Showing 3 posts from March 2009
My NaNoWriMo novel is almost as complete as I can make it. I've already sent early PDF copies to close friends asking what they think. I've not heard back from any of them in several weeks. This means one of two things:
* They're real people with real lives that don't leave them a lot of time for casual reading, or
* My book sucks.
Just as well. Actual criticism can be rather misleading. To show what I mean, here's what some people have said about my work, and what I learned often later than I should have was its proper interpretation:
What they said What they meant
"I liked it!" "It sucks."
"I liked it! It's really good!" "It sucks, but I don't want to hurt your feelings."
"I liked it! It's really good! "It sucks so bad I had to keep reading it to see
I couldn't put it down!" if it ever stopped sucking. Nope."
"You are such a good writer!" "I can't believe YOU wrote this sucking mess!"
"You should get this published!" "So other people can tell you how much it sucks!"
"The characters are so real! "Publish this suckage and I'll be one of several
I think I recognize some of them!" people who'll sue your ass!"
"It has a great plot and interesting, "When you wrote this suckfest, were you smoking
original characters!" a crack pipe or just a bong?"
"I think it should be a movie!" "It could only suck more as a porno flick!"
"This is a brilliant work. Its "Just like everyone else, I think this book sucks
exposition is flawless, it has an like a Hoover; but I took a couple college-level
unexpected and explosive climax, English courses so I'm going to snow you like
and its denouement is sheer genius." Buffalo in January for cheap, sadistic laughs."
It's fun being a writer. Trust me. :-)
My favorite muse is having a drink or two tonight. I don't want to talk out of school, but she's been dealing with multiple fronts of stress and needs to break it. I asked her to have one for my wife and me, stuck in counseling tonight for the stepson's problems already touched upon in earlier entries on this blog. I told her (jokingly) I don't drink at all but this situation had me almost ready to start.
"Deal," she said.
One reason this lady is my favorite muse is she almost effortlessly gets inside my head with whatever she does or says, so naturally I've been thinking about drinking. Here's what I'm thinking: how come no one ever asks me why I don't drink?
It didn't used to be that way. In my late teens to mid twenties, everyone asked me why I didn't drink--and then tried to talk me into starting. To the point I lost a lot of "friends." No crisis, they weren't friends anyway; friends respect your right to be who you are. Maybe that's the reason. Maybe the friends I have now just accept that I don't drink and move on. Maybe it's just maturity.
But it is a good story. There's a lot of things that play into it. This scene from the Clint Eastwood movie Hang 'em High is exactly my granddad's thoughts, my father's father's thoughts:
You're now looking, for the last time, at the mortal body of Francis Elroy Duffy, born to John and Edna Duffy, good, God-fearing folk. Who raised me up to be a good man and a good Christian, and I was a good Christian, a good husband to my beloved wife, good father to my children, who I leave behind, hoping that they, and all you, will learn this here lesson which I leave you with. When you take the devil into your mouth, you're doomed! For he is lying there in wait for you inside that bottle of whiskey. Waiting for you to take him into your mouth. Waiting to get down into your guts where he can do his devil's work. Liquor is the most foul, evil thing in this here world. It destroyed good men like myself. It'll destroy you too. Beer is not much better - it's slower, cheaper. So take these words of advice. And remember, you heard them from a poor sinner, got no more cause to lie, 'cause he's going to meet his Maker. Now he's ready. Well that's all I've got to say.
Granddad thought exactly that--that drinking alcohol was taking the devil into your mouth.
I don't think that. I know plenty of people who drink responsibly. I also have known, especially when I was young, people who would not have any kind of social conversation with you unless it was with alcohol around. I have a very sad, sickening memory of a party in college. One of the staffers at the radio station where I worked held it. I went, thinking it would be a great time; I knew all these people and they knew me and I could just be myself. But it wasn't to be. The keg was late. No one would talk to each other beyond a couple of terse sentences followed by "Where's the keg? Where's the keg? Where's the $#!@#@& keg?"
And then the $#!@#@& keg finally arrived--and everyone ran to it with empty cups as if they'd just arrived after forty days in the desert fighting the Persian Gulf War (though this was 1983, well before that). The keg wasn't just a big beer container. The keg was their God. Their idol to be worshiped and a blasphemy to deny it. Suddenly, Granddad's viewpoint seemed reasonable. I got the hell out of there. I'm not ashamed to admit I cried once out of everyone's sight. It was horrible to see that. You think you know people and you don't, it hurts!
I'm considerably older now and know I wasn't witnessing sacrilege so much as a mass relieving of perceived stress (NOTHING in college is as stressful as the real world, friend). I even tried to drink a little bit. I'll toast at a wedding with champagne; one New Year's Eve I spent with a couple who broke out the bubbly at midnight and we each had two glasses. It had no effect on me at all. So why do I still not drink? Two reasons.
