I stopped doing NaNoWriMo on the second or third day. The first day I started late and pumped out just under a days' worth of words derived from the experience of the night before, putting flesh to the skeleton of a whodunit I vaguely outlined a few years ago. The second and third days saw me staring at the screen, unable to weave more flesh, writing speculative story directions and self-directed curses. By the fourth day, Wednesday, still unable to continue, I decided I wasn't going to be able to. The well was empty. There simply wasn't anything there.
Too much in my head about real life. There's no escaping it, not this year. (The ten to twelve hour days with nightly conference calls to Asia may have been a factor also.)
But I also suffer from technique. I tend to try and write as though I am reading a book that I have to write so that I may read it. This means sit at a table or up in bed or in a chair with my little netbook in my lap and craft the story, beginning to end. Side notes are of course allowed. But it's a very narrow technique and it doesn't work.
Techniques vary as artists vary. The trick is to free yourself to find what works. Here is an article about some authors whose techniques work, a Writers' Block of artists for whom writer's block is an occasional annoyance but by no means lethal to the process.
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Friday, November 06, 2009
Monday, October 26, 2009
Writing about Whining and Whining about Writing
Part I
Where have all the writers gone? Gone to Facebook, every one. I think they've given up on the social aspect, the groupthink. Remember the camaraderie we used to share? The wit? Gone. A writer hooking up into Facebook and all its games and article-sharing is like a mathematician on a daily dose of sloe gin. Was blogging not as bad? Was it a shot of caffeine, or just thin hot chocolate? It did provide a challenge. The challenge was to produce some quality every few days. Few ever met it. Most everyone seems to have given up.
A few still write. Away from the crowd, as perhaps it should be done. NaNo should be that way. I will go to coffee shop meetups because I need social interaction, to feel a part of things. But writing is essentially solitary.
I'm guessing the bloggers decided either they would ride the Facebook to nowhere or would just get their writing done and quit talking about it. I hope so. Writing is all I want to do when it comes to brain-work.
I want NaNoWriMo to start and the rest of the world to end.
Part II
Writing is all I want to do when it comes to brain-work. I falter at my job (or so it feels sometimes) because it requires studying technical stuff and collaboration with other people on technical stuff. But when I light the fires under my brain it doesn't lean that way. No, it wanders off in search of dreams to mold, and characters to build, and vibrant language. It's a daily chore to switch the train over onto the right track and chug it up to speed. Today, that didn't happen. All my train did was crawl out of the shed, take a slow turn around the yard, and idle at the back edge, leaking steam.
And it's no secret and I don't care who knows it. My old brain is just plain tired of trying to fit. That engine wants to get lifted out of the old iron frame that hauls freight around on rails and settle into something light and buoyant and start tracing words and music into the ripples of a trackless sea.
This is a bad attitude. I want my boys to get through college without any financial hitches and so crank away, crank away, crank away is what I need to do just like everyone else. Just like everyone else. It's funny: Part of me is still the youngest child who thinks he is special and unique and can get away with relative poverty because no one needs to depend on him. The major portion is of course a man engaged with the world in some productive way who knows we are all in the same boat together and thus holds the deliberately unproductive (this includes lazy and/or under-talented writers) in low esteem. This tension won't go away.
And yet, still I want NaNoWriMo to start and the rest of the world to end. Except for music. Music can stay. And food. Music and food and warm autumn sunsets. The rest of it, begone. Begone, I say! People with nice smiles can stay. Nice people, food, music, sunsets, and the sound of rain or of a distant train passing. All that can stay. But the rest of it: End! Begone. We gots writing to do, doesn't we?
Where have all the writers gone? Gone to Facebook, every one. I think they've given up on the social aspect, the groupthink. Remember the camaraderie we used to share? The wit? Gone. A writer hooking up into Facebook and all its games and article-sharing is like a mathematician on a daily dose of sloe gin. Was blogging not as bad? Was it a shot of caffeine, or just thin hot chocolate? It did provide a challenge. The challenge was to produce some quality every few days. Few ever met it. Most everyone seems to have given up.
A few still write. Away from the crowd, as perhaps it should be done. NaNo should be that way. I will go to coffee shop meetups because I need social interaction, to feel a part of things. But writing is essentially solitary.
I'm guessing the bloggers decided either they would ride the Facebook to nowhere or would just get their writing done and quit talking about it. I hope so. Writing is all I want to do when it comes to brain-work.
I want NaNoWriMo to start and the rest of the world to end.
Part II
Writing is all I want to do when it comes to brain-work. I falter at my job (or so it feels sometimes) because it requires studying technical stuff and collaboration with other people on technical stuff. But when I light the fires under my brain it doesn't lean that way. No, it wanders off in search of dreams to mold, and characters to build, and vibrant language. It's a daily chore to switch the train over onto the right track and chug it up to speed. Today, that didn't happen. All my train did was crawl out of the shed, take a slow turn around the yard, and idle at the back edge, leaking steam.
And it's no secret and I don't care who knows it. My old brain is just plain tired of trying to fit. That engine wants to get lifted out of the old iron frame that hauls freight around on rails and settle into something light and buoyant and start tracing words and music into the ripples of a trackless sea.
This is a bad attitude. I want my boys to get through college without any financial hitches and so crank away, crank away, crank away is what I need to do just like everyone else. Just like everyone else. It's funny: Part of me is still the youngest child who thinks he is special and unique and can get away with relative poverty because no one needs to depend on him. The major portion is of course a man engaged with the world in some productive way who knows we are all in the same boat together and thus holds the deliberately unproductive (this includes lazy and/or under-talented writers) in low esteem. This tension won't go away.
And yet, still I want NaNoWriMo to start and the rest of the world to end. Except for music. Music can stay. And food. Music and food and warm autumn sunsets. The rest of it, begone. Begone, I say! People with nice smiles can stay. Nice people, food, music, sunsets, and the sound of rain or of a distant train passing. All that can stay. But the rest of it: End! Begone. We gots writing to do, doesn't we?
