Sunday morning I was up at dawn, walking the dog and brewing coffee as cool night became deep blue morning, filled with birdsong and the promise of a warm spring day. Black coffee and oatmeal were followed by a liberal application of sunblock, with its heady and evocative smell.
Salt, honey and walnuts in the oatmeal, another swallow of black coffee, sunblock caking my arms and face ghostly white, more coffee, a few sips of electrolyte drink from my water bottle to make sure it tastes just right, and I loaded the car with a full stomach, blinking sleepily into the sunrise.
An hour later (and another cup of coffee, half a bagel, and a fistfull of pretzels) I parked at the foot of the mountains, tasted the air and squinted at the clouds, made some clothing decisions, and swung my leg over my bike and clipped in.
Clif bars and electrolytes had to sustain me for the next few hours, as cloud shadows chased me up and down mountain roads and past green-gushing, rock-filled rivers of snowmelt, through fields of late-winter dead grass and early-spring riots of blossoms, under speck-vultures circling in the bright sky, past herds of unmoving cattle, mile after rolling mile after rolling mile.
Afterwards, at home, I unloaded the bike off the car, carried in the empty coffee mug, and raised my dirty arm to my nose. Yep: still smelled like sunblock. I love it.
Showing posts with label Self-referential gobbledygook. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Self-referential gobbledygook. Show all posts
Monday, April 4, 2011
Friday, February 4, 2011
Here is what I love about writing
It's better than a movie, watching these ideas -- scenes -- visions -- go flitting past my mind:
A flock of crows explodes like shaken pepper from the stubble of a November cornfield.
A fiery old woman with the map tattooed on her tongue.
Tap, tap, step, step: a tall figure dressed in black and crowned with a well-worn top hat, picking his way through the brick piles of the old part of town. He may wear an eye patch and a monocle. From his moleskin vest hang three small bundles that upon closer inspection prove to be slumbering bats, swinging as he favors his right leg. The left was torn open by a six-inch claw in the old wars no one likes to remember.
Only the very old and the very young show their true expressions; in between we learn to hide what we feel. On the very old the lines on their face are a map of their lives, all the experiences, every pursed lip or guffaw, clenched jaw and knotted brow, all worked into the hanging skin until they look exactly like what they've always felt. Which is why when I realized my son had frown lines at the age of nine, I called the police, my wife, and then the psychiatrist.
Winter seawater smells like salt and iron. Swamps stink of life.
Baby's teeth are the size and shape of sweetcorn kernels. But, thinks the monster, they taste different.
In a small and old town in Europe, the sun sets over a landscape of snow and spires. On the hill leading past the butcher's and the old church, a townhouse leans against its neighbor. The windows are dark, the glass hanging in fangs, but smoke dribbles from the chimney. Inside the floor is too old, the boards spongy and curling up at their edges. Upstairs there is a room where the furniture is covered with sheets turned yellow with age. In this room is a small closet. Inside the closet ...
On and on and on....
A flock of crows explodes like shaken pepper from the stubble of a November cornfield.
A fiery old woman with the map tattooed on her tongue.
Tap, tap, step, step: a tall figure dressed in black and crowned with a well-worn top hat, picking his way through the brick piles of the old part of town. He may wear an eye patch and a monocle. From his moleskin vest hang three small bundles that upon closer inspection prove to be slumbering bats, swinging as he favors his right leg. The left was torn open by a six-inch claw in the old wars no one likes to remember.
Only the very old and the very young show their true expressions; in between we learn to hide what we feel. On the very old the lines on their face are a map of their lives, all the experiences, every pursed lip or guffaw, clenched jaw and knotted brow, all worked into the hanging skin until they look exactly like what they've always felt. Which is why when I realized my son had frown lines at the age of nine, I called the police, my wife, and then the psychiatrist.
Winter seawater smells like salt and iron. Swamps stink of life.
Baby's teeth are the size and shape of sweetcorn kernels. But, thinks the monster, they taste different.
In a small and old town in Europe, the sun sets over a landscape of snow and spires. On the hill leading past the butcher's and the old church, a townhouse leans against its neighbor. The windows are dark, the glass hanging in fangs, but smoke dribbles from the chimney. Inside the floor is too old, the boards spongy and curling up at their edges. Upstairs there is a room where the furniture is covered with sheets turned yellow with age. In this room is a small closet. Inside the closet ...
On and on and on....
Friday, October 22, 2010
Workspaces
Coming back from a two-week vacation and launching right into work has meant that the house is full of stacks of (clean) laundry; half-unpacked laundry, water bottles, nearly empty containers of sunblock, shoes and sandals, boarding passes and dinner receipts, national parks brochures, guidebooks.
All great stuff! But it's meant that my normally only-half-messy workspace has become an obstacle course that forces me to high-step through debris to get to the computer.
I deliberately set up my writing space in a small and dark room, facing a bulletin board rather than a window (which is closed most of the time anyway, since I write before dawn). I like the idea of not having a view or a beautiful room to distract me. But when I can't even see the carpet, the mess itself is a distraction. So it has to go.
The same thing goes for "the shop" (garage) where I'm building the boat. How many cars fit into a two-car garage? None, if it's already filled with one boat, a second half-built boat, a kayak, two bikes, a table saw, a workbench, and stacks of lumber. To say nothing of the crickets.
And I can tolerate drifts of wood shavings; clamps not put back in their correct spots (hung to the right of the bench, if you please), dulled pencils in nearly every little crevice of the boat, and so on. But when I spend more time avoiding obstacles than working, it's time to clean up.
It always seems aggravating to be cleaning instead of working, so I'll usually clean a little, work a little, clean a little, etc. Here's the secret, though: cleaning never takes as long as I think.
Still, on a bright and cool October day, with the wind tearing through leaves the color of fire, I think of glittering blue water or the frustrating and beautiful intricacies of my book, and wish I could just get down to work.
All great stuff! But it's meant that my normally only-half-messy workspace has become an obstacle course that forces me to high-step through debris to get to the computer.
