Subject Matters

Mina B. Shotwell, Dharma Detective

2011-09-11T13:50:00.001-07:00

2049, Santa Fe, NM

Mina leaves her post as a meditation instructor and works for six months as an administrator within the Master Sangha, not because she believes deeply that the Buddhist Organizations are meant to thrive on such a great scale, but because she's heard the whispers that the Master Sangha is involved in secret practices, developing small sects of practitioners whose daily practice is to record their visions and pass them on to- who, the government?

The government already has supercomputers that can predict the locations of terrorist leaders, stock market fluctuations, and periods of civil unrest. What use would the government have with buddhist psychics? And why would monks agree to being used in this way?

Amidst controversy, Mina loses a close friend and learns a difficult truth.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Sway

2011-09-10T17:44:00.001-07:00

It's an uneven shift
And rather than tell me
You serve me
Gray-faced tilt and pour
Time lapsed and distilled
And passed over

-for c.c.

Location:Badlands, San Francisco, United States

The part that stays

2011-09-10T17:19:00.001-07:00

Standing gate, where he was
Hands clasped, smooth expectant
Lengthened gaze, relaxed towards
Pause of passers-by
Tense like gusting red sand
Without inference
Was how he waited

for o.m.

Location:Colin P Kelly Jr St,San Francisco,United States

I can tell you, to a point

2011-07-30T13:48:00.001-07:00

You ask me what I see;
aubergine, ochre, sienna
color codes and border width
swatches of polka, paisely, houndstooth, burberry
The greater enigma;
your impressionist face
two straight and one bowed line
patches of appetitive and endless darkness
You're going to El Segundo
to count things, you say
continuing with a banter of terms
that imply calculation and process
What isn't clear-
and should remain shrouded
unless we've given up entirely
-an account of taste and temper
I can tell you, to a point-
stopping before I betray myself
or some principle of seeing
-that you're not looking for love
I can tell you, to a point-
with great hesitation
because dilemmas are cumbersome
-that everything evolves and nothing changes.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Church St,San Francisco,United States

I need I need

2011-07-17T13:58:00.001-07:00

I need to chill the fuck out
I need this grapefruit soda that tastes like the greyhound
that I had six sweet years ago when someone saw me writing
and I was sitting on the sticky edge of a barstool
in the hour before happy hour when I said silly things to the page
and spent more time saying hello than goodbye
I need on this drifting day
for the sun to highlight all the motes
and for the cats to sit at home in curvy asymmetries
and for this cafe to be empty except for the nerdy boys
swigging coffee and soaking up the digital stream
I need to feel like the burden of creative output
is an egoic fantasy, spun out by other falsehoods
like the statistics on unsolved homicides in California
or the corporate verses private solar panel issue
or the subverted loneliness of urban society
I need to chill the fuck out
Tuck away The Secret (TM) and the The Moment (TM)
And just chill the fuck out
Bikram, bite me
Deepak, chill the fuck out
Pema, step off
Jesus, good lord, get off my grill
(And if you think this rant is about you, get a clue)
All I want from the day, from any day
Is enough peace to distinguish my thoughts and feelings
From yours, not literally yours, but others
To ask independently, what do you mean, styled object?
Styled object, are you the cause of this frenzy?
Your substance is derivative, and before that degrades
We will make you new again
I need to leave
You, literally you, unsettled
Asking
What you need

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Church St,San Francisco,United States

Miguel

2011-07-10T16:20:00.001-07:00

Why beautiful now
Why when other hearts are broken
And none can bear to see you
Why slip in amongst the sulkers
A prince among paupers
Miguel, your husband home is drinking
Your heart absconded sinking
Why beautiful now
Why with unmeasured spirits pouring
Have you made a mask of beauty
Are you Hal of Wales amended
Will you betray us for noble ends
Or prithee, listen:
This shifting ache is the eternal verity of brief love
So prithee, listen.

