IF AT FIRST YOU DON'T SUCCEED, TRY AGAIN, DAMN IT

Father & Marie

Today, it dawned on the Silent Boomer that I'd have to pick up my marbles and go back to start. Charley Manning can't be a detective at the Portland Police Bureau. The conspiracy he's investigating might go as high as D.C. and as far as China. He's definitely (probably) got to look into some happenings in Vietnam. Cohorts in a writer's meetup once remarked that you had to have your plot down firm before you began or you'd be lost. I can't pin my plot down yet. I know how it ends, but I'm not sure how to get there. Too many interesting angles to explore.   

Tyrone Power

Today, Manning was reborn as a "soldier of fortune," something along the line of a black ops Captain From Castile, a novel by Samuel Shellabarger, originally published in 1945 and made into a movie with Tyrone Power in 1947. My father was never much of a reader, but he said that Shellabarger's novels were his favorites. I found that novel on his shelves and read it while still living at home. [Holy cow, a paperback edition of that novel starts at $72.88 at Amazon!] 

In '47 I'd be ten, just about right for loving a filmed adventure like "Captain From Castile" with Tyrone Power. Liked him specially in "The Razor's Edge" based on Somerset Maugham's novel. I fancied myself a Larry Darrell, searching for meaning in life, but I never went to India. Suddenly, nostalgia just seized me by the throat and choked me up. 

SILENT BACKSTORY FOR THE NEW SILENT BOOMER'S NOVEL

I've been weeks working up what's become a 5 page back-story for the new novel. A complex history has developed that I find quite intriguing. Looking through photos on the web as stand-in inspirations for my main characters, I've found a lover for my detective and a face for his robotic partner. Faces for the Huynhymns might be harder to find, but I think I've got the Neanderthals covered pretty well. The ghouls I'll leave to your imagination.
If you think you're hearing things, well...?

More good news:  a recent effort at humor was accepted in an online issue of 50plusnorthwest.com.  

Last Saturday, was privileged to be offered (by Chris Luna) the opportunity to read a poem at the Peace and Justice Fair at Esther Short Park in downtown Vancouver. Received an unexpected honorarium of 25 dollars. Add that to the 22 dollars I earned in 1978 from the publication of two of my poems in the Anglo-Welsh Review, and I'm fat as far a being a poet on the outskirts of the known world of poetics is concerned. Of course, I've not put a value on all the copies I've received of the magazines I've appeared in. The 6 years Mertie and I published the microzine, George and Mertie's Place, we did have subscribers, but we never broke even. Didn't plan on profits in the first place. 

F. SCOTT AND THE SILENT BOOMER

F. Scott himself

I see blog readership is down. The holiday weekend? Even I would be bored by the constant drum of "writing steadily, writing steadily, writing steadily" that I'm producing lately on this blog about the novel I call Manning. I think creative writing is harder to sell with a blog than a product like "wedding cakes" or "toilet paper" or the skills of those who want to teach you how to write. I see a comparison between those who used to sell get quick rich schemes and those who are trying to cash in on everybody's secret desire to be poets and writers. Well who can blame them? Only poets aren't the romantic dreamers most people think they are. They just keep writing and writing, and that's all they have to sell...is the product of those long hours of sitting alone over a pine desk that may soon supply material for their coffins. Pity the poor novelist, then, as his ordeal is longer. 

Speaking of novelists, ladies, listen to this bit of fudge from F. Scott Fitzgerald in my favorite novel of his, Tender Is The Night. Dr. Richard Diver is touring WWI trenches with friends and a 17 year old who is enamored of him. Dick waxes philosophical through much of this scene, then he observes, 

"...Rosemary burst into tears. Like most women she liked to be told how she should feel, and she liked Dick's telling her which things were ludicrous and which things were sad."

Don't get mad, my friends. Perhaps this is only a situation that a very young girl can put herself into while following after a famous older psychiatrist, but Diver does say "women"? Too much Zelda, do you think?

SILENT BEATNICK BOOMER ON THE ROAD

I've let this blog get behind times. Currently wife and I are in Spokane for a housewarming for my youngest son's new home he just bought along the Spokane River. This evening, we ate falafel sandwiches at Azar's on Monroe with Jeff, Mertie's brother, and caught up on his work adventures. On the drive over, several new plot twists came to mind for the current novel. If I can pull this off and complete it, I believe it will be the most interesting of novels. Will not be writing on the novel for a few days. Very hard to keep creative focus and energy when I'm on the road, driving around and visiting. Calling the novel, Manning, as working title, but feel that must change eventually and turn into a more intriguing title. This is current opening for Manning:

COSTAL FISHING VILLAGE, SOUTHEAST ASIA

Fisherman Qwan Bak Ti catches his breath in his sleep then abruptly sits up. His eyes open. In the darkness, Ti Qwan places a small, work-calloused hand, missing two fingers, to his chest and finds no heartbeat under the deteriorating skin. The sleep of three days is over. He has awakened from the last sleep he will ever awaken from. Sorrow overwhelms the fisherman. Tears roll down his cheeks, but he smothers his sobs in his hands. He does not wish to awaken his wife who snores quietly beside him on the sleeping mat they have shared for three decades. Ti Qwan arises from the mat and ghosts through the mosquito netting that covers it.

