A Need for Direction

This week has been quite the adventurous one. I'm throwing myself back into the job market, the blogosphere and the world of writing. It's been fun, but challenging. I won't bore you all with my day-to-day madness, so I'll stick to what this blog is about: fiction.

I had an idea in my head about soldiers returning from Iraq and the challenges they face. Inspiration for this story has come from articles like this one from Esquire, this one from GQ, and from the gripping story "Refresh, Refresh" by Benjamin Percy.

I also had written a random scene that I very much liked. On Monday I attempted to combine the two. I wrote for a couple hours, desperately trying to make it work. It felt awkward and clunky. After throwing in the towel for the day, I realized what my problem was: I didn't have a clear plot.

I write short stories for a couple reasons. One, I don't have the patience or confidence at the moment to tackle a work of novel proportions. Two, I love the medium of short stories. I love how you learn so much so fast about the characters. Short stories are mini-mini-novels. If it's well written it will fulfill the reader just like finishing a book. Really the two mediums shouldn't be compared too much. But just like a novel, you have to have a plot. All I had was a vague idea.

So, Tuesday when I sat down again, I sketched out my characters (at least the ones I knew would have more than a passing role) and plotted out the story. I left the outline loose enough to give me creative freedom, but tight enough to give me direction. Direction is necessary for productivity. The creators of Lost (best story on television right now, that I've watched anyway) said that during Season 3 they began to feel a little 'lost' because the studio wouldn't let them set an end date for the show. But once they set the show at six seasons, they were free to move toward that goal.

Now, I've got to pound out the rest of the rough draft. I won't be around this weekend. Hope to see you all back here on Monday.

The Epic Journey

Today marks the beginning of an epic journey for myself. Not unlike Odysseus, I am on my way home from battle. The road will be full of trials and tribulations; the Internet will be a distraction like the Sirens, luring me away from my goal with its sweet song of procrastination. I pray my leap of faith will be worth it in the end.

I quit my job to pursue my dreams of being a journalist and a writer. Today is my first day of unemployment. But I am not wasting my time. I will be applying for jobs across the country in search of that one paper, magazine, website or organization that will realize my passion for news and the written word. I have begun research for a freelance piece on ghost hunting, its rise in popular culture and its presence here in town. I will posting here more often. I will be resuming my fiction writing and seeing where that leads me.

Any rejections I receive (and there will be many, I'm sure) will only mean that I haven't found my place just yet. I won't stop until I'm employed and published. And even then, I won't really be stopping. Writing is now and will be my life. This is what I want for my life.

Of course, none of this would be possible if it weren't for the support of my family. My wife is being overwhelming gracious, understanding and encouraging. For that, I am forever grateful.

This is no longer an experiment. This is for real.

The Vegetarian Experiment and "The Jungle"

For the month of March I have committed myself to vegetarianism. Not vegan, not pescatarian. Eight days in and I'm feeling alright. I don't feel any major physical changes and mentally, thus far anyway, has not been terribly difficult. I'm guessing that it would probably take several months, if not longer, for my body to start feeling the absence of the hormones, steroids and antibiotics that all of our meat has in it these days. I have had days where if I think about a burger too much a craving starts. The worst moment so far was when I went to Chipotle. The guy in front of me ordered a burrito with double chicken, as if to shove my meatlessness in my face. At this point, I cannot say what April 1 will bring.

The experiment began for several reasons. Emily, my wife, is a vegetarian. I wanted to see what would happen if she and I actually ate the same meals on a regular basis. Having her around also has helped with coming up with meal ideas and the like. Secondly, I watched the documentary "Food, Inc." The film is biased to be sure, but it opened my eyes to the lack of transparency in the food industry. As a journalist, I'm all for transparency and the striving of major companies, like Tyson and Monsanto, to hide their inner-workings disturbs and angers me. Thirdly, I believe a diet of little-to-no meat can be much healthier when done right.

