Announcement

Originally I had some vague concept of using this blog primarily for matters concerning my writing and the writing process in general, but since I now find it so easy to speak and write about such matters and difficult to actually take the time to write, I have made a resolution to reverse this. Thus I will no longer be writing of such matters here, and nor will I speak of them (which shall probably last only as long as someone asks me about my writing, and then I will quite happily change my mind).

Furthermore, as I am now headed off to college, I have decided to use this to write about the experience of going to college in a foreign country. Which means I shall probably actually be writing here more frequently again.

For those who think that a good thing, please celebrate. For those who think not, I am still open to bribes.

I will finish with a toast: to the future! (Since it never comes.)

To answer a question...

I may be able to refrain from writing a book in response, but not a blog post, as a mere response by comment seemed insufficient. Even so I have not the time to respond in much detail, though I suppose my brevity might be appreciated.

The question: "So please explain what real life is."

Real life is the term generally used in opposition to virtual life.

Now that I have answered literally, I will move on to answer the meaning of the statement, which referred rather to my usage of the word life.

To put it as simply as possible, life is experience.

So what does it mean to live? Of course all of us who are not dead are living, but to really live takes more than the bare necessities of life. Perhaps it is possible for some to work constantly and feel that they are living life and living it abundantly, but if so, then I would guess it must be work that they love, and therefore less like work.

What it means to live life and live it abundantly is not something that can be put into one simple answer. For many it may mean one thing, for others another. But essentially to live is to experience. To not be bound by the constraints laid by the modern world, which would limit our creativity, but instead to wander the world, willing to take risks, willing to find different ways of dealing with important issues, willing to live not bound by this world's desires for wealth.

Perhaps I am merely an idealist. Perhaps this is not possible, at least for most in the world. Perhaps it is not even desirable for most, for there are few willing to live without the security of regularity. If that is what they wish, I will not judge them for it. But, as for me, I mean to see whether it is possible to live otherwise, to live freely in the world, and to live life abundantly.

Just because I haven't said anything in so long...

Working a forty-five hour week and writing just do not go well together, and I doubt there are many writers who have tried it. Thus is my wise advice for today.

One who wanders...

Lately I have been thinking a lot about life and what everything means and why things are the way they are. The inevitable result is that I inflict my thoughts now upon any who will read this.

The primary impetus was a feeling characterized by not wanting to do anything, generally referred to as depression. It is, I think, a common difficulty in our world. Yet I have absolutely no reason to be depressed, but on the contrary, have great reason not to be. So I guess it is as Mr. Gibbs said about something entirely different: "Reason's got nothing to do with it."

Writers do tend toward depression. But I think the poet Rainer Rilke explained it best: "You are looking outside of yourself and that above all you must not do now. Nobody can counsel and help you, nobody."

I started looking outside of myself. I thought if only I could do one thing or another with a friend, then I would be able to get all inspired again. I thought if only I knew what someone thought of an idea, I would be able to go with it. I thought all manner of things like that. It does not work to rely upon other people, nor upon what is outside oneself, but only upon what is inside oneself, which incidentally includes the Greatest of all.

People seem to be inherently unreliable and thus it is foolish to rely upon them. This is not to say that one ought not to rely upon his friends, but only that one ought not to rely too much upon them, or not too much upon too few of them. As Captain Tizoro keeps reminding me, "It's not a matter of knowing who to trust; it's a matter of knowing how far to trust them."

I really think we lose much wisdom when we grow older. When I was a young child, I sagely told my mother that I would never have a best friend because it was foolish to place too much trust in one person. (I remember only the occasion and not the exact words I used.) Then I met someone I thought was very much like me in every way and I went against my childhood wisdom, deciding I would have a best friend. For a time it was a pleasant idea, until we began to drift apart. Then, when we spoke, it was as if we were hundreds of miles apart, whether or not we were in actuality, and there was a great rift between us. The very thought of what I had lost was enough to fill me with sorrow for a good while, but I have learned I ought to place my trust in a better friend, the only true One.

As for the rest, it is as all else in life: all that is gained must be lost, always perhaps to gain a greater thing, but the sorrow is no less real. As Chesterton put it, "Birth is as solemn a parting as death."

Growing up especially is about loss. All things that have happened must be lost to the memories of the past, one's very way of life must be lost, and a great many of those who are close will also drift away. One never knows which of his friends will be lost and which will remain true. Even those closest of all may be lost: those in one's own family.

Yet we all have our different ways of looking at things, even the forming of friendships. Some gather a great multitude of friends all about and always have friends with whom to speak and enjoy good times, whether new or old. Some do not easily make friends and only have a few close friends, whose loss or perceived loss, will fill them with great sorrow. J.R.R. Tolkien was of the latter sort, and I must be as well. Nor is it the only thing we have in common.

But as we traverse the valley of sorrow, we must not always look backward, grieving for what we have lost, but forward. There are a great many adventures that yet await us before we shuffle off this mortal coil.

