Notes
October 31, 2007
Tomorrow I start writing my novel, “Fascinating Screwdrivers.” I’m excited.
The rules of National Novel Writing Month (NANOWRIMO) says the novel must be 50,000+ words and be written between November 1 and November 30.
November 1, 2007
Wow, what a day. So busy; I paid my rent check and answered email. I took three naps–well, actually two and a half (that second one didn’t really count). I contemplated taking a trip to the library to return a book, but when I checked my account online, I realized it wasn’t due until November 5. I read on the blogs that someone I know turned down a $200 million buyout of his Internet company. Turned it down! Egad, in the writing community people become indignant with envy when someone wins a $100 literary prize. Ok, I will stop whining about money. But how can you turn down that kind of money without imagining a stack of 200,000,000 dollar bills which could have belonged to you.
No time today to work on Fascinating Screwdrivers today –too much going on; too many minor housekeeping matters to get out of the way. Nothing to worry about; I’m always a late starter. Since my favorite TV shows are on Thursday night, I really didn’t expect to accomplish a lot of writing today anyway (especially after nap #3). Tomorrow I will start bright and early; it’s always good to have a fresh start when starting a novel. No more Mr. Lazybones tomorrow!
November 2
At last. I have started my novel!
Technically, of course, I did not start writing my novel; that will happen tomorrow when I will begin the actual writing. But today was a productive day — no doubt about it. I spent most of it planning for the upcoming month: the stories, the characters, the action. The key to achieving my writing goals (I surmised) was devising a regular story structure. To do this, I broke the plot into 28 chapters (for each remaining day). Obviously, there was no need for each chapter to be 1667 words (actually 1786 words if you subtract yesterday and today). But at least that means that each day will consist of a beginning, middle, and end.
So here is the outline I have arrived upon.
- Chapter 1 Jack at the flea market, 2005, (he is 56). Finding screwdriver.
- Chapter 2 Flashback: Birth, 1949. Sketch of Jack’s parents, curios at his house
- Chapter 3 Flashback 2: 1956. Jack’s Uncle takes him to a thimble museum
- Chapter 4 Switch to the present (2005): Man with the gun (suspense)
- Chapter 5: High School, Military Service in Vietnam, (Vietnam, 1969-1970
- Chapter 6, coming home: Bong Son Memories and Hardware Store Job 1971
- Chapter 7 Flashback: First Love and Disappointment. 1967.
- Chapter 8 Opportunity: new job at the Federation Auction House, 1971
- Chapter 9 Mystery: The Stealing of the Maudslay lathe 1972
- Chapter 10 Background Info about lathes(in Cetology exposition style, cf. Rybczynski)
- Chapter 11 Encounter with Extraterrestrial: (UFO Paraphenalia)1973 (Supernatural + Comic).
- Chapter 12 Investigating Clues in London; Meeting Sal 1973
- Chapter 13 A London Wedding and Bringing Sal back to St. Louis, 1974-5
- Chapter 14 Flashforward to 2019, the day of Jack’s death. Woman’s hand picks up screwdriver from his safe (his wife? which one?)
- Chapter 15 Bad Investments: The Rise and Fall of a Company 1975-7
- Chapter 16 Unemployment and Unmarketability: Writes a novel about it. 1978
- (Excerpts from Jack’s unfinished novel).
- Chapter 17 Having No Money is Bad for the Marriage: Divorce and Despair (realist, sad), 1979-1980
- Chapter 18 An Idea: An Entrepreneur is Born, 1981
- Chapter 19 Idea becomes a craze: Unexpected Luck in Decorative Plates, 1981-3
- Chapter 20 Wife #2 (Lots of Sex in this chapter). 1984
- Chapter 21 Comeuppance and Confrontation (Fall of Marriage) + bar scene where Jack becomes philosophical with childhood friend Malcolm. 1985-6
- Chapter 23 Hallucinogenic Dreams in Thailand (Plus Flashback to the thimble museum) (1986)
- Chapter 24 Bouncing Back. Meets young boy Tarvin and mother. (1989)
- Chapter 25 Tarvin Runs Away, Summer Vacation to the Alleghanies (1991)
- Chapter 26 (Tarvin’s point of view): Vagrant on a Motorcycle. From NY to Arizona. (this will be a long chapter!) (1992-5)
- Chapter 27 Return to 2005. Jack is at a flea market in San Diego. Tarvin happens to be there.
- Chapter 28 Final Confrontation and the surprise (Tarvin is….).
That looks good. Obviously some parts are sketchy. Other parts are completely written in my head: the thimble museum, the decorative plates scandal, the hallucinogenic chapter. I’ve written the key dialogue exchange on the extraterrestrial chapter–that will be great too. Some chapters will require research: the Maudsley Lathe chapter, the Vietnam chapter, etc.
I am still debating whether the flashforward chapter (14) belongs at the end or the middle of the novel. I think it’s better to keep it in the middle. That will create expectation and a sense of inevitability to what happens in the last chapter. But I’ll have a better idea after Chapter 10 or so.
I’m a little worried that the spicy sex scene in Chapter 21 is too late for the novel; maybe I should put it with wife #1? Or maybe a salacious one-night stand in his London investigation would accomplish the same thing. I’m of two minds about the novel-within-a-novel trick. Maybe I could pull it off, but too many people would say I’m ripping off Calvino. Well, I am ripping that guy off. Why deny it? Still, I need to think about it some more.
The exposition chapter on lathes won’t be too much, but I have to wonder if the Vietnam chapters contain too much exposition and not enough plot –aside from the part about him seeing his best friend being killed in battle. That will be gruesome and poignant–should be a great chapter though! Anyway, it will be fun to have a battle scene and kill off a few people; action scenes are relatively easy to write. But I need a way to make it fit with the tone of the rest of the book.
These are just my current thoughts. I may change my mind once I get started. Anyway, I am so excited. I saw the Rocky movie on TV tonight. I’m going to set my alarm for 4:00 AM, just like Rocky!
November 2 (Part Two)
Just after going to bed, I awoke with a brainstorm! Jack could run for political office in 1985. Earlier on TV I saw a news story about presidential candidate John Edwards. I thought, that’s Jack! The haircut, the fancy smile, the attitude. Obviously Jack couldn’t run for president in the novel, but I could easily see him running for mayor of St. Louis or even congressmen. And yes, he will certainly win! That adds a political dimension to the 1985 decorative plate scandal. Bribes, kickbacks, who knows. Maybe I could throw in some gun collectors too and maybe some guns. Politics and guns will sweeten any novel.
November 2 (Part Three)
I just had a brilliant thought. What if the extraterrestrial in chapter 11 were a real space alien? Originally, I just wanted to provide a comic and ambiguous moment before the UFO convention; maybe it would reveal something about Jack’s character. But what if the space alien were real (and not just someone pretending)? The not-fake space alien could reappear in later chapters to talk to Jack (maybe readers would assume he were just a figment of Jack’s imagination). Actually, if you think about it, all characters are figments of somebody’s imagination. (Maybe potential readers for this novel are also figments of my imagination).I really need to think about that idea. Gosh, I am never going to fall asleep tonight!
