I worked on DL, last night, till almost midnight so kicked back and didn't get up till after 10, this morning. The story wasn't as hard on me, this time around...and I'm afraid that means I'm diminishing it. I'm doing some more work today -- clarifying aspects I thought of as I was getting ready for bed and finally doing some research to verify what I've put in the story. I'm working off memory a lot, here.
It's not often I jump into a story and just write it before researching the hell out of it, but I pretty much did that this time. All I did beforehand was pull up a map of El Paso to locate things and found a site for Biggs Air Force Base (it's part of Fort Bliss, now). Problem is, the map said some of my memory must be off and I tried to follow it...but it's not right. The reality of what Google says and the fogginess of my brain are in direct contradiction, and I'm more prone to trust brain than fact, right now...even though I last lived in the area 45 years ago.
I did pull up a satellite image of the area via Google, today...and it seems to support my memory. Now I just need to find the middle school I attended, and if that lines up -- screw today's facts and all hail yesterday's truth.
Tomorrow I'm off to New York City to help the load out of the NY Book Fair -- which means I get to see a lot of JFK and a warehouse in the area, with no time to tour the city since I'm schduled to return Monday evening. Ah...the glamorous life of a jet setter.
Just came across this quote and it fits so perfectly, I have to add it in --
One of the most difficult things to do is to
paint darkness which nonetheless has light in it.
-- Vincent van Gogh
This is "Desert Land."
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Friday, April 9, 2010
In the category of "It Ain't Done Till It's Done"...
My trip to London now appears to be off. We may sponsor an event at the book fair and if that happens, then the owner of the company is going there to host it. Fortunately, I hadn't bought my plane ticket, yet, and the hotel didn't require a deposit to hold the room. Oh, well...it would have been nice to go...
I worked on "Desert Land," last night. Polishing and honing it even more. I'm lost in this one and can't move on till it's done. It's in four parts; here's the opening one.
DESERT LAND
by
Kyle Michel Sullivan
I hate El Paso the moment I see it. Bleak dusty haze filters hovels of clay and tile under early morning light. Mountains dance around each other like wary partners. Everything feels brown in shades barely varied. Streaks of grime and shattered bugs on the windshield frame it. I drive since mother can’t. Her husband waits for us, here, so mid-60’s Texas allows me a hardship driver’s license to let me pilot the old station wagon on a twelve-hour journey down a freeway half-constructed, at night to avoid the heat of the day...so long as an adult sits by me. Mother qualifies so sits in the passenger seat chewing gum as my brother and sister sleep in the back, suitcases for pillows and partitions to lessen chances of anger and betrayal.
“There’s no green.” My first words in hours.
Mother pops a bubble. “Can’t do anything about that.”
Shite, say I, unspoken because she now scratches her left wrist with her right fingernails. I know better than to speak.
Passing through the city gathers more dust from holes dug in the earth. More highway to come. Heat quickly drowns the cold night. I can bake in the car or roll down a window and cough. I choose the latter -- but mother growls, “I’ll get asthma,” and wields her inhaler to prove it.
We stop at a light. I wait until mother’s eyes grow sharp and angry before I grip the window’s handle. Only half a roll up before an old, old woman in black, shiny rosary wound around withered hands, smelling unwashed in the heat, leaves the crosswalk to touch my hair and whisper, “Ay, qué lindo. Por Dios.” I tolerate these attacks because Nana said “Mes-cans” think redheaded children mean good luck. I wondered if that meant stepchildren, too? She laughed but did not answer.
“That’s why you keep the windows up,” mother snaps then inhales her fake breath. My brother and sister cry, “I’m hungry” and “When we gonna eat?” and mother replies, “We’re almost home.”
Home? Here? I grow so, so sleepy, but I drive on.
Instructions wait for us at the airbase entrance. Home of the 95th Bomber Wing, but not much longer. I show a guard my driver’s permit and Air Force Dependent’s ID to prove I am me.
“Christ,” he says. “Tesas le’s babies dri’e cahs!” His accent reminds me of London. I almost laugh.
