Nano Nano

Erm. I see it's been a while since my last post – tempus fugit, as the old dead dudes would say, although I think it's more relevant to quote the whole passage from Virgil's Georgics (thanks, Wikipedia!): Sed fugit interea fugit irreparabile tempus, singula dum capti circumvectamur amore, or in the King's English “But meanwhile it flees: time flees irretrievably, while we wander around, prisoners of our love of detail.”

"Prisoners of our love of detail." Not a bad description for more than a few writers of my acquaintance.

Writing, I'm happy to say, has continued despite my blogging absence. I've gone from blank screen to the nearly-final-draft version of a new, and, for me, rather longish short story (another one that is almost there), and received a couple of new rejections of stories that I thought actually were there (“We appreciate the chance to review your work and wish you the best in finding the right home for this piece,” and the somewhat more encouraging “Unfortunately, it's not quite right for XXXXX so we're going to pass. Do feel free to send us more of your work though.”)

That was in September and October.

November has been all about Nano Nano 30 30. Which, by the way, has (almost) nothing to do with Mork & Mindy, nor the .30-30 Winchester cartridge. Inspired by NaNoWriMo, the National Novel Writing Month movement, Nano Nano 30 30 is my own bizarrely named and quite possibly misguided attempt at making November a productive writing month.

I've set myself the goal to write the openings of thirty short stories this month; a different story every day. Starting from scratch each session, and leaving any continuation or editing for the future.

How's it going? Well, twenty-four beginnings later, I'm still at it, although I'm not sure how many of them will be worth revisiting come December and beyond. They're short snippets of stories, in the 200 to 400 word range, and typically consist of little more than a place, a situation (hopefully with some elements of conflict and/or desire), a working title (a few examples: "Goths and Goblins," "After the Funeral," "Scars"), and a small number of named characters. Not a lot of hardwood fuel to sustain future writing sessions, but all in all a nice stack of tinder and kindling. I wouldn't necessarily recommend Nano Nano 30 30 to anybody else, and I doubt very much that I'll be doing it again next year, but I am writing something every day, and I do have quite the ferment of new characters bubbling around in my brain. I'm sure at least a few will survive.

They said I should feel free to send them more of my work. 

Well, I'm working. And I do feel free.

Thanks for reading,

Stephen.

Almost the Hardest Thing About Writing

The past couple of weeks have not been particularly productive writing days. And I refuse to trot out any of my over-worked excuses, because I know exactly what's going on. I'm avoiding writing because every story that I'm currently working on, stories that I want to be working on, is in more or less the exact same state.

It's Almost There.

An Almost There story has already been through multiple drafts. It's definitely been workshopped, often more than once. It starts more-or-less where it's supposed to start, it has an end with elements of 'surprising inevitability.' The scenes in the middle work, moving the story forward with gathering speed. It has a sense of place and a point of view that both fit the piece.

But it's not quite There. And that's one of the hardest things about writing.

You can tell you're Almost There when you get these kind of comments, and you agree with them:

"The final struggle, which echoes the flashback, is so important. Can we sit there longer?"

"Love the premise and the character. I think this just needs some thematic focus to pull the details together."

"Great stuff. Now set the moment to garner greater tension."

But you've already honed the tension, fleshed out the final struggle, focused on theme and character until your eyes started to cross.

How do you get There?

I don't know the answer, although I think I know where to look for it.

Tear things apart, and build them back up again. Put the story down, come back to it. Test out new sentences, new scenes, new dialogue. Save each version separately, because some of new drafts will be worse than the previous one, not better. Highlight and cut up your printouts. Read sections out loud, and listen. The better words are out there, somewhere, but it will take yeoman's work to find them.

Don't give up, even if you take a week off.

After all, these stories are Almost There.

Thanks for Reading,

Stephen

Jotting, Not Journaling

I buy a lot of blank journals. And I should be filling them up by writing in them every day. You know, Journaling. It's what writers are supposed to do. Everyone says so.

Janet Burroway, in her excellent text WRITING FICTION: "... a writer's journal is an essential, likely to be the source of originality, ideas, experimentation, and growth."

Aine Greaney in another useful book, WRITER WITH A DAY JOB, says "I strongly advocate for daily journaling as a way to build your daily writing practice and your writing voice."

