Many Too Many

There are things that will be said below that some may find a little too distasteful to enjoy, so here is the obligatory warning that you may want to bail and find something else to read today.  I have no suggestions for you this morning:  just like NATO troops stuck in Poland at the beginning of the game Twilight 2000, you’re on your own.

The other day I posted a link to the blog of Chuck Wendig, Terrible Minds.  Chuck is a writer, and a damn good one.  He is famous for his, “25 Things–” posts where he’ll give you twenty-five reasons why . . . well, fill in the blanks.  As I said, Chuck is a writer, a damn good one, but in the course of his writing, Chuck can get a little profane.  It’s his style.  I’m used to it, as I grew into my teens reading New Wave science fiction, and you couldn’t swing a cat without hitting a f-bomb or a sex scene.

That’s not always the case with everyone, and there was one person who posted in the Facebook comment, “I’d love to share this, but there’s too much swearing.  A true wordsmith doesn’t need to talk like that; it’s lazy writing.”  Yes, I’ve heard this one before; I even had the same rap laid on me after my 4 May, 2011, blog post, simple because I said something along the lines of “Shit got real,” and a few other things.

First off, lets look at the definition of the word, “wordsmith”.  Here you go:  1.  A fluent and prolific writer, especially one who writes professionally.  2.  An expert on words.  3.  (Literary & Literary Critical Terms) A person skilled in using words.  4.  An expert in the use of words, esp. a professional writer.  Okay, then.  That’s pretty much Chuck to a “T”.  Professional writer; expert on words; person skilled in using words, especially a professional writer.

So where does it say they can’t swear?

One of the writers I’ve followed most of my life–one of the writers whose words I grew up admiring–is Harlan Ellison.  While opinions vary wildly about his personal life, as a writer there were few who could match him story for story.  He used to write about writing, and I tried to take to heart the things he said.  He also swore a lot, but there was a reason for that.

One of the things he stated was, and I’m paraphrasing, “I’m a fan of the King’s English, and one must adhere to those rules when writing.  I’m also a fan of the People’s English, and if you want to make your characters believable, you must capture they way they speak perfectly.”  In other words, if you want your characters to sound like, you know, real people, you need to have them speak the way a real person speak.  If they are a “good” person, then they’ll probably be somewhat circumspect in their dictation.  If not, there may be a good chance they’re gonna swear like a son of a bitch.

It’s hardly lazy writer, either.  Seriously.  Try to write a story where you have a character who swears, who throws around “fuck you” like they’re picking lint from their jacket, and construct their dialog in a way that they don’t sound like a six-year old who’s just discovered the word “shit”.  If you’re not a person who’s been exposed to this manor of speakings–or you don’t have a potty mouth like me–then you’re going to find writing believable dialog for someone like that difficult.  And before you say, “I’d never write anything like that,” sit down a make a list of, say, twenty-five professions that your characters might possess at some point in a story.  I can tell you, without looking at your list, there’ll probably be a third of the jobs on that list that’ll have characters who find themselves clutching the foreheads at some point and mumbling, “Fuck this job.”  Trust me; I’ve probably had that job.

Watch Glengarry Glen Ross and marvel at the construction of Mamet’s dialog.  Watch the “Coffee is for closers” monologue, and listen not to the words, but the emotion and feelings behind the words.  When Blake turns on Dave Moss and yells, “Fuck you!  That’s my name!”, his disdain for Moss couldn’t be more evident, and it becomes the set up for him to really put Moss in his place.  Then take Trainspotting, and watch how the foul-mouthed Scottish junkies and roughens (who are played by Obi-Wan Kenobi, Dr. Nicholas Rush, Moaning Myrtle, and the voice of Merida) are able to express themselves so eloquently.  I mean, “The Scottish are shite!” is pure bloody poetry.

Then go watch any movie where someone say fuck and shit every minute, where the thought is, “Ooooh, edgy!”, and you’re right back to the six-year old who’s now discovered “bastard” and is going to use it every thirty seconds.

Think it’s lazy writing?  Go ahead:  write up some paragraphs with people swearing.  You can send them to me.  I’ll tell you what I think.

And I won’t even swear back at you.

Stretched Out Before the Future

If there’s one thing I’ve learned about writers, its that we’re a stubborn, yet fearful, bunch.  We’ll get into a project and stick to it until the bitter end–and then, when the end is in sight, refuse to let go of the creature we’ve spawned.

Over the last year I’ve noticed that there are two things that seem to scare writers the most:  research and editing.  Research has always been a friend, and editing is slowly becoming a welcomed roommate.  But why do these fill our hearts with fear?