Set

2011-06-25T16:15:00.001-07:00

my feline slit-shaped iris
to your dark sienna doe eyes
my elbow riding raglan sleeve
to your shoulder baring singlet
my hollywood malted balls flick
to your italian prison sex documentary
my persistent recursion
to your progressive revelation
my explication
to your innuendo

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Noe St,San Francisco,United States

Muse

2011-06-19T13:53:00.001-07:00

on the surface, it's banter
i ignore the wisps of fantasy that drift through my mind
and the warm dampening of my hands
i allow those responses to simmer
since the cause is elusive-
-the divine hand trying to bond us and bind us
inviting us to redefine love
trying to make us notice every freckle and fleck,
every twitch and tease

and when i say i am raw or tired
i mean that i am tired of noticing and interpreting and withholding
i mean that my barriers are about to give
and that i will soon feel more than is socially acceptable
or personally tolerable
or practicable once felt
i feel myself unravel as i look into your eyes
at how your irises are dark and deep
and how, while physically similar,
you are so unlike your father
determined and possessed in a completely different way

but you will never be my lover
and i am terrified of taking a new muse

taking a muse divides the soul
into egoic anarchy and creative slavery
and the only choice is when exactly
to beg your pardon
and withdraw
that i might write for hours
tipping my ear to the river of song
that flows through you

Location:San Francisco, CA

Approaches to Critique

2009-05-28T17:33:00.000-07:00

We all enjoy reading budding work, but have some apprehension about critiquing it. We say things like:

I'm not a good writer so I shouldn't criticize others. This is a different genre than I've ever worked with. It's too time consuming. I don't want to be a downer. I don't have anything good to say.

All worries aside, I would like to offer a little insight and some options. The insight is that if someone sent you something to review, it's okay to review it. You don't need any special qualifications to critique a piece. The writer wants your time and consideration focused on their work so you can tell them about your perceptions of it, that's it. If you can do that, then you're set. Here are a few different approaches you might try:

1. What stands out, what I remember. Imagine that you're in a restaurant and you've tasted a Chef's Mystery Soup. No one told you what was in it, so you're sitting there after your first taste, trying to figure out the ingredients. This method doesn't take too long. Read the piece aloud to yourself, then as soon as your done, jot down what stayed with you. The writer may find this helpful, especially with early drafts. It will help them pinpoint where the strengths are in the piece.

2. The next level. Imagine that you're looking at early schematics of airplane design. You may not be any sort of aerospace engineer, but you have an instinct about what might successfully soar once put to the air. This method requires that you spend a little time thinking about the piece and what the writer is trying to accomplish. Perhaps it takes too long to develop the tension or perhaps there is more telling than showing. Whatever it may be, try to find just one thing that would really bring the piece into the next draft. If it seems close to a final draft, you might use the following approach.

3. Red Pen. Especially with long works, the red pen critique is a pain in the ass on both sides, but it has to be done eventually. I recommend that you never do more than a chapter at a time and do this with absolute care. Imagine that you are helping your grandmother prepare something for publication. You really want her to put her best effort forward. Some of the tasks will be grammatical housekeeping, some of them will be outright editing, and there may even be some sections that need to be rewritten or expanded. It's not about getting it perfect. It's about thinking about how this writer is going to put their best effort forward. You don't want them trying to write like Shakespeare if they really write like Eggers.

Palmas

2009-05-14T22:07:00.000-07:00

[NOTE: This is just a first draft, but I like this piece so far.]

I would have sat at home thinking of how to rephrase things. I would have cleaned the apartment or swept the front stoop or made some vegetarian pasta. Johnny had taken a part-time job at the Children's Museum and it was the first Saturday I'd been without him in months. I'd recently taken to confessing my love for him and he always talked me out of it, shrugging it off with cheap vodka and drawn out chess games.

Augusto's daughter dragged me out that day. Augusto had made his signature sangria and taken to the guitar. The back yard was full of new and old friends, each proud for knowing the charismatic guitarist and singer. His daughters were no less proud, laughing and performing their palmas loudly so as to correct the aimless clapping of rhythmless gringos.

The sunlight on that Saturday afternoon increased as the wood platform was assembled on the lawn. The dancers were Augusto's new wife and a couple of other women that she had resisted and eventually deigned to share the stage with. Though I had seen this all before, it was the first time that I'd ever seen a male flamenco dancer take to the stage. Earlier I had thought he was just some eccentric cousin or another wannabe trying to rub elbows with the ever authentic Augusto. His black pants were tight on his skin and his brightly colored shirt was blousey. If it were any other circumstance I might have laughed at his silly bravado complete with turned out mustache.

