In Like a Lion

I hate March.

Okay, "hate" is a little strong. Truth is, I don't have anything against the month other than the weather. It can't quite seem to make up it's mind, at least in my neck of the woods, whether it wants to be a spring month or a winter month. (And why can't I ever remember if seasons get capitalized? One of these days I will break down and invest in the Chicago manual of style, but for right now my little tiny style manual is woefully silent on this.) Even if the day starts off with "It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood," it will often end with "It was a dark and stormy night."

It's the old "In like a lion, out like a lamb" proverb.

Writing a story or novel can be like that, too, especially if you're not sure where it's going when you begin. (If you are one of those writers who outlines everything before they start and then actually stick to that outline all the way through the process, I have but one thing to say to you: go away. I'm not talking to you.) You get a certain idea in your head, and you charge in, ready to get it down on paper. So you roar, figuratively speaking I hope, and then tear into it. Only to get maybe halfway through and realize things aren't going entirely in the direction you expected them to. You slow down, you sputter a bit, you back up, you rewrite. And maybe you recapture that initial thrust, and maybe you don't, but eventually you skip across the field and leap the fence of the finish line.

(Yes, I am aware I have just badly tortured that metaphor. I'm not done yet.)

Conversely, a story may start slow, grazing about in the field of ideas, and then at the end it turns into the snarling, ravenous beast that seizes the ending of the story in it's jaws and devours it until it's finished.

There are times in writing when it never changes. Times when either the entire story goes slow and gentle. Here I'm talking strictly about the process, mind you. The page can be strewn with blood and guts but behind the scenes there was more bleating at the keyboard than roaring. Or, the ones I really like, when it's all charging ahead from start to finish, committed to the chase once the idea has been properly stalked.

For the most part, though, it seems to be one or the other. Not just with myself, but among the other writers I have talked to. Even the more workmanlike amongst us, the ones who sit down and churn out five pages a day, have their stories that they find themselves varying on in terms of their enthusiasm, their ideas, their ability to sit down and really churn. Some days those five pages come easy, after all, and some days they barely come at all.

Do I have a preference in my writing, which I'd prefer to start with? While I'd like my month to go out nice and gentle and preferably warm, I tend to find the stories that write best are the ones that end the most aggressively. The ones that are slower towards the end - again, in terms of the process, not plot or pacing - are a little bit more like work, a little bit less like fun.

I suppose the only thing that really matters is that, like on the calendar, eventually it comes to an end.

And in case anyone is worried, I shall not compare rewrites to April showers.

Maybe taxes, though.

Resolutions

It's that time of year again. Time to reflect on all you accomplished last year and congratulate yourself for having done so well. Time to reflect on all you meant to accomplish but didn't and berate yourself for not doing better while pledging to improve (again). Time to reflect on all you didn't accomplish and wring your hands over all the self-improvement tasks you failed out.

Or alternatively, a time not to worry about any of that and realize that if you're really going to improve upon yourself, it takes more than one night's promises and it helps to set realistic goals. This last bit can be especially tricky as a writer. Even if you don't belong to some sort of writer's group or website, you have probably walked into a bookstore in the past year and picked up something that prompted a jealous reaction. A "why has she/he made it when I haven't yet?" kind of thing. Even when you know why, and know full well it's mostly about persistence and a small smattering of talent.

For the most part, I don't begrudge anyone their success. My failing lies more along the line of somehow charting my own success alongside theirs. This, I have come to realize, is unfair. I don't work at the same pace as other people. I do not have the same amount of drive and ambition as other people. I have enough, I think, so long as I do not put myself on some sort of artificial and unrealistic schedule just because someone else did it in that amount of time.

And looking back on 2010, I did pretty well. Not as well as I would have liked, perhaps, but well enough. I finished another book. I started querying the one before that, even if there's been no acceptances yet. (I even got a partial request. That's all I've gotten so far, other than fodder for the lament of common courtesy. How hard is it to just send a simple form email, after all?) I subbed out some things, again, no acceptances, but they went out. Did I do as much as I could have? Honestly, probably not. Did I do as much as some other people? Definitely not.

