Ain’t that a kick in the pants?

So, another semester has begun. I’ve fallen into a pattern of one live and one online class. Online is the History of Jazz. I’ve never been a fan, mostly because the smooth jazz that such radio stations play sets my teeth on edge. However, a lot of classic jazz I love, and I’m quite surprised just how many sounds jazz encompasses. Still, my opinion of the style is summed up by Jimmy Rabbitte, band manager, in the movie The Commitments. Speaking to Dean, the saxophone player as they stand in front of the urinals in the bar where the band is playing, Jimmy tells him “Jazz is musical wanking. If you want to wank, use what you’ve got in your hand, not your sax.”

What the hell does that have to do with writing? Well, my in-person class is the creative writing seminar class I took this time last year, with the same fabulous instructor, Jill Ciment. She’s running it a bit differently this time around. There are more people in this class so we’re scheduled to present our stories.

In our last class she played us two versions of the same song to illustrate the difference between a first draft and the subsequent rewrites. While the songs, as much as I love music, didn’t do much for me, they definitely shine some light on the concept of how a writer’s work should evolve from first draft to something to be shared with the world.

The song was “My Favorite Things“, first, as sung by Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music. There it was, all the schmaltz and none of the feeling, bright and cute. There was no depth, no significant emotion in this Little Mary Sunshine rendition. You half expect little bluebirds to fly out of the speakers, with rainbows draped between them and rose petals falling out of the sky.

By contrast, the second version was by John Coltrane. Again, interpretive jazz isn’t my thing, but I can’t deny the amazing virtuosity of the music. Each musician takes it in turns to simultaneously compose and perform, a process that fascinates me. On a musical level, the piece went on a bit, but it illustrated the point Jill was trying to make. The first draft can be banal crap, but it gets your idea out of your brain and onto the page. Subsequent rewrites and editing are like another artist covering the original tune, adding their own spin to the basic melody. Each character is like the performers in that jazz band, taking their turn in the spotlight, the others accompanying them in support, adding layers of complexity and meaning to the story.

Maybe there’s something more than random chance guiding my class choices. It seems to work out that whatever two random classes I manage to get are doing more than fulfilling the basic requirements of the (mostly useless) degree I’m seeking. They somehow seem to complement each other in ways I wasn’t expecting. Last semester it was the combination of Psychological Approaches to Literature and Abnormal Psychology. This time, who knew that the History of Jazz would have a damn thing to do with a creative writing workshop?

And honestly, if jazz is musical wanking, fiction writing in its own way is very self-serving too. When Jill asked me with a big grin on the first night of class “What’s your story, why are you back?”, I gave her the only reply I could. I suspect Jill already knew the answer to my question before I said it aloud.

“There are these people in my head that won’t shut up. And even if I never get published and become an author, I will always be a writer.” There is nothing altruistic whatsoever in that statement. My writing isn’t meant to change people’s lives or impart some great wisdom, it simply is.

And I will always be a writer. It’s what I am.

This particular post is part of the Writer’s Gauntlet Challenge among my crit group, an exercise to keep us writing, thinking and being creative. Other Gauntlet entries can be found at S.A. Hussey and Pages.

The mysteries of where writing ideas come from has always fascinated me. How an author like Steven King, for example, can be so prolific and successful both heartens and discourages me as a potential writer. To someone like me, his rise to fame after the hordes of rejection letter he received spurs me to keep trying. Having read his memoir “On Writing”, I know where some of his ideas come from. I don’t have the background he does. My life has been relatively normal, even boring, but I still feel the need to write. I imagine I always will.

The creative process is a mystery, no doubt. All my writer friends joke about their respective muses. I’m pretty sure mine is more of the demonic nature, rather than some classical Greek icon wearing a flowing, diaphanous gown.  Mine is frequently late or altogether absent. Further evidence of his (I’m sure it’s a male, though I’m not exactly sure why) diabolical nature is evidenced by the fact that I get excellent ideas for current or new stories when I am swamped by other tasks.

Such has been the case lately. Just two classes and full-time work have me writing things that are analyses of other people’s work, all structured a certain way, worded in an academic fashion, or as close as I can manage to the style. And then, out of the blue, a scene embeds itself in my mind. There is no backstory, no logical progression, the people in it don’t even have names, but they are real and insist that I capture their moment somehow. I know better than to ignore this directive. To miss getting the idea down is to spend the rest of my life remembering only tantalizing glimpses of that original seed.  I certainly can take what I remember and turn it into something more, but it lacks that certain spark, the indefinable something that can only be captured in the moment in which the notion strikes. And the neglected characters are angry at being ignored and tease me with ‘what if?’ What if that story was The One, what if that story had more material accompanying it, what if the Great American Novel was lost
because you were too damned lazy to get up and get a paper and pen? I’m positive my  muse has leathern wings and stinks of sulfur.

