Too Much About Other People

So I'm going through the manuscript trying to stitch up the gaping holes in plot, motivation, character. Don't know if this poor devil is going to make it. It's been a real trooper so far but I want to prepare myself for the idea that it might just bleed out right here on the operating table.

Seems like I've got too many chapters from other points of view. We'll have to see how that plays out in the end. So far it's one chapter after another from various other points of view, and I have a feeling that as we move deeper into the second (and then the third) act, the POV will resolve itself around the main character, and I'm not sure how that will work. Despite my grave doubts, however, I press on. Yes, like a set of adhesive fingernails, I press on.

Too Clever by Half

Nothing worse than a writer who is aware of the big words and how they function but who lacks the overall command to make their vocabulary really work for them. And yet, you have to give people like that a bit of credit, no? For trying, anyway?

I don't know. Most of my drafts make me cringe at least once or twice per page; I always have a few groaners in there, a few places where I clearly got lost amid the glittering polysyllables.

But I have to keep trying, because for me (and this is difficult to articulate given my limited talent) the only real reward comes in telling a thing right, in making the words sing just a little, not much, but just enough that the constructions give an impression of solidity, give the reader a small pulse of aesthetic pleasure. For example, there's not a single misstep, a single poor sentence, in any of the JJ or VN canon (although VN's early short stories have their flaws) or, if you need something more immediate, read one of the stories from the New York Times online.

So having said all that I will now reproduce one of my groaners from years past that still makes me cringe today: I was trying to describe a man waiting for a train (on which he was to encounter himself, or his double -- I was reading a lot of Borges) who, as he made his way along the train station's concourse, weaved through the racks of postcards which were like "apocryphal trees."

Oh! Still makes me cringe! Like fingernails down the blackboard, these are the words of my life.

How I Operate

Here's how I work it:

My mind riots with complaints and and woe-is-me visualizations all centered around the lack of time I get to write. I think about checking into a hotel. I think about running to some shack on some shaley mountainside in West Virginia to scriven to the strobe of a guttering candle. Ridiculous fantasies parade before my mind's eye: My son and wife weeping at my graveside, throwing skyward the pages of my latest manuscript which would have, could have been a masterpiece if only I'd lived to finish it! If only I hadn't died of overwork, broken down in the traces like an old mule.

Then, presto! I get a day to write. A whole day, how beautiful. And what do you suppose happens next? I screw around. I fritter. I procrastinate. Sand falls in the hourglass and still I postpone, I delay, I forestall...

Back to the AM

Hey Steve:

Great post below. I was laughing out loud at the description of the cookies and their effect on your digestive system. I was laughing out loud at the blown budget and all the rest of it. Yes, I know how that goes. I know it all.

Holidays. Well, my mother, who had been scheduled to come down and visit us, just backed out and is not coming after all. Less than 24 hours before her scheduled flight, she called and said that the last time we talked (when I was only trying to confirm how many reservations to get for a Christmas brunch) I'd hurt her feelings with my brusque and stressed phone-manner. Hurt her feelings to such a degree that she wasn't coming any more.

Who the fuck does that? This is like the third time she's canceled a trip to come and see us in the last two years. Who the fuck backs out of a Christmas trip at the last fucking second? I'm not so much angry for myself; I'm angry for my little son, who is only 14 months but is cute as can be, and who doesn't really have a relationship w/his paternal grandmother (kind of hard when she keeps backing out).

And how exactly is it my fault? What, I'm not allowed to be stressed? Isn't that the point of the holidays? I mean, motherfucker, are you telling me that my family won't see me unless I've been purged of all frustration, doubt, and acrimony toward my family? If that's the case, we might as well just call it a day and save ourselves the trouble of planning for all of the Christmases in the future.

Well, maybe that's God doing for me, etc. Maybe that's the way to look at this. Because now we're home, just me and the wife and the family, for Christmas.

BTW, our budget is blown too. Has been blown. Won't un-blow for months. Fucking Christmas!

Video Olympics

Hey... sorry so long between posts...

I remember very early on in our relationship, perhaps even our very first meeting, when you told me that wonderful analogy... that old memory of hitting the keyboard keys to make that video olympics stick figure run down the track on the old Apple II... how you compared hitting those keys faster and faster to the time that builds up between sexual encounters... I fucking loved that... I knew we were meant to share our lives in some way when you threw that out on the table.

Sometimes I feel that way with this blog... it's almost like hitting the keys faster and faster is that build up of other bullshit that I write... some that I have to write... some that I write because I think it'll push my career forward... but it's almost never brutally honest... I haven't used the word fuck in any of the writing I've been doing... and that just ain't honest cuz I use the word fuck like six million times a day in daily conversation...

Anyway, I guess I get the occasional urge to really let loose, to let the shit fly without worry about who's reading it, repercussions, the impact on my career, my family, my golf game, my dog.... it's so nice to just not give a shit every once in a while.

I'm handling it all a lot better than years past. Talked about that in a meeting last week... I'm not so prone to grumbling and bitching... I know the Christmas bullshit is important to the wife and the kids, so I back off and participate as needed and give lots of smiles and hugs and just let it happen... cuz I think that's what God's will is... God's will is to keep Steve out of the picture as much as possible... at least when he wants to take action to make changes... let Steve get involved only when he's helping keep the Christmas magic alive for wife and kids... that's it.... when Steve's ready to start grumbling, he should take the fucking dog for a walk.

Christmas lights, fuses that have to be replaced, a Christmas tree that will be left alone for two weeks with lights on a fucking timer... bags and bags and bags full of bullshit and we haven't even begun to pack our clothes... two hundred Christmas cards out the door... holiday cookies... barely able to take a decent shit because my intestines are so backed up with shortening and sugar and butter and chocolate chips because I have no fucking power over cookies.... gingerbread that fills the house with delicious smells for days but pisses me off because it smells like Christmas, and that creates that immediate Pavlovian reaction of feeling the credit card burn its way through my wallet... scrambling so the kids can buy presents for their teachers... the stockings.. Oh God, the stockings.... when we're finally done shopping, blown the budget completely out of the water, the wife will head out "just to pick up a few little things for the stockings".... another couple of hundred bucks later and they overflow, candy, candy, candy that I will eat for weeks, and back up my intestines even more, the shit coming out in dribbly nonproductive rectum reddening squirts of guilt and remorse, and I will wipe my ass and wash my hands and open the cookie tin again before they are completely dry...

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas....

Anything is Better Than Working on the Book

This is the dream I had two nights ago: A hockey game seen from the tenth row of the bleachers, slightly above and to the left of the action. Below me two goalies are fighting while the referees and other players (forwards centers defensemen) look on, sometimes skating around to get a better view. Both goalies are lying on the ice: a bearded man in a green sweater and a man with dreadlocks and a maroon sweater, both of them ensconced in their bulky goalie pads.

One of the bearded goalie's arms is missing below the elbow and has been fitted with a black wooden peg which the bearded goalie is using to steadily bludgeon his opponent. The blows from the black peg-arm fall with metronomic regularity; it's clear that the dreadlocked goalie is beaten and incapable of defending himself. I yell and pound on the glass for someone to stop the fight, but the steady driving blows from the black peg go on and on.

Eventually the all the hair and skin is pounded away from the dreadlock-goalie's head, leaving a white gleaming skull in which shift back and forth two helpless eyes. Now the wooden arm, as it lands its blows, makes a clinking sound on the shining bone in which the overhead sodium lights are reflected. The beaten goalie's face and hair hang around his neck like a frayed collar. Still nobody stops the fight. The referees, the players, and the crowd are all sunk, like me, in dream-quicksand.

A Helpful Dream

Still not writing. But I did go lie in bed and read the last three pages of Lolita again. So now I've found two writers whose work consistently yields some lesson or pleasure every time I pick it up: Joyce and now Nabokov. I'm sure there are others! I spent twenty years re-reading Joyce and wouldn't touch Nabokov because of the lurid reputation that Lolita had acquired (even though I read it myself when I was a drunken collegiate lout). Which just shows what a fool I am.

Anyway, I was reading the final three pages when H.H. is standing there at the canyon's edge and hears the whispering of children at play. That passage is so satisfying that I decided to close my eyes and think about it awhile and my thinking slowly faded into sleep but right at the edge of sleep, just when my thoughts stop being my own and become someone else's, I heard this voice telling me that I should not judge myself too harshly, but should do my duty by my characters and give them the best possible story in which to live, and that when I'd made a good-faith attempt at this I would be free of them and could move on. This seemed like such wonderful, sensible advice that I promptly relaxed and went to sleep.

You might think that I awoke from my nap refreshed and that perhaps I tumbled drowsy and happy to my keyboard where the words came forth in a golden flow; that hasn't happened, I'm sorry to say. Apparently procrastination trumps epiphany.

Re-Writer's Block

Just back from Disney. Took the 14-month-old son to the Magic Kingdom where he gaped at Disney characters, talking birds, singing bears, and rode as many rides as would let him on.

To me it was a bunch of cheap, contrived entertainment but to him, I'm sure (although he can't talk to let me know) it was magical. Needless to say I still haven't done any writing. The rough draft is just sitting there, staring back at me. I can't do anything with it. I know, I need to read it and get myself involved in the scenes. More than anything, I need to read it. But I can't, or won't. I don't know. It's just sitting there, and I'm sitting here. I think I have re-writer's block. Even my hands (I swear) feel all gummy and unresponsive. The word count is slow. The keys feel unusually far apart and only seem to click down under extreme pressure.

I am a Holiday-Hating Shithead

My wife just took the small child to the Christmas Village, some absurd collection of Santa-themed merchants, activities, and public areas. I have no idea what goes on there, but I do know I probably should've gone.

Instead I'm here looking over the rough draft of my manuscript. Time to start cobbling it together. I read an article somewhere that described Scorsese's experience with The Departed; the account says that during editing he would come out of his hole, shake his head, and say, "We've got some great scenes in here, great scenes...but I have no idea if we've got a movie."

