To End The Year

One of my favorite quotes.

“Time interval is a strange and contradictory matter in the mind. It would be reasonable to suppose that a routine time or an eventless time would seem interminable. It should be so, but it is not. It is the dull eventless times that have no duration whatever. A time splashed with interest, wounded with tragedy, crevassed with joy - that's the time that seems long in the memory. And this is right when you think about it. Eventlessness has no posts to drape duration on. From nothing to nothing is no time at all.”

― John Steinbeck, East of Eden

25 December 2019

Holidays 1980

Writin' or not

[original posting April 2009 ]

A writer is a person for whom writing is more difficult 

than it is for other people. -- Thomas Mann

There was a time in my mid-twenties when I was determined to be a writer. From that experience I can honestly say that determination has nothing to do with the task of being a writer. I suppose that is not a unique observation. Many endeavors require skill before commitment and at least for me, writing was one of them. If you can't you can't. Banging your head against a wall you have no chance of climbing or painting is just crazy. You know the old watching the movie over and over waiting for a different ending.

When writing finally came to me, it was completely unexpected and not something I was seeking. But there it was one day, my voice had found the tips of my fingers and I just started to write.

Which brings me to the last week or so. I have been banging on two screenplays, nibbling around the edges of my sci-fi book and churning out gobs on internet SEO material and even getting a head start on my summer WSOP obligations. But nearly every day I have returned to this blog and come up empty, blank, move on. What is that about?

I ran into an old friend who started a blog and has managed four posts in just under a year. I joined Twitter and found lots of folks have 140 character voices.

I think I will speculate myself out of my blog malaise. Blogging is a different form of writing, just google it. You will find cyber-reams of thoughts and even "rules" about what blogging is and is not. But from a personal level, there is an aspect of blogging that you either consider or you just accept and that is: Just how comfortable are you with putting your insides out there into the webosphere?

Where is your privacy line? What won't you disclose? What is truly private and off-limits? Once you think you know this, try to blog every third day. Eventually, I guarantee, your "third day" will be an off day for you. Something is not quite right with your world and, of course, that is what is up for you and "should" be blog fodder. But you hesitate.

There really are rules of blogging. The ones that are important reside inside of you, in your heart, in your soul, in some deep dark recessed places. Until you come to grips with them, you will either show up only on the surface of your writing or you will post pictures of baked goods and sunsets. Nothing wrong with that, we just are more interested in hearing from your inner writer.

2019 - the same rule applies to your novel, if your brain or heart or soul ain't in it . . .

The Benefits of Writing

[first posted November 2015]

Write two paragraphs and call me in the morning.

"Science has good news for people who write: The consequences of putting pen to paper go beyond hand cramps and furrowed eyebrows. Study after study has linked the act of writing to myriad mental and physical health benefits, including elevated mood and emotional well-being, decreased stress, an improved ability to deal with trauma and even physical healing."

FULL ARTICLE from whence come these conclusions.

Upon Attempting to Be a Novelist [early reflections]

[originally written June 2011]

All praise to any novelist who takes us out onto thin ice, under which large, dark shapes are discernibly swimming. Michael Cunningham

As a rule it is not a good idea to tell someone a story before you write it. Any comments or feedback will distort your vision before you have committed the words to paper or cyber-storage. About eight months ago I told two good friends and trusted critics the first part of my novel. I had what I thought were all 35,000 words written and I was interested in their reaction to the big reveal that finishes part one. Indeed it was at this point all of my large, dark shapes came into view and I did indeed have my readers out on very thin ice without them even noticing they had been led out onto a lake.

Unfortunately, neither of them liked the dark turn my story takes and I was concerned that the tale was way off track. So I turned back to the pages and began to edit, I could have simply changed the big reveal but I was sure I had it right. Must have been the lead-up twas lacking. After several weeks the 35,000 words had burgeoned to 63,000 and I sent the newly fattened part one out to six readers, including those same two I had verbally told the story. Lo and behold none of them were put off by the big reveal, in fact, the two who had been less than lukewarm originally were glowing with their praise.


I pondered this for a few moments and realized I had attempted to condense my well structured dark forms into a two minute verbal summary. Clearly, darkness needs some time to build. I needed those thousands of words to lure my readers out onto the dangerously thin ice and then and only then to reveal the sinister shadows beneath them. 


