On September 15th, 2012, a man named Darrel Damer died.
Darrel has been my maternal randmother's 'gentleman companion' for the last decade. My grandfather died in 1996; Darrel's wife passed on around the same time. When Grandmother and Darrel met, each found in the other the joy and comfort that they had prepared themselves to live without for the rest of their lives.
Darrel was a great man. He was the proud patriarch of a large family, a kind and compassionate person who treated me like a grown grandson. The story of his life is amazing in full, a saga fortunately recorded in a private autobiography.
In WWII he was a naval gunner who rode aboard the Liberty Ships of the Atlantic convoys; he had three of them torpedoed out from under him. During one attack, he stayed at his cannon and continued to defend the ship even as it sank, giving the crew and the other gunners time to evacuate. As the water came up around his ankles, he scored a crippling blow on the U-boat that had attacked his ship. The submarine turned and fled for home while Darrel took off his shoes and calmly swam toward the lifeboats.
After the war, Darrel returned home to Virginia and began work as a steamfitter, a trade that he plied for several decades. He had little formal education, but he was a highly intelligent man and he sought knowledge wherever it could be found. During the time that I knew him, he borrowed many books from me, devouring subjects ranging from pre-Christian theology to theoretical physics with a zeal that eclipsed even my own. I always looked forward to the intellectual discussions that filled our visits.
On September 21st, 2012, Roy Jack, my wife's maternal grandfather, died very unexpectedly, probably from a heart attack.
He too was a great man, a model of wisdom and humility, the anchor of his family. Roy and his wife Rachel raised three children while running their own business, which is no mean feat. They started with a carpet and upholstery cleaning service, later branching out into interior decorating and opening a very successful home decor outlet.
I met Roy in 2001, and we got along right from the start. He had the best handshake of any man I've ever known. Like me, Roy was a man who loved to build and fix things, and he was possessed of a keen insight into the way the world worked, from something as small as an electric motor in a child's toy to things as large and abstract as international politics. He and I often sat in his living room at family gatherings, quietly discussing whatever took our fancy while watching his brood of grandchildren at play. The things I learned from him will stay with me for the rest of my days.
Both of these men made this world a better place, and it is poorer for their passing. They will be missed.
Sunday, September 23, 2012
Monday, September 3, 2012
Doing My Homework
Part of learning to be a successful writer is studying the art of storytelling. One must learn to understand the fundamental elements of a story--the gross components--but also the tiny details, down to every weld and rivet.
There are myriad sources of education from which a dedicated writer may draw. I have gotten into the habit of reverse-engineering books and movies (I call it 'deconstructing' stories) to identify the various tools and techniques the storytellers have used and the clever, innovative methods of their employment. Establishment, for instance, is a vital part of any story; in order to understand events that transpire over the course of the story, the audience must be given key pieces of information. The trick is to hide your establishment the way a stage magician hides the rabbit. You can't just tell somebody "pay attention to this, it will be important later." Sometimes all it takes is a word or two, the literary equivalent of a seemingly insignificant detail appearing in the corner of the screen for a couple of seconds near the beginning of a movie. Sometimes it's a line of dialog; in essence, one character telling another what the writer wants to tell the reader. There exist countless other tricks, some of which I know and use, some I'm still mastering, and others that I may never discover.
One of the hard lessons for me personally has been the art of brevity. Stories have to move fast. Since I have a visual imagination, my tendency is to throw in every single detail I see in my mind; if I'm writing a chase scene, I want to describe every bump in the road, every shift of the gears, every swerve and dodge, when what is important is to give the reader the thrill of speed, the urgency of the situation, and the frenetic, chaotic pace. Instead of describing a character getting whiplash in a terrifying collision, it's much, much better to give the reader whiplash.
A surprising source of education, probably ranked third in my book behind reading great fiction and reading _about_ great fiction, is the supplementary material included on DVDs. A filmmaker is limited by the same constraints as a writer, in that only so much information can be crammed onto the screen before a movie becomes too long or too complicated. In watching the deleted scenes, I can gain insight by discerning why they were deleted and how the story was changed by their exclusion. Listening to the commentary tracks often yields little nuggets of priceless education--for instance, hearing a director describe the decision-making process that led the flawless execution of a scene can inform my examination of a scene in my own story, or listening to an actor explain the steps they took to create a character in their mind may give me a new way to create my own characters.
One of the most difficult challenges in the world of fiction, in any medium, is the accurate dramatization of a true story. Done well, a novel or movie based on real events is a historical document in its own right, despite the odd bit of license taken to craft an engaging story. Once again, because the subject is something that really happened, the temptation to include every tiny detail is hard to resist, but sorting out what actually needs to be there is the real trick. As an example, I'll use the movie _Apollo 13_, since that is what I have playing in the background as I write this post. (For those who plan to put this lesson into practice, it's hard to go wrong with any historical drama spearheaded by Tom Hanks and/or Steven Spielberg, but there are many other great examples)
In the supplementary material included with the film, there is a short documentary in which it is mentioned that actors Tom Hanks and Kathleen Quinlan spent three days in the home of the people they subsequently portrayed, Apollo 13 Spacecraft Commander Jim Lovell and his wife Marilyn. With all of the historical detais recreated for the film, from the sets, props, and vehicles, down to the actors' hairstyles and the cut of their costumes, it would be easy to believe that the actors and their real-life counterparts could have spent three days discussing this myriad of visual elements. I can picture Hanks watching the way Lovell moves, the way he carries himself, his gestures and his unconscious mannerisms--which I'm sure he did, to some extent--but that's not actually what's important to the story. What is important, and what the actors spent those three days studying, is the emotional qualities of their subjects. The emotions felt by Jim and Marilyn Lovell, and all of the other people portrayed in the film, during the seven days of the Apollo 13 crisis over forty years ago, are the same emotions they feel reminiscing about it today. Director Ron Howard was likewise faced with capturing and evoking the emotional state of the astronauts, their families, and the entire country in that time. Everything else in the story--the color of the computers in the flight center, the position of every switch and dial in the spacecraft, the length of the men's sideburns and the volume of the women's hairstyles--revolves around those emotions.
What does this tell us as writers? It tells us that what our characters look like is not as important as what they feel. I've actually stopped giving all but the barest physical description of my characters, because I've discovered that conveying their thoughts and emotions accurately will give my reader everything they need to create their own picture of the character. Unless hair color is somehow intrinsic to the plot, I don't mention it. In my mind, the protagonist may be blonde, but the reader could just as well imagine them as brunette. What matters is that the reader has a solid visualization of the character, not what the character actually looks like. There are characters in my stories whom I picture as black or asian, but I didn't include that detail because it didn't matter. For all I know, a black person might read that story and imagine the character as white. It doesn't really matter if the reader imagines exactly what I envision (in fact, it may be better that they don't). Just get the feel of things right, and all those little details will create themselves.
So the message of this post is this: do your homework. Read books. Watch movies. Read books about books and watch movies about movies. When you find something you like, watch or read it again. If a writer or filmmaker pulls off a neat trick, pick it apart and figure out how they did it.
And, once you think you're pretty good at that, read _The Manual of Detection_ by Jedediah Berry. It's a great story, but it's also a magic trick in novel form. I've read it at least six times, and I still can't find the rabbit.
There are myriad sources of education from which a dedicated writer may draw. I have gotten into the habit of reverse-engineering books and movies (I call it 'deconstructing' stories) to identify the various tools and techniques the storytellers have used and the clever, innovative methods of their employment. Establishment, for instance, is a vital part of any story; in order to understand events that transpire over the course of the story, the audience must be given key pieces of information. The trick is to hide your establishment the way a stage magician hides the rabbit. You can't just tell somebody "pay attention to this, it will be important later." Sometimes all it takes is a word or two, the literary equivalent of a seemingly insignificant detail appearing in the corner of the screen for a couple of seconds near the beginning of a movie. Sometimes it's a line of dialog; in essence, one character telling another what the writer wants to tell the reader. There exist countless other tricks, some of which I know and use, some I'm still mastering, and others that I may never discover.
One of the hard lessons for me personally has been the art of brevity. Stories have to move fast. Since I have a visual imagination, my tendency is to throw in every single detail I see in my mind; if I'm writing a chase scene, I want to describe every bump in the road, every shift of the gears, every swerve and dodge, when what is important is to give the reader the thrill of speed, the urgency of the situation, and the frenetic, chaotic pace. Instead of describing a character getting whiplash in a terrifying collision, it's much, much better to give the reader whiplash.
A surprising source of education, probably ranked third in my book behind reading great fiction and reading _about_ great fiction, is the supplementary material included on DVDs. A filmmaker is limited by the same constraints as a writer, in that only so much information can be crammed onto the screen before a movie becomes too long or too complicated. In watching the deleted scenes, I can gain insight by discerning why they were deleted and how the story was changed by their exclusion. Listening to the commentary tracks often yields little nuggets of priceless education--for instance, hearing a director describe the decision-making process that led the flawless execution of a scene can inform my examination of a scene in my own story, or listening to an actor explain the steps they took to create a character in their mind may give me a new way to create my own characters.
