Six Years in Review

Posted on March 27, 2013 by Pearson Sharp

So… It’s done.

The book is done.

Or manuscript, rather. I suppose I’m not supposed to call it a book, or a novel yet. But, I mean, that’s what it is to me. It’s my novel. And I’ve finished it. Finally.

The culmination of six years of work and research and late nights and early mornings and missed meals and anxiety and thrills and fears is sitting here on my computer in 95,732 words. Every one of them hand picked, carefully (or perhaps not) chosen by me in moments of inspiration or frustration or dogged determination. It feels pretty good.

I didn’t have that “ah-ha!” satisfactory moment that I had hoped for when I finished. I actually carried on writing well past 100,000 words, but then realised the story I was telling would take much, much longer than one book. So it’s now a trilogy. But that final, “The End” moment was denied me, the realisation that I was finished dawning slowly on me about a week after I’d written that part of the book. Which is kind of disappointing, but I’m still monumentally pleased with myself.

There were many, many times when I’d considered putting the book down, not finishing it, pursuing something else. But I think I would always have regretted not trying harder, not following through and completing that thing that I’d started so many years ago. I hate, hate, hate, the phrase “giving birth” that authors use to describe their books. I can’t stand it, it makes me mind-retch. But I feel like I would have been incomplete without creating this, and though it doesn’t feel anything like a child–another term I hear authors use to describe their works–it certainly is mine, and I’m very proud of it.

Terrified of it, to be sure. But proud also.

So what’s next? Well, I’ve sent the thing out to every author I know personally and, although no one has finished it yet, I’ve gotten great reviews so far. Honestly, I was incredibly apprehensive as I waited to start hearing back. I expected them to say it was no good, badly written, presumptuous, pretentious, or–worst of all–boring.

But that’s not the case! So far it’s gotten stellar feedback. Which, is, you know. Just fucking fantastic.

So that’s where I am. Waiting for someone to finish the monster and then let me know how they feel about the ending, which is what I’m really worried about. Another concern is that the entire 95,000 words–which translates to roughly 360 standard book pages–takes place over the course of a single day. That wasn’t entirely intentional.

I mean, it’s the prelude to something gigantic, the catalyst that sets off the rest of the story, but, I mean… damn! One day. Mostly my penchant for going into minutia and highly detailed descriptions of place and setting and history is responsible for that. I want to make sure that the world is clear to the reader, and, yeah. I dunno. Maybe that’s too much. So far no one has complained that it’s boring or wordy or too heavy, so… fingers crossed.

Anyways, once I get some solid feedback I’m going to edit it and start writing query letters and sending it out. And then this little ship I’ve built will set sail on the great ocean of the unknown, it’s little sails desperately clinging to every little breeze to keep it moving forward.

Here’s hoping for some strong wind.

It’s Been A Long Road

Posted on March 3, 2013 by Pearson Sharp

So here I am, stuck in the middle of a road that runs all directions at once. I’m nearly done with my novel, and the prospect of finishing is looming large above an inescapable horizon. I’ve learned a lot about writing in the last month, and a lot about what motivates me and inspires me. There’s a big difference between what you love to write, and what you want to write.

My book, for example, is a sci-fi book. It’s fun, it’s interesting, and it takes all the imagination I have to keep it going and imbue it with life and make it real. But I’m also becoming more aware that fantasy, sci-fi, these are things that, try as we might to fight reality, don’t exist. And because of this, there will always be a disconnect with the reader. A part of them that will be unable to connect with what you’re writing. Because it’s never happened to them. It’s never happened to anybody. They don’t understand it.

We do understand our own lives though. Or at least, we’re familiar with how they work and what happens and our own mistakes and screw ups and successes and triumphs and heartbreaks. That is all well and good, we know that stuff. And the more I realise this, the more it seems like that’s the kind of story I should be writing. Because I feel it, inside, that there is this truth behind the curtain of daily living that wants to be captured.

Hemingway captured it, for sure. I’m reading Bukowski right now, he got it too. Bukowski is like if Hemingway had written smut. It’s dark, it’s dirty, it’s gritty. I don’t honestly know if I like it, but it’s fascinating, and it’s real. That’s the kind of story I want to write. Something that grabs you by the balls and says no, this is what it’s about, go ahead and try and deny me but I’ll be here whether you like it or not.

