I was able to write only briefly today, in a chapter I'm thinking of calling "Witness to the Moonlight Mass of the Tardigrades". The tardigrade is often called a "water bear" and is a microscopic animal that lives on mosses and on the underside of some leaves. Seeing as how at some point the protagonist must talk to the ghosts of dead plants, I figured he might as well be able to see tardigrades also. Whatever, right! I'm going out of my head here. Writing this fantastic, supernatural stuff is so much easier than the counterbalancing domestic passages. I could write for pages and pages about this mythical microscopic subculture but trying to write a conversation between a dude and his boss is just torturous. I should also mention that in this same chapter the murdered neighbor appears and beats the **** out of the protagonist. Yeah, it'll all make sense eventually.
When I saw Michael Chabon speak at AWP this year one thing that sticks out from his talk was the notion that in writing, ideas are easy to come by. The job of the writer is to funnel those ideas that sound so fantastic in your mind into something palatable for someone other than yourself. ADD is killer to novel writing. I keep getting so many ideas for new projects, even though I'm nowhere near to being done with what I'm working on now. All I can do is just write them down and come back to them later and hope they're still good ideas.
Other than tardigrades ("slow walker" in German) I also did some light reading on chemotaxis - the direction of cell movement using various proteins. Researchers grow human neural progenitor cells ("stem cells") and throw proteins at it, hoping to direct these cells to bone or brain damage, in hopes that diseases like Parkinson's and Alzheimer's can be cured. A lab headed by Dr. Steve Stice (one of the scientists who cloned "Dolly") was researching this in Athens, GA the last few years to negative results.
This is what I do all day.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
July 21 2010
I've been going through the journal bit by bit each day, slowly transferring it from its current Microsoft Word state into something called a "Scribus" - a free online publishing program I downloaded. It appears to be used mostly for posters and magazines, but I'm sure the difference in quality is negligible. Neither me nor my boss expect this to come out looking like a Modern Library Classic or a Vintage International or anything. Scribus is a Linux-based program - what that means exactly, I couldn't tell you - that involves me creating "squares" and then deciding if it's supposed to be a "text square" or an "image square".
The journal itself is surprisingly detailed, and the prose is flowing. Such wonderful names also! I must steal them for my own. It describes RCJ's journey from Chicago to North Dakota aboard the Great Northern railway. Here's a sample:
By Sunday night I was back in St. Paul and left there at 10:45 p.m. on the Great Northern . The train whisked me through Minnesota during the night, but when we struck the border of North Dakota I was wide awake.
What struck me was the peculiar aspect of the state at that time of the year. Everything was of the same dull, brownish hue. Not a speck of green to relieve the monotony, not a tree or shrub in sight. Besides I noticed that, in spite of the advanced season, nearly all the grain was still standing in shocks, that very little threshing had been done. It was noticeably colder than St. Louis had been. I found that most of the pools and creeks we passed had a thin coating of ice.
The train from Williston to Snowden Mont. was a wretchedly slow affair. But it was heaven compared to the train from Snowden to Watford , N. Dak. This latter train consisted of a series of freight cars, with an antediluvian passenger coach in its rear. I subsequently learned that this train ran only every two days; that on other days they had freight trains only.
As I approached my destination I began to feel wretchedly blue. Everything was so strange and a peculiar sense of loneliness stole over me that was very apprehensive. Judge my joy, therefore, when I saw that good old “Daddy” Roettger was at the station to meet me. “Daddy” had been in charge of this place since Rev. Frey left it in the middle of Sept., and he had been due to take charge of a school in Gardena, N. Dak. on Nov. 1st. Loyal as he always was, he had waited for me, however, and he helped me load up my trunk and took me over to Schafer, the county seat of McKenzie Co., although it was not situated on any railroad. The home which I was to occupy during my stay here, was not in Schafer at that time, although the people intended to move it soon. It was two miles in the country in the bleakest and loneliest spot imaginable, so it seemed to me.
The pictures provided are mostly desolate expanses of prairie and clouds, but there are a few diamonds.
