Well, I've hit it--the wall, if you will, if there is one, it has been hit and I am, rather than charging through, laying content to play on this side of it.
It has been eleven days since I have posted a blog entry (I'm sure all of you, the readers I don't have, are anxiously awaiting more), and in those eleven days I have actually lost some of my total word count. On the plus side, I re-worked much of page one. I probably cut out 150 words, which were all superfluous. (Well, superfluous at best--plain bad at both worst, and most common probably.)
So, it's 12:41, I've wasted the last two hours (at least), and I'm sitting down to write, not knowing where I'm going. But, I'm writing. I'm writing and I'm putting down words--I'm planting a seed and raising a tree, that will someday become a large tree, which will someday become a log, and then become a log cabin for me (or, for Sammy) to dwell in for a time. Something not only built by my own two hands, but something tended, carefully created out of the smallest of something in the first place.
In some ways it is beautiful. In the reality of this moment, though, it is tiresome. I have any excuse you need: my long fingernails hit the keys funny, I should trim them. It is late, I should be in bed. My outline isn't in front of me, and I'll probably change this whole section anyway. I've waited 11 days, why not make it a round dozen? (And then, a baker's dozen? A fortnight?) Whatever the reasons, at some point my resolution has to be stronger than the cunning of my sloth. Tonight is a night where industry wins, though "industry" will probably be offended when I read back over what it creates and realizes the whole thing was a waste.
Still, it is a means to an end, or an investment in a future, for myself and my family and the Lord. I cannot imagine not fulfilling this gift--it will kill me if I cannot get words out beautifully.
Sammy, you better be worth it. (Patrick, you better be worth it.)
Monday, February 23, 2009
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
On Writing a Novel, Entry #4
Tonight I sit down to a very late start. I spent the weekend off--enjoying Tennessee, the mountains, great grilling, great friendship--the only thing lacking was great writing. That was in very short supply. And by short supply, of course, I mean non-existent.
Perhaps it was good to leave Sammy for a while, to step back and relax him, relax my brain and my fingers to let the story simmer and develop. But I think it was more laziness. I was starting to develop a steady rhythm (which is abnormal for me, and I was overly proud, as you can tell from my last post), and suddenly the rhythm is gone. And now I'm realizing that the end of this week is the mid-point of the semester, at the end of which I am supposed to have 100 pages written.
I have, concurrently, 21. I have 4 more hand-written, and one 1/2 more typed for the future. This means I will have to triple my current output to complete on time. And I wonder how much it is worth it--how much value is there in spewing out page after page of crap, and how much more or less valuable is it to make sure the foundation is solid before I move on to the next chapter? I suppose it may not be possible to perfect a chapter first (if ever) because it could change to fit the story as it develops. Obviously I am not completely sure where I am growing, so how do I know how to build the foundation?
I need to know where I'm going, but I suppose until I do I can enjoy the ride, and my stops camping along the way. We're not in a hurry. Take it in, breathe it in and enjoy the crisp mountain air of literature.
On a side note: I purchased Kenny's first published novel tonight. I'm proud of him. He's a hell of a guy, and I'm proud to have called him my friend. I should call or write or something--reach out to stay in touch with him. I really, really suck at that. Really bad. I hope I get better someday because there are so many invaluable people from my past that I would love to draw back closer to me.
Perhaps someday. They all, after all, have made me what I am today. And so every word I write is them, too.
Perhaps it was good to leave Sammy for a while, to step back and relax him, relax my brain and my fingers to let the story simmer and develop. But I think it was more laziness. I was starting to develop a steady rhythm (which is abnormal for me, and I was overly proud, as you can tell from my last post), and suddenly the rhythm is gone. And now I'm realizing that the end of this week is the mid-point of the semester, at the end of which I am supposed to have 100 pages written.