I feel much the same way. Let's see if I can turn all these scenes into something worth reading.

Opening up that Vein

I have a friend who has a birthday today; nobody you know, but he's a very nice guy. And yet, despite his niceness, the only thing I wanted to do for him on his birthday was hire a midget to run up and kick him straight in the bully-bag.

The morning sitting in the auto repair place trying to get my words out. There's a flatus and possibly some excreta knocking at my back door but I will not answer. I will not pack up my laptop and cell phone (on which I'm streaming Groove Salad from somafm.com -- great ambient) and decamp to the tiled, fluorescent-pale bathroom where I'll have to make a strategic decision; go for the quick groaning all-out push (and make it fast but violent) or sit back a bit and let nature take its own course in its own time?

The first option gets me out of that single beige metal stall much faster, but it could be embarrassing if someone were to walk in mid-groan and pre-splash. The fact that I'm somewhat anonymous behind my little sheet-metal scrim is no comfort. The other option, of course, keeps me longer in the bathroom, but in that instance I don't have to feel invested. I can tell myself that I just walked in and did what came naturally.

Of course, there's a third option; hold it. Wait for the urgency to pass, let the spastic storm shade to a dull ache above my left hip bone.

Now, about waiting for a response from a publisher, which was, I think, what we were talking about last night. Yes, I can remember well that after querying my last novel I waited, and then almost forgot, and then a response came, and I remember the savagery with which I attacked my own starry-eyed hope, how I tried to plug that vein of fool's gold that ran all the way back to my earliest humiliations when I was a six-year-old boy in homemade plaid pants sobbing on my bed, starting there and incorporating all my failures and disappointments, all those old selves suddenly resurrected and queued up just behind my skin, pushing forward, urging me to open the envelope, open it...all of them waiting to be redeemed by the magical spell of legitimacy inside the envelope.

And with hands of cold clay I open the letter. Rejection. And all those old selves fade into the dark pool of memory, waiting until the next letter when they will rise again...

The Beowulf Grind

Left the office early today with one of the project managers and we went to see Beowulf in IMAX 3D. Pretty amazing. Angelina Jolie is officially back on my lust list. Was she ever off? Well, I didn't kick her off, but she'd been bumped by other babes. My grip list is like a stack on an operating system. As I put chicks on the stack, everything moves down. It's a LIFO (Last In First Out) system, so only in times of drought do those old grip chicks bubble to the top.

I have girls in there from the 80s, I swear. The other day I gripped to Joan Severance...and if I were locked away in a prison cell with nothing but four stony walls for company, I would eventually grip my way down to a grayscale Mary Tyler Moore from the Dick Van Dyke Show. My god, that woman...I challenge you to find me a woman more resplendent than the young MTM (I think she just moved up the stack).

The cold is killing me. One half of my tongue is swollen. My head feels all dry and hollow. When I chew I can feel the contours of my ear canals shifting around above the two masticating plates of my jaws. I find myself choking on my own drainage, unable to speak. And these Indian dudes won't leave me alone.

The Houston Grind

First, I have to agree with you, sir. A man will do anything believe anything suffer anything, if he's getting laid w/enough frequency. Anything. There is no religion I wouldn't adopt, no task I wouldn't perform, if I thought the endgame was a blowjob or some other form of nut-bustage. Agreed, absolutely.

Begins the third day in Houston. Cold is slowly building to a crescendo of mucous-choked coughs and sneezes; the crappy road food is lodged in my gut like the a loutish grown child who won't move out of your basement.
Last night I tossed and turned and emitted wavering red clouds (think Creepy Fogs from the old Scooby Doo episodes). In my half-sleep I would wake w/a sense of pride and anxiety at the monstrosity I'd just created and, cracking an eye, would take an indulgent, parental sniff (Chinese) before continuing my restless sleep.

So this is the grindy grindy part of being on the road. When you feel all punched-in but you go to the office anyway because really, where else you goanna go?

Today I'll diagram more systems on more whiteboards for more anxious, beetle-browed Indian fellows who will invariably tell me that they understand, they understand perfectly, and then they'll walk away without understanding a damned thing and the whole process will start over again. World without end. The eternal return of Nietzsche at work in the business processes of a software company. On days like this it's not hard to imagine that life is an eternal procession of conference rooms, squeaking felt pens, obsequious Indians, bad dinners, and hotel rooms where the day parts your curtains with its gray neuralgic hand, beckoning you out to begin it all again.

Having said all that, I'm kind of happy. Don't know why.

Six Ways to a Sexier Boyfriend

Thanks for the comments about the Olive Garden post....

So I'm checking my Yahoo news... AP feeds, world news, etc... and I notice this little banner ad at the top of the page. A bloggish article by some dipshit expert on men who offered "Six Ways to a Sexier Boyfriend." Six ways to encourage your guy to get in better shape, smell better, be willing to do more around the house, etc... one was encouraging him to get more sleep... another was to buy a cologne that didn't smell like something he'd bought in the eleventh grade, etc... dipshit responses, dipshit article... the ladies probably eat it up.

I have a much better suggestion.

Tell your boyfriend you'll give him one blowjob for every pound he loses. Tell him you'll give him a blowjob if he tries a new cologne. Tell him you'll give him a blowjob when he finishes putting up the Christmas lights. It's simple. Guys will do anything... scoop the kitty litter... shop for wallpaper at Home Depot (that may be a two-blowjob task there...)

Don't the ladies know how much power they have? Don't they understand the control? Get down on your knees in front of me and I am your slave. Name your task.

Why not tell the truth?

Houston

Like the pullback at the end of your post, Steve. The pullback is what makes it work so well. The camera beginning to slide backwards on its cables, retreating from the restaurant, pausing long enough to register the shock on the face of the thirteen year-old kid. Shock and excitement. And yes, that thirteen year-old kid was you. In this mythic Olive Garden you were multiplying like a Russian doll, old versions of yourself busing tables, carrying trays, washing dishes, eating, singing, and most of all watching, fervently hoping, that the confrontation at the table would explode into violence.

One thing I was considering when reading your account. Ever see a fight like that? Between two black girls? What I remember most is the speed. The blinding speed. It was like watching two dogs (not trying to be demeaning here, just what I've observed) in that I could not really follow the action. They both snatched at each other's heads and then, after three or four lightning-fast twitches, they were on the ground. It was like this. BitchSnatchTwichRoll.

Now white girls, on the other hand...those fights are somewhat more picturesque. They usually don't know what they are doing and their very ineptitude is kind of arousing. They stand there, whining, each with a huge fistful of the other's hair, red-faced, determined, sometimes crying..oh, yeah.

A final caveat. I know I just made a race-based generalization above, but that's just what I've observed.

Funny stuff.

I'm in Houston. Got up at 3:30 AM to catch my plane out. The weather is not good. I have a cold. I spent most of yesterday in a conference room diagramming a domain model for this application we're building. Only the red pen worked. All the other colors left dry ghostly smears on the board. One guy on my team came to me afterward and wanted to tell my about his daughter's chess tournament. As I was listening I slipped into tiny quiet dreams where I was still on the plane to Houston. Afterward I went and had Chinese food by myself, then went back up to the room.

I think I've discovered, at long last, the secret to business travel. Don't turn on the TV. Had a peaceful night doing some work, taking a call from the wife. At 8:30 I got in bed to read a bit and woke up at 1:30 with all the light still ablaze. Nice feeling when you realize there are still four hours of sleep remaining.

Miss Thang at the Olive Garden

Walked about three miles this morning... then walked nine holes this afternoon... great exercise, feeling good about how healthy I've been, so then decided to go to the fucking Olive Garden.

Dear God... breadsticks dipped in greasy wonderful alfredo sauce... chicken parmesan... nothing like a little chicken dredged in high-fat parmesan and then deep fried and topped with cheese, next to a big glop of fettucini alfredo...

I am a fat pig. I just need to come to grips with that. Oh well.

Watched a patron and a waitress bonk heads at another table. The waitress was black... she had a little Miss Thang going... looking like she was at least trying to pretend she had some customer service skills... but everyone could tell what she thought of the bitchy lady sitting in front of her.

I wasn't sure what happened, because they were already going at it when we were walked to our table. Something about the waitress rushing them to order... they wanted to take their time and browse the menu, and they didn't want advice from Miss Thang... In her defense, I think Miss Thang was genuinely trying to be helpful, along with pushing what she's obligated to push from the menu, etc... But the bitchy lady got all in a huff and told Miss Thang she needed some time to look at the menu.

So Miss Thang came back in a few minutes, but now the stick was definitely up her butt. It was interesting watching her. She looked liked she came from downtown somewhere... probably would have cussed out Miss Bitch in any other environment. She looked like she was trying to look like she was being patient... but she wasn't trying too hard.

Miss Bitch ordered, and Miss Thang asked her something about her entree, and of course Miss Bitch snapped back at her... I couldn't really hear what they were saying, but I picked up most of the context from the menu, the waitress's notepad, etc... Miss Thang gave the table a tight, fake smile and spun on her heel. I could see the smile drop from her face before she took her second step away from their table. Miss Thang was not happy.

I stopped watching them once the alfredo sauce came to our table. Three breadsticks in a row dragged through that sauce, rolling the bread around, jamming the sauce into the corner of the little dish, trying to cover every square millimeter with high-fat cheese sauce... So good, salty, creamy...

Then Miss Thang swished back into the room... she had brought Miss Bitch's table the check, and Miss Bitch got upset because they hadn't been given the chance to order dessert.

And then Miss Thang crossed the dipshit line... she said, "Well, I'm sorry, but I was afraid to ask you anything, girlfriend..." Yes, she said "girlfriend..." I waited, a spoonful of pasta e fagioli halfway to my mouth... I expected to see some chicken marsala or some pasta florentine start flying.

