"For the ♥ of David," Chapter One, Scene One

My goal, for a long time, has been to publish Chapter One, Scene One of my novel on my blog.  I'm happy to say, here it is.

Here's what I've literally been working on for years.  Here's the one thousandth version of this scene.  Here's what I've spent the last two days working on, fine-tuning, trying to get it just right, in anticipation of publishing it.  Here's what I know is far from perfect, but as good as I can make it–for now.

I hope you enjoy reading it.  I also hope I'll make you care enough about the characters to want to know what happens to them.

If you have feedback, good or bad, I'd appreciate hearing it.  I've received feedback from two beta readers so far, but I could always use more.

And if you're interested in being a long-term beta reader, even better.  Perhaps, if you're working on something, I could be your beta reader too. 

Happy reading.  

*

ONE

October 1988

I would never have met David, if he hadn’t had a hairy chest.
    Early on a Wednesday evening, the phone rang.  Its sound was out of place in my apartment, like alcohol would have been.       
    As usual, I’d arrived home late from work.  I’d finished dinner and was cleaning up.  Entertainment Tonight chatted away on the TV–about a movie, Clara’s Heart, with Whoopi Goldberg and new child actor Neil Patrick Harris.
    Tea towel in hand, I walked into the living room.
    “Hello?”
    “May I speak with Bryan, please?”
    “This is Bryan.”
    “Oh, hi.  I’m David.  I put the ad in The West Ender.  The one you answered.”
    My heart raced.  I felt lightheaded.
    For months, I’d browsed the personals, in The Georgia-Straight, The Buy & Sell, and The Vancouver Sun, finding nothing.  No future husband.  Not even a deal on a stereo.   
    Then, Friday, nearly two weeks earlier, I saw this in The West Ender:
                            GWM, 30, good looking, NS, SD,
                            employed, seeks same for LTR.  Likes
                            long walks on the beach, quiet times
                            at home, and chili.  Must love hairy chests.   
This one was different from the rest.  It sounded like me, like what I was looking for.  Especially the hairy chest part.
    Over the weekend, I left the newspaper open on the kitchen table, looking at it from time to time.  Should I, or shouldn’t I? 
    Finally, Sunday evening, I sat down to hand-write a response–see what I came up with.  If it was good enough, I might even send it in. 
    Late the following morning, I rode the Skytrain downtown.  I walked to Davie Street and hand-delivered my letter to the newspaper office (I hoped the woman there wouldn’t recognize the box number belonged to a gay ad, or misplace my envelope).  I wanted whoever had run the personal to receive my response right away.  Maybe then he’d call sooner.
    But he didn’t.  Several days went by, then a week.  Nothing.     
    Finally, I gave up.  He wasn’t interested, and I didn’t blame him.  He’d figured out I was uptight, boring, and needy.  Who’d be interested in someone like that?
    Still, I hoped.  Maybe…
    “Uh, I didn’t think you’d call.”  I tried to keep my voice even, cool, though it was shaking with nerves.
    “Oh?  Why is that?”
    “I don’t know.  Um, I guess, ah, I guess I thought if you were interested, you’d…you’d’ve called by now.”
    “Oh, it’s been hell at work lately.  This is the first chance I’ve had to get on the phone.  Well, not on the phone.”  He chuckled.  “That could be fun.  Might be a cheap thrill.”  His comment threw me.  I laughed too.
    Unfortunately, my excitement soon turned to disappointment.  The longer I listened to David talk, the less he sounded like I’d thought he would, like I’d hoped he would.
    I’d hoped he’d sound masculine.  His chest was hairy, after all.  Weren’t hairy-chested men masculine?  Didn't they have manly-sounding voices? 
    Not David.
    “I work for a beauty supply company downtown,” he told me.  I didn’t know any masculine men who worked for beauty supply companies.  Come to think of it, I didn’t know any masculine men?  “We supply salons, from Vancouver to the Fraser Valley, with everything from combs to chairs.” 
    Not only was his voice not masculine, but it sounded…gay–his words too carefully enunciated, his pitch sing-songy, like a woman’s.  And, worse, you’d have thought he had a chronic bad cold.  Everything came out nasal.
    “Oh, please, Louise,” David said.  “Don’t get me started.  The stories I could tell you about salons.  They’d curl your hair–no perm needed.”  I cringed at David’s campiness. 
    He was talking about what he did for a living, but what I heard him say was, I’m not the man for you.
    “Your letter makes you sound like a barfly.”  David laughed.
    “I guess I am.”  I laughed too.  “If going to the clubs every weekend, hoping to meet the right guy, makes you a barfly.” 
    “What clubs might I have seen you at?”
    “I usually go to the Gandy.”
    “Me too.  I was there just last Saturday.”
    “So was I.”  David and I might have seen each other.  Had we given the other a second look?
    “Please tell me you didn’t have a tie-dyed T-shirt on.”
