Thursday, December 30, 2010

Who is Lady Sevely?

I am rather ashamed to come here and admit this, but I have had an impostor suddenly appear in my book. I don't know where she came from; I had promised myself that there would be no more random characters, but I seem to have broken that promise.

Hallelujah!

Her name is Lady Geneva Sevely, and she has several grown, married daughters and one son named Edward who is useless and insulting, whom is often discussed but who never appears. I am still recovering from the recent (and almost equally sudden) introduction of the superficial ignoramus Miss Adela Frederick, but I have suddenly realized that she would need an equally strong opposing force. I am very glad I did: though Lady Geneva Sevely has suddenly appeared from my noggin, like Athena from the head of Zeus, I have realized that I need her. Here are the reasons I need Lady Sevely:

1: Kore has no friends in London, and although she and her cousin make a great team, Gabriel is often MIA. Such is the case when one leads a double (practically triple) life! He'll reap what he sows, don't worry about it.
His mother, however, is an even larger part of the problem: she introduces Kore to all the people she feels her niece ought to know, none of whom are the kind of person to whom Kore can relate. Suffice to say, Kore needs a real friend during her brief spell in town. Lady Sevely, despite or because of their differences in age, shall be that friend. :-)

2: She is an older woman who says what she thinks and gets away with it because of her wealth and advanced years. Which makes her funny.

3: It's too late to get rid of her now. The more I learn of this lady, the more interesting she becomes.

I'll let you know if something else interesting happens. I'm only posting this because it's where my brain has been lodged for at least 32 hours.

Happy New Year's Eve!

Wednesday, December 29, 2010

Christmas joys

Over holiday, I've been giving a lot of thought to my future as a human being and as an artist. I received Stephen Sondheim's book, Finishing the Hat, as a gift from my beloved parents, and it has induced me to not only write him a letter someday, but also to approach my work from a different perspective.

1: nothing is ever entirely right, which is, of course, the blight man was born for. As a believer, my own imperfections are a firmly-rooted truth, but it has been difficult for me to realize that, whatever I do, The Book -- though I am striving to make it the best it can be -- will never reach that fever pitch of utter "rightness." I used to paint, and still do when I find the time, and my current work is exactly like a canvas covered with an image in oils: I may never truly "finish." It's getting a sheen of realism that gives me the occasional hint that it's done, but I can always build up the blue here, or add contrast in the foreground, or give a shape a better curve and definition. There is always more to do, and so, there is never the perfect place to "stop."

2: Sondheim says, "God is in the details." I love this, because it's not just a clever play on the words of a popular platitude: he's absolutely right. (Of course, listening to the detail of his lyrics and his music -- especially his music, which I unashamedly pretty much worship -- both God and the devil make their distinct presences known.) I was overjoyed to read this, and I think we must share a similar thought pattern (his words and music ring very true for me). I love details and I love the little extra touches that make things show up or pop out -- take for instance one of my favorite films, Chariots of Fire. Andy (Lord Lindsey) is at his estate with Sybil, an actress, who is also girlfriend to the runner Harold Abrahams. They are involved in a serious conversation about Harold's obsessive behavior, strolling across the yard, and in the distance appears an old man attempting to ride a bike. After a brief pause for his cigarette, Andy mutters nonchalantly, "Father's . . . never gonna learn how to do that," then turns back to her and continues their conversation with his usual good-natured sincerity. It is utterly charming, and exactly the idea I'm going for.

3: you can't fix something up if it doesn't exist. Basically, I HAVE TO ACTUALLY WRITE THE THING BEFORE I CAN TRULY FINISH IT. I don't think any further explanation is required.

4: I don't want this to really be such an involved part of my future life, wherever that may lead me. I don't want to wonder about how to phrase Gabriel's conversation, or how to describe Etienne's attitude or Vivian's gown when I'm auditioning for a show, or grocery shopping, or trying to choose high school math curricula for my kids, or whatever it is I'll be doing someday. I'm beginning to get that Pauline sense of being in labor for a really, really long time, and I want to finish it ASAP.

CONCLUSION:
I have been writing A LOT over Christmas break, and I shall continue to do so without fail until it is done. I hope. That's the plan. Whether I like what I write or not, I simply have to write it. Not every sentence has to be clever OR perfectly phrased -- so it's not. So there! But time will tell. I can almost see the book being not entirely rejected by publishers, and that it an excellent sign.

In the time being, I've gotten angry with the media, and I'm writing a song about it. Here's a part of a verse:

"From NYC to Hollywood,
From Perth to Paris, France,
We hear ‘their’ music, think it’s good,
And shimmy to ‘their’ dance.

When, pray, did we decide
That our own tests were inconclusive?
And when did our own intellects
Become so damned elusive?"

Clearly it's a work in progress, but I became rather stifled by my sudden raging opinion and felt that I had to write SOMEthing.

Happy (almost) 2011.

"I grow old, I grow old; I shall wear my trousers rolled."

Saturday, October 9, 2010

Lazy Saturday . . ?

So, I know I haven't been here in a while.

But that's because I haven't been accomplishing much.