I deliberately set up my writing space in a small and dark room, facing a bulletin board rather than a window (which is closed most of the time anyway, since I write before dawn). I like the idea of not having a view or a beautiful room to distract me. But when I can't even see the carpet, the mess itself is a distraction. So it has to go.
The same thing goes for "the shop" (garage) where I'm building the boat. How many cars fit into a two-car garage? None, if it's already filled with one boat, a second half-built boat, a kayak, two bikes, a table saw, a workbench, and stacks of lumber. To say nothing of the crickets.
And I can tolerate drifts of wood shavings; clamps not put back in their correct spots (hung to the right of the bench, if you please), dulled pencils in nearly every little crevice of the boat, and so on. But when I spend more time avoiding obstacles than working, it's time to clean up.
It always seems aggravating to be cleaning instead of working, so I'll usually clean a little, work a little, clean a little, etc. Here's the secret, though: cleaning never takes as long as I think.
Still, on a bright and cool October day, with the wind tearing through leaves the color of fire, I think of glittering blue water or the frustrating and beautiful intricacies of my book, and wish I could just get down to work.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Butter scraped across toast
"I am old, Gandalf," Bilbo says, his voice withered and soft. He feels, he notes, like butter scraped across too much toast.
Not only is that metaphor so perfect for the situation, it's perfectly English as well, and so hobbity and true-to-tone that I smile every time I read it. Butter and toast: it makes me think of sunny mornings, crumbs on a white tablecloth, the sweet bitterness of marmalade.
These days I am spread a little thinner than I'd like. Between bike training, boatbuilding, hoarding the One Ring, and writing, there are just not enough hours in the day. I snatch moments of work when I can, but apart from bike riding, I've haven't spent much more than an hour or so doing any of these.
Crickets scramble across the boat. Book revisions exist in my mind and on marked pages of research books (shelves and shelves worth) and on scraps of paper and on a typed list.
In any case, after this weekend I should be able to reshuffle -- no, re-balance -- priorities again. But then what will I complain about? Not to worry, I will find something!
Not only is that metaphor so perfect for the situation, it's perfectly English as well, and so hobbity and true-to-tone that I smile every time I read it. Butter and toast: it makes me think of sunny mornings, crumbs on a white tablecloth, the sweet bitterness of marmalade.
These days I am spread a little thinner than I'd like. Between bike training, boatbuilding, hoarding the One Ring, and writing, there are just not enough hours in the day. I snatch moments of work when I can, but apart from bike riding, I've haven't spent much more than an hour or so doing any of these.
Crickets scramble across the boat. Book revisions exist in my mind and on marked pages of research books (shelves and shelves worth) and on scraps of paper and on a typed list.
In any case, after this weekend I should be able to reshuffle -- no, re-balance -- priorities again. But then what will I complain about? Not to worry, I will find something!
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Purple Shirt
Yesterday I wore my lucky shirt. Let's call it purple. Somehow this shirt has become a magical talisman of confidence and luck. Who am I to argue with that?
When I wear Purple Shirt I burn with the charisma and power of a thousand suns! Nothing can go wrong, thanks to Purple Shirt.
People encountering Purple Shirt have only two choices: to submit, or to flee.
Chuck Norris doesn't wear a purple shirt. Purple Shirt wears Chuck Norris.
Often Purple Shirt will cause: fire alarms to ring; cats to deliver kittens; moonpies to eclipse; spontaneous tromboning; hedgehog arbitrage; and baloney sandwiches to become prosciutto on rye.
It got me thinking about other talisman-like objects in some of my favorite stories. Sylvester had his magic pebble; Boy had his one small blue bead; Frodo had ... well, we all know what he had.
What value is there is bringing an object into a story; an object which then becomes so meaningful that it's essentially its own character?
When I wear Purple Shirt I burn with the charisma and power of a thousand suns! Nothing can go wrong, thanks to Purple Shirt.
People encountering Purple Shirt have only two choices: to submit, or to flee.
Chuck Norris doesn't wear a purple shirt. Purple Shirt wears Chuck Norris.
Often Purple Shirt will cause: fire alarms to ring; cats to deliver kittens; moonpies to eclipse; spontaneous tromboning; hedgehog arbitrage; and baloney sandwiches to become prosciutto on rye.
It got me thinking about other talisman-like objects in some of my favorite stories. Sylvester had his magic pebble; Boy had his one small blue bead; Frodo had ... well, we all know what he had.
What value is there is bringing an object into a story; an object which then becomes so meaningful that it's essentially its own character?
Friday, May 21, 2010
Hey! What's your favorite planet?
Mine's the sun.
Rejected blog post ideas:
I have lost control of my eyebrows.
What if cookies grew on trees and you had to construct tomatoes and bananas in the kitchen? Hey you kids, get away from my tree, the cookies are almost done!
Cats: Nature's consolation prize.
The Dialectic Epistemologies of Funk, or, How I Escaped Academics and Gave Myself to the Music
"Donkey" is pronounced differently than "monkey." Why?
We all know that animals can't get much bigger because the physics of weight-bearing structures would, for example, cause a two-story ant to collapse. But how small could animals get? I would like a flock of moth-sized bats fluttering around me. Take notice, world. I await compliance.
Do deer scream?
What are Tootsie Rolls made out of and how can I convince myself they're all-natural?
Bending properties of scarphed fir.
"This boat is fully operational": would my boat sink if I launched it right now? It has no sides but is completely made of wood. Except for the 45 pounds of lead in the centerboard.
Speaking of the boat, why haven't I see any crickets in the shop? What in God's name is hunting them?
Imagine a world of sentient bats and stupid but powerful humans. The bats might have stories about the superhero Manbat, who has all the normal attributes of a bat but also some hominid superpowers (ability to walk on hind legs, burp on command) and features (nose, thumbs).
"Who are you?"
"I'm ... Manbat!"
