New book recommendation: We Die Alone by David Howarth

If you ever thought, "Sure, Aron Rolston is tough, but I want to read about someone even more hardcore who got lost because he was doing something a whole lot more important than dillying around some cliffs," then I have the perfect book for you. If you'll remember, Aron Rolston is the guy who got trapped under a boulder and had to cut his own arm off just so that he could trek through some desert paths and get to safety. Shit is hardcore, but Rolson has nothing on Jan Baalsrud in We Die Alone by David Howarth. Check out more info here:

http://www.amazon.com/We-Die-Alone-Escape-Endurance/dp/1599210630/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1363807556&sr=8-1&keywords=we+die+alone

Put it this way, Rolston cut off his hand and that shit was undoubtedly gnarly, but Baalsrud cut off nine of his own toes at the top of a mountain while being lashed to a dog sled for six weeks to hide from Nazis scouring the valleys below. Oh, and that's after he fell down a frickin avalanche, which came after he spent days running/swimming away from the Nazis. The truth poignancy comes not just from Baalsrud's suffering, but from the bravery exhibited by countrymen. Anyone who did anything but drag this guy to the nearest Nazi risked the safety of his whole village in helping Jan and yet an astounding number of patriots did just that. Without their help, Jan would have died a lonely man under a pile of snow. Seriously, pick this up if you're itching for some good personal historical fiction.

Book recommendation

I just discovered The Wertzone, which looks like a great place for sci-fi/fantasy fans. Seeing as how I'd just finished Susanna Clarke's massive undertaking Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, I thought I'd see what this guy thought. Honestly, a lot of his ideas reflected what I thought of the book. Fun, ambitious, enjoyable, takes a big meandering misstep around the 2/3rd mark but recovers in time for a satisfying ending. I'd recommend it to only the most patient of readers I know. Clarke's style reads like a breezier version of 19th century literature and the depth she weaves into her alternate world is impressive. Apparently it took her ten years to write this book. Damn. There is literally nothing in this world that's taken me ten years to do. Good on her for sticking with it. I'm one year into this project (third re-writes are advancing somewhere between steadily and glacially) and I can't imagine going on for another year without this beast being somewhat finished.

Anyways, here's the link if you're interested. The book's been out a while, but I recommend it if you enjoyed Harry Potter, but wished for a bit more density to it.

http://thewertzone.blogspot.com/search/label/susanna%20clarke

History: Still the best inspiration

History is the fuel for fiction. Without it, I'd be lost for plot structure. I imagine many others would as well. I try to always have one non-fiction that I haven't finished on my kindle. You never know when you'll be in the perfect mood to sit back and read some non-fiction. Currently, I'm reading a great book by Ron Chernow simply titled Washington: A Life. It's great not only for a biography of the man, but as a great resource for learning about the Revolutionary War before, during and after through the eyes of one man. When will I use it in one of my stories? Who knows? Maybe tomorrow, maybe never. You don't know what you'll use until you've learned it. 

I say this because I'm really excited about a recent purchase I made. By recent, I mean today. I've always wanted something like this and I really hope it's what I expect: http://www.amazon.com/Timelines-History-DK-Publishing/dp/0756686814/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1360701477&sr=8-1&keywords=timelines+of+history

This one's a Smithsonian joint, so I'm inclined to think the quality will be high. Either way, I've long wanted a comprehensive book of the world's history, but that obviously seemed pretty lofty and pretty difficult. My hope is that through a different medium, I can find different inspiration. This book seems chock full of great pictures and short bits that can really move things along. Most of the time, I just read straight print non-fiction. One of my favorites to this day is The Fatal Shore by Robert Hughes, which is an incredible, detailed account of the formation and growth of Australia from a penal colony to an independent sovereign. Will I use that in a future story? Abso-friggin-lutely. Already have in some ways, and will more. Let's hope this new book stokes some new fires. That's what it's all about after all. Either you're writing or you're finding new things to write about. Til next time.

