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D.R. Ranshaw

D.R. RANSHAW

Dear Twitter

7/27/2020

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Dear Twitter,
 
Haha, you old scalawag! How nice of you to send a little note this past week saying it’s our fifth anniversary! You even offered a special celebratory tweet to that effect, though I declined, since, unlike so many others involved in relationships with you, I’m not particularly inclined to go spilling my life’s mundane/deeply personal/gory (in the metaphorical sense… don’t want to alarm any law enforcement types who might be listening in!) details all over your bright little screen. But your reminder did bring to mind the thought that writing a letter musing about some things that have come to mind over the past five years about us might be apropos at such an august moment. It can take the place of me inquiring, with false solicitousness, how you’re doing… because it’s really very obvious how you’re doing.
 
Five years ago! Wow! Mucho water under the dam, and other hoary clichés. We were so young and foolish then, weren’t we? And the world held such promise, didn’t it? Ah, well… the sands of time, and more hoary clichés. Back then, even as a newly published indie author --- pure as the driven snow and other hoary… well, you know… I was already aware I wanted a relationship with you, my dear. You would be my ticket to fame. (Ah, the innocence of youth.) So I thought of five musings related to that five year anniversary which didn’t quite turn out as I’d thought ‘twould, in my wistful naivete. I’d like to say those five musings are powerful testaments of my undying love and loyalty to you, but alas… it didn’t work out that way, and I’ll be brutally honest. Are you prepared, dearheart? Loins girded and other hoary… well, you know. Right, then, let’s begin.
 
First, my dear, you’re an enormous time waster. There are evidently a lot of writers out there… but they don’t appear to be actually writing, because they’re far too busy posting things --- only a few of which really deal with writing, BTW --- ranging from completely innocuous/banal to stuff that would make a sailor blush (and other hoary…). And curiously --- embarrassingly, really --- many of these self-professed writers are terrible with the actual mechanics of writing, if their tweets are any indication. (Yes, dearheart, I know none of us are perfect… I’ve been known to inadvertently throw out the odd typo now and then, too, but… we can at least strive for perfection in our professed avocation or vocation, can’t we? Instead of laughing it off and saying we’re terrible with spelling or grammar, or besides --- as Mr. K sarcastically noted --- saying that’s what editors are for?)
 
Second, you’re really not a good sales platform. It wasn’t long --- about five minutes into our relationship --- before I figured out most people I follow, and who follow me, are… well, writers. Just like me. Desperately insecure and introverted people, all of whom want our books to become the next Harry Potter. You see the problem, don’t you, Twitter? We’re not particularly interested in buying other people’s books, for heaven’s sake (you should see the size of the TBR pile beside my bed) … no, no, we want other people buying our books. So… you’re a bit of a bust as far as selling the magnum opus goes.
 
Third, you’re generally not really much of a forum for in-depth or deep conversations. Part of that isn’t your fault; even when they doubled tweet lengths from 140 to 280 characters… well, that’s not really enough to do justice to topics of eschatological importance, is it? Although most people don’t seem to want deep conversations, anyway; they display a peculiar preference for sharing either intimate personal details --- the sort that would have made my dear mother blush to hear in public, God rest her soul --- or videos of cats doing strange things. So, if people desire longer conversations, they either have to construct a long thread of hopefully more or less connected tweets --- which can be rather like having to read War and Peace on the sides of multiple cereal boxes --- or go into the hidden realm of DMs. Which you’re not supposed to do unsolicited. (Besides, the DM realm seems mostly populated by variations on “Hi! Thanks for following me! PLEASE buy my book!” Oy.)
 
Fourth, and most seriously, you don’t promote civility --- in fact, quite the reverse. Now, this isn’t totally your fault, dear… but you, and all your relatives in the Social Media Universe, have absolutely exacerbated the problem. (I was going to coin that as an alternative to ‘the DC Universe,’ but ‘the SM Universe’ has some rather unfortunate connotations, don’t you think?) You give the bullies out there a nice electronic screen (literally as well as figuratively) to hide behind and say the most AWFUL things most people wouldn’t have the nerve to say to other people in person. And it’s getting progressively worse. We’re becoming a society of vicious haters, spewing venom over the slightest imagined difference of opinion, or perceived slight. I’m becoming hesitant to voice opinions on your platform, because people can’t merely politely disagree, it seems… they want to slam others to the mat in choke-holds.
 
So, is it over for us? Well… no, all’s not totally bleak, sweetheart. I saved a positive note for last: you can foster a sense of community. Note I’m not saying you automatically do, just that you can. There are a small number of people out there with whom I exchange humourous asides and pithy comments from time to time.
 
But I had an interesting epiphany the other day… took my wife to the hospital for a scheduled test, bringing my trusty Dell Inspiron to do some writing during the couple of hours or so it would take. And because of my (well-justified) paranoia about open wi-fi networks, I put my laptop into airplane mode; then I inserted my earbuds, cranked up my iPod, and having shut out Ye Olde Cruel Worlde (including you), wrote effortlessly for the next couple of hours. It was glorious.
 
And the kicker? Well, Twitter, I confess… I didn’t miss you one bit.
 
#sorry not sorry, as they say.