Rejected blog post ideas:
I have lost control of my eyebrows.
What if cookies grew on trees and you had to construct tomatoes and bananas in the kitchen? Hey you kids, get away from my tree, the cookies are almost done!
Cats: Nature's consolation prize.
The Dialectic Epistemologies of Funk, or, How I Escaped Academics and Gave Myself to the Music
"Donkey" is pronounced differently than "monkey." Why?
We all know that animals can't get much bigger because the physics of weight-bearing structures would, for example, cause a two-story ant to collapse. But how small could animals get? I would like a flock of moth-sized bats fluttering around me. Take notice, world. I await compliance.
Do deer scream?
What are Tootsie Rolls made out of and how can I convince myself they're all-natural?
Bending properties of scarphed fir.
"This boat is fully operational": would my boat sink if I launched it right now? It has no sides but is completely made of wood. Except for the 45 pounds of lead in the centerboard.
Speaking of the boat, why haven't I see any crickets in the shop? What in God's name is hunting them?
Imagine a world of sentient bats and stupid but powerful humans. The bats might have stories about the superhero Manbat, who has all the normal attributes of a bat but also some hominid superpowers (ability to walk on hind legs, burp on command) and features (nose, thumbs).
"Who are you?"
"I'm ... Manbat!"
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Hi, remember me?
The blog? The what now? Blog?
Ah, yes. Truth be told I've been too busy working to write about working. Then it seemed out-of-scale to provide tiny updates: after so long a pause, shouldn't the next update be truly momentous? Yes, I agree: it should. So here goes!
Explosions! Dinosaurs riding flaming motorcycles! Robot cowboys shooting flaming bullets! Planetary collision! DNA collisions! Tidal waves! Wowee-wowee-wow!
In other news, I continue to watch the sunrises through a screen of black trees (if I'm out on a run) or from over a cup of Sumatra Dark and a stack of manuscript pages (if I'm editing). I've nearly perfected my warm-up-wood-so-it-can-be-glued technique, just in time for the weather to warm up and thus render my technique unnecessary. Oh, spring, how vexing you are.
Tiny nubs are just starting to appear on the trees. I heard birdsong today and it felt like waking up after a long and restful sleep. I can smell wet dirt outside. Spring is coming: warm weather, boatbuilding and FINISHING THE BLASTED DRAFT ALREADY.
Ha ha! I kid. No draft is ever finished.
Ah, yes. Truth be told I've been too busy working to write about working. Then it seemed out-of-scale to provide tiny updates: after so long a pause, shouldn't the next update be truly momentous? Yes, I agree: it should. So here goes!
Explosions! Dinosaurs riding flaming motorcycles! Robot cowboys shooting flaming bullets! Planetary collision! DNA collisions! Tidal waves! Wowee-wowee-wow!
In other news, I continue to watch the sunrises through a screen of black trees (if I'm out on a run) or from over a cup of Sumatra Dark and a stack of manuscript pages (if I'm editing). I've nearly perfected my warm-up-wood-so-it-can-be-glued technique, just in time for the weather to warm up and thus render my technique unnecessary. Oh, spring, how vexing you are.
Tiny nubs are just starting to appear on the trees. I heard birdsong today and it felt like waking up after a long and restful sleep. I can smell wet dirt outside. Spring is coming: warm weather, boatbuilding and FINISHING THE BLASTED DRAFT ALREADY.
Ha ha! I kid. No draft is ever finished.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Resolved
Why am I proud that my New Year's resolution contains an obscenity? Here is the PG-13 version:
No more fooling around. This is the year of not fooling around.
With what? Great question, thanks for asking. With writing, boatbuilding, finding an agent, biking, eating well. Everything. No more delays or (worse) procrastination or (worst of all) excuses.
This is better than some of my other discarded resolutions:
To rock.
To swear more.
To get more haircuts.
To get fewer haircuts.
To be better at separating laundry.
To care about plants.
To use hand lotion more (mainly a wintertime resolution).
To learn how to throat-sing.
To see more praying mantises. Mantii?
To fall down the stairs more often than I fall up them.
To wash dishtowels more frequently, which should be easy considering how dang many we have.
To sweep out the boatbuilding area more.
Yes, the year of not fooling around anymore has just the ring to it. Onward!
No more fooling around. This is the year of not fooling around.
With what? Great question, thanks for asking. With writing, boatbuilding, finding an agent, biking, eating well. Everything. No more delays or (worse) procrastination or (worst of all) excuses.
This is better than some of my other discarded resolutions:
To rock.
To swear more.
To get more haircuts.
To get fewer haircuts.
To be better at separating laundry.
To care about plants.
To use hand lotion more (mainly a wintertime resolution).
To learn how to throat-sing.
To see more praying mantises. Mantii?
To fall down the stairs more often than I fall up them.
To wash dishtowels more frequently, which should be easy considering how dang many we have.
To sweep out the boatbuilding area more.
Yes, the year of not fooling around anymore has just the ring to it. Onward!
Friday, December 18, 2009
Fever Dreams
Interesting night last night. Plunging sense of well-being resulting from the onslaught of a head cold and a query rejection (la, inevitable but still stings) sent me early to bed ... to lie awake feeling a vise squeezing my sinuses.
At 2 I gave up and took a decongestant. Knowing this would keep me awake, I also "took" some Glenlivet (la, it is medicinal). Tossed and turned until the Glenlivet wore off and then lay, wide awake, heart pounding (I blame the decongestant) until 4:00, when I gave up and arose to read. Got bored, came back to bed, and started mulling over, in a haze of forehead-crushing sinus pain and a dry mouth, the following problem:
It's winter. Too cold for epoxy to cure. Yet I need to install the chine "logs" on the boat. These are actually three pieces of long wood, each about one inch square by sixteen feet. I need to warm them and the spot where they attach to at least 70 degrees, otherwise the epoxy won't work.
Now, working through winter before, I've heated small areas with a tenting of plastic, lights, and a digital thermometer. But I'm beginning to think I may have to tent the entire boat, frames and all, bow to stern, like the house in E.T.