All the work on the diary has left me precious little free time here at work to write Novel 1. I put in a vacation request for August 2-6. Think I'll disappear.
The journal itself is surprisingly detailed, and the prose is flowing. Such wonderful names also! I must steal them for my own. It describes RCJ's journey from Chicago to North Dakota aboard the Great Northern railway. Here's a sample:
By Sunday night I was back in St. Paul and left there at 10:45 p.m. on the Great Northern . The train whisked me through Minnesota during the night, but when we struck the border of North Dakota I was wide awake.
What struck me was the peculiar aspect of the state at that time of the year. Everything was of the same dull, brownish hue. Not a speck of green to relieve the monotony, not a tree or shrub in sight. Besides I noticed that, in spite of the advanced season, nearly all the grain was still standing in shocks, that very little threshing had been done. It was noticeably colder than St. Louis had been. I found that most of the pools and creeks we passed had a thin coating of ice.
The train from Williston to Snowden Mont. was a wretchedly slow affair. But it was heaven compared to the train from Snowden to Watford , N. Dak. This latter train consisted of a series of freight cars, with an antediluvian passenger coach in its rear. I subsequently learned that this train ran only every two days; that on other days they had freight trains only.
As I approached my destination I began to feel wretchedly blue. Everything was so strange and a peculiar sense of loneliness stole over me that was very apprehensive. Judge my joy, therefore, when I saw that good old “Daddy” Roettger was at the station to meet me. “Daddy” had been in charge of this place since Rev. Frey left it in the middle of Sept., and he had been due to take charge of a school in Gardena, N. Dak. on Nov. 1st. Loyal as he always was, he had waited for me, however, and he helped me load up my trunk and took me over to Schafer, the county seat of McKenzie Co., although it was not situated on any railroad. The home which I was to occupy during my stay here, was not in Schafer at that time, although the people intended to move it soon. It was two miles in the country in the bleakest and loneliest spot imaginable, so it seemed to me.
The pictures provided are mostly desolate expanses of prairie and clouds, but there are a few diamonds.
All the work on the diary has left me precious little free time here at work to write Novel 1. I put in a vacation request for August 2-6. Think I'll disappear.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
July 17 2010
Film Review: Inception
Christopher Nolan's film Inception is without a doubt the major film event of the summer (Move over Toy Story 3). To describe it briefly without getting into the nuances I would call it a telepathic heist movie. Think Oceans 11 meets Wind-Up Bird Chronicle and you get the idea.
In it, Leonardo DiCaprio plays Dom Cobb, a "extractor" of dreams. He infiltrates other peoples dreams and steals their ideas for clients. Ken Watanabe plays one of these said clients, who enlists Cobb for an "Inception" - a type of mental subterfuge wherein an idea is planted by someone else inside anothers mind without their knowing. Cobb forms a team to do this, and of course things may or may not go as planned, all while Cobb himself must deal with his oft-haunting and confusing backstory.
A grand idea to be sure, and it is a film to be watched and applauded if only for the originality it brings. Surprisingly, and perhaps to its benefit, the film eschews making any grand philosophical statements about the act of dreaming or the nature of dreams. Rather, the film treats the subject matter in a very scientific, logical manner. The world in which these characters inhabit is one where this is an exact science. The members of Cobb's team each have specific talents to fulfill their specific roles ("Extractor", "Architect", "Mark" etc). There's a little scientific doo-dad that puts the people to sleep. Everyone wears suits and ties. If you're expecting magical realism, go elsewhere. It's important that the film treats dreams like this in order to keep the tension elevated.
So for the most part the premise is an original one. It is in the execution of the premise where influences are worn on the sleeve: zero gravity fight scenes that echo The Matrix, and time/spatial distortions that are reminiscient of The Cell. And yeah, The Matrix again. This is a better film than Matrix, and I am not a fan of that film (don't get me started on the sequels); However, it is hard to not draw a parallel here.