Rather than shirk, it was in this moment that I realized what I was missing. I was overcome with the fire of flamenco. The whole orchestration was inspired. It was often dissonant, but Augusto's enthusiasm brought everything back in line, either through some scintillating change to the melody or a renewed vigor in the rhythm.

And where was the passion in my life, I wondered.

I changed the idea for my letter that evening. I had spent the night agonizing how I failed Johnny, how I should have shut up my feelings for him and gone on like a true friend and not a betrayer. But I wanted to betray. I wanted to expose my heart on my sleeve and have him laugh or become angry. Anything. I would have taken anything, but this backyard flamenco changed me and I was no longer mad with love. Resolve had found me unaware, but I felt it and would heed it. I would be strong and love would follow me if it dared. I couldn't do the palmas to save my life, but I got the gist-- we are all in search of great passion, not because we want it but because we need it.

The note that I passed on wasn't one of angst and unrequited love, but of fearlessness and this is what I said.

"While it pains me to leave you, I must. I feel my life's flame growing dim with each passing day. We are living lies upon lies and I can no longer bear it. Do not seek me out, do not speak of some incomparable love or of time spent. I am gone from you and I take my fire with me."

I packed up in the night and he would not be heard from again. The young can love only so long as they keep their hearts open-- and I was learning to avoid the perils of unmatched affection.

I left nothing behind me except a dark inevitability. I set a pace, my own rhythm, as I went forth and discovered the morning again, listened to tales of forlorn and wanting, forged on through the gestures of ambition in city life, and settled finally one year into my right self. My purposeful and intent self. I didn't need a guidebook or a special program, just years of wading through the muck which there was a great deal of.

Dining at Maria’s

2009-05-09T20:41:00.000-07:00

He didn’t read the menu, just opened up to the page where the enchilada plate was and read the description. He loves this dish, loves it with green and red chile, loves the rice and beans, and loves to read these ingredients like a poem.

His reading is foreplay and that he does as much in front of me, I can only interpret as pre-coital. This evening we discuss drinking and a paper he’s working on concerning heart function. Perhaps he doesn’t remember that he told me about his own weak heart last summer. It was a broiling night and we were drunkenly passing by an apple tree. He wrapped his fist around its slim trunk as he spoke. I found I loved him in that moment.

I point out the coincidence between his actual heart condition and his scholarly passion for the heart and its movements- its function as the gross engine of human life. He sips at a hazy margarita and laughs gently almost haughtily. “Nothing escapes your study,” he says. I warm to the compliment, but I don’t dare touch his hand in case I have misinterpreted. His narrow blue eyes assure me that he has shown me his heart albeit through a veil. He has presented to me his appetite- his knowing appetite, his taste for anticipation.

Am I one of the ingredients in the description for the house enchilada plate? This is no hyperbole- I am no Romeo and he is no Juliet. But night has fallen and life is a dream. We are laughing in the dream because everything unintentional is ironic. More, I want more, I want to see the ugly side, but I don’t have the heart to turn such a wonderful exchange into a freak show. Afterwards, during the drive, in these moments of fullness he says, “Everyone was looking at us; they thought we were crazy.”

Oh, I think to myself, what should I say to that? Normally it would be: “If you know you’re crazy, then you’re enlightened.” But the car is cold and I’m full. I don’t talk about enlightenment in moments like these. This is a post-coital moment. I just want to get to the next place, a lull.

We go to lecture and listen about the Book of Matthew and about functionalism and essentialism. I am nervous to touch him, even with knees. This peace is good. We are the audience now, watching a man celebrate his joy, wondering if everyone thinks him crazy.

Writing, ergh...

2009-01-05T08:08:00.000-08:00

Oh, damn. It's been a month since Nanowrimo ended and I haven't written so much as a scrap. All that time spent noveling and I was begging for a break so that I could fill my creative well. And here I am, empty! Empty-minded and empty-handed.

Ah, but the Muse must have her way and I'm beginning again to feel a distaste for reality, therefore I must open myself to other channels, must write and share to feel human.

