The Power of Why

by Robb on March 20, 2010 · 0 comments

in Editorial, Writing

I’m too analytical. And obsessive. I know this. Especially when things go wrong, I need to know WHY. I’ve even come to tell my students that why is my single favorite word. It’s like I’m three years old again. Why can’t I carry the cat around by his tail? Why can’t I play with the dead bird? Why does Daddy hide in the basement whenever Mommy crosses her eyes? It’s a powerful word, why, and I want my students to always ask it when they are writing. It is, I think, the single most important question a writer, any writer, can ask about their work.

Given my obsessive tendencies, however, it isn’t often that I stress out about the why behind a problem. It’s a puzzle that I enjoy trying to solve. Granted it tends to slow me down and throw me off schedule as I attempt to figure it out, but it is, after all, what it is. Recently, though, why gave me absolute fits with my writing.

When National Novel Writing Month ended last November, I knew I had a sprawling mess to try and fix. Hell, I knew it as I was writing it. I’m what some refer to as a “pantster” – as in I write by the seat of my pants. I’ll have a character or two, a line of dialogue, a scene, and a general idea of where I want to go. It usually means heavy, heavy rewrites, and normally if something starts to go off track, I’ll back up and try something new. But I couldn’t do that with NaNoWriMo because of the writing schedule I needed to keep, so I didn’t edit anything as I wrote it, even if I realized halfway through a scene that it would never work. I kept a notebook and jotted down page numbers and basic thoughts in it as I typed, or stuck quick revision ideas at the end of a scene or chapter. My plan was to let the manuscript sit for a few weeks while I finished up the semester and then get back to it over break. First I’d read through the whole thing, including all the notes, and then I’d use the notes I took to get me back into the story. It was a good plan, a solid plan.

But it didn’t work. I never even finished reading through the manuscript. The individual story lines were fine. They needed some work, certainly, but there wasn’t anything there to panic about. What got that inner why all fired up was the structure of the thing. Or, rather, the utter lack of structure. I couldn’t even see it. And in my frustration in trying to find the source of the problem, in trying to answer the why, something happened that has never happened before.

Everything shut down. I’d call it strange, but there were days that it was downright frightening. I started finding excuses not to write, knowing exactly that was what I was doing while I was doing it. I dove back into video games. I read even more than I usually do. I brought out and reread stories and screenplays and poems from ten, fifteen, even twenty years ago. Material I only had hardcopy of I entered into the computer and saved in a folder titled “Beginnings.” I cleaned more than I cleaned in the previous twelve months. I cooked more than I cooked in the previous twelve months. I wrote less than I… well that doesn’t make much sense, but you know what I mean.

And it wasn’t just the novel I was avoiding. I tried playing around with these little things I call Snapshots, mainly, I think, because I was reading so much Lydia Davis back in January. I hoped they’d lead me to something more than just a quick vignette, but they never did. Nothing really held my interest. The only thing I was able to focus on, it seemed, was remaining utterly unfocused.

Six weeks of winter recess came and went, and not a single new page was written. Every night I’d go to bed cursing myself for not just buckling down and starting something new, anything new, and every morning I’d wake up and find new ways to avoid working on anything new. Worst of all, when my favorite word would start tingling in the back of my brain, I squashed it. I didn’t want to even think of the why that was behind my disinterest. And when school started back up at the end of January, it became even easier to avoid the writing.

But here I am, two months later, and slowly, ever so slowly the focus is coming back. I still haven’t let myself ask why, but I’m ok with that for now. Maybe my brain just needed to recharge. Maybe some of the ideas needed time to germinate a bit, and somehow, somewhere, I knew that without really knowing it. Either way, I don’t care anymore. It is what it is, it seems to be over, and it’s nice just to be writing again. I’m back to working on the novel, focusing on the structure first, working out mid-points and climaxes and the intersections of story lines. I’ve set aside my normal “pantster” ways and have become more of a plotter (and all my grad school professors cheer).

Eventually I’ll let myself ask why I’ve made this change to my writing style, but for now I’ll just go with it since it seems to be leading me in new directions. In the end, the only why I really care about is the one that revolves around my shutting down for almost four months. I didn’t like that feeling. Not. At. All.

