Lukewarm Hotdogs... (Part II)

Marc was in a dead end job as an underwriter with a local insurance business.  He would sit at his desk day dream the most amazing stories.  Sometimes they were so elaborate and long that if he could manage to work less than a few minutes a day, spending the rest of it in a hypnotic daze imagining the wonders of India, or the mysteries of Sherlock Holmes.  After several years he started writing down his day dreams and found that they were entertaining.  He’d show them to his wife and some to his friends and they enjoyed his writing.  Before he wrote down a story, though, he had a ritual.  He would sit at his type writer and type whatever came to his brain.  He was a pretty fast typist and sometimes this helped him gather his thoughts, keeping it organized, so he could reference it later. 

 

This unbelievably awkward looking man stunned Marc and he knew that he would be the epicenter of a perfect story.  He couldn’t wait to come up with a plot but he needed to go through his ritual and let his brain dump out whatever it was that it wanted to say.  After arriving at home from the airport and rushing through a take out dinner in four and half minutes flat he ran upstairs and loaded his typewriter with a clean blank sheet ready for his story.

 

Modern day…

 

James Bailey started his job as night manager of the South Dakota All-Stars minor league football arena…

 

The story shouldn’t be told here, this is how we will come up with the story, so who knows what the guy’s name is.

 

But we are going to put him in a situation where he needs to meet the most pathetic man in the world.  That’s what we need him to do!  This most pathetic man who I desperately want to write about is one whom you can’t look away from.  Just stealing one look at him will burn his image in your mind’s eye forever. 

 

Not the kind of pathetic that has someone on the city streets dumpster diving but that kind of pathetic that only a rich American can appreciate.  The pathetic man that has no style.  No style is what we find most pathetic.  Why?  Maybe because we try so hard for our style.  Why do we try for style?  We want to be accepted.  We want to be loved, to have sex.  To procreate!  So this single man’s departure from style has in effect made us all realize that while this man has the ways and means to join the group, be loved and procreate he chooses not to.  This goes against our very understanding and beliefs in logic.  We must look and must remember because this can not actually be happening.  No, no that’s cheesy, keep going, what else…

 

We then jump to the first and foremost obvious conclusion about men with no style that have the ways and means to achieve it.  They must be mentally retarded, or in some way mentally hindered by some schizophrenia or bi-polar disorder that prevents them from understanding reality.  The reality that we, as humans, were meant to form groups.   To love and be loved, to have sex and procreate.  Have I made that part clear?

 

So this story is not about the man with no style but how the man with no style affects our average Joe.  Our James Bailey who started his job as the night manager of the South Dakota All-Stars minor league football arena! 

 

What’s a man with no style doing at this arena?  Well, he for some reason has the deep and ingrained love for the team.  He’s followed them since his childhood and has made an effort to actually sleep in the stadium.  Kind of Rudy like!  He goes to games and he also has an obsession with hot dogs.  So he loves eating the hot dogs at the games, so much so that he will stuff himself up through his own esophagus with hot dogs. After the games he wanders the bleachers looking for the left over hot dog remains of fans who couldn’t finish the hot and tasty treat.  He even loves them cold or lukewarm as they seem to come after the game.  Their fatty grease flows a little slower off his lips when he bites into them and he actually enjoys that feeling a little more. 

 

Did he actually have a conscience?  Would he look around before picking up the morsel?  Did he EVER have a conscience for that matter?  Did he know the terrible importance of style and what it means to our very society?  It is the very reason we are!  It is what binds us like a common language.  Deviating from it means you are somehow against humanity!  Even those that differed did so in groups. The punks, the mods, the beatnicks.  All of them in groups together leaving the larger group. 

 

But this man

Out on his island alone. 

With no knowledge of the patterns evolving from the larger herd, or perhaps complete knowledge, follows only his own drum. 

 

At first he’s disgusting, then inspiring, and finally we find ourselves looking right back inwardly and realizing that we are the pathetic ones.  We are so pathetic as to follow the styles and patterns around us because deviating from it might make life difficult?  Maybe?  It’s hard to say what deviating from it really would do.  What would it do?!

 

What would it do?

