I was sitting in one of my favorite Vietnamese restaurants during my lunch our. Within the garbled conversation and slurping of Pho noodles (pronounced fuh, not fo like “What’s up fo”?), I’d heard two middle-age men talking.

“Will they gain the life expectancy back with the time they put in the gym?” a salt-and-pepper haired man said.

“Not likely,” a chubby-cheeked man said.

“They’ve done studies where going to the gym doesn’t extend life expectancy but usually results in more injury,” salt and pepper said.

“It’s just a waste of time,” chubby cheeks said. “I have better things to do than spend my whole day at the gym.”

I wondered how much television they watched and how that was contributing to their quality of life. To some, a lot. To others who like to exercise and have passions outside of creating excuses for themselves, not much.

During my voluntary confinement in my 6 X 6 cubicle, what I’d like to refer to as my day job, my cube mate said, “I’m still carrying weight. I had him like a month ago.”

Her cube mate said, “It’s not like you’re a celebrity.”

One of the things I’ve done as a teacher, as an actor, and now a writer, is listen to what people say and do. You can read a lot about a person by what they’re saying. In both the above cases, excuses are being fed to themselves and each other about not doing something, exercise. But the excuses could’ve been anything:

“I don’t have time to pursue my art.”

“My passions aren’t going to pay for my bills.”

“It’s just a hobby. I can do it anytime. But with work, family…”

“I don’t even know where to begin. And who am I to think I can paint?”

“I don’t have them money to start this.”

I’ve definitely used excuses. What are they good for? Ultimately, excusing yourself from knowing the truth. What might that truth be? How powerful we are.

To attain anything great, we must first realize that we are capable. Once we become too entwined in our own self-doubt, we begin to create roadblocks that actually block us from moving forward.

I can’t tell you how many people widened their eyes and told me how impossible publishing a book can be. But the only way I can become a published author is to first write. If I don’t write and only focus on how difficult the road may be, I’ll never take the first step to get published. Does that mean those thoughts don’t occur in my head? No. I just focus on the task at hand, which is simply to write.

There are pundits at writing conferences that say you have to network, have a web presence, have white teef (teeth for you ghetto challenged), walk the walk, talk the talk, and be one with the all mighty universe (that would be Oprah) to get published.

Be as you wish to seem -Socrates

But none of that is important until I write. Writing to a writer is the most important task. Obvious write (right)? This simple philosophy is lost at writing conferences.

Today is 10/10/10.  When I searched for images based on today’s date, here’s what I got.  An explanation of chaos theory.  Kinda like writing.

Although, I’m not sure what the significance is. I thought I’d use it to announce that I haven’t found that ‘yes’ from an agent who will help bring my story to the world, yet.

But I’ve been told that I can’t force a tomato plant to grow by yelling at it, throwing money at it, or by giving it an ultimatum.

“Grow or I’ll send you to your room!”

The tomato will grow on its own with the right environment. Basically, dirt, water and sun. Dirt is pretty much free. Water is cheap. And so far no one is charging for sunshine.

Is getting published, breaking into Hollywood if you’re an actor, finding your soul mate, soul searching for your passions like growing a tomato?

I was talking to a fellow writer from work. He’s a rabid reader and especially loves fantasy. I’d talked to him at the beginning of summer about his book and he had finished writing chapter five. He asked me how long it took to write mine. I said about four years.

A few months later, I asked him about his progress. He said he was at about chapter five. So either he’s been doing some serious rewriting, or he hadn’t written much. We had gotten onto the subject of forcing art. He still loved the idea of his book, loved writing, but needed some balance in life. I asked if he used an outline, and he said he wanted to, maybe it would help the flow of his writing and story.

Steven King starts his books with an idea and writes until it’s finished. John Irving starts his book with a very detailed outline. He needs to know where the story is going before writing.

Who’s method is right?

Both.

I told my friend to find a method that works best for him and just go with it. He agreed but stated that he didn’t want to force the creative process. I totally agreed. But is knuckling down on your work forcing?

With any creative undertaking, the artist only has to provide the most minimal of ingredients. Just like the tomato plant, it just needs dirt, water and sun. Everything else happens by itself.

