I put up this post then took it down again. I can't exactly remember why but it had something to do with sharing it on FaceBook. I think I was afraid some people would be offended by it.
As it is, I don't think many friends on FaceBook read my blog anyway unless I post pictures. I re-read it just now and I'm still pleased with this post so it's going back up. Apologies to those of you who have already read it.
Monday, July 09, 2012
Lucky
Lately, when I look back at my life I'm struck by how different I seem to be. I feel like I'm a different person altogether, not that I've turned into someone different but maybe I've grown into something else. Would people from my past who haven't seen me in a long time notice the difference?
My old friends assure me I haven't changed much over the years.
I'm standing in the library staring at a bunch of Federal Reporters. It's late at night, probably sometime after 10:00 pm and I have to pull some cases for the attorneys. We have been working night after night, weekend after weekend on this case, our lives a flurry of document productions, depositions, seemingly endless ex parte motions, and the intricate court rules of the Central District of California. The library light is warm and friendly, the rest of the hallways are dark. I like it here in the quiet. No one else is around except my team and the occasional patent prosecutor. I like this place, this job, and the attorneys. I'm young, naive, and believe completely in the goodness of these people who are all so much better educated than me. In the end, they didn't let me down at least not in the ways where it counted.
I still like working with attorneys so I guess in that way I haven't changed. The people I used to work with have all scattered and I am still trying to find a place for myself. The process of working on litigation cases is so intense that sometimes you bond with people. If you're lucky those bonds will stick.
I'm sitting at the kitchen table in the dining room. It's late and I don't remember what I was doing at the time. Reading something? I don't know. It's just me and the dogs. All at once I look up from what I'm doing staring into the lovely kitchen then I look to my right into the darkened living room. The two dogs are lounging on the denim couch, looking back at me. Behind me is the sliding glass door. I hear the sounds of the water from the huge turtle tank we own. Something inside is nudging at me and it's so strong that I have to stand up and walk around. I open the sliding glass door to the big deck that runs the length of the back of the house, leaving the door open. The dogs follow me out. I don't look out at dark, instead I'm looking down the deck into the other rooms. I can smell our wonderful redwood trees and the darkness and quiet are heavy like a cozy blanket. I realize everything as it is now can't possibly last, that everything is going to change, and it's not going to be something I'll be able to control. I'm terrified by this thought. I have no idea what it means. Then I think if that were to happen what would I really, truly want to do then? And I think: I want to live and work in San Francisco, become a writer, and be left alone. I got my wish with all the wonders and heartbreaks associated with it. My wish came at very high price.
I don't think I'll ever live in a house with a kitchen as wonderful as that one.
My wish was a terrible source of guilt, a little secret of mine I refused to admit even to myself. It seemed to me that though I wasn't the cause of this upheaval in my life, I made it happen just the same with this one selfish thought. It took me years to come to terms with that little moment and I'm still grappling with the feeling that it was all my fault, even though it clearly wasn't.
My old friends assure me I haven't changed much over the years.
I'm standing in the library staring at a bunch of Federal Reporters. It's late at night, probably sometime after 10:00 pm and I have to pull some cases for the attorneys. We have been working night after night, weekend after weekend on this case, our lives a flurry of document productions, depositions, seemingly endless ex parte motions, and the intricate court rules of the Central District of California. The library light is warm and friendly, the rest of the hallways are dark. I like it here in the quiet. No one else is around except my team and the occasional patent prosecutor. I like this place, this job, and the attorneys. I'm young, naive, and believe completely in the goodness of these people who are all so much better educated than me. In the end, they didn't let me down at least not in the ways where it counted.
I still like working with attorneys so I guess in that way I haven't changed. The people I used to work with have all scattered and I am still trying to find a place for myself. The process of working on litigation cases is so intense that sometimes you bond with people. If you're lucky those bonds will stick.
***
I wanted to say that I'm so much more in touch with my inner life than I've ever been but that's not true. I'm just more in touch with my writing life and have made it a priority.I'm sitting at the kitchen table in the dining room. It's late and I don't remember what I was doing at the time. Reading something? I don't know. It's just me and the dogs. All at once I look up from what I'm doing staring into the lovely kitchen then I look to my right into the darkened living room. The two dogs are lounging on the denim couch, looking back at me. Behind me is the sliding glass door. I hear the sounds of the water from the huge turtle tank we own. Something inside is nudging at me and it's so strong that I have to stand up and walk around. I open the sliding glass door to the big deck that runs the length of the back of the house, leaving the door open. The dogs follow me out. I don't look out at dark, instead I'm looking down the deck into the other rooms. I can smell our wonderful redwood trees and the darkness and quiet are heavy like a cozy blanket. I realize everything as it is now can't possibly last, that everything is going to change, and it's not going to be something I'll be able to control. I'm terrified by this thought. I have no idea what it means. Then I think if that were to happen what would I really, truly want to do then? And I think: I want to live and work in San Francisco, become a writer, and be left alone. I got my wish with all the wonders and heartbreaks associated with it. My wish came at very high price.
I don't think I'll ever live in a house with a kitchen as wonderful as that one.
My wish was a terrible source of guilt, a little secret of mine I refused to admit even to myself. It seemed to me that though I wasn't the cause of this upheaval in my life, I made it happen just the same with this one selfish thought. It took me years to come to terms with that little moment and I'm still grappling with the feeling that it was all my fault, even though it clearly wasn't.
***
I still can't shake this feeling that I'm different. When I was younger I felt so much more relaxed and easy. I was very externally oriented and people focused. Now I feel I've withdrawn inside my own world and I feel much more closed off than I used to be. I have difficulty talking to strangers though when I do it's almost always rewarding. Sometimes they even stick, making that rolling, shifting transition to friends.
I'm working a little late at the office and there's a party going on for the attorneys. An office friend of mine and I are supposed to see some gallery openings but he's frantically trying to finish a last minute project. We manage to leave at a reasonable hour. This is the first time I've been out with him. He announces that he needs to call another friend and that he'll meet us at the first gallery. He talks about this guy all the time. I see him down the street and we wave at each other. The new guy is a little shy but he asks me if I live in the City. That starts the ball rolling. Next thing I know the three of us are on a crazy adventure. We crash an art gallery opening for a famous ballplayer where no one is allowed in unless you're on the guest list but somehow we get in. My new friend stays with me amidst the crowd of other famous ballplayers, the press, managers, city officials, and minor celebrities. He tells me who everyone is. We lose our friend in the crowd, something that's very difficult since he's so tall. Somehow I lose both of them and wander on my own. Later, my new friend finds me and says we have to leave. The two of them have a show to go to (but in the end I went instead!). He's standing on some steps at the back of the gallery which is being used as a dance floor, smiling, and holds his hand out to me. I take it and thus begins our real friendship. There are plays and musicals to go to, crowds to navigate as we wander through the crush of people in the Castro, there are parties to attend, long, lovely conversations, and the occasional nutty adventure. How did I get this lucky?
I'm working a little late at the office and there's a party going on for the attorneys. An office friend of mine and I are supposed to see some gallery openings but he's frantically trying to finish a last minute project. We manage to leave at a reasonable hour. This is the first time I've been out with him. He announces that he needs to call another friend and that he'll meet us at the first gallery. He talks about this guy all the time. I see him down the street and we wave at each other. The new guy is a little shy but he asks me if I live in the City. That starts the ball rolling. Next thing I know the three of us are on a crazy adventure. We crash an art gallery opening for a famous ballplayer where no one is allowed in unless you're on the guest list but somehow we get in. My new friend stays with me amidst the crowd of other famous ballplayers, the press, managers, city officials, and minor celebrities. He tells me who everyone is. We lose our friend in the crowd, something that's very difficult since he's so tall. Somehow I lose both of them and wander on my own. Later, my new friend finds me and says we have to leave. The two of them have a show to go to (but in the end I went instead!). He's standing on some steps at the back of the gallery which is being used as a dance floor, smiling, and holds his hand out to me. I take it and thus begins our real friendship. There are plays and musicals to go to, crowds to navigate as we wander through the crush of people in the Castro, there are parties to attend, long, lovely conversations, and the occasional nutty adventure. How did I get this lucky?
A fair question. I did get my wish to live here and write but even though I tried I was never left alone. When I first arrived here, broken and starting over, I thought I deserved to be left alone, that nobody would ever want to be around me again but my friends proved to me that my assumptions about that aren't true. So maybe I haven't changed except to have grown into myself, perhaps. Maybe the only thing that's really changed are my thoughts about what I think I deserve.
I'm sitting with my new friend at Ti Couz, a rather well-known crepe restaurant in the Mission. It's later in the evening, perhaps after 10:00 pm, and there are plenty of people. We met when my tall friend started talking to her while we were having lunch. I'm trying to explain something to her about the writing, something really important, and she knows it. She is patient and lets me stumble around trying to put this important thing into words. Finally, I tell her I don't think my writing is all that good but I love my characters and story so much, so very much, that I can't help but think that love has to be communicated to the reader in some way, on some level. As I'm saying this to her, tears come to my eyes and I can see she is moved. At that moment, I finally see what it means to be a writer. It's not about technique, brilliance, or even talent, all things which which I don't seem to have much of. No, it's all about love and my job is to try to convey that love to you, the reader, as clearly and as simply as possible. I'm lacking in a lot of things that other writers have but love is something inside me that never runs out.
My friend's recognition that I was struggling to say something important and her patience was the most important thing about that exchange. One of my biggest stumbling blocks is the belief that I have to do everything by myself. I don't know where this attitude comes from. Some misguided, twisted childhood belief, no doubt. And yet through my own actions I know I can't do everything by myself. I have all these wonderful people who love and support me and if that weren't enough I have a whole tribe of characters I've created. Looks like I've called my own bluff.
***
You never know what you're going to find out. I read somewhere that another person, especially someone you love, functions as a kind of mirror so you can actually see yourself. This is true. No matter how self-aware you think you are it's still difficult to get away from your own view of the world, the lens through which you look at yourself. And if you have a lot of baggage it becomes almost impossible.
