Gravitane 18, 28.

DIARY

- WRITERLY PATHOS - I've reached another impasse with Urbantasm. Some of you are tired of hearing that sort of sentence, and it's strange to say it, because I really didn't visualize myself working on it this autumn at all. Essentially, however, I've been prompted to present the first forty chapters (in two installments) at my workshop. It has been useful, both as an exercise, and as a means toward finishing my novel. Still, I feel like I have to draw a distinction between problems correctly diagnosed and solutions incorrectly prescribed. I've found, much more than I expected, a bias against a specific kind of writing, that sometimes borders on the numerological. It's interesting, in context, because so much of Urbantasm is based on numerology.
To go into two alternate "sides" of this problem at a bit more depth, "problems correctly diagnosed." The first twenty chapters do not grab people. They never have. Not only are they not arranged sequentially, but they are only united in showing John's response to situations in which he has a lack of control. This was observed in class in dozens of examples, I think most of which were correct. And the problem has to be fixed.
I visualize this story a little as a photon being described as both a wave and as particle: likewise a story possesses both momentum and plot. The plot is a thing with contituent parts that we can analyze and measure and relate to each other. The momentum is the way the story behaves. If a story operates on the premise of hooks (that is, you draw your reader in at once, and do not release her until the last page), as Urbantasm does, these are problems I must validly reconcile.
The side, however, stymies and frustrates me: "solutions incorrectly prescribed." In the last several weeks I've been told to abandon flowery language (but Proust said...), that my readers must be able to discern the direction of the story from the very beginning (but Hurston said...), and that readers cannot be expected to adapt to sudden stylistic shifts (but Joyce said...).
And as pertains to these observations, I am utterly unconvinced.
This is part of the problem to bringing a marriage of ten years into work shop instead of a celebrity crush. We love our spouse: we have grown used to her eyes and her hair, her voice, the things she finds funny, even her occasional bad attitudes or meanness. If we are going to make changes in our marriage, we need to be convinced. With a celebrity crush, an argument that is interesting, fun, compelling, weird, or simply different can be sufficient to make a change.
I been urged to bring in my marriage, that is not my novellas or side projects, but specifically Urbantasm, inasmuch as it's more important to me and my career than my "crushes." And that's fine. But I think for someone to critique your marriage, though one must remain rigorous and forceful, involves a bit more of an objective distance from your own priorities. Or to put it differently, you have to be equally disinterested in your own preferences as those which inform the work being critiqued.
You have to say: "this relationship isn't working because..." not, "your wife would be better with blue eyes."
You have to say: "your story needs a present plot and momentum..." not, "you shouldn't use flowerly prose."
- PERCIVAL EVERETT - Last night I heard Percival Everett read from his novel, and speak. Asked how he writes his novel, he responds, "I don't know." He does, however, is able to "see" it when he begins. Not the cover, but the shape. Helen actually invoked this in Workshop yesterday, and I agree. Euphemism is a seashell. Adrift on the Mainstream is a surprisingly deep and scummy puddle. Urbantasm is deceptively four-dimensional slightly-skewed eight: it oscillates. There, have I been touchy-feely enough today?
- THE WEATHER - Work and play, work and play, work, work.
- In New York City, our leaves are finally turning en masse. They'll be falling by the end of the week.

WORD OF THE WEEK
Nosegay.

QUESTION OF THE DAY
In the Worst Joke Ever, Michael Stipe sings:

You see there's this cat burglar who can't see in the dark.
He lays his bets on 8 more lives, walks into a bar.
Slips on the 8 ball, falls on his knife.
Says, "I don't know what I've done, but it doesn't feel right!"

What's the worst joke you've ever heard?

END OF POST.