Gerard Houarner

RETURN TO THE STORYTELLERS HOMEPAGE

This is a “reprint” of a “lost” post (you’ll notice on the list of my posts that there’s about a year’s worth of stuff that never made the transition to the new blog).  Don’t know if the references are still available (for instance, Nick Kaufman’s post, but you should google him and check out his new site and friend him on facebook and read his stuff, anyway), but I think it’s still relevant.

Even if you read it before, you probably won’t remember it from years ago, so it’ll still be as new to you as to the rest of you just dropping by for the first time.   Here goes:

The idea of “dark matter” has been banging around loose in my head for quite some time.  For a quickie definition, Wiki says it is invisible energy whose presence “can be inferred from gravitational effects on visible matter.”  It’s there, we think, we just can’t sense it other than the effect it has on things we can sense.  Dark matter and dark energy apparently account for most of the mass in the universe.

I also like this Wiki tidbit, attributed to David B.Cline,  “The Search for Dark Matter“, Scientific American.: “It has been noted that the names “dark matter” and “dark energy” serve mainly as expressions of human ignorance, much as the marking of early maps with “terra incognita.””

I like the dark matter metaphor for the kind of force that makes a story, or any piece of art, great.  The “force” exerts an influence inside the work, and on the people experiencing the work.   We know it’s there, we analyze and argue and deconstruct, but still, the nature of that dark matter eludes us, or changes with the times and cultural context.  This dark matter engages the reader/viewer/etc in ways hard to define, but fun to talk and think about.  The easiest example is Shakespeare.

Of course, excellent Storytellerunplugged entries over the years have addressed the issue of giving a story dimension, depth, importance.   Like many others, I struggle to develop a story into something about more than what it appears to be, trying to find connections, meanings, layers (thanks, Dave), imagery, resonance, theme – the names for various tools go on and on.   The idea of “dark matter” connects many of these concepts for me, but I’ve never been able to come up with a “unified theory” to explain how and why.  (Don’t hold your breath.)

Recently, my fascination with dark matter was justified (at least in my own head) by an interview with a Fang Lijun, a Chinese artist who defined his work as dealing with the invisible.  (The art critics out there will rightfully cringe at my misappropriation of his concept, just as scientists will protest my profound ignorance of dark matter.  I plead guilty, but that’s what inspiration does – takes and mutates.  Sorry ‘bout that.)   Beyond the politics, I found the idea of the “invisible” a bit more inclusive and energizing.

“Horror” (whatever that is, and please let’s not get into that right now) uses terms like the sublime, the cosmic, and others to get at the kinds of things I mentioned above – imagery, resonance, the nature of the story’s layers, etc.  But my attraction to “horror” spills into fantasy, science fiction, literary (sorry, not so much mystery, because I like mysteries that remain so).  So invisible for me begins to take into account all the things we don’t see in our reality but which have an impact in our lives – big, “real” movements and policies and natural forces, yes.  But there’s also plenty of other influences, from psychological to subtle supernatural (yeah, I know, no difference, really).

I had a brief affair with “dark” as a catch-all word, but, like “horror” or any genre association, it’s too limiting.  But writing about the invisible – there’s something that for me captures the issues raised by writers who distance themselves from genres.

The tropes are fun, for whatever genre you’re using – from rockets to murders to the existential despair of college professors –  because they give something for the reader to hang on to, but really, for the stories that stand out, there’s something else going on.  The things going on in those stories, the background, the mood, all the storytelling tricks of the trade, have a relationship with something much larger, lurking inside and all around the story and the reader.

Let me try to be a little more concrete.  Nick Kaufman talks and makes others talk about Cormac McCarty’s The Road in his latest www.darkscribe.com column.  The discussion focuses on whether or not the book is horror, and the nature and blending of genres.  But what’s also interesting to me is how many things people think the book really is about, and the uses of the “real” and the “fantastic” in telling a story.

In a seemingly simple story about a man and a boy struggling to survive in a post-apocalyptic world with very few joys and even less hope, there’s a hell of a lot of depth, resonance, meaning, layers, and all that other good stuff.  There’s past and future, the moment, primal survival and nurturing and protection, savage violence, and, well, yeah, even more stuff.

There’s a universe full of “dark matter” bearing down on the events of the story; the action has a relationship with the invisible, inside the story’s world, and outside, that draws us in and makes us wonder and question and think.  Like Lijun’s paintings of faces, screaming and otherwise, the story is more than about itself or its immediate source material.

Okay.  Let me take another tack.  I’m Fiction Editor for Space and Time magazine, a small press publication older than some of you other there.  It’s so old it published my first story 35 years ago.  Along with a “merry band” of associate editors, I read a lot of stories by a wide range of writers, from stone cold pros to people sending out their first stories.  Can’t buy everybody’s story, and reasons for rejection vary.

The easiest rejections to make, the automatic ones (very rarely to the stone cold pros), are for stories that are only about the events in the story.  The characters have no past, no future, no relationships beyond the other characters (if any) in the story, no needs or wants besides the immediate conflicts (if any) driving the story.  There’s no hint of a larger world, no tension inside the story’s world with forces and characters just outside the plot line, and no tension in relationship with the reader’s world.

These kinds of stories are, indeed, “generic.”   They are often heartfelt, sincere, and there are often clues about what initially made the writer want to put words down on paper – an idea, an image, a piece of action, a particular piece of the puzzle that sparkles with a little life, that received more attention than the rest of the piece.

But the kind of story I’m talking about, as a whole, (and I quote from my personal library of rejections, which I stopped collecting after 1,000 – but hey, I’ve had over 250 stories published, and most of those early ones certainly did earn more than a bundle of rejects), doesn’t “hang together.”  It doesn’t “rise above the other stories under consideration,” doesn’t “engage” or “stick in the mind.”

The easily rejected story doesn’t have a bit of dark matter.  It has no relationship with the invisible.

I don’t think most writers can map out a story’s invisible aspect, any more than critics can definitively identify the story’s dark matter.  I do think you can listen for it, in the details you pull out of the air (things you just “happened” to notice and use), the odd things you drop in for no reason, the “dead ends” you run yourself into.  Lots of writers go on instinct, teasing out character developments and plot points out of things happening in previous sections of the story.  More follow plot outlines they either change on the fly, or are able to inhabit, fill out, and electrify with life because they don’t have to worry about where the story’s heading.  Different writers, different strokes.  The point is, for successful stories, there’s a sense of something more going on in a story than you can put your finger on.

More hooks to hang your hats on:

The invisible references the unconscious, the mythic, wonder and mystery, the subterranean, the ethereal.

The visible events of the story – what the characters do and say to each other, the conflicts and their outcomes – are influenced by the dark matter of the writer’s life.  Let it flow.  Put it in there.  You don’t have to name names.  But make it personal.  Make the story mean something to you, beyond a nifty speculative idea or engineering concept or quirky character with snarky lines.  Let the story reflect some of the things that give you joy and pain.  You don’t have to understand the how and why of those sources.  Maybe it’s better if you don’t, because if you think you do, you might be lying to yourself.  Yes, there’s a surface layer of a character’s motives which should be clear to yourself and the reader, if those motives have an impact on the story’s plot.  But you don’t have to explicate every last little mechanical detail of what’s going on in those characters’ heads.

The mechanics of someone going from a to b to c, with a few clichés thrown in to dress the background, becomes almost immediately mind-numbing.

Tension is not only found between characters in conflict heading merrily for a showdown and plot resolution.  It’s in the setting’s background (I’m thinking Campbell) and in the sensory details.  It’s in the bits left hanging, unresolved, apparently quite ancillary to the plot, brief intersections with other aspects of the story’s world that helped the plot move along , deepened a character’s motivation, grounded the reader in the physical details of a scene.  There’s the tension of which character is going to “win,” and there’s the tension, often invisible, in what that victory or defeat really means, inside and outside the story.

Well, by now I’m sure many of you are thinking the point of all this is pretty damn invisible.  Sorry.  I guess I’m just trying to translate what I’ve heard so many writers talk about over so many years – theme, conflict, meaning, layers, what have you – into something personal that I can use in the fight to be a better writer.  For me, thinking in terms of “dark matter” and the “invisible” helps.  On the other hand, I haven’t earned fame or fortune thinking like that, so be warned.  Mileage may vary.

Still, stories I like, the ones I recommend that Space and Time’s publisher buy, the ones that have stayed up on my shelves for decades, as well as on the shelves of people much smarter than me, I think deal on some level with the invisible.  At least, that’s why I like them.  I hope mine manage to do the same, every now and then.

