Reading and writing (or not)

I've bundled up the Bag of Bones and set it to one side. At the station last night I had the choice to perservere with the (steady as she goes) book, or to pluck out one of my new shiny novels that I'd bought and start on it. Easy choice really, so now I'm reading '48. Wow! What a change of pace!! So much action that I may need a coronary bypass just to cope with it all. But it's good. Real good!

I updated my novel word count this morning, however I haven't written anything for a couple of days now. Work is crazy and my OLP has flared up which tends to wipe me out. My specialist thinks that another auto-immune condition is working behind the OLP to weaken my system which, in turn, causes the OLP to flare, but it's all rather vague. Like my brain at the moment. So, this weekend will be a break weekend. At least Saturday anyway. I'll aim to get back into the novel on Sunday.

Emily read the first part of my revised chapter one and her feedback gives me great confidence that I'm making the novel better, not worse. So that's hugely encouraging! It's hard work though. Such hard work. It was such a relief to learn that it's paying off. Even if I think I have driven myself into the ground.

So tomorrow, no writing at all. I plan to go shopping for a few things that I need for the States, plus I have to take my crazy pooch to the park, make sure not to slip and fall on my ass after all this rain (great for our catchments by the way, not so good for sure walking), and maybe I'll read, read, read, bum around, catch up with Em on chat (hopefully she'll be around), that kind of thing. But no writing. Just for one day. Sunday, however... I'll crack the whip on myself again.

At least that's the plan.

I've been book shopping!

I’m still reading Bag of Bones… it feels like I’ve been reading this book since the dawn of time! Which, I guess, clearly sums up my opinion of it. So, why am I still reading it? Because, as slow as it is going, and as much as my eyes glaze over while reading, the story is still progressing and it's interesting to gain insight into a writer's experiences. A published writer, that is. The protagonist is a novelist, well-published, and he's not unlikeable, it's just heavy on exposition. I trust that it will all have relevance later, but for now, it's tedious. I average 50 pages on the train (each way), so that’s 100 pages during my commute, and I figure if I can get another 100 pages done of an evening, then I’ll have its throat cut. Or I’ll be cutting my own throat, one or the other!

Had a seminar down the other end of the city this morning and it finished right on midday. Had to catch a tram back to work – a tram that (coincidentally) went past one of the city’s large bookstores. Irresistible attraction… so in I went. They were having a book-sale. I almost slipped in my own drool!

I bought (at bargain box prices) the following:

Gabriel’s Gift (Hanif Kureishi)
Golden Eyes (John Gideon)
Best Ghost Stories of Algernon Blackwood (Algernon Blackwood)
’48 (James Herbert)
The naked face (Sidney Sheldon)
Sarah’s Window (Janice Graham)
Carrie (Stephen King)

Yes, I know, I’m determined to read Stephen King. He’s a master, afterall, and Carrie is super thin compared to Bag of Bones. I figure I can manage it. And, I’ve seen the film, but years ago.

I also bought The Road (Cormac McCarthy) for a book reading group that I’ve joined (LitNerds). I paid full price for this book (gasp), but I joined the bookclub just as a reason to read this book. It looks amazing, dark and depressing and utterly hopeless. Just my cup of tea!

So, c'mon you ole Bag of Bones, hurry up and get finished!

The journey so far

Emily and talked by phone on the weekend. It’s now less than one month until I fly out to visit with her, and therefore only five weeks until we both attend the Midwest Writers Workshop in Indiana. Em and I have each submitted a one page synopsis and five pages (manuscript format) of our novels for evaluation at the workshop. They will be assessed by Dennis Hensley, for the purpose of gaining feedback and insight.

I would be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous. However, the evaluation is a 15 minute one-on-one meeting in the midst of three days of immersion in all facets of writing, from the basics of the craft to the business of getting published. Not to mention being in a creative atmosphere with other like minded souls, many of whom will be published authors. My excitement outweighs the nervousness.

Midwest, and the month I will spend with Emily, was intended to be my time to decide, once and for all, whether I would pursue writing or abandon it forever. I have already made my decision. I will write. It is (and has always been) my dream and it is with regret that I acknowledge the years I lost to uncertainty, self-doubt, and other people’s expectations (imagined or real).

Midwest now will be a celebration. Thousands of miles away across the ocean, I will finally come home – be the writer I was meant to be – the reality that my childhood-self imagined all those years ago. Already, it feels damned good!

I’m six months into living my dream. So far, I have very little in the way of word-count to show for it, but I have dozens of files, research (websites and journal articles), character summaries, ideas, outlines, scene/dialogue snippets, and longer written scenes that have already bitten the dust – or might still.

