Today, in addition to the normal slew of writing, I also began reading a biography of Alexander Dumas, whom most of you would know as the author of The Three Musketeers, The Count of Monte Cristo, The Man in the Iron Mask, and a number of other great classic novels that bland, mediocre movies have been made out of. Considering the scope of Dumas' works, I'd really like to get a grasp on what kind of man it took to produce such books that were equal parts massive and captivating.
In addition to that library book, I also picked up a biography on Ayn Rand. I like her novels, though I'm not quite as militant as she was with such ideologies. After reading both The Fountainhead and Atlas Shrugged, one could only be curious what Rand was like in real life, if she lived what she preached. I'm hoping not, because that would be both frightening and quite dull.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Monday, December 8, 2008
The Strangest Writing Zones
Well, back to it after a weekend break. I'm not sure if I want to always break like that on Saturdays and Sundays. Both felt kinda slow without the blogging aspect behind them.
Work on Monday's always goes a little long. On short days I get off of work around 2 pm. Today it was around four. I come home and don't really have much of a chance to write because I really want some time to freaking relax and watch some of those Netflix movies that have been laying on my DVD player for weeks now.
Around 6:30 pm I finally decided to break out the pen and notebook, only to get a call from some friends inviting me over to watch TV and eat chicken. As I've mentioned in a previous post, I put a lot of importance in spending time with other people, so of course I said I'd come by immediately. To stave off the feelings of guilt and laziness, I took the notebook with me.
When I arrived, I realized they had invited me over to watch pro-wrestling. I liked wrestling when I was a kid, but in adulthood it doesn't do much for me. I had some chicken, sat down to try and watch it. Normally I just make fun of the shows, which is where most of the joy for my friends comes from. Then I started jotting down a few things here and there. After a while those few things turned in a page, and then another page. Even after taking a lengthy call from an old friend of mine who's out in California right now, I still managed to nearly complete three pages.
Most people go to coffee shops, the park, the library, or bars to write. Tonight, I watched pro-wrestling to write. Life's an amazing complex and bizarre thing when it comes to writing. Just another reason for me to love it.
Work on Monday's always goes a little long. On short days I get off of work around 2 pm. Today it was around four. I come home and don't really have much of a chance to write because I really want some time to freaking relax and watch some of those Netflix movies that have been laying on my DVD player for weeks now.
Around 6:30 pm I finally decided to break out the pen and notebook, only to get a call from some friends inviting me over to watch TV and eat chicken. As I've mentioned in a previous post, I put a lot of importance in spending time with other people, so of course I said I'd come by immediately. To stave off the feelings of guilt and laziness, I took the notebook with me.
When I arrived, I realized they had invited me over to watch pro-wrestling. I liked wrestling when I was a kid, but in adulthood it doesn't do much for me. I had some chicken, sat down to try and watch it. Normally I just make fun of the shows, which is where most of the joy for my friends comes from. Then I started jotting down a few things here and there. After a while those few things turned in a page, and then another page. Even after taking a lengthy call from an old friend of mine who's out in California right now, I still managed to nearly complete three pages.
Most people go to coffee shops, the park, the library, or bars to write. Tonight, I watched pro-wrestling to write. Life's an amazing complex and bizarre thing when it comes to writing. Just another reason for me to love it.
Friday, December 5, 2008
Gotta have friends...
I'll keep it short and sweet today since I've got little time. I didn't get as much writing done today as I would have liked to, but I don't feel it was a night wasted, as I spent it with some friends of mine, and in an odd way that adds to the writing.
This is something I noticed in college when studying acting. The good actors were the ones with personality behind them, the kids who had led lives full of emotions and memories that shut-ins who dedicated all their time to "the art" simply didn't have. To express something, you have to had experienced something similar to it first to make things believable.
The same would hold true to writing. A good writer can create a better image of the world around him as he sees it. If he never sees it to begin with, then he has nothing to work with. The bottom line is to keep the door open, don't lock yourself in and miss out on what life has to offer. Otherwise you won't have much to offer your stories.