November 3
Total Words Written: 1538; Words Remaining: 48,361; pace: 248 words behind
Well, I certainly wrote a lot today. No slacking off!
I awoke at 4:00 AM as promised, and fixed myself coffee. The first paragraph was hard to get on paper, but once it was there, I was writing like lightning. Like lightning? Hey, I don’t have to be literary in my journal–give me a break!
I wrote nonstop until about 8:30 AM, and then I became very tired. So I went back to bed and awoke at about 11:30. But the brap (i.e., breakfasttime nap) certainly recharged my battery and I was able to pound out the words again.
I wrote some more for the afternoon, although I have to admit, I took several TV and Internet breaks. Did you know that Musharraf declared martial law in Pakistan? That son of a bitch!
Today I returned a book to the library, and the thought hit me that someday a person is going to be bringing back “Fascinating Screwdrivers” to the library also. That person may even have to pay a fine. Maybe he’d even try to steal the book –that bastard!
It’s true that I did take a break between 4:00 and 6:00 PM; on the other hand, they turn the clocks back tonight, so I had an extra hour. By 10:00 my energy was flagging. I was at the home of Jack’s parents when he was an infant, and couldn’t get out of there. There was nothing to write about; honestly, I always sucked at writing room descriptions. In desperation I made an executive decision: Jack needed an older brother. I don’t have to keep him around for long–maybe I could kill him at Vietnam or in a car accident. By having a semi-normal brother, that would make Jack’s eccentricities seems all the more startling. It would also give Jack psychological depth (sibling rivalry, guilt over his death, trying to measure up).
Yes, it’s a great idea to have a brother. But what name should he have? Mark? Anthony?
Now for the bad news. I had a full and productive day of writing — from 4:00 AM to midnight, more or less. Inspiration flowed through me freely. But when I checked the wordcount, I see I did only 1538 words. 1538! I thought I had done at least 2000 and possibly 3000. I needed a minimum of 1786 today. Sure, I could make it up later on, but I worked my butt off today..and still only did 1538 words. How did the pros do it? What was I doing wrong?
Now for the other bad news. Chapter 1 turned out to be a lot shorter than I envisioned–only 1000 words. Chapter Two was running short as well–although maybe I could pad it a little with Mark stuff. But at the current pace it looks like Chapter 2 might end after 2000 or 2200 words. That’s terrible! Ok, I always knew some chapters were going to be longer than others. For example, Tarvin’s crosscountry motorbike journey will exceed quota by a longshot. But I didn’t expect to fall behind so quickly. I need to add something. Or maybe not. Maybe I just need to give the characters more psychological depth; maybe a few more flashbacks. I don’t want to fall too much behind.
Now for the third bit of bad news. In planning the chapters, I realize I accidentally misnumbered the chapters –and forgot to include a Chapter 22! Jack is definitely going to have to run for mayor–and his political career better go for at least 3000 words!
Interestingly, while writing the first two chapters (which are just exposition), I kept thinking about Tarvin’s motorcycle trek through Moab National Park in Chapter 27; that’s a crucial scene where the reader sees echoes of Jack in Tarvin. It’s both sad and lovely. I tell you, I’m ready to start Chapter 27 right this moment. But the wiser side of me says to wait. I did compose a brief elegy to Moab (in Tarvin’s slangy voice, of course). I’ll try to post it here tomorrow.
The thimble museum scene will be easy to write. By the way, I’ve changed the uncle’s name from Arnold to Stan. Stan the Digitabulist.
When I was stuck with writer’s block on Chapter Two, I jumped the gun and started chapter three. Here’s the first paragraph:
Eight year old Jack waited at the door to the old shop.
“Uncle Stan, can I go in now?” he yelled.
“Wait!” Stan replied, hauling two suitcases slowly out of the car trunk. Eventually Stan waved him in and opened one of his suitcase before the shopkeeper.
The old man peered at the contents and brought his magnifying glass to one of them. “Well, that’s whalebone all right,” the man said admiringly. “Where did you happen upon that?”
“How much?” Stan asked, noticing that Jack had scooped a handful of nails from a bucket and lay them on the floor.
“How about a trade?” the man said with a smile.
Wow, it’s 12:01 AM (really 1:01 if you forget it’s daylight’s saving time). I’m not going to set my alarm tonight. I need a good night’s rest!
November 4
Total Words Written: 921; Words Remaining: 47,440; pace: 1113 words behind
As predicted, the writing of Chapter 3 was a breeze. (I also finished Chapter 2–or rather, I made a decision just to end it).
Wow, novel writing is hard! Suddenly I hear a clock ticking throughout the day; suddenly, I have to curtail daily activities, even exercise. Right now, I feel like I ought to run 2 miles or do an exercise video. It’s driving me crazy!
A friend wrote yesterday, saying that on Friday he had written a 1900 word legal brief. How the hell? Wait, that’s not a fair comparison. I’m not being paid by the hour to pound out words. Still, yesterday I spent maybe 16 hours on writing; at $150 per billable hour, that would have earned me a respectable amount of money. Sure, a paycheck probably sucks all the fun out of an activity; I read that porn stars do a lot of knitting in bed before falling asleep. But having financial compensation —no matter how small –would be a nice external validation of your effort. Who can say that what a piece of writing is worth? Do you hear about what people buy on ebay? Did J.K. Rowling have a clue she would be spawning a multimillion dollar industry? I am not writing “Fascinating Screwdrivers” for the money, but it would not surprise me to reap some profit eventually from it. But that would come years later –if I’m lucky–, and I have to admit, money is just the last thing on my mind. Not because of any noble motives, but simply because I can’t anticipate things too far in advance.
Realizing this made me feel a little more philosophical about the word limit. Why should I torture myself? Accelerating the whole writing process just puts undue stress on my physical (and mental) processes. Partially as a health measure, I stopped writing, took a nap and dropped by a local meeting of other Nanowrimo writers near Rice University.
The gathering had about 15 or 20 people and seemed to attract a younger crowd (definitely out of my demographic). Half the participants seemed like college students (or recent graduates). Liz, the host, was married to a software executive and lived in a gorgeous two story house. She had recently had a baby and already had a published mystery novel (she handed out a promotional bookmark to me as I entered). The nanowrimo book was going to be her second mystery in the series, and apparently it was already being optioned. The novel’s detective was a part time fashion designer who donned disguises to do investigative work. Liz was young and pretty; she wore a flowery blue sundress and wore Navajo earrings and a turqoise pendant. The entire house had an American Indian theme apparently. Hand-carved pottery and baskets lined the bookshelves, and two traditional rugs were hanging on the wall. When I went into the dining room for refreshments, I met an overweight college student refilling his wine glass. He was working on a trilogy about a race of whale-like creatures who use their telepathic abilities to send humans on intergalactic missions. I forget the title of that guy’s book. I’m guessing a good third or half of the nanowrimo people never finish their novels, but this student seemed stubborn enough to finish anything he started (no matter how awful). It was hard talking to him about his novel. Whenever I asked him to elaborate, he would stammer, laugh uncontrollably and say, “that part is not quite done yet.”
