The beat goes on...

Just visiting some of the archives (the wayback machine), and I found this post about music and writing.

I'm currently writing to Japanese traditional music - which is very cool.

Anyway - hope you enjoy.

You probably noticed the latest fbook trend—and it was a good one: without thinking too much, list off your top ten albums in high school.

Now after riffing on some serious Floyd, or the kinda sappy, (but beautifully profound) 10 CC, I wondered how, me, a prairie kid in smallsville Saskatchewan got into the first wave of ska music in the late 70's. (I blame Saturday Night Live, which The Specials appeared on, and as they say: changed everything. Who were these guys? What was this music? No one I knew was listening to it—what was it called? Ska. And I also knew it was about the coolest thing I'd ever heard and seen. Some guys in the band didn't play instruments, they just jumped around. And when the song was done they dropped their instruments, and walked off. Okay, okay, major ska digression. Send a message to Rudy... and I'm back).

So this all got me thinking about the importance relationship between music and writing. In so many ways these two go together. The best scenes flow like a great song, there is tension, release, a build, an overall mood, vibe, or groove. This vibe is on a sentence level, a paragraph, page, and whole chapter level—entire books have a soundtrack to them even if they never ever get made into a movie.

The idea of music in fiction really sunk into me when I was writing my first novel, Correction Line. A character has just escaped from a house that is about to blow up (long story why, read the novel, it's cool)—and he just about clears the area before... boom. Now, I pictured him not explosively flying across the field, but floating along in the air, dreamlike, the blast carrying him, and depositing him on a somewhat soft bush. Dean Martin singing "Sway" popped into my brain, and I said, yes. Like that. I actually have the character thinking about that song before he blacks out. But even if he never mentions the Dean Martin tune, the feeling of that song pervades the scene.

I've read about writers like Stephen King writing to hard rock while doing first drafts (or so I'm guessing it's first drafts—I am not sure how you could listen to music while doing hard editing... it's a different part of the brain.) Not everyone can do this, it requires an odd separation, you're listening to the music, but you're not listening at the same time. The music supplies a heart beat to the action. And if you get swayed over too much to the song, you get lost, and pause, stop, or just write drivel (hey, I write drivel when I'm not listening to music, too! So there's that.)

For my crime novel, Surf City Acid Drop, the name of the novel came from its soundtrack. It was a solid wall of surf rock whenever I started pounding out scenes with my protag Luke Fischer. I'd put on tunes by Dick Dale for the fight scenes or the Sandals when things got mellow, and maybe a bit romantic. The mellow vibe of the Theme from Endless Summer provided so much of the setting, and even what the main charactedr was all about, that I wanted to name the novel after the song. The only problem was Endless Summer sounded like a really cheesy 80s romance novel. I could picture the cover: flowing hair, biceps, and a setting sun across the pacific were involved.

Fall in One Day needed tunes from the era (mostly 1973) to get me in the mood, and create the right atmosphere. While writing the novel, I rediscovered my deep love of Steely Dan. in fact, I playing it so much while writing that at the end I loved them even more than when I first heard them. Geeky note: at one point, in an early draft, every chapter of Fall in One Day had a dedicated Steely Dan song. While reading, and rewriting these chapters, I would put that song on repeat, and see if it fit the chapter. Maybe I'll dig up those recipe cards at some point and show the evidence.

But like I said, when it comes time to rewrite and edit... I can't really listen to anything. Maybe to kickstart myself, but eventually it is just me, the story, and the clicking on my laptop. (Which, when I think of it would make a cool ska riff—just add horns, and a jumping around guy.)

In my WIP novel, I am still trying to find that soundtrack. I've bounced around with some alt-Country (Western States, a now defunct Canadian Band), Eric Clapton and J.J. Cale's amazing album: The Road to Escondido, and some mood music from The Great Lake Swimmers. I feel like when I finally nail the soundtrack for this new novel, then I will finally find its centre.

By the way, I attempted to write this blog post to music (video below), but it only somewhat worked. There was no groovy fight scene, or someone busting up a bar, or driving a car around a California ocean curve, in this post... but as I listened, damn, I wanted there to be.

Tell me what you listen to when you write, either in the comments, or jump over to twitter, and tell me your own writing vibe.

Here was my writing music for the post: the Kings - Switching to Glide.

 

Craig talks (again)

Not for ego reasons - or, mostly not :) - I am reposting another interview.
The Pink Moose asked me some fantastic questions about my last novel.

Here is the start of it - and I will link to the rest at the bottom: 

 

An Interview with Fall In One Day author, Craig Terlson

Back in May I reviewed Craig Terlson’s Fall in One Day. After requesting some information about a book tour, I ended up with a great interview, getting a lot of questions I had not only about Fall in One Day, but also about Mr. Terlson himself answered. I’m excited to post my first, but hopefully not my last, author interview.

