Not all is gold

Not all that comes out of the pen (or the keyboard) is gold. I've discovered that while working through the novel and discovered a scened that doesn't work. When I first wrote it, under whatever inspiration, I beleived in it, but now, I have serious doubts. Elements of it will be used later on, but not at the current development of the character. She hasn't matured enough to be doing what I had her doing. Perhaps, I'm learning how to write. Taken long enough to get here. It's too easly to slip into maudlinisms. The good point is that I have been able to see it , and to work to contain it.

When is an author an author?

This morning's paper listed local authors published in the Arts Update section. One listed was Stuart Sexton of New Haven. Curiosity carried me to amazon and hence his books. They were, as I suspected, self-published via Lulu. While I'm not going to get into the quality of the writing (bad science fiction), I am going to raise the question: when is an author an author and when should such authorship be announced? Does self-publishing count? The ease of self-publishing has opened the floodgates to all manner of words on pages. I suppose I'm upset at the way the newspaper handled it. If my book gets published would I be lumped in with the self-publishers of the area? I may be grousing about nothing since the book isn't finished. Comments appreciated.

Gone for so long

It has been noted by some that I haven't posted in more than two months. This is not how to maintain a loyal following. I suppose I could fill everyone in on all the details of everything that has transpired over the past two months but please spare me the details of all that I really don't want to read such stuff. A random comment: When I was young I was in love with Sophia Loren. Random comment 2: I never had the chance to meet her. I've never met anyone famous in the entertainment sort of way. I once got drunk with Edward Albee who later invited me to his Writer's Colony on Long Island and I was too young, too arrogant, too stupid to perceive the opportunity when it lay at my feet. I still have a hard time to keep from self flagelation when I consider the time that has passed and that I'm now trying in the desperation of chronology to recover that which was lost which is why I may appear foolish at times, or somehow anachronistic (damn the clocks). Item: On my private bulletin board hang the plans for a 16' sailing barge that would sleep two and would be useful for cruising Lake Erie, slow but steady. On the same bulletin board hang the contests I sent the novel exerpt to and in my fantasies I win to fame and glory while the reality will reveal itself with SASE rejection slips. Item: Beneath the gentle, caring exterior lies an arrogant ass. Watch the last 15 minutes of Hunt for Red October. Comment: Rye whiskey makes the best Manhattan Cocktails, not Bourbon or Canadian. Scotch makes a different drink altogether. Angostura Bitters is the closing touch, that plus a marichino cherry (one of the few grocery items carried by the liquor store). Item: Olga Bergstrom had a recipe for Christmas punch that included: rum, gin, whiskey, lime juice, lemon juice, pineapple chunks, marichino cherries, and something else that escapes me at the moment. The fruit absorbs the alcohol and is a delightful snack for the children. The punch is served diluted with seven-up. Comment: before there was writing there was story telling and the shamans showed the pathways into the caverns of death which end in the realm of life. Then the writers put the stories to poetry for the sake of memory (Illiad, Odessy, Beowulf). The invention of writing ended the need for memory and improvisation locking the tale through pen and ink. Guttenberg merely cemented an ancient process. The computer does nothing but the same, divorcing speaking from writing, reducing it to taps upon electrical connections of the keyboard.
Item: There exists an internet program for the composition of flash fiction. Fill in the blanks for the names, the nouns, the verbs, the modifiers, push the button and zip out comes a ready made story. Comment: Since writing can be so formulaic, why bother with imagination? Item: Maso seeks to do to literature what Abstract Expressionsism did to painting: the reduction to the elements of the story. Comment: Why has writing come along so late to join the artists? Writers are the Midwesterners of the creative concept: twenty years or more behind. It begins in Europe, then twenty years later arrives in New York, then twenty years later settles into the mid-west, already old hat. We still are wrestling with Ezra Pound. Finale: I've made up for lost time. Semi-autobiographical writing carries two dangers: comments on the writing, and comments on the writer. Best stick to iguanas.