I have, concurrently, 21. I have 4 more hand-written, and one 1/2 more typed for the future. This means I will have to triple my current output to complete on time. And I wonder how much it is worth it--how much value is there in spewing out page after page of crap, and how much more or less valuable is it to make sure the foundation is solid before I move on to the next chapter? I suppose it may not be possible to perfect a chapter first (if ever) because it could change to fit the story as it develops. Obviously I am not completely sure where I am growing, so how do I know how to build the foundation?
I need to know where I'm going, but I suppose until I do I can enjoy the ride, and my stops camping along the way. We're not in a hurry. Take it in, breathe it in and enjoy the crisp mountain air of literature.
On a side note: I purchased Kenny's first published novel tonight. I'm proud of him. He's a hell of a guy, and I'm proud to have called him my friend. I should call or write or something--reach out to stay in touch with him. I really, really suck at that. Really bad. I hope I get better someday because there are so many invaluable people from my past that I would love to draw back closer to me.
Perhaps someday. They all, after all, have made me what I am today. And so every word I write is them, too.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
On writing a novel, Entry #3
For a time, tonight, I thought that I couldn't bear the thought of sitting down to write. My excuses were plentiful and effective: I got home from work at nine, and needed to relax. I spent so much in preparing for and going through my peer review today that I simply did not have any energy left for writing. I have misplaced my chapter outline, and having finished chapter three, I don't know now where to go.
I also thought, perhaps, to cop-out by doing edit work, or by letting my manuscript "rest" or "breathe" or whatever other romantic procrastination I could think of.
But I found that when I sat down to write a small entry, excusing myself to my unreading internet audience, that I couldn't stand the idea of not writing tonight. I do not want to go to bed without 1000 words having been created, find their way from my brain to my fingers, to the computer, to art. So I brewed a mug of tea, opened my work-in-progress, and now go to figure out what to write.
I also thought, perhaps, to cop-out by doing edit work, or by letting my manuscript "rest" or "breathe" or whatever other romantic procrastination I could think of.
But I found that when I sat down to write a small entry, excusing myself to my unreading internet audience, that I couldn't stand the idea of not writing tonight. I do not want to go to bed without 1000 words having been created, find their way from my brain to my fingers, to the computer, to art. So I brewed a mug of tea, opened my work-in-progress, and now go to figure out what to write.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
On writing a novel, Entry #2
So far so good. Last night's limitations got me to bed earlier than has become the norm, and with a greater sense of satisfaction than I have had in quite some time. I had always heard that any writer serious about his craft should write no less than 1000 words per day--now, accomplishing the practice of it encouraging in that I am finding a discipline and determination that I never knew existed. I honestly do not know if I have been this determined about anything as I was when I first knew Christ, or when I peaked out in my running career.
Which is, of course, at once encouraging and discouraging. How many years have I loafed through my various pursuits, seeking the easiest way to impress others, rather than the best way to treat myself and my gifts?
But regret and melancholy do not do me any good. We are now in the IS, and it is enough to know that I continue to plod forward, taking strides, and believe in the best that lies in me.
Tomorrow we will be workshopping my first 5000 words in class. I am sure to be at once entranced and enraged at the comments of my peers. I suffer from an obstinate belief that I know more than anyone else and will come to greater things through sheer intelligence and determination. I may be wrong, but I do believe that given enough determination I will be right. Of course I do appreciate insight, any insight, but I am the fastest I know to defend and dismiss as myopic rather than accept my own blindnesses. Perhaps it is the ownership I am not feeling, the pride, the sense of doing and creating. This is my story, Sammy is my character, his life is, in many ways, my life but more--my life extrapolated, distorted, onto frame of different dimensions. Same yet totally different, but still mine nonetheless.
And I will learn to live by my words, which I should now go commit to paper.
Which is, of course, at once encouraging and discouraging. How many years have I loafed through my various pursuits, seeking the easiest way to impress others, rather than the best way to treat myself and my gifts?
