Professing to know

A writing teacher (or perhaps a professor) gave a friend of mine a book about writing. Since I am not a professional writer, I probably have no business assessing this book. And since I am not a professional writer, I'll put this bluntly: That "professional" book? It sucked.

If you peruse this blog, you will probably have a hard time finding the expression "it sucked" anywhere. I tend not to write about things I have any critique of (excluding politics, social phenomena, bad products, service, and advertising). Okay, so I do critique.

But, when it comes to books, music, and art, I tend to keep mum. My opinion is that it's all opinion. Now, that's one heck of an awkward sentence, but I'll let it stay.

When I was in art school, I was taught how and why to critique art. I've forgotten all of it. For each professor professed to know exactly what was good and bad, and in every decade it was something different. So, I came to dismiss criticism. I loathe the expression, "I may not know anything, but I know what I like." I may know something and I know what I like is more to my taste.

I don't feel badly when others don't like the same things I do, and I hope you feel likewise.

Now, what was I writing about? I forget.

Oh, the book about writing.

First of all, the author has absolutely no sense of humor. I suspect anyone who doesn't have a sense of humor. But still, I had to give my friend a reason why I didn't think this book was good besides that "it sucked" and the author didn't seem to find humor in anything.

He did have a rule for everything. No long sentences (hear that, Monsieur Proust?) No curse words (fuck that). There were so many rules for no this or that and very few rules for what makes for good writing. If there were, I don't remember.

But the kicker was a chapter of writing examples from his sad students. My friend read some of them out loud (and then e-mailed them to me). Here, he gives examples of terrible, pathetic, and unknowing imbecilic sentences involving the dreaded and no-no word "like". Some of these were the best sentences in the book:

"McBride fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a Hefty Bag filled with vegetable soup."

I burst out loud when I heard this. I think it's great. It's a perfect description. I don't see pictures in my mind with ease, but I can see this, and I can hear it, too. Mr. Professor, if you think this is terrible, I almost feel sorry for you.

"Her vocabulary was as bad as . . . like . . . whatever."

Almost perfect. No, I take that back. It's perfect. I thought that the word "like" might be best left out, but it serves a dual purpose here. The word "like" is interjected into so many people's vocabularies, like, I don't know, like that, y'know? Whatever. You know what I'm talking about, like, right?

Another rule - never use dashes:

"The hailstones leaped from the pavement - the same way that maggots do when you fry them in hot grease."

I admire the person who came up with this image. How on earth did that leap into their mind? Had they actually seen maggots fried in hot grease? I somehow doubt that, and so, I am impressed. It's good fun and a hell of a lot better than any description of a hailstone I've ever heard, especially since it leaves out their size. Why are hailstones always described as peas or golf balls when one can use a real form of measurement?*

"He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells - as if she were a garbage truck backing up."

The sound trucks make when backing up aren't exactly bell-like, but using that image and sound as a descriptor of the love-struck individual works beautifully. It shows the absurdity of blind love in a fresh way. Sorry, Mr. Professor, you need to lighten up. I am also afraid your classes and book may be squelching young talent's creativity.

I do hope my friend doesn't follow a word of advice in it (including "never use contractions").

Image note: Arthur Rackham
'The Professor Can't Stand that Sort of Thing' 1932

*This reminds me that when I tattooed, people would frequently call and ask, "How much would a half dollar sized tattoo be?" I got sick of it. I started asking folks, "Have you ever seen a half dollar?" Yes, that was obnoxious of me, but the truth is, I don't recall ever seeing a half dollar in my life. And, even if I had (which I suppose I must have), the price of a "half dollar sized" tattoo depends on many more factors than it's size.

Are my babbling days over?

I doubt it. However, I haven't felt the desire to blog as often as I used to.

As a reader of blogs, I know it's nice to see a new entry (or more) each day. And judging from my blog stats, I can see my readership is down. So, have you all caught up? There's a large amount of entries here, and the majority of them are not topical.

Jaime suggested I write about shoes, socks and mittens. I've written about shoes and mittens before, and there are even drawings of shoes (see the tag "EIIIProduct" in the sidebar). I started writing about socks last night and wound up deleting the entry. I guess I've got some sort of writer's block. Normally, I could write about socks for hours if I didn't stop myself. Last night, writing about anything was about as difficult and not worth the effort as trying to squeeze the last little bit of toothpaste out of its tube.

And normally, I'd now be writing about toothpaste. But that stream of consciousness has dried up, for now. I have no doubt that I'll be back to my normal babbly self at some point. When? I make no promises!

And now, a little story:

Last week, I was wearing Annick Goutal's Encens Flamboyant. Dick and I were standing in front of an open cupboard. I guess we were looking for food. Of course, that has nothing to do with anything, except to explain that we were in close proximity to each other.

He asked me, "Do you smell something burning?" I answered, "No." He then said, "Well, it's not really a burning smell. It's more like the smell of a dryer sheet." I told him I had just put on some perfume. I offered my wrist for him to smell. He wasn't sure if that was the smell he was smelling. And that was the end of that, for him.

It wasn't the end of it for me, however. I kept sniffing my wrist and asking myself, "Does this smell like Bounce or Snuggle or whatever the name of our dryer sheets are?" And the answer was a resounding "Yes."

Because I'm terribly lazy, I just googled "Snuggle" to see if the box looked familiar. Dick and I raced each other to see who'd find it first. He won. And Snuggle is the brand we use. I don't know why. I do like the way it makes the clothing smell.

And though I would assume that Annick Goutal would be nearly horrified to discover that Encens Flamboyant smells like a dryer sheet, it does. It's not a duplicate, but there's a definate similiarity. I think that only a nose who can differentiate between manufactured scent molecules would be able to explain this similarity.

