In our lives, we bump into manifold interesting people, most of whom do what they do, or stopped doing it, without creating much of a ripple.
There's a slim chance that John Wayne Gacy lives down the block, or that some kid who sells lemonade in the front yard grows up to be a slasher or a mass murderer.
But if you're writing, everyone is a suspect.
I had occasion to discuss this with an 88-year-old man who had an established career as a community organizer, teacher, church leader. He said, "At my age, I've forgotten what I did 40 years ago."
"Maybe you were evil," I inquired.
He shrugged. "Maybe."
Somebody in town was probably murdered around that time.
Maybe they caught the killer.
In any event, wouldn't it behoove us to look into it?
This elderly guy has something to hide. He's not sure what it is.
Unless he's lying.
Then, there's a great story.
Monday, July 8, 2019
Relative value of porn
Twenty-some years ago when I started writing digital novelette-length stories, I found the temptation of 'dirty' too damned much fun to pass up. To me, it was a story that contained a lot of sex, usually normal sex. I called it blue-collar romance; it was easy to sell. The royalties were lousy; who cared?
There's not a lot of lesson being taught here, other than to suggest that writing sex into a novel or short story is nothing short of -- crap, you should consider it even if you hit the delete button afterward.
What we knew about that genre in 1998 was that women were identifiably the biggest market, and they seemed to like the more peculiar forms of the craft, meaning bondage, partner domination, same-gender relationships, that sort of thing. The notion of an 'alternative' lifestyle seemed to hover. It was as though the bulk of the buyers had found that doorknob and exited the closet.
Women also do not read porn. If it's about sex, to them it's erotica. Do not confuse that term with anything else. There are a couple of print labels that specialize in romance with something more than fade-to-black.
Anyhow, if you found out back then what women wanted to read, and you could assume they were a little past their twenties, you could crank out stories, books, poems, greeting cards ... you name it. The digital publishers had nothing invested. The writer was supposed to format the work and send it on. Contracts were standard. The E-book publishers took anything they could get. Marketing was just a word. Pfffft.
I have no idea if anybody still buys this stuff, or sells it. The market at the time seemed a bit immature, at least the women writers with whom I shared contact. We'd write something, email it off and get a 'Wow, that's powerful!' and think we had the X-rated version of Gone With the Wind.
I did create a character who found himself in the middle of a lot of sordid adventures, none of which harmed anyone. The notion that a befuddled male in the middle of an ironic world could get so lucky so often was nothing short of parody. I don't know if anybody realized that. The royalty checks were small. Regular sex does not sell as a rule. It just doesn't. Who knew?
But I learned to modify the character in later work that stepped up way past the childishness of blue-collar romance. I don't even see a need to include a rambunctious romance scene now, beyond what's just obvious.
I have a few of the old stories around here, and I might recast a couple of them. The plots work, the characters are interesting, and the stories make sense. A little less on the crude might work. Might not.
My greatest challenge was to write the perfect steamy shower scene. I think I have it, but I've not used it yet.
It's the alternative bathroom lifestyle. Easy on the soap.
There's not a lot of lesson being taught here, other than to suggest that writing sex into a novel or short story is nothing short of -- crap, you should consider it even if you hit the delete button afterward.
What we knew about that genre in 1998 was that women were identifiably the biggest market, and they seemed to like the more peculiar forms of the craft, meaning bondage, partner domination, same-gender relationships, that sort of thing. The notion of an 'alternative' lifestyle seemed to hover. It was as though the bulk of the buyers had found that doorknob and exited the closet.
Women also do not read porn. If it's about sex, to them it's erotica. Do not confuse that term with anything else. There are a couple of print labels that specialize in romance with something more than fade-to-black.
Anyhow, if you found out back then what women wanted to read, and you could assume they were a little past their twenties, you could crank out stories, books, poems, greeting cards ... you name it. The digital publishers had nothing invested. The writer was supposed to format the work and send it on. Contracts were standard. The E-book publishers took anything they could get. Marketing was just a word. Pfffft.
