May 16
Posted by Madeline on May 16 2010 | 2 Comments »
An etude I wrote about a week ago:
May I speak to you?
May I attempt a thought, but no more than two? Or perhaps not, not when there’s all the shit, shit, shit that’s hiding any tangible, concrete, solid and no not liquid evidence that there is something of meaning or maybe just fictitious worth in here? Knock, knock, but there’s just a phantom of a thought, lost once, twice, thrice into a stream that is crystal clear only because it is empty, and I mean empty like the sound of branches in a winter wind, full of a memory of what sound- what crackling, rustling, whispering words- once filled the vacuum. And with a knock, knock, we find that this mind is full of only exhaled air, already breathed and spent and dirty, so that the words that are the children of useless, mindless chemical processes are just as dull and dry as chemical processes sound, like a textbook of borrowed phrases and limp allusions. Is the vacuum so consuming, so engulfing, that a mind may find itself stripped of all its dressings, so that even the naked thoughts are unaware of their indecency?
I say, may I speak to you? But your ears are just as cluttered as my mind is empty, so that each glassy gaze melts into the gauzy haze of faint smiles and broken mutterings. Are you listening? Am I speaking? I fumble with faltering, tripping, limping trails of sluggish words that drag along in their own filth, chased by bees and disease and the fiery flames of uselessness in a wild merry-go-round of crackly-creaky carnival tunes. But I have no ghostly guide and I have no rhyme, so the rivers I must cross and the sirens I must fight and the madness I must combat all melt seamlessly in the day to day, fumble to fumble, falter to falter, of weariness.
I say…
But I say, there’s nothing left to say is not an allusion, for look above. I say, look above at the syllables clumped together like a childhood set of Legos and tell me what I have said. And I mumbled, and I falter, but I do not say.
Knock, knock. But what’s in there?
—-
That explains my thoughts on writing better than I could in normal sentences. Probably taking a break from book writing for a while. There’s nothing that makes me excited for it anymore. We’ll see what happens.
March 13
Posted by Madeline on Mar 13 2010 | 2 Comments »
Listening to: Blind Pilot
Reading: The Code of the Warrior by Shannon E. French
In the past few weeks, I’ve been incredibly excited. Why? A new book idea. And I love those. It’s interesting how they come about- a brief sentence in one book, or an interesting moment in government class- and suddenly there it is. I mean, right now it’s little more than a niggling thought, but each week makes it a little fatter and firmer.
But then the tension comes between old characters and the new for thought room. It’s interesting how a character like Sava, who is still relatively new [I think he first appeared almost exactly a year ago], is now suddenly the old and familiar as new voices seek to be heard. That blows my mind every time I think about it. Does it continue this way? Sometimes I consider the fact that I’m nearing the completion of my second series before I even enter college and get daunted by the prospect of my future. Do I always have this constant cycle of characters? [I hope so.] Or do I lose my knack for finding them? [Terrifying.]
To avoid that thought [unnecessary as it really is, I think], I like to think about what new ideas and themes I bring to my writing. Today, I thought consciously about political socialization for the first time, even though my last few coming of age books have had fairly significant political passages. Now it seems completely obvious that I should consider such an idea more thoroughly, and I already know how it is incorporated into my next book idea. Every time I come across a new theory or idea, I get so excited to incorporate it- so what else am I missing? And I think that’s why I keep writing- because characters come from the circumstances these new ideas present. So, I think I’m good for a while.
Yes, a thought.
“We tried to become a great kingdom- and we lost sight of our old maxims and perhaps our faith in the process. Now Time has come right back around to show us that we’re not meant to be like Rolevan or Elenot, but rather one island kingdom among many infamous for warring. Instead of trying to change ourselves, we should ask ourselves whether we’re men born and raised only to kill, or if somehow we can find a meaning in what we have been given.”
February 11
Posted by Madeline on Feb 11 2010 | Comment now »
Reading: The End by Salvatore Scibona
Listening to: Shuffle—Elvis, and then Bollywood. What a collection of songs on iTunes I have.
A couple weeks ago, I looked at my nearly 150 completed pages and realized it was all wrong. And started over on page 30 something. What a bummer, honestly. Sometimes I feel as though it’s all a race, as though I need to write each book as fast as possible, to get it all out as soon as I can…to what end? I like writing more than editing or sitting around waiting for a new idea, so what’s the rush? So maybe it’s a good thing I was forced to slow down and reconsider a plot I thought had been written in stone since last April. A plot I’ve spent months and months waiting for– only to realize that there is no logic holding it together. Was the failed planning just me being too nearsighted? Or are my characters fickle?