Last month I did something I usually  try to avoid – look for reviews online.  It’s one of those “be careful what you wish for” exercises I regret more often than I find satisfying.  I did find a nice quote from a review of a story published in a U.K anthology, Blind Swimmer:

There are writers who write stories for the sake of entertainment, and then there are storytellers who understand what stories and myths are meant for. Gerard Houarner is both a writer and a storyteller.

Thanks, tangetonline.  I’ll be using that one.  But, of course, I found some less than enthusiastic comments about other things, and, more disturbing, silence.  Chunks of work, ignored.  It’s like sending a piece out and not only don’t you get an answer, there’s not even a response to a query.

But that’s just business.  You bust your butt, but there are no guarantees.  Maybe your work gets published.  Maybe it sells to an editor who maybe asks for a few changes, says some nice things, puts together a great project, and you get to see your name in print and cash a check.

Maybe a reader says something nice, sometime, in a convention hallway or on Amazon.  Movies, awards, yeah, they’re all right around the corner.

The best warning I’ve heard about reviews is that if you believe the good ones, you’ll have to believe the bad ones.

Good ones don’t help sell the next book.  Bad ones won’t kill your career.

Sales will.

Reviews won’t help you write the next one, either.

But.  In our new online universe, reviews are a form of currency. They appear everywhere, from retailers to reader sites to blogs to social networks. Good ones encourage attention, which may lead to sales.  Bad ones, especially a lot of them, pretty much kill the deal.

Used to be, dedicated specialists, hardcore readers, folks with an understanding of some kind of literary history, whether world, western, genre, or maybe just what they read when they were growing up, used to write them.  They were a kind of mint, producing a steady stream of dependable currency.  And because these reviews were printed in little magazines, or specialty magazines, or the NYT and Atlantic Monthly and such, there were standards maintained for reviews, and a community of a certain kind of audience found them and made their buying decisions accordingly.

Not anymore.  The community has gotten better.  Anybody can write them.  Everybody’s got an opinion.  Standards, well, they’re all over the place, and often no place at all.

(An interesting discussion of reviewing occurred recently on Jeff VanderMeer’s Facebook page, bringing up the point that reviews, in general, are still an individual reader’s experience of a story and tastes and subjectivity play a role, no matter how intricate the intellectual dressing.  And then there are the pressures of pumping them out on deadline.  Oh, yeah, and opinions change over time, anyway.  And not just about Melville.)

It’s hard to earn good (and by good, I mean genuine and positive) ones, just like real money.  People who like your writing need to care enough to post something.  That’s hard, because it’s often easier to complain about something that you think sucked than to be write something positive about something you liked.  Being pissed off gets you energetic.  Being happy makes you do other things that make you happy, which often isn’t sitting online writing reviews.  Human nature. Sometimes, you have to go after them by encouraging readers to post.

Or you can make them up in your own little counterfeiting operation.

That’s part of the problem, of course.  Little conspiracies, friends popping up with the same wording on the reviews like perps telling the same story the same way to understanding detectives – very embarrassing.   But, human nature.

Unfortunately, hundreds of short, even monosyllabic five star reviews tend to cheapen the occasional good, genuine ones, and overwhelm the dozens of genuine bad ones.  Alas, this creates confusion and cheapens the currency, makes it suspect.

But the currency doesn’t seem to be going away.  At every turn, we’re asked to evaluate, to review, to give feedback.  It’s the age of accountability, after all.  Or, maybe it’s the age of spin control.  Is it the age of bullshit, yet?  I get confused, sometimes.

Despite the problems, I do believe a healthy account of positive reviews behind a book listing does garner attention.  Builds that all-important readership, the kind of people who like what you do, not how – as in what specific genre or style you might decide to work in – you do it.  The kind of people who want to read anything by X because they like what X does.

(Yes, I know, some folks stray way off the reservation and go all “abduction” or “Jesus” on people, driving away even the core readership.  Human nature is a bastard.)

In my own shopping experience for anything, I’ll research, read the reviews, read them critically for factors like taste (current Amazon.com reviews for Ghost Story have 12 one-stars, 15 two-stars, out of 139, seriously). One guy says a jacket’s sleeves are too long, okay, got it, but if two or three people have the same reaction and not enough evidence to the contrary services, pattern recognition kicks in).  In hotel reviews, there’s always somebody who was stuck with a bad room, a noisy neighbor.

So, what to do about earning some more of those genuine good reviews?

Hmmm, still thinking about that one.  Does asking nicely really help?  I’ve seen writers gently ask folks who may have written a nice formal review if they’d post it on Amazon, and I’ve seen some reviewers do that unasked.

Run contests for posted reviews?  I’m uncomfortable with that.

There’s the old editor’s response to “what will it take for me to sell you a story” – write better stories, of course.

If you read it and you like it don’t clap your hands, post a review.

Just ask.

Look, I started this off with the old advice of not taking this stuff too seriously.  But, with reviews becoming so much more important as a marketing tool, and with money at stake, that’s not so easy to do, anymore.

Once again: But.

Lots of people have opinions.  Some of these opinions are pretty well informed, or at least founded on a set of literary standards, a well-defined sense of taste and some skill and experience in presenting an argument.  Doesn’t make them right for you, of course.   Other opnions,  not so much.

Take it easy out there.  I’ll take my little tangetonline quote, use it on the site.  Maybe it’ll wind up on a book or an ad.  I got a moment’s validation out of it, which very quickly evaporated.  A few of them put together may sustain the illusion of a career, if you’re lucky.  Not as much as contracts, checks, and work coming out on a regular basis.  Just don’t let them lull you (or depress you) into lowering your guard, ambition, work ethic, creativity, standards, discipline, and all the other things that keep a writer looking more at the space where the next word goes instead of the space occupied by other people’s opinion of what you’re doing.

Otherwise, well, if you haven’t caught up to it yet, you can check Christopher Priest perhaps taking the “awards” thing (not unlike the “review” thing) a bit too seriously.

http://www.christopher-priest.co.uk/journal/1077/hull-0-scunthorpe-3/

He’s not the first person I’ve heard who wanted to fire judges.  Some folks wanted to fire the professionals who supposedly selected this or that as the best, or the readers, who picked a over b,c and d.

If you listen more than you talk at certain kinds of gatherings, you hear old stories and questions about this or that award ceremony, the legendary meltdowns, the gossip, frustration and resentment.  The CP tempest in a teapot inspired a range of reactions, some pretty funny.  I liked Nick Mamatas’ response:

http://nihilistic-kid.livejournal.com/

Stop whining.

The Literature will survive.  If it’s worth it, so will (some small portion) your work.  If you’re very, very, very good.  No matter what the reviews said.

This is Lawrence Block on blurbs, which are kind of related to reviews:

http://lawrenceblock.wordpress.com/2012/03/24/no-i-wont-give-you-a-blurb-heres-why/

And finally, word from a publisher:

http://www.gollancz.co.uk/2012/03/right-to-review/

Civil reviews and critiques.  Yes.  Never mind that you can get away with saying anything from behind an electronic mask.  Say it like you’d like your boss or a customer, your spouse, your kid, to pull your coat on something you did that was less than stellar.

Say it like you’re saying it to somebody’s face.  Take the same risk the writer did to put the work out there.

And if you’ve got it, show some love.

My good buddy Tom Piccirilli, whose “noirella” Clowns in the Moonlight ( http://www.amazon.com/Clown-in-the-Moonlight-ebook/dp/B0078B6VK2/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1330741769&sr=8-1 ) was just released, recently posted on Facebook: “Worst thing about working through your novel for a second draft? Realizing that all those brilliant lines you wrote actually suck dead grizzly ass.”
Yes. Yes they so sadly do.
Of course, his suck is what some of the rest of us can only aspire to, but still, the point remains, running through your first draft with a cold eye can make you feel like you’ve slipped into a talent show judged by Ricky Gervais, Seth MacFarlane, and MST3k guys. You can’t help wincing.
But there’s no choice. Not if you want to sell. Or at least not be held up to ridicule like many self-published innocents whose work gets the occasional Ricky/Seth/MST3k treatment at writer gatherings. The cold eye is essential. It ain’t all poetic inspiration and glasses of wine.
Some writers embrace, even love the editing process. Blessed by stronger editing genes, or perhaps they’re strangers from another planet granted the super powers by the light of our sun, they’re not frustrated by debris from the crumbling façades of imagination. They’re not appalled by weak, even non-existent foundations of motivation. Nor are they attached to the clever bits that come in the fever dream of creation, the kind that wilt and die under the glaring reality of a really good second read. They love to prune, and are not afraid to chop off entire chapters.
The rest do it because it is part of the job. Face it, for any kind of work, there’s always some part that sucks worse than any other. I’ve heard writers say they hate writing, but love having written. Gardeners don’t all love messing around in the dirt, but they love the flowers or vegetables they grow.
There are ways to find support. Some folks give their work to hand-picked readers or writing partners who know their material, what they want to say, and can be trusted to give appropriate feedback. Others use a writing workshop for fast edits as deadlines loom. A few even have great editors with keen eyes who really work to make the piece even better than you ever imagined it might be.
The editing process differs with the writing process. Some folks like the fast first draft, others build the work carefully, scene by scene, laying down a strong foundation, putting down one chapter seamlessly on top of the another.

