I've finished this story that it feels like I've been trying to write my whole life. I started it the summer I was fifteen and taking swimming lessons from a set of twin brothers. Handwritten in a spiral notebook, when school started that fall, it was passed around and around and when it made its way back to me, I wrote the next chapter. And it was terrible stuff- but everyone waited breathlessly to see who would emerge in the next chapter and before long, I had three on-going stories. At some point, I didn't know how to end the stories and put the notebooks away. People complained, but as the writer, I was in charge of what was out there and what wasn't. I still have those notebooks stashed away in a box in the basement, and I didn't consult them for this story I just completed. They weren't relevant to the story I was writing- as if they were practice drafts.

I couldn't have written the story I just finished when I was fifteen. I didn't have enough perspective to see the big picture. I didn't have the writing skills and a sense of tone, pace, and character. I didn't know how to make transitions or how to carry a theme without overdoing it. But I knew a good plot! I knew what made people want to read and I had to write for readers. I could have been content to scribble my tales and stash the notebook under the bed with everything else I kept under there, but I longed for readers. I wanted their input, their reaction, and lived for their begging for more. I still write for readers. Don't we all? Isn't that why we blog? If we didn't, we'd write in private journals and lock them up with tiny keys. 

The reader is the missing part of any story. They bring their own preconceptions, experiences, relationships, beliefs, and ideas to the story. It enriches the tale and brings it to life. Without readers, it would be just another file on my laptop.

This is why publishing is a critical part of writing for me. I have a burning need to publish- to see my books in stranger's hands, to watch them from a distance while they giggle, frown, or even throw the book down in disgust (may that not happen too frequently!). 

I'm in that funny place that I'm always in after I finish a project- at loose ends with myself, a bit off kilter, trying to figure out what I need to do next. It's too soon to begin the next project or even to begin the marketing for this one. I need to get feedback from its beta readers and until I have that, I'm in limbo. What to do?

Off to watch Taiwanese dramas... maybe. Maybe I should add a coat of red paint to the storage unit I'm working on - nearly as long as the cross stitch that I've been doing every Christmas for thirty years.

Maybe... I can begin thinking about a new idea. I was wondering about something where the main lead is a modern day pirate- a real one- except what career would a real modern day pirate have? Corporation Acquisition? Hasn't that been done to death? I told you it was too soon to start a new project! If that's the best I can do, maybe I should just go outside and pick up sticks and rake leaves into piles to mow over.

The grandbaby arrives Thursday for her first no-parent overnight. I have my brother's four youngest Saturday overnight at his house. My parents are coming Monday. So it's just today I have to occupy myself.

I'm wondering if I'll do NANOWRIMO this year since I just finished a marathon writing journey. I can't decide. 

In other news- two-thirds of Vanness' new Chinese CD is done! And he's signed with a new company so there should be more regular CDs after this. It's been a long time since his last one. I heard that Terry Tye Lee has created a couple of songs at least for this one... which makes me ecstatic! 

That evening, we sat in the pews, rejoicing as good news of each church member who worked in the trade center drifted in. Living through the grief, fear, and anxiety, we needed to be together, to see each other, to touch each other. Cell phones didn't work and we had no way of knowing who was safe and who wasn't until they were home and able to contact us. We were on our knees, begging for good news, begging for safe passage, and we weren't sure who was missing and who was never coming home.

Local news channels were gone for days, leaving us dependent on CNN or Fox news. The rumors were wild and true. We counted each loss, fearing the worse, knowing in our hearts that this day would scar us forever.

School had been really bad- in all my years of teaching, it had never been so horrible. Parents and staff members crying uncontrollably, losing it in front of the students. Students crying and acting out from the fear that they'd never see their family again. Parents broke through the doors to get to their children and told everyone, in between sobs, that World War 3 had started. Under lockdown, we tried to keep students preoccupied when all anyone wanted to do was watch the tv set and talk to their loved ones. Almost everyone had been touched in some way- had a story to tell about the day. Was the world ending? Was this the beginning of the end? No one knew, and the not knowing hung over us. When dismissal time came, we weren't sure that the students would be allowed to leave, but we didn't have enough water or food to keep everyone under lock and key for too long. Police escorts arrived at the school as we dismissed students one by one to a relative or family friend. Driving home, the sound of air raid sirens made you crouch in your car and you hesitated to stop at red lights. Already our fire fighters were on their way to the city to relieve what was left of the NYC force. 

Bob had lived through the earlier bombing of the Trade Center, and was running late that morning. Bob was never late, but he couldn't find his razer, couldn't find his shoes, couldn't find his keys. He caught the later train into the city and sat on it, dead in its tracks, while the towers burned. It took him hours to return home, alive and well. When he entered the sanctuary, we reached out to touch him, to reassure ourselves that he was real and still with us. 