Today, after I put my clothes in the dryer, along with a sheet of Snuggle, I had a strong urge to wear the fragrance that will now be forever linked to the mundane task of clothes washing. Do you think that Snuggle could be described as having "a mystical, arousing and intense scent?" That's the opening sentence of the Encens Flamboyant description. As for Snuggle, the original fragrance is only described as "fresh" and "clean". But, wait (and wow!) the Snuggle website says "Snuggle - on a mission for upliftment."

I didn't think that "upliftment" was a real word, but I found it in Merriam Webster's Dictionary. Is there something wrong with sentence? I was going to say that I didn't care for the sentiment, but that's not true. I'd be a hypocrite and a snob if I thought that only top of the line perfume had the power to lift one's spirits. After all, I'm the one who bought the Snuggle dryer sheets.

Photo note: I find the official Snuggle bear a bit creepy. Maybe it's because he (she?) has an open mouth. I can't think of another reason. The Snuggle bear is pretty classic in every other way. Since I like stuffed bears, here's a photograph of one I do like. I found it here.

I'm bad at doing ______ (fill in the blank)

Earlier this evening, our power was out. I sat at the kitchen table and ate my ramen noodles with tofu and egg by candlelight. When I was done, I thought, what shall I do? I only had these little tea lights and they aren't good for reading, no matter how many one uses. So, I used my chopsticks as drumsticks and sang a bunch of songs. I'm not very good at either of these things, but I was having fun.

I used to be self-conscious about my lousy singing. Nowadays, I seem to care little about the things I'm not all that good at. If I enjoy them, I do them. Maybe that's why the nanowrimo is coming fairly easily to me. I'm not judging it. If I wasn't having fun, I'd quit, and I'd say "oh well."

When I told a writing professor I know that I'd been writing 2-4000 words a day, he was impressed. I said, "I didn't say they were good words." And they probably aren't.

But here's the thing: even though I use words like "good" and "bad", it is not a judgment. At least it's not a judgment in the sense of feeling bad about it (there's that word again). I've gotten to this point lately where I feel pretty comfortable with mediocrity or even downright lousiness. When we're kids and we're learning to do new things, we not "good at" the things we do. It's acceptable (to some people). We're kids and we are learning. You don't go from not knowing how to read on day one and being able to read Tolstoy on day two. That is reserved for some very unusual geniuses.

Unfortunately, when I was a child, I was given the message that if one wasn't very good at something, you shouldn't do it. I've written about this before.

I was fortunate to have gone to an Elementary School where, when we were in the fourth grade, we were all asked if we wanted to learn an instrument. It was optional, but in my memory everyone did, though it seemed quite a number of kids picked the triangle. The school gave us an instrument, for free, and also provided free group lessons. Some kids did have lessons at home, which would have to be paid for, but the lessons at school were quite good.

I wanted to learn to play the bass, but I was steered away from that because I was so short, and so I picked the cello. I loved to play. Noone ever had to tell me "Julie, it's time to practice." If it was up to me, I would have played until bedtime and beyond, but my parents didn't want me to play at night.

I loved Bach and struggled hard to try to learn some of his Cello Suites. But I just loved to practice. If it was scales, fine. It didn't matter. The sound of a bowed instrument, a deep one, thrilled me. I was transported. I would completely merge with that cello and its sound. Years after I stopped playing, my childhood friend told me that one time my mother let her in our house and she saw me in my room, playing the cello, and that it scared her. She said I didn't look like a child while I was playing. I was lost in what I was doing and my face was so serious that she left my house without saying a word.

If you were reading carefully, you'd have noticed I said that I stopped playing. There were a few reasons and they aren't happy ones. For one thing, my parents didn't seem to like that I played. I never once heard a thing about my playing from them (except to quit playing at night). Neither of them ever said, "You've improved" or "that sounded good" or anything.

In the orchestra, one was seated according to how good you were. There was 1st, 2nd and 3d cello and all the rest. Well, only three kids played the cello, so I was 3rd. I didn't care. Celloist #1 was a child prodigy who spent half her day out of school studying with someone we heard was famous. She didn't look very happy. And besides, her sister was Violinist #1 and was already playing concerts, so everyone rather thought she was in a tough spot. The second celloist was a gifted young boy, and besides, he was a friend of mine, who seemed to enjoying playing with me at home, even if I wasn't as good as he was. So, I was quite content.

Now, I have to admit I have no memory of my parents saying any particular words, but I knew they thought I was wasting my time. If I couldn't be the best, I shouldn't be doing it. Besides, I had a talent for drawing and I ought to have been doing that. This was the one thing that they were proud of, but they could understand it, because they were both visual artists. Maybe I'd grow up to be more successful then they had been. That's the message I got.

But drawing never gave me the pleasure that playing music did. I loved to draw, but it didn't transport me beyond myself. Sometimes I felt like a peforming monkey because I was talented, and I hated it. When I played music, there were no thoughts of good or bad or talented or not. I was just playing music.

Unfortunately, when grade school was done, the free instruments and lessons ended. That's when the anvil dropped. I was told that I had to choose between renting an instrument and taking lessons. Now, that's not a choice. You can't take lessons if you don't have an instrument, and you can't teach yourself the cello without an instructor (not unless you're a genius, which I plainly was not). So, that was that.

I was given a cheap guitar at the end of the year to make up for things, but classical guitar just didn't cut it for me. It sounded plunky and even when I listened to a master play, it still sounded plunky. So, I wound up being a punk rock guitarist who thought she sucked. Well, that's making a long story short there (which is unusual for me, I know), but you get the idea.

So, these days I'm reveling in doing things badly and enjoying them. There are others who say I shouldn't say I do these things "badly" because I'm putting myself down. I don't agree. I'm being honest. I'm not a novelist and I'm not some genius in the rough. I thought I'd give writing a novel a try and it's good fun. Will I ever get published and get on the best seller list?

