The last week has included extensive road miles. Last Monday, August 12, I launched out from Lubbock and headed toward Austin, a good six hours away, so that I could attend a three-day, business-related seminar. You might ask why I didn't fly. After all, the company is paying for it, right? By the time I added up the alternative travel costs--the flight, renting a car (if I'm staying three days, I am not riding around in a taxi), and gas for said rental car--I would have spent well over twice as much, even considering the extra cost for my time. Besides, I like driving and six hours wasn't too bad.
Before I left town, I stopped by the library to pick up a couple audio books, which is interesting for someone like me. If any of you were with me during my days on the Writer's Digest Forum, you may remember my little rant about people who listen to an audio book and then say they "read" so-and-so's novel. I didn't come by this attitude all on my own. It is something I picked up after reading Stephen King's On Writing. So, to be consistent with Mr. King, I only selected unabridged audio books, and I have not included those books on my blog.
In the process, I noted an interesting observation about listening to unabridged audio books: taglines, while usually overlooked in a reading session, become annoying during an audio experience when overused. Here's my example. One of the books I selected was High Profile by Robert B. Parker. One of the things I like about Parker's writing is that he keeps it simple. The sentences are short and laser sharp. In his dialogue, he leaves little room for confusion on the part of his reader by supplying an abundance of taglines. While reading his books in the past, the taglines whizzed by like the yellow lines on a highway--there but blended in with the rest of the landscape. Listening to this novel through the stereo speakers, the liberal application of taglines hit my ears like a barrage of military fire. By the time I finished, I was practically shell-shocked. I'm not dogging Mr. Parker's writing. His Jesse Stone novels are pure enjoyment. The character of Jesse Stone is well done--hard, smart and realistically flawed. Based on my experience, though, I recommend reading them instead of listening to them.
So then, the main thing I took away from that experience was to be aware of my own personal use of taglines. Should I ever get published, and subsequently have the novel recorded into an audio book, I don't want listeners to go through the same experience.
While I was in Austin, I received good news. The editor of Flash Fiction Online, after reviewing my story "Beyond The Pale", extended an offer for publication. Once the story is published, and I have more information, I will post a link so that you can see it. So keep your eyes glued to the sidebar of my blog.
Today, I'm back up in Hereford, which means more road miles away from home and more time to listen. For this trip, however, I enjoyed listening to the latest from Third Day, one of my favorite CCM rock bands. Somehow, listening to the distortion of guitars, the thump and bang of drums, and the raspy vocals of Mac Powell, all bring a sweet comfort to my weary soul.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Monday, August 11, 2008
8/11/2008
The trees must be frustrated these days. They're trying to talk, but I've been too busy to listen. With a new position (resulting from a pending merger), which promises busier weekdays (thank God), and the weekly drives back and forth between Lubbock and Hereford, which means my weekends are totally tied-up to with time sliced out for family, my writing life has suffered over the last three weeks. Though I have still found time to submit one story to Crimespree Magazine, re-submit another story that was previously rejected, and start a third story, my writing productivity has been reduced to a dribble from the spigot.
My reading life has slowed down as well. What would normally take one to two weeks, now takes three to four. My current reading--Pride and Prejudice--is going on week three, and I'm only two-thirds of the way through.
Oh well, perseverance is a word most writers are intimate with, and I will do as much as I can. Maybe, I'll even finish that third story this week.
My reading life has slowed down as well. What would normally take one to two weeks, now takes three to four. My current reading--Pride and Prejudice--is going on week three, and I'm only two-thirds of the way through.
Oh well, perseverance is a word most writers are intimate with, and I will do as much as I can. Maybe, I'll even finish that third story this week.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
7/8/2008
It only took three days. Somewhere between Friday, when the rest of the family turned sick, and one o’clock in the morning on Tuesday, when I finally exhibited the same symptoms, my family had succeeded in giving me the dreaded stomach bug. This proves two things. First, the family that shares together, stays together. This is because nobody else wants to be around them. Secondly, no matter how much you wash your hands, bleach the towels and sanitize the entire house, you are not totally germ-proof. It’s sort of like the health nut who eats well and exercises daily, only to be run over by the drunk driver they can’t control.
As I sat there in the bathroom waiting for the inevitable—hoping and praying that it wouldn’t happen, but knowing it would—I considered something else about myself: as a writer, there are times when I think I’m a little strange.
Here is a hint. Whenever I turn on the news and watch coverage of some devastating event, there is always one reporter who has to ask the victim how they feel. I admit, almost every time I want to throw something at the television and scream, “How do you think they feel?” Another question that galls me is: “What are you thinking right now?” I mean, there in front of the cameras stands a human being, writhing in agony to the point where it takes every ounce of energy to breathe in and out, their mind teetering on the edge of locking all the doors and taking a permanent vacation from reality, and some loser has to ask about how they feel, what they’re thinking. Can’t the reporter look into those lost, desperate eyes and see the pain? Do the questions really need to be asked?
I don’t know what it is about reporters, why they need to be so cruel at such critical moments in life. Maybe that’s just part of the job, part of answering the who-what-where-when-and-why questions that revolve around reporting an event. Maybe it’s their way of trying to Tom Wolfe the story, to put a human touch on the facts. Or maybe they’re trying to write their first novel and seek the words to describe the emotion for their character. Whatever it is, there are times when I think reporters are just insensitive schmucks.
