Archive for March, 2009
March 30th, 2009
The good writer, the real hearty, Paul Bunyan with a typewriter kind of writer, should be able to write under any circumstances. A blizzard at the peak of the highest mountain? No problem. Knee deep in the Amazon river, anacondas slithering around their ankles? Child’s play.
I’m not that kind of writer, and I suspect you aren’t, either. Even Stephen King isn’t that kind of writer. In his book On Writing, he talks about having a space, with a door, that no one can intrude on. I don’t have my own space. I could if I wanted to – we have a spare bedroom that I refer to as “the office”, but really serves as the hub for my craft supplies and the cat’s food/litter. Usually, I write from the couch, and when Matt is either at work, or after he’s in bed. Having Matt around doesn’t bother me, I’d just rather spend time with him if I have the option.
More important than having a space, to me, is music. Some people write in silence – I can do that – but if I’ve got some good, inspiring music, I’m set. Unfortunately, that music changes on my mood. The old standby is instrumental music, from soundtracks like these and these. (and this, too) If that doesn’t work, I like songs that I feel fit the “mood” of whatever I’m writing. Or I like lyrics that I feel fit what’s going on. Very subjective, I realize, but if I can get in a good pattern of music that works, I’m unstoppable.
Some people have mentioned quirks like certain drinks, certain clothes, and other things like that. I don’t think have any of those, but do you? What conditions set you up for successful writing?
March 27th, 2009
First, please visit http://www.daveloven.com and check out today’s post. He wrote about his inspiration for writing, and I thought it was pretty neat. Thanks, Dave!
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Ella & Max
The picture of the fluffy kitten and the golden puppy caught Ella’s attention. The two animals were playing on a lush green lawn, with bright blue skies and sunshine. It was nothing like the dreary rain that waited outside Dr. Flynn’s office. She looked down at Max who was sitting patiently next to her on the bench. She ran her fingers through his hair, which was soft with the occasional coarse hair. His grey hair came up over the top of her knuckle. She mentally added a haircut to her list of things to do. She sighed. These trips to the vet seemed to take longer each time. She just wanted to get her prescription for Max’s heartworm medicine and go home. If they didn’t leave soon, she might not find out who the father of Tina’s baby was, and she’d have to wait until Monday. Ben never liked Ella’s “soaps”, but at least Max never complained. Hard to believe that it had been five years since the accident…
A light tap and then the door across the room opened. Dr. Flynn entered. Ella noticed how the flouresecent light reflected from the top of his shiny head. He clutched a manila folder in his hands.
“Ella, we need to talk.”
Ella stared silently at Dr. Flynn. The lines in his forehead seemed so much more pronounced when he was serious. Why would he be serious now?
“Max is very sick.” He opened the folder and set it on the exam table in front of Ella. She leaned forward and stared at the words and numbers on the papers. “He has severe arthritis.”
“He didn’t last year.”
“A lot can change in a year. But that’s not all. Do you see these numbers here? Max has a very high level of white blood cells, Ella. It’s off the charts. He has leukemia.”
Ella frowned as she tried to process this information.
“But we can treat it, can’t we?”
Dr. Flynn shook his head. “I’m afraid not. I’ll be honest. I don’t know how Max is still alive, let alone looking as good as he does.”
Ella looked down at Max. He sat up and looked at Ella, like he knew he was being watched, but didn’t understand why. His tail began to move back and forth quickly, like a stubby hummingbird.
“But he doesn’t look sick.” She croaked.
“I’m sorry.”
“How long does he have?”
“Not long. A month, if I’m optimistic. But I think you’re looking at a week.”
“But he doesn’t look sick.” She began to stroke Max’s neck. He moved his head in response – a little more to the left, please.
“I’ll give him some medicine for the pain, and a card with our emergency hours in case something happens.”
Ella looked back over at Dr. Flynn. “He’s in pain?”
“He’s a good fighter, that’s for sure. But yes. Baby him, Ella.”
She looked back down at Max, who looked at Dr. Flynn and then at her. His ears dropped and he nuzzled her hand. What’s wrong? You look so sad. Let’s go home.
The wiper dragged across the windshield. The drive home felt especially long. Ella kept glancing over at Max, who was happily staring out the window. Every stop light, he would stand up and walk over to Ella’s seat. His paw would cross over the shifter and onto her seat. Can I ride with you?
Ella shook her head. “You know better.”
As the car started to move, he would move his paw and return to his spot by the window. Ella and Ben had been married for three years when testing revealed why they had been unable to have a baby – Ella was infertile. They would look into adoption, but in the meantime Ella wanted something to hold. A week later, she found an ad in the paper for miniature schnauzer puppies. She knew which puppy would be hers less than five minutes in the door. Ben thought that she should wait. See other puppies, make sure this was really the one she wanted. Ella wouldn’t be deterred, and that night, Max had arrived at his new home. Ben grew to love Max as much as Ella, but he was always Ella’s dog. Another three years and Ben was hit on his way home from work by a semi whose driver hadn’t slept in fifty-two hours. Max had been her best comfort after Ben died. He never left her side, even sleeping on the bathmat while Ella showered. He didn’t even look sick.
Ella didn’t care who fathered Tina’s baby right now.
“Let’s go lay down.”
Max trotted alongside her to the bedroom. Ella scooped Max into her arms and gently put him on the bed. He snapped his head back and looked at her. What was that for? I can do it myself, you know.
“Yeah, I know.”
She crawled into the bed and pulled the blanket up to her shoulder. Max walked over and laid down next to her. He rested his scruffy chin on Ella’s arm. She looked into his round, chocolate eyes and began to cry. He didn’t even look sick. How could she possibly lose her best friend so soon, when he didn’t even…
Max lifted his chin and licked Ella’s forearm. Please don’t be sad. You’re making me sad.
Ella and Max both sighed. She took her other arm and began to gently stroke his head. A little to the left, please.
March 25th, 2009
Where do you go to find inspiration for your writing? I’m eager to hear some of your answers, particularly Mr. DaveLoven, who writes poetry from time to time. I dabbled in poetry one year, but my heart has belonged to fiction for some time.
Quite a few of my initial ideas come from dreams. I’m lucky enough to have some very wild dreams that sometimes make for good story fodder, even if it’s just a concept. I realize that this isn’t a good method, since all too often, dreams are forgotten as soon as we wake up. As further proof of my lack of discipline, I rarely write down my ideas. Part of me believes that if it’s a good enough idea, I’ll remember it. If you’re shaking your head at me in dismay, I don’t blame you. I never said that I recommended that you follow in my footsteps.
Otherwise, my ideas are just gleaned from life. That sounds all cool and artsy, doesn’t it? But if you’re looking for points of interest, you’ll find them all around you. The mother in the grocery store rocking her baby. She looks really miserable, but why? Aren’t all mothers supposed to adore their children? Maybe she just got some terrifying news…or maybe her baby is half-warewolf.
In particular, history books inspire me. If I study a period, inevitably, I want to write something set in that era. Stan thinks that my history consumption is good because if I ever do get around to it, I’ll have the knowledge handy. It’s much better than admitting that I read a lot of long, wordy books about dead people, and enjoy them.
So, if you have sources of inspiration, please share them.
Side note: I heartily recommend author Alison Weir if you’re looking for Tudor history. Her biographies are very engaging. She also writes fiction, but I have yet to read any of that. I assume it’s awesome, though.
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