Mark E. Mitchell's Blog, page 4
May 23, 2012
Am I getting better?
I have encountered a great paradox as I have continued to write. About fifteen years ago, I completed a book and sent it off to several publishing companies. It was, up to then, my magnum opus, my masterpiece, and I was confident the publishers I sent it to would be so impressed that they would end up fighting over the privilege to publish it. When I got nothing but rejection notices for it, I knew it could not have been because of any fault of the manuscript. I had a work of sheer genius I had sent to these imbeciles; what could they possibly be looking for that I did not have in my writing?
But I was also discouraged. If publishers were not going to like that piece, the very best I could do, and, I thought, the very best there was, what could I do to impress them?
The one answer that is unacceptable, that I am running away from with all my might is: "Mark, old boy, you just might not be good enough."
While that could be true, I won't consider it, except in whimsy. Even if I get no reinforcement from others, I will continue to believe I have something to say.
And, despite the huge ego injury, I've not stopped writing. Have I improved? I don't know for sure, but I hope so, and I actually believe so. My wife, my biggest critic, tells me I have, and that is high praise indeed.
I might be good enough now, to make it back into the august company of the legitimately published. I have a book I've just finished, an older children's fantasy, called Rocs of Ruck, that I'm going to send out in the next month or two. If any are interested, you can send me your email address and I will send it to you. I would really appreciate feedback or critique of any kind.
Am I getting better? I thought I was wonderful back then, when I was probably not. Paradoxically, now that I am (possibly) better, I am much less sure of myself.
(Deep breath) In order to live this life right, I gotta dive off the high dive again. See you at the side of the pool. If you happen to be reading a waterproof copy of my book, I'll answer any questions you might have....
But I was also discouraged. If publishers were not going to like that piece, the very best I could do, and, I thought, the very best there was, what could I do to impress them?
The one answer that is unacceptable, that I am running away from with all my might is: "Mark, old boy, you just might not be good enough."
While that could be true, I won't consider it, except in whimsy. Even if I get no reinforcement from others, I will continue to believe I have something to say.
And, despite the huge ego injury, I've not stopped writing. Have I improved? I don't know for sure, but I hope so, and I actually believe so. My wife, my biggest critic, tells me I have, and that is high praise indeed.
I might be good enough now, to make it back into the august company of the legitimately published. I have a book I've just finished, an older children's fantasy, called Rocs of Ruck, that I'm going to send out in the next month or two. If any are interested, you can send me your email address and I will send it to you. I would really appreciate feedback or critique of any kind.
Am I getting better? I thought I was wonderful back then, when I was probably not. Paradoxically, now that I am (possibly) better, I am much less sure of myself.
(Deep breath) In order to live this life right, I gotta dive off the high dive again. See you at the side of the pool. If you happen to be reading a waterproof copy of my book, I'll answer any questions you might have....
May 22, 2012
mystery
I have been writing seriously, (meaning I wrote it and saved it permanently, rather than storing it in a box that got water damaged) for almost thirty years, and the more I do, the less I understand the process. I am fascinated to see how myths and legends and old wives tales and scripture mix together in my mind and contribute to the product that comes forth. It is fascinating also to see how some really off the wall stuff comes in, and then wonder where it originated.
But most fascinating is the appearance of a new story. The more books I read, the more I see archetypes and themes and sometime whole plots lifted from one place and wittingly or unwittingly added to the pages of someone else's work, but still, sometimes new stuff comes out, a brand new creation, fresh, pristine, unsullied by the opinions of any but its creator. Its combination of familiar enough letters and words form a pattern of combinations that have never appeared before, not only in the history of the world, but the history of everything. The author is a creator, total master of the world created in the pages of the new book. What a marvelous thing! What a privilege and a wonder to be able to participate in such things. How can anyone resist doing it, once he/she has done it once and seen the look of delight, even rapture on the face of another as they read it.
And when it happens to me, I wonder. Where did it come from? What in the world is an imagination? Why do some people have one and some people not? How can anyone think up things that have never happened, perhaps have never even been thought of before in the history of the universe. Is it somehow possible to have an idea that nobody, even the biggest Somebody has never thought of before?
