Writing
Mitzi’s Christmas Morning
Here’s my Christmas card for 2008–a brand-new story for our readers:
The furnace kicked on and the warm air blew over her—striking her at the line where her tabby fur and orange stripes blended into the brown and gold of her tortoiseshell markings. Read more…
Did Cohen Plagiarize or Allude to Longfellow?
Many critics and songwriters consider Leonard Cohen to write lyrics that match the quality Bobby Dylan’s words. I have always been skeptical of this view, but Cohen does have some gems. I have been studying many of the best lyricists and months ago I came across a video of Cohen reading Tower of Song – something he wrote that has been covered about 20 times. I vaguely recall being jealous of Cohen’s writing abilities when I first heard Tower of Song.
Here’s a great video recording of Cohen singing Tower of Song with a great backing band named U2. The Edge plays a sweet sad guitar:
Too Much Technology?
After last week’s Chief column, I decided to go a little lighter on this one. Here is today’s column about our dependence on technology- does it enrich our lives? Or are we all destined for social self-withdrawal? Read more…
In Their Honor
In honor of those from my home town, Tonica, who served in all of our wars, since and including the Civil War, I’d like to publish a link to my article from last year, Farmboys on the Wall. I will be attending a SF convention this weekend with a military theme where I will, given half a chance, be reading it aloud. Looking it over now, my eyes filled with tears, just as they did when I penned it, originally.
My father, my brother, and my son all served in the United States Army. While I often disagree with the internal affairs of our nation, I understand that a government and its military are essential to the continued survival of any people. Those who believe that violence never solved anything should, as Robert Heinlein said in Starship Troopers, “ask a Carthaginian.” Violence has solved too many things over the history of humanity, in most cases in ways unpleasant for the less-prepared.
There is no person greater than one who is willing to place their body, mind, and life in front of those who would harm another. We must never forget that–nations who do, do not last very long afterwards.
To the living veterans of our nation, thank you. To those who have given their lives and cannot read this, you are in my prayers, always.
I miss you, Mike, every day.
Got to Beg Louder
Ya Got to Beg Louder Boy (In Chicago)
The City passes you by without saying hi
The City doesn’t care if you’re lonely or high
The City breathes with metallic lungs
And speaks in a rambling tongue
And coughs on the beat of his makeshift drum Read more…
Happy Halloween (From Bruce Springsteen and Dante)
Happy Halloween everyone. I recently attended a talk at Krannert by W.S. Merwin, Richard Powers, & Robert Pinsky. They are all well regarded authors and poets. Powers has an interesting biography that includes the University of Illinois and being a computer programmer “until an encounter with the 1914 photograph “Young Farmers” by August Sander, at the Museum of Fine Arts, inspired him to quit his job and spend the next two years writing his first novel, Three Farmers on Their Way to a Dance, which was published in 1985.” They discussed the vivid and dark imagination of Dante’s Divine Comedy. In Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s translation, Dante’s first canto describes feverishly wandering through his dark forest.
Midway upon the journey of our life I found myself within a forest dark, For the straightforward pathway had been lost.
Wild Genetic Life
I received a letter in the mail today from the University of Illinois thanking me for donating to the “Wildlife Medical Clinic.” After assuming the letter was the act of my pal Josh fulfilling his long standing promise to donate to “liberal” causes under my name, I was astonished to recall that I had made the donation.
I made the donation because I found a bird violently rasping his wings against the pavement of a parking lot in downtown Champaign. He could not fly. His flight had become suspended by either a physical or a neurological malady. I took the bird to the only 24 hour emergency wildlife clinic in the state of Illinois, which fortunately happened to be just a 15 minute drive from the rasping parking lot. I donated $10 to the clinic and left the bird to the volunteer hands of the Vet-Med students.
