the zone, you ask for the ball and don’t worry about explaining how you got there. Too much thought has killed too many beautiful feelings.
The word count grows and I say nothing. The barista lowers the volume of a hard-driven song. Have you noticed the similarity between the words barista and barrister?
What I have been thinking of are the larger plans of life. If we’re to accept the premise that life is not meaningless—or, to put it positively, life has meaning—then there’s a way of looking at the meaning that is not apparent even with perfect hindsight. In the sense of storytelling, the individual stories don’t come together in the traditional sense. Even to the characters living the stories, they can’t see it.
I keep my fingers moving. I look away for short moments, trying to find inspiration along the yellow walls and the orange ceiling.
Doodling has been a release for me of spent emotions. I lose myself in for hours. It’s different from writing. When I finish, the accomplishment feels different. I’m glad to have done it, but I don’t feel as if I stumbled upon something new about myself. It’s more an expression than an introspective musing where I arrive at some ah-ha moment. I need to find the balance between the two. Ideally, I’d love to combine them, but I’ve not found the connection.
I’m waning. The two shots of caffeine have fallen on empty subjects. It’s enough to say I wrote something today. I hope to write something tomorrow, and maybe the day after that. To hope for more would be foolish at this early stage.
I wrote more words. It’s not about much, but, seriously, what did you expect?
I spent a long time looking for the word to replace “panorama” below. I was thinking of the school project where you built three-dimensional scenes (usually from history) in shoeboxes or cardboard boxes. If anyone thinks of the word, let me know!
Update: The mighty Chuck supplied the word: "diorama." The imagery is now complete, even if the writing is far from it.
We walk and she disregards me quietly. I probe conversation starters that she ignores, deflecting each lunge with an artful parry that leaves me open for a riposte. She doesn’t follow the opportunity. We wait at the light. She opens her button-covered handbag and pulls out a phone. She dials a number and chats loudly. She doesn’t have anything to talk about but that doesn’t stop her from talking. I hear only one side of the conversation. Sometimes talk is about company and not about conclusions or information. In the distance, the trees gain depth as the evening sun peeks through the crowded sky as clouds droop across the horizons like exploding pillows.
She doesn’t talk long. I see her black mood swing over to the conversation, and she hangs up. I didn’t hear her farewell. She ended the conversation in mid-sentence. I replay her end of the exchange and convince myself that she hung up without finishing the call. Either that or she was not talking to anyone in the first place. I’m not sure which one would be more telling. We walk down a hill. The horizon turns gray with small puffy cloud lining its edge like dashed lines where children draw personalities.
The hill grows steeper. I hum until I find a tune. It sounds like something from the eighties but I can’t place it. She doesn’t notice, not even after the tenth beat. At the bottom of the hill I try to slow down but before I realize I’m running down the last steps. She falls behind me. I decide not to slow. She’ll catch up or not. I don’t look back. I lift my chin and my eyes follow the pink light falling across the peaks of the clouds.
At the next light I realize I lost her. She crossed at some point and disappeared. I walk on oblivious. It’s better this way. Cars zip through the lanes. I accelerate to cross the blinking lights and my feet swell. I feel my day’s worries form as bags under my feet. I squeeze each foot and squish my toes with my steps to release the puss. There should be easier ways to crush the days’ troubles.
I arrive home to an empty house. The door locked, the mail scattered past the letter opening and onto the carpeted doormat. I enjoy the autumn air for a few more breathes before closing the door. My evening life starts through shallow breaths. I step over the letters and into the living room. Yellow pillows cover the couch. I slide into the clearing I created yesterday. I lift my arms and rest them on the surrounding pillows. My elbows reach my ears and I resist the urge to swing my arms like a bird to clear the pillows. Instead I twist the pillow’s golden fringe and look up and over the oversized television to the window. The clouds are dark and the sky’s blue faded. The trees no longer pop like three-dimensional diorama. With the setting sun, the trees lose their illusion and fade into the background of the hills.
I watch the door and wait for her return. Even in her blackest mood she will find her way back home.
Ah, when in doubt, I draw the little guy and then scribble a background until something hits me. Obviously nothing really hit me here.
I wait and she may come. I push words onto paper and hope for the next inspiration. Throw it against the wall and see what sticks. I live inside myself. I see only what I’ve seen of the outside world, but when I sit, I divorce myself from that world. I need to look further out, to see things as I see them. Start with the world and see how my words affect that world. Live through the words instead of stagnating and spinning my wheels, digging myself deeper across the same thought ad infinitum.
I need to find original thought, see how it doesn’t come out of the blue sky, but by building up worn ideas. It arrives in pieces, after many clichés and known words cross the page. It appears for a moment, and if I’m quick enough, I reach out and pull it onto the page. In its raw form, it doesn’t look different than the rest of the crud. The trick is to see the sparkle deep within the mud and polish it.
Use this time to find those words. When I have nothing to say, I say nothing. Never say that again. Always say that. That’s the problem, I try to censor what I write and I end up writing nothing. Why write? I write because I have to. I write because it feels great to create, brick by brick. With doodling, it all comes out at once. The strong lines followed by the stronger colors. I go back and add the shadows and it looks as if I intended to create the deeper idea. With writing it’s the opposite. When I put words down I don’t end up with strong lines. I find brilliant colors that refuse to obey the boundaries. It’s only when I squeeze those colors and look beyond them that I begin to see that there may be something there, there may be something that just needs a few dark borders to appear.
There is a difference in contemplating my doodles and my words. The doodles happen all at once for the reader. Everyone loves to have that immediate sense of understanding. With writing it takes time for that meaning to approach. It exists not on the surface, when the reader looks only at the words’ patterns, but at a much deeper level. It takes more effort on the part of the reader to uncover the meaning. It takes more work on the part of the artist to find the meaning, to cultivate it, to manipulate it until it has the intended effect. That meaning is always hidden, even to the artist. At best, the artist can sometimes see the pattern, manipulate the story and the characters and the ideas to provide an emotional lift and a purpose in hindsight. In the end, there is nothing he can do once he creates the words. They exist outside of him. They are no longer his words but the world’s words. They are the monkey’s words.
Even this short essay shows signs of this idea. I’m not happy with these words. They aren’t clever and they don’t entertain. I set out to write something and I find myself in this hole. Not all holes are worth digging, just like not all skies are worth painting.
We fly over Japan heading to Taiwan. The flight has been easy. I slept and ate and read, and now I jot down words. Kurt Vonnegut inspires me even though I haven’t started his book. Julie is reading A man without a country, the closest thing he ever wrote to an autobiography. It’s next on my list after I finish The man in the high castle, by Philip K. Dick, a deeply troubling story of the world gone wrong, where the Germans and Japanese win World War II and leave the world in a jilted state. It is meta-fiction at its best: at the heart of the book, the characters read another book about how the world would have been different if the Germans and Japanese lost the war. It is not our present, but a present, as divorced from reality as the novel’s original theme.
I feel my energy waning. After we land, I’ll check into the hotel and judge their internet service. We have our first day ahead of us, and I’m almost rested enough to enjoy it. That feeling may change in a number of hours, however.
I feel as if there is more I want to say. I don’t have anything I want to say, it’s just that I want to revel in this feeling of writing again. I don’t know where it escaped to. I don’t know how I can sit at home and not reach for the keyboard more often. I’m kept at bay by those feelings of failure and frustration. It’s a feeling of wanting to write and yet feeling as if I have nothing I can say. I have no new words or ideas that I can impart in people because none of my words or ideas is worth imparting. It’s strange how that works. I’m trapped on an airplane and all I can think to do is move my fingers across the keys and hope that I grunt a bit. You’re reading those senseless grunts.
With my three-person audience, it’s difficult for me to believe that any of these grunts are worthwhile. Julie told me that I should write more like Vonnegut: simple, to the point, funny. She said my letters had that feel. I don’t know how to write stories or even essays with that letter feel. I become backed up, trying to be deeper, more clever, until I’m clogged beyond the means of the plunger.
I look around at the people, their televisions pulled up and their blankets keeping them warm in the early Taiwanese morning. My escape is close. The red, blue, green, purple, and gold cover of my book calls on me. It has something it wants to say and yet I have nothing I want to say. But I want to keep trying. The more words I throw out the better the chance of a stain. I want people to look at that stain and tell me that there’s something there. That someone created that stain, and for whatever it’s worth, it exists. Perhaps it’s what I want: immortality, some way to survive beyond the quality of these words.
Peek into my brain and see what makes it tick. See the words that flow across the years. Every day, every dollar, every minute, there’s always something more I want to tell. I need to throw it together, tell it, stop pretending like there’s anything that can’t be said, that I won’t say. Each idea needs a bubble. Each thought a carriage. I need to expend the effort required, stop hiding behind the laziness and righteousness of failure. Who care if I ever write a novel? I only care that I’m trapped in a place long enough to pound out the monkey words.
None of this is well thought out or meaningful. It doesn’t go anywhere. It’s a stream-of-consciousness writing that ends up at the base of the mountain. It leaves you looking up to the heavens, knowing there is something else out there, something above you that the author is trying to say. He never does say it. I never do say it. That’s my lot in life. To set up the base camp and never leave the tent. Never brave the winds or the altitude, never take that next step where risk and effort await. I make a good talk and when it comes time to look back at the good talk, I see it for what it was: empty words over an empty sky.
I have a few older things sitting on my hard drive, waiting for me to return and finish and polish them. I decided to start fresh on this page. See if I still remember how to write about nothing, to consternate in its traditional and truly gory and satisfying form, where the words flow from my body like loose bowels after a greasy supper. My imagery is as imaginative as ever. Where have I gone and why don’t I return?
Been reading a lot of Harry Potter lately. I realize I’m a bit late to the game. She tells stories and tells them well. There are plots and interesting happenings and lots of places to go and one-dimensional characters that pretend to have depth. Wow this feels nice, this opening of my fingers. This is wonderful. This will obviously never make it to the site, but it’s nice to pretend. And that’s what I’m doing: pretending.
And even as I write, even as I put words on the paper that say nothing, and I don’t edit and I try to come about to something, I realize that I’m not going anywhere, that I’m not saying anything in its truest not-saying form. I begin to believe and then I doubt. Then I return to what I wasn’t when I wasn’t. Who is the character in these writings? It is always me and he never says anything. I live inside my head and I wait for me to escape. I see that there is a me, if that’s worth anything.
She or he or it waits and then there is nothing coming. Why do I torture myself like this? Why do I pretend like there is something that is not there when I know there is nothing there? I wait and I hope and then I see but there’s nothing to see. There is never anything to see. I know this, I know that is the truth, and yet I wait and push and there it goes, swinging in the wind, as if the wind can help it get somewhere.
Take a ride on a talking motorcycle going nowhere. What’s so hard about that? Ask the deeper questions with fewer words. When you go somewhere, really go there. See it, create conflict, but not too much conflict. Don’t worry about pictures. Focus on words and images and questions, large questions. Just starting writing again. Please!
This was in response to Chuck questioning my writing. I sent him the secret link, and he immediately responded: yeah, that would be great if I could actually read your handwriting. I think it's perfectly understandable. Be sure to zoom in (you do know how to do that, right? Click on the doodle, silly!) to see how truly bad it is.
My wrist was aching at the halfway mark of the page. But for the good of my art, I persevered.
Close the computer. I have nothing to say. I never have anything to say on these things. Where am I going with this? I can’t stand it anymore. I never knew how to stand it in the first place. I’m losing. I’m losing the battle. Where is my courage? Where is the something to say when I need to say it. OHMYGOD.
I have too much to say. That is my new problem. I have all these ideas, all of them I think brilliant. And when it comes time to say any of them, I freak out. Stop writing, and pretend to get on with my life.
Okay, I won’t do it now. I won’t freak out or stop what I plan to do. I will write.
...
Don’t do it! Don’t open the browser to waste more time. Concentrate on not wasting time. I wish I had something more. I wish I knew something more. Why don’t I do it? Why don’t I stop using words like “it” and “things” and “umm” and replace it with something meaningful? As if I could say anything meaningful.
I watched the Charlie Rose interview with DFW, my writer-ly hero. I realize: he’s a normal person, with normal problems, who writes. He’s smart, book smart, great memory, very articulate and an excellent logician, the type that falls back on first principles to arrive at meaningful conclusions. But he’s not that special. He grows and learns and becomes, like any other person. He’s lived and made mistakes: an addict, a nerdy partier; he broke down like a normal person and he spent the last ten years building him back up. He caught the golden ticket and realized that for all its shine, it didn’t amount to very much.
