Monday, March 10, 2014
MY WRITING PROCESS - The World Blog Tour
First,
I want to thank the amazing activist, writer, and teacher Diane Lefer http://dianelefer.weebly.com/ for
getting this thing going. Yay!
And
thanks to my buddy, Natalia Sarkissian http://nataliasarkissian.com/, herself an amazing writer and
photographer, for inviting me to become involved. Write on!
What
I've discovered through this short exercise is a better understanding of
myself, my strengths as a writer, and my excuses for not working as hard as I
can every day to better my craft. It has
been motivational, and for that I am grateful.
Please check out the two talented writers I am introducing at the end of this posting, and why not follow and support their blogs and their writing?
1) What am I working on?
I currently have two novels in
progress. One, tentatively titled Pontotoc is a coming-of-age novel about
two Texas brothers, Rafe and Peep McLeod, who lose their parents in short order
and head out seeking the tiny settlement of Pontotoc to locate an aunt and
uncle. Of course, in novels, those
things rarely go according to plan, and the brothers end up lost, then on an
ill-fated trail drive, and end up with young Tom O'Folliard involved in the
Lincoln County War in New Mexico Territory as two innocents running with Billy
the Kid and his Regulators. They make
their way to El Paso after Pat Garrett kills the wrong Billy, and find work in
the saloon of notorious Sheriff Dallas Stoudenmire, a former Ranger known for
his hard drinking and rashness, which eventually gets him killed. When sober, Stoudenmire is a good mentor and gets
Rafe interested in the honor of Rangering. The boys move on to Austin and are
befriended by Marshall Ben Thompson, the English gunman and his loco brother,
Billy. Because of Ben's penchant for
violence, he and Rancher King Fisher are ambushed in a vendetta at the
Vaudeville Theater in San Antonio. Once
again the brothers push on for
Pontotoc. Their search for family and mentors
has ended badly, but in the end, flawed role models are just as effective as
good ones and the boys end up achieving their dream of becoming Texas Rangers.
The second novel, untitled, flashes between
1843 and the present to the same location in Blanco County, Texas and then to
several other locations across time and space as it follows Tim Reuland through
his incarnations. In the opening
segment, Reuland is a straggler from a Texas Ranger company that rode down and
massacred a small band of Comanche, having mistaken them for cattle
thieves. Reuland rapes the surviving
woman, who then kills him -- and then continues to kill him in every lifetime
up to his present one.
In this incarnation, the woman jerks a
ladder from under Reuland while he is painting his ranch house, and the fall
throws him into a closed brain injury coma.
The lights are on, but no one is home.
While his wife, Tina, enlists the best neurological doctors in the
country, Tim floats between worlds where he and the Comanche woman, Rain Elk,
finally come face-to-face to work out the issues that have bound and followed
them through eternity.
2)
How does my work differ from others of this genre?
The first question would be in what genre am
I working? I would say it is literary
historical fiction that I'm currently exploring. I am very cognizant that
writers not only have to have to write beautifully, but they absolutely must
tell a compelling story. Story sustains
the reader, whereas beauty and skill on the sentence level sustain the
narrative.
I am a student of history and am most
familiar with Texas as a setting, so I quite naturally combine the two in these
novels. I also have a penchant for
magical realism, so non-ordinary occurrences sometimes happen as easily as
breathing in my work. This is obvious in
the untitled work in progress as well as two finished narratives. I strive to
make the boundaries between real and surreal disappear for the reader. With that line blurred, stories become
interesting.
I've also been accused of having a certain
level of violence in my works. It works
well for Cormac McCarthy, and as long as violence isn't gratuitous and is
integral to the story, then I write it!
I do violence pretty well, which is obviously a necessity. After all, the era I'm writing about was a
violent time.
3) Why do I write what I do?
I write about things that interest me. I've written about professional wrestlers,
pimps and call girls, cowboys and Indians, and ghosts. (Hmmm..I wonder what this says about me?) There's
also a spiritual (not religious) undertone to most of my work, so I suppose I'm
interested in what the hell is the purpose for our lives. There has to be more to life than
chance. At least I think so.
My characters get thrown into confusing,
often magical situations that leave them straddling the threshold between life
and the afterlife as they try to make sense of the beauty and awesomeness of
this amazing and puzzling event. I
suppose that is the quest in my writing.
