It seems that of late my only concern here has been the sorry state of my blog. It's much like the outskirts of Detroit, full of crumbling and dilapidated buildings and abandoned properties. It's true that all my energies have gone into my books, in a concerted effort to get as many out as I could for the holidays, when people might have time to read them. So I did, and I was right. My latest book is being picked up at lightning speed in comparison to the snail's pace of my earlier releases. They are still free as I continue to promote myself and my works. I try to worm myself into the affection of a readership.
Actually the response have been generally good. I'm getting lots of 5-stars, though an occasional 1-star crops up by an anonymous spoiler, who must be on a crusade to pull down ratings. The comments are positive and heartwarming for an author, and I certainly appreciate them. Though I'm fairly confident of my writer's voice, it is still very nice to have it affirmed by those who read my words. I thank them all.
There I go again - going on about my books when I wanted to talk about my blog, or "my garden of words" as I like to think of it. In reality it's a dumping ground for my thoughts I can find no place for in my books. For me personally, it is also a mirror to reflect how I feel at the moment of writing it. It's waypoint in my emotional roadmap, sometimes up, sometimes down. Hard to see how it would interest someone else. No wonder that I had no comments for quite a while. The harvest has been poor.
Still I imagine that silent visitors pass through in the quiet of night, often furtively, look about and wonder who the hell am I.
I'm just like you! Well, not entirely. I hide behind the crowd of characters I have spawned. They speak for me more eloquently than I ever could in real life. They have become my voice.
So there we are dear blog, you listen patiently, never rejecting, always accepting the words I spun.
Paul Telegdi still writing at www.seeWordFactory.com
Monday, December 31, 2012
Monday, December 24, 2012
The closet is full...
There are still too many characters in my closet and they want out. These are characters I have created with the sweat of my imagination, nurtured and pandered to, over a number of books that are still gathering dust on the back shelves. I can't blame them, I would want out too. Bravely or not so bravely, face the light of public opinion, take on the slings and arrows...
Hey--wait just one minute! It's the admiration and respect I'm fishing for. Had I not always said that I write only for those who like my books? Let the others find happiness elsewhere. So, I want to grow fat on praise, not ducking criticism and invectives. But how had I reached this point?
At first it was writing just for myself, to see if I could and had I the stamina to follow through. As this went on, more and more the writing displaced time from other activities, and attracted attention. I found people peering over my shoulder. "What're you writing?"
"Oh nothing. Just a few idle thoughts." But how many times can one get away with such a lame excuse? Eventually, there came a time for me to confess, "I'm a writer, I think." After three complete manuscripts, I had to allow that it was likely true: I was a writer.
Writing is addictive. Did anyone tell you that? At least my kind of writing is, giving free range to the imagination, crating my own little microcosm. Of course a part of me is in every character I created and I draw vicarious pleasure from their victories, suffer their setbacks and disappointments. Yes, writing can be a rush, the drug of my choice.
However, little by little, writing was not enough. The initial, quiet satisfaction grew into an ambition: having climbed one mountain, I found one even higher behind it. Now I wanted to become an AUTHOR.
Query letters followed, and I waited in the silence that ensued. It seemed like there were enough authors out there already and there was no room for more. I persisted a while, investing my frustration in yet another book. This blog followed, but my "garden of words" soon grew stale with neglect as my time was siphoned off by the writing, now out of control. I was a full fledged addict, I had to face that. Nothing gave me more pleasure than pounding out my characters on the keyboard. It was so easy and convenient. I didn't need a pusher to peddle me stuff to get high on, my mind was spinning off scenarios faster than my computer with its lightning speed could digest.
But, then the closet grew full, of tomes of complete manuscripts that still need to be massaged and polished into final form. I had a mountain of work to do. As every writer will tell you, it's not about writing, more about seemingly endless rewriting. with the first draft the creative instinct had been satisfied, the characters are fully drawn, the plot line nailed down tight, needing only to be tweaked. Now this was a beast of a different color. And as easy the first draft was, the subsequent reworks are the writer's burden. It seemed that the mountain sides were steeper that they first looked. Still one perseveres, sends another pigeon into the void, not to be seen again. I think I have been turned down by every available agent and publisher within arm's reach. Of course it was not my fault that they couldn't appreciate the genius of my work, some perversity of their character closed the doors to me.
