Alan Loewen's Blog, page 37

The Christmas Scale

I know that not all people celebrate the end of the year like I do. HOWEVER, you celebrate it, even if not at all, I sincerely hope that 2015 ends peacefully for you and that you look toward 2016 as full of promise and fulfillment. But speaking only for myself, if I may be so bold, this is how I celebrate the end of December.

True Writing Contains Two Contradictory Elements

Still playing with the final edits of Strange Streets, moving closer to the time when I know it's done as all I am doing is only pushing words around.

I thought I was so smart by changing the gender of one character from male to female, but after letting the story sit for a day or two I reread it to realize I now had so many women in the room, it was confusing to tell them apart.

The character is now a man again.

And I had far too many sections that had to be rewritten where the reader would have simply become confused because I had not stated the obvious either blatantly or through a discrete reference or by giving a clue.

Show, don't tell. Show, don't tell. That staccato phrase has become my mantra.

Also, there are two aspects of the story I refuse to change as they are what make the story mine and, more importantly, also because of my relationship with you, the reader. Allow me to explain.

I have been told I use big words. That is true. In Strange Streets I use words and phrases like "sylvan bric-à-brac," "will-o-the-wisp," "chocolatiers," "minuscule tapers," and, my favorite, "aurulent" (though I did give in and changed "aurulent" to "cinnamon-colored").

Also, I leave the ending somewhat ambiguous though it is very clear how the story ends. I just didn't come out and shove the ending in the reader's face as I thought it would be insulting to the intelligence.

And that's the reason. Though I like to think I write only for myself and "if I build it, the audience will come," the reason I write the way I do is because I have a lot of respect for my readers. They don't need bully pulpit hack stories that speak down to them and assume they have no reading level above 4th grade. That's insulting.

It may be conceit, but I like to think my readers are very intelligent. They do not need to be spoon fed.

I am moving through the various stages of writing with Strange Streets:
Contentment upon completing the first draft. Horror at the first reading. Frustration during the first edit. Hope as the first edit sits for awhile. Despair at the second reading. Resentment during the second edit. Waves of optimism and desperation through the remaining editing cycles. Fear as I prepare to surrender it to my critique circle. Terror as I read the story to my critique group. Flashes of faith as I go through the final edit. Amazement and gratitude when I find somebody who actually wants to read the thing.

Know What I would LOVE For Christmas?

The Hard Part of Writing Is NOT Writing

Some days ago, I wrote the words, "The End" for Strange Streets, my new dark romantic fantasy and now comes the really hard part.

I have to go over the story for revision and editing and preparing it for critique when it faces a group of writers next month at my monthly writers' group.

Editing and revision is, hands down, the most difficult part of writing regardless of what you may have completed: short story, novel, poem, a work of nonfiction or a movie script or essay.

Editing and revision is much like changing the diaper of a baby ogre. Before you get everything nice and cleaned up, you have to go through a lot of mess and sometimes you might even get chewed on for a little bit.

Let me show you a glimpse of what it took to revise Strange Streets so far.

I had to put the work aside for at least a week before even beginning revision and editing. I have been living with the characters and the plot for weeks and much of my understanding of their motivations and other aspects of their personalities and actions were well known to me. By distancing myself from the work, I gained the ability to see the story from the perspective of a reader. In Strange Streets, James and his cousin, Darby, go window shopping in Carlisle and end up on a street rather off the beaten path. I knew when writing the story that Darby was not all that she seemed and that she was oblivious to that fact herself. In rewriting, I had to stress Darby's background so in a second reading when the reader knows the reveal, they can see the hints that led up to it.

James is a timid introvert and socially awkward. In the story which covers three years of his life I had to show the reasonable and logical manner in which his personality changed through the events where the the timid part of his personality is replaced by one that is more courageous. That meant that some additional storyline had to be included to show that transition.

There is a third character in the story and on revision, I discovered the character would have more of an impact if I changed their gender. The male shopkeeper is now female which gives the story a vital energy it lacked when the character was a man.

When will the story be complete? I leave you with the advice given to me years ago and so long ago I cannot remember the source:


When your editing and revision is finally reduced to nothing more than pushing words around, you're done.

Priceless Writing Advice From A Master

My Strange Relationship With Yeat's The Song of Wandering Aengus

I have the world's lousiest memory. I cannot remember names to save my life and as I age my faulty memory has degraded to such a point that I actually spoke to my doctor about my concerns.

"You do not have dementia," he said.

"And how do you know that?" I asked. His blatant statement after I recited my symptoms left me offended that he could make a prognosis without further discussion.