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You Need To Calm Down

7/6/2020

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Except it’s waay too long, today’s post title could --- probably should --- read: “Who Are These People And Why Are They Saying Such Awful Things About This Work And The People Involved In It?” But as I say, that’s unwieldy, so perhaps I should simply take a page (title) from Taylor Swift and call it, with sincere apologies to Ms. Swift: You Need To Calm Down.
                Her catchy 2019 song deals with homophobia and transphobia, but the title really is applicable to so many things and so many people in our Angry, Angry Society. Before I go any further, I should clarify: I’m not upset about negativity related to my own work… I’m so laughably unfamous (a deliberate spelling, BTW, not infamous, which I’m also not), I’ve never attracted the attention of haters. Not that I especially want to, either, but lamentably, in today’s AAS (Angry, Angry Society, remember?), it seems all too par-for-the-course when people rant/vent/foam-at-the-mouth --- I was originally going to use the words debate or discuss, but that implies a degree of rationality completely lacking in the AAS --- about creative works released across the spectrum.
                My musings arose as a couple of questions occurring to me some time back, but seem really relevant in light of recent events: first, how much does/should a creator pay attention to readers/viewers/fans? And the ancillary question --- which actually is, by far, the more important one --- becomes: who’s the story for?
I think the questions first occurred to me around the time of the Game of Thrones season 8 fiasco. Now, my disclaimer here is I haven’t seen it… yet. I’ve watched season 6, with 7 and 8 sitting on my TBV (to be viewed) Blu-Ray pile beside the TV.
(What? you gasp incredulously. You haven’t seen it yet? Yeah, yeah, relax. You Need To Calm Down, remember? I’ll get around to it at some point. Part of the problem is my wife --- AKA She of Gentle Sensibilities --- refused to watch any more GoT with me after the Red Wedding. Which, frankly, I find more than understandable; but what it means is I have to find a time to watch GoT on my own, when she’s not around. Which I have yet to do. Besides, I’m one of those morally bankrupt people who’ve seen most of the spoilers on YouTube, anyway, which I admit may have removed some of the urgency to see it.)
                I think it’s fair to say the general reaction to GoT’s season 8 was more or less uniformly negative… except that would be like saying the Pacific Ocean holds some water: it encapsulates the idea, you know, but laughably understates it. I saw a lot of vitriol, some barely literate, spewed against the writers, production people, George R.R. Martin --- even the actors involved, for crying out loud, as though they had any creative control over lines they spoke. (If you ever desire further reason to be depressed about the state of humanity, just read the comments sections on YouTube videos. Oh, the humanity.)
                It was the same thing in recent weeks with the release of a PlayStation video game called The Last of Us 2 (a sequel, as the ‘2’ in the title should tip you to). The original, unsurprisingly titled The Last of Us (TLOU), was released in 2014 to overwhelmingly positive reviews. It’s a (what else, these days?) post-apocalyptic tale set in a world where society has more or less collapsed following a particularly gruesome plague, which turns the infected into fungal-sprouting murderous maniacs. TLOU tells the story of a young girl, who turns out to be the only known immune person, and the man who reluctantly accepts the task of taking her across America to the one place where a vaccine may be recovered from her. The tale loses much in shrinking to that bare-bones statement, because it deals superbly with the development of the father-daughter relationship between two characters who initially loathe each other. It was a great story that met with widespread acclaim. So, of course, everyone looked forward to the sequel… which came out a few weeks ago.
                The reaction to TLOU2 has been far more uneven. Granted, it’s a much darker tale than the original, focusing mostly on the futility of hatred and revenge. (And yes, by the way, I’ve played both games and happen to think they’re both superbly done, although like any creative endeavour, neither is perfect, and there are aspects I don’t necessarily like.) But as both a writer and a person, the only thing that’s really disturbed me about TLOU2 is the amount of venom directed, once again, at its creators… even the actors. There’s an online petition for the company to scrap the game and re-do it “right.” And an actor playing one of the female leads has actually received death threats --- in real life --- because the character she plays in the game kills the male protagonist from TLOU. As I said earlier, as though she had any say in what her character does in the game.
                It’s all well and good to become immersed in the story you read/hear/view; after all, that’s what writers and other creators dream of when crafting their stories. We want our audience involved. But… petitions? Obscenity-laden rants? Death threats? What the hell, people?
                Returning to my earlier questions, here’s the answer: the story is for the Creator. You write the story you’re given, not the one you think will make the most money… as long as you’ve any integrity, anyway. And let’s not be under any illusions: the story is given you, and you’ve precious little --- if any --- control over it. I’ve had characters in my stories do things I really didn’t want them to do, for example. But the story is the story, and you write --- let me say it a third time, lest you’ve any remaining doubts --- what you’re given. In other words, you write for yourself. Sure, you hope like hell it resonates with other people --- many, many people --- because, as storytellers, we want our tales heard and appreciated. But fans have no right to insist tales be told this or that way. They don’t have to like a particular tale. But… death threats?
                C’mon, people. You Need To Calm Down.

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Hi-Jacked... And Lovin' It

6/15/2020

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My social media feed has been replete lately with writers talking about how they haven’t been feelin’ that writerly urge during The Great Lockdown, and while I don’t want my ramblings to be in any way interpreted as cheerily thumbing my nose at people so affected, I do have a suggestion for those in Writers’ Blue Limbo (not a nightclub, by the way).
 
I thought of two possible titles for this post… and at this moment, I’m not sure which will win out:
 
Hijacked… and Lovin’ It
or
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to my Laptop
 
They’re both accurate. Now, right off the top, here’s today’s disclaimer: this post doesn’t address anything about fixing the dumpster fire that is currently our world. I’ve no prescription for universal peace or health or healing the masses. Of course, the flipside is I’m not going to rant about deplorable leadership of our politicians, or ignorance/arrogance of people, or…
 
Nope. Today’s post --- which, actually, may be a refreshing change from all that sh*t listed above --- is simply about good stuff. You remember good stuff? Well, if this was a Winnie the Pooh story chapter, the title would read like this:
 
Chapter 62: In Which We Continue To Learn About Things Writerly, And How A Quite Unexpected Event Turned Out To Be A Very Good Thing
 
So… (continuing in that vein) … once upon a time, a very long time ago now, about six weeks ago, our writer was placidly writing along, doing his daily quarantine writing…
 
…working on the sequel to my first novel, as I have been lo, these several years now. It was going well --- as a matter of fact, at 178,000 words and change, we’re approaching the climax… but I’d been idly thinking recently of wanting to try something a little different: point of view, maybe? Short story instead of novel? YA (young adult)? I’d been looking through some of my favourite YA books --- some stretching back into the Dark Ages, when I actually was a YA --- though in those unenlightened, primitive times, there was no such formal thing as YA… if you’d asked a librarian for YA literature then, she would’ve stared at you like you’d lost your mind, sternly shushed you, and sent you packing back to the ghetto of the children’s section from whence you came (oh, the humanity).
 
And, as a gamer (person who plays video games, primarily consoles, in my case) --- gamers aren’t necessarily all immature teenage boys, you know; they can be immature aging adults like me --- I’d been playing a game recently featuring a resourceful, plucky female protagonist, who quite inspired me and gripped my imagination.
 
And it all came together, quite by --- well, I was going to say “accident,” but I don’t believe anything happens by accident, so let’s say it came together by serendipitous collusion between my subconscious and the Muse. It really was one of those ‘aha!’ moments, and what we wind up with is:
 
An 18-year-old female protagonist who’s intelligent, strong-willed, and independent; story told in first person; set in the same fantasy world as my first and second books, although I still don’t know whether it’s prior or subsequent to them --- or whether it’s in an ‘alternative version’ of that world. Why don’t I know? Because I haven’t been told yet. (By whom? The characters, of course, dummy. Work with me here.)
 
