Category Archives: Observation

On the Death of My Writing Father

07 Thursday Jun 2012

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The day began with email from a former student and long time friend. It was short and to the point, but he knew it would speak volumes to me.

“RIP Ray Bradbury. Shitty day.”

After a quick search I learned that…I find it hard to even write it…Ray Bradbury died last night.

The world is a darker place for me today.

Though I never had the great good fortune or privilege to meet him, at the opening of each new school year when I begin Fahrenheit 451 with my honors classes or earlier in my teaching career—The Martian Chronicles with my sophomores, I always feel as if I am hosting the annual visit of a dear old friend and mentor.

During my first years of teaching English, The Martian Chronicles was a unit I always looked forward to exploring and re-exploring with my students. I began teaching in the early 90s and I always got a kick out of my students’ reaction to the titles of the compilation’s loosely related Martian tales. They would predictably chuckle at the dates—“January 1999—Rocket Summer” and “February 1999—Ylla” and so on and so forth as Bradbury proceeded to describe a technology that was to him at the time he penned the tale cutting edge and exotic but to my 16-year olds, who considered Star Wars a relic of their elementary school days (and later their parents’ era), archaic, rather quaint and therefore funny.

That was fine however, because it was my entry-point to a discussion of how science fiction had influenced our society and our lives. When they understood that the master writer had penned his opening tale in 1947, two years after the end of WWII and Hitler’s V2 rockets, ten years prior to Sputnik I and more than 20 years before Armstrong and Aldrin walked on the Moon, their amusement always turned to curiosity if not outright respect. Thus, would begin an exploration of Bradbury’s Verne-ian vision, his prosaic turn of phrase, his mastery of description, his social insight that would culminate in our own imaginary exploration and colonization of Mars. I still have some of the work produced by students who, as we imagined setting up our own outpost of humanity on Mars, were forced to deal with the same challenges, moral dilemmas and ethical conundrums as faced by Bradbury’s protagonists. We set up pretend societies and developed faux cultures, exotic alphabets, New Martian laws and institutions. One year a class accused another class’s colony of “war-crimes” against the indigenous Martian population. Another year and a student imagined the political campaign of a New Martian faction that advocated succession from a Terra Ferma that, as she passionately put it, “…burned books, polluted the air and oceans and refused to learn the lessons of its history.” I think Spender would have been pleased.

I look back on those days with great fondness. Bradbury, though in his 70s, was alive and writing, his literary ideas and intellectual challenges resonated with my students (as they will forever). I was younger and full of an idealism that seemed to feed off his writing. It was a glorious time. My copy of the Chronicles was a 1963 edition published by Time Inc. It included stories that later editions would not have: “The Fire Balloons,” “The Wilderness,” and the provoking “The Way in the Middle of the Air,” which would later in the year dovetailed so splendidly with To Kill a Mockingbird. I understand that a The Martian Chronicles: The Complete Edition has since been published with a section entitled “The Other Martian Tales” which includes 22 additional stories, some unpublished. I hope to read them one day.

I mourn his passing as a member of his extended literary family of would-be writers who took inspiration from his example, his extraordinary voice and wonderful visions. His Zen in the Art of Writing was my constant bedside companion for many years. My copy is marked, highlighted and underlined chronicling my own search for a Muse worth writing for. I regret never having heard him speak. Not long ago there was a writers’ conference in southern California wherein he spoke at a dinner event. Though tempted I decided against attending due to the price, time and distance. How deeply I repent that decision now. I’d always hoped to tell him, in some way or another, of his influence on both my teaching and my writing aspirations. I should have at least written. I would have loved to had him sign my copy of The Martian Chronicles; it would have become a family-treasure! As it is, I’ll have to settle with this small tribute, re-reading his works and searching out digital recordings on the Internet. Take a lesson, Andre’ :-T

His passing reminds me that time waits for no one and that the end of an epoch approaches. Only a few of the writers who made serious inroads into my heart and mind during that magical time when the young truly “discover” reading what they want to read as a unique and singularly powerful and empowering privilege, still remain alive: Larry Niven, Jerry Pournelle, Michael Moorcock and Jack Vance—authors who along with Clark, Asimov, Heinlein, Herbert, Tolkien, Zelazny, Norton, Lewis and Leiber (themselves the prodigy of Howard, Lovecraft, Burroughs and the like) will forever stand tall in my dreams, all my “Writing” fore-bearers, grand parents, aunts and uncles.

