Distraction

Apparently, it's no longer Halloween...

I realize I've been distracted lately. I started a new business. Raised my art to a whole new level. I'm having one hell of a time writing this novel. So maybe it's no wonder I'm not always entirely... present.

For instance, I forgot to renew my car registration. And I paid my last power bill late. Not for lack of money, just forgot.

Also, I failed to notice the wagons. Their colors were certainly bright enough, but I had that witchy pinup to do. At night, I was so tired I slept right through the violins, the dancing, and the strange, sad chanting of the Clans Dynamo.

Working my way through a thorny bit of dialogue, I wandered right past the Uncles Dynamo, Sergei and Volstov. Didn't even occur to me to wonder why they were throwing a goat.

Other people were running around buying presents. Carols were piped in on sound systems everywhere. I didn't notice, any more than I noticed the fire department's recent agitation or the night Mad Uncle Ludwig drew the lightning down to Castle Dynamo.

But now Great Aunt Agatha Dynamo is here. And there is no ignoring Great Aunt Agatha. If nothing else, the erratic beeping of her court-ordered ankle bracelet (a memento of the last Gathering of the Clan Dynamo) makes it difficult. As does the juggling. And that horrible thing she does with the horseshoe.

But the knives are the worst. She has dozens of them hidden in the folds of her dress, and she's a dead shot.

She keeps thumbing the edge of her favourite blade and chuckling softly to herself.

That's when it hit me: Christmas. Of course.

So now I'm off to bed to listen for the sound of reindeer hooves. It's that or stay awake and listen for the sounds of Aunt Agatha padding barefoot down the hall.

I hope the Clan like their gifts this year: I see myself giving wiper blade refills and pine tree deodorizers...

Oh dear.

Parties and Scenes

The secret to success in either:

Enter late. Leave Early.

You're sitting at your keyboard/typewriter/quill pen/whatever. Ready for the day's writing session. Carol suspects Bob's cheating. Something she found in his sock drawer, perhaps. At any rate, Carol is plenty mad.

Do you start writing....

A) When Carol opens Bob's sock drawer? Perhaps dutifully putting away his laundry, perhaps trying to teach Bob a lesson by shoving the dirty socks he leaves all over the house back in the drawer, or maybe just plain snooping?

B) With Carol, alone in their apartment, drinking and clenching her jaw as afternoon shadows slide across the wall?

C) With Bob entering the apartment, beige walls in the purple twilight, a dark and bristling shape in the center of the room?

D) Somewhere in the middle of dinner: a tense and silent meal punctuated by the clicking of fork on plate?

The only right answer is, as late as possible.

In part, that depends a little on Bob's fidelity. If he's an innocent man accused, you'll want to spend more time building up Carol's fury. We'll get a bigger charge when it's cleared up. Or isn't. Comedy or tragedy, I'd probably start with (B).

If Bob's a cheating dog finally exposed, the emotional flashpoint will be the revelation and Carol's aftermath. Depending on Carol's character (tempestuous or calculating), I'd go (C) or (D).

Notice I wouldn't choose (A). We don't need that setup. If how Carol finds the MacGuffin in Bob's sock drawer is important, let's bring it out in dialogue. After all, innocent or guilty, you can bet Bob will fire back with a few counteraccusations of his own.

Or will he? It's your story.

Do we leave the scene on...

(A) Bob's initial reaction?

(B) That loud slamming door?

(C) Bob's long and lonely night on the couch?

(D) Carol's first breakfast alone in the apartment and the painful, silent hole of Bob's absence?

Again, depends. If Bob's guilty as hell, or Carol just won't believe him, take (A). Yes, that's one very short scene, maybe only a few lines. Bob comes home. Carol's standing there with the McGuffin. Bob's jaw drops open. Carol sees his face and knows.

Notice I used entry (C) there? Part of that is, I'm pretty straight-ahead myself. I understand direct confrontation better than keeping my wrath bottled until halfway through dinner. If Carol is the type to do that, well, that's another story...

But if there's still some hope for this fight, if Carol kind of secretly hopes Bob has a good explanation, or Bob desperately believes his lies might work, or if the MacGuffin that's come out isn't the one Bob *really* fears, we need to stay. We need to stay with that fight.

But AS SOON AS Bob or Carol has what they need from the scene, we. Are. Out of there! No need to stay all the way through the last bitter insult.

