Archive for the 'Writing' Category

Is there a writer in the house?

Published
by
cdeagle
on October 29, 2008
in Life and Writing
. 3 Comments

It’s a blessing that October, which is historically recognized as the month that preceeds November, has 31 days in it.  Had it only 30, we would be at this very moment poised on the cusp of the National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo.

Fear not.  We have an entire extra day of procrastination.  For those of you that don’t know, the participants in  NaNoWriMo are a collection of individuals devoted to a singular purpose: The writing of a novel, being no less than 50,000 words, in thirty consecutive days. 

This year, I’ve cast my lot with that happy band of lunatics.  I’ve got a thumbnail sketch of a plot, a loose idea of some characters, and a vast wilderness of unmapped territory.  My goal isn’t riches, it isn’t literary praise, it isn’t glowing reviews.  It’s simply to finish, and finish I will.  I firmly believe that a human being can endure any torture, however grim, if he only knows that there is an end.  It is because of this belief that I am not terrified by the prospect of writing a novel in 30 days.  It will require sacrifice for a period of time, but the cost can be measured, weighed, and quantified.

I’ve never taken on any creative effort of this scope, though I’ve dreampt of it.  Inspired by a love of reading, and by a father who is a writer, the title of ‘novelist’ is one that I’ve always quietly revered.  To be published is a secret dream.  It’s taken years, and concious effort, to bring myself to a level of comfort where, despite an abysmal lack of self confidence, I can even talk about that desire.  To be honest, I feel foolish, even now.  Then there’s the fear.  Fear of failure, fear of ridicule, fear of being revealed and, having been revealed, having revealed oneself, being mocked.  I know that courage isn’t a lack of fear, but what one does in the face of fear, and while my life isn’t at stake, my pride is on the chopping block.  I’d almost rather risk my life, than reveal as much about myself as I undoubtedly will writing a novel.

Why do it?  If you’re a writer, you probably already know the answer.  Paddy Gillard-Bentley famously said, “The play is the thing!”  and I think that sums it up nicely.  We write because the novel is the thing.  We write because it’s something that we want to do, and are compelled to do, by some part of ourselves which we don’t rightly understand, but which wants us to be miserable.  In the defense of the craft itself, I’ve found that I’m only miserable when I’m thinking about writing and not doing it.  Like climbing a mountain, it’s the last breath before you start that is the most torturous.

That being the case, maybe I should be lamenting the 30 days which this month is comprised of, instead of exulting.  Perhaps if it were only 28 I could have attributed these words towards my 50,000 word goal.  

I’ll leave you with this invitation: Join us.   Lose yourself in a totally new experience.  Take thirty days of your life and convert it into a novel.  To quote William Shakespeare, “Be great in act, as in thought.”

Autumn

Published
by
cdeagle
on October 7, 2008
in Business, Life and Writing
. 1 Comment

The sun shone down, turning the leaves to fire. We walked through their blaze, hand in hand.  Through the autumnal air rich with the scents of the small town, of lavender and somewhere in the distance a wood fire. We walked, as we had every day for the last 50 years, and though our bodies protested more now, our hearts soared as ever.

—

I’m leaving for Virginia tomorrow, on a business trip to coordinate one of the most difficult tasks of my career thus far.  I’m excited.  I mean, excitement is the primary emotion.  There’s a bit of trepidation in there as well, but mostly, excitement. 

It occurs to me that the things I do now, in the springtime of my life, are meant to prepare me for the greater victories that autumn will bring.  I can only hope that those victories require less labor, and reward me not with material things, but with the respite that I already long for.

I’m up and out the door in six and a half hours, so I’d best be off to bed.

Chasing the wind

Published
by
cdeagle
on August 30, 2008
in Life and Writing
. 0 Comments

I’ve recently realized that I love the smell of dogs.  Not the musty, stale and dirty pet smell, but the real smell.  There’s a difference in odors, and I think it’s based on lifestyle.  Your grandmothers Pomeranian has a specific smell that it developed as a result of hours indoors.  A lifetime spent sleeping under the dining room table and being stroked by old, leathery hands is bound to engender a certain scent.  This is certainly not pleasant, and not what I’m talking about.