4) How does your writing process work?
I'm going to fess up here and own up to the
fact that my process this past year has been on par with retreating glaciers
during the last ice age. I blame that on
several factors:
a) We became custodial grandparents of our
infant grandson one year ago this month.
There are so many blessings that come with that opportunity, but keeping
a schedule and getting enough sleep are not high on the list!
I've seen this with writer friends who have
become new mothers, and now I can
identify. Their blogs are all about the
baby, motherhood, the challenges of trying to write with a baby, asking their
readers "Am I talking about my child too much?", and writing mostly short-short
posts fleshed out with a lot of photographs.
I recently read that the average American
now has an attention span of 8 seconds.
Yup. Sounds about right to
me. Everything I've been writing for the
past year has been micro-fiction. I
think it has to do with attention span and the relegation of craft time to the
hours when I don't think straight anymore.
Novels have definitely gone begging.
I have two in progress that are feeling like red-headed stepchildren
right now. I do like micro fiction. I also write poetry as a warm up for
fiction. It makes me economical with
word choice and rhythm.
b) A rebounding economy. I'm in the design and construction business
(www.CasaDesignCo(dot)com) and these days I am being pulled in 16 1/2 different
directions. It's called making a
living. Tom Clancy, Elmore Leonard, and
many of you have probably figured out
how to keep all the balls in the air, but this year it has eluded me. I need someone expecting my manuscripts. My
life is built around deadlines and deliverables. Without deadlines there are no deliverables.
So why have I not pushed forward as well as
I would have liked? Paying clients get
the best hours. Family gets second tier
time (don't act so damn holier than thou, Oh my readers), and the things I like
to do but that don't pay at the moment -- writing, going to the gym to workout,
sex -- compete for what's left. Oh, and
sleep. Yeah. What's that?
I could blame being stuck on the structure
of the novels in progress, especially the untitled one, and that's the
truth. But I also know that if I would
put my ass in the chair and work on my process every day, the structure would
work itself out. I've done it before. Novels take on a certain synergy when given
the chance to blossom.
Which brings me around to general sloth and
laziness. I find myself wanting to
qualify the bluntness of that statement, but there's really nothing to say to
soften truth. For such a hard worker and
self-starter on so many fronts, it would appear I have taken a three martini
lunch this year and forgotten I have to go back to the writing
"office" if I want to get anything of value accomplished.
When I think about process, I dream of
getting up at five a.m., doing a little yoga and meditation, then retreating to
my office to write until 11 a.m. every day.
The trick would be to not let
people see the self-imposed solitude and to let them simply wonder how the hell
you are managing to crank out a novel a year.
And still have time for golf.
Remember, I said I dream of that. The reality
is that I end up taking off my analytical work hat and slipping into a coffee
shop to don my writer's suit. The one
with a cape and the big W on the front.
Then if I can magically shift thought processes, I can eke out maybe two
hours at best before the other commitments find me. Heaven help me if I check my email, which
will derail everything. So I don't. Nevertheless, it can still take thirty
minutes to decompress enough to get started.
Let's just say I am overly concerned about time because there just isn't
enough of it. Todd Rundgren sang,
"I don't want to work, I just want to bang on the drum all day." I just want to bang on the keyboard and
create.
I generally begin by editing my last writing
session and usually puts me into the moment where I previously left off, and
catches me up to this session's starting point.
They say you shouldn't edit while you write and I try to adhere to that
in order to get words on the page. I'm a
good editor so I know I'll catch up to that part later.
My strength is probably voice. That's a good strength to have.
My weakness is probably the structure, the
architecture so to speak, of the novel.
I employ a lot of what would be called magical realism, possibly because
it allows me to create happenings and novel events that don't always have to be
"logical." I'm tired of
logic. Real life strives to be
logical. We all get enough of that. I want a novel to lift me out of logic. Some might say I am just being lazy and don't
want to work out the details. Some could be right.
So there you have it, folks. The bare facts as I see them on March 10,
2014. The Blog Tour is a good exercise
not only to introduce myself to you, but to also examine the holes in my own
writing process. The main thing is to
create space and time to let the process work, because when I do, it always comes
through and in the process takes me for a wild and very interesting ride. That is when writing becomes truly magical --
when I sit back and wonder what my characters will create next.