Thursday, July 02, 2009
Book
Facebook is definitely the new blogiverse.
Blogging started out as a means of sharing interesting links and commenting on them. As more people became net-users the concept morphed into general self-publishing. People could "blog" and it would mean whatever they wanted it to mean: An online diary, a means of sharing pictures, a place to shout back at politicians and pretend they were listening. For some of us, a place to practice writing and get immediate and qualified feedback.
Now Facebook does most of that, and it's much easier. What it doesn't do is create a literary space. You can write there, but the slam-bam nature of it is discouraging. I wouldn't bother.
A huge difference is it's not very anonymous. It can be if you want, but that denies the point of it. Through Facebook you can make yourself, your true self, accessible. If you don't want to do that, then don't use Facebook. Don't be accessible, etc. Your choice.
I chose to try it and the results are interesting. My Facebook presence has taken on three distinct personalities, reflecting the three distinct groups of people that I'm hooked up to.
First is the internet writerly crowd, the entertaining and argumentative crew that got to know itself on usenet five and more years ago (no, that link won't work if you're not already set up for it -- I know, cause I'm not, and I tried it, and it doesn't work, but the URL is correct anyway). I've denied it before but the truth is they are friends, the unique sorts of friends that were virtually impossible to have before the 21st Century. Their antics keep me going back to F/B as often as I do, just to see in a moment of corporate-cubicle ennui what's going on.
Second is family and family friends, none of whom are particularly computerwise and have therefore only flowered as link-sharers and photo-posters with the advent of Facebook. It's a great way to stay in touch more than you ever thought you'd want to be.
Third appears to be old high school people. I could mention work, because I've a few co-workers in there. But I really don't want to interact with co-workers in the silly and informal Facebook milieu. Fellow employees, okay. But not actual colleagues, and I won't bother to explain why. High school people are starting to pop up, however, and it's kind of amazing. Someone will find me whom I last had a good conversation with in 1976, and their list of friends will include names I had forgotten since Ford was in office, and their friends will include others, and damn. There's a party goin' on.
I don't have weird atavistic reactions to high school like some folks do. I got nothing against anyone back there. I didn't make many friends and lost contact with everyone pretty quickly, but no bridges were burnt and in fact, by now, even a burnt bridge can grow back again. So I find it pleasant, almost comforting, to think of reconnecting with these various people. I'm doing so slowly. I'm not the sort to go, "I remember you, let's be 'friends'!". I like to keep my Facebook friends as real people with whom I have a real connection and not just because we were both at Caz one year. But it's a happening, a 'hey, this is nice' sort of thing. The distance is controlled. We can do this.
That's all. The post summary is: Seeing faces from over three decades back is a good thing by and large -- maybe we'll meet up at the multi-year picnic this summer; and lowered blog traffic and lowered blog activity reinforce one another, and so this thing's day are numbered. They're numbered anyway, for other reasons, but except for occasional bursts of exceptional energy, I expect this page of mine to fade into the weeds of the internet, like a warehouse at the edge of a former boomtown. I'm okay with that, because I've a sneaking suspicion the sort of writing I wanted to develop in a blog has actual markets, if I only look for them and write up to them. See you there.
Blogging started out as a means of sharing interesting links and commenting on them. As more people became net-users the concept morphed into general self-publishing. People could "blog" and it would mean whatever they wanted it to mean: An online diary, a means of sharing pictures, a place to shout back at politicians and pretend they were listening. For some of us, a place to practice writing and get immediate and qualified feedback.
Now Facebook does most of that, and it's much easier. What it doesn't do is create a literary space. You can write there, but the slam-bam nature of it is discouraging. I wouldn't bother.
A huge difference is it's not very anonymous. It can be if you want, but that denies the point of it. Through Facebook you can make yourself, your true self, accessible. If you don't want to do that, then don't use Facebook. Don't be accessible, etc. Your choice.
I chose to try it and the results are interesting. My Facebook presence has taken on three distinct personalities, reflecting the three distinct groups of people that I'm hooked up to.
First is the internet writerly crowd, the entertaining and argumentative crew that got to know itself on usenet five and more years ago (no, that link won't work if you're not already set up for it -- I know, cause I'm not, and I tried it, and it doesn't work, but the URL is correct anyway). I've denied it before but the truth is they are friends, the unique sorts of friends that were virtually impossible to have before the 21st Century. Their antics keep me going back to F/B as often as I do, just to see in a moment of corporate-cubicle ennui what's going on.
Second is family and family friends, none of whom are particularly computerwise and have therefore only flowered as link-sharers and photo-posters with the advent of Facebook. It's a great way to stay in touch more than you ever thought you'd want to be.
Third appears to be old high school people. I could mention work, because I've a few co-workers in there. But I really don't want to interact with co-workers in the silly and informal Facebook milieu. Fellow employees, okay. But not actual colleagues, and I won't bother to explain why. High school people are starting to pop up, however, and it's kind of amazing. Someone will find me whom I last had a good conversation with in 1976, and their list of friends will include names I had forgotten since Ford was in office, and their friends will include others, and damn. There's a party goin' on.
I don't have weird atavistic reactions to high school like some folks do. I got nothing against anyone back there. I didn't make many friends and lost contact with everyone pretty quickly, but no bridges were burnt and in fact, by now, even a burnt bridge can grow back again. So I find it pleasant, almost comforting, to think of reconnecting with these various people. I'm doing so slowly. I'm not the sort to go, "I remember you, let's be 'friends'!". I like to keep my Facebook friends as real people with whom I have a real connection and not just because we were both at Caz one year. But it's a happening, a 'hey, this is nice' sort of thing. The distance is controlled. We can do this.