Now I have questions for myself and for you. Did I help this bird because of a sense of pure altruism? Did I help her to avoid feeling guilty for not helping her? Did I help her to later impress people with the story? Is any human being capable of doing something for purely altruistic reasons, i.e. they expect no notoriety and they are not motivated by an expectation of guilt? Am I writing this blog post simply to influence readers to believe that I am a caring and a tender and an altruistic person or am I writing it for purer reasons? Do the accumulated ancient pressures of evolution and the human genetic constellation prevent us from acting in a purely altruistic way? How do the answers to these questions relate to how we organize society, i.e. do selfish human genetics prevent socialistic governments and economies from succeeding? Who the heck are we?
Before answering these questions, it will help you to read the “poem” that is below. It is completely unedited and embarrassingly rough. During the day of the donation, I wrote on my blackberry about my encounters with nature and the array of human dispositions toward nature. Words that are in parentheses represent questions I have about how it should be written – they are not meant to be read as part of the “poem.” There is something honest about unedited poetry that I hesitate to scrub away…
The Assassination of Notorious B.I.G.
A poor greenback spider
Built a beautiful web outside my
Glass porch door
I considered killing him at first
But was persuaded to be human
I enjoyed his craft everyday
The flies, the beetles and the ladybugs
were his prey
He was large for Illinois so
I named him and posted a sticky note
Beware Notorious B.I.G. – Deadly
And said hello to him everyday
He had terrible eyes and fangs
His legs patterned yellow and black
Fake white eyes on his back
Before we became friends
I hated spiders and killed everyone that I could catch
One night I came home around 2 in the morning
He was still awake having recycled his day old web
He delicately assembled, branch by branch, a new bed
Few friends are awake at such reliable hours
and in accord with my daily whims
I sat with him for a half hour
His art is beautiful and perfect
Though I have played for years
longer than him
I could not criticize any of his chess strategies
With a valuable camera given to me by my first lover
I took pictures of him floating next to the distant half moon
I promised him than I would never ruin his room
A few days passed
And I introduced him to my friend
Paul (find a historical or Biblical name of someone who enjoys destroying beauty. Tyler could be paul’s name because of fight club “i felt like destroying something beautiful”)
Who abruptly opened the door
And pulled out his cheap and bland
gas station lighter
And burned the hairy green belly
and the incredible silk organs of Notorious BIG
He tried pathetically to escape by
jetting down, his web was thick as it exited his abdomen
Its intricacy his dying expression for the world to note
I tried to persuade Paul to stop
But he did not hear me and I did not
physically prevent his unprovoked terror
BIG’s web began to fray and tear from the flame
He stopped from exhaustion
And Paul finished his emotion
He reminded me of Tyler’s desire to destroy something beautiful
The cruelty of the moment
Pushed sadness on me for an hour
I’m sitting next to Paul now on the couch as I
write this poem
In a minute I plan to crush a fly who
buzzes inside my apartment
with a crappy magazine
Now 2 hours later I see a spider’s web
linking my side mirror to my car door, perhaps a farewell, and I realize tthen that
I let the fly live (be)
5 hours later a decaying butterfly on the driveway of my
singing teacher
6 hours later I heard frantic rasping and uneven whipping against parking lot pavement
I discovered a struggling (pigeon bird?) bird
writhing round miserably and violently beating his broken wings on the cement
I am sitting on the curb watching his desperation (rhyme bird and curb)
and writing this poem
(should this be in present tense or in past tense? I think it should be in present tense to put the person right there)
I don’t know of anyway that I can help him aside from
letting him know that I do care
He is convulsing and shivering
But not from cold
A goth girl stopped to help
and put him in a cardboard box that had
“Books” written on it with a black Sharpie
I called around
It so happens that there is only one emergency animal clinic
in the entire state of Illinois that will handle this kind of thing
and it so happens to be on the campus of my college
wonderful, as it is
In the car, he danced in his box to the Bach
played by FM 101.1
He was calm with the music
and madly frantic with the music
When I looked into his small red eyes
He seemed hopeful and to understand
That I came to help him
I filled out the usual paperwork at the clinic
Left the animated box and a 10 dollar donation on the ledge
8 hours later, I ate meatballs made by my Italian mother
and resumed my contradictions
The assassination of Notorious BIG
From the falltops to the trees
I may not have saved the bird
If Paul had not killed BIG
A New Interview
An interview with me has just been published on Travis Heerman’s Blogging the Muse. I met him at the World SF convention in Denver in August and was delighted to discuss all aspects of writing and the creative process.
