Category: Life

  • Koan

    A note I jotted to myself sometime in the past.  I don’t recall the circumstances, but the question posed feels universal.

    The spiritualists cringe and argue against any description of self-conscious life as mechanism, that any mere machine is necessarily only an accumulation of parts and processes that can never rise above its own origins.  They offer in its place a description that makes of us a vessel to contain an essential self that is gifted from without, a near complete something that a priori transcends the mechanistic.  From where?  Choose your own myth of origin.  But they all presume a Maker.  The question must then be put—what separates the divinely made from the “naturally” made or, later, the self-made?  Are they not in the end all simply made things and as such all mechanisms?

  • Chapter the Next

    Yesterday, I stayed home from work again.  Nothing to do.  In a way, I like this.  I’d go on contract with the company if I could, go in only when there was actually something to do.  But it’s not that much money, so it’s a quandary.

    On the other hand, I finished a chapter in a book that’s been teasing me for a couple of years.  I’d walked away form it to write something else, and I’ve been finding it difficult to go back.  I have a lot written—almost a third of it, at least—and I’m loathe to just give up on it, but with one thing or another I just haven’t been able to get any forward momentum.

    Till yesterday.  So this morning I’m taking a stab at the Next Chapter.  And if that flows, if the words come, if the story proceeds, well…

    Couple of things.  I posted a new piece over on Dangerous Intersection about one of my pet peaves with the Culture At Large.  Premature though it is, some folks are declaring that Intelligent Design as a movement is dead on University campuses.  Follow the links.

    I pulled out an old piece of vinyl this morning to listen to, Todd Rundgren’s Initiation, which has some appropriately irreverant material on it—Eastern Intrigue, Initiation, A Treatise On Cosmic Fire—and a lot of good, solid rock’n’roll.

    I’m going into work early this morning, just to wrap it up for the next four days.  I’m now looking forward to doing some actual fiction writing.  Maybe confession is good for the soul—or at least the creative muscle.

    Have a good Christmas.

  • Procrastination

    The end of 2008 approaches.  2009 is going to be…

    Not more of the same, I sincerely hope.  Mea culpa, I am procrastinating.  I watch myself do it.  I’m doing it now.  I’m writing this instead of hammering out the classic fiction of the future.

    I have tio admit, since the beginning of December I have been more and more depressed, which is a horrible, downward spiral, the likes of which I haven’t felt since I broke up with a woman I thought was going to be my wife, a long long time ago.  I was a mere 24 then, contemplated ending it all, took a lot of long walks, and came out the other end determined to do better.  A few months later I met Donna and the last 28 years have been a terrific ride with a wonderful companion.

    So I know by experience that things turn around and get better.  It’s cyclic.

    But you do have to do something to encourage the process, like maybe some real work.

    I have been working, but it’s all peripheral stuff.  Procrastination.  A lot of it will end up being useful, I have a limited range of things I do while I procrastinate.

    I have three novels I want to write in the next couple of years.  Two of them will be sequels, so writing them would be an act of faith that the first volumes to which they are connected will be published.  I just don’t know by whom.

    I finally got a decent scanner, so I can start playing with Photoshop the way I’ve been intending for lo these many years.  (I’ve had Photoshop 7.0 on my system for some time now and once in a while I open it up and gaze at it…)

    There is a model kit under my workbench I’ve had for several years now that I want to build.

    I went to the Christmas coffeehouse last weekend, something I usually can’t do because there is an annual party we attend that always falls on the same night.  Well.  As you might guess, it was all—ALL—Christmas music, which I have a childish affection for.  But I ended up playing poorly, mainly due to a lack of practice, and, in myown ears at least, I muffed it.

    I’ve fallen into a holding pattern, waiting for the world to change.  I know better.

    So after I finish this post, I’m going to say a word or two on my MySapce blog, then turn my back on the internet for a few days.  I need to find a groove in my writing.  I need to stop feeling like a failure.

    December is traditionally the month during which all publishing seems to disappear.  Editors are not to be found, switchboards are put on automatic, no one does anything much to speak of.  So when December 1st rolled around with no news, I sort of collapsed.  Expectations were once again not met.  I have to wait.  I am not a patient man.  I’ve never been good at waiting.  (I’ve walked away from grocery carts when it took too long to get through the line.)  It took hold for a bit.  Still does.  It’s bloody cold, the sky is grey, and I have no idea what’s going to happen in the next few months.

    But I have responsibilities.  O have Center for the Book paperwork that needs tending.  I have to prepare a package by April for the transition of the presidency to someone else.  I need to walk the dog.

