I decided to add another twist to the tale: the supposed author asks for a copy of the manuscript saying he does not remember everything and would like to read what he wrote before he comments on things. Now, that leads the narrator to suspect that the man on the other side of the chat is not the author, or he might not be the author. For all he knows, he might not even be a man! This is like an exercise on a Turing Machine!
Wow! The possibilities are endless, to coin a new phrase.
Regards,
El Escritor
Thursday, July 7, 2011
An new twist to and old gag
So, how could I add a new twist to the old gag of the "found manuscript"? Because I wanted to "hear" the main character's voice, his thoughts and ideas, the found manuscript was not enough: if the narrator somehow communicates with the main character, then he could transcribe the main character's comments and ideas. Well, that is not Jame Joyce's rambling inner-voice but it is better than nothing.
OK, then the premise was shaping up to be this: the narrator finds a manuscript, decides it is so interesting he wants to publish it, looks for the author, finds him but in a detached, disembodied way (through a chat on the Internet), the author gives his permission for the narrator to publish the thing but wants to comment and give the narrator some insights into his writings.
I thought a good guide to this form might be Conrad's "The Secret Sharer", in which the inexperienced captain of a ship takes on board and hides a murderer who is very much like the captain himself. Leggat is the dark side of the captain's good-orderly side.
Thus, I hit on the idea that the "anonymous" author might be only the inner self of the narrator talking to him about the found manuscript, or he might be a real person. Let's leave it ambiguous.
Right, now I have the premise and the form. How about the story? Why is this man "Lost in France"? What made him come here? What is he looking for?
Well, mid-life crisis is also a hackneyed theme. How about the exact opposite, that is, he doesn't know why he is here. He had no particular reason to come and just got on a plane on a whim. And worse, he can't find a reason to go back home either.
Our man is in a limbo-a nether-land of the undesired, of inaction, of lassitude toward Life. He is "lost" because he had no direction, no purpose in Life. Like the caterpillar says in "Alice in Wonderland", if you don't care where you are going then it doesn't matter which way you go. In this man's case, it doesn't matter if you don't go at all.
Uff, so now I have to go back and read Camus and Sartre. I'll let you know what I get out of that.
Regards,
El Escritor
OK, then the premise was shaping up to be this: the narrator finds a manuscript, decides it is so interesting he wants to publish it, looks for the author, finds him but in a detached, disembodied way (through a chat on the Internet), the author gives his permission for the narrator to publish the thing but wants to comment and give the narrator some insights into his writings.
I thought a good guide to this form might be Conrad's "The Secret Sharer", in which the inexperienced captain of a ship takes on board and hides a murderer who is very much like the captain himself. Leggat is the dark side of the captain's good-orderly side.
Thus, I hit on the idea that the "anonymous" author might be only the inner self of the narrator talking to him about the found manuscript, or he might be a real person. Let's leave it ambiguous.
Right, now I have the premise and the form. How about the story? Why is this man "Lost in France"? What made him come here? What is he looking for?
Well, mid-life crisis is also a hackneyed theme. How about the exact opposite, that is, he doesn't know why he is here. He had no particular reason to come and just got on a plane on a whim. And worse, he can't find a reason to go back home either.
Our man is in a limbo-a nether-land of the undesired, of inaction, of lassitude toward Life. He is "lost" because he had no direction, no purpose in Life. Like the caterpillar says in "Alice in Wonderland", if you don't care where you are going then it doesn't matter which way you go. In this man's case, it doesn't matter if you don't go at all.
Uff, so now I have to go back and read Camus and Sartre. I'll let you know what I get out of that.
Regards,
El Escritor
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
A novel's form is like the framework of a house
OK, so the idea of a "found manuscript" if rattling around in my head. I think of Nick in "The Great Gatsby", of the Narrator listening to Marlow tell the story in "Heart of Darkness", and that mysterious Benengali being cited as the originator of the adventures of "Don Quijote".
"Artist borrow, great artist steal," said Picasso. And, if you are going to steal, steal from the best. But, what was the "twist" I could give this form?
One of the things that bothered me about using a narrator/observer is that he or she is not privy to the thoughts of the characters. And, that we only have his or her interpretation of the action. He is the reliable or unreliable witness through whose eyes we "see" everything that happens and "listen" to all of the dialog and speech of the other characters.