Editing is something that seems to get the better of us each time.  I read it a little today, when someone asked, “When do I know my novel is perfect?”  One might as well say, “When can I let my children go out into the world?”  For some people that answer is always, “Never,” and they hang onto their rugrats like they were bars of platinum–at least until they realize that they’re thirty-five and spend entirely too much time on the “Kawaii Crossplay” website, and maybe it’s time to throw their ass into the street.
Perfection is a will-o’-the-wisp:  you’ll never find it because it doesn’t exist.  Or, better yet, for my science fiction writer friends, it’s like getting to 1c, the speed of light.  You can get close, closer, closest; you can get to .999999c; you can push those engines all you want for decades, but you’ll never hit 1.0c.  Not gonna happen, at least not in this universe.

You can edit and rewrite and re-edit your story all you want, but in your own eyes, that sucker will never hit the level of perfection you’ve set for yourself.  You’ll drive yourself nuts trying to get it to where you’re finally convinced you can publish it–right after this last polish–

I look at editing like I look at action scenes:  I try to keep it as short as possible.  Try to get the story where you want it during the first draft, get rid of the typos in the first edit, clean up the story, plot holes and all, in the second, and go over it again to make sure you have things right.  Let someone else look at it, then edit again where needed.  After that, get it out to a house for a look-see, or start formatting it for self-publication.

It’s time to put it in the street.

Then there’s research . . . oh, my.  This seems to scare writers more than editing.  (If a sampling of a few ebooks is any indication, there are a lot of scared writers out there, ba-da-boom!)  I love research, because this is where you learn stuff.  Even if you think you know everything there is to know about a subject you’re going to weave a story around, you’ll find something new that’s gonna surprise you.  I had this happen when I was writing Her Demonic Majesty, and the bit of information I discovered when I was about seven chapters into the book helped change an important scene for me, and developed how the MagicPunk City of Chicago should feel.  What I found was completely unknown to me, but not anymore, since I have that information bookmarked in the Scrivener project.

Take all the time you want for research–up to a point, that is, because if you stretch research out for too long, you’re still looking for that level of perfection you’ll never find.  That final bit of data is keeping you from the real thing you’re suppose to do, and that’s write.

Wouldn’t want to be accused of shirking your duties now, would you?

The First Ember of Regret

Last night I reached a point that I didn’t think I’d ever reach in my writing.  Was it perfection?  Hardly.  I’ll never be a perfect writer, no matter how many millions of words I string together over the next twenty-five years.  Was it a feeling of ineptitude?  Nope.  I’m not an inept writer; I’m learning the craft every day, understanding what can and can’t be done.  Was it hopelessness?  Naw.  I start feeling hopeless enough on things that aren’t writer related that I don’t need it for my writing life.

No, what I felt was regret–over a character I had to kill.

It’s like this:  there is a chapter in Part Three where Jeannette–she who has been chased all over the city so that someone can mount her head on a pike and laugh about it–has finally gotten the upper hand, and has decided the only way to keep people from screwing with her is to lay down her own Hammer of the Goddess.  With that she figures out a way to find the people who’ve been making her life hell–a word only she uses–she goes after them . . .

With no let up, and no mercy.

This means turning her forces loose, and engaging in the magical version of The Chicago Way:  ”They bring a wand, you bring a gargoyle.  They blow off one of your arms, you consume them all in black fire and smile as they die screaming.”  She knows it’s the only way to make the best of a bad situation, and she knows there comes a point where she has to get her own hands dirty in order to make a point.

In the end she decides to take out this guy–

Only . . . he’s not that bad.

Yes, he’s on the wrong side of the line here.  Yes, he’s giving counsel to the bad witch, but for the most part he’s seen a someone standing on the sideline, marginalized by one too many egos in his group.  So in terms of being a bad guy, he’s not that bad.

Still, he’s on the other side of that line, so when the time came for him to die, I smoked him.  I at least gave him a clean death, a warrior’s death, and not the “Imma Cat and I’m gonna make you die horribly” death I gave another character.  But dead is dead, and the dude went down for the count pretty fast.

Right after I edited the scene, that was when the feeling hit:  where I go, “You know, I really feel bad killing this guy.”  The character even admits he escaped death once before, so he knew how not to pee in the wrong pool.  Still . . . it was part of the plan to have him die, and he did.

Case close, even if I did feel a little bad about it.

Maybe I’d have felt better if I’d had a dragon burn his face off.  At least then I could say it wasn’t my fault, blame the dragon–

Naw.  That’s been done.