Raheem had an appointment at the Trade Center that morning, but the person he was supposed to meet had the flu and called him just as he left for the city to reschedule the meeting. Some parents left for work that morning and never returned. Everyone was touched. We all knew someone who was never coming home that night, who was in the wrong place at the wrong time, killed just because they went to work that morning like they were supposed to do as reliable citizens. 

The only planes in the sky for days were military jets, flying patrol, trying to keep us safe from the next attack. How silent the sky felt when they weren't circling it. There was a raid on the house around the corner from school, and the street was closed off while the FBI and others searched it, taking the inhabitants away. They were part of the terrorists group, rumor said, as if it knew something. 

The thing that amazed me was the country's reaction to the horror on the East Coast. How could people on the other side of the country care about how we were feeling? How could they even know what we were feeling? It was personal to us. It was our beloved ones. It was our lives turned upside down. But they did... they cared a lot. More than a localized attack on the city and nation's capital, it was an attack on the entire nation, leaving us hurting and angry, feeling betrayed and alone. 

How do you trust someone who looks different from you after this? When you've been attacked by people who look like the people pumping your gas or charging you for your Slurpee, you see evil everywhere you look. You have to remind yourself that trust is a critical part of being human, to be the kind of person that won't let an act of terror rob you of more than it's already taken. Tolerance you teach the child who has dark circles under his eyes from the night terrors the experience has left behind. Forgiveness, you say to yourself, makes you strong as you watch one more funeral, one more memorial, one more good-bye forever. We worried about innocent people being attacked in acts of revenge. We wanted revenge, we all did, but we didn't want innocent people hurt in the process. Too many innocent people had already died in this act of hate. 

There were many heroes that day and in the days that followed, but the scars remain forever on the heart of a nation. How quickly the anger dissolved and people forgot. How much longer before 9/11 becomes just another date on the calendar or a trivial question. Where were you when you heard about 9/11? Where were you when JFK was shot? Where were you when.... ?

Revisited and revised from 2004...

He wore his sorrow as if it didn't fit and pulled in awkward places and pinched in others. He stuttered slightly and swallowed, trying to form words that wouldn't come naturally. The audience barely breathed, as if our breath was being sucked into his soul and giving him strength. Finally, after saying her name softly, he turned his back, wiped at his tears, and lifted his flute to his lips.

From the air holes in the traditional instrument, sorrow flew, with wings of eagles, darting in the heavy summer heat before landing on us. 

There is no word for love in our language, the man said introducing the artist, there is only doing. Love is action, not emotion. What my brother does here is an act of love for his beloved. Listen.

We listen. Our hearts listen. Our souls listen as he says goodbye to the one he can't live without. The personal, intimate goodbye shared collectively as we feel his pain, his hurt, his confusion. We are family. We are carrying his burden with him in order that he won't falter on the rocks.

The notes soar in the breeze, circle above the tent like white doves being released from captivity, and escape into the open air. Goodbye my beloved. You are loved. You are mine. You are... no more.

When the last note was gone, all too soon, he took his flute from his lips, and straighten up. The sorrow belonged to him now. It no longer pulled and pinced, but fit as if it was an old friend, a well worn cowboy hat, a pair of broken in boots. Too soon he left the stage and the next performer started.

It was an honor hearing this man, this world renown artist, who rarely plays his flute in public, share his music, the performer said. It was more than an honor, I thought. It was brotherhood in action. It was love in action. It was a miracle. It was... Goodbye, my beloved.

Ok... this is very odd. I've just heard from a very reliable source that my blog here is AWOL... missing... leaving behind a few photos and a chat box... but it looks like it's here to me. Has anyone else heard of that happening? Or have had a similar experience?? This may be an exercise in futility- either I'm here and you can read me fine, or I'm gone and this doesn't exist. Never thought my blog would have a crisis of existential being... the owner does regularly so I guess there's been some overlap. Sigh!

I can relate to Herb Vogel, the mailman/art collector from NYC who with his wife lived in a one bedroom, rent controlled apartment in Manhattan where they lived on her research library salary and spent his on unknown, still affordable artists for their entire married life. They collected not just one or two pieces by an artist, but Herb wanted the best by each one, often buying on credit.

Herb liked to think of it as going deeper into the artist, seeing something not shown by one or two words that you can only see by being surrounded by an entire body of work. He had an eye for art that went beyond what the artist could see sometimes. More than this is good, that is better, this belongs, this is out of place, Herb saw something else- something unexplainable, and he didn't try to explain it, saying, "We liked it, it was affordable, and it fit in our apartment." His criteria for buying any new work was that simple.