Who else did I meet? Three girls (definitely college students!) who were all too happy to talk about their projects. One was writing a graphic novel about hippie chicks who rescue lost souls and bring them back to God. Another was writing a novel about a Virginia family’s relationship with their slaves during the late 18th century. Apparently, there were lots of liaisons and sex and hidden offspring and hypocrisy. All fun stuff. The third–what did she say she was writing about? She said she was using her nanowrimo time to collect ideas for ghost stories.
These girls didn’t seem too serious about writing, but just wanted to try it. They were loud and chatty, and everybody crowded around them in the dining room. For some reason they spent a good five minutes raving about a spy movie that I never heard of. Apparently it starred a handsome British actor they were fans of. During a chase scene the actor leaps off a bridge and lands on the back of a pickup truck in the road below. “They say he did all of his stunts–you really have to see it to believe it!” one of them girls said. I think the title was “Diary: Destiny. ” Or maybe “Diary: Danger.” Something like that.
Who else? Two or three sci fi writers, a retired gentleman writing a book about fishermen in Florida. “It’s not a terribly exciting book,” he admitted, “but at least I know a lot about the subject.” Surprisingly, no one was writing romance novels or supernatural Stephen King stories (except perhaps for one student’s novel about pig robots–which I didn’t take very seriously). Oddly, a married couple from Ukraine were both writing separate novels. The wife was writing about a girl’s life under communism (it’s going to be funny, she assured me). The husband was writing a spy thriller about a Chinese network of terrorists who detonate plutonium bombs in the sewage system in all the major U.S. cities (In real life, he was a city health inspector). Both Ukrainians seemed like shy and serious people. I asked the husband what it was like to have two writers in the family. He looked at me strangely and said, “I go into one room and Anya goes into the other. Then we write. That’s all.”
Later, apparently, Liz told someone about the Segway scooter they owned, and half the people insisted on seeing it. At first, Liz declined, claiming she didn’t want to take it out of the garage. Ten minutes later, all the Nanowrimo writers were out on the driveway, staring admiringly at the scooter and trying to take it out for a spin. I think the glasses of Chardonnay was getting to people. While I waited my turn to ride, I turned to my neighbor, a wiry man who who earlier had described his novel about computer hackers at war against an evil dictatorship running the White House. “I’m guessing you’re not a Bush fan,” I said. “You are missing the point,” he said. “Politics is absolutely irrelevant to democracy; all that matters is the uninterrupted flow of information and who controls it. Those who control it become de facto leaders of the world, regardless of political party.” I quickly changed the subject. I asked whether he thought he was going to hit 50,000 words. “I’m not at liberty to discuss that,” he said. “For all I know you could be planning to steal my ideas and sell them behind my back.” “Okay,” I said, feeling like the only sane one at the party.
I was home by 8:00 PM. I was too tired to return to writing. But I have to wonder if the others at the party were at computers, typing away. Maybe I was the lazy one. Or was my “laziness” simply a sign of psychological stability? Sometimes I wonder whether the personal qualities that made people good novelists also made them unable to deal with life. Were these people my peers? They all seemed boring and even ill-mannered. And I couldn’t imagine enjoying or reading any of their novels (except for maybe the woman writing about her Ukrainian childhood). No, I didn’t need to like these people or even keep in touch with them. Maybe they felt the same way about me. But I’m glad I allowed myself one night of freedom–where I didn’t need to follow nanowrimo rules. If I wanted to write only 921 words today, that should be my god-given right!
Still, I look forward to the December day when I can write like normal again.
November 5
Sick.
November 6
Although I was really sick on Monday, I swear, you practically need to take another day off merely to catch up with the work you were supposed to do on your sick day. Sometimes I feel our aspirations are achievable and just beyond a reach because of human frailties. I am also talking about human laziness: spending a day consciously not doing the things you vowed to be doing. Instead you are watching TV or hanging out at the shopping mall or sleeping or talking on the telephone or meeting a friend for lunch. Half the world’s dreams are corrupted simply because an individual “feels tired.” I often wonder about people who eventually do fine things. Are they more talented or better prioritizers or more adept at cutting themselves off from the world?
In the novel, Jack never is driven to anything except to seek curios. It is a low-energy aspiration, something he could do half-asleep. It requires a penchant for distraction. Jack never was capable of great things. He merely had random desires to acquire which ultimately leads him to the Maudslay lathe. His romantic passions were a pretense; so was his flirtation with politics. In many ways he was Tarvin’s opposite; he never actually cared about realizing his dreams; everything was an unexpected opportunity. If the Helmsley plates appeared at a flea market, that was his good luck (he had never gone out with the intent of finding them). His partial successes were happy accidents, but over time he is dragged into single-minded pursuits antithetical to his personality. That is what ultimately accounts for his downfall.The women who loved him were those who accepted his complete lack of drive; Many women may conquer him, yet none motivate him to any great romantic outbursts.
Of course, most of the time Jack is like me. But Jack is much more successful in life than I could ever be. People in the novel love Jack for the very qualities which are spurned in real life. The novel is one huge effort of wish-fulfillment. If Jack existed in real life, he would walk around unnnoticed and barely able to eke out a living. Do you think Jack could ever apply for a job and be able to fake excitement and team spirit? Jack was basically an honest person — too honest, in fact. He had no sense of decorum, nor even a desire to please. It is hard even to imagine Jack arriving at an appointment on time or having the mental acuity to compose a shopping list. Even Bartleby had a stubborn irascible streak; Jack never had “streaks.” He sought refuge from anything requiring a commitment. He would never go out of his way to buy a book or check one out of the library. But if he were to notice an old novel lying underneath a park bench, he would undoubtedly pick it up and read it with the polite curiosity of a graduate student finishing an assignment for class.
Real life notice: Amazingly, I received a job yesterday. Obviously I needed the money, and it was about time to have regular work hours again (and not worry about bills). I appreciate the opportunity and will be eager to leave a good impression. But a part of me can’t help resenting the shift in focus. It was inevitable, but I can’t help wishing it had started next week (or maybe the week after). The problem with work was having to keep commercial thoughts in your head for a certain portion of your day. Really, work conditions have improved considerably over the last century; I can still check my email and take longish breaks out in the hallway without reprimand. A part of me yearns for escape, and at times I feel determined to do anything –even rob or kill–to avoid this certainty that I would be performing a certain task in a certain office at a certain hour. Of course, these are idle thoughts. At work you can dream all you want…as long as you write none of it down.
