Columns for late 2003
(more
archives here)
| THE SHOW MUST GO ON
October 1, 2003 I’d like to give a warm welcome back to… ME! Thanks, it’s great to be back.
[I don’t want to write about the details any more than I think you want
to read about them.]
Here I am! Let evildoers beware!
The next column of The Teddybear Sawdust Show! will be out on
Saturday, October 4, and it will feature, among the usual goodies, the
schedule for this month. This is very important, because as some of you
know, I am in training for National
Novel Writing Month , and this will be my November. Will there be columns
in November? Probably. Will there be Baker’s 12? Maybe, actually.
Thanks! go out, first of all, to MLG, writer of Marc’s Remarks
(you do check my links, of course), who reminded me that Encyclopedia
Brown’s first name was Leroy. Was Donald J. Sobol a music fan? Anyhow,
thanks again. And come back from vacation soon, y’hear?
I had a thought on my UnBirthday, September 15, which my parents told
me was my birthday so I wouldn’t accidentally tell anyone the truth. That
thought was this: If a kid grows up from the age of 5 thinking his birthday
is on one day, then at 13 finds out it’s another, does this predispose
him to having the viewpoint that reality is subjective and at the whim
of the beliefs of the individual? Think about that while reading the last
few paragraphs of today’s column.
But now I wax enthusiastic on the subject of the man who was my biggest
influence as an early adolescent: Gordon Korman. You may not have heard
of this guy, but he had all sorts of great things going for him:
His books are damned funny. He takes a weirdo (or several), adds a straight guy, throws them somewhere the two of them can flourish, and they do. Bruno Walton: Master of hyperbole and Grand Schemes. Artie Geller: Junior con artist, sorry, entrepreneur. Rudy Miller: Y’know, I just can’t explain Rudy Miller. I think I understand him, but who can say? Read I Want To Go Home. Tom Weston: The master spy in training. And, of course, Bugs Potter: The Most. But the thing I loved best about Korman's writing was his way with a riot. His books comprised a series of very funny events, all of them building up to the massive riot. (Bruno loved a good riot.) I was in awe of his ability to craft these things, and then have them pay off the way he did. It taught me so much about how a story works, how everything moves in one direction, and then that culmination is all the greater for it. Wow. And then – longtime readers of the Trapdoor Spider will appreciate this – he showed me something new about dialogue: You don’t always have to say who is talking. Sometimes the audience can just tell. Sometimes, like in a riot, say, it really doesn’t matter. Elmer crouched behind Bruno and continued to scream
as the skunk explored the hall.
- from This Can’t Be Happening At MacDonald Hall!
As Korman got older, so did some of his subject matter, like preparing for the future and sons in conflict with their fathers. This was great stuff, too. My favourite of his books is Son Of Interflux, in which a father and son are having a huge business conflict but this doesn’t stop them from sticking together as a family. Also it has a beautiful bit of psychology going on: People come to the hero, a teenager, with their problems. They talk to him; they have concerns that are difficult to straighten out. He lets them talk, but can’t offer any advice. Yet they still feel better! He doesn’t know why, though. But we do. And now we come to that masterpiece of magical self-improvement Who Is Bugs Potter? Those of you who have realised that The Teddybear Sawdust Show! is part grimoire will be able to appreciate that Who Is Bugs Potter? functions as a primer on How To Create Your Own Reality. It’s about the story of a high school boy named David Potter, “but my friends call me Bugs.” He plays drums, and is in Toronto for an all-star high school student concert. His straight guy - a flautist, natch – remarks in response to Bugs’ disdain for practice that Bugs must be the better musician: “Probably,” Bugs agreed genially. “I am good. I mean, I am really good! I mean, I am The Most!” And he’s right: Bugs is The Most. He presents this as fact, because to him it is. No bragging, and no false modesty, either. His certainty about things means he has the courage to go backstage at intermission, and to play with his favourite group – Endomorph. And Toast. And Dorchester Melon. And Spoon Rest. Nuclear Teacup, Radium Sample (featuring Spider Solomon on drums!), Vanderboom, Migraine, Johnny Solid, Whirlwind Von Helwick, Plankton, Busted Chandelier, Winged Tortoise, &c &c &c. On the other side of the spectrum is starlet BiBi Lanay, whose public image is that of a big star from Europe, but who keeps telling her assistant, “I’m Brenda Lifschitz, a secretary from the Bronx.” Naturally, Bibi (or Brenda) is miserable, living a life she doesn’t enjoy. Compare this to Bugs. He sees a poster advertising that his favourite group is playing at a local club. Does he wonder if he can go? Hah. “We’re actually going to see Endomorph!” This is the magic of a Korman novel: It makes you yearn for the freedom
to be like his characters, which hopefully someday you discover you always
had.