Or so it seemed to my humming mind in the wee hours of the morning. Thus, today: a doctor visit and more cogitation. How do you warm a sixteen-foot-long area when the ambient temperature is in the low thirties?
At 2 I gave up and took a decongestant. Knowing this would keep me awake, I also "took" some Glenlivet (la, it is medicinal). Tossed and turned until the Glenlivet wore off and then lay, wide awake, heart pounding (I blame the decongestant) until 4:00, when I gave up and arose to read. Got bored, came back to bed, and started mulling over, in a haze of forehead-crushing sinus pain and a dry mouth, the following problem:
It's winter. Too cold for epoxy to cure. Yet I need to install the chine "logs" on the boat. These are actually three pieces of long wood, each about one inch square by sixteen feet. I need to warm them and the spot where they attach to at least 70 degrees, otherwise the epoxy won't work.
Now, working through winter before, I've heated small areas with a tenting of plastic, lights, and a digital thermometer. But I'm beginning to think I may have to tent the entire boat, frames and all, bow to stern, like the house in E.T.
Or so it seemed to my humming mind in the wee hours of the morning. Thus, today: a doctor visit and more cogitation. How do you warm a sixteen-foot-long area when the ambient temperature is in the low thirties?
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
The grass is always greener
I have the wooden skeleton of a sailboat in my garage and the always-in-revision third novel on my laptop. Both are wonderful and long projects. And still I find myself daydreaming about the next boat. The next book.
Partly it's the idea of starting fresh. Right now I'm far enough past the beginnings of both projects that I have to struggle to remember how daunting it was to have no momentum, to just ... start.
And partly it's the half-adulterous feeling that "sure, this boat is good. But that one ... that one could be better!" Except unlike spouses, we can accumulate boats and books and grow and learn with each one.
Wait a second, maybe that's exactly like spouses.
*rim shot!*
If for no other reason than wanting to avoid uncertainty when these projects are done, I've already begun thinking about what to do next.
There's always the Folkboat plan, of course, except that wouldn't fit in the garage. Paul Gartside draws some beautiful boats that have helped me couch-sail on many a winter's evening. There's Joel White's bewitching lapstrake double-ender, the Fox Island Class -- if only it had a centerboard I might be building it right now! Because my oh my that beauty looks fun to sail. And then there's Paketi, which I would do with a small cabin and a gaff topsail because life is short. With that flat bottom and all that sail area she would fly downwind.
There's the story of the girl driving west with her loser father. Or is he really that much of a loser? The snow adventure. The desert. More, oh so much much more to say about Rigel and his friends.
There is, I am pleased to discover, so much to do.
Partly it's the idea of starting fresh. Right now I'm far enough past the beginnings of both projects that I have to struggle to remember how daunting it was to have no momentum, to just ... start.
And partly it's the half-adulterous feeling that "sure, this boat is good. But that one ... that one could be better!" Except unlike spouses, we can accumulate boats and books and grow and learn with each one.
Wait a second, maybe that's exactly like spouses.
*rim shot!*
If for no other reason than wanting to avoid uncertainty when these projects are done, I've already begun thinking about what to do next.
There's always the Folkboat plan, of course, except that wouldn't fit in the garage. Paul Gartside draws some beautiful boats that have helped me couch-sail on many a winter's evening. There's Joel White's bewitching lapstrake double-ender, the Fox Island Class -- if only it had a centerboard I might be building it right now! Because my oh my that beauty looks fun to sail. And then there's Paketi, which I would do with a small cabin and a gaff topsail because life is short. With that flat bottom and all that sail area she would fly downwind.
There's the story of the girl driving west with her loser father. Or is he really that much of a loser? The snow adventure. The desert. More, oh so much much more to say about Rigel and his friends.
There is, I am pleased to discover, so much to do.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Asymptotic quality
Once upon a time, in a cold desert where men performed cruelties by moonlight, an old slave woman had a map of the known world tattooed on her tongue. When she swore, which was often, the juicy invectives passed over rivers and caves and winding blue paths; and when she wanted you lost she closed her mouth with a foamy snap.
Okay, now. The trouble with revising is that ... well, I don't want to do it. I know: wah. But I keep thinking about other stuff I could be writing, strange and fascinating stuff, and then I turn back to my manuscript -- also strange and fascinating, let me not forget! -- as it grinds toward quality.
I have a theory about quality. It is, no doubt, not original, but I like to pretend that I'm the first to have thought it.
In algebra (I'll wait. With me? Okay.) when you graph an equation, say "x=y^2" for example (I'll wait. With me? Okay.) the result is an arcing curve. This line, always changing, soars ever closer to an imaginary limit, but never reaches it. Never reaches it. This imaginary line is the asymptote.
It is perfection. We never reach it.
And so when I change a word, then rethink it and change the sentence, then rethink that and change the paragraph, and then start to have doubts about the whole lousy paragraph and don't get me started on the scene or voice or pace or rhythm (yes, they're different) or metaphor or imagery or tension ...
... it means I'm sliding along toward the asymptote, sluglike, slow and laborious.
Sometimes I think one great side effect of being a writer is the ability to complain in metaphor! Anyway, happy weekend to all and to all a good night.
Okay, now. The trouble with revising is that ... well, I don't want to do it. I know: wah. But I keep thinking about other stuff I could be writing, strange and fascinating stuff, and then I turn back to my manuscript -- also strange and fascinating, let me not forget! -- as it grinds toward quality.
I have a theory about quality. It is, no doubt, not original, but I like to pretend that I'm the first to have thought it.
In algebra (I'll wait. With me? Okay.) when you graph an equation, say "x=y^2" for example (I'll wait. With me? Okay.) the result is an arcing curve. This line, always changing, soars ever closer to an imaginary limit, but never reaches it. Never reaches it. This imaginary line is the asymptote.
It is perfection. We never reach it.