I will never leave such a literary foot print as Bradbury, to whom I owe so much for my teaching, as well as writing, inspiration, but if I plan to leave any literary mark at all, be the writing-son I want to be, I must release my doubts, put away my apprehensions; I must damn the naysayers who tout “…too late…too old…too overdone…too cliché…too quaint…too passé…” I must, as the master put it, order my doubts to, …stand aside, forget targets, let the characters, your fingers, body, blood, and heart do (Zen 139). I am thankfully reminded of his poem Troy…a gift wherein I have always found comfort and inspiration. I hope I will be forgiven if I quote it in full here.

My Troy was there, of course,
Though people said: Not so.
Blind Homer’s dead. His ancient myth’s
No way to go. Leave off. Don’t dig.
But I then rigged some means whereby
To seam my earthen soul
or die.
I knew my Troy.
Folks warned this boy it was mere tale
And nothing more.
I bore their warning, with a smile,
While all the while my spade
Was delving Homer’s gardened sun and shade.
Gods! Never mind! Cried friends: Dumb Homer’s blind!
How can he show you ruins that n’er were?
I’m sure, I said. He speaks. I hear. I’m sure.
Their advice spurned
I dug when all their backs were turned,
For I had learned when I was eight:
Doom was my Fate, they said. The world would end!
That day I panicked, thought it true,
That you and I and they
Would never see the light of the next day—
Yet that day came.
With shame I saw it come, recalled my doubt
And wondered what those Doomsters were about?
From that day on I kept a private joy,
And did not let them sense
My buried Troy;
For if they had, what scorns,
Derision, jokes;
I sealed my City deep
From all those folks;
And, growing, dug each day. What did I find
And given as gift by Homer old and Homer blind?
One Troy? No, ten!
Ten Troys? No, two times ten! Three dozen!
And each a richer, finer, brighter cousin!
And in my flesh and blood,
And each one true.
So what’s this mean?
Go dig the Troy in you(150-1)!

Good-bye, my Writing-sire, and though, as you quoted Byron in “June 2001—And The Moon Be Still As Bright,” …we’ll go no more a-roving,/So late into the night, I will continue to dig for my Troy, my Tanelorn, my Camelot…my own Martian city wherein the denizens celebrate exotic festivals and, “There are beautiful boats as slim as women, beautiful women as slim as boats, women the color of sand, women with fire flowers in their hands…” (Martian 107), long wine-filled canals, towers of bone and crystal, with “…great friezes of beautiful animals, white limbed cat things, and yellow-limbed sun symbols, and statues of bull-like creatures and statues of men and women and huge fine-featured dogs”(85). I will dig and succeed to whatever measure and in whatever form Fate and my Muse and my Desire see fit to afford for me. Thank you, thank you, thank you for your words, your visions and your inspirations, my writing-father. Because of you, the moon will forever be as bright and Mars as real as the moon.

So, we’ll go no more a-roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.

For the sword outwears its sheath
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.

Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we’ll go no more a-roving
By the light of the moon.
–Lord Byron, 1817

Bradbury, Ray. The Martian Chronicles. New York: Time Inc., 1963.
Bradbury, Ray. Zen In the Art of Writing. New York: Bantam Books, 1990.

I Feel As If I Haven’t Written In Years

19 Saturday May 2012

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I feel as if I haven’t written in years. Nothing, of course, could be further from the truth. I haven’t written on my manuscripts in months would be more accurate. The last month of the school year has arrived and that mixed feeling of giddy exhilaration and profound sadness has eclipsed my creative efforts. I’ve continued to read and study Kress’s Characters, Emotions & Viewpoints. I’ve husbanded a fledgling student writing group at school. I’ve begun a farewell-fairy tale for some of my students whom I will miss very much, but I’ve made little or no progress on Scions; indeed, I’m near giving up on it and turning to other projects. What those other projects are, I have no clue.

Thus, I’m out of sorts and out of discipline. I am tired nearly all the time…dangerously so. I am always like this during the last four weeks of school. As an advisor for student council, my work load grows exponentially, particularly with the advent of prom (an all encompassing event at our school) and student elections. I am also a member of various committees: Leadership, Safety and APIP and each of these demands its due with year-end meetings and wrap-ups. But in the end, I am still a teacher and dazed that I still have so much to do, amazed that any one could possibly think I’ve extra time on my hands to do anything else and dismayed that what time I have left is not enough! I am also so angered by the attitude some teachers and parents in the district have who feel that after STAR testing the year is over.

“Sorry folks, but there’s still six weeks left. My seniors and sophomores need tending: their drama, their grades, their plans, their ever-shortening attention spans need attention. We have goals and your ‘all done!’ attitude is not helping.”

