The Toronto Blue Jays should not be eligible for the U.S. Major League. What next - baseball teams from the Republic of Kazakhstan?
Last night, I finally breached 10 000 words! That's definitely a small miracle for someone with my attention span. It's currently my second longest piece ever! In addition to that, my story has officially evolved completely from my original idea. I feel like this was supposed to happen - I had so many holes and unanswered questions before, but now everything is coming together. I know I'm excited because my family simply roll their eyes when I start talking about it. Switching from crude, handwritten notes to messy, but color-coded spreadsheets helped me more than I can even convey. Also, thanks to the amazing KillianRussell, I have concrete character visualization, a brilliant writing partner, and an awesome friend. I know I'm on the right track because I no longer lurk around the forum for hours.
As I lie in bed at the end of the day, I begin my process of falling asleep with a brainstorm. This is when I attempt some physical character development of my WIP characters for my own use (I tend not to care how my audience visualizes my characters as long as any plot-moving physical traits are defined). When I begin to see fractals in the darkness behind my eyelids, I switch over to entertain new story ideas. Though I always keep a pen and notebook on my bedside table, I rarely record new ideas. I like to think about them instead; will them to seep into my subconscious and inspire some kickass dreams. Every once in awhile, though, I have an idea that I believe too perfect to pass up. Last night was among those times. While I imagined the tight, corn silk curls of my new little boy, Jeffy, my mind was suddenly overcome with the image of a makeup compact. This was it, I thought, the idea that will elevate me to reach epic successes. I scribbled excitedly in the glow of my IKEA lamp, to the tune of Muse’s “I Belong to You (Mon Coeur S'ouvre À Ta Voix).” Satisfied, I switched off my lamp, kissed my cat goodnight, and rolled over to snuggle deep beneath my fuzzy blankets. I did not remember that page of pure gold until after my pancakes and half a cup of coffee. I flew, excitedly, down the stairs and into my room to tear the paper from the pad and re-read my literary genius. Only after did I realize the true level of that genius. From the paper, I read my messy list: evil makeup compact crushed velvet jumpsuit long 70’s hair doing cartwheels chemotherapy Feel free to comment in praise of my splendid imagination!
I good friend of mine, Delilah, keeps a diary in the traditional sense. She writes in it (nightly, I think) to record anything in her day that affected her and any thoughts she needs to work through. Sometimes, Delilah exchanges her jumble of thoughts for a well-organized rant. One day, she seemed like she needed to talk about something; she appeared agitated. She gave me the gist of the situation, then allowed me to read her angst-ridden prose. A friend of Delilah's from private school, of the same age, was engaged to be married. Delilah couldn't understand how she could be so ready commit to one person for the rest of her life when their adult life had only just begun. I knew how Delilah felt; already, a handful of my schoolmates from high school were similarly engaged. We discussed our inability to comprehend the thoughts of our engaged friends. We blamed their immaturity and naivety; expressed contempt for their mental simplicity. How could they have already weighed the consequences of such an important decision? Delilah wove beautiful and interesting images through her paragraphs that I could not help but marvel at. I likened her prose to the grade of poetry I resolved to achieve. We came to an agreement. There, sitting on Delilah's twin bed in her dorm room, we would transform her diary entry into a dark ode to her friend. We sat on the edge of her bed, my computer on my lap, and went to work. My fingers flew across the keyboard, the violent typing of keys the only sound we dared allow for the creation. We moved back and forth from Delilah's writing to mine. Every once in awhile, we stopped to examine our work; I asked Delilah to explain why she used a certain image. Then, the keyboard stopped clicking and before us, Rhonda looked back; black text on a white screen, the cursor blinking after the final period. The product positively surprised us; it was dark and almost surreal. It was our little monster, the spirit of consequence. Rhonda by Denise and Delilah Spoiler She left the kitchen, stuffed eggs with cream cheese centers and chicken bone shards- they stuck across the throat of her dog. The cerebral feeling, the choking, the air prickling up and down the piercing bone. My hair cracked, is cracked, frozen in the post-shower desire: I want to walk outside. Split and cracked pieces of ice and flaking hair. The airplane feeling in my ears; my head is filled with sand, my skull soaked in blood. My disoriented nerve-organ tricks itself. Tricks itself into an idea of sand immersion. Try to hold myself upright. Try to straighten out my curling spine entwined in onion rings of nerves. They snap into place; magnets and metal They feed the twinge in my left eye: five coursing signals around my jaw. The twinge in my eye is relocated pain. Too much. To place the palm presentably on a fine four feet of fabric- curtains: indented, white, silent. Gather generously the wool inside my fist with a wild twist as if gathering my fingers together in a fist wanting to twist her flowing hair into the safety of my grip. And oh! to blow my nose! To shed the impounded masses into that expanse of tapestry! I would do it, almost, I would. But I hold my ear lobes out instead until some sound would drift in- all sound, any sound. I wait, like a puppet in the corner, like in the recess of a mug’s handle. I wait, my spine curled, curled around the handle. I wait: ears open, eye twitching; my brow sliced as if in an industrial accident. To expose the wound, to expose the world all the way into the cavity. The recess. Two eggs left in her hand. Two eggs wrapped around her finger like a wedding band. Eggs filled with cream cheese. Eggs filled with ice and a ticking I can only hear when I hold out my ear lobes. This is all too much for me to understand. This is all too much for me to understand. If you have a friend who writes either prose or poetry and you write in the other form, try this out. There really are no rules; you can take the transformation as far as you please. It may even bring you two closer together as friends as it did for Delilah and me. You can also try going from poetry to prose or prose to prose/poetry to poetry. It adds a degree of separation from the original idea and the potential for unintended metaphor.