Though dragons in the story would be cool . . .

Coolness Factoring

There can be much joy in editing, though, as a writer, it’s one thing that we all seem to hate with white-hot passion.  For the longest time I avoided editing, thinking my first drafts were so good that I never needed to worry about editing.

While I will say that I seemed to get the story write on the first draft–you know, characters names are right, the plot flows as I want and doesn’t have huge holes in it–there are still a lot of errors popping up here and there.  Can’t be helped:  we are imperfect creatures creating imperfect creations.  Really, if I were producing tremendously fantastic stories that were nearly perfect, I’d stop driving sixty miles to work each day and live Neil Gaiman’s life.  Until then, I work at this writing craft until something come in the way of sales.

But I was struck by something interesting last night.  Shale I share it?  Am I writing here?

I was editing the last chapter of Part One for Her Demonic Majesty.  It’s a long chapter, a bit over fifty-eight hundred words, and it’s at the point in the story where I start turning up the drama a bit.  It’s a good chapter, it sets the mood for what’s to come, but . . . as I’m editing, I run into a few lines spoken by my lovely but dangerous succubus character, and there’s something about what she’s saying–

No, it more than that.  It’s how she’s saying the words that is making me feel a little strange.  As I’m setting up the format, what she’s saying just doesn’t feel right.  It doesn’t feel like here.  Someone is speaking, but when I imagine her in my mind, and she says those words, they sound like they’re coming from another person.

This is where you look at the line, think about what a character should be saying, and then have them speak the words.  It sounds easy, but it’s getting those words right that’s tricky.  So I looked at the lines, and imagined the sentences changing, rearranging, and I did  a little cut and paste here, added something there, and deleted a couple of things that didn’t fit my succubus.

When it was finished, the paragraph was far cleaner than before.  It hadn’t actually been reduced or expanded in size:  if I remember correctly, I believe it became one word longer after the edit.  The thing was . . . when it was finished, I was taken by how what she was saying now was far cooler than before.

Do I mean she ended up sounding like a character from a Tarantino movie?  Far from it.  Her words now seemed to flow from her effortlessly, as if this is how she would handle this particular emergency, how she would express her displeasure, and how she’d get the attention of the other two people in the room, and let them know that, right now, shit is deep and extraction is necessary.

I did this a few times last night, and while it is not my intention to try and create some “coolness factor” for each of my characters when they speak, the editing did prove one thing:

I can still be surprised by this craft.  And that’s a good thing.

In Perago Est Hic

Writing is not for the faint of heart.  Sure, you can keep a diary and spill your guts to yourself every day, and hope that no one ever reads it and discovers that you spent a lot of time talking about sex and even giving your genitals a name.  This happened in one of the most famous diaries to be published, although in the original version all that stuff was cut out–about thirty percent in total.

It’s a long. torturous journey that doesn’t always end well.  It’s entirely possible that you’ll spend months, maybe years, working on a story that you need to tell, only to see it rejected by publisher after publisher.  It’s enough to drive you mad, and there have been instances where people have simply given up for a while, or for good, or, in the case of the guy who wrote A Confederacy of Dunces, he killed himself, and it took his mother another eight years to see the book published.

One can find a lot of pain in writing.  It pulls at you, it frustrates you, it takes so much of your time.  It’s exhausting, because most writers are working a regular job, and a lot of times when you have your work in progress before you, it’s about nine o’clock at night, and you’ve been up since four AM, and you only have about ninety minutes to get said what you want to say.  It’s sometimes more of a job than it seems, because maybe times you don’t want to write; you want to call it a night and play games all night, and let your brain become mulch for the vegetables.

Then again, when you reach the end of your story, one that you’ve worked on for weeks or months–or even years–you feel such satisfaction.  You’ve finished a task and you realize what you’ve created, and it’s suddenly like all the emotions you’ve poured onto each page comes back and hugs you hard . . . and you know you’ve done something good.

Yesterday I finished Suggestive Amusements.  Last chapter, a few thousand words to write, I wrote during the afternoon and into the evening, and somewhere past nine PM I wrote “The End”, and it was all good.  As I neared the end, the emotions began manifesting as something real, and I was both sad and ecstatic.  The ending, particularly the last few hundred words, brought forth the tears, but at the same time I was happy the story was finished.

The novel was a chore at time.  It was a tremendous undertaking.  It caused a bit of soul searching, and even came close to beating me about enough that I needed to step away a few nights and just enjoy life.  There were moments when I wondered if I would ever finish the story–or is what I was writing was worth finishing.

