Category Archives: Observation

Award Winning Laundry Lists

20 Sunday Nov 2011

Posted by in NaNoWriMo, Observation, Writing

≈ Leave a comment

There are times when I feel very unsure about writing. Yes, yes, it’s what I’m driven to do, blah-blah. But all that, ‘I have to do it’ and ‘It’s more comfortable to write than not to write’ rubbish aside, I have this complex knot within me made up of multiple threads concerning subject, skill, genre and about me writing in particular, that is only just now being teased at. One particularly knotty thread involves the fantasy genre and my wannabe aspirations and tendencies within it.

These stories I write, I can’t help but wonder, who would want to read them? Seriously. I have no illusions about myself: skill, spin and polish. The modern miracles of Riordan, Meyers and Poulini (let’s not talk quality just yet, and besides, regardless of what I might think, they are at the top of our particular literary food chain), let alone the demigod-like heights of Tolkien or Howard, are not within my power to create or reach. And while I do believe that in certain areas of the genre and in my own modest way, wild and untrained as I am, I have quite a lot to offer that these well-known folk don’t or didn’t—again a conversation to hold with myself later (look at all those commas!)—the obvious remains: who would want to read them? My family, close friends? Alas, I don’t think so. Again a conversation for another time; for now let’s just say that I am quite envious of Poulini’s familial cheering section and that the enthusiasm expressed by my own flesh and blood for my work might generate enough energy to charge a nightlight. Case in point, it is quite doubtful that this blog entry will ever be read by anyone from my clan even though some actually watched me write it (It has its perks, I know. I can say what I want without fear of censure, but it’s the thought that I miss).

(indent)“Oh, you have a blog?” I can only guess it’s the whole reading thing that presents such a challenge.

So lately, I’ve been cruising the internet checking out the big-name authors to find out what they have that attracts the prey so well, those who write (cue the special music) ‘fiction,’ the ones mentioned in Writer’s Digest, The Writer and Poets and Writers, who have a fellowship to this or a grant to that, or are a writer in residence here or a teacher of creative writing there.

I found besides writing about the “important” prize winning stuff…like…like meditations on New York laundry lists, why a marriage ceremony with a balloon release afterward is not such a good idea and how the sound of the rat trap going off in the attic at midnight led them to buy a pair of used shoes at a yard sale the next day, that there was nothing that stood out, save maybe an ego or two, concerning the perfect way to tie a fly. Just more of the funny accolades and more important subject matters.  Oh, yes; very important and timely and…and uhm…deep. Yes, deep…indeed.

Hmmm…on further reflection, fantasy as a genre is just fine all by its oddness and even though I don’t do it particularly well at this point, it fits me. I wonder though, the awards and scholarship alphabet soup sounded rater impressive. Do fantasy and science fiction authors ever get the cool accolades too: Wakawaka Fellowships and Fizbang Scholarships and invites to fiction writing challenges and readings in the park about random items found in trash heaps and such? How ‘bout bling? Do they ever get bling?

Ray Bradbury. National Book Foundation’s 2000 Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters and the National Medal of Arts in 2004. May you and your name live forever!

But really, I mean, I don’t see how meditations (imaginary, by the way) on a broken coffee bean grinder by a reflective fictioneer who is careful not to slum beyond the sacred borders of the Barnes and Noble fiction aisle neighborhood or the colony pages of Sun or MacSweeney without their pseudonym on is accessing and utilizing anything different than the writer who describes the horrors produced in a grief stricken mind trapped in a suit of powered armor.

Honestly though, who says they are? I suspect they eat and defecate like the rest of us and lie awake at night alternating between doubt and determination.

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

Fantasy Folk: Frosty Fearful Foolish Foes

20 Sunday Nov 2011

Posted by in NaNoWriMo, Observation, Rant, Writing

≈ Leave a comment

I can’t help but be amazed at the number of wannabe fantasy writers there are. I’m mean, we’re a dime a dozen if the number of posts in the NaNoWriMo fantasy forums are any indication. Cheap. The riff-raff or, at best the middle class of the wannabe writer world. I can picture this giant Statue of Liberty like monument carved in the likeness of J.K.Rowlings: “Give me your wishful, wistful and wannabe unwashed masses yearning to be like me…” How fruitful we are and, oh, how we multiply.

I wonder if it has to do with childhood wonder of that one book which led us to fall in love with the genre. For me, it was Mallory’s Le Morte D’arthur, then Lord of the Rings, then Dune, then Hyboria, blah-blah. Nearly the same path taken by so many others, but with variations additions and/or deletions, I’m sure: a lay over in Wonderland, a brief stay in Castle Brass, a country holiday in Narnia, a stint in Pellucindar.

