Creative In Difference

Did I Really Do That?

2011-08-10T03:52:00.000-07:00

For years there's one consistent rule about books that I think many people share: you don't destroy a book. You can give it away. You might be able to mark it up because it's a text book. You can store it in the attic if you've run out of bookshelf room in your house and there's no way to stack it elsewhere.

You do not cut it in half with a knife, and you don't rip out pages.

I have a Writer's Market from 2009. It is, obviously, out of date. Those books, however, are huge. As big as the market. The portion useful to me? Is less than a quarter of the pages.

Now I didn't always believe that. I thought I could write Contemporary Suspense, and perhaps my Science Fiction isn't too bad. The truth is that I'm most at home with writing in the Fantasy genre. It doesn't mean I can't write those other things--I have. They're not bad, though it's probably of no surprise that I'm more comfortable with what my ex called squishy Science Fiction. (The book was a war between Meme and Gene, with poor hapless half-breeds trapped in between).

I was starting the post-draft cleanup of my office. Actually it was a, "Why am I always in the living room instead of where I'm supposed to be working?" It's where my desk is, and my reference books, the map of the land where all my Fantasy books are set, and the printer. I realized that my living room was far less cluttered. One of the things I did in that clean up was tackle the limited space on a book shelf with more writing-editing focused books. I saw the hefty Writer's Market.

Something had been happening to me the past few weeks. A sense of affirmation, a sense of purpose. And here was this thing four times too big. It looks daunting. There were sticky tabs in it marking agents who might be interested in my Contemporary Suspense novel. (I never sent it out, and I'm glad I didn't. It failed to do what I wanted it to do. The Fantasy I just finished does it much, much better). I thought back to a college English Professor. She would take her Norton or Willie/Hunt anthologies--heftier than the Writer's Market more often than not--and cut it in half so she only had to take what she needed into the classroom. she re-bound them.

I suddenly thought to myself: this book isn't a book. It's a tool. It's like one of those air gun stapler/nailer/whatever else type tools. You only use one at a time. It would be silly to staple and nail and do other doohickey type tasks at one time. That would be a mess. So why not cut this Writer's Market in half? The pages will fall out, I told myself. Would that be such a problem? It's out of date and you'll have to do your homework to see if any of this information is relevant. I thought about the homework... and realized that if I cut it down so I only focused on finding agents in my primary area of writing, then I'd be cooking with gas.

I pulled out an exacto blade that I've had since art classes in college... and went at it. I took out all the useless sticky tabs, got a fresh sticky pad. I started to go through the agent list. I realized a page had nothing of use to me. "I'm sure you're going to do great work for someone else," I said to the list of agents... and then ripped out the page. For those pages with only one reference--the standard for the most part--I got a green sharpie and crossed out the names of agents who never touched Fantasy, did children, young adult, or required you to work a number of certain scenes into your novel so it would be even more adult than you already had it. The number of pages was whittled down even further.

What I have now is a little bit of a mess. It's a step in a totally new direction, with a rather determined proof of focus. I have a list of agents and publishers who work with my genre. The list is old, but I can now use that list, read up about them, and then look for more information on the internet. This side of the work can be more focused. More? I don't have to look at the daunting book wondering if I'll find what I need in it. I can now get on with the job.

Impressions after the graphite's gone.

2011-07-06T10:27:00.000-07:00

I'm not going to edit this post after I finish writing it. Why? Because it's about being IN the moment of creating, but moving carefully while there. So, even while writing, I'll be using some of the same tools I've been pulling out of the bag for art and for cooking the past few weeks since my last post.

A friend of mine is a fellow writer, well published in children's non-fiction, as well as an incredible copy editor. Her first fiction novel has gotten a few interested nibbles, but no more. Which is a shame. Her birthday was coming up. I was a little broke, but I had a little bit of time. I decided to do a drawing for it. I found some paper, and unearthed my pastels. I pulled out a scene from her book, looked for any descriptors of her main character and got started.

The scene I'd picked described characters riding horses along a cathedral-like archway of beeches with hanging bells. At first I tried to make the archway go down to the center. That didn't work. My second attempt the archways looked as if they brushed the top of the character's head. Oppressive and not inspiring. I kept at it till I found something I could work with.

I erased a lot. But because I'd picked a paper that was on hand, errors remained. It was cold press, and in the end, not the best choice for pastels. I also forgot to use a piece of paper under my hand, so my pencil marks smudged. However, the first viewing--before it was finished--met with more than just a little approval.

I think that working on this drawing, as well as on a birthday cake brought me some added creative perspective. I noticed it when I started cooking real food again.

When you're working on a canvas--paper in this instance--you face the possibility that you can't erase all the errors you make. A hard, but very light pencil, might leave it's impression on the paper even after the graphite is gone. The rough surface might want to keep the smudge. Cooking is similar, but at least with cooking, the results aren't permanent. There is another day. But with a very tight budget I can't call for take out if what I've cooked is awful. I still have to eat it.

Writing novels, for almost all the writers I know, there's the writing part and then the editing, and the editing, the revising, the re-writing, and then some more editing again. You can change it up if you're not happy...at least in my stage of the game; I don't have to worry about deadlines. Working on artwork, cooking on the fly and with whatever is on hand I learn another side to the creative process. I have to live with the artwork (or my friend does once she finally gets it), or I have to eat my cooking. When I'm sitting in front of a canvas, or a bunch of ingredients, there's a sense of, "Okay, let's see what I can come up with!" as well as a great deal of care.

I want my gift to be loved, to show my love. I want my food to be glorious when I eat it, to celebrate the experience of the cooking as well as the eating. And I can play.

I can play when I draw or cook. But I just realized that I might have lied just a little to myself. Despite the editing process, I can't play with writing. It matters so darned much what happens to my characters. So perhaps one reason I like doing more than just writing novels in my creative endeavors, is that I can let go and fly just a little bit when the stakes aren't quite as high, even when they're still very important. Extending my wings in these different pursuits helps me flex my writing muscles when I'm facing that blank page.

Distraction or Support?

2011-05-12T09:23:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting in my living room. I have been thinking about my current novel in progress. On my lap is my computer. At my feet are... bits of tumbled glass.

I've thought about shifting my blog page for a while to a different focus. It's not the first time, but I think those earlier growing pains has brought me to this place. One of the reasons I wanted the shift is that I cannot always write about writing. Sometimes the effort to work on the novel are so difficult I cannot blog about it. The last time I worked on it, I felt as if I ought to be sweating. I felt just as exhausted as climbing 600+ steps to the top of Amicalola Falls. Should I write that it took me a week to figure out I needed to delete two short chapters? That the work had come to a crashing halt?

Instead of despairing, I distracted myself. First I cleaned out my Art Shed, so I could use it. I took over my kid's play rock tumbler, and tossed in some broken glass. I pulled out the frame of an old wooden screen that had been collected dust and spiderwebs and spider eggs for about five years. I then got to work.

Yes, I was avoiding writing. However, the project gave me room to think about what I wanted to do for the novel, but also let me exercise those skills in practical terms. Initially, I'd wanted to create a light box with the old screen. The frame itself was large enough. Then I asked myself: do I have the tools to cut the wood necessary? I realized I did not. I did, however, have a staple gun. The easiest solution would be to make a fabric screen. I moved on. Making choices on how to create that screen with what I had on hand, and what I could easily buy was not a completely worthless distraction. I flexed my mind, and kept frustration at bay. I was able to get back to the novel and make some choices.

And, of course, the writing came to yet another crashing halt, and life stepped in with it's own set of distractions as well. Now I'm here, pretending indifference to my novel, while contemplating the creation of a gift for a friend, to help her remember and celebrate a milestone she worked years to reach. The rock tumbler whirred for two weeks to get me at this place where I had some pretty pieces of glass to work with. The choices I make to create something lovely will help me, I know, make some more tough choices when I brave myself to write.

A WiP Fragment--what do you think?

2010-08-29T14:18:00.000-07:00

The following excerpt is for a work in progress. It is fantasy fiction. A previous post, Nice to meet you....Yadonskhonderhader?, has some other information on the novel. I'm curious about two things:

1) the impression you have on the scene, the characters, or what it invokes.

2) how necessary the rest of the novel might be.

Any other general impressions are welcome also. Enjoy. This is from Seek the Monster. It is a rough draft, but your input will help me figure out if I've done this scene the way I need it to be done to forward the progress of the book:

He was such a normal looking man. He called himself Paulen, short for Kenpaulentarnouses. He was pulling a cart of goods from city to his small town. His dark blond hair was sweaty and stringy. His face was marred by clear evidence of fighting. It disfigured it enough so that his foreign past was less noticeable. Scars and a couple of turns in the line of a man’s nose was not surprising considering the closeness to the river and the invasions a man his age would have seen. Paulen’s feet hurt. The leather in his shoes had been worn thin, though his wife had promised him a new pair upon his return. He felt each sharp rock. One caught the ball of his foot, slipped and cut through to the ach of his foot, piercing the thinned leather. He stumbled. He bumped against one handle of his cart, and then down to the ground. He cursed, rather mildly. He had not, since the invasion, been prone to invective. He preferred to have a demeanor of calm in any situation. He sat still for a moment, feeling the rocks of the path cut into his palms and knees.