I doubt it highly.

I know people have trouble reading my long blog posts. But I'm having a good time and that's what counts. I'm learning a lot, expressing myself freely and even, at times, reveling in doing something I'm not all that good at. So, please, let me say I'm bad at stuff. It feels really good. It feels freeing. There are no expectations when you aren't good.

But I wouldn't mind a little pat on the back once in a while. I wished I had gotten it from my parents when I played the cello. I wouldn't have minded one bit if I grew up to be the very last celloist in some small city somewhere. But no, if I couldn't make it to Carnegie Hall, it was no go. Well, that's a sure fire way to create an underachiever, if you ask me.

Image note: Apocalyptica. Four cellists cover Metallica songs. Once, I was listening to this in my tat shop, when a guy I knew came in. He said, "Turn that classical crap off!" Then he stopped dead, "Is that Enter Sandman?!", he said. The first time I heard it, I couldn't stop laughing. That sounds like a bad review, but it was the cognitive dissonance that got me. Check it out for yourself:



I found the album cover on a sweet little web site made by a young kid (I think). Take a look.

Addendum: Just in case you think I'm a whiner who's still all upset about what my parents did to me (oh, the pain!) I'm not. One remedy for childhood hurts like this is to do them over and be your own parent. Some years ago, I rented a cello and took a lesson. It was fantastic. At the end of the first lesson, I played the first four measures of one of the Bach Suites. And here comes that word: I played it badly. Of course I did! I didn't care a whit. I was in heaven. Unfortunately, my hands were pretty shot from tattooing and I had to leave it at that one lesson. But that was enough. I had parented myself, gave myself permission to try it once again before I dropped dead, and any resentments I still harbored were gone. Well, maybe there's a wee bit. . .

I do feel the need to say this: If you are a parent, if your child is lousy at something and loves it, be happy for them and encourage them with everything you've got.

As they say, "practice makes perfect"

I've quite a fan of Malcolm Gladwell. I've enjoyed his books and his articles in the New Yorker. I also think he's an interesting character and I'm a sucker for certain types of geeks.

The reason for this quickie post is only this: In his new book, "Outliers", Gladwell writes about success. Gladwell cites a body of research finding that the “magic number for true expertise” is 10,000 hours of practice.

I did some math, which I am not good at (no 10,000 hours there for me). This would require 4.8 years of 40 hours of practice a week. That's no small thing, but it's not outrageous either.

The reason for this post? NaNoWriMo.
Writing a novel in a month is not going to make me a novelist. It might, if I was very lucky and some kind of genius. But I am guessing I am neither. Besides, my novel is truly awful. Maybe that's an overstatement, but it's not exactly good. How could it be? I've written over 30,000 pages in less than twelve days. How much thinking do you think went into writing that fast?

It's practice and practice is what people do to become good at something. Practice is also just good practice. Look: I'm a process vs. product kind of person, so I'm enjoying myself. That doesn't make me rich (or even close) but I'm having a good time. Maybe I'll publish a novel in 4.8 years. No, make that 13.7 years (at fourteen hours a week, not forty). Yikes. I should have started writing a bit earlier in life.

Painting note: Gerard Dou
Old Woman Reading a Lectionary c.1630
No comment.

The end of the "novel"

No, I didn't quit. Something far more momentous happened. I realized I am writing a novel. Not a fake novel. Not a faux novel. Not a so-called novel.

And not, as the title above says, a "novel".

Furiously writing away for eight days, it was all fun and games. I was playing, as I've written before.

Today, as I edged towards 23,000 words, I realized that I had nothing more to write about except for the ending. I didn't expect to come up with an ending until it was about to end, but I have. It's a good one, too (I think). After all, I am writing a mystery of sorts. I've said "it's not all that mysterious", but a bit of a surprise hit me the other day and I like it. It'll probably take about 3000 words to write that. Herein lies the problem: what do I do with the rest of the 20,000 words I need to finish this novel?

20,000 words, even though they came easily at first, well, they are looking daunting today. I have an urge to write all afternoon, but I'm stopping myself. I choked this morning when I stepped back and thought of myself as the reader of the fine mess I've gotten myself into, and I said to myself, "If your narrator keeps up this babble for too much longer without some plot twist, you're gonna put the book down and that surprise ending will never be revealed." I usually finish books that I've started reading, but if they get boring and they're mysteries, I'll say "who cares who did it?" and toss them aside.

This was starting to shape up to be one of those. Oh no.

I threw a plot twist in the mix today. It isn't much, but it'll spice it up some. It's nothing to jump up and down about because it's totally plausible. My characters are not allowing me to put anything outrageous in there. This, to me, is a good thing. I'm not telling them what to do. They're telling me.

But it's hard. Right now they're being a bit quiet. That narrator still wants to babble about everything and nothing and I'm saying "shut up".

When I realized I was involved in a small battle and that the last 490 words that I wrote was almost painful, I thought, "Huh. I am really writing a novel".

It doesn't matter if it's good or not. I highly doubt it is. But it has life and maybe a bit of truth about life, too. So, if I wind up with only a chapter of good writing when this crazy adventure is all over, I'll be happy. Well, knowing me, that's not exactly true, but. . .

Image note: I learned to type on a montrosity like this. I think it's a beautiful montrosity, but they are hard to type on.

Seeing this made me realize something important. I usually write with rhythm. Even the keys on my laptop make a sound. This blog entry wasn't written that way, for it's more of a piece of self-reporting (I hesitate to use the word "diary" for some reason).

I know that the novel has its own life simply because of this: the narrator has a different rhythm than I do. I can hear it while I'm writing and it's most recognizable. Perhaps that why I can tell when it's off, and I hesitate, for it's not just the words, but the sound. This blog is called "everything is interesting" but y'know, this is really interesting, to me (that is).