That's all. The post summary is: Seeing faces from over three decades back is a good thing by and large -- maybe we'll meet up at the multi-year picnic this summer; and lowered blog traffic and lowered blog activity reinforce one another, and so this thing's day are numbered. They're numbered anyway, for other reasons, but except for occasional bursts of exceptional energy, I expect this page of mine to fade into the weeds of the internet, like a warehouse at the edge of a former boomtown. I'm okay with that, because I've a sneaking suspicion the sort of writing I wanted to develop in a blog has actual markets, if I only look for them and write up to them. See you there.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Cabeza
Recently somewhere else I said I needed to quit the online life. There are good reasons for that. Very good reasons. Maybe someday I'll write a blog post about it.
Not today. The online world is still good for a few things. Yesterday afternoon as I ambled slowly back to the office after being dismissed from jury duty -- I was dismissed for good reason, and ambled very slowly -- I stopped at Borders and browsed History and found a book that told me about the amazing adventure of Álvar Núñez Cabeza de Vaca. The early years of European exploration of the outer world are fascinating, not least for the aura of magic and wonder that surrounds every account. This one attracted me not only on its own merits but the time and place provide for a fanciful connection with an idea I've been percolating for some time in the way of historical fiction. Wanting to know more, I looked him up today on the web, and found someone made a movie. Reading a review of the movie, it's fairly clear that my standards for accuracy in historical fiction are ridiculously high. I'll keep to them anyway.
This was supposed to show that the online world is still good for something. It does not. All of this would be more effectively pursued with pencil and notepad at the library. All right then. Adios. And yes, up top, that was an attempt at humor.
Not today. The online world is still good for a few things. Yesterday afternoon as I ambled slowly back to the office after being dismissed from jury duty -- I was dismissed for good reason, and ambled very slowly -- I stopped at Borders and browsed History and found a book that told me about the amazing adventure of Álvar Núñez Cabeza de Vaca. The early years of European exploration of the outer world are fascinating, not least for the aura of magic and wonder that surrounds every account. This one attracted me not only on its own merits but the time and place provide for a fanciful connection with an idea I've been percolating for some time in the way of historical fiction. Wanting to know more, I looked him up today on the web, and found someone made a movie. Reading a review of the movie, it's fairly clear that my standards for accuracy in historical fiction are ridiculously high. I'll keep to them anyway.
This was supposed to show that the online world is still good for something. It does not. All of this would be more effectively pursued with pencil and notepad at the library. All right then. Adios. And yes, up top, that was an attempt at humor.
Monday, February 23, 2009
That Was Close
Facebook has sucked a lot of the energy out of the blogs lately, and since it evens and leavens and homogenizes everyone it isn't nearly as interesting. In a weak desperate moment I started browsing misc.writing, where verbose idiocy reigns supreme and begs, begs for one to put foolish people into their places. But I already know what good that'll do so I backed out again. Geez. Looking for online interaction -- that's mighty pathetic. The obvious answer is to get off of this crap completely.
Well, except for posting pictures now and then, and random things that Must Be Said. It's the looking for interaction online that is simply nowheresville. Yup. That was close.
Well, except for posting pictures now and then, and random things that Must Be Said. It's the looking for interaction online that is simply nowheresville. Yup. That was close.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Old Man in Pajamas
I spent my evening opening and logging mailed requests with donations for the troop to pick up retired Christmas trees, envelope after envelope, spreadsheet entry after spreadsheet entry, the laughter and conversation drifting down the stairs of teenaged kids who were fat and happy on pizza and DVDs and were talking, because they didn't know an adult was silently working at the bottom of the stairs, about first orgasms and the phenomenon of blue balls (these were boys AND girls). Finally the horrible, horrible thought occurred to me that I might hear my own son's voice enter into this conversation and I hastily shut down and went off to bed. I lay there a little while reading a book when I suddenly had the urge to write something, anything, notes for a story, a blog post, whatever, and rather than stare at the ceiling contemplating the essential practicality of keeping a notebook by the bedside (a very good habit I've never approached having), I got up to retrieve my laptop from the table at the bottom of the stairs. My bed clothes are just a pair of boxers and a t-shirt, unless it's too warm for a t-shirt, but I figured since no one had come downstairs for over an hour while I was working, what were the odds that they would do so while I was out there just long enough to get something?
What WERE the odds? Miz Liz heard me explaining to some teenaged kid I don't even know what cupboard to find the cups in, and was chortling most energetically when I came back to bed, wearing just a t-shirt and these droopy old sweetheart boxers with the faded hearts and X's and O's.
What WERE the odds? Miz Liz heard me explaining to some teenaged kid I don't even know what cupboard to find the cups in, and was chortling most energetically when I came back to bed, wearing just a t-shirt and these droopy old sweetheart boxers with the faded hearts and X's and O's.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Stuff to Post While I Gear Up To Write Some More
High keening and whining sounds from outside. I open the window. It's from down in the creek bed, along with yip yip yips and a rough dysphonius barking. The gang is passing through. I wonder what ever became of our beautiful cat Jet, Lucky's mother, who walked away one year. Used to see her hiding in the weeds now and then.
* * *
I was sitting comfortably in the men's room today when someone dashed into the next stall and made unhappy sounds while dumping about three buckets' worth of leftovers into the toilet. And then did it again. Didn't bother me at all. I am so glad I raised children.
* * *
One of my writing locations.
The table is my fave. It was my grandfather's typewriter table. He kept it out in his office when he was foreman on a farm during the Depression. Before the crash he was a newspaperman -- maybe that's where he got it, I don't know.
Zooming in on the nifty sticker a NaNoWriMo Municipal Liaison gave me ...
* * *
I was sitting comfortably in the men's room today when someone dashed into the next stall and made unhappy sounds while dumping about three buckets' worth of leftovers into the toilet. And then did it again. Didn't bother me at all. I am so glad I raised children.
* * *
One of my writing locations.
The table is my fave. It was my grandfather's typewriter table. He kept it out in his office when he was foreman on a farm during the Depression. Before the crash he was a newspaperman -- maybe that's where he got it, I don't know.
