Viggo Mortensen, Writing, and The Road

I don't consciously model my fiction characters often after a real life actor, but I find we tend to "absorb" these people we see and admire in so large a life, and "make them our own." The character I've modeled after Viggo Mortensen is not him, and not any character he has ever played, not even Aragorn in the three Lord of the Rings movies, but in another sense, he is a part of the character I wrote about in my James Taylor post, a "wild" man redeemed by the sound of a young woman's voice. It is the actor's facial expressions and manner of speaking in certain key scenes that "resonate" with me as an author, for example, when Aragorn tells Eowyn he cannot be who she wants him to be. My favorite of the three Lord of the Rings movies is The Two Towers, in part, because of the relationship between Eowyn and Aragorn.

I did not see Viggo Mortensen in Eastern Promises. I think I was afraid to see the level of violence described, after seeing him in A History of Violence, an excellent and disturbing movie. Both he and Maria Bello, as his wife, earned academy awards, though he was never nominated, and she did not win in her category. I am planning to see The Road, which is coming out today. I was not aware of the film until a week ago, so you see I am not a Viggo groupie, but when I saw an advertisement, I decided to seek out the movie trailer. The first trailer released is morbid. The second trailer gives the world portrayed some hope. The movie is based on the 2007 Pulitzer Prize winning novel, The Road, by Robert McCarthy.

Click on the arrow to view the trailer, or click on the image to go to YouTube and watch in wide screen HD.

Thanksgiving Day Parade

I marched in a parade yesterday! Well, my son's high school band marched, and I walked along with the other "band parents." We threw holiday candy to the kids watching along the sidewalk, and squirted water into the band kid's mouths to refresh them along the route. It was mid to upper eighties, but luckily, the sun hid behind the clouds and didn't come out until we were at the end of the parade, loading up the rented truck with the band uniforms and instruments.

It reminded me of the only two times I marched in a parade, in downtown Orlando, Florida. I was eleven years old, taking baton twirling at the time. I wasn't very good, but I was good enough to march! We wore red leotards and matching tights, with a band of white fringe around our hips. I can't remember now, if the parades were one holiday season, a Thanksgiving and a Christmas parade, or if I actually took baton, seasonally, two years in a row.

I wasn't born to be a twirler, or a cheerleader. But I enjoy performance, one of the reasons I miss my weekly story time at the library. My most recent program, earlier this month, was a balloon sculpture class for tweens, teaching them how to make balloon animals and swords. It was fun, except for the four little "monster" boys. Put a balloon sword in a boy's hands, and there's no stopping him! But I'd much rather have been telling stories these past two months, and passing out treat bags for Halloween.

Photographs

I received a surprise visit from an old friend this week, not the kind of surprise visit you might expect: It was a nice comment on my Classmates profile from a “boy” I used to know in high school. Because I don’t use my real name on my blog, I can write about it here. It’s his photo that amazes me. He doesn’t look anything like he did in high school. In high school, he was pimply faced and overweight, with always slightly greasy curly hair. He was one of the nicest guys you could ever meet. He had a sweet smile. He was close friends with a friend of mine. She always wanted it to become more, and it wasn’t until we were out of high school she finally understood why that never happened.

It’s how we get from there to here I’ve been thinking about, and how the picture I have of him in my mind relates to the photo of him now. At first, I couldn’t make the connection, and now my mind makes the transition easily, from boy to middle aged man. In the photograph he posted, his face is lean and his smile is strained, but genuine. I can see the boy in the man, not so much when I look at the photograph, but when I think about the two of them. It’s the same eyes reaching out. I look at photographs of myself from high school, and the photographs from now, and the years in between. It’s the same eyes. It’s the same smile, the same tilt of the head, with all their mutable variations. It’s the same me.

Concerning Revision: Poems in the Middle of the Night

I woke last night with a possible revision for a line in a serious poem, followed by this "imperfect" poem, which I also wrote, stealing from the bedroom into the kitchen as quietly as possible, so not to wake my husband in the middle of the night:


Observation

A poem
can be beautiful
like a polished stone.

