I know I said I’d never have recycled content, but the talented (and rightfully defiant of the the dodgy and mercurial rules passed down from the Writing Powers That Be) Kate has requested I transfer this post from my blog on MySpace to here. Never one to turn down an appeal — especially one that makes me feel all kinds of special — here it is.
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Are You a Real Writer?

No, this isn’t some Internet quiz that will tell you if you’re on the right track or not. Sorry to disappoint, but odds are, if you need a quiz to tell you, then you’re probably not.

I read a few books on the craft of writing when I first started this project. In many ways, they proved invaluable. Nonetheless, I’ve started to shy away from them. Each time I get into one, I find myself in a spiral of intimidation. “What’s your theme? What are recurring images in your work?” The list of questions goes on and on, until I feel like a kindergartener with a Crayola-scrawled piece of paper in an interrogation room. The light on me keeps getting brighter, the interviewer more antagonistic, and I shrink down in my chair, holding up my little paper like a shield and say, “But — see what I did? Pretty.”

The investigator lets me go and I scurry away, self-doubt dogging my heels as if it were my shadow: What if I don’t have a theme? Am I filling 200,000 words worth of pages with absolutely nothing? Do I even know anything close to what the hell I’m doing? It may be what all new writers go through, I don’t know. All I’m certain of is the plague of uncertainty that is left in the wake.

I just picked up another one of those books, one recommended to me a while back but had been banished to the dustiest corner of my shelf for the reasons stated above. While revising, I decided I indeed needed some guidance and set about reading through this one, hoping for some sort of validation or direction. Instead, I got the doubt-monster for company.

On Saturday night I went out with a group of friends. We were in one of the Ocean City local restaurant/bars — one of the few that doesn’t shut down when tourist season ends. The conversations went all over the place, but, finally, the subject turned to my writing. Now, I don’t usually talk about the novel. First off, I just don’t see any natural way to insert the topics I cover in any standard conversation (“Hey, did you guys know that in dark magic poison can be made extra potent by straining it through the hair of a redhead?”). Secondly, I get nervous they’ll all catch on to the fact I have no idea what I’m talking about. So, I end up replying to their queries in a vague manner, like, “Oh, it’s going okay.”

For whatever reason (maybe the thick, brain-clouding haze of cigarette smoke, or the trauma from a three hundred pound man toppling off his barstool and nearly taking me out with him), I felt compelled to corner one of my poor friends, subsequently launching into a hour-long tirade about the story and it’s plot twists and turns. During that time I realized two things: 1) My friend is an extremely patient person, and 2) I DO have a handle on this novel.

I started talking about Resonance and her plethora of issues and I realized — hey, I actually go somewhere with this thing. I went on and on about acceptance, the development of humanity in the absence of all that can be defined as human, and the struggle for a sense of self. I talked for so long my lips started to stick to my gums and my voice became hoarse. To my friend’s credit, her eyes never once glazed nor did she check her watch. She actually seemed — interested.

I guess this self-acceptance (that which I write so prolifically about in fictional terms) comes for me in stages. Despite my lack of formal training and despite my seeming inability to play “name that theme” in the early stages of my work, I am a real writer. I’ve got the tools, and I’ve just shown myself I can use them. It’s a nice feeling — like a paternal pat on the head from The Beyond, a reassurance I’m in the right place at the right time, and definitely doing an okay job.

I just finished a round of folding laundry — part of the benefits of being three-quarters writer and one-quarter house-spouse. The place we’re renting has little storage space, so our dishtowels go into this narrow cabinet that hangs on the wall. It used to hold wall maps on rollers, one on top of the other. Its current purpose is much less glamorous.

In order to make the most of the space — and to serve my obsessive tendencies — I fold the towels in half and then roll them up. This task always leads me to think of books set in the civil war where the women on both sides of the fight would have gatherings for the purpose of rolling bandages.

I always wondered just where those bandages came from. I know that later in the war, when the numbers of wounded were astronomical, the women had to make their own out of household linens. But, what about those first batches? Wasn’t there a company to make bandages? If so, why couldn’t they roll them?

That train of thought led me, of course, to Scarlett O’hara and her tendency to help The Cause only to suit her own needs and then — oddly enough — to the eighties movie, Irreconcilable Differences starring Ryan O’Neal, Drew Barrymore and Shelly –bear with me as I mentally go through the list; Winters? Duvall? — Long (I had to go look it up). Ryan O’Neil is a struggling director, his wife a former collaborator turned dejected housewife. They have a cute kid — Drew. Ryan gets eventual fame and leaves his wife in the dust. The divorce ensues and then (largely due to the vast majority of his blood not being in the correct organ) his career tanks. Meanwhile, the kid’s being ignored and finally decides to divorce her parents — hence the title.

There’s this one part of the movie where the husband (this is right before the tanking) decides to direct a musical version of Gone With the Wind, starring his flavor-of-the-week girlfriend (Sharon Stone). They’re shooting this scene with dead soldiers strewn throughout Atlanta’s streets and the Scarlett character, tortured by the sight before her, flings off her big straw hat and starts to belt out, “This — civil war — aint gonna get — me down!”

