Wednesday, February 20, 2013

Worth Reading

"If you would not be forgotten as soon as you are dead, either write things worth reading or do things worth writing."
-- Benjamin Franklin

For those of you who have been kind enough to download "The Little Loan", I apologize for the delay in putting up the next part of the story.  I do not (cannot) write full time and, as much as I try to prevent it, my day job sometimes gets in the way.  Be patient.  I was "ass in the chair" tonight and managed to crank out about 500 good words.  Not a helluva lot, but they're good words.  Words I can hang onto until better ones come along.

Friday, February 8, 2013

The Empty Page

An empty page, be it a physical sheet of crisp, white paper or a "page" on a computer monitor, represents the same thing to anyone hoping to fill it up with meaningful prose: a sweet promise and a daunting challenge.

The empty page speaks to the writer subliminally.  It's like a billboard: "YOUR IDEAS HERE."  All fine and good if you can find some ideas worth pinning down.  More accurately, the ideas are there, the writer's had them--quite likely for weeks or months or even years--but they are like birds swooping and diving your head.  Try and lay your hands on one.  Try and describe it.  Try and find a good hook to snag a few readers.  It is then, after a dozen or more attempts, that the sweet promise becomes the daunting challenge and the writer's confidence is shaken.

That is the moment I'm experiencing right now.  A story of mine--Conservation--is up on Feedbooks, but I'm not happy with it and I've spent the last two or three weeks expanding the action.  Existing scenes have been heavily revised while whole new parts have been added.  My trouble is, it's all in outline form.  Ten minutes ago I was staring at a blank page in Scrivener where the new beginning will go.  It's still open at this very moment in the other monitor.  I can see it in my peripheral vision...mocking me.

Jack White

Cut off the bottoms of my feet
an' make me walk on salt.
Take me down to the poe-leese
an' charge me with assault.
Smile on her face,
she does what she wants to me.

(That's right.)

She don't care what kinda wounds
she's inflicting on me;
she don't care what colour bruises
that she's leaving on me
'cause she's got freedom in the 21st century.

(Alright.)

(Listen.)
Two black gadgets in her hands,
it's all she thinks about.
No responsibility, no guilt or morals
cloud her judgement.
Smile on her face,
she does what she damn-well please.

(Right.)

An' she don't care 
what kinda things people used to do.
An' she don't care
that what she does has an affect on you.
She's got freedom in the 21st century.

Cut off the bottoms of my feet
     (Cut off the bottoms of my feet...)
Make me walk on salt
     (Make me walk on salt...)
Take me down to the poe-leese
     (Take me down to the poe-leese)

lyrics by the incomparable Jack White III
(you rock ,brother)

Saturday, February 2, 2013

From Bad to Worse

I woke up this morning with good intentions.  On the heels of a productive night of research into the Washington Metro Orange and Green Lines, I decided that I would take advantage of the peace and quiet of the empty office and get some writing done.    So I packed up my laptop and took off.

I was the only one here at about 10 in the morning when I got myself setup to write.  I had my coffee ready, my laptop all fired up and the Internet turned on.  The only thing left to get out of the way was a quick trip to the washroom.

Nothing seemed amiss until I left the washroom and started back down the hall.  It was then that it hit me.  My wallet was sitting on my desk.  My passkey card was in my wallet.  Uh-oh.  But I didn't panic.  Not all was lost.  The door outside of IT had a keypad combination lock on it.

I would like to pause here for a moment and remind my readers of how important it is to use our minds for more than just remembering hockey statistics or which Starbucks serves the best mocha frapps.  There are many facts that transcend the mundane and often prove useful to us in the event we don't have our digital devices handy.  One such fact is the code to the keypad combination lock on the door outside of IT at my office.  Another fact is the telephone number of someone who would remember the door code.

Yes, dear readers, there I was: standing in front of the door and asking myself, "What the hell is that number?"  I think I must have tried 40 unsuccessful combinations before the electric edge of panic started to saw away at my nerves.

No passkey.  No cell phone.  No telephone numbers in my head.  I mean, really, why would anyone remember a telephone number if they've got it stored in their phone?  Why indeed?

The real peril of my situation made itself apparent when it suddenly dawned on me that everything was in that office.  I had no car keys, no house keys.  My winter coat was in there.  It was minus fifteen celcius outside and I was five or six long kilometers from home.

Ideas started swimming through my head like guppies through murky water, along with a few choice words about how stupid a person could be.

I could reef on the door until the wooden frame gave way.  (And then wait around until the cops showed up and try to explain who I am from the back of a police cruiser.  Brilliant.)

I could sit on the floor and wait until someone comes in for overtime.  Better, but there was no guarantee anyone would come in.  (In point of fact, a few people did come in but not for a few hours later, and I had no knowledge at the time that anyone would show up.)

I remembered the telephone outside the main door, but it was about as useful at that moment as broken umbrella in a downpour because I couldn't remember any of outside numbers to call.  Brilliant.

There is a realty company on the ground floor of our building and a receptionist helped me.  I'm sure in the end she thought I was some kind of fool, but she let me use their Internet and I sent out some emails.  I also called the building management office.  I got some traction from a nice man named James on the other end of the phone, but in the end my friend Terry emailed me the stairwell door code and the door code to our space.

I cannot describe to you the sweet, sweet relief I felt when I punched in that door code, turned the doorknob and the door swung open.  You feel reality snap back into place in a moment like that.  You feel the nightmare unreality of those few moments or hours drain away from your body as you realize that you don't have to spend the night sleeping in the hallway outside your office.  The one thing that doesn't stop is the gratitude you feel to the person who helped you.

The first thing I did after jamming my wallet into my back pocket and committing the door code to memory is get in my car, drive to Chapters and buy the Keller Williams receptionist a Thank You card and a twenty-five dollar gift card.  I would have given her a one hundred dollar gift card if I could have afforded it.

Rebecca, if you're reading this, you are amazing.  This post's for you.