Painted Illusions: A Tale of What I’d Probably Be Like Were I Not (reasonably) Sane

I wasn’t going to. One week ago I said I wasn’t going to. There is actual, audio proof out there that I said I was not going to participate in the NaNoWriMo this year. I haven’t for the last several because I know that I’ll never get it done. How do I know? Because I’ve never gotten it done.

For those of you don’t know, NaNoWriMo is a contest of sorts; you have 30 days to write a 50,000 word or more long novel. I’ve started several times, never finished. I wasn’t going to this year. Until Tuesday, Nov. 1st, the first day of NaNoWriMo (duh) came. As the day wore on, a little voice in the back of my head began to squawk at me, teasing me about not participating. I had rationalized my decision, determining that the two projects I have in limbo (two completed projects in desperate need of rewrite) took greater precedence over a 30 day flight of fancy.

But then a pesky, annoying little idea began to creep into my head. An image here, an image there. A question was posed, “What if…?” The next thing I knew, I had the root of a story and found myself typing furiously away at my keyboard as soon as I got home from work Tuesday afternoon.

Two things surprised me that afternoon as I sat in my recliner clacking away at my laptop. One, I had no real idea where I was going to go. Yet, somehow a story seemed to flow almost effortlessly from my fingertips. Events and details found their way on to my blank screen without my having to put a whole lot of effort into them. Plus, when I set to work at it again yesterday, I again found that I was able to write the story so easily. It helped me feel good about myself as a writer again as I haven’t had that kind of output in months. (But then I saw the word count of my far more talented friend Nate Tackett and I felt a little less proud of myself, but proud nonetheless.) Two, I was able to write so easily without using a pen and paper. For whatever reason, over the past few years I have been practically unable to write a story unless it was in long form and  by hand. I would try to sit down at a computer screen and would only find myself staring at the screen for hours or far too easily distracted by the internet. Not this time, though. A little bit today, though, but not too bad.

But what am I writing?

I spent my formative years watching a lot of cop and PI shows. I was weened on The Equalizer, Simon & Simon, Magnum PI, Hill Street Blues, and Miami Vice. It is probably for that reason alone that I write more detective or cop fiction than anything else anymore (or ever). They became part of my inner psyche, to the point that I sometimes walk around with an inner monologue like the main character in a noir film. Or, as is far more often the case, I will sometimes have the background music from shows like Magnum or Simon & Simon. I have bought Hawaiian shirts before, and love the Detroit Tigers, much like Thomas Magnum. Sometimes I like to imagine, despite having freshly turned 35 years old, that I’m sometimes in a big mystery, being followed by a strange assailant or in a car chase.

Then I thought, what if I had a story with a main character that could no longer tell if he was imagining or not? That became the root of my story for NaNoWriMo: the story of a man who often thinks he’s the main character in a tv or movie mystery who involves himself into an actual murder investigation. He’s an affable, but not entirely likeable, alcoholic with a hooker for a girlfriend who often gets smacked around by her dwarf pimp and his overgrown bodyguard/enforcer. He incorrectly infers that the murder of a person close to him is directly tied to him and thus feels obligated to figure out the who and the why. He stumbles into danger by chance which only serves to further cement the illusion in his brain.

Now, the key is to see if I actually stick with it through the whole month of November…

I’m A Bad Writer

Reserve your comments and judgements for a moment. When I say, “I’m a bad writer,” I’m not talking about my work. I personally don’t think my writing sucks and handful of people have told me that my work is decent. There’s a good chance they’re just being kind and I, of course, think my writing is pretty good but who knows.

What I mean by the above statement is that I’m not nearly as prolific as I probably should be. This is not an old thought I’ve discussed–in fact I think it’s a recurring theme on here and on my podcast. I haven’t worked on either of my “real” projects in some time. Currently I’m working on a comedic screenplay about a woman attending her ex-husband’s funeral only to learn that he hasn’t told his family he’s divorced and also a long overdue second draft of my book A Darkling Plain which is the first story to introduce the characters in my book Our Own Devils available at Amazon.com.

I’ve tried, believe me. I sit at my desk with pen in hand with every intention of punching out page after page of prose only to find myself staring at the page gasping at the depth of my stupidity and lack of talent.

