Homemade double Moleskine

Yes. I have a notebook obsession. No. No product on the market has suited my notebooks needs. Yes. I regularly fiddle in my workshop to come up with the best possible notebook for me--handmade, store bought, or a combination of both. This is the closest I have come to perfect. My homemade double Moleskine is fantastic. It combines a planner and a lined notebook in one volume and maintains the feel and performance of a Moleskine. So far I have found nothing that can beat it. Here's how I did it... I bought a large Moleskine sketchbook and gutted it, removing the sketch paper innards so that only the cover and endpapers remained. I slit the empty cover's spine down the middle with a craft knife so that I now had two covers that could be reattached to accomodate the larger book block. Next, I bought a large, soft cover 18-month Moleskine planner and a large, soft cover lined notebook I removed the insides from the soft cover material, careful to keep the cover material intact. I placed the planner on top of the notebook and glued the two endpapers together (the back endpaper of the planner glued to the front endpaper of the notebook). Voila! A double Moleskine book block. I attached the book block to the covers' endpapers with a thin strip of glue along the edge, just like Moleskine attaches theirs. With the covers attached, I simply had to fix the slit going down the spine. To do this, I cut a swath of the soft cover material and placed it over the slit cover like a Band-Aid, gluing it in place on each cover with dots of super glue. (I tried book binder's glue. It doesn't hold up to the wear and tear. Trust me.) After drying, I had my dream Moleskine: a large double planner/notebook combo. And it's AWESOME. Granted...it cost as much to make as three Moleskines. But for a year-and-a-half's worth of notebook goodness, it's worth it. Enjoy the video.

Who Watches The Watchmen...?

Maybe not me.

WARNING: This post contains spoilers. So, read no further...unless you like being surprised and whining like a girl about it.

Trailer numero uno for Alan Moore's classic of the graphic novel genre, Watchmen, was released this past week. And the geekosphere rejoiced.

I collected comics as a kid and occasionally purchase comics and/or graphic novels as an adult. Yet I had never read Watchmen. So after viewing the trailer, I wanted to see what all the fuss was about, and I picked up a copy of the graphic novel at my local bookstore. It was enjoyable. It was suspenseful. And even though I was let down by the ending--a fake alien invasion, seriously--the truth of Watchmen was clear: This is what a graphic novel can and should be. It is truly a genre-defining piece of work.

Wanting to know more about the book and its story, I sought out information about Alan Moore and learned that the author is not thrilled at the prospect of his work being thrown on the silver screen. To quote, "There are things that we did with Watchmen that could only work in a comic, and were indeed designed to show off things that other media can't."

Furthermore, he said, "I increasingly fear that nothing good can come of almost any adaptation, and obviously that's sweeping. There are a couple of adaptations that are perhaps as good or better than the original work. But the vast majority of them are pointless."

This raises my question of the month: If the creator of a masterpiece is dead-set against its adaptation into another medium, should we bother seeing that adaptation?

An example: If Shakespeare knew that Hamlet had been adapted into a graphic novel, how would he feel? If Shakespeare told us that Hamlet had no business being penciled and inked, would we read the comic anyway? After all, who knows their own creation better than the creator?

For this reason, I am struggling with my own decision to see Watchmen or not, when it eventually comes out. Honestly, after reading the graphic novel, I don't see how it can be accurately turned into a film. The shifts in time, the unique narrative devices that so accurately set the mood (the pirate comic, for instance), and the numerous characters that undergo serious psychological development... How will Hollywood pull all of that off? Maybe they won't. And maybe they don't intend to even try.

As Moore said, "So often any film that comes out is going to be a sequel or a remake of a film that's previously existed — and I've said this before, that we will see Johnny Depp playing Cap'n Crunch. It will eventually get down to breakfast cereal mascots!"

In the end, I probably won't pay to see the Watchmen movie. I'll just wait until it comes to cable or something. In the meantime, the graphic novel is definitely worth reading over and over again. In fact, I think I'll give it another look tonight...