One of the most difficult challenges in the world of fiction, in any medium, is the accurate dramatization of a true story. Done well, a novel or movie based on real events is a historical document in its own right, despite the odd bit of license taken to craft an engaging story. Once again, because the subject is something that really happened, the temptation to include every tiny detail is hard to resist, but sorting out what actually needs to be there is the real trick. As an example, I'll use the movie _Apollo 13_, since that is what I have playing in the background as I write this post. (For those who plan to put this lesson into practice, it's hard to go wrong with any historical drama spearheaded by Tom Hanks and/or Steven Spielberg, but there are many other great examples)
In the supplementary material included with the film, there is a short documentary in which it is mentioned that actors Tom Hanks and Kathleen Quinlan spent three days in the home of the people they subsequently portrayed, Apollo 13 Spacecraft Commander Jim Lovell and his wife Marilyn. With all of the historical detais recreated for the film, from the sets, props, and vehicles, down to the actors' hairstyles and the cut of their costumes, it would be easy to believe that the actors and their real-life counterparts could have spent three days discussing this myriad of visual elements. I can picture Hanks watching the way Lovell moves, the way he carries himself, his gestures and his unconscious mannerisms--which I'm sure he did, to some extent--but that's not actually what's important to the story. What is important, and what the actors spent those three days studying, is the emotional qualities of their subjects. The emotions felt by Jim and Marilyn Lovell, and all of the other people portrayed in the film, during the seven days of the Apollo 13 crisis over forty years ago, are the same emotions they feel reminiscing about it today. Director Ron Howard was likewise faced with capturing and evoking the emotional state of the astronauts, their families, and the entire country in that time. Everything else in the story--the color of the computers in the flight center, the position of every switch and dial in the spacecraft, the length of the men's sideburns and the volume of the women's hairstyles--revolves around those emotions.
What does this tell us as writers? It tells us that what our characters look like is not as important as what they feel. I've actually stopped giving all but the barest physical description of my characters, because I've discovered that conveying their thoughts and emotions accurately will give my reader everything they need to create their own picture of the character. Unless hair color is somehow intrinsic to the plot, I don't mention it. In my mind, the protagonist may be blonde, but the reader could just as well imagine them as brunette. What matters is that the reader has a solid visualization of the character, not what the character actually looks like. There are characters in my stories whom I picture as black or asian, but I didn't include that detail because it didn't matter. For all I know, a black person might read that story and imagine the character as white. It doesn't really matter if the reader imagines exactly what I envision (in fact, it may be better that they don't). Just get the feel of things right, and all those little details will create themselves.
So the message of this post is this: do your homework. Read books. Watch movies. Read books about books and watch movies about movies. When you find something you like, watch or read it again. If a writer or filmmaker pulls off a neat trick, pick it apart and figure out how they did it.
And, once you think you're pretty good at that, read _The Manual of Detection_ by Jedediah Berry. It's a great story, but it's also a magic trick in novel form. I've read it at least six times, and I still can't find the rabbit.
Thursday, August 23, 2012
The Internet Will Destroy All Humans!
Way up here in the mountains, our options for internet access are somewhat limited. High-speed cable internet is available in some parts of the Valley, and when the country's leading provider of same finally strings it out to our location, we will happily take them up on the fantastic money-saving thrice-weekly offer we've been receiving via the Postal Service for the last four years. Last week, a DHL express envelope arrived with my name on it; I got all excited and ripped it open, anticipating an acceptance notice from a literary journal informing me that one of my stories had been selected for publication, but, no, it was another exclusive offer for high-speed cable internet. This sort of thing frequently provokes outbursts of homicidal rage and usually results in spousal mandate that I put down the sword, drink some water, and apologize to the mailman. I have delivered numerous wrathful tirades to innocent and undeserving call-center workers demanding that their employer immediately cease the senseless slaughter of thousands of trees for the sole purpose of offering me a highly desirable service which it lacks the logistical infrastructure to provide, but still the onslaught continues. With the benefit of foresight, we could have saved quite a bit of money by when we moved here by purchasing an empty piece of land, putting up a mailbox, and living in a military surplus GP-medium tent until we accumulated enough raw material to build a three-bedroom home with billiards room and attached garage. Nevertheless, I will be waiting at the window with phone in hand, ready to sign up the very instant the installation crew runs the line past my house.
Until salvation arrives, however, we are saddled with sattelite internet, which is overpriced, unreliable, governed by draconian and often inscrutable regulations, and monopolized by a single company which doesn't really care if its customers are happy or not, just as long as they pay their exorbitant fees every month. At the time I am writing this, our sattelite dish has been out of commission for just over a week; surprisingly, everyone is still alive. It has been very difficult for my wife, in her role as All-Powerful High Potentate of the family business, to do any banking or place orders with suppliers. Even worse than that, however, is having been out of contact with the majority of the people with whom we regularly interact for a disturbingly long period of time. I have had no communication with my submission service, long-distance friends, writing trustees, and various conversant publishers. I am plagued with visions of being passed up for publication because I didn't respond to an email in time. My mother called to make sure we were alright because she'd been texting me for two days without reply. My wife and I have both experienced a novel variant of cabin fever without the ability to instantly acquire random information on whatever topic our whim dictates.
All of this makes me feel rather spoiled. I think about the prehistoric hunter-gatherer who was basically screwed if his stone axe shattered and no replacement was available. I think about the Somali fisherman whose family goes hungry when his boat is under repair. I think about the World War Two cryptographers who cracked the German ENIGMA code with less computing power than can be found within a 20-foot radius of where I'm sitting. I think about a time long, long ago when there was no Internet, and yet somehow the world managed to stave off the Apocalypse every day, and I realize that I am a very spoiled person. Being the rugged survivalist types that we and most other Mainers are, Mrs. Benson and I are perfectly capable of surviving for days without electricity, but here we are going stir-crazy without access to hourly-incremental weather forecasts, pictures of my aunt with her new haircut, and the name of that actor who's in that movie we want to see and who was also in that other movie with Willem Dafoe.
For decades, science fiction writers have prophecized a dystopian future in which mankind's dominion of the Earth is eclipsed by highly advanced computers, but occurs to me that this troubling scenario may have become reality. True, there are no cold, logical AIs pragmatically declaring that the human race has become obsolete; there is no autonomous military defense network wiping us out with the very weapons from which it was designed to protect us; there are no predatory, self-replicating robots subjugating the entire species and using us for slave labor or turning us into living batteries. There is only an undirected, pervasive, omnipresent digital communication network which has, in the span of a single generation, become so vital that society can no longer function without it. What would happen to us if the Internet suddenly disappeared? Would the global economy still possess the ability to function the way it did twenty years ago, or would the world be instantly and irrevocably plunged into fiscal anarchy? Would there be an epidemic of mass suicide when millions people who had grown accustomed to receiving regular updates concerning the mundane and utterly uninteresting activies of distant acquaintances realized the horrible truth that each one of us is, in the metaphysical sense, absolutely alone in the Universe? Would I finally overcome my violent allergy to emoticons? Until the guy comes to fix our dish, these and many other very important questions must go unanswered.
Until salvation arrives, however, we are saddled with sattelite internet, which is overpriced, unreliable, governed by draconian and often inscrutable regulations, and monopolized by a single company which doesn't really care if its customers are happy or not, just as long as they pay their exorbitant fees every month. At the time I am writing this, our sattelite dish has been out of commission for just over a week; surprisingly, everyone is still alive. It has been very difficult for my wife, in her role as All-Powerful High Potentate of the family business, to do any banking or place orders with suppliers. Even worse than that, however, is having been out of contact with the majority of the people with whom we regularly interact for a disturbingly long period of time. I have had no communication with my submission service, long-distance friends, writing trustees, and various conversant publishers. I am plagued with visions of being passed up for publication because I didn't respond to an email in time. My mother called to make sure we were alright because she'd been texting me for two days without reply. My wife and I have both experienced a novel variant of cabin fever without the ability to instantly acquire random information on whatever topic our whim dictates.
All of this makes me feel rather spoiled. I think about the prehistoric hunter-gatherer who was basically screwed if his stone axe shattered and no replacement was available. I think about the Somali fisherman whose family goes hungry when his boat is under repair. I think about the World War Two cryptographers who cracked the German ENIGMA code with less computing power than can be found within a 20-foot radius of where I'm sitting. I think about a time long, long ago when there was no Internet, and yet somehow the world managed to stave off the Apocalypse every day, and I realize that I am a very spoiled person. Being the rugged survivalist types that we and most other Mainers are, Mrs. Benson and I are perfectly capable of surviving for days without electricity, but here we are going stir-crazy without access to hourly-incremental weather forecasts, pictures of my aunt with her new haircut, and the name of that actor who's in that movie we want to see and who was also in that other movie with Willem Dafoe.
For decades, science fiction writers have prophecized a dystopian future in which mankind's dominion of the Earth is eclipsed by highly advanced computers, but occurs to me that this troubling scenario may have become reality. True, there are no cold, logical AIs pragmatically declaring that the human race has become obsolete; there is no autonomous military defense network wiping us out with the very weapons from which it was designed to protect us; there are no predatory, self-replicating robots subjugating the entire species and using us for slave labor or turning us into living batteries. There is only an undirected, pervasive, omnipresent digital communication network which has, in the span of a single generation, become so vital that society can no longer function without it. What would happen to us if the Internet suddenly disappeared? Would the global economy still possess the ability to function the way it did twenty years ago, or would the world be instantly and irrevocably plunged into fiscal anarchy? Would there be an epidemic of mass suicide when millions people who had grown accustomed to receiving regular updates concerning the mundane and utterly uninteresting activies of distant acquaintances realized the horrible truth that each one of us is, in the metaphysical sense, absolutely alone in the Universe? Would I finally overcome my violent allergy to emoticons? Until the guy comes to fix our dish, these and many other very important questions must go unanswered.
