Kyle Michel Sullivan's Blog: https://www.myirishnovel.com/, page 262
May 8, 2014
Words of wisdom from a man who won't stop writing till he's dead...
Stole this from http://www.openculture.com
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In one of my favorite Stephen King interviews, for The Atlantic, he talks at length about the vital importance of a good opening line. “There are all sorts of theories,” he says, “it’s a tricky thing.” “But there’s one thing” he’s sure about: “An opening line should invite the reader to begin the story. It should say: Listen. Come in here. You want to know about this.” King’s discussion of opening lines is compelling because of his dual focus as an avid reader and a prodigious writer of fiction—he doesn’t lose sight of either perspective:
We’ve talked so much about the reader, but you can’t forget that the opening line is important to the writer, too. To the person who’s actually boots-on-the-ground. Because it’s not just the reader’s way in, it’s the writer’s way in also, and you’ve got to find a doorway that fits us both.
This is excellent advice. As you orient your reader, so you orient yourself, pointing your work in the direction it needs to go. Now King admits that he doesn’t think much about the opening line as he writes, in a first draft, at least. That perfectly crafted and inviting opening sentence is something that emerges in revision, which can be where the bulk of a writer’s work happens.
Revision in the second draft, “one of them, anyway,” may “necessitate some big changes” says King in his 2000 memoir slash writing guide On Writing. And yet, it is an essential process, and one that “hardly ever fails.” Below, we bring you King’s top twenty rules from On Writing. About half of these relate directly to revision. The other half cover the intangibles—attitude, discipline, work habits. A number of these suggestions reliably pop up in every writer’s guide. But quite a few of them were born of Stephen King’s many decades of trial and error and—writes the Barnes & Noble book blog—“over 350 million copies” sold, “like them or loathe them.”
1. First write for yourself, and then worry about the audience. “When you write a story, you’re telling yourself the story. When you rewrite, your main job is taking out all the things that arenot the story.”
2. Don’t use passive voice. “Timid writers like passive verbs for the same reason that timid lovers like passive partners. The passive voice is safe.”
3. Avoid adverbs. “The adverb is not your friend.”
4. Avoid adverbs, especially after “he said” and “she said.”
5. But don’t obsess over perfect grammar. “The object of fiction isn’t grammatical correctness but to make the reader welcome and then tell a story.”
6. The magic is in you. “I’m convinced that fear is at the root of most bad writing.”
7. Read, read, read. ”If you don’t have time to read, you don’t have the time (or the tools) to write.”
8. Don’t worry about making other people happy. “If you intend to write as truthfully as you can, your days as a member of polite society are numbered, anyway.”
9. Turn off the TV. “TV—while working out or anywhere else—really is about the last thing an aspiring writer needs.”
10. You have three months. “The first draft of a book—even a long one—should take no more than three months, the length of a season.”
11. There are two secrets to success. “I stayed physical healthy, and I stayed married.”
12. Write one word at a time. “Whether it’s a vignette of a single page or an epic trilogy like ‘The Lord of the Rings,’ the work is always accomplished one word at a time.”
13. Eliminate distraction. “There’s should be no telephone in your writing room, certainly no TV or videogames for you to fool around with.”
14. Stick to your own style. “One cannot imitate a writer’s approach to a particular genre, no matter how simple what that writer is doing may seem.”
15. Dig. “Stories are relics, part of an undiscovered pre-existing world. The writer’s job is to use the tools in his or her toolbox to get as much of each one out of the ground intact as possible.”
16. Take a break. “You’ll find reading your book over after a six-week layoff to be a strange, often exhilarating experience.”
17. Leave out the boring parts and kill your darlings. “(kill your darlings, kill your darlings, even when it breaks your egocentric little scribbler’s heart, kill your darlings.)”
18. The research shouldn’t overshadow the story. “Remember that word back. That’s where the research belongs: as far in the background and the back story as you can get it.”
19. You become a writer simply by reading and writing. “You learn best by reading a lot and writing a lot, and the most valuable lessons of all are the ones you teach yourself.”
20. Writing is about getting happy. “Writing isn’t about making money, getting famous, getting dates, getting laid or making friends. Writing is magic, as much as the water of life as any other creative art. The water is free. So drink.”
See a fuller exposition of King’s writing wisdom at Barnes & Noble’s blog.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
In one of my favorite Stephen King interviews, for The Atlantic, he talks at length about the vital importance of a good opening line. “There are all sorts of theories,” he says, “it’s a tricky thing.” “But there’s one thing” he’s sure about: “An opening line should invite the reader to begin the story. It should say: Listen. Come in here. You want to know about this.” King’s discussion of opening lines is compelling because of his dual focus as an avid reader and a prodigious writer of fiction—he doesn’t lose sight of either perspective:
We’ve talked so much about the reader, but you can’t forget that the opening line is important to the writer, too. To the person who’s actually boots-on-the-ground. Because it’s not just the reader’s way in, it’s the writer’s way in also, and you’ve got to find a doorway that fits us both.
This is excellent advice. As you orient your reader, so you orient yourself, pointing your work in the direction it needs to go. Now King admits that he doesn’t think much about the opening line as he writes, in a first draft, at least. That perfectly crafted and inviting opening sentence is something that emerges in revision, which can be where the bulk of a writer’s work happens.
Revision in the second draft, “one of them, anyway,” may “necessitate some big changes” says King in his 2000 memoir slash writing guide On Writing. And yet, it is an essential process, and one that “hardly ever fails.” Below, we bring you King’s top twenty rules from On Writing. About half of these relate directly to revision. The other half cover the intangibles—attitude, discipline, work habits. A number of these suggestions reliably pop up in every writer’s guide. But quite a few of them were born of Stephen King’s many decades of trial and error and—writes the Barnes & Noble book blog—“over 350 million copies” sold, “like them or loathe them.”
1. First write for yourself, and then worry about the audience. “When you write a story, you’re telling yourself the story. When you rewrite, your main job is taking out all the things that arenot the story.”