Lesson learned, I ain't tellin' nobody no stories no more; at least not ones that are going to take tens of thousands of words to deliver all the darkness and shadows.

Grammarly

There are lots of sites on the web to correct your spelling, add or subtract commas and, heaven forbid, locate the evil passive voice. I go with grammarly even though I employ some punctuation usages they do not agree with.

Careful though, as with any "know-it-all' algorithm, grammarly has its detractors. I agree that writers can get lazy when an authoritative website gives its imprimatur to our well-crafted phrases. To avoid such slavish bowing to the cyber-gods, read this article before turning over more that 12.7% of your creative talent to a bot grammar bully.

On the other hand, who knew how many times you or I were using "just" or "very" or "really." No, really, just really, very often, really!

Scribophile

There are lots of writing schools, writing workshops, writing communities on and off the web. I just happen to prefer Scribophile. The basics are simple. You earn points by offering critiques of other member's work. You then use those points to post your own work in chunks of 3,000 words or less at a time.

At Scribophile you can post anything from poetry and flash fiction to short stories or chapters of your novel. I am currently reposting the first ten chapters of my novel - Grey Angel. This round of posting comes after a course of new editing invigorated by my recent online immersion in manuscript submission.

You can also participate in forum discussions on all aspects of writing or join groups that focus on a particular topic. I belong to groups aimed at Magical Realism, Novel Chapters and TLC - Tough Love Critiques. Be careful not to use these alternative activities as pencil sharpening. The site is most useful when you post your own work and write reviews for other writers. Though the periodic contests can be fun.

Let me know if you join, I'm always happy to lend a blue pen to a friend's words.

Writing Inspiration (from a decade ago)

These thoughts were originally posted 9 Nov. 2009

At least half of all writing involves just sitting and staring into space. 

Letting your brain out to hunt down ideas, 

bringing them back all warm and bloody between its teeth. 

 - Warren Ellis

I consider myself a master of sitting and staring into space. I also have graduate training which includes wandering in the woods, vegetating on the veranda and a certificate in morning meditation disguised as sleeping in. Ideas come to me in all of these and many other places, however, I have yet to sink my metaphorical fangs into a single one of them. No, my process is more welcoming. I tend to nurture a new idea, giving it a proverbial saucer of milk.

I don't like to take notes unless the idea comes to me as I drift off at night. All writers abhor the thought of waking in the morning with no chance of recalling what the Pulitzer idea was they had the night before. But unless I am about to commune with Morpheus, I prefer to wander a bit, perhaps take a walk or at least pace about a snow bound house and let a new idea percolate and flourish.

Some new ideas are just scenes that may be part of a story yet undiscovered. All I really need is some time to lock the key pieces into memory where it can await the rest of the story from which it has prematurely erupted. There are times when a day or two later, I check my mental, paper or cyber notes to find what I have is not a scene from a story but, in fact, a blog post. Something like this one today.

Pondering Warren Ellis' rapine writing habits, I wonder if I might add a touch of the carnivore to my sitting and staring routine. Gives a whole new perspective to the practice of vegetating. Perhaps the tone and tenor is different when one ravages an idea.

---

photo credit: archives

Grey Angel - First Page

GREY ANGEL

Chapter One (first page)

The water was searing cold. At 5 a.m. no one had drunk from the silver metal fountain for hours, the water had taken on a throat-numbing chill. David felt the frigid outline of his esophagus as he swallowed, he could sense the upper reaches of his stomach as the cold rush swept the oxycodone tablet down. The clock was running, in less than fifteen minutes the first warm wave of the opioid would wash over him.

He turned from the brightly lit, empty emergency room and passed through the oversized gurney doors out onto the ambulance bay. Beyond the protecting pergola the vacant parking lot was wet from a passing spring rain, he walked slowly across the staff lot towards the stairs that led to the larger upper visitor’s parking area.

A distant observer might have wondered at the age of the man climbing those stairs. Was he 70? Or perhaps 80? What arthritic disease so wracked his body that he had to haltingly and carefully ascend the staircase?

