A quotation by Andrew Loomis

“Skill is the ability to overcome obstacles, the first of which is usually lack of knowledge about the thing we wish to do….Skill is a result of trying again and again, applying our ability and proving our knowledge as we gain it.”
-Andrew Loomis, from Drawing the Head and Hands

The Deadlier Deadline

Had to reassess my writing plan for the coming year. A friend of mine is leaving the area for a good long while, so some stories I’m writing need to be finished before then.

I have a few stories that use a character he created, and I want to get these done as a gift to him. Also to get his take on them, to see if I did the character justice. I have three in the works, each not very far along. I seem to get a lot of ideas and string them in some order, but fleshing them out is my great failing.

At least I can say I have ideas about them…

Starting Small

I finally, finally, finally managed to finish a short story. After god-knows how long. It ain’t good, but it’s something.

One of my main problems is that I think in general plot terms, get really excited, start writing, and end up trying to write something epic-length when I know I don’t have the attention span or creativity to pull it off. I have many stories started, but none of them anywhere near the middle or end by the time my mind wandered off.

The big break here was that the aim of the story, from inception, was small. I had a narrower vision of what I wanted to happen, and managed to keep it that way. If only I could break down one of those longer stories I have into episodes, I’d probably go somewhere with it. Problem is I revise anything and everything far too often to be consistent.

Obstacles

Everything’s relative, especially when looking at obstacles in our lives. Something insurmountable to me may be cake-walk for someone else.

One of the obstacles I faced with my writing class, and am facing now, is finding the time and environment to get work done. Just like studying, what works for one person may not work for someone else. In my case, I work better in isolation that I do in a busy environment. Cafes are a gray area. There’s lots of activity around but sometimes I can zone out. In any case, the key is time and space.

Since before my class I haven’t been able to get much of either most evenings. It was frustrating to have to hole up somewhere in order to get work done. It all built up until I found an easy way to solve the problem. If I couldn’t remove the obstacle from my way, I’d remove my way from the obstacle. Instead of coming home from work and waiting for free time to appear, I just don’t come home until later in the evening.

This means I need to work from pen and paper more, but that’s not a drawback really. Good news is my work is already picking up. My net time is down, but we all know that’s not such a big loss. Hopefully I’ll have a substantial story block written soon. Will keep ye posted.

Workshopped

It’s been a few weeks since I posted here, but I haven’t been idle. My class finished up its 10th week last week. I wasn’t sure if I’d make it to the end, but I managed.

We spent the last few weeks in workshop, critiquing pieces from 2 to 3 writers each week. It was a lot harder than I was expecting. Having to read, analyze, and express my thoughts was very taxing and time consuming.

It did teach me a lot, however. After having read others people work, I saw my writing much differently. The critiques I received when it was my turn in workshop were very helpful too. The readers pointed out to me where I was vague, confusing, and where I lost their attention.

I was also surprised to learn from them how my two main characters were perceived. I had the “camera” follow these two around, without allowing the reader into their heads. One character was very aloof, and readers felt cold with him. The other character was more affable, and they warmed up to him. This raises all sorts of possibilities I can use for effect in my writing later.

Now if I could just keep my momentum going on this story, I’d have a real piece to polish before my 5 years is up…

Suspended Suspense

This week’s assignment was to try building suspense using one of two methods. First, the reader and the protagonist learn new developments as the story progresses. The protagonist doesn’t know anything you don’t. The second is the reader knows things that the protagonist doesn’t. Hitchcock used this in his movies.

