I got a new computer! Acquired last week, actually; and it's been quite the process relocating from my old Dell laptop to my new HP laptop. I haven't had a new computer in about five years, so it was definitely time to upgrade - tools are very important in any vocation, and though my Dell was still cranking along rather well - it had developed some annoying quirks (nothing surprising with a computer of five years old... I mean, it was obsolete the moment I opened the box back when I first got it). I didn't think it would crash on me immediately or anything like that; however, I wanted to get into something new before that ever became an issue... something faster, with a bit more processing power and a lot more storage capacity.
I have to hand it to Dell for putting out one hell of a computer: that little silver and white marvel held up well over the time I owned it (coincidentally, it has a good, new home - I bequeathed it to my wife after cleaning it up for her... boy, did that take some time), and I do miss the little guy. Over the course of my ownership, I maxed out the RAM on the Dell (4 GB), almost overloaded the 40 GB hard drive with my music collection (I recall vividly how the Dell was performing like it was constipated), traveled it across Texas and to various locales around town, wrote my first novel on it, and generally lived in it's virtual space. I beat the hell out of that Dell, and it never gave up on me. He goes now to a better owner who will treat him with a lot more kindness than I ever did.
The new HP is working well so far; my favorite feature (hands down) is the enormous keyboard with its fat, Chiclet-style keys and full number pad. It's Windows 7 which I'm not very familiar with... all of the computers I use and have used thus far (except for my father-in-law's computer) are still on XP, and that's the OS with which I'm most familiar. I didn't expect that Win 7 would be all that complicated, and it's not... but it takes some getting used to. I also got myself a 1 TB Seagate GoFlex portable hard drive, so I can back everything up... it doesn't have a redundancy guarantee, but it will work for now.
The immediate question must be: why does a writer need a new computer; isn't a pen and paper all that's really required to write? My answer: "Need" is a tricky term; no, as a fledgling writer I didn't "need" a new computer... but like I said at the beginning of this entry: "tools are important in any vocation..." A computer is NOT necessary to write; used to be I produced all of my writing long hand, and then I had to set about the tedious task of typing or word processing all of the work. For me, creating my stories on a computer is a relatively new phenomenon... and I don't exclusively create on the computer: I have stacks of notebooks and journals and pens... I'm a stationary aficionado, and I rarely pass up an opportunity to acquire a new journal/notebook and pen. I even have a plethora of note taking/text editing applications on my Android phone... it's kooky. Writing is decidedly low tech by nature, I mean it seems almost deceptively simple: pen, paper, idea - done. Well, it's not quite that simple, especially not when you consider the innovations that had to be made in order for writing to even exist: language, a system of written language, tools with which to write, and material to write upon... and honestly, it's much more complicated than that if you consider the philosophical and psychological implications of writing.
Yeah, most of that is jest... sorry, my tangent... My point is this: the correct tools for you as a writer are whatever you are most comfortable and familiar with; and for me that's a good laptop computer and my hand-written notebooks - I'm not about to prescribe to anyone what tools they should use, or recommend one over the other: it doesn't matter what you write on, just that you write. I switched over to composing on the computer (it was a big switch for me) because I'm fundamentally lazy, and I wanted to save myself some steps; hence, I still make notes on paper, but I compose on the computer.
By the way, I'm now working in a creative writing management software title called, WriteWay. I'm still pretty new to it, but it's proven to be pretty good so far. I'm still learning the ins and outs, but it gives you some really nice tools to manage your creative writing projects - plot notes, outlining, character cards, research folders, and more. If you're interested it can be found here: http://www.writewaypro.com/. You can download a free 30 day trial, and test drive it for yourself; the full pro version only costs $49, which is a fraction of what Scrivener (which is for Mac only, anyway) and Dramatica Pro cost. If you are interested in a creative writing project management software title, you can see a nice side-by-side comparison here: http://creative-writing-software-review.toptenreviews.com/... it's where I found WriteWay. There is also an open source option available for free (although I would recommend making a donation to this fellow if you use his software), yWriter5 which can be found here: http://www.spacejock.com/yWriter5.html. I don't endorse any of these software titles, not even WriteWay (which I'm still learning to use); but I like sharing information so if one of these works out for you - great!
