After college, the whole writing thing lost some of its luster amid the heady glamor of "real life." Which is only to say that, as easy as it is to avoid writing when you do have a lot of free time, it can actually be easier to avoid writing when you don't have a lot of free time. This isn't true for everyone, but it certainly was for me, and the year after I graduated was spent, more or less, as far away as possible from creating fiction.
Somewhere along the line, though - not too long after a 2-year relationship stopped consuming my life - I got bored. As many of you out there know, real life can be pretty effing boring, and we all have to find various ways to combat that boredom. TV, video games, and binge-eating can only do so much, and I decided that writing might amuse me for a bit. I wasn't ready to get back to the novel, so I started up one of them there blog things, and surprise of surprises, I remembered that I actually enjoy putting words on paper (or paper's virtual facsimile) every now and again.
It was also round about this time that I decided I would at some point have to either put some real concerted effort into my writing, or relegate it to hobbyhood for, if not the rest of my life, at least the forseeable future. And so came the fateful decision to go to grad school.
Hey, remember when the point of this was that I would be writing about writing a novel?
Next time...the book is back! Like this guy, only not.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
College Years
By the end of high school, I'd developed a plan:
1. Go to college.
2. Major in something innocuous but interesting.
3. While in college write a novel, publish the novel, and watch that novel become an overnight bestseller.
4. Rake in the dough.
I managed steps 1 and 2 ok, but by the time I graduated I only had 30 pages worth of best-selling novel to speak of. They were roughly hand-written on a yellow legal pad because I thought at the time that writing by hand on a yellow legal pad would somehow make the words come out better. That theory is still up for debate.
There is one remarkable thing about the writing of the novel during my time in college (remarkable in that it's worth remarking upon), and that has to do with one of the early scenes. The scene is early both by virtue the fact that it comes near the beginning of the story and also because it was one of the first scenes I wrote, and it has remained in all subsequent drafts thus far. A quick precis would go something like this:
Our beloved hero is in attendance at the outdoor gala reception of his brother's wedding. The day begins sunny and hot, but thunderheads soon roll in, and before the cake has even been so much as nicked, a storm breaks out overhead. And though most of the wedding guests display varying degrees of disappointment, chagrin, and rage at this turn of events, our beloved hero delights in it because, a.) he's the kind of guy who finds the good in every situation, and b.) he gets swept off his feet by a hottie who takes him out for a waltz in the rain.
I plan to re-write that scene into the current draft within the next few days. It's a good scene, a scene I'm proud of, and one of those scenes that I hope sees the light of day sometime down the line. But the reason I bring it up here is because I so distinctly remember the genesis of that scene, and it happened one fine day in college.
I was walking back to my room from dinner, headed downhill from the uphill dining hall, when it started to rain. It was just a light sprinkling, nothing to write home about, and as far as I could see, everyone around me took it in stride. But it was one of those moments that spurred me to thought. It wasn't a mindbending thought, just something along the lines of: why are people so often upset and frightened by the rain? But that thought led to another thought, which led to another and another, and before I knew it, I'd sketched out most of the scene in my head, from the first crack of thunder to the end of the dance under a billowing tree. Also, I'd stopped walking so I could think better, and I'd become soggy. But I guess what I'm trying to say is that it's moments like that one, when the force of creation inhabits me momentarily and brings a new world into being, that lift the experience of writing to the peak of its wonderful beauty. That's why I write, more than anything else: because of all of the small and magnificent moments of creation. That's what keeps me coming back.
I've written too much again. Next time we find out what happens when people stop being polite...and start getting real.
1. Go to college.
2. Major in something innocuous but interesting.
3. While in college write a novel, publish the novel, and watch that novel become an overnight bestseller.
4. Rake in the dough.
I managed steps 1 and 2 ok, but by the time I graduated I only had 30 pages worth of best-selling novel to speak of. They were roughly hand-written on a yellow legal pad because I thought at the time that writing by hand on a yellow legal pad would somehow make the words come out better. That theory is still up for debate.
There is one remarkable thing about the writing of the novel during my time in college (remarkable in that it's worth remarking upon), and that has to do with one of the early scenes. The scene is early both by virtue the fact that it comes near the beginning of the story and also because it was one of the first scenes I wrote, and it has remained in all subsequent drafts thus far. A quick precis would go something like this:
Our beloved hero is in attendance at the outdoor gala reception of his brother's wedding. The day begins sunny and hot, but thunderheads soon roll in, and before the cake has even been so much as nicked, a storm breaks out overhead. And though most of the wedding guests display varying degrees of disappointment, chagrin, and rage at this turn of events, our beloved hero delights in it because, a.) he's the kind of guy who finds the good in every situation, and b.) he gets swept off his feet by a hottie who takes him out for a waltz in the rain.
