Hooray for Me!

Today's goals are simple:

1. Write this—Seems straightforward enough and achievable, especially since I've decided to make a list rather than assemble paragraphs.
   
2. Slap together a quick book review—Something more profound than “I liked it” would be good (although “I liked it” is an accurate assessment).
   
3. Work on the novel.
   
   1. Clean up yesterday's mess—I don't even know where to start, but then I never know where to start, which is a good place to start.
      
   2. Move forward with today's mess—You could define a writer as someone who makes a mess and then tries to clean it up, and not be far from the truth.
      
4. Edit someone else's article—This is hard for me because an actual person wrote the words and probably loves them more than I do.
   
5. Go to the gym—Technically I'm just driving my wife, so this is a gimme; I get to read a book.
   
6. Record a podcast—Talk into a microphone and have someone else record it; the hard part is having something interesting to say, which is the hard part of many things in life.
   
7. Put bottles of beer in the refrigerator—This is actually homebrew that isn't quite ready but that I want to test as a reference point so I can hopefully learn how to do it better next time.
   
8. Watch baseball—I haven't checked the schedule yet, don't know if this is even possible; might watch Star Trek instead, which wouldn't be the worst thing.
   

Eight goals seems like a lot, but I think I can do it. I'll need to give 110% and catch a few breaks, and possibly indulge in a few more sports clichés, but it's still early... there's plenty of time. And hey, I've just finished the first goal. Hooray for me!

Revising

They say that the only writing is rewriting, and although I believe this to be true, I also find it more than a little problematic. For example, a scene I'm working on now reveals information that shouldn't be revealed until later. It needs to be earned by both the characters and the reader. If it appears too early it feels like cheating.

This is all well and good, except for one thing. Now where the hell do I put it? Other scenes are contingent on this scene, and the information revealed here leads to other actions. Moving things around disrupts cause and effect, as they currently exist.

The challenge, then, becomes one of making slight (or not so slight) modifications to cause and effect. Sounds easy enough in Chapter 1, but what happens in Chapter 31, when all the dominoes I'd originally lain at the beginning are now in different places? I'll tell you what happens: probably something different from what I'd envisioned way back when.

Revising is literally re-envisioning. It's seeing things a different way. When the son returns, a stranger in his own home, maybe the neighbors mention his prolonged absence. Great idea, now I need to add neighbors into the story. Their world just became more complex and richer for it. I just gave myself more work to do.

Does the mother react a certain way because that's how she would react, or does she do so because I want the plot to advance? If I'm honest about it, which I must be, it's the latter. The only problem there is that such reaction is complete bullshit and topples the remaining dominoes. Nobody, least of all me, will care what happens after her forced reaction.

Her reaction will be forced either way, it just shouldn't feel like it.

Compliment to No One

Some days you just stare at shit like an outsider, like some half-crazed thing that doesn't understand how the world works. You stop at the wrong place in the wrong part of town on your way to some other place you don't really want to be.

The universe feels out of sync and it's not your fault. And as you stare at shit, you realize that blame isn't even part of the equation, not that this realization helps matters. It just adds another dimension to your staring.

“What's good here?” You're looking at the menu, she's looking at you like it's 8 a.m. and she wants to go home, which it is and she does.

“Pretty much nothing.”

“Okay, I'll have that.”

She doesn't crack a smile, probably hasn't in years. How did she get here? Not only the physical location but the mental state? Both are troubled places that would break the best of them, which he doubted she ever was.

“Say again?” she says. Fast, too.

“Two eggs over medium, side of bacon, black coffee.”

She takes your menu and walks away without a word.

A bell rings as the front door opens. An older gentleman with silver stubble and a trucker hat ambles in. You're surprised he ever left. He takes a seat without waiting, just takes it. He isn't the sort who waits, he's done that enough in life. Waitress is already pouring him coffee before his ass hits the chair.

You keep staring at shit. Paper napkin and mostly clean utensils scattered in front of you like some four-year-old set the table. You still don't want to go where you need to go, although this place makes it seem more appealing. It's a compliment to no one, least of all you.

The Bird Flies Off

Another challenge is knowing what to cut. How much of a thing can be removed without destroying its inherent truth? One answer, which is probably more accurate than helpful, is as much as possible.

Then it becomes a question of particles, of breaking down a work on an atomic level. What belongs and what is merely scaffolding used to find the part that belongs? It's impossible to know until that scaffolding has been lain and examined.

* * *

There was a passage describing the lead character's band. It isn't horrible, but it doesn't exactly belong. It explains a situation that might not need explaining, at least not there and then. Maybe later on, when we're in the middle of some other scene, it will come up naturally. So for now it sits in a bin marked “This might come in handy at some point, or not.”

