Headfirst Into the Deep End

You know that's write.

These are the ravings of an otherwise mild-mannered chap who recently self-published his debut novel, THE KONA SHUFFLE, which is available at Amazon and Barnes & Noble.

On this blog I write about writing and I write about writing my book. You'll find excerpts from the novel and teases about the follow-up, work-in-progress, THE HILO HUSTLE. Plus tons of other crap which may only be of interest to anyone out there who gives a flying rip about writing, publishing, and whatever other topics release themselves from the confines of my pointy head.

Oh, I almost forgot: Please read the damn thing. Who knows, you may just like it!

Filling in your "writer’s blank"

No, that’s not a typo.

Whether writer’s block is real or imagined is an argument authors have engaged in for generations. Some people swear by its existence, while doubters believe it’s just so much balderdash.

As in most of life’s debates, I tend to land squarely on the fence. When I was writing the first draft of THE KONA SHUFFLE, I hit a period where the words just did not flow; I spent many an hour staring at a blank screen before I distracted myself with some other menial task or time-waster.

However, when the words did come, they poured out in a gush. On one particular day, I wrote close to 7,000 words in one sitting—which gave me enough momentum to keep rolling and finish the first draft ahead of my self-appointed deadline.

This is why I prefer the term “writer’s blank”—as in, something to fill in. The words are there, but they just aren’t appearing on paper; you know what your characters are supposed to say and do and where your plot is supposed to go next, but the story languishes, awaiting your next move as the puppetmaster.

In my case, I didn’t think of myself as blocked so much as I wasn’t able to figure out where to fill in the blanks. Part of the problem is I am a “pantster”; I’m too undisciplined to outline my novels, instead relying on my mental storyboard to guide me. Sometimes this works just peachy but other times, self-doubt prevents me from letting the story run its course. In the case of THE KONA SHUFFLE, though, once I let go, the gaps closed and the story came together far better than I had anticipated.

Lately I’ve been stuck about a third of the way through the first draft of THE HILO HUSTLE. I owe some of this to the fact I am easily distracted and fail to give the novel the attention it needs. I also am over-thinking the bejesus out of the story’s next phase, forgetting this is a FIRST DRAFT and much editing and revising is yet to come. Yet another part of me believes I have painted myself into a corner but cannot figure out how to extricate myself…despite the fact it’s a FIRST DRAFT. Consciously, I know all I need to do is write stuff no matter how awful it may be and fix it later, but caution won’t let me take the risk for fear I cannot repair the damage later. Which is just so much hooey.

Still, I refuse to think of myself as blocked. To the contrary, I'm blank; the words I need—the dialog and actions of characters necessary to move the story forward—are within arm’s reach. My problem is, I’m not leaning out far enough to grab them and write them down. I know this.

Advice on overcoming writers’ block—er uh, writer's blank—is myriad. Personally, I sometimes get a spark from watching TV or reading (not plagiarizing, let’s be clear about that); other times, the boost  comes to me in my sleep, or in the course of conversation with a friend.

Ultimately, though, my best shot at filling in my writer's blank is to park my fat ass in front of a computer, stare at the screen, drink some beer, read a few preceding pages to remind me where I am, and start banging it out.

As the late, great James Thurber said, “Don't get it right, just get it written.”

I also suspect he never used excuses when he couldn’t fill in the blanks.

 

 

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Editor's note: The following is an excerpt from my self-published novel, THE KONA SHUFFLE, available at Amazon.com and Barnes & Noble. Warning: Dirty words abound.

 

This wasn’t the first time Ryan found himself staring down the muzzle of Frank’s nickel-plated SW1911. But with his brother in a foul mood, he sure as hell hoped it wouldn’t be the last.

“Goddammit, you took the old broad’s jewelry.” Frank straddled Ryan’s waist, pinning him to his bed. He stuffed the muzzle up Ryan’s left nostril. “You went to Needles behind my back and you took her jewels, and now she’s dead. I bet you killed the old broad, too.”

“Frank, shut up,” Ryan said. “Besides, you’re the one decided to screw around in Vegas even though I told you about the stones months ago. What was I supposed to do?”

Sometimes, as a professional courtesy, Ryan gave Frank first right of refusal to participate in a score. Not his fault Frank blew him off in favor of a four-day, money-is-no-object bender in Sin City.