But regret and melancholy do not do me any good. We are now in the IS, and it is enough to know that I continue to plod forward, taking strides, and believe in the best that lies in me.
Tomorrow we will be workshopping my first 5000 words in class. I am sure to be at once entranced and enraged at the comments of my peers. I suffer from an obstinate belief that I know more than anyone else and will come to greater things through sheer intelligence and determination. I may be wrong, but I do believe that given enough determination I will be right. Of course I do appreciate insight, any insight, but I am the fastest I know to defend and dismiss as myopic rather than accept my own blindnesses. Perhaps it is the ownership I am not feeling, the pride, the sense of doing and creating. This is my story, Sammy is my character, his life is, in many ways, my life but more--my life extrapolated, distorted, onto frame of different dimensions. Same yet totally different, but still mine nonetheless.
And I will learn to live by my words, which I should now go commit to paper.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Entry #1
I am currently writing a novel. I no longer say "attempting" to write, because I have now decided that I am simply going to write. That I will be a writer, that I am an artist, and that I have greatness within me.
Steinbeck wrote to a friend as a "warm-up" before digging in to write. I think, perhaps, this approach may be more helpful to me than attempting to start cold. Once rolling, I know that I can find prodigious results, but all too often it is the starting that stops me. Perhaps ten, twenty, or thirty minutes, or an hour (or a day) after I sit down I will finally begin to write. So here is my warm-up, my stretching as I attempt to go in already moving. Getting a running start.
Hopefully, too, I can work out tiresome athletic metaphors and not fill my prose with that sort of rubbish.
Back to the decision to write: I will write. I will write and write and write. Steinbeck wrote a self-imposed minimum of 1000 words per day. I see no reason I cannot do this. I often wondered how writers did it, but I believe I am learning. With repetition comes productivity, with productivity comes love. I love writing. I love sitting down to create. I love the realization that, come hell or high water (I am working out cliches too, I suppose), I will write until I have written something worthy of being read. And then I will write more, until I write something more worthy of being read, until someday I can write something that needs to be read.
Steinbeck did it this way. I suppose he is, in some ways, my current muse--by necessity, because of my SR class, but also as an inspiration from a person whose personality nearly mirrors my own, even if our philosophies and theologies do not easily co-exist. (Indulgent side note/extrapolation: The more I learn about Steinbeck, the more I see similarities to myself. Which is encouraging in that I do have the makeup, the constitution, the inborn ability to be a writer...if I can cultivate that, discipline the puer aeternus, chain the eternal boy to a desk and mine until I find diamond.) It is going to happen. It is simply a mechanism, now, of work and time.
I am currently writing a novel. I no longer say "attempting" to write, because I have now decided that I am simply going to write. That I will be a writer, that I am an artist, and that I have greatness within me.
Steinbeck wrote to a friend as a "warm-up" before digging in to write. I think, perhaps, this approach may be more helpful to me than attempting to start cold. Once rolling, I know that I can find prodigious results, but all too often it is the starting that stops me. Perhaps ten, twenty, or thirty minutes, or an hour (or a day) after I sit down I will finally begin to write. So here is my warm-up, my stretching as I attempt to go in already moving. Getting a running start.
Hopefully, too, I can work out tiresome athletic metaphors and not fill my prose with that sort of rubbish.
Back to the decision to write: I will write. I will write and write and write. Steinbeck wrote a self-imposed minimum of 1000 words per day. I see no reason I cannot do this. I often wondered how writers did it, but I believe I am learning. With repetition comes productivity, with productivity comes love. I love writing. I love sitting down to create. I love the realization that, come hell or high water (I am working out cliches too, I suppose), I will write until I have written something worthy of being read. And then I will write more, until I write something more worthy of being read, until someday I can write something that needs to be read.