November 7.
Today after a good half day of writing, I decided to take a nap. Big mistake! After dinner I returned to Chapter 5 ( when Jack graduates from high school and is pondering whether to go straght to college). When I opened the computer file, instead of seeing my half-written chapter, I saw this:
Better than Mom’s Pepper Steak
Prep Time: 60-75 minutes (sorry!) (60 minutes prep/15 minutes cooking)
Serves: 3 (maybe 4)
Saves? Yes
Cost: $11-121 lb. top sirlion steak, 3/4 - 1 inch thick, fat trimmed off (round steak ok)
8 TB reduced-sodium soy source
3 TB balsamic vinegar
1 teaspoon dried thyme
1 tsp paprika
1/2-1 tsp french diced ginger
1/2 tsp ground pepper
1 TB olive oil
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 bunch green onions, cut lengthwise (substitute: yellow onion)
1 large green bell pepper, cut into strips
1 large red pepper, cut into strips
1 1/2 cups fresh snow peas, ends chopped off (substitute: 3/4 cups frozen peas)
1 1/2 cups sliced fresh mushrooms
2 tsp cornstarch
1/2 cup water
4 cups cooked rice (substitute: pasta)Things to do first: Prepare marinade with beef (15 minutes); heat water/cook rice (15 minutes).
1. Marinade (15 minutes). In bowl combined soy sauce, vinegar, thyme, paprika, ginger, pepper. Add beef and marinade for 10-15 minutes.
2. Before you start chopping vegetables, prepare rice/pasta.
3. Heat oil in large nonstick pan and cook garlic. Lift meat from marinade with slotted spoon (leave remaining marinade sauce in bowl–see Step 5)and add to pan. Cook 3-4 minutes (or until pink in meat disappears); remove meat with spoon and put aside. Keep meat warm.
4. Add onions, bell peppers, red peppers, snow peas and mushrooms to pan. Cook approximately 4 minutes, making sure everything (especially peppers) are slightly cooked.
5. In bowl of reserved marinade sauce, add 1/2 cup water and 2 tsp cornstarch. Stir until thoroughly mixed.
6. After vegetables are cooked, sauce with cornstarch. Heat until sauce thickens slightly. Then, add meat and stir until meat is hot.
7. Serve with rice if desired.
Nutritional information (assuming 4 portions):
Calories: 465
Carb: 60 g
Fat: 8 g (Saturated: 2 g)
Sodium: 965mg
Fiber: 4 gThe challenge here is minimizing the cutting prep time. To that end, I’d recommend buying precut mushrooms and not cutting the snow peas in half. (Maybe you can tear off the “tails” off the snowpeas, but don’t spend much time.
Notes: Fresh snow peas really adds to the fiber/nutritious value of the dish. Removing the meat after cooking is a pain (and the second time I cooked it, I forgot)
Caution: Make sure vegetables are soft before adding meat and sauce.
Special ingredients: snowpeas, mushrooms, red peppper, top sirloin/round steak
Source/Inspiration: New Living Heart Diet, by Michael E. Debakey, 1996
That was the recipe I had diligently copied from the Internet before dinner. What was it doing here? And where was my chapter? After a little investigation, I finally pieced together what had happened. Although I had saved Chapter 5 before my nap, when I copied a recipe from the Internet to print it, I had inadvertently saved it into the Chapter5 file. I was devastated. (No, the backup save didn’t help).
I tried all sorts of crazy things: checking my TMP directory, Recycle Bin and other folders in case I had accidentally named the Chapter something else. It took an hour of frantic searching before I finally gave up and resigned myself to starting over. Taking a walk outside, I mentally stewed over the improbable string of events in my mind, cursing my stupidity.
To be honest, what I had written wasn’t remarkable; it just contained the exposition, transitions and introductory descriptions that would set up the rest of the chapter and the next. Boring stuff, but necessary. When i write, I am constantly checking previous paragraphs to see if everything still “fits.” Those 700 words weren’t “perfect”–far from it. Nonetheless, I had already given shape to action and events and feelings. There were certain peculiar phrases which seemed exactly right–maybe not perfect in the paragraph, but at least they would stick to the novel in some form until the end.
But now, gone! Stupidity! I must be more careful. I knew it was impossible to reconstruct the dialogue or the story flow. The story and characters were still in my head, and I’m sure when I write the chapter again from scratch, it will be similar to the deleted chapter, but I will never have the original version to compare it to. I will never be sure what things have been changed in the second draft.
So I began the chapter again. The first paragraph was easy–although I think my first line was phrased in a different way–a little less direct. But not totally bad. It just had a different feel –like a photograph taken a day later of the same person; the person in the photograph was clearly recognizable, but the vagaries of light and shadow gave it a different mood. In the scene where Jack has to tell his mother why he wasn’t going to the prom, the earlier version seemed unduly melodramatic and emotional. But in the next go around Jack states his decision matter-of-factly, as though he barely cared about it. Later when he runs into Annie–his longtime crush who had already accepted another person’s invitation–Jack just smiled and walked down the hallway. My original intent was to show his emotional turmoil and naked jealousy, but the second time there is no raw jealousy, only the dwindling realization that this romance was never meant to be. I had gotten over it, and so had Jack apparently.
Jack seemed different now. Indeed, when thinking about previous chapters, I started to wonder whether the Jack of Chapter One resembled the Jack of Chapter Two or Three. Much as I hated to admit it, every time I stopped typing and returned the next day, I was beginning with a totally new Jack. Jack’s character is supposed to evolve over the novel, but I’m talking about my perspective of Jack and my ability to get into his life. Perhaps the second time I write it the event seems less genuine, less amazed at the power of the story to move or entertain. The second or third time you do a chapter, you don’t really feel it anymore; all you are doing is whittling away the original raw emotion and trying to tell things as quickly as possible.
When forced to write as quickly as possible, here is what happens: you pay no attention to grammar or coherence or restraint. You just want to get from point A to point B. It feels less like constructing a work of art than writing a letter to a friend. This initial draft doesn’t shine, but it is often easier to read. It doesn’t please; it simply informs, and yes, there is value to that. The more you try, the harder it is to fake artlessness.
Oddly, in my second attempt, I changed the story slightly. Instead of being drafted, Jack simply enlists in the army–partly out of boredom or the desire to get away. I can’t say whether this is actually what Jack would have done. But I was bored. Something compelled me to take him down a slightly different path –like a pop diva so bored with her number #1 song that she throws in a few bizarre embellishments every time she has to perform it again.
Also, I’ve decided something; tomorrow I will just write the Vietnam chapter and the coming home parts without taking a break. I’ll have my microwave dinner ready, my candy bar, my popcorn, my kiwis, my cereal, my yogurt, my apples and my can of sardines. Tomorrow I will not try to write a great chapter –I will simply write!