Cigars, Books, and Beer - June 22, 2008

I love beer. And I've come to love cigars, after receiving quite a tobacco-related haul for my thirtieth bithday in March (cigars, humidor, cutter, lighter, and Cigar Aficionado subscription). And books...well, that just comes naturally.

The combination of a good cigar, a favorite beer, and a good book can't be beat. And I've begun enjoying this combination once every weekend, usually on Sunday. I thought I'd share my thoughts on the particular combination each week and shed a little insight on my world. Here's this week's combination:

The cigar: Cuvee Blanc robusto - The Cuvee Cigar company has an interesting perspective. They approach cigar-making like a premium vineyard, taking into account the soil, water table, etc. The resulting combinations are pretty good, some achieving a rating of 90+ by cigar magazines. This Blanc robusto (5" by 50 ring gauge) is very pleasant and perfect for a summer day. I believe it would be considered a "blonde" cigar, because it's fairly light and not at all overpowering. It's woody with some light spicy tastes like cinnamon. Because of the cigar's gentle taste, it's easy to smoke quickly. The burn starts off a bit hot, slightly harsh. But after a short time it evens out a bit more. The heat doesn't return until more than halfway through the smoke. Even then, however, the cigar is only medium-bodied at most. It also goes nice with a light summer beer.

The beer: Samuel Adams Honey Porter - Okay, so Sam Adams has a reputation for pretentiousness, evidenced by their commercials. But if you make a good product, you have every right to brag. I like every Sam Adams I've ever tasted, and this Honey Porter is no exception. It's light but heavy, if that makes any sense. The flavor coats the tongue. It's distinctly sweet and easy to drink. This beer could easily become my summer beer of choice.

The book: The Eden Express by Mark Vonnegut - Vonnegut. That's all that had to be said for me to pick up this one. Granted, the author is the son of Kurt, my favorite author. But I figure a little of the old man's talent had to rub off... The subtitle of this book is "A Memoir of Insanity." The author gives an account of his path to schyzophrenia in the early 70s, as the progenitor and leader of a hippie commune in British Columbia. The book is divided into very short vignettes about aspects of Mark's experience: travel, friends met along the way, his dog, drugs, etc. It makes for a very readable book that unfolds extremely fast. Before I knew it, I was on page 60 and flipping ever-faster. Because he disects his journey into such easily consumed filets of experience, the author paints a strikingly vivid collage that is funny, despairing, and disturbing, all at the same time. Though I've not finished the book, I'm both dreading and anticipating the end.

The combination: With a light, tasty cigar and beer keeping my senses occupied, I started this session on an upbeat. The birds are singing in my backyard, and the sunlight is shaded by our numerous trees. I was relaxed, to put it simply. But Mark Vonnegut's retelling of his various run-ins with his lover, Virginia, and the tribulations experienced by his little commune family strike a disturbing note at the same time. I imagine the sweetness of his victory: finding the land in B.C. to make his commune a reality and bringing together his friends as his new extended family. But it's offest by this struggles of his mind, the inevitable downward spiral that the reader senses through his adept use of foreshadowing. It's an interesting sensation, to enjoy the corporeal pleasures of the senses while also witnessing another person's unruly decent into insanity. The beer is gone, and the cigar is burning down to its nub; both serving as a reminder of how easy it is for one man to love everything and lose everything at the same time.

CHAPTER ONE

Following is the complete Chapter One from the Plotastic! novel, which yesterday was submitted to the First Chapter of a Novel Contest at The Writing Show. It is "complete" because, after obsessing over it for months, I am putting it into the public domain. I will make no more changes, and I am now free to finish the rewrite of the remaining chapters. I will not post any other excerpts from the novel until the manuscript is complete and satisfactory. I hope you all enjoy this sneak peek.

The Writing Show contest required a one- to two-sentence logline along with the submission. For your edification, I thought I would share what I came up with: "A desperate physics professor fights to clear his name when a deceitful CEO and a well-intentioned reporter distort his research in an attempt to solve the nation's energy crisis." Yes, I know that this sounds like a typical "conspiracy theory" novel, and I apologize to those of you who anticipated something different. The truth is, while I hope to emulate the Vonneguts and Robbinses of modern satirical fiction, that mindset simply does not come naturally to me. I write in my own voice, and this is what that voice produced.

