Still Harping on THAT BOOK

It surprised me with good intentions and then waylaid me with examples of the "big" novels that I've never read. I'm not as widely read as I thought...and I'm embarrassed to say that I did read one of the examples because of the pink dress on the cover. It wasn't one that I enjoyed and I didn't keep reading the rest of the author's books. Still, the pink dress was lovely.

At least I've come to realize that in taste and inclination, I'm not a novelist. There is something in the best novelists that is interested in the wide and deep, the currency with which we pay for modernity or for whatever time in which we live. A novelist doesn't let cost or fears or other restrictions prevent her traveling or her listening in at Starbucks and watching the entire ebb and flow of a day. She relinquishes the structures of control to the extent that she rides the rails of the time or the place and the characters without steering them. This is a habit of perception that is not native to me, nor do I anticipate that it will become so.

Minor quibbles pile up--how often do I pick up a modern novel and become exhausted by the pace or by the way the author keeps beating up on his main character? If I disagree with your taste do I disagree with your premise? Do I want to read about a flawed, damaged, weatherbeaten character for a break? Maybe. Sometimes. However, I don't want to write them.

The Thing That Everybody Wants

Every meeting for the past couple of weeks, someone in my writer's group throws another log on the fire. Another "should," another rule, another "thing a novel must do." Add the pressure of every swallowed rebuttal, and this wisdom has turned to ash and coal without further transformation. What do these rules violate to the point of fury? For me, they call to mind Harrison Bergeron. I imagine narratives chained to the taste and preference of "everyone," forced to fill the engineered channel of a billion copies sold. Therefore, I , too, would be forced to choose from only those books in that same flat, wide channel.

This, of course, is foolishness. There are plenty of novels and short stories that are different, that don't follow a particular course. And there is no lack within the group, either, of fascinating stories. In fact, my reading has never been broader since I worked on my English degree. Even so, I am not every reader. My tastes veer sharply away from apocalyptic fiction, from blood and horror, from the cruelties that are part of humanity. I can't forego that, because they are my inheritance and humanity as well. Laziness and fear and the cowardice of action...these I couldn't avoid whether novelized or not. And then there are tropes, such as those of a romance, that lead to and from 'love' or 'treasure' on tracks no less stiff than those of your average rail yard. These, however, are my preferences only. They are important to me in selecting books, but not to a generic rule in fostering widescale enjoyment (not exactly a world-domination style evil goal, either).

I don't like rules for novels because my reading preferences are perhaps percentagewise not in the vast majority or even in the simple majority at times. Regardless of my own writing and my desire to become published, my stronger desire is to read and to have the opportunity to read those things that force their way into MY soul. Things that have not been flattened by the "should."

Good Parts of the Garden

It's the change of another season here--a few days that have previewed the heat of summer and a thunderstorm or two as well. Spring flowers (sweet peas, bluebonnets) have faded, leaving the blue to a few tiny Bachelor's Buttons that are just now coming up.

The Peruvian lily (left) is blooming, along with the Easter lilies. For some reason this year, the stalks are fairly short, a foot or so in most cases. I don't know what the vine behind the lily and to the left is. It came up in the same pot as the miniature pine tree and is slowly twisting its way between the other pots. So far, it hasn't bloomed and doesn't seem to be looking for a support, just running.

One miniature sunflower has come up, but it was covered in ants today. Too bad the zoo won't rent out anteaters. Most of the rest of the beds are covered in between-season weeds and the remnants of pansies. The sweet peas are slowly(!!) setting seed. This wasn't a perfect year for them, although they have now naturalized in part of the yard. More fertilizer and next year they should be better.

I'm hoping the bat-faced cuphea (left) will be around for the entire summer. This year it has a pot mostly to itself (except for that dark pink-spot plant). There is a double version of this at Home Depot that I am trying to resist--but I'm not sure if I'll be able to. It doesn't have the little faces, but the red frills run all the way around the purple tube.

I'm thinking about adding a pot of lilies, including the seeds that have sprouted on my windowsill, the Easter lilies that are escaping the brick border in the yard, the amaryllis seeds I brought from LJ, and possibly one of the Peruvian lilies if some of the other plants in the pot take over. That way, I'll have only spot that needs a heavy dose of water during the summer and I can move that closer to the house. If I do that, I may move some of the (never) blooming irises into a pot next door and beg for a fountain from the Master of All Household Improvements. This could be the year he gets his firepit...