This is something I noticed in college when studying acting. The good actors were the ones with personality behind them, the kids who had led lives full of emotions and memories that shut-ins who dedicated all their time to "the art" simply didn't have. To express something, you have to had experienced something similar to it first to make things believable.
The same would hold true to writing. A good writer can create a better image of the world around him as he sees it. If he never sees it to begin with, then he has nothing to work with. The bottom line is to keep the door open, don't lock yourself in and miss out on what life has to offer. Otherwise you won't have much to offer your stories.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
First draft from the heart, second from the head
Allright, here we are at post number five. Suddenly I recall that pride I felt the day I turned five years old. "Hey there Ben, how old are you?" I'd hold up my whole hand and loudly state "Talk to the palm!" Just kidding, I said I was that many. Now when people ask me how many posts I've put up, I can say (for a day anyway) "This many!" and hold out my hand, right before asking why they didn't just read the number of posts if they know I have a blog to begin with.
Today while writing I found myself blocked, as most writers do from time to time. Though I consider myself fortunate in that I can unblock myself fairly easily. It comes mainly from the commentary on writing I've been exposed to over the years. By far the best, and the one people wouldn't think of right away, was a 2000 movie starring Sean Connery called Finding Forrester. It's most famous as the flick with Connery yelling out "You're the man now dog!"
There's a moment in that movie (around the time he says the iconic phrase actually) that he tells his pupil to start writing. The kid hesitates, and when Connery asks what the problem is, the guy just says "I'm thinking," to which Sean tells him to stop thinking, and explains that the first draft of any story, no matter how long it is or what it's about, comes from the heart. You write with your heart the first time, then when you want to revise it you go back and start writing with your head. Then it's okay to think about it.
Another variation on this idea is simply knowing that what you're going to write the first time is going to be crap. Complete, horrible, totally unpublishable crap. A good way to look at it is like seeing a woman you want to ask out. You could say something and risk it turning out poorly, or say nothing and risk nothing. In writing, you write and might get something poor, or you don't write and get nothing at all. The difference is, you can improve crap. A stack of blank pages cannot be rewritten.
That's why in a good writing session, you don't stop because you're out of ideas. There's always something you can add to what you're creating, no matter how mundane. Think that the part of the story you're working on is boring, like I did today? Then write it so that it isn't boring anymore. You're the one in complete control, you play God and amuse yourself. That's why writing is so great, the only thing stopping you from creating the most far-fetched situations is a lack of ink. So pick up a spare set of pens for cheap, and go get to it!
Today while writing I found myself blocked, as most writers do from time to time. Though I consider myself fortunate in that I can unblock myself fairly easily. It comes mainly from the commentary on writing I've been exposed to over the years. By far the best, and the one people wouldn't think of right away, was a 2000 movie starring Sean Connery called Finding Forrester. It's most famous as the flick with Connery yelling out "You're the man now dog!"
There's a moment in that movie (around the time he says the iconic phrase actually) that he tells his pupil to start writing. The kid hesitates, and when Connery asks what the problem is, the guy just says "I'm thinking," to which Sean tells him to stop thinking, and explains that the first draft of any story, no matter how long it is or what it's about, comes from the heart. You write with your heart the first time, then when you want to revise it you go back and start writing with your head. Then it's okay to think about it.
Another variation on this idea is simply knowing that what you're going to write the first time is going to be crap. Complete, horrible, totally unpublishable crap. A good way to look at it is like seeing a woman you want to ask out. You could say something and risk it turning out poorly, or say nothing and risk nothing. In writing, you write and might get something poor, or you don't write and get nothing at all. The difference is, you can improve crap. A stack of blank pages cannot be rewritten.
That's why in a good writing session, you don't stop because you're out of ideas. There's always something you can add to what you're creating, no matter how mundane. Think that the part of the story you're working on is boring, like I did today? Then write it so that it isn't boring anymore. You're the one in complete control, you play God and amuse yourself. That's why writing is so great, the only thing stopping you from creating the most far-fetched situations is a lack of ink. So pick up a spare set of pens for cheap, and go get to it!