 

~--------------~

Part III: Marc, decides to find out just what it would do!

Coming Next Week!

Lukewarm Hotdogs and the Man with No Style (Part I)

Lukewarm Hotdogs and the Man with No Style

Part I

Marcus Trentworthy and his family made it to Gate 21 at Houston Hobby Airport on their way back home from Christmas with his in-laws.  His daughter Jeanette sat down first and immediately pulled out her new DS and was lost in a daze of video games.  Kim fondled through her purse as she sat down looking for her compact.

Marcus sat between them, on the black vinyl chair, and realizing he had everything in place to go home, thought the last calm and serine thought he would have for some time.

At first it was a glance.

“Who is that?”  He thought to himself.  Marc did not say anything and looked down at his pants.  He raised his eyes again and looked towards the windows of the gate.  Sitting in a similar vinyl chair 20 feet away, peering off into the runway was something shocking.

He looked down once more at his pants and raising his eyebrows and blinking his eyes he tried to shake it off.  That feeling.  Oh, that feeling was coming on strong.  The feeling that he absolutely had to stare.  He had to stare at this man.

He raised his eyes again and stared, and his brain began to analyze.

The man sitting down against the window was wearing the most incredible outfit.  Starting from his feet, he had on no socks and one dress shoe.  The other foot was covered in a paper bag and appeared to be barefoot.  It was held on by a pink fluffly scrunchy.  He had on a bright pink warm-ups with a smear of, hopefully, mud down one side.  They must’ve been too big for him so he hiked them up around his, protruding stomach. 

“Oh he’s standing up, good Lord!” Marc thought to himself.  The anomaly stood up and looking around walked closer to the window and put his hands on his hips.

The man was bloated to a point of looking pregnant and his pink warm ups said, LOVE on his butt which, despite the size of his rotund belly was the size of a large orange.  Tucked into this man’s pink warm ups was a Rodeo-style cowboy shirt, pressed with neat creases down his arms and complete with an obnoxious rhinestone outline of the State of Texas.

His hair was a mess and his beard was coming in patchy, awkwardly longer than a shadow, and glistening with sweat along his upper lip, which was short and seemed to curl up under his nose.  He was chewing gum, most likely, and with each bite his upper lip would drop and curl back up to his nose, with his whole jaw jutting forward, reminding mark of a baby animal sucking on a teat.

“Honey, did you hear me?” Kim, Marc’s wife, leaned in. 

“Huh?  What?”  He shook his head but couldn’t look away.

“Honey, what are you staring at?”

“I, uh, nothing, nothing.  What did you ask?”  He turned his head so it was facing hers but his eyes stayed locked on the man.

“I asked if you wouldn’t mind if Jeanie and I went and got some ice cream.”  She leaned in closer and whispered, “Marc I see you staring at that poor man and you are not setting a good example for Jeanette.”

“No, no I wasn’t, I mean, yeah, ice cream.  Go for it.”  Marc shook his head, blinked his eyes and smiled at his wife.  As they walked off, Kim shot Marc a ‘get-your-act-straight’ look and he waited what seemed like a lifetime for them to turn the corner towards the ice cream shop. 

As soon as they turned he whipped his head back to see the man now sitting in front of him, close enough to lean over and touch.

“Shit!”  Marc yelped in a high pitched voice.  Marc slapped his mouth and the woman sitting next to the awkwardly dressed man clapped her hands around her son’s ears.  The young man smiled and chanted, “Shit! Shit! Shit!”  She picked him up and carried him off around the corner where he would latter be heard crying.

The awkward man did not notice Marc’s faux pas.  He had head phones on.  Marc’s heart jumped but settled as he realized the man’s eyes were closed as well.  On his lap was a 1990’s style CD player, and a CD case of what looked like Jeff Foxworthy’s greatest hits.

Marc leaned forward, with one eye on the man’s eyes and another on his lap.

“Yep, Jeff Foxworthy.” Marc thought to himself.

Cuddled up next to the man between his skinny ass and the arm of the chair was a bag of batteries.  Not just any bag though, a gallon sized bag.  And it was full too, bursting like the man’s porcine stomach, with AA batteries.

