LITERAL 04: "What Will Make You Feel That You've Made It as a Writer?"

L.I.T.E.R.A.L. is a weekly blog meme for authors hosted at Indie Books, created to serve as a support group for participants of the Author at Once workshops.  L.I.T.E.R.A.L. welcomes all writers (from anywhere in the world) who’d like to weigh in on the topics!

After a hiatus of ... well, quite a while, the boys and girls of L.I.T.E.R.A.L. have come up with the latest writing prompt.

Q. "What will make you truly feel that you’ve made it as a writer? Seeing your byline? Holding the book in your hands? Seeing it climb up the charts? Your first book launch? What will finally get you to tell people that yes, you are a writer?”

That's a very good question. It's right up there with "What will make you feel you've succeeded in life?" Where "life" is the question, the answer certainly isn't making the first loan payments for your car, house or  condo unit. Certainly it's not marrying one woman you love-- though  there was a time I'd thought that was enough.When the question is life, it's very tempting to go whole hog on your wish list of  accomplishments and accolades, the stuff you have to have before you can really tell yourself, "I've arrived." Or, "I've really, really lived."

When the question is writing, it's also very tempting to go whole hog on the answer, to raise the brass ring so high that looking at it makes you dizzy. I already know I'm a writer. I'm just not a very good one if whatever I write doesn't move the people it's supposed to move. The problem is that everyone else is also a writer as soon as he authors his first badly written grade school composition. And here's my brass ring: until my writing does the impossible (bring about world peace, raise the dead, create a universe from scratch) or the highly unlikely (cause a violent and bloody revolution, win a Nebula), I will always be filed under "everyone else."

Sadly, no one's that good, on purpose. Karl Rove had maybe a quarter billion in funds, think tanks, copywriters, Fox News and he still couldn't deliver a win for Mitt Romney.


...


If I lower my goals to realistic levels and still allow myself to dream, though, then I'll settle for the following indicators, for now.

I'll know I'm "on the road to being made" if I can write a straightforward novel or story where my characters are real, not convenient stereotypes or only simple mouthpieces for my politics or philosophy (cf Ayn Rand's John Galt).  F. Sionil Jose accomplishes this in Ermita with Ermi Rojo and Rolando Cruz, but they are still, primarily, mouthpieces in the greater dialogue among the themes of Jose's novel.

I'll know I'm made when someone I don't know quotes me because he finds that my ideas (and therefore, my writing) makes sense to him.

I'll know I'm made when I'm as well-known for writing and related endeavors as Ian Casocot, Third Domingo, Arnold Arre and Carl Vergara. This of course will never really happen, but a man can dream, can't he?



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LITERAL 03: Who Is Your Writing Support Group?

L.I.T.E.R.A.L. is a weekly blog meme for authors hosted at Indie Books, created to serve as a support group for participants of the Author at Once workshops.  L.I.T.E.R.A.L. welcomes all writers (from anywhere in the world) who’d like to weigh in on the topics!

This third prompt comes late because of my involvement with Crime Prevention Week. We've been celebrating it on the first seven days of September since 1994... well, anyone who's had some involvement with the law has been "forced" to observe  it since 1994. As in many holidays, most folks just nod their heads, grunt noncommitally and do whatever they are wont to do during the week. Not me, no sir. I had to be shanghaied into filming it.  

Excuses aside, our third prompt has to do with support groups. And truth to tell, I don't really have one, at least, not any more.


The First Institution

No one in my family writes for a living. Sure, the legal and police administrative professions require one to churn out volumes of text-- subpoenas, affidavits, undertakings, memoranda-- but this kind of writing is subordinate to the whole that is "the job." Writing is the boring and tedious  part of whatever "the job" is. No one really gets respect for writing unless his name is Sidney Sheldon or Gore Vidal. My family is somewhat "old school":  there will be lip service paid to writing in and of itself, but little else, unless said writing "delivers the goods"-- a roof over your head, food on the table and a woman in your bed. Or just wads of cash.

My sister and I dabbled in writing for publicists and publications, but these never really took off (except maybe my sister's year at the Manila Bulletin, but that had to be sidelined for her studies in Law). We were natural candidates for "support group"  but it never quite happened. We were too wrapped up in what we were doing  individually. Our own personal lives didn't allow for much interaction beyond the occasional family dinner discussions where we avoided talking about our work or our personal concerns.


F.R.I.E.N.D.S.

My friends in early college were all trying to write the Great Comic Book or Novel of the Early Twenty-First Century, and most of us filed that dream under "Stuff you Outgrow" pretty quickly. Thad Lacanlale and I were writing for a Cubao-based comic book series back in the early nineties: something just shy of copyright infringement called WrestleWarriors.  If you haven't heard of that book, then you pretty much understand why you haven't heard of us. That experience didn't kill the dream for me, but put it in a body cast and made us push it in a wheel chair for around eight years.