I hope you enjoy reading my interview, as well as the other thirty he has posted. I feel honored to be in the company of award-winners like John Scalzi. Hell, he even asked me some of the same questions!
Tom
Balance
Kathy Boltini stood back from her apartment window so the people on the sweltering street below couldn’t tell she was naked. They didn’t look up anyway—they were more interested in their drinks and the waitresses at the Brass Tap’s outside tables. She swiveled to look at the man in her bed—he was still sweating, so she turned the thermostat down before going back there.
“Honey, was that last time too much for you?” she asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.
“No, sweetie,” Glenn replied. “I must have strained my shoulder yesterday when I was playing hoops. I’m not as young as I once was.” He grimaced as he tried to move it.
She climbed atop him, a sheet between, and reached out—working on both of his shoulders at once. He relaxed, smiling up at her.
What I Did on My Six-Month Vacation
Six months ago, I took leave of Urbanagora in order to work on my first book, Riding the Hell-bound Train. I am happy to report that, as of this morning, it is done. I am going to do one last out-loud read-through to entertain the cats and catch those nuances of language not found any other way (learned that the hard way when I stopped in the middle of a public reading and said out loud, “Man, that last sentence didn’t make a lick o’ sense”). After that, all 94,000 words will go to my editor at Peregrination Press, I look over the uncorrected galleys line-by-line, and the book should be available for purchase after July 15th.
Just as I finished, Augur sent me a PM saying that “if I didn’t start writing for the blog again, I won’t have any audience to sell my book to.” This will never do. Therefore, I want to let you know that I am back and will remain so in parallel with my new career in fantasy fiction. Since the book’s been the main subject of my life for the last six months, I will describe in this first article what I learned while writing it. Other writers have been really kind and helpful to me, perhaps I can return the favor for somone in our audience.
The first thing I didn’t expect was how many people a writer needs. I’ve been lucky that my wives, Marcey, kitten, and Cheron, helped me both as first readers for my shitty first drafts and as the last people who looked over the rewrites for the continuity errors that cropped up. This, at times, put a heavy strain on my marriage–there is a good reason writers drink, spouses of writers drink, and there’s an ungodly divorce rate. I am insufferable when I’m working–demanding, insecure, pompous, and driven. I want to go on record saying that not only could I not have written the book without them, I am amazed they’re still letting me into their bedrooms.
It doesn’t stop there. Sean-Thomas Gunnell’s my cover artist and we’ve been throwing art back and forth to each other, me bitching about how long it’s taking and he trying to give me what I want, no matter how difficult. The covers are very close to done, if someone can show me what to embed .jpgs in, I’ll add them to this article. It’s been a learning experience.
The wonderful Allie Mazan has been working as my web-mistress and publicist for no money at all so far. I’m going to try to find some way for a starving artist to make it up to her–the website design alone is worth a hell of a lot. She’s been a constant source of inspiration and another first reader as well as my personal version of Pepper Potts.
My editor, John Barnstead, is going to be involved in the next step of the process. He encouraged me all along and without him, the book would never have been written in the first place.
So, What Did I Learn?
Writing is honest work, but not like any I have experienced before. The extreme-endorphin thrill of inspiration when the words flow from your brain to paper in an attempt to achieve telepathy is far, far better than the best sex I’ve ever had. In contrast, rewriting is the ninth-circle of hell, comparable to removing layers of skin with a cheese grater. No one should ever try to write because they want to get rich–writing is done because you have no choice. I started as an adequate writer. After six months of blood, sweat, tears, and dead trees stretching from here to Oregon, I think I am on the way to being a damn good one.
