I'll Have the Mashed Potatoes & Gravy... What do you mean you're out of Potaotes?!

I know I've been somewhat absent lately. It's not the words escape me. They're all still there stuck in my head waiting to get out. But prose can't exist on flowery adjectives, colorful similes, and vibrant metaphors alone. As far as writing is concerned lately I've felt like an order of mashed potatoes and gravy without the potatoes... I've got all this tasty gravy stuck in my head but I'm missing the potatoes... oh and the meat too.

I'm not sure what has caused my recent literary potato blight. And I have been trying to grow some new "potatoes." None have seemed to take root, at least not yet.

The one aspect of my life that is consuming much of my time lately is fatherhood. But I don't feel right writing about that. I treasure my special moments with my wife & daughter, I enjoy watching her milestones and all the special moments we share. But I also tend to believe there's something to be said for keeping those moments to ourselves... it makes them feel more special. Not to mention, the intensity of emotion I feel for my daughter and the extreme happiness I have when spending time with her defies the English language. That is to say, even if I wanted to write about fatherhood, I couldn't. The words don't exist. At least not in English, and short of learning Esperanto or some other obscure language I don't forsee that being a possibility in the future either.

But I am still here, a living breathing carbon-based life-form. I'm still a writer at heart. I still have the words inside me. And as soon as I have some meat or potatoes for the literary gravy swirling in the gravy boat of my mind I'll regain some semblance of a creative flair. In the mean time, flask of gravy, anyone?

The Muse

Last Thursday on my return flight from Vegas after the battery on my laptop gave up the ghost, Muse whispered in my ear and I found myself writing a short story in a journal I'd brought along for note-taking... As I was writing the strange feeling came over me that maybe I wasn't writing the story so much as it was writing me. A starting line popped in my head and my fingers and my pen just went with it.

While I didn't finish the story on the plane, I have been working at it over the weekend and over the course of this week. It's been awhile since writing came this easy to me. I'm taking full advantage of it while the Muse is still present to entertain me.

An interesting bit, I find myself writing in the 2nd person (the main character being referred to as "you" instead of "I" or "me"-- as you'd expect in first person, or even "he" or "she"-- in third person objective or third person omniscent). When I was in college I took a class in Intro to Creative Writing in which our professor recommended Jay McInerney's Bright Lights, Big City as it was/is one of the few novels in the English language written in the 2nd person. After that I even started keeping my personal journal in the 2nd person (referring to myself as "you") to gain practice in writing from that PoV. Initially, my scribblings, wreaked of poor man's McInerney... But this bit I'm writing now, it's me, not me trying to be Jay McInerney. There's something liberating about it.

For those who write, you can perhaps relate... It was as if somewhere along the way I'd lost my "voice" only to have found it mid-air somewhere between Las Vegas and Chicago (I believe I was flying over Nebraska or possibly Iowa when I started writing-- if you want to nitpick).

Writer's pep talk

Back in 2001, I wrote this "pep talk" thing to myself. I'd kind of forgotten about it, but I stumbled upon the original handwritten version of it when going through some of my things the other evening. As you can tell early on, this is largely stream of conciousness writing. I had just gassed up my car and I just started writing about that and it took on a life of its own. In typical Perplexian fashion it's written in the second person:

So here you are, your hands smell of gasoline, and a light breeze offers you a slight respite from the otherwise heavy stale air which hangs over you suffocatingly like grandma's quilt on the hottest day of summer.

The sun slowly sets in the western sky as you sit here waiting to observe its spelndor as soft yellows and off whites turn to crimsons and lavenders signalling a sailor's delight for tomorrow. Watching the sunset alone offers you a peaceful serenity, a gateway to lose yourself in your thoughts and the sanctuary one only finds when lost in thse stolen moments you get alone. The
trouble is you have entirely too many of these "stolen moments."

You'd much rather share your alone time, or at least some of it with a special someone. What good are these cutesy inside jokes if the only one who can appreciate them is you?

So here you sit observing, relaxing, caught between the peacefulness that comes with being alone and the madness caused by pure loneliness uncertain of which you prefer. As the sun sets, melting on the horizon you take a mental photograph, a memory for posterity. Unfortunately,
it's a photograph you'll never get to share.

Another eve has passed. As the alarm goes off you pry your eyes open with a crowbar like intensity and force yourself out of bed. The voices of local radio, your "friends" and they don't even realize it. Every morning their banter is a welcome greeting for you.

As you take your shower your thoughts drift over a million miles worth of different subjects. As the water pulses against your face, all you can think of is how much you'd like to install a Mr. Coffee in your shower. Hey, no one ever accused you of having deep thoughts. Besides it's not the depth of the thoughts, it's the quality of them.