Miss Thang had that fake smile on her face... it was interesting... it was clear to me that she had no interest in being nice, and that quite frankly she didn't really give a shit anymore, she'd written off her tip a long time ago... in fact, I was quite surprised that she'd come back to the table period... it looked like a smile that was on her face just in case the manager decided to walk by...

I didn't hear Miss Bitch's response... but she snapped her menu closed and handed it back to Miss Thang...

That was the end of the exchange... I have to say I was a bit disappointed... I had visions of Miss Bitch's face stuffed down hard into a half-eaten platter of angel hair pasta... Miss Thang reaching back behind her own head and pulling out the bobby pins to let her hair down and go total ghetto on this white bitch... the husband trying to interfere but falling back with an Olive Garden fork stuck in his neck, blood spurting across the table, splattering the specials menu with the lovely pictures of pork medallions... Miss Bitch coming up for hair, sliding away from the table, knocking over the bus pan on the table nearby... Miss Thang grabbing Miss Bitch by the hair, swinging her around, grabbing her by the ears and slamming her head against the wall, bottles of chianti tottering off the shelves above... in the distance, a small group of waiters and waitresses look up from singing their dipshit birthday song to some fat thirteen year-old sitting behind a giant bowl of chocolate gelato...

Concupiscent Prestidigitation

Concupiscent Prestidigitation: a term that could be used to describe Roger Moore's uncanny ability in his Bond movies to trick a girl into bed. One second she's picking up a pencil, the next she finds herself locked in a passionate kiss w/the seductive and wily Bond. How did it happen? She may never know.

One moment she's shooting at the villains and the very next, a briskly executed judo toss deposits her naked on a bearskin rug while Roger Moore pumps and thrusts with cool detached precision, all the while keeping up a stream of desultory chit-chat about the weather, the skiing this time of year in Lucerne, and so on.

This is the thing about Roger Moore as Bond that goes unappreciated. While the rest of the Bonds had to soldier through the usual preliminaries, Moore just cut straight to the chase through a kind of romantic sleight-of-hand. If you could ask one of his conquests what the experience was like, she probably wouldn't remember. She'd have a vague memory of doing her taxes and an incongruent but related (although she couldn't say just how) soreness between her legs.

Wave Description

It was one of those tricky waves that stands upright and staggers for awhile, this whole massive lip just balanced up there, and you have no idea when it's going to shut down but you know it's going to shut down hard. A drunken colossus come to crash on the rocks.

Drooling in Bed

Got this little window...up at five. Got until six. Got to write, right now.

Last night wife wanted to cuddle. I acquiesced and moved closer to her to assume the spoon position, which of course only happens in the wintertime around here. That is, if the heat has been turned on, I can count on some form of cuddling in the evening; which means my wife is an exceptionally practical woman, literally using my body for warmth.

Anyway, I got into the spoon position, nestled my halfway-interested penis in the cleft of her buttocks, thought about making some kind of move, couldn't decide between the long hand-stroke of her arm (not advisable as she was swathed in covers and nothing is less romantic than a long session of making room under covers before a caress), a quick gentle kiss on the neck, or a grind of my pelvis into her bottom. The grind was the easiest and most direct approach but probably the one with the highest potential for total mood ruination (if there was, indeed, a mood going at all).

As I was mentally weighing these alternatives, I fell asleep. Woke up a few minutes later to my wife's complaint of "something wet" on her neck. Turns out I'd been drooling on her. No sex ensued.

So fuck it, I'll write.

Nabokov and Design Patterns

I love them both. Last night I was reading Larman's book on software design patterns and thinking about a domain model I really needed to create. I've been reading this book on and off for almost a year. It's really one of the best books I know for taking business ideas to code. I mean, it's not comprehensive, but I would venture to guess that, with this book you could at least get by if you suddenly had to design an enterprise system.

Then when I got into bed I read some Nabokov. Haze was making this brilliant speech to Humbert Humbert which Nabokov ended in a small personal aside by Humbert. Just brilliant.

God help me, I love them both. If I didn't have to sleep, I'd be all right.

Mein Got

I just wanted to thank you for putting into words what it's like to procrastinate, to put off, to delay, to do all the things that don't matter to avoid doing what you must.

Here's how my life goes: My wife generally tries to give me an hour window in which to write each Saturday and Sunday. If I don't take that fucking window and do something with it, that's it. That's the ballgame.

Today, as soon as she left, I pulled out my cock and gave it a few half-hearted cuffs. It kind of looked back at me. It reminded me of one of those short crystal formations, my balls as the base and my shaft as the one central crystal.

There were also some decidedly non-crystalline, obscenely long, pubes that looked as if they'd like to make a break for it and attach themselves to the sofa. My pubes like to give me away. My wife knows the pubes by sight and always busts me when she finds one. She's clever enough to understand that a found pube is overwhelming circumstantial evidence off a grip having taken place.

So I was sitting there contemplating my ugly and unresponsive penis when I remembered that I'd already gotten laid today. So, no grip required. That freed up a good deal of time.

I knocked out 1,200 words, so I feel pretty good, but I did make it close. After the abortive grip, I turned on the television and watched football highlights with my zipper down. I guess a part of me wanted to see if my penis would suddenly decide he was in the mood after all. But no, even the penis wanted me to write.

Just wanted to say one other thing: I went surfing today and dropped into this overhead wave that walled up just right for me. A left, nice big green ramp to go up and down, oh, it was lovely. I fucking love to surf. One day I'll write about a surfer.

One last thing in this horribly unfocused grab-bag of nonsense. Remind me to tell you about villainy and my writing. I think I'm onto something but want to run it by you.

Proscrazytination

Wife and kids are downstairs digging out Christmas crap... whistling cheerfully to each other, listening to Christmas music (I hear Greensleeves right now)... I informed them that I was going upstairs to write for a while. I've been up here for forty-five minutes, during which I have done the following:

- stared at the manuscript notes scattered across my desk
- opened up online poker and lost twenty thousand dollars and then won back twice that much
- read from half a dozen other writer's blogs... a new hobby of mine now... following the pathetic ramblings of other writers... all the while searching out ramblings more pathetic than mine
- finished the last few sips of a Mountain Dew I had no business drinking
- read every word of my own last few blog posts... why do I read my shit over and over again... It's like some kind of literary masturbation... I just don't know
- stared at the manuscript notes on my desk

The dog came running into my office a few minutes ago with a gigantic bow tied around her neck. She looked quite verklempt... God I love that word.

Why do I put myself through this? Why can't I just crack open the file, follow the notes, make the changes, move on... why can't I just do it? I know I will, eventually... I'll get it done before it's due... I always do. But why must I torture myself? Is it some kind of psychological yoyo string that must be wrapped around and around until I'm ready to be flung into the air? What is it? I know it has to be done... I know I must do it. I know I must get it done soon. I know this procrastination is unhealthy, that it only serves to make my heartbeat a little faster and increase my blood pressure... I know that it would be easier, physically and psychologically, to just crack open the file and do the fucking work. But I won't. I won't until I'm up against the wall, the gun to my head. And then I'll do it, and I'll do a good job... but why this torture? Why this tightening rock in the middle of my chest?

Here are some theories:

- I'm afraid to open the manuscript for fear that I will realize how fucked up a particular area of revision is
- I just don't want to do the fucking work
- It's all been going well, and I don't want to deal with something that isn't golden and sparkly
- I'm a pussy.
- It just doesn't feel like the time is right yet, I'm waiting for the right moment to strike, when the planets are aligned and my aura is a light shade of purple (translation - I'm a pussy and I'm full of shit...)
- I'm just really fucking tired and I don't want to do shit.

Once again.... once again.... once again.... bottom line... I know, I know, I know, I know... that this is part of the process, my process, the process, I know that this is what I have to do, what I must go through, the battle I have to fight with myself to get the thing done and out the door. I've learned to accept this (at least I think if I keep telling myself that, I'll feel better).

I've also learned that I'm a big pussy.

But I'd love to be an independently wealthy, fairly well-known pussy, and in order to reach that status, I guess I need to get this fucking manuscript out the door.

Honestly, I don't have to be an independently wealthy, fairly well-known pussy insasmuch as I'd like to just be a pussy who's able to pay the bills.

Oatmeal Soldiers

Loved the idea of little ranks of oatmeal-cookie soldiers preparing to (literally) throw themselves into the breach. Into the steaming, fetid jungle of Bill's maw.

The brave cookie soldiers know what sort of terrors await them in this godforsaken archipelago! They remember the cottage cheese/sunflower seeds massacre of '07. But they don't allow themselves to think about that. The land of Archway depends on them. They secure, with their sacrifice on the field of battle, the freedom of their cookie brothers and sisters back home.

I'm listening to streaming internet radio on my phone. It's MP3 quality sound; good reason to have a data package. And now I must get back to the steaming, fetid jungle that is my story.

Feet Up

Glad to hear you're right where you're supposed to be with your writing. Glad we've figured it out that all this psychotic bullshit is a necessary part of the game. Doesn't make it feel any better, but there is a sense of deep-rooted security... that we know this is part of the game, we've learned to expect it, to ride with it like a particularly bad skid on black ice... hanging on the steering wheel, breathing, remembering not to crank the wheel too hard because we've learned... learned in the past... learned that we just need to breathe and let the ice take us and hope for the best... that the worst thing we can do is try to fight the ice, try to turn the wheel...

We've learned... and the roller coaster goes up after it goes down... always...

Loved the note about parrying the thrusts of your would-be seductress. I'll say it again... I'm proud of you... if I were your wife I'd give you a night you wouldn't forget after showing such true bravery in front of the temptress (though I know and understand that your wife will never know of your triumph... if you shared your story, she'd still be pissed at you, regardless of how faithful you were... I know how that goes)

Did the sugar-free oatmeal cookies give you courage? Was it a Popeye thing? Was it a sexual thing? Part of me wishes you'd set up a little video camera. I imagine myself cheering as I watch those defenseless little cookies... marching in ranks from the back of the package... heads held high, waiting for the five-fingered army personnel carrier to drive them to the Iwo Jima beaches...