He was bruised, and one knee of his pants had been torn. There was nothing else to do, but get up and keep going. What his wife was going to say, he did not know. He did not pull his cart into his yard till dusk was settling over the hills and forests around his town. As soon as he closed the gate, the door to his house slammed open and his plump wife came barreling through. She flung herself at him.

“Oh Paulen, I was so worried about you!”

“Why, wife? Is this not the time I said I would come?”

“But you have not heard the news!”

“Can I put the cart away, and the goods I will sell tomorrow?”

“Yes, my dear. I will help you.”

She moved to the back of the cart and hauled out a larger basket than she normally would have bothered with. She cast a worried glance at the woods beyond their fenced enclosure for their goats, and then scurried back into the house, struggling with her load. He looked at her in some surprise, and moved the cart closer to the door as he always did. She was back out, hefting out another load before he’d chocked the wheels.

“Hurry, Paulen!” she said.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, and then the goat yard caught his eye and he demanded, “Where are all our goats?”

“They’re in your cart shed. Please, hurry. I’ll tell you all about it when we’re safe inside. Don’t worry about the cart. It won’t come to harm.”

Paulen did as his wife asked. When he came in with the last load, and before he could do anything more with the cart, his wife shut and bolted the door. He set the bundle down and turned to her. “So, what’s this about, woman?”

She turned to him, and finally got a good look at him, his torn pants, and the boot that was clearly falling apart. “You met with trouble!” she screamed, and dashed towards him. Touching him. “Paulen, you’re bleeding! You were attacked?”

“No, wife. I fell. I’ve been walking. I’m hungry and want to eat.”

She refused to let him eat, quiet yet, and with an energy that surprised him, she made him take off his clothes. Only then did she sit him down with a bowl of goat and potato stew. There were plenty of potatoes, for she was a good wife and no self-respecting peasant wife would be caught without at least a few potatoes comes spring. He ate while she tended his knees, and his hands, making him eat one handed while she tended one or the other.

“Why are you so worried about a cut knee or two. I’ve seen a great deal worse.”

“You’ve been gone. You don’t know. The wolves have come down from the mountains.”

“In spring?” he said with shock.

“Yes! They killed some wild deer, and even a boar. I’ve heard about a few missing dogs, goats, and three children who went wandering into the woods to look for fresh greens who went missing. “

“And? That’s it?”

“No, Paulen! There was a woman to the village in the south that was killed, another to the east. Dorrenethene, down the street, said they were cut up very badly. Ripped apart by claws and teeth. And, just after you left last week, there was a report of a man who was killed.”

Paulen felt uncomfortable. He put his spoon down and looked at his wife who was kneeling by his side, patting his bloody knee with a wet cloth.

“How do you know it wasn’t an invader. It probably was. Or an outlaw who somehow survived the spring and didn’t get caught by one of the Seekers.”

“Oh no. It was bloodier than that,” she assured him and began to tend to his various bruises. “But if they got a man, I want you inside during the night, please.”

“But what about my business? Or how do you intend we should live if I cannot go to town in a few weeks?”

“The hunters will get the wolves by then, and the village chief has gone to Codhu’s to ask for help.”

“That’s a three day journey! Do you think they’ll be indoors the whole time?” he asked her.

“The chiefs of three villages have gone together.”

“Then it will be all right soon enough.”

“Till they’ve killed the wolves, I insist you stay indoors, and near the house.”

“And how do you expect me to sell these goods I’ve walked far to bring here?”

She paused. She looked at him, gripping his leg. He took a bite more of her stew, and then looked down at her. There was real fear in her face.

Paulen was naked. He was cut and bruised and his left foot still hurt from the cut he’d gotten earlier in the day. Looking down at his wife, he felt stronger than her fear. He smiled at her. “It will be all right. No one is going to hurt you,” he said.

“Till they kill those wolves, Paulen, I must ask that you come indoors at night. We’ve enough saved up that you can wait till they kill the wolves, there’s enough saved where you can postpone your next trip to town a while. Please?”

He could only take comfort in the fact that she was frightened. It couldn’t be that bad a thing to be stuck at home for days with a wife that let him bed her as often as he liked when he was home.

About Fragments, 2.

2010-07-12T06:31:00.000-07:00

Though I do have a writers group, I generally do writing exercises on my own. My group tends to look at the novel in progress, or discuss nuances of language use and writing in general. One exercise that’s novel specific is to interview a character.

A Fragment has nothing to do with a novel or other form of story. It can certainly be used for one, or lend itself to one, after it’s been written. What is a Fragment? It’s an exercise where I take an observed moment and put it into writing. Sometimes it relates to my own direct experience, others just what I observed.

It started on a day, years ago, when I went down to Atlanta. I’m not sure who I went to meet, but I remember where I’d been because of two observed moments still etched in my memory. One was outside Everybody’s Pizza near Emory University. The first was a man asking a girl for directions or a date. Her body language made it interesting. She was attempting to answer him, but her body language was distant. She kept looking away, her body turned away. She did not want to talk with him. The other was at Carpe Diem, where an American woman talked nonstop to a visiting foreigner. I could hear part of the conversation, so the foreign woman’s stiff jawed politeness came as no surprise to me. The American was blithe and loud as she carried her assumption of superiority. I could see it in her body language, hear it in the tone of her voice, as well as the reaction of her guest. So I wrote about it.

A few weeks before I was walking through my field—now sold—wearing my duck books. It had rained over night. The tall grasses were weighted down and matting over the soggy wet of the soil. I’d written about it, and the sensation of walking over the slipper and yet spongy grass.

I’d spent much of my life “intuiting” or making assumptions about moments, instead of truly taking the time to observe that moment. Writing Fragments, bringing out the sensual moments, helped me step back and pay attention. Like eating an apple or the taste and texture of homemade yogurt. The trick isn’t to catalogue the body language or conversation, but to evoke the same moment even if it is fiction. My aim is to recreate it so well that any reader can be there, as if they are observing it or even experiencing it. It doesn’t have to have a story. It is just a Fragment.

Fragment: Replay for Insomnia

2010-07-09T17:20:00.000-07:00

At bed time I’d chosen a light, familiar book. I’d been watching the second season of Criminal Minds and Val McDermid’s The Mermaids Singing, though interesting, could not help me relax. The kids were having a “camp out” in their den. We’d brushed our teeth, put on our pajamas, and as far as I knew hadn’t brought in any bugs when my daughter had opened up the door to call in her cat.

It had been a trying day. I’d been up before six. A light book was what I wanted now. No more TV shows or books about murder and mayhem. Not just before bed on a day like today. I brought out a worn copy of Anne McCaffrey’s Crystal Singer and started to settle into bed. After a while my eyes started to close. I put the book down, opened face on the other side of the bed, turned off the light, and curled into a fluffy pillow. I drifted off even more.

I could hear the theme song of the TV show in my mind. I thought about the crash earlier that day. I turned over. I didn’t want to think of the crash. Instead I tried to think about the story I’d been contemplating, looking at the flaws in logic, plot, or character. Rewinding the story tape like I did every night.

Criminal Minds theme song.
Rewind story.
Ideas started to go dark.
Crash!

I was awake again. But not so much to turn on the light and pick up my book.

I closed my eyes.
And saw the crash.

I felt that, “Aw Shit!” moment of realizing I wasn’t going to make it, just before I’d heard the crunch of metal and plastic. I took a breath and heard the theme song of Criminal Minds again. I thought, “I watch those DVDs too much.”

I punched my pillow, saw the crash again. Then heard the theme song.

I didn’t see the truck—Huge, brightly colored—just the trailer and the crunch. Theme song. I groaned. I didn’t want to see that. And I was tired of the music.

Crunch. Theme song. I thought the song choice was not very ironic or pertinent. It had just been an accident, a relatively minor fender bender, not a crime where one needed to study a criminal’s mind. I flipped over. Trailer! Gasp. Damn! Theme song.

I sat up and turned on the light. I pulled the book over. I read for a bit till my eyes started to close. I reached up to turn off the light and curled back into the pillow. Seeing the trailer. “I’m not going to make it!” Theme song. Crash. Theme song. Damn.

I’d been at a T intersection. Seeing the crash again, the moment of impact, I realized then I’d been turning right onto the admittedly narrow two lane road. It was reasonable for me to expect that anyone coming from the opposite direction would not be a problem. They would have their own lane. But it was a big truck.

