Novel: Update

About ten thousand words into this novel, I've decided to start from scratch. I'm not changing the story but the way in which I tell the story. Specifically, I've moved from a first-person, limited pov to something else. It's a sort of meta perspective I feel is more appropriate to the story and makes it more interesting for the reader.

Strangely enough, by tossing the old way of telling the story into the shit-can, I feel as if I've made a huge leap ahead in the writing of this book. I feel liberated from something stale and still; fallen into something dynamic and exciting.

Novel: Update

Now that I've gotten the actual format of my novel settled, I've focused on the timeline and am happy to report I've got that settled as well. The exact dates are in place and all that remains now is to make the entries required.

I've been flirting with creating a dossier for each of the main characters and feel I may actually begin that process tomorrow. I want to create an actual folder for each character -- complete with photos downloaded from the internet at random (likely photobucket). Sorry random people I select to be the physical representatives of my characters. What can I say? I selected you because I have good taste!

Okay -- back to work now....

Poem: "Luna"

Luna

O, white and tranquil summer moon,
Silent disk of placid light,
Let me never see another noon,
But live forever in this night.

The clouds endeavor to hide your face,
But their existence is fragile and they soon divide,
As I who live to see your grace
Ride a ripple of life that will soon subside.

But you, sweet moon, will yet remain
To light the night for children's eyes,
And by your light will lovers love,
And mothers sing their lullabies.

~Mike Duron (Alaska, 1999)

Poem: Sonnet No. 8

The Spider

I have a spider my ex-wife called me
to kill. He'd fallen into her shower
and couldn't climb out of the tub. To see
him there, at a point in his life lower,
obviously, than any he'd ever known
before -- a point in his life just like mine,
I think, where she could have killed him and shown
some kindness, his quick death being a sign
of her understanding -- just warmed my heart.
I caught him up in some tissue and brought
him home. He has crickets now -- and my art.
I'm sure he can't know he's even been caught.
Spiders are dull -- about as dumb as bricks;
I just keep him 'cause he doesn't get ticks.

~Mike Duron (composed December 26th, 2001)

Poem: Sonnet No. 7

Fragile Friendship

People tease you about my love, don't they?
How strange to have this strange poet love you.
A penniless harlequin just won't do
when your beauty demands a knight to slay
dragons -- to rule kingdoms -- one who can say
dead and hollow things and make them sound true
(and with eloquence and arrogance too);
a well-heeled shoe to lay, love, and obey.
There was a time though, when your heart called out
to me with a sidelong glance and a smile,
when love's flower turned yellow-green and young.
It seemed to me there was nothing to doubt
back then it was happy flirting, not guile,
that made my old love yellow-green and young.

You shouldn't have let them hold your tongue.
Your lover is your heart, your friends your mind.
One makes you human, the others unkind.

In the end, with your friends, you will find
love like ours is all that really matters;
it endures, while fragile friendship shatters.

~Mike Duron (composed December 25th, 2001)

Poem: Sonnet No. 4

Rainbows in My Attic

As we sat there at the table, I said,
"You know I have feelings for you, don't you?
You're only being nice...." Then you nodded your head,
slightly, and you turned to me smiling and you
looked as if you didn't want to kill me
but you had to kill my hopes -- tenderly
(like a little foal with a broken knee
or an old dog you put down -- tenderly).
I smiled back then and helped you with the ropes.
"I'm not a kid," I said, and, "It's okay."
That's when you rose to leave and all my hopes
died at the gallows -- where they hang today.
But isn't that so melodramatic?
Hopes are rainbows I make in my attic.

~Mike Duron (composed December 17th, 2001)

Poem: Sonnet No. 3

The Ship

My heart, so quick to spot you and to love,
unfurled its sails and deftly changed its tack
and, though this move surprised the stars above,
and mind and pride did move to turn it back,
this errant heart of mine could not be swayed
though every trick of pride and mind was tried,
it boldly strove to reach you -- unafraid
that by its love, its love might be denied --
so sailing on despite the stars and mind,
and with a faith no faithles heart could know,
it suffered waves of loneliness to find
that spot where all good winds to you do blow,
but now against your reef does my heart grind;
it should have, from the start, obeyed the mind.