I keep thinking of ways to help stoke the fires of my creative drive. One was this very blog back in the spring. It seemed like a great idea. “When I can’t get going, I’ll spew some thoughts on here to get the juices flowing and then hit a manuscript.” Well, we know how well that’s worked out.

Earlier this week I decided I should be journaling more; just have a notebook just for my personal private thoughts that no one would care to read. This, of course, implies that I think people care about what I put up here which probably ain’t too true. I bought a brand new manuscript notebook with the intention of filling it full of senseless drivel like John Doe in Se7en. It’s been with me all week. I haven’t even cracked the spine on it.

Part of the problem is my mind becomes muddled with so much other muck. I’m in the process of changing bars again. I’m doing a play for the first time in three years. I’m performing for a wedding next weekend (which I should be spending a lot more time preparing for). I have the podcast (which I should have already recorded for this week and have yet to do). I’m in the middle of reading George RR Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire series and haven’t read that much lately and feel an obligation to do so. I might be joining a band again and my thoughts are rife with that.

So I’ve got all of this going on. That means I have zero time to relax at home, right?

Wrong. I still spend so much time vegging out in front of the TV mindlessly thumbing the remote or streaming videos on the computer. I was up at 3:30 for no other reason than I just happened to wake up then. Part of me thought, “Hey, you could use this time and quiet to do some writing!” The other part of me thought, “Yeah, but my notebooks are all in the truck so fuck that. Where’s my laptop?”

That, my friends, is why I suck.

Well, one of the reasons.

I’m sure there are many other reasons why I suck in other areas.

A Dead Lay

I don’t know why the idea for this sketch popped into my head this morning, but it did.

BOB and ALAN are sitting at the bar having drinks.

BOB

So, I’ve been thinking…

ALAN

Ok.

BOB

Nevermind.

ALAN

What?

BOB

No, don’t worry about it.

ALAN

What? No come on, what’s on your mind, buddy?

BOB

Meh…It’s kind of difficult to talk about.

ALAN

Jesus, what’s wrong?

BOB

Nothing’s wrong.

ALAN

Then what is it?

BOB

(deep breath)

I’ve been thinking about having sex.

ALAN

Ok, nothing crazy about that.

BOB

With corpses.

ALAN

Woah. What the hell.

BOB

See, Now you’re judging me.

ALAN

Just so we’re clear: You’re talking about necrophilia.

BOB

What? Jesus Christ, no!

ALAN

Whew, good. Because I thought you just said you wanted to have sex with dead people.

BOB

I did.

ALAN

Jesus, Bob!

BOB

What?

ALAN

I just said, “You’re talking about necrophilia,” and you said, “No.”

BOB

I’m not.

ALAN

Yes you are.

BOB

No, I’m not.

ALAN

Uh, yeah you are.

BOB

Isn’t necrophilia using velcro to like asphyxiate people mid-coitus?

ALAN

No! Necrophilia is engaging in sexual congress with dead people.

BOB

Oh, then yeah, I’m totally talking necrophilia.

ALAN

Bob! What in the hell are you thinking bout?

BOB

I thought we just cleared that up.

ALAN

Yeah, but why? I mean, Christ, man! What on earth would possess you to even consider such a thing?

BOB

I dunno. You know how it is–

ALAN

No, I don’t.

BOB

–you’re sitting at your desk at work. You’re thinking about sales reports, then the mind wanders.

ALAN

To having sex with the recently departed?

BOB

Get off my ass, Alan. What do you want me to say?

ALAN

That you don’t actually want to have sex with corpses.

BOB

Hey, the heart wants what it wants.

ALAN

No, Bob, it does not. The heart does want to have sex with dead people. No one’s heart ever wants to have sex with dead people. Ever.

BOB

But, Alan–

ALAN

Ever, Bob.

BOB

Alan, listen to me, there have been documented cases of–

ALAN

I don’t want to talk about this anymore, Bob. You’re my friend, and I love you, but I am not having this discussion with you. You are not having sexwith dead people and we are never discussing the subject again. Understood?

BOB

Al–

ALAN

Understood?

BOB

Fine.

The two drink their beers silently for a time.