Zooming in on the nifty sticker a NaNoWriMo Municipal Liaison gave me ...
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Heroes
A writing challenge at Wordsmiths Unlimited. Write five hundred words or less inspired by a picture. So I did, here at lunchtime. Went over the limit but I don't want to pare it down any more'n I already did.
* * *
Chad opened the window.
“Now can I smoke?”
“Go for it,” said Ed. “I’m not a smoke nazi, just don’t fuck up my car.”
Chad lit up and said, “I dug that there were almost no rules.”
“No rules?” Ed glanced right and cruised through a pale yellow light.
“I mean, I could smoke everywhere, for one thing.”
“I thought it was all outside.”
“There was a sort of café like thing. Lost of people hung out there and had coffee and lit up. Like the good old days.”
“Tobacco?”
“Mostly. And, you know, like all these art cars and shit, people piled up in ‘em, totally unsafe. I rode the Teeter Totter of Death--“
“Hah!”
“Sucker went up and down and around in circles too. Had wheels under the seats. There was a safety sign showing a guy getting his head knocked off.”
“Cool.”
“I almost fell off the fucker. Oh, but dude! The Thunderdome!”
“Thunderdome?” Ed smirked and went right onto Hillsborough, turning wide around a woman with a baby stroller. She glared at him. “Like in the movie?”
“Totally. Dude. I totally kicked some dude’s ass.”
“No.”
“Really. We picked each other in the crowd, you know, fight a friend but I didn’t have any friends and I guess he didn’t either. They strapped us into these bungee-like things that were hanging down inside the dome--“
“A geodesic dome?”
“Yeah. And pulled us back and let us go and BAM! We slammed into each other and wailed away with these smurf bats or whatever they’re called. We got each other good. I kicked him in the face and he got all pissed. It was awesome.”
“Sounds fun.”
“No, seriously. He wanted to kill me. I knocked his bat away and he started on me with his fists. There were all these biker dudes running it and they pulled us apart.”
“And stopped it?”
“Hell, no, just gave him his bat back and started us again. I had a black eye for two days. It was great.”
“So who won?”
“I did. I got more fair hits or something. Whoa, dude!”
“What?”
“Stop! Stop! Pull over!”
“What? What? I can’t! There’s traffic!”
Ed slammed on the brakes. A pickup truck blew its horn and went around.
“Oh. Now there isn’t.”
Ed went into reverse, backed up and slid into the parking lot of a small shopping center.
“How’s that?” he said.
“Dude, you’re crazy,” said Chad, grinning. “Check it out.”
Chad was pointing with his cigarette at a sandwich shop at the corner.
“See that blonde,” he said, “talking to that old black guy? She was there.”
“That chick?”
“Yeah! Dude. I told you there were Packers there. Knew about ‘em from the internet, went and met up. Met her. I totally fucked her, man.”
“Did not.”
“Did too.”
“Did not. You didn’t go all the way across country to Burning Man, meet some chick from Raleigh, and fuck her.”
Chad stared at Ed awhile.
“You expect me to hook up with some total stranger?”
“I don’t expect you to hook up at all.”
“Fuck you, asshole.”
“So go say hello.”
“No. She was a bitch.”
“You’re a total liar, you know that?”
“Yeah, I am. But I think she was there. Seriously. I recognize the tatt.”
“Boy, you crack me up,” said Ed, and turned out of the lot and back into traffic. Chad watched the woman’s cigarette smoke curl around her neck as they drove away.
* * *Chad opened the window.
“Now can I smoke?”
“Go for it,” said Ed. “I’m not a smoke nazi, just don’t fuck up my car.”
Chad lit up and said, “I dug that there were almost no rules.”
“No rules?” Ed glanced right and cruised through a pale yellow light.
“I mean, I could smoke everywhere, for one thing.”
“I thought it was all outside.”
“There was a sort of café like thing. Lost of people hung out there and had coffee and lit up. Like the good old days.”
“Tobacco?”
“Mostly. And, you know, like all these art cars and shit, people piled up in ‘em, totally unsafe. I rode the Teeter Totter of Death--“
“Hah!”
“Sucker went up and down and around in circles too. Had wheels under the seats. There was a safety sign showing a guy getting his head knocked off.”
“Cool.”
“I almost fell off the fucker. Oh, but dude! The Thunderdome!”
“Thunderdome?” Ed smirked and went right onto Hillsborough, turning wide around a woman with a baby stroller. She glared at him. “Like in the movie?”
“Totally. Dude. I totally kicked some dude’s ass.”
“No.”
“Really. We picked each other in the crowd, you know, fight a friend but I didn’t have any friends and I guess he didn’t either. They strapped us into these bungee-like things that were hanging down inside the dome--“
“A geodesic dome?”
“Yeah. And pulled us back and let us go and BAM! We slammed into each other and wailed away with these smurf bats or whatever they’re called. We got each other good. I kicked him in the face and he got all pissed. It was awesome.”
“Sounds fun.”
“No, seriously. He wanted to kill me. I knocked his bat away and he started on me with his fists. There were all these biker dudes running it and they pulled us apart.”
“And stopped it?”
“Hell, no, just gave him his bat back and started us again. I had a black eye for two days. It was great.”
“So who won?”
“I did. I got more fair hits or something. Whoa, dude!”
“What?”
“Stop! Stop! Pull over!”
“What? What? I can’t! There’s traffic!”
Ed slammed on the brakes. A pickup truck blew its horn and went around.
“Oh. Now there isn’t.”
Ed went into reverse, backed up and slid into the parking lot of a small shopping center.
“How’s that?” he said.
“Dude, you’re crazy,” said Chad, grinning. “Check it out.”
Chad was pointing with his cigarette at a sandwich shop at the corner.
“See that blonde,” he said, “talking to that old black guy? She was there.”
“That chick?”
“Yeah! Dude. I told you there were Packers there. Knew about ‘em from the internet, went and met up. Met her. I totally fucked her, man.”
