Posts Tagged writing

The Summer of 2019

Well, the summer of 2019 is upon us and many things have slowed down.  People take vacations and try to get away from the hubbub of daily life.  Schools are out for the most part, and in the heat of the summer, relaxation is the order of the day.  I, too, have relaxed.

One regular part of my life that takes place largely during the school year are the weekly rehearsals for the concert band I play in.  And so, with band practice over for the summer, I had occasion to pull out my trumpet and give it a thorough cleaning.  It hadn’t been cleaned for over six months, not since I cleaned it during the Christmas holiday.  Cleaning a trumpet requires complete disassembly.  Not only does the mouthpiece come out (and get thoroughly reamed out with a stiff brush made for the job), but all the valves and each of the tuning slides have to be removed.  A trumpet has four tuning slides, one for each valve and one larger one that tunes the instrument itself.  Everything comes out.  If I wanted to disassemble any further, I’d have to get a soldering torch and unhook the different connections that hold the body of the trumpet together.  (Not a good idea.)

Now that everything is out, cleaning begins.  First I flush the entire basic unit with hot water and set it aside and turn to the valves.  The valves change the air flow through the horn and are what make it possible to play all the different notes called for in the music.  They are the most sensitive part of the trumpet, and I clean these with a rag soaked in isopropyl alcohol (rubbing alcohol).  This removes all the old valve oil and any contaminants.  Note: Valve oil is slightly different from most lubricating oils because valve oil is an evaporative oil.  It doesn’t build up like other oils, it evaporates, and has to be replenished from time to time as one plays.  But contaminants, usually solids from saliva and in the water that condenses in the horn as one blows through it, do build up and they have to be removed.

Now the valve housings have to be similarly cleaned with alcohol, and everything allowed to dry.  I wipe off the Vaseline from each of the tuning slides and replace with clean Vaseline and put them back in their proper positions.  I add fresh oil to the valves and replace them in their housings and screw down the valve tops.  Success—we are done.  The instrument is in playing condition.  Replace the mouthpiece and away we go.

The whole process takes about half an hour, and there’s a real element of satisfaction in having a musical instrument that is clean and functioning properly.  The valves operate smoothly and the tuning slides slip in and out easily.  (That’s one way to tell if an instrument needs cleaning—the valves start sticking.  That can be awfully annoying if it happens during a concert.)

But in the world of trumpet playing, that’s the easy part.  Eventually comes the more difficult part: the actual act of playing.  Band practice will resume in August, and new music will be distributed.  I’m not a professional trumpet player; it can take me several months to master a piece of music.  By “master” I mean simply play the right notes.  I know how to blow through the horn to produce a sound, and every now and then I press down one or more of the valves to produce a different note or two, but putting all that in the proper order as called for in the music is a different matter.  A tricky passage can take a while to learn, but the final result is what we call “music.”

Music is a lot like writing.  At their heart, both are subjective pursuits.  Good music exists in the imagination of the beholder, as does good writing.  To a great extent, you know good music or good writing when you see it or hear it.  Anyone can string words together in sentences, but that doesn’t necessarily form good writing.  Likewise, anyone can play a set of notes, but will it always be good music?  Writing takes practice, just like the music, and the number of wrong notes in either can be, well, large.  For me, playing a trumpet is usually a straightforward process.  I practice the difficult passages over and over until I get them right.  Writing, though, can be sporadic.  Writing here and there, areas of relative calm followed by times of zealous production.  But in the end, one validates the other.  I take a break from writing to play.  I take a break from playing to write.  Does one help the other?  Perhaps only in the sense that one allows oneself to take a break from one to take up the other.

Either way, nothing is lost.

 

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The Hardest Part About Writing

This particular post is directed largely to my writing friends, though many of you who are not writers—that is, writers in a more or less full-time sense—might get a similar take-away message that could be applied to other professions and activities.  What I’m talking about here is the most difficult thing I have encountered since starting to (try to) become a full-time, professional writer, and bring in a limited income from writing and publishing novels and short stories.

Writing is not a slap-dash profession.  That should be obvious to almost anyone, even to non-writers.  One does not merely sit down to write a best-seller (though you may delude yourself into believing that you are), but through a series of starts, stops, tedious read-throughs and edits, one gets a story or book in reasonable form, and tries to get it published.  All of that takes time, some money, many letters of query and investigation, and more time.  Time is the big factor here.

None of this ever struck me as all that “difficult,” though, in an absolute sense.  Being retired, I have the time and I’ve learned through trial and error, through reading books and articles on writing, attending conferences, lectures, and by just plain straight talk with others, how to get it done.  (Quality is another matter which I’m not concerned with here.)  I’ve been able to do it, one way or another.  So what’s the most difficult part about writing?

For me, the most difficult part in my continuing battle with words on the page has always been the transition from one project to another.  Writing on one particular story, novel or short story, and putting that away and going to another story has always been difficult.  I can’t just drop one and go to another.  For example, at the time I’m writing this blog post, I have just sent out copies of my first science-fiction novel manuscript to two contests for unpublished novels.  That required getting the manuscript into the format the contests insist on, especially by removing all identifying labels such as my name, address, any acknowledgements, references to previous writings, etc.  And I had to read through the submissions several times to make sure they were in proper format.  God forbid I should send out a manuscript with errors.  But now, a couple of deadlines for short stories are coming up, and I’m going to have to drop the novel (which I like to work on) and take up a totally different story (or, in this case, a couple of stories).  Getting the novel out of my mind is time consuming.  I have to gear up to the short format, and immerse myself in it to an extent that I can get a good read going.  That may take several weeks.  Once I get into it, I can whip through it like the proverbial Epsom salts through a widder woman.  Getting there is the hardest part.