On the subject of music and creating your own reality, one of the many great things about being me is that people think I’m a rock star. Several years ago a young lady told me I looked and acted like one, and just last week somebody in the checkout counter at the grocery store asked me, “Do you play, man?” But the one I like best is from this Spring. I was at the gym, went home and showered, then headed out for the bus stop. There were two guys there who had seen me at the gym, in sweats and perspiration, and now I was all fresh and dressed for the night, and one turned to me and said, “Are you in a band?” Just out of the blue! He even stroked an air guitar for emphasis. So yeah, next time somebody asks, I am in a rock band. Gotta come up with a name, now. MY OCTOBER SYMPHONYOctober 4, 2003 Self-knowledge is key. And your friendly neighbourhood Trapdoor Spider doesn't write on Fridays. Tried it, doesn't work. Keydoke. So now there is a new schedule: The Teddybear Sawdust Show! publishes once a week. On the weekend. Sometime. I am an artist! I require flexible scheduling! And yet, here is my schedule for the rest of the month: October 4: Baker's 12 - Week
25
Yup, that's it. I'll be leaving it here, or at the top of the page,
all month, so you can come back and check the B12 and PGforPeril
links.
And if this doesn't prepare me for the whirlwind that is NaNoWriMo, I don't
know what will.
Speaking of biting off more than I can chew, my dad always used to say
my mouth would get me into trouble. (It took me a long time to realise
he was talking from personal experience.) And it does, all the time, but
you know what? This is because I love words. I love how they work. I love
making them work. And most often, the way they work is by drawing connections,
and as it happens those connections are sometimes unpleasant for people.
So in a situation where I can draw an horrible pun, or liken someone's
hat to an arachnid, or many of the other things the court jesters once
did, then I do it. I gotta be me.
Pinky & The Brain fans may be enriched to learn that no less
a wordsmith than Eminem rymes the words "world" and "unfurled" on his latest
album.
Here's a thought for you lit crit types. (And I know you're out there!) I listened to a ton of music when I was growing up. It surrounded me like a security blanket. And I heard many lyrics, some of which I didn't understand. For example, I used to think A View To A Kill talked about "feelings" and "flame," but this was before I knew the story of the Phoenix, and now of course the lyric makes a little more sense - the word is not "feelings." Now, if you're a kid, and you don't know the lyrics, but you try to figure them out anyway, only you come up with juxtapositions you don't understand, so you have to try and figure out what the singer means by them... Are you not doing lit crit? Anyone else out there who didn't quite understand the lyrics to a favourite
song? Some kid who grew into an adolescent that wondered why other people
found poetry so difficult?
HERE I STAND AND FACE THE RAIN
Dear friends (and other readers), For the last month, coming here gave you not my simple yet pleasant reds and beiges, but rather a green background with yellow letters. These yellow letters were in groups of five letters, and formed no words recognisable to speakers of English. Nor Welsh, even. Absolutely zero of my readers believed I had been hacked. My readers are smart cookies and I love 'em for it. It was a coded message, naturally, and you can find it here. It looks slightly different now, of course. There's a link back to the Show and a link to a hint page, which only has one hint... for now. Also, yeah, two letters had to be reversed, because they were in the wrong order. Erg. Thanks to DEZ, who solved this sucker, thus directing me to the spelling
error. Thanks also to those who tried to solve it, despite not being able
to use any private hint I provided, since these hints advised using letter
frequency, and E is not the most frequent letter in the message (nor the
second, even). I promise you I did not realise this at the time.
Onward! The big question you're probably asking yourself right now is, "Is The Teddybear Sawdust Show! really back? Like, for real? Publishing once every week, on the weekends?" And the answer is Yes. An unqualified Yes. This is a vow. And the only other thing I have to say about my absence is that you can't follow your heart if you ain't listening to it. The Trapdoor Spider's Web frontpage has been slightly modified, to give everyone an idea of what to expect in the next few months. You'll like what's coming. But for now, as most of you know, I have a novel to write. I am behind, but I am ahead of last year's schedule. Plus I have already committed sacrilege, but I will tell you all about that... This weekend. Love, TS. SIN AFTER SIN November 18, 2003 Sorry, Tuesday, not quite the weekend, but better than the extended
hiatuses (hiati? I should look these things up.) that characterised the
last few months. So.