Eventually, having grown tired of waiting for the world to discover me, I turned to self-publishing and got 10 books out of 18 online. Thank God for the option! But, with the ease of doing so, I found myself threading water in a big, big ocean, out of sight of land. Everybody it seemed had or has the same idea, and my offerings were swallowed in the swell of this tsunami of outpourings.
But the numbers for my books are climbing, not in any viral sense, but in a modest manner.
However, my original problems remain. My closet is full, and servicing them has become a chore. I'm itching to start something new, but I got to get a few more books out the door. So my creatures are clamoring, invading my dreams and waking me out of my sleep. What happened? I used to be a night person, but the earth has shifted on its axis, reversing polarity and now I get up around 5:00 am to make room for something new.
Then there is another thing that they never told you about when you started. Writing was only the rising dawn over the promised land, there was then the great quest to be published, and then... then the PROMOTING... But I'll write about that some other time, as this blog is already too long.
Dear Reader, I applaud your persistence for getting this far. But these words were not meant for you. This is a dumping ground for my thoughts that clutter up my mind. There I feel much better, thank you. Paul Telegdi, writing at www.seeWordFactory.com .
Hey--wait just one minute! It's the admiration and respect I'm fishing for. Had I not always said that I write only for those who like my books? Let the others find happiness elsewhere. So, I want to grow fat on praise, not ducking criticism and invectives. But how had I reached this point?
At first it was writing just for myself, to see if I could and had I the stamina to follow through. As this went on, more and more the writing displaced time from other activities, and attracted attention. I found people peering over my shoulder. "What're you writing?"
"Oh nothing. Just a few idle thoughts." But how many times can one get away with such a lame excuse? Eventually, there came a time for me to confess, "I'm a writer, I think." After three complete manuscripts, I had to allow that it was likely true: I was a writer.
Writing is addictive. Did anyone tell you that? At least my kind of writing is, giving free range to the imagination, crating my own little microcosm. Of course a part of me is in every character I created and I draw vicarious pleasure from their victories, suffer their setbacks and disappointments. Yes, writing can be a rush, the drug of my choice.
However, little by little, writing was not enough. The initial, quiet satisfaction grew into an ambition: having climbed one mountain, I found one even higher behind it. Now I wanted to become an AUTHOR.
Query letters followed, and I waited in the silence that ensued. It seemed like there were enough authors out there already and there was no room for more. I persisted a while, investing my frustration in yet another book. This blog followed, but my "garden of words" soon grew stale with neglect as my time was siphoned off by the writing, now out of control. I was a full fledged addict, I had to face that. Nothing gave me more pleasure than pounding out my characters on the keyboard. It was so easy and convenient. I didn't need a pusher to peddle me stuff to get high on, my mind was spinning off scenarios faster than my computer with its lightning speed could digest.
But, then the closet grew full, of tomes of complete manuscripts that still need to be massaged and polished into final form. I had a mountain of work to do. As every writer will tell you, it's not about writing, more about seemingly endless rewriting. with the first draft the creative instinct had been satisfied, the characters are fully drawn, the plot line nailed down tight, needing only to be tweaked. Now this was a beast of a different color. And as easy the first draft was, the subsequent reworks are the writer's burden. It seemed that the mountain sides were steeper that they first looked. Still one perseveres, sends another pigeon into the void, not to be seen again. I think I have been turned down by every available agent and publisher within arm's reach. Of course it was not my fault that they couldn't appreciate the genius of my work, some perversity of their character closed the doors to me.
Eventually, having grown tired of waiting for the world to discover me, I turned to self-publishing and got 10 books out of 18 online. Thank God for the option! But, with the ease of doing so, I found myself threading water in a big, big ocean, out of sight of land. Everybody it seemed had or has the same idea, and my offerings were swallowed in the swell of this tsunami of outpourings.
But the numbers for my books are climbing, not in any viral sense, but in a modest manner.
However, my original problems remain. My closet is full, and servicing them has become a chore. I'm itching to start something new, but I got to get a few more books out the door. So my creatures are clamoring, invading my dreams and waking me out of my sleep. What happened? I used to be a night person, but the earth has shifted on its axis, reversing polarity and now I get up around 5:00 am to make room for something new.