A planned lull, perhaps

I woke up with a terrible headache. My eyes are red and sore. Too much writing and too much reading, all on the computer, can take its toll.

I planned on going to the Zendo today, but I can't imagine the Saturday rituals of chanting and bowing. I want to go back to sleep. When my koan floats into my mind, all I can think of is how it relates to the novel.

Dick sent an old blog entry of mine, "Islands", to someone last night. The writing is quite different than what's been my usual fare for quite a while now. The pace is leisurely. It doesn't read like a diary entry. It contains no silly remarks.

I've nothing against silliness. It's good for my spirits. But I do have to wonder what happened to that thoughtful writer. Caught up in the frenzy of writing 1667 words a day, then 2000 or more, as much as I can, unfettered and giddy with excitement, have I lost my voice? And in spite of spending all this time on the pseudo-novel, I've written more than one blog entry a day. Meanwhile, I'm typing up operative reports, physical exams and autopsies of fictional patients at a fictional health center in Florida for my medical transcription course.

I am unhinged from reality. On the one hand, it's wonderful. I now know I have many voices and stories inside me, and I'm already thinking ahead to the next novel. Maybe the tone will be more like the one in "Islands". So, even as I write this, thinking I've lost something, I realize I'm wrong. Yet. . .

I'm not sure if I should go back to bed or drive the 28 miles to my meditation group. And I'm thinking that in spite of wanting to hit the 25K word goal I've set for myself this weekend, I may be better off sitting and sewing. My house is a mess and I ought to do some cleaning. Everything non-essential in my life has been on hold all week.

I'm afraid to lose my momentum. So, I'm waffling. And I'm waffling, too, on what to do with my day. I hate it when I question my plans. I'm rather rigid that way. And when I'm feeling as I do right now, I think it's usually best to go with my first instinct. So, sleep just may be in order, even if I've not gone to the Zendo for a week.

Even though it's morning, I'd like to end with the Evening Gatha, chanted by one lone and plaintive voice at the end of each day at Zen Mountain Monastery in New York:

"Let me respectfully remind you, life and death are of supreme importance. Time swiftly passes by, and opportunity is lost. Each of us should strive to awaken… awaken. Take heed, do not squander your life."

Does this mean I shouldn't go back to bed?

Photo note: Zen Buddhist monk practicing zazen. Somehow I doubt he's thinking about plot twists and surprise endings, but one can't see into the mind of others.

I don't know who this monk is. The photograph has no attribution.

Addendum: I went out. We chanted the Faith Mind Sutra today, which is a long one. It's my favorite sutra and if you click the link, you'll see how absurd my saying that is.

NaNoWriMo, You're My Baby

Beebopaloola you're my baby, beebopaloola I don't mean maybe, nah-na-nanowrimo you're my b-baby now, my baby now, my baby now. . .my baby now. Dadada da, dada dada. . .

It's 11:00pm exactly. Just closed my Word file. It's day 7 of National Novel Writing Month and I've written 19,275 words. That's approximately 77 pages of a novel.

You may be saying to yourself "That's not much" but I'm astonished. If I had said to myself, "Julie, you must write 77 pages of a novel by Friday night" last Saturday, I would have choked and choked fast. I would have said to myself, "That's impossible. Get off my case." I would have worried that I was crazy.

I may be crazy right now, but it's a good crazy, something that Ta-Nehisi Coates, my new breakfast blog must-read wrote about earlier in the week.

I'm writing a murder mystery. It's not particularly mysterious, but it may have a surprise ending, which is a surprise to me. I wasn't sure who dunnit when I started, decided who did do it on Wednesday, and came up with a different idea this afternoon, one that grabbed onto my leg with teeth and couldn't shake off.

This is fun. It's play time here in my living room, where I sit on the sofa with my laptop and type away. These characters have become my friends and their world is completely real to me. I drew a map of where they all live, named the towns and the major roads and where some important landmarks are. I started with one character (and a dead one, who doesn't say much), no motive and pretty much no idea of where I was going with this. It's improv, pure and simple. Suddenly, new actors are appearing on the stage and doing things I didn't expect. It was supposed to be a one-woman play and now I can't keep things under control.

When this thing is over, I'll have a mess on my hands. As the plot thickens, I see I'm going to have to go back and change things people said, times and dates and all sorts of details. But maybe not too much. After all, people lie, or don't remember things all too well.

I do need to know some hard facts. The way the dead guy died, well, I don't know how they could've determined it was a murder. So, I need to ask a doctor. I want to know the blood gas levels and all sorts of stuff like that. Do I need to? I'm not sure.

I've got police reports that are probably ridiculous and psych evaluations that are missing all sorts of important information, like a plausible diagnosis (but for who, I'm not telling).

I thought this stuff would hang me up, but I figured, go ahead and write it and fix it later. It's working for me.

This is like cooking without a recipe and with ingrediants I don't know much about. One big beautiful mess of a stew. Will it be edible? I have no idea, but it sure is a blast cooking it up.

Photo note: Not quite the scene of the crime, but close.

Addendum: Can't sleep, my brain's on fire (fa fa fa fa fa, fa fa fa fa, fa fa). Tried to read reach the 20,000 word mark before I went retired for the evening. Not that I ever retire for the evening, but. . .I fell short by 475 words.

It was fitting that "Psycho Killer" just happens to contain the words, "Can't sleep, my brain's on fire". And yes, I know that the "fa fa fa fa fa" part is not directly after that line, but I don't remember what is, and it's time for bed, not googling lyrics. Good Night.

The character wearing a bathrobe

Chris Baty writes that putting on a special piece of clothing will get you in the mood to write. Quite frankly, when I read that, I thought it was silly. Saying I read it is not quite accurate - I only skimmed it (because I thought it was silly). It seemed like saying, "Hey boys and girls! It's time to put on our thinking caps!!!"

