The Manuscript

The other day I received at last my postcard returned with one word scrawled across the back—"Arrived"—and an initial. That one insignificant word spoke more than it contained, carrying with it one of the great joys of a writer: knowing that the precious manuscript has safely reached its intended destination, the hands of a publishing company.

This was no mere dashed-off work of a month as some novels ar

e, but the work of several years and several revisions. Begun with a dear writer friend of mine as a round story, it soon stalled. Enthralled by it, I continued the work on my own until it grew far beyond its paltry beginnings, although lacking still cohesive plot and substance. Years more I poured into it in ragged rhythm: a time of revisions and a time of critiques, a time of rest and a time of rewriting. Until at last the time came that it was ready to send off.

I sent it first to a small publisher—Twilight Times Books—with whom I had spoken through an online writers' conference. When I had the opportunity to pitch my manuscript the publisher, she asked me to submit the whole manuscript, and so I did, waiting for a response as I continued with other projects. At last—three months or so later—I received my rejection, for she had decided that it did not fit with her current line of books.

The work began all over again: first a further polishing, and then the work of researching publishers, and more polishing before at last I deemed it ready

to send off again. This time I decided I would aim high, sending it to one of the foremost publishers of fantasy. My decision meant also that I could not submit electronically as I had become accustomed to doing, but rather by mail, as did all writers of old.

There is such satisfaction in gazing upon a printed manuscript waiting to be sent off to the publisher, and in hefting its nearly eight-pound weight. It is the joy of accomplishment—of a work well done.

It means a great deal more to a writer's heart to send off such a weighty manuscript, understanding with a twinge that the pride and joy of his efforts is soon to face its test of worthiness. Only the writer who has poured so much time and so much of himself into his work can know the depth of meaning in that sending-off and the risk he takes—that leap of faith.

And yet I found that my heart was strangely unmoved. It rested solely in a peace that cared not whether the leap of faith had been in vain insofar as the world judges; it was enough to have done it, accomplishing thereby the duty of the moment.

There have been times when I was much discouraged by my lack of success in publishing and in the feedback I received from others, but now no longer. My worth as a writer stands unshaken—for it is built on the solid ground of my own hard work and perseverance, and a confidence in the skill given me. Let the tempests of the world blow as they will, the waves of discouragement wash against my rocky fastness, I will stand firm, letting my words shine like a beacon of light in this dark world, trusting that they will find their suited place and time where they will touch the hearts they are meant to touch.

St. Francis de Sales, patron of writers, pray for us!

Veritas Vos Liberabit

Of late I have begun to reflect more deeply upon where I am and the ways that have led me here, discerning my present and future path, and so it seems fitting to take up my writing here again after my long silence. I might write about all that happened within those two years and more, but my words about all those experiences would never satisfy me, and so perhaps it is better to speak of them only vaguely, as in poetry when few words conjure up deeper meanings and thoughts than can mere prose.

Those two years were so full—blessedly full.

