King of Kings

It’s been years since I read a novel by Stephen King. His On Writing is a staple on my bookshelf, but despite his name perennially displayed in the New Releases section at the local bookstore, the last novel I read was Gerald’s Game in 1993, and even then, I did not finish it. Too scary.

Correct me if I’m wrong, but I still believe The Stand is his best work. Cal Leandros even gives it an honourable mention in Roadkill!

The man doesn’t need a book release to get my attention, however. I have long admired him for his honesty and, in particular, his sense of humour. The guy’s a hoot.

Little did I know that he and George R.R. Martin have been friends for decades, since before GRRM struck gold with A Game of Thrones (the book, not the TV series). So imagine my delight on finding a video of the two old pals having an onstage conversation when Steve’s recent book tour brought him to New Mexico. The bulk of the talk was stuff I already knew, but I always appreciate hearing how the professionals operate. One of King’s genre policies is this: “Aim for terror. If you can’t reach terror, aim for horror. If horror eludes you, settle for the gross-out.”

The other thing he said that had me rolling on the floor was during an elaboration of a storyline. He mentioned a villain’s recent diagnosis of pancreatic cancer as motivation for a diabolical act and the audience gasped as one. He looked at them and scolded, “It’s written on page nine, for Chrissakes! Spoilers? Spoilers? There’s no such thing as a spoiler. You can’t ‘spoil’ a book; people read books to have an experience, so who cares?”

Or words to that effect.

He’s right. If he was wrong, I’d only read a book once. How else can I explain my passion for revisiting The Night Circus or GRRM’s series, or Station Eleven or the Cal Leandros novels; or for multiple viewings of Orphan Black or The Newsroom, for that matter? Knowing what happens ahead of time is clearly no deterrent. It’s the joy of reconnecting with beloved characters that brings me back time and again.

I recognize that some folks prefer the slow reveal. I admit, I prefer it myself, but knowing before I saw The Empire Strikes Back that Luke Skywalker’s dad was Darth Vader did not prevent me from paying to see the movie. If you really care, you won’t care. Stephen King certainly doesn’t.

Long live the King.

Round and Round the Bradbury Bush

Great saying, eh? I first read it in the Ray Bradbury essays that Nic sent me for Christmas, Zen in the Art of Writing, and I like it so much that I’m putting it on my office board when I get back to work next week.

Back to reality, I mean.

I can’t say I’ve been drunk, but I’ve certainly been tiddly on writing during the past few weeks. I finished the Calista story in November but took this long to nail a title that doesn’t out and out suggest a cheeseball bodice-ripper—my original title of “The Devil’s Duchess” never sat comfortably, and when I ran it past my office-tea-fairy-slash-beta-reader, she did her best not to wrinkle her nose until I wrinkled mine, then she let herself release an unbridled sneer. I’m truly grateful that she didn’t barf, because I wanted to. Eventually, I settled on “The Devil She Knows” and filed Calista under “finished”.

Then, with more help from Ray Bradbury, I got the novel rolling again. Bradbury—whose fictional work I have never read—recommends following a character along whatever path he/she is walking (or running, in the case of sci-fi/suspense) or, better yet, jumping onto a landmine in the morning and picking up the pieces during the course of the day. I took his advice and punched through the barrier that’s hung me up for months on Reijo’s romance. It was more a matter of getting me out of the way and letting the characters run the sequence of events—I had a pre-conceived notion of said sequence and they were ignoring it. My continual efforts to redirect them proved so frustrating that we all gave up on the project. Now that I’m listening again, it’s proceeding much more smoothly, though the debris around the broken barrier will need some big time cleanup in the edit.

And, as of this morning, I am thisssss close to finishing “Black in Back”. I had written my protagonist into such a pickle that she couldn’t figure a way out, so I left her stranded with the villain for a few weeks while I concentrated on Christmas and Calista and a few other non-writing distractions. Again, I threw a Bradbury-style punch and she plunged through the hole, taking me with her rather than the other way around. Now I have an ending in sight and hope to have ’er done by Sunday night.

The biggest Bradbury fan I have known was our lone male in the 21^st Century Poets. His work was very much a nod to his idol’s genre, but Johnny, like the rest of the Poets, had his own magical style. He was also generous with his support for the rest of the gang in our communal flexing of the creative muscle. I will always hold him dear to my heart, but when Nic sent me the Bradbury book, she also sent me a flood of good-time memories, and a little nostalgia for the days of nonstop poetry and prose that I shared with a unique band of creative spirits.

