H.B. Berlow's Blog, page 3

TALKING WITH OTHER WRITERS

The very act of writing is solitary. While there are writing teams and collaborations, for most writers it is about sitting somewhere that you call an ‘office’, and moving those fingers across the keyboard to create something literary. You might have an editor locally who you work with. In my case, five of my six published novels were done with the same editor who I have never met in person who know AS a person.

The inspiration we take from other people, news articles, or something we see in passing fuels the creativity. It is only when a book is finished, edited, and published that we take the final work out into the world and attempt to convince other it is a worthwhile read.

But there are the in-between moments that might be days or weeks or even months. When I have submitted one book to my editor but have completed the first draft of the next one, there is the kind of necessary waiting which makes you, well, write blog posts. One’s mind is still creative but there is no exercise to maintain it.

I have found over the last dozen years that my attendance at the OWFI, though only three days, has a rejuvenating effect, simply because it places me within a large group of writers. It doesn’t matter what their genre is or experience or publishing history. That sense of people sharing the same feelings of accomplishment or frustration levels the playing field. I understand them; they understand me. There is a lot of medicine to be had from the experience.

For nearly two years, I have been co-host of the Tikiman and the Viking Podcast. If an episode is simply my partner, Brian Johnson and myself talking about our creative process or our interviews with writers and other creatives from around the world, there is a double feeling of fulfillment. The first comes in the initial interview where the spontaneity yields interesting human connections. The second is when I relive that time by listening to an episode.

I truly feel as though my own writing and processes have become more enhanced yielding greater fulfillment simply because I can, and do, step out of the ‘office’ and talk with other writers. There needs to be that realization, every now and again, that I’m not the only person leaving this time and space to create something magical and mysterious, before returning to what passes for the real world.

WHAT’S THE POINT?

According to some surveys, only about 10 % of all writers make a living solely from their writing. I’m sure there are others who are teachers or do public speaking. But, let’s face it, this is not a job for those who want to eat on a regular basis and pay their bills.

The next time you attend a writer’s conference or a meeting for a writer’s group, maybe even get together with a critique group, consider how many of those folks actually earn a substantial income. I know so very few myself. Most of my literary acquaintances have what we refer to as ‘day jobs’, those places where a company pays us for doing a task or performing some function that is important to them but, in most cases, means very little to us.

So, there you have it: We’re not in it for the money. Recognition? Perhaps, in a small circle of folks, or maybe a slightly larger one if you attend big groups. Someone will remember you for your personality or your Hawaiian shirts. Yet, how many of them talk about your work and what you’ve been able to accomplish? There might be some devoted followers among your associates. Just as likely, they are seeking their own audience.

It is not an avocation that cries out to be followed except by the most devout among us. There is a passion for the craft of writing, a compulsion toward creating something unique and special and personal that had not existed before. This is not designed to turn us into deities. On the contrary, the act of creating is a God-given skill that certainly needs development.

I know what I feel when I bake a loaf of bread and make three pounds of bratwurst links or complete the first draft of a novel. Granted, the first two might take up a portion of a Sunday morning while the latter can easily require months of my time, meted out in small portions over the evenings after work and dinner.

You can’t ask a writer why they do what they do. Each of them will have a different answer. It will not be a generic response because writers are individual creatures who come from different backgrounds, have different skill sets, and follow different patterns of creation. And I don’t think anyone other than another writer could even understand the answer given.

Don’t choose to make it your mission to find out why writers write. Unless you venture down that long, cloudy road yourself, you will never understand. Rather, appreciate the slice of bread, the sausage link, the novel, the short story, the poem. Understand only that a great deal of time and effort went into for the sole purpose of your satisfaction.

THE BREAD BAKING ANALOGY

It is apparent I view culinary efforts in the same way I do any artistic endeavor. They are both acts of creativity. They have both become a balance in my life, whether the world around me is crazy or simply getting older presents its own unique challenges.

In considering the two, I have come to realize the most profound analogy between working in the kitchen and working at a keyboard is the act of baking bread. Allow me to explain.

