Gobsmacked: Platform, Flatform

            Hey, me hearties

            Have ye e’er been bothered by a wee word? One that should be tossed ov’r board and fed to the sharks? Good. ‘Cause here’s me rant. And here’s the word.

            Platform.

            Aye, sweet writing buccaneers. I can already see a few of ya ready to mutiny. But be honest now. Have ye not come to wretch when ye see the word? Have ye not bristled, choked back a curse, gripped your sword and wanted to draw blood when someone asks, “What’s your platform?”

            This drivel, this flat piece of shark bait, this dead piece of word smithing, is not worthy of us. It shackles us to someone else’s chain of cheap commerce. Are we free, creative beings, or are we toeing the line of someone else’s gobshite?

            For those pirates out there selling their “platform wares,” I’m not stickin’ it to you. You’re as much a slave to this as we all are. Aye, I understand the “we-have-to-promote-and-market-our-books-and-ourselves,” but do we have to do it with so little …

            Imagination?

            Creativity?

            Days ago on NPR’s Fresh Air, they be re-broadcasting author Gary Shteyngart’s interview with Terry Gross ‘cause his novel Super Sad True Love Story is out in paperback. Alas, I be thinkin’, another author slinging his wares.

            But I stayed on his story, and glad I was! He’s a true pirate with his irreverent talk. From his tales of growin’ up fat to observin’ that porn is norm these days, he was entertainin’. He’s a funny buccaneer, he is. Then he was asked why he be makin’ a satirical trailer for his book and he says,

"Well, nowadays nobody wants to read books, so anything you can do to sell book, you know, if I could sneak a book into - inside a knish and sell it that way, you know, buy the knish and then read my book when you finish eating it, that's fine with me too."

            Shiver me timbers!

            A knish?

            Brilliant!

           

Hark, Gary Shteyngart!

            I’m on board with the knish. I’m on board with the satirical trailer. I’m on board with someone who, I think, can replace the boring, overused, flat form of platform. 

           Gary, can you do this?

To Ye Readers

Not a writer's platform

            For all ye beauties who read, I should explain. 

             A writer’s platform is not a shipping crate turned upside down, shoes with very thick soles, or a structure where you sacrifice virgins to your gods.

            In the writer’s world, a “platform” consists of all the tools to sell your work—Twitter, email newsletters, Facebook, videos, blogs, signs trailing a blimp. It’s all about raising name recognition. It’s all about … well, let me give you Laurie Pawlik-Kienlen’s succinct explanation. She’s author of the blog The Adventurous Writer. Laurie says, 

“To build a strong writing platform, you need to be an entrepreneur and marketing guru with established followers.”

            Arrrghh!!!

            Yet, truth be told, she’s not tellin’ the worst of it.

            ‘Tis rumored that before an agent or editor even reads a manuscript, they Google the writer’s name to see how much name recognition the writer has already established before they buy the bloody novel or memoir!

Not a writer's platform

            For ye landlubbers who have never sailed these waters, here’s another truth. Publishers, even after they buy a novel, don’t promote—with the exception of best-selling authors. (Refer to Sun Tzu’s Art of War for how strategy favors sending re-enforcements to the winners and those battling the worst of odds are left to fend for themselves.) Aye, we write the novel, spend money on independent editors to give our novel the best chance for publication, submit to agents and pray for acceptance, wait, wait, wait, and then wait some more for the agent who accepts you to submit to editors, and when accepted by an editor/publisher (and you’re hopefully not turned down by their marketing rep), you down your rum in celebration, knowing they’ll promise to promote you to hell and back, but only deliver a “product” (this is your book) that you will have to promote to hell and back if you ever want to publish again because you never will publish again if you have mediocre or bad sales.

            Aarrr, and you think that couldn’t be the worst news?

            In the Fresh Air interview, Gary Shteyngart says:

            "You know, everyone's a writer. Nobody wants to read but everybody wants to write. These MFA programs, we can't, you know, we can't turn them away. There’s just millions of applicants. Everybody wants to be a writer. It’s this huge culture of self-expression."

            An exaggeration, true. Twenty or so years ago, Natalie Goldberg said twelve-step programs produced a dearth of writers (they journal, they all have an important story to tell, they need to express themselves). Shteyngart’s statement brings us into the internet age where everyone can express themselves. (Aye, point your finger at me.)

            And that increases the competition.

            Add to that the A-Type personalities, extroverts, writers with no scruples, or people who capitalize on their worst traits and sins in the open confessional of the internet. (Need proof, check out “Mommy” bloggers.)

            But blast the devil! What if you don’t want to express yourself in blogs/Facebook/tweets? What if you’re undermining your creativity and deep-ocean talent by swimming in the internet pool? Or what if you’re an introvert and have no desire to “share?” What if you’re Type B like me? I need me sleep, love me leisure time, have no desire to fill every bloody waking moment with action. I love to daydream. I love to ponder. I’m a slow reader and writer. If I had to write a blog every day, I’d throw myself overboard! When I work on a novel, I lose meself to uninterrupted time. To have me time broken up by all this “platform building” is enough to sink a ship. Don’t get me wrong, I know the necessity, but curse it.

