I've Stood
I've been disenchanted in the face of dreams
Taken the brutal paths of misunderstanding
Gazed across the frozen lakes of alone
Spiraled through the swirling storms of empty
Seen the burnt remnants of wishes wash into the gutter
Laughed madly at the hollow jokes of faith
Stood small amongst giants and towered above the small
I've gazed in the eyes of a stranger inside a mirror
Drank bitter teas of truth and sweet wine of lies
Heard the slow silence of deep nights
Felt the warmth of ice rain on bare skin
Run through green woods in deep shadow
Raised my voice in misery and joy to an empty sky
Stood against the driving surf amidst a crowd on an empty beach
I've danced when there was no one to see
Waited unseen beside greatness
Sung drunken songs before the sacred altar of conformity
Wept softly in the face of simple kindness
Walked in the steps of genius and been humbled
Spoken loudly when wisdom demanded silence
Stood beside close friends and remained unseen
I've faced many fears and feared many faces
Sat upon damp grass contemplating a white moon
Waited outside empty windows for the glimpse of a friend
Driven silent highways with only wind for a companion
Watched fires burn in the depths of calm waters
Slept beside warmth that made the night colder
Stood upon crumbling ground and laughed
I've lost faith but never broken it
Wished with all my heart for dreams I never wanted
Listened to fools and ignored sages
Tasted the salt of tears I truly earned
Wandered through lands no one else could see
Prayed that I would never again need to pray
Stood too long in one spot from fear of moving
I've known the quiet heart of mayhem
Flown through winds of change on a tattered kite
Wondered at the smallness of life's greatest moments
Smiled at the brilliance of children's simplicity
Cursed into the oblivion of idiocy
Played at working and worked at playing
Stood just tall enough to be seen when I wished to
I've played hide-and-seek with angels in a forest of pins
Helped some in need who never knew
Hid from the cold demands of my own realities
Lain on the hood of a rusting metal beast and conversed with the stars
Held the secrets of others but never revealed my own
Caressed black wool and shivered as emptiness devoured me
Stood the best I knew how and never apologized
Copyright 2007 by James A. Coppinger
3 comments:
You stood. Standing is good, Jim. And you know what else? So is this piece.
This got me:
"I've played hide-and-seek with angels in a forest of pins
Helped some in need who never knew
Hid from the cold demands of my own realities"
I have, too. Sometimes I also never knew.
Keep standing. Mind if I join the crowd on that empty beach?
Hi, Jim. I hope I'm not being a pain in the ass. I don't know, maybe I should mind my own business, but there are some things that only another writer can see.
Jim, you are so quotable!! This is from your second comment on my post, "Innies and Outies":
"...Locking things away is wrong, I know that. It's how I've survived the last 40 years though and it's a very hard habit to break. I'm tired of it though. I'm pushing hard at trying to remember who the real Jim is but I haven't seen him since I was very young..."
Jim, meet Jim. Please pay very close attention to him. I think you're really going to like him. I sure do:
Friday, April 01, 2005
THE TRUTH OF ME
"Got a fair piece of editing done on GS last night in addition to the inserts I did. That puts me at just past the halfway point on the edits. I'm going to have to start writing up query letters for Agents in the next few days. I want GS to be done & ready for submittal before I go shipping them out though, so I'll have a few weeks to polish the basic query to a brilliant shine! I've been doing (some) research on various Agents in the Fantasy field so I have a list of who I'm sending queries to right off the bat. After they turn me down (gotta love the positive attitude, eh?) I'll look into who else might be a good fit. Still haven't touched "Fish": I'm just not ready yet. That requires a huge emotional commitment on my part that the schedule is just not allowing me right now. GS & "Clans" I can work during odd hours and with interruptions. The style of them allows me to slip right back into writing mode after running out to dinner or a meeting, or whatever. "Fish" requires long periods of time with my butt in front of the computer. I have to work into the right emotional state for each scene and that means I can't be interrupted. Good Luck!
