Dors mon enfant

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So 'Spark' is finally done. It needs some polishing, but the story is finally there. The emotions, while still raw, have been captured. In yet another break in the lucky streak that is my writing right now, I happened upon a bit of French that's perfect for the story.

From the beginning I've had Silas, the Pro, singing a French nursery rhyme throughout. Trouble was, there wasn't really any deeper meaning to the rhyme other than it being French. Last night, in researching other rhymes I came across this, “Dors, mon enfant.” If you'd like to read it along with the piano accompaniment, play the youtube video.

“Dors, mon enfant.”

Dors entre mes bras,

Enfant plein de charmes!

Tu ne connais pas

Les soucis, les larmes;

Tu ris en dormant,

À ton doux sourire,

Mon coeur se déchire;

Dors, ô mon enfant!

Dors sur les genoux

De ta pauvre mère,

Car le sort jaloux

T'a ravi ton père;

Je veille en tremblant

Sur ta faible enfance,

Dors, mon espérance,

Dors, ô mon enfant!

Dors et ne crains rien,

Car si tu sommeilles,

Ton ange gardien,

Ta mère, te veille,

Le repos descend

Sur ton front candide,

Dors sous mon égide,

Dors, ô mon enfant!

The English translation had each section slipping into place in the story seemlesly.

Sleep, my child.

Sleep in my arms,

my adorable child!

you know yet

neither sorrow nor tears;

You smile in your sleep,

Your sweet smile

Tears at my heart;

Sleep, oh my child!

Sleep on the knees

Of your poor mother,

Because envious Destiny

Has robbed you of your father;

Trembling I watch over you

Over your tender life,

Sleep, you my hope,

Sleep, oh my child!

Sleep without a fear,

For in your slumber,

Your guardian angel,

Your mother, keeps guard,

You fall asleep while

No sorrow creases your brow,

Sleep, while I take you under my wing,

Sleep, oh my child!

I'd love to hear this sung. So if anyone happens upon a video or mp3 where it's sung in French, please point me to it and you will have my sincerest gratitude.

Now then, the only questions that remain are: is providing the French in the short story a little much even if it they do come spread out through the 10k, and should the English translation follow at the end or should it be one of those leg work things that authors leave for readers that really care?

The Spark of Truth

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And it's done. That story I kept whining about, promising a completion date for and then never delivering. It's finally done. Well, save for the final touch ups, but it's there, from start to finish: Spark.

My eyes are still red rimmed as I write this because the ending was such a tear jerker. I think that's a good thing because the ending has changed. It was sad before, but I somehow found a new meaning in the story that made it even sadder. That is, it's sadder for me.

What's strange is that I don't really know how it happened. I know what my original hang up was, the badgal. I've even talked about it here. She was cruel and cold hearted, and flat, very, very flat. She was a one dimensional whipping girl built up in the likeness of someone who once broke my heart. Then I decided that she needed at least one more dimension and took her in the complete opposite direction, and tried to pin things on another character, but that didn't sit right.

The biggest problem was that I never fully explored the final scene, I didn't delve into the confrontation between Silas and the badgal and for some reason I couldn't conjure up the scene to save my life. During my floundering a series of things occurred. While I worked on the story at writing group, specifically trying to figure out the infamous badgal that was giving me all the headache I overheard one of my partners talk about K.A.R.A. grief counseling. That doesn't sound all that weird until you consider that the name of badgal happens to be Cara. The story also deals with the death of an infant and over the past few months of blockage there have been three reports of little ones dying in the nearby area. When you have a little one of your own, such news hits all the harder especially when the ages of those children seemed to almost mimic the age of my own during the times of their parting.

As a little background, the first baby, a little 10 or 11 month old, rolled off a bed while under the care of a nanny, bumped its head and died because of a concussion. The second had been picked up from daycare by the babysitter and brought back to her house (the children were supposed to always go back to their home, not to the sitter's) she had a pitbull, the screaming sitter chased it through the house trying to get it to let go of the 15 month old. The third, 16 months as my son is now, was sleeping soundly in his crib while his mother took a quick bath. He tried climbing out, fell between the crib and the wall and suffocated by the time she got out.

It's a fear that non parents can't understand. Actually, I think the fear lies deepest in the hearts of first time parents. A friend of mine who hasn't had kids yet called it first time paranoia. I think the stories above illustrate how it is much more than mere paranoia. It's something that nags at you every time you leave your child with someone else so you can get a moments peace. It haunts your dreams at night so that you spring from bed at the slightest cry. It's what gripped me when my wife was pregnant, back when I first started writing the story. That kernel of truth is what earned the original story publication in the annual that I had thrice failed to gain acceptance from. And it was that truth that I lost in the edits.

I needed the fragility of life to remind me what I was writing and my own crisis of faith with regards to continuing writing to jar me awake.