Thusly have I started out by talking about depression and gotten all the way to quoting Shakespeare. Thus is the strange working of my mind. Thus too is my offering of wisdom to the world: sift it and search for the flakes of gold, if you will, but I make no promises, leaving aside the matter of my liking of the word 'thus' and preference for archaic language and lofty statements.

I might as well end by quoting Tolkien, if only to offer as excuse for my wanderings:

All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king.

De Rigueur

Q: What's the most important thing for a novel?

A: Plot.

I could have used this a long time ago. Plot—or lack thereof—was the primary difficulty with my pirate novel, which sadly has gone through a couple of revisions and still fallen far short of my ideals. Of course once I figured out the problem, everything made since. So I already knew that the plot was the most important part when I read that post, but it is good to have the reminder.

Now I just have to do something about it...

Part II: Revision

The most difficult part of creating a story—especially if one cannot write a decent first draft—is the revision. As I have begun the revision on my pirate novel again, I have found myself contemplating the difficulties rather than actually working on revision much, and thus the reason for the existence of the following:

Firstly, revision is difficult partially because it is hard to feel the same sense of urgency as one does when seeking to reach the ending. One already knows how the story turns out. It is similar to reading a book for the fiftieth time.

Secondly, it is difficult to distance oneself from the story enough to reflect upon it coolly and also feel the warm closeness to it that is necessary to keep involved in it. It is like trying to believe two contradictory things simultaneously.

Thirdly, it is difficult to judge one's own writing. There are parts that seem good, but do they belong? Or should they be cut out? Does it add to the feel of the piece? Or is it one of those humorous situations that appeal only to one's own strange sense of humor?

(This is not even to mention all the problems such as characters that seem a main part of the story and then just disappear. Or instances that are given importance, and then never mentioned again. Or contradictory happenings. And the list goes on....)

Thus the reason I search always for critiquers. In fact I wish very much for my own personal critiquer to sit nearby and give me his thoughts on whatever he reads. Perhaps when I am a published author I shall have the money to employ one, but until then I must satisfy myself with looking for volunteers, I suppose...

Part I: Writing the story

Lately I have been thinking not just about things, but about how I think about things, especially as it is related to writing. I have concluded that there are certain ways I think that pose interesting difficulties in writing novels. I have read several books about writing novels and tried to follow their advice, but have always failed for one primary reason: I think in terms of deadlines.

My life consists almost entirely of deadlines. Right now I am conscious of having to leave in a little over an hour, the preparations necessary for leaving on our camping and sailing trip next Monday, and a scholarship I need to apply for by May 31st. I have great difficulty in thinking more than a few days ahead, which results in my doing everything at the last minute, as it were. I do think about matters farther in the future than say next Monday, but only in a vague sort of way; for all it matters a deadline might be in two months or two years and I will regard it in the same manner, if I regard it at all, except briefly.

Now, as this pertains to writing:

When I am writing a novel I am thinking about the next point. When I have gotten there, I think about the next point. And so on until I reach the end. I cannot plan it out ahead, having this wonderful connected and cohesive weave of storylines. My mind does not seem to work that way.

As unhelpful as this sometimes seems, there is something to be said for it. Because I do not know what is to happen, it allows all sorts of surprises to creep in. I may have a character at the beginning of a novel and think he is just a one-scene character and then find out he is one of the main characters, as in the novel I wrote for National Novel Writing Month last year.

This, however, creates a lot of work for the next step: revision.

Oscillation

I seem to be writing here more and more infrequently, and I wish I could say it was due to a corresponding increase in writing elsewhere, but I am afraid that would not quite be the truth. I considered making an end to it, in order to concentrate my efforts elsewhere, but I find I never like to end things, so for the moment I shall only continue in my sporadic way.

For the moment I guess I shall post a note I wrote elsewhere:

May 1st

Well I was just getting ready to fire myself, but I guess now I won't.

I was even thinking about doing it in a very official manner with a letter. I mean it doesn't do me much good to have a job at which I am not working, and I most certainly have not been writing lately, except for blog posts and letters in Tengwar, though there were a couple of times I attempted it. If I had been working at any other job I would have been fired a long time ago, so I thought it stood to reason that I should be fired as a writer.

I guess this just goes to show that I am not in control here. This very day I randomly decided to go out and check the mail—which I generally reserve for those who actually get things in the mail—and there was an envelope for me from Elder and Leemaur Publishers.

I opened it slowly, trying not to get excited. I already knew what it meant though.

I am going to be published! Or rather a piece of my writing is, which will make me a published writer.

Before I say anything further I should explain: this was in answer to a scholarship I had found. The requirement was for me to submit an essay under 500 words, for which topic I chose the following:

Topic #1: Over the past twenty years campaign spending has been increasing at an astronomical pace. Do you believe that this is good or bad for democracy? and why?

So I wrote the essay, worked on it, had a couple people read it, worked on it some more, (all of this within a few days of the deadline) and submitted it the day before the deadline, which was March 1st.

It is, however, rather ironic that I am getting it published. After all I have spent a good eight or so years of my life seriously working at writing fiction. I have written numerous stories and novels, I have read books about writing fiction, I have critiqued stories and had my own critiqued, and I have submitted numerous works of fiction to various magazines. Yet now I am going to have a non-fiction essay published.