I read two books by authors that helped me a lot. First was Stephen King’s On Writing. He wrote the first half before and the second half following his near-fatal accident. This book is chock-full of the kind of advice first-time writers need. The best part for me came at the end, when he gave an example of the first-draft of one of his stories followed by what it looked like after he had taken the re-write pen to it. I was beginning my rewrite when I read that part and said to myself, “Oh, my God, he’s got as much ink on that manuscript as I do. I don’t suck that bad, really.” The other book was Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird. Not only are there tons of practical hints within it on how to develop your art, she is so batshit nuts you realize you’re really not that crazy, after all–it’s wonderful. It has not escaped my notice that both of them used to be heavy-duty alcoholics and demonstrate that you don’t have to drink to do good work.
Above my desk I have a list of rules for writing that I’ve added to as I went along. I am sure that they’re not finished, but they got me this far, so I’ll share them.
Don’t Suck!
Phil and Kaja Foglio gave a talk at the Association for Computing Machinery conference about how they turned their money-losing comic into a cash cow by giving it away for free on the ‘Net. They told me that right now is the best, the easiest time to get work out to the public and that one can be a success even without the traditional filters of the big commercial publishing houses if you followed the above rule.
The Road to Hell Is Paved with Adverbs
Stephen King is right–adverbs weaken verbs and should be avoided, especially in cases where you’re doing dialog. The biggest exception is in cases where there is a discrepancy between what the dialog says and what the speaker means. In my rewrites, every adverb is examined and I end up keeping less than one in ten.
Don’t Tell, Show
It took a while to catch on to this. One sentence of action is worth a paragraph of description. This connects to the next one,
Never Use the Passive Voice Unless Necessary
There’s a reason that our eyes are in front–we’re built for action and speed. No one is interested in how “the tree was framed by the picket fence.” We’re wired, instead, to notice that “the picket fence frames the tree.”
Cut 10%
Anne Lamott says everyone has shitty first-drafts. She’s right about me, I don’t know about anyone else. The first draft is to get the stuff out of your head. It’s going to be bloated and full and in order for anyone to want to come close to it, it’s going to have to be pared–pared with a machete. At first, cutting back your prose is like killing your children. Later on, when your writing gets better, it gets much worse.
Use “Said”
Never Start a Sentence with “Suddenly” or use “All Hell Broke Loose”
I learned these from Elmore Leonard. He has forty-four novels of which 70% is dialog and the reader is never, for a moment, in doubt about who is talking. He writes without using synonyms for “said” because the human brain is programmed to ignore the word. If you write this way, it makes dialog like a radio play with the reader filling in nuances better than the writer can.
How to Write a Story–ABDCE
Anne Lamott again, with a structure that can be used for anything from a short-short to a novel trilogy:
Action, at the start, to draw the reader in
Background, so they know why what’s happening is important
Development, to show change
Climax, where something important happens–a death, a birth (or rebirth) or a mystery solved
Ending, where you give the reader a present for bothering with you–something to think about as they walk away.
Finish
None of this is worth a good goddamn if no one ever sees your work. It’s the hardest step, the scariest step, but sooner or later, if you’re going to be a writer, you have to finish the book. The greatest fear when you do, I think, is that you’re never going to be able to do it again. In part, writing this piece today is proof to me that I still can do my job. Take the old manuscript out of your drawer and start working on it again. It might not be as bad as you think.
We’re All Terminal
There’s a good reason for us to do the best job every day that we possibly can–someday will be the last day of our life. If you write as if you wanted the piece before you to be the last, greatest example of your work, it’s going to be worth the time and the trouble. There’s good reason to follow this philosophy–sooner or later, you’re going to be right.
It’s good to be back at Urbanagora and I’m looking forward to our upcoming change in format, so I will no longer have to worry about post length. Thanks a lot for your patience, your loyalty, and your friendship. Buy my book–I think you’ll like it.
Tom Trumpinski