Dream sequences

I love writing dream sequences. They allow me to write abstract sequences that nonetheless hint to future developments of the plot.

My idea here is that we do a lot of subconscious processing when we dream. One theory of dreams, which does not sit well with non-scientists, is that the objects and happenings in our dreams are processed and reviewed to put into long-term storage. If your newfound Aunt Martha reminds you of your long-departed Aunt Mary, you’re as likely to dream of Martha as Mary that night, because your short-term memory connects Martha and Mary. The next morning, you think to yourself, “Oh, that’s why I felt the presence of a ghost — Aunt Martha reminds me of my dearly departed Aunt Mary!” often without remembering the dream.

Non-scientists like to believe that dreams are ripe for interpretation. Freudians have set symbols they look for in dreams, focusing on the Freudian hallmarks, the urges and taboos we sublimate to be acceptable adults: sex, defecation, and death. An interesting situation in Freudian interpretation: dreaming of turning on a faucet symbolizes sex.  Dreaming of having sex with someone does not. Many dream interpretation books on the market are at least semi-Freudian in their interpretations.

Meanwhile, Jungian interpretation focuses on the people in your dream, and how they resemble the archetypes that feature heavily in our stories and deeper psyche. So the Jungian dream would look at the animus (your darker self), mentors, quests — in other words, Jung puts your dream through a Star Wars filter.

Others’ take on dreams is that they give messages — not only the result of subconscious processing above, but prosaic messages from the outside that the brain connects — much like the scientific theory above — but precognitive messages, messages from mystical connections, messages from others alive or dead, messages from our most inner self.  Even though this sounds like mental illness, we all know people we call superstitious that have these beliefs. The person who dreams of deceased Aunt Mary believes that anything Mary said or did in the dream is a direct message. They may believe that they themselves are the next family member slated to die.  A common belief is that cardinals carry messages from the dead, so someone might dream of a cardinal instead of Aunt Mary.

When I write about dreams, they have elements of subconscious processing of mysteries with a touch of the mystical — but just a light touch. Generally, a series of seemingly unrelated data come together through subconscious reasoning — but still may not be interpretable to the dreamer because of the need to disbelieve. At the end, I introduce the mystical finger pointing to a future revelation. That’s just how I do it, and I’m sure the Freudians and Jungians disagree.

I wrote a dream last night and I’m really proud of it. I may show it to you later.

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This morning I start at 32,000 words, give or take a couple. My goal is to be finished by Friday, which gets me to the 50,000 goal 14 days ahead of time. I will continue writing, except at a slower pace, and I will have a writers’ retreat (with massage! And sauna and steam bath and hot tub oh my!) at The Elms in Excelsior Springs for Thanksgiving with Richard!

Love you all.

For the love of a mystery

I confess: I love a small mystery.  I don’t just mean big mysteries of murder and espionage, although I adore Agatha Christie. I mean an answer that begs to be revealed, a message that needs to be decoded, a package without a sender (and without wires, grease marks, or the smell of explosives), an anonymous letter with only a line of poetry.

I find mysteries tantalizingly frustrating. Frustrating because the mystery turns over and over in my mind, like a beautiful wooden box with no entry. I fumble at the box, trying to find the twist or turn or shake that will get me access to the box because I desperately want to know what’s inside. Tantalizing because the mystery is by definition a message, and the message by definition is a mystery. 
I find mysteries romantic. By romantic, I do not mean “only permitted from a significant other or, if single, a potential suitor”. I mean that mysteries carry a whole story — why is the information concealed, kept secret, or denied? What is the importance of the information? What are the consequences of the information being concealed — or revealed? 
I have been the recipient and the perpetrator of many mysteries. My aunt sent inspirational poetry to me anonymously when I was ten, and trying to solve the mystery of who the sender was got me through a very difficult period in my life. I once sent a line of my poetry to a guy I’d met in high school, and when we started dating, I discovered he’d put it on his wall, not even knowing it was me (and I proved myself a goddess when I claimed it). An old college friend anonymously sent me a CD for a 20-year reunion concert of my favorite local band — or at least I think it was him. 
I find myself putting small mysteries into many of my novels. The protagonist asks, “Who sent me this message?” or “Why do I recognize this?” or “Why did this person say that?” or “What does this dream mean?” 
My wish list for secrets:
No nastygrams — if you want to be nasty or mean, say it to my face
No postal bombs or anthrax
No pictures of your junk
Yes to subtlety
Yes to difficulty in solving
Yes to something you’d like to share
Coffee is always good
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Now at 32,000 words. Today’s writing included a dream sequence, calligraphy in a foreign language, and doubts about a character’s “insanity”.
Love you all. Talk later!