Now is the time to publish.  Now’s the time to get one of my novels formatted for Smashwords and Amazon, and get a good cover made.  Then edit another story, and get it published.  Then . . .

Write the next tale.

It’s what I do.

Who Are What I Am

I was a bad girl.  I was suppose to be writing last night, but I found myself caught up in some online . . . stuff, shall we say?  Stuff that kept me away from what I should have been doing, which was adding hundreds of words to my novel.  Bad, bad Cassie.  This means I gotta stay out of the social media and do what I’m here to do, which is the writing things.

Though, some might say I did a lot of writing yesterday.  Seven hundred or so words on this blog, another five hundred and fifty on another blog–hell, that’s more words than some people write in a week.  So I won’t beat myself up too hard, but I will remember:  no fooling around tonight.  Get the words in the Scrivener file, and then chat away.

The last few days I’ve been in rant mode.  Can’t say for certain why, but it happened; it all builds up after a while, and you gotta cut loose and say what’s on your mind.  I’ve done this a few times in the past–after all, this post is number 669, and I haven’t spent the whole time talking about cats, so I must have ranted now and then–and for the most part people have either said, “Right on!” or not said a word.

A few times, however, I’ve generated a bit of negative feedback.  Which I’m entirely cool with because–I’m a writer!  By their nature, writers say thing, and sometimes what they say generates emotions in others that cause them to feel like you’re the greatest thing that’s ever lived, or that you are, as one person called me, “an asshole” who is consuming your unfair share of air.

There was on moment yesterday, however, where someone took umbrage with my post where I said people who say they argue with the characters they’ve created, and who say that it is they who write their stories, are delusional, and that this is something that other professional writers have said as well.  They were . . . upset is the best word.  They felt I had no reason to question their creative process, that I came across as one of those people who act as if they know it all, and on two occasions, demanded to know just who I was to say these things.

Well, then . . .

First off, who am I?  That’s a good one.  I could say I am Susan Ivanova, commander, daughter of Andre and Sophie Ivanov; that I am the right hand of vengeance and the boot that is going to kick your sorry ass all the way back to Earth, sweetheart; that I am death incarnate, and the last living thing that you are ever going to see; and that God sent me, but I’m hardly as good looking as Claudia Christian, and I’m not in command of a White Star fleet.  So that’s out.

What I am is a writer.  I write; I share my thoughts.  I put down a semi-coherent thought or two in a medium that it understandable to other, and hope others who don’t do this gig read them.  I’m creating, realizing as I do that some who read will enjoy, some will get pissed off, and others will simply never give a shit.  And I do this every day.  Every.  Single.  Day.  So there exist the possibility that something I say will go sideways, and that’s fine, because that’s how life runs.

Who am I to question another’s creative process?  I’ve had mine questioned before, so why not return the favor?  Since I’m a bit nuts–anyone who has been a long-time reader of this blog knows I’ve discussed my off-and-on struggles with mental illness–I’m probably in as good a position to recognize crazy as anyone, particularly in other writers.  And if I see something that I looks a little nuts, and have tried to speak with said person who is saying these things that maybe they’re mistaken, that they only think they’re fighting with their characters, in which case they may want to seek help ’cause something else is going on–but, no, said person comes back and tells me to fuck off because I don’t understand anything, well then . . . I’m gonna call crazy.  And I’m going to call it on anyone else who says the same thing, ’cause I don’t believe it to be true.

Which brings up the question of, “Well, I believe in muses, so are you going to say I’m delusional?”  That begs setting up a definition:  what is a muse?

Is your muse like Erin, the muse in my story Suggested Amusements, a creature who isn’t human, who has lived for thousands of years and has interjected herself into the lives of tens of thousands of creative people?  Or is your muse like my muse, who is a real person, who is there to encourage me, to give me advice and ideas, who virtually holds my hand when a rejection comes through, and who cheers when I publish?  Or is your muse pretty much the sister of Tinkerbell, flapping about your head, whispering sweet nothings into your brain while you try to advance your plot?

Of the three examples above, one is fictional, one is reality, and one is delusional.  Which is yours?  Chose one, and chose wisely . . .

While I know a lot, I don’t know everything, which is something I’ve learned over the course of nearly fifty years of reading the works of people who have known, or do know, more than me.  That’s never bothered me, because I accept that a whole lot of people know more than me . . .  as there are those who don’t know as much I moi, and I can usually sniff them out pretty quickly.  I had an argument with one of those later types a bit over a month ago, and it is true:  it’s easier for them to be fooled that to convince them they’ve been fooled, and they like it that way, so why bother exposing them to reality?

