Talking Shop part 2

         Writing is organized ramblings. Or, at the very least, can feel that way when the train starts running away from your grip, the rail ahead is out and the mechanical beast is racing towards a path not quite suitable. I've heard from more than a handful of well known authors, handful lesser known, how ideas begin, how they nurture them, and ultimately how they end them. My method is not too far off that table, ignoring, if you will, that LNFW took 3 drafts, 5 full read thru edits (the fifth being, essentially, another draft), and then a, how you say, spruce up.

         The "spruce up" draft is a course correction. See, it took me this long to realize my biggest fault. I censor myself. A nice gift if you're out dining on fancy cuisine, mingling with the upper class, attempting at high brow sophistication, but writing, this kind of writing, is none of those. I had to free myself from the cage that I thought was necessary; another little gift Mr. Jericho and the cast of LNFW have bestowed upon me. This is probably about the time I lose my audience as the echoes tend to drift in and out of focus:

         "So? You're uncensored? What does that even mean?"

         To me, it now means everything, for before I was simply a narrator, a yes man in the crowd, a sculptor trying to create a big gray box out of big gray clay; I was ineffective at portraying anything beyond what happened. [Redacted for later date]

         Think of it like this, you never remember, word for word, the story your friends tell you; you remember how they explain it, gesticulating like mad men or as caricatures of the Italians; you know why its funny or sad because you know them, as individuals, as layers of experience or lack thereof; and you sit there, nodding your head, waiting to see where this all goes, and then, nothing. Style isn't everything, if the punchline ultimately revolves around how your buddy stuck a hot dog up his own ass; it's not very funny, not very pleasant.

         That's why, to me, an ending is everything. But you cannot have a strong ending without a strong beginning. And you cannot have a strong story without strong characters. Trying to find the line between good and bad is a tough one, then trying to find a way to straddle both sides as not to create black and white scenarios takes the utmost time and care. I don't know yet if I've mastered this subject. But the snow-flaking I've done in LNFW has blurred some lines, for better or for worse.  

         I've done a lot of talking about Late Night Flame War as if anyone on this blog knows even a smidgen of information. I apologize for that, I'm a terrible synopsis writer.

        I will, however, try to offer a bit more info on the subject in the coming days, for now though, I hope my increased communication has offered a little insight into the ways I've changed up the game (so to speak). My game, that is, not writing in general as I try and follow most grammatical structure. Though I no longer constrict myself strictly to any Strunk and White's philosophy, as it's a tether that chokes rather than blossoms.


       
         Your future rambler,
         Rossini

Eff that, let's talk shop.

    No, I am not dead. No, I am not a deadbeat writer. And no, I do not like stringing you... well... along. Although technically that is the job of a writer. Build ideas, build sentences, paragraphs, chapters, build character (that's a big one), build an infrastructure, lay some traps, then watch as the hapless little mice roam to their deaths. Oh yeah, and you gotta create some suspense. Conflict everything with everything, sprinkle nonsensical illusions with abstract thinking, LOGICALLY, then you run. As far and as fast as you can. Just run, don't look back, I can tell you what's back there.

   I imagine by now you really want to know. What is back there Rossini? Is it a monster capable of  tearing me limb to limb in the matter of blinks? Or is it nothing like it always is? Nothing but the blank blackboard of all's perdition led around by the noose with a taut hand clutching a ruler the size of a lamppost. Boy howdy is it. See, there are two similarities I've found nestled between LNFW and AVW, you want to know what they are in big bold words?

   Effing Doubt.  

    It's amazing how crippling fear can be, this coming from a man who's fear consists mainly of getting clipped by domestic cats, and sometimes cyclists. Pain I don't actually care about, it's the mess and the messed time that absolutely screws with me the most. Lose an hour, fine, lose a day, **** you, cause my rhythm is gone. And mind you, I've read up and down, and sometimes sideways, those pesky little self-help books.

      Just write, mother ****er

      Al Davis was right when he said: "Just win, baby". Right because winning solves all sorts of problems. The very same as "just write, mother****er" because in the end you'll never win a knife fight with doubt; all you can hope to do is out-write it and hope for the best.

      The good news? Very, very soon (which I mean this time) I will be sending a revised draft into Amazon, post some chapters here, and we'll see how bad I actually did.



Fingers crossed,
Rossini



Oh and sorry for the 2012 drop off. If I can, I will try updating/reviewing again.