I started with a really clear vision of the introductory incident that got things rolling, and since then… I’ve just stood back and listened to the protagonist tell the story. Literally (and amazingly). This event flows into that, which moves into another, and so on. It’s very strange… I’ve never felt so much like the story is actually taking place and all I’m doing is recording what’s happening as it does. It’s very rewarding. I always liked C.S. Lewis’ comment, “I never exactly made a book. It's rather like taking dictation. I was given things to say,” but I really understand what he was talking about. So here we are, six weeks, roughly 1300 words a day, and nearly 43,000 words later, and I feel as if we’ve only just scratched the surface of this tale.
 
(A word or six about word counts: I see other writers on social media with posts something like this: finished 10,000 words today bringing me up to end of chapter 18. Moderately good progress. And I have something to say to writers like that --- well, several things, really, but I’ll stick with something polite: stop giving the rest of us inferiority complexes. 1300 words is a damned good daily word count for me, and mostly unprecedented. One of the things I’ve always had against NaNoWriMo [National Novel Writing Month --- yes, Virginia, there is such a thing; it’s in November] is that, to reach the goal of 50,000 words in that one month, writers must manage 1667 words per day. And my output has never reached that.)
 
It's really refreshing… I love telling the story from a different gender; and I love telling it from a different point of view. I don’t know how YA the tale is, and at 43,000 words we’re clearly out of short story territory, but I’m thinking that’s not very important, anyway… I just let the MC (main character) tell the story in her own words, and what between her and the Muse, they’re doing just fine.
 
So if you’re ‘staled’ or stalled with writing… making a few changes like ones I’ve mentioned here could be just the ticket at getting back on track.
 
(By the way, for the half-dozen of you wondering what this means for my first novel’s sequel… it’s resting --- not like Monty Python’s dead parrot, either. It’s coming. But as I recently said to a friend who raised that issue… the Muse can be something of a fickle bitch at times, so when she comes to you and says she has this great idea you must record right now… you blow her off at your peril.)

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How I Do It

5/18/2020

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I think non-writers labour under a couple of naïve assumptions about writing --- though I don’t want to be too harsh, because after all, pretty much everyone does the same with any endeavour, unless and until they’ve worked their way through it themselves. (Charmingly articulated by The Great Unwashed using such quaint expressions as, ‘well, anyone can do that,’ or ‘I don’t need to read instructions,’ and, of course, the classic, comically --- some might say ‘absurdly’ --- overconfident, ‘don’t worry, I’ve got this.’ Which I think could be engraved on many tombstones.)
 
The first assumption is anyone can do it, expressed as, ‘just how hard can it be?’ When I meet people and am forced by cruel fate into casual conversation (which, as an introvert, I loathe with the white-hot intensity of a thousand suns and try to avoid whenever humanly possible), sooner or later, the conversation inevitably turns to what I call The Question: “What do you do?” (The implied but unspoken clincher is either ‘for-a-living’ or, now I’ve retired from a nearly 35-year teaching career, its close cousin, ‘with-your-time.’)
 
The second assumption is, as a writer, you casually sit down at your laptop après a leisurely dinner on dark and stormy nights, and a few hours and a couple of glasses of fine Bordeaux later, triumphantly emerge from your velvet perch with completed magnum opus in hand. Perhaps a little sweat, a smidgeon of blood, some minor discomfort, but essentially, There You Are. (Oh, yeah, some ‘minor discomfort.’ That’s a good one. Not unlike the ‘minor discomfort’ of giving birth. And yeah, I know: I’m a male. I can’t possibly know about the minor discomfort of giving birth. Well, maybe not, but I watched it --- four times --- as my saintly wife endured it, and it made me really, really glad it wasn’t my job. Minor discomfort, indeed.)
 
So now, today’s Moment of Truth and Clarity: the writing process doesn’t work that way at all, folks. At least, not for me.
 
How does it work? Glad you asked. Very simply, like this (pay attention; there’ll be a quiz later):
A)      I’m a writer, and I take dictation.
B)      My supposedly fictitious characters determine what they say and do, not me.
C)      I’m really not in control of the process. At all.
D)      When the Muse shows up and all these factors mesh as Heaven intended, it’s a wondrous thing.
 
C.S. Lewis expressed it superbly: “I never exactly made a book. It's rather like taking dictation. I was given things to say.” Well done, Jack. Couldn’t have put it better myself. But to non-writers, that statement is nonsensical. Not to mention it flies in the face of our control-obsessed society. So, let’s unpack the idea a little.
 
You know, in many areas of my life, I’m gloriously concrete-sequential… and as a teacher, I most certainly was, because, frankly, I can’t imagine dealing with hormonal adolescents any other way --- not and maintain my sanity, anyway: clear plans and outlines; structure; checklists; precise directions and expectations; nothing vague or left to chance, because that’s when misinterpretation rears its ugly head. (Yeah, maybe us concrete-sequential types are control freaks, too, a little bit. Just a little. You know, like the Pacific holds a little water.) Although, I want to be very clear, my classroom was most definitely not a joyless, regimented boot camp. Leastways, I never thought so. And based on their feedback, neither did the vast majority of my students.
 
But, as a writer… well, I can’t lay claim to any concrete-sequential stuff. When I first started writing seriously, lo, many years ago, I did attempt to complete detailed chapter outlines and things of that ilk. But it didn’t work. Because my characters, bless their stubbornly independent little hearts, insisted on going off and doing things their way… which was, not infrequently, at odds with what I wanted them to do. And yeah, I realize that statement is nonsensical to most non-writers, too. How can characters have wills of their own? the non-writer asks, giving me that sideways buffalo look which means they think I’m certifiable. Well, that’s easy: because, to me, they’re not puppets on strings, or keystrokes on a page --- they’re real people, gloriously smart and stupid, loving and vindictive, consistent and random and… in other words, they come alive in my mind. Like real people, they can be predictable most of the time and then, just when you think you’ve got them figured out, they go and do something massively unpredictable, hijacking your carefully thought-out plot and sending it careening down all sorts of rabbit holes --- previously unthought-of, unimaginable avenues. And that’s wonderful… frustrating at times, too, but mostly wonderful. Because that’s creativity.
 