And so when I change a word, then rethink it and change the sentence, then rethink that and change the paragraph, and then start to have doubts about the whole lousy paragraph and don't get me started on the scene or voice or pace or rhythm (yes, they're different) or metaphor or imagery or tension ...
... it means I'm sliding along toward the asymptote, sluglike, slow and laborious.
Sometimes I think one great side effect of being a writer is the ability to complain in metaphor! Anyway, happy weekend to all and to all a good night.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
How do you think he does it?
I don't know. What makes him so good?
These days I'm listening to Michael Chabon read his "Summerland" (book on CD). It is very, very good. A few months ago I read "Gentlemen of the Road," by the same author but very different in style and tone. And also very, very good.
So my question to myself is: Self, although you are certainly dashing and freakishly cool, this appears to be quite the mystery. How is Michael Chabon so good?
Is it innate talent? Practice? A clean workspace? Maybe he does Internet searches more than me. Or less. Or exclusively. Or never.
Maybe I need a plant in my writing room. Maybe I should vacuum it. Maybe I should put more clothes on the floor. Or put away the half-empty epoxy containers.
Or maybe -- just maybe -- none of these mean a damn if you don't just sit down. And get to work.
Perseverance, I believe, is a spark of heat on a cold day. A cold winter. Nothing matters if you do not carry on.
Yes, I will read more, and not just as someone in the audience but as a technician: how does he do that? Why does she make this choice instead of that one? Why so many verbs? Why this pace and not faster? Or slower?
In the meantime: back to work! Still on the query. But I'm close: it is sneaking around my peripheral vision, flicking my ear and melting into shadows when I turn. But I know where to find it: in the corner. And I step toward it.
These days I'm listening to Michael Chabon read his "Summerland" (book on CD). It is very, very good. A few months ago I read "Gentlemen of the Road," by the same author but very different in style and tone. And also very, very good.
So my question to myself is: Self, although you are certainly dashing and freakishly cool, this appears to be quite the mystery. How is Michael Chabon so good?
Is it innate talent? Practice? A clean workspace? Maybe he does Internet searches more than me. Or less. Or exclusively. Or never.
Maybe I need a plant in my writing room. Maybe I should vacuum it. Maybe I should put more clothes on the floor. Or put away the half-empty epoxy containers.
Or maybe -- just maybe -- none of these mean a damn if you don't just sit down. And get to work.
Perseverance, I believe, is a spark of heat on a cold day. A cold winter. Nothing matters if you do not carry on.
Yes, I will read more, and not just as someone in the audience but as a technician: how does he do that? Why does she make this choice instead of that one? Why so many verbs? Why this pace and not faster? Or slower?
In the meantime: back to work! Still on the query. But I'm close: it is sneaking around my peripheral vision, flicking my ear and melting into shadows when I turn. But I know where to find it: in the corner. And I step toward it.
Friday, November 13, 2009
This Query Is Kicking My Butt
Here's an idea. If you ever wonder how to suck all the life out of a story you spent over a year working on, if you ever want to drain every juicy drop of joy from your ideas until they're as stale as last week's bread ... why, all you have to do is write a query!
What I've been doing is eliminating possibilities. Does this work? Let's try it. Nope, failure.
How about that? Let's try it. Nope, failure.
This? Failure.
That? Failure.
Scrub everything, try again.
Failure.
The trouble is that it's supposed to be the synopsis that's the spirit-breaker. Distilling the story into a 1-2 page summary, glossing over nuance and completely skipping subplots, all of it in dreadful passive language with no room for motivation and meaning? That's hell; that's a synopsis. You expect that to be hard.
But a query? A query is supposed to find the spark at the core of the story, that burning piece of starlight that beams across the pages and pages and pages. What it all means. Why it matters.
Identifying that should be easy, right? Writing it into a couple of sentence should be fun, right?
Right?
right...?
I'm off to a conference this weekend. I intend to return with a new energy. I will master this query!
What I've been doing is eliminating possibilities. Does this work? Let's try it. Nope, failure.
How about that? Let's try it. Nope, failure.
This? Failure.
That? Failure.
Scrub everything, try again.
Failure.
The trouble is that it's supposed to be the synopsis that's the spirit-breaker. Distilling the story into a 1-2 page summary, glossing over nuance and completely skipping subplots, all of it in dreadful passive language with no room for motivation and meaning? That's hell; that's a synopsis. You expect that to be hard.
But a query? A query is supposed to find the spark at the core of the story, that burning piece of starlight that beams across the pages and pages and pages. What it all means. Why it matters.
Identifying that should be easy, right? Writing it into a couple of sentence should be fun, right?
Right?
right...?
I'm off to a conference this weekend. I intend to return with a new energy. I will master this query!
Friday, November 6, 2009
We Are Not Amused
Last night I was working on the middle of three chine pieces, the sixteen-foot strips of fir that bend around the edge of the boat. I followed the same technique as the inner piece ... right down to committing the same error. In the very same way. After trimming off a neat angle I found that it was precisely 9mm too short. Again.
Maybe, thought I, it would just be easier to slice 9mm off the back of the and boat and move the whole stern forward to close the gap I seem to insist on creating.
This morning, continuing my painstaking editing, I managed to do 4 pages in an hour. That fourth page took 45 minutes, most of it on four sentences. S ... l ... o ... w.....
Maybe, thought I, it would just be easier to slice 9mm off the back of the and boat and move the whole stern forward to close the gap I seem to insist on creating.
This morning, continuing my painstaking editing, I managed to do 4 pages in an hour. That fourth page took 45 minutes, most of it on four sentences. S ... l ... o ... w.....
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Small Craft Warning
Got a call this morning from Steve Earley -- he and his friend Bruce made it to Rock Hall, MD after several days of small craft warnings coming up the Chesapeake Bay.
I sit here in my office and watch the trees fluttering and swaying under a bright blue sky.