2. Don’t use passive voice. “Timid writers like passive verbs for the same reason that timid lovers like passive partners. The passive voice is safe.”
3. Avoid adverbs. “The adverb is not your friend.”
4. Avoid adverbs, especially after “he said” and “she said.”
5. But don’t obsess over perfect grammar. “The object of fiction isn’t grammatical correctness but to make the reader welcome and then tell a story.”
6. The magic is in you. “I’m convinced that fear is at the root of most bad writing.”
7. Read, read, read. ”If you don’t have time to read, you don’t have the time (or the tools) to write.”
8. Don’t worry about making other people happy. “If you intend to write as truthfully as you can, your days as a member of polite society are numbered, anyway.”
9. Turn off the TV. “TV—while working out or anywhere else—really is about the last thing an aspiring writer needs.”
10. You have three months. “The first draft of a book—even a long one—should take no more than three months, the length of a season.”
11. There are two secrets to success. “I stayed physical healthy, and I stayed married.”
12. Write one word at a time. “Whether it’s a vignette of a single page or an epic trilogy like ‘The Lord of the Rings,’ the work is always accomplished one word at a time.”
13. Eliminate distraction. “There’s should be no telephone in your writing room, certainly no TV or videogames for you to fool around with.”
14. Stick to your own style. “One cannot imitate a writer’s approach to a particular genre, no matter how simple what that writer is doing may seem.”
15. Dig. “Stories are relics, part of an undiscovered pre-existing world. The writer’s job is to use the tools in his or her toolbox to get as much of each one out of the ground intact as possible.”
16. Take a break. “You’ll find reading your book over after a six-week layoff to be a strange, often exhilarating experience.”
17. Leave out the boring parts and kill your darlings. “(kill your darlings, kill your darlings, even when it breaks your egocentric little scribbler’s heart, kill your darlings.)”
18. The research shouldn’t overshadow the story. “Remember that word back. That’s where the research belongs: as far in the background and the back story as you can get it.”
19. You become a writer simply by reading and writing. “You learn best by reading a lot and writing a lot, and the most valuable lessons of all are the ones you teach yourself.”
20. Writing is about getting happy. “Writing isn’t about making money, getting famous, getting dates, getting laid or making friends. Writing is magic, as much as the water of life as any other creative art. The water is free. So drink.”
See a fuller exposition of King’s writing wisdom at Barnes & Noble’s blog.
May 7, 2014
Kill your darlings...
A problem I'm having with OT is fitting in some background so someone who hasn't read Rape in Holding Cell 6 can keep up with Jake's references to what happened between him and Antony. A lot of the trouble boiling up in OT stems from that story's fallout. This was a deliberate decision and fits in with the overall theme...but it's making things tricky now that I've cut so much explanation.
Fact is, I've cut another 9 pages, and the story reads a lot faster and smoother. But I don't know if I feel that way because I know the background or if it really just doesn't matter that much. It could go either way. I may just keep revealing bits and pieces as things progress, make it a shadow mystery.
Slashing the filigree is proving to be painful. And yet...it makes sense. The first few pages of a book determine whether or not you'll finish it or eventually put it aside. I've done that a few times with books -- usually getting to around page 100 before I stop making myself read.
For example: I've only finished one of William Faulkner's books -- The Sound and the Fury -- because his prose is so dense. I had to drop a class I was taking in college because I hated his writing so much. And as much as I love The Foundation Trilogy, I could not read the god-awful prequel to it written by Asimov because Hari Selden was made into such a gullible twit.
Don't want that to happen to my books.
Fact is, I've cut another 9 pages, and the story reads a lot faster and smoother. But I don't know if I feel that way because I know the background or if it really just doesn't matter that much. It could go either way. I may just keep revealing bits and pieces as things progress, make it a shadow mystery.
Slashing the filigree is proving to be painful. And yet...it makes sense. The first few pages of a book determine whether or not you'll finish it or eventually put it aside. I've done that a few times with books -- usually getting to around page 100 before I stop making myself read.
For example: I've only finished one of William Faulkner's books -- The Sound and the Fury -- because his prose is so dense. I had to drop a class I was taking in college because I hated his writing so much. And as much as I love The Foundation Trilogy, I could not read the god-awful prequel to it written by Asimov because Hari Selden was made into such a gullible twit.
Don't want that to happen to my books.
May 6, 2014
I know I shouldn't...
I wrote the ending to The Vanishing of Owen Taylor. By ending, I mean the final reveal. That comes in a hotel room in the dark between two men. No big splashy revelations in front of witnesses, like I felt needed to come. No anger or explosions. Just...quiet. Painful.
As I wrote this, I could finally hear Jake's voice, again. Simple. Direct. Less verbiage and more honesty. This is what the rest of the story must lead to. Hopefully, by the time I get to the end it will carry an emotional wallop...but you never know till it's done. Damn thing may change, again. Still the big deal is, Jake's whispering in my ear, once more.
I'm having some very intense dreams, lately...and I think it's because I'm focusing on OT. One I had was me in what I think was Kremlin Square, watching people wander around. Then I was in an opulent hotel waiting for time to check in. Lady Gaga passed by with her boyfriend (don't ask; I really haven't followed her much so have no idea why she's in my dream) and she came over to say, Hi. She got up really close and I noticed she's got wrinkles under her eyes.
Then I went to check into the hotel but there was a line, like what you see at a Vegas front desk, long and snaking around between stanchions. I noticed a lot of black people were around in upscale clothes and I thought, "Of course; less discrimination here." Then I went through the wrong line and wound up back in the lobby so had to go back. That's when I woke up.
If anybody's got any idea what the hell that means, please let me know. Because Moscow is NOT on my list of places I want to visit. Much as I love Tolstoy, I can't abide even thinking about going to a country that codifies discrimination against gay men and women into law.
Denmark, on the other hand...
