Tag: Reading

I just want to be finished

Just when you think that the story is done, and you’re on the third re-read, just to make sure…

Damn!

I don’t like the way that chapter reads, and what’s worse, it’s about the tenth time I’ve looked at it.

It doesn’t matter whether the last three times you read it, it was just fine, or, the editor has read it and the chapter passed without any major comment.

I think the main problem I have is letting go.  For some odd reason, certain parts of a story sometimes seem to me as though they are not complete, or can be missing a vital clue or connection for the continuity of the story.

That, of course, happens when you rewrite a section that is earlier on in the story, and then have to make ongoing changes.

Yes, I hear the stern warnings, that I should have made a comprehensive outline at the beginning, but the trouble is, I can change the ending, as I’m writing it and then have to go back and add the hooks earlier on.  Not the best method, but isn’t that what an editor is for, to pick up the missed connections, and out-of-the-blue events that happen for no reason?

I find that often after leaving a finished story for a month before the next reading, the whole picture must formulate itself in my head, so when I re-read, there was always a problem, one I didn’t want to think about until the re-read.

Even then it might survive a second pass.

I know the scene is in trouble when I get to it and alarm bells are going off.  I find nothing else to do but look at it.

So, here I am, making major changes.

But, at least now I am satisfied with where it’s going.

Only 325 pages to go!

Why is writing so hard

In just about every book about how to be a good writer, there seems to be a pile of problems that at some time in a writer’s life will need to be overcome.

Writer’s block

Don’t have it.  The ideas pour out of my head like water over a waterfall

Don’t use abstract descriptions in your writing

Damn, I do that all the time

But, back to writer’s block, is that where you write 37 chapters and there the story stops?

Oops.

Plan your book and have an outline so you can write it from start to finish

Plan?  What Plan?

That only happens when I’ve written the book and prior to the first edit, I make a precise of each chapter to make sure of continuity.

Plan your characters and give them a timeline

Oh God is that why characters’ names are often changing as the story progresses.

Believe it or not, I’m working on this issue.

Manage your time.

Still can’t get it right.

Write at least a thousand words a day, no matter if it’s rubbish or not.

Does that include writing for social media?

Apparently not.

At least this is one of the requirements I follow religiously. Sometimes it’s a lot more words but a least some writing finished up either on paper in on the word processor.

Now it’s time to write those thousand words.

Look, there, I’ve at least got one part of time management under control.

A photograph from the inspirational bin – 1

We think of tropical Queensland having pristine white beaches and azure sparkling seas.

Not necessarily so.

This used to be a mangrove swamp.

Perhaps this is what happens when you mess with the natural environment, you’re left with something that’s not very nice.

There’s no beach, no sand, and sometimes not a very pleasant odor.

We can imagine what this might have looked like before man turned up to urbanize the area. In the background, there is an inlet and on either side lush vegetation.

It must have looked very inviting once upon a time. Now the shoreline is completely built on, the vegetation that was once there completely cleared, and the inlet leads to a marina.

Perhaps the story here might be about greedy destructive property developers who care not for anything but profits.  But in their quest to destroy, there is always someone else aiding and abetting, someone in government.

But what if there was an even darker secret hiding just below the surface, and about to be uncovered.  How far would someone go to preserve that secret?

 

Is there a reason to get out of bed?

I sometimes wonder if there is.

Is that depression speaking, or am I just tired from all the late nights?

Unlike most writers, authors and bloggers I don’t have a day job.  You could say it’s one of the benefits of getting old, this retirement thing, but after a while, not having a reason to get out of bed starts working on your subconscious.

The idea of having a job, and going to work, is a good reason to drag yourself out of bed every morning.  And because of this, the idea of sleeping in takes on a whole new meaning.

You know, I’ll just lie here for a few more minutes, and then I’ll get up.  Having turned off the alarm, the eyelids flutter, and before you know it, half an hour had passed, and you wake up in fright, knowing you’re going to be late.

In retirement, that doesn’t happen.  There is no alarm, there is no guilty pleasure in spending those extra minutes in bed.

Of course, this tardiness, or lack of desire could be because I find I do my best writing in the dead of night, often not getting to bed before 2 a.m.   Last night it was a little later because of a story I’m working on came to life with a new idea.

It had been stagnating because it’s part two and whilst I had an idea about where it was going to go, in the end, we’re off in a different direction, and the words flowed.  You just don’t stop writing when you hit a vein.

But this isn’t always the case.  This morning I have an excuse to stay in bed, but most others I don’t.

Perhaps I should find something else to do, something that will give me that same reason I used to have to get up every morning.