Technical Thing: Anyone else being asked to Sign In when they
follow my links?
Chapter Two of the novel is up. When I was planning for the project I was imagining ten chpters of five thousand words each, makes sense, ten seems like the minimum number of chapters a book should have, any less and they're sections, aren't they, and so ten into 50K is 5K what could be simpler? Well, brain surgery for one. It has rules that make sense. Now that they're done, Chapter One consists of 8000 words, and Chapter Two of 12000. That's gong to average out at five chapters for this book, as an average, unless the increase is a trend of some sort and the next two chapters are going to be 16K and 20K, or perhaps 18K and 27K. (I love Math; how bout you?) I was asked in an interview what the rewards of NaNoWriMo are, and I talked about such easily-quantified concepts as "learning how you write," which then of course just gives the interviewer more questions, beginning with What Does That Mean? Internal awareness, sorry, can we move on? How do I write? In large chunks, irregularly, as opposed to a little bit every day. I like lots of room around me, and I need control over my auditory environment. I know other things; I just can't define them yet. Back to NaNo. I daresay that not a single person I know who did this last year is having the same year this time out. The project changes you; that's the point. The first year, for me, it was about discipline, sitting down to actually write with the Internal Editor dialed down in the mix to Howling Back There Somewhere In The Wind. This year... Well, this year I'm a terrbile role model. I thought it was going to be the same as last year, y'know, only easiier.
I hadn't counted on being Forever Changed By The Experience. But since
last year, I've written a weekly serial, which has hit the 80000-word mark,
so I've been building on the lessons learned last November. I came into
the project shouting
Yes, but I've discovered that for me this is no longer true. I write more than I used to, and so I don't need that lesson anymore. B12 is written in chunks of exactly 640 words, so what more could I possibly need to learn about word counts? This year, I want quality. My lesson is to schedule enough time to write a novel that is saleable, or at least won't require so much editing that effectively it's an entire rewrite. I didn't understand this until Day Four, though. Day One: Midnight, November First. I sit down at the keys. Write the title: The Brotherhood of the Silver Cross. Hey, six words already. Then I start to write the chapter I've had kicking at my brain to be let out for six weeks. I know everything that happens in this chapter, and how it happens, and this is going to just flow from head to fingers to screen. Except it isn't. I am very, very tired. The words are crawling out, as though through molasses, and I know when they hit the page they aren't working in concert. Tonight, I, the Trapdoor Spider, stink. I finally succumb and somehow go up to bed. 1500 words in three hours, few of them any good. Elephants are marching two abreast through the giant hole in the story where the quality was supposed to go. This is NOT the start I had envisioned. Particularly painful is that I know I only have about two more free hours the rest of the weekend to write anyway; I had been hoping for 3K in the first three hours. Saturday night arrives, and I'm thinking of scrapping the idea. Last year I started thinking about ideas - hell, started thinking about the project, and that I needed ideas, in late October. This year something is wrong; maybe I need to get back to basics. Come up with a new idea, scrap this one, start afresh having lost only 3 hours of writing time, and let the panic motivate me to the NaNo heights of last year. (Veterans have discussed this with me: It seems all we remembered from last year was the triumph and exultation of the last twenty days, nothing of the pain and abject misery of the first ten.) But on this Saturday night I am blessed, for I have encountered that most elusive thing that can inspire a writer to all manner of insanity... a Fan. Jeff loves my idea, Jeff is excited about my idea, I feel like a heel for even giving thought to letting Jeff down. Thanks, Jeff. Day Two: Look, another one of those things I know about myself as a writer is flow. Without it, I'm not going to write. The words I have at the moment do not make me want to write any more like them. How do I get the ramp-up, how does this piece become inspirational again? Day Three: I hit upon it. Sacrilege. Complete rewrite. My novel has started with exposition, exposition is not my strong suit, dialogue is, so I decide to present this exposition within dialogue, and now the opening scenes work on two levels. Yes! this idea is so exciting I'm furiously scribbling notes all day at the office. I get home, I'm still very sleepy, I go to bed. Day Four: I rewrite the first 1500; I write the next 1500. This story now, officially, cooks. Jeff is going to love it. Go read it.
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