Sometimes solutions to writing problems show up unexpectedly. I was reading a chapter in Half The Sky (unless you’re a caveman, read Half The Sky–now–or especially if you’re a caveman, first world or otherwise) about sex trafficking in the slums of Nagpur, where members of the Dalit (Untouchable) class, especially women, have almost no social or legal rights or protection, other than those they create with the support or leadership of social activists. (I won’t go into details–read the book: it’s smart, easy to read, hard to take–even when you’re already aware of its subject matter–and almost impossible to put down.)

I have henchmen characters, the shamblers, in Sea of Tigers whose origin has always been a little vague–one of those problems I knew I’d eventually resolve, although hopefully not with clichés. As I read the chapter described above, a voice–you know the voice–whispered, “The shamblers are Untouchables.” I don’t always trust that voice, even if it’s right–it’s also impetuous, a trait it shares with me. But the whisperer is right. They are Untouchables, although not from a single culture, and their leader organizes and runs them according to her complex (but not opaque) moral agenda. They’re not role models, they’re more privateer than criminal, but they are sympathetic and, in their ragged way, are working for a better world.

The shamblers’ origin wasn’t nagging at me when I read Half The Sky–I hadn’t thought about their origin in months–but it was clear that deeper parts of my creative conscious–that black hole where most of the real work happens and from which things can escape–had not forgotten about them and was actively seeking solutions.

That’s the beauty of eureka–it never gets old, it never stops being a surprise, it’s almost always a gift. Even when it’s a curse.

In the mornings, as I walk from the train to the office, I watch other people in transition: stepping into or out of buildings or the streetcar, squatting with their possessions in doorways, warming their hands with coffee or asking for change or public solitude. I wonder what they looked like when they were younger, whether this life is a surprise or inevitable; what they’ll look like and how they’ll feel when they’re old, if they live to be old; what old might mean; all in swift imaginary scenes like a catalog of sights captured from the corners of my eyes. Sometimes, I try to plant myself in someone’s head to watch me walking by and run the thought experiment in reverse. I get distracted, though, imagining what it’s like to be them and never really see myself.

This morning as I passed the corner diner three blocks from the office, I watched a women, probably in her early 50′s, salty short hair, medium build and wearing a thick wool coat,* step briskly inside and settle alone at the big U-shaped Formica counter. What, outside of hunger, brought her there? She’d moved too decisively for the visit to be random. The food’s pure diner–attentive service, large (formerly “healthy”) portions, but expensive. Maybe for the sexy no-nonsense waitresses? For the two cooks sweating over the grill and talking in rapid-fire Spanish, slinging hot dishes almost as fast as they speak? For the easygoing elbow-to-elbow contact with the other diners hunched over eggs and cakes, eavesdropping or chatting with their neighbors, construction workers and execs finding common ground, couples eating off each other’s plates, a little old scarecrow of a man settling in with his paper and receiving his breakfast without ordering. And suddenly I’ve slipped from one head into the next, sipping my always hot coffee, winking at the waitress who doesn’t acknowledge but accepts the flattery, clearing my sinuses with tobasco steaming off my huevos rancheros. The closer I get to work, the thinner my imaginary connection grows until it snaps at the office door and I’m me again, waving to our friendly receptionist and trying not to stumble down the curving stair to the “lower atrium” and the double-wide I share with a project manager who commutes two days a week from Boise. I try to get to know my coworkers through conversation, but avoid getting into their heads, reserving that kind of intimacy for people I’ll never see again. I don’t want to think, much less say to a coworker, even sympathetically, “Man, I’ve been inside your head and I get you.”

*I had mistyped “wearing a thick wool cat” and almost left it.

Lately, when I want writing inspiration, I find Sherman Alexie.

When I need grounding, I read anything Molly Gloss.

When I want to know whether I’ll be writing when I’m in my 70′s, I read my friend Tony Wolk. I also read his friend, Ursula, who is now 80, but daunting with her bold silver litcrit yin yang rodeo buckle.