As I wrote this, I could finally hear Jake's voice, again. Simple. Direct. Less verbiage and more honesty. This is what the rest of the story must lead to. Hopefully, by the time I get to the end it will carry an emotional wallop...but you never know till it's done. Damn thing may change, again. Still the big deal is, Jake's whispering in my ear, once more.
I'm having some very intense dreams, lately...and I think it's because I'm focusing on OT. One I had was me in what I think was Kremlin Square, watching people wander around. Then I was in an opulent hotel waiting for time to check in. Lady Gaga passed by with her boyfriend (don't ask; I really haven't followed her much so have no idea why she's in my dream) and she came over to say, Hi. She got up really close and I noticed she's got wrinkles under her eyes.
Then I went to check into the hotel but there was a line, like what you see at a Vegas front desk, long and snaking around between stanchions. I noticed a lot of black people were around in upscale clothes and I thought, "Of course; less discrimination here." Then I went through the wrong line and wound up back in the lobby so had to go back. That's when I woke up.
If anybody's got any idea what the hell that means, please let me know. Because Moscow is NOT on my list of places I want to visit. Much as I love Tolstoy, I can't abide even thinking about going to a country that codifies discrimination against gay men and women into law.
Denmark, on the other hand...
May 5, 2014
The rest of chapter one...
I cut it down by 8 pages, total...and could probably cut one more. The stuff I cut may wind up sprinkled through the rest of the book...maybe...
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I took a deep breath. “So?”
“I do not know why. He will not tell me. I only learned of this in spite of him, and when your father becomes this secretive, it worries me. Especially as regards his dealings with your family. I think, if you stay in America, something will happen to you. And you are better protected in Denmark.”
“Tone wasn’t.”
“He is an easier target.”
No argument there. “But why do you think this concerns me?”
“Why would you not think it does? As your father tells the story, he and your mother hate each other. Is there any other reason she would call him, except about you?”
Phone call, huh? Yeah, I’d learned how to pinch pennies from my mom, so for her to spring for an overseas call to a man she despised almost as much as I did, instead of popping off an e-mail...well, that was a big deal.
“Neither one’s even tried to get hold of me, and they both know how.” I smirked. “Maybe mom’s askin’ dad for money.”
Mira rolled her eyes at that. I had to shrug in agreement. Mom was what Gramma'd referred to as, "Independent to a fault." Meaning neither ask for nor give favors. So why would she have called him? They’d been divorced for fifteen years, and it was not a nice one. Thanks to Texas' laws, Dad’s lawyers cut mom completely out of his fortune -- something she’d never forgiven him for. Oh, she’d wound up with her condo and a decent cash settlement, and child support till I was eighteen. But that ended about six months before I was kicked into the street by them both. Nearly ten years ago; so far as I knew they hadn’t spoken since.
"How'd you find out she called?" I asked.
"Do you know your father's assistant, Kazeem?" I nodded. "I know his wife, and he keeps no secrets from her. She and I are close friends."
I had to chuckle at that explanation; never try to keep secrets from your wife. But talk about raising a thousand other questions.
"Don't make sense to me," I said, finishing off my meal. "So far as my mother's concerned, I am not her son. And so far as my father's concerned, I was never born. Christian and Islamic intolerance, together. That's what I get for being gay."
"You father does not truly feel such hatred for you."
"He does so long as I stick with Tone. And I'm stickin'."
Mira just gave me a nod, in response. She had no more questions and neither of us had any answers, plus I had to head back to the airport for my plane, so we left it at that. But while waiting to board under that sweeping non-stop glass everything that made Terminal 2 stifling hot, even on a cool day, I did some research via my phone...and came up zeroes. Nothing about my mom and dad being connected in any way, anymore. It wasn’t till I got to Copenhagen that I caught an idea of what it was all about.
Since I was over there so much, I'd kept our apartment. It had a great view of Koege Bay and was close to a train line that took me straight to Ari's office. And since I'd only recently become a citizen of Denmark, it also kept me as a legitimate resident. Our landlady, Mrs. Honingen, lived downstairs and kept the place clean, and she always put our mail on the table right by the front door. The perfect setup.
Man, I loved that place. Yeah, it was furnished by Ikea, but it worked. Vaulted ceilings. Perfect kitchen. A balcony big enough for two chairs and a table. Tone and I would sit out there and just watch the ships go by. Or I'd sketch as he read a book, neither of us saying a word for hours. Those eight months together gave me back all the confidence I’d lost in the previous three years. Rebuilt my meaning and reality. Made me easy, again.
Things’d been so smooth, we’d gotten so close, we could lie in bed, side by side, all day long, completely at peace because the other one was there. Or sit on the couch, one of my arms over his shoulders, him leaning against me, just watching a video. It was like home.
It helped that my artwork was kicking ass with Uncle Ari’s agency, and a graphic novel I was working on was slowly coming together. Tone paid his way by teaching tennis and English, and he already spoke enough Danish to make getting around simple. We were together and making it. God, I wanted us back to that, again.
Mrs. Honingen wasn't home so I just grabbed the stack of mail and sat on the balcony to go through it. Mainly the usual bills and sales crap, but mixed in were a couple of envelopes from my Uncle Owen, in Palm Springs. Owen Taylor. He’s mom’s half-brother, from Gramma’s second marriage. One was a month old -- must've come just after I left, the last time -- and all it had was a note that said, “Jake, I need to see you, ASAP. Don’t call. Please e-mail me. O.” The other was postmarked two months earlier but must have arrived late, and in it was what looked like a house key and a printout of a note that read – “Dear Jake, You’ll need this when you come. O. #4865*”
Dear Jake? He never addressed me like that. And what’s this “when I come” crap?
I tried to call him, but his phone went to voice mail then disconnected because it was too full to accept more messages. And an e-mail I sent bounced back to me. I contacted the service and found out his in-box was too full of unread messages for it to accept any more. Man, did I start getting a bad feeling...
Then I got a text from Mira. My father told her mom called because no one had seen or heard from my uncle for three months, and she wanted him to use his influence to kick-start an investigation into it. Which was bullshit.
