Comfortable

I haven’t written anything since the last post.  And I probably won’t until June 8th.  There have been life things to deal with and this week left me with today, tomorrow and Friday.  If you’re a regular reader of this blog you know I wouldn’t go back to work on a Weds. and for only three days.  Next week I also have only three days.

Why hurry?  Why make myself crazy with a routine I don’t want anymore.  Actually, when I was writing with a contract I adhered to the above schedule.  Not, of course, when I was close to a deadline.

I did finish my flash fiction piece.  As I posted, it’ll appear here on June 4th.

 

Not Pressing On

I managed to finish Chapter Eight last week and then I stopped.  Two reasons.  I didn’t feel like writing and I didn’t know where I was going.  So I took a break.

This week I’ve been working on a flash fiction piece for Patti Abbott's challenge.  This is my third piece and it was the hardest one.  It will be posted here on June 4th.

It was lovely to have the freedom to take off and do this piece with no feelings of guilt.

Yesterday, when I told somebody in publishing that I had no illusions about selling the book I was writing, she said, “You’re being very realistic.”  Then later she said, “But you never know.”  So there are two sentences for those of you working on a book.  I suggest you take both.

I’m not sure if I’ll go back to working on my novel tomorrow.  I have to see what the day holds for me.  I don’t mean chores.  I mean my mood. I still don’t know exactly where I’m going, but a quick look through the manuscript will probably help me.  Taking this little break from it will also be helpful for me to look at it with fresh eyes.

I want to stress again this is no way for a new writer to approach a book.  You have to have a routine.   The only reason I can do this now is because I had that routine, was disciplined for all of my career.  That means many years.  And now that it’s unlikely that I’ll publish that 20th book I can take it easy, do what I want.  BTW, doing what I want is writing a crime novel.  I think.  I’m not sure what it is I’m writing but it does have a police detective as one of the leads.  So what does that tell you?  Yeah.  Me, too.

Niggling Things

I wrote today after a two week layoff.  The company was part of it.  Then I didn’t want to.  Today I did want to.  So I did.

I did do some fiddling last week.  Changed names.  When I went back looking for said names I discovered discrepancies like someone being Asian in chapter 3 and Native American in chapter 6.  Well, not quite, but almost that bad.

So I’ve started a character page.  Person’s name and pertinent facts and family.  I still need to do back stories on the most important people.  The trouble is that bores me.  I know I have to do it more now than I ever did because of the memory problem.  Still, it irritates me that I have to do it.

I’d rather write and catch it all later.  I might.  But I know some things won’t make any sense this way.  What does it matter?  Anything can be fixed.  And if I don’t feel like fixing them by the time the book is done? So what? Is Michiko Kakutani waiting to read it?

Forge ahead, I say.  Just get it down.

Insight

I did write last week.  Didn’t get a whole lot done.  But yesterday I finished the chapter I’d started.  And I felt good about it.  Today I was sure I was going to begin a new chapter and I did.  But after two paragraphs I stopped.

I’m tired and irritable.  I don’t feel like writing at all.  The most I’m going to do is go back through what I have and change the name of one of the characters.  Thanks Word for Search and Replace.  And tomorrow I won’t be able to write.  Most likely not until next Tues.

Company coming.

What does it matter?  I can take all the time I want.  Still, I feel disappointed in myself today.  Knowing I wasn’t going to have lots of time for the next week I was prepared for this to be a good writing day. 

Part of it is because I don’t know where I’m going with this chapter.  This is a novel with two voices.  And this chapter is told by the hardest voice for me to write.  On another day it might be different.  I have the luxury to wait for that other day.  I’m not talking about inspiration.  If writers waited for inspiration we wouldn’t have many books in the library.

Maybe I have to think about this voice more.  I have to give the character a back story.  Usually I do that.  I write a backstory for my protagonist and I haven’t done this.  Not with either of them.  I wonder why I haven’t.  I think it’s time for me to take this novel more seriously.  Not change my schedule, but do the things I usually do.