To reflect on the months so far, I shall briefly (I hope) recount my experiences.

My novel was born on a hot commuter train in suburban Melbourne in December 2006. Yes, I kid you not. It was. That is where the seed originated.

I didn’t know it at the time because writing a novel was not on my mind, but when a young man stepped onto the train and stood near the carriage door, he caught my eye. Dressed in camouflage cargo pants, thick-laced boots, a chocolate brown t-shirt, a backpack slung over one shoulder… and wearing hearing aids, he was attractive, well built but not bulked up, in his early twenties and radiating singular purpose. He made eye contact with no-one, held his head high and stared off into the middle distance. Not arrogant, but self-aware… closed off, unwilling (it seemed) to initiate interaction with another. Though on public transport, interaction with strangers is reserved for the mentally unwell or country-folk. His social indifference seemed to be more than that though, a consequence of his hearing impairment maybe, or at least I imagined it to be.

After only a few stops, he disembarked and I have not seen him since.

On that day, Codee Shaw, my protagonist, was born. I wasn’t to know it for another month. At the time, I wondered (out of interest alone) how that young man came to be deaf, how he managed the disability, what support systems he had, what his dreams were and how successfully he pursued them. I know from personal experience that disability does not define a person, it does however shape them, and I had no doubts that this stranger’s deafness had shaped him. What intrigued me was how, and to what extent.

During this time I was working on a novel length fanfiction story, it would be my second for the fandom. My plan (at that time): write three novel length fanfiction stories and if no-one had evicted me from the fandom and people continued to encourage me, I would have earned a shot at writing original.

I had a fan base, as odd as that sounds. And through posting that first story, I had gained the most amazing writing buddy, Emily. She encouraged me, coached me, guided and enlightened me, and over time we became close friends. Now, we’re inseparable. Well, if it weren’t for that big pond that they call the Pacific Ocean, we would be physically inseparable.

To digress, in mid-late 2006 I had started this second fanfiction novel, similar in length to the first (100K+ words), but pre-plotted rather than written freeform. I spent several months studiously outlining, researching, getting to know my original characters before I felt ready to start writing. I shared my first chapter (featuring the television characters) with Emily who encouraged me to write more. I took over a month to write the second chapter, through re-draft and re-draft. It ended up being a scene around 5,000 words in length, with all original characters: Burle, a native American Indian, divorced, still in love with his ex-wife, and with a twelve year old son, Codee. The boy would become a shaman, though none of the characters knew that at the outset. I gave Burle a back-story, motivation, struggles and dreams. He would, before the story was out, face his past, learn the terrifying truth about a trusted friend, and be forced to fight for his own life and that of his son. The poor guy had no idea what I had planned for him.

Writing Burle’s first chapter was such hard work, but incredibly rewarding. Burle was mine. Codee was mine. Shauna (Burle’s ex-wife) and Kevin (Shauna’s new husband) were all mine. Even the damned dog was mine! The term pig-in-shit comes nowhere close to describing how much fun I had. And, Emily (bless her heart) stunned me with her supportive feedback.

I continued, and each one of Burle’s chapters had an emotional honesty, an integrity that the television series character’s chapters lacked. Emily noticed it, and I began to question my plan to hold off on starting my first novel. Writing fanfiction was fun, tormenting someone else’s characters and sharing it with the world guaranteed feedback and critique (necessary for any writer), but there were rules, canon, restrictions on what the characters could do, what they could think, what their pasts were. I struggled to find my home in this.

Somewhere around this time (January 2007), Leland Gaskill (Emily’s hot ghost-busting detective was born). Em sent me the first of Leland’s scenes that she ever wrote, and in doing that, she hammered the first nail in Burle’s coffin… and the humidicrib of writing creativity gained a little boy – Codee Shaw (not Burle’s son). Again, at this point, I didn’t know this was happening, I was too busy deliriously reeling from what she had shared.

Emily writes outstanding fanfiction, one of the best writers in the fandom, if not *the* best, but Leland surpasses anything she has ever written for the fandom. She crafts amazing imagery, has taught me to sharpen my game, to use all my senses when crafting a scene, to dig deeper and harder to bring characters to life. That first scene showcased her talent, skills that the fandom appreciates, but that belong in novels – that belong in bookstores… in libraries.

I told her so and haven’t stopped telling her ever since. I think she hates me, I really am a shameless nag.

Getting back to me. I finished reading Leland’s first scene and I felt breathless… and so damned giddy that I couldn’t quit grinning. All I can think was: My friend wrote this! My friend!! Surely some of this talent has to rub off on me just by association!

