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

A Week in the Life

“Where women are pirates and princes and wildflowers grow in the soul.”

                                                                        Priya Parmar from her novel Exit the Actress

                                                                        “Nell” Gwyn talking about the theater pg. 6

            Well, buccaneers, what daftness be this? I disappear for a week, true as true, but d’ye see this is part and parcel of the writin’ life?

            And no bones about it, I’ll not be followin’ the subjects as given ya below. Keep ya on your toes. ‘Sides, writer pirates have a fancy for following the non-linear, if ya know my meanin’. Methinks I shoulda called this log “How Writer Pirates Lose Their Way and Grow Snarky,” but there’s much to learn and a few pieces of eight at the end, so I’ll gamble this won’t be a sodden loss.

            Confession:  I had me a meager writin’ week. By weekend, my temper coulda turned wine to vinegar. Writin’s the wind that keeps me sailin’. When I complained to Quartermaster Dan that I wrote but “Just one day!” the damned rascal said, “You best be speaking with your scheduler.”

            Aye. So I tell you plain by my reckonin’ what happened and see for yourself the trouble we make.

            I start out fine as monkey snot, puttin’ in a day of writin’ at B&N where I hide out from bloody rogues who push me off course. A good day, all told, followed by a workout, then back to home ship to read email, watch a YouTube video, heighho!, of Margaret Atwood talkin’ ‘bout the publishing world. She’s a wicked sense of humor, makin’ ya laugh through the pain.

            As all hearty writers must nowadays, I LinkedIn, joining a few groups and readin’ about bloggin’, jottin’ down tips. If ya ask anyone in the trade, they’ll tell ya, devil a doubt, ya best be on the net. The pity is, it takes a bleedin’ blasted lot of time.

            I set sail the next morning, going’ from home to Eugene town to meet with Pirate 1^st Class JoJo Jensen who has a new ship she’s launching, a business for writers called Chapter to Voice. As an author and professional voice talent, she’ll be offering a recorded, three-minute professional read of an excerpt of your novel or book. Bloody awesome! Use it on websites, blogs, publisher’s page, as soundtrack for a YouTube vid. Three-hundred George Washingtons means you own it, lock, stock and barrel. No contract, no hurdles, all yours. We buffed her marketing materials. I clacked a few words of advice as a Captain is wont to do, and by the time we were done, we were ready to lift a pint if it hadn’t been ten in the mornin’.

            Then I was off to meet a very dear mate Judith Watt who gave me the seed idea for my current novel and who offered to send my “Gobsmacked” to a few friends who love to read. Every little doubloon of assist makes me shout, Huzza!

Crafty, the parrot

            Following that, I was off to pillage and plunder for victuals to fill the larder before the crew eat my parrot or me, those corkers, as if they dared.

            Alack, keepin’ the ship shipshape is a job in itself. It’s not ‘till dark that I finish some business in my quarters. Bein’ involved with the likes o’ Oregon Writers Colony, I give my time as advisor on the new logo and marketing materials, have worked on new uses for Colonyhouse (Mentor-in-the-House begins in April), and serve on the facilities committee. Ay, faith, it’s worthy and precious to keep all good writer pirates on the high seas, offering them a port for their writerly needs. Amen.

            Mark me, all this time, I’m sittin’ next to a box that contains my new Kindle and I have no time to open it. I wager some of you will say, Arrr! What ye be doin’ with a Kindle, you scumbag!

            Watch ya gob! I weighed and measured, and betwixt us, I was tired of haulin’ a suitcase of books to Colonyhouse retreats or Vermont Studio Center or off to Florida where I’ll be sailin’ the end o’ this month. I’m no spring chicken, and that’s all there is of it!

            But I do love the feel and heft of a hardback, the smell, the dust jacket, the cover art. But right now (I’m at the Colonyhouse as I write this), I’m reading a mate’s novel manuscript on the device and making notes and will send it back without fallin’ a tree. I’ll still buy books, like the badass beautiful book Radioactive, a graphic novel about the romantic and professional life of the Curies. The blasted thing glows in the dark! Ye won’t get that on no stinkin’ Kindle.