To smell like a dog the animal has to have a little freedom.  They have to be allowed to roll in dirt, run through sprinklers, and chase the wind.  They have to be allowed to eat sticks, and wrestle, and dig in mud.  When this dog comes to you, not because he knows he’ll get a treat from you, but because he wants to teach you something about wildness, he is not, in any way, unpleasant.  Though he may muddy your tile, may shed dust on the floor next to your bed, may even, in his exuberance, plant filthy paws on your chest, there’s nothing unclean about this animal.  When you bury your face in his coat you’ll smell three things; the warm scent of a living thing, the green vividness of the world outside your door, and the soft, cool smell of contentment.  Of these things, which can you object to, or what’s not to love?

I suspect that this difference in smell is as much about the healthiness of the animals spirit as it is about their specific living conditions.  How can you flourish when you are not whole?  How can you be whole when a part of your nature is denied?  I’m not advocating complete freedom, or a life without rules by any means.  But dogs, like boys, have a wildness in them which must be encouraged.  To deny it in either species (and I don’t think any of you will disagree that a human boy is its own unique and challenging species) is to deny an essential part of them.

That Age Old Dilemma

Published
by
cdeagle
on July 2, 2008
in Writing
. 3 Comments

The two men stood shoulder to shoulder. The sun, doing its best to push through the heavy clouds, bathed them in a wan grayish light. The smell of saltwater and the cawing of gulls had faded from their minds as the men stared, together, down the beach. Even the chill November air was forgotten, and their hands abandoned the warm refuge of pockets, with no thought to the growing numbness in their fingertips.

They didn’t watch the crash of the waves, or count sets as surfers might. They didn’t look like any of the stereotypical beach denizens. Both wore denim blue-jeans and reinforced workboots, orange safety vests belted over their button-up shirts. Their hats said “Oregon D.O.T” in a proud shade of gold, which belied the spirit of the Department.

Finally, the shorter of the two turned slightly and spoke, still not taking his eyes away from the bulbous gray shape that seemed to have erupted from the surface of the sand.

“This is going to be bad, isn’t it?”, Hector said.

George nodded, then took a deep breath, let it out and started walking. Hector followed, head down, legs working twice as hard as usual it seemed, to push through the sand. Within two dozen paces both men were short of breath, and trying to hide that fact from one another. Then the smell hit them. Hector had once discovered a sack of potatoes in the back of his pantry, a sack which he did not remember buying. When he found the sack, the potatoes had congealed into a syrupy black fluid with tufts of sickly green mold growing on its surface. The smell, he would tell you, was putrid, a word which he had learned specifically so that he could describe the rancid black puddle. He used it now.

“It’s…putrid.” He said.

George, who understood the reverence with which Hector treated that word, grunted his agreement through gritted teeth.

By the time they came within spitting distance of the carcass, Hectors’ body had adjusted to the stench, though waves of nausea still rolled through him if he moved too quickly. He surveyed the gargantuan corpse.

“It’s big…It’s a Humpback, yeah?” He asked.

“No,” George said “sperm. We need to measure it.”

Hector nodded, and they set to it. They worked through the rest of the morning and into the afternoon, measuring the length and circumference of the body, the fins and everything else they knew the name of, scribbling quickly as they went. Small crowds of people gathered and dispersed, some of them standing nearby for hours, others only coming close enough for a quick look, but all of them staying upwind.

After the measuring was done they retreated up the beach. Hector sat on a hill, staring out into the ocean and trying to breathe the scent of dead whale out of his nostrils, as George made his phone calls.

“Eight tons.” George said.

Hector looked up, realizing that George was speaking to him.

“Really?” he said, “Eight tons? That’s a big one. That’s too big, man. We can’t…there’s no way we can get that on a truck, is there?”

George laughed. “Nothing we’ve got,” he said. “We’d have to rent something. Won’t get approval.”

“Well…” Hector squinted, the way he did when he was thinking very hard, or lying, “if we don’t have a truck, how can we move it?”

