I'm struggling with my rewrite of The Reader's Emporium.

I'm now deciding it's been overworked, has lost all of its charm, and anything I liked about it is a far and distant shadow. I've been working for three days on the first line, and everything I write sounds too ... writerly. I know I should include the phrase "pile of ash and two bare feet" in it, but other than that I keep rephrasing, recasting, and am unhappy with it all.

The first paragraph had, I thought, some of the best writing I ever did. It maybe was overwritten and a bit over the top, but it was full of fancy language and colorful phrasing. The thing is, the more I look at it the worse it looks. It *is* overwritten, it *is* pretentious, it *does* draw attention to itself. And, what's worse, as much as I may like showing off talking about "bouquets of gray," "ripples of grief," and "scant numbers vastly diluted," *I* was the only one who found it acceptable.

And now I don't.

I think that type of writing is something I've been taught is good, but I'm not so sure I still feel that way. Or, I feel it needs to be more spread out, no more than one "great" line per page. The bigger problem, though, I'm thinking is one of mood. That type of language, even if it's any good, is not right for the story that follows.

The tone isn't carried throughout, and it's Brad's story, not mine. It sets the reader up for an entirely different story than she'll get, and that isn't fair. It's far too much "look at how clever I am," and for that reason it's far too amateur. I may be able to get away with that in another piece, but not in The Reader's Emporium.

The story's still very close to my heart. I don't know why that is, maybe because it's the first one I wrote, the one I started in my twenties and forgot about for half a lifetime. Or maybe because it's the first one I finished. I want it to be good, to be acceptable, and I may just have to write the whole thing all over again.

But I can't get started.

I'm struggling with my rewrite of The Reader's Emporium.

I'm now deciding it's been overworked, has lost all of its charm, and anything I liked about it is a far and distant shadow. I've been working for three days on the first line, and everything I write sounds too ... writerly. I know I should include the phrase "pile of ash and two bare feet" in it, but other than that I keep rephrasing, recasting, and am unhappy with it all.

The first paragraph had, I thought, some of the best writing I ever did. It maybe was overwritten and a bit over the top, but it was full of fancy language and colorful phrasing. The thing is, the more I look at it the worse it looks. It *is* overwritten, it *is* pretentious, it *does* draw attention to itself. And, what's worse, as much as I may like showing off talking about "bouquets of gray," "ripples of grief," and "scant numbers vastly diluted," *I* was the only one who found it acceptable.

And now I don't.

I think that type of writing is something I've been taught is good, but I'm not so sure I still feel that way. Or, I feel it needs to be more spread out, no more than one "great" line per page. The bigger problem, though, I'm thinking is one of mood. That type of language, even if it's any good, is not right for the story that follows.

The tone isn't carried throughout, and it's Brad's story, not mine. It sets the reader up for an entirely different story than she'll get, and that isn't fair. It's far too much "look at how clever I am," and for that reason it's far too amateur. I may be able to get away with that in another piece, but not in The Reader's Emporium.

The story's still very close to my heart. I don't know why that is, maybe because it's the first one I wrote, the one I started in my twenties and forgot about for half a lifetime. Or maybe because it's the first one I finished. I want it to be good, to be acceptable, and I may just have to write the whole thing all over again.

But I can't get started.

It could be.

After ingesting a healthy dose of NaNovels over the past month I thought I'd look at how other, more highly regarded, writers attempt to put their thoughts into words. To do a more even comparison I should, of course, have compared novels to novels, but this is me we're talking about. Instead, I finally cracked The Story and Its Writer - An Introduction to Short Fiction edited by Ann Charters (6th Ed).

Oh my.

I'd purchased this rather large book sometime late last year. It's about 1800 pages, those thin ones that always remind me of Bibles, and contains about fifteen hundred pages of stories. Then, commentaries. I've made a slight dent so far, and every story new to me is also the best I've read, ever.

I like how that works.

I have much to learn. I hope that my hobbled brain can remain facile enough to create a work or two that will please me and others. I know I've forgotten much, that the synapses are clogged with sludge or have lost tenuous connections to others, but perhaps enough remains to do some good. I know I can write, and at times even do so well, but I admit I've lost that step or two. Maybe what's left is enough, and maybe I can fake it.

"Words were the surfaces..." -- Sherwood Anderson.

It could be.

After ingesting a healthy dose of NaNovels over the past month I thought I'd look at how other, more highly regarded, writers attempt to put their thoughts into words. To do a more even comparison I should, of course, have compared novels to novels, but this is me we're talking about. Instead, I finally cracked The Story and Its Writer - An Introduction to Short Fiction edited by Ann Charters (6th Ed).

Oh my.

I'd purchased this rather large book sometime late last year. It's about 1800 pages, those thin ones that always remind me of Bibles, and contains about fifteen hundred pages of stories. Then, commentaries. I've made a slight dent so far, and every story new to me is also the best I've read, ever.

I like how that works.

I have much to learn. I hope that my hobbled brain can remain facile enough to create a work or two that will please me and others. I know I've forgotten much, that the synapses are clogged with sludge or have lost tenuous connections to others, but perhaps enough remains to do some good. I know I can write, and at times even do so well, but I admit I've lost that step or two. Maybe what's left is enough, and maybe I can fake it.

"Words were the surfaces..." -- Sherwood Anderson.

Happy New Year!

As ordered, this morning brought a break from the wind and rain and was gorgeous. It always is for the first, as in accordance with the Tournament of Roses Committee. We like to show off blue skies and people in T-shirts on the first, when much of the sane world is huddled, inside cursing snow.

Also, it salves our consciences, justifies the obscene housing costs.