What Mira didn’t know was, Uncle Owen’s gay, too, and had been cut off from most of the family for twenty years. The only reason I knew him was through Gramma; she’d figured out early on that it’d be good to have him available for questions once I started asking them. Which I did just after I turned fifteen. Then he and Gramma’d been the only ones who backed me up once I got kicked out. And wound up in jail. And finally got released on probation. He knew me too damn well to call me Dear Jake.
Which meant he was in trouble.
Which meant soon as I was done at Uncle Ari’s, I was headed for a talk with my mother. Something I hadn’t done in years.
Shit, I’d sooner be back in jail.
--------
I took a deep breath. “So?”
“I do not know why. He will not tell me. I only learned of this in spite of him, and when your father becomes this secretive, it worries me. Especially as regards his dealings with your family. I think, if you stay in America, something will happen to you. And you are better protected in Denmark.”
“Tone wasn’t.”
“He is an easier target.”
No argument there. “But why do you think this concerns me?”
“Why would you not think it does? As your father tells the story, he and your mother hate each other. Is there any other reason she would call him, except about you?”
Phone call, huh? Yeah, I’d learned how to pinch pennies from my mom, so for her to spring for an overseas call to a man she despised almost as much as I did, instead of popping off an e-mail...well, that was a big deal.
“Neither one’s even tried to get hold of me, and they both know how.” I smirked. “Maybe mom’s askin’ dad for money.”
Mira rolled her eyes at that. I had to shrug in agreement. Mom was what Gramma'd referred to as, "Independent to a fault." Meaning neither ask for nor give favors. So why would she have called him? They’d been divorced for fifteen years, and it was not a nice one. Thanks to Texas' laws, Dad’s lawyers cut mom completely out of his fortune -- something she’d never forgiven him for. Oh, she’d wound up with her condo and a decent cash settlement, and child support till I was eighteen. But that ended about six months before I was kicked into the street by them both. Nearly ten years ago; so far as I knew they hadn’t spoken since.
"How'd you find out she called?" I asked.
"Do you know your father's assistant, Kazeem?" I nodded. "I know his wife, and he keeps no secrets from her. She and I are close friends."
I had to chuckle at that explanation; never try to keep secrets from your wife. But talk about raising a thousand other questions.
"Don't make sense to me," I said, finishing off my meal. "So far as my mother's concerned, I am not her son. And so far as my father's concerned, I was never born. Christian and Islamic intolerance, together. That's what I get for being gay."
"You father does not truly feel such hatred for you."
"He does so long as I stick with Tone. And I'm stickin'."
Mira just gave me a nod, in response. She had no more questions and neither of us had any answers, plus I had to head back to the airport for my plane, so we left it at that. But while waiting to board under that sweeping non-stop glass everything that made Terminal 2 stifling hot, even on a cool day, I did some research via my phone...and came up zeroes. Nothing about my mom and dad being connected in any way, anymore. It wasn’t till I got to Copenhagen that I caught an idea of what it was all about.
Since I was over there so much, I'd kept our apartment. It had a great view of Koege Bay and was close to a train line that took me straight to Ari's office. And since I'd only recently become a citizen of Denmark, it also kept me as a legitimate resident. Our landlady, Mrs. Honingen, lived downstairs and kept the place clean, and she always put our mail on the table right by the front door. The perfect setup.
Man, I loved that place. Yeah, it was furnished by Ikea, but it worked. Vaulted ceilings. Perfect kitchen. A balcony big enough for two chairs and a table. Tone and I would sit out there and just watch the ships go by. Or I'd sketch as he read a book, neither of us saying a word for hours. Those eight months together gave me back all the confidence I’d lost in the previous three years. Rebuilt my meaning and reality. Made me easy, again.
Things’d been so smooth, we’d gotten so close, we could lie in bed, side by side, all day long, completely at peace because the other one was there. Or sit on the couch, one of my arms over his shoulders, him leaning against me, just watching a video. It was like home.
It helped that my artwork was kicking ass with Uncle Ari’s agency, and a graphic novel I was working on was slowly coming together. Tone paid his way by teaching tennis and English, and he already spoke enough Danish to make getting around simple. We were together and making it. God, I wanted us back to that, again.
Mrs. Honingen wasn't home so I just grabbed the stack of mail and sat on the balcony to go through it. Mainly the usual bills and sales crap, but mixed in were a couple of envelopes from my Uncle Owen, in Palm Springs. Owen Taylor. He’s mom’s half-brother, from Gramma’s second marriage. One was a month old -- must've come just after I left, the last time -- and all it had was a note that said, “Jake, I need to see you, ASAP. Don’t call. Please e-mail me. O.” The other was postmarked two months earlier but must have arrived late, and in it was what looked like a house key and a printout of a note that read – “Dear Jake, You’ll need this when you come. O. #4865*”
Dear Jake? He never addressed me like that. And what’s this “when I come” crap?
I tried to call him, but his phone went to voice mail then disconnected because it was too full to accept more messages. And an e-mail I sent bounced back to me. I contacted the service and found out his in-box was too full of unread messages for it to accept any more. Man, did I start getting a bad feeling...
Then I got a text from Mira. My father told her mom called because no one had seen or heard from my uncle for three months, and she wanted him to use his influence to kick-start an investigation into it. Which was bullshit.
What Mira didn’t know was, Uncle Owen’s gay, too, and had been cut off from most of the family for twenty years. The only reason I knew him was through Gramma; she’d figured out early on that it’d be good to have him available for questions once I started asking them. Which I did just after I turned fifteen. Then he and Gramma’d been the only ones who backed me up once I got kicked out. And wound up in jail. And finally got released on probation. He knew me too damn well to call me Dear Jake.
Which meant he was in trouble.
Which meant soon as I was done at Uncle Ari’s, I was headed for a talk with my mother. Something I hadn’t done in years.
Shit, I’d sooner be back in jail.
May 4, 2014
Calling rewrite!