In both cases, we gather ingredients. As a writer of historical crime fiction, I have to know what the milieu is, what took place in a specific location in a given period of time. I need to determine who in real life existed and may have had an impact within the fictional story. I need photos of locations to visualize the scene. These are the components that go into good story-telling.

With even a simple bread, I must gather flour, water, salt, and yeast. I need to have the KitchenAid stand mixer ready as well as the bread pans, tray, and cooling racks. You want to begin the creative act with everything you need at your disposal. In the case of some recipes, even measured out in advance.

For me, I push through until I complete a first draft. There is no editing along the way. Oh, maybe a correction of a word or the addition of an additional piece of dialogue. But it is imperative to get that first draft done. This is the formation of what those who make sourdough call a ‘starter.’

With bread, we proof the yeast first. After that, the addition of the flour, a cup at a time, and a thorough kneading in the stand mixer. We will know when that mix is complete as the dough will pull away from the sides of the bowl. It is ready for its next phase.

I let my first draft sit, maybe a week, maybe longer depending upon what is going on. That dough needs to rise as well. So, I loosely cover the bowl with plastic wrap and a good hour or so later it has doubled in size. There are many revisions of the first draft, whereas the bread might only need a second rise. However, I form the rough first draft by reviewing description issues of logic, clarity, and plot and character development. The dough is punched down and formed into loaves to be put into the pans for a second rise. (Bread is easier than writing a novel, especially if you have a stand mixer.)

When there have been enough drafts where the story makes sense and appears entertaining, it is sent off to the publisher. If a contract is signed, I will be working intensely with an editor to form the manuscript into a final work. The bread, on the other hand, goes into a pre-heated oven to bake for a prescribed time. In this case, the “editor” is my wife who continually asks me when it will be done and when she can sample the completed work. (As a side note, she does this as well with the completion of a book wondering when she will get to read it.)

While there is a significantly longer procedure involved with writing and publishing a book, the process for it and baking bread requires both diligence and patience. Fortunately, my wife enjoys eating the bread I bake and the books I write.

WALLACE NOW. STEVENS LATER

As April is National Poetry Month, I felt it was worthwhile to discuss this unique literary form and my own personal experiences.

Back in my poetically lush days in Boston in the early 1990’s, when verse took over the driver’s seat to my creative output, I met several other writers and creatives who were instrumental to my inspiration and development. I had written several individual pieces that had some element of magic or the circus to them. Why these images and themes were predominant is beyond the scope of my recollection. However, I began to discern a connection of some sort.

A notion began to form in my mind, a tale of a young magician learning his craft and trying not to be overwhelmed by it; continuing on through his development; and finally coming to the end of his days, wondering if any of it had any impact on anyone. This could be a parallel tale with that of a poet.

I started putting together other pieces, found a connective thread, and realized there could be thematically similar interludes that identified the passing of time in the life of the magician/poet. These would be other pieces already written. The ‘magic’ part required further writing.

What came out of that was a collection entitled “The Art of Legerdemain.” Many of the pieces contained obscure mythological references and archaicisms chosen specifically for their mysterious sensibilities. Without the benefit of a detailed guide from thirty plus years ago, many are open to interpretation. This particular piece came from early in the collection, showing the fascination a young acolyte has for the work to be before him. It previously appeared in the Mid America Poetry Review, Spring 2000, Volume 1, Number 1

WALLACE NOW.  STEVENS LATER

This is not time for transubstantiation.

That alchemy is left for wizards.

I know of wine & blood and lead & gold

and baser things besides.  They sit

like knick-knacks on my coffee table.

I am too fascinated by wands and canes,

cards, rings, golden cones, coloured balls,

the blur of the hierophants arms

in his many jagged manipulations,

and when a dove appears from darkness.

I stare at auroras awed,

let rhinestones glitter in my eyes.

‘Pizzazz’ to me is still a sacred word,

more holy than ‘Amen’, more sanctified than ‘Love’,

an ever-present credo of my youth.

It is the song of words that sparkles

more than the words themselves.