One of the challenging things about writing fantasy is the creation of things that doesn’t exist in our world. Many fantasy writers use Tolkienesque creatures, which is great. My story came to me outside of that, and I’ve spent a lot of time wondering what to call the different things in my world.

My process was simple: I ask the question. Like, what do I call this bug that my character eats? Then I wait. Sometimes it comes to me immediately. Sometimes it comes to me in a month. Nevertheless, it comes to me.

But it comes to me not just because I ask the question, but because I show up for the answer. I spend a lot of time each day fantasizing about my world. I imagine the feelings each character goes through. I think about the conversations they have, their goals, and their character arcs. Since the majority of my days are spent at work, I tend to find a lot of dead time that allows me to do this. Don’t tell my boss.

The point is show up. I show up to write. I show up to think. I show up and work. Forcing something would be like sticking strictly to my outline and not coloring outside the lines. Have an outline, but let the idea sprout. Let little surprises in. Let mistakes enter. For those are the things that can make any artistic project grow into something amazing like a tomato plant. Just watch out of the killer tomatoes.

I had just gotten some feed back from a friend who is an avid reader.  And one of the things that was interesting were the questions she’d written on post it notes, placed along the pages of my book.

She had immediately asked questions about what certain things looked like, questions about the culture of my fantasy world, time line, etc. All of this within the first few pages.

There’s a couple ways I can take this. A writer should always ignite questions within a reader’s mind.  That’s a good thing. Create interest.  Reward them by giving the answers or enough to at least spark debates like the movie Inception.

A writing example would be the Davinci Code. Robert Langdon always comes across plot elements that forces us, and him, to ask questions. Why was he called to aid in a murder investigation?  He’s symbologist and the victim has a symbol carved into his chest. Did he do it?  We only met him when he got the call to help, so we’re not sure.  But we find he didn’t because of the victim’s granddaughter. She confirms the French sergeant is trying to pin the crime on Langdon . Who’s the nameless teacher?  We find out at the climax.

On and on with the questions but we eventually find out the answers.

So am I saying I’m just as great a writer as Dan Brown?

As I’ve lent my book out to people, they first see the book as not published and, therefore, not done by a professional.  They’re judging the book not by it’s cover but by it’s credibility.  As a result, they’re not patient enough to let their questions answer themselves, as I’ve made sure to do.

If she had placed the post it notes late in the book, then there would have been storytelling issues I would need to fix.  You can have certain questions linger on, like leaving the butler did it till the climax. Questions that either build the world or help move the plot along should be answered as we move along.

When we look at The Road by Cormac McCarthy, a post apocalyptic novel, we can’t help but ask questions of time, setting, and what brought this disaster? But they’re not answered.  I assume because McCarthy only wants the reader to focus on the father and the son, letting us be the judge of what brought the “flash”. But would my friend question him?  Probably not. McCarthy is, after all, a Pulitzer Prize winning novelist.

So perception is key, and I did ask her to just read it and tell me if she enjoyed it. She said she did, but the post it notes stopped abruptly. Either her questions got answered or she didn’t finish the book. Knowing her, she didn’t finish. And I’m all right with that.  I can’t make everybody happy. I can only make me happy.

And no.  I can’t compare myself to Brown. How can one perfect cherry blossom be better than another?

What is romance? And why are half of the books sold romance novels, trashy or otherwise? Is it indicative of women’s lack or need of it? Variety is the spice of life, so maybe they need different men as stated in Steve Harvey’s book.

I, being a macho, macho man, am stereotyped to not know the answer to this or any other thing about women. Oddly, this myth is not perpetuated by women, but by men. I can’t count how many times men in the media state they know nothing about women and never will. And if that were true, then freakin’ learn, dammit! Women certainly want us to, which may be why romance is so lucrative.

Having completed my first novel, I’ve been asked is there romance in it? I don’t know.

Hey! Have you seen this:

A man gathers his briefcase, closes his office door, enters an ambiguous, crowded elevator. Taking a deep breath, he looks at his Tag timekeeper, exits the sky scrapin’ building, and raises his hand.