~Mike Duron (composed Sunday, December 16th, 2001)

Poem: Sonnet No. 2

To Sit Beside You

To sit beside you (even when your eyes
will not bless mine with any love -- when all
the world, it seems, would slow in time and fall
into an endless instant, should your eyes
just glance at mine with any love at all),
to see the perfect symmetry and grace
in every treasured detail of your face
as you smile and I fee your love is all
my pen would need to steal the stars and lace
their beauty, as a gift, throughout these lines.
To sit beside you, my love like vines
whose flowers open to the cool moon's grace:
Once, this was all my heart could want or need,
but, by a single look, my heart was freed.

~Mike Duron (composed December 16th, 2001)

Poem: Sonnet No. 1

Threads of Arras

Whenever I take up this pen, thinking
I should write something describing what it's
Like to see you while this subtle aching
Leaves my heart in purple and crimson fits --
Yielding, then resisting the force that binds
Our lives together when we fall in love --
Underneath the sharp language of our minds,
My pen scratches out the hidden threads of
Arras you create inside me (all their
Richly-colored weaves softly tapped when you
Respond to my reticence with a dare:
Your usual kindly 'Hi' or 'How are you?').
Mostly though, I wonder if you realize
Everything I dream when I dream your eyes?

~Mike Duron (composed December 13th, 2001)

Existence -- Thoughts from 1999

Life is nothing more than a vacation from non-existence.

The natural state of being of any thing that is is non-existence. After dissolution, a thing no longer exists. Before creation, a thing does not exist.

Therefore, the natural state of being of any thing that is is non-existence.

Existence is an aberration.

~Mike Duron, 1999.

Poem: "St. Paul"

If Saul of Tarsus had been a
real monster -- say a man
who molested children (each day
stealing one in his old van,
using his little girl as bait:
'wanna go to my house?'
she would ask at the playground gate)
and he was the type of spouse
who could brainwash his partner so
she would participate --
actually help -- and never go
to the cops while her soul mate
molested and murdered, then carved
the children up and cooked
the pieces for his fat, love-starved
dogs (those his own children spooked)
and, had one of your small ones been lost as such,
to a man reborn, could you forgive so much?

~Mike Duron (composed November 29th, 2001)

Note:
The ghost of the poet wanders in the spaces between the letters of his poems.

Poem: "hallways"

passing in the hallways
gives me a chance to read
your eyes, but you always
hide, so i need

to toss HELLOs and HIs
to get you to look or
not look me in the eyes,
but don't be sore:

i only probe out of desperate need
and rarely out of cruelty or greed.

~Mike Duron (composed November 27th, 2001)

Note:
Every poem is a fossil and nothing more.

Poem: "Pata Chueca"

His right foreleg had, unset,
healed by the time I saw him first.
My grandmother pointed him out
to me, as we watched the cars go by.
"Here comes pata chueca," she said
(Her smile was God then, though now she's dead).
He limped and sniffed along his route
and, as dogs could do then, he wore a pout.
He appeared every day like sunrise and sunset,
driven by hunger -- I know now -- and thirst
(Here was a pet who would never die of gout).
Then, he vanished, but, no, I didn't cry,
until I held my grandma's hand and kissed her goodbye.

~Mike Duron (composed Saturday, December 1st, 2001)

Note:
Poetry is not therapy. Poetry is art.

Poem: "rainbow"

she (as if my heart had been a flower
whose bloom had wilted because the power
of a violent storm's enough to cower
even the strongest heart that stands alone)
appeared in brilliant colors to atone
for any darkness that my heart had known;
so, no, to save my soul i'd not deny
she is, for me, the rainbow and the sky.

~Mike Duron (composed Sunday, December 9th, 2001.)

Elementary Comparative Novel-Structure Analysis

Just a few quick observations regarding the structures of six novels: Blowfly, by Patricia Cornwell (A Scarpetta Novel)[2003]; For Whom the Bell Tolls, by Ernest Hemingway [1940]; The Bourne Legacy, by Eric Van Lustbader [2004]; Hannibal, by Thomas Harris [2000]; Duma Key, by Stephen King [2008]; War of the Worlds, by H.G. Wells [1898].