The magic dance, the play of light,

a language foreign to these green ears.

I hear but know I cannot understand.

THE CALM WITHIN THE STORM

I can recall times in my life when I would go into what passed for my office and wrote at length until such time as I realized: I had not had lunch; I had not gone to the bathroom; and it was now time for dinner. We shouldn’t wish our lives away or hope that time passes more quickly than it does. But I do recognize exactly what transpires in those special times.

The same can be true of, for example, making sausages. I prep the meat grinder, cut up the chicken thighs, make the spice blend, soak the casings, and set up the work area. It is a step-by-step process which I feel quite comfortable doing. And whether it takes an hour or three, I do not ever consider the passage of time, only the process itself. Therein lies the fascination.

On a larger scale, the same can be said for the world at large. I am aware of writers and artists of the past who have used their works as protests or social commentary. They are within their rights to do so. Perhaps they feel that is the only weapon against intolerance, prejudice, and injustice. After all, use the best tools you possess.

Success will also allow them to have a bigger soapbox on which to stand, more people to reach, and perhaps more impact on such change. For those artists, the process is designed to yield something greater.

For the rest of us, our art is the one place we find refuge. If I make sausages or bread or pastries, I and my loved ones have something delectable to eat. It takes a significantly longer time to write a novel, edit it, pitch it to your publisher, go through THAT editing process — well, you get the point.

What is really significant is that I can “disappear” into the world of my own creativity and find both enrichment and strength. I can connect with something greater than mere political and social discourse in hopes of reaching out to others. Your creative efforts will have impact upon others. They may not be the ones you intended but to have touched someone by your creativity is a pure blessing.

When the day-to-day minutiae of life becomes overwhelming, creatives and all artists have the means to find the calm within that storm and dredge up something with color and vibrance and hope. If you as an artist do not consider yourself an activist, continue to do what you do. You will most certainly be someone else’s inspiration.

CAN YOU HEAR ME?

If you challenge any guitar aficionado, they will likely be able to identify the guitarist by a brief lick, a few notes, not even the most famous solo or the classic opening riff. This is because, as will be explained to you by them, each guitarist develops their own sound based on their instrument, strings, pedals, amps, etc. By this, we are not referencing style, but sound and tonal quality. What is the voice to a writer.

Perhaps we could also use the word ‘attitude’ because there is, if you listen carefully to the words you read on the page, a kind of indication as to the writer’s disposition toward his characters. Naturally, a well-established main character in a series has their own opinions. They were, in part, developed by the writer.

I read many of the classics during my formative years. This is what was largely taught in the northeast in the sixties and seventies. Genre fiction, to the educators, did not lend itself to any degree of viable enhancement. If you read sci-fi or romance or detective fiction, you did so on your own time.

My early scribblings in poetry were completely influenced by Elizabethan forms, followed closely by Romantic Era poets. Coming across early 20th century European poetry altered my perceptions, along with listening to early jazz which segued into be-bop. I read short stories by Black Mask authors but several novels by Cornell Woolrich (whose fatalism was haunting) and Jim Thompson (whose pulp was raw and dangerous).

Whatever you start with you will likely not follow completely and absolutely. It is further reading which influences you, causes your work to be varied, hybrid, new (at least to you), and totally personal. It would be interesting if I could write short detective work like Arthur Conan Doyle or lyrics like Dante Gabriel Rosetti. At this point in my writing life, I write like me.

There have been numerous influences to my writing crime fiction. Starting with Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler, the appeal of the hard-boiled stood out strong, especially if you consider my fascination for film noir. Then we got to the sexually charged scatological works of James Ellroy whose characters were mostly morally gray. Complex characters, like Michael Connelly’s Harry Bosch allowed me to consider crime fiction as an exploration of the human psyche more than the resolution of a case.

I am not a denizen of the rain-soaked neon-lit city streets. I don’t carry a gun. I have virtually nothing in common with the classic detective or police officer. But they, in some fashion, share a common humanity with me. Regardless of one’s profession or background, the oft quoted phrase of Roman playwright Terence – Homo sum, humani nihil a me alienum puto (I am human, nothing human is alien to me – rings true to all writers. We write about other human beings.