I'm sitting with my new friend at Ti Couz, a rather well-known crepe restaurant in the Mission. It's later in the evening, perhaps after 10:00 pm, and there are plenty of people. We met when my tall friend started talking to her while we were having lunch. I'm trying to explain something to her about the writing, something really important, and she knows it. She is patient and lets me stumble around trying to put this important thing into words. Finally, I tell her I don't think my writing is all that good but I love my characters and story so much, so very much, that I can't help but think that love has to be communicated to the reader in some way, on some level. As I'm saying this to her, tears come to my eyes and I can see she is moved. At that moment, I finally see what it means to be a writer. It's not about technique, brilliance, or even talent, all things which which I don't seem to have much of. No, it's all about love and my job is to try to convey that love to you, the reader, as clearly and as simply as possible. I'm lacking in a lot of things that other writers have but love is something inside me that never runs out.
My friend's recognition that I was struggling to say something important and her patience was the most important thing about that exchange. One of my biggest stumbling blocks is the belief that I have to do everything by myself. I don't know where this attitude comes from. Some misguided, twisted childhood belief, no doubt. And yet through my own actions I know I can't do everything by myself. I have all these wonderful people who love and support me and if that weren't enough I have a whole tribe of characters I've created. Looks like I've called my own bluff.
***
It's strange but when I was kid I was lucky. Good things would fall into my lap and sometimes my life seemed to be an endless parade of all's well that ends well. I've lost touch with that feeling. I seem to have retreated from it in favor of hobbling myself so I can go through life with my arms clenched around me. Maybe if I hang onto myself tight enough all these true, real things will finally leave me alone. Maybe my luck will finally run out but...I know that's not going to happen even with my best efforts to make it so.
So I suppose I haven't really changed all that much. The essential part of my nature remains intact. I guess I feel different because I've been able to maintain that lucky core even with all the ups and downs of my life. My focus is different and I've grown more into myself but I'm still the same.
So I suppose I haven't really changed all that much. The essential part of my nature remains intact. I guess I feel different because I've been able to maintain that lucky core even with all the ups and downs of my life. My focus is different and I've grown more into myself but I'm still the same.
Tuesday, July 03, 2012
24th and Mission
This time, for the first time, he says nothing.
We are walking. It's very cold in the Mission tonight. Something like 45 degrees. I would say I'm alone and it would look like it but in weird way I'm never alone. Especially now.
I'm wearing my Raybans. The people are dark and shadowy particularly where there are no street lights. I'm grateful for it. It's about 9:45 pm.
"I want to die," I say. I don't expect an answer and I don't get one. I keep walking forward glad to be wearing the ankle bandage on my left foot. Helps me walk normally. I'm staring straight ahead, like a horse with blinders on. I'm moving down Valencia towards the BART station.
"I was unfriended. I think it's to be expected," I say. This statement seems to come out of left field.
"You hate FaceBook anyway."
I turn to him. "Mr. Gryphon, how about if I create an identity for you on FaceBook. I could give you status updates, post pictures of us, things like that." He turns to me and barely smiles. It's been a long time since we've been together.
"All of us...we all miss you, Miss Turtle."
I ignore this comment. I've made a left on 24th street and am about to pass an alleyway to my right. The pain wrenches through my heart like dull knife. I turn towards him to keep my tears from spilling. "Happy endings, and not those sexual kind either."
"What about them?"
"Think of the concept of living happily ever after. Certain people can and will do so. It's inevitable but since I can't." I stop and lay my hands on my upper chest. "Since there are no happy endings for Miss Turtle and there never will be then it makes sense that all my characters are guaranteed happy endings. Don't you think that a fair bit of compromise." It takes a huge effort to say this and my voice starts cracking.
Mr. Gryphon just stares at me. "We...miss...you."
I turn away from him and continue to walk towards the BART station. I am reminded of that time when I was waiting for a BART train at Glen Park years ago and was standing on the platform crying. Really crying. Leaning against a pole and how nobody asked me if I was okay. I wrote about that here.
I get to the BART stairs and pause.
"No, Miss Turtle, you are not going to trip and fall down the stairs."
"I think about it a lot. I think how tragic it would be if I fell down these stairs and broke my neck. My ankles are weak anyway." I smile up at him. "Just think, you and I will be together forever with all our friends and the other characters. The stories will continue." I smile up at him but real tears are streaking down my face.
"You're not going to break your neck," he says. "Not now. You're not going to die for a very long time."
"There are no happy endings for me, Mr. Gryphon. Only the ones I make up for myself."
"Exactly."
"I'm surprised you agree with me."
"That's just it, Miss Turtle. There will be happy endings and they will be the ones you make up for yourself. A happy ending doesn't happen like some random event. It's something you choose for yourself and your ability to imagine and choose is the most powerful thing about you."
"What are you? My guru?" I am carefully stepping down the long flight of stairs. It seems like the damn escalator has been broken for months.
He sighs but doesn't reply. I press my Clipper card against the sensor and walk through the gate. He merely leaps over the barrier. No one notices him though a homeless man does a double take then turns away, shaking his head.
"Did he see you?"
"Not sure. Sometimes they catch a glimpse, it seems, but only your other imaginary friends and characters can see me."
I look up at him. He's still human. I wonder what the hell I'm doing to do about that but decide the solution or resolution, as it were, will come in time.
*Note: This was written several months ago.
We are walking. It's very cold in the Mission tonight. Something like 45 degrees. I would say I'm alone and it would look like it but in weird way I'm never alone. Especially now.
I'm wearing my Raybans. The people are dark and shadowy particularly where there are no street lights. I'm grateful for it. It's about 9:45 pm.
"I want to die," I say. I don't expect an answer and I don't get one. I keep walking forward glad to be wearing the ankle bandage on my left foot. Helps me walk normally. I'm staring straight ahead, like a horse with blinders on. I'm moving down Valencia towards the BART station.
"I was unfriended. I think it's to be expected," I say. This statement seems to come out of left field.
"You hate FaceBook anyway."
I turn to him. "Mr. Gryphon, how about if I create an identity for you on FaceBook. I could give you status updates, post pictures of us, things like that." He turns to me and barely smiles. It's been a long time since we've been together.
"All of us...we all miss you, Miss Turtle."
I ignore this comment. I've made a left on 24th street and am about to pass an alleyway to my right. The pain wrenches through my heart like dull knife. I turn towards him to keep my tears from spilling. "Happy endings, and not those sexual kind either."
"What about them?"
"Think of the concept of living happily ever after. Certain people can and will do so. It's inevitable but since I can't." I stop and lay my hands on my upper chest. "Since there are no happy endings for Miss Turtle and there never will be then it makes sense that all my characters are guaranteed happy endings. Don't you think that a fair bit of compromise." It takes a huge effort to say this and my voice starts cracking.
Mr. Gryphon just stares at me. "We...miss...you."
I turn away from him and continue to walk towards the BART station. I am reminded of that time when I was waiting for a BART train at Glen Park years ago and was standing on the platform crying. Really crying. Leaning against a pole and how nobody asked me if I was okay. I wrote about that here.
I get to the BART stairs and pause.
"No, Miss Turtle, you are not going to trip and fall down the stairs."
"I think about it a lot. I think how tragic it would be if I fell down these stairs and broke my neck. My ankles are weak anyway." I smile up at him. "Just think, you and I will be together forever with all our friends and the other characters. The stories will continue." I smile up at him but real tears are streaking down my face.
"You're not going to break your neck," he says. "Not now. You're not going to die for a very long time."
"There are no happy endings for me, Mr. Gryphon. Only the ones I make up for myself."
"Exactly."
"I'm surprised you agree with me."
"That's just it, Miss Turtle. There will be happy endings and they will be the ones you make up for yourself. A happy ending doesn't happen like some random event. It's something you choose for yourself and your ability to imagine and choose is the most powerful thing about you."
"What are you? My guru?" I am carefully stepping down the long flight of stairs. It seems like the damn escalator has been broken for months.
He sighs but doesn't reply. I press my Clipper card against the sensor and walk through the gate. He merely leaps over the barrier. No one notices him though a homeless man does a double take then turns away, shaking his head.
"Did he see you?"
"Not sure. Sometimes they catch a glimpse, it seems, but only your other imaginary friends and characters can see me."
I look up at him. He's still human. I wonder what the hell I'm doing to do about that but decide the solution or resolution, as it were, will come in time.
*Note: This was written several months ago.
Saturday, June 30, 2012
My Short Story and its "Problems"
"There's always someone around even if you can't see them."
That's a quote from my short story "Rodney." I thought about offering it up here for 99 cents as an experiment in self-publishing. It wouldn't matter if no one bought it. I'm more interested in the process of getting a story ready for sale on Amazon than anything else.
The problem is I had it critiqued two more times and both times the story was shot down as having problems so I've set it aside and focused on other projects. I'll work on the story later but this brings to mind how difficult it can be to hear other people's comments about your work.
People keep telling me my character is too emotional. Hrrumph. Under normal circumstances I would say fuck it and post it here but I feel like if I really want to do this experiment and offer it for 99 cents then the damn thing better not have "problems."
I had an interesting conversation with one of my friends at a recent writing group. She said she was no longer interested in making money off her writing and finds satisfaction in sharing. I have to agree with her. There is something nice about having a small readership who looks forward to your stories.
I keep thinking I should work on "Rodney" and make it less...problematic so I can get on with the experiment but I love the way it is even if my character is too "emotional." The first time I had the story critiqued, I got great feedback that made the story way better than when I'd drafted it. Subsequent critiques have been close to useless.
A couple of weekends ago I had an enlightening conversation with my Mom where we talked about this short story and its "problems." I read it to her a while back and she thought it was fine even the parts that were gory. Still, talking it through with her was helpful. It made me see that perhaps there were things in the story I needed to bring out more. For example, the early part of the story is gory but it's not clear to the reader why the story has to be that way.
As it is, I have other fish to fry but this story remains on my radar. Maybe I'll try something radical like do a podcast reading of the story as it is and then redraft it and offer that version up for 99 cents. We'll see.
That's a quote from my short story "Rodney." I thought about offering it up here for 99 cents as an experiment in self-publishing. It wouldn't matter if no one bought it. I'm more interested in the process of getting a story ready for sale on Amazon than anything else.
The problem is I had it critiqued two more times and both times the story was shot down as having problems so I've set it aside and focused on other projects. I'll work on the story later but this brings to mind how difficult it can be to hear other people's comments about your work.
People keep telling me my character is too emotional. Hrrumph. Under normal circumstances I would say fuck it and post it here but I feel like if I really want to do this experiment and offer it for 99 cents then the damn thing better not have "problems."
I had an interesting conversation with one of my friends at a recent writing group. She said she was no longer interested in making money off her writing and finds satisfaction in sharing. I have to agree with her. There is something nice about having a small readership who looks forward to your stories.