Anyways. I’m writing, I’m reading, and living and learning. I’ve started going sailing recently. It’s fun.

all we wanna do is share

Posted on February 5, 2013 by Pearson Sharp

isn’t that the point? As writers, singers, actors, musicians—all we wanna do is share what we feel, what’s going on in our heads, what we feel that can’t be expressed in any other way.

I was just watching Smash, and this girl got up and started singing in the middle of this crowded room at a party. Everyone gathered around and was listening and nodding their heads. Obviously this is just a show, and they’re actors, but that’s not the point.

They’re doing that because that’s what real people would do. At least, that’s what I’d do. When I see someone expressing that ineffable thing inside, a street artist making a painting, a musician in a crowded subway, just someone putting themselves out there and exposing that raw, tingling nerve that vibrates to that unknown chord of humanity that we all share.

It’s something magical, and it’s something we all have, and that’s what so wonderful. I love that. I love sharing that. I love feeling it. What an incredible gift we have, to be able to share that feeling, or even just a tiny piece of it, with others. To make others hear that singing that only we hear, to see the colours that only we see, to live in the world that only we know about.

Hold Fast, Young Fellows

Posted on January 31, 2013 by Pearson Sharp

Last day of January! That’s exciting, I think. I’ve become resolute in my determination to maintain better writing habits, and so far it’s been paying off. There’s seldom enough time in the day to do all the nothing I’d like to do, but mornings I wake up earlier and work on this site, five days a week, and evenings after work is novel writing time. The novel is a beast, but it’s always worse imagining working on it than it is actually working on it.

There’s something dreadful about sitting down in the chair and contemplating opening up that word document, scrolling down and having a staring contest with that blinking icon. What will the first word today be?

Well, there’s a trick I’ve found, and that’s going back and doing a little editing of the work you did yesterday. That way you’ve already started writing by the time you start writing. You’re already warmed up and you’ve found your place again. It seems to work pretty well.

I was reading an article about the daily routines of famous writers. You can find it here. It’s definitely worth looking at. Some people have some pretty strange habits, such as Jack Kerouac doing bizarre yoga positions before he wrote, or Hemingway‘s famous habit of standing up while he writes.

Yet there was a common theme among all of them that I found reassuring. The most important habit to cultivate as a writer is to write. Write first, last, and foremost. Nothing else is more important. You must write, and you must continue to write until you are done. Then you should probably keep writing some more.

Friends, family, dates, games, movies, social outings, lunch with colleagues—they must all take a back seat to your writing. This isn’t to say you must do nothing else besides write. But your writing must not be neglected or postponed for anything. Whether you’re in the mood or not, you must write.

Hemingway in Cuba

And it makes sense. If you were a professional in some occupation, and you may well be, you couldn’t call and tell your office you weren’t coming in because you found this awesome new website full of hilarious cats and you want to look at it for a while before you do work (I can’t be the only one for whom this is a problem). You wouldn’t tell them you’re going on a date with your girlfriend this afternoon so you won’t be able to make that deadline. No, work comes first.

I’m not sure why this is such a difficult task for us to grasp as writers. Or at least, it is for me. Deadlines as a self-motivated writer are such soft, fuzzy things. I’m reminded of Jack Sparrow, I like to set deadlines, I like to wave at them as they pass by.

In any case, it’s comforting knowing what you need to do to accomplish something. Writing a book is hard, extremely hard. But hearing all the best writers that have ever been say the same thing, well, you start to get an idea of what needs to be done. I leave you with a wonderful quote from Hemingway, and I feel like it sums up the romance, charm, and hard work necessary to be successful as a writer.

When I am working on a book or a story I write every morning as soon after first light as possible. There is no one to disturb you and it is cool or cold and you come to your work and warm as you write. You read what you have written and, as you always stop when you know what is going to happen next, you go on from there. You write until you come to a place where you still have your juice and know what will happen next and you stop and try to live through until the next day when you hit it again. You have started at six in the morning, say, and may go on until noon or be through before that. When you stop you are as empty, and at the same time never empty but filling, as when you have made love to someone you love. Nothing can hurt you, nothing can happen, nothing means anything until the next day when you do it again. It is the wait until the next day that is hard to get through.

Go, Create, Write (idlelore.com)
Writing habits (victoria-writes.com)
Why I don’t believe in writer’s block (wordservewatercooler.com)

John Steinbeck

Posted on January 29, 2013 by Pearson Sharp

Ever since I read East of Eden in like grade 11 it’s been one of my favourite books. I’ve never read anything else by Steinbeck, I’ve always meant to, but he’s remained someone to whom I ascribe brilliant writing to.

