C.E. Grundler's Blog, page 11

What Would Hemingway Do? (WWHD?)

Working alone in a shed at the far corner of a boatyard provides me plenty of time to think, and curling up in the forward cabin with my laptop, well beyond any internet signals, leaves me hours of distraction-free time to write. But it doesn’t sell books. These days, if you want to sell books, social networking is the way to go. And while I spend my days working on the boat, in every sense of the word, my fellow authors are actively working online, posting to Facebook, Tweeting, and commenting, as well as utilizing numerous other social network platforms I’ve yet to explore.

True, I’ve blogged for years, though originally my blog wasn’t even a blog, but simply a web page documenting a previous boat restoration. When I began, it gave me a way to easily share pictures and stories with a small circle of friends. The content has since branched into other areas and attracted more readers, and I’ve  linked it (sort of — there’s still some kinks) to Facebook, yet this blog remains my main online presence. But these days, new platforms are emerging at an accelerating rate, and I realize as an author, it would serve me well to learn and use these latest ways of reaching out to a wider audience.

Instead, I continue to split my time between my family, an old boat, and writing. And the other day, while I cut my way through yards of fiberglass, I found myself wondering: is this what I should be doing if I ever hope to achieve greatness. Okay. Just kidding. I’ll settle for reasonable mid-list-ish-ness. But seriously, if some of the ‘great’ authors of days gone by were alive today, how would they spend their time? Would they be out, living life and writing about it, or would they be hunkered down in the glow of their computer monitors, chained to their WiFi signals like dogs by an invisible fence as they delved into the many layers of social media and networked with their fellow authors and readers?

Would John Steinbeck be sharing on Tumblr?

Would Mark Twain ask readers to ‘like’ him on Facebook?

Would Edgar Allen Poe attend Thrillerfest?

Would Emily Dickinson post her Pintrests?

Would Jane Austen frequent Reddit?

 Would Jules Verne be updating his Author Page?

Would Agatha Christie be Linkedin?

Would Ernest Hemingway Tweet?

I know this social networking thing works, and I’ve seen how the authors most adept at it have a distinct advantage when it comes to reaching and connecting with readers. Don’t construe that I’m knocking social networking – if anything, I wish it came more naturally to me. I’m simply wondering how authors of the past, the ones who rose to iconic status, would deal with social networking. If they ignored it, would they still have risen to the heights that they did? And if they embraced it, would they still have had time to write on a level that made them the authors we know today?

And on that note, I’m posting this and unplugging my computer. I have much work to do.

Ponderings of the day…

Traffic has set me so far behind schedule that I’m taking a brief air-conditioning break before heading back into the shop (garage) to resume my fiberglass preps. But hours spent staring at brake lights around me left me to ponder these thoughts and more.

Why is it that people chose to drive very pricey high end automobiles, yet ignore that those vehicles are driving on bald tires?

Why is it that various drivers neglect to look under their hoods until after they’re stopped on the shoulder of the highway with the family and a week’s worth of luggage packed into their car, temperatures have hit triple digits, and a mushroom cloud is rising from what remains of their engine? (At which point they still have zero idea what they are staring at or why, only that it is not good.)

Why is it that people fail to realize the moment their vehicle, which is not accustomed to idling with the air conditioner cranking in triple digit temperatures in a parking lot of traffic backed up behind aforementioned breakdown will now join the Over-heated Car Club.

Why is it that Audi drivers with uni-directional tires often have a single rear tire mounted in reverse of the direction it is meant to rotate. They call them ‘uni-directional’ for a reason. Your mechanic/tire place should know better, and so should you. It bugs me whenever I see that.

Why is it that people driving cars worth four times that of my Jetta can’t seem to Blue-tooth their cell phones? If my car can talk to my phone, I’m sure yours can, too. Read the manual. It’s that little book in the glove box.

Okay. That’s my five minute rant. I’ve cooled off, and I’ve much work to do. Deeper ponderings to come on Monday. Everyone, have a safe, fun, pre-4th weekend. But please, look under your hood before you hit the highway, and check your tires, damnit!

 

Still itching…

Nothing deep and profound today. Not that profound ideas aren’t rattling around in my brain — trust me, they are. Spend the hours very carefully measuring and cutting giant swaths of woven glass, and the mind wanders to some odd places… but more on that tomorrow. Today the fiberglass saga continued, as it will for days to come, but being that it’s Thursday and my turn to add something to Write On The Water, I took some time to expand upon the process of Preparation.

 

Decisions, decisions…

Emails and comments awaiting replies.  Things to be read, even more to be written. And 20 yards of lovely, silky(ish) fiberglass cloth to be cut into boat-sized pieces.

The above photo and the briefness of this post should make it obvious where I’ll be spending most of my day.  I shall return once this task is complete, somewhat itchier but more focused.

Me? Strange?

After reading yesterday’s post, my dad called and informed me, “Now everyone is going to think you’re strange.”

