Another great night for writing. Piece by piece this project is beginning to take shape.
I am constantly reminded of Kate Braverman's beautiful quote about the craft of writing: "You build a novel the same way you do a pyramid. One word, one stone at a time, underneath a full moon when the fingers bleed." How much sketching went into the pyramids before they found a design they could start to work with? How many formal plans? How many calculations? I am beginning to see that unlike some writers I cannot simply sit down and write one line at a time from beginning to end. I am beginning to see (finally...after how long?) that it is truly an iterative process for me.
First comes long conversations with K about the idea, then brief half page sketches, snatches of dialogue, a striking description that captures a mood or a moment in time. After that comes a full length synopsis--even if it is raw--just to get the broad strokes of the idea down on paper and out of my head. The phase I'm on now is a slow and methodical process of laying the actual groundwork of who does what and when. I am discovering now what actually works and what doesn't. The characters--and even the story itself--are beginning to assert their own influence over the story. Ideas for the prologue that I thought were great at first have been tossed aside in favour of new ones that seem to come more from Charlotte and her world than from me. This entire process is an unfolding, the way a flower bud cracks then slowly begins to unfurl itself to the sun petal by petal. Everything the blossom is was in that tight little bud. Everything the flower is was contained in its seed--the roots, the stem, the leaves and the petals. Sunder is creating itself in collaboration with me.
It's been a productive night and it's time to go home now. Another long day ahead of me at the office then another evening here to cut more stone.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Sunder: Day 58
Another great night for writing. It's late, though, and I have a full day tomorrow so not a lot of time to dwell on accomplishments beyond a word count: 1263. More tomorrow.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Sunder: Day 57
A good night for thinking and piecing things together. A good night for writing, too, but more for inserting vital parts that were overlooked instead of extending what had come last night. I worked on details, both in terms of setting and character, and this was interspersed by brief periods of reading (Tau Zero by Poul Anderson).There is other reading to be done that I have neglected. Mining the Sky by John Lewis. Entering Space by Robert Zubrin. The New Brain. Synaptic Self. The Ethics and The Politics by Aristotle. These and other books (research material) too numerous to rattle off here, but that I have accumulated with all the best of intentions and then let gather dust on my shelves.
So much wasted time to make up for.
Sunder: Day 56--Prologue
With the arrival of our new Director of Software Development I have been ejected from my dark, quiet writing place. I tried writing at my cube, but I don’t always produce the best material there. It’s too bright. It’s too close to co-workers who may be labouring late into the evening and the temptation to talk to them is always too great for me to resist. I need solitude to write. I need silence or at the very least muffled ambient noise. Earplugs provided the silence, but wearing them for more than an hour puts pressure on the inside of my ear canal which turns into yet another kind of distraction. The writer spirit within me is a fussy old codger.
So now I find myself still at the office, but not in the formerly empty Sales Office that I enjoyed. I am comfortably set up in the Friedman Boardroom. This used to be an office. Actually I believe it used to be Chad’s old office. The wide, solid wood desk is gone now and so are the prints he hung on the walls. In their place are a small boardroom table and a wall-mounted LCD monitor.
In its favour are comfortable leather chairs. It’s in the Finance and Admin section of the corporate office, clear on the opposite side of the building from R&D and late-labouring co-workers. I am set up with my desk lamp, my coffee and a wide window in front of me with the steel venetian blinds pulled down but angled so I can still see the view of Hunt Club Road. The only noise that I have to contend with is the ambient sound of evening traffic as it passes by. No one else uses this space after hours or on the weekends so that means I don’t have to re-arrange monitors and keyboards to suit my fussy habits. For all intents and purposes, during off-hours, this space is mine.
It feels kind of good. I think I like this space a little more than the Sales Office (and I really liked that space). I can hone my craft here. I can cultivate patience (as E. B. White would say).
LATER--I don't know if the change of venue had anything to do with it, but I got a lot done tonight. It's nearly twelve thirty and I managed to get 1205 words down on the page for Sunder's prologue, a huge improvement over what I got done last night (which was next to nothing if you don't count the "ice breaker" I jammed down). Pretty tired right now, but excited, too. Time to pack up and head home.