I do not plan to do any rewriting or editing of Chapter One until the rewrite of the entire manuscript is complete. However, your questions, comments, and snide remarks are welcome.

-Mark

**********************************************************

CHAPTER ONE

“Give up?”

Bill pretended not to hear. He folded his arms across his chest and shifted his weight in the hard, metal chair. He had been sitting for hours, and his backside was tingling.

Refocusing on the question at hand, he breathed deeply and blinked. It was anything but a carefree, involuntary motion, blinking. His left eye, rendered sightless by his childhood illness, brushed its lashes against the back of the leather patch. It was like cleaning his ear with a swab made of low-grit sandpaper. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and he shivered convulsively for a second. Whenever possible he tried not to blink. But occasionally, as he did now, it served a purpose: to awaken him like a slap across the face.

This was infuriating, being unable to produce an answer. He knew he had it. It was simply a question of where the answer was. He felt like some doddering old man looking for a misplaced heirloom, something that he knew for certain to be in the decaying eaves of his old house without knowing precisely where he had put it. Obtaining the thing—the information—in the first place was only half of it. Recalling it on demand when absolutely necessary… That was the trick.

Across the table his questioner squirmed, smacking his lips and occasionally rolling his eyes. Bill considered him the way a poker player might consider an opponent, trying to discern if he was bluffing. He was probably in his early twenties, decades younger than Bill. He was dressed a little too nicely in a button-down shirt and khakis, maybe trying to make an impression. Trying too hard, Bill thought. The kid’s nose was lifted up, implying confidence. But he was chewing on his bottom lip, suggesting that his confidence was not absolute. Bill decided to test him.

“How about a little extra time?” Bill asked, leaning and resting his forearms on the table.

The kid grinned. He sat back in his chair, and with his left hand gestured to the little plastic hourglass on the table between them. “You’ve got ‘til that sand runs out.” The hourglass was only a quarter full and running fast.

“You sure that’s wise?” Bill asked without taking his eyes off the kid.

Now the grin trickled into a frown. The kid’s brow furrowed a little bit. He stole a look at the hourglass. Realizing the sand would soon run out, he crossed his arms. “Time’s almost out,” he said, defiant.

Bill knew precisely how much time he had. And the kid’s glance at the hourglass told him that this guy was not altogether certain he had the upper hand. But it was slight consolation. The kid was right: Bill’s time was running out. He didn’t have to look at the hourglass himself to know that his time was almost up. A few grains of sand separated Bill from his first ever defeat.

He leaned forward weakly, hanging his head. When had this happened before? When had he ever failed to produce a correct answer to any question? It was as if God had chosen this tiny, cold room and this grinning upstart to begin bringing about Bill’s downfall. Visions of his childhood surfaced, all from the same perspective: that of his sickbed, where he had been so confined. There he had considered countless questions, all of his own devising. The trick then had been obtaining the resources to produce answers, finding some way or someone to bring him books, magazines, newspapers, anything. Now all of the answers were stored in his own mind, in his memory. It made his head hurt sometimes. And yet here he was unable to access the one piece of information that could help him. It was like being lost in his own library.

Bill could feel a familiar tug at his chest, the temptation to give up and surrender to his opponent. It might make everything easier. For a moment he was just a boy lying in a stiff bed, alone and sick, with only stacks of books to console him. And he remembered something.

Across from him, the young man scooted his chair back from the table and stood up, an expression of false sympathy plastered across his face. He began counting down as the sands in the hourglass ran out. “Five, four, three…”

“Mithrandir,” said Bill.

The kid stopped mid-count. He looked first at Bill and then rolled his eyes upward, as if trying to recall the answer to his own question. “Can you spell it?” he asked.

“Do I need to? You get one question, I get one answer. That’s the deal.”

Flopping down in the chair, the young man huffed. After resting a bit, he picked a backpack up off the ground, hefted it, and stood to go.