I can’t do what he does. I can only do what I do, in the same way as he does what he does. I need to spend the time, push the buttons, say what I want to say. I need to focus on myself. If original art is about expressing oneself as one really is instead of as others expect to see them, then it shouldn’t be so hard. What I write might not be good—as the unexpected is not always good—but it will be me, and if that’s the best I can deliver, it fulfills my promise to myself. That’s all I can ask for. I will tell stories, or tell something. Once again I’ll proclaim that I don’t give a shit what others think of it. It’s only painful if I don’t do it, if I fret and worry and wonder what if anything I will ever become.
I know these are short consternations. That’s not a surprise. I always start with consternations. I don’t always move off of them, but if I don’t start, then I have no chance of continuing. Did you notice the words? These are words. I can’t ask for more than words (you can, but, as I said, I’m not sure I care anymore what you’re asking).
I’m back. I don’t know why or what I will say, but I’ve returned, and I will each day[1] to say something. And this won’t be a doodle something or a painless something. On Horribles, I work hard to ensure that my words (both title and explanation) are short, clean, and of value in some small way. I rip away the consternations and asides, and leave only words that project movement. I do not make those guarantees here. This site is about me saying something, not about me saying something valuable. Why I think it’s useful to clear this up is above and beyond me. Like that space show that they cancelled. I hate the theys. They always make the world worse—except when they make it better through their concerted efforts.
[1] “Each day” does not mean what you think it means. I will stick to a schedule, but it may not be an everyday schedule. I will set stringent scheduling criteria, which, if met, will result in writing. Writing and posting, as you know, are two separate beasts. I won’t edit myself, but I may not post for hopes of further developing my thoughts. I also know that when I force something everyday (something I can and have done: look to Novembers), I tend to burn out. It takes only one day to fall off the wagon. Once off, it’s difficult to climb back on. It’s better to accept failure early than hold my breath until it happens. To continue to belabor the point: once I run out of breath, it sometimes takes me month to remember how to hold it again.
Fatigue sets in. A few lines down from this paragraph are lines of an actual story. Not a good story, of course, but words that start a story and even provide direction. Let’s see if I can continue it tomorrow.
Chuck tagged me with the Five Writing Strengths meme. I sat wondering for some time why he bothered. I know his heart was in the right place: I have not written recently. More specifically I posted my last musing, a measly hundred-word book review of Harry Potter, on August 27. I went back and did the math (yes, I am as challenged with calendars as I am with driving directions—it took me a few moments to realize that September followed August), and that was two months ago. Two months without a peep from sewcrates.
Chuck did allow for my short Cast of Horribles mini-musings. I felt these were almost a substitute for my musings. That is, until they began to shrink in size and effort. It wasn’t noticeable initially. Lately I’ve done away with the whole mini-musing and starting posting naked doodles. It’s less kinky than it sounds. I didn’t bother to draw a new doodle this weekend. I feel all tapped out of ideas and inspiration: a wonderful way to start November. I do have a few months of doodles in my back pocket. As I said before, I’m not sure what I’m going to do with them during November. If it’s anything like the time it took to put together today’s musing, I will not have time to futz around with Horribles once my real writing begins.
My audience of three has taken my silence well. They must have figured I earned the break, after years of writing it was time for me to relax and live off the proceeds of my archives. Perhaps they have a point. I’ve been failing at this site since around 2002. I spent time reading through old posts to see the actual date of my first real one. Before I found it, however, I realized I was spending so much time reading old posts and rewriting my first two paragraphs (since it’s been so long since I last wrote, I felt the need to write something of quality—which for me means clever and well written as opposed to informative) that my window for actually writing was slowly closing. (Wow, did I just use a window metaphor? It just goes to show how long.)
I have never participated in an Internet meme. From what I gather, it is similar to a public chain letter: you send out one, and before long everyone is doing it. It’s usually top-five or top-ten lists, and it always seems ridiculous: a way of getting to know people you don’t really want to meet, in person, that is. I’m being disingenuous, of course. If I had the will, I would be more talkative in communities. Perhaps build relationships with other Internet people, which would give me something to talk about. Like do a meme, or something.
Enough throat clearing. I was asked a question, and now I have to answer it. This would be much easier if I had been asked to list my five writing weaknesses. I could and have written pages about my failings as a writer. If you scour my previous paragraphs, you’ll find at least five examples, also known as consternations. But as usual I digress. With only fifteen minutes of writing time left, it’s time to get to the topic at hand.
- I have a basic grasp of grammar and spelling. Yes, it may sound like I’m starting at the simplest and least important strength, but there are too many writers who lack the basics. Grammar and spelling is undervalued. A reader makes their first (and sometimes only) impression with the first few sentences. Many writers chase away their readers with common mistakes. (I’m looking at you, that/which and its/it’s.)
- I believe short writing is boring. Ever since the interwebs became popular, the short blog post has replaced well thought-out writing. Unlike some people, my writing, while occasionally long, is not terribly well-organized, well-researched, or directed to an attractive conclusion. My writing meanders with too many asides and untold attempts at cleverness. I never spend enough time planning or writing, ending when my energy wanes, which for this post should be at any moment. Even so, I recognize the value in long, well-thought out words. While I may pad too many of my posts, I do understand that it’s important to spend more than fifteen minutes putting it together. Anyone can write fifty well-crafted words. It’s only when you get beyond the word poetry that you move closer to saying something worth saying.
- My character sketches. I do my best writing when staring at a subject. I’ve done this in coffee shops, waiting in the airport, sitting in a restaurant, daydreaming in the park. I stare at a person, and I begin to write. I describe them first physically, and then I make up a story. It’s similar to how I doodle. I’m strongest when I have a subject in front of me, a photo or drawing as a starting pointing. From something, anything becomes possible. The gravity of nothingness is great and it takes strength to move beyond the echoes in my small head. I rarely know or meet these subjects. I stare until I find a trait that is attractive, that sets me off. The women in my Termite story was an example: a cute girl sitting in the bucks of stars.
- I sometimes grab hold of inspiration. Ever since coffee transformed my world, I’ve learned what inspiration tastes like. It’s not the yummy caffeine goodness, but what it provides: brief moments of true inspiration. I hope you’ve seen this in my writing. While I tend to love all of my words, I know there are paragraphs where I hit something true, where my inhibitions and doubts fall away, and I’m left with pure and beautiful inspiration. Athletes sometimes describe it as entering the zone. It’s that feeling that you can do no wrong, where time slows down, and words and plot come together. It’s those too-brief moments that make writing worthwhile for me.
- I can tie things together when I have enough rope. Which brings me to my last strength. Given the right materials, I can pull together an ending. While my stories and musings do not always work, when they do, I find it relatively easy to draw together the ending. Something clicks when I’ve properly arranged the pieces on the board. I see the end game, and it takes little effort to draw it to a close. Now, don’t get me wrong. This is not necessarily about tightening up plot ends. I left off plot and storytelling from this list for good reason. What ending means to me is the drawing to an emotionally satisfying conclusion. It’s rare that I have the right pieces, and even rarer that they’re placed properly around the game board. But whatever state I’m in after my (usually failed) middle, I take it and write to a conclusion.
So there you have it. My first meme. It feels good to write again. The Marathon starts on Thursday, and any words in preparation are good ones. This entry clocks in at a light-weight 1,338 words (after editing). It’s taken me more than an hour, which sounds about right: on average days I write to 1,000 words per hour.
I’ve prepared sewcrates for the Marathon. I made the decision this year not to share my words. This is not because I hope to publish them one day (the fabled great American novel that allows me to retire and live the life of leisure: torturing myself by failing to write everyday), but in hopes of freeing myself to take on topics that I would not feel comfortable writing if I knew my audience of three was reading. This may change when I start writing, but be prepared to see lots of blue locks. I’ll post publicly my end of day thoughts along with my word count to keep me honest, and keep you updated.
It has begun. You might see this Horrible for quite a while. Watch
sewcrates.com to see how things are going.
Update: I figured I'd take a few moments to report back on how things are going. I'm a bit more than halfway through the horror show. I have only drawn one Horrible during November, so I decided not to dip into my backup store until I finish.
I'm looking at this break in a positive way: I was floundering a bit in my newer doodles looking for topics. I would draw the little guy and then stare at it for long periods, not sure what situation I should put him in. It turns out, except for my movie/anime drawings, I rarely put my horribles in "situations"--which is similar to my storytelling where I don't actually tell a story.
That's enough consternating. When I do return to full form, I promised myself I would not do this as much. I need to be more positive. Move forward, make the world a better place, cure cancer, you know, be good.
Anxiety builds in me, whether sitting in unexpected traffic or waiting for a table at a restaurant where we never wait. It’s the unanticipated part that causes most of my anxiety. Where the wait is expected, I mentally prepare for it, leave myself plenty of time. I have fought anxiety lately with strange levels of failure.
It’s the first of the year, the time to push anxiety aside and reflect on important yearly goals. My new quest: write words that make me smile. I sometimes forget why I started writing. Sure, there was my dream of writing the good life: living off the acclaim of my best-selling great American novel while the Julies supported me in my quest to visit as many different coffee houses as possible in the great state of New York City. Not that I have given up on that dream. It still hits me at strange times along with my dream of starting an independent video game company (they’re now more popular if not profitable). These dreams wait in the wings to rear up at unexpected moments and threaten to take over my better (or is it worse?) senses.
Getting back to smiling, as I read through my old entries, even the consternated ones, it sounded as if I was having fun. I don’t remember if I was, but there was character in the writing that seems missing in my shorter entries and storytelling. I’ve noticed this absence for a while. Part of the dissonant tone comes from the amount of writing. It’s most apparent when I keep travel journals. Since I force myself to write every day, even when I am tired or headachy or downright bitter, I capture my personality better. With lots of writing, I end up focusing less on the act of writing and more on the content. That I’m doing activities that I can write about doesn’t hurt either.
Julie and Jennifer joined me at the coffee shop. Julie has picked up photography as a hobby. She is carrying around our wimpy digital camera and shooting lots of photographs. She bought a book (with lots of photos!) on the basic techniques. Ah, she just left us. She exhausted all photographic opportunities at the coffee shop (lots of coffee -mug and expressive-David shots) and decided to wander the neighborhood for new subjects. She’s still trying to decide what type of camera she wants. My digital camera has seen better days. It has terrible shutter lag—that’s the time between pressing the button and taking the photograph—and an awful flash that never seems to get the timing right. The big question (at least in my mind) is size. How big of a camera is she willing to carry around, since I already told her I will not carry her camera when we travel. (With that said, Julie is very persuasive—or what it as: manipulative—and it is likely I’ll end up carrying it. Just don’t tell her I said so—I’m sticking this in the middle of lots of words, where it is less likely to be read by her. I should go back and remove any mention of her name from this paragraph. She tends not to read text unless she’s in it. Seeing to the quality of my writing lately, this is a very valid strategy.)
Before they joined me at the newly renamed Caffé Vita, I was rereading old sewcrates.com entries. I know: my narcissism is truly boundless. Clearly the length and consistency of writing will help improve the quality and apparent sense of enjoyment, i.e., the sense from the reader, since we know my sense will be: it’s time to write . . . again? Lately, my words feel like words. They don’t have energy. I need to return to clever writings. I’ve been warned that cleverness is a bit of a turnoff in writing. Trying to impress people with fancy words does not a good essay make. But the thing is (and you should start worrying when I talk about things), I don’t care. I want to enjoy writing this, which means I have to enjoy reading this, which means, well, I need to use the voice. And yes, Dune did pop into my head after writing that.
I started this entry on my comfortable recliner. I worried over whether I would write and my general level of disinterest. Because they’re words, and I love all my words, I’ll glue them below. They’re slightly related to what’s above. We watched “The Eternal Sunshine of a Spotless Mind” again yesterday. (I had hopes of watching “When Harry Met Sally” for my New Years activities, but Jennifer had never seen Eternal Sunshine, and we had to remedy that oversight. Kaufman, the screenwriter, did wonders with the way time flows. I don’t have his skill.
I planned to write today, and here I am. My fingers are tired from all of the photo and website editing. Once I start organizing and categorizing, it’s difficult for me to get away. You’ll notice all my photo albums are tagged at the album level. I still don’t have the functionality to mass-tag the photos at the photo level. I can tag them by editing each photo, but that would take a long, long time.
