Walking Raven

Back Back Story: Elfredge

I think it was sometime in 1982, but it could have been even a few years later, that my dad and I drove over from Forest City, Iowa to my hometown of Madelia, Minnesota. We stopped in at Luther Memorial Home, where he had served as the administrator from 1967 until the spring of 1973. While there, we ran into Julie Anderson’s mother who was employed there in some capacity or another. Julie had been one of my good friends during high school. I remember looking at her mom’s nameplate that to me read “Elfredge,” and thinking, “what a great name.” After all, I am a child of The Lord of the Rings. I am now fairly convinced I misread the nameplate. I still don’t know Mrs. Anderson’s name for sure, but I think it more closely resembles “Althea” — it could even be “Althea” — than “Elfredge.” Ever since that encounter, though, I knew if I ever wrote a book, I had a name for my hero.

Elfredge can currently be found on “Xbox Live” endeavoring to kill her fair share of Spartans and Elites as she traverses the various maps of Halo 2’s Rumble Pit. Look for her emblem, on a triangle field, or, valkyrie, tenne-vert.

Soon, however, she will meet her greatest foe. And who, you ask, might that be? Well, could it be, . . . SATAN? Maybe, but then again, maybe not.

Back Back Story

I’ve never taken a creative writing course or read a book on how to write fiction. Thus, it wasn’t until I read Jasper Fforde’s series featuring Spec Op Literary Detective Thursday Next that I became acquainted with the term “back story.” Conducting a “define: backstory” search on Google brought up several definitions of the term. Among them, according to Wikipedia:

In narratology, a back-story (also back story or backstory) is the history behind the situation extant at the start of the main story. This literary device is often employed to lend the main story depth or verisimilitude. A back-story may include the history of characters, objects, countries, or other elements of the main story. Back-stories are usually revealed, sketchily or in full, chronologically or otherwise, as the main narrative unfolds. However, a story creator may also create portions of a back-story or even an entire back-story that is solely for his or her own use in writing the main story and is never revealed in the main story.

(And folks give attorneys a bad rap for failing to use plain, simple language.)

Of course, instead of reading the book, one could simply see the movie; i.e., another definition that came up during my initial search was a glossary entry found in the “Fundamentals” section of the website www.scriptsales.com. There, “backstory” is defined simply as the “action and events that took place in a character’s life before the present events of the story.” Okay, okay, it’s a stretch — or is that reach?

Getting back, while composing this entry I learned that altering the search term to “back-story” or “back story” generated different results. For instance, when I returned to writing this blog entry and re-searched (get it?) using Wikipedia’s preferred form of the term; i.e., “back-story,” I only got one result — Wikipedia’s definition. Taking out the dash but leaving a space between “back” and “story” yielded more definitions than the first time around, although the scriptsales definition set forth above got dropped. I’m too lazy to find one of Fforde’s volumes to see what version he uses. Accordingly, I’ll let the majority rule, and use “back story.” (Though if someone somewhere managed to use all his or her tiles by turning the word “or” into “backstory” in a Scrabble game, I probably wouldn’t challenge it.)

All that, just to set up an explanation for the title of this blog entry — and you wonder why it’s taking me so long to write the damn book. At any rate, if a “back story” relates the “history behind the situation extant at the start of the novel,” then by my use of the term “back back story,” I mean to relate some of the history behind the situation extant to the day I finally sat down at my computer and typed the opening sentence. I’ve never talked to anyone about what it was like for them to write a novel, so I don’t know if my experience mirrors that of other writers, but I have a pretty clear sense of the handful of occurrences that lead to my “let there be” moment.

My brother taught me to read before I started kindergarten. (I taught him to tie his shoes.) From then until I finished my master’s comps, I don’t remember a time when I was without a book. Given my passion for reading, I suppose it was only natural that I would have literary aspirations of my own. I’ve always wanted to write fiction, but this desire has been stymied by my absolute inability to come up with any sort of plot. I used to think it was became I was lacking in creativity, but I know now that’s not exactly it. Over the years I’ve come up with some fairly decent and original approaches to writing about the literature I read or the legal issues I faced. So what’s the problem? Those of you who know me are well aware that I failed to inherit my father’s “direction gene.” Well, maybe I also lack the “fiction gene.” And so the phrase, “[n]ever be daunted” once again springs to mind. See August 4, 2005 entry. [For this entry I took the time to (what else?) run a Google search of the phrase. Turns out the line is spoken by a fellow named Bill Gorton in one of my all time favorite works of literature, The Sun Also Rises by Earnest Hemingway. But, I digress.]