A yeller taxi screeches. A radiant woman gets out, with hair from a high-priced salon wafts in the warm breeze, dressed in perfect fitted clothes, carrying a Burberry purse. Don’t ask me how I know that brand.

They’re eyes lock and the world comes to a startling but pleasurable halt. Her hair waves coyly at him. His stature postures over her like a gentle beast ready to pounce. Her eyes gaze ever so softly into his. She brushes her hair with the back of her hand.

What do we know and have been programmed to know from this cliche? A scene we’ve seen in countless movies, TV shows, books, plays, and commercials.

He is the it boy. She is the it girl. And by the massive powers of God, the universe, Shiva, Buddha, Geezus Krist, and the dominant iPhone with FaceTime, they’re meant for each other for all time, passed time, into infinity and beyond, and a little more.

Whew! I need a smoke.

Going back to the question, does my book have romance?

I didn’t know how to answer that question until I readRoger Ebert’s essay on Lost In Translation,starring Bill Murray and Scarlet Johansen, directed by Sofia Copola. In fact, I saw this in the theater years ago and didn’t know why I loved it until now.

In many ways, the movie starts out to be a cliche. A lonely man visits Japan. He runs into an equally lonely woman. They’re subtly attracted to each other, but by no means are they the it couple. He’s an older married man, she’s the younger married woman. I thought they were going to hit it off. A nice romp in the bed, some drama about his wife or her husband catching them, then a climatic ending where they both leave their respective spouses, and run toward each other as the waves splash onto the sandy beach.

Nope. The movie is about a deep connection between two people, which is probably why I loved it so much because I cherish deep connections.

Does my book have romance?

No. Not like the taxi example above. My story focuses on a married couple who has to contend with the death of their child. Then they have to contemplate the mortality of their other, who is called to duty when a looming war approaches.

My goal was to explore the pain of loss, the guilt one spouse places on the other, on oneself, and to explore war itself. It has been a painful and enlightening experience in the sense storytelling.

One of the coolest things about all art is the interpretation. Debates go endlessly about movies, books, paintings, poems, sculptures. And who’s to say who’s right and who’s not when we can’t even agree what’s art and what isn’t.

In trying to get feedback on my book, I’ve been giving out copies to my friends and family to get initial reactions, both kneejerk and constructive. I had readers who are fans and non-fans of fantasy, which is my genre.

One of my readers stated that my main character was highly sexual and emotional. I wanted honest opinions and here we are!

My kneejerk reaction was of course to defend.

But I’m here to learn so I asked her question after question, trying to keep an open mind.

None of my other readers had mentioned any of this. And just in case they missed something my friend hadn’t, I asked one of them specifically about the above points.

Highly sexual was something that really surprised me. I asked her what made her think this. She said that my hero thought about his wife’s scent, was enamored by her silky hair, and in a key scene couldn’t sleep due to the absence of her breathing next to him. I asked another female reader what she thought about this without mentioning what my friend thought. She said my hero was in love with his wife that it was about love.

Who’s correct?

Both.

There’s a saying. What you hate in others is what you hate in yourself. When I look at the lives of these two women, I can see why both thought the way they did.

I’m not saying they hated my book, but often what we see in art is often a reflection of us, an aspect anyway. I mean, haven’t you listened to music that reflects how you feel in the moment? We listen to love songs, or angry alternative, when we’ve broken up with someone. Or listen to ambient music when we want to be calm. Or listen to heavy metal or techno when we’re working out.

And knowing how 50% of sold books are romance novels tells you what women are feeling or needing.

My friend’s second point, complaint really, about my hero being emotional was also interesting.  For one, he is.  It being a complaint is a judgement on the character. Kinda like saying someone being short is not good. It’s not their fault.  My hero just turned out that way.

This brings us to the definition of art. First off, I don’t think it can be defined. It’s like defining the soul. Or God. You can’t. But a famed photographer once said that art is the language of the soul. Isn’t that where inspiration comes from?

But if you want to see a cool and heated debate of what art is, check out an articleRober Ebertwrote about how video games aren’t art.

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I just saw Fame, the 2009 version.  I never saw Fame, the 1980 version.  I should since it won two Oscars.  And I’m not one of those people who watches only Oscar winners, but the 2009 version got bad reviews.  And I know why.