What’s your hardest part about writing?  Or doing anything?

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Sci-fi Worldbuilding: Anthropology

I just got back from the 2018 edition of the Pike’s Peak Writers Conference, (#PPWC2018) and had a great time.  As usual.  Lots of good sessions on many different aspects of writing, and had a chance to pitch my first sci-fi novel to an editor.  He asked for the first 50 pages, which, by the time I write this, have already been sent.  I met lots of good writer friends, and handed out business cards.  Business cards are always good, whether you’re a beginner or a seasoned veteran.

But what I want to consider in this blog post is one session in particular.  It was titled “Fantasy and Sci Fi World Building: Writing Like an Anthropologist.”  It was given by Darby Karchut, who’s written several sci-fi novels.  The premise of the talk was a factor in world building that I had given some thought to as I wrote my trilogy, but hadn’t gone into in great detail.  When building a new world for your characters, you have to supply them with all the intricate facets of life that we have here on Earth.  It’s not enough to create a planet and populate it with aliens.  They have a life.  They have a history.  They had to get on that planet somehow, and there may be a substantial number of details you haven’t thought of that play a role in your character’s daily life.  (Assuming they have days and nights on their planet.)

Ms. Karchut listed eight factors that should be taken into account when worldbuilding.  1.  What is the government like?  Representative?  Repressive?  Dictatorial?  2.  What is the economy like?  What are the main driving forces in the economy?  Science?  Politics?  Food?  Beer?  3.  Is there a religion?  If so, how religious are your characters?  4.  What is life like on your planet, and how do your characters spend their daily life?  What dominates their daily life?  5.  What are the arts like?  Music?  Movies?  6.  What are the dominate social groups?  To which group does your main character belong?  Do you have rich and poor people?  Or is everybody at the same social level?  7.  History.  Delve into the history of your planet.  That one factor can shape the daily life of your characters in many different ways, especially ways you may not have thought about.  8.  Language.  What language do your characters speak?  How did that language originate and how did it come down to them?  If a visitor comes to your planet, how does that outsider know how to speak their language?

I appreciated this session because it brought up so many things I hadn’t thought about, or only briefly considered, about my characters and their home planet.  If you write sci-fi, I strongly recommend you take these things into consideration.  A reader will be more likely to keep reading if he/she understands that you’ve delved deeply into your imagination and taken the time to build a complete world.  That’s what makes science fiction good: imagination.  More so that most any other genre of writing.  A well-thought out  world may help fill plot holes, too, because if a difficult situation arises, you will have already developed a fully-functional economy that will give you a clue as to how your characters will act and how the difficulty will play out.

 

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Tension And Conflict In Writing X 2

During the past year (2017) I published on this blog two entries about tension and conflict in writing.  If you’re a writer at almost any phase of your career, you’ve certainly heard of the dictum—in fact, almost a rule of law—that you have to have tension and/or conflict on every page of your creative writing story.  Nothing less will do.  It’s a rule I subscribe to, though I’ve also said that one or two pages without tension or conflict probably wouldn’t hurt.  But I’ve begun to realize in the past few months that that piece of advice is based on flawed logic, and I would like to correct that error here.  Or at least try to.

The reason I say that advice was in error is that I’ve come to realize that there are really two types of tension/conflict, and both are important in writing fiction or creative non-fiction.  I’m not talking about the difference between tension on the one hand, and conflict on the other (see my blog entry of 7/16/2017 where I describe the difference), but about two different forms that the combined tension/conflict duo can take.  The first form is the general background tension/conflict that pervades a story all the way through (or at least most of the way).  This is the kind of tension that simmers away almost unnoticed, that the characters are always certainly aware of, but only if they stop to think about it and acknowledge it.  An example might be a story about life in a submarine during World War II.  (Or perhaps in a spaceship cruising the galaxy looking for “bad guy” spaceships to destroy with photon torpedoes.)  Going down to three or four or five hundred feet below the surface of the ocean in a submarine is bad enough, but with the constant threat of depth charges raining down on the sub just elevates the tension level to a point where everybody is constantly aware of it.  It’s in the background, it affects everyday life on board that sub, though the crew may not always be aware of it.  Every crew member has his/her duty and carries it out.  This is the type of tension that must be present on every page; it’s a constant reminder of the basic plot line of the story.  Once the submarine returns to its home port, Pearl Harbor say, and every one relaxes on Waikiki Beach, the background tension is gone, and the story collapses.  There’s nothing to hold it together.  A story about sailors relaxing on a beach doesn’t hold much interest unless there’s some other background conflict.

But superimposed over that background tension/conflict is the more prominent one.  This is a more immediate one.  This is the tension of now, the tension of events taking place over and above the background.  In that submarine, this might be the tension of a fight between two members of the crew, a fight that boils over from conflict between them that’s been simmering for days or weeks or months, dating back to well before they boarded the sub for their latest tour of duty.  Or, it might be the tension of getting ready to fire torpedoes, with the ultimate realization that could bring down those dreaded depth charges and blow their nice warm submarine out of the water.  This is the kind of tension/conflict that comes and goes, and isn’t necessarily present on every page.  It rises and falls; it ebbs and flows, and an author can’t expect his/her characters to live under this type of stress and strain for a long time.  They have to have some respite.  But it is essential for the story, it provides a series of events that carry the reader along and allows him or her to see the inner workings of the main characters.  It provides a look—maybe not much more than a glimpse—into their minds, into how they handle themselves in difficult situations, into what makes them tick.  It gives the reader a look at the real person your character is, not the veneer they show to the world.  Tap into this tension, but don’t overdo it—your writing will be better for it.

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Notes And Commentary, Part 2

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?

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Some Random Observations

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.

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The Writer And The App

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.

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