He puts a sticker on the windshield then passes us through. Follow the road to a parallel street facing the runway. Number 465. We find the house -- white cinder blocks, black trimmed-windows, green grass and trees desperately trying to take hold, an oasis in the middle of nothingness. All houses are its twin, each with a fenced backyard, each with a weary air cooler atop the roof, wide strips of dirt and grass between them.
I park on the street. Mother’s husband is on duty. The key mailed to us unlocks the front door. We enter.
Mother sighs. More block walls in white. Linoleum floors. Furniture shoved about and boxes everywhere. A small kitchen and noisy refrigerator. Hallway straight down the middle to four bedrooms. Once officers’ quarters, now the base is about to close the Air Force feels generous to its non-coms.
I look in the first room on the right. Not the biggest but my bed, chest, desk and art table fit. How did her husband know this one is mine? Because the bathroom is across the hall? I look at the bed. I smile. I don’t need a sheet to sleep.
“We need milk!”
I go to the kitchen. Mother checks the cupboards and nods to the refrigerator. It holds cheese, bottles of beer and soda. “I need money.”
“When your father gets home.”
No, your HUSBAND. Unspoken, again. She slams empty cabinets, scratches her wrist. I leave the house.
A base exchange sits in a corner of the fake oasis, just up the street, there for quick food, candy, beer and cigarettes. I walk past half a dozen homes to hunt and gather like her husband should. And to keep from falling asleep.
Milk, eggs, Frosted Flakes, bread and peanut butter take the three dollars I have left, plus a few pennies from my pocket. I hope she pays me back, this time.
By the door, I notice a magazine rack with things like “Hunter’s Digest” and “Popular Mechanics” and “Gold Key Comics” -- and three physique pamphlets with photos. I saw one at a news kiosk in Piccadilly. I casually choose a comic book, sneak a pamphlet up and flip through it. Inside are strong, beautiful men. A tiny cloth covers their privates. My heart quickens but no one screams, “’Ere, shove orf, yer buggerin’ lit’le bast’d.” The clerk is busy so I slip the pamphlet in the bag of food and buy the comic with my last dime. Outside, I slide the pamphlet into the comic and put it in my back jeans pocket. It’s my reward for bringing my family safe to this hideous place.
I worked on "Desert Land," last night. Polishing and honing it even more. I'm lost in this one and can't move on till it's done. It's in four parts; here's the opening one.
DESERT LAND
by
Kyle Michel Sullivan
I hate El Paso the moment I see it. Bleak dusty haze filters hovels of clay and tile under early morning light. Mountains dance around each other like wary partners. Everything feels brown in shades barely varied. Streaks of grime and shattered bugs on the windshield frame it. I drive since mother can’t. Her husband waits for us, here, so mid-60’s Texas allows me a hardship driver’s license to let me pilot the old station wagon on a twelve-hour journey down a freeway half-constructed, at night to avoid the heat of the day...so long as an adult sits by me. Mother qualifies so sits in the passenger seat chewing gum as my brother and sister sleep in the back, suitcases for pillows and partitions to lessen chances of anger and betrayal.
“There’s no green.” My first words in hours.
Mother pops a bubble. “Can’t do anything about that.”
Shite, say I, unspoken because she now scratches her left wrist with her right fingernails. I know better than to speak.
Passing through the city gathers more dust from holes dug in the earth. More highway to come. Heat quickly drowns the cold night. I can bake in the car or roll down a window and cough. I choose the latter -- but mother growls, “I’ll get asthma,” and wields her inhaler to prove it.
We stop at a light. I wait until mother’s eyes grow sharp and angry before I grip the window’s handle. Only half a roll up before an old, old woman in black, shiny rosary wound around withered hands, smelling unwashed in the heat, leaves the crosswalk to touch my hair and whisper, “Ay, qué lindo. Por Dios.” I tolerate these attacks because Nana said “Mes-cans” think redheaded children mean good luck. I wondered if that meant stepchildren, too? She laughed but did not answer.
“That’s why you keep the windows up,” mother snaps then inhales her fake breath. My brother and sister cry, “I’m hungry” and “When we gonna eat?” and mother replies, “We’re almost home.”
Home? Here? I grow so, so sleepy, but I drive on.
