. Spinning .

Now here’s what it’s about, from a published playwright, producer, professor, writer:

Topsy-turvy normalcy –

characterized either by mania or by depression or by alternating mania and depression
  = manic-depressive

Sure describes a lot of writers I know, including myself. An immediate example: after good feedback from my agent, I rewrote the current splay in a week and zipped it back. Then nothing. Did he hate it so much he was hesitant to reply? Or just busy? Well, the latter, exhale exhale. Rec’d an apology note this morning for being late with it.

To think I go through this crap after half a century in the biz! It’s cheering from the rooftops or hiding under the covers.

I expect it to be an improvement. It doesn’t have to be ready but it has to be better. He says he’ll get it done this weekend.

(Via The Writing Life II.)

Charles Deemer has established himself as a pro; we here in class are on maybe the first rung of the ladder or maybe still finding a spot to lean it against the wall.  Deemer has explored and explained hypertext and hyperdrama so his experience is up to the minute on contemporary writings.

And so it goes.

Interesting dilemma today.  There’s a story sitting in Storyspace that I’ve pulled and nudged and felt and yet it’s not working for some reason.  It has depth, it has some serious meaning, and yet to get it to move is like pulling taffy. It shouldn’t need so much manipulation to grow, like a hot house orchid.  It should have its own genetic code, recognize what it needs to be, be comfortable in and have an understanding of its medium, live its life, solve its conflicts, and approach its natural death or ending with dignity.  It seems instead that I’m whispering in its ear, telling it what it might consider doing.  At least in hypertext I can offer it choices.  Even then, it’s like a stubborn cranky child.  Maybe like me.

There is another story that’s just sort of a fun thing and it knows where it needs to be.  It is a hypertext as well, but it belongs in Hypertextopia. It is not a complex story and while it might benefit from the interesting trails of Storyspace capabilities–does the tiger kill and eat the lady?  does she fall in love with it and they take off to Tahiti?–the more simple blips of background following along a more linear telling with perhaps some silliness in between, is more perfectly suited to the Hypertextopia form.

There’s another idea floating that’s begs for straight traditional text, and not because of its linearity as much as the fact that it wants  straightforward telling.  It wants a fast and clear comprehension and it doesn’t want any argument.

Do we creat a story to suit a format?  Yes, but a story also seeks its own level of telling.

Editing can become a never-ending process.  It certainly takes a lot more time to rewrite than it does to assemble the initial story into a cohesive narrative whole with plot, pacing, tension, conflicts, climax, resolution and some healthy doses of imagery, alliteration, verisimilitude, foreshadowing, etcetera, all to produce entertainment and with any luck and skill, some effect upon the reader.

So what editing does is clean away everything that gets in the way of the elements so that they can be recognized for whatever brilliance they have achieved.  In A Bottle of Beer, I’ve taken out over 20% of the weight of the story in excess verbiage.  I’ve also made a couple of adjustments for clarity and reread several times to catch whatever else has been missed. I’ve been able to lift some correctly accented Spanish, and decided to change Yolanda’s second husband from Herve to Javier.  I figured Herve was Spanish for Irving but I can’t seem to be able to verify the name…

Despite the fact that there may be more to cut–though I don’t think I’m going to dump any more imagery since I sort of like a lot of imagery in a literary piece–I’m glad to have discovered a theme, motif, and pattern established by the hypertext form.  The threads have established themselves in their importance to the main narrative map and their own flow of story. 

Not done, but real close I think.

Okayokayokay.  And I realize it’s not just words, but likely whole lexias that can fall by the wayside.  One lexia at a time though:

YOLANDA

Down the road to the west where sunsets sizzle like a ball of
melting butter, a shadow jogged closer in little flicks of black.
Yolanda picked through the basket of jalapeños with fingers fat and stiff as sausages.  She selected one and stabbed it with a threaded needle, drawing it up into a ristra.

The black specter bobbled in the distance.  She leaned forward in
her chair and squinted into the sun.  Wind whistled out of her in a
long low moan. She picked up the bottle of beer beside her and sucked it dry. Her fingers rubbed the water rings left on the
table then wiped them on her neck.  The wetness felt good.  She rolled
the bottle against breasts that mounded above a blouse stretched
to its limits.

(131 words)

I look forward to the day when the words come already trimmed and complete.  In the meantime, with the guidance of a reminder, here is what editing does to a piece:

YOLANDA (old version)

Down the road, out towards the west where sunsets simmer like a ball of butter melting into an oatmeal desert, a shadow of a man jogged closer and closer in little flicks of black.  Yolanda dropped her arm back into her widespread lap.  He was far away. Every few moments she’d glance up from the basket of jalapenos in which her fingers fiddled and picked. She’d select one and stab it with a threaded needle, drawing it up into a clustered ristra that tomorrow she would hang out in the sun to dry. 

She held her fat fingers in a salute above her eyes again and leaned forward in her seat. The black specter bobbled in the distance. He’d made about a yard of progress.  That was Yolanda’s way of seeing things. To her, he’d grown from just a speck to maybe eighth of an inch in height. She tried to estimate how long it would take him to pass by her house.  She leaned further forward and squinted into the sun.  Wind whistled out of her in a long low moan, and she resettled herself into the wicker rocking chair.  She reached over and picked up the bottle of beer that stood on the small table beside her, brought it to her mouth and sucked it dry. She rubbed at the wet rings left on the table with her hand, then wiped it on her neck.  The wetness felt good.  She rolled the still cool bottle against the tops of breasts that mountained above a tight cotton blouse. (259 words)

YOLANDA (new version)

Down the road to the west where sunsets sizzle like a ball of melting butter, a shadow jogged closer in little flicks of black.  Yolanda picked through the basket of jalapeños with fingers fat and stiff as sausages.  She’d select one and stab it with a threaded needle, drawing it up into a clustered ristra.

The black specter bobbled in the distance.  She tried to estimate how long it would take him to pass by her house.  She leaned forward in her chair and squinted into the sun.  Wind whistled out of her in a long low moan. With a sigh, she picked up the bottle of beer that stood on the small table beside her, brought it to her mouth and sucked it dry. She rubbed at the ring of water left on the table then wiped it on her neck.  The wetness felt good.  She rolled the bottle against breasts that mounded above a white blouse stretched to its limits.  (162 words)

Tain’t true that a teacher cannot teach creative writing; while he/she cannot teach one to be creative, the elements of better writing are things to be taught, things to be learned. With tools such as poetry, imagery, impact, focus, and all the rest that we understand as exposition, pace, effect, etc., we can understand the effect and apply to our own storytelling voice.

That’s why feedback is so vital. It’s just that we sometimes forget.

A Shard is an enhancement of a Fragment in Hypertextopian terms.  But it goes to all writing of creative form, think poetry, think image, think keeping your reader alert.

So I take out "far edge" at the "far edge of town." We don’t care what part of town the little girl lives in.  As a matter of fact, we don’t care that she lives in town at all, so that goes as well.  What matters is the size  of the house and the number of people who live in it. 

That’s all.