Posts Tagged ‘Douglas Clegg’
Monday, December 2nd, 2013
I am a hostage to writing, pure Stockholm Syndrome, never want to be released.
Today, in my braincave, reading Richard Powers, Guy de Maupassant, nonfiction books on the underground beneath Manhattan and of course writing, taking a machete to the underbrush within the jungle of mind.
For fun, I’ll post a little from this Work-in-Progress. It’s rough, of course, but that’s half the fun at this stage:
“In December, years later – and I mean years — I saw someone from that distant ledge of childhood when I went to steal gloves from Macy’s.
The gloves were dark, deep and lovely and reminded me of the kind Melanie might wear when going out to a nice dinner with Howard back in the old days when I was four or five years old.
Once I’d gotten out of the crush of the store, I stood at curb’s edge. I held the gloves just under my nose to smell the fresh leather. I glanced up for a second because I thought I heard a familiar voice.
A woman shouted for a cab in the holiday crush.
This woman stood out from the bullying herd – nearly Christmas time and push came to shove if you held your ground on the sidewalk – and there were those black-framed glasses and that Brooklyn Bridge nose and jagged chin, beneath which spread a long turquoise coat reaching her knees, black gloves on her hands – almost like the ones I’d just picked up.
Leelah Castle. I wondered if I’d conjured her in some way.
And now, so long after, past the struggles and unsentimental education of the pit, I saw her for the first time in a decade.
I stared because I wasn’t completely sure it was her, but it was her. I knew it on some instinctive level. She had changed, in fact I think she’d blossomed in the intervening years.
Her hair – mostly covered by a snug wool cap – had lightened a bit into a metallic burgundy shade. I’d have a hard time guessing she must’ve been in her forties by then. My first thought was that she was some kind of vampire, on the hunt at two in the afternoon, getting younger and younger.
I half-expected to see a man with her — perhaps Howard? But Leelah was solidly alone in the crowd.
She stood near the crosswalk, waving at every passing cab. She didn’t see me, but as I watched her I knew. By “knew” I mean I was struck – suddenly, effortlessly – by the realization that she had done something terrible that long-ago day in the Excelsior Hotel but I couldn’t really say what or how or anything else. I didn’t fault her for abandoning my brother and me – we were, after all, not hers. But she had done something else, I was sure of it.
I never believed my father had died. I believed that Leelah had stolen him in some way, enchanted him with her lonely witchcraft, spirited him elsewhere while my brother and I went to live like goblins down below.
Without even thinking it through, I followed her. ”
Copyright 2013 Douglas Clegg.
I’m tackling a particular difficult section in this story. It has hounded me, trounced me, kicked me upside the head, all of that. But I keep returning to its slap and punch in order to tame it.
– Douglas Clegg
Sunday, December 1st, 2013
The nature of a holiday is to disrupt, remind, reset. Now that Thanksgiving is in the past, it’s back at the desk. I have an enormous problem in the current work-in-progress that resists untangling. My only solution is Alexander’s solution to the Gordian knot:
You get a big sharp sword and cut right through it.
Wish me luck. All I’ll be doing today — a relatively beautiful Sunday — is writing and then maybe some treadmill time in the evening. Where’s me sword?
– Douglas Clegg
Tuesday, November 26th, 2013
The early drafts of a novel or story are where I just get everything that I’m creating down on paper. This doesn’t mean that it’s complete from beginning to end. The dialogue can be functional but usually isn’t anywhere near the way the person will talk in the final draft. The sentences ramble.
I’m all for rambling sentences, because I think there’s a flow aspect to them that helps the mind open up.
In later drafts, I go through and clean up thoughts, tighten action and suspense, work on the sentences, the images — as I did yesterday.
For fun, I’m going to post a bit of what I’ve only just cut from the story. This is a section in which the narrator speaks of her various loves in Manhattan, for which she is nostalgic later.
I needed to write this to get inside her head, but none of it is necessary to the story. Still, I loved conjuring these New York City moments in a rush of memory. This is direct first draft stuff, part of that rambling kind of writing I love doing, particularly when I aim to bring a character and a story to life during the early drafts:
“I need anchors to keep Memory from slipping into Crazy. Anchors like recalling the commuters all pouring up and out from the subway on a Monday morning as if they lived down deep under the city, the puff of steam just as you break the skin of cheese on the surface of French onion soup, a tender bite from a mushy blueberry muffin, and that sticky web of confused love when it first hits you.
This projector in my head mangles all these other films I’ve seen with memories I’ve had. I take it all in, though, in the tangle of growing up with days and nights in movie theaters, smudging into my earliest captured moments.
