Fleshing it out

So, I had this idea for a story ten years ago. I'm struggling to find ways to make all the ideals I had for this story work themselves out. I have another story idea that is less fairy-tale and more like my actual experiences. The latter has a wealth of dysfunction that should theoretically be more than sufficient to fuel an entire work from start to close. However, I'm bent on finishing this one. I've heard that "The first draft is always shit" - Ernest Hemmingway. Encouraging? Maybe.

November is for writing.

I've written over 18,000 words over the past week. I want to be gutsy enough to finish a fleshy draft and have the tenacity not to give up on it. I want to write several books even though it won't be fiscally rewarding. If I don't, what could have been will haunt me forever, probably. I find that it's incredibly helpful to talk to someone about my stories, and get perspective. I look forward to having others who will read my story and provide feedback...

Reading is like apples for the brain...

...whatever that means.  I know that the human brain can do amazing things if the owner of it is willing to train it well (I see that Obi Wan has trained you well). In my little analogy, if reading is like eating a barrel of healthy apples, then what I'm doing must be the poop that comes out later. What was I going to say? Oh yeah, I've been reading loads of books. Two weeks ago, I was like "Huh, I haven't seen my kindle lately. I should totally like charge it, man. Like woah." And so I went forth and fetched my kindle, plugging it in to charge so that I may begin to rekindle my love of reading and stuff. I finished the first 5 novels and when looking through my "Next reads" folder, I saw the first Harry Potter book. I thought, "At last! A mystery that should prove to be quite entertaining! Hmm, quite! Pip, cheerio!" (read that last bit in John Cleese's voice). I have started the 5th Harry Potato book today, and am addicted as was predicted. I suspect that once I've finished with the lot, I'll turn to reading The Hungry Games and Anne of Green Bagels. Er, The Hunger Games and Anne of Green Gables. I turn back to Montgomery as my inspiration for writing (as well as DuMaurier). I have always thought of her as being a great story teller. Now I must stop being such a lazy-ass and start actually doing something with myself instead of making excuses. So many excuses....

For one, names are the bane of my existence. I can appreciate names when I read them, and I take for granted that a character would be called anything else. However, I'll start writing something and then stop and say, "No, no. That won't do at all. It seems preposterous to call her that! How unfitting!" and then I'll be at a total loss for what else I could call her, and then just stop mid-sentence never to pick that story up again. 

Or beginnings. Yes, what an awkward thing to say, "or beginnings". They are so awkward with me. I feel like I can pick up in the middle just fine, but where to start? I think I'm going to start writing and then go back and write the beginning last. I can't seem to bring myself to do much of anything in a linear fashion; I work best at random (which is probably why I'm never going to finish a damn thing). 

For now, I think I will cling to my muse for inspiration: Muse-ic. Yes. Hmm, quite. More on that later.

When I grow up

I want to be a writer when I grow up, but I don't know how. I'm virtually at the same point I was all those years ago, when I would daydream in my bedroom and scribble notes on anything that would take to a pencil. I still like to think of my entire life as being far ahead of me, like it isn't too late to fulfill my destiny if there is something greater I can achieve than what I am now. I think this drive was much stronger during times when I was unhappy. It was a way of making a life for myself, creating a world that was under control. It was a way of releasing the anguish I felt when I was alone. Now that life has become exponentially more fulfilling to me, I find the urge to write has weakened. I still adore stories, but some of the longing is gone. I still have the same characters trapped in my head, but they slowly change over time as I grow. I don't know if they will ever make it to paper, or if I will ever be satisfied with their manifestation. I still get stuck on names, for crying out loud.

I got an itch to go on another reading binge, and blew through 6 books in a week. I read two yesterday alone. Reading is the best tool I have for learning how to write. I have never taken a legitimate creative writing class, and sometimes I don't think it would ever help. The more I read, the more I can identify what good writing looks like, and it becomes ingrained in my brain. Today, however, my kindle battery died and I was forced to put it down long enough to charge. I got antsy, so I wrote on two blank printer pages front and back. I shared this experience with Jorge over dinner and he asked to see what I wrote. I hesitated. It would leave me vulnerable to criticism, and I get discouraged easily. It was like leaving my brain exposed to get picked at. He'd see the nonsense I have floating around in my head day after day, and it's a bit embarrassing to admit that to someone whose opinion matters so much to me. I knew it was irrational, because Jorge is a kindhearted and encouraging person by nature, but there was still that fear of disapproval. He's brillant, and he can tell good writing from bad in an instant; I'd hate for him to know the rest of our lives that I was the kind classed as "bad".