Here's the first 5 pages of The Vanishing of Owen Taylor -- jumping into the story a bit faster and with more insistence...I think...I hope...but you never know till it's done.
-----------------
“Jake, why do you stay with Tone?”
It was my stepmother, Mira, asking. In English instead of French, to make sure I not only understood but to emphasize that she wanted a serious response. We were having lunch at an Indian café near Le Blanc-Mesnil, in Paris, with no way for me to blow off the question, so all I could do was load some Aloo Matar into my mouth to give me a chance to think.
Of course, when Mira asked that question, what she really said was, “Iacob, what is your loyalty with this Antony?” She always calls me by my Persian name, and I’m only one who gets to call my guy Tone.
He and I'd been together over two years, now, and this was the first time she'd raised the issue. Which is why it surprised me. She knew all about his trouble in Texas and why we were stuck there -- well, Tone was; I was just standing by my man. But she also knew how I felt about being in that god-awful state, and how happy I'd be when my guy and I could get the hell back to Denmark.
When I didn’t answer, immediately, she continued, “From the photos I have seen in the papers, he is an attractive young man. But you are better-looking and there are many of his type, so I know this is not the reason. I think, perhaps you wish to rescue him. He has need of someone strong to lean upon. But this denotes need on your part, which is a weakness and you are not a weak man. Is it only because of you being stubborn, Iacob? Remaining with him because others say you should not. Are you a man as foolish as that?”
"You forgot love," I said, half-joking. She just looked at me, so I shrugged. “What do you want me to say?”
“That it is not merely from pity.”
“I don’t pity Tone, Mira. He’d never let me.”
"So it is that you feel loyalty to him?"
I shrugged. She was the only other person in the world I felt like I could be completely open and honest with and know it wouldn’t get back to somebody, so I didn’t censor my feelings, in honor of that. “I prefer to call it love. It's not perfect. He can be hard as hell to put up with. Sometimes I'd get pissed off. Sometimes I’d get hurt. But usually I’ll be pretty happy, with him.”
She nodded and said, “In many ways you are so much like your father, and in others you are so completely different.”
Ouch. “Where did that come from?”
“An observation, only.” She dug deeper into her salad. “I notice you use the past tense when you speak of your problems, and the future tense when you speak of your happiness.”
“Psycho-lady, q’est-çe que c’est?” I snarled, joking. She just looked at me as she chewed. I shrugged. “It’s been rough, lately, no surprise. The crap we’re going through’d tear at anybody.”
She gave me a French shrug of agreement as she sipped some burgundy; she obviously felt some empathy for his situation, but that's her job, as a psychologist -- always making sure people understood that she understood and could trust her to increase her understanding.
I downed more of my Taj Mahal. I’ve known her a year and a half and still could not figure out how she and my father wound up together. Sure, he’s better-looking than I am, even in his fifties -- his hair still black, his eyes a bit sharper than mine, his features a bit less pronounced, his body trimmer. Tone told me he looked like a hungry wolf scouring the land for its next meal while I was a proud hawk. I laughed at him, but I loved that he said it.
Of course, dad's also rich as Solomon, but I never got the idea money's what Mira's after. On top of it, he’s an arrogant, selfish, controlling prick while she could’ve had any guy she wanted – raven black hair, full-figure, close enough to forty to make her sensual instead of just sexy...at least, in France; in the twelve-year-old mentality of the US, she’d be over the hill. Plus in their ten-year marriage, she'd popped out five kids, including twin boys, and if my instincts were right, she was en route to bringing forth number six...so at least the bedroom was happy.
She also had a mind of her own, something not so unusual in Persian women, and she wanted her full-Persian children to know their half-Persian brother. I got the sense she didn’t even give my dad a say in that. So while in America and Denmark my name was Jacob Michael Blaine, in Paris I was Iacob Mehrzad Darya-Bendari, and she made damn sure everybody knew it, out of respect.
That's why she and I were seated at a rickety table under dirty umbrellas on uneven flagstones behind an old French house. Whitewash an inch thick on it. Red tile roof on top. A fence of some green vines shielding us from the neighboring homes. Feasting on the best damn curry I’d ever had. I respect her as much I think she does me, but now all of a sudden she's wondering why I want to stick with Tone.
“What’s this really about, Mira?”
She deliberately did not look at me. “Did you know he let his therapist share his notes with me?"
"Yeah. He told me at the airport."
"Has he told you everything he’s done?”
“I got enough.”
“Then let me rephrase the question. Even if you do love him, is it wise to remain with him?”
“If I -- what do you mean?”
Her eyes locked on mine. “You are now a citizen of Denmark. Your work is in Copenhagen. It would be much more logical for you to be there than eight thousand kilometers away.”
“You don’t abandon somebody who’s got cancer or AIDS or heart disease, not if you love ‘em. Tone’s still healin’, both physically and legally. I’m stickin’ it out."
"So it is loyalty."
"Like a dog, huh?" I snapped. "Why're you askin’ me this? Is it Uncle Ari? You been talkin’ to him?”
“One does not talk to Ari; one only listens. He likes your work. His clients like your work. He wants you to become a partner in his business. It is an excellent idea, but you will have to return to Denmark to live. Antony cannot leave until next year, at the earliest. He could easily join you, then.”
Talk about a load of crap. Uncle Ari and my dad may be brothers, but Ari was open and gregarious and never met anyone he couldn’t like...and couldn’t keep a secret to save his life. He hadn’t even hinted about anything more than meeting a new client on this trip and sending more graphics assignments my way. So there was something else going on and she didn’t have the nerve to be up front with me. Which brought her down a notch in my eyes; if she can’t tell by now that I can be trusted, she never will...and that pissed me off.
“Don’t hand me this crap about Uncle Ari, Mira. What's really goin' on, here?”
She stopped in mid-chew and nodded and swallowed and took a sip of her wine. Burgundy with a salad; there’s something wrong about that.
"You are correct," she said. "I am too used to having to be careful with my patients."