“Damn! I’m not going to make it!” I’d thought, knowing I’d cleared the truck. But not the trailer. Criminal Minds theme song.

Crunch.
Song.
My poor little car.
Crash! Song. Repeat. Replay. Again. Finally, sleep.

An insect crawled on my thigh. I flew up in a sitting position. Damn. I looked and looked, wondering if it was one of those stray, black ants, or maybe a spider. My house wasn’t coated in anti bug chemicals, but there weren’t that many that came into the house. One was noticeable, especially if it touched my skin. I looked and looked and could not see anything.

I curled back to sleep with the light on, but finally felt too sleepy for light. I turned it off.

Gasp. Trying to hit the break fast enough. “Oh No!” Theme song. Crash. Song.

I picked up the book again. I read till my eyes got dry. I turned off the light.

I could see the crash again. The reasonableness of a right turn. Song. Aw Shit. I’m not going to make it. Song. Trailer. Song. Crunch of the left side of my front bumper. TV Show Theme song. Crash. Over and over. Till I finally fell asleep.

I heard the buzz of a fly over my ear, and gasped, sitting up.

“No!” I thought. “I don’t want to see the crash again.”

I closed my eyes again, and then thought, “Damn. I’m not going to make it.”

Fragment: Tin Can Edges at a Party

2010-07-08T09:11:00.000-07:00

The sound of the family fun center was cacophonous. The music attempted to mute various sounds with its beat to create pockets of isolated parties along the alleys. I’d seen one filled party room on our way in, past the bumper cars, the laser tag room, the pinball machines, video games and other devices of arcade fun including skeet ball. There were at least three more parties centered at the top of two lanes in the larger bowling area. You could tell by the balloons, the presents, and the boxes of cake in various stages of demolition.

“Are you going to get shoes?” my hostess asked holding up her blue and purple pair.

“I don’t bowl.”

“Oh,” she said. “I’ll see about canceling the other lane, then, if other adults won’t bowl.”

I went to help my daughter with her shoes, and realized she’d walked in with flip flops. We’d forgotten socks, but I knew that there was a vending machine nearby that sold them.

I left my group already feeling a bit guilty. I’d made it impossible for my hostess to bowl. I felt discordant, out of the gathering group of kids and adults, stifled by my own reserve avoiding a past time I’d never tried. But I had my excuse to leave the party for a moment.

Away from most of the din, I put my money into the vending machine. The machine had a paper sign taped to the glass that said it only took dollar bills. I put in four dollars and punched in the code for little person socks. The machine lit up a sign asking for exact change. Well, I didn’t have that, so I hit the button to get my money back. Nothing happened.

The food counter was closest. I walked over there. “I’ll be right back!” the cashier said and disappeared. I noticed someone else wearing a name tag coming towards me from the arcade area. I was about to attract her attention, but she walked past me, past the useless vending machine and into the employee area as if I weren’t part of the world behind her eyes. And I, just as easily, drew back from noticing her, averted by the raw scars on her arm.

The scars were horizontal, and nearly covered the area from her left elbow all the way up into the sleeve of her dark blue employee T-shirt. There was one or two below her elbow, and a few more on her right arm. Later I used a pen and made about fifteen slashes before I gave up in horror. I was making smooth lines in green ink I used for editing. Her cuts seemed jagged and raw. I could visualize the soup can lid in her hand yielding enough pressure to cut again and again.

The food counter employee didn’t return, so I went back to the shoe counter to make my plea for kid socks. They refunded my money while assuring me that it wasn’t a requirement for anyone to play in socks. “Yick,” I thought. Another attendant accepted a pair of shoes from someone leaving. I almost coughed in the fog of Lysol he used before putting them away.

I went back to the party. I wasn’t the only adult who did not want to bowl, and then I saw that both lanes score boards were filled up with the kids’ names. A full party of giggling girls. I tried to talk with the other parents in that low shout to be heard over the din.

"Hey! Look at the patterns," I said pointing out designs on the floor and table. The twilight lights, almost black light, also made our clothes shine in garish color.

Pizza came, and then more bowling and cake. The adults inhaled the last pizza the kids had not been able to eat. One adult put out the cake for the kids. I could smell sugar in the icing mingling with pepperoni and Lysol-ed bowling shoes. The kids sang the birthday song for the birthday girl. It was as if the adults weren’t part of the party as they sat at their own table and ate the last of the pepperoni pizza. Soon it would be present time.

I spilled some soda I was pouring into a plastic cup, and used a napkin to wipe it up. I threw the paper into the trash bin nearby. A few minutes later I noticed the cut up girl, again, coming out of the bathrooms behind us. I watched her change out the trash bag from the bin, adding it to what she’d taken from the bathrooms. She did her job silently, moving to get the trash as if no one would or could notice her. As if she knew that people would turn a blind eye the slashed girl taking out the trash. An employee at a family friendly party center of loud music, cheers, and disco lights, she was creating her own pocket world both hiding and flaunting herself, trusting that no one would ask her, “What happened!” But there was no hint of embarrassment for either the trash or the slashes on her arms.

I turned back to my spinach artichoke dip and watched my daughter eat heavily frosted cake, with a smudge of pizza sauce on her shirt. A popular song came on, and some of the girls lined up to do a dance, while others got out the cans and sprayed silly string in each other’s hair.

Fragment: the AC guy

2010-06-29T09:53:00.000-07:00

“You look hot,” he said.

It didn’t occur to me till later that as an opening line for an AC repair man it was genius. I had however dressed for maximum cool. Tank top and old baggy harem pants my sister had sewn for me years ago. They were comfortable, but so old that I assumed they were frumpy. I also assumed he was speaking of the weather rather than my figure. But I was disconcerted anyway: my house was in the shade and the windows were open with ceiling fans at medium spin. I’d only noticed that the AC was out because I’d turned it on for a friend’s comfort a few days before and discovered it was doing absolutely nothing.

He wasn’t tall. He was stocky, and grey haired, but his skin was smooth. It would be tough to state his age, and in this county, being a working man I generally assume that even if married a man wouldn’t necessarily wear his ring in fear of damaging either the ring or his fingers. I showed him where the outside unit was. He held my hand like a gentleman as I stepped down the boulders that served as steps down to the side yard. They aren’t exactly even, and I usually go down them like a goat rather than a girl. One expects gentlemen in the country, however.

He took the cover off the unit and seemed to push some button, looked at the outside breaker and said, “There’s no power.” We went back up the boulders, into the house to the breakers. The other day I’d tried flipping the AC breaker back on. I thought I had. He switched the inside AC breakers off and then back on.

Back outside we found that the AC really did have power. I apologized and blushed at what felt like what a friend might have called a “blond” moment.

“Can I see your hand?” he said.

Bemused, I said, “Sure.”

His hands were soft, his gestures breezy but calm. But being flirted with was such a novelty that I hadn’t even noticed that this was what he was doing till my hand was held in his, close to his chest as he attempted to demonstrate what flipping a tripped breaker ought to feel like. I almost laughed out loud. In no way did the hand holding moment resemble the feel of a breaker. What it did do, however, was soften the blow of what turned out to be an expensive visit for something that took two seconds to fix. A little. Expensive entertainment for a summer afternoon.

Later I told a friend of mine about the flirtation.

“Yeah! I know him,” she said. “He kept looking at my necklace. It wasn’t till later that I realized it had nothing to do with jewelry.”

I laughed. As she told me more I could envision this relaxed AC man with his gentle hands examining the pendant she always wore. Better to look down her lush cleavage. Mountains and the depth of Tartarus that even distracts girls.

He could get away with these sorts of moves, it seemed, because on hot summer days he was cool about flirting. Since he probably didn’t work much in winter, it was also true that if he came to the rescue of some damsel in AC distress, she would be hot.

About Fragments

2010-06-29T09:43:00.001-07:00

The last post I wrote was about a moment in time. I realize that I've not been writing some interesting moments or ideas down as much as I used to. So the plastic pen in hand was one fragment. I've a few more. I'll post some here. Hopefully you'll find them enjoyable.

A Plastic Pen in Hand

2010-06-13T08:34:00.000-07:00

It was easier to research violent murder for a novel than read news of the Gulf oil spill… or rather continuous oil flow. It was even easier if the articles had pictures of pelicans covered in orange crude. I looked out my mother’s living room window. She was napping, and the Times magazine was turned over so I could avoid even looking at the cover of a poor crude covered bird. The Will to Kill was open on my lap. Why was murder easier?

There’s a hook outside the window where my mother usually hangs a bird feeder. It’s gone at the moment because a squirrel has gotten bold again. She gets so angry at it that she deprives the birds. They still come fluttering to the hook in futile hope.