But most fascinating is the appearance of a new story. The more books I read, the more I see archetypes and themes and sometime whole plots lifted from one place and wittingly or unwittingly added to the pages of someone else's work, but still, sometimes new stuff comes out, a brand new creation, fresh, pristine, unsullied by the opinions of any but its creator. Its combination of familiar enough letters and words form a pattern of combinations that have never appeared before, not only in the history of the world, but the history of everything. The author is a creator, total master of the world created in the pages of the new book. What a marvelous thing! What a privilege and a wonder to be able to participate in such things. How can anyone resist doing it, once he/she has done it once and seen the look of delight, even rapture on the face of another as they read it.
And when it happens to me, I wonder. Where did it come from? What in the world is an imagination? Why do some people have one and some people not? How can anyone think up things that have never happened, perhaps have never even been thought of before in the history of the universe. Is it somehow possible to have an idea that nobody, even the biggest Somebody has never thought of before?
April 19, 2012
The factuality of fiction, the falsehood of non-fiction
So far, I've only written fiction. As I speak to people about their reading preferences, and so many of them speak of fiction with distain because "it isn't real," I am astonished. The truth of the matter is, fiction is very much more real than non-fiction.
Let me explain. Let us say somewhere in a non fiction account, the writer wishes to tell of a conversation that occurred between to people in the narrative. So, as accurately as possible, they try to recreate a situation, and if they have done careful research, they might even include the tricks of speech of the people. But is the conversation absolutely factual? No, not in the least. It is fiction, and like any good fiction, the writer has done his/her best to make it sound realistic, but there is a big difference. This conversation is nothing but a lie, because the writer is representing his book as non-fiction, as real.
And why is it that two non-fiction books on exactly the same topic come up with such different conclusions? Because there is no such thing as non-fiction, that's why! The authors come up with their own conclusions, and their conclusions differ from other authors because they interpret the data differently. Voila! Fiction again. Interpretation of data is strictly based on an individual opinion, and has nothing to do with fact.
On the other hand, when I write a fiction book, I never claim that it is anything but my opinion I am expressing, or that any of situations or conversations are real. Therefore, even though none of the book has actually happened, except in my mind, and once you have read it, in your mind, it is completely true, because it is exactly what I have represented it to be. And in order to be believable, the conversations and situations have to be realistic, as close to natural as possible. And, presuming that I, as an author, have points I would like to make and principles I would like to teach, I can set up my situations perfectly to say what I desire, and I don't have to bend or create facts, because the reader has the understanding from the beginning that the entire work is my one contrivence.
So all you out there that think you despise fiction because it "isn't real." It is real, and you have a better chance learning true principles than from a venue that is forced to twist the whole story to get the point across....
Let me explain. Let us say somewhere in a non fiction account, the writer wishes to tell of a conversation that occurred between to people in the narrative. So, as accurately as possible, they try to recreate a situation, and if they have done careful research, they might even include the tricks of speech of the people. But is the conversation absolutely factual? No, not in the least. It is fiction, and like any good fiction, the writer has done his/her best to make it sound realistic, but there is a big difference. This conversation is nothing but a lie, because the writer is representing his book as non-fiction, as real.
And why is it that two non-fiction books on exactly the same topic come up with such different conclusions? Because there is no such thing as non-fiction, that's why! The authors come up with their own conclusions, and their conclusions differ from other authors because they interpret the data differently. Voila! Fiction again. Interpretation of data is strictly based on an individual opinion, and has nothing to do with fact.
On the other hand, when I write a fiction book, I never claim that it is anything but my opinion I am expressing, or that any of situations or conversations are real. Therefore, even though none of the book has actually happened, except in my mind, and once you have read it, in your mind, it is completely true, because it is exactly what I have represented it to be. And in order to be believable, the conversations and situations have to be realistic, as close to natural as possible. And, presuming that I, as an author, have points I would like to make and principles I would like to teach, I can set up my situations perfectly to say what I desire, and I don't have to bend or create facts, because the reader has the understanding from the beginning that the entire work is my one contrivence.
So all you out there that think you despise fiction because it "isn't real." It is real, and you have a better chance learning true principles than from a venue that is forced to twist the whole story to get the point across....