November 8
In Chapter 6, Jack had returned to St. Louis after his tour of duty in Vietnam. He was glad to be home and traumatized about seeing Robert killed in a Vietcong ambush. As I wrote it, I realized that it was too easy to reduce two years at Bong Son to what happened on that single night. He liked hanging around the base near the village. He was curious about the Vietnamese people who worked around him, the work they did, the baskets they carried, the rattan trays they served meals with. He particularly enjoyed the chopsticks they used–the endless variety of colors and sizes. An old woman at the camp came by each morning and sold pastries to the soldiers. She was friendly and almost indifferent to the war. He and the other soldiers looked forward to her arrival. Even in the midst of war, most people were simply going about their business, including Jack.
Yes, the ambush was terrifying and awful, but Jack had been lucky up until that point. He and his company had for the most part escaped enemy attack and casualties. He had certainly heard of friends from other companies who had been wounded or killed and steeled himelf to the possibility it might also happen to himself. The scariest thing came moments afterwards when he had no idea what would happen next. Were they surrounded? Was it a lone sniper? Were the Vietcong watching his every move from the trees and waiting for the right opportunity? But once he understood the situation was back to normal, he and his partner requested assistance and tried to move his friend’s body out of the way. It was ugly and bloody, and it was an event he was psychologically ready for it and felt enormous relief once the medics had dragged the body away.
Just then, I felt a light movement against my feet. It almost felt like an insect, but the moment it attracted my attention, the sensation disappeared. Ten seconds later, I felt another tingling against the upper part of my leg. I snapped at it; was it a bug or mosquito? But no. I saw nothing. Still distracted, I returned to the paragraph about Jack’s reunion with his family, and then I felt it again–I looked down and saw a medium-sized roach scurrying over my leg. I quickly moved back and looked around for it. more. Just when everything seemed clear, I noticed two roaches on the ceiling and another crawling across the top of my monitor. I found bug spray from the kitchen and sprayed them, feeling queasy discomfort from inhaling the chemical residue. I searched around a bit, then returned to writing. Just as I was beginning the scene where Jack sees his childhood sweetheart Amy for the first time–a pivotal scene—something falls onto my back. I jumped up and started brushing my back, looking for the bastard. I was mad; couldn’t the roaches bother me some other time? We lived in peaceful coexistence, with open skirmishes happening only at rare moments.
I looked around for signs of more roaches. I needed to call that exterminator again–did I have to call him every week? I saw a large roach on my ceiling –would he fall? should I attack him? And there–on the door of a nearby closet, I saw another roach scurrying–why were they always scurrying? And this one was carrying an egg sac, so I had to attack it mercilessly.
Here is how you catch a roach. Keep two pieces of paper and wedge the roach between them, gently nudging the roach from one piece of paper to the other. Most of the time the roach will avoid both sheets of paper, but if you are lucky and the roach is disoriented, it will crawl onto the paper frantically. But now here’s the thing. When it crawls onto the piece of paper, your instinct is to carry it somewhere–either to the toilet or the garbage can or a door to outside. Avoid this if you can; ideally you should drop that sheet of paper into a plastic bag immediately. But if you move the roach onto the paper and keep it still, the roach will also be still. If roaches sense that they are being picked up or forced somewhere, they will do something dramatic: fall down, fly away, madly dash away. Most importantly you need to prevent a roach from falling down. Keep a larger sheet of paper underneath the first piece of paper, so that when it tries to fall, it instead falls on the second sheet…giving you enough time to put the first sheet underneath the second. Finally if you drop them into the toilet–my preference–they will stay motionless for 5 seconds–or sometimes ten, and then madly wade to the side and have enough momentum to climb the sides. Therefore you must flush immediately; as I wrote that last sentence, I felt something else brush against my leg–it was only a computer cable, but I noticed a tiny roach crawling across a plate–and another one crawling over my books; it was Penelope Lively’s A House Unlocked. I picked it up; shit, there were roach droppings all over the pages, and three roaches scurried away. Then another roach scurried over my right foot; why did they like my feet so much! I turned on the lights and examined the desk area. I had papers strewn everywhere, boxes (a breeding ground for them), a dish or two. Deciding to escalate the battle even further, I removed all papers from the desk surface, emptied the drawers and crawled underneath to view the crevices. The coast was clear. I resumed writing while ready to respond quickly to any incursion. When I wrote, I rarely wore shoes or socks (and usually not even a shirt). I probably should write while wearing tennis shoes or long pants or a belt; but it seemed almost unnatural. Even with shoes, the roaches would be emboldened to encroach even further, crawling up my pants or along the back of my chair. Once in bed I awoke to the sensation of a medium-sized roach crawling happily across my chest. I ignored it at first; I thought I was dreaming. But no, there it is was invading my slumber! Today, while writing this paragraph, I remain vigilant, ready to pounce at any unfamiliar sensation. I was angry, eager and bloodthirsty.
(temporary delay of 2 days–stay tuned! )
(wow, major life crisis, delay of 2 more days–stay tuned! Don’t worry. It’s nothing I can’t recover fully from!)
Day Nine
Some major things have been going on in my life. A friend of mine told me he has been very ill. A magazine I run had technical difficulties. I started a new job and needed to take care of various things for that. The nanowrimo conceit that you can create a novel in 30 days is nice to believe in, but really, nobody cares whether you are following the rules. So instead of referring to actual days in November, I’m just going to number the days.
Yesterday was finally a good day of writing (I am posting this a day later). Though I understood that my novel would require revision, I brought Chapter Seven and Eight to my local writing group for critique. I know the head guy there and have attended one or two meetings previously. They have a core group of five or six people who attend almost every meeting and about ten or twenty people who show up occasionally. The two times I went they discussed a chapter from a romance novel and an epic poem one of them had written about World War 2. As perceptive as these people were, they seemed more interested in literature as a competitive sport than literature as a means of self-expression. They were like judges at an ice-skating competition, counting off points for the slightest mistakes while scarcely acknowledging a stylish twirl.
But I felt good about Chapter Seven and Chapter Eight, so I was eager to get their feedback — positive and negative.
Seven people showed up that day, and four of them had already read the chapters I had emailed them the day before. Everybody else read the chapters on their laptops during the meeting. My chapters was third on the agenda. The first was a comic supernatural novella involving a ghost who inhabited an office building. When I glanced at it earlier, it seemed like fluff, but the majority of the group had positive (even gushing) things to say about it. Apparently they had discussed an earlier part of the same novella a few weeks ago, and this section had resolved a few issues which were points of dispute in the previous meeting. The ghost was a half-naked old woman named Alexandra who flew around the stairwells in her granny panties and did all sorts of mischeivous things. Drug tests would be mixed up, the janitor would “accidentally” receive the paycheck of a vice-president, and 10,000 ballpoint pens would mysteriously be ordered by the head of operations. Previously, they had wanted Alexandra to interact with employees, and indeed, this time she distracted a manager from a presentation (an episode the group liked). It was an interesting premise, but the middle-aged woman who wrote the novella seemed to have exhausted all the things she could do with the premise. But she promised another installment in a few weeks, and I secretly promised myself not to read it.