    Mostly I have to stop acting like I’ve been defeated.  That’s hard.  But easier than watching everything else melt down and drift away.

    Anyway, I’m going to fiddle around with getting a new version of WordPress so I can start uploading videos and the like.  I tend to learn a given level of software and then, because I don’t like constantly stepping outside my comfort zone, stick with it long past the time when everyone else has moved on to the new and improved.

    I’m posting it here.  Mark this.  I’m not going to proscratinate anymore.  Really.  I mean it.  Cross my heart.  See if I don’t.  I’m going now.  Bye.  For now.  Till later.

    Oh, hell.

  • Changes For Another Year

    Like everything else, publishing seems to be melting down.  Harcourt announced a buying freeze, but they aren’t the only one, just the only one that has bothered to make it public.  In other companies, salaries are frozen, lay-offs are rampant, and a general constriction is beginning.  The economy is in the tank and no one is getting out  unscathed.

    So what does this mean for me?

    2008 is coming to a close and, like 2007 and 2006 before that, I do not have a book contract.  I haven’t sold a short story, either, but to be fair I haven’t been writing any.  None to speak of, at least.  I’ve finished a couple that I’d been working on for some time, but every new attempt just ends up in the ditch.  But the books came along just fine, thank you, and since 2005 I’ve completed three.  As I mentioned a couple posts ago, I’m starting work on another.  I have no shortage of viable directions with novels, at least when it comes to writing them.

    Selling them?

    I had hoped to get out of the ranks of the unpublished by now.  Maybe it’s a good thing, since I suspect that the next several months will engender a massive shake-up in the industry.  We may see a number of Big Names handed walking papers from their current publishers.  Some may disappear altogether.  Certainly advances will contract.

    And that’s not necessarily a bad thing.  The whole system of advance against royalty that has dominated publishing for lo these last thirty years, reaching in some cases ridiculous heights, has become untenable.  Where do people think publishers are getting that kind of money in the first place?  They’re borrowing it.  Rather than pay out reasonable advances and then be scrupulous about royalty payments, they have developed a practice of paying out money they don’t have and then trying to figure out how to cover the loans through creative bookkeeping.  You see ripples of this from time to time (remember when Stephen King sold a novel for a dollar to force his publisher to be honest about royalties?) but for the most part no one wants to really talk about it because, frankly, there’s too much money at stake.

    Whatever the reality may be about financing of authors and books, it is obvious that current practices are unsustainable, just like so much else in our business dealings, and this kind of crash was inevitable.

    I was talking to a writer I know the other day, someone who ought really have no problem selling his next book, who was caught up in this.  He’s talking about moving to small press.  Doing graphic novels.  Working on screenplays.  A variety of strategies, the impetus of which boils down to the fact that he might not get another big book deal.

    He suggested that the coming years may be the time of the small to medium-sized presses, that regional publishers and niche publishers will reap the benefit, talent-wise, of the lunacy that is the Big Publishing World.  I agree, of course.  But that doesn’t exactly thrill me.  I’ve been through the small press grist mill and it has left me less than enamored of the idea.  I want a big book deal.  Just one.  Something that will get me recognized as a serious property.

    Because I still don’t quite believe people see small press as legitimate.  Branding, at  least in this country, is an all-encompassing seal of approval.  People who don’t trust their own taste or their own ability to decide for themselves what is good or bad rely on branding to tell them what to buy next.  So when a book comes out from Doubleday or Random House or HsrperCollins, they have some way of knowing that the writer is Worth A Damn.  It turns out not to be a consistently reliable metric, true, but a book is expensive these days and time is precious and how else do you determine if the risk is worth it?  A book coming out from Huckypuddle Press just doesn’t carry that kind of reassurance.

    Now, for an already-established author, it’s less a risk.  I just bought a copy of John Crowley’s novel Endless Things, which concludes his Aegypt series.  The first three of those were published by Bantam.  This last is from Small Beer Press.  Crowley’s name will carry over.  People might scratch their heads at the imprint, but it’s Crowley, so here’s my $24.00.  But what about Simon Andanshulter?  His first novel is being published by Joe Blow Publishing in East Chotawqua, Backabeyond.  (This is a fictional entity, from Simon to now.)  Is he ever going to rise to a level of name recognition that either he or his publisher will be able to Make It?

    I don’t know.  It might work out.  There are so many factors invovled that the future is hard to predict.  I thought having at least one or two novels from a major house would garner me enough readers that a move to Joe Blow Press would make it viable.  It doesn’t seem likely now that this will happen.