Then there is another thing that they never told you about when you started. Writing was only the rising dawn over the promised land, there was then the great quest to be published, and then... then the PROMOTING... But I'll write about that some other time, as this blog is already too long.
Dear Reader, I applaud your persistence for getting this far. But these words were not meant for you. This is a dumping ground for my thoughts that clutter up my mind. There I feel much better, thank you. Paul Telegdi, writing at www.seeWordFactory.com .
Sunday, September 30, 2012
Working the stable...
17 years ago while attending a book fair I was bitten by a mosquito that must have just come from biting an award winning author. A drop of inspiration was transferred, resulting in a gene splice, a process that's still ongoing today. Science has no cogent explanation for it. All I know for sure is that ever since I have been writing and to date have put together a collection of 18 books that I keep safely stabled at www.seeWordFactory.com .
My family, on the other hand, claims that I haven't enough friends so I create them and surround myself with a host of characters. True enough, my books vastly enrich my life.
I like nothing better, than to disappear in one of my adventures.
In a way, my writing process devolved from a role playing game, a chose your own adventure phenomena, where I create a scenario and see how my characters deal with it as they encounter chance events. In effect, they end up writing the books. Believe me, resolution is often as much of a surprise to me as to my readers. In fact I suspect I write just to find out how things turn out in the end.
A finished book, however, is a wonderfully rewarding experience. Wrapped and packaged, out the door it goes to face the often critical world, to swim or sink on its merits. An anxious time for me, certainly. Meanwhile, back at the corral, the unpublished books mill about, demanding to be groomed to a higher level of quality. Keeps me fully busy as I cast an covetous glance towards a strand of inspiration that floats by, tempting me in a new direction. But often I have to let a promising filament go, because the corral is already full.
My family, on the other hand, claims that I haven't enough friends so I create them and surround myself with a host of characters. True enough, my books vastly enrich my life.
I like nothing better, than to disappear in one of my adventures.
In a way, my writing process devolved from a role playing game, a chose your own adventure phenomena, where I create a scenario and see how my characters deal with it as they encounter chance events. In effect, they end up writing the books. Believe me, resolution is often as much of a surprise to me as to my readers. In fact I suspect I write just to find out how things turn out in the end.
A finished book, however, is a wonderfully rewarding experience. Wrapped and packaged, out the door it goes to face the often critical world, to swim or sink on its merits. An anxious time for me, certainly. Meanwhile, back at the corral, the unpublished books mill about, demanding to be groomed to a higher level of quality. Keeps me fully busy as I cast an covetous glance towards a strand of inspiration that floats by, tempting me in a new direction. But often I have to let a promising filament go, because the corral is already full.
Saturday, April 7, 2012
Partieee...!
We had a reunion... sort of.
It started with two too many glasses of a fine vintage and my mood became lugubrious. I was thinking wouldn’t it be nice to have a party right about now? But who would be available and willing at this late hour of the night?
You guessed it, just me and the bottle. We are, how shall I put it, infrequent companions. We say hello, click a glass, but rarely two. Tonight, we sort of drifted into this private moment after a long day of renovating my website (www.seeWordFactory.com).
Back to guests, however. I don’t know who thought of it first, me or the bottle, but I was telling stories about all the characters I have created, sweated over details, gave them each a persona. And the next thing you know there they were and we were having animated conversations. Before I knew it, there was music, dancing and another barrel being tapped for distribution. Marcus my Roman legionnaire was chatting up Amanda and Rufus was putting the move on Gitta (That’s not right... they promised eternal love to someone else...). Girard was ... well I better not tell you what he was doing...
The point is or was, the ones I thought were so entertaining, weren’t always, and the shy ones turned up to party, I mean really get it on. My heroes often weren’t so heroic, and to my surprise, the villains were well rounded, convivial guest who observed all the protocols. Yes Sir, my lofty, noble characters wanted to descend into chaos of the low side, and the curb side rose to meet them.
I had another glass, frankly I think by then it was straight out of the bottle (get rid of the middle man I say...) and I was thinking ... man alive, as I look around and see what I see, I would have written much different books.