“Did not.”
“Did too.”
“Did not. You didn’t go all the way across country to Burning Man, meet some chick from Raleigh, and fuck her.”
Chad stared at Ed awhile.
“You expect me to hook up with some total stranger?”
“I don’t expect you to hook up at all.”
“Fuck you, asshole.”
“So go say hello.”
“No. She was a bitch.”
“You’re a total liar, you know that?”
“Yeah, I am. But I think she was there. Seriously. I recognize the tatt.”
“Boy, you crack me up,” said Ed, and turned out of the lot and back into traffic. Chad watched the woman’s cigarette smoke curl around her neck as they drove away.
Friday, August 01, 2008
Shit, Writing Ain't So Tough
My boss wrote my review
Said I wasn't aggressive enough
Said Juan wrote the outbound message
because I didn't do it fast enough
Could have been mine
Should have been mine
Well I thought he was doing it so I did something else
There's no lack of work to do
But it was started by my customer
confirmed by my lab work
and involved -- guess what -- Juan's product
My project
His product
So I let him do it
I'm told I'm too passive
Need to grab the ball and run all out every got damn day
Just to keep a job
that keeps my family alive
and keeps me from writing
Some day I'll say Fuck that
Some day
Some other day
Dedicated to anyone too drunk to not be an artist
Said I wasn't aggressive enough
Said Juan wrote the outbound message
because I didn't do it fast enough
Could have been mine
Should have been mine
Well I thought he was doing it so I did something else
There's no lack of work to do
But it was started by my customer
confirmed by my lab work
and involved -- guess what -- Juan's product
My project
His product
So I let him do it
I'm told I'm too passive
Need to grab the ball and run all out every got damn day
Just to keep a job
that keeps my family alive
and keeps me from writing
Some day I'll say Fuck that
Some day
Some other day
Dedicated to anyone too drunk to not be an artist
Saturday, June 21, 2008
More on Doing the Write Thing
“Hey, Frank.” Staff hadn’t started yet.
“Hey.”
“Written any songs lately?”
“Huh. Why do you ask?”
“Cause you write songs, or do music, or stuff like that.”
“Yeah. No, I have a book where I’ve written down some ideas, maybe like six songs’ worth, but, you know.”
“Yeah.”
“Even on weekends, man. I need more time than that to quiet my brain and get in that space, you know, where I can write something. Can’t do it. Not working at IMC. This place just takes up way too much mental energy.”
“I know exactly what you mean.”
Boy, do I. But it’s nice to know it’s not just me.
“Hey.”
“Written any songs lately?”
“Huh. Why do you ask?”
“Cause you write songs, or do music, or stuff like that.”
“Yeah. No, I have a book where I’ve written down some ideas, maybe like six songs’ worth, but, you know.”
“Yeah.”
“Even on weekends, man. I need more time than that to quiet my brain and get in that space, you know, where I can write something. Can’t do it. Not working at IMC. This place just takes up way too much mental energy.”
“I know exactly what you mean.”
Boy, do I. But it’s nice to know it’s not just me.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
A Waking Dream of The Burn
I woke up Friday morning with my head packed into a pipe bomb and had to move real slow to keep it from exploding. I was brought a big glass of vitamin C and love stirred into orange juice, went back to sleep, and had a look at work email after ten thirty. Almost nothing there. It was as if the "out of the office sick today" email I sent out at six a.m. actually got read by people, and the entire corporation was leaving me alone. Very strange. I was tempted to shake my laptop like an Etch-A-Sketch and start over, but no, so I took a bath.
I read a book while absorbing hot water and the steam clouded my glasses and carried toxins away to the ceiling, or so I hoped. There's really no cure for the common cold, however uncommon, but if there was, I would have it include a large tub of hot water. And ceiling speakers.
Feeling like crap is no excuse not to work, of course. Hooked wirelessly into the secure network, I may almost as well be at my desk. If I could create a work space, a sort of home cubicle, I could get plenty done. Lard knows there's plenty enough to do.
But I looked at all those emails (yeah, there was plenty, I underexaggerated), and all these action items required or whatever you call 'em, and the sun on the hillside out back with my landscaping tools strewn about, and the leftover food in the fridge, and all I could think was: It's Friday, and I'm kinda sick. Screw it. So instead I wrote out a story that had come to me as I drifted half-awake a few nights ago. I don't know what else to do with it, so here.
* * *
She walked past a row of rainbow streamers swirling in the wind, her head down, watching her feet. She was so tired. What was it, two in the afternoon? Around her tent flaps slapped, plastic on canvas. Somewhere a pot or something blew over and skiddered in the sand. People were shouting instructions to tie this down or that. A man bicycled by in a crazy wig and colorfully patched pants. He said something; she ignored it. She just wanted her tent. Something like home.
She found it. It was empty. She took off her shoes and put a brick on them and crawled in, tore off her dusty clothes, crawled into the nest. Where was he? She was too tired to think about it. Naptime.
She closed her eyes. Last night, they danced. Or was it just her? Who did she dance with? Someone had a big tent and there was music throbbing and she was happy to turn off her brain and let her body go with it. She did that for hours. Was he with her at all? He wasn’t when she went to bed. He was off, wherever. With whomever, no doubt. Getting it out of his system. What the fuck. Let him. She didn’t care.
Yes she did. That was why she let him. Her mind drifted past twenty years of marriage and childrearing with a man who, she now knew, was never really sure he wanted to be there. After all this time, he still needed something. He claimed he didn’t know what. Fuck a lot of women? Find a new love of his life? Whatever. Here on this crazy playa in the desert, she told him she didn’t give a shit, he could go do what he wanted, just don’t bring anything home. But he didn’t smile or say thank you or anything. Just stared at her, hugged her, kissed her, and walked away. To look at artworks and stuff, he said. Right.