For the low-tech bunch, Markings by C. F. Gibson is putting out Moleskine-like notebooks for a fraction of the cost of the Moleskine brand. The Markings notebooks are pretty much an exact copy of the Moleskine's Volant and Cahier notebooks (slick, plastic or cardboard cover with a pocket over a "composition book-style" stitched notebook). These are actually available at Wal-Mart. I like Markings journals (they're a pretty nice Moleskine knock-off) and I'm pretty sure their notebooks are decently made as well.
Alright; enough jibber-jabber, get to writing...
Oh yeah, the hiatus thing... We're buying a house, and that took up the majority of our free time and thought for about a month and a half. More on that news as things develop. :)
About Me
- Mr. G
- Dan Garcia resides in San Antonio, Texas, in a household ruled by a dog and a cat. These benign overlords allow Garcia, his wife, and two daughters to live with them so long as they are served unquestioningly. The dog and cat compel Garcia to write stories of imaginative fiction and fantasy; their rationale being: the potential for supplementary income from the sale of these stories means the possibility of more treats and toys for them. Thus, when not at work at the San Antonio Public Library, Garcia is permitted to craft his tales despite the fact that this activity limits his availability for scratching and petting. Hell-Kind is Garcia’s first novel which he was allowed to type because of his opposable thumbs and agile digits; the dog and cat did all of the actual heavy-lifting for the story, and are not particularly concerned with receiving credit for the book.
Saturday, February 18, 2012
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Okay... it's been a while...
What is it they say about the best of intentions?
I've been meaning to post to the blog for a while; I mean, I knew I was going to have a little bit of down time but this has gotten to be a bit ridiculous. I got sidetracked... heavily sidetracked, and I'm still sidetracked except that I felt I really needed to put something up here to explain myself.
My wife and I have been house hunting, and it's taken over every waking hour of our lives; first in the searching, then in the viewing, then in the searching again, then in the viewing again, then in the disappointing and shifty maneuvers of the realty industry, then in the searching, then in the frustration, then in the viewing, then in the finding, then in the offering, the inspecting, and the waiting... God, the endless waiting. I've been unable to concentrate on anything else... I can't seem to make my mind focus on anything else... I've got nerves rattling around in my stomach, and an inability to sleep in any great degree of comfort... and writing... well... not much of that either I'm afraid... and it's not like I don't have a lot to do.
This house hunting thing has been like a great cosmic monkey wrench in the machine works of my own little universe - talk about a distraction. It shouldn't be any great secret to anyone that writing is a creative act that requires a fair amount of concentration. Now if you can drop into a Zen-like state of empty mind where all you are doing it writing and thinking of nothing else but writing, my hat is most definitely off to you... you're a literary Bodhisattva. The rest of us mere mortals need to be able to give at least a fraction of our concentration to the task at hand, and that often means that all manner of other odd shit is going to come flying by like a mental montage of current stress points and worries.
I'd like to focus on the writing I'm currently crafting, and the revision of the writing I recently completed... but nothing doing, at least not right now. It's all out the window - all subject to defenestration by the need to acquire a permanent abode for the family. Oh, the misery of growing up and having to be an adult... what a load of shit. Hahahahahaha!!! Funny, how the things you need to do are always impinging upon the things you want to do: such is life; it is what it is, and all that garbage. I recently read somewhere (and for the life of me, I cannot remember where otherwise I'd link to it) that process of writing is more about the time you spend not writing than about the time you do spend writing. If you're not writing (and I mean actively writing with pen in hand or fingers on keyboard) then, in my mind, you damn well better be percolating something in your head because you sure as hell can't call yourself a writer if you don't write.
I've been scribbling in my old-fashioned, analog, paper notebook every chance I get; which most often is in the morning before I go to work (work, another one of those needs impinging on desires...). I'm still writing... I'm just not writing what I want to be writing; and the more astute of you might point out that I could be working on my project right now rather than wasting time with this blog that no one reads any how (and you'd be absolutely right, so fuck you... hahaha).