"Deal," she said.
One reason this lady is my favorite muse is she almost effortlessly gets inside my head with whatever she does or says, so naturally I've been thinking about drinking. Here's what I'm thinking: how come no one ever asks me why I don't drink?
It didn't used to be that way. In my late teens to mid twenties, everyone asked me why I didn't drink--and then tried to talk me into starting. To the point I lost a lot of "friends." No crisis, they weren't friends anyway; friends respect your right to be who you are. Maybe that's the reason. Maybe the friends I have now just accept that I don't drink and move on. Maybe it's just maturity.
But it is a good story. There's a lot of things that play into it. This scene from the Clint Eastwood movie Hang 'em High is exactly my granddad's thoughts, my father's father's thoughts:
You're now looking, for the last time, at the mortal body of Francis Elroy Duffy, born to John and Edna Duffy, good, God-fearing folk. Who raised me up to be a good man and a good Christian, and I was a good Christian, a good husband to my beloved wife, good father to my children, who I leave behind, hoping that they, and all you, will learn this here lesson which I leave you with. When you take the devil into your mouth, you're doomed! For he is lying there in wait for you inside that bottle of whiskey. Waiting for you to take him into your mouth. Waiting to get down into your guts where he can do his devil's work. Liquor is the most foul, evil thing in this here world. It destroyed good men like myself. It'll destroy you too. Beer is not much better - it's slower, cheaper. So take these words of advice. And remember, you heard them from a poor sinner, got no more cause to lie, 'cause he's going to meet his Maker. Now he's ready. Well that's all I've got to say.
Granddad thought exactly that--that drinking alcohol was taking the devil into your mouth.
I don't think that. I know plenty of people who drink responsibly. I also have known, especially when I was young, people who would not have any kind of social conversation with you unless it was with alcohol around. I have a very sad, sickening memory of a party in college. One of the staffers at the radio station where I worked held it. I went, thinking it would be a great time; I knew all these people and they knew me and I could just be myself. But it wasn't to be. The keg was late. No one would talk to each other beyond a couple of terse sentences followed by "Where's the keg? Where's the keg? Where's the $#!@#@& keg?"
And then the $#!@#@& keg finally arrived--and everyone ran to it with empty cups as if they'd just arrived after forty days in the desert fighting the Persian Gulf War (though this was 1983, well before that). The keg wasn't just a big beer container. The keg was their God. Their idol to be worshiped and a blasphemy to deny it. Suddenly, Granddad's viewpoint seemed reasonable. I got the hell out of there. I'm not ashamed to admit I cried once out of everyone's sight. It was horrible to see that. You think you know people and you don't, it hurts!
I'm considerably older now and know I wasn't witnessing sacrilege so much as a mass relieving of perceived stress (NOTHING in college is as stressful as the real world, friend). I even tried to drink a little bit. I'll toast at a wedding with champagne; one New Year's Eve I spent with a couple who broke out the bubbly at midnight and we each had two glasses. It had no effect on me at all. So why do I still not drink? Two reasons.
I'm the youngest of four sons. My late teenage years, my dad apparently had what they now call a "mid-life crisis." He dealt with it by drinking a lot of beer. It didn't make him happy. To be blunt, it made him impossible to be around. He wouldn't eat dinner after Mom made it and he constantly accused me of "not caring." As in "Whatcha doin', Dad?" "I'm opening these crawl space vents around the house so it won't mildew down there, but you don't care, you're too busy with your friends at school. Go play with your toys."
We'd covered heredity in health class enough that I saw if, intoxicated, my father was an insufferable ass, most likely intoxicated I would be an insufferable ass. I learned later that what my father was displaying was signs of alcoholism. I don't think he is one, though. He still drinks beer, just not nearly as often, and even after having a heart attack in 2006 he's in far better humor than those days. I've never brought those days up to see what was going on because that's not how my parents tick. They're not into navel-gazing; they prefer to deal and move on. I think it's a Great Depression thing. Not a lot of Great Depression survivors are introspective; ever noticed that?
Reason number two is knowing my own mental makeup. Remember the movie Tootsie? Bill Murray's in it. He's an unsuccessful playwright. Very early in the movie, his character is drunk. That's me if I ever let myself get that way: quiet, sullen and so sickeningly full of himself he's impossible to be around. I know, "how do you know that if you've never been drunk before?" Trust me, I know. There's stuff in my head I don't want anyone getting hold of.
Again: As long as they're not doing it just to get stupid sloppy drunk, I have no problem with drinking in general. My wife likes a margarita now and then (what is it with women and margaritas?). Fine, I tell her; I'll drive.
