Space Cadets - Charlie's Diary

Space Cadets - Charlie's Diary

Yes, I know I haven't been around. Yes, I know none of you read this anymore. Yes, I know I'm talking to myself. Read it anyway.

the jugular.

Go for the jugular. This was the advice of Peter Christopher, late author, teacher and friend. Described by his peers as one of the bad boys of fiction, I remember him as a charismatic, slightly rumpled realist who just wanted someone, anyone, in our class to stand up and shock the ever living shit out of him with their story. He was not easily impressed, not by a long shot, but what made him exceptional was that he was always willing to be impressed. 


This is what I learned from him. Some of these things I knew before I met him, but even those he taught me how to make better, how to make beautiful. 


Begin with a brick. A small piece of the construction, but a heavy piece to drop through the silence of a page.


Show the story, don't tell it. He would cross out adverbs, eliminating them like rats trying to chew through the walls of literature. Don't say that the wind is blowing, show the reader the rattle of the branches, shaking like a skeleton to shed its rotting skin.


People don't speak in paragraphs. Dialog is an art. Wielded wisely, it can make the mediocre great. It is often less about what is being said and more about what is not being said. The unspoken and the unspeakable often reveals a great deal about people (characters). He mentioned the screen writer Aaron Sorkin as an excellent example of what to do. If you're not familiar, go watch the first four seasons of The West Wing for which Sorkin was the primary writer. Hell, go watch it again even if you've seen it before. It will teach you a thing or two about how to write dialog even if you're penning a novel and not a television show.


Go for the jugular. Pull no punches. Dive in head first. As Christopher's friend and colleague, Eric Nelson, wrote of him, There was an intensity to his writing that was like a slap in the face – the kind that says “wake up, the world’s on fire.” This intensity, this ultra-real style of writing, is exactly what Christopher meant every time he ordered us to go for the jugular. 


The written word can save the world. Enough said.

christine's interruption.

I am writing this between Playwriting class and Screenwriting Lab, instead of doing my homework. I'm doing this both as a testament to my passion for a good rotgut discourse, but also to my passion for procrastination. My esteemed colleague here at Guerilla Ink asked me to talk a bit about writing, but true to my contradictory nature, I have decided not to. I will, instead, talk about story. Which is, in fact, very different.

Writing isn't so hard. Sure, beautiful language is important and multi-dimensional characters that really move and sweep through a world, those are necessary. But all of that amounts to a dictionary, a thesaurus, a few glasses of gin and a joint -- the story, though, now that's a pain in the ass.

In my eight months or so of graduate school, I have been asked to write at least a gagillion (real number) stories. It always starts off well -- okay, so we have a space pirate, in space, and she gets stuck in the middle of a civil war.

Good premise. But that's not yet a story.

Well, the Civil War is between Earth and its Colonies, and there's this Revolutionary, right? And he's really awesome, but kind of a pain in the ass, and so the pirate gets hired to kidnap him and she decides to sell him to the highest bidder.

Great, so there's a complication or two in there. But where's the story?

It goes on and on like that, round and round, in circles, until you've kind of looped it all about yourself, tied your own noose and you're hanging in it, story-less, but with a really exhausted brain.

They tell you story is conflict. Well, yes. But story stems from conflict. And if you determine your specific conflicts, and how they interlock and define your specific characters, and how those characters change, specifically, in order to rise to the conflict you've set before them -- then, THEN, you begin to have a story. This, my friends, can take YEARS. Draft after draft after draft -- of not writing, no -- of outlines, and freewrites, and just trying to get from point A to point Q, and how A causes Q to even happen, because your protagonist decided that A was her best choice, instead of B, which ends up being a better choice, but at what cost? The cost is D, brought about when the protagonist tripped over C, though she ends up landing in E, and from there, well...you know the alphabet.

At the end of the day, is what I'm saying, you aren't writing, you are storytelling.

And by the time you actually sit down to write, it's like coming up for air after diving into the deep end of a pool -- a gasp of realization, a wondrous moment of bursting, because you already know this story so well, these characters like your family, and they may surprise you, but you have constructed for them the best possible venue in which to spotlight all their quirks and flaws and glory.

That's how we do it in theatre, and on screen, anyway.

The actual writing is like the prize you win for doing all of the other work -- but without that work, you'll end up tearing your hair out and hurling your laptop into a wall when, at page 60, the entire story has fallen to pieces and you have no idea why. Then you figure out why -- and if only you'd seen it coming. It's because the story wasn't right, kid. It's because the story didn't suit the characters, didn't push them to their own limits -- it's because you did not spend time learning them, and how to expose them, and all their conflicted awesomeness.

Conflict. Internal, external. A sense of rising conflict, and the cost of each step forward as the protagonist struggles to achieve her goal, and heal her wound. Sometimes these two things are divergent, and she must either attain, fail to attain, or alter her goal in order to satisfy -- not just her, or me, the writer, but you, the audience. I've taken you this far, I owe you one hell of a resolution. Or you'll never buy the DVD.


This concludes our dispatch from the Future.

pen pretension.