I plan to re-write that scene into the current draft within the next few days. It's a good scene, a scene I'm proud of, and one of those scenes that I hope sees the light of day sometime down the line. But the reason I bring it up here is because I so distinctly remember the genesis of that scene, and it happened one fine day in college.
I was walking back to my room from dinner, headed downhill from the uphill dining hall, when it started to rain. It was just a light sprinkling, nothing to write home about, and as far as I could see, everyone around me took it in stride. But it was one of those moments that spurred me to thought. It wasn't a mindbending thought, just something along the lines of: why are people so often upset and frightened by the rain? But that thought led to another thought, which led to another and another, and before I knew it, I'd sketched out most of the scene in my head, from the first crack of thunder to the end of the dance under a billowing tree. Also, I'd stopped walking so I could think better, and I'd become soggy. But I guess what I'm trying to say is that it's moments like that one, when the force of creation inhabits me momentarily and brings a new world into being, that lift the experience of writing to the peak of its wonderful beauty. That's why I write, more than anything else: because of all of the small and magnificent moments of creation. That's what keeps me coming back.
I've written too much again. Next time we find out what happens when people stop being polite...and start getting real.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
The Story So Far
So I still have this blog, thing, and I figure that, as long as I have it, I should probably endeavor to do something more with it than just not updating it. Like update it.
Side note: I'm a big fan of the word "endeavor."
The way I'd like to update this blog - that is, the way I'd like to endeavor to regularly update this blog - is by writing about writing. More specifically, I'd like to do this by writing about the other non-blog writing that I have a tendency to do throughout the week. Whether or not I'm able to do this consistently remains to be seen, but I had the idea today, and I thought it was a decent one, so here I go with the endeavor.
Lately I have been endeavoring (really, like that word) to write a novel. And before I begin writing what I hope will be daily posts about the process of writing that novel, I feel I should elaborate upon the history of this would-be novel, as its history is, perhaps, of some slight interest to someone somewhere. That someone being me. So, in an attempt to begin at the beginning, I give you...the story so far:
I've been writing this novel, on and off, for the past 11 years. The name of the novel right now is The Acolyte, although that is only its most recent iteration, and probably just a short-term fix. I have a feeling I won't give it a title I'm satisfied with until I finish the thing. Of course, having been in the process of writing it in some manner or another for the last decade-plus-one, doesn't lend much support to the idea that I'll have a solid title any time soon.
Let me go back to the beginning like I promised I would. I was laying in bed one night as a teenage boy, half-comatose from too much pasta and not looking forward to waking up early for school the next day. In this state, I had an idea for a story - which was nothing too out of the ordinary for me at the time - and that idea was that a young man of roughly the same age, appearance, and level of intelligence as myself, would board a bus to somewhere and, unbeknownst to him, take a seat next to the devil.
Over the course of the ensuing bus ride, the boy and the devil would progress from chit-chat to small talk to conversation and, eventually, pass into deep philosophical discussion. That I didn't know what "deep philosophical discussion" really was at that age didn't stop me from thinking it was a good idea (these days, however, that lack of understanding does at least give me pause for thought). The upshot of this deep philosophical discussion would be that this particular devil would turn out to be the cause of pretty much all of the world's problems, and that the protagonist would feel a deep, hopeful, soul-permeating responsibility to do his very best to thwart this devil. It would be more or less at the point at which the protagonist's soul was being fully permeated by this feeling that the devil would then say something along the lines of, "So, kid...that soul of yours looks pretty nice. What do you want for it?" And the protagonist, against the good advice of centuries' worth of literature and folklore, would think that this was the best idea he'd heard in a long, long time. And the reason he would think it was such a good idea would be because he would have an even better idea of what he would like to get in return for the sale of his soul.
I'm not about to say what that thing was, but I will say that I basically stole the idea from a cartoon.
I never did end up writing that story. I started it once, but I didn't get very far. That whole "deep philosophical discussion" thing kept getting in the way. But even though I didn't write the story, the idea stayed with me. It actually enthralled me, the idea of the wish, of the moment where the protagonist would say, "Alright Mr. Devil, you think you're so smart. I'll sell you my soul, but in return, this is what I want..." (still not telling), and then he would tell the devil what he wanted, and the devil would fall back, aghast, and it would just be totally awesome. Furthermore I, as the story's author, would also, more likely than not, be feted like a returning hero. Or so I thought (or so I still sometimes think during what I hope are my vainest moments).
