Writing Suggestion (1)

I have had some ideas for novels that I’ve worked on for years.  I have written this scene and developed that character for no other reason than I liked exploring the situation, but I never could figure out how all the situations could be fit together into a whole novel. In other words, I have plotting problems.

I have found a method that seems to help these divergent ideas converge into one story for a novel. I’ve known about the idea of a central story question for a long time now, but sometimes a story question has many answers, sometimes no answers.

I have since discovered from the Snowflake Method. From a story question comes designs or snowflakes. For you who have a mathematical background, this method is based on fractals.  Essentially using a 10-step method, an intricate matrix of plot points evolves from a 15-word (or less) summary of the novel.

I am just at Step 4 of the process, and I have already discovered a couple of important elements for my story that had never occurred to me before during all those years of tryimg to write this novel and going nowhere.

The Snowflake Method was developed by Randy Ingermanson, Ph.D. and is on his website at this link www.advancedfictionwriting.com.  The method is spelled out at no cost after a rather long introduction.

Snowflakes Piled High
Jeter Skeet

Why Science Fiction

I, like so many writers, have dreamed about writing a novel—or four.  When I started writing, I drifted toward SF because I was studying the sciences and because Sputnik’s timing was just right for a student to imagine walking on the moon and eventually Mars.  My dreams expanded throughout the universe when I read the words of Asimov, Heinlein, Clark, and especially Ursula K. LeGuin and C.J. Cherryh—science fiction writers all.

Science fiction has an ally called fantasy.  Fantasy is more popular these days because it focuses more on characterization than traditional SF which is usually more about ideas.  What I would like to do is to transform traditional SF themes using strong characterization.

In good science fiction, the science element or predicament plays the role of metaphor which reveals some aspect of ourselves.  In too much science fiction, however, that aspect is heroism.  What story might arise if the protagonist were not heroic, but perhaps a coward or villain or just indecisive about what to do?

That has been my dream since I sold my first short story decades ago.  I’ve since had two more published. Expanding one of those is where I want to start.  I am a member of Science Fiction (and Fantasy) Writers of America or SFWA which I hope will give me a head-start with readers.

What I’m considering for my blog is posting an update now and again about my successes and failures.  I will also have suggestions about the writing process itself.  One such suggestion will be in the next post, a suggestion I have already found invaluable.

Topi Dreams
by Jeter Skeet

Kneeling by a Toadstool

I went outside on a gloomy day which can be ideal for photography because you don’t have to contend with glare or your own shadow.  Instead I noticed a different shadow, a mental one.

I was practicing for a trip to Brazil we’ll take at the end of next month.  I thought that I would take macro pictures of day-lilies, but I became enamored with tiny toadstools instead.  After a couple of weeks spotted with frequent rainstorms, these cap-like spore-bearing organs of fungi were blossoming in the moistened earth. I even saw a small toadstool under construction.

The circle of what would become the cap was being made with a thin spring coiled and stretched along a string-like fiber, and I, a former biochemist, was watching a protein helix and a protein pleated-sheet (like those that make up our fingernails) come together into a single organ.  It was like I was watching microscopic chemical reactions on a macroscopic level.

Building Toadstools
by Jeter Skeet

Bookstore Café

I’m sitting at a flat-topped toadstool,
my legs astride its pedestal,
inhaling cinnamon-spiced hallucinogens
from the spores that pass
between the mushroom and my pen.

I’m sitting at a square-topped toadstool
inspired to seed the forest in which I live
with words inscribed on paper leaves
that grow on terraced nourishment
surrounding this mushroom place.

I’m sitting at a table toadstool
inside a café inside a bookstore
inside alternate realities found
in books trying to create possibilities
out of the magic practiced here.

I’m sitting at a toadstool among many
watching phantom toads be toads
while I pretend to be a novelist even
while I know my pen is being guided
by inhabitants of this fairy forest.

                                        12/10/08

Toadstool in Florida
by Jeter Skeet

Grouch Grouch Grouch

I’m getting too old to sing—
rasp rasp rasp.

Taken in Ecuador-2010
by Jeter Skeet

I’m getting too old to swing—
gasp gasp gasp.
I’m getting too old to smoke—
cough cough cough.
I’m getting so old I’ll croak—
off off off.

I’m getting too old to dive—
splash splash splash.
I’m getting too old to drive—
crash crash crash.
I’m getting too old to stray—
smooch smooch smooch.
I’m getting too old to pay—
mooch mooch mooch.

I’m getting too old for December—
chill chill chill.
I’m getting too old to remember—
nil nil nil.
I’m getting too old to intend—
dot dot dot.
I’m getting too old to pretend
to be something I’m not.

A Whale of a Tale

Raised on a farm in the land-locked Midwest Heartland, I remember the excitement of those times when we drove into Bogglesville.  In summer, that meant a root-beer ice-cream float; in fall, a candy apple rolled in crushed peanuts; in winter, sticky popcorn balls; and in spring, strawberry shortcake pilled high with fresh whipped cream.  Mom would make the treats after we returned home—if my brother and I were good during the shopping trip.   A big A&P grocery would be our last stop.  The problem was getting there.

As our Dad slowed the old Packard down preparing to make the turn onto Boggle’s Bridge, he would always ask, “Are you Jonahs ready for the belly of the whale?”

Once, when I was a preschooler, I began to whimper after he asked.  Mom had been reading me Pinocchio’s Picture Book, and I had looked ahead at the illustration of Pinocchio and Geppetto sitting in the belly of a whale with only a candle for light.  I had no candle, and I was afraid of the dark.

