The first in a number of public 'Thank Yous' :)

While I retain my exceptionally bleak views about writing and publication, that in no way alters the platinum-plated, uranium-cored fact I’m lucky to have so many helpful friends who have been kind enough to volunteer their time in wading through the perversions of the written word which I pass off as ‘writing’ :)

I just spent the last couple of hours collating and re-reviewing the feedback I’ve received to date, and while I'm still severely lacking in numbers when it comes to beta readers, I’m grateful to everyone who’s been willing to take the time to read my writings and provide feedback (whether written down or via phone while I take notes), and it’s nice to see both positive AND negative critiques -- even knowing 'friend bias' is ineradicable, it's nice to see people can still be objective enough to serve up negatives as well (and cogent ones, no less :D )

So:  to everyone who has assisted, here’s the first of many public thank-yous :)


~J




[N.B.:  I’m not listing people here by name, and won’t be doing so anywhere publicly without their express permission, though as promised, everyone who has provided feedback will be credited in the acknowledgments at the VERY least (and in whatever fashion/under whatever name they’d prefer).]

Proof I Am Not a Poet

I recently came across a slip of paper embedded in an old book of mine which contained a poem I'd written.

Kindly note, this is strictly Juvenilia, and as such, isn't very good. In point of fact, much as I love poetry (and even wrote my fair share), virtually none of it was ever worth the paper it was written on.

I suppose it ought to sadden me to admit that this is likely the best poem I've ever written, given it's little more than doggerel. Still, if I cannot serve as a positive example, perhaps I can still fulfill my role as a cautionary tale of how *NOT* to write. The following is an example. And no, I'm not proud of it; nonetheless, I decided to post it here. Feel free to make fun of it: my skin is exceptionally thick at this point in my life :D

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Oh what shall I do with the thousand desires
          That scream for release from my flesh?

Oh what shall I do with their motivate fires
          Which seek with their endings to mesh?

For the love of their songs, Resolutions I spurn,
          For conflict is the Song of my Spirit;

As within my poor breast, my heart overturns,
          And I write of it so you may hear it.

                                                                    ~JM (circa 1992-3)
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Not Insane (...?)

Is it not the sign of the sheerest insanity that, while reviewing the notes I’ve made in my Farley file of characters for reference purposes (I confess I’ve done this: despite the enormous size of my head, not even IT can contain the encyclopaedic amounts of information generally shelved therein…which is to say, even the size of MY head has its limits*, so I do make notes and reference sheets for complicated novels, plots, ideas and even entire worlds) I find myself going off into entire tangents about each character, including their origins, experiences in their life which demonstrates what made them the ‘people’ they are today…To the point where there is literally another entire book/story/set of stories contained therein? For each character of note? It’s unending, and mind-wrackingly so.

While the ideas may be unending, my time is most certainly not; when looking around my brain, my first thought is, ‘I wish I could get a good editor in here’.

(Just like that, see? [points to the period/comma above])

To look at it another way, this is all either the blathering word-salad of a madman, or the ravings of brilliance.

While I remain unconvinced I’m possessed of actual brilliance, the alternative is far less attractive to me, so I prefer assuming the latter, while fearing the former is actually the case.



~J
--
*Hard to believe, I know.

On Characters

Creating original characters is, at least for me, fundamentally very easy:  I've read too much, known such a large number of different people from such disparate walks of life (including different countries, 'social classes', what-have-you), to say nothing of all the garbage rattling around my dark and dusty mind that I've always got ample material to create fictional characters, no problem.
Creating original, INTERESTING characters is another story entirely: I am capable of doing so, and have done so (and will likely continue doing so, at least until my mind gives out entirely), though I don't see it as easy or difficult (it's both); and for a writer of fiction -- aka 'a storyteller' or less euphemistically a 'liar' --  it's a bit of a must, as writing about boring characters is, well...Boring. And who'd ever want to read it?

I suppose one of the benefits/hazards of having led an interesting life is (at least for a fiction writer) that it renders most of the characters one could think of sometimes rather tame, in comparison; of course, this, in turn, forces one to populate one's mind (and writing) with characters who are 'over the top', as it were; riddled with flaws which even I would check myself into a psychiatric facility over, people who have strange beginnings and (sometimes) horrifying ends...

And, well, to be entirely honest, I don't know how some of the characters I've created truly came about, so, like Poe's explanation for how he wrote The Raven (which no one, to the best of my knowledge, actually *believes* is how he wrote it, being merely a dissertation using logic to serve as a footpath for his true creative genius which he couldn't name), this particular essay of mine is bound to be just as disappointing (more so, given it wasn't penned by Poe :D).

I can say my favorite (and, I think, most interesting) characters come to me either entirely or mostly fully-formed, leaving very little for my conscious mind to do; therefore, I cannot give anyone much advice as to the creation of characters.