Monday, August 6, 2012
We are experiencing Creational Difficulties- please stand by!
Those who have been following this young, precocious blog from the beginning may recall a few dire, cryptic warnings about 'dry periods,' times when updates will be few and far between. This is one of those times.
I am profoundly bi-polar. The pattern of my life is almost entirely defined by the irregular cycle of my mental illness, which can have me dangerously manic for minutes, hours, even days at a time, or plunge me into depression from which I may take weeks to emerge. The depression isn't any fun, but it's a known entity. We can handle it. The mania is worse; just when we think we've coined it, some new, ugly feature will expose itself, a previously non-existent emotional reaction or anxiety-trigger.
It makes me a hard person to know, once you get below the charismatic veneer that I present to most of the world. Only two or three dozen people know what's under that top layer of me, the public face that isn't a mask but isn't the full picture, either. This is probably true for most people, but the difference, in my case, is that the number of individuals--family aside--who've gotten that close to me and have decided to stick with me to the end can be counted on one hand. The others were wise to get away, and I don't blame them. The last thing I want is to chain others to my illness. Those who are still with me are a special breed, seemingly immune to my emotional toxicity.
Damn, I've gone all maudlin. I think what I was getting at when I started was that my creativity is inherently tied to my emotional state. In the deepest depression, I can barely handle feeding and bathing myself, much less putting words to page. In fact, at those times, I am often completely cut off from whatever it is inside me that generates my stories, or channels them, or whatever. I've often been struck with a profound horror at such times, a fear that the stories have left me and will never return. I sometimes wonder if amputees feel the same terror when they discover their missing limb, and then later, when the stories start buzzing and I'm writing again, I'm ashamed to have made such a comparison.
Mania, as I've said, is often worse. If depression is a whirlpool that sucks everything down to fathomless depths, never to rise again, mania is its inverse, a tornado that uproots everything in its path, leaving carnage and chaos in its wake. There is a certain stage of mania that I can harness and channel into bursts of creative verve, but for the most part my manic periods are characterized by insomnia, mercurial temper, and a tangled mess of unfinished projects and half-formed ideas.
It is between these two extremes where I find productivity, and the longer I have lived with Bi-Polar Disorder, the more I have become able to find balance. I have not accomplished this feat alone; I am reliant on clever medication, occasional bouts of therapy, and the support of those who love me, those few people who have silently sworn, for reasons of their own that I rarely dare to question, to support and defend me, whatever may come.
So where am I now? Stuck in the doldrums. Dealing with the lingering aftermath of a complicated injury, looking forward to probably another month of limited mobility and restricted activity (and after six or seven months of this, each seems agonozingly longer than the last), and entirely without any fresh ideas. I'm poking listlessly at ongoing projects, stuffing envelopes with anything that meets my fairly draconian standards of being publishable, and hoping beyond hope that something fresh will come along and I won't be scraping the bottom of the barrel come my next submission deadline. It sucks, but I have to keep plugging away if I'm going to make this work. As F. Scott Fitzgerald said: "Amateurs wait for inspiration. Professionals just get to work."
That's the short explanation of why my blog posts haven't been coming as frequently. I hope it helps clear things up.
I am profoundly bi-polar. The pattern of my life is almost entirely defined by the irregular cycle of my mental illness, which can have me dangerously manic for minutes, hours, even days at a time, or plunge me into depression from which I may take weeks to emerge. The depression isn't any fun, but it's a known entity. We can handle it. The mania is worse; just when we think we've coined it, some new, ugly feature will expose itself, a previously non-existent emotional reaction or anxiety-trigger.
It makes me a hard person to know, once you get below the charismatic veneer that I present to most of the world. Only two or three dozen people know what's under that top layer of me, the public face that isn't a mask but isn't the full picture, either. This is probably true for most people, but the difference, in my case, is that the number of individuals--family aside--who've gotten that close to me and have decided to stick with me to the end can be counted on one hand. The others were wise to get away, and I don't blame them. The last thing I want is to chain others to my illness. Those who are still with me are a special breed, seemingly immune to my emotional toxicity.
Damn, I've gone all maudlin. I think what I was getting at when I started was that my creativity is inherently tied to my emotional state. In the deepest depression, I can barely handle feeding and bathing myself, much less putting words to page. In fact, at those times, I am often completely cut off from whatever it is inside me that generates my stories, or channels them, or whatever. I've often been struck with a profound horror at such times, a fear that the stories have left me and will never return. I sometimes wonder if amputees feel the same terror when they discover their missing limb, and then later, when the stories start buzzing and I'm writing again, I'm ashamed to have made such a comparison.
Mania, as I've said, is often worse. If depression is a whirlpool that sucks everything down to fathomless depths, never to rise again, mania is its inverse, a tornado that uproots everything in its path, leaving carnage and chaos in its wake. There is a certain stage of mania that I can harness and channel into bursts of creative verve, but for the most part my manic periods are characterized by insomnia, mercurial temper, and a tangled mess of unfinished projects and half-formed ideas.
It is between these two extremes where I find productivity, and the longer I have lived with Bi-Polar Disorder, the more I have become able to find balance. I have not accomplished this feat alone; I am reliant on clever medication, occasional bouts of therapy, and the support of those who love me, those few people who have silently sworn, for reasons of their own that I rarely dare to question, to support and defend me, whatever may come.
So where am I now? Stuck in the doldrums. Dealing with the lingering aftermath of a complicated injury, looking forward to probably another month of limited mobility and restricted activity (and after six or seven months of this, each seems agonozingly longer than the last), and entirely without any fresh ideas. I'm poking listlessly at ongoing projects, stuffing envelopes with anything that meets my fairly draconian standards of being publishable, and hoping beyond hope that something fresh will come along and I won't be scraping the bottom of the barrel come my next submission deadline. It sucks, but I have to keep plugging away if I'm going to make this work. As F. Scott Fitzgerald said: "Amateurs wait for inspiration. Professionals just get to work."
That's the short explanation of why my blog posts haven't been coming as frequently. I hope it helps clear things up.
Saturday, July 28, 2012
How to Jump Off of Cliffs
I've been writing for most of my life. I have stories in my head that must come out. At twenty, I knew I wanted to write for a living, but I didn't know how to do it. My writing was, frankly, just awful. It took ten years of treading other paths, enduring pain, falling in love, and educating myself before I finally had everything it takes to sit down and write a decent story.
In October 2010, I left a go-nowhere job in private security to step up and take the plunge: I had decided to become a professional fiction writer. The decision was very difficult for me. I knew that, even if I succeeded, it would be years before I started making real money. I was afraid to tell my family that I wanted to stop working full-time in order to pursue my dream; when I bit the bullet and announced my intentions, they surprised me by backing me whole-heartedly (the general consensus was "it's about time!").
I sat down and started writing. I read books about writing. I read and re-read some of the best contemporary fiction. I studied and honed my craft even as I plied it. I found people who could help me get my work into the right hands. I submitted my work to over one hundred literary journals and magazines. I taught myself to enjoy rejection.
When the first acceptance came, it surprised the hell out of me. I was completely unprepared for it. When the story was published, I went to the website and looked at it every day. I still visit it from time to time. It still thrills me. My dream is beginning to come true.
But this story isn't about my dream. It's about yours.
The things we dream about seem so unattainable because they entail risk; usually a daunting amount of risk, which threatens the comfort and stability of our lives. We have responsibilities. All of us are beholden at least to ourselves, many to lovers, spouses, children, aging parents, etc. Chasing those dreams and confronting that big bad risk puts all of the people to whom we are beholden at that same risk. We are adults, to a given value of adulthood, and we have become so by learning to play it safe and only take small risks. We have been taught that it is okay to go up to the edge of the cliff and look over, but that we must never, ever jump, because only bad things happen to people who jump off of cliffs.
If you have a serious dream, follow it. Don't stand at the edge of the cliff and look over, get a running start and leap. I know it's frightening. I know you could be risking a lot. I know it hurts when you hit bottom. It takes balls to do it, big brass ones, but there just aren't enough people chasing dreams these days. We need more.
Here is the Benson Method for Achieving Your Dreams:
1) The Running Start: get your life in order. Save up a little money. If you're beholden to anyone but yourself, make sure everyone knows you're going to jump and that they support your decision, or at least understand it.
2) The Leap: give it everything you've got. Here's a tip: it won't be enough.
3) The Landing: it hurts. Nobody flies the first time. Nobody. Pick yourself up and go back to the top of the cliff.
Repeat steps 1-3 indefinitely, learning from every experience you have and every mistake you make and every other dreamer out there falling alongside you, and you will eventually achieve...
4) Success: congrats, you flew for about five seconds. Keep jumping.
This may sound hokey, but I'm totally serious. Dreams are made real by desire, dedication, and perseverance. I am writing this post while taking a break from stuffing copies of yet another story into envelopes. Will it be rejected, or will somebody publish it? Will I fly again, or land in a crumpled heap? Don't know. Don't care. Leap again. As Joseph Heller wrote: Jump!*
*those who don't get the punchline need to read the book Catch-22; those who have read it must read it again. It is one of the most astounding pieces of literature ever set to page.