So, yesterday I wrote about 3000 words, all while I was wearing my bathrobe. I told Dick, "When I take this bathrobe off, you can talk to me." And then I was all set, and because it's the night before the election, I'll say this; with that bathrobe on, I was fired up and ready to go.

Some writer I am. Was that an appropriate use of a semi-colon? I have no idea.

Who cares? I'll find an editor.

As far as the bathrobe thing goes, it really worked. Today, after I got home from school, I felt like I was probably not going to be able to work on the faux novel (today's new self deprecating word for it). What did I do? I put away my groceries, laid my schoolbooks aside, sorted through my mail, put on my bathrobe and wrote a note that said "Dick - I've got on the bathrobe. Talk to you when it's off, around 4:15."

I stopped writing at 3:30, so he never saw the note.

Here's the oddest part. It makes total sense that the bathrobe trick is working, for the protagonist is in a hospital at present. I needed to introduce a long section that was from another person's point of view today and I just could not do it.

Why not? Because of the bathrobe.

There was no way that this other character would sit on a sofa in the middle of the day wearing a bathrobe. Absolutely no chance of it. So, what am I going to do? I think I might have to pull out a suit jacket and put it on next time I write.

Do you think this has gone too far? I've heard of method actors, but are there method writers? Am I going to have to start wearing a sheriff's badge, a suit jacket, a bathrobe and, well, who knows what else. . .there's going to be more characters and they don't share the same closet space.

Photo note: A bathrobe with lobsters on it from L.L.Bean. Not what I'm wearing, but my character just might.

If you haven't already done so, get out there and vote tomorrow!

Books, childhood, writing

I do not plan on abandoning this blog because I'm, ahem, writing a novel. I plan on being extra busy. I'm already tired, though the time change may be a good reason for that. It usually takes me two weeks to adjust to the time change. I don't mind that it gets dark an hour earlier than it did yesterday. I like the dark, and Maine is more than a bit bleak in the Winter, so I don't need to see it as much. Sounds strange, when I put that into words.

I thought, perhaps, that since it's only 8:30, I would put in a bit more time working on the novel. Let me amend that last sentence: I am not "working" on this novel. I am playing. Maybe the fact that I feel like I'm playing at being a novelist is why I have called the collection of words I've written thus far the "novel", referred to it as the "so-called novel" or wrote "ahem" in the first sentence of this post. but the truth is, I am playing a novelist (though not on TV).

Heh. I was intending to write about music. So much for that. I am not going to.

I wonder why it never occurred to me to be a writer. I learned to read at a very young age. I was fascinated with the written word. I remember very clearly that, when watching TV, if there were words on the screen, I'd call for my mother, because I wanted to know what those words were. Of course, she'd never arrive on time, but I know I did it anyway, much to her annoyance. Thinking back, I'd make a bet that the first word I learned to read was "Acme", the brand name on every product in Looney Tunes cartoons.

Saying books were an essential part of my childhood would be a gross understatement. When I was still in the picture book stage of life, I made my own, and I continued to do so after I started reading books without pictures. I still have some of these books, things made of colorful construction paper with names like "Cherry Street" and "Fun!" It reminds me that there actually was a time in my childhood when I had a happy side. There were some made of plain white paper, that I dictated to my father while he typed my words. I recall one in particular, which was a ghost story, and I wanted to draw a skeleton, but it was beyond my abilities, so my Dad drew it. I was quite impressed! My father drew wonderfully funny cartoons. On some Sundays he'd draw faces on soft boiled eggs and they were so fantastic I didn't want to break the shell. Of course, I had to, and learned my first lesson in non-attachment. Aha! Maybe that's why I became a Buddhist as an adult.

I still have some of these little books somewhere. They are the only things of my childhood that I still own. I have no family photos, nothing, but I have these.

I continued to draw but I stopped writing and became a reader instead. My reading was voracious. In the summer between the fifth and sixth grades, I made a pact with myself that I'd read one book a day. Why I wanted to do this, I have no memory of, but I remember it was a big deal. I got a roll of adding machine paper and fixed it to the ceiling of my bedroom. When I finished a book, I'd write the name of it on the paper tape, and sure enough, by the end of the summer, the paper was hanging near the floor with the names of all the books I had digested. I'm hard pressed to tell you what I read that summer, for I basically forgot each book as I started the next one. It was a contest with myself. I know I read Agatha Christie and stayed up late into the night to find out who dunnit. I had a sense that all her novels were terribly similar, but I was obsessed with reading all of them. Did I? I don't know. Probably not, but I may have read all the ones that were in our local library.

I was lucky to have a world class library in the town I grew up in. I was lucky, also, to have a father who advocated for me obtaining an adult library card before I was twelve. I still remember him arguing with the librarian at the front desk about the absurdity of not allowing a child who wanted to read good books to borrow books outside of the children's section. I'm sure my father could have taken these books out for me, of course, but I suppose he thought there was some principle involved. I did get an adult library card before I was twelve. I was thrilled. That library was a big one and there were countless books and new worlds that I clamored to dive into.

If it wasn't for that library, I have no idea, absolutely no idea, how I would have made it through childhood. The library was my safe haven, no matter what the problem was. When I was bullied at school, the library was the place where I was treated well, and no book ever bullied me. When my parents were fighting, the library was the quiet place where noone ever raised their voice. When I needed to escape from anything, the library was there, and so was the escape of both fiction and non-fiction. I could travel to ice caves in places I never heard of or far flung galaxies filled with aliens. Truth was, I was pretty non-discriminatory in my reading. My library allowed ten books to be taken out at one time and I would always, absolutely always, come home with all ten.