I think I've figured out why no one ever asks me why I don't drink: Because they know they'll get a long-winded answer like this. Hope I didn't put you to sleep. :-)
Greetings to the two or three of you who read this on a regular basis. All is well, or at least better than it was before:
* Stepson, while still having his moments, seems to be straightening out. His biological father is here for a couple of weeks for his birthday. Yes, he stays with us. I tell people that and they look at me rather strangely, but I just smile and say "If you ever met him, you'd understand." And you would.
* Stepdaughter's wedding ceremony is May 9th in beautiful Pittsburg, Kansas. My oldest brother's family may come crash the party--he apparently told my stepdaughter they'd be there, but he hasn't told me that yet. I've asked him and am waiting patiently for a response. Tonight, we stopped at WalMart to pick out the Hawaiian shirts we'll wear for this thing. I'm serious. It has a Hawaiian theme. They're honeymooning in Hawaii--don't ask me how, but they've saved enough money to go out there for a week.
* My buddy in Charlotte is still getting married, though they've mutually agreed to move the date to October rather than June. All things considered, this is wise. I sense they're both coming out of the clouds a bit and realizing exactly what a commitment of this kind really means. Good. Speaking from the experience of two and a half years of Stepfather Boot Camp prior to marrying my own fine bride, it's good to know what one is getting into when one marries someone. Nothing's worse than marrying a rude surprise.
* We're coming up on the one-year anniversary of when DiDi had to be put to sleep--the "blind dog" this blog is technically in memory of, though I haven't written much about her lately. That could be an interesting series of posts, because some seriously funky stuff went through my head when we had that done. It feels queasy to sign the death warrant for a close friend, even if that friend is of a different species. If I'm up to it and things aren't too crazy here I'll give it as sensitive a treatment as I can.
* My book The Rain Song creeps to completion. Some things in it still need research, but to the best of my knowledge the plot holes have been filled and inconsistencies corrected. I have until the end of May to get my free NaNoWriMo proof copy of it, so there's time to make sure it's all right. Right now I'm trying to figure out who to have test-read it to get opinions and see if anyone's kind enough to tell me where it really sucks. :-) A few friends have early versions and I've yet to hear from any of them, which means either a) they have lives and no time for casual reading or b) it really, REALLY sucks. :-)
* Finally, if I can get a picture of it I'll happily post it, but someone on the street behind me had a '64 Rambler parked in front of his house. Big deal? Yes, it is--how many '64 Ramblers do you see these days with apparently authentic, in brand-new condition Goldwater-Morton bumper stickers?!? People, that rocked my world.
* Stepson, while still having his moments, seems to be straightening out. His biological father is here for a couple of weeks for his birthday. Yes, he stays with us. I tell people that and they look at me rather strangely, but I just smile and say "If you ever met him, you'd understand." And you would.
* Stepdaughter's wedding ceremony is May 9th in beautiful Pittsburg, Kansas. My oldest brother's family may come crash the party--he apparently told my stepdaughter they'd be there, but he hasn't told me that yet. I've asked him and am waiting patiently for a response. Tonight, we stopped at WalMart to pick out the Hawaiian shirts we'll wear for this thing. I'm serious. It has a Hawaiian theme. They're honeymooning in Hawaii--don't ask me how, but they've saved enough money to go out there for a week.
* My buddy in Charlotte is still getting married, though they've mutually agreed to move the date to October rather than June. All things considered, this is wise. I sense they're both coming out of the clouds a bit and realizing exactly what a commitment of this kind really means. Good. Speaking from the experience of two and a half years of Stepfather Boot Camp prior to marrying my own fine bride, it's good to know what one is getting into when one marries someone. Nothing's worse than marrying a rude surprise.
* We're coming up on the one-year anniversary of when DiDi had to be put to sleep--the "blind dog" this blog is technically in memory of, though I haven't written much about her lately. That could be an interesting series of posts, because some seriously funky stuff went through my head when we had that done. It feels queasy to sign the death warrant for a close friend, even if that friend is of a different species. If I'm up to it and things aren't too crazy here I'll give it as sensitive a treatment as I can.
* My book The Rain Song creeps to completion. Some things in it still need research, but to the best of my knowledge the plot holes have been filled and inconsistencies corrected. I have until the end of May to get my free NaNoWriMo proof copy of it, so there's time to make sure it's all right. Right now I'm trying to figure out who to have test-read it to get opinions and see if anyone's kind enough to tell me where it really sucks. :-) A few friends have early versions and I've yet to hear from any of them, which means either a) they have lives and no time for casual reading or b) it really, REALLY sucks. :-)
* Finally, if I can get a picture of it I'll happily post it, but someone on the street behind me had a '64 Rambler parked in front of his house. Big deal? Yes, it is--how many '64 Ramblers do you see these days with apparently authentic, in brand-new condition Goldwater-Morton bumper stickers?!? People, that rocked my world.