I finished a short coffee after waking up this morning. I started writing before it kicked in. I hoped that funny would follow the caffeine. At least that’s how it used to work. It hasn’t worked that way in a while. Perhaps I’m hungry. Or maybe I had my coffee a bit too late. Instead of drinking coffee, I settled into internet perusing, which is never a good way to start the day. I have this feeling I missed the important part of the day. It’s a good thing the day is extra long and work free.
The last thing I wanted to do is to sit and write. I keep thinking of little NAIS projects that could fill my time. I’m in the process of ripping all my DVDs to put them on my home server. I have this dream of watching all my movies without having to get off the couch. A movie is churning away downstairs. It must almost be finished. Perhaps I’ll go and check on it. Anything would be better than this.
One of the excuses I keep giving myself for not writing is that I don’t have time to write. I look over my schedule and it’s full. I have to wake up early, which means going to sleep early. When I sleep early, I barely have time for dinner and a movie with Julie before washing up. Then I’m at work most of the day, and with the exception of the little-work holiday season (which I filled with NAIS development), I don’t have extra time to write. I usually only take the van in the morning (Julie picks me up on most evenings for my HOV-ness), and before my coffee, I’m not sure I could write. I’m thinking of drinking coffee before I go to the van in the morning. I’ve said this many times before: I’m a man of habit. The problem I have is creating good habits. Once they’re there, I can stick with them (until I accidentally break them—picking up broken habits is as hard as starting fresh). The key is to create good habits in the first place. Perhaps writing in the morning should be my next attempt.
These are just long-winded excuses, of course. And these aren’t my usual fancy consternated excuses, where I’ll look back in a couple of days in amazement at my clever words and ill-formed sentences.
Julie is cooking breakfast downstairs and I’m getting hungry. Maybe I’ll continue this later. I don’t know. I should push through. I think there are some useful words in the later paragraphs that I haven’t found yet. I’m not sure I even know what useful words look like. They would probably be organized and directed at something. They wouldn’t be random meanderings of useless intentions. Ah. I don’t even know anymore. I’m not sure what if anything I bring to the party.
Ziggy joined me with his oversized bunny rabbit. He ripped its nose off some time ago, and he continues to chew at its plastic stump. He pulls stuffing out through its nose and leaves a mess on the rug. We’re good at cleaning up after him. His housetraining is getting better. Some days he’s better than others. He had a particularly good day on Sunday. Today hasn’t been as good.
I’m writing to fill up space. What other type of writing is there?
I left the Castle and forced myself to go to the coffee shop. Not that there was much forcing necessary. I’m very easy when it comes to sitting in a quiet place and drinking coffee. I need to do things. I have had this revelation before. When I do things, I have things to talk about. Looking back at my better writings, besides my pitiful story attempts, the writing comes about when I’m travelling, usually when I’m too tired to write and I sit down to relay all the happenings. I am most interested in rereading those.
I had an idea for a story last night. It’s gone now. I’m sure it would have been terrible, but it’s sad that I can’t remember it. I have to write things down. I need to talk to people. I need to be less scared of talking to people. I need to meet new and interesting people. Hell, I need to meet boring people and give them a chance to interest me. I need to stop judging or guessing what people are thinking, and instead listen to them. It’s so easy for me to write these thoughts sitting alone in the corner of a coffee house. If only these words transformed into actions.
Transformation of thoughts into actions. That was something the story was about. I keep grasping its edges before it slips away again.
The internet calls and like its obedient dog I slither into its cold embrace. This writing is harder than I remember, harder in every way. I need a project to get me moving again; something to take the cobwebs out of the brains and start them spinning. The hourly NEQID initiative needs another initiative.
I finished this entry at a respectable 1,853 words. I’m not counting again, so don’t worry. I just like to check in every now and again. I should have meshed those two halves together. I repeated many of the same ideas, and I could probably slice off about a thousand of those words and have something tighter and more interesting. But it’s getting late and I’m hungry. Julie and Jennifer are napping. I’m going to check if they’re ready for dinner. I’m hoping for pizza, but they might have their hearts set on chicken legs in the oven. I’ll leave you not knowing which they decide. Mysteries work better that way.
It feels like thick mucus. It doesn’t gum on the skin but peels apart when poked like overly stretched rubber sheets. It’s the blues again and it colored me during the last couple of days. It arrived as our hectic month drew to a close. It reached into my stomach and yanked my organs to the ground. With every step I felt as if I dragged my insides under my feet.
I really shouldn’t be like this. Things are wonderful. I have a beautiful new home. Our real-estate broker tells us that the Castle will sell—and although he’s probably too positive for his own good, his reassurances do make me feel better about the other mortgage payments. Work is growing busier. We had a great weekend with wonderful friends. Our dogs are happy (if still a bit chilly) in their new dog room, and their invisible fence training will be complete early next week. I have yet another hundred-thousand-dollar website idea. I reserved the name and started coding. I even managed to draw a few doodles lately.
Things are booking along, and yet last night I couldn’t sleep. Part of it was too much caffeine. I drank two short coffees and a Pepsi with lunch. But it was more than that. During the drive in this morning, I said “another day another dollar” twice. I can’t really believe that, can I? There’s got to be more than that. And I’m not going through one of those “the world is an illusion, nothing is real—why work to buy stuff I won’t need in a feeble attempt to stave off feelings I won’t admit having” states. I have had those, and it feels different. I want to pretend that this is more than whacky brain chemistry.
Yesterday I reread the last two entries of my Pink Sweater story. When things are slow, I sometime hit the Random post to see what memories I can find. I’m not such a bad writer. Not a terribly good one, but there are parts I enjoyed reading—and I’m not just saying that because I wrote it. (Okay, maybe I am saying it because I wrote it. I’ve talked incessantly about how much I enjoy reading my own writing. It’s just that after so many years have passed, I can’t even remember having written any of it, let alone still believe it’s my writing in any real sense.)
I’m tired of not writing. I’m tired of putting down three sentences that talk about the weather and my bi-weekly doodle and calling it good. I remember the times when I wrote words on a daily basis.
Maybe that’s what this is. I’m looking for something that’s not there. It’s not the location but the place in the day. Wow, am I consternating? This sounds like consternations. I can’t remember the last time I went down that path. It’s not a bad feeling. I’m putting words on the screen and typing away. I just have to be careful not to dig too deep of a rut, or I’ll be here for awhile. That’s okay. The weather is good and I cracked my fingers and if I stay longer than my welcome, the landlord won’t complain too loudly.
The caffeine kicked in and the day is starting again. I’m not sure what this accomplished, but it is something to post, and that’s what I’ll do. Don’t worry about me. I go through these feelings. They last a few days and then they’re gone. I miss them sometimes. They give me a chance to be alone with my thoughts, to run away from the world and peer inside. If you haven’t noticed, there’s not much there. But that’s okay. Sometimes valleys are beautiful.
That was not something I was hoping to see. It was a bird with three wings walking on water. Its little legs moved rapidly across the surface and it continued. There was bright sunlight behind the bird, and I had to be careful not to go blind. I glanced and looked away before the sight pulled me back. The bird had not made much progress walking across the water.
He was big eyed with a big sword and a bit head. His hair was purple with blue highlights and when he smiled, a small row of teeth gleamed from his lipless mouth. His eyes were intense and reflected a shaded white spot. In short he was the . . . .
He was born a superhero. In the depths of his tights and later his wiry hair, people came to know him for what he was. He turned to the forces of evil to fight them. He had large hands and even a larger heart, which did not always find the right way to express itself. Why should it?
Okay, the game: it’s a simple shooter in space with exaggerated gravity. Four control buttons: right and left thrusters, main thruster, and gun. There are no brakes. The star field is the background, and there are large bodies that pull you toward them. All objects have gravity effects. The gun shoots bullets. Bullets change your mass and affect you when you fire. You chose the gun and bullets. Both have an effect on your ships trajectory and mass.
Background: scrolling star field (shows movement). Your ship is in the middle. The star field rotates around you. There’s a bit of movement allowed.
There aren’t enough interesting people around me. It was always the characters that kick off my stories. I have to see somebody I love and begin describing them. I make up their history and I dwell in that history hoping I find something interesting to say about them. I’ve seen lost that skill. It’s not lost so much as missing as the people around me no longer entertain me. I don’t fall in love with them. There’s no intriguing fat man or well-endowed elderly woman to create stories around. There are ordinary people living ordinary lives with nothing jumping out of them except their intelligence and success. What’s the fun in telling those stories? I want the strange, week and a half decision making times.
I write this pretending to be inspired and knowing that nothing will come of it. I won’t sit on my couch on a beautiful afternoon and push out words. I just don’t do that anymore. I’ll doodle a bit, perhaps brush up my website, before settling in to an evening anime marathon after cooking an adequate if unoriginal dinner with a high probability of chicken as the main dish.
What happened to me? When did I change and move away from pursuing this one hobby I enjoyed in the same way as people enjoy peeling blisters or pulling at loose skin?
I saw a bird with three wings walking on water. Its skinny legs moved across the surface. I was at the edge of a lake when I saw the strange bird. I wanted to watch the bird make its way across the lake but the sun was setting at the far end of the lake, and the best I managed was to steal glances of the bird. The sun was setting and I had to look away from the bird to avoid going blind. I could not keep my eyes away for long. The sight of those little legs walking on the water and not sinking drew me back.
I’m in the bucks of stars. I should do something productive. I will write instead. It’s been a while since I wrote long form.
Fifty variations on the same theme: Mystery, Drama, Build-Up, Mystery Solved, Climax, Resolution.
I’ve lost it. It’s gone. I don’t know where it ran away to, and if you see it, I would appreciate if you returned it. I’m not expecting it to be found, especially by somebody else. But I’m always hopeful. You see I used to be a superhero. Not anyone you would know, probably. I would pull on my tights and fly to save the city every evening. I spent the days in school, or I would have been searching for evil doers then too. It’s not that I was lazy or anything. Okay, maybe I was a little lazy. I have a curfew, and with school, friends, and homework, I didn’t get to do much crime fighting. The summers were no different. My parents sent me to sleep away camp. And although it may go against popular opinion, there is not much crime in the woods. At least no crime that I could fight in my tights. They haven’t passed laws against incredibly incompetent counselors or . . . .
So it goes. I can’t hear anything. He can’t hear. He has gray hair coming out of his ears. Both ears are covered in aids. He has little hair left, the small amount of gray hair is unkempt and twisting around his head, giving a look as if it was ready to grow out and wrap itself around his head.
His blue shirt is covered with white flower designs. He wears khaki pants and a brown belt. He has liver spots across his arms and bandages covering up the worst of them.
His daughter is with him. She wears a blue one piece dress. It falls flat on her to below her knees. She wears black pants underneath. The shirt has four golden buttons near the top, making it look like a sailor top. She has straight brown hair with golden highlights. She’s older. I first mistook her for his younger wife. She looked at him and spoke loudly. It was hard for him to hear her. She called him dad, which gave away their relationship.
He’s drinking coffee. She already finished hers. She cleaned up the plates they had their pastries on.
He wears large glasses with golden frames. He greets people by raising his cup of coffee. He is missing the third joint in his middle left hand. His fingernails are long but not overly so. They could use a cut.
I’m round wear I should be flat, and flat where I should be round. I know this. I know that I can’t hear anything even with my ears covered in aids. I don’t trim the gray hair coming from my ears. My wife is convinced they help my hearing. Something about vibrating with the sound and directing more noise into my eardrum. It hasn’t drummed in a long time. I don’t miss it. Most noises are just that: noises.
So there’s this boy, see. He thinks he knows what’s good for him. He stands in the shower and he counts to three before he turns off the water. Counting to two is not right, and four is too much.
It’s too much. My hands hurt and my arms ache, and I’m growing tired of this. I want to do something. I want to say something. I want to never write another sentence that starts with “I want.” I should not write these things. I don’t remember how to write. It was something I used to do, but now I don’t do enough of it.
I’m depressed but I don’t even know I’m depressed anymore. How am I going to get through this. Yes, he can do it. Yes, it’s his job. It should be mine. I feel terrible about it. Why can’t I just sit back and do my own job without coveting more of a say. I can do it better, that’s what goes through my thick head.
Passion or work? What is worse? I can’t do this anymore. I have to do more. I can’t do this anymore. I have to do more.
It’s as if this was written for me. I’m in a comfy chair, waiting for something to happen. It’s only a matter of time before it does. I overheard things months ago that I wish stuck in my head long enough to get them out when I was inspired to sit in a comfy chair and pound out words. But seeing as my long-term memory is inaccessible, I have nothing to share but these words of consternations.