"Because people with dementia don't know they have dementia. When a patient tells me they suffer from it, I know they don't have it. If they did, they would be oblivious to the matter."

He then prattled on about brain fog and stress and how I needed a dramatic change in my life to lessen the stress.

Right. Sure thing.

So I still have memory problems, but my brain continues to amaze me. Not too long ago, I was reading William Butler Yeat's, The Song of Wandering Aengus.

The closing lines delighted me:

Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done,
The silver apples of the moon, 
The golden apples of the sun.

Enchanted by the sheer power of Yeat's words, I read them again and suddenly something clicked.

Though I can barely remember the day's chores or a simple three item shopping list, those eight lines have become a permanent part of my memory. I can quote them accurately at any time.

I have no idea how I have done that. Ask me the next time you see me.

And now that my short story, Strange Streets, is completed, those same lines form an important part of the story's twist. Personally, I'm just delighted I could use such immortal prose in my own humble offering.

You can read the entire poem here. I believe you will enjoy it as much as I do.

Links To All My Christmas Stories

Here are all the links all in one post to my four literary Christmas gifts to you. Enjoy.
A Lord of All Futures Christmas Tale The Star A Christmas Carol Parody Molly's Christmas My posts will be fewer in the next few weeks, so allow me to say Merry Christmas and that you enjoy the season no matter how you celebrate it.

I leave you with a blessing that I always give to all my friends regardless of what path they may walk:

The Lord bless you, and keep you;
The Lord make His face shine on you,
And be gracious to you;
The Lord lift up His countenance on you,
And give you peace.’

Molly's Christmas: A Story For Children

This is a Christmas story written specifically for children. If you are an illustrator and would like to partner with me on a children's book, please contact me at magic.by.alan AT gmail DOT com.

Molly's Christmasby Craig A. LoewenALL RIGHTS RESERVED BUT PERMISSION GIVEN FORPRIVATE DOWNLOADS AND PRINT OUTS
Molly sneezed again, making her mother jump in surprise.

"But I don't want to stay in bed," Molly cried, "I want to come down and decorate the Christmas tree. And Uncle Ted was going to come by with his horses and sleigh!"

"I'm so sorry, sweetheart," her mother said with a shake of her head, "but you've got a very bad cold and a fever. Most likely it's flu. If you don't rest; it might get worse." She grabbed the blanket and pulled it up over her shivering daughter. "There's still a lot of Christmas to go around. December's a busy month. There's a lot to celebrate and there's always New Year's."

"Don't care," Molly muttered through chattering teeth. "Silly old fever."

Her mother rested a cool hand on Molly's forehead. "I know you and horses," she said with a gentle smile. "You'd rather be with horses than eat, but I promise you'll have plenty of time for Christmas and your Uncle Ted's sleigh team."

She sat by Molly's bedside until her daughter's breathing became soft and rhythmic. Then giving her a quick kiss and a prayer for sweet dreams, Molly's mother left, quietly closing the bedroom door behind her.

In Molly's room, all was silent except for the little girl's breathing. Through the window in the clear December night, the stars twinkled in a perfect cloudless sky.

Molly surrendered to the dreams of a magical Christmas night.

"Oh, you poor thing," she heard as the mists of sleep started to fade around her.

"Who?" Molly asked. "Who's a poor thing?"

"Why you are, you poor child, sick on Christmas Eve. How unfair."

Molly blinked. She found herself standing in a small room made cozy by a warm glowing fireplace. In front of her, an old woman dressed in red and white rocked back and forth in a small chair.

"Who are you?" Molly asked.

"Well," the woman said with a big smile, "some say I'm the Spirit of Christmas, but my friends just call me Mother Yule. Now let's see if we can't make your Christmas a tad more cheery."

With that, Mother Yule clapped her hands and suddenly Molly found herself out in a cold, stormy winter night. She shut her eyes tight against the bitter sleet. "This isn't what I would call cheery!" she called out to the wind.

"Now, now," said Mother Yule's voice in Molly's ear. "Be brave. I want to introduce you to a friend of mine."

Molly blinked in surprise as she realized they were not alone. A huge, jet-black warhorse stood before her on strong, sturdy legs. The sleet hit the stallion's muscular back and instantly melted from sheer body heat. Molly could feel the power resting in the animal.

Molly heard boots crunching through the snow behind her.

"Molly," Mother Yule's voice said, "I would like you to meet one of my dearest friends, King Wenceslas, the Duke of Bohemia in the Year of our Lord, 926. I'm sorry I can't give you a proper introduction, but he cannot see you."

