Be Selfish

You selfish bastard. 

Do you not want to spend time with your loved ones?

Do you want to leave the house in disarray, dishes unwashed, clothes not ready for tomorrow, nothing cooked for dinner?  Is it too much to drive the kids to their friend’s house or park, so they can get out in the daylight?  Don’t they deserve a little free time too?

You selfish bastard.  Sure, go write your stupid story and don’t take anybody else’s life into account.  Enjoy your stingy time.

This is the disembodied voice I hear sometimes when I decide to go write.  I write at the local Starbucks.  I would write at home, but there are people who need questions immediately answered while I am in mid-sentence.  Questions like: Do I have any clean underwear, I’m getting in the shower?  Can I ride the bus home tomorrow with K. and then get them to take me home after we go to church, mom said to ask you, no she’s on the phone right now, she has to know right now, hold on K., so can I or not, they’ll take me home?  Have you seen the receipt for that – oh, sorry, I forgot you were writing, I was just looking for that receipt from when we bought that fan, I’ll let you write, did you talk to S.?  HEY!  HEY!  Can you get me a towel, I forgot to get one, no I think they’re in the dryer, or should be anyway? etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc…

These auditory hallucinations are the scourge of writers everywhere.  The voice is legion.  It will tell you whatever you want to hear.  It will tell you to take the easy way out, which is to not write at all.  So how do you get rid of these pesky nags?  You can’t.  Sorry, no magical panacea here.  You have to be selfish.  Think Ebenezer Scrooge without the change of heart.  You don’t have to stand up for yourself, you have to stand up to yourself.

Part of the reason that you have to be so cold-hearted is that the better part of that guilt ridden, accusatory voice is you.  Not the little angel that sits on your left shoulder, Animal House style, telling you to do the right thing.  It’s the one on the other shoulder, the one that whispers themes like justification, procrastination, guilt, and fear into your hapless ears.  Maybe Animal House isn’t the right analogy.  I always rooted for the Devil.

The point is that part of the voice may be right, you may be selfish, but you don’t have to carry the excessive emotional baggage that comes with that realization.  If all you want to do is write, then write.  Writing is a solitary adventure.  So you have to make time for yourself.  Selfish is good.  Stop what you are doing and say it with me – Sel – fish is Gooooooood!

If you listen to the whispering prat, you’re going to sit at home and do nothing anyway.  Then later, curse yourself for not writing.  I know this because Tyler knows this.

So the next time your loved one walks into your room while you’re packing the laptop and mumbles something about spending quality time with you, cut them off in mid-sentence, scream at them for not understanding your creative side, and then, only after they express their confusion in tears, do you scream at them, “I’M GOING TO WRITE SOME FUCKING POETRY AND I’LL BE HOME WHEN I DAMN WELL PLEASE!”

Just remember, you’re really screaming at yourself, at that voice, and not them.  And if they don’t understand what happened, you can always explain this later.

“I was yelling at the voices in my head, who are legion, and want me to find people’s underwear.”

They’ll understand.


Giving Alms

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I'll tell you the problem
with Faith.

Its bias.

No one has faith in something that they don't like.

That they don't agree with.
That they look down on.
That smells.
That makes them uncomfortable.
That they fear and loath.
That doesn't give them hope.
That doesn't promise infinite happiness.
That isn't a reason for everything.
That doesn't love you unconditionally.

If Faith wasn't so biased,
we could have it in our fellow man.

Literary EKG

I was recently reading a blog about sentence length at Divertir Publishing.  It mentioned reading level algorithms which I immediately researched.  I was intrigued because, although I write every chance I get, I’ve never really thought about how it affects the reader.

Some people, like my wife, enjoy quick reads.  If she comes across a really descriptive paragraph that is laying out the environment, she skips ahead.  She wants the meat of the prose only; just the facts, Mam.  Whereas some readers, like myself, can sit down with Proust or Dickens and be happy.  If you want to tell me, in five pages or more, how you put on your pajamas last night, that’s fine.  As long as the language is intoxicating and the words perform their ballet gracefully on the page.  But what makes a quick read a quick read?

Sure, there’s the reader’s interest level.  You love a book and so you stay up all night and finish it at 3:00 am.  But sentence length plays an important role too.  The shorter the sentences, the quicker your inner voice is going to read.  And of course, since there are fewer words to read, it’s a quicker read by default anyway.  Short sentences infer action, and maybe dialog.  It races forward.  Bullies its way along the pages.

