Good writing exposes the motives of characters you care about by presenting them with fearful obstacles.
He was reading F. Scott Fitzgerald's Tender is the Night every day for at least an hour, often while taking a shit. It had bothered one of his roomates in college that he would do such heavy reading on the toilet: Tolstoy, Aristotle, The Dalai Lama - but to Peter Bronson nothing was sacred.
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He was as sure of his dependence on women as that of satellites on gravity, and was aware that all of the major decisions in his life had been made under the influence of this or that heavenly body.
*************************************
"Seventeen years ago I walked into this valley and set out to build a life for myself, with my own hands. I only followed the rule that the things that hurt the most, the things that I was afraid of, were the steps I needed to take. And I have scars on every inch of my body to prove it. I'm respected, admired, even loved. But I will tell you one thing, something that I would never say to anyone else on this earth: I fuck sheep and I like it."
**************************************
It wasn't until he gained the courage to live the story of his own life that he was able to commit to the characters in his writing. By shying away from conflict and complexity he had been able to avoid accepting the hard truth that people such as himself were forced to fight a psychological battle against fear at the start of each day.
*************************************
"Roger," she said, singing his name, "you can come into the bedroom now." But he did not.
*************************************
"You can say that they coddle their readers, that I'll let you get away with. But to say that the New York Times is melodramatic just makes you sound like a pyscho."
"A psycho?" He looked behind his drawn shoulders at his friend. "Now that's melodramatic," he said, punctuating the air with the perfectly timed pop of the ancient croquet ball between his legs, which then went on to settle quietly next to the goal.
"Jesus. Who's actually good at croquet?"
"Put your mallet away. It's an antique."
"You're an antique."
************************************************
"I don't know what to write about," he said without looking up at her.
"Just write anything. Just get used to typing quotation marks and imagining people and events that frighten you."
"Quotation marks? What does that have to do with anything at all?"
"They're tiresome. They break your concentration if you're not careful. I'm convinced that's one of the reasons dialogue tends to sound stilted even in great works."
"Stilted. I can't imagine what you mean. But why not just do away with them altogether? I'm pretty sure I've seen it done. That will solve the issue, won't it?"
I suppose it could, but it's taking the easy way out, and that's never the thing to do.
"I guess you're right."
****************************************
"Oh Jesus! Jesus Christ!" He looked down at his hands. He was amazed at the blood there, at the way it had coated his hands so completely. It was hot on his skin, and he vomited. The weight of it was the special horror though, and he passed out on the street.
*****************************************
His life had become a consuming cycle of drudgery and solitude, and the feeling of desperation was too thick to ignore. "This is not the way it's supposed to be," his mother had told him. But he was old enough and educated enough to know that there is no one way. Not here.
****************************************
The boots of the 171st airborne pounded the hilly greencocks of the Spurrow Molly as they made their acquisitions known. "Don't eat your oranges now!" the gunnery driller screamed between blasts of fat pudding and bullets, "the enemy will see you and become unreasonable!"
****************************************
Always the same feeling like he's wasting time, like there is no way to reconcile his intellectual shortcomings with his need for self-expression.
****************************************
"Don't. Fucking. MOVE!"
"Oh Jesus. Jesus, Tom. Jesus I'm sorry."
"Stand up."
"Tom? Tom. Hey, Tom. Hey wait. Wait a second."
"I SAID STAND UP!" A roar. A primal expression of rage, a fierce cry of the animal night. His face inflates, his body heaves with its passing through the very core of him. Tears stream unceasing from his wide, horrible eyes. The other man stands -
- and places his hands up, as if to say, hey, Tom, cool it, be reasonable. But this is a situation beyond any of that.
Tom fires the gun several times and the bullets tear apart the other man's chest.
Later, Tom sits beside the corpse of him, cries, falls asleep. Upon waking nearly an hour from then he empties his gun into the face of the body, his rage different but eternal.
***************************************************
Breaking night, quiet feelings in darkness, losing touch with myself. Waiting for inspiration I instead become more and more aware of my weariness.
How do I find the words that send that feeling through my nerves?
****************************************************
I won't do it! I won't pretend that it's fine.