The moral of the story is that life is always ready to place pitfalls in your path, so fuck it. Do what you want when you want, while you can... just be ready for the bumps in the road because they are coming - just around the bend most likely, and they may suck like a thick, curly hair in a hamburger but they're unavoidable... so suck it up.
Cheers!
I've been meaning to post to the blog for a while; I mean, I knew I was going to have a little bit of down time but this has gotten to be a bit ridiculous. I got sidetracked... heavily sidetracked, and I'm still sidetracked except that I felt I really needed to put something up here to explain myself.
My wife and I have been house hunting, and it's taken over every waking hour of our lives; first in the searching, then in the viewing, then in the searching again, then in the viewing again, then in the disappointing and shifty maneuvers of the realty industry, then in the searching, then in the frustration, then in the viewing, then in the finding, then in the offering, the inspecting, and the waiting... God, the endless waiting. I've been unable to concentrate on anything else... I can't seem to make my mind focus on anything else... I've got nerves rattling around in my stomach, and an inability to sleep in any great degree of comfort... and writing... well... not much of that either I'm afraid... and it's not like I don't have a lot to do.
This house hunting thing has been like a great cosmic monkey wrench in the machine works of my own little universe - talk about a distraction. It shouldn't be any great secret to anyone that writing is a creative act that requires a fair amount of concentration. Now if you can drop into a Zen-like state of empty mind where all you are doing it writing and thinking of nothing else but writing, my hat is most definitely off to you... you're a literary Bodhisattva. The rest of us mere mortals need to be able to give at least a fraction of our concentration to the task at hand, and that often means that all manner of other odd shit is going to come flying by like a mental montage of current stress points and worries.
I'd like to focus on the writing I'm currently crafting, and the revision of the writing I recently completed... but nothing doing, at least not right now. It's all out the window - all subject to defenestration by the need to acquire a permanent abode for the family. Oh, the misery of growing up and having to be an adult... what a load of shit. Hahahahahaha!!! Funny, how the things you need to do are always impinging upon the things you want to do: such is life; it is what it is, and all that garbage. I recently read somewhere (and for the life of me, I cannot remember where otherwise I'd link to it) that process of writing is more about the time you spend not writing than about the time you do spend writing. If you're not writing (and I mean actively writing with pen in hand or fingers on keyboard) then, in my mind, you damn well better be percolating something in your head because you sure as hell can't call yourself a writer if you don't write.
I've been scribbling in my old-fashioned, analog, paper notebook every chance I get; which most often is in the morning before I go to work (work, another one of those needs impinging on desires...). I'm still writing... I'm just not writing what I want to be writing; and the more astute of you might point out that I could be working on my project right now rather than wasting time with this blog that no one reads any how (and you'd be absolutely right, so fuck you... hahaha).
The moral of the story is that life is always ready to place pitfalls in your path, so fuck it. Do what you want when you want, while you can... just be ready for the bumps in the road because they are coming - just around the bend most likely, and they may suck like a thick, curly hair in a hamburger but they're unavoidable... so suck it up.
Cheers!
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
The Fiction Dream
Quite possibly the hardest part of writing the novel, for me at least, was the creation of what John Gardner (in The Art of Fiction) refers to as the "fiction dream." What is the "fiction dream?" I haven't the foggiest idea...
Okay, well that's not entirely true; I know what it means in the context of Gardner's definition, but I have no idea how to create it... at least not well enough to describe it... but I'm going to try. Fair warning: this is probably going to be a clumsy attempt (for the real deal, check out Gardner's book), but it ought to be just a little fun.
The "fiction dream" is the author's principal tool; the means by which the author immerses the reader in the story, and by which the author creates the illusion of identification between the reader and the story. Through the "fiction dream" the author steers the reader through the quasi-reality s/he created, and directs the way the reader perceives the fictional world. By using the "fiction dream" to its greatest potential the author is able to give the reader an experience which may well mark them for the rest of his/her life - think of the novels you have read that affected you in some way, that made you think differently or see the world differently. It's not necessary for the novel in question to be a work of "great literature," because the entire thing is completely subjective... one person's trash is another person's treasure... and I read a lot of what most people consider trash, and yet I have found a great degree of things that appeal to me (obviously, otherwise I wouldn't read it).