(I will admit that, sometimes, particularly in complex/ambiguous situations, I’ll slowly back away from the computer and handwrite an outline detailing different ways the situation could resolve. But I never plan too far, because experience has shown it to be largely useless. Once the logjam has cleared and we’re off again, I just buckle in for the ride --- kind of like a hobbit barrel-riding down the raging river.)
 
Now, for all this to work, the Muse must show up, regularly. She can’t just call, saying, “Not tonight, darling, I’ve got a headache,” and she can’t show up and then say, “Sorry, darling, I’ve got nothing for you tonight, so let’s watch YouTube videos” because then, we’re in a real pickle. (Non-writers refer to such situations as ‘writer’s block.’) And she can be something of a fickle bitch at times, so you want to treat her with respect. Fortunately for me, she tends to show up, with great ideas, most of the time --- and I notice the more I’m writing, the better it gets. Just as Tolkien said it takes gold to generate gold, it’s the same with ideas.
 
So, when the Muse shows up, ideas flowing, characters buzzing with ideas of their own, saying and doing all sorts of things, being real people… ‘tis a glorious thing.
 
And that’s how it works.

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When We Were Very Young

4/27/2020

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I had an interesting question asked of me the other day: why do I love fantasy and science fiction to the point where that’s what I write? Why those two particular genres? Why not mystery, or horror, or something else?
 
Why, indeed? On one level, the question’s almost impossible to answer. One might as well ask Stephen King why he didn’t wind up writing Harlequin romances for a career. (The mind boggles at what a Stephen King Harlequin romance would look like. And actually, I pretty much can guess what he’d say, based on interviews I’ve read where he was asked similar questions: you write the ideas you’re given. I believe he answered the question as to why he writes horror by asking a question of his own, namely, what made the interviewer think Mr. K actually had any choice in the matter?)
 
I suppose you could say that we’re all attracted to different genres for different reasons. Even though it wasn’t called speculative fiction way back in the Dark Ages when I was a kid, forming the reading habits that would prove lifelong for me… I think the speculative aspect of fantasy and science fiction was a really big personal draw. Worlds way beyond my own mortal and rather drab one. Yeah, yeah, I know there’s beauty and such in our world, even when we’re doing our level best to mess it up, but… I think, as a kid, I found my world pretty prosaic. And later on, when I began to be out and about in the world and experience what Will termed the “slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,” I could add the adjective “grittily” to prosaic. And there it has, more or less, remained. I don’t mean to sound like I’m complaining. Well, I suppose I am, to a certain extent, but not in many ways. I had a long and (mostly) fulfilling career as a secondary school teacher, a (mostly) loving family, and a standard of living that probably about 90% of the world’s population would cheerfully kill for (and some, of course, do). But there have been times in my life when I am inexorably reminded of Edwin Brock’s famously depressing poem Five Ways to Kill a Man --- especially the final lines. Brock spends most of his poem chronicling really awful ways humans have engineered to kill each other… but then at poem’s end, dismisses these techniques as ‘cumbersome,’ saying all you really have to do to kill someone is plop them down in our current world… and leave them there. Yikes.
 
Sorry. It’s not my intent to be on a real downer today. What I’m attempting to do is explain, in my own usual roundabout way, why fantasy and science fiction appealed to me so much that they’re the genres I write. So, I guess it was a combination of several things: in science fiction, the really cool gadgetry; the environments, so different than the one I lived in; the strangeness, the wonder of it all… even though a great deal of fantasy and science fiction deals with highly dystopian worlds in desperate need of fixing (just like us). But there, you were on these quests --- these heroic quests --- to right the dystopias, and unless you were reading George Orwell or Aldous Huxley, said dystopias usually were fixed by story’s end. Not without cost at times, certainly --- as Frodo found, to his sorrow, at the conclusion of The Lord of the Rings. And your heroes, like Frodo, could really be pretty ordinary people who didn’t fancy themselves as heroic material in the slightest.
 
At the top of this post, I’ve included some of the earliest works in both genres that I’d say were seminal for me. (And I was around all of 11 or 12 when I discovered them… I was kind of like Matilda in that regard… although, regrettably, never discovered psycho-kinetic ability. Drat. That would have been pretty damned handy when life’s prosaic-ness got gritty.) The White Mountains --- three boys about my age off on an adventure, fleeing before monstrous machines to find freedom and refuge --- great stuff. It was about the first science fiction I recall being exposed to (aside from numerous Tom Swift books) --- a friend’s grade 5 teacher read it aloud to his class, and he recommended it to me. Today we’d classify it as YA, but again, back in the Dark Ages, there was no such classification. YA was simply ghettoized in the “children’s” section of the libraries and bookstores. The City and the Stars didn’t labour under any such disadvantage --- it was clearly adult science fiction --- but I don’t remember being unduly distressed over the distinction.  I think --- it’s rather a longer time ago than I want to admit --- I simply picked it up on spec at my local indie bookstore. And, of course, The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings… well, what can I say? I was enthralled. I’d never read anything like them before. My mother picked up The Hobbit for me --- don’t quite know what possessed her to do that --- although I read LOTR before I came back to Hobbit. But This. Was. It. As far as literature was concerned, I’d found my niche. This ancient, vast world with all its diverse cultures; the titanic struggle between good and evil; the absorbing characters. It was all there.
 
I read Hardy Boys mysteries, too… and Lassie books… but while they were entertaining, they never quite captivated me in the same manner as fantasy and science fiction. Which may explain why I don’t write mysteries or animal stories.
 
It’s definitely not about writing what you know --- especially if you’re writing fantasy and science fiction. Most of us haven’t flown in starships or battled dragons. It’s about writing whatever strikes that mysterious chord deep within you. It’s about writing about the human condition.
 
The circumstances under which it takes place are just a little different, that’s all.
 
 

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A Fine Madness

4/13/2020

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I had an experience the other day which I expect is familiar to many writers and creative types: I was woken from a sound sleep at 4:30 AM by my subconscious, with the fully-formed text of a lengthy and detailed conversation between the protagonist of my current work in progress (WIP) and his significant other. So I did what most of us do in that situation: I tried negotiating with my brain, and we had a little conversation of our own, which, for your entertainment and edification, I present below. (This is not as weird as it sounds --- come on, admit it, you have two-way conversations with yourself; we ALL do. All the time. And I’m sure it’s totally, merely coincidental that I recall my brain’s mental voice sounding exactly like HAL, the rogue, sentient computer from 2001: A Space Odyssey. Either that, or I’m in serious trouble.)
 