Instructions wait for us at the airbase entrance. Home of the 95th Bomber Wing, but not much longer. I show a guard my driver’s permit and Air Force Dependent’s ID to prove I am me.
“Christ,” he says. “Tesas le’s babies dri’e cahs!” His accent reminds me of London. I almost laugh.
He puts a sticker on the windshield then passes us through. Follow the road to a parallel street facing the runway. Number 465. We find the house -- white cinder blocks, black trimmed-windows, green grass and trees desperately trying to take hold, an oasis in the middle of nothingness. All houses are its twin, each with a fenced backyard, each with a weary air cooler atop the roof, wide strips of dirt and grass between them.
I park on the street. Mother’s husband is on duty. The key mailed to us unlocks the front door. We enter.
Mother sighs. More block walls in white. Linoleum floors. Furniture shoved about and boxes everywhere. A small kitchen and noisy refrigerator. Hallway straight down the middle to four bedrooms. Once officers’ quarters, now the base is about to close the Air Force feels generous to its non-coms.
I look in the first room on the right. Not the biggest but my bed, chest, desk and art table fit. How did her husband know this one is mine? Because the bathroom is across the hall? I look at the bed. I smile. I don’t need a sheet to sleep.
“We need milk!”
I go to the kitchen. Mother checks the cupboards and nods to the refrigerator. It holds cheese, bottles of beer and soda. “I need money.”
“When your father gets home.”
No, your HUSBAND. Unspoken, again. She slams empty cabinets, scratches her wrist. I leave the house.
A base exchange sits in a corner of the fake oasis, just up the street, there for quick food, candy, beer and cigarettes. I walk past half a dozen homes to hunt and gather like her husband should. And to keep from falling asleep.
Milk, eggs, Frosted Flakes, bread and peanut butter take the three dollars I have left, plus a few pennies from my pocket. I hope she pays me back, this time.
By the door, I notice a magazine rack with things like “Hunter’s Digest” and “Popular Mechanics” and “Gold Key Comics” -- and three physique pamphlets with photos. I saw one at a news kiosk in Piccadilly. I casually choose a comic book, sneak a pamphlet up and flip through it. Inside are strong, beautiful men. A tiny cloth covers their privates. My heart quickens but no one screams, “’Ere, shove orf, yer buggerin’ lit’le bast’d.” The clerk is busy so I slip the pamphlet in the bag of food and buy the comic with my last dime. Outside, I slide the pamphlet into the comic and put it in my back jeans pocket. It’s my reward for bringing my family safe to this hideous place.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
I have odd tastes
Seems I'm one of the few people who likes Philip Glass's music. I enjoy listening to the slow rhythmic builds and segues and vague monotony that isn't really monotonous. So last night, since I couldn't make myself focus on BC3 or DL, I watched "Glass: A Portrait of Philip in 12 Parts" and not only learned a bit about the man, but had my own method of writing justified in a way. He refers to writing his music as hearing a river that runs underground, and you can hear it but you can't find it. Still you keep looking.
That's how I feel sometimes when I'm writing. I can hear the story being told to me but when I put it down on paper (or input it into my desktop) it's not quite right, yet, and I have to let my characters show me the way to completion. I'm not sure why the shift from the ephemeral to the emphatic causes so much to vanish from the tale until I've gone over it a dozen times -- basically dug my way down to find that friggin' river -- but it does. That's why I rewrite my work so much -- to catch every inflection I can that the story offers.
He also has the attitude that if you don't like his music, don't listen to it. There's lots of other music in the world; go listen to that and be happy. That's an attitude I started to cultivate in my screenwriting...which is not the way things get done in Hollywood. Writers have to be complete whores to get started and if you offer ANY hint of trouble, they chuck you aside. I've even had friends do that to me, so I guess I shouldn't be surprised I got nowhere fast. The positive thing about writing the books I write and dealing with the publisher I have means I can do and say just about anything I want to. And I do.
Once I'm done with POS, I think I'm going to try and shift one of my scripts into book form but not in the usual way. I want the music and imagery to work with the words to build an experience in the reader's mind...a bit like what's happening with this short story, just bigger.