Bastards.

I have to admit however, that I am growing restive and am looking forward to the end of the year. That being said, I find I am having to command myself to concentrate, not simply on work but in order to control my growing inner sadness. I’m ready for summer to begin and to enjoy the freedom it offers me, the rest and rejuvenation, but I’m not completely ready to say “good-bye” to my charges. So much drama, so much emotion, so much time invested: some with effect, some wasted, but I will still miss the various tribes within my jurisdiction, the L.A.V.A.s, the Fairy Queens, the Heroes and the Fosterlings, with bone-soul fondness.

Ah, my L.A.V.A. poets, writers and wannabies (and those who simply want to hang out with such), especially my senior L.A.V.A.s who I just got to know just this year, I will miss you. Who would have thought that an abandoned house on Loon Lake could have brought us together so tightly. How I will miss our afternoon discussions. No web-forum will ever replace our fun filled afternoons.

Beto, my ruggedly handsome giant, foot ball player, enforcer, body-guard, and lady-killer, who would have thought you were such a deep thinker. What marvelous poet you are. The rhymes literally pour from you. Keep seeking your voice, my brother. It has so much to tell the world.

Theresa with that hilarious sense of humor you must share! You drip ideas and plots like dew. All you need to do is concentrate on one flower and I’m sure it will blossom into the story you are looking for. Forget the naysayers…go and be the writer you dream of being.

Brandi, with that goofy anime puff fob hanging from your horn-rim glasses, no one else could have sported a duct-tape prom dress so seriously, so stylishly and yet with such panache and humor. You too need to begin writing those stories down. One cannot be a Scrivener unless one scrives.

The Fairy Queens tribe are an elite crowd—almost but not quite surrogate daughters. I’ve been told I have, “…a gift for speaking girl…” I don’t know if this is true, but I was raised by women, mentored by women and have raised two women myself, so there may be some validly to the compliment.

Samantha-of-the-Eats with an appetite as voracious as she his skinny and who can wield a “pinky promise” with deadly accuracy. Thank you for your thoughtful gift at prom. It truly was the best dance I’d attended in years.

Megan-of-the-smiles who could charm the horn off a charging rino, but has too big a heart to do so—what truly happy thoughts I leave the year behind with will be your legacy. Your gift at the prom was like a life-preserver to a drowning man. Thank you.

Lasalette, my Lady-of-tears and adopted child, so brave and so heart-broken and so in love with the wrong person—may you find a man worthy of your love and may it help you realize how all the drama was really nothing more than that.

Chelsea, Thief-of-Hearts, who magically grew up right before my pride-filled eyes and stole my heart—your greetings, hugs and good-byes at the end of each class were like rejuvenating breezes on a hot day.

Gabby of the beleaguered office. Nothing like a group of loud mouthed know-it-alls who think they can do it better but don’t have the stones to step up and do something about it, to make your senior year perfect. Sheesh!—long may you live to spit in their eyes, girl-friend!

Kathryn, Touched by God, so, so eager to please, so intense, so worried, so curious—it’s time to fly, little bird. This place is too small compared to what you have to offer it. Go exploring.

And then there are The Heroes, the twitchy thoroughbreds, all on their Campbell-esque journeys, all in search of something as fledgling Jedi and Labyrinth solvers. The wounds left by your passing will eventually heal, experience has taught me this, but the rending will be particularly acute. Oh, my young heroes, the final threshold guardian is at hand and though the leaving will be as glorious for you as it will be bloody for me.

M, how I will miss your intensity and your grief—I hope you find the solace you seek, until then keep your heart dancing and dancing and dancing. It is what you do and maybe your only path to true freedom.

Tyler, my rock-and-roll godling, I will miss our afternoon conversations about music and gaming—may you find that place of creativity and performance all great musicians and poets seek. Now, go forth and slay dragons.

Tori, Lady of Horses, Basque Princess, how you have sought yourself and what a marvelous woman you have become—I wish for you Andalusian dreams and equine realities…I know a Basque princeling awaits you (one taste of your amazing molasses cookies and he will be yours forever!).

Last, but no least, are The Fosterlings, those who have worked their way under my skin and into my deepest heart despite my best defenses. Of these I can hardly write for the huge lump in my throat.

Santiago, student for two years and Teachers Aid par excellence for three, how am I to keep my classroom going without you to set me straight each morning? You know my curriculum better than I do and I have no doubt you could teach it with greater results. Each day for four years we have greeted each other and set the tone for the day. I can hardly set my mind to even wonder what it will be like next year when I walk into my morning classroom devoid of you and your calming presence. You are one of those rare students with whom I’m sure I would have been friends with even if we had met under other circumstances. You have been a true student-friend to me and I will never forget you.

