Remembering Those Who Inspired

June 8, 2015

I’ve been working hard re-writing and polishing my fourth novel, Barkerton. Trying to balance that with blogging and getting on Twitter, and...well...failing. Yesterday, however, I was given pause to think and reflect. It was four years ago, June 7th, that my Father passed away. I know they say time heals all wounds, but no matter how much I appear to be coping, his loss, and that of my Mother still hits me hard.

My Mom has been gone for eleven years now. It was a loss that struck me to the core of my being; I had a great relationship with my Mom, and she provided a voice and guidance that I could turn to when life became complicated – or just when I wanted someone to talk to. If your Mom is still around, do not underestimate the value of being able to pick up the phone and call her; for me, it is now just a dream.

My Mother dedicated herself to raising her kids, and gave her all to us. Now that I look back, I honestly believe she was a frustrated writer; it was my Mother that instilled a love of reading and writing in me. She wrote well, and I can’t help but wonder what she would have written if she’d actually nurtured her talent. Instead she nurtured my talent. I believe she sacrificed her dreams, to give me my dream; she set me on the path, that has now developed into novel writing, and that is a gift I am unable to truly thank her for, as I’ve realized all of this only after her passing.

Dad, well, Dad was a presence; he was a giant of a man with a good heart. He never failed to help others, and did so because he really truly cared. Dad wasn’t an avid reader of books, but he consumed newspapers on a daily basis, as well as magazines devoted to history. In his own way, he was a well-read and intelligent man. What he gave me is whatever strength of character I currently have. He showed me what it was to be a good human being, and while I know I’ll never completely measure up to him, by making me strive to do so, he has made me a better man. My Dad and I were close, and his passing still haunts me to this day. You see, when Mom became sick with cancer, Dad was her main caretaker, and it wasn’t until that wretched disease afflicted him, and my wife and I became his main caretaker, that I realized all he had done for her and all he had gone through – with grace, dignity and no complaints.

Don’t get me wrong, my parents were not perfect, but from what I do know, in being born as their son, I did win a biological lottery. So much of whom and what they were, makes me who and what I am today. I believe that is reflected in my writing and my ability to have become a writer.

I miss them.

The Stories End...Time to Stop Moping

May 23, 2015

In terms of keeping a diary on writing and the promotion of my books, I've discovered I'm not as diligent as I hoped I'd be. This I attribute to change...namely, a change in where I blog and setting that up (namely, here at Blogger). I also have to attribute it to the actual act of writing. In previous posting, I mentioned I was attempting to finish a novel called Barkerton, that I had started writing almost two decades ago, and which has been my own personal White Whale. For years I focused on writing screenplays, sure that the art of writing a novel was beyond my abilities.

Believe it or not, writing screenplays, and the many drafts, improvements and rewrites they required, helped me hone my writing abilities. Today, I am a far better writer than I was when Barkerton was initially written (yes, although I have finished the first draft finally, it will involve me returning to Barkerton and rewriting and polishing it to bring the entire manuscript up to snuff).

It was during the past couple of years that I discovered I had the ability and maturity as a writer to finish a book-length manuscript, and have three novels written: Tripping on Tears, The Merry Pranked, and The Marquis Mark, debuting on Amazon June 7th. With about 90,000 words of Barkerton completed, it bothered me that I hadn't brought that book's character's journey to an end. Or maybe they simply pissed me off, because they wouldn't allow me to bring their journey to an end? Was it my failure, or were they thumbing their noses at me, taunting me, and living on despite my best endeavors over the years to finish their tale? I guess you could say we had a love-hate relationship, and for the greater part of that time, they were in control.

The confidence I received in completing the other books, gave me the ability to confront them, fight through whatever writer's block voodoo they had put on me, and complete their story. Barkerton, after all this time - at least the first draft - was completed.

I thought I'd spend my time dancing a gig in celebration, but instead discovered, like with my other books, and even scripts I worked on, completing the story left me sad. You see, for the duration of writing each book or screenplay, I find myself living with those characters, even when I'm not sitting down and actually writing their story. They become a part of me - friends (even those I despise; those who provide the darkness that exists in my storytelling). Much like with the other books, other than the re-writes, I realized the story of Barkerton's characters had been told, and I didn't need to think about them, and what they do next, anymore. It was depressing and I decided to foolishly mope around, and not get down to the business of writing and blogging.