In the 2009 version, we have a cross section of characters that are admitted to Performance Arts High School.  Clever name.  In this cross section, we have freshmen who deal with issues with shyness, self worth, preconceived ideas from parental figures, grades that lead to being expelled, and people in the industry who’ve scammed money.

This seems like a lot but a lot of stories have this many sub plots that help drive the main story line.  Problem here is I’m not sure what the main story line is, and these play like sub plots with no main plot.  You could also say they are all main plots but that would be too many.

The second problem is we move from admission to graduation in a period of 107 minutes.  I’m not saying this can’t be done, but when you have many sub plots with no main plot, or a whole bouquet of main plots, it’s going to be difficult to develop these characters.  Hell!  It’d be difficult with just a single character.  Again, it can be done, but you better be one helluva screenwriter.  The issue here is no character development.  Here’s an example:

There’s a character named Malik who runs into the problem of parental limitation.  His mom says he ain’t all that.  Not in those exact words, but it’s a good problem.  We’ve all at some level–friends or family–have been told we ain’t all dat.  Is any of it true?  Of course not.  But the movie doesn’t show Malik overcoming that issue, finding that he’s special, then realizing he is truly talented.

What if he wasn’t?  The movie doesn’t show that either.

So is the message of the movie saying that none of us are special (not in the yellow bus way)?  No because the movie is called Fame.

So what’s the message?  Not quite sure.

Throughout the whole movie we get performances that are well choreographed.  There must have been a dozen.  To take up 107 minutes with that many performances ruins the pacing and doesn’t spend enough moments on what is truly important, the story.  It’s like having a ton of special effects with no substance.

We go from admission to graduation, and, in doing so, the characters who are faced with character arc problems either don’t solve them, or we don’t see them solved, or are not solved.  One ballet dancer is told he won’t make it by his teacher, told that he might be a decent teacher.  He believes her, submitting to becoming a ballet teacher.  So does the teacher see herself as a failure?  Then why is she teaching?  As the term character arc states, there’s an arc.  We basically go from beginning, miss the keystone moment and BAM!  We’ve arrive at the end.  And we’re not sure why.

A fellow writer and I were talking about flash backs.  Flash backs takes us back to a time before the current moment of the story, be it novel, TV show, film, etc.  And, as this zombie dog growls, there’s a guideline in storytelling that states don’t use them.

The reason is simple.  The threat of death to the character having the flashback is removed.  Makes sense. Makes even more sense when the reader/audience is supposed to be connected to the main character, the heroine.  We see a lot of supporting characters die.  Rarely do we see the main character die before the climax.

Then the hero can die.  Otherwise, who will finish the story?

The problem is exacerbated when we’re reading a series, watching Showtime’s Dexter (I watched four seasons knowing Dexter wasn’t gonna die), or a movie franchise.

But can flashbacks work?  Yes.  Here are some examples:

Pulp Fiction

Memento

Slumdog Millionaire

Pulp Fiction shows pieces of the story out of order.  And we don’t know who to really support or connect to until the pieces start to fall together like when loyalties form between enemies Butch Coolidge, Bruce Willis, and Marsellus Wallace, Ving Rhames.  Where before we were rooting for Butch to get outta there before Marsellus Wallace gets to his ass.  Then a cop has Marsellus Wallace’s ass, literally, after being kidnapped.  Butch is about to escape but decides to save Marsellus Wallace’s ass, literally.  And at the end of that scene, we feel for both characters.

Memento directed by Jonathan Nolan, Batman Begins and The Dark Knight, was critically acclaimed and has a cult following.  Basically, it shows the movie from end to beginning because the main character has short term memory loss.  A piece of genus.  Here, the end scene shows someone shot, but we don’t know who.  And as we watch the story barrel to the beginning, we’re in anticipation of who died and what happened.

I loved Slumdog Millionaire.  Talk about a sleeper hit!  Most of the movie depends on flashbacks.  But the goal is to figure out whether Jamal Malik, played by Dav Patel, was cheating.  As we go along for the ride, tension rises because of the things that happen to Jamal, and whether the supporting characters will live.  Some do.  Some don’t.