George was already walking away, and couldn’t see the excitement on Hector’s face when he jumped to his feet. “Hey! We can cut it up!” he said, sliding down the hill after George. “Cut it into smaller pieces and load the dumptrucks!”

“Stupid.” said George.

Hector stopped, looking crestfallen. George glanced back, mid-stride, and seeing the look on Hector’s face said, “Well, do you want to do it? Cut up a rotting whale, flesh and bone and sinew, put it in bags and load it onto trucks? I’ll loan you a machete.”

Hector blanched, then nodded.

“You’re right George. That’s right. No one would do that. What can we do?” he asked.

George smiled, it was a smile that Hector had seen too much of in High School. It meant George had been inspired. When George got inspired, bad things happened. Usually to Hector. The worst of them involved fire.

“W…what?” Hector asked, involuntarily stepping back, which caused George to laugh.

“We can’t move it, and we can’t bury it. We’re not allowed to push it back into the ocean. I only see one option.” George said, his smile growing slowly, just at the edges.

“We’re not allowed to light it on fire, George.” Hector said. George laughed harder at this than he had at Hectors fear a moment before.

“No, Hec. Not fire.” George said, “Dynamite.”

Hector only had to think about this for a moment before his stomach flipped over. He leaned to the left, bent at the waist, and vomited into the coarse Oregon sand.

## END ##

This scene is fiction, but it is based on a true story. In November of 1970 a team of Oregon DoT workers used dynamite in an attempt to disintegrate a beached whale. The results were captured on video tape, and were disastrous. Flying whale blubber rained down in a half-mile radius around the site of the explosion, causing extensive damage to nearby cars.

It was such an awesome story that I had to invent a fun backstory for it. I was able to use it as an exercise in characterization. I think it’s a little cheesy, but fun.

As always, comments are welcome!

For more on the exploding whale, check Wikipedia and YouTube.

Worldbuilding

Published
by
cdeagle
on June 29, 2008
in Life and Writing
. 0 Comments

It’s been a whirlwind weekend, and the majority of my “writing” has occurred in my notebook and in my head.  I’m on the cusp of having some things figured out that will make this project doable, and I might not wait till November to start.  That’s not to say I’m not doing NaNoWriMo, it just might be that the stuff I write for NaNo is the Middle portion of it, instead of the whole thing.

I’m really excited about the ideas I’ve been having, and I’m trying to let them marinate so I don’t mutilate them.  I have a feeling it’s going to turn into a “You can see it when it’s done”.  Even for my trusty Beta readers.  But if any nice little vignettes reveal themselves, I’ll certainly share them.

On Magic: I love it, and I want to create a magical world, but I don’t want magic to be a panacea for all problems.  I have some interesting consequences, as discussed briefly in a previous post.  Hopefully my concept is unique, and not…inane.  Look, I don’t want balls of fire smashing down buildings.  That’s not subtle or entertaining.  If you’re going to make a ball of fire it should behave like fire.  Not smash through a building.  I get that it’s magic fire, I do.  But Magic Fire is still Fire, right?  …Right?  Books are about humans dealing with problems.  Imbuing them with super-powers that obviate character development or personal sacrifice is lame and juvenile

I think that’s all I have for right now.  Work in 8 hours, time for bed…3 hours ago.

Macaroni Grill

Published
by
cdeagle
on June 25, 2008
in Writing
. 1 Comment

I don’t know if they grill actual macaroni’s or if it’s just a figure of…something…What I do know is that dinner was delicious.  And now I’m watching The Illusionist, which is fantastic, and pondering sleep, which I’m also quite fond of.

I’ve been trying to flesh out a workable and interesting fantastic world, and to that end I was talking to Kim after dinner.  I didn’t give her any context, so this conversation was just her answering my weird questions:

Me: What is the cost of magic?
Kim: What?
Me: The cost, to do magic.  What does it cost?
Kim: A lot.
Me: Ok…but what?
Kim: Your soul.
Me: Well, that’s a lot.
Kim: yeah.
Me: What if it’s a selfless act?  Does it still cost your soul?
Kim: well, no.  If it’s selfless, it’s free.
Me: But there’s really no such thing as a truly selfless act, is there?
Kim: I guess not.