Great talking to you yesterday... like a shot in the arm, really... looking forward to seeing you today for coffee...

Feels Like Shit Alert

Suddenly the manuscript feels like shit. All in one moment, one misplaced word, one turn of phrase that struck me as particularly wooden, and I'm back to complete bewilderment.

However, I have an ace in the hole; I really don't give a shit anymore. This story has worn me out. I'm like the haggard parent standing in the aisle at the supermarket while his unwashed, sugar-crazed children smash jars of pickles on the floor.

Fuck this writing, man. I'm much better at software anyway.

Work Redux

Just an added note on my work post above, provided at Steve's request.

So, how did I handle the programmer coming on to me? What were the exact circumstances and strategies behind my, if you will, piece de resistance of fidelity?

Well, it goes like this. I was at a restaurant in Houston called Yao's, which is owned by the Rockets' all-star center and features appropriately tall doorways, large sinks and chairs, etc. The whole place is styled to be comfortable to a 7' 6" basketball player. This is the gimmick, but the food ain't bad, either.

So at a certain juncture in our large, after-work dinner, it was decided that we would adjourn to the bar area to watch some of the Rockets game. While there, my programmer began making her move. I was a bit flustered, a bit off my pins, I can tell you. Thrown for a loop. Not certain what to do.

So this is what I did: excused myself to make a phone call, got into my car, drove the the Kroger a few blocks away, purchased a package of Archway Sugar-Free Oatmeal cookies, and ate the entire package while sitting in the parking lot. Then, refreshed, my sanity restored, my gut distended, with the power of Archway behind me, I went back inside Yao's. For the remainder of the evening I handled myself with grace and aplomb, skillfully parrying the exploratory thrusts of my would-be seductress.

Work Today

Today at work:

1. One of the BAs (Business Analyst) told me about an affair she had with a man she really loved. She was ready to leave her husband. The other man was not ready to leave his wife. They were at an impasse but could not quit seeing one another. Then 911 happened and the BA, contemplating mortality as so many did back then, decided she did not want to die w/out having children. When she became pregnant the affair ended. Now she's happy with her husband and six years later no regrets.

2. A programmer told me she wanted to "get to know me" in "other dimensions than work".

3. I installed xplanner, a project planning software built with MySQL, Hiberante, Struts, Apache, etc...A cool tool but tomorrow I have to run four hours of project planning meetings with over twenty users (and two projects) and hope this damned thing does not break down on me.

4. I took the third step.

5. My grandmother rallied and made it through the night. God, I love that woman. She is so damned tough. Won't go before she's good and ready. If she lasts until spring I'm taking the baby son to visit her.

Grandmother

Got a call from my uncle. They don't think my grandmother is going to make it through the night.

What I remember about Grams is mints, leather upholstery, fast cars, tennis rackets, golf clubs, a golden-tinseled Christmas tree, her feet thrown up in laughter.

When I was growing up my parents were poor and we lived the relatively joyless and paranoid life of fundamental Christians everywhere. Grams was the antidote to that. Thank god I had her to show me that life can be an animal pursuit; it can be about a well-done club sandwich or a perfectly struck fairway wood. It's all right to live a little, now and then, that's it's okay to laugh instead of think. She tried to show me that.

Thanksgiving Thoughts Response

Hey Steve:

You made me laugh with that list: "I am your father-in-law, Luke. Come to the dark side."

We went to see the family in Georgia. I oscillated wildly between total serenity and complete, depraved insane rage. One moment I'd be basking in the joy of a family scene and the next I wanted to run howling into the woods where I could bury myself under a mound of pine straw and garrote small animals with a piece of dental floss.

Holidays! How do we possibly survive them? Next year (next year by god I promise) I'm going to take Jonathan, a huge supply of milk, a whole crate of diapers, some canned stew, and we're going to pitch a tent on the beach someplace and contemplate the waves for two days. Now that will be some gratitude (not to mention some serious cripplage rising from my fundament after a few cans of stew).

One last thought. I believe our buddy, Jerry Cleaver, is a recovering person. Check out page 84 where he talks about praying to a "power greater than myself." Nobody uses that lingo unless they've been in a few hundred meetings. You think?

Thanksgiving

I'm still going to post here. On the way back from Thanksgiving in Georgia I had two thoughts. Well, one is a thought (analysis of pattern) and the other is an observation (response to phenomena).

Thought: My wife loves to see her family. For her, the definition of "home" has something to do with socialization, a kind of mass data dump with her mother and siblings. They talk, they sing, they play games, they do familial things. She has this concept of "home" then that centers around her relationships with her family and community. I am quite different. Due to my strange upbringing, I learned (necessity being the mother of invention) how to derive my sense of identity from media. From particular books, from taking in data. My "home" is portable. I must be able to meet my spiritual and dietary needs, I must be able to have my books and other data around me, and I'm happy. Just interesting to see how different we are in this respect.

Observation: On the ride home from Thanksgiving the moon hung like a silver note in the black staff of the telephone wires.

I have a feeling that my descriptive sentence above is not particularly original; but then again, what is?

Solo

Looking down at my hairy gut-rolls, getting ready to put some more words on the page. It's all part of the process.

Yesterday I felt awful. Today I feel all right. I may never understand why. That idea would've really bothered me yesterday, when I felt awful. Today, it's easier to take. I'm a hopeful person who is always willing to believe that things are only getting better and better.

My gut-rolls return my hopeful gaze.

The Art of the Plot

Maybe, and I'm just thinking out loud here, maybe plotting (for me) is much like any other "problem" that I have in my life. Here are the steps I seem to take in confronting problems.

1. Identify it as a problem
2. Go after if full-bore, using everything at my disposal to solve it
3. If the problem proves to be tougher than anticipated, I have an emotional reaction. During this phase I'm angry. I start to "think out of the box." I repeat myself. I try to find angles.
4. It begins to dawn on me that the problem may be insoluble. Despair sets in. I can't imagine living with this problem forever. I try to shoehorn in one of the solutions from step 2.
5. Nothing works. Full of self-pity. End of the line. Life is meaningless.
6. I give up. Admit I can't solve the problem and that moreover it may not ever be solved.
7. The solution comes, usually something I missed between steps 1 and 2.

The above is just a rough outline of how problem-solving works for me. Some problems take years or even decades to bring me to 6 or 7. Some problems I'll probably be dead before I hit 7.

But, as it relates to my plot...It may be part of my personal process to exhaust myself mucking about with the particulars of the plot before I finally see how my original idea (or something close to it) was the best. That's the case with my current story. Glad to be there. Now just need some time to write it.

Wow

Ever have a week that hangs you upside-down by your ankles and spanks you like a newborn baby? That's how I feel this morning...like I'm just trying to come back into focus. Been a long stretch in meeting rooms, my friend. By my estimation I've been in meeting rooms for at least 36 hours so far, with one more day to go. This is probably similar to your schedule back in your days as a crackerjack technical trainer. Don't miss it. Don't bother missing it man. Not an easy thing to do sober.

Had a dream last night that my brother had gone to this guru who told him how to fix his writing. The guru said that my brother must find a way to assault his writing, to eliminate all his bad works from the world through a kind of karmic cleansing. Only then, said the guru, would my brother find his true voice and be able to write purely and cleanly.

So my brother printed up thousands of his stories, purchased an old van, and then he went around the city slipping his stories, one at a time, under the windshield wipers or into the windows of parked cars. He would then follow the cars in his van and run them off the road, corner them, and smash them into crumpled, smoking wrecks.

After doing this for a year, my brother and his fiction acquired quite a reputation. He was put into prison. And given a book contract to tell his life story, which became an instant classic.

Norman Mailer

Was sitting in my hotel room in Houston and saw a Shaun Hannity/Norman Mailer head-to-head bit of ridiculousness. I could not take it. Mailer was talking about how Shakespeare enabled England to survive all its various ups and downs (royal scandals, empire-building, post-empirical downsizing, etc.). If nothing else, it was an interesting point. But Hannity with his incredible, preposterous, self-serious zealotry, kept turning it back George Bush. I turned it.

I never really liked Norman Mailer's writing. I always thought it was a little too raw; a little too self-serious in its own way. But I prefer him over Hannity anyday. And I like what you had to say about his commitment to writing.

I'm reading this book called "The Portable MFA." It's a compendium of all the techniques available to fiction writers, and it's no half-bad, but of course I let it get me all twisted. That is, I was reading along, following its discussion of plot, and thinking about my own book, and deciding to scrap the whole plot and start over...you know how it goes, I was into deep analysis/paralysis.

Then I turned the page and there was a sidebar that said, basically, "Don't think about any of this stuff while you're writing. Just write. Think about this stuff when you're revising."

Oh. Good point.

Norman Mailer

I won't pretend that I'm some Norman Mailer fan wearing a black armband, but I did appreciate a couple of quotes from an AP article I read.

"The Pulitzer-Prize winning Mailer, the eminent literary journalist, drama king and gentleman, eternal striver for the Great American Novel, seemed to embody in recent years not just one writer, but a generation for whom the printed word was a noble and endangered way of life."

Yes... I like that... eternal striver for the Great American Novel. I feel like some day I'll take the time (have the balls?) to really sit down and write a real novel... all the pieces of the puzzle together at once, every page, every paragraph...

"Some part of me knew that I had more emotion than most," Mailer, who married six times and stabbed one of his wives, once wrote. He cautioned himself not to "exhaust the emotions of others."

More emotion than most... wow... yeah... married six times... stabbed one of his wives... she probably made a suggestion after doing a first read... tried to off the bitch.... I can relate... cautioned himself not to exhaust the emotion of others... hmmm.... I can still relate...