That's how I feel sometimes when I'm writing. I can hear the story being told to me but when I put it down on paper (or input it into my desktop) it's not quite right, yet, and I have to let my characters show me the way to completion. I'm not sure why the shift from the ephemeral to the emphatic causes so much to vanish from the tale until I've gone over it a dozen times -- basically dug my way down to find that friggin' river -- but it does. That's why I rewrite my work so much -- to catch every inflection I can that the story offers.
He also has the attitude that if you don't like his music, don't listen to it. There's lots of other music in the world; go listen to that and be happy. That's an attitude I started to cultivate in my screenwriting...which is not the way things get done in Hollywood. Writers have to be complete whores to get started and if you offer ANY hint of trouble, they chuck you aside. I've even had friends do that to me, so I guess I shouldn't be surprised I got nowhere fast. The positive thing about writing the books I write and dealing with the publisher I have means I can do and say just about anything I want to. And I do.
Once I'm done with POS, I think I'm going to try and shift one of my scripts into book form but not in the usual way. I want the music and imagery to work with the words to build an experience in the reader's mind...a bit like what's happening with this short story, just bigger.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Did it again.
I was going to expand a chapter of BC3, last night, after doing some research on hockey but instead wound up working on that short story...and getting so wound up by it I couldn't go to sleep till 3am. I cut about 500 words out of it and made it more immediate in style, like the narrator is telling you what he's doing as he's doing it. I also clarified aspects of the story and discovered a theme behind it. Looks like this story is aiming to be a kick in the teeth of anyone who reads it. I don't know what I'll do with it, once I'm done; I just know it's running my life whenever it wants to.
I don't know what's going to happen with BC3, now. I can't seem to focus on it, so I might just watch "Glass: A Portrait of Philip in Twelve Parts." It's on my list from Netflix and I found it stuffed into my mailbox. Seems the postman has no problem destroying mail so he doesn't have to take care in giving it to you. I have yet to receive a single piece of mail that is not crumpled in some way.
I was trying to get some reviews done of BC 1&2 (both online and in magazines) but can't get anyone to say they will. DNA Magazine's reviewer says he won't do it unless the book is available in Australia (they're based in Sydney). It is, but he doesn't believe me and won't check to see. A couple of online sites just tell me, "Not now, maybe later; contact us in a few months." I guess they think it's just a porn book. None of my work is...but you can't change people's minds once they're made up.
Dammit.
I don't know what's going to happen with BC3, now. I can't seem to focus on it, so I might just watch "Glass: A Portrait of Philip in Twelve Parts." It's on my list from Netflix and I found it stuffed into my mailbox. Seems the postman has no problem destroying mail so he doesn't have to take care in giving it to you. I have yet to receive a single piece of mail that is not crumpled in some way.
I was trying to get some reviews done of BC 1&2 (both online and in magazines) but can't get anyone to say they will. DNA Magazine's reviewer says he won't do it unless the book is available in Australia (they're based in Sydney). It is, but he doesn't believe me and won't check to see. A couple of online sites just tell me, "Not now, maybe later; contact us in a few months." I guess they think it's just a porn book. None of my work is...but you can't change people's minds once they're made up.
Dammit.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Don't know much about ice hockey
But Eric's begun using that as a metaphor for what he's doing in this book. Which means I need to learn more about the sport...so I guess it's good I'm in Buffalo, where they really like their hockey. Seems the Sabres are as big a deal as the Cowboys are in Dallas, especially since they're about to be in the playoffs for the Stanley Cup. So I just find a bar that pulls Guinness in the right way and sit and watch some games and try to not sound like a fool in this book.
It's irritating when my characters do things like this to me. I've never been a big follower of sports, so when Bobby chose to be a relief pitcher in BC 1&2, I had to learn enough about the sport to let his voice sound real. It doesn't take a huge amount of research to get to where you start picking up the chit-chat and lingo, because all you really need to do is keep from hitting a wrong note in a reference the character makes. And I got smacked down once for doing that in a script, when I didn't catch that hockey is played in three periods instead of four.