Technology in the background

When I was five years old, the object that most epitomized the grownup life I wanted to live was this:

This is a Western Electric circa 1965 Princess phone in its dial configuration (I thought touch-tone was so ugly). For some of you, many of you in fact, “Western Electric”, “Princess phone”, and “touch-tone” are terms you’ve never heard, and the term “land-line” is a term you’ve heard of and consider an archaic technology.

This was the phone I got:

My first cell phone looked like this:

No putting it in a pocket like I’m used to now.

Technology anchors the story in time and place — a protagonist can call someone on the phone, but describing the phone ever so briefly reminds the reader of when the story takes place. Describing can be succinct, like “She called on the bag phone”, or more interactive, like “she unzipped the vinyl bag, raised the antenna, and put the headset to her ear.”  To a reader who has never seen a bag phone, the description will give them pause.

In actuality, there is no era without technology, no matter how primitive that technology is.  Technology is simply “the collection of techniques, skills, methods, and processes used in the production of goods and services or in the accomplishment of objectives” (Wikipedia, 2017). Therefore, fire, torches, Betty lamps, tallow candles, lanterns, gaslight, incandescent bulbs, fluroescent bulbs, halogen bulbs, and LEDs are all light technologies depending on the era.

My current work in progress is set 15 years in the future after a national economic and governmental collapse. The country, now countries, have lost electricity, gasoline (petrol), and long-distance trucking of food and supplies. Their technologies, therefore, have been created from knowledge, ingenuity, and scavenging. The main fuel used is bio-diesels made from rendering of dead cattle, plant matter, and sewage. Wood, of course, still work, as do scavenged stores of gasoline and kerosene, but these are rare. Solar installations and wind turbines supply power until parts need to be replaced, because machining has not yet converted to diesel-generated power.  People have developed diesel generators and kerosene/diesel refrigerators. They have begun to pick up old arts like weaving, hand-sewing, and preserving food by smoking. Economies are very localized, and trade is done by barter.

That is their level of technology. It’s not as advanced as ours, but it may help them crawl upward to their own technologies, developed from the available materials, mimicry of the scavenged goods, ingenuity, and need.  Without me writing about it, however, nobody will understand how different their world is than ours.

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I’m writing pretty fast — my goal today is 32,000 words total, or 3000 additional words for today. If I have to take a break, I have a wide cushion.

The part I’m most proud of today

I wrote 3600 words today to make up for the 2500 words (yes, I’m aiming for 3000 words, 4000 words on weekends) yesterday, and probably to make up for the fact that I didn’t win NaNo last year. 29,000 words so far.

Here’s my favorite segment of the day — an indigent with mental illness tells a story. Remember this is a rough draft. Really rough:

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Pagan paused again for a long time, cocking his head. Then, his voice became that of a child’s, and he spoke:

“I am supposed to be one of them, but instead I got put into the hospital. It was after I woke up, after I started existing. I woke up in a room, and a woman started screaming. I ran outside, and all these big machines tried to kill me, and everything was loud. I started screaming, like the woman. They took me to this white  place, the hospital, and tied me down. Then she told me she was like me, and we were their abandoned children. That’s what she told me, the one who talks in my head. 

“‘Who are they?’ I asked her in her head.

“‘The ones who wander. Sometimes they make us by accident, sometimes on purpose. We are them and we are humans, so they abandoned us.’