I went with the first type. Nobody from the class commented on it, so here it is in all its failed glory:

Loud footsteps echoed from the top of the stairwell, followed by a loud clang from a door.
“Why the hell he’d go up?” muttered Webern as he shook his head.
Mahler was silent for a moment, then said: “I heard the door close downstairs.”
“Our perp went up, though.”
“Yes, but we wasted time searching the offices. He should’ve been long gone. He went downstairs first.”
“Intriguing, Gus, but we’ll lose him if we don’t get going.”
“There’s more of them. Our guy was just a lookout,” said Mahler. He turned his flashlight to face down the stairwell. “Follow me.”
Webern cursed under his breath.
With carefully chosen footsteps they made their way down through the turns of the stairwell. Webern walked sideways, keeping his flashlight and gun pointed up the stairwell.
At the bottom two doors with small windows blocked the way. Behind the windows was darkness.
“Get the handle. I’ll go,” said Mahler.
Webern placed the fist holding his flashlight on the push bar. He waited for Mahler to nod his approval, and then pressed the bar in and kicked the door out with his foot.
Mahler swept through the opening and pivoted, left to right, to sweep his flashlight.
“Freeze! Police!” he called out.
Webern shot in a second later and took a supporting position next to Mahler.
They were in the loading dock. To the right, figures moved deeper into the unlit recesses, escaping the two beams of their lights. Their retreat was disorganized and noisy.
Webern took a step forward to pursue.
“What the hell is that.”
Mahler had turned his flashlight back towards the left area of the dock. An object was vaguely illuminated on the edge of the useful radius of the flashlight.
“The perps are this way, Gus,” said Webern. His flashlight pointed into the expanse of the room. “The doctor’s not with them. He’s gotta be upstairs.”
“Hold on a second. I want to see this.”
“They’re going to escape by another stairwell.”
“There’s something wrong here, Tony.”
A loud clatter erupted from the darkness on the other side of the room.
“Dammit.”
“No, they’re stalling us. I’m moving closer,” said Mahler as he started a slow walk towards the object.
“Not too close,” said Webern. He followed behind Mahler, covering his side facing the loading dock.
More sounds came from the darkness, but Mahler continued in the other direction. His eyes narrowed ahead of him. Webern swept back and forth with his gun and light. His pulse was steadily increasing in his ears.
“It’s a metal drum of some kind. Three, four of them…shit,” said Mahler. “It’s wired.”
“Wired?”
Webern turned his head and looked. Mahler’s light illuminated four metal drums chained around a concrete support column. Wires spilled over the top and led in multiple directions.

Keeping Active

For week 7 we were supposed to write a scene with action in it, and we were to keep our verbs active. I’ve heard that in every literature class I took when I had to write essays. So much harder to do.

My writing assignment wasn’t my best work, as I didn’t follow this rule to the letter. For the most part I think I kept the character’s actions active, but when it came to the descriptions I fell back on old habits.

One of my classmates said that some things were unclear, like the description of how a flashlight was held or how the door was open. The other problem with writing is that its all in my head and I never know when it’s not clear!

Lastly, there have been a few complaints that the characters’ names are too similar. Again, I don’t see anything wrong, but it’s all already in my head.

There was a U-Haul van parked out front. Lights off, nobody home. The building behind it looked darker.
Mahler drove the car slowly into a blocking position in front of it. Inside the car Muel picked up the radio mic, called in their location and status. He ticked off numbers and letters of the license plate to dispatch.
As they waited in the dim light of the interior each pulled out his gun and checked it. Muel opened the glove box and pulled out a pair of flashlights, passing one over to Mahler. He also retrieved a radio, which he clipped to his belt with some difficulty.
Dispatch came back with a clean plate, said someone would call the rental company.
Without a word both detectives popped their doors open, pushed them out, and stepped onto the pavement. Flashlights clicked on, pointed directly at the van. In the reflected light their breath was visible.
They approached the van on each side, moving cautiously. Glances were exchanged, gauging the pace of the other. Muel held his flashlight backhanded, resting it the on back of his gun hand. He then raised it to illuminate the cab interior and stepped up on the foothold sticking out below the driver’s door.
Nothing was inside, not even a scrap of paper.
Mahler waited for the detective to get down before proceeding towards the back. Along the way he dropped on a knee and shone the light under the truck frame. Nothing there.
They both reached the end of the van and turned the corner at the same time. Muel grabbed a glove out of his pocket and walked up to the latch at the back. He jiggled the parts one by one to make sure they were secure.
When he looked at Mahler the silhouetted head gestured to the front door of the facility.
They walked up the front steps to the double glass doors of the facility. Their light beams swept the inner hallways but only hit furniture.
Using his glove again Muel pushed down on the front door handle. It didn’t budge. Mahler gestured a circle toward his body with the flashlight. Muel nodded, pulled on the door. It swung open noiselessly.
Muel propped the door open with his foot as Mahler’s flashlight worked down the metal side. It stopped at the lock, where a strip of duct tape covered it.
Mahler flicked a light beam inward, went in the door, followed by Muel a half-second later, following on the right side.