So, did I mention yet that I actually had a short story of mine published in a pro (per SFWA standards) magazine a few years back? It was called "Sunset of the Blue Heron" and it appeared in the premier issue of Adventures of Sword and Sorcery. I mention it because it was the last time I did any serious writing in a nearly five year period. Goofy, huh? I've always wanted to be a writer and shortly after I make my first real sale, I stopped writing. There was a lot going on in my life at the time: my Father died of cancer, my wife was fighting breast cancer (the two knuckleheads used to swap chemo stories and compare scars!) and a world of financial troubles. The big thing (or so I thought) was my father passing. Part of my own inner fantasy of what it would be like when I was a "real writer" was handing my old man the first copy of my novel, personalized to him. I knew that would be the moment when he was truly proud of me, that he would finally realize I had become a worthwhile person. I lost that dream when he died and I thought that was where my desire to write went. I figured I'd never really wanted to write, just wanted to impress my Dad. Strange thing was, the need to write kept bugging me. I just kept pushing it aside. I did pen another 3-4 short stories over those years but I never bothered to revise or attempt to get them published. The desire just wasn't there anymore (or so I thought!).
Round about October of '04 I was browsing the web when I came across a link to something called NaNoWriMo (a very goofy name, anyway you cut it!) and I decided to see what the hell it was. Well, I read through their site and thought the idea of trying to write 50,000 words in one month was absolutely insane; so of course I signed up immediately. There was no pressure here, no need to be published, or professional, or even be good! It was just plugging any old thing you wanted onto the page and moving on without looking back. "Quantity over quality" as the site says. Imagine my surprise when I got to the end of November and discovered that I had written 68,000 words! Without the expectations and pressure I'd been putting on myself, the words simply flew from my fingers. (Hey, I ain't claiming they're good words!) More incredible, it was the most fun I could remember having in years. I felt good about myself and was really proud of what I'd done, so I decided to keep on doing it.
I discovered a couple of things about myself while doing NaNo:
1. I'm a novelist, not a short story writer. I don't have the knack for presenting the stories in my head in just a few thousand words. I need space to grow my thoughts and ideas (and pontificate. I definitely like the whole pontificating thing!)
2. The words are there, I don't have to fight to pull them out I just have to let them free. I was bottle necking around my own brain!
3. I didn't want to be a writer to impress my father. I am a writer, I always have been. The writing block I hit wasn't because he died, it was because I was afraid. I made an actual sale: someone thought my work was worthwhile and I'd reveled in that. What if it was only a fluke though? What if I had blown my load in that one story? What if I didn't have what it takes to keep going at this profession? Part of me thought it would be worse to have folks laugh at me for being a "One Hit Wonder" than it would be to have never had anything published. Hell, LOTS of folks want to be writers but never make it. How many folks do you know who get there then fail? That realization has made a huge difference to me. Writing doesn't terrify me anymore (it just scares the crap out of me!). I know that I may fail but at least I'll fail after trying, not because I quit. Seems simple don't it? You'd be surprised at the mess not understanding that made of my life for those 5 years!
Anyway, I'm off to visit Forward Motion and see what's up in my Crit Circle. Been a quiet week over there. One of the ladies is on vacation and I haven't heard from the other in a few days. (I'm so lonely!) Looking forward to the Season Finale of BSG tonight!! Great show! I'm actually home this weekend (for a change) so I should have a chance to post.
Later!"
posted by J.A. Coppinger | 12:39 PM
From:
Thursday, October 12, 2006
NANO COMETH!
"...Here's the issue: (and I know I've touched on this before so I apologize for boring you!) I've been really wondering if I'm working in the wrong field. I love fantasy . . . or, I used to. See, I grew up on it and it's the section of the book store I always stop at first. Over the last few years though, there's been very few fantasy works that I've liked (exception: anything by Holly Lisle. I learned about her from her blog and she writes amazing stuff. If you haven't picked any of her work up, go do so immediately!) most of them are just . . . flat. They're predictable and lack the sense of wonder that made fantasy so much fun for me. That's bad, but worse than that is: my own books seem just as flat. They just aren't fun. I read them and say "That's pretty good." instead of "Wow, that's cool!". I've really never written much besides fantasy because that's what I knew best.
And therein may lie the problem.
I'm thinking that I've become so familiar with the "rules" of fantasy that I'm not able to break through to anything original. "Fish" is the only thing I've ever written that isn't fantasy based (it's a contemporary fiction novel with a dark fantasy twist) and -while it's not perfect- it's the best thing I've written. This new novel would be something along the same lines, with more of a literary tint to it. It actually scares me to think about trying to write this one. Strangely, I believe that fear is a good thing; it tells me I'm looking at something that's an actual challenge. NaNo is a perfect opportunity to try it out. A one month burst, to see if I have it within me to even get close to writing this type of novel. At worst: I take a short break from "First" and get my brain cleared out to finish it up. At best: maybe I'll discover that fantasy isn't my genre and I've been missing my hidden greatness all this time! (Hey, it's my blog! I'll dream out loud if I want to, dammit!) Really though, I just feel like I need to try something different. The fantasy writing is not inspiring me the way it used to. I feel like I do my best work in a modern setting, with a bit of my own humor thrown in (ya' know: like dis here blog!) I've been thinking a lot about it lately and I'm going to at least give it a shot..."