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Because that plasma isn't going donate itself!
When you live in the type of financial situation I do, donating plasma becomes a very welcome secondary income. There have been times I've actually paid off student loan bills with the monthly amount I get from plasma donation. I don't care too much for it, and the moment I have a better income I'm quiting. (I wonder if they need a two week notice?)
Donating presents a challenge if you want to get some writing done. Even during work, I can still get at least a page written in my notebook with breaks and lunch combined. When you go to donate, however, your left arm is occupied, so you have nothing to hold the notebook steady while you write. Most people don't think about this, but when the notebook is balanced on your lap while you're sitting down, writing legibly becomes a challenge.
Then there's the cold factor. I don't know why, but when donating I get cold. I've heard it has something to do with your blood flow, but I think they just always sit me under a vent. Normally it's no big deal, but perhaps with the weather being what it is, I began shivering and plain out could not hold a pen straight, let alone concentrate on writing. Thus the notebook remained closed on my lap while covered myself with my coat to to keep warm.
One thing that did develop out of all this was the working title for my story, if only as joke. When I brought in my notebook, one of the employees asked, "Whatcha workin' on there?" Being the cocky SOB that I am, I told them, "It's the next great American novel." They shook their head and went off to get some equipment. When they came back, I was already back at the writing, and they said, "Oh, creating some greatness there huh?" Looking up at them, I flipped the notebook closed to show the front cover, on which I had written the title "The Next Great American Novel."
"Yeah," I said. "That's what it is. No mistake about it. So of course I'm creating some greatness. I already know that's what it's going to be. Frankly it helps take the pressure off the writing process when I already know it'll be great."
Donating presents a challenge if you want to get some writing done. Even during work, I can still get at least a page written in my notebook with breaks and lunch combined. When you go to donate, however, your left arm is occupied, so you have nothing to hold the notebook steady while you write. Most people don't think about this, but when the notebook is balanced on your lap while you're sitting down, writing legibly becomes a challenge.
Then there's the cold factor. I don't know why, but when donating I get cold. I've heard it has something to do with your blood flow, but I think they just always sit me under a vent. Normally it's no big deal, but perhaps with the weather being what it is, I began shivering and plain out could not hold a pen straight, let alone concentrate on writing. Thus the notebook remained closed on my lap while covered myself with my coat to to keep warm.
One thing that did develop out of all this was the working title for my story, if only as joke. When I brought in my notebook, one of the employees asked, "Whatcha workin' on there?" Being the cocky SOB that I am, I told them, "It's the next great American novel." They shook their head and went off to get some equipment. When they came back, I was already back at the writing, and they said, "Oh, creating some greatness there huh?" Looking up at them, I flipped the notebook closed to show the front cover, on which I had written the title "The Next Great American Novel."
"Yeah," I said. "That's what it is. No mistake about it. So of course I'm creating some greatness. I already know that's what it's going to be. Frankly it helps take the pressure off the writing process when I already know it'll be great."
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
No rest for the weary
I could hardly get any writing done, but it is days like today that remind me how much I want to write professionally. Tuesday's are always big days for my job, and going in at 5:30 I worked a 10 1/2 hour day. My job is a lot of moving around, so by the end I could just barely make it up the stairs to my apartment. A few sentences were scribbled down to complete what I had pulled off during work breaks. It's difficult to write when I'm that exhausted, but that's something I know I'm going to have to work to overcome. Eventually I should be able to put down some of the finest literature the world's ever known even after two days without sleep.
There was little time for writing or relaxing before it was time to go practice with my improv group. I've always found improv to be a nice creative outlet. The main problem with a really good practice is that you know all the wonderful things you made up that night will only ever be seen by the people who were watching you at that very moment. But it also means you're capable of coming up with something that funny, so you could probably do it again.