Maybe it’s party due to the perception that prior experience or background knowledge is unnecessarily. “Come on in, the water’s fine!” As it all comes from the imagination therefore special knowledge about history, science, law, forensics, physiology or growing seasons, how to sew clothes, how far a peterbuilt can  go on a single fueling or the effects of a hollow point on a lathe plaster wall is not required. I mean, it’s all about magic and imagination. So what if I don’t know how a sewer or aqueduct works? It’s my world and I can make it work however I want it to, no prior experience necessary.

Sometimes though, save in a few notable acceptations, I get the feeling that we’re seen as the third class citizens of the writing world. Consider the reaction of fellow wanna-be writers of other genres when they discover  a wannabe writer of the fantasy ilk in their midst. I got this one just the other night at a NaNo write-in.

(indent)“What genre are you writing?”

(indent) “Fantasy/SciFi.”

Pregnant pause.

(indent)“Oh.”

(indent)“Oh.” What? Not, “Oh really? Wow, that’s great. I’m writing a _____ about blah-blah-blah. What is your fantasy about?”

(indent)No. We get “Oh.”

And what is really ironic is that even wannabe fantasy authors offer this same reaction to each other! They act as if they’re upset over, “…another one diluting the genre gene pool” afraid that there’s only so much room.

Ever notice how wannabe fantasy authors love to one up each other? If the conversation ever gets beyond the ‘oh’ phase someone is bound to say, “…that reminds me of the plot from Amazing Fantasy Book, by Amazing Fantasy Writer. It’s just like that.” God, I hate that…particularly because I’m guilty of it! Sometimes I think it’s because we feel a bit less important and so we over compensate. We develop an over inflated sense of ourselves and the originality of our stories that if we tell anyone about them, we run the risk of someone stealing them. Hell, we don’t even need the high Fellowship muckity-mucks to make ourselves feel like low level literary street trash; we do it ourselves just fine thank you very much!   Another one of those ironic, both positive and negative, things unique to the genre is its built-in army, a horde of pre-teen and adolescent barbarians rallying to its standard. Who will damn near read anything (thank you She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Prior to 1997, I thought my students had quite forgotten how to read!) accept classics and think each one they read is “…my favorite book ever…” As a direct result, I can’t count how many 13 year old fantasy scifi ‘authors’ I’ve read about or met since NaNo started.

I guess it makes sense though. 13 year olds, for the most part, don’t have the ‘deep experience’ required by the Fellowship Fiction Folk to write about sophisticated laundry lists and such, so they go where they can just make shit up: fantasy. As suggested above, at first they don’t need anything to tell their stories. I suppose there maybe something to that.

Anyway, it’s time to get back to my own peculiar form of sickness and get my word count up from its presently anemic levels. More than a new manuscript, I must confess, I want the 50% savings on Scrivener for the 50k victory. So, where was I…oh yes.

Once upon a time there was a bunch of elves, dwarves and guys with furry feet who used to be dragon riders but had somehow forgotten about it until a widowed princess emerged unscathed from a smoking conflagration suckling three baby lizards…

Those teeth have got to hurt.

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

Hail Victory!

11 Friday Nov 2011

Posted by in Family, Observation

≈ Leave a comment

Walking into the Avalon theatre was like entering a darker version of “The Labyrinth.” Had David Bowie dressed up as his Jareth, the Goblin King character walked past, I would not have been much surprised. The Avalon is one of those old style art deco and earlier theatres. Red velvets, golden brocades flashing from sofa, wall and rug, terracotta scroll-work soaring into the lofty darkness above, mirrored walls and padded doors, plaster faces tinted with gold peering from the shadows, dimly lit salons tucked here and there that looked to be right out of “The Shining.” The denizens themselves came in ever shape and size: leather and gossamer, silk and brocade, tiny hats and elbow length gloves, tuxedoes of every hue and color, stockings and scarves, ruby cuff-links and flashing tiaras, ball gowns with feathered head pieces, satin sheaths accented with diamonds and dark mascara, robes from Africa, pencil skirts and black stilettos from Sax, Soviet style uniforms sprouting from thigh-high Dom-boots, cowboys with brown leather vests and faces sporting guitars over their shoulders like rifles, metal heads over six feet tall hair wild eyes aglow with whiskey fume burn, dark suited security guards complete with mirror shades and ear in coil.