Thirty-four-year old David Iverson reached the threshold of the upper lot just as the rising sun cast a pink glow across the damp tarmac. The pavement rose evenly across several hundred feet to a stand of maple trees at the upper edge of the parking area. Up there at the top, a path led through the grove to a small corner park and his neighborhood beyond.

David began a slow, measured walk up the incline. With each step, he added a few centimeters to the length of his stride and felt the deformed muscles of his lower back stretch as he transferred his weight onto the upslope leg. This dawn ritual relieved some of the accumulated stiffness from his desk bound midnight shift spent sifting endlessly through patient charts.

He was no more than half way up the empty lot when he first noticed the figure under the trees. Too early for the local dog walkers and there weren’t any homeless in this part of town. The man was a bit too deep in the shadows to distinguish; the dawning light had not chased away the shaded area under the stand of trees quite yet. As David moved closer, he momentarily thought the man was part of the shadows beneath the trees, a not quite a fully formed figure. A few more steps and he realized the murky effect was enhanced because the stranger was dressed entirely in grey. Grey slacks, grey jacket, even grey shoes and wait what?

Were those really?

David stopped just short of the tree line.

“Very nice,” David said, in a voice tinged with mirth not quite laughter.

“Could you be more specific?” said the shadowy figure.

“Nice wings?” David replied.

The stranger came forward out of the shade and there standing just under the lowest boughs of the tree was an angel. To be more precise – an all grey angel.

Grey Angel - First Paragraph

Paragraph icon from Free Icon Library

The water was searing cold. At 5 a.m. no one had drunk from the silver metal fountain for hours, the water had taken on a throat-numbing chill. David felt the frigid outline of his esophagus as he swallowed, he could sense the upper reaches of his stomach as the cold rush swept the oxycodone tablet down. The clock was running, in less than fifteen minutes the first warm wave of the opioid would wash over him.

Coming soon, the entire first page and that's all you get of Grey Angel. Want more? You'll just have to wait for a publisher, just like I wait and wait and wait.

Of course, I didn't mean you, you can have more.

Grey Angel - First Sentence

The first sentence. An author's first and perhaps only chance to hook a reader. There are readers who stand in bookstore aisles and read only the first page, the first paragraph, the very first sentence before deciding whether or not to read on and perhaps purchase.

Here is the first line of my novel - Grey Angel.

The water was searing cold.

What is your initial reaction?

Yes, I have had feedback from several beta readers. And yes, some of them have asked if 'searing' doesn't imply hot not cold. Searing is defined as extremely hot or intense. I have considered using a less forceful word. But I am resisting the change because the juxtaposition does get nearly every reader thinking - just how cold is searing cold? So cold that it burns?

I won't make you wait for the whole first paragraph, here is the next line.

The water was searing cold. 

At 5 a.m. no one had drunk from the silver metal fountain for hours, 

the water had taken on a throat-numbing chill. 

Grey Angel - The Hook

You gotta have a great hook. You gotta have it ready when anyone asks: "What's your novel about?" It has to draw their attention but it must be short and quick. It's a hook after all.

For a couple of years my novel's hook has/had been:

"David meets an angel. Things get very dark, very quickly."

Recently, I have been working on all aspects of actually submitting my novel to agents and publishers. Part of that task was to rework and refine my query letter, synopsis and hook. Here's my current hook:

"The angel is here to grant a supernatural ability. 

Of all the possible gifts, David is offered - death."

Wanna you think?

Good? 

Could be better? 

You're hooked!

Resurrecting a Blog

I am once again focusing my literary abilities on my novel, Grey Angel. To that end I am just finishing a course on manuscript submission, agents and publishers. A week four assignment suggests establishing an "Author's Platform" on social media. First recommendation - a blog.

It just so happens I have this little grey blog with over 1300 posts. Seems like a good place to begin. So once again dear readers, I relaunch this blog with yet another new focus - my writing. Expect my first sentence, first page and first chapter to follow soon.

I will begin with a recommendation. If you have a partial or whole manuscript lingering in a drawer somewhere, you might consider the course I am taking: The Writer's Workshop at Authors Publish. It worked for me, if only to provide motivation and polish to what I already had languishing in my "to-do" folder.