Mary, Mary, Mary…hardest and must frustrating of all, how deeply you are entrenched in my heart. I have not allowed a student so far in since Marcus died fifteen years ago. This has been made all the more painful by your butterfly tendencies. How many of us have you gone through as new confidants and mentors each year, reaping our pollen only to fly to the next flower at the turn of the year? Nonetheless, and though visited less often, I can hardly calculate the void you will leave behind after next Thursday. The thought is a hot stone taken from the fire. You have been a daughter, a source of strength and love, a protégé, my padowan learner and student-friend. Words choke and I can hardly express how important your presence has become to my daily life, but I recognize my role as Gate-Keeper and Threshold Guardian has come to an end. It is time once again to leave.

I truly love you all, my students, my charges, my children. I will miss you all with happy sorrow. Go and do wonderful things. Let no one stop you. Give the nay-sayers not even the time of day, for no one knows the future. Go create it. Some of you will come back to visit and I encourage you to do so, but only that you might see and feel how you have outgrown this place. It will be different and awkward. You will have changed. It will no feel right. You will be eager to leave and that will be good, because you have so much to do…out there, forward, not backward to me.

As for myself? The inspiring seas are rough at this point and my muse, though not completely silent, is more than understanding as she sits to the left of the helm patiently watching me pilot these last few rocky days. I look forward to docking two weeks from now, debarking with her on my arm, and finding a local tavern host her to a meaty steak full of red juices, inspiration and ideas for a summer manuscript. We’ll discuss the next stage of our journey: CampNaNo One? CampNaNo Two? Scions? Kevodran? Mary MacLeod? Marchers? A book of poems? Memoir? Or something entirely different?

I can hardly wait.

The Quill and the Drone

16 Monday Apr 2012

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Another Spring Break down. Though I wrote, quite a lot actually, I did no character or manuscript development. Most of what I wrote had to do with my other passion: bagpiping. I wrote about bagpiping and the “Ceol Mor” or big music, hammering my piping blog trying to get into a shape fit for public consumption. I have had a dramatic love affair with the Great Highland Bagpipe, as apposed to the wide variety of other pipes, for nearly thirty years now and in the “about” profile for the site, what started off as a paragraph or two soon became a page or two…or three…or four…or more. It was odd to realize that even though I felt my history was ragged and full of holes—years when I set my pipes aside for lesser things or when disenchanted with the band scene, I didn’t play for months—I nonetheless had lived my life with the pipes as a constant presence and as a result I surprisingly had quite a bit to relate.

Writing is the exact same way. My writing past is nothing to speak of: no published manuscripts, no articles in the press, no poems read to coffee house denizens or auditoriums full of half angry half adults. That being said, my desk is surrounded by papers covered in scribbles, note books stuffed with ideas and essays on those ideas, no less than three active journals, books on writing and music, novels and research marked by pencil, highlighter and pen, decorated with note covered book marks, sticky-notes and corner folded pages. What an amazing mess. My life has been writing, more so than I ever considered.

I am prepping for two piping competitions: one at the end of the week and another at the end of the month. All the flotsam and jetsam of playing pipes, the ephemeral experiences: memories, advice and lessons, as well as material resources: chanter types, reeds and notes from my piping journal, are being funneled down to shape a set of tunes for “publication”…in this case before a judge and the public at hand. Though comparisons exist with my writing ambitions, I know it is different, but at present I see the parallels clearly. In fact I feel the piping is informing my writing. Though it may not seem to me on the outside that I’m making progress, in truth all those bits and pieces are coming together and converging for an eventual public performance. There is movement, there is creation, as all those elements work, congeal, separate and boil themselves down to their essences. There is more history there…more going on than meets the cursory eye.

Each day I seriously indulge my musical practice: chanter-work and then the great instrument herself, I come that much closer to the goal of playing well. Though small it is one more performance of a tune than I had before, one more chance to change, fix and learn and all these chances add up. I film myself as I march about my library and then review it pretending I am the judge, just as I read my manuscript draft out loud to myself, record it, then review and critique it. I hammer a difficult succession of notes to get the phrasing just so even as I write and rewrite a passage to get it just right. I read the history of my instrument and the stories behind the great players and the great tunes so as to better understand how best to play, just as I do the same with the great writers and literary movements of the past…they inform my present even though it may seem they aren’t adding a single period to a line of my manuscript. In the end however, it is truly a matter of winding the instrument and practicing, the act of setting ink to paper that truly matters. No judge is going to offer me the prize for knowing John Ban MacKenzie’s biography. No publisher is going to offer me a deal because I am expert in Tolkien. It is the playing and practice, the writing and rewriting that will lead me there.