Marirose, as one of the performers at the 21st Los Angeles Music Awards, was given the royal treatment. There was a red carpet and an army of paparazzi…just like in the movies about—well, about events like this. LOL! When she was on that red carpet with Sandra, the bulbs were flashing like stars and the photographers jostling each other like hounds for position. It was an amazing feeding frenzy. As each new celebrity or would-be celebrity hit the carpet the calling and snapping, maneuvering and subtle, and not so subtle, shoving would begin again. Under the bright lights and in the wave after wave of camera flashes, I hardly recognized my wife, she was glowing like the sun, her black dress and sparkling heels the uniform of another world. She was then whisked off by Kong Radio personality Buddaman for and interview. I look forward to hearing it on the internet. I was standing outside a crowd of about 200 people trying to get a glimpse of her and see how she was doing. It was an amazing moment of disconcert and an epiphany. Ah, A metaphor, so powerful, about how the world changes. Would anyone but a writer understand it?

We entered the theatre and settled in after a few false starts into the VIP lounge with posh couches and low tables for drinks and hors d’oeuvres. Marirose and her Gypsies weren’t scheduled to perform, but she was up and down visiting people, making the most of a magical evening. I cared the bag of shoes and change of clothes she would need just before she went on.

I myself was dressed in my Bell family tartan and kilt with a charcoal gray Argyle jacket, black shirt and kilt-hose and thought it looked nice next to her dress.

We ate and drank watched both the performances and the giving of awards, as well as the amazing parade of people, as they drifted past our area and out onto the floor of the theatre where the next tier on the celebrity ladder, actors and actresses, former Miss this-or-thats, Jame’s Brown’s wife, the late Michael Jaskson’s bassist, athletes and politicians, if not out right cutting edge celebrities then definitely part of the “A” leagues. I noticed that most of the artists, how were there to see if they’d won an award or were there to perform, did not have places down on the that floor. They were in the bars or in the lounges socializing talking shop and making connections. Another metaphor?

Eventually it was Marirose’s turn to perform. She had exchanged her black dress for a sapphire blue one with sequins and beads: awesome. As they were performing their single selection, a guy from the floor who’d had too much to drink got up on stage and started dancing, the guy had to be escorted from the stage, but he was a pretty peaceful guy telling the security, “…I was just feelin’ it, man…feelin’ the music…” Marirose thought it was funny, and the crowd certainly did, but Marirose’s drummer was not too happy about it. In the end though, he saw that it might just have been for the best in terms of good feelings and positive publicity.

Things got a little rushed at the end as some of those honored with “Achievement Awards” were a bit drunk and had no business being responsible for such a heavy part of the ceremony. I won’t go beyond that, but I must admit to being rather embarrassed for the promoter and organizer who I know works so hard to put on the Awards. He was not well served by his heavy-hitter celebrities.

Marirose was nominated for three awards: Best Female Vocalist; Best Americana Blue, Roots Single “Hiding Me” and Hot Adult Contemporary Album Under My Skin. I am proud and nearly full to bursting to announce that she received the Vocalist and Album awards! We were all walking on clouds, from her bass player—he was so excited—to her mother-in-law, to the band photographer, to the support crew. We out of our minds with happy for her and proud of her. I can hardly recall it without choking up. To have worked so hard, to have sacrificed so much and put so much of herself out there—three albums, material in the works for a fourth, the Gallo Arts Center show, opening for Michael MacDonald, hundreds of practices and gigs, song writing sessions, hours at the key board, years and years of effort—to finally receive some of the recognition due her…it was so overwhelming.

I am so proud of my wife, so happy for her. She is such an inspiration to me. I hope that this is for her but another step on the way to reaching her dreams of musical success. I know many people never make it this far, but I am not surprised my girl has. She is just that kind of focused and driven individual. She’s got a seriously cool single that the band believes has a lot of potential. I wouldn’t be surprised to see them lay down some rough tracks in but a few days.

What a wild ride these last few days have been. Now if I can just get my own creative demons under some semblance of control, maybe I can get a few things done, like finish this month’s manuscript!

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

Write-Ins and Age

27 Thursday Oct 2011

Posted by in NaNoWriMo, Observation, Writing

≈ 1 Comment

The local NaNoWriMo group seems to be shaping up. This region is without  a Municipal Liaison this year and appreciative local writers are feeling it. There were two very active, and older, MLs that played the role of ramrod and organized things quite well and consistently. Due to various reasons they are neither one participating this year and are sorely missed. Presently the membership is active, about a dozen and have decided to meet at Panera Bread in the next town over on Sundays between 10:00 to 14:00 or 11:00 to 15:00 (no one has yet to identify a definitive time, but it really doesn’t matter).