I realize now that I am no better. There I was, cold chills breaking out across my flesh, my joints aching so much that it hurt to move them, and I was trying to take mental notes about what it felt like before everything came out. And as I thought about it, how I could write something like that into a scene, the questions came. Why is someone puking? Are they sick from a virus like they were in Stephen King’s The Stand? Or have they overdosed? Sitting there on a step-stool, my bare feet pressed against the cool linoleum floor, the ventilation fan buzzing above me, I then wondered about famous rock stars who died from asphyxiation: John Bonham and Jimmy Hendrix. Did they know what was happening to them, or did they just ride out on a wave of euphoria?
After it was all over, I also took note of what "empty" feels like as my stomach knotted up, collapsed in on itself, and found nothing left to give.
Truth be told, being sick is not the only time I do something like this. In my world, there is not a day that goes by when I don’t take note of something. Listening is one my favorite tools. People having conversations around me are fair game, as far as I’m concerned. Something said, even the most innocuous comment, can be the fiber for my mental loom. I just take their stuff, infuse my own ideas, and then weave together something different. Watching is another tool. Those poor souls who camped next to my family on Memorial Day weekend had no idea that they were victims to my wandering eye and imagination. Why was that girl going into the trashed-out camper with those two thugs? What was she thinking? How was she feeling?
I know. I’m one pull-tab shy of a six pack. I am not alone, though. There are several writers who throw events into their mental mixers and then whirl it all around until something concrete comes out. It doesn’t matter who the inspiration is, whether it be a mom, a dad, a brother or sister, an aunt, an uncle, the priest, the doctor or the family dog. Sooner or later, people we know (and especially those we don’t) make it into our stories. Though we may not base a character wholly on one individual, we do take a piece of this one, and a snippet of that one, and throw it all into our witch's brew to boil up something more delicious. What is amazing is that people we love still love us. They don't try to hunt us down as freaks and then chase us into the far reaches of the Arctic Circle, trying to kill us along the way.
That writers take note of the world around them is no mystery. Maybe that’s why some of us lead very lonely lives. No one wants to talk to us anymore. I wonder, though, how many writers actually stop to consider just how they feel when they’re driving the porcelain bus. Maybe I’m the only one.
As I sat there in the bathroom waiting for the inevitable—hoping and praying that it wouldn’t happen, but knowing it would—I considered something else about myself: as a writer, there are times when I think I’m a little strange.
Here is a hint. Whenever I turn on the news and watch coverage of some devastating event, there is always one reporter who has to ask the victim how they feel. I admit, almost every time I want to throw something at the television and scream, “How do you think they feel?” Another question that galls me is: “What are you thinking right now?” I mean, there in front of the cameras stands a human being, writhing in agony to the point where it takes every ounce of energy to breathe in and out, their mind teetering on the edge of locking all the doors and taking a permanent vacation from reality, and some loser has to ask about how they feel, what they’re thinking. Can’t the reporter look into those lost, desperate eyes and see the pain? Do the questions really need to be asked?
I don’t know what it is about reporters, why they need to be so cruel at such critical moments in life. Maybe that’s just part of the job, part of answering the who-what-where-when-and-why questions that revolve around reporting an event. Maybe it’s their way of trying to Tom Wolfe the story, to put a human touch on the facts. Or maybe they’re trying to write their first novel and seek the words to describe the emotion for their character. Whatever it is, there are times when I think reporters are just insensitive schmucks.
I realize now that I am no better. There I was, cold chills breaking out across my flesh, my joints aching so much that it hurt to move them, and I was trying to take mental notes about what it felt like before everything came out. And as I thought about it, how I could write something like that into a scene, the questions came. Why is someone puking? Are they sick from a virus like they were in Stephen King’s The Stand? Or have they overdosed? Sitting there on a step-stool, my bare feet pressed against the cool linoleum floor, the ventilation fan buzzing above me, I then wondered about famous rock stars who died from asphyxiation: John Bonham and Jimmy Hendrix. Did they know what was happening to them, or did they just ride out on a wave of euphoria?
After it was all over, I also took note of what "empty" feels like as my stomach knotted up, collapsed in on itself, and found nothing left to give.
Truth be told, being sick is not the only time I do something like this. In my world, there is not a day that goes by when I don’t take note of something. Listening is one my favorite tools. People having conversations around me are fair game, as far as I’m concerned. Something said, even the most innocuous comment, can be the fiber for my mental loom. I just take their stuff, infuse my own ideas, and then weave together something different. Watching is another tool. Those poor souls who camped next to my family on Memorial Day weekend had no idea that they were victims to my wandering eye and imagination. Why was that girl going into the trashed-out camper with those two thugs? What was she thinking? How was she feeling?
I know. I’m one pull-tab shy of a six pack. I am not alone, though. There are several writers who throw events into their mental mixers and then whirl it all around until something concrete comes out. It doesn’t matter who the inspiration is, whether it be a mom, a dad, a brother or sister, an aunt, an uncle, the priest, the doctor or the family dog. Sooner or later, people we know (and especially those we don’t) make it into our stories. Though we may not base a character wholly on one individual, we do take a piece of this one, and a snippet of that one, and throw it all into our witch's brew to boil up something more delicious. What is amazing is that people we love still love us. They don't try to hunt us down as freaks and then chase us into the far reaches of the Arctic Circle, trying to kill us along the way.
That writers take note of the world around them is no mystery. Maybe that’s why some of us lead very lonely lives. No one wants to talk to us anymore. I wonder, though, how many writers actually stop to consider just how they feel when they’re driving the porcelain bus. Maybe I’m the only one.
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