So now I find myself still at the office, but not in the formerly empty Sales Office that I enjoyed. I am comfortably set up in the Friedman Boardroom. This used to be an office. Actually I believe it used to be Chad’s old office. The wide, solid wood desk is gone now and so are the prints he hung on the walls. In their place are a small boardroom table and a wall-mounted LCD monitor.
In its favour are comfortable leather chairs. It’s in the Finance and Admin section of the corporate office, clear on the opposite side of the building from R&D and late-labouring co-workers. I am set up with my desk lamp, my coffee and a wide window in front of me with the steel venetian blinds pulled down but angled so I can still see the view of Hunt Club Road. The only noise that I have to contend with is the ambient sound of evening traffic as it passes by. No one else uses this space after hours or on the weekends so that means I don’t have to re-arrange monitors and keyboards to suit my fussy habits. For all intents and purposes, during off-hours, this space is mine.
It feels kind of good. I think I like this space a little more than the Sales Office (and I really liked that space). I can hone my craft here. I can cultivate patience (as E. B. White would say).
LATER--I don't know if the change of venue had anything to do with it, but I got a lot done tonight. It's nearly twelve thirty and I managed to get 1205 words down on the page for Sunder's prologue, a huge improvement over what I got done last night (which was next to nothing if you don't count the "ice breaker" I jammed down). Pretty tired right now, but excited, too. Time to pack up and head home.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Practice
Sat down to start writing Sunder's prologue tonight, but nothing came out. Oh, there were a few hesitant lines, but nothing that I could sink my hooks into and ride along with. This went on--typing and deleting, typing and deleting--for the better part of a half an hour until I decided to write something else so I opened Flickr.com and trolled through random images for an interesting picture. My eyes rested on one for all of a split second before my finger clicked onward to the next page. I hit the Back button, but the page, being random, had expired. So I had to write from that fleeting memory.
--a small window on an overcast winter's day; through the window the background was gray and black and white, amorphous and out of focus; under the window was a bookshelf with items cluttered all over it, maybe vinyl records, maybe magazines; on the pane itself, in the condensation that marked the passing billow of hot breath, in a child's unpracticed lowercase hand, was a girl's name--
A gloomy chill descended over Colbrit Niemeier the instant he crossed the hallway into the little girl’s bedroom. The room light was off, but the window shade was up and the room was filled with cold, watery light that washed the vibrancy out of the colours on the walls, the cartoon bedspread and the toys scattered all over the floor. It felt like a set on a badly designed play. He looked around, noted the small desk, the perfectly made bed, nightstand, books leaning helter skelter in the small bookcase, avoiding for as long as possible the still form under the sheet.
“Has CSU been through here?” he asked.
Det. Amanda Garrett nodded curtly.
“The whole room’s been scanned and catalogued. The holo-shop boys are starting their render as we speak.”
Colbrit nodded absently and lowered himself onto the child’s bed, easing his weight onto it, scared it might give way under the fullness of his frame. He glanced through his notebook one more time, flipping pages idly and never long enough to really read anything. Another stalling tactic, Garrett realized. She regarded him closely, noting the dark shadows under his eyes and the deepening hollows of his cheeks.
“You losing weight, Niemeier?”
His head swivelled round and he turned his face up to hers. Deep frown lines stabbed downward from his nose, bracketing his thin lips, paler than usual. The eyes were…not glassy…but certainly not alive either.
“You’re taking a survey?” he asked. His voice was husky with fatigue.
The woman shrugged. She flung the tails of her overcoat behind her and squatted down near him. Now she was looking up into his face. The meager light was better here and she could tell the heavy toll that his newfound sobriety was having upon him.
“You look slimmer is all,” she said, trying hard not to sound too concerned. She knew he hated it. “Are you hitting the precinct gym?”
His gray eyes stared at her for a few hard seconds, cool as a pair of stones in a puddle. She returned his gaze, willing herself not to blink. It had become an unspoken game between the mismatched partners. First one to flinch and all that. She wasn’t going to let him win that easily. Silence stretched out, swelling between them like a bubble, altering the landscape and the gravity of the room and pushing through the doorway into the hall such that the uniform outside the threshold crossed and uncrossed his arms, clearly unsure how to behave around the two homicide detectives.
Correction: the homicide and consulting detective.