...
"His hero was the authentic, autonomous man — the boxer, or graffiti artist, or maestro of jazz, or the "Norman Mailer" who starred in "The Armies of the Night" and other works of journalism. The bureaucratic mind was his enemy, from the military leaders of "The Naked and the Dead" to the Kleenex box-like skyscrapers that appalled him when looking out from his Brooklyn town house, to the processed presidency of Richard Nixon.
...
Again, I'm ashamed to admit that I couldn't name a Norman Mailer novel if you stuck a gun to my head, but I like what this writer said about Mailer's hero... authentic and autonomous... the bureaucractic mind being his enemy...

Sounds like he fought the fight... and sounds like he kept his butt in his seat, a lot... I betcha he had a good circle of writer friends who encouraged him to keep going with his thousand words a day... even if he'd occasionally try to stab them... betcha he knocked a few back with Hemingway, too...

Random Thoughts on an IT Consultant

24 year veteran of the consulting business, this guy, and his hand was still shaking with agitation at any difficult question. Which is a nutshell for why consulting will break you. You never get over the really bad customers. You get twitchy...jumpy...you're PTSDed and don't know it.
Only way to beat it is to come in at the top. And know exactly what the hell you're doing and know everything about all the minutiae of the system and the customer's environment. In other words, unless you're willing to do homework.

I would stay up all night reading specs. I was a madman. So I knew what I was talking about but it took a toll on my health. You can't win in this life. You never get away with anything. In the Bible they say that whom God loveth he chasteneth...maybe that means God loves me.

But this guy, this installer, he had breath that could stop a truck and a stumpy, hemorrhoidal way of walking...when he took a coffee he threw it quickly toward his mouth, expanding his lips in a last-second attempt to adjust to the trajectory of the cup.

Everything was like that...as if there were certain parts of his body, his life, which operated against his best interest and independent of his will...and he was forced to constantly adjust to these rogue elements...the customers were just another manifestation of this adversarial fate

He was like a Picasso figure; an eye glaring out at you from yellow cube. One foot clad in brown leather, with a butterfly lace...a mouth in the forehead pursed in smug silence

I pitied him...I felt for him...I wanted desperately for him to succeed.

I took all the blame for everything on the first day. By the second day I realized that I had fallen prey to his schtick. Then I let him flop despite the pain it caused me.

As a final indignity, just as he was preparing to go, a huge banana or wolf spider (couldn't say which) crawled under his seat when he opened the door to his rental car. He screamed...a short, high burst, like the scream on the Rob Bass song, "It Takes Two." We could see just its legs, like two hairy fingers, poking out under the seat. I went inside and got some bug spray and doused the car. He was choking on the fumes (and still worried about the spider) as he drove away.

Cleaver, Chapter 12, p. 161

A USB cable is a fine toddler toy. Soft outside, crunchy copper strands within, rectangular connector to fill with spit, pretty necklace for the doggie. I think it works, and at least you're consistent in your hi-tech chew toy theme. Your boy is the younest Treo owner I've ever known. But I don't understand his text messages... they all read like ma-ma... dad-da.... doggie... You need to work with him on his IM abbreviations.

So... Jerry Cleaver, Chapter 12, p. 161 - The Ticking Clock

I know you're like me in that you need a good fifteen minutes or so of psychological foreplay and at least a solid hour of genuine quiet to write anything substantial. I know how it goes.

But Cleaver offers some good tips... and you're already following his first (and most important) - you're doing a little bit... even just that little blog entry is enough to keep the mind clicking, juices flowing, a placeholder in your subconcious that says I'm going to be writing during this time, so get that frame of mind stuck right here every day.

Here's some of the other stuff he talks about in that chapter (my highlights):
- p. 170 he talks about doing "some drudgery" after your five minutes (or ten or fifteen, or whatever you're able to tweak out of your crazy life)... I like this idea... plan to sort some laundry or mow the lawn or something work-related that requires grunt work but very little mental effort (you're saying, yeah... like what...) but the idea of putting that little bit of time in and then staying in that mental zone while you move on to some drudgery, allowing your mind to continue, allowing the subconscious to keep writing in the background (like a "terminate, but stay resident" application...yeah, I'm still a geek)... I like it... I've done it... usually just walking the dog.
- p. 171 - "Two old writing rules are relevant here. The first is "Gently but always." The other is "Not a day without a line." 'nuff said.
- p. 181 - "The worst thing you can do in all of this is to not write and not make meaningful contact with your writing for an extended or not so extended period."
- p. 182 (***** AND YOU TURNED ME ON TO THIS AND NOW IT HAS BECOME CRITICAL FOR ME ****) "Do your thinking on the page........"

- Now, here's the coolest part.... the goosebumps part. My plan was to write out the highlights for you here... talk you down from the roof of the Fine Arts building... and then go back full circle to the last part of your post... a gentle reminder that you're absolutely right to focus on that third step... cuz ultimately, that's what it's all about. And you've been on target with that lately.

So here's the goosebumps... I'm thinking about what to write to wrap this up, and I look at the second to last page of that chapter, and God is right there, talking to us about the third step through Jerry Cleaver (little did he know)...


"What you can do is get in the way... The more you push it, the less you get, etc..... So, you don't train it. If anything, it trains you."

No Time to Write

I have two minutes until I take the boy to daycare. A software installer is in town from Boston. My wife is freaking out because of her job situation and requires constant emotional care. I keep telling myself that she'll settle down and become reasonable again soon. I just grabbed a camera away from my young son.

I have no time to write. This is it, right now. And I'm getting this time because I'm letting my son play with USB cord.

3rd step. 3rd step. Right?

I Love Tom Brady

He's very handsome.

Just write the story, just write the story.

And I love your hair...lush silvery waves...ah, it's very nice. I truly have remarked on its texture (to myself) before. This is sad but true. As a writer? I do these things..notice all details...deconstruct and reconstruct. Yesterday lying in bed I came up with a brilliant dream-sentence...something about pixels coalescing into globs, giving the whole picture an abstract look.

There is nothing better than a good haircut and nothing worse than a bad one (okay there's halitosis, death, taxes, un-lubricated trim, toothaches, warts, but other than that...). However, it's not always clear at first blush whether you've gotten a truly good cut. This only comes clear after about a week. If it ruled the first day but you think you need another one a week later, you got suckered. Mine looked absolutely horrible last week but is growing in nicely...a creeper cut.

Haircut

Got my haircut today... finally... I was starting to worry about catching on fire, the wisps of gray fluff that have become my hair are perfect tinder... a stray beam of sunlight magnified through a crack in the windshield resulting in a quiet spontaneous combustion on the highway... screams muffled by the droning AC and closed windows... smashing to a stop against the guardrail, unable to pat out the flames, running away from the car and across lanes of traffic, people wide-eyed and pointing, slowing down and rubbernecking to see the crazy old guy doing the "I'm Mr. Heat Miser..." dance in the middle of I-95.

The woman who cut my hair today was very nice (what is it about the people who cut my hair? why do they become such important parts of my life?) but she had a major, major acne problem. I'm talking zits on top of zits - volcanic formations, redness, swelling... her cheeks were like cavern ceilings, stalactites formed by millions of years of pus formations... bizarre... I found myself wondering why she doesn't do the Proactiv thing with Jessica Simpson... or God knows what... there has to be a solution... but I wonder if maybe she just doesn't give a shit. Bizarre... I noticed that she wasn't wearing a wedding ring (I always look, don't I...) and I couldn't help but wonder if she was happy. I don't think she is. Maybe I'm completely wrong and she's living a fine life, but I just don't think so... I think she's probably goes home and cracks open a lot of cans of gourmet kitty food... She's probably got some guy who lives downstairs who gets drunk enough every few weeks to knock on her door in the middle of the night and give her a quick and nasty boinking before passing out on her living room floor....

I just don't know... But I do know one thing... All zits aside, she gives good haircut.

Why Do I HateTom Brady?

Really, why do I hate the guy? He went to Michigan, after all, so I should love him. I like Charles Woodson just fine, and liked Desmond Howard (even when I was rooting against the Packers). I liked Jon Jansen and even Drew Henson, who took time off to play baseball and then came back and got worked by the Cowboys.

Point is, I like all these other ex-Michigan guys but I can't stand Tom Brady. Just jealousy, you say. Well, yes, but I'm jealous of everyone. I'm jealous of plenty of guys who don't have a chin-dimple and Giselle. So it's not as simple as that.

I think I'm just fatigued. I think I'm just tired of hearing about Brady and Bellicose...er, Bellichek. Can they please go away already? It's like Joe Montana; he was a great quarterback, but my god did I get tired of hearing about him after awhile. Remember when he was on the Kansas City Chiefs and he was doing all those advertisements, for like Isotoner gloves and Chunky Soup? Jesus...even now, just thinking about Joe Montana, my poor bruised consciousness rises up in anger to defend itself against yet another marketing onslaught.

And so I come to the answer. I don't hate Brady, per se. I'm sure that if I were ever allowed to share a limo with him and his hot chicks I'd exit thinking he was the coolest guy ever. No, I'm sick of the media. I'm done with it. Over it. I'm going to try something, a grand experiment, to see if I can recover my childhood love affair with football.

I'm going to boycott all non-statistical information. That is, I'm going to watch the games with the sound turned off and I'm not going to read any more football websites or newspaper articles aside from the box scores. I'm going to de-hype myself. Go on a hype fast. What is left should be pure sport. And maybe then I'll find myself, god knows, even liking Brady.

The Deep Deep Silence of the Blogosphere

I just wanted to talk for a moment about a kid I know. His name is Trevor, although I always forget his name whenever I talk to his mother, and so I resort to asking about "her son".

He's a senior in High School this year and is quite interested in all things software/computer. He even has a web page explaining some of the simpler Java concepts. One night when I was in another major city on business, Trevor's mother asked if I'd go out to dinner with him and share some of my experiences in the software business with her tech-obsessed son.

We ate in this little downtown bistro that featured the large open space with the track lighting and various boutique colors such as "avocado" and "chinchilla" on the walls, floor and tableware, all subtly matching/clashing with the abstract art on display.

