BEATNIK BLOGGING ALONG BLOGGING

THE TORQUE

I've got this 13000 word long story, Lit. Noir, in a style reminiscent of early Woody Allen. I like it, but the rewrite, the third rewrite this time thru, felt like a slog. Do all rewrites at my age feel this way, I wonder? I've never felt this way before. Rewrites were just part of the overall fun. Thirteen hundred words? Who'll publish anything that long anyhow? Serialized in 3 issues maybe?

Photo is inside the new Torque location. Lovely place to write, looking out at the river thru the long window on the left. 

My list of publications will soon increase by a single poem. First published in 1985 at Bellowing Ark, the poem "Willingness of Seeds" will be reprinted in the Perfume River Poetry Review from Tourane Poetry Press. Editor Vuong Quoc Vu got hold of the poem during a moment when I nearly was involved in a chain letter exchange of poetry with other poets, but after I sent one poem out to Vuong, I withdrew from the process. It's the same old story. To take time off for anything but writing, rewriting and, now, submitting my work, plus finding time to read every night [what about my wife besides], it was hard for me to select and pitch in 20 names of friends required to keep the process going. I did not know who Vuong was, but Vuong liked the poem a good deal, and I felt immediately humbled and appreciative of his comments. If you look on his websites, you'll find some powerful poetry about his mother and himself in Vietnam when the bullets were flying. Besides that event, several of my poems have been at Cutbank for a long while now. I'm imagining/hoping they're being looked at with some interest. Wouldn't that be nice? One of the poems is entitled, "With Hugo In Montana ".

SILENT BOOMER BEATNIKS HIS WAY TOWARD A BUSINESS OPPORTUNITY

Writerly things! An automatic mental jump shift occurs in my approach to Manning, the character, when I write the words "Charley Manning" in a sentence and when I write only "Manning". In the first instance, I experience a jump shift of POV from the interior Manning into my roll as the omniscient observer. This shift encourages me to look around at the scene Manning's entering, to give some details that aren't attached to Manning's stream of consciousness. I believe it adds realistic pieces that Manning might miss because of his intentions in the scene and that I might miss because of how I intend to advance the plot.

For a' that, writing went damn well this morning down at the Torque in the heart of Vancouver. Most of the afternoon, I've been in Portland, walking around, preparing to meet a couple of cronies at Bob's Red Mill for dinner. I briefly visited Powell's Books. Right now, I'm eating chips and drinking a Sprite at the Lucky Lab on Hawthorne. I tried to go up 12th to the worker owned Red & Black Cafe only to discover that no one was working at the moment, even though the hours posted say someone is there. Talking to a couple of young men sitting at an outside table, I learned that only three workers currently own the joint. If someone's got some cash and a lot of energy, there's a chance at the Red & Black to make something happen. They recently bought the building so there's a mortgage. You know? When I finish my damn novel, I can see myself working there and making it happen. Another place for poetry readings and talk of revolution. The Portland Wolf Pack was meeting there last time Mertie and I visited. What couldn't be accomplished with some imagination and a little cash? Huh?

BEATNICK SILENTLY WELCOMES 20 YEARS OF TOGETHERNESS

Sitting at Torque Coffee in Vancouver, knowing I must put an entry in here before everyone forgets to come looking to see what's going on with the writer and his attempt to get someone other than himself to publish a book of his. Just finished Chapter 29. Also, not too far back, Mr. Charley Manning lost a little finger on his left hand to the henchmen of a ne·far·i·ous mystery man. Keep such events in mind when you wonder whether or not you'll buy the novel when someone [other than myself] publishes it. 

I'm reaching a point where I can't keep the reader in suspense about some of the mysterious goings on of the characters in the novel. We're reaching the first of the revealing incidents.

Nice thought is that last night I made vegetable soup for dinner tonight. I can stay away from home until dinner when my wife comes home from work. This ability to stay out as long as I want to is one of the reasons I've not been in favor of keeping a dog in a domicile without a lawn. Someone has to come home midday to let the little creatures out to do their duty to god and their country as they understand and are moved by that duty. 