I have no idea if anybody still buys this stuff, or sells it. The market at the time seemed a bit immature, at least the women writers with whom I shared contact. We'd write something, email it off and get a 'Wow, that's powerful!' and think we had the X-rated version of Gone With the Wind.
I did create a character who found himself in the middle of a lot of sordid adventures, none of which harmed anyone. The notion that a befuddled male in the middle of an ironic world could get so lucky so often was nothing short of parody. I don't know if anybody realized that. The royalty checks were small. Regular sex does not sell as a rule. It just doesn't. Who knew?
But I learned to modify the character in later work that stepped up way past the childishness of blue-collar romance. I don't even see a need to include a rambunctious romance scene now, beyond what's just obvious.
I have a few of the old stories around here, and I might recast a couple of them. The plots work, the characters are interesting, and the stories make sense. A little less on the crude might work. Might not.
My greatest challenge was to write the perfect steamy shower scene. I think I have it, but I've not used it yet.
It's the alternative bathroom lifestyle. Easy on the soap.
Real time travel
I subscribed to newspapers.com, mostly because I wanted to do something over the winter that did not include casino games on the computer. Little did I know:
The old papers, as far back and as diverse as paper and ink, are a joy, a trip backward in time that we only envision in science fiction or an arcane 'we can't really explain this but --' time travel book.
I know. I wrote one. The Amos Milton Caper was a ton of fun. I might post that on my board eventually. Back-edits and such.
What's truly amazing about the old papers, depending on how far back you go, is the writing style of the various editors and reporters. It isn't to say that all of them were literary wizards. They knew how to spell and they knew how to get their point on paper.
Fair enough.
But the scale of the adventure is immeasurable. The year 1919, for example, a century ago as this blog item is being shared, tells stories that we didn't learn in school.
Hell, most of history was boiled down to a couple of paragraphs, with the important part being blah-blah-blah 'shall not be infringed' blah blah blah.
I was alive for some of this stuff.
The really fun papers are the specialty journals, though most of them lack any real context.
The best stuff is from the late 1800s, mostly about kings of Europe, the various forms of patent medicine and the price of shirts, coats, boots and hats.
The advertising is amusing, less informative. There's almost nothing that doesn't make you do a double-take. Laugh, share, absorb . . . and get a taste of the world as it was happening. You also have the benefit of a long time to reflect on what it meant. When it was published, nobody knew that.
But if you're writing period history in America, get on the 'horn' and subscribe to newspapers.com. It's not free, it's not expensive and it's a great way to avoid wasting time.
It's better than the movie and it's not the same crap you learned from Mrs. Applebottom, who only taught you what she felt like teaching you. This was before her time, too.
It's important to know that history is not linear, time is not linear, and the decisions the world made in 1874 are somewhere etched in the present. The war didn't end just because your history teacher made up some arbitrary date.
This article from the April 17, 1865 edition of the Richmond Whig, one of many periodicals over the course of American history, where the process of freedom of speech is unique across the world. The South, at least the editors of the Whig, had forecast a period of peace after Appomattox, and this dreadful act was seen as another Chapter of Hell.
If you are writing in this period, isn't it useful to know this? This, by the way, was NOT on the front page of the paper. The relative value of news isn't the issue here, since you have to go looking at times. "Jesus Returns" might be big news, but the guy who bought the liniment oil ad paid the bills.
The old papers, as far back and as diverse as paper and ink, are a joy, a trip backward in time that we only envision in science fiction or an arcane 'we can't really explain this but --' time travel book.
I know. I wrote one. The Amos Milton Caper was a ton of fun. I might post that on my board eventually. Back-edits and such.
What's truly amazing about the old papers, depending on how far back you go, is the writing style of the various editors and reporters. It isn't to say that all of them were literary wizards. They knew how to spell and they knew how to get their point on paper.
Fair enough.
But the scale of the adventure is immeasurable. The year 1919, for example, a century ago as this blog item is being shared, tells stories that we didn't learn in school.
Hell, most of history was boiled down to a couple of paragraphs, with the important part being blah-blah-blah 'shall not be infringed' blah blah blah.