So do flashbacks work?  Hell yeah.

Just as long it serves the story.

Do you know any other movies, shows, or books that depend on flashbacks?  How about any movies, shows, or books that have the main character die before the climax?

Onions.  They give you bad breath but adds flavor to the food we eat.  Have you ever peeled one?  Peel the rough skin and reveal a fresh moist layer.  Peel that and there’s another silky layer.  On and on.

In writing my book, I purposefully laid in layers to give it a sense of depth.  On the surface, it’s a fast-paced, action packed, page turner (damn, I’m conceited).  There’s sex.  There’s mayhem.  Want betrayal?  You got it.  Want love?  You got it.

Slice under that superficial layer and you’ll find a deeper understanding of the story.  Billowing clouds may reflect a character’s painful conflict within.  Heat from a fire reflecting off someone’s clothes may echo the character’s anger.  Wind may symbolize a character’s dominance over their lands.

In 1954 a renowned filmmaker released what’s considered one of the best films ever made:  Seven Samurai.  It’s about a Japanese farming village, constantly beseiged and pillaged by an army of bandits, recruits seven independent samurai to defend it.

Akira Kurosawa’s films have influenced great directors such as Steven Spielberg and George Lucas.  In fact, Star Wars was heavily influenced by The Hidden Fortress, a Kurosawa film.

I have to admit, when I watched Seven Samurai, I was like, “What da hell?”

I was caught off guard by the soundtrack, pacing and language (despite my slanty eyes, I don’t speak Japanese).  I did drag myself through the length of the film, all three hours and forty-five minutes.

Luckily, I had bought The Criterion Collection of the film.  There are tons of lectures on the DVD discs, and I listened to all of them, wanting to learn everything I could.  What I learned had a profound effect on me and my writing.  Or is it my writing and I?

Consolidating Kurosawa’s genius would be difficult and insulting.  But here I go.  He controlled everything because everything in his films had a purpose, a reason.  Every word, action, shadow, even the swipe or fading to the next scene meant something.  If someone broke wind, there was a purpose.  Unless it was silent but deadly.

The most interesting character is Kikuchiyo, played by Toshiro Mifune.  He doesn’t exactly look like a samurai, nor does he walk like one.  So is he a samurai?  He lugs his extra long sword on his shoulder instead of holstering it around his waist like the other six.  What does this say about Kikuchiyo?  Is he compensating for something?  Or is there a deeper story within the character?

In his dramatic scene, Kikuchiyo admits he was once a villager and somehow found his way to samuraism. (Is that even a word?)  This didn’t happen in those days of Japan.  It was difficult enough to move up the ranks of the samurai.  And admitting you were once a villager was like admitting you’re a woman, when you’re really a man, but without the operation.

The lectures in the special features stated Kikuchiyo symbolized the filmmaker, Kurosawa.  His views were somehow reminiscent of Kikuchiyo and his rise in society and that Japan had moved into the modern era.  This is further symbolized when each samurai is killed by a modern weapon:  the gun.  Once the villagers were saved, they continued their lives giving any thought to their saviors.  We see the surviving samurai walk from the cemetery where their comrades were buried and out to the horizon, never to return.

I rewatched the film many times, and I grew to love it. The story density is amazing.

It’s interesting to see how we clamor to the magazine stands to find out the latest on celebrities.  What atrocities have they committed?  But if we were truly curious about who they were, all we’d have to do is turn to their art.

For art is the language of the soul.

Most people abhor movie sequels. Not sure why since they usually do well in the box office. But I think the lost love comes from not being as good as the first movie. Part of that comes from character development.  With a lot of stories, the main character goes through a change like going from being unconfident to confident.  And once that’s done that character becomes uninteresting.  The sequel now has to depend on plot.

James Bond as a character doesn’t change at all.  All of his stories are sold based on plot and fan base.  It’s no wonder the actors change so much.  They have to to keep the audience interested.

Then came Casino Royale.  One of the things Bond doesn’t do is fall in love.  He’s a slam-bam-thank-you-mam kinda guy.  Nothing wrong with that.  He whips it out, tugs hard, holds tight, and bam.  I was talking about the gun.  But in Casino, Bond not only whipped it out–not talking about his gun–but let his love interest have it.  I’m talking about his emotions.