I woke next morning, late, with a hangover, and a taste in my mouth that would have sank the Titanic if it had not been sunk already.
Later, as the pills mopped up some of the leftover detritus of the previous night, I thought, that how interesting it would be if I could write my own life, freely manipulate circumstances, conquer who or what I willed, rearrange my fortunes in some other way.
In the end I didn’t know how many actually turned up, but I caught a few glimpses of creatures that were part of some backstory who never even made it into one of the books. I also counted three bottles gone, one rolled way under the couch. And someone had pizza that smeared the finish of the cherry wood table...
It started with two too many glasses of a fine vintage and my mood became lugubrious. I was thinking wouldn’t it be nice to have a party right about now? But who would be available and willing at this late hour of the night?
You guessed it, just me and the bottle. We are, how shall I put it, infrequent companions. We say hello, click a glass, but rarely two. Tonight, we sort of drifted into this private moment after a long day of renovating my website (www.seeWordFactory.com).
Back to guests, however. I don’t know who thought of it first, me or the bottle, but I was telling stories about all the characters I have created, sweated over details, gave them each a persona. And the next thing you know there they were and we were having animated conversations. Before I knew it, there was music, dancing and another barrel being tapped for distribution. Marcus my Roman legionnaire was chatting up Amanda and Rufus was putting the move on Gitta (That’s not right... they promised eternal love to someone else...). Girard was ... well I better not tell you what he was doing...
The point is or was, the ones I thought were so entertaining, weren’t always, and the shy ones turned up to party, I mean really get it on. My heroes often weren’t so heroic, and to my surprise, the villains were well rounded, convivial guest who observed all the protocols. Yes Sir, my lofty, noble characters wanted to descend into chaos of the low side, and the curb side rose to meet them.
I had another glass, frankly I think by then it was straight out of the bottle (get rid of the middle man I say...) and I was thinking ... man alive, as I look around and see what I see, I would have written much different books.
I woke next morning, late, with a hangover, and a taste in my mouth that would have sank the Titanic if it had not been sunk already.
Later, as the pills mopped up some of the leftover detritus of the previous night, I thought, that how interesting it would be if I could write my own life, freely manipulate circumstances, conquer who or what I willed, rearrange my fortunes in some other way.
In the end I didn’t know how many actually turned up, but I caught a few glimpses of creatures that were part of some backstory who never even made it into one of the books. I also counted three bottles gone, one rolled way under the couch. And someone had pizza that smeared the finish of the cherry wood table...
Friday, February 17, 2012
The Downward Slide into Chaos
I had a bitch of a past week too, so I know about "moods."
First off a virus has been nibbling on the edges of my vocal cords, then to make things worse, much worse, a virus infected my computer. I fought it for five days, threw everything I had at it, downloaded stuff from the Internet but nothing quite worked. Four times I thought I had it licked, and four times it roared back. In a desperate race, I started to salvage critical files. Most I had in safekeeping already as I’m a real paranoid, and I have backup to my backup. Finally, a professional had to use 300% bleach to sanitize the machine and the thing is back, updated but with a new set of quirks I have to work around with. OK, that was one.
Two: In a spate of cold weather, my washer froze up, and trying to start, chewed through the gears. (I couldn’t remember how old it was, but I still expected it to outlast me.) A new one cost me $700. Just a basic machine, without the fancy colors and lights. I saw ones that looked like they were built by NASA and could be launched into outer space, fitted with life support, and survive reentry. They had dials, switches, push button controls, an entire console of flashing lights and zillions of programs, including single item wash cycle.
Three: On the other end of the spectrum, my son’s fridge went into a meltdown that thawed the freezer and things started going soft and soggy. That cost me another 700. Again I resisted the temptation to buy the delux versions, with French doors, ceramic colors, bottom drawer freezer compartment, and external receptacles that provided cold everything, like a vending machine. You heard me right, it could milk a cow.
Four: My other son needed a new laptop. Kiss another 700 dollars goodbye.
Five: Then the dentist called. The insurance was maxed out, and it appears I owed another 700. (Why is everything costing me 700?) This was for my middle son, luckily I have no more sons with outstanding claims on me.
