Until, Norton tried to commandeer my computer.
I'll right myself but I must say that engineers, mechanical or software or whatever breed they be, are the lowest self-absorbed-monosyllabic- single cell scum on this planet!!!
(L.I.S. is granted an exemption.)
Just start a system scan whenever. No concerns about the work I've been doing for about three months and totally disregard the system setting wherein it is written, "Norton will perform a full system scan at 0300 on Wednesday night." (Which, by the way, it never seems to DO!)
Oh-no. Let's wait until David is writing, then we'll put a stop to that!
OK, ok, okay...
Artist? (Please say it's not Zevon.)
Nope, worse, Tom Petty...
Alright now... Tom Petty with a J.J. Cale tune.
I feel my balance coming back.
15 days with 5 to go...
What the hell was I gonna say here?
I haven't posted a lot. I have written a lot. Frankly, I loose track of what I have posted and what-not.
So if I repeat myself, it's probably a sign of things to come!
I have a mouthful of a writing project. Kinda explains why I got a little hostile when Norton tried to save me from myself. I had two word projects open at the time and was feeding each one with the other.
I was frantic. Worried that I might loose all of the work I've done.
Even when I realized it was all backed up and on other computers, no less.
It still spooled me up.
Still having trouble getting back on track here.
I'm tempted to just post one of the things I was afraid I'd loose a little while ago. It's a fictional stream of spit balls. Thoughts about a character really.
Oddly, or maybe not so surprisingly, I'm apprehensive about posting it when all the while it's supposed to a part of something I not only want to post but to publish.
Gut check time huh?
OK. Just remember. It's only David shooting spitballs at the board to see what kinda pattern I can make...
Who is he and why is he?
What do we have so far...
He has been living alone.
He is lonely.
He plays the "Loner" but he dislikes being alone.
His "Loner" persona is very practiced, he is accomplished in the arts of bachelorhood.
He is disgruntled at work.
He is lonesome at home.
He talks to himself, "I'm the only one that ever listened to me anyway."
He talks to his *pet*.
He dreams of a land not so far away that he visited long ago.
He misses his two children.
His intermittant attempts to reconnect with them are met, more and more frequently with contempt and disdain from the children and acidic animosity from their mother.
He misses the the woman he loves.
Not the mother of his children.
The one woman he trusted.
The one person he trusted completely.
He loves her in the present tense even though she left him long before she deserted him.
Every breath draws back the cold, hollow slap of an empty, silent apartment.
Celibate for years, again.
Long ago, long before he tried one last time to love and trust, he shunned sex as conquest and developed a disgust of those that practice it.
Long ago, intimacy became a matter of trust and devotion.
Now, every genuine human contact is a soulful reminder of what life could be.
What it should be.
What it has never been.
And at nearly 45 years old he has resigned himself to...
What it will never be.
Love has been distilled to a fantasy.
Sex is just a reason to shower twice in the same day.
He is cordial and always polite.
Holding doors and offering aid to the healthy as well as the less than capable.
He is not, however, gregarious.
He never has been.
That skill wasn't offered in the list of high school electives.
Neither was emotional stability and growth 101.
Raised in a sufficient yet less than savory family and home, he developed coping devices at an all too early age.
While effecient, those devices were not adequate to carry him through life.
He is cognizant of the deficencies.
He lacks the tools to repair, modify or improve upon them.
He is not weak.
Certainly not spineless.
He grows more quiet.
It SHOULD be a clear sign.
An astute individual would take immediate note.
And, begin to acknowledge the signs.
The clear and lethal demeanor of a man that has been pushed as far as he is willing to go.
A few wish they had.
The aches and strains of coping grow more acute every day.
The disappointment, the pain gets worse and the soul's shell grows harder.
(...the hurt gets worse and the heart gets harder...)
More distrustful of others.
"Others" equal betrayal.
He sets about Mans most independant endeavor.
A man alone on the sea.