“In all fairness,” Bill said. “I should warn you for next semester that Tolkien is probably a bad topic.” He offered a smile. “And tell the next student to come in.”

As he watched the kid leave the little room, Bill realized he did not even know the boy’s name. Bill was beginning his fifth year as a professor at Central State University, and it was beginning to dawn on him how out-of-touch he had become with his students in that little time. True, his teaching load was significantly larger than any of his peers. Quizzes, tests, term papers, it all meant less time spent teaching. And that meant less time releasing information from the chock-full archive inside his head.

He looked at his watch. Ten o’clock. On a school night. The cleaning staff had come and gone, leaving only one of the library’s doors unlocked to allow Bill and his students in. He massaged his head as if it was a womb and he was only hours from delivery. It felt so full lately, like it may burst at any moment. This exercise was one way to relieve the strain, challenging himself to retrieve and exorcise information.

Someone knocked.

Bill gave his temples one last rub and said, “Come on in.” He relaxed in his chair, expecting to greet another student who would challenge him anew.

Instead, he was surprised to see the frame of an older man step through the door, hands in his pockets. The man was dressed in tattered corduroy pants and a wrinkly blue button-down shirt. Bill recognized the scruffy beard and said, “Joseph?”

Realizing that Bill was sitting only a few feet from him, the man turned and raised his head, surveying the room through a pair of dirty glasses. “Bill,” he said, and shuffled over, planting himself in the chair opposite. “They told me you were down here in the library basement. Do you know what time it is? What the hell is going on?”

Bill smiled and said, “Extra credit. You see the line outside?”

As if trying to recall, the old man wrinkled his brow and looked over his shoulder. “Yeah,” he said dreamily. “There’s gotta be twenty kids out there just waiting.”

“I give them each one shot a semester,” Bill explained. “They get one question, I get one answer. If they can stump me, I bump their final grade up a whole letter. I haven’t lost yet.” On that confident note he leaned the chair back and balanced on its two back legs.

“What kind of questions?”

Bill shrugged. “Trivia mostly. Science fiction, science fantasy…” He stopped. At these words Bill noticed a sudden and obvious change in Joseph’s expression. He had walked in with his carefree, old-doddering-professor expression. Now it was obvious that Bill had touched a nerve, because the old man’s face had metamorphosed into the senior-professor-and-chairman-of-your-department expression.

“Yeah,” Joseph grumbled. “About that. You know it’s been a year since your tenure petition was up for review.”

Bill righted the chair and leaned forward. If it had been anyone else mentioning tenure, he would have acted more nonchalant, kept his cool. But he knew Joseph Pernickle, his department chair and his former Ph.D. advisor, as someone who would get right to the point. “Any word?” Bill asked.

“I can’t say,” Pernickle said, scratching his beard. “The, uh, tenure review committee has already met, you see.”

This was news. It was not unheard of for the tenure committee to review petitions without the petitioning faculty present. But Bill knew most of the committee members. Someone—at least one of them—would have notified him of the meeting. Pernickle himself was on the tenure review committee. “And?” Bill said, managing to sound a little ungrateful in his tone and regretting it instantly.

“The committee deferred final decision to the Provost.”

Bill’s spirit faltered, like a criminal whose last appeal had been denied and who was being handed over to the executioner. The Provost of Central State University had a reputation for swift decisions based little on fact and almost entirely on his own assumptions about the bottom line. He was an economist by education and a former businessman who still maintained a small consulting outfit on the side. Bill had met the man once, looked into his eyes, and immediately wanted to hide in a corner. “When will he make his decision?” Bill asked.

Pernickle sighed and stood up. “Did you eat dinner yet?”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *


E.L. Bering lived in a large, custom-built home just off the Central State University campus. As the university’s Provost, the man entirely responsible for all academic and faculty-related matters, he made a considerable salary. But as Bill walked up the dark sidewalk and took in the lavish home, he imagined that Bering’s CSU salary would have only paid for a house half the size. Bill suspected that Bering’s decades of success in the private sector supported the daunting, two-story manse in front of him. Though it was nearly eleven at night, Bill couldn’t help feeling that the house cast a shadow upon him as he approached.