Theaters were the doors into other worlds.
So, to pull me back, let me put down things I once loved:
Ice-cold Coca-Cola on a scorching August noon, Sabrett’s hot dogs and mustard in April, the Preston Sturges revival at the Angelika in the middle of the afternoon when I was too young to even think they were funny movies, Frozen Hot Chocolate at Serenedipity with my dad when I was five years old, brunch at Lüchow’s on Sunday when my mother was alive and my evil grandmother in her creepy white gloves would come for a visit and buy us things and then slap us with a look; ice-skating at Rockefeller Center; climbing the gate to break into Gramercy Park; the steam of summer trains in wintry subway tunnels; the smell of hot pretzels; cooks hanging crispy duck in restaurant windows; the ride on the Staten Island ferry in late October when the wind got brisk and the sun turned the river pink and metal-blue; getting lost in the throng of Christmas sidewalks at Macy’s where every woman had a big purse and a plastic bag full of something wonderful; watching my mother’s face when she talked about a movie we were too young to see; glittering high-heeled shoes in shop windows; people in the garment district pushing racks of clothes; crisp canoli at cafes with my father who got us laughing during drizzly Decembers; eating standing-up at Gray’s Papaya; wandering the aisles at The Strand bookstore like it was Wonderland – and then there’s my love of hotel sheets.
Fresh white sheets. Pressed. Clean. So white they blot out every other problem with their whiteness.
The feeling of owning the world when you stay at a hotel. Room service. Miniature triangles of sandwich. Iceberg wedge salads with blue cheese dressing. The view from the windows. Watching maids make beds. In-room movies. Calling the front desk to ask where things were. Tiny soaps, elf-sized bottles of shampoo. Surrounded by enormous bubbles in the wide bathtub with its silvery spigots. Spying on other guests as they leave their rooms.
The golden, mirrored elevators.
No cracks whatsoever.
Hotels are my dream.
I used to wish – back when I was young enough to believe it — that I’d grow up and get rich and live my entire life in a hotel with maid service and clean white sheets.
And we did live like that — for a little while.”
. . .
I keep a separate folder of possible cuts in case I find places for these pieces in other areas of the story. So far, from this particular story, I’ve cut 18,000 words. And it’s a novella that will probably not extend beyond 25,000 words. Yet none of it feels like wasted work to me. At worst, it’s scaffolding; at best, it’s a lot of what I love about writing even if it’s not great for the story itself.
I’m happiest when I’m writing believing no one will ever read it but it’s just for me, it’s a world created just so I can sink it to it and make it come alive.
As always, feel free to comment, ask questions, and be sure to come back to my blog soon.
– Douglas Clegg
Monday, November 25th, 2013
Today I tackle a difficult section of the current story.
This tale has shown up with various incarnations until it’s practically many-armed Kali about to take my head off. But, given that I’m the author of all this, I just go where the story leads and then edit and revise into a form that makes sense to me.
One of the aspects of this story is young love, particularly from a young woman’s perspective, which is both alien to me in terms of my own experience and universal to me, as well, since love is love and this character is someone who has emerged from the labyrinthine cellars of my mind and from observation of the surface world, as well.
One of the tasks of writing is to be honest in your creation, bring that person to life, to breathe in the air, to exist not as a plot device or pushed-and-pulled tool in service to a scene, but as a person who is as rational and irrational as we all are, but from this person’s own unique perspective.
I write psychological fiction which doesn’t really mean I write realistic fiction, although I certainly strive for realism even with a surreal underpinning. It’s probably the only kind of fiction I’ve cared about in my life, the only kind that has genuinely attracted me.
One of the reasons I’ve ever loved horror fiction (and not all horror fiction) is that in the best of the genre, there is an exposure of the psychology of the human mind within the domain of fear and wonder. It is also more psychological than even the most psychological thriller because supernatural horror (my preferred subset of the horror genre) doesn’t necessarily happen in the world but can happen constantly within the human perception.
We each recreate the world every single day, and though it gives us evidence of a separate and equal existence, we limit it with our own overlay.
The fiction of perception, then, perhaps that’s a more specific term than even psychological fiction. Not just the twists and turns of the mind, but how these affect the ways we experience the world. All those things are the underpinnings of what I’ve always written. My best work — and I admit that my best and worst may be up for vote, but my belief of what is my best — completely captures the perceptive aspect.
With my first novel, Goat Dance, the candy wrapper of it is the supernatural horror genre, but the inside job was about a boy who discovers that he could love a young woman and never be with her and had also tortured himself over an accident in which another boy in school was killed. There’s even a further depth to Cup — the story’s protagonist — but I’ll probably just let the best of the readers discover that, too.