I was alive for some of this stuff.
The really fun papers are the specialty journals, though most of them lack any real context.The best stuff is from the late 1800s, mostly about kings of Europe, the various forms of patent medicine and the price of shirts, coats, boots and hats.
The advertising is amusing, less informative. There's almost nothing that doesn't make you do a double-take. Laugh, share, absorb . . . and get a taste of the world as it was happening. You also have the benefit of a long time to reflect on what it meant. When it was published, nobody knew that.
But if you're writing period history in America, get on the 'horn' and subscribe to newspapers.com. It's not free, it's not expensive and it's a great way to avoid wasting time.
It's better than the movie and it's not the same crap you learned from Mrs. Applebottom, who only taught you what she felt like teaching you. This was before her time, too.
It's important to know that history is not linear, time is not linear, and the decisions the world made in 1874 are somewhere etched in the present. The war didn't end just because your history teacher made up some arbitrary date.
This article from the April 17, 1865 edition of the Richmond Whig, one of many periodicals over the course of American history, where the process of freedom of speech is unique across the world. The South, at least the editors of the Whig, had forecast a period of peace after Appomattox, and this dreadful act was seen as another Chapter of Hell.
If you are writing in this period, isn't it useful to know this? This, by the way, was NOT on the front page of the paper. The relative value of news isn't the issue here, since you have to go looking at times. "Jesus Returns" might be big news, but the guy who bought the liniment oil ad paid the bills.
Friday, September 7, 2018
Selective searches for truth
Most writers will assert that inspiration comes from the search for the "human condition" and how it drives ... um, people. Most writers abide in the First World, are educated enough to carry on a decent* conversation and are generally aware of life inside a social realm.
It's the social realm where we conveniently fit because we are attuned to the agenda. The agenda that tells us that intolerance is never acceptable. The agenda is known to change without notice, creating some awkward moments. I mean, I am OK with LGBT, but I don't know about the other 9 letters that come after that.
I am also intolerant of people who think I have no right to have opinions, which usually are pinned to my level of tolerance on any given matter. Gregorian chants suck, OK?
The First World is the perfect place to nurture diverse ideas. If you live in some other world, the options are different. Not better, just different. Cut down a tree to feed your family and we'll embargo your country for letting a poor farmer destroy the rain forest.
Understanding the "human condition" means having virtually zero idea what true poverty includes and why it won't ever go away. That doesn't mean not caring about it or not fixing the parts that aren't too deeply embedded in the problem. If you don't understand the problem, refrain from evaluating it from your pulpit.
Everybody is prejudiced, naturally.
Everyone is a bigot, intentionally.
We're all biased. That's not a sin, and it isn't a sin to write as though it's not. Everybody hates the bad guy -- even if he does have some socially redeeming value -- and we all abhor the evil creature from Xaptrahonia who comes to Earth to eat all the females. Yeah, that's evil ... but if this creature doesn't get his nourishment, he dies. Do we care? Well, if we care about all things, then the Xaptrahonian culture should be pretty precious to us.
In the same way a nest of ground hornets serves a natural purpose anywhere except near your back porch.
Hell, even Hitler liked dogs.
You gotta hate something if you want to bond with people who can make you feel good about yourself. If you are alone, you will never experience the human condition, which has finally lost its quote marks.
As writers, we can all perch high above it and pretend we have this insight, insight brought about by our ability to spell, punctuate and make it all grow into sentences, paragraphs and pamphlets.
We don't need to be so arrogant about it.
* As defined by Facebook.
It's the social realm where we conveniently fit because we are attuned to the agenda. The agenda that tells us that intolerance is never acceptable. The agenda is known to change without notice, creating some awkward moments. I mean, I am OK with LGBT, but I don't know about the other 9 letters that come after that.
I am also intolerant of people who think I have no right to have opinions, which usually are pinned to my level of tolerance on any given matter. Gregorian chants suck, OK?