Zen in the Art of Writing is the first collection of literary essays that I am using as a textbook, marking it up with a highlighter and scribbly notes in the margins. Normally I like my books to look like they’ve been read but remain relatively pristine. It seems appropriate that Bradbury, who recommends a punch to kickstart a project, authored the first book to be so punched. I expect to gain more nuggets from the pages, but every time I pick it up, my first thought will be a fond one for the Poets’ JP Jensen.

Wherever you are, write on, Johnny.

Last of the Summer Whine

Back to work tomorrow. I’m not ready. The pace, the paperwork, the people – I like my job and I like the people I work with, but during the past fortnight my life has settled into its own rhythm and it has been heavenly.

Though I’m trying to be reasonable about it, my inner two-year-old is stiff as a board and screaming. I took her on a long beach flânerie this morning, keeping as close to the water as possible to avoid the “pound pound pound, huff huff huff” of the ubiquitous joggers. Good that the tide was out; regrettable that the beach is rocky and tipped at an angle that makes walking more difficult. Every step required presence of mind, which I guess was a positive given that it kept me focused on the moment rather than dwelling on my resistance to the inevitable. When I got home, Ter reflected my feelings with her own, then suggested we enjoy our day rather than waste it fretting about tomorrow.

And tomorrow and tomorrow.

The Calista/Darius story got serious traction during the past couple of days. I’m at the two-thirds point where I finally foresee an ending though I’m yet unsure how it will look for Calista when I get there. I also took another look at the urban vampire series I’d started BL (before Lucius); the character sketch of Rob Browning was taken from it and now I’m contemplating how to rework the whole story because it won’t farkin’ let me go. Rob and Cassie are the star-crossed lovers and Darius is the bad guy. The universal plot portent, I know. I recently watched an interview with George RR Martin wherein he quoted Faulkner’s reminder that the human heart in all its conflict is what makes a story. Whether it is set in the wild west, outer space, 17^th century France or the Amazon jungle, the characters make it real … even if one is a vampire.

No More FGTs

Erin Morgenstern’s final Flax-Golden Tale was posted today, five years almost to the day from when she posted her first one. She says she started them when her blog was “newish and I wanted to show I was a proper writer who wrote things.”

She also wanted to do something inspired by the Mysteries of Harold Burdick—I had no idea what the Mysteries of Harold Burdick are, so I clicked on the link in her post and found myself at Chris Van Allsburg’s website. I don’t know who he is, either (I reckon he’s a writer, there are so darned many of us, mostly unknown to each other), but the history of the Mysteries is there, and wow, is it a creepy/cool story.

Read it here. Me paraphrasing would do it no justice anyway. The point of this piece is that, after July 11, there will be no more FGTs at erinmorgenstern.com.

Rats.

Her weekly ten-sentence stories have been a staple in my routine since I first read The Night Circus. Just as she was inspired by the Harold Burdick story, so have I been inspired by her Flax-Golden Tales. They are primarily why I decided to do my writing exercises, those odd little pieces attached to a photograph and often left dangling for the reader to finish in his/her imagination. I haven’t set myself the same parameters, though I try to draft something wonderful in twenty minutes or less. Some hit, some miss, all are me stretching my skill and imagination beyond my comfort level. Almost all of my writing is inspired by pictures, other writers’ works, music, lyrics, poetry, movies—if someone else has produced it, I can springboard from it. I can even do some things better, though at present I am no longer sure (if I ever was) what my preference really is. Is it personal non-fiction? Fantasy? Urban fantasy? Short fiction? Serial work? The never-ending novel? I know what I like to write, but I don’t want to be locked into a genre, either.

I am just a writer who wants to write things.

Within My Means

I quit writing last weekend. Mentally, I quit a week before then, but only last Sunday did I admit to myself that I had no interest in booting the computer. The new story I’d been so fired up about felt stale and stupid, Cristal’s angel story was too hard to sort out, and something’s gone wrong with the novel again. And blog posts? I had a head full of nothing. No inspiration, no inkling, no nuttin. I can’t even call it a block. It was a vacuum; a black hole where my passion used to be. It was—and is—the worst feeling a writer can ever have.