The actors perform admirably with what is a ludicrous, though completely appropriate and well-written, script. Ellen Page, Cillian Murphy, and our second favorite alumnus from 3rd Rock from the Sun (French Stewart is God), Joseph Gordon-Levitt fare the best. DiCaprio's delivery of some of the more fantastical lines was grimacing at points, and at points jarred the suspension of disbelief. Finally, as much as I love Marion Cotillard, it would be nice to understand what she is saying half the time.
Like most of Nolan's non-Batman films,(which are overrated by the way; I mean, could anybody stomach The Dark Knight if not for Ledger? Dude carries the entire film) the movie starts off rather confusing and everything coalesces into making perfect (almost) sense at the end. The climax is thrilling, the resolution is satisfying, the music is booming and the ending is something to leave you wanting to watch the movie again. The Prestige is my favorite of Nolan's films and this one is right up there. Catch it in the theatres, IMAX if you can; you'll want to hear this movie loud.
Some additional thoughts with Spoilers:
In a scene in the movie, DiCaprio and Page are in DiCaprio's mind, and they are in an elevator, each floor representing a different memory with his deceased wife. Page remarks, "These aren't dreams are they? They're memories." DiCaprio's character in effect created a way to circumvent death by having a place in his mind wherein he could still be with one he loved. This sort of goes back to what I was talking about in the first blog entry, and a lot of what I've been writing about. Just as a character in my novel might figure out a loophole to cheat death, a writer can create a novel or a story, or anything really, in order to play "what if" and write a different ending to a past event in their life. In a sense, vicariously living through the character. That's one of the greatest and most cathartic aspects of writing, but of course it steers one dangerously close to melodrama, as Inception so often does.
Christopher Nolan's film Inception is without a doubt the major film event of the summer (Move over Toy Story 3). To describe it briefly without getting into the nuances I would call it a telepathic heist movie. Think Oceans 11 meets Wind-Up Bird Chronicle and you get the idea.
In it, Leonardo DiCaprio plays Dom Cobb, a "extractor" of dreams. He infiltrates other peoples dreams and steals their ideas for clients. Ken Watanabe plays one of these said clients, who enlists Cobb for an "Inception" - a type of mental subterfuge wherein an idea is planted by someone else inside anothers mind without their knowing. Cobb forms a team to do this, and of course things may or may not go as planned, all while Cobb himself must deal with his oft-haunting and confusing backstory.
A grand idea to be sure, and it is a film to be watched and applauded if only for the originality it brings. Surprisingly, and perhaps to its benefit, the film eschews making any grand philosophical statements about the act of dreaming or the nature of dreams. Rather, the film treats the subject matter in a very scientific, logical manner. The world in which these characters inhabit is one where this is an exact science. The members of Cobb's team each have specific talents to fulfill their specific roles ("Extractor", "Architect", "Mark" etc). There's a little scientific doo-dad that puts the people to sleep. Everyone wears suits and ties. If you're expecting magical realism, go elsewhere. It's important that the film treats dreams like this in order to keep the tension elevated.
So for the most part the premise is an original one. It is in the execution of the premise where influences are worn on the sleeve: zero gravity fight scenes that echo The Matrix, and time/spatial distortions that are reminiscient of The Cell. And yeah, The Matrix again. This is a better film than Matrix, and I am not a fan of that film (don't get me started on the sequels); However, it is hard to not draw a parallel here.
The actors perform admirably with what is a ludicrous, though completely appropriate and well-written, script. Ellen Page, Cillian Murphy, and our second favorite alumnus from 3rd Rock from the Sun (French Stewart is God), Joseph Gordon-Levitt fare the best. DiCaprio's delivery of some of the more fantastical lines was grimacing at points, and at points jarred the suspension of disbelief. Finally, as much as I love Marion Cotillard, it would be nice to understand what she is saying half the time.
Like most of Nolan's non-Batman films,(which are overrated by the way; I mean, could anybody stomach The Dark Knight if not for Ledger? Dude carries the entire film) the movie starts off rather confusing and everything coalesces into making perfect (almost) sense at the end. The climax is thrilling, the resolution is satisfying, the music is booming and the ending is something to leave you wanting to watch the movie again. The Prestige is my favorite of Nolan's films and this one is right up there. Catch it in the theatres, IMAX if you can; you'll want to hear this movie loud.