Will I go? I am not too sure. For the most part, folks seem nice but are fairly young ranging from 13 to 33 with numbers weighted heavily toward the 20 somethings. As the next town over hosts a university, this is not surprising. I have no real problem with the demographic, but I do have my reservations and it has to do with the age disparity. I am with young people all day long, so I’m used to the timbre and character of their energy and even thrive on it. That being said, I can also attest to their ability to alienate and exclude, with or without malice, those whom they consider ‘outside’ their comfort zones. While this ‘herd’ mentality is somewhat natural and therefore understandable—one I am used to putting up with and indeed, breaking through—it just might not be something I want to try to navigate on a day off. I have done my share of said silliness and feel my time too precious to expend on the effort.

Of course I plan to give it a go; I would certainly never pass judgment and act upon it without trial. I hope to be pleasantly surprised, but will not be if things do not work out. I wonder…of course these programs are heavily weighted toward the young. The world is what it is (shrug). By the same token however, the 50+ crowd is nearly in the majority anymore—or so journalists would have us think. I wonder how many closet 50+ would-be writers are out there in my area and writing silently, steadily and very much alone? As many as there are young would-be writers not in the closet? Sigh…what I would not do to have a talk with an older, more experienced and wiser writer than I.

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

Writing Adultery–Is There a Scarlet ‘A’ For Such a Thing?

27 Thursday Oct 2011

Posted by in NaNoWriMo, Observation, Writing

≈ Leave a comment

I am relieved to report that I have made it through a whole session without significant Scrivener Breakdown. Huzzah! I have been able to transfer my notes and the ‘fairy-tale’ version of Scions of the Moon to the program, set up my note cards (33 including title page and “initial situation cards) and am nearly ready to start.

Oh what a dangerous game I play here. The Kevodran is like a brooding unhappy presence over my shoulder…and with good reason. I have relegated it to a smoky corner of my mental writing-pub where it glowers at me with baleful and jealous eyes as I sit at table with my new and younger drinking companions. Goddess, I pray “creep” does not occur and I can hold true to my plan to tuck Scions away at the end of the month and resume The Kevodran. I keep telling myself I can control this lushes siren’s’ song in my ear, that I am in command and can walk away from this dalliance no worse for wear, no harm done. I quite feel the cheat!

Propp’s narratemes, the pattern elements on which I plan to base my story, are proving to be a bit problematic as I try to force them into novella length manuscript shape. The unique Russian take on fairy tales, though the shadowy echo of a hero’s journey is there, will require some creative restructuring on my part. Note I did not say ingenious restructuring as I am neither a genius and may find, in the end, that to have tried to do so is a vain exercise. I have no doubt I will learn a thing or dozen in the process which is, in the final analysis, what all this hair-pulling and jumping about is for. I have not illusions that this manuscript will end up in another honored place under my bed…along with the others and The Kevodran eventually.

Sunwolfe chuckles: What an odd life, that of the writer.

Propp’s narratemes are discussed in a Wiki article that fairly represents them here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vladimir_Propp

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

The Matter of Romano-Britain

11 Thursday Aug 2011

Posted by in Observation, Reading, Review, Storytelling

≈ Leave a comment

I was probably about 14, just a freshman. and had been a devoted LotR disciple and Tolkien-ite since the age of ten. At eleven I had read Beowulf under the professor’s influence as a scholar of Anglo Saxon and by the time I reached high school age had tackled Hamilton’s and Bulfinche’s mythology compendiums, the Icelandic Sagas, The Mabinogion, “The Tain Bo Cuailnge” and the stories of the Red Branch and Cu Chulainn–some of which my mom had already told me. I vividly remember the local librarians of my small town library shaking their heads in bewilderment and consternation as this teenager requested the,

(indent)“…what is it called again, honey?”

(indent)“The Poetic Edda, ma’am. It’s a poem J.R.R. Tolkien used when he wrote The Hobbit.”

(indent)“How old are you again, young man?”

God bless them if they didn’t find it for me and I spent my time on the bus heading for high school reading it and discovering just where Tolkien had gotten all the dwarf names for those who attended Bilbo’s “Unexpected Party.”

I had serious dreams of one day becoming an Arthurian scholar. This probably had a lot to do with the fact that when I was seven, I screwed off and got behind on my reading scores. The teacher was sure I had a reading problem and sent me off to remediation in the afternoons. “Run, Dick. Run!” My mother was not amused and when she found out, she nearly flipped. She knew I was just acting stupid and being lazy. She told the teacher so, but Mrs. Kennedy was sure I needed remediation as the academic test results indicated I was a poor reader.

Mom hung up the phone smokin’ pissed and gave me the look. I knew a reckoning was coming but wasn’t sure what form it would take. Honestly, I kinda liked remediation as the lady there gave us cookies afterward if we read well to her.