Then my driveway froze. Parts of it turned into a solid sheet of ice. The ice shelf in the Arctic might be melting, but not my driveway. It had turned into a 350 yard obstacle course for the extreme sportlers.
I occurred to me that I was beset by things freezing and melting, but always in the wrong order. So I’m walking around the house, wondering what next. Savings been devastated, just when the deadline for annual contribution to a retirement fund is fast approaching. Again I’m on thin ice.
How much or how little? Come give me a figure.
So there it is. When I buy something I always turn down the extended warranty. The way I figure with the cumulative savings from all the plans, I could easily afford to replace a major item per year, but not three at one. Hence my mood swing.
One good thing, I got so hot and bothered over these happenings, that it burned out the flu that was working on me.
First off a virus has been nibbling on the edges of my vocal cords, then to make things worse, much worse, a virus infected my computer. I fought it for five days, threw everything I had at it, downloaded stuff from the Internet but nothing quite worked. Four times I thought I had it licked, and four times it roared back. In a desperate race, I started to salvage critical files. Most I had in safekeeping already as I’m a real paranoid, and I have backup to my backup. Finally, a professional had to use 300% bleach to sanitize the machine and the thing is back, updated but with a new set of quirks I have to work around with. OK, that was one.
Two: In a spate of cold weather, my washer froze up, and trying to start, chewed through the gears. (I couldn’t remember how old it was, but I still expected it to outlast me.) A new one cost me $700. Just a basic machine, without the fancy colors and lights. I saw ones that looked like they were built by NASA and could be launched into outer space, fitted with life support, and survive reentry. They had dials, switches, push button controls, an entire console of flashing lights and zillions of programs, including single item wash cycle.
Three: On the other end of the spectrum, my son’s fridge went into a meltdown that thawed the freezer and things started going soft and soggy. That cost me another 700. Again I resisted the temptation to buy the delux versions, with French doors, ceramic colors, bottom drawer freezer compartment, and external receptacles that provided cold everything, like a vending machine. You heard me right, it could milk a cow.
Four: My other son needed a new laptop. Kiss another 700 dollars goodbye.
Five: Then the dentist called. The insurance was maxed out, and it appears I owed another 700. (Why is everything costing me 700?) This was for my middle son, luckily I have no more sons with outstanding claims on me.
Then my driveway froze. Parts of it turned into a solid sheet of ice. The ice shelf in the Arctic might be melting, but not my driveway. It had turned into a 350 yard obstacle course for the extreme sportlers.
I occurred to me that I was beset by things freezing and melting, but always in the wrong order. So I’m walking around the house, wondering what next. Savings been devastated, just when the deadline for annual contribution to a retirement fund is fast approaching. Again I’m on thin ice.
How much or how little? Come give me a figure.
So there it is. When I buy something I always turn down the extended warranty. The way I figure with the cumulative savings from all the plans, I could easily afford to replace a major item per year, but not three at one. Hence my mood swing.
One good thing, I got so hot and bothered over these happenings, that it burned out the flu that was working on me.
Friday, July 1, 2011
Or...?
I been so busy with working on my novels that I have been thinking of closing up shop here. I haven’t the time and what little I have I have to husband carefully. I have reached an age that forces me to maximize resources. My last entry was in February for God’s sake and garnered zero comments. So no one will miss me. Well, maybe a few furtive souls who happen on my blog by accident, then shy away as they note the inactivity.
I have not even installed a counter, because I didn’t want to know how many didn’t visit me. But then I started the site largely for myself, didn’t promote it or invested time in calling attention to it. I use it as a dumping ground for random thoughts, produced by the backwash of some intense effort I needed a break from. Even in the midst of a writing jag, part way through some novel, pressure builds for extraneous thoughts to accumulate at the periphery that have to be bled off. This blog is a repository of such. And then there are times between projects, that the lull produces a desire and need to write, then again this is a good place to unload.
I’m lucky for writing comes easy to me. Once my main character is established, he and I set off on a journey together, neither quite knowing where we’ll end up. Sometimes there are negotiations, diplomacy, and other times, when it is plain, brute force. At the very least a tug-of-war, where he and I fight for control. Yet, I must give my heroes credit for their contribution to all my works, and that’s why I went public, to get recognition for their own selves not just to harvest glory for my self as the author.