Steve's sailing a Pathfinder, the same boat I'm building, so when I head up to the Mid Atlantic Small Craft Festival this weekend, I plan on taking loads of pictures and -- even better -- seeing a completed boat! A far cry from the dusty skeleton in my garage, but still very, very inspiring. Can't wait.
I've sailed in small craft warning conditions before -- that's the meteorologist's code for "awesome sailing conditions" and the boat pounds through glittering waves, swaying and tilting. You're going so fast that when you trail your hand in the water it feels hard, like you're slapping a wall. Everything is wet and breathless and happening very fast.
Wait a second, that sounds like ... something else.
I'm beginning to think that my other hobbies and loves are simply lesser replacements for sailing fast in a good boat. Running brings me into the outdoors; biking adds the element of speed. When a thunderstorm cracks open the sky and I stare at the churning clouds, it's sailing I'm thinking of. When I visit the beach I stare out to sea, thinking, watching the waves.
And days like this I sit inside, gnashing my teeth and savoring the strange little boatbuilding cuts on my fingertips. (Did you know the back of a saw can cut you?)
I sit here in my office and watch the trees fluttering and swaying under a bright blue sky.
Steve's sailing a Pathfinder, the same boat I'm building, so when I head up to the Mid Atlantic Small Craft Festival this weekend, I plan on taking loads of pictures and -- even better -- seeing a completed boat! A far cry from the dusty skeleton in my garage, but still very, very inspiring. Can't wait.
I've sailed in small craft warning conditions before -- that's the meteorologist's code for "awesome sailing conditions" and the boat pounds through glittering waves, swaying and tilting. You're going so fast that when you trail your hand in the water it feels hard, like you're slapping a wall. Everything is wet and breathless and happening very fast.
Wait a second, that sounds like ... something else.
I'm beginning to think that my other hobbies and loves are simply lesser replacements for sailing fast in a good boat. Running brings me into the outdoors; biking adds the element of speed. When a thunderstorm cracks open the sky and I stare at the churning clouds, it's sailing I'm thinking of. When I visit the beach I stare out to sea, thinking, watching the waves.
And days like this I sit inside, gnashing my teeth and savoring the strange little boatbuilding cuts on my fingertips. (Did you know the back of a saw can cut you?)
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Back again. I mean it, this time.
Okay, I'm back after a week's vacation in Sunny! San! Diego! How many times this summer have I "come back"? I think I've travelled for four weeks, two of which were vacation, so I can't complain. But I will, precious, I will.
This time it was a week of stuffing myself like a Christmas turkey (except with homemade bread), sailing, biking, swimming, toddler-hanging-out-with, eating, and even some editing. After lugging my nearly 400-page manuscript, crumpled with edits, through three airports, I spent a healthy few hours typing in edits. Then printing. Then viola*! Draft 2 is ready!
Printed single-spaced and double-sided, it became much more manageable. And this time I remembered page numbers, so it's easier to keep track of things when it goes sliding off the coffee table or couch.
Is it good? Is it good? After much time writing, editing, and pondering, I have this answer. At the risk of getting a big head: Yes. It is good. Or at least, I don't hate it, which is the writer's version of "good."
I took more risks. Held less back. Tried to be less self-conscious -- which, I'm learning, sometimes means holding back** instead of self-consciously indulging in "writerly writing." Writerly writing comes out contrived or overdone, anyway, and it's a nectared trap I fall into too easily.
But. It's done, first readers are taking a look, and now I'm faced with an odd question: having completed three books, do I focus on querying or revising? And which one?
The impatient part of me says: query the ready one! The wise part of me says: query the better one. Trouble is, the second one's better and it's not ready.
O Impatience, thou frisky and lilting voice! Trouble me not with your beguiling schemes!
*I know it's "voila." "Viola" makes me laugh.
**Edited: This may seem like a contradiction, but what I mean is this: I held back less of the story. The florid prose, thank goodness, I DID hold back.
This time it was a week of stuffing myself like a Christmas turkey (except with homemade bread), sailing, biking, swimming, toddler-hanging-out-with, eating, and even some editing. After lugging my nearly 400-page manuscript, crumpled with edits, through three airports, I spent a healthy few hours typing in edits. Then printing. Then viola*! Draft 2 is ready!
Printed single-spaced and double-sided, it became much more manageable. And this time I remembered page numbers, so it's easier to keep track of things when it goes sliding off the coffee table or couch.
Is it good? Is it good? After much time writing, editing, and pondering, I have this answer. At the risk of getting a big head: Yes. It is good. Or at least, I don't hate it, which is the writer's version of "good."
I took more risks. Held less back. Tried to be less self-conscious -- which, I'm learning, sometimes means holding back** instead of self-consciously indulging in "writerly writing." Writerly writing comes out contrived or overdone, anyway, and it's a nectared trap I fall into too easily.
But. It's done, first readers are taking a look, and now I'm faced with an odd question: having completed three books, do I focus on querying or revising? And which one?
The impatient part of me says: query the ready one! The wise part of me says: query the better one. Trouble is, the second one's better and it's not ready.
O Impatience, thou frisky and lilting voice! Trouble me not with your beguiling schemes!
*I know it's "voila." "Viola" makes me laugh.
**Edited: This may seem like a contradiction, but what I mean is this: I held back less of the story. The florid prose, thank goodness, I DID hold back.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Dear slugs: I'm sorry
Slugs of the world: please DO NOT unite!
Recently there was an unfortunate incident involving one of your brethren or sistren or co-unspecified gender on a local gravel road, or paved road, or parking lot. The precise provenance of this ... incident ... remains unclear, for reasons which sadly, will become very clear.
I know, slugs, that you enjoy a good rain. Who doesn't? As long as nasty hard-skinned bipeds don't come out with their tempting bowls of beer, or magnifying glasses, or salt, few things are better than a "stroll" (slide) across a field of wet grass.
Or, presumably, a gravel road.
When said road is winding down great, swooping switchbacks from the spine of the Appalachian Mountains, and somebody -- an innocent victim, no less -- is flying downhill on a new bicycle, it is all he, or she, can do to maintain control and not slide off the shoulder into a tree.