Did I do more than I did the year before? Absolutely.

Is that enough of a benchmark? Absolutely.

Can I do better? Sure I can. (Yes, I could have said "absolutely" there. But you were expecting that.)

But on the other hand, if I match those goals this year, then I think 2011 will have been a pretty good year. There are other things going on in my life besides writing (heresy though that may seem to some people I know) and all in all, 2010 was a good year. Not great, but good.

And that's good enough for me.

Back to the Beginning

Sometimes you just have to start over. Not saying that's always an easy thing to do. In fact, sometimes it can be downright painful. It can hurt. A lot. Even when you know it's the right thing to do, the knowing, in advance, of just how much it's going to take out of you can be enough for you to want to put it off. That is part of the appeal of procrastination, as we tend not to put off those things we enjoy, but instead delay those things we do not want to do, the things we dread.

I'm convinced there is also the tendency to not want to erase all the work that has gone into a project right up to that point where it becomes necessary to start over. No matter how deep the quagmire, there is the belief that some of what went before could be salvaged. A complete overhaul isn't really required, no, instead it will only take a little tweaking here and there, a couple of edits, and then it'll be easy to pull free of the muck and mire.

That Hollywood seems to defer to a re-boot every time a franchise stalls out may be part of the problem. For every Star Trek - which I still haven't seen - or Batman Begins - which of course I have - there are countless other attempts to rejuvenate a storyline or character just be starting over with new faces. Comics are guilty of this, too, often in the interest of sidestepping a particularly thorny plot issue that the writers backed themselves into. It very rarely goes well.

So the temptation to not hit the universal delete, and start afresh, is a strong one. It can trap even the most well intentioned author. You plug along, you edit, you move things around, but you do not start over because you have already done all this work, and it would be a shame to waste it. Not to mention disheartening, because why, oh why, did you invest all those days/weeks/months (years?) into something only to throw it all away?

All of which belies the fact that we all know it's not only necessary, it is at times the only way out. There was a Micheal Douglas film some years back, Wonder Boys, in which he plays a writer. A famous writer, who has been laboring for years on his latest opus. Laboring and not going anywhere, which as you might expect has not left him in the happiest of moods about writing in general. Ignoring the merits of the film - though I liked it - it stands out for me because of a scene, near the end, where this manuscript he's been working on for years is suddenly, literally, thrown to the wind, with hundreds of pages flying everywhere.

(This was the year 2000, when it was perhaps more conceivable that a manuscript would be in paper only format. I suppose there are still some writers out there who work that way, but I also suspect most of us would view such a scene and ask "why didn't he just save a back-up copy?")

The manuscript, as overblown, tiresome, and voluminous as it had become, was lost, leaving him with no choice but to start over. One jump cut later, we see him typing away on the final pages of his new, much shorter - and presumably much better - manuscript. More importantly, he seems happy again with the writing process, thus ending that part of the movie on a high note. (There's a great deal of other material to the plot, so this is hardly a spoiler if you haven't seen the film.)

Most of us will not have such a divine intervention. Any windstorm strong enough to blow away my laptop is going to leave me with far larger problems. Yet it needs to be noted there is nothing stopping me - or any other writer in a similarly stuck vein - from being our own winds of renewal. I rarely completely delete something, because you never know when you might want to mine that dusty idea for new inspiration, or those few gems buried in the dull dirt of the rest of your prose. However, this is not to say I cannot start over, that I cannot, instead of staring at the same text that has vexed me for days/weeks/months (years?) call up a new document, a blank slate, and take those initial ideas that I found so exciting back in the beginning for a brand new spin on a brand new surface.

Because sometimes, that's what it takes.

Housecleaning

Just a quick warning: this post is on a topic that, in my experience, many of you out there find distasteful. You've been warned. Those of you who don't mind housework, read on.