(Some unnecessary personal background in the spoiler, my actual point below ) Spoiler I always felt that the mark of a great teacher is not beating to death a single topic, but exposing the student to several topics and encouraging independent study. Bull-headed since birth, I was always a difficult student. As an Elementary School student, I was in awe of the influx of new information seeping into my academic repertoire. I did extremely well during those years and was, admittedly, teacher’s pet. I loved the knowledge and the praise I received for doing well. Approaching my teen-aged years, though, my fickle attitude towards my studies gained more and more influence until I was in Middle School, when I let it take complete control. My perfect attendance and straight A’s became a distant memory, a reminder of the days when I was a good little girl (I had other serious problems that developed around this time that added to my stress and changed image). My parents and teachers were puzzled; one week I was acing tests while the rest of the month I was barely passing the class. I’ve since identified the problem and the reasons behind it. At the start of a new semester, I felt fresh and energized; I was ready to succeed! My studies would then suffer as the semester progressed and my grades would go “down the toilet.” This is the vicious cycle I battle to this day. Besides a general laziness on my part, I attribute my “rollercoaster” academic career to incompatible syllabi. I learn best through experience so I require an academic schedule that allows me copious “hands-on” learning. This is where independent study comes in. My Senior year in High School, I ditched my attempt to earn an International Baccalaureate (IB) diploma and dropped the second year of the IB classes I disliked. The theory behind IB studies is an introduction to wide variety of topics with students responsible for exploring them outside of the classroom at length. I was doing better in school, but I was still strapped into that rollercoaster. I only wanted to learn the topics that interested me. College was a shock of opportunities for me. Finally, I was in charge of my studies and the directions they would take. I had a wonderfully successful first semester to my Freshman year. Had I finally beaten the cycle? My second semester continued the success, at first, but lurking in the shadows of my mind was that rollercoaster, still at full-speed and about to fall after an extended incline. It was during this semester that I realized how utterly incompetent I was. Thanks to the “Poetry- Texts, Forms, Experiments” course taught by the wonderfully talented Joan Retallack, I experienced a dramatic improvement to my writing. I entered the class with only one previous poetry workshop under my belt (taught by the equally enchanting Celia Bland) to augment the “understanding” of poetry I learned in High School. I was familiar with the most prevalent forms, though not their application, and my poetry was still hardly a step away from sounding forced. Joan exposed us to more forms than I ever thought could exist – I felt ignorant. She challenged us to create using in form, then break and push the words until the form tore into a beautiful monster. Our most important resource was not a textbook or set of instructions. Instead, Joan required us to scavenge the air for interesting thought. Each class, we had new entries of word combinations found in our everyday. This “Found Language” was our inspiration. We shared our favorite entries and allowed them to inspire each other. Some of my favorite entries were first recorded by a peer. When I am feeling uninspired or unsure, I read through my notebooks. Sometimes I find inspiration for a new piece, other times I discover an exciting way to experiment with an existing piece. Found language allows me a collection of words with intriguing rhythm; I recommend giving it a try. For one week, carry a pen and paper with you everywhere you go, even when you’re simply watching television at home. If you diligently record anything you hear or read that strikes you, I guarantee you will have an inspiring collage of image and sound. Likewise, you may begin to realize how very beautiful everyday language can be. Below is some found language I would like to share. Feel free to use any of it, verbatim or otherwise. If you do use something, I would love to read your product. You can comment, email, or PM. Also, if you have found something you would like to share, I am very interested in reading it. • the very helpful “watch out” • seems somewhat coital • the compromise is that you do more work • when you finally catch up with yourself, you’ve run out of time • air is foul • a whale of a good time • besides, bad tippers suck in bed • homo genius • all bunnies are ethnic • Peter, the shell-shocked panda • if floppy disks still existed • the frequency of your mind • the mind is a beautiful thing to squander • look for me at genre’s edge • in heaven, everything • Europa • I have silenced myself, my self • insane asylum of the plants • in memory, the eye is quicker • no beauty here, just a donkey with three legs • whiskey-raped voice • red-winged black bird • nipples and pennies • a spider and a bee fighting violently • chocolate-covered f**k-me • semen boils in your sack • make me a demon or call me your angel • pull me apart like petals • not many saw past the cheeky, wasted smile Best, Denise