So I'm calling all the writers back into session: if anybody wants to start up again with regular Tuesday or Wednesday meetings at Crepes on Cole, let me know. It'll be the same old yak-yak with some writing thrown in. I'll add you to my email list.

Note to self

2008-12-07T16:51:00.000-08:00

Open dialogue about religion speaking for civil rights instead of against.
Take a sober look at family values.
Always return to the precepts of freedom. This is the bedrock of hope and striving.
Relax. Enoy living.

Dear Charles

2008-12-07T01:24:00.000-08:00

I'm sorry to tell you that our time is drawing to a close. You will always be my favorite bartender at Badlands. You always poured my mandarin sodas and pinched my nipple on cue. You are always handsome, smiling even when you don't mean to. Your presence always alludes to something meaningful and I always follow suit by trying to perceive through whatever sense. What will New Zealand give me? I can only hope to find another muse half as worthy as you. You are my Castro with your boyish good looks and your endearing charm. I would take you with me if I could.

Nano Complete!

2008-11-29T08:36:00.000-08:00

It's true! I've completed the nano novel and I can finally relax. "Child of the Apocalypse" has had it's first incarnation. It's chock full of flying squid and crazies with supernatural abilities and holograms with a desire to be loved. Thanks to coffee and sausage breakfast sandwiches for making this possible and to my husband for staying out of my way when I need silence and for getting in my way when I need distraction.

Can you read it? Yes, of course. Keep in mind that this is an unedited first draft.

If you've never read someone else's Shitty First Draft and you don't know how you're supposed to react, let me school you for just a moment. It's like congratulating someone for having a baby, even if it's an ugly baby and you don't like the person very much. You say "Wow! That's great. Congratulations! What was the word count? What kind of foods did you crave during the gestation?"

So here are the links to Part 1 and Part 2.

**And if you have been curious about doing nanowrimo at all, I strongly encourage you to do it. The camaraderie had by sharing the process of writing a novel with people all over the planet is only possible one month out of the year. It's maddening, yes, but I've never been more proud of receiving a winner's certificate.

**Word count complete. Approximately 50, 400 words!!!

the typing monkey

2008-11-26T08:00:00.000-08:00

I don't think that I have much to blog about today, so I'm just posting the most boring video I've ever made, a video of me typing. For a whopping two point five minutes.

I figure that maybe someone might want to pretend that they have a writing buddy for fifteen minutes. Or perhaps you'd like to see how exactly one accomplishes an SFD/50K manuscript in 30 days. Well, folks, it's just hours and hours of seat-of-your-pants typing, as is aptly demonstrated by this very exciting video.

And for all of you nano's out there: please join me for the Friday mini-challenge. This is all out word-warring at it's best ya'll.

A quick note about my novel: the sides have become more pronounced. Rien and Lilith have teamed up to try to get everyone to upload into the supercomputer. Derrin and Danny have teamed up to form a humanist movement. An old word surfaces that hasn't been heard for a couple generations: Peace.

43, 175 words and counting

Suffering and The Novel (Week Three of Nanowrimo)

2008-11-22T10:26:00.000-08:00

Just a few notes as I enter into the dreamspace of the novel:

I reacted to the pressure from other writers to cause my characters suffering. It’s a habit of mine to think that suffering means death, as in: the plot’s gone on long enough so kill your characters now. Where on earth did I get that from? Everything so far has been incredibly plot-driven. I’m going to try to be a benevolent creator and only destroy the ones that must inevitably die to complete this story.

The reason that the powers that be want us to discover and communicate suffering now has to do with finishing the novel. We have to reach the point in the novel where all hope shall soon be lost and we simply can’t do that if everyone’s in the same place at the end as they were in the beginning. Loss, illness, complication, consequences… all these things need to start happening now. But the writer has the responsibility to make sure that such trials are not perfunctory and are furthermore meaningful.

In order to accomplish meaning at this stage of writing the novel, the genuine feelings of the writer are suddenly very important. Those feelings are a needed resource. I’m realizing today as I enter into the novel that I need to find my own feelings about living, dying, suffering, and striving in order to have empathy for my characters and to express them in a sincere way.

So here I go, I’m shooting for five thousand words today. Let’s pray it won’t be a bloodbath.