Some additional thoughts with Spoilers:
In a scene in the movie, DiCaprio and Page are in DiCaprio's mind, and they are in an elevator, each floor representing a different memory with his deceased wife. Page remarks, "These aren't dreams are they? They're memories." DiCaprio's character in effect created a way to circumvent death by having a place in his mind wherein he could still be with one he loved. This sort of goes back to what I was talking about in the first blog entry, and a lot of what I've been writing about. Just as a character in my novel might figure out a loophole to cheat death, a writer can create a novel or a story, or anything really, in order to play "what if" and write a different ending to a past event in their life. In a sense, vicariously living through the character. That's one of the greatest and most cathartic aspects of writing, but of course it steers one dangerously close to melodrama, as Inception so often does.
Friday, July 16, 2010
July 16 2010
It seems I can add "infidelity" to the growing list of themes in Novel 1. Maybe a better way to put it would be an all engrossing sense of self-worth that prohibits one from the most basic empathy, let alone the trust and comfort of a monogamous relationship.
What is it about the rich that makes that stereotype so often true? You know, the one about how "I've never met a rich man who didn't step on a poor man to get there"? In my line of work I've seen enough people who have lived for generations off of their pedigree, their father's money, connections made through secret societies. People who were born into lives of luxury and as a result have never had the need to count on someone or rely on anything other than their papa. If they've never needed anyone else how can we expect them to love someone else?
The novel's protagonist, having grown up without a father figure his entire life, is to be presented with two possible substitutes. As it so often happens these two have developed rather naturally into opposites of each other. One has always strived for spiritual happiness, and as a result is scorned for being a lout, while the other has wealth and success but is a cheater and morally bankrupt. It wasn't until after these characters had evolved that I realized they crawled out of the primordial soup that is my own subconcious. It's as though I cleaved myself in half. Lawyer v. Writer, extrovert v. introvert, rich v. poor... there I am on the page, in every supposedly original creation.
I say all this about the rich, about lawyers, about my boss specifically and yet I'm still here doing this job to the best of my abilities and accepting my bi-monthly paycheck. The pressure to leave intensifies. I've got to get out of here before the stench of this place takes hold of me.
What is it about the rich that makes that stereotype so often true? You know, the one about how "I've never met a rich man who didn't step on a poor man to get there"? In my line of work I've seen enough people who have lived for generations off of their pedigree, their father's money, connections made through secret societies. People who were born into lives of luxury and as a result have never had the need to count on someone or rely on anything other than their papa. If they've never needed anyone else how can we expect them to love someone else?
The novel's protagonist, having grown up without a father figure his entire life, is to be presented with two possible substitutes. As it so often happens these two have developed rather naturally into opposites of each other. One has always strived for spiritual happiness, and as a result is scorned for being a lout, while the other has wealth and success but is a cheater and morally bankrupt. It wasn't until after these characters had evolved that I realized they crawled out of the primordial soup that is my own subconcious. It's as though I cleaved myself in half. Lawyer v. Writer, extrovert v. introvert, rich v. poor... there I am on the page, in every supposedly original creation.
I say all this about the rich, about lawyers, about my boss specifically and yet I'm still here doing this job to the best of my abilities and accepting my bi-monthly paycheck. The pressure to leave intensifies. I've got to get out of here before the stench of this place takes hold of me.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
July 14 2010
As I was writing a particularly boring passage of Novel 1 today, I thought, "Wait a second. Isn't that a problem? If I think this part is boring shouldn't I just cut it?" I don't really know the answer to that. I feel like it's too important to cut entirely. It's also dialogue-heavy, and I'm quickly finding out that having my characters talk like "real people" is not the way to go here. The scene involves the protagonist confronting his boss about some corruption and crookery within the workplace. The purpose of the scene is to mostly establish the protagonist's character (his world, his motives, his Dungeons and Dragons alignment, what have you) and also to be used later as contrast for when the character and his situation changes. I'm trying to do a slow build-up without the scene coming across like The Firm.