    So what am I going to do?

    Well, I’m getting a four day weekend over Christmas and probably New Year.  I can jot down ideas, brainstorm, plot and plan.  Or just loaf.  But in January, regardless, it looks like I have to set my sights lower down the food chain—which, when all is said and done, may end up being fairly high on the food chain—and find a small press through which I can at least continue to publish.  Because I really don’t want to stop doing this.  But I’m tired of fretting and pining at No Word or Thank You Very Much But This Is Not For Us.

    So strategies shift.  If I’m careful, I can make it work, just not the way I originally intended.  Part time day job, part time novelist.

    For those reading this who may be interested, I do do public speaking.  I write reviews.  I have done occasional journalism.  I’ve taught workshops.

    But meantime I have a new novel to write.  So I’ll be doing that.

    And maybe ’09 will surprise me.

  • Quotes

    The desire for social equality is not unmixed with a certain eagerness to be rid of the bother of pity.                               Jean Rostand

    Intelligence would seem to exist primarily as a way to outrun natural selection      Samuel R. Delany, 1995

    Romance and poetry, ivy, lichens, and wall-flowers need ruin to make them grow.   Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Marble Faun

    Action is consolatory.  It is the enemy of thought and the friend of flattering illusions.  Only in the conduct of our action can we find the sense of mastery over the Fates                                                                                                       Joseph Conrad, Nostromo

  • Accomplishments

    “What you do in this world is a matter of no consequence.  The question is, what can you make people believe that you have done?”  Sherlock Holmes, A Study In Scarlet

    Utterly cynical.

    And yet….

    I’ve been following the publishing industry meltdown this past couple of weeks.  It was bound to come, all consumer-related industries are going to be adversely affected by this nonsensical implosion.  I’ve been watchign and wondering what it might mean for… me.

    At this moment I have to admit to having no career.  Everything is tentative, all is on hold, I wait with baited breath (just what does that mean, I wonder?) to find out (eventually) if I’m ever going to sell anything again.

    And at the moment I’m not sure I care.

    Ten novels, fifty short stories.  That is a career.  What more can someone of modest skills and talents hope for?

    Today a friend is coming over to my house to do a video interview.  This will be an interesting experiment.  It could open possibilities, get my face and my voice out on the web, alert people to my presence beyond those things I have already done, and hopefully give me a little better shot at continuing on in what I decided 25 years ago that I wanted to do.

    I’m cleaning my office, a neverending task.  I’m stumbling across the detritus of untended chores, obligations, ideas, and possibilities.  Little scraps of paper with cryptic notes, phone numbers, email addresses, various numbers, single words, dates…

    Last night I watched George Carlin’s last HBO Special.  I’ll miss him.  I’m not quite as cynical or curmudgeonly as George was, certainly not as gifted in the ability to talk about certain things in such a humorous way.  I’ll miss him, his presence in the world.  I never knew him, but always with celebrity like that you have the feeling that you did know him.

    Afterward, a long talk with two friends, one who pointed out that I sounded depressed.  Not sad, not forelorn, not pessimistic—Depressed.  Maybe.  It’s hard to tell.  I bounce back, get excited, work on something.  I am working on something lately, as I’ve mentioned.  As long as the words keep coming out, some of them anyway, I don’t think I need to go to the doctor.  But I passed up going to the gym again this morning.  Too cold, too tired, too—

    Maybe 2009 will be better.  (I keep telling myself that, anyway.)  Anyway, I still have more cleaning to do.  I found the opening quote on an index card that it browned with age.  It meant something to me at one time and I think it still does.

    What does it mean to you?

  • Curiousness

    I have a spam filter on this blog which blocks robo-posts.  These things come from who knows where, really, and I’ve had them so bad before that they filled my server and prevented all manner of useful function.  I do check from time to time to make sure nothing legitimate has been dumped into the spam file, just on the off-chance that someone actually wanted to make a comment on one of these posts.  Usually the address is a domain number, the tagline something innocuous, but the body of the post is often economical and surreal.  Generally I get a lot of ads from drug suppliers, for pain killers, blood pressure medicine, Viagra knock-offs, etc.

    Then there are the sex ads, which go from fairly mundane (naked girls, etc) to the truly weird  (zoo sex).  One the other day cracked me up.

    Oral Roberts.  Oral sex.  Oral sex technique.

