Echoes in a Hollow Space

Kamala Harris was right in the Democratic debate to bring everything back to Trump each time. He's the real enemy here. There were Democrats on that stage who I like better than others but any one of them would be a better president than Donald Trump. But I think I've watched my last debate. I'm sure my Twitter timeline will be relieved, as I couldn’t stop live tweeting. I've watched all the debates so far and my opinion hasn't changed much. I have certain people I'd be quite unhappy to vote for but several of the remaining candidates I'd vote for happily. #AnyDem

An interesting side note: I’ve said uncomplimentary things about several of the candidates but the only time trolls have come after me is when I’ve said uncomplimentary things about Tulsi Gabbard. I am not the only one who has had this experience. And I am such small potatoes on Twitter. They must be very well organized. Good thing I don't respond to trolls. It's no fun for them if you don't engage and they stop playing.

Russian bot, Russian bot
Fly away home—
Your pants are on fire
And you're all Putin owned.
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Yes, there are many tragedies in the world we need to pay attention to, but that doesn't mean we can't take a day to remember the murder of nearly 3000 innocent souls. Politicizing that is pretty reprehensible, no matter which side of the debate it comes from. Especially since 9/11 is an ongoing tragedy. People are still dying as a consequence of what happened that day. In honoring the fallen of 9/11 we are also honoring those who still struggle with illness and death because of it.
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Every act of artistic creation is also an offering to the Universe.
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Dear Everybody Who Needs Money From Me: I'd love to donate to your project/cause/campaign but I'm on a fixed income. Doesn't mean I won't donate when I can but if I donate to one thing I probably won't be able to give to another thing that same month. My sincere best wishes to you.
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Even at my advanced age I can still sing all the lyrics of every Beatles song. You never forget the things you memorized in your youth. Unfortunately, this is also true of every commercial jingle I heard when I was young.
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Whenever I'm doing a piece of art and I say to myself, "I'll just eyeball it," every time I hear Louis Gossett Jr. saying, "Don't be eyeballin' me, boy." Every. Fricking. Time.
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I was reading about the psychological theory of behaviorism one afternoon, but each time the notifications rang on my phone I picked it up to look. The irony of this was not lost on me.
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I hit the wall of character motivation on the novel and had a painful slog trying to get through it. I wasn’t believing this character's reason for acting as he does so I couldn’t expect anyone else would. I did a partial re-read and reorganization to see if that would shake anything loose and after some reworking I came unstuck—at least for that particular problem. I'm not sure that part of the novel works, but it works for now, and I'm moving forward.

But not quickly. I pushed through a major hump a few days ago so at least that section of the story is finished. I’m past the 90k mark and closing in on the end of the book, but I still have a ways to go. I’ve never worked well from outlines. They usually kill an idea dead for me. Part of the problem with the current novel is that I know everything that happens until the end rather than making it up as I go along and that’s turned it into a real slog. However, I feel I have to finish this one, not only because I’ve come so far, but for the sake of my own spirit. I need to finish a substantial piece of work. To prove something to myself, I guess. That I’m still a writer?

I look forward to typing The End and putting this one in the trunk for a while and moving on to something else. It’s not my best work. Most writers I know feel that way at the conclusion of a novel, but in this case I may be write. Er, right.

Until I reread it many months hence, of course, and temporarily suffer from the “this is the best thing I’ve ever done” delusion.
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Euphomet, Jim Perry’s high strangeness podcast, has become my very favoritest. There are many fine podcasts out there, but I love Jim's sensibility and his openly inquisitive tone. Check it out here.

So yesterday, the quote and the blog post pushed me one way, but on the drive home I heard The Girl On Her Way by Maia Sharp and that pushed me another. You can read the article and hear the song here (sorry, couldn't find a YouTube, et al.), but these are the lyrics that pushed me:


How long can she be the girl on her way
Before she's just the woman who never got there?
...Everything that almost came
Every spark that never made a flame...


So I don't know what the universe is telling me. I've been wondering that for a couple of months now. Maybe it's just a babbling random idiot, signifying nothing.

Maybe I need to redefine myself and my goals and stop worrying about the universe.

I have no answers. And don't really expect any from outside my own heart. That's the real crucible of hope, despair, or acceptance. All the answers are there, if we can just sort them out from amongst the rags and bones.

Quote of the day:

"The Romans would never have had time to conquer the world if they had been obliged to learn Latin first."