A friend recently made the comment to me that writing about writing causes them to feel like a pompous ass. For the obvious reason that this entire blog is me (or the unsuspecting guest writers) writing about writing, this gave me a moment's pause. It was then I realized I agreed with her. It does make me feel like a pompous ass and maybe it damn well should. Yet I am fully aware I have no more than the next person to feel self-important about and have included a static disclaimer which I will repeat here: this is absolute rubbish, so take it with a shot of whiskey or not at all.


It requires a certain amount of ego to write. You must first dare to consider the possibility that the asylum in your head is worthy of being mapped, that the voices you hear possess enough resonance to find echoes in ink. And if you dare to expect anyone else to actually read what you write, then your ego must be inflated enough to be capable of containing the necessary amount of courage. 

And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise.  The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.  - Sylvia Plath.

I am acquainted with several talented writers who fear, despite their passion for the pen, that their lack of formal education in fiction writing causes them to fall woefully behind the crowd. This is not always true. It harks back to the argument of formal education versus self-education. Yes, there are critics who seem to exist for the sole purpose of denouncing anything not written with massive homage to craft intricacies.


Well, fuck 'em. If it's good, if it reverberates, if it speaks to me in a language I didn't even know my bones could understand, then who gives a damn?


Do you?


If so, this is not for you. There is nothing to see here. Move along, move along and take your pen pretensions with you.

Katie made me do it.

Inspiration.

Main Entry: in·spi·ra·tion
Pronunciation: \ˌin(t)-spə-ˈrā-shən, -(ˌ)spi-\
Function: noun
Date: 14th century

1 a : a divine influence or action on a person believed to qualify him or her to receive and communicate sacred revelation b : the action or power of moving the intellect or emotions c : the act of influencing or suggesting opinions
2 : the act of drawing in; specifically : the drawing of air into the lungs

With regard to inspiration of the first variety, breathing sometimes helps. Breathing seems less important in the throes of inspiration; in my experience, one (read: Daniel) becomes so spastic that breathing is the last thing on one's mind. Then, if focus comes, awesomeness ensues. But artists of all varieties struggle with the question of inspiration. Teachers say art is 1% inspiration and 99% perspiration, and that's great and all, probably true, but rarely seems to help. A woo-woo inclined therapist of mine once told me that inspiration is something you really do have to consciously breathe in sometimes. She asked me how often I go take a walk someplace I find beautiful, go look at art in a gallery or museum (not online), add fuel to the fire in my belly? Answer: not as frequently as I should.

Eleanor Roosevelt once said a beautiful young person is an accident of nature, but a beautiful old person is a work of art. I have been wondering lately if this applies also to the robustness of an artist's imagination. It certainly seemed to come easier and of its own volition back in the day.

This isn't actually meant to be a rant, and even this feels like pulling teeth. I would hate to make a generality about Generation X and beyond, to say that we don't have the discipline of previous generations, because it's not true of many individuals, and I wouldn't know how to actually measure aggregate discipline. Suffice it to say that school came easily enough for me as a child that I never learned good study habits, and that translates to my writing (such as it is). At twenty-nine, am I too old a dog to learn new tricks? Perhaps not, but the muscles to initiate and maintain this are certainly atrophied.

I think I chose this (perhaps) trite subject because despite knowing the problems and the solutions, I still struggle with this and I know other people do too. Sometimes it seems like Einstein's definition of insanity: "doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results." But so it goes.

So I suppose we as writers and artists must develop our voices, our discipline, and maintain that pool of inspiration. When the pool runs dry, discipline can keep us working until we can refill it. Martha Graham said, "It takes about ten years to make a mature dancer." That's disheartening in one sense, that it takes so long to mature as an artist, but it can also be heartening in that a carefully tended artistic spirit can endure indefinitely.

guest writers.

I have invited several friends to publish essays on their craft (writing of many and varied genres) herein. So if you see someone who is not me scribbling upon here, don't be alarmed. They aren't trespassing. They are, in fact, welcome guests partaking of my salt and bread and leaving lovely little hostess gifts behind. Many of them have blogs of their own which I highly encourage you to read. 

That's all. Carry on.

first amendment aside.

Dear Mr. Shun-the-Non-Believer,

It was Jorge Luis Borges I was attempting to channel last night when confronted with your incredible pigheadedness. He said, "God must not engage in theology. The writer must not destroy by human reasonings the faith that art requires of us," a sentiment with which I whole heartedly agree. 

I cannot fathom what prompted you to ask me with what authority I dared to be composing a novel whose central character is an angel (of sorts). You were the instigator of our conversation, having discovered from a mutual friend that I, too, enjoy writing; and when you asked me what I write about, I answered, "Everything.". "Fair enough," you said, and laughed. This made me inclined to like you, which just goes to show how poor my judgement is three whiskeys under. "But really," you persisted, "What are you writing about now?" 