***

The other day when the wind was blowing in 40 MPH gusts, I went for a run. Just to see. I live in an established suburban neighborhood anchored with trees that had danced with storms since my grandparents ran wild: mighty oaks, old growth fir, and two jolly green poplar that on clear nights bookend the moons of Jupiter; towering over a younger wiry crop of developer-planted dogwood, cherry, and maple. The wind frantically dipped the tree tops, whipped up leaf demons, and bullied small branches to the ground. It tried to push me around, but I’m skinny and, without leaves or needles or webbing, don’t have much lift. One big gust tossed a cat–a fluffy little tabby with ears like lateen sails–out of the skirts of a big fir and into my arms (really, onto my shoulders) as I jogged past. I whooped and she howled and dug in, burying her nose in my armpit. The tree stood on the lawn of a white neo-colonial with a red front door–red for good fortune in finance–so I carried her there and rang the bell. A friendly older gentleman answered, a lawyer or professor or other professional orator from his demeanor, he swept me in and thanked me profusely while scolding and cooing over the cat–who rumbled in response to “Oh now now you are now now puss puss.” His wife–younger and lovely in her own feline sort of way–exclaimed and rubbed noses with little Onnyannpp, offered me a cold cloth for the blood, and insisted I stay for tea. Three cups and one photo album of adventure vacations and graduations later, the cat twining round my ankles, they conferred briefly nose-to-nose then suddenly offered one of their daughter’s hands in marriage. I smiled apologetically at my new dear friends and held up my left ring finger. Then I told them about my three sons of marriageble age: one a budding economist in the blossoming field of online publishing, one an athlete developing a method for knitting bones with sound, one a musician who speaks three Eastern languages and laughs at jokes in six. And so you find me here in the first row of pews on the groom’s side, with my own beautiful wife, holding kleenex in one hand and my little daughter’s hand tight in the other, waiting for the bride, hoping that the wind howling outside has not blown her away, and wondering if there are two feet sticking out from under this little church, rapidly curling and ready to drop a pair of sparkling red shoes.

[This odd little piece started out as a handful of sentences about how it was windy, I went for a run, caught a cat blown from a tree, returned the cat to her owner, was rewarded with an offer of marriage, countered with an offer of my son's hand, and ended up in church for the ceremony--a sketch of of initial conditions and unpredictable outcome (leaving out the background info for all parties that would make the outcome far less random). Then I started dropping in more language, and shaving; dropping in and shaving (like a homeless guy in a public restroom on the mornings of successive job interviews). I stopped after I'd seriously exceeded the time I'd given myself to work on the piece, thought it was either droll and wacky or flat and wacky with a few sparks, but "good enough for blog (vanity press?) work," and not good enough to send out. I'm focusing more on productivity instead of my usual practice--smothering a piece with love that I only mean to flirt with. But I can use pieces like this as phrase and idea banks I might draw from later, and I'll continue to play with the theme of apparently random outcomes.]

***

My heart thuds and whooshes in my ears all day long. I notice it more at night, when the world is quiet. The doctor says my EKG is normal and my blood pressure is par excellence. Extracurricular reading says it might be anxiety. I’ve been anxious all my life and maybe it’s just catching up with me. Dry observations aside, it annoys the hell out of me. Time to dust off the old tai chi again, I think–long form, Yang style, the way I learned it back in another century.

I often see tweets from an outstanding local writer on how slow she is–her average daily output being about 300 words. I suspect that those are 300 carefully chosen words resulting in fairly polished text, not 300 words blurted onto a page (or e-mail or blog, etc.). But even 300 words ill chosen are better than nothing, especially if we write them when we really don’t want to be writing. (There’s a nice guest post on Jeff Vandemeer’s blog about this.)

It helps me that my tools for personal writing (either offline or online) are very different from my workaday computer tools (the MS Office Suite, a fancy text editor, and CMS and web dev tools). When I open PageFour or my intentionally simple blog env (or my little red spiral bound notebook), I know why I’m there, I’m not distracted by the tools or thinking about other projects for which I use them and should probably check up or work on. If I’m not connected to the blog, I intentionally go offline.