posted by J.A. Coppinger | 1:36 PM | 5 comments
From:
Thursday, September 14, 2006
DOIN' THE WORK
"...Writing: got 1,800 word in on "First" last night (plus 1,300 on Tuesday) and I also got some more editing work done on "Fish". That book is still bugging the hell out of me. It was disturbing to write (Christ, I just typed that as "right" and I claim to be a writer?) and I still get anxious every time I open it to do the edits. The entire thing is totally outside my "safe-zone" and it's either the best thing I've ever done, or the worst. Honest to God, I don't know which..."
posted by J.A. Coppinger | 11:45 AM | 2 comments
From:
Friday, June 23, 2006
FISH FOR FRIDAY!
...I am giving you a peek at a small section of "Fish". It is not my usual type of epic fantasy work, it's more of a modern horror/thriller mix. This one was rough to write, it brought up lots of bad memories from dark places I thought I'd buried long ago. Fair warning: the language is a little rough and the subject matter is less than charming.
As always: copyright by me, all rights by me, do not copy, fold, spindle, or mutilate without written permission from me, etc.
Have a great weekend!
******************************
I puked right then and there. I tossed the entire contents of my belly up onto the tops of my Chuck Taylor’s and I’m not ashamed to admit it. Jesus, if you had felt half of it . . . The raw, naked, terror that poor kid had felt. The desperate pleading in her heart for Mommy and Daddy to come and save her, to make it all safe again; make the world the warm, smiling place it was supposed to be before the Smelly Man had grabbed her.
Oh Christ, the Smelly Man! We could feel the stench of him, not just the foul breath and dirty sweat scent Cindy had gagged on, but the putrid reek of his soul. My god, it was foulness like nothing either of us had ever even dreamed in our worst childhood nightmare. The slightest brush of those twisted, self-hating, warped, emotions felt like you were doing the backstroke on a cesspool with your mouth open. When it hit me, I heaved again, though there was nothing left to come out this time. When the spasm stopped, I went down on one knee, my whole body shivering and not from the cold. I looked over at Jiff. He leaned against the timber support of the bridge as if it were the only thing in the world that could hold him upright. Shit, it probably was. Tears streamed down his face, huge rolling droplets that welled up straight from his heart.
“God, Boomer. Oh, God!”
He couldn’t find any words for it but then, he didn’t have to. I pushed up off the ground and ran to him in a half shamble, throwing my arms around his neck and pulling him close. He didn’t even try to wrap his own arms; he just slumped to his knees, sobbing in huge violent jerks, his face buried in my stomach. I held his head and smoothed down his hair, barely even noticing the tears that were dripping from my own chin and splashing into his wind-tossed hair.
“He . . . he killed her, Boom,” he finally said when the tears his body could produce were all but exhausted. “He did things to her -really bad things- then he killed her.”
His words were a rough whisper, his throat swollen from crying. “How could he do that, Boom? How could somebody do that to her? She was so . . . nice!”
She was too. That’s the thing about life: shit things always happen to the good people while the assholes skate through like Dorothy Hamill on ecstasy. How did the world get like this? Did God make it this way as some sort of a test, or did we just do a stellar job of fucking it up all on our own? Either way, it sucks and good people like Cindy Gross are the only victims. I once heard a preacher say: “The devil protects his own so they can continue his work among us!” Seems logical to me -if you believe in that sort of thing- but you’d think God would have brains enough to try the same tactics; keep the good folks around long enough to help the rest of us poor ignorant fucks. Never works that way though. Maybe the Almighty’s gone senile, or maybe he just missed the memo on how to protect your own people. Ain’t that a cheery thought? I held Jiff until he cried himself out and we headed back towards the park and home.