I seem to be in the spirit of rule-breaking lately. First there's poems about parties, and then there's: "quote," he exclaimed! First thing I learned about fiction writing is to rely on "said" to carry you through those dialogue tags, but I'm more and more finding this to be one of those rules creative writing classes make up to keep dumb kids from going overboard. These rules include:
"No genre fiction"
"No rhyming poetry"
"No form poetry"
"No suicide" etc.
The purpose for these rules in creative writing classes is to provide order for bad writers, to get them to think outside of cliche. However, if you're a slave to rules like this, it can also make your work boring and a chore. I hate to bring it up again, but I did just read The Great Gatsby again, and Fitzgerald even uses "she yawned." So fuck it, if it's good enough for Fitzgerald it's good enough for me.
I seem to be in the spirit of rule-breaking lately. First there's poems about parties, and then there's: "quote," he exclaimed! First thing I learned about fiction writing is to rely on "said" to carry you through those dialogue tags, but I'm more and more finding this to be one of those rules creative writing classes make up to keep dumb kids from going overboard. These rules include:
"No genre fiction"
"No rhyming poetry"
"No form poetry"
"No suicide" etc.
The purpose for these rules in creative writing classes is to provide order for bad writers, to get them to think outside of cliche. However, if you're a slave to rules like this, it can also make your work boring and a chore. I hate to bring it up again, but I did just read The Great Gatsby again, and Fitzgerald even uses "she yawned." So fuck it, if it's good enough for Fitzgerald it's good enough for me.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
July 13 2010
After the past two weekends I can feel myself entering into a holding pattern of introvertedness. I find myself asking questions like "How long can I go without drinking another beer?" and there being no limit to that answer. Although the past two weekends have overflowed with laughter and mirth, there is also a sense that everything is very different now: there is no 4th of July farm party, and Danielle has in fact, left. It feels as good a time as any for a break from the burdens of being a social butterfly.
I was inspired this weekend to write a late chapter scene in the novel. Moving day, and the act of moving itself, is heavy with emotion, and the perfect setting for characters to get wild. It's not so much the act of leaving that gives moving its' weight, but the tragedy of unrealized hopes, words one never said, feelings not conveyed, actions not acted upon. The idea that somehow you failed where you are now, your life for the past few years hasn't been the end-all, and now you have to rebuild.
I think about wanting to be an introvert, but then I think about the prospect of moving or a dear friend of mine moving. If I don't go after every opportunity to be with people, will I regret it in the future if one of us eventually leaves?
I did see something absolutely horrifying this weekend. On Saturday, coming back from helping Danielle move, I slowed to a stop at the intersection of St. Elmo and Broad Street. Two cars ahead of me at the red light was a white pick-up truck with a German Shepherd leashed in the bed. The German Shepherd wasn't quite tied down properly; he was putting his paws up on the side of the truck, looking at the people in the car next to him. As the light turned green, the dog somehow came out of the truck, and was dragged by its neck for 20-30 feet before the truck was able to pull over. The car in front of me and myself pulled over to see if we could help. Thankfully, the dog ended up with only a broken leg. Still, I haven't been able to stop thinking about that German Shepherd, just hanging from the back end of that truck, its legs struggling to keep up and away from the tires, and how maybe this isn't symbolic of my own life at the moment.
I was inspired this weekend to write a late chapter scene in the novel. Moving day, and the act of moving itself, is heavy with emotion, and the perfect setting for characters to get wild. It's not so much the act of leaving that gives moving its' weight, but the tragedy of unrealized hopes, words one never said, feelings not conveyed, actions not acted upon. The idea that somehow you failed where you are now, your life for the past few years hasn't been the end-all, and now you have to rebuild.
I think about wanting to be an introvert, but then I think about the prospect of moving or a dear friend of mine moving. If I don't go after every opportunity to be with people, will I regret it in the future if one of us eventually leaves?