Double-duty

Week 5 didn’t get me many comments on my writing.  The assignment was to get our dialogue to do double-duty: get it to describe the scene, forward the plot, build the character, etc.  Someone liked my post in general, but didn’t say much about how well I packed in the meaning.   Hopefully it does it job in getting the plot moving…

The kid slouched in the chair.  His eyes were unfocused but in the general vicinity of the glass of chocolate milk balanced on his belly.  The only sound he made came from the glass, where a crazy straw wound its way up his mouth.
Next to him, sitting upright in a chair and facing Mahler, was Joy Lofton.  She was the Child Protective Services representative in charge of the children found at the scene.  In her hands was a toy she had just tried to get the kid to play with.  The expression on her lips was surly, borderlining hostile.
Sergeant Mahler sat across the table from the kid, a notebook out of sight on his lap.
“What’s your name, son.”
The kid sniffled, took his time raising his eyes to Mahler.
“Chris.”
“Nice to meet you Chris.  My name is Gus Mahler,” said Mahler.  He tried a smile.  “How are you feeling?”
Chris’s mouth worked over the straw a little.  “Okay.”
“Did you need anything?”
Chris shook his head.
“I’m going to ask you some questions, okay?”
Chris nodded his head.
Mahler looked over at Lofton.  She had her arms crossed in front of her, the toy gripped in her right fist, her left fingers drumming her bicep silently.  She was boring holes through his head with her eyes.  He had won this interview over her argument it would be damaging to the kid’s fragile state of mind.
She had made him meet her in the CPS childrens’ room, for spite. It was littered with toys, books, and had a small refrigerator full of snacks.  The table they were at was next to a wall, which was fitted with a two-way mirror.  The whole place stunk of gummy bears.
Mahler shrugged under Lofton’s gaze and looked back at Chris.  “I need to know what happened at your house tonight.  Can you tell me what happened?”
Chris’s chin and lips bundled together.  Tears welled in his eyes.
Mahler repeated: “Can you tell me who–”
Lofton cursed under her breath and leaned towards the kid.  She said soothing, encouraging words for a few minutes.  Her hand gently rubbed his shoulder.
Mahler watched in silence.  His face made no motions.  He glanced down and flipped the pages of his notebook slowly, reading off the lines.
Minutes passed before Lofton sat back in her seat.  She had in her hand the empty glass.
“Someone called the police from your house.  Was that you?”  Mahler’s words came out a fraction slower in pacing.
Chris nodded his head.
“Do you remember what you said?”
Chris nodded again.
“What did you say?” said Mahler.  Below the table Mahler’s hand poised with a pen over paper.
Chris’s chin and mouth pulled together.  “Mommy got hurt.”
“Do you know how she got hurt?” said Mahler.
Chris shook his head.  He wasn’t looking at Mahler anymore.  His arms were rigid, hands under his legs.
“You didn’t see it happen?”
“You’ll say I’m lying,” said Chris.
“No I won’t,” said Mahler.  “I want to hear what you have to say.”
“Really?”  Chris’s eyes perked up.
“Sure thing, bud.”
Chris bit his lip.  “I saw Werewolves.”
Chris looked at Mahler intently.  Mahler didn’t flick his eyes towards Lofton.  He kept them fixed on Chris.
“I wasn’t make-believing.  These were real,” said Chris.
Mahler nodded his head, kept his eyes on Chris.  “You’re honest with grown-ups.  You wouldn’t make-believe, right?”
“No.  Daddy doesn’t like it.”
“Daddy doesn’t like make-believe?” asked Lofton.  She was facing Chris now.
“He says it’s childish.”
“Does Mommy let you?”  Lofton leaned forward toward Chris, at eye level with him.
“Yeah, when Daddy’s not around.”  Chris started a frown.
“What did the werewolves do when they came in?” asked Mahler.  Lofton fired a quick glare at Mahler, but he continued: “If this upsets you we can talk about something else, okay?”
“Okay.  They came in through the door.  They growled like dogs and jumped around,” said Chris.  His words quickened to the point Mahler could barely keep up writing.  “Mommy and Daddy fought them and they hit each other and then the Werewolves ran away scared!”
“Mommy and Daddy hit each other or the werewolves?” asked Lofton.
“The werewolves,” said Chris.  “Mommy and Daddy don’t fight like that.”
“They fight without hitting?”
“Yeah.”
The edge of Mahler’s mouth twitched.  “Can you tell me how many werewolves there were?”
Chris ticked off fingers, scrunched up his face, counted off again.  “Seven.”
“Did they say anything while they were there?”
“Werewolves don’t talk.  They just growl,” said Chris.
Mahler raised his hands briefly in a show of appeasement.  “Can you describe them?”
“They wore gray and blue and green.  They carried sticks.”  Chris paused, his eyes unfocused.  He blinked a few times before saying: “One of them buzzed.”
“Buzzed?” said Mahler and Lofton in unison.
“It buzzed.  It buzzed like…like a giant bee.”
No one said anything.

