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I Bought Plotto

A book arrived in the mail yesterday from Amazon. Hardcopy book; real mail. I hope the texture, heft, and aroma of a book will never stop bringing my day to a halt so that I can imbibe the sumptiousness of a new one.

This one is an odd duck of a book. It is a reprint of a book from the late 20s, and it is a Mechanical Turk for plot construction.

I’ve always been skeptical about learn-to-write books and software. Maybe it’s the too-good-to-be-true sense I get for the effort of writing. Maybe it’s the instinctual knowledge that writing is a gifted art. But since I still struggle with unloosening that gift from the packaging and finding the batteries, I rubber-neck these types of books. I’m sure all these books have at least one morsel of value, but the good books are the ones which have more morsels than gristle. I’ve read a few of those.

I think this new book, Plotto by William Wallace Cook, out-gimmicks all the gimmick riddled how-to-write books. The intriguing part, the characteristic which brings the value, though is that it is the grandaddy of such books. It is the how-to-write book that this generation of books forgot existed. I’m looking forward to finding out how this genre read for our grandparents.

So far, it seems genuine and lacking of self-awareness. And complicated.

229 words on day 935

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The Junko Cafe

Thomas flecked a chip of red paint from the railing overlooking the river. Underneath the red, a layer of green separated from the perpetually moist teak; he dug his thumbnail into that next. His last breakfast at the Junko Cafe was talking longer than it had all week.

He heard the waiter approach from behind. Thomas blocked his coffee cup with a hand and turned. “Could we switch me to just water?”

The waiter withdrew the coffee pot.

“With ice, please” Thomas added in practiced Bandeeian.

“My apologies, sir. We have no ice today.” Thomas peered into the main area. Only overcast sunlight from the wide entry arch illuminated the empty dining room next to his balcony spot. A double row of silhouetted four-tops seemed to barricade the exit. When he’d arrived it had been darker than usual, but he’d arrived earlier than usual as well. Hadn’t there been other diners then?

“You are having trouble in the kitchen. No electricity?”

“It should be back up soon. I came to tell you they are finishing up your breakfast. I’ll get you some water.”

“Make that two, Taniel.”

The waiter nodded to the man at the top of the steps and retreated to the kitchen. The newest and only other person in the Junko fingered back a spray of dark hair that may have been better groomed when he left the house. His moustache, however, was precisely trimmed. He wore a grey suit and black monk strap shoes, but no tie. He was a little person.

Thomas felt a bubble of mirth rise to his chest while the words ‘midget’ and ‘dwarf’ rose to his head. Fear chilled the feeling in his chest when it occured to him that one of those two words was the equivalent of nigger, but he wasn’t sure which. Not that he had plans to use either aloud.

The man’s arms seemed shorter and his head larger. He was standing at Thomas’ table when Thomas realized he’d been speaking as he came down the steps from the main floor to the balcony. His hand rested on the back of the empty second chair.

“Sure. Please,” Thomas gestured for the man to sit with him.

The man coaxed a polite smile from a stiff sigh. “I was saying ‘My name is Harry Whiteround.’ I believe you are Thomas North?”

“Yes. Yes, I am. Sorry for that. I don’t…I just…I…”

“Don’t get out very much?”

“Yeah. Thanks. Sorry.”

//

xxx words on day 932

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Platting

I had not meant to be gone this long. Bad discipline; nothing new. I’m going to try to do a focused talky thing here, so if you’re looking for story check tomorrow’s post.

Last night as I went to bed I employed a technique which I’ve known about for a long time. A trick to help me write the next morning. A thought game I neglect to use nearly all the time: think about what you want to write in the morning. Simple enough, but hard to accomplish effectively when the next twenty-five things through your head before falling asleep aren’t that one writing thing. This was the case last night.

Even before that, there was trouble. When I considered today’s writing, I couldn’t get my head out of the Hartwhile garage. I couldn’t imagine any other shops, bars, groceries, or tattoo parlors sharing the space carved out by Honey Farm Circle. I couldn’t jet out of Honey Farm Circle to imagine the clinic, or the RBG’s office, or the showdown locale. I couldn’t imagine what the constabulary (constablewick?) looked like. Where it was located or how far.

Today, as I write this, I’m wondering if having a defined setting isn’t one of those requirements I have for my writing, but hadn’t realized until now. A quick mental inventory of the things I’ve written here on 1000 Days seems to bear this likelihood out. Whether I convey that setting to the reader or not, I have one for my characters; even when they just talk on the page, they’ve got a place to talk in my head. Great.

Wait, non-sarcastic great. Could this mean I’ve unlocked a solution to some of my writing challenges? Could it mean that merely (ironic use here) coming up with a hut, street, mesa, corner, jungle, attic, or office in which to have my characters talk and act will keep me moving forward on the page? Surely such props are non-critical needs?

I know that some folks write by starting with maps. When I did that sort of thing before 1000 Days, I ended up spending a bit more time platting than plotting. I suspect I’d be able to rein that in a bit these days.

390 words on day 926