I usually spend a lot of time on beginnings, because I feel the end is in the beginning. As the story develops, I go back and plant a seed that needs planting, or I jump ahead and lay something down that will need to be done or said at the end.

I’m also a foundation type of writer. I need to feel what’s gone on before is solid before I move on. Of course, I know I’m deluding myself. But in the moment, I want to feel like something feels solid. I’ve dug into the characters, even the setting, maybe exposed something new or different, which then leads to a plot twist I hadn’t anticipated. Maybe I have to go back again, change a couple of things. In other words, I always seem to be going back and edit, smoothing out the rough spots so I have an idea what the thing I’m building actually looks like, and not just an outline of what I hope it’ll turn out to be.

This means I violate a rule many writers have of never researching while writing. Make it up, fix it later. My problem if something is worth mentioning, it’s worth getting it right. The detail may have an impact on plot, or maybe you put it in for the sake of authenticity. But if I’m going to bother with the details of, say, the ingredients of a meal and how it’s prepared, it means I want to use it as a way to show something about the characters. For me, it’s important to know those kinds of details as I come to them. It helps me get deeper into their POV, work with their reactions, make them more consistent, or surprising in believable ways.

But I understand the lay-it down first and smooth it out later types. For a lot of writing work, like media-based stories, you just have to pump it out. Deadlines rule. Business is business, and sometimes good enough writing and timely delivery will get you the next job, while great writing handed in late means zip. And, for folks not on deadlines, it seems like they need that feeling of being rushed to get through to the end and finish a story.

Whatever gets you through the long night.

Alas, whether you’ve written fast or slow, benefitted from friendly or rough feedback, worked on tight deadlines or loose ones, edited on the fly or not at all, you’re going to be faced with a final edit at some point, even if it’s at the last-chance galley stage. If you’re not, you didn’t get over, you got robbed.

Hopefully, you’ve gotten some distance from the material and forgotten those cherished little things you put in there that you thought were so cool. And for projects that may have taken a long time to complete, or suffered from a lot of interruptions, it’s the last chance to pick up problems like mixed up names/characters/descriptions, jumps in mood or tone, unfinished thoughts, questions that really should have an answer, repetitions and all the other errors and bad habits that pop up because, well, nobody’s perfect.

Speaking of lack of perfection, I’ve been working on revising a long piece and thought I’d share, for whatever it may be worth, a snapshot of an edit in progress.

In the following section, my goal was to show a part of the background setting, the Caravan of Death, actually working instead of trudging through desert. I also wanted to offer my main character, a young girl, Aini, an opportunity to return to a safer place.

In the earlier draft presented here, I already (thankfully) deleted a heaping glob of a useless paragraph that seemed to be a placeholder for something I wanted to say, making the initial word count around 500 words. In a cold second read, I had no idea what I’d been talking about, so out it went.

I’m pretty sure I went on to fine tune it a bit more, but you get the idea. I’m not putting it out there as an example of how to do it, just an example of what I did.

419 words – earlier draft
Dejjal took the camel bridle from a servant, and the rest quickly vanished. “You must be careful what you play with,” he said, passing his fingers gently over her exposed calf, bruised and scratched by the djinn. “My brothers must work hard to calm what you stirred, and you might not survive another such encounter.”
Aini pointed to Bomaye and Mafufunyana at the center of a knot of figures, and said, “Not all your brothers.” She thought her thief had returned to bargain for her return. But then she noticed jeeps and trucks, the machinery of her youth in the other world, and uniformed men with guns. Another kind of bargain was being made. Bomaye was talking to the dead, calling them out of the line, looking to a fat man in green and black. When the fat man nodded his head, Bomaye yelled at the pick, directing each to the line loading into the vehicles. Mafufunyana pulled the females out, dragged them to a smaller van while carrying a strong box on his shoulder. None of the children were chosen.
The trucks started up as thunder rolled over the desert once more, drowning the noise of the engines. As the vehicles drove off to the east, the sky shimmered above them while ahead, the rocky, rolling landscape seemed to shrink and waver, like a mirage.
She thought of al-Sirat, and the possibility of other roads in and out of the country of caravans. She tried to remember the old stories she used to tell of growing up in that far and other place, before her parents had brought her into their dream of a caravan life.
Every place, she supposed, needed storytellers.
Dejjal laughed. “Finding the way to and from the Caravan of the Dead is part of the price of trading with us,” he said. “For those in need, what we provide is worth the cost. But do not believe that any journey back with those in such need would be gentle, or the world at the end of such roads a welcoming one for you.”
Aini closed her eyes, blocking out Dejjal with the many voices, the pictures moving and talking, the endless stories happening and being told all at the same time in an enormous stewpot of fantasy and gossip seasoned by the occasional fact and rare dashes of truth.
“You protected your virginity, but surrendered everything else to our world,” Dejjal said. “You’re ruined for any other land you think you could run to.”

****
480 – final draft
Dejjal took the camel bridle from a servant, and the rest quickly vanished. “You must be careful what you play with,” he said, passing his fingers gently over her exposed calf, bruised and scratched by the djinn. “You might not survive another such encounter. My brothers must work hard to calm what you stirred. ”
Aini pointed to Bomaye and Mafufunyana at the center of a knot of figures, and said, “Not all your brothers.”
She thought her thief had returned to bargain for her return. But then she noticed jeeps and trucks, uniformed men with guns, the machinery of her childhood in the other world. Another kind of bargain was being made.
Bomaye was talking to the dead, calling them out of the line, looking to a fat man in green and black. When the fat man nodded his head, Bomaye yelled at the pick, directing each to the line loading into the vehicles. Mafufunyana pulled the females out, dragged them to a smaller van while carrying a strong box on his shoulder. None of the children were chosen.
The trucks started up as thunder rolled over the desert once more, drowning the noise of the engines. As the vehicles drove off to the east, the sky shimmered above them while ahead, the rocky, rolling landscape seemed to shrink and waver like a mirage.
She thought of the world her parents had left behind and what might be waiting for her on the other side of a mirage. Every land held a promise, and a price. It was a world, she was certain, filled with stories and wonders. But no Caravan of Death, or Dreams.
Dejjal laughed as he followed her gaze and pointed at the rapidly diminishing trucks. “Finding the way to the Caravan of the Dead is half the cost of trading with us,” he said. “We claim the rest. And, of course, the way home requires its own payment. For those in need, what we offer is worth the sacrifice.
“But do not believe that any journey in the company of those in such need would be gentle, or the world at the end of such roads a welcoming one for you.”
Aini closed her eyes, listening to the crack and rumble of djinn until the many voices they’d awakened in her mind rose up in a tide of tales, real and imagined, seasoned by fantasy and gossip, the occasional fact and the rare dashes of truth, to drown Dejjal’s seductive murmuring. Tears came to her eyes, the kind she might have had if she’d ever seen her parents one more time.
Dejjal’s voice slipped through, a steel blade as hard and sharp as his smile. “You protected your virginity, but surrendered everything else to our world. You’re ruined for any other land you think you could run to.”

Or…”interrupted by a person on business from Porlock” — sustaining the vision of the story you want to tell as life’s storms rage around you.

Trust me, it’ll make sense.

Quite some time ago in a LOCUS interview, Jay Lake talked about the challenges of containing the story he’s working on in his mind, or living in the “dream world” of his fictional creation.

I’ve always related to the problem, and kept the issue alive in my notes if not in my ever shrinking mind. I know I’ve mentioned the idea before, but perhaps never explored the concept. Also, over the years as life has closed in and its many challenges consumed innocence, insouciance, and energy, writing has become harder, not easier.

The topic haunts me.

