Foam whipped by the wind
Clouds through a dirty lens 
Tag Archives: writing process
Leaving Home As a Kid
“I wandered off as a kid, just kind of left. I never wanted to run away, nothing like that, but I liked being in my own head and staying there, alone.” Och squeezed the brim of his hat between his hands, bending the thick material together. “I remember once coming home from school, pretending to sleep, just so I could miss my stop. That’s how I thought. I had to pretend to sleep and wake up in case someone was watching. It was just…I just wanted to see where the bus went. I always got off at the same stop and I didn’t know where it went. I wanted to know where it went. And so I opened my eyes like, ‘Oh, no, I missed it. What do I do now?’ And there wasn’t anything. It was all the same, streets and stores and apartments. I stared out the window as we went north. And then it was only apartment buildings, wide avenues and then empty fields. The bus came to a turnaround and the driver asked me if I was lost. I told him that I had missed my stop.”
“How old were you?” Dee asked.
“I don’t know. I think maybe Grade Three.”
“You rode the bus alone when you were eight?”
“I did the same thing on the subway another time. I went to the end of the line. I collected a transfer from every station.” I stared into the water as if he could see his small hands clutching bits of colored paper. “I was never scared or anything. I was just getting off and on the train, collecting transfers. It was so great…like magic.”
Bullies on Both Sides
They were big men, both yelling at each other, being held apart. 
And then the bigger one got tired of being insulted and came around. The first guy suddenly shrank back and became tiny, his face full of a fear, saying he had to go to the airport as the second inflated his fist and choke-held him into pathetic submission.
It was just a show. We were all sitting there to be entertained, and the guy in front of me pulled out a camera to post it to his feed. 
I told him, in no uncertain terms, to put it away. He didn’t like that, offering a sarcastic apology, and we both missed the bows.
My Writing Process: At Last!
It has taken me 584 blog posts, all of which are supposed to focus on my writing process, to actually write about my writing process…which is now part of the process.
In writing a novel, I often find it overwhelming to take on the book all at once, or even a chapter. It’s easier, and more enjoyable, to deal with the work in fragments – a piece of dialogue, a description, a concept – treating each as a cell, whole unto itself.
As I develop and read through each draft, instead of becoming weighed down by the tsunami of things that are not working, I take each one at a time and make notes:
a. Uumlak needs detail. What does this even look like?
b. Dialogue between Dee and Nico needs to be moved. Where?
c. Qoorog needs to be mentioned three-five times earlier in the text.
After compiling a list, I email it to myself and then flesh out a couple of items every few days and email those back until I have a set of four or five back-and-forth replies. 
Once most of the issues have been addressed, I format that and insert each section back into the text. I’ll give myself a day or two before reading through the chapter, trying to gain momentum, and compose a new list of issues to tackle as I go. And then it starts anew.
It’s an effective process because I don’t focus on where I am in the book, nor how many more words I need to compose to get to the end. It’s just the scene, the moment, the thing itself, and that is almost always a joy to do. (And even if none of it works, at least I received a few emails that I actually read.)
Writing Tip #3.14: Dialogue must avoid debate
Fedex: How can I help you?
McPhed: I have a complaint.
Fedex: Do you have a tracking number?
McPhed: 8049 2194 25
Fedex: 8149–
McPhed: (Tersely) 8049 2194 25
Fedex: Okay, yes. (Pause) What can I do for you, sir?
McPhed: Do you see the record of the account?
Fedex: Yes, sir.
McPhed: You see that package was returned to the sender and that the contents of the package were spoiled?
Fedex: I apologize for the inconvenience.
McPhed: I don’t want an apology.
Fedex: I’m sorry to hear that.
McPhed: What are you going to do about this?
Fedex: You’ve filed a complaint.
McPhed: I’ve filed three complaints.
Fedex: I’m sorry for the inconvenience, sir.
McPhed: Stop apologizing.
Long pause.
McPhed: I’d like to speak with a manager.
Fedex: One moment, sir.
Music plays. Phone clicks. Phone goes dead. McPhedran calls back.
Fedex: How can I help you?
McPhed: I would like to speak your manager.
Fedex: Can I assist you, sir?
McPhed: You hung up on me. I want to speak with your manager.
Fedex: I apologize for any inconvenience.
Long pause.
McPhed: Hello?
Fedex: Yes, sir?
McPhed: I would like to speak your manager.
Fedex: I need a tracking number, sir.
McPhed: Do you have any idea how many times I’ve called Fedex?
Fedex: I’m sorry for the inconvenience, sir.
McPhed: Is that all you people know how to do? Apologize?
Fedex: I’m sorry for the inconvenience, sir.
McPhed: I would like to talk your manager.
Fedex: One moment.
Music plays. Phone clicks. Phone goes dead. McPhedran calls back.
Fedex: How can I help you?
McPhed: You’ve hung up on me twice now.
Fedex: I’m sorry for the inconvenience, sir.
McPhedran replies with a series of expletives. Long Pause.
McPhed: Is there anyone who will address my concern?
Fedex: What is the problem, sir?
McPhed: You were supposed to deliver a package. You failed to do that and the contents of the package were ruined.
Fedex: I’m sorry for the inconvenience, sir.
McPhed: Forget the apologies. It’s a business. That’s why I am calling you. You failed to do what you said you would do.
Fedex: We cannot give you any financial compensation, sir.