First I'd look at what was in the new book section. I did judge books by their covers. Whoever came up with the aphorism "You can't judge a book by its cover" is dead wrong. Okay, maybe that was true back before there were graphic designers and art directors and all books were bound in a few different shades of leather, but you absolutely can judge a book by its cover.

You can spot a romance novel or some chick lit a mile away. These are two genres that I have actually never read. It seems impossible to believe that I didn't at least try to read one or two, but I can't think of any.

I've read everything else (and I don't mean I've read every novel in the world. I mean, how many lifetimes exactly do you think that would require?)

I've gone through so many different phases where I'd read only one genre until I couldn't take it any more, or I'd read everything by one author, all in a row. I still do this now and again.

For nearly ten years, I would not read anything that was written after 1915 or so. Before that, I was a science fiction fanatic. I did think I had some sort of problem. Reading about the past or the future was certainly escapist, but isn't all fiction reading escapist? Maybe. Maybe not. I suppose it depends on how one reads.

For me, it really was mostly about escape. Reading blocked out the world. Add to that the fact that if one is reading, most people will not interrupt you, and it's the perfect thing for a maladjusted kid (or adult). And one can bury one's face in a book. Yes, a book is the perfect hiding place.

So, why did I never think of writing? I know I wrote fiction in junior high school and I got good grades, but it never occurred to me that I could write books. That was for other people, very special other people. I was not one of them. Maybe I'd keep a journal and sometimes venture into writing from someone else's perspective, but a book? No, I couldn't imagine being an author.

Writers were rarefied creatures who I imagined had immense imaginations. Coming up with a plot? How did they do it? It seemed beyond my imagination even to imagine how a writer came up with a plot. And unfortunately, I was brought up with the belief that if something didn't come naturally to you, and you had other talents, you should leave those other dreams aside. So, if the thought ever arose (which indeed it did) that I might like to try to write a book, even just to see how it felt or what would happen, I'd just brush that thought aside as fast as I could.

So, I guess I'm finally doing it. I'm writing the book I should have written when I was twelve years old. Here's one thing I'm grateful for: if I wrote it then, I would have had to write it longhand or on a manual typewriter. Ouch!

Image note: From Clara Hinton's 1906-1907 diary. Find more at the Historic Iowa's Children's Digital Diaries Collection.

Sunday morning (sort of)

I'ts 9:11a.m. That's the new time, so it doesn't quite feel like the morning to me. I think, "Oh boy, I've got an extra hour."

So, instead of getting myself straight to my meditation cushion, I get on line, watch McCain on Saturday Night Live, read various posts about Joe the Plumber having a history of physically abusing women, decide to write a blog post, still haven't meditated, chew my nicotine gum too quickly. . .

In other words, as the old-timers would say, I'm hopped up.

I received invites for "write-ins" and can't imagine attending any of them (and I won't). I can't write fiction with other people around. Yesterday, when I started writing the "novel", I told Dick, at 1:48p.m., "At two o'clock I'm starting writing and you can not talk to me for two hours."

We live in a fairly large house. It was quiet, which is the way I need it when I'm writing ('cept for blog posts and e-mail). At some point, Dick must've watched a YouTube video or something. I could not concentrate. I remembered that there were earplugs in the bedroom, but that would mean I'd have to get up from my seat, and move away from the computer. I couldn't do it - it would break the spell. For two hours, I was completely immersed in my character and the imaginary community in which she lives. My main character, at present, doesn't have the liberty to move around much or get what she needs when she wants it, so I don't either.

So,I grabbed some earbuds, jammed them into my poor ears, pulled my hoodie over my head, and then further sequestered myself within a tent of a blanket. This didn't work entirely. I still could hear the sounds of whatever Dick was listening to, and I thought, "tomorrow - I'm using earplugs!"

Now, today is tomorrow, and I'm wondering about some pretty dumb things like whether or not I'm cooking dinner tonight and if so, can I cheat and use yesterday's leftovers. I'm also freaking out just a bit, for the election is in two days! I also wonder what the heck I'm doing sitting here blogging instead of meditating and worried that I'm going to have a hard time not thinking about my plot when I do get myself on that cushion.

I am also still thinking "I'm not a writer!" So what - I am having fun. If writing this so-called novel doesn't get in the way of living life, it doesn't matter what it's for or whether it's good. If it stops being fun, I'll stop (perhaps).

On a far more serious note, Dick just showed me a video on YouTube that I suggest you watch. Thought San Francisco was a nice place? Not if you're homeless.

Image note: Anonymous 15th Century Chinese book illustrationMonkey mind. I've got it bad today.

NaNoWriMo Update: 2014 words today. 5976 total. And still having fun!

Now it's real

I just got off the phone with the Sheriff's office. Don't worry - I'm not in any trouble.

Well, maybe I am. Earlier in the day, I had called and said I was writing about police procedure and wanted some information about police reports and committing suspects to mental institutions. The office took my phone number and said they'd get back to me. Here's how that second call went:

"Hi. I'm writing a novel, which will involve some police procedure, and I'm wondering if I can talk to someone so that what I write will be accurate."

"Oh, that's great. You should call back tomorrow and talk to the Chief."

"Really? I don't want to put anyone out. I'm sure you guys have more important things to do."

"You call back tomorrow and the Chief will be happy to make an appointment to talk to you."

"Can I just drop by and pick up some paperwork to look at? I'll be in town this afternoon."

"We don't just hand those things out to people without knowing something about them! You call back tomorrow."

"Okay. I'll do that. Thanks."

Gulp. Am I so committed to putting real looking police reports and commitment papers into "my novel" (see - I don't believe I'm really going to write one) that I will go meet with the Chief of Police? I think I will. They've got my number (literally) so I think I better. Otherwise, who knows, they might think I'm a whackjob planning a murder.

Which I am.

Image note: "Car 54, Where Are You" a TV show that aired from 1961-63.
I got this image from the official Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade site, of all places.