Frank sneered. “What was this bullshit at the gas station, you and Tommy Chunks? Helluva long way to go to suck each other’s dicks, fruitcup.”

Enough’s enough. “Listen up, fat boy, I’m not gay.”

“Look at you in your pink shirt. No real man wears a pink shirt.”

“This thing cost me a wad. And you’re wrinkling it.”

“Yeah, uh huh, and I caught you shaving your chest the other day, too.”

“It’s called ‘manscaping’ and it wouldn’t hurt you to try it once in a while.”

“You say that with a straight face.” Frank snorted. “See what I did there?”

“Listen,” Ryan said, “if I was gay, like you say I am, then I wouldn’t have screwed Rhonda Tutwiler, in her room, with her parents downstairs, in the den, watching Cheers, three times in one night.” Back in junior high.

“What, ‘Old Butterface’?” Frank snorted again. “Don’t know how to tell you this, little bro, but that was sloppy seconds.”

“All I’m saying is, you could take lessons in style from me, and that’s all I’m gonna say. Just look at yourself for once.”

Frank did. On his head, a pure black New York Yankees cap, its flat bill slanted over the right side of his forehead. He wore a red hoodie sweatshirt, baggy black jeans halfway down his wide butt, and unlaced, pure white, low-cut sneakers.

“Back on point, numbnuts.” Frank held up his smartphone, showing a picture to his brother. “So what’s this you’re giving Tommy? I bet there’s no toothpaste and floss in the ditty bag.”

Based on the angle, Ryan figured Frank took the pic around the corner of the Texaco station, behind and to the left of Ryan and Tommy, and out of their line of sight. Ryan hadn’t seen Frank or his convertible Corvette when he scouted the area twenty minutes before Tommy Chunks arrived.

Frank advanced to the next picture. “Here you are giving him some envelope.” The next picture showed Frank, beer in hand, lying on a sidewalk, the Stratosphere Tower in Vegas rising from his crotch. “Shit.” He clicked on the next pic. In it, Frank hoisted a giant martini in a nightclub while a pair of girls engaged in a full lip-lock beside him. He stuffed the phone in his hoodie pocket. “So, yeah, I’d be right about all this, huh?”

Ryan nodded. The gun’s muzzle in his nose followed the motion of his head. “Yeah, dipshit,” he said, his next move in place.

“So where’d you send him?”

“I think you already know.”

Frank slipped the gun into the back of his jeans. “Here’s the deal, one-time only offer. You listening?”

“Speak.”

“You get those jewels back. Call Tommy Chunks and get them back, or else I put your ass on a plane and you fly to him and go get my share and bring it back to me. And if you don’t, I’ll hunt both your sorry asses down.”

“You realize how pathetic you sound.”

Frank picked up a phone from a nightstand. “Call his ass. Now.”

 

 

Words still fail us

In 1990, the late, great George Carlin lamented the euphemization (my word, not his) of the English language and how the use of soft language buffers the public from harsh realities. His classic example:

There’s a condition in combat. Most people know about it. It's when a fighting person's nervous system has been stressed to it's absolute peak and maximum. Can't take any more input. The nervous system has either (click) snapped or is about to snap. In the First World War, that condition was called shell shock. Simple, honest, direct language. Two syllables, shell shock. Almost sounds like the guns themselves. That was seventy years ago. Then a whole generation went by and the Second World War came along and very same combat condition was called battle fatigue. Four syllables now. Takes a little longer to say. Doesn't seem to hurt as much. Fatigue is a nicer word than shock. Shell shock! Battle fatigue. Then we had the war in Korea, 1950. Madison Avenue was riding high by that time, and the very same combat condition was called operational exhaustion. Hey, were up to eight syllables now! And the humanity has been squeezed completely out of the phrase. It's totally sterile now. Operational exhaustion. Sounds like something that might happen to your car. Then of course, came the war in Viet Nam, which has only been over for about sixteen or seventeen years, and thanks to the lies and deceits surrounding that war, I guess it's no surprise that the very same condition was called post-traumatic stress disorder. Still eight syllables, but we've added a hyphen! And the pain is completely buried under jargon. Post-traumatic stress disorder. I'll bet you if we'd of still been calling it shell shock, some of those Viet Nam veterans might have gotten the attention they needed at the time. I'll betcha. I'll betcha.  