Even though the commissioner had convinced Niemeier to come onboard for this case, he still did not reinstate the former detective. He had not even announced it at the press conference, pretending not to hear the flurry of questions about “the Niemeier sightings” at the first crime scenes. As good as Niemeier had been, and still was if you were to believe the stories coming out of Transit about the Callum-Litmanen case, his disgrace was still pungent in many noses. As long as it wasn’t the heavy, smoky stench of the whisky still, Amanda didn’t care. All she worried about, still regarding Niemeier with a cynical eye, was making sure he didn’t play the veteran cop card or use this favour to the commissioner to muscle his way back into the force.
“So how about it, Niemeier?” she asked. A flicker of agitation sparked across his eyes at not hearing capital D detective in front of his name. She kept a smirk under wraps. “You pumping iron? Eating right?”
“Yeah,” he said, exasperation rattling through his voice. “That’s it exactly.” He tore his eyes away from her and glanced down at the sheet covering the body, wagging a finger over it. “Show me what you’ve got here.”
One corner of Amanda’s red lips snagged upward at the point she scored against him, but she was able to hide it as she reached across the body and drew back the sheet.
Niemeier grimaced at what he saw. His eyes rested on the back of the woman’s head where she suffered the majority of her injuries. Dried blood had formed a black stain in the nest of her fine blonde hair where her skull had been crushed by a blunt instrument. Amanda didn’t suppose he saw much of this anymore, working petty crimes in Transit. When the Big Ones happened, he didn’t get called to them anymore.
"This is Pamela Wallace."
"Nice touch with the 'is'. I like that. Respectful."
Amanda ignored him and read more of Pamela's vital statistics off the victimology as it scrolled up through her field of vision.
Niemeier interrupted her. "There was a kid, I heard. On the way in. What's his name?"
"A girl. Rosie."
Niemeier shook his head sadly. "Cute name. You get that from the victimology?"
Garrett shook her head. She stood up, crossed to the window and bent low toward the sill. She took in a deep breath and, holding back tresses of her curly red hair, blew gently against the window pane. "rosie" emerged over and over again in a child's unpracticed, lowercase hand.
Niemeier said nothing as he watched the letters vanish along with the condensation.
"One of the CSU pros found it as he scanned for prints."
"Where is she?"
"Outside with an EMT and a Child Services rep."
Garrett pointed out the window. Niemeier hauled himself to his feet and peered out the window. A little girl, four, maybe five, was sitting on the rear bumper of the EMT van playing patty-cakes with a middle aged Child Services worker. She was giggling about something the CS woman had done. Unbelievable. Niemeier blew out a sigh and rubbed his face as he headed for the door.
"Rosie," he muttered. "Shit."
"Where are you going?" Garrett hurried after him.
"Outside." Niemeier was shuffling down the stairs by the time Garrett made it into the hallway. As his head disappeared below the lip of the top step, he muttered away to himself. "Her name had to be 'Rosie'. Little blonde pigtails. Probably cute as a button. Shit."
--a small window on an overcast winter's day; through the window the background was gray and black and white, amorphous and out of focus; under the window was a bookshelf with items cluttered all over it, maybe vinyl records, maybe magazines; on the pane itself, in the condensation that marked the passing billow of hot breath, in a child's unpracticed lowercase hand, was a girl's name--
A gloomy chill descended over Colbrit Niemeier the instant he crossed the hallway into the little girl’s bedroom. The room light was off, but the window shade was up and the room was filled with cold, watery light that washed the vibrancy out of the colours on the walls, the cartoon bedspread and the toys scattered all over the floor. It felt like a set on a badly designed play. He looked around, noted the small desk, the perfectly made bed, nightstand, books leaning helter skelter in the small bookcase, avoiding for as long as possible the still form under the sheet.
“Has CSU been through here?” he asked.
Det. Amanda Garrett nodded curtly.
“The whole room’s been scanned and catalogued. The holo-shop boys are starting their render as we speak.”
Colbrit nodded absently and lowered himself onto the child’s bed, easing his weight onto it, scared it might give way under the fullness of his frame. He glanced through his notebook one more time, flipping pages idly and never long enough to really read anything. Another stalling tactic, Garrett realized. She regarded him closely, noting the dark shadows under his eyes and the deepening hollows of his cheeks.
“You losing weight, Niemeier?”
His head swivelled round and he turned his face up to hers. Deep frown lines stabbed downward from his nose, bracketing his thin lips, paler than usual. The eyes were…not glassy…but certainly not alive either.
