Here are a few commentaries and observations designed to fill this space with words. These are especially directed toward those of my readers who are writers.
Which of the two constructions do you prefer? 1) I’m ten years older than him. Or: 2) I’m ten years older than he is.
The quote, “A [fill in your work] is never finished, only abandoned,” has been attributed to several writers. The poet Paul Valery is credited with, “A poem is never finished, only abandoned.” Graham Green said, “It,”—referring to a novel—”is never finished, only abandoned.” The novelist E. M. Forster said, “A work of art is never finished. It is merely abandoned.” I’ve even quoted it myself without giving proper attribution, usually referring to novels, rather than poems. And I’ve come to believe the truth in that quotation (whoever you feel is the real author). I’ve just completed a serious revision of the third installment of my sci-fi novels (it’s called “Warrior,” but hasn’t been published yet). The revisions filled in quite a number of plot holes, and smoothed out some awkward phrasing here and there. Now all that is left is to print out the novel (the first time that novel has been printed) and read it in the “paper” stage (see last week’s blog) and read it out loud. And then make whatever changes I feel are necessary. All of that won’t be a simple matter by any means, but it will insure that the novel will be in a reasonably good state, ready for beta readers or critique groups. Yet, based on my experiences with the first two novels, both of which have gone through that “print/read/out loud” phase, small touch-ups will always be possible at any time. It’s true, the novels are never finished; you can always make changes. I just have to be willing to drop them and let them go. And not obsess over small things.
If you have a character in your writing who is angry, and you need to show intense outrage/passion/displeasure/hatred, and you are writing in the 3rd person point-of-view, which way do you like to express it? By having the angry person be the POV character and present to the reader directly his/her feelings ? Or by having the character be not the POV character and letting him/her—and by extension, the reader—view it from a distance? It can be done either way, of course, but does it seem to fit your style of writing better one way or the other? Generally I stick with the indirect way: presenting the anger of someone directly in their head seems too much like telling, not showing.
In this day and age of climate change when storms are getting more and more powerful, and forest fires burn more and more square miles, I’ve noticed that people caught up in these events tend to use a curious method of comparison to try and describe how they sound or feel. Frequently that comparison is to a “freight train.” Most frequently, this is the object of comparison for tornadoes, but it has also been applied to land/mudslides, and even hurricanes. But I’m curious, do most people really know what a freight train sounds like? I’d almost be willing to bet that most don’t. I’ve heard a few freight trains in my life, and though I’ve never heard a tornado, I really wonder if the two sound alike. Anybody know? In this day of long trains pulled by large-horsepower diesel engines, the sound is more of a growl of low pitch and high. I suppose that back in the 1940’s and 1950’s when large steam engines pulled long trains of coal out of the Appalachian coal fields of Kentucky and West Virginia, and they had to literally pound the rails to get it over the mountains, it could have had a terrible rumbling feel, especially considering the power in the exhaust of the mighty engines and the shaking of the ground if you stood too close. But diesels don’t do that much any more. They seem to glide along; there’s no pounding and no heavy exhaust. I wonder if a tornado or mudslide really sounds like that. Anyone have any idea?
I’m curious. What will writers do without paper?
In our growing environmentally conscious society, the reduction of paper in the workplace has already begun. We’re supposed to reduce the amount of paper we use to help save trees, and by extension, the environment. But books are made of paper. (I don’t count e-books here.) In fact, I’ve never seen a book made of anything else. But speaking as a fledgling writer, and more to the point I’m trying to make here, manuscripts are printed on paper. Revisions are made on paper. The whole process of writing involves paper. And to an horrendous degree.
I know of and have heard of people who routinely print out their works (on paper, of course) during the revision process as a method of seeing the work in a new light. I agree with them. I do it too. Seeing my work, whether short story, poem, or the entire manuscript of a novel, gives me a clearer and more realistic vision of the work as it will appear to the reader (of a real book, not an e-book). I print out every story. In some cases, several times. I also read it aloud, and that helps even further in identifying the difficult points of the writing. Especially the redundancies, the difficult points of narration, the confused logic, the plot holes that need to be filled, the weird phrasing that should be revised, the scientific points that have to be explained in some detail. I—and as I said, others—need that printed version.
Paper is relatively cheap. Trees are cut down every day. But it’s a largely unsustainable concept, the idea of turning trees into a thin, white sheet that will accept ink and pencil lead, and the idea of reducing the amount of paper we use is most certainly environmentally proper. Computers have already forced us into a reduction of paper usage. And in my case, a substantial reduction. Without a computer to produce and keep my novels, short stories and poetry, I’d have to have a large file folder of each revision of a novel. That would be a lot of paper. One novel would take up an entire file cabinet drawer. I can’t imagine doing that.