But this time I didn’t ignore the idea. I have just over a thousand words describing the scene that was part dream, part mind wandering into sleep. They don’t have names yet, the two main characters, just a vaguely archaic setting where healing is done by firelight. The narrator is a priest of some kind in a world with multiple gods and his protector is a woman who is brash and crude by his reckoning. Chances are good that a novel like it already exists somewhere. The fantasy genre has a fair share of such role reversals, but this one is mine. I’ll let these two take me where they want, show me the parts of their lives they wish for me to see. Sounds like maybe I have some
issues with reality, doesn’t it? My writer friends and I joke about doing ‘what the voices inside my head tell me.’ That’s an eerily accurate way of describing the process for me. These people in my head have a substance, an existence that is undeniable, that I feel a need to convey as best I can into a medium that I jhope others will enjoy, sharing in their adventures.

But first, they need names.

*sigh*

With the start of a new semester at The University, my writing, such that it was, has come to a halt, save that done for classes. Consequently, the people who live in my head are stirring. They are aware of my preoccupation with something other than their lives and their concerns and they are massing, rubbing their hands with sadistic glee as they prepare to assault me with ideas that I don’t have enough time to act on properly. I may be only taking two classes, but working full-time cuts into writing time too. See, I need to sell that finished novel so I can make enough money to quit work and write (and go to school) full-time. Fat chance, but it’s a worthy goal. Plus, it’s getting closer to time for NaNoWriMo and I have to decide if I’m going to add 50,000 words in 30 days to the end-of-semester festivities and the holidays. And here I thought my life was kinda boring…

The demonic muse that abandons me for long stretches of time is leading the revolt of characters, telling them things to torture me with, trotting out ahead like a leathern-winged Pied Piper, with them following behind. I can just see it… Rayne is leading a battalion of Black Dragon guards and Ryssan knights, Lily and her pack are keeping watch, Valerie and her family are gathering with their instruments and building a bonfire and Daisy Gallagher is standing hand in hand with Matt and Mike, trying to see and hear everything. They’re all there and the pot is starting to bubble.

So here’s to the things that stir creativity, even if it is ill-timed. Here’s to being busy at work, and having classwork, and characters that are entities unto themselves. Here’s to long commutes and quiet time, the better to percolate  ideas, my dear. Here’s to unbroken flash drives, and Dropbox accounts, so those ideas have a storage place.

And here’s to having a few minutes here and there, just to get them down, before they disappear.

Requiem for a flash drive

 

Alas, poor SanDisc! I knew him, Horatio; a device of infinite storage, of most excellent quality; he hath borne my writing on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! My gorge rises at it. Here hung those wires that I have carried I know not how oft. Where be your files now?

Disaster…

This is how I feel after this morning. The lanyard that I use to haul my flash drive everywhere, caught on the coffee table. Big deal, get a new lanyard, you say. Sure thing, but that’s not the problem. What went wrong was the flash drive, still in the usb port on my computer is now broken. Not just the housing, but the Important Parts, the insides, the guts of the thing.

All my writing, YEARS of it, was contained therein. Yes, my novel I’ve started pimping to agents, its sequel, other random ideas, my fantasy epic that has languished, all of it.

So, why didn’t I have it backed up? I’ve been asking myself that same question all day. Trouble is, I’ve come to the realization that the backup was also contained on the flash drive.

Dumbass.

The Spousal Unit assures me that he can fix it. I have faith. I don’t know if I can stand the raking through drawers in search of random items he cannot name when questioned. I’m not sure I want to deal with the hours of frowning concentration, short answers and general temper tantrums when something doesn’t go well. I’m not sure I can bear the smell of solder. He’s a good boy and he tries, and he wants to succeed.

I want him to succeed too.

But, if it all goes to shit, as I’m afraid it will, I’ve made my peace. With any luck, someone somewhere that I’ve emailed a copy of my novel to will still have it and be able to send me a copy. Or the email I sent it in will still be sitting there, and I can try to retrieve that. The Huge Epic Fantasy Story That Won’t End needed a rewrite very badly. Maybe this is Someone’s way of nudging me in that direction. Well, more of a stinging slap than a nudge.

I can take a hint.

So, whatcha doin’?