At the same time I've started reading "The Jungle" by Upton Sinclair. Right now I won't get into its cultural significance, Sinclair's magnificent ability to craft emotion or how depressing the first two chapters are when compared to just about anything else. As most of you should know, the book is about the meat packing industry and the poor conditions of the immigrant workers in the early 1900s. Below is a paragraph from Chapter 3, where a group of people are on a tour of packing plant and have just witnessed the slaughter of pigs:

"It was all so very businesslike that one watched it fascinated. It was pork-making by machinery, pork-making by applied mathematics. And yet somehow the most matter-of-fact person could not help thinking of the hogs; they were so innocent, they came so very trustingly; and they were so very human in their protests--and so perfectly within their rights! They had done nothing to deserve it , and it was adding insult to injury, as the thing was done here, swinging them up in this cold-blooded, impersonal way, without pretence at apology, without the homage of a tear. Now and then a visitor wept, to be sure; but this slaughtering machine ran on, visitors or no visitors. It was like some horrible crime committed in a dungeon, all unseen and unheeded, buried out of sight and of memory."

That paragraph resonates because of density and reality. Humans and pigs do share similar biology. The lack of respect shown to the animals is something that vegans and vegetarians have been harping on for forever. Should not we be grateful to the animal for giving its life that we might live? The meat industry is cold-blooded indeed. The last sentence brings it all home, exposing the fact that this machinery is purposely "unseen and unheeded, buried." The meat industry knows what it does is nasty and they do their best to keep us from thinking about it.

Dreams and Narration

I had a dream. This dream occurred two nights ago and I still remember most of it quite vividly. It was not a normal dream. It involved violence and my own death. But weirdest of all, it contained voice-over narration.

I was living somewhere I've never been before with a roommate I do not know. I think he had an afro, blond. The dream gave me the feeling that we were in Colorado maybe, maybe Denver. My roommate and I ran a business, of what sort I cannot recall, in the lower story of our house, or apartment or whatever it was. Three men walked into our shop as we were locking up for the day. We told them politely that we were closing and that we couldn't help them. Two of them promptly walked back out the door. But one did not. The big guy. And he was big, I'm talking at least 6' 6" and built, perhaps Scandinavian in heritage. It got to the point that I was physically trying to push him toward the door, and those of you who know me, know that I'm no taller than 5' 6" on a good day.

Things got physical. We began to grapple with each other. The fight felt personal, like not only was this guy a mean guy, we hated each other for other reasons. I think I knew him. Eventually, the fight went to the floor, I landed on top of him and began to punch him in the face mercilessly, tirelessly. I paused a couple of times and asked him if he was ready to leave. He said no and I continued to hit him. Blood was spraying everwhere, on the floor and the bookshelves we had landed near (I inspected the stains later in the dream). It was like this scene out of "Fight Club" (beware, link is violent). Eventually, the guy was out cold. The roommate and I dragged him out the door and left him unconscious in the snow on the porch. We locked the door.

I was proud of myself. Glowing. But I was also scared. What would happen when he wakes? I remember the roommate and I discussing this in worried tones, as well as reliving the fight, but I don't remember specifics. I remember going to bed afraid to hear him banging on the door.

But when I woke the next morning he was still lying on the porch, although it looked like he had shifted. Here the dream gets fuzzy. We attended a wedding and reception, but I only remember bits from the reception. I bragged about the triumph over the "Scandinavian." At one point the bride came up to me and told me that my friends and I couldn't party afterwords because we had to hang out with some of the really little kids (I have no idea why). All of this is just fragments in my memory.

Things clear up for the ending. I've returned home and the big guy was not on the porch. He left, great. I sat down to do something, maybe read, maybe get on the computer, not important. I sound comes from the open room behind me and there stands the "Scandinavian." I stand to face him, but he apologizes and regrets being a jerk. I apologize for tearing his face up. We shake hands.

Enter narrator. As we shake hands a voice, not in any reality present, begins to describe what is happening. A male voice. It describes the hand shake and how the big guy's grib firms. His thumb is beginning to dig into the side of my hand, he says. And then the man swings something, it could be anything, and strikes my skull, thereby sending brains flying. The narrator describes it all. I have just enough time to realize I've been tricked and that I'm dead when everything goes black. I wake up and within 20 seconds my alarm went off.

I wish I could remember everything that the narrator said. I wish I had at least one direct quote, but I don't. All I know is that there was a narrator. I'm not disturbed by the fact that I died. I'm disturbed that someone was describing it. I can't find anything, at least via a Google search, about narrated dreams. I've typed enough now, but will go into some of my hypotheses on the next post.

