New Horizons

I saw a film yesterday: Limitless. Not bad, a few plot holes and brush overs, but what set it apart for me was the main character is...a writer. He has career ending writer's block, things are about as downhill for him as they can get. Scissors and long story later basically he ditches writing in order to make money.
This was the script writer's (based on the book) way of saying there's no real money in it. I laughed, not because it was subtle, it wasn't, but because it's true. Trust me to pursue a craft that pays little and requires long hours. Acually I think that covers most of them out there hah!
As to the long hours... well I'm now two weeks into my time "in-between" work. And it's hard. Just the mere act of winding down has taken me by surprise.
But the movie did raise a "what if," one I suspect most writers have pondered over at some stage of their life.
What if I could access all those memories and hazy connections of the past and write like a person inspired all the time? I've thought it, on many an occassion. Still, writing is about getting thoughts onto pages. Worry about the clarity of those pages later, for now, the real joy is found in the act.
So that is what I am endeavouring to do: just the act of writing. From that clarity will come, like a  blurry cinema film focused manually. Until then the act will suffice.

Beginnings and endings

Contrary to public opinion, you can see the sun now and again living in this insignificant green speck of land. This island that breaks the latest news from the Atlantic and passes its chill to every hunched shoulder in sight. As I stare at the sun two things become clear. A: I'm not imagining things and 2: I'm blind.

Imagination plays a part for all writers. Some more so than others. The temptation I find is that I imagine too much, get confused and wind up back where I started from. In writing I have so many ideas- as I suspect, most writers do- These ping around inside my skull, occassionaly finding an escape. I note them down. Some notes become longer, while others seem to vanish from the page as soon as I put them there.

So when does a note become The Note. The one that fires your imagination, that grips your mental lapels and shrieks- explore me! I've had a few of those. I am working on one at the moment. And every work I finish helps me further along the path of writing.
It is often said that in order to get good at anything you have to practice at least 10,000 hours. Let's say you can write one thousand words a day. An average novel is 75-90k. Three months to write a novel? Well for some yes, for others it takes longer. But if you spend 5 hours a day writing for three months you manage to , wait for it.... knock oout 450 hours from your grand 10k total. Now that puts it in perspective.
So imagination is good, but work ethic is just as good. Probably this is why an author's first work does not get published *grin*

I have set myself a work ethic for this year. I have a timetable and I have my notes to explore and, well, note down. Remember: No one, I repeat, no one, has ever been instantly good at anything. Writing, painting, music. All require diligence and practice. The only things that come free are disappointment and hope. The good thing is, hope can beat its stablemate in a stand up any day of the week. Though, disappointment packs quite a punch sometimes.

 So as the sun shines and the slurry stinks and my keyboard patters out insignificancies, so do the hours of my toil increase. But it is a pleasurable toil. One that breaks a man gently. Rather like a marriage.

Fear and loathing

I guess this post relates to my year out. It will doubtless begin with a whimper, though I'm hopeful it may end with a bang (and not the stars going out variety.) Hopes and dreams are all we have- these cannot be stolen or destroyed or taken away.
You see I am looking forward to the year yet also apprehensive. I have no idea how or what it will produce.

My goal is to hone my writing. My desire is to get better. My dream is to be able to do this full time. My hope is that when I die others can look back on my life and know it was not a complete waste.

To exceed the rules and parameters set by others is to succeed

Never give up the spark within you. Never let go that faint mist of hope that lingers around your feet. Never allow disappointment to hinder progress. Blood sweat and tears are free, and they are yours alone. Your currency, backed by fierce determination. This means that I have to pursue this year as if every day was my last, every opportunity will be seized. Still it's a good statement. Time wil reveal whether I walked beside it, head high and back straight.

So do not give up, or give in or give way. Satisfaction comes not from the wallet but from the heart.

What draws you in?

There a two major schools of thought on how a book should start. One: Your first page must be snappy, the words gripping with a hook that often has little to do with the story per se (this is the modern post consumer rush school- propounded by editor's and agent/publishers.)