It looks like day three of my journey down the novelist road will end with me taking the notebook to bed, attempting to get through at least a page before succumbing to the demands of the sandman. Exit light (couldn't resist).
There was little time for writing or relaxing before it was time to go practice with my improv group. I've always found improv to be a nice creative outlet. The main problem with a really good practice is that you know all the wonderful things you made up that night will only ever be seen by the people who were watching you at that very moment. But it also means you're capable of coming up with something that funny, so you could probably do it again.
It looks like day three of my journey down the novelist road will end with me taking the notebook to bed, attempting to get through at least a page before succumbing to the demands of the sandman. Exit light (couldn't resist).
Monday, December 1, 2008
The little obstacles testing you.
All right, here I am into day two of the most awesome blog I have ever maintained. Yeah, easy, I know, but that's how it'll go for awhile.
Getting through today really showed me how much I really wanted to keep writing. I woke up around 4:05 to my cell phone's alarm, threw off the covers only to realize I hadn't kept the space heater on last night. The heater is broken at my apartment right now, so if the space heater isn't going then the place adjusts to whatever temperature nature intends. That'd be about 28 degrees for this morning. What did I do? Get a nice warm shower going you say? Heat up some tea or run to a gas station to buy lousy gas station coffee and/or hot chocolate? Hell no I say to that. I put on all the clothes I was going to wear that day, including my jackets, draped myself with a heavy bath robe I got as a gift a few years back (you never think about that kind of application when the PS2 you wanted didn't come through), sat down at my table and got some damn writing done. I wrote for a half hour with hands I had to constantly steady.
At work, I took the notebook (a typical Mead composite book worth less than a dollar) with me to get some words down during my ten minute break, and even in the car with me to jot down what I could while I waited for my lunch to be me made at Sonic on Paris Road. Neither during the morning nor during work did I feel like I was forcing myself to do this. I just wanted to write dammit!
When I got home, I realized a stupid mistake I had made. The pen I had been using to write during the morning, break and lunch times had been left at work. Looking around, I made the shocking and bizarre discovery that I didn't have a single damn pen any where at my place. So what to do then? Sit around and browse the Internet mindlessly for the evening? HELL NO! I went straight over to Wal-Mart to buy a 89 cent 12-pack of pens. (And a Dr. Pepper, what the hell splurge a little.) I came write back home and got to writing.
Since I had done so much up to that point, when my friend Mary came by to drop off eggs (long story) I didn't feel like I was wasting time. That's a bizarre feeling for me after most of college felt like time wasted, no matter what I was doing. After she left, I was hungry and decided to make some dinner. But holy hell I actually felt compelled to COOK! Not just simple pasta or stuffing myself with Cheezits, but I was slicing up chicken and onions (forgot I even had them) and sautéing them in olive oil mixed with some pasta. What the hell? I don't even normally do that sort of thing. I guess when you're productive in one part of your life it tends to spread to others.
While eating I watched a video on Cinemassacre.com in which James Rolfe described how his film making developed. If you don't know him, Rolfe is most famous for his Angry Video Game Nerd videos, and if you have a love of old school (NES, Sega) games and adore limitless profanity, give his stuff a look. Hearing him talk about childhood film making suddenly took me back, and the way he detailed his joy of the art hit home with me. One thing he said made me think for a moment. James mentions how what you do should stem from an honest passion for the art, not for superficial gain. Since technically I'm blogging about my quest to become a PAID novelist, i'm going against what would be considered the 'pure' form of art, if that makes any sense to you.
I could cry out "forgive me! I'm in it for the money! I'll stop now!" But you know what would happen if I stopped writing? There'd be nothing produced, and I'd be where I was before. It's like having the balls to walk up to the hottest girl at the bar and offering to buy her a drink. You're not doing it because you love asking women if they want a drink, you've got ulterior motives. She might tell you to piss off and you're back to square one, or something very, very, very, very good might happen. Same thing (in a way) with writing. You want to get something published, of course. But if nobody wants to use what you've written, then you still have something you can look at and say "I did that, I liked doing that, and I'm proud of it. I'll keep going." Eventually somebody will want to publish you, just like eventually there will be some girl at the bar who'd be happy to accept a Budlight from you (ya cheap bastard).