    “No, I didn’t.  Why?”
    “Thank God.  Did you see her on the dance floor, wearing that shit-eating grin?”  David chuckled.  “She bounced up and down like she had a pogo stick up her ass."   
    I busted into laughter.  "No, I missed that.  Sounds like she was something.”
    “Oh, she was something, all right.  Just what, I’m not sure.  Lady Tie-Di–that’s what I called her.”  I caught the reference to Lady Diana Spencer.
    “I wish I’d seen her.”
    “No you don’t.  Believe me.” 
    “Okay, maybe I don’t.”
    “And Princess Foo.”  David chuckled again.
    “Who?”
    “Not who.”  His voice was louder.  “Foo.  Princess Foo.”
    I laughed.  “Never heard of her.”
    “She was too much for Hollywood.  The way she carried on, you’d’ve thought she was Asian royalty or something.”  He laughed again.  “What she was wearing, I have no idea.  Looked like some kind of military getup.  And you should have seen her dance–stood in one spot, shuffled her feet, and smoked cigarettes, like she was fucking Joan Crawford.”  I was laughing so hard, I could scarcely hear David.
    Whether I was relaxed, in a good mood, or enthralled by David’s stories, I thought he was funny.  Seriously funny.  It seemed the more animated he became, the funnier he got. 
    “What does it take to find a goddamn husband around here?” David lamented, our conversation turning from characters in the clubs, to why we went to them.  “I’ll be thirty-fucking-one in December.  That’s eighty-nine in gay years.”  I laughed, understanding what he meant.  “My eggs are shrivelling.  I have to give birth soon, or that’ll be it for me.”   
    I’ll never forget how much fun David and I had on that first call.  I couldn’t remember when I’d last talked with someone so laugh-out-loud funny.
    But what I kept thinking about–what I really wanted to know–was how hairy his chest was.
    I went to ask several times, but stopped myself.  What if he thought I was too forward? 
    Be patient, I thought.  You’ll see when you meet.
    But what if we didn’t meet?  Then I’d never know. 
    “Can I ask a question?” I blurted.
    “That depends, on the question.”
    I laughed nervously.  “Well, I was wondering…you know, about your chest.  How hairy is it?”
    David went silent.  Then:  “You girls are all alike.  You only want a man for his body.”
    His reaction caught me off guard.  Was he serious?
    “Well, your ad said, ‘Must love hairy chests.’  So I thought…I thought you wouldn’t mind if I, um, asked how hairy yours is.”
    David sighed loudly, impatiently.
    “I–I guess that was the wrong question.”  I attempted a laugh, but I felt awful, concerned I’d ruined the good impression I thought I’d made.  “I’m sorry.  I–”
    David burst into laughter.
    I sucked in my breath.  “You bugger.”  I released my anxiety in a nervous laugh.  “You really had me going there.  I thought I’d offended you.”
    David was oddly quiet, then–quieter than he’d been any time during our call.
    “Well?” I persisted.
    “What?”  He was playing with me, had to be. 
    “How hairy are you?”
    Silence.  Then:  “Remember Grover on Sesame Street?”
    Sesame Street?  What?  Where was this going?
    “Sort of.”  Which one was Grover?  Big Bird, Ernie and Bert, and a Muppet in a garbage can–I remembered them.  But not Grover.  “Why?”
    “Well, I am hairy like Grover,” David said, breaking into a falsetto growl.  Of course.  Grover.  How could I forget?
    I lost it, then.  Both of us did.  David was comparing himself–how hairy he was–to a puppet.  I laughed so hard, tears ran down my face.  My cheeks, head, and stomach couldn’t take much more.
    “But I am not a pretty blue,” David growled.
    Then it hit me.  Holy crap.  He wasn’t that hairy, was he?  Nobody was. 
    “I don’t know about you,” David said, twenty minutes into our call, “but I want to get together.” 
    “You mean, now?”
    “Yeah.  Why not?  I can’t wait until the weekend to meet in person.” 
    “Neither can I.”
    “Good.  It’s settled, then.” 
    “Where do you want to meet?”  I told him I didn’t have a car, and transit at that time of the day could be iffy. 
    “I have a car,” David offered.
    “How ‘bout my place?”  As soon as I’d said it, I panicked.  “It’ll take an hour to get here, though.  And you might not find parking.”
    “Not a problem.  I live in the West End, remember?  And I walk almost everywhere.  So I look for excuses to get in the car and drive.”
    “Are you sure?”
    I’m the one who wasn’t sure.  Would I be ready to meet David–in an hour?  Did my apartment look okay?  Did I look okay?
    I gave him my address.
    “Very good.”  Then, in that falsetto growl again, he added, “Grover looks forward to meeting you.”
    The human Muppet was on his way.   
    When I hung up, I realized the mistake I'd made.  I should have suggested we meet in a coffee shop or restaurant–some public location.  Axe murderers were less likely to strike with other people around.         

I Really Have Something

Over five years. 

Recently, I was looking for a document in one of the files I started during the initial planning of my novel.  I couldn't believe the date on it:  March 16, 2010.