Two: The page should be a seamless transition of writing, not necessarily memorable from sentence by sentence. As in Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath : To the red country and part of the gray country of Oklahoma, the last rains came gently, and they did not cut the scarred earth. And Golding's Lord of the Flies : The boy with the fair hair lowered himself down the last few feet of rock and began to pick his way towards the lagoon. Finally Trevor's Three People : On the steps of the Schele's house, stained glass on either side of the brown front door, Sidney shakes the rain from his plastic mackintosh, taking it off to do so.

Beautiful because in Steinbeck, the land is the core of his book, those that work it and those that exploit it. Golding  shows us Ralph, soon to be joined by piggy, that tragic fat boy that so many seem to warm to and despise in equal measure. William Trevor shows us Sidney, a quiet man in love with an older woman with a horrible past. All these are not the modern school of thought's big slap in the face. But they manage a greater impact because a: They are better written and b: They are intregal to the story.
So here is my question (at long last you all cry ): What grips you when you read the first page or two of a book. What calls to you, so that instead of placing that book back into the squeeze of its siblings, you carry it to the counter?
What speaks to you in that moment. Is it the writing? Is it the blurb on the back of the sleeve. Is it because  that was the book you entered to buy in the first place?
What grips you?
For me It is not the first hook line or clumsy attempt to catch my interest, only to find the next ten pages have little to do with the opening. No, it is purely down to whether the paragraphs flow until without realising I find myself at the bottom of the page, knowing I have read a well crafted opening but finding the journey effortless.
By the way I heartily recommend Steinbeck. He is a consummate wordsmith. And my favourite author, by the slimmest enamel of your gnashers. Laters Griff.

Welcome news

Well, finally it has happened to me, right in front of my face, and I just cannot hide it...(sorry couldn't resist *Grins*)

Good news: I got my first short story accepted for publication today. Small beginnings are still beginnings...as Confucius would say (only it would be in Imperial Chinese of course) The web site that will publish it is http://www.yesteryearfiction.com/ and it is due up on the 03/09/11 (I believe that may be the american way of saying 09/03/2011)
It isn't much to crow about but in my experience crows do not need much to begin crowing. I have included it below for any who are mildly interested:


The Heart of the Wood

The old man creaked when he stretched. He couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t creak. He stretched and creaked and thought ‘When did I begin to creak so badly?’ The thought sank down to his feet and returned slowly. His thoughts were as slow and creaking as his limbs these days. He could remember a time when his thoughts were clear, like sunlight through glass. He sighed and stretched and creaked.

  His clothes were sparse, but given the season that was to be expected. He shivered, leaves drifted, the wood was older than him and he could feel its age underfoot. Age, he thought with his slow ponderous thoughts, leaves creases that become crevasses that become... The old man frowned. The answer was there, he knew it but the knowledge passed and the shadows lengthened and the leaves fell. His head shook and a sigh escaped. ‘When did it become so hard to remember?’

  The wood had changed. His mind’s eye dimly pictured its youth, its green voice strong and challenging. The Birch trees, now they were a sight. Such grace, and their skin- ah luminous, as if the moon had melted and soaked within. He smiled. Yes the Birch was always his favourite. Was it wrong for him to have favourites? The thoughts sank, passing though his feet into the forgiving soil. He did not expect them back soon.

  Changes to the wood had been as ponderous as his thoughts. Sometimes storms would come and rattle the roof over his head. Then he would hear the crack of a branch surrendering and the groan of separation. He would sigh, and wonder what view would greet him in the dawn. But not all storms came in the form of wind and rain. Men came, their eyes full of greed and their feet far removed from the land. They farmed the wood. And their damage was greater than all the wind and rain.

  The old man often wondered: when did we refuse the earth and desire the protection of meaningless things? At what stage did our feet become clean? His were deep in the soil; treading secret places long forgotten by those who came to cut and hack.

   His children grew strong and he watched with pride as they flourished. They too loved the earth, thought as he thought, dreamt his dreams and spoke with breathless whispers of the Birch and the Fir.