So she danced, alone, and with other alone people. And then she went to bed. It was probably two in the morning. He wasn’t there. She didn’t want to know where he was. She went to sleep and dreamed she was in his arms, and for awhile, she’s pretty sure she really was in his arms. She remembered his body, lying as it does when he’s asleep, and the way he smelled, a smell she loved even after five days without a shower. But when she woke early in the morning, he wasn’t there.
Now she lay still in the windy afternoon and listened to the growing storm whip at the tent. She watched it shake and wondered how other campers were dealing with it. Forty thousand people were out here in a Nevada desert, participating in a sort of ad hoc human circus. She was inclined to worry about them, because this was her first time here and it felt like it should be everyone’s first. But then she figured everyone else knew what they were doing. So she indulged in a little worrying about people whose tents weren’t put up right or whatever, and then told herself to stop worrying and go to sleep. Her tent, their tent, was put up right, anyway. One thing he could do right was put up a tent.
The wind grew and sand flowed and blasted against the side walls and everything shook, but she felt safe, and was so tired, and drifted into windy dreams while Nature called out to remind everyone She was there. The wind grew and grew and fine white sand blew up everywhere. He stopped jogging. He didn’t even walk, but just stopped, feeling idiotic. He turned away from the wind and in that moment, realized he had no idea which way was the way back. If he went one step further, it might be the right way, but was more likely to be the wrong way. He was lost, completely lost. So he sat down, and waited.
How long would the storm last? An hour, two, three? No big deal. It was mid-afternoon, the wind was warm, he had a shirt on to protect at least some of his skin. He knew he could wait. The sand was annoying. It got into everything. A little got into his eye. He turned on his butt to put his back to the wind, hunched over with his face in his hands, breathed slowly, and waited. He sat there and waited a very long time.
He hoped she was okay. He knew she was probably in their tent. She was smart that way. She knew when trouble was coming and managed to avoid it. Not him, though. He was in a little bit of trouble now. He’d been in a lot of trouble lately with her. He was no longer stable, and he knew that and couldn’t fix it even though he knew she needed him to be stable. He needed to be something else, something other than the more or less stable family man he had been the past twenty years. Twenty years was long enough for that. All that time he had vague ideas of doing this or that, of quitting the corporate track, traveling, discovering friendships of every type except the type he already had; of finding women. And though he tried to hide it, he couldn’t, not from his own wife. She knew him better than he knew himself. It tore her apart, he understood that too; yet he couldn’t find enough of him that cared to work on fixing that, on returning to whoever he had been when they got married. It was as if to become a person who cared enough to work on repairing this brittle marriage was to become someone else, someone he wasn’t; and always he had to wonder, what was the point of that? What was the point of yet more pretending? What was the point of continuing to lead a life that wasn’t true, just to try and make someone else happy? Especially someone who wanted pretense least of all?
This ran through his mind and so did a lot of other things, memories, shared dreams. He kept his hands over his face. He felt sand build up and whistle around in his ears. The backs of his arms and his neck were stinging – he was getting sandblasted. Well, that sucked, but there was nothing he could do about it. He could only wait.
He danced with her last night. And then he danced with someone else, and someone else, and danced with the crowd generally, a middle aged man dancing out his inner hippie child. It was fun. Later he found himself in someone’s camp, drinking their vodka and speculating on the true nature of stars and of life out among them, and they gave him a blanket and let him sleep on their sofa. She probably thought he was with some woman, expecting perhaps it would bring some sort of closure, either to his wanderlust or to their marriage, whichever – she said she didn’t care which anymore – and he in turn chose not to care either. But in the depth of the night he did care and made his way back to their tent and slept with her awhile. She moaned happily but never awoke. In the morning he left early to go help his new friends make breakfast for a hundred people, and then did dishes afterwards. He always liked doing dishes.
And still the wind blew. He pretended he was stuck on a flight over the ocean, cramped in a seat, the roar in his ears. He pretended the roof had been ripped off and he had to sit still and small and not get blown away while the airplane returned to the airport. He pretended this a long time.
Maybe he napped, maybe not, he was never sure. The wind slowed way down, and fine white dust drifted everywhere. It was still blowing around, but it was much better. He knew the end was near. He had only to wait for the dust to settle, for the air to clear. He would see the vast tent city then, and could go home. Damn but he was thirsty. His throat was dry and his ears clogged with dust and sand. He still heard the roar.
The roar came at him and passed in a rush of headlights and knobby tires. Another one raced right after. Damn, he thought. How can they see? Could they see him? He was the same color as the dust. What the hell were they doing racing around blind anyway? He heard another coming. No way to know if it was coming from or going back to the place he wanted to be, so all he could do was stand and wait, either until they picked him up or the air cleared.
He heard another one coming and then saw the headlights in the dry dun mist, racing toward him across the flat desert floor. He stood up and raised his arms and watched it approach and when it came near she woke with a gasp and a cry, a hand clutching her throat, her heart racing. She cried out again, staring blindly through the exit of sleep. Something terrible. What? What happened? Where is he? Where are you, baby? Where are you?
The wind was gone, and in the silence she heard him answer, I’m right here, sweetheart. She didn’t see him. Where? I’m right here, he said. I am so, so sorry, honeybunch. I went for a jog out in the desert. I waited out the storm. Some people were out driving in it, driving fast. They couldn’t see me. I am so, so sorry.
Her eyes squeezed shut tight and tears flowed like screams and she felt his arms and legs and body wrap around hers, his body that she knew so well, the body that she had loved so well for so long embraced her and shrank into her, squeezing tears and cries out of her, and enveloped her heart in warmth and light and then, like a candle, melted away and went out.
I read a book while absorbing hot water and the steam clouded my glasses and carried toxins away to the ceiling, or so I hoped. There's really no cure for the common cold, however uncommon, but if there was, I would have it include a large tub of hot water. And ceiling speakers.
Feeling like crap is no excuse not to work, of course. Hooked wirelessly into the secure network, I may almost as well be at my desk. If I could create a work space, a sort of home cubicle, I could get plenty done. Lard knows there's plenty enough to do.