In any case, the other night I went to visit a relative just up the coast about half an hour and after dinner we got to talking books. Being a writer, I think I naturally have the instinct to steer all conversations in this direction—much as a boxer or engineer might direct the focus towards the latest matches or innovations in airframe technology or the sturdiest rivets or something. I don’t know. I’m not an engineer. In any case, they mentioned that my maternal grandfather was a friend of John Steinbeck.

Apparently the two of them used to go boating and fishing together, and had a good friendship that lasted many years. A trophy of this friendship happened to be a book, Sweet Thursday, that Steinbeck had autographed for my grandfather.

I was thrilled to hold such a valuable little artefact in my hands. Simply knowing that one of my favourite authors had been a friend of the family was thrilling enough, but to actually have a relic of those days was enormously exciting. It reminds me of the associations of Hemingway with Gertrude Stein and Picasso and F. Scott Fitzgerald and all the others.

I wonder if someday I’ll be friends with a famous author or artist and can simply call on them for tea or a drive up the coast to our favourite cafe. Or perhaps, better yet, people will speak with reverence as they hold a book by Pearson Sharp, autographed to their grandfather, and they try to imagine what it might have been like to know me. An author can dream.

art is everywhere

Posted on January 28, 2013 by Pearson Sharp

I think as artists we see the world differently. I mean, this isn’t a revelation. It’s well established. But there’s something to it that goes unnoticed by almost everyone as they go about their daily lives. I noticed it the other day when I was visiting family.

My grandfather has always been an avid sports enthusiast. Whenever there’s a Lakers game he is glued to the television, muttering and growling or haranguing the antics of the little men as they prance about their baskets.

I don’t notice this though. I notice the jerseys. Someone designed those. Who? I notice the team logos painted on the court. Some artist, somewhere, was commissioned to draw them and present them before a committee for approval. Who did that? When the camera pans over to the commentators in their boxes, gathered around a sleek, semi-circular desk, I don’t hear them talking about the half-court field goal, I notice the rotating ESPN sports logo in the centre of the desk.

Someone designed that, programmed it, thought about how it would look when it was spinning, as the letters pop up individually. Who? Who did that? Who thought up and created the flashing lights and arches that make up the stage where the commentators sit? Who wrote and composed the music?

These are just the background, the setting, for the events taking place there. But I am mesmerised by the flashing lights and the pageantry of the performances. Imagine watching a game without them. There would be no music, no stage, no jerseys, no spinning logos or designs, it would be an empty, hollow performance.

The same applies to our daily lives, every day on the street. The buildings around us, the taxi logos, the cars, our clothes, everything is a parade of artistry. Where would we be without it? We aren’t just living in our world, we’re trying to colour it.

As humans, we desperately need to express this inexpressible feeling we are driven by, consumed by, compelled by, even tormented by. We seek to take the ordinary and make it extraordinary. And I start to wonder about my own place in all of this. Where will my impact fall? Where and how will I make my presence known? Where, in all of this, is my art?

Oddjob

Posted on January 25, 2013 by Pearson Sharp

So I went up to Newport Beach yesterday to help a buddy set up his store. He’s got a pretty cool shop that he’s preparing to become an exotic car dealership. I know he already has forty-something cars, Ferraris and Mercedes and probably some Lamborghinis or something, I don’t even know. In any case, I spent the afternoon arranging little toy cars in display cases around the front desk. Apparently those cars are worth a ton of money. These are little Hot Wheels sized cars that were upwards of a thousand freaking dollars. Just for a little tiny piece of plastic! I guess they’re part of the pastiche of collectordom and depending on who drove the real car and when, their value is determined.

Well I found a car I really liked, the Aston Martin DB5 from the James Bond movie Goldfinger, and I got to take it home. I’m not sure how much it’s worth, but you can completely take it apart and it has an ejector seat and machine guns behind the tail lights and a bulletproof shield that springs up at the push of a button behind the rear window. I’m not sure if that was a standard feature on all Aston Martins at the time, but it should have been. Maybe someday I’ll own a DB5 for reals, but even if I don’t, I couldn’t park it on my desk and imagine beefy Chinamen throwing bowler hats at me all day.