Ah.  Because I have no illusions about publishing it I’m being lazy, I think.  I’m not respectful of what I’m doing.  So, okay.  It’s fine to not have illusions, to write on a more flexible schedule, but when I do write I have to be serious about it. Treat it like I have all my other novels.  And do whatever I do to make it work.  Backstory is one thing.  I find that important and helpful.  Unlike an outline which, if you’ve been reading this blog, you know I don’t do nor do I want to.

After writing this post I still feel tired and irritable, but I know a little more than I did.

Getting Up Steam

It was a fallow week.  For one reason or another I didn’t write anything further than Chapter Six.  Most of my reasons were legitimate and some days I simply didn’t want to write.  I don’t have any sense of guilt about this as I would in the past.  This is because I’m not writing this book for anyone other than me.

At this moment I intend to go back to writing on Monday.  Who knows?  I feel I want to but that could change.  If I wait too long I’ll have to read the whole damn thing (60 pages) because I won’t remember what I’ve already written.

I know I have to make a list of the characters because I don’t remember all the names.  Does everyone have to do this?

So, I’m set to hit the keys on Monday.

Answers

One of the reasons I wrote the post below is because I’ve never written this way before.  Without a contract.  And because, as I’ve said before, I have no illusions that this one will be published.  Times have changed.

Another reason I wrote it is because I believe every writer goes through some form of this. 

I wish you’d tell me if you do or don’t.

Questions

Although I wrote five pages today I was haunted by:

Why am I doing this?  What for?  Why am I doing this? What’s the point? Why am I doing this?  Who will care? Why am I doing this? What is this book about?  Why am I doing this? What kind of book is it? Why am I doing this? 

 

Stalling?

Yesterday I wrote one sentence.  The start of Chapter Six.  Today I wrote two and a half pages.  Not a great output you say.  I say, too.  But I don’t really care.

I don’t feel like doing this.  I think I do the night before.  But when the morning arrives…phooey.  Still, I did write something.  It’s odd because I’m about to write a bunch of dialogue, which I think I do well, and I know where it’s going, but I didn’t want to do it today.

Tomorrow I’ll see if I want to do it.

What A Difference A Day Makes

Today I finished that fifth chapter.  The one I couldn’t deal with yesterday.  This proves to me that as long as I have this luxury of no deadline, no expectations, I shouldn’t try to write when I feel like hell.

Guilt Free Decisions

It’s been a week since I wrote anything.  Well, today I wrote two sentences.  Today I have no interest in writing.  Other things kept me from writing since last Weds.  Last night I was sure I’d write today. I don’t know what happened.  While eating breakfast I could feel the desire dissipating.  By the time I sat down here my interest was gone, but I pushed myself and came up with two sentences.  Feeling the way I did I decided not to force myself.  Writing under my new regime I didn’t have to.

Don’t get the wrong idea, I’m not talking about waiting for inspiration.  If you waited for that very few books would get written.  I certainly wouldn’t have written more than one, if that.

When I finish this I’ll answer email and then I’m going to read because that’s what I feel like doing.  Only a few years ago I would’ve pushed myself to go on and certainly couldn’t have stopped to read.   And guilt would’ve ruined my day.

Not now. It feels like a senior citizen discount.  I could watch a movie if I felt like it.  But I’d rather read.  Who knows, maybe I won’t want to write for the rest of the week?  So be it.

Surprise, Surprise

I couldn’t leave chapter two in third person.  More accurately, I couldn’t leave character 2 in third person.  Now I’m going to have two voices in first person.  One fifteen, one forty.  One female, one male. Does it work?  Who knows.  I don’t want to give it to first reader because at this stage it would be a mistake.

I still only have four chapters.  And I’m not finished changing character 2 from first to third. As I do this I can’t help thinking why?  Why am I doing this at all?  As I’ve said before I’m a writer so it appears I have to write.