In total, even with these distractions, I'd say I wrote for a total of two and a half hours today. Now all I can think about is breaking that record. Hey, it's only the second day. My hopes are high.
Getting through today really showed me how much I really wanted to keep writing. I woke up around 4:05 to my cell phone's alarm, threw off the covers only to realize I hadn't kept the space heater on last night. The heater is broken at my apartment right now, so if the space heater isn't going then the place adjusts to whatever temperature nature intends. That'd be about 28 degrees for this morning. What did I do? Get a nice warm shower going you say? Heat up some tea or run to a gas station to buy lousy gas station coffee and/or hot chocolate? Hell no I say to that. I put on all the clothes I was going to wear that day, including my jackets, draped myself with a heavy bath robe I got as a gift a few years back (you never think about that kind of application when the PS2 you wanted didn't come through), sat down at my table and got some damn writing done. I wrote for a half hour with hands I had to constantly steady.
At work, I took the notebook (a typical Mead composite book worth less than a dollar) with me to get some words down during my ten minute break, and even in the car with me to jot down what I could while I waited for my lunch to be me made at Sonic on Paris Road. Neither during the morning nor during work did I feel like I was forcing myself to do this. I just wanted to write dammit!
When I got home, I realized a stupid mistake I had made. The pen I had been using to write during the morning, break and lunch times had been left at work. Looking around, I made the shocking and bizarre discovery that I didn't have a single damn pen any where at my place. So what to do then? Sit around and browse the Internet mindlessly for the evening? HELL NO! I went straight over to Wal-Mart to buy a 89 cent 12-pack of pens. (And a Dr. Pepper, what the hell splurge a little.) I came write back home and got to writing.
Since I had done so much up to that point, when my friend Mary came by to drop off eggs (long story) I didn't feel like I was wasting time. That's a bizarre feeling for me after most of college felt like time wasted, no matter what I was doing. After she left, I was hungry and decided to make some dinner. But holy hell I actually felt compelled to COOK! Not just simple pasta or stuffing myself with Cheezits, but I was slicing up chicken and onions (forgot I even had them) and sautéing them in olive oil mixed with some pasta. What the hell? I don't even normally do that sort of thing. I guess when you're productive in one part of your life it tends to spread to others.
While eating I watched a video on Cinemassacre.com in which James Rolfe described how his film making developed. If you don't know him, Rolfe is most famous for his Angry Video Game Nerd videos, and if you have a love of old school (NES, Sega) games and adore limitless profanity, give his stuff a look. Hearing him talk about childhood film making suddenly took me back, and the way he detailed his joy of the art hit home with me. One thing he said made me think for a moment. James mentions how what you do should stem from an honest passion for the art, not for superficial gain. Since technically I'm blogging about my quest to become a PAID novelist, i'm going against what would be considered the 'pure' form of art, if that makes any sense to you.
I could cry out "forgive me! I'm in it for the money! I'll stop now!" But you know what would happen if I stopped writing? There'd be nothing produced, and I'd be where I was before. It's like having the balls to walk up to the hottest girl at the bar and offering to buy her a drink. You're not doing it because you love asking women if they want a drink, you've got ulterior motives. She might tell you to piss off and you're back to square one, or something very, very, very, very good might happen. Same thing (in a way) with writing. You want to get something published, of course. But if nobody wants to use what you've written, then you still have something you can look at and say "I did that, I liked doing that, and I'm proud of it. I'll keep going." Eventually somebody will want to publish you, just like eventually there will be some girl at the bar who'd be happy to accept a Budlight from you (ya cheap bastard).
In total, even with these distractions, I'd say I wrote for a total of two and a half hours today. Now all I can think about is breaking that record. Hey, it's only the second day. My hopes are high.
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