Or maybe each time I witness something like the huge snowstorm that hit my town yesterday, or I watch a dramatic football game, or I read an eye-opening novel, something new is added to the possible plots and characters in my mind. If that’s the case, I’ve been wondering if it is possible for an author to plan out her work longer than a few weeks before she writes it. When I first started this trilogy, I thought it was. And I was so pleased with myself for knowing what was happening in the long run, so that I could write up to it in the first two books.
Wrong.
And, well, okay. I still have two finished books of solid characters and plots behind me, and now I get the fun of sussing out a plot that feels right and settled to everyone. At any rate, I certainly like my new 70 pages much more than the last 150, so I’m okay with the way things go. And in those instances when I can’t help but lament the loss of so many pages and scenes that I spent so many hours on, I just like to think that only means I’m open to new possibilities.
A thought? I think so.
“Maybe this, after so many years, was justice at last for the sacrifices he had accepted from so many others. Maybe he deserved this. Maybe this was how it was supposed to end.”
Cheery Sava. A quote from Book Three: Arahmid’s Dust.
Also– A great big thank you to Cassie Haines for helping me put together my map of Eldingvald and the rest of the Northern Isles. This map can be seen right now on the Books Page, below the descriptions of Sava’s books!
January 19, 2010
Posted by Madeline on Jan 19 2010 | 2 Comments »
Listening to: Agricantus
Reading: Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov [just finished] and One True Thing by Anna Quindlen [just started]
A few days ago, I found myself in a position in which I suddenly didn’t know if writing was ‘worth it.’ The situation was a fight, and some nasty things were said, and I’ll admit that I freaked. I know I spend a great deal of time inside my own head, with or without characters, and I know if I don’t have plenty of time by myself to get some thoughts out on paper, I get a little grumpy. But are my books worth the amount of time I spend away from my family, or the arguments I get in for being alone too much, or the amount of stress and disappointment and insecurities I have from my own writing? Well, I don’t know the answer to that.
It took me a while [and a whole bunch of tissues] to be able to step back and consider the problem. There are things I hate about writing. I hate my insecurities about it, and how I can’t ever decide if I want to talk about it. I hate how I need people’s approval so much, but I’m afraid to ask for it in case I’m disappointed. I hate how it puts me in a bad mood when I’m away from it. Mostly, I hate how the hour it takes to write three lame paragraphs is also an hour away from my family.
But who am I kidding? I can’t not write. Because my favorite parts of myself are in writing, and even more importantly, because I can sort out the world through my writing- at least a little bit more than I would be able to if I were alone inside my mind.
So, the problem I’m facing now is one I’m sure all artists- not just writers- need to sort out for themselves. Where is the line between the time needed for artistic creativity and the time needed to actually live life? I can’t write about living, real people if I only stay inside my own head. It’s hard- even in the past couple of days, I’ve found myself slipping. I’m human, so I know it’ll take me a while to learn how to balance everything in my life a little better. But I’ll keep trying, and at least I’ll learn something about myself- and my writing- along the way.
Part of an Etude:
Some days I can try to bridge the river of miscommunication, and this trickle of feeble words stretches like the high, high, whispery notes of the piano’s top octave. Like the first moment of the first spring thunderstorm or the initial exploration into a leather-bound, gilded dictionary, these words of mine linger for a moment, maybe two, before they shift into what is normal, what is recognized, what falls into the category of seen and heard and understood and thought before. We are not cockroaches, but I think we underestimate the value of our adaptability. The mountain peak of glory in my mind is touched upon by you, like a twig tentatively probing a crawling anthill, and though perhaps only one tiny insect dares the perilous slopes of the twig or sneaks upon the toe of your sneakers, the mountain is flattened as you sketch its profile into your book of great understanding.
Edit: The rest of the Etude above is posted on the Other Projects page under the name of There Is a Time.
December 22
Posted by Madeline on Dec 22 2009 | 2 Comments »
Listening to: Beethoven Symphonies
Reading: Four Quartets by T.S. Eliot [again...]
What goes into determining a character? With a new book idea tugging at the back of my mind recently, I’ve been thinking a lot about this. I recently StumbledUpon this website about character characteristics- a page titled something like 1001 character traits- and I saw that, of the few traits I looked at, they had a range from favorite foods to core issues about personalities, such as phobias and insecurities, etc. And so that got me to thinking much more consciously about my character development.