BOB

How’s your mom?

ALAN

She’s doing ok.

BOB

The cancer treatments are going well?

ALAN

(beat)

They could be going better. Why do you ask?

BOB

No reason, just asking. Concerned friend and all that.

ALAN

Yuh huh.

There’s an uncomfortable pause.

BOB

So she’s going to pull through.

ALAN

Yes, she’s going to pull through. (beat) Why do you ask?

BOB

I told you, just a worried friend.

ALAN

Ok…

BOB

You know, you’re mom is a really attractive woman.

ALAN

Oh, Jesus Bob!

BOB

What?

ALAN

You want to have sex with my mother when she’s dead!

BOB

No I don’t! Why would you think that?

ALAN

Why would I think that? What do you mean why would I think that? You talk to me about wanting to bang corpses and then you ask me about my dying mother?

BOB

I thought you didn’t want to discuss that ever again.

ALAN

That’s it, I’m leaving.

BOB

Come on, Alan, sit back down. Let me get you a beer.

ALAN

No, Bob. I’m leaving. Good bye.

BOB

(calling after)

Do you have an aunt? Is she feeling healthy?

The Darkling Plane, Chapter One

This is the first chapter of the second draft of a book I finished in January of 2001. This book introduces the characters in my book Our Own Devils which I’ve been reading on my MoPod Podcast .

 

It was the most pleasant December I could recall in a long time. There had been only the slightest hint of snow since November had first arrived and it had fled almost as soon as it had touched the ground. Afterwards, the temperatures went far above the regional average. Now it was almost two weeks until Christmas and I was sitting on my apartment balcony sipping on beers while locally raised beef sizzled on my grill.

While it was my grill I was doing little else than sipping on said beer. My friend, Trey Daniels, had liberated the mat from the restaurant he worked at and was overseeing its proper preparation. Mike Lincoln was sitting beside me in a collapsible canvas chair. He had generously bought the beer we were all drinking. My only contribution was the balcony and the grill.

“You’re awfully quiet,” said Daniels to me as he flipped the steaks over on the grill and added a liberal amount of seasoning to them. He had also brought the seasoning to the grill out but it was his own special blend that had never been inside of the restaurant.

I shrugged. “I guess I just don’t have much to say.”

No Morning After (a very short story)

He knew the relationship was doomed the moment she got out of bed and began praying loudly. She was in fact louder than she had been throughout their hour long bout of love making. Well, he thought it had been love making. But as he listened to her at the foot of the bed with her hands clasped together so tightly that her knuckles were white and her eyes clamped shut as she swayed back and forth slowly in her nakedness, he learned that he was wrong.

“Oh dear Lord,” she called out so loudly that ne nearly fell out of the bed, “please take us into your loving bosom and forgive us the wanton carnality of our acts in your divine presence. Know, oh mighty God, that it was not my wish to transgress so egregiously. I did not wish to indulge in drink and flesh…”
And that’s how it went for ten minutes; her espousing to an apparently angry and bitter god how terribly wicked and evil they both were but oh golly gee, Mr. Jesus, I sure hope you’ll forgive us. Meanwhile, he slowly crawled deeper into the relative safety and comfort the down comforter his grandmother had made for him and wondered what she’d say about him now.
“…and I certainly did not expect or grant him permission to stick his finger in my ass, Jesus,” she said. “And while the sex was fantastic, for that alone you may smite him however you see fit.”
“So, you won’t be staying for pancakes then?” he said with a sigh.

The coin keeps coming up ‘tails’

I’m a pretty funny guy. I’m not saying this just for the sake of saying it or to brag about being funny.  I’m usually good for a quip or some witty banter. I’m like dropping one line “zingers”. I also am good for funny bits on Facebook. In fact, people have often told me they will go on Facebook in the morning just to see what funny BS I’ve thrown up.

This jocularity doesn’t always lend itself to my writing. I can occasionally throw in some witty banter between characters or a good throw away line that is worthy of a chuckle. Generally, though that’s it. If I try to sit down by myself with pen in hand and say, “Alright, Mo, it’s time to be funny!” and work on a script or a story, I  start out solid and funny, but then it starts to peter out after a while and the tone of whatever I’m writing gets a bit darker and I then have to slap myself and remember that I’m supposed to be funny.