The second story for today was a historic spy novel. CIA agents were trying to catch some Soviet spies before they gain the access codes to the US missile site. Besides being about a Cold War that never was, the plot details were impossible to untangle; was E a double agent or a triple agent? Was this whole thing merely a ruse to gain the identity of the KGB spies? I had no idea, and neither did the rest of the people in the group. There was too much plot and too many many loose ends to keep track of. Still, the sex scene was hot –although I couldn’t figure out who was making out with whom.
Then my two chapters came up for discussion. I was nervous. Chapter Seven was generally well-regarded; people seemed to like my descriptions of Annie and the incident at the ice cream shop. “It just pulls at your heartstrings when Jack discovers Annie has moved on and even gotten engaged,” one person said. They seemed to like
the aimlessness of the chapter –the way it started with a flashback at the disastrous school prom (where Jacks pours out his heart about Annie to one of her best friends), switching to Jack’s happy-go-lucky life at the hardware store and suddenly to philosophical discussions with his mother about why he collects things. I personally was unhappy with the transitions, but surprisingly no one in the group seemed to mind.
By the time the discussion turned to Chapter 8, one woman who hadn’t said an entire word during the first two stories spoke up. I later found out her name was Amy Masterson, and that she had dropped out of a UH PhD program for English a few months ago. She said that she found both chapters derivative, but especially Chapter 8, which reminded her of Sontag’s Volcano Lover (a work I read a few years ago). Another scene at the auction house reminded her of a scene in Arthur Bennett’s Riceyman Tales (which I had never heard of). Finally, she said Annie’s dialogue reminded her a lot of Violet Hunt’s novel, White Rose of (something).
It always amused me when readers located literary allusions totally unknown to me. Ok, the connection to Volcano Lover was understandable (it was one of my inspirations), but I’d never heard of the other two novels, and besides, even if there were similarities, did it really matter? What was the benefit of unmasking things other than the self-satisfaction of doing it. It’s almost as bad as those people who read not to enjoy but to decipher the book as hidden autobiography. “Oh, here is Kafka revealing his antipathy towards his father.” “Here in this story we see foreshadowing of his romantic confusions with Felice.” It’s a pointless exercise. Sometimes, my own fiction parallels with my own life, but they are purely coincidental, or worse, plot details jangling in my head. I would like to say my own life had the melodrama of Jack’s rise and fall or the lyricism of Tarvin’s meditations, but my days are mainly consumed with ordinary details: will I wake up on time? what shall I have for dinner? Will tonight’s sitcom be good or bad? Will I convince my boss that I am not incompetent? In my real life there is little room for Tarvin’s dreams.
Once written, fiction becomes a sort of map for living. Later I could imagine my career path unconsciously following Jack’s own or my love falling victim to the same romantic delusions. Someday I will experience a moment similar to Tarvin at the park, where he gazes over the landscape and realizes all the life opportunities he had missed. It’s inevitable. But the lurid sex in Chapter 20 certainly came from nothing in my life. Maybe someday such a tawdry passionate affair will happen to me and I can decide if Chapter 20 was accurate. But really you never know until it happens. That’s true as well for death scenes. How can you write about these things? It’s all wish-fulfillment. When I die, I know what my final thought will be: hey, this feels nothing like Chapter 14!
Day Ten
Piece of advice: Always make sure you have a piece of paper and a working pen or pencil by your bedside. After I turn off the lights at night, it’s common for me to turn them back on once or twice to jot down a few notes to myself before settling into sleep. Nothing important,usually phrases (but good phrases), or words to remind me of what I was going to say. Last night I had nothing but a crappy red pen and a Maxim Jakubowski short story anthology to write them on. I jotted down a few things anyway, and sure enough the next morning, my notes were incomprehensible:
the shivering immortality of a place
Tarvin’s memory of running away from the horse
this idea, like the scheme to mass produce these collectible plates, seemed absurd and overly optimistic, yet in every bad idea was a good one struggling to express itself
But why can’t we live here?” Sal said, as though this matter had just come up for the first time
If I wanted to, I could be always be destitute in Bromley
the budget of love is always a secret
sees thimble
Malcolm: confesses plan to apologize to first wife, “It wasn’t her fault that my thimble dreams held little but tiny accomplishments. She wanted….
Last night, I watched the clever film Adaptation. Perhaps I shouldn’t; it was too much about the creative process, too much reflexivity. When a writer is unsure of himself, he focuses not on the imaginary world but on the adequacies of his muse; I must credit Kaufman for throwing in some melodrama and love interests, keeping us interested. But really, shouldn’t it have been a pleasant (though imaginative) novel–something like John Kenneth Bangs’ Rebellious Heroine? It’s one thing to have a creative idea about the creative writing process; it’s quite another to have it star Meryl Streep and Nicholas Cage and be directed by Spike Jonze. When a playful exercise becomes a multimillion dollar financial venture, suddenly the stakes are higher, and one has no choice but to throw in a few sex scenes, alligators and a celebrity or two.
Perhaps it’s fun to keep this kind of diary over the course of the novel, and perhaps it is worth reading for its own sake, but for heaven’s sake, don’t bet the bank on it! Don’t hire a Director of Photography or a Foley Mixer! The good thing about novel writing is that the only investment is your time. If it languishes in obscurity, it will not reduce the funds you have to buy a high-definition TV or dine at expensive restaurants.
Here were the themes appearing in the movie:
- The writing process is intrinsically interesting and provides a story-behind-the-story which is often more compelling than the original story.
- Writers are misfits and failures at life in their attempts to explore different creative scenarios.
- Comic book plots may sound absurd, but if fleshed out enough can make sense.
#1 is a common mistake. Ok, sometimes the meta-story is interesting. More often, though, it is irrelevant. If my hallucinogenic chapter about Thailand was written under the influence of drugs or during my honeymoon or two days after my best friend’s funeral or during a schizophrenic episode, it has no effect on whether my writing is good or bad. Sure, I may find my motivation and doubts interesting, and perhaps a reporter might find my personal circumstances to be worth including in a biographical profile, but it’s not a necessary ingredient for the story to be written. Perhaps all my ideas came from reading gossip magazines; if the reader finds it plausible and interesting, what does it really matter?
#2 is mostly true, but so what? (And why hire Nicholas Cage to dramatize this fact!!?) So should I really pity the screenplay writer (or poet, or sculptor,etc)? Nobody was forcing them to stay at home and write. Maybe it’s sad that Kafka wrote the Hunger Artist when tuberculosis prevented him from swallowing or that Fitzgerald wrote his short stories under great financial pressure, but wouldn’t it be sadder if the stories they wrote were crap?