Over five years ago, I began work on my novel.  Five years already.  The time's gone fast.  A lot has happened:  We had an unfortunate and serious falling out with our next-door neighbors (they moved away this summer); I had my first colonoscopy; and I broke my arm, recovering from that over the next months.  While we create, life goes on.    

Last month, I looked up from what I was doing and realized I'd completed all the major rewrites of my novel.  I'd had eleven chapters left (22 to 32).  I'd gone through each one to identify which needed full rewrites–to bring them up to the standard of the rest I'd been working on for years–and which needed only fine-tuning.  Since then, the full rewrites are done, and I'm well on my (sometimes frustrating, but often exhilarating) way to fine-tuning those last chapters.  

And the thought occurred to me:  I REALLY HAVE SOMETHING HERE.   

When I consider where I've taken my novel so far, I'm impressed by the breadth and scope of the narrative.  I can't believe the journey my characters and I have been on, where we've been, what we've done together.  And, as I consider those final eleven chapters, I'm impressed by how the pace is picking up, building to that all-important and exciting climax.  I feel it inside me.  It propels me forward.    

This is all new to me.  

Sure, over thirty years ago, I wrote another novel, start to finish, while I worked full-time for a bank.  Sort of.  The first two hundred or so pages were more planning than anything (this character will do this; that character will do that), which I realized, later rather than sooner, was ridiculous.  Instead of planning to write, why not write?  So I turned it around, got the characters acting for themselves, took them to the end of their stories.   

But that novel, as it turned out, was more about proving I could discipline myself enough to get the job done, not about putting in all the hard work needed to complete the thing.  As luck would have it, it also prepared me, in ways I couldn't have imagined, for my experience now.   

I can't even describe how exciting it is to be where I am.  This has been a life-long dream.  Ever since I was a little boy, I've wanted to be a writer.  I've dreamed about writing a book, one that might actually be good enough to submit for publication somewhere.  With the advancements in publishing today, I don't even have to submit my novel anymore (although that's still the plan).  If I want, I can self-publish.  Lots of writers are doing that, even important ones.  There isn't the stigma around it that there used to be.  It's an option.

It's easy to get caught up in what you're doing and forget to celebrate the milestones.  But I'm not going to do that.   

Tomorrow is my fifty-sixth birthday.  Not only will I celebrate that milestone age for me, but also I plan to celebrate what I've achieved so far in writing my novel.  I deserve to.  I've stuck with it, and I've done the work–half an hour, an hour, two, three, four, five at a time, day after day, week after week, month after month, looking at the same thing over, and over, and over, sometimes soaring with exhilaration, other times thinking I'll throw up if I have to look at this again.  I've stuck with this story over the long-haul.  I've believed in it, believed how important it is, when, countless times, I could have moved on to other projects, wanted desperately to move on to new, shinier, more enticing things, in the hope one of them would stick.  Had I done that, I wouldn't be where I am now.   

With only fine-tuning left to do before my novel is finished, I feel an excitement that I hope all aspiring writers will feel.  That I hope you'll feel.  Because I don't think there's anything more fulfilling.  To think that you've done what you've done, and an end's in sight…  

Wow!  

For a writer, at least at this stage of the process, I don't think it gets better than that. 

Keep writing.  Hang in there.  Everything you're going?  It's worth it.  It's so worth it.  Believe me.

Don't give up.  NEVER give up. 

Transposing

So one of the techniques I frequently use when I revise my work is what I called "transposing."  Here's how it works.

Rather than take the draft I have now and revise it in the same computer file, I use it only as a guide.  With a hard copy of that draft beside me, I retype it from the beginning.  Only, as I go along, rather than type exactly what I had before–which would be nothing more than creating a second draft of the same thing–I leave myself open to whatever changes come to me, getting them down.       

In effect, I create entirely new drafts, which are almost always better than the old drafts.  The act of retyping the draft from the beginning forces you to see every word.  And forcing yourself to see every word means you'll be less likely to gloss over them, to think they're great or fine or whatever, simply because they're there, already in place.  In other words, transposing forces you to play a more active role in creating your work.       

Try this method if you like.  It might work for you.

Breaks

Chris's vacation time has not been good for my writing this summer.  Or maybe it has been. 

First, he had two and a half weeks off in August.  Then, after just three days back to work, he had another week and a half in September.  (I know.  Don't ask.)

Today, he returned to work, and so did I, on my novel.  And it turns out the break was a good one.

When I sat down to continue revisions on Chapter 22 and Chapter 23, Scenes 1 and 2, I saw these pieces as though I hadn't written them myself.  In other words, I saw them with clarity.  And ideas on changes I should make came easily and quickly, which I'm hopeful improved my writing overall.

So when professional writers recommend taking breaks from your writing–as long as possible–before continuing revisions, believe them.  They know what they're talking about.

All the time I've taken away from my writing this summer, because my partner Chris was on vacation, and I will never choose my writing over him, made a big difference.  I recommend it.