Four weeks of focus on:

                                        Preparing Your Manuscript for Publication

                                        How to Craft a Query Letter

                                        Publishers & Agents

                                        The Mechanics of Submitting

If you're interested, subscribe to the free newsletter which will get you an announcement of the next course offering. BTW, the newsletter is full of up-to-date information on publishers open to submissions.

Yes, there are many similar courses out there. If you've taken one, add a comment and let me know your experience.

Who Gets the Connection?

Chestnut-brown canary

Ruby-throated sparrow

Sing a song, don't be long

Thrill me to the marrow

Sound of Silence

Wet & Wild

Kitties in Black and Grey

Traffic Jam at the Top of the World

[I wrote this story eight years ago this week]

As I cleared the cornice of the massive boulder I saw the line backed up in front of me. There had to be fifteen or more climbers going absolutely nowhere. I sagged back against the rock face and tried to steady my mind. Time was critical, we were in the death zone, who the fuck thought it was a good idea to call it that? Death Zone! Shit can’t let my mind wander like that, I needed to focus on my options. I had 600 minutes of oxygen from the last checkpoint. Now how long was this bottleneck delay going to take? Who were all of these people at the top of the world? Where did they come from? Maybe we should have taken a number at base camp. Shit Eddie stop that, focus on the minutes of air you have.

OK, count them six, nine, thirteen, fourteen in the queue and one on the ladder. If they each take five minutes. How many fives in an hour? Three in a quarter, so twelve can go up the ladders in an hour. More than an hour to wait for my turn on the ladders. Take 60 minutes off my 600, no wait, damn. Not sixty, there are fourteen climbers in front of me – 70 minutes plus the guy on the ladder now - 75. Maybe I should time him and see if five minutes is a good estimate, I mean it is for an experienced trekker, but who knows if these people even know how to climb. I mean we nearly are at the summit of Everest but… oh man I have got to stay on task here.

Let’s see the guy is already half way up the face, where the two ladders tie together, so another two and a half minutes to the top? But what the hell! He isn’t moving, I can hear voices shouting at him, what is that – Chinese? He’s stopped halfway up and those ladders hold one and only one climber at a time. Move you fucker, get off the damn ladder!

I leaned back against the rock face again and tried to calm my breathing, I had to stop getting emotional about this situation and deal with the facts on the mountain. Every time I got upset my breathing accelerated and my O2 supply went down. I looked back to my right and two more climbers had joined the line behind my climbing partner. I barely knew the climber I was teamed with, Ollie the Norwegian sailor I had been climbing with for the last ten days had to go back down yesterday after an attack of pulmonary edema. I had met George this morning, we were a team only because we paid the same expedition company to set up the tents, food, oxygen and Sherpa guides; other than that, he was a stranger.

Just then one of the team leaders from Finland came round the boulder, the Fin team all wore the same bright neon blue parkas; he took a short look at the pile-up of climbers and ducked back behind the rock. How many of his climbing team did he have back there? They were now sixteen, no eighteen climbers from the ladder. He had to be doing the same calculations I was. I looked back down the line to my left and saw the Chinese climber finally at the top of the ladders, he was being helped by another of his team to clear the top rung. Another person stood next to them, could that be someone wanting to come down? No, it was too early in the day for a returning climber – it was then that a cold hard freeze gripped my chest – all of these climbers ahead of me might well be ahead of me on the way back down when oxygen would be short and everyone would be even weaker then they are now. What would I do trapped at the top of the ladder with a dozen people in line in front of me and death staring me in the face? Politeness might just have to give way to survival.

There it was – take my ego out of the equation and the calculations were precise, not all of these climbers could make it up the ladders to the summit and back down again. Time, altitude, oxygen and the limits of the human body were all X factors, known quantities; if I just removed “me” from the calculation everything fell into place. Some of these people were not going to survive the day. I was, but only if I turned around now and got out of this traffic jam at the top of the world. This is the decision no one wants to make on Everest. I made it in two seconds flat.

I braced myself for that task of passing climbers going down the narrow ledge, I wish my mind were more clear – then my second epiphany hit – I now have excess oxygen, I am not going to summit, I have nearly six hours of spare O2. I cranked the flow up to 2 then 3, what the hell – 4, I could turn it down once I got off this crowded ledge. My head became clearer with each rich breath. Time to get the fuck off this mountain.