It feels strange to look at this empty page again. It’s not something I’ve done in a while. I barely write e-mail to my friends anymore. I don’t know if it’s work, a loss of motivation, or frustration that I’m not better at this writing thing. I’m just where I am and I wish I had something more to say or do or be. But there you have it. I’m consternating and while I’m not happy about it, I am happy about most other things in my life.
Wow, I forgot how to write. I’m trying to tell a narrative and nothing is coming out. It’s stilted and weird. The caffeine is hitting the spot and my fingers are still moving, but I’m looking for a reason for them to stop. Looking for something else that needs saying to be said.
Where’s the wit? Where’s the insight? Where’s the deep philosophical discussions? Oh, yeah, now I remember. It never was here. It was a bunch of masturbatory bullshit. One wonders why nobody read it. What’s the point? It’s a discussion of what I ate for breakfast in too many words for a person to get through. There was no story and no curvy anythings. I consternated and cried and pretended I could get somewhere if given enough time. I never defined that time and I never approached it. What I did do was keep on typing and hope beyond hope for something that is never here and never will be here.
At least I’m putting words to paper. It’s something I missed when I stopped doing it. I was never doing anything of value. I was pretending to do something but in the end I did nothing. I typed and typed and hoped that something would happen when nothing did. I’ve written that sentence thirty times already.
There’s something there. I know there is. I wait for it to come out to mean something. I have nothing. I love that word, nothing. It’s easier to say that word than to think about anything related to that word.
The consternations come strong. There is nobody who wants to read this, especially me. Okay, I’m the exception. I do want to read this again someday. I want to see what was going through my head when I wrote this. How the caffeine did not find a handhold. How it reached and I tried to pull myself up only to drop down the fifteen feet to the rough ground.
I return to the black on white screen, where the page seems to pop out at me. I don’t know why I like it, but it makes me feel like there is nothing but me there.
The darkness pulls me toward it. I wait for it. I need a character. I need a character with a twist. I never do well with the story or plot. But give me an interesting character and I’ll do nothing interesting with them. So it goes.
The coffee is making me anxious. It is turning me into something that I don’t like. Start over. Show me something that I haven’t seen before. Give me some reason to write. Describe something and take it from there. Or don’t. Think before you write. Writing without thinking is a useless exercise. When you think you may find something useful. Usually not, of course, but it is always possible.
I start with such good ideas, and slowly those good ideas devolve into nothingness.
The P.A. system crackles: “Manager to the kosher deli, manager to the kosher deli!”
I grab a whole chicken and a bone-in rib-eye steak. Julie returns from the paper goods aisle, her arms full of small boxes of tissues that she tumbles into the cart. I push the cart past a pyramid of cracker boxes. We pass the fresh fish counter where an old man with a large hearing aid cuts into a slab of salmon.
Julie grazes the vegetable section while I look to the deli. I push the cart to the edge of the fruit section for a better look. I pretend to squeeze a few apples but my attention is on the deli. I wanted half a pound of pastrami for my post-work snack and I’m worried. I watch as the manager walks around the deli counter. I drop the apple and push the cart past the cheese stand to get a better look.
I look through the display case, past the prepared side dishes and tubes of meat, and see the deli lady on the floor holding her head. The manager extends his arm to help her stand. “I hit my head,” the deli lady says. I can’t make out his response.
A shopper pushes his cart to the front of the kosher deli counter. “Do you have chopped liver today?” he asks.
The deli lady is holding the wet napkin to her head over a red bruise. The manager looks to the deli lady and back to the man. “Sir, she hit her head. I’m helping her. You’ll have to wait, sir.”
“Yes, of course,” the man says. “And the chopped liver do you have any?”
The deli lady sits on a small chair next to the counter. The manager hovers protectively over her. He ignores the man.
“Excuse me,” the man says a bit louder. “Do you have chopped liver, the beef one, not the vegetable one?”
The deli lady tries to stand and she sits back down as her legs shake. The manager helps her down. She points to the chopped liver. “Yes, it’s over there,” she says. The manager looks from the deli lady to the serving counter and grabs a plastic bowl.
Julie dumps bags of vegetables into the cart. I push the cart past the kosher deli and decide to skip the pastrami.
The Julies doesn't think I post often enough. She thinks my Horribles are holding me back, causing me to only post on the Tuesday and Thursday when it's time to dequeue. She's partly right.
What she's missing is that but for the need to post my slashes of color, I'm not sure I would post any words. Writing has not come easy to me of late. I spent much of Sunday proving that. I scribbled all morning and was left with only half of a nothing to show for it. I managed six short paragraphs of story.
I focused on advice from Chuck: do plot exercises. I've read enough books on writing to know what they entail. First you pick a goal. You start your character toward the goal. Then you throw an obstacle between the character and the goal. You watch as hilarity ensues. You repeat this on both the macro and micro levels. The macro level is the overarching goal. The micro levels are the small goals that move the character closer to that big goal.
I picked a goal and an obstacle, and I almost got to the obstacle, before I found myself pounding away on the same six paragraphs, editing in the hopes of saying something more profound (which, I can tell you, is very difficult when the story is about trolls).
It's a start. And here are words for the Julies. I have lots of other words in secret places on teh internets, but it turns out the world is not ready to read those words. I tried to share them with acquaintances--the people I thought would appreciate my verbosity--but was yelled down by the frivolity of it all. Don't they know I'm nothing but frivol?
Seattle is beautiful still. The weather threatens to fall past the cliff this weekend. I'm hopefully they're wrong. They usually are when it suits them.
I thought I'd break up my parade of robots.
I'm not sure what happened with my writing. It's not happening any more. I have many Sundays worth of Bucks of Stars writing that I haven't bothered to post. Don't worry, you're not missing much: I write a few paragraphs before falling into a deep consternated funk.
"And then something happened" is exceedingly hard for me. I can't do plot. I can't make things happen. My characters sit around and think without acting. I've tried writing exercises and stealing other people's stories, and I always hit a snag where I can't pull free. That's enough. I considered deleting this, but I'll leave it to prove that I do think about writing. I just don't do much of it.
I'm back from NYC! Did you miss me? Here's another in a line of Marathon doodles. We had a whirlwind weekend in NY. Lots of visiting and talking to family and friends. My sleep patterns are messed up, but I'm hoping coffee and a busy work at week will quickly bring me back to normalcy.
It’s consternation time. I’m sorry about this but I needed something. I needed to puke thoughts onto a page and I didn’t want to think. I never want to think. I wanted to form a plan and share it with the world, even though I know the world doesn’t care. I write this introduction to warn you that what follows is unedited drivel. It is consternations of a sort I’ve not shared in quite a while. It’s over two thousand useless words. It’s a love letter to me. It’s a reminder of everything I ever wanted to do but forgot how. It’s a plan that I know is fueled by too much caffeine and too many easy promises on a day when my fingers are moving of their own volition.
I write this introduction as an inoculation against my demons. I post it because I wrote it and writing and posting are synonymous in my mind. I don’t fear valueless work. My life has been full of such half-hearted efforts. I fear my lack of efforts, my comfort in the warm embrace of scribbling and pretending that art doesn’t require effort or pain. Art is dedication to an ideal. I don’t know what my ideal looks like, but I know the warm feeling of having written. I want to return to that embrace and look back and know that there’s something there. That it’s not imaginary or useless.
Ideas first then words.
“Stop telling me what I should do.” The water glowed brightly. The air shimmered warmly.
I’m worried about it. I try not to complain too loudly by there it is. I wait for complaints.
The world formed slowly rising from the mists. I used to know how to form worlds. I used to have ideas that would blossom into stories. Who am I kidding? I never wrote any stories. I only threw filth onto the page and pretended that it would mean something. Argh. There is something to be said about filth.
I’m a chubby guy. My clothing is baggy because I try to hide it. It’s filthy.
I have to suffer. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to sit in front of the computer and suffer. I look and find distractions instead of pounding out words, hoping that something sticks. It rarely does, but I can’t start sticking until I start writing two thousand words or thereabouts. I need the marathon. I need the constant push for more words, for more stories, even if those stories turn out to not be of interest to anyone. I need time alone with my screen and my thoughts and my thinking.
I need to do this every day, rain or shine. I need a mug of steaming coffee and a blank screen and suffering on my wrists. I need to write and write and write. There will be a time when this means something, when I can stop the consternations, reach deep into myself and find something worthwhile. I know about doodling; doodling is something I do to relax. It is not an effort but a reflection. I also know words. Words are something I do to cause pain. But the aftereffects are astonishing. They are eye opening and provide incredible value. I can’t believe how good that value feels. How happy it makes me to go over my words and see output. I want my imagination to open up, to free me of the bounds of everyday life. I need to set aside time, real time. Not work time, not sleep time, but time where I sit up in bed after showering and grab a cup of Joe and go for it.
This is not a project but a love affair. I want everything I do to be focused around this time. All of my learning, all of my thoughts, all of my creativity to pour from me like a black sludge that covers everything in a gooey badness. I want to forget why I never did it. I want to only remember that it’s about words, lots and lots of words that mean something. I want filth on the page. I want dirt and crap; I want to be proud of that crap.
The dragon reared on its fat legs and roared fire.
I need more. I need plain looking people to jump about my page like beans on a hot pan. I want them to run into each other and worry about things and see conflict and cry about their conflict. I want them to never get over it. Any of it. I want them to die alone and afraid. I want to relive terrible moments and create new triumphs that dwarf the real lives of little men. I want people to read this in a way that means something to them in the same way that it meant something to me when I put the words down. I want this to be painful, to be hurtful, to be something that no one in their right mind would think important. I know some days will drag, but others will feel like effort is not required. I’m old now, older than I’ve ever been, and I have to realize that it doesn’t matter. None of it ever did matter. If I want to do it, I should do it and stop looking to excuses. Where and when? Does it really matter? I know the answer and it’s easy to say on such a prolific day. I have an hour a day of sitting and struggling. I can grow that but never shrink it. I will sit in the chair and think of the big thoughts and with righteous indignation sear the page.
Some days will be worse than others. I will sometimes story, other times I’ll flop about looking to story but never finding what I thought existed in me. This is not a one month thing. This is a lifetime’s goal. This is my plan B, this is my escape from the world to my own little world. I see these words and I look to my word count and I know I’m on to something. Yes, these consternations are useless and will likely never see the light of day. It’s not the daylight that I have to worry about. It’s my goals and my hopes and dreams. These are things I should not take lightly. I should wake every morning with a renewed knowledge of what I want and grab it with all my heart and the strength of my fingers and yank it toward me. If it takes me consternating for two thousand words a day, then consternating I will do. I will share or not share, I will create or not create. It doesn’t matter as long as the words keep flowing. Once the faucet is unstopped, where will it end? Does it even make a difference as long as I can look back and say I did something. I created something. I communicated with somebody.
All consternations end somewhere. No matter how poetic or artistic or cathartic I think of it, it will eventually run out of steam and begin circling the drain, and then fall in with the sewage. I see this even as these words float to the top of the sink, the drain so far and its force so weak from this height that I can’t but laugh at its efforts. It will happen sooner than I expect, whether it’s tomorrow morning or later in the week. It’s then that my fingers will stop blooming. With nothing going on in the real world I will have to reach deep into that other world and find the happenings. I have to know that there is something out there waiting for me, something that knows no boundaries and doesn’t worry about dragon blades or wizard’s hats. It is spaceships and rides all squished together into a toothpaste tube. I won the toothpaste wars and I need to shout it to the world.
Even now I wonder what if anything these words are bringing me. I see joy and heartbreak. I see the pain of knowing that I don’t have what it takes but not caring. I don’t want an audience, I don’t even want to pretend like it means something to me, even though deep within I know that there’s nothing I want more but their appreciation. I shouldn’t care but I communicate because I want to communicate and because I don’t know how to communicate elsewhere.
It’s the heat of my body that pours itself onto the page. I have to care about the warmth, care about what it will bring before I begin. I need to make this mean something. I need to push beyond the boundaries that I share with others; I need to forget the small talk, except when the small talk turns out to mean something, to make some connection. It’s a million twitters on a tweeted night. It’s the last thing in the world I ever thought I would lose. It’s the caffeine withdrawal that’ll make the writing worthwhile. It’s everything and nothing. I don’t even have words to say how I felt without it—without the thought of waking up each morning to the mug and the keyboard. I knew that there was something bigger and not quite real that I wanted to share but didn’t know where to start.
