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Showing posts with label Duh. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Duh. Show all posts

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

Why I fear description.

I do fear description. If I'm going to write a story that actually has plot and action, I tend to scrimp on setting. And I'll show you why. Here's a quick, off the top of my head snippet to show what happens when I describe.

In Champaign, Illinois, the main road through the University of Illinois campus is Green Street. On the north side of the street reside the engineers. To the south are liberal arts, ag, LIS, and the rest. And the cities of Urbana and Champaign had been built over a swamp that had been drained. So when it rains, the water table rises quickly and fiercely. The Boneyard Creek flows fast and hard and the streets flood (along with basements and sewers). On Green Street, when it rains, the water gathers and runs in the gutters, overspilling into the street turning this road into a fountain.

During the brutally hot summers we get here, the summer rains are a blessing and a curse. Sometimes they bring cool relief, sometimes they just bring more steam. But they bring flooding to the cities, too, dangerous, slippery. And they fill the streets with water, warm, inviting, cleansing. I have splashed in puddles as deep as my ankles and waded in ponds up to my hips on Green Street.

One very rainy day, my lover and I had walked to get food at AJ Wingers. This was a very special man. Of course, all of my lovers were wonderful but this one....Ah, words fail me. Skilled, compassionate, loving, passionate, uninhibited, no words can fully explain this one. Someone once tried to pin me down on his most wonderful trait. Stammering, I had replied that he was a good listener.

As we walked, the rain kept coming. We watched the rain fall as we ate and we kissed the sauce off of each other's faces. We began the walk back - giggling over our folly at not driving or taking the bus. The rain kept falling. Our shoes immediately drenched through, no matter how much we tried to avoid the puddles. Our jeans clung to our skin. We took off our shoes and splashed through parking lots, curbs, and streets. Cars would pass and splash water as high as our heads.

We got to his apartment, and shrieking with laughter at ourselves, we peeled our clothes off and draped them over chairs and doors. We wrung out our socks in the bathroom sink, and put our shoes over radiator vents. We eventually showered, embracing the heat and steam of this water as gleefully as we had embraced the rain. We kissed and kissed and kissed under the hissing showerhead. His hands, so large and competent, lathered my back and legs, rubbing circulation back into my feet and neck. I stroked soap into his chest and armpits, playing with his body hair. We kissed some more. For the rest of my life, I will see him like this, his head tilted under the streaming water, his hair slicked back, his eyes closed and his mouth slightly open at the pleasure of taking a shower.

We dried off using his one towel (for all of his wonderful traits, sometimes he was almost a stereotypical single man), still kissing, still giggling. His kisses remain on my mind - so intense that the sensation of his lips blotted out the world and destroyed rational thought. How to describe it? He kissed like my mouth, my pleasure and his, were the only things that existed or ever will exist. He kissed as if kissing alone were the most divine pleasure ever given, not as a prelude or introduction, something perfunctorily done to satisfy protocol. He kissed me like my mouth was his Holy Grail and his True Cross combined. He kissed as though he meant it.

We shimmied under his covers and our bodies entwined, wrapping around each other. Sometimes I felt like our bodies were two pieces of rope, coming together in a knot. We kissed and touched and sucked. We made love.

Even now, my hips curl and my stomach clenches at the memory of that afternoon - at a lovemaking so profound, so powerful, so intense. It was the sum of my universe - it was slow and powerful, it was fast and fierce.

We were falling in love.

In a way we never had before, and never will again.

And our bodies betrayed it.

It's emotional and lovely and nothing happens. There is no plot, there is no conflict, there is no character development.

I was going for a little slice of life with this piece- I wanted to record a beautiful memory. I succeeded at that. Unfortunately, I can't use it anywhere else since it doesn't move any action forward.

Dammit!

Thursday, November 12, 2009

I love deadlines!

Deadlines are another trick I use to get myself to work. I love them because I can then play the, "I am so superior!" card when I beat the deadline.

And when I make it right on time, I can say, "Damn, I'm good!"

The only downside is - I hate having to move my deadlines when things are going poorly.

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

Tips and tricks.

Let's be honest. We all experience insecurity and fear about our writing. Everything from "It sucks", to "I suck" and everything in between.

It can paralyze an artist in a quagmire of self-loathing misery. Sometimes, though, it's possible to make a few steps out this nasty, leech-ridden, malaria-infested swamp

I call upon my 'tricks' to make it easier to find a shortcut. Here's few of my favorite tricks in no particular order, in a handy numbered list for quick reference. :)

  1. Change writing locations. I'll write in the library, different rooms in the house (I'm writing this now on my second floor landing), a coffee-shop (Starbucks is a cliche for a reason, folks!), or even just go outside. Something about a different visual geography can shake me out of a funk.
  2. Bribery is both functional and traditional. One of my critique partners says, "I don't need a lollipop every time I finish five pages." Well, I'm not nearly that mature. I love to bribe myself with hot baths, visits with my friends, a good movie - you name it. I try to avoid bribing myself with food, though. That way lies getting stuck in the different quagmire of body image issues.
  3. Ask for help. Somewhere out there, someone believes in you. Give them a call or an email. Say, "I'm going in. Cover me!" For some reason, this works really really well.
  4. Set a timer. When I'm exhausted and nearly falling out of my chair, I can fulfill my promises to myself by setting a timer for however long, and then letting myself rest.
  5. Read your work aloud. Something about hearing the story usually gets me ready to rock and roll.
  6. Crank your tunes. Turn that knob to eleven. Let the music drown out all those nasty, self-defeating voices.
What are some of your favorite tricks?

Monday, November 9, 2009

Freakatude.

I will admit it. There is nothing to be ashamed of, for these are enlightened times. We can confess to all our weirdnesses. So I will say it and I will say it loud.

I like to work out.

Please put down the breakable objects. It's really not that strange.

I like to work out for a couple of very simple reasons. First, it makes me feel better. It combats chronic pain and the depressive tendencies of the Pacific Northwest winter.

Second, it means I write better. When I exercise, my body tolerates writing for longer periods of time with no pain. When I exercise, I focus more easily on what I need.

I call my workout "Caring for my Instrument." Painters know they need to clean their brushes to create the images they see in their heads. Carpenters know they can't shape wood with dull tools. Musicians know that poorly tunes saxophones or tubas or violas aren't going to do their careers any favors.

If my sciatic nerve feels like a hot wire thrust down the back of my leg, if my wrists, elbows, shoulders, back, and neck hurt - well, I'd be better off turning off my computer and crawling back under the covers.

And really? Writing is a lot more fun than hiding in bed. :)

How do you care for your instruments?

Friday, August 7, 2009

Doing what can't be done!

I write tight. I don't want to bore anyone, ya know. But there's fast paced and then there's, "What's going on here, again?"

So I have to add to my manuscripts, opposed to most of my friends, who write long and then cut.

My goal is to let go of my fear of boring people and write as floridly and passionately as I can. Or at least put in a few Zombie Frogs.

Wednesday, July 29, 2009

Crumb.

Brain refuses to work during the heat.

More updates as events warrant. :)

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

Who knew?!

Holy cow! You can turn your phone off while you're writing and call people back later!

You can even not answer your email right away.

I'm gobsmacked.