Trevor explained to me his ambition: it was quite simple. He was going to get great grades, get into MIT, get his bachelor's degree in Computer Science, and then go to work for Google (or its future equivalent). The more I talked to him, the more I could see it. The more I could see his life flowing smoothly along on this perfect track to technical superstardom. I had no trouble believing it would happen.

As the meal went on I encouraged Trevor and related various experiences which I thought might be useful to him, but mostly I listened to him talk and admired his focus. I had this idea then, listening to him, that the hardest part of anyone's life is figuring out what you want. And that once you have that, the rest is really just a formality.

After dinner we went for dessert to this hip little candy shop with glass racks full of delectables and a full L-shaped ice cream bar complete with gleaming soda taps and hot young oriental chicks perched on the art-deco stools. I chose some chocolate-covered pretzels. My young charge and his mother both ordered ice cream. We sat down to check out a jazz trio that had wedged itself in the corner was busy thrumming and honking to the vague accompaniment of the traffic on the other side of the glass.

I pointed out the cute Asian girls to Trevor. He replied that he'd never had a girlfriend. He did not seem particularly proud of this; it seemed to perplex and upset him. It was then I realized that he was really only 17 and that life had lots of curves left to throw him. And I realized that it takes more than knowing what you want out of life; it takes luck, too. Luck with women (or men, of course), luck with health, luck with your friends and enemies. luck with the things in your own mind. Life has a funny way of testing us all.

I didn't say any of this to Trevor, of course, and it's just as well. He wouldn't have understood. His emotional vocabulary has no definition for disappointment, perplexity, mystification, crushing. And it's just as well. He'll learn all of that soon enough. For now, he can go on eating his chocolate and watching the jazz trio.

Florida in Winter

From the far side of the lake my house was clearly visible even in the darkness, this towering blue box; its blueness leeched the color from everything around it. Palm trees were silent brown explosions on the gray canvas of the sky. Everything had been laid out for me by some delicate surrealist, all the components moving in harmony; trees slid in front of the houses while the houses inched in front of the clouds while the clouds drifted past the fixed bright stars. Disconnected shadows, going the wrong direction, floated in the lake. The wind was so cool and steady it could only be mechanical. None of it was real.

"In the summer," I said to my wife, and then stopped, unable to finish.
"In the summer it seethes," my wife said.
"And now it's fine," I said. We walked some more. The dog stopped and tinkled a round glittering stream onto the scales of a palm tree. "I think we went crazy again this summer," I said.
"I think so, too."

Halloween

Just got back from a party in a neighborhood off 210. Some golf-coursey kind of place with a blizzard of costumed kids whirling in every direction, cutting across lawns, sprinting suddenly and then slowing down for no apparent reason, falling in the streets with zebra/dancer/Spider Man legs pointing skyward, gobbling candy, crying, adjusting masks and bags, all under the watchful (if somewhat tippling) eye of the parents, who were distinguished not just by their height and sober dress but by their willingness to direct vehicular traffic with palms-out gestures and windmilling arms.

It was quite a scene, man. Made me verrry afraid. This is what I am now. I am one of those people. I don't live in their neighborhood, true, but the Billabong t-shirt no longer hides who I am; a white, middle-class parent with a mortgage (okay several), a car, a job, and ambitions for my poor son who only wants to enjoy standing up and falling down.

I, too, would have been directing traffic. I, too, would have been self-righteously complaining about the number of cars on the street, feeling a flush of happiness in my chest as the more paranoid/assertive mothers validated my outbursts.

Now, two quotes that ran through my head at various points in the night:

"I hate people who drive like me." -- Steve Lamott's proposed bumper sticker.

"I always wanted to be an eagle but one day I realized I was just a fuckin' sparrow." -- RTB

Your Two Sentences

Hey... I think it's pretty cool that you're kinda sorta making a good thing out of a bad experience. Sounds like a stressful bullshit kind of evening, but you boiled it all down to some mighty fine writing...

You should write poetry... you really should. Take a spiral notebook out on the surfboard with you some time (or your laptop...) and dump your thoughts and feelings and crank out some of those cool descriptions. You have a knack for word choices and paint pictures (and feelings). You really do.

And once again, I admire your balls-out honesty. That's something you've got checked off with permanent black ink on your "learn how to write" checklist. Fer sure.

And fuck all those people picking on Sting. I saw him performing at some awards ceremony recently (with Kanye West looking like an idiot as he "rapped" along side...). Sting wore a sleeveless t-shirt... tight cut muscle arms and abs of steel. Shit, I'd do him if he asked me.

Sting Worst Lyrics Ever

http://www.blender.com/guide/articles.aspx?ID=2886

Sorry to hear about Sting. He's fine, really. Just a bit pompous and overblown...and this, of course, is the hard part about sticking with any artist for a long time. When the aurora of fame and success begins to fade, the critics move in...and they pick and pick until they crack that nut and leave the deconstructed works lying around in pieces.

But fear not! The next stage is nostalgia, when Sting (and all others like him) will be restored not just to their original glory but to something even brighter and more spectacular. They will speak for lost generations. They will be discovered anew.

Who was is that said, "A classic is a book that doesn't go out of print."?

Long may "Fields of Grain" find a listening ear....long may "Roxanne" be downloaded on iTunes or its future equivalent. Long, long, long may Sting lay a sweet yogic fucking on his pliant wife...may they clear six, seven, even TEN hours of uninterrupted copulation. When I wake in the deep watches of the night, it's comforting to think that somewhere, at that very moment, Sting is laying the pipe. And laying the pipe. And laying the pipe. Counting Sting's pelvic thrusts, I am borne back into the sweet arms of Morpheus.

Two Sentences

I was thinking that I'd like to distill last night's action, with the prodigal drunken father returning to lay claim to familial love, etc. and here's what I came up with:

Last night I called the father a disgrace, a coward, and a bully while the north wind blew sand around my ankles and in the gray background surfers dropped into fickle waves.

Baby son pooped in the tub, two nuggets, one twice the size of the other, rolling in the backwash of the draining sudsy water.

Description

Howdy...

Loved your post about your son playing with his balls... but I want to know... who made that statement?

So... I'm wrapping up the final edits on the novel before sending it off, and I've got a monster set of assignments coming up next week, so I'm doing lots of writing work, but not draft writing in the mornings, and I miss it. Even if I didn't have so much other stuff on my plate, I know I'm still not ready to jump into another novel project... Even if I were, my first phase would be brainstorming, prewriting, building characters, etc. (everything I want that software for...)

In the meantime, I wanted to come up with something to work on that allows me to tap the vein... so I don't miss out on that daily bloodletting... I don't want to lose that routine and get stuck in revision/edit world...

While I think I do a good job with story and dialogue and character (finally... that was a long battle, but I think I'm winning...) my biggest personal concern about my writing is that I don't slow down and take the time to really describe (and show) what's around the protagonist, from his/her point of view. I feel like this may be the last bit of the puzzle that I need to tweak... like working that six iron with a bucket of balls, hitting it over and over again until I can feel that sweet spot deep in my knuckles...

So... I'm thinking about spending a little time each morning working on description.

What I really need is to hire a little assistant (don't know why I'm thinking little... but an Oompah Loompah comes to mind... maybe because I don't think they can kick my ass) anyway... I need this little assistant to sit quietly in a corner and then get up and look over my shoulder when I start drafting a story, and randomly scream in my ear, "slow the fuck down, will ya!!" ...let your reader breathe a little bit... let him look around, smell things, touch things, feel things... experience the beauty or the chaos or the wonder or whatever it is about the setting that can and will affect the character's mood and therefore the theme, tone of the scene, etc...

Every once in a while I'm able to pull this off, but I think it may be the Rosetta Stone for me at this point... I feel like I have all of the other pieces of the puzzle under my belt... at least to some degree of mastery... maybe not quite that whole "unconcious mastery" thing... but close. If I can pick up the "slow down and help readers understand where they are, visualize things better, etc." merit badge, then I may just be able to write a real novel some day.

I've got to get cracking on the final edit... I'm tryin to get the manuscript to the post office by noon... but I want to take a little shot at maple trees in the fall.

As a kid, and as an adult living up there before we moved to Florida, I remember stopping on the side of the road to stare... Late fall, established maple trees that stand in ranks along wet roads. Maple trees about my age, giant swollen leaves hungover from their summer indulgence in the sun. They've lost their red and green, but not their physical presence. They are strong, bursting with energy. Ripe and heavy.

And then there's that brilliant yellow. God... that golden yellow against the tree's dark wet trunk, golden yellow swaying softly against the blue sky. I see some that haven't achieved their total golden formation... yellow at the peaks but still a hint of green in the center, rusty brown next to the veins

Looking up I see the shafts of morning sunlight pierce the yellow leaves, electrifying the gold, leaves that have had an out-of-body experience, dropping their green, the hard fall colors, survived the cold winter, ready to become electroplated with the sun's brilliance and become part of all that is gold in the sky... just for a moment before it becomes so much part of the light that it loses its life liquid and its strength and it holds on until a breeze helps it to the earth, to rest with its brothers and sisters and eventually be scooped up by some redneck in the woods who's out of toilet paper...

The Vagina Hammerlog

Hey everybody! Welcome back to GDTG, hope it wasn't too hard to find...now sit back and enjoy the vaginal discussion...and try the veal. Or the tacos. Really.

1. Beaver. Do they call it a beaver because a well-bushed vagina, viewed from about a 45 degree angle with the woman's legs spread, would look like a Beaver? I would assume that the labia etc. would form the tail and the bush itself the beaver's body?

2. In the groove. I believe this phrase was originally used to describe the act of coitus and like so many other sexual descriptives it crept into the musical lexicon. I think that's the rough etymology. So anyway, doesn't it strike you that "in the groove" must have started from the experience of having one's penis literally in the vaginal groove?

I don't know if this is interesting to anyone else, but I find it fascinating. The vagina is everywhere! Dug into the carpet fibers of our linguistic experience!

Damn I need to get laid.