It turns out, break time from your writing is constructive time too. 

Those First Five Pages

If ever there was a time to ensure our first five pages–hell, our first page, or less–is absolutely perfect, it's right now.

I've never been one to sit in a bookstore and read the first five pages of a book before deciding to buy it.  I think that's because I'm too caught up in the excitement of being in a bookstore to settle down and focus on reading a number of pages.  I want to take in everything that's there and be a part of it (just smelling the paper and ink in the air inspires me).  I'll settle down and focus, book in hand, when I return home. 

But, these days, if you're technologically savvy and interested in a book, all you have to do is go to iBookstore on your iPad, and, for free, download what, as far as I can tell, is the first chapter of any book available.  That's right–FOR FREE. 

In the comfort of your home, without risking a cent, you can download the first chapter of nearly any book and sample it.  You might not even need the entire first chapter to make up your mind whether you want to spend money on the book.  You might know within the first paragraphs.  The first sentences?  Yikes!

That's a scary prospect for any writer, hoping not only to be published, but also to be read.  And, not only to be read, but to have their work bought.  With the attention spans of most people today, it's a wonder any writer makes money.  (Is any writer, other than some pretty awful ones, their books seemingly always on the bestseller lists, making money today?) 

And, I hasten to add, fewer and fewer professionals write reviews of books for newspapers and magazines.  Anyone and everyone can do that now, with no particular writing or critical ability, on websites like goodreads.com.  So, if your book fails on any level, get ready for readers to tears it apart.  Because that's what some do, holding little back, it seems.

All the more reason to polish those first few pages until you can see yourself in them.    

Put the Good Stuff Last

What's wrong with this sentence I found in a recent issue of The Vancouver Sun?

When Adam Saint's year-long lease was nearing its end, the West End building's owner Gordon Nelson Inc. jumped the price to $1,850 from $1,550.

I can think several ways I would improve it, but here's the point I want to make in this post–and what I've read in some writing books, which I agree with:  Put the good stuff last.

When we revise our sentences, sometimes, to ensure we make the points we intend to, we need to look at a sentence, decide what's most important, and put it at the very end.

In the case of the above example, it seems to me the most important piece is what Adam Saint's rent increased to.  So rather than put that detail second to the last in the sentence, it should go at the end, like this (along with a few more changes):

When Adam Saint's year-long lease neared its end, the West End building's

owner Gordon Nelson Inc. jumped the price from $1,550 to $1,850.

Now, when you read that, you should be stunned knowing first what the previous rent was, and second what it was increased to.  

As writers, I don't believe we need to do this with every sentence we write.  But I think we have to agree some sentences are more important, more pivotal, than others.  They are the ones we need to pay attention to.  They are the ones we need to put the good stuff last in.

Extra Words

Sometimes, how we say something finds its way into our writing, and that may not always be for the best.      

My beta reader, RG, caught me using the verb "blurt out," when only blurt was needed.  To confirm he was right, I looked up the definition of "blurt."  Here's what I found:  "say (something) suddenly and without careful consideration."  "Out" wasn't needed at all to get across the meaning I intended.   

In a local newspaper, I found the following:  "Work is underway on fixing up the former Sleep Shop building…."  "On" and "up" aren't needed.  Doesn't "Work is underway fixing the former Sleep Shop building" sound better, more concise, clearer?

In a memoir I finished reading yesterday, I found this:  "I shivered and wrapped myself up in the towel and made my way back to my room."  See the opportunities for improvement?  Again, "up" isn't needed, along with the first "and."  With a little more revision, here's what this sentence could look like:  "I shivered, wrapped myself in the towel, and returned to my room." 

I realize I'm being picking, but, according to all the writing manuals, writing shouldn't contain even one more word than is necessary.  Our responsibility, then, is to ensure our writing is lean, while still keeping our meaning clear.  In most cases, eliminating unnecessary words has that exact result.  

Something to think about when revising.

Withholding

One of the greatest lessons I've learned about writing is that I don't have to spell out everything.  Period.

I go back to what Mrs. Cassidy taught me about creative writing in Grade Twelve.  Don't confuse the reader.  Tell him what you want him to know.  Write in plain English.

Okay, well some of that advice has done me well over the years.  But, the more I work on my novel, the more I realize I don't have to do it all the time.  If it serves my story, I can play around with it as much as I want to. 

Here are a few examples:

1).  Start a thought or concept in one scene, and finish it in another.  Just because I brought up a subject in Chapter 21, Scene 3 doesn't mean I have to finish it there.  I can finish it in Chapter 23, Scene 1 or Chapter 27, Scene 4, if that's what works best for the story.  Don't spill it all at once.  Hold off.  Create a little mystery, a little intrigue.  It won't hurt the reader one bit to wait to get a full sense of what you mean.  And by holding off, you may even motivate the reader to read on.   