36,133 words and counting!

Fat and Survival

2008-11-19T06:08:00.000-08:00

First of all, I’m getting fat. The demon spawn of café culture has gone straight to my arse. I have become more and more lethargic on my 5 am walk to S*bucks for one reason and one reason alone: the friggin’ BREAKFAST SANDWICH.

I cannot resist these things at 5 am in the morning. My eat healthy mantra is strong, but bacon's ancient eat me battlecry overpowers me. I was going to hold off on the exercise until December, but I don’t think I can wait that long.

The novel is coming along, but this morning it occurred to me that I ‘m not sure who is going to live. I’m not favoring the initial hero and I would really like it if I could save the gay couple. We’re trult in a testing ground now. I’ve explored all the characters that I think are interesting, set out the terrain and scope of their universe, assigned them all goals and desires, set up the overall arc of the plot, and now with less than two weeks to go, I’m realizing that the story has to end and it’s too soon.

To forge onward, I’ll have to put all my characters to the test. It’s time for a twist, my friends. Some will survive and others will fall to the wayside. It will take at least fifteen more breakfast sandwiches. Bacon, you may be the only winner this month.

stock character from recycled spam

2008-11-16T07:11:00.000-08:00

So your main character walks into a bar and is looking for the suspect in a homicide. The bartender does not know anything, but he thinks your main character should chat with the girl at the end of the bar.

You're all set to have the main character walk over there with picture and notebook in hand and begin his detective work, but who is the person at the end of the bar?

This is a fine opportunity to raid your spambox for character prompts. From the example above:

Jane York, age 23, works for a internet company, and thinks your main character is sexy. That's plenty to go on for a stock character. Consider why Jane York is there: don't get too deep unless you want to really make them a character in the story.

Some sample motivations for Jane York, 23:

She's on vacation. Her husband is upstairs in the hotel room, passed out.
She's on a business trip, attending a job fair tomorrow.
She's a spy on the job, but nothing involving your main character.
She's casing the bar for a future heist.
This is her "Cheers" bar and she's on her way to getting completely sauced.

____

I haven't worked on my nano novel yet today. Time to get the coffee going and jump in!

_

Fight the H8 Protest

2008-11-15T08:22:00.000-08:00

Some recent Fight the H8 graphics seem a bit vigilant for my tastes. Does it really represent this movement? I'm not sure. We've gone from the happy rainbow to the red and the black. But Kenny and I are going to the protest anyway.

I've never thought that protesting in San Francisco was anything more than a fun way to get out and see your neighbors. That's how the culture is here. When we protest, it is amongst ourselves, and we frequently feel that we are "preaching to the choir." This morning, however, some of us are getting up way too early on a Saturday morning to do yet another demonstration against the lawmaking that prohibits same-sex couples from the right to marry and to adopt children. Normally, I would say that this is just like any other politically charged happy-faced rally and would consider not going, but it really seems to me that this is a nationwide effort. It matters more to me that we are making a statement that we are everywhere, not just San Francisco and not just California. My hope is that a nationwide demonstration will lend the feeling of "hey, we're all in the same boat" that we feel in San Francisco. So even if you don't know what the heck is going on and even if you disagree about the effectiveness of boycotting and protests, find out if there's a protest near you and show your face.

Get out of the house, see who your neighbors are and have fun.

.

i geeked out today

2008-11-14T17:15:00.001-08:00

I thought I wasn't going to write a single word today, thought I would just sit on my keester watching tv, scrolling through the guide to see if perhaps there might be a plot in tv land that I could steal. I thought I would spend the entire day doing "research."

Instead, I found myself clicking through the Nanowrimo site and rediscovered their chatroom. I noticed that people there were putting in little lines like "!count 557." The geek in me decided that this was worth investigating so I read through some of the online manuals and it turns out that there's a little robot named BattleJesus that keeps track when you participate in these events called word wars. And now I'm completely addicted. It's like a videogame for writers and at the end of the videogame, one just might have a book. The really awesome part about BattleJesus is that you can work with it privately to keep track of your time and you can ask it for a random prompt if you're stumped. Needless to say, I love it!

