Monday, July 30, 2007

The Ambition of Christopher Patrick

This passage is about the character, Christopher Patrick, developed from the same series as Evelyn Thorpe, or Evie. Please enjoy:

"Ambition drove Christopher Patrick, not talent. But, he knew enough to keep his mouth shut. It's the one thing his brother taught him. Perhaps, it was the one thing Chris remembered about his brother. Chris never did understand why his brother, James, was so successful. It must've been luck, just dumb, simple luck. James was lucky to get into all the best schools, to be given the highest marks, to know the right people. James was lucky enough to get a reprieve from the annual family vacation to Seacliff. He had to prepare for his MCATs instead. And Chris thought himself unlucky. He just wasn't quite smart enough to get into the major he wanted, and he wasn't quite old enough to find a way out of this trip. Instead, he was packing a van for his parents, and preparing to lug his 12-year-old brother, Joseph, up the coast.

Christopher never watched the sunsets, he never felt the sea breeze, he probably didn't enjoy the ocean either. When the waves weren't breaking, it was just too quiet for him. He always described the beach as a little too “nature-y”. The stars were not his kind of lights. Chris was an urban man. He liked neon, he liked hustle and bustle. And this summer was his first chance, since he had his own car, to get away from the beach and experience inland nightlife. Most people didn't like it, but Christopher told himself that he would.

The second night after the family's arrival at the rental house, Chris planned to say an early goodnight to his parents, William & Marian. He would then jump on the highway and head to the inland bars. They were rough, but Chris knew his ID wouldn't be checked. The roughness probably should have scared him more than it did. But, even if he didn't acknowledge it consciously, Christopher Patrick knew deep down in his spirit that his luck was about to change.

Once he met Jeremy McShane, the only question left to decide would be this: what aspect of Christopher's personality does luck ferment, ambition or lack of talent?"

Thursday, July 26, 2007

Stream -- The Ever-Changing Tree...

Note: This is a stream of consciousness piece written in one session and printed with minimal revisions.
"The Ever-Changing Tree lived at the top of a flowering hill that rose up out of the towns surrounding it. One, small dirt road led off the main thoroughfare for traffic up to the base of the hill. Growing there were wild, unkempt flowers, grass that was literally high and dry, and all kinds of untamed brush. Someone, long ago, cut a swath through that and laid rough, uneven stepping stones into the funky soil. That was the only pathway through. It stopped where the manicured fields of bright California Poppy flowers began. Those formed a perfect circle around the field of the tree. The field of the tree was huge. The good soil beneath was covered by short and perfectly green grass. The field extended from the base of the tree trunk out slightly beyond the reach of branches. This was a long way.

"The Ever-Changing Tree was a giant oak. The biggest I had ever seen. I only knew the details of its home from memory. I did not get out much, but that does not mean that the tree and I were not constant companions. I lived out of the bedroom of an apartment quite a distance away. A long distance, but an unimpeded distance. This meant that my binoculars and my picture window were my prized possessions. Every morning and all through the day, and once before sleep, I kept tabs. I could only see the crown of the hill, which meant the Tree and its field, but that was all I would look at anyway. Still, I knew the rest was there, and I felt I was watching the head of an old-fashioned Franciscan monk. And I felt the Tree was watching right back.

I did not name this tree. Some say the Tree named itself, or at least led those interested in naming to a logical conclusion. Whatever happened, anyone who stayed long enough to observe it agreed with it. Tough times came and the bark darkened, appeared more hardy, and the green of the oak leaves deepened. The tree was moody. In angry, chippy parts of the year, when the people needed a vacation but weren't going to get it, the tree mirrored their spirits. It grayed and faded, the leaves grew paler, while the grass underneath tinted brown. The tree was like all of us where it also had its moments. There were the months when it was at its lowest point, and yet gave to us more than ever. Empty and bare, it gave its field time to thrive. And when the sun set on those cold days, the giant oak branches shined the light through and gave the people just a little more before night set in.

"The night did set in, however, and that was not the time to tell stories of the Tree or introduce it to an outsider. An eerie mist moved in from the lake and congregated on that hill. Strange lights would float about, probably reflections from cars out late, or maybe a stark moon. If the tree had leaves, they would certainly look sickly. Those were times where you still took in the sights, but were glad when they were over. This was true especially for me, for the Tree was an eerie tree on the night my golden age was first rocked. Weeks before, my binoculars were taken away so I wouldn't throw them at any more nurses. On my last night on my own, in my apartment, by myself, I could only squint through my picture window to see that eerie tree. The next day, I lost that window when I was brought here. They tried to take away my Tree when they said my story scared the inmates."

"Mr. Langston, there are no inmates here, it's not a prison. This is a home for you, and I want you to be taken care of. You haven't lost your tree."