I keep thinking I should work on "Rodney" and make it less...problematic so I can get on with the experiment but I love the way it is even if my character is too "emotional." The first time I had the story critiqued, I got great feedback that made the story way better than when I'd drafted it. Subsequent critiques have been close to useless.
A couple of weekends ago I had an enlightening conversation with my Mom where we talked about this short story and its "problems." I read it to her a while back and she thought it was fine even the parts that were gory. Still, talking it through with her was helpful. It made me see that perhaps there were things in the story I needed to bring out more. For example, the early part of the story is gory but it's not clear to the reader why the story has to be that way.
As it is, I have other fish to fry but this story remains on my radar. Maybe I'll try something radical like do a podcast reading of the story as it is and then redraft it and offer that version up for 99 cents. We'll see.
Sunday, June 03, 2012
City Life: A Quick Post about Strybing Arboretum in Golden Gate Park
I got a Nikon 1 for Christmas, a sexy little white camera with small interchangeable lenses. I'm still learning how it works, definitely have to do some more shooting. The pictures below are just a sampling I did after I got the camera. The light was fading and it was a foggy afternoon. Even with these limitations, I wanted to see what the camera could do.
Strybing Arboretum is located in Golden Gate Park right near the entrance at Lincoln and 9th Avenue. It's a lovely contemplative stroll and a wonderful way to take a break. This expanse of lawn and trees is right near the Arboretum entrance.
I had to push my way through some bushes and and branches to take this shot. You can see the effects of the fading light and fog in how muted the colors are in these pictures.
"Rocky" and his friends are very friendly. They run right up to you expecting a treat. I had fun watching them run and leap around me while I tried for a decent shot.
I like the grayed edges of these leaves. In bright sunlight they would probably look like they're on fire but everything was soft and quiet that day.
Macro (or so someone told me). I was trying to get as close as possible to this plant. The water drops are from the increasing fog billowing in. It was getting to the point where I was worried there would be drops on my camera lens. I like how silvery this plant looks. So ordinary and unassuming until you get really close.
I would have stayed longer but the light was almost gone by the time I made my way back to the entrance. The camera shoots very well in low light. I didn't have to use the flash at all.
I'll do another post about the camera after I've played with it some more.
Saturday, June 02, 2012
Unfold me, I am small...
Uploaded by AmandaReaBoyd on Oct 28, 2008
Breathe me by sia with lyrics
By the way, this song is spectacular in the finale of "Six Feet Under."
Friday, May 25, 2012
Back to Basics
2012 Circa Calendar
Index cards (3x5 and 4x6)
Some small moleskines (mostly blank)
Small envelopes
The list above is a label on a white box I have on my desk.
Years ago, a guy I used to work with said when things get overwhelming or major changes are taking place sometimes it's helpful to get back to basics. Just focus on getting all your ducks in a row with the basic things in your life.
I thought at the time this was great advice because it places your focus on shoring up your foundations and gives you solid ground to stand on.
There are a ton of changes going on in my life right now. Due to many factors, I'm going to have to give up my rent-controlled apartment. In order to do that and stay here in San Francisco, it means I'm going to have to downsize. This sounds like a bad thing but it isn't. I have way too much crap, including things left over from my marriage that just don't apply to me and my life anymore. I've been wanting to streamline for years and this is the perfect opportunity to do so.
Looking at all my stuff and starting this process is intimidating as hell, though. I know there's a finite number of items in my apartment (it's not that big) but when I think about it, I get really nervous. Need to start small, need to start steady. Plus, the idea of living in another place is also scary. It's exciting too. I think I need this little shake up.
I streamlined my schedule even before I heard about my apartment. After more than 23 years I retired from volunteering with the penguins. I wasn't doing very much at the end there and I've got a bunch of personal projects I really want to focus on. Also, I stopped doing the monthly critique sessions for my writing group. I was the only one doing them and no one wanted to back me up. Running a critique session is more work than facilitating a writing group.
This evening I've started purging in earnest. I'm in my living room and worked for an hour while listening to 90s rap tunes. I tossed a lot of stuff already, consolidated some items, and have labeled some items for storage. I'm going to finish up with my office supplies (damn, there's a lot of those!) and get ready to do some more work tomorrow.
When I first started writing I read a book on writing by Jack Bickman titled "Writing the Short Story." It was the first nuts and bolts writing book I'd ever read. It's a kind of a course where you do a ton of prep work on 3x5 index cards about things you're interested in that could be inspiration for your writing and how to map out your story using 3x5 cards. I went through the entire book and worked really hard. At the end I had a nice pile of 3x5 cards with my story, characters, settings, etc. all mapped out and...I took the pile of cards and put them away. I never wrote that story down. I even went to where the story was set and drove around, making notes. The reason I never wrote it down is because the story was done. There was no need to continue with it. This was the first time I discovered intense outlining and prep work before writing doesn't work for me.
Well, I found those 3x5 cards in a box a little while ago and had fun flipping through them. All the things I'd written down for inspiration still apply. I thought about tossing the cards because I know I'll never go back and look at them but I think I'll keep them a little while longer.
Bickman's book was valuable for other reasons even if I didn't take to the method he was teaching. Mainly, it gave me a good overview of plot structure and the concept of adding "tags" or characteristics to your characters to give them more depth.
Another thing I found nestled among the 3x5 cards is an outline for a short story I wrote when I first moved here. The story itself has been lost as far as I can tell. The setting is in the Southwest and it's an extremely disturbing revenge story. I mention it in this old blog post (The Role of Extreme Violence in Art). I went all out with it and kept pushing and pushing, trying to go to places that scared the hell out of me to see what would come out and how much I could take. I know if I read it now it would be full of beginning writer mistakes but it would be nice to take a look at it anyway. The story contains some of the most powerful visuals I've ever written and is one of the most violent and gory stories I have ever read. I still remember most of it and at this point those 3x5s are just about priceless. I'll probably write it down again at some point.
Hmm. I was supposed to talk more about getting back to basics but ended up talking about writing again. Oh well.
I have a lot of blank index cards. I use them in my writers notebook/calendar sometimes and occasionally decide to go back to using them as my calendar. And who knows, I may decide to try plotting out another story with them. I'll talk about the moleskines later. For now, let's just say I have an obsession with them, and blank books in general.
If I find anything else of interest, I'll do another post.
Index cards (3x5 and 4x6)
Some small moleskines (mostly blank)
Small envelopes
The list above is a label on a white box I have on my desk.
Years ago, a guy I used to work with said when things get overwhelming or major changes are taking place sometimes it's helpful to get back to basics. Just focus on getting all your ducks in a row with the basic things in your life.
I thought at the time this was great advice because it places your focus on shoring up your foundations and gives you solid ground to stand on.
There are a ton of changes going on in my life right now. Due to many factors, I'm going to have to give up my rent-controlled apartment. In order to do that and stay here in San Francisco, it means I'm going to have to downsize. This sounds like a bad thing but it isn't. I have way too much crap, including things left over from my marriage that just don't apply to me and my life anymore. I've been wanting to streamline for years and this is the perfect opportunity to do so.
Looking at all my stuff and starting this process is intimidating as hell, though. I know there's a finite number of items in my apartment (it's not that big) but when I think about it, I get really nervous. Need to start small, need to start steady. Plus, the idea of living in another place is also scary. It's exciting too. I think I need this little shake up.
I streamlined my schedule even before I heard about my apartment. After more than 23 years I retired from volunteering with the penguins. I wasn't doing very much at the end there and I've got a bunch of personal projects I really want to focus on. Also, I stopped doing the monthly critique sessions for my writing group. I was the only one doing them and no one wanted to back me up. Running a critique session is more work than facilitating a writing group.
This evening I've started purging in earnest. I'm in my living room and worked for an hour while listening to 90s rap tunes. I tossed a lot of stuff already, consolidated some items, and have labeled some items for storage. I'm going to finish up with my office supplies (damn, there's a lot of those!) and get ready to do some more work tomorrow.
When I first started writing I read a book on writing by Jack Bickman titled "Writing the Short Story." It was the first nuts and bolts writing book I'd ever read. It's a kind of a course where you do a ton of prep work on 3x5 index cards about things you're interested in that could be inspiration for your writing and how to map out your story using 3x5 cards. I went through the entire book and worked really hard. At the end I had a nice pile of 3x5 cards with my story, characters, settings, etc. all mapped out and...I took the pile of cards and put them away. I never wrote that story down. I even went to where the story was set and drove around, making notes. The reason I never wrote it down is because the story was done. There was no need to continue with it. This was the first time I discovered intense outlining and prep work before writing doesn't work for me.
Well, I found those 3x5 cards in a box a little while ago and had fun flipping through them. All the things I'd written down for inspiration still apply. I thought about tossing the cards because I know I'll never go back and look at them but I think I'll keep them a little while longer.
Bickman's book was valuable for other reasons even if I didn't take to the method he was teaching. Mainly, it gave me a good overview of plot structure and the concept of adding "tags" or characteristics to your characters to give them more depth.
Another thing I found nestled among the 3x5 cards is an outline for a short story I wrote when I first moved here. The story itself has been lost as far as I can tell. The setting is in the Southwest and it's an extremely disturbing revenge story. I mention it in this old blog post (The Role of Extreme Violence in Art). I went all out with it and kept pushing and pushing, trying to go to places that scared the hell out of me to see what would come out and how much I could take. I know if I read it now it would be full of beginning writer mistakes but it would be nice to take a look at it anyway. The story contains some of the most powerful visuals I've ever written and is one of the most violent and gory stories I have ever read. I still remember most of it and at this point those 3x5s are just about priceless. I'll probably write it down again at some point.
Hmm. I was supposed to talk more about getting back to basics but ended up talking about writing again. Oh well.
I have a lot of blank index cards. I use them in my writers notebook/calendar sometimes and occasionally decide to go back to using them as my calendar. And who knows, I may decide to try plotting out another story with them. I'll talk about the moleskines later. For now, let's just say I have an obsession with them, and blank books in general.
If I find anything else of interest, I'll do another post.
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
The Worth of Things
"It's late."
"Yes, and I have to get up early. I know." I pick up the teapot and pour some Earl Gray into the usual delicate teacup.
"It's nice to see you. We've missed you."
I nod but say nothing to this statement.
Mr. Gryphon and I are sitting on a smooth white ledge, the tea service on the floor between us. Our legs are dangling over the edge, and out beyond is the dizzying view of the universe. We on the observation deck of a vast spaceship. The deck looks much like giant cake dome. The transparent substance which surrounds the deck is impossibly thin, only a few atoms thick, and stronger than almost any substance in the known universe. It feels like we sitting on a white circular platter, suspended in the middle of space.