I suppose it doesn't make too much difference what it is. The important part is that I am going to be published! I am rather excited.

To Do or Not To Do

"It takes a lot of time to be a genius. You have to sit around so much doing nothing, really doing nothing." -Gertrude Stein

This quote goes perfectly with my thoughts as of late. This is exactly what it takes to be a writer.

Now of course trying to be a writer is not the same as trying to be a genius. After all, not all geniuses are writers and certainly all writers are not geniuses. Yet that is neither here nor there.

There have been numerous occasions when I have been standing around with a thoughtful look on my face (one I am told makes it look like I am mad or dead or whatever it is that I do not remember at the moment) and trying to think, and maybe even partially succeeding, but there are a great many more when I am simply doing nothing. I find that lately I hardly do nothing at all and thus my writing suffers. It is amazing how much doing nothing time it takes to be a writer.

Yet doing nothing takes a great skill. There are many people in the world who do nothing accidentally, but such doing of nothing generally results in nothing, as they do not know what to do with it. Of course in all likelihood they are not really doing nothing. It is not so easy a matter as one might suppose to really do nothing, not to worry about things about to happen, not to fret at the passage of time, not to drop into a state of complacency, nor anything else (save vital life functions of course).

However, it is also hard to find time to do nothing...

I cannot think of a single day this week I shall be able to really and properly do nothing, but perhaps I may be able to squeeze in an hour or two. It might be sufficient. Of course the quality and quantity of said time is inversely proportional to the effectiveness of the writing that results from it. Thus the lamentable state of my writing currently.

A Matter of Age, In Part

Lately I have been giving much thought to the matter of growing up, probably mostly because it has no relation to any of the stories I might be considered to be working upon at the moment. And I have now reached some quasi-conclusions.

Firstly, in large part, growing up is to become responsible, but it also necessitates a feeling for others, an ability to put others' wants before one's own. This is why my mother has said that one never really grows up until having children of his own.

Of course we cannot help growing up. (At least I have not found a way.) Yet, as with most things, we all do it differently and in different degrees. Some people do it overly much. As a result there are a great many dull people in the world. I do not say dullness is a bad thing; they might very well be happier than those who lead more interesting lives. But I cannot help thinking that growing up ought not to necessitate becoming boring. At least so for me.

Secondly, growing up is not a term that adequately describes the subject. It seems to imply no more than an increase in height. It might just as well be described as growing away.

As a child one is very close to all those around him: his siblings, his parents, his friends, and most anyone else. This is because is looking at the world entirely from his own viewpoint, and ascribing it to everyone around him. It does not occurr to him to think about different viewpoints; that is a matter that comes with maturity. This is the reason that children can be friends with anyone.

Then, as the child grow older, he begins to grow away from his family and friends. As long as he lives with his family he can never draw very far from them; he lives too close to them not to know them intimately, but he can never be as close as he was when very young. But with his friends it is a different matter, especially if he rarely sees or talks with them. He has reached the age where interests begin to diverge, and what matters most now is a sharing of interests. This is why so few people retain their childhood friends. Yet even common interests are not always enough.

It is as if we are on islands in a vast ocean, constantly drifting away from each other. We must continue to work to bridge that space between, or the ties will be broken, and we will be beyond reach, perhaps forever in earthly terms. This is what people mean when they say they are talking to someone who seems miles away, an expression I thought rather silly until recently.

Or, perhaps more fittingly, it as if there are walls between us. It is natural that the walls should have grown up, but they will prevent our friendships only if we let them remain. All we must do is pull down the walls, brick by brick. In most circumstances it takes no more than a little effort.

Yet there are times we refuse to break down the wall. We let it remain and grow larger. Why?

It is natural for us to seek safety and to cling to it. When we have a steady rhythm to our lives we feel a sense of security and therefore want nothing to change because we do not want to lose our safety. We do not like to step outside the well-known and therefore the safe. Even when things are about to change drastically, we pretend to ourselves and to others that things are the same, that they are just as usual, and we dare not speak of more than trivial matters. Thus we let the walls grow taller.

Scientific Ramblings

So I noticed this lymph node in my neck and thought it a good opportunity to look up something about the lymphoid system, which I knew very little about. So I pulled out an anatomy book to look at. It was one of those dry types of books that say a lot without saying much at all, so I still know very little about it, but a little bit less little than the little before. But it reminded me of a good quote from Chesterton (from "Orthodoxy" to be precise):

Scientific phrases are used like scientific wheels and piston-rods to make swifter and smoother yet the path of the comfortable. Long words go rattling by us like long railway trains. We know they are carrying thousands who are too tired or too indolent to walk and think for themselves. It is a good exercise to try for once in a way to express any opinion one holds in words of one syllable. If you say "The social utility of the indeterminate sentence is recognized by all criminologists as a part of our sociological evolution towards a more humane and scientific view of punishment," you can go on talking like that for hours with hardly a movement of the gray matter inside your skull. But if you wish to begin "I wish Jones to go to gaol and Brown to say when Jones shall come out," you will discover, with a thrill of horror, that you are obliged to think. The long words are not the hard words, it is the short words that are hard. There is much more metaphysical subtlety in the word "damn" than in the word "degeneration."

