Q & A, Part 1

Eamon of Creative Think Juice asked several questions in a recent comment on this blog, and as they were good questions that required more space than a comment box for a reply, I decided to write a post instead.


Q) How far are you in the book at the moment?

A) I'm in the second half (to be more precise, about three-fourths into) of the first draft. There is a lot going on in the story, a lot of characters to track and plot elements to fit into the puzzle, and as those various things come together--literally--in this part of the story, I'm writing slower and slower.

This is the second book in what may become a cycle. I say "may" because I never intended this story to extend beyond a single book. However, stories are what they are, and this one seems to keep spawning. In the current scheme, there will be three books in this particular storyline, and then at least one or two books set in the same world but in different eras i.e. a story set several generations in the future, and another story set in the distant past, the genesis of the current tale.

As for the three-book run, the first manuscript is circulating among readers who are making notes--suggestions, questions, comments--and sending those back to me. However, I am not editing that manuscript again until this current one is complete. I had hoped to have it finished by the end of March, but it may not be complete until May or June.


Q) What have you enjoyed most about writing this book so far?

A) I like it when connections are made that I did not plan. I like it when characters speak in ways I did not intend, or act in a manner that fits them so much better than anything I thought I knew about them.

In recent weeks, the most fun I've had in the writing process has been the death scene of an ancient villain. I talked about it with my brother, he and his wife read a rough draft of it and pointed out some weaknesses, and I fixed the trouble spots. Then I set it aside and continued on with the rest of the story. Last night, I had to re-read a portion of the manuscript to orient myself on a particular point, and so read the death scene again. I laughed--not because I'm sadistic, but because it was good writing.

I enjoy it when things just fit, and the words come easy, not necessarily because they were planned, but because they are right.


Q) What have you found most difficult to do?

A) The most difficult thing? To keep going. The easiest thing? To keep going.

Time is an obstacle, as are ideas. Sometimes, I've been so fixated on one idea that I've wasted time following a particular story thread to a dead end, and had to go back and find out where I went wrong. A writer has to see the details as well as the big picture, and sometimes I get off track. It's hard to stay on the trail when there are so many interesting things wandering through the trees.

Also, I'm writing something other writers have told me not to write. They think my skills better suited for other topics, other genres. They don't understand, and for a while I resented their lack of encouragement. Sometimes, to be quite honest, I still get riled about what I perceive to be an attitude of superiority, as if fantasy or science fiction is beneath the notice of "real" literature.

However, there are a handful of other writers who produce similar stories and are encouraging, and the few trusted readers are, too. (By readers, I mean individuals who get to preview the material and provide much needed feedback before the writing goes out into the great wide world.)

I write whatever grabs my attention, but this story has been with me, in one form or another, for over a decade. It's time I finished it.

To Be Continued

Man v. Dragon

So, I've just finished re-editing the man-with-dagger-fights-invincible-dragon scene.

And he wins.

The way it unfolds makes sense, and our hero does not walk away from the encounter. He's wounded, the grassland is ablaze, and he can't walk, much less run. I'm leaving him there until I can figure out an escape.

No deus ex machina stuff. No magic or coincidental rescues. And if there is a rescue, it's gotta be as real as fantasy can allow.

Maybe he can MacGyver his way out. Maybe use his fancy dagger, a Dragon scale, maybe a claw or a tooth, cauterize the pulsing wound and drag himself through the flames to--where?

This is a re-write. Haven't thought it through yet.

Uhm...Wow.

Just finished watching Apocalypto. Disgusting. Gentle. Bloody. Brotherhood. Sacrifice, willing and otherwise. Courage. Brutality. Family. Raw. Beautiful.

Strange, to consider all those words for the same film.

Hard to watch, and hard to look away. Other films that have hit me like that include Saving Private Ryan, The Passion of the Christ, Schindler's List, and parts of The Hiding Place, The End of the Spear, Saints and Soldiers, and a few others.

Films like that engage the mind, make a person think, but they also elicit a visceral, elemental reaction. Survival instinct. And yet--despite the desire for characters to survive--such stories can also turn instinct on its head, especially when one character lays down his life for another, either giving it up or putting it in danger in order to rescue someone else. Those stories, though difficult, stick with the viewer or the reader long after "the end" has been flashed on the screen or read at the bottom of a page.