I was in the middle of reading one of Dean Koontz novels (my favourite author) and this scene that Emily had written gave me the same exquisite thrill. I literally lived the scene: fell in so deeply that my natural environment dropped away. It took me quite some time before I could compose meaningful comments other than… guh, guh, guh… dribble/drool.

It was a mixed reaction too though. In my typical style, I felt inadequate – shamefully so. I feared being left behind, I imagined Emily shooting off into the novel writing world while I languished in fanfiction, tapping out worn out stories because I lacked the confidence to give novel writing a go.

I made another deal with myself. I knew I lacked skill in writing action sequences. I imagined I would write a psychological horror/drama novel, and it would feature action. Finishing Burle’s story would hone that skill – it would give me my flying wings – my confidence. Despite Emily’s progress, I decided to wait.

My protagonist had other plans.

In January 2007, I knew my protagonist’s name would be Codee. When choosing character names for my fanfiction story, Codee was a name that came to me. I hunted for all the others, but Codee came. And, as I imagined this twelve year old boy, I couldn’t help but see him as an adult, Australian, twenty-three or twenty-four years old, with hearing aids, and a past so traumatic that he would spend the entire novel searching for justice, for answers, for peace.

I had no firm idea what his past was, only that he hadn’t been born deaf, and neither had he contracted an illness or been in an accident. No, someone (or something) had hurt Codee, had taken a strong, healthy teenage boy and broken him: deliberately; methodically; brutally. Again, I didn’t know what, or who. But in my mind, ideas churned.

I happened to be reading the Handbook for Horror Writers at the time. One piece of advice suggested that to be successful you must write what you fear. Emily had mentioned this to me a short while before, and I’d responded with spiders, snakes, high places. She didn’t push me, but I later realised it’s not what she meant. The Handbook highlighted that, impressed the importance of writing from the heart, writing from what you know – what you fear. And they didn’t mean spiders, snakes and high places. No, they meant that which could shatter you, drive you to your knees, make you question all you had ever known.

Digging this deep made me uncomfortable, made me question my own truths, assumptions I had made about other people’s motivations… one thing in particular that had haunted my transition into adulthood and to which I did find the answer and it was an acceptable one. I considered the alternative, what I knew would never be my personal truth, and my blood ran cold.

This fear wasn’t physical, it wasn’t a beast that lurked in the shadows, no it was about identity and self-worth. The strength we gain from others, and the assumptions we make about another’s intentions, their honour, their love – and those darker things about them that we choose to ignore. As difficult as this was, I found my fear… and I found the basis for my novel. This was the no-turning-back moment. In my mind, Codee came to life, and he had already endured the trauma that would leave him emotionally and physically scarred… I felt an obligation to get him through this, get him to the point where he would find answers, and then beyond.

As odd as this sounds, Codee became real and to leave him as broken as he was, would be an act of inhumanity. As Emily so wisely said, I had become Codee’s bitch, it was his story now, and all I had to do was act as scribe and interpreter. Some days that’s easier than others.

Over the coming two or so months, Codee infiltrated my waking moments. I was working on the fanfiction story, on Burle and his son and the dramas that were playing out in a small Wyoming town, yet in my mind was an Australian boy, a young man, a scarred soul with a spirit that wouldn’t die. Aussie-Codee had become a real nag, he hung on my conscience like a leech, sucking my creativity away from all else but him. I love him for it, but juggling became rather hard.

It got worse. I spent my weekends and evenings doing character charts, running through plot ideas until I got Aussie-Codee out of my system and I could focus on Burle and fanfiction. He never disappeared for very long. If anything, he became increasingly persistent the more effort I spent on trying to push him aside.

Burle’s death knell came when I wrote an action-based chapter of the fanfiction story. It was a hard scene to write. Multiple characters, in a forest, each with competing demands and opposing motivations, yet Emily convinced me that I’d done a fairly decent job of getting it right. In fact, her feedback suggested that I’d nailed it – though I’d never consider my work to be perfect, I doubt I ever will, I’d stepped up my action-scene writing skills, and yet another reason to not start my novel just fell away.

So I started. And I fumbled. And I picked my way through scenes that flowed like hardened cement. When it came to writing up the synopsis for the Midwest Writers Workshop, I was ready to take Codee out and shoot him just to put him, and I, out of our respective misery. It was as though he and I were communicating through an inebriated interpreter. I could see Codee, feel him, touch him, but I couldn’t get into his head – or maybe he just didn’t trust me.