In October 2010, I left a go-nowhere job in private security to step up and take the plunge: I had decided to become a professional fiction writer. The decision was very difficult for me. I knew that, even if I succeeded, it would be years before I started making real money. I was afraid to tell my family that I wanted to stop working full-time in order to pursue my dream; when I bit the bullet and announced my intentions, they surprised me by backing me whole-heartedly (the general consensus was "it's about time!").
I sat down and started writing. I read books about writing. I read and re-read some of the best contemporary fiction. I studied and honed my craft even as I plied it. I found people who could help me get my work into the right hands. I submitted my work to over one hundred literary journals and magazines. I taught myself to enjoy rejection.
When the first acceptance came, it surprised the hell out of me. I was completely unprepared for it. When the story was published, I went to the website and looked at it every day. I still visit it from time to time. It still thrills me. My dream is beginning to come true.
But this story isn't about my dream. It's about yours.
The things we dream about seem so unattainable because they entail risk; usually a daunting amount of risk, which threatens the comfort and stability of our lives. We have responsibilities. All of us are beholden at least to ourselves, many to lovers, spouses, children, aging parents, etc. Chasing those dreams and confronting that big bad risk puts all of the people to whom we are beholden at that same risk. We are adults, to a given value of adulthood, and we have become so by learning to play it safe and only take small risks. We have been taught that it is okay to go up to the edge of the cliff and look over, but that we must never, ever jump, because only bad things happen to people who jump off of cliffs.
If you have a serious dream, follow it. Don't stand at the edge of the cliff and look over, get a running start and leap. I know it's frightening. I know you could be risking a lot. I know it hurts when you hit bottom. It takes balls to do it, big brass ones, but there just aren't enough people chasing dreams these days. We need more.
Here is the Benson Method for Achieving Your Dreams:
1) The Running Start: get your life in order. Save up a little money. If you're beholden to anyone but yourself, make sure everyone knows you're going to jump and that they support your decision, or at least understand it.
2) The Leap: give it everything you've got. Here's a tip: it won't be enough.
3) The Landing: it hurts. Nobody flies the first time. Nobody. Pick yourself up and go back to the top of the cliff.
Repeat steps 1-3 indefinitely, learning from every experience you have and every mistake you make and every other dreamer out there falling alongside you, and you will eventually achieve...
4) Success: congrats, you flew for about five seconds. Keep jumping.
This may sound hokey, but I'm totally serious. Dreams are made real by desire, dedication, and perseverance. I am writing this post while taking a break from stuffing copies of yet another story into envelopes. Will it be rejected, or will somebody publish it? Will I fly again, or land in a crumpled heap? Don't know. Don't care. Leap again. As Joseph Heller wrote: Jump!*
*those who don't get the punchline need to read the book Catch-22; those who have read it must read it again. It is one of the most astounding pieces of literature ever set to page.
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
Comments and Polls now enabled!
After much trial and error, I've got the comments feature enabled. Anonymous posts are welcome, you don't need a Google account or blog membership to have your say. I love the free exchange of opinions and ideas; tell us all what's on your mind! Do you like what you read here, or hate it? Let me know what you think of my blog, my stories, or just the world in general. Off-topic commentary is fine.
Only blatant abuse or excessive profanity will be censored. I won't delete a comment just because somebody has something negative to say, as long as the message is civil, comprehensive, and articulate. Hecklers be warned, however; I'm not above returning fire!
Without wishing to exclude my fellow Americans, I'd be especially interested in commentary from my international readers. It seems I have a solid following in Russia, in which I find both joy and fascination.
Just for fun, I'll also be running the occasional poll, which you will find down at the bottom of the page with the other extraneous junk. The topic will change every month or so.
Only blatant abuse or excessive profanity will be censored. I won't delete a comment just because somebody has something negative to say, as long as the message is civil, comprehensive, and articulate. Hecklers be warned, however; I'm not above returning fire!
Without wishing to exclude my fellow Americans, I'd be especially interested in commentary from my international readers. It seems I have a solid following in Russia, in which I find both joy and fascination.
Just for fun, I'll also be running the occasional poll, which you will find down at the bottom of the page with the other extraneous junk. The topic will change every month or so.
Monday, July 16, 2012
Objects In Mirror
There are a number of expressions in the English language (and, I can safely assume, in most other languages) used to express the observation that most things we dread aren't as bad once they're over. I imagine that I'm not alone in getting myself all worked up over things that turn out, when all is said and done, to be far less traumatic in the execution than in the anticipation.
This comes to mind now because I am scheduled to receive an epidural steroid injenction in a couple of weeks. This will be the second and hopefully the last insertion of a large needle between my L-4 and L-5 vertebrae, the goal being to reduce inflammation of my sciatic nerve. Strangely, I was much more concerned about the first epidural than I had been about the surgery that came some weeks previous to it, wherein it was not just a needle but in fact a couple of scalpels and several pairs of hands that were monkeying about in disconcertingly close proximity to my spinal cord. I am a stranger neither to needles nor to invasive surgery, but the epidural had me freaked.
As it turns out, I was freaked over nothing. I had been in the operating room for about three minutes and had felt a couple of mild jabs that I assumed to be a spinal block, at which point I turned my head in time to see the doctor walk past holding a gleaming stainless needle approximately the size of a hunting rifle. Expertly concealing my anxiety, I asked him how long the procedure would take.
He gave me a funny look and informed me that it was finished.
So this time I know it will be no big deal. Gigantic needle poked into my spine? Been there, done that.
Generally all of the frightening experiences and painful injuries I've endured in my life seem to follow that pattern; once they're over, I don't remember them being as bad as they very probably were. I've been banged up pretty badly in my time--I won't bore you with the litany of abuse my body has suffered, but let it suffice to say that recitation of the complete list begins to feel like bragging after the first couple of hours. Seriously, though, I've experienced, for mercifully short periods, what several doctors have described as the upper limit of the human pain tolerance. Strangely, I don't remember what it feels like.
From an evolutionary standpoint, this seems a bit backwards. Pain exists, in part, to educate us: stove hot, ouch, don't touch stove. Doesn't it stand to reason that retaining full memory of extreme pain would serve a purpose? If it hurt so much the last time, maybe you should avoid doing it again...
On the other hand, maybe there's a lesson in the converse, to help us deal with things we know ahead of time are going to hurt: it won't be as bad as you think it will, so just get it over with. With that in mind, I'm off to meet that giant needle, and you probably have a dinner with the in-laws or something. Be strong.
Remember, objects in mirror aren't as scary as they appeared.
This comes to mind now because I am scheduled to receive an epidural steroid injenction in a couple of weeks. This will be the second and hopefully the last insertion of a large needle between my L-4 and L-5 vertebrae, the goal being to reduce inflammation of my sciatic nerve. Strangely, I was much more concerned about the first epidural than I had been about the surgery that came some weeks previous to it, wherein it was not just a needle but in fact a couple of scalpels and several pairs of hands that were monkeying about in disconcertingly close proximity to my spinal cord. I am a stranger neither to needles nor to invasive surgery, but the epidural had me freaked.
As it turns out, I was freaked over nothing. I had been in the operating room for about three minutes and had felt a couple of mild jabs that I assumed to be a spinal block, at which point I turned my head in time to see the doctor walk past holding a gleaming stainless needle approximately the size of a hunting rifle. Expertly concealing my anxiety, I asked him how long the procedure would take.
He gave me a funny look and informed me that it was finished.
So this time I know it will be no big deal. Gigantic needle poked into my spine? Been there, done that.
Generally all of the frightening experiences and painful injuries I've endured in my life seem to follow that pattern; once they're over, I don't remember them being as bad as they very probably were. I've been banged up pretty badly in my time--I won't bore you with the litany of abuse my body has suffered, but let it suffice to say that recitation of the complete list begins to feel like bragging after the first couple of hours. Seriously, though, I've experienced, for mercifully short periods, what several doctors have described as the upper limit of the human pain tolerance. Strangely, I don't remember what it feels like.
From an evolutionary standpoint, this seems a bit backwards. Pain exists, in part, to educate us: stove hot, ouch, don't touch stove. Doesn't it stand to reason that retaining full memory of extreme pain would serve a purpose? If it hurt so much the last time, maybe you should avoid doing it again...
On the other hand, maybe there's a lesson in the converse, to help us deal with things we know ahead of time are going to hurt: it won't be as bad as you think it will, so just get it over with. With that in mind, I'm off to meet that giant needle, and you probably have a dinner with the in-laws or something. Be strong.
Remember, objects in mirror aren't as scary as they appeared.
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Mistaken Identity
I live on the wooded fringe of a very small town. The folks who live deeper in the surrounding wilderness see it as a shopping mecca and social hub; those from more built-up regions of this sparsely-populated state probably see it as a blip on the map; people who live in honest-to-goodness cities might not see it at all. There are less than a thousand locals, and either directly or by association, we all know one another. Nobody locks their doors, or even bothers to take their keys out of the ignition. The last time a car got stolen here was six years ago, and the thief made it a whole quarter of a mile before somebody recognized the car--but not the driver--and the County Sheriff's office was all over him like ravens on roadkill. We don't even have our own police department. We don't need one.
So, when I came out of the town's 6-aisle grocery store one night and saw a black VW station wagon parked next to my truck, my first thought was that it was odd that I hadn't crossed paths with my father inside the store. Looking around, I quickly spotted him in the shadows beneath a tree at the edge of the parking lot, walking his dog on a leash.