            Airr, if I must play the game, throw me a bone, a scrap. Make swallowing this bilge a little more magical, sexier, inspiring.

            Replace this platform anchor.

            If Gary Shteyngart can’t conjure up a magical, sexier, inspiring replacement for the word, how ‘bout ye pirates out there?

            I do my possible, so for the time bein’, instead of sayin’ I’m “building my writer’s platform,” I’ll be saying, “I’m sailing my writer’s vessel, the Gobsmacked.” ‘Tis a little sexy and magical with an irreverent punch because Gobsmacked is how I feel about this pre-publishing marketing shite.

            And now me, lovelies, back to the real work.

            And a merry month of May to ya!

            Captain Val

* * * * *

Ahoy, shipmates! Help me celebrate my birthday!

            For the month of May, I’ll be givin’ away a signed copy of my France, a Love Story, along with a surprise: a signed copy of a book by another author who … I just keep ye guessin’.

            Here’s me instructions: leave a comment on me blog, and your name goes into the end-of-the month drawin’. The more comments, the better your chances. If you subscribe by email, send your name and comment to valinparis (at) earthlink (period) net. If ye wish me to post yer comment to me Captain’s Log, tell me, and it’s done!

            Bonus! Every captain needs followers and here’s how to serve yer captain. Bring a mate on board Gobsmacked by having them sign up to receive me blog. For every mate you bring aboard, your name goes into the drawing three times. I’m using the pirate’s code of honor for this. Just tell me you signed ‘em up. No cheatin’ now or it’s the gangplank!

Also from Gary’s interview:

“I think the Pacific Northwest is like the last place where books will be read in the world.”

Laurie Pawlik-Kienlen

Worthy and Funny: Shteyngart's Interview

Gary Shteyngart’s Hilarious Trailer ("They let him teach at Columbia???")

 

Coming Up!

May Giveaway!

 “A View of My Writers Room Wall: What Inspires Me”

“Oh, Google, My Name is …”

… and soon an interview with Jessica Maxwell of Roll Around Heaven

The Deep: Captain Val's Answers to Last Week's Questions

Gobsmacked: Celebrating Me Birthday Month with a Giveaway!

            For the month of May, I’ll be givin’ away a signed copy of my France, a Love Story, along with a surprise: a signed copy of a book by another author who … I'll just keep ye guessin’.

            Here’s me instructions: leave a comment on me blog, and your name goes into the end-of-the month drawin’. The more comments, the better your chances. If you subscribe by email, send your name and comment to valinparis (at) earthlink (period) net. If ye wish me to post yer comment to me Captain’s Log, tell me, and it’s done!

Bonus! Every captain needs followers and here’s how to serve yer captain. Bring a mate on board Gobsmacked by having them sign up to receive me blog. For every mate you bring aboard, your name goes into the drawing three times. I’m using the pirate’s code of honor for this. Just tell me you signed ‘em up. No cheatin’ now or it’s the gangplank!

The Deep: Captain Val's Answers to Last Week's Questions

Last week, I wrote ‘bout how a writer’s job resumé offers nothin’ but a skeleton of their experience. Writers ha’ to dig deep into personal experience to understand human nature and create living, breathing, believable characters. Some authors might disagree, but they don’t sail on my ship.

That’s why I suggest asking more personal questions of authors at readings. Depending on the nature of the book (‘cause you want to ask pertinent questions, not superficial, sensationalistic ones), the questions can be related to what the novel or memoir brings to the surface for you emotionally.

Here’s where I dive in deep water. Remember the questions I posed from last week?

“Ha’ ye ever been close to dying?”

“Ha’ ye ever taken a dark road and been lost?”

“What terrifies you and why?”

As promised, I’ll ask ‘em of meself and tell ye how they relate to life and work. A’right?

Ha’ ye ever been close to dying?

Job experience in me twenties:  drive-in restaurant waitress, telephone switchboard operator, movie theater ticket sales person, keypunch operator for a woolen mill (Ah, that dates me!)

Life experience and answer to the question:

Aye. At age twenty-three, I was beaten and had a knife put to me throat by a bi-polar, alcoholic Vietnam Vet who I was divorcin’ at the time. I’ve used that fear and aspects of the experience in me writin’. I’ve also used the characteristics that kept me alive—strength, determination, resilience, and street smarts. I learned first hand about PTSD, what war does, how it effects families, what violence looks and feels like, and can empathize with those who continually face the threat of violence and death during war and at home.

Ha’ ye ever taken a dark road and been lost?