Over the years, I have compensated for my lack of any sense of direction by making a conscious effort to learn directions and orient myself to where Albuquerque’s Sandia Mountains would be in any given place I find myself. My direction mantra for the last twenty-some years has been, “Mountain’s East.” These days, if I’m familiar with a location, I can pretty much direct folks to it and even tell them whether it’s on the northwest or southeast side of the street. I take great pride in knowing how to get from one end of the island of Manhattan to the other, including by way of the uptown or downtown subway trains on either the east or west side (and, for that matter, knowing which stops have shuttles that will take me from one side of the island to the other).

Enter the notion of nature or nurture. (Trading Places, great movie.) It may not be in my nature to write fiction, but hopefully I’ve nurtured enough of whatever it takes along the way at least to be able to tell this one story. It’s by no means a sure thing, though. Despite being adept at maneuvering my way around Manhattan, one could still take me back to the old homestead at Madelia, Minnesota and tell me to find my way to Grandma’s house in Rake, Iowa, a place we drove to many, many times when I was growing up. I could probably make it to the general vicinity, but actually being able to find the town would still be hit or miss — and there can be those pesky windmills along the way.

Plate O’ Shrimp

I have never taken a psychology course. I think, long ago, I may have read Man and His Symbols by Carl Jung. I know I carried a copy of it around for years, and consulted it in conjunction with a paper I wrote long ago and far away about androgyny and Monique Wittig’s Les Guérillères. I am aware that Jung believes in the existence of a collective unconsciousness. Indeed, that concept forms the basis of my all time favorite New Yorker cartoon, captioned “James Joyce’s Refrigerator:”

If you can’t quite make it out, the “To Do” list reads:

1. Call Bank
2. Dry Cleaner
3. Forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race.
4. Call mom

I liked it so much I had the cartoon transferred to a t-shirt. Seehttp://www.cartoonbank.com/.

Even so, I was unaware, until I conducted a Google search of the term “synchronicity” for this blog entry, that Jung actually coined the word to describe two contemporaneous events that are linked together in a meaningful manner. I vividly recall a dinner conversation with my blogmate mjh and his wife Merri about the subject. After telling them about a synchronistic moment in my life, both of them, simultaneously uttered, “Plate of shrimp.” When asked to explain, they told me about the exploration of the topic in the film Repo Man. I immediately went out and rented said film, and have since acquired the DVD. In one scene, Miller, the groundskeeper for an automobile repossession firm, explains to Otto, the newest repoman,

A lot of people don’t realize what’s really going on. They view life as a bunch of unconnected incidents of things. They don’t realize that there’s this, like, lattice of coincidence that lays [sic] on top of everything. Give you an example. Show you what I mean. Suppose you’re thinking about a plate of shrimp. Suddenly somebody will say, like, “plate” or “shrimp” or “plate of shrimp,” out of the blue, no explanation. No point in looking for one either. It’s all part of the cosmic unconsciousness.

In a subsequent scene, the following is taped on the door of a diner:

Plate O' Shrimp Luncheon Special

In thinking about and researching this novel, I have had a number of “plate of shrimp” experiences. It seems as though every time I come up with a character or a plot point or a back story detail, the next day I read or see my idea in someone else’s book or movie. Sometimes the coincidence is quite remarkable. Those are the times I think maybe I really have tapped into The Collective Unconsciousness. I guess it really does all go back to Gilgamesh or The Bible or any number of other ancient writings and oral traditions. Maybe someday we’ll know how much has actually gotten coded into our DNA. When I get discouraged about the fact there really appears to be nothing new under the sun, my friends and family assure me that no one has quite yet told the story the way I intend to tell the story. So here goes, “Once upon a time . . .”

It’s Only Words

Just to clarify, I suffer from writer’s malaise as opposed to writer’s block. That is, I know precisely what I want to write — at least for the next hundred pages or so. I am simply unable to summon the energy required to translate the stuff of which my novel is made into written form. As a general rule, I am a product, not a process, person. It seems, however, that the novel is too big a product for me to produce of a piece. In part, then, these Walking Raven entries will serve as a way for me to marshal my thoughts and research about a character or other aspect of the narrative to produce smaller, more manageable pieces. This exercise may spoil a few punch lines in the novel for those of you who can still remember one day from the next, but for whatever reason, I seem to have this need to tell you the story of the story before I can write the rest of the story. And so, as one of my law school professors was wont to say, “Let’s begin, please.” And we might as well begin at the beginning (well, nearly the beginning).

Aside from a brief stint as a teen-aged poet, I produced relatively little by way of the written word that was of any consequence well into my twenties, notwithstanding that I was an English major. Papers were agony and usually turned out badly. (What’s the written equivalent for “tongue-tied?”) Only after my first year in a master’s English program did I find my voice for scholarly (as opposed to creative) writing. I coulda’ been a contendah in academia. Instead, I went to law school and entered private practice. The mid-80s to the mid-90s are a blur of work (and golf) and very little else.