Aye…and then there are the judges, I.E. the critics and Joe-public may or may not like what comes out, few indeed may even read what I write or even deign to tap their foot while I play. Like my piping, my performance may lack in this, that or the other thing. So too may my writing, but I’ll learn and go on to the next performance or competition…plot or revision.

At the bottom of it all is the common truth that I will always play…I will always write. It is something that I will always do regardless of competition or contest; performance or publication. I must do it. It is who I am. I will always search for and relish that moment when the reeds vibrate in sympathy and the warm sound of the drones cords with the chanter and it surrounds the heart like a comforting blanket and my whole being seems uplifted and light…when the ideas are flowing, the characters seem to speak to me and I am not “here” anymore. I am there with them in my writing, in a world of exotic sights, sounds and smells.

I must play…I must write.

Awash In a Sea of Voices

04 Wednesday Apr 2012

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My curach is so small and the waves, so full of voices, are so big. The skin at my feet billows between the undulating ribs, in and out, like the breathing of some tired animal. Shadows of water pass over me as I fall in the troughs, and looking up the dark green slope, I am too paralyzed to paddle. Doubts. Fatigue. I am but a single voice lost in the midst of the tempest, all yammering for attention, all crying for land.

Growing Girls

03 Tuesday Apr 2012

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I continue to read Kress and I am happy to report it is making a difference as I consider my characters from various vantage points of motivation, emotion and inner conflict. The Scion girls are changing and beginning to take on more rounded shapes. They are trying on new clothes to see if they fit, are good enough for alterations or should be discarded. This is pleasing to me as the more “real” and curvy they become, the easier it is to write about them walking, talking and interacting with each other and the environment.

The more this process continues, the more convinced I am that a major, if not radical, rewrite of the entire storyline is a good idea. Though I will keep many of the major landmarks, I can tell the plot is drifting away from my intended Propp-esque outline. I still want it to be recognizable by those familiar with his work, but I am beginning to wonder if his ideas were not hemming in my own. Indeed, this may have been a problem all along and not just in relation to Propp and my plot. I had intended to write up these characters based on three online friends. I think I may have been overly concerned with whether or not the Scion girls were recognizable to my three friends. Thus, instead of letting them develop, ripen and mature into who or what my muse wanted them to be, I was subconsciously holding them back to keep them purposely familiar.

Presently I’m in chapter four and working on a “Emotional Mini-Bio” for each of them. It is one of those things more experienced writers do without prompting. I however, need to follow this more formal approach it seems and put these characters at least through their paces. As hinted above, it is helping. In the meantime, in another dark corner of my mind, additional plot ideas and adjustments have been simmering, changes and edits based on my discoveries.

It is my hope to digest Kress’ suggestions and use them more intuitively with my next set of characters of which there are not a few hammering at the gates, as it were, clamoring for admission and due process. Sorry folks, one set of zombies at a time.

Time…sigh.

My world is indeed crowded, both the world of my imagination and the physical world. School is on the downhill slope. Both my charges and I are looking forward to May 31st with great anticipation. Presently Prom preparations, senior-itis and Benchmarks/STAR/Exit exams are primary concerns. On the home front an approaching set of solo piping competitions at the end of the month are forefront in my mind and the limited time I have after school is devoted to practice and trying to get a “…good going pipe” ready for the contests (I’ll keep my piping comments to a minimum and expand on them in my piping blog). My Lady’s third stop smoking attempt in the last ten years continues apace and I’m happy to say, so far so good. I am bursting with pride and admiration for her whole hearted decision and determined follow through. She is, and always will be, my inspiration. It does, however make for some tense moments and cranky days, but I could careless as long as she is happy.

My own attempts at life changing also continues as my diet adjusts for the better and…other things…begin to find their place. Time however, and as ever, is at a premium: writing in the morning; school during the day; piping in the afternoon; family—when our schedules coincide—in the evening; catch up on the weekends. Spring break starts Friday. I look forward to more family time, as well as time to both write and pipe…it would be nice to do some woodworking too and go for a bike ride or two.

Mountaineering the ‘Craftians’

29 Thursday Mar 2012

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Rocky terrain. Uphill going. Steeply inclined. Freezing. Snow drifts. A writer climbs the mountains.