Or maybe I should be more organized in my retirement life, you know, set a schedule and do things according to a timetable.  I was never one for being organized, but perhaps it’s time to start.

Just let me lie here for a few more minutes and think about that.

The cinema of my dreams – It’s a treasure hunt – Episode 91

Here’s the thing…

Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.

I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.

But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.

Once again there’s a new instalment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.

…

The aftermath and goodbye

…

No one in the room, of those who had been forced to remain, could quite comprehend what just happened.

You could read about it in a newspaper, or hear about it on television during the news hour, and think, well, I wasn’t there but it must have been traumatic for those who were, but traumatic didn’t even begin to describe what I just witnessed.

It took everyone more than a few minutes to process those last few seconds before they could move, let alone think about what they were going to do.  With the threat incapacitated, there was no reason to, at least, not straight away.

I was surprised then, that after however long it had been since those events, I heard Charlene’s voice cutting through the fog.

“Are you alright?”

She was shaking me by the shoulder, sitting on the floor next to me, and she looked, and sounded, visibly upset.  I was surprised she was still in town much less anywhere near here.

“I wasn’t the target,” I said, and then realized that was hardly relevant to anything; it was just the first response that popped into my head.

I could then suddenly hear everything as if someone had turned up the volume, and the first background sound was Benderby’s daughter crying.

“You were almost in the line of fire for one of the marksmen.  I thought he’d misaimed. For a moment there, when I saw you fall…

She still cared, which was something I should appreciate.  I took a moment before lifting myself off the floor to sit beside her.

“This was a disaster.  Your father should have realized a woman with a gun would be hell-bent on revenge and wasn’t going to be talked down.  She probably used the time it took to get me to mentally prepare so she could kill the pair of them.  And I’m surprised you didn’t see it coming.”

“It might not have come to this if she hadn’t known Alex and Vince were suspected of killing her son.  Did you tell her about Alex and Vince?”

It was a meaningful look, one that conveyed disapproval because she was right, it had to come from me because I was only one of a very few who knew the actual facts of the matter.”

Better then, to admit it.  “No.  But I told my mother, while I was in hospital before I had time to consider the ramifications.  That was some deal Benderby pulled off, to have Vince strung up and a signing a confession to get Alex off the hook.”

“He didn’t exactly get away scot-free.  He still has a string of minor charges to face, and there will be jail time, one way or another.”

I glanced over at Mrs. Boggs spread out on the floor where she had collapsed after being shot at least twice.

Almost before she hit the floor, two deputies were beside her, removing the gun, and checking if she was still alive.  I imagine the sheriff, by the door, phone to his ear, had called for medical assistance, perhaps out of deference to a woman who was a friend, or because he had to show all care and respect for her so a good defense attorney didn’t find a reason to have the case dismissed for lack of respect.  There had been problems handling perpetrators in the past, perpetrators who got off on technicalities.

But all that was moot if she was dead.  She seemed to be alive when she hit the floor, and then hadn’t moved in the last few minutes.  My first thought was that they had killed her, but I saw her hand move, which meant she was still alive, incredibly good shooting on the part of the marksmen considering the obstacles, and the inclination to stop the perpetrator permanently.

Around us, several other deputies were escorting the remainder of the patrons out of the room, now officially a crime scene designated by the ‘do not cross’ tape lines going up.

The sheriff had made it his job to escort Mrs. Benderby, and her daughter, out of the room, and, no doubt get a statement after being checked out by a paramedic.

I could hear sirens in the distance, so they would be arriving imminently.

A. Minute or so later, I was the last civilian in the room. 

I turned to Charlene, “You do realize that both Boggs senior and Ormiston were in that cave, before Alex and Vince cleaned up.”

She smiled.  “Actually, as a matter of fact, I do.  I took a forensic team back to see if we could find either of Alex’s or Vince’s DNA, and not only did we fund it, but the skeletal remains of what appears to be four individuals.”

“Boggs, Ormiston, and two pirates.  One had a sword through the rib cage so I suspect there was a little dissent when the treasure was being divvied up.”

“I’m sure that will be confirmed soon.  I wanted to nail Alex’s ass to the wall, now it appears we might have enough evidence to put old man Cossatino away too.  He was picked up at the airport trying to leave the country.  An all-around good day for team justice.”

“Except for Mrs. Boggs”

“I’m sure she’ll plead temporary insanity, overcome by the grief of losing her son.”

Flippant, perhaps, or just cynical?  It was a bit early in her career to be like that, so perhaps that might be a little of her father rubbing off.

“Perhaps she was hoping the police would kill her.  After all, she has very little left to live for.  I doubt pleading insanity was her first thought when she walked into this room.  You might want to study up on the human condition a little before you start labeling people, and especially if you are thinking of continuing on this detective thing.”