I was cleaning house this morning. Just one of those things that had gotten away from me. I'd been staring at the dust on the television, the little bits of paper or whatever on the carpet, and meaning to get it done. For whatever reasons, I hadn't, and then this morning after breakfast I just went and got out the vacuum. When that was done, I grabbed the dust rag and polish. Half an hour later, I had a clean house.

Okay, I had a clean first floor, more or less.

While it's not like the place was a sty or anything, or even my sister's room, it certainly looked a lot better having been cleaned. It's funny how the little things can add up, and pretty soon you forget it can look a lot better than it does. Or maybe it's just the contrast between the before and after. I happen to be someone who likes things neat, even if the state of my desk sometimes gets away from me and makes it seem otherwise. (Speaking of which, as I look around, I see a project for this afternoon or perhaps tomorrow.)

It's also something where if you keep at it, doing a little bit each day, it seems less daunting than when you let it go for a while. Which is sort of like writing. The longer you sit and stare at the blank screen, sometimes the harder it becomes to put words down on it. On the other hand, if you manage to get in a little each day, it adds up, and pretty soon it's going smoothly and you're no longer faced with the overwhelming horror of the blank page. At least until you let it go again.

They say you should write a little each day. It's one of the reasons I keep this blog (along with another that's been sadly neglected). I have a couple of projects that are ongoing, and numerous ideas in my head. There's no reason, really, why I can't sit down and get at least something out each day. Just as there's no reason not to spare the thirty minutes or so it takes each week, at most, to get things clean. (Maybe an hour if I really get going and clean everything all at once.) No good reason at least.

I'm tempted to think sometimes that I ought to be able to channel my slightly obsessive nature more effectively than I do. Having a house that's less than neat bothers me, so too does having an empty page. But all too often it's too easy to walk past the vacuum or the keyboard and get sidetracked elsewhere. Then it starts piling up, and before I know it what was once a simple task now seems monumental.

Then I tackle that task, and realize it wasn't really so monumental after all. It just needed to be done.

The Exercise of Writing

I've managed to stay on a regular exercise regimen for the past few months, more or less. (You try exercising with a head cold. Not fun.) Part of my reason for doing so is that, well, it's necessary. I had my doctor actually mention the word "cholesterol" during my last physical, and frankly I thought it was far too early to that. I also have a little one who is steadily getting heavier and doesn't understand why this should affect Daddy's ability to carry her up the stairs.

So I've been trying to do better. Lately that has me down in the living room in the evening watching "Good Eats" from the Food Network as I do my thing. Yes, I am aware of the irony of working out while watching a food show. But it's fun, it's educational... and perhaps in it's own way even motivational. Besides, it's 30 minutes and I don't have a clock in the room I exercise in.

What does this have to do with writing, you ask? Two things.

First of all, it gives me head space. (Even if I'm sort of watching tv. That's what commercials are for.) One of the things I like about the particular modes of exercise I do is that they can be done alone. Mind you it might be more fun to have some company - yoga comes to mind as better with a friend - but by doing so alone it gives me time during the day when I can just be by myself and largely let my mind do whatever it wants. Exercising is all muscle memory, and as the nature of what I do tends to be repetitive, there isn't much else to think about.

I don't always use it to work out writing-related issues in my head, but there have been more than a few plot points solved in that half an hour. Swimming was by far the best for this, but as I don't have a pool either in my house or conveniently close by, that's out for now.

The second aspect of what this has to do with writing is that I have found if I can establish and maintain a routine in one area of my life, it becomes much easier to do so in others. It doesn't directly translate, as it has not imposed a housework schedule on me. That hasn't happened since I moved out of mom's house, though it does get done. But by being able to create a schedule that I stick to, even on the days when I think I really don't want to, it encourages me to know that I can do this.

Writing is somewhat like exercise, only without the need for a shower afterwards. (Usually.) It's something that if you're going to do it, and have any illusions at all about being any good at it, you have to do it as regularly as possible. Someone whose opinion I respect reminded me of this recently, and I mulled it over as I was working out later on that day. This person was right, of course, because writing is a discipline that must be engaged in every day. Otherwise it's too easy to let those writing muscles sag and you add on those extra pounds of procrastination and ... and I think that's as far as I can comfortably stretch that metaphor. Possibly farther.