Action and Dialogue

Just finished up week 3 in my class.  The assignment was to get to use dialogue and physical aspects to get across character emotions and thoughts.  As an example, we had to try ending dialogue with “said” and “asked” but without modifying it in any way.  Elmore Leonard’s 10 Rules of Writing says to do the same thing.

Here’s my shot:

“Don’t be such a coward, Molly.”
“I’m not, Junior.  I’m just asking you to think about it,” said Molly.
Both of them were strapped into the front bench seat of the rental van.  Junior sat on the driver side, jaw set, looking straight out the front window.  Molly was on the passenger side, turned inward, with a knee on the seat.  Her hands were pulling at the tips of her hair.
“No, there’s no discussion.  We agreed this move was necessary.”
“Was it really?”
Junior smiled.
“Yeah.  And I enjoyed the hell out of it.”
Molly turned her head to look out the passenger window and shifted her body likewise.  Her arms crossed over her abs.  Reflected light gathered at the bottoms of her eyes.
The drove in silence for a while.
Junior glanced to the right, saw the back of Molly’s head.  He took in a long breath and released it.
“Mol, this is for the best.  We agreed it needed to be done.  And you know as well as I do that we’re in too far to turn back.”
Molly didn’t move.  Her only motion was caused by the swaying of the van.
Junior shook his head slowly, his kunckles turned white on the steering wheel.
“Dammit, what would you have me do?”
“Nothing.”
Junior’s fist smacked the steering wheel.
“Don’t give me that.  What would you have me do?  Tell me.”
“No one said anything about attacking the kids, Junior.”
“Don’t call me Junior.  And what did you expect the children of that monster to be when they grew up?”
Junior looked at Molly, eyebrows raised and head titled forward.
“And let me tell you something else.  He already took his kids to the lab to see his work on the animals.”
“Stop” said Molly.  She shut her eyes and shook her head.  “I don’t want to deal with it anymore.”
“Listen,” said Junior, as his finger jabbed the air at her, “you’re in this up to your neck.  Don’t forget that.”
The van turned onto Pacific Ave, which ran through some of the downtown and down to the ocean.  Junior hit the brakes.
“Oh god they’re looking for us!  They’re looking for us!”
“Shut up!” said Junior.
In front of the van was a small line of cars.  To the side of those, blocking off the other lanes of the street, were police cars.  Lights flashed as cops stood at the windows of cars, interviewing the drivers and checking the occupants.
“oh god oh god–”
“They’re not looking for us.  We ditched the van and no one saw us get into this one.  They don’t–”
“Jesus those people are getting out!  They’re going to–”
“Shut the hell up, Mol.  It’s a sobriety check point.”
Junior wasn’t looking at Molly.  His eyes were fixed outside the window.
“It’s only a checkpoint.  See that guy over there?  He’s walking the line.”
Junior wiped the beginning of sweat from his brow, reached behind his head, and tapped three times on the metal partition with his knuckles.
“So long as those knuckleheads back there keep the professor quiet they’ll let us pass.”
Junior shot a glance at Molly.
“Loosen up.  You look like someone has a knife to your back.”
Molly’s back was ramrod straight.  In the reflected street light the whites of her eyes were clearly visible.  Her breathing was quick.
“Stop looking so damn suspicious, Molly!  You’ll get us all caught!”
Molly’s shoulders bundled up as she shut her eyes tightly.
“Slouch in your seat,” said Junior.
Molly slid forward in her seat.
“Take a deep breath and hold it.  Good.  Now let it out slowly.”
Molly breathed out and sank in her seat.  Her eyes opened with a more serene look on her face.
“Remember, we’re new in town, just moving in.  And don’t admit to drinking anything.”