Of those which are not 100% formed, I've found that writing a few pages as that character quickly fleshes them out; one time I dashed off at least 10-12 thousand words which was merely a conversation between two characters, the writing of which revealed to *me* more about them than would ever appear in any story.

I suppose one thing I can say is when creating a character, know *everything* about them. I can think of one character I created who (partially) survived the Great Famine in Ireland in the 1840s by resorting to cannibalism; I can also tell you about his relationship with his parents, when he first kissed a girl, and who he had a crush on, though (almost) none of those things are even remotely pertinent to the story he is in, and therefore won't ever appear in writing.

I have another character I could easily write a book solely about (actually, I have a number), including his innate acrophilia, which led him to fly an Albatross for the Luftstreitkräfte in WWI, and (while never an Überkanonen, given his avoidance of combat wherever possible) his eventual ditching of that particular make (either a BII or CII -- my mind dims with age, obviously) only to fake his own death and pop up flying a Sopwith Camel for the opposing side -- and not because he had any desire to shoot anyone down, really gave a shit about who won or which side was 'right', nor was he eager to engage in aerial combat -- merely because he wished so very badly to be able to *fly*, and went to what would be, to any sane person, incredible and dangerous lengths to do so (particularly given that period of time). That little to none of the above information appears in writing connected with him is...What it is.

My point -- were I to have one, which I'm certain anyone reading this drivel would argue vehemently against -- is that, to make *real* characters, they must be real to the *writer*, first and foremost.

'If you're writing in the first person, you must be that person' and all that jazz. Obviously, if one is writing a story and one has two-dimensional characters, the reader will sense this *immediately* -- I know I have -- and when one has created compelling, interesting characters, that can make for an enjoyable read, even if the plot isn't as good as it should be (even if only from a purely Aristotelian perspective), while the reverse is not true: even the best plot will put most people to sleep if the characters are trite knockoffs/boring/garbage.

Perhaps the 'secret' to creating compelling characters, fully clothed, born in one's mind as complete and whole as Athena was when she sprang from the forehead of Zeus, is to have an overly full mind ;)

Purpose of Fiction...Or Fictional Purpose...?

While my own opinion of my writing is I write very well (and, when it comes to things such as technical documentation, articles, and the like, the consensus has always seemed to agree with me), when it comes to the fiction I've written I confess to being entirely incapable of making a sound judgment as to its value or worth.

Of course, when discussing the 'value' or 'worth' of fiction, I know that's a broad enough area that each person could think of and probably has their own definition(s), and I'm not one to argue that, as I've little desire to get lost in the endless terrain of general semantics.

When I refer to fiction as having value, what I mean is how well it serves the purpose of entertaining. Period. Conveying lessons, espousing philosophies, etcetera etcetera -- sure, one can stick some of that into fiction, if so desired, though if it's not organic to the work itself, the reader will spit it out in annoyance much as a cat will a pill which is hidden so ‘dexterously (if ineffectively) in their favorite food’, which brings me back to my main point, that being the primary purpose of fiction is to entertain, with the pinnacle of achievement being to write something so enjoyable the reader cannot put it down, and which they find themselves blissfully immersed in, so much so, ideally, that they are likely to bother reading it more than once.

As a reader of some years, when I think of my favorite fiction books, regardless of genre, those are the qualities which define the truly great books from all the rest: the ones I can read and re-read, and never tire of despite knowing how they end; the ones I happen to glance at and, within minutes, am utterly swept back into; the kind I’d love to simply step into and never leave. 

Kindly note my visual memory is exceptionally acute, to the point where I can generally quote lines of text verbatim (or nearly so, though no, I do not have an ‘eidetic’ memory) directly from books I've read, even many years later; that, combined with my disdain for any story regardless of medium which I can figure out where it’s going/how it ends within the first few minutes of reading it, and that should illustrate what I mean when I say for me, to read a book I’ve already read before is one of the surest signs I enjoyed it above all others.

I remain unconvinced I've yet to write anything which meets the above standards, which is to say, I'll just have to keep trying.


~J

"Accordingly, the [author] should prefer probable impossibilities to improbable possibilities. The tragic plot must not be composed of irrational parts. Everything irrational should, if possible, be excluded; or, at all events, it should lie outside the action of the play […].

“The plea that otherwise the plot would have been ruined, is ridiculous; such a plot should not in the first instance be constructed. But once the irrational has been introduced and an air of likelihood imparted to it, we must accept it in spite of the absurdity.”




                                                                                       --Aristotle (Poetics)



I was considering documenting some of the strange thoughts which go through my head, yet I find many almost too strange to be properly documented; just in the sense that a picture says a thousand words, a single constructed universe, complete with characters, peoples, places, even a visual reference which remains in my head -- it would take me untold thousands of words to begin even describing it (which is precisely what one should NOT do when writing fiction); to set it down here, or even elsewhere, in print, would be a phenomenal waste of time...Wouldn't it...?