One of the many romantic notions about writers is that they rattle off poems, stories and novels in a “white heat” of inspiration, working day and night, chain smoking, sitting in their dirty underwear in small rooms, their haggard faces lit only by the light of a computer screen (a single dusty bulb in the “old” days, and by candle flame in ancient times) surrounded by empty liquor bottles and piles of pristine finished manuscript, until the book is done and the royalty checks are already in the mail.

Everything real seems to stop in these writers’ lives. Children are magically fed, creditors compassionately defer their pursuit of unpaid bills. The sanctity of the torch of inspiration is respected, and the fire is allowed to burn until the fuel is spent and words are forged.

Now, it’s true there’s a least one famous thriller writer who books a hotel room for a few weeks and locks himself away to write a novel. And there are writers with significant others who “enable” their writing by taking care of the little details of life so they can concentrate on living in the imaginary world of their story until the tale is told.

The reality is that for most writers, that ain’t happening. More often, we’re like Coleridge with what we innocently and passionately believe is Kubla Khan in our heads, putting down lines from a (hopefully not opium inspired) dream vision until we’re interrupted by, as the story famously goes, a person on business from Porlock.

And if you’re a writer and never heard of anything from the above paragraph, stop reading and don’t write, but search out the poem and Samuel Taylor Coleridge and Romanticism.

So the problem (one of many) for writers is keeping what you’re working on alive in your mind. For me, what Jay Lake is talking about is more than a memory problem of recalling plot direction and character tics. And it’s not “inspiration,” that magical booster shot people who want to be writers wait for so they can produce something when, and only when, they feel like it.

I believe containing the story in your mind is about getting a state of awareness about what you’ve done, where you’re heading, and what you’re supposed to be doing with your story when you’re at your keyboard. Something like an altered state, without the opium. An understanding that certain things have happened and that, because of those things, the blank page/screen is waiting for you to set down what you already know, deep down inside beyond your conscious mind, will happen next.

Maybe it’s a meditative state, for some. Or the “zone” athletes talk about, in which years of practicing certain skill sets, along with instinct, experience, and athletic talents, combine to elevate performance out of the mud of fear, nerves and thought. A higher state is achieved in which the baseball appears bigger, moving slower, toward your gigantic bat which swings so effortlessly.

A dream state. Being “in the moment.” Focused on the thing you are doing.

This precious state of knowing and being happens all the time in life, I think, though we may not be aware of it. I think it happens in the process of raising kids, working, driving, praying. Addicts miraculously rise from their stupor to orchestrate their next score.

For writers, I think it means avoiding the struggle of finding the “next thing” to write, rekindling the fire of “inspiration,” feeling again the urgency of having to say the thing you wanted to say in those first moments you scribbled down the story idea. It means recapturing the magnificent arc of story you saw at some point early in the process, re-entering the dream of your vision of Kubla Khan, with all its shimmering details, its clever references, plot points, characters, imagery and layers of meaning, and dragging it out into the waking world whole and complete.

We want it to happen whenever we write.

But it doesn’t happen all the time. We can’t live 24/7 in the dream state of our stories. Other lives, including our own “real world” lives, also need tending and care. Duty calls. Responsibilities knock on our doors.

Obviously, opium worked, at least once for Coleridge. The “romantic” image of writers that includes empty liquor bottles documents the supposed need for alcohol and other drugs to “lubricate” the imagination.

Certainly there are plenty of literary legends fueled by this kind of inspiration. There’s also a lot of bs, folks claiming one thing but doing quite another because, well, the bon vivant is a cool “platform” from which to sell stuff. Aside from the physically, emotionally and cognitively self-destructive aspects of these habits, there’s also regret.

If you wrote that well when you were high, think how much better it would have been if you were in your right mind.

And then there’s the sad reality that 99.9% of that stuff is buried, unseen, along with the creators. Mostly, at a very young age.

So what triggers these states? What else can we use to find the dream in which we can create?

I believe the discipline tricks writers use – writing in the same place, at the same time, every day – not only helps with production, but it also gets the writer back into the “space” or “head” of writing. It’s certainly helped me at times.

Keeping a Fortress of Solitude, a Batcave, a private space decorated so that it resembles the inside of your mind, is a tried and true. But I’ve found that isolating, at times. Cut off from life. Too unreal, perhaps too comfortable. And sometimes, when illness, death, disaster, financial woes or other big life tragedies and issues knock on the door, the Fortress walls come down, or they seem just silly and irrelevant, both in terms of life and to a story you may be trying to tell.

Music, especially when writers talk about specific genres for different types of writing, also serves as an emotional and imagination gate to get back into the story. I’ve seen candles and scents would do the trick.

There are stories about writers doing it naked, as if getting back into some kind of primal state to get the work done.

But not everybody works that way, and even if these techniques work for the structure and discipline of getting back to the work of writing, there may still be problems finding the dream of the story, particularly when time has gone by or a writer is jumping from one piece to another.

I guess what I’m looking for is something tied not to the act of writing, but to the story you’re trying to tell. An anchor, or a touchstone. A key that unlocks the cabinet through which you enter the adventure.

Well, yes, music works for a lot of people in this regard. Theme songs, like a Quincy Jones arrangement for a detective show, except the show is your story and the theme song is whatever rocks your boat. Alas, most of the time this is not for me. I find music too distracting, engaging me in ways that make me want to do other things besides writing, unless I’m writing a very musical story. And even then, at some point, I have to shut it down so I can concentrate on what the characters are saying and feeling.

I guess one factor in finding the right “key” is understanding which of the five senses dominates your awareness – are you visual, auditory, etc?

I do find getting in touch with the story’s setting a good way to start things up each time I write. Working on a longish piece set in a surreal desert, on and off over the past months (more on this another time), I found pictures, documentaries, even a screen saver all pretty good starting points. I write a lot in urban settings, and I live in a city, but I’ve also done nature settings, and I like parks and country, too. I know in those times when I write in a non-urban setting, I’m always thinking of and remembering the time I’ve spent upstate, out West, by the sea, etc.

Setting to me establishes the mood of a story. Again, I can see how music would be a great tool. But I’ve used, as above, documentaries, Sunrise Earth (HD films of sunrises in different parts of the world), and touchstone movies – Blade Runner, Casablanca, David Lynch stuff, surreal cartoons – running silently in the background to guide me into my zone.

Another way is to start every writing session by editing the previous session’s writing. This is a good habit, anyway, as what seemed like gold last night can turn out to be lead in the morning. But, depending on your need, re-reading the work and starting to tinker with it can get you back into the frame of mind you were in when you were last writing. Sparks fly, connections are re-opened. You’re reminded of things you wanted to say, or why you said such and such. You recall threats, you react to dangers. Hopefully, at some point, you’ll feel the need to stop editing and move into the action.

Yes, I know, there are some writers who cannot go on before finishing the perfect page. I studied under one of those. And for that person, the story was complete in his mind. It seemed like the dream of the story was readily accessible, though I was too young and stupid at the time ask. Most of us are not like that.

The point here is to get back into the overall story, the dream, and not to get caught up in close editing. Unless, of course, you find that to be your key. In any case, reviewing old work can wake up the other part of the brain where the dream is living. Listen to it when it calls.

By the way, I recently talked here on Storytellersunplugged about using “dead time” in your life as part of the writing process. Doing a little editing – re-reading what you’ve written, doing minor edits on the fly on your portable computer, smart phone, or manuscript pages — is not only a smart use of little snippets of time while waiting for something to happen, but it also helps to keep that dream alive in your head. Maybe it’ll make you more motivated to hurry home, or dip into the dream for as much time as you may have, and carry the story a little further along with new material.

The biggest key for me getting back into the dreamtime, I’ve found, are characters. I guess it’s something like an actor waiting in the wings, ready to throw up, having no memory of the lines, dreading the cue to step on stage. And when that moment comes and the floorboards creak underfoot, the actor doesn’t so much enter the play but the character in the play, and the lines flow and the fear flies off and the game is afoot.

It’s not the easy or magical, or nauseating, when I write. But I have found that once I’m “in” the character – I have a firm grip on needs, fears, strengths and weaknesses, as well as a sense of personality like sense of humor, patterns of connecting with others, how they relate to friends or family – I can see and understand the story through that character’s eyes. I’ve done long pieces through the eyes of several characters and never had a problem switching around and getting into the story from their point of view. Their individual worlds, and the world of the overall story, was usually within my reach.

Finding and feeling comfortable with the characters is another story, of course. Looking back, I can see the “failed” stories, particularly the ones that never sold or the ones I never bothered to finish, had problems centering on my lack of connection with the characters. The dream never came alive.

Sometimes (let’s not say often) dreams die when published. They never come alive for other people. So it goes. But at the very least, the dream should be alive for the writer.