This raises an interesting dilemma.  If the cost of magic is variable based on intent, some sort of consciousness is implied on the part of magic.  Some kind of ability to discern the heart and mind of its practitioner, and then a framework with which it makes value judgments after that discernment has been made.  This flies in the face of magic being a set of Laws, like the laws of physics.  Relatively inert, and with no will or agenda of its own.

What then?  Is it inert and without aim, or imbued with the apparatus to judge, decide, and penalize based on intent?  I guess it could be developed interestingly either way.

So the question is, what is the cost of magic?

32 Hours Earlier

Published
by
cdeagle
on June 24, 2008
in Writing
. 4 Comments

Alistair stepped out of the train as soon as the doors opened. He threaded his way through the crowd and found himself blinking in the midday sun outside of the tube station.  A black sedan pulled out of the stream of traffic and came to a stop directly in front of him.  As he slid into the backseat, the smell of cigarettes and oranges washed over him.

“Morning, sir.”

“Yes,” Alistair said, “you know where you’re taking me?”

“Yes, sir.”

Satisfied, he relaxed into the leather seat. He ran his thumb over the lions’ head engraved on the handle of his cane, as he considered his situation. The family had called him. He thought he was done with all that boyhood nonsense about princes and lords, Houses and kingdoms, all the machinations of their perverse world, but when they said that he was needed, he found himself incapable of denying them. He assumed that he was going to regret this either for a long time, or for a very short, painful time.

Outside the window, trees and sidewalks slid past. Compared to the speeds he’d traveled at earlier that same day this was nothing. The chunnel…now that was a modern wonder. There wasn’t a soul that could’ve dreamed of such a thing, when he was a boy. And that didn’t even come close to concords, or mag-levs, or any of the ridiculous technologies of the last 80 years. He shook his head. All this modernization came with a heavy price. There were few alive that remembered what the world was like when Alistair was young, and the history books he’d read in the past few years were remarkably…sparse.

“We’re here, sir” the driver said, bringing him out of his reverie.

Alistair nodded. “Here” was an opulent townhome, and as he stepped out of the car and up the steps the front door swung open. Inside stood a woman he hadn’t quite expected, and because old habits die hard, Alistair bowed.

“I’m glad you came, old man.”

His face remained impassive, despite his growing sense of unease. His host turned, retreating into the house, and he followed her.

–

Alistair didn’t inhale, he knew the smell would steal the breath from his lungs. He lifted the glass of scotch, tasted it, and set it down. After the burning had subsided he spoke.

“I assume you didn’t bring me two thousand miles to share a drink?”

“No, of course not.  We have a job for you.  There’s something that needs retrieving, it’s proven impossible for my Coterie to get.  I’ve read the briefs on your past work, and I think your skillset is a good match for this problem.” Carmella said.

“How many of your Coterie did you send?”

“Eleven,” she said. “Only eight came back.  You understand that I cannot afford to do that again.”

Alistair nodded.  People with the abilities required to be of service in a House Coterie were extremely rare, and the serviceable number was always drastically reduced by the rigors of training.  There were all sorts of dangers involved in that training, and none of them were minor.  The few who passed carried scars for the rest of their lives, and of those who didn’t pass…the lucky among them died excruciating, but relatively quick deaths.

“For how long would my services be required?” he asked.

“Perhaps only one night.  The object is a key, it’s in a certain place in Old London, that seems…closed to us.” she said.

Alistair frowned. He looked around the room.  The wooden paneling was red, rich in color, and the leather furniture was its perfect compliment. The mood was dark and masculine, with an inviting warmth.  That it had been designed and furnished by Carmellas’ father, he had no doubt.  He sighed, for what seemed like the thousandth time in the last three days.

“You seek a key?  One that’s hidden in one of the oldest and most malignant places on earth, for reasons that I cannot fathom.” he said. “I admit to some curiosity, but going alone into that dark…I’m not interested.”

“You think I’m offering you a choice?” she laughed, and there wasn’t a shred of humor in it. She leaned towards him, locking her eyes on his face. “How old are you, Alistair? You served my father. And his father. And his father? And yet, you look not a day over 60. You may have left Family and House, but it’s clear you’re still benefiting from the terms of your…contract. As far as I’m concerned, that means you’re still bound by it. Bound, to me.”