Sometimes a stone
in the rough
is more interesting
to look at,
closer to the mind
of the one
who thunk it up.


And a quick revision, also in the middle of the night:

Honesty

A poem
can be beautiful
reduced to a pebble
like a polished stone

Sometimes a stone
in the wild, with its
cracks and fissures
is closer to the mind.


And a revision, after several possibilities ~ ever changing ~ I just wrote:

Authentic Voice

A poem
can be beautiful,
perfected to a pebble
or a polished stone.

Sometimes a rock
just dug from the earth-
cracked and fissured,
speckled with minerals,
reflects exceptional light.


Poems © Annie King 2009


Note: This post does not refer to A Handful of Stones, a valuable site where short poems that make you feel, think and react are published. Rather, it is an attempt to distinguish between a poem voiced authentically, and a poem rendered cold and remote, its depths imprisoned beneath technically proficient revision.

Most poems are beautiful, of course, and I often describe them that way. We all work toward perfection, but sometimes, I think the first draft of an inspired poem is closest to the heart. As I revise, I want to retain the emotion and the internal rhythms that prompted my response, or I risk losing an essential element, my own voice.

I think that’s why I’m enjoying reading quality poetry blogs lately more than my subscription to Poetry. A poem doesn’t have to be perfect to be real. Sometimes the rough edges are the poem. The poems I love the most are never flawed when it comes to rhythm, sound and emotion; and I know I’m hearing the author’s voice.

Poem: Shark Valley

I’ve just read some pleasant poetry. It relaxes me and makes me smile. I’ve had a busy day today, driving many miles into an unfamiliar downtown and back home again, traversing six lane traffic in both directions for an all day library conference.

So, I left the land of concrete for a time, and read about frogs, protected fish, and egrets. It made me remember a poem I wrote, so I’m posting it here, but it has no happy ending, only an uneasy compromise between humankind and nature.

If you click on the image, you can read my poem about Shark Valley. It's a good one to read aloud.

A Writing Inventory

A generous friend helped me with a reading, and some feedback on my short play. He talked about the play reflecting a region in folkways and mores. At first, I wasn’t certain what he meant, but my mind took over, as I was dreaming, and I woke up realizing I am influenced by my surroundings, the era I grew up in, and where I live now in the suburbs of a sprawling urban area. I’m also influenced by the impact of my childhood, both joys and trauma, everything I’ve ever done and known, and my current experiences as the mother of a teenage boy, and as a librarian.

I’ve written two short stories involving homeless men, one of them a newspaper vendor running away from his life as a journalist after the unexpected death of his fiancé, and one of them an alcoholic artist who hangs out at a train station, separated from his wife and children, and longing for redemption. I knew I was directly influenced by seeing such men standing on street corners, or hanging out at the library where I work, and the downtown library where I used to work. We often dismiss such men as invaluable members of society, but what do we know about their backgrounds, and who they are?

My first short story, after ten plus years of writing novel length fiction (story starts, novels-in-progress), poured out of me, after a first line, surprising me completely, because I didn’t know I was going to write about teens working at the mall and Hot Topic, a teen/young adult clothing store, frequented by young punks and goths, and aging tattooed store clerks with red hair and face piercings. A teenage girl escapes assault, when a teen working as a custodian rescues her from a group of boys. A few days later she goes back to the mall to find him, recognizing her restless attraction.

My realistic short play, one story novella, and one novel-in-progress, all involve alternative rock musicians and the women they meet and turn to in a time of crisis. They are not the same characters, in the play, the story, or the novel, but, as I have admitted before, the male characters, who are not Billie Joe, were inspired by Billie Joe Armstrong from Green Day.

It’s not so much that my son led me to Green Day’s music; it’s my husband and I who were led to Armstrong, first through the song and the album, American Idiot. We saw him perform live in 2005, and the attraction began, but it is Armstrong’s photograph on a Rolling Stone cover that made all the feelings coalesce, and I began to write the stories.