Ladies and gentlemen, I'm happy to say that I'm finally back to my old self. I might not blog in the same capacity as I did before, my priorities have changed. Whereas before the blog took precedent over much else in life, now it will only occur when I really have something to say and the time to say it in. But I'm writing, and that's what this has always been about.

So if you're lost with what you're working on, maybe you too are having a difficult time remembering what that little truth was that first gripped you. Find it and the words will flow again.

My Own Wings

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I sit down tonight with a strange sort of purpose about my writing. One of those surreal moments of clarity that comes only after great tribulation. Indeed, it feels like some forty days and forty nights ago that the critique group experiment imploded taking with it my will to carry on.

NaNo, was to be my reemergence, the stretching of my writer's wings after a long hibernation. This past week alone should have brought countless a writing hour my way what with canceled photo shoots and a cold that kept me indoors. That was not the case. Photos needed editing, a baby needed tending, guests needed to be entertained, or at the very least cleaned up after. When it came time to write I found not the energy to unfold my wings.

Soon we'll be off to Denver again. The last trip marking the beginning of my writerly tailspin. As usual, others are piling on even more tasks for me to complete before we even board the airplane. All this leaves me thinking that the tailspin might finally come to an end with a glorious burst of red and orange flame.

However, this time, when I look back from the cockpit and peer through the smoke and sparks I see that there is no one to save. The plane is empty. It seems that the seats were all peopled with my imagination. The lives I was trying to save never needed saving, duties and responsibilities mere ghosts.

I don't have to save the plane and its passengers . . . save one.

I step towards the door, air rushing past as the lifeless mass of metal hurtles towards its mother. It seems too easy. I should have to fight, claw my way inch by inch towards the blue ski above, but it is a dream after all, isn't it?

When I reach the opening I find that I no longer have to strain to unfurl my wings, I have but to try. The slightest gap provides enough room for the air to whirl up around me, forcing the wings to let loose from my body. They burst open with a pop of sails catching wind, lifting me up. I float away from the ghost ship and its flames, watch as it smashes into the ground. Onlookers oo and awe, point little fingers this way and that. They're all too caught up in the spectacle to notice the tiny fleck floating above them.

Here I'm left, alone in the great blue ski where imaginings go to rest once we've forgotten them. I have no passengers to weigh me down, no fuel gauge to dictate my starts and stops, only the beat of my wings and the drive of my heart and so many pretty little imaginings to play amongst. Where I go from here is up to me.

Write on.

Excuses

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“Excuses,” that's what I thought today as I drove around running errands. I was thinking about all of the reasons pertaining to why I'm not writing, and not blogging. In the end I simply said to myself, “excuses.”  

It's pretty easy to come up with them. Heck, just tonight I thought I'd sit down and write, but then the baby started crying and refused to go to sleep. As I was failing at comforting him, I said to myself, “See, every time I try to write I get interrupted.”  

So what did I do after my wife took him and nursed him to sleep; I watched the latest episode of “V.” Yup. Excuses.  

I was about to try and find something else to watch, but I stopped myself. Maybe it was the imaginative kick to the head delivered by “V,” but I was feeling like something needed to get done. My own imagination needed to be recognized.  

While it happens to be nearly eleven o'clock here, I'm going to actually sit and write more than just a short blog posting.  

I hope all of your writing is going well. Although, when I check in on the NaNoWriMo page I find that people's numbers aren't really going up. At least not the numbers of those that I know on NaNo. Heck, I know that mine definitely haven't gone up. But I think I'll change that tonight.  

If you're also participating in NaNo, feel free to look me up. It's easy, 'david.noceti'. Now stop making excuses and get back to writing.  

Monday Funny Facebook

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Some strong language in this song, but I think it reflects the thoughts of every Facebooker ever from the beginning of Facebooking time. 

Not NaNo Again

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Well, it's November 1st again, and as all writers everywhere know, it's the first day of National Novel Writing Month. The month when Chris Baty tries his damnedest to sell you more of his merchandise under the guise of helping writers everywhere while using his tax exempt organization as an advertising tool and email address collector to help him better peddle his wares.  

Bloggers all across the land are putting up posts about their strategies for this month, their hopes, fears, . . . word counters. I however will not be making the typical NaNo post. This is about anti-NaNo while still participating in it. 

It just so happens that the organizer for my region is a part of my face-to-face writing group. She's also the co-moderator for the "Rebels." And I have signed up with the resistance. 

If you were considering doing NaNo, but don't want to abandon what you are already working on, then join up with the Rebel list in the forums of NaNo and write to your heart's content. They talk a lot more about how to break the rules over on the forum thread, so check it out. 

My personal rule breaking will be to continue the novel that I have in progress and only count words written in November. Now then, I have lots of writing to get done. 1,800 words before midnight. Think I'll go and get some coffee made up. 