Questions to be asked regarding each book:
1. Is the book divided into parts?
2. If the book is divided into parts, are the parts named?
3. Is the book divided into chapters?
4. If the book is divided into chapters, are the chapters named?
5. If the book is divided into chapters, are the chapters subdivided?
6. If the chapters are subdivided, are the subdivisions named?

I'll enter notes on each book in order according to date, but I won't answer the questions in list form. Instead, I'll just type a simple paragraph describing the structure of the book.

1. War of the Worlds (1898)

H.G. Well's book is divided into two books and includes an epilogue but no prologue. Book 1 is composed of 17 chapters; book 2 is composed of 10 (including the epilogue, which is chapter 10). Chapter numbering resumes from one at the beginning of each book. The chapters in both books are named, and none of the chapters is subdivided into smaller sections.

2. For Whom the Bell Tolls (1940)

Hemingway's book consists of 43 numbered but un-named chapters, with neither an epilogue nor a prologue present. The book is not divided into sections and none of the chapters are subdivided.

3. Hannibal (2000)

Thomas Harris' book is divided into six named sections. The sections are divided into un-named chapters but the chapter numbers continue through the various sections without resetting. The book contains a total of 103 chapters and none of the chapters is sub-divided. Finally, the book has no prologue or epilogue.

4. Blowfly (2003)

Patricia Cornwell's Scarpetta novel is structured in a manner identical to Hemingway's FWtBT. The book contains no prologue, no epilogue, and consists of a total of 124 numbered but un-named chapters.

5. The Bourne Legacy (2004)

Eric Van Lustbader's novel is divided into a total of four sections: "Prologue," "Part 1," "Part 2," and "Epilogue." The book contains 31 numbered but un-named chapters that run continuously from the beginning of "Part 1" to the end of "Part 2."

6. Duma Key (2008)

Stephen King's novel exhibits the most-complex structure of the all six books considered here. It contains neither a prologue nor an epilogue but is divided into 12 sections. Each section division consists of a section titled "How to Draw a Picture" and is numbered from I to XII. The book's total of 22 named chapters are interspersed between the "How to Draw a Picture" section dividers and are themselves subdivided into sections numbered with lower-case roman numerals but are not otherwise named.

Pros and Cons of Above Structures for Today's Readers

The first thing that comes to mind when comparing, say Duma Key to War of the Worlds is that Duma Key seems much more geared toward a person who is able to read sometimes for long periods of time and sometimes for short periods of time. The fact that its chapters are divided into sub-sections that provide convenient 'stopping points' for busy people who have to go to work, drive, tend to family business, etc. gives it appeal to such an audience.

Really, who has time to sit through a 900-page novel consisting of three 300-page chapters?

The structure of War of the Worlds actually seems to me more dictated by the content than any consideration of the prospective readership's time constraints. The 'stopping points' are placed in such a way that they seem to complement the telling of the story in a truer artistic sense.

Of course, it's a little past five in the morning and I've been up all night so I just might be reading too much into King's motivations regarding his novel structure and, if I am, I'm sorry. These are just my thoughts right now.

Regarding the other books, I think it's pretty interesting that Blowfly and For Whom the Bell Tolls have exactly the same structure. This is quite a classic, though simple, way of telling a story and I don't fault either author one bit for using it. I personally prefer more sophistication -- such as with Nabokov's Lolita and Pale Fire -- but I enjoyed both novels pretty well anyway. I guess it's sort of like a classic meal; like spaghetti and meatballs rather than some new-fangled way of eating foie gras and black truffles.

Okay, enough of this for now. My eyse are dry and I'm kinda starting to doze here. Maybe I'll revisit this in the future.