Well, I've finally snapped out of it. I'll be revisiting those characters and polishing them, and while I do feel a sense of loss, the beauty is that, deep down in the recesses of my mind, new characters, with a different story, are clawing their way to the front of my imagination, determined that their story finally be told; I'm not completely sure who they are, but something tells me, it'll be wonderful spending time with them as well.

In other words, time to get back to work.

Living with Literary Loss...Do They Miss Me As Well?

The story is over.

Not quite, I guess, however the evolution of the story is over. There will be re-writes and polishes as the unbridled writing of the first draft is reviewed and revamped so that when it comes time to publish, the manuscript is at its best. In doing this, once again, I’ll be revisiting the characters with which I’ve been living for months, but it won’t be same, as what is over is that sense of discovery the characters provide me as we collectively attempt to tell, hopefully, an engaging and entertaining tale.

Every creative individual approaches their craft, whether it be writing, painting, filmmaking, music, whatever, in their own way. Where the desire to create comes from, no one truly knows. Why it is one person has that ability and another doesn’t? There are a lot of mysteries in life, and while it is in our nature to try and uncover those mysteries, sometimes they’re best left alone and unquestioned.

Over the years I discovered my approach to creativity. It wasn’t self-evident at first, as whether or not I had the talent wasn’t self-evident at first. I had the desire, and all great things stem from that. My approach to writing involved a great deal of blind faith. I found I had to start with an idea that inspired me and whether or not I knew how the story would end, just sit down and write and see what journey the story and its characters took me on. This is not always a desirable way to write, as at any time during that journey, the characters might say, “Stop the car; I’m getting out. I’ll walk from here,” and leave the writer with five or six chapters and nowhere to go from there. I can only imagine the number of unfinished manuscripts collecting dust in desk drawers around the world; at one time, I was an owner of just such a collection of incomplete manuscripts.

Having written over twenty screenplays (possibly closer to thirty), and having employed the method of ignorance is bliss, I’ve become somewhat confident in my abilities to flesh out a story. I’ve come to trust the story and the characters that inhabit it that, first of all, they will not abandoned me, and secondly, they will eventually show me the way. That’s not to say that within that confidence, every time I start a new novel or screenplay, I’m not living in fear that this will be the time it will all fall apart (some of us work better with a little fear fueling us).

The approach I employ has a way of making the characters live with me on a daily basis. If I’m not specifically thinking about my latest manuscript, below the surface the wheels are still turning. As I was approaching the end of The Marquis Mark, my latest effort, I had no idea how the two storylines I had explored were going to come together in a logical way; I had no idea how the story was going to resolve itself, as logically it was leading me in one direction – the direction of least resistance – and providing me with an uninspired conclusion. You see, sometimes when the characters speak to you and offer up a direction, you have to tell them to go back to the drawing board and try again. I did that; and I lived in fear, but once again they showed me the way. The story concluded and in a way I would have never imagined when I first start telling the tale. You could say your characters are not unlike kids, in that you create them, and you nurse them along, with your own expectations of how they will behave and who they will become, but that is just your personal hopes and dreams, because sometimes they surprise you by doing something you didn’t expect. You were hoping for a Doctor in the family, but instead got a Forrest Ranger.

My characters surprised me and I’m pleased with the results, but while it is always satisfying to write “The End” at the end of a manuscript and realize you’ve completed yet another tale, there is also sadness about it. I know there will be other characters and other tales, but you come to enjoy the one you’re telling, and having lived with these characters for so long, you’ve gotten to know them and love and hate them as is required; they’re a part of your daily existence, and it is hard to say good-bye.

And that’s where I am right now, as I write this. I’m walking around out of sorts. While I am pleased to have finally finished the manuscript and with how it played out (all fears aside, these characters did me proud), I don’t know what to do with myself. I no longer have to consider what they will do next. They no longer need to tell me anything, and aren’t. Sure, I will be revisiting them, to polish their tale, but there is still a sense of loss at their passing. Yes, I agree with you, this all might just be the early signs of the insanity that is one day going to have me committed, unless I can become a best-selling novelist, as then that insanity will be merely termed eccentric and I’ll be trading a straight-jacket for a tolerant family with thoughts of inheritance living in their minds.

I will move on, and all ready there are new ideas forming in my imagination, but that doesn’t stop me from wondering that while I mourn those past character’s loss, wherever they go in the deep recesses of my imagination, do they ever miss me and the time we spent together?

I hope so.