Schoolkids dream of summer; the boat dreams of water. Inside the child sleeps the man; inside the wick sleeps the fire. Inside the marble sleeps David; inside the cloud sleeps lightning. Does the acorn dream of the oak it will be or the oak it was? Does the wood dream of the boat it will be or the tree it was? Do the words dream of the story?
Warm thoughts after a cold day of boatbuilding, followed by splitting firewood (fun), a roaring fire (delight) and tasty new beer (coziness triumphant!).
Monday, November 17, 2008
Friday, November 14, 2008
It Doesn't Suck. I Think.
When I'm writing a first draft, it's so rare for things to go well that whenever I sit down to write and don't face existential doubts about story, characters, voice, plot, etc., it is a day to be celebrated. Hooray, I don't hate it!
Doubt will come later, certainly during revisions and probably in the tangled middle of the story. And (mercifully) I can't remember enough about what I wrote this morning to say whether it was good or bad.
Instead, what I remember is the feeling of the story, and of the world it takes place in: the things I saw when I closed my eyes to see, so that I could write down what I saw. I like being there, in the story-world.
So it's a relief, and an uncommon one at that, for me to actually -- can I say it? -- believe in the story. Absence of despair = victory!
Doubt will come later, certainly during revisions and probably in the tangled middle of the story. And (mercifully) I can't remember enough about what I wrote this morning to say whether it was good or bad.
Instead, what I remember is the feeling of the story, and of the world it takes place in: the things I saw when I closed my eyes to see, so that I could write down what I saw. I like being there, in the story-world.
So it's a relief, and an uncommon one at that, for me to actually -- can I say it? -- believe in the story. Absence of despair = victory!
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Rain and Darkness
There's something about an early-winter rain: it's not cold enough to snow, but the leaves are all off the trees and you can't pretend there's any vibrance or color left in the world. It's a damp cold, too, with numb fingertips and foggy breath and dripping bare trees.
Perfect for staying inside and writing!
I've been trying to figure out why coziness appeals to me as a writer so much. (And I'm not the only one.) There's something about a crackling fire, the raindrops frizzing a wool sweater, water beading down windows, the early dusk of fall ... it makes me want to sit down and imagine.
Maybe it's because there's so little stimulus coming in from the outside world, so there's less to distract me from hearing the high, thin, quiet music singing faintly on the edge of my awareness.
My writing desk (a quarter-sheet of 3/4" marine plywood) faces the wall, after all: a short angled space where the roof hunches down toward the floor. And I keep the blinds closed most of the time: I don't want to see the world outside, I want to see the world inside.
I think the appeal of a rainy day is more than just shutting off the outside world. I think it's days like this when we like to tell stories, or hear them. When we gather around the fire or the dinner table, or even a TV screen, to get pulled into a story. It's the sort of weather that makes it easier to huddle closer to the storyteller. Closer to the story.
Storytelling weather.
Perfect for staying inside and writing!
I've been trying to figure out why coziness appeals to me as a writer so much. (And I'm not the only one.) There's something about a crackling fire, the raindrops frizzing a wool sweater, water beading down windows, the early dusk of fall ... it makes me want to sit down and imagine.
Maybe it's because there's so little stimulus coming in from the outside world, so there's less to distract me from hearing the high, thin, quiet music singing faintly on the edge of my awareness.
My writing desk (a quarter-sheet of 3/4" marine plywood) faces the wall, after all: a short angled space where the roof hunches down toward the floor. And I keep the blinds closed most of the time: I don't want to see the world outside, I want to see the world inside.
I think the appeal of a rainy day is more than just shutting off the outside world. I think it's days like this when we like to tell stories, or hear them. When we gather around the fire or the dinner table, or even a TV screen, to get pulled into a story. It's the sort of weather that makes it easier to huddle closer to the storyteller. Closer to the story.
Storytelling weather.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Today I wrote
A small celebration of that small fact: today I wrote. Before dawn, with coffee (no need to be barbaric, after all), a few hundred words. Some of them might even have been the right ones. Some of them might even have been in the right place.
But it is, as it always has been and probably always will be, a testing. An experiment, an exploration. Like I've said, you can't improve something that's not there, so I start with an imperfect draft and revise later. Later!
And the strange thing is, I can barely remember anything of what I wrote this morning. Something about a pipe, I think. Oh, and bells, I was looking for different ways to describe the ringing of bells. Hey, it's coming back to me: sunrise and shadows and a cold church.