Every once in a while, however, you’ll find yourself in the same position as Neil Gaiman, and you know it’s best to leave such ranting alone, because that sort of person won’t be receptive to anything.  They got you pegged, and anything you say will only reinforce their opinion that you’re too cool for the room, and you need to be knocked down a notch because you’re really not as clever as you believe.  No problem, Tyler.  I’ll keep doing what I’m doing, and you do yours.

I am who I am.  Do you find me entertain?  Fantastic.  Am I an annoying pain in the ass?  Probably.  Am I talking out of my ass?  At times it’s likely, but I try hard to keep those emissions to a minimum.

Will I please everyone?  As Harlan once explained, it’s not the writer’s job to please everyone; it’s their job to entertain.  Just as I don’t get how people can be entertained by things that I find fairly lowbrow and, nay, imbecilic, I understand that I’ll be viewed through the same filter.

Which is the way of the world.

But, hey:  if this scree still has you mumbling to yourself about how I’m a big meanie and a hurtful bitch, Stephen Fly will turn his big puppy dog eyes in your direction and give you some advice about that lingering butthurt . . .

You’re welcome.

The Realities of the Fictional

Lets get this out of the way now:  I like most of the characters I’ve created.  Some have been with me for years, and I know the ins and outs of their lives, I know what they want to do, what they will do, and what awaits them at the ends of their lives.  I know their desires and their fears, their hates and their loves.  I know what makes them tick.

I know this because I created them.  They are figments of my imagination made about as whole as they can get.

Lately I’ve seen people going on about their characters, and how they “talk to them”.  This is nothing new:  it seems like a lot of people who write, or have written, feel their characters speak to them.  No, wait:  that’s not exactly right.  They feel the characters are telling them what to write.  They feel that the characters are pushing them in the direction they want to go.  They feel the characters are the ones writing the goddamn story, and that all they’re doing is acting as the typist.

To put it in plain and simple language, that’s delusional bullshit.

Your characters are something you create, and not the other way around.  While we can feel for our characters, live through out characters, suffer with them when we put them in incredibly difficult situations, it’s you who is doing all the leg work, not the character.  The character lives and loves and suffers because you are the one writing the story.  And when a character bites the big one, you can rest assured that when Ebola finally claims their ass and kicks that mortal coil off their shoulders, it happened because of the writer–not because the character said, “Hey, know what?  I gotta hankerin ‘ to head to Africa and have sex with a disease-ridden native because I wanna know what it’s like to have my organs liquefy.”

That shit happened because of you.  You killed them–and they didn’t jump in front of a bus on their one, you know?

I have spoken in my characters “voices”, tried to imaging scenes where they are all interacting with one another.  I’ve said the dialog out loud, and figured out how things would progress from that point.  At no time did I ever imagine that my characters were taking over my body and telling me, “No, what I want here is a fantastic lesbian sex scene with the head nurse, because . . . have you see her breasts?  Oh, my!”  Nope, never happened–and never will.

When I ran role playing games all the time, I used to tell my players, “Remember:  I’m God.  This game is my world, and your characters are my playthings.”  Writing is the same thing:  you own the world, and the characters as well.  Characters don’t argue with gods, ’cause when they do, they get squashed.  They get fed into wood chippers and turned into a mist.  They have alien zygotes explode from their anuses.  They meet the girl of their dreams and then get mutilated because they remind said girl of a Barbie doll they once owned.

Characters are a writer’s plaything.  They are their monkey, and they dance when we clap.

Though there are some writers who have said–and I’m not making this up–that they have gotten into arguments with their characters over how their lives are going in a story . . . and that they’ve lost the argument.  A person is saying they’ve lost an argument with a fiction character of their own creation, and then they want to be taken seriously as a writer.  The last person to lose an argument to a fictional character was John Nash, and that was because he was a fucking schizophrenic who wasn’t in touch with reality.

You know who never talks about their characters controlling them?  Professional writers.  The people who do this for a living.  They talk about character creation, and how to develop a point of view for your characters, but you never hear them say, “My characters tell me what to do!”  I saw a vlog post last year with a few writers who answered questions about the craft, and when this subject came up it was smacked down faster than a punk telling John Cena he’s not that tough.  They laughed at this mindset because they know it’s total bullshit.  They know fictional characters aren’t telling the writer what to do, and as one writer said, if they are, “You need to up your meds.”