            The third day, I work for wages on a fellow Buccaneer’s poetry, marketing over nine-hundred poems as he travels to Iceland, Africa, China, and Israel for business. Terry Brix, a green chemical engineer, spins poetry like an Irishman downs Guinness. On plane, in airport, sailing the world, his sanity is bein’ a writer. After puttin’ in my hours, I turn to bookkeepin’ for 2010. Double arrrgghhh! Bloody taxes.

            But I’m obliged to finish all this before sailing on the 21^st to Florida to see my fabulously formidable pirate family, and our clan from Wales, who are flying in for a few weeks of joviality. We’ll be sailin’ to Key West, too, where I’ll search out a giant pirate who dresses in elaborate regalia and chases unsuspecting tourists twice a day, cutlass swinging, “screaming pirate epithets,” according to George Choundas in The Pirate Primer. Photos to come!

            With work done, I finally spring free my Kindle, letting my pirate pal in Seattle, Randy Sue Coburn, send me her manuscript for my reading pleasure. Talented and successful, this female John Irving is creating her fourth novel. Clear the decks for captivating action!

            Hark’ee now, I’ve been clacking too long. Alas, I dare swear, I’ve not said one word about my #1, the man who trims my jib and keeps me afloat. Not much of his company this week, I fear, as we both sail on different ships. But at night we climb into bed together with a few pages betwixt us, then a … well, you ne’er mind, you scallywags!

June Joint mid-afternoon

            The fourth day, I sail before sunup, in for a dance class, then a meeting with my financial advisor. Are the doubloons flowing or not? ‘Tis always an irregular sea, that one. The ship demands more errands on shore, so the afternoon fills, but I stop off at June Joint and start this log, getting’ in a few paragraphs before headin’ off again to meet a talented shipmate from the Seattle 7 Buccaneers, Jennie Shortridge. She’s in Eugene town to speak at Mid-Valley Willamette Writers on characterization, but afore hand, we tip a Cosmo, sup with soup, catch up with our tales and laugh mightily. Her fine novel floats out there amongst you fiction lovers. When She Flew. Make sure ya read it, or I’ll watch ya dance the yardarm jig. She also told me the Seattle 7 have added to their crew with Erik Larson, author of one of my favorite books The Devil in the White City.

Jennie Shortridge

            A little more about Jennie: she’s workin’ on a fascinatin’ novel, takin’ her creativity to spin a yarn that was born from a true tale about … har, I forget! Now what was it? Ah, right, mates. About amnesia! Har, har!

            I’d better clap on sail and finish this. I must needs say that the following day was spent all four watches doing a different jig each time—shopping for victuals for Colonyhouse; working on a log for next time, methinks; meeting up with me mate, Barbara Sullivan (her blog: “The Solace of Lowered Expectations”), who just received an Elizabeth George Grant and a professional leave to work on her memoir. Huzzah!! We talked about my novel and she helped diagnosis a few tough items while we listened to a fine combo at The Loft. The next day was all about preparing for the week here at Colonyhouse.

            Time here is like going round the southern tip of Africa and losing a day, snap, just like that! I darr tell you, I’m wishin’ I could stay a month. My pal Lesley Howard is back at Vermont Studio Center for this month and, as glad as I am of it, I miss bein’ there with her and havin’ a month of writin’ time.

            Ah, well, none’s the pity. Until next time, I leave ya with this lovely command, spouted by John Flint in Porto Bello Gold. I reckon it might come in handy.

“Belay for a – lackey, ye slab-faced chunk o’ rotted seahorse!”

All my duty to you, lads and lassies,

Captain Val 

Coming Up! 

"Dangerous Territory: the Mind of a Writer"

"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

Links to Forementioned:

Jennie Shortridge 

Willamette Writers 

Terry Brix 

Oregon Writers Colony

Randy Sue Coburn

Seattle 7 Writers

JoJo Jensen & Chapter to Voice

Barbara Sullivan 

Storming the Publishing Galleon

Comment from Captain Val-- 23 February 2011

            We are anchored in seas far from the Horn of Africa and those who give our name dread. Pirates have, in the literal sense, robbed and plundered other ships for centuries.

