The beginning is the hardest part...isn't it?

I remember my first class as a budding writer.  The class was popular fiction one at the University of Washington.  I was so excited, ready to learn how to write a novel.  The first thing she said to us was, "okay, you all have your novel written, now what?"

I gulped.  I looked around at everyone, seeing if I was the only one who up until that moment had nothing in my hands ready to show.  It was like a bad dream, was I attending the last class and missed the whole year?  I did what every solid, honest, good student would do - I faked it.  I made up characters and plot and a villain and scenery and dialogue and theme all in about an hour.  At least, I thought I had.  

It felt good to know that after the first class when I went up to speak with her that I didn't need a finished novel, but the class was catered to those that were already completed with a draft and wanted to go back through and hone it and polish it.  She also said that everything we learn in the class will apply to all novels that we write and it doesn't have to be about a specific work.

The best lesson that I could have learned though was how easy it was for me to bust out a good story.  Was it worthy of a novel, probably not, but it gave me the knowledge that I could muster up a story if I needed it.

I think the beginning is the hardest part for a writer.  To get started.  To write the first sentence.  Once the sentence is on the page, it has begun.  How many people who want to write, have talked about it for years with their family and friends.  Spoken about awesome story ideas but never actually put a single sentence down, let alone completed it.

Let's change all of that.  Let's make it the easiest thing to do.  I am going to put down three beginning sentences.  No critics, no editors, no rules.  I am not going to worry about theme, character, too much descriptions, or too many adjectives, and all that blather that we get when we take classes and read all of the books on how to write.  Gloves are off.  The best work comes when no one is around to judge us for it.  

Sentence 1:

John Maynard stood on the Washington Avenue bridge, his arms dangling over the metal railing staring down into the Mississippi River below, he watched the dirty water turning inside itself like it was a rolling boil.

Sentence 2:

The waiting room of Anderson Hall had two chairs, no magazines and a single square window that was so small it made John Maynard wonder if the building used to be for prison cells.

Sentence 3:

It was seven thirty Saturday morning on August 16th, John Maynard opened the door to Jones Hall and entered the snaking line of other future doctor's waiting their turn to checkin for the MCAT exam.

That was easy.  Now I can get down to it.  Every novel needs a first line, and the best part is there isn't an author worth their weight in gold that has kept that same sentence they started their novel with until the book was printed.  That is why the beginning should be the easiest, because it is the part that will most likely change before it is over, so why waste time getting it perfect.  

One thing is for sure, the beginning must escape the infinite of our imaginations and find its way onto the page before the ending can truly come into focus.

The Wistful versus the Genius

"...We come now to the book.  It has been planned a long time.  I planned it when I didn't know what it was about.  I developed a language for it that I will never use.  This seems such a waste of the few years a man has to write in.  And still I do not think I could have written it before now.  Of course it would have been a book - but not this book.  I remember when you gave me this thick - black - expensive book to write in.  See how well I have kept it for this book.  Only six pages are out of it.  A puppy gnawed the corners of the front cover.  And it is clean and fresh and open.  I hope I can fill it as you would like it filled..."
-January 29th, 1951 Monday - John Steinbeck "The East of Eden Letters"

I woke up this morning with no intention of writing in this blog.  I showered, made coffee, was harangued by my children, went to work and like watching a marathon of Bravo Housewives I have nothing creative to show for it.  My back aches and it is cold in my core, and my wife told me I needed to take a bath which I haven't done in as many years as my oldest son has been alive.  So I did it.

As I lay in the hot water, I submerged my head all the way below the surface and listened for my heart beating.  I didn't hear it, but instead a different message came up from below.

I started a novel in 2007, and then I started it again in 2008, and then I workshopped it in 2009, and then I pitched it to an agent in 2010...

My novel spoke to me under the water.  It was a matter of a few seconds, but the vision was there.  Whether it was the silence or the change in my routine, whatever the reason it returned to me. A couple of hours later I went downstairs and looked for my notes.  I couldn't find them, but instead my eyes focused like a camera lens upon this book by John Steinbeck - Journal Of A Novel The East of Eden Letters.  I hadn't read it nor had any idea of what the second paragraph read.

The message is clear.  These are the kind of messages from the unconscious that if listened to and acted upon separate the wistful from the genius. 
Here I go...

The Fear of Writing

When I sit down to write, there is a great filter, like a contact lens over my eyes.  This is my critic deconstructing each paragraph, sentence and word as I write.  The critic being the totalitarianism of each person and grand work of published fiction that I am comparing myself to.

How in the greatest possible world of creativity and art is this helpful to my process?

It isn't.

Why do I persevere?

The answer is that I have no choice.  I cannot help but to write stories.  I must write stories.  My well being, physically, mentally, socially, and relationally withers as each day embarks from the last day that I put pen to paper.

So, how does one fight back the critic, while trying to cull the muse into fantasy and play?

A great scholar once told me that fear is neither good nor bad.  It is how we interpret the fear and allow it to sculpt our perceptions of the world that impacts our day-to-day lives.

He also reminded me that being fearless is not an acceptable personality trait, considering it seems that no one outside of fantasy and fiction has ever been completely fearless.  Rather, accepting the fear exists and going forth anyway.  The courageous and the brave are those that eat breakfast with the fear, have a cordial conversation, and then pay the bill and go forth and succeed (the truly courageous leaves fear to pay the bill).