"That's right, my dear. Because then I met you, Ms. Rawlings, and you like my story. And you're right, I haven't lost my tree. Just as I could always see the tree's home, so can I see the Tree, plain as day, right now as I can see you. It is the best it has ever looked. Exactly like the way the world is fresher after surviving a serious health crisis, or the way every color is brighter and richer and fuller when you first realize you love someone, that is The Ever-Changing Tree. The wind rustles the branches, and yet it is soft on your face. The leaves are vibrant and the sight of the sunshine on them makes you feel warm inside. Yet the bark is cool, and you would sit, back against the trunk, and read all day if you could. I imagine flying through the air, and seeing the fields of poppies sway with the breeze, and the adornment of the great hill. The faceless hustle and bustle of the people is gone, but the towns are alive with their spirits."

Monday, July 23, 2007

Dailies

When you don't know what else to write about, write about writing! One of the most difficult things I have found in my writing is not getting inspired, it is managing all the simultaneous inspirations that are always spinning through my head. An overabundance of ideas is both a blessing and a curse. I have numerous examples of great literary visions that stall completely when I put pen to paper.

Getting ideas is fairly predictable for me. Seeing their endpoint in a grand unveiling of storytelling is a most simple matter. It's that tiny part in between that always seems to be a nagging problem. Point A to Point B. The problem with it is that the particular story I'm inspired to write at any given moment is ruled by an ethereal, mysterious, and certainly complex process that I may never understand. So, there are usually around six simultaneous Point A's trying to reach six simultaneous Point B's. Huge problem.

My friends, I believe I have solved my problem thanks to taking a page from film. There are many similarities between literature and film, especially on a philosophical level. Obviously, both require a vision. Both require the ability to take and weave complex elements into a cohesive story. Both need editing, and in my case, self-editing. Both are essentially like sculpture. Their success is in channeling what is basically the madness of creative inspiration into a story understandable beyond the artist himself. So, thanks to film I have a new management strategy for story-writing.

At the end of the day of shooting, a director will usually sit down and watch all of the footage, raw or otherwise, that was shot on that particular day. Intuitively, these collections of footage are called dailies. I, too, have decided to keep a set of dailies for each story that I write. This way I can tell the parts of the story I want when I'm inspired to tell them, and then reassemble them in the main file. If I get stalled while writing in the main file, I can go to the dailies. Or, if one character or part of the story in the dailies stalls, I can stop and move on to another one.

Sometimes, I believe I have a measure of control over my creative abilities that I don't, in fact, have. It is a mistake to think that I can completely direct creative inspiration. But, I believe a strategy like this will allow me to harness it. Who knows? Maybe my productivity will jump up a notch.

Thursday, July 19, 2007

Stream -- Eventually you have to ask...

Note: This is a stream of consciousness piece written in one session and printed with minimal revisions.
Eventually you have to ask why. The problem with it is that the most obvious answers are usually the most unsatisfying. Sometimes, the answer you get is not the answer you want. One of the most important questions is what hand you play in it.

Call me Pythagoras or some other Greek-sounding philosopher's name. I ask questions and sometimes I answer them. When it gets right down to it, I probably don't do anything important. In fact, my vocation - and that's what I've discovered it is - is practically useless, but I could not live without it. Better yet, I could not function otherwise without indulging in the exploration of these, deep questions.

I ask questions. Why... am I in pain? ... am I confined? ... can't I depend on certain people? ... must I depend on certain other people? ... do I have to wait? ... do I suffer? And then I ask more, different questions. Why... do I love the persons I love? ... would I suffer to see them happy? ... are my passions both the best and worst things for me? Perhaps I'm really asking, "Is there a why?"

It's rainy today. I ponder these eternal questions as I sit at my picture window in my study. The sky is incredibly gray and off in the distance there is the sense of rain. A lush, green field stretches out before me, reaching all the way to that sense of rain. Even as I struggle with a dark day, occasionally a drop of fresh rainwater slashes in front of my eyes.

There have been many attempts at answers over the millennia. A vengeful god, nothing is real, it's an illusion, the world is innately bad, all experience is subjective, objective nature is harsh and cold, karma, God is dead, God has a plan; each one, no matter how true or untrue, contributes to the universal mystery. While I know that I certainly could be wrong, I am also reminded by the fact that every great thinker was still just a human being. I've got my philosophy.

There is a flash of lightning to the east. Suddenly, I hear the trotting of a horse. It comes up along the road alone just in front of my window, before the green field. This horse is jet black and yet it is a heavy contrast to the darkened sky. This horse is alive. It has a long tail and appears finely groomed. The finest. Its most obvious feature strikes me last. The horse is wearing a saddle, but it is strange. It looks handcrafted and extremely old, like the horse has been carrying its rider for many years. But the animal is healthy and energetic, with no sign of fatigue. It moves the same as it would have in its youth.