HOWEVER -- all that has changed in the past week, you will be glad to hear. I mean, I really shouldn't be telling you what to think or feel, but if you're reading this, like I always say, it must be for SOME applicable reason. You must enjoy some part of my posts, even if it's merely to chuckle to yourself about silly (not-so-very-)old me.

Anyway . . . I must report that I have TRULY gotten a lot done on The Book. I repeat, A LOT. Some little niggling details that just weren't working suddenly came into focus, and I've spent most of the day checking things out with different lenses, so to speak, to see what else can be joined together in the same manner.

For starters, I finally figured out how Nathaniel got to the middle of the Northern Australia bush without so much as a handkerchief, which certainly made Bilbo Baggins complain, and I discovered what made Kensington truly hate the Fletchers of Fell's Bridge, Wiltshire, England. And it's a real zinger, too. Some people are unbelievably evil!

Taunting? Not really. To prove it, I'll post something!

'He took a deep breath that rattled down his throat into his burning lungs and struggled to lift himself up onto his elbows. Blinking, he turned his head slightly to the left, and saw his rescuer standing about six yards away beside a group of rocks, which were jutting out weirdly from the earth like a cluster of gems on a ring. After a few seconds the man bent slightly, looking at something in his hand, then knelt on one knee and ran his hand over the ground in a smooth, contemplative motion. A cloud of red dust rose from the earth, and he bent closer to gaze intently at something on the ground. The stranger spared no attention for his surroundings, not for the mule that scuffled and snorted at the head of the wagon, not for the overwhelming light and heat, and not for Nathaniel, who took the opportunity to study him.
He was dressed in rough, badly-dyed brown trousers, with an old-fashioned striped red vest thrown carelessly over a loose, stained linen shirt. He wore the sleeves rolled almost to his elbows and a strip of speckled fabric tied around his neck above the open collar. The shirt, which was missing several buttons at the top, gaped open slightly to reveal a muscular chest that, like his face and arms, had become a deep brown by long exposure to the sun. He would scarcely have attracted notice if he walked through Greymantle, but in spite of his attire, he still somehow did not strike Nathaniel as a working man. There was a vague, niggling aspect of his conduct that he could sense but could not quite place, something unnatural or even theatrical. His thoughts swayed and bobbed like empty bottles on the tide, but he managed to form a sketchy impression before easing his head back down toward the packed, dry earth.
He realized what the difference was suddenly: every motion seemed deliberate and calculated, as if he had gone over all possible meanings and interpretations of each gesture before committing himself to it, and expected others to view each one in a certain light. He held himself with a rigidity that could only have been the product of a lifelong study of proper posture, and which implied a constant sensitivity to what others saw and thought when they looked at him. Here is a man, Nathaniel thought, who seems wholly at home in his environment and wholly competent at his task, whatever it is. However, that did not seem right. Despairingly his mind added, I have no idea what he is doing. I have no idea what is happening. Without raising his head he turned to look back toward him, and suddenly the man turned, as if sensing Nathaniel’s gaze. He rose to his full height, which was considerable, and tilted his head slightly, shading his face with one broad hand. Slipping whatever he had been holding back into the pocket of his vest, he strode back to the wagon, ducking underneath with surprising gracefulness to settle on one knee beside Nathaniel.
“How are you?” he inquired, the words clipped, perfunctory. “Better, I hope?”
“Yes, thank you. I owe you my life.”
“Obviously.” An uncivil sentiment, but spoken civilly enough; Nathaniel barely noticed. The man’s eyes, which were so dark that the irises were indistinguishable from the black of the pupils, darted over Nathaniel, taking in all the new and lingering bruises and badly-healed seams of his face, his ragged clothing, and the lack of luggage or of anything else – unaccountable for being in the middle of a desert. Nathaniel winced, not from the other man’s blunt comment but from the cold scrutiny in his eyes. He turned his head to look out at the horizon. The impossible brightness that greeted him made his head ache more, so he looked back at his rescuer, who was still gazing squarely at him without a word. He attempted another speech of thanks: “I cannot express my gratitude, sir . . . Had it not been for you, I would be . . . ”
“Quite dead,” the other supplied flatly, tilting his head slightly downward as if impatient, eyes turning shadowy under his brow. “The kites and God knows what else would have made short work of you.”
“No doubt,” Nathaniel muttered uncomfortably. There was a pause. They continued to look at each other.
“Forgive me,” the man said suddenly, and put out his hand. “My name is Kensington. Étienne Kensington.”
“Your servant.” Nathaniel took the offered hand, shook it briefly, and let it go. Its palm was rough with callouses. The two and two of Nathaniel’s arithmetic was not adding up to a sensible four, and his already overwhelmed mind sank further into confusion. Kensington began to speak again, and he struggled to focus on the words.
“Please, pardon my intrusion into your personal affairs, but I must ask: who the devil are you? And how does someone – anyone – come to be in the middle of the desert without water, transport, or at the very least, some sort of guide?”
Nathaniel inhaled deeply before answering, keeping his eyes shut tightly.
“My name is Nathaniel Daire. I came into port a few days ago, at Greymantle, on H.M.S. White Dove. I was mistakenly captured by some – by some disreputable individuals.”
“And how did you manage to escape?”
“I threw myself over the side of their wagon.”'

