Bouncing Off It and Getting Back In, OR, It is Hopeless; You Must

May the Hello, Reader. humble scribe here.

What follows: a real-time attempt to communicate experience. It's an experience that may be relevant to some of you, if you write. Or, in fact, engage in any effort that's similarly shaped.

Let's at the outset define the term: 'write'.

The useful definition—the definition that applies to all of your humble scribe's discussion of 'writing', however glancing—is inclusive and jerky.

The inclusive part is: if you write, you write. Ha! Not helpful! Meaning: if you sit down, in the absence of external distractions except those that (inevitably) your brain smuggled in; if you try for periods of sustained diligent focus to create works that are meant to be whole and complete unto themselves; optimally if these sessions string together to create large-scale wholes that a Reader must herself attend to over many sessions of reading [this part, the large-scale part, is not required; just an accentuation of the other qualities]; if you, in these period of sustained focus, think in some kind of way (your own way, no doubt) about the form and format of the language you are using, about the vehicle of your language as a thing unto itself, not simply as an instrumental substrate for your semantic content...

then: you write.

That was a lot of words to describe what is, like pornography, an elusive but really not-that-complex thing. If you think that you do it you probably do it.

Caveat (remember: the definition is both inclusive and jerky) — you have to sit; focus; do the writing. With the words, and the scribbling/typing/erasing/writing other words/etc.

Thinking about writing and story: not writing. Even a lot of that: not writing. Daydreaming about it constantly, weaving threads in your mind: not writing. Your humble scribe does these things, of course; constantly! And most people experience it, and (he hazards to guess) every person who winds up doing actual writing does it. But just having ideas for a story, with
gosh that should happen and
yes! that is neat and
but no time at the desk, no time: words, shuttered, focus.
Not writing.
That is called being a 'Creative Producer'. Or something. And—in all seriousness—it is great. It's an important thing, for the world. If that is you—there are, I know, a few of you out there—thank you.

And obviously, many people have both things inside them. This is not about some strange top-down designation of who you 'are'; we are all many things. It's about what you are doing and do, and how praxis constitutes lived identity: moment-to-moment, day-to-day.

Alright, let's start again.

Perhaps you write; statistically speaking, based on in-person knowledge of Readers herein, there is a (exact figure) 78% chance that you do.

And if you are like me, like your humble scribe here: even though you indeed write (or perhaps: because you do), you have to do [other things]. You do these things to remain viable in this world as a functioning adult; you engage or allow yourself to be engaged in various other activities for which remuneration is reliably forthcoming.

This describes your humble scribe's position, certainly; and slimbuttons will no doubt be jabbering at you about those experiences in the coming weeks. Because the first two moons of the new year are a time when your humble scribe is particularly wrapped up in these [other things]; this 'work'. And let's be clear, here: your scribe's not a punk; he does not imagine that his situation is a novel, remarkable, or regrettable. But it is disruptive, of course, to the praxis of writing. He's using that work on purpose, here: praxis. It's a fussy word; why not just say 'practice'? Because in its difference and distinction by usage it, praxis, carries a certain set of connotations that 'practice' does not, while also being unburdened by other, less useful for right now, meanings. Praxis is what we mean, presently speaking.

What this post is about is: your humble scribe's personal praxis of writing in balance with challenges, [other things]: life.  For much of the year since the calendar turned, this is the balancing act he's been in; it's one he'll be in 'till the worst of this year's cold is over and through (in the Northern Hemisphere, at least; on this shard, at least). We're all in it, of course, constantly; but this is a period of during which—for your humble scribe—these issues are pressing.

[[Bouncing Off It and Getting Back In]]

You lose it, if too much of your day—of your time, thought, and effort—is spent outside the work. This, for your humble scribe, is just a reality; he has learned not to beat himself up about it too badly (even though it is, probably, a function of his own weakness). But it's a reality, for him; the writer's-retreat state of being deep inside the work, of having it running all times in your mind, of laying down bricks in a structure you can see—a structure you can see even where it's not yet built...you lose it, if you have to do lots of [other things]. You just do!

And part of the reality your scribe's come to recognize is the unavoidable, frustrating, but also passing bumpiness of the reëntry period. To be specific: during a recent trip, a trip that was part of these other activities, he was able to take a few hours each morning with Emmy, Rich, Stang, Erra, etc. — the crew. The limitations and importance of that, of these few snatched hours, will be discussed at the bottom of this post. What we're talking about here is now, these days when he's come back home between the various trips for these other activities that constitute so much of his year's first two months. And in this brief furlough, his time's much more his own. But it is frustrating, at least at first, because: having been 'taken out of it' by the trip he's returned from; having, despite his best efforts, lost certain threads of attention and continuity and flow; the first couple of days back are...Reader, they're not good. The header for this section is 'bouncing off it' because that is exactly what it feels like; it's not that words won't come, or even that thoughts and ideas have been lost. It's that thoughts, ideas, words, structures, everything skitters in every direction, a hard but thin stream of what is inside my head hitting some newly-constructed wall, some obstacle that has erected itself beween the inside of my head and the rest of the world, between my head and the work and its essential nature, and so all the thoughts, ideas, words, structures, everything hit that and scatter and spray and diffuse. They bounce off it, away; they attenuate, echo, and fade and then die.