It has been many months since I've talked to him and even longer since I've been in this strange world I created. I look down, getting dizzy. Below me are more stars and the endless blackness of space. I kick my legs a few times.
"I've missed you too," he says, pushing his blond hair out of his eyes. I look at him, frowning. I'm so used to him being big that it's weird seeing him so small though he's still taller than me.
A year ago, Valentine's Day, Mr. Gryphon woke up in the morning and found that he had turned into a human being, a guy around my age. No matter what he or anybody else tried to do, he could not turn himself back into a gryphon. Yes, it's true, I just haven't mentioned it to anybody. I have a draft blog post to prove it. I wrote the post "Imaginary Friend" and in it he keeps talking about how I have to write a story about us, and how everything has come to a standstill. I'd figured out how to overlay a gryphon facade on him but it's impossible to maintain for any length of time. If you're paying any attention in that post, I'm having difficulty looking at him.
"I was uncomfortable," I say, "Still am but clearly the story needs to be written. I just don't know when I'm going to get around to it. There's a lot going on." I kick my legs again and focus on a steady point of light that appears to be directly in front of us. A planet of some kind, obviously.
"Things seem to have come full circle. Because you didn't want to write the story down, other things happened."
"Do you really believe that? You're just a character in one of my stories. You're not real," I say. I am very tired but this conversation needs to take place.
"Stranger things have happened."
"You're still stoic, Mr. Gryphon. How did that happen? How did it happen that you are stoic?" I say, leaning towards him. He merely rolls his eyes and picks up his teacup. "Look at what I've done! Gryphon and Mock Turtle are always together. It's built into your nature. You can't leave, not ever!"
"No, Miss Turtle, that's not true. You can't leave. It's your nature," he says. In the months I've been avoiding him, he has clearly become comfortable with his human self. He picks up small cake slice and offers it to me. Our fingers brush. His hand is very warm.
"Goddammit!" I yell, startling him. He blinks rapidly for a moment. His eyes are a very warm shade of light brown with pronounced gold flecks. I miss his great yellow eyes. And his wings.
"Sorry, I'll take the cake back if you want," he says. I carefully put the plate down then I start to get up. "Please don't leave. It's been a long time since we've talked. I would very much like it if you would stay for a little while." He looks sad.
I settle back down. I stare back out into the infinite empty space in front of us. "Ever wonder if certain things are worth it?"
"No."
"Never?" I look at him again. "Don't you get tired of waiting around for me?"
"Nope," he says, taking a sip of tea. "I don't mind waiting for you, Miss Turtle, because it's always worth it."
I wince.
"I know what this is about," he says. "This is a fair bit of self-torture, don't you think?"
"I prefer to think of it as hashing things out."
"We could talk about it directly, you know. It might be a good thing."
"This is a public blog. We can't talk about it directly."
"Suit yourself," he says watching me. "You went through Heaven, Hell, the Garden of Eden, New York City, and Purgatory to find me, your imaginary friend. You know something about whether difficult situations are worth it."
I ignore this last comment. "Some people say, Mr. Gryphon, that one shouldn't do something if it's not easy, if you're not going with the goddamn shit flow of the motherfucking universe. If it's difficult or uncomfortable, you shouldn't go there."
"Yes, and people also say you should just 'be,' exist." He has taken the small cake he offered me earlier and is eating it with delicate bites.
"Fuck that."
"Yes, Miss Turtle, I believe that's the right attitude. If everyone just did what was easy, there would be no progress, and there certainly wouldn't be any stories."
"Thanks for your support. I know it's built into your nature to support me but I appreciate it anyway." I push my teacup away and draw my knees up, wrapping my arms around them. "Don't ask me what I'm going to do," I say.
"I wouldn't dare," he says. We stare out into the millions of stars. Right now, everything and anything is happening around us, around me. I ponder the worth of things and how painful these discoveries can be.
"Yes, and I have to get up early. I know." I pick up the teapot and pour some Earl Gray into the usual delicate teacup.
"It's nice to see you. We've missed you."
I nod but say nothing to this statement.
Mr. Gryphon and I are sitting on a smooth white ledge, the tea service on the floor between us. Our legs are dangling over the edge, and out beyond is the dizzying view of the universe. We on the observation deck of a vast spaceship. The deck looks much like giant cake dome. The transparent substance which surrounds the deck is impossibly thin, only a few atoms thick, and stronger than almost any substance in the known universe. It feels like we sitting on a white circular platter, suspended in the middle of space.
It has been many months since I've talked to him and even longer since I've been in this strange world I created. I look down, getting dizzy. Below me are more stars and the endless blackness of space. I kick my legs a few times.
"I've missed you too," he says, pushing his blond hair out of his eyes. I look at him, frowning. I'm so used to him being big that it's weird seeing him so small though he's still taller than me.
A year ago, Valentine's Day, Mr. Gryphon woke up in the morning and found that he had turned into a human being, a guy around my age. No matter what he or anybody else tried to do, he could not turn himself back into a gryphon. Yes, it's true, I just haven't mentioned it to anybody. I have a draft blog post to prove it. I wrote the post "Imaginary Friend" and in it he keeps talking about how I have to write a story about us, and how everything has come to a standstill. I'd figured out how to overlay a gryphon facade on him but it's impossible to maintain for any length of time. If you're paying any attention in that post, I'm having difficulty looking at him.
"I was uncomfortable," I say, "Still am but clearly the story needs to be written. I just don't know when I'm going to get around to it. There's a lot going on." I kick my legs again and focus on a steady point of light that appears to be directly in front of us. A planet of some kind, obviously.
"Things seem to have come full circle. Because you didn't want to write the story down, other things happened."
"Do you really believe that? You're just a character in one of my stories. You're not real," I say. I am very tired but this conversation needs to take place.
"Stranger things have happened."
"You're still stoic, Mr. Gryphon. How did that happen? How did it happen that you are stoic?" I say, leaning towards him. He merely rolls his eyes and picks up his teacup. "Look at what I've done! Gryphon and Mock Turtle are always together. It's built into your nature. You can't leave, not ever!"
"No, Miss Turtle, that's not true. You can't leave. It's your nature," he says. In the months I've been avoiding him, he has clearly become comfortable with his human self. He picks up small cake slice and offers it to me. Our fingers brush. His hand is very warm.
"Goddammit!" I yell, startling him. He blinks rapidly for a moment. His eyes are a very warm shade of light brown with pronounced gold flecks. I miss his great yellow eyes. And his wings.
"Sorry, I'll take the cake back if you want," he says. I carefully put the plate down then I start to get up. "Please don't leave. It's been a long time since we've talked. I would very much like it if you would stay for a little while." He looks sad.
I settle back down. I stare back out into the infinite empty space in front of us. "Ever wonder if certain things are worth it?"
"No."
"Never?" I look at him again. "Don't you get tired of waiting around for me?"
"Nope," he says, taking a sip of tea. "I don't mind waiting for you, Miss Turtle, because it's always worth it."
I wince.
"I know what this is about," he says. "This is a fair bit of self-torture, don't you think?"
"I prefer to think of it as hashing things out."
"We could talk about it directly, you know. It might be a good thing."
"This is a public blog. We can't talk about it directly."
"Suit yourself," he says watching me. "You went through Heaven, Hell, the Garden of Eden, New York City, and Purgatory to find me, your imaginary friend. You know something about whether difficult situations are worth it."
I ignore this last comment. "Some people say, Mr. Gryphon, that one shouldn't do something if it's not easy, if you're not going with the goddamn shit flow of the motherfucking universe. If it's difficult or uncomfortable, you shouldn't go there."
"Yes, and people also say you should just 'be,' exist." He has taken the small cake he offered me earlier and is eating it with delicate bites.
"Fuck that."
"Yes, Miss Turtle, I believe that's the right attitude. If everyone just did what was easy, there would be no progress, and there certainly wouldn't be any stories."
"Thanks for your support. I know it's built into your nature to support me but I appreciate it anyway." I push my teacup away and draw my knees up, wrapping my arms around them. "Don't ask me what I'm going to do," I say.
"I wouldn't dare," he says. We stare out into the millions of stars. Right now, everything and anything is happening around us, around me. I ponder the worth of things and how painful these discoveries can be.
***
I posted this last December then took it down again. I thought it was about a person I was hashing things out with but it isn't at all. This post is about something bigger and wider. The story. My own fears about how I'm living my life and how much risk I want to take. People to hash things out with come and go. Friends and family stay. And my imagination is a constant. There's a weird kind of comfort knowing that Mr. Gryphon will never fail me. It's good to have imaginary friends.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Writing Life: Type
A manual typewriter at a winery in Healdsburg.
Those IBM Selectrics were revolutionary as was whiteout and correction tape. Learning to use whiteout properly was an art in itself. You had to keep the brush clean and glump free. And to get the best results, you had to slowly paint over the letter while keeping the rest of the paper around the letter as clean as possible.
When I went to secretarial school, I learned about computers. I learned DOS, that old MS operating system, and we had seven inch floppy disks that were literally floppy. If the IBM Selectrics were revolutionary, the computer was a miracle, a beautiful thing that crawled out of a science fiction story. I would stare at the screen of green letters on black expecting it to start talking to me. The day I learned about deleting, cutting and pasting, and saving documents to be worked on later stand out as one of the most important days in my writing life. When I realized you could print the document you were working on after it was done and proofed, I thought it wasn't possible for things to get any better than that.
I'm happy I was wrong about that assumption.
While the computer and I are close friends, I do find that good old fashioned typewriter up there to be an exotic, sexy creature capable of performing in almost any situation, including a power outage. I think how nice it would be to have one. A writer should have a manual typewriter around somewhere, right? If only I had the space for it.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Writing Life: Sex Scenes
I've been writing sex scenes recently and though I wouldn't consider myself an expert I have come to some conclusions about them.
There are the usual considerations such as how explicit do you want/need them to be? What kind of mood are you going for (beautiful, sensual, raunchy, porn), and should the scene be short, maybe even a scene in passing, or long and drawn out? These are all important questions.
For me, sex scenes are very special because they provide a unique opportunity to show character development, relationship arc, and story arc. And I believe each sex scene should be treated as its own little story with a beginning, middle, end, and conclusion. If you're going to write one it really should to count.
