Writing Down the Bones

 

This book has been out there for a few years and I have to be honest, I've never read it.  But I hear authors talk about what is in the book all the time.  But for me - no offense - the idea seems self-evident.  But then, that's how I approach writing anyway. 

As Lee Child once told me (and a bunch of other folks at a conference) that he is an instinctual writer.  Not saying I'm the next Lee Child, but at least we approach the process in the same way.

But the best advice a writer ever gave was:  "Put butt in chair with hands on keyboard.  That's how you write a novel."

Shiver me timbers.....

Remember, it is Talk Like a Pirate Day.  Yes, as Jimmy sings, we are all pirates to one degree or another.

Yes, I am a pirate two hundred years too late.
The cannons don't thunder there's nothin' to plunder
I'm an over forty victim of fate
Arriving too late, arriving too late.

So pull out that eye patch and let that beard grow.  It's okay.... for today.....

The Killers

As some of you know, music plays a big part in my writing and The Killer's song and video "When We Were Young" plays a role in the novel I'm writing right now.  And they have a new album out today and although their first single is more power-pop than some of their earlier work, I find that refreshing.  My musical tastes are all over the place and there is certainly room for some power-pop in everyone's collection.  Especially when it's done this good.

Running to Stand Still

Sometimes you feel like a hamster in a wheel. Running to stand still. I'll let U2 sing it for me. It's time for a change. Time to break free from the wheel.

Counting or Dwelling?

Never learned to count my blessings.

I choose instead to dwell in my disasters.

-Ray LaMontagne

Try Again

Sometimes you just feel stranded. A ship stuck in the shale on the beach, slowly decaying. Your pilot house gets pilfered; your planking comes undone. You are no longer a ship at sea. You are no longer doing what you are meant to be doing. You have lost your way and you have washed up on some shore for someone to take a black and white photograph of. You feel ignoble. Ashamed, perhaps. Lost for sure. Lost. Lost and stuck. Lost and stranded. But someone comes along and picks you up and you try again. You try to regain your humble nobility. You try to regain what you are - what you've lost along the way. You try again to regain that something that kept you from running ashore all those times before. And maybe you will find it and maybe you won't.

But you try again.

Because what else is there to do?

Fly Fishing is a Lot Like Writing

I've been doing a good amount of fly fishing this summer.  It's a good way for me to get out of the house and think about things, both writing-wise and life-wise.  This past year hasn't been a piece of cake so I'm doing more searching than I've done in the past.  And that's not a bad thing, mind you.  A little soul searching is good for a fella.  But we won't get into that right now.

What I've found while wandering the stream is that fly fishing is a lot like writing.  You have to be patient.  You have to be still.  You have to present the fly in a precise way.  You have to read the water correctly to know where the prize might be hiding.  And there are tight spots with overhead trees and snags in the river - danger lurks everywhere for a guy whipping 20 feet of line over his head.  And if you do all that, you have to have a fish that is willing to come up and take your fly.  You can do it all correctly.  You can do it all just as Mike taught you.  And the damn fish won't take the fly.

See what I mean?  Fly fishing is a lot like writing.

The Best Thriller Writer You've Never Heard Of

I don't normally plug other authors on the blog but I felt compelled after reading Gregg's latest, Trust No One.  As the great reviewer David Montgomery said in his review, Gregg might be the best thriller writer you've never heard of.  Let's see if we can change that - what do you say?  Buy the book.  Thank me later.

And Borders has a nice interview with Gregg and his mentor, Robert Crais.  It gives you good insight into how Gregg works.

Agents are human too

Yeah, I'm a sucker for a good poop story.  And it's always good to remember, that agents (and writers) are human with all the faults and foibles (that's a writerly word) that come with being human.  Barbara Poole is a hero in my book for giving us this reminder.

Live in the sunshine

Live in the sunshine, swim the sea, drink the wild air....

Ralph Waldo Emerson

It's become a thing for me now.  When a celebrity dies, I start to think about my own mortality - especially when that person is about my age.  I'm also reading the obituaries in my local paper looking for guys that are my age.  It's morbid and I hate myself for it - but I can't stop.  I'm young by all standards.  I have a long life ahead of me.  Many adventures, many joys.  And many heartaches.  I will live a long and glorious life.

Natasha Richardson probably thought the same thing.

We hear it all the time.  Life is short.  Gather thee rosebuds while ye may, etc.  But do any of us really do it?  Do we drink the wild air at every opportunity?  I don't.  I try to, but I don't.  I need to do that more.  To live life.  Because I too might be doing something so benign as skiing on a beginners slope and within two days I'm no more.

My thoughts and prayers go out to Ms. Richardson's family and friends.  May you again live in the sunshine some day.

Here fishy, fishy

It's finally warming up and I find myself thinking about hitting the streams.  I went out the other day and scouting a couple favorite spots and the streams are looking pretty quick and muddy.  Not the best conditions to fish in.  But you can't catch a fish unless you wet your line so I think I'll dig around in the storage room and see if I can find that fly rod and try a little early season trout fishing.  Fishing in muddy, quick water is kinda like living now days.  You know that your luck needs to be pretty good to catch anything.  The waters are murky and quick, but you can't catch a fish unless you wet your line.  Soon here, the waters will recede, the waters will become more clear, and that trout will rise to your fly.  So keep wetting those lines kiddies.

Take one Jack Johnson and call me in the morning.....

It's an ongoing battle for me and maybe it is for you too.

Morale.  Attitude.  Outlook.  Call it what you will, keeping those spirits up as a struggling writer - published or not - is a full time gig.  Maybe because it's such a long process and the warm fuzzies don't come along frequently.  Maybe it's because the winter sun is so impotent this time of year.  Come on Mr. Sun.  You can do better than that.  Maybe it's because the news is full of bad news.  It's so bad I won't even watch it anymore.