            But our ship, this wordy wench, serves a different mission and flies a metaphorical flag. The word pirate derives from Middle English (peira) meaning “an attempt, attack.” What we attempt is exchange: your time for our words, whether they be fiction or non. We use words for cutlass and gunnery. If we attack anything, it will be preconceived ideas. We may roust ya from your comfortable beliefs or capture your romantic heart with a swashbuckling adventure. The mission takes a lifetime. No retirement for a pirate of our ilk. We bloody well die with pen in hand or keyboard on lap, but if we kill you at all, it will be with a tale so utterly tremendously moving, you’ll go back and read it again, because in the emotional pain you found a key to the door you closed on yourself many years ago. 

 As pirates, we offer only discovery.

So on with the story ...

           Mates. Be warned. This will not be a pretty tale.

            I’m talkin’ about this pirate’s personal adventures in raising the Jolly Roger on an elusive, tricky, constantly changing ship—the Publishing Galleon. If ye have the fortitude for hearin’ this, read on.

            Writin’, for the most part, is a most joyful art. Nay, I didn’t say easy. I’ve heard it said that anyone can write, unlike painting. Whatever landlubber said those words should be tossed to the sharks. We’re not talkin’ drivel, mates. Years have passed learnin’ the craft in classes and workshops, applying for awards and residencies, attendin’ conferences, learnin’ all that has to be learned in this profession, reworking a fifth—and not last—draft, pages after pages never used, days of research for one bit o’ detail. You don’t just “be” anything. It takes education, experience, practice, mistakes, failures, successes, connectin’. ’Tis a royal pain in the ass, for certain. But thar be more on this later in the weeks to come. Today we attack publishing. And attackin’ publishing is like a solitary ship sent out to take the Queen’s Armada.

            I begin my tale with my first novel, Can You Hear Me Dreaming, finished sometime around ’91. Or was it ’92? Before attacking the Publishing Galleon, ya need a hearty helmsman called an agent. By way of an Oregon Writers Colony conference, an agent took me on. High ho! I was hoistin’ me black flag.

            After the agent sent my manuscript to NYC editors (back in the day when hard copies needed to be sent by snail mail and you had to reimburse the agent for these expenses, killing a tree in the process), an editor at Putnam said she wanted it. Ahoy, you could hear my triumphant shouts in Tasmania.

            Off the agent sailed to the Big Apple. But after a meetin’ with said editor and other Putnam “people,” including the “marketing rep,” it was turned down. Avast! Those loathsome marketeers said they already had a novel like it in the pipeline. The valiant editor walked my agent to the elevator and said, “Tell Valerie she’s not just a writer, she’s an author.” Well, shiver me timbers. I’d live off that for a while.

            Being a novice, I let my agents hand the manuscript back to me, their job supposedly done. I shelved the novel and went on.

            My second novel, Parallel Crossings took years, but will be my pieces of eight, I swear. Aye, I was told repeatedly that I’d taken on the hardest structure to work with—parallel plots. I care naught what “they” say. Characters tell me tales, and I’m hooked. Two women, one from Civil War time, another from the Vietnam era, told me each their tale and how they interlocked. Could I refuse them? My readers along the route loved it, even when it wasn’t ready.

            So while anchoring at Vermont Studio Center, a famous author championed my work and referred me to the grande dame of NYC agents, Elaine Markson, who accepted the novel and became my agent. Eager to meet her, I left my ship and flew to New York. A sharp, experienced woman with a list of famous writers, including Alice Hoffman, I just knew she could sell anything.

            Unfortunately, after seven editors turned the novel down, she sent the manuscript back, saying maybe a younger agent would have the energy and time to devote to it. Need I say how I felt?

            I let that novel go cold as a dead fish and started the novel I’m currently working on now. After a year or so, I pulled out Parallel Crossings and began revisions—again. After I finished, my readers assured me it was compelling and they “couldn’t put it down.” Now to find a new agent.

