Category: Writing

Just writing

Categories
Writing

The Writing Mystic

Recovered from the Wayback Machine.

There’s some form of mystic associated with writing professionally that, in some ways, I don’t understand.

It doesn’t exist with, say, web development — there are scores of web page designers and developers who would be appalled at having to do what they do as a hobby, as a job, day in and day out. In addition, there are those who garden, cook, drive, sew, and care for children who wouldn’t even consider doing the same for a buck.

But writing, well, writing professionally somehow imbues the written word with a higher degree of importance than the word that’s given freely. Even if the written word is included in the biggest jumble of disorganized crap that ever existed on any planet in the universe, and the freely given word is the epitomy of elegance, grace, and clarity.

Perhaps the reason for this mystic is that if one is paid for the word, one is somehow supposed to be more proficient with the use of the word. I write this word — apple — and I am not paid for it. Therefore, the value of –apple — is worth less then the word — Apple — as long as it is followed by OS X and I’ve convinced some editor somewhere that it is worthy of inclusion within their magazine, eZine, book, or other form of publication.

It is true that when one is paid for an act, one improves over time. Based on this we can conclude that when we pay for an action, we should be able to expect more from that action.

This works for sex — why not writing?

The act of writing professionally. The publication process.

As an example of the publication process, take a look at the following sentence:

My recommendation would be that you flibit the gidbet and then flummer the dummer.

One publication prefers that writers not use the familiar, so can the professional writer remove all familiar references?

Okay, how’s this:

It is accepted practice to flibit the gidget and then flummer the dummer.

Another publication prefers the familiar form, and also prefers witty repartee with the reader. Can the professional writer please adjust accordingly?

Okay, how’s this:

My recommendation would be that you flibit the gidbet and then flummer the dummer, and you’ll be kicking ass at that point.

A third publication hastens to add that words such as “ass” might be offensive to some readers. Please edit this remark.

Okay. Is the following acceptable:

My recommendation would be that you flibit the gidbet and then flummer the dummer, and you’ll be much happier with the results.

There’s another publication. This one likes to have notes, sidebars, and annotations.

Okay. Then how the hell is this:

My recommendation (being aware that I have enormous experience with this) would be that you flibit the gidbet (see www.gidbet.com for more info) and then flummer the dummer, (see sidebar A1), and you’ll be happier with the results (happier: increased sense of well being).

Are these examples of writing somehow worth more than the unpaid version of the same, such as one could find at a weblog?

Weblog version:

To hell with the gidbet, who cares about the flummer, go get a beer, and screw it all until tomorrow.

I think not.

(Legal Disclaimer: The publications referred to in this document are entirely fictional. Any similarity to an existing publication is purely coincidental.)

Categories
Writing

Editing goals

Edited two chapters today, meeting my goal. However, my goal for tomorrow (later today I should say) is four chapters. That little poof you just heard was my head exploding. All I can say is, it was nice knowing you before I fried myself to a burnt little cinder and a tiny bit of leftover ash that was instantly caught by the breeze coming through my window and wafted off to Hawaii.

Well, at least the ash will have a good time.

 

 

Categories
Writing

The Princess

There once was a fairy tale princess who lived in a land of sunshine and Starbuck lattes. Of course she wasn’t part of a fairy tale, and she wasn’t really a princess, but starting a tale with “there once was a fairy tale princess” sounds better than “there once was this lady of no particular note other than to her close friends”.

(Truth in advertising doesn’t apply to storytelling.)

Anyway, back to the story.

The princess was confident and fairly strong except for one secret shame, one overriding fear — this princess was terrified of coaches.

You see when the Princess was very young, she was in many coach accidents and that left her nervous at the sound of stamping hooves and clattering wheels. Normally she could function within a society filled with coaches, but she couldn’t drive her own coach; the horses could sense her fear and refused to yield to her touch.

In time the young Princess fell in love with an evil Wizard who saw in the Princess a vulnerability he could exploit. Whenever he became angry, he would take the Princess out into a coach and drive it very fast, tell the Princess that he was going to drive the coach into this tree or off this cliff if the Princess wasn’t very very good.

Once, the Princess became so terrified during one ride that she grabbed the reins from the Wizard and held on to them for all she was worth until the coach stopped, disregarding the beating of the Wizard. When he got out, she kept the coach doors locked as the Wizard kicked and kicked at them until he burned out his anger and they could continue home, safely, one more time.