Steinbeck did it this way. I suppose he is, in some ways, my current muse--by necessity, because of my SR class, but also as an inspiration from a person whose personality nearly mirrors my own, even if our philosophies and theologies do not easily co-exist. (Indulgent side note/extrapolation: The more I learn about Steinbeck, the more I see similarities to myself. Which is encouraging in that I do have the makeup, the constitution, the inborn ability to be a writer...if I can cultivate that, discipline the puer aeternus, chain the eternal boy to a desk and mine until I find diamond.) It is going to happen. It is simply a mechanism, now, of work and time.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
Supernova
I don't think it's very good, but then nothing's ever done until it's all over, so we'll see if it gets finished. Generally I think poetry is too high of an art for me, but like a kid fingerpainting, sometimes I take great joy in tapping into something that is above me.
Supernova
Patrick Eckhardt
When a star can die you know
The way of the world is a cosmic tragedy.
While galaxies are swirls of stars too numerous to count
Solar systems are swirls of planets around one star and I bet
When a star dies a galaxy still lives but it’s harder to ignore
When light and swirling stops on your rock.
Interstellar beauty is beyond me,
Simplicity is, by definition, easier to understand.
Did you know? There are bugs
Who live for a day. Make love. Die.
No galaxy notices them, but they can
Make water smoke in an obscene cloud of sex and beauty.
Did you know? There is man
Who winds through days with eternal significance
Felt mostly by him. He lives for a day.
Makes love, with his life, to this earth,
Then dies. The galaxy is a cold, swirling place
Of ever-changing beauty too big and real far too real.
If everything must die then that is the way of the world
But. Did you know? There are starts that are dreams.
Comets are not stars but they are beautiful too. And they are
Dying because you can only hurtle haphazardly for so long
Before you hit something unseen but
Maybe seen before. Man sees a crater but the indifferent galaxy still swirls.
Supernova
Patrick Eckhardt
When a star can die you know
The way of the world is a cosmic tragedy.
While galaxies are swirls of stars too numerous to count
Solar systems are swirls of planets around one star and I bet
When a star dies a galaxy still lives but it’s harder to ignore
When light and swirling stops on your rock.
Interstellar beauty is beyond me,
Simplicity is, by definition, easier to understand.
Did you know? There are bugs
Who live for a day. Make love. Die.
No galaxy notices them, but they can
Make water smoke in an obscene cloud of sex and beauty.
Did you know? There is man
Who winds through days with eternal significance
Felt mostly by him. He lives for a day.
Makes love, with his life, to this earth,
Then dies. The galaxy is a cold, swirling place
Of ever-changing beauty too big and real far too real.
If everything must die then that is the way of the world
But. Did you know? There are starts that are dreams.
Comets are not stars but they are beautiful too. And they are
Dying because you can only hurtle haphazardly for so long
Before you hit something unseen but
Maybe seen before. Man sees a crater but the indifferent galaxy still swirls.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Behemoth Rising
I have decided to undertake a venture of cosmic proportions.
Actually, I'm just trying to piece together a beautifully written and meaningful assessment of my life thus far. And it's hard. Frankly, it's hard as hell and I don't know where to begin.
You should have seen me this summer. I strategized with reckless abandon. I spent hours, literally hours of several days, several weeks, and several months creating outlines, discussing form, attempting beginnings. I even have a fairly serviceable first page or so, though it ends there. It ends before it gets too personal, because I am afraid, so very afraid, to lay my soul bare.
I have done a lot of things in my life I am not particularly proud of. I have done a number of things that anyone who has only met me in the last few months would probably have no idea. For those that aren't familiar, there's a game people sometimes play called, "I've never," wherein a group of people lists, in a circle, things they've never done. If you have done the mentioned thing, you get a "point." Depending on the length of the game, (generally dependent on the general level of boredom) you get five or ten strikes, points, before you're out.
As is often the case with late-teen-early-twenty-somethings, topics often settle on the vaguely sexual and subtly rebellious bemoanings (braggings?) of past mistakes. To this date, I have never won "I've never." If we played, "I have" I would be the gloriously shameful champion.
