Balls and Walnuts
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Category Archives: Writer’s Life
A Prayer of Understanding
Live-blogging last night, I realized I had never posted one of my favorite stories, one which I got published in 2005: “Saul the Deserted,” originally titled “A Prayer of Understanding.”
Yeah, both titles suck. I suck at titles. Titles are Teh Suckitude.
But it’s a good story, IMHO, not at all like the others I’ve posted. You’ll find it at the bottom of my “Pages” list, or you can click here.
We’ll use the comment thread for the story, or feel free to shoot the shit. I’m going back to my romance — which, by the way, still needs a title. Last time I checked Amazon, Technical Virgins and Sloppy Firsts have both been taken. That about exhausts my titular creativity.
D.
Too much fun!
Samhain’s contest is up and running. My entry is #29 #28 #26 (how did that happen?), and I must say, it’s the best so far. But then, I’m partial.
My second favorite is Christine D’Abo’s #23, but that’s only because she’s playing into one of my treasured fantasies.
Lots of dead people in these opening lines, and at least one werewolf. What is it with supernaturals? Are they hot right now?
Speaking of fantasies, check out the short story I wrote for Tiggr’s blog, A Spanking Good Time:
It’s erotica. Historical BDSM erotica, no less. And if it’s too perverse for you, blame Suisan. No, really. It’s all her fault.
D.
Gud riting
From Acquariando’s photostream. Pretty. Not particularly relevant, but this is Random Flickr Blogging Day.
With regard to writing, our homeschooling strategy has been simple: give Jake something worthwhile to read, then have him write one or two essays about what he has read. We’ve hit the wall, however. He’s older and we’re beginning to expect more from him. We want him to produce college-level essays.
Yeah, he’s eleven, and we’ll probably give him ulcers. On the other hand, Karen and I both wonder what we could have accomplished if we had been given the most challenging regimen possible.
There’s “challenging” and there’s “discouraging,” of course, and the art is pushing the “challenging” envelope without falling into the Veil of Angst that is “discouraging.” We’ve bombed out on more than a few projects — the kid won’t read The Great Gatsby, for example, no way, no how. And one of the key elements of our strategy is to keep it interesting (rather than detestable).
With his most recent project (Ethan Frome), we realized our approach has reached its limit of usefulness. Time for a more organized approach to writing. And so this afternoon, I spent a few hours putting together thirty-five assignments which will, I suspect, last him until the end of the school year.
Here’s the general strategy.
1. Draw exercises from two solid books on writing: Watt’s An American Rhetoric, which was my writing bible in high school, and Diana Hacker’s Rules for Writers, a book used in Berkeley’s introductory composition course.
2. To keep things interesting, intersperse these exercises with exemplary paragraphs and essays from a wide range of other authors.
This last point: since I had to draw from books in our personal library, these exercises were idiosyncratic, easily not the “best” essays in the English language, but hopefully good enough to get the job done. Here’s a short list of what I tapped:
The intro to The Wind that Swept Mexico, a remarkable history of the Mexican Revolution
Readings from Mark Twain’s Letters from the Earth, including his essay on James Fenimore Cooper
Walter Cronkite’s preface to Charles Darwin’s The Origin of the Species
A couple of Stephen Jay Gould’s essays in Ever Since Darwin
Chapter 1 of Marvin Harris’s The Sacred Cow and the Abominable Pig
Readings from Alistair Cooke’s America
The intro to P. J. O’Rourke’s Parliament of Whores
. . . and more.
My question: right this instant, are you thinking, “Oh good Lord, they’re not making him read X?” And if so, what is X? Remember, the goal is to give him exposure to exemplary writing. Great stuff. Because that stuff was the best I could do with the books at hand (remember, Karen and I were both chem majors, so our library ain’t exactly an educator’s paradise) but I’m sure we could do better.
Time to make dinner. See ya later!
D.
Back to Eureka
. . . which is our most conveniently accessed “big city.” I’ve written about Eureka here and here, and although those two posts have cool photos, I’ve never posted one of Eureka. Hmm, let’s see what I can get off Google.
Ah, there we go. Eureka at its finest: the peace march on March 20, 2004. That’s what I like about Eureka: it’s called home by a few thousand folks who would be right at home in Berkeley.