The first chapter of Susan Tiberghien's ONE YEAR TO A WRITING LIFE? "Journal Writing." The opening sentence of that chapter? "The first step toward a writing life--and its foundation--is journal writing."

(I also happen to buy a lot of books about writing. Why does this not surprise anyone?)

But I don't "journal." Certainly not daily, and not anything resembling how the above advice-givers, and plenty of others, would have me journal.

This is not to say that I haven't tried it their way. Believe me, I've tried. And I've failed. So I do something else. Yes, I carry a notebook with me, and I scribble in it now and then. But I don't journal. What I do instead is Jot.

Jots aren't anything close to complete thoughts, or even complete sentences. Jots are potential story sparks, evanescent images I need to capture before they vanish, funny names, dream scenes, word combinations. Fictitious band names, lots of band names. And every so often, particularly when I'm fumbling around for a new story start, I page through last week's, or last month's, or last year's, jottings, looking for something that might ignite a blank page.

The top row in the picture is a sampling of my untouched notebook and journal collection. The bottom row, mostly smaller Moleskine notebooks or quad ruled Steno books, is filled with Jots.

I also have a Word document (laughingly named "Working Journal.doc") in the computer full of Jots, and an Easy Note file for my iPhone, too.

Here's half a dozen examples of what can be found inside those notebooks and docs, chosen more-or-less at random and taken verbatim:

1. Woman on subway - "I have taught myself how to sing every Michael Bolton song in sign language."

2. Liquor cabinet contents for list story.

3. I was nineteen and Jewish then.

4. Convention crasher.

5. Does Amber smile?

6. Two squirrels working their way through razor/barbed wire/chain link fence as if any other thorny vines.

And although I still feel bad at not being able to 'build my daily writing practice and my writing life' like every else does, this is what works for me. I wrote this blog entry instead of working on fiction because I wanted to start on something new, but didn't have a beginning. But now, looking at my Jots, I'm wondering about Amber, and why she never smiles. Maybe the nineteen year old Jewish boy can find that out.

Thanks for reading,

Stephen

Bet the Over

Last month, I blogged about how long it takes to write a story (Four Hours, Forty Days, or Forever).

If you're a betting type, and the line was 40 days, I hope you took the Over.

Two different writing groups have now seen two different versions of the Batman story in question, and there is definitely going to be at least one more substantial rewrite before it's ready to be viewed by anyone else.

Ron MacLean has described the process of writing as following a spiral, where in each draft you circle in a little closer to your story's core, your speed increasing with every rotation.

Stay on target, and eventually you'll get there. Or so I keep telling myself.

Thanks for reading,

Stephen

Four Hours, Forty Days, or Forever

A friend recently asked me how long it takes to write a short story.

Back on April 18th I posted the following status update on Facebook:

I'm toying with a short story in its early stages, but it's not going very well. As is my wont, I move the setting to Las Vegas and add some sex. Still not working. I ask Muse for help.

Muse shows up, for once, stumbles over the chair and nearly smashes into the computer. She's obviously been drinking.

"Batman," she says. "Batman Rules."

So now I'm halfway into this short story about a drunk in a Batman costume working security at a Las Vegas strip club, and a stripper named Robin...

F*cking Muse..


"Halfway" was a bit of an exaggeration, as after an hour of writing that evening I had maybe 200 words to show for my inspiration. I had a character, but I didn't know what he wanted, or what was going to happen to him next. You know, the tough stuff. So I did what I usually do with the tough stuff.

I ignored it, and went on to some other projects that were further along.

I didn't forget completely about my Batman, however. I kept thinking about the parallels between this character and a different character from another abandoned story fragment. This other character didn't have a drinking problem, but he used to work Security and now tended bar at a strip club. And one day I even added a few hundred more words to the original opening paragraph, describing what Las Vegas is like on Halloween, and then on yet another day I went back and cut most of those words when I realized that all that background had been fun to write, but it wasn't helping the story.

Then, of course, I gave up on the whole thing again.

Today, however, I participated in a virtual writing retreat at home while members of one of my writing groups gathered elsewhere. To kick off the day, I opened up four different barely-started documents, including "Batman in Vegas," intending to type away at whichever one first clicked.