Shamelessly filched from thefilter

WARNING: This post is likely to greatly resemble a Seinfeld episode. Stuff goes on, but nothing really happens.

Much like my writing.

I wasn’t a big fan of the show, but the concept is interesting to me. You see, in my writing, stuff goes on, but nothing huge happens. Nobody jumps out of a helicopter over the Vatican with nothing more than a sheet of Visqueen, lands in a fountain and lives to tell the tale. Nobody jumps out of anything. They have families and lovers and dads and they live their lives. Some yelling happens, some crying sometimes. People rag on each other and also admit they love each other. It’s life, granted it’s life that has sprung (not fully formed) from my fevered brow, but these characters that take up so much of my time and imagination are people. Even my fantasy characters have strengths and flaws.

My point? Do I need one? Maybe my point is that I don’t have the kind of imagination that produces superhero symbologists or international spies. Honestly, if I had the free time to research the information I’d need in order to credibly produce a mystery or thriller, I’d have to be of independent means. What I do know about is a smattering of topics, ranging from veterinary medicine, horses, music, quilting, gardening, to art, and other really trivial stuff. (No, seriously. I kick ASS at Trivial Pursuit.) I do want my characters to live and breathe, not be caricatures of a type, or one-dimensional. If I could do that AND write an awesome adventure/thriller/spy/police/self-help (okay, maybe not that last one) novel, maybe I’d already have a publishing contract, book deal and movie options lined up.

Still, I’m sticking to my guns. I write for me first. I can’t stop, so I might as well does what makes me the happiest.

See, there’s that happy ending we always secretly hope for in a story.

 

There and Back Again, or Various Random Thoughts on Writing (since I’m a sucky blogger and have neglected this too long)

So, I started a writing forum, since the one I was participating in seems to have died quietly in its sleep. We are, besides posting bits and pieces and discussing each others excepts, are reading a mutually agreed upon book. The first one is Stephen King’s The Stand. It is a favorite and this is probably the fifth or sixth time I’ve read it.

So, various thoughts are coming up as we read, and I started the ball rolling by mentioning our styles in comparison with SK. Now, the fact is that he is a prolific, many-times-published author, and I am not. However, I still feel like I can (and I will) compare my work to the stuff that’s already out there. It’s inevitable; we all do it.

One of us recalled how trying too hard to adhere to the ‘rules’ meant her story just had the life sucked right out of it. She was disenheartened enough that she’s only just started back writing recently. I’ve done that to myself, and it sucks. But does it feel GOOD to start back again. She mentioned a line from Stephen King’s On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft. I don’t remember the quote (since it’s been a really long time since I’ve read it even though I have a perfectly good copy sitting on my shelf.) but it made me stop and think. And smile.

“It’s like a Cadillac with the chrome stripped off and the paint sanded down to dull metal. It goes somewhere, but it ain’t, you know, boss.”

Ab-so-friggin-lutely.

Part of my reply is this: “The idea of how boss a work is seems to be in direct conflict with William Faulkner’s advice to “kill all your darlings.” So maybe we need to strike a balance. There needs to be plenty of chrome on that baby blue Cadillac El Dorado, but it doesn’t really need the running lights, the curb feelers, the dingleballs hanging from the headliner, the fuzzy dice AND the naked lady mudflaps. But by the same token, some of those killer lines have to stay.”

My writing instructor this past semester (*waves* “Hi Jill!”) talked about this. She told a story about the famous sculptor Rodin, known for The Kiss and The Thinker. The story goes that he did another of his monumental figure sculptures and those who saw it kept commenting on how amazing the hands were. So lifelike, so amazing. But they weren’t seeing the rest of the sculpture. So Rodin cut them  off. This allegedly had the effect of forcing people to consider the sculpture as a whole.

What Faulkner and Rodin were trying to accomplish was to get their audience to take in the whole work, not just an aspect of it. While it is harder to focus on just one facet of a written work than a visual one, I still get the idea. The onus falls upon the artist, be it a sculptor or a writer, to produce art that engages the audience and elicits a reaction to the WHOLE thing. Be the reaction good, bad, or indifferent, it still needs to get some kind of response from the audience or it has failed, even if that audience goes no further that the artist themselves.

Which leads us back to trying to please everyone and follow The Rules. Such as, your word count shouldn’t be too high/low, you should write in this point of view only, you shouldn’t use adverbs, you should plan your plot/go with the flow, et cetera, ad nauseum. The fact is you have to write to please yourself and hope like hell that some agent and/or publisher agrees with you, if publication is your goal. And if you get rejection letters, keep submitting. Stephen King got a shitload of rejections before finally getting his first book published and look at him.