I want to write one of those.

(picture courtesy of Icon Productions / Touchstone Pictures)

Further Adventures in Keanan's Yard

Last night, I watched another movie that just happened to star Steve Carrell--Evan Almighty--and then Mom came over to watch it before I turned it in, so I've seen it twice in less than 24 hours. That's okay. It's a good movie, and its presentation of God and His character is, well, in character. Well done.

As for the rest of the day, I've been in the yard, wielding rake and shovel and the occasional trash bag, but no lawn mower. Dad traded mine for his. It doesn't work, either.

For 20-25 years, I've been holding on to some seeds my grandmother gave me. My paternal grandparents were great gardeners, and they tried to teach all of us numerous grandchildren to love it, too. My brother and I once grew a patch of red-skin potatoes about the size of golf balls. Tiny, but tasty. Over the years, I've killed my share of plants of several varieties. However, if it can be planted in the yard, chances are it will survive.

Back to the story: When I was a kid, Grandma gave me a handful of hollyhock seeds, and I rolled them in a piece of plastic wrap, put them away in a box, and forgot about them. A while back, kids were selling seeds and bulbs as a fundraiser for band or choir or 4H or something, so I bought a small box, and soon afterward found the old hollyhock seeds. They went into the new box; it, too, was set aside and forgotten.

This afternoon, in the process of setting out some hand-me-down plants in the front yard (my attempt at helping the neighborhood beautification, and hopefully distracting attention from the unmown yard), I found the box.

So, among the other things planted around the front and side of the house are scattered Grandma's hollyhock seeds. They need be planted later in the year--gotta endure winter before they can bloom--so it'll be a while before I see any results. Don't know if they'll grow, but I have strong suspicion they will.

Morning Drive

I've always wondered what happened to this post. And the chicken wire used for the fencing is decades old; the old stone-and-wood building behind it was built in the 1940s, I think. Much more interesting than a picket fence.

I don't recommend writing while driving, but I do it all the time. After my whining (see previous post) about interruptions to the writing process, some very cool--and obvious--ideas came while I drove to work this morning. Since most of the year's work is done in the evenings, maybe this morning gig is just off-kilter enough to jog a tired mind into the imagination zone.

Pancakes. Gotta Love 'Em.

Okay. I have a new flick to add to the list of favorites: Dan in Real Life.

I said a few things about August Rush, but kept it simple about The Water Horse, and I'm not gonna say much about this one, either.

Ya just gotta watch it.

(image courtesy of www.entertainmentwallpaper.com)

Weedkiller

Uh, Tex? Easy. Put down the pen. And the pencil. Threatening me with multiple shallow paper cuts won't stop me.

I promise: This is the last poetry post. At least for a while. (For a point of reference, read the comments for the previous post, or visit his blog here.)

This poem received something at a contest four years ago, but I can't remember if it was in the money or only an honorable mention. (I keep very good records. Can you tell?)

The person who inspired it has read it, but doesn't know she is the subject, and many other people--men and women--have thought I tinkered with gender or circumstances, and that the poem's about them. Uh, okay. Guilty consciences?

Last year, I wrote a poem about trying to grab for our dreams before they are ready, and used the metaphor of harvesting grapes that are still green, and the writers group thought I was writing about sex. I told you poetry was subjective.

Weedkiller

She is a choking vine,
twining my limbs,
wrapping my throat,
squeezing my strength
as if I am the soil that succors her roots.

I was, at first,
a sympathetic willing trellis,
thinking my role temporary,
like a stake to guide a sapling,
but she will not let go.

Sun and shade equally strike,
yet she claims the lesser share,
complaining her weakness, her lack,
her compromise—
shadowing me as she seeks more light.

I am dying,
throttled by her need.
Freeing my hand, I tear at her tendrils,
feeling the sticky wetness of broken stems.
Remnants of her cling to my clothes.

She cries her shock and anger,
pleas the length of friendship,
but I reck not her arguments,
turn from her tilting form,
and say, “Stand.”

KB, 2000