I would have figured anyone reading my blog would have reached that conclusion long ago.  I wouldn’t say ‘strange’ so much as ‘different’. Okay, maybe strange works just as well. I have a dark streak, a warped sense of humor, and a skewed way of looking at things. Personally, I don’t think that makes me a bad person, though I’m sure there are a few people out there who might hold differing opinions. Oh, yeah, and I don’t give a damn what people think of me. Including the many strangers I held up when I parked my car sideways in the middle of a busy road in Paramus the other day, blocking traffic in both directions so I could herd a garbage-lid sized snapping turtle safely through the traffic he’d happily wandered directly into. A massive snapping turtle is a creature to be reckoned with, and he ambled along with that attitude, but I suspect if it came down to turtle vs inattentive Escalade driver, the Caddy would have won. So yes, that was me, standing in the road just clear of any retaliatory snaps as I waved my arms and shouted “Get out of the road!” while my fellow drivers, unable to pass, likely were yelling the same at me. And more, I suspect.

Yeah, I might be strange, but I’m perfectly happy that way.

My kind of day…

It’s a lovely Monday, grey, foreboding and overcast, with wave after wave of thunderstorms rolling through. My kind of day.

No, that’s not sarcasm. It might sound strange, but I’m not a big fan of daylight. I prefer whatever subdues the sun’s glare, be it the night or a thick, ominous blanket of clouds. At night, shadows wash over everything, obscuring details, blending and softening the world’s harsh edges. Everything grows quiet in those early hours before dawn, when most night-owls have finally turned in and the early risers are yet to venture forth. The darkness is energizing. There’s virtually no one out and about, and it’s a great time to recharge, to really think, without distraction or interruption. I can walk the darkened streets without encountering a single soul. Only a rare, intermittent car passes and I step back, unseen as my dark attire blends with the roadside shadows. I can be invisible.

Rain has a similar effect. It keeps people indoors, and if they do venture out, it’s with heads ducked down as they dodge puddles and scurry from one doorway to another, or hunch beneath umbrellas and hoods. People pay less mind to those around them. Sunny summer days, on the other hand, draw most people out. They raise their faces to the sun’s warmth, they look around…they interact. And for a textbook introvert like myself, someone who for the most part avoids interaction and cherishes solitude, sunny days can be downright exhausting.

If any of this sounds reminiscent of a certain character in my stories, there’s good reason. Many of our characters draw upon pieces of who we are. Left to my own devices, I likely would have shifted to a nocturnal schedule years ago. I could turn this into a discussion regarding the nuances of an introverted personality, but there are already plenty of excellent discussions on that topic, such as this one. It suffices to say, a nice stormy day like today is my idea of perfect.

Please stand by…

I’d meant to post something yesterday and today, but things got hectic. I did, however, post to Write on the Water yesterday, so for anyone who missed it, here’s How did you guess?

It’s the weekend, which means another round of limited internet access and itchy fiberglass/epoxy fun. With luck, by Monday I’ll have some interesting pictures to post and the interior structure of the cabin will be complete at long last.

Just when you thought it was safe to go back in the water…

Once this burns off, we’re in for a hazy, hot, icky, sticky day.

You’ll all forgive me but with far too busy of a schedule today, I’m reposting a previous post from Write on the Water. I was discussing this very topic with a friend only yesterday, how, as the thermometer climbs to unpleasant heights, more than anything, I’d love to take a nice, refreshing dive into the Hudson.Yes, the Hudson River.

I know. People hear ‘Hudson River’ and they immediately imagine a stew of sewage and toxic waste, with mobster disposals, tires and God only knows what else floating in on the tide. But thanks to the efforts of the kind folks at Clearwater and Riverkeeper, along with countless other grass-roots environmental groups, the Hudson is a vibrant and healthy river, alive with blue crabs, record-setting striped bass, sturgeon, eels, and even sharks. During the winter it’s not unusual to see seals frolicking and basking on the vacant docks while bald eagles nest on the cliffs, osprey plunge down for fish, cormorants crowd the rocks and night herons patrol the shores. Occasionally deer decide the grass is greener on the other bank and you’ll see them swimming across. Foxes and coyotes are not uncommon, and Bear Mountain lives up to its name. But those unfamiliar with the area look at the brownish water, murky with natural silt in the same way as the Mississippi, and assume the coloration equals pollution. But I’ve long known, it’s some of the best swimming water you could imagine.