“The people who tied me down asked me questions I couldn’t understand: What my name was, where I lived, who my next of kin was. All I could answer with was ‘I’m them and I’m human,’ because those were all the words that I had.

“They untied me, but they kept me in that bright room, and occasionally something would make their name known to me. Someone in white would come into my room and ask me if I wanted the lamp turned on, and I knew ‘lamp’ and ‘on’, and then ‘light’ and ‘food’ and ‘bathroom’

“But I understood the voice from the moment I heard it, because it didn’t talk in words, but in meanings, and it was words I didn’t understand.

“’Who are they?’ I asked again. ‘Who are the ones who wander?’

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“She would not answer me.”

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This will become important later.

Advising about Advice

My editor redeemed himself.

Not by giving in, not by praising my work, but by naming specific things I needed to work on.  In my case, it’s adding other details happening that don’t have to have to do with the story. Given how I write (from what I’ve seen yesterday), that focus and immersion on the experiences of the protagonist is like riding a train through a tunnel, and I have tunnel vision.

Successful authors don’t want editors to rubber-stamp their work, they want to be pushed to grow.  But we’re all blind to our idiosyncracies that get in the way. That’s why we have editors.

Because authors are intimate with their books, they don’t understand global comments like “it’s a bit choppy”, “drags a bit”, and “needs more cowbell”. There needs to be a more specific, actionable comment like, “You need to include detail that does not involve the plot.” or “you’ve used the word ‘vitriol’ five times in the first chapter — can you find a synonym?”

The other thing about global comments is that sometimes they’re spirit-killing. Unless you’re Dean Koontz, apparently, in this pep talk for NaNo that all editors should read (and I use “should” very sparingly):

https://nanowrimo.org/pep-talks/dean-koontz

Note to my editor: Just as I like to be praised when I finally “get it”, I’ll praise my editor, who I’m sure is reading this blog. Editor, you’re getting it. I don’t remember calling you names, and if I did, I’m sorry.

Note to authors: This is the reason you don’t write the nasty note to your editor when your ire is up. Rant about your feelings and not about your editor. Keep those sadistic fantasies to yourself. Then take a deep breath, and if your editor doesn’t redeem himself, fire him.

*******
Back to NaNo. I wrote about 2500 words yesterday, but I’ll eventually catch up. I’m actually ahead of schedule — at the last checkin, I would be done by November 17th. I won’t be putting in the detail requested above in this story, because it’s not time yet. Now is the time to lay in the skeleton.

Serious setback

I’m struggling today — struggling in a “I don’t know if I want to keep doing this” way. I don’t know what I need from you, dear readers. Bear with me.

I did not reach my goal today. I only made it half-way there. I will struggle to get there tomorrow, if I get there at all.

Today, a friend of a friend who was supposed to edit the first three chapters of my book said something in the guise of advice that has made me feel, more than anything, like giving up:

“A reader is a simple organism.  We expect A, will be happy with B, will grudgingly accept C, and all the other letters are crap.  Stereotypes and tropes exist for a reason.  No matter what someone says about wanting pure original stories, they will get pissed off if the wizard doesn’t carry a staff.”  

I know I can get a bit sensitive about criticism. But usually, I can step aside and say, “Yeah, that needs work,” and I can get to work. I’ll be the first to admit that my words are too big and I need help in pacing the plot. I read advice to writers and implement it the best I can.

But the above comment basically tells me that my viewpoint is not valued, my voice is just wrong, and I have to write at the level of The Flintstones to get published.

I could live with “write at the level of The Flintstones to get published” if that were all that was said. I would keep writing my stuff and not publish it. End of problem.

But the rest of it tears into my very soul.  I do not want to be known for writing Islamic terrorists, white saviors, and Fu Manchu.  I also don’t expect to write stereotypes in terms of “the repressed but sexy librarian”, “the rugged action hero”, and “the desperate sexless nerd.” I expect my characters to be three-dimensional. I in fact try to write outside these stereotypes.