Character development - Everyone makes love/fucks differently. A sex scene can show a character tag, it can show what a character truly wants (and not just to get off either). It can show that someone really wants affection or is craving love or has a need to dominate or that they're angry or that they're in love (maybe not with the person they're with), what they like and are turned on/off by and on and on. A sex scene can show someone surrendering or resisting someone or something and how that character feels about it. It can show the baggage from past relationships and it can show that a character is terribly lonely.
Relationship arc - This is a no brainer. Does the relationship change at all during or after the sex scene? How? And how do the characters relate to each other? Or maybe they part anonymously, never to meet again. This says something about relationship too and about the character.
Story arc - A sex scene can suddenly raise the stakes by making someone care more or not. It can cause conflict with the character or other people. It can make things matter all of a sudden.
All of these things are true whether you're writing about a sweet honeymoon scene or a massive impersonal orgy. Both scenes are fantastic opportunities for storytelling.
There are the usual considerations such as how explicit do you want/need them to be? What kind of mood are you going for (beautiful, sensual, raunchy, porn), and should the scene be short, maybe even a scene in passing, or long and drawn out? These are all important questions.
For me, sex scenes are very special because they provide a unique opportunity to show character development, relationship arc, and story arc. And I believe each sex scene should be treated as its own little story with a beginning, middle, end, and conclusion. If you're going to write one it really should to count.
Character development - Everyone makes love/fucks differently. A sex scene can show a character tag, it can show what a character truly wants (and not just to get off either). It can show that someone really wants affection or is craving love or has a need to dominate or that they're angry or that they're in love (maybe not with the person they're with), what they like and are turned on/off by and on and on. A sex scene can show someone surrendering or resisting someone or something and how that character feels about it. It can show the baggage from past relationships and it can show that a character is terribly lonely.
Relationship arc - This is a no brainer. Does the relationship change at all during or after the sex scene? How? And how do the characters relate to each other? Or maybe they part anonymously, never to meet again. This says something about relationship too and about the character.
Story arc - A sex scene can suddenly raise the stakes by making someone care more or not. It can cause conflict with the character or other people. It can make things matter all of a sudden.
All of these things are true whether you're writing about a sweet honeymoon scene or a massive impersonal orgy. Both scenes are fantastic opportunities for storytelling.
***
As for me, a sex scene is always damn intimidating to write, and it can take me a little while to work up my nerve. I've been using the following process:
- Consider what your goal is for the scene. Are you trying to show the relationship is changing? How can you do that? By making it sweeter or rougher or something else?
- Try to keep it fresh and special. You can vary the location, the time, the situation, etc. Setting will play a huge part in the scene whether your characters are in bed with a fire going in the fireplace, in the shower, outside, or in a unused room at a huge party.
- Vary how they do it. Different positions, different types of sex, experimentation are all valid ways to show character preferences and changes.
- Once I write the initial scene, it's usually okay but not great. I make it way better by adding more and more layers of details. I'll add explicit detail, add more "love and affection" type details, if appropriate while keeping in mind character, relationship, and story changes. I work on it for a while then let it rest then do some more work. My sex scenes often go through 10 or more drafts.
- Mine tend to be explicit but it's not necessary or preferable depending on your story. If you're not going for explicit but you want to write a longer scene then I would suggest focusing on "love and affection" and sensual details. Kissing, touching, hugging, and other kinds of pleasuring. Sound, scent, touch are all very important details.
- Speaking of kissing, I have to say I still don't feel comfortable with my kissing scenes. They're not bad but I want them to be off the charts. Practice makes perfect.
This is just me but I don't like scenes which are very obviously a description of the author's sexual preferences and body types. Such scenes take me right out of the story. I don't want to hear that the author likes blondes with big boobs. I want to see what's going on with the character, how the character feels about his/her partner, and what changes are occurring. Those are the things I find interesting.
Lastly, sex scenes are a fantastic place to inject humor, if appropriate to your story. Humor can endear a character to the reader and provide additional bonding for the characters.
Thursday, March 08, 2012
Writing Life: Thoughts on "Back to 'Bird by Bird'"
In 2007, I wrote a post called "Back to 'Bird by Bird'" which described my feelings about struggling with my writing especially what to do with the first draft of my historical novel and a lecture I attended with Anne Lamott, who wrote "Bird by Bird," a classic book on writing. A friend of mine mentioned that he read the post the other day.
Reading it now makes me smile. That was over four years ago. I can't believe all that's happened in these last four years. I'm now on the third official draft of my historical novel. I'm home sick today and spent some time reviewing all the chapters I'd thrown together, eliminating the ones that definitely did not belong, and noting ones that only had one sentence (placeholder chapters, really!), and compiled the document into Word. It's now over 88,000 words or 237 single-spaced Word pages.
The story has taken on a gigantic life of its own with at least two viable backstories which are both over 70 pages long (not currently included with the Word document), and a couple of secondary characters who keep insisting on running away with their own story. Those boys need to pipe down and wait their turn.
And I went to Europe in 2010 and researched the story setting when I visited Nuremberg. You know, if you had told me I was going to lose my job soon after I came back to that trip, I may have thought twice about going but I'm glad those guys didn't tell me because it's going to be a long time before I can do any significant travel. I'm so grateful I got to go there once. I would love to go back in December but I don't see how that's possible.
Anyway, I burned through my (new) black ink cartridge printing out my hard copy of the novel. No matter, there's more where that came from. Serious revision is going to begin to turn this bad boy into the real deal and I'm really looking forward to it.
It surprises me to say this but I feel so much more comfortable with myself in general. I think about that time in 2007 when I was laid off, and about that time in 2010 right after I came back from that trip. My situation is still far from stable but I feel very sure of myself, my writing, and my ability to take this story where I want it to go. It's very odd to realize this for the first time as I'm writing this post.
It's a bit like realizing you have an idea of what you're capable of, and that you don't have to be at the mercy of whatever is being thrown at you all the time. I'm not saying shit isn't going to get thrown at me, it happens, but I know there are some areas of my life that will still remain under my own control.
It's good to be back on the blog, people. I hope you are all doing great. More later.
Reading it now makes me smile. That was over four years ago. I can't believe all that's happened in these last four years. I'm now on the third official draft of my historical novel. I'm home sick today and spent some time reviewing all the chapters I'd thrown together, eliminating the ones that definitely did not belong, and noting ones that only had one sentence (placeholder chapters, really!), and compiled the document into Word. It's now over 88,000 words or 237 single-spaced Word pages.
The story has taken on a gigantic life of its own with at least two viable backstories which are both over 70 pages long (not currently included with the Word document), and a couple of secondary characters who keep insisting on running away with their own story. Those boys need to pipe down and wait their turn.
And I went to Europe in 2010 and researched the story setting when I visited Nuremberg. You know, if you had told me I was going to lose my job soon after I came back to that trip, I may have thought twice about going but I'm glad those guys didn't tell me because it's going to be a long time before I can do any significant travel. I'm so grateful I got to go there once. I would love to go back in December but I don't see how that's possible.
Anyway, I burned through my (new) black ink cartridge printing out my hard copy of the novel. No matter, there's more where that came from. Serious revision is going to begin to turn this bad boy into the real deal and I'm really looking forward to it.
It surprises me to say this but I feel so much more comfortable with myself in general. I think about that time in 2007 when I was laid off, and about that time in 2010 right after I came back from that trip. My situation is still far from stable but I feel very sure of myself, my writing, and my ability to take this story where I want it to go. It's very odd to realize this for the first time as I'm writing this post.
It's a bit like realizing you have an idea of what you're capable of, and that you don't have to be at the mercy of whatever is being thrown at you all the time. I'm not saying shit isn't going to get thrown at me, it happens, but I know there are some areas of my life that will still remain under my own control.
It's good to be back on the blog, people. I hope you are all doing great. More later.
Saturday, December 03, 2011
Dating Life: I Posted This Ad On Craigslist...Annotated
Note: I posted this ad on craigslist last Valentines Day. It was just an experiment. I was more interested in writing the ad itself and not at all interested in meeting anybody. I got something like 20 responses, none of them viable. I took the ad down after I kept receiving responses asking what kind of drugs I was using (none). Here for your reading pleasure is the ad, annotated.
Un Chien Andalou (n.1) or Warm and Heavy Like Old Friendship
[Once upon a time...] (n.2)
Those ancient and old symbols quiver in the bright sunlight. We don't feel as old as we are but time keeps marching on as soldiers in formation. While the phalanx formation was appropriate for angels (n.3), time has no such poetry. It's all just straight lines and measured beats.
Speaking of poetry, how about if I do a little waxing? Of moonlight and walks on the beach? Of the stars that twinkle like shattered windshield glass on nighttime asphalt (n.4)? On seashore while we walk, ignoring the flaring bonfires of hipsters and hippies in our midst, watching cloud-like clumps of sea foam sliding across dark wet sand (n.5). Sandpipers are just barely visible running over the shore, delicate shadows. I could go on but I think what makes this evening special is the easy silence between us, your arm around my shoulders, warm and heavy like old friendship.
[Eight years later...]
This past week it's all about the films. Independent ones. I've tried cramming as many films into this week and next that I'm about to collapse from the stories and images flying around my subconscious like sugared up screech owls (n.6). Sure, I stole those words from the title cards but I couldn't resist. This post is about time after all. Time together, time marching on, the time of our lives, good times, and the time is now. Time bending and twisting like my brain did while watch nun exploitation films at 1:00 am with bad editing and worse acting (n.7).
I like to do a lot of other stuff too. Writing, obviously, though I write fiction with coherent stories most of the time. I like looking at paintings and sculptures. I like notes and beats, instruments. The usual stuff, though I'd be lying if I didn't disclose that the main reason I indulge myself in such pursuits is to fuel my imagination for more writing. Speaking of more, let's talk about that. More excellent conversation, more sexy moments, more telling you how cool you are (n.8), more fun times, more exploration of the world and each other.
Not less. I'm tired of less. The biggest form of less in my life right now is the job situation, just so you know. Other forms of less that have proved tiring: less kindness, less warmth, less understanding, less lovely connections.
[Around three in the morning...]
We are not battleships passing each other in the night firing our guns at random. When we see each other, we defy the usual norms by actually staying and talking, then asking each other our names, then explaining that we'd like to meet for coffee or a dinner. We like each other and follow through. We listen to each other and want to know more stuff about...us. At least that's the hope. A good one, wouldn't you say? For hope is not the broken down, kicked-in-the-ass bird trying to fly around on one wing that I sometimes imagine it to be. No, hope is the real deal, the enduring idea, and the sweet clenching in my chest. Hope never goes away in spite of my best efforts (n.9).