To put into context, I started working on a screenplay about a month ago. I thought the premise was funny, and I started out with a bunch of yucks. Then one evening while clanking away at the keyboard (for some reason I’m working on this one solely on my laptop, which is a huge departure for me) I suddenly went down the opposite path and the material got very serious. Of course, I didn’t notice until I was several pages in that I was going the wrong damn way.

For whatever reason, I’ve always written “serious” material; detective stories, techno-thrillers, police procedurals, etc. Again, I can throw in the funny one liner every once in a while but the overall tone is usually doom and gloom. That’s when I’m working solo.

When I was in college and in high school I sometimes collaborated with friends on small, often unimportant projects. Those were funny as hell, if I don’t mind saying so. I don’t know if perhaps I was able to “bring the funny” on those occasions because I was working side by side with someone and thus had an audience and immediate feedback along with the joy of having someone to, in turn, make me laugh as well which helped to fuel my funny.

Hmmmm.  So…anyone want to write a funny screenplay with me?

It never fails.

I sit down with the determination to write. My children haven’t bothered me all evening, the upstairs is quiet, all is ready.

Then I open my laptop. That’s when everyone comes calling almost at once. They have to comment on whatever noise I have on in the background. They want to have a conversation about it. They want to bother me about stuff that might happen three weeks from now. They want to sit on the arm of my chair while I write or sit on the floor at the foot of my chair and rock back and forth, hitting my chair as they do so.

On top of it all? Three of the biggest horse flies I have ever seen in my life are at work inside the blinds to my immediate left. They hide inside the blinds when I roll them up or refuse to stay still long enough for me to strike them, striking the window with an audible pop each time their giant jelly bean-sized bodies hit the glass.

Now I can no longer think about writing. All I can think about are the cigarettes sitting in my truck outside, the bottle of Maker’s Mark I emptied the other night, and pulling out my hair as I avoid a nervous breakdown in front of my children.

Sigh…

This isn’t a cop out, but let me give you an excuse

I’ve been writing.

Sort of.

Well, not really.

I’ve been writing some things down, which is something.  But I haven’t been writing writing.  Father’s Day weekend found me in Mankato, Land of Ten Thousand Lakes Minnesota for a pool tournament for one of the boys.  Now, as is my custom, whenever I go on a trip I always take my backpack.  My backpack has my critical travel needs: iPod, two different ear buds (one pair shuts out background noise, whatever I’m reading at the time (I finished Dennis Lehane’s Gone Baby Gone and started a Zeppelin bio, When Giants Walked the Earth), and my notebook.  I bring my notebook thinking, “I’m almost certain to find some time to write!”  This never happens.  Ever.  The wife and I went on vacation last year to celebrate our ten year wedding anniversary with no kids and were gone for five days and I didn’t write a single word.  Last weekend was more of the same.

However, I do keep a small notebook and a pen on my person at almost all times.  It’s a little tip I picked up from Kicking and Screaming (the Noah Baumbach film, not that tripe with Will Ferrel).  So while I haven’t made too much headway in my rewrite (because I haven’t thought of anything original to write) I did scribble a few paragraphs inspired by some of the great people watching at the Verizon Center.

“The room was full of one time biker babes.  Women that at one time turned heads and probably caused a fight or two back in the day.  But now the wind and sun had left them permanently raw and worn; the details of once salacious tattoos lost in loose and wrinkled skin.”

“There were storm clouds gathering on the western edge of town.  He knew the rain was coming; he could smell it in the air and feel it in his aged joints.  The clouds were dark, as dark as midnight.  They blocked out the sun and sent a cold wind Eastward ahead of it to alert all of their coming.  He looked up and saw droves of birds flying east as quickly as possible…”

Great stuff?  No.  The makings of something else later on down the line?  Maybe.

By the way, I’ve figured out what it is I hate about rewrites.  First drafts are fun.  They are full of the unknown, like a child out playing and making the first marks after a fresh snowfall.  There are almost no rules and there is nothing holding you back.

Rewrites are more like work.  You’ve set a framework for yourself and feel an obligation to honor most of that original framework.  Does it limit your options?  No.  But establishes a pretty finite set of details.

