This is the fun part of being a writer. Sitting at your desk, or in my case, sitting up in the bed, dog in my lap, my son asleep, weary and sore from too many hours at the day job, half asleep, but still compelled to WRITE. Fernando Pessoa wrote in The Book of Disquiet - “I have to write, as if I were carrying out a punishment. And the greatest punishment is to know that whatever I write will be futile; flawed and uncertain.” Love Pessoa!
It's funny when someone reads your novel-in-progress and offers this as a review/critique – “It's much better than the junk I normally read.” Okay, that was helpful. No, really, I want that on the back cover. It was enough to have hope that I will indeed find a publisher for my novel, but not enough that I think I'm the next Hemingway or Pessoa. However, she did ask an interesting question. Who would I want to star in a film adaptation of my novel?
First, the novel was intended to be a screenplay. I'm glad I wrote it as a novel. Now I have all of the elements to adapt it to a screenplay should the opportunity present itself. I've been studying
screenplays in my free time. Ha, free time, what's that again?
I digress. I told my friend that there was only one character that I wrote with an actor already in mind, Viggo Mortensen. I'm a huge fan. I love his acting and his writing. Of course, he would have to be Aleksandr, the quiet, blue-eyed Russian POW. But what of the other Russians in the book? The dastardly Vladimir and the cunning Yuri? Definitely Alan Rickman for Vladimir. I don't really care he's about 25 years older than the character. Only Alan could ooze the type of menace on the screen. Maybe not the only one, but this is my cast of characters, my blog, and I will do what I want.
Yuri. . . hmmmm. . . I thought perhaps Ben Affleck. I don't do a lot of physical descriptions. The most you know about Vladimir is that he has a dark beard and “the slanted eyes of the southern Russians, lupine and feral.” Also, he is a rather large person as only one of the Resistance fighters, Leon, is bigger than he is. He also snores, and he's bad in bed, but, hey, what does that have to do with anything? I would imagine given his size that his brother Yuri is probably also tall but not as tall as his brother. I also thought about Kris Holden-Ried for the part of Yuri. Then I decided he may make a very good Paul instead. Then I thought about Liev Schreiber for the part of Leon. Tall guys, lots of tall guys.
Here's the trouble in paradise. Alan Rickman is the shortest at 6'1. Ben is 6'2 ½, Liev is 6'3 and Kris 6'3 ¼, if Google is correct. Liev though, he fits the descriptions of Leon the best, something like a linebacker, but in literary form. Ah, who cares? That's what movie magic is for, right? Alan as Vladimir, Liev as Leon, Ben as Yuri and Kris as Paul. What a lineup! I would definitely go see that in the theaters. Too bad you all have no idea what I'm talking about because you haven't
met the characters. Trust me.
I wish I had a part for Elle Fanning. She was AMAZING in “Super 8.” Alas, she is too old to play Greta and too young for Elena. Damn.
So, what about Elena? No one really comes to mind. I am considering Rachel Weisz though for the part of Janina. I don't have any ideas about whom could play Anna either.
See how much easier it was for me to pick the male parts? I'm a terrible casting director! Or, maybe the problem is I just like men more. I also noticed that the men in my book all have facial hair at some point, and at least one of them has hair on his chest. I know this may make some women say, “Ew,” but I for one think men should be hairy is they wish instead of shaving all the hair off their bodies to fit fashion/society guidelines. Let men look like men!
After some contemplation, a six hour nap, and a dream that reminded me of a Tim Burton film, I would choose the Kates, Kate Winslet and Kate Beckinsale, as the leads for Elena and Anna respectively.
I decided to post a series of scenes that I think show a lot about Paul's personality. Paul is an ethnic German involved in the Polish Resistance and the black market. Here, he's going undercover to gather information and make contacts. During this part of the novel, he's dating Anna. . . supposedly.
****
Paul cranes his neck, sliding the tie into the edges of the collar. His hair is slicked back, save one
errant curl that twists on his forehead. He smoothes it back again, then puts the suit coat on. He rubs his freshly shaven jaw, the too small Italian leather shoes pinching his feet.
Sasha hides his smile in the crook of his elbow as the elderly tailor says,
“You look splendid, sir!”
He turns as the men snicker and cat-call.