#3 is not really true, but how often do people really “sell out” when they write? Any kind of writing involves working within constraints that impose a structure; nothing is evil about that (some have even found it liberating). And do people resort to hackneyed or preposterous plots as a result of “selling out?” If I were in a position to write a screenplay about orchids and couldn’t “story-ize” it, I’d say, fuck no –not as a matter of principle, but simply because there’s no point in writing something where the idea or the passion wasn’t there from the beginning. (Actually though, I probably could have written Charlie Kaufman’s book adaptation, no problem).
(Delicious thought: what if someone had to adapt my Fascinating Screwdrivers novel for a film?)
As luck would have it, my interlibrary loan of Rybczynski’s book on Natural History of the Screwdriver and the Screw was accidentally cancelled. Those bastards! So I’ll delay writing Chapter 10 (my “Cetology chapter”) until I reorder. Instead I skipped over to Chapter 11 (the satirical visit to the UFO Memorabilia convention in Roswell). The result (as expected) was hilarious. Crazy redneck named Hal claims the spaceship looked a giant bag of potato chips, an old woman who claimed her cat was impregnated by aliens from Andromeda.
Then I had a brainstorm. I had planned a deliciously ambiguous scene with a “space alien.” The alien was to be some man named Justin; he was to be quirky and slightly comical, but as Jack gets to know him better, I planned to leave it open the possibility that Justin could actually be a space alien. Is he or isn’t he? As fun as that premise sounded, while writing it, as I started writing, I began wondering, what if Justin were a woman? What if she were relatively pretty with a gullible streak, and Jack’s motives for pursuing her were purely prurient?
Jack slid his hand over Janice’s.
“Why did you do do that?” Janice said, moving her hand away.
“It’s called sexual attraction,” Jack replied, fetching the hand once again. “That’s how humans behave to indicate sexual compatibility.”
“What determines sexual compatibility?” Janice asked.
“It’s known only to the couple involved in the game.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Sit over here,” Jack said. Janice moved closer to him, and Jack wrapped his arm around her shoulders, stroking her cheek lightly. Once the couple have started interacting in a tactile way, the resulting physiological reactions facilitate the mating process.”
Janice looked slightly shocked, but also uncertain, unwilling to contradict him. As he kissed her neck, he noticed a small amethyst medallion on her necklace. There was a symbol engraved on the middle; Jack wondered: was it a Mayan inscription or something from another world?
“We must stop,” Jack said.
“Why?”
“Now we must go to a more private place–my car or perhaps a hotel. Are you ready?”
The possibilities now are endless. She could have unusual tattoos in hidden places, skin of a pale otherworldly color, weird shrieks during lovemaking. And after they had made love, she could be pregnant with a half-human (or was it merely delusion?) She could lead him to new species and new collectibles and ultimately take him away before Jack realized the woman was really a space alien.
The only thing better than space aliens are space aliens who fuck.
Day 11
Chapter 12 was to involve a little detective work around London. It concerned Jack’s attempt to track down the Maudsley lathe (which had been missing for more than a century). Jack stumbled upon a reference to it in auction house records from 35 years ago. It concerned the sale of several 18th century paintings, a Lassell longcase clock and a Maudsley (unspecified). I was just about to start the scene where Jack meets Sal at an antique shop when I received an email from Amy Masterson (the Phd student I met at the writer’s group). She was the one who allege I ripped off my story from Susan Sontag. Here is her email:
****
Dear Thurston,
I am sorry that you did not appreciate my critical feedback. But I think I raised several important points about the relationship between your story and other source material, including motifs from Cimmerian literature (my own specialization). You need to address these things before seeking publication. After some checking, here’s what I found:
First example. Let’s look at the passage you wrote in the flashback scene:
It is my nature to collect, he once told his brother.
“Picture-mad,” a friend from his youth called him –one person’s nature being another’s idea of madness.
As a child he collected coins, then harmonicas, then baseball cards. Collecting expresses a random desire that attaches and re-attaches itself — it is a succession of desires. The true collector is not in the grip of what is collected but of collecting. By the time he was 20, Jack had already formed and been forced to sell, in order to pay off debts several of his most valuable thimbles…He managed to purchase a large collection of colonial tools from a wealthy family in Philadelphia to whom they had belonged for generations. To collect is to rescue things, valuable things, from neglect, from oblivion, or simply from the opprobium of being in someone else’s collection rather than one’s own. But buying a whole collection was not a challenging move. Collecting is also a sport, and its difficulty is part of what gives honor and zest. A true collector prefers not to acquire in bulk (any more than hunters want the game simply driven past them), is not fulfilled by collecting another’s collection; mere acquiring or accumulating is not collecting.
But Jack could not resist; The historical importance of the screwdriver was undeniable, and the provenance was incontrovertible. It was also in perfect condition. No, he could not afford to let this opportunity slip by!
Now here is your passage from Sontag’s Volcano Lover.
It is my nature to collect, he once told his wife.
“Picture-mad,” a friend from his youth called him — one person’s nature being another’s idea of madness; of immoderate desire.
As a child he collected coins, then automata, then musical instruments. Collecting expresses a free-floating desire that attaches and re-attaches itself — it is a succession of desires. The true collector is in the grip not of what is collected but of collecting. By his early twenties the Cavaliere had already formed and been forced to sell, in order to pay debts, several small collections of paintings….He managed to purchase a large collection of Greek vases from a noble family in Rome to whom they had belonged for generations. To collect is to rescue things, valuable things, from neglect, from oblivion, or simply from the ignoble destiny of being in someone else’s collection rather than one’s own. But buying a whole collection instead of chasing down one’s quarry piece by piece — it was not an elegant move. Collecting is also a sport, and its difficulty is part of what gives it honor and zest. A true collector prefers not to acquire in bulk (any more than hunters want the game simply driven past them), is not fulfilled by collecting another’s collection; mere acquiring or accumulating is not collecting. But the Cavaliere was impatient.
Here is the scene from Bennett’s Riceyman’s Steps which I alluded to.
How much is this?” Mr. Bauersch demanded, somewhat urgently, holding out a volume; he had come into the shop.
The book was a copy of an eighteenth-century Dutch illustrated edition, octavo, of La Fontaine’s Tales. Violet, looking at it, inspected it. She did not know what the book was. But Henry had taught her some general principles: for instance, that any book printed before 1600 is “worth money,” that any book of verse printed before 1700 is worth money and that most illustrated books printed before 1800 are worth money. Also she had learnt to read Roman date numerals. Indeed she had left Elsie out of sight in the race for knowledge. The price of the book was marked in cipher, inside the front-cover–ten shillings. In Elsie’s viceroyalty all prices had been marked in plain figures–largely for the convenience of Elsie. But under Violet plain figures were gradually being abolished; there was no need for them, and they were apt to interfere with Violet’s freedom of action in determining prices to suit the look and demeanour of customers.