A recent friend, Jen, was willing to share assignments with me just to get me back into writing again, but I could not accept her sometimes unsolicited help. Not that I didn't want to, but because my job was in the way. Being a language coach in my old company required you to do the work of grad students with two jobs. I literally had no time.



Plugging Doll Eyes

Among my friends, only Eline Santos may be on her way to making good on our collective dreams. You should check out her children's story "Doll Eyes."  It's very Gaiman in the way she mines our psyche and our childhoods for villains, but you should just read it for yourself.        


Conclusion

There were other friends who came later in my life, who offered their support-- but they've gone, they're in other locales and social groups. Or they've gone into other projects. Really:  rehabilitating angry bloggers with writing issues should never be on top of their list of priorities. I won't expect them to cheer me on, if and when I take to writing The Thing That Should Have Been the Great Novel of the Early Twenty First Century (That Will Also "Deliver the Goods.")  We're all simply too busy with our expanding social circles.  If and when I do, though, I'm sending them all private messages on Facebook. I hope they'll be happy for me when I do.  



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Light as a Feather, Stiff as a ...

I've been published before-- school publications, illustrations for training manuals and student guidebooks, anonymous articles written for a publicist, speeches written for some government bigwigs, artwork for EPSON Vision and the Commission on Human Rights. There are also significant contributions to the odd Engrish Teachel Manuars for my former Korean bosses (Seriously, I have to bring home a copy the next time I'm at the old office).

I have pointed memories and feelings for each of them, but few among these works give me as much pride and disappointment as that one poem that showed up in the compilation in this picture (left).  If you've read my first L.I.T.E.R.A.L response, you'll understand why I will probably derive much joy from throwing this book at the odd home invader.

Strangely, the compilation is true to its name: much of the poetry that lives on the pages has to do with love-- expressing it, having it rejected, keeping it alive in the face of ridiculous odds. The book's construction itself is the bastard child of love and cynical marketing. It's as if the minds behind the old Poerty.com (the people who put this book out in the early 2000's)[1] were divided into camps who--

• wanted to put out quality work for the many authors who wasted their time submitting entries in the earnest hope of making it , and  
• who wanted to milk us for every penny they could get, while the cash cow was in a mood to givegivegive.  

The paper stock is great, and I can't complain about the spine. I think the cover is hard enough to stop a knife. These, to me, are clear indications that whoever approved the project cared enough about the many people who were being bilked to include these specifications while their cynical counterparts nodded their heads and discussed among themselves the market appeal of making a book that could potentially be an heirloom.      

The time I'd been informed that I'd received some sort of prize and gotten "invited to share" my poetry "aloud" in the old Poetry.com's annual Poetry Convention in DC, I'd also felt humiliated as my application for a US visa got shot down. It's standard practice, of course, and I cannot blame the consul who denied me entry. This is exactly how the embassies make money for their mother countries. Nevertheless, the wound was deep, and I'm not sure it's really healed. I'd grown up on Sesame Street and Marlo and the Magic Movie Machine, and while I had no illusions that America was a paradise, I still suffered from the misapprehension that I could represent myself in a way that would get embassy personnel to respect my honest endeavor enough to let me through for a two week tour.[2]

Okay, this is hopefully the last time I'll talk about this. It's great to get it off my chest, but to dwell on it is ultimately unproductive. Here's to just writing, and (for now, at least) writing for the sake of it.

-------------------------------------
[1] The new Poetry.com is, to my knowledge, being run by Lulu.com. I have not tried to retrieve my old submissions from the site, even though a link has been generously provided for all the old poems submitted before the site changed hands. Perhaps I should. I sharpened myself partly by making poetry on the fly using their poetry in motion app, where one uses the scrambled words of one poem to fashion a new one. It's a good exercise and I miss it.

[2] It galls that people actually get past the consuls, overstay, and disappear into the landscape. I'd not wanted to even travel before the opportunity to be recognized as a good poet even presented itself. When the prospect of doing so was presented to me, my inner child took over, and I thought I could finally see the Empire State Building, feel it and, later, the US capitol ground under my feet. To have that inner desire exposed, the opportunity to satisfy it stare me in the face and then yanked away was the ultimate cock tease.  If a God had set it up, it was a cruel joke consistent with his Old Testament dickishness.

LITERAL 02 "What gets you in the mood to write?"

L.I.T.E.R.A.L. is a weekly blog meme for authors hosted at Indie Books, created to serve as a support group for participants of the Author at Once workshops.  L.I.T.E.R.A.L. welcomes all writers (from anywhere in the world) who’d like to weigh in on the topics!

