Tag Archives: writing fiction

Writing Process: Writing in Tongues?

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It’s just a half-realized thing. I can see it. Or feel it. That’s a better way of putting it. The thing is half obscured but there. I look the other way and pretend I’m thinking about something else. Something mundane. And then it flares out, a word or phrase or image, or just bits of those things. And so I continue to pretend to think about dinner, even think the phrase “Nothing going on here.”

It pops out, suddenly in the clear, an image, dialogue too, but’s it’s slippery and goes off again. I can’t chase the thing. I can’t think about it, not directly. I just have to sit and think about not thinking. And then it’s there, electric and brilliant, and I write.

It’s strangely intense, like I’m no longer me. I stay with it as long as I can, hammer away, even if it’s turning into nonsense, because maybe it isn’t, until it’s no longer and my brain only wants to think about dinner.

Lying about My Likes

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I claim that I am making a comment on social media when I post images of dead animals. I tell everyone to not like these posts and only wish there were a dislike button.

The truth is that I like it when people like what I say about not wanting likes. Which is the same as liking likes, or disliking being ignored. (Please like this post.)

Escape Route

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Cases of beer and champagne made the halls narrow, the wives arriving in anticipation of a cup win, one commenting that there was no way the captain would sing Karaoke at the Equivocator’s house. And no one would ever visit the Finn’s place except the Finns. I realized that the black-suited reporters were all old-time Republicans and ducked outside.

Pen and ink sketch, Goya

The space was open at the center with winding corridors and passageways off to the side. I found a bathroom under the stairs with a view of the valley, but it was packed, some of them my former students. I pleaded for them to leave, but it was a big joke and they took pictures of me as I crapped in my hands.

Writing Advice: Five Pages Per Day & Don’t Drain the Brain

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I’ve read a number of books by writers about writing, and two things have stuck with me over the years. Ian Fleming attested to writing five pages every day before noon so that he could spend the rest of the day swimming and drinking. (I substitute swimming with hiking.)

And Ernest Hemingway was clear in his autobiography, A Moveable Feast, to not drain the brain so that he always had something to start with the next day. In other words, if you go too far one day, you might not get anywhere after that.

Silence is Golden

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There is nothing like shutting up about the writing process – whatever that is – and writing instead, clattering away on who’s knows what but what seems to work right now.

There are pauses between the bursts, leaving me staring dumbly, hands dangling apelike, not thinking about writing but trying to remember the next bit and chase after that before it goes. Yeah, back to that.

Writing Process: Into the Bog

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After weeks of vacillating, I have finally decided on my course. I will start The Vanishing Pill. As my most generous writer friend Jennie suggested, I should just “dive into the new one”. As simple as that.

I wrote the opening on my phone: They were all beautiful people, blond and young. More than that, there was the spectacular view of the icebergs across the ocean, the cool blue late evening sky of a night that would never come. It was some idyll of a place, except that the voices were too loud, and they were speaking Danish.

The question now is which of the threads to follow, not thinking of hooks and plot points, but getting into the bog and finding the runes. It’s a messy inexact thing, to be sure. Excuses abound. But I’ll stay at it. For now.

Icebergs

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I am lost between beginning a new book, The Vanishing Pill, and completing The Cx Trilogy which has taken ten plus years. I am scared of both.

They both require my brain to focus and work for which it isn’t in the mood. They both demand I address the bigger issue of whether I want to do this anymore, for what purpose.

They both confront my lack of confidence and faith. They both make me realize that maybe I was not cut out for this, like so many other aspects of life.

For now, I prefer looking at the ice.

Malaise or Deep Vein Thrombosis?

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I have been anxiety-ridden as of late, much of which is due to writing the final book of my speculative work, The Cx Trilogy. I’ve recently written notes for the outline and even glanced through the first few pages but have mostly been plagued by inertia. Distracted by my literary angst, I packed my toiletries into my luggage for the flight to Greenland, forgetting that I needed my dose of blood-thinner.

I didn’t realize the oversight until boarding and had to accept that I would be fine as long as I walked about on the four-hour flight. I looked down at the continent and then went through the list of the films, stumbling upon Steven Soderbergh’s Let Them All Talk starring Meryl Streep as a well-known author named Alice Hughes.

I was pleasantly surprised by the film which featured literary angst, engaging dialogue and a cleverly entwined plot until I was surprised (spoiler alert!!) to see Ms. Hughes suddenly die of Deep Vein Thrombosis. I got up immediately to walk.

Of course there was no real reason for alarm. Ms. Hughes’ case was severe and her writing far more of a success. It was funny, and that was it. Another moment of me thinking the world was about me.

Living in Fear

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I’ve made a lot of decisions as of late – or they have been made for me – that have brought me to here. And so I now live in fear. Not so much of the world and death and all of that but of the person I have become and what I am to do now.

Angoraphobia is the fear of open spaces and crowds – the Italian author Alessandro Manzoni famously suffered from this – and that is what I feel like I have, not of a physical space but what is now in my head.

I have sought to find something that means something outside of sex and booze and have put myself on a quixotic quest of words to make sense of that. There are no editors, agents or publishers out there as of yet that see my prose as anything beyond sophomoric and unsellable. And that is hard. And I guess the point.

And so I will fly to Copenhagen from here (JFK, if you haven’t guessed) and on to Ilulissat where I either affirm my sophomoric drunken self or write something of worth. Or both. It is to be the end of the trilogy, a book that has been sitting in wait for some years, the arrival to another place. Not here.

This is where my mind is most often. Not here, this godforsaken place where we’ve plunged into the digital wasteland, where words and thought mean no more, but out there, another place, where others have gathered to start the experiment again and find what the hell is so precious about a species fucking hell-bent on self-destruction.

And so, yeah, I live in fear. That is, when I bother to think.

Our Unspoken Selves

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Our history is unspoken, a nightmare only the subconscious knows. Human nature is deceit, the oxymoron of how we honestly treat one another and what we pretend for ourselves. From now on, we will sleep no more.

There has never been a record of truth. That was the epiphany of the Nazis. It’s only getting worse now, where the shadows become real, and the nightmare is complete. Because, as horrible as they are, you and I are the very same.