Friday, October 29, 2010

I need a shovel...

Organize. That is the word of the day, the word of a successful person. I look for bits of manuscripts and maybe I find them, most often not. I enjoy the thought of being organized and I do make lists and I have plans, damn it! And... yeah, where exactly, and on what scrap of paper, did the outline for my great plan for the home and garden book go?

And the idea for the photo book on Maine architecture...?

I'm certain in the pile... over there... in one of those notebooks... there's... something important... that I can't remember, but I need...

I am a human planetoid with bits of unformed matter spinning around me.

I need to organize in order to coalesce.

Thursday, October 28, 2010

2 AM Philosophy

So when you wake at 2 AM after your girlfriend gives you a sleep kiss on your forehead, what do you do? When she promptly slides back into full sleep after mumbling something about her backside "flapping in the wind"?

So what to do? Because I am awake at 2 AM and that just happened; a soft kiss that woke me.

I, in bed awake smiling, consider happenings, consider the moment, consider occurrence.

How many events that happen to us, actually occur to us? Occur in the sense of understanding beyond surface awareness of mere facts? How often do we consider the implications of our daily lives and more, does that matter, the analyzing process? Perhaps we change despite clear understanding and perhaps the change is easier.

Or we stagnate.

It becomes a question of living, engaged in life, being. The alternative is to allow life to happen, without introspection or investment. Or maybe 2 AM isn't the time to be philosophical about anything more than the shape and feel of a beautiful woman's backside.

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

Nighttime at Home

"Do you ever feel fratchety?"

It is my default, my everyday. I am only a desire and lack of will away from a fatal cut delivered by the edge, so close.

"Fratchety? Why yes, dear, I do."

The Master List


Crime Fiction
Literary Fiction

Science Fiction Suspense/Thrillers

Non Fiction

Biography & Autobiography
Body Mind Spirit
Business & Economics Crafts & Hobbies
Current Events
Family & Relationships
Folklore & Mythology
Food and Wine
Foreign Language Study
Health & Fitness
House & Home
Juvenile Nonfiction
Language Arts
Literary Criticism
Performing Arts
Political Science
Psychology &
Social Science
Sports & Recreation
Study Aids
True Crime

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

King's Archaeology

Everything matters when writing, and most of what matters happens beyond the words that find their way to final draft. To write, you have to observe and then synthesize, then store, and then discover; because writing is discovery.

Stephen King equated writing with archaeology, where the process is to reveal what is hidden. The story, novel, article, the final draft, must be coaxed from the ground. Of course King, (in his excellent book, On Writing) did not necessarily say that to be buried, a thing had to have had a life before, or that buried things tend to change when under ground. We, the writing archaeologists that we must be, have to interpret what we find, put context to how things lay in relation to each other, make sense to what we may only dimly understand.

Things observed that I must bury so that I can discover them later:

-The social media phenomenon has changed marital fights into global spectator sporting events. No more need to live in a trailer park to get a front row seat. Just read Facebook and you too can share in the squabble and, best yet, at your leisure you can fan the flames by adding helpful comments. My family is wonderful. How about yours?

-The joy of laying on the couch after cooking a meal for a woman who just might become your wife, nestled beside her and content in a way never imagined.

-Cable installers are nearly as lazy as I am.

-Fog inching across the lake, a land cloud in the bright sunshine of a Maine fall day.

-A white haired doctor of psychology riding his scooter, dressed like a bad ass biker as imagine by a whte haired doctor of psychology.

Do I discover these things; in part, or whole? Will they matter tomororrow or next year or never at all?

Still fifty books to go. My quest continues.

Monday, October 25, 2010

Messy Room Syndrome

Beginnings are often bad. Beginnings kill motivation, wreck projects, cause hard feelings, set the tone for disappointments later. I hate beginnings. There is too much uncertainty, too many possibilties leading to places I might not want to find; those real places buried in my head, and all the real places in the wide world that are cruel. I like simple, like it very much, but then, growth is natural and we all must sometimes go beyond our walls at some point, confront the cruel, meet the dark parts inside.

We must begin.

In a messy room, the question becomes, "Which sock do I pick up first? Or should I dump the clothes on the floor, make the bed, dust the curtains, take the beer bottles to the recycling bin?" The possible permutations on how to attack a mess can result, usually does result, in a job half done or not done at all. An aborted beginning.

Not all messy rooms are physical. My own cluttered room is in between ears, the room I attempt to organize but never manage to quite get started. The mess is considerable, my faults and insecurities vast and on the edge of debilitating. I'm a living mess, thirty-four years in the making.

Time for a BFB: aBig Effing Broom. The best way to clean is to get rid of the debris, the half formed ideas, the plans and projects,the almost but not quites, that I've hoarded and covered with moldering brain blankets since my innocent stage when immortalilty was an American right.

So I will blog as I sort through the mess in my brain, as I order, rearrange, as I let go and burden others with all the stuff I no longer need. Here begins my quest.

This plan is simple but monumental, colossal and very possibly, impossible. I will begin today, October 25th of 2010 to write fifty books using those bits inside that I have store so carelessly. I will write a book in fifty seaprate catecories; non fiction, fiction, poetry, drama. Perhaps this beginng will be good, be fruitful, or perhaps it will be aborted soon after I type the final period of this post. The fear is there, fear of the dark unknown but fear is better than cowardice.