There is another story that a friend of mine told me not long ago.  He was telling me about a West African tribe that makes money by selling monkeys that they capture.  The way they capture the monkeys is they cut a small opening in a coconut and then nail the coconut to a tree.  They place a candy bar or a banana inside the opening.  The monkeys will place there hand inside the coconut and grab onto the sugar surprise, but they are unable to remove their hands while it is made into a fist.  The monkeys are unwilling to open their hands out of fear they will lose the treat.  The tribesmen capture the immobilized monkey without physical harm or abuse(controversial).

This story I later came to realize is used quite frequently in inspirational lectures.  It is a metaphor for the things in our lives that we hold onto that create a trap for our personal development.  When all we need to do is open our hands and let go.  We write our own stories in our heads and define ourselves based upon these stories.  We hold onto them sometimes with such a fist that we cannot see the world passing us by, but instead are stuck holding onto something that we in many cases don't even remember.  In the end, we just have to let go, and release us from our own imprisonment.

Writing is a tough process, but it can be extremely fulfilling.  Every time we sit down and write, we face our own fears as well as open ourselves to new ones.  I don't claim to be a successful writer, but I do believe that each of us has a story to tell.  If we release ourselves of our judgements, and the judgements imposed upon ourselves by others and just truly tell our story - it will manifest itself as a truly original, amazing, profound, and humorous yarn that is meant to be heard and read, rather than trapped inside of a coconut.

The critic will always be there screaming in our ears.  But all we have to do is open our hands, let go of the fear, and put on some really great sound proofing head phones.

Freedom...Thus Far

It is at the point in the story, where one would probably say "I have finished the prologue."
It feels weird that this book is the talk of the town.  Let's both agree that at the same time a new book by Neil Gaiman or China Mieville would not get the circuit, nor the publicity, but have a stake at the same if not better literary achievement.


There seems to be a reputation as with any public popularity that is either "IN" or "OUT".  


Does it have Oprah's "O" sticker?  If not, then well, life is too short to read.
How reviews and judgements can make or break an artist and thereby the judgements of a few will limit the imagination of the masses.


In the case of this book. I know that there will come a moment where I will say out loud, "this is a good book".  At this point in time, I have yet to make that claim.


I for one am the first to admit when I am wrong, I do it every day it seems.  How can a person not admit when they are wrong, when they have children.  But, hindsight is twenty twenty.


I have to say that this is the first novel that I have read in which I can say I have a fairly large distaste for the protagonist.  Which usually means the literature is a tragedy, like Ethan Frome or MacBeth.  Time will tell.


For now, I read on.

To Post Up, Like In Basketball

I think the beginnings are the hardest.  Hence, diversions, digressions, dissonance.  Right?

Starting a project like this must come with the tests of the universe.  The kind that take us into our day-to-day lives and shred us into a thousand pieces.

I came back to work this week, and yesterday (which feels like a million miles ago) at 10:34am, the file server at Abbott crashed.  It crashed hard like a metal against metal on I-5.  It waited for my paternity leave to end, like a grandmother waits for her grandson to come home before dying of cancer.

I know...very morbid.  Sorry.

I am not sure where you are in your journey with Roald or Jonathan, but I sit here at the Triple Door Music Bar, waiting to pick up my will call ticket and sit to hear Jonathan Franzen speak.  Like Patty before her big basketball game, after realizing her personal life DOES have an effect on her professional career...

I am forgetting it all, relaxing until I must face it all again.  For now, literature, creativity, writing, and dance of fate upon my fingers on these keys.

I love this project and I will see it to the end.

May Ray Bradbury live forever.

The Frame Story...

Freedom by Jonathan Franzen is one of those literary novels that you can tell within the first 50 pages will be nominated for the Pulitzer.  But it isn't necessarily Pulitzer material, just something about it.  The characters come alive and the plot, always a distant hill top usually difficult to see from the vantage point of the characters, but nonetheless worth it.

I have been working on a novel myself for some time.  I have written many, to completion, but the one I have been working on, my nemesis of sorts, very character driven.  Full of depth and long back story.  Plot available, but not as prominent as the characters.  I struggled for several months and then realized my protagonist needs something, a style, maybe a voice, or a herald from somewhere outside of the normal flow of the creek that he stands upon.  He finds a diary of his late mother, and this diary is a long life journey beginning when she is just beginning college and continues all the way through her life until her final entry, which is written as her suicide note.

In many ways, I am reminded and inspired about my novel, its wishfulness, when I read Jonathan Franzen's Freedom.  Much of what I have read thus far is a brief synopsis of a life on Ramsey Hill, and then the life's autobiography written as an autobiography, rather than a day-to-day journal.  It is something...

I continue to read Freedom now at the same time as reading Ray Bradbury's biography.  For some reason, maybe due to the fact that on August 22 2010 it was Ray's 90th birthday, but I feel that his end is nearer than we think, and I am getting nostalgic and wanting to indulge in his life before he departs this world.

A Digression Of Sorts...

As in any project, or in any new goal setting.  There will be digression.  It is like DNA variation.  A slight maneuver here and quick mutation there, and all of sudden, the Mud Fish is born.

Not really, but in this case, due to my birthday and maybe a drive to please my 4 1/2 year old son in the wake of a new baby girl in the house, we took a trip to the Science Fiction Museum.  There was a new exhibit that included many Star Wars items, R2-D2, Yoda, the Death Star.  Very cool.  But on this journey I saw one of my greatest heroes of all time.  Ray Bradbury.  I saw his face in the hall of fame.  I saw his hand made "Imagination" comic book.  Needless to say, my inspiration was enlightened.

I purchased Ray Bradbury's biography by Sam Weller and had to read many pages last night.  Even though I have been reading Jonathan Franzen's, I do not have a posting at this time, because my mind is on the great inked man.