SILENT BOOMER BOOMING ALONG QUITE NICELY

I've been writing non-stop on the new novel. I pull my smoking keyboard to the side of the road in late afternoon to take my hour walk...in time, also, to do my cooking chores unless it's a morning crock pot preparation. I'm continually asking my working wife to have pity on the poor writer and his creative burden. When I awake, I don't even want to take time to eat or shave. I've completed 27 pages, but I see far ahead into the many possible ways this book can go. I continually adjust the characters and plot roots. One flesh and blood character has turned into a robot. I continually go over the same pages to adjust for my changing visions. The place and circumstances of the novel are so real to me I find myself putting too much detail in, and I want to keep the reader hoping along. It's best to salt the action with details rather than pour them over it. I've also written two possible openings or one may follow the other. 

It's all pretty exciting. Angie's Choice felt exciting years ago when I wrote it. Speaking of Angie's Choice, another agent rejection came in: 

Hi, George,
Thank you for your query. While your project certainly has merit, I'm going to pass. As I'm sure you know, it's important that your agent be totally excited by/committed to/passionate about your project, and I'm afraid that just didn't happen here. But opinions vary considerably in this business, and mine is just one. I'm sure you'll find others who feel differently. I hope so! I wish you the very best in your search for representation. 

Warm regards, Laney Katz Becker, Lippincott Massie McQuilkin

Agents are always kind. It could be worse, you know? They could send a photo of an agent gagging on the novel. On the more positive side, I've been asked to read a poem at the Peace and Justice Action Fair in Vancouver on the 7th of September, and another poem of mine will be hung with a piece of someone else's art at the Gallery360 Art Meets Literature Show. Theme was inspiration. Another poem or two may soon find a home, and it sounds as if someone will write a feature article about this poet for the Vancouver Vector. If that happens as expected, I'll include more details later...names and etcetera. You can always find my work at Amazon or Author House if you've a mind to. Thanks for reading.

SILENT BEATNICK BOOMER DOING THE SPLITS

character role

Well pucker my mouth with a pickle and blow me over with a hair dryer, Gertrude, I've solved the problem of what to do next. I'm working on two novels simultaneously. I'm well into a new novel about Neanderthals, aliens and necrotizing viscusitis...yep, that's what he said...necrotizing viscusitis! Second, heeding my wife's recommendation, I'm slowly typing the first novel I ever wrote into editable files, saving about 900 dollars by doing so and cleaning up a pile of sophomoric errors...such as... "I took my bosses wife out to dinner." I said sophomoric errors. I meant it! By keeping both projects in the fire, I don't have that nagging feeling I'm leave something good to languish while I concentrate on something just as good. 

Also taking what Vonnegut and Asimov have remarked about novel writing. I'm dealing with a whole new set of questions like...is this scene and character interesting, will the reader like this character and stay with him or her through the novel? Is this interesting reading? Does this scene hold the attention? That's what I'm doing, trying to write an interesting  rather than a story for the ages. I mean it when I say I want to get someone other than myself to publish a book I've written. I think I'm walking on a path to that result, and, hot doggie, my feet aren't even tired yet.

SILENT BOOMER'S BEAT BATTLES WITH GREATNESS

Who's work? Googled "Asimov photo" to get it?

 "My novels are going to be interesting and are going to sell and be famous. What's the use of writing books unless you sell them and become well-known? I don't want just some old professors to know me. It's got to be everybody." —Arcadia Durell in Second Foundation (1953) by Asimov

"I made up my mind long ago to follow one cardinal rule in all my writing—to be clear. I have given up all thought of writing poetically or symbolically or experimentally, or in any of the other modes that might (if I were good enough) get me a Pulitzer prize. I would write merely clearly and in this way establish a warm relationship between myself and my readers, and the professional critics? Well, they can do whatever they wish."  Isaac Asimov as himself

When I read Asimov's sentiments, I smile. He had confidence. I have had none and questioned myself mercilessly, plus I wanted to be a GREAT artist. In that statement, my doom is revealed. Being merely financially successful was beneath me. A young writer can read all these statements by successful authors he wants to, but reading about confidence doesn't supply it. In a cowardly writer, they actually increase internal conflict. He hides behind his thoughts of GREATNESS and, thus, doesn't challenge himself to test of the marketplace. 

As I pursue my goal, a critical alteration is developing in my own psyche. For the first time in my life, at age 75, I accept I'm a writer, a personal realization of interest only to me. I find as I pursue this new novel (tentatively called, Charley Manning) that I can still learn about writing, and I see that I'm capable of writing an interesting, popular book, but Chronos has me against the ropes and is battering me mercilessly. I think I can do it, but do I have the time?