This is not, in itself, a big problem per se. At the best of times, ~94% of the thoughts, ideas, words, etc. that your scribe thinks of are complete total rubbish; and these periods of returning full-time to the work are hardly the best of times, so it's possible that it is even a blessing that his efforts are, for a time, obliterated. But what is bad is that the praxis must be rebuilt; the capacity to usefully sit—with breaks, but consistently—for hours a day with the work and do work: lay track, produce outcomes, 'get things done'. That gets broken, replaced by this splashy diffuse mess. And the only solution that your humble scribe has come up with for this is...no solution. There is no thing you can do, beyond: doing the thing.

Sit.
Fail.
Trash.
Sit.
Fail.
Fail.
BOUNCE. Nothing. Splat.
Sit.
Fail.
Trash.
Bounce.
Sit.
Fail.
Fail.
Fail.

Just...until one of those 'Fails' becomes, if not not a 'Fail', at least a 'Fail' that has some tiny something inside it: some speck of something that breaks through the wall of inattention and distance that's arisen between you and the work, hooks into the gnarled mess of threads (story, character, plot, theme) all contained in the work, and begins to tug them out—or, more accurately, tug you in.

A famous scribe on your shard, whose impressions in clay are still much read and loved, even now long long after his return to dark water, expressed an excellent thought which—Reader, brace yourself—the Internet has basically mangled. In his own quest for stories about...dogs? and men in cold places? let's move on In his own quest for hist stories, Jack London found that, herewith (orange highlight is our focus):

This is by Jack London, from a magazine called The Editor. The essay is entitled "Getting Into Print", and it was published in the March, 1903 edition. Image credit is gratefully given to The Harry Ransom Center at UT Austin.

This is an obvious truth, of course; at least 'obvious' now that we've all grown up with this quote (or: an adulterated, simplified version of it) popping up popularly in various places. It feels especially true in these periods of reëntry; during these periods—and here your scribe will use London's 'club', but perhaps in a different manner than that rather sanguinary scribe had in mind—during these periods, you take your club and you smash it to smithereens over and over against the stupid dumb wall between you and the work, and eventually eventually: a hairline crack, and you slither through, and you are in.

[[It is Hopeless; You Must]]

On this recent trip, the one from which your humble scribe's just returned, the one for [other things] — as noted, your
pointless, but better than nothing things slimbuttons does; the takeaways; how you handle them;

it is hopeless, it is useful

this is about the work you were doing in Aransas Pass, but could also apply to your work while you're TAing.


The idea is: it is hopeless, because grabbing 2-4 hours a day just isn't enough to make progress. Even perfect hours, that's not enough to really drive progress. And if they're compromised hours; well -- no chance.


BUT, it's also worth noting, or has to be noted, that it is so much better than not doing that; you keep connected and so much more tapped into the work. You don't lose it, and you 'don't backslide (as much).


it is hopeless, it is useful.

May the Hello, Reader. humble scribe here.

What follows: a real-time attempt to communicate experience. It's an experience that may be relevant to some of you, if you write. Or, in fact, engage in any effort that's similarly shaped.

Let's at the outset define the term: 'write'.

The useful definition—the definition that applies to all of your humble scribe's discussion of 'writing', however glancing—is inclusive and jerky.

The inclusive part is: if you write, you write. Ha! Not helpful! Meaning: if you sit down, in the absence of external distractions except those that (inevitably) your brain smuggled in; if you try for periods of sustained diligent focus to create works that are meant to be whole and complete unto themselves; optimally if these sessions string together to create large-scale wholes that a Reader must herself attend to over many sessions of reading [this part, the large-scale part, is not required; just an accentuation of the other qualities]; if you, in these period of sustained focus, think in some kind of way (your own way, no doubt) about the form and format of the language you are using, about the vehicle of your language as a thing unto itself, not simply as an instrumental substrate for your semantic content...

then: you write.

That was a lot of words to describe what is, like pornography, an elusive but really not-that-complex thing. If you think that you do it you probably do it.

Caveat (remember: the definition is both inclusive and jerky) — you have to sit; focus; do the writing. With the words, and the scribbling/typing/erasing/writing other words/etc.