April 3, 2012
barking dog
Have you ever had someone in your life that never had anything nice to say? Rather than be angry at that person, try instead to be grateful at how reliable they are. You can count on them to be negative. As sure as the sun rising, as the smell of bacon making you hungry, or as the only clean shirt you can find being the one that's missing three buttons, this person will spout negativity. Count on them. You'll be amazed at how much easier it will make your dealings with them.
I have a little miniature schnouzer that has a high pitched little bark that she sounds when members of the family come home. It is a little annoying at times, but I am not offended by it, because that is just her nature. The same way with the words of the negative person, even if they are directed at you. Simply turn them into the same meaningless sounds a barking dog makes. You don't have to carefully listen, or even listen at all, because you already know what they are. No need to know even the slightest hint of what they are saying. When the dog yaps, we just realize that that's what dogs do, and let them yap away.
I have a little miniature schnouzer that has a high pitched little bark that she sounds when members of the family come home. It is a little annoying at times, but I am not offended by it, because that is just her nature. The same way with the words of the negative person, even if they are directed at you. Simply turn them into the same meaningless sounds a barking dog makes. You don't have to carefully listen, or even listen at all, because you already know what they are. No need to know even the slightest hint of what they are saying. When the dog yaps, we just realize that that's what dogs do, and let them yap away.
March 13, 2012
hypnotism
I've done a fair amount of hypnotism in my day. When people tell me they don't think they would be good hypnosis candidates, I ask them a simple question: Have you ever been reading a book, and got so much into it that you were unaware you were reading? Was it like you were there as your eyes sprang in great enthusiasm from one word, one sentence, one paragraph, even one page to the next, and you were unaware of turning pages as leapt forward, jamming the story into yourself as quickly as possible. What person that might possibly read this little piece has not had that experience with books you were reading? If you haven't had it, you're not a real reader, and sorry to say so. So for all of you that must admit that reading has been like I described, your eyes are getting heavy. You are very, very sleepy...
March 9, 2012
Lighting a fire
My family has been heating our house at least partially with wood heat for the last several years. One season, I had just finished building a house, and we didn't have enough money for a heating system, but I did have a big wood stove with the cold air return for our air conditioner just behind it. It was the coldest winter on record in that part of Missouri--down to 20 below on some nights.
I had to keep that fire going. I remember several mornings, I got up, groaned because the house was so cold, went out to the wood pile, knocked snow off the wood, split it and brought it in to build the fire. You would have thought I would be an expert on fire building.
But I'm not. Most of the time, it takes at least three tries before I get the fire going. My wife, (somewhat to my embarrassment because even though it isn't written down anywhere it feels like part of the manly man's code that the man of the family needs to be the best fire builder) is better at starting fires than I am. I light the match, get my paper going, and for some reason, it suddenly decides it's fireproof or something.
Very strange. Interestingly enough, I am finding my current task, trying to get people interested in my book, (and once there's a demand, I have 15 others I can put out there) much like building fires. I read all the recommendations on the Internet, I jump through the hoops, and I find my paper either wet, fireproof or just not enough. The only thing that comforts me about this analogy is that eventually, after several miscues, I do get my fire going...
I had to keep that fire going. I remember several mornings, I got up, groaned because the house was so cold, went out to the wood pile, knocked snow off the wood, split it and brought it in to build the fire. You would have thought I would be an expert on fire building.
But I'm not. Most of the time, it takes at least three tries before I get the fire going. My wife, (somewhat to my embarrassment because even though it isn't written down anywhere it feels like part of the manly man's code that the man of the family needs to be the best fire builder) is better at starting fires than I am. I light the match, get my paper going, and for some reason, it suddenly decides it's fireproof or something.
Very strange. Interestingly enough, I am finding my current task, trying to get people interested in my book, (and once there's a demand, I have 15 others I can put out there) much like building fires. I read all the recommendations on the Internet, I jump through the hoops, and I find my paper either wet, fireproof or just not enough. The only thing that comforts me about this analogy is that eventually, after several miscues, I do get my fire going...
March 4, 2012
Indecorum
The other day, as I was going up to the gym to exercise, I saw a grocery bag by the side of the road. I try to pick up trash when I can, and this was right there, with no inconvenience, so I picked it up. There was something inside, so I opened it and looked. It was a log of dog poop.
