Objectivity Resuscitated

Most of my writing experience is connected to playwriting. I just finished drafting my first novel.

For me, I work on character sketches and conflict in the beginning and gather a rough idea as to plot. Honestly, plot doesn't concern me. I want to know whose story it is, what she wants, and what she's willing to do to get it. I don't care if she's overthrowing the evil empire or navigating through lunch with her mother-in-law.

Once I start writing, I never look back. New characters show up, others are eliminated. Sometimes the conflict changes, and sometimes the storyteller changes. That's really fun!

I move forward even though I'm quite certain the story I began won't be the same one I will finish. Once I'm done the whole thing will sit on the bookshelf for several months while I regain some objectivity. Occasionally my rest and recover time frame is shortened to meet a deadline.

I can't imagine the stress of reading the early chapters 400 times. I would never get anywhere feeling tethered to those first 10,000 words - or first 10 script pages.

The first draft of my novel will percolate on the bookshelf until August 22nd. And no, I really won't open that file or pick up the manuscript ahead of time. Not even once.

Hearing the Who!: The Backdoor to Intention

"My friends," cried the elephant. "Tell me! Do tell! Are you safe? Are you sound? Are you whole? Are you well?" -- Horton Hears a Who!

"What's in your medicine cabinet? Your refrigerator? And your wallet?" I ask my new characters when they show up on the page. "Have you experienced grief, envy and joy? What makes you snort, or sneeze, or sigh?"

Once I know what a character does/feels/thinks, I can create all kinds of reasons why they choose those patterns.

I write pages and pages for each character's profile. I love this part of the discovery process. More than once I have learned that a character didn't belong in the story in which she first appeared. This is a great way for me to identify a ghost too - a character I very much want to exist, but one who just won't come. I know then I'm forcing a solution - perhaps walking too closely to a deux ex machina. And twice now I've had characters deliver the mcguffin in a play. Those experiences were a total surprise and so much fun!

Writing characters who listen to each other, or refuse to listen, is important to me. I can't do that unless I hear what they have to tell me. I have to listen to their "Who!"

Letters to My Editor: Reprint

This post was featured on The Outlet. It's wonderful. Please enjoy.

To The Editor,
Thank you in advance for your consideration of my enclosed fiction submission for publication in your magazine.

To The Editor,
Last week I submitted a story for publication in your magazine. A closer reading of your online submission guidelines has brought me to regret the tone of my initial email. You are not looking for stiff-necked writers who stand on formality nor do I fit that description. I write today to inform you that I am, in fact, too “out there” for two of my uncles who stopped coming to Thanksgiving years ago. They were boxed in by hegemonies, anyway. I know your magazine is looking for real writer’s writers who break molds and then make jello in ashtrays instead. I am your man. My story is titled Vacation from Hell.

To The Editor,
Today’s the day! It has been exactly two to three months since I submitted to your magazine. (I will probably get your response when the mail comes today.) In way of celebration, please find enclosed two important appendices to Vacation from Hell. The first is a picture of me for publication alongside my story. Please note my unorthodox attire considering I am pictured attending a bris. The second document is a companion reader to my story. Titled “Critical Essays on Judson Merrill’s Vacation from Hell” it offers a more complete examination of my fiction than your staff may have the time or expertise to provide. Please pay particular attention to the chapters “Giraffe Imagery” and “Autobiographical Influences.” I look forward to working with you.

To The Editor,
Thank you for your kind attention to the following apology for any letters I may have written to your magazine between midnight and 3 a.m. this morning. I was celebrating the newest draft of Vacation from Hell (enclosed). I imbibed too freely and, inadvertently, made a blood pact with a man named Woody that I would write hateful things to the person(s) who is most important to me. I assume I wrote to you. I have foggy memories of typing the phrases “Faulknerian idiot-man-child cum editor,” “long standing literary giraffe bias,” and “blood on your hands.” If any of this sounds familiar, I am most sorry.

To The Editor,
Last winter I submitted a story titled Vacation from Hell. Frankly, the length of time it has taken to reply to my submission is an insult. If I had gotten you pregnant back in January, instead of simply submitting a story, we would have already packed a bag for the hospital, mapped out our route, et. al. The big day would be upon us. So, if that’s all I am to you, a fake pregnancy you have no intention of pretending to deliver, than I need to know. And I need to know yesterday.