That's when my Muse gave me the one last kick in the head I needed to put everything together. She'd been trying to tell me to merge the two strip club Security characters into one, but it took a over a month of conscious and subconscious rumination for that thought to finally surface. When the last pieces of the character's history came together, I immediately knew what he wanted, and then what was stopping him from getting it, which would become the plot, became obvious as well. The story came together in about four hours (it's a rather short short story, although too fat to be flash fiction at around 1,500 words), and once I had the ending I went back and rewrote the beginning and the middle a couple more times over the next couple of hours. And now I'm done, if by done I mean that "Batman and Raven In Las Vegas" (the latest version of the title, and yes that's Raven, not Robin) is ready for one or more of my writer's groups to critique.

So how long does it take to write a short story? Four hours? Six hours with the rewrites? Forty days? (Not to mention however long it takes to get from this stage to become truly polished and ready to submit.)

Or Forever, for those fragments that never resurface?

That'll teach her not to ask me questions about writing.

Thanks for Reading,

Stephen

A Pilgrimage Back to the Future

Yesterday I finished reading Dan Chaon's short story collection STAY AWAKE - top notch modern literary fiction, the kind that's full of damaged individuals coming to disastrous endings.

Today, I started reading this:

Actually, what I'm doing is re-reading PILGRIMAGE, something I hardly ever do with books any more. But since the last time I read it was probably, oh, let's say at least forty years ago, I hope I can be excused.

PILGRIMAGE: The Book of the People, was written by Zenna Henderson (you can see the poor author's name in tiny print down in the bottom right hand corner). The paperback edition cost 50 cents, new, and is copyright 1961. This book is one of the few things we brought back to the condo from cleaning out my parent's house after my mother passed away.

PILGRIMAGE was one of the first non-children's science fiction books I ever read, the very first one being INVADERS OF RIGEL by Fletcher Pratt, which my mother bought for me at the hospital gift shop when I was having my tonsils out, and I'd already read all the comic books they had for sale. But while I have no idea what the plot of INVADERS was, I still have vivid memories of the caring, sensitive, not to mention telepathic and telekinetic, children and adults of PILGRIMAGE learning about their alien heritage, and their struggles to survive on a new world - ours. Life affirming science fiction.

At least, I hope I'm remembering that correctly. We'll see.

Thanks for Reading,

Stephen

A First World Problem

I own a lot of books. And I buy them faster than I read them.

That's the kind of statement which certainly can constitute a #humblebrag, that likely marks me as a member of the East Coast effete elite, and is no doubt a #firstworldproblem. (As is putting hashtags in something that's not actually on Twitter.)  I also think this is an occupational hazard of being a writer, at least one with a reasonable amount of disposable income to throw around, but maybe the rest of you are working the library card instead.

Perhaps a couple of pictures will help. A recent internet shopping expedition netted me these:

But I haven't read any of them yet. What I'm doing with this stack is simply adding it to the unread book pile, which consists of (primarily, but not completely) these two bookcases.

Let's do the math. I am currently reading at the rate of approximately four books a month. If I don't buy any more books, I still own enough to keep me busy for about the next... seven and a half years.

(Whew, I thought that was going to turn out worse than it did. Only seven and a half years? Maybe I need more Stephen King...)

So, why do I keep buying books? Am I angling to be featured in the next season of Horders?

Well, writers I know, love, and/or respect keep coming out with new books, God bless 'em. New writers (at least, new to me), do that too, and I hear good things about them. Because people whose opinions I respect recommend books to me. And I'm very omnivorous in my reading, so those shelves include fiction and non-fiction, literary and genre works, classics of the canon and graphic novels. I want to support all those writers in their efforts and, more selfishly, not miss out on the Next Good Thing.

I guess I COULD cut back.

...
..
.

Or maybe, maybe instead I can just Read Faster!

If I end this post now, I bet I can get in a chapter of THE EGYPTOLOGIST before bedtime...