With the proper tone of mockery, I shouted, "What's the matter, couldn't the little s__t wait until you got home?"
After a pause, a completely unfamiliar voice responded, "I'm sorry, are you speaking to me?"
Out of the shadows walked a man who could have been my Dad's long-lost twin. Not only was he of the same approximate age and build as my father, but he carried himself the same way, wore the same style of hat, and had very similar glasses. His dog was even the same size and color as my Dad's dog, although it wasn't quite as funny-looking. And, of course, this gentleman was also the owner of the car that I had thought to be my father's. It even had Maine plates, but of a different style.
I apologized immediately, explaining the mix-up and pointing out the numerous details that had led to my confusion. The fellow listened patiently, cupping his chin in one hand, and after a few moments of silence, he asked, "Tell me, are you on good terms with your father?"
"Absolutely," I said, "I love my Dad. He's the greatest!"
"If that's the case," the man said thoughtfully, "I suppose I can't take issue with being mistaken for him, can I?"
So, when I came out of the town's 6-aisle grocery store one night and saw a black VW station wagon parked next to my truck, my first thought was that it was odd that I hadn't crossed paths with my father inside the store. Looking around, I quickly spotted him in the shadows beneath a tree at the edge of the parking lot, walking his dog on a leash.
With the proper tone of mockery, I shouted, "What's the matter, couldn't the little s__t wait until you got home?"
After a pause, a completely unfamiliar voice responded, "I'm sorry, are you speaking to me?"
Out of the shadows walked a man who could have been my Dad's long-lost twin. Not only was he of the same approximate age and build as my father, but he carried himself the same way, wore the same style of hat, and had very similar glasses. His dog was even the same size and color as my Dad's dog, although it wasn't quite as funny-looking. And, of course, this gentleman was also the owner of the car that I had thought to be my father's. It even had Maine plates, but of a different style.
I apologized immediately, explaining the mix-up and pointing out the numerous details that had led to my confusion. The fellow listened patiently, cupping his chin in one hand, and after a few moments of silence, he asked, "Tell me, are you on good terms with your father?"
"Absolutely," I said, "I love my Dad. He's the greatest!"
"If that's the case," the man said thoughtfully, "I suppose I can't take issue with being mistaken for him, can I?"
Saturday, July 7, 2012
What is a patriot?
Here in the United States, our national celebration of independence has come and gone, along with all of the fireworks, bunting, and discount mattress sales which have come to be associated with it. You may note that I did not call it 'the 4th of July;' that is simply the date upon which falls the national holiday known officially as Indepedence Day. This is an important distinction to me, although I will not press my opinion upon others.
That's really the point, isn't it? This is a country founded upon a simple and unifying principle: freedom. The freedom to be who and what we want to be, to do (without infringing upon the freedom of others) what we want to do, to worship whatever deity (if any) we so choose, and to say whatever we want to say. The documents drawn up to ensure such rights have a lot of necessary boilerplate attached to them, but that's what it comes down to: freedom.
Despite whatever may be wrong with it at any given time, I love my country. I cherish the freedom afforded to me by my nationality. I consider myself, all political affiliations aside, to be a true patriot. Yet I recently took part in an interesting discussion in which I was accused, for various reasons, of being unpatriotic. So what is a patriot?
The Oxford English Dictionary defines a patriot as thus: a person who vigorously supports their country and is ready to defend it against enemies or detractors.
By that definition, I entirely qualify. I even love my country's insignia, though I am not normally one given to the worship of symbols. I own a high-quality American Flag, and when I display it I do so in strict accordance to the traditional protocol of respect. I've even been known to lecture those who break that protocol; for some reason, it just pisses me off to see a flag mistreated. I really frown upon those who wrap themselves in a flag or wear one like a cape. The honor of being draped with our national ensign is reserved solely for those who have given service to the nation, and even then only posthumously. But I've gotten off the topic.
Yes, I was accused of being unpatriotic. Why? Because I objected to the practice of coercing children to say the Pledge of Allegiance in schools. As stated above, I love and respect my country's flag, but I think it's ridiculous that children should be taught to begin each day by praying to it. That's right, I said praying. I think it was that statement that this person took such issue with, for their response was to tell me, with no small amount of profanity, that the Pledge of Allegiance was part of the U.S. Constitution and a national tradition. In fact, the Pledge of Allegiance was written in 1892 by a Baptist minister (and card-carrying Socialist) as what he called a 'secular prayer' used to open his non-denominational services. It languished in obscurity until 1942, when it was instituted in schools and government buildings to promote national unity during World War Two. In 1956, at the urging of President Eisenhower and the Knights of Colombus, the words 'under God' were added, presumably as a dig against those "godless red commie bastards" who were, at the time, our nation's greatest enemy. Unfortunately, my patient delivery of this short history lesson fell on deaf ears.
As this quite public discussion went on, I was not only branded unpatriotic and un-American, but I was also told that I was a threat to the values of this country, that I should never be allowed to have children of my own or be in contact with other people's children, and that if I didn't like what was going on in this country, then I should "pack (my) ____ing bags and get the hell out!" (My cousin's wonderful comeback to this was "who appointed you the Deportation Fairy?")
I don't go out of my way to publicly humiliate the ignorant and hypocritical, but I must confess to taking great delight in helping them do it to themselves.
So here is my opinion: anyone who wishes to brand themselves a patriot should A) obtain at least a basic working knowledge of their country's history and fundamental ideals, B) be prepared to debate the meaning of said ideals in a civil and open-minded exchange, and C) learn the difference between patriotism and nationalism.
To do any less would be downright unpatriotic, don't you think?
That's really the point, isn't it? This is a country founded upon a simple and unifying principle: freedom. The freedom to be who and what we want to be, to do (without infringing upon the freedom of others) what we want to do, to worship whatever deity (if any) we so choose, and to say whatever we want to say. The documents drawn up to ensure such rights have a lot of necessary boilerplate attached to them, but that's what it comes down to: freedom.
Despite whatever may be wrong with it at any given time, I love my country. I cherish the freedom afforded to me by my nationality. I consider myself, all political affiliations aside, to be a true patriot. Yet I recently took part in an interesting discussion in which I was accused, for various reasons, of being unpatriotic. So what is a patriot?
The Oxford English Dictionary defines a patriot as thus: a person who vigorously supports their country and is ready to defend it against enemies or detractors.
By that definition, I entirely qualify. I even love my country's insignia, though I am not normally one given to the worship of symbols. I own a high-quality American Flag, and when I display it I do so in strict accordance to the traditional protocol of respect. I've even been known to lecture those who break that protocol; for some reason, it just pisses me off to see a flag mistreated. I really frown upon those who wrap themselves in a flag or wear one like a cape. The honor of being draped with our national ensign is reserved solely for those who have given service to the nation, and even then only posthumously. But I've gotten off the topic.
Yes, I was accused of being unpatriotic. Why? Because I objected to the practice of coercing children to say the Pledge of Allegiance in schools. As stated above, I love and respect my country's flag, but I think it's ridiculous that children should be taught to begin each day by praying to it. That's right, I said praying. I think it was that statement that this person took such issue with, for their response was to tell me, with no small amount of profanity, that the Pledge of Allegiance was part of the U.S. Constitution and a national tradition. In fact, the Pledge of Allegiance was written in 1892 by a Baptist minister (and card-carrying Socialist) as what he called a 'secular prayer' used to open his non-denominational services. It languished in obscurity until 1942, when it was instituted in schools and government buildings to promote national unity during World War Two. In 1956, at the urging of President Eisenhower and the Knights of Colombus, the words 'under God' were added, presumably as a dig against those "godless red commie bastards" who were, at the time, our nation's greatest enemy. Unfortunately, my patient delivery of this short history lesson fell on deaf ears.
As this quite public discussion went on, I was not only branded unpatriotic and un-American, but I was also told that I was a threat to the values of this country, that I should never be allowed to have children of my own or be in contact with other people's children, and that if I didn't like what was going on in this country, then I should "pack (my) ____ing bags and get the hell out!" (My cousin's wonderful comeback to this was "who appointed you the Deportation Fairy?")
I don't go out of my way to publicly humiliate the ignorant and hypocritical, but I must confess to taking great delight in helping them do it to themselves.
So here is my opinion: anyone who wishes to brand themselves a patriot should A) obtain at least a basic working knowledge of their country's history and fundamental ideals, B) be prepared to debate the meaning of said ideals in a civil and open-minded exchange, and C) learn the difference between patriotism and nationalism.
To do any less would be downright unpatriotic, don't you think?
Friday, July 6, 2012
Shameless Self-Promotion
As part of my ongoing campaign to mercilessly inflict myself upon the unsuspecting public, I have added the options to follow this blog via e-mail and a list of links to my stories that have been published online (a pitifully short list, at the moment). You will find both at the bottom of the page. Also, if you wisely choose to become a follower of this blog, not only will you and your loved ones be spared when the revolution comes, but your smiling face (or whatever you've chosen as an avatar) will be proudly displayed in the right-hand column.
I think I'm getting the hang of this blogging business. It's not about what I write, it's about the gadgets!
I think I'm getting the hang of this blogging business. It's not about what I write, it's about the gadgets!