Cory Doctorow has written that he drafts everything in a text editor to minimize computer-related distractions. I can’t do that easily–only because my thinking is still shaped by some visual presentation and sense of organization of the parts. But it’s worthwhile to have that separation–the virtual desk or “room of one’s own.”

Reprinted from an early episode of Nuclear Frisson with Bob Price. Written for an Editor friend on her 40th. I ran across it recently and it made me laugh, so I’m sharing again. But not oversharing. Really.

QUEEN OF THE EDITORIAL JUNGLE

FADE IN:

SHE is sitting at her computer, with marked up papers scattered in loose piles about her cube floor. SHE is wearing headphones, and is frustrated and mumbling to herself.

HE stands in her cube entrance, dripping sweat from dysfunctional glands, tangling up his therapist’s advice with the feverish influences of lonely nights fueled by super heroine graphical novels (She Bantha, Tiger Twins, Ms. Victory, and Lightnin’ Streak), his adrenalin fired by a Venti latte, 50 sit-ups, new power tie, narrow nylon rimmed glasses, and red Pumas, he blurts the completely inappropriate observation he’s been girding his loins for days to get the balls to make.

SHE turns, pulling off her headphones.

SHE

I’m sorry, what? Say again?

SHE squints at him.

HE

I—

SHE

Stop there. Here’s some advice: keep your eyes on the business end of business, buster, and it won’t trouble you again.

HE

But, I—

SHE (sighing)

I suppose it’s natural to descend right to the anus jokes, but it won’t do. Helloooo, employee handbook? Look, page 65, paragraph 6. There’s an opaque shield around exposed skin at the office. If you’d follow rules, you wouldn’t find yourself in such a state.

HE

But—no, please, no, let me speak! Look, it’s very attractive, but do you worry about unwanted attention?

SHE

Hellooo? Business end? Opaque shield? What’s the problem? Okay, look. It’s comfortable. It’s practical. And…

SHE dangles limp marked up copy as EXHIBIT B.

SHE

…it is hotter than a freakin’ jungle in here.

HE

But—

SHE

Floss—yeah, I’ve heard it all before. In high school.

HE

Not…

SHE

So hard to see the utility, is it? It not only covers me below, but it doubles as a sling, and a slingshot—I can stun small vermin at 100 yards. Voila!—it’s fashionable headgear, and a very edgy robber’s mask. Itis my utility belt, Boy Wonder. Stick ‘em up! Hah!

HE

Well. I didn’t mean, just—be right back.

SHE

That didn’t take long.

HE

While I was gone I—

SHE

Got into your lower left desk drawer? We all know about the bottle. Let me extinguish all live flames.

HE

—Did some research while I was gone.

SHE

I see you killed a few trees.

HE

Well, I have compiled a definitive history of the thong. You may find it—

SHE

Fascinating. CliffNotes version please.

SHE

Ahem. For millennia, this versatile strap was habillement du jour for the wandering San men of southern Africa…and, err, male gods of the Greek pantheon…who were captured and sold into the harem of Awilda, a migratory Scandinavian princess turned Viking raider—

SHE

Great-great-great granny!

HE

—to avoid marrying Alf the Feeble…she traded thongs for salted herring to Native American fishermen…their photos firing the imaginations of golden age American comic book artists…launched the first Brazilian Carnivale…and, ahem, of course, Gandhi.

SHE

It’s a history of men? Typical. Not the tale of your daddy’s shower shoes, though, eh?

HE

I, um, also wrote a song. In praise. A thong song.

SHE

Stop there, citizen! You’re about to violate copyright. As an Editor, I’m duty bound to report you. First, I’ll have to stun you and bind your wrists and ankles. Two more uses.

HE

You…it’s like you anticipate my every move. Are you…a super hero?

SHE

Heroine, mac! Get a clue. No man can do this!

CRACK! THWUP!

THE OVERHEAD FLOURESCENTS start to strobe…

SAMUEL JACKSON (lyrical, growling V.O.)

FOXY GUINEVERE JONES!! DIVINE EDITORIAL ENFORCER!! (“motherfucking” implied)

A LIGHT OVER A DISTANT CUBICLE explodes, with accompanying shrieks. JUNGLE DRUMS BEGIN, LOW.