2).  Sometimes, you don't have to say anything at all.  In other words, you don't have to be explicit.  By leaving it out, not mentioning it, the reader can take from that what you want him to know.  For example, at the time David dies, he doesn't have a partner.  I don't have to state that outright.  I can let his obit speak for me.  If the obit says nothing about David having a partner, then the reader can assume he doesn't.  Let the reader fill in the blanks.  He'll figure it out.   

Lost in C23S2

For the last hour and a half of my writing session today, this time back at home, I completely lost myself in Chapter 23, Scene 2.  I sat down to tinker, got taken up in what I was doing, and, an hour and a half later, realized I needed to stop and make dinner.   

That hour and a half felt like a few minutes. 

Getting lost in your writing is a magical experience.  Something overcomes you, you go into the zone, and lose all track of time.  There's nothing like this feeling–where you lose all awareness of everything around you.  There's only you and your work.  That's it.  (That's all there needs to be.)

Do I get lost in my work every time I sit down to do it?  Oh, I wish.  Not nearly often enough.  But, when it happens, there's no better feeling.  I can't imagine being anywhere else.

It's a special time.

Play

When in doubt, play.

As I sat at Starbucks today, working on an extensive rewrite of Chapter 23, Scene 1, I had no idea what to do with it.  Should it be this, or should it be that?  Should I tell, or should I show?  I stared into space, watched people come and go, and left myself open to whatever happened.

Before long, I had a sentence.  And another.  And another.

At some point, the sentences no longer came.  So I went back to my first sentence–because I knew it was better than what I had before but still not right–and I played around with it.  I changed the order of items in it, that word here and that word there.  Then I moved on to the next sentence and did the same.

By the time I got to the third sentence, I sensed I should break it out into a separate paragraph and elaborate on the idea.  I wrote several more new sentences, all related to the opening one.

I kept going, this time getting not only as far as the first time, but a little further, with another sentence suggesting itself to me.  I knew it wasn't quite right, but I wrote it down anyway.  Having something down is better than having nothing down at all.  Gives me more to play with.

Once again, the new sentences stopped coming, and I went back over what I had to that point, changing what I still didn't like, the structure of what I had so far.  From past experience, I knew reviewing everything again might take me into yet more uncharted territory.

And it did.

This is what I call playing.

Playing is a lot of fun–but only if you take the time, only if you're patient, and only if you have no expectations of what might come out of it.

When in doubt, play.  Be that child again.  Let what happens, happen.  Get out of your own way and, most important, have fun.  That's what it should be.

Walter Mosley's Advice About Dialogue

Every time characters in your novel speak, they should be:  (1) telling us something about themselves; (2) conveying information that may well advance the story line and/or plot; (3) adding to the music or mood of the scene, story, or novel; (4) giving us a scene from a different POV (especially if the character who is speaking is not connected directly to the narrative voice); and/or (5) giving the novel a pedestrian feel.

(From This Year You Write Your Novel, by Walter Mosley, pp. 88-89.)

Where some writing books are long-winded, making writers work to find nuggets of information, Mosley's is short and filled with practical advice.  Check it out.    

Serendipity

Writing is a funny thing.

Last week, I started revisions on Chapter Twenty-Two.  The first draft I had of this chapter, which I wrote probably two or more years ago, was awful and had to be completely rewritten.

What did I have to work with?

Well, I had the basis of the conversation between the two main characters–that is, I knew what they need to talk about, and what needs to come out of that discussion.  I also had an opening line (which is more than I often have, allowing me to build a conversation, one line of dialogue naturally following the other).  And that's it. 

Last week, I crafted the conversation.  When I had that, I realized I didn't have a setting for the two main characters.  Where does this conversation take place?  And does where it takes place contribute more than just a setting to the story–in other words, does it add to, or enhance, the story in some way?

I took a look at a list of potential settings I recorded nearly five years ago, and identified all the ones I could use that I hadn't yet (because I don't want the characters in the same place all the time; that's too boring for the reader, and for me, as the writer).  There were four, and, for some reason, I chose Vancouver's West End, the two main characters walking down a street, on their way to a new condo building.

Why are these characters walking to this new condo building?  Because David, the secondary main character, is going to see the new condominium a gay couple has just bought.  David's previously told, Brian, the main character, that the gay couple are unhappy with a large cement column in the center of their condo, which breaks the sight line between the entrance and the view outside their window at the opposite end of the room.

When I selected this setting, I had no idea why.  But my subconscious has been working on it since.

Both Brian and David are gay men, who are desperate to find love.  But a bunch of obstacles stand in their way, not the least of which is their low self-esteem.

What Brian and David talk about on the way to seeing this condo is an experience Brian recently had with a young woman, Carla, who's a colleague of his (in fact, Brian supervises her).  The young woman is plain, overweight, and obsessively in love with Brian.  Carla is also afflicted with low self-esteem, which accounts, in part, for why she's fallen in love with a man she can never have.  (It's kind of complex, but hopefully I've revealed enough here for it to make sense.)