Exhaustion

Exhaustion has set in. I have not felt this tired in quite some time. Each word needs at least one correction, if not more. The backspace key is getting work out. At least I can still focus on the words in front of me. If I were at my typewriter I wouldn't give a shit. Those are always gracious rough drafts. These are for the public, as broad or limited as that it. I'm exhausted because the class load is getting to me, perhaps, or the classes, or attempting a writing career and other matters. When insomnia strikes, which is for an hour each night, I get up and rewrite a few pages on the 50,000 word wonder. Then there are the deadlines for contests for the section of the novel that I shared with the class that started this blog, those are coming do. Thinly I am stretched and it is not yet 9, and I know that on Thursday evening Troy sits down for creative work. I'm whining. Or pissing and moaning as we used to say.

First Sentence

I knew I had to be standing on the corner of Coliseum and Coldwater waving a “Going Out of Business” sign and that X, the cell-group leader, would drive by, look me in the eye, and send the Intuitor my next assignment.

This is the first sentence of my speedily written novel. I spent some time wrestling over it, knowing how important the first sentence is, not so much for the reader (as I was thinking about this on the walk home) but as for the agent and editor. The reader isn't the gatekeeper to publication, agents and editors are. Without publication who will read it? Yes, I could go down to my local Office Depot and have them run off and bind copies which I could then hand out on the streets but to what avail? Self publishing boosts the ego, I know I self published a chapbook of poetry in my courageous youth (Songs of the Lonely Heart, by Derfla Publishing-- Derfla being Alfred, my middle name, spelled in reverse). Not a copy remains, as far as I know which may be a blessing to the poetry world. For whom is the all important first sentence? The gatekeepers who lay such heavy judgment on the first collection of words, on the first subject and predicate. Such a weight for such a small thing to bear, but bear it it must for such is the world.

Now What?

pOkay, I've got a draft so now what do I do with it? I'm in the process of seeing what has come out of the typewriter, breaking it down to scenes and possible chapters, seeing what should be tossed, and what should remain, and what should be rewritten, etc. I could try to rewrite it in third person, if I was a masochist. Or simply wade on through it, line by line. Surprisingly, some parts of it haven't turned out a complete mess. As I enter rewrite on the computer, I'll post a few bits of it for reaction. I don't know if the narrator is sane or not. Conspiracy theories are so much fun, ask any Birther.

"The End"

Nine- 35 pm, day 30, finished. One-hundred and twenty-five pages, 50,000 words. A novel that ends with a shameless cliff-hanger. At least this draft. And it was a fun run for the summer. So, how am I feeling? Like I got something done, like I've finished a task, that I was able to maintain first person narrative for the run of it, even if it is very existential. I didn't mean it to go that way but stories have away of going off on their own. This I learned. The best of the writing was when the words poured out as fast as I could type (thank heavens I didn't stop to make corrections). Scenes came, dialogue came, characters were real, even the minor ones, except for a homeless bum who will be written out of it. I don't know how to qualify it except as a sci-fi, conspiratorial thriller. Or an existential exploration of identity. Or a romance. Or betrayal. It's got it all except some kind of structure. That comes next. Any suggestions? I've a few ideas on my own but I'm more than open . Maybe the next time we gather I could read a few sections. Now I drink a glass of wine in celebration. I'd like to shout it out from the roof-tops "finished" but who would listen? You would, I know and I thank you for that along with all the moral support.
The next official NANOWRIMO begins on November 1. Depending on the schedule I may be game again. This was so damn fun. Not Pulitzer material. Maybe paperback. Too bad tacky pulps aren't being published any more. But it's written and I celebrate. I know I'm bragging abou this and if I've bored you, stop reading. If I've bored you, you probably have stopped by now. Tomorrow I take the day off. A complete day off. I give myself one every five or six years and I'm due for one. Again, thanks.