Thanks for Reading,

Stephen

Dear Diary,

All the writing books say I should keep a Writing Journal. Exactly what they mean by that varies. A few sources seem to mean what I actually do, which is carry pen* and a notebook* pretty much everywhere, using them to jot down overheard conversations, ideas for fictional band names ("Chewy, Gummy Pearls" - from a menu description of bubble tea), character descriptions, and grand themes that I'm unlikely to interpret correctly if I ever actually try and generate fiction from the notebook's scraps (what did I mean by "Dystopia Utopia with Origami Cranes," anyway?).

Some authors, though, imply I should be writing for an hour or more in my journal every day, freewriting or else simply cataloging the day's activities, thoughts, and feelings much like, well, a diary. Really? Is anyone out there other than angsty freshmen psychology/literature dual majors doing this? Who has the time?

(And yes, I can make the obvious ironic connection between blogging and journaling myself, thank you.)

But maybe I should try. Sorry if I'm sounding snarky, Diary. I had a partial vitreous detachment in my left eye a couple of weeks ago, and I'm still not used to its residual effects. Blurry vision and floaters in that eye make it harder to read, write, and stare at computer screens large or small, with the bottom line watery eyes and a background headache after time served at the day job pretty much any given day. Things are supposed to settle in the eye, and I'm supposed to get accustomed to the floaters over time, but so far? Not so much. 

Anyway, Diary (may I call you Di?) I decided, why not take my eyes, my headaches, and my journal to a land filled with flashing lights, cigarette smoke, loud music, and copious other distractions and irritants, and spend a few days staring at a series of rapidly moving pasteboard cards for hours at a time? And, of course Di, I'll "journal" about it all (nudge, nudge, wink - ow, maybe not the winking).

Yes, this time next week I will be Tweeting (@sdorneman), Facebooking, and/or Blogging from Sin City, after a hiatus of more than a year. I've written before about how I find inspiration where others see only decadence. Time to recharge. Oh, and play some poker. Poooker. Lots of poker.

Di, thanks for listening. The rest of you?

Thanks for Reading,

Stephen

*I recommend the Pentel EnerGel with the 0.7mm metal tip, and Moleskine's squared journals in all their various sizes - this has been an unsolicited, unpaid endorsement. Although I wouldn't refuse a box of either of them.

Perfectly Useless

While I was looking at my upcoming calendar for the next couple of months today I became, somewhat inexplicably, both excited, and incredibly depressed. Weekends and evenings are filling up, and filling up with all sorts of wondrous and good things – writers group meetings (with two different groups) and writing seminars, gaming events (Dungeons & Dragons®, Magic the Gathering™, and a four-day trip to Las Vegas ♠), group parties and individual meet-ups for drinks and dinner, with friends both old and new, even a science fiction convention tentatively penciled in (Boskone - anyone else going?).

So the excited makes sense. But why the depressed?

Maybe it's my Lutheran upbringing. Too much fun is bad for you, and you certainly haven't earned it. Heck, why aren't you working a second job, if you have all that free time? Or maybe it's the fact that last year's heart attack brought home, in the biggest of ways, the fact that time is truly the only priceless commodity, and every hour spent doing any one thing is an hour that can't be spent doing something else. Like writing, say. Maybe blogging more often. Or reading, which could also include reading any of the three books purchased yesterday, or the two books bought today, in unsuccessful attempts to treat my mood with a little retail therapy.

Whatever it was, I'm getting over it now. My saving mantra? Life is indeed precious. In fact, it's too precious NOT to spend time doing things you enjoy, with people you love.

I'm still writing, in any case. Squeezing it in here and there. And that's painful hard work, that also happens to be immensely satisfying at the same time. Like much of life, I guess. But give up that nothing-but-fun stuff? Sorry, all you Lutheran Pastors that I forget the names of.

It's not gonna happen. Call me a sybarite if you must, and I'll pin that label proudly to my toga, while the buxom serving wench peels me another grape.

A wise man named Lin Yutang once wrote, "If you can spend a perfectly useless afternoon in a perfectly useless manner, you have learned how to live." And damn if Lin Yutang didn't happen to write 14 books in Chinese and over 30 books in English while in the process of living.

I haven't perfected living in a perfectly useless manner yet, but I'm going to get right on that. I'm penciling it in for Wednesday, between going to the gym and trivia night.

Thanks for reading,

Stephen