“Hey, playboy!”
“No, you mean, pretty boy!”
Paul smirks, “Laugh now, mutts, but while you're scratching fleas, I'll be eating caviar and drinking champagne with beautiful women.”
“Nice touch,” says Paul's contact, Gregorz. Paul twists the swastika pinky ring with his thumb.
“My sister made it.”
“Very nice. Relax, mingle, keep your eyes open, your mouth shut, eat more than you drink, and try not to take the wrong woman back to your room,” Gregorz says, holding the car door open for him.
“How do I know which one is the wrong one?”
“All of them.”
Paul throws back another shot of whiskey and waves away a waiter bearing canapes. A string quartet plays waltzes and German folk songs, smoke hangs near the ceiling, the staleness mixing with perfume, laughter, and voices, so many voices. Paul sees her from the corner of his eye. He startles, thinking at first it is Janina, glossy dark curls and breasts, but it isn't. She sees his expression and takes it as an invitation.
“Amal,” Elke drapes herself over the man's shoulder then kisses him, sloppy and wet, on his cheek, “Darling, you must meet my new friend, Paul. . . umm.”
“Kohlmuller,” Paul says, extending his hand.
“Colonel Amal Klein,” Elke slurs, hanging on his arm, “Paul runs the armament factory in
Niebieski.”
Klein's eyebrows raise as he shakes Paul's hand.
“Ach, the Resistance is such a pest in those parts. Have you lost many shipments?”
“A few,” Paul says, “I find it helps to think about what I would do in their position. It pays to
stay one step ahead of them.”
Klein grunts as he peels Elke's hand from his arm.
“A pleasure, Herr Kohlmuller.”
Elke holds up her arm, “Paul's sister is a jeweler. I'm wearing one of her bracelets. Konrad got it
for me. Isn't that a coincidence, Amal?”
Lowering her arm for her, Klein nods his head.
“Have a good evening.”
Elke is piss drunk. Paul fucks her, hard, until she passes out. He withdraws and masturbates, ejaculating onto the bed clothes. Not bothering to cover her, he dresses, and carrying his shoes, goes to his own room.
In the morning, a messenger brings a note from Colonel Klein.
****
That's it for today, my little beasties. I start my weekend today. Woohoo! Only ten more days until grad school residency! But before then. . . Valentine's Day at the restaurant. Not only Valentine's Day day, but also a special Valentine's Day brunch on Sunday. One day of
Valentine's Day chaos just isn't enough for us. Tune in next time to find out how much I hate adverbs. Have a great week everyone!
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Thursday, January 19, 2012
It's All About The Writing - And The Music
I write to music. I always have. My novel has a soundtrack. Since the first day I sat down and stared at the blank page, remembering all of the writing advice I'd heard and read, "Start with action," "Start at a life changing moment," "Skip the throat clearing," Alice has been with me. Alice in Chains, that is. Yes, for those who know me, they know, I'm a diehard Alice fan.
Seventy percent of the novel was composed while listening to "Black Gives Way to Blue" and "Facelift" exclusively. I couldn't write to anything else. I have "Dirt," "Jar of Flies," "Sap," "Alice in Chains," "Unplugged," "Live," but the moment my iTunes switched to one of them, I was immediately distracted. I'm an equal opportunity Alice player, so to find myself favoring one CD over another for this particular task was intriguing.
But, who am I to question process? IT WORKED!
Then, I saw "Super 8." One of my favorite songs growing up was ELO's "Don't Bring Me Down," which, if you've seen "Super 8," you know it was featured in the movie. Yes, that was me dancing in my seat. Perhaps it was that, perhaps it was where I was in my novel, perhaps it was that every time I clicked on "We Die Young," the first song on "Facelift," iTunes would send a message that said, "SERIOUSLY! AGAIN?" No, "Again" is on the eponymous CD...
I guess you have to be an Alice fan to get the joke.
Sensing I was close to thinking I was done with the novel, I decided to make up my own playlist of influential and inspirational songs to get me through the Warsaw Uprising. Songs like, "Bad Boys Running Wild" by The Scorpions, "Wherever I May Roam" by Metallica, "Burn It To The Ground" by Nickelback, and more Alice. A lot of the songs meant something to me, some were just a play on words, like "Dynamite" by The Scorpions. I listened to that while I wrote about blowing up a train depot, along with "Rock You Like a Hurricane," "Blackout," and "Energy" by Shinedown.
