Mario Milosevic

I was a library nut when I was a kid. I’d go at least once a week, sometimes more, and check out the maximum number of books they allowed. (I’m still the same way, but that’s a story for another post.) I thought there was nothing better in the world than the public library. I loved spending time in it and I loved just knowing it existed.

It took me a while to accumulate enough capital to actually buy a book of my own, rather than borrow it from the library. One of the first ones I purchased was a Dover edition of a book I first encountered on the library shelves and decided I had to have for my own: The Devil’s Dictionary by Ambrose Bierce. The book is a collection of satirical, witty, sardonic, and just plain funny definitions of everything from Abasement to Zoology.

Who knows what drew an eleven year old to such a dismal view of the world? Could I have been as pessimistic about life as this book? Probably not. It hardly seems possible, given my more or less charmed middle class upbringing. Nevertheless, I do remember enjoying the definitions. I still own the book and still dip into it occasionally. Bierce had the sharpest wit of anyone I’ve ever encountered, in print or in real life. Also the most unrelentingly cynical grasp of human nature. His ability to find the negative in everything still warrants my admiration. Just try these definitions on for size:

EGOIST, n. A person of low taste, more interested in himself than in me.

FAMOUS, adj. Conspicuously miserable.

NEIGHBOR, n. One whom we are commanded to love as ourselves, and who does all he knows how to make us disobedient.

RESOLUTE, adj. Obstinate in a course that we approve.

VOTE, n. The instrument and symbol of a freeman’s power to make a fool of himself and a wreck of his country.

My copy of Bierce’s singular lexicon has a $1.25 cover price, which gives you some idea of just how long I’ve had it.

What book do you still have from when you were a pre-teen?

Five times a day, sometimes more, I showered: before breakfast, after breakfast, midday, early evening, and just before bed. Also, baths, twice a day: after lunch and during the evening meal. I washed my hands at least hourly. I bought soap only when it was heavily discounted. All this disowning of dirt contributed to my immaculate well being. I was constantly fresh and ready to face my troubles. Insects and dogs avoided me. I was so clean they did not recognize me as part of their world. People regarded me with awe. I acknowledged their understandable adoration. I positively glowed.

Driving north on the I-5 yesterday, we passed a truck hauling a boat. The boat’s name, displayed prominently on the stern, was Current Toy, which is a marvelous name for a boat. Seeing it made me think about names in general. I’m one of those guys who has trouble with names. People I’ve seen in town for years, and know as casual acquaintances, I have trouble with their names. Heck, people I’ve worked with for years I sometimes fuzz out on their names. It can be embarrassing. And books, well, forget it. I barely manage to keep track of character names during the course of reading a novel. No way I can recall them after I’ve finished the book. This is even true of books I’ve written.

My good friend Nenad Dragicevic is a sly inventor of names. His sequence of bestiary posts from my old CR blog displays his inventiveness to good effect. Readers of that old blog may recall some of my own strange names: Dandelion Streetscape, Rainmaker Thirdgear, Coldkey Pianobones, Bitpart Stripmine, Corkscrew Speakeasy, and so on. I liked making them up, and they helped me kick start my imagination for some of my more bizarre scenarios.

One evening a few years ago I suddenly got this urge to make up a bunch of them. I spent two or three hours just writing down juxtapositions of everday things that might become names. I raided that list for many of my CR posts. Here’s most of the ones I didn’t use.

moviestar
brokenglass
bifocal
kickstand
doorknob
thebigone
phosphene
picnicants
lawnmower
laserprinter
farmland
phonecall
crackedelbow
magicmarker
waspnest
cheekbone
pipestem
birdfeeder
upperhand
slipcase
lossleader
redlight
doubleslit
dirtroad
blackhills
wirehanger
floodlight
hideaway
jailcell
friedegg
splitend
mailbox
bluestate
rockbottom
rockingchair
skidcontrol
broomhandle
diningcar
lampost
snowflake
rooftile
middenpile
devilnose
packedhouse
seatbelt
eardrum
trafficjam
flattire
crossbreed
widowmaker
backpack
beanbag
chainlock
pushbroom
flipflap
handlebar
chairleg
forktongue
checkerboard
cuphandle
frontallobe
frayededge
cheesecloth
curlingiron
musketcharge
exactchange
passinglane
smalltown
towtruck
shoulderblade
tissuepaper
speedzone
heartbreak
clothesline
afterlife
fallback
springahead
mercywood
bellringer
pottingsoil
sheetrock
guardduty
filmvault
smokestack
punchdrunk
afterimage
moustrap
elementaryparticle
mutebutton
thoughtballoon
cheesegrater
lobstertail
fireplace
trainingwheels
cornfield
neonsign
curtainrod
trapdoor
dustjacket
wateringcan
sneakerwave
feedback
afterimage
highbeam
dealbreaker
leadpencil
nametag
middleman
yesman
gemstone
meltingpot
gradschool
logcabin
bluebook
carpool
roadkill
greasyspoon
overeasy

If you want to make up your own weird CR name, it’s real easy. Just take two items from the list and put them together. Thus: Bluestate Diningcar would be a great name for a traveling sales person. Or Chainlock Forktongue could be the name of an introverted doctor. Yes, this is the way I sometimes amuse myself, and I make no excuses for it.

Though I like observing and looking for birds, I don’t have an extensive life list, and I haven’t even written mine down as serious bird watchers do. My all time favorite bird to watch is the sanderling, a shore bird often seen in flocks on the Oregon coast and other beaches. Sanderlings move rapidly along the surf like wind up toys. They are so charming I could watch them for hours. This youtube video gives an idea of their locomotion, but seeing a flock of them moving rapidly on the sand is a unique experience and always worth a trip to the coast.

