SILENT BOOMER GIVES UP KNIVES FOR BARBITURATES

The photo is of the first four issues of Eastern Washington University's biannual literary magazine, Willow Springs. Richard Le Compte, John Naccarato, Miriam DeShazo, Tom Smith and I founded the magazine back in 1977. The others were in their 20s, I in my 30s. We had dandy battles about content. A long time ago that was. All the world of art and literature lay before us to conquer. I'm far inland of the invasion beach, and the enemy shows no sign of surrender.

Making fast progress on the rewrite of Angie's Choice. Into Chapter Seven and liking what I read. Good structure, suspenseful elements, solid characters—this is a publishable novel, certainly. Made another intelligent change. At novel's outset, Angie's suicidal over recent SIDS death of infant daughter. Originally I gave her suicidal thoughts about a butcher knife? This rewrite, I thought, "What yuppie woman plans to slit her wrists with a butcher knife?" Now Angie's suicidal thoughts concern prescription barbiturates. Naturally!

Women (and men) do think about butcher knives when they're fighting with a spouse. A Vancouver man is presently on trial for killing his girlfriend with a knife. One of my ex's snatched a butcher knife out of a kitchen drawer and threatened me. I laughed. I knew she didn't have it in her to harm anyone, but it was admirably dramatic. Much of my life was painfully dramatic in those days. Wives had to amp up their own gestures in order to share the stage with my grandiose performances.

BEAT COFFEE HOUSE FOR OLD BEATNIK MALE

Last night, drove to Portland to the Three Friends Coffee House on 12th Avenue to listen to Chris Luna (Vancouver's poet laureate), Dennis McBride and Mat Brouwer read poetry. Enjoyed their work. Specially appreciate McBride's sarcastic, in a monotone voice, sentiments. His delivery says it all. Didn't stay for open mic. Maybe some other time. A solid venue. Thanks to Chris Luna for telling me about it.

Screeching halt and change of direction: again I'm considering my age and my goal to get one novel published by someone other than myself. I've decided to briefly halt rewrite of Delinquent Lives since Angie's Choice is the novel most ready to go. Over the years, I've looked at the first three chapters of Angie as, at times, I've submitted it to agents or to publishers directly. It's plot is solid and the characters action ready. All I need do with Angie's Choice is run through the entire novel one more time to polish it to PERFECTION. Aha...humph...yes. Anyway...this being done, I can relax and keep Angie in circulation with a peaceful mind while I bring Delinquent Lives up to snuff...or...who knows...I've got a whole new novel on hold that might appeal to a younger audience.

BEAT AS EVER, THE BOOMER TAKES A SPILL

You're not going to believe this...or maybe you will. I'd feel horrible about it, except I've read of major authors who fell into a similar ditch. 

Elderly Man Falls Down

 

I was looking over the early pages of Angie's Choice in preparation to sending  another sample chapter or number of pages (as requested) to the agents I was querying when I found a glaring error. I'd combined the first name of one of my major characters and the last name of another male character. On page two of the manuscript no less. If you've been following this blog, you know that I've been sending out these Angie's Choice samples for several months now. Oh, no!

My hope is that I made the error relatively recently. I always find something to change every time I make a new submission. I'm hoping that I only recently momentarily confused the two characters. I hope that's the case. Otherwise, my error, spelled a-s-s, has been hanging out there for a very long time. I'm chalking this kind of error up to the brain fart of a old man from the Silent Generation. My wife who reads voraciously tells me she catches such errors in books all the time. I don't think she was lying to make me feel better.

PS: the internet photo is titled exactly as I entered it.

THE SILENT BOOMER LIFTS A HEAVY BURDEN

I now hold that Pandora's box, the 2013 Writer's Market, Delux Edition in my sweaty little hand. One and 7/8ths inches thick. A heavy burden. So many markets to try...I feel I'm a gem thief, looking for a fence. I'm in for it now with so many opportunities for rejection. I know the routine—50 out and 1 accepted. Maybe in my old age, the odds will improve. I'm also writing essays now. That puts me all into game...poetry, short stories, essays and novels. Maybe I ought to try my hand at greeting cards while I'm at it:

Paula Munier, agent extraordinaire

Jack be nimble.
Jack be quick. 
We hear you've scorched your _ _ _ _
On a candle wick.
Get well soon, old Jackson,
And, dad burst it, remember...
You're s'posed to blow it out first! 

Still and for all that...my goal remains to get one of my novels or a book of essays published by a legit publishing house before they all go bankrupt or I drop dead in the process. And, darn it, I've got that novel idea turning over in my hectic head.