“Stop looking Marc.  This poor man must be handicapped.  You should be ashamed.”  He chided himself

Marc felt terrible for staring and sorry for the handicapped man and managed to shake his need to stare. 

“Sir, excuse me, sir?” Marc’s heart jumped, his head stayed looking at his crotch.  “Sir, excuse me?” 

Marc looked up, and the awkward man had taken off his head phones and was looking directly at him.

“Sir, do you happen to have a pen on you?”  The awkward man spoke perfect flawless English with a non-regional accent and he looked Marc right in the eyes as he said it.  His mouth then closed and began its teat sucking motion again.

“Um, uh, yeah.” Marc didn’t have the guts to look him in the eyes and kept looking down at the ground as he fumbled for the pen in his jacket pocket.  Marc handed him the pen.   The man rolled up his left sleeve and wrote ‘Q&A with Barbara, 8:30’ on the inside of his wrist.

“Thanks very much.” He handed the pen back.

“No, no, problem.” Marc’s hand shook a bit as he grabbed the pen and it dropped to the carpet.  “Oh excuse me.”  Marc picked up the pen and stood up walking away from the gate towards the restroom. 

“He’s not handicapped at all!” Marc thought to himself, splashing water on his face.  “Why is this man in my head?  Just move on, Marc.  He’s dressed silly, so what?”

When he returned to the gate the man was gone.  Nowhere to be seen!  Marc looked everywhere and reluctantly boarded the flight stealing looks back up the jetway as he entered the plane and flew home. 

~--------------~

Part II: Marc’s life changes dramatically, all because of this one awkward man.

 

The Third Draft Begins -or- Feeling Sisyphean

Today I started the third draft of The Fraternity of Greed and I'm quite well aware at this point that the Third Draft is the most important and probably most demanding with regards to personal critique as well as artistic creativity.  Too bad I'm a Math guy, but I see the logic in the process at least.  Like I said before, the third draft, using the metaphor of a car renovation is where most of the real work is done.  The first draft just ensures that the car drives, then the third draft is where anything and everything that is old is thrown away and replaced with beautiful shiny new parts.  The car is reborn at this point.

So considering it took me a solid 3 months to do the second draft (including my month off), I'm hoping I can do this in the same amount of time.  As the title suggests I'm feeling a bit like Sisyphus with his boulder right now.



So with that though I do have to give a shout out to Marette Myers (my mother in law) and Michael Miles (my good friend) who took the time to give me the fodder to really tackle the third draft well.  Mike went so far as to request a meeting at the Downing Street Pub referred to in the novel so that he could tell me his ideas on the plot.  And, let me tell you they were great ideas.  (I'm not saying I'll do all of them, Mike, but you definitely had some great stuff).

And Marette, ever the logical minded like myself, found several characters acting in ways that didn't make a great deal of sense considering their assumed backgrounds and of course she found several Deus Ex Machina moments for me to try and deal with.  For those of you that don't know, I've recently learned as well, Deus Ex Machina, or the "God out of the Machine" is a moment in the plot when something is resolved or problem is created because of an unexpected addition to the story.  Take this, as an example, if you are a fan of the show House, like I am, you know doubt remember when the show first started that it was completely reasonable to predict the final diagnosis based on the symptoms the patient presented.  Now that the show has run its course, the writers are forced to throw last minute twists 10 minutes before the end of the show that reveal the diagnosis conveniently to Dr. House and much to my egotistical frustration faster than I can figure out.

So, to prevent my readers from humbling frustrations and to provide them with a plot worth remembering I will go about my quest for the every important third draft.  I take a swig of my bourbon rocks, fire open Microsoft Word, give a high five to my buddy Sisyphus (who wishes he had a bourbon straight up I think) and get to work.

Extended Stay

The editing of Fraternity of Greed continues and in the interim I'm continuing to keep my chops up with short stories.  I just published this last weekend Extended Stay to Amazon for the Kindle.  While I certainly didn't break the bank with downloads of Massacre in the Suburbs, it's nice to able to get something out and available to the public for critique quickly and easily. 