E. J. Peiker has a good page of close up photos of sanderlings. He is an amazing nature photographer with, obviously, an extensive life list of birds. He’s put up many hundreds of his photos on his website and indexed them according to type of bird. It’s well worth browsing through his pictures. Some of the photos are so life like I almost feel justified in adding them to my life list. Not that I would. I’m just saying.

I won the lottery. Two dollars. A one hundred percent return on my investment. I was flush with smugness and contentment. Until my relatives found out. Then I had no peace: Can you lend me a dime? Just until payday? Please? I spent hours prioritizing requests for help. And that was before my interview on channel two. Then it got even worse: My son needs more lunch money. My husband can’t buy the newpaper today. How could I choose? I couldn’t. I developed hives. I took my winnings and went into seclusion. Me and my dollar are very happy now.

Here’s Eileen Gunn, in her book Stable Strategies and Others, quoting William Gibson on the secret of writing:

“You must learn to overcome your very natural and appropriate revulsion for your own work.”

When I read that sentence I was stunned. It was like he was talking to me because what I have had to overcome is my revulsion for rewriting. I love doing first drafts. First drafts are fun. First drafts are creative and juicy and exhilarating and intoxicating and mind expanding and liberating, and…well, you get the idea. First drafts are just fun.

But rewriting. Oh boy. That’s where the work part starts because when I go back to all that juicy intoxication and reread it, well, let’s just say there’s a certain amount of Gibsonian revulsion involved. That first draft is always so much less than what I thought it was.

What to do? The best strategy I’ve found is to grit my teeth and do ten pages of rewrite at a time. That’s all. Just ten pages, then put it aside until the next day. (I owe Dean Wesley Smith a big thank you for that suggestion.) It works.

After a while, the revulsion goes away and I actually begin to enjoy the process. Which is a nice happy ending to the story, don’t you think?

Another enigmatic entry from one of my old notebooks:

6 January 2003

He Walked with a lisp.
She Talked with a limp.
Their children went into

A list that must have amused me:

17 Feb 2003 Monday 12:20 a.m.

spots
spat
pot
past
pest
step

Sometimes I see something that sets off strange connections:

5 May 2003

“Doctor Locke”—chiseled into the concrete on the sidewalk next to where we parked.
Doc Locke?
Docke Loc
Dok Lok
Dock Lock

Kim and I thought about doing a Star Trek novel once. We made these brainstorming notes over lunch one day in Portland. We never wrote the novel.

2 Jun 03

Poetry in Motion

signal with poetry
have to answer?

crew speaking in rhyme
interferes w/ ship’s function
Spock figures epic poem of a culture
To free they must come up w/ next verse

Mission before this difficult
Want to go home, told to investigate.
Get closer to signal, poetry instead of crankiness
Everyone thinks calming except McCoy—maybe on last mission no one listened to him.

Poetry weirds out dilithium crystals—no warp
computer shutting down
supplies depleted / no communication

Go to space station to figure it out
Maybe planet is in jeopardy because of Kirk
Maybe they have a time limit
They discover on space station

Maybe last time Kirk acted too quickly, believing crew was in jeopardy, & he was wrong. This time maybe he restrains himself.

Here’s a short item I clipped out of New Scientist and pasted into my notebook:

22 November 2003

LIFE AFTER DEATH
Brain death is not quite what it seems. For several days after we die, new neurons are born in the hippocampus. This seems to be a response to the lack of oxygen, which released a range of growth-stimulating chemicals.

We were a close knit group in those days, spending our working hours several floors underground. We knew close to a hundred languages between us, which allowed us to translate any document that came our way during the conflict. That is, until our commander brought us an intercepted missive and told us it was top priority, very important to the war effort. We took the document and leafed through it eagerly, only too ready to help our comrades in arms. Every page was completely blank. We were dumbfounded and frightened. We looked up, opened our mouths, but could not speak.

If you haven’t seen “Shelf Life” by Adrian Tomine, the hilarious cover of the current New Yorker, it’s worth seeking out. There’s a teeny tiny version of it on this page and a bigger version on the artist’s website here (currently the 4th box in the top row). It depicts the book publishing process in nine wordless panels. 1. Author writes book. 2. Agent presents book (and author) to publisher. 3. Publisher loves book. 4. Publisher prints book. 5. Book arrives in bookstores. 6. Reader enjoys book. 7. Reader discards book. 8. Homeless person finds discarded book. 9. Homeless person and friend warm themselves on a cold evening by burning discarded book in a barrel.

You’ll notice that by the 9th panel the book is serving a very useful physical function, which is something we can all aspire to.

I bring up this mini tragicomedy of authorial effort because I have just completed my rewrite of Art Saves Lives and have sent it off to my agent, which means I am in that anticipatory twilight zone, floating around in the featureless whiteness somewhere between panels 1 and 2, hoping against hope that someday someone will warm themselves by my words. That is, I hope to get the gears rolling so I can make it to panel 9.

Not that I’m sitting around twiddling my thumbs while I wait. I have jumped into the rewrite of the next book, The Last Giant, with wild abandon.

Really now, what’s not to like about the writing life?

The eclipse stained the moon copper, then the color dripped from the moon’s face like water streaming over a stone in a river. We watched as velvet folds of red light draped the sky then slowly descended over us and seeped into our mouths, noses, and ears. A brief panic ensued. But soon we accepted the comfort of invading moonlight. We lifted our heads, smiles on our faces. The eclipse was over, but, inexplicably, the moon was now gone. Tidal upheavals grabbed at our ankles. We lifted our legs. We stepped as slowly and as carefully as was humanly possible.