The young man dressed in a thick, heavy cloak could not have been older than nineteen. He dropped a huge bag on the ground and rubbed the horse's ears in greeting. "Pr'tel, my friend," he said. "I know it's cold, but we have good work to do."

Flinging the heavy sack over Pr'tel's back, he took the bridle and led the way out of the paddock and into the dark streets of a city asleep in the grip of winter. It surprised Molly, clothed only in a nightgown, that the cold did not really bother her.

Interested, she kept up a steady pace behind the pair, the horse's heavy iron shoes making a clip-clopping echo through the deserted streets.

They came to a simple home. Wenceslas clutched his cloak tightly around him, and pulled the hood low over his face. He rapped on the door, paused, and rapped again.

A noise came from behind the door. Slowly, it opened a crack to reveal a tired woman holding a single candle burned down to a nubbin.

"Widow Ludmila?" the good king asked.

"Yes?" the woman asked trembling. "Who are you? What do you want?"

"A friend," was all he would say. He went to Pr'tel and took the heavy sack from off his back. "Here is food for you and your four children. Here also is cloth for you to make clothes for your children or maybe to sell. "And," he said, reaching to the small leather bag on his belt, "here are a few coins to help."

The woman simply stared at the sack at her feet, her mouth open in surprise. "But," she said as tears came to her eyes, "Why? Why would you do this for us?"

Wenceslas laughed gently. "Is it not the season for giving gifts?" Without another word, he leapt on his horse's back and turned his head away from the widow's door.

"Bless you, sir," the woman called to him as he rode away. "God bless you!"

"He already has," Wenceslas called back.

Suddenly, Molly found herself back in the warm room where Mother Yule sat in the cheery glow of the fire. "What did you think of that, little one?" she asked.

"Oh, that was fun," Molly said excitedly. "Do you have other friends like that?"

Mother Yule laughed in sheer delight. "Oh, yes. Look! All that we behold is full of blessings!"

With a wave of her hand, she sent Molly to the horses and ponies of history as they participated in the spirit of Christmas.

Molly watched Saint Nicholas of Myra astride his faithful mare as he went to give a poor man gold for his daughters' dowries. She stood on board a ship bound for a new land listening to the immigrants sing Christmas carols to calm their stabled horses on the undulating sea. She watched ponies and draft horses drag Christmas trees from the woods and pull sleds of Christmas revelers. Up and down the corridor of time, Molly had the privilege of seeing Christmas through countless equine eyes.

Back home, Molly's mother looked in on her daughter only to hear Molly laugh contentedly in her sleep.

"One more, dear child." Mother Yule whispered in her ear. "One more."

Molly found herself staring at a strange face of a lumpy, dirty creature standing next to a wooden water trough.

"A donkey!" she said in exasperation. "Oh, Mother Yule, That's not a horse!"

"Hush," said the voice in her ear.

The donkey stood in a strange, dusty place filled with animals. The walls were simple clay and mud. The floor was covered with a thick bedding of straw. A ramshackle door creaked open.

"Best I can do," came a tired man's voice. "The inn is full, but you can stay here in the stable. At least it will be warm."

"It will have to do," said another male voice. A man appeared in the door silhouetted by the bright sunlight. He led a young woman by the arm. The woman was obviously with child and in pain.

That night, Molly watched as the drama of the first Christmas unfolded before her eyes. Even later, sitting by the donkey as it lay on the hay floor keeping the stable warm with heat from its own body, Molly watched with wonder as shepherds knelt before the couple and their newborn child. From where she sat in the straw, Molly could see the smooth unmarked hands of the cooing baby reach out to a brilliant star in the heavens glittering through an open window.

The next morning Molly awoke and shook her head at the memory of her fantastic dream. She still felt a little shaky, but her fever had broken in the night. The door opened and her mother entered with a breakfast tray.

"Good morning, Molly!" she said. "Merry Christmas! Are you feeling up to going downstairs and ..." Her mother stopped in mid-sentence and looked at her with a puzzled expression."Why, Molly," she said in surprised exasperation. "How did you come to be covered in straw?"

A Christmas Carol Parody

Last year I attended a Christmas party for my local writers' group and we were asked to prepare something to read to share the Christmas spirit with all who were there.

I immediately came up with a wonderful idea and wrote a rather shaggy dog story with Elizabeth McKnight, the lovely and talented lady who runs the meetings, as my background antagonist.

I think she forgave me.

I hope.