To The Editor,
I have hired a private detective to find out exactly what happened to my submission Vacation from Hell. Since my writing is my (potential) livelihood I need to keep careful track of it. My detective’s name is Gregor Freed and he is currently breaking into your office to retrieve any and all copies of my story from your offices and computers. Also, I have authorized him to leave fresh copies on the desks of all your editors, in the bathrooms, and in the pair of galoshes he found by the door.

To The Editor,
Thank you in advance for your kind attention to the tunnel I have excavated underneath your house. I have been living here for a week and enjoy your musical taste. I am writing to invite you to visit me any time to discuss my recent fiction submission, Vacation from Hell. I have previously been in contact with your staff and was under the impression my story was being considered. Nevertheless, I did some detective work on my own and discovered that at least five copies of my story were discarded before there was possibly time to read them. I knew you would want to know of this neglect which is why I am writing you personally. Again, my name is Judson Merrill and my story was titled Vacation from Hell (enclosed). I have recently placed copies in your coffee cup and Basquiat DVD case (that seemed to be the artiest movie you own). I also tucked a copy into your daughter’s sheets when she was at school today. I think she will appreciate its dark humor and, since she is family, I know she would be a trusted reader.

To The Publisher,
Thank you in advance for your consideration of my enclosed prison memoir, Giraffe Pen, for publication by your imprint. I believe you will find it haunting and visceral. I look forward to working with you.

- Judson Merrill lives and writes in Brooklyn. He’ll release an e-novella, The Pool, this summer. A few things can be found at judsonmerrill.com.

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Scribbles

Last night I saved the "NPD 051110.doc" file for the last time.

I finished the first draft.

Nobody was home.

I poured a cup of iced coffee, texted my two best friends, and threw a load of sheets in the washer.

And then I hit print.

Perfect.

Photo courtesy of "three little cupcakes".

Waiting for the Solution to Show Itself Again

I spent 26 hours in San Diego over the weekend. I wish I’d stayed longer. On my drive back to Phoenix I think I solved the last bit of Sara’s journey. And then I forgot.

I woke up this morning and could only remember that it worked. Whatever I untangled behind the headlights of my car cutting through the desert is gone. My solution twirled back up like the plastic telephone cords we used to have – well some of us used to have – 35 years ago.

I was pretty bummed out about that this morning. I actually wondered if beating my head against the coffee shop wall would summon the process I found the night before. How did I wind text through the desert air to get to the final week of Sara’s story? Of getting to the knot at the end of the road where Sara is waiting at the bus stop. Where Sara is waiting to let go, waiting to embrace, and waiting to see if anyone will be with her in the end.

Then I realized I am tired. Worn out from the waiting, and the task of braiding new strands of waiting into some kind of macramé design in my own world. I know it’s part of life, and at times the breaks from waiting are shorter than at others…but damn.

So rather than compare myself to other writers, rather than chastise myself for not “pulling myself up by my bootstraps”, I went down to the warehouse to read. Rest, read and write in my journal. Today was a day for turtling. A good day to sit with Sara at the bus stop and wait. Wait for the words to come again.

Photo courtesy of Josh Sommers

Raising the Stakes

I recently had a conversation with another writer about what it means to "raise the stakes" for a character. In my novel, Sara has several relationships that break apart over the course of her story. I realized last week that a third relationship - one that she counted on forever - needed to implode. Perhaps forever? I needed this to happen to raise the stakes for her "choice" at the apex of the story arc. To further illuminate the resolution of the conflict.

The stakes in my own life have been raised over these last few weeks by the loss of a friendship. One that I counted on being around for a very long time. What I wrote for the novel preceded my own experience, but the proximity of these events is interesting to me. A foreshadowing of what my intuition was already becoming aware of in my friendship as well.

Waiting sucks. Loss sucks. And in art, as in life, the stakes are constantly being raised. I know how Sara's journey ends, although I'm not exactly sure how she gets there. In contrast I don't know how my story ends, and I definitely don't know how I get there. I hope life imitates art. I hope Sara teaches me about making good choices. I hope I pay attention.

Photo courtesy of Sausyn

I Learned So Much By Not Writing

Sara has a tattoo. I don’t know what the words are or the image is yet. I learned that her favorite color is orange and fall is her favorite season. Or was. Barney is not a dog; he’s a rabbit. I don’t know who gave him to her yet. I might not ever know the answer to that open query. I’m okay with that.