Strong characters carry their own atmosphere, bring the mood to the story, invite certain kinds of characters to play with them. Good characters can make the work of telling a story so much easier.

Think of the Harry Potter series. Really, all that fantasy stuff is wonderful, but not particularly original. The magical schoolboy is practically an English genre all to itself. But it’s Potter and his Scooby gang that makes that dream come alive for readers. When I imagine myself writing something like that (and cashing all those checks!), I envy the way the characters come alive for readers, and how it must have been to work with them and letting the story flow from their traits, their histories, habits, needs and fears.

In my surreal desert fantasy (no, really, I’ll talk more about that next time, I really must), which was a pain to write and is still a pain in the editing/revision process, which this column is interrupting so I must hurry and finish so I can get back to that dream, I was only able to get back to it after through the many interruptions I had because the main character had a weight of her own. Sometimes she’d say or do things that completely surprised me. But I had a strong sense of her right from the beginning, and that anchor allowed me to slip back enough times (but not al the time, because no solution is perfect and writing is hard no matter how many tricks and shortcuts you use) to keep the dream of that story going.

Another thing that kept that piece, and most things I write, going and alive in my head is having an ending in mind.

For the desert piece, the reason I even started it was to write about the Caravan of Death. This was an idea and a collection of characters from one of my novels. I always loved the idea and wanted to return to it. I started the story knowing the little girl I invented would meet the Caravan of Death and somehow all hell would break loose. For that little girl to hold her own against something called the Caravan of Death, there’d have to be some special qualities to her, and finding those qualities became part of the process of telling the story, part of the dream.

But a general idea of the ending, in most cases, is part of the beginning of the story. As I’ve said before, the seeds of the end are always at the beginning. They may be invisible, implied, cast like shadows around the edges, part of the background, in the imagery and symbols, but usually it’s there, somewhere, lurking, waiting. You may not be aware of it. The secrets may only be revealed with time, the story’s development. You may re-read that beginning a hundred times before you see it. Or, you may have to go back and plant the damn seed as the ending becomes clear by telling the story. One way or another, the end usually gets there in the beginning.

And I say this not just because I have an Ouroborus tattoo on my arm.

It may not be the ending that actually happens, and in fact, it’s probably better if the ending changes as the story evolves. But having that ending, or just a general idea for how the character conflicts will resolve (where the characters are going in their individual arcs), serves not only as an anchor for the plot, but for all the different levels of the story being told. Having a direction, an ending, helps to give the dream And by general idea, I mean, do I want

Part of the reasoning behind beginnings/endings and characters as keys to keeping the story alive in your mind is another piece of advice that a lot of writers talk about: having a strong foundation.

By foundation, I don’t necessarily mean a strong beginning, though that helps. But, I’ve found to my chagrin, beginnings change. You think you’re starting in middle, like the sage writing advice tells you, but suddenly you discover you need to start the story earlier or, more often later.

And having a big finish in mind is no guarantee that it will happen, unless you’re the kind of writer who lives by the outline. No problem with that. If the outline works, and can contain the dream and make the story come alive in your mind, I envy you. Most writers I know throw out the outline at some point.

But a start and end does help to define the dream. It’s like recognizing a picture, knowing the outline on a map is not some vague blob, but Africa and all the history and pain and wonder that the name conjures.

And going back and making that beginning stronger, going back and revising and inserting and deleting material, even leaving notes here and there for yourself with what needs to be done right in the manuscript (and believe me, I’ve been startled by my own forgotten notes more than once, and slapped my head over a forgotten part of the dream that needed to poke its head out at the place I’d left a marker), is another reason to edit during “dead time” and start writing sessions by re-reading the story.

If you’ve been away from your story for a while, start at the beginning. See if the beginning awakens the dream, reminds you of the things you’ve already written about what’s going to happen, if the characters come alive and fill you with the need to go back into them, and if you sense what’s coming, good or bad, at the end, or perhaps more importantly, feel the drive to find out what happens, in the end.

If you do, then the story is still alive inside you, and the dream waits for you to join in the adventure.

Yes, we’re all busy. All the time, it seems. There are bills to pay, responsibilities to meet, places we have to be and things we must do.

“Modern” life and its freedoms have their pressures. Choices come with consequences. The consequences, frankly, are not as dire as those that come from a lack of choices. But, hey, what’s life without drama.

For many of us, there’s a need to use every moment we can to pursue something or other. To be active, engaged. Boredom, restlessness, frustration seems to come easily. So do opportunities for distraction.

For writers, of course, there are deadlines. The next story to be written. A new market to jump into. And the perpetual complaint that there isn’t enough time to write.

Well, time is relative, as the saying goes.

A lot of us talk about how we carve out time to sit at the keyboard and punch out a few lines. But sometimes it’s hard to come up with anything during those stolen moments. Hard to switch gears, to concentrate, to return to the world we created in our imagination. We might spend a lot of time getting back into that frame of mind.

Sometimes the fight is less about finding time to write, and more about preserving the need and the frame of mind to create.

So maybe another way to approach the writing gig is looking at the time that falls into our laps inconveniently. That would be the unplanned time we spend waiting for something to happen. (There’s an argument to be made that all time is about waiting for something to happen, but I edited that out because, well, I gave you guys a break.)

Some people call it “dead time.” You’re trapped in a commute, a meeting, a waiting room, an event. Whatever. The point is, you’re in a time and place that isn’t engaging you. You’re bored, adrift, perhaps losing your mind.

Some pull out a laptop or even a “smart” phone (don’t get me started) and start working on a piece.

I suspect these days people are more likely to be texting, gaming, shopping online, etc.

Reading is a traditional pastime, and for writers, essential.

But if you want to write, and can’t pull out the project you’re working on for whatever reason (like, you’re driving, or the setting isn’t appropriate), there are ways to exercise the writing muscles, and maybe gain an inch or two on whatever you’re working on.

Writing, even though it’s done mostly sitting down (unless you’re a best-selling media writer who prefers dictating into a machine while taking walks), is an active endeavor. It requires engagement of mind and body, attunement to senses, imagination and cognition. I say again, imagination.

I think we’re encouraged, if not trained, to turn imagination off in many situations. If we live in a variety of “worlds” – family, faith, work, creative, sport, etc – we have a lot more material to work with, but we are also undercover. Spies in the house of God. Locked in roles, tucked away in boxes.

We may spend a lot of time fighting not to think outside the box.

Working out the imagination is not a bad way to pass your dead time.

It can take work. Playing games is definitely easier. So is reading. Sometimes playing someone else’s game is what’s needed to relieve the stress, to give your mind and spirit a break. But in playing your own games, I think you’re preparing yourself to write.

Perpetual daydreamers have a different problem, but the problem, as far as I can tell from my own lost ramblings inside my head, is not being focused on a specific story or purpose. A little more structure can be helpful.

One dead time problem is being stuck worrying or obsessing about whatever is going on in your life, a negative kind of daydreaming. One way to get out of that “head” is to pay attention to what’s around you, looking at things as if they were brand new, through the perspective of someone else, a stranger, someone else in the vicinity, a friend or enemy, whoever is behind the thing you’re obsessing about, an alien, a traveler from another time or place. Focus on what’s outside, rather than inside.

Details make a story real. You’re gathering information, and practicing how to fill out information from the vague, dreamy settings in your mind. You’re also practicing observing the environment from the perspective of different characters. How does a boss view a meeting room, as opposed to the clerk taking minutes, the tech guy, the presenters, the people who will be called upon to come up with reactions. Or a child’s perspective on the family holiday dinner, versus the grandparent, the friends and neighbors, the person the daughter or son brought home to meet the family, the hosts.

Doesn’t matter how many times seen the room, been down that road, passed that pile of rubble, heard the family story or institutional line. Stepping outside of yourself forces you to experience the familiar in unfamiliar ways.

Just because you’ve seen a sunset doesn’t mean you’ve seen anything like the one happening now.

I grant you, the experience is not always pleasant. It’s a little disorienting. Surreal. It’s also…work. So is writing. The value to me in this kind of exercise is that it helps me bore down to the details I need when I’m actually at the keyboard trying to get something done. The other payoff is that, sometimes, I get something out of it I can use in the piece I’m working on.