All the monsters — the Boy-Eating Spider, the Mother of Nightmares, the Eater of Souls — are about his perception projected outward. You could even say the town and its history of supernatural disturbance were part of his projections, as well, the way that a memoir of part of a person’s past life isn’t actually that part of his life, but the way he saw that part of his life.
In the world of Goat Dance, it’s a genuine supernatural occurrence, but given that we’re mostly getting his world-view in the book. I have to admit that as a first time novelist, I didn’t yet have the cojones or technique to tell the entire story from his point of view — I split the book into third person narrative and first person, by way of a convenient diary technique.
I don’t consider Goat Dance among my best. It was my best at the time. But in the scheme of lo these many 25 plus books and forty plus stories, it’s just among them. It’s where I cut my teeth on the creation of a novel from paper in a typewriter, notes in a notebook, and a burning desire to write a novel. But I do consider it where I began to understand the subterranean in fiction — where it comes from and why it’s important.
One of my best works remains Purity, the first novella I ever attempted as an adult for publication. I wasn’t even sure how a novella worked at that point, where you stopped, how you contained it. I went with observations from my own youth, a circumstance, and then I created Owen.
Owen is a wonderful and sociopathic boy at the border of adulthood, someone who wants love so badly but didn’t know how to get it without resorting to manipulation and stealth — the use of other peoples’ secrets. What I captured in that novella, particularly in Owen’s manipulation of the closeted gay boy – who is also out to manipulate in order to gain something — was a certain kind of person at a certain point in life.
I played with it in a cubist way using a fantastical device of having other characters describe their position and interaction with Owen, as well. The most fun for me was getting inside the mind of the young closeted man and his desperate fears of losing in life simply because of his feelings for another boy. To me, ultimately, this was all Owen telling the tale, since he begins it in the first person and we slip into third person once he starts his memoir. And thus, he could put himself into all the other heads of the characters, but without empathy, simply with his version of their events and thoughts.
I’m going on at length about this because, again, what interests me most in fiction is the psychological and the perceptions of the viewpoint character or characters. How the world is seen. How ghosts can be experienced. How monsters might arise. Where a scheme crosses to murder as a justifiable act (in a character’s perception.) Where fear and love cross. How life creates the frankenstein creatures within us who do the irrational things that would seem rational if our inner life existed on the outside.
Life as asylum, I suppose, the place where thought becomes deed, belief becomes seen.
The more I write with this in mind, the more my fiction heads into the territory of the dark fable, and not necessarily the so-called moral fable, but that place where the dark and the fantastic meet, where the perception of a person determines the limits — or lack of limits — of the world itself.
And it’s tougher to do the more I understand my own psychology and perception in this. I must be smarter with each book, I must dig deeper, I must risk more.
But I love it. I think you have to love the act of writing and creating and even the missteps if you’re going to write fiction in this life. You have to love the struggle even if you wish it away at times. You have to love being alone during the day, pacing, sitting, standing at a shelf and scribbling notes, knowing that what you’re doing is bringing something into the world that would not exist if you chose to spend your time doing something else.
Now, back to this story. Will post again when I’ve got more to say, of course.
– Douglas Clegg
Wednesday, November 20th, 2013
Every now and then it’s good to take a day off. But even a day off isn’t a day off. I get up a little early, do an hour or so of writing, a few pages, a few revisions. But not a full-speed-ahead day at all.
Writing — for better or worse — isn’t just about sitting down to write. That’s the result. Most of it is the work of the mind, the plumbing of the depths, the figuring out, the solving of the gordian knots of story. You can do this anywhere, the car, the park, the walk, the dinner with friends. It all keeps going on in the back of your mind.
Once a week I’ve been studying oil painting with my friend John Quilter, a great painter. One of the first things I learned about what I get on canvas can also be applied to writing. In your rough, first draft, what you’re doing is getting the mess in your mind down on paper as coherently as possible. When I saw my first rough bit of paint on the canvas, after a few hours, I realized it was the mess of my mind — how I saw the still life, not how the still life is, nor how I really experienced it, just those ragged edges of my own perception.
This occurs in the writing, too. It’s why I do 4-5 drafts at this point of anything I write. I know the first few aren’t quite there, and I can feel the moment when they are. And it’s usually in the 4th or 5th draft.
Right now, what I’m working on may be in its 10th draft. I don’t care how long it takes to get a piece of writing “right,” I’m at a point in life where I want it to be where it needs to be, where my clarity of vision has improved from that first rough idea and first rough draft. I don’t consider this polishing a stone so much as excavating story, cleaning it off, figuring out what this archeological object of the imagination means, and — if possible — Pygmalian-like, breathing life into it.