Mom decided that what I needed was more reading and had me sit on the horse-hide couch and made me read to her every evening after that. No cookies. The only grace she did allow was my own choice of book from the home shelves. I narrowed it down to either Robinson Crusoe or L’Morte d’Arthur and for whatever reason, I chose Mallory and the world changed overnight. For whoso pulleth out this sword from this stone and anvil is the rightwise king-born of all England.

All I had really known was that it was about knights and next to dinosaurs, knights were the coolest. Ever read L’Morte? It reads like the King James Version of the Bible only worse, but coming from a family where Bible reading, though not done regularly, was not out of the ordinary, I took the language in stride and was soon lost in the Matter-of-Britain.

When she finally felt I’d had enough, she had me read a passage to my second grade teacher and explain to her what I’d read. I was summarily removed from remediation. No more cookies.

By the time I was a freshman in high school and had read Tolkien, I was an armchair expert on all things Arthurian having read quite a few re-tellings and adaptations of the legends. Eventually, however, I became a little jaded with each new author’s predictable spin and began to explore the truth behind the legend…what little of it there was. I began to read the works of Geoffrey Ashe and other Arthurian scholars and books that explored the archeological findings at Romano-British digs. I eventually ran across a retelling of the legend from the point of view of how it actually might have been, how it might really have started, written by a lady named Rosemary Sutcliff called, The Sword at Sunset. It was with these books, and those like them, that I found my greatest affinity for the legend and fell in love with historical fiction.

When I saw the Eagle of the Ninth was to be made into a movie, I was excited and went to dig out my copy but was dismayed and upset when I couldn’t find it. I don’t know what happened to it, so I bought a new one, now called The Eagle, and the two sequels as well, and spent a wonderful week back in the Romano-Britain of my youth.

Rosemary’s work is subtler and more subdued when it comes to violence. She does not avoid the issue as the era she depicts is one hallmarked by action and upheaval, but she does not sensationalize or concentrate on it. She does not need to aggrandize it to sell her story, as the very nearly pornographic and ultra-violent specialty series so popular on pay-TV now do. Her stories have strong characters that sell themselves to the reader as believable and real. Her descriptions of the countryside are a naturalist’s dream, but they do not overshadow or intrude on the action. And though the novels of hers I have read were all geared toward young men, being the Young Adult Fiction of the ‘50s as it were, they are stories I believe a girl or woman would like because the author depicts her characters with such pathos, empathy and sympathy.

The film version of the book, while not drastically different, is definitely its own interpretation. I enjoyed the print version more as the plot seemed much more plausible than the heroic, yet impossible, journey taken in the film. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed them both, but the book offers so much more and is written so well.

Originally posted on my Goodreads profile in March of 2011 and in The Salamander’s Quill 1.0 now deleted.

There Is No Spo…er…Writer’s Block

09 Tuesday Aug 2011

Posted by in Observation, Writing

≈ Leave a comment

I know some might argue with me, and rightly so, but when it comes to the issue of “Writer’s Block,” I’m not sure it isn’t more myth than reality. That being said, I will admit to having been blocked, backed-up and to have suffered from the lack of a literary movement from time to time, compositionally constipated as it were. But blocked, as in NO MORE WORDS, IDEAS, COMPOSITION? No…no, I don’t believe I have. In this “Summer of Writing Furiously,” I have come to a few conclusions about my present-writing-self, particularly in the area of the phenomenon of writer’s block or as I prefer in relation to myself: a writer blocked.

There are times when I am slow to start. I sit in front of my computer, my preferred writing mode, and sigh deeply wishing the coffee would kick in, secretly wondering if it ever really does, loath to begin. I watch my Widows Sidebar gadget that monitors computer activity as the squiggly little lines jump up or dig deep, an apt brain activity metaphor.

There are times when I don’t feel like writing. I’m contemplating the next scene on the plot hit-parade, a problematic one I’ve yet to work the logic out for, and I feel like my energy levels completely inadequate to deal with it. I feel my machine is an energy vampire sucking the life and creativity from my finger tips and eyeballs.

There are times when thinking or talking about writing is so much more fun than actually doing it. I go over plot points I like or talk to myself (a viable strategy by the way, which I use constantly to the bemusement of all who know me and wariness from those who don’t) about this protagonist’s motivation or antagonist’s inspiration, convinced I’m refining, but actually only reminding myself of what I already know. I’ll talk about my [trivial] insights and [not-so-momentous] literary discoveries to my indulgent wife ad nauseam until she drifts off to her study to play solitaire (a sure sign she’s done listening).