I finally gave in, making excuses for how badly the words were formed messily on the page in black ink- it was not thought through, it was jotted quickly, it wasn't meant to do more than capture a thought the moment it entered my brain, I still needed to re-write, etc- and he simply assured me that he would take that into consideration. I studied his face as he read, forgetting what details filled those two pages. Oh, I hoped I didn't write anything I didn't want him to read. Maybe something cheesy. At some point after he grimaced in concentration, I covered my face and watched between the cracks in my fingers. It was a far more dramatic affair than it should have been.

I expected to hear criticism, to hear him pick apart the flaws and tell me how to do better. Isn't that what people expect they are supposed to do when giving feedback? I mean, if we are both held to a certain standard, then I should know well enough, and should be told straight away what my problem is. If I'm so well read, I should know how to write better.
The suspense was finally over, and the verdict was in: It didn't surprise me to hear I need work on dialogue, but inner monologues and narration got his seal of approval. He told me it read like it came straight out of a book. Hopefully this is a side-effect of reading those 6 books cover-to-cover in a week (dear god in heaven, I'm obsessed!). I felt joy welling up from within when I got his approval. I have not written much, and the feedback I've gotten in the past has been predominantly negative. I don't think I've changed too much. I've read more over time, but I think the ideas and skills I have are the same as always. Sometimes I feel so capable, albeit untested. Most of the time I'm tremendously insecure about my skills, constantly doubting my own supposed abilities. It must have been a fluke that he thought I wrote something good. He was very tired, after all, when he read it. Or it must have been his unwavering love for me. That is a very plausible explanation for this rare praise; his affection is often a factor in the clouding of his perception of me. He has a tendency to see me as better than I am because he loves me.

A writer that doesn't write is a ____

Sometimes I feel like a sham. I think about writing quite often, and have never finished a damn thing. It makes me feel vulnerable. Even if it's all fiction, I'm confessing my thoughts to the world anyway. Without getting too much into the introspective or theories on writing, I just want to take a moment to say that I really think writers should write. I mean, as much as possible. I like to do a lot of different things. I can confidently call myself a cook, a knitter, a quilter, and even a gardener (even though my plants are dying) because I've tried it and either failed or succeeded. But I found out what I was capable of by trying. I understand that NaNoWriMo is a great goal for those with self-discipline. It took me nearly a decade and I'm still not finished with that quilt, so maybe it will take a decade to finish the first story I'm concocting.  If you read about two posts before this one, I stated that I wrote 13,000 words in four days. I think I could do that every week. If I don't get distracted, that is.

A story with no name

I'll often think of my stories but never write. Today I was hearing "Someone I used to know" by Elliot Smith, and I thought of me four years ago. I was miserable at home. The only escape I had was a guy who lived states away. I went to see him, leaving family falling apart at home, only to discover that he didn't love me anymore. Somehow I didn't despair. Things were pretty depressing, but there were worse as well as better days to come. I'd like to write that into a story. This scenario exactly. You know things are so bad for her that they have to get better. The reader will want to know almost as much as I did. How could things get better?  During moments of my life I would say something clever or funny, I would make something I was proud of, I would do the right thing... and no one noticed. One day after I had nothing left to lose, I met you. You noticed.

Non fiction

In the span of four days, I wrote about 13,000 words. It was on a difficult matter for me to write about, but I just kept typing and typing. There was much to say, and still more unsaid. It's been a very long time since I wrote that much. I think that's painfully obvious for me while reading my own words- I'm so out of practice that it doesn't come as naturally as it used to! I used to read my own words and be impressed. Now I think it comes out looking too simple where it should be elegant, too awkward where it should be eloquent. I've disappointed myself. So, here I am trying to get back to my roots and explore the writing process and how it relates to my most recent writing (while I edit the bejeebus out of this post, still unsatisfied. Hi!).When I wrote essays in school, I would sketch outlines in my notebook, rearrange the order of ideas, then write a rough draft; I would then type the rough draft, changing the words as I transcribed. It was my method of forcing myself to re-write every word; I found it easier to move paragraphs in a certain order if I could turn the pages in my notebook while I did it. Whew, I'm really out of practice!

Even though this recent project doesn't contain a specific thesis or it doesn't have an argument in which I'm trying to persuade anything, I feel that I could not achieve the logic flow of thoughts that I used to accomplish. Maybe it was due to the nature of its content, but it was all over the place. There's a chronological thing going on, and then there's different common themes. Do I write it chronologically? It made sense because some events were necessary predecessors to others. But I can't make a strong point about one theme when breaking it up over the span of several chronological events. If I wasn't trying to make a point- just vomit out raw memories- is it necessary to edit? I think if I were to do it again, I'd organize it according to theme, not in chronological order. For the record, I do not make a point to edit blog posts, but sometimes I get that itch and tweak a thing or two.