One can expect the annual arrival of another million people any time over the next few weeks.

But that's not the point.

So far this year I've eaten no animals. I have, however, relied on them heavily for my one meal (biscuits with butter and honey for breakfast, chased with coffee and, later, orange juice). I'm still attempting to come to terms with having to use (for my benefit) the once peacefully resting remains of dinosaurs. Plastic. Oil. Heating.

These dinosaurs did nothing to deserve this, and predated me. The same could be said for Native American burial grounds, and I'd be loathe to dig up their remains for my own use, so I wonder why I'm so cavaliler about using the processed life tissues of my reptilian ancestors.

Ah, but they weren't my ancestors. Of course, the same could be said for the Indians, with whom I share no blood (as far as I know). It's okay, I guess, to use already dead animals, just not to kill them. I will attempt to reconcile this with farm accidents and the fuel spent in harvesting wheat at a later time, but evidently it's okay to have people killed and maimed to get me acorns, just not other animals.

No, I'm not expecting to go meat free very long at all. That's not one of my resolutions. I think last year I resolved to eat at nationally advertised fast food places only four times during the year, and I think I went once to Subway and that was it. This year my standard will be twice.

I'll continue to shop at Vons, kind of a Safeway place, but that's because I can't afford to buy food anywhere else. I will keep my record clean and avoid Wal*Mart, of course, and maybe only set foot in one chain store a month. That's not a snob thing, it's just that I find them soulless. If there was a difference between a Gap in my neighborhood and anyone else's, it wouldn't be so stultifying to shop in any of them.

So far, I'm boycotting all the sponsored bowl games, which leaves me with a meager, slender New Year's Day. Maybe I'll just read, instead. So far this year I've completed one novel (a NaNovel, set in Canada and concerned with coincidence. The characters range from an airline pilot to a homeless guy, and feature Korean students and bombers. Not bad.) I've got a long list of books to read, both to better myself as well as to read for pleasure, and I hope to have a modestly rewarding year.

I hope better for you.

Happy New Year!

As ordered, this morning brought a break from the wind and rain and was gorgeous. It always is for the first, as in accordance with the Tournament of Roses Committee. We like to show off blue skies and people in T-shirts on the first, when much of the sane world is huddled, inside cursing snow.

Also, it salves our consciences, justifies the obscene housing costs.

One can expect the annual arrival of another million people any time over the next few weeks.

But that's not the point.

So far this year I've eaten no animals. I have, however, relied on them heavily for my one meal (biscuits with butter and honey for breakfast, chased with coffee and, later, orange juice). I'm still attempting to come to terms with having to use (for my benefit) the once peacefully resting remains of dinosaurs. Plastic. Oil. Heating.

These dinosaurs did nothing to deserve this, and predated me. The same could be said for Native American burial grounds, and I'd be loathe to dig up their remains for my own use, so I wonder why I'm so cavaliler about using the processed life tissues of my reptilian ancestors.

Ah, but they weren't my ancestors. Of course, the same could be said for the Indians, with whom I share no blood (as far as I know). It's okay, I guess, to use already dead animals, just not to kill them. I will attempt to reconcile this with farm accidents and the fuel spent in harvesting wheat at a later time, but evidently it's okay to have people killed and maimed to get me acorns, just not other animals.

No, I'm not expecting to go meat free very long at all. That's not one of my resolutions. I think last year I resolved to eat at nationally advertised fast food places only four times during the year, and I think I went once to Subway and that was it. This year my standard will be twice.

I'll continue to shop at Vons, kind of a Safeway place, but that's because I can't afford to buy food anywhere else. I will keep my record clean and avoid Wal*Mart, of course, and maybe only set foot in one chain store a month. That's not a snob thing, it's just that I find them soulless. If there was a difference between a Gap in my neighborhood and anyone else's, it wouldn't be so stultifying to shop in any of them.

So far, I'm boycotting all the sponsored bowl games, which leaves me with a meager, slender New Year's Day. Maybe I'll just read, instead. So far this year I've completed one novel (a NaNovel, set in Canada and concerned with coincidence. The characters range from an airline pilot to a homeless guy, and feature Korean students and bombers. Not bad.) I've got a long list of books to read, both to better myself as well as to read for pleasure, and I hope to have a modestly rewarding year.

I hope better for you.

It's nearly over.

This year I missed the Chinese New Year parade downtown, I think, and that may explain a lot. Although I had no plans at the start of the year, it lived up to that and had no focus. I'm unsure what I accomplished or what effect any of my efforts had, but it's too soon to tell that anyway. I can never distinguish between a moment's fascination and anything relevant until a year or two has passed.

I think I was far more injured than I think, and far more rewarded, too, from other events. I've learned a bit more distance and have grown increasingly skeptical about any correlation between my reality and any independent pronouncements. Much of my earlier certainty is gone, has been battered agains the anvil of other's more feverishly held beliefs, and all about I can say is I know more about the questions.

And maybe that's my destiny. Is it apathy or contentment, acceptance or surrender? I'm too close to the subject to have any reasonable answers.

I'm hoping the year got me a net zero, that I contributed as much as I took, but I know that's incorrect. I took and grabbed and pointed at myself far too often. If there's more to the human spirit than "Look at me!" I still haven't found it, and there's less to see of me than ever before.

I remember being filled with promise, with potential, and have squandered it. I think the most I've lost is the sense of my own importance, and I think there's value in that. There are more faces I'll never see again, but I hope other new ones will take their place. In the end, though, my journey is mine alone, and all I can do is be willing to share it.

The best thing to do with good advice is to pass it along. I no longer have answers, and smile when I recall the days I thought I did.


Happy New Year. I wish you all the best.