From desperation, I managed to eke out a card tag for Nicole and even that, I fear, ended up a bit whiny(er) compared to my usual “literary snapshot”. At least the card itself was amusing—it featured a quote from dear Oscar Wilde declaring that anyone who lives within their means is suffering from a serious lack of imagination. While writing the tag, it occurred to me that, though Oscar likely meant it literally, the quote applied to my present mental condition.

I have lately been living within my mental means and by so doing, I have suffered from a serious lack of imagination.

My job, and Ter’s, for that matter, sucks up a humungous amount of energy from January 1 to March 31. From the time I return to work from Christmas holidays to sometime around Easter, I lose my personality, my sense of humour, and my ability to create. I am so distracted, so consumed, by day to day reality that everything associated with writing—imagination, passion, joy and desire—deserts me. This past quarter has been particularly rough, and though I generally write to escape, this time around I couldn’t raise the will to think about it, let alone do it. When my mind is in control, it strangles my imagination. Life is colourless, tasteless, flat, and pointless. I go through the motions, trusting that something will change, that this too shall pass, and that I will regain my passion for wordplay.

I can’t name the moment when inspiration stirred once more. It might have been during the first episode of The White Queen—watching a woman step into a world that doesn’t want her suggested a fix for my dilemma with the novel. Then a few things happened to inspire blog posts. The pressure let up at work. The energy calmed down at home. I’m emerging from the fog of fiscal year end, fiscal year start, and too much sugar over Easter. Part of me wants to jump up and down and scream about it, but most of me is so relieved that I just want to lie in the sun and let the images form behind my eyes. I feel like my systems are coming back on line, my fluid levels are rising, and shape and colour are seeping back into a barren landscape.

I am ready once more to live beyond my means.

“Black and Blonde” (Preface)

 

The Internet is a wonderful thing. Without it, I would never have been invited to become a member of the 21^st Century Poets—an online group of writers who started a forum wherein we posted bits and pieces, chatted back and forth, and generally communed with others of our ilk. It was a small group, more of a cluster, really, but boy, did we jam up cyberspace with our bounty. The forum was a safe place to exchange ideas, ask for reviews, assistance, advice, and assurance on things we had already done, and experiment with things we wanted to try. It was the most convivial, supportive, and creative group I have ever been a party to, and I miss them all—except Nicole, who was a founding member and remains my sister in propinquity—dearly. Nic might even remember this story, posted in installments as I wrote it, with neither revisions nor any idea of what was going to happen next.

 

At the time, I was writing the Julian stories and watching reruns of Miami Vice. Ter and I have all five seasons on DVD, since we were too busy living life on Friday nights to be home for the series in its heyday. It was more inspiring without commercial breaks, anyway. I adore what Don Johnson did with Sonny Crockett, and since I am usually inspired by actors, rock stars or both, I decided it would be fun to write a vampire with attitude.

 

Enter Ariel Black, a blood hunter as different from Julian Scott-Tyler as burlap is from cashmere. He’s cynical, savvy, abrasive, and cursed with a set of morals that most of his kind abandoned long ago. His world also differs from Julian’s in that he operates among knowing mortals—vampires are an emerging reality that we are just beginning to accept. Black has figured out how to live among us without posing a threat, but when a determined mortal woman shows up with a proposition for him, he is forced to reconsider his position …

 

Part one of eight goes up tomorrow. Enjoy.

Getting to Know You

During a mindless moment at the office last week, I clicked over to Chuck Wendig’s blog and discovered a lengthy post on character development. It was an informative and somewhat entertaining read (I find him unnecessarily crude, but his message often rings true), especially because I am currently disentangling Cristal from Shade and trying to get a handle on each of their stories. Nicole is also struggling with the voices of her latest fiction, so something must be in the literary collective consciousness to have inspired Chuck’s piece on characters.

As usual, I agree with some of what he says and disagree with the rest. Personally, writing is more about what feels good than what the experts advise. Creativity doesn’t have rules – or it shouldn’t. The business side insists on them, however, and that’s as frustrating as a natural talent being critiqued by an arts degree. I know someone who is a published writer in the real world, and she spends a lot of time adhering to editors, agents and pollsters to get where she wants to go. I envy her in some ways, respect her in all ways, and honestly wish her the greatest success – which I believe she will eventually have because she works so diligently at it. But I wonder, where in the process does she have any fun?

