Blinkers on

So I have 50,000 words of the novel now and it is rapidly slithering out of control.

Writing a film script is tough, writing a novel is tougher. At least in the first draft. With film you have a specific scene, you decide what order you want those scenes, I use index cards, other systems are available, then you get the charcters in the scene, you decide what they want, and then you put obstacles in their way, then you see how they get what they want.
Conflict is all. Economy of words, and what is happening between the lines is all powerful.

The trouble with prose is that you are able to go on flights of fancy. Without the rigid parameters imposed (necessarily) by screenwriting, the mind wonders, it tries to cram in every aspect of the scene, every sense must be catered to, every whim of the mind appears on the page. Both mediums are hard, very hard, to get right, but with prose every little idea has a knock on effect, your mind recalls snippets of conversation, moments in the past, a look from a former lover, an awkward moment from a conversation over 20 years ago, a perceived slight at the hands of someone older, a hairbrush tangling in the hair, a smell, a taste. It's really quite distracting.

But then I suppose that is what a writer must do, like actors we are only at our best when our emotions are right up there at the surface, able to draw on every tiny aspect of our lives. It is not a healthy thing we do, days pass without proper connection or conversation with others. The curtains remain drawn, the door remains locked, and we chip away trying to get that word or phrase. We are as Robert Downey Jnr pointed out at the Oscars, 'the sickly little mole people'.

Is it worth it you may ask?

I think so yes, you don't choose writing it chooses you. As with all art forms. You can ignore and let the 'what if?' thoughts fester in your soul, or you can take a leap and get it out of your head and onto the paper, where is lies lifeless and not what you felt it should be. You then work on it, work on it, work on it, try to get every word exactly as you want it. A myriad doubts linger, keep you awake, make you think 'this is pointless'.

And then what?

You have to let other people read it, and give you their opinion.

OTHER people.

THEIR opinion.

What new hell is this?

So the novel oozes onward, the story loses shape, the friends read it and think, what exactly? Even if they tell you they like it do they really? Are they merely stroking your ego out of kindness?

Who knows?

You must just keep going and hope that when you get to the top of the mountain all that time spent with your face up against the rock was worth it.
You must look at the view, enjoy it, feel the accomplishment, feel the achievement.
And then?

You have to rewrite and edit, every single word, every single page, whilst keeping the whole end product in mind.

You've reached the top of the mountain. Now you must lower yourself safely down.
And hope the rope doesn't break.

Reading: MIND GAME: How the Boston Red Sox got smart, won a World Series and created a new blueprint for winning by the writers of the Baseball Prosectus.
Listening to: Troublegum by Therapy?

Rendezvous with destiny

Apparently every person who chooses to join the armed forces nowadays is a hero. Not the word I would choose. A hero is someone who does something heroic. Not someone who puts themselves into the possibility of harm’s way, that may then lead to them doing something heroic. Perhaps. I’m not disputing they are brave, but heroic? No.

I was thinking about this the other day because it came to my attention that a rather amazing chap passed away this year. A man who in my own understanding of the word is ‘heroic’.

Dick Winters was not someone I grew up knowing anything about, unlike Douglas Bader and Guy Gibson, whose derring-do was drummed into me at school. No, Winters was a man I read about in Stephen Ambrose’s brilliant ‘Band of Brothers’ and then watched being portrayed by Damian Lewis in the remarkable mini series of the same name.

Born and raised in Pennsylvania he was a high-achiever at both school and college and upon the U.S. entering World War Two, he joined up. He excelled again in training and was selected for officer candidate school. He heard of a new regiment, one that used parachutes to jump into action, a new form of combat elite, and was sent to the 101st Airborne division at Camp Taccoa, Georgia.

More strenuous training was endured, the drop out rate was high, Easy company, Winters’ company, sailed to England and set up in Wiltshire. More training followed, Winters was now leading 1st platoon.

They all knew their day would come.

In the darkness before the land assault on D-Day Winters and his men flew into heavy fire over the Channel, many of the C-47 planes were torn to shreds or blown clean out of the sky, losses were huge. The men stood in their stick in the noise and the Ack-Ack and the hail of fire then jumped out of the planes over France. Many were shot on the way down, many perished hitting trees or were drowned in rivers and other waterways, some survived.

Dick Winters, unaware their commanding officer had been killed, and without any weapon or equipment, rounded up 13 men and attacked a howitzer battery of some 50 Germans artillery men. The guns were trained on Utah beach. The assault knocked out the guns, killed, wounded or captured every enemy soldier and is taught at Westpoint to this day as the perfect way to take on a fixed position against superior numbers.
He was awarded the DSO and promoted to Captain.

In Operation Market Garden he led from the front again, taking out a group of SS infantry of 300 with one platoon.

In the Battle of the Bulge, with Winters now as battalion XO, the 101st were completely surrounded by 15 German divisions supported by heavy artillery, for a week, the line was thin, the cold was brutal, the shelling was constant, casualties were heavy, but they held. Winters then led his men to assault the town of Foy. They took it.

He became Major, and acting battalion commander of 2nd Battalion.

They moved into Germany and were given orders to capture Hitler’s Eagle’s Nest in Berchtesgaden. They were sunning themselves on the balcony enjoying the contents of Himmler’s wine cellar when the word came the war was over.

Eventually Dick Winters returned to the U.S. he married, raised a family, got more education from Rutger’s, through the GI Bill, excelled in a number of companies, began his own. He continued to lead by example, training officers, giving talks on leadership and attending reunions with his friends and comrades. He built a house on quiet farmland back in Pennsylvania.

Some quotes from his memoirs bear repeating:
Lead from the front. Say, “Follow me!” and then lead the way.
Remain humble. Don’t worry about who receives the credit. Never let power or authority go to your head.
Hang Tough!--Never, ever, give up.

In a world were the word hero is banded about a little too often for my liking I’ll stick with Dick Winters, and those other men of the Screaming Eagles, who left their jobs and lives in big cities and small towns and threw themselves out of planes into the inky night engulfed by violence and death because they believed that to not do so would lead the entire world into darkness.

Dick Winters reached his ‘Rendezvous with destiny’ in January. He was 92.

Reading: Tales of ordinary madness by Charles Bukowski
Listening to: The Velvet Underground by The Velvet Underground