For that matter, our entire story should be joined as late as possible, and left as early as practical. The Lord of the Rings has been done; we don't need any more 200+ page denouments.

It works for parties, too. Last night was a Gathering of Clan Dynamo, in celebration of the birthday of Papa Dynamo. A little late, we missed the ceremonial goat-throwing.

And after Elderly Aunt Agatha Dynamo drank that third shandy and decided it would be fun to lift that police car, we knew it was time to go!

A Dynamo Christmas

The first draft is wrapped. The second pass is coming along. Those pre-Christmas tattoos and piercing have all been needled. The house is clean and the fridge is full. I am very, *very* tired.

Tomorrow, the mighty members of Clan Dynamo shall descend upon our humble home. Papa Dynamo will be full of Christmas Cheer, and this year little brother SamBam Dynamo has decided to forego his traditional Christmas Hangover. I'm going to miss that green-gray color.

Black sheep of the family Angus Dynamo will be there, along with the Mysterious Reason he's a black sheep. It's entirely possible the Mysterious Reason will be full of a different kind of Christmas Cheer altogether, and may be found wrestling the cops on the lawn. If we're lucky, Elderly Great Aunt Agatha Dynamo will lift a car.

Not a large car, mind you. She *is* a startlingly old woman. A Toyota Starlet perhaps, or a Volkswagon Passat.

In the Dynamo Christmas Tradition, I shall be called up on to play some variety of sport involving nets and rackets.

I shall, of course, be humiliated.

Any member of Clan Dynamo, handed a racket, becomes inhumanly fast. Staggeringly, blindingly, Keanu-Reeves-in-The-Matrix-you-know-the-first-one-at-the-end-where-he's-all-like-whoa!-and-we're-all-like-DUDE!-and-he's-really-quick?--Yeah-like-THAT-fast!

I've been 'practicing' against the Tiny Dynamo. It's like facing a cloud of leprechuans. In fact, I'm pretty sure she has some sort of quantum tunneling effect going on. Like, she's *potentially* anywhere and therefore is *partially* everywhere. Until the ball comes near her. Then she's very, VERY definitely in the one place. I have scars.

This year, I'm giving the Tiny Dynamo a Christmas present that just might give me an edge.

Wait til she unwraps her new racket.

It's cast-iron.

Getting My Thanks On

Woohoo, Thanksgiving morning! My first in ten years...

Bought the turkey yesterday, should be about defrosted now. Even found cranberry sauce!

New Zealand simply does not get this Thanksgiving idea. Of course, they don't get Rammadan or Passover either, probably or the same reasons.

The turkey: Biggest turkey I could find was 14lbs. That one was $90. I settled for an 11lb. bird for $60. The Tiny Dynamo was spitting tacks.

Cranberries: Apparently only grow in America. Or something. One market in the city center carried some jars of Ocean Spray. I snapped up what I needed.

Pumpkin Pie: Canned pumpkin? What's that? Why on earth would anyone want a can of pureed pumpkin? For pie? That's just wrong. Sick and wrong!

I boiled and mashed and blended my own damn pumpkin and made my pie last night. Yup, I'm a night-before dessert guy, always have been...

And of course, celebrating the autumn harvest on a sunny summer's day (think early or mid-June) doesn't help, either!

But enough ranting. I'm having a BLAST!

I do love cooking, much to the Tiny Dynamo's surprise. Thing is, I lack her flair and artistry in the kitchen. That and my 'risk tolerant' personality have barred me from cooking for her!

It's a *great* day out here, and we might get up into the hills for a walk in the woods.

Later tonight, a few members of Clan Dynamo will gather to share the bounty.

And every day I am thinkful for the many blessings in my life. It's a chain of minor miracles and bold actions that brought me to this time and place, and I'm grateful for every single one of them. My life right now is paradise.

Official More-Daily-Than-Usual

Wordcount-o-Meter:

40,066 words

Zipping right along!

MwaHaHaHa Haaaaaa

The moment is at hand. And thanks to a certain gentle advantage of global time zones, the moment comes at 11am Saturday morning, so there's no keeping me up past my bedtime!

Harry is here.

I'm offline for the weekend, just in case some goofball inadvertently spoils it for me.

Meantime, I'm putting the internet up here on this high shelf. Nobody break it while I'm gone.

