Category Archives: writing

Things my characters would say.

I am recovering from an intense period of brainstorming that was very beneficial to the evolution of my writing.  But I am back, to actively telling a story.

I finally understand the text I am writing, as the synthesis of all the possibilities I wined and dined in my mind.  Is it fiction?  Check.  Is it memoir? Fuzzy check.

At one point, I thought I was exploring a new space called Fantasy Memoir.  I don’t know if there is such a thing.  There probably is, because when I think I have a good idea, if I look hard enough I will find others preceded me in that particular line of imagination.

But, I have also explored different options to speak my thoughts as non-fiction.  That, though, would require something different than what my spirit wants to say.  My spirit wants a Meta-Myth.

I have found that my spirit, when I judge that it is grounded in appropriate aspirations, typically identifies fruitful avenues.  And, my spirit is telling me to write a myth about myth.

This evening, I once again sat down to work on my manuscript.  And, I wrote a bunch of stuff that doesn’t belong in that piece.  But, it belongs in the story.  So, I have within my Scrivener project, folders for what different characters might say.  And, I am further breaking it down by having individual pages of possible statements and thoughts for each main character at the beginning of the story, the middle, and the end.

My writing style is haphazard, in the sense that I follow inspiration where it takes me.  To hell with the narrative, when great ideas come for individual moments.  So, I write them where I am, which is my draft.  And then, I have to pull them back out.  I just read what I wrote this evening.  It’s all great.  But, none of it seems to go together.

Tomorrow, I will re-organize today’s writing, as a warm-up activity, after my journaling, but before my story-telling.  I approach my writing as a potter explores hand-built pieces.  I am developing a narrative for all of the individual inspirations, that provide context for a truth I seek to convey.

 

A rare comment about sports.

I don’t normally want to engage in sports talk on this blog.  But, I will make an exception here.  This relates to my book, at an oblique angle.

I will share these thoughts.

— — —

This evening, the NBA held its annual draft lottery.

There are a lot of rumors that the NBA draft is fixed, through the lottery system they put in place.  Ostensibly, to deter teams who need good players, from intentionally tanking their season.

The way the lottery works is that all the bad teams are given ping-pong balls, based on standings.  The worst teams have the most balls.  But even a team that finished ahead, in the standings, has a shot at the number one pick.

Today, Cleveland got the first pick for the third time in four years.  I am now convinced the NBA manipulates the lottery to create story-lines for their league.  Three times in four years?  C’mon!

I pay attention to this, not because I am a fan of the NBA, but because I am from Cleveland.  I keep up with my home town.

What the NBA is doing is intentional.  They are competing with the NFL to be the first league to bring a championship to a city that last won something over fifty years ago.  They smell pent-up opportunity to dunk on the NFL.

Earlier this month, the NFL held its draft.  The football Browns drafted Johnny ‘Football’ Manziel, the most exciting player available.  Not necessarily the best one.  But, he did promise to pour his heart out for the town that just adopted him, to bring them a Super Bowl victory. Johnny Football has the it-factor to be a public figure, long after he retires.  And, I am not suggesting that the NFL draft is fixed.  Just the NBA.

But, the competing story-line, in the NBA, is Lebron ‘The King’ James.  He was a phenom a decade ago, set to go pro, right out of high school.  He was the biggest story of that draft, too.  A kid, ready to go number one, over all the guys from college, because his combination, of skill, size, and athleticism, was so freakish.  Guess what.  That year, Cleveland picked number one, too!

But, Lebron left for Miami because, through free agency, he had the chance to assemble a supporting cast with two of his best basketball buddies, Dwayne Wade and Chris Bosh.  Two other freakishly good players.  He left Cleveland, because, as a perennial loser, the basketball Caveliers were having trouble creating a supporting cast around their star.  In spite of that, Lebron still took the Cavs to the NBA Finals in 2007.  Since then, he has won two championships.  This year could be his third.  And, guess what.

The story gets better.  He’s a hometown kid, from Akron, Ohio.

Well, Lebron is set to become a free agent, this season, or next.  There are some restrictions on how this plays out, within his current contract with the Miami Heat.  And, one of the story-lines, in sports talk, is whether Lebron will return to Cleveland, on his white horse, to bring the championship he promised his home town, before heading south.

Don’t tell me Cleveland’s winning the lottery three times, in the four years since he left home, are just a coincidence.  This is the NBA, manipulating their product.  They’re allowed.  Legally, they are set up as an entertainment company, not sports.  The draft is fake, just like Holleywood.

Go Browns!

Sorry to be so quiet.

I have been deeply working my book.  But, like my earthworm brethren, I do my best work under ground.

I am in a state of deep concentration, and I have been writing throughout the days.  The ideas start coming in late afternoon, and carry into the night.  I open my computer whenever thoughts present themselves.

Today, I am embarking on a new habit.  I am committed to breaking up the previous day’s writing, where appropriate, and putting the good stuff in folders I have created that outline my narrative.  (Scrivener is my writing application.  I love it.)

I realized that if I didn’t spend some time, each day, to consider my accumulated work, I will not be able to see the finish line for the trees.  On the way here, to my favorite coffee shop, in my wheelchair, I asked myself.