The other thing that came to my mind was that great novels are concerned with their times: the undercurrent of "The Great Gatsby" is prohibition; the shadow hanging like a pall over "The Heart of Darkness" is the evils of colonialism; "Don Quijote", among other things, tells us that the literature of the 16th Century was waking up to the realities of life and thus debunking things such as chivalry and the romantic view of life.
"So," I said to myself, "what is the one paradigm changing fact of our modern life?" Well, that is easy: The Internet!
"What if," I thought, "the manuscript is not a manuscript but rather a bunch of printed out emails? What if these emails tell a tale? What if they can be constructed into insights of a man's life? AND, what if the narrator could then contact the mysterious writer of the emails? By email! And, what if he never saw him, but rather only "talked" to him by chat or email?"
This could be sort of like a Turing Machine! Is there a human really behind the machine? Am I talking to a man? A woman impersonating a man? A group of people? Anyone who has ever entered into a conversation with an anonymous entity on the Internet knows that there could be anything and anybody behind those lines in your chat.
Here was the twist to the old gag!
Tomorrow: starting the quest.
"Artist borrow, great artist steal," said Picasso. And, if you are going to steal, steal from the best. But, what was the "twist" I could give this form?
One of the things that bothered me about using a narrator/observer is that he or she is not privy to the thoughts of the characters. And, that we only have his or her interpretation of the action. He is the reliable or unreliable witness through whose eyes we "see" everything that happens and "listen" to all of the dialog and speech of the other characters.
The other thing that came to my mind was that great novels are concerned with their times: the undercurrent of "The Great Gatsby" is prohibition; the shadow hanging like a pall over "The Heart of Darkness" is the evils of colonialism; "Don Quijote", among other things, tells us that the literature of the 16th Century was waking up to the realities of life and thus debunking things such as chivalry and the romantic view of life.
"So," I said to myself, "what is the one paradigm changing fact of our modern life?" Well, that is easy: The Internet!
"What if," I thought, "the manuscript is not a manuscript but rather a bunch of printed out emails? What if these emails tell a tale? What if they can be constructed into insights of a man's life? AND, what if the narrator could then contact the mysterious writer of the emails? By email! And, what if he never saw him, but rather only "talked" to him by chat or email?"
This could be sort of like a Turing Machine! Is there a human really behind the machine? Am I talking to a man? A woman impersonating a man? A group of people? Anyone who has ever entered into a conversation with an anonymous entity on the Internet knows that there could be anything and anybody behind those lines in your chat.
Here was the twist to the old gag!
Tomorrow: starting the quest.
Monday, July 4, 2011
So, inspiration hits persperation....
When I found the folder in the bookstore, I had a thought: What if that was the premise for a story or a novel? The trick is as old as Cervantes and Don Quijote, Conrad and Marlow, and so many other authors who have used the "narrator" to take over the story telling and let them (the author) stand god-like above the fray of story telling.
And, the specific rouse of the "found manuscript" is also old and tired and overused, so I wanted a new take on this.
If I learned anything in Silicon Valley it was that nobody want a "brand new, totally different thing". What most people wanted (read investors) was a new twist on an old, tried-and-true, tested, and loved old thing.
Madison Avenue also knows this. That is why they take Soap X and put out "New and Improved" Soap X. Not a new soap, but rather the old favorite with a twist: say Old Soap but with new Lemon aroma.
So, how does that relate to my brainstorm of using the old gag of "found manuscript" to turn my old momoire into a novel? Read the next installment.
And, the specific rouse of the "found manuscript" is also old and tired and overused, so I wanted a new take on this.
If I learned anything in Silicon Valley it was that nobody want a "brand new, totally different thing". What most people wanted (read investors) was a new twist on an old, tried-and-true, tested, and loved old thing.
Madison Avenue also knows this. That is why they take Soap X and put out "New and Improved" Soap X. Not a new soap, but rather the old favorite with a twist: say Old Soap but with new Lemon aroma.
So, how does that relate to my brainstorm of using the old gag of "found manuscript" to turn my old momoire into a novel? Read the next installment.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
The Man Who Sold Books By The Kilo
I was walking down rue Gay-Lussac, a street in the heart of the 5th Arrondissement (the so-called "Latin Quarter") of Paris, headed for the Jardin Luxembourg, when I saw a man taping a sign to the inside of his shop window: "Livres vendus au kilo" (Books sold by the kilo[gram]".