Yet, still, I need to print out a novel to look at it in a “new light.” What are we going to do if paper goes away? To be really, really honest here, I suspect paper will never go away completely. It will always be with us, but we may wind up with much less of it and it will become much more expensive.
In the universe I created for my characters in my sci-fi novels, I put them on a desert planet without much plant life, except in large hydroponic gardens where they grow their food. Thus, they do not have the large trees or the cotton, or even the cellulose, we use to make paper. But—and this is a big but—they do have plastic sheets to print things on, such as photographs and computer images. They still have to have a format for printing. I cannot conceive of a civilization that doesn’t have some sort of ability to “print” writing and images. Perhaps in the distant future, the concept of “printing” will become obsolete, and computer images—of writing, of pictures, etc.—will be all we will have. But how will writers “print” out a manuscript to get a look at it? They’ll be limited to the computer version. Will that make writing worse in the long run?
During this Christmas season, I listen—along with everybody else—to all the Christmas music that’s played on the radio and at the malls, and as always it brings back memories of all sorts of Christmases past. But this year, for the first time, I’ve begun to hear the music and the words, slightly differently. I’m beginning to recognize the power, or better the penetrance, of the words in our society. Not that I hadn’t recognized it before, it’s just that I didn’t pay that much attention.
For example, take the poem “A Visit From St. Nicholas,” by Clement Clarke Moore. Moore isn’t the first to use the term “St. Nick,” to refer to the jolly old man we now call Santa Claus, but he’s the first to give the names of the reindeer. He’s the first to describe the unique method St. Nick enters the house, and the fact that reindeer can fly. All of that he put down in 1823. That was the first year the poem was published, though at the time his name wasn’t attached to it. (Apparently he didn’t acknowledge authorship until he published the poem a book of poems in 1844.) But those reindeer names, that jolly old man, that unusual method of entry, has penetrated into modern society, especially here in the USA, so fully and so completely, we practically take it for granted, as though it was handed down to us on a silver platter from on high. Yet it was just a poem, written by one person, with probably little regard as to how much influence it would ultimately have. Even today, more than a century later, kids who live in a house without a chimney are afraid they won’t get presents. “How will Santa Claus get in?” they wail. It has made Christmas.
Another example. Take the song, “Santa Claus Is Comin’ To Town.” That’s the song that contains the famous (almost infamous) words, “He’s makin’ a list, checkin’ it twice, gonna find out who’s naughty or nice.” Do you know of any other short line that has penetrated so fully into modern society (along with Moore’s poem, above)? That one part of the song has risen above almost everything else to exert a considerable influence on kids today, especially the little ones. Every kid is scared of being put on the naughty list. It’s become so much a part of today’s Christmas celebration we joke about it all the time. Yet, like Moore’s poem above, it started out simply as a song, almost certainly with little regard to its eventual impact on society. (The song was written by Haven Gillespie and J. Fred Coots in 1934.)
So, if you ever doubt the ability of words to affect people years, even centuries, later, just look at those two examples. There are many more, of course, especially outside of Christmas (The Bible, The Koran, The Declaration of Independence, etc., etc., etc.), but even something as simple as a poem or a song can have meaning and implications well beyond its original intent. It’s almost impossible to deliberately sit down and write something that will have such an effect—I doubt if any of the authors above had any idea their words would be so well-regarded that far in the future. Did Thomas Jefferson think his words “We hold these truths to be self-evident . . .” would be so important two centuries later? Hard to say. You just have to do your best.
A few days ago I watched a documentary on PBS entitled “First Man On The Moon,” about Neil Armstrong, the first human to step onto the surface of the moon (and, by extension, the first human to set foot on any heavenly body other than Earth). The main take-away message of the documentary was that Armstrong, of all the astronauts in the US space program at the time, was the best qualified to make the “giant leap” he so famously talked about, from the Apollo landing craft to the moon’s surface. He was chosen precisely because of his skills, training, experience, and most especially, his ability to remain cool in any emergency and to be able to take the right steps to minimize that emergency. Going to the moon could be full of emergencies. There was just no one else like him.
