The Five-body problem

There’s a scene toward the beginning of Amadeus where the Emperor is taking Mozart to task for writing an opera based on a somewhat controversial text of the day, aka “The Marriage of Figaro.” Mozart deflects the Emperor’s concern by engaging him musically, explaining how the opening scene features characters walking in, each singing a separate figure, and he asks the Emperor how many characters he thinks Mozart can handle this way. The Emperor guesses low, of course. Mozart indicated he has seven voices singing seven different things by the end of the scene, and that it all works.

Good for you, Wolfgang. Myself, I’m pushing it with five in a scene right now, though to be fair to myself three of them are actually disembodied consciousness possessing the bodies of others, so that’s not a firm five. Still, moving the conversation around naturally while they all do the things the characters should be doing and simultaneously keeping the plot in motion? It’s a challenge and I’m not afraid to admit it. I can’t plow through it like I can two-person dialog. But we’re also at maximum character density. They start peeling off at this point. Whew.

In the mid-65′s, word-count wise. Thinking 75k as final count when I’m done, 80k at the outside. End of February is possible, but March is more likely.

61000

Words, of course. Still not sure exactly how long it will take to bend the plot to its conclusion, but it is bending that way. I may have solved a plot crux in the shower this morning.

Handy things, showers.

I am musing again today on the difference, if there is one, between a plot twist and a reveal. I’m not sure it matters–to a great extent it’s a dancing angel question–but it still intrigues me. Today’s version: if a plot is a river, a twist is an obstruction that changes the course or otherwise modifies the flow. Any significant complication to the protagonist’s (or antagonist’s!) progress is a plot twist. A reveal is something more particular, I think. First off, it requires more setup. A low-level twist in particular can simply happen: a missed bus, a cancelled flight, a dead battery. Reveals only work when the reader is conscious of their approach on some level. They answer a question as they complicate the plot. To return to the river analogy: why is the current picking up around us? Because there’s a waterfall ahead. Why are my feet wet? Because the canoe is leaking. That sort of thing.

Failing to properly set up a reveal can do a couple of bad things. Answering a question that you didn’t ask, or that you asked 100 pages before, can make a reader go “why does this matter?” Conversely, squeezing the setup in too quickly can make it feel as if the whole issue is an afterthought or a gimmick (Oh, so Holden Caulfield is like that because he’s a werewolf? Now it all makes sense.)

I hope to God I didn’t just inspire someone.

Anyway, density of reveals, like any other kind of plot twist, is important too. Too many in short succession and you’re subject to what I call the “stumbling down the staircase” sensation (since these usually come starting around the dramatic climax and continue through the falling action). Mediocre thrillers and mysteries do this, substituting slapping the reader around with quick, convoluted, contradictory reveals, one after the other. Like a character, it takes a little time for a reader to get attached to how the plot is going. Jerking them around too quickly runs the risk of yanking them out of it entirely.

So who thought it was a good idea

For me to have not one, but two dreams about different serial killers, or rather, portrayals of serial killers last night? And a framing metadream where I discussed with a friend from work that yes, indeed, the two cases were very strange?

One of the killers was a doctor, played by Neil Patrick Harris. Doogie, we hardly knew ye. He had to resuscitate one of his office workers when the place got raided.

The other may or may not have been a coach played by someone who I think was Patton Oswalt. He had three young sons, and was fleeing with them when their plane broke up. Their row of seats plummeted to earth, but they started running really fast, a la Bugs Bunny, and managed to land in one piece, or at least that’s what they thought.

Maybe it was the spicy chicken brats with cheese?

And a Happy one to you too

Spent three hours New Years Day changing the toilet seat out in the main bathroom.  It had been there a while.  A long while.  Since before they started doing the removable caps on the bolts while.  So when the nuts proved to be frozen on, I ended up buying a Dremel knockoff.  It still took me 30 minutes, since I had to slice the nylon nut off the second bolt–couldn’t get an angle on it.

Most of that I was lying flat on my back looking UP at the underside of the toilet.  I respected plumbers before–now I’m tempted to start giving them burnt offerings.

In other news, wrote an action scene last night that made me tired. I switch the point of view at critical moments, sort of like playing Hot Potato. With a grenade, in this case. I liked the result–we’ll see if anyone else does later this month.

The First Ever Traditional Christmas Blog Post

So my family watched the Blu-ray of Kung-fu Panda II Santa left in my son’s stocking this morning. I realized while watching that the place we put stockings (on the sofa) was emotionally correct, as it’s where the fireplace used to be until the previous owners removed it. Couldn’t they have left it and still made the breezeway a dining room? Ah well.