These words used to mean something to me. They used to bring me about and realize that even with all the distractions and all the useless words, there was something there that I wanted to share. I have to put off the doubts with the dreams. There is comfort in doing nothing. There is a sameness that is compelling. But I can’t accept it. I have to fight against the ordinary, the thing that everyone expects. I have to throw unedited words on the page and wonder how they’ll ever come together in something that people would want to read. I don’t even remember what that’s like. I’m not sure I’ve ever known. It must be an amazing feeling. I want to understand it. I want to find it and grasp it and wrap my grubby little hands around it and yank. It must be wonderful. And even if it’s not, even if it’s just the journey that brings me there without worry or hope, then I still won’t care. I won’t care even a little bit as I push toward the word goal for the day. Sometimes I’ll be smiling with the pure effort, and other times crying; it matters little. It doesn’t matter if I invest in a boatload of caffeine to push me to the goal. I’ll pay for it in the evening and the mornings as my mug grows to accommodate the larger amount of drugs that I push me toward my goal.
I’m comfortable with this pacing, with these thoughts on a beautiful Saturday morning. I don’t know how comfortable I’ll be on a less beautiful morning, when the words are stuck like usual, when I’m staring at the blank page and wishing that I could find a ninja large enough to fill it—or a samurai or a sorcerer and wondering why I even bother. I bother because I want to create. I complain that my job doesn’t allow me to create. It allows me to push papers to create money through a balance of risks and creativity; to write logically, or as logical as people pretend that they need to understand and decide. I want more than that. I want my life to have more meaning. I want to wake each morning excited about the prospect that I’ll be putting words to paper and paper to bindings. I want it to mean something, my creations. I want people to look forward to word that they’ll probably never read; they’ll be comforted that I created the words. And by people I mean me. I always meant me even if what I want is acceptance and an audience that does more than look at not-so-pretty pictures.
Even with too much coffee and a plan, I watch as it slips through my fingers. Yes I have plans and needs and desires. But no, I don’t know if I’ll ever fulfill them. It requires work and heartache. This has not been painful but tomorrow will be. I’ll wake up tomorrow full of zeal but in two weeks that zeal will be gone and I’ll be looking for the next distraction, the next project that has nothing to do with words. I’ll look for someone to hold my hand and remind me how unimportant these words are. There’s nothing here that anyone cares of, least of all me. Why do I put myself through the suffering, through the silences and the useless words and the finger and wrist pain? There’s nothing here for me. There are no ninjas on the page. There is no action or resolution or anything that will remind me who I am. I am nobody and it’s time I fess up. It’s time I met my dragons and smiled as they pulled me back to my ho-hum life.
Forget them, forget the word. On a beautiful day like this, with the sun shining and the Julies across the table from me anything and everything seems possible. Who am I to doubt the possibilities? Who am I to question that if I didn’t just sit each morning and push words that some of those words magically will be worthwhile? I can’t know unless I try and I can’t try unless it’s every morning. It has to be routine like brushing my teeth. One missed day and I might as well give up on the toothpaste wars.
Sorry but I’m going to do it again. You don’t have to read it. You shouldn’t, actually. I’m posting it because Julie likes to read it to see if she’s in my thoughts. She is just not on today’s paper. Sorry!
Day two started late but at least it started. It’s always important for there to be a second day. It’s so easy to skip out before you truly start. If you do nothing will happen. It’s a law of nature.
I leave the bathroom at the wrong time after a short morning of bicycling around my route looking for troublemakers. Troublemakers on bicycles, that is. “They’re dispatching you to a call,” my partner says as he waves to me from the line for the barista. I sigh audibly. I was readying to settle down to a fifteen minute coffee break with the three other officers. I wanted quiet time before the heat set in. They wave in mock regret as I walk past them.
I whisper into my radio and find out it is another loose soul. It’s the third that morning. I write down the address in my small book and head out. The barista waves when she sees me leave without ordering. I untie my bicycle and pedal down the road. I hear more details in my radio: it’s an old one, three hundred years, last seen a few blocks from the coffeehouse. It was scaring a local resident. The old souls are always the worst.
Okay, push through it. I need many more words and they’re not coming as I expected. I’m generally okay with that. I have a big mug of coffee and many hours of loneliness. I’m not rushing anywhere. I wish things had worked out better this morning but they don’t always.
Triangles and squares, ready your rifles. It’s time to take down those geometric traitors.
Throw ideas on the page and let them seep. Things are not happening again. I’m not surprised. I just have to worry it over and see where it goes.
The explosion shook the house. The rats made merry with their feet.
They were so happy for not suffering. Not that suffering ever made anyone a bad person. It’s only through suffering that you can pretend to be a good person. Such bad truths I fail to share.
I ride the wave. I am the wave. I am a failure in everything.
Short sweet paragraphs with little in the way of sweetness. He wore his shirt with the collar pulled upward to protect his neck from the swords that swung near him.
There’s nothing here. These are useless words in a useless happenstance. I should go home. I should give up and remember that there’s nothing here, nothing worth sharing. Nothing I want to bother with.
Is there anything worse than what I didn’t see?
They’re so old. They’re so young. They’re so jumped over the candlestick.
Still more words to write. I sit on the couch and push buttons on my console and wonder what it is I will write to fill in the void. A documentary will help move this along.
There was once a T-shaped avenue. There were many T-shaped avenues, but this was my avenue. I could know about it the same way as not know about it. This is turning out to be about nothingness.
They started talking and I walked away. I didn’t want to hear. To hear their conversation left a lump in my stomach. I knew it was the anxiety talking, and yet it started to yell and I couldn’t stop the yelling. They might as well be talking about the moon or my most private memories. It was the same horror at hearing them talk. I walked away until I couldn’t hear them anymore, and when they were silent I sat down and could relax.
Their conversation continued in the next room but I pretended not to hear the murmurs.
I was in my own world. I was the center of my own storm. I was thinking there might be something else out there, something that called to me but I didn’t hear it. I never did hear such things, but I pretended that they were close.
These are the words I was talking about before. These are the useless words that don’t say anything but that I throw to the page in the hopes of warming up to real words. I’ll get sick of these consternations. It always happens that way. And when I do I’ll have nothing left to write but story.
We’re arguing over the placement of a piano. It’s not an argument but a discussion. Feng shui is referred to. Energy and blockages. I’m getting tired just putting the lines together to map out flows and understand ancient rules. There’s something to it. I’m just not sure what.
The phone rings again. If only I had my ladybug timer the barbequing would be easier. I’ll have to use the microwave again. For keeping time, that is. Microwaved food tends to taste a bit strange. Not sure if it’s the radiation or something that keeps it going.
I write in three-minute intervals between checking and flipping the steak cooking on barbeque. It’s a better word spelled out, even if it lacks the western twang.
There is nothing here worth posting but lots worth reading. I have to content myself that there was some plan, some worth. Then I need to move on and figure out what that worth is.
I’m reading crappy books. I wonder if reading crappy books and writing crappy words is related somehow. I wish I could get beyond this part, this warm up, this pushing words so I remember how to form words. It’s the monkeys again pounding away on their typewriters with gleeful looks. They’re enjoying themselves even if they don’t quite know what they’re doing. The microwave beeped. I have to flip the meat.
The meat is turned. It’s not browning as well as I hoped. I turned up the heat. Perhaps that’s the answer to most of life’s problems: more heat. It seems to be working for Seattle. With lots of heat people are less likely to do stupid things. Or is it the other way around? Spike Lee seemed to think it was the reverse. I try not to trust moviemakers or Knicks fans. There’s something rotten to root for losers. And yes I’m just bitter. I know how that comes across.
Halfway to nowhere with these words. I used to do this with the Marathon: I would get to this point and no something good was going to happen. So we’re using the same definitions, good was something that was finished for the day. There were only some days where good meant valuable.
The vegetables are being chopped and the dogs are barking. These aren’t our dogs so I don’t feel as guilty. It’s like babies crying but for dogs and without the growing up and out of it part. I guess I shouldn’t complain too loudly.
It’s all about the expense. Keep them away from the emergency room. Let them eat cake! In other words, if they die it’s not my fault. As long as I don’t have to pay anything. That’s how you fix the insurance business: have them pay for funerals so they wouldn’t be so quick to carry people over to their deathbeds. Is there anything more expensive than funerals these days?
My fingernails are getting long. It’s hard to type with long nails. There’s a reason to keep myself well groomed. I’ll get to it tomorrow morning before I head back to the grind.
I’m back after an adventure to the grocery store to exchange two propane tanks so we can eat dinner. Eventually.
I’m adding words for the sake of words. So be it.
I’m exhausted but still eight hundred words short. I should not bother with word counts. Tomorrow morning will be the real test. Can I get up early enough to make a go at this, or will this, like most of my projects, end up a useless pile of words. I have too many of them hanging around the house, clogging up the hallways and drains.
I’m not a visionary. I’m not anything that is anything. But that is neither here nor there.
The green eyed monster asked me what I was typing. I didn’t answer her. The green eyes gave her a way. I knew what she wanted and where she came from. I wondered at the source of such misery. All is not terrible in this world with such beautiful eyes.
I collapsed into the chair. The chair collapsed into me. It was overstuffed with goodness and grasped me tightly. I could sleep for hours in this chair and it knew it. It knew me better than I knew myself. But I didn’t think of such things. Now was not the time for thinking. Now was the time to find turns of phrases that I use repetitively. There are too many of those.
Make things happen. There are always time for things to happen.
Word count: 2,988
Words remaining: 47,012
The first day is always hard. It took me over three hours this morning to get a few thousand words. Whether my plans this year will amount to anything still remains to be seen. But I’ve had worse beginnings.
Word count: 2,309.
Words remaining: 44,703 (5,297).
Word count: 2,134.
Words remaining: 42,569 (7,431)
Word count: 2,094.
Words remaining: 40,475 (9,525).
Forgot to post this last night. More hopefully coming today.
Daily Word count: 2,635.
Words remaining: 37,840 (12,160).
Daily word count: 2,196.
Words remaining: 35,644 (14,356).
I had a bit of a headache today (probably thanks to the strange weather—it hailed last night and lightning today). Luckily it’s the weekend, and I hope sleep and relaxation gets me back on track.
Daily word count: 2,116.
Words remaining: 33,528 (16,472).
Daily Word count: 3,141.
Words remaining: 30,387 (19,613).
Daily word count: 2,223.
Words remaining: 28,164 (21,836).
I wrote a tremendous amount of exposition today. I’m not proud, but it did eat up lots of words and set the story back on track. Well, sort of.
Daily word count: 2,029.
Words remaining: 26,135 (23,865).
Daily word count: 2,270.
Words remaining: 23,685 (26,315).
I passed the midway point today. I left off in the middle of another action scene. I’m a bit interested to see where it goes. I had another headache today. The weather has been strange in Seattle. It was sunny and almost warm during the day. It was freezing this morning and raining yesterday. I just wish it would make up its mind.
Daily word count: 2,177.
Words remaining: 21,698 (28,312).
The sun chased my headache away. I can’t believe it is Thursday already. The week and my story are flying by. I don’t want to jinx it, but this has been the easiest Nano in recent memory. As I approach the middle of the story (plot-wise), I can see two paths: either a strong finish where the different plot and storylines come together, or another year where everything flies apart and I end by forcing words to meet Goal. I almost prefer not to know which path will choose me.
Daily word count: 2,344.
Word remaining: 19,344 (30,656).
The first thousand words were difficult today. Then the plot did something unexpected and the rest of the entry wrote itself. My fingers and hands are a bit tired. I can’t seem to press the spacebar accurately anymore. I’m glad for the weekend.
Daily word count: 2,353.
Words remaining: 16,991 (33,009).
Daily word count: 4,215.
Words remaining: 12,776 (37,224).
Daily word count: 2,030.
Words remaining: 10,746 (39,254).
I have to start wrapping up the story. The three plotlines are just starting to cross. I wish I could see the end game. I keep pushing words that don’t bring me any closer to resolution.
Daily word count: 2,032.
Words remaining: 8,714 (41,286).
It took a while for me to say anything today. My hands were hurting and the characters didn’t want to do anything. Somehow the characters not doing anything turned into a wonderful backstory for the villain. How I wish I had this backstory earlier. It would have been fun to describe it. At least it left me with a slight direction for the next few days. I can see the finale slowly forming. I just have to give the characters a little push in the right direction.
Daily word count: 2,049.
Words remaining: 6,665 (43,335).