Thanks
for reading!
Let
me introduce some other writers to you, who will be posting for the Tour on
March 17th. Please check them out and
follow their work:
Zack Kopp is a freelance writer, musician
and tour guide currently living in Denver. This blog is the latest part of his
ongoing effort to market himself as a writer of multiple aptitudes, featuring,
as it does, various sorts of citizen journalism, intelligent fiction, and
something Kopp calls "metamorphic prose." The blog, updated as
frequently as possible, is also a way to market Kopp's published works and act
as a nerve center for his online presence. http://rentparty.blogspot.com/
Jennifer (Jaijot Kaur) Eldridge
Benjamin finds
herself at a crossroads, it seems almost daily. She is currently a student of
Chinese Medicine, a long time yoga practitioner, yoga teacher, yoga teacher
trainer, mother and wife. Jennifer's family and studies inform her every
breath. When not filling the roles listed previously she finds deep
satisfaction from digging in the earth. She expresses her
creativity, vulnerability and sheer joy for life through writing.
The blog
"New Rules for the Good Girl", which can be found at www.jaijotkaur.com, started as an experiment to keep in touch with friends
while walking the Camino de Santiago across the North of Spain. Since the walk
she has been working on a novel which is based on her adventure, as well as the
journeys of three other fascinating women with moving, transformative and
entertaining stories to tell. Jennifer shares her writing with the hope that
those who read it will see that it is possible to be brave enough to go after
their dreams (even when they seem impossible), find their truths (especially if
they are hard) and be strong enough to live them (no matter the perceived
consequences.) Her vision is that we can touch those deeply held spaces,
be present for the learning that resides within them, and heal, all the
while laughing at the mystery, magic and comedy of this play we call life.
Sunday, March 2, 2014
Thursday, January 30, 2014
JANUARY
He’d given up journaling because his life seemed
just too mundane to keep wasting time writing something even he wouldn’t
read. I’m doing it for the introspective
value, he would tell himself as he struggled through a scant page a day, if
that. He journaled about the weather,
observances of local wildlife, about thoughts so uninspiring and shallow that
he finally put the black journal down and didn’t pick it up again. That was two months ago. Now winter was fully upon the valley once
again. Where had the year gone?
Winter. The
best time of year for introspection, yet this season nothing was
forthcoming. The fireplace burned
nicely, restarted from the banked ashes of last night’s fire in a reassuring
and endless continuum. Warmth was life.
He would go out and begin some chore or another after the sun was fully up, but
right now it was fine sitting at his makeshift desk in front of the south
facing window, which badly needed washing, watching the daylight slowly advance
up the long deep valley beyond the pines in the foreground. Bare deciduous trees etched the horizon of
the opposite hills. He decided winter light possessed an entirely different
quality – a cooler, weaker yellow like meringue or piss, with none of the
exuberance of summer dawnings.
He didn’t know why nothing was forthcoming. It was as if a spigot had been shut off
within; a disconcerting feeling because he was a writer, a man attuned to
thinking deeply about things. But now he seemed unable to think about anything
other than homestead chores, which required a practical thought process, refreshingly simple. Refreshing
for the first year because, if the truth be told, he had been hiding from deep
thoughts. Now that he was finally ready
to analyze his situation it was as if he had lost his ability to do so. Being a
writer, he thought best with his fingers on a keyboard, but day after day
nothing would happen. After an hour, he
would shut down the computer and do his chores.
There was never a shortage of chores. In this remote valley with no
internet connection, chores replaced social media.
Friends complained he was no longer accessible. His
old teaching friend Richard Self had called him up the other day. “Jack, come
on into town and I’ll buy you dinner.
Jesus, you’re turning into a mountain man.”
“Love to, Rich, but I’m really cranking on the new
book,” he lied.
“You’re really hard to get hold of now. How the hell do you research a new novel
without internet?”
“I go to the library and use their Wi-Fi when I need
something. Hey, you got hold of me,
didn’t you?”
“Third time I tried,” said Richard. “How about
Friday evening? Come by the house and
we’ll go paint the town.”