But I looked at all those emails (yeah, there was plenty, I underexaggerated), and all these action items required or whatever you call 'em, and the sun on the hillside out back with my landscaping tools strewn about, and the leftover food in the fridge, and all I could think was: It's Friday, and I'm kinda sick. Screw it. So instead I wrote out a story that had come to me as I drifted half-awake a few nights ago. I don't know what else to do with it, so here.
* * *
She walked past a row of rainbow streamers swirling in the wind, her head down, watching her feet. She was so tired. What was it, two in the afternoon? Around her tent flaps slapped, plastic on canvas. Somewhere a pot or something blew over and skiddered in the sand. People were shouting instructions to tie this down or that. A man bicycled by in a crazy wig and colorfully patched pants. He said something; she ignored it. She just wanted her tent. Something like home.
She found it. It was empty. She took off her shoes and put a brick on them and crawled in, tore off her dusty clothes, crawled into the nest. Where was he? She was too tired to think about it. Naptime.
She closed her eyes. Last night, they danced. Or was it just her? Who did she dance with? Someone had a big tent and there was music throbbing and she was happy to turn off her brain and let her body go with it. She did that for hours. Was he with her at all? He wasn’t when she went to bed. He was off, wherever. With whomever, no doubt. Getting it out of his system. What the fuck. Let him. She didn’t care.
Yes she did. That was why she let him. Her mind drifted past twenty years of marriage and childrearing with a man who, she now knew, was never really sure he wanted to be there. After all this time, he still needed something. He claimed he didn’t know what. Fuck a lot of women? Find a new love of his life? Whatever. Here on this crazy playa in the desert, she told him she didn’t give a shit, he could go do what he wanted, just don’t bring anything home. But he didn’t smile or say thank you or anything. Just stared at her, hugged her, kissed her, and walked away. To look at artworks and stuff, he said. Right.
So she danced, alone, and with other alone people. And then she went to bed. It was probably two in the morning. He wasn’t there. She didn’t want to know where he was. She went to sleep and dreamed she was in his arms, and for awhile, she’s pretty sure she really was in his arms. She remembered his body, lying as it does when he’s asleep, and the way he smelled, a smell she loved even after five days without a shower. But when she woke early in the morning, he wasn’t there.
Now she lay still in the windy afternoon and listened to the growing storm whip at the tent. She watched it shake and wondered how other campers were dealing with it. Forty thousand people were out here in a Nevada desert, participating in a sort of ad hoc human circus. She was inclined to worry about them, because this was her first time here and it felt like it should be everyone’s first. But then she figured everyone else knew what they were doing. So she indulged in a little worrying about people whose tents weren’t put up right or whatever, and then told herself to stop worrying and go to sleep. Her tent, their tent, was put up right, anyway. One thing he could do right was put up a tent.
The wind grew and sand flowed and blasted against the side walls and everything shook, but she felt safe, and was so tired, and drifted into windy dreams while Nature called out to remind everyone She was there. The wind grew and grew and fine white sand blew up everywhere. He stopped jogging. He didn’t even walk, but just stopped, feeling idiotic. He turned away from the wind and in that moment, realized he had no idea which way was the way back. If he went one step further, it might be the right way, but was more likely to be the wrong way. He was lost, completely lost. So he sat down, and waited.
How long would the storm last? An hour, two, three? No big deal. It was mid-afternoon, the wind was warm, he had a shirt on to protect at least some of his skin. He knew he could wait. The sand was annoying. It got into everything. A little got into his eye. He turned on his butt to put his back to the wind, hunched over with his face in his hands, breathed slowly, and waited. He sat there and waited a very long time.
He hoped she was okay. He knew she was probably in their tent. She was smart that way. She knew when trouble was coming and managed to avoid it. Not him, though. He was in a little bit of trouble now. He’d been in a lot of trouble lately with her. He was no longer stable, and he knew that and couldn’t fix it even though he knew she needed him to be stable. He needed to be something else, something other than the more or less stable family man he had been the past twenty years. Twenty years was long enough for that. All that time he had vague ideas of doing this or that, of quitting the corporate track, traveling, discovering friendships of every type except the type he already had; of finding women. And though he tried to hide it, he couldn’t, not from his own wife. She knew him better than he knew himself. It tore her apart, he understood that too; yet he couldn’t find enough of him that cared to work on fixing that, on returning to whoever he had been when they got married. It was as if to become a person who cared enough to work on repairing this brittle marriage was to become someone else, someone he wasn’t; and always he had to wonder, what was the point of that? What was the point of yet more pretending? What was the point of continuing to lead a life that wasn’t true, just to try and make someone else happy? Especially someone who wanted pretense least of all?
This ran through his mind and so did a lot of other things, memories, shared dreams. He kept his hands over his face. He felt sand build up and whistle around in his ears. The backs of his arms and his neck were stinging – he was getting sandblasted. Well, that sucked, but there was nothing he could do about it. He could only wait.
He danced with her last night. And then he danced with someone else, and someone else, and danced with the crowd generally, a middle aged man dancing out his inner hippie child. It was fun. Later he found himself in someone’s camp, drinking their vodka and speculating on the true nature of stars and of life out among them, and they gave him a blanket and let him sleep on their sofa. She probably thought he was with some woman, expecting perhaps it would bring some sort of closure, either to his wanderlust or to their marriage, whichever – she said she didn’t care which anymore – and he in turn chose not to care either. But in the depth of the night he did care and made his way back to their tent and slept with her awhile. She moaned happily but never awoke. In the morning he left early to go help his new friends make breakfast for a hundred people, and then did dishes afterwards. He always liked doing dishes.
And still the wind blew. He pretended he was stuck on a flight over the ocean, cramped in a seat, the roar in his ears. He pretended the roof had been ripped off and he had to sit still and small and not get blown away while the airplane returned to the airport. He pretended this a long time.