Why the aggravation over an environmental disaster, and fascination over violent murder? How does this relate to birds and squirrels? We don’t feed birds—except perhaps in winter—because they’ll starve. We want to see them. Their colors and patterns, their small bodies, the joy we have when they sing. The squirrel eating all the bird food takes away that joy. It’s also expensive. Even though birds can eat quite a lot of the seed version of Veuve Clicquot my mother buys them, the squirrels can eat a lot more.

The frustration hits close to home. The squirrel is a thief.

I drive a car. I wear lipstick from time to time. I buy things in plastic containers. Sometimes I forget my green-bags when I go grocery shopping. But I have never known anyone who has been murdered. I am aware of my own evil tendencies—envy, mockery, and other minor sins—but the mindset, the behaviors of a murderer are so alien to me as to be fictional.

The bird feeder is only two feet away. Half full. The troubles of songbird and thief are within my reach. My plastic pen, however, is in my hand as I write in my journal. I think about crude oil covered birds and feel culpable horror. I will never be able to push it far enough away.

So I read about murder and defy my sleeping mother to hang the bird feeder.

Have lunch with new friends

2010-05-11T10:22:00.000-07:00

I’d like to introduce you to my novels that I haven't published. Actually, I haven't sent them out very often. I've been too shy to introduce them to anyone; I am changing that. This is part of the continual process of getting past self imposed limitations. To be in the Write Place, I can and will be brave.

I thought about dinner with friends, and how I'd introduce someone new to old friends. What did I see or know about this person that backed up qualities I liked? So, this is a virtual lunch date. Pretend we’re having lunch together, and I’m introducing you to some friends of mine you haven’t met yet. After they leave, feel free to tell me if you like these friends and wouldn't mind chatting with them again. Next time we can have tea. Or... Pot Luck anyone?

Fate of the Red Queen

Kuen’s gave up on life. She’s in a holding pattern. She’s been told what to do, taught, guided, and kept from the world all her life. She has no basis for understanding real success or failure on her own. It’s no wonder she gives up the moment she thinks she’s failed her mentor’s dying request. When the man who killed her mentor comes to the jungle where Kuen now lives, she takes up her sword again. She wants to fight back, even if it means her death—even if she hopes it means her death. When the regents of the Land of the Dead realize she’s beginning to act, they start trying to guide her to accept her fate their way. They’ve waited for Kuen to come to their jungle and end the curse that’s kept them undying for over 600 years. So close to the end! They have a lot riding on the outcome. Though they teach her the true aim of her mentor’s quest, Kuen rejects their path. She learns who she is and becomes far more than a queen or a war leader they anticipated. Far more.

Sometimes we have to find our own way despite everything we’ve been taught, and sometimes we have to use what we’ve learned to become more than we ever expect.

Vendetta Mark

Aylycha Bernard is small, athletic, and determined, but would rather blindly swallow a lie than give up hope of her parents’ love. She studied history and martial arts, but when she knew she couldn’t win their approval, she joined a notorious subset of the police force so she could get their attention. After all the ideas that built her whole world cames crashing down because she discovers her true identity, Aylycha struggles on. She can no longer despise the aggressive “farrago” population caught between the Human colony on Aerie and the native Bird population. She is one. At first horrified, she risks her life to reveal the truth about herself and her family. Alycha doesn’t know that this opens up a much deeper secret. Her whole biology proves that something odd has been happening to the Human population. The growing strength of the Human Meme of self preservation is being slowly defied by the impossible Genetic blending of two species. Aylycha has to find a way to live between these crushing two forces.

Aylycha grew up thinking—hoping—she was Human. We all want to believe that we fit into some ideal, sometimes the most popular one, or the most advertised. When Aylycha discovered that she was a farrago blend of Human and Bird, instead of the child her parents wanted, she fought for the truth they had denied her

Seek the Monster

Hero is rude, cynical, and stubborn. He believes he can’t love a woman—though he likes to bed her. Also, he hates his job. But he’s unique in his land. Despite the un-confusing name, he somehow lives completely demon free. It’s an interesting occupational issue, as his job is to kill demons, usually by killing the human it’s made to commit some crime. He doesn’t know that this makes him qualified to hunt monsters. In a war torn land with a ruthless justice system, a serial killer has gone hunting. No demon guides him. The killer takes full, delighted responsibility for his murderous crimes. Hero kills for a living, and meets up with a man who kills for fun—and there’s zero demon between them. How can Hero survive the obvious comparison?

Hero faces his past even as he faces this monster. He has to find a way to respect himself, his job, and not just because a woman told him that he’s worth loving.

The Bone Reader

Cemirowl is quiet and shy. She prefers the company of her ghostly pets. The villagers know she sees the dead, and that her mother went crazy because of it. They fear her. However, Cemirowl is more than that. She feels strongly about her job with the living, and buries the dead while respecting the villagers’ fears. She tells them their futures when they ask, and hides the rest of the time. Her own bone readings have told her that change is coming. She’s aware that she’s not a great fortuneteller: the bones haven’t told her how or when! Even she is frustrated by the gap between who she really is and the creepy stories told about her. During a reading to an errant caballero, Mercari, she apparently predicts the murder of the queen. After Mercari interprets her reading—after the fact—Cemirowl faces a possible charge of treason. Working past her fear of hanging, she comforts a lonely king, and befriends a prince with too many secrets. She has to find the truth to save her life, and put not just the queen’s ghost to rest but that of two other ghosts who cry out for her help. Change is sometimes scary. Cemirowl is forced to come out of her shell and reveal her deep compassion, but she also discovers the dangers of her power that surpasses all rumors.

Red Geberesh

Phayaden cannot make peace with a mystic vision larger than her shaman training. Because of her doubt, she retreats to the felt tents and horse herds of her family. Being a mystic, she cannot hide from the divine. After finding the broken pages of the holy book, The Geberesh, a possible proof of her visions, the demigod Engidu comes to her clan. He is awaiting Phayaden’s future husband, the hero he must guide. Tengis is one among countless heroes who he must lead past their toughest obstacle, a fight that reminds Engidu that he—a demigod—cannot get past the labyrinth guarding his heart’s desire. Tengis arrives with his own vision of their land, to unite the fractious, nomadic clans roaming the steppes of the Tashihyel. But first he must try to gain the loyalty of his brother, or fight him. Together, shaman, demigod, and the future leader of their country pay severe costs to fight for their vision.

Allergies of Carroll Creatures, and the History of the Funny Gnome

2010-04-18T12:49:00.000-07:00

A few years ago I was in a workshop on "Collaboration" at Dragon*Con. I can't remember the name of the writer who first talked about dwarves, but he sat on this panel and told us about one collaborative effort.

This writer had written a pilot for a Network. He'd finished it, and given it to the producer. The producer read through his treatment, nodded a few times. Then he finished and looked at the writer and said, "I like it, but… I'd like to see a dwarf and a cottage in this. Put it in and I'll buy it."

The writer decided the guy was nuts, but he was the one with the check book. The pilot was a city drama. Cops, guns blazing, blood saturating the pavement. Where would a dwarf and cottage fit in? He went home contemplating drink, and called a friend to complain.

After listening to the writer's rant, the friend said, "Look, obviously he sees something wrong with the script. Figure out what it is, fix it, and damn-well, don't put in any dwarves!" The two brainstormed into the wee hours of the night till they realized what the real problem was. They fixed the screenplay without the dwarf. The producer accepted it.

Many months later, when first working on this essay, I had this funny gnome with his tiny hands pulling on my pant leg, saying, "Something's wrong with your story."

“What would that be?" I asked him.

"I'm not a dwarf."

I look down at him. He's right. But his advice is always indirect.

Okay, True: Gerry isn't a dwarf. He doesn't even have a cottage. I think he lives in the walls of my house. He’s not a muse. He's not a dwarf. Dwarves are a bit bigger.
What he's really trying to tell me-in his obscure fashion-is that everything really started with the Jabberwocky. Now Gerry's laughing, because he knows that it took me a while to see that to begin with. As long as I saw his point it doesn't matter. That's part of his job. How not being a dwarf can remind me about the Jabberwocky is part of his own weird mystery.

You see, the Jabberwocky—and yes, that’s an agent— sent me a rejection letter for my second novel. Whiffling and burbling, this Carroll creature informed me in a letter, typed on a real typewriter, that my story was interesting, but it had Gerry's hand prints all over it.

Little known fact: Gnomes and all of his kind make Jabberwockies and all their kind—editors and agents—rather ill. Gnomes, apparently, are more distressing than young warrior sons carrying vorpal swords.

Well, perhaps it's not a little known fact. But it’s the invisible Gnome or Dwarf Prints that confuse everyone else Not in the Know. It is disguised as bad writing. It takes practice to catch it or see it.