[Sixteen years ago...]
About me:
Long dark hair, eyes like the night wind
A little on the chubby side (padded)
Beautiful but in an average, non-descript way (n.10)
A solar-like smile
Short
Looking for single/divorced, educated man.
[In the Spring...]
My life is full of too many maybes and what ifs. You know what I mean. These things crowd around me like gnats with tiny bombs. The only what ifs worthy of my attention are the ones related to my stories. Time to walk out into this big world, barefoot and open. Time to take a look around. Time to see what's up. If you've made it this far in this post, I thank you for reading. If you're at all interested, please do write.
***
Un Chien Andalou (n.1) or Warm and Heavy Like Old Friendship
[Once upon a time...] (n.2)
Those ancient and old symbols quiver in the bright sunlight. We don't feel as old as we are but time keeps marching on as soldiers in formation. While the phalanx formation was appropriate for angels (n.3), time has no such poetry. It's all just straight lines and measured beats.
Speaking of poetry, how about if I do a little waxing? Of moonlight and walks on the beach? Of the stars that twinkle like shattered windshield glass on nighttime asphalt (n.4)? On seashore while we walk, ignoring the flaring bonfires of hipsters and hippies in our midst, watching cloud-like clumps of sea foam sliding across dark wet sand (n.5). Sandpipers are just barely visible running over the shore, delicate shadows. I could go on but I think what makes this evening special is the easy silence between us, your arm around my shoulders, warm and heavy like old friendship.
[Eight years later...]
This past week it's all about the films. Independent ones. I've tried cramming as many films into this week and next that I'm about to collapse from the stories and images flying around my subconscious like sugared up screech owls (n.6). Sure, I stole those words from the title cards but I couldn't resist. This post is about time after all. Time together, time marching on, the time of our lives, good times, and the time is now. Time bending and twisting like my brain did while watch nun exploitation films at 1:00 am with bad editing and worse acting (n.7).
I like to do a lot of other stuff too. Writing, obviously, though I write fiction with coherent stories most of the time. I like looking at paintings and sculptures. I like notes and beats, instruments. The usual stuff, though I'd be lying if I didn't disclose that the main reason I indulge myself in such pursuits is to fuel my imagination for more writing. Speaking of more, let's talk about that. More excellent conversation, more sexy moments, more telling you how cool you are (n.8), more fun times, more exploration of the world and each other.
Not less. I'm tired of less. The biggest form of less in my life right now is the job situation, just so you know. Other forms of less that have proved tiring: less kindness, less warmth, less understanding, less lovely connections.
[Around three in the morning...]
We are not battleships passing each other in the night firing our guns at random. When we see each other, we defy the usual norms by actually staying and talking, then asking each other our names, then explaining that we'd like to meet for coffee or a dinner. We like each other and follow through. We listen to each other and want to know more stuff about...us. At least that's the hope. A good one, wouldn't you say? For hope is not the broken down, kicked-in-the-ass bird trying to fly around on one wing that I sometimes imagine it to be. No, hope is the real deal, the enduring idea, and the sweet clenching in my chest. Hope never goes away in spite of my best efforts (n.9).
[Sixteen years ago...]
About me:
Long dark hair, eyes like the night wind
A little on the chubby side (padded)
Beautiful but in an average, non-descript way (n.10)
A solar-like smile
Short
Looking for single/divorced, educated man.
[In the Spring...]
My life is full of too many maybes and what ifs. You know what I mean. These things crowd around me like gnats with tiny bombs. The only what ifs worthy of my attention are the ones related to my stories. Time to walk out into this big world, barefoot and open. Time to take a look around. Time to see what's up. If you've made it this far in this post, I thank you for reading. If you're at all interested, please do write.
****
I've written some excellent ads on craiglist over the years but this was the weirdest one. I read a horoscope that stated I needed to keep experimenting and frolicking around in matters of love. Or rather I interpreted it as frolicking. This was one way I could think of doing just that. I have no idea if I'll get any responses but I wanted to share this strange piece of writing with you anyway. Besides, it's fucking Valentine's Day, right?
(n.1) "Un Chien Andalou" is the most famous surrealist film ever made. It was a French silent film made in 1929 and directed by Luis Bunuel. Here's a blog post I did on it.
(n.2) The comments in brackets follow the title cards in "Un Chien Andalou," hence the post title. A title card was used in silent films to set the time, note dialogue, or provide explanations. Luis used the title cards in this film to mess around with time and force people to shift their expectations of what was happening when.
(n.3) In Milton's "Paradise Lost," there's a war in Heaven and the angels use the Ancient Greek phalanx formation in their battles. If you've seen the movie "300," Gerard Butler goes into a short explanation of how it works.
(n.4) It occurred to me that this phrase "shattered windshield glass on nighttime asphalt" might be a bit too grim to include in a personal ad but I left it in because I really like it.
(n.5) I was walking on Ocean Beach by myself one night and there were these giant clumps of seafoam sliding across the dark wet sand. They looked like cumulus clouds and they were moving very steadily. I felt like a giant walking on the roof of the world.
(n.6) I was in the middle of attending the San Francisco Independent Film Festival (SF IndieFest) when I wrote this post.
(n.7) The name of this film was "Nude Nuns With Big Guns" and I really did watch at 1:00 am.
(n.8) In Miss Turtle's world, one of the biggest compliments I can give a guy is "You are so cool." The only one that's better is when I tell him he's my hero. Heroes in my life are few and far between, starting with my Dad. The guy has to be a knockout to reach that status.
(n.9) This part is painfully honest. I'm generally a cynic when it comes to matters of love but this little confession about how hope never goes away even though I try to beat the crap out of it is so true.
(n.10) I'm always brutally honest when I post dating ads but there's nothing average and non-descript about the way I look. I wrote that down because guys never seem to notice me.
***
Footnotes(n.1) "Un Chien Andalou" is the most famous surrealist film ever made. It was a French silent film made in 1929 and directed by Luis Bunuel. Here's a blog post I did on it.
(n.2) The comments in brackets follow the title cards in "Un Chien Andalou," hence the post title. A title card was used in silent films to set the time, note dialogue, or provide explanations. Luis used the title cards in this film to mess around with time and force people to shift their expectations of what was happening when.
(n.3) In Milton's "Paradise Lost," there's a war in Heaven and the angels use the Ancient Greek phalanx formation in their battles. If you've seen the movie "300," Gerard Butler goes into a short explanation of how it works.
(n.4) It occurred to me that this phrase "shattered windshield glass on nighttime asphalt" might be a bit too grim to include in a personal ad but I left it in because I really like it.
(n.5) I was walking on Ocean Beach by myself one night and there were these giant clumps of seafoam sliding across the dark wet sand. They looked like cumulus clouds and they were moving very steadily. I felt like a giant walking on the roof of the world.
(n.6) I was in the middle of attending the San Francisco Independent Film Festival (SF IndieFest) when I wrote this post.
(n.7) The name of this film was "Nude Nuns With Big Guns" and I really did watch at 1:00 am.
(n.8) In Miss Turtle's world, one of the biggest compliments I can give a guy is "You are so cool." The only one that's better is when I tell him he's my hero. Heroes in my life are few and far between, starting with my Dad. The guy has to be a knockout to reach that status.
(n.9) This part is painfully honest. I'm generally a cynic when it comes to matters of love but this little confession about how hope never goes away even though I try to beat the crap out of it is so true.
(n.10) I'm always brutally honest when I post dating ads but there's nothing average and non-descript about the way I look. I wrote that down because guys never seem to notice me.
Monday, November 14, 2011
Old Blog - Dating Life: Strange Comments From Guys I've Dated
(First posted 12/14/05) A friend of mine asked me to put this post up along with its counterpart (see post below)
"I always sleep with the same hand towel on my head every night. I've been doing that since I was three years old." (First Date)
"You really should check out the Power Exchange sometime but it's only interesting if you're really drunk or really stoned." (Second Date - The Power Exchange is a famous sex/fetish club here in SF. I have not been there.)
"Don't you want to be loved, adored, and worshiped? Don't you?" (Second Date)
"I guess you're kinda cute." (First Date)
"Since we have time before the movie starts, why don't we go to my car and stretch out in the back seat? I have some CDs we can listen to." (First Date - the guy was particularly proud that he had an SUV and really wanted to get me in there)
"So what are your feelings about the toilet seat? Should it be up or down?" (First Date)
"So when do we get to have sex?" (Fourth Date - This guy was not making any moves in that direction at all. He wasn't trying to hold my hand nor did he try to kiss me. Nothing.)
"Yes, I have a real Warhol. I used to have a Chagall but I gave it to my lawyers to pay for attorney's fees." (Second Date)
"I can't watch movies with subtitles and eat at the same time." (Second Date)
"I always sleep with the same hand towel on my head every night. I've been doing that since I was three years old." (First Date)
"You really should check out the Power Exchange sometime but it's only interesting if you're really drunk or really stoned." (Second Date - The Power Exchange is a famous sex/fetish club here in SF. I have not been there.)
"Don't you want to be loved, adored, and worshiped? Don't you?" (Second Date)
"I guess you're kinda cute." (First Date)
"Since we have time before the movie starts, why don't we go to my car and stretch out in the back seat? I have some CDs we can listen to." (First Date - the guy was particularly proud that he had an SUV and really wanted to get me in there)
"So what are your feelings about the toilet seat? Should it be up or down?" (First Date)
"So when do we get to have sex?" (Fourth Date - This guy was not making any moves in that direction at all. He wasn't trying to hold my hand nor did he try to kiss me. Nothing.)
"Yes, I have a real Warhol. I used to have a Chagall but I gave it to my lawyers to pay for attorney's fees." (Second Date)
"I can't watch movies with subtitles and eat at the same time." (Second Date)
Old Blog - Dating Life: Strange Comments I've Made To Guys I've Dated
(First posted on 12/22/05) In all fairness, I've decided to include the list below. I can be quirky and stupid, and I'm known for sticking my foot in my mouth. At least I'm honest about it.
"So what is the point of being enlightened anyway?" (First Date - I said this after a guy was explaining with much enthusiasm how he had achieved a high level of spiritual awareness. I also quoted Captain Kirk during this conversation.)
"It's time for you to shut the fuck up now." (Third Date - The guy was going on and on about how hemp was going to save the world.)