Even so, I think the scariest part is not exposing me, but exposing my family. My family is not a pretty matter, frankly, but it is what I have. What I have is broken and terribly flawed; within our immediate history is of course that which is tragic but understandable: cancer, high blood pressure, severe arthritis, mysterious brain diseases (stumping even the Mayo Clinic), and more. But among the uglier items lie alcoholism, insanity, an amazingly complete history of divorce, brokenness, and bitterness. Depression. Homosexuality. Et cetera.
This is who I am. I am all of these things, all of them are in me, specters that brush against my existence in one form or another, at one time or another. Things I gander even may get me fired, and certainly would have barred me from being employed in the first place by the conservative Christian school that employs me.
And yet this place, this school, for all its flaws, for all its opportunities to explores the phantoms of my heritage, is also the field in which I have sown seeds of faith. My Christianity is very imperfect. I often forget to read my Bible, and my best prayer times come when I realize I have just sped past a police car on the highway. But my faith is a thousand times stronger than it was when I entered this school just a few long and hard years ago, and I have never loved or appreciated my God more than I do today. To me, this faith is more valuable than year some might see as wasted. To me, this faith is bigger than all of my perpetual faults. To me, this faith is, I suppose, worth putting into words, even worth losing everything, because it is only by losing everything that I found it in the first place. This story is a behemoth I am not sure I can lift, but am, perhaps, fool enough to try.
Actually, I'm just trying to piece together a beautifully written and meaningful assessment of my life thus far. And it's hard. Frankly, it's hard as hell and I don't know where to begin.
You should have seen me this summer. I strategized with reckless abandon. I spent hours, literally hours of several days, several weeks, and several months creating outlines, discussing form, attempting beginnings. I even have a fairly serviceable first page or so, though it ends there. It ends before it gets too personal, because I am afraid, so very afraid, to lay my soul bare.
I have done a lot of things in my life I am not particularly proud of. I have done a number of things that anyone who has only met me in the last few months would probably have no idea. For those that aren't familiar, there's a game people sometimes play called, "I've never," wherein a group of people lists, in a circle, things they've never done. If you have done the mentioned thing, you get a "point." Depending on the length of the game, (generally dependent on the general level of boredom) you get five or ten strikes, points, before you're out.
As is often the case with late-teen-early-twenty-somethings, topics often settle on the vaguely sexual and subtly rebellious bemoanings (braggings?) of past mistakes. To this date, I have never won "I've never." If we played, "I have" I would be the gloriously shameful champion.
Even so, I think the scariest part is not exposing me, but exposing my family. My family is not a pretty matter, frankly, but it is what I have. What I have is broken and terribly flawed; within our immediate history is of course that which is tragic but understandable: cancer, high blood pressure, severe arthritis, mysterious brain diseases (stumping even the Mayo Clinic), and more. But among the uglier items lie alcoholism, insanity, an amazingly complete history of divorce, brokenness, and bitterness. Depression. Homosexuality. Et cetera.
This is who I am. I am all of these things, all of them are in me, specters that brush against my existence in one form or another, at one time or another. Things I gander even may get me fired, and certainly would have barred me from being employed in the first place by the conservative Christian school that employs me.
And yet this place, this school, for all its flaws, for all its opportunities to explores the phantoms of my heritage, is also the field in which I have sown seeds of faith. My Christianity is very imperfect. I often forget to read my Bible, and my best prayer times come when I realize I have just sped past a police car on the highway. But my faith is a thousand times stronger than it was when I entered this school just a few long and hard years ago, and I have never loved or appreciated my God more than I do today. To me, this faith is more valuable than year some might see as wasted. To me, this faith is bigger than all of my perpetual faults. To me, this faith is, I suppose, worth putting into words, even worth losing everything, because it is only by losing everything that I found it in the first place. This story is a behemoth I am not sure I can lift, but am, perhaps, fool enough to try.
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