In my case, it's also done alone, as that's when I work best. Not that I don't have interruptions, but it works best when I can be in my own space.

Though having the tv on when writing does not help at all.

Dark and Stormy Night

This is a line most people are familiar with, either because of its literary origins or as a result of the endless variations Snoopy penned from atop his doghouse over the years. It is a real line, from a real book, though don't even begin to ask me from whom or from what. (Yes, I could google it, but I've established a tradition of not doing so with this blog and don't intend to break with tradition now.)

It's also, supposedly, the worst opening line, ever.

I take issue with that classification. I understand that it's redundant, if taken literally, and that you're not supposed to start with setting. On the other hand, it's short, it's not that redundant when taken in the proper context, and what's wrong with establishing a spooky precedent? Now, I don't think it was meant to be spooky, so that could be a problem with my reasoning, but as with the checking of facts I try not to let logic undermine the points I'm trying to make.

Even absent the need to create an appropriate atmosphere, there are varying degrees of darkness at night. As anyone who has been outside during a full moon will attest, it's not always completely dark. In fact, during a full moon, it's actually kind of bright. Especially if there's snow on the ground. Add in other modern factors such as lights and when was the last time you experienced a truly dark night? With a storm, of course, it would be darker, so perhaps it could have just been left at "It was a stormy night."

THAT line sucks, however. It has no punch, no poetry, and is dull and lifeless. That would have gotten no argument from me about being the worst line ever. Which is another reason the line works as is, in my opinion. It has a certain narrative panache to it, that many other lines lack.

Like "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times." This is often regarded as a classic opening line. Leaving aside my general dislike of all things Dickens (with a few notable exceptions), the line has a few flaws. Most notable among them being it doesn't end there. The actual first line goes on, and on, and on in true Dickensian fashion, as contrast after contrast after contrast is laid on. Had the line actually ended with that first contrast, it might be higher in my esteem, but by the time the period comes into view it's become more of an opening paragraph. And the rest of it is all redundant, because the point's been made.

(Dickens got paid by the word, though, so there's a certain understanding to why he wrote the way he did.)

It does have a bit of poetry to it, though as it's more of a head scratcher than anything else, and requires further explanation, it doesn't do much to draw me in. Plus, it's one of those large view statements, and you just know the book is going to deal with massive themes. (Which it does. Badly.) With "It was a dark and stormy night" my curiosity is piqued. What makes it so dark (other than it being night)? Why is the storm important? What's going on in this setting?

All of which makes for a line that, if not great, isn't the worst of all lines.

Shallow thoughts off the deep end

Now see, there's what I should have called this blog. It's both clever and a bit pretentious at the same time. The kind of title that goes "gee look at me, I can be wittily introspective and self-aware at the same time." Of course, it wouldn't tell you anything about the blog itself, and as descriptive titles go it could well be applied to the majority of blogs everywhere.

Face it, we're all just doing that same journaling exercise they made us do in English class. You know, the one where some of us just never shut it off and just kept writing. Kept pouring out all the inane high school blather about how no one understood us, or that girl (or boy - or maybe both depending on where you went to high school and who you were) didn't even notice us even though we completely GOT them and if they couldn't see that then by God what was wrong with setting a few fires to draw attention to something so obvious we didn't need to carve it into their car but what the heck the screwdriver was there and the shiny blue metal was just SO shiny...

Or was that just me?

My therapist says blogging is good for me, keeps me from wanting to hurt all the pretty things. All the pretty, filthy things...

Seriously, though, I kept a journal in high school. Didn't write in it all the time. Just every now and again. I found it recently, about ten years since the last entry.

The contents were frightening. (That's a line from somewhere, I think.) I threw it out, only because burning it would have lent it more importance than it was worth. Mostly I remember thinking: wow, was I a self-absorbed, self-righteous, pompous, arrogant, asshole. Sure glad I grew up. Then there are those moments when I think, I'm doing it all over again. Except for the parts about scratching the car, of course.