Hey, I have FUN while I write, and then I break my own heart and cry. Anyway...
Of course, there was this eclectic mix of music that had nothing to do with anything. It was just a groove I liked. The playlist was almost four hours long, and I tried to write all the way through the playlist. Sometimes I replayed a song or set of songs if I felt the need.
One of my first readers commented that my novel is "dark." Maybe that's why Alice's music resonated as the "soundtrack." Today, as I drove home from work, I played "Your Decision," "Black Gives Way to Blue," and "Down in a Hole." Listening to the lyrics, I could picture different scenes from my novel, all of them painful.
When people ask if the novel is autobiographical, first novels are supposedly autobiographical, I say, "It's a WWII drama about the Polish Resistance," and they think it isn't autobiographical. They think because of the time period, the setting, that it doesn't have any of me in it. It is all me. I wrote it from a place of pain. I dipped from the same well that Alice pulled their songs from, The Universal Shithole of Darkness. It is the obscene and unwilling experiences of darkness that caused my characters to say, "You understand. You will write our story, but it will also be your story. Your story is what lies beneath."
That isn't to say that every single scene in the novel represents a literal real life experience. It's not the literal... and that's the cool thing about being a writer. When you surrender to it, when you stop telling your characters what to do, and start listening to them, you find yourself in places you have not yet begun to imagine. (Tip: Your characters tell you what to do in the first draft. You tell them what to do in the second, and third, etc. "No, no! Get over here! There's a giant hole you need to fill!") I love this process. I love revising and editing more than I ever thought I would. I love seeing things in my writing I wasn't even aware of as I wrote it.
I LOVE WRITING! And, I love making my own soundtracks. The one today reminds me of the fan fiction I used to write... I'm Hungry Like the Wolf! Haha!
Seventy percent of the novel was composed while listening to "Black Gives Way to Blue" and "Facelift" exclusively. I couldn't write to anything else. I have "Dirt," "Jar of Flies," "Sap," "Alice in Chains," "Unplugged," "Live," but the moment my iTunes switched to one of them, I was immediately distracted. I'm an equal opportunity Alice player, so to find myself favoring one CD over another for this particular task was intriguing.
But, who am I to question process? IT WORKED!
Then, I saw "Super 8." One of my favorite songs growing up was ELO's "Don't Bring Me Down," which, if you've seen "Super 8," you know it was featured in the movie. Yes, that was me dancing in my seat. Perhaps it was that, perhaps it was where I was in my novel, perhaps it was that every time I clicked on "We Die Young," the first song on "Facelift," iTunes would send a message that said, "SERIOUSLY! AGAIN?" No, "Again" is on the eponymous CD...
I guess you have to be an Alice fan to get the joke.
Sensing I was close to thinking I was done with the novel, I decided to make up my own playlist of influential and inspirational songs to get me through the Warsaw Uprising. Songs like, "Bad Boys Running Wild" by The Scorpions, "Wherever I May Roam" by Metallica, "Burn It To The Ground" by Nickelback, and more Alice. A lot of the songs meant something to me, some were just a play on words, like "Dynamite" by The Scorpions. I listened to that while I wrote about blowing up a train depot, along with "Rock You Like a Hurricane," "Blackout," and "Energy" by Shinedown.
Hey, I have FUN while I write, and then I break my own heart and cry. Anyway...
Of course, there was this eclectic mix of music that had nothing to do with anything. It was just a groove I liked. The playlist was almost four hours long, and I tried to write all the way through the playlist. Sometimes I replayed a song or set of songs if I felt the need.
One of my first readers commented that my novel is "dark." Maybe that's why Alice's music resonated as the "soundtrack." Today, as I drove home from work, I played "Your Decision," "Black Gives Way to Blue," and "Down in a Hole." Listening to the lyrics, I could picture different scenes from my novel, all of them painful.