I turned to George, lifted my mask and spoke into this ear – “The line is too long, we won’t make it, I am going back down.”

He looked at me like I was a crazy man or maybe a coward but he said only: “One step closer for me.”

I unsnapped by lead carabiner and reached around him to hook on his down slope side, then I unhooked the trailing hitch and slid by him. The two climbers behind us saw the move and immediately flattened against the rock face allowing me to make the same maneuver around them; they too were moving one body up the queue. As I came around the boulder face, the Fin guide gave me a worried smile and leaned in to speak – “My people will not listen, they want to keep going up.” I shook my head and move around him, once I was able to pass his group of four I would be off the narrow ledge and able to make much better time. As I moved through the group of Fins, the leader was telling them that I was a very experienced climber and I had decided the risk was too great. My thought was only to get past them and leave fewer climbers between myself and base camp.

Ten minutes further on I encountered another group of six, off the ledge now we were able to gingerly pass on the trail. I did not intend to speak to them but the last of their group was Nikki, who I had met several days before at base camp #2. Every man on Everest remembered Nikki once he had met her. There was a vastness in her pale blue eyes that could haunt your dreams and even covered by all the cold weather gear, Nikki was able to stir a man’s soul like nothing short of the summit could. I had to say something – “You are 28th in line for the ladder, you have many bad climbers in front of you.” She looked at me as if I had said the moon is made of green cheese. “There isn’t enough time, the lead climbers are moving too slowly; you should turn back.” She smiled and said only – “Thank you.” I moved off down the mountain.

Once free of the other climbers I began to experience a mountain high that often comes from lack of oxygen, I knew mine was because I had made a decision that would save my life. I backed the O2 flow down to 3 but I knew it was not mountain euphoria, I was safe even though still in the death zone. I walked into Camp 4 well before noon and made a quick exchange of extra food I would not be needing for two bottles of hot sugared tea. I changed out my oxygen and left the nearly half full bottle in the expedition tent in case someone had need of it late tonight. I strapped on my last full bottle and in less than half an hour was ready to depart Camp 4 and leave the death zone forever. Just as I squared myself for the trek to Base Camp 3, I heard a call; the leader of the Fin expedition was entering the high end of camp with three of his four climbers. He had a look of relief and grief at the same time. I trudged over to him and gave him a hug. “You saved three of them,” I told him. He was already lamenting the fourth.

At this time of day, I was the only climber on the way down from Camp 4 to Base Camp 3. I was wrapped in my own personal glow of triumph, I truly believed I had made a decision to save my life and I was not ready to wrap my mind around what George and all of those other climbers were going to face trying to get off Everest later today. Several groups were coming up to Camp 4 for their attempt at summiting, which would begin early the following morning. How many of them would be daunted by the gruesome tales about to come down from on high tonight?

I reach Base Camp 3 in the last afternoon and decided I had enough and would rest here and make the trek down through Camp 2 and Camp 1 to the true base camp early the next day. In less than 72 hours I would have exchanged a deadly traffic jam for a seat on a plane leaving Everest forever. I did find as many of the team leaders as I could at Base Camp 3 and told them of the situation I had seen at the ladders, I wanted to prepare them for what was going to be a very dangerous and I feared deadly night.

Just after eight, I wriggled into my sleeping bag and slipped on an oxygen mask at low flow, I was still rich in O2 rations and I wanted a real night’s sleep before I stormed off the mountain in the morning. Around ten o’clock someone crawled into the tent, I couldn’t believe that George had turned around, but who… ? As the other climber pulled off the other parka and zipped into the other sleeping bag I looked over and into those bottomless pale blue eyes. “Thank you again” was all she said.

photo credit: DailyMail.uk

How does it feel?

I read the news today, oh boy . . .

A DAY IN THE LIFE

Geneva Confluence

I want to say something about muddy waters.

It has been suggested to me . . .

. . . that I could at least keep my little grey blog alive with some of the images I have saved over the years. Seems like a reasonable request.

Therefore,

How Do You Know?

In these times it is critical to know the source of your facts, alternative facts, rumors and fake news. I chose to always trust my most important organ and I wish some of my family and friends would take a long hard look at what they consider their most important organ.