I shouldn’t read Laura Lippman’s Memory Project, but I like to check out what she’s up to.  Still, I’m exhausted from reading her schedule and her word count.  Even though she’s younger than I am, I didn’t keep up such a pace when I was her age.  I don’t know how she does it.  She even writes on tour!  I never did.  I was delighted to have a real excuse not to write.

I can’t help thinking I’m spinning my wheels, making busy work.  Well, not all the time.  Sometimes I feel that what I’m writing is good and no matter what, if I keep going this way, I’ll be proud of it when I finish.  Sometimes I think what I’m writing sucks and I’ll be embarrassed when I finish.

When I finish?  Only yesterday I didn’t want to come to this computer.  But I did.  I still get the Sunday night blues.  I try to remind myself that I’m not going to school the next day and that no one is making me write but me.  Even so I have those damn blues.  Do others have them?

I think it’ll take me the rest of the week to change character 2 from third to first.  I started chapter five before I realized I had to make these changes.  Only a paragraph.  I hope the changes will propel me and I can get back to surprising myself by what the people do in this book.

Going Back After All

I didn’t plan to go back to Chapter One, but it hit me that what I’d written in third person belonged in first person.  I thought it would be a snap.  It wasn’t.  Changing from third to first brought on other changes.  Still, I managed to do it in one session.

This came to me while reading a novel Tuesday afternoon.  It wasn’t a matter of copying someone else’s work. The spark of what I was reading ignited a flame. And I’m grateful because I would hate to have this come to me in Chapter Twenty or at the end of the first draft. The rewritten chapter is much better this way and it will make the character stronger in future chapters.

Now I’m going to go back to Chapter Two to see how that works in third person.  I plan to leave it that way, but you never know.<

There are always surprises when you’re writing blind, so to speak.  That makes it fun for me, even though it can create more work.

Quote

"All art is knowing when to stop."

Toni Morrison

How It's Going

I now have three completed chapters.  I have no idea if they’re good or not.  I don’t look back, unless I’ve forgotten a name, etc.

The interesting thing to me is that while writing chapter three I completely changed who was going to do what in the future.  Suddenly my new thoughts made so much more sense.

Since I only know a few things about this book sometimes I get stuck.  Don’t tell me to write an outline. I get unstuck eventually.  It might take some time but it’s more interesting this way.

Again, I’m not being rigid about my time schedule and everything feels better for me right now.

Don't Try This At Home

Over the past three weeks I’ve managed to write two chapters and two pages of the third.  In the old days that would be a lousy output for me.  I was interrupted by the death of my cat so I guess I can call it two weeks.  Still.

But this isn’t the old days.  This is a new way to work for me.  As in, whenever I want to.  Whatever time I want to.  As long as I want to.  Having a schedule is no longer for me.  I don’t set an alarm anymore.  I don’t rush to be in bed by a certain hour.  It’s incredibly free.

If I had a deadline, a contract, I couldn’t do this.  But I don’t and that’s what makes it freeing.  I try not to wonder if anyone will buy it, but sometimes my mind will go there.  I shake it away.  We all know what’s going on in publishing and it’s a nightmare.  However, I’m going to keep writing this novel and hope that I get to the end someday.

The good news, for me, is that I think about it when I’m not writing.  I wonder about the characters. I know when I have to go back and change something.  This tip usually comes from a book I’m reading.  The point is, I’m interested.  I like this novel.  And yet I’m not obsessed by it.

For new writers please don’t follow this example.  I wouldn’t have published nineteen books if I’d done it this way.  It’s fine for me now.  Not for you.

Quote

Wanting to know an author because you like his work is like wanting to know a duck because you like paté.