Here's number two--


Q. Now let’s share how we get things done. What gets you in the mood to write? Is it a deadline, a prize, a pushy editor? Can you recall your most productive writing session ever? What triggered it?

It shouldn't solely be love, or anger, sadness, fear or any of the usual emotions. They're great motivators, but when they ebb, you're left stranded up sh!t creek without a paddle. Starting is easy, especially when you're caught up in the power of the anger in your belly, or when you're high on love. It's when you decide that you want to write at a level better than people ululating out of their pens, that your inner critic is born, wears its mother's clothes, acquires a knife, and brutally murders your creative impulse in the shower. Competent writers allow their feelings to get the ball rolling and keep their inner critics leashed until there's enough on the page to properly mine for themes, dialogue, good lines and (above all) sense. Good writers know how to manage their time, and the ebb and flow of inspiration, so that they remain productive regardless of how they feel.

Don't look at me-- I've yet to get that "Good Writer" part down pat.


Primum Mobile 

I generally need a reason to write. There has to be some sort of end--

to catalogue your thoughts for future study and critique, perhaps; 
to engage in written scream therapy; 
to explore a theme, or aspect of what you're feeling or experiencing; 
to write about the same topic differently, (maybe condense your love song as a haiku); 

or else the writing need not be attempted in the first place. You cannot write aimlessly-- that is, write without a goal and write without refining the work--  and expect an audience to respect the writing. That's how kids come up with clumsy high school love poetry, and how local Catholic bishops churn out crass hyperbolic ramblings against teaching Rizal or family planning advocacy.  


My Most Productive Session(s)

When I was high on love, I had many of these. I'd start with a song or poem in the morning, come back to it around lunch, and have that sucker polished by 3:00 p.m. Some of the writing still had problems-- at least, one of the following: clashing themes, murky images, problems with rhythm, or making the word count fit some sort of meter. Still, I was very prolific, writing regardless of the emotion that came as a consequence of my clumsily loving someone--joy, sadness, anger, longing.

The key to each session was almost always a woman. That, and Microsoft Word. I'd rush home to write about her eyes (her "wells of thought") or her ("chestnut") hair. On other days, I'd write about how we interacted on campus or at that last Sci-Fi Fan Club meeting. I'd write about her clothes, comparing them to a landscape seen from thousands of feet in the air-- how it would be glorious to fall into them, to break myself on the topography of her skin.

Only a few of these courtships ended well. But when they ended badly, they generally brought about a slew of new writing that explored what it was like to watch the lady swooning in the arms of another man. Or perhaps what being a tree must be like--  you grow roots by her door, waiting for her with flowers (or a token of goodbye) in your hands.


Yes, But What Motivates You To Write Today?


To compel myself to write, I ask myself this question: "What would it be like to...?" Then the ideas start coming and I have to restrain Norman "Critic" Bates while he ogles the creative impulse in the shower. Time enough for the knife, later.      


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LITERAL 01 "Have You Been Published?"

(L.I.T.E.R.A.L. is a weekly blog meme for authors hosted at Indie Books, created to serve as a support group for participants of the Author at Once workshops.  L.I.T.E.R.A.L. welcomes all writers (from anywhere in the world) who’d like to weigh in on the topics!)

Here's the first one--

Q. Has your book/story/epic been published? If yes, how was the experience, and where can we buy your book? If no (or not yet), why the delay? Is there anything you know you should be doing to make it happen?

Strictly speaking, yes, I have been published. Likely, so have you. Published plenty of times, if you keep a blog or say something regularly on Facebook or Twitter. I can say with a straight face that I've been published, in that I can slap a street thug on the back of the head with a copy of the hardcover anthology to which that one poem belongs. If said thug had a taste for foreign-made status symbols, he'd be in luck: my poem was published in the 'States.

Sadly, I doubt you'll still find it in print, as I can no longer find any trace of the --and I would learn about these people painfully-- infamous vanity publisher, The International Library of Poetry. The elation I felt at being "distinguished" by these people, being invited to participate in one of their annual poetry conventions in Washington, D.C. evaporated when, after I had purchased my copy of that year's poetry compilation, I  found out that my piece stood shoulder-to-shoulder with ham-handed high school verse.[1]

I've tried tracking it down. The ISBN (0-7951-5135-7) apparently belongs to more than one body of work.

Yes, there's a happy ending in this story. I have a beautifully bound hardcover book that will likely last a couple of generations. I can safely claim that I am "Published, In Hardcover, In the 'States." I won't need to grab my knives or my arnis sticks in case some nutjob tries a home invasion. I can literally throw the book at him, and beat him to death with poetry.  