The novel began before the play. Part of the attraction in writing about the “Billie Joe” characters, is the exploration of the difference between the public and private persona. Who are these people we admire? Why do we demand so much of them? Do they realize how much they have helped us? Will they accept help from a stranger, when we know so much about them, at least what is printed in books and magazine articles, and from their music?

Another one of my stories involves a children’s librarian who is not me or any one person that I know. She is dying, with some hope of recovery, from cancer. She becomes mesmerized by a story time dad, because she is so lonely, and grieves for the loss of the children she may never bear. It’s a very short story, and I have some hope of its publication. It was rejected with a very kind note from Susan at Glimmer Train. I haven’t submitted it anywhere else recently, but I believe I’m working up the gumption to start submitting my work again.

The fantasy novels come from another place. I may enjoy writing them the most. I have come to believe the fact that well written fantasies embrace universal truths. It is in fantasy, that my deepest feelings can be expressed. It is all there, fears and attractions, independence, courage, sensuality, tragedy, and transcendence. It is the most difficult and complex fiction to write. There are no dragons in these stories, no elves. There are newly created magics, and intertwining relationships. And there is hope in the face of the impossible. I complicate the requirements with multiple points of view.

My substantially written novels-in-progress include two realistic, two historical, and two fantasy fictions. I have three more novels substantially started. All require completion and revision. I have numerous story or novel starts. Sporadically, I write poems. The demands of work, marriage and motherhood make it difficult for me to stay focused. I write in spurts, and by the time I write again, it’s often on a new project. The act of writing is cathartic, but I want my efforts to mean something, and be read. I’m not sure how to accomplish this. And I thank my friend for helping me.

Morning Squirrels and Dorothea Brande: Becoming A Writer

7:12 am

I meant to go back to sleep, after getting my husband and son off to work and school; but I looked out my kitchen window, and just saw a squirrel with a nut running along the six foot tall wooden fence separating our house from the bad neighbor behind us (his fence). I wonder where the squirrel got what looks like a peanut; not a seed- who's feeding him?- though it may be a palm tree seed- can you eat them? I looked again, and he's perched on a fence post, holding the remains between his paws, and finishing eating it. He runs back in the direction he'd come, possibly for more. A whistling wind is blowing the oak leaves and palm fronds. It's been windy now for days, and they say it's not due to Hurricane Ida. It looks like it will be a blue sky day, with scattered clouds.

I've been reading Dorothea Brande's Becoming a Writer (Tarcher/Putnam, 1981), a classic book on writing, first published in 1938, recommended to me a while back by Brigindo. There are chapters where I argue with Brande's tone, and her "you must do this" attitude, though, in general, she rails against such concepts (except when it involves her own ideas of what's what)- and I say this as if she's living, though she died in 1948. She recommends writing every morning, before you've read anything, listened to anything, and I suppose, done much of anything else, to see what pours out of you in your own voice, and using that as a starting point to evaluate not only how you write but who you are- or, you are not a writer! (You are a bad girl, and deserve many spankings.) Other than that, I'm finding her ideas about the link between the conscious and the unconscious, as you write, to be extremely useful, mostly because it solidifies my own thinking about the writing process, and her concepts about why it is important to write. Here's a choice quote, from her chapter, titled: The Source of Originality:

"It is well to understand as early as possible in one's writing life that there is just one contribution which every one of us can make: we can give into the common pool of experience some comprehension of the world as it looks to each of us. There is one sense in which everyone is unique. No one else was born of your parents, at just that time of just that country's history; no one underwent just your experiences, reached just your conclusions, or faces the world with the exact set of ideas that you must have. If you can come to such friendly terms with yourself that you are able and willing to say precisely what you think of any given situation or character, if you can tell a story as it can appear only to you of all the people on earth, you will inevitably have a piece of work which is original." ~ Dorothea Brande

There are many other encouragements sprinkled throughout this book. Here are two more choice quotes from the same chapter, under the sub-heading, Honesty, the Source of Originality:

"If you can discover what you like, if you can discover what you truly believe about most of the major matters of life, you will be able to write a story which is honest and original and unique." ~ Dorothea Brande

"... We all continue to grow... In order to write at all we must write on the basis of our present beliefs. If you are unwilling to write from the honest, though perhaps far from final, point of view that represents your present state, you may come to your deathbed with your contribution to the world still unmade..." ~ Dorothea Brande

And this, under the sub-heading, Trust Yourself:

"... It is not the putting of your character in the central position of a drama which has never been dreamed of before that will make your story irresistible... How your hero meets his dilemma, what you think of the impasse-- those are the things which make your story truly your own; and it is your own individual character, unmistakably showing through your work, which will lead you to success or failure. I would almost be willing to go so far as to say that here is no situation which is trite in itself; there are only dull, unimaginative, or uncommunicative authors. No dilemma in which a man can find himself will leave his fellows unmoved if it can be fully presented." ~ Dorothea Brande


I'm adding Dorothea Brande's book to my bibliography of recommended books on writing fiction.


8:10 am

My phone alarm has just rung, and I scurry in my gown and robe across the house from the computer room to my bedroom to turn it off. I've accomplished a lot in this hour. Now it's time to add to that bibliography, work on a critique for a fellow writer, and perhaps, if I'm smart, take a walk. I'll put Dorothea Brande out of my mind, or she'll be telling me what to do, admonishing me to notice things and let them meld with my psyche.

Book Shelf

Silver Phoenix next to Dear Husband

I received my autographed copy of Silver Phoenix yesterday! It was so nice to come home from work, and find Cindy Pon's kind autograph in my personal first edition, first printing copy of Silver Phoenix. It is now proudly displayed on my "eclectic" bookcase in my bedroom, on the top shelf, next to my autographed copy of Joyce Carol Oate's short story collection, Dear Husband.

Good News from Cindy Pon

I received good news in my e-mail last week. Cindy Pon, the author of Silver Phoenix, let me know that I was her contest winner, and I chose to receive an original framed brushpainting, over an ephemeral (though generous) $100 gift card! Cindy ran a contest, allowing everyone who reviewed Silver Phoenix, or posted the cover on their site, a certain number of chances. She posted my name as the winner here in her November 2nd blog entry.

Cindy is a wonderful person, and an excellent author and artist. She was also kind enough to send me bookmarks and postcards, which we shared with members of my library's teen book club. You can visit her blog or her web site to learn more about her, Silver Phoenix, and the upcoming sequel. You can read my review here, which I also posted on my companion blog, Great Reads For You. You can also see samples of Cindy's Chinese brush art here, and you will understand why I chose a Cindy Pon original brushpainting as my prize!

Thank you, Cindy, for your generosity, not only for selecting me as your contest winner, but for personally sharing your views with me on writing, for helping aspiring writers, and for supporting libraries and teen readers. And thank you, of course, for writing great fantasy fiction!

James Taylor: Something in the Way She Moves

I've been driving this afternoon and this evening, listening to James Taylor. The two CD set is simply called James Taylor (Live), a performance from, unbelievably, 1993, though I think, maybe, we bought it later than that. Old favorites include Sweet Baby James, Millworker, Country Road, Fire and Rain, Walking Man, Riding on a Railroad, Something in the Way She Moves, Up on the Roof, Don't Let Me Be Lonely Tonight, Carolina in My Mind, and You've Got a Friend. The titles alone evoke emotions in me, since I hear the melodies and hear James Taylor's voice, as I say them or read them. The songs are playing in my mind right now.

The first time I heard it, Something in the Way She Moves was new to me. I was riveted and delighted, and it became an instant favorite, because it is beautiful, and because it reminded me of a book I'd substantially written, yes, yet another novel-in-progress, (and this one does not involve Billie Joe in any way). There is a wild man, traumatized, and by choice and circumstance shunned and alone, and a young woman who brings him back to himself, first, through the sound of her voice. The story is set in the nebulous middle ages, a setting which would "firm up" in revision. She is in flight from an onerous situation, with a companion who is killed by an enemy. The "wild man" is charged to bring her back to her home, but she is the one who metaphorically rescues him. They grow to depend upon one another, and she becomes enamored.