Nothing to do with writing was my feeling, yesterday, during my daily walk that, being now 20 years with Mertie, I felt this powerful feeling of being an old married man and, instead of hating the thought, I was overcome with a positive and tear-making gush of glad feeling. So this is what 20 years together [Feburary, 2014] feels like? 

FARTS BLOW AWAY, BEATNICK BOOMER REFRESHED

Me happily at work in the moment

In the Van Mall where I'll walk soon. Took half a morning here to download my "Silent Boomer" blog site on Blogger. A great morning. Broke through a month of writer's block. You readers may have caught a whiff of blockage in all my posts before this one. Lots of gaseous farting around with quavering "chin up and muster on" from the British films of my past. 

The way now opens into the next third—or more—of Manning—the secrets I'm keeping from the reader, the revelations and twisty turns of plot laid out before me in a rough order. It's congealing, the plot is. See many chapters ahead. My interest freshens. 

I may have mentioned this, but it bares repeating. By jotting down brief statements about Charley Manning's actions and thoughts and discoveries, the plot, as it comes to me, can be laid out in short statements through my main character:

1. Manning discovers that [   ] is not really on his side.
2. Manning learns that [   ] was killed by [   ]. [   ] does not know this, but [   ] does. 

That plotting device helps me remember and structure the book. I'm not revealing more. You won't buy the book when it comes out if you know all the surprises and twists. 

Today, I worked on Manning at the downtown Vancouver library, one of the three places I like most to write in when home feels too confining. The other two are Black Rock Coffee on 164th where I worked on Tuesday and Torque in downtown Vancouver where I worked yesterday morning. 

BOOMER GOES OUT TO TORQUE AND BLACK ROCK TO WRITE

A very productive day today, but not a lot to say. I finished another section of Manning earlier in the day and realized some interesting plotting to develop and a clue to drop to see how alert my readers are of what's gone before. I just now finished typing three more pages of The Man In The Mirror while my sweetheart was doing Bikram Hot Yoga up on 164th Avenue. This hot yoga stuff turns her on, relaxes her, makes her feel very good physically and mentally. She's always claimed there is something about physical routines that work wonders for her. She used to love Tai Chi, but that instructor was not of her political persuasion, and he would not let off, talking his talk, so finally, after years, she quit showing up. She's a very loyal person. She wouldn't quit on anyone without making an effort first. Oh do I love her! Walked by the Columbia today. Overcast, winter coming, and I took a few pictures of the I-5 bridge. Handed out a couple more Silent Boomer cards to baristas also where I do some of my writing when home office gets gray with overcast. Hello, there, if you're looking in.

DETECTIVE CHARLEY MANNING COMES ALIVE

Yesterday at Torque, drinking skinny hazelnut latte, I was anticipating next issue of Vancouver Vector, thinking 'bout what happens next in my campaign to get someone other than myself to publish one of my already completed novels.

Day before that sent query letters to agents for Angie's Choice. Plan two queries to publishers. Other than that, what next?

My wife again put her two cents in, praising The Man In The Mirror—my first novel—as interesting and suspenseful, and her being a mystery reader, I'm tending to heed her words. However, getting that novel into file form's daunting. Typewritten ms is yellowed and ink has seeped into the paper, blurring the letters. Optical character recognition (OCR) software doesn't work. I've tried my own OCR and had Office Max try theirs. Checked into a typing service. Nine-hundred bucks to type the ms into editable files. I hear "edible" when my interior monologue says "editable". Does that mean I think that if I put that much money into editable files we won't be able to afford edible goods? 

I tell you...the new novel, the Detective Charley Manning tale, is rolling along quite nicely and, methinks, it's stolen my heart away. I was going to reveal the current opening paragraphs, but I'm suddenly experiencing proprietary twinges toward the ideas that drive the book. I smell publishing success in ways I've never in my long and harried writing life experienced it.

IT'S A GOOD NEWS MONDAY!

Torque Coffee, tea on a mon(sun)day, bay door thrown up to let Kerouac sunbeams fly and flies in. Framed in bay door of never-ending same dimension—a Hilton's tan plainness on a square of canvass, hint of blue sky and white clouds thin as harem pantaloons in the left corner of a Rene Magritte kind-of painting. Happiness of vision!