    I’m trying to imagine receiving instruction or advice on the second two from the first and it just won’t scan…

  • New Project

    This past weekend was productive.  I began work on the outline to my next novel.  I’ve been fiddling around with something since May, when I finished The Spanish Bride.  I was exhausted, burned out, just plain not interested.  I still seem to be caught in some kind of writer’s block about short stories, but I spun out nearly ten pages of single-spaced outline for the sequel to Orleans.  There is the slightly-better-than-remote possibility that Orleans could get picked up, and if so then I will nned to write the rest of the trilogy.

    Oculus will pick up pretty much where Orleans left off.  (Yes, the titles are all “O” titles, including the overall title of the trilogy, which is the Oxun Trilogy.  Oxun is the South American river goddess, the only female of the bunch that outwitted the boys and became just as if not more powerful than the others.  I’m using it as a metaphor rather than a plot device, but she just might turn up somewhere along the line anyway.)

    It feels good to be writing something again.  Other than grant proposals, blog posts, and assorted newsletter stuff.

    Couple of things I need that will be difficult to find.

    A substantial part of the background of these novels (alternate history) deals with Germaine de Stael.  Google her, quite a woman.  The only woman who ever frightened Napoleon.  But he wouldn’t have her just killed.  He exiled her, banished her, had his secret police at one point chase her all over Europe and into Russia…anyway, I became fascinated with her.  I’ve got her memoir about her exile, a book of her philosophical and political writings, a solid biography, etc.  As with most such projects, it is the most unlikely little details that can hang you up.

    Her father, Jacques Necker (google him, too—this family was important) at one point bought 38,000 acres in New York.  Germaine herself added to it and, according to the biography I have, “came to own a substantial part of upstate New York.  But of course I haven’t been able to pin her holdings down.  I probably could if I went to Albany and septn a weekend or more in their public records archive, etc.  I probably won’t do that.  I’ve looked at a map, I’ve seen what upstate New York contains, and just decided where her holdings would have been. Part of the action of the novel takes place in Saranac Lake and vicinity.  Lot of French town names around there.  Seems a safe bet.

    Anyway, it would be nice to know specifically where her holdings were.  If anyone reads this and has a way of finding this out, please email me at  info@marktiedemann.com

    A minor side issue to this.  There is a largish island in Upper Lake Saranac.  It’d be nice to know a little about it.  I’ll track some of this down eventually myself, but I thought I’d ask.

    I’ve been stewing in my own juices most of this year.  Time to get off my butt and write something new.  Stay tuned.

  • Why I Write

    From time to time someone asks me (as, no doubt, they ask other writers) why I do it.  Why, specifically, I write fiction as opposed to nonfiction.  It really is hard to explain to those who seem tone-deaf to what we call Art.  Sometimes it’s hard to explain to yourself.  The short answer for me is that I love it.  I love creating stories and weird stuff and making up plots, because I always loved stories.  (When I was a kid, I’d watch movies in which a group of people are thrust into a really cool adventure and at some point one of them would talk about wanting to just go home and having everything return to normal.  And, as a kid, I’d think why would you want to do that?  Can’t you see that what you’re doing now is so much cooler than going back to a dull life?  That was a kid talking, of course, because the stories were in fact so much cooler than what passed for my “real life.”  It’s only later that you realize that part of your “real” life was the freedom to indulge stories, pretend, and thrust yourself—quite safely—into adventures.)  Telling stories just felt like the coolest thing to do.

    But then you grow up and actually try to do it and if you stick with it long enough to discover all sorts of other aspects to it that you couldn’t imagine as a kid just looking for a neat ride.  And that’s the art.  And that is hard to describe to people who don’t read fiction, who don’t Get It.

    Dan Simmons wrote a novel called The Crook Factory about Ernest Hemingway in WWII.  He lived in Cuba then and he ran an amateur spy ring, hunting submarines, for a time.  This much is true.  Simmons built a very intricate and thrilling novel around it.  His viewpoint character, though, is a FBI agent who is one of those with the tin ear, who doesn’t Get It, why someone would write fiction.

    Late in the novel they have a conversation about it.  Here is part of it.

    “Why do you do it?”

    “Do what?

    “Write fiction rather than write about true things.”

    Hemingway shook his head.  “It’s hard to be a great writer, Lucas, if you love the world and living in it and you love special people.  It’s even harder when you love so many places.  You can’t just transcribe things from the outside in, that’s photography.  You have to do it the way Cezanne did, from inside yourself.  That’s art.  You have to do it from inside yourself.  Do you understand?”

    “No.”