“You’re taking a survey?” he asked. His voice was husky with fatigue.
The woman shrugged. She flung the tails of her overcoat behind her and squatted down near him. Now she was looking up into his face. The meager light was better here and she could tell the heavy toll that his newfound sobriety was having upon him.
“You look slimmer is all,” she said, trying hard not to sound too concerned. She knew he hated it. “Are you hitting the precinct gym?”
His gray eyes stared at her for a few hard seconds, cool as a pair of stones in a puddle. She returned his gaze, willing herself not to blink. It had become an unspoken game between the mismatched partners. First one to flinch and all that. She wasn’t going to let him win that easily. Silence stretched out, swelling between them like a bubble, altering the landscape and the gravity of the room and pushing through the doorway into the hall such that the uniform outside the threshold crossed and uncrossed his arms, clearly unsure how to behave around the two homicide detectives.
Correction: the homicide and consulting detective.
Even though the commissioner had convinced Niemeier to come onboard for this case, he still did not reinstate the former detective. He had not even announced it at the press conference, pretending not to hear the flurry of questions about “the Niemeier sightings” at the first crime scenes. As good as Niemeier had been, and still was if you were to believe the stories coming out of Transit about the Callum-Litmanen case, his disgrace was still pungent in many noses. As long as it wasn’t the heavy, smoky stench of the whisky still, Amanda didn’t care. All she worried about, still regarding Niemeier with a cynical eye, was making sure he didn’t play the veteran cop card or use this favour to the commissioner to muscle his way back into the force.
“So how about it, Niemeier?” she asked. A flicker of agitation sparked across his eyes at not hearing capital D detective in front of his name. She kept a smirk under wraps. “You pumping iron? Eating right?”
“Yeah,” he said, exasperation rattling through his voice. “That’s it exactly.” He tore his eyes away from her and glanced down at the sheet covering the body, wagging a finger over it. “Show me what you’ve got here.”
One corner of Amanda’s red lips snagged upward at the point she scored against him, but she was able to hide it as she reached across the body and drew back the sheet.
Niemeier grimaced at what he saw. His eyes rested on the back of the woman’s head where she suffered the majority of her injuries. Dried blood had formed a black stain in the nest of her fine blonde hair where her skull had been crushed by a blunt instrument. Amanda didn’t suppose he saw much of this anymore, working petty crimes in Transit. When the Big Ones happened, he didn’t get called to them anymore.
"This is Pamela Wallace."
"Nice touch with the 'is'. I like that. Respectful."
Amanda ignored him and read more of Pamela's vital statistics off the victimology as it scrolled up through her field of vision.
Niemeier interrupted her. "There was a kid, I heard. On the way in. What's his name?"
"A girl. Rosie."
Niemeier shook his head sadly. "Cute name. You get that from the victimology?"
Garrett shook her head. She stood up, crossed to the window and bent low toward the sill. She took in a deep breath and, holding back tresses of her curly red hair, blew gently against the window pane. "rosie" emerged over and over again in a child's unpracticed, lowercase hand.
Niemeier said nothing as he watched the letters vanish along with the condensation.
"One of the CSU pros found it as he scanned for prints."
"Where is she?"
"Outside with an EMT and a Child Services rep."
Garrett pointed out the window. Niemeier hauled himself to his feet and peered out the window. A little girl, four, maybe five, was sitting on the rear bumper of the EMT van playing patty-cakes with a middle aged Child Services worker. She was giggling about something the CS woman had done. Unbelievable. Niemeier blew out a sigh and rubbed his face as he headed for the door.
"Rosie," he muttered. "Shit."
"Where are you going?" Garrett hurried after him.
"Outside." Niemeier was shuffling down the stairs by the time Garrett made it into the hallway. As his head disappeared below the lip of the top step, he muttered away to himself. "Her name had to be 'Rosie'. Little blonde pigtails. Probably cute as a button. Shit."
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Sunder: Day 55
Managed to get about 2 hours' work done tonight, but I'm not in my usual spot so I'm a little off my game. The execs have been having their quarterly strategic review for the last two weeks so that means all-day pow-wows that have extended long into the evening. Where I would normally set up to write--the spare office reserved for our visiting remote salesmen--has been occupied by the VP of Sales. I'm stuck in the empty cube one up from my daytime work station. I am usually ensconsed behind a nice wide desk in a darkened office with a desk lamp burning over the laptop, but tonight I was under garish flourescent office lighting in a creaky old chair that passed its mandatory age of retirement a long time ago. The only saving grace is that my section of the office was far removed from where all the executive meetings were taking place.