But remembering Armstrong got me to broadening my scope to a larger view, to that of Apollo itself. I went back to basics. What was the Apollo program in the first place? It was the final chapter in President John Kennedy’s program to send a man (in reality, men) to the moon and bring him (them) back home to Earth. It did that, in spades. But why was it conceived in the first place? I have no doubt that President Kennedy wanted some real scientific studies done, but I’m sure he was driven as much by the need to beat the Soviet Union to the moon as by the science, if not more. After all, in the late 1950’s and early 60’s, the Soviets had trumped us in two vitally important scientific events in the race into space: they put up the first artificial satellite, Sputnik, in 1957, and put the first human in orbit, Yuri Gagarin, in April, 1961. (Gagarin completed only one orbit, though. John Glenn completed three orbits in February, 1962.) The pressure was on to bring the US space program out of second place and make the next step—put a man on the moon. Hence President Kennedy’s challenge in September, 1962.
That’s largely why the US went to the moon. And it’s important in a historical context, certainly. I suspect that in the absence of the pressure from the Soviets, the US probably would never have made it to the moon. Or, would just now be doing so. But so often, I feel, the scientific part of the Apollo program is minimized, dismissed, or even forgotten. We frequently overlook the fact that the astronauts picked up moon samples and left scientific equipment on the moon’s surface. Cynics claim science had nothing to do with it. In fact, the re-entry trajectory of each of the Apollo Command Modules had to be calculated before they ever left Cape Canaveral (later Cape Kennedy) to account for the presence of several hundred kilograms of moon rocks tucked away in the bottom of the module, because the modules were heavier than when they left the Cape. Even Apollo Seventeen, the last of the Apollo missions, carried a trained geologist, Harrison Schmidt (a New Mexican, by the way). If the idea behind sending a man to the moon was entirely political, why would we go to all the trouble to stoop to pick up rocks and carry them back? Why develop a futuristic cart that could carry two space-suited astronauts over the surface of the moon? Wouldn’t we have just had him land, walk around a little, plant a flag, say something politically obtuse, and leave? Clearly, Apollo was a valid scientific enterprise, as much as cancer research or smallpox elimination or the development of a measles vaccine. I’m glad I lived through that. I’m proud I had the privilege to watch on TV as Neil Armstrong took that “giant leap” on the moon. To watch it when it actually happened, even though it was a kind of blurry black-and-white picture.
In this blog posting, I just want to make a few observations on a couple of aspects of writing. To wit:
First, I stopped at a local Barnes and Noble bookstore this afternoon to get another science fiction book. I wandered down the aisle where the sci-fi/fantasy books were shelved and, as usual, glanced briefly at the books that led to the sci-fi section. Those books consisted largely of classics and other fiction, not sci-fi. Then I hit the science fiction section, and the contrast was—as simply as I can put it—eye opening. The classics, all those non-sci-fi books were brilliantly colored: reds, yellows, and oranges seemed to dominate, though other colors were evident too. But the sci-fi books were almost uniformly black. Coal black, black as midnight in a coal mine, black as the ace of spades, to use several well-worn clichés. The actual dividing line was between the classics and the newest releases of sci-fi books, and certainly not all sci-fi books are released in blackened dust jackets. But in this particular case, almost all the new releases seem to have been painted with a brush dipped in India ink. Even a classic such as Douglas Adams’ The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy is in a deep blue, and it stuck out only because I was familiar with the name. I did see two or three books in much lighter colors, and I even bought one, an anthology of space opera and military sci-fi called Infinite Stars, edited by Bryan Thomas Schmidt, published by Titan Books. It has a kind of light tannish-red grizzled cover, and it stood out from all the blackness like a sun in the midst of infinite darkness.
I’m not sure I can tell why so many sci-fi books are published in dark covers. Perhaps it’s a trend of the times. There seems a tendency toward dark plots nowadays, of heroes who are not what they seem to be, or who have to overcome vastly destructive personal demons before they can fulfill their destiny and rescue the damsel in distress (or whatever it is they have to do). There are, of course, many sci-fi books released in recent years that are not dark (Victor Milan’s Dinosaur series comes to mind), but there is a serious trend. I, personally, am not in favor of it. If I ever get any of my books published (the good Lord willing and the creek don’t rise), I will certainly insist that the covers be lighter, even much lighter. Reds and yellows are common. Even a light blue would be good. What’s that you say? The author doesn’t have any control over the cover? We’ll find out.
Second, I want to comment briefly on one aspect of getting short stories published. I’ve written several short stories, mostly literary in character, and I’ve been trying to get some of them published in literary journals around the country for quite a number of years. Most of the journals state in their instructions to submitters something like: “read a back issue or two of our journal to get a feel of what kind of works we are looking for.” Okay, well said. Good idea. And I have been reading some of the journals I submit to, when I can get to them. But I’m becoming more and more convinced this advice is questionable at best. Several times (more than I can count on all fingers and toes) I’ve read a journal and said, “Aha! I have a short story that will fit well with this magazine. I will give them a try.” So I send in a story, wait a goodly number of weeks or months and, invariably, comes a rejection that says, “We did not feel this story was a good fit for our magazine.” So I wonder, what value is it to read the magazine beforehand if they’re going to reject something the author thinks will fit their editorial style? Granted, the whole process is subjective, and the editor’s decision is the last word, but if the author can’t make a good judgement on the “fit” of the story, that just makes it harder to get published in the first place.