There are times when I allow myself to be distracted. “Calgon! Take me away!” (Damn if I didn’t just date myself). I check my email or visit various forum’s where I’ve posted and end up writing “important” letters or responses. I review my blog updates and visit author sites getting mentally involved with what’s happening in other writers’ and would-be writers’ lives purposefully ignoring my own.

There are times I’m desperate for an idea—an idea needed to further the plot along, provide motivation for a character’s action, a way to get the story from point A to point B—and I feel completely clueless how to find one. I don’t know what to do and desperately turn to a likely reference book or inspiring novel for guidance, or make myself something to eat, or play a tune on my practice chanter, or hangout with my dogs. (Indent)There are times when I feel I simply cannot approach my main plot again until I have more deeply explored some aspect of background material. I stall the plot and my characters while I establish the naming practices of a certain culture, or decide how bricks were actually made in ancient “X” before allowing my protagonists to enter the “great and grand City of Trumpeting Towers.” I mean how the hell am I supposed to describe it if I don’t bloody know what a “Trumpeting Tower” is?

There are times when I’m just flat depressed, completely without hope that I’ll ever establish a writing life up to snuff. Every other writer is cooler than me. Every other writer is smarter, more intuitive than me. I’ll never be like my “Writing godfathers and mothers.” I’m too old, too set in my ways, too put upon, too financially dependent, too ingrained with bad habits, too slow to even day-dream of being a writer let alone waste all this time and energy on what is essentially a pot-of-gold at the end of the rainbow or a lottery crap-shoot.

All this has as a source, I suspect, not so much an all encompassing writing affliction as it does my choices and my reactions to the choices of others. What was I doing the night before my blocked writing session? Let me see…

  • Was I waxing nostalgic with my brothers, drinking scotch (Slainte!) and am now hung over, tired and depressed about being 50?
  • Did I stay up with a late night “block buster” movie and could not fall asleep because I was upset with the ending and the shit-poor story-telling Joe-public so blithely accepts and perpetuates?
  • Are my bagpipe passions inflamed after an amazing lesson with Aaron and all I want to do is make music for awhile and pursue that artistic endeavor?
  • Has BoA collections called again demanding repayment, threatening eminent foreclosure and financial ruination and I’m feeling a little distracted about the future?
  • Has the district office sent their end-of-the-summer letter signaling an oncoming tide of bullshit or has Michelle Malkin once again disparaged my chosen profession making me feel like the state of American young people is all my fault?
  • Can I hear my wife trimming a hedge in the yard and am I feel guilty for neglecting what “normal” people do not?
  • Am I in Perfection-Man mode after having read an accomplished author’s work that blew me away and am now convinced that nothing I do is good enough?
  • Did my brothers just email me with a, “we never get together now that you write all the time” missive and as a result, I’ve plunged into research mode, donning my pseudo anthropologist-archeologist explorer’s hat preparing for a weekend game and grill session?

All these circumstances, and probably hundreds more I have yet to identify, and responses are at their roots self-perceived and self-imposed. They reminds me of a time when sitting at the local pub, I watched two of my companions throw “blocks” at each other as they vied for the attentions of a certain lady. Attack and parry, counter-strike and riposte, it was an amazing fencing match between masters of different styles.

(Indent)“Oh, hey, isn’t it about time you called your girlfriend?”

(Indent)“Dude, that was insensitive of you, and I might add, a rather childish; you know she left me a year ago.”

(Indent)“Well, then who were you talking to earlier by the name of “Baby”?

(Indent)“Dude, I was talking to my sister about her baby, hello; do you got somethin’ against me checkin’ up on my niece?”

(Indent)“Oh, baby, don’t be that way… you talk to your sister like that? Man, that’s just sick…”

The blocks come and I respond…usually in a way that precludes actually writing. And therein lies both the problem and the answer I have found to these Writing Blocks and that is simply more writing. Amazing and as paradoxical as it is, yes, more writing. (Indent)In each and every case cited above, the best answer I found, the best response was butt-in-chair, eyes-on-monitor, fingers-on-keys, now write! Write! Write!

Oh, the agony! I write drivel and I groan. I write out complaints and I whine. I write poorly and I cry. I write of nothing and I sink lower. I write of something totally unrelated and feel guilty. I rail at my characters and they rage back. I write out lack luster dialogue, stupid descriptions that make no sense, add details that are needless and inconsequential and then delete or strikethrough it all and begin again. Eventually, by some amazing unexplainable means, I slowly emerge, gradually materializing like a soldier from the flash and smoke of my verbal battle bearing the colors of true composition—if not necessarily inspiration but true writing nonetheless.