The Special World

Skunk smell lingers in the corner by the gate and the dog races to the yellow leaves falling golden behind the fence. Here in the Special World, drops fall like footsteps in the green between the fences. A careful nose discerns hidden roots and a persistent set of puppy teeth uproots those slender wooden interlopers from the no-man's-land between the fences. There are other dogs behind the higher wooden fences, but I can't see them. Our office puppy can hear them, though. Like the birds and squirrels that creep and race through the shade in this corner of the yard, she is curious about their smell and their sounds. We remain here for a few minutes, glancing back at the back corner of the low building. It seems further away from us than it should, separated by a blank concrete pad that I could cross in five strides. When it rains again this afternoon, the bushes and trees will gossip in that percolating rhythm of water running down to the soft grass.

***

I have sinusitus of the writing lobe, the kind of blockage that begs for antihistamines and sleep. To keep that myself minimally active, I've been reading how-to books, starting with The Writer's Journey. It's both informative and precious, which is a perfect combination to keep me reading and goad me to stop and just get on with it. Just a few more pages and no more excuses...right?

Even the Gas Stations

Even the gas stations are beautfiul in The Woodlands. Under a generous
canopy, over the low top of the car, I can see 7-foot while oleanders,
topped by bright green oaks, and threaded and capped by pines. Against
the blunt, infinite blue the pines look dirty. There is nothing but
birds in the trees, maybe squirrels. Nothing to fathom in the blank
blue. Part of me expects to see a title scrolling across the sky, displaying the title of the next episode.

I just realized the sky was Brady Bunch blue.

Somehow, the conference call, the office dog, and the rest of it make more sense. Now, if only someone would hand me a script and the laugh track, we'd be good.

Lazy Weekend/3rd Draft Blues

It’s late, hours late for lunch, and my stomach is dreaming of edible art. One drumstick, fried, and one scoop of potatoes, glazed with translucent brown gravy. My mouth, agrees, thinking of the soft liquid salt of the gravy and the thick grainy cream of the potatoes. A single crunch through the thin skin and the soft meat beneath. Just enough food to taste, the way I used to get it on vacation with my grandmother. I don’t remember the restaurant; just that it was attached to a shop, like a mall or a strip center. It was dark, a cave of things Texan. And the genie of the cave, the spirit of that wide dark space, served fried chicken and mashed potatoes like a treasure on heavy plastic plates. No grease to the meat and stiff potatoes, real starch, like the uniforms must have had pressed into them.

I went from meal to meal when I was younger. Missing a meal left me shaky and sick, as did sleeping in the middle of the day. My physical schedule had a primacy that has left me, years later, with a general inflation of being as my metabolism has ceased its frenetic demands. That anxiety, the where, when, how of what it is to come, has been replaced by the demands of writing. Where shall I find a space to write? On this desk in which the papers and photos creep ever closer to the keyboard? When shall I write? During the morning, during work, in the crawl spaces of time during the day? How shall I write? As a fantasist, spinning cotton candy threads in place of good stiff Texas cotton?

The latest short story, Poolside, is on its third round of revisions. It's cotton candy rather sturdy denim. While I was driving home thinking about something else, it came out of nowhere, based on one glimpse of a gross pool many decades ago while on vacation. We didn’t stay at that hotel—a stressful peak in a much-delayed homecoming for my mother. Somehow, the memory encysted itself in that tension and now is a small narrative.

I haven’t worked on it every day, but I can feel a tiny knot of tension whenever I sit down the computer or pick up book and this is the intention to go back to the story. The story; however, is not important. While working on this story, I’ve either picked up or started to read books that I’ve had on writing and on the meaning behind the tropes and actions in fairy tales and fantasy in preparation for working on my novel. It’s overwhelming to think about all the things one has to do to make a psychologically truthful, eminently saleable book.

So, the short story lingers in the back of the desk, a small knot of tension that has no grand plot, not much to recommend it. It lurks, like a small animal, in the safety of the darkness, where the sharp beaks of point-of-view shifts can’t chew it up and spit out 3rd person bones, clean of narrative intrusion. I keep reading. A bigger animal will eventually become restless, and I will leap on the novel with all the sharp insight of a dozen books on writing and then we shall see what kind of structure it will leave.

Tomatoes in April

Well, after weeks of sitting on the driveway and staring at us as we came and went, the tomato plants have been moved to the backyard. Since I neglected to pull off the first set of blossoms, there are even teeny tomatoes on one of the plants. This is all to the good, because I'm looking forward to roasted tomatoes & feta and to curried tomato soup. After the stories about rice hoarding last week, I'm thinking we should have picked some additional veggies to the tomatoes for the garden. Not much space, though.

In addition to gardening, I've switched over from a sci-fi blog (the former Blisterpack Aliens) to a more fantasy-oriented one. This way, I have no excuse not to write at least one snippet a week. So far, there are only two official posts. It's hard to remain interested in a relatively quiet blog (note the gap in these posts). Actually, the consistent writing schedule is proving very difficult.

Anyway, this is just going to be brief--hopefully pics of sweet peas for next time.