As for tropes, it’s impossible to write without them — Every story I’ve ever written touches on self-discovery, which is a trope called The Hero’s Journey. (Some argue that everything written is the Hero’s Journey, but I’m skeptical.) I’ve written in “boy meets girl, boy loves girl, boy loses girl, boy gets girl back after 150 years” trope. Obviously I subvert tropes.

I firmly believe that words are so important that writers have to choose them carefully. Words have the magic to change perceptions or to freeze them into cages. I believe that roles are held by well-formed characters and stereotypes hold characters hostage.

The worst part, though, is that I can’t even conceive of what this man was talking about. He might have been talking in a different language about a world I didn’t live in.

When I write a book, I don’t say, “Hey, let’s put the clever and debonair robber and the stupid cop and the clueless but hot woman in and first the robber breaks into the bank in a tension-filled scene, and then he sneaks the money out right under the nose of the cop, who chases him, and he carjacks this fast car and the clueless woman falls in love with him.” I don’t shop at “Tropes r Us” to find a plot.

When I write a story, it’s like I have these characters, and yes, I deliberately pick them so that they don’t fall into stereotypes, because people who aren’t white, beautiful, and upper class deserve to have adventures and fall in love (this is why I can’t write romance novels). I write a plot, and the chapters take me traveling through the plot.

I travel with the characters in my mind when I’m writing, seeing the same things and experiencing the same events they do. It’s an intense immersion process (and the only time I can actually visualize). This is how I write. It’s like I’m creating the world I want to live in in the remains of the world I live in, right before my eyes.

In fact, I have trouble editing my books because I don’t get the same intensity I got when I wrote them. Honestly, I don’t know if what I’m doing is readable. That’s the problem — I honestly don’t, because when I get to the editing stage I see that it all makes sense, everything follows logically — but I can’t tell if the pacing is right and I really can’t tell if anyone besides me would find it interesting.

Notes: I have trouble finding beta-readers. Am saving up for an editor who has more experience, but I’m so afraid that I’m going to keep getting critiques of what I am and not what I need to improve.

Thank you for listening.

A shout-out to my childhood town:

Outside of Chicago, the scenery of what the mapmakers in Grand Marais called The Jungle seemed no different than the rural areas of North Ontario or Minnesota. The land was flatter, and in the March weather, the overgrowth of grasses just started to show green through last year’s dried stalks, and the trees in the distance didn’t glow with green buds yet. The farmland that would have spread for miles in a farm economy sat fallow and grey, drought and the collapse of factory farming ending the land’s purpose to the economy. The highway, with its occasional potholes and washboards, was no different than those I had seen North. 

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I turned off the road at a ragged road sign that announced a town with a preposterously French name, hoping to hear some stories there. At the bottom of a graceful hill, I heard the sound of a shotgun close by, a warning shot. I spun the truck around and headed back up the hill. Nobody had shot at me in Chicago proper, but here in the rural Midwest, someone shot at me. 

*******
Writing that was almost more fun than killing off my ex-husband in Gaia’s Hands. 

Thank you, friends, for reading. Now to go write a few thousand words.

I’m still going — 3000 words today

I made it through my 3000 word goal, although I am seriously not feeling well today. (I also made it to work). The fun today was writing in a bit of urban shamanism:

The collective had offered me a place on the floor of the Commons building, which I took with gratitude. I suspected my days sleeping in a bed would be over, and I suspected that I would sleep in the cab of my truck after I left this place.

I laid out my bedroll, using my backpack as my pillow as always. The moment I laid down and closed my eyes, a voice behind me, low and gravelly, said, “Tina and I need to talk to you outside.” I turned around and saw some of the few white people from dinner, a man of about average height with long, wavy greying hair and goatee; and a diminutive blonde woman, all dimples.

“Okay,” I queried. “What’s the reason for the secret meeting?”

“You looked really freaked out back there. During dinner.” He raised his eyebrows, and I noted that he looked much like the Asian Boys in Duluth, only with stunning hair they wouldn’t have sported.

“Well, David talked to me about hearing voices in my head. I got uncomfortable.” The shorter woman shot me a sympathetic look.