When people ask if the novel is autobiographical, first novels are supposedly autobiographical, I say, "It's a WWII drama about the Polish Resistance," and they think it isn't autobiographical. They think because of the time period, the setting, that it doesn't have any of me in it. It is all me. I wrote it from a place of pain. I dipped from the same well that Alice pulled their songs from, The Universal Shithole of Darkness. It is the obscene and unwilling experiences of darkness that caused my characters to say, "You understand. You will write our story, but it will also be your story. Your story is what lies beneath."
That isn't to say that every single scene in the novel represents a literal real life experience. It's not the literal... and that's the cool thing about being a writer. When you surrender to it, when you stop telling your characters what to do, and start listening to them, you find yourself in places you have not yet begun to imagine. (Tip: Your characters tell you what to do in the first draft. You tell them what to do in the second, and third, etc. "No, no! Get over here! There's a giant hole you need to fill!") I love this process. I love revising and editing more than I ever thought I would. I love seeing things in my writing I wasn't even aware of as I wrote it.
I LOVE WRITING! And, I love making my own soundtracks. The one today reminds me of the fan fiction I used to write... I'm Hungry Like the Wolf! Haha!
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Why I Talk About Writing, Now
I used to be one of those writers who never talked about writing. Writing, as any writer knows, is a solitary pursuit. There isn't anyone there but you and your characters, and it's your responsibility to channel their thoughts and actions onto the page, to give them depth, to create conflict, to decide their fate. Okay, maybe you have a dog or a cat or both who join in this endeavor with you. But really, how useful are they when you're trying to figure out a character's motivation? The truth is, no one can help you with that.
I started writing poetry when I was 12. The poems were horrible and weak, what you might expect from a 12 year old. I'm still not a great poet. I honed my writing skills by writing what they now call "fan fiction." I had a couple of friends who, along with myself, were Duran Duran fans. I would write us into stories with them, complete with romantic entanglements and children. *Blush* I always had an audience. But, I also always had someone saying, "Why does she get Nick? I want Nick." Rewrite. I suppose that was good practice for revising later, but for the wrong reason.
I wrote my first short story in 7th grade. It was named after a little known B-side Duran Duran song called "Secret Oktober." It was a fantasy piece wherein a photographer accidentally crosses over to another world via a wormhole near Stonehenge. He meets a beautiful woman who helps him to the magical waterfall that will transport him back to his world, all the while pursued by an evil sorceress. I always loved that story, probably because it was my first. I decorated the cover with symbols from the "Seven and the Ragged Tiger" album, vinyl album (that thing they used to put music on, went around on a turntable under a needle, Google it).
I loved that story for another reason. My teacher that year had fallen ill and had to have surgery. Our substitute, whose name I can't remember, sadly, told me, "This is really very good." It was the first time anyone told me they liked what I'd written, other than my constantly warring friends over who was hotter, Nick, Simon, or John. (It was John, I mean Simon) Yet, I started becoming a little more protective over my writing.
I wrote for the school newspaper, the yearbook, and I won an award for copywriting from the yearbook publisher that netted me an all expense paid trip to New York City and seminars at Columbia University. I read voraciously ("The Outsiders" by S.E. Hinton, 53 times - not kidding), Judy Blume, Laura Ingalls Wilder, the Sweet Valley High series, Nancy Drew, Hardy Boys, Danielle Steele, Stephen King, Dean Koontz, Alexander Lloyd, and one and on and on, and I listened to music, dissected lyrics, I journaled, I made up two hour videos for songs that were four minutes in length (back story, back story!), and I wrote a lot of letters. Pages and pages and pages of letters.
Writing letters is different than sharing your creative work. For years I wrote in silence. I sent my work out, and it was rejected. I did once receive a nice personal note from a publisher in FL who said that the subject matter was "too serious," for what they were looking for, but please, submit again. I once submitted a novella to the Faulkner Wisdom competition that was so terrible, not the story, just the way it was written, that I waited quite a while before submitting again (about 8 years) just so I was sure they had forgotten my name. It was a fantasy novella called "Higher House" that also included a waterfall and a bad wizard.... hmmmm... anyway, this time I made the semi-finals.
I figured out "Higher House" was written so poorly by reading Stephen King's "On Writing." Once isn't enough to read that book.