The photo is off the internet of one of the two agents I'm currently querying about my feminist novel, Angie's Choice. Her photo reveals a puckish personality, don't you think?

THE SILENT BOOMER STILL PLOTTING ALONG

Each day my progress on Delinquent Lives slows as I recognize all the intricacies built into the original and all the connective tissue that will have to be laid down to make for smooth transitions. Currently as I cut and paste segments I have to hope I don't lose my train of thought right in the midst of a cut and paste. My mind is not what it used to be in following small details.  

Obviously, I'm approaching the reconstruction primarily to make the novel more readable for the lay reader who I imagine as very bright but not interested in a novel like Joyce's Finnegan's Wake. The idea, remember, is to create a book that an agent might see his/her way to supporting, to write a book someone other than myself might publish. My friend Carl Tropea read Finnegan's Wake many moons ago, back in our hippy daze. I still recall how he enthused about it. I tried to read it myself but never finished it...as far as I recall.

I'm wondering how much my decade of not writing and working mostly on algebra has contributed to my seemingly clearer vision of the process of writing? Perhaps the alterations my brain went through to understand the schemata of the algebra problem altered my brain as far as it comes to patterning. Is that a correct use of the word schemata?

I'm so far back into the thorny writing thicket that I sent away for Writer's Market 2013 a couple of days ago. I also used Len Fulton's International Directory of Little Magazines and Small Presses in the past. I haven't mentioned those useful books because I was pursuing markets closer to home with the ambition to build local and expand later with a more recent record of successful publications of my poetry, short stories and essays. As I talk about these matters, I almost believe I'm going to succeed. I hope it's not like imagining I'm going to win the lottery whenever I weaken and buy a lottery ticket about every two years or so.

It's raining and 60 degrees outside today, and I'm writing at the Black Rock.

THE SILENT BOOMER BEAT IN A DEADFALL

Michael J.

Tired this morning and not up for creative writing. Old age supplies me with droopy days as well as peppy days, and "being 75" doesn't ask me if I want what it's giving me on any given day. Of course, at my age, with my goal to get someone other than myself to publish my work, every delay, every missed day of writing feels like a deep forest deadfall.

However, I've decided recently I'm not going to force myself to write when I'm groggy and sub-par physically, and further, I'm not going to get down in the dumps over it. I've decided to accept those days when I'm not up to the creative task.

Acceptance is a good tool for all problematical conditions. Michael J. Fox in my most recent AARP magazine says that he finds his state of mind on any given day is directly proportional to his acceptance of his condition and inversely proportional to his expectations. I'm all over that, Michael.

This morning my obvious problem is that I didn't follow my new sleeping/waking regime. I was not accepting a condition of modern life and angrily barking late on commentary pages at ghosts and goblins. If I don't get any writing done today, I'll accept that and try to enjoy a sweetly relaxed day today. Maybe I'll go grocery shopping with my wife. Being in love with her is something not at all hard to accept. 

SILENT BOOMER BEATS THE BUSHES FOR MARKETS

market research

As I continue to rewrite Delinquent Lives, I find the novel has a tighter structure than I thought. Close reading reveals chronological details I thought were missing, phrases like "three days later" or "last night" that I missed when I skimmed through. Like improving dialogue, finding the skeletal structure takes attention to detail.

This morning I sent off one of the essays that my local paper rejected to another market exclusive to the Pacific Northwest. I devoted four hours to discovering the new market, rewriting the essay to make it more market correct, and carefully following the submission guidelines. 

head shot

I found the new market by gathering up all the newspapers and magazines on the free literature rack in the lobby outside the Cascade branch of the Vancouver Library and studying them to see what to my wondering eyes might appear. I found a new age production which pays with a year's subscription. Again...no money, but isn't that all part of getting things published and building reputation? Submission guidelines also requested a head shot. See photos. 

Finally, I've not heard back from the senior publication which asked for writing samples and this blog address. Perhaps I'm  75 years too young (or immature) for the target audience these senior newspapers seek out. That's a definite possibility.

SPEAKING OF DIALOGUE

When I admit to the next error in my writing, I have no doubt all real writers will dismiss me as a hack. My only excuse is that this was the second novel I wrote, and it has lain around in my possession for a couple of decades without rewriting. I'm keeping this entry short because wife and I are on the road.

I was looking over a scene between two boys at Lawnwood, the fictional home for emotionally disturbed children central to the novel. The scene wasn't working, then I discovered both boys sounded too much like me. They didn't speak like two of the emotionally disturbed boys I remembered. DIALOGUE problem! I had to go back and research words that rang true for 1970, the year the book is set in.