Job experience during my thirties:  artist, editor of a literary arts magazine, graphic artist, cultural resource coordinator for the arts

Life experience and answer to the question:

No. I’ be lost a time or two, but ha’ ne’er taken a dark road. Even when I was wi’ me ex-husband, we had a child, traveled, and moved to Oregon from the East Coast. My son and Oregon were my greatest gifts from the ex, and I troll those waters, too, for me writing. The dark always yields to the light.

What terrifies you and why?

Job experience from forties onward: strategic planner at a community college; graphic designer and illustrator; writer

Life experience and answer to the question:

Nothing terrifies me, not after the experiences of my twenties, after the death of my best friend in high school, the suicide of my father, the terror of my ex. I follow me passion, have a terrific family, live in paradise, have the love of a great man, and if anything would frighten me, it would be the thought of losing any of my family, especially outliving the young ‘uns. But I don’t live there. I do however explore the possibilities, using those fears in the current work in progress “Parallel Crossings” where the five-year-old daughter of the main character is kidnapped by her ex-husband, and the girl is never found. That’s how I work the whole bloody thing into a story.

Guest author Erika Dreifus answers one of me questions

To show you scallywags what happens with authors when you ask questions like the ones above, I contacted Erika Dreifus, author of the brilliant debut short-story collection Quiet Americans. The connected stories about the Jewish experience during and after the Holocaust are so different and rich with characters who feel so real, I had to ask Erika the following question. Her answer follows.

Have you ever had a personal tragedy that gives you a strong empathy for your characters and what they had to endure?

“I think that the opposite situation may be true, that the immense good fortune and privilege with which I have been blessed are what have attracted me to the characters, themes, and events in Quiet Americans. It is because I find it so difficult to envision coping with the challenges that are woven into the stories that I have tried so diligently to do exactly that: envision. Then, too, the fact that certain characters and circumstances are so closely modeled on my beloved grandparents and what they did, in fact, have to endure does add a strong dose of personal connection to the mix.”

* * * * *

So there ye ha’ it! All told, if ye do one thing this month to celebrate me birthday, go to an author’s meet and greet, reading, or signing. No bones about it. They put their whole life into their work, and we benefit.

From the Gobsmacked ship to yours, a hearty hi-ho!

Captain Val

Captain Val's review of Erika Dreifus' QUIET AMERICANS

Coming Up!

May Giveaway!

“Platform, Flatform”

“A View of My Writers Room Wall: What Inspires Me”

“Oh, Google, My Name is …”

… and soon an interview with Jessica Maxwell of Roll Around Heaven

The Fountain of Youth, or What Does a Writer’s Resumé Really Look Like?

I’ll be Gobsmacked! The news comes pouring in and I bail it here (links listed below):

I continue to chase down Captain Jessica Maxwell, that slippery lass, and shiver me timbers, I’ve booked an interview with her on May 26^th. She’s sailing at top speed! She’s writing a Bhutan book proposal, a NW Palate assignment, and traveling to New Mexico and New York for research on her big AARP assignment, “Retreats.” For those who follow her Roll Around Heaven adventures and want to join her, she’ll be doing a RAH! Workshop in Sun Valley, Idaho May 19-23, followed by giving a RAH! talk in Portland, Oregon, on May 25.

I’m tired to me bones just writin’ this!

One of my long-time favorite authors, Alice Hoffman, turned me on to a guilty pleasure—the television show “Being Erica.” As she says on Facebook, “… therapy and time travel, what more can you ask from a TV series!”

Don’ sail past her latest work of fiction, The Red Garden, a collection of linked stories that, after readin’ the first four stories, seems to ha’ disappearing as a theme. In her magical way she takes ye through two-hundred years in the town of Blackwell, Massachusetts. Being from New England, I love the mysterious, the dark, the Gothic, so these stories makes me blood surge.

A hearty lift of the tankard to Jennifer Egan who just won the Pulitzer for her A Visit from the Goon Squad, a novel on me “best reads.” Attn: Time Magazine: it’s TIME! Put her on the cover.

The always adventurous Seattle7Writers have launched Hotel Angeline: a novel in 36 Voices. A fleet of writers collaborate on a novel? Aye!

Now, to Captain Val Adventures!

The Fountain of Creative Ideas, or

Why My Resume Wouldn't Land Me a Normal Job

The Fountain of Youth, or

What Does a Writer’s Resumé Really Look Like?

            Where to begin, me hearties? Why, at the end of me last Captain’s Log, that’s where!

            I still be thinkin’ on that chandelier. It’s me love of lights, of things that sparkle. Why? ‘Cause I write about the dark things in life, seekin’ the proverbial “light at the end of the passageway.” It’s a pirate’s life to seek treasure, to find it in dangerous places.

            Like the great, and sometimes despicable, captains of yore, who struck out for the land of milk and honey or spices or gold, or to find a continent in the name of a queen, it’s the adventure, the mystery, their curiosity that kept them going. O, aye, they set their hearts on bringing home booty, but as in any adventure, isn’t the pursuit the real treasure?