There is, or must be, a machine in my head that spin out tale after tale, and it is always a surprise what I find and end up with. I have 15 books, or 16, and there would be many more if I didn’t have to constantly interrupt the flow to polish something that I had written into a publishable form for outside consumption. I’m interested in the mainline plot, not about grammar and punctuation. It’s the progression of ideas and events that I find fascinating. When I write I gallop, not looking back until I have reached the end, then revisit and fix the fallen pieces or round out the fragments. But its the speed of the first run-through that’s exciting, when things get nailed down. The second pass is intriguing to fine tune and balance things out. But from then on, the anal fixation of editing and rewriting quickly becomes a chore.
Oops. Straying off topic again. I started with trying to decide whether to shut down... or...?
I have not even installed a counter, because I didn’t want to know how many didn’t visit me. But then I started the site largely for myself, didn’t promote it or invested time in calling attention to it. I use it as a dumping ground for random thoughts, produced by the backwash of some intense effort I needed a break from. Even in the midst of a writing jag, part way through some novel, pressure builds for extraneous thoughts to accumulate at the periphery that have to be bled off. This blog is a repository of such. And then there are times between projects, that the lull produces a desire and need to write, then again this is a good place to unload.
I’m lucky for writing comes easy to me. Once my main character is established, he and I set off on a journey together, neither quite knowing where we’ll end up. Sometimes there are negotiations, diplomacy, and other times, when it is plain, brute force. At the very least a tug-of-war, where he and I fight for control. Yet, I must give my heroes credit for their contribution to all my works, and that’s why I went public, to get recognition for their own selves not just to harvest glory for my self as the author.
There is, or must be, a machine in my head that spin out tale after tale, and it is always a surprise what I find and end up with. I have 15 books, or 16, and there would be many more if I didn’t have to constantly interrupt the flow to polish something that I had written into a publishable form for outside consumption. I’m interested in the mainline plot, not about grammar and punctuation. It’s the progression of ideas and events that I find fascinating. When I write I gallop, not looking back until I have reached the end, then revisit and fix the fallen pieces or round out the fragments. But its the speed of the first run-through that’s exciting, when things get nailed down. The second pass is intriguing to fine tune and balance things out. But from then on, the anal fixation of editing and rewriting quickly becomes a chore.
Oops. Straying off topic again. I started with trying to decide whether to shut down... or...?
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Writing without borders...
It’s been long enough. Nothing added since before New Years. If I were a farmer, I could say I’m letting the ground lay fallow to replenish itself. How would that work exactly? If words were left alone, would they spontaneously self replicate? Congeal into ideas, become a self-aware message? No of course not! How bizarre. Words don’t have DNA or RNA, they’re immune to evolutionary selection pressures. Well not quite. Go, rustle up some words, gather them into a book, and send it off to an agent or a publisher. You will run into selection quick enough, called market pressures. The literary highway is strewn with discarded and disowned works. (Thank goodness, for there are many poor, substandard works out there; you wonder how they ever made it… especially as your own hasn’t, yet.)
So, I’ve been busy, buzzy, bizzi. Believe it or not, I finished two novels since the last time. Some things called Where Arrows Fly and Chance Encounters. Well, not exactly finished, got through 1st and 2nd drafts. That’s when the creative impetus dies and work has to take over. Have to finish for finishing’s sake. The stories are good, it was fun working them to see where they would take me. As always I never quite know where I’ll end up, I let the story decide. What I insist on is a plausible, logical unfolding.
So now I’m looking for the next project. I’ve been thinking of a book, just the general parameters. But I’m looking at it as a product rather than a process. Would it not be something if we would have to label each work with constituent ingredients, like on the grocery shelves. Just think of it, you could flip the book to the back and read off cholesterol, carbohydrates, fats and fiber content. Let’s see if we can break it down.