After that, poor Ryan’s career is rightly shot and he moves into a crappy apartment that’s quickly littered with empty pizza boxes and takeout Chinese cartons. His former wife, however, pulls herself out of her post-divorce rut and writes a book. It launches her to mega-stardom. Soon, she has posters of her book covers all over the walls and telephone calls from agents announcing her number one spot on the bestseller list.

So, that’s what my brain was doing while I was folding towels. I’m always fascinated by its ability to jump from subject to subject in such a short space of time. In three minutes I took a circutous route from the drudgery of housework to the subject of writing. But, that shouldn’t be a surprise. It always somehow comes back to writing for me.

I really wish I could find a clip of Sharon Stone doing that song. It’s brilliant in its gracelessness.

It’s been a strange day. Excited about my fresh start, I ran to my computer, plopped down in my new chair and opened a blank document. The cursor blinked happily before me. I put my fingers on the keyboard and stared. And stared. And stared some more. Three weeks, and I was lost. These people — the ones I’d created, the ones I’d lived and breathed for almost two years — were nearly strangers to me. After a brief moment of surprise at the realization, I went back several chapters and began getting to know them all over again. Fifty or so pages later, I finally had enough confidence to move forward.

Like a dinner conversation with someone I went to high school with and then hadn’t seen for ten years — it was awkward. My voices were off. I’d forgotten Res’ penchant for making snide asides. I’d lost track of Quinn’s eagerness to prove himself, the cockiness that belies his uncertainty of his place in the world. I’d gotten out of the stunted rhythm of Not’s voice that stems from her confined knowledge of the outside world. I’d lost touch. But, just like that dinner conversation, little reminders of the old relationships began to creep back in. One-by-one, the light bulbs went off and I remembered all those things I’d worried I’d forgotten.

This sounds a little dramatic (come on, I’m a writer. Dramatic is what I do). I realize it wasn’t like I was gone for ten years and they were happily living their virtual lives without me. I wasn’t Sidney Bristow waking up to find two years had passed (yes, I used an Alias reference). It was only three weeks and my characters were sitting there patiently, waiting. Even so, there was a real sense of disconnect, as if I’d somehow lost control of all I’d created.

Thankfully, that experience was short-lived. After some reminiscing, the uncomfortable silence was filled and new text began to flow. My reunion with my characters was a success. And, you know what? Unlike most of the people I went to high school with, I actually missed them.

My Precious
New Years. I really don’t like the holiday all that much. Too many people promising to do too many things they’ll never accomplish. Then there’s the big party where everyone stands in a cluster, counting down like something incredible is going to happen. They hit the count of one, and it’s still the same room filled with the same people doing the same things. It’s just one minute later. For me it’s simply a time for tearing up one out of every two checks because the date is wrong.

Despite my lack of enjoyment of the New Year, I’m still having a fresh start of sorts. I’m coming off a mega-vacation stint of three weeks. I have a new-to-me, cross between mod and government issue filing cabinet for my obsessive organizational needs, and — the best present a writer with a dodgy back could possibly get — a new desk chair.

The chair wasn’t a surprise gift, but it’s presence here in this house is still surprise of sorts. A few weeks before Christmas I began to complain about my old model. It was a ninety-nine dollar office supply store special, complete with loose screw, creaking hinges and shredding fabric. It was too short for my desk, and I ended up typing every day with either my hands way up in the air, or sitting on my foot like it was a booster chair until it fell painfully asleep. Despite these flaws, I did try to make do, even reupholstering the monstrosity for a fresher look. While it looked better, the new fabric only accentuated that random screw that insistently poked me in the ass all day long. Finally fed up, I announced my intention to head over to the office supply store for the crap-chair’s successor. That’s when the architect I married spoke up.

“Take a look at these.”

A web address was typed in, the mouse clicked, and then the angels’ choir began to sing as heavenly light shone down upon the screen.

Avery, meet the Aeron chair.

I drooled, I yearned, and then I dismissed outright. Anyone who’s ever seen one of these knows the cost. But, then the architect again spoke, this time uttering two words that changed everything — “Professional discount.” Yep. Because architects spec a company’s products for their big projects, they’re occasionally given substantial percentages off their own purchases. We picked one out together (ordering one of these things is like ordering a car), and three days before Christmas, it was sitting where it is now — in front of the computer with my butt firmly planted on it. I’m like Gollum with this thing, crouching possessively in it, stroking the arms and gazing lovingly at the shiny, shiny aluminum feet.

Now my holiday time is over. I’ve dug in my wood grain filing cabinet’s drawers for the character folders I’d stashed away during a cleaning frenzy two weeks ago. My space-age new chair is adjusted to scientific precision, and my wrists are now at an angle that would make the strictest typing teacher proud. To top it all off, I have a shiny silver notepad with my name emblazoned across the front — a gift from my parents. Now, if all that’s not enough to make this writer jump back in and bang out those last three chapters, I don’t know what is.