How much more work is involved?  I am not tired.  I am just trying to get a handle on this thing, and develop the large-view narratives within all my pieces.  Then, I can also begin writing towards the synthesis of the narratives.

I am hoping, by autumn, that the majority of the writing will be finished.  Then, I can turn my attention to the completed document, and begin filling in the cognitive blanks.  That’s how I see myself transitioning from lots of writing, to mostly editing.

— —

My sister sent me an email all the way from Australia, and shared a video she liked.

I liked it, too, and decided to participate in exposing a delightful, young artist through the Viral Net.

Kawehi.

 

My first trip here, in my wheelchair.

I feel like hell today.  But, this is why I have this chair.  I can still do something.

I ran into my neighbor, and her daughter, in the driveway.  They were happy for me.  Then, at McClintock, I caught the bus to Southern.  Forcing myself to go beyond self-consciousness.  My first surprise was learning that the bus is not free to wheelchairs.  I thought it was.  My bad.

And now, here I am.  First time, in my favorite coffee shop.

In my wheelchair.

I received it yesterday afternoon.  In my driveway.  Running, again, into my neighbors.  I was very grateful, but I felt guilty.  I felt well enough, in yesterday’s hot afternoon, to question whether the chair was a necessity.

But, after dark, with a strong, spring, wind blowing, I took it for a spin to the corner store, for a bag of chips.  Just to have something to do on a dark and mysterious evening.

And yes.  I was high.

I caused a bit of a headache for the store owner, by trying to breach the front door from my seat.  It took a minute of struggle, before he came to my aid.  He apologized, profusely.  But, I insisted I needed to learn how to do these things.  And then.

I got stuck.  I made it through the door, and down the first tiny aisle, brushing some few snacks to the floor.  And, I turned the corner, to find myself.

Cornered.  No path, back to the counter, except from where I came.  I had to back up, because he had crowded the floor so tight with merchandise.  But first.

I grabbed a bag of Lay’s.  Then, the owner spent a couple, more minutes, backing me with hand signs and instructions.  Pronounced, Bengali.

I was embarrassed, because I could have used my cane and my car, if I really wanted those chips.  Instead, we enjoyed our own private circus, because I was curious to do this, once the day had cooled.

I hope he enjoyed it.  I thought it was fun, except for putting him out.

But, by the time I returned to the garage, and plugged it in, I had decided that, I only made the trip because I had the chair.  Otherwise, I did feel crappy enough that, before yesterday, without it.  I would have rationalized.

I wasn’t very hungry for chips.  And here I am, this evening, in my favorite coffee shop, writing.  This definitely would not have happened, feeling like this, before yesterday.

This is wonderful.  I am beyond self-conscious.  I am happy.

What’s up with my book?

This has been a great month of April.  My sister and eight-year-old nephew came.

To me, from Melbourne.  We saw.

The Canyon.  The museum.  And Wupatki.

They left east as the second week began.  To see.

 

Other places and faces.

A widely scattered, diverse family.

I love them dearly.

But, I was worn.

 

Then, ten hard days.  Like the first eight weeks of disability.

Too worn to stare beyond the walls.

But, ideas came.

 

Voice recognition, I am learning to love you!

And I now have folders, labeled for all my concepts.

Ideas filling them with story.

The narration of my ideas is now.

A slurpy concrete.

Setting, in mind.

I have waited for this day.

Earlier, I was thinking how sometimes my writing sparkles clear in sunlight, while others it is muddy, often shallow.  I am learning to use this cycle to advantage.

I write best when my symptoms are at bay.  And, I keep them at bay.

Brushing them back with cannabis.  But.

Things break down.  Symptoms intrude.

I chase them, increasing my dose.  Hoping.

They go away.

Eventually, they disappear, but only after I bottom out.

I typically rebound.  A floor higher than the basement.  I found myself, in.

My ceiling, lower than some past, previous floor.

Rebound is when marijuana can inhibit my writing.  After chasing symptoms with heavier doses, and diminishing effect, I need that break.

Today, I hadn’t used any since the day before yesterday.  It’s subconscious subtle.  I don’t even notice a decision to abstain.  I just notice that.

By evening.  I haven’t used any all day.  And, I ask.

Myself.  Can I sleep the night without?

If I think so, I know.  I am bouncing back.

But, I still can’t write.  I can’t think.

I sleep.  I do things.  I move around, caring for vegetables, and two cats.

My camera takes photographs.  I appreciate that.  I enjoy this beautiful world.

As pain creeps back into picture, the game begins.

How long can I wait, as worse it gets?

Today, this evening.  A Thin Mint, vaporized.

Finally.  Feeling good enough to write.

Awkward

Out of my head.
Got it.
Down, in some physical form.
Memory, accessed externally.
Rather than.

Solely residing in my head.
For, only a moment.
Before gone. Write thoughts, to make them.
Real.

Unless written, they remain etherial.
Essential, and missing. Unable, too.

Make points. Make jokes. Make sense.

Speaking, more primitive.
Than writing.

Stumbling, over faulty recall.
That next word. Spoken tokens, embedded in grammar.
Queued up, within the mind. Around each thought. Then.

One wanders off.
Lost again.
In the dark unconscious.
Too shy to be said.