Along the same lines, you can also get into describing people and places in different literary styles. From spare to lush, hyper-realistic and detailed to metaphorical, trying out different approaches to setting a scene is a good exercise that can break the monotony of your own writing voice or style. Coming up with one-line character descriptions is, of course, an art that may never be mastered, but I guarantee practicing it during dead time on a train ride will not only be entertaining, but improve your ability to call upon the skill when you’re at the keyboard. Finding ways to describe what they’re actually doing – how a doorman stands in the door, waiting, or how a construction worker acts in the cab of a crane, are all fair game. Looking at buildings, sky, bridges, hallways, cars, etc, will either send you scurrying off to Google for concrete details or inspire you to write poetry (if you’re not already one).

You don’t have to use your overly-detailed or metaphorical gems (um, “the parking lot looked as if the earth had tried to shrug it off its tired shoulders,” for example). You just want to play at being another kind of writer. Stretch and practice skills you will absolutely need when it comes down to working on a story. You never know, you might wind up reaching for pen and paper (or electronic device) to actually write something down.

If you’re the crime kind, you can tune the observational game to find, like Sherlock Holmes, or Monk, what’s off in the details of your environment or the people around you. Or, knock one small aspect of what you see out of whack, or make the place or person too perfect. Flaws and flawlessness, the keys to conflict.

Projecting yourself, or a character you’re working with, into your dead time environment is another variation. I often discover a new level of hell in places I find myself – for instance, at work, surrounded by a massive 5 year construction project, the steady pounding of piles being driven into the earth or the whine of the machinery driving them through rock, informs my every working minute. I can look out my window and put myself in and around the machinery, in the ditches and holes, pipes, concrete, etc. My travels take me to all kinds of odd setting, like a massive food distribution warehouse where my mind riffed on hell as an endless warehouse, demons sitting on top of food supplies but providing free access to bleach.

Perhaps a more challenging exercise for me might be to think romantic comedy instead of hell. We all have our lessons to learn.

But looking out on to landscapes from your deadtime vantage point, or following the story happening in a window across the alley, or through the open doorway in another office, are just as productive in a creative exercise kind of way.

If your deadtime is not physically restrictive – say you have an hour to kill before an appointment – then an alternative to sitting in a café and reading or writing might be to explore the neighborhood you’re in, paying attention to details, differences in people and places, architecture, food, etc, from what you might be accustomed to experiencing. Walking a narrative in your mind. Listening for different speech rhythms, music, smells, sounds.

Of course, a more immediate use of deadtime might be to keep the last couple of pages of what you’re working refreshed in your mind, even if you haven’t had time to work on the piece. Some of these games might serve to shake up what you’ve written, force you to look deeper, or come up with another angle on character, setting, plot.

From personal experience, it can also extend the amount of time you’re working on a project. Nothing like getting new perspective on work you think is already done. Maybe it’s good, maybe it’s just putting off the inevitable slide into anonymity. But, for the moment, it can be fun.

Somebody once told me I’m always seem to be working because, at that time, I’d was always writing things down – snatches of conversations from which I harvested titles and dialogue; odd facts; descriptions of friends and family members other people would talk about who seemed interesting as potential characters. I guess I had a lot of dead time, back then. Or, perhaps truer, I used my time better in those days. I certainly aim to get back to those days.

Perhaps, I may even email myself my clever bits, if there are any, while everyone else is texting under the table.

The following was first published in Aberrations 38, 1996, and reprinted in Nasty Snippets in 1999.  Maybe more of a meditation than a story, it serves today to maintain the old site tradition of putting up something appropriate for the upcoming holiday.  Hope you dig it…

In the first box, by the door, she keeps her public face.  Every day she scrubs it clean, smooths its wrinkles, adds a touch of color where the sun has bleached the skin.  Eyes and lips are in clear plastic tubes next to the face, a shade for every occasion.  They float in a special fluid which keeps the flesh moist and nourished.

The second box has her wigs, her shape, the clothes she wears, and pretty nails.   Clothes are lined along the side.

The third box holds her voice, the words she knows, the thoughts she has to give to the world around her.  There are some songs, a string of curses, screams of pain and of delight, and other sounds a woman is expected to make.

The fourth box is not kept by the door, as are the first three.  It is not made from cardboard and replaced every few months, nor is the top casually tossed back on after being opened and its contents used.  Built from strong oak, with runes from a secret tongue and animal faces carved into its side, the box is sealed with a heavy iron lock which has only one key.  Tears have corroded the lock with rust, and the key is lost.

In the box rests her name,her heart, and most of the feelings it contains.  Her soul is kept in there as well, nourished by the warmth of emotions smouldering in the darkness.  A long time has passed since the box was opened.

In the attic is a glass box, sealed on every edge and corner with gold and silver.  The glass is clean and clear, cared for at least once a week.  Lace covers the table on which the box rests.  The soft, warm light of a lamp glows beside the table day and night.  The windows are shuttered, latches nailed in place, and the walls and roof are lined with lead.  The door to the attic is hidden, and the stairwell is so small only she can fit through the passage.

The box holds her dreams.  They are bright and full of colors, and hard like jewels, with facets and faces hidden from view.  They do not breathe, and they never dance.  The have the stillness of death.

Below, in the basement, at the core of a maze cast in eternal night, a box has been carved from the stone on which the house rests.  The lid is a boulder moved only once, when glaciers last shaped the earth.  Vipers, spiders, beetles and rats, fangs dripping poison, slither and scuttle in the dark.  In this crypt rests her desires.  The flesh of her appetite is dry, and hangs loosely on the withered meat of her hunger.

Finally, in the garden, where vegetables grow and flowers bloom, and the scent from an herb patch hangs in the air during the evening, there are five stones marking the graves of her past.  The bodies in the five buried boxes have no names, but they bear traces of her kisses.  Hidden behind a bush in a far corner is a sixth box, already set into the ground and awaiting only the caretaker to fill the hole with the dirt piled beside it.  On moonless nights, when the stars are veiled by clouds and the world pauses in its journey towards death, she comes out and lowers herself into the hole.  She lies down in the open box and closes her eyes.  Sometimes she draws the lid shut and holds her breath.

That is when the few feelings left to run free in the house all come to her at once, like birds alighting on a favorite perch.  That is when rage makes her tremble, and sorrow burns the empty places inside of her.  And fear makes her feel the cold of the endless night beyond the walls of her box.

end

In a recent BBC interview, Sir David Hare, Oscar-nominated screenwriter, playwright, and general curmudgeon, talked about writing –http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/programmes/hardtalk/9568401.stm

Brief and bitter-sweet in the clip, he talks about having to write, and writing being one of the most important things in life even as he acknowledges that he makes films not very many people see.
Now, of course, you have to take some of the negative things he says, when his work has earned him a title as well as an enviable lifestyle, with a hefty grain of salt.

But for this little, irrelevant writer, what’s really interesting is his belief that writing, as a profession, is not about self-expression. The implication, at least what I gathered from the clip, is that writing is about, in part, surviving the need to write.

He talked about a writer being at the mercy of one’s gifts and imagination. Writing is about, for some, trying to write the Great Thing, and then, dealing with the reality that one is always at the mercy of one’s gift and imagination. Writing is also about the painful process of coming to terms with the limits of one’s “gifts” and imagination, and the reality that the Great Thing can’t be done.

He also talks about dealing with being judged, which I interpret as being critiqued, misinterpreted, misunderstood or, simply, not being liked. Well, okay, I suppose, though money, awards and a title might go a long way to smoothing out any feelings about a lack of validation. After all, very few people may see his movies, but people still give him money to make them. But for the vast majority of writers, yes, dealing with rejection – from editors, yes, but also audiences — is a professional challenge that must be faced.

Finally, and perhaps most relevant for everyone, is the need for regeneration. Whether you call it being blocked, or running out of ideas or inspiration, or coming to a commercial dead-end, writing is certainly about finding the energy and creativity to start over again once a story is finished, a project is published, and the moment of publishing success, or failure, has passed.

Writing as life is no different from life as life. Denial is a beautiful thing, and seems to carry some a very long way, but as in life, I’m too much a realist to try ducking the stone walls of talent, imagination, audiences or lack thereof. And I am a fan of regeneration, feeding that thing inside that wants to make something someone else might find interesting. Writing as life means having to find a way through the disappointments and failures and keep going. Where? Well, you know how that goes, it’s the journey not the destination…

On a perhaps more inspirational note, Ray Bradbury’s birthday was August 22nd, and recognized in the LA Times: http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/jacketcopy/2011/08/happy-91st-birthday-ray-bradbury.html

Hard to come up with a better example of writing as life, integrating gifts and imagination, dealing with being judged, and finding strength through regeneration…

The world changes based on physical laws and dynamics; people change based on physiological and psychological processes.