Still struggling with the ending. Two of the plotlines finally converged in a less than spectacular confrontation. I gave up halfway through the scene when I hit my words for the day. Instead of swords and naginatas swinging to and fro, they sat down and discussed exposition. Talk about anticlimactic. Hopefully the steel will fly when I return to it tomorrow.
Update: Oops. I forgot to post this yesterday. It was sitting in my secret folder.
Daily word count: 2,043.
Words remaining: 4,622 (45,378).
Man, that shark, it’s totally jumped. I can’t wait to see the carnage tomorrow.
Daily word count: 2,391.
Word remaining: 2,231 (47,769).
Almost there.
Daily word count: 2,372.
Words remaining: 0 (50,141).
And so it ends. I’ll write up my thoughts on this year’s Marathon tomorrow. For now I plan to rest my wrists and fingers, start my recovery from caffeine addiction, and try not to think too hard on what could have been.
I started to write a post mortem of Nanowrimo 2009. When I used the analogy of a car crash in my first paragraph, I realized that perhaps this was not going to be the best use of a musing. There were many problems with my story, but even with all the problems it fulfilled my goal of writing again. Looking back through my website, except for notes to my Horribles, I have not written much of anything in almost a year. It was good to write words again, even though I knew I’d never post those words.
This year’s story was about a group of immortals loosely based on the The Highlander movie. The gift of immortality was an incantation that was passed from teacher to student. The immortality spell stopped the aging process. There was a catch: any immortal who cast the spell beyond their 121st birthday lost their soul. They were the same person but they did not have the ability to distinguish between good and evil.
The immortals were loosely governed by a guild. The guild’s primary goal was to ensure that soulless immortals did not run amok and destroy civilization. As the price of immortality, new immortals had to hunt and kill the soulless immortals.
The story took place after the shattering of the guild. On his 121st birthday, Frankie Names, the guild leader, threw a party to celebrate the end of his leadership and immortality. He invited the leading guild members from around the world. At the end of the party Frankie blew up the building and killed all the immortals. He was the only person who escaped the party. Frankie was interviewed widely as the sole survivor of the tragedy. During his interviews, he revealed to the world the presence of immortality.
The story unfolded to reveal this backdrop through the viewpoint of three protagonists. James Pleasant was a Naginata student whose immortal teacher, Tomlin, used her class to identify potentials to recruit. Tomlin introduced James to the bloody world of the immortals. Tomlin was a member of a splinter group of immortals who left the guild before Frankie shattered it. Her group took a more spiritual approach to immortality, believing that they should use their immortal gift to improve the world.
Craig Stevens, an arrogant news broadcaster, weaseled his way into being the first person to interview Frankie on national television. Craig was a skeptic who built his reputation by outing frauds who claimed to have magical or spiritual powers. During the show Frankie whispered the secrets of immortality to Craig before disappearing from the studio. Craig involuntarily received the gift of immortality, and was hunted and forced to join the arm of the guild that controlled the federal government. This fragment of the guild used its powers to control the non-immortals for the benefit of the immortals.
Samantha was a short, overweight dual-sword wielding immortal hunter. She spent the past fifty years perfecting her physical training to the exclusion of all else. After falling in love with Esther from a distance, Samantha attempted to recruit Esther, a tall lithe potential. Esther already shared her body with Henry McDougal, a much older immortal who escaped the 120-year immortality limitation by sharing bodies with other immortals. Henry used Samantha and Esther to help Frankie Names in his attempts to reunite and retake control of the guild.
The story told how the different factions of the guild fought each other for the future direction of the guild. Each faction searched for Frankie Names for different ends. While this internal guild war went on, the rest of the world began to react to the existence of immortals. Part of the world wanted to capture and study the immortals. Another part wanted to learn their secrets by joining them. The factions of the guild used these willing recruits to further their aims in the internal war.
There was more, of course, including an ending of sorts. The story I summarized above is a slightly idealized version of the story I actually wrote. Many of the larger themes and plot elements didn’t come out until the end—usually through overly long dialogue expositions. Also, the end didn’t resolve much. The main characters met and fought and there was resolution only for my word-count goal.
As happened last year (and the four years before that—I can’t believe this is number six), what I ended up with was a rough outline of a story. Whether I will one day go back and actually tell these stories I do not know. What these rough (and wordy) outlines give me is hope.
It’s hard, it’s really hard. I know that. I knew that when I started and little has changed. I sit down and stare and hope and sometimes pray. Sometimes it comes but most times it doesn’t. Or when it does it’s not for long enough to matter. There’s not enough, it’s never enough. It’s my life story.
But I wanted to talk about memories. I wanted to remember, to find fodder in places other than my mundane life with my ordinary work problems and quiet life. I wanted to reach back to my crazy childhood and find nuggets to write about. The obvious problem is that my childhood wasn’t much more exciting than today. Life is just not an endless roll of endearing events. It’s a collection of ordinary happenings surrounding a hopefully optimistic outlook.
I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore. I’m just pushing buttons and hoping for something of value to happen. For now I see valueless moments. I see sitting in cushy chair pushing words onto uncaring paper as valuable. I see sitting in a coffee shop and creating word count as the end in itself. I know it’s not. I wish—no, I pray—I knew differently.
Even now I see my muse was a fake one. Muses are evil that way: you think they’re coming out to say something and when they push through the rubbery membrane and you see their slimy form, it’s too late to think about much else. I want topics and thoughts and happenings. What else can I waste my words on?
I’m consternating again and I’m proud. I’m proud that I can put words down that have little thought or purpose. They are just here because I can do it. I know I can, I want to do something where I could add—I won’t speak of value again. I’m throwing words on the page and hoping something sticks and sets me off on a tangent that goes somewhere. Right now I’m not moving very fast. I’m moving slowly and going nowhere.
“Just because they sell it doesn’t mean it’s valuable.”
He said something of value and I listened. I hoped I was learning something. I wasn’t, of course. I never do. I just sit around and wait for real problems and real issues instead of these pretend ones. I talk on the phone about the terribleness of things never realizing I am that terribleness. I am that abnormality that stains humanity. I wish that there was something more out there, something that I could point to and say here we go, we have found the cause and solution to all of the world’s problems and it wears jeans for too many days before washing them.
But I don’t have the answers and I don’t have solutions. I barely have problems. I had hopes again but they’ve been dashed. I should return home and play video games again. The score at the end keeps me motivated, keeps me asking for more. I’m looking for distractions. I want to find something that will keep my mind off my failings. I want something to move the day on, to redo my energies, to say something of value. I want to judge something, to write about something bigger than myself, to have an original idea and take it somewhere. I want to write about Plixel about my hobbies about my needs. I want to avoid the bullshit the unending unsavory ways in which nothing ever gets done.
I don’t remember why I write except out of habit. I don’t say anything of value, I barely put the words on the table before I realize that I’m done.
That's an OLPC (One Laptop per Child) in the Horrible. One of my writing mates uses it to write during our Sunday morning meet-ups.
We're off to watch the women's gold medal match in Vancouver on Friday. It took some arm twisting, but I am looking forward to a new photo album (it's sad that that's the reason I do things now).
. . . or stop pretending that I'm a writer.
The blues passed just in time for the heavy rains. I dropped my car off for servicing this morning. I needed new tires. And windshield wiper blades. I'll let you guess which was more expensive.
These are my Sunday morning writing buddies. They do much more writing than I do (as you can tell by the lack of anything resembling writing on this blog). Lunch is our natural break point for writing (or doodling in my case). We start talking about lunch at around 9am.
So I wrote something. I decided to try my hand at one-day short stories again. Not sure there's much of a story here, but it is words, and since I wrote it, I decided to share it with warts and everything. Sorry about the style. I've been reading DFW again, and you know how that goes.
Planning is something you do after you finish a job. You learned that the hard way after you started your first job out of college. You thought that the smart people who ran successful businesses thought and planned and did their homework before they decided anything. You used to think a lot before you ended up in a cubicle repeating the same motions and same thoughts day after day. Most of the times you spent looking for something to distract you. You wanted a few moments of peace; thinking that if you could find peace then maybe you would find an explanation for the drudgery, and with that explanation perhaps things would get better.
When you’re trapped in a cubicle you don’t think much about why you’re there. You don’t even think about how to escape. It’s not like you’re physically restrained in any real sense of the word. You’re sitting there surfing the internet or doodling on a post-it and thinking about what you’re going to have for lunch. You’ll have lunch with the same three people and have the same conversations. You’ll laugh at the same places in the banter and you’ll wonder why this is the highlight of your day. You’ll lose touch with these people as you move up and on, but you’ll always think back fondly at this time because you’ll never have work relationships that are this easy or close again. At lunch you’ll all complain about your jobs and how people who are not as skilled or smart or good looking as you always seem to get promoted before you do. And you’ll wonder why you care so much about promotions since you’ll tell yourself that it’s not about the money; that there’s something else out there—something bigger. You won’t delve too deeply into what that something bigger is because, if you were to tell yourself the truth, you would find out that that deepness is actually as petty and small as the rest of your thoughts. You are about the status and the money and the head-turning cars. You do not care about the happiness of the people on this planet in any real sense of the word, except to perhaps drive a hybrid car and pretend like the batteries aren’t going to poison the lakes and streams to save a few cents at the gas pump.
The days pass like this and you step on others shoulders and maybe stand on their heads just a small bit to get ahead. You wander through the hallways of your building and marvel at how many people’s lives now depend on your mood and ability to deliver, which your bosses (because you always will have bosses in one form or the other) pat you on the head to reward you for understanding the flow of business and how to weather the worst recession since the last one in the 1970s.
And you’re getting places now. Your house is growing, albeit a bit smaller than your neighbor who you thought you had outpaced until he inherited money from his dead grandmother, which is not the same thing as earning it yourself, you tell yourself, as if the scoreboard really changes based on where the money came from. It doesn’t, you know. But you tell yourself that as you look at your neighbor’s ugly children and yappy dog and wonder why you even care about the scoreboard with all its beeps and blinking lights—some of which seem to have blown out during your reverie and consideration of the new garage your neighbor dropped next to his house to store his new Ferrari.
Then you go to work. Not too early anymore, since there’s no need. You spend most of your time at your desk browsing the internets still. But this time you have an assistant who sits outside your office at a desk that’s bigger than the desks you sat behind in the cubicles so many years before. She answers your phone but doesn’t get you coffee as that’s not something the executive assistants can do anymore for their bosses. She does get coffee for visitors, which is nice because she’ll grab one for you when she’s on the way as a favor. Before going to work you stop by a breakfast place inside a hotel for a meeting. Lots of your meetings now take place a breakfast places or lunch places or perhaps lobster places where they forget to tell you it’s lunch time and you need them to remind you because you just had your third martini and are wondering why the room is spinning so early in the morning. But it’s not that early anymore. That’s the point.
And your home life—because you still have one since unlike most of your colleagues you’re still married and you still know the names of your children and even spend some time with them on weekends and afternoons when you decide you’ve had enough of office life and clock out for the day—is still distinct and perfect. Your wife still greets you when you get home and you’re genuinely happy to see her since that’s another checkbox in your life: happy marriage, something that after the 1950s seemed to exist only in the lands of fairytales, where there is a possibility of living happily ever after if you didn’t spend the eighty hours a week at the office like they told you you would have to if you wanted to get ahead. It turned out that the hours didn’t count for bubkes and you got ahead the same way you believe your forefathers did: not through hard work since hard work is for suckers without luck. You rose through the ranks through knowing the right people and saying the right word at the right moment when the right person was there. It was rarely said to that right person. That would have seemed too self-serving. It was enough that the right person was there to hear what you said and to think or perhaps know that you did not say what you said solely for his benefit and certainly it was not premeditated the night before way after your wife had gone to bed and you were sitting at your desk thinking through the quagmire that was your peer ring and wondering how you were going to crush the last two contenders and impress your boss’s boss who barely even recognized you except on that one occasion where you wore that red tie and you ended up washing your hands in the bathroom at the same time and he made a comment about your tie and you were too tongue tied to even thank him or come back with a witty retort. You wouldn’t make that mistake again. And so you meticulously planned out what you were going to say and even wore a red tie, a different one, of course, since you didn’t want your boss’s boss to associate you with that moron he ran into in the bathroom who couldn’t think fast enough to respond to a simple compliment even though at the time that he made that comment there were so many more bosses between you and him that you doubted you were in the same planet let alone hemisphere as this all important man.