To everyone I’ve met — the writers, the readers, and everyone kinda floating in between — no matter what holiday you celebrate, I hope you have a great one.

Thanks for sticking around, and I promise no more foolishness in the New Year. Weekly posts will be the new order.

Now get the hell off the computer and go spend time with the ones you love!!

To coincide with events in the book, I’ve had Spider take over Res’ MySpace blog. I’ve always had a good handle on his character traits and his appearance (think Andy of Combichrist with a crooked slant to his nose from a bad break). While he has a handful of lines in this novel, it’s never been enough for me to have played much with his voice until now. But, because of his taking over Res’ journal, I’ve had an opportunity to spend a decent chunk of time on really getting to know him. And I’m digging the results.

If you’re a reader of my blogs, you’ll probably be able to see it for yourself — the slow morphing of his voice. The first posting is more like me (or maybe Res) with a few slang words chucked in. When I go back and look at it, I get the picture in my head of me when I’m trying to read other people’s work out loud. The next tries to be a little more casual, but still has too much formality for a lower middle class, undereducated punk. The last two entries (both done on the same day) are getting closer to where I need to be with him. His own style is starting to peek through (and he’s already gained one profession of love from a reader for it, so that’s not too bad).

I initially set up these blogs in the hopes of gaining some advance readership, to maybe garner some support from potential readers before I even get to print. I liked writing Res enough that I was excited to give her some time to rant about anything she wanted. But, I didn’t expect I’d be learning so much from the experience. And that it’s a visible, public process doesn’t bother me at all. With just a little work, Spider is no longer a collection of notes and a pile of statistics — he’s gone from 2-D to 3-D.

Despite its unexpectedness, the revelation that I could actually grow during this online venture has come at a good time. I’ve been revising for so long, I was becoming bored with the entire story (and everyone in it). To have a fresh perspective — even if it has nothing to do with the finished product directly — has sharpened my interest in getting out there and selling this book. I’m excited again, and it’s all because of a surly punk rocker named Spider.

It’s interesting for me to acknowledge that I want to continue these blogs, no longer placing readership as a primary concern, but for my own personal experience and growth. You see? It’s not about you guys. It’s all about me.

That sounded really nice, didn’t it? Okay. It can be a little about you, too — just enough so you won’t go away mad. You can decide for yourself how much that is. I trust you.

I’ve just posted a new entry on Res’ MySpace blog. It’s from Spider’s point-of-view, and gives a lot of detailed information on Res’ longtime pal. If you’re curious (and you should be, because he doesn’t get much face-time until the second book), head on over and check him out.

Res’ blog

Ah, kids. I didn’t make my deadline. But, I’m still happy with me. I pulled myself out of that rut, which was the most important thing. And while I’m not finished, I’m pretty damn close.

The word count meter is jacked up tonight, so I’m just going to tell you what its final count should say:

Current count: 159,000
Goal: 161,000
Percent complete: 98.76

Not too shabby.

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Today was rough. I had to re-write all of the chapters I came across. Only a few choice bits of information were spared the axe. Although at times I wanted to pull my hair out at the roots, or bang my head against the keyboard until rendered unconscious, I have to admit it’s for the better. I’m much more confident this ending I’m working towards is more plausible and more in tune with the rest of the story’s events. It’s also better, stronger, and faster. In fact, it’s downright bionic.

The totals for today’s hardships are as follows: Three chapters. 23 pages written (5,750 words).

I’m pretty sure this round of revisions will take me over the original word count of 161,000, but probably not by much. That number was taken before I did a second round of editing on the first half of the book, so I think the totals might still be hovering somewhere in the same area.

To everyone who wished me well, thanks. Knowing I had people cheering for me really helped keep me in line.

I’m looking forward to next week, when I’ll crank out this ending and then turn my focus on getting it polished enough to finally find that agent I’ve been yammering on about.

And I think I might make it. At least I’ll be pretty close. All I have left now is the climax. The denoument and prologue are pretty much the same. I just need to do a little minor tweaking to mesh with the changes.

I still don’t know about the ending — how to make it good. And I mean nail-biting, hear-pounding, edge-of-your seat, almost pee-your-pants and then pass into a coma of absolute satisfaction good. I don’t want one of those, “Oh, the book was great, but the ending really didn’t do much,” kind of stories. I want the reader to jump onto their chair, hold the book above their heads and shout, “Yes! That’s what I’m talking about.” A little dance of happiness wouldn’t be unwelcome, either.

I’m hoping for prophetic dreams tonight. If not, I’ll just have to jump in tomorrow and see where I land.

The update for tonight is: 34 pages edited. 8,500 words.

I’m almost there. Glory hallelujah.

Two more days to go, and I’m going backwards. But, it’s a good backward. I revised one unnecessarily long and complicated chapter today, cutting it from 24 to 14 pages.

I have no idea how to translate that into my counter thingy, so I’ll just leave it.