HE

I…seek your autograph.

SHE

Rise, citizen. Here’s my catalog—order something and I’ll be happy to sign it. How about this decorative Post-It block? Comes in handy as a cry for help when I’m away from the desk.

CUT TO BLACK

As pretty as the GUI is for the latest version of Word, and as nice as it is that they’ve fixed so many bugs from previous version–it’s still not a great tool for writing a novel. Not without having minion tools (paper or electronic) to keep track of all the disparate pieces that go into that novel, most of them on paper needing transcription of some sort.

I’ve accumulated years worth of amazing and invaluable (yes, every single one of them!) handwritten and typed notes and epiphanies, drafts, questions, issues, todo’s, and sublimated research, that I don’t want to search through by hand, rediscover, or rewrite (the latter happens far too often, producing variations on a note scattered physically and chronologically–drives me f–ing nuts sometimes). I know that writers have been producing novels for hundreds of years from notecard and other paper-based filing systems, but I’m entrenched in my computer, have a horrendously busy life already, and need an easy to use single tool or suite of tools that’ll help me keep organized (even if I do have to retype from paper–never a bad thing), and does not smack my hands if I need it to be flexible.

I’ve heard good things from writers about Scrivener, but it’s for the Mac, and I have a Windows system. I’ve looked at several novel writing tools for Windows over the years and found them too restrictive or short-handed and keep going back to my Word-based free form approach. But the author of Scrivener noted that a tool called PageFour “allows you to edit and organise your writing in a tabbed interface. It provides word processing and outlining capabilities, and is probably the product closest to Scrivener on Windows.” And it has version control–always a good thing.

I’m going to download PF and give it a shot. This weekend I’m attending workshops at Wordstock, including one on managing writing time with an already full life. Having a writing tool to support that effort can only help.

Update 10/13/09: Who would have thought that a focused word processor with a handy folder-based sidebar that took me almost no time to learn now to use would make me so productive. I love this tool. It has a few shortcomings, all easily worked around. Note: I’m very good with Word and similar tools–that probably made it harder for me to adapt to a simpler tool like PageFour than it would for people who don’t waste their time building such arcane skills or don’t have much experience with them. Or have simply lost patience with Word, even with the new bejeweled version.

and if that’s poor grammar, well, I’m on a short leash today.  But the posts referenced below are worth reading by anyone who writes (fiction, at least):

Earlier this summer a science/speculative fiction writing workshop was held in India that sounds exciting and a wonderful model for something similar in the US (though as an even more multi-cultural melange than the sessions held in Kanpur).

Two of the sessions founding feathers (Vandana Singh and Anil Menon) describe their experiences starting here and here. Read Vandana’s first–there’s more background; then jump on Mr Menon’s wild ride.

Read em and pluck your eyes out with envy, or, better, your heartstrings with desire to participate in something as rich here in the states (that doesn’t cost a fortune, that is as much about writing as a state of awareness as craft, etc.).

Maybe there are workshops like this in the US–I haven’t seen or heard of them, though. Maybe that’s the problem–they are here but there’s not enough publicity.

Since I was in my early 20′s (& maybe earlier), I’ve dreamed of our family’s old country home at least twice a year, returning to discover dimensions and qualities and inhabitants that I never found in my 3 dimensional childhood. That home keeps creeping into my writing–sometimes more as a personality or quality than a physical place.

We sold the house when I was 12, after my parents divorced, and moved into the city. 4 years ago (in the physical world) I stopped by on the way back from a country wedding, just to see the changes–something I’ve done every few years when I’m out that way. This time, the changes were shocking and more surreal than any I experienced in Slumberland. I’ll write about them in a future post–it was unsettling in a Ballardian post-apocalyptic way that I can’t describe in a few sentences.

Some dreams stick and don’t need to be journaled–especially those with recurring themes or unique dreams that include sensory experiences like the taste of perfect bread (real dream–a teaching dream) or one’s murder (real dream and thankfully only once, although I did get a small award for the story it inspired).