YESTERDAY, rewriting at Black Rock Coffee, I was tired in the afternoon (aged man two o'clock nap). Nothing came of the pitiful attempt except drowsiness and drooping spirit...but...

LAST EVE, AN EMAIL: 
George:
Can we use the article you sent recently on 50plusnorthwest.com?  We will include a link to your website.
Greg Johnson
50plusnorthwest

Of course you can, I chirped. Of course, gladly, happily, publish my pathetic, funny essay.... Of course, also, no money. What's new in the current writers' domains? For the barest of moments, I think of Vonnegut. In 1950s, two short stories earned him 1,500 dollars, enough to keep his family afloat for six months. A writer dare not hang at the end of that clothesline. He'll fade in sunlight. Anyhow, damn it, I'm appreciative, and Editor Greg Johnson's acceptance keeps me hyped to my goal, my item on a bucket list—to wit—to get someone other than myself to publish one of my four novels before I die.   

AND TODAY...Happy day, my Chapter Twenty rewrite of Angie's Choice flew by, done before noon. Two chapters remain (and that touch-up in Chapter One to make it more appealing), then I won't look at it again. I'll send it around and around, ceaselessly, until it begs to be let die...or I die...whichever comes next.

SILENT BOOMER IS IGNORED BY A HERON

Today has been a creative bust. Couldn't get my wangbanger fired up. Sat at keyboard, wearing my backside flat, trying to connect with my characters. They weren't speaking to me or to one another. I decided to change my venue and drove into downtown Vancouver to Torque coffee shop and looked for my characters there. They'd been there, I was told, but left just a minute before I arrived. Did find a huge crowd lined up to eat free bowls at The Mighty Bowl, a traveling food truck which was celebrating one year of a solidly successful existence. Through the week, the Bowl changes locations, and Thursdays it parks at the Torque. The line ran 40 people long and still going after an hour and a half. I couldn't imagine how a truck that small carried enough food to serve all the patrons who showed up. Actually, I couldn't imagine much of anything. 

Cursing my muse, I left Torque to walk by the mighty Columbia River where I met an aloof Gray Heron upon a rock. "What's the haps," I asked, but he sat upon a gray rock that set off his feathers quite nicely and gave me the bird. He was writing haiku most likely. About grayness or ambiguity or Mark Twain on the Mississippi. As for me, I had to be satisfied with a purloined thought...the one about tomorrow being another day.

THE BEAT BOOMER'S WRITING LAIRS

Black Rock

I was impressed years ago when I learned John Updike maintained an office away from home so that he could treat his writing like a regular job where he would show up and "do his writing". Thing is...one must already be successful as a writer to afford an office away from home. With my poem here and short story there success record, I've never reached that degree of financial success. I've always had to go away from home like a coffee shop beatnik or, in the Cheney years while working on my MFA, to The Fireside restaurant where the waitresses were friendly.

Torque

For a short time, while my third wife worked, I stayed home and wrote in the mornings, five and six hours at a stretch. I had an agent at the time, Ruth Cantor in New York, who was handling a book of mine. I thought I was on the verge of a breakthrough, then the marriage collapsed like a punctured bag of hot air, and I fell into a long period of psychological work that improved my life tenfold but did nothing for my writing (ha!) career.


Currently, I'm enjoying another spate of good writing and have published a few more things lately but still no money, never any money. I've included two of my favorite places to write away from home. I stay home, usually, in the morning these days and go out in the afternoon or late morning to write and/or read. They are the Torque downtown at 501 Columbia Street and Black Rock on 164th Avenue in east Vancouver. The Black Rock was designed to feel futuristic and it does and it draws quite a number of young people. The Torque looks like the sort of place that humans hide in to escape the aliens who've taken over the Earth...a warehouse for real. It's got plenty of plugs and an open airy feel that is very stimulating as if it weren't stimulating enough to be the target of prowling aliens.

Happy writing, friends, old and new!