Where do I start when I try to find a new character? Often either with a name or an important reaction to another person- even though those are two distinctly different approaches. The first is a straightforward fact; the second considers not the character’s basic personality but rather the more complex aspect of their reactions to others. For a while, that can be all I know about the character- one or the other- though rarely both at the very beginning. I can tell you exactly the way one of my new characters feels about the people around her- but I’m at a complete loss for her name. With Nyla Godard, however, I knew her name weeks before I found the basic plot— and it wasn’t until I was finished with the first chapter that I even had a taste of what her personality was like. On the other hand, I called Pontus Savarik ‘Smidge’ for weeks, just because I couldn’t find an appropriate name for the little smidgers who occupied my thoughts– and because I used the nickname for so long, I couldn’t just let it go, and now it’s his nickname all through his books.
Where to go for there? Lately it’s been songs that spark ideas, and once I have the smallest inkling of a personality, logic tends to build on it- especially once I have a plot line from which to base their reactions, background, etc. But right now I’m most interested in those first few weeks- or more often now months- where I have just one tiny detail to tag the nameless phantom in my thoughts. There’s something pleasant about that time, knowing this phantom has a complete personality somewhere– and it just takes a little digging and a whole lot of patience for the rest of the personality to unravel. And what’s even more rewarding is knowing that this person is a completely round and whole character, and no matter how much you think you know, there’s always more to learn, and there’s always more to surprise you. That’s when I think characters are most fun- when you can finally learn that you have no say on their actions or traits; they dictate when and how much they will reveal their personality to you.
But for now, while I’m waiting for this nameless woman to shed a light on just another little trait of hers- maybe her name??- I am very much content now to continue exploring Sava and his friends. And maybe, sometime over the holidays, something will spark, and a name, or a favorite food, or a plot will uncover itself. All the same– Happy Holidays to everyone, and one last thought from T.S. Eliot:
“So here I am…/Trying to use words…/And each venture/ is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate/ With shabby equipment always deteriorating/ In the general mess of imprecision of feeling, / Undisciplined squads of emotion.” V. from East Coker, Four Quartets.
Not exactly cheerful…but I love it =] Happy Holidays!
N”
December 9
Posted by Madeline on Dec 09 2009 | 2 Comments »
Reading: A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess
Listening To: Guster
I wonder, where does the time go? One day I swear I was sweltering in the ridiculous heat of Bangladesh- and now, suddenly, there’s ice outside my window and fallen trees down the street. Geez. Along with that- I can remember the exact moment I first thought of Sava’s world- and now I’m thirty pages into his third book? He’s old? He’s in love? He’s…Well…Let’s not go where he is quite yet.
I love, love, love writing new books and stories, but there’s this constant pressure, like running a race, that seems to push me into flying through my books. Sometimes I wonder…would it be sweeter, better to slow down a little and enjoy the process of writing? But it’s the frantic flurry of words and scenes and emotions that I love the most- and that comes out the best.
But yesterday I took a break from plugging along through my book, and, through request, jotted down an extra scene from Sava’s second book. No editing- rough writing- and pure love, love, love again. It’s a relief, I’ve realized, to take a break every once in a while and write something short, flippant, and separated from the burdens and heavy baggage of an entire book. Gosh! Who ever knew that writing was like medication for an overly stressed writer?
Well, I guess all those magazines and articles I’ve read about writing have pointed that exact same idea out three gazillion times, but…it takes experience to fully appreciate how well it works.
Basically, what I’m trying to say is that I love to write. After weeks and weeks and months and years of this practice, it sometimes sneaks up on me, almost like a surprise, that I really do love this. It makes me giddy. It makes me smile. And so I think I’ll post this, and get on to grinning.
A cheerful thought from Book One:
Another round of whistles and cheers rose in the waiting crowds behind them, and Sava bit down hard on his lip to keep from smiling.