It got me writing, and that's what I am determined to do. I've got to keep reading and writing. I find it a little challenging (but not impossible) to handle the entirety of  editing 13,000+ words in one chunk. Surprisingly, it didn't feel like I was writing that much. I wonder if this means I'll be used to writing in high volume, so it won't be as intimidating in the future. I feel like it has debunked some sort of notion I had about how much work it is to write. Don't get me wrong- there were moments after I was sitting there for hours on end that I clutched my head and exclaimed, "My brains- they're melting!"Like I said, editing 13,000 words is challenging-not impossible. Just as much time and care should be invested in planning, editing, and refining writing as the obvious jotting of words, in my opinion Like I mentioned, I used to invest about as much in the planning of an essay as the writing when I was a student. If I knew what my main idea was, I would make bullets of strong supportive points I wanted to make.Then, I would expand each one and flesh it out until It branched out into an essay. If you've ever written an essay the right way, this should be a no-brainer.

I think great writing requires that sort of design- like an architect sketching every detail of his concept before actually building a thing. The trouble of making it flow arises when you're not making one central, overarching statement. If you don't have a thesis to tie it all together, then the reader will have a hard time coming away with a conclusion from the writing. I don't think this applies per se with the sort of writing that I just finished. (And because I tied this paragraph in to the 13,000 word project, it is not an unrelevant one.) It was not that structured to begin with, it was more of a record of things I will hope to forget in detail. I don't have a specific audience.

The subject matter is not something I feel comfortable writing about here, but let's just say that it was exploring some parts of my past, one of which would explain why I am afraid of writing anything down. I think I'm no good, and am apprehensive about leaving myself vulnerable to have others tell me what I fear. Therefore, I don't try. I've been criticized and scrutinized my entire life. I don't seek ways to get rejected. I know it's silly, but when something is so ingrained in your past, it can be hard to see it objectively.

Ok, I feel so full of it trying to BS my way through explaining anything relevant to writing. My original intention was to note, "Hey! I wrote lots and it didn't kill me!" and how this is actually a good start once I know what I want to write about. I don't have to pre-plan the hell out of fiction the way I do with expository writing. I can just type and let things flow for a start. It's much easier to correct writing while reading it- not writing it- so I think I would use the same process I do for expository writing, which is (as a general rule) the smartest process I have used. I just wouldn't do the same sort of planning because it's creative, not expository. It would go like this: Detailed planning, fleshing out (writing), and editing/refining until desired finished product is achieved. I have little doubt that if I had spent hours planning my 13k project, I would have exceeded the finished trainwreck I'm stuck with. "An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure" applies to writing!

Why do you want to be a writer?

We all have muses, etc. as mentioned in the previous post. Do you know why you want to be a writer? I can't say I've written enough to myself well, but I can imagine a few reasons.

First, it's a way of being at peace. Like in The Blue Castle, Valancy used her imagination to change her dismal reality into something she liked thinking about. I find that there are things in life that one cannot help but wonder what alternative destiny would occur if things could be changed as easily as say, editing a character's name. Have you had a bully or enemy you would like to see get their just desserts? Writing, just as reading, can be an escape from reality- an outlet.

However, it can be employed as a tribute to reality, a way to relive the most relished moments in life. I get nostalgia about the strangest things. For example, the other day I thought about being a new student at FIU. In my first semester, I would arrive early and sit in GC at a table or outside near the fountain, and read my Arthurian romances and eat granola bars for breakfast. I loved the thrill of being in a new school, taking classes I loved so well (and thrived at), and reading exciting tales about knights, maidens, kingdoms, and magic. The yellowish lights never bothered me and I learned to tune out the top hits on the radio (I believe it was a necessary skill to learn when you live with 8 other people). I think a big part of the joy I felt sitting there was the feeling that I belonged in that Arthurian Lit class. It was my element. I understood and loved every part of my new role as an English major. I know I'm mediocre at best, but that's what we're about here!

I have strong feelings of nostalgia sometimes. What causes that? Does everyone experience it? I was listening to Franz Ferdinand's most recent album, Tonight, when I remembered driving to FIU in my "new" 1998 Chevy Prizm (the nicest car I ever drove because it had A/C & a CD player) using my shiny CD player to listen to the first two Franz Ferdinand albums. Starting at FIU was a euphoric experience for me. Even if home life was shit, I had the freedom to drive, listen to music, be a student, have my job. It was a time when I had nothing to worry about. Writing a paper? Taking a test? Cake! I can handle these things. These were the elements I had under my control, and I suppose that lends some credit to its being such a satisfying experience. Things went downhill rapidly after graduation, but I was truly happy while I was there.