There. I haven't done THAT in a while.

Also, I found a notebook from perhaps six years ago that was filled with half-finished descriptions, character sketches, and even a "chapter" or two of this self-same work. Pretty horrid and embarrassing, for the most part, but there were a few salvageable pieces. It was funny, though, many of the names have since changed, and some of my former choices were RIDICULOUS. Still, like I said -- some usable stuff. I'm happy. See my happy face?

:-)

Hope you saw that. Anyhow, today was most profitable. I haven't forgotten this blog!!

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

So, I lied.

Welll, I have to re-post and say: if you want a tidbit more, and you know me, just comment here and let me know. I'll send you an example. I've (obviously) deleted what I had after my "YOUR BLOG HAS BEEN DELETED" scare, and also I'm not going to post any more excerpts...None that are too long, anyway. So, my blog is going to become all talk and very little action, I'm afraid. However -- perhaps there SHALL be something to talk about. :)

Monday, September 20, 2010

Whassup

So...All 2 of my readers have probably been wondering what I've been up to lately! Just so you know: it is currently 162 pages long, divvied into 3 books ("Do not speak slightingly of the three-volume novel! I wrote one myself in earlier days."), with a total of 27 chapters. Thus far. I've just introduced a new character! A middle-aged architect named Linus Brodie. He's sort of befuddled and cute, but his understanding of space and its potential is uncanny and he has created some truly freakish things in his time. If you'd like to meet him, let me know; I can certainly give out a bit of where he meets Nathaniel and Kensington. :)

I'm in a goofy mood. Love and peace.

AGB

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

The Book (otherwise known as The Tome)

Well, here I am again . . . I randomly decided to visit my own blog and saw I actually had a comment! Thank you very much, my friend . . . it will inspire me to not only work even more assiduously on The Book but should also spur me on to post here more often! I'm certainly not kidding myself that I have more than 2 *readers,* but isn't that how one gleans more? By posting?

"No need to respond, that was rhetorical!" as Galinda would say. :-P

Now for an update on The Book:

It has an official title! I've decided not to use it yet though, not until it is worthy of it. What I'm trying to do is fairly ambitious, and the title suits that level of ambition, but to call it by its name until it is quite a lot nearer being done would only be presumptuous. For now, it will remain "The Book."

However . . . I have recently made some progress! First of all, I have come to the uncomfortable realization that I have been spending too much time thinking in "movie tense" lately, which only makes sense -- I work at a movie theater. Fortunately that job is drawing to a close, as will, I hope, my propensity to write my novel like a screenplay: too many precise details, too many "shortcuts" by way of commonplace turns of phrase and even (shockingly!) cliches! I am even now in the process of trying to expunge them from both my writing and from my everyday conversation. Whatever the cost, I cannot afford to sound . . . well, lame. But duuuude . . . it's really hard not to, especially when the the very air in our culture seems saturated by it. :P

Moving right along: Thomas LaJeune is currently undergoing a character -- well, a re-evaluation is too strong. Let's just say he's gaining more depth and, I'm hoping, more dimensions. He seems suddenly to have discovered his purpose and I'm finding it difficult to keep an eye on my other characters; he seems to be attempting to write himself, and only himself, and force me to neglect the others. Fortunately, I care about Thomas a great deal, but still, he won't listen when I try to warn him that he's only making things worse for himself by rushing things like this.

Overall, I'm trying to focus less on ideas and symbolism and more on specifics when it comes to a character's personality (and not necessarily what color a given carpet is when someone walks into a room). Lady Vivian Fletcher is proving practically impossible, chiefly because though I know women like her, I am not a woman like her, and thus I cannot comprehend her. Whatever it is she wants, and whatever it is she feels and dreams, are almost complete mysteries to me, and yet I still feel confident that I can *write* her. She is not a truly main character, in the sense that Gabriel, Thomas, and Kore are main characters. She is frightfully important -- but like Etienne, or Honoria, or even Nathaniel, she is not always necessarily a common thread. Gabriel is like a brother to me, Thomas like the lover I could never have. But of course, the strangest thing that many real writers have said long before me . . . I am *all of them* and they are all *me.* I don't get the sensation that I'm borrowing from my friends or family, or from strangers I have observed in the doctor's office or laundromat. Instead I feel as though all of these individuals are pieces of who I am, and I have to fabricate identities to couch each part of my own character. I feel I can create my own dreams, my own alternate reality. It is strange, to say the least. Strange, but a comfortable kind of strange. Like I said, it's like a dream. Also, I've spent over 7 years thinking about and working on these people and the highlights of their lives, I feel I know them better than I seem to know some of my friends. That is what I hope to communicate to everyone who may someday get a chance to read The Book -- if, Lord willing, it is ever published! -- my love for these people, with all their bizarre desires and abilities and hopeless, even fatal, flaws. I hope someday you find out what they mean to me.

Forgive me for waxing so lyrical! But at this precise moment in time, I have little else to do . . . And I'm assuming that, if you happen to be reading MY blog at this precise moment in time, you yourself have little else to do either. ;-)

AGB