I learned that she’s ditching the lab for tech class to take the bus to this appointment. I know it doesn’t matter what time the bus comes, or if the place is closed, because she already knows the answer.

Her oldest friend has red hair, blue eyes, and doesn’t wear glasses. And he smokes. But, he’s the annoying kind of smoker who can smoke when he’s with smokers and then not smoke for months. He's a wanderer at heart and can’t wait to leave this country.

And finally I learned that she’s getting tired of telling this story. She feels like she’s almost done and wants to wrap up this very long day and go to bed. She also wants to skip school tomorrow, but she can’t.

I learned all of that collaging for three and a half hours this morning. So cool. :)

Photo courtesy of wwarby

The View From Above & The Walk on the Ground

I sat down yesterday afternoon to write what I loosely refer to as Chapter 19. I have a 500 word per day goal which has proven to be a stretch but attainable. In fact, generally once I hit 400 words I'm well on my way to 600 before I come up for air again.

Chapter 19 involves the only appearance of one particularly malignant character. He is both introduced here and left here. I worked on a collage to represent this man - to get my arms wrapped around his appearance and his interior workings. I propped this up in my workspace, put the MacBook on my lap, and opened Word. I tapped "Chapter 19" and wrote the first few lines:

"Spinning-sign-guy. Still staring at him. I don’t really care who he is. I’m staring at him because he reminds me of that nameless boy from Gracie’s party. My shameless act; a ha

ppy ending. And this makes me pull my phone out yet again. I keep checking, and there’s nothing. Not a single text. From anyone."

I intended for this chapter to be intense and dark, the big "reveal", and it was, it's just that it all happened in 227 words. Really? I tapped out three significant words, one important sentence, and my hands left the keyboard. I thought, is that it? That can't be it. But I think that's it, right? I reread those paragraphs and landed in the same spot every time. Except I did add one last sentence, and then I had the hook to the back-story for later. Or maybe not. Who knows.

The cool part about that experience yesterday was being surprised. Chapter 19, at least in this first draft, is only 227 words. I queued up another new window and started on Chapter 20, and that really surprised me. I can't wait to see what happens toda

y. I keep thinking I should reign this all in. Make it bob and weave with just the right rhythm and intrigue. Throw out enough rope to hook the reader and lull them into My Girl's world ever so quietly without really noticing how attached you're getting to her, so when the hammer falls, you, the reader, are devastated. I should make that all happen in a fairly cohesive way in my first draft.

Snort. Right. I think there are writers who make that work. Writers who actually shape their work to that degree of precision while progressing through their initial draft(s). I started down that road and wound up paralyzed. For me it was a wonderful exercise to sketch out the plot lines, since I have three, and lay the conflict across the top to give a look at my landscape. An aerial shot. But after that, I still have to hike the trail myself. I could extend this metaphor into its own entire post, I'm sure. I guess the point here is that I tend to come from the school of "both". Do we teach our kids to read using "phonics" or "whole language"? Both. And so on. I need the aerial shot, and I need to walk the good walk. When I'm lost and not sure what comes next, I can pull out the schematic and refer to the larger picture.

At the end of the day yesterday, I had drafted Chapters 19 & 20. I packed up my gear to head home and wondered, okay, now what? And then I had an idea. I pulled out my dozens of index cards with elements of the aerial view, laid them out and surveyed the arrangement. Aha! This! My Girl wants to talk about this and that makes total sense. Of course that's next.

So - To Sum Up...

Well, this week I shaved three minutes off the time it takes me to hike up this puppy and tumble back down again. This is not all that impressive since I was nearly carried off the first climb on a stretcher a few weeks ago. Even today a woman in her 70’s totally kicked my ass up the first two hills, but I wasted her on the moguls. :)

Remember the “unfortunate laundry incident”? (That’s a great bit from one of our local sportscasters, Tom Leander. Originally he used the phrase “the unfortunate golf cart incident” when discussing an NBA player’s injury.) Well, that ridiculous little finger pull is now swollen fingers – plural – and hand pain. I’m so sure. And yet I am still expected to perform household tasks. Clearly these people do not understand the escalating nature of my injury.

The novel (working title: Name Period and Date) is progressing quite nicely. My warehouse space has a bug or two to get worked out, but I am already finding my way through the words in a whole new way. Today I had a hard time wrapping my arms around the nature of a new character. He makes a one-time appearance in the book, but he’s extremely important. All I had to do was walk over to my collage table and spend an hour piecing him together. I absolutely love the space.