I digress. Back to character development. For me, a new character is like meeting a stranger. Either you click or you don’t. If you don’t click, then the relationship won’t work and you should each seek satisfaction with someone else. I cannot conjure a character from thin air. To me, that’s like building a robot – you’ll have the physical details in place and maybe some personality programmed into it, but at the deepest level, he will only ever be two-dimensional. Great for a formulaic genre, but not for me. I want feeling. I want emotion, conflict and drama. I want to bleed with my characters. I want to soar with them, love with them, hate with them, fight with them, die with them, give birth with them. I want to be scared with them, of them, and for them. I can’t do that with a checklist. Nope, characters come to me fully-formed and full of mystery. They know who and what they are. My job – my pleasure – is to discover who and what they are as I write about them. It’s slower than hammering out the top ten qualities and manipulating them into situations, but I prefer it despite my whining at how little I get done in a day.

Shade began as a cheerful sort, a bit mischievous and a lot mysterious – when Cristal was telling the story. When I switched to his point of view, I got a completely different take on him, and that’s how I knew he and she actually feature in two different stories. Now that I’ve split them up, she is still befuddled by a mischievous mystery man, and Shade is free to tell his different, darker tale. I didn’t know any of this when I started my angel story all those weeks ago. I learned it as I wrote, first about her, then about him. The secondary characters are introduced by the main. I write what I see and hear. I write what I am told, and if I have a question, I ask the character. What happened then? Why did you—? Who said—? Sometimes the answer surprises me, but I must trust that it’s accurate.

Only one character has ever outright lied to me. For many many years, I believed something that everyone else in the story had to believe, and that one character was responsible for duping us all. Her argument? “The scribe had to be deceived lest the secret be imperiled.” In short, I’m the weakest link!

Insulting as it is, the revelation presents grand potential for a new story down the road … when I am ready to let someone die.

Some stories I don’t want to tell.

There might be something to the cardboard cutout character after all.

How Goes It, Will?

 

 

Yesterday was the final day of Shakespeare’s “first folios” exhibit at the UVic Legacy Art Gallery – located a paltry two blocks from the office. Four folios under glass, each with a write-up to give meaning to the visual. Ter and I meant to go last weekend, but our plans were waylaid and the event fell off our radar. If a co-worker hadn’t reminded me this afternoon, I would have missed seeing them. Even if you don’t like Shakespeare, as a writer, one must pay due homage. Fortunately, I love Shakespeare.

 

However, I admit I am unfamiliar with more than the titles of the bulk of his work. Of his entire output, I’ve actually seen four plays (and on film rather than live, my bad): Romeo and Juliet, The Taming of the Shrew, Hamlet, and Othello; but, like most folks, I am aware of so much more – too many to mention here. The folios exhibit only served to remind me that I have but scratched the surface of his genius. Fortunately, his plays are still produced and performed at every turn, on TV, at the beach, at the playhouse, on Youtube, on DVD and Blu-Ray. I reckon at some point we’ll see Hamlet talking to himself as a hologram.

 

So how can I say I love him when I hardly know him? Gee, can he being the most prolific, most famous, most revered and respected writer of all time have anything to do with it? His stuff has endured. Ironically, he was likely not as respected in his heyday as he is now – plays were naught but cheap entertainment and playwrights a gang of penniless charlatans in search of wealthy patrons to supplement their habit. I know what I’d have had to put out to get someone to support me … not that there were many (if any) female writers in Will’s time. Heck, we weren’t even allowed to play a female role on stage!

 

But back to the exhibit. Wow. I took some time from work and hiked over, grateful in the end that the display is so small, as I was able to knock it off in twenty-five minutes. Two of the folios are actually owned by the Legislative Library here in Victoria!?! Each was opened to a relevant page but the print is so small that I couldn’t get close enough to read without concussing myself on the glass. No matter. It was enough to learn that Charles I owned a copy of the first folio at some point (not the one I saw, but one in the 1632 print run) and had scribbled notes in the margins while languishing in prison. And a fair number of copies of the third folio, while awaiting binding, were destroyed in the Great Fire of London in 1666, which makes copies of them extremely rare. Who knew?