Before he could ring the bell the front door opened, and Bill was greeted by a thin, pale woman in a luxurious nightgown. “Professor Napkin?” she asked. She smiled, displaying a collection of the whitest teeth Bill had ever seen. Her hair was perfectly straight, and she wore diamond dangle earrings as if they were trinkets. She may have been in her fifties, but she had the allure of a twenty-year-old, Bill thought. The amazing thing, he realized, was that she gave no consideration to the patch over his eye. Even the most courteous of people upon first meeting Bill would be drawn to stare at where his left eye used to be. But this woman seemed to be the height of grace and decorum. She said, “Please, come in. He’s expecting you.”

Instinctively, Bill wiped his feet on the outside doormat and then again on the inside one. The house was decorated in dark wood panels with a brightly shining hardwood floor. It reminded him of a hunting lodge.

“Can I get you anything?” the woman asked, walking down the hallway toward a flight of stairs.

Bill figured she had stayed up waiting to greet him, so he had better ask for something. “Coffee?” he said.

“I’ve just brewed a pot.” She started up the stairs, and Bill followed. But she stopped and turned, indicating a door further down the hallway. “The kitchen is there, and his study is across the hall, one door down. I hope you don’t mind, but I’m turning in.” She smiled again.

Bill blushed. “Thank you,” was all he could manage.

The kitchen was as lavish as the rest of the house, large and open and outfitted with stainless steel appliances. Bill found an intricate collection of canisters and tubes on the counter and assumed y the single mug sitting next to it that it was the coffee-maker. Cream and sugar had been left out, but he passed over them.

Thank God, he thought. Thank God at least for the coffee. He had found that caffeine helped alleviate the sensation of pressure in his head, the feeling that his brain might very well explode from an excess of information. As a result, he had become quite addicted to strong, black coffee. He threw a scalding cup of what was obviously a gourmet roast down his throat and then refilled his mug.

Recharged, he made his way out of the kitchen and walked further down the hallway. The dark walls were not decorated with photographs, but instead were adorned with artifacts from all over the world: African tribal masks, various tapestries, textiles that may have come from South or Central America. Along the same wall as the kitchen Bill noticed a large piece of ancient paper adorned with what appeared to be Greek characters. It had been years since he read any Greek, and he leaned in as if a closer look might help him to translate.

“You read Greek?” said a man’s voice from behind him.

Bill mumbled a confirmation without turning, still transfixed by the text. He was concentrating on one line in particular and mouthing the words. The lack of sight in one eye impaired his depth perception, and reading carved stone was incredibly difficult.

“Can you make any of it out?” the man said.

“I am…” Bill began to read. He furrowed his brow, mouthed something, and then said clearly, “I am Osir-phre. Whom Seth destroyed.”

“Close. It’s actually I am Osiris. But you get the idea.”

Bill turned around, mouth open. With complete disregard for who he was speaking to he said, “Are you kidding?” For a moment he allowed his mouth to hang open, and then he caught himself. He stood up, closed his mouth, and offered his hand. “I’m sorry. Bill Napkin.”

The Provost shook Bill’s hand. He did not smile. He did not make any expression that Bill could tell. Instead he just nodded and looked Bill up and down, as if he were assessing livestock. He had a dark complexion compared to his wife, and his black hair was slicked back almost flat against his head. Though it was late, he was dressed in a navy suit with a white shirt underneath. At least he wasn’t wearing a tie, Bill thought. “That,” Bill started, gesturing at the parchment over his shoulder. “That’s one of the Greek Magical Papyri?”

Bering nodded. “We bought it at auction last year. Honestly, I wouldn’t have cared for it except that it was the exact size as this space on our wall.”

Bill suspected he was lying, that Bering had known exactly what he was buying at the time. From the man’s overly nonchalant manner, Bill even suspected that it had been set out especially for him. “But you’re aware of its significance? It’s meaning?”

Not answering, Bering turned to walk back down the hall and said, “Have you eaten?”