Or maybe it's that I'm a self-absorbed jerk.

Whatever the reason, everyone needs a little pick-me-up now and then.  I've found that Jack Johnson is better than any pharmacological product known to man.  

So here, try this.  See if it doesn't work for you too.

How to you say Chutzpah in Serbian?

This kind of stuff makes it very difficult for us fiction writers.  The story is so outlandish to be almost unbelievable.  But what I find fascinating is how far this guy got.  I'm a pretty quiet guy - don't like to draw a lot of attention to myself.  I'm not a power player.  I'm not a guy that steps on people to get where I want to go.  What makes another human think in their mind that what he is doing is okay?  That, yeah, I'll sell a senate seat and I'll sleep just fine.  The only answer I can come up with is that his brain is broken.  That he has something organically wrong in that head of his.  Wow.  Just can't get my head around this as it's so foreign from the way I think.

I Dreamed I was a Cowboy

Lyle Lovett is without question the best sounding concert I've ever had the pleasure to attend.  And hey, the guy is damn good too.  Here is one of my favorites.  It just popped up on my iTunes as I was writing and I had to share....

Don't ask me why....

There's a natural mystic blowing through the air

If you listen carefully now you will hear.

This could be the first trumpet, might as well be the last:

Many more will have to suffer,

Many more will have to die - don't ask me why.

Natural Mystic

Bob Marley

To Have and Have Not

The Howard Hawks version of Hemingway's To Have and Have Not was on cable the other night.  I searched my memory and discovered I'd never seen it.  It was Lauren Bacall's screen debut when she was mere 18-years-old and come to find out William Faulkner helped on the screenplay.  So I settled in for the quick hour and half or so movie and found it both entertaining and dull at the same time.  And I wondered why I had that feeling.  Why was I entertained but left wanting just the same?  And I've now discovered why.

I like the characters.

The story was silly.

So, being a bit of a Hemingway junkie, I went out and purchased the novel.  Now I know Hemingway wasn't particularly fond of this unorthodoxly constructed novel, but I found it quite interesting.  The way Hemingway episodically reveals Harry and his downward spiral.  And that's what's missing in the movie.  You don't get the arch of Harry's story in the movie - it centers around one aspect of the novel - and takes considerable liberties at that.

So even though we get to see the lovely Lauren Bacall give her famous "whistle" line, the movie doesn't capture the heart of the novel.  It skates along the surface, not revealing the dark heart that resides within Harry.  His anger at not being able to provide for his family while others laugh it up around him - oblivious to the pain in so many others.  And it's that anger that makes Harry real, makes him interesting, makes us want to know him.  Because we all, at one time or another, feel like a "have not."

Getting the Picture

I'm on a roll with videos lately.  And the last one I posted was kinda grim.  I'm not a grim guy.  I'm a guy that likes to have fun - but at 3:00am when I do most of my writing, it can get kinda grim.  So, before turning off the monitor and heading to bed, I crank a little Buffett to cleanse the pallet.  And here's a good one...

When I grow up, I want to be Jimmy Buffett....

My Empire of Dirt

Here is another one from a current playlist.  This one applies more to a work I've just started.

This song cuts me to the core...

Riding with Lady Luck

Those of you that frequent this blog know how important music is to me.  And as I finish Under the Skin, my current novel, I've found a certain playlist has organically formed.  And at the heart of that playlist is one Tom Waits.

Tom Waits isn't for everyone but he sure is for me.  This tune was covered by The Eagles some years ago - and to much more commercial success - but I still like the gravely original version from the guy that wrote it.  So without further ado, I give you Tom Waits and 'Ol 55.

James Crumley, meet Paul Newman

"When I finally caught up with Abraham Traherne, he was drinking beer with an alcoholic
bulldog named Fireball Roberts, in a ramshackle joint just outside of Sonoma, California, drinking the heart right out of a fine spring afternoon."

James Crumley
The Last Good Kiss

“Yeah, well, sometimes nothin' can be a real cool hand.”
Cool Hand Luke

It was a tough week for me last week. Two of my favorite entertainers died. James Crumley died at the age of 68. Pretty young by today’s standards. And to bookend the terrible week, Paul Newman died Friday at the age of 83. That’s a more acceptable age I guess.

Everyone knew Paul Newman. Those blue eyes; the great work he did with his charitable food line. And the movies. Who could forget those. The Verdict is still one of my favorites of his and I still argue that he should have won the Oscar that year for best actor. The Sting. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Hombre. Color of Money. The Hustler. Slap Shot. The list is pretty long. Paul Newman deserves those accolades. He lived his life well – a life one could emulate and be quite happy – even if you weren’t a movie star.

But James Crumley, on the other hand, is a bit of an enigma. He never had a best seller. He never rose above the level of “cult writer” despite critical acclaim. Something just didn’t click for him like it did for Paul Newman. But I, like many crime writers, credit Crumley as one of my inspirations when I started writing. There was something earthy and real about his characters and his writing. They were deeply flawed people that did violent things in gritty locations. He was a very fine writer that deserved a wider audience. But then, maybe he didn’t care.

And that’s were these two men intersect. They lived their lives as they wanted – doing the things that gave them joy. They excelled at their crafts, and while one of them achieved worldwide stardom, the other lived quietly in Missoula, Montana. But they are equals in my eye.
And I suspect in that bar behind the pearly gates, the two men are sitting next to each other drinking the heart out of a fine spring day. Yeah, sometimes nothin’ can be a real cool hand.