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mallorys_cameraSo the Killer App plot bible is done, Thirty-five single-spaced pages. Plot holes big enough to drive ambulances through, but the first scene (seedy strip club in ur-Ithaca -- renamed Odysseus -- where transsexual dancer bleeds to death on stage) and last scene (chase through the canyons of Watkins Glen Park where evil capitalist finally plunges to his doom) are well realized, so it’s merely a matter of following the string through the labyrinth to connect them all up.
This is the project that BB and I are collaborating upon.
I think BB will shine at this if he’s able to devote the time to it. He’s got a business to run and three (count ‘em) lovely ladies to be in love with, so his time is considerably more circumscribed than my own. His approach is also quite different than my own -- I channel characters; he builds them, layer by layer, through some kind of internal masonry.
One afternoon, when I was writing Saturday Night in the Sky (my Guatemala novel), I disappeared into a fugue state. When I came out the other end, I felt as though I’d spent four hours in the company of my hero, an alcoholic screenwriter who was desperately struggling to turn his life around. I don’t mean I’d hallucinated him or anything; I mean, I felt exactly the same way I feel when I’ve just been hanging out with someone I really like a lot.
In Paris Review interviews I’ve read, other writers describe the same experience. It’s quite mystical.
###
I’ve also begun scribbling the first chapter of the Sims-as-Divinatory-Method novel: Ybel and Edward, stoned on acid, are playing with Ybel’s magic dollhouse; when Edward makes a doll jump out the dollhouse window, Ybel sez ominously, “You don’t want to do that,” and two pages later, Edward jumps out the window, because, you know, Bwahahahahah!
And then there are the three New Yorker Magazine short story clones I do every year on my futile quest for a Stegman Fellowship.
So I am doing a lot of writing, which means I am spending a great deal of time alone in my head.
###
I’m extraordinarily lucky to be living here. Hyde Park is a small town as opposed to a suburb. I like small towns; I don’t like suburbs. It’s really pretty and in close proximity to various places that are fun to prowl. Linda is an extraordinary human being in that she has the best vibes of practically anyone I’ve ever met, but is sharp and observant. When I reach a writing impasse, I wander out and chat with her for half an hour or so. I can’t harvest good dialogue from her – she’s not that kind of sharp – but it’s a good mental palate cleanser.
Alas, my health is going down hill as the warranties run out on my various parts. My hand tremor is getting worst; my Auto-Immune Disease is in full summer bloom, and I also seem to have developed a dyshydrotic eczema, which is very itchy. My mother had the hand tremor and the eczema, and it’s rather annoying to think that after a lifetime of trying to put as much distance as possible between us, I am – inevitably – turning into her…
###
On my way to BB’s, on the subway, I passed a violinist playing the “Spring” concerto from the “Four Seasons” suite. He had a handwritten sign: I am trying to raise money for my wife’s liver transplant.
Good thing I hardly ever carry around more than five bucks in cash because I would have given him every last cent that I had.
As it was, I started crying and didn’t stop until I arrived at Court Street and found the G Train was out of service.
This is the project that BB and I are collaborating upon.
I think BB will shine at this if he’s able to devote the time to it. He’s got a business to run and three (count ‘em) lovely ladies to be in love with, so his time is considerably more circumscribed than my own. His approach is also quite different than my own -- I channel characters; he builds them, layer by layer, through some kind of internal masonry.
One afternoon, when I was writing Saturday Night in the Sky (my Guatemala novel), I disappeared into a fugue state. When I came out the other end, I felt as though I’d spent four hours in the company of my hero, an alcoholic screenwriter who was desperately struggling to turn his life around. I don’t mean I’d hallucinated him or anything; I mean, I felt exactly the same way I feel when I’ve just been hanging out with someone I really like a lot.
In Paris Review interviews I’ve read, other writers describe the same experience. It’s quite mystical.
###
I’ve also begun scribbling the first chapter of the Sims-as-Divinatory-Method novel: Ybel and Edward, stoned on acid, are playing with Ybel’s magic dollhouse; when Edward makes a doll jump out the dollhouse window, Ybel sez ominously, “You don’t want to do that,” and two pages later, Edward jumps out the window, because, you know, Bwahahahahah!
And then there are the three New Yorker Magazine short story clones I do every year on my futile quest for a Stegman Fellowship.
So I am doing a lot of writing, which means I am spending a great deal of time alone in my head.
###
I’m extraordinarily lucky to be living here. Hyde Park is a small town as opposed to a suburb. I like small towns; I don’t like suburbs. It’s really pretty and in close proximity to various places that are fun to prowl. Linda is an extraordinary human being in that she has the best vibes of practically anyone I’ve ever met, but is sharp and observant. When I reach a writing impasse, I wander out and chat with her for half an hour or so. I can’t harvest good dialogue from her – she’s not that kind of sharp – but it’s a good mental palate cleanser.
Alas, my health is going down hill as the warranties run out on my various parts. My hand tremor is getting worst; my Auto-Immune Disease is in full summer bloom, and I also seem to have developed a dyshydrotic eczema, which is very itchy. My mother had the hand tremor and the eczema, and it’s rather annoying to think that after a lifetime of trying to put as much distance as possible between us, I am – inevitably – turning into her…
###
On my way to BB’s, on the subway, I passed a violinist playing the “Spring” concerto from the “Four Seasons” suite. He had a handwritten sign: I am trying to raise money for my wife’s liver transplant.
Good thing I hardly ever carry around more than five bucks in cash because I would have given him every last cent that I had.
As it was, I started crying and didn’t stop until I arrived at Court Street and found the G Train was out of service.
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no subject
Date: 2014-09-02 09:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-09-03 12:47 pm (UTC)I think we're doing sort of the same thing
Date: 2014-09-03 01:14 am (UTC)But I think I also have to live inside of the characters rather than have them talk to me. This may handicap my dialogue.
Got about 250 words I'm not all that happy with today. But I'll soldier on tomorrow.
Re: I think we're doing sort of the same thing
Date: 2014-09-03 12:50 pm (UTC)It is funny to see you talk about your introversion, though. I'd describe you as quite extroverted. Even if you do spend a lot of time alone.