The first autumn of those two years began with a journey to a foreign country, which some have called our fifty-first state: that land of Canucks and hockey and Tim Hortons and people who say "Eh?" and whose politeness stands in stark contrast to our own sometimes lack thereof. My destination was a remote town in the middle of Ontario, so small that it needed no stoplight, its greatest boast the lake on whose shore it lay, and yet not too small to have two Catholic Churches, one more modern and one more traditional, originally built by the Irish and the Polish respectively. Yet it was for none of these reasons that I came, but for a college scarcely eight years old, attracting students from as far away as England with her motto of Veritas Vos Liberabit: Our Lady Seat of Wisdom Academy, known to most affectionately as The Academy. It was good to find myself among like-minded people, making friends and winning a name for myself on account of my oddities and became the leader in many interesting escapades, the latter soon so common that one of the professors' comments upon seeing myself and my comrades said only: "I'm not even going to ask." There was work, too, of course, both chores and studies. These, however, I never allowed to impinge upon other things, always finding time for walks through the snow across the causeway to the island either by myself or with a friend, and reading some work of Chesterton when I needed a good laugh, and writing a novel during National Novel Writing Month, and playing pranks, and so many things.... So many epic memories remain entwined there. There was the time we were told to come to the Biblical Literature review class or be chiastic so I put a chiasm on myself and stood outside the window where the teacher could see me. And there was the time we dressed as savages, painting ourselves with charcoal, and captured a fellow student who we proceeded to threaten with roasting in our bonfire in savage language. And Easter spent at Madonna House. And the time we played ping-pong in Latin class. And the time I found my mattress in a tree, part of a prank war that escalated between me and another student, ending at last in a truce of friendship. And writing all of my notes in Tengwar. And the time I left a pickle jar by a door because of the sign that said "Please leave door a jar". And the pilgrimage on foot to the church in Wilno. And soccer games in the high school soccer fields. And the brawl on the docks of the lake in which all ended up in the lake in their clothes. And the April Fool's Day chiasm of pranks left for the teachers. I have so many stories I could go on and on, but I should only dull my audience and render myself more lonesome for the dear old Academy. Always, though, there was one bright thread around which everything else was woven: time spent before the altar in the church of St. Hedwig where the candles gleamed, gazing at the stained glass window of Christ's Agony in the Garden and below it a great painting of the Last Supper and below that the tabernacle. There, especially in Mass, I encountered daily the reality of the school's motto: Veritas Vos Liberabit.

One would think that as much as I had come to love the Academy, I would have returned the next year, but other adventures awaited. A friend and I had begun to talk about following in the footsteps of St. Francis, which resulted in our eventual decision to make a pilgrimage from my home in Oregon to St. Andrew's Cathedral in Victoria on Vancouver Island, my friend's native land. We walked about three hundred miles spread over two months, journeying from church to church, relying solely on God's providence. Looking back at it now, it is hard to see how we had so much faith—but it was like a child's faith, eagerly following in the paths of saints without knowing what he is doing. It was certainly a pilgrimage—a spiritual journey—as we began to learn what it means to have faith and to have others see that faith as far greater than it was. No few words could convey such an experience. Perhaps it was folly—but we had desired to be fools for Christ. No doubt heaven looked mercifully upon us for all that. We reached St. Andrew's Cathedral just before his feastday, and upon his feastday met a fellow pilgrim, who had journeyed back and forth across Canada many times, and only then did we feel that our pilgrimage was indeed complete, and that it had been blessed by God, even if more deeply than we could understand.

That pilgrimage had another result, too: the decline of my friend's health. This meant that we could not continue on pilgrimage again and so both returned to our homes, sharing Christmas with our families, not knowing whither we were to turn.

I fell back into my old writer's life, returning to work on a novel that was once more in need of revision, but always there was a feeling that this was only temporary while I waited for what came next. Yet little has yet presented itself clearly. I only continue my discernment, waiting upon the will of God. And in the meantime I ponder something I once read about vocation: how sometimes God speaks in the silence of one's heart.

In that silence I have begun to realize how much of a writer I am and to embrace once more the writer's life, writing no longer—as I once did—in hopes of changing the world, but only because I must write, not knowing what to do if I were not to write, weaving words together to express the ineffable. And so I take up my writing here again, sharing bits and pieces of that brilliant kaleidoscope that is life, hoping that even in the darkness all reflects the light of truth and the light of hope.

The Time Has Come...

I am not the walrus, but my repetition of his words is nonetheless true: the time has come to talk of many things (although how many of the things mentioned by the walrus has yet to be determined). For the time has come for catch-up. This is entirely distinct from what is known either as ketchup or as catsup and is not some weird amalgamation thereof.

Also, now that I have lost all of my original readers, and am reduced to a readership likely consisting solely of three—me, myself, and I—it seems only fitting that I should end in an entirely random fashion.

Boots.

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.