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.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Sunday, January 13, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, January 5, 2008
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.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
"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.
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.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
"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.
Thursday, January 3, 2008
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.
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.
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