I just wanted to take a second to talk about the writing process for Extended Stay since it was different from Massacre in the Suburbs.  I took a page from Stephen King's advice on writing that the first draft of writing should be completely private.  It's very difficult, especially when you finish a good passage or come up with something you're particularly proud of not to share it with everyone, but I found that keeping the story to myself helped keep me on track.  I then opened up the story to editing help to friends and family close to me and found that it was much more useful.  In fact, three of the editors noted the same plot issue which I had overlooked and was able to correct. 

Starting the story was interesting though.  If you search down on the blog you'll find an entry entitled Extended Stay.  It was simply just a creative ramble I did one night when I needed to write.  I posted it on this blog and several folks said reading it made them want to know more about the narrator.  I then took that little snip of a story, turned it into a letter and built a character and plot around it.  The final product is quirky and weird making you scratch your head but I kind of like that result.  It added depth to the character which was hard to do in 15 or so pages.

Finally the picture I used for the "cover" if you can really call it a cover, since it is for Kindle, is a picture I took of the inside of a wine bottle, looking into the neck while I pointed the bottle at a nearby light.  The result is a kind of sick overwhelming feeling, that I think really defines the agoraphobia the main character feels. 

If you feel like purchasing it, go to Amazon: Extended Stay and purchase for .99 cents!  Not too bad for about 30 minutes of entertainment in my opinion.  You can also head to my Author page at Amazon: Jeff Shipp to see short stories as I publish them or posts from this blog as well.

The Hunt for a Salesman

During the editing process I've decided I should start the agent hunting process as well.  I didn't realize all that was involved in publishing a novel prior to getting started but it seems like everyone understands that getting published is no small feat.  Added to this mix is the new world of self publishing.  Aspiring writers can convert their documents to Kindle format and let Amazon pump it out electronically.  Authors can get up to 70% commission but if you get 70% commission off 10 purchases it probably isn't going to replace your day job.  I gave this an effort to see how difficult it was by publishing my short story Massacre in the Suburbs on Amazon for Kindle.  It was a breeze to get this far but I've found that advertising after publishing is futile at best. I've now come to appreciate what a publishing house does for an author. 



I'm not sure if I have copyright ability with this picture but Ari Gold is exactly what I need.  I need a salesman.  Someone who can take my work and track down the big publishing house and convince them that they'd be foolish not to back what is clearly going to be the next Liars Poker.  Arrogance aside, sometimes I say that in the mirror to make myself feel better about the long process, and I really wish I could find a talented dude or lady who could say it for me instead!

So today I started the Agent search.  I found a lot of great information on how to write a Query Letter which is a short, one page, document that describes who I am and what my book is about.  Then I found some online listings where I can go through and check out agents and see what they are good at selling to publishers.  I certainly don't want an agent who can't sell fiction but loves selling parenting how to novels.  Once I narrowed down the search, I still had a ton of agents to go through and each wants their query letter in a particular format, emailed usually, with certain words in the subject line and 10 pages of text from the novel.  The list goes on but today I've sent out my first 4 query letters.  I even got one rejection email back, but it was written so sweetly I couldn't care less. 

Restoration

I'm half way through with the second draft of Fraternity of Greed and I've noticed that this first run of editing isn't going to suffice for a complete job.  I find myself just deleting adverbs and fixing grammar and spelling errors. I thought about it longer and it became clear that editing a first draft of a novel is like restoring an old car.  I have never restored a car but I imagine the process makes a lot of logical sense.  Most of the process can be summed up in two or three major steps. 

The first step is to make sure the car is fully functional and involves going through the vehicle to find which of the original parts work well and which need replacing.  This first run through Fraternity of Greed feels very utilitarian like that first step in car restoration; going through and replacing hoses, spark plugs and air filters; double checking transmissions and belts to make sure that the car can still drive or in my case, the novel is readable.



The second step is more aesthetic than utilitarian.  The car now drives but looks old and needs some body work.  Checking for exterior dents or replacing seats and the steering wheel really turns a junker into a reasonable automobile.  Once the second draft of Fraternity of Greed is ready I will go through the novel and check for tone and pace problems.  Ironing out these grand issues make the novel much more readable, much like the first edit, but also can dramatically increase the aesthetics of the novel.

