Norman Green

THIS IS GOING TO HURT…

Have you ever noticed that most guidebooks intended for beginning writers seem to spend a lot of time preparing you for failure? I am particularly partial to an early Lawrence Block effort, ‘Writing the Novel From Plot to Print,’ yet even Block tells you how awful the submission process is going to be. ‘Multiple copies of your manuscript,’ he says, and keep them coming and going back and forth in the mail. And you are advised to treasure each rejection slip, especially the ones adorned with a hand-written line or two: ‘I did not completely despise your novel, Mr. Green, but alas, my parrot is dead so I have no current use for it…’

Humbug.

And to make things worse, things have deteriorated significantly in recent years. There might be more giant bookstores, but all of them belong to two chains, which means that the actual number of titles available has actually gone down. And every year we are told that the American public reads less. How is this possible? And how do you continue working in the face of all that?

Poets have it even worse than novelists. ‘Anyone can write a poem,’ bone-headed English teachers have been telling us that for generations. So even if you are a gifted poet, how do you raise your voice above the dreck (that almost anyone can write)? And if you are supremely talented and lucky and you do manage to get your work published in some obscure poetry journal, your recompense is likely to take the form of a number of free copies of said journal.

Hoo-effing-ray.

And yet there is something incandescent about a perfectly constructed sonnet. Check out Shakespeare’s 29th, which is truly a thing of beauty. It is perhaps my favorite poem, written over four hundred years ago and yet it still has the power to knock me on my ass every time I read it. Old Will gave them away as party favors, or so they say, but that one work of art was enough, in my mind, to render the man immortal.

THE DOLDRUMS

Any sailing voyage from south to north, if it is of sufficient length, must pass through the doldrums, those places near the equator where the winds are fickle and unsteady. Once in a while you get lucky and ride through on a storm but you cannot count on such good fortune every time. And when you are stuck there in the middle, bobbing up and down like a cork in a bathtub, are you still a sailor or have you become a guy who is just hanging around waiting for something to happen?

For a couple of months now I have been a writer in name only, or maybe a guy who used to write. I sailed through the first hundred pages of my projected voyage, but then it happened, or rather it stopped happening. The winds died, forward progress ceased, and I have been hanging around waiting for something to happen. I cannot even blame my lack of progress on plot problems because I honestly cannot say I have any of those, not insurmountable ones, at any rate. I have a decent view forward from here, I have a good idea where I want my story to go, but…

Nothing.

Maybe it’s the holidays, maybe I’ve been too busy at work, maybe I’ve been spending too much time at the gym, maybe it’s because ski season is finally here. Maybe I’m lazy, maybe I lost faith, maybe I just needed a break.

Maybe it’s over, there’s always that possibility…

And maybe it doesn’t really matter why.

Recently I started carrying a legal pad around with me. I’ve got a bunch of stuff scribbled on it, nothing like an outline but little pieces of this and that, ideas for scenes, thoughts about certain characters, a name I heard that I really want to use, some folk saying a Jamaican friend of mine came out with the other day, bits of dialog. It’s a cheap trick, but the pen and pad remind me what I am supposed to be doing and it seems to be working. Wrote this, didn’t I? And I’m starting to get a few pages. Progress. Not a storm, nothing like it, but enough wind to move the boat.

Optimism rears its ugly head…

Meantime I got some reading in. Carl Sagan’s ‘Demon Haunted World,’ which was absolutely brilliant. Petterson’s ‘Out Stealing Horses,’ Literary Fiction, don’t you know, but not bad for all of that. They don’t have to follow the same rules in that genre, but they’d be better off if they did, in my not particularly humble opinion. Plot does matter, and if something you’ve done doesn’t move your story forward, leave it out, no matter how ‘luminous’ it might be. And I’m halfway through Bill Bryson’s ‘Short History of Nearly Everything,’ which I am enjoying immensely. Up next, Robert Crais’ ‘The First Rule.’ I may wait on Crais until I have my first draft finished, because you don’t have to tell Crais anything about plot, he generally grabs you by the guniouns on page one and doesn’t let go until the book is done, and I can’t afford that kind of distraction.