When slug and bicycle meet, there can be only one outcome. Let me point out again that I, I mean someone, is the victim here as well.
Upon returning to his (or her) car, a certain bike rider found something gooey on his bike. It looked like a piece of brown chewing gum. He gamely wiped it off with a piece of gravel.
Then he found another one. And another. And another. Something had spattered the bicycle tube, the pedal, the gears, the back tube, and -- worst of all -- the front of his ankle.
Gritting his teeth heroically, he performed what might optimistically be termed an autopsy only to discover, too late, the horrific truth!
Even worse: an hour of drying air flowing across these ... pieces ... had dessicated them to the consistency of rubber.
What I Did On My Weekend: I accidentally made slug jerky.
Recently there was an unfortunate incident involving one of your brethren or sistren or co-unspecified gender on a local gravel road, or paved road, or parking lot. The precise provenance of this ... incident ... remains unclear, for reasons which sadly, will become very clear.
I know, slugs, that you enjoy a good rain. Who doesn't? As long as nasty hard-skinned bipeds don't come out with their tempting bowls of beer, or magnifying glasses, or salt, few things are better than a "stroll" (slide) across a field of wet grass.
Or, presumably, a gravel road.
When said road is winding down great, swooping switchbacks from the spine of the Appalachian Mountains, and somebody -- an innocent victim, no less -- is flying downhill on a new bicycle, it is all he, or she, can do to maintain control and not slide off the shoulder into a tree.
When slug and bicycle meet, there can be only one outcome. Let me point out again that I, I mean someone, is the victim here as well.
Upon returning to his (or her) car, a certain bike rider found something gooey on his bike. It looked like a piece of brown chewing gum. He gamely wiped it off with a piece of gravel.
Then he found another one. And another. And another. Something had spattered the bicycle tube, the pedal, the gears, the back tube, and -- worst of all -- the front of his ankle.
Gritting his teeth heroically, he performed what might optimistically be termed an autopsy only to discover, too late, the horrific truth!
Even worse: an hour of drying air flowing across these ... pieces ... had dessicated them to the consistency of rubber.
What I Did On My Weekend: I accidentally made slug jerky.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Words is Words
Since I work in an office I have meetings, at which I have lots of time for daydreaming and doodling. Sometimes I jot down story notes. Several times I've sketched maps.
This means that when I have to think about something complicated, like Jupiter or magnetism, I have a ready-made Thinkin' Time for it.
Lately I've been thinking about those fancy electronic gizmos that plug in and display books. Some kinda magic lantern spaceman goggles, online book reader robot thing, if I'm understanding correctly.
Evidently there are some complicated and heated arguments about digital rights, readership numbers, accessibility, cost, creative licensing, and so on. Not to mention the whole Jupiter-magnetism issue.
But where I've landed is this: I write stories. I do not illustrate. I tell stories through words. And people can read them printed on paper, or illuminated on a screen, or posted on a blog. Words is words.
I am very easygoing, as you can see. It's not just a perspective of wanting anyone to read my books on any device or medium they want (though I concede that's a factor), but rather that if people want to experience the words this way or that way I don't attach much value judgement to it.
As far as they're concerned, that is. As for me, stock my little house with bookshelves, let me smell the ink and paper, and marvel that this thing made from pressed plant fibers, and glue, and ink, somehow holds entire worlds.
But audio books? Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war! Hearing words isn't the same thing as reading them. Or is it? To learn more about this fascinating debate, sign up for my podcast in which I continue this using speech. Oh, you have to have a sound card installed. And speakers. And I've invented a sort of grunting hog-language, comprised largely of gerunds and references to slops, but as long as you've installed the Translato-Pig 9000.03.1.29 you should be fine. Also you will need ears.
This means that when I have to think about something complicated, like Jupiter or magnetism, I have a ready-made Thinkin' Time for it.
Lately I've been thinking about those fancy electronic gizmos that plug in and display books. Some kinda magic lantern spaceman goggles, online book reader robot thing, if I'm understanding correctly.
Evidently there are some complicated and heated arguments about digital rights, readership numbers, accessibility, cost, creative licensing, and so on. Not to mention the whole Jupiter-magnetism issue.
But where I've landed is this: I write stories. I do not illustrate. I tell stories through words. And people can read them printed on paper, or illuminated on a screen, or posted on a blog. Words is words.
I am very easygoing, as you can see. It's not just a perspective of wanting anyone to read my books on any device or medium they want (though I concede that's a factor), but rather that if people want to experience the words this way or that way I don't attach much value judgement to it.
As far as they're concerned, that is. As for me, stock my little house with bookshelves, let me smell the ink and paper, and marvel that this thing made from pressed plant fibers, and glue, and ink, somehow holds entire worlds.
But audio books? Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war! Hearing words isn't the same thing as reading them. Or is it? To learn more about this fascinating debate, sign up for my podcast in which I continue this using speech. Oh, you have to have a sound card installed. And speakers. And I've invented a sort of grunting hog-language, comprised largely of gerunds and references to slops, but as long as you've installed the Translato-Pig 9000.03.1.29 you should be fine. Also you will need ears.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Antecedents
How much do you give to an effort before it consumes you? Sleep, effort, wealth, health? Is it ever worth it? Is it ever not worth it? Is there anything sadder than not hoping for anything?
I don't know. But I do know this*: most of the things I love doing started out as smaller-scale and -- often -- much more wild efforts.
Right now I'm building a boat, John Welsford's 17-foot Pathfinder design. Last night I glued and bolted (#10 x 2" SS pan head machine screw) the mast step in place. Okay, not really the mast step, the twin supporting posts that go under the mast step and help transfer the mast's downward load to the I-shaped spine and thus to the boat's bottom.
Earlier attempts:
Evidently I took this very seriously. My parents relate one side of an overheard conversation when I called NASA. Seriously. And someone answered.