So, the moral of this story is to cut the fat but not the flavor.

(Yeah, I’m hungry.)

Writing and first drafts: or What I’ve Learned This Semester In College

So, I’ve been taking an advanced creative writing class. I’ve had such classes before and they are loads of fun, as long as you aren’t afraid to let anyone else read your work. I got over that a long time ago. All our assignments have been 2-3 pages, some with some guiding theme. We were directed to write one story as our exact opposite type, personality, upbringing, whatever made that person different from ourselves. Another time it was a condensed life, packing a character’s life into those few pages. Such short assignments is meant to teach us to shape our prose, to weave a compelling story structure and do it in the space allotted. That and the short pieces mean we get to cover several per class, otherwise we’d never get anything done.

I’m amazed and in awe of the talent among my classmates. All of them have demonstrated humor, drama and deft skill in shaping words and phrases to tell a story. And Jill, our instructor, is amazing. She can cut right to the heart of what a story could use to make it even better and also tries to coax from the readers what it is they are finding in the story that needs helps, all of which is fantastic in helping me as a writer hone my skills.

Jill gave us an excellent analogy for writing. All of our pieces we have presented are first drafts. She likens writers to anthropologists and biologists, specifically Jane Goodall. Our characters are like those chimpanzees and we are the observer. We don’t know why Bucky just smacked Bubba upside the head, nor do we understand why Delilah broke up the fight. We just watch what they’re doing and write it all down. That’s the first draft. The second draft and those subsequent are when we writers/anthropologists go back to our tent in the jungle with our notes and start rereading them and figuring out what the motives behind the actions are.  We sit under our mosquito netting and revise what we know about our characters based on everything we have observed. So, it becomes apparent that Bucky was retaliating for Bubba stealing his nesting spot and Delilah, as their mother, felt it necessary to stop the fight before it got out of control, Or whatever it is your characters are doing.

So, I’m off to the jungle, to follow some chimpanzees and take some notes.

All Quiet on the Western Front

And right here in my writing attempts too.

Okay, so I’m working full-time, taking two classes at UF and holding the filth in my house at bay (not very well, I might add). Add to that the purchase of a new heat pump that is partially installed (can’t fire the installer, I’m married to him), lackluster performance at work (potetially caused by all of the above plus burnout) and you have one uninspired writer.

I’ve managed to write what I had to for class, with decent reviews. I’ve learned a LOT from this class and hope to repeat it with a different instructor next semester. (It’s one of those “repeatable up to three times for credit” classes). I’m just not getting anything else done. Nothing new has attacked me. I haven’t written a query for Old Dogs yet. I haven’t started anything on any of the ideas I wrote the concepts down for. I’m in a giant pothole, not just a rut, in work and writing.

Honestly, I think cash flow is a big issue. Maybe I should write about being one step ahead of the poorhouse. I’m getting less money these days, constant worry about money and bill-paying doesn’t help any, and I wish I could just stay home sometimes. No, not to crawl back under my rock, but to write.

And clean the house…

Wow, I’m a bad blogger…

So, to sum up everything that has happened since the last time I updated this, I got into the University of Florida as an English major. That was an ordeal. Now I’m in my second semester, taking an anthropology class (because the community college isn’t as free with the information that ‘our graduation requirements and those of the University will vary. You may transfer in but will still be required to take more social and physical sciences, as well as electives in addidtion to the classes for your chosen major’ as I think they should be) and a senior level creative writing class. These two classes are so much easier than the ONE class I was taking last semester. That is a saga unto itself, let me tell you.

The creative writing class, I love it soooo much. We write little short-shorts (sounds like Daisy Dukes, doesn’t it?) of 2-3 pages and critique them in class. And I am so impressed by the level of skill that my classmate possess. I’ve gotten some good practice and great help from them and my instructor is awesome. Jill Ciment is an author and has this way of cutting right to the heart of what your writing needs to make it really come to life. I hope to have more chances to learn from her in the future in other classes or as my MFA advisor, if I ever get there.

Her advice to us about whether or not we should pursue an MFA was very encouraging to me. The majority of my classmates are typical college age, early to mid twenties. I’ve got twenty years on them and could be their mother. Her advice was to ‘go out, get a job, live life some, then, if you still really want to follow the MFA goal, then do it. There are six spots, with 200-300 applicants. I really want to do this, provided I haven’t gone postal at work and lost my Employee Education benefits. Here’s hoping I can keep it together long enough to exploit the university for all I can. God knows I kill myself working there…