I did see something absolutely horrifying this weekend. On Saturday, coming back from helping Danielle move, I slowed to a stop at the intersection of St. Elmo and Broad Street. Two cars ahead of me at the red light was a white pick-up truck with a German Shepherd leashed in the bed. The German Shepherd wasn't quite tied down properly; he was putting his paws up on the side of the truck, looking at the people in the car next to him. As the light turned green, the dog somehow came out of the truck, and was dragged by its neck for 20-30 feet before the truck was able to pull over. The car in front of me and myself pulled over to see if we could help. Thankfully, the dog ended up with only a broken leg. Still, I haven't been able to stop thinking about that German Shepherd, just hanging from the back end of that truck, its legs struggling to keep up and away from the tires, and how maybe this isn't symbolic of my own life at the moment.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Poem
Boys’ Life
We were killing time at the dollar bin,
Fingers rifling through cd cases, clacking
Together like popping knuckle joints in this time
Between visits from college. “Have you ever heard
Of this band?” asks my friend, bespectacled,
And he hands me a cd from the used bin. The cover
Is mostly solid black, save for the widescreen photo
Of a poorly lit city skyline at sunset that stretches
Across the bottom. Its buildings are mostly shadow;
Local stores, windmills, and grain silos pool together
While the sky itself is a vibrant pastel red and yellow.
A slight shift of shade denotes mountains
In the distance, so of course this is Midwestern,
And of course, I haven’t heard of them, regrettably.
But have you heard of _____? I counter,
Who are at least twice as obscure and with members
Who went on to bigger and brighter basement bands.
We discuss the merits of their record and their influence
Ad nauseum, until we’ve listed and namedropped
Countless artists and spoken phrases like “integrity”
And “forefathers of modern alternative music”
With authority we have yet to earn. It’s enough
To yearn for just a photo of the band as the cover,
Like on those old records my father owned, that old music
I grew up on and abandoned and that
I’ll eventually return to once I’ve lived a little more.
My friend decides to buy the record after lengthy debate.
We exit the thrift store at a quarter after six, and post up
Against the trunk of my 89 Mercury Cougar to talk
A little more before we have to split up, and we talk
About girls and music and forming our own band
About who will play what, and who’s got cigarettes.
We talk until the store closes and then we talk shit
about the people filing out the narrow sliding doors
into the dimly lit car lot. There is no limit
to the amount of talking we can do, no answers
to the questions that we ask.
We were killing time at the dollar bin,
Fingers rifling through cd cases, clacking
Together like popping knuckle joints in this time
Between visits from college. “Have you ever heard
Of this band?” asks my friend, bespectacled,
And he hands me a cd from the used bin. The cover
Is mostly solid black, save for the widescreen photo
Of a poorly lit city skyline at sunset that stretches
Across the bottom. Its buildings are mostly shadow;
Local stores, windmills, and grain silos pool together
While the sky itself is a vibrant pastel red and yellow.
A slight shift of shade denotes mountains
In the distance, so of course this is Midwestern,
And of course, I haven’t heard of them, regrettably.
But have you heard of _____? I counter,
Who are at least twice as obscure and with members
Who went on to bigger and brighter basement bands.
We discuss the merits of their record and their influence
Ad nauseum, until we’ve listed and namedropped
Countless artists and spoken phrases like “integrity”
And “forefathers of modern alternative music”
With authority we have yet to earn. It’s enough
To yearn for just a photo of the band as the cover,
Like on those old records my father owned, that old music
I grew up on and abandoned and that
I’ll eventually return to once I’ve lived a little more.
My friend decides to buy the record after lengthy debate.
We exit the thrift store at a quarter after six, and post up
Against the trunk of my 89 Mercury Cougar to talk
A little more before we have to split up, and we talk
About girls and music and forming our own band
About who will play what, and who’s got cigarettes.
We talk until the store closes and then we talk shit
about the people filing out the narrow sliding doors
into the dimly lit car lot. There is no limit
to the amount of talking we can do, no answers
to the questions that we ask.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)