Briefly back on the topic of music- I find that I remember specific locations I was at when I heard a song or album for the first time. I remember being in my Victorian history class when I listened to The Servant album. I would listen to it over and over. I drove down 8th street for that class because it was in one of the trailer things near the stadium on the north side of the school. Weird, right? I mean, that it's so specific. Ok, I've got nothing more to say on the subject for the time being. Good day.

Someone I used to know

I have various muses that provoke my imagination. Sometimes I get this overwhelming sense of nostalgia thinking about happy moments in my life. Sometimes I hear a song- a specific song- and it gives me an idea for a specific story based on the tone, mood, and sometimes the lyrics. Sometimes it's when I dream about something that has never happened to me- like going to California. I fantasize about it, and I often wonder if the fantasy would be dulled by having finally experienced it. Have you ever met someone that you felt you connected with, sort of a kindred spirit that you started developing a friendship with only to have them disappear off the face of the planet without another word? That happened to me once, nine years ago. It was a most unsettling way for things to go, but at the time my imagination ran wild. I thought about him today because I still remember his birthday, June 23rd. I used to think about it all the time, wondering if he died, or if he got tired of me, speculating what could have possibly happened to make him stop talking to me. For a while I thought something bad happened, there could be no other explanation. Then my innocence waned and I grew aware of the corrupt nature of human beings. I grew cynical and skeptical that this person ever showed true kindness, it must have been a ruse. Even though all regard I held for him is long gone, I remember how he made me feel and how it changed over the rot of time. I have often thought (following a post on epistolary fiction) of looking over the old emails we sent each other, and make some sort of story out of it, leading to the dissolution and cynicism of the main character. It would be a way to be at peace with a mystery- write my own ending. It's a means of gaining control of things we cannot change.

The art of blogging & epistolary literature

Now that I've created a blog purposed for contemplation and discussion of fiction, I have to mention a faux-blog that I read once about a woman's dating experiences. It was called "Single in the Suburbs". It is presented as her actual experiences, but some of the content seems contrived. I mean, it could very well be about her actual experiences, perhaps with enhancements made for the purpose of creating interest for the reader. I have no doubt at least some augmentation took place, because Sara Susannah Katz appears to be a very competent writer, perfectly capable of such a fictional venture.

The mystery remains, but the concept is one I am fascinated with. It's like reading a journal or diary (which is sort of what a blog is!) where you gradually learn about a person's life. It's very similar to the concept of a novel constructed of letters- first person point of view, written in increments with time/date stamps. This, I learned, is called an "Epistolary Novel".

Daddy Long Legs is such a novel, one that I've read numerous times. It's an interesting way to write a first person story; it has to be written in chronological order, and the reader can refer back to certain dates. I loved Daddy Long legs for reasons other than its being an epistolary novel. For one, I find it interesting to read letters someone is writing only on one side, without reply. You have to wonder what the other character- the fictitious recipient thinks of the letter. We then read these letters with that awareness. With a diary or a blog, however, the assumption is that we are getting an inside peek at private thoughts without necessary concern for what another character would read into it.

I wonder if there's a name for that... for a fake blog/journal story. What do you call one that is completely made up? I think a creative twist on the fictitious blog technique would be to present it as if someone was reading a blog that had years of writing in it already- and when that happens, how do you read it? Backward, of course! How did this person get so angry? What was so tragic in his or her life to make them depressed? The assumption I'm making is that the most interesting blogs are riddled with drama!

A start can't be a bad thing, can it?

I don't expect anyone to be reading this, but if you're there, hi! I created this blog so I can get motivated to write.  I'm paranoid about sharing anything I've written- a terrible start, I know. I have sketches of detailed characters floating around in my brain, ones with virtue, baggage, talents, misconceptions, unrequited love, pining, disappointment, ambition, and lots of room to grow from there. I find character development to be the most fascinating aspect of literature, and love to speculate where a life could lead if a character has a change of heart. I named this blog as I did because people with the slightest ability- whether it be prodigious, mediocre, or abysmal- tend to think they are the bomb-diggity; they think that they are unique and special and the whole world should love them. I give one admission to this notion, that just because someone is not a prodigy does not exclude them from the interest of mankind. Knowing this, and being aware that I am mediocre at best, I strive to contribute a few nuggets of interest to the world, even if that world is populated by myself alone (I suppose I'm saying that I write for my own sake). My stories right now are incubating in my brain, and I have no excuse but my own shortcoming to explain why I have nothing to share as of yet. I have some difficulty starting with names, but I feel that overall I have a better idea of where I'm going now than I did five years ago. I honestly hope that in five years hence, I will have improved exponentially both in skill and in self-discipline. Cheers, invisible reader! Hope we will meet again.