Another take on the 'loneliness topic'

I'm thinking more about what I put on my last post and I think part of what I said could use a follow up. Specifically, this part:

You can't take people along for the ride when you're writing or painting or making a song. You can't show them the hours upon hours you spent on a project no one will ever see. You can't show them the myriad of failed projects that, in their own way, pave the way to successes later in life. In fact, if readers do see all your labor, all your pain, and all your doubts on the page, then you probably did something wrong. More and more, it seems to me that art is about pushing yourself beyond any reasonable limit to make something practically useless that might make you money, but will probably just make you crazy. And yet, more and more I realize it could be no other way.

I like that. I stand by it. To me, that's what the process is like right now. But I think I've cast more gloom over the whole thing than really I feel about it. I like being alone. I like those moments when I get home and realize I have two hours to myself to do whatever I want (which means 90 minutes of video games and 30 minutes of writing). If you don't like the idea of being lonely or receiving feedback on your work more than once a year, then I don't think writing stories is for you. Again, that's based on what I'm feeling right now in my rawest of raw states. I've read lots of book on the topic of writing and many, if not all, have in some way called writing a lonely craft. It is. But that's why loners gravitate toward it. It's like football. I hate getting hurt. Are you kidding me? Do not punch me. Ever. I don't enjoy pain. I can't imagine having two men the size of grown lions crashing into me at the same time with only some thin pads to absorb the blow. Yet plenty of guys do it very well and are compensated finely for it. Sure, you know about the pain they feel to get where they are, but we don't feel it. We don't connect with that particular sensation. I suspect on some level an athlete welcomes the pain, at least on the playing field. It's likely an invigorating sensation when it doesn't physically hinder an athlete. They've grown up with bumps and bruises. I didn't. I grew up quasi-alone and have since gravitated toward that. Next time you hear some artist or scholar or writer complain about all the lonely hours, just remember that secretly they (and I) love this shit as much as a wide receiver loves taking a hit to make a touchdown catch.

And the beats carries on with this new story. I'm starting to feel a bit 'in the zone'. We're out of the beginning and plunging in the middle of this story, and things are only getting easier. The plot is only moving faster. Editing shall begin this weekend on one work, but hopefully I'll have something else on the stack before the month of March arrives. Depends on how much alone time I can get.

Just keep going and going

Starting to get the editing itch. I printed out the manuscript a few weeks ago. It's about a hundred pages longer than the first copy. Not a great sign, but I find that my first copy is where I put everything. No idea is too small or insignificant for that first draft. Soon I'll find a day in the office (preferably a Friday) when I can kick back and read through this beast as quickly as possible. Last time I took spare notes on my draft and never once looked at them. I just re-wrote the whole draft from memory (a mighty selective memory might I add). Now I really want to try and keep track of everything. I feel like a good flow chart or outlining device is going to be necessary to really keep this thing in order. We'll see. It's all about learning the process at this point. No one can teach you 'the process' in any art unless you go and do it yourself. I'm trying to do most of this without too much advice out there to bog it all down. There is plenty of great advice that I know I must heed once the story is truly finished, but until then...

In the meantime, I'm still (mostly) putting out 2,000 words/day of new, crappy 1st draft stuff. Sundays are bad days for productivity. While I've managed at least 1k every day between Monday and Saturday, I've managed a total of 1,000 words in the four Sundays in January. Might be time to cut myself some slack. It's easy to hold my own face to the fire and say, "Write it every day no matter what!" but I'm working 6 days a week to push about 60 hours total. Sunday is my only off day, which you'd think would help, but really it only hinders. Suddenly I don't have an excuse to say no to that dinner with Dad or that drink with a friend or a myriad of other things. At first, it felt great to say, "No thanks. I'm writing a novel today." But man, after a year of doing that? Something about this month has just made me want to get out a little more when I get that chance.

This is where I think the loneliness of writing really starts to set in. A year ago, it was all exciting and new and flashy. I had a story that seemed clear as day. Only it wasn't. The only clear thing about this piece was the emotion. Somehow I feel like I'm not alone. When I think of a work, any work that means anything at all to me, it's not the structure or the plot intricacies that really hang me up (not at the daydreaming stage anyways). It's that raw emotion. This first shelved draft comes down to a few feelings that drove me to The End. This thing I'm working on now? Same deal. You pick a few emotions, you slap them on some people you like, and you hit the gas. And you feel the rush as you create and improve upon your creation, but no one feels it with you. No one sees you come back day after day to the same desk, to the same process, to the same document that hardly looks any different to anyone except you. A year ago, I made the grave (yet to be repeated) error of showing a few family members and friends the opening of my work (in first draft form) and since then people (read: my parents) ask about it all the time (read: once or twice over the last year) and all I can say is, "It's not done. Not even close." It's a lonely ride, but it can literally be no other way. If you want to reach The End, you have to run those miles alone.

