Just Another Writerly Weekend

What a weekend I had planned. Two full days to write, just write. And I was a good, disciplined writer, too. Honest I was.  Butt in chair. Fingers on keyboard. No Facebook (mostly). Clickety clack clickety clack. Go, Jimmy, go! Get those words down. Sucky sentence? You can fix it later. Crappy paragraph? That's okay, just get it down, one after the other. Let it flow, man. Clickety clack clickety clack. It got tougher as the weekend went on. Words and paragraphs and sentences came slowly. Eventually, trying to describe a simple action was like trying to swim in molasses. But I kept going. I know how this works. Persistence, man. Courage. And the outcome? A huge, heaping and steaming pile of horseshit. Clickety clack. Mama told me there'd be days like this. Actually, she didn't. She died when I was sixteen, way before she ever had the chance to warn me away from this craziness. Is it too late for a career change? Any companies hiring sixty-year-old interns? I could commute to Wall Street. I'm pretty sure I could pick stocks just as badly as everyone else there. Or I could sell shirts at Brooks Brothers on Madison. It wouldn't take me long to become a crew chief at McDonald's. I'm told I have a pleasant voice, so maybe I could work in a call center and put you on hold forever.  

So. How was your weekend?

Annie Sez It

This week's Facebook Find, from Anne Lamott's page:

Amen, sister.

"Publication and temporary creative successes are something you have to recover from. They kill as many people as not. They will hurt, damage and change you in ways you cannot imagine. The most degraded and sometimes nearly-evil men I have known were all writers who'd had bestsellers. Yet, it is also a miracle to get your work published. Just try to bust yourself gently of the fantasy that publication will heal you, will fill the Swiss cheesey holes. It won't, it can't. But writing can. So can singing."

Just Asking...

Corporate America's insatiable need to morph verbs into nouns and nouns into verbs has struck again. I was in a meeting recently when the executive in charge asked, "What's the ask?" The reply was something along the lines of, "The ask is that we reduce our exposure in less optimal market segments while increasing our visibility in... blah blah blah."

I appeared to be paying attention--after three decades of business meetings, I've gotten pretty good at this. But my thoughts were focused on The Ask. It seems to be on everyone's corporate lips these days: 
Do we have a clear understanding of The Ask?
Does the strategy address The Ask?
We must clearly define The Ask before moving forward.

Ladies and gentlemen of the Airless Conference Room, point of order, if you please:  "Ask" is a verb. "The Ask" is... well, beats me. So my "ask" is that we please get back to "What's the objective?" or "What is the task at hand?" or or even "What in the hell are we supposed to do?"

"What's the ask?" just sounds askinine.

This One's for Tara

That's Tara, seated on my right.

Last month, I was honored to be the featured author at the Fitchburg (MA) Library's Author Night. The moderator was a fine young woman named Tara Dugan, who, as it turns out, is a distant cousin... although I'm still not sure how. Despite any genetic connection she may have with me, she did a great job.

After the talk, she mentioned that she enjoyed reading my blog posts. I thought she was just being nice, since it had been nearly a year since my last post. I had decided to let the blog sink into even deeper oblivion. But when she started talking about specific topics I'd written on... well, she inspired me. So thank you, Tara. This first "return" post is for you.

Since it's National Poetry Month, I thought I'd post a one-sentence poem I wrote a few years ago. I invite anyone who happens to see this entry to post one of your own originals in the comment section, or to share a poem that has special meaning for you. Here's mine (and I hope Blogger doesn't screw up the enjambments):

EDITORIAL ADVICE

While I was revising a poem that sucked, my long-dead

mother and not-as-long-dead father visited to remind me

that writing was the fast road to starvation and to ask
what I was doing

in the Express Lane

by writing poetry; after all, being Irish was not a divine right

to sing the blues, especially since I was given Middle America,

hours of humid afternoons to float like an astronaut 12 feet

above the drain

of Lakewood Park

pool, red-and-yellow autumns, and scratchy sittings on Santa’s lap

at Higbee’s, where afterwards we’d have a cool chocolate frosty

in the basement and watch the ladies browse blankets and punch

pillows and why

did I feel it necessary

to use words like suck anyway but back to the main point, which was this:

I was not going to find what I was looking for in words, no one ever does,

especially those with real responsibilities but never mind, it didn’t much matter

since I never did

much listen anyway

which is okay, they said, we’ll stay here—in the dress you’ll remember

from the picture, the suit you’ll recall from the smell—silent, quiet as mice,

while we lie with our hands softly at our sides as we ever so patiently,

ever so eagerly,

wait for you. 

The Writing Gods Are Messing With Me

After the sting, the antidote. Case in point: Shortly after I got a bit of bad literary news (okay, fine--a rejection), I received this new, five-star review of my book by a British reader:

"It is so refreshing to see the issues raised in this book - Alzheimer's - dysfunctional families, etc not done in a syrupy American way. Well done. The characters did not go out of their way to be liked which gave it a more realistic quality."