Some comments I received were: weird paragraph breakup, point-of-view shifting, unclear descriptions.  I can see how I should have combined some dialogue with the physical descritpions.  I don’t quite understand how the POV shifted, even though the teacher pointed out areas he saw this happening.  My descriptions are vague and weird, but that’s just because I can’t think of anything better to say.

Ah well, back to the drawing board.

New-old Beginnings

I posted a few starts for possible stories in my crime fiction class this week, refining three of those from the week before.  The first two dealt with one possible story, the third to a second possible one.  In each I tried to change the narrative distance, but I probably failed because I relied more on switching from 1st-person to 3rd-person than on exploring what really distances the reader from the protagonist(s). 

From the comments so far, one person liked this opening from the first possible:

From what we pieced together from the physical evidence and the childrens’ statements, the attendees of the birthday party were unaware anything was wrong until the first brick smashed through the window.
The assailants kicked the door in at about the same time.  They numbered between 5 and 7, wore Halloween masks, and were armed with bats and crowbars.  One of them had a taser.
They smashed everything in the room, assaulted both the adults they didn’t want, and put one hell of a shock in the kids.
They grabbed their target and wrestled him back to the van.  They were inside for about a minute.
One of the kids made it to the kitchen phone minutes later and dialed 9-1-1.  The kid made it known that someone was injured, and dispatch sent a bus.  The medics called in the deputies, and we weren’t too far behind.

Another person liked this one, from the second possible:

“Can someone shut her goddamn eyes.”
“Can’t. Photographer’s stuck in traffic.”
I can stand most crime scenes. Been doing it for years. But open, blank eyes get to me. They make the face appear human and my stomach usually checks out through the front door.
“Where’s the bucket–!” I said before words were crowded out.
“In the trunk.”
I ran from the room and managed to hold it in until I got out onto the grass. The image of the body stayed with me longer.
Sprawled on the floor, one knee up, feet apart, arms by her sides, head tilted to the left. I remembered her eyes again and my stomach lurched up.

Some troubles with my writing that were pointed out: names are too similar, speaker identification is hard, the p.o.v. isn’t clear or appears to shift, and (of course) bad grammar.

Some of these are bad habits from other writing I’ve done.  This is the first time my creative writing is really getting critiqued, and it’s interesting to see where I’m assuming people are following along when they aren’t.   Part of me wants to say it doesn’t care, but I really should listen to my classmates.