But the networking is more complex. He'd see an artist who'd introduce him to a friend or an influence, and then Herb and his wife, Dorothy, would move on to the new artist. There is an interconnectedness to their collection. Impossible to see as a whole since their tiny apartment didn't have enough wall, ceiling, floor space to show everything, the connectedness was in Herb's mind. Not buying what is hot, what will sell, what will gain in value, Herb and Dorothy bought because it spoke to them in a real way and they had to own it.

Buying on a mailman's salary without selling any of their collection to pay for new pieces meant that they didn't have the financial resources to compete with big spenders and museums, but it also meant that they could afford to buy what had meaning to them without interference from the Art world. Unknowns, on the cutting edge, broke and struggling, the artists they bought from didn't have many other benefactors at the time. It meant money for more supplies, for rent, and a bit of ego stroking knowing you finally sold something. But if Herb saw something in your art, he wanted more and more, as if he needed it more than he needed food. That's the driving obsession part. 

Their apartment looked more like an Art Hoarder's place than a gallery and their family thought they were crazy- doing without vacations, furniture, computers when all they had to do was sell a piece of art or two and be wealthy. But how do you sell something that is a piece of you, that is incomplete without the rest of the collection? Herb couldn't do it. And finally, they donated most of their collection to the National Art Museum- taking five moving vans to empty out the place. I wonder how Herb could let it go like that. Was it time for them to quit being caretakers of their collection and pass it on?

It's the interconnectedness that I relate to- the need for missing piece, the thing that will make the last piece fit better, that will introduce to you a new mental path to follow down. That's the way it is with many obsessive collectors, I suspect. People talk like it's the big search for the Holy Grail feeling, but that's the easy explanation. More than the Hunt, more than the adventure, more than the puzzle, there is a need driving the obsession. 

Today I found an early Takeshi Kaneshiro movie, China Dragon, a copy of City Hunter with Jackie Chan (subbed, not dubbed), and two older Bollywood films by Shahrakh Khan. I left behind a Sammo Hung movie because it was $20 used, but I'm already plotting my return. Here's the interconnectedness. There wouldn't be a Jackie Chan if Sammo didn't exist. Sammo made it big enough in the Hong Kong film industry that he had enough influence to get work for Jackie when no one else wanted to hire him. He's also the father of Jimmy Hung (Tension and Vanness Wu's business partner). The father of modern martial arts (gritty, urban, realistic, one-on-one) in movies, Sammo is one of those major connections that has strings out to unexpected places. Owning an early Sammo Hung with subs not dubs is like Herb Vogel owning a Sol LeWit. I guess I need to get back in the car asap and go pick up that copy of "She Shoots Straight/Lethal Lady (1990). 

... the less I know.

Funny how that works, isn't it?  

It's a big world out there, with all kinds of customs, virtues, beliefs, organizations, thought patterns, histories, and learnings. If you study 24 hours a day, you can't take it all in. So what's a person to do? Acknowledge how much more you have to learn and dig back into it. Or at least that's my only solution... 

There's a quote in my new screenwriting book by Turgenev. It says "It is a strange thing. A composer studies harmony and theory of musical form; a painter doesn't paint a picture without knowing something about colors and design; architecture requires basic schooling. Only when somebody makes the decision to start writing, he believes he doesn't need to learn anything and that anybody who has learned to put words on a paper can be a writer." (The Tools of Screenwriting by David Howard and Edward Mabley. p.xviii).

It goes on to say...

"There is so much for any writer to know and learn continuously that one book couldn't cover even the basics. There isn't an area of life, a branch of human knowledge, that couldn't become the object of the writer's interest. But there is one skill that needs to be acquired foremost: the ability to express and shape one's visions."

For me, it remains about telling the best story I can tell... all the time... and that requires an indepth knowledge of the world around me. How does it think? What are its perceptions? Where does its beliefs come from? When I start to get cocky and think I finally understand then I am exposed to something new and realize that I only know a small fraction of what is required to tell the story. A well told tale can change civilization, or so I've been told!

My lack of knowledge doesn't interfere with my storytelling. I write on (and on and on and on) and edit later when I have the missing piece. If you wait until you have the entire puzzle solved, you'll never put a word on paper (or on the computer screen). But I seriously study the art and craft of writing because it makes a difference in my writing ability. It's not relying on talent but insisting on craft that drives me.

Good question.