Anything to do with any gnome or dwarf in a cottage for that matter, make the Jabberwocky hold sample chapters as far as he can from his person, while holding his nose. As soon as he can, he rejects it. No doubt with eyes flaming with indignation and rimmed red. Jabberwockies and their cousins are highly allergic to anything tainted with Gnomes and all of their kind. Tolerances vary.

The Jabberwocky was perfectly right. Once I looked again at my work, my own eyes were rimmed red. Unfortunately I'm not as allergic to Gerry as I'd like to be. If I were, I'd notice when he interfered with my work. I cried instead.

Fortunately, the Jabberwocky wrote me a rejection letter that wasn't a form letter. It was brutal, and honest. It was the best thing that happened to me.

I started seeing Gerry's handwriting, and knew—sort of—what to do with it. I started learning from him how to catch what was wrong.

Gerry's giving me that look again, because you see, when I first read the rejection letter, I didn't see it as a great thing. I cried for a solid hour. I contemplated giving up. Some of my friends and family know how difficult my way back to writing had been, as well as how much room for improvement I still have. But the Jabberwocky and my gnome have given me some of the best tools I can use to climb my cliff-faced mountain towards my goal.

With a pat on my knee my funny Gnome tells me I'm getting to the point. You see, the Jabberwocky was quite right. My standards were too low. Both the Jabberwocky and my funny Gnome had this advice: When something is wrong with your work, Fix It!

I’ll Be On Stage Anyway.

2010-04-14T13:28:00.000-07:00

Week two of drafting queries. I’m still learning from the query by a writer friend. In her e-mail she joked how it was grossly exaggerated: a sales pitch. I’d read enough of her manuscript to know that whatever she felt she presented a real belief in her work. I saw Confidence.

Years ago, I went to Dekalb College to learn how to become an interpreter to the deaf; for the program I also volunteered at the Atlanta School for the Deaf. But one serious consideration led me to drop out: I was terrified to talk to the Deaf. But I decided to sign Silent Night for a Christmas program.

Sign Language is beautiful. Unless you’re using Signed Exact English, it might seem to be interpretive because the grammar structure is loose. I don’t know if that’s the same, now. It was the case fifteen years ago. On Couch Jump Dog. Dog Jump Couch On. Dog On Couch Jump. It’s language in gestured hieroglyphics. You’re drawing a story. It is a language where you have to pay attention to the person you’re sharing with. It is a language where trust is a valued key. At least, it seemed so to me. It broadcasts everything to the observer. And it’s remarkably clear because of it. But I withdrew from the program because I was continually terrified I’d accidentally insult someone Deaf. My fear would have been as obvious to them as if I’d written it on my forehead in bold black ink.

I wasn’t just constrained in Sign. I’d been fluent in Afrikaans and French. If I didn’t know you, I used English. Why did I decide to Sign in front of a large crowd? And lead a small group of volunteers? I had to teach them the song.

At the beginning of our rehearsals I made a decision. I’d already decided to do the performance. I told them that if at any time during they decided they couldn't face being up there, I understood. I’d love them to be there, but I’d be up there anyway. Only one person dropped out.

Sending out queries, I am just as afraid. Over the years my language use has improved. My stories are interesting. But a query is one sheet of paper you use to prove you’ve got the confidence and self discipline to not waste their time. And each time I wrote one, in the past. In black ink, I’m sure I was broadcasting, “I’m afraid of you.”

But there are two things on my side: The times and different ways I do connect with others, and the memories of committing to something I could have been scared of.

I have to ask myself: Do you want this? Uhm…

Choosing fear over commitment creates bad habits. The issues that prevented me from becoming an interpreter, or speaking my second or third language—at the cost of fluency!—were the same with writing queries. And that’s in English! I could pretend to reach for excellence in my writing and suffer from the lack of self discipline.

I have to choose, and I have to commit. I’m practicing for the big show. And I have to decide now, no matter how I feel, that I’ll be on stage anyway!

The week of writing queries

2010-04-11T15:34:00.000-07:00

I’ve come across a conundrum. This past week I’ve set goals about writing—and sending out—queries. After one of the speediest rejections I’ve ever gotten, along with a copy of a writer friend’s query to the same agency, I had an Aha! moment. I could look at what she had offered to the agent in one page. I could easily see what I’d left out.

Here’s what she had in her query:

• She knew the different authors her book echoed.
• When she talked about her main character she had very tangible ways of showing off her unique personality. I’m talking specific and clear attributes.
• She listed the work she’d done to learn the skill sets in her novel and that the series would be vetted by experts.

The one thing she has, that I couldn’t bring to the table, she listed books she had published. I could claim that her series is contemporary suspense, and so she can bring in things like FBI or Krispy Kreme Doughnuts. I wanted to believe that this is harder to do when you’re dealing with ghosts and fortunetelling, or discussing the amorphous impact a war between memetics and genetics have on a life.

I looked at her query for the fifth time, envying her engaging style. Through some fun e-mail exchanges, I can see she’s probably far more approachable than I am in real life, and that she probably has a far better sense of humor than I do. And that’s when I fell apart. I couldn’t be fun and hip like this writer. It’s taken me years to emerge from the kitchen when I have dinner parties. This was a problem.

It’s not as if I don’t like my characters. I do. Cemirowl is a soft spoke fortuneteller who isn’t as good as villagers believe. Kuen is a sword yielding future goddess who decides to become a farmer. Phayaden is a crazy shaman who ends up guiding a hero and a demigod. Aylycha pushes through pain to do her job. Ali Jayne is the anti amateur detective, full up on enthusiasm, but fuzzy on the details. Hero doesn’t believe in demons, but he has to go kill a monster.

The above paragraph is the first I’ve been able to write about them with such few words. It’s like a short introduction. But it’s not exactly natural to me. When I have parties, I contemplate who will have a good time with each other, or throw it to the winds at pot luck. I put people together and see what happens. I might say, or have it said to me, “You’ll like this person.” I rarely say why. It’s up to my friends, or me, to find out.

In a query, I have to write a letter of introduction. I can’t wait for these people to engage with Cemirowl or Kuen or Hero by reading my books. They won’t till they have a reason. It feels as if I have to uncover their deepest secrets. A conundrum. I’ve betrayed their secrets at length in a novel. Why can’t do I do it on one page or one sentence? I have to say, “This is this person, and these are reasons to like her. She’s faced these adversities, so I know that it’s true.”

But since the agents or editors will probably not be joining me for dinner any time soon, I’d better get cracking at writing those letters of introduction. I’ve had tea, and dinner, and arguments with my characters. Perhaps it’s time to pretend I’m inviting agents and editors to dine at my table. I suspect this will take more than a week.

Nice to meet you....Yadonskhonderhader?

2010-03-06T05:16:00.000-08:00

One weird pleasure with writing my current book, Seek the Monster, is naming my main character Hero. It tickles me because most of the people are named something like Yadonoskhonderhader, Syradansthudenen, Ahnyadarmud, or Klidermurdinstat. Granted, not even they can work with those mouthful of letters, but it's hoped that the Demons can't either and so will not torment them. Generally they use diminutives like Yadon, Syra, Ahnya, and Murd.

No, I can't pronounce them either. I only use their long names once or twice. I'm writing a list so I can spell them when I do. Sometimes I wonder why I didn't name all these guys Bob or Jill or Sam and Sue.

Naming children something like Mudbucket or Dogsguts is a time honored tradition in some older cultures. Names are a symbolic device designed to keep demons or jinn from getting too jealous of a family's precious new baby. Demons come along see this adorable infant, inquire about the name, and decide that Rottingeggs must be a baby only a mother can love.

So I played with the idea. I’ll agree I probably took the idea of naming to some ridiculous lengths, but it is rather fun coming up with names like Codburhedtend or Anshoewendie. In Seek the Monster this symbolic naming isn't iron clad. Bur or Wen are in for their share of trouble. If they misbehave and one of the Seekers catches them in the act, they risk losing anything from a finger or two, a toe, or head. The Seeker will show that the person wasn’t responsible. A demon did it. For proof they’ll do some sleight of hand and show the finger, toe, or eyes as stones. Eyes are the window to the soul, of course, and stone heads are difficult to carry.

Most of the people really believe that this is true. Demons are a concern. Seekers might have reason to know better, but they believe that their actions have purpose on a spiritual level. It might be violent at times, but it is ritual and real. They truly are saving hapless Codburhedtend from the demon that made him steal the cookies in the jar. The names are strange, but they are no joke.

What sort of trouble would a boy named Hero have in a culture like that? One could believe he is left with few defenses.

But that's part of the fun in writing.

Do the Poets Teach?