Intrigued, I followed the man into the shop. It was the usual used-book store: a small space crowded with improvised bookshelves that were groaning with the overload of books, dusty piles of magazines on the floor, a couple of ancient cupboards in which one could see "collectors editions" through the smudged glass of the doors. In the middle of all of this there was a desk behind which sat the owner--a stout fellow with a Cheshire cat smile parting his bushy, white beard. A scale stood in the middle of the desk as if he were some sort of male Astraea waiting to weigh the souls of his books rather than of the dead.
Seeing that casual browsing was out of the question due to the jumble of piles of books and magazines on the floor, and feeling he was waiting for me to justify my presence in his shop, I asked, in my poorly pronounced French, if he had a copy of the Gallimard edition of Proust's "A la Recherche du Temps Perdu".
"English?" he asked.
Thinking he was asking me if I wanted an edition in English, I replied, "No, French."
"You are French?"
"No, no," I said, understanding the misunderstanding. "I am neither English or French. I am Mexican, in fact."
"Ah, but you speak in English."
"Yes, I grew up in the United States."
"Ah, bon?" he replied raising his eyebrows in surprise. "Then you must come here," he said and jumped up from behind his desk and motioned for me to follow him.
He moved rather quickly and nimbly through the piles and bookshelves, in spite of his stoutness. He came to a halt in the dark recesses of the back of the shop.
"The international section," he said with a proud sweep of his arm.
In the dim light that was provided by a small, bare bulb hanging from a wire that disappeared into the darkness of the high ceiling, I perceived yet more bookshelves that were bent with the weight of the tomes they held. Each bookshelf had a sign tacked to the middle shelf: "Allemand", "Espagnol", "Anglais" the first three read.
He nodded and left me there to browse the contents. I decided that out of politeness I would pick a book or two and then head back to the front of the store to have them weighed. I found an early novel by Mario Vargas Llosa and another by Julio Cortázar. After dusting them off, I started to thread my way back but stopped when I saw a burgundy-colored folder (one of those that open like an accordion) with white lettering that stated: "Notes on My Trip to France".
The folder was bound with a black ribbon that was neatly tied into a bow. I undid the ribbon and opened the flap. Inside there were many loose sheets of bond paper, several cloth-bound notebooks, and yellowed newspaper clippings. I carefully withdrew some of the loose sheets and found that there were writings in English, Spanish, and even some French. A label has been pasted to the inside of the cover flap; it read: "This folder belongs to Rafael Artebuz". No address or telephone was provided.
I hurried back to the front of the store and put the two books and the folder on the desk.
"I'd like to buy these books and...is this folder, the papers inside, I mean...is it for sale, too?"
"Of course," said the store owner smiling, "everything in this store is for sale."
Tomorrow: "The Notes and Comments of Rafael Artebuz" or "Lost in France" comes to life.
Intrigued, I followed the man into the shop. It was the usual used-book store: a small space crowded with improvised bookshelves that were groaning with the overload of books, dusty piles of magazines on the floor, a couple of ancient cupboards in which one could see "collectors editions" through the smudged glass of the doors. In the middle of all of this there was a desk behind which sat the owner--a stout fellow with a Cheshire cat smile parting his bushy, white beard. A scale stood in the middle of the desk as if he were some sort of male Astraea waiting to weigh the souls of his books rather than of the dead.
Seeing that casual browsing was out of the question due to the jumble of piles of books and magazines on the floor, and feeling he was waiting for me to justify my presence in his shop, I asked, in my poorly pronounced French, if he had a copy of the Gallimard edition of Proust's "A la Recherche du Temps Perdu".
"English?" he asked.
Thinking he was asking me if I wanted an edition in English, I replied, "No, French."
"You are French?"
"No, no," I said, understanding the misunderstanding. "I am neither English or French. I am Mexican, in fact."
"Ah, but you speak in English."
"Yes, I grew up in the United States."
"Ah, bon?" he replied raising his eyebrows in surprise. "Then you must come here," he said and jumped up from behind his desk and motioned for me to follow him.
He moved rather quickly and nimbly through the piles and bookshelves, in spite of his stoutness. He came to a halt in the dark recesses of the back of the shop.
"The international section," he said with a proud sweep of his arm.
In the dim light that was provided by a small, bare bulb hanging from a wire that disappeared into the darkness of the high ceiling, I perceived yet more bookshelves that were bent with the weight of the tomes they held. Each bookshelf had a sign tacked to the middle shelf: "Allemand", "Espagnol", "Anglais" the first three read.