Longer sentences command more attention.  You can’t have ADD and read a Proustian sentence to the end.  Once you reach the fourth aside, you start daydreaming and wondering what the first part of the sentence was even talking about to begin with.  Longer sentences infer complexity.  They are for setting scenes, backstories, character’s thoughts, philosophies, and description in general.  They saunter, nonchalant across the page.  They may require more introspection and brain power.  I may read Dickens, but I don’t attempt to do so waiting in a doctor’s office.

So sentence length is important because it can affect how your work is read.  And that means it can determine your audience.  And knowing your audience is compulsory.

The Flesch Reading Ease and the Flesch–Kincaid Grade Level tests are used to determine ease of comprehension and reading difficulty.  They are used by people like the U.S. Department of Defense, included in applications like Microsoft Word, and used as a gauge for certain standards on documents like insurance policies.  And the algorithm used in these tests both use words per sentence as a variable.  The other variable is syllables per word.  The longer the sentences, the more syllables per words, the more complex the work.  At least in general.  Sure, there may be plenty two syllable words you’ll have to look up in a dictionary, and an algorithm like this doesn’t allow for obtuse metaphors, but overall it’s a good measuring stick.

So like any good geek, I felt the need to turn sentence length into a mathematical construct.  I developed a program that takes anything written, measures the sentence length, and graphs it for a visual representation of the words per sentence.  Using the graphs, you should be able to tell a few things about the work without actually seeing it.  For this article, I’ve only graphed the first 50 sentences.  Can you tell what kind of read the first graph would be?  Don’t look at the X-Axis label.

One for the Money

It’s Janet Evanovich’s One for the Money.  A quick read.  I’m not grabbing the average length yet, but from the graph you can see the novel starts out with words/sentence in the 8 to 15 range, with only 3 sentences over 20 words.

What about this one?

Swann's Way

It’s Proust.  A brain bender and acquired taste.  Easy to get lost.  It can’t even be graphed using the 50 word max.  Here’s the full graph.

Swann's Way Full

The intro to Swann’s Way hardly ever dips below the 20 words/sentence mark.  And a couple of paragraphs masquerading as sentences weigh in at over 160 words.  I wonder if Proust talked like he wrote.  You would have to have Steven Tyler lungs.

After a few different books, I fed it one of my blogs called Potential Energy.  I think it looks like a healthy EKG.  This looks to me like a diverse mix, enough to keep you on your toes so you don’t wander off on me.

Potential Energy

Then I fed in the first part of one of my novellas called Sorry Charlie.  It looks like someone should hit the nurse button.  There seems to be a literary arrhythmia taking place.

Sorry Charlie

And maybe I shouldn’t place to much import on these little graphs, but I’m very happy with Potential Energy and not so much with the start of Sorry Charlie.  At any rate, I think these might be useful.

You could, for instance, feed in a book and see at a glance if it matched your reading level or preference.  You could gather metrics over time to uncover patterns in the graphs.  You might be able to tell a particular genre by the graph.  Every book would have an EKG.

If you are a writer, you could use it as a tool to pick out the flow of certain sequences in your book.  The graph above can be colored in under the line for specific ranges where there is considerable action, as noted by contiguous, short sentences, or where there is more thought provoking prose, as evidenced by a cluster of longer sentences.  You could then visually ascertain whether your writing was leading the reader down the path you intended.

And of course, there are other chart styles that could be explored.  Other variables you could take into account, so on and so forth.  But aside from all the geekery, I will certainly give the overall sentence length variation a look.

If you would like to play with the already available algorithms online, Google ‘reading level algorithms’ and feed in some of your writings.  Are you writing for your audience?



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When I was living
I left fear voids,
an embarrassed unspeaker of things that
should be said,
comforting things,
cool bed covers on a summer’s day things.
Each well thought out novel excerpt
bottled up into an awkward moment’s
silent little soliloquy.

Each repressed emoticon
too cliché,
too much like a movie line,
rehearsed sounding,
as if mumbled sideways by some sappy poet
ready to expose my delicate ego
to some mirage of infinite possible responses,
or worse,
left desolate in wide open silence.

It was these Unspoken things
that were swallowed by swift moments,
hesitations led by a tug-boat of doubt,
slow moving but of powerful persuasion
tightening the unsure rope around the words
on the tip
and dragging them to the back of my
remorseful throat.

And the dead drew tears.

They would never know the words
I had kept to myself.

Then I died
and went to a place
similar to what you’d think
and they sat me gently down
at a wooden desk and slid a book under my nose.

The title was simple:

The authors were many
and line one chapter one read
“I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean that.”

And the living drew tears.