The language of another field

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The perils of working (forever) in tech-related jobs. What I wrote:
“He pointed at the spam immediately to the right of the door.”
What I meant to write:
“He pointed at the stack immediately to the right of the door.”
Regular spellcheck is not going to catch that, so today’s tip is not to rely solely on that particular function.

Fun times

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It’s good to feel really jazzed about writing again, instead of viewing it through the lens of discouragement proffered by those who have their own issues they want to make another’s.

Currently reading

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I’m currently reading The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin. I’d read some piece of it way back in the day – for school, of course – and Franklin was an interesting guy living in most interesting times. The thought of having to be on a boat for three days (in a storm) to go less than 200 miles must seem incredibly strange to the youngest generation today, but I can picture it in my eye just fine. People tend to focus on one thing only – “Why didn’t he just ride a horse?”, for instance – and forget that things like roads were also not then what they are now, and the boat, even with the slight delay of a storm, would be faster than horses, which would need to be fed and rested, and so on.

I found this passage, where Franklin displays some regional bias, very amusing.

“There was another bookish lad in the town, John Collins by name, with whom I was intimately acquainted. We sometimes disputed, and very fond we were of argument, and very desirous of confuting one another, which disputatious turn, by the way, is apt to become a very bad habit, making people often extremely disagreeable in company by the contradiction that is necessary to bring it into practice; and thence, besides souring and spoiling the conversation, is productive of disgusts and, perhaps enmities where you may have occasion for friendship. I had caught it by reading my father’s books of dispute about religion. Persons of good sense, I have since observed, seldom fall into it, except lawyers, university men, and men of all sorts that have been bred at Edinborough.”

It seems Franklin did not think much of the men of Edinborough.


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I had, almost two months ago now, given myself the goal of completing a first draft of the manuscript banging the most around in my head by the last day of June (starting at the first of April). What did I write between that first day and now? Nothing. Well, that is not entirely accurate: I did jot some scene-related things down on a few index cards, which will serve as my chapter guides. They are easy to rearrange if there’s a need to do it, so it’s functional as well as informative. I wrote five of them. The sixth is staring me in the face, with “chapter 6” at the top. This doesn’t mean the others will go in direct order first through five, but I took this as a positive step toward killing – or at least maiming – my demons and working myself into the fray of word-slinging.

Last year, I had written the opening chapter of this manuscript. It’s been sitting on a thumb drive, and just now, I resurrected it, did a couple of light editing things, and added some more content and context to it. 

It is frightening. Not the book – there are many more very real and frightening things in the real world – but the mental part of making one’s way through the tentacles that threaten to grab you by the ankle and pull you down under the water to drown you in a sea of self-doubt and not-good-enough-itis. My hands are, quite literally, shaking right now that the writing is done. But I am thinking this will get better the more I am able to punch away at the walls built over so many years, graffiti covering them with sneering commentary. The demons may still be there forever, but as long as they continue to shrink, much like Alice, each day will not be an epic battle, but more like swatting the occasional annoying fly away.

Here’s to more days of productivity, and creating a viable routine that will get me through from page one to “the end”.

Growth. Or not.

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I can do without the god stuff at number eight, but number four….number four is my personal demon. It’s a voice that dates back decades thanks to – cover your eyes if you’re averse to foul language – a manipulative, condescending, hypercritical, alcoholic, emotionally abusive douchebag. Amazingly enough, although I thought I had put that person behind me, I realized while pulling weeds that the root of all of that gut-churning angst was those (formative, vulnerable) years growing up in a household with that constant hammering. They – the “they” we all know and love/hate – say the first step to tackling a problem is learning to identify the problem. It works in the tech world, in writing, in just living from one day to the next. The second step: working a way out. That’s the step that needs to be taken, the puzzle that needs a solution.

Nine Ways to Stunt Our Writing Growth

A glimpse into the past

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I just reread something I wrote two years ago, almost to the day. A scrap of a fragment on an old drive that now serves as an archive, sitting with a half dozen or so other scraps. I have to admit to my horrifically self-doubting self that if I came across this as someone else’s work, I would deem it quite good. It’s a nice surprise.