I suppose that's the point of my writing, here, in this poorly light, dusty little corner of the Internet; perhaps some of what I may come to say may serve someone else, or find purpose which others are yet to discover.

Still: it remains that, as I am doing writing elsewhere, less will be done here, and the reverse. Given I have a finite amount of time, that cannot be helped.

While it is tempting to comment further, I still await to hear more, so I shall attempt to exercise the virtue of silence, preferring neither to damn myself with excessive criticism nor false praise, both of which are equally pernicious if opposite sides of the same filthy coin.

There is something to be said for writing in silence; that is, creating in silence, free from critics, whether one's own internal one or critiques of others, and writing into a file (or into an otherwise quiet, audience-free blog) satisfies that well enough. Once creation is done, however, one must have criticism. That, or -- I suppose -- supreme confidence that everything one has created is perfect in every way. I am positive countless number of people have had such confidence; I am equally certain the larger share of them were wrong. For every William Blake, there are millions of us with nothing particularly useful to say.


~JMB

-=SPOILER ALERT=-

In the spirit of full-disclosure, I tend to overwrite...horrendously so. Writing a volume is easy; pruning it down into something worth putting before others is that which I find more time-consuming (if no less enjoyable, in its own way).

Being too lazy to Google the exact quote, I'll simply cite off the top of my head what Pascal (if memory serves...) once said in correspondence to someone else:

"I would have written less, but I lacked the time."

Such it is with me. And such it is with what I'm putting up here. None of it is edited, proof-read, or the like, and any typos/inaccuracies (which I'm sure the quote above falls squarely into the category of) and the like are entirely due to my lack of revision, as I wished this to be a more stream-of-consciousness sort of thing.

My assumption, of course, is that characteristic alone will be adequate to render everything written here unreadable and likely too boring for the general public, as it will all invariably fall into the "Too Long; Didn't Read" category :)


~J

Some thoughts about my motivations regarding my new-found willingness to deal with writing

Finally decided to actually to engage in some blogging. I am of mixed feelings about doing it, admittedly, having been one who has, for the majority of their life, stuck to the shadows; however, if I am truly going to move forward with actually letting other people into the worlds I've created, the inescapable truth is I'm going to have to engage in self-promotion...To say nothing about taking my first steps out into the light at all.

I'm a writer. I have been my entire life. Not professionally, unless one counts technical documentation done for systems I've designed (which I don't), and while there was even a time I bothered submitting things to publishers, and even had some things published, for the most part, I've written entirely without much thought to sharing the majority of it with anyone else.

Kindly note that when I say I have written literally thousands of pages in my life, this is no exaggeration; nor am I including technical documentation, non-fiction articles, or even my overly verbose email correspondences with friends. That the majority of what I've written never saw the light of day was not because it was explicitly rejected (id est, not because I submitted it to others who rejected it, or that I was rejected so often it made me not care to write -- I assure you this is not the case) but because I simply didn't care to share it...with anybody.

Harlan Ellison once said that "writing for the trunk is masturbation" -- implying that 'real' writers have to be egotistical exhibitionists. I both agree and disagree with him there, on a number of points, though this is hardly the place to cover that topic in detail.

What I am taking away from that idea (which implies stripping everything he said on the matter down to the merest shreds) is that, given I've written a lot of stuff, provided it doesn't damage my lifestyle by sharing it, there's no reason not to do so. While I don't feel very strongly about much of what I've written, there are a few bits and pieces which I suspect others might find of use, or at the very least, as a pleasant distraction from the horrors of unabridged consciousness (that's certainly one of the reasons I read).

Having reached a point in my life where the amount of harm which can come to me by sharing some of the wonders, horrors, the beauty, tragedy, ugliness, pain, and far too many other things to condense into a single blog post with other people is, I'd wager, increasingly limited, so here I am: finally ready to share. Having created entire worlds within my head and on paper, some as fantastic and uniquely beautiful as some others are mundane, I've decided to purge the last of them from my aging and tired brain. My mind is so terribly overfull, like a desk with papers heaped precariously atop it, each stack seeming closer to reaching the ceiling than the last...And, like the periodic cleanings one must undertake to clear off one's workspace to free it of clutter, so, too, is my mind in such a state: long over-due to be emptied. (Yes, I know the Zen tea-cup reference is hackneyed...which is why I wasn't originally going to make it, but hey, this is purely stream-of-thought writing for me).

As quantity is by no means a measure of quality, the question then becomes, "Is what I've written worth reading?"

I am aware I am an excellent writer; at times, I've even been an exceptionally good writer. Whether or not any of what I've written is actually any good from the standpoint of other people is something which I am, regrettably, utterly incapable of accurately judging.

As with any flaw which I am unable to remedy, I acknowledge it openly, not being one for pretense. I therefore leave judgments of 'quality', and whether any given thing I've created is 'good' or 'bad' entirely within the hands of you, the others, the not-I who might happen to read my words.


~JMB