2010-02-04T07:22:00.000-08:00

In my quest to understand my writing better—which seemed necessary this morning—I remembered a passage shared at the end of this post. It was this that made me think about more than one simple phase of in my life, or—it turns out—my writing. I got stuck with my current story because I had forgotten to ask, even though the question was still there: what will I think of it at the end of my life? What will it have become in me, and how will I write it so that it is as rich as that memory? If this selection is applicable to other aspects of my life then, well, fine.

This passage taught me to not think lightly about important matters, no matter how small any inciting moment may have been. Writing is one of those matters, with many small moments that reverberate with meaning. If the bad guy, for instance, is written so well that any reader, casual or otherwise, sees into the mind of a murderous deviant, then that could be bad. No… I want the reader to see into the mind. I do not want him to be aroused by it in any unfortunate ways. How do I write it so that his thoughts are off-putting? Especially as the story is beginning to grow from the first moment I started it. How do I arouse disgust and horror, instead of even mild titillating interest? Ever the quest in my more contemporary fiction. The question I seem to be starting those stories with in hopes of answering.

If I look back at books like On Combat and On Killing by Lt. Col. Dave Grossman, I can understand the rich argument that our reading and movie viewing and game playing—so many mediums!—has inured our culture to violence. In John Varley’s Titan, Gaea says that the anti-war films were the most violent. Only one movie continues to shake me with its horror of violence.

Out of the Silent Planet
Gaudy Night
The Light Princess
"What the Rose did to the Cyprus"
Platoon

Five stories that are the foundation of my writing. There are others, I’m sure. Books I read when young, books I’ve read since. But these influenced me in so many ways. I know I write because even the moment of writing is not one thing. The final product is not divided from a reader’s thoughts. The pleasure of reading is not—should not—be final when one has finished reading the last word or turned the last page.

From C.S. Lewis’s Out of the Silent Planet, chapter 12, with thanks to this "Poet" and teacher.

“But a dinner comes every day. This love, you say, comes only once while the hross lives?”

“But it takes a whole life. When he is young he has to look for his mate; and then he has to court her; then he begets young; then he rears them; then he remembers all this, and boils it inside him and makes it into poems and wisdom.”

“But the pleasure he must be content only to remember?”

“That is like saying ‘My food I must be content to eat.’”

“I do not understand.”

“A pleasure is full grown only when it is remembered. You are speaking, Hmān, as if the pleasure were one thing and memory another. It is all one thing. The séroni could say it much better than I say it now. Not better than I could say it in a poem. What you call remember is the last part of the pleasure, as the crah is the last part of the poem. When you and I met, the meeting was over very shortly, it was nothing. Now it is growing as we remember it. But still we know very little about it. What will it be when I remember it as I lay down to die, what it makes in me all my days till then—that is the real meeting. The other is only the beginning of it. You say you have poets in your world. Do they not each you this?”

Tai-Kuen

2010-01-01T17:48:00.000-08:00

When I first met Kuen, I was driving with Larry Morris (of Emerald Rose fame, and at the time my husband). We saw a decal on the back windshield of a truck just behind the driver who was bald. I think we were talking about Lord of the Rings, and no matter the reason we parted ways, we were both rather good at coming up with ideas. The light hit the decal, I thought it was a tattoo. Idea One hit Idea Two and… well… BANG!

There was, of course, more. Joseph Campbell, Kali, Filipino weaponry, Thailand and more. I mean it wasn’t just the guy in a truck with a decal, and Tolkien. I wrote Fate of the Red Queen, and then I wrote Red Geberesh, and then… well… more happened. (And well, the characters, the planet, and the mythology just *wouldn’t shut up*!).

Kuen was faced with a history of her mother’s people. She was faced with who she was supposed to be, as well as who other people wanted her to be. But somehow, after a bit, I realized that even if her mother’s biggest enemy was coming back, that didn’t mean he was Kuen’s enemy. And that’s how things got complicated.

I knew Kuen was supposed to be a god. But after Red Geberesh, two gods found their happiness, which left another sort of hanging. His job was to confront Heroes. He is sort of the bad guy. What is he supposed to do? He inveigled his way into Fate of the Red Queen, and did a really good job doing it.

In writing Red Geberesh I was also working on the language Geberesh. There are funky words, an alphabet, a perceptual philosophy that still rings off of my reading of Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason and Latosa Escrima. I realized that these demi-gods I’d been writing about were also archetypal. I also wrote a really stupid poem while meditating, and realized that Kuen was no longer just Kuen once she went from not really human to not really human in another way.

The without is equal to the with
Both neither good nor bad
The rapture lies between as
They continually unfold against
Each other. A now, a moment, encompassing
Both past and future.

So far in Geberesh there’s no Yin/Yang. There are no words for either. But the two parts that oscillate between are akin to those two forces. But there is a word for power, magic, the force in The Absolute, the vibration in that just “on the other side of the trees”. It is uwushuru (and maybe one day I’ll show you the Geberesh symbols for it). It’s reminiscent of the silence in winter when the snow has fallen, at night, when the wind is gently blowing. (So, not quite silence). It’s the sound of the seeds in the ground gathering power to “blow” in the spring. That rapture between the without and with isn’t quite so silent. It’s more like the rasping of snake scales as it moves, or gears moving…not just clicking.

Tai is that space in the center. The fulcrum. When I realized that I often felt as if I were in the pendulum swing, and that if I meditated I put my life and my mind in my center, I was no longer swinging, but the fulcrum. The good and the bad constantly moved, rocked, and sometimes hard. But to breath into “Tai” (and not the Tai like in Tai Chi, but a Geberesh “Tai”) I was now in my center.

Kuen, then, somehow moved, shifted, and was renamed. She was Tai-Kuen. The center of the struggle. Where we are the fulcrum, not swinging in the pendulum. As an archetype she was not just someone who fought, but she fought from the center. She represented “our” center. (Or at least the “our” for those in Ihyel, even if they never met her, or ever worshiped her, or ever had her in their cosmology).

A Hero's Essential Unity with Us

2009-11-20T02:49:00.000-08:00

"Not alone food but every object is to be used with due regard for its proper function and not wasted or needlessly destroyed…. The reasons are more spiritual than economic. To squander is to destroy. To treat things with reverence and gratitude, according to their nature and purpose, is to affirm their value and life, a life in which we are all equally rooted. Wastefulness is a measure of our egocentricity and hence of our alienation from things…from their essential unity with us.... it is an act of indifference to the…worth of the wasted object, however humble." From The Three Pillars of Zen.

This was quoted this morning at my breakfast writers meeting with Kathryn Hinds. Along with discussing the importance the quote has for me on a personal level--It inspired a rather interesting discussion about Heroes and Villains, and which were more fun to write. Which characters were more constrained against the freedom to be themselves?

Part of the reason the quote had impact is that I've long felt a pendulum swing between what looked like asceticism and an indulgence in the joys of life. The quote offered a heady realization that I could respectfully enjoy the world around me. That it offered more freedom than the rigidity I feared might be necessary. But being a writer, that juicy thought fell to the wayside when I thought, Hmm. What does that mean to my characters?

It was interesting to note that in writing villains we might sometimes give them more freedom. In giving villains the chance to do what they wished, we constrain them from their unity to their world and make them suffer the pain of indifference (and yes, I do consider that real pain, even if they don't see it themselves). At the same time, we sometimes give the heroes a more ascetic lives with the false idea that to be good they must be constrained, instead of, as the charm of Philip Kapleau's words, a connection, a bond, an essential unity to all the world. That if the hero is constrained, he might be forced to be indifferent. Which, in some ways, is the villain's job.

Of course, if they're human characters, and living and breathing, are not saints, have not found Nirvana or attained Buddha-hood, then their indifference and unity is probably still remarkably grey on either side of this idea. (And yes, I know in the US it's supposed to be gray, but that still remains to me markedly *wrong* to my eyes). And their lives being grey and swinging from the pendulum struggle of their conflicts makes both quite a lot of fun to write!

Maybe this is all obvious. Maybe I'm looking at it from a different perspective. I'm sure it isn't a new concept. The villain has a real purpose and point in offering conflict to his enemy. The hero's opinion is equally valid, he's only a hero because the story is being told from his point of view. The best stories the villain believes his cause is just and right. It is often reasonable. If the story is good. That is unless he's a serial killer or something bad like that.

But I'm not just a writer, I'm also a mythologist. I happiest writing fantasy, because I get to dive into archetypal issues about our relationship to magic and God(s--and that includes the female ones when I write about them). So there's not just the villain against the hero: There is also a spiritual point of view: are they removed from the divine, do they remove themselves from the divine, or are they continually searching for ways to connect to the divine, to the good, to what is good, and to all the divine touches and loves with respect and care?

There's not just a conflict between the hero and a villain, but the character's conflict about the wasteful measure of his egocentricity and his alienation from other men as well as the divine.