The Holiday Literary Cheer event at SLAG (St. Louis Artists’ Guild) went off swimmingly. A great room, a hostess wowing with polished emcee moves and a little red dress, and a succession of festive and probing poems and stories. Didn’t count heads (though there were fewer empty seats than full), just took in the laughs and applause, happy to be a part of something so cool. Perhaps one day readings will be dreary and repetitious, but that day remains far off, thankfully.

Now I’ve got Wilson Pickett singing in my living room, because every year, magically, Christmas music gets tiresome on Christmas morning. A little tidying before Laura’s family shows up this afternoon, then another wave of shredded wrapping. Will I write tonight? I’m pondering how to force the big bad out of his lair right now, since it remains the same plot crux I wrestled with on the first try, seven years ago. I came to the conclusion last week I would have to re-contour the initial plot setup after I finished this draft, but at least it’s shaped like itself at this point. Extra points to those who spot the reference, or the trope namer.

Merry Christmas to any soul whose eyes light upon these words, soon or ever.

Why I WUTA

WUTA works.

WUTA, aka Writers under the Arch, is a writers’ circle who meets weekly. Its members are a diverse (must…resist…”motley”) crew of poets, playwrights, screenwriters and, er, prosers. We read brief excerpts of works in progress every week, get immediate close edits and suggestions, and come back for more. Those of us who work in longer forms get together once a month as needed to look at whole novels, screenplays, epic national poems, et al.

What’s that, Sparky? Why is it any different than any other writers’ group?

Apart from the sheer number of meetings–seeing each other and going over material on a weekly basis keeps everyone focused and fresh–WUTA has a few secrets I will share with you, at great personal risk. First, we all genuinely like to write. Second, we all genuinely want to write better. Third, we all genuinely want each other to write better too.

There you have it.

Okay, fine, maybe I left out some details. But the above already puts WUTA at the top of the class as far as critique circles go. The thing that may be unique about WUTA, though, is the underlying assumption that those three things make us peers. Published, unpublished, old hand, new blood, we are all there for the same thing. Commonality, in this case, yields uncommon results: everyone, no matter where they start, has room to improve, and we tailor our suggestions accordingly. Hitches in grammar? We spot ‘em. Pacing? Got it. Character development problems? Ditto. Thematic inconsistency? Sure.

Most important of all, critique is presented with respect, because everyone there is walking the same mile, or in some cases, the same ultramarathon. Now, respect can include some good-natured ribbing (it is good-natured, right? What you all were saying about my hand gestures the other night?). We occasionally sound like a roomful of old married couples, if old married couples were all Dorothy Parker fans.

In any case, meetings are fun. We look forward to the next installments of novels, to new poetry, to a short story one of us pulled together while they worked around a screenplay scene. We feel disappointment when someone admits they don’t have anything that week.

Can I mention our maximum leader by name? No? Fine. Our facilitator, whom I shall refer to as La Belle Dame sans Pareil, keeps our ADHD selves from meandering off on tangents with all the aplomb, humor, and long-suffering patience of a professional parakeet herder. I cannot imagine our success without her. I can’t imagine US without her.

The bottom line is the same as the top: WUTA works. Get something like it going if you want to improve as a writer.

Why I write

Normally, I prefer the life of the writing bumblebee, worrying less about how I stay aloft than about collecting the pollen. However, Jay Hartman at Untreed Reads wants WUTA members he’s publishing to share a blog post on the topic, so here I am. I like to make publishers happy.

I like to make readers happy too. Sad, and angry, and scared as well–but mostly, happy. That’s because when I read, I like to be made happy, sad, et al, and I respect the quid pro quo. Of course, one need not write happy stories to achieve happy results–the darkest books leave the brightest memories.

So that’s one end of the rope accounted for: desired effect in the reader. Now for my end. I struggle, as I hope most humans do, with much of life; not merely the day-to-day challenge of keeping a roof and food over my head and on the table, respectively, but with Western Civilization’s ongoing insult to my humanity. (Note: all civilizations, past and present, insult the humanity of their citizenry. To believe otherwise is to give credence to the notion of a lost Golden Age. Don’t.)

I respond poorly to these insults. When people who should know better, being human themselves, promote an injustice as not merely tolerable, but desirable? I rage. I fume. I bellow. Or rather, I would, if the social cost weren’t so high. Conscience may or may not make cowards of us all, but the prospect of a life full of righteous indignation makes one of me. Stridency is not my strong suit.