Unfortunately, for people around the world who cherish words and value simple, direct language (“‘In the unlikely event of a water landing…’ Well, what exactly is a water landing? Am I mistaken, or does this sound somewhat similar to CRASHING INTO THE OCEAN!? ’”), Mr. Carlin died in 2008. And it seems since his death—hell, even before his passing—the glossing-over of English continues to run amok. And we have so many people to blame.

Let’s start with the Pentagon and their lap dogs in the media. Case in point: the term “improvised explosive device,” or IED. We all know these are things people in Iraq and Afghanistan who didn’t want us in Iraq and Afghanistan in the first place used to blow up our troops; the media also used the term to describe those things that killed and maimed innocent people at the Boston Marathon.

But “improvised explosive device”? WTF? Did the person or teams of persons who came up with that sanitized name think the word BOMB was too direct to describe them? To a typical civilian, “improvised explosive device” almost sounds like something that should come with assembly instructions in Swedish, instead of something that—oh, I don’t know—blows up and dismembers or kills members of our armed services. Like a BOMB does. The result of which, much like Mr. Carlin’s rant from 23 years ago, is that people and our government conveniently forget those wounded men and women are losing arms and legs because a BOMB exploded under them.

Then there’s the Bush administration’s gift to American lexicon, “enhanced interrogation techniques,” a term politicians of all stripes continue to bandy about even though us folks in the real world know it as TORTURE. Of course, while TORTURE is illegal, “enhanced interrogation techniques” simply cannot be so bad because it sounds like something made up by a consumer focus group.

Oh, let’s not forget “detainee,” a word which is easier on the ears than PRISONER OF WAR, as “detainee” makes it sound like these folks have been asked to have a seat in a Greyhound waiting room while they’re bags are inspected.

Of course, politics, the media, and the industrial/military complex don’t have a monopoly on modern double-speak. A few years ago, a friend of mine purchased a “pre-owned vehicle.” When I responded by saying, “Oh, it’s a used car,” she quickly reminded me, “No, it’s PRE-OWNED.” Hmm. So someone else owned it before you did, but they never used it? Well now, that makes perfect sense.

And to our 1-percenter friends, don’t get me started on DOWNSIZED. Isn’t that what happened to Rick Moranis’ children in “Honey, I Shrunk The Kids”? Nope, because they weren’t FIRED or LAID-OFF.

You know the rest and probably more. And they keep on proliferating.

George Carlin, where are you when your language needs you?

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Yes! Pigeonholed at last!

As I survey the literary landscape, I'm bombarded with the usual genre acronyms--YA for young adult, MG for middle grade, NA for new adult, etc.--that are all so trendy, yet are absolutely irrelevant to me or what I write.

Then I wonder, if I want to be one of the cool writing kids, how am I supposed to represent my genre in two letters or less? I mean, I write fiction that is not necessarily geared toward young adults or middle-graders (whatever the hell they are) or new adults, which I suppose are people who are too old to be young adults or middle graders but not old enough to be mature, responsible adults. What is a non-pigeonholed writer to do?

Hmmm...OA? Old Adult? Nah, kind of insulting. How about Advanced Adult? No, wait--being confused for that other AA could prove embarrassing. Literary Adult? Yeesh. Literate Adult? Well, I barely qualify as one, so, no. IA, as in Immature Adult? ... yeah, a non-starter.

Then it hit me. I am 51 years old, technically still a middle-aged adult...MA! I write MA! Middle Adult! My stuff is geared toward readers who are too old to be young, too far advanced from middle grade (whatever the hell that is), but not quite OA or even OH (Over the Hill) or OF (Old Fart).

Yes! I have created my own genre with a silly two-letter acronym and can now continue segregating myself from other writers like the cool authors do!

What do you think? Will MA take off as a genre as cuspers like me (those born at the end of the Baby Boomer period but too old to be Gen Xers) still have active brain cells?

 

My book's been Nooked

For sale as an ebook and in paperback since February 25 on Amazon.com, THE KONA SHUFFLE is also available as of today at Barnes & Noble for the Nook e-reader, for the everyday low price of 99 cents.  Such a bargain!

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