It wasn’t like all you thought about at home was work. It was just that work was the more interesting thing to think about when you were sitting around and staring at your children and trying to figure out what half of them belonged to you. Was it the eyes? the brains? or perhaps something between? You weren’t worried that they weren’t your kids. Not that worried, at least. You were home at the right times and you still had that good relationship with the wife. She still greeted you at the door and told you about her day and you were still amazed that she could spend so much time at home and still be as interesting as she was. And she was interesting. You chose wisely on that front. You make good choices. But you know that already. That’s how you got to where you are, sitting behind your large wooden desk on your overpriced office chair that would have been more useful to the people that sit in cubicles down the hall since they sit behind their desks for more than ten hours a day and you barely manage an hour behind your desk before the internet bores you or your hand cramps from signing so many agreements that you stopped reading years ago and just relied on your underlings to flag the right places and sign the right documents without asking questions because if you asked too many questions you might find out that there was more going on in the company than you were willing to acknowledge and perhaps it was better that way for the company that you didn’t think too much about it or plan ahead or have any idea what was going to happen next. You didn’t want to spoil the ending. And perhaps you do a little spin in your chair marveling at the smoothness of the motion and the ease in which you can push back and turn to face the window and look down over the sixty floors to the small wet streets where a parade of umbrellas of mostly black but some color here and there greeted you. Those were the workers. Those were the people who made the city buzz with activity and put the zeros on your paycheck. On the backs of others did you climb up these floors and on the backs of others did the cash registers sing. Except your company doesn’t actually sell anything real since selling stuff is for suckers. You sell promises and packaged funny money products that don’t add much to society except for the percentage you take off the top. The percentage that lets you buy your fancy cars and your oversized boat that sits at the dock where you promise your wife you’ll put into the water this summer for a small cruise down south but never actually make the call because it turns out that you don’t actually like the water after a mishap in your youth with a fishing boat and a bucket and your father who had to hold your head as he explained for the fiftieth time that a real man does not get sick on a fishing trip in a bay; that the waves weren’t even big enough to rock the boat in any real way and that if you didn’t get off your hands and knees and get back to the rod you would never catch that fish that you didn’t even want to eat since what eight year old actually wants to eat fish when there’s a plethora of grilled cheeses and macaroni and cheese in your mother’s fridge.
Perhaps it was all for the best. Your life, that is. Perhaps you’ve lived it the way you lived it because you were trying to prove something. You were trying to find some meaning in a game where they didn’t tell you the rules or winning conditions so you, like everyone around you, decided that since it was a game there must be a way to win it, and since winning in every other sport was based on that big scoreboard in the sky, you would just tick on the numbers until they came up green. On your third trip to Paris you thought about checking out of the game. You saw life for what it was: a pursuit of something bigger than a high score. You stopped reading the internet and picked up fulfilling books that you thought would enlighten you as you sat at a corner cafe and stared at the crowds of workers and school children who you knew would be impressed by the author of your book if only they read English. But you tried to put that behind you since you were here on business and not just to escape your home life which was on the rocks because your children were at that age where they were questioning everything and you were not around to give answers so you instructed your wife on the simple truths in your children’s life and then hightailed it to the nearest airport where you took a plane to Paris to arrive at this very spot where you were drinking that very large coffee and hoping that someone—and by someone you hoped a beautiful French woman with long black hair and a slight but not overbearing accent—would sit down and enter into a deep conversation about your life and the truths and not once ask you about your work or what you were doing there or, worse, what you had left behind and why you had left it behind.
You’re older now and all of that happened a long while ago. You don’t need to worry about it. You’re beyond such worries. You left your job when they paid you too much of a bonus to justify working anywhere anymore. They looked at your askance when you did so. The young guys didn’t know what to make of someone like you at the prime of your career, a prince of the industry, where you just landed your second executive assistant to manage your busy lunching schedules on a floor where they didn’t allow cubicles because the people that sat there (which they didn’t do too often) didn’t want to share the same bathroom as those who work in cubicles, who do the real work that kept the zeros added to your bonus checks. You imagined that those around you thought you insane. Or perhaps going through a midlife crisis where you would drive one of those hot red sport cars that you had when you were much younger before your children came around and changed your life—because they did do that and you didn’t need fancy sports cars to change your life yet again.
You’re not a bad man, you will concede after you sit down and introspect longer than you thought possible. Yeah, you will acknowledge that you didn’t plan any of this. This will be evident from now through all the time you will spend in boardrooms for the various charity boards that you will sit on to occupy your time and get the accolades of those around you and eventually, after many years of doing this, to help people because that turns out to be the most rewarding part of that work. There will be no planning for that either. You’ll fall into and it will not be as bad as you fear. There will be nobody to impress in those boardrooms. There will be goodness that you will do and you will be happy to do it. You’ll get a accomplished sense and it’ll make you think of perhaps going into politics until you tell your wife and she looks at you like you grew a third eyeball in the middle of your balding pate and wonder if perhaps your coworkers (who would have spoken to her after you announced your retirement and wondered if you had perhaps jumped off that pier that you were always talking about, and wondered if it wasn’t better for you just to take a little time off, perhaps a sabbatical, and come back when your brain was a bit more screwed on properly) were right when they told her about your impeding insanity and bad choices. But she won’t really believe that, and she’ll encourage you like she’s done all your life and hold you and tell you you can do whatever it is you want to do and will do it well because she believes in you. And you will try not to cry but you won’t succeed because that’s what her belief does to you.
Politics won’t be for you, you’ll realize, and you’ll continue to stay with the charities and give away larger and larger parts of your fortune much to the chagrin of your growing children, who will only understand what you’re doing after they’ve lived many more years and had the opportunity to run their own rat races and see that the cheese they were promised all throughout school and their life turns out not to be the purpose of the maze. They will look back at you with a smile through all those years and know that while you didn’t give advice on the matter, they knew through your actions that for all those years you had spent chasing the cheese, it was only when you left the maze by crawling up and over the walls (which you always secretly wished the rats would just figure out to end the experiment) that you found the answers that were always just sitting there staring you eyeball to eyeball. Your kids will learn that and they’ll laugh and laugh and you’ll wish to join them in your laughing but they’ll be old by then and you’ll be long gone. But don’t worry. There will be many more generations that will live similar lives and some will find the answers, many will not be given that opportunity, and others will refuse to see the answers. But you’ll know that that’s okay because it as the cliché says: about the journey. And the ending turns out not to be as important as they told you when you were young and foolish and believing in such things.
I’m surprised I even remembered to write. I did tie a string around my finger. Figuratively, that is. It would look rather silly if I had walked around with a string tied around my finger just so I remember to write about how the world looks when you’re endlessly forgetting things. I am doing that, forgetting things. I think most people are but I can’t be sure. People around me seem to know what happened in their past to a degree that amazes me. I can’t figure out how they do it. Me, I sit here thinking what I did an hour ago and sometimes, through distraction or just a genetic crappy memory, I can’t put two things together and. . . . Where was I again?
Oh yeah, memory. Don’t think it’s all bad, this lack of a good long-term memory. They say those that remember the least are the most happy. Well that’s somewhat true. I don’t remember the least. There are old people that remember a hell of a less than I do. Those people have diseases eating away their brain, taking what was once a densely folded interesting space, and turning it into a smooth nothingness, like what happens to a beautifully jagged rock after it falls in the river for a few years. All the edges that made it something to look at are smoothed away and all you can do is skim it across the river and then watch it sink. You wouldn’t take that rock home and put it on your shelf so you can remind yourself how interesting geology is. No, that rock is for skimming and sinking. So it is with those with their brains slowly smoothing over. I don’t have that. It’s not that bad. It’s not clinical or anything. It’s more subtle.
Life is better with a bad memory. That’s for sure. When something bad happens to me it happens over and over again throughout that day. The memory is dreadful. I’ll think about it constantly and wonder why the fuck I did that bad thing, or maybe, why was that bad thing done to me. It’ll be with me that entire day, and I’ll fret and scream and gnash my teeth. The thing is that by the next day, that gnashing has turned to a tight clench, and by the day after that, I forget why my jaw was sore unless someone or reminds me.
It’s like the other day. I did something stupid at work. I had written ‘later’ instead of ‘earlier’ on a mail I sent a few months ago. I was careless. They figured it out when I sent another mail around with the correct word, and they called me on it. At first I couldn’t believe I would do something that stupid. I mean clearly it should have been earlier. It’s in the damn original paper, and I read that paper and understood and explained it so many times that it’s burned into my brain the way only useless stuff that I read too much is—until I flush it, that is, and I hadn’t flushed this yet. But at the time I must have been careless or thinking about other things like, boy, I can’t wait until this last mail is sent so I can go on a long, long vacation where I can’t even see the end from where I’m sitting, until the end comes and hits me across the face and I’m sitting here complaining about something that happened so long after that end that I forget that there was ever a beginning. So I was sitting there thinking of the beginning when I wrote that mail with the moronic mistake. And then they call me on it a few months later, and I have to live through days of thinking what a moron I am.
And then I start talking to the wife about Plan B. What if they let me go? What if they find out I’m a fraud? I mean, I have a family and everything now. I have dogs and a kid and a mortgage and responsibilities. I can’t just go with Plan B and figure it out as I go along. Life doesn’t work like that. You don’t just throw away a good job and financial stability just because you’re moronic. Or maybe you do. I hear people do it all the time. They store their money in a sock drawer and when the drawer is full they pull the pin, quit their job, cash out their drawer, and head out to the golden yonder. They live like that for a few years before the sack is empty and then start over again. It must be nice to be that carefree, to not think about a 401k or an IRA or retirement or children’s education or overpriced house or too-fancy-to-drive automobiles. It must be nice to throw that all aside and point your nose to the future and cut through the wind.
But I’m not like that. I don’t have those aspirations. I only have these bad memories. My childhood friends tell me that my childhood was interesting, that we lived in an exciting neighborhood where bullies and hoodlums and mythical creatures hung around the crowded streets, and we had run-ins with all of them. It’s always fun to hear these stories because I don’t know what they’re talking about. I don’t know this world that they grew up in. My world was simpler, less remarkable. I have a set of fifteen or so memories that make up that childhood world. The rest have either been flushed or are hidden away, waiting for the right trigger to entertain me again. The fifteen that I remember have all been remembered so many times that I doubt their accuracy anymore.
That’s how memory works, if you didn’t know. Each time you remember a memory, you rerecord it back into your brain slightly differently. The best memories are the ones you don’t think of too often because every time you rerun a memory tape, your brain overwrites the original memory with the new recording that just played in your conscious mind. And in case you haven’t realized, that brain of yours loves to tell stories. It takes perfectly serviceable and correct memories and begins to elaborate, to add a dragon where perhaps there was only a poodle, or a pair of samurai mimes where you could have sworn there was a pole. It then weaves those extraneous details into the broad strokes of the original memory until what you have left—well at least what I have left—is either a whitewash of a memory, or such an elaborate fiction that there should be psychology classes dedicated to dissecting its underlying messages.
Not that it’s all bad all the time. I got through school pretty well after I figured out how to do it, school that is. I have this technique where I slither into the mind of teachers and professors and figure out what they want me to say on the test. The secret: they just want to hear what they’ve been telling us throughout the year. And that something isn’t always in the textbook, at least not the way they may want to hear it. You just need to jot it down and memorize it and then regurgitate it for them on their exams or essays. Don’t elaborate on this part. They don’t want you making up stuff. That’s for the other parts of the questions that they didn’t talk about. They want you to regurgitate the stuff they earnestly tried to put into your brains throughout the school year, and then apply your creativity to that second part of the question. You then apply parts A and B (remembering not to change part A in any way), and voila: the perfect exam. It’s really simple once you figure it out, and it seems to work everywhere. Your memory for what they said lives in your notes, and you just have to memorize it for right before the exams, and it only has to last for that one day of exams. Once you’re done, swish, flush it away. For take-home essays or open-book exams it’s even easier since you can skip the memorization and just go right to the regurgitating and small shake of creativity.
Those classes don’t really require memory. Not in the sense of having remembered something you’ve lived through. Rote memorization is different because it’s usually not your thoughts you’re remembering. It’s someone else’s that you have to regurgitate. I’m not saying it doesn’t make you a better person to have those thoughts tucked away in your brain. Likely other people’s thoughts are better than your own. It’s just that it’s not your memories in the way that the car trip to Chicago when you were eight years old and spent the trip in the back of a green station wagon with your sisters sliding around the oversized wagon part, which was made even larger by your parents pulling down the second row of seats so you had nothing but a flat space piled high with blankets and pillows and too many dog-eared books to count. Those are the real memories.