You can't take people along for the ride when you're writing or painting or making a song. You can't show them the hours upon hours you spent on a project no one will ever see. You can't show them the myriad of failed projects that, in their own way, pave the way to successes later in life. In fact, if readers do see all your labor, all your pain, and all your doubts on the page, then you probably did something wrong. More and more, it seems to me that art is about pushing yourself beyond any reasonable limit to make something practically useless that might make you money, but will probably just make you crazy. And yet, more and more I realize it could be no other way.

2012 in Review

I can say without exception that 2012 has been the best year of my life. I will always remember it as the year I finally 'woke up'. You see, to me, it always felt pre-ordained that I was meant to write stories. Not be a writer. Not even publish or sell a story. But writing stories? Yes, that had to be me. I knew it from the first time I read a story and was amazed at the magic of a good book. I would say to myself, 'How could anyone do this?' but deep down it was a thrill to wonder how I would do it.

I've always wanted to write stories, but never had the discipline to do it. I thought I was so chock full of talent, so well read, that I had merely to go out, live life to the fullest, read some books and when I sat down some day and put my fingers to a keyboard, the magic would flow. Little did I realize that everyone is out there living life to the fullest. And many of them read more than I do. And many more want to write just like I do. And many many more have written wayyy more than I have. Oh, and talent? Doesn't exist. If it does, I don't care about it. Talent is an excuse created by the lazy to justify the successes of the hard working. Give me work ethic over talent every day of the week. When you grow up half-assing just about everything in life because that's all life required of you, it's hard to realize that if you want to achieve what you feel is your destiny, then you need to go full bore. You need to push the other stuff away that eats at your minutes and put every fiber of your being toward what really matters, and you need to pay the bills at the end of the day. It needs to become a second job; it's something you commit to without reservation. I wasn't ready for that lesson until this past year.

It was in March 2012 when the best most stubborn story idea yet finally held me long enough to type more than ten pages and call it quits. If you'll recall through past posts, I made a goal to write 2,000 words every day. It's not about writing 14,000 words a week (though that is a fantastic side effect) nearly as much as it is about that every day part. Going a few days without that story in my head makes it stale and awkward. If you mean to write one story in your life, by all means. Stretch it out. But I want to write stories, and that means daily production. It doesn't have to be 2,000 necessarily, but that threshold works for me. If I can't get 2,000 on a day, I have to get something and then I can make it up later in the week. Either way, if you truly care about a craft or a calling, you have to do it every single day or you damn well better have a good reason. And no, being tired or drained doesn't count. Those are excuses rooted in your willpower. That's one thing I learned in 2012.

I've also learned that writing a first draft of a story is every bit the same thrill as reading a story for the first time. Sitting down at my desk every day and opening my laptop, I would think to myself, Now what will happen today? From early March to late June, I wrote on a near daily basis and I finished the first draft of what will hopefully some day be a novel that, if it isn't published, I can at least share with friends and family. What a rush. The first long form story I'd ever finished. I'd never felt so proud of myself.

Unfortunately it was a mess, and I knew it from the second I printed it out. I knew it before then really. I knew it was a hopeless mess when I was about halfway through the draft, but you know what? I kept going until I reached The End. I'm damn happy I did it now, but back then? On June 20th, 2012? Looking at that first draft? In the words of Jack Donaghy from 30 Rock, "Good God, Lemon." I needed a break.