MATT TAIBBI

While I am on the topic of my favorite writers…

Matt Taibbi is the second of only two good reasons to look at The Rolling Stone, the other being, of course, the occasional picture of a half-naked chick. He also writes a column for one of my favorite magazines, Men’s Journal, which is where I first discovered him a few years ago. Taibbi is everything you want in a columnist: thoughtful, opinionated, informed, irate, occasionally outrageous and unafraid of throwing stones. Even in Men’s Journal, where excellent writing is the rule and not the exception, I always look at Taibbi’s columns first. I do not always agree with what he says but I am generally impressed with how he says it. If you want to be a columnist (I don’t), check him out, but read him like a writer. Pay attention to his use of the language, the way he sets up his targets, the way he uses humor and disillusionment, the way he zeroes in on the story behind the cover story. I don’t know if he has a book out yet but it’s probably just a matter of time. I do hope that as he is discovered by more and more readers, he doesn’t lose his edge.

LARRY NIVEN’S STILL AT IT

In case you’re not into science fiction, in case you, like a friend of mine, think it’s all wizards and lizards, check out something, anything (almost) by Larry Niven. I don’t want to say how long I’ve been reading him, but when I discovered him I think Eisenhower might have been president…  okay, maybe Nixon.  In any event, the guy’s been doing it very well for a very long time. He has accumulated a lot of writing partners in recent years but the stories he (they) have produced remain true to his early brilliance. Okay, there was one about sharks with frickin’ laser beams on their heads, but maybe he was watching a Mike Meyers marathon that weekend and it must have left him a little punchy. With that one exception, I have thoroughly enjoyed every Niven book I have ever read. His best one, in my opinion, was a stand-alone called Lucifer’s Hammer. There are about a hundred other titles to choose from, and I have always admired the way they all interrelate. If I had the time I would go back and read them all again. The one I just read, Destroyer of Worlds, kept me up a couple of nights and cost me a few day’s work on my current writing project.

THAT’S WHY THEY CALL IT WORK

There are times when I doubt my ability to write anything longer or more complicated than a grocery list. I don’t know why this happens, but it does. Sometimes when I’m in this head I just wait it out, and other times I try to write my way out of it. I suspect that this time around it has more to do with my current writing project than anything gone awry between my ears. It might be smart to let it sit for a while, go and work on something else. I do think my unconscious is still wrestling with the next chapter and if I try to force the issue I’ll only wind up throwing out what I write. I hate it when this happens, it clashes with my somewhat Puritanical upbringing, hand to plow, heart to God and all that shit, but if the plow won’t cooperate, what’re are you gonna do? My problem is that I don’t like starting anything new until I’m done with that last thing, plug away on it until you are by God finished, and like that.

Stupid, I know.  What can I tell you?

Until I started this blog I never really appreciated the fits and starts of my writing process. It amazes me to look back and see how often I am stuck, how often I take one step forward and two steps back. It is a wonder that I ever get anything finished at all.

I keep looking for something external to blame this on.

Maybe it’s the weather.

Maybe it’s the time of year, I wish winter would just get here already.

Maybe I need a vacation… Even I can’t buy that one, my vacations tend to be busier than the periods of work that separate them.

Maybe it’s the elections… Ooh, I like it. I’m so sick of hearing the same old bullshit, you’d think these charlatans could think up some new lies to tell, but no, it’s always the same old thing, a chicken in every pot and not an invoice for the chickens anywhere… The American voter reminds me of a guy who pushes his cart up and down every aisle in the grocery store and fills it up with everything that catches his eye, then gets irate when he gets to the door and they expect him to pay for it all. Taxes, my accountant once told me, are the price you pay for being an American, you got to pony up your share just like everybody else, so shut up and write the check.

Or get out.

Damn, I feel better already.

BOUCHERCON II

I hadn’t been to Bouchercon since ‘04, and I hadn’t thought of attending this year, either, but then the Shamus nomination came along… A long weekend in San Francisco with my wife, mostly deductible, no less, what could be better than that?

I had a project in San Francisco once, about twenty five years ago. I worked for a Swedish company at the time and they sent me out there to de-bug and start up a piece of equipment they’d built. If I recall correctly, the thing had a bad circuit board or some such, and there were no replacements available. So, for a couple of weeks, my job was to wake up, call the US office in Philly, listen to the parts guy tell me ‘It’s not here,’ and then to go amuse myself for another day.

Nice work if you can get it.

