Something I've found about writing fiction: the characters that I've developed--or in some cases that have developed themselves--linger long after we've all said goodbye. Ruby, for example, who was one of the 2 protagonists in one novel, let me know that she's still alive and well in Reno where I put her several years ago. Actually while in Reno recently, I investigated some of her haunts and found that not much has changed. Jerry, the other protagonist in that book, seems to be less present, so perhaps the relationship he and Ruby developed didn't grow as I thought it would.
Likewise, from the latest blog-blockbuster "Warm Whiskey in a Cold Ditch," several of the characters still give a shout-out every now and then when I see a passenger train or even look down some train tracks. These characters might still be present because it wasn't too long ago that I was enjoying their company.
But, really, I'm here to bury characters, not to praise them. In fact, I'm currently formulating some new ones, though I sense that these will be mere offshoots of those in "Whiskey." I'm of the belief that many (or maybe most) writers simply work with the same themes and characters with each new work, though this might pertain only to me. Who knows.
So, the link to the previous post: in Green Apple Books, I was scanning bookshelves when not only a new title but a new premise came to mind. It was nice: I saw the title's words rather than thought of them, and this might have happened because my little brain saw a word or two on a book cover when my eyes did not. (This happens: quite often, if you are used to proofreading, your brain will see a typo before your eyes do and then you have to get to work finding the thing.) And, for once, I had my own pen and notebook with me and didn't have to steal from Kominski. Here's what I wrote for the title: "Things We Didn't Say Yesterday." Then I circled the word "Didn't" and substituted "Couldn't." So, one of those will be the title: "Things We Didn't Say Yesterday" or "Things We Couldn't Say Yesterday." A subtle, but important, difference in meaning. It reminds me of a line by the poet Jim Daniels': "For every poet who considers the rhythm of the word 'dark' and the word 'darkness.'"
It was nice coming up with not just a title, but also what the story will be about. Thanks, Green Apple Books. Thanks, Kominski.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Things We Find When We're Looking for Something
Getting out of ruts is a good thing. With both days and nights filled with not necessarily fulfilling activities, my Subaru and I headed west. Not quite lighting out for the territories, but the Subaru and I both have lost a certain amount of the ruggedness required for a true quest.
San Francisco is always a good destination: more polite than Chicago, less expansive than London. The weather was too warm for January, but I'm not the type of jockey who looks a gift horse in the mouth. First, Green Apple Books: new and used everything, with an annex of everything else. Time was pretty much measured legally by the number of quarters we--but mostly Kominski--dug up to stuff into the parking meeter. You learn to look through merchandise quickly when you're under that kind of pressure. A compact publication of Heart of Darkness fits the bill here, something that'll also fit in my back pocket the next time TSA inspects me. (Cue the Rolling Stones' song "Connection": "My bags they get a very close inspection. I wonder why it is they suspect them.")
After Heart of Darkness is a different part of town on the way to City Lights--different bookstore with different character--and another parking meter that needs an about an hour's worth of coinage to carry it to the 6:00 pm free zone. Even verb tenses change in a different part of town.... Kominski, he's brave enough to walk into a wine bar and ask for change, though he promises them we'll be in shortly to buy something, to contribute to the bottom line. Good choice. Pinot Noir served from a cask, a plate of cheese, polite, yuppy dining. We even get an education about the differences between growing wine in Oregon and wine in California.
I'm wearing a black sweatshirt I'd picked up a year ago--a Green Apple sweatshirt. We're drinking politely when a young woman approaches me from behind an comments on my sweatshirt, on the Green Apple logo. I must've looked confused. "You know what's on the sweatshirt you're wearing?" she asks. I tell her I do, and she says she just loves Green Apple books and used to live in the same neighborhood. Kominski tells her we're writers, which is probably more true for him than for me. I mean, he actually writes stuff. The good thing? She doesn't bat an eye when she hears we're writers (real or pretend). That's nice. You tell most people something like that, and they want to know more. It was like having my parking validated, or maybe my ego. She slides back a door to show a stack of lockers because she just has to show me her canvas bag: from Green Apple Books. Nice. She's also the third person in about a month recommend the Latest Showtime Hit Californication. She lingers and talks for awhile, then returns to younger people.