It really doesn’t matter what I think, however.  Even though I’m a bit crazy, I know the difference between fiction and reality, and I deal in both rather well.  Since I do, it’s easy to look at people who say, for them, that writing fiction is the same as writing a biography for their characters, which gives me the chance to sit off to the side and laugh like a loon and remake about how your fucking nuts.

Which is sort of what I’m here, aren’t I?

Oh, well . . . I can always blame this on one of my characters . . .

Gearing Up For the Strange

I am not one of those people who believe thirteen is a evil, horror-ridden number that will bring nothing but misery and pain whenever it crosses our path.  Friday the Thirteenth does nothing for me, though I’ve had some interesting things happen on this day.  I’ve been on thirteenth floors in China and never had a problem, mostly because over there you’ll never find a fourth floor, and your biggest fear is worrying about a dragon looking over your shoulder.

This is why I’m starting the thirteenth chapter of my novel, and I give not a single shit that things will go wrong.  I don’t expect something bad to come above because I’m hanging with the One and Three.  No, this is going to be like every other Chapter Thirteen I’ve ever written–

Let me back that last line up:  this won’t be like every other Chapter Thirteen.  It’s going to be a little . . . different.

This is the part of the story where Elektra–the girlfriend, and she knows it–is wondering what Keith is going to do next.  She knows he’s writing, but she’s also wondering what he’s going to do as far as paying the bill are concerned.  When she starts going down this path–the Writer and Their Money Route–this is where she wonders just how much input she’s going to have–

Because if there’s one thing she doesn’t want to be, it’s the pain in the ass significant other who sits off to the side clicking their tongue in their mouth, saying, “It’s very nice, dear, but what are you doing to make money?”

I’ve said before, a lot of people who are creative are surrounded by people who aren’t, and those aren’ts can drive a person right up the wall if they’re not careful.  They don’t even have to be careful, because a lot of times the non-creatives are just saying things believing that if they go negative enough on you, you’ll give up those crazy dreams and be happy sweeping the floor of the Emerald Bar.

It’s only to help up, don’t you know?

I’ve hit on that at the start of the chapter, but what will I get into next?  Fantasies.

Yeah, Elektra’s got them; some are even pretty crazy. (Well, maybe for you, ’cause what you call “crazy”, I call “Saturday Night”, but that’s beside the point . . . She gonna start thinking about what Keith is writing, and that’s going to trigger some things in her mind, and before you know it–

Naw, I’m not telling.  I’m funny that way.  I’ve probably said more about this story than I have about any other story, and yet, most of what I’ve mentioned has been in the form of very broad outlines.  The same with this part:  you’re getting a peek at the curtain, and you might think you’re seeing things on the other side, but it’s really all Wizard of Oz stuff:  you gotta pull that curtain back if you wanna know who’s on the other side.

It’s time to Bring the Strange.

And if anyone can do that, it’s me.

 

Cold Posturing

The last year has seen me getting sick a lot more than I’d been in the four years before that.  When you’re not in contact with people day after day, you avoid those viruses that will bring you low.  When you get back to the work force, however, you find those little bastards have been waiting for you with a glee in their non-existent eyes . . .

I’ve had at least three colds since getting back to work, and the worst was over last summer, when I had a respiratory infection that decided to stick around for two months.  I had trouble breathing, I had trouble sleep, I had trouble just getting through the day.  It wasn’t in any way fun, and for a while I thought I was going to lose my mind because I was suffering from extreme exhaustion.

Near the end of January I caught something that started to lay me low before I kicked it back.  Then, a week later, it tried making a comeback, and I manged to beat on it a little more even though I ended up having to take a day off.  I thought I was over that . . . until yesterday.

Early in the morning I felt the sore throat coming on.  Before I left for home I felt the fever coming.  By the time I was home from work I was burning; I don’t know what my temp was, but I was up there.  I hurt all over, my sense of time passage was way off . . . yep, fever was on, and all I could do was med up and hope for the best.

I didn’t sleep much last night, and though I feel a little better, I’m sweating like mad and suffering chills off and on.  My head is very wibbly-wobbly, and I’m certain I’m going to need a nap before the day it out.  Maybe I’ll even need to run to the store to pick up some medication, because I’m almost out.

Needless to say, I didn’t write last night.  Couldn’t write was more like it; the head was all over the place and my fingers were comfortably numb–so much so it was hard for me to even feel the keyboard.  It was all for the best, because there was no way I was going to do anything that would have made sense.  Not to mention when I’m feverish my sense of time passage goes right to hell, and I probably would have thought I’d been writing for an hour when the reality would have been more like ten minutes.