And so the idea stuck with me. A common yet accurate metaphorical description would be to say that the idea germinated in me. And I continued to not write the story. And then I went to college.
This story of the story is already much longer than I thought it would be. And if there's anything I know about people who read things on the Internet, it's that they don't like to read things of any great length. I know this because I don't like to read things of any great length on the Internet, and I can only assume that everyone else everywhere is exactly like me in that (and most) respect(s). So what I'm going to do right now is stop the story, to be continued at a later date which, should all go according to plan, will be tomorrow's date. Goodnight for now, dear readers.
Tomorrow: The College Years - Like the Wonder Years, only with more vomit!
Side note: I'm a big fan of the word "endeavor."
The way I'd like to update this blog - that is, the way I'd like to endeavor to regularly update this blog - is by writing about writing. More specifically, I'd like to do this by writing about the other non-blog writing that I have a tendency to do throughout the week. Whether or not I'm able to do this consistently remains to be seen, but I had the idea today, and I thought it was a decent one, so here I go with the endeavor.
Lately I have been endeavoring (really, like that word) to write a novel. And before I begin writing what I hope will be daily posts about the process of writing that novel, I feel I should elaborate upon the history of this would-be novel, as its history is, perhaps, of some slight interest to someone somewhere. That someone being me. So, in an attempt to begin at the beginning, I give you...the story so far:
I've been writing this novel, on and off, for the past 11 years. The name of the novel right now is The Acolyte, although that is only its most recent iteration, and probably just a short-term fix. I have a feeling I won't give it a title I'm satisfied with until I finish the thing. Of course, having been in the process of writing it in some manner or another for the last decade-plus-one, doesn't lend much support to the idea that I'll have a solid title any time soon.
Let me go back to the beginning like I promised I would. I was laying in bed one night as a teenage boy, half-comatose from too much pasta and not looking forward to waking up early for school the next day. In this state, I had an idea for a story - which was nothing too out of the ordinary for me at the time - and that idea was that a young man of roughly the same age, appearance, and level of intelligence as myself, would board a bus to somewhere and, unbeknownst to him, take a seat next to the devil.
Over the course of the ensuing bus ride, the boy and the devil would progress from chit-chat to small talk to conversation and, eventually, pass into deep philosophical discussion. That I didn't know what "deep philosophical discussion" really was at that age didn't stop me from thinking it was a good idea (these days, however, that lack of understanding does at least give me pause for thought). The upshot of this deep philosophical discussion would be that this particular devil would turn out to be the cause of pretty much all of the world's problems, and that the protagonist would feel a deep, hopeful, soul-permeating responsibility to do his very best to thwart this devil. It would be more or less at the point at which the protagonist's soul was being fully permeated by this feeling that the devil would then say something along the lines of, "So, kid...that soul of yours looks pretty nice. What do you want for it?" And the protagonist, against the good advice of centuries' worth of literature and folklore, would think that this was the best idea he'd heard in a long, long time. And the reason he would think it was such a good idea would be because he would have an even better idea of what he would like to get in return for the sale of his soul.
I'm not about to say what that thing was, but I will say that I basically stole the idea from a cartoon.
I never did end up writing that story. I started it once, but I didn't get very far. That whole "deep philosophical discussion" thing kept getting in the way. But even though I didn't write the story, the idea stayed with me. It actually enthralled me, the idea of the wish, of the moment where the protagonist would say, "Alright Mr. Devil, you think you're so smart. I'll sell you my soul, but in return, this is what I want..." (still not telling), and then he would tell the devil what he wanted, and the devil would fall back, aghast, and it would just be totally awesome. Furthermore I, as the story's author, would also, more likely than not, be feted like a returning hero. Or so I thought (or so I still sometimes think during what I hope are my vainest moments).
And so the idea stuck with me. A common yet accurate metaphorical description would be to say that the idea germinated in me. And I continued to not write the story. And then I went to college.
This story of the story is already much longer than I thought it would be. And if there's anything I know about people who read things on the Internet, it's that they don't like to read things of any great length. I know this because I don't like to read things of any great length on the Internet, and I can only assume that everyone else everywhere is exactly like me in that (and most) respect(s). So what I'm going to do right now is stop the story, to be continued at a later date which, should all go according to plan, will be tomorrow's date. Goodnight for now, dear readers.
Tomorrow: The College Years - Like the Wonder Years, only with more vomit!
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