Thinking about writing and story: not writing. Even a lot of that: not writing. Daydreaming about it constantly, weaving threads in your mind: not writing. Your humble scribe does these things, of course; constantly! And most people experience it, and (he hazards to guess) every person who winds up doing actual writing does it. But just having ideas for a story, with
gosh that should happen and
yes! that is neat and
but no time at the desk, no time: words, shuttered, focus.
Not writing.
That is called being a 'Creative Producer'. Or something. And—in all seriousness—it is great. It's an important thing, for the world. If that is you—there are, I know, a few of you out there—thank you.

And obviously, many people have both things inside them. This is not about some strange top-down designation of who you 'are'; we are all many things. It's about what you are doing and do, and how praxis constitutes lived identity: moment-to-moment, day-to-day.

Alright, let's start again.

Perhaps you write; statistically speaking, based on in-person knowledge of Readers herein, there is a (exact figure) 78% chance that you do.

And if you are like me, like your humble scribe here: even though you indeed write (or perhaps: because you do), you have to do [other things]. You do these things to remain viable in this world as a functioning adult; you engage or allow yourself to be engaged in various other activities for which remuneration is reliably forthcoming.

This describes your humble scribe's position, certainly; and slimbuttons will no doubt be jabbering at you about those experiences in the coming weeks. Because the first two moons of the new year are a time when your humble scribe is particularly wrapped up in these [other things]; this 'work'. And let's be clear, here: your scribe's not a punk; he does not imagine that his situation is a novel, remarkable, or regrettable. But it is disruptive, of course, to the praxis of writing. He's using that work on purpose, here: praxis. It's a fussy word; why not just say 'practice'? Because in its difference and distinction by usage it, praxis, carries a certain set of connotations that 'practice' does not, while also being unburdened by other, less useful for right now, meanings. Praxis is what we mean, presently speaking.

What this post is about is: your humble scribe's personal praxis of writing in balance with challenges, [other things]: life.  For much of the year since the calendar turned, this is the balancing act he's been in; it's one he'll be in 'till the worst of this year's cold is over and through (in the Northern Hemisphere, at least; on this shard, at least). We're all in it, of course, constantly; but this is a period of during which—for your humble scribe—these issues are pressing.

[[Bouncing Off It and Getting Back In]]

You lose it, if too much of your day—of your time, thought, and effort—is spent outside the work. This, for your humble scribe, is just a reality; he has learned not to beat himself up about it too badly (even though it is, probably, a function of his own weakness). But it's a reality, for him; the writer's-retreat state of being deep inside the work, of having it running all times in your mind, of laying down bricks in a structure you can see—a structure you can see even where it's not yet built...you lose it, if you have to do lots of [other things]. You just do!

And part of the reality your scribe's come to recognize is the unavoidable, frustrating, but also passing bumpiness of the reëntry period. To be specific: during a recent trip, a trip that was part of these other activities, he was able to take a few hours each morning with Emmy, Rich, Stang, Erra, etc. — the crew. The limitations and importance of that, of these few snatched hours, will be discussed at the bottom of this post. What we're talking about here is now, these days when he's come back home between the various trips for these other activities that constitute so much of his year's first two months. And in this brief furlough, his time's much more his own. But it is frustrating, at least at first, because: having been 'taken out of it' by the trip he's returned from; having, despite his best efforts, lost certain threads of attention and continuity and flow; the first couple of days back are...Reader, they're not good. The header for this section is 'bouncing off it' because that is exactly what it feels like; it's not that words won't come, or even that thoughts and ideas have been lost. It's that thoughts, ideas, words, structures, everything skitters in every direction, a hard but thin stream of what is inside my head hitting some newly-constructed wall, some obstacle that has erected itself beween the inside of my head and the rest of the world, between my head and the work and its essential nature, and so all the thoughts, ideas, words, structures, everything hit that and scatter and spray and diffuse. They bounce off it, away; they attenuate, echo, and fade and then die.

This is not, in itself, a big problem per se. At the best of times, ~94% of the thoughts, ideas, words, etc. that your scribe thinks of are complete total rubbish; and these periods of returning full-time to the work are hardly the best of times, so it's possible that it is even a blessing that his efforts are, for a time, obliterated. But what is bad is that the praxis must be rebuilt; the capacity to usefully sit—with breaks, but consistently—for hours a day with the work and do work: lay track, produce outcomes, 'get things done'. That gets broken, replaced by this splashy diffuse mess. And the only solution that your humble scribe has come up with for this is...no solution. There is no thing you can do, beyond: doing the thing.