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On Avatar and the Oscars

by Robb on March 13, 2010 · 0 comments

in Film, Reviews

I hate the Oscars. Even when I was acting, I hated the Oscars. Not the award itself, mind you, but the ceremony. It is tedious, pretentious, and a bunch of other iouses I don’t even want to get into. Ten, fifteen, even twenty years ago I had a recurring dream every spring in which I won one of those 8 lb. golden statues. I’d arrive via taxi at a backstage door just in time to run onstage, thank Mom and Dad and Grandma, and Agent Al, and Director Dan, and Writer Wendy, and Caterer Kate, and the taxi driver still parked outside, and the wino in the alley for turning his head away just before he puked, and then the Musical Director would save me and I’d run back outside to the cab and be done with the whole mess. I’d take the statue back home and put it on the mantle where it would be surrounded by a dozen or so other (far less shiny) trophies, medals, and certificates earned for various events, publications, or productions I have to struggle to recall with any kind of clarity.

Thankfully, I no longer have that dream. I don’t even think about the Oscars much, because, mainly, I don’t really care. I can’t afford to go to the movies anymore, so why should I care? I can’t afford the time or the financial investment. I’d wager I’ve averaged maybe three films a year over the past decade. Maybe. This year, Avatar was one of those films.

And I liked it. I enjoyed the time I spent in the theatre, and when it was over, I left and never really thought about the film again.

Fast forward to a few days before the Oscars, and the hallways at school are buzzing with anticipation and prediction. I hadn’t been paying attention to nominations, and when my students told me Avatar was nominated for Best Picture, I laughed and asked if they were serious.

Fast forward yet again to the day after the award ceremony. I watched perhaps 15 minutes of it the night before as I was getting ready for bed, and not a single award was handed out in that fifteen minutes (there were, however, 7 minutes of commercials, which is worse, even, than a NASCAR race on Fox). I’m talking with a friend who happens to be a huge Science Fiction fan, and she was outraged, outraged I tell you! that Avatar was snubbed for best picture and best director.

“Really” I asked. “But… the movie… well, the story… it kinda sucked.”

She couldn’t even speak. Oh, she tried. Her mouth was open and sort of fluttered, as if she had suddenly forgotten the proper lip-tongue-teeth positions for her plosives and fricatives. But she’s a friend, and I wanted to help her, so I continued.

Avatar is this decade’s Jurassic Park. It was gorgeous. It was stunning. The oh-my-god-did-you-SEE-THAT?? factor blew the roof off the theatre. And though I am far removed from the business these days, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if there were some fundamental changes made to the landscape of cinematic production, so I suppose I could see Cameron winning Best Director for pulling all that technology together, but Best Movie? Not a chance.”

“But you like science fiction,” she managed to say.

“Yup, I do. Hell, ever since I first saw Star Wars and Blade Runner in the theatre, SF has been my single favorite genre of film. But that doesn’t mean I overlook crap when it hits the screen. And while Avatar isn’t crap by any stretch of the imagination, without the technology behind it, that story never gets made into a movie. Because not only have we heard that story  told before, we’ve heard it told better.”

My friend hasn’t talked to me since. She’ll come around. She’ll have to. I have her pen.

So there you have it… my review of Avatar and the Oscars all rolled into one little (ok, maybe not so little) package. To summarize:

Avatar: A good piece of eye-candy that neglects to focus on any of the myriad of potential themes it introduces, which leaves it ultimately flat and forgettable.

Oscar: I hope they move this to Pay-Per-View so I don’t have to miss another episode of Extreme Makeover.

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Monopoly

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“If I hit forty,” she said as she shoved the thimble across the board, “and I’m still single, and you’re still single, too, let’s get married.” She laughed after she said it. He laughed after she said it. And they promised to never forget.
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It isn’t often that I start a book but not finish it. I’d much rather struggle through to the bitter end clinging to some vague hope that there will be a payoff in the end. In fact, I can only think of three books I abandoned partway through. Two I went back to and eventually [...]

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