            After many rejections, one agent sent me the following (aye, my wall is a collage of anything that keeps me going and here you can see a few comments by readers and a manuscript page):

            Helen and I worked on the manuscript together, changed its title from Finding Vincible to her savvy suggestion Parallel Crossings, attached a blurb from a New York Times bestselling author, and off it went. Over a year, Helen tried to sell it. The editors she submitted to were tops, her energy was amazing, and her communications with me kept me positive. I didn’t have to be told what a tough market it was, or that e-readers were changing the landscape of publishing, or that bookstores were in decline. Writers know these things. But after eighteen rejections and a few editors leaving their door open to a rewrite, we stopped.

            And that’s where I am today. Writin’ my new novel and reworkin’ the second. Do I surrender? No, nay, ne'er.

            But this tale is only the bones. So if ya curiosity is up, let me know what I can tell ya in future. Give me a hearty hello on the comment thread. As my shipmate, you have my ear.

My Coaster

            Livin’ to tell the tale,

            Captain Val

Coming Up! 

"Dangerous Territory: the Mind of a Writer"

"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

 

That Errant Wench “The Muse” Returns

Thanks to Pirate Pal Ms. K for the followin’:

            “Sea chest open, treasure shimmering, fog lifting and loving the ever-unfolding mysterious adventure!”

            And a hearty “ahoy” to Pirate Pal Mikayle. Hope Pirates of Penzance warms the cockles of your heart.

            Ey, lads and lassies, mates one and all,

            As I warned ye in the first log of this adventure, I would be at times droppin’ anchor and lettin’ ya go to shore, to carouse, drink a pint or two, and leave me to me writin’.

            Well, today is one of those days when my wayward muse is back on board, penitent while at the same time full of herself. (If the two can be said to live in the same waters, and I can put up with her!) Ya see, sometimes she wanders away to have a think, to sit at the end of a bar or a pier, depending on ‘er mood, and lose her self to the project at hand, or so she says. Aye, I understand, even if I swear to feed her to the sharks when she returns. As my crew, you’ll see her jump ship, but let ‘er go. I have to trust the wench will be back.

            And back she is. She’s so bloody lively, I’m gonna have to cut you loose, give you permission to swing the lead. So you’re free to wander and wonder what the damnation I’ll be squawkin’ about next week, for I have a bloody heavy tale to tell about this pirate’s life and past assaults on the Ship of Publication.

            In the meantime, for fellow mates in the writing world, for those learnin’ the ropes, and for those who just love the wordy seas and adventures they toss up, here’s a quote from fellow pirate Roger Ebert, the scallywag who’s lost his voicebox, but not his voice. Here he’s writin’ ‘bout the movie Another Year.

            I see a lot of movies where the characters have no personalities, only attributes. Every single character in Another Year is human, and some of them are all too human.

            Aye, Roger, attributes. Pasting on artificial traits that do not a human make.

            I, too, have fallen for this siren who calls me to the rocks when I be lazy. So now I advise me mates this way: when some good intentioned landlubber tells you to stick a few tics onto a character to make them real or to figure out what pretty frock your protagonist will choose to wear, jump their ship. What’s real, what calls to a reader, is how a character acts when they’re under siege. Do they jump ship, do they take the last lifeboat, do they fight to the finish, or do they have one moment, when their foes show a weakness that offers a way to win the battle? A character could do all. Or a coward might start out taking the last lifeboat, see a child drown as the ship goes down, and is so guilt ridden, he or she must seek redemption. What are they wearing in that lifeboat? Who cares? Unless it’s the last life vest, too.

            So, think on it, and I’ll get back to my muse, who is now righteously pissed at my inattention. She’s workin’ me fingers to the bone, but she’s brought back the gold, so I’ll shut me gob and leave ya with a look at some of me pirate pals from this past year. They crew one of the best laden ships this side of the globe, Ship Holiday Market aka Saturday Market in the port of Eugene, Oregon. Ahoy, lassies! Keep smilin’. 

Kim, Cindia & Elissa

           To our mutual success,

           Captain Val

Coming Up and in No Particular Order!

“Chasin’ the Elusive Ship Publication”

“Sink or Swim: the Dangers of the Writing Life”

"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