So, this is what my writing life was like. No one read my work. I didn't talk about my work with other writers, I talked about it with non-writers. Which is a nice way of saying, my friends put up with me talking about writing. Then I blogged, and I posted a lot of posts, and a few mediocre poems, and on occasion, around NaNoWriMo I'd post a few chapters of an unfinished work, and that was all.
Then through the course of several life changing events that happened to crop up around the same time, and by and by, I decided to get my Masters in Creative Writing at Goddard College. Now, I can't shut up about writing. I post to Facebook, I tweet, I yak to my guests at work, I yak to my friends, writers or not, I yak to my coworkers, and my son. I yak all the time about writing, and I write about writing because I LOVE WRITING! Sometimes I'm specific. Sometimes I'm not. I'll tell you all about my book if you want. I'll tell you about the problems I'm encountering and how I intend on fixing them. I'll tell you about the books I've read - The Book of Disquiet by Fernando Pessoa, read it! I'll tell you about the stack of books I'm waiting to read and the books I want that I haven't gotten, because I LOVE BOOKS AND I LOVE WRITING!
So, why shouldn't I talk about it? Am I going to tell you about the new book I'm writing? Probably not because it's still percolating. The screenplays I'm working on? Maybe, they're a little more developed. The problems with my short story that I can't seem to figure out? Uhhhh...
Being in the Goddard environment, among my tribe, has unleashed a beast. It's my love and my passion. I may not be specific, but I will talk about writing, until I can't talk anymore.
I started writing poetry when I was 12. The poems were horrible and weak, what you might expect from a 12 year old. I'm still not a great poet. I honed my writing skills by writing what they now call "fan fiction." I had a couple of friends who, along with myself, were Duran Duran fans. I would write us into stories with them, complete with romantic entanglements and children. *Blush* I always had an audience. But, I also always had someone saying, "Why does she get Nick? I want Nick." Rewrite. I suppose that was good practice for revising later, but for the wrong reason.
I wrote my first short story in 7th grade. It was named after a little known B-side Duran Duran song called "Secret Oktober." It was a fantasy piece wherein a photographer accidentally crosses over to another world via a wormhole near Stonehenge. He meets a beautiful woman who helps him to the magical waterfall that will transport him back to his world, all the while pursued by an evil sorceress. I always loved that story, probably because it was my first. I decorated the cover with symbols from the "Seven and the Ragged Tiger" album, vinyl album (that thing they used to put music on, went around on a turntable under a needle, Google it).
I loved that story for another reason. My teacher that year had fallen ill and had to have surgery. Our substitute, whose name I can't remember, sadly, told me, "This is really very good." It was the first time anyone told me they liked what I'd written, other than my constantly warring friends over who was hotter, Nick, Simon, or John. (It was John, I mean Simon) Yet, I started becoming a little more protective over my writing.
I wrote for the school newspaper, the yearbook, and I won an award for copywriting from the yearbook publisher that netted me an all expense paid trip to New York City and seminars at Columbia University. I read voraciously ("The Outsiders" by S.E. Hinton, 53 times - not kidding), Judy Blume, Laura Ingalls Wilder, the Sweet Valley High series, Nancy Drew, Hardy Boys, Danielle Steele, Stephen King, Dean Koontz, Alexander Lloyd, and one and on and on, and I listened to music, dissected lyrics, I journaled, I made up two hour videos for songs that were four minutes in length (back story, back story!), and I wrote a lot of letters. Pages and pages and pages of letters.
Writing letters is different than sharing your creative work. For years I wrote in silence. I sent my work out, and it was rejected. I did once receive a nice personal note from a publisher in FL who said that the subject matter was "too serious," for what they were looking for, but please, submit again. I once submitted a novella to the Faulkner Wisdom competition that was so terrible, not the story, just the way it was written, that I waited quite a while before submitting again (about 8 years) just so I was sure they had forgotten my name. It was a fantasy novella called "Higher House" that also included a waterfall and a bad wizard.... hmmmm... anyway, this time I made the semi-finals.
I figured out "Higher House" was written so poorly by reading Stephen King's "On Writing." Once isn't enough to read that book.
So, this is what my writing life was like. No one read my work. I didn't talk about my work with other writers, I talked about it with non-writers. Which is a nice way of saying, my friends put up with me talking about writing. Then I blogged, and I posted a lot of posts, and a few mediocre poems, and on occasion, around NaNoWriMo I'd post a few chapters of an unfinished work, and that was all.