"I can't spend the night with you. My dog has serious separation anxiety and she will freak out if I don't come home." (Fourth Date - It has been suggested that I've used this as an excuse, maybe it's along the same lines as "You can't come up to my apartment, my dog hates men," but it's true; my dog can't handle being by herself all night long.)
"Wait, isn't your email handle the same name as the husband who killed his wife in 'Vertigo?'" (First Phone Call - It turned out of the true, believe it or not. He never thought in a million years that anyone would figure that out. This is why Google is so great.)
"This is just a one night stand. I can't be your girlfriend." (The Day After - apparently it wasn't clear to the guy that this was the situation because he kept insisting that I really did want to be his girlfriend.)
"You've been evaluating and testing me all evening, trying to see if I fit into some preconceived notions of what a mate should be. Knock it off." (First Date - this guy was clearly looking for a wife and I passed all his tests with flying colors. Unfortunately I couldn't stand him.)
"What kind of person doesn't watch DVD commentaries?" (Third Date - Sometimes the movie snob in me comes out in full force. The guy liked movies; I was floored when he told me he'd never watched a DVD commentary. He said it was too much of a time commitment.)
"I'm sick of people making fun of me because I love Harry Potter. You need to get out of my face with that shit." (First Date - I've made this comment, or a similar one, a couple of times now.)
"Are you going to talk to me or are you just going to stand there talking to your friend?" (First Meeting - I was sitting at a restaurant bar eating dinner and reading a book. This older gentleman was standing nearby talking to his friend about the book I was reading but looking at me. He did talk to me but was so thrown by what I said that it didn't last long.)
"Was that a joke? Are you being funny?" (Fourth Date - This was a difficult one for me. I really liked the guy but was self-conscious around him. I couldn't tell if he liked me, I couldn't tell if he was joking most of the time, and he was very impatient about it. He concluded that I had no sense of humor and we were not compatible.)
"Why did you bring that leather whip?" (First Time Sleeping Together - I think it's rude to bring your BDSM toys to bed the first time you're going to sleep with someone without checking to see if the other person is into it too.)
"What is up with the stem on this rose?" (First Date - This guy bought me a rose while we were having dinner in North Beach. The stem was really thick. I proceeded to suggest that the stem had been genetically engineered to be thick and went on about the possible reasons why. He didn't know how to respond to my comments. Poor guy.)
"Don't make me figure out the tip." (Nearly Every Date - said in the same tone of voice as "Don't make me hurt you.")
"So what is the point of being enlightened anyway?" (First Date - I said this after a guy was explaining with much enthusiasm how he had achieved a high level of spiritual awareness. I also quoted Captain Kirk during this conversation.)
"It's time for you to shut the fuck up now." (Third Date - The guy was going on and on about how hemp was going to save the world.)
"I can't spend the night with you. My dog has serious separation anxiety and she will freak out if I don't come home." (Fourth Date - It has been suggested that I've used this as an excuse, maybe it's along the same lines as "You can't come up to my apartment, my dog hates men," but it's true; my dog can't handle being by herself all night long.)
"Wait, isn't your email handle the same name as the husband who killed his wife in 'Vertigo?'" (First Phone Call - It turned out of the true, believe it or not. He never thought in a million years that anyone would figure that out. This is why Google is so great.)
"This is just a one night stand. I can't be your girlfriend." (The Day After - apparently it wasn't clear to the guy that this was the situation because he kept insisting that I really did want to be his girlfriend.)
"You've been evaluating and testing me all evening, trying to see if I fit into some preconceived notions of what a mate should be. Knock it off." (First Date - this guy was clearly looking for a wife and I passed all his tests with flying colors. Unfortunately I couldn't stand him.)
"What kind of person doesn't watch DVD commentaries?" (Third Date - Sometimes the movie snob in me comes out in full force. The guy liked movies; I was floored when he told me he'd never watched a DVD commentary. He said it was too much of a time commitment.)
"I'm sick of people making fun of me because I love Harry Potter. You need to get out of my face with that shit." (First Date - I've made this comment, or a similar one, a couple of times now.)
"Are you going to talk to me or are you just going to stand there talking to your friend?" (First Meeting - I was sitting at a restaurant bar eating dinner and reading a book. This older gentleman was standing nearby talking to his friend about the book I was reading but looking at me. He did talk to me but was so thrown by what I said that it didn't last long.)
"Was that a joke? Are you being funny?" (Fourth Date - This was a difficult one for me. I really liked the guy but was self-conscious around him. I couldn't tell if he liked me, I couldn't tell if he was joking most of the time, and he was very impatient about it. He concluded that I had no sense of humor and we were not compatible.)
"Why did you bring that leather whip?" (First Time Sleeping Together - I think it's rude to bring your BDSM toys to bed the first time you're going to sleep with someone without checking to see if the other person is into it too.)
"What is up with the stem on this rose?" (First Date - This guy bought me a rose while we were having dinner in North Beach. The stem was really thick. I proceeded to suggest that the stem had been genetically engineered to be thick and went on about the possible reasons why. He didn't know how to respond to my comments. Poor guy.)
"Don't make me figure out the tip." (Nearly Every Date - said in the same tone of voice as "Don't make me hurt you.")
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Jittered, Capped, and Dead Weight
Below are three separate posts from my old blog. When I first posted it, people told me Jittered was a strong piece of writing, the first compliment of its kind for me. Fortunately, it wasn't the last one. The other two posts, Capped and Dead Weight, are meant to follow Jittered. I love all three. Jittered accurately describes a stressful day at work where all the men found me insanely attractive for some reason. Maybe it was because I was wearing a skirted suit. I love Capped because it's an odd description of complete exhaustion vs. sexual longing. Jittered might be the best written of the three but Dead Weight is my favorite, especially the end.
****
Jittered
(First Posted Feb. 9, 2006)
At 7:20 am I stood outside City Hall
looking for the way in. I ignored that replica Italian dome vying for my
attention. The sun was warm, the sky beautiful and it was already a bad start
to the day.
I walked briskly, trying to disguise the
fact that I had the shakes. I was pulling a hand truck with important
documents. Documents that could make or break things, but I didn't care. I
still had to get into the building. Something popped in my head. Grove. Street.
I walked passed a couple of guys who both said good morning. I've been looking
good lately. I feel like hell, but I smile and flirt anyway. Part of the job.
I'm holding the one thing in my hand that
I should not be carrying. The one thing that will make and break me: a cup of
strong coffee with a little sugar. I haven't drank it yet. When I do,
everything will go jittered. My thoughts will scattershot all over the place.
Must wait for the right moment.
7:42 am and I'm arguing with security who
keeps telling me to go to the door at the end. I try to stay calm, but that
shaky inside feeling is getting worse. I finally find the right door. The sun
blazes outside. The angry employees are leaving all that warm sunshine for the
big dome.
I manage to make it through the metal
detector without falling to pieces. The security guard chats away. I thank him
and move on. Basement. Okay. Up the elevator now. The men are tripping over
themselves to help me find my room. They try to talk to me as we ride up four
floors. I long to ask someone what kind of wood is on the paneling, but I keep
forgetting. The brain is jumping here and there. To and fro. When I get off on
my floor, the men realize they forgot to press their floor number.
I make it to my room and the door is
locked. I wait outside with the documents. The hallway is long and wide with
gleaming white marble floors. More men in suits show up and they all smile, say
good morning. One guy really likes me. He's a hyperactive little shit or maybe
I'm just projecting.
I drink my coffee now. I breathe. It's the
last breath of the day that will have any effect except to move the oxygen
around. In about ten minutes, I can barely keep it together. The morning flies
by, a blur of papers and people. I'm sitting for hours on a red velvet chair
that's too small. I get cranky. I want to punch the only other chick here in
the face. Bitch.
Later I'm wandering through the
Controller's Office. Everyone ignores me. I smile and look around waiting for
someone to ask me what the hell I'm doing there. No one does. I could steal
anything from that place right now because all the employees are sitting around
talking about what they watched on TV last night. There are too many exits
here, too many side stairs.
Back to my velvet seat. I drank that cup
of coffee as quickly as possible. I'm so wired, I can't feel sorry for myself
anymore. I try to calm down, but it's not working. I'm still cranky, but I'm
kicking ass. I don't know how I do it. The suit next to me keeps flirting.
Giving me sideways glances. He smells good.
I wander into the hallway to make a phone
call. I stare down to the main part of the building. I look up at the huge dome
and then down four floors of white marble and concrete. Alarms are going off in
my body, something about not falling and going splat. I'm having a perfectly
ordinary conversation and then another one. Each lasts ten minutes. My voice
has not started shaking, but I notice it's pitched to a slightly higher octave.
Inside my head pounds and my eyeballs start to burn. Tears run down my left cheek.
I manage to stop the tears and get off the phone. Now my eyes are burning so
bad it feels like I've been blasted with tear gas. I stop and "drop"
into the moment. It works, but now I'm in the "moment" eyeballs
burning and inside shaking.
Back to my red velvet seat. I kick some
more ass. I got everything. You want it now? I got it. I'm ready for ya, baby.
Bring it on. I know what you want before you do.
I'm finally out of there. I have to go
find a man about some equipment. I spend the next 30 minutes wandering around
City Hall while he tells me I can have anything, I just have to ask him. He
gives me his cell phone number. I thank him and leave. The security guard
insists upon carrying my boxes for me down the front stairs.
Day is
beautiful. So am I. Jittered.
Capped
(First Posted Feb. 9, 2006)
Safe in my stripped down apartment, the
shakes start to subside a little. I'm pushing the envelope with all the wrong
combinations. The only thing that would make things more interesting is if I
added some recreational drugs. No dice tonight.
I watch a very bad movie. The same message
keeps showing up: "The disk is dirty." That's accurate. I have to
turn it off after a few clicks of the remote. Brain overload. I need water.
I shake out my thick hair and smooth cream
on my soft skin. Floss. Brush. Stretch. I have good, sensitive hands.
Almost time
for bed. I'll curl up in my silky cool sheets and dream about all the things I
need so badly. I want to whisper softly. I want to tumble and flourish. I
couldn't even if I wanted to. The body wants much, but must drop into dreamland
now.
Dead Weight
(First Posted Feb. 10, 2006)
The trembly overlay stayed with me all
day. At least I didn't feel like punching that bitch out. In fact, I didn't
feel like punching anybody out. Progress. I had a glimpse, a murmur of what it
must feel like when the gangster raps that it was a good day because no one died.