Writing lets me express in a socially acceptable form tendencies that would otherwise get me shuffled off to the margins of society. While I love creating characters who live on one margin or another, I distrust those who romanticize living there. Margins are dreary places. Writing also enables me to engage in cheap retribution against historical figures I loathe, which may be more of a personal issue. Still, unlike peeing on grave sites, it won’t get you arrested.

But wait, there’s more. Writing also enables me to describe moments of lucid intensity, of surpassing joy, of boundless exhilaration; I don’t know about you, but I experience that sort of thing less frequently than I’d like. To write a story is to build a roller coaster to your own specifications. To publish one is to invite others to take a ride.

That covers the highs and lows. What about the in-between, where most of us spend our days?

Even on the broad, flat plain that is mundane existence, writing gives me a chance to explore. When you zoom in close enough, the mundane teems with detail. A gesture, a phrase, a repeated word: the art of getting one’s point across, of describing a tableau, of conveying a complex emotional reaction all reward me when I nail them (and taunt me mercilessly until I do). The simple satisfaction of doing my craft well keeps me going while I’m waiting for the next spine-tingling moment to gel. Perhaps I can even sneak in an idea or two.

So: giving in to base urges, reaching for the stars, and playing with words. That’s why I write, pretty much. Okay, being a frustrated actor, musician and artist and having no other useful means of self-expression have something to do with it to, but we don’t need to get into my personal life here, do we?

Shopping

I buy a lot of books this time of year, two dozen or more. My nieces, nephews, great-nieces, great-nephews, and kids of some kind of relation it would take too long to explain get books for Christmas unless they flat out tell me they don’t read, and then they get a dirty look and socks. Okay, I don’t give them socks, but I do give them a basilisk-worthy glare with their gift card to who the hell cares.

To be fair, I get thanks from some of them, and more from their parents, and I’d like to think those thanks stem from some innate knack I have for finding great books for kids. What I really have, however, is Google and the ability to type things like “Caldecott” and “Young Adult Book Award.”

I thought I’d share this year’s sources:

http://www.ala.org/alsc/awardsgrants/bookmedia
–The Association for Library Service to Children (ALSC) site, home of the Caldecott, Newbery, and other awards for kid’s books.

http://www.cybils.com/
–The Children’s and Young Adult Bloggers’ Literary Awards

For my purposes these (along with age ratings on the actual bookstore sales sites) were enough.  Speaking of: Left Bank Books, my primary source for acquiring printer matter. A superb independent bookseller, good to local authors, with staff whose picks I listen to, especially when a book proves hard to find. They’ve provided great backups more than once.

I also use:
Puddn’head Books in Webster Groves, a fellow member of the St. Louis Independent Bookstore Alliance and a cozy place to chat about author signings and crossover appeal with the staff.

I have a spreadsheet to update with who got what this year. Later.

More Serendipity

Pulling in threads from all over now. Music I listen to, mementos of people I don’t recognize, old schools, old movies. On a genuine roll for five hundred words of bliss. It’s all going in the soup and onto the screen. I will clean up with a damp rag later.

Automatic writing for the win.

Tonight’s phrase:
Armadillos percolate.

Serendipity

So, perusing the NYT before work this morning,  I came on a picture (number 5 in the slideshow):

http://www.nytimes.com/slideshow/2011/11/21/books/20111121-ertegun.html

The red hats caught my eye and held on.  That, I thought to myself, is a statement.

Something clicked in my mind.  I describe a character in the current project as wearing a porkpie hat.

Said character is now wearing a red porkpie hat, because said character is not afraid of standing out, of making a visual statement.

A silly detail?  Perhaps.  But imagine the picture above with the two men wearing black or brown hats.

Yeah, that’s what I mean.  I don’t go into long, detailed descriptions of my characters–ever–but for supporting characters in particular I like to focus on particular physical features, or in this case, sartorial choices, that have meaning and impact.  I have a couple of reasons for doing so, but the main one is providing a clear, visual cue for the reader, one that’s not only an aid to remembering the character, but also a frozen moment of insight into the character’s personality, habits, et al.

That’s a lot of weight for “red” to carry.  I try to avoid pushing this to extreme cases, which may be why my work doesn’t sprawl with supporting casts.  Too many of these and you end up with the Seven Dwarves.

On a related topic, this: