Writing: 1,168 words
I read an interesting article recently on how understanding the difference between a goal and a dream can dictate the course of a writer's career.
It has long been my dream, for instance, to become an author. I distinguish between an "author" and a "writer" in so far as an author is a published writer. All authors are writer, but not all writers are yet authors. Strictly speaking, I am already an author, because I have been paid for original fiction and published in an actual magazine. But for the purposes of this discussion, I'm refering to fiction of greater than short-story length.
Now with the ease and the diminishing stigma of self-publishing, and particularly electronic publishing, that dream has shifted. It has become a goal. Because the difference between a dream and a goal is that the former is out of my control while the latter is not. A goal is something that I can achieve solely through my own efforts, while a dream is sometihng that requires the efforts of others and a bit of fumbling luck. I still hold to the dream of getting at least one novel published in the traditional style, but now that I can write a piece of fiction, format it, create a cover for it, and upload it to Kindle and Barnes & Noble, and Smashwords all from the comfort of my own office, getting published and paid for my work is no longer a dream. It's a goal.
But it's a large goal that depends on several smaller goals. Halfway through August, I set one of those smaller goals for myself - to write a thousand words each day - and I have met that goal even when doing so was a struggle. Like last night. Even though I knew what was going to happen and how it was going to happen, I still struggled through five hours of typing to get to 1,168 words. I managed to compose a section and a half, and brought my total manuscript up to 93,914 words, and I discovered that my story exhibits a certain episodic quality that I really like.
As Michael travels his own long and curving path, his story intersects with the stories of a growing cast of nondescript players. The server at the Snake Eyes Diner with the strategic t-shirt, and the patron in the wingtip shoes reading The Press of Atlantic City. The scrawny girl at the gas station with the angel wing tattoos. And now a 15-year-old he spots in the midst of a gang of teenagers hanging around outside a condemned warehouse in the borough of Hobbes Landing (my fictionalization of Haddonfield; its name is derived from Hobbs End, Thomas Hobbes, and the real Atlantic County town of Mays Landing). I find myself intrigued by the ancillary stories of these fleeting characters, and Michael himself contemplates the fact that his is just one of an uncountable number of stories unfolding at any given moment. I may perhaps even write a few of those ancillary stories, including the moments when they cross Michael's path, for a supplementary short fiction collection.
And incidentally: if Hemingway was right about the key to writing being a willingness to "sit down at a typewriter and bleed," then I am officially a true artist. I blew my nose a little too hard at one point last night, right around midnight, and gave myself a nosebleed that wouldn't stop for half-an-hour. And I kept on writing anyway. I sat at the keyboard, and I bled. Literally.
In other news: I finished The Hunger Games today. For a novel about two dozen children being forced to murder each other for public entertainment, I found the book quite well-written and terribly engaging. I was vaguely reminded of the 1979 Richard Bachman novel The Long Walk, though Bachman's novel was more cerebral and existential than Collins's. The government of Bachman's world, for instance, pits each contestant against himself, while the government of Collins's world pits each contestant against the rest.
Dystopian themes of oppressive government and self-identity were only the most obvious premises of the novel, but I also read into the story something of an indictment against reality television. Though I have to admit: if the thirty contestants on The Bachelor were dropped into an arena and made to battle to the death, with the sole survivor winning the affections of whichever random white guy ABC was offering up at the moment, I would almost certainly watch. A little panem et circenses would certainly liven up the dreary pretentiousness of a Rose Ceremony.
It has long been my dream, for instance, to become an author. I distinguish between an "author" and a "writer" in so far as an author is a published writer. All authors are writer, but not all writers are yet authors. Strictly speaking, I am already an author, because I have been paid for original fiction and published in an actual magazine. But for the purposes of this discussion, I'm refering to fiction of greater than short-story length.
Now with the ease and the diminishing stigma of self-publishing, and particularly electronic publishing, that dream has shifted. It has become a goal. Because the difference between a dream and a goal is that the former is out of my control while the latter is not. A goal is something that I can achieve solely through my own efforts, while a dream is sometihng that requires the efforts of others and a bit of fumbling luck. I still hold to the dream of getting at least one novel published in the traditional style, but now that I can write a piece of fiction, format it, create a cover for it, and upload it to Kindle and Barnes & Noble, and Smashwords all from the comfort of my own office, getting published and paid for my work is no longer a dream. It's a goal.
But it's a large goal that depends on several smaller goals. Halfway through August, I set one of those smaller goals for myself - to write a thousand words each day - and I have met that goal even when doing so was a struggle. Like last night. Even though I knew what was going to happen and how it was going to happen, I still struggled through five hours of typing to get to 1,168 words. I managed to compose a section and a half, and brought my total manuscript up to 93,914 words, and I discovered that my story exhibits a certain episodic quality that I really like.
As Michael travels his own long and curving path, his story intersects with the stories of a growing cast of nondescript players. The server at the Snake Eyes Diner with the strategic t-shirt, and the patron in the wingtip shoes reading The Press of Atlantic City. The scrawny girl at the gas station with the angel wing tattoos. And now a 15-year-old he spots in the midst of a gang of teenagers hanging around outside a condemned warehouse in the borough of Hobbes Landing (my fictionalization of Haddonfield; its name is derived from Hobbs End, Thomas Hobbes, and the real Atlantic County town of Mays Landing). I find myself intrigued by the ancillary stories of these fleeting characters, and Michael himself contemplates the fact that his is just one of an uncountable number of stories unfolding at any given moment. I may perhaps even write a few of those ancillary stories, including the moments when they cross Michael's path, for a supplementary short fiction collection.
And incidentally: if Hemingway was right about the key to writing being a willingness to "sit down at a typewriter and bleed," then I am officially a true artist. I blew my nose a little too hard at one point last night, right around midnight, and gave myself a nosebleed that wouldn't stop for half-an-hour. And I kept on writing anyway. I sat at the keyboard, and I bled. Literally.
In other news: I finished The Hunger Games today. For a novel about two dozen children being forced to murder each other for public entertainment, I found the book quite well-written and terribly engaging. I was vaguely reminded of the 1979 Richard Bachman novel The Long Walk, though Bachman's novel was more cerebral and existential than Collins's. The government of Bachman's world, for instance, pits each contestant against himself, while the government of Collins's world pits each contestant against the rest.
Dystopian themes of oppressive government and self-identity were only the most obvious premises of the novel, but I also read into the story something of an indictment against reality television. Though I have to admit: if the thirty contestants on The Bachelor were dropped into an arena and made to battle to the death, with the sole survivor winning the affections of whichever random white guy ABC was offering up at the moment, I would almost certainly watch. A little panem et circenses would certainly liven up the dreary pretentiousness of a Rose Ceremony.