Just a short entry after a long weekend in Toronto. Although I didn’t have the chance to do any writing, I did learn, or to be more precise was reminded, that my love of reading and of passing on that joy began at an early age.
Apparently, when I was five and my brother was three, I was instrumental in teaching him to read earlier than any of his fellow three-year-old brethren. I’m not sure what spurred me to teach him. Perhaps it was the simple fact that I wanted my brother to experience the great impact that words can have on our lives. Perhaps I felt it was a reflection on me if he could read that early. Maybe I just wanted to give him a leg up in life.
Of course, it may have also been that we simply came to a business arrangement. After all, I did get first dibs on playing with his birthday gifts for the next few years.
Whatever the reason was (and don’t worry, he would always get his toys back), I’m glad that I was able to teach my brother that books are the best portal to wherever he wants to go. Hopefully, I’ve passed that on to all my brothers, and it’ll be something I pass on to my own children as well.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Monday, October 12, 2009
I'm writing a novel? Really?
Just a quick blog to celebrate the fact that I have written 100 pages in my book; it’s a milestone I sometimes doubted I would reach, and it’s surreal to think that for more than a year I’ve lived with this world inside my head.
Over the course of these 100 pages, I admit that there were times when I wanted to give up. Weeks occasionally went by without me writing a word. Could I have finished everything by now? Possibly, but I doubt it would have been the same book that it will be in the end. I stuck it out, though, stalls and all. Now, at 100 pages, even though the book is not even halfway to its climax, it has started to look like a novel to me.
I would always tell people I was working on a novel, but even I had my doubts about what I was doing. Could this really be a novel? Was the story horrible? Were the characters one dimensional? Could I keep and hold my interest for the length of time it took to write a novel? (I’m constantly distracted by shiny things. Even now, I wonder what my wife is doing in the other room and if perhaps I shouldn’t get up to see what she’s up to.) But now the book, funny enough, looks like a book. The plot is coming together; the characters, with each word, are becoming fully-formed. And I’m more excited than ever to see where this takes me.
A few weeks ago, I read an essay by an author who said it took him four years to write his first novel. Four years of starting and stopping, of writing and rewriting. And suddenly, I felt better about my own work. I was going to use a sports analogy here; you know, the one about the race and how it’s not how fast you run, but that you finish at all, but that seems a bit corny, now that I think about it. Plus, I don’t run, so I know I would finish last and would quite possibly be disqualified for trying to take an old lady’s scooter; I say try because the old lady would hit me with her purse and there was some hard candy in there; that hurt. Not that that has ever happened to me before. Ahem. *** Where was I?
Oh yes, I think that for all the hair pulling, teeth grinding, synonym finding and metaphor headaches, this novel has become an incredible learning experience, letting me mature as a writer. And even if I still tend to ramble, well, heck, that’s what the editing process is for. So here is to 100 pages of adventure, with 100, and more, to come.
Over the course of these 100 pages, I admit that there were times when I wanted to give up. Weeks occasionally went by without me writing a word. Could I have finished everything by now? Possibly, but I doubt it would have been the same book that it will be in the end. I stuck it out, though, stalls and all. Now, at 100 pages, even though the book is not even halfway to its climax, it has started to look like a novel to me.
I would always tell people I was working on a novel, but even I had my doubts about what I was doing. Could this really be a novel? Was the story horrible? Were the characters one dimensional? Could I keep and hold my interest for the length of time it took to write a novel? (I’m constantly distracted by shiny things. Even now, I wonder what my wife is doing in the other room and if perhaps I shouldn’t get up to see what she’s up to.) But now the book, funny enough, looks like a book. The plot is coming together; the characters, with each word, are becoming fully-formed. And I’m more excited than ever to see where this takes me.
A few weeks ago, I read an essay by an author who said it took him four years to write his first novel. Four years of starting and stopping, of writing and rewriting. And suddenly, I felt better about my own work. I was going to use a sports analogy here; you know, the one about the race and how it’s not how fast you run, but that you finish at all, but that seems a bit corny, now that I think about it. Plus, I don’t run, so I know I would finish last and would quite possibly be disqualified for trying to take an old lady’s scooter; I say try because the old lady would hit me with her purse and there was some hard candy in there; that hurt. Not that that has ever happened to me before. Ahem. *** Where was I?
Oh yes, I think that for all the hair pulling, teeth grinding, synonym finding and metaphor headaches, this novel has become an incredible learning experience, letting me mature as a writer. And even if I still tend to ramble, well, heck, that’s what the editing process is for. So here is to 100 pages of adventure, with 100, and more, to come.
***This site does not condone grand theft scooter, struggling with old ladies or candy tougher than I am.***
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Inherent...like, what was I saying?
Deep in the Amazon live ancient tribes, who for centuries have avoided contact with the Western world, avoiding the trappings of things such as television, grocery stores and even money. They live off the land and practice customs that would be alien to anyone plucked from the city. But if I were to have parachuted into one of these tribes tomorrow, I would probably better understand them than I would of the people of Los Angeles in the 1960s, as portrayed in Inherent Vice, by acclaimed and reclusive author Thomas Pynchon.