In any event, I enjoyed Bouchercon immensely, for the most part. ($24.00 for a hotel buffet breakfast? Are you kidding? I can do better at Ellie’s Diner in the Bronx for four bucks, including tip!) This time my approach was to listen, and I attended a bunch of the presentations, everything from a tax lady talking about what I could deduct and what I can’t, from which I learned that the best four hundred bucks I spend every year is on my accountant, to Walter Moseley and company talking about the differences between the two coasts.

Good stuff.

I don’t know how many writers were there, but you take a bunch of people who work mostly alone in a dark room, whether real or virtual, throw them all together in one place, add in moderate (or not) amounts of alcohol, caffeine, performance anxiety, ego, etc… A good time, as they say, was had by all.

I did not win the Shamus, nor did AE Roman, so I was twice wrong.

Anyhow, I had a great time and I met some very interesting people. And my TBR list got a lot longer.

And to all of you who volunteered to bring Bouchercon 2010 into being, my thanks to you, and if no one told you they loved you today, well, they didn’t tell me either, so get over it.

Seriously, thanks to you all.

BOUCHERCON

As Bouchercon approaches, I have been thinking more about having been nominated for a Shamus award for ‘The Last Gig.’ I don’t think I’ve won an award for anything since third grade spelling bee, and I had to give Amanda Rowley two weeks of my milk money so she’d take a dive… (She’s probably in Congress by now, or maybe a Federal pen.) I have never been to one of these dinners before. I imagine the winners are expected to say something but I haven’t written anything so as not to jinx myself. I have been telling myself, ever since I heard about this, that it is an honor just to be nominated, and that at the very least I managed to impress a tough audience. I’m sticking with that…

It so happens that I read one of the other books nominated in my category, ‘Chinatown Angel.’ It seems like a year or so since I read it, a friend recommended it to me and even lent me his copy. (Sorry, dude.) Great title, great book, good characters, nice tight prose. I have spent a fairly major portion of my life hanging around in some of the less, shall we say, Disney-fied parts of Nueva York, and ‘Chinatown Angel’ seemed pretty real to me. I have a mental list of authors whose work I look for, and I have added A E Roman to my list.

However.

I’m not reading any of the other guys until this is all over.

In any event, I need to forget all about this stuff for the next week or so. I hit the first lull in my current writing project a while ago but I think I’m past it now. I would never say that I think I’ve solved all my plot problems but I think I’ve got a handle on a few, enough so that I ought to be able to get back to work and get some pages flowing again. Plus, the Mets are done for now, I’m not even disgusted with them any more, so the only thing holding me back from making progress is sloth…

INTERSECTIONS

I have reached the first sticking point in my new novel, the first major intersection. Taken at face value, it’s a problem, but it’s also an opportunity.  Right?  Right….

I am 65 pages in. I have a good handle on the major characters and I know what the book is trying to be about. I even know my ending, I see it playing in my head like the tease of a movie trailer tempting me to reach for my wallet but really telling me very little about the movie. But I’ve got the voices, the characters, the themes, I’m good to go. Right?

Nah-ah.

Plot, my old nemesis, rears its ugly head, hideous mouth agape, rows of dripping teeth waiting to impale me and chew my new story into slimy, masticated bits.

But I’m not scared.

Really, I’m not.

Some writing teachers will tell you to close your eyes and press on, pretend you don’t see the beast and just have faith that plot will take care of itself. I’m here to tell you that it ain’t so, that you ignore plot at your peril. The first intersection is a critically important point, screw up here and you will pay in the form of untold hours of rewriting. Now rewriting is not a horrible thing, not in reasonable doses. Some of it is inevitable and if you do it well it can show you how to lift your story out of the ordinary and give it wings.

Too much rewriting can make you think about hanging yourself. It can induce you to hate your characters and your story and make you sorry you ever dreamed them up to begin with. Even worse, do battle with the beast long enough and the experience can infect your next writing project, it can sap your confidence regardless of whether you won or lost the last round. And this point, this one right here, this is where we determine the length of the bastard’s teeth and the strength of his bite.