            And me point? Well, mateys, ‘tis the same for writers. Aye, our ultimate treasure is to hold a book in our hands, knowing others are reading our tale.

            But the real adventure, the treasure, is in the writing, setting forth the story that won’t be quiet. Aye, indeed, a few buccaneers need to publish for glory, but I haven’t met any of those scallywags yet. Settin’ out to write a New York Times bestseller is akin to sailin’ out to find the fountain of youth. We all desire recognition, to be knighted, but that’s external and elusive. What sets us on the writing journey is curiosity and longing, and that comes from within.

            And here’s me point (aye, I’m a long-winded bag o’ bones) for this Log:

A writer must always be searchin’, must always feel hungry, must always be dissatisfied.

Aye, it’s a sad truth. Under that beautiful calm sea is a sunken ship with barnacles and some weird strange creatures livin’ inside.

            Some writers don’t try to hide this. Some are sailin’ the seas with their freak flag wavin’ brilliantly for all to see. Hoorah!

            But most don’t. Most seem almost—dare I say it?—normal.

            Don’t be fooled, readers. Ya see, writer’s ha’ two resumes. One they use for job searches (aye, the majority of writers work another job) and one they hide. And for writers, it’s the latter they draw on for their work. Think of it this way: some writers openly sail those scary troubled waters with memoir. Every writer has a memoir in them, but many prefer the fiction world, an escape from those troubled waters.

            Here’s me advice for fishing those waters when attending a reading of one of your favorite authors. Don’ bother asking questions like “Have you ever had writer’s block?” “Where do your ideas come from?” or “Who’s your favorite author?” Yawn! They’ll just give ye the standard answer.

            Go for gold. Ask, “Ha’ ye ever been close to death?” “Ha’ ye ever taken a dark road and been lost?” “What terrifies you and why?” Tailor those questions to their work. I guarantee that will wake up the audience and the author.

            To keep ye hooked and for me to sail, in the next Captain’s Log I’ll show ye how those questions apply to me life. I’ll tell ye where I fish for my material, what me subterranean world looks like, what creepy little creatures live there and where they came from. I’ll actually answer those questions above.

            Ah, the deep is a scary place, but sunken treasure lies there.

Until then, Dear Faithful Buccaneers, I am yours,

Captain Val

Jessica Maxwell and Roll Around Heaven

"Being Erica" episodes

Alice Hoffman talking about ghosts, the past, and explaining the world

Jennifer Egan talking about the idea of time, music, and her novel

Hotel Angeline: a Novel in 36 Voices

Coming Up! (Keep laughin’, you scallywags!)

"The Deep: Captain Val's Answers to Last Week's Questions"

"Platform, Flatform"

"A View of My Writers Room Wall: What Inspires Me"

A Giveaway! Yes, something for you, maties

... and in June! an interview with Jessica Maxwell of Roll Around Heaven

News, Gossip and Found Objects

News and confirmed gossip for you, messmate writers and readers:

Sugar

            Seattle7 Writers Group member Randy Sue Coburn says she knows who “Sugar” on The Rumpus is. Arrrrrgh! I’m dying to find out. Will she tell? Nay! I love Sugar, a columnist for The Rumpus who is one of those straight shooters with heart. Stern, yet loving. She calls everyone “Sweet Pea.” What a great friend she’d make: she tells the truth while giving concrete advice on how to handle your woes and sniveling. (So, Sugar, if RS can figure out who you are, I’ll bet you’re somewhere nearby. Portland or Seattle?) Readers and writers will love Sugar’s column, “We are All Savages Inside,” where she gives “Jealous Writer” a good thrashing. Check out her link at blog’s end.

            And if you’re not familiar with The Rumpus, don’t ask me what it is. It defies definition, although Wiki states it’s “an online cultural commentary site.” Snore! You really need to be there, in the experience, to appreciate it. Kind of like the ‘60s.

            I’ll not be fergettin’ the Seattle7. They’ve taken on a new crew member (Should the Seattle7 change their name to Seattle7Plus?), one of my favorite authors and transplants to our watery Northwest, Erik Larson, author of The Devil in the White City: Murder, Magic and Madness at the Fair That Changed America.

            Ah, now there’s a tale!

My favorite news of the past few weeks:

            Here’s my gutsy new heroine—Lidia Yuknavitch. Besides writin’ a powerful personal tale that will swing ya round the yardarm, she stood up in front of an audience at Powell’s in Portland to read from her memoir—in fishnet stockings, a swimsuit, swim cap and goggles. She threw souvenir goggles to the hungry sharks in the audience. Lidia, a true buccaneer, spirited away these folks with a reading from Chronology of Water.  

           Read Debra Gwartney’s review linked below.