Of course, that's half the reason I'm nervous about getting into "A Place Of Safety." I have to make it sound like Brendan grew up in Derry in the 50's, 60's and 70's in not just his speech but his manners and attitudes and his own view of the opportunities offered a Catholic boy in a city run by rabid anti-Papists. When I think of how nuts I went working over Bobby's part of the story to keep him from carrying anything but a baseball guy's view of life, I know I'll be ten times worse with Brendan...maybe to the point of madness. We'll see how it goes.
Today was raised the possibility of me going to London to handle the Olympia Book Fair in the first week of June. Just the vague query of, "How much would airfare be for me to fly out of Toronto?" $1000+, so far. Of course I'm up for it. I love London, actually feel at home there and would move in a heartbeat if given the opportunity.
It's irritating when my characters do things like this to me. I've never been a big follower of sports, so when Bobby chose to be a relief pitcher in BC 1&2, I had to learn enough about the sport to let his voice sound real. It doesn't take a huge amount of research to get to where you start picking up the chit-chat and lingo, because all you really need to do is keep from hitting a wrong note in a reference the character makes. And I got smacked down once for doing that in a script, when I didn't catch that hockey is played in three periods instead of four.
Of course, that's half the reason I'm nervous about getting into "A Place Of Safety." I have to make it sound like Brendan grew up in Derry in the 50's, 60's and 70's in not just his speech but his manners and attitudes and his own view of the opportunities offered a Catholic boy in a city run by rabid anti-Papists. When I think of how nuts I went working over Bobby's part of the story to keep him from carrying anything but a baseball guy's view of life, I know I'll be ten times worse with Brendan...maybe to the point of madness. We'll see how it goes.
Today was raised the possibility of me going to London to handle the Olympia Book Fair in the first week of June. Just the vague query of, "How much would airfare be for me to fly out of Toronto?" $1000+, so far. Of course I'm up for it. I love London, actually feel at home there and would move in a heartbeat if given the opportunity.
Monday, April 5, 2010
High and Low
That's the title of an amazing film by Kurosawa, who took a simple police procedural story and made it into a meditation on honor and morality. The son of a businessman's chauffeur is mistaken for the businessman's son and kidnapped, and even after the error is discovered the kidnapper still demands the businessman pay the ransom. So the businessman has to choose between bankruptcy or the life of a child not his own. It's based on an Ed McBain 87th Precinct novel, which is a solid read but still just a decent crime story. Kurosawa expands and deepens the situation and characters to such an extent, it's like watching a passion play about what will lead you to heaven and how easy it is to fall into hell. The scene on a bullet train between Osaka and Tokyo is breathtaking, but it's the manner in which the police slowly hone in on and tighten their grip around the kidnapper/killer that's mesmerizing.
I talk about this because I watched it, again, this time on my computer DVD player. I'm finding I prefer to use my Mac Mini for this, because when I play wide screen videos on a regular DVD player, the frame tends to cut off the ends. Movies that should have a ratio of 1 to 2:35 wind up more like 2:20, and directors like Kurosawa use very square inch of the frame. On my Mac Mini, it plays surrounded by black and you see the full frame. It's smaller, but Jesus what detail!
Busy day at work kept me from blogging...as did the knowledge I can now do it from home. I prepared shipping labels for the move out from the New York Fair, this weekend, and a manifest for what needs to be sent home from Paris for next weekend. But I'm finally fed and I watched the news and I feel relaxed...and it's time to dig into BC-3. Here goes.
I talk about this because I watched it, again, this time on my computer DVD player. I'm finding I prefer to use my Mac Mini for this, because when I play wide screen videos on a regular DVD player, the frame tends to cut off the ends. Movies that should have a ratio of 1 to 2:35 wind up more like 2:20, and directors like Kurosawa use very square inch of the frame. On my Mac Mini, it plays surrounded by black and you see the full frame. It's smaller, but Jesus what detail!