My voice, therefore, is generated by me and my experiences. It started with a basic learning of classic texts, expanded to those on the periphery, and settled in place after living my life beyond the writing desk. This is where it comes from for all writers.

Can you hear my voice?

I USED TO BE A POET. IT GOT TOO HARD.

I have recounted my experiences in Boston in the early 1990’s and my involvement with the burgeoning poetry scene. After acquiring (by duplicitous means) a poetry anthology with an extended section on prosody, I devoted myself to the use of various poetic forms. It was both an educational and emotional experience.

I performed in poetry slams, a guy reading sonnets while other contestants emoted on their personal angst. Perhaps it was a background in theater that got me through when the poems weren’t exactly the type being recited by professional slammers. Either way, to have someone dub me “the Bard of Boston’ was gratifying enough.

I gathered together similar poems that were based on the ideas of magic and mystical arts, comparing a young boy’s development as a magician with that of a poet. It was designed to weave together themes of ephemeral creation. The collection was called “The Art of Legerdemain.”

I segued into creating a major poetic work based on the life of Charlie Parker. It was a combination of poetry, documentary, and real quotes. It was an attempt to reach beyond form to something that would equate with the be-bop freestyle of Bird. It was likely that last major piece of poetry I worked on.

There was something of a similar nature, albeit shorter, written almost twenty years later to go along with a small piece here or there. Once I turned my attention to fiction, the well, so to speak, dried up.

Poetry focuses on rhythm, selective word choice, provocative images. Fiction requires character development and plotting. Dialogue is a pale imitation for poetry. I likened it to a baker trying to perfect his pasta making skills or a French chef reliant on heavy sauces changing to the clean simplicity of a sushi chef.

Writing, or any art for that matter, is difficult. When I was involved in poetry, switching from a sonnet to a sestina to free verse were mere steps from one side of a room to another. With such a distance, it feels as though I am not only in a different room but a different building altogether. Some would believe all writing is the same. I assure you that Shakespeare would have difficulty writing like Hemingway and vice versa.

I have promised myself that, once I retire, I will focus more on diversifying, learning, and growing. Perhaps only then will I have enough time to get over the hurdles from a once favored art form. For now, I reflect and enjoy the work of the past and accept it for what it was.

SWITCHING GEARS

Is it possible for a writer to scavenge their own works? Let me tell you a story of a work in progress.

My first published work (and by that I mean first book published through a traditional publisher, a small press in Texas) was a work of contemporary crime fiction called “Swan Song”. It was described as a neo-noir hardboiled mystery. It was mostly derivative in nature but had some good set pieces. You’ll never know, because unless you bought a copy, you can’t get one now: It is out of print with limited availability. (I’d let you borrow mine if I could ensure I would get it back.)

What it did for me was to start me on a path as a fiction writer who learned how to work alongside publishers. After another less than stellar effort, I turned my attention toward historical crime fiction. I knew I didn’t have what it took to match others in terms of contemporary crime work with aspects associated with computers and lab analytics. As it was, I wanted to focus on the people, the characters, and their motivations.

I felt the original plot of “Swan Song” to be worthwhile. It involved a former cop in Wichita who was framed, left the force of his own volition, and went far out of town where he got involved with some less than morally upright folks. A mysterious phone call insinuates his younger brother is in some kind of jeopardy and he returns to find out what and why.

Conceptually, it had something intriguing about it, not completely a crime caper and not quite a thriller. However, I was so immersed in historical works that I had no desire to revise it in its current state. Unless, of course, I reconfigured it to take place in the 1930’s. There would be a telegram instead of a phone call, a train journey as opposed to a reckless car ride on the interstate, and different nefarious characters from a different time period.

I worked on it for about a year from August of 2021 to October of 2022, getting three rough drafts having used the original book as a kind of template. It didn’t quite fall apart but neither did it resonate with the emotional intensity and, for lack of a better expression, the speed of the earlier work. Perhaps it is more of a thriller and I will need to shift gears once again.