Here's how I wrote this in my journal:  "Brian's unusual experience with Carla figuratively removes the column in the way of Brian–and David–seeing why they haven't met the right men yet (their own low self-esteem is in the way).  The question is, will they see that?"

I don't know how writing turns out this way, but, over the time I've been working on my novel, it's happened time and again.  I bring together two elements that seem to have no relationship, only to realize later there's a serendipitous connection between them.  

So cool.

We have to trust our instincts when we write.  We don't always understand the choices we make, but we've made them for reasons.  Over time, those reasons will be revealed, if we stick with it and have faith.    

Voice

Whenever I feel insecure about my writing, I ask myself this:  How is my voice any less worth listening to than anyone else's?

All the greats took that first step.  They were not fully-formed and amazing from the start.  They believed they had something worth saying, and they had the courage to follow through on that belief. 

So too must all the rest of us.

Our voice is worth hearing.

What we have to say is worth listening to.   

A Helpful Quote

Here's a quote I hope you'll find helpful from Complete Write a Novel Course, by Will Buckingham:

A novelist's job is to raise questions, 

but there is no obligation to fully answer 

these questions [p. 162].

Early August Update

So, from time to time, I'd like to give you an update on where I am in the process of completing my novel.  Here goes:

A few weeks ago, I achieved a milestone.  My first beta reader, Jeanette, and I reviewed Chapter Eighteen.  Over the past two-plus years, we've met from time to time to review in detail each chapter I've written to this point.  We have a few more to go, but we're getting there.

My second beta reader, RG, and I have reviewed Chapter One several times.  A few weeks ago, I sent him Chapters Two to Five.  He wanted to read ahead and see how the characters and story develop.  Chapter Two is ready for a detailed read, but Chapters Three to Five still need more revision to measure up to the new Chapter One.  Work is ongoing here.

Here's where things get a little complicated.  I'll review this chapter-by-chapter for you:

Chapter Nineteen:  A few more rounds of revision are still needed here, but Jeanette and I should be able to review it soon.

Chapter Twenty:  Same as above.

Chapter Twenty-One:  Same as above.

Chapter Twenty-Two:  Recently, I completed a thorough rewrite of this chapter.  The first draft was awful and needed to be brought up to the level of what came before.  That's now done, and many more rounds of edits are needed before it's ready for Jeanette's eyes.

Chapter Twenty-Three:  Last week, I began work on a full rewrite of the three scenes in this chapter.  Some sections will need thorough rewrites, and others won't.  Then I'll have many rounds of edits to complete.

Chapter Twenty-Four:  Only a few rounds of rewrites should be needed here before Jeanette can see it.

Chapter Twenty-Five:  This chapter is nearly ready for Jeanette. 

Chapter Twenty-Six:  I just completed a thorough rewrite on this chapter.  A lot more work is still needed before I can pass it on to a beta reader. 

Chapter Twenty-Seven:  I just finished a thorough rewrite.  Many rounds of edits are needed here.

Chapter Twenty-Eight:  I still have to complete a thorough rewrite on this.

Chapter Twenty-Nine:  More work is needed on a thorough rewrite.

Chapter Thirty:  I haven't started the thorough rewrite on this chapter yet.  But I've looked ahead at the first draft, made a lot of notes, and I'm letting my subconscious work on what I want to do with it, while I work in other areas.

Chapter Thirty-One:  Not much worked is needed here.  I completed most of the rewrites on this chapter some time ago, and, when I chronologically get to the point where Jeanette and I can discuss it, it should be mostly ready.

Chapter Thirty-Two:  Same as above (I finished working on the closing chapters some time ago, so I had a point for all the other chapters to lead to).

As you can see, I have multiple projects going on at the same time.  If I'm bored with anyone area, I can easily turn to another.  I recommend this process.  You'll be less likely to grow tired working on the same thing all the time.  Plus, I'm at different places in each chapter, so I'm always fired up to work on different things at different times.

It should also be noted that, as I continue to send chapters to RG, more work will be needed to bring some, particularly earlier ones, up to that standard I talked about earlier in relation to Chapter One.  But, around Chapter Eight or so, less structural work should be needed, and I should be able to focus on the details.

And that's about it.

Happy writing.

Celebrate Unknown Writers

I don't believe in putting down someone else to make oneself feel better.  Or in disparaging the creative efforts of others.  God knows creating anything is difficult enough as it is.  Just the fact that we do it at all should be celebrated.

But I have to weigh in on this.  I have to say something about what I saw at a local bookstore recently. 

I know the publishing industry is hurting.  I know publishing isn't what it used to be.  Nor are music and movies.  Technology has given us options for experiencing them, radically changing the industries that produce them.  In some respects, we've taken steps forward.  But, in other respects, we've taken steps backward.  As a result, the publishing industry is looking for books they can count on, books that will get people buying–and, not just buying, but buying a lot.  In short, books that will make huge amounts of money.   

So back to the local bookstore.