Moments of Conflict

Thinking about stories with good conflict:

1. A troop of elite special forces soldiers, high in the Afghan mountains, come into contact with a group of goat herders who, according to intelligence, are not supposed to be at this elevation. The soldiers consult one another. If they don't kill the goat herders, there's every possibility that their mission will be reported back down the mountain. But to kill the goat herders would be inhumane. But nobody would know if they did. The leader of the troop decides to let the goat herders go, along with a stern warning to tell no one. Seven hours later the soldiers are surrounded by a militia and under fire.

2. A woman in a neo-Nazi compound, married to one of the leaders, bears him his third child. It is mentally disabled. The members of the compound treat the child with derision and make thinly veiled jokes about exterminating it. The husband cannot stand to be near the child. It is an emblem of his fears and prejudice. The husband quickly gets the wife pregnant again. The fourth child is okay, however, he continues to abuse the third. The wife decides to take her children and run away.

Snake Dream

Last night I had a dream that I was surfing in some fairly heavy, choppy swell. It was a tricky paddle-out. Lots of surfers strung out in front of me, beating against the whitewater. Green soupy sea, floating wigs of seaweed, the buffoonish faces of dead fish perched high in the oncoming swells.

Someone ahead of me starts yelling. There's general panic in the lineup; surfers paddling left and right, away from a dark, thick line that has made itself visible under the water. It the line moves at a diagonal, both rising and moving toward me at the same time. Now its head comes up, wide as a sewer grate, dirty gray-green scales the size of birch leaves disappearing again into the green water. It wraps itself around my head and shoulders. I reach up and tug with all my might and somehow rip the snake's head from its body.

In Twenty Years

Our baby son was playing with his new toy, taking out all the wooden balls from the little wooden cradle and admiring their colors. My wife and I left him on the rug and went over to the kitchen counter to eat our breakfast. As we were eating, we both noticed that it had gotten very quiet. My wife said, "Where's the baby?"
I hurried over to the living room area and said, "He's behind the piano, playing with his balls."
Pause a beat.
"Let's hope we're not still saying that about him in twenty years."

BCT

By GOD Steve I still love that novel. I could read it again. Really. That's a good sign.

There's this threshold when something works, when you know it works, and BCT has crossed that threshold. It's kind of cool for me to watch. Like childbirth, but without the squishy head and the strange petulant blood-smeared alien face looking around the room.

I didn't write last night. I went surfing instead. Went surfing today, too. Needed to get out of my daily grind in some small way. Needed to remind myself that if the writing isn't a gift then it's an obsession, and if it's an obsession it's no better than drinking or heroin.

No? I think yes. Alice Cooper said that whatever becomes your medicine, that's your addiction. I think there's some truth to that. So here's to doing the writing instead of the writing doing me. And here's to a fun lunch we had yesterday, when we were young and our hearts were an open book.

Something strange. You always say that I strike you as being nervous when we meet. Do I ever act that way at the meetings or when we meet otherwise? Probably not. Want to know why? That's the writing jones. And that's a whole other set of issues my friend. For another time.

For now, we welcome a new literary work into the world and we christen thee....BCT.

1010 Words

Looking for that 7k words per week. 2193 this week so far. Off to a decent start.

Have made it through the first 1/3 of your novel and so far am just blown away with how you're putting all the pieces in place. You're setting it all up like a master. Really. It's getting worse and worse for our hero but all the endings are sewn up so nicely in the beginning. It's craft. It's going beautifully.

Split Streams

Good post, Steve. Love the practical tip. And you're absolutely right, the second construction worked much better. Did 1,118 words tonight when I thought I had nothing. Now I'll go to sleep happy. Some of it was real good.

The penis is a wonderful and terrible implement. Just now I went to pee. A tinkling arc headed into the bowl, so why the splattering on the shins? I realized then that I was suffering from the dreaded Split Stream. The bulk of the urine was headed in the right direction but I had a faction, a splinter group, that was falling on the edge of the bowl.

Nothing to do in the case of a split stream but increase bladder pressure and hope to break loose that little tab of folded penis-tip that has segmented your opening. So with a mighty groan I broke through and thundered to a glorious conclusion. It was a proud moment in Standing Urination.

Now, here's something Nabakov said about story:

"In the beginning virtue is punished and in the end vice is punished."

An awkward silence.

I've done learnt a lesson about book writin'

I've learned that the phrase "an awkward silence" (or any derivative thereof) makes a very powerful impact by not existing at all.

For example...

Steve tried to explain what he meant about the phrase to the room full of literature experts. He tried to make a joke but muffed the punchline. There was an awkward silence. Everyone stared at him, making him glance down to see if his fly was open.

Can easily be changed to....

Steve tried to explain what he meant about the phrase to the room full of literature experts. He tried to make a joke but muffed the punchline. Everyone stared at him, making him glance down to see if his fly was open.

Wow... what a fucking miracle!

Thur 10/18 - Eight and a half hours... so far...

Starting to get ugly...

After my big la la post about how much I love the writing process (retch, burp, flush...) yesterday, I've hit the uglies today.

Still cranking through... about four hours up until noon, then about four and half more after starting back up around 2:00...

Going to hit a meeting in a little bit... probably will be too out of steam to do any more when I get back tonight...

Done with most of my lists... big holes have been filled... now going through the painful process of responding to my cute highlight colors... Gawd... it's the uglies...

But... that light at the end of the tunnel is glowing, sparkling, starting to smoke and spit and burn.... I know it's there...

Revision

Thanks for your post on revision, dude. I plan to steal your method lock, stock and barrel when I'm finished. I figure on my side I have another stage I need to go through there I take all the chapters and put them together and make sure I haven't left a plot/motivational hole big enough to drive a truck through. When I'm satisfied with that, I'll embark on your technique to highlight all the things that need to be changed. Brilliant! Brilliant method, really.

You might have eliminated at least six months of churn here at my end. THAT, among other things to be sure, but THAT is also a good reason why I'm glad I know ye.

I'm in Houston. One last freaking day. I don't know if you really want to get back out on the road, man. It's a grind and to be quite honest without the option of resorting to some self-destructive behaviors, there's not much left in the way of compensation. Much better to stay home and write.

I've got nothing against Billy Joel, per se. I just get the impression that underneath the piano chords and the bluster there's one of those super-annoying alcoholics who couldn't tell the truth to save their lives. Like me :)

Thanks for the blog entries. These keep me going when I'm on the road.

Revision... Eight Hours So Far...

Okay... so I got started at 2:00pm today... late start after playing golf. So shoot me.

However, I've been pretty much nose to the grindstone since then, and it's 11:15pm now. Short break to walk kids home from bus stop. Maybe a half hour to get dinner on the table. Handed the kids off to the wife, who graciously let me disappear. Every other minute has been in this chair.

So, instead of recording word counts for these next couple of weeks, I'll record hours of revision time... so... nine and a half minus about an hour or so... I'll round it down to eight hours for the day.

Good stuff so far... As I have learned in the past, the looming dark clouds of revision make it all seem so impossible, never ending, hopeless, but I knocked some major shit off my list today... really... Cranking through. It's never as bad as I thought it was going to be.

*** ONCE AGAIN, I'M LEARNING THAT IT'S ALL PART OF THE PROCESS, DAMN IT!!! ***

One big thing I started doing today that I will do a lot more in the future. Started using Word's highlighting feature to flag parts of the text so I can go back to fix things of similar types.

I made three passes through the manuscript. Not reading the whole thing word-for-word, but scanning at a moderate speed... knowing exactly what was going on in each scene, chapter, etc... scanning slowly enough to read words and phrases and know where I was, but fast enough to get through the manuscript in about an hour and a half or so...

First pass, I went through for the big nasty... the hundreds of places where I'm telling instead of showing, and I included in this pass those areas (and there were dozens) where I felt I could beef up the description a bit... maybe climb inside the character a little more and just take a look/smell/hear around the scene... and maybe show the reader what's around me a little bit... In every section that I felt needed more showing ("She looked so frustrated..." for example) or that I felt needed more description, I highlighted in pink.

Then I did another pass... this time scanning at pretty much the same speed but looking for repetition - phrases, words, etc... (Dear God, how many times did I say "awkward silence" or "awkward moment" or "awkward pause"?) I highlighted repetition in blue.

Then I did another pass, looking for problem areas. Way awkward dialogue, abrupt transitions, hard scene landings and chapter endings, etc.. This pass took a little longer, but I did some of it during the other two passes, switching highlight colors back and forth occasionally. I labeled these problem areas with red highlighting.

So, tomorrow I will sit down with all this highlighted bullshit and (theoretically) be able to go through, just focusing on the highlighted chunks (and believe me, it's probably half the manuscript, but at least I know what I'm up against) rather than reading and rereading and rerereading the manuscript.

Once I get all that done, I still have some big-ticket revision items on my to-do list (more global changes needed, etc.)

Then, finally, I will print the whole fucker out for the first time and sit and read it with my blue pen in hand, doing final copy edit, buffing and polishing, word choices, punctuation, silly typos I didn't catch on the screen (I'm always so much more critical in hard copy... weird... I always wonder about our generation... I'm sure you're like me in that you went from writing on paper to typing what you'd written on a typewriter... then computers came out and you wrote stuff on paper and then typed it into the computer, and like me you can probably peg within a year or so when you crossed that line between writing freehand (to type later) and composing directly on the screen. I can't even write freehand anymore... I've tried a couple of times recently. I suppose if I were stranded on an island with a ream of college ruled notebook paper and a pencil I'd have to learn to make due... but I can't imagine writing, composing, on anything but a computer screen)

Jesus... I'm writing another book in this blog... I guess after all this revision time I needed to tap a vein for a while...

Fuck all the people who say they love this shit... fuck 'em all...

But I do... I know it deep in my soul... it is what I am... I must do it, and deep down I know I love it... I know I do... so fuck me too, I guess... call me a hypocrite cuz people who say they love this shit make me want to puke... but I do

God, I love it... I love it...