Busy day at work kept me from blogging...as did the knowledge I can now do it from home. I prepared shipping labels for the move out from the New York Fair, this weekend, and a manifest for what needs to be sent home from Paris for next weekend. But I'm finally fed and I watched the news and I feel relaxed...and it's time to dig into BC-3. Here goes.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Junky time
I got so busy getting caught up on my links and research contacts and bills and such, I was online till 1am. Can't let that happen, again, not on a work night. But it was so great, and I did feel a bit like a junky coming down off a high. I can do a lot on my laptop but I won't do my banking and bill paying in public, and I can't spend hours and hours sitting in a noisy coffee shop working around people who have the most inane chatter going, possible. One man and his trophy wife at a table behind me actually spent 45 minutes trying to decide what music to use for their new iPhone, sampling this and that and something else and back to this and what about the other and on and on until I finally gave up, shut down and left because it was either get some distance or start tossing furniture. Now I can work in a civilized environment, drink tea or DP or beer, eat at my leisure and even go onto my NSFW sites looking for...uh...inspiration. Yeah, that's the word. Inspiration.
And do my laundry, since the laundry room is right next to my apartment. Right now, I'm sipping some tea with Half & Half in it...and I understand why the British just use milk; it works better with the tea. But I had it because this recipe for Potato Leek Soup called for it...and the soup turned out all right, if a bit bland because I used vegetable stock as the base instead of chicken stock. (Chicken makes me sick...though turkey doesn't; I wonder if they make a turkey broth?)
Anyway, I finally feel settled in and ready to build a structure to my new world. Which includes finishing BC-3 and getting onto POS. And exercising more. I'd like to start dropping weight instead of just not gaining. I felt most comfortable at 165 lbs (I was as low as 145 in my 20's and that was ridiculous) but that'll be a long-term goal. I'm well over 200, right now, and my feet are pissed at me for it.
Okay...when I start yakking about weight and pains like all the other old farts, it's time to break the loop and get back to writing something serious.
And just for the hell of it, here's something that inspires me:
And do my laundry, since the laundry room is right next to my apartment. Right now, I'm sipping some tea with Half & Half in it...and I understand why the British just use milk; it works better with the tea. But I had it because this recipe for Potato Leek Soup called for it...and the soup turned out all right, if a bit bland because I used vegetable stock as the base instead of chicken stock. (Chicken makes me sick...though turkey doesn't; I wonder if they make a turkey broth?)
Anyway, I finally feel settled in and ready to build a structure to my new world. Which includes finishing BC-3 and getting onto POS. And exercising more. I'd like to start dropping weight instead of just not gaining. I felt most comfortable at 165 lbs (I was as low as 145 in my 20's and that was ridiculous) but that'll be a long-term goal. I'm well over 200, right now, and my feet are pissed at me for it.
Okay...when I start yakking about weight and pains like all the other old farts, it's time to break the loop and get back to writing something serious.
And just for the hell of it, here's something that inspires me:
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Back in the 21st Century
I got WiFi -- actually Verizon FiOS and it rocks. I also have phone-age so I can do the fax thing if need be. I can listen to KCRW.com or Pandora on my laptop as I work my desktop and I feel so very nearly up to date. No iPhone for internet contact, yet...but I think I'm avoiding that next step away from humanity for now. Of course, what made the whole experience more pleasurable was my installation guy -- cable guy? -- was a doll, and once he figured I was going to stay out of his way (and was not going to make a pass at him) got comfortably chatty. The full installation took a good 6 hours of running cables and mounting boxes of relay info and moving the stove and the fridge to lay out connections...but for once everything worked just right the first time. Very cool.
I mention he was a bit nervous around me because my fridge magnets advertise I'm gay. But I couldn't even consider trying anything with him because he looked so much like how I picture Bobby Carapisi (except for his hair being a lighter shade of brown), it would have been a debasement of the character. Which is weird, no question, me protecting the image of a fictional person...but that's how it was. In fact, him being so hard at work got me to writing on BC-3 (added 6 pages), figuring out what I have, exactly, and what I need to make the story work and see if I can determine which direction it's going. For some reason, Eric's love of ice hockey's coming back into play and may wind up being his way back to completion, but I haven't figured out the why or how of its symbolism as regards Allen. Oh, I know the story's doing this because it knows the answers and intends to dole them out to me in its usual piecemeal fashion; I just wish I could figure them out before diving in.
But for now -- now I'm back to the way I was. Feel so goooood.
