Ouch. A graveyard with headstones:
…carved mottoless with simple names and dates as though there had been nothing even their mourners remembered of them than that they had lived and they had died…
From William Faulkner’s only mystery novel, Intruder in the Dust.
Some of my readers have requested a sequel to my recent novel Scar Jewelry. While I am thrilled that they care enough about the characters to want a part two, I suspect the requests come from desire to witness certain conversations and interactions that, well, frankly, won’t ever occur, even if I were to write a sequel. Such additions would make the story more tidy, maybe – but no longer right.
Here’s the bottom line: at any moment, life stretches in all directions and sometimes the options feel endless. But most of those options are fleeting opportunities and it can really be too bad if we don’t say something or do something or change something when we have the chance.
If this is a spoiler it is an enigmatic one that shouldn’t harm the reading experience.
New poll on the home page of my blog: What time of day do you prefer to write?
I’m a night owl stuck in an early bird world: my answer used to be 4a because I stayed up that late. Nowadays it is 4a because I got up a little early.
Uh huh. So this is the adulthood that I was so eager to get to.
Our dog got sprayed again the other day, chasing a skunk in our backyard again. I can’t decide whether she…
a) still does not understand the connection between chasing the skunk and getting sprayed?
b) thinks the risk is worth the reward?
c) likes the smell?
d) likes to get that special bath?
I’m pretty certain the answer is not d), given how little she likes baths.
The last time she got sprayed, I was covered in it by the time we figured out why she was foaming at the mouth. In line at the grocery store, people around me were sniffing the air and saying, ‘smells like burning tires.’ Heh.
A couple days later, I was still emitting eau d’skunk in the 110 degree room of a Bikram yoga class. Turns out the instructor was one of those one in a billion who loves the smell. (Dog in previous life?) This, however, did not make me less of a pariah during the class. But for once I got the floor space I deserve.
Mysterious symbols on a busy road near my house.
Bike riders on this path ascend quickly to heaven?
Epitaph for a comedian:
Three worms walk into a bar…
It is a struggle for me to watch live theater productions. I feel tense the whole time because I fear I will witness an actor seriously and obviously botching lines, and watch an uncomfortable struggle to get past the problem. Something deeply disturbing about seeing the actors’ eyes signaling to each other while, with their mouths and bodies, the show goes on.
I don’t know why I have this fear. I go to live music all the time and never worry about performance glitches there. Maybe I had an abusive theater experience as a child.
Anyone else have this? Anybody?
Saw a statistic today about how rapidly brick and mortar bookstores are dwindling in numbers. I confess that overall nowadays, I prefer reading a screen to reading a page. But I would hate it if there were no bookstores. Wandering among books is such a great pleasure.
I think printed books will turn out to be like vinyl records. Simply too good to go away.
Here is a baby harbor seal, once injured and nursed back to health by a Santa Barbara, California, rescue group. When able to fend for himself, he will be returned to the nearby ocean. And not a minute too soon – he is mighty bored!
Humans are as disturbing as they are inspring. In the aggregate we do so much harm to so many critters but there are always a few to step in and reverse any bad trend.
Typically, plots of my novels start with a collection of images, moments, vignettes, and other idea snapshots that feel related to me, although I do not always know why. Gradually, I discover the connections as the planning and writing evolve. During that evolution, there will always be ideas that turn out not to fit, after all, and I have to scrap those.
Similarly, my characters start as a pastiche of attitudes, actions, and problems, which may be drawn from people I know, situations I have experienced, or stuff I’ve overheard in passing. (Beware discussing your life while standing in a grocery store line. There may be an eavesdropping writer nearby.) As the book progresses, I inevitably discover that multiple characters have conflicting traits that all belong to me. Real humans tend to be more contradictory than even the most complex of characters. Perhaps on certain levels I use the characters to work through some of my contradictions.
Required Writing 