. Spinning .

Just did an analysis of my own writing, A Seasonal Life, to try to get a better feel of its substance or lack thereof as a critic rather than a writer. This is a very, very large part of being a writer, and one that is often the most difficult to learn; to step away, put down the pen and pick up a red pencil.

Analysis of “A Seasonal Life”.

Linear Narrative of one single day but includes an approximate 20-year building of first person POV narrator’s character and her self perception through her reflections and attitude.

Story Line is a personal tour through narrator’s day, starting with the narrator’s self reflection in the early morning, interaction with family as she wakes them and they go off, plot advanced by her day’s routine–self-awareness and attitude within each small act—facing her mother-in-law, alone time at the library, family dinner, and minor crisis of family confrontation.

Theme is of dramatic irony in narrator’s misconception of herself within family unit, caused by her own guilt.
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I’ve spent some time in Word for Windows twisting words and emphasizing meanings, hoping to learn the secrets of the great ones in designing a scene just with a rearrangement of the same twenty six letters we are all given to use in the English language. Am working on one of my own stories and it’s never been so laborious or joyful when successful, as when from a pile of possible puzzle pieces the right one is picked and settles into place.

I used to think I’d die happy if it happened immediately following the eating of a pomegranate. Now I think I want to die at my computer with this showing on the monitor, “The End.”

This past Thursday night I drove home from class and it was snowing while the strong winds madly blew autumn leaves swirling through the blackness. It was one of those experiences of nature that might happen again in your lifetime, but the odds are that you may not be outside to see it. I raced home to plop down in front of the computer to write about it, try to describe it to you, and just couldn’t.

Cormac McCarthy could have. And, he would leave you with the same gasping feeling of being overcome with speechless wonder as he does with words that make up the story of Blood Meridian.

This is one of the milder examples, that of being alone and awake to see the sun rise: “In the predawn light he made his way out upon a promontory and there received first of any creature in that country the warmth of the sun’s ascending.” I mean, is this guy alone out there or what? It’s desolate, very early, perfectly silent and still, and he’s tired and cold from walking into the early morning hours. He’s gotta feel hollow inside, because you sure do just watching him. Man, you just want to speak up but he’s separated from you by a space that prevents you from letting him know you’re going through this with him.

How can you match nature’s random beauty; or McCarthy’s use of words.

Have come up with an exercise in learning style that I will be shortly producing here as the results of my practice as I go along. I know it’s rather silly to post an entry about what I’m gonna do, but this is one of the best purposes of my log–once it’s down here, it’s law. It’s a commitment that I must address and fulfill and will hang a heavy cloud of guilt over my head until I do. Yeah, I’m one of those people who need to be driven and guilt is one of the best methods with me. Guilt is a good thing. Lots of good stuff has been achieved because of guilt. Guilt is especially right and proper when you’ve done something wrong and need a push to make it right.

Anyway, getting back to the exercise, I’m going to select a short simple paragraph from some piece of fiction and then rewrite it with an eye towards following the style of one of the masters. How would McCarthy or Borowski have written Photopia? Think it may help in getting down the idea of exactly what makes a recognizable difference in how a story is told.

Spent part of the morning walking tall and carrying a big stick. Well, carrying a big stick anyway. I haven’t walked tall since platform shoes were in style (and I still have them packed away for their reincarnation in the fashion world).

Nothing violent, of course, but little taps on heads of writers who I think should do more writing. But after I clomped around spreading perhaps unwanted seeds of guilt, it dawned on me that I’m most likely stereotyping people again. Based on my own needs and way of thinking, I’m assuming that all storytellers feel and work the same.

So an apology goes out to those who may resent my intrusion into their own lifestyles and manner of inspiration. And a “you’re welcome” to those I may have helped.