McPhed: You let nine pounds of smoked salmon rot in your warehouse. That’s your responsibility.
Fedex: We do not assume liability for the contents of the package.
McPhed: What do you assume liability for?
Fedex: We cannot give you any financial compensation, sir. I’m sorry.
McPhed: How many times do I have to tell you to stop apologizing?
Fedex: Okay, I won’t do that again. (Pause) Is there anything else?
McPhed: What else could there possibly be?
Long Pause. McPhedran hangs up.
I Will Be Content After This Drink
I just need this drink to be content. Just that, the refreshment, the alcohol in my blood at the right percentage. 
Ah, yes…there! I am content, genuinely and truly so.
It’s nice to feel like this, to have everything set, the holidays approaching, the weather cool and crisp, all emails answered, assignments managed, my work going fine. 
My Bad Side will be published one day, The Ark is finally coming together, and the first draft of Glenayr is almost there. Friends and family are healthy – Micaela happy and More Art prospering – and the Leafs are actually winning.
Yes, everything is all right…although, now that I think about it, the Leafs could be more consistent, especially in the defensive end.
And, well, my brother won’t talk to me, and More Art could use more grant money. Glenayr lacks a clear antagonist, and, to be honest, The Ark will be impossible to finish. 
An email from Fedex? Claim rejected? Damn it, I forgot to call my doctor, and I have to set up the website for next week. Yeah, and it’s going to snow.
What? And the bar is closed? 
No, that’s not good.
The Christmas Sentinel
The glass doors slid suddenly open, loose along the tracks, allowing out the thick, perfumed air. The reception area was deserted, the line of grey pillars, each tied with a plush red bow, tapering down the long and empty halls. I stepped inside, rubbing the foamy blob of liquid soap between my hands, and paused at the tree, perfect, artificial and green.
“Good evening.”
I looked around and then in amongst the baubles of the tree, half-expecting a specter to come out.
“Bracing weather.” The disembodied voice was raspy and friendly.
I circled the branches to find an elderly man in a wheelchair, a thin tartan blanket draped down. His eyes were wide, a clear green, his smile crooked and sincere. “Here for a visit?”
I felt the twist in my hips, impelling me to leave. “My mother.”
He nodded slightly, a ragged scab covering the back of his head. “She will be pleased to see you.”
I realized that the blanket hung flat against the wheelchair, that he had no legs, that he must have had countless surgeries and was only smiling in pain. “Yes.”
His arms lay still across his empty lap. “Carry on.”
I sidled away awkwardly, surging around the corner to where a woman stood, dressed as an elf.
“Hello.”
We waited for the elevator. 
“It must be hard to work here,” I said. “Especially around Christmas.”
“I’m not a nurse.” She pressed the clipboard tight to her green felt blouse. “I’m the director of social programs.”
The doors opened and we got in.
“Floor?”
“Six.”
She got off on the third. “Merry Christmas.”
Writing Tip #4: The Ticking Bomb
Every story needs its ticking bomb: Will Luke destroy the Death Star? Will Jack really kill Ralph? Will Gatsby run off with Daisy? Will Chigurgh catch Llewelyn?* 
We are compelled to keep reading, to find out what happens in the end.
Without this tension, this inherent inevitability, the story flounders, and with no land in sight, the audience is lost, the story a disaster. 
*Yes, no, no and no.
The Last and Final, Final Word
“As for the disposal of your bodies…”
This was an initial meeting, many years before anything would actually have to be done. They were only preparing him for the idea, the fact that this event, one day, would occur. It was a fact of life.
“The body hair is shaved…”
He considered his veins and joints and thought about how he had been the only one who knew them, that they were solely his, his intimates.
“Bodily fluids are drained…”
Once he was gone, that was it; there were no bodies, no veins and joints. They would rot. But the fact was that he could not surrender these parts of self – his very self – to this man or any other. They were his. It was as simple as that. He had to leave.
“An incision is made…”
He didn’t raise his hand. He kept that, like the rest of him, close to himself, as he made a long backward step and pushed open the door.
“Excuse me?” The man’s voice was sharp, suddenly unpleasant.
He only half turned back, still pushing open the door. “Yes?”
“Where are you going?”
“Out.” He left.
Down and Out in The Early Hours of Las Vegas
I did not heed the advice of my drunk friend from Santa Barbara and continued on to another table, the first one in range, and watched myself lurch, hoping, grasping at nothing but air.
“I’ve built my house on you guys.” The dealer was not one to mince words.
I took that as a challenge, brashly proclaiming, “I’m building my house now,” after the occasional win. And then my money was gone, all of it, and I had to return to the machine, stickered in warnings against gambling ills.
I sat down with a trio of Turks and battled on. We won a little and then lost, won a little and then lost, and I was at the ATM again.
And then I was alone; it was just me and the dealer and the pit boss, and they almost seemed to be cheering me on. “Got to get a little something something.”
I didn’t know what she meant, but then I was up a few hundred – losses aside – and she gave me an orange, a $500 chip. I would keep that, no matter what. No matter what.
I watched my little stacks deplete and then, sadly, had to throw back the orange; and then it was gone too. I only had $25 left and placed it firmly down. I got a 19. I would build back from that; that’s what I thought.
The dealer had Blackjack. “Sorry.”
“Time to go to bed.”
“Get some sleep. We’ll see you soon!”
She could bet on that.