Saturday, March 15, 2008
I haven't been blogging because... eh... I don't always have something to say. I have been writing though. I'm proud of myself for re-writing "Silent Blue" (which, after a consultation w. Hobby on Monday, I intend to send out into the ether) and "The Catskills (which I will be reading at Malaprops tomorrow at 3 PM). Come see me read! Ten years from now, you can tell people, "Yeah I saw Jeremy Rice back when he was still playing the local Indie clubs. Before he sold out."
Friday, March 7, 2008
I decided to work on "Silent Blue" rather than "The Catskills." The revision is going nicely. It's funny: just a couple months ago I felt as if I had revised this story about as much as I possibly could. But already I feel like my writing has improved so much that I have to re-write it again before sending it out. And I think as I do this current (and hopefully final) revision, the story is truly drastically improving yet again. The content is fixed; I'm just tightening every paragraph. making sentences shorter and more clear, removing unnecessary adjectives and details. This part of the writing process is a lot of fun for me; I love working meticulously with language. To give you an idea of what I'm accomplishing with this revision, here is an excerpt from the last version and then an excerpt from the new version.
Steve watches himself on screen—eight years younger, the NCAA championship game, he the starting three guard, in wolfpack red, hot blood red, so young, a mop of brown hair mushroomed by a white headband. The game is alive. The crowd breathes its roar in and out, in and out. The players move together, stretch and constrict, flex and tremble like muscles. Steve is the heart controlling the flow. The game pulses out of him, bends back toward the steady beat of his dribble, the sudden gush of his drive. He watches himself slap the ball away, web it through his legs, around his waist, make it dance like a marionette. Watches himself razor down the backdoor cut, flick lay-ups like beads of water, launch passes like a bowstring, wrestle away rebounds like a graceful Goliath. Alone in his home office, he stares at the TV/VCR combo perched on his desk, socked feet tapping the carpet to the rhythm of the game, the dance he choreographed. It’s late. Papers—newspapers, half-crumpled typed drafts with red-penned edits, notebook pages ripped and ink-battered—litter the floor. Threatening to topple off the desk and faded couch cushions are stacks of Carolina Sports, the monthly magazine for which he writes features and editorials and has an editing hand in most everything published. He can feel his sleeping wife underneath him downstairs sunk into the bed like a hunk of ice, silent and rigid, facing the wall. Here’s the part of the game where he breaks the spell, smacks stupidly the point guard’s wrist, an angry, awkward move that earns him his fourth foul, a seat on the pine. Steve leaves the tape playing and wanders downstairs.
And...
Steve watches himself on screen. NCAA championship game, NC State and Arizona. He, eight years younger, is the starting three guard. Blood-red Wolfpack jersey, fierce black eyes, a mop of brown hair mushroomed by a white headband. The crowd breathes its roar in and out, in and out. The players move en masse. They stretch and constrict, flex and tremble like muscles. Steve, the heart, controls the flow; the game pulses out of him. Opponents bend toward the beat of his dribble, are carried by the gush of his drive. He weaves the ball through his legs, makes it dance like a marionette. He flicks lay-ups like beads of water, launches passes like a bowstring, wrestles down rebounds like a howling Goliath. Alone in his home-office, his socked foot taps the carpet to the rhythm of the game.
It’s late. His wife Cassie is downstairs, directly beneath him. A silent, rigid, slab of ice frosting the sheets of their bed.
The TV’s flickering light tosses frail shadows around the dim room. Sections of newspaper, half-crumpled drafts with red-penned edits, and ripped, ink-battered notebook pages litter the floor. Threatening to topple off the faded corduroy couch cushions are stacks of Carolina Sports, the monthly magazine for which he writes and serves as editor. A whistle shrills, marking the part of the game where he commits his fourth foul, an awkward wrist-slap that earns him a seat on the pine.
I think the difference is significant.... More later.
Steve watches himself on screen—eight years younger, the NCAA championship game, he the starting three guard, in wolfpack red, hot blood red, so young, a mop of brown hair mushroomed by a white headband. The game is alive. The crowd breathes its roar in and out, in and out. The players move together, stretch and constrict, flex and tremble like muscles. Steve is the heart controlling the flow. The game pulses out of him, bends back toward the steady beat of his dribble, the sudden gush of his drive. He watches himself slap the ball away, web it through his legs, around his waist, make it dance like a marionette. Watches himself razor down the backdoor cut, flick lay-ups like beads of water, launch passes like a bowstring, wrestle away rebounds like a graceful Goliath. Alone in his home office, he stares at the TV/VCR combo perched on his desk, socked feet tapping the carpet to the rhythm of the game, the dance he choreographed. It’s late. Papers—newspapers, half-crumpled typed drafts with red-penned edits, notebook pages ripped and ink-battered—litter the floor. Threatening to topple off the desk and faded couch cushions are stacks of Carolina Sports, the monthly magazine for which he writes features and editorials and has an editing hand in most everything published. He can feel his sleeping wife underneath him downstairs sunk into the bed like a hunk of ice, silent and rigid, facing the wall. Here’s the part of the game where he breaks the spell, smacks stupidly the point guard’s wrist, an angry, awkward move that earns him his fourth foul, a seat on the pine. Steve leaves the tape playing and wanders downstairs.
And...
Steve watches himself on screen. NCAA championship game, NC State and Arizona. He, eight years younger, is the starting three guard. Blood-red Wolfpack jersey, fierce black eyes, a mop of brown hair mushroomed by a white headband. The crowd breathes its roar in and out, in and out. The players move en masse. They stretch and constrict, flex and tremble like muscles. Steve, the heart, controls the flow; the game pulses out of him. Opponents bend toward the beat of his dribble, are carried by the gush of his drive. He weaves the ball through his legs, makes it dance like a marionette. He flicks lay-ups like beads of water, launches passes like a bowstring, wrestles down rebounds like a howling Goliath. Alone in his home-office, his socked foot taps the carpet to the rhythm of the game.
It’s late. His wife Cassie is downstairs, directly beneath him. A silent, rigid, slab of ice frosting the sheets of their bed.
The TV’s flickering light tosses frail shadows around the dim room. Sections of newspaper, half-crumpled drafts with red-penned edits, and ripped, ink-battered notebook pages litter the floor. Threatening to topple off the faded corduroy couch cushions are stacks of Carolina Sports, the monthly magazine for which he writes and serves as editor. A whistle shrills, marking the part of the game where he commits his fourth foul, an awkward wrist-slap that earns him a seat on the pine.
I think the difference is significant.... More later.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Being that it's Spring Break, I have taken a few days off work to catch up on my drinking. But now I'm ready to write again. For this next week, I'm turning my focus away from the novel and onto two concerns: one, my malaprops reading on the 16th; two, trying to get "Silent Blue" published. The other day I spent some time poring over websites and I found seven interesting journals I'd like to submit to. I was going to send the story how it is, but after I re-read it a little, I decided it could use another quick revision to sculpt the language a little more. So that's one thing I'm working on this week. The other is revising and rewriting "The Catskills" which I am planning to read at Malaprops. I think today I will work on the latter project.
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