Yes, it is partly a romance, but only in that, I realize, among other themes, my stories always involve connection and the redeeming power of relationships. But I don't write to theme, and I don't plan. I start with a first sentence and I see where it carries me. Sometimes it's a short story, and sometimes a novel. The story shapes itself. Poetry is a different mind set. It begins with introspection, and I sometimes succeed at defining my emotions with imagery, and when I don't, it's a melody of words. A few of these poems I've posted on my blog are exercise, like my attempt at a villanelle, or my random observations, but others are expressions of who I am.

When I drive in a car on a long trip alone, I sing with the singer of the songs. I can't sing with James Taylor! I don't know what it is. I sing with Billie Joe Armstrong. I sing with the lead singer for Three Days Grace, whatever his name is. I sing with The Beatles, or the Shins, or John Denver, or Bob Dylan, and even with John Ondrasik's Five for Fighting, who sings in a very high pitch. I can't sing with James, not very well. His voice is not high, but the key he sings in, requires me to sing in too high a register, except, when I am singing Fire and Rain, or You've Got a Friend (doing Carole King's higher pitched part, where it seems natural), or Something in the Way She Moves. That's okay. I'm good to listen, the guitar work alone, and the songs that are poetry.

Poetry in Motion Redux

I first published this poem on my blog, here. It's a fun little poem, I think.

Poets Speak

Poets Speak

When poets
regale us
with their erudition
We are attracted
to their words, not
their bad breath or
smelly feet

Words to soothe,
same as climbing
a heady mountain,
Rewarded with
a vista

Words to agitate,
Fighting waves
in a roiling sea
Risking submersion
in a breaching undertow

In a world
of poets, poets
speak
to one another,
And poets revere
the authentic voice

Poets need

Impatiently, I wait
for confirmation

© 2009 Annie K



This is another poem I wrote over twenty years ago, one of a series, including Affinity, that address the need and desire for connection:

Kinds of Love

Re-read
my words
between the lines
And know I could
not stop, or spare
you damage
and/or induced
bewilderment

Blame me
for embroiled emotion
The extent and depth
of all the names
I did not know
and felt for you

Refuse
to loosely
use the word,
But love, self-defined
is without restriction
or limiting factor

Flowers
can be loved
Moments
can be loved
And people
are loved more
than they know
or trust, or believe

Beyond
my selfishness
Regardless
of reciprocation
My need to give
is great, your
happiness
is my concern

I learn, once
again, I cannot force,
And offer now
all that I securely can

Subdued affection
(this love expressed
has its restraints) Lies
about reciprocation

I need some word,
some pressured touch

© 2009 Annie K


There are times we think about the need to connect, times we think we have connected, and times we wonder. I am plain perplexed. Visibility, transparency is dear. Hold nothing hostage. We cannot know what is not said. Give.

Busy Weekend and Happy Halloween!

It's been a busy weekend already, and it's only Friday. I worked this morning, grocery shopped, bought more Halloween candy, just in case we run out, and went to another great football game to volunteer as a band parent and watch my son perform at half-time and throughout the game. It was fun tonight. The weather had turned just a few degrees cooler, making all the difference between unbearable heat to comfortable nice with a breeze. The kids wore Halloween costumes instead of band uniforms! And my son wore an old tuxedo coat made of wool, handed down from his Dad, handed down from I can't remember where, but it fits my son like it was made for him, all Fred Astaire-ish dashing looking, though he wore it, with his longish, curly hair, with a pair of his Dad's old dress pants that look equally dashing, and a black dress shirt, so he'd look like an undertaker! Tomorrow is clean the house day to have a friend of my son over, and Halloween night in our family neighborhood. Every year we get from pre-schoolers, to grade schoolers, to middle schoolers, to high schoolers, out trick or treating, the older kids having shaving cream fights in the streets (a part I don't like! because it ruins things for little kids, but luckily, my own son's not into that!). Last year we almost ran out of candy, so this year I've overdone it. I'll have to give any leftover away. We're still trying to sell band fund raiser candy, too, so that's in the house. Lots of temptation, but I'm (mostly) resisting. Happy Halloween, Everyone!