FOUND OBJECTS

            Last Captain’s Log, I wrote ‘bout found objects as a way to set a writer’s ship to sail. In art, ‘tis easy to understand the use of found objects. Here’s what Wiki has to say:

“A found object, in an artistic sense, indicates the use of an object which has not been designed for an artistic purpose, but which exists for another purpose already. Found objects may exist either as utilitarian, manufactured items, or things that occur in nature. In both cases the objects are discovered by the artist or musician to be capable of being employed in an artistic way, and are designated as ‘found’ to distinguish them from purposely created items used in the art forms.”

            I be suggestin’ that this idea belongs to the writerly craft, too, only the found object can be anything that makes itself known, that twinkles and flashes bright, and demands notice. At the time of “founding,” it may not figure consciously, but will later land in a writer’s work and can even be a piece of art that is used metaphorically, perhaps to elucidate the theme or represent an idea.

Bread & Puppet Museum

            A few years back, I sailed to Seattle to spend a week with a friend. We was searchin’ for somethin’ to entertain. We bought tickets to a shadow-puppet play. We was gobsmacked. I’d just been at a month-long residency at Vermont Studio Center and had the great enormous pleasure of seeing the famous Bread and Puppet Theater group perform and met the founders. The two experiences combined for a lively discussion with my friend and so inspired her that, much later, a character in her now novel-in-progress took up puppet theater as her artistic road.

            In movie making, found objects are called motifs. Perchance, writers do too, only I like the substance of using the term found object instead of motifs.

            Are ya readin’ a novel or memoir now? Keep an instinct for something that lights up on the page like Venus in the night sky. A necklace made of pop tops. A heart-shaped rock. A pretty camisole fluttering on a clothesline in the breeze, then worn by a teen, and finally found on the floor of an apartment. Why is it there? Did the writer first see this on a walk through an unfamiliar neighborhood? What does a camisole represent? Sometimes, the meaning isn’t clear at first. Or right away, say, you sense the camisole represents vulnerability.

            Here be another example. Last Log, I posted this photo:

            No caption. No explanation. Stumbling across those chandeliers in Miami grabbed me gut. I couldn’t shake the image. The store was floor to ceiling with expensive objects, from shelves of Fabergé eggs to Art Deco marble pedestals. But those chandeliers lit me up.

            “Where did you find all these?” I asked the storeowner.

            “I do not find them. People come to me.”

            Really?

            “The people need to sell. Times have been difficult.”

            Ah! Here the rich sell off their riches. Maybe it’s me pirate blood, ‘cause I was entranced. Sure these trinkets are small doubloons for many, but for me chandeliers are prime booty, and not of the derriere sort. Chandeliers are motifs of the rich. Objets d’art.

            I wonder where in my stories they’ll appear? But until then, they appear only here and in my treasure chest of found objects. So … until the anchor drops again in a land that glitters I am …

Faithfully yours,

Captain Val  

Sugar on The Rumpus: “We are All Savages Inside”

http://therumpus.net/2011/03/dear-sugar-the-rumpus-advice-column-69-we-are-all-savages-inside/

Debra Gwartney’s review of Lidia Yuknavitch’s Chronology of Water

http://www.oregonlive.com/books/index.ssf/2011/04/the_chronology_of_water_review.html

Bread & Puppet: Cheap Art and Political Theater in Vermont

http://breadandpuppet.org/

Coming Up! (Keep laughin’, you scallywags!)

"The Fountain of Creative Ideas, or Why My Resume Wouldn't Land Me a Normal Job"

"Platform, Flatform"

"A View of My Writers Room Wall: What Inspires Me"

... and soon an interview with Jessica Maxwell of Roll Around Heaven

Every Picture Tells a Story

Ah, Stalwart Followers!

            You’ll likely want to flog me, but I veer off course again. Here’s the drift:

            This very mornin’, while readin’ over my latest Captain’s Log, I see I here promised a photo gallery escapade, the Key West sail with the proper English relatives.

What in Hades are you doin’? I say to meself. This isn’t Facebook, you dunce! This is about your writin’ life, you fish fodder.

            Aye, I could argue all is fodder for a writer, even the English relatives. But nay, this weren’t one of those times. I’d let me cutlass down, been caught in the moment of the fun, the partying, the being away from the desk and writin’. Am I daft for wantin’ more play?

            Returnin’ to the ship called home, I was, however, ready to write, thank Neptune! Bein’ self-employed, I had a few awaitin’ and a new one to boot. Late I was in approachin’ the blog, but I had greadily readied myself for the visuals of photos. Now I was going on gobsmacked. How the heck could I switch direction, again? Was I driving my readers crazy? Would they join me as I hopped like a frog from one lily pad to another? And where the bloody hell is that interview with Jessica Maxwell you may be asking? Ah, mateys, scheduling conflicts, and I won’t do an email interview. Live ones give the unexpected and are dammed good interesting. So stay on board!

