There nothing like driving into Chicago at six-thirty in the morning with a cloudless sky above you, a lot of tall building before you, traffic filled with crazy people around you, and an old Japanese anime soundtrack blasting from your stereo. It puts you in a certain frame of mine–unfortunately, for me, it was sort of the, “Why the hell am I doing this shit?” frame, and please don’t tell me it’s to pay the bills.
Still, there was a certain feeling while I was on the road. I do love driving, if for no other reason that I can be alone with my thoughts, even if I’m accompanied by loud music. When I used to make the weekly trek from and to The Undisclosed Location, I had two and a half hours to drive at 80 MPH, yell at drivers that wouldn’t get out of my way, and think out plot lines, scenes, and character development.
I thought a little about what I’m working on right now, which is editing and formatting Replacements so I can publish the work. I’m getting this out of the way so when my covers arrive–that’s right, I was told I’m getting three covers for the low price of $200, and I can keep them or do some swapping, maybe using one of Smashwords and another on Amazon–I can then see about getting a cover for Replacements while I do a final edit and format on Her Demonic Majesty so I can get it online where it can take its place next to werewolf porn and a series about an eighteen year-old virgin who gets laid in about thirty stories–which means she must have regenerative abilities.
This morning I spoke with a friend about a story I’d submitted to a publishing house last May, and have heard nothing in return after they requested, and received, the full manuscript. I’d mentioned that I’d sent two follow ups to the publishing house requesting an update on my novel, with none forthcoming from their end. My friend’s comment was short and to the point: ”Fuck ‘em, publish it yourself.” This has pretty much been my attitude as well, since I’m getting antsy to find out what’s going on with that particular story. If you want it, fine: if you don’t want it, fine as well. Just let me know, ‘kay?
This seems to be a common occurrence these days, where people send things out and sometimes never hear a thing back. Or maybe it’s jut me: maybe I’m stuck on this one with a lost in the aether and constantly waiting for it to return from the hinterlands. Though I’m coming up on a year with it being out, so it doesn’t take much imagination to figure out what I’m going to do with the story–
I’ll fix it up and I’ll publish it.
There’s no guaranty I’ll make any sales if I do this, but then there was no guaranty I’d make any sales by selling it, either. Just as once I pay a couple of hundred scoots for a book cover there’s no guaranty I’ll get any sales from Her Demonic Majesty. I do know this, however:
It will be out–and, with the right cover, it will be noticed.
The cold is here. I’ve been up since about 3:30 with the chilled and slight fever, and the body feels as if someone has been hitting me, over and over, with a pool cue. Good times not, I can attest.
Last night was the first in a very long time that I didn’t write. I didn’t even bring up Scrivener, which I will do even if I’m not feeling good, because there is always the inclination to write something. That’s how dead I was feeling last night: no energy last night at all.
It was a good night to just play with things, to try and think my way out of situations in stories, or figure out where some stuff might go if I were to follow other story lines.
Still, the brain didn’t want to function. I would get into a thought, then lose my track at some point, and be completely lost. Then I would start over . . .
It feels as if my mind has lost all it’s forward drive. Part of this comes from an argument I had with someone on Sunday, an discussion that allowed the other person to suck energy from me like a sponge sucks up water. It was something I shouldn’t have done, because said person has always had the ability to suck energy. We learn by our mistakes, right? I could play this cold at their feet, too, but that would be pushing things too far–unless, of course, they did some work on Captain Trips a few decades before.
I learned a while back not to dwell on things that don’t bring me peace, that don’t allow me to grow as a person. Where my writing is concerned I usually blow off comments, because, as I’ve mentioned before, non-creative people don’t get us. We’re viewed as something almost freakish, driven to do things that others see as frivolous, or worse, time wasting.
We need something to fall back on now and then. Some people turn to friends; others turn to reading; others go off and do something that still allows them to engage their brains while slipping away from the things that maybe be bringing them down in just the slightest way.
I used to go out at night and drive when I needed to get away. I’d roll down the windows and get on a highway at eleven o’clock at night, and start driving, just me and the stars, and what few cars were on the highway with me. I’d drive and I’d think. Sometimes it was about stories, sometimes it was about other things in my life. Sometimes I’d let my fantasies play out in my head, let them run wild like kittens looking for food.
Even when things were at their worse, it was always a good time to get out and do some night roaming. It was my safety net, my way of decompressing.
I don’t get out that much any more. The only driving I do these days is to and from work these days, with an occasional midnight drive. I miss being out on the road late at night–
Last night was my first midnight drive in a very long time–from before I was laid off from The Hole of Doom. It was a very cloudy and cool night, which is what you’d expect with the moon waning towards new.