Then, the horse makes eye contact with me, peering in through my window. It is a wise horse. It is as if the dark eyes are shielding me from a vibrant light within. It is almost indescribable. The horse turns slightly, shifting my focus back to its saddle. The wear and tear is obvious. I'm struck by the possibility that this horse has seen its fair share of struggle. I pray for the horse, and I hope that somehow, perhaps telepathicly, it can understand me pleading with it to gallop down the road, away from this place.

There is another flash of lightning, this time off to the west. To my shock, the horse turns around and happily trots back in the direction it came. I stand up and crane my neck so I can get one last glimpse. How could it do that? Understanding, in this case, is beyond me. The horse stops. It gives me one last look, turns and readies itself, and breaks into a gallop. Quickly, it is back down the road and out of sight. I begin to think again about my questions.

Monday, July 16, 2007

The Dark Part of Darkness

In the upcoming and future entries, I will be expanding on the feelings of the characters I describe. Recently, I have found that I'm focusing primarily on states of being in which I have invested so much of myself in living in the real world. While that's good for me as a person, I feel it's important to delve deeper as a writer. I'm going to begin exploring the darker parts of my characters. There has to be a reason to look to the good. I think there is always some force that causes us to hope, almost as a reactionary behavior. If these characters don't need strength and courage, optimism and hope, they won't have it. So, I will be focused on giving them those reasons. Some stories may not have rays of hope initially. I will also be exploring some characters that are not sympathetic and may even be villainous.

After all, what good is a protagonist without an antagonist? This update is simply fair warning. I'm not the type of person who spends too much time on despair or anger. I mostly choose reasons to be happy over reasons to be sad. Like I've said many times, however, the harmony needs the dissonance. Don't worry when you see those entries. It's still just little old me. But I think they will be important and I look forward to getting to work on those.

I realized also, that with the introduction of my Song Series posts and all the links I provided, I did not provide any way to actually hear "The Stone". Thanks to YouTube, I can. This version clocks in at about 7 minutes. Enjoy:

Monday, July 9, 2007

The Rhythm of Evie

This is a character I developed a long time ago when I was still in my screenplay phase. I've now decided that she would make an excellent addition to my fiction. This is a great example of the way I see Write What You Know. Thematic but not specific. Originally, I had planned to write a story about a fictional beach town based on the areas above Ventura that I visited so often growing up. Also, a somewhat villainous character makes an appearance, although I have no definite idea where the mysterious ending is headed. Please enjoy these passages:

"Rhythm. Rhythm was all that she could focus on. All the things she needed to remember in that moment were related to rhythm. The cycle of breathing... head up to one side and take a breath in, head into the water and breathe the air out, then at last, head out to the other side and another breath. The waves of the water lapped up against the edges of the pool and back to the center in a perfect sequence. The motions of arms and legs, her streamlined body, and most of all, the sheer force of her will, her spirit, propelled her back from one end of the pool and forth to the other. It was simply a necessity of exercise, 48 proper laps... not 45, not 50, but an exactly right 48. Simplicity was actually not in the exercise itself, but in what the exercise did for her mind.

A clear mind meant a good connection to her emotions. And that meant it was the right day spiritually for a visit to her uncle's estate. There was always something simply not right about his sanctuary, especially when Uncle Porter was there on-site. That's why Evie never spent any long duration in Summerland. It's also why she kept coming back. The beach, the people, the water, the guilt ridden loyalty to a caretaker's financial position, all of these things continually called to her.

Rhythm. Every movement, every step Evie made seemed measured by some cosmic force. It was as if she knew everything she was supposed to do before she even thought of doing it. And it was beautiful. Evie finished her swim and glided over to the pool stairs. To an observer, she almost rose out of the pool with pure blonde hair bronzed by the water, sparse eyelashes giving way to sparkling eyes, and a face washed clean of any makeup, definitely for the better. Her healthy lips suggested a hidden smile of pearly whites, and there was always a look of happiness about her even if it was not outright.

She could have worn a more accentuating swimsuit with more suggestive colors for the benefit of onlookers. But, a standard one-piece matching the light blue in her eyes suited Evie’s needs just fine. She always prided herself on not being the advertisement, but instead radiating its essence.

Over to her usual poolside table to dry off, Evie then put on her robe and sat for a few minutes. She took in the breeze and the beauty of the nice community pool in her moderately upscale apartment building. Then, evoking some sort of Greek goddess, she walked to her room in her usual way, ever so gentle but ever so confident. Every step was sure, but seemed to float over the surface, as if there would be no footprint left behind.

A short trip to Uncle's and the beach, she thought. Porter Williamson had other ideas, however. Evelyn Thorpe must have known in her spirit, but the rest of her had no idea."