Finally, the car needs to be detailed with a new paint job and a thorough wash and wax.  The tires are shined and any chrome is polished.  The third draft of Fraternity of Greed will go into this process and will be completed in many ways but a final look for symbolism and word choice will make the novel "pop".

Hemingway's Style

Before I started the first draft I had a particular style in mind that I was hoping to emulate. As I read Hemingway's final book (published postmortem) "True at First Light," I noticed he used a very particular writing style to move the reader through the novel.  In scenes of the book that he felt were particularly important he used almost all dialogue.  Very occasionally description would fall between the dialogue but just to show the addition or leaving of characters from the scene, almost like stage direction.  When the scene was over Hemingway would switch to prose to move time along quickly and get to the next important scene.  What was very interesting was the length of his prose and dialogue was usually very consistent.  He would, for example, write one page of prose to get the characters to the next day, then two pages of dialogue for a very important scene when they are about to go hunting.  He would then switch back to prose for one page to get the hunters out to the kill and two pages of prose for them to talk about the act of the hunt.



As I got about the editing process, I want to focus not only on the gramatical changes but on the flow of the book.  Very often in the first draft you can tell if I, the author, am in a good mood when I'm writing or in a bad mood. You can also tell if I'm chatty or short.  I need to find a consistant voice across the length of the book so the reader forgets that it's my voice speaking and begins to feel like it is theirs.

Editing A Novel Day 1 - Cluttered Minds

Today, October 1st 2010 is the first day of editing my novel Fraternity of Greed.  I've never edited a novel before and I remember the pain and anguish of editing papers 1/100th in size in school and know that this task is going to be gargantuan.  Essentially, I am going to have to take this cluttered work that spat out of my head last summer and organize it into something elegant and also potentially publishable.  As I thought about this at my desk earlier I took a look down and realized that if the editing process needed a good simile it was already right in front of me with my cluttered desk.



They say that cleanliness is next to godliness and clearly I'm more human than most, thus cleaning my desk sometimes feels like an insurmountable task.  About every month or so, I go through and put everything in its right place and while the task is Sisyphean it is none-the-less rewarding.  One step at a time, I go through each area of the desk and either throw away the unnecessary or find an appropriate spot for organization. After a just a few minutes I already feel rewarded as clean "areas" begin to appear and grow.  Before long the areas overlap into bigger swatches of cleanliness and finally in a couple of hours I'm done and wonder why I waited so long to start the process in the first place.

As I start editing FoG (Fraternity of Greed), I'm going to keep a little web log for anyone the feels like following along as someone with cursory writing talent at best attempts to turn a promising piece of work into a publishable one.  For those that don't know I'm actually a math major by training and in the world of finance so my brain is beating to a different drum that most writers I assume but I feel compelled towards writing and that's what has brought me to this point.  I finished my first draft one month ago on August 31st and at the advice of Stephen King "On Writing" I took some time away from the novel to "forget" about it and hopefully will find it easier to edit now that it will not be so fresh in my mind.

So without further ado, I am opening up my first draft, printing it, and getting started.  Hopefully the process is more fruitful and less Sisyphean than cleaning the chaos that is my desk.

Technorati Tags: Editing, Novel, Fraternity of Greed, Clenliness, Day 1

Poem: God's Beach

Walking heavily through the sand,
The feet below me, heels below toes,
Betray my strength.

The suns beats down like in Houston.
Washing out all color,
Like a torturous metal slide burning
Angel thighs as they slide
Down from heaven.

The palms are white and look
Like 30 foot dandelions for the angels
To blow away.

Like some self absorbed lizard
I crawl through this playground of God's
Scaring the children as they look at me
In awe and confusion.

Haiku: The Lions on the Beach

Hemingway you ghost!
The lions on the beach are
your rattling chains.

Beyond

We pursue our own interests.
We are capitalist and happy.
We work from 9 to 5 and die
after 65, because we are no longer

needed. What are we but nearsighted?
Do you think you care about
people you can’t see or those
you don’t know? No. We do not shout

at those in power because we
believe we are in heaven,
but man is deeply evil and believes he is good.
If a man is elected to lead

he can still be evil and believe he is good.
He peruses his own interests. He is nearsighted;
delusional bad apple spoiling.
Don’t join the system.