I keep drawing shivery breaths. I managed
to stay off the caffeine. I went to my own funeral just now, but left because
they were getting ready to put me in the ground. The box is not a good place
for me; cremation is the only way to go. Heaven and Hell are two sides of the
same coin, two turns in the wheel. My worst nightmare is about to come true:
I'm going to be reincarnated as a creature at the bottom of the food chain. A
krill, anchovy or zooplankton.
I keep telling myself I should be coming
down now, but it's not happening. That's not unusual. I tell myself things all
the time and the outside just ignores all my yapping. The brain bounces but
then goes back to center and stays for a second. I can't hear anything anymore.
A promising sign.
I sat in my car when I got home and closed
my eyes. I'd found center again and wanted to stay there. So I stayed for a
while. The world went dark and quiet. No dreams. No nothing.
A friend looked me over today and said I
looked like I should be reporting the news. "I like it," he said. My
arms are trembling a little and I don't want to think about my hands anymore. I
am chagrined and sheepish. Nothing new there.
The usual confusion blasts through my
head. I'm full of mysteries and cocksure of them all. Everything is complicated
because I make it so. Deadweight it all. Need to channel all those stories out
of my really really world and onto the page where they belong.
Then I stand
up straight. I look around. The stories are overflowing. It's like the water
pouring out of the dark apartment, taps turned up full. I'm so shrink wrapped
that I can't even see them. I've been slogging through the water and not
noticing them at all. Everything is right in front of me.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Writing Life: Class Progress - Part Two
I'm supposed to be writing now, you know, working on my novel but
I've been screwing off this evening so I'll further indulge myself by
writing this post. I already frittered away the evening by getting the
photos from my Zion trip ready for public viewing. Who knows, I may
email one of my classmates after this blog post is done if my brain
continues to rebel.
Nah, I won't do that. What I'm going to do after this post is published is write. What I mean by that is I'm going to work on my class novel (this blog post doesn't really count towards my daily quota). And the reason why is because I have been writing everyday (except this past Sunday when we were hiking the Narrows at Zion) and this habit has ingrained itself into my psyche.
Write everyday, man. Produce. It's becoming my new motto. Write even if I'm sitting in the back of the car, as we scream down I-5 en route to Vegas and then onto Zion National Park. Write even though I'm crammed in with all the camping gear, luggage, pillows, etc. and there's barely any elbow room. Write even though it's night at the campsite and everyone else is sitting around the picnic table having a lovely dinner. I'm eating too but I'm apart from everyone because I have to "work." The stars are ablaze overhead and the moon has not yet come up. And still I have my eyes fixed to my Galaxy Tab while they indulge in conversation.
Write no matter what.
My ability to produce a story quickly out of thin air is getting easier. Whether the story is any good is a whole other thing. I'm getting the idea that the novel I'm working on for this class isn't going in the right direction and I'm going to have to completely rewrite it. Though this can be disconcerting, it's actually huge progress on my part. Most of the time I get through the entire first draft before I discover the story isn't right and then I sit there wringing my hands wondering what the hell to do next.
Nah, I won't do that. What I'm going to do after this post is published is write. What I mean by that is I'm going to work on my class novel (this blog post doesn't really count towards my daily quota). And the reason why is because I have been writing everyday (except this past Sunday when we were hiking the Narrows at Zion) and this habit has ingrained itself into my psyche.
Write everyday, man. Produce. It's becoming my new motto. Write even if I'm sitting in the back of the car, as we scream down I-5 en route to Vegas and then onto Zion National Park. Write even though I'm crammed in with all the camping gear, luggage, pillows, etc. and there's barely any elbow room. Write even though it's night at the campsite and everyone else is sitting around the picnic table having a lovely dinner. I'm eating too but I'm apart from everyone because I have to "work." The stars are ablaze overhead and the moon has not yet come up. And still I have my eyes fixed to my Galaxy Tab while they indulge in conversation.
Write no matter what.
***
We
are little more than halfway through the class and my critiques are
getting ever more detailed and elaborate. I don't think this is a good
thing though one of my classmates assures me that it is. I just keep
finding more and more things to suggest about sentence structure, first
lines, story structure, transitions, characters, etc. And if someone
asks me to answer questions about the story, like one person did, then
God help them I'm off on a whole new page of commentary. I had to force
myself to keep the comments to one page. I think I moved the margins and
went down a font size in an attempt to look like I wasn't babbling on.
So fucking embarrassing.
Thing
is, going to such measures is a lot of work. I have to be in the right
frame of mind and ready to put pen to paper. I have to have a large
block of time because I do it all in one go so I can keep the story
fresh in my mind. And I have to think, and reach, and keep digging to
find more stuff to pull out of myself that might have some use to the
writer.
All this effort is making my own
writing better. And I know my long winded critiques are helping at
least one student. And my teacher tells me I'm getting good at picking
apart stories.
Rest assured I'm not making all this
effort for the other writers in my class. I'm doing it for me. I know
that if I put an enormous amount of effort into this shit then the
benefits will come back to me a thousand-fold. Or at least ten-fold.
Something like that.
***
My ability to produce a story quickly out of thin air is getting easier. Whether the story is any good is a whole other thing. I'm getting the idea that the novel I'm working on for this class isn't going in the right direction and I'm going to have to completely rewrite it. Though this can be disconcerting, it's actually huge progress on my part. Most of the time I get through the entire first draft before I discover the story isn't right and then I sit there wringing my hands wondering what the hell to do next.
I can skip the wringing hands part this time because I know what I need to do. Progress.
Though all of these things are good,
I'm expected to make a contribution to our class anthology Portion
Control and I have no idea what I'm going to contribute. I'm inwardly
balking at the idea of including an excerpt of my class novel. It's
going to have to be something else. Christ, how am I going to pull that
off?
Yeah, I did say I can produce quickly but...well, I guess we are going to see just how quickly in the next couple of weeks.
***
Even with all my bellyaching, this class is one of the best things to
happen to me in my writing life. I'm seeing myself getting better and
better, hands getting dirty, ink stains everywhere. And good habits
being developed besides.
I jokingly told my instructor when he
was done with me I was going to be carved out of wood. I was kidding
but now I'm sure that statement is true.
Time to work. On my class novel. Not on the email to my classmate.
P.S. Wow, I barely had to edit this post. I guess I am getting better.
Zion Road Trip 2011
Yes, it's that time of year again. A time to get into the car and drive for 13 hours on Friday, arrive at Zion for the weekend, then hop back in the car on Monday to drive another 13 hours home. Still, it was a lovely trip. The weather was amazing (but a bit too hot for my taste). Gourmet food, wine, and cocktails were brilliant as always. Camping in tents and no showering for a couple of days.
And, best of all, fantastic friends. Click on the picture to enjoy the photo album.
And, best of all, fantastic friends. Click on the picture to enjoy the photo album.
Saturday, October 08, 2011
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Writing Life: Class Progress - Part One
I started a writing class. It's only the second one I've taken in my entire life. The first one I took at San Francisco City College when I got here seven years ago and it was pretty bad. The instruction, if you want to call it that, was non-existent.
At the time I thought I could teach the class better even though I didn't have much writing experience. Now I know I could teach it better and I haven't published anything.
This writing class is taught by Tony DuShane. Check out the link there if you want to know more about him. He's published a novel and has his own interview show, etc. I decided to start a new novel for this class instead of working on one of my existing ones. I have plans for them and don't want to show them to anyone right now. I was feeling a bit cheeky about that, truth be told. Sure, yeah! A new class, new novel! No problem.
However, last Tuesday I sat down at my Galaxy Tab and stared at the blank screen. I realized I had to pull an entirely new novel out of thin air and I wasn't sure if I was up to the task. To top it off, this novel will be critiqued so I can't write a new novel and allow it to be a major mess no one looks at. There has to be something for people to work with and it has to be of reasonable quality so no one's time, especially mine, is wasted. The only thing I had to work with is I decided it was going to be a haunted house story. I knew I wanted the setting to be a huge, sprawling estate. I had an idea for the opening sequence but no ideas for the characters, the story, or even what the house looks like.
Almost everyone else is working on novels/memoirs they've had for a while so they're all farther along than I am and (presumably) their stories are going to be more polished. I stared at the blank screen of my Tab, place my fingers on the keyboard, and started pounding out a story.
At the time I thought I could teach the class better even though I didn't have much writing experience. Now I know I could teach it better and I haven't published anything.
This writing class is taught by Tony DuShane. Check out the link there if you want to know more about him. He's published a novel and has his own interview show, etc. I decided to start a new novel for this class instead of working on one of my existing ones. I have plans for them and don't want to show them to anyone right now. I was feeling a bit cheeky about that, truth be told. Sure, yeah! A new class, new novel! No problem.
However, last Tuesday I sat down at my Galaxy Tab and stared at the blank screen. I realized I had to pull an entirely new novel out of thin air and I wasn't sure if I was up to the task. To top it off, this novel will be critiqued so I can't write a new novel and allow it to be a major mess no one looks at. There has to be something for people to work with and it has to be of reasonable quality so no one's time, especially mine, is wasted. The only thing I had to work with is I decided it was going to be a haunted house story. I knew I wanted the setting to be a huge, sprawling estate. I had an idea for the opening sequence but no ideas for the characters, the story, or even what the house looks like.
Almost everyone else is working on novels/memoirs they've had for a while so they're all farther along than I am and (presumably) their stories are going to be more polished. I stared at the blank screen of my Tab, place my fingers on the keyboard, and started pounding out a story.
****
The story isn't terrible so far. I decided to completely go for it with this class. If people are going to be critiquing my first draft I might as well push myself to produce something and not rely so much on the revision process before I do any polishing. I'm uncomfortable with anybody looking at my first draft so this will be a valuable learning experience.
Tony's approach so far is spot on. He requires that we work on our novels everyday for at least 20 minutes and that we critique our fellow students' work every week. This is going to be a difficult thing to maintain for eight weeks but just these class requirements alone should seriously improve my writing, editing, and ability to produce quality material.
I'm going to have the first ten pages of my story reviewed during the second critique session. I have to email everyone my draft this Monday. I started this novel last Tuesday. Tony asked for volunteers and once again, I just fucking went for it. For myself, and this may not apply to other writers, I think the ability to pull a story out of thin air, write it down quickly, and make it into something good in a short period of time is a worthwhile skill to have.
Stay tuned for more on this class.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
City Life: The Inside of the Pink Church on my Blog Header!
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