“A pound,” she answered.
“Put it in, please.” Mr. Bauersch pulled out a Treasury Note. “We won’t haggle. Now I must have these cases sent down to the American Express Company’s at once, please, at once. I’ll have the books checked there, I’ve got a pile of stuff collected there, and they must leave London to-night, sure.”
“Mr. Earlforward told me you would take the cases away with you in your car.”
“Me take them away with me! . . . Well, in the first place, I’ve come in a taxi. And in the second place, I couldn’t put those in a car. And they won’t hold in a taxi either. I’ll be glad if you’ll send them down.”
“I’m very sorry, but I don’t see how I can send them. I haven’t anybody here, as I’ve told you.” She was unhelpful, adamantine.
“Mr. Earlforward isn’t in?” Mr. Bauersch’s tone had begun to roughen in impatience.
“Oh no!” She swept aside such an absurd impossibility. “But I’m sure he understood you were taking them away.” (She perceived, however, that Henry had involved her in this difficulty in order to escape the cost of delivery.)
“Do you know where he is?”
“I couldn’t say exactly; he might be at a sale at Chingby’s.”
“Well, will you mind telephoning to him and saying–”
“We don’t have the telephone here,” she replied, with cold triumph, remembering Henry’s phrase, “those New Yorkers.”
“Well, can you send to a garage and get a van or something for me?”
“I couldn’t unless I went myself.”
“Well, where is the nearest garage?”
“I’m sure I couldn’t tell you.”
Using words in a sense in which Violet had never heard them used, Mr. Bauersch dashed out of the shop to speak to his taxi-driver. He returned in ten minutes.
In the meantime Violet had hammered the lids on the two cases. In possession of both the money and the books she had maintained all her tranquillity. Mr. Bauersch had come back with a Ford van in addition to his taxi. He led the driver of the taxi and the driver of the van into the office, and instructed them to remove the cases.
“The receipt, if you please,” he said dryly to Violet, who handed him the receipt, but showed none of the clemency due from a conqueror to the defeated.
Mr. Bauersch moralized (to himself) about English methods.
“Why do they hate the sight of a customer?” he asked himself, puzzled. “I’ll never come into this damned store again!” he said to himself.
But he well knew that on his next visit he would come into the damned shop again, because the shop had the goods he wanted, and didn’t care whether he bought them or not. If he could have ruined the shop by never coming into it again he would perhaps have ruined the shop. But it was the shop’s cursed indifference that spiritually beat him and ensured the triumph of the astonishing system.
Now here is a scene from your own novel.
How much is this?” Jack demanded, somewhat urgently, holding out a volume; he had come into the shop.
The book was a copy of an eighteenth-century Dutch illustrated edition, octavo, of La Fontaine’s Tales. The female assistant examined it quickly.
“Two hundred pounds,” she answered.
“Put it with the other books, please.” Jack took out his credit card.
“Your total is 576 pounds.”
“Could you please mail these books directly to America if I gave you the address? I’m headed to Germany in a few hours. ”
“We don’t do international shipping, I’m afraid.”
“Surely you’re joking! Can I speak to your manager?”
“He’s out running errands.”
“Where is the nearest post office?”
“I couldn’t tell you.”
“You don’t know!?”
“Well, there’s a mailbox on the corner. That’s all I know about.”Jack moralized (to himself) about English methods.
“Why do they hate the sight of a customer” he asked himself, puzzled. “I’ll never come into this damned store again!”
But he well knew that on his next visit he would come into the damned shop again, because the shop had the goods he wanted, and didn’t care whether he bought them or not. If he could have ruined the shop by never coming into it again he would perhaps have ruined the shop. But it was the shop’s cursed indifference that spiritually beat him and ensured the triumph of the astonishing system.
Clearly you are borrowing from both texts heavily. Also, in almost page I noticed allusions to Cimmerian literature and even exact phrases from Skendaj’s translations. In Chapter Seven, you spoke of the “inconsolable nightmare of self-consciousness”, a phrase that comes verbatim from Skendaj’s translation of Miroev’s poem, “Shume Pisc.” Later, Jack speaks of Annie as having the “easygoing luminosity of a lampshade for sale,” (which also comes from Miroev’s famous essay on medeival art). When Jack asks Annie to explain her reasons for not calling back, her reply, “You are always asking…but never giving,” is the same thing Janda said at the end of Gjicka’s “e Bukura ose Shemtuar?” Later, on his first day at the auction house you wrote, “Jack surveyed the room, expecting a celebration or a gift or a hug from a beautiful woman. Instead he discovered that nobody at the office was paying him any attention and that his desk was still cluttered with irrelevant papers from the previous occupant.” I found this sentence word for word in Pavli Lafe’s novel “Portokall, Portokall”.
Arben surveyed the room, expecting a party of a gift or a surprise hug from a woman. Instead he discovered that no one had noticed him and saw that his desk was still cluttered with papers from the previous occupant.”
I also found passages remiscient of Violent Hunt, William Gerhardie, William Cable, Lafcadio Hearn. I can’t discern your intentions here. Before you complete this novel, you need to decide whether using unattributed quotations achieves any artistic goals. In my mind, it only invites unflattering comparisons.
Sincerely, Amy Masterson.
As can be expected, this correspondence took me aback. I had certainly read Sontag’s Volcano Lover and knew there would be parallels. But I had no idea the passages would be so similar. But I wasn’t copying or plagiarizing; I was merely paying homage. I had never heard of Arthur Bennett, and I had never heard of Riceyman Steps, so I view the similarity as purely a coincidence. With regard to Cimmerian literature, I had consciously made that reference to Gjicka’s novel. But “e Bukura ose Shemtuar?” was the only Cimmerian work I had read, so I couldn’t possibly have taken phrases or quotes from the other Cimmerian works even if I wanted to.
Everything I write is 100% original. That is not to say things don’t influence me. Movies, TV commercials, things people say. Writers don’t invent situations, and even if they try to, it’s inevitable that some variation will pop up in real life. If writers spent their time trying to be original, they’d have to waste 95% of their time just making sure nobody has done it before.
Still, I don’t deny feeling disturbed by the examples she cited. Could I have really unconsciously copied Volcano Lover as much as che claimed? And those were only the parts she noticed; perhaps there were other passages I had unconsciously lifted which she didn’t notice?
With a novel, readers assume that you have invented everything or modified it from your own life. Other storytellers (like folklorists for example) entertain no such illusions. I often encounter my own ideas (and sometimes even phrases) in novels I have read. Sometimes, in fact, when I read something, I think, I could have easily written that. Were it not for the historical fact of my being born 50 years later, I would be the one considered original.
When you are well-read, you feel compelled to acknowledge texts trying similar things. On the other hand, if you never read anything, you are never bothered by such scruples.
Ok, I have decided: if any plot or character bears any similarity to anything I have read already, I’ll toss it out!