War of the Worlds

Just a few notes on this while I'm online because I just got done reading this novel by H.G. Wells (I picked it up as soon as I got done with Duma Key) and I have a few things on my mind I want to tap into the blog before I forget. **Spoiler Alert**

I have to say I really enjoyed the hell out of this little novel. Aside from being a person endowed with a formidable imagination, Wells is a solid writer. I'm a person who doesn't admire a writer by reputation or fame but by the nuts and bolts of his work. All the fame Wells has gotten over the years is well deserved in my opinion.

A few questions remain with me after having finished reading this novel this afternoon though. For instance:

1. How is it that the Martians were so advanced and yet they failed to take into account the existence and danger of microbes? This seems quite implausible and too convenient for the story's resolution -- a deus ex machina.
2. How was it possible for the narrator to be inside his home at the end and his wife to be outside and for somebody to tell her that nobody was inside? When did they check the home? Before he got there? They certainly couldn't have checked it while he was in the house. The would have seen him. If they checked the home before he got there, why did they go back to it and stand right below his window to declare that he must be "counted among the dead?"
3. Did Wells not consider such a thing as G-forces when he considered the fact the cylinders would have to be shot from a cannon on Mars with incredible stress on its fragile occupants as well as plowed into the ground on Earth with such force that such creatures as those described in the story would surely have been reduced to jelly stuck to the front interior surface of the cylinder?
4. Why was it that microbes did not exist on Mars? Did Wells assume complex forms evolved from complex forms without any existence of simpler forms -- ever? This just doesn't make sense.
5. Why did Wells ignore the fact the conquerers have historically decimated the populations of the conquered in the history of Earth with microbes they took to the conquered? Remember the smallpox-ridden blankets?

Even with these questions, I have to say I thoroughly enjoyed reading this novel and look forward to reading another of Wells' novels as soon as I'm done with what I'm reading now: Thoreau's 1862 essay, "Walking."

Duma Key

I recently read Stephen King's Duma Key. As with most things I post here, I'm posting mainly as a note to myself so if you haven't read the book consider this your **Spoiler Alert**.

The first thing I have to say about this book is that it read like a novel-length short story that should have been edited about ten to twenty more times, each revision removing more than the next. This would have been a great story at about the length of "1408." As it stands, the thing is a monstrosity composed of a few lush literary oases separated by several vast and inhospitable literary deserts.

Let me clarify before I go on: this is my second time actually making an attempt to read this book. The first time I tried to read it, I put it down at around page 100 and didn't go back to it for about a year.

It didn't get much better the second time around.

So what have I learned from the experience? Many things, but mainly I learned that it's easy -- even for the acknowledged 'master' of a genre -- to fail to revise with a brutal honesty. I don't know if King just lacked the desire to do what needed to be done (as Mark Twain said -- first underline all the parts you like best ... then delete them) or if he actually thought every single paragraph in the work actually had to be there (it didn't).

Having read this book made me not want to read another Stephen King book again in my life, though I probably will. At any rate, here are some questions I'm left with regarding the story itself:

1. If Edgar Freemantle is so rich, why the hell doesn't he have a cell phone?
2. What's up with the housekeeper that King seems to totally forget about throughout most of the book? The one he only mentions when it's convenient -- about two or three times in the entire book?
3. If the evil monster had the capacity to kill people with heart attacks, etc., all the way across the country, why the hell did it need to send an over-the-hill, boozed-up art critic to kill Freemantle's daughter? And why the hell couldn't the young, healthy, athletic daughter take the old crow when the latter attacked the former in her apartment?
4. What the hell was up with all the physicality between the father and daughter? That seemed somewhat over the line at times, like when Freemantle is describing her breasts and that whole scene in the pool ... and that kiss on the lips. I mean ... wtf?

Bottom line:

Note to self: When writing a novel, make sure it's a novel and not just a fat short story composed of 85% character development -- of One character.

Oh yeah, and just one more thing: Dr. Xander, the big dude who got Freemantle started on his way? Yep, that's your King requisite Magical Negro.

A Few Thoughts...

I've been up all night working.

Working is reading (right now, mainly Duma Key). Working is cruising the web, many times looking hard into the ugliness in the world -- an act that can be quite exhausting on its own for a person who is any sort of artist at all. Working is writing.

