Can You Picture Dorian Gray?

Reading a book that you do not know anything about is like watching a movie you have never heard of: either a pleasant surprise or a mere disappointment.  You avoid the “let-down” since you have no real expectations, perhaps other than the notion that if a publisher or producer bought the damn story it should at least be more than amateurish.

Think Leo.

Of course I have heard of Oscar Wilde, in fact I have heard of “The Picture of Dorian Gray.”  But truth be told, I never read the novel or thought much about it (how uncivilized!).  Until now, that is, since the novel is free on my Kindle.  

A Short Story: "Trains, Planes, and Minions"

I am an avid reader of Paulo Coelho's blog, live under a flight path next to a train station, and sleep with a noise machine that utilizes the sounds of water and wind.  Therefore, I am not surprised to have had the following vision:

Minion!!
You're sinking!!

In a small fishing village, a young boy bit his nails as he watched the village’s toughest warrior, Warrior, practice archery along the railroad that hugged the shoreline.  Warrior was the boy's idol, and the boy spent most nights dreaming of going into battle with him.  The boy’s brow bent as he watched Warrior's minion, Minion, use his good leg to wobble up the steep grade to the elevated train tracks.  Minion labored to set-up a dozen empty Guinness bottles on twelve different timber ties.  It took him a considerable amount of time to maneuver between each rail tie that jetted out from beneath the metal rails like the branches used to support a thatch roof.

Warrior watched Minion place the last bottle and tumble like a cannon ball down the steep grade into a small tide pool below.

“Get out of the way, Minion,” he said.

That’s no way to treat Minion, thought the boy.  Minion waited until the tide pulled most of the water out from beneath him to try and stand on his good leg.  He pulled his lame leg from underneath his bottom, but was not quick enough and the tide pushed his lame leg right back to where it was.  He looked at Warrior, shrugged his shoulders, and said, "Minion kick own ass."

“Boy, help Minion to his foot so that I can finish my training.  Now, little boy!”

Well I was going to help him anyway, thought the boy.  He helped Minion to dry ground, opposite the raised rail tracks.

Where Did I Put Angela's Ashes?

I know I put Angela's
Ashes somewhere.

Come again?  What was that?

I am always, I think, amazed by the inconsistencies in my ability to remember.  This comes to mind because for the first time since, well I’m not sure, I am rereading a book: Angela’s Ashes. 

I am astonished when I flag a page in a novel and flip back to it weeks later and know exactly where to begin on that page.  This sentence is intended to elicit such a sensation.  I scan the page and tell myself, “I have already read those bits, ah there I am.”  Isn’t that cool?  Actually I feel like a dork for even thinking about it (hey, this is my stream of conscious – welcome).  But for someone who doesn’t even know his own phone number (yes, I have one now but it is such an odd combination of digits), it is a good feeling to know exactly where my reading begins on page 323. I will spare you an analysis of how this phenomenon plays out on a Kindle.

Untag, You're a Nit.

Remember we used to play tag?  And by we, I mean you and me, and everyone we knew.  Tag was free.  It was arguably fun, that is unless you were “it,” but even then that was half of the game.  Do you run after the young weakling, or puff your chest and go for the speedy neighbor?  Hide in wait amongst the trees for a gorilla-tag, or hop on your bike for a drive-by-tag?  Tag, simply timeless.  

Let’s face it, tag was and still is awesome.  However, and there is always a "however" when I rant, it seems the rules of tag have changed.

Lockers are safe, you can't
tag me here Winny!  Or can you...

It seems that when you go out and have a good time with your family and friends, you are actually playing tag.  You drink a little, you play a few games of shuffle puck, and perhaps (hypothetically) at the moment just before the lights come on, you dance a little bit.  Okay, maybe a lot.  Seems fun, and at the surface all seems fair.  But, you see, the rules of tag have changed.  The game has been sent into overtime.

Wonder Whether Weather is Worth it?

Stock photo of two amazing
hockey players enjoying the weather.