There I was, almost when I walked in, standing face to face, or face to display stand, full of E. L. James's latest book Grey.  There must have been more than a hundred copies, in a single location, which I assume was intended to make an impression on me, so I'd grab a copy and take it to the cashier. 

But I don't think that was the worst. 

Most of us know about Harper Lee's new release Go Set a Watchman, the follow-up to her classic, beloved To Kill a Mockingbird.  While I haven't read Watchman (I have no intention of reading it), I've read several reviews of it, and most aren't favorable, to say the least.  Entertainment Weekly, the smart and generally accurate bible of pop culture, a couple weeks ago gave it a D+, and called it a "cash grab."  The fact is, Watchman was basically the first draft of Mockingbird.  It was the primer Lee, encouraged by her editor, used to flesh out the real story she wanted to tell, the one that's deservedly sold more than 40 millions copies worldwide over the past fifty-plus years.

Yet, there's Watchman, on display stands all around Chapters stores, trying to get people's attention, trying to generate sales, trying to save the publishing industry.  A first draft.

What occurred to me, as I walked past yet another display stand with copies of Watchman on it, is how insulting Grey and Watchman are to all those wonderful writers who write their asses off, day after day, produce extraordinary books, and never see their work celebrated in the same way.  The sad fact is, the work of most writers never finds an audience and ends up on remainders tables, where it languishes until it's eventually destroyed.     

Yet, James's dreck and Lee's first draft, two poor excuses for writing, are positioned to save the publishing industry.

We can do better than that.  I know we can.            

You Better Work

 

 I have one thing to say,

You better work.

Rupaul, "Supermodel," 1993

Early in my relationship with Chris, we adopted an expression, intended to be used in relation to each other, that was as much funny as a warning.  And that expression Rupaul sings at the close of his hit song "Supermodel." 

You better work.

Before Chris, I'd had enough experiences with gay men in general to know that a number of them look for free rides (no pun intended) from the men they're interested in.  There are plenty of gay men out there willing to let someone else do all the work, so they can have all the fun.  Fortunately, at the time, Chris and I were both employed, in secure positions.

 

Even now, if we think the other one is slacking off, taking the easy way out, not pulling his weight, we'll haul out the old expression and use it again. 

 

You better work.

 

Over the years, these three little words have had a lot of applications.  They still encapsulate how we feel about someone, anyone, not doing his fair share, expecting things to happen without any effort on his part, so he can have all the fun and take all the glory.

 

During summer, one of my favorite TV shows is "So You Think You Can Dance" (although don't get me started on some of the changes this season, including the Street versus Stage teams, not renewing Mary Murphy's contract as a judge, bringing on the ditzy Paula Abdul, and giving a judging position to Jason Derulo–will he have anything of value to say?).  As I watch this show, particularly the rehearsal videos, showing how hard the dancers work to master the routines choreographers give them, what comes back to me again and again is this:

 

You better work.

 

It applies to me in a lot of ways, and I continuously remind myself I cannot expect to get a free ride.  In many ways, I must continue to add value.  That's just the way it is.  That's the way it should be.

 

But this expression also applies to my writing.

 

Sometimes, when I'm in despair, I ask myself over and over again why writing is so much work.  Why do I have to go through all this to achieve what I want to?

 

Because.

 

Because I do. 

 

Why shouldn't I?

 

Why should I think writing a novel, and making it the best it can be, should be any easier to accomplish than what the dancers on "SYTYCD" have to do to learn and master routines?  Or what athletes have to do to earn a position on Olympic teams?  Or what anyone has to do to be the best in the world at something?  It shouldn't be.  To accomplish what I want, I should have to work every bit as hard, as anyone who struggles to make something happen.   

 

No one gets a free ride.  Or no one should.  

 

So I'll continue to remind myself "You better work," because I better.  That's the only way to get anything done–anything worthwhile, that is.     

Thank you, Edmund White

I believe when we struggle with something, and when the time is right, we're given the information we need to overcome the struggle.  Or at least to make peace with it.

As I write my novel, I often feel inferior to those writers who are able to write something totally made up.  I don't know if it's that I don't have much of an imagination (actually, a lot of things in my novel are made up), but much of the novel I'm working on is based on my personal life, or a period of my personal life, between the late-1980s and mid-2000.  I know that I couldn't write a novel as detailed and textured as the one I am now, if I hadn't based it on what happened to me.  In fact, if I hadn't based what I'm writing on what happened to me, I wouldn't be writing a novel at all.  I'd be writing essays, which I'm far more comfortable with. 

Then I was browsing through City Boy: My Life in New York During the 1960s and '70, by Edmund White, at a local bookstore (yes, we still have a few of those), and I happened to open it to the page with this:

I didn't have writer's block, though all my failures with plays and fiction had left me feeling wounded.  I would feel sick with fear every time I'd begin to write something made-up [p. 141].

I recognized myself in that second sentence, and I can't tell you what a relief it was to know there was another writer–none other than Edmund White, writer of dozens of books, including non-fiction, biographies, and novels–who dreaded writing anything that wasn't anchored in what really happened to him or someone he knew.