ME (placatingly): Okay, that’s really interesting and all, a truly great conversation… so, let’s remember it, and I’ll record it at a more civilized hour. In the meantime, I wanna go back to sleep.
BRAIN (insistently): No, Dave, I really think you need to get up and write it down now.
ME (peering blearily at bedside clock): You do know it’s 4-fricking-30 in the Ay Em, don’t you?
BRAIN (maddeningly calm): Creative genius doesn’t keep regular working hours, Dave. You, of all people, know that. Get up.
ME: But---
BRAIN: Besides, you know you won’t remember it in the morning. It has to be now.
ME (firmly): We’re going back to sleep.
BRAIN (hesitates, then can’t help itself, recalling one of the film’s most famous lines): I’m sorry, Dave, I can’t do that.
ME: (mentally making snoring noises) ---
BRAIN: I’ll fixate on it and stay awake...
ME: ---
BRAIN: Fine. You leave me no choice. (Gets on the interior phone.) There. You have to pee now. Get up.
ME: (wearily) !@#$
 
So, yes, Virginia, I went and wrote the conversation down (after stopping in the bathroom on the way, of course). And it was a pretty good conversation, too, if I do say so myself. The written one, not the one with my brain, that is.
 
Now, the reason why I’m relating this is because there’s a couple of interesting points to be gleaned from this pre-dawn insanity (well, I think so, anyway):
 
First: the problem with the conversation I was given (!) is, it quite obviously doesn’t take place at the point in the narrative where I am right now --- you know, the sentence where I stopped the evening before, did my final save, and shut ‘er down for the night.
 
(BTW, I like to call that point the ‘mine face,’ because there I am, miner --- AKA writer --- slaving at the end of the literary mine tunnel with my word processor/pickaxe, hacking pearls of prose from the hard and unforgiving rock face… hi ho, hi ho, it’s off to work we go…) (Thanks. I think it’s a pretty good metaphor, too, he said modestly. In fact, I wrote a post on writers as miners; you can find it here if you’re interested.)
 
Anyway… what does one do about that problem?
 
Well, the answer is quite simple: write it down anyway and find a suitable place in the narrative for it later. Maybe really soon later, maybe quite a while later. Doesn’t matter. The important thing, as HAL --- err, my inner voice --- said, is to get it down AND realize you don’t need to write the damned story linearly, or even necessarily chronologically. I used to tell my students this; you don’t have to sweat through introduction, first, second, third body paragraphs, then conclusion in that order. If you know your third body paragraph will knock ‘em dead, why not write that first, while it’s still incandescent in your mind? In fact, you may want to hold off on that intro for the last thing you do.
 
Second: the conversation I was given isn’t critical to that sacred cow, AKA Moving The Plot Along. It falls in the category of something I referred to in class as Texture. (Which is, frankly, every bit as important as MTPA. Maybe more so, at times.) So I will include the conversation, once I find a suitable place in the narrative for it.  You see, I happen to think there’s too many writing coaches/teachers out there waaay too obsessed with MTPA. If it doesn’t advance the plot, they say, kill it. And they do. They ruthlessly excise anything and everything in an insanely relentless obsession to Pare It Down.
 
I have no idea where or when this lunacy was conceived. My own private theory is it’s a result of our modern society’s manic infatuation with Having It All, Right Now. Ever noticed that? Nobody has any patience anymore. Nobody wants to leisurely sip the heady elixir of details; they just vulgarly chug the whole thing down at once, then move on at warp speed to the next fixation, with all the finesse of a bulldozer.
 
Texture is material that doesn’t necessarily advance the plot --- at least, not immediately or in a crucial manner. But it’s vitally interesting stuff.
 
Now, it so happens that the Master, AKA Stephen King, agrees with me on this. He calls it chrome, not texture, and in the forward to the second edition of The Stand, he uses the story of Hansel and Gretel as an example. He says you could strip from the story all extraneous details that don’t immediately relate to or advance the plot, but the story becomes flat and uninteresting --- just bare, dull metal, no chrome. It’s the details, like Hansel’s trail of breadcrumbs; the woodcutter showing his wife two rabbits’ hearts to convince her he’s killed Hansel and Gretel, and so on --- none of which are, strictly speaking, necessary to the plot --- which actually make the story more than the sum of its parts.
 
So thanks, HAL --- err, me. That early morning wake-up call wasn’t as irritating as I originally thought.
 
But it was just as weird, though.
 

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Eine Kleine... Apocalyptic Literature

3/23/2020

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(Sotto voce in my best Rod Serling voice): “Picture, if you will, a world abruptly exposed to a new and frightening pathogen, sweeping darkly and swiftly out of Asia to create fear and chaos everywhere it pops up, leading to massive and unexpected shortages of such critical items as… toilet paper. (Pause momentarily at this nonsensical revelation before rallying and continuing.) In the face of this terrifying new threat, all the world can only ask whether the apocalypse is truly on the horizon. Tonight’s question… courtesy of the Twilight Zone.”
 
Anyone who reads science fiction or fantasy could answer that question easily; after all, those two genres are replete with all kinds of dystopian literature exploring the idea of The End Of Life As We Know It, from varying horrific causes. We aficionados know what’s coming down the pipe --- just because the flesh-eating zombies haven’t shown up yet doesn’t mean they won’t. But to assist the rest of you who are not conversant with post-apocalyptic literature, my public service act for today is to pull some classic literary examples from my bookshelves and acquaint you with the darker side of SF&F (Science Fiction and Fantasy, of course. Work with me, people. It’s not a kinky sex acronym.) You’re welcome.
 
Even though the lunatic-dictator fringe currently appears quiescent so the consequent threat of nuclear war appears low, I thought we’d cheerfully start with the Big One. On the Beach (OTB) was written by Nevil Shute, and Pat Frank authored Alas, Babylon (AB). Both were written in the 1950s, when our understanding of what a nuclear war would really be like were pretty primitive --- no one had the slightest idea about nuclear winter, for example, the sudden and precipitous drop in global temperatures that would occur (and remain for months) in the wake of injecting hundreds of millions of tons and ash, soot and debris into the atmosphere within hours.
 