Quick PS -- I just realized the actor who played the old funeral specialist in "Departures", Tsutomu Yamazaki, played the kidnapper in one of my favorite Kurosawa films, "High and Low" -- 47 years ago! That's a LONG career for an actor.
I mention he was a bit nervous around me because my fridge magnets advertise I'm gay. But I couldn't even consider trying anything with him because he looked so much like how I picture Bobby Carapisi (except for his hair being a lighter shade of brown), it would have been a debasement of the character. Which is weird, no question, me protecting the image of a fictional person...but that's how it was. In fact, him being so hard at work got me to writing on BC-3 (added 6 pages), figuring out what I have, exactly, and what I need to make the story work and see if I can determine which direction it's going. For some reason, Eric's love of ice hockey's coming back into play and may wind up being his way back to completion, but I haven't figured out the why or how of its symbolism as regards Allen. Oh, I know the story's doing this because it knows the answers and intends to dole them out to me in its usual piecemeal fashion; I just wish I could figure them out before diving in.
But for now -- now I'm back to the way I was. Feel so goooood.
Quick PS -- I just realized the actor who played the old funeral specialist in "Departures", Tsutomu Yamazaki, played the kidnapper in one of my favorite Kurosawa films, "High and Low" -- 47 years ago! That's a LONG career for an actor.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Hoping for tomorrow...
To be the day I get WiFi set up in my apartment. It depends on so many different things coming together -- the building is wired for it and, if not, that the technician doesn't need to run wires but can connect everything will via whatever boxes are there, already, and it will all work out right and on and on. If it doesn't, I have no idea what to do next...except continue to steal WiFi off Starbuck's while I'm here. If I stay longer, I'll need another place to live.
Today was a bit intense at work. Due to customs issues, two of our three air cargo containers bound for New York from London missed their bookings -- mainly because some idiot at the airline didn't think we'd make the flight so gave our space to someone else and wouldn't change things back -- so they're still at Heathrow awaiting transport. We're hoping to get them on a Sunday flight, but nothing's guaranteed. what's funny is, as difficult as Customs was to deal with, once all the paperwork was right, they bent over backwards to help us get things going faster. I even spoke to one official who explained exactly what was wrong with one packing list, got the client to correct it and got the shipment out in nothing flat. And that was at 8pm their time.
Monday is work on Paris...prepping the paperwork for it and figuring out what does and does not need to be done by me since our agent in Paris a) is French and b) speaks French so c) will do a much better job of dealing with people than I would with my minimal French. I'll be handling the airway bills and liaising with the clients and making sure everything's on the truck for London before it leaves. All that for a day in Paris...and gladly.
I have to pay taxes before I leave and have no idea how I'll be able to. Guess I'll have to file for an extension.
I found more of BC-3 and added it in, so now I have 186 rough pages. Now I just need to figure out what it'll take to link them and make it all coherent and work within the framework of 1&2.
Today was a bit intense at work. Due to customs issues, two of our three air cargo containers bound for New York from London missed their bookings -- mainly because some idiot at the airline didn't think we'd make the flight so gave our space to someone else and wouldn't change things back -- so they're still at Heathrow awaiting transport. We're hoping to get them on a Sunday flight, but nothing's guaranteed. what's funny is, as difficult as Customs was to deal with, once all the paperwork was right, they bent over backwards to help us get things going faster. I even spoke to one official who explained exactly what was wrong with one packing list, got the client to correct it and got the shipment out in nothing flat. And that was at 8pm their time.
Monday is work on Paris...prepping the paperwork for it and figuring out what does and does not need to be done by me since our agent in Paris a) is French and b) speaks French so c) will do a much better job of dealing with people than I would with my minimal French. I'll be handling the airway bills and liaising with the clients and making sure everything's on the truck for London before it leaves. All that for a day in Paris...and gladly.
I have to pay taxes before I leave and have no idea how I'll be able to. Guess I'll have to file for an extension.
I found more of BC-3 and added it in, so now I have 186 rough pages. Now I just need to figure out what it'll take to link them and make it all coherent and work within the framework of 1&2.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
My second paycheck...
And it's so nice having money come in for a change, instead of just going out. I'm still scrambling to catch up, but it's better than it was.