Fiction is art; rather let me say it this way: the act of creating fiction is the same as the act of creating art. You can teach an ape to sling a paint brush, and what the ape creates can be called "art," (depending on your aesthetic, but it's not really art because art attempts to communicate an idea) but only human beings can create fiction, by virtue of our dependence on language as a means of communication. Human beings are natural storytellers: we're all capable of it (again by virtue of our dependence on language as a means of communication), but like all forms of communication there are varying degrees of proficiency. Fiction must be honest; at least that's what I've read in a multitude of books on the theory of writing fiction - the level of truth in fiction, in my understanding, must be ultimate. Fear is what keeps the overwhelming majority of people from creating any kind of art, including fiction... especially fiction: you cannot create the "fiction dream" if you fear telling the truth, exposing the truth, or otherwise dealing with the truth. Genre doesn't matter; all it does is supply stylistic conventions that guide the author and the reader to identify the writing as a particular type of fiction.
Perhaps "Truth" (yes, with a capital "T") is the first building block of the "fiction dream." In Gardner's fiction theory, he says something to the effect of: if the reader picks up on the fact that the author has not been entirely sincere (honest) then the reader will feel deceived and the fiction dream will collapse leaving the reader unsatisfied and possibly even angry at the author... feeling cheated that is.
"Truth," according to Gardner (at least the way I interpret it) is especially important in the fictional portrayal of emotion. As I see it emotion is the best way to connect the reader and the novel; if the reader is not connecting to the emotions the author is representing in his/her characters, then the reader is not participating in the "fiction dream," and thus not connected to the novel. Emotion that lacks genuine representation, or which is allowed to become melodramatic is coursing in to dangerous turf - it's an easy way to insert too much of the author (think Toto pulling away the curtain to reveal the true "Wizard of Oz"), and thus render the "fiction dream" inert.
This whole mess is a gigantic balancing act. Creating the "fiction dream" means adding all of the ingredients in such a way that everything simply works together harmoniously, and that's no easy feat. I can say that I do not believe that I accomplished this with the manuscript I just wrote - not in the least; however, it's difficult to measure it because it's a raw document, and no piece of writing ever comes into the world perfect from inception. The end product, what we read off the library or bookstore shelves, is the result of a lot of work - very hard work which requires the author to know his or herself and his or her habits intimately. In order to create the "fiction dream" and make it work, the author must know the craft like a second nature... and it's not going to happen on the first go - not for any author no matter how canonized or celebrated he or she is; no matter how aloof the author is; no matter how close to godliness the author believes he or she is.
Language, properly employed, is an amazing and versatile tool; and, when combined with imagination, allows a writer to fabricate the bridge between the reader and the "fiction dream"... but it's a lot like working with volatile materials: one wrong move and BOOM, it all goes up in a ball of fire and smoke.
I think I may be getting just a little too theoretical and that's the territory where I think Gardner flew into and where he lost me the first time I read his Art of Fiction book; after all, some of the greatest fiction in the world was written, like graffiti, with a spray can on a wall (metaphorically, of course) or on beverage napkins with a found ballpoint pen. Call it what you will, the creation of the "fiction dream" is what all fiction writers are after, and we'll continue searching for it after a decent night's sleep.
Cheers!
Okay, well that's not entirely true; I know what it means in the context of Gardner's definition, but I have no idea how to create it... at least not well enough to describe it... but I'm going to try. Fair warning: this is probably going to be a clumsy attempt (for the real deal, check out Gardner's book), but it ought to be just a little fun.
The "fiction dream" is the author's principal tool; the means by which the author immerses the reader in the story, and by which the author creates the illusion of identification between the reader and the story. Through the "fiction dream" the author steers the reader through the quasi-reality s/he created, and directs the way the reader perceives the fictional world. By using the "fiction dream" to its greatest potential the author is able to give the reader an experience which may well mark them for the rest of his/her life - think of the novels you have read that affected you in some way, that made you think differently or see the world differently. It's not necessary for the novel in question to be a work of "great literature," because the entire thing is completely subjective... one person's trash is another person's treasure... and I read a lot of what most people consider trash, and yet I have found a great degree of things that appeal to me (obviously, otherwise I wouldn't read it).