I spent the next three months writing in different forms; it was mostly sports writing. I hooked up with a great site that allowed me tremendous freedom to contribute as I saw fit. I moved forward in writing weekly columns about the Buffalo Bills, but my fiction was drying up. I tried writing a sequel to that God Awful First Draft, but it just wasn't working. By about 50-60 pages in, the story was like a train running wildly off the tracks in the middle of the desert. I shut it down at that point and once again I found myself in that familiar slump. That place in everyone's mind in which you seriously question everything you've thought about yourself up to that point. "OK," I thought, "I gave it my best shot. It sucked. Maybe I'm just bad at this." It's weird because normally I beat myself up in that moment of introspection, and for a brief period, I did. The fiction dried up, the sports writing took over, and I wondered if fiction just wasn't my gig.

But something happened between the end of summer and mid-October. I read over my first draft in a marathon session and yeah, it was bad. Cringes were common. Forehead slaps came once a page. But in the end, it wasn't as bad as I'd remembered. The draft had sat and stewed for so long that I didn't feel the same emotional attachment to the paper in front of me. I could overlook silly errors because no one will ever read that draft. More importantly though, I felt a deep stirring. I could do better. Even more importantly, I knew how I could do better.

I wrote every single day between October 21st and December 16th and I finished the second draft of said novel. Again, it's shit. It's really more like the first draft that I wanted to write, but couldn't the first time because I was so enthralled by the process that I couldn't keep my head straight. This second draft was like running a hot knife through butter. The people, the images, the locations all came clearer, sharper, more meaningful to me. Everything made sense, and the ending? Well, it's a work in progress, but dammit I reached it. Again. And in a month or two, I'm going to come back to that thing and start doing some real work on it until it's done. It doesn't matter how many shitty attempts you make, if you're willing to stand up after rubbing your face in your own crap and do it all over again, then the future is yours. No one can tell you otherwise. That's another thing I learned in 2012.

I've never made a resolution, and I don't intend to start. But 2013 looms large though because I want to extend these bursts of productivity and make this a consistent process, not just something isolated to the rush I feel from one story. I want to do this every day throughout 2013 because I want to get better at writing, plain and simple. No other motive. I've worked in Corporate America. I've worked in dingy bars and shiny airports, and I've been a manager of a million dollar budget. None of it matters. None of it feels real. None of it is mine. Writing though, writing is mine. No one can take that from me. No one can take credit for my work (unless they raid my apartment). People can tell me it's crap and they can refuse to publish whatever I do write, but I will keep coming back. I will keep learning and I will keep improving. Because this is what I wanted to be since I was kid laying on my bed reading Squanto: A Warrior's Tale for the umpteenth time, and when you want to be something, the best way to achieve that dream is to just go do it. Sleep is for the old. Make time every day or it doesn't matter. That's another big lesson from 2012.

In ten years, twenty years, whatever, I hope that 2012 will not be seen as the best year of my life. Otherwise I've regressed and it's all for naught. I hope I can look back on this past year as a stepping stone. I hope I can see that this was the year I learned how I want to live the rest of my life. More importantly, I learned how to achieve that, and what it takes to get there. I want to value those I love, build a life with the woman who completes me, and write until my fingers bleed. Oh, and pay the bills of course. Everything outside of that is gravy.

Happy Holidays, everyone. See you in the next 'Best Year of My Life'. May it be the same for you.

Tears shed for the victims in Colorado

Comparing tragedies is a crude way to quantify human loss, and I would never say any one thing is worse than another, but for some reason this theatre shooting is hitting me personally harder than 9/11. It's one thing to have terrorists attack you. They're enemies waging war. Fucked as it is, there is a twisted sub-culture behind the whole thing.

But this. I mean what can anyone do? Maximum security movie theatres? Metal detectors at the playground? Some insane motherfucker can come from literally anywhere in this country at any time and just kill people who have worked their whole lives and touched how many others. I think about everything I want to do with my life and to just have it all snuffed out because someone wanted to be a fucking Batman villain is a terrifying prospect. I can't even imagine having kids right now. I wouldn't let them anywhere near a theatre for at least a month. I mean it. Copycats are just as crazy as their inspiration, and I would take that threat very seriously.

It's all just unpredictable, senseless, and awful and you know it won't be the last time and you don't know where it will come from. Sad, wish more things (and all people) were as simple and sweet as this song below. In the meantime, I'm going to use a public bathroom and hope I don't get shot on the way. You never know anymore.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gvkIZXZe4iY