“Cool. I will.
Thanks for calling, Rich, see you Friday.”
Jack Padgett sat for a few more minutes, fingers
brushing over the keyboard like a blind man, watching the pines sway in the
cold wind. The light was less anemic now. His third cup of coffee had gone cold like
the day. He decided to switch to Brandy
later, something more befitting January. He switched off the computer. But first a man had things to do simply to
survive: split wood, check the chicken coop heat lamp, chores. Things that kept a man from thinking too
deeply.
Monday, December 16, 2013
Street Scene: Winter Night, Santa Fe
“Hey, Mister, we need some help. We’re trying to get a hotel room for the
night and we’re twenty dollars short.”
She approached us from the middle of Don
Gaspar as we were walking to dinner at The Shed. The frigid night was biting through my many
layers of clothing, our breath a cloud of vapor against the faint orange tint
of a street lamp. My wife and I had been
walking with our muffled faces down against the cold wind, so the woman had
encroached upon us before we saw her.
Because of that, I was immediately on guard. There was something about her request that
bordered on demand – a little too practiced, her words resonating off the
frozen pavement and stucco walls of adjacent buildings. My first impression was that she was way
underdressed; my second was that she possibly had Downs syndrome. One eye had a red hemorrhage slashed across
the white. She was definitely wired.
“We’re homeless. We need twenty dollars.” She spoke without making eye contact, looking
beyond me at other passing couples. Her
partner hung back in the shadows, male or female I couldn’t tell beneath the
hoodie.
“You’re homeless in Santa Fe this time of
year?” I said, seeking a moment to ascertain if she was genuinely in need. Her demanding tone had me thinking it was
another panhandle, someone needing a fix or money for a jug.
“Uh huh,” she said, still looking past me.
I decided it was a panhandle, but also
deciding it would be easier to give her a buck because of her aggressive
approach, like paying a toll. She eyed
my wallet as I opened it. Damn…tens and
twenties only. Maybe for a person in
need but not for this one.
“Honey, do you have a dollar for this lady?”
I asked. My wife withdrew a one from her
purse and handed it over. The girl held
it to the light to determine its value, or maybe to make sure it wasn’t
counterfeit. She jammed it into her
pocket with obvious disgust, never a thanks, already turning her attention
toward another couple approaching.
“Hey, maybe a little gratitude…?” I said, not
that I expected any.
As we moved on toward San Francisco Street,
her demanding refrain echoed behind us in the chilly night.
Thursday, September 12, 2013
BONES
There used to be a
Mexican guy who worked here, but he’s gone now.
I come for the coffee, but I liked that guy. He worked without pause, bussing tables,
shooing away the grackles, sweeping away leaves in the autumn, or cleaning
white bird shit from the black wrought iron chairs with a wet rag. Always smiling he was and I liked that his
approach made me consider my own work and my own life; how he could manage to
be so happy at a no-recognition minimum wage job, while I have to work at
happiness even though I probably possess a hundred times his assets.
I always talked to him in my poor Spanish
and he seemed to appreciate the fact that at least I tried; that at least I acknowledged
his existence. But my Spanish sucks, so
about all we could talk about was the weather, what a nice day it was, or how
hard he was working. I was never good
enough to talk to him about anything of substance: how he felt about immigration law; if Texas was
better or worse than other places in the States he’d worked; was that Mayan
ancestry I saw in his facial structure?
That was beyond the depth of my
conversational abilities and now he’s gone.
The last few times I’ve been here to write and drink coffee the grackles
were running roughshod over the patio furniture and the bus trays have been
stacked to precarious levels before anyone comes out to empty them. Did that fellow find a new job, or did he
grow tired of the whole situation and head back to Tamaulipas or Chiapas to finally
spend some of his life with his wife and children? I’ll never know these things
and can only imagine.