That came out wrong, more a rebuke than an observation, and judging by her expression, she took it as the former.

“There will always be a lot of things we could do better.  You might consider next time to dissuade your friends from doing stupid things, like Nadia kidnapping Alex and Vince in the first place.”

“If you had done your job…”

Neither of us had seen the sheriff come over, and he was there long enough to be privy to the last comments.  “I’m sure at the end of the day, justice will prevail despite the convoluted route it took us to get there.  But for argument’s sake, neither Alex nor Vince would press charges against Nadia, so it was not kidnapping, and since the mall belongs to the Benderbys, neither wanted to press for trespass, so, all in all, no harm done.”

He glared at his daughter.  “I asked you to get his statement, not debate the legalities of the situation. Get it done and get back to the station.”

With that said, he left.

Charlene stood up, glared at me, then said, “no good deed goes unpunished.  Do you want to give it here, or at the station?”

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2022

Timelines, deadlines, and disasters

Unfortunately, I’m not one of those people who work well to timelines, so the very thought of using something like Microsoft Project to get my writing into some sort of timeframe, with deadlines, seemed, to me, to be a bit extreme.

Say for instance the major deadlines for a writing project are

  1.  Write an outline, with as much detail as possible, with an overarching plot, characters, key points in the novel, and scouting for locations
  2. Writing.  This could be broken down into chapters, but more practicable would be sectioned, each consisting of a number of chapters.
  3. Editing, planning for one, two or three, or more edits
  4. Proofreading
  5. Send to editor

Clearly if I was going to take this approach, then I would have to allocate hours of the day specifically for writing and doing all those other writer chores in less time, and with fewer distractions.

And, it might work for a more dedicated author.

But…

I did make a new years resolution that I would try and do things differently this year.

Except…

I set a goal to restart editing of my next novel on 1st Feb. I thought, setting it so far into the year it would be easy.

It would give me the time to clear up all the outstanding, get in the way, distractions, and be free to finally finish it.

But there’s always something else to do, other than what we’re supposed to be doing.

For me it used to be going away, spending long, sleepless hours flying from one side of the world to the other had fuelled my imagination more than I expected and where this used to be the impetus to write more stories that that had not happened yet this year.

I have other stories of course, all in carious stages of writing, but if only I could focus on one story at a time.

So…

I’ve tried to set some new, more realistic goals to finish playing with these other stories as soon as I can, so come the first of March, I can resume work on the next book to be published.

Or not.

I go missing for a day, and…

It’s like dying a literary death.

The silence is deafening.

It seems, after a lot of trial and error, trying this that and the other, I’ve discovered that you only get out of social media what you put into it.

And it means that unless you are on it 24 hours a day, every day, spruiking, or whatever it is we writers are supposed to do promoting ourselves and our work, nothing happens.

Don’t get me wrong, there are those who are raging successes, and I am happy for them.

But for us living on the fringe, and there is quite a lot of us, trying valiantly to reach the public eyes, the battle is just that, a battle.

When do you get time to write?

Is it a choice between writing, or trying to garner support and a following?

The authors who are published by the large publishers will tell you that it is the only way to become an author, where all of the marketing is done by the publisher and all they have to do is put in an appearance and pocket the royalties.

I don’t think that’s necessarily true.

But when I find that happy medium between marketing and writing, I’ll let you know.

Until then, I guess there will be more days like today, and that battle going on in your head that is telling you to give up, it’s never going to get any better.

Maybe not.

But give up? Not today, nor tomorrow.

After all, we live in a world where anything is possible.

Another start to another story, again

I have a stab at improving this starting piece every now and then, a project that started about a year or so ago, and I find myself rewriting the start over and over because I’m not satisfied with the characterization.

It’s not so much the storyline, as it is in trying to create sympathy for the character, and not find him as dull as ditchwater.  He’s improving with age.  As writers, we tend to create colourful characters and shy away from those who are dull and boring, because after all, as a reader, you want to become something or someone who is far from ordinary.  Well, Graham is starting out ordinary, but he will be anything but by the time I write those words ‘The End’.

I promise.

I am the master of my own destiny.

My father had drummed that into me, as well as my older brother and younger sister, over and over, until it became a mantra.

For them.

I could not say I didn’t have the same advantages afforded to them, afforded to me.  I did.

But somewhere lost in the translation, someone forgot to tell me that it was only advice, not an order, and mistaking it for the latter, I struck out on my own path.

And for the next ten years, it was a long and winding path that led me to this point in time, in a small room that held nothing to tell me where I came from, or who I really was.