My biggest regret during those years was that I virtually stopped reading for pleasure. I am ashamed to say I can probably count on one hand, and certainly two, the number of books I read during that time. I did, however, have ample opportunity to hone my writing skills. I wrote literally hundreds of supporting memoranda and trial and appellate briefs. By the time I retired from the practice of law, I felt fairly comfortable stringing words together in sentences and paragraphs. To have the words accurately communicate what I want to say, though, continues to be a long, and often painful, process. I’m thankful that, unlike some writers, I can use my computer for most of the process. Before I had access to a word processing program, my paper needs required the death of way too many trees. If I can really get this together, perhaps they will not have all died in vain.

Why are We Here?

I suspect many of you may be surprised to learn that on some level I believe the answer to the title question is essentially the answer Jesus Christ ostensibly gave to the rich young man in response to his question, “[W]hat good thing shall I do, that I may have eternal life?” The author of the Gospel of Matthew tells us that Christ replied, “If thou wilt be perfect, go and sell that thou hast, and give to the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in heaven: and come and follow me.” (And Liberation Theology was born.) The biblical passage continues, “[b]ut when the young man heard that saying, he went away sorrowful: for he had great possessions.” This action on the part of the young man prompted Christ to utter one of his more famous declarations, “And again I say unto you, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God.” Matthew 19: 16, 21-22, 24 (KJV). Even though I grew up Lutheran, “grace, not works” never quite did it for me. For me, it’s pretty much black and white. I just don’t think a person can be a Christian and still have a swimming pool unless and until everybody who wants a swimming pool has a swimming pool.

For that matter, putting a Christian face on what I consider my responsibility to my fellow inhabitants of this planet is just one more way to excuse my inaction. In truth, I believe everyone, regardless of race, color, creed, religion, gender — does “gender” replace “sex” these days? I’ve neglected to keep up. If so, does “gender orientation” replaced “sexual orientation?” I just want to use the most up-to-date terms of inclusiveness, so that no one escapes — should do whatever it takes to ensure that everyone else in the world has more than the bare necessities, rather that everyone has enough. I’ve no doubt this could happen. For instance, the economist Jeffrey Sachs has written a book entitled The End of Poverty: Economic Possibilities For Our Time in which, I’m told by the Amazon blurb, he details how the foundation for such an outcome; i.e., ending “global extreme poverty,” could be put in place in a matter of 20 years — probably much sooner if, indeed, everyone’s energy and attention was focused on factoring the needs of the world’s population to the lowest common denominator and taking it from there. That said, I have chosen to keep my toys, and so, worst case, hell awaits. (”I can swear there ain’t no heaven, but I pray there ain’t no hell, . . . but I’ll never know by living, only my dying will tell, only my dying will tell.” Laura Nyro, And When I Die.)

You’re probably asking yourself about now, where in the world is Kris going with all of this? Well, much as I try to ignore the flapping, every so often these days, I get a glimpse of time’s winged chariot in my peripheral vision. As many of you know, my lungs are trashed. COPD. Classic panlobular emphysema, to be exact. Not long after my initial diagnosis, I was advised to get on a lung transplant list because the wait for lungs was up to three (or even more) years and there was speculation mine wouldn’t hold out even that long. Thankfully, they have. The latest prediction (as of late 2004) is that I have a 45% chance of making it five years with the lungs as they are, or a 55% chance of making it five years with new lung(s). Either way it goes downhill from there. I’m sticking with my lungs for the present, though my recent (first) hospitalization as the result of an acute exacerbation event was certainly a wake up call. I had no idea. Also, not too long ago, I had a rather sobering discussion with a pulmonologist who felt the need to tell me that in his opinion the odds of my actually undergoing a lung transplant are “slim to slim.” I try not to obsess. After all, even the prospect of a few good years may be wishful thinking. I could come down with pneumonia tomorrow or get hit by an SUV or there might be an accidental launch of nuclear warheads that wipes out the planet. Hopefully, though, I’ve got at least five more years.

So the threshold issue becomes what to do in these next five years. The lungs have somewhat circumscribed my choices. Travel and golf require the expension (have I just made up a word? My OED says why yes, yes I have) of too much energy. Becoming semi-adept at chess or bridge requires more time than I’m willing to devote to those endeavors at this juncture. The same goes for learning the language of mathematics or poetry. (When I think of the time I’ve saved reaching these conclusions, why I’m feeling younger already.)