Sit.
Fail.
Trash.
Sit.
Fail.
Fail.
BOUNCE. Nothing. Splat.
Sit.
Fail.
Trash.
Bounce.
Sit.
Fail.
Fail.
Fail.

Just...until one of those 'Fails' becomes, if not not a 'Fail', at least a 'Fail' that has some tiny something inside it: some speck of something that breaks through the wall of inattention and distance that's arisen between you and the work, hooks into the gnarled mess of threads (story, character, plot, theme) all contained in the work, and begins to tug them out—or, more accurately, tug you in.

A famous scribe on your shard, whose impressions in clay are still much read and loved, even now long long after his return to dark water, expressed an excellent thought which—Reader, brace yourself—the Internet has basically mangled. In his own quest for stories about...dogs? and men in cold places? let's move on In his own quest for hist stories, Jack London found that, herewith (orange highlight is our focus):

This is by Jack London, from a magazine called The Editor. The essay is entitled "Getting Into Print", and it was published in the March, 1903 edition. Image credit is gratefully given to The Harry Ransom Center at UT Austin.

This is an obvious truth, of course; at least 'obvious' now that we've all grown up with this quote (or: an adulterated, simplified version of it) popping up popularly in various places. It feels especially true in these periods of reëntry; during these periods—and here your scribe will use London's 'club', but perhaps in a different manner than that rather sanguinary scribe had in mind—during these periods, you take your club and you smash it to smithereens over and over against the stupid dumb wall between you and the work, and eventually eventually: a hairline crack, and you slither through, and you are in.

[[It is Hopeless; You Must]]

On this recent trip, the one from which your humble scribe's just returned, the one for [other things] — as noted, your
pointless, but better than nothing things slimbuttons does; the takeaways; how you handle them;

it is hopeless, it is useful

this is about the work you were doing in Aransas Pass, but could also apply to your work while you're TAing.


The idea is: it is hopeless, because grabbing 2-4 hours a day just isn't enough to make progress. Even perfect hours, that's not enough to really drive progress. And if they're compromised hours; well -- no chance.


BUT, it's also worth noting, or has to be noted, that it is so much better than not doing that; you keep connected and so much more tapped into the work. You don't lose it, and you 'don't backslide (as much).


it is hopeless, it is useful.

I Cannot Overstate the Preposterousness of This

A theme of this series—'this' 'series' being me, humble scribe (hello. it me.) writing about the process of channeling the work that you, Reader, know as Erra's Throne—

a theme of this series is:

things that many people,
your humble scribe most absolutely included,
have had the good fortune to be taught
about writing
since they were in many cases rather young;
things like 'show, don't tell';
'don't overwrite; or, if you do, go back and edit'; or, conversely,
'your best arguments and material may be buried behind many words of much less good material; be disciplined: sit down and work your way through';
all these things that, honestly, your humble scribe
has been blessed with the extraordinary good fortune
of having been taught by teachers
and even guided on by peers
since a very young age...

a theme of this 'series', perhaps the theme of this series,
is what a hard f#*king time I still have with these things.

This is why, Reader-friend, your scribe (me) is 'humble'. I have many faults, as a writer and person, but I promise that—at least in this case—affectation's not one. The humility's true and extremely well-earned; I am a broken vessel, and the best I can hope for is to patch, somewhat, some of the cracks in my making.

Thank you for journeying with me as I do!

I'll return, further down, to one of these simple lessons and my (latest) failure to learn it. But first,

A Digression about Putting Words in the World
I've written eight (8) posts about the process of writing Erra's Throne, including one in November 2017 (fourteen months ago) in which I first articulated and embodied this persona in this space.

I have drafted 49 posts, some of them hundreds or even thousands of words long (I originally typo'ed that to "hundreds of thousands of words long" which...l0l. It's not that bad), as part of 'this' ostensible 'series' of observations about the process of &c.

And, in fact, in addition to those 49 unpublished drafts, there are...wait holdon lemme...twenty (20) drafts in a Scrivener folder dedicated to this ostensible u get it.

The backlog of posts is not quite so bad as summation implies; there is some overlap between these two collections, and therefore the total of unpublished work in this vein is not quite 49 + 20 = 69. But, it is close. Close enough that the point, as I'm making it, stands: there's a lot of writing sitting around in some digital shed gathering dust. And what is striking about this, to me, for today, is that it is this kind of writing we're talking about:

loose, experiential, first-person commentary; the kind of writing that is supposed to (and does, indeed) flow rather easily and—more to the point—not require fine-tuning, chiseling, improvement;

writing that is instrumental and communicative rather than experiential and/or immersive;

'just talking 2 u' writing, rather than the carefully wrought (for worse, and for better) prose that shows you, dear Reader, the story of Emmy, and Stang, and of Erra.