Cormac McCarthy and a Discussion of Motivation

No one does anything without a reason. Even if you sit at home and do nothing it is with a purpose: to do nothing. Therefore it is important that our characters have motivation to do what they do. I remember one of the staple questions in fiction workshops was "Why?" Why is the character doing this? But since we are good writers we don't just want to write, "Jack killed the neighbor because he was mad." We want to show why he did it. The reader should be able to discern a reasonable motivation for a character's action.

Currently, I'm reading "Blood Meridian or the Evening Redness in the West" by Cormac McCarthy. The book is about a band of renegade cowboys who travel through Mexico slaughtering Apaches and Mexicans. It's not a story for the faint-hearted and the violence will make you gag more than once. On the surface it's about the racial hatred and land-ownership disputes in the 1840's and 50's in west Texas.

I thought I understood this basis of the motivation, a sign of the times, hatred between Texas and Mexico. But still the violence (killing women, children and infants; scalping them all) didn't quite seem justified. I felt frustrated and was beginning to feel McCarthy just wanted to write about violence. And then I came to a particular passage last night.

One of the band of "warriors" simply referred to as "the judge", a leader among the men, had a habit of collecting samples of the land they passed through. He would kill birds and stuff them, press leaves of newly discovered plants and sketch the landscape. When one of the others asked him why, he explained:

"Whatever exists, he said. Whatever in creation exists without my knowledge exists without my consent....These anonymous creatures, he said, may seem little or nothing in the world. Yet the smallest crumb can devour us. Any smallest thing beneath yon rock out of men's knowing. Only nature can enslave man and only when the existence of each last entity is routed out and made to stand naked before him will he be properly suzerain of the earth."

He goes on for a little while and sums up thusly, "The freedom of birds is an insult to me. I'd have them all in zoos."

After reading that it came to me. This is all about control and dominance. To these men the Indians and the Mexicans are nothing but something that is beneath them, anonymous creatures. The world will not be theirs until each Apache is discarded and scalped for collection. No life but their own is sacred. In saying all this the judge exposed the motivation for the entire group's actions.

And that is what we are all after, isn't it? Control. To varying degrees, of course. Some of us want to be commanders of our destiny. Some just want to know that they can control where they are sleeping from night to night. So where is your character's sense of control, and how much do they want? Where is your sense of control, and how much do you want?

Time

I think it's time to get serious again. I've been overwhelmed and will continue to be, no doubt. This is not a New Year's Resolution. So much to write, too much, too little concentration. So much to do, so much I want to do, so much I don't want to do. Struggling desperately to become well-versed in everything.

It's time for change...seriously.

What I've Read...

Here for whatever reason, I am posting a list of books that I've read and affected me enough that I remember reading them. I know I've read more than this and as of now the list does not include any Shakespeare, Tennessee Williams or Eugene O'Neill plays or any of the myriad of short stories of my past. I have a long list of to-read books. I am always adding to that list (it's real) and would love input on else I should add to it. Let me know if I'm missing anything important. These are in no particular order:

Jurassic Park by Michael Crichton

The Lost World by Michael Crichton

Bad Twin by Gary Troup

Lisey’s Story by Stephen King

The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon by Stephen King

The Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer

Lord of the Flies by William Golding

Hard Times by Charles Dickens

The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown

The Fall by Albert Camus

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce

A Year of Living Biblically by A.J. Jacobs

Insomnia by Stephen King

I Am America (And So Can You!) by Stephen Colbert

The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka

Paradise Lost by John Milton

The Robe by Lloyd C. Douglas

The Idiot by Fyodor Dostoevsky

Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky

The Divine Comedy Vol I, II, III by Dante

The Iliad by Homer

The Odyssey by Homer

The Aeneid by Virgil

The Case For Christ by Lee Strobel

On Writing by Stephen King

Jesus Under Fire by Michael J. Wilkins and J. P. Moreland

The Bible Jesus Read by Philip Yancey

Candide by Voltaire

Moby Dick by Herman Melville

This Present Darkness by Frank Peretti

The Oath by Frank Peretti

The Road by Cormac McCarthy

Dracula by Bram Stoker

The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger

Refresh, Refresh by Benjamin Percy

As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner

Blue Highways by William Least Heat-Moon

Nine Stories by J.D. Salinger

The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald

Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone by J. K. Rowling

Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets

Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban

Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire

Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince

(and no, I haven't finished The Deathly Hallows yet)

Corporate Breakdown

He kept checking to see if it was in his pocket. Looking back, his fellow employees will recall that he stroked the left side of his pants often. They’ll also remember frequent trips to the bathroom. After the third trip he simply explained that his stomach was terribly upset and that he couldn’t quite help it. But he never stopped smiling.