A Christmas Carol
(With sincere apologies to Charles Dickens),by Alan LoewenALL RIGHTS RESERVED
I had just settled my brain for a long winter’s nap when the bed shook as somebody sat at its foot. Jarred awake, I stared in a flurry of fear and wonder. A little girl dressed in white and glowing with a delicate aura glared at me disapprovingly. She pointed a finger at me.

“Elizabeth McKnight,” she intoned, “I am the Ghost of Christmas Past!”

With a trembling hand, I flicked on the lamp on my bed stand. “‘Scuse me,” I said, “but I think you have the wrong address.”

The ghost’s eyes grew wide. “It’s that stupid GPS again! I have no idea why Upstairs insists we use one.” Her eyes got larger and she pointed at my bed stand. “Are those rumballs?” she said with obvious excitement.

I confess I am very protective over my favorite Christmas candy. “Well …you know you’re rather young for a candy made with an adult beverage,” I said nervously.

“I’ll have you know,” she said with a pretty, little pout, “I’m almost two thousand years old.” With that she swooped up the box.

A knock came from the door. It opened and a massive man dressed in green and red and holly and evergreen boughs and flaming candles worked his bulk into my bedroom. “Elizabeth McKnight,” he intoned. Suddenly he stopped, looked at me and then at the little ghost girl.

“GPS snafu?” he asked her. She nodded, unable to speak having stuffed her cheeks with rum-flavored confections.

“Are those rum balls?” he asked.

I attempted a mad grab for the box but the massive Ghost of Christmas Present snatched them up first.

Moments later, a spectral shade clothed in a grave shroud materialized in my bedroom and pointed a bony finger at me.

“GPS error!” the two other ghosts shouted.

“Recalculating” the Ghost of Christmas Past yelled and then giggled.

The specter pointed a hand trembling with excitement at the box of diminishing rumballs.

I’ve gotten up and dressed and now I’m driving my unexpected guests over to Liz McKnight’s house as I do not use a GPS and when I drop them off, I plan on presenting her with three ghosts who are unusually giddy over the last of my favorite Christmas candy.However, I still have the last laugh.

Being a teetotaler, my beloved rumballs are decidedly non-alcoholic.

A Christmas Carol

Last year I attended a Christmas party for my local writers' group and we were asked to prepare something to read to share the Christmas spirit with all who were there.

I immediately came up with a wonderful idea and wrote a rather shaggy dog story with Elizabeth McKnight, the lovely and talented lady who runs the meetings, as my background antagonist.

I think she forgave me.

I hope.

A Christmas Carol,by Alan LoewenALL RIGHTS RESERVED
I had just settled my brain for a long winter’s nap when the bed shook as somebody sat at its foot. Jarred awake, I stared in a flurry of fear and wonder. A little girl dressed in white and glowing with a delicate aura glared at me disapprovingly. She pointed a finger at me.

“Elizabeth McKnight,” she intoned, “I am the Ghost of Christmas Past!”

With a trembling hand, I flicked on the lamp on my bed stand. “‘Scuse me,” I said, “but I think you have the wrong address.”

The ghost’s eyes grew wide. “It’s that stupid GPS again! I have no idea why Upstairs insists we use one.” Her eyes got larger and she pointed at my bed stand. “Are those rumballs?” she said with obvious excitement.

I confess I am very protective over my favorite Christmas candy. “Well …you know you’re rather young for a candy made with an adult beverage,” I said nervously.

“I’ll have you know,” she said with a pretty, little pout, “I’m almost two thousand years old.” With that she swooped up the box.

A knock came from the door. It opened and a massive man dressed in green and red and holly and evergreen boughs and flaming candles worked his bulk into my bedroom. “Elizabeth McKnight,” he intoned. Suddenly he stopped, looked at me and then at the little ghost girl.

“GPS snafu?” he asked her. She nodded, unable to speak having stuffed her cheeks with rum-flavored confections.

“Are those rum balls?” he asked.

I attempted a mad grab for the box but the massive Ghost of Christmas Present snatched them up first.

Moments later, a spectral shade clothed in a grave shroud materialized in my bedroom and pointed a bony finger at me.

“GPS error!” the two other ghosts shouted.

“Recalculating” the Ghost of Christmas Past yelled and then giggled.

The specter pointed a hand trembling with excitement at the box of diminishing rumballs.

I’ve gotten up and dressed and now I’m driving my unexpected guests over to Liz McKnight’s house as I do not use a GPS and when I drop them off, I plan on presenting her with three ghosts who are unusually giddy over the last of my favorite Christmas candy.However, I still have the last laugh.

Being a teetotaler, my beloved rumballs are decidedly non-alcoholic.