Update on Novel

So I went on vacation, spent some time in California, saw my oldest son who’s in the Navy, drove a gazillion miles there and back, and didn’t write a darned thing in my novel until last night. But now it’s at 48,000 words and moving forward again. I’m having fun with layers. Novels are like onions.

Floating into Eternity

So here’s the thing. People float. ¬†They finish high school, or maybe they don’t. They get through college, or never try. They get married. They get divorced. They have babies. Babies grow up and learn to float. All the time; they float. Most of them. Almost all of them. Us, too. We float, right?

You can’t afford a new car, or that trip to Europe, or to buy a house. You can’t save enough money because you don’t earn enough. And you don’t earn enough because your job sucks. It really sucks.

Some people have jobs they love.  Sometimes those jobs pay well.

Yeah, but they just got lucky, like winning the lottery. Right place at the right time. Lightning strikes, but it doesn’t strike me.

Horse hockey. You make your own lightning. But not if you’re happy just floating.

You have to know the right people, you say.

So go out and meet those people. There’s nothing wrong with networking.

I did everything I could, you say. It just isn’t the right time.

That’s a crock. You applied for one job. Or you dropped out of the community college after one semester. It got hard. You quit.

I had a child, I had to quit, you say.

You have a child; you have to show them how to swim in this life. You have to get yourself a better boat. Quitters don’t get boats.

Naw, you say, because only the rich have boats.

So go get rich, quick or slow, but do it if that’s what you want. Get some better tools, or learn some better lines, because these are getting old.

I can’t afford college, or starting my own business, or moving to a better town, or anything else, you say.

You can’t afford to work for minimum wage, or live in a drug-infested neighborhood, or spend your time with all of those people who just want to float. Some of them are drowning and you just watch.

I can’t swim, you say.

You never tried, I say.

I’m drowning, too, you say.

Swimming is about moving your arms and legs. It’s like walking, only wetter.

I don’t like the water, you say.

You’re freaking soaked with it, I say.

Writers’ Quirks

I have read that many athletes have quirky things they do to prepare for a game or meet, from wearing the same pair of socks til they lose, or going through a specific routine. The announcer for our local NBA basketball team has a very specific routine he goes through in the player introductions before a game.

But when you write, if you write (or if you paint or sculpt or make chess pieces), what routine do you go through?

I like to get all of my chores done first, eat my pasta, drink my coffee, have some peace and quiet. And then I get out the Netbook and start writing. My big computer is more comfortable, but I seem to get into writing mode when I get out the old brown Netbook.

What are your quirks?

Working on Fugue in C Minor

I imagine painters don’t start their work at the top of the canvas and slowly move to the bottom. They probably work in layers. That’s what I am doing with my next novel. I paint a general image “this is what happens.” From there I fill in the dialogue, “this is who says what.” Then I add the narrative “this is what they are really thinking, and what the narrator wants you to know.”