SILENT BOOMER FEELING BEAT SLOGS ON

The first rejection of a query letter has arrived for Ghoul World. Last night, before I went to bed, I checked my email account and, there it was, my first rejection. It was not the rejection that was so bad, but what the rejection suggested. My single page blurb did catch the agent's attention. She liked the story idea, but she said she was disappointed. What she read didn't keep her interest. That would be the five page sample of the novel. Then, of course, I read the 5 pages, and I agree with her. I see all sorts of errors or better ways to write those five pages. I catch the blunder of using the same word in two successive sentences to describe an action. I see too many adjectives. Man oh man! What a let down. Before the rejection arrived, I did begin talking to my wife about some short comings I feared were in the novel. Not enough tension, maybe, and how do I fix that? I don't see my way clear to do one more rewrite. I don't. The fun has gone out of writing for me, I fear. Anyway, I'm going to finish the rewrite of The Porn Writer, and begin to send that around while I commence another run through of Ghoul World to see if I can tighten it up, even as I continue to send it around. Damn it all to hell!

NOVEL BEATNIK CLOTHING AND SINGER SEWING MACHINES

Grandma (left) and Grandpa Thomas and his mother

Aargh! That's right ... aargh! This morning, I realized, for the sake of plausibility, I had to make a change in the novel. It had to do with Irishers and wild humans. That change led to another change. By using the search and change function, the changes were easy to make, but, now, uncertainty and doubt arise. I'm not sure that my changes aren't creating other implausible situations. I try to think through the novel, but can't think clearly enough. I could start at the beginning again and read through the first 200+ pages just to make sure the alterations haven't made the pants too short for the legs ... OR ... I can plow ahead and complete the suit, wait for the first read through that follows the completion of the whole novel. But, I think, alarmed, waiting might allow other plot complications to build up until the entire novel is distorted. The situation is complicated by the fact I took several days off to drive up to Seattle to practice dancing with my daughter for her upcoming wedding. I'm starting this morning with a cold sewing machine motor. Which reminds me of my grandmother who had a Singer that had a foot pedal. When I lived with her and Grandpa Thomas, I recall her toiling away, pumping that foot pedal and sewing complete novels of suits and dresses. Sneakily, I hope my mention of Irishers and wild humans gets your attention about the novel.

SILENT BOOMER THRASHES THROUGH ANOTHER STICKY THICKET

The plot gets twisted....

This week has been a good week for writing, but I did learn a painful lesson about plotting. Awhile back, I jammed a different Chapter -7- into the novel, then renumbered all the chapters that followed. I added the chapter because I felt I wanted to complicate the plot at that point and, secondly, to add some danger for PI Manning for the purpose of hyping up the excitement. I thought the novel might be dragging. Well, the plot complication I added created other unforeseen complications that couldn't be resolved in a plausible manner. Each time I moved from one chapter to the next, I'd discover my Chapter -7- complication created many other situations that needed to be adjusted for. The adjustments piled up and each adjustment made other adjustments necessary until the plot became a bog through which my mind could no longer safely travel. This week, I've had to go back and remove Chapter -7- and another later Chapter that was dependent upon Chapter -7- for it's existence. I'm in the process now of rereading and reworking—where necessary—everything after the offending chapter to make sure that consistency prevails. The writer who said that writers must have their plots in order before beginning to write seems to have been correct. I did sit down this week and tried to lay out a plot before continuing, but, goshdarnitall, I just can't see my way clearly through to the end. I like the beginning immensely, and I know, roughly, the ending, but the middle steps aren't clear yet. I just can't imagine, sitting still and waiting to see the plot all the way through. If I do that, I could easily quit writing altogether.

Want to mention an interesting project that friend and poet/song writer, klipschutz, and his pal Jeremy Gaulke have begun. It's a pocket size poetry chapbook, they call fourbytwo. They are trying to develop a zine that is financially sustainable as well maintain a certain level of quality. I like the format, and the poetry, of course, is exceptional. Follow the link to see what it's all about. 

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 KEEPS ON KEEPING ON...LEARNING

Delinquent Lives is an odd cuss. It was my 1980 thesis for a Masters Degree in English with an emphasis in Creative Writing, typewritten in triplicate with carbons. I was fortunate to have Patrick McManus sit in on that master's defense. I think he liked the novel because he asked John Keeble, in my hearing, if Eastern kept an agent on call for writers. McManus, of course, has forgotten me, and why shouldn't he? I've gone on to ignominious silence since that day in 1980, decades ago when he graced my master's defense. 

Patrick McManus from Celebpictu.com.

Ignominious silence? The publishing of creative writing is so much changed, one hardly knows where to begin. How I'm ever going to get someone other than myself to publish a book of mine before I become senile is a challenge not faced by anyone since the days when  Shakespeare needed a Queen Elizabeth to fund the production of his plays, but that's not my topic today. I mean to talk about learning about writing...even at my advanced age.

Briefly, Delinquent Lives is told through two limited points of view...one an adult male, the other a young "emotionally disturbed" teen. The married adult male has taken a lover. She is always in his thoughts. He talks to her constantly. 

Over the first 80 pages I've struggled to separate his normal thoughts from those moments when he's talking to "Mona" (that's the lover) in his thoughts. Then I realized I'd prided myself on making the mental gymnastics cleverly obscure...you know...artsy-fartsy? 

This morning, I rolled back to that first time in the novel when my anti-hero is talking in his thoughts with Mona and entered the following passage: "Paul had conjured Mona. He often did. It wasn’t unusual for her to be there in his head, near consciousness, listening to his thoughts. He was always talking to Mona. He told her just about everything." 

From now on, when those quotes show up amidst Paul's thoughts, I'll be able to make a quick reference to his lover that explains for the reader what the hell is going on. What idiot convinced me that obscurity was the key to writing good fiction? Kafka, you bastard!