First word I replaced was "gym shoes". In the 1970s the best word for gym shoes was "sneakers". Next I thought about what derogatory words teens used in the 1970s. I selected from a long list the word "dipshit" which felt just right. No sooner did I select that word, then one of the real teens I'd been a cottage parent for during those days, popped into mind, and I distinctly heard him speak that word, attitude included.

I had begun with the thought that the task of dialogue editing would be monumentally long and boring. The dialogue work may certainly take time, but the scene, with a few more corrections, came so alive that I was excited about the prospect of doing this kind of dialogue reworking throughout the entire novel. The old Beat Boomer Silent has learned another lesson. Where has my common sense (or is it the courage to work at it) been all these years?

THE SILENT BOOMER BEATS A RETREAT

Dear George,
We are pleased to inform you that we would like to publish your piece, "WORKING WITH MEN IN THE MODERN WORLD".  
WORK Literary Magazine

So...another poem finds a nest, and the writer/poet is momentarily happy, but tomorrow is another day with its own moods and writerly problems. Publication date is not yet set. 

the old

Last post, I said I planned to take a break from writer's piston knock and drive to the Washington Coast. I did take that escape for a day, via Oregon's Route 30 through Astoria, an historic town at the mouth of the Columbia River. 

the new

The photos reveal two views from the same spot that I took while stretching my legs along Astoria's riverfront walk. The first represents old Astoria. The next photo which is 180 degrees opposite the first represents the new. There you can see the condominiums that now multiply on every beautiful place found beside the rivers of the United States—starting price $249,000. 

My imagination is always stimulated by sites that reveal the more rugged past in U.S. history. Beside that old fishery wharf, I imagine a saloon where fishermen drank and found solace in the arms of painted women. In my black and white imagination, there's always a bar and a painted woman, but those images, like the old and rugged days of fishing, are visitations from the past. They come straight out of Turner Classic Movies.

Next entry, if I remember to, I'll discuss an interesting lesson in dialogue that I'd have thought I long ago had learnt. (The construction of that last sentence is perfectly legal if somewhat quaint.)

THE SILENT "BEAT" BOOMER AND THE CARROT

Thursday, I sent off a short story contest entry and $15 of my Social Security check to Glimmer Train Press. The contest is for "new" writers, i.e. those writers whose fiction has not appeared in a press run of more than 5000 books. That's just about most of the writers in America. I'm a really old, "new" writer under those terms. Such contests are what's left for writers of "serious literary" fiction nowadays. 

My goal remains steadily before my eyes...to get someone other than myself to publish a book of mine. My own situation isn't so bad. I know personally two novelists whose first books were published by major publishers but who have never—yet—got a second book accepted. Talk about a big freekin' CARROT! By now, the vegetable no longer dangles before their noses. It's stuffed up their _ _ _ _ _! I'm telling you, folks, this writing game ain't for the weak.

There was a time when I earned money for a couple of poems I wrote as witnessed by the two photos. I received money from The Anglo-Welsh Review once upon at time...about $22 in American money. I cashed the cheque and kept one dollar to frame. I'm still proud of that acceptance. The English pittance came my way not too long before I found an agent for that novel I spoke of. I thought I was there, ready for fame and fortune! The bleeding novel was called, at the time, Children Of God. Now it's called Angie's Choice. 

Today, I'm going to forget all my trials and tribulations and, as soon as I pay some bills, I'm going to drive off under the sun to the Washington Coast. Wife is very busy today, and my plan is to stay out of her hair for awhile.

REAL BEAT BOOMER PLOTTING ALONG HIS WAY

the whole scene

Of my four completed novels—The Man In The Mirror, Delinquent Lives, Angie's Choice, The Porno Writer—the book I'm currently rewriting, Delinquent Lives, is the most difficult to disentangle. I've been forced to sit down and graph the plot. 

a detail

When I wrote this book, I didn't rely on plot. By switching back and forth between two limited points of view, I saw the book as developing by giving the reader bits and pieces of information about each of the two main characters that would add up to a full psychological profile of them and justify how they came out as the novel concludes.  

Delinquent Lives does develop along a chronological order, but I've used so many flashbacks, I can see where a reader might be put off from reading to the finish. Continuity is problematical. I was letting my love of Fellini's "8 1/2" influence me. Fellini believed his audience had the knowledge to understand what he was doing, but reading a book is different than watching a movie.

I can see the psychological rationales to most of the decisions I made about scene placements, and I tried to make each event have it's own intrinsic tension, but as I rewrite all these years later, I discover scenes and information whose necessity I have to question. Again and again I learn that an old cat can learn new meows if he's motivated enough.