I have heard of Pynchon referred to as a giant of American literature, yet I’ve never read any of his books. I thought it was a time to rectify this, although I certainly picked an odd book. It’s the story of a private eye detective set in the hippie age. The detective in question, Doc Sportello, is lead investigator, read, only investigator, at LSD Investigations (which he insists stands for Location, Surveillance, Detection). Doc, and indeed the majority of the cast inside, spends an overabundant amount of time smoking copious amounts and all manner of “illegal substances” (yes, I know, I’m a “square”), to the detriment of the plot trying to find its way out. Personally, I have no experience with the stuff, don't like it, don't want it, so you can imagine my utter confusion with the actions these characters take.
Of course, if drugs weren’t involved, the book might have only been 50 pages long. The mystery (which involves, in no particular order, crooked cops, good cops, a biker gang, real estate mogul, an ex-girlfriend, FBI, mistresses, a mysterious ship, sanatoriums, Aryan/Nazi sympathizers, drug cartels, a band and several bad drug trips) was certainly made more complicated and more confusing by the lifestyle these characters lead. At certain points, like one long drug trip, Doc takes the reader on detours from the mystery; detours with no discernable tie to the main plot, other than that it seemed like a good idea at the time.
Of course, perhaps that is the point: to take a look at a culture who wanted nothing more than the freedom to do what they wanted (even if I don't agree with it). And in the end, through the haze, Doc has gained a measure of the freedom that he craved for himself and others. Whether he came out on the side of the angels or the devils, though, is a debate that he wants left to others.
I wanted to read something different, out of my comfort zone, and this was definitely it. It was an odd book, occasionally rambling, sometimes confusing. It is stereotypical in places, uncomfortable in others. I have to imagine, though, that this was the effect Pynchon wanted to achieve for the reader; a disorienting feeling that leaves you going, “Whoa, man, what just happened?”
Also, may I add that if everyone in the 60s talked like they do in the book, with a lot of question marks? Like they want some sort of confirmation to everything they say? Know what I’m talking about? If everyone talked like that, I’m surprised that anyone was able to have a conversation without wanting to whack the other guy upside the head. Debate team must have been a full contact sport.
Inherent Vice is a trippy book, one that disappoints as a mystery, but succeeds as a character study and succeeds, as funny as it sounds, at finding some heart; once you clear away the smoke, that is.
Oh, I guess I do have one thing in common with Doc. If he asked me if I’ve ever done any lines, I can nod my head and say, “Yes, actually, I’ve written many of them.”
I have heard of Pynchon referred to as a giant of American literature, yet I’ve never read any of his books. I thought it was a time to rectify this, although I certainly picked an odd book. It’s the story of a private eye detective set in the hippie age. The detective in question, Doc Sportello, is lead investigator, read, only investigator, at LSD Investigations (which he insists stands for Location, Surveillance, Detection). Doc, and indeed the majority of the cast inside, spends an overabundant amount of time smoking copious amounts and all manner of “illegal substances” (yes, I know, I’m a “square”), to the detriment of the plot trying to find its way out. Personally, I have no experience with the stuff, don't like it, don't want it, so you can imagine my utter confusion with the actions these characters take.
Of course, if drugs weren’t involved, the book might have only been 50 pages long. The mystery (which involves, in no particular order, crooked cops, good cops, a biker gang, real estate mogul, an ex-girlfriend, FBI, mistresses, a mysterious ship, sanatoriums, Aryan/Nazi sympathizers, drug cartels, a band and several bad drug trips) was certainly made more complicated and more confusing by the lifestyle these characters lead. At certain points, like one long drug trip, Doc takes the reader on detours from the mystery; detours with no discernable tie to the main plot, other than that it seemed like a good idea at the time.
Of course, perhaps that is the point: to take a look at a culture who wanted nothing more than the freedom to do what they wanted (even if I don't agree with it). And in the end, through the haze, Doc has gained a measure of the freedom that he craved for himself and others. Whether he came out on the side of the angels or the devils, though, is a debate that he wants left to others.
I wanted to read something different, out of my comfort zone, and this was definitely it. It was an odd book, occasionally rambling, sometimes confusing. It is stereotypical in places, uncomfortable in others. I have to imagine, though, that this was the effect Pynchon wanted to achieve for the reader; a disorienting feeling that leaves you going, “Whoa, man, what just happened?”
Also, may I add that if everyone in the 60s talked like they do in the book, with a lot of question marks? Like they want some sort of confirmation to everything they say? Know what I’m talking about? If everyone talked like that, I’m surprised that anyone was able to have a conversation without wanting to whack the other guy upside the head. Debate team must have been a full contact sport.
Inherent Vice is a trippy book, one that disappoints as a mystery, but succeeds as a character study and succeeds, as funny as it sounds, at finding some heart; once you clear away the smoke, that is.
Oh, I guess I do have one thing in common with Doc. If he asked me if I’ve ever done any lines, I can nod my head and say, “Yes, actually, I’ve written many of them.”
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