Despite that, OTB was surprisingly, relentlessly grim --- the novel opens as survivors gather in Australia and the southern latitudes, simply awaiting the inevitable radioactive fallout to filter down from northern climes and kill everyone. Some people go about their lives in complete denial, others just… wait. Everyone’s supplied with suicide tablets for the end… which inevitably, ruthlessly does come. There’s no sudden deus ex machina in this tale, rescuing everyone from oblivion. I first read the book in my early teens, and it certainly made an impression on me --- like many others. Not really an entertaining read --- who honestly wants to read a story where every character dies by the end? --- but necessary in a rather downbeat sort of educational way. It was twice made into a film, neither of which I’ve seen.
 
AB, on the other hand, seems rather touchingly naïve in light of what we now know. The nuclear war posited in it does not spell curtains for the entire human race. It’s, really, just a war fought with bigger bangs, and at its conclusion, humanity kind of picks itself up, dusts itself off, and continues on its merry way, spreading truth, justice and the American way as it goes. (Mr. Frank makes sure to mention the USA “won” the nuclear war.) I first read it in grade six (I know, I know… I was rather a precocious child, he said modestly), and it, too, made quite an impression. Focusing on one Florida family, it was an entertaining tale… sort of a Dr. Strangelove meets Little House on the Prairies type of thing… and reassuring that we weren’t all gonna die. Even if we look on AB today and smile at its charming naivete.
 
More in line with current world events are the other works I unshelved for this epistle: Richard Matheson’s I Am Legend (IAL), published in 1954, and Stephen King’s The Stand (TS), first published in 1978, then again as an unofficial second edition in 1991 with several hundred pages of additional story restored after someone likely pointed out Mr. King was far more famous now, and people would probably shell out a potful more money to read any Additionale Wordes the master would care to share.
 
IAL is kind of the original post-apocalyptic, post-plague world, featuring for your amusement not flesh-eating zombies, but blood-sucking vampires (of a sort). Robert Neville is the one remaining human, and his solitary struggle to survive --- a struggle which also doesn’t end well, by the way --- inspired three films: The Last Man on Earth (1964), starring Vincent Price, The Omega Man (1971), starring Charlton Heston, and I Am Legend (2007), starring Will Smith. Interestingly, the Blu-Ray of the latter version has two different endings, one happy (or at least hopeful) and one --- ahem ---- not, catering to however you’re feeling on any given evening, I suppose.
 
TS is sort of the crown jewel of these offerings. It’s immense (as only Stephen King, who has publicly admitted to suffering at times from literary elephantiasis, can be), featuring multiple character and plot arcs that he also admitted to experiencing great difficulty reconciling. There’s a plague --- an artificially created flu waaay more contagious and lethal than any variety currently existing --- which kills about 97% of the world’s population. The survivors are locked in a titanic struggle between good and evil --- literally. This is Stephen King, after all, so we’re talking about really supernatural, personified good and evil. Despite my sarcasm, I found it an eminently readable, entertaining story. The down-and-dirty fight against the forces of supernatural evil make it very compelling. It was made into a TV mini-series, which made sense: condensing that monster down into a two or even three-hour film would have eviscerated the plot.
 
“Ordinary people caught up in extraordinary events. It’s curious to contemplate how, for most of us, our lives mostly play out quite slowly in predictable ways; then, when the unpredictable occurs, we frequently find it difficult to grasp the maelstroms into which we’ve been thrown. Food for thought… in the Twilight Zone.”
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Strangers in Space

2/24/2020

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I’ve been contemplating other writing projects lately, even though I still have my magnum opus/epic Work In Progress (WIP) percolating away like a sweet-smelling pot of coffee. I’ve been toying with several concepts, some related to said WIP, some unrelated. And I think I might write my own Spitfire Book. Don’t you think that would be a great idea?
 
Yeah, yeah, I see your befuddled expression, Constant Reader. So let me back things up a little for you: I was rummaging through my desk the other day (okay, excavating the archive) and came across the little gem in the picture above. And when I say little, I mean it: the paperback book measures all of three and a half by five inches.
 
I’ve had Strangers in Space (SIS) a very long time: the flyleaf informs me the story was printed in 1967, and nine-year-old me crudely printed my name and elementary school room number on the inside cover (room 7, apparently, in case you’re wondering… although exactly why I included this strangely random bit of information is lost to the mists of time). Spitfire Books was evidently an imprint of William Collins and Sons, a well-known UK publisher. (My good friend, the Google, was remarkably/regrettably unhelpful in providing information regarding Spitfire Books. It kept wanting to refer me to sites concerning the legendary Second World War British fighter plane… except for one mercenary entry on good old Amazon, bless its black little greedy heart, which informed me I could have another copy of the book for the amazingly low, low price of only 5 pounds! --- which I thought perhaps a tad outrageous, given I purchased my copy lo, these many years ago, for the princely sum (at the time, and to a nine-year-old who was scraping by with an allowance of 25 cents a week) of 29 cents.
 
If memory serves (which it pretty much always does, he observed smugly), I bought SIS at my childhood local K-Mart --- located just across the street from the nearest public library. And I want to immediately reassure you, horrified Constant Reader, that K-Mart was not my destination of choice for book purchases. Never was. It’s been half a century since I last set foot in a K-Mart, but I still remember the unique kind of vibe to it --- sort of an unintended shrine to North American tacky consumerism (even to young me, discerning consumer that I was) --- and I vividly recall the place reeking of stale popcorn every time I passed its portals.
 
Knowing young me pretty well, even all these decades later, I can instantly tell you what would have attracted me to the book:
1)      It was obviously science fiction, and I was, even at that tender age, a voracious consumer of all things SF. I mean, as a genre, it was just sooooo… cool. (Okay, I may have been something of a nerd. We neither confirm nor deny.)
2)      The cover was pretty cool, too, even though the spaceship in the lower right corner bears a remarkable, more-than-passing resemblance (the kind that makes copyright lawyers glance up in sudden sharp suspicion) to the submarine Proteus, featured in the 1966 SF film Fantastic Voyage. (Which, yes, of course, I’d already seen. Work with me, here.) And regarding the book, yes, Virginia, it was neither the first nor the last time in my life I (literally) judged a book by its cover. You have, too, so wipe that sanctimonious look off your face.
3)      It was so small. It was so compact. It was… a book. Measuring three and a half by five. Neat! Way cool! I’d never run across anything like that. (We lived in such simple times, then. Sigh.)
 