Thursday, July 5, 2012
The Battle of the Morn (Poem)
As promised, here's some of my terrible poetry:
The Battle of the Morn
by Anders Benson
At the appointed hour, a spiteful cry doth sound
As man and monster take afield to begin another round
The man with flailing fist doth aim to strike his enemy down
He lands a mighty blow upon its battered head
The screaming beast recoils, stunned, but far from dead
Now our hero rests, for blissful minutes nine
Until the foe returneth backed by morning's shine
In waxing rays they bray and battle, their war as old as time
The stalwart red-eyed beast, its detested duty clear;
The drowsy man defending the solace he holds dear
Again, again, once more again, they circle, feint, and jab!
Here a raucous squawk, there a wild stab!
In vainest hope the man doth try more precious sleep to grab
Alas that dream will always lie just beyond his grasp
For the beast's attack is to the ear like the venom of an asp
With plaint and growl the man, vanquished and at bay,
Concedes the battle to the beast and greets the dawning day
But first he makes a token strike, as he'll not forsake the fray
With joints a-creaking doth he rise to see his business through
The alarm clock bides in patience 'til the fight begins anew
The Battle of the Morn
by Anders Benson
At the appointed hour, a spiteful cry doth sound
As man and monster take afield to begin another round
The man with flailing fist doth aim to strike his enemy down
He lands a mighty blow upon its battered head
The screaming beast recoils, stunned, but far from dead
Now our hero rests, for blissful minutes nine
Until the foe returneth backed by morning's shine
In waxing rays they bray and battle, their war as old as time
The stalwart red-eyed beast, its detested duty clear;
The drowsy man defending the solace he holds dear
Again, again, once more again, they circle, feint, and jab!
Here a raucous squawk, there a wild stab!
In vainest hope the man doth try more precious sleep to grab
Alas that dream will always lie just beyond his grasp
For the beast's attack is to the ear like the venom of an asp
With plaint and growl the man, vanquished and at bay,
Concedes the battle to the beast and greets the dawning day
But first he makes a token strike, as he'll not forsake the fray
With joints a-creaking doth he rise to see his business through
The alarm clock bides in patience 'til the fight begins anew
Monday, July 2, 2012
International Greetings
No post today, but I extend a warm and heartfelt Gruß, приветствие, and 인사 to my international readers. It's a thrill to see that my humble blog is attracting attention from around the world.
Oh, and if any of those greetings are incorrect, blame Google Translator. I'm not actually multilingual, I'm only pretending.
Oh, and if any of those greetings are incorrect, blame Google Translator. I'm not actually multilingual, I'm only pretending.
Sunday, July 1, 2012
Write What You Know
One of the most common--and most frustrating--pieces of advice given to budding writers is "write what you know." I have received this pearl of wisdom many times, and will undoubtedly dispense it at least as many times in years to come.
A writer must have something to write about. All the linguistic chops in the world won't get you very far if you don't have an interesting topic, and the key to making something interesting is to make it real. A writer must draw upon experience, education, and emotion in order to breathe life into their work; in other words, a writer must have lived. That is why I am only now, in my early thirties, developing the skills that will take me to a professional level, because without something to write about, my ability and capacity for exploration as a writer was as limited as my material.
Begin, of course with first-hand knowledge: everything you have ever done, seen, or personally experienced, all of your skills and talents that do not seem related to writing, all of these will form the physical foundation of your writing. Next, your second-hand knowledge: everything you have ever read, heard about, or otherwise learned of can be important, whether it becomes the core of inspiration or simply a small but vital detail. You will end up doing a lot of research simply to lend credibility to your work. Even rumor and hearsay have their part, because so much good fiction is an elaborate tapestry woven around a single strand of truth. If 99% of your story is simply made up out of thin air, that 1% of it drawn from reality is what will pull the reader in and make it believable (although I'd recommend a somewhat more balanced ratio).
But a writer's material goes far beyond the material, and this is where the true meaning of "write what you know" becomes clear. The most important and most often overlooked part is to write what you know in your heart. You cannot simply bombard the reader with facts and details and expect them to become swept up in the world you have created, you must connect with them emotionally. If you want a reader to identify with a character, you must discover what it is you yourself like about that character and emphasize those traits, which are far more important than hair color or wardrobe. Likewise, if you want the reader to despise a character, don't just model them on somebody you find despicable; model them on what you find dispicable about yourself. Always, always, always make it personal. Draw out the humor or tragedy as desired by finding it within yourself, not just within the scene. Your words should have the same effect on you as they do on your audience. Your writing should thrill and amaze and traumatize you. When your heart pounds in your chest as you type the thrilling climax, when you laugh aloud at a particularly clever scenario you've devised, or when tears well up in your eyes when you pen the heartfelt finale, that's when you've really got something.
Do that, and you are truly writing what you know.
A writer must have something to write about. All the linguistic chops in the world won't get you very far if you don't have an interesting topic, and the key to making something interesting is to make it real. A writer must draw upon experience, education, and emotion in order to breathe life into their work; in other words, a writer must have lived. That is why I am only now, in my early thirties, developing the skills that will take me to a professional level, because without something to write about, my ability and capacity for exploration as a writer was as limited as my material.
Begin, of course with first-hand knowledge: everything you have ever done, seen, or personally experienced, all of your skills and talents that do not seem related to writing, all of these will form the physical foundation of your writing. Next, your second-hand knowledge: everything you have ever read, heard about, or otherwise learned of can be important, whether it becomes the core of inspiration or simply a small but vital detail. You will end up doing a lot of research simply to lend credibility to your work. Even rumor and hearsay have their part, because so much good fiction is an elaborate tapestry woven around a single strand of truth. If 99% of your story is simply made up out of thin air, that 1% of it drawn from reality is what will pull the reader in and make it believable (although I'd recommend a somewhat more balanced ratio).
But a writer's material goes far beyond the material, and this is where the true meaning of "write what you know" becomes clear. The most important and most often overlooked part is to write what you know in your heart. You cannot simply bombard the reader with facts and details and expect them to become swept up in the world you have created, you must connect with them emotionally. If you want a reader to identify with a character, you must discover what it is you yourself like about that character and emphasize those traits, which are far more important than hair color or wardrobe. Likewise, if you want the reader to despise a character, don't just model them on somebody you find despicable; model them on what you find dispicable about yourself. Always, always, always make it personal. Draw out the humor or tragedy as desired by finding it within yourself, not just within the scene. Your words should have the same effect on you as they do on your audience. Your writing should thrill and amaze and traumatize you. When your heart pounds in your chest as you type the thrilling climax, when you laugh aloud at a particularly clever scenario you've devised, or when tears well up in your eyes when you pen the heartfelt finale, that's when you've really got something.
Do that, and you are truly writing what you know.
Monday, June 25, 2012
I Can't See the Parrot
There is a pirate on my bathroom floor.
If you sit on the toilet and look down at your feet, you can see him clearly, a bust portrait, about two inches square, of a bearded man with craggy feautures and a large nose. He's wearing a flamboyantly decorated bicorn hat, and if you study him carefully you can just make out the frilly lace around his collar.
The propensity to see familiar shapes and forms in the random patterns of the world is hardly mine alone; everyone does it, to a greater or lesser degree of awareness. It is a human habit, an ability we share with other predators but take to a much higher level. I believe it is a vestigial survival tool, left over from the dawn of humanity, when the ability to peer into the shadows and determine the difference between a stand of bushes and a pack of wolves was vital to carrying on one's bloodline.
Today that ability is rarely so important, but still present, so the skill has found another outlet: our imaginations. How many of us have lain on our backs and stared up at the clouds and the stars? We see serpents in the swirl of water, beasts with staring eyes in the styling of an automobile, constellations in the night sky, and pirates sketched out in the mottled pattern of the tiles on the bathroom floor.
Mrs. Benson swears there's a parrot on his shoulder, but I don't see it.
If you sit on the toilet and look down at your feet, you can see him clearly, a bust portrait, about two inches square, of a bearded man with craggy feautures and a large nose. He's wearing a flamboyantly decorated bicorn hat, and if you study him carefully you can just make out the frilly lace around his collar.
The propensity to see familiar shapes and forms in the random patterns of the world is hardly mine alone; everyone does it, to a greater or lesser degree of awareness. It is a human habit, an ability we share with other predators but take to a much higher level. I believe it is a vestigial survival tool, left over from the dawn of humanity, when the ability to peer into the shadows and determine the difference between a stand of bushes and a pack of wolves was vital to carrying on one's bloodline.
Today that ability is rarely so important, but still present, so the skill has found another outlet: our imaginations. How many of us have lain on our backs and stared up at the clouds and the stars? We see serpents in the swirl of water, beasts with staring eyes in the styling of an automobile, constellations in the night sky, and pirates sketched out in the mottled pattern of the tiles on the bathroom floor.
Mrs. Benson swears there's a parrot on his shoulder, but I don't see it.
Sunday, June 24, 2012
Random Access Creativity
First off, let me be perfectly honest: this post is mostly a placeholder to keep my millions of loyal fans entertained while I think up something interesting to write about. I suppose I could just cut-and-paste something out of my travel journal or inflict a few lines of my rotten poetry on you, but you're good people and you deserve some original material. If I start doing that stuff this early it'll become a habit.