But, at the very least, I had found a way of using leftovers to create a new stew. Stale bread which could make croutons. A nearly empty bottle of catsup to concoct a remoulade. It is more of an act of re-creating but just as significant a challenge as starting from scratch.

FROM THE OUTSIDE TO WITHIN

In a previous post, I discussed how my writing has changed me more than how I have changed as a writer. The act of creation, in any art form, is deeply personal and forces an individual to look inside. Another way of looking at this, however, is by examining what is it from life that I have taken and used in my writing.

I’ve always joked that over forty years in customer service drove me to writing crime fiction. While that may not be entirely true, it is gratifying to fashion a character from a customer, client, guest, or even co-worker, especially if that character is the victim of a murder. Mind you, the individual in question has never been personally harmed or even threatened. But from a literary sense, they are removed from my mind.

Writing historical fiction, specifically that which takes place where you live, gives you a reason to research buildings and people, and events that were significantly before your time. This results in a greater appreciation for your own community. After all, life existed before your presence. What was it like?

That being said, there is not any specific way to recreate current events in a time period without the technology of today. When I write of a policeman investigating a serious of murders in 1938, I can’t call it a ‘serial murder’ or that the policeman is ‘profiling’ because those expressions didn’t exist until the 1970s. However, if the headlines talk of greedy businessmen or corrupt politicians, there are analogies from throughout the centuries.

Despite my passion for cooking and baking, I have never created a character who fits comfortably in a kitchen. Food and restaurants have been mentioned but not to any great extent. For me, the act of assembling disparate items and crafting a complete whole is a parallel concept in both writing and cooking, not necessarily to be used within a story.

I suppose attitude and opinion is the most prominent aspect of the outside world that I have used within my writing. There is definitely a separation between myself and my main characters but just enough similarities to allow me to infuse a sense of self within them. Perhaps it is a reciprocal arrangement as I wait in return for their response.

THE CLOSEST I’VE GOTTEN TO MODERNISM

When I lived in Boston from 1990 to 1995, I experienced my most productive period of writing poetry. I was in a city in which the Arts were at times more important than food. I hung around with a wide array of writers and musicians and a smaller circle devoted to the craft of writing.

My influences at the time were the classical forms. Shakespeare’s sonnets and Keats’ eloquent and passionate rhymes. I was at heart a Romantic. A friend gave me a copy of early 20th century European poetry. Surrealism and Modernism were now placed in my lap. If I were a chef, it would have been like someone introduced me to a new cuisine. The elements are different as is the ultimate product. At times, however, the creative impulse remains the same.

I wrote several pieces that were without distinct forms with the intention of broadening my language, my voice. It was as much an intellectual effort as a creative one. While I do not disregard these works some thirty years later, I simply recognize they were the product of a young man stretching his creative mind.

This is one of those poems.

5 VIEWS OF A SKYSCRAPER

I.

Looking at it from across the river,

it may be one of many.

But it has its own style and form

distinctive from the others.

Trying to see it,

there are far too many passing

in front in the foreground,

all different in their intrusions.

II.

Five or six blocks away,

a parallel movement

and a perpendicular turn.

No straight-line availability.

If only I could fly to the roof…

III.

Castle of financial woe

O ye who enter at the gate

Beware the battlements

A tower of Babel

A different language

on each floor

Man creates something greater than he.

No fear; he can destroy it.

IV.

Straight across my vision is undaunted.

An expanse of epic measure

fills the full of my retina,

inflates the complete peripheral,

overwhelms my capacity to protect.

Strai

ght d

own I

reali

ze th

e pre

cario

us po

sitio

n, ha

lf-wa

y bet

ween

morbi

d fea

r and

exult

ation

V.

All these pipes and lights,

concrete and hissing,

this ugly sewer,

this musty netherworld,

this holds it together.

This keeps it tall and proud.

This creates majesty.

I would be disgusted to roam

inside of myself.