I could hardly limit myself to that and it is already a somewhat lengthy quote. Chesterton was such an intelligent man and I have yet to find a single point upon which we disagree; when someone asks me a question these days, I quite frequently bring in a reference to something he said.

Now I shall return from this digression to return to the matter about which I began, though merely so that I may go upon another digression, which may actually be the main point after all. While looking at little squiggly lines to spread some sort of dim illumination upon the long, scientific words that told much about where all the lymph nodes and suchlike were and what they were capable of, and very little about what my lymphoid system was probably doing at this very moment, I discovered a matter of far more importance:

The human body is 60% fluid by volume. I thought I had heard it was more like 80%. Oh well. I guess we are not so much like watermelon after all...

A plague upon us all

The novelty has worn off now. Many unpleasant things are not so bad at first, but only become so when they remain day after day without relief. No doubt the matter of the most importance is one's state of mind, however.

At first it was easy enough to grin and bear it. Thus I attempted many humorous comments, though I fear they were lost upon all but myself. Furthermore, as long as I have chicken pox I figured I might as well make the most of it, and to that end I decided to debunk several myths concerning it, and also being sick in general:

Myth #1: Watching movies is a good way to entertain oneself while sick.

Truth: While this may for a brief time distract one's senses from his present discomfort, it generally only serves to make him more displeased and irritated with the world.

Myth #2: Laughing is good when one is sick.

Truth: This may be true in some cases, and indeed I hope it is, but in case of headache accompanying chicken pox, this only serves to increase the discomfort.

Myth #3: The face is the last place one gets chicken pox.

Truth: The apparent meaning of this statement is patently false. Perhaps it would be best not to question the honesty of the one who made this statement—especially as I do not remember who it was—but suffice to say it is not true in all cases. Even after appearing upon the face, the spots are quite pleased to keep appearing upon the rest of the body.

Myth #4: Those who are still well laugh at those who have gotten sick, only to find the tables turned upon them when they get sick and have it worse.

Truth: The latter portion would be more effective when separated by periods of days or weeks, and so lies outside my experience, but I would guess it is only a generality. As for the former portion, it is quite as easy—nay, I would say easier—for those who already have it to do the laughing, for there is a strange invincibility in being made vulnerable by illness, an inability to sink any lower. Any laughter sent my way is easily sent to flight. I am already sick, but you do not know when you will succumb: it may be in two days, or it may be in two weeks, but you shall most certainly get it. Not that much laughter was sent my way, but such may just as well be used against those who deny they are getting it.

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One possible effect of itchy chicken pox is a strong desire to jump up and down and scream, which I have on good authority from someone's whose name I will not mention. It makes me feel rather differently, but I will not go into that just now.

There are, however, numerous other small matters that might be of interest in relation to said illness, which only leads me to bewail and lament the fact that I did not have a little video camera to make a movie of the whole proceedings. (Those who have seen 'Mr. Bean's Holiday' may appreciate knowing this thought was in relation to said movie.) Since I have not, a great work of art may have been lost to the world.

Instead I sit here and write rambling thoughts about it, which probably are not even of minute amusement value to any but myself, and I have yet to emit even a half-chuckle. I would most definitely appreciate hearing from each and every one of my readers on this point, if you would be so charitable (it must count as a work of mercy—visiting the sick, you know), for I fear I have more readers than I get credit for. Hallo?

Absolutely splendidly wonderful...

Unfortunately the electronic medium does not allow my words to carry their full weight of sarcasm, but if you imagine the most sarcastic thing you have ever heard and triple it, that should approximate it. Yet again is brought to mind of what use a sarcastic mood would be for an entirely technologically-inclined society, but I digress from my original purpose: chicken pox.

The youngest has it. How long until the rest of us succumb?

Of course I was sort of exposed before, years and years ago, and managed not to get it. It would be nice if I could feel confident in this matter, and laugh because I could not get it, but since I already have a fever, I fear my laughter must be restrained. Only tomorrow—or the next day, or the next, or some other next day—shall tell whether I will indeed get it.

There could not possibly be a convenient time to get chicken pox, but when it is nearly Easter seems particularly inconvenient. I certainly do not relish the thought of the days and weeks ahead as we shall each singly succumb... Unless of course we manage to all get it at the same time. Still the two weeks or whatever that it would be necessary to be quarantined while having the curse would—or I suppose I should say will—be most dreadfully annoying, especially as I am already feeling like a caged beast...

Enough of that, before it turns into a full-fledged rant.

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Looking back over what I have written, I cannot help but ask myself what was the point of it all. Was it merely to have fun with the drama of it all? Was it to release my feelings of annoyance? Or did it have a deeper meaning?

Hmm. I sound like I am playing diplomacy or something...

I think, therefore...