A problem arises for me with any creative endeavor that requires regular upkeep: I'm a space cadet. I don't think in linear fashion. I always have half a dozen different projects going at once, yet I'm no multi-tasker. At any given time, I have four or five short story ideas percolating in my mind and two or three in various stages of completion. I also have a couple of unfinished novels, unfinished because I have progressed so much as a writer since I started them that I eventually realized how bad they are. One is slowly evolving into a webcomic, for which I am half-heartedly seeking an artist, and the other is actually a very good premise which will make for an excellent novel once I'm ready to sit down and start over from the beginning. And now, of course, I also have a blog.
What I don't have is any skill at all with priority management. The stories in my head present themselves to me when they are ready to be written and no sooner than that, the average gestation period falling somewhere between fifteen minutes and seven months. The stories that I've begun to write but have stalled sit there until I, or more frequently my wife, figure(s) out why they aren't working. Ideas that take weeks to form will be written in half a day, and vice-versa. It may not seem like the most efficient way to do things, but it works quite well, and I have no desire to change it.
It is, however, very bad for a blog. You're relying on me to feed you a steady stream of entertainment and profound wisdom, and time after time I'm going to be late with the goods. It will be feast and famine, I'm afraid, and all I can do is beseech you to stay with me through the lean times, for tomorrow there will be cake.
A problem arises for me with any creative endeavor that requires regular upkeep: I'm a space cadet. I don't think in linear fashion. I always have half a dozen different projects going at once, yet I'm no multi-tasker. At any given time, I have four or five short story ideas percolating in my mind and two or three in various stages of completion. I also have a couple of unfinished novels, unfinished because I have progressed so much as a writer since I started them that I eventually realized how bad they are. One is slowly evolving into a webcomic, for which I am half-heartedly seeking an artist, and the other is actually a very good premise which will make for an excellent novel once I'm ready to sit down and start over from the beginning. And now, of course, I also have a blog.
What I don't have is any skill at all with priority management. The stories in my head present themselves to me when they are ready to be written and no sooner than that, the average gestation period falling somewhere between fifteen minutes and seven months. The stories that I've begun to write but have stalled sit there until I, or more frequently my wife, figure(s) out why they aren't working. Ideas that take weeks to form will be written in half a day, and vice-versa. It may not seem like the most efficient way to do things, but it works quite well, and I have no desire to change it.
It is, however, very bad for a blog. You're relying on me to feed you a steady stream of entertainment and profound wisdom, and time after time I'm going to be late with the goods. It will be feast and famine, I'm afraid, and all I can do is beseech you to stay with me through the lean times, for tomorrow there will be cake.
Monday, June 18, 2012
Life interference: no penalty!
It is 12:45am EST, June 19th, 2012, which makes today the eighth anniversary of my marriage to a woman who will never figure out that she's too good for me.
We should be celebrating. Eight years ago we sure were; the party started at about 5pm the day before the wedding and lasted a good forty hours or so. But all is quiet in the house of Benson tonight. I have insomnia, as usual, and will be very slow to rise in the morning. My wife went to bed early, because she has to get up at 5:30 to drive herself to the nearest town big enough to support a full-time dentist, where she will undoubtedly have something very unpleasant done to her teeth. I'd drive her there myself, but I'm still recovering from back surgery and under doctor's orders not to operate a motor vehicle, sit up in a chair, cough, breathe too deeply, or blink; I'll bore you with the hows & whys concerning this predicament at a later date.
Yes, unfortunately Mrs. Benson will have dental work done on her wedding anniversary, and then, because it is a weekday, she will come home to a full day of orders, invoices, phone calls, and all of the other shenanigans involved in keeping the family business thriving. Her grouchy and semi-invalid husband has an exciting and complicated new story under development, which means he'll likely be unavailable and mono-syllabic for much of the working day. The sad truth is that I'm probably putting down more words in this blog entry than I will say to my darling wife for the entirety of the upcoming 9-5.
This isn't the way wedding anniversaries are supposed to go. If this were a hockey game, there would be a two-minute call for interference. Life would have to go sit in the penalty box.
But when work-time is over, we're gonna tear it up for sure. Very carefully, of course. Because of my back. In fact, there probably won't be much excitement at all.
Grrr...
I declare to the world my undying love for my wife on this, the eighth anniversary of our marriage. Next year will be better. We'll have a huge party, and you're all invited.
We should be celebrating. Eight years ago we sure were; the party started at about 5pm the day before the wedding and lasted a good forty hours or so. But all is quiet in the house of Benson tonight. I have insomnia, as usual, and will be very slow to rise in the morning. My wife went to bed early, because she has to get up at 5:30 to drive herself to the nearest town big enough to support a full-time dentist, where she will undoubtedly have something very unpleasant done to her teeth. I'd drive her there myself, but I'm still recovering from back surgery and under doctor's orders not to operate a motor vehicle, sit up in a chair, cough, breathe too deeply, or blink; I'll bore you with the hows & whys concerning this predicament at a later date.
Yes, unfortunately Mrs. Benson will have dental work done on her wedding anniversary, and then, because it is a weekday, she will come home to a full day of orders, invoices, phone calls, and all of the other shenanigans involved in keeping the family business thriving. Her grouchy and semi-invalid husband has an exciting and complicated new story under development, which means he'll likely be unavailable and mono-syllabic for much of the working day. The sad truth is that I'm probably putting down more words in this blog entry than I will say to my darling wife for the entirety of the upcoming 9-5.
This isn't the way wedding anniversaries are supposed to go. If this were a hockey game, there would be a two-minute call for interference. Life would have to go sit in the penalty box.
But when work-time is over, we're gonna tear it up for sure. Very carefully, of course. Because of my back. In fact, there probably won't be much excitement at all.
Grrr...
I declare to the world my undying love for my wife on this, the eighth anniversary of our marriage. Next year will be better. We'll have a huge party, and you're all invited.
Saturday, June 16, 2012
The Semi-Reluctant Blogger
When it comes to the Internet, I may, on the surface, appear to be a bit of a dinosaur, behind the times in all things electronic, but the reality is that I'm aware of these things long before I choose to become a part of them. I just made my Facebook page last year, and this is my first foray into blogging, but I've known what they both were almost from the start.
As hard as it may be for some of you young folk to believe, I was there when the Internet began. I was online in '92, in the heady days of newsgroups and cyber-rebellion and unregulated URLs, before commercialization, when only the kids and the nerds knew what was going on. Maybe that's why I'm slow to jump on a bandwagon these days, because while everyone else aboard is just enjoying the music, I'm watching where the wagon is headed. Remember MySpace? Don't feel bad, not many do. I took a look at it and gave it a pass. It was one of the first of its species to emerge from the trees and walk on two legs, and just like Australopithicus, it's gone now, driven out by a more evolved successor, leaving only a few fossils and a vestigial remnant of its DNA behind. It and others like it only served to carve out a new ecological niche in the electronic wilderness, then from amongst them one and only one--Facebook--rose to apex predator status.
I'm not really a 'joiner' (though neither do I consider myself a natural leader; more on that some other time), so perhaps it makes sense that I would wait to make sure something has staying power before I invest any time and energy in it. I remain wary of social networking, but it has its uses, so now that there is a clearly dominant franchise, I'm in for a penny. I'm still not certain that we won't all be posting and messaging and poking and tagging somewhere else in five years' time; after all, I'm one of the old-timers who remembers what happened to AOL... such a tragedy, watching the poor critter waste away like that. Makes me shudder to think of it.
Likewise, this blogging thing seems to have caught on, so after much obstinance and procrastination, I'm giving it a shot. It's a little strange; due to my dynamic and mercurial nature, which is a fun way of saying I have Attention Deficit Disorder (no H, thankyouverymuch), I've never had much luck at maintaining a diary. The closest I've ever come would be the travel journals I keep when on the road; look forward to excerpts from those in future posts. Only now here I am doing just that, but with an audience, and one mostly composed of strangers at that.
What will you think of me? What kind of person will I become in your mind? Will your imaginary Anders, based only on the bits of myself I choose to share with you, be anything like the real me, or will he be an entirely different person, raised to a near-corporeal state in the collective imagination of you, the Readers? I can envision another Anders who will eventually become his own separate being, brought to life not by my stories and blog posts, but by the minds of those who read them.
I've forgotten where I started. Blogging seems to do that to people.
I guess that means I'm a part of it now.
As hard as it may be for some of you young folk to believe, I was there when the Internet began. I was online in '92, in the heady days of newsgroups and cyber-rebellion and unregulated URLs, before commercialization, when only the kids and the nerds knew what was going on. Maybe that's why I'm slow to jump on a bandwagon these days, because while everyone else aboard is just enjoying the music, I'm watching where the wagon is headed. Remember MySpace? Don't feel bad, not many do. I took a look at it and gave it a pass. It was one of the first of its species to emerge from the trees and walk on two legs, and just like Australopithicus, it's gone now, driven out by a more evolved successor, leaving only a few fossils and a vestigial remnant of its DNA behind. It and others like it only served to carve out a new ecological niche in the electronic wilderness, then from amongst them one and only one--Facebook--rose to apex predator status.
I'm not really a 'joiner' (though neither do I consider myself a natural leader; more on that some other time), so perhaps it makes sense that I would wait to make sure something has staying power before I invest any time and energy in it. I remain wary of social networking, but it has its uses, so now that there is a clearly dominant franchise, I'm in for a penny. I'm still not certain that we won't all be posting and messaging and poking and tagging somewhere else in five years' time; after all, I'm one of the old-timers who remembers what happened to AOL... such a tragedy, watching the poor critter waste away like that. Makes me shudder to think of it.