On writing

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If you would not be forgotten as soon as you are dead and rotten, either write something worth reading or do things worth the writing.
Benjamin Franklin

Getting out of your own way

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I know, I know: updates are sporadic. However, this is the busy season at the ranch, with things to plant and tend, and beehive management to keep the girls in line.

One thing I have done, for this quarter (April through June) is make a goal: get a first draft completed on the first book of the series. I was thinking about this the other day in relation to the beekeeping things that were taking up chunks of my time. I’m perfectly willing to go all out and try to capture a swarm, for instance. Is it necessary that I catch them? No. I have a bunch of other hives that losing one swarm is not a huge deal. Does it reflect poorly on me if I’m not able to catch them, or make them stay if I do catch them? No. Am I self-conscious about having people see me all suited up, working with the bees? Not really. So, my challenge is to apply those things to my writing, instead of thinking everything I write sucks when I know the only person who really thinks that is me – others have read snippets and were positive about them.

That is the conundrum, my small, but faithful, group of readers: how to convince myself that the writing is a challenge just like working the bees is, or working the gardens is, and that even though writing is a very personal thing (to me), that voice/guard needs to be firmly but gently moved out of the way so I can get on with things that need to get out of my head and on the (figurative) paper.

Bad advice

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Or perhaps, should I say in this particular case, misguided advice.

I came across something about “five rules writers should keep in mind when writing their first sentence/opening” in my wanderings. Rules for art itself are, in my mind, immediately suspicious. After all, art is subjective and writing, like any other, is no different. I’m not talking about nuts and bolts basics. Of course you should be able to spellcheck. Of course you should ensure your grammar is appropriate. These are not the sorts of rules the author of the aforementioned item was referring to, although one of her items was, to me, spot on: that of not opening a novel or short story with the main character looking in a mirror or waking up to an alarm clock (unless, as I’ve mentioned before, if the character did not believe they would wake up at all) and then following the character around as they do the mundane things people do after waking. I’d add another leg to this rule, and say starting off with a weather report if the weather is inconsequential is a bad idea.

Of the other four, three did not stick with me, and I’m not sufficiently interested to go hunt the thing down to refresh my brain – I’m quite certain there are many, many posts/blogs/videos about exactly the same thing. The fourth, though, did. The rule was never to start a novel with dialogue.

I absolutely disagree with this one. If the story needs to start with dialogue – explicit or internal – and if it isn’t more of the banal nonsense that usually follows the alarm clock opening, then it needs to do that. We are not interested in someone asking another person what they want for breakfast and the other person suggesting oatmeal, with the entire preparation and eating of said oatmeal described by the characters for pages on end. Oatmeal for breakfast doesn’t cut it. Rat burgers for breakfast would. It doesn’t need to be that extreme, naturally, but if a novel opens with dialogue it should deliver a package of curiosity for the reader to open. It should draw them into a conversation with the world and the people the writer has created and make them want to know more. I’m fairly surprised the “no dialogue” person doesn’t seem to realize just how many books – and not just any books, but classics – open with dialogue, either of the explicit/external or the internal variety.

I dreamed I went to Manderly again – Rebecca (Daphne DuMaurier)

This is considered one of the best opening lines of any novel, and rightfully so. Who could read this and not be interested in knowing what the character is talking about. What or where is Manderly? Why does the speaker say “again”? Was it a good or bad experience? We read on because we want answers to these questions. Maybe it will hold our attention, maybe not, but the first line does its job well.

If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don’t feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth. –  Catcher in the Rye (JD Salinger)

Another fine example. We know the speaker wants to tell us a story, but wants to skip all the crap and cut to the chase, leaving out the things that would likely be both boring and irrelevant to that story.

Call me Ishmael. – Moby Dick (Herman Melville)


“Well,” you might say, “the author of that five rules piece didn’t mean internal dialogue opening the book, but someone actually saying things. What do  you think about that rule now?”

I think exactly the same thing.