In the almost immortal words of Descartes, it was “I think, therefore I am.” However, he might just as well have said any number of other things equally true, if not equally memorable and meaningful. What he said amounts only to I think I am, therefore I am, which is of course true because by the very act of thinking we have invented the word being and thus what meaning we ascribe to that word is what we sense, whether or not it is in accord with the concept we think we attempt to represent. This of course is a most serious consideration and not of much interest.

What is of far more interest is the fact that Descartes might just as well have said “I think, therefore I eat.” Or indeed he might have said—as someone I know said in effect, though the order of words is mine—“I think, therefore I'm tired.” The point of this was that when people are with friends or having fun, they forget they are tired, but when they are sitting around or not doing much they have the opportunity to think about being tired, and so they find they are.

He might have said any number of things included and not limited to the following:

I think, therefore I breathe.

I think, therefore I weep for all the folly in the world.

I think, therefore I climb a tree.

I think, therefore I write.

I think, therefore I see a purple hippopotomas swimming the backstroke toward my neighbor's house and playing a minuet on his viola.

Now none of this comes even close to being as memorable as what Descartes said, so I guess he knew what he was saying. If he had lived in these days, though, I suspect he would have said something more along the lines of “I think, therefore I guess” or “I think, therefore I doubt.”

It is amazing to think how it really all comes down to that in the end: to the act of thinking. Anything we do—or choose not to do—is the result of thinking. It is this rational thought that sets us apart from the rest of the animal world—not to mention the plant world—and thus why we alone can be so unsatisfied with our lot. If I were any other creature it would be impossible for me to say this:

I think, therefore I'm having a bad day.

Rebuttal

Seeing as one of my very few commenting readers has asked a question, I will without hesitation write an entire blog post in response. (I daresay I am just as likely to write a book in response to a challenge as was Chesterton.)

I was speaking of a written work in poetic terms: a fruit, to be precise. Now when one holds an imperfect fruit in his hand—perhaps it has a worm hole or a great moldy gash in it—then he would feel no guilt if he were to throw it into the compost or merely toss it into the bushes and forget about it. However, if it were possible for him to bring the fruit to a state of perfection, he would of course prefer that option. One thing he must never do is pulverize the fruit, for that would be contradictory to the writing process; if, however, it is not a fruit at all, but only appeared so, then he ought by all means to pulverize it.

Now, leaving aside any rigid assertions about the physical possibilities of bringing the fruit to a state of perfection—as this part is not important—let us continue to where this analogy leads us...

Once the fruit is as perfect as it may be, then it goes forth into the world. That is its first true test.

It is upon these fruits that the world will be nourished and thus their quality is of incalculable importance. Those that mold ought to be thrown out and trampled underfoot. Those that yield only vinegar may have a part to play, but only a small one, and ought to be regarded with care. Those that yield only wine will cause many to become drunk and foolish upon them, though for those who take them only in moderation they may do no harm and even be of benefit. Yet it is those that yield wholesome flesh and juice that shall provide the nourishment necessary for all. Thus is the first part of the test.

And the second is like it: the fruit, in yielding this nourishment to the world, must not shrink and lose its shape or become blemished, but remain firm and whole and beautiful. For those that do will soon be discarded.

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The above left aside of course the whole issue of what people do with the fruits' yield, for naturally not all are content merely to take sustenance from them in their natural form. These are the jellies and applesauces and whatnot about which I was questioned.

Some people cannot enjoy the fruit wholly without extracting the flesh and making something more of it than was originally there, though without changing any more than the appearance of it. I am not saying that this is without merit—for there is a time and a place for everything—yet these should be made with care, as often such processes involve bringing in additional ingredients (e.g. the salts and sugars and cinnamons and sundry others). Depending upon what is added, the result may be so different from the original fruit as to be unrecognizable. But there are also those that would be indigestible without said additions.

This is by no means an inexhaustible list. Many other means of sustenance exist which involve these fruits only in part or in an amalgamation of them, and I have not time—nor interest—in covering all of them.

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There it is. I do not know of what benefit it was, as I ought really to be writing other things, but I did rather enjoy it. Although at this rate I suppose I might just as well write a book of analogies about writing.

The idea all came about because of one question, and I appreciate it. These days people do not ask enough questions and those they do ask are usually the wrong ones, for they are afraid to say too much, and so they say too little. If only people would ask more questions and would actively seek the truth, the world would be a better place.

A Child's Wisdom

So the other day I was taking care of my little brother outside. Now, except that he needed someone to watch him and he prefers to play with someone, my being there was rather superfluous, which allowed me to speculate upon the abilities of young children in general and three-and-a-half-year-olds in particular.

Of course not all children are the same. After all, not all three-and-a-half-year-olds can do simple addition and subtraction. However, he gave me much to ponder.

My conclusion was that young children are natural storytellers. For one, they have not yet reached the point where they delineate true and false in relation to what has happened and what has not. If we tell him about some event that has happened in the past it is just as real for him as what he tells us he has done before and as real as what is happening around him. Often when children tell adults something, the adults respond by asking, “Really?” This is a question children would not think to ask, for it implies a certain degree of disbelief, of cynicism, which they do not yet know. Their minds are still free to believe anything.