I hate work.

That’s probably why I’m often on the internet or writing when I’m at work…

Second Verse NOT same as the first?

I hate rewrites.  I always have and I always will.

The problem is I enjoy the implied finality that comes with finishing writing a book.  For example, I finished my sci-fi/noir book two weeks ago.  I was the happiest sumbitch on the planet.  At this point all I need to do is finish typing it into word (I write almost exclusively longhand with pen and paper) so that my “beta testers” can read it and give me some feedback and notes.  I want the notes, and I want to know what to fix or improve on.

However, at the same time, I dread the fact that I’m going to have to do it regardless of how badly I know it needs to be done.

Case in point, I’m finally revisiting my first ‘decent’ novel, A Darkling Plain.  I started it in college and finally finished it the winter of ’01 (or “Aught-One” as I’m fond of now saying).  I’ve known for the last ten years that it was in desperate need of a rewrite and even have known for years some of the changes I wanted to make to it.  Still, I’ve never done it.  I’ve put it off and put it off for a decade.  Why?

Because I hate rewrites.

There are two reasons why:  A.  I get married to the original draft.  I know I want to make changes but when it comes to taking the axe to sections or characters or dialog part of me is suddenly there screaming that it can’t be done because a. leads to b. or what have you.  Yes, there are ways of getting around that and it will improve the overall book.  All the same, I’m suddenly one of those packrat freaks on A&E who load their house full of shit and can’t bear to sacrifice any of it despite it just stinking and cluttering up the house.

Then there’s B.  It’s not as fun as doing the original draft.  It’s like watching a movie again for the 100th time; you already know all of the characters, you know exactly what’s going to happen next, and there’s nothing new to be discovered.  It’s not entirely true because I’m going to be changing the movie, but the sentiment is still there.

It’s a little bit different with Plain, though.  I’m excited to make the changes because I know I’m a more mature writer now and I think I’ve improved in the last ten years.  Most of the “tools” in my toolbox are the same, but they might have a bit more polish.  I’m less derivitive of my literary heroes and have found more of my own voice in my detective fiction so I know that will help.  The changes I want to make are a bit more realistic and less like a bad Shane Black film.

Also, in reading it now it’s so painfully clear that it was written by a college kid who watched too many shoot em up action movies in the 80s and 90s.  It makes it almost embarassing for me to read it and I want to push it far away from me.

There is one upside to this.  The character of Alex Pine was introduced in A Darkling Plain and is also in Our Own Devils (available for purchase at amazon.com!).  I had started this book and created the character before I met my wife, Amanda.  However, much of my wife went into her as the story grew.  Now as I’m going through the rewrite I can put even more of her into Alex.  So in one way, it’s like I’m getting to meet Amanda all over again.  That’s pretty nice.

In the meantime, I’ve been blogging about this whole thing while the new manuscript lies neglected on my desk.  I should get back to work now.

Nah, funk that.  I’m gonna get some sub-par Chinese food instead.

What a difference over a decade makes…

Maturity has a strange way of creeping up on us.  It’s not a always a series of conscious decisions through which we change into the people we become.  It’s often a subtle change in nature.  Mostly we detect it how we got about our plans on the weekends or what we decide to spend our money on.

This morning, I’m seeing the great changes I’ve gone through as a writer.  I finally caved and decided to return to the source material for my first detective novel, On A Darkling Plain, as I begin going about writing the long over due second draft.  I can tell very quickly how much my writing has changed since I first started writing it back in 1997.  At that time I was reading almost nothing but Robert B. Parker’s Spenser novels to where my vision became quite skewed and my characters and writing style were far too derivitive.  I had actually given some of what I had to an English professor I admired and he had even said it was derivitive.  For some reason I took it as a compliment instead of using it to improve my work.

I actually find myself getting a little embarassed as I read through these pages written almost a lifetime ago.  I had created a character that was far too much an amalgam of the down-and-out gumshoe and the glorified, worldly Spenser.  I know I did a much better job with the character when I wrote Our Own Devils but now I have to lay that groundwork here, like I’ve already built the house and now I’m pouring the foundation.

Aye, caramba…