I think the writing part of my soul took a vacation and left me with a stack of books to read and a ton of Bollywood films to watch, but I'm all read out and all Bollywood movie-d out and the ideas are flowing faster than my fingers. I can't write fast enough or on enough projects. I want to finish them all- right now! I've spent some time looking at stagnant tales and have fresh ideas for them. The new screenplay is moving quickly. I registered for a writing conference. I've been researching some markets. I made a pitch for the new screenplay to a director (here on Xanga, of all things). Another Xangan I trust completely had suggested it and it took me a while to decide that he was right.

So... here I am... in the same place I've been since 2004, but it feels different... very different. 

Rufus sits on the back step, watching the wildlife around him, too hot to do more than think about chasing them. Levi, his arch-enemy, lays in wait under the flowers in his own yard for a change. Levi's crazy owner thinks Rufus is the cause of the war, and he is, but not in the manner she suspects. Levi is used to sauntering over to our yard to sit on top of the slide while proclaiming himself "King of the Mountain". All was fine until the Albuquerque desert cat objected to a strange cat in his yard. Levi refused to leave quietly, fighting tooth and claw for the right to claim his usual spot. Rufus wasn't fine with that. The first night they fought, the crazy lady ran around in our pitch black backyard, screaming cuss words, using her cell phone for light, until she threw it at the snarling pair. With her light gone and her cell phone swallowed up in the darkness, she found new things to scream about as we ignored the chaos, lost in a movie on the second floor.

We had a white flag of truce day later but I was unaware that a truce was needed. She explained her behavior, trying poorly to sound sane, and blamed our cat for the fight. "Maybe Levi should stay in his own yard," I suggested, as if that was a real possibility. I've never known a cat to respect human boundaries. We came to an understanding- I'd let Rufus out at night, and she'd let Levi out during the day, but I never said I wouldn't let Rufus out during the day as well, so Rufus comes and goes whenever he pleases, and Levi skulks in the bushes and runs for home when I yell at him.

She wanted to know if Rufus had injuries recently, but he's fine. Levi has been fighting with another cat lately and she insinuated that Rufus caused it. Rufus was bored by the whole situation and glared at Levi through narrowed eyes. Levi slinked back to his side of the driveway. "Maybe Levi should stay home," I said again.

I talk loudly to Levi whenever I see him on our property because their windows are open, even on the hot, humid summer days. "Levi, Go HOME!" I say, clapping my hands. "Quit peeing on my steps!" And Levi runs for home, unrepentant and plotting his next military action. Rufus rolls over on his back and watches the clouds in the sky turn gray and stormy. The sky isn't as blue as New Mexico, and the clouds are usually rain clouds. For a desert cat, Rufus doesn't mind the rain. He sits on the back step and lets it turn him into a soggy mess. Levi hates the rain as much as he hates Rufus and runs for cover when the first drops hit. Rufus yawns and opens one eye, "Stupid cat," he thinks. But it's too much trouble to do any more than sleep, so he does, ignoring me when I open the door and ask if he wants to come in out of the rain.

even editing is work right now... 

Time stopped briefly Sunday Night while Van Ness Wu performed at the Fillmore for APAHM (Asian Pacific American Heritage Month) in New York City.  Tight and intense, the consummate performer gave his all to the adoring audience.  Old favorites, new releases, and a bit of personal chatter, Van Ness wowed the audience in his first New York appearance.  In his ‘God is better than Sex’ t-shirt, Van Ness delivered everything one could want from a star of his caliber in the intimate setting.

Without bodyguards , on a tiny stage without props or set design, Van Ness rocked the room. When he paused very briefly to pray for the audience and God’s blessings over the evening, the people around me grumbled loudly, protesting his actions, but as soon as he launched into the next song, all was forgiven and the audience was back with him 100%. At the end of the set, I mourned the fact that real life doesn’t have a replay feature. I wanted to see it all again, repeatedly, from different viewpoints, focusing on new details, but it was over and the night was quickly becoming a favorite memory.

I have no pictures of the experience, no videos. I was too focused on the performance to notice much more than the stage and the performer I never thought I’d see live performing his heart out. It takes a lot out of you to give a polished, yet very real performance like that, and I suspect that hours and hours of work went into the 30 – 40 minute set. It showed in every single movement.  No encores- no extension- just Van Ness at his best for a too brief time.

I whined that he didn’t do any Terry Tye Lee songs, because those are my favorite of favorite Van Ness’ songs. But  he did many of my favorites, things I’ve written to for hours, and I loved the energy a live performance can give to a familiar sound.  When he walked off the stage, I backed out of the crowd, content that our sacrifice to attend the event was worth it.

No after party, no autograph signing the next day, I had decided… just a night with Van Ness live in the city I love with people I love, celebrating the talents God has given one special person.  Now… if I could just get him to read the screenplay I wrote for him! J