As we passed the assembled police and federal agents who’d come in to take over the search I paused, my arm still around Jiff’s shoulder. His tears had reduced to dry hiccups and a good case of the shakes. The police -every last one of them- were crying. Crying big, snuffling, drippy-nose style, not the quiet type of mourning you usually see in adults, but kid style. Nine-year-old style. At first I thought they’d found her body, but quickly realized these were cops, not likely to fall apart at the sight of a dead child. I’d heard Jiff’s dad talk about some of the things he’d seen as a volunteer fireman and I’d had nightmares for a week. I figured these guys had seen as much and worse. No, they weren’t weeping because they’d found her, but because of us. They could feel Jiff’s anguish and it was tearing them apart. We’d never broken the link, we were still Pushing! I tried to pull away from Jiff’s heart but it was like trying to pull chewy caramel out of your teeth. He didn’t want me to go, so his heart just stuck onto mine in desperation.
“Jiff, we gotta stop! They can feel us, man!”
posted by J.A. Coppinger | 12:58 PM | 2 comments
Thursday, June 22, 2006
SCARED PUPPIES
So, I actually got some writing done yesterday on “First”. Not much, only 700 or so words but it was forward progress. I don’t remember if I mentioned, but I finished the world building notes on this novel. Lots of background work still to do, but I think it will make it a richer piece. I also got some editing work done on “Fish” last night so I’m pretty pleased.
Lately, I’ve been browsing back through my blog; reviewing all my posts from the beginning and I’ve come to a few realizations. For starters: I’m long-winded, but I imagine those of you who’ve been around for a bit already knew that! The other thing I realized is that I’ve been altering my voice lately. I’m not sure why, really . . . but I noticed a distinct change in tone over the last few months. It seems like I’ve been restricting myself to simple surface facts and not getting involved in how I feel about things. It could just be that I’ve been stressed and busy but I think there’s more to it. I think that I’ve been scared to talk about my writing freely because I’ve been feeling frustrated and disappointed. For example: I noted in my back-reading that I told you all about the request for a partial from my Top-Of-the-List-Agent but I never told you the outcome. She sent me a very nice “Thanks, but not for me” letter. Now, I don’t take that personally but I’m frustrated as hell because I’m beginning to think that “Slayer” is not really ready for market and may have to be put to rest.
Truth is, the novel was one of my early works (You know - the ones you hide under your bed and pretend never happened?) that I thought had some potential so I took it out and reworked/re-wrote the entire thing from scratch last year. My writing has improved dramatically over the last two years (I think, anyway) and I thought that would be enough to fix the flaws but now I’m thinking: maybe not! Of course, that makes me start questioning my writing skill in general and makes me nervous about editing “Fish” and “Clans”. I think they’re both professional quality works . . . sort of. I mean, I really do think they are, but there’s this sickly knot in my stomach when I think about sending them out that makes me hesitate. I am terrified of having everything I’ve worked on these past two years simply be: “Not Good Enough”. I have written, re-worked, edited, re-typed, and revised close to 750k words in that time. That’s a lot of work, a lot of hours, and a lot of time taken away from my family pursuing a dream that may never come to pass.
That’s some frightening shit.
That fear is what I’ve been avoiding recently. That’s why the blog’s been a little dry and I’m pretty damn sure it’s also why I’ve been sucking wind on the actual writing end of things. I don’t know if you can call it fear of failure – the idea of never being published in and of itself doesn’t frighten me anymore. I guess you might call it “Fear of Futility” that’s bothering me . . . the idea that I’ll have spent all this time and effort for nothing . . . that no one beside myself will ever read these books. That scares the hell out of me. Tell me I’m never gonna make it: Okay, I’ve got a good life and a great family, I can live with it. Tell me I’m gonna spend years struggling against an impenetrable brick wall for no reason . . . that’s another thing.
So, there it is: my own personal neurosis laid out plain for the world to see. I’m not nearly ready to give up yet, I intend to keep on writing, but I’m going to have to learn to do it while ignoring that knot in my stomach. I can’t let it drag me down. I have to believe that at some point my desire and effort at this craft will bring me up to a level where my work is publishable. Even if I have no natural talent at writing (which, to be honest, I really believe I do!) I have to believe that enough work will bring me to my goal. If it doesn’t . . . hell, I have no idea what I’ll do then, or even if I’ll be able to recognize when “then” is. I may be doomed to typing these pointless words into the unhearing ether for the rest of my days. I imagine this is hardly new territory for writers. Most of us have to face these same fears, right? Even the biggest of us had to be sitting in front of a screen/typewriter at some point wondering: “What the hell am I doing this for? I’m never going to sell a damn thing!”
I sure as hell hope they did, or I’m just one scared, lost, little puppy out here on my own!
And on that cheery thought, I’m out!
Later!
posted by J.A. Coppinger | 10:11 AM | 2 comments
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