Fiction is art; rather let me say it this way: the act of creating fiction is the same as the act of creating art. You can teach an ape to sling a paint brush, and what the ape creates can be called "art," (depending on your aesthetic, but it's not really art because art attempts to communicate an idea) but only human beings can create fiction, by virtue of our dependence on language as a means of communication. Human beings are natural storytellers: we're all capable of it (again by virtue of our dependence on language as a means of communication), but like all forms of communication there are varying degrees of proficiency. Fiction must be honest; at least that's what I've read in a multitude of books on the theory of writing fiction - the level of truth in fiction, in my understanding, must be ultimate. Fear is what keeps the overwhelming majority of people from creating any kind of art, including fiction... especially fiction: you cannot create the "fiction dream" if you fear telling the truth, exposing the truth, or otherwise dealing with the truth. Genre doesn't matter; all it does is supply stylistic conventions that guide the author and the reader to identify the writing as a particular type of fiction.
Perhaps "Truth" (yes, with a capital "T") is the first building block of the "fiction dream." In Gardner's fiction theory, he says something to the effect of: if the reader picks up on the fact that the author has not been entirely sincere (honest) then the reader will feel deceived and the fiction dream will collapse leaving the reader unsatisfied and possibly even angry at the author... feeling cheated that is.
"Truth," according to Gardner (at least the way I interpret it) is especially important in the fictional portrayal of emotion. As I see it emotion is the best way to connect the reader and the novel; if the reader is not connecting to the emotions the author is representing in his/her characters, then the reader is not participating in the "fiction dream," and thus not connected to the novel. Emotion that lacks genuine representation, or which is allowed to become melodramatic is coursing in to dangerous turf - it's an easy way to insert too much of the author (think Toto pulling away the curtain to reveal the true "Wizard of Oz"), and thus render the "fiction dream" inert.
This whole mess is a gigantic balancing act. Creating the "fiction dream" means adding all of the ingredients in such a way that everything simply works together harmoniously, and that's no easy feat. I can say that I do not believe that I accomplished this with the manuscript I just wrote - not in the least; however, it's difficult to measure it because it's a raw document, and no piece of writing ever comes into the world perfect from inception. The end product, what we read off the library or bookstore shelves, is the result of a lot of work - very hard work which requires the author to know his or herself and his or her habits intimately. In order to create the "fiction dream" and make it work, the author must know the craft like a second nature... and it's not going to happen on the first go - not for any author no matter how canonized or celebrated he or she is; no matter how aloof the author is; no matter how close to godliness the author believes he or she is.
Language, properly employed, is an amazing and versatile tool; and, when combined with imagination, allows a writer to fabricate the bridge between the reader and the "fiction dream"... but it's a lot like working with volatile materials: one wrong move and BOOM, it all goes up in a ball of fire and smoke.
I think I may be getting just a little too theoretical and that's the territory where I think Gardner flew into and where he lost me the first time I read his Art of Fiction book; after all, some of the greatest fiction in the world was written, like graffiti, with a spray can on a wall (metaphorically, of course) or on beverage napkins with a found ballpoint pen. Call it what you will, the creation of the "fiction dream" is what all fiction writers are after, and we'll continue searching for it after a decent night's sleep.
Cheers!
Friday, December 2, 2011
Definitely Needs More Seasoning
I started re-reading my rough draft last night, and made it about half way before the Sandman won and I was out like a light - I'm beat... and I haven't slept well in over a week: It started the day we got to El Paso, I was up for almost 48 hours... 5:00 a.m. wake up on Tuesday, 11/22 for work all day, and then we left San Antonio around 10:00 p.m. and didn't get to bed properly until 11ish on 11/23... I managed about a half an hour of sleep on the drive. Then the shingles thing really hasn't allowed me to sleep comfortably... It was a rough week back to the routine - I always find it strange, waking up in one city and going to bed in another. We were in El Paso just long enough to acclimate to the change in time zone and the routine over there; only to disrupt it all with our return. Babbling? Yup, I'm still tired.