—Heinrich Heine


But I'd love to learn Latin.

Writing and reading talk of the day:

❶ ☞ As I lumber through chapter 40 and the epilogue(s) for Night Warrior/Born to Darkness, I find myself looking forward to the next novel. It looks like Charged with Folly has taken the lead in that competition. It's the most complete idea at this point, even if I did write 200 pages of Venus In Transit, and even if Beneath a Hollow Moon has some really juicy character stuff going on. The worldbuilding for Charged has come on strong in the last month.

❷ ☞ Someone reminded me the other day that Anne Rice (who I haven't read for at least a century) used the term, "born to darkness," in her novels to describe someone being made into a vampire. I had completely forgotten that. Yeah, that's right, I'm using the same cryptoamnesia excuse that Kaavya Viswanathan used to explain why she plagiarized huge chunks of Megan McCafferty's books (possibly, as it turns out, egged on by her book packager). (See this post.) However, considering the major angst it caused me to come up with Born to Darkness as an alternate title for NW, I ain't changing it again. Let's just call it an homage, shall we?

❸ ☞ The reading I've been doing lately has mostly gone towards supporting Charged with Folly, so I'd say that's another sign that novel might be next in the queue. I've been reading about the geometry and abstruse symbolism of labyrinths, alchemy, chakras, Paracelsus, and string theory. Although reading about Paracelsus also goes towards supporting the world I created for the 18th century cunning man, Simon Jellicoe, that novel isn't ready to pop yet. The string theory might apply to that one as well. Not to mention the Diane Purkiss book I quoted the other day, At the Bottom of the Garden. It all goes into the compost pile, and hopefully something rich and strange comes out the other side.


Miscellanea: And speaking of the windmills of your mind, I always find myself wanting to sing that lyric:

Keys that jingle in your pocket
Words that jangle in your head
Can analysis be worthwhile?
Is the theatre really dead?

Too much Paul Simon at an impressionable age, yah sure.

After a 1500 word sprint today, chapter 25 is in the bag. Once I got over my whining, this one came together really fast. I'm not sure one of the characters is a fully rounded human being, and I'm not sure whether the latest plot tangent may be a bit too tricksy, but that's for worrying about in the second draft.

And I'd just like to say, God bless the heat when the gorgeous shirtless men go jogging.

A Tale of Two Joggers:

♥

Sunday I went shopping with The Mom. We made the turn off Alla Road onto the Marina Freeway and there was this little old dude jogging down Culver Blvd. wearing nothing but baggy navy swimming trunks. Brown as a berry, a fine crop of snowy hair all over his back and chest, hanging down from his chin and blowing on top of his head—though a little thin up there. In this heat, I worried for his health because there wasn't a lick of shade to be found anywhere around there, but he looked like he did this kind of thing every day. Very buff for an ancient mariner, really in quite good shape—but jogging real slow and heading out on a part of Culver that's isolated as it heads towards the bridge over Lincoln Blvd. and on into the wetlands. Eventually, if he kept heading that way, he'd make it to the beach at Playa del Rey.

Maybe two hours later I'm heading back down Culver on my way home from mom's place in Westchester—and there's the ancient mariner in almost exactly the same place I saw him before near the Marina freeway, only jogging the other way. Same pace, slow and steady, but much sweatier—and his navy trunks are seriously wet. I didn't know, actually, if he was just that sweaty of if he'd taken a dip somewhere. I was definitely hoping for the latter.

♥♥

Driving home last night, a tall, handsome young man with shoulder-length dark blonde hair, tan, great body—really well-cut pecs, and abs that were nice, but not too overdone, if you know what I mean...What was I saying? Oh, nothing to report there. He just gave me the shivers, that's all. In a good way. Handsome Guy jogged on the shady side of the street, unlike the ancient mariner.

Things I thought of blogging today: A rant on how Carly Simon sings all her songs at the same bland, plain vanilla emotional pitch with not a thought in her head as to what the lyrics say. And something about the good ol' gals of jazz singing like Etta Jones and Nina Simone and Judy Garland.

Why I didn't blog it: I'm cranky and shouldn't be let that far off the lease.

Cliché du jour: "Gwyddog and all who stand with him will feel my wrath! It's just like writing for TV, folks!

Do you ever ask yourself, "Who the hell snuck into my novel and wrote that bilge?"