By the way, I fully understand that items two and three are hardly very cerebral reasons. Well, maybe for a typical nine-year-old. But I Was No Typical Nine-Year-Old, he said with pride. No, sir! Today, I’d probably add a fourth reason that builds on the third but is ‘way more defensible. It relates to Lemony Snicket’s pithy little dictum that I like to think I live by (to my wife’s unending annoyance --- but she’s not an introvert): never trust anyone who has not brought a book with them. And SIS made it so easy to bring a book along! It fit into a pocket! How cool was that? And, obviously, I did take it many places, because, highly unusually for me --- Compleat Bibliophile that I am --- the binding on SIS is pretty trashed. (This was in the Dark Ages before cell phones and e-readers, remember. And yes, Virginia, there was such a time. How did you all manage? you gasp incredulously. Well, we just did --- admittedly, with extreme difficulty --- but it’s why us old people are all so twisted and bitter. Now you know. You’re welcome.)
 
What’s that? The story itself? Oh… yeah… it wasn’t too bad. I just reread it. I understand why it never won the Man Booker, but it was and is an entertaining read. (Actually, don’t get me started on the Man Booker. Lately, I’ve been reading several works either shortlisted or which won it, and I’ve been asking myself… why? Why did they win? Whose conception of entertaining literature --- great entertaining literature --- oh, never mind. That can be another day’s musings/rant.)
 
Anyway. Strangers in Space clocks in (by my unofficial count) at around 23,000 words --- novella country, which I used to define for my students as works ranging from 10,000-50,000 words. But it tells a complete story, and does so in an uncomplicated, no-nonsense, no-frills kind of way. I’ve been aware of the novella since Pontius was a Pilate, of course, but… Strangers in Space kind of opened my eyes, for reasons entirely different than the ones I bought it for, over fifty years ago. 25,000 words, I mused to myself. Or so. Might be an interesting challenge. Different from the Magnum Opus. (My first novel, Gryphon’s Heir, clocked in at 186,000-and-change words, and my current WIP, its sequel, presently sits at roughly 170,000 words-in-the-home-stretch-dontcha-know.) So… what kind of tale --- either set in the same world or another --- could I tell in 25,000 words? Might be an interesting challenge/change of pace/change of style, indeed.
 
Watch this (Strangers in) Space. Film at eleven.

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The Stories You'll Write

2/10/2020

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‘Way back, when Pontius was a Pilate, or thereabouts, Dr. Seuss wrote The Places You’ll Go. It was a chirpy, nurturing poem extolling great things we’re capable of, and while clearly written for younger readers embarking on life journeys --- it’s been, for a very long time, a staple of valedictory/commencement addresses, to the point where, now, it’s a tired cliché --- it’s actually applicable to any age. (As Jack Lewis said, “You are never too old to set another goal or dream a new dream.” Even at my cynical old age, I ardently believe that.) So, feeling reflective, I present a writer’s version of the poem. (Alas, if you seek pretty poetic doggerel a la Dr. Seuss… well, Constant Reader, I fear you’re in the wrong place --- at least, as far as this post is concerned. I have been known to wax poetic on these hallowed pages, but today, I’m sticking to prose. ‘Cause that’s what Tiggers do bestest.) So, five observations (I’d like to say truisms, but vestigial modesty prevents me) concerning The Craft:
 
Your stories will reflect you
 
You might be forgiven for thinking this obvious, but it’s amazing/disconcerting how many writers are in denial about it. But we bring to writing all our life experiences --- good, bad, indifferent, all rolled into one big, messy ball of angst --- and it’s naïve to think we don’t write through that lens. For example, especially when you begin writing, your protagonist will most likely contain much of you --- hopes, fears, likes/dislikes. (Later, with experience, you’ll be able to write main characters markedly different from you, although don’t be surprised when little elements of yourself still creep in.)
 
Your stories are idealizations, usually not grounded in reality
 
Before spluttering in righteous indignation about how oh, no, your stories are grittily realistic takes on the human condition, shut up and allow me to clarify.
 
Take violence, for example. (Please.) The human organism is remarkably fragile in many ways --- one well-placed sucker punch to the back of the head can cause someone to drop with sufficient force that their cranium hits the unforgiving earth with enough force to instantly, as Will so poetically says, shuffle off this mortal coil. (Not to mention the damage done to the perpetrator’s knuckles.) But written stories --- and especially films! --- generally portray violence on a scale nothing short of cartoonish, with characters bestowing/receiving catastrophic levels of violence that put the Roadrunner’s treatment of Wile E. Coyote to shame. Without so much as a broken nail afterwards.
 
(If you stoutly maintain you avoid that --- because, you see, your stories are set in deserted cafés between worlds, two sedentary characters placidly debating life’s callous meaning or lack thereof… well, then, I salute you, Godot. But don’t ask for whom the Iceman Cometh. Because he cometh for you. And that right soon.)
 
Or fantasy worlds… which are generally heavily romanticized depictions of life in Ye Olde Dark Ages… you know, the era Thomas Hobbes so succinctly summarized as “nasty, brutish and short.” It’s all very well to wistfully/romantically expostulate about the Tower of Ecthelion gleaming like a spike of silver in the first rays of the morning sun, or to wander through the Wilds for weeks on end with nary a hair ruffled or out of place save when it maketh the character concerned fetchingly handsome/beautiful… but life just ain’t like that, folks. You try not brushing your teeth, or changing your clothes, or showering, for several weeks, and then observe the effects on you and those around you. (Actually, on second thought, don’t. Just. Don’t.)
 
Plan your stories all you want --- but, like “real life,” don’t expect things to work out exactly as envisioned.
 
I grandly call this The Myth of Control, blaming it on our warped culture, which continually, tirelessly, shamelessly promotes it. The myth? You Are In Control. Well, here’s today’s Life Lesson, folks: you’re not. You control almost nothing. Not even your own body. You can make choices --- in fact, that’s really the only thing you do control (don’t underestimate its worth!) --- but even there, don’t assume everything’s going to go as planned. Because it never does. (Are we talking about writing, or life? Yes.)
 
(Actually, at least as far as writing goes, this isn’t a bad thing. It means you’re not documenting actions of lifeless puppets, but chronicling lives of real people. And that makes a world of difference.)
 