He considered his glass. It had found its way back into his hand and he took another drink before meeting her gaze. “I never liked you.”

“I’ve prepared a file with all the pertinent details. If you have any material needs, that phone will ring the butler. He can procure anything. You may take the rest of the day and start in the morning, if you like. You’ll find that I’m not a cruel master.”

Alistair drained his glass and reached for the folder. By the time he’d opened it, he was alone.

–

Forty-five minutes later he set the folder down and sat back.  He produced a pipe from an inner pocket of his tweed sport coat and began tamping tobacco into the bowl.  The trip was always disconcerting, but he’d been through enough times to know that he’d live…that long, at least.  He did need her, after a fashion.  Bound to her?  Pure hubris on her part, but he could use that.  The flame of the match seemed to mirror a light dancing in his eyes, and for the first time in three days Alistair Hightower allowed himself the barest glimmer of a smile.

## End ##

It was right after reworking the last paragraph for the third time that I decided the whole thing was self serving and trite, and I was going to toss it out.  Before I do, though, I’m going to post it for a few days.  I like the character, and the ideas, but I have no clear definition of their “world”, and I’m not comfortable moving on until I do.  This vignette may completely disappear.  I’m going to bed.

In the Pipeline, and other news

Published
by
cdeagle
on June 20, 2008
in Life, Writing and music
. 1 Comment

I just wanted to let you all know that I haven’t stopped blogging, or writing, or being alive.  It’s been a crazy week, and I’m actually working on something that Tesson asked for, which is a bit bigger than the little blurbs I’ve been posting every night.  Once that’s finished I’ll release it here.

I’m also working on a sermon for Sunday, which is slightly (and only slightly) more important than satisfying Tesson’s desire for gothic content.

I’ve been listening to the new Jakob Dylan album, “Seeing Things“.  Jakob Dylan is the former lead singer of the Wallflowers and son of Bob Dylan.  If you like the ‘flowers vocals, you’ll probably like this album.  It’s a little slower than the Wallflowers stuff, but very good.  He sounds like his dad, but he sings a little more melodically.  Bob Dylan meets James Taylor.  Very nice guitar, solid bass…traditional folk sound.
I don’t know if my next post will be Sunday or Monday, as I’m shooting a wedding on Sunday and will be busy all day.  We’ll see how it goes.  That’s all for now, thanks for stopping by.

-D

Jobs I could never do:

Published
by
cdeagle
on June 16, 2008
in Writing
. 3 Comments

In her hand, the hot cup bordered on painful. The smell of coffee rose in steamy tendrils from the hole in the plastic lid. Her other hand fumbled with keys, and she cursed them quietly, trying to circumnavigate the ring with too many fingers, or too few. She tried several until the bolt finally turned. She paused before pushing the door open quietly, reverently. This was always the strangest time. She entered slowly, looking around. Gray light pushed lethargically into the room, illuminating nothing, only deepening the shadows in the corners.

Her hand flipped the light-switch on, and she sighed. She took out her tally sheet and a rosary. Her mother had been catholic, and so she was as well, in the way that catholicism and Judaism have of recruiting new adherents, all unwilling and skeptical, by virtue of maternal affiliation. The room smelled of old carpet, and dust. She remembered reading that most dust was actually dead human skin, and tried to stop the question, but couldn’t…How much of the dust in this house derived from its most recent owner? She laughed nervously, and it sounded obscene.

The curtains were lace, and yellowing. The linoleum flooring in the entryway was a shade of green popular in the 70’s, and best forgotten. She set her coffee down on the table, next to a coaster that depicted a naked cherub, clicked her pen and went to work. (4) Cherub Coasters, (1) coffee table, (1) sofa…and on and on, cataloguing an entire human life in ruled 8 by 11, notating dings and scratches and items of potential worth independently, for further research. Through the murky morning and into the afternoon she crawled through the house-turned-mausoleum, quickly and efficiently notating everything, trying to push thoughts of the dead out of her mind, even as she was confronted by their most private and personal secrets.