As he played with a newt from the gully, he showed his innate sense of narrative. Everything we did had to be done a certain way and in a certain order.

It is these reasons that make children such good storytellers, and yet there is one thing they lack: they have not yet developed a sense for what is interesting to hear about and what is not. If you ever listen to them telling a story, you will notice that they tell everything in the order it happened, leaving nothing out. Perhaps, though, it would be more accurate to say not that it is a lack but that it is something of which they have an over abundance, their sense of the importance of everything being so strong that they hold each and every thing with equal regard.

As children grow older they lose so much. That is why children often seem so happy, while adults do only rarely. As they grow, they forget their natural creativity, reducing everything to the black and white, true and false, of the adult world. They learn to doubt, to disbelieve. They narrow their sense of the important to rest upon a limited number of things that have little meaning for them. Thus they not only lose their ability as storytellers, but also they lose the ability to live happily.

It is for this reason that Jesus said we must become like children if we wish to enter heaven and that the kingdom of heaven belonged to such as these.

For writers this is especially important. We must have a child's creativity so that we move beyond the hard lines accepted as facts and dare to attempt what we never would otherwise, a childlike confidence in our work, and also a child's wonder at the world. This is what shall produce fruit.

Yet once we have that precious fruit—that first draft—we must be able to continue on. For this it is necessary to have abilities gained only with maturity: the ability to judge and assess the work, and the ability to be able to listen to others and learn from what they have to tell us. It is these that shall enable us to improve both our craft and our stories so that we may create works that may be of lasting influence in the world.

A Recognized Thirst

After avoiding it for more than a month, I finally sat down yesterday evening to write. Though it took me much effort of will to force myself to do it, as soon as I had begun, the pleasure of words and ideas flowing from my mind brought peace.

So I wrote this story about a man who thinks himself imprisoned, but really is not. I am fairly pleased with it, at least the idea of it, though I daresay I shall tinker with it a little more before I look for readers.

Now there is something I read a little while ago, which echoes in my mind. Oh, how true it is! I knew it before, but I refused to act upon it, rather like the man in my story. That of which I speak was written by the poet Rilke:

“You are looking outward and that above all you must not do now. Nobody can counsel and help you, nobody.”

There is a deep well within each of us and we need only go to it and dip into it, but fear often holds us back. Instead we look for others to tell us that our stories are good. We look for friends to encourage us, to talk of many things--“...of shoes and ships and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings.” We look anywhere, but within ourselves.

The hermits, I think, knew best. Those who are closest to God are closest to themselves and thus closer to their own deep wells. When one is waiting to hear from his friends and wanting to talk with them, he often ignores what lies within himself. Yet if one were to withdraw wholly from the world—not to hear from any living soul—and be alone with God, he would be able to draw more deeply from that well. Perhaps I shall try that someday.

I suppose, though, there are many things that would be lost then. A conversation with a good friend is priceless, and oft brings into being things that otherwise would never have known the light.

Passion

"You lack the fire."
~An old fencing master

Thus was the student's answer given in very few words, but it had a drastic result: the student then gave up fencing, thereby proving the fencing master's words.

----------------------

The other day it occurred to me how little I have been writing, but what is more, how little I even think about writing and the things thereof. It used to be that I would rise at five o'clock so as to have at least two good hours before everyone else woke, and I was always thinking about some new story idea, and always working on several projects at once, starting numerous stories, every now and again finishing one. Writing was my life, my passion.

But now...

Now I no longer want to write.

Now my passion for writing has been replaced by something else: fencing. All week I look forward to those days when I can fence, I practice every day and I can hardly think of anything else. It was hard at first—though I always enjoyed it—but now I have gotten to the point where I begin to have enough control that I can think about what is happening; I can do more than react to the person before me, and I have begun to gain confidence in myself. I even feel I might fence all day every day and not tire of it. In fact, my passion for fencing is such that I begin to wonder whether I ought not to forget my desire to be a writer...

As soon as such a thought enters my mind, however, I know it could never be. I write because I cannot not write. Even in these times when I feel as if I will never write anything of worth, I know that I cannot give it up, that I must keep trying.

After all, it has only been a little more than a month since I could hardly think of anything but the story I was finishing. Such a time will come again, I have no doubts. Yet I miss the days when I used to work on projects with others, as that always spurred me on and fueled my desire to write. Now I seek inspiration wherever I may, knowing that I must hope to find it nowhere but in myself.

Yet there is one thing that is essential, both in fencing and in writing. As my good friend and fellow writer put it: "Confidence is, like, tres important." And it is. No matter how I think others might judge my writing, no matter how many harsh criticisms and spurning rejections I get, I must have confidence in myself and my writing.

It is easy with things such as fencing where I can see my improvement and judge it against others, while I have a teacher to point out what I am doing wrong. However, in writing I must be the final judge. And I am a harsh judge.