    Hemingway sighed softly and nodded.  “It’s like listening to people,  LUcas.  If their experiences are vivid, they become a part of you, whether or not their stories are bullshit or not.  It doesn’t matter.  After a while, their experiences get to be more vivid than your own.  Then you mix it all together.  You invent from your own life stories and from all of theirs, and after a while it doesn’t matter which is which…what’s yours and what’s theirs, what was true and what was bullshit.  It’s all true then.  It’s the country you know, and the weather.  Everyone you know…the trick in fiction is like the trick in packing a boat just so without losing trim.  There are a thousand intangibles that have to be crammed into every sentence.  Most of it should not visible, just suggested…

    “Anyway, the…trick is to write truer than true.  And that’s why I write fiction rather than fact.”

    That’s one way to describe it.  I didn’t realize truth had anything to do with it until I read an Algis Budrys review of a Gene Wolfe novel.  He said of Wolfe that he told the truth well.  I puzzled over that for a time before it clicked.  I’d been saying something of the sort for a long time concerning philosophy—that there’s truth and then there’s fact.  Occasionally the two meet and become tangled up and are in many respects the same thing, but mostly there are facts, which have no meaning.  Truth is the meaning, which must be derived or extrapolated from fact.  Which led me to the conclusion that Truth is a process, an ongoing experience of recognition.  One of the places I’ve found it has been in good fiction.

    I don’t know if Hemingway ever actually said the above—it sounds like something he would have said, though, which makes it true, whether there is the fact of it or not.  And that is what fiction does.

  • The Curmudgeon Speaks

    The curmudgeon in repose observes the feckless maunderings of the primates in their dispeptic self-justifications.  Christmas is coming.  You can see it, feel it, sense it.  Not only in the more pleasant garnishments appearing too early (and hopefully) in stores and streets, but in the renewed efforts of those who can’t get past their own distorted misapprehensions and so fling the feces of their discontent at the crowds.

    A couple years ago I received one these from an anonymous source.  It purports to be a letter from Ben Stein, based on a broadcast he did one Sunday on CBS.  From the page you’ll see that it was added to, taken out of context, and corrupted.  The source from whom I received it this year surprised me, so I shot back the link to this site.  Naturally, the person in question was miffed.  No one likes to be told they’ve been a patsy.

    There’s an ugliness to this kind of thing that upsets me a lot.  Basically, it is the linkage of No Prayer to Ruin and Death.  All those people in New Orleans, in this formulation, lost their homes and lives because people elsewhere had stopped praying.  So god let the waves in to punish us—and then didn’t bother to tell us that’s what he’d done.

    Never mind the whole dubious connection between prayer and anything remotely like the salvation of a whole city from a hurricane.  I recall once seeing a news broadcast from Italy of a priest standing adamnantly flinging holy water at approaching lava from a volcano, as if it would do anything to dissuade the destruction to avert.  Coincidence and serendipity account for enough weird conjugations in this world so anyone with a mind toward conflating unrelated events can point and say “See!  It Works!”  But really, all this attests is the cloying desire to feel that something in the universe actually cares other than your next door neighbor or the dog.

    Basically the notion here is what?  We have barred public prayer from public school classrooms and tossed a couple of creches off public property and the result is that god, irked, inundates a city?  Or just allows it to happen?  And why would that be when the overwhelming majority of citizens in this country profess to believe in god and pray a good deal?  Once again we are told god is some kind of emotionally-stunted adolescent who needs our total attention, lest he throw a tantrum and kill a few hundred thousand people every now and then.  And then we go to church and are exhorted to give thanks to a god who “loves us” so much that…

    I don’t need to address in detail, you all know what I mean.

    Come on.  Do people really buy that?  I mean, the whole Christmas decoration thing is irritating and I can understand people not wanting their holiday messed up with politics, but to make the extra leap and suggest that we’re being punished over some superstitious equivalent of not throwing salt over our left shoulder when we spill it is a bit much.

    Yeah, I know, some people really do think that way, but a lot of other people just tacitly let it go by as challenging it might make them look like Scrooge or something.  It’s such nonsense.  Why shouldn’t we be able to call something like this garbage without looking like curmudgeons?  It’s ugly.  It’s false.  It’s a lie on its face.  But some people just have to let the rest of us know how much we’re Not Getting It.  Some people have to send these lovely missives out just so we don’t get the feeling that Christmas is a time of love and good cheer and giving and that we should feel better about the world.  Some people just have to act like the midges they are and try to make us the same way.

    Sigh…. and just when I was starting to feel festive.

    So the holiday season begins.

    Bah Humbug.