Annoyed at the other man’s lack of interest, Bill lied. “Yes, thank you.” He followed Bering eagerly, like a puppy, still expecting an answer to his question.

They entered Bering’s study, and Bill was not surprised to find more antiques as well as numerous shelves lined with books. Opposite the doorway was a marble fireplace that looked so clean Bill wondered if it had ever been used. Bering walked around a massive wooden desk and sat down, gesturing for Bill to sit in one of two deep, leather chairs facing him. Bill obliged, the chair’s soft cushions welcoming him so completely that he immediately relaxed and forgot the Papyri. A sigh escaped his mouth.

Bering did not speak, but rather folded his hands, smacked his lips several times, and looked at Bill. Bill thought he must be curious about the eye patch, and so he began to explain when he was interrupted. “Dr. Pernickle no doubt explained your situation,” Bering said.

“Yes, sir. I’d like an opportunity to explain.”

Bering held up a hand. “I understand enough. William…”

Bill winced at the use of his formal name.

“I’m sorry. You prefer…” Bering said.

“Bill is fine.”

The Provost proceeded slowly, as if he was not entirely capable of addressing someone in that way. But he made do. “Bill. It’s a difficult situation. I’m afraid your contributions to the university’s income stream are…”

“I generate more tuition revenue than any professor on campus,” Bill interrupted, unable to help himself. He had straightened up slightly, planting both feet on the floor. “I carry a larger teaching load than any full professor. And tuition accounts for—what—sixty percent of the university’s revenue?”

As if he now understood what he was dealing with, Bering nodded and sat back in his chair. “Tuition, Bill, is what keeps the lights on. It’s our primary stream of income, yes. What I am more concerned with is your research income. Research dollars are what create…prestige.”

Bill said nothing about this. There was nothing to say. Pernickle had warned him of this in past years, but Bill had taken it as friendly advice rather than an ultimatum.

“You’re in your fifth year as an associate professor, correct?”

Bill nodded.

“That’s a tenure track position, Bill. Five years is the limit for tenure.” Bering had narrowed his eyes, keeping them on Bill, assessing him again like he was some kind of object of value. His tongue moved around behind his cheek, and Bill began to feel uncomfortable. “I know you are a physicist by training. What exactly is your field?”

Now he was getting around to it, Bill thought. The Provost of the university was raising the same question as Bill’s peers in the physics department. It was the same question that caused members of the Faculty Senate to snicker every time Bill walked in to a meeting, and the same question that drew exasperated ogles at conventions and symposia. He could feel a lump forming in his throat, as if a confession was being drawn out of him by some expert hypnotist.

However, Bill thought, it was this same source of shame among his peers in the faculty that made him such a popular educator. Students flocked to his classes, even those not majoring in a science. Arts and business students who, as a rule, avoided physics courses and opted instead for the easier geology or astronomy to satisfy their science requirements—even these were flocking to his Introduction to Physics courses in record numbers. He had divided the class into two sections when enrollments went too high in his second year. And now, in his fifth year, the class had been divided again so that there were four sections, each of which Bill insisted on teaching himself. Thinking of these students and his popularity with them, his confidence was renewed. He answered the Provost’s question.

“My area of specialty is non-material human influences on the natural world,” he said, providing his stock, professional answer.

“Yes,” Bering said, leaning forward. He picked up a packet of papers and looked them over. “So I read on your vita. But—and you’ll have to forgive me, being an economist and not a scientist—can you break that down into layman’s terms?”

Like downing a rotten apple, Bill swallowed. His mouth had gone dry, but he mustered his courage and answered. “Magic,” he said. “That’s the closest comparison I can make.”

“Magic,” Bering repeated. His tone and expression gave away nothing.

“Sure,” Bill said, speaking without thought. He sat forward slightly. “Not cards and canaries, I mean.”

“Real magic,” said the Provost, a hint of condescension in his voice.

Bill ignored him. “Sorcery. Enchantment. Whatever you want to call it. It’s mostly physical manipulation of the world around us through nonphysical means. You chant a phrase like those on the Papyri in the hall and something happens. The trick is determining the physical link between the incantation and the result. What could be more scientific than that?”