One scene saved his life, and my sanity: interaction between Codee and a character named Jack. Jack’s a bit of a loser: aged, decrepit, his body is falling apart and his mind free-falling after it. He’s sharp when it counts though, and he can read Codee all too well. In writing Jack and Codee in the same room, I realised that Jack is Codee’s mirror. What Codee could become if he doesn’t get a handle on things. Jack is much more than that, but finally I had a little bit of depth about this kid. Then, things ground to another halt.

My next scene had Codee and two other characters in a room with a scenario that raised old fears. Put simply, Codee was going to have a hard time keeping it together. Obviously, not quite as hard of a time as his scribe… I floundered. That’s putting it nicely.

I spent two or three weeks battering around different angles, changing points of view, and through all this time it never dawned on me to give it up and realise the scene was flawed. Nope. I’m a bit stubborn that way. So, I had three characters (four when I added Jack because I was desperate and I figured maybe the more the merrier), all standing in a small room staring at each other. Mute. I’m not exaggerating: there were four guys all standing there like some frozen computer-game characters, their expressions fixed, mouths open, minds blank. I felt like detonating a bomb (not in the plot at all) just to get them to DO SOMETHING!! Anything! I really didn’t care, just move dammit!

The synopsis deadline for the MWW approached, and I panicked. Turned to my friend Google and trawled the internet for synopsis writing hints. After the initial palm-soaked, coronary testing realisation that this would be no easy feat, I sat down and spent hours working through the novel outline. I had an outline already, but evidently it was flawed – I refer the reader back to those mute characters stuck in a room with me manically wiring up a bomb just outside.

“I’ll kill you all,” I cackled. “I mean it. I really will!”

Really, what’s sanity anyway?

So, outline. I waded through dot point to dot point, discovered a swiss cheese plot. No wonder these poor guys had nothing to say to each other. Cardboard characters can’t talk… geez, they struggle to breathe let alone think.

Bottom line, I had problems. Big problems. I had people in this novel who were there for the sole purpose of either giving Codee hell, or helping him. They had no will of their own.

Lots of walks, food, television and procrastination (i.e. web-surfing) later, I interrogated each of these cardboard characters, stuck toothpicks under their fingernails until they confessed all. What they wanted, not what they needed to do in order to help or hinder Codee.

Finally, progress.

Next problem. These people had their own will, so what on earth were they doing with/to Codee? More long walks, food, television, etc. Managed to get all that figured out and then had to interweave everything together.

I’m bald now. Wear a wig. It’s got grey hairs too. Just thought you’d want to know.

This torture took a full weekend (no wonder my life feels like it’s flashing by). The end of which I had five pages of dot pointed paragraphs. Not quite what a synopsis is meant to look like. The synopsis draft (turning five pages into one) took another week. It’s incredible how difficult it is to select the exact right word to infer the right meaning. And, when you’ve got only one page to summarise an entire novel, every single word has to count.

Surprisingly, I enjoyed that experience – what can I say, I’m a masochist. It was torturous, time consuming, but it heightened my awareness of my novel, of the intricacies of it, the character journey, the psychology that underlies every character, not just my protagonist.

Next job: the five pages of sample manuscript. Five pages, manuscript format, that is. The only material I had which I felt came somewhat close to capturing Codee’s spirit was the interaction with Jack. But it was far too long. Jack’s a bit of a waffler, a gossiper, he had a point to make but he wasn’t in any rush to make it. So that didn’t work.

Emily had mentioned she was working on Leland’s prologue. I assumed she intended to submit that as her manuscript submission, and I got to thinking… I’ll do that too. What can I say, I'm not below blatent strategy thievery.

I sat down and started writing. It flowed. Codee told me how he lost his hearing, what he had endured, what he feared, what he suffered. He shared memories, his confusion and pain, his source of hope when there really was none at all. He spilled it all, and I felt blessed… and disturbed. I knew the plot – I knew what had done this to him, even if he didn’t. I endured another period of soul searching before I allowed him to help me refine.

That took another week of work, weekends and evenings, mornings and lunch-times. Any spare moment really, because I’m Codee's scribe and that’s what I do. Sometimes, it seems it’s all I do.

The end product is something I am proud of, but beyond that, it connected me to Codee in a way that everything else I had done had not. He’s more physically flawed than I realised, but emotionally stronger than I gave him credit for. He needs to be strong. I don’t plan on playing nice. Not at all.