Cheat the game and make millions only
to give it away. Make your life and
give it away. Truly love those you can’t see,
only then will you break free and see truth.

The only life worth leading
is the life driven to seeing
beyond this idyllic snow globe
and loving those we don’t know

A Letter to Brian Greene

Dr. Greene,

I'm currently reading your book, Fabric of the Cosmos and I would like to first state that I am big fan and I am truly enjoying the read!  I am just now reading your chapter on the multiple dimensions necessary for string theory and you made a statement that I wanted to comment on.  In your description of how to "visualize" multiple dimensions you say that it's pretty difficult to visualize 6 dimensions and you haven't met anyone who could.

Well I certainly don't claim to, but I had to laugh a little bit because when I was a Freshman math major at Trinity University in San Antonio in 2001, I was taking basic undergraduate linear algebra and was floored by the idea that I couldn't visualize the inputs of my equations when they were bigger than 4 dimensions.  I then thought about it a little more and I wrote my professor at the time Dr. Chapman a memo on how I imagined different dimensions higher than 3 or 4.

Assumption:  Clearly, we live in a world of 3 visible spatial dimensions and 1 time dimension.  Since man has taught History I'm pretty sure we have used the concept of a "time-line" to describe the changing of our 3 spatial dimensions across time.  By doing so we took the mathematical R3 and converted its "infinite" size to an infinitesimal point and simply gave the point a "nudge" in the direction of time and the time-line was drawn.  My assumption was that any time we were in an infinite 3 spatial dimension space we could then, for the purposes of visualization convert that space into an infinitesimal point. 

Induction:  I don't claim this to be a proof by induction but just the method at which I used to visualize higher dimensions.  Once you shrunk the infinite world to the size of a point and struck it you drew a line.  This was R4 and if you struck that line (much like a guitar string) it would vibrate showing you the 5th dimension or R5.  You could imagine this as different possible futures (maybe even your multiverse picture).  If you have now a membrane in that is R5, you can imagine that much like a drum and when you strike it, it vibrates like a drum showing you the 6th (R6) dimension or a new infinite space with 3 spatial dimensions within which each point represented a snapshot of our 3 dimensional space.  So continuing on you can quickly see that R6 can then via the assumption be shrunk down to a point and the process repeated.  Continuing you would see the pattern that dimensions that can be written as R(3n) where n is a whole number are "spaces" and by assumption equivalently points, R(3n+1) are lines similar to our time line, and R(3n+2) are membranes or planes.

Now this is for whole numbers of n.  Clearly there exists a R(0) which is the infinitesimal points in our world.  Since it can be written R(3n) is can then be assumed to also be an infinite space.  Inside this space we can then start going backwards using n as negative integers.  R(-1) is equivalent to R(3n+2) where n = -1.  So it is a membrane.  Further down is R(-2) which can be written R(3n+1) where n = -1 so R(-2) is a line and lastly R(3n) where n = -1 is a point in that space.  Now you can then use this method of "visualization" just as I did in Linear Algebra to try to imagine what different dimensions "look" like.  Clearly, this is only for the purposes of helping my 18 year-old self get through my freshman year, but I thought that now you could at least say you've met someone who tried to visualize not only 6 dimensions below ours but "n" dimensions above and below our ours.

I know you're a busy man and I don't want to take any more of your time, but thank you again for writing your book and keep up the good work, and with that I'll leave you with a poem your book has inspired.

I have written a beautiful proof
String theory is true!  No goof!
The letters are quite small
Plancnk's constant they are tall
Just trust me, I'm telling the truth.

The Land Of The Free

Have we come to an agreement;
an understanding of the word?
Anger is rising off the cement
Sweaty money changing hands

Is this the America we want?
Or do we live like puppets for Blair
As Bush sings Sweet Home Obama
Racism is replaced with a new slavery

God’s name is used not only vain
but in idiocy and in politics
How are we different from 17th
Century France?

There are no more lines, Republican
and Democrat. They are put there
to blind us from the truth
that we are just puppets of greater men.