I'm not sure why this is: why even this casual side-commentary seems to be trapped in the bēt ṭuppi of rigor and effort that still houses the prose of the story itself. I'm not sure why I have held onto it in this way. It's understandable with the prose of the story; perhaps not right, even in that case—that's another topic; let's not get diverted—but absolutely understandable: I can give an account for why the text of the story (for worse, and for better) is precious and takes certain work, certain iterations (many) to be ready.

But this stuff? Right here? This is meant to be not precious; meaning, in this case, both the positive and negative senses of that word (hopefully, with respect to the prose of the story itself, the negative sense attains...minimally, if that. I'm trying. ☺). It's easy, not hard; this. And it is: easy.

Yet.

I've got dozens and dozens of these posts, unpublished. Long posts, complete thoughts. Because they...needed a little more work, or weren't formatted yet, or...whatever! wutever.

I'm not sure I can articulate—in a real, useful way—what the holdup is. With any of this; certainly, not with this part. I was and am eager to open the process, to open myself to you, Reader, in this way.

I don't have more to say on this. That's where this is. w8, no— one thing, one more thing. That's pretty important:

Amidst all the work and the months and the years, it has also...not 'always', but 'usually' felt, in such a way that yes I think the feeling-of-this is real:

It's usually felt like I am making progress at something. ('At what?' Separate question.) That I am doing something material and real and that, in fact, the day may arrive—unexpectedly, perhaps—when the dominoes all are aligned and...tip:

down they go.

Okay. Enough of that. Back to:

"What is the 'This' That's 'Preposterous', scribe?"
⇑ That is you, Reader,
asking me—scribe—a question.
Here goes:

So, yes, the title of this post could apply to the section above: to the strange mystery of these posts, themselves, still being stuck in a locker. But don't worry, it in fact has a more defined and specific contextual meaning that

oh gosh Todd Snider has a new song that's fantastic

applies to a particular 'this' that's et cetera.

Lemme just plug it out; it'll be rough but hey hey here we go at least we're 2gether.

"just get there, just do it
and then…write something else"

That's the note I wrote. What it means:

"just get there, just do it..."

This is me saying to myself "don't mess around, don't write in extra stuff or digressions along the way, just get to the main story event and tell that, quick as you can."

I have 'realized' this so many times. So, so many. Honestly, I 'realize' this with the force and weight of a great new insight...mmm, two or three times a week? Honestly. I'm not kidding. I'm emphasizing both the repetition and novelty of this because what is 'preposterous' is the force and durability of its contrary, of this other thing in me and my...creative reflexes, let's call them. What I mean by this latter, 'preposterous' thing is

"and then...write something else"
Meaning the fact that, no matter how well I know that it's a bad idea, this impulse I feel

to 'build up' the story for the reader;
thicken it with events, with world-stuff—
all of which is done in a spirit of creative reflex (ugh) and 'inspiration' (UGH)—
this impulse is powerful and often commands me.

And my point here
is that this? This impulse?
It is bad. So bad that, @ this point, let's call it 'preposterous'. 

It's 'preposterous', yes, (a) cuz I already know it. And the...fortitude of my ability to make the same mistakes over and over is shocking.

But why is it 'bad'? What's the substantive reason? I'm not just saying so, or kicking myself for no thing. It's bad because it is hard enough—more than hard enough—to just tell the absolute essential story. You may have to write a bunch to, y'know, find that story. But once you've found it, even then — it's still hard! You're not done! It is not like the hard part is like...even half done! There is still lots of challenging (for me, at least!) work to do.

(I feel I may have written this sentiment, or a very similar sentiment, before in this space. I probably will again. Which...that's the point, right? Preposterous.)

And since I know this by now
since I know that
just writing the story is hard
this impulse to stack things above and before it
becomes not just 'bad'
but 'bizarre', 'perverse',
'preposterous'
et cetera.

Putting in an extra little setup fight
before the main fight ("just so it's not y'know klunky, abrupt");

adding some detail
of lore or world-building ("just so y'know it's not just flop: 'heyhey, all dun'")'

all that,
is bad!
uses time!
lessens story!

And you have to go back, take it out — make things better.

Yet despite this awareness, I'm continually doing it.
Add a thing; throw a paragraph in that oh, okay; two paragraphs...three
because it's not as if these digressions and distractions need to be long to be damaging to the story and the flow and the reader's attention;
a switch on a train track is a tiny, small thing
when compared to the miles, miles of track all around it
but a mis-aligned switch...
well, you get it:

train. lost.

Putting things into stories or art makes them...different. It is not just additive; it never is, just. It changes and reconstitutes everything in them; things that go before, even, and absolutely things ager. You put in more stuff: the story itself changes — it becomes a new thing.