It's good to stand back and take inventory. Look around at what has been accomplished and where we need to go now. This post shows part of my week. Another part of my week begged for a little more attention. Future attention. Some now. Some soon. I’m summing up today to set the stage for my future absences. For a bit I’ll be here less, and unfortunately I’ll be reading your blogs less. Life is a funny thing. It’s not too terribly concerned with convenience.

Anyway, talk amongst yourselves, and I’ll be back shortly.

Be well -

When You Tear the Cellophane Away

Last night I caught the bug. The “I must read now” bug. I am of the one-day-click-order-from-Amazon school of lit-tra-ture. Imagine my surprise when I drove to the library. My memories of the library of my younger summer days were not wonderful. Mom had MS, and part of her maintenance therapy was to rest her legs every day for two hours. Lying down. I was eight; my brothers, five and three. We did not want to lie down for two hours every afternoon.

Mom dragged us (me) to the Yucca Branch of the Phoenix Public Library every single week. She made a haul of six or seven books, my brother John found three or four science fiction books, and Dave, the toddler, drooled on his picture books. I wandered. And sighed. And protested. “There’s nothing to R-E-A-D.” Moments later mom had pulled a random volume of Nancy Drew (in which the 15 year-old heroine wore gloves - gloves) from the shelf.

Last night I read Hemingway’s “The Old Man and the Sea”. The last time I made contact with this material was as a freshman in high school. Funny how different a work feels and sounds after 30 years. (I wish I’d kept Miss Schner’s reading list from my senior year.) I fully intended to write about my lovely experience with this piece of miraculous prose, but a funny thing happened on the way to the typewriter.

I went to the library again.

Today, though, I noticed people were culling and perusing and flipping through books, and they were happy about it. I turned my attention to the books and really took them in. Mostly cool plastic wrapped hardcover books. Have you ever noticed that when you crack the spine of a library book it crackles like fire? Or do you think the pages of an old book smell like your grandma’s couch from when you were ten? Of if the book is newer, do you think the pages smell just like a fresh pack of three-ringed notebook paper at the exact minute you tear the cellophane away?

I slid my index finger across titles looking for just the right words. Those words that stop a strolling finger in its tracks: “Ash Wednesday” by Ethan Hawke. Ahh…. See, in my writing, I just made reference to an Ethan Hawke string of dialogue from “Reality Bites” and this was surely providence.

After my daughter’s rehearsal, after a late dinner, after my son hugs me three times, I will take my book and kiss my husband heading down the hall to our room. I will lie down and read my new book. For two hours. While I rest.

All Great Lessons Are Learned At America's Taco Shop

Brad and I went to America's Taco Shop last night - the one on 7th Ave and Campbell - for carne asada tacos and the trio. Gorgeous weather for outside munching too. We had a lot of bases to cover regarding family and personal logistics. Always gotta get the business portion of the program out of the way first. Sometimes, too frequently, we only have time to run through the show and set to the top for the next night. But last night we lingered...

The patio was really crowded so we had to kind of lean into each other to talk. We talked about the class he's teaching at ASU's law school, some of our co-projects in the community, and my impending move into the warehouse. So exciting and so forth. We got up to go, tossed our trash, clasped hands and headed across the street. To where we were parked. Illegally.

And then I started talking about the novel. What this experience is like - Sara's story and how she tells it and where she seems to want to spend her energy. How interesting it is to sort of hear her telling it to me. Sometimes I get to a certain transition and think, "where was i?" and then I know to circle back to Sara and her mom at the bus stop. Current timeline. I think the story should be more focused on the old memories, but Sara really really really wants to talk about what's going on at school this year. She wants to talk about the systems and structures and that are stealing her air.

When we pulled into the driveway, I felt a little silly for going on about it. I thanked my husband and he said, "No, it was great. I'm glad you wanted to talk about it." I circled back to our conversation today. I wondered about Sara, and truly contemplated that idea of spending more time with this school year and how much sense that made to me.

I processed. I listened. I learned.

About Sara.

The Bull's Eye

I am a relatively private person. For those of you who know me personally this is not surprising to you. I am rarely "public" in public. Anne Lamott talks about writing three or four rings out from the bull's eye. Where we live.