Though I’d been writing in one form or another since I could; though I teach fiction and academic writing; though I have been an avid reader of contemporary and classic lit, I knew I had a lot to learn when it came to writing fiction. Just as many erroneously assume if one can speak a language, one can teach it, so too with writing fiction. Simply because one has the creative urge to write does not assume they can write interesting and create well composed fiction. It’s a craft—talent and natural ability notwithstanding—that must be learned, honed and challenged with “…careful practice during a severe course of training…” Isolated writers ploughing along, accumulating huge word counts in the wee hours of the morning or dark silences of the night easy forget how difficult it can be to do what they do well when overshadowed and wowed by such mountainous output.

On a NaNo forum I asked about what books the writers there had found helpful in developing craft. It was really surprising to me how many relied exclusively on learning by “…reading other writer’s fiction…” I agree and acknowledge that this as a wonderful source, one I utilize myself. I can’t help but wonder however, if that isn’t enough. Books and classes on writing my seem extemporaneous, but I am coming to appreciate more and more how much I don’t know as I read where other writers have sojourned before me and the elevated view they discovered there that I was unaware of—things that would have been obtuse or downright illusive were I to rely exclusively on gleaning from another writer’s fiction alone. Maybe it is just me, my learning modality, how I work best and my self-image that’s at play here, but…wow…this shit is hard to do right.

As I read my work I see more clearly how it’s such a pile of words and has very little to do with craft, but is more of a semi-creative vomit. For many that’s as far as it goes. Behold my mountain!

As I continue to read Kress’s book on character, emotion and point of view, in the back of my mind I am climbing with the girls from Scions. As I subject them to the exercises suggested at the end of each chapter—not all the exercises just those that seem applicable—it is becoming more and more evident that they lack something and that this ‘something’ is what is keeping me from composing about them as freely as I did the characters from The Kevodran.

I’m not entirely sure yet, but I have a growing suspicion it has to do with conflict. It’s not that there is no conflict, mind you, they’ve got plenty to deal with, but it may not be the right kind of conflict between the right characters, it may be too ‘outward,’ inter-conflict between themselves and others rather than intra-conflict within their relationship with each other. Even though I’ve given the girls divergent backgrounds, and skill sets, they still have too much in common having been raised together in a monastery for the past half dozen years. This commonality is for me, part of the “Screen of Reality” through which the girls perceive and react to the world around them and each other. I have a feeling the mesh is too fine, too uniform, too similar and, as a result, the girls are not reacting as individuals but as parrots of each other. I suspect these girls need private agendas. I suspect I may have to end up ‘breaking up’ their friendship in order to make them more interesting and appealing to a reader, as well as to my imagination. I may need to include the deeper underlying challenge of getting over themselves, setting aside petty behavior and learning to work together so that they might complete the overriding challenge in an interesting fashion.

This could mean a major rewrite, a climb back down the mountain, a resupply and a brand new attempt along a different route. While this may not necessarily negate the 60,000 words thus written, as it is arguable they were necessary to formulating a better plan, and though I would use material from them, a new beginning, a uniquely different beginning is in order.

Sigh.

Nothing is sure yet. I still have more than half the book to go. These are simply my thoughts at present. Now, back to my pitons and ropes.

At A Crossroads

20 Tuesday Mar 2012

Posted by in Observation, Reading, Scions of the Moon, The Kevodran, Writing

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Every now and then I have to remind myself that even though I greatly desire to be published, I really write because I must. I would write no matter what–in my journal, here or my other blogs or one of my manuscripts; I am, in that sense, a writer. Reminding myself of that takes the edge off the paralyzing anxiousness. The dynamic tension, on the other hand, that’s something I don’t want to put to sleep. The dividing line between the two states is razor’s thin and allowing myself to reach the edge is perilous indeed. Case in point, dynamic tension has been nodding off for some time now.

I have ‘chilled’ on my manuscripts, in despair trying to distance myself from the dilemma of which to throw myself at, like taking a nap before re-attacking a knotty problem. I need to give myself over to one of them however. I need dynamic tension to replace anxiousness. I sense I am at a crossroads and about to make a wholehearted choice. Regardless, I need to stop thinking about it and act.

Scions of the Moon as ever baulked at my entreaties and only released her secrets in reluctant flexing spasms like a choking car. There is something wrong, something in the way. I think it has to do with POV. I have three main characters and just can’t get my mind around how to handle their point-of-views. They are close (same gender and age); they come from similar experiences (abandoned in one form or another…without family); have been raised under nearly identical circumstances (monastery); encountered the same problem (the kidnap of their friend and no one to believe them); and have to face the same fear (leaving the monastery… to go ‘out-there’ for the sake of their friend).