The Write Place

2009-11-17T03:24:00.000-08:00

"That’s not to say the story wasn’t good, but that I was not writing from the right place [write place], and so it was a lie to myself and to my writing..."

I wrote this in a letter to a friend and began to laugh. Yes. This is what I am aiming to do. That whole cast of characters, Gerry et al, is only part of what the whole Funny Gnome editing is supposed to do: bring us into the right place. So, another tiresome name change, but one that I am finally happy with!

That Goal Nearly Tripped Me Up!

2009-11-08T10:21:00.000-08:00

How totally cool: I felt deflated when I realized I met one of my goals in exercising. I fit into what has got to be the most egregious example of vanity sizing. I got into a size 4 dress. It only took two months of not killing myself while working out (and how cool is that?).

Why is it cool that I felt deflated? Because the goal was met and I wondered, “What am I supposed to do now?” And it then occurred to me that I felt this way each time I reach a writing goal or an editing goal. I have to go: what’s next. And that’s wrong.

To some extent the workout goal is based on the fact that I love walking in the woods. I like working out and breaking a sweat. That part is easy. I also hate shopping and want to fit back into most of the clothes in my closet. Dropping weight was possibly made easier because I had to drop wheat. Those two elements of enjoying a two mile walk in the woods is part of a lifestyle thing. One of those elements where you shift your lifestyle in exercise and diet (diet as in what you take into your body, not some temporary plan of removing things for a short term goal).

Even though I have within my lifestyle exercise and diet, I also imposed short term goals of fitting into a dress. But even though I have another goal of fitting into a particular skirt with a ridiculous waist (which is sized closer to a legitimate 4, but is probably closer to a real 6, thus proving the ridiculous nature of the previously mentioned vanity sizing) I know I’m going to ask myself, “So, what’s next.” And it is a legitimate question, because by then, I’ll be skating the bottom of my BMI, and fielding comments about how much I don’t eat (which won’t be true, as I still love my steak, and if I have to give up wheat, I feel no compunction in eating dark chocolate).

In other words, what I am doing now by setting goals for lost inches or lost weight, may have troubled the lifestyle by making goals have more importance. The joy of walking through the woods, for instance, may have been taken over by the silly joy of fitting into an incorrectly sized dress. But for the joyous part: I realized this is how I also define my writing life.

The lifestyle of writing and work—something I truly enjoy—is defined not by just the pleasure of the work, but by page counts, word counts, how much I edited this day or that day. Because when that goal is over, I find myself with the same blah post I fit into that dress, and going, “What do I do now?”

Which is more important, to have goals, or to have a lifestyle of writing. I suspect both can be important, but the question is which is more important. Are those goals short term temporary versions of, “I’m on a diet so I can wear a bikini on the beach this summer,” type goals. Or are they reminders that we’re still on the path goals?

The only way we can tell is if we meet our goals and feel deflated: then it’s a temporary one, and I recommend you eat a pint of ice cream or have a scotch or a glass or three of wine. But if you think: Cool. And then forget about it because another story has come to mind. Then they’re stepping stones to what you are doing anyway, because the joy of walking through the woods, the joy of writing this character’s escapade or that scene and this next book that won’t shut up.

So May your goals be stepping stones that don’t trip you up while you’re working.

I forgot the story...

2009-11-02T05:18:00.000-08:00

Instead of leaping into work, I leapt to the computer to surf Facebook and the News. I discovered a clip on Fox news and found myself listening to Gary Vaynerchuk talking about his book Crush It! The book is about how to “Cash into Your Passion.” What is my passion? Writing, editing, and practically anything to do with Book. So I say. But after I finished my edits on The Bone Reader, and started working on writing the next novel, the desire to leap out of bed sort of faded. What went wrong?

I could relate a lot of babble about internal mythology of walls that block me, except a walk in the woods helped me realize how much that’s a delusion. Anyone, even writers…possibly especially writers, know a lot about fiction; if it is good fiction, we want to believe it. Be it Fantasy, Romance, or Science Fiction.

As I was reading what I could get off the “Look Inside” for Crush It! I read how he apparently lives his life with three principles: Love your Family, Work Super Hard, Live your Passion. Was I living my passion? Well, again, I say that I am. But his litmus test on that is by seeing if we’re 100% happy, and I’m not.

I am reminded, then, about something that occurred to me on my walk. It wasn’t just the delusions that stopped me, or echoed an internal mythological struggle. I found myself wanting to write this new novel with non story focused reasons. I wanted to bring in characters because they’re cool. I wanted to impress a friend. I wanted to make the story dramatic. And hadn’t I been here before, which was why I dropped my whole Contemporary Suspense series? I had gotten into a rut where I kept forgetting the story.

Yes, I want to write cool characters, interesting dilemmas, and heart pounding conflicts. I want to impress not just one friend, but as many readers as I can reach. In other words, they’re not bad things, but… the story is my passion. That other stuff is and always has been secondary. It doesn’t even have to be written by me. It’s why I love to edit other people’s stuff. It’s why I can be ruthless towards the writer. In some ways I care about him or her, but I adore their story more.

I was about to apologize, but I think I won’t. Because it is true; I care less about the writer than the story. And I have forgotten that. So, saying that, I’m off to write. Hero wants to chat with me, and so I must go and listen to what he (and not what I imagine other people think that he…) has to say.

The Adventures of Funny Gnomes: the revised purpose

2009-10-27T09:50:00.000-07:00

I’m not sure what exactly happened to make me drop the writing project I’ve spent almost three years on. The Mia James stories began around April 2003; a draft was finished in 2007. Unfortunately it earned laughs from my expert-beta reader. It wasn’t supposed to do so. I tried again, with the draft that used the humor and shifted the character. I worked on it till Friday 23 October 2009.

I won’t claim that the novel, Other Sort of Monsters, was horrible. I think that there was a lot of good in the writing, as well as an interesting story. I probably also learned a lot about writing in the effort. But I wasn’t writing it because the story was good. I was trying to make it good.

A number of factors brought me to this place. One was a story my mother told. A couple of others might be my having to give up wheat, as well as the goal to do 100 crunches a day. One of the more important may be a friend’s comment that she thought a publisher might like my novels Fate of the Red Queen or The Bone Reader. Additional aids may have been Kapleau’s The Three Pillars of Zen. Maybe the Muse just bopped me with her magic wand, or Fate said it was time.

With apologies to my twin, the story my mother told me was about when I started to crawl. I showed early on that I was my father’s child. Ever practical, I’d put a toy in my mouth, take two in my hands and crawl on my elbows. My twin, possibly even more practical, would just sit and wait till I came by and take one of my toys.

And part of my shift came from this bad poem that I wrote on the day I gave up Mia James:

My practicality, taken from my hands,

A toy or a choice, unfreely given,

Fine. Have this thing.

Did I surrender a piece of myself

When giving away this object?

And in Steven Pressfield’s book The War of Art, he asks, “If I were feeling really anxious, what would I do?” He goes on to write about how Arnold Schwarzenegger would, on a freaky day, head to the gym, even if he were there all by himself with no one to be impressed by his effort. Working out was where he would center.

Little things came together, and my writing was re-born.

I shelved Mia James and all her novels. I put away the work of more than three years, to pick up the work I’d put down for about that long, that I’ been working on for longer. I read the latest draft of The Bone Reader, and found myself working all day. Even better, there were times I would look up from the manuscript and realized that nothing had bothered me all day. All the concerns I had, such as being single, or feeling 42, my twin taking my toys, or how I was going to pay my bills, went away. They had been gone. Even better: I wanted to work. I didn’t care about those things I had used as distractions, things I’d wanted to use to help me pretend I was happy or healthy. While working on The Bone Reader, I hadn’t given anything away.

So, the blog is no longer The Constant Comma. I don’t care about my pretentious ideas of my abilities in understanding language use. It was never the point. And I had forgotten. This time, the toy hadn’t been taken out of my hands, I’d tossed it so I could be proud and, worse, I also got snarky because of that.

So this blog is now the Adventures of the Funny Gnome, and within days, the Mab Morris site will be all changed. And I’m really writing again, and not just pretending.

He Put His Truck In Reverse

2009-08-18T17:18:00.000-07:00

He asked about canvas. It was a passing comment, an idle one, perhaps. Did he remember I was the one who painted a mural? He said canvas was hard to find up here. He could only get it down in Cumming. I offered to buy more canvas the next time I went to the store.

He was more comfortable talking about his dog while we waited for the school bus, and the fact he needed hip replacement and was living with his daughter. A neighbor I’d only met because I waited for my son and he waited for his granddaughters after school. Gravelly voice, cigarettes, without—possibly—the more formal education that led me to paint as a hobby, or write. But the dog talk was over and he felt a bit more comfortable. He talked about oil painting, wondered about acrylics and then the bus came.