"You tryin' to tell me I'm crazy for stickin' with Tone?"
She looked straight at me.
“Your mother has contacted your father.”
Slam-bam, blindside me, ma'am.
-----------------
“Jake, why do you stay with Tone?”
It was my stepmother, Mira, asking. In English instead of French, to make sure I not only understood but to emphasize that she wanted a serious response. We were having lunch at an Indian café near Le Blanc-Mesnil, in Paris, with no way for me to blow off the question, so all I could do was load some Aloo Matar into my mouth to give me a chance to think.
Of course, when Mira asked that question, what she really said was, “Iacob, what is your loyalty with this Antony?” She always calls me by my Persian name, and I’m only one who gets to call my guy Tone.
He and I'd been together over two years, now, and this was the first time she'd raised the issue. Which is why it surprised me. She knew all about his trouble in Texas and why we were stuck there -- well, Tone was; I was just standing by my man. But she also knew how I felt about being in that god-awful state, and how happy I'd be when my guy and I could get the hell back to Denmark.
When I didn’t answer, immediately, she continued, “From the photos I have seen in the papers, he is an attractive young man. But you are better-looking and there are many of his type, so I know this is not the reason. I think, perhaps you wish to rescue him. He has need of someone strong to lean upon. But this denotes need on your part, which is a weakness and you are not a weak man. Is it only because of you being stubborn, Iacob? Remaining with him because others say you should not. Are you a man as foolish as that?”
"You forgot love," I said, half-joking. She just looked at me, so I shrugged. “What do you want me to say?”
“That it is not merely from pity.”
“I don’t pity Tone, Mira. He’d never let me.”
"So it is that you feel loyalty to him?"
I shrugged. She was the only other person in the world I felt like I could be completely open and honest with and know it wouldn’t get back to somebody, so I didn’t censor my feelings, in honor of that. “I prefer to call it love. It's not perfect. He can be hard as hell to put up with. Sometimes I'd get pissed off. Sometimes I’d get hurt. But usually I’ll be pretty happy, with him.”
She nodded and said, “In many ways you are so much like your father, and in others you are so completely different.”
Ouch. “Where did that come from?”
“An observation, only.” She dug deeper into her salad. “I notice you use the past tense when you speak of your problems, and the future tense when you speak of your happiness.”
“Psycho-lady, q’est-çe que c’est?” I snarled, joking. She just looked at me as she chewed. I shrugged. “It’s been rough, lately, no surprise. The crap we’re going through’d tear at anybody.”
She gave me a French shrug of agreement as she sipped some burgundy; she obviously felt some empathy for his situation, but that's her job, as a psychologist -- always making sure people understood that she understood and could trust her to increase her understanding.
I downed more of my Taj Mahal. I’ve known her a year and a half and still could not figure out how she and my father wound up together. Sure, he’s better-looking than I am, even in his fifties -- his hair still black, his eyes a bit sharper than mine, his features a bit less pronounced, his body trimmer. Tone told me he looked like a hungry wolf scouring the land for its next meal while I was a proud hawk. I laughed at him, but I loved that he said it.
Of course, dad's also rich as Solomon, but I never got the idea money's what Mira's after. On top of it, he’s an arrogant, selfish, controlling prick while she could’ve had any guy she wanted – raven black hair, full-figure, close enough to forty to make her sensual instead of just sexy...at least, in France; in the twelve-year-old mentality of the US, she’d be over the hill. Plus in their ten-year marriage, she'd popped out five kids, including twin boys, and if my instincts were right, she was en route to bringing forth number six...so at least the bedroom was happy.
She also had a mind of her own, something not so unusual in Persian women, and she wanted her full-Persian children to know their half-Persian brother. I got the sense she didn’t even give my dad a say in that. So while in America and Denmark my name was Jacob Michael Blaine, in Paris I was Iacob Mehrzad Darya-Bendari, and she made damn sure everybody knew it, out of respect.
That's why she and I were seated at a rickety table under dirty umbrellas on uneven flagstones behind an old French house. Whitewash an inch thick on it. Red tile roof on top. A fence of some green vines shielding us from the neighboring homes. Feasting on the best damn curry I’d ever had. I respect her as much I think she does me, but now all of a sudden she's wondering why I want to stick with Tone.
“What’s this really about, Mira?”
She deliberately did not look at me. “Did you know he let his therapist share his notes with me?"
"Yeah. He told me at the airport."
"Has he told you everything he’s done?”
“I got enough.”
“Then let me rephrase the question. Even if you do love him, is it wise to remain with him?”
“If I -- what do you mean?”
Her eyes locked on mine. “You are now a citizen of Denmark. Your work is in Copenhagen. It would be much more logical for you to be there than eight thousand kilometers away.”
“You don’t abandon somebody who’s got cancer or AIDS or heart disease, not if you love ‘em. Tone’s still healin’, both physically and legally. I’m stickin’ it out."
"So it is loyalty."
"Like a dog, huh?" I snapped. "Why're you askin’ me this? Is it Uncle Ari? You been talkin’ to him?”
“One does not talk to Ari; one only listens. He likes your work. His clients like your work. He wants you to become a partner in his business. It is an excellent idea, but you will have to return to Denmark to live. Antony cannot leave until next year, at the earliest. He could easily join you, then.”
Talk about a load of crap. Uncle Ari and my dad may be brothers, but Ari was open and gregarious and never met anyone he couldn’t like...and couldn’t keep a secret to save his life. He hadn’t even hinted about anything more than meeting a new client on this trip and sending more graphics assignments my way. So there was something else going on and she didn’t have the nerve to be up front with me. Which brought her down a notch in my eyes; if she can’t tell by now that I can be trusted, she never will...and that pissed me off.
“Don’t hand me this crap about Uncle Ari, Mira. What's really goin' on, here?”
She stopped in mid-chew and nodded and swallowed and took a sip of her wine. Burgundy with a salad; there’s something wrong about that.
"You are correct," she said. "I am too used to having to be careful with my patients."