Maybe he napped, maybe not, he was never sure. The wind slowed way down, and fine white dust drifted everywhere. It was still blowing around, but it was much better. He knew the end was near. He had only to wait for the dust to settle, for the air to clear. He would see the vast tent city then, and could go home. Damn but he was thirsty. His throat was dry and his ears clogged with dust and sand. He still heard the roar.
The roar came at him and passed in a rush of headlights and knobby tires. Another one raced right after. Damn, he thought. How can they see? Could they see him? He was the same color as the dust. What the hell were they doing racing around blind anyway? He heard another coming. No way to know if it was coming from or going back to the place he wanted to be, so all he could do was stand and wait, either until they picked him up or the air cleared.
He heard another one coming and then saw the headlights in the dry dun mist, racing toward him across the flat desert floor. He stood up and raised his arms and watched it approach and when it came near she woke with a gasp and a cry, a hand clutching her throat, her heart racing. She cried out again, staring blindly through the exit of sleep. Something terrible. What? What happened? Where is he? Where are you, baby? Where are you?
The wind was gone, and in the silence she heard him answer, I’m right here, sweetheart. She didn’t see him. Where? I’m right here, he said. I am so, so sorry, honeybunch. I went for a jog out in the desert. I waited out the storm. Some people were out driving in it, driving fast. They couldn’t see me. I am so, so sorry.
Her eyes squeezed shut tight and tears flowed like screams and she felt his arms and legs and body wrap around hers, his body that she knew so well, the body that she had loved so well for so long embraced her and shrank into her, squeezing tears and cries out of her, and enveloped her heart in warmth and light and then, like a candle, melted away and went out.
Monday, February 18, 2008
pages turned to dust
Father Luke’s appeal is in the simple and truthful art of choosing words. He creates the skeleton of a world, and I like to visit it in part because I can fill it in.
I’m not very sensitized to poetry, just as I’m not sensitized to hip-hop or to a good cigar. I like his work because I can relate to the life it describes. Some of this is geographical: I know Santa Cruz – I can smell the eucalyptus in the morning fog, I can hear the Dipper rattle, I can see the light on the swells, thick with seaweed. I’ve seen the people who’ve washed up there, spoken to a couple. Santa Cruz is one of those eddies where folks find their wandering ends. Berkeley’s another.
But a lot of it is even more personal. His life, drifting and bemused, is similar to the one I lived on that other channel, you know, the one that comes in late at night in black and white: Some guy looks at what might have been – college, wife, kids, house, career – and decides what the hell, at least he did it his way, and dies old and poor and satisfied – and I’m the guy he might have been, touched by a ghost when the real world looked in on me, and I’m left wondering, what the hell was that?
Father Luke never looks at what might have been. He looks at what is, and says just enough to let us in but not enough to keep us out. That’s art.
More and more.
Thursday, January 03, 2008
Wan o' the immortals, but he's deid noo
Flashman was a delightful bastard, and Private MacAuslan and his mates mostly beyond words. I love Fraser's very-un-p.c. depictions of antebellum America and I can only hope, beyond hope, that somehow Flashy's memoirs of his service on both sides of the Civil War will somehow come to light. In any case, one of my literary heroes has gone on.
George MacDonald Fraser -- 1925-2008
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Con men, crime writers
Recent claims by Jimmy Carter that George W. Bush is the worst President in history have brought to mind Warren G. Harding, for he is most often connected with that honor. He was pretty much a boob, yet the sketch at Wikipedia* also shows he was a pretty interesting man. Self-made, a first-rate orator, tall and handsome. He was essentially bullied into marrying and got his revenge with a couple affairs, one of which led to a daughter and the other, a successful case of extortion against the Republican Party. His was the first newsreel campaign, and thus he was the first to be remarked upon as being Presidential in appearance and manner as distinct from character. I see him as being something of a Kennedy or Clinton in his private life, a Reagan at projecting image, and comparable to Bush when it comes to cluelessness and cronyism.
Some good men get elected and are undone by it — Hoover and Taft come to mind as good men undone by the office. I used to think Carter, too, but I'm not so sure any more. I think his low ranking is well-deserved and the more he says these days, the more I think it. Reagan succeeded in part because his conservative instincts were timely but also because his Hollywood-trained mannerisms were timely too. Some natural-born criminals get in there as well — Nixon was brilliant but had the instincts of a crime boss, and G. W. Bush is a first-rate con man (or, if Harding was first-rate, then Bush perhaps ranks second).
All this made me think that Harding would be a great subject for a novel of historical fiction, confidence games, and crime. A quick search reveals that James Ellroy thinks so too. But whether or not he will really write the book, I don’t know. I do know that Ellroy has led an interesting life, and I haven’t read him yet, and he is said to have a unique style so I really need to get on it.
* Wikipedia sucks and is indispensable at the same time. It is indispensable because it offers quick info and insights into everything from presidential elections to architectural features to musical styles. It sucks because too often the articles are not only dubious but badly written.
Some good men get elected and are undone by it — Hoover and Taft come to mind as good men undone by the office. I used to think Carter, too, but I'm not so sure any more. I think his low ranking is well-deserved and the more he says these days, the more I think it. Reagan succeeded in part because his conservative instincts were timely but also because his Hollywood-trained mannerisms were timely too. Some natural-born criminals get in there as well — Nixon was brilliant but had the instincts of a crime boss, and G. W. Bush is a first-rate con man (or, if Harding was first-rate, then Bush perhaps ranks second).
All this made me think that Harding would be a great subject for a novel of historical fiction, confidence games, and crime. A quick search reveals that James Ellroy thinks so too. But whether or not he will really write the book, I don’t know. I do know that Ellroy has led an interesting life, and I haven’t read him yet, and he is said to have a unique style so I really need to get on it.
* Wikipedia sucks and is indispensable at the same time. It is indispensable because it offers quick info and insights into everything from presidential elections to architectural features to musical styles. It sucks because too often the articles are not only dubious but badly written.