That's enough, though. I want to not remember it. I want it to stay separate from the awake-me who doubts and edits. And if I can only resist dipping back into the draft to tinker "just for a minute," I might be able to keep that little glowing coal of a story idea alive just a little longer, till I can sit down again with my coffee and sleepy eyes, and tuck back into the story.
But it is, as it always has been and probably always will be, a testing. An experiment, an exploration. Like I've said, you can't improve something that's not there, so I start with an imperfect draft and revise later. Later!
And the strange thing is, I can barely remember anything of what I wrote this morning. Something about a pipe, I think. Oh, and bells, I was looking for different ways to describe the ringing of bells. Hey, it's coming back to me: sunrise and shadows and a cold church.
That's enough, though. I want to not remember it. I want it to stay separate from the awake-me who doubts and edits. And if I can only resist dipping back into the draft to tinker "just for a minute," I might be able to keep that little glowing coal of a story idea alive just a little longer, till I can sit down again with my coffee and sleepy eyes, and tuck back into the story.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Turn
I have tried to stay politically neutral here, with little more success than most television news anchors. Katie Couric got progressively more giddy -- punchy may be the right word -- last night as the numbers trickled in: slowly at first and then with a sense of rushing unstoppable momentum.
In a night of superlatives, after a campaign of superlatives, after eight years of -- oh, forget neutrality: eight years of despair -- one moment stuck with me from the news coverage.
Here is historic Ebenezer Baptist Church in Atlanta, where Martin Luther King railed against injustice. It is election night and Barack Obama is poised to make history. The noise inside the church is almost a physical weight, a crush of joy and hope and expectations that after so long, things might change.
And here is CBS anchor Russ Mitchell, standing in the throng interviewing people, listening to Katie Couric on his earpiece, trying to provide coherent, objective, neutral reporting in this moment.
He's calm. A cool professional. Suit and tight tie, microphone and journalistic savoir faire.
But look closer. Look at the microphone in his hand. It's shaking. His hand trembles as if a thundering noise is shaking the foundations of the stone church.
And we all turn the page of the story to read more.
In a night of superlatives, after a campaign of superlatives, after eight years of -- oh, forget neutrality: eight years of despair -- one moment stuck with me from the news coverage.
Here is historic Ebenezer Baptist Church in Atlanta, where Martin Luther King railed against injustice. It is election night and Barack Obama is poised to make history. The noise inside the church is almost a physical weight, a crush of joy and hope and expectations that after so long, things might change.
And here is CBS anchor Russ Mitchell, standing in the throng interviewing people, listening to Katie Couric on his earpiece, trying to provide coherent, objective, neutral reporting in this moment.
He's calm. A cool professional. Suit and tight tie, microphone and journalistic savoir faire.
But look closer. Look at the microphone in his hand. It's shaking. His hand trembles as if a thundering noise is shaking the foundations of the stone church.
And we all turn the page of the story to read more.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Revised Lost Boy
Version 2, with yesterday's edits made. Plus some more that occurred as I was typing.
Something is killing the squirrels.
My neighborhood, huddled in the woods, used to be thick with the little things. One bold grey fellow even gnawed a playing card-sized hole in our cedar siding.
But as the year turns the corner and the brilliant leaves of fall fade to brown and grey, the forest is quiet. No scolding chatter from a swinging branch, no twitching prey for our cats to peer at through the window, lashing their tails.
I walked down to the creek behind our house, wading through dead leaves as the sun set on an unseasonably chilly day. Tree skeletons spiked the glowing sky, and at the creek I found stringy roots, knotted like crooked arms reaching over a trickle of muddy water.
Even here, there were no squirrels. But there -- I bent closer. There was something, under the bank, tucked into the dirty overhang. It looked like part of a doll.
I stepped down to the creekbed, snapped dead branch off a tree, and hooked what turned out to be a rag of checkered blue fabric soaked with something wet. Something rancid. It smelled like potatoes that had been sealed in plastic and left in the dark for too long.
It must have been washed there during a flood. Though it hadn't rained in weeks. I took a step back and something crunched like dry twigs under my foot.
Bones. Tiny, fragile bones like rings of porcelain, a pile of them. Rib cages the size of my hand and long things that looked like multi-jointed fingers or spines, all gleaming white, half buried in the wet sand.
I wanted to leave. Right now. I wanted to go back up to the house and turn on the lights.
I started to step out of the creekbed, when there a scuffling noise behind me, something moving in the sand. I spun.
There was a small raggedy child with wild eyes and leaves in his hair. Her hair? Its hair. It was dressed in what looked like a piece of burlap, and its fingers and lips were crusted black.
I stared for a moment, then pointed to the bones. "Did you... Ah, are you, are you lost?"
