I know I don't need to announce this, but I've been too busy for the blog... plus, I haven't had much to write about lately. I've seen a number of movies since my last batch of reviews, but as I've mentioned, I don't want this strictly to be a review site; additionally, the movies I've seen have either been a disappointment or just not exceptional enough to warrant lengthy discussion. (Even The Master, which I had been looking forward to for literal years was a let-down. Not a bad movie, mind you, but not as good as it should have been.)
So, what's been taking up all my time? School hoops and black holes, in a sense. I'm back at the community college - not for a prerequisite this time, but to try and keep my anatomy sharp. I'm taking Pathophysiology in the hopes that some more of this complicated medical information will sink in. Thus far the class has been a bit of a disappointment: the teacher is determined to discuss things at only a cursory level, flying through chapters without really covering the material to any discernible depth. He'll mention a disease, give a few signs/symptoms, key words, and abnormal labs, and then go on to the next one. The class isn't really difficult (he's very "loose" with his grading: so long as you have the concept, you're generally okay), but I'm disappointed that I'm not getting a better understanding.
On top of that, I'm also finally starting to get responses from grad schools. In total, I applied to eight this past June. As of this writing, I've received three interview offers and one rejection. I'm hoping to hear from the other four by the end of the month, but it could be as late as February (!).
My other great time-consumer is a "book" I've been working on. It's been more than five years since I wrote any sort of fiction, and over the summer I finally started writing again. I have to say, it feels great. I'm a born writer, and while you can debate my talents, there's no denying the way I feel afterward: it's great catharsis, but also great pleasure.
I put "book" in quotes because it's not nearly long enough to be a novel, but it's also going to be substantially longer than a short story. Not a novella... a novelette maybe? Right now I'm at about thirty pages, with a bit more to go. At most, I imagine it will be about fifty pages, seventy would be pushing it; I have a hard time believing it will go any longer than that. My wife tells me I should expand it into a full-length novel, which I could with enough time, effort, and research, but my response is that I don't want the story to be boring; and to reach that length, it would have to be significantly padded. There's enough material for a book - hell, even a few - but I'd rather touch on several topics and keep people interested than drone on and on and lose them. It's a special writer than can be verbose and engaging. James Joyce I am not.
The writing of this story has been much different from anything I've ever done. Not that I'm the biggest fan of structure (often, I simply start with a phrase or image and just go from there), but generally I at least have an idea of where I want the story to go, altering things as necessary to keep it natural and fluid... But this time, the entire story is some strange, organic thing. Very instinctual, very primitive. I find myself writing and going, "No, that needs to go there," or "I need to address a whole new topic here," or writing bits and pieces of completely different sections so they can be assembled later; it's being written piece by piece and then cobbled together like some strange bit of music. Very experimental, and very exciting.
My chief concern is that when all is said and done, it will feel disjointed and thrown together (which is intentional for some sections), but my hope is that the technique and the subject matter will be compelling and interesting enough to overcome any weaknesses. I'm trying to develop several different perspectives and styles: keeping it cohesive has been the hardest part.
This is where Harlan Ellison has been a big help. Over the past few months, Ellison has become one of my favorite writers; he's not in the same league as James Joyce, but then no one is. I've gone through every book of his I can get my hands on, and while some of his work is rather pedestrian, he's also written some of the most extraordinary short stories I've ever read. He's a man teeming with interesting ideas and phrases - a beautiful, fragile, morbid grasp of the ephemeral, the etheral - but it's the passion with which he writes that inspires me. I've found myself mimicking some of his phrasings and his rhythms (I should be so lucky).
Some of you (hopefully) are wondering just what the story is about, and to that I say: just you wait. One of these days I'll finish, and with any luck be published. (Wouldn't that be a trip!) It's science-fiction, I'll give you that much, but there are also pieces of mysticism, political theory, textbook, autobiography - all wrapped within humor, tragedy, and an ending that could only be described as a kind of linguistic thought-experiment. Can't wait to see what everybody thinks - can't wait to finish!