"Hello, do you have any plans?"
"Nine. And a half."
"I'm building a spaceship."
"In my backyard."
"Okay, thankyouverymuch."
Naturally, I spent hours and hundreds of pages of recycled dot-matrix paper (remember the horizontal green and white stripes?) drawing spaceships, instrument panels, rocket engines, seating diagrams, etc. I have never understood why or how, but this drive transferred to boats right around the same time I discovered girls (age 30. Kidding! It was in eighth grade.)
Point is, the thing that sends me out into the sweltering garage every afternoon to work on the boat is, in part, the same thing that sent a very young me to the library to look up liquid fuel rocket engines, or to stockpile Campbell's soup cans with the intention of hammering the thin metal into spaceship body panels. Hey, free metal, right?
Still, I have to say that if I could build a spaceship in my garage I'd do it in a heartbeat. Especially if I was ten years old.
*Bill Murray: "I don't know Babs. But I do know this: you've really let your uvula go to the dogs."
I don't know. But I do know this*: most of the things I love doing started out as smaller-scale and -- often -- much more wild efforts.
Right now I'm building a boat, John Welsford's 17-foot Pathfinder design. Last night I glued and bolted (#10 x 2" SS pan head machine screw) the mast step in place. Okay, not really the mast step, the twin supporting posts that go under the mast step and help transfer the mast's downward load to the I-shaped spine and thus to the boat's bottom.
Earlier attempts:
- A self-designed "sea kayak" in my parents' basement, which I sketched out when I should have been reading Homer. Inconveniently, it was nearly too heavy to lift, and so I sawed it into firewood with a strange lack of regret.
- A thirty-foot ocean-capable sailboat. Project was scuttled for a variety of reasons, not least of which was my own lack of ability and the vexing tendency of 10x10 oak beams to warp and check like DNA strands. Sawing that one up broke my heart.
- A sea kayak built from a kit. Aha, this was the solution! With everything cut out, I "just" had to assemble. Success; it still hangs in my garage.
- Countless rafts over the years, with only two outcomes: 1) too heavy to lift; 2) too heavy to float.
Evidently I took this very seriously. My parents relate one side of an overheard conversation when I called NASA. Seriously. And someone answered.
"Hello, do you have any plans?"
"Nine. And a half."
"I'm building a spaceship."
"In my backyard."
"Okay, thankyouverymuch."
Naturally, I spent hours and hundreds of pages of recycled dot-matrix paper (remember the horizontal green and white stripes?) drawing spaceships, instrument panels, rocket engines, seating diagrams, etc. I have never understood why or how, but this drive transferred to boats right around the same time I discovered girls (age 30. Kidding! It was in eighth grade.)
Point is, the thing that sends me out into the sweltering garage every afternoon to work on the boat is, in part, the same thing that sent a very young me to the library to look up liquid fuel rocket engines, or to stockpile Campbell's soup cans with the intention of hammering the thin metal into spaceship body panels. Hey, free metal, right?
Still, I have to say that if I could build a spaceship in my garage I'd do it in a heartbeat. Especially if I was ten years old.
*Bill Murray: "I don't know Babs. But I do know this: you've really let your uvula go to the dogs."
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Keep Running
Today on my way to work I saw a guy running down the sidewalk. Jogging, I mean, for exercise.
I've seen him before; he has some vague lack of mobility or twistiness to his limbs, and when he runs, he flails, he gasps, he labors. He looks like he's struggling underwater, or fighting an invisible foe. I have never seen anybody put so much effort into running. Every time I see him my own problems seem small.
He's been doing this every Tuesday and Thursday for at least the five years I've taken that road to work. This is, clearly, not a short-term thing for him.
This morning I also passed a small box turtle, huddled inside its shell on the double yellow line in the middle of the road.
Should I go back and move it? I thought, driving on. For years I've pulled over to rescue turtles because they're slow and cars are so fast. Should I go back? No, I'm late for work. Just go back. What difference does it make? Maybe I should go back. No, I'm already late.
I drove on.
I turned around.
I went back, worried about where I could pull over safely. It's a winding country road, so I was scoping out driveways and patches of gravelly shoulder.
The turtle was smashed into a wet pulp like a broken melon. It had been less than two minutes since I drove past it the first time. Two minutes while I debated about what I could do. What I "should" do.
I turned around, my stomach tight. Continued the familiar road into work.
And when I saw the familiar guy running toward me, flopping along the sidewalk, his mouth gasping open like a dying fish, his limbs bent into parentheses clawing the air, and when I realized he'd been doing this in all weather for years and years, I still thought of the dead turtle but I now I also thought: keep running.
I've seen him before; he has some vague lack of mobility or twistiness to his limbs, and when he runs, he flails, he gasps, he labors. He looks like he's struggling underwater, or fighting an invisible foe. I have never seen anybody put so much effort into running. Every time I see him my own problems seem small.
He's been doing this every Tuesday and Thursday for at least the five years I've taken that road to work. This is, clearly, not a short-term thing for him.
This morning I also passed a small box turtle, huddled inside its shell on the double yellow line in the middle of the road.
Should I go back and move it? I thought, driving on. For years I've pulled over to rescue turtles because they're slow and cars are so fast. Should I go back? No, I'm late for work. Just go back. What difference does it make? Maybe I should go back. No, I'm already late.
I drove on.
I turned around.
I went back, worried about where I could pull over safely. It's a winding country road, so I was scoping out driveways and patches of gravelly shoulder.
The turtle was smashed into a wet pulp like a broken melon. It had been less than two minutes since I drove past it the first time. Two minutes while I debated about what I could do. What I "should" do.
I turned around, my stomach tight. Continued the familiar road into work.
And when I saw the familiar guy running toward me, flopping along the sidewalk, his mouth gasping open like a dying fish, his limbs bent into parentheses clawing the air, and when I realized he'd been doing this in all weather for years and years, I still thought of the dead turtle but I now I also thought: keep running.
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