Write, that is. Did okay for a day or so, but once that habit is gone, you're fighting inertia to get it back. I do, however, have plenty of reading material, so that's okay. Somehow, though, getting out of one good habit has led to challenges in others. Instead of finishing up my filing, I'm reading the a fascinating Firefly novel by Steven Brust (free from his website), compiled lectures from Joseph Campbell (blame EVERYTHING on Oedipus), and maybe a few other novels tucked in just for interest. One book is tempting me to raise geckos by telling about the author's struggles to raise ravens. I assume that geckos live on something other than roadkill and that they would adhere instead to a mutually beneficial de-bugging diet. I could crochet little leashes from embroidery thread and name them after cars (Chrysler, Mercedes, Cooper).
Why geckos? First, they already know how to get in the house. I think they are living under or around the stove, which no longer functions all that well and whose digital readout is going blank one glowing link at a time. I expect that it will eventually go completely blank, at which time I will realize that I can see through the plastic and that I'm staring at the Gecko Central. Perhaps then the entire gas range will blast off for kitchens unknown, crewed by largly translucent and completely silent sticky-fingered lizards who have grown tired of dealing with doors hidden by dog fur and large loud bipeds who slam plastic cones over them and toss them out into the humid darkness.
I imagine the entire sordid routine will be illustrated by the National Enquirer by way of Aardman Studios.
Sigh. And I still have writer's block that chimes to the clicking of the Eskie's toenails as he paces his room in confusion. Good night.
Monday, July 07, 2008
Friday, June 20, 2008
First, You Must Become As The Slamming Wind
On the way up from LJ this afternoon it poured. We knew it would be a hairy few minutes when we could see that the trees by the side of the road looked like they were in a shower, water coming down so hard it raised a mist around everything it pelted itself against. Thankfully, the person in front of us was a smart driver and we managed to make it through the worst of the rain going at a sober (not highway) speed. Most of the rest of the way it was clear, although it's thundering outside now and has been off and on since we returned.
The retriever believes this is a sign that he must crawl as close as possible to me and he braved the inflatable mattress pile (perfect height for filing and for meditating and for avoiding having a retriever sit on one) that he formerly found too wobbly. Last Wednesday, he'd wedged himself between the wall and an upright treadmill when it thundered while I was out. I spent several minutes searching for him only to end up in the other dog's room staring at one pitiful brown eye peeking out. It looked like we'd carelessly stuffed a dog in with the rest of our stuff. To get out (not as easy as getting in), there was another inflatable obstacle (exercise ball), a box of hanging folders (stuffed full), a night stand with lamp, and a couch. It was like watching dog ninja trials.
So, thunder turns Dog of the Thousand Naps into Dog of the Ninja Balance. It even, if you can believe it, makes him thinner. How did he get behind the treadmill?
The retriever believes this is a sign that he must crawl as close as possible to me and he braved the inflatable mattress pile (perfect height for filing and for meditating and for avoiding having a retriever sit on one) that he formerly found too wobbly. Last Wednesday, he'd wedged himself between the wall and an upright treadmill when it thundered while I was out. I spent several minutes searching for him only to end up in the other dog's room staring at one pitiful brown eye peeking out. It looked like we'd carelessly stuffed a dog in with the rest of our stuff. To get out (not as easy as getting in), there was another inflatable obstacle (exercise ball), a box of hanging folders (stuffed full), a night stand with lamp, and a couch. It was like watching dog ninja trials.
So, thunder turns Dog of the Thousand Naps into Dog of the Ninja Balance. It even, if you can believe it, makes him thinner. How did he get behind the treadmill?
Friday, June 06, 2008
Word Count
This is just a folderol that serves to exemplify word count. We are reading or typing, eating or snoozing or staring out at the Long Distance, our coats full and poofed in the cool shadows of the living room or his study.
Working thus, we are examining the silver grey afternoon light that should be hot and gold, dropped through the windows like pikes from the bare sky. Today, however, there are clouds. We have hoped for rain and we have received a bit of it, but not enough to do more that evaporate from the driveway and the street so that it looks clean but not wet.
Like ourselves after a shower, the hard ground betrays little of the water so lately poured over it, but the grass, like hair, keeps a few drops close to its roots. More showers may intervene. I am happy for the clouds and the coolness.
One dog has disappeared to his food. The other lays behind me, taking his food in crumbles from the bowls, grinding it by gulpful while looking at me. Why do I glance at him? Why does the reader chuckle to himself, deep in another scene that relates to neither the food nor the stares?