TPM: What do you use to write? Pen and paper (outdated, I know, but I still enjoy it), computer? Mac or PC? Tablet?

CT: Been a Mac user for a long time – probably because of my graphic design background. I write exclusively with the program Scrivener – an amazing piece of software for novelists.

 

TPM: Do you have other books planned or in the making? For those of us who are avid fans, when can we expect your next YA book?

CT: Well, I’ll admit, at the beginning Fall in One Day was not planned as a YA book – but I can understand why readers see it that way. Joe’s voice is central to the novel, and he is 15.
I am working on a few different projects right now. The first one is a sequel to my crime fiction novel, Surf City Acid Drop. But I do love the teenage voice and I know I’ll be returning to that form at some point.

 

TPM: As an author, what do you wish your readers knew about you that maybe we don’t?

CT: This is a hard one. I guess like a lot of writers I am insecure about the work, and when someone responds to it, I am over the moon delighted… and then I go back to being insecure. I think this is a fairly common rollercoaster for creative types.

 

TPM: According to your Twitter bio, caffeination is a large part of your workflow, so we have a question about that…Tim Horton’s or Starbucks?

CT: I love love love coffee – but I drink a lot less than I use to. Maybe 3 cups a day max. And it has to be good. If I’m in the right mood I’ll take a dark roast Timmies, or a Triple Tall Americano from the ‘buck. My favorite though, are actually the indy coffee shops that have popped up in the last few years. I know a lot about coffee, probably too much, and I love talking about it with baristas. A highlight for me was visiting a coffee plantation in Jamaica and trying the unroasted coffee cherries right off the bush.

 

TPM: When writing do you prefer silence or background noise? If you like having background noise, is it music or just noise in general? What is your writing anthem? How do you stay focused during your process?

CT: Depends on what I am working on. Editing drafts, for sure it’s silence. But I really love writing first drafts to music, and the music certainly seeps into the work. The band Steely Dan was very important in Fall in One Day – something about their subversive lyrics fit so well into the narrative. At one point I had assigned a different Steely Dan song to each chapter of the novel. I wrote them all out on recipe cards and re-read the chapters with those tunes playing in the background. That probably sounds weird, but writing has much in common with music, and I think a lot about rhythm and flow in my sentences.
My writing anthem is pretty much just stick your butt in the chair and stay there. I try not to make things too precious, just follow the story, follow the characters and write. And then rewrite. Some days I am more focused than others. Coffee and music can help, especially at 6:30 AM.

 

TPM: When reading a book, especially one that uses real world events such as “Watergate,” I always wonder, where does this inspiration come from? How do you draw the line between the fiction you’re writing and the real world events that are moving alongside the story?

CT: Throughout writing the novel balancing fiction within a historical context was a complex dance. Watergate was significant for me in 1973 (I was just a kid, but completely fascinated by it), so it was one of the threads that began the novel. I tried hard to not let those historical pieces dominate the story – because really, it is Joe’s story. There were things I wanted written down just as they happened, but other places where I wanted to not be hindered by those real world events. I actually cut a lot of the Watergate stuff out of the novel, and what remains helps define one of the central questions for Joe: Who is telling the truth?
There is a long and fascinating history of LSD, notably the early use of it as therapy, which I also had to push to the background (and ended up cutting a lot of it). This is Joe’s world, and he is affected by these events, but if I focused too much on the history, well… then I should have just written a non-fiction essay or two.

 

TPM: One part of this book that really blew my mind was LSD for the treatment of alcoholism. This was new to me, and I wondered, why isn’t this more widely known? How did you research the treatments and it’s effects on the people it was used on?

CT: Don’t get me started. And by that I mean… I do have a tendency to go on about this stuff. In brief, LSD was used by a very forward thinking Psychiatrist in the 1950’s in working with mental illness, and yes, the treatment of alcoholism. It was in fact so successful (something like 80% of alcoholics after one LSD trip never drank again) that Bill W. the founder of AA became involved. After 1966 for a variety of political and cultural reasons, LSD was made illegal, and all the research stopped. The interesting thing is that the research into the use of hallucinogens in therapy has started again at places like Johns Hopkins University and other research centres. I’ll stop there – but readers should Google it.
I worked at the hospital where that testing first took place, as did my wife (a psychiatric nurse), and some friends of ours. Research was done both in interviews with nurses, and reading essays and books published during that time.

 

TPM: Brian’s home-life is full of things that most people hide behind closed doors. Domestic abuse, drug abuse, alcoholism, etc. – especially in the 70’s, these things weren’t really talked about. Did having to hold onto the stigma, while trying to give foreshadowing to your readers, make this difficult to write about?