He nodded and left me there to browse the contents. I decided that out of politeness I would pick a book or two and then head back to the front of the store to have them weighed. I found an early novel by Mario Vargas Llosa and another by Julio Cortázar. After dusting them off, I started to thread my way back but stopped when I saw a burgundy-colored folder (one of those that open like an accordion) with white lettering that stated: "Notes on My Trip to France".
The folder was bound with a black ribbon that was neatly tied into a bow. I undid the ribbon and opened the flap. Inside there were many loose sheets of bond paper, several cloth-bound notebooks, and yellowed newspaper clippings. I carefully withdrew some of the loose sheets and found that there were writings in English, Spanish, and even some French. A label has been pasted to the inside of the cover flap; it read: "This folder belongs to Rafael Artebuz". No address or telephone was provided.
I hurried back to the front of the store and put the two books and the folder on the desk.
"I'd like to buy these books and...is this folder, the papers inside, I mean...is it for sale, too?"
"Of course," said the store owner smiling, "everything in this store is for sale."
Tomorrow: "The Notes and Comments of Rafael Artebuz" or "Lost in France" comes to life.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Let the writing begin!
Actually, this is not the first novel I write. I have written perhaps a dozen or so, but only one has been published (as an ebook at Untreed Reads). A second novel is in the hands of the same folks at Untreed Reads, and I am writing a third.
Now, this third novel is quite a departure from the subject matter of the two I mentioned above. While those two are about a Mexican detective named Guillermo Lombardo, this third one is a strange bird.
It started out as a memoir about my coming to France to live and all of the incidences of that crazy time. I wrote about 220 pages of it, sent queries around to various agents and had NO positive responses.
One agent was kind enough to give me some advice: forget memoir writing unless you are a disgraced politician or a former rock star!
So, I put it away and went on to write my other novels, "An Inconsequential Murder" and "The Minister's Secret".
"An Inconsequential Murder" is about a detective, Guillermo Lombardo, finding that the murder of a young man is linked to a vicious war between the groups that would have drugs legalized in Mexico and those that oppose legalization, among them some agencies of the US.
The second novel is set in Paris. "The Minister's Secret" is about a man who is cultural minister of France and who inherits art stolen from French Jews during the pogroms of July 1942.
Both or well written detective fiction novels, easy to write and fun to put together but I still wanted to do something with the material I had gathered for my first book, my memoir.
Then, one day, while editing my second novel, I got an idea:
What if I used the material from my memoir to create a novel. If no one wanted my memories, then I could use them as the basis for a work of fiction.
But, but, could I just pretend the book was just fiction and try to sell it as that? No, not really because it had not plot, no real characters, just descriptions of the people I had met when I first came here. So, how could I use the material?
I will tell you what I did when I post my next article, "The Man Who Sells Books By The Kilo"
Regards,
El Escritor
Now, this third novel is quite a departure from the subject matter of the two I mentioned above. While those two are about a Mexican detective named Guillermo Lombardo, this third one is a strange bird.
It started out as a memoir about my coming to France to live and all of the incidences of that crazy time. I wrote about 220 pages of it, sent queries around to various agents and had NO positive responses.
One agent was kind enough to give me some advice: forget memoir writing unless you are a disgraced politician or a former rock star!
So, I put it away and went on to write my other novels, "An Inconsequential Murder" and "The Minister's Secret".
"An Inconsequential Murder" is about a detective, Guillermo Lombardo, finding that the murder of a young man is linked to a vicious war between the groups that would have drugs legalized in Mexico and those that oppose legalization, among them some agencies of the US.
The second novel is set in Paris. "The Minister's Secret" is about a man who is cultural minister of France and who inherits art stolen from French Jews during the pogroms of July 1942.
Both or well written detective fiction novels, easy to write and fun to put together but I still wanted to do something with the material I had gathered for my first book, my memoir.
Then, one day, while editing my second novel, I got an idea:
What if I used the material from my memoir to create a novel. If no one wanted my memories, then I could use them as the basis for a work of fiction.
But, but, could I just pretend the book was just fiction and try to sell it as that? No, not really because it had not plot, no real characters, just descriptions of the people I had met when I first came here. So, how could I use the material?
I will tell you what I did when I post my next article, "The Man Who Sells Books By The Kilo"
Regards,
El Escritor
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