A man growing old upon the sea.
Trusting only himself.
Risking only himself.
Reaping only for himself.
He sets out with a dark, thumbnail moon above.
He forsakes an idyllic departure beneath a full moon.
The full moon no longer represents the things that he once believed.
It shines down harshly on the things he now knows are lies.
No longer is it the old friend he once stood eye to eye with in Nairobi.
No longer is it the anticipated thing of love and sharing that rose over Atlanta every 28 days.
No longer is it the shared symbol of love rising over icy sidewalks.
A semi-celestial reminder.
A symbol of disappointments.
Now before ya get all weird and worried think about all you've ever heard about writing. (OK, skip all that gramar stuff for the moment.)
"Write every day."
"Write what ya know."(t0 that I add, "Write what you feel. If you don't feel it why the hell would anyone else want to waste their time reading it?")
Etc and Et Al and all of that stuff.
What do I know?
Well, for one thing, I know a lot more than I get credit for sometimes.
I do know a lot of real characters!
I do know a lot of places.
I have figured out a way to begin to merge all of that into one 'place'.
It's a sort of fictional place.
Populated with fictional folk.
Laced with facts.
I'm still learning the weaving part but I keep gathering wool. I'm trying like hell to make something out of it.
I'm probably gonna get smacked in the head with a keg for this but what the hell. I laid it out there and it might just get whacked...
I'm trying to build literary architecture.
Building it on a solid place where parts of it are real and existing and have verifiable history but most of the stuff in the story are 'pigment' of my imagination.
OF COURSE... All places, characters, and events are ficticious and not based on any individual or place or event and any resemblence is a pigment of your imagination.
I've been doing a lot of reading about writers. The ones that have influenced me or at least made me think.
A lot of research into history, geography, politics and even bathyometry. (Say that three times fast.)
A lot of recollecting as well. Basically, just a lot collecting.
Collecting my thoughts.
Every now and then they collide and I go back into the file and let them roll off of my fingers, doing my best to let my mind stay out of the way.
I said today, "... I WANT to rush it but I'm not GOING to rush it..."
I do feel an urgency.
That urgency seems to bring frequently deliver a burst of notes.
Notes and details and dialogue and motivations and sight and sounds and, and... all of it.
That's what it brings. The emotions of at least three if not four of the characters are taking shape. Coming to light. Playing a part. Their parts.
I've been here at the keyboard for the better part of 12:39:07 seconds working on this today alone.
It's gaining weight.
I'm going to have to print what I have tomorrow because it's getting to be a pain to scroll back and find stuff I want to refer back to.
It isn't that I have all that much written but I'm trying to build the first 15 or 16 chapters from all of the notes I've made.
Going back through those notes looking for and discarding things.
Going back through those notes trying to gather up things about individuals that didn't come out all at once.
I saw on the news yesterday, a couple with 16 kids and one on the way. I feel like I'm trying to name and describe and have viable history for all 17 of them, At Once!!!
But it's a damn cool feeling to have. (Whoa, characters! Not 17 kids! That's nuckin'futs!!! Six kids. Six is a nice round even number.)
Thus the title of the file above "Mr Man".
That's got to sound pretty weak. I haven't settled on a proper name although I'm digging into the poor bastards head.
Same goes for "Miss".
And for the "Kid".
As well as for most of the others at this point.
Only character has a fairly well defined name. The 'pattern' is set for his name. Only his first name is pretty well decided. "Howell".
More significant to me is their emotions and motivations. I can let them name themselves, eventually.
Why the hell am I telling you all of this?
I just deleted a bunch of 'maybes' here.
They weren't the right reasons.
The root is, I'm creating and creating is pointless without sharing.
So, in that spirit and with that spirit, I'm not going to proofread this for the 24th time or even run 'spell check'.
If it's a gut check then let it be a true one.
Afterall, the only thing more important than sharing is the truth.
Look closely. Only two vehicles parked in front.