CT: This is a great question, and something I was pointing to in the novel: in the 70s, there were things not being talked about. Joe begins to see how his family and community will not talk about certain things, and it frustrates him, a lot. Joe’s mom is a good example. There were cultural and societal shifts happening throughout the 70s, notably women’s roles, and their voices. Joe’s mom begins to push against these supposed norms (which were really oppression), and I think she is more successful than the women I knew at the time, like my own mother. So yes, it was difficult to write about.

TPM: As an American, I (probably naively), have never considered that the whole world was watching the “Watergate” scandal on television. I felt like Brian’s dad, while interested in the outcome, didn’t have a lot invested in the scandal. Was his father’s views on the scandal inspired by anyone in particular?

CT: Watergate was a watershed moment, and it doesn’t surprise me that it is still being talked about now within the current political climate. In 1973, the world was watching… I was watching from the small city I grew up in. It was not the first time politicians had lied, maybe not even the first time they got caught – but the first time it was broadcast across the medium of television… into millions of homes.

(I think you might mean Joe’s dad here) I don’t think Joe’s dad had a lot invested, maybe because he was caught up in adult world where often the truth is hidden. He might have delighted a bit in those smooth talkers in the U.S. getting what they deserved, but oddly it kindled his own interest in politics – which is why he runs for office himself. Brian’s dad… well, Watergate was just one more sign that the world is full of subversion, lies, and evil.

Here is the rest of the interview at Pink Moose.

Interview time

I always liked this one - great job by the people at Open Book.

Have a read - and then go through their other interviews, really good stuff.

Craig Terlson on Exploring Truth Through Scandal and Conspiracy

Illustrator Craig Terlson spent more than twenty years drawing for the likes of The Boston Globe, The Globe and Mail, and Saturday Night magazine, racking up numerous awards. After making it to the finals of a Washington Post Writer’s Group contest, he realized just how much he loved creating stories as well as images, and turned his attention to fiction.

Now his novel, Fall in One Day (Blue Moon Publishers), is here, proving Terlson is just as talented with words as he is with illustration. Following 15-year old Joe Beck through a turbulent summer during the Watergate scandal, Fall in One Day asks questions about trust, identity, and integrity. As Joe searches for his missing best friend, Brian, he watches politicians try to lie their way out of the scandal south of the border. It seems like the truth - about Brian, about the world - is forever being withheld. It's a painfully relatable story, and one that will keep you turning the pages not only to find out what happens next but because of the bond readers feel with Joe, whose vulnerability, honesty, and bravery drive the story to its stunning conclusion. 

We're excited to speak with Craig today about Fall in One Day as part of our Lucky Sevenseries. He tells us about exploring truth and conspiracy through Joe's story, how the story changed and evolved during the 10 year writing process, and the other literary love that is driving his next project.

Open Book:

Tell us about your new book and how it came to be.

Craig Terlson:

The impetus of Fall in One Day began with the idea of hidden truths. I have always been fascinated by stories of conspiracy and intrigue, as well as the paranoia that comes out of not knowing who is telling the truth, and what remains unknown. Growing up in the 1970s, I knew that Watergate was a watershed moment not just for the United States, but Canada, and really the whole world. In the novel, I wanted to explore these ideas of hidden truth and subversion in the era of Watergate, but in a more intimate, family situation—because families also can hide the truth.

OB:

Is there a question that is central to your book, thematically? And if so, did you know the question when you started writing or did it emerge from the writing process?

CT:

Ultimately the question that drove the novel was, “Is it better to know the truth, even if it is painful?” As teenagers navigate adolescence they experience this wondering about truth-telling in a profound way. Other themes emerged as the novel developed, but at the centre of the story was the question of who can be trusted.

I didn't know this when I started writing Fall in One Day. The writing began by following the main characters, and listening to where they were going. I know it sounds a bit odd, or mystical, when writers say that, but I've learned that you can't force a story where it doesn't want to go. Writing under the constraints of theme is a recipe for a novel that becomes an overlong Aesop's Fable.

Read the Rest of the interview here at open book.

 

As I feared...

Well, as I feared what may happen is that I got busy with other projects and have been letting this one slide.

Truthfully, as a writer it is hard to get read by anyone - I totally get it. I am bombarded by things, good things, that I plan to read, should read, want to read. But there's too much.

So with that, I am thinking of closing down Bent Highway. Sigh, yes, again.
But if you are reading it, and digging it, and do really want some more chapters - then comment below, and I will consider.

Lately, it has felt just a bit like writing into the void. And again, I get it. That's what blogging is, hell that's what writing is.

Enough said. You want more, give me a shout.

Peace.

Chapter Eight - Ditch

The hum of tires riding asphalt reverberated through my body, my skin vibrating like current running through wires. Chalk girl took another long pull on the bottle of Mezcal, finishing it. Ahead of us, Walt drove on, once in a while peering in the rearview to see if anyone was following – like, for instance a group of hat wearing men, or a Nascar lover with a shotgun.