Butler will be watching...

The Foundling

Ladies and Gentlemen, allow me to introduce an unplanned but much-loved new arrival...

Mister Butler Dynamo.

(He's smaller than my hand!)

Midge, the established doyen and Mistress of All She Surveys, is less than enthused.

One hopes she'll get over it.

That Twisting Urge

95,000 words

Good Friday with Clan Dynamo was much fun. Jotted 1000 words-ish in a note pad at odd moments. It did occur to me that my tennis game would probably improve if I didn't stop in the middle of the action to get down a couple lines of dialogue.

I have a real urge to tell stories. Probably no surprise given I'm writing a first draft in three months, but there you are. Although I've only been 'writing' a couple of years, that urge has been there all along.

Waaaaaaaaaaayyyyy back in my sidetracked twenties, I was the World's Greatest Dinner Guest. My jokes and stories were in great demand (great advice for any starving artist: make people want to feed you), as my various hosts knew that they would laugh, cry, tremble in terror, laugh until they cried, tremble until they laughed, whatever. I made it all up on the spot, or took bits out of my life and put the appropriate spin on them as the mood demanded. It was all about moving my audience in the moment. I was That Guy.

Back then of course, I didn't write. I was tattooing and painting and living as fast as I could (Full Throttle and Fuck It is more than just a writing style...), and those dinners (and picnics, pub nights, bong sessions, coffees, etc.) were the only way that urge could claw its way out of my skin.

I gradually realized I wasn't getting any younger, and the urge twisted. I got serious about my comics, and as is the way with me, turned the machine all the way up to eleven and snapped off the lever.

And completely lost the ability to tell a decent story. Old friends would meet me for dinner and say, "Tell the one about the vomiting Egyptian," or "What about that guy who took off his pants." Half the time, I couldn't even remember how they went. I'd fall back on a joke about two nuns and a cheese grater instead.

Then maybe three years ago or so, I was doing so much comics illustration that I didn't have the time to write comics anymore. Drawing a page, mine or anyone else's, takes maybe six or eight hours. Easy to see why I couldn't do both.

The urge twisted again.

I started writing fiction. Just a little, in a notebook. Then a novel on a typewriter. THen another on a laptop. Then--

Well, I can't tell a joke now to save my life. That storytelling urge is so used up in my work that I fuck up punchlines, stumble over the order of events, you name it.

I've become This Guy: "And these two guys, wait, I forgot. They're not guys, they're girls, and, um, I think, yeah,, that's right, they're nuns..."

Train wrecks, every one. These days people still laugh, but we all know it's at how badly I tell the joke, not the joke itself.

Back in the sidetracked days I used to be with a junkie stripper who fancied herself a writer. Except that she always had a thousand excuses why she couldn't write just at the moment. She could only write on a computer, she said. She wanted to get a bit more life experience, she said. Work took too much out of her, she said.

When she overdosed, she didn't even leave behind a diary. All our friends were puzzled, but I wasn't surprised. She was so afraid of herself and the pain she carried that she'd rather go numb than face it and let the stories come.

Me, I figure my stories would want out if all I had was a circle of faces around a campfire. A medium (printed word) that brings a wider audience? Icing on the cake.

Just a Quick One Then

92,000 words

Little bit of lost time in there. The Tiny Dynamo and I went on a mini-break to sunny, beautiful and amazing Kaikoura.

Seriously, when not underwater, it's an awesome place to spend a couple of days. You can go out whale-watching (they come close enough to touch sometimes!) , swim with dolphins and seals, do bush walks full of rare native bird life, and the views are stunning.

Except, of course, when it's rolling gray mist in every direction.

So we had a bad tourist lunch at what used to be a nice place, had good beer at a South Island pub chain and lost a couple of bucks playing the pokies. Video slot machines are okay and all, but I don't see the I-played-them-so much-I-lost-my-home thing.

Instead of staying over, we came back home.

The loudest sound in the house was our teeth gnashing.

I'll blog again for real soon, but today I've got lunch and (shudder) more tennis at Castle Dynamo. At least many, many members of Clan Dynamo will be there. I might stand a chance against some of the more elderly ones.

Who'm I kidding? They're all so small and darty. Great, great uncle Horace Dynamo, with his walker and oxygen mask, would beat me...