"You tryin' to tell me I'm crazy for stickin' with Tone?"
She looked straight at me.
“Your mother has contacted your father.”
Slam-bam, blindside me, ma'am.
May 3, 2014
Wrestling with a shadow
That's what writing is. Tussling and tumbling with something that is so ephemeral, it doesn't exist except in your mind or on a page. You fight with nothingness in order to form it into something that will become reality in a reader's mind, and often wonder just how close to insanity you truly are.
That's been me, all day...and just in dealing with chapter one. I shifted a lot of the detail work to after the set-up of Jake needing to find his uncle...and it works better, but I think it still needs to be clearer and cleaner. The one truly, positively great thing about this new match with Jake is, I can now clearly see that I was already aiming for this new revelation...this whole new reason behind the story.
I happened onto an image that I know will fit into the ending, some way...just don't know how, yet. The model's name is Jordan and he could be Jake in his thirties.
I still like Aidan Turner's look for Jake, so I'm not sure what this is all about. I just know the final chapter is going to be in a hotel room in Paris...and this fits it.
Damn, I wish I understood me better so I could figure out what the hell I'm doing.
That's been me, all day...and just in dealing with chapter one. I shifted a lot of the detail work to after the set-up of Jake needing to find his uncle...and it works better, but I think it still needs to be clearer and cleaner. The one truly, positively great thing about this new match with Jake is, I can now clearly see that I was already aiming for this new revelation...this whole new reason behind the story.
I happened onto an image that I know will fit into the ending, some way...just don't know how, yet. The model's name is Jordan and he could be Jake in his thirties.I still like Aidan Turner's look for Jake, so I'm not sure what this is all about. I just know the final chapter is going to be in a hotel room in Paris...and this fits it.
Damn, I wish I understood me better so I could figure out what the hell I'm doing.
May 2, 2014
Promotional work...
That was this evening, after the day job. Pushing my books and scripts. I belong to a number of organizations that post or send out emails about people looking for screenplays -- but usually they're so specific, nothing I have matches up. Stuff like -- MMA, Asian lead, shootable in China or SE Asia, budget up to $1m -- or -- Christmas story, uplifting, family oriented, budget $200K. They all know that their project will make a hundred-million, and in exchange you get $1000 and a share of the profits.
I tried to write some things that would fit into those types of parameters. I even have one martial arts script that I had fun writing and making a bit silly. Lots of action, a dive off the 20th floor of a hotel into a pool, betrayal, unrequited love, a perfect hero, all very heterosexual. It's set in Manila but I wrote a version that would work in Shanghai or Hong Kong and sent its info to a few ads...got nothin'.
That's to be expected, however. 99 times out of a hundred what those characters are looking for is something so specific, they really ought to write it themselves. Or so unrealistic, they'll never get it made. Or they just want to option it for a $1 for 5 years, and you'll wind up with a script that's of no use except as a writing sample because it's now got a history. I have four of those; don't need any more.
Of course, I've also gotten the, "Change a few things and bring it back to us," stuff that means nothing. The changes "don't work for them, after all," and it sometimes hurts the script. I've got two of those. I don't shut down people who make suggestions; but I won't make any change unless I think it will make the script better, and I make sure they understand if that happens, the changes become mine.
I finally got to where, if they don't prove to me they're serious, I'm not interested in doing anything other than popping off the usual synopsis and logline. Sometimes I'll include my list of scripts...but not always. That puts the ball in their court, and if they're interested, they'll get back to me. If they don't, it means they weren't.
I know that's a heretical attitude in Hollywood. Writers are supposed to beg and grovel for someone to make their movie and piss all over them as they totally wreck the story and characters. Been there, done that, got me nowhere except close to crazier than I already am...so fuck it.
Except...maybe this time...I'll be lucky...maybe this time...they'll pay.
I tried to write some things that would fit into those types of parameters. I even have one martial arts script that I had fun writing and making a bit silly. Lots of action, a dive off the 20th floor of a hotel into a pool, betrayal, unrequited love, a perfect hero, all very heterosexual. It's set in Manila but I wrote a version that would work in Shanghai or Hong Kong and sent its info to a few ads...got nothin'.
That's to be expected, however. 99 times out of a hundred what those characters are looking for is something so specific, they really ought to write it themselves. Or so unrealistic, they'll never get it made. Or they just want to option it for a $1 for 5 years, and you'll wind up with a script that's of no use except as a writing sample because it's now got a history. I have four of those; don't need any more.
Of course, I've also gotten the, "Change a few things and bring it back to us," stuff that means nothing. The changes "don't work for them, after all," and it sometimes hurts the script. I've got two of those. I don't shut down people who make suggestions; but I won't make any change unless I think it will make the script better, and I make sure they understand if that happens, the changes become mine.
I finally got to where, if they don't prove to me they're serious, I'm not interested in doing anything other than popping off the usual synopsis and logline. Sometimes I'll include my list of scripts...but not always. That puts the ball in their court, and if they're interested, they'll get back to me. If they don't, it means they weren't.
I know that's a heretical attitude in Hollywood. Writers are supposed to beg and grovel for someone to make their movie and piss all over them as they totally wreck the story and characters. Been there, done that, got me nowhere except close to crazier than I already am...so fuck it.
Except...maybe this time...I'll be lucky...maybe this time...they'll pay.
May 1, 2014
Reconstruction...
There's an old saying -- "It's not finished until it's finished." Which, in the case of my stories, tends to be never...because considering how I've been working on The Vanishing of Owen Taylor since forever, it's like I'm out to prove how true that is.
I've already torn the first chapter apart, mainly due to the fact that it's too detailed and very confusing. Jake's trying to explain what happened in Rape in Holding Cell 6 as background, and even though I wrote it, it was getting me lost. So out it went, for use later. Maybe. We'll see how it fits in somewhere else, now.