I wrote stoned a couple of times, and while it seems a good idea at the time, what come out on the other end was pure, unfettered crap.  Nothing I’d typed made any sense, and it was at that point that I decided that while I might be able to write with a bit of a buzz on, no way I was going to producing any kind of work I’d be proud of when I was too far gone to be unsure I could walk a straight line.

It’s like that when I’m extremely sick.  The body and mind are telling you to stop whatever the hell it is you want to do, and just rest.  So I rested.

Today is another day.  Lets see if I can get back into my work–

And not feel guilty about not writing due to being incapacitated.

The Need to Want

The day has started out a little strange, and doesn’t seem to be growing any less stranger.  So be it.  I live for strange.  Put a little Madness on the playlist, and I’m good to go.

The story is humming like crazy these days.  The last two Fridays I’ve taken the time away from writing to do other things.  The last two days, however, have seen the story come together in a good way, and I’m not looking to kill the buzz tonight.  That means I’ll be back into Chapter Five, bringing the last main character of this cavalcade of craziness onto the stage, and letting her take her place in my stylistic insanity.

I’ve seen a few people speaking lately of the difference between want and need.  In particular, I saw someone starting an argument over why his need to own high-capacity magazines was no different than someone’s need to exceed the speed limit in their car, and how would they like it if he removed their need?  Disregarding the fact that it’s a strawman argument, it does make one–namely me–think about the differences between what I need, and what I want.

Writing is representative of the want/need dichotomy.  People who write, and who are serious about it, will tell you that’s not just the fact they want to write, they’ll tell you there’s a real need to sit down and tell stories.  They’ll tell you that when they find themselves in a grove, they sometimes find it impossible to stop writing, that they’ll continue for hours before grinding to a halt.  They’ll tell you of the times when ideas have come to them at the strangest times, and they have to find a way to get a few notes written down least they forget the story ever came to them.  And there are the tales of someone waking up in the middle of the night, with a word on their lips and a story in their mind, and they get up ad head for their computer or typewriter or notebook, and they start scribbling.

There have been a few books written about this phenomena.  Stephen King wrote On Writing a few years back, expressing his feelings on what it’s like to be a writer.  Neurologist Doctor Alice W. Flaherty wrote The Midnight Disease–a book I own and recommend–looking at the urge to write and the link to creativity from a medical point of view, trying to make sense of why some writers could stare at a screen for hours and produce nothing, and why others could churn out ten thousand words without thinking it unusual.  There are more, because as long as their are writers, someone will write about what makes a writer.

But one thing I’ve discovered in my journey to this sunny hillside I call, “You’re Almost to the Summit”:  you can want to write all you want, but until you find the need to get your ass into writing mode, you won’t.  And if you do, you’re going to find the endeavor unfulfilled and unsatisfying, and you will eventually find you could give a shit about story telling, and head off to kill time doing anything but creating.

The need is everything:  it’s the driving force that allows us to put up with all the crap that comes with being a writer.  You’re mostly alone, almost always plagued by doubt, and your career and success is all dependent upon people you may never see.  What sort of madding job is that?

It’s the one we need to do.

It’s what I want.

New Fire, Different Jump

Today I did something that a few of you might consider stupid, or crazy, or even a bit insane.  I turned down a lot of money.

Allow me to explain.

Tomorrow starts a new job in Chicago, and a whole new adventure as far as my writing is concerned.  Because I’ll be roaming out the door about 6 AM, and because I don’t know what time I’ll be getting up, I’m actually writing this Monday night, about 9:15 PM.  (That’s what the clock on the computer says, so I’m sticking to it.)

Now, this job wasn’t the only one I was looking at.  In fact, I’d interviewed with another company, and I was told of another up north, in Cheeseland, aka Wisconsin.  But as I’d accepted this job in Chicago, I’d sent out my condolences to the other companies, and let them know thank you, but I’m going elsewhere.

So this morning I start getting calls.  They were urgent calls, about the job up north.  About how the company that had never much given me any feedback was suddenly in a hurry to have me come to work for them.  A company that had never asked to interview me wanted me to uproot everything and start work on Wednesday.  I was assured that if I showed up 12/12/12, a job was waiting for me.

I explained to the recruiter that I’d already accepted a position in Chicago, and that I was starting tomorrow.  I was asked how much I was making, and I quoted them the number.  Then he quoted his number–and I about fell back.

See, the job up north was for someone who could do reporting and a little easy programming (so I was told), and not a lot more.  The salary I was quoted, however:  it was more than I’m going to start making tomorrow.  A lot more.  In fact, compared to what I was making at The Job From Hell at The Undisclosed Location–it was a touch more twice that.