Good memories do last longer than the painful ones. For me they quickly lose their details and end up all curvy and abstract: I did well in school; I received awards; I achieved stuff at work; my daughter was beautiful when she was born. Thankfully I have photographs and sometimes, if I’m lucky, I have a collection of words—like these—that remind me that I did have that experience or thought, and perhaps it was worthwhile and worth remembering. At least that’s what I like to keep reminding myself.
One of the overhead fluorescent lights alternately blinks and buzzes.
“As far as the chart shows we’re on target for the next fiscal year. But if we look deeper into those numbers we’ll see there’s a more important story here. Take a look at the third column. I circled a few rows in red. Understanding how these numbers interrelate will explain the discrepancy with the fiscal target.”
Ronald stares at the powerpoint slide. He does not look at the numbers but concentrates on its brightness. His eyeballs are dry and he fears that if he blinks too slowly his eyelids will get stuck. He didn’t sleep much the previous night or the night before that or, now that he thinks about it, the entire week, or is it a month already? He realizes it has been three months since his wife walked out on him. She needed to find herself, she told him. If ever there was a cliché that was it: to find oneself. She wasn’t lost. Ronald is lost.
The green wallpaper peels off the wall at the rate trees grow.
Ronald wonders what his wife is doing right at this moment. Whether she knows that he is thinking about what she’s doing. Ronald hopes that she is. That would show that she cared about him and was still considering returning after she finds whatever it is she is looking for. The thought cheers him for a moment before he realizes that he can’t know for sure whether she is thinking about him thinking about her at that very moment. But he does have a good feeling that she is. They were together a long time and he feels that time together brought some synchronicity to their thoughts. They are still in tune.
Ronald thinks of how she always liked music and could never understand why he didn’t. It wasn’t that he disliked music; it was that music wasn’t a centrally important part of his life. It provided good background and emotional landmarks for movies but as a standalone activity it didn’t do enough for him. When he listened he always found himself wanting to fast forward to the next song as if to say, sure, I got the point of this song, I feel the emotional impact they’re trying to create, let’s see what the next song has to offer. When he would tell her this, she would scoff and tell him he didn’t understand himself.
In the corner sits a plant with plastic leaves clacking in time to the blowing vent.
Esther scribbles notes from the presentation on her printout. She presses hard when she writes and barely avoids digging holes in the paper. She is a born scribe. She finds the essence of what presenters say and records it in meaningful fragments that interconnect—through the use of heavily pressed and labeled lines, stars filled with the emotional import of the words, and relationship bubbles, which she shades to provide a modest three-dimensional look—with the presenters’ themes and conclusions.
“So taking that into account we can see why the numbers at first blush look very bullish and positive, but when peeled beneath the surface, give off the stench of putrefying toes. Next slide. Let’s take a look at the graph of these same numbers compared to the last five fiscal years to provide context for those last rows.”
Esther thinks back to when she developed this skill at college during her introduction to economics class. Drawing ornate and beautifully illustrated notes made the class exciting in ways she never experienced during her unfocused career in school. Studying her notes brought a deep-seated clarity of thought that rose to the height of a true Platonic form.
“You’ll see that while the line for GM—that’s the dark green line on top—matches the historical trends; the line for CM does not. This is the problem I was talking about in the last slide. My projection—which I pulled together by working with the teams and burning the midnight oil reading through old financial statements—shows that the CM line falls precipitously. The dashed line provides my projected plotting of the next fiscal quarter. You’ll see by the end of the quarter, the GM begins to dip as well, two quarters below where we saw the first response to the new market dynamics.”
Cindy spins the pencil across her fingers and then back again: back and forth, faster and faster. She tries to keep it accelerating across her finger until she misses and the pencil slams on the table with a clatter. Nobody seems to notice. Cindy picks up the pencil and starts again, keeping track of the number of circuits the pencil makes across her fingers.
Red lights flash on the speakerphone.
“Let’s break down what’s happening during that quarter. Slide, please. The current revenues are still strong and the OPEX stays low. Under a normal quarter these numbers would mean a strong profit scenario and continued growth. Footnotes [a] and [b] touch on this. But I want to focus on footnote [c]. You can read it yourself. I’ll give you a moment.”
Ronald now hopes his wife was right about him. He has this fantasy where she returns to save him from his stark inner life. She is a fixer, a therapist by training, and always wants to put people back together. Looking back, Ronald should have appeared more broken. Just a little bit. He didn’t want to end up like her patients. He smiles as he remembers sitting in bed with her and discussing her patients. Ronald and his wife would laugh and laugh about the strange things her patients said. He did not want to become just another pillow story in her repertoire.
“Let’s step away from the numbers for a bit and really talk. What the footnote—no, what I’ve been trying to say, what it is I need to tell you and then maybe we’ll need to tell the board, well, what it is is that—”
Something catches on the projector’s fan and the fan lets out a low whirling cry before returning to its comforting rumble.
Thinking about her notes summons Esther’s embarrassing memory of not sharing the notes with her classmates even after they provided her with high-quality cassette recordings. It wasn’t until years later she found out that they did so in the hope of seeing her notes. Esther had never thought that anything she did was worth very much. She even had trouble handing in assignments because she did not want to waste her professor’s time with reading them. Her memories troubled her and she found herself repeating her therapist’s mantra: “I am a valuable person and what I do interests other people.” This mantra had served her well in her career. It turned out that her work colleagues wanted more than just her notes: they appreciated her ability to organize disparate thoughts and ideas into corporate tactics and strategies. This organization still started with perfectly shaded stars and bubbles.
“Before I get there, maybe I should try again. If we go back two slides you’ll understand how I’m getting to the conclusion which I hope is becoming evident even as I skirt around it—and I know I’m skirting now. This is not the easiest presentation I’ve ever given. I’ve only been working here three and a half weeks but I’ve double and triple checked my math and conclusions. Don’t think I just came in here and started to warn about the falling sky and didn’t check whether it was bolted in place. I’ve run the numbers until my pencils turned into nubs. I really have. Look here, this is the nub of my pencil.”
Chris looks around the table and tells himself to calm down. He was about to clap his hands in a childish, giddy display of delight. He settles for a small smile. He’s going to fire them. He’s going to fire each and every one of them. He tries to decide the ordering of the firings. He feels his smile grow wider and leans over the pile of papers on the conference table to hide it. He realizes his printout is upside down and turns it right side up. He circles a blank area of the title page. He needs to look busy, he tells himself. The rest of the zombies need to think he’s interested in what’s being said.
“I’m not shitting you.”
Not that his wife is perfect. Ronald knows she’s far from that. She is as fucked up as the rest of them. Ronald has this theory that mental health professionals go into their field because they are profoundly broken themselves. He would go to her parties and meet professionals who had a tendency to research mental illness that it was apparent to even Ronald—who was trained as an engineer and had never even taken an introductory course in psychology—that they shared the same symptoms as their research subjects.
Esther has six cats that don’t get along. She worries what becomes of them when she leaves her apartment. She maps her cats’ relationships in a social graph and rearranges it during the day to better explain the dynamics. She’s sketched it so many times that she doesn’t need to write it down. Just thinking about it brings up images of the graph. She moves the conflict line from Fred and Jill to Fred and Whiskers. Those two seem to be at it constantly every night. Esther represents the cats with outlines differentiated by size and coloring. Whiskers has a lot of lines coming from his circle to the other cats. Esther thinks Whiskers may need more attention. She jots that in her mental to do list, and then curses silently as she realizes that she missed what was just said at the meeting. She leaves a large space in her notes to fill in the details later.
“So getting back to the OPEX: the GM dips right here, and this is where our competitor—he who is not named in these walls, which I learned the hard way (although I still think that if you get over that fear and really focus on the nameless one, we wouldn’t be in this situation). This is where our OPEX growth begins to greatly impact our reduced revenues. This is not an imaginary point or one that’s many years off. This is a very conservative projection on both sides of growth. This directly impacts the bottom line. Things will go from bad to worse after that next quarter.”
Ronald’s chair squeaks each time he shifts weight.
The pencil continues to fly across the back of Cindy’s hand. She finds herself in a groove and decides to go for the record. She watches the clock and waits until the second hand hits the twelve before beginning her count. One . . . two . . . three . . . . She is at a count of twenty five when the second hand crosses the three. She runs the math in her head: twenty five revolutions in fifteen seconds, or one quarter of sixty seconds. If she multiples twenty five by four she ends up at an even one hundred revolutions per minute. Good but not record setting. She puts the pencil down and cracks her fingers. She checks the pencil for splinters or bumps that may slow her down during her next attempt at her record.
A year before Chris’s father passed away quite suddenly in his sleep from overexertion. That’s at least what the doctors said. Chris knows better. His father liked alcohol and he liked pills. He was indiscriminate about the type of pills but particular about the quality of alcohol. Chris was surprised it had taken as long as it had for him to find a combination that turned out to be deadly. Things seem to have gone from bad to worse at the business since that time. Chris could blame himself but he quickly banishes that thought. The company still offers him some small joys, and that starts with offing the people around this table.
Everyone breathing in at the same instant produces a strange whooshing sound.
“I don’t know how else to say this. If this trend continues and we go without altering course now—and I know changing course in a large and successful company like this one is not an easy task. Trust me, I’m not saying this news or recommendation is easy to take. If we don’t do something the company will be bankrupt within the year.”
Ronald tries to focus on the presentation but he keeps seeing his wife’s face everywhere. He tells himself to hold it together. He can’t break down. There is plenty of time to cry later. He feels the familiar sharp buildup of mucus in his sinuses that warn that he’s about to have a huge cry. He closes his eyes and focuses on controlling his emotions. He refuses to break down for that bitch. She left him and he is in the right. He is the stronger person. He’s going to get out there and meet a more beautiful and intelligent woman with an incredible body (specifically one that lacks his wife’s huge and Jello-like thighs), and he’ll be on a date with this bombshell and run into his wife at the movie theater where she is dating the patient that she left him for (oh, she may think it is a secret, but Ronald knows too well that his wife has been seeing her borderline patient, Mr. Henry Chandler, a six foot five, mustached digital cowboy with arms of steal and a posture that lampposts find intimidating). And he will barely acknowledge her jealousy as they greet and Ronald introduces his bombshell to his wife and her then-boyfriend, who will begin to have second thoughts about dating Ronald’s wife since he’ll see that if even Ronald, an engineer with wrists too skinny to hold a watch, can date a bombshell like he wears on his arm, then why should Mr. Henry Chandler, a gift to all woman, settle for a woman with such large thighs? And then when his wife is at that dark, cold intersection of rejection and loneliness, when all hope in her life has receded, then, just maybe, Ronald will swoop in, leave his bombshell, and reclaim his wife, who will be eternally grateful to Ronald for saving her from despair, and promise over all things she holds holy (which, in her New-Age-fad-chasing ways, changes week over week), never, ever, ever again to even think of leaving Ronald, even if, they will both acknowledge, Ronald is far from the perfect man in any dictionary definition of that word.
Chris studies each person to jot down the ordering. If he took into account performance like his father he would start with Cindy. Lucky for Cindy, Chris’s father is dead, dead, dead. Chris imagines his management style as sophisticated narcissism. He spent too many years floating by university not to recognize what he truly is. The thing is, Chris once again tells himself, he does not care. Cindy has luscious breasts and strong teeth, and is a wizard with that spinning pencil game she plays across her perfectly manicured fingers. He puts her at the bottom of his mental list. Maybe she’ll help him with the firings. He can always find a place for a person like Cindy at his next venture after he closes shop.
The clock is stopped at 2:53.
“I’m not much of an inspirational speaker (I’m more of a numbers and potatoes guy), but I want you to know that I’m saying this from deep within my heart: In the few weeks since I joined, I realized just how amazing this place is to work. That’s why this presentation has been so difficult. I really do—deep, deep down—hope we turn this ship to avoid the rocky shoreline. These numbers are scary but together we can implement a strategy to avoid them and set a course for continued revenue growth and expansion. We can only do this together. Thank you.”
Ronald tells himself to breathe. His eyes are filled with tears and everything looks blurry. He can’t stop thinking about his wife. He looks around the table and sees only wavy colors.
Chris feels only contempt for the presenter. He tries to remember his name but it eludes him. His father hired him before he died. Chris adjusts his firing list to put him on top. Some people need to learn when not to talk so much.