You aren't looking forward to work today, the humidity is hanging over the city like a dead weight of moist stale air weighing everyone down. You know you aren't the only one suffering. You can see others plodding through their day with a tired worn-out trudge in their step. You get the idea they don't know the secret, how to release the shackles that hold them in the prison of life they've chosen for themselves. How to just relax and let go of enough reality to make their days just a little more tolerable. Sometimes you just have to let go. Not a lot, just enough. So your mind is on that sunny beach in Florida while your body goes through the motions-- the day to day drudgery, the monotony of the 9 to 5 existence their lives have chosen for them because
they didn't up a fight.

When your life becomes your job and revolves around passing the time between vacations and paying the bills, you've taken a wrong turn somewhere. Most folks just keep going down that road hoping against all logic that their wrong turn will eventually lead them back to the right path.
Instead they find themselves stuck at a dead end with no way to get back on the right path. A life full of regrets and bad decisions is all they have to show for their troubles and by then it's too late, the only way out is to exit stage left after taking their final bow. It's not where you want to end up, it's not where anyone wants to end up. Now it's time for you to turn off that road. It
may not put you on the right path but it will certainly take you off the wrong one.

So you step out of the shower feeling refreshed, feeling energized by your desire to find a piece of the dream, YOUR piece of the dream, your desire to do whatever it takes to lead you back to the right path.

Sometimes you just need to write. A million voices are screaming in your head all at once, all wanting just one thing, wanting the same thing; to be written down, to be recorded in some way. The only way to silence them is to honor their wishes. And so you write. You write about anything and everything... All the things you held inside all of your life, they all come
pouring out. This is their show, the paper is their stage and they're ready to give that performance of their lives.

Buster Keaton used to keep the camera rolling at all times, sure this used up a lot of film but that way he didn't miss anything, shoot now, edit later. All your life you've been editing as you've been "filming" too much potentially "good stuff" has been cut. It's time to put up or shut up. Write now, edit later.

Write as fast as your hands will let you. Write until your hand and wrist are sore from holding the pen... then, keep writing. Don't stop until you fall dead on your notebook and your pen has to be pried from your cold dead handss as rigor mortis sets in. And then, even then, don't let go of the
pen. Make sure you get buried with it. They say you can't take it with you... bollocks! You're going out the same way you came in, a writer. It is who you are. No compromise, no bargaining and no apologies because you're going to be the best damned writer you know how to be.

If your words get rejected by the publisher, keep smiling, keep writing, and keep submitting. Don't let a few pantsy rejections from foppish publishers who didn't have the bollocks to chase their dreams, to write... Don't let them get you down. It's jealousy, pure jealousy. Not because
your writing is any good, it may not be, they're jealous because you DO have the bollocks to write. Good. Bad. Mediocre. You write it all down because the more you write the more likely you are to strike paydirt.

When you write you're exposing your soul to the world, you're at your most vulnerable. Just keep the faith, have the courage to stay the course, regardless of what anyone else says.

Remember, even if you never get published, when your time comes, at that final curtain call, you can exit with a smile on your face because you fought the good fight. Even if you fail, you win because there is no failure if you go down fighting, chasing that dream.

Have the confidence, keep the faith, writing is your dream and when it comes to your dream, there should be no room for com[promise. Once you start compromising your dreams, you've already lost. You're at the end of that dead-end road, full of regrets weighting that smile we all deserve to leave this world with wieghed down in a tight-lipped quiviering frown. No one wants to leave this world looking like a total feeb. Don't ever let yourself start down that path. Avoid at all costs the path of least resistance. It's the hardships we face in life and how we handle those hardships that shape who we are as people. It's your hardships and how you handle them that shape you as a writer. These experiences provide rich material for you to write.

Let life's experiences be your muse, your inspiration. Remember all fiction is at least
partially autobiographical. Somehow, in some way all of the characters of which you write are you in some way on some deeply personal level, your personal character will be reflected in the material you write. Don't fight it. Roll with it, work with it.

Current Music: Led Zeppelin - When the Levee Breaks

Another excerpt

Here's another excerpt from the book I'm currently working on:

Nikki looks at you somewhat sadly.

“What is it?”

“Well, that’s not exactly a… well when people tell that story it’s generally prettier… happier, I guess.”

“Sugar-coated.”

“That’s a bit cynical of you.”

“Is it? I don’t think it is really… I mean, do you really think that many people really have a first time that’s THAT special?”

“Well not everyone, but I think a lot of people do.”

“So I showed you mine, you show me yours.”

She playfully punches your arm.

“Hey… we made a deal.”

“Fair enough... Well, I was a bit younger. We’d been dating for awhile. I think we were both sophomores. He went to a different school though. He’d just gotten his license.”

You wonder if it’s anyone you knew or knew of, even peripherally. But you hold your tongue and let her continue.