She only screamed once, and it wasn’t her fault. No one had told her that there was a cat living on the premises, and when it brushed against the back of her calves she very nearly died, herself. Would that be ironic, she wondered, if she’d died right there? And who would do her estate sale? She thought about the things she had collected in 40 years, and wondered if they would be as beautiful and frightening as the things she always found in these houses.

In reality, it wasn’t the material items that scared her. There was such a strong impression of the newly deceased in these places, around the things they had owned, it was as if they had just set that (1) golf putter down a moment ago, and would be coming back from the other room any second now to claim it. A shiver ran up her spine, then back down, and then up again, for good measure. She clicked her pen three times, closed her tally book, and kissed her rosary.

She hadn’t gone to class long enough to know exactly how to use the rosary, which she thought of as the swiss-army knife of catholicism, but she assumed that if the need arose, Mary would guide her hands.

Returning to the living room she saw her coffee, sitting on the cherub coaster. She swallowed. There was pink lipstick on the plastic lid. Pink lipstick the shade of (1) lipstick “Glorious Grapefruit”. Her back started doing the shivering trick again, and she didn’t bother picking up her coffee on the way out. Didn’t even bother locking the front door. No one would steal from this house. No one.

From her car, she would swear for the rest of her life, she saw a lace curtain fall back into place.

My body is a cage

Published
by
cdeagle
on June 15, 2008
in Writing
. 0 Comments

I keep trying to think of a plot, and I’m paralyzed.  I think about Neil Gaiman, I think about William Gibson and Stephen King and then I throw a few ideas around, and if I’m not directly stealing something then I can only come up with really interesting sort of peripheral ideas.  Whatever.  NaNoWriMo isn’t until November.

Today was my first Father’s day.  I’ve gotten the barest glimmer of what it means to be a father, and I have even less tolerance and patience for men who abuse that post than I had before my ‘glimmer’.  And it was pretty thin to begin with.  The only thing I can figure is that some people are sub-human.  Only animals are supposed to eat their young, but is there a big difference between eating your offspring and debilitating them by discouraging or abusing them?  I can’t even imagine…it’s sick.

Anyway, on to the work.

The sound of a match striking, if slowed down, is almost a tearing sound.  It’s as if the strike pad and the matchhead when combined, work like magical relics.  With the correct degree of force, the right speed, and maybe a whispered incantation, they tear the veil separating our world from a world of flames.  Flame is lured through this rip by the fuel offered in the body of the matchstick, because fuel must be in short supply in the flame-world.  In this way, I think, the match is lit.

That seems like the hard part, but it’s really not.  Next, you have to multiply the flame.  Flame to cigar, and then the barest inhalation…There’s certainly a lot of technique involved.  If you can get the cigar to light, it’s smooth sailing.  Well, not totally smooth, you have to keep it lit, which is a challenge, and get your wife to let you sleep in the same bed that night, which might be even more challenging…I digress.

The old man does all of this in one fluid motion.  Sitting on a bench, in the park, watching the birds fight over something inconsequential.  He motions to them, chuckles, and in the slump of his shoulders there is a truth; these birds are miming the entire human experience.  Here we sit, fighting over the castoffs of greater men, and the greatest of these fight over pieces of a world forgotten by gods who’ve got better things to worry about.  And so we hurtle through blackness, bickering over paychecks, corner offices, nations…scraps of bread.

What else, besides these battles, is there?  What can birds achieve?  They fight for scraps, as do we.  We are twins, both species fighting for sustenance, and perhaps, a little glut.  Trying to live as long as we can on this rock, forgotten by the gods, trapped, with our inherent humanity our limiting factor.

The old man tosses more bread to the birds.  They coo and warble, and he coos, and warbles, and they look at him for a moment, their small beady eyes locking on his, recognizing kindred nature.  He nods, encouragingly, coos again, and they turn away, the moment passed, their frenzy for bread resumed.  The old man leans over painfully and grinds his cigar out on the sidewalk.

"Perhaps tomorrow", he sighs.

Then he rises, slowly, spreading mottled pigeon wings towards the sun, arches his back, and LIFTS .