Margaret Atwood

Flash Fiction #2

This is my 2nd try at flash fiction.  This time Patti Abbott asked anyone interested to send in three or four lines of a first paragraph.  Then she sent one of those to each of us and we had to do a 750 word story using whatever first paragraph she gave us.  The list of the other stories are here:    http://pattinase.blogspot.com/ Below is my story.  Remember the first paragraph isn’t mine and I don’t know who wrote it.  Yet.

 

MEATLOAF

 

          Davy Dunn was irritable. Stomping his black boots outside of Madison Garden, he bit his fifth cigarette out of a nine dollar deck of Marlborough Reds and smoked the hot marrow out like he wanted to taste the lips of hell.

 

          Ray was late and it was fucking cold. Colder than his old lady's heart. He blew out smoke that curled like a snake chasing a mongoose.  Shoving the stick in his mouth he clapped his leather-clad hands together.  They made a muffled sound as if they were underwater.  Dunn kept clapping but it didn't warm up his hands.

 

          Looking uptown he saw Ray limping his way toward him, the little prick.  He was wearing his grimy pea coat which was a size too big for him.  He'd told Ray to stop wearing the thing but Ray wouldn't listen.  He had on that brown cowboy hat that looked like a sewer rat had made it his last meal. Sometimes Dunn wondered why he kept the loser around.  But they'd known each other all their lives growing up in the Bronx, and the thing was Ray needed somebody to look after his sorry ass.

 

          "Hey, Davy."

 

          "You're late, asshole."

 

          "Sorry."  He looked down at the sidewalk.

 

          "Sorry ain't good enough, you moron."

 

          "I tole you not to call me that." 

  

          Dunn knew he shouldn't because Ray was something like a moron.  Retarded maybe.

 

          "You know how long I been standin out here waitin on you, Ray? Wanna know, huh?  My balls are like white hot ice."

 

          Ray looked up at him. "How can they be hot and ice at the same time?"

 

          "Shut the fuck up."

 

          "Sorry, Davy."

 

          "What're you doin wearin that asshole cowboy hat for? You know what it looks like?  Like somebody took a crap on it."

 

          "Nobody did."

 

          "Shut up I tole you.  I oughta leave you here.  You know how cold I am?"

 

          "Like hot ice balls."

 

          "Listen, Ray, you're gettin on my nerves."

 

          "Sorry, Davy."

 

          Dunn tore off a drag of his cigarette like a starving vampire, then blew the hot smoke into Ray's beat up face.  When they were kids Ray's old man used Ray like a football.  He kicked him anywhere he wanted.  If Ray was standing up he'd kick him in the nuts or ass.  Ray was sitting down he'd kick him in the face.  Broke his nose a dozen times until it looked like mashed potatoes.

 

          "So Davy, you got the tickets?"

 

          "No."

 

          "No?"

 

          "Something wrong with your ears?"

 

          "I thought we was goin to the game."

 

          "Sold out."

 

          "You tole me you'd get them.  No problem, you said."  Ray's eyes began to fill.

 

          "Oh, here it comes."  Dunn wanted to bash him into the Garden wall like a rotten tomato.

 

          "I can't help it.  I was countin on the game, Davy."

 

          "Too bad.  Stop cryin like some pussy."

 

          "I wanted to go to the game.  You promised."

 

          "What's that smell?" Dunn said.

 

          "Smell?"

 

          "Yeah.  Like dirty feet or something."

 

          "Too cold to smell anything."

 

          Dunn leaned closer to Ray and took big long sniffs like he couldn't get enough.  Ray stepped back.

 

          "What're you doin Davy?"

 

          "Smellin the stink."

 

          "What stink?"

 

          "You. That pea coat. I tole you not to wear it no more, Ray."

 

          "I gotta, Davy. I don't have nothin else."

 

          "Well, you stink like rotten feet."

 

          "I'm sorry Davy."

 

          "You fuckin should be.  I have to smell it all night.  You can't even smell it with that nose, can you?"

 

          "Can't even smell my mom's corn beef no more."