As a building contractor I had guys who
subcontracted work from me year after year who were as illegal as I am white,
but they did the best work and were generally an agreeable lot who worked hard
and didn’t complain, who cooked lunch beans and tortillas over a small open
fire, who replied “Si se puede” when
I requested a change in the work. I had
foundation crews who worked like dogs and stone masons who were truly artists
-- puzzle masters who inevitably put the perfect stones in just the right places, every
time. Most of them lived six or eight men
to a singlewide trailer, far from family and home, wired most of their pay home
and likely did without sex for long periods of time in order to send that
lifeblood dinero back to Mexico, keeping back a few dollars for their beans and
tortillas, some pork chops and chilies, and a few cervezas. As a Patron, the best I could do was to pay
them promptly for services rendered and to show up at the jobsite with a case
of beer on Friday afternoons where we would lean against dusty pickups and
somehow communicate despite our limited common lingo.
Every Christmas season, most of them would
go home to Mexico, usually spending a month or so getting reacquainted with
their children, making sweet love to their women, and doing a little more work
on their own abodes, which were always in some phase of expansion and
construction. Because they worked hard
and wired money home, they were considered well off in their own villages – men
of some means, whose daughters perhaps owned a computer, men who could hire
their own countrymen to help with the inevitable concrete and block work necessary
to enlarge their own homes. Maybe their esposas conceived over that month of
nightly lovemaking, maybe not, but that was between the esposa and La Virgen de
Guadalupe. That was a thing for the
women to decide for the man simply fertilized the seed placed by La Virgen, and seldom ventured into the
churches where the women prayed for whatever it is that women pray for. I often wondered if a disproportionate number
of young Mexicans were being born in September and October because of those
annual Yule time pilgrimages home by the workers. And what might the effect be of a nation with
an unusual amount of Virgos and Libras coming of age at the same time? I suppose time will tell on that one.
The real depth of these men's character was
evident by what they went through in order to get back into Texas and back to their
work. The ordeal usually involved a trip
to a border town on the Mexico side to bide their time awaiting the call from
one of the many coyotes, the human smugglers,
to tell them it was time to move.
¡Ahora mismo! Date
prisa! ¡Esta
noche! The call
would finally come.
Men and women were dropped into the desert
so far from any town there was absolutely no urban light glow on the black horizon in
any direction. No light except a waxing
or waning moon’s light with which to make out distant hills, the faint deer
trail to follow, or the silhouette of a La
Migra vehicle, blacked out and waiting like a predator across the known
people trails. A new moon rendered it
impossibly dark and a full moon could paint a man like a target. Only two plastic jugs of precious agua and a
vague understanding of where to rendezvous for pickup separated the living from
the dead, for there is scant margin for error in a desert large enough to consume
New England. If La Migra didn’t find
you, there was a fair chance that no one else would either. It was easy to become disoriented in the darkness
and begin walking in vast circles until the water ran out. Or often they arrived at the appointed
rendezvous point only to be abandoned.
The men paid in advance in a deal of trust with often unscrupulous
individuals. Most coyotes were in it for the long term and worked off an underground
referral system amongst the illegals, but shit often happened. Shit beyond anyone’s control. Shit like vehicle breakdowns or
impoundments. Shit like too much heat
from La Migra in that particular
quadrant of the vast ocean of desert.
Unpredictable shit that left people dead of exposure or thirst or left
them seeking La Migra in order to remain
among the living.
The lucky ones were those crossing with
brothers and uncles, men who would watch your back. The best scenario was the company of men from
your own village. Men who knew you and
were maybe even distant relations; so distant you couldn’t claim one another
but your blood knew. Blood always knew and
blood watched out for its own. It was
unfavorable to make this crossing with strangers if it could be avoided. Wild cards could get you killed or busted and
deported. Busted and deported meant you
would never have the opportunity to obtain a green card in the future. A green card meant you no longer need pay a coyote thousands of dollars; meant you
could possibly bring your wife and kids into the country when you had a legal
job; a job you could only find by coming across illegally and impressing some
US Patron into sponsoring you. Being busted and deported would eliminate
even that unlikely opportunity. For men
who risk their lives getting back into the US to work seven days a week if
they can, to send back all their money except for the bare necessities, to
not see family for eleven months at a time, even an unlikely opportunity for a
green card provides reason to hope.
Yes, I wonder what became of my amigo with
the ready smile and the grackle rag. Is
he back home in Mexico with his family or at another job here in Texas? I’d like to think he won a large scratch-off
lottery prize and is now a Patron in
his own village instead of the possibility that he could be just more bones bleaching in the Coahuila desert sun.
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