“He drove me up to Lake Titus. His parents had a camp there. They’d closed it for the winter, so we both knew there wouldn’t be anyone there. Actually can you stop up there at that store. I need to get something to drink.” She motions to a small late night service station just up the road.

You slowly pull into the service station. She starts to open her door.

“Naww, I got this.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” You chuckle to yourself as you walk into the store. Before you know it you’re back on the road.

“Now where was I? Oh yeah, Lake Titus… Thanks for the pop by the way.” She takes a sip, “We were on our way to his parents camp. The roads were a bit icy, and it was close to dusk. And this deer, you know how THEY are. Well he jumped out in front of us. Ja- well he hit the brakes and we started sliding.” She slips nearly divulging his name.

“Anyway, we started sliding out of control. But somehow we managed to drift to a stop. We just tapped the deer. I mean it didn’t even knick the paint… And he, well I think it was a ‘he,’ just stood there staring at both of us for what seemed like forever. Then he ran off as if it had never happened.” She takes a few swigs of her drink, “So we’re both sitting there, our hearts are pounding. I mean it had been a really close call. We both got out of the car and looked it over to make sure it was okay. We were both so glad to be alive. We hugged each other… and before you know it we were ripping at each other’s clothes. I mean we were just overwhelmed and happy to be alive. Before we realized what we were doing he was in me.” She pauses, the look on her face asking herself how graphic she wants to get with me.

“They say the first time it hurts. I suppose it did. Briefly. But not really that bad. And, well anyway.” She sighs, “That was mine.”

“Not that it was a contest or anything, but you win.” You break the mood with a bit of levity.

Current Music: Mungo Jerry - In the Summertime

The other night I was kind of stuck on my story so I decided to write something else using the same style of writing that I may or may not be able to integrate into the story:

You remember that first night together. You’d gone outside to look at the stars on the college soccer field. You’d laid out your blanket, laid on top of it and pulled a comforter over the top of both of you. There was a slight chill in the air on that late August night. It was all so new to you, she was the more experienced one.

There was a feverish intensity in all of your movements, over nineteen years of sexual frustration that had been bubbling under the surface was starting to boil over. In hindsight, you aren’t entirely sure about when it happened. You don’t remember how you got from point a) clothed, to point b) naked. In all memories of that evening you’re both completely naked. But at some point that journey had to have taken place. You know you didn’t walk to or from the soccer field wearing nothing but your birthday bests

You do remember the rather sophomoric (was it any small coincidence that you were both sophomores at the time?) fondling and caressing. You remember following her lead, her direction. It may have been your first time but you wanted to please her, you wanted to do it right.

She knew it was your first time, she knew of your inexperience. She had been one of your closest friends the year before. She had opened up and vented to you about her issues with her then-boyfriend, and you had shared the tales of the long distance relationship you’d been in at that point.

You had been the poster-child for late-bloomers. Look it up in the dictionary, and there was your virginal mug. Your first kiss had only been a few months before with an attractive redhead at the Hinsdale Oasis just off of I-294. But that’s another tale for another time. And your partner, she knew all of this. In hindsight there was never any real romantic chemistry between the two of you.

There was a certain level of comfort between the two of you. Neither of you really lit the other’s romantic fire, but at that point you figured you weren’t getting any younger. There’s nothing wrong with stoking the coals between the sheets a bit.

So there you both were, and maybe it was the surreal nature of the experience. Or perhaps the sheer belief that you’d finally reached the culmination of what you’d built up in your mind as the end all and be all of sheer physical pleasure. Maybe it was the disappointment in knowing that while you cared about her, trusted her, and felt truly comfortable with her. You didn’t really love her. But at some point in the experience you realized you had to pee. After a half hour or forty-five minutes of your clumsy fumbling, the two of you threw in the towel, pulled your clothes back on and went back inside.

And well there it is, your first time.

Current Music: Dan Fogleberg - Same Old Lang Syne

Snippets from the past

This past weekend as Toni & I were packing I stumbled upon some slips of paper with short vignettes, memories I’d captured on paper with words. Stolen moments with ex-girlfriends, memories I’d borrowed from others, A time warp to a simpler time.

Music, the nostalgia rollercoaster, full of twists, turns, ups, and downs. You remember kissing to Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here at Chicago’s Museum of Science & Industry. She had blonde hair and beautiful blue eyes, the kind that were the muse of painters and artists. The two of you would smile, laugh and revert to childhood with mock seriousness.
“Boys are icky!”
“Yeah, well girls have cooties.”
The two of you would banter back and forth with smiles and sparkles in your eyes.

Or this other time…

A soft smile sets with the sun as night closes in. She looks at you as her warm intensity draws you into her embrace. As you run your fingers through her hair, its soft silkiness melting in your hands, you slowly drown in her lips. Your tongues waltz in and out of each other’s mouths as your knees get weak with sweet anticipation.
The kiss slowly breaks long enough for a smile to jump from your eyes to hers before she she pulls you back into her lips with intense ferocity.