 

If I stood and stared for long enough, my mind – as with the dialogue when spoken – began to interpret the words so that they made sense. I still can’t fathom why, in the 17^th century, the letter “s” was printed as “f”; it really does confuse things. And might have caused me a moment’s embarrassment had I laughed out loud over “Richard the Fecund” in the second folio’s table of contents. Just looking at the tiny print and the absurd spelling of so many words was humbling. So much of our daily vernacular was sprung from those pages. They say he had a vocabulary of over 8,000 words. I have no idea if that’s good or not, but it sure sounds impressive. However many words he had at his command, he made the most poetic use of them. He had an enviable grip on emotional manipulation of the audience, that’s for sure!

Steampunk Rampant

These are not the people I work with - honest!
I "borrowed" this pic off the Internet

I spend a lot of time in the sci-fi/fantasy section of the local bookstore. Ter can visit the magazine rack, the cooking section, the new releases section, the biography and history sections and the kids’ section, and return to find that I’ve reached the authors whose surnames start with the letter H. I pick up a lot of books, scan the back covers, study the artwork, maybe read the first few paragraphs, and then return them to the shelf. I’m not sure what prompts me to start reading in earnest. It’s one of the great mysteries in my life.

Apparently steampunk has been around for years, but has only recently become popular in the mainstream – or at least in the sci-fi/fantasy section. I don’t get it. I wish that I did. I think that I should, given that it’s usually set in the Victorian era and features magic, otherworldly critters and the ubiquitous star-crossed romance. Back in the day, I was deeply inspired by the Victorian age. My vampires flourished in that setting, as did just about everyone else’s. I love the clothes, the culture, the trappings and even, to some degree, the science. It was, after all, the time of great industrial advancement and of literature, come to that. H.G. Wells and Jules Verne were probably the original steampunk authors. Not that I read either of them, because I didn’t. But I saw The Time Machine and The Island of Dr. Moreau at the movies and thought they were pretty cool.

So now works of steampunk fiction are sprouting on the shelves beside urban fantasy, high fantasy and science fiction. There’s a whole fashion industry based on the genre, and there’s a steampunk convention held somewhere in Victoria every year. I guess that’s only proper, given that the city is named for the applicable Queen. Last year, a gang from my office attended an absinthe tasting party at the Union Club and I might have gone, except that you had to wear steampunk duds and are you kidding? I have problems pulling together business casual. Corsets, bustles, goggles and ray guns are not in my repertoire – and if they were, it would be for private entertainment only. I saw the photographs, though, and the group looked absolutely authentic. They were having a ball into the bargain—and the pics were taken before the tasting.

Eventually, I’ll succumb and read a steampunk novel, just to see if I’ve gaffed and may be missing out on something ultra-fabulous. I doubt I will ever write one, though, and that may be my first hint. If the best writers write what they want to read, then I’m unlikely to go there … but I’ve also learned never to say “never”.

Art is Made

I occasionally drop into Chuck Wendig’s blog over at www.terribleminds.com; he’s a novelist, screenwriter, and author with whose work I am completely unfamiliar, but one day Erin Morgenstern mentioned one of his posts and I clicked on the link. I don’t recall the subject at the time, but I wound up adding him to my Favourites and once in a while, I am prompted to visit.

A few weeks ago, I discovered Chuck’s take on a debate over “art happens” versus “art is made”. (see it here). I guess many people (probably critics or other “experts” on creativity who think they are but are not, in fact, themselves creative) believe that art simply happens. Once upon a time, I might have agreed with that, but Mr. Wendig argued so colourfully to the contrary that I had to ponder it before making up my mind for sure. 

 

His point is that inspiration happens and from that art is made. It’s gratifying when the flow is smooth and time ceases to exist in its throes, but making art is work. It takes thought and effort to get that inspired notion off the ground. It’s totally worth it, of course, but art does not spontaneously happen. The magic is in the idea: where it comes from, what inspires it, and how it manifests. I admit, I’m more in love with dreaming than doing. I envision scenes and hear conversations all the time. Getting around to transcribing them, however … boy, I can expend more energy avoiding the computer than it would take me to do the work. 

 

True, if you love what you’re doing, then it isn’t work – and I love to write. Most of the time. Sometimes it’s just too darned hard.