            Aye, I could beg forgiveness, but you’re a good lot, and I expect I’m not the first to disappoint. Instead of floggin’ myself, I’ll move the bloody photos to FB.  Could it be simpler?

            But where to go, messmates?

            I sit, thump me head, drum fingers, drink tea. Check me last blog again.

            There I find the latest comment and sail over to Kirsten’s blogship.           

            A twinge! My gut’s a flutter. She’s followin’ “A Thousand Hands Clapping.” I do not know this ship, but I take a look. And blimey! Lookee what I find—

 

            E’er was this synchronicity squared? I write to Catherine, captain of the blogship and congratulate her on her first movie/slideshow. Watchin’ it, reminds me of the photos I’ve taken, and a thematic tide surges through me. Like a ship, a floating bit of wood and canvas upon the sea that contains all a buccaneer needs, these photos squeeze much into little, something I call artistry from confinement.

            Oh, me buckos! Visual arts feeds me. In Florida, I watched no movies, so stimulation came from the unexpected and humorous. Whether sailing to Key West with my brother or afterwards trawling South Beach with my sister, I looked for objects that that tell a story. That’s why we take photos—to remember our stories, to create our stories. As a storyteller, I try to find photos that speak to me. Here be a few. Imagine what they say, what stories they tell. What stories you spin from them.

            I know not how these “found objects” will surface in my writing. I’m followin’ this line of thinkin’, fellow seamen and women, ‘cause it has to do with “feeding the creative beast.” Or should I say “chumming the waters?” Perhaps, as in dreams, I am both the beast that I’m feeding and the feeder of said beast. As a writer, I don’t dismiss any of this crazy wandering of the mind. Not all needs to be purposefully followed. Like day dreamin’. If it surfaces, I pay attention or perish. It is, as one of my late compatriots at Hedgebrook Writers Colony said, all grist for the mill.

            And I think I’ll clatter on with this very same subject next week with more about “found objects” as a jumping off place for writers. Nay, this isn’t about catching ideas for a story like so many fish, but more about stimulatin’ the creative glands or filling the creative stomach. We need nourishment, all of us. Writers sometimes find it in the mundane, sometimes in the mysterious. It’s all part of the process.

And if you understand any of this prattle, if any of the photos strikes a story in you, join this blog with a comment. The wilder, the better.

All my duty to you,

Captain Val

"A Thousand Clapping Hands" blog can be found here:

http://athousandclappinghands.blogspot.com/

Coming Up! (I hear ya laughin’, you scallywags!)

“Found Objects: a Launch for Creative Storytelling”

"The Fountain of Creative Ideas, or Why My Resume Wouldn't Land Me a Normal Job"

"Platform, Flatform"

"A View of My Writers Room Wall: What Inspires Me"

... and soon an interview with Jessica Maxwell of Roll Around Heaven

The Fierce Sea: A Successful, yet Rotten Scary Writers Week

Ahoy, ye Rogues and Damned Rascals!

            I be gone for two weeks nigh, sailin’ the Gulf, liftin’ pints of all kinds with my “proper English” relatives. Aye, they be English, but proper? Nay, they be Rogues and Rascals just like ye, and partyin' wi’ those scallywags leaves no time for writin'.

            So wi' that excuse, I hasten back three weeks to my story of Writers Week at Colonyhouse in the fair town of Rockaway Beach, Oregon. I, along with my stout able companions Lois Jean and Kirsten, arrive late Sunday afternoon, ne’er expectin’ the week to end in a terrifying escape in the middle o’ the night.

            The tale begins wi’ the ordinary—ardent and eager souls, writers all, in desperate need of gettin’ away to bury ourselves in pages. Just the act of getting there demands bully work—buying food for five days; packing clothes, food, bedding and writing gear; driving four hours; then haulin’ the gear up a flight and a half of stairs. Smooth sailin’ this time with even a sighting of elk.  Arrival means emptying the car and luggin’ the gear upstairs, testin’ knees, backs and hips. Ah, the groans and sweat. But just being in this two-story log cabin feels like greetin’ an old friend. We drop anchor and set up our stations. We toast ourselves and the week. Full writin’ speed ahead.

My Work Station

           Monday breaks so magnificent, it warms me cockles. All mornin’ long, propped up in bed with the sounds of geese honking o’er Lake Lytle, I rework the first new chapters of the novel before my crazy beach affliction calls. I take to the shore at low tide to … dance. Aye, mateys. With modern and jazz moves, a few routines from my NIA classes, I choreograph along the waves, movin’ to one o’ my favorite personal mixes, one I titled “It’s All About Love, Stupid: Val’s Eclectic Folk Mix.” (See below for a partial playlist of this mix.) With my moves, I bless the ocean, my writing week and companions. I also bless the two young men who recently lost their lives to a sneaker wave in Yachats, and as I do, I look down and find the largest heart-shaped rock e’er I found on that beach, as if that treacherous sea was offerin’ up a tear for those it took, as well it should.