Then there was that peek into another life that wasn't even mine:

Remember that time on the beach? You were just sitting in the sand, you looked like a lost puppy. I could sense a sadness in you, a deep longing. I remember you tried to cover it up. You tried so hard that you fooled everyone around you. They didn’t know, they didn’t understand.
I remember the distant look you hid behind the sparkle in your beautiful eyes. You pretended you were watching the crash of the waves. You weren’t there though. Your thoughts were elsewhere… a happier place somewhere beyond the horizon. You longed for that place so bad I could feel it permeating from you.
So I gently reached down and brushed a stray hair from your face. You looked up at me and smiled. You reached up and held my hand, suddenly wherever it was that you’d been… I was there with you. That lost unsettling distance was gone from your eyes. We were together. As you gently rubbed the back of my hand with your thumb chills ran through my spine. Good chills. I never wanted that to end.

I also found several entries from a written journal I'd been keeping in the spring and summer of 2001. I may, if I find anything worth posting, post some of those entries here as well. The above entries were all from random snippets of paper stuffed in the journal. None of them were dated.

Current Music: Jimmy Barnes - Boys Cry Out For War

On Writing

This evening as my wife & I were driving to her boss's home for a company picnic, it really sunk in that I finally feel some sense of "home" here. It took a bit longer for that to happen here than it took to happen when I lived in Ohio. But I felt generally comfortable in my skin, moreso than I've felt before. Something about the experience felt "right"-- not necesarily like we "belong here" but more that we've developed some sense of home.

I found out a friend of mine with whom I'd lost touch finally left the retail store where we'd both worked back in Ohio. I'm happy for him. I know I felt like my life was in a rut when I was working there, and shortly after I'd moved out here when he and I were still in touch he told me, "you needed a change of zip code." At the time I knew he was right and I really took to heart what he'd said.

I mean one can only "bounce around" the midwest for so long before it comes time to settle down and working retail with a college degree wasn't exactly me living up to my potential.

When I first moved out here, I was still writing quite a bit-- I don't mean blogging (although I was doing that too), I mean pen to paper. It wasn't really my innermost thoughts or anything deep like that. It was rants of things that annoyed me and general observations. Sometimes I'd end up posting my ramblings, but a lot of those writings have remained in one of 2 or 3 journals I was keeping at the time. I even had this fountain pen, still have it, that was like a security blanket to me. I loved that pen even more than my binkie when I was four. I didn't feel complete without it. And even if I didn't happen to have one of my journals, I found paper, napkins, post-it notes, legal pads, my random thoughts were spread over a myriad of different forms of paper.

For awhile I think I "lost my way" when it came to writing, so now as I'm working on these various short stories, I feel alive again. For the first time in a long time, and it feels really good. I don't know where these stories are going, plot has never been my strong point. I've always let the characters and the dialogue drive the plot. It's almost a Kerouac-esque stream of conciousness style-- but in the second person. And, admittedly, I'm no Jack Kerouac, but the more I write the more I do notice that On the Road has had some level of influence on me.

Well, at any rate, I've got a short story with 2 characters sitting in a car, and they need me to continue writing so they can reach their destination. But much like with life, I don't know where their journey will take them. The ignition has been turned, now it's time to put the car in gear and go. And something tells me that my characters are just as excited as I am to find out where they'll end up.

Writing

I've decided to hop back upon the old fiction writing horse. The trouble is that the best fiction I write tendds to be largely autobiographical. There's this magazine, Writer's Journal that has contests galore for writers of all shapes and sizes. They have a bi-monthly contest where they supply the opening line and the loyal readers submit stories that use that opening line. In each issue they list the next 3 opening lines and due dates. So I started writing two different stories simultaneously using 2 of their opening lines. The first of which is a tale about a young boy and his kid sister discovering something mysterious in their grandparent's attic. Actually it's not that autobiographical at all. While I did visit my grandparents frequently as a young boy, I rarely ventured upstairs and even when I did it wasn't on exploratory missions. It's also not progressing too well as I'm already stuck. I have good character development but no real semblance of what the hell I'm going to do with the plot.

The other tale is a bit more autobiographical in that it's a tale of one of my greatest fears-- having to move back in with my parents. And it's not just the moving back in with my parents that's so terrifying, it's the idea of moving back to my hometown. For a twist I'm writing it in a Jay McInerney-esque second person which could be unnerving to readers not used to it. That tale is progressing better, but my internal editor is already noticing flaws and while I do see where I'm going with it, I don't see myself getting there within the confines of the contest-- I don't forsee it being a short story. At the rate I'm going it's more likely to end up as a novella. I need to learn to turn off my internal editor while I'm still on my first draft though, otherwise it will end up like so much of my other writings, unfinished and unrealized.