Recently I found out that people read this stuff I write (you shouldn't, it's not good for your brain) and I have to be careful now. What I want is to write a testimonial. Please, skip this post if seeing people happy makes you want to throw up.
I don't want to brag. I had no idea it was like this, I had no idea it could be so good, so completely satisfying, and I think I need to write about it. I mean, I always knew, but it's something else to experience first hand... No, it's not a born-again religious thing. No, it's not sex, but it's sort of like sex. Yes, I know it's 1:19 am.
It almost happened to me once before. Not that long ago, I wrote a story based on my fascination with (I can't say my participation in) the ancient art of fencing. The story revolved around a single event, a modern day duel in Los Angeles, and the action leading up to it was largely descriptive. The lead character was called Nicolai Kolovin. The story was titled "The Lexicon of the Sword."
The story was pretty good. I tinkered with the language, which was thick, even florid, and I redrew the characters. I could feel that I was right on the edge of something special. The pie was half cooked. For the first time in my life, the pieces were clicking in that way writers always describe. I realized that I hadn't been writing all these years. I had been working up to writing.
It was like this: Imagine you live in a house on the seashore. You chose the home because you knew it (you thought), admired friends who bought similar houses, and the shacks all offered some special view. From the back door you can see the ocean, the mountains, whatever you desire. You say to others, "I live in a house similar to yours. The house of a writer." And you're pretty proud you chose the neighborhood.
Then one night, when the sun goes down, you notice a strip of light along the dark bottom of your back door. But you have no door there. Only endless horizon, an infinity of opportunities. You go to the door and you see that your view is just a seascape painted on the wood, and the paint is peeling. The horizon on your mural is really just a horizontal line the landlord drew for you with a brush.
I never could get the door open while I worked on "The Lexicon of the Sword." I could see the sunset glow under the door. With some fierce work I began to see the glow at each of the door's four sides, even some through the keyhole. I punched holes is the wood and let in light. But I never opened the door. The story became more streamlined. The prose grew sharp, but remained elegant. The word count was just under 3,000. My writing group offered some enthusiastic reviews.
Then, without warning, the story received several rejection letters. Finally, it died. I knew it wasn't working but not why it wasn't working. My friend and sometime editor Justin Moody offered a few ideas, and so did Sarah, my Reader. Both urged me to move forward. Usually Sarah and Justin are right. When they agree, I know they're right. I didn't think about Lexicon and I went back to writing.
Without warning a few days ago I started to write a story about the Amazon set in 1947, with a Brazilian mercenary and a Russian Jew as principal characters. I tried what Ernest Hemingway suggested and I quit writing when I already knew what would happen next. The next day I wrote more. The story surprised me and took a graphic turn. The writing seemed right, somehow. I tinkered a bit and left in the shocking stuff. Then I quit for the weekend (when I still knew what was coming next).
Over the weekend I traveled to St. Louis. I subscribed to Poets & Writers and One Story. I felt alive, energized, and ready to face a tough week.
Today I finished the story and it all came together nicely. 2,800 words give or take, double-spaced. Round characters, clean events, logical action (from what I remember).
The story just needs to cool, set, and then be sliced up into perfect language. I opened the door and I can see the horizon, the real horizon, and I know exactly how it feels to create something that could maybe be called -- God, forgive me -- art. Even as I write this, I know I'll look back in a year and think, "I was so arrogant. Man, I hate me."
But I don't care, because now at this moment I'm just relieved and happy. I can write something worth reading after all! I'm not a fake, a pretender, a charlatan. Even though in a year or so I might hate it, especially for being another false horizon, right now I love the story and I'm calling it "The Red-Bellied Piranhas."
I don't want to brag. I had no idea it was like this, I had no idea it could be so good, so completely satisfying, and I think I need to write about it. I mean, I always knew, but it's something else to experience first hand... No, it's not a born-again religious thing. No, it's not sex, but it's sort of like sex. Yes, I know it's 1:19 am.
It almost happened to me once before. Not that long ago, I wrote a story based on my fascination with (I can't say my participation in) the ancient art of fencing. The story revolved around a single event, a modern day duel in Los Angeles, and the action leading up to it was largely descriptive. The lead character was called Nicolai Kolovin. The story was titled "The Lexicon of the Sword."
The story was pretty good. I tinkered with the language, which was thick, even florid, and I redrew the characters. I could feel that I was right on the edge of something special. The pie was half cooked. For the first time in my life, the pieces were clicking in that way writers always describe. I realized that I hadn't been writing all these years. I had been working up to writing.
It was like this: Imagine you live in a house on the seashore. You chose the home because you knew it (you thought), admired friends who bought similar houses, and the shacks all offered some special view. From the back door you can see the ocean, the mountains, whatever you desire. You say to others, "I live in a house similar to yours. The house of a writer." And you're pretty proud you chose the neighborhood.
Then one night, when the sun goes down, you notice a strip of light along the dark bottom of your back door. But you have no door there. Only endless horizon, an infinity of opportunities. You go to the door and you see that your view is just a seascape painted on the wood, and the paint is peeling. The horizon on your mural is really just a horizontal line the landlord drew for you with a brush.
I never could get the door open while I worked on "The Lexicon of the Sword." I could see the sunset glow under the door. With some fierce work I began to see the glow at each of the door's four sides, even some through the keyhole. I punched holes is the wood and let in light. But I never opened the door. The story became more streamlined. The prose grew sharp, but remained elegant. The word count was just under 3,000. My writing group offered some enthusiastic reviews.
Then, without warning, the story received several rejection letters. Finally, it died. I knew it wasn't working but not why it wasn't working. My friend and sometime editor Justin Moody offered a few ideas, and so did Sarah, my Reader. Both urged me to move forward. Usually Sarah and Justin are right. When they agree, I know they're right. I didn't think about Lexicon and I went back to writing.
Without warning a few days ago I started to write a story about the Amazon set in 1947, with a Brazilian mercenary and a Russian Jew as principal characters. I tried what Ernest Hemingway suggested and I quit writing when I already knew what would happen next. The next day I wrote more. The story surprised me and took a graphic turn. The writing seemed right, somehow. I tinkered a bit and left in the shocking stuff. Then I quit for the weekend (when I still knew what was coming next).
Over the weekend I traveled to St. Louis. I subscribed to Poets & Writers and One Story. I felt alive, energized, and ready to face a tough week.
Today I finished the story and it all came together nicely. 2,800 words give or take, double-spaced. Round characters, clean events, logical action (from what I remember).
The story just needs to cool, set, and then be sliced up into perfect language. I opened the door and I can see the horizon, the real horizon, and I know exactly how it feels to create something that could maybe be called -- God, forgive me -- art. Even as I write this, I know I'll look back in a year and think, "I was so arrogant. Man, I hate me."
But I don't care, because now at this moment I'm just relieved and happy. I can write something worth reading after all! I'm not a fake, a pretender, a charlatan. Even though in a year or so I might hate it, especially for being another false horizon, right now I love the story and I'm calling it "The Red-Bellied Piranhas."
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