November 15
Posted by Madeline on Nov 15 2009 | Comment now »
Listening to: Three Legged Fox
Reading: Villette by Charlotte Bronte
(Supposed to be reading: The Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer, as well as Murder in the Cathedral by T.S. Eliot…Oh boy)
I am in a room that is spinning. Perhaps you see me, standing like a broken doll, with a dangling arm and dejected neck and a shattered expression, vague in its inability to ever change. Change doesn’t come to dolls, who may only adjust their clothes and brush their hair, for to change would be to halt the twisting walls that never cease- impossible, irrefutable, meaningless. You would laugh at my attempt, a futile gesture that is brushed aside by the merest breeze, by the merest sign of condescension or mockery. My square home does not even have the decency to rise up in miniature walls with a confining roof to shade my eyes from the whirling business outside. No, I do not have the privilege, the honor, the not so special distinction of a shield for my eyes. There is no pink bed with a flimsy balcony, nor do I have a quaint window seat with a pillow on which to rest my head. I have only a square with painted black lines across which I do not dare to extend my arms or legs or fingers or toes for fear of colliding with all that whirls and spins beyond me. A tentative stretch yields only a sensation like a mild burn; anything more produces the irate fire of detestation and ridicule. So instead I keep my knees curled tight to my chin, my arms hooked tightly around my ankles, as I feel the heat of the friction of flying objects and twisting walls around my head. From where you sit in a plastic-covered armchair, my hunched posture may look broken, and some days, when the wind is flying not so high, not so sharp, not so violent, I can smile secretly into my porcelain hand and know the truth.
But while the gale is full of force and livid power, my arms dangle from broken strings that feebly swing in the wind, and my glass eyes glaze over. There is no truth to seek today; my porcelain hands are shattered from a final attempt, and I am broken.
Yes, folks, this is the result of writing [or battling for hours] a paper on Hamlet. Copyrighted to Madeline Gambino 2009
And lastly, a writing thought from hours and hours of editing Book Two: “This is war, not life.”
October 19
Posted by Madeline on Oct 19 2009 | 1 Comment »
Listening to: Bruce Springsteen
I was sick last weekend with the flu, and, without any energy to move off my couch, I somehow stumbled across a fantasy TV series called the Legend of the Seeker. Oddly enough, I’ve never been one to particularly watch or read Fantasy, although I’ve tried much harder to do so because I write it. All the same, however, I got about halfway through the first season over the long weekend. The show was sometimes much too predictable and often clearly written for a fairly obvious moral, but God, it was so cool just seeing it. Although I can picture what I write very well, it’s always a little fuzzy to read another author’s words, and it’s difficult to picture things precisely while reading. I have to admit, I love seeing books made into TV or movies- though I’ve never read the Legend series, so I’m not sure how faithful the series is- because I love SEEING it. And this, because the setting was similar to my writing, was just awesome. I love seeing the type of setting, the intricate beauty of a forest landscape or the harshness of a coast, and being able to picture my characters in it. Maybe it’s because fantasy is always considered such a part of “another world”- and yet these TV shows can make completely convincing fantasy scenes from our world, as it is. That’s cool, particularly since I live in a city, and the only nature I see regularly is my backyard.
I dunno…if TV people can take our world and turn it into fantasy, I think that says something. People say we don’t have magic in our world, and that’s the worst criticism of the genre, I think. Of course we have magic- in the beauty of our world, in genuine emotions, in love, in faith, in simple acts of kindness. Fantasy is, after all, not just dragons and elves and treasure and swords and whatever else catches the author’s fancy, but truly a representation of the boundaries of humanity. By stretching what the reality is, we can better understand the limits of the human mind, of human emotions, and of the human consciousness. And personally, if we can picture that a little more in our own world, right where we’re standing and in the person standing next to us, I think maybe we’d find out a little bit more about ourselves.
A thought from Sava’s 2nd Book: “You think mages who can start fires or move objects are the only people with magic, but everyone is filled with it. Magic is everywhere- in every touch, in every breath….Your magic is more a representation of your self than any other part of you.”
October 4
Posted by Madeline on Oct 04 2009 | Comment now »
Reading: Dracula
Listening to: Shuffle- right now, The Velvet Underground & Nico
Not much to update. I am going through post-book depression/writers’ block, though I did post a new short story [project? exploration of music?] on the Other Projects page. It’s called A Love Story, and if you’re a music lover, it’s especially directed towards you. Please check it out and leave comments here or through email- I always respond.
A thought from Nyla’s book:
“Power? I don’t have any real power. I’m just a girl who happens to have been born into a role that should hold power. After all, I’m nearly a foot shorter than any of my opponents, giving me a severe disadvantage in almost any fight, and I don’t have much support throughout Elenot until I kill someone or do something unbelievably amazing. It’s terribly disheartening. My real power should lie in the three objects of the Silvercatcher, but,” Nyla said, hesitating to hold up the Catcher’s mirror, “I don’t even have those any more either. Just hand-me-downs from another family.”