I was tried, and no one traveled with me to work out plots and stories and the like. The night didn’t feel like one for creative processing, and so my mind was on other things. And with that, my mind turned back to something I hadn’t thought about in a very long time . . .
The year was 1985, and I was working in South Bend. I was driving sixty-five miles to get to work, and for have the year the company was in the eastern time zone, which mean it was a hour ahead of me. I had a woman for a boss (first time for that) who was a very good boss, and there was a strange collection of people working in IT.
There was Mr. Super Patriot, who had done his time in the Air Force, was Republican to the core, and talked about all the guns he owned. There was PC Guy who was some kind of fundamentalist dude who believed in six thousand year old Earths and Noah’s Ark. And there was, lastly, The King of Bullshit.
The King was a consultant, some guy in his 50′s who knew everything, knew everyone, and who would always argue you down with the phrase, “I could tell you what I know about this, but I can’t, ’cause it’s secret.” Yes, the mantra of every person who’s ever done work in, or for, the government, and though they know The Secrets of the Universe, they’re unable to do any work short of becoming a consultant in the computer field. (Come to think of it, I’ve know four people like this. Hummmm . . .)
One day a group of us was gathered around The King of Bullshit’s cubical, talking about something, I don’t remember the exact conversation after all these years. It was then he pulled out one of the most incredible statements I’ve ever heard anyone utter as fact: that there were a dozen astronauts flying around the galaxy in a Bussard Ramjet, exploring “the universe”, and that they’d come back home in five hundred years only about five years older.
For those who didn’t click on the link above–and I know that’s most of you–a Bussard Ramjet is a hypothetical sort of space ship that uses a huge magnetic scoop to gather hydrogen from the interstellar medium, and turn into fuel for its fusion engine. In a way, it would be like having a car that could scoop petrel out of the air, so you’d never need worry about filling up again. (It would also make rain showers real interesting, if you know what I mean.)
Only one problem: the Bussard Ramjet is found only in the realm of fantasy. We can’t build anything like that, at least not for a few hundred years. You’ll find them in a lot of Larry Niven’s Known Space stories, and in Poul Anderson’s novel Tau Zero, but you won’t see one in your life time. Ever.
The problem was I knew this, even then. This wasn’t an unknown concept for me, and I knew it to be completely fictional. So I called him on it. I said that’s impossible, Bussard Ramjets don’t exist, so there are no people flying “through the galaxy,” going where no one has gone before, set to return in five hundred years . . .
The King got very pissed, because none of the other people believed me, they thought for sure he was telling the truth. He called me out in return, saying he knew this was a fact, that it had launched ten years before, because he’d been at Cape Canaveral when it was launched . . .
I had to call him out again. The Bussard Ramjet is a huge ship, and it’s not one deigned for flight anywhere save space. That meant (1) you couldn’t launch it from the surface of any plant, (2) you’d have to build it in space, (3) he was full of shit. I once more told him that was nuts, that sort of ship is, as a minimum, ten times larger than a Saturn V, and since you couldn’t “secret launch” one of those monsters, one sure as hell wasn’t going to “secret launch” something that was bigger.
At this point The King of Bullshit just affixed me with a pissed-off stare, and told me, “You have no idea what’s going on. If you knew what I know–”
Right, dude. What I did know then was if you cut out of work on a Friday afternoon, about one PM, but leave your monitor on so people will think you’re still working, and that you’ve just stepped away from your desk for a moment, you’re gonna get caught and fired–which is what eventually happened to The King of Bullshit.
What is the point of this rant?
For a long time one of my mantras has been, “Don’t believe the hype.” When someone starts going on about anything with a certain amount of hyperbole, it’s always best to turned a jaundiced eye to their comments. I’ve done the same thing in the past, but I’ve gotten better about throwing things out there without thinking about where it sits on the Hype Meter.
Hype also works against you at times. I’m trying to break into the writing business in a full-time way, everyone knows that. Problem is, breaking into the writing business is a tough thing to do. It takes a butt-load of work, and the payoff may be very slow in coming.
It also seems that there’s something printed every week that is there to remind us that, not only is it a hard thing to break into, it’s getting harder. It’s a big, hard, uphill battle, and everything is stacked against you–or so it seems. It’s like the Hype Machine goes out of its way to knock your ass into the dirt, then stand over you laughing its evil laugh as you grovel.
Not a lot of fun, let me tell you.
So more than a few people just give the hell up, often going out screaming on Facebook that they’ve HAD IT, that they AREN’T WRITING ANYMORE, and that their DREAM IS OVER! (Or is that “ovar”? I can never get that one right.)