Did this reviewer just insult the syrupy state of American Letters? I don't bloody well care. The man has impeccable taste and insight.

Point is: Sometimes when you most need it, you're reminded of why you write. Thanks, British Reader. Cheers!

You Search for It Until It Finds You

When I was a young hormone, I once asked my father for advice on winning a girl's heart. I must have really liked that girl, because broaching such a topic with my father, at that age, was about as uncool and desperate an act I could imagine.

He started well.

"Chase her," he said. "Until she catches you."

That took me a minute. Gradually, strategies no doubt completely at odds with my father's meaning started  taking shape within the lines of my one-track mind. Show interest, but not too much. Call her, but a little later than you said you would. Look cool, not needy. I thought that maybe the old man was on to something. Then he blew it. He suggested I ask her to meet me at the library. 

The library? A girl? On a date? Um, right. Thanks, Dad.

I was reminded of this scene the other morning when something I'd been pursuing finally caught me. For weeks, I'd been trying to nail down the premise for a story. My efforts included exhaustive lists of themes that I find most interesting, the things I most like to read: relationships, betrayals, redemption, coming of age, death, change, sex, character development, endurance, individualism, families, friendships, loneliness, regret, hope, fear, triumph, defeat. Nothing seemed to be working. I started paging through my advice books: Lamott, Lerner, King, Zinsser, Burroway, Truby, Brande, Goldberg, Gardner. I outlined Campbell's Hero With a Thousand Faces, Vogel's Writer's Journey. I started and abandoned outlines, made notes on plot, character, conflict, inciting incidents, climaxes, cute meets, story beats, red herrings, beginnings, endings, middle acts. Created and discarded dozens of index cards. Scribbled madly in my writer's-block journal. And with each attempt, doubt grew. I saw the road ahead. Depression. Surrender. The writing on the ash-filled urn: Close, But No Cigar.

And then, as I stared out the window after staring at the blank computer screen after staring at my empty coffee cup after waking that morning convinced I was the Sahara of Inspiration, the Death Valley of Compelling, the Blue Hole (Ohioans will understand) of ideas: Boom. It slapped me a few times so that I could see it clearly. And in answer to my question, it said, "Been here the whole time, dumb ass. You were just too needy."

So wish me luck.  Bon voyage. Safe trip. Happy trails. Here we go.

And thanks, Dad.

My response to the review I didn't read

I don't read reviews of my book. Honest. I just happened to be on one of the sites that reviews books and accidentally clicked on my book and in trying to get back to the previous page I inadvertently clicked on "Review This Book" and then to make sure I didn't make another mistake I paused and happened to read one of the latest entries. The reviewer game me three stars out of five, making the very important point that this was very generous gesture on his or her part. Imagine the waves of gratitude that washed over me. We don't know each other (I don't think!), so this random act of incredible kindness has affected (effected? No, affected) me deeply. The thought and consideration involved here ranks right up there with the reviewer who so thoughtfully gave the book one star, writing that she didn't read the book because the main character suffered from the same disease as her own, real-life father. Wasn't that nice? She took the time to give it the lowest possible rating, even though she didn't read the book? My cup runneth over.
(There. That felt pretty good, actually.)

Pshew

Oh, man. Ridiculous how long it's been. Shame on me.
So what's shakin'? Me? Just finished my fumpteenth revision of my new novel.
Will it see the light of day? Will it keep some keeper of the keys interested past the first chapter? Will there be a long night that passes quickly, a regretful turn of the last page? Will there be an excited phone call, an auction with the Big Howevermany clamoring, a champagne cork popped, multiple translations and editions and talk of Justin Timberlake in the lead role?

The Muse Outside

I spend a lot of time with my back to the computer and its blank screen, staring out my office window. I'm convinced that sitting atop one of the trees in the distance is the becloaked Muse that Zeus assigned to torment me. She is always outside, always in profile, always refusing my invitations. When it's windy outside, she appears be be rocking back and forth, doubled over in laughter. 

So... do you think it's time for me to see someone? A trained specialist? Someone who has dealt with people who see animal shapes and perhaps Abe Lincoln and his stovepipe hat in cloud formations?

Fear and/of Writing

This article in the New York Times on Writing and Fear hit a nerve. Don't write what you know, the author advises, write what you fear.

It got me to thinking: What if the things you fear are wrapped up in the writing process itself? To wit:

Blank pages. First drafts. Scenes that plop themselves on the page like a flatulent uncle at a family gathering. (Which reminds me: cliches.) And the first five pages. And those few final sentences before The End. The submission. The silence.The calendar. The odds. The next one.

What keeps your writerly mind cowering beneath the sheets?