Writing assignment

Yesterday, most oddly, both Dick and I posted about Stephen King and Dickens to the Web. Thinking I should give this weird coincidence some meaning, I picked up a copy of King's "On Writing" at the library.

I heard this was a good book. In my faulty memory, I seem to recall that his writing it started a change in how critics saw King. His writing advice is good. So, tonight, when I woke up at 2:00am and realized I wasn't going back to sleep, I read almost two chapters.

I had thought Baty's idea of throwing out the idea of plotting a novel was probably some sort of ruse used for the insane task of writing a novel in thirty days. The idea fits in with the whole NaNoWriMo gestalt (oy, I wrote gestalt*).

Well, it turns out that Stephen King doesn't put much stock in plotting, either (and you King haters out there are probably saying to yourselves, "Well, that's why his novels suck", though you probably didn't use the word suck, but some more intellectual descriptor).

Of his own plots, King writes (and I'm paraphrasing here), they go something like this:
Writer is stuck in a haunted house.
Two people are trapped in a car.
Woman is accused of murdering someone she did not.

And that's it. Not being able to sleep, I followed his directions for this book's one and only assignment. I wrote whatever popped into my mind after reading the sentence "estranged ex-lover kills girlfriend". I may have forgotten the original sentence, but I'm too lazy, at 4:54am, to go get the book from two feet away.

The upshot of this is that I wrote 1462 pages words before I felt even slightly stuck about where to go next. NaNoWriMo's challenge is to write approximately 1660 words a day in order to write our 50,000 word novel. I have been thinking I'm crazy for thinking that's going to be a piece of cake. It won't be after day three. I'm sure of that. But I do know, after tonight, that it is emminently doable. And I don't need a plot.

The kicker for me is that I need to cross off "love stories" from my list of dislikes. Now I'm only down to two things I don't like in novels! I found it surprisingly fun to write about the beginning of a doomed love story, as I did when I prompted myself with a variation King's writing prompt, "Ex-girlfriend and possible suspect in death of locally known small town jerk tells all."

What was I wrote any good? Beats the heck out of me.

*Here's the Merriam Webster definition of gestalt, which doesn't get at the real meaning of the word in most contexts (in my humble opinion): A structure, configuration, or pattern of physical, biological, or psychological phenomena so integrated as to constitute a functional unit with properties not derivable by summation of its parts.

Painting note: Pablo Picasso "The Lovers" I tried to find a date for this, but couldn't, oddly enough. I'd guess it was pre-1901 because of its style. Correct me if my assumption is wrong.

I don't know that much about Picasso besides the fact that he had a huge ego. My parents both loved Picasso, and there was a print of this painting in my house when I was young. I didn't like it then, and I still do not. If these are lovers, they are surely wooden. And her hand - ugh!- I don't mean to be so picky, but it screams "please paint over me!" I have honestly never understood all the fuss about this artist. If you admire him, I invite you to write a guest piece about it.

Addendum (and yes, I'm still awake at 6:00am, when I should be waking up, not going back to sleep): I just changed my NaNoWriMo profile page. It now reads that I'm writing a book in the Mystery and Suspence category. I didn't really know what category to put it in. There will be a murder. There will be a suspect. Does that categorically make it a mystery?

So, it's come to this: "In a small rural town, a jilted lover kills her ex, twenty five years after the fact. She does not remember doing it, is a completely unreliable narrator, is clearly unfit to stand trial and has a zillion comspiracy theories about the murder, all of which sound plausible if you don't know the suspect well. But that's small town life. We all know something terrible about one another and when push comes to shove, we can make a lot out of that when we don't know what's really going on. Psych reports, police interrogation reports and snippets of letters will be included. Fun for me! And fun for those who like psychologically twisted stories. But there will be no graphic violence. The killer loves the deceased more than her own life, but like many of us, mistakes possession and jealousy for signs of love."

And I thought I didn't want to go near the subject of love. Ha!

Note: Don't hold me to this story. I've already changed my modus operandi once.

Addendum: Um. The novel will be about the same thing as the writing prompt. Cut me some slack - I was running on two hours of sleep. However, I think I'm going to stick with this story. The beauty of it is this: it is not a great idea. It's not even a good idea. In fact, it's a story that's been told over and again since, well, forever (without the psych reports and all). Maybe there's a reason for that. Such a bare bones "plot" is like handing myself an empty coat hanger and a check for a few thousand dollars - I can put whatever I like on it. Restrictions? None. Possibilities for depth and breadth of story - pretty darned big. So, I'm going for it. Make the most out of the least. I like that.

About what I like. . .Horrors!

I am a bit embarassed by my list of "likes" in novels. One would think, from reading this list, that I was a fan of horror. I'm not, though I have enjoyed both Clive Barker and Stephen King. I have been an unapologetic King fan for decades, and when made fun of for it, I'd say "He's the Charles Dickens of our age." Go ahead and scoff: Salon agrees with me. When the Salon.com Reader's Guide to Comtemporary Authors was released in 2000 and I read "It's impossible to know whether King will share Dickens' literary respectability a century from now, but it's not inconceivable", I felt vindicated.

Clive Barker, on the other hand, was once a purely guilty pleasure. He's best known for the movie "Hellraiser", which I tried to watch, but found so horrific that I stopped watching after five minutes (if not sooner). It's odd, but I do like horror movies, as long as they are Korean or Japanese. Anything else, I can't stand. They scare and repulse me.

My taste in fiction is eclectic, and this list doesn't reflect it well. I love 19th century literature, but I didn't put that on the "like list" because I'm not going to write a 19th century work of fiction. I do occasionally like historical novels, but if I want to read about the past, I'll go straight to something written in the time period.