Thursday, July 5, 2007

Song Series: "The Stone" by Dave Matthews Band

Today, I introduce a new feature to the blog. I will use the Song Series to give brief interpretations of some of my favorite songs. Today's edition is from the Dave Matthews Band album: Before These Crowded Streets. Here are my impressions of "The Stone".

The song is divided into two basic tones. The rhythm of the music gives an idea of the back-and-forth between them. The dissonance tells us that they are at odds. The verses represent to me the nagging tug of reality. Indeed, there are lines like "I will go a long way from that fool's mistake/And forever pay, no run, I will run and I'll be okay" and "I will go a long way to bury the past for I don't want to pay/Oh how I wish, this, to turn back the clock and do over again". Our lives are full of mistakes and they probably wouldn't be worth living if we didn't make a few. Some are more serious than others, so we face that inner conflict of knowing we deserve the consequences but also trying to find a way out. I'm sure every person has had a situation they wish they could run from or start over.

In fact, that is an inescapable quality of this world. Perfect in its imperfection. I really believe in that. The truth of it is, in my eyes, one of the main ways we are defined is by getting thrown into the muck and digging ourselves out. The verses present feelings that occur in the moment, but looking outside-in, I'm able to say that I wouldn't be who I am without the tough stuff and the need to strive beyond it. I think this is the reason there is so much ambivalence in each verse.

Whereas the verses give us conflict, the chorus offers a sense of serenity within a relationship between two individuals. The song is quite ambiguous in terms of deciding how much of a romantic element is involved. However, my personal belief is that it is a relationship between lovers. The lyrics read "I was just wondering if you'd come along/Hold up my head when my head won't hold on/I'll do the same if the same's what you want/But if not I'll go, I will go a long way".

This part is sung in what could be described as a loving tone. There is a hope for a relationship of mutual love and the emotion of if you want to be with me I want to be with you but if not I'll be fine on my own, which is often found. That's when we're hit by the last line of the chorus which bleeds into the first parts of the verses, furthering the tension between the safety of the relationship and the harshness of the real world.

The irony of this idea is that I believe the tension can be broken. That ability rests within the individuals and their choosing to do the "mutual love" part and not the "I'll be fine on my own" part. I believe strongly in inner strength and independence, but I also think that strength often needs additional support. The best relationship, for me, makes me believe in myself even more.

And so, I think the song implicitly gives the answer to the problem it presents. The two tones, the two worlds, in the song are separate and at odds. The answer? Yes, that's right... put ‘em together. Combine the two. Introduce the harshness into the relationship. That sounds weird, but I'm talking about that thing we don't really like doing. Share how that makes you feel. In addition, introduce the relationship into the real world. Let yourself trust in someone else even when you're in the muck and alone. It's difficult, hence the song, but it's something I know I need to do. I take comfort in the way the song ends. A beautiful, and unmistakably positive, set of strings fading into silence.

Monday, July 2, 2007

How am I Imprisoned?

I believe every person faces imprisonment in some way and at some point during their lives, or maybe even throughout their lives. The most obvious form is legal incarceration. I take nothing away from that, it is definitely one of the most difficult forms otherwise our society would not have deemed it appropriate for punishment. However, imprisonment exists in many other manifestations as well. Health, both mental and physical, is a major factor. We can be severely confined by a relationship, by a job, by our desires, even by our beliefs. It is not always a question of whether those things are right or wrong. More important is how they make us feel and what we decide to do about those feelings.

In college I took an introductory psychology course, and one of the most fascinating sections focused on the nature of the will. Our class studied all the basic psychological aspects of the will. What is relevant here is something called the locus of control. Some people have a very strong internal locus of control while others have one that is strongly external. Essentially, it's a question of whether your will is more influenced by you or your environment. To my former professor's likely dismay, I believe or at least I hope that question is up to our choice more than has been traditionally thought.

Speaking from experience, I know that I have no say over other people or the outside world. My right lung will tell you that sometimes I don't even have control of my own body. Many times I am unable to decide how those things affect me. I do know, though, that I have complete control over what I choose to do about those things. I have several options. Depending on what happens or the nature of the imprisonment, I can choose to fight back and find a way to free myself, I can choose to accept it, I can choose to survive it until I can fight it, I can choose to seek help, or I can make some other choice. The essence here is that even when there are forces acting on me, I am still the one who is dictating terms.

One of the things I face is an incarceration of patience. There are many aspects of my life that require waiting. Things are always off in the distance. The chase is alive and well. I need foresight, endurance, and a type of long-term patience to get through it. Contrary to these things, I also need shortsightedness. Without losing sight of roads' end, I must remember I can only do today what will get me to tomorrow. And I need to be able to admit when I need a helping hand & the support of another. It is a step-by-step process, but I decide where and when the steps will go.