I'm finally blogging because most of the day -- hell, the whole damn day was spent handling problems at British customs. And while some of the problems were customs people being overwhelmed and just bumping anything that looked like a pain so they could deal with all the other crap they had piling up, some of the trouble was worked up by intelligent people who really should have known better. Like getting an export license for a book worth 10,000 pounds and listing the books on the packing list as being worth 16,000 pounds. RED FLAG!!! Got to get everything corrected and handled or else the shipment won't be cleared and we'll miss our flight...meaning it's entirely possible no books for you at the book fair because they won't get cleared till Tuesday, now. So you have to call the bookseller, get them to send a corrected packing list and a letter explaining it was just a typo and hope customs accepts the explanation. All across thousands of miles and five time zones. And on the eve of what is a four day weekend in England.
It's not like these guys have never had to do this before. England became more strict about certain types of books leaving the country eight years ago. If it's an incunable (hand printed before the 15th Century) you need an export license. If it's valued at more that 40,000 pounds, you need one. If it's certain types of autographs (still don't know how to figure that one out) you need a license. And you have to provide the originals of those licenses to customs and you have to do it every time the book leaves the country. If you don't, they can seize your shipment and levy fines. So there is nothing new about it. But some people still wait till the last minute and rush about and that's a guarantee there will be mistakes made. And trying to get them to do it early hasn't really worked so well. I was e-mailing people about the necessary documents from the first week of March and got my head snapped off a couple of times.
Oh, well -- back to writing. I didn't actually do any, last night, but I did pull together a rough assembly of what I'd already written for "Bobby Carapisi - volume 3" and it worked out to over 175 pages. Surprised the hell out of me. There are still some gaping holes in the storyline and I'm a bit unclear as to the meaning behind it all, but some major moments are already taking form so I guess it's possible to get it done soon. We'll see what happens.
One of the publisher's authors has a goal of 50 books in print. He's got two dozen, so he'll probably make it (I've read some of his work and...well...let's just say he's not as invested in the story or grammar or style as I tend to be). A touch of arrogance here. And now it's time to return to earth.
I'm finally blogging because most of the day -- hell, the whole damn day was spent handling problems at British customs. And while some of the problems were customs people being overwhelmed and just bumping anything that looked like a pain so they could deal with all the other crap they had piling up, some of the trouble was worked up by intelligent people who really should have known better. Like getting an export license for a book worth 10,000 pounds and listing the books on the packing list as being worth 16,000 pounds. RED FLAG!!! Got to get everything corrected and handled or else the shipment won't be cleared and we'll miss our flight...meaning it's entirely possible no books for you at the book fair because they won't get cleared till Tuesday, now. So you have to call the bookseller, get them to send a corrected packing list and a letter explaining it was just a typo and hope customs accepts the explanation. All across thousands of miles and five time zones. And on the eve of what is a four day weekend in England.
It's not like these guys have never had to do this before. England became more strict about certain types of books leaving the country eight years ago. If it's an incunable (hand printed before the 15th Century) you need an export license. If it's valued at more that 40,000 pounds, you need one. If it's certain types of autographs (still don't know how to figure that one out) you need a license. And you have to provide the originals of those licenses to customs and you have to do it every time the book leaves the country. If you don't, they can seize your shipment and levy fines. So there is nothing new about it. But some people still wait till the last minute and rush about and that's a guarantee there will be mistakes made. And trying to get them to do it early hasn't really worked so well. I was e-mailing people about the necessary documents from the first week of March and got my head snapped off a couple of times.
Oh, well -- back to writing. I didn't actually do any, last night, but I did pull together a rough assembly of what I'd already written for "Bobby Carapisi - volume 3" and it worked out to over 175 pages. Surprised the hell out of me. There are still some gaping holes in the storyline and I'm a bit unclear as to the meaning behind it all, but some major moments are already taking form so I guess it's possible to get it done soon. We'll see what happens.
One of the publisher's authors has a goal of 50 books in print. He's got two dozen, so he'll probably make it (I've read some of his work and...well...let's just say he's not as invested in the story or grammar or style as I tend to be). A touch of arrogance here. And now it's time to return to earth.
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