I don't feel inferior anymore.  Just because I don't have a dazzling imagination doesn't mean I don't measure up to a writer who relies entirely on his imagination to weave his stories.  Or that I'm not a writer.  It's what we do with those personal experiences, how we dramatize them, turn them into fiction, that really marks our ability as writers.

Get Down Something

Here's what I've found.

When I'm really struggling to figure out how to fix something in my writing, I write down something, anything, it doesn't matter what. 

I may be frustrated because I know what I wrote still isn't right.  But that doesn't matter.  Because the trick is that getting something down is better than getting nothing down at all.

And even if it's not right, it might suggest something that gets you closer to what is right.  If you leave it alone for now, you might come back to it later and see exactly what it should be.  All because you went with what suggested itself at the time, even though you knew it wasn't what you'd end up with. 

Sure it would be nice to find the right answer immediately.  But it doesn't always work like that.  Sometimes, you have to spend some time circling around it before you figure out what it should be.

Try it.

I hope it works for you too. 

The Best Place to Write

Where do you write?

I write in different places.   

Sometimes, I write at home.  I have three places at home where I write: in my office on the second floor, on the island in the kitchen (where I am now), and downstairs in Chris's office (where I went recently during a period of hot weather; it's much cooler in the basement).

The next place I usually write is in the Silent Study room at the local public library.  Sometimes, the Silent Study room is the perfect place to get work done.  It's actually silent, like the name says.  The group of people in there respect each other's right to silence, and we all get our work done.   

Other times, well, let's just say I'd like to kick some of these people out.

There's the woman who wears too much perfume (that gets my nose running).  The old Chinese gentleman, who uses a tiny magnifying glass to see his laptop screen, and sucks on his own saliva, making a slurping sound (can't he hear himself?).  The overweight black guy who never turns his cell phone ringer down or off, and it rings the entire time he's there.  The large black woman who slips her shoes off so everyone can smell her feet.  The group of Chinese children, who are up and down, as the cliche goes, like toilet seats, and whose supposed whispers are more distracting than outright talking.  The young chickees who whisper and laugh constantly.

You'd never know some people are in that room.  Other people, you know every time.  You'd think they'd wake up and see the name above the door:  SILENT STUDY.  What part of that don't you understand?

Then there are three coffee shops around town:  The Starbucks at a strip mall, where I treat myself to a mocha frap about once a week (I can't believe they're $4.99 per; what's in them to justify that expense?).  The locally-owned coffee shop near where I live, that can be really noisy.  And Waves Coffee, some distance away.

On the rare occasion, I travel to an adjoining community, where the public library is new and beautiful and a great place to be.  Except there's no Silent Study room, and, at about two-thirty in the afternoon, when the kids get out of school, all hell breaks loose, and I know getting anything done from that point will be impossible.   (Oh, and there was the East Indian fellow, who sat near the study booths and promptly fell asleep, snoring louder than Chris does–and that's loud.) 

I haven't figured out the trick to being focused and productive as far as where I work is concerned.

Sometimes, I need the absolute quiet I get at home, particularly when I'm working on a more complex task, like a thorough rewrite.  But, sometimes, I find being at home boring and distracting too.  I get up too often to look out the window at a noise I hear.  Or to look in the fridge.  Or to do just about anything but work.

And, sometimes, no distractions at all is too quiet.  Like I tell Chris, I need to work around other people too.  Just because I don't have a job outside the house doesn't mean I don't need to interact and feel like I'm a part of the bigger world.  More often than not, especially lately, I need to feel the energy of other people around me.  I spend enough time at home; I shouldn't have to work on my writing there every day too.

Coffee shops are hit and miss.

Last Friday, I went to Waves.  I felt good.  I knew I'd have a focused and productive day (which I did).  But the second I walked in the place, I felt the temperature drop.  Yes, we've had a lot of hot weather recently.  But setting your thermostat at 65 degrees F. seems just a little low to me.  And I was wearing a short-sleeved shirt and shorts.  I lasted about two hours in the fridge before I had to leave.  Hours later, I still felt cold. 

The one smart thing I did was bring ear plugs with me.  Nothing in Waves absorbed the sound, so it was pretty noisy, with all the people coming and going.  The ear plugs blocked out the din of everything around me, turning it into white noise.  This was one instance where noise didn't prevent me from working.

I think writers need to go with wherever they feel like writing, depending on the day.

If staying at home today feels like the right thing to do, then that's where you should be.  If being around other people, but in a quiet environment, feels right, then the library might be the right place.  Although you never know, until you're there, whether what's going on that day will be conducive to getting anything done.  And, if you need the excitement of an energetic, noisy place, with the churn of lots of people, a coffee shop might fit the bill.  On the other hand, it could be too noisy, and you might find yourself leaving shortly after you get there, having gotten nothing done at all, and wondering where you should go next.