It is painful and no fun, but I know if I do not sit and start despite the discomfort, then one hour becomes two; two hours becomes a day; a day so, so easily and slyly becomes three and then I am truly screwed. For as Heather Sellers paraphrases the famous quote it in Page After Page, “If you take one day off writing, your muse will take the next three.”

Thus, for the present “me” at least, there is no writer’s block so much as self-imposed writing blocks that must be powered through, ironically, only with more writing.

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

“Momma says he’s bona fide…”

04 Thursday Aug 2011

Posted by in JulNoWriMo, Observation, Writing

≈ Leave a comment

It is something; it is nothing; it is everything. There will be no place for it save in my cyber scrap book. It will never be framed and placed on the wall next to my degrees or credential, but, nonetheless, as whimsical as it is, as easily “forged” as it could be, I will not be able to look at it without associating some deeply cherished hopes and very real blood-sweat-and-tears with the effort it represents. It is more than a 50k+ attaboy. It represents passing a test: can I write a novel-length manuscript; can I do this thing that I have talked about doing nearly all my life? No certificate would have meant, “not this time” or maybe not ever. The parameters were self-imposed but no less stringent than those placed on a creative writing major working toward an MA. From that perspective, the whimsical blue and white certificate may therefore mean more personally than my college degree, for in this instance no professor, no curriculum, no colloquium could have been as demanding, exacting and critical as I myself was.

The August NoWriMo effort then represents a different test and, if passed, achievement. Can I write, with a running start of two final weeks of vacation, 50k+ of a manuscript while resuming work at the same time? In addition, can I actually finish a manuscript (the first draft of The Kevodran should be finished within the next 20 to 25k words)? Knowing my vocation as I do, this will be very difficult. Ironically, there is no sympathy for a secret life of letters even in an English department. Your total devotion is expected; your total sacrifice presupposed. Even as I am in the first movements of that trial, it is proving problematic and I find I am having to refine my “butt-in-chair” or “eyes-on-the-manuscript” skills as the aegis of July’s success lulls my focus.

The National NoWriMo in November is what might be considered the trial by fire, the last measurement and confirmation that my secret life of letters has a chance of not being so secret forever. Can I in the midst of a full working month, with a serious family holiday in the mix to boot, produce 50k+ of a manuscript? If I can pull that off, if I can make it through the demands of that challenge, with mondo-housecleaning to do and turkey, gravy and stuffing coming out of my ears, well then, the last excuse is laid to rest. Nothing this side of true physical or psychological disaster should stop me from writing novel-length manuscripts. It is something I will know in my bones and baring said disasters if I do not pursue it, it is because I am not a writer at heart.

Some may argue that whether or not I’m a writer is not subject to such subjective measurements, that it is something one intrinsically is and knows they are. I suppose, from a certain perspective that is true. Even if I do not produce novel length manuscripts, I will continue to write in my journals, editorialize in my secret blogs, write background material for my fairy-milieu and maintain my creative responses at HOL and by extension fan-fiction in JKR’s world, or JRRT’s, or GL’s. That however, to me, is not the same as the ambition to write original novel-length stories. I argue that it is a different breed of hound altogether and I need to know, must know, within and for myself if that dog will hunt or not. If I have tested myself most thoroughly then I can either without regret lay the ambition to rest or pursue it with a vengeance.

Tally-ho!

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

A Quill-Driver’s Albatross or Why Blog At All?

01 Monday Aug 2011

Posted by in Observation, Writing

≈ Leave a comment

The question of blogging is particularly sensitive for me. I certainly can spend my time more productively elsewhere. Even now my manuscript is screaming at me, “Only 1643 words, you fool! Get to it before the phone rings, the world ends or you ‘remember’ something else to Google!” and my timetable list lays open next to me like Exhibit A in my personal why you should be working on your manuscript trial. Being completely honest, I have to admit that I do know why, or at least suspect I know, but the answer is such a study in irony and paradox, such a comment on the health of my inner landscape, that I’m embarrassed to lay it out on paper to confirm itself in undeniable black and white.

The truth is, I yearn to make contact with the outside world or at least others who have my same sickness. Writing is a lonely passion and my family, as loving and kind and encouraging as they are, simply doesn’t have time for my scribbling. Here, however, is where the irony starts. I don’t want them to read my blog because if I know they are reading it, I will write with them in mind and therefore differently. In a sense I will assume a handicap, a disguise, a false voice and be less than truthful, worried about reactions and feelings and misunderstandings. Hell, I don’t even write in my handwritten journals any more for fear that when I die and my daughters finally read them they’ll say, “Wow. Dad was a pretty unhappy guy, and rather obsessive about certain things.” I want their notice, but I don’t want to know they’ve noticed. Sigh. Pathetic.