********************************************************
Rice cakes and turnbuckles and she had long fingernails and was underwater at 2pm.
********************************************************
Lakeside, he turned to the woman and reported the day's findings:
"We can rent little two-person sailboats for $25.00 an hour."
"There is a shop in town that sells incredible vintage stuff. I want to take you there, you'd love it."
"The lending library by the fireplace is stocked with great books."
"I think I might buy this old pickup truck I saw."
"There are geese on the roof."
It wasn't until he gained the courage to live the story of his own life that he was able to commit to the characters in his writing. By shying away from conflict and complexity he had been able to avoid accepting the hard truth that people such as himself were forced to fight a psychological battle against fear at the start of each day.
*************************************
"Roger," she said, singing his name, "you can come into the bedroom now." But he did not.
*************************************
"You can say that they coddle their readers, that I'll let you get away with. But to say that the New York Times is melodramatic just makes you sound like a pyscho."
"A psycho?" He looked behind his drawn shoulders at his friend. "Now that's melodramatic," he said, punctuating the air with the perfectly timed pop of the ancient croquet ball between his legs, which then went on to settle quietly next to the goal.
"Jesus. Who's actually good at croquet?"
"Put your mallet away. It's an antique."
"You're an antique."
************************************************
"I don't know what to write about," he said without looking up at her.
"Just write anything. Just get used to typing quotation marks and imagining people and events that frighten you."
"Quotation marks? What does that have to do with anything at all?"
"They're tiresome. They break your concentration if you're not careful. I'm convinced that's one of the reasons dialogue tends to sound stilted even in great works."
"Stilted. I can't imagine what you mean. But why not just do away with them altogether? I'm pretty sure I've seen it done. That will solve the issue, won't it?"
I suppose it could, but it's taking the easy way out, and that's never the thing to do.
"I guess you're right."
****************************************
"Oh Jesus! Jesus Christ!" He looked down at his hands. He was amazed at the blood there, at the way it had coated his hands so completely. It was hot on his skin, and he vomited. The weight of it was the special horror though, and he passed out on the street.
*****************************************
His life had become a consuming cycle of drudgery and solitude, and the feeling of desperation was too thick to ignore. "This is not the way it's supposed to be," his mother had told him. But he was old enough and educated enough to know that there is no one way. Not here.
****************************************
The boots of the 171st airborne pounded the hilly greencocks of the Spurrow Molly as they made their acquisitions known. "Don't eat your oranges now!" the gunnery driller screamed between blasts of fat pudding and bullets, "the enemy will see you and become unreasonable!"
****************************************
Always the same feeling like he's wasting time, like there is no way to reconcile his intellectual shortcomings with his need for self-expression.
****************************************
"Don't. Fucking. MOVE!"
"Oh Jesus. Jesus, Tom. Jesus I'm sorry."
"Stand up."
"Tom? Tom. Hey, Tom. Hey wait. Wait a second."
"I SAID STAND UP!" A roar. A primal expression of rage, a fierce cry of the animal night. His face inflates, his body heaves with its passing through the very core of him. Tears stream unceasing from his wide, horrible eyes. The other man stands -
- and places his hands up, as if to say, hey, Tom, cool it, be reasonable. But this is a situation beyond any of that.
Tom fires the gun several times and the bullets tear apart the other man's chest.
Later, Tom sits beside the corpse of him, cries, falls asleep. Upon waking nearly an hour from then he empties his gun into the face of the body, his rage different but eternal.
***************************************************
Breaking night, quiet feelings in darkness, losing touch with myself. Waiting for inspiration I instead become more and more aware of my weariness.
How do I find the words that send that feeling through my nerves?
****************************************************
I won't do it! I won't pretend that it's fine.
********************************************************
Rice cakes and turnbuckles and she had long fingernails and was underwater at 2pm.
********************************************************
Lakeside, he turned to the woman and reported the day's findings:
"We can rent little two-person sailboats for $25.00 an hour."
"There is a shop in town that sells incredible vintage stuff. I want to take you there, you'd love it."
"The lending library by the fireplace is stocked with great books."
"I think I might buy this old pickup truck I saw."
"There are geese on the roof."