Happy writing everyone and "Vive la résistance!"

Ride my Wave

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Well, lots of interesting things to talk about, but for tonight I'm just going to mention one thing, "I GOT AN INVITE TO GOOGLE WAVE!!!" 

"What's that?" you say. 

Only the coolest thing since . . . uh, ever. 

Actually, it's way more complicated than that, but that's a nice overview. So, as one of the chosen, I've been given 20 invites to pass along so that I actually have people to wave with. Of course I have to give some of those out to family and close friends who know where I live and will hurt me if I don't send an invite to them first, but I think that there are going to be a few left over. 

So I got to thinking, "who would even use Wave?" and "Who do I WANT to use Wave with?" The answer is those that I can talk with about writing. I also got to thinking that a lot of the people who comment on this blog have gmail accounts. (Do you see where I'm going with this?)

What better way to thank you awesome people than by sharing the Wave love (especially when I have no money)? 

So, if you're interested in riding the Wave, get in touch with me so that I can send you an invite. I'll add as many as I can (which isn't many) but I'll do my best.

Ambitextrous Artistry (not really)

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It seems to me that most writers tend to be artistic in some way other than just writing. I've mentioned before my stint in art school, graphic design, comics, and sign making. I also took a year off of school after graduating high school to play in a garage band (don't ask).  

My wife, who used to write when she had the time to do such things, is into oil painting and heads the yearbook at her high school. I have a writing group partner who participates in Ren Faire and enjoys drum circle. Crit partner 1 used to be an operatic singer. Crit partner 2 takes photographs. And Maggie Stiefvater, author of Shivver, and the object of both my crit partners' eternal and undying affection, is a bag piper, and even created her own animated trailer for one of her latest books.

During my break from writing, I still needed to get some form of artistic expression out. Instead of picking up one of my previously developed artistic veins, I ventured into a new one with my wife. We've gone into photography! I know, I know, here we go again, right? Well, one great thing about this new venture is that my wife and I get to do it together. Rather than me working away in the office and her at her desk, we're side by side interacting and helping each other get better at the craft. But I won't talk too much about that here. Melody has started us a photography blog that we'll be updating from time to time. If you're into that kind of thing, check it out at http://www.melodyanddavidphotography.blogspot.com/

So what's your artistic outlet that's not writing? And more importantly, why do we have them? I'm curious about that and don't really have an answer to it. Is it just that we're artistic people and we need to express ourselves in as many ways as possible? I don't know, you tell me.

Mental Swine Flu

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Where in the world have I been? Well, I didn't really go anywhere, I just took one of my communication vacations. Before the age of the internet I never felt that they were necessary. I used to call up friends all of the time, go out every weekend, had to have the television on in the background even if I wasn't watching it.  

Something to do with the constantly plugged in reality that we live in now has changed all of that. As I've said before, I don't have a television. Whereas getting a telephone call used to be a treat, I now find them annoying. And going out? HA! I'm actually going to be ditching out on a Reno bachelor party because I'd rather save the money for a camera. Obviously, things have changed.  

As I endeavored to reach out to every possible writing vein I could, I found that I submerged myself in communication. At night I'd have a conversation with you via the blog, during the day there was chatting with crit partners, then I started up the critique group that crashed and burned, but while it was going I had three chapters a week extra to critique and then there was infighting and head butting and headaches. When I finally put my foot down and said “that's it, this isn't going to work,” and took the group out to the back forty and put it down, I'd had enough.  

The choice at that point was either to try and keep struggling on with everything else even though I wasn't 100% or just stopping altogether. I guess it was kind of like being sick. Doctors don't usually prescribe that you stop doing one thing but continue doing everything else when you're laid up with swine flu. They tell you to sit your ass in bed and don't get up until you're better. Well that's just what I did, only I did it mentally. And you know what, I think it worked. I feel much better now.  

And there's your thought as I return to blogging after something like a two week hiatus. Take a real break from whatever it is that is wearing on you, not a fake one. The fake one's don't get rid of the bug.  

Winter Voice

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A thought on senses and their uniqueness to each of us. I think that Les Edgerton's book, Finding Your Voice has me thinking about this, and I'm glad that it does. He talks a lot about bringing your own unique view of the world into your writing, letting your experiences color the way you describe things.

Just tonight I was sitting down to write, the chill of the witching hour setting in. I nudged the thermostat as I started to boil some water and listened to the wall heater start up. That's when this thought came to me.

Winter sounds like the hallow burning of a furnace that clicks as it gets warmer, it tastes like a hot cup of cocoa, smells like almond wood burning in the fireplace, and feels like the warm curve of my wife's body pressing up against me in bed, flannel sheets wrapping around us.

These things are all unique to me. Sure, others may share some, but not all. I need to remember this unique view of the world when I write because it is my voice and it is what I know.

So I wonder, what is winter to you?