At present, I spend my days either reading or playing computer/video games. I read the Writer’s Almanac every morning and the New York Times Book Review, and whenever a book or an author strikes my fancy, I add another selection to my Amazon Wishlist. Once the total for books exceeds $25, thereby qualifying for free shipping, I place an order. My “reading list” is a two-shelf bookcase that holds about 100 books. Over time, even though I manage to finish one or two books a week, it’s filled up and the overflow has spilled over onto my computer desk shelf. As for video games, I possess both an X-box and a PS2. I adore FPSs (First Person Shooters) (Halo, Max Payne, etc.) and I have many, many yet to play. I could, without more, easily do nothing other than read and play games for the next five years. Most of me believes that in the end, doing nothing other than reading and playing will “matter” about as much as anything else I might choose to do in the time I have left.

Nonetheless, even the most cynical part of me finds it hard to believe that the answer to why I am here is to kill aliens on my x-box. I know what I’d like the answer to be. I’d like it if my destiny is to write this novel I’ve been thinking about for nearly twenty years. Before my diagnosis, I had conducted a significant amount of research, outlined the basic plot points as they had presently been revealed, and written about a hundred pages. You’d think, after all the books I’ve read about the need to discover one’s destiny, and upon its discovery the hero’s inevitable failure or refusal to follow said destiny, coupled with having been diagnosed with a terminal illness, that I should already have realized my destiny and have a manuscript in the hands of an agent. But NOOOOOO. Even though I’m on disability and have days on end to write, like Isabel Archer in Henry James’ The Portrait of a Lady, who once had the world before her and turned away, I can be as stubborn about fulfilling my destiny as the next person. I have, at best, half-heartedly continued to work on the book. I’ve continued to add to the research pile and have “polished” about half of the already written portion. I created Walking Raven in the hope it would provide a jump-start. Act as if, and all that. So far to no avail.

But I remember that someone, somewhere, in a book I read or a movie I saw or a play I attended kept repeating throughout, “Never be daunted!” So I’m renewing my effort to write my novel. And whether anyone reads this blog or not, I knew when it debuted and I still know that it will play an integral part in the fulfillment of my destiny (if one ascribes to such things).

Postscript

Since I began thinking about the particulars of my novel, I have had more than a few “DO do DO do” (think Twilight Zone theme song) moments. I had one in connection with this particular entry. On or about the same day I began writing it, I finished reading The Winter Queen by Boris Akunin — quite good, by the by. I recently arranged my reading list bookcase alphabetically by author, and the next book up would have been Bless Me Ultima by Rudolfo Anaya. Instead, I decided I’d change the selection format and read the first book the title of which began with “A.” It turned out to be the 10th anniversary edition of The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho. For those of you who have already read it, well, imagine my surprise. For those of you who have not, give it a read and imagine my surprise.

B’mer and Joe

A few years ago, B’mer f/k/a It’s a Hubba Bubba appeared as the featured greyhound in an edition of the Greyhound Companions of New Mexico’s newsletter. We learned that since B’mer’s retirement from the track, and through no fault of her own, she had been placed in three different homes in nearly as many years. She was nine years old and needed somewhere to grow old in peace. Darcy and I couldn’t stand it, so we called Judy Paulson, a representative for Greyhound Companions of New Mexico (http://www.gcnm.org) and a wonderful human being to boot. She’d helped us adopt our two big boys, Devon and Dante, and she was delighted to learn that we wanted to give them an older sister. Judy arranged for us to visit B’mer at her foster home that evening. She turned out to be as advertised, a sweet, darling red head with soulful eyes but who always had a smile on her face. She had a tuft of hair standing straight up on the back of her neck, so we called her our Rhodesian Ridgeback Greyhound. A few months ago my brother came for an extended visit, and he and B’mer became fast friends. He nicknamed her “Maime” because of her resemblance to Maime Eisnehower. All she lacked was a pillbox hat. Last April, at thirteen, B’mer finally succumbed to complications resulting from a degenerative spinal condition.

After our first greyhound Devon died (see July 5, 2004 post), we declared, “no more greyhounds.” We planned to attrition back to a family comprised of humans and cats. However, Dante, our remaining greyhound, was devastated by B’mer’s absence from his life. He hated being the only dog. In addition, like B’mer, he had become extremely attached to my brother who was slated to move on to LA in mid-July. And then, on July 9, 2005, Darcy’s birthday, Judy called to say she had just retrieved a boy greyhound from the track who was white with brindle coloring and had “funny ears.” He was only a year and a half old and hadn’t cut it as a racer because all he wanted to do at the track was play. We had spent the week mourning our beloved Devon. (He would have been 10 on July 10.) It seemed like fate, if one ascribes to that sort of thing, so we arranged for Judy to bring Joe over. We loved him. Dante loved him. He learned quickly that the cats don’t want to play. The balance has been restored.

Joe & Dante