Another time, the evil Wizard got angry and forced the Princess out of the coach on a deserted country road. Here the Princess stood, on a road with no houses, no street lights, no moon to light her way — alone in the country with no clear idea of where she needed to go, begging the Wizard to return for her; terrified that the Wizard would return for her.

The Princess walked and walked along the road, becoming more and more terrified until she was eventually found by a passing coachman who kindly took her to the constable, who, in turn took her to a doctor because the Princess couldn’t stop shaking and was so frightened she could no longer talk.

In time, the Princess realized the folly of her relationship with the Wizard and banished him from her life. He in turn, left her with one final curse — she would go through life terrified of coaches.

The Princess met other more gentle Wizards who worked with her to overcome her fear of coaches. At some point, the Princess could be in a coach in traffic without closing her eyes at every intersection. There was a real sense of triumph the day the Princess didn’t break out in a cold sweat when she rode in a coach in a strange highway.

Eventually, one day, the Princess felt that she had progressed enough to try taking the reins of the horse into her own hands. At first she was frightened and stiff and very awkward. However, the Princess began to find out that she liked having the reins of the coach in her hand. In fact, she felt empowered by being in control. She was in control!

The day the Princess was passed by the court authority to drive a coach on her own was probably one of the happiest days of her life. The curse of the Evil Wizard was finally almost broken.

Except for one remaining trial. One last dragon that the Princess had to slay.

Freeways. The Princess was terrified of Freeways, especially attempting to drive the Freeways by herself. She would sit at her window and look at the Freeway outside her window and dream of driving on it, but every time she would attempt it she would become afraid and pull back. She knew deep down inside that the curse would never be completely lifted until she faced her final fear, but the battle was so hard.

Finally, at the end of the tale — because all tales do end — the Princess crept out of her castle in the early dawn hours and forced herself on to the Freeway by her home. Her heart was beating so hard she thought she would surely pass out…but she didn’t. She then continued down the road and on to Freeway’s in other strange worlds, each one driven becoming one more swing of the sword at the dragon formed from her fears.

Los Angeles — clang!
San Diego — clang!
Phoenix — clang!

Back country road with a low gas tank and no one in sight, and the memories crowding in, fighting for recognition, screaming in her mind to be let out, until a light appeared and other coaches appeared — clang!

Albuquerque, with the sun in her eyes and the coaches surrounding her like angry gnats, fear so strong her head pounded with the effort, mouth so dry, she was desperate for water but terrified of taking her eyes off the road to grab the water bottle — swing and swing and swing with the sword. Clang! Clang! Clang!

Oklahoma City. Tulsa. St. Louis. The sword made one final swing, the dragon expired, and the curse was broken. The Princess was finally free.

And she lived happily ever after.

The End.

Categories
Writing

Who burnt the pizza?

Recovered from the Wayback Machine.

I’ve had a piece I’ve been wanting to write for the last few days, and today, it finally decided it was time to come out. I put on Sting’s Brand New Day and put a homemade pizza into the oven, promptly forgetting about it in the middle of my muse.

After the smoke cleared and the fire alarm stopped ringing and the neighbors stopped coming out into the hallway going “Who burnt the pizza?”, I finally finished the story, I’ll Never Write for The New Yorker.

This is one of those that doesn’t take comments well, so I’ve disabled them for this article. Just accept it as something I wanted to write. And if I ever ask you about it, lie and say it was great, fantastic, nothing better 😉

It’s funny what doing your taxes can do to you, isn’t it?

I dream of rain
I dream of gardens in the desert sand
I wake in pain
I dream of love as time runs through my hand

Categories
Just Shelley Writing

I’ll Never Write for the New Yorker

Recovered from the Wayback Machine.

I started writing when I was five years old. I wrote everything: articles, stories, fairy tales, even a musical when I was 12 that my school kindly let me produce and present.

Writing is as much a part of me as breathing, laughter, and hope. My spelling is not always accurate or my grammar all that proper (I’ve heard both kindly referred to as ‘creative’), but my passion for writing remains as strong today as it was years ago.

I’m one of the lucky few that actually makes a living from writing, though not always consistently, and usually having to be supplemented by outside endeavors. Professionally, I write books and articles on computer technology and the Internet. Privately, I write articles on space and math and history and ship wrecks and giant squid and travel and art .