“So,” the Provost said, cautious. “Magic is real?”

“Potentially,” Bill said. Then he said, “Probably, yes. I think so.”

Bering’s nod indicated to Bill that the Provost had expected this answer. He was not shocked or put off in any way and continued to study Bill deeply before speaking again. “Well, that would explain your popularity with the students.” The man tried to laugh but succeeded only in emitting a dry cough.

“I make physics fun,” Bill said. He felt like he should say something in his defense. He had come to expect attacks whenever the question of his interests came up. “I teach my students the same physics that they would learn from any other professor. But I put it in a context they can enjoy and understand—Star Wars, Star Trek, Dungeons & Dragons. If they can relate to it and it helps them learn, I’ll do it.”

The Provost raised his hands and shook his head. “No one is disputing your prowess as an educator,” he said. “But in four years you’ve brought in zero dollars of sponsored research income. I can’t justify awarding tenure to someone with that track record. University policy dictates that, if after your fifth year in the tenure track you have not earned tenure, I must dismiss you.”

There it was, Bill thought. There was no friendly Joseph Pernickle to cloud the issue. The ultimatum had been thrown down like a gauntlet. He knew the consequences of being released from a tenure track position. Even if he kept it off his vita, every other university in the country would practically blacklist him. Academia was a very small circle, especially the scientific community. And given the unique nature of Bill’s work, chances are he already had a reputation as a high-risk wager. “I don’t suppose you could be any clearer,” he said.

Bering nodded. “It’s true that the circumstances are clear. What’s unclear is how someone with your…interests might be paid to pursue them.” He smiled.

“I don’t understand,” Bill said.

The Provost stood up now and walked around the desk, past Bill’s chair. Bill turned and watched him walk toward the doorway and then out into the hall. At a loss, Bill stood up and quickly followed the man.

“My hands are tied, Bill,” he was saying as he made his way to the front door. “Policy is policy, after all, and I am the chief academic officer, bound to follow it. That’s not to say, however, that I can’t assist you in your quest.” He stopped, resting his hand on the doorknob, and turned to face Bill.

“Any help you can offer, I would appreciate it,” Bill said, hurrying to catch up.

“Good,” Bering said. He pulled the door open with one hand while reaching into his coat pocket with the other. With a magician’s precision he pulled out an ochre rectangle of paper and handed it to Bill. It was a business card. “I suggest you start by contacting this gentleman. He’s expecting to hear from you first thing in the morning. I believe he might save your job.” With a hand on Bill’s back, the Provost guided him out the front door without so much as a “good night.”

As he stepped out and the Provost closed the door behind him, Bill couldn’t help but feel like the temperature had dropped several degrees. He shivered and then read the name on the business card. “J. Leland Sterling.”

I've gone and done it.

Earlier this evening I submitted Chapter One of the Plotastic! novel to the First Chapter of a Novel Contest at The Writing Show. Paula Berinstein, the host of the show, has put this contest on for a few years. To be honest, I don't think I have a chance in hell of winning the thing. More likely, I'm hoping to be one of the ten random winners of 750 words of criticism about my chapter.

There are so far 119 entrants in the contest. I've told Paula that I believe I'll finish in the top third, somewhere between 40th place and 1st.

I have read some of the past winners of the contest, and I'm up against some stiff competition, which explains my expectation for 40th place or so.

Now for the big news: Since basically the chapter is now in the public domain, I'm going to post it here for the world to see, sometime before the weekend. There are two ways I might do this: all at once or in sections over a period of several days. The whole of Chapter One is about 4,000 words. So I could post 1,000 per day for four days, which would help build suspense. It would be easier to just upload the whole damn thing at once, though that may make it difficult to read. I still haven't decided.

Keep your fingers crossed for the contest. And keep your eyes peeled for Chapter One to be posted in the next 48 hours.

-Mark

Writing Tip #11 - Go with your gut.

I'm sitting here, two weeks away from the submission and public presentation of Chapter One of my first novel...and I'm considering, once again, starting from scratch.

Why?