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[1]  Everyone, who submitted entries for their poetry contests were sent the same letters, the same citations, the same  invitations to participate in the D.C. conventions as "semi-finalists."  Amid many earnest, if unrefined, attempts of writing well under the restraints of some sort of meter, were occasional flashes of brilliance. I wasn't alone, but this solidarity was not comforting.            

[2] I no longer remember how much that one copy cost my mother to have delivered to our door. I do remember the humiliation of being denied a US visa, one for every convention I tried to get to. .

Profit Motive

I'll drop any pretense of BS and level with you, dear single reader.

I feel that my little business has gone to pot, or at least, that it's been progressing at the speed of molasses. For various reasons, I have been missing opportunities to schmooze-- that is, to make acquaintances, friends  and business contacts who could potentially bring in the funds I need for getting the business back on track. I have been missing out on videographer assignments that could have put me that much more securely on the goddamned map and increased my value to the teevee people I work for.[1][2]

God knows I need supplies for the copier, a new laminator, and likely a new computer to boot. I need funds for personal food, new clothes and a satisfying visit to the doctor. You know, one where I won't have to go home knowing absolutely nothing about the causes behind the symptoms I'm feeling, for lack of very liquid funds that can be used --without question or quibble-- for very extensive, expensive tests. I have a health card whose terms seem so Byzantine that I'm afraid of spending too much time reading them, let alone using the card itself. Then there's social security to pay for, due on the last day of this coming September. I haven't bought and assembled a model kit in two years. Every time I feel a pressure on my neck or on my temples, I can't shake the feeling that I'm going to die really horribly, really soon.    

Days like this, I want to be a US Republican and howl at an unjust tax system and a large bureaucratic government hell-bent on taxing and regulating me to death. Please don't quote me on that.

So what does all this have to do with my moribund Lit blog?

I'm considering making changes and churning out content more regularly. No, the blog will not be monetized, but every time I write about writing, it'll show up here, on the off-chance that it helps someone out there and that it helps to send--yes, opportunities for schmoozing-- my way.[3] The stories, the poems will still be put up here, as well as on my deviantArt account and other venues, but I aim to be more selective of what goes here, since I may have to commercially publish that content one day, hopefully soon.

Anyone whose spoken with me at length will be acquainted with my disillusionment with writing, as it keeps failing the acid test for me-- If it doesn't quickly and reliably get you a roof over your head, food on your table and a woman in your bed[4], then you shouldn't be dependent on it for a living. Why, then, the change of heart?

Every time I feel a pressure on my neck or on my temples, I can't shake the feeling that I'm going to die really horribly, really soon.

That, and the hope that the people at Author at Once have actually managed to inspire in me. Check them out, if you feel like trying your hand as an independent author, or even if you feel like you could use something worthwhile to do with your time.

_____________________
[1] One feels inclined to partially blame inclement weather and unexpected death, but no one, no one,  likes a whiner. The moment you express yourself along the lines of themes that don't involve some kind of victory, apparently, you become a whiner.

[2] However strongly you shout that you are an agent who can work independently of others' opinions of you, those opinions are still major determinants of your success, otherwise advertising is really a billion- dollar waste of money.        

[3] I'm sorry: one of the changes that has come over me, since my recent discovery that Tina Turner was right all along when she sang about love in 1984, was that I've picked up an acquisitive streak that is totally at odds with my generally hippie personality. I've realized that I have to care about wealth, and to that end,  to keep schmoozing if I don't want to spend the rest of my productive years working in a call center, or as an indentured slave for Korean English language training centers looking for quality educators on the cheap.

[4] I would have been happy if it had just accomplished just one of those things.

I saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus...

TOMMY (sings):

I saw mommy kissing Santa Claus/ Underneath the mistletoe tonight

They didn't see me creep/ Down the stairs to have a peep

They thought that I was tucked up/ In my bedroom, fast alseep.

And I saw mommy tickle Santa Claus/ Underneath his beard so snowy white.

Oh what a laugh it would have been/ If daddy had only seen/

Mommy kissing Santa Claus to-night... 

JOHN (sings):

Yeah I saw my wife kissing Santa Claus/ Underneath the mistletoe tonight/

They didn't see me creep/ from the kitchen to have a peep /

They thought that I was senseless/ In our bedroom fast alseep

Yeah I saw mommy tickle Santa Claus/ Underneath his belt so big and wide...

John turns to the audience and says


"At this point all I see is red."
"The red of his stupid fur-lined suit"
"The red of my wife's lips as they curl round his..." 


John points his Steyr AUG at the Santa and Mommy. John empties it.

JOHN (sings, slowly):    

...And it's a shame my son had been/ a witness to his mother's sin

and his father shooting Mom tonight

"Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife." 

John shoots Santa in the face with his Glock for good measure. Tommy runs away screaming.