He just stood there, watching me without blinking, his shoulders moving as he panted. But when his eyes opened wider I could see the dirty whites and I knew he wasn't tired, but excited. He opened his mouth as if to yawn, and I saw a red hole with no teeth.
I stepped back. He stepped forward. My ankle rolled on something and I started to fall.
He made a sort of gargling noise in this throat and sprang. I turned my head but he was on top of me and I looked under the muddy overhang and saw bones and more clothing, so many bones.
Something is killing the squirrels.
My neighborhood, huddled in the woods, used to be thick with the little things. One bold grey fellow even gnawed a playing card-sized hole in our cedar siding.
But as the year turns the corner and the brilliant leaves of fall fade to brown and grey, the forest is quiet. No scolding chatter from a swinging branch, no twitching prey for our cats to peer at through the window, lashing their tails.
I walked down to the creek behind our house, wading through dead leaves as the sun set on an unseasonably chilly day. Tree skeletons spiked the glowing sky, and at the creek I found stringy roots, knotted like crooked arms reaching over a trickle of muddy water.
Even here, there were no squirrels. But there -- I bent closer. There was something, under the bank, tucked into the dirty overhang. It looked like part of a doll.
I stepped down to the creekbed, snapped dead branch off a tree, and hooked what turned out to be a rag of checkered blue fabric soaked with something wet. Something rancid. It smelled like potatoes that had been sealed in plastic and left in the dark for too long.
It must have been washed there during a flood. Though it hadn't rained in weeks. I took a step back and something crunched like dry twigs under my foot.
Bones. Tiny, fragile bones like rings of porcelain, a pile of them. Rib cages the size of my hand and long things that looked like multi-jointed fingers or spines, all gleaming white, half buried in the wet sand.
I wanted to leave. Right now. I wanted to go back up to the house and turn on the lights.
I started to step out of the creekbed, when there a scuffling noise behind me, something moving in the sand. I spun.
There was a small raggedy child with wild eyes and leaves in his hair. Her hair? Its hair. It was dressed in what looked like a piece of burlap, and its fingers and lips were crusted black.
I stared for a moment, then pointed to the bones. "Did you... Ah, are you, are you lost?"
He just stood there, watching me without blinking, his shoulders moving as he panted. But when his eyes opened wider I could see the dirty whites and I knew he wasn't tired, but excited. He opened his mouth as if to yawn, and I saw a red hole with no teeth.
I stepped back. He stepped forward. My ankle rolled on something and I started to fall.
He made a sort of gargling noise in this throat and sprang. I turned my head but he was on top of me and I looked under the muddy overhang and saw bones and more clothing, so many bones.
Monday, November 3, 2008
Editing "Lost Boy"
Re-reading my Lost Boy post from last week, it occurs to me that it could be sharpened up a bit. What a great opportunity to work through the editing process! It's a good thing it had so many fixable spots.
This is a quick inventory of the types of things I scrawl on my own drafts. Next time I'll make these changes and, I hope, improve the piece. An exercise to improve my own editing skills and to force me to think through what I'm really trying to say: the story behind the words.
Off we go!
Something is killing the squirrels. [I love this high-impact opening. And the "is killing" gives it present-tense urgency]
I live in a wooded neighborhood [so?], and until recently the trees [redundant with "wooded neighborhood"] were thick with squirrels. One bold grey fellow even gnawed a playing card-sized hole in our cedar siding [good detail] and tried to get up our chimney [who cares? chimney is irrelevant].
But as the year turns the corner and the brilliant leaves of fall turn [used "turn" in this sentence already] grey and crunch [nice image but wrong word. "crunch" sounds too substantial] underfoot, the forest is quiet. No scolding chatter from a swinging branch, no twitching prey for our cats to peer at through the window, lashing their tails.
There's a little creek downhill from our house, and I went to see it [what, the creek? the house? rework.], wading through dead leaves as the sun set on an unseasonably chilly day. Tree skeletons spiked the glowing sky, and at the creek I found knotted tree [used "tree" already] roots overhanging ["overhanging might not be a word. rework.] a thin muddy trickle of water [lose one of these adjectives. why spend flowery description on a little creek? that = imbalance].
Even here, there were no squirrels. But there -- I bent closer. There was something under the bank, tucked into the dirty overhang [2nd use of "overhang."] It looked like part of a doll [creepy = good! immediately we think "dead body"].
I stepped down to the creekbed, snapped a stick off a leaning branch [why leaning?], and retrieved what turned out to be a piece of fabric soaked with something wet and rancid. It smelled like potatoes that have been ["were sealed" seems better here. More distant. And passive voice works here] sealed in plastic and in the dark for too long.