In a short news report I read a few days ago, Sherry Lansing, the former head of Paramount Studios, is quoted as saying, “I’ve come to believe that the marketing of a movie is now more important than the movie. That to me is a very, very sad thing and perhaps it explains why there are less films of social relevance. Because they’re harder to market.”
Now, in this day and age of fake news, I suppose this could be a fake story, but the source seemed believable to me, and anyway, Sherry Lansing, as the former CEO of a major studio, should know what she’s talking about. We’ve all probably seen a lot of trailers for movies lately, and I’ve noticed that many of those movies are ones in which the special effects are prominent, like science-fiction movies. Marketing is certainly a big part of making a movie, that’s for sure.
But as a writer of fiction (but not screenplays), I found myself wondering if the same isn’t true for books. Perhaps not to the same extent as for movies because there are probably a lot more books published each year than movies released. But certainly, marketing for books is an important part of the publishing process. Publishers nowadays do little marketing anymore, leaving it largely to the author, and if you self-publish, you have to do it all. So many things go into marketing a book: you have to have a website, blog, Facebook page, Twitter account, and you’re even expected to go onto other social media platforms, just to get the word out about your book. Book signings, a spectacular book launch, working with bookstores, libraries and other outlets, just to get the book in the hands of the public. Go to book fairs and conventions. Always keep a box of your books in the back of your car. An email list is considered mandatory. Many writers hire a publicist. If you don’t market well, you’re considered a failure. It goes on and on. I wonder if an author does more marketing than actual writing. Does that mean that marketing is more important than the book itself? Do writers spend more time marketing anymore? Are we channeling Sherry Lansing in all this?
Marketing, of course, is selling. To market means to ask yourself, “What can I do to sell my book(s)?” Ours is a selling society. The gradual increase in commercial time on TV is one indication of how TV networks and local stations have to raise more and more money just to produce their shows. I’ve even seen commercials that are five (5) minutes long, for crying out loud. Push, push, push. Sell, sell, sell. It’s getting to be the same in publishing. We have to market more and more just to recoup the cost of producing the books. I’m wondering if there will be a breaking point somewhere along the line where one or more authors will say, “Enough is enough. I can’t sell enough books to make writing worthwhile any more.” I don’t think we’ve reached that point, but I really wonder how far away it is.
The November, 2017, issue of The Writer contains a couple of articles about apps for writers that can (potentially, at least) make the physical act of writing easier. My first reaction when I saw the magazine was very much in the realm of Ebenezer Scrooge: “Bah”, I said, “I don’t need an app to do my writing. I do it myself.” Of course I do.
But now that I’ve read the articles and looked over the listings of products and tools that can make writing easier, I’m beginning to change my mind. Granted, the writer still has to do the actual writing—or at least the mental, imaginative, and creative part of the writing if not the physical act of putting one word after another, because now software is available that will write as you speak. I’m not sure I’m ready for that just yet, but I am leaning toward looking at, if not outright purchasing, one or two apps that might help me get the job done. File storage, social media management, e-book creation, all look like possibilities, if not now, at least in the future.
But I’m not leaning toward any of the large, word-processing apps or downloads. I’ve been using Microsoft Word for—well, let’s just say a long time now—and I’m satisfied with it. I’m very familiar with it, and I can’t see learning a new word processor that does largely the same thing, even though it may have other functions. Some people swear by word processing programs that can help them “organize” their work into, say chapters and scenes and convenient blocks of text. I can’t say I need anything like that. I keep most of that in my head anyway, or on paper. It works for me, and I’ve always felt that writing is best done by whatever works for the writer. Do it your own way.
In the end, of course, you have to do the writing yourself. No app will write a novel for you, though that may be in the not-too-far distant future. Artificial intelligence may make us writers obsolete, and such original material as reports, poetry, novels, biographies, whatnot, may be computer generated. Fortunately I won’t be around to see that, and I suspect that artificial intelligence will never fully replace the human mind. I’m sure AI will do more imaginative, creative thinking than it does now, for better or worse. But it will be a long time before a computer wins a Pulitzer.
So, whether you’re writing one haiku or an exhaustive history of all the dinosaurs that roamed the North American continent, you still have to sit down and write the damn thing. Apps can help, but it’s up to you to do the heavy lifting.