“David’s not crazy,” the man shook his head. “Streetwise, like me, but not crazy. You might want to listen to him.”

I knew I should be taking these notes down in my head, or in my notebook. The collective had a tendency toward superstition – the tree that protected, the wise crazy person — but that wasn’t the story I looked for.

“So who are you?” I asked “And why are you here?”

“I’m Allan Chang, and I should tell you I’m a shaman so some of this makes sense. This is my partner, Celestine Eisner.” Celestine, who looked about twenty, waved in acknowledgment.

“A shaman. How does that fit into the collective?” Most self-identified shamans in the post-Industrial era did not come from a culture that believed in shamans, and the likelihood was that they used mysticism to compensate for being powerless.

“They think it’s strange, because they’re not used to Asians hearing spirits.” He grinned, a wolfish grin that for a moment made me believe in totems.

“So, what’s our business tonight?” I hoped it was a story of the Alvar, because I hadn’t gotten my quota for the day.

“We need to consult the subway oracle.” Oracles in subways? That was a new one to me; previous to this, I had thought the conjunction of fortune-telling and technology had been limited to tarot readings and Miss Cleo.

“And you need a ride?” I asked, realizing that my sleep time would be shortened.

“No. By we, I mean you need to consult the subway oracle.” Allan emphasized. “I can feel the agitation David is causing you.”

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Incidentally, Allan and Celestine show up in a couple of earlier books. Celestine, it turns out, has something in common with the protagonist of this story.

A short excerpt — I’m on a roll on a difficult part

I have a couple hours to write before work today, and I want to get moving, because my mind is playing with a difficult part/concept: What if your first memory is of being full-grown, but totally bewildered by your surroundings:

The faded man sitting next to me introduced himself as David Burris, Valor’s son and Justice’s brother. It seemed odd to me that he looked as if he could be Valor’s father, not vice versa. Then he asked a question, a nonsequitur that nonetheless resonated more than a stranger’s question should have:

“What’s your first childhood memory?” he asked, his gaze searing into me.

My mind spun in panic — I had no childhood memories. I couldn’t get to them. The first thing I remembered in my life was a dream of standing up in my parents’ living room, in the old house where they used to live before they disappeared from society. Durant — my father — wasn’t there, but that wasn’t surprising; I had always known he came into my life later. Three people sat in the room: my mother; plump and curly-haired; a man, tall with long black hair and implacable eyes; and another woman, short and slender, smiling like a grandmother. My mother and the man were bundled up in bathrobes and blankets like they’d just come in from the cold. I couldn’t understand. I stumbled away.

“Come here,” the dark-haired woman said, with a curious gesture of her — I looked down at what I quickly learned was my hand. “Let me look at you.”  

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I stepped backward. “Here” came with the woman’s gesture toward herself. “You” — I guess that meant me. 

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So this is obviously written in first person, and the person is a Nephilim but doesn’t know it. Nephilim are born full-grown and biologically learn very, very quickly such that in a week, she understands everything in that room and shows proficiency. But, at the moment she describes in the memory, she knows literally nothing. So I have to write the scene dividing her observations into two parts: things she can describe and understand at the time of reflection, and things recalled at that exact moment. Tough, huh?

Thanks for reading, friends.

Rituals and word counts.

Thank you for keeping up, friends! I made the 20,000 mark today after swearing to write 3,000 words today despite not feeling well. I had time to write during my lunch hour, so I decided to stay on the goal. Specific, measurable, action-oriented, realistic, time-bound.

Honestly, I’m not a horribly organized person who drives toward goals except at NaNo time. I meander most of the year, play with words, set soft goals. NaNo time is different — it’s as NaNo is a ritual I satisfy yearly to belong to my tribe of creatives. It’s like my version of an all-night drumming circle at Midsummer or my First Snow ritual that I no longer hold because nobody’s calendars are clear on that random November night when we get our first inch of snow.

I have to go to class now — don’t tell anyone.

Do you want to read an excerpt tonight? Please let me know!