Soon he started to sweat.

“Leave me alone, bitch,” he told one of the female baristas after she asked if she could help him. He didn’t shout, but he threw an empty paper cup at her. No one else saw it.

When he started getting gruff with customers, the manager threatened to send him home early and not pay him for the day. He didn’t respond any further than pushing the manager out of the way with his shoulder as headed to the restroom again.

The sweat was running down the sides of his face and catching in his beard. A snotty, Gucci-wearing woman advanced on the register and complained to him that her latte was not in fact soymilk, but skim. At this he picked up the glass tray holding the last remaining bagels and threw it. The tray narrowly missed her head and shattered against the opposite wall.

“Then go somewhere else,” he said calmly as he cocked his head to the side. Everyone in the coffee shop was silent. All eyes were on the bearded employee, who stood like a rock. The woman stormed out and when the manager grabbed his arm to tell him to leave, he punched her in the face. She staggered backwards, her face instantly swelling around one of her eyes.

“Call 911,” she said through tears to the other employer, whose earpiece was slowly sliding off his head. “Call 911,” she repeated louder.

He began to stagger and flail, knocking as much off the counter as he could. Pastries flew about while the unruly employee laid waste to the store. He even tried to over-turn the espresso machine, but it alone stood up to him. Another barista, the only other male inside at the time, confronted him, but he took a pot of steaming water to the face. The doctors would later tell him he would never look the same again.

Having moved into the lobby of the coffee shop, he began over-turning tables and chairs. He kicked at one particular table that would not topple the way he wished and as he did so, he slipped and fell backwards. His head struck the edge of the counter and he did not get up again.

“I’ll need to see the tape,” said an officer as he pointed to a security camera in the far corner of the store. The employee lay dead at the officer’s feet, a ring of blood haloing his lifeless head. He nudged the body with his boot but felt a sensation not like that of flesh. The officer bent down and pulled a nearly empty flask out of the dead employee’s pocket.

A Quick One (While He's Away)

The door shook, rattled on its hinges. No answer. The man outside worked his way around to the back, peering in windows as he went. All dark. He slipped his gloved hand into his pocket and pulled out a key. It fit the lock. Inside he crept, careful not to worry about knocking things over. A lamp toppled when his foot hit it as he jumped a sofa. He stormed into the bedroom. No one was there, but...

Sure enough...

He turned and smashed a canvas on the wall with his fist. Back outside he toppled the trash bin and dug around. The man pulled out a to-go box with half of an old salad inside, covered in mold and slime. He threw the salad at the front door and smeared long streaks as gravity pulled it down. And thus he marked them for what they are.


(I want to say thank you to The Who for inspiring the title. I'm back at the blogging gig, and hope to stay that way. I know I've said it before. But I'll try.)

What do you do when...

What do you do when you read a story that is similar to one of your own ideas and is perfect in almost every way? In some ways its depressing. I begin to think that there is no way that I could write something as strong as this. In some ways its encouraging, because if they did it and it worked well, then I can too.

I just read "Idols" by Tim Gautreaux in the June 22 issue of The New Yorker. One of the most powerful short stories I've read all year and it follows almost the same plot structure as my story, "Red Truck" (not that I'm bragging). Obviously his was done first, and certainly more powerful than mine is considering mine is still in the draft stages. The main character is torn down by his obsession and effectively alienates his only hope in friendship and help. Its beautiful. Depressing, sure, but beautiful in the way well-written stories are. Read it and revel in its greatness.

So, now, what do I do? Do I sit and wallow in the fact that my basic story idea has already been done, and most likely better than I could pull it off? Or do I use this as inspiration to make mine better and more powerful? It's daunting either way you look at it.