The First World is the perfect place to nurture diverse ideas. If you live in some other world, the options are different. Not better, just different. Cut down a tree to feed your family and we'll embargo your country for letting a poor farmer destroy the rain forest.
Understanding the "human condition" means having virtually zero idea what true poverty includes and why it won't ever go away. That doesn't mean not caring about it or not fixing the parts that aren't too deeply embedded in the problem. If you don't understand the problem, refrain from evaluating it from your pulpit.
Everybody is prejudiced, naturally.
Everyone is a bigot, intentionally.
We're all biased. That's not a sin, and it isn't a sin to write as though it's not. Everybody hates the bad guy -- even if he does have some socially redeeming value -- and we all abhor the evil creature from Xaptrahonia who comes to Earth to eat all the females. Yeah, that's evil ... but if this creature doesn't get his nourishment, he dies. Do we care? Well, if we care about all things, then the Xaptrahonian culture should be pretty precious to us.
In the same way a nest of ground hornets serves a natural purpose anywhere except near your back porch.
Hell, even Hitler liked dogs.
You gotta hate something if you want to bond with people who can make you feel good about yourself. If you are alone, you will never experience the human condition, which has finally lost its quote marks.
As writers, we can all perch high above it and pretend we have this insight, insight brought about by our ability to spell, punctuate and make it all grow into sentences, paragraphs and pamphlets.
We don't need to be so arrogant about it.
* As defined by Facebook.
Thursday, August 23, 2018
Summer of the Disco Tent
I let this blog slide for a few months while my pinkie stopped being numb. It's still numb, but the malady has spread to areas above the neckline.
Summer has slithered past, promising one thing, delivering it without comment and preparing to step aside for autumn.
Autumn is an especially nice time to be a writer, or even a person who sees the world through what might be a writer's eyes. The days are shorter, the shadows longer, and the breeze threatens to become a howling wind right about the time we decide to carve triangles into the front of an orange squash.
Turning it and its habitat into an eerie corral of creatures.
That's the problem with the whole story. It's always the same creatures. People only know the creatures they've experienced and most of them are dreadfully uninteresting.
The ones that matter are inside the mind. Scary stuff, that.
For the moment, the scratching, growling, snarling thing on the other side of the tree is content. In another couple of months, it will emerge, turning autumn into a graveyard of fear and anxiety.
That should be fun. And the mums will be in full bloom.
I had the opportunity to take part in an essay contest that described life for a solitary person on a deserted island, filled with horror. I didn't win. I wanted to win. Honestly, I don't know how a deserted island could contain any horror that didn't contribute to it being deserted in the first place. But anyway, I decided to show up there and get the scoop.
There is a germ of a story emerging. Let me think it over and get back to you.
Summer has slithered past, promising one thing, delivering it without comment and preparing to step aside for autumn.
Autumn is an especially nice time to be a writer, or even a person who sees the world through what might be a writer's eyes. The days are shorter, the shadows longer, and the breeze threatens to become a howling wind right about the time we decide to carve triangles into the front of an orange squash.
Turning it and its habitat into an eerie corral of creatures.
That's the problem with the whole story. It's always the same creatures. People only know the creatures they've experienced and most of them are dreadfully uninteresting.
The ones that matter are inside the mind. Scary stuff, that.
For the moment, the scratching, growling, snarling thing on the other side of the tree is content. In another couple of months, it will emerge, turning autumn into a graveyard of fear and anxiety.
That should be fun. And the mums will be in full bloom.
I had the opportunity to take part in an essay contest that described life for a solitary person on a deserted island, filled with horror. I didn't win. I wanted to win. Honestly, I don't know how a deserted island could contain any horror that didn't contribute to it being deserted in the first place. But anyway, I decided to show up there and get the scoop.
There is a germ of a story emerging. Let me think it over and get back to you.
Thursday, April 26, 2018
A winning idea
I spent the last few weeks not writing, not because I had no interest in it but because the world got more interesting.
As we used to say in market research, "IN WHAT WAY?"
The groundhog emerged from hibernation, which is always a treat. I really don't think it needs to get more interesting than that. It's not that he emerged, it's that nobody seems to know where he emerged from.