Working is imagining, daydreaming (in my case, mostly at night).

So now the time is approaching for me to go to bed.

I take with me all the ghosts of the world. I take the memories of mangled and dying people. I take the memories of funny animals. I take the memories of scenes from a novel -- Duma Key. I take the memories of my interactions with people on the web.

I climb into bed, in a pair of shorts and a tee-shirt, and continue to read from a book until my eyelids grow heavy and my eyes begin to dry out. While most other people in this part of the world are interacting in offices, on the streets, over the phone, on the internet, I slip into the world of dreams.

The Freudian Dreamworks creak into motion and everything I've seen is mixed into a sort of reality/fictive lasagna.

"I have to get going on this novel," I think, as I fall asleep. "I'm 41 years old, living with uncontrolled diabetes, high cholesterol, and I'm more sedentary than a sea slug. I don't have much time before my body gives in and I go to sleep for good. I've got to finish this thing and move on to the next one."

All the while the world goes on about its business.

People are born, as I sleep. People die.

And, in a while, their ghosts wander through my dreamworks ... as even more people work in jobs they hate, jobs they love, as they hide themselves away during lunch and make love, as mother's give birth, as sons die in wars and children die in crimes all over the world.

I sleep ... perchance ... to-- Oh, what the hell. Are you still reading this?

I'm off to bed -- with the lights on, thank you very much.

Lunch at the Gotham Cafe

I just finished reading "Lunch at the Gotham Cafe" by Stephen King. I read it because I'm currently reading Duma Key and it's fluctuating between chore and pleasure like an old-fashioned dipping bird fluctuates between up and down. (I'll save the problems I'm having with DK for another post though.)

I'm really astonished at just how sophomoric this story reads! I'm here to tell you it sounds like something I might have written in freshman comp in 1987, if not high school. The whole fight sequence in the restaurant was not only ridiculous but outright implausible at times.

For instance, if people saw a guy with a knife attacking a person (or even a group of people) in a crowded restaurant, a short visit to almost any gore site on the web these days will reveal that while bystanders will likely back off at first and start capturing the event on their cell phones, many of them will actually rush the guy and get him onto the ground before he's able to do much damage.

A nutjob with a gun is another story, but a guy with a knife? In an NYC restaurant? Forget about it. The guy would be lucky to get out of the place alive.

Implausibilities abound. What about the waiter who -- after everyone's been screaming in the dining room and one guy's even been murdered -- is still on his way out from the kitchen with a tray of food!? What? Was that guy deaf or something?

The whole thing seemed like it was written by a teen-aged kid more than a master of horror.

Unless I'm missing something and the whole thing was an inside joke -- a tongue in cheek slip of the pen -- I have to say this is one of the worst ever things I've read by King.

(I read "1408" earlier today as well and while that story was better than this one by far, it had it's own silly aspects that I might blog about later in another entry.)

Back Home

Coming back to this blog is, dare I write it?: Like coming home.

I've been off on various adventures since I last posted. I've met a lot of people -- and let them all drift back into that nothingness from which they emerged. A few I've tried to contact again, but not many. They don't belong to my world of writing. They belong to that other world. The outer world where people don't live inside their head. (Yes, that's a joke. It's okay to laugh.)

So I never did finish that novel I was working on before life interrupted me with its rude surprises.

I don't know if I'll go back to it. The subject is still relevant, but will people want to read it?

Who knows?

I guess I can finish it for the practice. I mean, I could write short stories to get back into shape, but who buys short stories anymore besides 17 and Atlantic Monthly? And how many subs do they get every day? About a thousand each?

That's a hell of a slush pile.

Where's Judson Jerome when you need the guy? (Miss you much, pal.)

So, here I am. I guess I'll put my nose to the old grindstone and get to that 100k word count and just get this one behind me so I can start the next one.

It's good to be back. Like a good little hobbit, I hope there are no adventures or surprises in store for me for the next couple of years.

All I want to do is stay inside this comfortable little hobbit hole -- and write, read, revise, write....

[By the way, I just opened a twitter account: http://www.twitter.com/mike_duron ]