            Back at Colonyhouse, I’m afloat again after dredging up my ol’ writin’ voice, one I used in my memoir piece “Liberté.” Over the past four years I’ve felt tainted, and I have no idea what this means, but like a soured wine, I felt I couldn’t restore my flavor. Hard to describe what it feels like to go off course, but I was followin’ a siren call, that’s for sure, thinkin’ this new land I’d find would be richer.

            Lo, though, it led me onto the rocks.

            After I came to my senses and nursed my wounds, I headed back, a long journey but well worth the travel. Ya, see, me hearties, writin’s not just about lettin’ ya self go. Sure, it’s all part of the journey, but ya have ta know your voice from the ones that sing a pretty tune and seem honest, but are empty.

            ‘Nuff.

            Back to the week.

            A storm comes in and stays for the next three days, perfect weather for our bunch, keepin’ us inside and headin’ true north. Other than quick trips for provisions, a side trip for our Kirsten to Manzanita and the Cloud & Leaf Bookstore, the best on the coast, and some grub at The Beach Bite Restaurant, we all find great excitement for the progress we make. We check in regularly, enjoyin’ the reports. Seems the muse has taken up residence with us. I’ve talked about that scurvy wench before, fickle as they come, trouble with a capital T. I love her dearly, I do.

            Then thar’s the night we lay low, respite in a movie, Laurel Canyon. We also watch a few episodes of Mad Men, as we love men and the madness they cause. But this is not solely for entertainment. O, nay. Our passion is talkin’ afterwards about what makes these work, particularly the characters, the dialogue, and mise-en-scène. Last time we were here, we watched Death of a Salesman. Thar’s a lesson for ya!

            O a right good week so far. 

Where we toasted the ocean

           Eager to seal our kinship, on Thursday night, Kirsten sets a table with luscious food, candles, champagne and readies us for a sunset that will ne’er come. But that doesn’t dampen our spirits. With champagne in hand, we walk through hefty winds to reach the overlook at the beach and toast our good luck and the sea. We christen our threesome the New Moon Gals (as we have done a few pagan new moon rituals in our time) and try to create a motto, which is not forthcoming. We be workin’ on it in the future, but until now, we haul butt back to the cabin where we agree to work for three hours in the mornin’ before cleanin’ the place, packin’ up and leavin’. All’s set. We return to work.

            By midnight, I pack it in, read more of one of my mariners manuscripts until sleep calls me forth.

            Then around 1:30, I here scurryin’ above, voices, the squeaking of stairs, a knock at my door. It’s Lois Jean.

            “I think you’d better get up, Val.”

            I do and follow her upstairs where Kirsten, who was in bed, making a last check of her email says, “My aunt in Hawaii says there’s been a huge earthquake in Japan. She knows we’re at the coast. They’re expecting a tsunami to hit there and the West Coast, and they have no idea how big it will be.”

            My hearts racin’ like theirs is. We talk.

            Our decision to pack up and leave seems right. But we’ve heard no alarm, and believe me, the sound of that alarm will make the fearless tremble. I dress, then pack. In my car, I turn on the radio and every station plays their usual. Not a word about the earthquake or tsunami. Up and down the road, not a sign of anyone movin’. It’s eerie and unsettling’. Back inside, I find the phone number of Tillamook. Surely a city that size will have information. I reach a police recording to leave a message. The same for Cannon Beach. Does no one know? I call Rockaway Beach police. A man named Rick answers. Yes, he’s at the office because they’ll be setting off the tsunami alarm at four. Yes, if we’re awake and already packin’, would be best to head inland, and avoid god knows what. No, they have no idea what size the tsunami will be, too soon, but is expected at 7:21. Yes, the road from Hebo to Rt. 18/20 is clear. I thank him. Rockaway Beach is still the most tsunami-ready town in Oregon.

The drive home

            By 2:45 a.m. we have locked up and are on the road home. Lois Jean and I caravan south. Kirsten heads to Portland to meet up with her partner. I arrive home at 6:30 and fall into bed, but not before thanking Kirsten’s aunt who is safe and the Creative Spirit who lives inside us and watches over our journey.

            To end, I say, nay, this be not our usual Writers Week. Yet my brave messmates plan on returnin’, no yellow belly landlubbers be they!

            And this adventure sets me wonderin’ if perchance thar be a double meanin’ in what Billy Bones once said when he uttered, “Fill that pretty belly with grog and that’s what makes the world spin on its poles, say I.” Could there be a connection with toastin’ that fickle mistress the sea and makin’ the world spin four inches off her axis? Who knows? I do know my heart goes out to those great brave hearts in Japan. How I admire their kindness to each other under such horrific conditions. Should we all be as selfless.

To all of us on this spinnin’ globe, luck, love, a good voyage, and a safe return!

Captain Val

Coming Up! 