“We need you to kill a man.” – The Cat Who Walks Through Walls (Robert Heinlein)

“I’ve watched through his eyes, I’ve listened through his ears, and I tell you he’s the one. Or at least as close as we’re going to get.” – Ender’s Game (Orson Scott Card)

In both of these, we have no idea who the speaker is, who they’re talking about, or anything else. I do not, however, see anything wrong with these starts. They would make me read on to find out what’s going on.

There is an implicit promise to the reader that things will be made clear after this, and the writer had better follow up on that, but I can’t see anything wrong with starting a book with dialogue if it is done well. The problem with starting in this way is the same problem as starting in any other way: if it’s done badly, and the writer does not hold up their end of the bargain, it really doesn’t matter what the opening is, because the reader will stop caring if the writer does not get down to business and they’ll move along to another book. That would be the only reason to not begin with dialogue. The only thing all this harping on not starting with dialogue has done for me is a vow to start every book in one particular series I have in mind with dialogue. Who doesn’t love a challenge?


Reading versus watching

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Stephen King — ‘Books and movies are like apples and oranges. They both are fruit, but taste completely different.’

This is true. It’s also true that sometimes the apple you bite into is mushy and full of worms, or the orange has gotten blight or froze on the tree before it was picked, something you don’t notice until you’ve already had a few bites.

It is rare (in my opinion, of course) that a movie does an accurate or even a passing job of both hanging on to the original story and being good. Often, it does one or the other well, and rarely both. And sometimes, both the book and the movie are dreadful – the only consistency that exists as it relates to that title. Authors don’t generally have control over adaptations to their work, and I grasp this.

There are exceptions, of course. King would know, given the number of movies made from his books or novellas. Some of the movies are quite bad (Maximum Overdrive), some could be better with better casting (The Shining – Jack Nicholson looked crazy right from the beginning, which kind of spoils his devolvement into madness at the Overlook), and at least one is fantastic (The Shawshank Redemption). Does this mean no books should ever be made into movies? Of course not. I would suggest, though, that if you do see a movie based on a book, you should also read the book if that is at all possible. In some cases, at least for me, I have started, but not been able to finish, those books.

Example: Forrest Gump. The movie was quite good. I found the book to be simplistic pap. The Bridges of Madison County was a passable movie, but again, the book I found to be unreadable.

More recently – and by that, I mean today – I watched Divergent, which is based on the novel of the same name by Veronica Roth. I know, I’m behind the times, but I’m okay with that. The movie was not bad, inasmuch as it’s aimed more toward the teenager crowd. Some cliches here and there (the class, or faction in this case, bully; it just happens that the two people in Dauntless who happen to be Divergent are a woman and a man who happen to fall for one another; one of them is turned against the other but saved by love in the end, and so on) but overall, not a completely terrible movie. So, I decided I should probably read the book, which is my thing to do if I’ve seen the movie first.

I am not a fan of first person narratives. Or of present tense. The book has both. That knocked it down slightly in my head as I started reading, but I got past the urge to purge it from my Fire and kept reading. It also is not terrible, at least not to chapter thirteen, which is where I am currently in reading. The same sorts of cliches, but thus far, the movie is fairly true to the book, so that sort of cancels out the first person, present tense issue a tad.

What’s the point of all this?  As I said above, don’t just watch the movie and think you’ve read the book. That is the child’s way, or the way of people who proudly say things like “I don’t read.” (and I hope there are not too many people surrounding you who say that). There are films based on books that are completely unrecognizable if you have read the book, as almost everything is changed, not always for the better. Plus, if you’re going to be a writer, you must also be a reader. Reading the book and watching the movie, both carefully, and particularly for movies and books that make oodles of money, will give you insights not just about the differences, but allow you to look at those differences and note how they may ultimately impact the telling of the story. Nicholson as Jack in The Shining versus the character portrayed in the book opens a wide gulf of how the story is told: in the book, it takes longer for Jack to reach the crazy point, and you expect this because he is a normal sort of guy, all things considered. One look at Jack in the movie, as depicted by Nicholson, and you simply know the crazy will come on much faster as it seems he’s already halfway there.

Thus ends my not-a-rant-but-interesting thought for today’s entry. Hope you’re writing on whatever schedule you picked or whatever goal you selected to mark your progress. Keep on keeping on.