But my typewriter fingers are itchy lately and the inevitable 'gee, it's too nice to stay inside and write' is probably gonna do me in. Maybe not.
I wrote a raunchy 240-page novel a dozen years ago about a guy who wins the lottery and runs into a whole series of miscreants, thieves, buggers and deviants on his way to nowhere sensible. I liked the book, some of the characters and the plot.
I think I might try that plot idea again with a different motive in mind. I always wondered what would become of me if I ever won the lottery. Most of us wonder that. I think it's odd that we all say we wouldn't change. In real life, you would. In my book, I don't have to. The fun part of creating characters based on yourself is that you can make it anything you like.
See, what doubles as writing or story-telling is a matter of taking the mundane, adding two somewhat interesting people, have them do something and off you go. The guy winning the lottery has many more options in such a story.
I like options. You meet the strangest people on the way to the park.
Winning the lottery is not mundane but you still need to deal with groundhogs, who do not need the money.
As we used to say in market research, "IN WHAT WAY?"
The groundhog emerged from hibernation, which is always a treat. I really don't think it needs to get more interesting than that. It's not that he emerged, it's that nobody seems to know where he emerged from.
But my typewriter fingers are itchy lately and the inevitable 'gee, it's too nice to stay inside and write' is probably gonna do me in. Maybe not.
I wrote a raunchy 240-page novel a dozen years ago about a guy who wins the lottery and runs into a whole series of miscreants, thieves, buggers and deviants on his way to nowhere sensible. I liked the book, some of the characters and the plot.
I think I might try that plot idea again with a different motive in mind. I always wondered what would become of me if I ever won the lottery. Most of us wonder that. I think it's odd that we all say we wouldn't change. In real life, you would. In my book, I don't have to. The fun part of creating characters based on yourself is that you can make it anything you like.
See, what doubles as writing or story-telling is a matter of taking the mundane, adding two somewhat interesting people, have them do something and off you go. The guy winning the lottery has many more options in such a story.
I like options. You meet the strangest people on the way to the park.
Winning the lottery is not mundane but you still need to deal with groundhogs, who do not need the money.
Sunday, April 1, 2018
I have no idea, yet
I just finished a novel that started out as a paranormal suspense yarn and became something of a murder mystery. It's about writing what I know as opposed to what I think I know.
The main character wasn't clear to me until the second chapter and I created her out of a notion that she needed to be somewhat different. So I made her young, black and naive.
Of the three, the part that I resemble is naive, though not so much these days. In any case, it was fun taking this character through a maze of peculiar events, eclectic notions and a brutal winter in a place that probably exists in this form.
I have no idea what it will resemble when it's undergone its first back-read. I think the characters are somewhat one dimensional. The story is a bit of a stretch but -- as murder mysteries go -- it's feasible.
I am happy I did this thing and I hope I can rescue it.
The problems that remain are whether I see this story as it should be or whether I see it as I think it should be.
Writing is fun; self-criticism is less enjoyable.
I am excited about sharing it with a couple of beta readers who I trust will be harsh, kind, honest and abundantly generous with their praise of my writing skill.
One likes to hear that, doesn't one?
The main character wasn't clear to me until the second chapter and I created her out of a notion that she needed to be somewhat different. So I made her young, black and naive.
Of the three, the part that I resemble is naive, though not so much these days. In any case, it was fun taking this character through a maze of peculiar events, eclectic notions and a brutal winter in a place that probably exists in this form.
I have no idea what it will resemble when it's undergone its first back-read. I think the characters are somewhat one dimensional. The story is a bit of a stretch but -- as murder mysteries go -- it's feasible.
I am happy I did this thing and I hope I can rescue it.
The problems that remain are whether I see this story as it should be or whether I see it as I think it should be.
Writing is fun; self-criticism is less enjoyable.
I am excited about sharing it with a couple of beta readers who I trust will be harsh, kind, honest and abundantly generous with their praise of my writing skill.
One likes to hear that, doesn't one?
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