Snappy name for a bin, no?

* * *

Also, how do we delineate time? Is it always a forward progression, or can there be back and forth movement like waves in the ocean, pushing and pulling? Think of brush strokes on canvas. A sense of contiguity comes from discrete parts that form the illusion of a unified object.

* * *

Meanwhile, this bird keeps perching atop a pine tree in the backyard. Is it the same bird every time? Who can know such things?

* * *

Questions keep coming, which is a good thing. Without those, there is no need for answers. Without a need for answers, there is no reason to keep going. Without a reason to keep going... well, you see the problem there.

The bird flies off, then returns. It keeps coming back, like so many questions. This might come in handy at some point, or not.

Like Any Other Day

It was a day like any other day, and Anthony dreamt of being anywhere but here. A train could take him places he'd never been.

“All aboard!” cried the conductor.

Anthony stared at the train, then at the concrete beneath his feet as the engine roared, the horn sounded, and everyone onboard made their way toward brighter destinations.

Not today, Anthony, he told himself. Not today.

* * *

They were going to the ballpark. He'd planned to leave her there. The plan didn't make much sense, nor did he know whether he could follow through with it. He wanted to be free and yet feared what freedom might bring.

* * *

There's an episode of Star Trek where water makes people crazy. It's a horrifying thought. The idea that something we depend on could precipitate (so to speak) our demise is difficult to swallow (so to speak). Also, the acting on that show is so over the top. Those were different times.

* * *

Water flows. Today ideas are not flowing. It's a day like any other day, when I dream of being anywhere but here. My brain is the train. “All aboard!” it cries, but the coffee hasn't kicked in yet. Projects are my destinations, and there are many to visit.

* * *

A crow lands atop a pine tree outside my window, sits for a few seconds, then flies off to destinations of its own. Everyone is busy in life, until they aren't. Then others take over the work.

* * *

We were drinking mead and talking about college. Those days seem impossibly far away now, and yet the train of our imaginations can still take us there. We can sit there for a few seconds before flying off to other places.

Leave Space for Collaboration

Second drafts are curious beasts. You relive the original telling of the tale and see the overwhelming number of flaws. If you're lucky, somewhere along the way you remember why you fell in love with your characters.

For my current project, it took me getting 95 percent of the way through to reach that point. Then I remembered why I loved them. And I realized that, although they end up where they belong, I hate the way they got there.

This is my fault, of course, but that's the beauty of drafts. I can go back and fix the flaws. Not fix them, exactly, but reshape them so that the whole constitutes a more plausible truth. The characters need to earn their place, even if that place is where they ultimately belong.

Petty conflicts won't suffice. These are real people who need to suffer more for my art. They deserve better challenges and obstacles to overcome, so that the conclusion of their story is satisfying.

* * *

I'm listening to Tycho, a chillwave band from San Francisco. It's evocative in the way I like music to be and also the way I like storytelling to be. I appreciate when artists leave space for those of us taking it in to collaborate by filling in the blanks.

Less analytically, their music takes me to a place that I cannot find on any map nor define in my mind. It's a mind-altering sonic drug.

* * *

In my next draft, I need to not only reshape the path these characters take so they end up where they belong by earning their way but also remove the obvious parts. Readers should love my characters the way I do, and the only way that can happen is if I leave space for collaboration.

I'll Stare at Maps

I'll stare at maps for hours. It goes back to when I was a kid. I'd grab any map I could find and study it. Not that I was going anywhere, but those roads and highways let me dream of going somewhere.

I have an atlas of the United States that I flip through almost daily. It gives me a peaceful, easy feeling, as the Eagles might say. Which roads have I traveled? Which would I like to travel? What towns would I like to visit?

Sometimes I'll follow an interstate across the country. Or because interstates are mainstream and kind of boring, I'll follow the U.S. highways, whose paths are less predictable and pass through more obscure locations.

I'm drawn to the obscure. Ask people to name a place in California and most will say Los Angeles or San Francisco, maybe San Diego if they remember it's not part of Mexico. I'm more likely to think of spots I've visited that have memories attached: Adin, Bishop, Bodega Bay, Cayucos, Sea Ranch.

It requires effort to reach such places. You have to want to be there, or at least want to travel the remote roads that pass through those small towns full of potential memories. Whether it be almost running out of gas in the middle of nowhere, buying pastries at a family bakery, chatting with a kind woman and her dog who doesn't like hats, strolling along a wooden pier, or taking in a spectacular view of the ocean from high atop bluffs, each has a deeply personal story that started as a point on the map.

I may not go everywhere I'd like to go, but I'll never stop dreaming. I'll keep plotting trips. Some I might take, others will only be in my mind. I'll stare at maps.