My big brother, Billy, was in the backseat with me.  He told me to shut up and hit me.  I got mad and hit him back.  Mom gave us a warning look over the back of her seat.  We stopped fighting.   With root-beer ice-cream floats hanging in the balance, Mom asked me, “What’s wrong?”

I sobbed as I said, “I don’t want to go in there.”

She assured me that it was going to be alright.  We be would be out soon.

Dad steered the sedan onto the tracks inside that barn-like structure.  I closed my eyes as I waited and listened to the planks creak, and the car squeak, and the Catfish River gurgle below—the sounds echoing off wooden walls.  Or was that my own stomach gurgling?  My imagination was getting the better of me, and I began to throw a fit.

 “Jeter, what’s wrong now?”

“I can’t get out of the whale.”

“Yes you can, Silly,” Billy said and pointed up ahead, “through the other end.”

But I couldn’t see over the front seat like he could.  In an age when youngsters were not required to use booster seats, I saw only wooden walls on the sides so I shut my eyes tight again.  Then  I couldn’t see the dark.  I wasn’t a very logical child, according to Mom.

Dad said, “You know the story of Jonah, Baby.   The belly is the place where God looked into Jonah’s heart.  He made Jonah stay there until God liked what he saw.”

Maybe I was going to be punished for hitting my brother or for telling a lie.  I became even more scared.

With my eyes closed, I crossed my fingers.  With the palms of my hands pressed awkwardly against each other, I promised God over and over again that I would be a good.

Billy socked me on my shoulder again. “Look, Jonah.  You’re free.”  I opened my eyes and tried to hit him back, but he stopped my swing.

As I looked through the side window at streaks of morning light filtering through hardwood trees, he let go of my arm.  I finished hitting him anyway.  So much for becoming an angel any time soon.

To make matters worse, Billy called me "Jonah" for the rest of the day, even though I was no pants-wetter.  Jonah had wetted himself more than once in Sunday School.  It never occurred to me that my brother was a "Jonah" too.

When we finished our errands in Bogglesville, I faced a second problem.  We had to re-cross the bridge from the other direction.

Knowing that I’d passed God’s test and looking forward to my root-beer float, I was braver this time.  I crossed my fingers and closed my eyes and envisioned the biggest root-beer float ever.

* * *

Many years later, my spouse and I were experiencing the empty-nest syndrome. We down-sized in a nearby town and visited  Bogglesville often because Mom still lived there.  I decided to revisit the bridge only to discover that Bogglesville had devoured the whale.

A modern bridge now crosses the west fork of the Catfish River near Forest Park now.  An asphalt trail follows the river upstream to Boggle’s Bridge which is closed to vehicle traffic.  It is a well-maintained centerpiece for another park inviting me to enter the belly of the beast, but this time on foot.

Standing in front of the bridge, I remembered this story that must have changed many times in the retelling. But I knew that if I entered the barn-like structure, I’d once again become a "Jonah."  Eyes opened, I crossed my fingers and stepped up onto the planks.

by Jeter Skeet

A version of this story appears in Polk Street Review, Vol. One

Words

Dangle them from monkey bars,
Bounce them up and down on trampolines,

Spin them dizzy on merry-go-rounds,
Push them higher and higher on swings.

Why do we use words primarily for
serious matters or telling jokes?

Whistle to the birds as they build their nests.
Rivet at the frogs who invite you to mate.
Bark at the dogs.
Chirp at the squirrels.

Animals have words too.

Wade into sounds,
pack them into balls,
bury them in sand.
Dip them into pools,
twirl them in the sun,
laugh as they tickle your tongue.
Now bend your arm,
stretch it high, and
toss those words into a poem.

Childhood Memories (1)

I remember Mom reading Cinderella and Pinocchio to us, but it was the nursery rhymes—Hickory, Dickory, Dock and Jack Sprat and Peas Porridge—that I memorized and served as my first introduction to poetry.

I remember listening to Jiminy Cricket sing “Whistle While You Work” over the radio.  But, I never could figure out how to whistle.

I remember paraffin panpipes.  We would bite off pieces to chew like gum after we were done playing them.

In the trash in the alley behind my best friend’s house, I remember finding broken pieces of a porcelain figurine of a graceful woman picking flowers. The ceramic made great sidewalk chalk, and Rosalie and I played hopscotch with it until the shards ran out.

I remember being bathed in a washing tub as if I were soiled bedclothes.

I remember eating bread soaked in cod-liver oil.  Mom read an article in Redbook touting the oil’s health benefits.  Yuck!  The taste was terrible.  She tried mixing it with orange juice to make it taste better.  Yuck! Yuck!  I may have been getting my omega-3 fatty acids, but I wouldn’t be able to eat bread or drink orange juice for years.

I remember my mother shaving a bar of face soap into flakes that she could use in the wringer-washing machine—a technique that she had learned when soap was rationed during World War II.

I remember Mom boiling a pot of Argo Starch in which she would dip Dad’s work-shirt collars and cuffs. Then she would spend hours at the ironing board with them. That would end when she started to work nights making rectifiers (semiconductors which convert AC to DC).  She looked after me and my sister while trying to get some sleep during the day. Eventually, my sister and I became what they called latchkey kids.

I remember trying to learn to ride a bicycle in our dimly lit living room.  The room was dark because my sister and I were supposed to be recovering from nasty cases of the measles. Since we were short of space, my sister and I slept in the dining room and the bicycle was stored on the front porch. Alas, it was stolen. I never did get to ride it outside.  It would be three or four years before I got another bike, one with big wheels that I named “George.”

I remember a Christmas tree dressed entirely in blue lights because my Dad wanted them.  I remember the scent of the real pine and trying to take a nap on the sofa while absorbing its magic.

Neighborhood Sidewalk Art
Photo by Jeter Skeet