And that's not all. I also downloaded Chatzilla because the Nano website only gives you a small window to chat in.

Also, to make it so that I didn't have to keep pulling up a new screen to check all my stats, I used the dual monitor function on my computer. If that's not geeking out, I don't know what is.

Today in my novel:

Lilith's rapid development pushes her into a seven day fugue state.
Danny and Sal find love, quit their jobs, and head for the desert.

26,643 words and counting!

windows

2008-11-12T18:01:00.000-08:00

People have been asking me recently: what the heck are these writing prompts that you keep posting, what am I supposed to do?

My response is very simple: look, you're a writer, and this is a chance for you to come at it from another angle. A prompt is a kiss on the cheek from the muse, a flirtation.

Oh, I hear the debate coming about who is and who isn't a writer. I've heard it a million times. It's well-reasoned avoidance and I have no tolerance for it. You're a writer, simple as that. If you're on the net and you're reading, you're a writer. If you're a nail biter or hand wringer or banker or domestic engineer, you're a writer. You write emails, you write on your Facebook, you comment on news articles, you write restaurant and book reviews, you write grocery lists, you write goal setting lists, you write down your dreams when you wake up in the morning, you hear insightful dialogues in your head when you shower, you write letters of resignation to your boss and you scrap them, you write instructions for the pet sitter when you leave for two weeks and you're worried the fern will die without the comfort of your misting schedule, you write down recipes and put them in a drawer and never look at them again. You can't deny it any longer. You are a writer.

And now... the prompt...

Here's a picture of a downtown hotel taken from a bus stop shelter.
The photo was taken at about 6 pm on a Wednesday evening.
Relax for a moment and just clear your mind.
If you think about anything, think about empty spaces. Look again at the picture.
Make a list of things that are left out, things that are unseen yet perhaps suggested.
Be as specific as you can.

Some generic examples/cues:
ghost, vehicle, animal, sound, temperature, action, person, group, event, object, shape

I've got a list, now what:
Select a couple of items from the list that stand out to you. If you don't have some other project that you'd like to use those items in, use them to post a comment on this blog.

Novel spot

2008-11-12T16:35:00.000-08:00

Advance the plot!

Carlo V. Santiago
Sent via BlackBerry by AT&T

there's a plot around here somwhere

2008-11-12T16:15:00.000-08:00

Met with Rechtshaffen and talked at length about equanimity and ego, architecture and interior spaces, the state of the union and hope.

Also ran into withanticipation and talked about writing through the doldrums and compared the pacings of literary fiction and genre writing.

I'm writing this on my phone on the Geary Street bus. I barely have room to write, and as I squeeze myself into a small space for the comfort of others, there's a woman rubbing lotion into her hair. She announces that it's so good for her hair, but I think her hair looks rather oily and she needs to wash it. Everyone on the bus is tired of her because she's been trying to give away a children's book that she found on the ground. She's been asking if anyone knows any five year olds to give the book, too. She's appalled that everyone is ignoring her. She's screaming, "It's called a sense of humor folks. You should try and get one!"

I've had too much caffeine today and I was walking around for at least twenty minutes without noticing that my fly was down.

I've arrived at Westfield Center and will sit in the lounge upstairs to write. The lounge sits beneath a domed glass ceiling. It's one of the few open spaces in the city where you can sit completely in the open and feel isolated. This next bit of writing will require that feeling.

My mantra for the next hour: advance the plot.

all hands on deck

2008-11-11T17:27:00.000-08:00

I'm on my way to meet rachel dara for a writing session, but I just wanted to say that I finally feel like I'm into Week 2 now and it's true what they say, that if you just keep writing a plot comes out. So my plot revealed that it's about a young hero saving the planet from technologically advanced extraterrestrials. Cliche, but what a relief! Now I know more or less why my characters are all bumbling around trying to get a handle on things.

I was writing too much about Kenny this morning. That's what happens when your boyfriend is always sitting across the table from you when you write. So I decided to exile myself from him long enough to get my wordcount in. I've been living on the deck with a potted plant and ipod all day. All I can say is that isolation works.

I don't look that great sitting out on the porch, got some funny looks from neighbors, but who cares-- the wordcount is smokin'...

18, 363 words and counting!