That is one good aspect of taking time away from the story -- I can look at it with a clearer eye and see how overwritten it was becoming. That's not Jake's voice. He doesn't load his sentences with soft works and filagree. He talks plain and direct and honest. He keeps secrets...hell, who doesn't? But only because they're no one's business but his own. No pity for Jake; he doesn't have time for it.
This recent head-butting is finally proving to be productive. I could see where I was slipping into Tone's voice instead of his, at times. Gotta be careful about that.
And yet, I understand why a lot of the extraneous stuff happens in the book -- Jake's building a family. A gay family of people who will support him and care for him and work with him, in the face of society's hypocrisy and hate.
And don't tell me things are getting better for gay men and women in the US. Compared to the evil that used to be aimed at us, maybe things aren't quite as bad in some parts of the country. And it's true that people's attitudes are changing dramatically about us. But there are still far too many people out there perfectly willing to have us killed or thrown in jail and forced back to being second-class citizens, and far too many people who will say nothing in response to the attacks.
Too bad so many of them are Democratic leaders.
I've already torn the first chapter apart, mainly due to the fact that it's too detailed and very confusing. Jake's trying to explain what happened in Rape in Holding Cell 6 as background, and even though I wrote it, it was getting me lost. So out it went, for use later. Maybe. We'll see how it fits in somewhere else, now.That is one good aspect of taking time away from the story -- I can look at it with a clearer eye and see how overwritten it was becoming. That's not Jake's voice. He doesn't load his sentences with soft works and filagree. He talks plain and direct and honest. He keeps secrets...hell, who doesn't? But only because they're no one's business but his own. No pity for Jake; he doesn't have time for it.
This recent head-butting is finally proving to be productive. I could see where I was slipping into Tone's voice instead of his, at times. Gotta be careful about that.
And yet, I understand why a lot of the extraneous stuff happens in the book -- Jake's building a family. A gay family of people who will support him and care for him and work with him, in the face of society's hypocrisy and hate.
And don't tell me things are getting better for gay men and women in the US. Compared to the evil that used to be aimed at us, maybe things aren't quite as bad in some parts of the country. And it's true that people's attitudes are changing dramatically about us. But there are still far too many people out there perfectly willing to have us killed or thrown in jail and forced back to being second-class citizens, and far too many people who will say nothing in response to the attacks.
Too bad so many of them are Democratic leaders.
April 29, 2014
Still pushing...
I'm doing what little I know how to keep people interested in my work -- not just the controversial books but also my more mainstream stuff. Like The Lyons' Den. It's got a gay lead and is centered around gay men, but it deals with the same problems everybody has -- love, loss, lies, longing. All with a healthy dose of psychosis...like real life.
It's selling but not anything like I'd hoped. Still...I keep pushing. I've got it listed on a couple of sites in exchange for freebies, and still have my facebook page for it.
Same for David Martin. This little fable's about as mainstream as you can get -- geared mainly at pre-adolescents. But it's not doing very well...and I'm not sure that else to do. I've gotten advice from other self-published authors, but I'm finding they're happy selling 25 books a week. I want to get to where I'm doing twice that many a day.
If anybody has any ideas on how to promote my work, please let me know.
It's selling but not anything like I'd hoped. Still...I keep pushing. I've got it listed on a couple of sites in exchange for freebies, and still have my facebook page for it.Same for David Martin. This little fable's about as mainstream as you can get -- geared mainly at pre-adolescents. But it's not doing very well...and I'm not sure that else to do. I've gotten advice from other self-published authors, but I'm finding they're happy selling 25 books a week. I want to get to where I'm doing twice that many a day.
If anybody has any ideas on how to promote my work, please let me know.
April 28, 2014
I'm pissed...
I thought Jake trusted me to write The Vanishing of Owen Taylor, but this last revelation has thrown that into question. It means a lot of restructuring and a fair portion of what I've written will need to be dumped because it just doesn't work, anymore. And now he's trying to back away from it, as if he thinks he's told me too much...like he was just kidding. It's driving me nuts.
I halfway wonder if it's all about fear...or punishment for me not getting the damn book done. I've been working on it for over a year and a half...and just when I think I've got it, Jake shifts position and lets a bit more info out and it makes everything different. Like he's messing with me, the little shit.
So what do I do? The new killer makes sense...but something about the way Jake's suggesting he finally realize it is just so...coincidental or easy or cliched. And batting about with all this crap has given me a vicious headache, adding to my pissiness.
I hate it when my characters try to fuck me over. Of course, I know what it really is -- my own reticence in dealing with this new aspect of the story. But it's RIGHT. I can feel that. It's more than just thinking it's good or telling myself it makes sense. It's a claw in my gut that won't let go...and when that happens, me doing anything else would hurt the story.
I found this out when I wrote the suicide bit in Bobby Carapisi. I tried for months to figure out a way around it...to ignore it...to do something other than let a character I liked die...but I couldn't move until I finally forced myself to focus and face it and let it go. And grieve through another character. It wasn't until then that the book got finished.
So here we go, again...and my head is killing me.
I halfway wonder if it's all about fear...or punishment for me not getting the damn book done. I've been working on it for over a year and a half...and just when I think I've got it, Jake shifts position and lets a bit more info out and it makes everything different. Like he's messing with me, the little shit.So what do I do? The new killer makes sense...but something about the way Jake's suggesting he finally realize it is just so...coincidental or easy or cliched. And batting about with all this crap has given me a vicious headache, adding to my pissiness.
I hate it when my characters try to fuck me over. Of course, I know what it really is -- my own reticence in dealing with this new aspect of the story. But it's RIGHT. I can feel that. It's more than just thinking it's good or telling myself it makes sense. It's a claw in my gut that won't let go...and when that happens, me doing anything else would hurt the story.
I found this out when I wrote the suicide bit in Bobby Carapisi. I tried for months to figure out a way around it...to ignore it...to do something other than let a character I liked die...but I couldn't move until I finally forced myself to focus and face it and let it go. And grieve through another character. It wasn't until then that the book got finished.
So here we go, again...and my head is killing me.