Then through the course of several life changing events that happened to crop up around the same time, and by and by, I decided to get my Masters in Creative Writing at Goddard College. Now, I can't shut up about writing. I post to Facebook, I tweet, I yak to my guests at work, I yak to my friends, writers or not, I yak to my coworkers, and my son. I yak all the time about writing, and I write about writing because I LOVE WRITING! Sometimes I'm specific. Sometimes I'm not. I'll tell you all about my book if you want. I'll tell you about the problems I'm encountering and how I intend on fixing them. I'll tell you about the books I've read - The Book of Disquiet by Fernando Pessoa, read it! I'll tell you about the stack of books I'm waiting to read and the books I want that I haven't gotten, because I LOVE BOOKS AND I LOVE WRITING!
So, why shouldn't I talk about it? Am I going to tell you about the new book I'm writing? Probably not because it's still percolating. The screenplays I'm working on? Maybe, they're a little more developed. The problems with my short story that I can't seem to figure out? Uhhhh...
Being in the Goddard environment, among my tribe, has unleashed a beast. It's my love and my passion. I may not be specific, but I will talk about writing, until I can't talk anymore.
Monday, January 9, 2012
The Blue Stone
The Blue Stone is set during the tumultuous years of World War II in Niebieski, Poland, a fictional town near Cracow. Volkdeutscherin Elena Kohlmuller and her brother Paul assist Elena's Jewish mentor, Jakob, and his brother Jerzy, in fleeing from the Cracow ghetto, setting the stage for their inevitable forming of a Polish Resistance group.
Jeweler by day, document forger by night, Elena is caught between her allegiance to Poland, faked allegiance to the Reich, Jews, Nazis, and her friends; Anna, a Pole she is sheltering, Janina, a fellow Volkdeutscherin and self-described favor-seeking whore, and Aleksandr, the quiet, blue-eyed Russian POW her brother rescued.
Matters only become more complicated when Elena and Aleksandr discover four children hiding in the Catholic Church. Then Elena runs afoul of the local Nazi leader, Gerhardt Schwarz, who is determined to root out the local resistance organization.
Separation tests them as the men are drawn deeper into the Resistance movement, pulling them into the chaos that is Warsaw only for Jerzy to return, bringing with him the Karmazinov brothers. Clashing in their first moments, Elena learns Vladimir, the eldest, is the quintessential Communist, as determined to bring Poland under Russian rule as Elena is to keep it free.
Following defeat at the Warsaw Uprising, Elena and Janina, stunned and bereaved, come home to shocking revelations. As the Russians advance into Poland, Elena, Janina, and the children attempt to flee into Germany, only to be captured and imprisoned. Allegiances are formed and broken; loyalty and betrayal shift as quickly as the front lines as undercurrents of love and jealousy flow to the daring escape, reunions, and conclusion of The Blue Stone.
Jeweler by day, document forger by night, Elena is caught between her allegiance to Poland, faked allegiance to the Reich, Jews, Nazis, and her friends; Anna, a Pole she is sheltering, Janina, a fellow Volkdeutscherin and self-described favor-seeking whore, and Aleksandr, the quiet, blue-eyed Russian POW her brother rescued.
Matters only become more complicated when Elena and Aleksandr discover four children hiding in the Catholic Church. Then Elena runs afoul of the local Nazi leader, Gerhardt Schwarz, who is determined to root out the local resistance organization.
Separation tests them as the men are drawn deeper into the Resistance movement, pulling them into the chaos that is Warsaw only for Jerzy to return, bringing with him the Karmazinov brothers. Clashing in their first moments, Elena learns Vladimir, the eldest, is the quintessential Communist, as determined to bring Poland under Russian rule as Elena is to keep it free.
Following defeat at the Warsaw Uprising, Elena and Janina, stunned and bereaved, come home to shocking revelations. As the Russians advance into Poland, Elena, Janina, and the children attempt to flee into Germany, only to be captured and imprisoned. Allegiances are formed and broken; loyalty and betrayal shift as quickly as the front lines as undercurrents of love and jealousy flow to the daring escape, reunions, and conclusion of The Blue Stone.
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