I’ve said it before: the only one who kills your dreams is you. Not that guy over there, not that publisher who gave you stink eye, not The King of Bullshit who knows things, and if only he could tell you . . .
The best way to combat hype is with facts, and when someone gives you shit, hit back with the facts. And I mean well founded, researched facts, not the sort of facts you’re going to find on Fox “News” any particular minute of the day. Someone says you suck as a writer? Get others to read your manuscript, see what they say. One house rejects you? Send out the story again. People don’t like your idea? Screw them: it’s yours! Who asked them anyway?
Hype is never your friend, so you shouldn’t ever let it bother you. I know that’s not possible, because we’re not automatons, we’re people, and our feelings get twisted by others who have the facts, who know things. Only thing to do is get into your research, keep working, and keep writing. If it’s going to happen, it will.
As for The King of Bullshit . . . I’m sure he’d dead by now, as he was in his late fifties back in ’85, and the dude wasn’t in the best of health then. If he’s not dead, it’s even money he’s some cranky old man missing everything cool while he bitches about all the people who don’t know what he knows.
Here’s one thing I do know, dude. There’s been a bit of research done on your Ramjet since you told me this story almost thirty years ago, and what did scientist find? That the Bussard Ramjet is affected by drag caused by the interstellar medium. (Don’t ever let anyone tell you space is empty, ‘kay?) That means it has a top speed, which is . . .
Twelve percent the speed of light.
That means in a flat out run to Alpha Centauri, the sorta closest star to us, your ship that’s going to spend five hundred years exploring the galaxy will get there in . . . 36 years, give or take a few months to get up to speed; longer if you decide to slow down and take a look. I’m pretty good with math, and I know twelve percent the speed of light does not allow relativity to raise its ugly head, so time dilation does not come into play.
I’m not bad with math, so let me see: if this crew was, say, 35 when they left Earth, that would mean when they get to the closest star they’ll be . . . add six, carry the one . . . at least 71, maybe 72. Which means when they come back they’ll be . . . add nothing, carry the nothing . . . dead.
Wasn’t it nice of me to share my top secret knowledge with you?
As one pinned message I saw yesterday states, “Nothing exemplifies the United States like celebrating it’s creation by drinking beer and using explosives.” No truer words have been spoken, and if there is one thing that is true about the 4th of July, it’s that a large part of the population suddenly becomes like mentally deficient Mythbusters intent on blowing up anything and everything in sight. One of the main reasons I got out of The Undisclosed Location, since it’s hotter and drying than hell there, and there are fireworks bans all over the place. One drunk hillbilly + bag full ‘o M80s = burnt-down apartment complex.
Doesn’t matter. I’ll be on the road again tonight, heading back, while all the bang-bang is ongoing.
So I’m here for the next 12 hours, then back on the highway for 2 1/2 hours, catch some sleep, work for two days, then back up here for the weekend. Yeah, it’s a lot of driving, but there’s no way I want to be alone any longer than I need be. I was hoping to work from The Real Home the rest of the week–no such luck. I can’t push that line any more, it would seem. Not a problem: I’ll continue to do your dance for a little while longer.
Last night was the first time in a very long time I couldn’t write at all. Not because I didn’t want to, but with everything that happened yesterday, by the time 9 PM rolled around for me, I was completely exhausted. I sat at the computer, with Scrivener up and ready to go–and I couldn’t think. The brain was stone, the fingers unable to comply. I knew what I wanted to say, and probably could have finished off Part Nine in no time.
Just couldn’t do it. I was so out of it, anything that would have come out onto the virtual page would have sucked harder than a Jersey Short marathon hosted by the Real Housewives of New Jersey. That’s happened a few time in the past, but I’ve always managed to squeak out a few hundred words.
Not last night.
I keep pushing myself to get things out on this story. Any of the pressure I’m feeling with this story, it’s all from me. I know I’m the one generating it, and there’s a reason for it: I want to create something good and worth-while. I want to create something memorable. And I want to do create something that’s also going to make me self-sufficient.
This stuff I do for the state–that’s sucker’s work. I have no feel for it, no passion, no desire to continue. But it takes up a huge amount of my time, and that means I have to push myself hard to get any writing in. After I’m through with my blog post today, I’ll get into the story. Right now it’s a little after 7 AM, so by 8:30, or there abouts, I hope to have Part Nine in the bag, with the start of Part Ten underway.
I gotta do this, because what I’m doing now isn’t sustainable. Not for the long run. Not for any sort of run.
Yeah, back on the road again tonight.
It better be the right road, because I deserve a better journey.