It has been a cornerstone of my postings, both here and on Facebook.  Weather is all around us and more now than ever it is a part of just about every virtual and real-time conversation I have.  Mom will not talk to me unless we address the barometric pressure in London and L.A.  To further the infiltration of weather patterns in my life, I am now tracking the climate that I, myself, created in a fictional story.  During the revision process, I am making sure that my prose describes the “ablest weather that can be had” and that the conditions jive from chapter to chapter so as not to disrupt the reader with poor quality, amateur weather.  My goodness this weather business is tedious.  On the one hand I want my character to see his breath, but on the other I want him to sweat.  I guess I better get a jacket involved.  Regardless, I wonder, whether weather is really worth it? 

I didn't mention her once today.

Mark Twain didn't think so in The American Claimant.  It was whilst reading the passage where he promised to lay off the use of weather that I unceremoniously crowned him as my favorite author (so much so that I watched the entire lifetime special on him, which I think is 18 hours long).  I have included this passage below, and though I think the best writer in American history was on to something, the fact that he vowed not to use weather as a fictional tool in his book was actually a strong use of it after all (which he was no doubt aware).

Mark Twain’s strong opinion on the importance of weather is further exemplified in his most famous, yet unauthenticated quote, that “the coldest winter [he] ever saw was the summer [he] spent in San Francisco.”  He has also said that “if you don’t like the weather in New England, just wait a few minutes.”  And finally, my favorite, he stated that “everybody talks about the weather, but nobody does anything about it.”

Touché.  In my humble opinion, Mark Twain, in his infinite and celestial wisdom sealed the deal for wannabe-writers and conversationalists around the globe, talk of weather is here to stay and there aint nobody gonna do a thing about it (I know, for some just reading that will be painful, but that is kind of the point).  Back to revision…

Revision is a Four-Letter Word Disguised as an Eight-Letter Word

I fear that I may have self-helped myself beyond help, if that makes any sense.  For the first time, I have reached the revision stage of writing a novel.  I have loaded up on resources so that I am educated on the art before I crawl down the red inky path.  Some of my resources have been very helpful, others are downright discouraging.  Where one author suggests that revision is like cutting my own hair (let’s call this author "Mr. Helpful"), another essentially suggests that I am an amateurish moron and should cut everything I have  written (let’s call this author "Mr. Dick").  For a short list of books that hypothetically could be the source of Richard (for long), perhaps look at the Creative Writing Toolkit.

I suppose you think
this an inefficient use of words?

I like Mr. Helpful’s analogy, and I am unashamed to adopt it.  I will clip away at my writings, making sure not to cut so much off in a given chapter so that I am forced to lop off other areas that already look fabulous (I initially wrote Fab, but edited it out).  In fact, I may even leave the ending of the book abnormally long to create a mystical mullet novel.  Feast on that Mr. Dick.  

One question for you Mr. Dick, if you are so good at revising and publishing novels, why are you writing a self-help book on the subject?  True, I did buy it, but shouldn't you be writing the next Harry Potter or Twilight series?  Tis what I thoughteded! (these are all things that prevent a story from being published – oh yea, watch this.  Bam, I’m on a blog.) 

Ever Dream About Eating an E-book and Wake Up with a Laptop on Your Face?

Be sure to read your e-book.
A crummy commercial?  S.O.B!

I’m serious: Amazon Kindle ads appeared in my dreams.  Don’t ask me what else I dreamt about, but I shot out of bed and asked myself, “really dude, a Kindle?”  It isn’t a surprise though, you can see the ads all along the inside of the train, at the tube stops, and along the outside walls to each and every station.  You can’t avoid the Kindle, and I am ashamed to say I want it.  I want it bad.  I want it the way Ralphie wanted an Official Red Ryder Carbine-Action Two-Hundred-Shot Range Model Air Rifle.  Love the opportunity to quote Ralphie, but I am dead serious here.  Give it to me. 

What gives?  Is the Kindle really that great?  The Kindle cameo in my dreams gives me some concern: either I have a strange e-reader fetish, an impressionable proclivity towards mass advertisements, or just happened to have a random dream about a Kindle.  I’m praying for the random dream.  Either way, the topic warrants a little consideration while I am awake.