First of all calories: how rich and plush is the story line in total? This is important, for this is what really puts on the extra pounds. Then of course, fat content, how much grease is there between the lines to make it a smooth reading? And then, how much of that is trans fats, overblown imagery, unpalatable writing fetishes that get out of control. Cholesterol: literary elements that plug up the progression of the plot, distracted sideways looks that contribute little to the forward progress. Sodium, intended to enhance the taste, but if overused, can actually ruin it. Potassium, I don’t even know what that means; is it good or bad for you and why? Carbohydrates: is the story too saccharine? You have seen it, too full of self-adulation, prettied up, too ornamented, overcompensating for hidden flaws. Proteins; a strong story line, the meat and bones of the thing, the engine that drives the bus to take the reader to the next level. We must not forget fiber; character development, be consistent, let them be true to themselves, it’s the thing that allows readers to digest the work safely.
So there you have it, the general outline of what I’m thinking. You could of course add the trace elements: vitamins, iron, zinc… the little things that round out the book, take the edges off sudden turns and twist, things that by themselves aren’t much but act as catalysts in combination with the more substantial fundamentals.
And given today’s health conscious climate we can’t ignore the negatives that detract: the germs and viruses, and lists of pathogens. Spelling issues are germ-like, they infest any work and lower its literary value. Viruses likewise infest, gobble up respect and weaken the entire being. Issues of grammar, incorrect punctuation fall into this class (if you see one, there are bound to be others around, so watch out) Opportunistic pathogens wreak havoc with readers’ enjoyment. These are things that lower the health of the whole book. They take over. Have you not read a book that’s so supercharged that nothing stands out of the unremitting excess. How many movies spring to mind, mindless action, one crisis after another. How about too much sex to destroy any romance? Too much glitz, evidence of poor inner life. And so on…the immune system soon overwhelmed.
The previous leads to the next consideration, medication? Change of life style? But let that be a subject unto itself on a future blog.
So, I’ve been busy, buzzy, bizzi. Believe it or not, I finished two novels since the last time. Some things called Where Arrows Fly and Chance Encounters. Well, not exactly finished, got through 1st and 2nd drafts. That’s when the creative impetus dies and work has to take over. Have to finish for finishing’s sake. The stories are good, it was fun working them to see where they would take me. As always I never quite know where I’ll end up, I let the story decide. What I insist on is a plausible, logical unfolding.
So now I’m looking for the next project. I’ve been thinking of a book, just the general parameters. But I’m looking at it as a product rather than a process. Would it not be something if we would have to label each work with constituent ingredients, like on the grocery shelves. Just think of it, you could flip the book to the back and read off cholesterol, carbohydrates, fats and fiber content. Let’s see if we can break it down.
First of all calories: how rich and plush is the story line in total? This is important, for this is what really puts on the extra pounds. Then of course, fat content, how much grease is there between the lines to make it a smooth reading? And then, how much of that is trans fats, overblown imagery, unpalatable writing fetishes that get out of control. Cholesterol: literary elements that plug up the progression of the plot, distracted sideways looks that contribute little to the forward progress. Sodium, intended to enhance the taste, but if overused, can actually ruin it. Potassium, I don’t even know what that means; is it good or bad for you and why? Carbohydrates: is the story too saccharine? You have seen it, too full of self-adulation, prettied up, too ornamented, overcompensating for hidden flaws. Proteins; a strong story line, the meat and bones of the thing, the engine that drives the bus to take the reader to the next level. We must not forget fiber; character development, be consistent, let them be true to themselves, it’s the thing that allows readers to digest the work safely.
So there you have it, the general outline of what I’m thinking. You could of course add the trace elements: vitamins, iron, zinc… the little things that round out the book, take the edges off sudden turns and twist, things that by themselves aren’t much but act as catalysts in combination with the more substantial fundamentals.
And given today’s health conscious climate we can’t ignore the negatives that detract: the germs and viruses, and lists of pathogens. Spelling issues are germ-like, they infest any work and lower its literary value. Viruses likewise infest, gobble up respect and weaken the entire being. Issues of grammar, incorrect punctuation fall into this class (if you see one, there are bound to be others around, so watch out) Opportunistic pathogens wreak havoc with readers’ enjoyment. These are things that lower the health of the whole book. They take over. Have you not read a book that’s so supercharged that nothing stands out of the unremitting excess. How many movies spring to mind, mindless action, one crisis after another. How about too much sex to destroy any romance? Too much glitz, evidence of poor inner life. And so on…the immune system soon overwhelmed.
The previous leads to the next consideration, medication? Change of life style? But let that be a subject unto itself on a future blog.
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