Because it's not good enough. It's not engaging. It's not funny. It's hardly even entertaining.

And then I realize, that may not be true. That may just be my nueroses creeping in upon what may very well be a decent little story.

Over the past year I have written a complete first draft of this novel. I have let it rest. I have picked it up and begun rereading it. I have reread it. I have reread it again. And I have crafted at least the early parts of the story into something worthwhile.

This manuscript has undergone a lot of change. And I don't like it.

Frustrated and frightened, this morning I opened up the very first electronic file of the Plotastic! novel. And I began reading again, from the beginning.

It's not bad.

In fact, in a few places it's pretty good. It just needs some cleaning up, some tightening up, some attention to the proper details... And I've already done some of that in the rewrite.

What I've come to realize is that this process of writing must be just that: a process. To get from concept to perfection takes a long time and many, many steps.

But more importantly I've realized that the first idea you write down, that first inkling of a story that was jotted in a crumbling spiral notebook or a bulging Moleskine was probably pretty damned good. Go with it. Use it. Turn it into something better. But certainly don't throw it away. You never know when you might need it.

-Mark

Everyone's a critic.

With only days to go until I offer up Chapter One of this "plotastic" novel, I find my neuroses (Thank you, Jacob.) shifting in an altogether different direction.

For the extent of this project my anxiety has been focused like a laser on simply finishing. How many words today? How many pages left? When will this thing be done? It's simply the nature of the beast. My original goal was just that: to finish. And once the rough draft was done, that focus shifted over to the finished product. The deadline has, by and large, been my sole motivator.

Until now.

I overheard a discussion recently. Two people were sharing their views on a movie. One of them liked certain parts. The other one disliked those parts, but liked other elements of the movie. What I noticed is that these people were absolutely brutal in the delivery of their criticisms. Keep in mind, these were not professional critics. And they were not trying to be humorous or ironic. Their scathing criticisms of the film were quite serious and well thought-out. Yet neither of them owned the DVD; they had rented it. Each had only seen it once. And yet they developed very keen--and very passionate--opinions of the work.

It was frightening. Because I knew that very soon I would become the target of such criticism. It's daunting, really. I'm not someone who takes negative criticism well. But I suppose that is characteristic of most amateur and unpublished authors.

I was reading Pam Kelly's review of summer reading in the Charlotte Observer. And I greatly appreciate the list. Because Kelly did not endeavor to interject her own inflated opinions of each book. Instead, she neatly summarized the plots in a couple of sentences. It helps the reader understand which novel he/she may enjoy reading, without being overpowered by criticism.

Granted, I know that criticism has it's place. But I believe that place to be largely academic. Honestly, when I'm deciding to purchase a book, I don't really care if it's an ineffective bildungsroman with a failed protagonist and flimsy conflicts. I just want to know if it's an enjoyable read.

And I understand why we enjoy criticism so much. I'm guilty of it. Critiquing the work of an anonymous creator--who we will most likely never meet--gives us an air of superiority. It's gratifying to sound like we know what we're talking about (whether we do or not).

The folks at Salon.com have picked up on an issue of increasing concern, at least to people who care about this kind of thing: namely, that literary critics are a dying breed. Of course the culprit is assumed to be the blogosphere. As the article posits, who needs literary critics when bloggers are offering reviews for free? One of the commentators in the article goes further, suggesting that critics are dying off because their "host organisms" (read: novelists) are also dying off.

Not true! Here I am! Look at me!

I actually like to think that the passing of the professional literary critic is not a crisis, but a revolution. No longer must we rely on the intellectual elite to deem what is readable and what is not. We don't have to hide in the shadows with our Stephen Kings and our John Grishams, because at least somewhere out there is a knowledgeable person who lends some credence to these men's work--even if that person is found at www.ilovemediocregenrefiction.com.

So in the end, do I really have anything to fear? If readers absolutely hate my novel, will it be the end of my attempts at writing? Probably not. And who knows? Perhaps somewhere out there in the nether regions of the blogosphere someone will actually like my stuff.

Anyway, it helps me live with the fear.

-Mark