All of my work might be considered informative at times, or passionate, biting, silly, maybe even witty — but none of it can be referred to as “art”. I’ve been called an author and a writer, but never an artist.

That’s not to say I’m not pleased and proud of my work, especially when I receive emails from people who have been helped by my books, or who have enjoyed my articles. However,in the back of my mind I’ve had a secret dream for years. I wanted my writing to be considered art. I wanted people to point to me and my work and say “There’s an artist”.

And I’ve always wanted to write for the New Yorker.

Now, granted, there are other magazines more prestigous or more lucrative than the New Yorker. However, my golden fleece, my dragon to be seduced is this magazine, no other.

I have this scenario carefully constructed in my mind — me sending off an article of great worth that some editor recognizes as a diamond in the rough (creative grammar and spelling aside) and worth inclusion within the magazine’s august covers. I would receive a letter back in the mail telling me my article would be included in an issue to be published at such and such date.

I imagined myself calling my brother and telling him that I was going to be published in the New Yorker. Or better yet, calling my father — he’s never understood my work with computers. Now he could finally say to his friends “My daughter writes for the New Yorker”. He may not like what I write, but he’ll at least understand it.

And some morning a year or so later I would get a call: the article I wrote for the New Yorker has been nominated for a Pulitzer Prize!

Sunshine would reign in the midst of Alaska in the dead of winter and butterflies would circle an eagle’s head, singing hosannas to the universe!

In my rather long and involved scenario, not long after winning the Prize I would be asked to give readings (computer book authors are never asked to give readings), and a publisher would contract with me to write a novel. The Novel. The one that someone someday would force children in High School to read because It’s Good For Them and a work of Great Literature.

What a lovely, lovely dream.

Unfortunately, dragons have a habit of resisting seduction, and sometimes the fleece is tarnished.

This week I had a strong moment of self realization, and I knew for a fact that I would never be the type of writer that writes for the New Yorker.

I’ll never write the great American novel. I’ll never be picked by Oprah as a book of the month. My work will not earn for me a Pulitzer, and my books will never be used as a lesson in Great Literature in some school somewhere.

It’s funny, but once self realization strikes all our unreasonable dreams stand out, harshly, black against white. You start to look at what you say you want to do, or have dreamed of doing, and realize that some of it just isn’t going to happen.

These are the things I’ll never do:

  • I’ll never climb Mount Everest
  • I’ll never drive a race car
  • I’ll never sail around the world in a single person sailboat
  • I’ll never be the chairman of a major corporation
  • I’ll never be the inventor of cold fusion (physics, not software; and not the software either, come to think of it)
  • I’ll never walk on the moon
  • I’ll never be a professional photographer
  • I’ll never be 21 again
  • And I’ll never write for the New Yorker

No matter the dream, these things aren’t for me.

Life and luck and skill and strength give each of us a unique platform from which to stand to achieve our own great works. If we spend all of our lives trying to jump to platforms that don’t suit us, then we’ll never have a chance to create something unique. If you want to call this “realizing our limitations”, fine. I prefer to call it “realizing our strengths”.

And writing for the New Yorker is not one of my strengths. I’ll never write that way. That’s not me. Good or bad. That’s just not me.

When such a strong self-realization hits, you lose your breath, you lose your blinders, you sit down hard, and the Universe does an infinitely intangible waltz with your head.

Once the disorientation clears, you begin to realize how weighed down you are by your own unrealistic hopes and expectations. After you drop the baggage of things that don’t fit, you can start taking joy in the things that are right for you, regardless of the effort to reach them.

These are the things I will do:

  • I will hike hills and mountains throughout the world, and walk in deserts far
  • I will drive a convertable someday. And a Humbee
  • I’ll learn how to sail
  • I’ll take pride in not being a chairman of a major corporation, especially Enron
  • I will have great fun with technology
  • I will look at the moon and the planets and the stars through my telescope and dream of humanity’s ultimate conquest of space
  • I’ll enjoy my photos for themselves, and appreciate those taken by ones more skilled than I
  • I’ll never be 21 again. Thank god

And every day I don’t write for the New Yorker, I’ll write about what I feel, and think, and know, and see, and taste, and touch, and love.

And that will be enough.