Sorry, another one of my infamous digressions... Where was I? Ah, yes, the re-read. I completed the re-read today and I have to say the draft is worse than I thought, but better than I imagined. In other words: the thing just might be salvageable, which is a huge relief... I thought I might have laid a gi-normous shit biscuit, but fortunately it looks like I have something I can water and feed and grow and care for, and maybe even allow to fly free someday. The manuscript is about novella length right now, and since I did way more telling and not enough showing it's a pretty fast and largely unimpressive read, I really need to beef it up... but that's to be expected: these are the bare bones of the story; the foundation upon which to build. It probably still needs another 200+ pages to bulk up to where it needs to be; to where it might actually make a real, readable novel.
I'm not an expert my any means - I don't have an MFA in Creative Writing, and I most certainly have never attempted a novel before. I can write a decent and entertaining short story, that is, I can spin a yarn. I'm not a literary writer - I'm not trying to be Hemingway, or Thurber, or Flaubert, or Dickens, or any of those guys; I actually identify more with storytellers than I do with novelists and authors. I like cuentos, tales, the native storytelling traditions... gathered around a fire, and thrilling to the deeds of heroes and gods. I mention all of this because what I'm going to embark upon in this blog is going to include advice, tips, recommendations, and cautions which will all come from my own personal experience without the claim of any kind of authority. This is documentary, and should not be taken to imply that my advice will lead to any form of success; except perhaps that it might give you a body of things not to do. =^)
I'm still honing my skills, and developing as a writer... and I have a long way to go, so I'm not attempting to make any pretenses. I'm learning and you all are certainly welcomed along for the ride.
Cheers!
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Tonight - The Re-Read
So National Novel Writing Month is officially over as of 11:59 last night; welcome to the last month of 2011. Since the challenge is completed and November is now behind us (I sat on my duff for the last few nights recovering from the stupid shingles) it's time to sit down and actually read my manuscript - a task I've put off until tonight because I wanted to give myself a little distance from it so I could look at it with a fresh, critical set of eyes.
I'm not the world's best at revising and rewriting: back when I was writing poetry I came up with this idiotic excuse for not revising... I told everyone that I wanted to catch the words raw, and record them as they occurred to me - it was something Jack Kerouac used to do, and I suspect he did it for the exact same reasons I did... laziness. Some of my poetry club mates thought I was being conceited, but they were wrong... I was being lazy.
And did that laziness benefit me in any way? Not an ounce. In fact I began to believe my own bullshit so thoroughly, I would whip off poems in my notebook and read them during our sharing sessions mere minutes after crapping them out on the page. They were horrible... every once in a while there would be an inspired line or two, but for the most part it was all garbage.
Essentially what I did for the NaNoWriMo challenge was spit out the story on to the page... the exact same thing I used to do in those best-forgotten poetry days (I don't regret writing poetry, I regret not taking it seriously and not producing much better work than I did); however, this time I had a bit of a plan and that plan included an extensive review and revision of the work... and that begins tonight.
Wish me luck...
I'm not the world's best at revising and rewriting: back when I was writing poetry I came up with this idiotic excuse for not revising... I told everyone that I wanted to catch the words raw, and record them as they occurred to me - it was something Jack Kerouac used to do, and I suspect he did it for the exact same reasons I did... laziness. Some of my poetry club mates thought I was being conceited, but they were wrong... I was being lazy.
And did that laziness benefit me in any way? Not an ounce. In fact I began to believe my own bullshit so thoroughly, I would whip off poems in my notebook and read them during our sharing sessions mere minutes after crapping them out on the page. They were horrible... every once in a while there would be an inspired line or two, but for the most part it was all garbage.
Essentially what I did for the NaNoWriMo challenge was spit out the story on to the page... the exact same thing I used to do in those best-forgotten poetry days (I don't regret writing poetry, I regret not taking it seriously and not producing much better work than I did); however, this time I had a bit of a plan and that plan included an extensive review and revision of the work... and that begins tonight.
Wish me luck...
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