I glance back to see him, to make sure that the food is filling him and that he has not stopped because of the pain of old teeth or the lack of savour of the food shaped and consumed like dirt clods in his bowl. There is other food, softer food, that will appear later in the evening. He may not find much of that, however. At least the water is gentle and the bowl is full.
The break that is formed by the writing helps the words that have been read to find their places in my head. If they are not to remain they will drain out, perhaps in rhythms of typing or speech and then be gone. If they are to stay, they will wait to peer out during the writing that I will sometimes do.
In fact, this count of words itself is in service to that other writing, the writing that is intended for more eyes than those that are variously watching these appear or closed against the brightness. That writing has gone underground and has not found the ground or the slope or the hill from which it can filter again.
The fiction table has dropped and little stories flop about and wait for edits or for new ideas. Given enough time, they will silt into the filing cabinets and will be brought forth in time, relics of ideas that sparked against a particular moment and failed to catch.
Have any caught in recent memory? No, I don’t believe so. Some have been placed on paper but then I began this bout of reading. There were stacks and stacks of books that waited for me and once I pulled one from the tower it was as if I’d pulled a knocker on a gate that swung only one way—inward.
Inside the gate are stories of every hue, biography, fiction, literate short stories and silly fairy stories, half-done stories and full-grown ones. Between them and within them stretch hours cramped into a chair, neck folded almost to my chest so that I could see the words even after I had grown weary of holding that same head upright.
Some books were finished with relief. Biographies, we know they end like the classics, in death. The material of a life, however, runs in odd places and through the commonalities of time and away from them until you are within, not the skin, but the distant circle of the subject. At least, if the biographer is good and the person has come and gone in living memory. Relief, then, is not in coming to the end but in coming back to your life, to a little less of it, in which to act.
Relief comes also at the end of this exercise, as the margins of this page filled with ragged and indented thoughts delimit what might generously be done daily—693 words.
Working thus, we are examining the silver grey afternoon light that should be hot and gold, dropped through the windows like pikes from the bare sky. Today, however, there are clouds. We have hoped for rain and we have received a bit of it, but not enough to do more that evaporate from the driveway and the street so that it looks clean but not wet.
Like ourselves after a shower, the hard ground betrays little of the water so lately poured over it, but the grass, like hair, keeps a few drops close to its roots. More showers may intervene. I am happy for the clouds and the coolness.
One dog has disappeared to his food. The other lays behind me, taking his food in crumbles from the bowls, grinding it by gulpful while looking at me. Why do I glance at him? Why does the reader chuckle to himself, deep in another scene that relates to neither the food nor the stares?
I glance back to see him, to make sure that the food is filling him and that he has not stopped because of the pain of old teeth or the lack of savour of the food shaped and consumed like dirt clods in his bowl. There is other food, softer food, that will appear later in the evening. He may not find much of that, however. At least the water is gentle and the bowl is full.
The break that is formed by the writing helps the words that have been read to find their places in my head. If they are not to remain they will drain out, perhaps in rhythms of typing or speech and then be gone. If they are to stay, they will wait to peer out during the writing that I will sometimes do.
In fact, this count of words itself is in service to that other writing, the writing that is intended for more eyes than those that are variously watching these appear or closed against the brightness. That writing has gone underground and has not found the ground or the slope or the hill from which it can filter again.
The fiction table has dropped and little stories flop about and wait for edits or for new ideas. Given enough time, they will silt into the filing cabinets and will be brought forth in time, relics of ideas that sparked against a particular moment and failed to catch.
Have any caught in recent memory? No, I don’t believe so. Some have been placed on paper but then I began this bout of reading. There were stacks and stacks of books that waited for me and once I pulled one from the tower it was as if I’d pulled a knocker on a gate that swung only one way—inward.
Inside the gate are stories of every hue, biography, fiction, literate short stories and silly fairy stories, half-done stories and full-grown ones. Between them and within them stretch hours cramped into a chair, neck folded almost to my chest so that I could see the words even after I had grown weary of holding that same head upright.
Some books were finished with relief. Biographies, we know they end like the classics, in death. The material of a life, however, runs in odd places and through the commonalities of time and away from them until you are within, not the skin, but the distant circle of the subject. At least, if the biographer is good and the person has come and gone in living memory. Relief, then, is not in coming to the end but in coming back to your life, to a little less of it, in which to act.
Relief comes also at the end of this exercise, as the margins of this page filled with ragged and indented thoughts delimit what might generously be done daily—693 words.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
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."
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."
Saturday, May 17, 2008
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...
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
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?
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