Likewise, this blogging thing seems to have caught on, so after much obstinance and procrastination, I'm giving it a shot. It's a little strange; due to my dynamic and mercurial nature, which is a fun way of saying I have Attention Deficit Disorder (no H, thankyouverymuch), I've never had much luck at maintaining a diary. The closest I've ever come would be the travel journals I keep when on the road; look forward to excerpts from those in future posts. Only now here I am doing just that, but with an audience, and one mostly composed of strangers at that.
What will you think of me? What kind of person will I become in your mind? Will your imaginary Anders, based only on the bits of myself I choose to share with you, be anything like the real me, or will he be an entirely different person, raised to a near-corporeal state in the collective imagination of you, the Readers? I can envision another Anders who will eventually become his own separate being, brought to life not by my stories and blog posts, but by the minds of those who read them.
I've forgotten where I started. Blogging seems to do that to people.
I guess that means I'm a part of it now.
Friday, June 15, 2012
The Once and Future Hipster
Apparently, the contemporary resurgence of the term 'hipster' has its origins in the late 1990s, which means that I was one of the original modern hipsters. I was so hip that I didn't even know I was hip, and if anyone had told me I was hip, I would have denied it. I never heard the term hipster back then, probably because I was so damn hip that I entirely rejected the notion of social taxonomy. I knew what I was, and I had no need to put a label on it.
I had all of the hipster trademarks. I was the ultimate trendless trend-setter. I had the iconic rock band t-shirts, the kind you can't get anymore, the ones from the first tour when nobody had even heard of them. I had the weatherbeaten work pants, the paint-spattered jeans, the ridiculously green wide-wale corduroys. I had a whole closet full of interesting hats and footwear to be worn in organically athematic combination. I was the only person anybody knew who had two chains on their wallet, deliberately mismatched and arranged to hang just so, declaring my ultimate hipness straight from the hip.
Every article of clothing I owned had a story attached to it. Everything I wore was an effortlessly cool expression of who I was. I did hip, interesting things with many different interesting people, and when I told those people about the hip things I did with the other people, they all thought that it was really hip and interesting. I listened to music by bands that were so new they hadn't even heard of themselves, I followed every detail of the local underground music scene, and I went to shows in shitty little dive bars that took great pains to maintain their status as shitty little dives. Everybody knew who I was, and when they saw me walk by they couldn't help but wonder what hip, interesting things I was on my way to do.
And I did it all without even trying. That's the truth. All I was doing was being myself. It is also true that, deep down inside, I desperately wanted to be so damn hip. I relished my hipness. I craved that hip feeling, and sought after it like an addict. I never pretended to be something I wasn't, but I was always genuinely me in the most overt way I could manage. With the exception of a few good friends, I didn't really care what others thought of me, but I obsessed over what I thought of myself. Mine was a constant, silent struggle of coolly detached self-critique and reinvention, never satisfied with the current version, chasing that elusive event horizon of perfect, zen-like supreme hipness.
At some point in the last ten or twelve years, all of that changed. As happens to all of us eventually, I got mixed up in the real world and stuff happened, stuff that was more important than hipness, like learning to weld, falling in love, and earning money. For a long time, getting was more important than being: getting jobs, getting hurt, getting married, getting by. Hipness, by whatever unspoken name I had known it, no longer mattered.
A few days ago, I was in one of those really hip new-agey stores where they sell most of the unbelievably cool non-conformist stuff that true hipsters use to visually define their total irreverence to everything, and as I wandered among the handmade clothing, African drums, inscence, and obscure subculture memoribilia, I remembered back to the time when I was that young, interesting, totally unique guy who was so hip that he neither knew nor cared that someday he would be somebody like me. I looked at my worn, stained work pants that had no story to tell other than one of hard, strenuous work, at my blank cotton t-shirt that sent no message to the world other than that my only priority in shirt-selection that day had been to find one that comfortably clothed my upper body, and at the leather sandals that I wear when my steel-toed shitkickers are not required, and it struck me that I no longer care what I look like or how obvious it is to everyone that I am absolutely the most me I could possibly be. I realized, no more in words than I had defined it in the first place, that I was no longer hip, and had no desire to be.
But I was wrong.
Mrs. Benson caught my wistful smirk and asked what was behind it. I told her, less cohesively, more or less all of the preceding, and with her unerring knack for on-the-spot profundity, she told me not only that I had been an original hipster, but that I still am. All of that hipness that I wore on the outside back then is on the inside now. I am now so completely myself that I am no longer concerned with being me. I no longer crave that hipness, she told me, because now I have it, all of it, all of the time. Somehow, without trying, I have become the hipsterian ideal, a hipster so hip that hipness is no longer necessary. I am supremely hip.
And the best part is that I don't even care.
I had all of the hipster trademarks. I was the ultimate trendless trend-setter. I had the iconic rock band t-shirts, the kind you can't get anymore, the ones from the first tour when nobody had even heard of them. I had the weatherbeaten work pants, the paint-spattered jeans, the ridiculously green wide-wale corduroys. I had a whole closet full of interesting hats and footwear to be worn in organically athematic combination. I was the only person anybody knew who had two chains on their wallet, deliberately mismatched and arranged to hang just so, declaring my ultimate hipness straight from the hip.
Every article of clothing I owned had a story attached to it. Everything I wore was an effortlessly cool expression of who I was. I did hip, interesting things with many different interesting people, and when I told those people about the hip things I did with the other people, they all thought that it was really hip and interesting. I listened to music by bands that were so new they hadn't even heard of themselves, I followed every detail of the local underground music scene, and I went to shows in shitty little dive bars that took great pains to maintain their status as shitty little dives. Everybody knew who I was, and when they saw me walk by they couldn't help but wonder what hip, interesting things I was on my way to do.
And I did it all without even trying. That's the truth. All I was doing was being myself. It is also true that, deep down inside, I desperately wanted to be so damn hip. I relished my hipness. I craved that hip feeling, and sought after it like an addict. I never pretended to be something I wasn't, but I was always genuinely me in the most overt way I could manage. With the exception of a few good friends, I didn't really care what others thought of me, but I obsessed over what I thought of myself. Mine was a constant, silent struggle of coolly detached self-critique and reinvention, never satisfied with the current version, chasing that elusive event horizon of perfect, zen-like supreme hipness.
At some point in the last ten or twelve years, all of that changed. As happens to all of us eventually, I got mixed up in the real world and stuff happened, stuff that was more important than hipness, like learning to weld, falling in love, and earning money. For a long time, getting was more important than being: getting jobs, getting hurt, getting married, getting by. Hipness, by whatever unspoken name I had known it, no longer mattered.
A few days ago, I was in one of those really hip new-agey stores where they sell most of the unbelievably cool non-conformist stuff that true hipsters use to visually define their total irreverence to everything, and as I wandered among the handmade clothing, African drums, inscence, and obscure subculture memoribilia, I remembered back to the time when I was that young, interesting, totally unique guy who was so hip that he neither knew nor cared that someday he would be somebody like me. I looked at my worn, stained work pants that had no story to tell other than one of hard, strenuous work, at my blank cotton t-shirt that sent no message to the world other than that my only priority in shirt-selection that day had been to find one that comfortably clothed my upper body, and at the leather sandals that I wear when my steel-toed shitkickers are not required, and it struck me that I no longer care what I look like or how obvious it is to everyone that I am absolutely the most me I could possibly be. I realized, no more in words than I had defined it in the first place, that I was no longer hip, and had no desire to be.
But I was wrong.
Mrs. Benson caught my wistful smirk and asked what was behind it. I told her, less cohesively, more or less all of the preceding, and with her unerring knack for on-the-spot profundity, she told me not only that I had been an original hipster, but that I still am. All of that hipness that I wore on the outside back then is on the inside now. I am now so completely myself that I am no longer concerned with being me. I no longer crave that hipness, she told me, because now I have it, all of it, all of the time. Somehow, without trying, I have become the hipsterian ideal, a hipster so hip that hipness is no longer necessary. I am supremely hip.
And the best part is that I don't even care.
It Begins (read first, or just jump right in)
My name is Anders Benson. Remember that; it may be important later.
I am a writer. At the time of this post, I am at the threshold of my career. From time to time, I may make reference to a story that I've had published in the past, or one that is slated for publishing, but self-promotion is only a secondary aim of this blog. I have no clearly defined objective for this project--there will be no theme, no unifying element, no regular schedule. Hopefully those of you who read it will understand and forgive when there are long gaps without activity, just as you will relish the inevitable flurries of posts that will come one right after another during my manic phases.
I will make no further attempt to explain or apologize for myself. I am who and what I am, and unless noted as opinion or fiction (or blatantly obviously so), everything I write on this blog is the truth as I see it.
Enjoy.
I am a writer. At the time of this post, I am at the threshold of my career. From time to time, I may make reference to a story that I've had published in the past, or one that is slated for publishing, but self-promotion is only a secondary aim of this blog. I have no clearly defined objective for this project--there will be no theme, no unifying element, no regular schedule. Hopefully those of you who read it will understand and forgive when there are long gaps without activity, just as you will relish the inevitable flurries of posts that will come one right after another during my manic phases.
I will make no further attempt to explain or apologize for myself. I am who and what I am, and unless noted as opinion or fiction (or blatantly obviously so), everything I write on this blog is the truth as I see it.
Enjoy.
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