How people perceive these changes and react to them is the stuff of, if not legend, certainly story.

A recent David Brooks Times article (http://www.nytimes.com/2011/03/08/opinion/08brooks.html) on “The New Humanism” (which doesn’t look like the old or even current New Humanism stuff I’ve encountered) sparked some thinking about people and stories I hope is interesting.

The notion I cling to from the article is that the disasters we visit on ourselves are caused, at least in part, by the “distorted” and simplistic view that reason and emotion are separate spheres.  We trust in and use the (so-called) rational self to suppress our untrustworthy emotional selves.

It’s the “Western way,” I suppose.  And there’s certainly good cause to fear the emotional aspects of ourselves and others.  Lynch mobs would be one.  However, there is also good cause to be afraid of ignoring emotional realities.  Loss of empathy might fall into that category, leading to the ever-popular genocidal binge.

Suppressing emotional aspects of culture and reinforcing the rational has certainly lead to great leaps in science, technology, philosophy.  But, of course, that suppression has certainly led to some interesting choices in the use of said tech.

As usual, my reaction is probably tangential.  Basically, we’re creatures of perception, and all conflict and miracles stem from this reality, the only reality any of us really care about.  If we perceive ourselves to be rational, the world and our own actions make a certain kind of sense.  If we perceive ourselves grounded in an emotional world, we understand ourselves and the mechanics of our surroundings in a different way.  In genre terms, it’s science vs magic.  One door opens, the other closes.

At least, that’s my theory, my understanding of things as I see them today, through the lens of the article, which, by the way, calls for a more balanced and integrated view, a “new humanism,” to save us from ourselves.

Anyway, I’m struck by the power of perception, and the importance of how the individual and group perceives themselves and the world.

Yes, it is true that when someone pushes a button and nukes everyone, or the asteroid we failed to track crashes into earth, or even when the aliens show up promising harmony and technological wonders and then exterminate us from the safety of somewhere beyond the orbit of Mars, a larger reality will engulf our many-splendored individual realities and make all those precious personal perceptions irrelevant.

And it is true we are often smart enough to evade that larger reality, because we built our earthquake-proof reactors close to the sea to make cooling more efficient, or we tested our brand new and exciting vehicles beyond industry standard to make sure they wouldn’t go off careening down highways on their own.

We built community developments on mountainsides knowing they would never slide off during a hard rain, while laughing at primitive people who built stone towns and cities in sub-tropical regions which have yet to show any inclination toward falling off.  Or, we built monumental apartment buildings to house the poor because that was efficient and cost-effective.

Or, we believed certain kinds of people, like, say, bankers, are fiscally responsible and motivated to preserve capital and wouldn’t dream of lowering themselves to speculation.

A priest, after all, is a priest.  A scientist, the same.  From an emotional or a rational point of view, neither should have any reason to act irresponsibly or stupidly in their role.

They’ve got those emotions locked down because they went to Harvard or MIT, and they’re adults, and they’re rich and responsible.  And stuff.

Indeed, until that larger reality actually manifests itself, we stumble along immersed in our stews of thought and emotion, cooking whatever the hell is going on around us into the gumbo of reality.

We reach conclusions, take actions, reap rewards and punishments based on the most tenuous beliefs: we are reasonable creatures, predictable, with motivations and intentions based on the certainties of evidence.  Or, if you prefer non-rational faith, a Higher Power is on our side.

We are certain of what we know, what we think.  And the best part of that is we have evidence to support our certainty.  There are studies.  Sometimes, experts gather and through consensus, select a “best practice” based solely on the scientific data and without any influence from manufacturers, insurance companies, or other entities with dubious motivations.  Sometimes, God just talks to us.

Often, it all works out.

A disappointing percentage of the time, however, the asteroid hits.

We’re driving along merrily drinking our home-brewed or pundit-bought brew, faithfully and quite rationally following our internal GPS right off the cliff.

Back to my clinging to the notion of a “distorted” and simplistic view of separate rational and emotional selves.

What I take from this idea is that, though the percentage of “right” from the rational approach to things may be impressive, may even be much better than some of the emotional viewpoints past and present, what we consider “rational” is not all that it’s cracked up to be.

The same, of course, can be said to those who navigate principally by an emotional compass.

After all, when the asteroid hits, it doesn’t matter if you made human sacrifices or launched nuclear bombs.  Despite your deepest convictions, what you tried failed.

Just because we elected our shamans, or made them go to college for degrees and licenses and other non-shamanistic accoutrements of non-shamanistic knowledge, insight and wisdom, doesn’t mean what they know or believe is right.

Sometimes, I think we’re all just ants blundering around, putting our heads down and doing our individual thing to the best of whatever our brain circuitry and personal chemistry can do, following one another, picking up scents left by trailblazers who survived and came back with the sugar.  Somehow, our combined chaotic efforts result through trial and error in what we call civilization.  Culture.  Flat screen TV’s filled with sports and digital effects.

I think that’s the latest in ant theory, anyway – there’s no Borg-esque Queen directing the hive, just a bunch of organic machines doing their jobs, stupidly making mistakes, and making up for those mistakes by trying again and again until, eventually, an efficient and practical solution for whatever is challenging the little buggers is found.  Or they die trying.

I also like the word “distorted.”   To me, I means there may well be something there in our funhouse image of what is true and real, but what we have not considered, what may be beyond our grasp or ability to perceive, is what distorts the image.  We believe the image to be true.  But it’s not.  And we are led astray, even to our doom, thinking we are doing the right thing.

I do sympathize with the article’s point that the rational and irrational are enmeshed, inseparable, and to think otherwise may not only be foolish, but dangerous.  Reminds me of the “old” humanism, like a ying yang tattoo staring you in the face.

I also appreciated the research on other measure of intelligence – lord knows we need other forms of intelligence.  The research may be a bit dense, but things like the Cambridge Handbook of Intelligence might lead to some creative perspectives on how your particular demon, fairy, Elder God or alien might perceive and understand the human world.  But go to a library for the thing – even the Kindle price is a heart attack.

There are other ways thinking about the rational and emotional aspects of humanity in terms of story and character.

Yes, there are the obvious and massive dramatic and comedic situations to be mined by playing the rational against the emotional, from I Love Lucy to The Big Bang Theory. Possibly, there’s art in their fusion.

And, an awareness of the varying definitions of humanity, intelligence and talents can help in establishing concrete needs and behaviors of the “new” or alternative human and the alien, and the conflicts and possible resolutions that come out of that.  Could be the new X-Men, could be the transformation of Remembrances of Things Past to the Perceptions of Things Now.

How much trust, and distrust, characters have in their rational/emotional selves is a fundamental anchor for their perception of the world.  And from that anchor, as I’ve been saying, all hell can break loose.  From the best of intentions, horrors can come, and from the worst, miracles.  Or maybe something a little less melodramatic.

Certainly at the root of genres like thriller, mystery, crime, suspense, there is tension between the rational and emotional in individuals and opposing groups.  Character perceptions are skewed, “distorted,” by their perspectives, by the information they allow themselves to process and what they do not take into account.

Decisions are made based on incomplete information.  The rational, or perhaps the emotional mind, blocked relevant information and observations.  Perhaps something was missed in the conflict between the two.  Actions are taken, horribly flawed, and if perceptions don’t change and characters don’t adapt, tragedy results.

I can’t even imagine how many papers have been written on the rational versus the emotional in Shakespeare.  The heart of horror is emotion, but getting to that heart may take raging tooth and claw, or the clean, precise rationality of a surgical blade.  What’s a love story without the heart and mind at war?

In fact, if you look at literature – from love stories to war stories, perhaps even post modern lit – you’d be hard-pressed not to find the conflict between the rational and the emotional at the heart of most stories.

Yes, sides may be taken, which may run counter to this “New Humanism” or its plain old Taoist philosophical roots.  True love wins out, or emotional horror, or the logic of the master detective or the science of the future.

The audience, immersed in their cultural perspectives, craves the comfort of the reality it perceives.

Sometimes, however, a certain balance can be achieved.  The audience may get what it needs rather than what it wants and be satisfied – a richer, more complex resolution than the triumph of the rational, the demise of the emotional, or vice versa.

I know, looking at the news, its hard to believe.  Unrealistic.  Certainly not mimetic.

A hard sell.

Whatever story you choose to tell, a long, hard look at the conflict between the emotional and the rational in characters, in the forces aligned against each other in the grand plot, might not be a total waste of time.  At least, that’s today’s theory.

It seemed to work for Shakespeare.

As writers, we think and talk a lot about plot and characters, and how they form the structure of our stories.