We have cool prehistoric fish!
Photo from Hudsonriverkeeper Blog

Bear swimming at Bear Mountain – Image from http://hudsonriverkeeper.blogspot.com

First off, that silty water has many wonderful qualities. For one, it holds warmth, so the water reaches a pleasant bath-like temperature much earlier than the Atlantic, and retains it well into fall. It’s brackish, not quite as harsh as pure salt water, but still retains those wonderful buoyancy-enhancing abilities. And that silt seems to have a ‘clay bath’ quality; a nice soak in the river leaves skin feeling soft and rejuvenated. After a lifetime of swimming in that opaque water, I’ll admit I’m almost suspicious of any water I can’t see. But I still get odd looks from those who don’t ‘get it.’ I still recall the time a transient boater at our boatyard, heading up the brown river, regarded my daughter and I in horror when they discovered we’d actually been swimming. I told them we’d both been swimming in the Hudson for our entire lives with no ill effects, though they regarded us strangely and looked far convinced. It wasn’t until later that I realized why they might have been a bit skeptical. My daughter was in her teens, at a point where she had been dying her hair a lovely shade of vivid blue, and I even sported a few cobalt streaks for fun. We still laugh about that.

But the funniest ‘swimming in the Hudson’ story will always be the ‘dead baby’. Trust me, it’s not as bad as it sounds, in fact it has gone on to be a family joke. Just stay with me on this one — I can assure you no infants were harmed in any way. We had dropped the hook at Croton Point, one of the most popular anchorages in the area, and we had some guests aboard. It took some coaxing to convince them the water was indeed safe for swimming – they were certain it lived up to every horror story they’d ever heard. Finally they went below, changed into swim suits, then proceeded tentatively to the swim platform… and that’s when the screams of horror erupted. One of our guests was incoherent, she couldn’t even relay what had set her off, it was so unspeakable. But her companion pointed overboard to the oblong ten pound shape, clothed in sodden white fabric and gently bobbing, half submerged, a few feet astern of the boat. “Dead baby…” he stammered, clasping the transom to steady himself. “There’s a dead baby in the water!” At which point, my entire family began laughing.

Yes, I come from a warped background. Shocking, I know. But we’re not *that* bad! (Okay, maybe we are, but let’s stay on topic.) We reassured our guests it wasn’t a deceased infant floating on the tide – it was dessert. Let me rephrase that – it was a watermelon. With limited room in the icebox and no air conditioning aboard, we’d found the best way to keep the watermelon fresh and chilled (or at least somewhat cooler) was to place it in a laundry bag, secured by line to the boat, and float it in the river while at anchor. We’d done it for years, and never once thought about how it might appear to someone unfamiliar with the process. But from that day forward, that ritual was referred to as ‘floating the dead baby.’

Steering the muses clear of trouble…

Carry-on, or should I check this with the rest of my baggage?

For years I’ve been told how I really should read the Millenium Series, not only because they’re considered exceptional books, but also because the character, Lisbeth Salander, shares a number of traits with my protagonist, Hazel Moran. Apparently, Lisbeth is a highly introverted loner as well, seemingly tough yet surprisingly vulnerable, with few friends and a strong wariness when it comes to strangers. I’ve yet to read those books, and the more I hear the comparisons, the more determined I become not to start.

I have my reasons. Am I curious as hell about Stieg Larsson’s books? Hell yeah. As a writer, I’d love to know what it is about them that created the world-wide buzz. And if they’re as great as everyone says, as a reader, I’m always on the lookout for the next good book. Is it likely I’d enjoy them? Absolutely. But now that I’m in the business of writing, there’s another side to that equation. I really need to watch where my inspiration comes from.

Muses thrive on words and concepts. Every waking moment, and even those dreams that invade our sleep, becomes food for our muses. A passing conversation, a headline in a newspaper, even the lyrics from a song, can get the brain fired up and fingers blurring across the keyboard. Muses are much like small children, sponging up and spilling back all their naïve little heads can absorb. We can’t shelter them from everything, but we should take caution with what we expose them to, lest we catch them singing ‘Like a Virgin’ as they skip into kindergarten.

So long as I’ve never read Larsson’s works, or watched the movies, for that matter, I know for certain there is no way they could influence my writing. In fact, that’s likely the same reason that the more I write, the less I read within my own genre. These days I’ve been sticking more to fantasy and memoirs. That way, I can read simply for the sake of enjoyment, without the concern that I might unintentionally internalize some plot point or phrasing. And I can let my muses onto the playground without worrying that I’ll be called in for a parent-teacher conference.

(Bonus points for anyone who recognizes the specific muse pictured above.)

Going places I haven’t been… at least not yet

A kind reader (who I’ve never met firsthand but have corresponded with from the time they read Last Exit in New Jersey) brightened my email this morning with these lovely photos, taken in Palm Island, in the Grenadines, and looking at them, I can almost feel the warm sand between my toes and imagine that mine is one of the boats moored close by, in a secluded cove. Sigh. All in good time.

As an author, there’s something very cool about realizing that among the luggage one person chose to pack for this trip to paradise, they made space to include my book, and it makes me even happier to know they took the time to snap these photos and send them my way.  The path of a writer is a bumpy one, but it’s unexpected moments like these that make me smile and keep me going. (And these pictures give me even more of a push to get the boat back together and underway!)