“You went back, L?”

Sound felt disconnected again. It took a minute to realize it was Walt that asked the question. Damn sure that wolf-dog could talk.

Chalk girl slumped back in the seat.

“Just drive.”

My leg started to throb and a line of blood appeared under my jeans.

“Why does this keep happening?” I asked her.

She stared straight ahead.

“Where does he think you went?”

She turned and stared at me, studying my face.

“You really don’t know, do you?” She looked away again. “I guess that’s why you weren’t there this time.”

“Some things should not be revisited,” Walt said. “They will change but not in a way that you want.”

The line of blood on my leg thickened.

“Wait. The trailer fire – you were running.” A cut scene flashed through my head. Chalk girl in the field, eyes wide, tears streaming down her face, running toward me. I pounded the side of my head with my fists. “Damn. Sorry, it’s just not there.”

“I can make the change, Walt. I can do it.”

“The trying will take it’s toll,” Walt’s voice dipped down and became guttural. “We’re coming out.”

“What do you mean we’re—”

My voice was lost in the rushing wind that sliced through the car, and somehow, through my body. My veins rippled under the skin, blood being pushed upstream, against the normal flow. I blacked out. I think. Small explosions of light appeared in the darkness and the flash of a face that I recognized, but could not name, floated above me – or what I thought was above. It was if someone threw me in a washing machine and hit the spin button.

*    *    *

When light returned, I was upright, and walking down a gravel road. Ahead, a figure emerged from the ditch, her black jacket like a drop of ink against the vast wheat field behind her. She stood and waited until I reached her side.

“Where’s Walt? And that dog?”

“I guess we split at the rip. He might be up the road. Or he could be decades away. It happens.” She pointed to a crossroads in the distance. “You recognize that?”

“The road? This place? No, I don’t think so – why would I?”

“Well, it’s not in my memory. Rips sometimes take something from our past, or future… though that almost never happens. That’s where we come out. I am pretty sure I’ve never been around here before.”
She started walking and I followed. The wind picked up, a flashback to what happen before the rip – but this was a warm breeze, washing across the field, ocean-like. The blood on my leg had disappeared again.

“Where did Walt not want you to go?”

“You’ve been there – more than once. It’ll come back to you.”

“But he said you shouldn’t go there. That it would take its toll. What did—”

“Walt plays the father figure too much. And who would want a guy like that as a father any— shit, look out.”
The cloud of dust, which only seconds ago had appeared on the horizon, was now a white half-ton barrelling toward us. She grabbed my shirt and we both dove towards the ditch. We tumbled together down the side, skin burning against the gravel of the shoulder and then slamming into the soft dirt. Her elbow jammed into my eye, and pinlights filled my vision. She rolled away from me, and I glimpsed a line across the back of her neck, a healed over cut. Freshly healed over.

The ditch was only a few feet below the road. I got onto all fours, pain shooting across my back, and watched the truck skid to a halt. It did a police turn and gunned it. It felt so close, I swore I heard the pistons knocking. I waited to be pinned under the tires. Then, just like watching the pellets from the Nascar guy’s shotgun, bits of gravel hung in the air, then slowly arced away from the truck. It was like watching a ship split the water. The half-ton was only a few hundred yards away, and engine was revving hard – yet, it still hadn’t reached the ditch. My head turned, and I heard frames click, Zapruder-like, until I landed on her face.

“Who is it?”

The wind had suddenly picked up, and I barely made out her voice.

I clicked back to the truck. It had a decal on the side – it moved slow enough that I could study the letters that hovered above a roughly drawn paintbrush. Lester’s Paint and Repair. What the fuck? Lester? As in my mom’s lazy ass, bourbon drinking, wife-beating brother?

The truck did a slow skid and I ducked as the gravel floated above my head.

A man got out of the truck. He wore paint splattered overalls, a John Deere hat with even larger paint stains and tall shiny black shit-kickers. A Mexican lizard was stitched on each one. Whenever he’d come and visit, those cowboy boots were the only clean thing on him.

He towered above me on the edge of the road, slapping a tire-iron in his palm. What’s with all these people that think those are weapons?

He was talking but the words didn’t synch with his mouth.

“City — slicker — faggot.”

“Uncle Lester?”

My voice was small, lost in the now howling wind. He kicked at the road, spraying my face with tiny stones that sped up and slowed down. Something rumbled behind me. I turned, still in the frame-by-frame fashion, to the half-submerged figure behind me. She was sinking into the ground, which had opened up into a too neat, too smooth crevice. I heard the pair of shit-kickers step behind me, and the whish of a tire iron slicing through the air.  

The lips bowed and mouthed a word.

“Rip.”

Then she was gone.

My head made contact with a two-foot long bar of iron.

I leapt, fell, dove, spun into a black pit.

And I was gone too.

<<<<>>>>

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