Two Quick Things

1. Chuck Norris has shaved off his beard. In the latest commercials for the Total Home Gym he's sporting only the luxuriant stache which is the approximate dimensions of a push broom. A big square object standing proudly in the forefront of the screen. He's somewhat scary w/out the beard, though. Looks very Village People.

2. Billy Joel's song, "You May Be Right" is offensive to me. Nice celebration of drunk driving from a guy who's been busted for it like six times. If that popeyed freak had even a glimmer of awareness he'd pull that song from the airwaves. And pull "We Didn't Start the Fire" too. Has anybody done more damage to his legacy than Billy Joel, simply by staying alive and making music? If he'd faded from the scene just after he released "The Stranger" history might have been kind...

Congrats

Congrats, dude!

That's awesome shit, awesome awesome. I can see the downhill slope on my book as well. I've probably got two to three weeks left. Not too bad.

I've decided because of my crazy ass life to set a goal of 7,000 words a week. That way if I can't write one day, I can make it up the next. So far this week I'm at 4600 words. If I can get another 1000 on the plane flight home, I'll be in decent shape.

Congrats, dude. Very proud to know ya. And I'm reading your father's book. He's a gifted writer and a real thinker. I would have liked to have known him, I think.

Tue 10/16 - 2,047 Words *** FINISHED ***

Roger that, Houston.... the fucker's done!!!

Draft is finished.

Wiped away major tears.

Organizing to do lists already for the rewrite... but the fucker's done.

Major woodie... God, this is the good part.

Mon 10/15 - 2,904 Words

Cranked 'em out today... Thought about going back and doing 96 more words of gobbledy gook just to be able to say that I wrote three thousand words, but I couldn't do it... couldn't get any more blood... the vials are all full... the needle is caked up with crusty, dark red platelets, my face is ghostly white, lips powdery blue...

But... I have just begun the very last chapter. I think I will finish the draft tomorrow (or maybe tonight if I can regenerate some blood cells between now and then. Maybe I'll need to eat more iron).

Hey... 2,300 words on Sunday... that's freakin' awesome.

And you have absolutely no explaining to do choosing sex over writing.

Maybe shoot for both at the same time next time? Remember that scene in Dangerous Liaisons when John Malkovich is writing a letter, using Uma Thurman's hot twenty-year-old naked body as a desk? Gawd... excuse me for a moment, I have to step into the bathroom.

Crazy Dream

First, this line mad me laugh out loud:

"He was probably a very unselfish lover, I would imagine."

Killed me! Keep up the hilarious, man. That killed me.

Okay I'm about to get on a plane for Houston. Here's my weekend: Friday, worked, cleaned the house, packed up the car, drove to GA, got in around midnight, no writing.
Saturday cranked out 2,300 words.
Sunday. Packed up the kid and the car, made the HELLISH drive back home (w/the kid screaming the whole way and me thinking I wasn't going to make it), did some work, laundry, and was then presented with a choice: Writing or Sex. I chose sex.

So today on the plane I'm going to try to get those 2,000 words.

Now the Crazy Dream. Last night dreamed I was in this hospital and they were taking all my vitals etc, doing a bunch of tests, and they finally determined I'd had a stroke due to Special K poisoning. Special K is some kind of tranquilizer that I took once in my partying days. I don't really remember it doing anything special, as a matter of fact I hadn't thought about it in years, until this dream.

So I was like, "What is Special K poisoning?"
Doctor (white-haired old gentleman) said, "Well, we've brought in a specialist."
Lo and behold, the specialist was this guy named Ding, this Sudanese refugee I knew when I was in Atlanta. And Ding had very slender forearms and wrists. I remember I once told Ding how slender his wrists and forearms were, and how Ding gave me a dubious smile (actually that was the only smile in Ding's repertoire. He'd just moved from the Sudan to Atlanta so he was pretty much dubious all the time). And Ding was wearing a looooong rubber glove.
You don't want to know where Ding went w/that gloved hand. Let's just say that all of my cavities have been inspected. So, here's the Life Lesson. Whatever you do, don't get Special K poisoning. It's not good and the treatment is much worse than the disease.

Fri 10/11 - 1,958 Words

1,958

Totally contrived, utter bullshit, one-hundred percent forced to point the plot in its disgustingly predetermined direction....

But they is on da page, buddy... they be on da page...

Working On My Grip

Interesting post there, Bill... I have to admit it never crossed my mind before... I've never once stopped what I was doing, ran my fingers across my chin and thought, "hmm... I wonder if Jesus ever choked the chicken..."

My response would be, "of course..."

I've struggled with the Jesus thing my whole life, especially the last five and a quarter years. I had no problem with the higher power (though handing my life, will, management, control, sanity, grace, peace, serenity etc. took some time), but I've always taken issue with this Jesus dude.

Here's what I believe - I believe he existed. He was probably really weird, probably got beat up a lot as a kid because he was always so kind to people. At some point, people started paying attention to what he had to say, and his miracles were the result of lots of people together thinking about being kind, loving people, based on what he was teaching them. I don't believe he turned water into wine, walked on water, healed the crippled (though there's something to be said there about the healing power of reaching out in kindness to the sick, etc.), or rose from the dead.

I think he really did exist, and he was a way nice guy, and therefore the people in power got scared so they killed him. I also believe that he knew it was coming, had every chance to run away, or even sell out, but he chose to stick around and that he truly did die for everyone around him, and for everyone in generations to come who remember his kindness, etc.

But that's about it for me. That's as far as I go. I don't believe he was the son of God, though his actions sure made him act like someone who could have been the son of God. But I'd like to see the birth certificate.

Isn't it funny how I can just type that out loud right here in this blog without fear of imprisonment and torture? Can you imagine?

And you, you heretic... you'd have had your balls cut off and stuffed in your mouth for suggesting that Jesus gave in to such wickedness.

I've struggled with this Jesus thing for a very long time, since most any church you go into nowadays is going to hit you over the head in some way with the Jesus stuff. And I just don't buy it. For the most part, I can buy the message, the parables that all boil down to say, hey... just be kind and love each other (or, how JB said, and I love when he speaks... just don't be ugly... gawd, what a simple way to live that is... I may try it some day)

So, yes. I do think Jesus spanked the monkey, probably just as much as the rest of us. And I think while Mary Magdalene was washing his feet, she probably slid a soapy hand along his inner thigh and gave him some relief in the late-night hours. And he probably thanked her or maybe kissed her deeply, or maybe fucked the living shit out of her... Does that make him any less of a kind, beautiful person? I don't think so. He was probably a very unselfish lover, I would imagine.

I read the stories about St. Francis, and I think of him as another Jesus Christ. In the realm of social acceptability, there was something wrong with those guys. They didn't think or respond like normal people. They focused one-hundred percent on kindness, reaching out to others.

Oh... the post title... I was hitting golf balls this morning, working on my grip, that kind of grip. I don't masturbate. Never have. That shit's for weak-ass sinners and dang queer freaks. Pay no attention to my rock-solid forearm muscles.

Lack of Grip

It's been a long time since I've seen a hot chick; a long time since I've seen the way her body moved and had my throat seize up with lust and envy. A long time since I've seen a woman on the street and then imagined her naked.

Maybe something is wrong with me. I'm not gripping much. I am a man, therefore what I am about to say next, I really believe (and I'm not trying to be provocative etc...I could care less about that shit). Jesus masturbated. Maybe not right up until his death; maybe by the time he began his public ministry he'd gotten over the whole gripping thing and was just thinking pure thoughts all day long. But there was a time when the young Jesus, just like the rest of us, was gripping like a true stallion.

Every man grips. Period. I worked with this woman, she insisted that her husband didn't. She insisted that he only got his rocks off w/her, that he saved everything up for just those moments.
"Have you asked him if he does it?" I said.
"Yes, I have. and he told me he can't. He can only orgasm with me."
I groaned and rolled my eyes. "Honey, unless you're blowing that dude once a day and banging him three times a week, he's gripping. I promise."
But she wouldn't believe me. She really thought the guy only busted nuts with her, as a result of her ministrations, etc.

Years went by. Literally, years. Then one day she called me out of the blue.
"You were right," she said.
"What?"
"You were right. About the masturbating."
"Yeah?"
"I came home early from my workout class and I went in the back door because I was checking one of our sprinklers, and he had a porno tape in, cranked up really high, and I caught him in the act."
When I was done laughing I asked her what he said when she caught him (red-handed).
"Oh, he looked frightened at first, and then he said he was just trying it out but he wasn't doing a very good job and could I help him?"
"He asked you to help?"
"Oh yeah."

Now that, my friends, is a good man. That is the kind of man you don't want to mess with because not only does he have the balls to perpetuate an outrageous lie (I don't masturbate) but when he's caught in the act, he turns it into a request for sex.

The Value of Writing Methods

Ultimately the only thing we absolutely have to worry about is whether or not WE find our writing interesting. Just us, the first and only guaranteed audience. And then of course we hope to find someone else who finds us interesting. And even better if that someone else happens to be a publisher or agent. Better still if it expands from there to include paying readership, etc. But the litmus test is whether we like it.

All that is to say, these methods I'm investigating (WantObstacleActionResolutionEmotionShowing, Snowflake, Three Sentences, Hero's Journey) are best practices...they are retroactively uncovered elements that seem to be present in the majority of salable fiction. As such, I think it's time well spent to understand (as well as one can) the principles behind these methods and if you're of a certain methodical turn of mind (god help me) you might even use these tools to build a few stories of your own and see how they function. All of this is fine, in my opinion, and part of the learning process. I really do believe that one must have some knowledge of the "rules" and how they function in order to break them effectively.

Having said that, if it's no fun, it's no good. Period. And I will admit that, on occasion, my fascination with Method (which springs from the same impulse to make a SYSTEM out of loading the dishwasher or tying my shoes) had overtaken my appreciation for the simple joy of putting words on the page.

And that's it. That's the gift. Laying down words with my hands and picking them back up with my eyes. Like a game of cards...