And what is it about Berkeley, anyway? I spent four years of my life there, but it feels more like home to me than the San Gabriel Valley, where I’ve spent 23 years, or Palo Alto, where I spent 7. Or, for that matter, my current digs, where we have lived since ’98. So home is where the heart is, and I left my heart in Berkeley, is that it? And a rolling stone gathers no moss and the squeaky wheel gets the grease.
More rambling below the cut.
Can’t. Blog. Must. Write.
2800 words so far today.
I may even finish the bugger this week.
Thanks, Tam!
D.
One outa four ain’t bad
We took off a four-day weekend for Easter — my employees’ idea, which I supposedly approved — and I’d had great hopes of finishing my romance, but it was not to be. Not that it was a wasted weekend. On Friday, I dashed off nearly 3000 words on a weird little erotica short story. Great, thought I, I’ve broken the block! Yet I still kept gagging on the manuscript.
A few months ago, I threw away the last quarter of the novel and started afresh. Today, I reread the newer material, and I’m happy with it. The big sex scene may be a little too kinky for some of my beta readers but I’ll bet I’m underestimating y’all. And now none of my characters are behaving with extraordinary stupidity. No dumbass misunderstandings, no improbable emotions. I think I see the way forward.
And I probably could have written more than five hundred words today, too, except this was the first sunny day of the last four, and the boy and I were stir crazy. Hard to resist this:
Crosseyed and Painless Thirteen
This is, what, the third week I failed to write a Thirteen about my surgical internship? You wouldn’t think it would be such a big deal. After all, I made my romance protag a surgical intern; but I also filled his life with prime booty, and gave him a sex drive powerful enough to overwhelm even the worst internship fatigue.
Yup. Fantasy.
No, the memories are still too tetchy. I might as well try to write “Thirteen Painful Memories.”
Hey, there’s a thought!
If only I could commit this lesson to memory
Profound insight on the writing process in just a moment. Bear with me.
We had fine weather this weekend, so yesterday, I took my son to the beach. Didn’t get much any writing done, so I came home feeling guilty as usual. (Yes, yes, we’re supposed to feel guilty for neglecting our children in favor of the muse. But I’m Jewish. We feel guilty no matter what we do.) I had taken Jake to a Mexican restaurant where they had nothing for me to drink but ice tea. Great — now I felt guilty and wired.
Figuring I wouldn’t be able to get to sleep otherwise, I took a whole Benadryl at bedtime, twice my usual dosage. I still had a hard time getting to sleep, and when I woke up, I had that icky Benadryl hangover. Two cups of strong coffee barely touched it.
I could have vegged out all day.
I could have gone on a cooking frenzy.
Instead, I opened my manuscript for the first time in a month, reread my last scene, fiddled with it, backed up a scene, fiddled with that, and before I knew it I was adding scenes. Here I am feeling crappy, dead to the world, and I managed 1500 words. Decent words, too.
So. Fatigue is no excuse. Illness is no excuse. If you have fingers, you can write — no matter what. There is no excuse.
Let’s see if I can remember that.
D.
Why I do it
Because it feels good?
No. Too simple, and if I stopped there I would have this big fat black-and-white photo and several column inches of open space (what is that called, anyway? A gravestone?)
The generic question is, Why do we blog? Today, Blue Gal wades into a mud pit created by Chris Bowers’ recent comments that the days of the solo pundit blogger are over. (Nyah! Take that, Glenn Greenwald!) BG skewers Bowers’ puffery with typical panache:
“There are artists, there are artists who somehow make a living doing their art (sorry, I can’t imagine John Amato writing that “Chris Bowers knows blog success!” business model bullshit), and there are sell-out wankers who want to color themselves important by channeling some Tony Robbins success seminar. I’m too busy doing my thang, and enjoying the writing and work of some very gifted individual bloggers, to worry about which category the big boys fall into.”
I’m not a big boy. I’ll never be a big boy. Whenever my hit counter makes me a wee bit feverish, I check my referrals to remind myself that 95% of my hits comes from guys searching for a semi-nude Christina Aguilera, cameltoes, or butt cracks. But as I hope you all know, I’m not blogging for those folks.
Juvenilia
Here’s an accompaniment for your morning coffee: Two Birds, One Stone, one of my older stories. I wrote it for AlienSkin’s 1000-words-or-less category, so if it reads skimpy, that’s why.
Undoubtedly, I dreamed this one up while watching Boogie Nights . . . probably wishing that I, too, could demand Rollergirl.
Sometimes, life is all about the little disappointments.
D.