This is not going to be like that. This blog exists here, now, for the sole purpose of getting my writing jump-started. I'd like to add "every day" to that, but I think we'll take it one step at a time. It was either here or MySpace, and frankly, I get enough offers to be "friends" with someone on MySpace as it is - and I don't even have a page. I'm not looking for "company," I'm looking for a place to do the writing equivalent of warm-up exercises.

I am a writer. I have been paid for what I write. I have also been published. The two are not necessarily synonymous, as I'm sure some of you out there realize. And lately I've been looking for a way to keep track of some of those random thoughts I have, or the questions I have about what I'm working on that really are just the kind of arguments you have with yourself. Some people talk out loud when that happens. I do that, too, but I think better when I write it all down. Plus, writing it down is socially acceptable. Talking to yourself - or as I prefer to phrase it "thinking out loud" - is generally not.

There will be almost nothing of any actual personal reference or substance here. No family stuff. I have another space for that (no, you may not, so don't ask). I'm tempted not to allow comments, except sometimes I think some of the things I need to hash out might benefit from the occasional third party.

Lastly, about the title of the blog itself. It was going to be "Insert Something Clever Here" except, well, that IS already trying to be clever. And failing miserably, and not even terribly original. "Fleas of a 1000 Camels " (except NOW I see I forgot the "a" - wonder if I can fix that later?) isn't original either in that it wasn't my thought. Any rate - most of what's here isn't going to be worth stealing, but on the off chance I say something that you might think about using, uncredited, for yourself, there is a curse upon this blog. Plagarize from me, and the fleas of 1000 camels will infest your armpits.

(And Mark, if you're reading this, I'm sorry about stealing your curse. But even after all these years, that off-hand remark in Office Depot has stuck with me. It was a great line, in my opinion, and if I ever make money from it I'll try and give you appropriate credit.)

PS: If there are any typos in this, I'm blaming this interface. It seems I can type faster than Blogger can keep up with. Which, given the speed of my typing, is fairly frightening.

Written Works

I am officially a published writer, again, sort of. Those who know me and have long memories may remember I had a poem published in a small (obscure) magazine back when I was living in Pittsburgh. I've been a little slow since then, but do have a short story that will be published in an upcoming issue of "Outercast." (www.outercast.com)

One of the nice things about the internet is that, while many if not most of the short story magazines that used to dot the literary landscape have gone extinct, this niche is now being filled by the internet. There are a number of zines (or alternatively small press magazines with an e-presence) on the web that now publish short stories in much the same vein as the old magazines - and for just about as much payment.

My story will be appearing in a future issue - though I can't tell you which one yet. I submitted it for the most recent issue, but it was close to the deadline and they just ran out of room. But the editor liked it, so he's holding onto it for a future issue. He's also encouraged me to submit another story for the next issue. This is just as important, if not more so, than the actual first sale. Getting an editor, even for an out of the way publication, to print your stuff more than once let's future editors, agents, (maybe even publishers?) know you're not just a one hit wonder.

Like I said, it doesn't pay much, though I can claim publication again. Something that pays better and a bit more regularly is my work for the Shanghai Daily (www.shanghaidaily.com). I am freelancing a column for them and it's become almost a weekly item. The columns are short, about 600 words, and opinion items only. (I don't want a career as a journalist - columnist would be okay, as how can you turn down a job where you write once a week and get paid for pretty much not doing a whole lot the rest of the week?) I got that job through a former student (I think) of a friend of mine who is working at the paper.

The only qualification is my contact mostly picks and chooses the topic, though I have been able to suggest a few of my own a bit more now that I've done a few for them. This has allowed me to actually list "writer" as my occupation on recent forms, however, which I have to admit feels pretty good.

I haven't given up on teaching, by the way, as I still enjoy that tremendously. More importantly, teaching pays the bills a lot better, or at least it will when I start teaching again. But in the meantime, and on the side, it's nice to be able to claim some income from the written word.