I'm packing it in a bit early tonight because I have long day ahead of me tomorrow and I'll need my energy.
I'm packing it in a bit early tonight because I have long day ahead of me tomorrow and I'll need my energy.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Sunder: Day 54
Opted to write tonight (or, as I described to a friend) muck around in the dirt and the clay. I had jotted down a bunch of hand written notes the last time I worked on "Sunder" and tonight I worked on transcribing them into the computer and then working and shaping the ideas a little. It's slow progress, but I feel like I need to take things at this pace for now. Supporting myself with a full time job does not leave a lot of hours in the day to ply my craft. Plus I need to eat and sleep...the body's requirements are steep.
More tomorrow. Hopefully.
Crein
More tomorrow. Hopefully.
Crein
What to do?
My mind is divided: do I write tonight or do I put in some overtime?
I had a bit of a struggle at the office today with one of NS's processes and after jousting with it all afternoon, I finally managed to pin it down and figure out what was going on. Turns out that what I thought was a bug probably isn't one after all. It also turns out that I have been misunderstanding a few facets of a key overdue interest calculation for quite some time and today's exercise helped me to straighten things out once and for all--at least for Overdue Interest Method #2. (One down, five to go!)
My internal struggle pertains to whether or not I should work on a "cheat sheet" document for myself while this is still fresh in my mind? I should use tonight for writing, but I would hate to forget something between now and tomorrow morning. On top of that, I am concerned that the time I spent today on one test will eat into the overall time I have to complete the rest of the baseline testing that R. asked me to do.
I had a bit of a struggle at the office today with one of NS's processes and after jousting with it all afternoon, I finally managed to pin it down and figure out what was going on. Turns out that what I thought was a bug probably isn't one after all. It also turns out that I have been misunderstanding a few facets of a key overdue interest calculation for quite some time and today's exercise helped me to straighten things out once and for all--at least for Overdue Interest Method #2. (One down, five to go!)
My internal struggle pertains to whether or not I should work on a "cheat sheet" document for myself while this is still fresh in my mind? I should use tonight for writing, but I would hate to forget something between now and tomorrow morning. On top of that, I am concerned that the time I spent today on one test will eat into the overall time I have to complete the rest of the baseline testing that R. asked me to do.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Sunder: Day 53
Another excellent night of writing. Re-adjusted a few parts of last night's work and drafted some new material. I'm pretty tired so I'm not going to spend too much time on this entry, only to say that I'm excited about what I accomplished. Finally getting some traction on this thing.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Sunder: Day 52
After a longer than expected Christmas-slash-New Year's break, I am back at the laptop and writing. I started last night, actually, but I can't count it since I got absolutely nothing done. Tonight got off to a slowish start, but the pace picked up considerably once I had a cup of coffee in me and the cleaning crew left the office. It was a stressful work day so I am grateful for the chance to have produced something somewhere in the orbit of "creative".
I was looking at the notes I made for the first part of Sunder's prologue, but I wasn't satisfied with them at all looking at them next to the second part. The first segment was just too passive and didn't build any of the mystery surrounding the main characters or any of the major events that start the ball rolling in the first movement so I reworked them and came up with something different. Definitely an improvement, but I'll have to see how the thing works in the whole before I decide if I'm going to keep it or make further changes.
"You have to write down what you're going to throw away. You know you have to go through at least ten versions before you can see how it works in the whole." (Leonard Cohen)
It's 11 PM now and I'm tired. This is enough for one night.
I was looking at the notes I made for the first part of Sunder's prologue, but I wasn't satisfied with them at all looking at them next to the second part. The first segment was just too passive and didn't build any of the mystery surrounding the main characters or any of the major events that start the ball rolling in the first movement so I reworked them and came up with something different. Definitely an improvement, but I'll have to see how the thing works in the whole before I decide if I'm going to keep it or make further changes.
"You have to write down what you're going to throw away. You know you have to go through at least ten versions before you can see how it works in the whole." (Leonard Cohen)
It's 11 PM now and I'm tired. This is enough for one night.
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