So I blog for the unknown masses. An unknown and faceless wannabie writer safe from flesh-and-blood critique and censure. Well…not quite. Uh…you see, I might publish my blogs out there in cyberspace, but ironically I’ve got them locked down so tight no one can see them or find them unless I invite them or they type in the URL by chance or use of Arrakin melange. In essence there’s not even a remote chance someone will stumble across them. No. Not one. They’re a Dixie Cup floating in the Atlantic.

Why!? I suspect that it is all a mental game. It makes me feel like I’m out in the public eye without really being out in the public eye, without feeling naked. It makes me feel like I’m risking contact without really risking anything. I might say, “Oh, yes. I have a blog,” or “The other day, I wrote in my blog…” but it makes my heart beat with anxious anticipation. What if they ask me for the URL? What will I do? Do I want them to ask? I suppose I do or I wouldn’t have mentioned it, would I? Then why am I so relieved they haven’t asked? As I said above, pathetic.

Eventually, I’m going to have to put up or shut up—my new mantra. Either it all stays in my personal journals or I open up and risk contact which is what I secretly yearn for but am too afraid to risk. Embarrassing to think my ego is so fragile.

Cruising the WriMo profiles and checking out the sited blogs is an odd exercise in déjà vu. Are the sites anything more than an echoing self-diagnosed and prescribed therapeutic attempt to vent and feel validated in a world that either applauds their uniqueness if it happens to be something others wish they could do but cannot or damns them for not being odd enough. Are they not simply safe ways to holler, “I am geek/nerd/mutant _____ (fill in the blank with your own noun)! Hear me roar, you bastards!”? Aren’t they simply the quintessentially statement of paradox: I’m alone, strange, rejected and misunderstood er…uh, just…like…you. Am I just adding to that echo, essentially posting a blog with hidden links to other blogs where it’s all been said before? Oops, so much for being unique.

After all these years, is that what I’m essentially still doing? If I write it and no one knows or reads it, then I am unique and safe, but I am also alone and unconfirmed, under a self-imposed sentence of exile. But if I don’t want feel alone, I have to open it up and run the risk of discovering there are others just like me and that I’m not as unique as I wished! Around and around and around it goes, where it stops, no one knows.

Wow. I have to stop teaching high school. I should just blog and reactions be damned. Hmmm…

Okay, then…damnit. Screw this embarrassed closet narcissism! Cease this compositional masturbation and let’s have some epistological intercourse! I getting some protection and heading for the green light district!

Welcome to the first openly blogger post of Sunwolfe’s The Salamander’s Quill.

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

JulNoWriMo, Mission Accomplished!

31 Sunday Jul 2011

Posted by in JulNoWriMo, Observation, Writing

≈ Leave a comment

Well, I made it to my personal JulNoWriMo goal of 62,174 words and I’m pretty pleased. No, I’m bloody amazed and giddy and so, so very happy. Not only does it bring the present manuscript grand total to 74,489, but it represents a serious milestone for me. I know know…KNOW…I can. Armed with that undeniable knowledge, I can’t say can’t anymore.

I know a lot of folk are relieved when they reach the 50k mark, proud of their achievement for sure, but happy nonetheless the pressure is off. I know this because I’ve been checking out their blogs XD , but for me reaching my goal simply inspires me to keep on writing, not necessarily more, but to pursue the story to its end. Rather than relief then, I’m stoked and feel a giddy eagerness and look forward to continuing on, further developing my stories, my characters and myself.

The whole WriMo experience was really a self-imposed test to see if I could produce enough, get involved strongly enough, stay disciplined enough to write a substantial manuscript. I’ll not call it a novel as it’s far from done. Because of that however, I’ve signed up for the AugNoWriMo so I can do just that. At a rough guess, I’m going to say I need another 20 to 25k to finish the manuscript? It think however, I’m going to commit to 50k more. Like I said, The Kevodran will be done in half as many words, but for the remainder I’ll get Three Moon-Maidens of the shelf and continue with that manuscript to finish out the 50k.

I suppose this will be another self-imposed test in the sense that with school starting right in the middle of the month, I’ll have had two weeks of fairly uninterrupted writing time, honey-dos and leaky koi pond aside, to finish The Kevodran (fingers crossed). The last 25k, however, will have to be accomplished with the pressure of school dominating my time. Can I handle that 1613 word-a-day minimum and be a good husband, do my job, handle the commute,  practice my pipes, walk the dogs, have Quiet Time and get some sleep?

I guess, I’ll see.

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