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.