Every writer has a process for writing a piece: creating an outline, bullet points, etc.; but another process exists before the writer even uncaps his pen. This process is a fulfillment of conditions which place the writer in a comfortable, inspired mental state. For me, it is the ingredients for a writing marathon. As long as my conditions are satisfied I can write for hours, pausing only to decide the perfect word for an idea. I can write a load of uninspired crap, but with my pre-writing process I can lose myself to the narrative; writing becomes experiencing. My process has more to do with physical requirements than direct mental preparation. I know a few writers who like to meditate before they write; I prefer to set the stage. In the spirit of sharing, I would like to share my ingredients. Perhaps someone will try some of them and find inspiration (that would be lovely!). They are as follows: Fresh Coffee Marlboro Menthol Cigarettes Chopin or Muse on Pandora A Moleskine Notebook A Sharpie Pen, blue I like to have a few, if not all, of these as fuel for a writing marathon. Next comes the highly elusive writing process. I like to warm up with a free-write, like most writers I know. In writing classes I took in the past, the professor would assign a starting point or give complete freedom. I prefer to write something related to the piece I am working on. In my most recent free-write, I began with a character I had yet to fully explore. I asked myself, 'Who is _____?' and wrote to describe the character and why they were important enough to exist as a round character. That reason lead into the character's relationship with other characters in the story and particularly important interactions. This character directly altered the perception of another character in the eyes of my narrator. I continued explaining everything I could, then asked another question. I used this process to define important plot points. I plan to do the same when it comes time to decide the transition between key points. A condition of the free-write is that it must be handwritten. I like to flip through the pages, crossing out conflicting ideas, indicating a needed change, and referencing something easily. I always have a small notebook with me to record random ideas or quotes; it's a habit I picked up when I wrote "found poetry." The notebook is convenient to carry around and assures that I don't forget an exciting idea. I can later transfer them to the "Ideas" section in my word processor for later. When I type the free-write parts I want to use, I can edit and expand the thought while staying on-topic. There is nothing more disappointing to me than knowing I had a superb idea, but not remembering it in the slightest (this happens most frequently as I fall asleep). One of the hardest parts of writing, for me, is finding the perfect word. I like to use rich, but not overly-complicated words. I think this idea first came to me when I read Stephen King's "On Writing." I shudder at the thought of forcing my target audience to consult (again and again) a dictionary simply to understand the narration. On the other hand, I try not to use or overuse common and simple words. When I write, I always have a thesaurus handy. I find the thesaurus to be one of the most important tools of a writer. I rarely use a dictionary because words sound forced when a writer uses one outside of their everyday vocabulary. It sometimes even leads to misused words, confusing a reader and/or changing the interpretation of an idea. I would like to quickly address a problem of mine: over-characterization. I started many stories out with an okay idea, only to lose it in the midst of creating my characters. Developing my characters is the stage in which I lose all control. I don't usually create too many unnecessary characters; I give traits to integral characters that do nothing for the story or the audience. The characters begin to exist, not for the story, but as something similar to an imaginary friend. I lose all interest in the plot in favor of creating lives: past, present, and future. Moving forward in time, I lose interest in those "people" (or define them as far as possible) for another story and new characters to create. It is absolutely a vicious cycle. I think, for the first time, I may have overcome the obsession with characterizing in my current piece!