So you have to be diligent, 'bout what goes in.

Here's the specific occasion that set me off on this (this time).

We're in Column Two.

What's 'happening' is reasonably simple, or should be.

The action-y climax of this part of the story
is a long sequence in which

• Emmy seeks Rich out at school, cuz she thinks she may need him to do [important thing]
• She talks him into doing [important thing] with her 
• They succeed! They do [important thing]
• Which leads to [climactic battle]
• Which leads to [Emmy's key realization in this column],
• which leads to a [Big Choice which has Big Effects].

Now I started this riff by calling all that simple. And...it is. Those literal plot-beats above are plot beats; you could do that with lots of stories at this level of detail and you'd get this bump-bump-bump sense of this "this, then this, then this..." (It's actually worse in narratives that aren't 'plotty'; try doing a beat-by-beat breakdown of Hamlet).

But it's not that simple, either. Of course: I know that. Especially because all those [things in the brackets] are crucial story moments that really need to land with you, the Reader, for the story to land. And for that to happen, it will really help if you—the Reader—have been served by the prose thusly:

1. equipped with the knowledge (even if you don't 'know' it) required to make [thing in bracket] make sense; and hopefully more than just 'make sense', but matter;
2. guided into an affective or emotional state such that you're receptive to whatever kind of [thing in brackets] is happening (exciting! tender! et cetera); and
3. not freaking distracted by a bunch of other stuff that might clog up both your intellectual and emotional relationship to what's going on!

And now, again, we get back to 'preposterous'. Because: this is what I mean. (1), (2), and (3) are all...fundamental. Right? A good sixth-grade teacher with solid classroom resources could get his kids to come up with this list in discussion.

And yet! And yet...astonishing, frustrating, "preposterous": I add superfluous stuff to the flow! To the bulleted [things in the story], above, I add [off-track other things]! Details! Freaking...extras. In this specific case, my main (and repeated. repeated.) mistake has been to be like, "Oh okay cool good. Emmy and Rich did the [important thing]. They're heading to [climactic battle]. Good, great. Hey: I better put some [extra battle] and [stuff] in there."

????

What the...how am I like this? Reader, honestly, how? What on earth the matter with...what you write the story about is what the story is about. So, um, don't write the story about things that are not the story? Maybe? Might help? Dunno.

And look, yes I know, there are things that I'm...papering. Exploration is important; so is making mistakes. Because they're not mistakes, lots of them; they are steps in a process. But. The reliability with which I do this, is past that. I think? Or is it, a form of...

honestly. i don't know.

Let me wrap this, here. But: there you go. This is one reason why, when people gently and carefully ask if the reason that Erra is taking so long is 'writer's block' or some metaphor for lack of flow, action, volume — when people (gently! carefully! understandably!) frame this, I tend to give something along the lines of a harsher-than-intentional blast of grim laugh. It has edge in it that I never intend at the person — though I know I still shouldn't do it, and am still sorry if I've ever done it to you. But...no. No. The issue is not, not blockage in that sense; there are plenty of words and actions and events; even plenty of character moments, choices. And plenty of 'world-building'. 'World-building' is junk.

No: the issues is burning off all of that excess. Getting down to the thing of, just...story. words. Reader. So it's all strong and legible. Affecting. And clear.

Okay! That is it! 4 real now: I am done. I've done my best to make this clear; I am sure that I've failed and that it's still riddled with errors and infelicities, as well as being sprawling, strange, discursive, and odd.

And so I thank you, always, for coming along. Even if you just skipped to those big words, below. You can have them. Even if you're not reading (though: not sure how that'd work).

Thank you.

Here's to talking more in this new year.

game, game on.

Tale of Fades

This post, Reader, deals with the pressing of clay. The actual pressing; the placing of story into tablet/slate form, using the stylus you know as CSS.

Erra's Throne—as you know, Reader—is native to this format. The 'digital' format; it is designed for consumption on tablets and slates, on handheld devices of diverse form and preference.

Your humble scribe has assayed, therefore, to learn this "CSS" to the best of his (extremely limited) ability. This being essential to the practical craft of conveying the story of warrior Emmy, Richard her vanguard, and the diverse many others of whom the tale tells.