While in the monastery, it didn’t see too much of a problem, but now they stand before the wall ready to climb over it and I’m holding them back because I don’t feel confident enough to portray their experience convincingly–or interestingly–enough.

I have my magic system developed enough that I’m comfortable with sending them over and writing about any arcane encounters they may have, but I think I will do one more thing before I definitively decide to pursue their adventure. In the back of my mind, I’m wondering if I should create a fourth character from which to tell the tale and have the presently three mains act as helpers and guides rather than stars of the show. Or maybe tell the tale from the perspective of the kidnapped friend or some other character who would be privy to the story but as a storyteller not directly part of the action. The former sounds more right than the latter. Sigh…maybe I need to grow and develop a little more as a writer before tackling multiple POVs.

Anyway, as a final meditation, I’m going to read Nancy Kress’s Characters, Emotion and Viewpoint in an effort to gain some perspective on and insights into multiple view points. As with all such books, writing ideas float up from the back of my mind as I read. I’ll keep track of them with notes and upon finishing–it’s only a little more than 200 pages–I’ll commit to a road. Should I choose The Kevodran road rather than the Scion track, the time spent with the “Wise Guide” will not be wasted as I’m sure there will be nuggets of wisdom therein panned that I can apply to Efrahm, Selt and Orrja’s story as well.

Am I simply avoiding commitment and, by extension, responsibility? I don’t know. It’s possible, but any plan is better than sitting on my hands enviously reading about another 16-year old prodigy producing copious amounts of YA re-run dubiousness (not bitter at all there are we?). Good, bad or indifferent, I need to forge ahead with my own dubiousness, and if for no one else then at least for me.

Adventure Day

09 Friday Mar 2012

Posted by in Observation, Storytelling

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I made it to bed last night at about 21:30. Marirose woke me about an hour later to let me know she’d arrived home safe from band pracitce—it’s a marriage rule in our house. I rose once to shut the bedroom door. After that I didn’t fully wake up again throughout the night. This does not mean I slept soundly or fully, but not getting up at least once a night to let the dogs out is unusual. I tried to eat as early as I could so my stomach wasn’t working overtime come lights-out. I had some odd dreams about crawdad/shrimp-headed creatures who were normally vegetarians and friendly to humans but every once in a while wanted to crack open our skulls and eat our brains because they were originally descendants of Cthulhu and the Old Ones. I was trying to help them control their…baser…urges through counseling when the alarm went off.

I did put on come soothing bed-time music, very very low. “Soothing music”…LOL…to me anyway: piobaireachd. Having grown up with the classical music of the piob, I can fall asleep mid-sentence with those sweet tunes playing. It’s sort of a joke with my piping peers. They have a pool on when I’m going to fall asleep while playing. Odds are high I’m not going to make it through the Urlar doubling without nodding off. Craig is supposed to catch my pipes on the way down: forget me. Don’t get me wrong, I adore the music. To me it’s never boring. It’s just so…so…relaxing; I can’t help falling asleep. Though I realize this may sound outrageous, paramount to falling asleep next to a jack-hammer in full bore, growing up with the stuff does strange things to a kid.

It’s a minimum day today and the kids get out at 12:15. Sweet! Gabie and I are committed to locking our classroom doors as soon as the bell rings and heading for the theatre for John Carter of Mars. I am really stoked as after watching the 10 minute sneak peek on Youtube day before yesterday, I think it’s going to be a fun watch. E.R. Burrough’s story is very simple and is definitely a product of his time, the audience he was trying to reach, the pulp medium he was writing for and the stereotypes he presented. After watching the sneak peek, however, I’m hopeful that this may be one of those very rare occasions when the film is better than the book. Blasphemy, I know, but it happens. Anyone who has read Cooper in all his inaccurate, prejudicial, and inconsistent glory is usually unanimous that Daniel Day Lewis’s Hawkeye in the Last of the Mohicans film enjoys a much better story than the Natty Bumpo of Cooper’s pages. I think if Edgar were alive today, he’d remark on how his stories were only committed to the page because he had no other medium to present them in all their imaginative potential. It’s just my opinion, of course, but the way the film changed the story a bit to accommodate stronger character development and shore up a few weaker plot walls looked and played real good. Here’s crossed fingers hoping I don’t want my money back.