So, right now I am rewriting the opening scene to the novel, based on the connection I have made with Codee in the prologue. It feels truer, more honest, more real – it works for me. If it works for anyone else, I’m yet to know, but I have to write what comes from the heart. First and foremost, I am a reader, and this drives me to write the story in a way that resonates for me. I can only hope it will do the same for someone else.

The real test lies in whether I can do Codee justice. As his scribe, the truth of his experiences rest heavily on my ability to craft words into images, emotions into sentences, fear into tangible qualities that a reader can share. I owe him that, and it hurts to think I might fail him. Because, as much as this is a fictional character, in my heart he is real, more real than I’ve ever experienced a fictional character before. I care for him, deeply. Given that I will spend the next year or so with him, I guess that’s a good thing.

BR: Trigger (Susan Vaught)

Amazon Link: Trigger

I read Trigger in one night, from start to finish. Started and couldn’t stop. It resonated, it hurt, at times I put the book down in my lap because I couldn’t read through my tears, couldn’t breathe past the lump in my throat. It showed me the tragic consequences of untreated depression in a way I’ve never allowed myself to consider. Where I wanted to experience pity and regret for Jersey, the characters around him demonstrated contempt. It hurt, but that's the lesson.

Jersey Hatch is no hero. He screwed up, scarred lives, destroyed his own future and took down countless people around him. He tried to die before he had even lived, before he was old enough to understand his own emotions. He suffers terribly for his moment of misjudgement, and Susan Vaught doesn’t make his story an easy one to read – she lends him very little pity, and at the end of the novel we find out why.

He is the protagonist, and from the very first page he had my heart. Though he brought this on himself, he is a victim. There is no denying it... he's a victim of himself. His long journey toward understanding is painful and visceral, and the humiliation he endures is heart-wrenching. This book should be mandatory for teens, for young adults, for anyone who considers suicide as a way to offer freedom to themselves and their loved ones.

This story challenged my preconceptions about failed suicide, opened my eyes to truths I already knew, but wished to ignore. It made me thankful for choices I’ve made, and for the choices made by those I love. It humbled me. Left me sobbing and small… left me aching for those who made the wrong choice and who I lost before I had a chance to know.

This is a book I will recommend, I will talk about, I will share with anyone who experiences depression in whatever form. Even those who don't.

No-one should have to go through what Jersey Hatch endures in order to learn that suicide offers no solution to anyone, least of all those left behind.

Em, thank you (from the bottom of my heart) for gifting me this book. You know me better than a sister -- you knew this would resonate, and you were right. You are my confidante and inspiration, and I treasure you dearly. You make more of a difference in my life than you ever can know. I hope that I do a little of the same in return. Thank you!

Reason for blog

This is the first entry in my writing blog. Oddly enough, I'm expecting this little distraction to help to keep me on track -- to help me avoid the evil that is procrastination. How, you might wonder? Won't this just distract me further? Well, I've made this blog my home page, so every time I switch on my computer my current word count for my novel will smack me in the face. That, right there, ought to be motivation enough to get off my butt, stop idly surfing and get writing.

However, I'm known for my stubborness, so to further prompt me along, I've included links, rss-feeds for writing podcasts (I adore those things, and the blessed people who create them), and other people's novels to remind me of why I'm writing.

So, on that note, I shall post my first blog note and toddle off sure in the knowledge that not only will this help to keep me on track to write more, but also to read more. Let's see how I go.

BR: The Dark Half (Stephen King)

Amazon Link: The Dark Half
Author's website: Stephen King

I'm cheating and pre-dating blog posts to include comments for books I've read over the past few months. Starting with SK's 'The Dark Half'

I read this novel quite quickly, once I got past the slow start.

I found it hard to engage with at first. Several side-characters, with in depth narratives, featured in the first 1/4 of the book. Characters that were either killed, or were witnesses/law enforcement officers, and whom I felt didn't warrant the degree of depth they were given.

I persevered though, and am glad that I did. Once Stark's killing spree settled down, the story became much more psychological with Thad trying to figure out what this thing was and how to stop it. The interconnectedness of Thad and his 'twin' was disturbing, and by 3/4's of the way through the novel I expected Thad to either be killed or to sacrifice himself so as to ensure that Stark was ultimately destroyed.

As it turned out, Thad does suicide, but beyond the realms of this novel. 'Bag of Bones' features one line where the protag in that story muses on Thad's fate. It's a sad end, but necessary because Thad and Stark were almost one and the same, there would be no certainty that Stark couldn't be resurrected while Thad still lived.

Overall, a fantastic novel. I'm warming to SK's wordier approach to fiction writing. His style is vastly different from DK's, and though I prefer DK, I can appreciate SK as well.