I like authors who write beautifully, in many genres, but I'm not going to be writing anything that's remotely beautiful, so I went for the cheap shots. That's not quite fair, for Joyce Carol Oates has written some beautiful novels about some truly awful human beings, and Ruth Rendell excels at writing about flawed characters, murder and all sorts of dysfunction.

I've read just about everything by Dennis Cooper, and well, I'm not sure his work actually does have any redeeming value. I've never known what to think about the extremities of depravity and hopelessness that he writes about. Yet, his portraits of disaffected drug addled teenagers read with enormous and unflinching truth.

These days I don't read much fiction, to be honest. I mostly read non-fiction. I've always loved reading about science, if it's been dumbed down some for non-scientists like me (though saying Oliver Sacks dumbs things down is a bit off base, don't you think?) I read a lot of books about Zen Buddhism, and some of them I read over and over again (see my Amazon sidebar to find out which ones).

I'll stop here. I could ramble on and on, but recounting what books I've liked in my lifetime would take at least 50,000 words or so and be terribly boring. I've got to get back to writing posts here that are about something, and less conversational. Between the election and National Novel Writing Month, I have been all over the map. I hope to return to perfume, memories and odd bits of language fairly soon. Or whatever else grabs me. And as always, suggestions are accepted with gratitude!

Image note: The main character (I think) from Hellraiser. This movie was made in 1987 and had seven sequels. The first one is now being remade. If you liked this movie, please tell me why. I am most curious. To the rest of you, sorry to subject you to this graphic!

The novel prep begins

As per instructions, I wrote a list of my likes and dislikes. This has made me re-think the plot that I've been cooking up.

I could only think of three things I dislike in fiction, and even these have their exceptions. The "like" list could have gone on forever. But the top ten are here, in all their sick and twisted glory:

LIKES:
Quirky, deeply flawed,conflicted and/or unsavory characters
Narrators who are clearly out of their mind
Murders or the contemplation thereof
Lists, diary entries and letters embedded into the narrative
A small cast of characters
Sentences that are neither too short or too long
Unexpected plot twists and sidetracks
Dystopian or utopian settings
Characters who have esoteric knowledge
Surprise endings that are reasonable

DISLIKES:
Love stories
Lots of dialogue
Long descriptions of visuals

Image note: Portrait of The Marquis de Sade c.1761
When I think "sick and twisted" this is the first name that comes to mind. And no, I'm not going to write anything like one of his novels. Even in this day and age, it could get me locked up (just like it did him).
Charles-Amédée-Philippe van Loo

The book, maybe

Wasn't using Photoshop, so not exactly to my specs, but I thought I'd post it anyway.

BIG ADDENDUM: I deleted this book cover from my NaNoWriMo page. I'm re-thinking the plot I had for the book. It had gotten overly detailed, and for something I'm going to be writing in such a hurried way, I would have had to pre-plan too much to stick to the story line. I'm doing this for fun. I need to keep it light.

The proverbial kitchen sink

I've been surfing the web since 8:30. There's so many things I need to do! On top of that, I'm doing a 24 hour meditation retreat starting this evening.

It occurred to me that I'm trying to stuff my head with as much extraneous information as I possibly can in the shortest amount of time. Maybe this is practice for trying to write a novel in a month. Quantity not quality!

For an ex-perfectionist, this is truly incredible. I'm planning on writing a bad novel. I just wrote a bad term paper (and have yet to find out if anyone noticed).

I worry (sort of) that embracing the idea of quantity over quality may be bad for me. But then again, I think that any activity that pulls me further away from perfectionism is a step towards greater freedom. The risk is to stop seeing the difference between degrees of quality, but I suspect that's not a problem (though I may be proven wrong).

But, on the other hand, conversely, (ad infinitum) I am told repeatedly by my Zen teachers that I need to come to the point. So, why am I about to engage in an activity that encourages me to continue to throw out my internal editor?

Because it's fun? Yep. I think that's the answer. Maybe I don't want to be a Zen Buddhist of few words. Hmmm.

Photo note: When I think about the upcoming 30-day novel writing spree, I think it's the "throw the kitchen sink at it kind of writing" (I just made that up - ain't I smart?) Well, here's a kitchen sink. You can buy it here. Where can you imagine putting this particular sink?

Addendum: Since so many folks have been having little contests lately, here's a question: How many times have I changed the name of this post? I don't know what the winner gets.

Should I or shouldn't I? Answered.

This morning, I signed up with NaNoWriMo. Evidentally, I believe I will write a short novel in the month of November.

I've even got a badge to prove my (insane) intent.

Apropos of nothing: You've got to check out this photo at Andrew Sullivan's blog. I don't usually laugh much before noon, but I could barely stop. Is the photo "fair"? No! Anyone ever take a picture of you midway through a weird facial expression? But, this is a gem.

Should I or shouldn't I?

If one needs to write 50,000 words in thirty days, that's only 1500 words a day. That sounds easy to a rambler like me. Now, it may be 50,000 words of total blather.

I did once write most of a novel by accident. It was just a bit of fun. I don't think of myself as a writer. I started writing in the first person, as someone other than myself, and it took over. Well, he took over.

And no, I may have problems, but I don't have dissassociative identity disorder (oh yeah? shut up!) Sadly, that "novel" I sort of wrote, or never finished, is forever lost in an old broken hard drive. But it only had one good chapter, as I recall.

All kidding aside, this writing a novel in a month thing is crawling into my brain. I have no plot, no ideas, no nothing. So why do I want to do it? Ah, the challenge!

It would take away from blogging time, but hey, it's only one month.

Uh oh. Help!

Image note: The Google image search term was "bad novel". This boring photograph accompanied a page called "How to write a really bad novel", which actually did not have the instructions to do just this. Instead, it had instructions on how to write a "coming of age" novel, which, well, might be a really bad novel. I mean, just how many of those do we need? I'm not even going to bother to provide the link. Bad me.