She spoke at a conference in San Diego several years ago and talked about the nightmare of giving a very long interview in which she thought she remembered discussing her mother. When the article was printed she was mortified to read the quote about her mother. Anne had been lulled to sleep, and made a reference to her mother that was "too close to the bull's eye."

Her words were a cautionary tale. My husband frequently reminds me to speak in short declarative sentences and to talk in sound bites during interviews. Ironically, the only television interview I gave wound up on the editing room floor because I wouldn't bite. The reporter chatted and massaged the other women and eventually got them to give her the crap she was after. And I was really okay with that because I wouldn't want to own those words.

Sometimes I think blogs, email, and all social media are the "lull". For me anyway, I forget that I'm attaching words - immortalized-in-the-cloud words - to real emotions, experiences & people and then putting all that out there for anyone to read. Stories about myself and my family. My friends. My colleagues.

Tonight I sat down to write and was going to post about a very personal experience between my daughter and me. Something very close to her bull's eye. And I wondered if I was willing to look into her baby blues and own those words. Later. Forever.

So I wrote about Anne Lamott instead, who by the way, is my favorite author. :)

Sticky Fingers

I have been fortunate to have written and produced plays over the last decade. The process is very different from writing a novel. Most notably, collaboration over solitude. For the most part I enjoy the collaborative effort of writing for the stage - writing groups, early readings, staged readings, workshops and then production. Lots of feedback and the thrill of watching actors pick up the material for the first time.

Over the last three years, in subtle ways, I started to suffer from sticky fingers. Too many finger prints on the work, and pretty soon it didn't look anything like what I intended to write in the first place. I was too eager to please and consequently abandoned my characters and their stories. I have purposely stayed away from participating in any writers' groups with this novel. I may, and I may not, eventually find myself sidling up next to one.

For now, it's so exciting to pound out those 500 words every day. Even more so when I reach 630 or 1,326 in any given day. Listening to My Girl is thrilling. She has so much to tell me, and who knows, maybe the first 30,000 words were necessary to get to the heart of the story. Maybe I only think I know what her story looks like. As Anne Lamott says, "follow the guy behind the chain link fence". I did in fact meet a guy who showed up out of the blue. I suppose it could even wind up being his story. The cool thing is that I just feel like I'm along for the ride with this first draft. Sticky or clean, so far the only finger prints are mine.

A Space to Call My Own

Busy morning.

Last friday I toured the Levine Machine Co. warehouse on the corner of 7th Street and Grant Street in the Phoenix warehouse district.

Mike Levine is a walking encyclopedia of Phoenix history. I mean way way way back. He's a fascinating man to talk with. Among his many interests and passions, Mike supports local arts and the development of local artists. The Levine website has some pictures of the warehouse at 605 E Grant Street (pictured here). There are incredible creative businesses housed on the larger west side of the warehouse.

The east side is smaller and where a performance artist, a digital artist, two painters and me have set up shop. He even planted two platforms for a stage in my space. It's really pretty amazing. I went down this morning to sign the lease and pick up my key. I feel so lucky to have come across this location.

Many thanks to Jim McPherson for working on several arts projects with me and keeping an eye open for space that might just meet my professional needs. Thanks so much, Jim.

Flash For Your Fiction

A good writer friend of mine suggested some months ago that I post an entry every day for a month – or maybe three months – I can’t recall exactly. Anyway it was for some crazy amount of time. Like a week.

I always follow directions. Not really. However, this is my third post in as many days. I’m sure this will be the last of me.

Since I am here, and because I received my weekly installment of this author’s work, I want to share a bit about him with you. His name is Bruce Holland Rogers. Among his many accomplishments, he is the reigning rock star of Flash Fiction.

Flash, or Short-Short Stories, are generally works of no more than 2,500 words in length. As you can imagine given my fondness for the small canvas of the 10-min and one-act plays, I am enchanted with this restricted frame.

I have subscribed to his weekly shorts for over three years now and have never been disappointed. Not once. I remember many of his works long after reading them. These stories rang especially true for me: “A Poet to Watch” 4/09, “Lifeguard” 7/09, and “The Day That Bites” 9/09, “Stone Lions” 3/10.

Give yourself a nice treat. Take a break. Curl up with your screen and cup of tea. Bruce approaches the small canvas with a different palette every week.

You can follow Bruce on Facebook or through his website subscription (click on the paypal link).