We’re talking very low six figured, but six figures nonetheless.

I thought about it for a moment, then said no thank you, I’d not walk away from a job I’d already agreed upon, and hung up.

Beyond jumping ship at the last moment as being very unprofessional, there was the sneaking suspicion that this job could have ended up becoming “The Undisclosed Location, Part II:  Cheddar Hell”, because people just don’t throw a lot of money as someone they’ve never met and say, “It’s going to be an easy job!  Don’t worry,” without there being something more happening behind the curtain than The Wizard getting outted.  It felt wrong, and I’m not sorry about saying no to more cash than I’ve ever made in my life in one year.

That said, there was another reason for not doing it:  I’m not staying in this business.

I said 2012 would be a year of change.  I started a job, ended it, and I’m starting another.  I’ve come out as the person I have been, and want to be.  And I’ve written a whole lot of words–and I wanna keep writing more.  One of these days, I want that to be my job.  Maybe I’ll do some programming for myself, or for a few others, on the side, but I want to walk away from IT, and I want to do it soon.

I’m close to home now, and even though I have a bit of a drive ahead of me every day, I’m getting good money, and my driving expenses are being paid.  I’m going to push to work from home in the coming months, and I hope that I can eventually spend more time here than in the office.

I’ll also keep writing and publishing.  This is a must for me, because if I stop now, I’ll never start up again.  I’ve killed enough dreams to end up on death row for more years than I care to imagine, and I can’t kill any more.  Maybe I’ve twenty-five years ahead of me:  if so, I need to tell my stories, because I feel they’re good stories, and eventually someone, a lot of someone’s, will want to read them.

I told the recruiter today, “Money isn’t a motivating factor,” and I meant that.  I want to think about myself, and about what I want to do now.  No playing the “What if?” game now:  I know what’s ahead, and I know how to get there.  I just gotta walk the walk, is all.

There was a time when making a bunch of money was a dream, but I never wanted to do it programming.  I know where I want that money to come from, and I know where I need to see my name.  It’s coming, I know this.

Tomorrow starts another day, another fire–

But I’m finished jumping through hoops.

The way is clear.  I only need to get there.

The Memories Past

The story is over; the novel is finished.  Almost fifty-five thousand words.  Eighteen chapters.

It’s all first draft, and it’s all mine.

I only needed nine hundred and twenty words to finish the story last night.  I played Electric Light Orchestra’s A New World Record while I wrote, and managed to finish the story in about forty minutes.  That means I was really in my final grove, and the music was in me, I was in the music, and the story didn’t have to fight its way out:  it only had to jump into the computer and get comfortable.

Today there is no thought about writing.  In actuality, I couldn’t, because I’m going to head off to The Undisclosed Location tonight, and by the time I arrive, it’ll be too late to do anything but setup, relax a little, and sleep.  Then off to work tomorrow–or do I?  Du, duh, DUNNNN!

Fifty-five thousand words in about ten weeks; that’s easy math to work out.  Personally, in retrospect, this is about what I’d figure, based upon what I was producing every night.  But if I’m going to do NaNoWriMo, will need to work up that count.  Gonna need to go from eight hundred a night to about two thousand a night.  I might not “win”, but there’s the potential to get well into the story with a week, or so afterwards, to finish it up.

It’s safe to say, now, that Diners at the Memory’s End, was a tough story to write, because it was up, it was down, there were issues of loneliness, love, anger, isolation, and fear.  A large part of it, as I view it now, has to do with reviling your inner self to others.  There were secrets that both Albert and Meredith wanted to keep from each other.  As they grew closer to each other, they complicated their relationship by getting too close, and then realized they’d opened themselves up too much.

By the time the last three parts come into view, both have grown comfortable with who they are, and what they are, and when the final moment pass between them, there is the feeling that a great friendship is going to grow.

Does this mean I’ll write about Meredith again?  Actually, there is another Meredith story, somewhere down the line.  I can’t tell you just where in Albert’s time line he meets up with Meredith again, but when they do, there will be one hell of an emergency.  It will be written, one of these days.  But there are other tales to tell as well, and it might be a year or two before I get to this story.

There will likely be no writing tonight.  I think the next thing I’m going to do is an edit on Echoes, and get my ground work started on my NaNo Novel.  And I’ll keep up on Replacements for five more weeks.  But for now . . . I think it’s time to get into an edit, and concentrate on getting something published.

After all, if I do nothing but write, and no one reads it, was the story ever created?