One of the first pieces of wisdom that one gleans, undertaking this, is that too much prescription from the scribe herself is bad, in this context. Meaning with respect to how the text is styled and presented to you, the Reader. Because one of the delights of our tablets, our slates, is that they allow the reading experience to be customized. The Reader can make the text bigger or smaller; a black or white background (or Sepia, or...green!); a different typeface. All of this is for the good and

in the words themselves

, as you begin to investigate how to customize and create with scribe gleaned as he assayed the task
 they caution you not to set things — font types, sizes, colors — but rather to scale relative preferences
immediately on-board for sizes and, 95% of the time, font (no prescription of regular)
but color!
so, fades
exhaustive!
tried to automate it with CSS gradient functions but they broke in various ways
so, did it that way

so…after 2.5 years
takes the Lizard to make me aware of inversion issue
i.e., that for some appreciable % of readers this way of doing fades has never worked
doesn't work in inversion; white text (what the "fade" faded to or from)…well, it shows up quite clearly on black, does it not?
so these lines do an even crazier thing, cuz they don't invert, they like bottom out and snap back, cuz as it goes to the greys it actually gets more obscure (against black bckgd, remember) THEN snaps to default.

l
o
l

so, quickly figured out a thing that worked: opacity
a manual opacity gradient worked on both Android and iOS devices, against all backgrounds (white, black, sepia, green)
but: remember above how i'd tried to automate this earlier, or at least make it cleaner and less labor-intensive in re: coding? the goal being to find something where i don't have to style code every single letter but rather can apply a gradient effect to a field
well, i have gotten a bit better at CSS
i could do it, now!

but: could use linear gradient? faster?
no, because linear gradient is for color, and that's the point — any set color distinction gets screwed up by user preference, inversion, etc.
the projectionist has final cut

BUT! tricksy way found used online in a few places (that i did not, of course, invent; magpie raven scouring the flow for gems glinting in the currents, snatching them up with gratitude)
allowed gradient for opacity (actually, 'transparency' was the operator, but…)
but…
not using it!
still not sure why but
main problem was: perhaps because cleverly applied a background block into text, it didn't break like text; it got messed up
i like messing up line breaks (white-space:nowrap!)
but only when that's the point
these were actually particularly bad lines to further obscure in this way
secondary problem, equally disqualifying: actually did the same thing in Android (not iOS); on black, full text was visible just plain, i.e. the whole phrase that was meant to be faded into or out of was just there, white-text plain and fully visible, no effect

so…opacity it is
codin' EACH LETTER.

before you ask: i realized, three years ago, that the smart way to do this (the CSS stuff) would be to be mindful of up-front time investments that felt like they were delaying writing but were in fact timesavers because they would spare me having to, for instance, style code each letter for fade sequences.
and i have found many such things!
i have even overcome my double reticence to do this, because i quite enjoy tinkering around with and learning the css style coding stuff, so it's a high risk of becoming a form of semi-justified procrastination
but i powered through all that and have put in work!

just…well i mean, look. i never said i was good @ this stuff.

Crowbar

[[May the great gods bless you always,
may the heavens & earth calm your mind.]]

Reader -- it's I, humble scribe. Your humble scribe.

Here is how this will work.

A timer is set for 71 minutes. At that timer's conclusion, these words will be posted. Etched into clay for (lol) posterity. I, their poor and inadequate author, will be permitted to add links to any words that must go out to the webs; perhaps if, in doing so, I see a literal word that is literally missing I will be allowed to supply it. I will be honest about that, and limit myself to that.

That's all.

Let's go.

Quoted immediately below is an introductory digression that was written when there was all the time to write this (and, consequently, it sat unfinished for weeks). You could skip it, perhaps should! But it will remain -- in full candor.

I had wanted to do this like, perfect. Like: "wow." Thoughts fully formed, novel & familiar, about (ahem) 'the process.' Arguments, observations, feelings, granularities of the transmission through prose of event, person, experience. I wanted this to be good because I wanted it to be useful to you; because I was and am aware of an inherent selfishness in my own motivations, a solipsistic unburdening. 

So, but, oh well. Fair warning: these thoughts aren't fully formed; they're not novel; they probably are familiar. 

Basically, what you're getting is the solipsism. In which--who knows--perhaps you will also find pieces of you. 

Here we go.

I want to write about something I've taken to calling crowbarring. Meaning, basically, 'forcing in, in an ill-advised and undesirable way.'

Here's an introduction, in the form of me losing my $h1t @ myself.