Your writing will only improve as/when you do it regularly. Additionally, you must read.
 
This should be obvious, too, but many writers cling to the illusion they can write deathless prose without practice --- and without studying how the greats do it.
 
Well, let me tell you something else: the Muse can be a fickle bitch at times. She won’t show up if you don’t… sometimes, not even then. (Oy.) But she’s far more inclined to drop by, nonchalantly throwing a pearl or two your way, if you’re honing your craft than if you’re watching endless cat videos on YouTube or trolling Twitter.
 
To be any good, your motives must be pure.
 
Isaac Asimov said, ““I write for the same reason I breathe --- because if I didn't, I would die.” That’s why we do it: because we have to. Because we want to. Not because we’re writing the next Harry Potter or Lord of the Rings (although most of us wouldn’t mind that.) As in any field of endeavour, you’ll only be great if you’re doing it for the right reasons.
 
Therefore…
 
No need to be upset about these truisms (he said, ultimately throwing modesty to the winds). For example, I write fantasy… cheerfully admitting my world of Arrinor is heavily romanticized… and my protagonist absorbs/dishes out inordinate amounts of violence at times. (Only to bad people who deserve it, though.) And, yeah, he’s much like me in many ways… and sometimes, when I tell him to do something, he considers momentarily before replying, “Nope” and going off to Do His Own Thing, leaving me open-mouthed in the dust.
 
In sum…
 
Just do what I do: acknowledge these observations as truisms… then don’t let them bother you, proceeding merrily on your way.

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Teacher Dude

1/20/2020

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Last June, with my retirement from a 34.5-year teaching career looming large in the rear-view mirror (and looming larger every day, which, I can tell you, was unnerving in the same way as a massive semi looming in the rear-view mirror of your sub-compact car, its driver impatiently indicating You’d Better Move Over), a friend --- a retired teacher-librarian --- gave me the Frank McCourt book Teacher Man. And lo, in the fullness of time… why, I recently got ‘round to reading it --- which, given the size of my TBR pile, is not a bad accomplishment, time-wise, at all. But I have to confess I did not have a love affair with the book. Found it rather annoying, in fact. (Which may or may not be a bad thing, because, Constant Reader, if you’ve graced the hallowed pages of my blog on a regular basis, you know I’m fond of quoting Kingsley Amis when he said, “if you can’t annoy someone, there’s no point in writing.”)
 
Now, look: we’d better mention, right off the bat, that Frank McCourt is one of two authors who Give Me Hope (the other, before you ask, is Patrick O’Brian of the Jack Aubrey Napoleonic/Royal Navy stories fame), although perhaps not for the reason you would think. See, here’s the deal: McCourt was a career public school teacher --- for 27 years; he retired at 58 (earlier than me) and published his first work, Angela’s Ashes, eight years later. As a writer, he didn’t achieve publication/fame until he was 66. (I’m tempted to ask snarkily, “Eight years? Eight years to write his first book? What the hell was he doing in all that retired time?” No, no… never mind the fact that my first novel took nine years… I wasn’t retired. Nope. Was busy teaching. And husbanding. And fathering a small regiment of children. All of those things full-time. So I think nine years isn’t too shabby an accomplishment, all things considered.) And while O’Brian had a lengthy publishing history that spanned decades, high profile fame really only came to him in the last decade of his life, before he died at age 85. So, yeah, there it is: my completely mercenary adulation of these two successful authors lies in the fact that neither one achieved fame and fortune until they were much older than me. So hence, the Giving Me Hope thing. QED. Still got time, God willing, I mutter to myself, hunched over my trusty Dell Inspiron.
 
(I occasionally see chirpy little tweets on Twitter from evidently young-as-spring-chicken writers who provide lengthy lists of famous authors who weren’t published until --- gasp --- after age 35! And I’d like to reach out and say to these writers, “Sweethearts, 35 seems quaintly like half a lifetime ago!” Which it almost --- note the emphasis on almost, please --- is.)
 
Anyway. Back to McCourt and his annoying book. What, you ask, annoyed me --- other than his baffling decision to completely eliminate quotation marks whenever providing dialogue? (Why would a writer do that if not to attempt to appear Precious or Avant-garde or Daringly Independent of Established Conventions? Pfft. Please.)
 
Primarily, the annoyance stems from the fact that his work is permeated with: (a) his feelings of inadequacy over his ability to teach, and (b) his feelings of doubt as to whether or not the teaching profession was of any particular value.
 
Now, I’m perfectly well aware many who have read Teacher Man might not find these to be annoyances at all --- might even find them intriguing, or refreshingly honest, or poignant, or something. That’s fine: you’re entitled to your opinions. And so am I.
 
I guess it’s because I never had the slightest doubt in my teaching ability. Right from the first time I stood up before a class as a student teacher, I just knew: I fitted. I Could Do This. And Do It Well. (I’m not vain enough to assert that every single one of my students, or their parents, always felt the same way about my teaching, of course. As John Lydgate said --- centuries before Abraham Lincoln was credited with saying it, by the way --- you can’t please all the people all the time. In fact, I’ll go further: there are days when it seems you damned well can’t please anyone. Oy.)
 
And I never had the slightest doubt in the value/importance of what I was doing. Even though teaching is a stupidly impossible job, and I say that with much affection after 34 and a half years.
 
Now, to be fair to McCourt, he was teaching --- for part of his career, anyway --- in tough, inner-city New York public schools. Way tougher than any building I ever taught in. So mere survival (physical/emotional/ spiritual) may well have figured far more prominently as one of his long-term goals than it ever had to for me.
 
All is not negative, however. One of the good things about my irritation with McCourt’s Teacher Man is that it gave rise to that little voice perched on my shoulder --- the one writers know all too well --- whispering to me, “You know, you could write your own memoir of the profession. You’ve certainly got enough to say about it.”
 
And I thought, why, you know, I could, couldn’t I? Put that one on the back burner and let it percolate for a while. Or maybe even the front burner, as something quite different from what I’m currently working on (the epic fantasy sequel to my first novel… although that one, I may have been working on for a year or six already, so maybe it’s time to get it finished).
 
But, if I do write a teaching memoir, I think I’ll keep the quotation marks in dialogue.

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    D.R. Ranshaw's Blog

    Author of The Annals of Arrinor series.  Lover of great literature, fine wine, and chocolate. Not necessarily in that order.

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