The irony of the whole thing still makes me laugh. Someone was out walking their dog, and the dog did his (or her, but somehow it seems to be something a male dog would do) business, and the owner was prepared with a sack and a shovel. It took but a moment to scoop up the offering and put it in the sack. But I don't understand the next part. Why bother to put it in a sack, then throw the sack by the side of the road? Why not leave it in its original state, where it would break down and become one with the earth much quicker than if it were confined in plastic?
I know the real answer, and it isn't very romantic. Whoever scooped up the poop took the sack into the car, and everyone knows, there's nothing that smells (too) much worse than dog doodoo in a heated car. The owner was probably trying to impress some girl with his environmental awareness, but when he saw her nose wrinkling in disgust, he cut his losses and decided he would rather be a litter bug. All his sense of social responsibility went out the window along with the droppings of his indecorous dog.
Of course, the real reason it happened is because Someone upstairs loves me, and wanted to give me an experience that still brings laughter to my lips, even in times of greatest sorrow.
The other cool thing is, I was able to include this little episode in my book "I Worshiped My Car." What page is it on?
The irony of the whole thing still makes me laugh. Someone was out walking their dog, and the dog did his (or her, but somehow it seems to be something a male dog would do) business, and the owner was prepared with a sack and a shovel. It took but a moment to scoop up the offering and put it in the sack. But I don't understand the next part. Why bother to put it in a sack, then throw the sack by the side of the road? Why not leave it in its original state, where it would break down and become one with the earth much quicker than if it were confined in plastic?
I know the real answer, and it isn't very romantic. Whoever scooped up the poop took the sack into the car, and everyone knows, there's nothing that smells (too) much worse than dog doodoo in a heated car. The owner was probably trying to impress some girl with his environmental awareness, but when he saw her nose wrinkling in disgust, he cut his losses and decided he would rather be a litter bug. All his sense of social responsibility went out the window along with the droppings of his indecorous dog.
Of course, the real reason it happened is because Someone upstairs loves me, and wanted to give me an experience that still brings laughter to my lips, even in times of greatest sorrow.
The other cool thing is, I was able to include this little episode in my book "I Worshiped My Car." What page is it on?
February 27, 2012
Why I write.
Writing is kind of like the fizz in a carbonated soft drink. Sometimes, when I am shaken about by the various experiences of life, good or bad, I feel a pressure building up inside. Of course, I can bottle it up, and eventually it will go away, but if I open the lid, just a little, the fizz (the interesting part of the soft drink) will rise to the top and leak out. This is what it feels like to unleash my writing on the world. It gives the inner pressure an opportunity to escape and let itself (and me) be seen.
Sometimes, the pressure inside is so great that I open the lid a little bit (or a lot) more, and fizz goes everywhere in an uncontrolled release. Then when I look at what I have created, I am delighted. Most of the time, in those cases, I only vaguely remember what I have written, but it is usually good. Sometimes really good.
On all too rare occasions, the Fizz Muse falls on me fully, and I open the lid of the bottle completely. Then, great amounts pour forth, and for whatever period of time the Muse stays with me, I am astonished at what I produce. The most miraculous thing of all is that what I create in those circumstances is not only amazing, it is also quite well organized. Usually it even appears well thought out.
So I write and write, hoping for the fullness of inspiration that signals great leaps of creation. It happens rarely enough, but even the anticipation of it gives great joy. I hope my writing can give a sense of that joy to others.
Sometimes, the pressure inside is so great that I open the lid a little bit (or a lot) more, and fizz goes everywhere in an uncontrolled release. Then when I look at what I have created, I am delighted. Most of the time, in those cases, I only vaguely remember what I have written, but it is usually good. Sometimes really good.
On all too rare occasions, the Fizz Muse falls on me fully, and I open the lid of the bottle completely. Then, great amounts pour forth, and for whatever period of time the Muse stays with me, I am astonished at what I produce. The most miraculous thing of all is that what I create in those circumstances is not only amazing, it is also quite well organized. Usually it even appears well thought out.
So I write and write, hoping for the fullness of inspiration that signals great leaps of creation. It happens rarely enough, but even the anticipation of it gives great joy. I hope my writing can give a sense of that joy to others.