– Douglas Clegg
Monday, November 18th, 2013
I had such intense dreams last night, so complicated and specific, powerful in terms of incident. Three different set pieces, basically, a jumble of wonderful moments, violent occurrence, freaky ideas, familiar and strange faces, and yet a cohesive nature to it all while I was journeying through them.
What I find best about dreams are not what they give me — personally — but how they remind me that all story exists within a world of meaning. Dreams are stories, too, and at times they are fables, cautions, reminders. At other times, they’re stress relievers or inducers. Sometimes they communicate something that my conscious mind doesn’t wish to acknowledge or is not quite ready to look at.
But what works best for me is: after a night of heavy dreaming, the story engine within me feels revved up. It’s as if my sleeping mind is sorting out what my waking mind resists. I don’t consider most dreams worthy of being stories. In fact, they usually defy narrative structure, they’re often cyclones of images and movements and places and people, all whirled together, that will only make sense to me. But there’s an energy I get from them when I wake up.
I also have to allow that this may be a function of a certain type of sleep, which rests body and mind enough to give it fuel upon waking.
Regardless, a great night of dreams and nightmares.
Today, wrestling with aspects of the current story. I finished Wuthering Heights, so my “first read” of the day is another novel I’ve loved for too many years: The Magus by John Fowles. It’s delicious to read a novel this way — a few pages in the morning before the day gets going, and if the writer is a great one (as Fowles and Bronte are), those few pages open up the breathing, get you feeling as if writing can accomplish magic — and it calms the mind, too.
The fiction I’m writing at the moment involved writing about 32,000 words completely, then cutting it back down to 13,000 words, and then on the way to 17,000 words today and by the end it may be up into the 30,000-40,000 word arena. Not the broad expanse of novel, but definitely well-within the paddock of novella.
I do my best to forget word count, though. I think a story should be as long as it needs to be. One of the tricks is to cut back as much as possible, to get rid of brambles and deadwood, so that the story itself comes to life.
A tall order! But this is where the writers are separated from the typists, I think. The writing has to come alive for it to be fiction, in my opinion. For me to call myself a writer, it’s not enough for me to have written: I have to bring it to life.
Nothing worse than a story, dead on the page. Sometimes you can give a tale a little mouth-to-mouth, and other times, you just have to let it sink to the bottom of the sea.
But not this time. This tale is breathing and whispering, and warning me that I may go through a little hell to bring its persephonic darkness back to the light…
– Douglas Clegg
Sunday, November 17th, 2013
Well, besides writing, this is the 24th anniversary of our marriage here at Villa Diodati. Yes, I’m old enough to have been with someone for 24 years. I’m actually old enough that I could have been with him longer, but for me to settle down I needed a bit of rehearsal on the whole relationship idea when I was in my 20s.
Our anniversary has meant weekend-long festivities, but all private. Who would’ve thought that 24 years ago I’d run into this guy and that would be “it?” I certainly couldn’t have predicted it — despite what you may have assumed, I was no “catch,” and arrived with enough baggage to upend the Titanic. Without jinxing our chances for another 24 years or more, I’ll just say: I was fortunate to meet Raul and I’m hoping he was fortunate to meet me, too.
And no, we didn’t marry 24 years ago. We were outlaws then and had to just create a marriage between us and bring it to life over the years. Then sometime in the early years of the 21st century, we civilly-unioned, and then married when it became legal in our home state. Marriage is made in the heart and mind, and the government and others are just confirming it later for legal and other purposes.
But let’s get back to writing, shall we?
Today I tackle a tough case — in the writing. I don’t want to go into specifics because — again — I may jinx something. I’m not a big believer in jinxes until I am.
Often there’s a delicate balance in writing between forethought, secrecy and seat-of-pants. Today is going to be seat-of-pants and a big jump into a canyon of “I don’t know where this will end up but I better damn well get there by the evening or my name isn’t Ignatius P. Throckmorton.”
Above any techniques of fiction in my arsenal, one thing I keep as the great imperative: bring it to life. These are people, not characters, this is true not false, this is a world excavated from the imagination and these people exist in a world of meaning.
Side note: I have some novellas coming up this winter. Here’s an excerpt from the first page of one of them:
And speaking of all this, I need to go read a few pages of Wuthering Heights, have a bit more coffee and dig into today’s writing so that I can spare time tonight to go out with the husband and remember the day we met, toast to future years, and maybe stir up a little dust.
I don’t know how often I’ll post these notes, but it’s a good way to start the day and I hope you enjoy them.