This is where I erred. I dared to actually tell the truth, thinking fortune had stumbled me pleasantly into the path of a kindred soul. "An angel," I told you, warming to the subject, "An archon. She's the central character and - "

That was as far as I got. The expression on your face stopped my words, caused me to replay them in my head in an attempt to ascertain what I had said was so psychotic as to earn that look of yours. I was still trying to figure this out when your face shifted yet again, features flickering out from beneath the tumult of angry bewilderment and onto the shores of patronizing intensity. "Don't take this the wrong way," you said this very, very slowly, "But what makes you think you're an authority on divinity?"

"Oh, no. I'm writing a work of fiction," I hastily reassured you, thinking of the book in question and really not wanting anyone to imagine that it was even remotely based on my actual religious beliefs. 

That ought to have cleared the air. You and I should have been able to go on from there to happy discussions about writing techniques, writer's block and even self-righteous expressions of indignation over some so-called author who can hardly write themselves out of a paper bag becoming a national bestseller and why, God, why? But no. You, you ridiculous man, you opted to berate me instead for my daring, for my ignorance, for my supposed promotion of false ideologies to corrupt a soul-hungry populace in need of guidance rather than trash talking prophets.

What. The. Hell?

Fiction. Fake. Not real. Make believe. Hell, if you like, I'll tack a disclaimer of this nature to the front of my book. Trust me, sir, I have even searched my pockets and checked under my couch cushions since our conversation just to make sure I'd not received and then accidentally misplaced the holy spirit or even the mandate of heaven and have a care lest my misuse becomes despotic and some new emperor of the ink should rise. This is not the Gospel According to Katie. This is a story, made up out of my head, with little bits of brain and bio matter undoubtedly still clinging to every syllable.

Yet maybe like Warren Ellis, tongue-in-cheek, claims, when I write I am Holy. I can't be touched. I can destroy your faith from my chair. If that's the case, sir, maybe your faith was not so very "faithful" to begin with. Maybe you are one of the soul-hungry denizens, desperately reaching in your subconscious not for something new in which to believe, but for something with which to assure yourself what you do believe in is right. 

What, if in your opinion I've no authority to write even fictional stories with angels in them, do I possess the authority to write? An autobiography? Are you not familiar with the writing theory that all good writers ultimately are writing about themselves? Do you mean to tell me that Shakespeare ought not to have written Henry V because he was not a king nor had fought in a war? That Orson Scott Card should have ignored ideas of future societies and that, God forbid, Hemingway should have only written about drunks? 

You, sir, have left me flabbergasted. I remain,

Sincerely,

a believer.

post script:

But please remember my fondly

I heard from someone you're still pretty

and then they went on to say

that the Pearly Gates had some eloquent graffiti

like 'We'll meet again' and 'Fuck the man' 

and 'Tell my mother not to worry' and 

angels with their great handshakes

but always done in such a hurry.

So please remember me finally

and all my uphill clawing, my dear,

but if I make the Pearly Gates,

I'll do my best to make a drawing of God and Lucifer,

a boy and girl, an angel kissin' on a sinner,

a monkey and a man,

a marching band all around the frightened trapeze swinger.

- The Trapeze Swinger by Iron & Wine.

dead dog.

never too early to start smoking, says Australia.

apropos.

It's amazing what writers will ask a person. What is even more amazing is what writers will consider to be a perfectly legit question at, say, two o'clock in the bloody ante meridiem. If the question is posed from one writer to another, then all bets are off. The questioned might not be capable of stopping herself from launching into paragraphs of tangential, so-called "answers" that might cause normal people to feel as though they've been assaulted (molested?) by an O'Brien's dreadful-to-hold-onto nothing. 


One writer needs a biochemical weapon idea to give to a space pirate. Another writer is trying to come up with an appropriate character name that will become adopted as a title (such as "Ceasar", but, you know, not). Someone else is forgetting that they are, in fact, on the intertubes and it would probably be faster to look up the name of the Union general who went against Lee in the Battle of Sharpsburg than ask you who may or may not recall that particular history class (McClellan, if you're wondering). 


These are merely some of the more recent questions, demands and/or pleas that have been put to me seemingly apropos to nothing. Only, of course, they are relevant and even the afore-mentioned endless, "nothing" answers often are. Why?


Because like I said in an earlier post before I hauled my blog here, ideas happen in a frozen rush. They form always, interminable, and at unexpected intervals pop like match strikes against all of your senses. You lose track of where you are, what's playing the radio, airing on the television, and God knows whoever and whatever else might be watching. They can paralyze or ride you to your feet, spinning, muttering as though you're caught in an infinite conversation with the universe, with the hours, and in buckshot-like scatters of language, clips and phrases of coherency, you are abruptly speaking in the tongues of angels even if it is on the devils you are elaborating. You've lost your moorings and, aware of it, grope for both a hold as well as a hand up higher, always higher and so find a pen or cigarette, a keyboard or a drink (the very fortunate find all of these) and because the minutes are mumbling dire warnings of running out and the taste of fear in the back of your throat says sweetly this all may go pew-pew or kaboom or up, up in ashes and embers if you don't get it out, get it down, right now, before your heart thuds another beat, you write.


Ideas are fond of ambushes. Everything is apropos, even nothing.

whiskey before beer, never fear.

Read about the buying of the blog bottle here.