I do at least have a couple of ideas that are growing in my mind and I may decide to combine them, which would make a really neat story...

I do not want it to be said that I lack the fire.

Inconsequentiality

There are some things that are considered socially acceptable—and even socially beneficial—that we never think to question, and yet if we bothered to take the time to ponder, would realize their ridiculousness. I daresay there are a great many of these, but the one I have in mind at the moment is wholly inconsequential, and therefore the more interesting.

That entity to which I refer is the habit of baring one's teeth accompanied by a simultaneous upward curve of the lips. This is more generally described as the action accompanying a snarl, and yet we accept it by another name and even prefer people who frequently engage in this activity.

Yes, I speak of the phenomenon generally referred to as smiling.

It is not an activity in which I much engage. Mostly I tend to regard the world with a thoughtful expression while I ponder deeper matters, but even I do on occasion participate in this action. The naturalness of this expression causes me to wonder about it, especially as it seems to be in direct contradiction to the rest of creation. Why is it that if other animals engage in this activity we instantly are wary of them and other animals feel threatened, but if we do, then we find friends gathered about us, eager to enjoy our company?

Greatness and Dead Limbs

For a work to be great, it cannot be merely the result of a moment's chance, but requires much skill and effort, the pouring out of one's very self into the making of it. This is especially true of a book, and in particular the novel where it is the writer's experience that makes the characters living and real and the writer's imagination that makes the story vivid and unique.

Yet to say that the writer must pour his very self into his work is by no means exaggeration or mere poeticism, but truth.

It is rather as if one were to grow an extra limb—an arm let us say for example's sake—and naturally to accomplish such a feat (leaving aside its practical if not its utter impossibility) one must exert all his strength and energy into it, as if it could be done by strength of will alone. At first it would be a mere protuberance, but gradually it would begin to take on a resemblance to the other arms. Thus, growing slowly, it would at last be complete. (That would be the point at which one's friends would begin to ask what it felt like to have three arms. Of course the response would disappoint them, for there would have been no abrupt transition from two to three, but rather a gradual growing accustomed to it until the usage of three arms was as natural as had been two.)

Then comes the time to remove the limb. It was not made to become part of the body and function as a third arm, but as a work of art. (My analogy begins to grow stranger.) Thus one would then remove the arm, leaving behind an open wound, though hidden to all the world.

Rather than merely letting the limb remain lying about to admire, one must decide to show it to his friends and acquaintances. (And, yes, here my analogy grows very strange indeed.) Without this step, one would never notice all the imperfections in it, from the misplaced wrinkle on a knuckle to a darkened fingernail to the malformed elbow.

Either then, or after a time of rest, it comes time to reattach the arm, and work out those imperfections, striving once again to make an arm as perfect as those two already at his sides, which grew there without any effort on his part. Sometimes he must begin all over again with only the idea in his mind of what worked and what did not. For the intent is not merely to make an arm of sorts, but to make such an arm that all would recognize it as an arm just like any other arm.

Again the finished arm must be removed. This time it is more difficult and leaves a larger wound behind, for the more perfect it is, the more greatly does it become attached. This might happen a number of times, but all is aimed toward the final goal of sharing it with the whole world that they might learn from it by examining it.

Thus is the analogy finished, at least insofar as is my regard for it. The truths of the matter might be better expressed in other ways, but only in ways less palpable.

It is this pouring out of one's soul into his work that is both a toll upon his strength and yet brings joy unmeasurable; it is both a hardship and a testing of one's strength and will, and also a fulfillment. Perhaps, too, it is why writers are known for their tendency toward insanity and suchlike.

Rejection

The other day—the day before yesterday to be precise— I was sent out (yes, it was a passive sort of sent-outedness, for the sending was not aimed directly at me necessarily) to get something, and, as I had seen the mail come, I decided to go out and get it. I do not know what made me decide this, as I rarely receive anything of interest, but it was at least a strange coincidence.

As soon as I saw the envelope on top with my name written on it as I had written it there hardly more than a week before, my immediate response was, "No, not already." Experience has told me that a hasty return means a rejection. (Not that my experience with a slow return has diverged significantly.)

I picked the envelope up. It was too thin to be more than a rejection. But I tore it open nonetheless.

It was, of course.

Then I returned to the house. My little sister saw me coming toward the door and asked if there were anything interesting. I hesitated but a fraction of a moment before I replied lightly: "No."

There was nothing interesting. Perhaps there are occasions when rejection slips are interesting, but this was not one of them. This was bloody annoying. I had not even had a chance to submit anything else yet and I find it better to always have at least one manuscript in a state of uncertainty. So much for that.

The Best Event of the Year

Three of us—my brother, a friend and I—started off along the railroad tracks, one pack to share amongst us. It was warm, warm enough to elicit the comment, "It's bloody hot out here." It may be difficult to believe that this happened in forty-nine degrees or so, but if you have prepared for rain and high winds because of a dangerous storm breaking upon the area, and you are walking swiftly, it forces you to realize how subjective is the feeling of warmth or cold.

We strode on in high spirits: nine miles to go, two hours until sunset.