The Voices in My Running and Writing Head

Today I downloaded a iPhone app for my outdoor running. It uses gps to track the running route, distance, time, etc etc. All the gizmos. Looked cool. Beautiful day. I decided to give it a try.

As I soon discovered, a pleasant-sounding, non-judgmental feminine voice interrupted my running music every five minutes to inform me on how short a distance I've run, how long it's taken me to cover such a pitiful distance (in tenths and hundredths of a mile), the average number of minutes and seconds and hundredths of a second per mile that I was logging (which seemed to increase with every report), and the number of calories I was burning during this paltry effort.

About midway through my run, I was getting this digital running coach's voice mixed up with  the internal editor's voice I hear when I'm writing--the very voice I'm trying to escape when I go for runs.

"You have  been staring at the computer screen for fifteen-point-zero-zero minutes."
"You have typed zero-point-zero-zero characters."
"You have written zero-point-zero-zero words ."
"You have burned zero-point-zero-one calories." (Turning on the computer, I s'pose.)
 "Your average is currently (pause) zero-point-zero-zero per minute."

So... along with my musical running buddies and the internal writing editor who never seems to leave me alone, I now had this running coach yapping in my ear, insinuating--what a laugh!--that I'm older and slower than ever.

Time to run to the Delete App. Soon as I catch my breath.

Writing to Distraction

I used to think that heaven was having all the time in the world to devote to writing fiction. Just me and my Smith-Corona, later Kaypro, then Mac, now Dell. I had a chance to experience that situation last year. Along with millions of others, my work had slowed. I had more time on my hands. There were days when time was all I had. Nothing to distract me from my novel-in-progress.

It was hell.

My experience is similar to the one described in this great article by Benjamin Nugent in today's New York Times. When there are no distractions, when there's nothing to occupy the mind but the fictional world trying to take shape in one's head and on the screen or paper, the results can be disastrous. In my case, I'd spend days--literally--working on a single paragraph. And later I might decide that it needed to be cut. Doubts crept in. Self-esteem took a dive. I'm pretty sure my wife and kids would say I grew considerably crankier than usual.

This is not to say, of course, that paying close attention to the craft is dangerous. And the monomania, the pathological focus on one thing that Mr. Nugent describes in his article, may work for some writers. But not for me. I need the interactions and the distractions. I need to focus intently on fiction for only a set period of time, and then move on to something else. I've learned that it's in the "something else" that I often find the answers to the problems I uncover during my moments of monomania.

You? Isolation tank, limited engagement, or complete immersion in the world? What makes you most productive?

Last (Literary) Lines for 2012

Stealing this idea from NPR librarian Kee Malesky, who closes out the year by sharing last lines from classic novels. Too difficult a task to think of my all-time favorite, so I limited my search to the books I read in 2012. The winner for me was Junot Diaz's THIS IS HOW YOU LOSE HER. Here's how he ends it:

You bust out a couple more things. Then you put your head down.
The next day you look at the new pages. For once you don't want to burn them or give up writing forever.
It's a start, you say to the room.
That's about it. In the months that follow you bend to the work, because it feels like hope, like grace--and because you know in your lying cheater's heart that sometimes a start is all we ever get.  

Great Advice to Writers

From Jeffrey Eugenides, one of the best articles on writing I've read in a long time. It was adapted from a speech he made to a group young, award-winning authors, but it's excellent advice for writers of any age--award-winners or not.

Here's one of my favorites of several great passages:

"When you started writing, in high school or college, it wasn’t out of a wish to be published, or to be successful, or even to win a lovely award like the one you’re receiving tonight. It was in response to the wondrousness and humiliation of being alive. Remember? You were fifteen and standing beside a river in wintertime. Ice floes drifted slowly downstream. Your nose was running. Your wool hat smelled like a wet dog. Your dog, panting by your side, smelled like your hat. It was hard to distinguish. As you stood there, watching the river, an imperative communicated itself to you. You were being told to pay attention."

Read the entire article HERE.

Richards on Writing

Reading Keith Richards's LIFE and came across this, as true for fiction writing as for songwriting:

"And also the other thing about being a songwriter, when you realize you are one, is that to provide ammo, you start to become an observer, you start to distance yourself. You're constantly on the alert. That faculty gets trained in you over the years, observing people, how they react to one another. Which, in a way, makes you weirdly distant."
p.183

Farewell, My Gabster

For the past 12 years, I've had a writing companion here in the office each and every day. She's so dedicated that she even sleeps here. Slept.

I had many nicknames for her. Gabster. Gabbus. Pooch-face. Pain-in-the-butt. Her real name was Gabby.