It must have gotten washed there during a flood. Though it hadn't rained in weeks. [like this rhythm]
I took a step back and something crunched like a cracker under my foot. I jumped and looked down [at the same time? rework timing.]. Bones. Tiny, fragile bones like rings of porcelain, a pile of them. Rib cages the size of my hand and long things that looked like multi-jointed fingers or spines, all gleaming white in the creek sand.
I wanted to go back up to the house then. Something moved behind me and I spun. [rework timing. The "I wanted" sentence is the turning point of the whole piece: make it easier to see.]
There was a small raggedy child with wild eyes and leaves in his hair. Her hair? Its hair. It was dressed in what looked like a piece of burlap, and its fingers and lips were crusted black. [good and creepy.]
"Did you?" I pointed to the bones.
"Are you ... are you lost?" [sounds like the kid is saying it. Move up.]
He stared at me, his shoulders moving as he panted. But when his eyes opened [opened wider, I mean] I could see the dirty whites and I knew he wasn't tired, but excited. He opened his mouth as if to yawn, and I saw a red hole with no teeth.
I stepped back. He stepped forward. My ankle rolled on something and I started to fall.
He made a gargling throat-noise [noise in his throat? add "kind of noise" to show narrator confusion, fear?] and sprang [is this really the best spot to end? what about a last image of the kid against the dark sky, or looking up into the muddy cave filled with bones?]
This is a quick inventory of the types of things I scrawl on my own drafts. Next time I'll make these changes and, I hope, improve the piece. An exercise to improve my own editing skills and to force me to think through what I'm really trying to say: the story behind the words.
Off we go!
Something is killing the squirrels. [I love this high-impact opening. And the "is killing" gives it present-tense urgency]
I live in a wooded neighborhood [so?], and until recently the trees [redundant with "wooded neighborhood"] were thick with squirrels. One bold grey fellow even gnawed a playing card-sized hole in our cedar siding [good detail] and tried to get up our chimney [who cares? chimney is irrelevant].
But as the year turns the corner and the brilliant leaves of fall turn [used "turn" in this sentence already] grey and crunch [nice image but wrong word. "crunch" sounds too substantial] underfoot, the forest is quiet. No scolding chatter from a swinging branch, no twitching prey for our cats to peer at through the window, lashing their tails.
There's a little creek downhill from our house, and I went to see it [what, the creek? the house? rework.], wading through dead leaves as the sun set on an unseasonably chilly day. Tree skeletons spiked the glowing sky, and at the creek I found knotted tree [used "tree" already] roots overhanging ["overhanging might not be a word. rework.] a thin muddy trickle of water [lose one of these adjectives. why spend flowery description on a little creek? that = imbalance].
Even here, there were no squirrels. But there -- I bent closer. There was something under the bank, tucked into the dirty overhang [2nd use of "overhang."] It looked like part of a doll [creepy = good! immediately we think "dead body"].
I stepped down to the creekbed, snapped a stick off a leaning branch [why leaning?], and retrieved what turned out to be a piece of fabric soaked with something wet and rancid. It smelled like potatoes that have been ["were sealed" seems better here. More distant. And passive voice works here] sealed in plastic and in the dark for too long.
It must have gotten washed there during a flood. Though it hadn't rained in weeks. [like this rhythm]
I took a step back and something crunched like a cracker under my foot. I jumped and looked down [at the same time? rework timing.]. Bones. Tiny, fragile bones like rings of porcelain, a pile of them. Rib cages the size of my hand and long things that looked like multi-jointed fingers or spines, all gleaming white in the creek sand.
I wanted to go back up to the house then. Something moved behind me and I spun. [rework timing. The "I wanted" sentence is the turning point of the whole piece: make it easier to see.]
There was a small raggedy child with wild eyes and leaves in his hair. Her hair? Its hair. It was dressed in what looked like a piece of burlap, and its fingers and lips were crusted black. [good and creepy.]
"Did you?" I pointed to the bones.
"Are you ... are you lost?" [sounds like the kid is saying it. Move up.]
He stared at me, his shoulders moving as he panted. But when his eyes opened [opened wider, I mean] I could see the dirty whites and I knew he wasn't tired, but excited. He opened his mouth as if to yawn, and I saw a red hole with no teeth.
I stepped back. He stepped forward. My ankle rolled on something and I started to fall.
He made a gargling throat-noise [noise in his throat? add "kind of noise" to show narrator confusion, fear?] and sprang [is this really the best spot to end? what about a last image of the kid against the dark sky, or looking up into the muddy cave filled with bones?]
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