I did not think much of his comment, till five hours later my daughter said, “Someone’s here.” I looked out and could see his red truck. I walked out and he asked me about the mural.

“That’s acrylic?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“It doesn’t wash off?”

“No. It’s on wood. It was a boring wall, so I put a painting there.”

“I can’t sketch,” he said.

“But you can paint?” I asked. “It uses different skills.”

“I guess I haven’t done a lot. I haven’t tried.”

He was nervous, looking behind him. I wasn’t sure why. I couldn’t tell if someone was in the car. My daughter wanted to show him her art, and ran inside. I was thinking of the painting she’d inspired, and wondered if she was going to take it off the wall; it would have been too big for hr to carry.

“I’d like to know…” he sauntered off topic, and then finally came back to, “My granddaughters. I’ve got two paintings and they thought, ‘Wow.’ It’s in their rooms. I’d like to know if I’ve got anything.”

“I’d like to see them,” I said.

My daughter interrupted again. She couldn’t find her drawing. I couldn’t have told her exactly where it was, but it was raining. I didn't want her to bring it out. I invited him in to see it, but he gestured to his hip as an excuse. Perhaps he was being polite. Perhaps he was afraid of invading my privacy.

“I’ve done landscapes. An ocean with a lighthouse. I don’t think I want to do landscapes,” he said. “I know I’m here to paint something.” I could see the need. I'd seen it in my own work, my writing. I had been coping with it that very day.

“Abstracts?” I asked. A shot in the dark. Perhaps he needed to think of a different style.

He did not know what I was talking about. The neat thing about loving books is that you collect them. My daughter ran out with a drawing, and so I asked him to hold on a bit. They talked drawing. I went in and picked one of my more worn books on Modern Art. I thought it looked less intimidating. It was one you could get paint all over—if he borrowed it. It also had some classic styles in the beginning.

I brought it out and showed him the book. He asked about abstract art, and I showed him some pictures.

“Take it with you. Look it over and see if it inspires you.”

He looked at it and tried to hand it back. “It scares me.” He said something about the vision of the world he wanted to paint. I offered the book to him again.

“Are you sure you don’t want to take it?”

“It scares me,” he said.

I asked why, wondering if it were some of the more ‘shocking’ pictures we might have passed, wondering if I’d stumbled across a religious objection. And then I noticed something else. I knew why he was nervous. There was a tear in his eye. His graveled voice deepened.

“I won’t have any more excuses,” he said, giving me back the book. But just talking with me about art, he took a step in being brave.

“I’ll be here if you want to talk about it,” I said. “I know about fear.”

An old man with a vision. A possible skill, and a need to put it down on canvas. With tears coming down his face, he put the truck in reverse.

Funny Gnome Editing

2009-07-30T11:00:00.000-07:00

Gerry is upset with me: I’ve had this blog and I haven’t said a WORD about the Funny Gnome. The thing is that I loved my essay that I wrote years ago about The Funny Gnome and Carrol Creatures. It was cute and well written. But it’s also outdated. And he knows this. He’s wondering why I haven’t written something new.

Years ago at my first and—as yet—last Dragon*Con there was a panel on writing with others. One of the panel members (and I’m so sorry I can’t remember his name) had a story about writing a Guns and Violence in the City pilot for a network. The producer read it and said, “Yeah, it’s interesting, but I want a dwarf and a cottage in it. Put in a dwarf and I’ll buy it.” Needless to say the writer thought he was insane. How in the heck would it fit? Like Santa in a Panzer. The writer took it to a friend who said, “Well, something is clearly wrong with it. Find it and fix it, and for G*d’s sake don’t put in the damned dwarf.” They brainstormed, found the problem…and it was sold. And editing history was made.

I don’t have a dwarf, but a rather opinionated gnome named Gerry. He puts handprints all over manuscripts where it’s funny—as in something off. Not as in a joke. Granted, he finds it hilarious. He’s not a Muse. He’s not even the Bombshell in gnome clothes (which represents when writers try to do something to impress but don’t quite pull it off). He’s on the support staff after the Muse has come and gone and you’re left with an inspiring piece of writing that still needs some work.

The reason I like Gerry and his Funny Gnome hand prints is that he’s not concerned about comma placement (though he can be) or great prose. He tries to get my attention to those places that are a bit off and that I try to skip over. He’s gets into the smallest places too and doesn’t mind bringing his own sarcastic humor to my editing. He thought the floating eyeball searching the room was hilarious.

Maybe he does this because if the Great Muse gives us anything, we need to give it our best, make it as clear and as beautiful as what we were given—even when the story is tough, intense, or even dark. Gerry and other Funny Gnomes don’t want us to pretend that the wrong elements fit, or that we can skip over important elements. So here’s to the Muse’s (and our) editing support staff. Thanks Gerry for helping me love editing and have fun with it!

Still Climbing

2009-06-30T13:15:00.000-07:00

When I was fourteen I wrote my first novel. English, Afrikaans and French battled in my head. My spelling and grammar were atrocious. I didn’t realize that fact. Proud and naive, I handed my book to my father to read.

Not long after he took me on a trip up to Cherokee. It was a rare treat: private time with my father. I hoped he would tell me how my story would be read around the world. Instead, being a caring father, he carved out time for me, took me to the mountains to photograph trees and mountains. On the drive up, I heard words that burnt my dreams like flash paper. He told me that I should concentrate on another more lucrative career, rather than writing, while I worked on improving my craft. At fourteen, I could not hear the practicality of his advice. I heard only that I was doomed to failure. I believed it.

Many years later, my ex-husband said, "Everyone rebels against their father." I refused to believe him. But the memory of that trip jangled; I knew it was when I began believing in my failure. I asked my father about that trip; he was horrified I had missunderstood him.

I began to write again. It wasn't just characters I had silenced, I had been suffocating myself as well. Fifteen-odd years after that trip, and despite my renewed purpose, I was still naïve enough to believe that my language use was not quite that bad. Even if grammar had never been my forte—even with a English degree. I playfully looked up pronouns in a grammar book. Those were easy; there aren't but, what, four?

Looking at the page I suddenly had a clear vision of the mountain I had to climb. I thought it was something I could scale at an easy pace, breaking a light sweat.

No. Wrong.

I felt pale at what I saw. The mountain was massive, rocky, and hard to climb. There I was, a few feet up from the bottom, with a rusty piton and hammer and a frayed rope. At some point the climbing manual had been dropped in some muddy stream. It was illegible. There are way more than four pronouns in the English language!

With the proof of my ignorance staring me in the face I had to wonder, if I really wanted to write. Could I really imagine myself getting published? Could I really do the work?

I knew that I wanted to write. I knew that I had to do the work! I couldn't bear to stop again.

Maybe now I could understand my father’s advice. He knew there was work to do, even when you love something.

Since that day, I’ve worked to improve my language use. I’ve written more novels (as yet unpublished). I’ve sent queries out; I’ve been rejected. But I’ve also gotten work as a fact checker, and as a copy editor. I’ve worked with writers and editors I respect and have earned their respect. And no rejection letter will ever compare to the shock and shame of realizing how much I'd forgotten and how much work I had to do.

I'm clearly not at the top of my mountain, but I'm still climbing.

Everything he did was right?

2009-06-28T17:22:00.000-07:00

“Everything he did, was right. Everything he said, was clever.”

Sense and Sensibility

Jane Austen

My first introduction to the comma was by an elementary school teacher who said, “You put it wherever you take a breath.” Perhaps I was destined to become a writer and editor because though I’ve forgotten much of my childhood I remember this advice. I shudder at it now, because I know a bit more about language use than I did when I was seven.

A friend of mine recently bemoaned the comma, when he said, “They changed the rules, somehow! I can’t use it in front of ‘and’ anymore.” I comforted him and said I understood.

Perhaps I’m a terrible editor because despite my fascination with something as small and seeming insignificant as a comma, I can look at the above quote and delight in how language use shifts. I’m less picky about where to put that comma (unless someone is paying me to use certain rules), than if the writer conveyed what they intended to share. And yes! Of course, something as insignificant as a tiny squiggle can change a writer’s meaning. Which makes editing quite a lot of fun.

Language changes. So does language use. Do we put the comma where we might take a breath, or do we follow MLA, Chicago, AP, APA…and various “In House” rules? When and how do the rules support or detract from the glory that is someone’s story, thesis, dissertation, article or blog? Do we get picky about comma placement, or ask if the writer clearly told his or her story? Sometimes it is a delightful yes to both! And sometimes we can look at the classic greats and say, “Ah well, the rules will no doubt change.” Give or take 100 years.

Just getting started

2009-06-25T12:24:00.001-07:00

I'm just getting started, so be patient while I find my way around. Soon to come, a more thorough introduction, blogs, and more.