What’s common to this, and many other discussions, is the idea of change.

There wouldn’t be a story without change, not even in the literary genre where, like Vladimir and Estragon waiting for Godot, characters might be trapped in the expectation of a change that never happens – but the possibility of change is still out there. We talk about emotional throughlines, or the transformations great and small characters experience through the actions they take in the story. We set off explosive events – change the rules, make zombies and invading aliens or monsters from out of time and space – and make our characters deal with what we’ve done.

Change, whether or not it actually happens, is the engine that drives a story.

Change comes as crisis, as evolution, transformation, as part of a cycle, or a break from that cycle. Change is birth and death, creation and destruction. It comes with shocking suddenness, hard and fast, and in tiny, excruciating increments of pain, or perhaps joy. Change comes with an opening of a door, or one closing. Change alters perspectives, brings character to an epiphany, a realization, an acceptance, a sensation of satisfaction and completion.

How a character (and of course the reader) perceives and reacts to change in all its flavors reveals everything about that person – their strengths and weaknesses, the brittleness and resiliency. What mix of emotion and intellectuality rises to process the change? What is mobilized in the character, what parts go into hiding?

Does the character embrace, or at least face, the reality of the changes occurring in their world, or do they want to pick and choose, stay in control of that change, even if deals with the devils and taking wishes from djinn popping out of magic lamps is historically shaky business.

What a character does in the face of a transforming situation is the story.

Of course, things may not change, inside, for our character. For every end of the world scenario, for every modernist ironic character study, change can be frustratingly remote. We remain human, even when we transform our characters into something else. Because, really, the inhuman just doesn’t translate. That may also be the point. And, there’s the approach to fiction that requires a return to the norm – you’ve got to come back from Oz.

Or not. If you can sell it, then you stay in whatever brave new world you’ve landed the rest of us in with your story.

Maybe.

You were expecting me to change?

When I was a kid, paper ruled.

Like new cars, new books and comics had that special smell. Of course, that smell came from processed wood pulp and ink instead of fresh plastic and metal, and the aged stuff was always at least a little bit ripe but never as stinky as broken down jalopy, but the sense memories are just as intense for pulp hounds as it is for car junkies.
We didn’t worry about grading back then. If an old comic had a cover, it was a bonus.

For a dime each we could pick up 50’s Gold Medallion crime and Berkely, Signet, Dell and other SF (always taking the ones with Powers covers) mixed with 60’s Ace and Belmont Doubles (I still have a copy of Doomsman somewhere)….

I used to spend hours going through boxes of old books and comics in the back of weird little mom and pop stores – the usual candy stores, but sometimes deli’s, or thrift stores, and the best, a craft store just off the main shopping street. Doctor’s offices sometimes had comics, and other places kids were dragged to and made to wait.
The world of paper opened up the wonder of words and their power to enflame the imagination.

Kids these days, they have electrons.

If you can smell the electrons, I think it’s a bad sign.
The internet has become the new/used book/record/movie/comic/whatever store. Where I used to spend hours going through boxes in the back of weird little stores, kids take breaks from living alternative lifestyles in online games (being Thundarr the Barbarian, I suppose, rather than just watching the cartoons) to go shop for their entertainment through a variety of personal multi-media environments.

It’s taken me a while to adjust. I’ve been using computers to write since the mid-80’s and dig it. Mp3 players and little nano pods are cool but I find the whole downloading, ripping, copying tapes and records, converting files and making up play lists tedious. Games – computer, online or console – bore me because, well, they’re programmed, aren’t they, and so a bit predictable and repetitive. Or, I just don’t care about the challenges they present.

I wasn’t of this world when I was growing up, and I still haven’t completely joined it.

However, despite the lack of a comforting scent, I find myself growing rather attached to my Kindle.
I don’t have a whole library in it, yet. But I have bunches of books from a few of my favorite writers, and I’ve spent a couple of hours loading cheap or free versions of classics and obscure, copyright-free myth reference books. I have a vision of being able to carry my entire reference library in a little book-shaped device, accessing it whenever I need it.

That vision, like my portable music library, is a bit further in the future. I’ve been on facebook for years and, well, I still don’t really know how to work it. I need the social network for socially ambivalent people. Not sure there’s one out there, or what the point of one would be. I need the device that will follow my instructions, intuitively divine my tastes, and get the crap I like without my having to seek it out, convert it, file it, elude the authorities for it, etc. Because, I really can’t be bothered to spend the necessary hours to do all of that.

I know. I’m practically Medieval.

However, what is here is the ability to carry your own library of crap in some sort of portable storage device, and what is arriving is carrying just the device to access that library of crap — games, music, video, alternate lives, other people both real and unreal, archaic things like books, and all kinds of other things — stored in a science fictional cloud anywhere anytime.

Kind of a Zen thing – it’s there, but not physically there. It’s almost like inventing a new lifestyle, a new class of the population that doesn’t buy “things” (outside of some clothes and the instruments that give them access to their electronic possessions). This population just rents, or buys access to stuff.

That, as they say, is progress. Evolution. We read from stone, papyrus, paper and now electrons. We saw pictures on cave walls, on stone, canvas, celluloid, television, cable, internet, from still to moving. We moved by foot, mount, car, plane, rocket. We hunted, grew things, and now we buy stuff in packages or have stuff prepared for us, slow or fast.

The old stuff still exists. People still work with stone, walk, hunt. Human needs haven’t changed. We’ve just found more efficient ways to satisfy them. More convenient. Given ourselves more choices with which to satisfy ourselves.

There will always be readers.

There’ll always be a hardcore collector types, too. These are hardwired personality types, just a human thing. Horses didn’t go away because of trains, cars and planes. They’re just not in the mainstream of everyday life. But it is like living in a sf world where Cordwainer Smith’s Lords of the Instrumentality are being born and getting ready to shape and take over the world.

I do find myself catching something of the zeitgeist. Maybe it’s because I’m getting old, or maybe life has taught me some unfortunate lessons, but I find myself growing impatient with the ton of stuff I’ve accumulated over the decades. There are still things I treasure, but more easily I find things that just weigh me down. I still love books, but often I look on my “stock” and say, when am I ever going to look at this? Some things have lost their connection; their meaning has become irrelevant. I guess it’s a process of self-editing, cutting things down to an essential core. Almost like trying to find the touchstones of a life, what thing symbolizes or gathers a much meaning as possible from different periods of life. Certainly having been around for a while puts perspective on so-called possessions…

From what I can see, the new materialism is only partially physical — electronic equipment is the new Mustang or Corvette. Oh, the old Mustang and Corvette is still there, make no mistake. There are clubs and car shows and auctions and whole industries devoted to that and all the former new materialisms that have swept across Western consumerism. Stuff to put in that electronic equipment is the new collectible — people download (steal) just about everything and anything (even years ago, Peter David was talking about losing money because of downloads of his media stuff, which used to be reprinted for additional fee but then wouldn’t be because people had the electronic versions). People brag about how many games or movies they have on their equipment. The latest car features are electronic – usb ports, bluetooth, electronic engines.
Writers need to plug in.

So. There’s another world out there, evolving at light speed. Words will not vanish. There will always a place for words, a need for them in some part of the human world. But the method of delivery is changing fast. Readers are becoming comfortable with the tech required, and the tech is becoming friendly to the words (and the eyes that read them). Even the big guys are moving their comic book franchises online, I hear.

As writers, we’re aware how the business is changing. The print magazines are almost gone. Self-publishing is evolving into the realm of ebooks. Electronic rights matter. They really, really matter. What was wild speculation five years ago is fact now.

The subject has been discussed here by others, but I just thought I’d add my perspective as, well, whatever I am. I’m trying to catch up. I listen to Dave here at Storytellersunplugged, I’ve joined the gang at Crossroads Press. I visit sites http://www.kristinekathrynrusch.com/ and http://www.deanwesleysmith.com/ and http://jakonrath.blogspot.com/ . Locus online is full of electronic publishing news. We’ve come a long way from Doug Clegg’s Naomi and King’s Riding the Bullet. Like my mp3 players, I find the technical details a little tedious. I’d rather be writing. But I still want readers, however they choose to read my stuff. I’d still like to make some cash out of this business.

So I’m grateful for the guys willing to do the heavy lifting, for the people who have the passion, time and commitment for the level of merchandising required. The old school is still out there, paper and ink is and will still be available. But, let’s face it, the production cost of digital product can’t be beat. Like selling water – it’s right there. I’m grateful to be a part of the future, however small that part may be. We’ll see what this electronic world is going to be all about.