These are selected notes from various unspecified locations of a read-through I recently completed of (the latest drafts of) [[the first five columns of Erra's Throne.]]

o my G*d

you're just adding more stuff

all this is just adding more stuff

no more

write

NO it doesn't work, James. This way of doing it, sneaking it in with "good" writing because it's ostensibly an observation that builds world and character The observation rings hollow, because it's the product of ulterior, expositional motives And the exposition is not even clear it's dishonest, and the reader knows; even if she does not know, she knows

you want to put in a note re: all these efforts, each time, where you try to crowbar in information
and do something "interesting" or formally cute, as if that will make it okay
it does not
it is crowbarred in nonsense
who cares if they get the Sibitti stuff
who cares if they…anything backstory, backdrop
surely, obviously — none of that matters
all of these things are wrongheaded
and you know it!

my gosh it's so bad
it's so an agenda

[note: the following comment is about a different, apparently equally unsatisfactory, scene]

it's broken
you broke it
it was probably broken before, to be fair
but you broke it more

w/ your threads
and your seeding

only immediate story
it's not an ideology
it's a fact
only immediate story — anything else: fail

Alright, we're back from the reading notes, now. Ah who cares. Who cares? Who cares, who cares, cares? Do you care? You should not. Okay but no: keep going.

There are several things going on in the stream of notes, above. They are reactions against
(1) crowbarring itself, i.e., the forcing of elements into the story; but / and / also
(2) the cutesiness and nonsense that I--your humble scribe, that's me--am frequently guilty of throughout the first seven or eight or nine drafts of a thing (and, in some sad awful cases, in the drafts that are pressed into clay for your eyes).

The two notes that are red, by the way, are red basically because I got so mad. What happens is: I am reading the story on my Kindle; I make one, two, three four consecutive notes regarding the wrongheadedness or  selfishness or narcissism of some crowbarred in detail, scene-beat, or whole scene; and when it's that last one--when it's a whole scene--basically the contempt pops my cap and I write a big note in red.

A challenge in addressing this tic to "crowbar", to add too many things, is that it or it feels like two separate impulses, one of which is good and one of which is bad.

The bad one-- well actually, both may be addressed more in subsequent posts. But let's start with the bad one, which is the narcissist 'world-builders' impulse to 'get it all in'; this idea that the reader should know or should care about details of whatever alternate reality the work is set in that are outside the story. The idea that--because some aspect of that world was breathed into the author's mind by the gods--a reader would or should care at all about that.

That idea is upsetting (to me!).

But the good idea is: you want things to be clear. It's really that simple. You want things to be clear, and so 'well perhaps it would be good to introduce these facts here'-- or, honestly, it's not even that calculated. You'll simply be writing or revising, and in the natural flow will find a digression inserting itself, the idea being to explicate facts / events for the Reader.

you've used up 35 minutes

When you crowbar bad facts

The reader STILL will not get them

They won't fit

It's like throwing puzzle pieces that don't fit

On top of a puzzle

No one will get them

They don't go in the picture

And the picture is...if you can convey even that, then you're grand

Cutting Prince?

Reader:

Hello! Welcome into the week. May yours be productive, purposeful, and true.

Let's structure this entry the same as the last, namely

raw notes ⇒ Reader: "???" ⇒ explication by scribe

Herewith, therefore: raw notes.

humble scribe

o g*ds i cut prince i cut prince i cut prince!

following the text! like a curse! i cut prince!

am i going to cut him, completely forever?

yes.
when he appears, he appears.
like a quest.

+ also, the refrain: it's right. not just right, but right: solves problem down the line; makes things better.
if only this took less time!

cutting prince: something clicked — cutting out everything that is not A-plot; A A A 

not because there is no worth in the fullness
and the geeking out, "what about joy aristottle" holds
sort of
because TELLING THE A-STORY IS HARD ENOUGH
and if that fails then…honestly. then it's all masturbation. [the gods displeased; something]

separate
the stuff you cut — it's not all  bad
e.g. "Harder at altitude, in fact: gusty Wind."
this is useful! and it's not, like, an awful sentence.
so…why cut it?

These notes are drawn from the "workpad" I run during writing; the "humble scribe" at the top is a tag that alerts me that this is (rather: could be) an entry herein -- an entry herein, as distinct from the mess of pieces of dialogue, macro structural ideas, micro structural questions, and whatever just notes all related to Emmy and her ongoing story, which otherwise clutter that workpad up quick.

writing: good self editing tool

your instincts are good -- how you throw it all in
you're "throwing" smart stuff in

buuuut then it's overwritten, right? it's a big packed mess
but those "first thought best thought" pieces may indeed be the best pieces

say there are 4 of the in your first three sentences

her eyes flicker
she rubs the back of her hand with her wrist
she snuffles
blink, blink, focusing

they're your arrows
just you've stupidly, unrevisedly, shot them all out the gate
(we're deliberating sidestepping another ready metaphor here, because this blog is not a craven adolescent cesspool, thank u vry much)
but they're good thoughts!

don't HOLD ON to any
take 'em out, they are gone

buuuuuuuuut -- keep in workpad
work 'em in as you go

of course you'll have to change syllable count and perhaps swap synonyms for vowel sound or syllabic emphasis

but i don't need to tell you that, at this point