  As the wood changed so did the fields. They were hungry, and bitter jealous. Every blade of grass sought to strip the wood of its ancient territory. Men were involved there as well. The grass became earth and the earth corn and then earth once again. Every year saw the corn come closer to the wood. Ears full of the envious whispers of brethren corrupted by the sowing of men.

  Once there had been balance, but his memory of it was a tenuous thing and though the old man clung to it, his strength was fading. He barely heard his children’s voices now. Such a thing pained him, but that too was tenuous, for pain, like thoughts took such a long time to reach him. Leaves fell and the wood changed.

  One day, during summer, he came to the conclusion that everything changed. What bothered him was not the vanishing earth or the fading birch, but that he had outlived his usefulness. He did not wish to see change. He hated the very notion of anything new. Seasons are expected; green follows white, yellow becomes brown. This type of change wasn’t new but old. He sighed and creaked.

  Each time a new year visited he was left with more wrinkles and less memories. And he realised- after much rumination- that this was as unwelcome as it was expected. The land gave life and took it away. There was something almost gentle about the slow death of his sensibilities. All things end just as they begin: with the barest breath. He did not fear this change, and would meet it with all the dignity he could muster.

  It was the beginning of winter when the corn’s whispers grew intolerably loud. And the saws of men, hard at work, filled his ears; their harsh rasping adding insult to injury. ‘Enough’ he thought, more a pronouncement than a plea. The old man sighed and creaked one last time. Slowly, as befitting one of his station, the great oak died.

   That day his children shivered in mourning. The birch wept silvery tears and the trees groaned with separation. Even the corn bowed in silence, out of respect to its ancient foe. Only the men remained busy, hacking and breaking and towing away, unaware of the change in the land. Unaware that the heart of the wood was dead.

The art of brevity

That alcoholic genius of the written word Hemmingway, was once challenged that he couldn't write a story in six words. He did; this was the result - "For sale: Baby's shoes-never worn."

Wonderful example of brevity and emotion. There is a web site that promotes this idea and I have posted a couple of things on it. Here goes :

Billboard- “Forbidden: Post no dreams here”

My leg belonged to someone else

Of course the idea is to give a story- as in make the reader think that a tale has been written in six words. Most of those that posted forgot this and chose Confusciusisms instead. "He who hits head goes ow" etc... Wise soundbites aside, the aim was to be brief and be a tale teller. This is at the heart of writing. So speaks the modern trend of writing at least. But what that does is force a writer to become grey- just like everyone else.

To write is to be rejected. I say this not as trite flippancy, but through experience. Agents, editors publishers they will reject the best, the worst and the rest. Why? Because, like any worker, most hate their job and wish they were somewhere and someone else. I have been rejected through email, letter, though thankfully not phone, yet. But it all comes with practice, a thick skin and a thicker head (My wife can attest to the latter.)

So the art of brevity should be applied to six words or sixty thousand words. But how does that enable style to shine? One oft repeated argument of editors and agents is that if you sort out the basics the rest will fall into place. So, I endeavour to do just that. As brief as possible. Just so.

If you fancy having a try at six word stories just google it or reply below.

Some days...

I am the kind of guy that in the midst of a party might decide to take himself off for a brief island of silence. To recharge, taking a breath before plunging back into the maelstrom of social interaction once again. I don't do this due to being anti social (contary to my wife's opinion) but because I need those brief moments. It is who I am. We are all stones or water. And we can exhibit the characteristics of both during our days. Still here's a small paragraph to explain why I am like that.

Do you ever feel like a stone, remaining, whilst the rest of life floods by? And in remaining do you feel stronger? Or weakened by your separation, thirsting for the flood to slow, to gather and embrace; wearing you down until only your constituent particles are left: the carbon DNA of your days. Perhaps you are happy in your solitude, aloof from the flood, clinging to every particle, refusing to let them go and mourning them when they’re gone. I am a stone and I am the flood. In my days of solitude I’m aloof and in my days of the flood I am carried by others, content.

There is an argument that I am getting worse with age. Nonsense! And if you blasted kids think otherwise why I oughta....