There aren't many people in the place, and when we head out for a proper meal we wonder how long the joint will be in business. We go to Coppola's for dinner. Good stuff. More wine. We are seated in Mr. Coppola's private booth, which actually is roped off. Ha! Photographs and drawings of naked people decorate a couple of the walls. Heart of Darkness and Apocalypse Now all in one night. (Yes, there is a connection, but not to the Rolling Stones.)
Used to be we'd hang out in North Beach until midnight. Older and wiser now, we leave much earlier than that and drive across the Golden Gate Bridge just as the a-couple-of-days-beyond-full moon rises above the City side of the Bay. At home alone the next night after watching the Chicago Bears lose, I bring up the first season of Californication on Netflix and watch 4 streaming episodes. Not bad, with ideas about writing and writers mixed in with the debauchery. But to all you sensitive types, it is an adult show. If you're easily offended, stay away. There. You're warned. Kominski puts it well, though: You have to study what people expect you to be.
San Francisco is always a good destination: more polite than Chicago, less expansive than London. The weather was too warm for January, but I'm not the type of jockey who looks a gift horse in the mouth. First, Green Apple Books: new and used everything, with an annex of everything else. Time was pretty much measured legally by the number of quarters we--but mostly Kominski--dug up to stuff into the parking meeter. You learn to look through merchandise quickly when you're under that kind of pressure. A compact publication of Heart of Darkness fits the bill here, something that'll also fit in my back pocket the next time TSA inspects me. (Cue the Rolling Stones' song "Connection": "My bags they get a very close inspection. I wonder why it is they suspect them.")
After Heart of Darkness is a different part of town on the way to City Lights--different bookstore with different character--and another parking meter that needs an about an hour's worth of coinage to carry it to the 6:00 pm free zone. Even verb tenses change in a different part of town.... Kominski, he's brave enough to walk into a wine bar and ask for change, though he promises them we'll be in shortly to buy something, to contribute to the bottom line. Good choice. Pinot Noir served from a cask, a plate of cheese, polite, yuppy dining. We even get an education about the differences between growing wine in Oregon and wine in California.
I'm wearing a black sweatshirt I'd picked up a year ago--a Green Apple sweatshirt. We're drinking politely when a young woman approaches me from behind an comments on my sweatshirt, on the Green Apple logo. I must've looked confused. "You know what's on the sweatshirt you're wearing?" she asks. I tell her I do, and she says she just loves Green Apple books and used to live in the same neighborhood. Kominski tells her we're writers, which is probably more true for him than for me. I mean, he actually writes stuff. The good thing? She doesn't bat an eye when she hears we're writers (real or pretend). That's nice. You tell most people something like that, and they want to know more. It was like having my parking validated, or maybe my ego. She slides back a door to show a stack of lockers because she just has to show me her canvas bag: from Green Apple Books. Nice. She's also the third person in about a month recommend the Latest Showtime Hit Californication. She lingers and talks for awhile, then returns to younger people.
There aren't many people in the place, and when we head out for a proper meal we wonder how long the joint will be in business. We go to Coppola's for dinner. Good stuff. More wine. We are seated in Mr. Coppola's private booth, which actually is roped off. Ha! Photographs and drawings of naked people decorate a couple of the walls. Heart of Darkness and Apocalypse Now all in one night. (Yes, there is a connection, but not to the Rolling Stones.)
Used to be we'd hang out in North Beach until midnight. Older and wiser now, we leave much earlier than that and drive across the Golden Gate Bridge just as the a-couple-of-days-beyond-full moon rises above the City side of the Bay. At home alone the next night after watching the Chicago Bears lose, I bring up the first season of Californication on Netflix and watch 4 streaming episodes. Not bad, with ideas about writing and writers mixed in with the debauchery. But to all you sensitive types, it is an adult show. If you're easily offended, stay away. There. You're warned. Kominski puts it well, though: You have to study what people expect you to be.
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