I reached this point about a week ago and I did not, at first, recognize it for what it was. Staring down at the page and watching the moving point of the pen does not lend itself to effective peripheral vision, and when the pages stopped coming I did not worry, it happens, I figured they’d crank back up in a day or so but when they did not I looked around and saw where I was. I have been here before, in the past I have made good choices and felt the story begin to flow but I have also made poor choices and gotten lost. My hope this time is that I have learned from my mistakes. My strategy now is to try to relax and try not to get geeked out about being, for the moment, stuck, to give my imagination the time and the room to play with the various alternatives until I can see which one seems the better choice.

Wish me luck…

HEAVY LIFTING

Sometimes writing is fun and sometimes it’s work, and like the lazy no-good slug that I am, I would much rather skip over the hard parts and get right to the stuff I like. I have done that in the past, and I’ve paid the price for it, too. I am at a critical juncture in my new project, which, for the time being, I’m calling ‘Benbow Street Hustle.’ I’ve written the opening and I’m pretty happy with what I’ve got so far. I have the next scene dancing in my head but instead of simply running with it, which would be the fun part, I am concentrating a little bit harder on plot.

Okay, a lot harder.

There are some writing teachers, Brenda Ueland for one, who advocate for the ‘let her rip’ approach. I like Ueland a lot, when I was writing my first book she dug me out of a deep funk and if you’re in need of a boost to get you going again Ueland would be a great place to start. She got me working again when what I needed, I guess, was to quit worrying and doubting myself and just pile up some pages. The thing is, I’m not sure that’s the correct approach for me at this point in time. Plus, when I’ve used this approach in the past I have been stuck with a lot of heavy lifting when it came to cleaning up the mess that is the first draft and trying to impose some order. And basically what that tells me is that you’ve got to do the work sooner or later, if I bail on it now I’m just gonna get stuck with it later on.

On the ‘Benbow Street’ project I’m trying to change my usual pattern. I think I have a decent idea of the destination, plot-wise, but I don’t want to simply settle for that, I would really like to do more of the heavy lifting beforehand. The problem is that I have never really worked this way, I’ve taken a stab at it once or twice but I don’t think I’ve ever really given it an honest shot. So, long story short, if I get stuck with a case of writer’s block for the next month, you’ll know why.

READING: I just finished ‘The Breach’ by Patrick Lee, which was terrific. I’m no reviewer but I know what I like, and Lee cost me a couple of late nights. If you like thrillers, check him out.

HOLY SHAMUS! I’VE BEEN NOMINATED!!!

I feel like a kid who just got his first bicycle…

Sometimes it’s hard to say, when you’re a writer, whether you are really an artist or just in the grip of some mono-mania for which there is not, as yet, any effective treatment. The criteria for success or failure are much more clear-cut in my day job: the thing either works or it doesn’t. No ambiguity, and a nice paycheck at the end of the week. As a writer, though, it’s much tougher to tell how you’re doing. Shelby Foote once said that no writer ever truly succeeds, he only achieves an acceptable level of failure. From that I infer that when undertake a writing project I imagine something like King Arthur’s castle complete with battlements, towers and a moat. When my finished manuscript finally goes off to the copy editor, how close did I come to my initial vision? Did I get my castle built or did I settle for a tin box on flat tires sitting in the back corner of a trailer park somewhere? Much of the time, unfortunately, I am in no position to give you a clear answer, by that point in the process I can see trees but no forest.

I have some friends who read drafts for me but I think it’s hard for your friends to be at all objective about your work. And sometimes, like a lot of things in life, you just ain’t gonna know. I have a poster of Van Gogh’s ‘Avenue of Poplars’ hanging on my wall. If I take the time to look it never fails to get to me. It is a stunning portrayal, in simple pencil on paper, of the loneliness and isolation of one human soul. Stark, brutally direct, it is truly a work of genius and if it says nothing to you, you are dead.

The man sold one painting.

In his life!!

I don’t know if I have written my Avenue of Poplars yet. I think I have written a page or two, here and there, that reach about as high as it is possible for me to go. If they happen to jump out at you when you read them you will probably know something about me and I will probably know something about you. But still, it is hard to know from those infrequent peaks how I am doing. Sam Johnson said I would ultimately have to answer for how well I have used my gifts. I don’t know if that’s true or not but it is a disquieting thought.

This is, I suppose, an over-long way of saying that I have been nominated for a Shamus award. These awards are handled by people who love good writing as much as I do and I feel honored by this nomination. Whether I win or not, I am in distinguished company.