I get up at an ungodly hour to write. Gabby usually got up with me, barking to be let out of the office and taken outside when she heard me in the kitchen making the morning coffee. After breakfast, she would sit at my feet, often on top of them, as I wrote. She made sure I didn't become completely glued to the chair by periodically making me take her outside. She was a most eager luncheon companion, especially as I prepared my sandwich and might accidentally let a sliver of ham or cheese fall to the floor.

Gabby was a strange little beagle. She loved people but did not like to be petted by them. She prefered to be close enough for some part of her body to touch, but petting... well, she tolerated it for a few seconds, then moved away, as if she could not understand this strange behavior. She liked walks only when my wife Joanne was one of the walkers. She had a chair in the family room all to herself, but whenever she had the opportunity she sneaked onto one of the couches. When ordered off, BAD GIRL, she simply hopped back onto her chair, arranged herself into a small circle of black and tan and white, and snoozed on as if nothing had happened outside of a ridiculously unreasonable human demand.

A month ago, she was diagnosed with cancer. Decisions had to be made. How much time? What were the options? What was to be gained? And, yes, what would be the costs? In the past, I agreed  readily to procedures and fees that a reasonable person would justifiably think excessive for a dog. But this time was different. It wasn't a matter of healing. It was an issue of prolonging. And so we decided to let Mother Nature have her way.

In the few weeks following the bad news, Gabby had her bad days, but most were pretty good. Our carpet took a beating, but we cleaned up silently and without remonstration. She seemed to recover a little after each bout with the beast inside, and so we kept hoping that the diagnosis was wrong or that Gabby was beating it. We knew, of course, that the prognosis was bleak. And Gabby was never much of a fighter. One of our family's favorite stories is of the day she took off after a gaggle of geese making their way across our back yard, only to turn tail the moment one of the goslings turned around.

This past Friday night I returned home from a two-day business trip. She raised her head to greet me, but her eyes were yellowed and filmy. She didn't wag her tail. She didn't even stand. And so yesterday, we gathered up her favorite cushion and took her to the vet for the final time. The last thing Gabby saw was Joanne's comforting, teary smile.

Yes, I cried, too. I cried the moment she left us.  I cried when we got home and she wasn't there to greet us, running and tail-wagging around the family in joy and immense relief that we had, after all, returned. And this morning, I cried (just a little bit... I'm not a complete pussy) when I made the morning coffee. And right now, at this moment, my feet are cold.

I had fully intended to keep this all to myself. After all, people lose their pets all the time. We know from the day we get the little buggers that there will come a day similar to the one my family experienced yesterday. Why write about this painful but common experience?

Hell if I know. My only excuse, perhaps, is that I'm a writer. And I feel compelled to acknowledge this little dog's spirit to a world larger than my own.

Gabby! Here!

Good girl.

Inspiration: What's On Your Desk?

Nazareth 1979                                                                                                           © James King

Several centuries ago I was in Israel and found myself sucked into a soccer game with these young Arab athletes. Afterward, they insisted I take their picture. The result is probably the best photo I've ever taken. I framed it and keep it and on my desk. I smile every time I look at it.

Some days, when I'm casting about for what I'd like to write next, I stare at this picture. I want to go back, find this street again, locate one of these kids, and find out what happened to him and each one of his friends. I've a feeling their stories are more compelling than any fiction I might write.

Until then, I use this picture and these kids to inspire me to try to capture in words the immediacy and the emotion of a moment, the way I did by chance and nearly not at all but for their loud and exuberant insistence that day in Nazareth.

What do you keep on your desk for inspiration?

Enforcing the BIC Rule of Writing

I'm a strong believer in the BIC (Butt-in-Chair) rule of writing.
So, apparently, is my writing companion.
If I move my chair away from my desk (and my writing), I'm going to hear about it.

Love Those Book Clubs

It's hard to believe that two years have passed since BWLC hit the shelves. 

One of my favorite activities since publication: Meeting with book clubs. I've met in person, via Skype, on the phone, and even via Facebook Chat. 

If you belong to a book club (or two or three) and would like a copy of my book to consider for your club, let me know (and pass the word). Thanks to all for your support!

Irish Surprise

I wouldn't describe myself as superstitious, but sometimes something happens that causes me stand back and wonder: Is this a sign? a message from the gods?

When my daughter returned from a recent trip to Ireland, she brought me a nice bottle of fine Jameson whiskey, along with coasters bearing the King family crest. I was surprised that a book was part of the crest. I was also intrigued by the motto under the book, "Maireann a sgrioghtar." According the coasters' package, the words mean, "History cannot be destroyed."

Kinda boring. (Just the motto, Katie. I love the coasters!) So today, while struggling to complete a sentence and wondering, once again, what kind of nut case actually chooses to become a writer, I was staring at one of the coasters. I then Googled the King name and family motto. I found the same Irish words but with a different translation. This one read: "That which is written, lives."

I'm taking that one as a sign.

What are the signs that you are fated to do what you do?