"Partying with the Proper English Cousins: a Photo Romp"

"The Fountain of Creative Ideas, or Why My Resume Wouldn't Land Me a Normal Job"

"Platform, Flatform"

"A View of My Writers Room Wall: What Inspires Me"

... and soon an interview with Jessica Maxwell of Roll Around Heaven

Dangerous Territory: the Mind of a Writer

Ahoy, hearties, y’are about to enter the swampy mind of a writer. I’ll gi’ ye no further warnin’ other than to say this is an experiment and you the guinea pig. Good luck on ya!

June Joint, 11:43 a.m.

No place to plug in. drink my tea, Irish tea. Not very strong. Damn did I bring my notes from yesterday’s LitChix? Yes, oh, crap, forgot to wish Dan a Happy St. Patty’s but he’ll be okay, I’ll call … I wish the guys next to me would be quieter. Loud. Okay, what to do now. Need to write my … who’s that? Someone said hello, but don’t recognize him. What about notes. Again. Go through them, order lunch, call Dan, drink tea, notes that Chris and Patsy made seem to contradict but complement, but doesn’t matter, I know the direction I’m taking with the new chapters and think I gave them clear direction on where I’m heading, funny that yesterday at the kids’ I talked about my characters in this novel, my excitement from the morning critique and nothing but blank looks, I know, don’t have to tell myself that why wouldn’t that happen when … switch gears, back to the chapters from yesterday and my excitement, shoot need to call Randy Sue back, we were having such a great conversation about our novels before the power went out, interesting that we’re both loving the writing at the moment, not very often this happens in the joy department and a reprieve from all the bad news out there and whoops need to take my adrenal pill to get me on track and stop thinking about the tsunami, the nuclear plants melting down, the stock market tanking … monkey mind again, always freakin’ monkey mind throwing me off from the novel, focus, the beginning, the slower pace, the … oh, should have told Patsy that this is a way to engage, almost hypnotize the reader and not the same artificial … no, that’s not what Lois Jean called the last version, the one … did she say contrived? Or did she say … crap, can’t remember, but … oh ya! Forced was her her word, and that’s what stopped me, not her, but reaching a later chapter and … she felt as I did too as I’ve gone back to the way I began writing years ago with the lyrical tone and the capture of the reader through what seems to be normal but is far from it, the

(Had to drink tea and say hi to a friend.)

Where was I? this isn’t—and I’m just now understanding this—this isn’t the way my mind works say for example in the car when I’m working something in my head … the act of typing this doesn’t convey the actual real work of a writer’s mind when fully immersed because when recording the mind, the mind works closer to the surface, the act of typing taking away spontaneity and run on thinking and close scrutiny of a problem and what is the problem? Where to go with suggestions from C&P, where I really need to tweak and I think that is just at the beginning, giving it a good first sentence, some ordering changes, putting some of it up front, fleshing out a few emotional points letting it breathe … no it is breathing, that’s no longer the problem, letting the reader be there in their shoes and giving them an inside look at the day to day laced with the betrayals that have plagued both sisters and kept them locked together and chained to their pact … that’s not a problem now opening the window and instead of … what? Shit, what was I thinking? Okay maybe it’s just as well I don’t think about this too much and just get some lunch and read the notes and forget that this jumble of whatever is going to get posted because I believe in experimenting as a writer and the forgiveness of readers and damn, if we didn’t work in tandem, we’d have nothing, no love of telling a story or creating a world, and … if I could only make you happy, kind of a love affair where if I didn’t have the reader, I’d be doing nothing but … this isn’t exactly where I wanted to go but after escaping the coast and having two days without electricity this seems tranquil and healing to just let go and be … be what is a big question, but oh, hell, this is just what it is and once I read the notes, I’ll be back at it and loving it and then I have to go to Florida and that’s fine because god knows I need a break and new scenery, good weather and being away from the norm will have to rejuvenate … better rejuvenate or at least … oh, never mind. I’m hungry.

So now, maties, we know the writer’s mind is neither lovely nor interesting nor dangerous--except to me--and that’s a fact. But we sailed together, sank this post, and snorted at the attempt. But here’s the truth dating back to Chaucer (c. 1374):

Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Next week, I’ll tell ye a tale of my writer’s week at Rockaway Beach, one that began with a spring day full of sun and calm crystal ocean, ending in the middle o’ the night with the fear of dying. A small brave crew “wrote up a storm,” giving meanin’ to that old sayin’.

I may even give you more about the novel-in-progress in a later post.

Here’s to ye Irish out thar! Tip a pint and pray for better weather.

Your gobsmacked captain,

Val

Coming Up! 

"Wild Week at the Coast: my Latest Writer's Retreat"

"Key West Adventures"

"The Fountain of Creative Ideas, or Why My Resume Wouldn't Land Me a Normal Job"

"Platform, Flatform"

... and an interview with Jessica Maxwell of Roll Around Heaven