 

          "Good thing.  She cooks like shit.  Everything she makes tastes the same."

 

          Ray looked at him with his brown eyes like slits in a devil Halloween mask.  "Don't, Davy."

 

          "Don't?"

 

          "Yeah."

 

          "What kind a thing is don't?"

 

          "It's what it says."

 

          "You're a dick."

 

          "I don't want you to say nothin about my mom, Davy."

 

          "I'll say anything I fuckin feel like sayin, moron."

 

          "And don't say that no more neither."

 

          "Listen you retard, you're lucky I let you hang out with me."  Dunn snapped the end of his cigarette into the street and watched it roll around the gutter until it stopped. "And your mother's meatloaf tastes like puke."

 

          Ray took two steps toward Dunn and shoved his knife through the black jacket and into Dunn's belly.

 

          "Ray." Dunn fell on his knees. He groaned then went over like a side of beef onto the freezing slab of sidewalk.

          Ray said, "Mom's meatloaf's the best."  He leaned over, pulled the knife out of Dunn, swiped the blood off the knife on his pea coat and limped downtown.

Hooray!

I’m back writing a novel and I’m so happy.  I feel like I’ve come home.  I’m not a short story writer, which doesn’t mean I’ll never write one.  But I’m so much more comfortable writing in this form. 

Whether Or Not or Weather Or Not

I don’t seem to be doing too well.  I’m not able to stick to any schedule.  So in the morning it’s whether or not to write.  This is a question I never asked myself during years of writing novels.  I’ve tried to blame my vacillation on the weather, but I know that doesn’t make sense. 

Still, yesterday as the snow fell it was more a reading day to me than a writing day. I started off reading in bed, then moved to the living room and sat in a big comfy chair.  Although I could see the snow easily from my bedroom, the living room afforded me many more windows to watch through if I looked over my reading glasses.

But weather isn’t an excuse I would’ve taken if I had a contract for a novel.  Or maybe even if I was writing a novel without one.  I’m not sure this short story thing is for me.  I’ve always known that short story writing was an art unto itself.  And I always believed some people could and some couldn’t and I counted myself among the latter.

I’m used to the build of a novel, the many characters, the freedom .  A short story needs to be what it says: a story that’s short.  Concise.  It’s true that my novels have become lean in style, but there’s still a license that I don’t find in writing a short story.

I’ve written most of one story and the beginning of another.  I do like that I can go to any story I want on any given day.  Or start a new one without finishing another that I decide I’ll go back to.  Writing a novel I wouldn’t dream of starting a new chapter without finishing the last.

It worries me that if I start a novel my expectations will rise up and bite me.  I have an idea but it isn’t a burning idea.  It doesn’t keep me up at night or take my mind away from what I’m doing.  It’s just an idea.

I do believe I’d be more disciplined if I was writing a novel.  But so what? I see that I can start writing after nine in the morning.  That’s one thing that trying to write stories has given me.  I don’t have to be as inflexible as in the past.

So what if I started writing a novel and didn’t use my rigid schedule?  Would the novel writing police arrive?  Of course I’m the novel writing police.  What if I give writing a novel in a more relaxed fashion a chance? Although trying to write at least four days a week.  I think I’d be happier than attempting short stories and not getting to my desk more than two days a week at most.

There’s no one to stop me except me.  Still, I’ll have to stick to one rigidity.  I’d never start a novel on a Thursday.  I’ll think about this and then if that’s what I want to do I’ll start on Monday. 

I feel anxious simply thinking about it.  Maybe I have to let go of what day I start.  Maybe I have to let what happens happen.  Ohmigod!

Quote

"It's finding the emotional door you have to go through. You have to find a way, an angle in on the characters, so that your emotional dope, your limits, concerns, needs and hopes at that moment can be expressed through the vehicle of the made-up story. And then you have to shape the story as entertainment so other people can feel that same emotion."

Stephen King, on revising a novel