This storm that was to break upon us had been likened to the Columbus Day Storm (considering the reaction this statement caused, it must have been a somewhat fearsome storm). Notwithstanding, we strode boldly on, watching for the slightest sign of falling tree or mudslide, except for when we were talking too intently to bother about these highly unlikely occurrences.

Then we saw a mudslide. The bottom of the hill washed out and only the top of the hill was left unsupported, which was rather frightening. Then the top of the hill was washed along too, carrying us along with it, but fortunately in the direction we wished to go, as the wind was coming from the opposite direction, south-ish.

We did get rather carried away.

On we went along the trail. It was not long before the sprinkle of raindrops that had eased the heat increased to a drizzle.

We stopped for a bit to eat bread and chocolate. We were damper when we started on, and beginning to be chilly. The whole outing was no longer the jolly lark it had been, but had taken on more serious significance.

For most of the way we followed the path, but for a time we had to continue along a rock-covered road, with a plow field stretching away to our left, and fields and trees surrounding us. "Unlike the hobbits, we have a warm fire and food to look forward to," I remarked. I confess I did not find the thought all that comforting at that point, but only imagined I would when darkness fell.

We returned to the path and went on mile after mile. We tried to guess how far we had gone and how far we had yet to go, but decided we knew only that we did not know either.

Sunset came and went without remark. The sun had been hidden behind clouds all day, so its setting behind the horizon scarcely caused much effect, except that the air began to grow cooler. It grew darker, but so gradually that it was of no consequence. The light gradually faded until the forest about us appeared in grey-scale with an almost greenish hue to it. All that still held any brightness were the piles of snow gleaming along the edges of the path.

On we went until we could see no more than a few paces before us. The path gleamed like a dark lake, and the forest grew dimmer.

It seemed we would go on and on forever. Our friend — whose idea the expedition had been—kept assuring us that it was not much farther. With each repetition, it grew less assuring until it caused my brother to state, "I no longer believe in the end of the trail."

Then he began to sing: "This is the trail that never ends..." We joined in: "...it goes on and on my friends; some people started walking it not knowing what it was and they'll continue walking it forever just because..."

We halted after only a few short verses. After all its place as the song that never ends had been usurped.

The fallen branches littered the path before us more thickly and the darkness grew more oppressive. It was decided to bring out a flashlight, though it seemed a pity to spoil the darkness which still glimmered with the last rays of light that lingered where they were trapped beneath the grey-clouded sky. With the flashlight, though, we were able to avoid tripping over the rest of the branches and the tree that lay across the path.

Then we saw two red headlights shining before us.

Even as we came to the end of our journey, footsore and weary, it was difficult to rejoice in that sight. I at least did not wish to end our journey so soon, nor leave behind the forest which seemed to hold so many forgotten secrets.

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"How many people would be tough enough?" we asked when we spoke of future hikes. "How many people would want to?"

As to how far we walked, I do not know precisely, but it was around ten miles. It only took us about three hours. I daresay with a whole day we might have been able to go at least twice that and enjoy a leisurely pace.

If this in any way appeals to you, I highly recommend it. If, however, you dismiss it as too tame or difficult or whatnot else, I suppose it may be too late for you. Before you begin, I do have a few bits of advice:

1. Do not, on any account, wear cotton socks with your hiking boots unless you enjoy the sensation of walking ten miles with a bloody blister.

2. Bring a flashlight, but do not use it unless necessary.

3. Bring an emergency kit, just in case, but the most important item would be the bandages.

4. Be prepared for slight discomforts so that you do not fail after the first mile or so.

5. Bring plenty of water.

6. Either plan a loop for your journey, or have someone agree to pick you up at the end. "There and back again" journeys are pleasurable only when the way back is not exactly the same as the way there.

7. Bring me with you, if it is at all feasible.

One In Three

Finally satisfied with a few stories, I thought the time had come to attempt publication, once again. This is not as easy as one might think, however.

I have this historical fiction short story that was rejected a while back, and I only found one magazine to submit it to, but when I went to do it, that magazine was closed to submissions until March or some other time equally far in the future. Searching was of no avail. If there is a market for that story, I have yet to find it.

Thus I turned to another story, one I wrote only recently. Though only one other person besides myself had read it, I felt fairly confident about it. Therefore, I decided to send it to a magazine I had submitted to before.

After going through all the necessary preliminary processes—verifying formatting, printing, checking it over, sticking it in an envelope, and then finding ninety-seven cents worth in stamps (with a 23 cent stamp and two old 37 cent stamps I actually managed to avoid paying extra without going to the post office) —I went out to mail it. Unfortunately, I was again foiled. The mail lady, thinking perhaps to be considerate by coming early, had thus rendered herself unintentionally inconsiderate. My manuscript would not go out for another day.

That was yesterday. It is gone now.

Gone. Utterly gone. No chance to change it now...

Based on previous experience and their estimated time, I should expect to receive a rejection within two to eight weeks, at which time I will post about it here. I would say wish me luck, but since I do not believe in luck, that would be rather foolish.