Annie Online: Short Story and Poem

I used to have a link on my sidebar to my one published short story and poem. With much trepidation, I’m linking to them again, under the heading: Annie Online. I wrote Are You David? in 2007. My poem, Affinity, was written over twenty years ago, and I’ve also published it here, and discussed it here, on my blog.

It didn’t hurt that the then editor of the Aced Magazine- Arts section was a friend of mine, but I know he wouldn’t have published anything he didn’t believe was good. Of course, the second I submitted my short story to him, I sent him a revision, which he was kind enough to substitute, and by the time the story was published, I’d revised again, creating an expanded version I prefer.

You will notice some formatting errors that were not in my submission; but they don’t detract from reading my PG-13 story, and it’s easy to ignore the accompanying ads. Please note, that the first line of dialogue belongs to the character, Serenity. (When Aced reformatted the section, a line space was inadvertently left out.)

I appreciate Aced Magazine- Arts as my publishing start. In 2007, I was also named a finalist in a regional short story contest for a different story. So, I’d better get back to submitting my short stories to more places than Glimmer Train, widening my opportunities for publication. Or, I’d better just skip all that, and continue to work on my novels-in-progress.

If I were to write Are You David? again, I’m sure it would be less blatant and more elegantly structured, but there are lines and sections I like, and I believe in the story’s overall intent. Affinity is what it is, and I love the poem. Maybe I’d remove the first two lines, but I like how they aid the rhythm. To receive the full effect, I suggest you read Affinity aloud, with emotion and intensity, like Kiera Knightley might read it, with pursed lips and a lyrical British accent. There is a fragility and a strength to that poem.

So, does having only one publication credit still make me a writer? Yes. When I spoke to Joyce Carol Oates, and she asked me what I do, I said, I’m a librarian, and a writer. I learned later, she never says she is a writer, but that she writes. To me, the distinction is a matter of semantics. Writer or writing, to me, is a verb. It’s the fact that you do it, and not what you call yourself, that makes you a writer. Maybe that’s what she means, but who am I to second guess her statements?

I’ve had my validation, through my favorable story rejections from Glimmer Train and Flash Fiction Online, and my positive feedback from other writers, as much as my one acceptance. But, until I finish a novel, I must admit, I somewhat feel like a fraud. I like my short stories, I believe in them; but to me, however my short story characters may hopefully leap off the page for the reader, and even though I know my character’s back stories, I haven’t given myself the time they need for me to fully appreciate them.

It’s the novel that gives my characters depth. My short story characters are friends, I feel for them, but they’re not my best friends. I enjoy the intimacy of a novel, learning new things about my characters as I write them, and letting them surprise me.

So, is that my excuse for not writing and publishing more short stories? I think it is, or, I’m just deluding myself, and I’m afraid to try. All I know is, succeeding at writing a publishable novel is hard work, and it is worth the challenge. On the other hand, I am proud of the handful of short stories I’ve written, including a very short novella, and the learning experience that went into shaping them, so maybe I owe it to them to shop them around and find them a home, so they may be read.

If you like my story or poem, I’d appreciate it if you left a comment at Aced, or here at my blog, so I know what you think. (There are zero comments now, but there were a few comments that were wiped away, when the Arts section was reformatted.)

Aced Magazine: Recommended Site

Aced Magazine is a professional online publication with worldwide readership. Targeted to young adults, and adults to approximately age 35, it includes movie and music reviews, reviews of the arts, entertainment articles and interviews, social commentary, and a selection of contemporary poetry and creative writing. Registration is optional and free, and the publication features prizes and giveaways. The editor offers internships to college students, and gives students and emerging writers an opportunity to write articles and submit creative writing and personal essays.