My parents were very wealthy with an Upper Westside Apartment in Manhattan and a holiday house in Martha’s Vineyard, my sister had a successful medical career and married a most eligible bachelor, as expected, and my brother, he was a politician.

I’d not seen any of them in at least five years, and they hadn’t called me.

You see, I was the black sheep of the family.  I dropped out of college when it all became too much, and drifted.  Seasonal labourer, farm hand, factory worker, add job man, and night watchman. 

At least now I had a uniform, and a gun, and looked like I’d made something of myself.

It was hard to say why, but just before I was about to head out of the factory to end my shift, those thoughts about them came into my mind.   They might be gone, but I guess I would never forget them.  I wondered briefly if any of them thought about me.

It was 3 a.m. and it was like standing on the exact epicentre of the South Pole.  I’d just stepped from the factory warehouse into the car park.

The car was covered in snow.  The weather was clear now, but I could feel more snow was coming.  A white Christmas?  That’s all I needed.  I hoped I remembered to put the antifreeze in my radiator this time.

As I approached my car, the light went on inside an SUV parked next to my car.  The door opened and what looked to be a woman was getting out of the car.

“Graham?”

It was a voice I was familiar with, though I hadn’t heard it for a long time.

I looked again and was shocked to see my ultra-successful sister, Penelope.  She was leaning against the front fender, and from what I could see, didn’t look too well.

How on earth did she find me, after all the years that had passed?  Perhaps that sparked my un-conciliatory question, “What do you want?”

I could see the surprise and then the hurt in her expression.  Perhaps I had been a little harsh.  Whatever she felt, it passed, and she said, “Help.”

My help?  Help with what? I was the last person who could help her, or anyone for that matter, with anything.   But curiosity got the better of me.  “Why?”

“I think my husband is trying to kill me.”

Then, with that said, she slid down the side of the car, and I could see, in the arc lamps lighting the car park, a trail of blood.

My first thought was she needed the help of a doctor, not a stupid brother, then a second thought, call 911, which I did, and hoped like hell they got here in time.

And, yes, there was a third thought that crossed my mind.  Whether or not I would be blamed for this event.

© Charles Heath 2022

Do you ever think about…

And probably it is a matter of being better off not thinking

But…

I’m sitting here and writing a piece for a novel about one of my characters, and all of a sudden I stop, right in the middle of where he’s about to get violently murdered if he lets his guard down.

Why have I stopped right there?

A strange thought goes through my mind.

Did he remember to have breakfast, did he make the bed and tidy up after he got up?  Did he have to arrange to have his clothes cleaned, or were they cleaned for him?

Does he have a maid and a butler and a cook to do all those things?

The problem is, we don’t know what happened before he finished up in that precarious position.

We may know that he was taught to fight by a zen master, a swordsman, though I’m not sure if there is a requirement for fencing, to drive defensively, to kill people in more ways than you’ve had hot dinners.

We may know that he was in a similar fight the day before, and his energy has been depleted and may be running on painkilling drugs.  Of course, if that’s the case, and knowing the side effect of some of those drugs, he may be impaired, and slower in reaction time, which might mean premature death.

But we don’t know if he ate anything, whether he slept well, or not at all (though sometimes it rates a mention more often than not as an afterthought or an excuse), whether he has any distracting thoughts, like what the hell am I doing here?

Everyday things which all of us, and I’m sure even the most successful of spies, have to deal with.

Just a thought.

Back to the fight, yes he wins, got a couple of slashes and there’s a copious amount of blood on his shirt.

Let’s not worry about who’s going to clean up the mess, or do the washing.

A few running repairs with needle and thread, including the requisite grimaces in pain, someone else will clean the shirt, and yes, there’s always a cupboard full of clean clothes to change into.

Moving on…

The day that never ends

It sounds like the title of a book and maybe I should write it.  Along with the twenty other story ideas that are currently running around in my head.

Is it any wonder I can’t sleep at night?

I’m working on the latest book and it is not going well.  I don’t have writer’s block, I think it is more a case of self-doubt.

This leads me to be over-critical of what I have written and much pressing of the delete key.  Only to realise that an action taken in haste can be regrettable and makes me feel even more depressed.

I think I’d be happier in a garret somewhere channelling van Gogh’s rage.

Lesson learned – don’t delete, save it to a text file so it can be retrieved in saner moments.

I was not happy with the previous start.  Funny because until a few weeks ago I thought the start was perfect.

What a difference a week makes or is that politics?

Perhaps I should consider adding some political satire.

But I digress.

It seems it’s been like that for a few weeks now, not being able to stick to the job at hand.  I recognised the restlessness, but I’m not happy with the story as it is.

So I rewrote the start, added about a hundred pages, and now I have to do a mass of rewriting.