The man fell in love.

Add the banter between the two love birds, the plot, and a blonde Bond, and you get one of the best Bond movies ever made.  But once Quantum of Solace came out, it received mixed reviews.  And here we get into franchises.

In my search for a literary agent, I came across an article written by one.  He wrote something that made a lot of sense.  As writers, we have to know that the publishing industry is a business.  As a business, once a platform does well publishers will want to build off it to make more money.

Percy Jackson and the Olympians is a five-book series.  I haven’t read the books, but I’ve spotted them as I walk through Borders.  There are tons of Trilogies.  But they’re small potatoes.  There are book series that last a dozen books.  Some series are even ongoing.  Publishers often urge the writer to continue the series before venturing outside of that domain.

It’s a business.

The problem, as stated above, is character development.  How can a writer continue to make the character interesting?  Put her through a lot of crap through plot?  Maybe.  How about having change occur in supporting characters?  Or what about creating new issues with the main character, and adding change in supporting ones?

Here’s where J.K. Rowling did a great job.  As Harry grew up in those seven years, he changed just like a real person.  Shocking.  That and the red herrings, plot, the close knit friendships made for a great read.  Rowling satisfied the publishing world’s philosophy of building on a fan base, but satisfied her fans by creating incredible plot with highly relatable characters.

As writers, we need to keep at heart the art but also keep an eye on the world of business.

I’d just watched a great movie called Man From Earth.  The premise is awesome, and without it I wouldn’t have watched it.  But during a good-gye party, friends learn that the honorary guest is a caveman who has lived for 14,000 years.  That’s right.  A bonafied caveman, cro magnon, to be exact.

It was written by famed science fantasy writer, Jerome Bixby.

It’s a fantastic premise because what the caveman reveals is just earth shattering.  I’d suggest watching.

One of the things John, the caveman, reveals is that he was a well known religious figure.  Everyone in the party at this point doesn’t really know whether to believe his story so far, but to claim to be this certain figure seems heinous.  Until John explains how this religious figure got his mythical status.  How history can apply layers of mythicism on an individual.

And that got me thinking.

I’d had the pleasure of pitching to Donald Maass, the famed New York agent who wrote How to Write the Breakout Novel.  This was my first book on writing.  I’d attended his one hour lecture at the San Francisco Writer’s Conference.  His whole thing is to write with emotional depth and make your story big.  Big with emotions.  (Wow.  I’m using a lot of fragments today.)

Some examples are betrayal, retribution, and the all time favorite “I hate you, dad!”

In my book, my hero has severe issues with his father.  His father left him without saying good-bye after being convicted of a murder.  With this, a lot of people assumed that the father was guilty, despite his fervent attempt to prove his innocence.  Kinda like OJ hurling down the freeway at 152.5 MPH.

My hero is left with the question of why.  Was his father guilty?  Did he not love my hero enough?  What did my hero do to make his father leave?  As the days pass, my hero is forced to answer these questions and begins to layer greatness upon his estranged father.

Sorta like someone breaking up with you, and you can’t stop thinking about all the good times you both had, even though there may have been a lot of bad.

Maass said these past parental issues tend to manifest themselves in other parts of your life.  For example, if your father was a perfectionist, forced and punished you to be a perfectionist, then you grow up and torture yourself to be a perfectionist at work.  Your relationships go bad because you’re trying to find the perfect man or woman.  You can’t seem to settle on any home that you visit, driving your real estate agent crazy.  You go into deep debt, buying every electronic device because they keep getting better.  You get ten plastic surgeries trying to fit the perfect mold.  All because your father prodded you to be perfect.  Then, all of a sudden, you yell at a picture of your father, “I hate you, dad!”  But what you actually hate is the person you’ve turned into, and, hopefully, as up-lifting stories go, you realize that his world of perfection doesn’t have to be yours.  And you begin to live a life that’s true to you.

The point is, when writing stories, sometimes childhood issues bubble up without the character knowing it.  He may never know it.  She may scream at a jar of honey and remember when her mother yelled at her for spilling honey on their new carpet.  It’s a great way of deepening a character.