I’ll get back home early enough to maybe take a nap before dinner with sweet Marirose. I’ll need as at about 22:00, I’m scheduled to drive Lexie to the airport to catch a 01:30 S.F.flight back East. I’ll drop her off at about pre-midnight, hang out for a bit, fuel up on coffee and drive home. Hopefully I’ll be pulling into the driveway back home at just about the same time as she’s taxiing down the runway.

It’s gonna be a full day.

Originally posted in The Salamander’s Quill 1.0 now deleted.

Where?

08 Thursday Mar 2012

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My God! What a fight to stay awake and write even a few lines. I am getting to bed at a descent hour and sleeping fairly well, though I’m sure what I call fairly well would not be called so by “normal” people. Every sentence or two I doze off. I don’t get it. Could the evenings struggling with my pipes be to blame? I did got to bed and hour later than usual as I wanted to hang out with the wife after she got home from work. Was it letting the dogs out at 02:45? Or is it something more sinister? What ever, it’s pissing me off and I’m tired of it…LOL…get it? Tired? and I’m not writing like I should.

If I’m crashed out at 21:00 and sleep to 04:00, how do I get more sleep and restful sleep at that? Sleep longer? Sleep longer = no writing. No bagpiping? Might as well say, “no eating.” Yesterday I wasn’t this tired. Shit…I had breakfast today before I wrote; yesterday afterward–though truth be told I didn’t get a whole lot done then either. That, however, was because of Ravven’s killer music machine (thanks a lot, Red!). Seriously though, it’s 05:45, I’m about to step on to the daily conveyer belt and won’t get a break until 16:00 and all I can think about it a nap. Dare I say it? My day needs to be longer than 24 hours…that and I need to lose weight.

Originally posted in The Salamander’s Quill 1.0 now deleted.

Sailing the Silent Sea With Sanderson’s Laws

20 Monday Feb 2012

Posted by in Gaming, Observation, Reading, Writing

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Though our group has dwindled from nearly 15 to only two players, representing no less that 35 player characters who have lived, loved, fought and died in Earinna’ar’s © moldering tombs and sparkling palaces over a space of almost 20 years (holy-moly!), the quality of our experience and the pleasure we take in our company has suffered not a whit! Brothers and sisters-in-arms…how precious you are to me.

While gaming—pen-and-paper, table-top, true-RPG only; if you please, LOL!—has ever been an inspiration for my writing, I have never been even remotely tempted to render a game session or campaign into prose-fiction. I was not impressed with Laura and Tracy Hickman’s Dragonlance Chronicles (the first trilogy anyway) and though I read them, they are one of the few fantasy books I read that I ever ended up giving away. In my opinion RPG mechanics do not lend themselves to good fantasy fiction. The game world, its plots and the system foundation upon which they are built are designed for purposes at odds with the ultimate goal of fiction. Though RPG and fiction hold many traits in common and can inform each other, a direct translation from one the to the other is problematic. That being said, my campaign world setting was created more for fictionalizing than for gaming, and its environs are indeed where my stories take place.

For the last couple of gaming sessions, the dynamic duo of Ashkenkar/John and Thillis/Skip have test-drove, discussed and debated a portion of the magic system I’ve been researching and putting together for the fictionalized version of Earinna’ar ©. I’m happy to report that though there were continuity rough spots that needed to be smoothed, exploitive holes that needed to be filled, overall the engine functioned well—that is, the explanation of how and why magic works is viable if not altogether sound and complete.

Much work is left to be done before I’m completely satisfied. “Sanderson’s First and Second Laws of Magic” offer the best advice for developing viable and exciting, as well as working, magic systems. I’ve consulted quite a few other sources for advice: Card’s now classic How to Write Science Fiction and Fantasy; the wonderfully informative “The Writer’s Complete Fantasy Reference; volumes one and two of “The Complete Guide to Writing Fantasy and Steven Harper’s Writing the Paranormal Novel. An excellent RPG cross over reference was Expeditious Retreat Press’s A Magical Society: Ecology and Culture.  All of these were great reading, and thought provoking, but they concentrated more on what a writer needs to be mindful of when creating a magic system than describing a method for creating one—not a complaint, just an observation.

In the end I’ve come to the conclusion that what I’m looking for in terms of help doesn’t really exist. Each and every fantasy author’s system, hard or soft, has to come from within, whether it kants on the old or invents something new. The above references are helpful in warning me of the pitfalls associated with magic system creation, but ultimately there is no ‘method’ for creating such a system, only good advice.

Back to my tomes, tablets and testaments.

Originally posted in The Salamander’s Quill 1.0 now deleted.