Balls and Walnuts
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Done!
Sorry I haven’t been writing, but I’ve been writing. I’m DONE. I love this novel. I love the story, I love the characters, and I absolutely love the ending.
Based on my post here, this novel has taken a little under one year to write.
The final manuscript is just over 139K words, which is probably a little longish. I’d like to cut it back to 120K words if I can, but I’m not going to be a slave to numbers. I’m going to edit the last three chapters, then start over from the beginning.
Once I’ve done the final edit, I’ll send it out to those of you who’ve expressed an interest. And after I get your comments back and made changes, I’ll have to decide what the hell I’m going to do next.
D.
Fossil spotting
Up early this morning, so I went out to breakfast at a local greasy spoon, the kind of place where the musical selection spans from “Where the Boys Are” to “Bridge Over Troubled Water,” decor consists of mounted steer horns and old gas pumps, and the walls are filled with pictures of both Bushes (signed, thanking the owner for his continued support), John Wayne, and Ronald Reagan. A children’s book, Who Was Ronald Reagan? prominently displayed. Anti-Obama bumper stickers filling the dead wall between pictures of Newt Gingrich and Rudy Giuliani.
At the table next to me, the owner pontificated about the Olympics — specifically, about our chances to surpass the “pinko Commies” if we snagged just one more gold medal.
Framed on the wall above my table: that photo of a leering George W. Bush, waving at someone off camera, with the caption, “Miss me yet?” To the owner’s character traits, I add irony impaired.
I’ve never paid much attention to the decor, but that “pinko Commies” comment opened my eyes. Since I don’t follow the Olympics, I wondered which Commies he was referring to — the Chinese? Or does he think the Soviet Union still exists?
D.
slave to the rhythm
To the list of writers’ phenomena (characters that won’t say or act the way you want them to; plots that decide for themselves where they want to go), add pacing. I was certain I had two chapters left to write. One chapter later, I am still sure I have two chapters left.
I was over 9000 words into the present chapter when I realized (A) I hadn’t reached that chapter’s “big scene” yet, (B) the chapter stood very well on its own, and (C) I had just written a great chapter-ending one-liner.
So why fight it? If I had stubbornly insisted on fitting the “big scene” into this chapter, I’m sure I would have rushed it — not good for one of the story’s two biggest payoff scenes. Instead, I’ve pushed it forward. I’ll take my time and do it right.
Have I mentioned yet how much I’m enjoying this?
D.
Dream violence
I gave up understanding my dreams long ago. Just when I think certain dreamscapes have reproducible geologic features, those features are upended: I made it back to the canyon, a place for decades defined by its remoteness, but this time I found a sports rental outlet, a Starbucks, and fast food. And just when I think my dream self follows certain rules, those rules are broken.
You see, I can’t punch people in my dreams. Whenever I try so much as a self-defensive kick, I become floppy, ineffectual. A toddler could overpower me. But not the other night: I was a gladiator participating in a team melee. Fighters on the other team weren’t taking me seriously — I had no armor, no weapon, and I was, well, me-sized. But then one of my opponents got body-slammed and his little dagger went flying. I dove for it, got it, and still no one paid attention to me.
Whereupon I killed at least four people (that I can remember) by knifing each one in the carotid.
This dream-me was most definitely not toddler-safe.
D.
Overheard in the locker room
Call them Dude A and Dude B. I couldn’t see either one (there was a row of lockers between us) so I cannot provide any factual verification.
Dude A: Dude! You’re not going to!
Dude B: Gotta. I forgot to bring another pair of shorts.
Dude A: Dude, those are zipper pants.
Dude B: Yeah, well.
Dude A: I’m just saying. Dude.
Dude B: Dude, you’re like a hundred times bigger than me, so I’m telling you, I don’t have to worry about it.
Dude A: Unless you’ve like shrunk up since high school, you’re big enough to reach your zipper.
Dude B: Not a problem ‘less I get a hard-on.
Dude A: It happens, Dude. Like, spontaneously.
Dude B: No, man, I’m getting too old for that shit. Mine takes some attention.
From there, it devolved into a discussion of what it would take to get a spontaneous erection these days. The word “penis” figured prominently. Dude, I’m not kidding.
D.
Must resist timesuck!
So how is everyone? What are you guys reading? I reread Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep, and while I love Bladerunner, DADES cries out for a more faithful adaptation. Also reading Tim Powers’s Declare.
I’ve been working like a dog, visiting college campuses with Jake, and writing, roughly in that order. (Should finish the current chapter tonight, which leaves two chapters to go. I need to finish one last scene . . .)
From my son, here’s Cyanide and Happiness, which is also a web comic — but my first experience with them was this video:
and the next was this,
In both cases, they’ve mastered the essential “I didn’t see that coming” aspect of comedy. Gotta resist the urge to bask in their brilliance.
D.
The college thing
We did the college thing this weekend — drove to our nearest UC, UC Santa Barbara, so that my son could take the tour.
I suppose UCLA might have been closer, but it’s UC Los Angeles. And, well, Santa Barbara. Anyway, I was impressed by the tour, and Santa Barbara is an all-around neat town, though a lot more packed than it was the last time Karen and I visited, about 20 years ago.
Hard not to wish that I was in Jake’s shoes with college still ahead. It’s that sense of possibility I miss. Perhaps that’s a part of why I write — that same sense of possibility suffuses a new project. But I’m not so foolish as to really want to go through it all again — it was a tough climb getting from there to here. Could I do it (Rodney Dangerfield-style) as a fifty-year-old? Never mind the ridiculous face of it (I still recall this guy in his mid-forties who dated one of the co-op girls at least 25 years his junior . . . the man cheated at Monopoly, for the love of God!) Do I have the same stamina I had then?
If I were independently wealthy and hadn’t a care in the world, I think I would do it. No, there’s not much point, other than that pursuit-of-knowledge thing. Which I think would be enough.
D.
about the blog . . .
The bad news is, I haven’t been updating a lot lately. But you knew that.
The other bad news is, I haven’t been updating at least in part because of a lot of rocky stuff going on here, but fortunately it’s all stuff that’s either fixable with money or not as serious as first suspected.
The good news is, the main reason I haven’t been updating a lot is because the writing is going well. Just passed the 80K word mark, and it looks to be a 90K to 100K-word novel before all is said and done. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel.
And thus (like that, Dean?) this is a call for readers. Some time down the road, after I’ve finished the story and had a chance to edit it, I would love to have a couple of folks read through and give me their impressions. This will no doubt be several weeks from now. Let me know if you’re interested; perhaps I could even figure out how to convert to a pdf or other format, if it would make it easier for people to read.
Opening paragraphs below the fold, if you’d like a teaser.
I watch Prometheus so you don’t have to.
Don’t bother with this one, folks. Really.
Midway through Prometheus — possibly it was the scene where the biologist plays coochie-coo with a cobra-like alien that goes into a full threat display twice, and only kills him when he goes in for the third chin-tickle — I decided there was a niche for a review containing nothing but spoilers. Because surely there are folks in the world who would like to know what’s in this Alien prequel, but don’t want to waste their money.
If you’re part of that crowd, follow me below the fold.