A Terrible Editor

I'm horrible.

Really. I am one of the worst line editors a writer can be. I leave out a word here and there. I spell something wrong. I miss a comma. I add a comma where it's not, needed. Then I draft and re-draft and fix and switch and move stuff around for content and meaning and all that good stuff—and I leave all the mistakes in. Not on purpose, of course. But they are there and I swear I've fixed them, checked them, read it out loud, and still there are mistakes. Sometimes really dumb ones.

I've had 75,000 word manuscripts that I have combed relentlessly and when I hand it to an editor, he/she finds 100 mistakes. 100!

Here's what I've learned from this:

Accept.

I am not an English teacher. I think I know the language pretty well, but I am not one of those great New Yorker editors who can find four mistakes in a five word sentence. I envy them. I really do. But I am not them. I am not an editor.

Now, that doesn't mean I'm sloppy. (Although it may appear that way to some of my editors.) Really, honestly, I'm not. But I miss things. I just do. Many times it's no big deal because these incredible editors who have caught it all. They are invaluable. Absolutely indispensable. But sometimes I loath my mistakes in those early drafts. So much so that when I've sent out early draft manuscripts for people read for blurbs or reviews or just feedback, there's always a disclaimer: "Forgive any typos or grammatical mistakes you might find. This is only a draft." I cringe.

Still, after years of this, I am finally beginning to say, "It's okay. It's oh-kay."

Tell your story. Do your best. Check it twice, thrice, many times. Read it out loud. Then—let it go.

Writing in the Noise

I locked myself out of my house today. In a hurry, trying to get the dog to poop, taking out trash, stacking laundry from the washer. So, my wonderful girlfriend, who has a key, sped over from a few suburbs away and let me in. She almost was pulled over by a cop when she made a U-turn so she could get to me quicker.

While I waited, I worked in a nearby coffee shop, writing. Espresso machines whirring, clinking and clanging of silverware and mugs, laughter, talking, chatter—the consistent din of a caffeine club. But, with all that noise, I wrote, I thrived, I fed off of it all.

Are you a writer who has to work in a vacuum? I hear that Jonathan Franzen writes in a room with no electronics, not WiFi, nothing but a chair and and table. Nothing. Empty. I could do that, too, I guess. But the music of lives around me seems to fuel my writing. I've always wanted one of those writing sheds in my yard, a cabin in the back where I can steal away to write, like Dylan Thomas' boathouse. But maybe not. Or maybe construct one, but pipe in coffee cafe noise just to make my writing home.

Where do you write? Paint? Sculpt? Create? In the noise or in the silence?

In Honor of Your Dog

I've been thinking a lot about dogs lately. The final day of the Westminster Kennel Club Show is today, 2/17, so, there's that. Plus, there are so many goofy, great, wonderful, heartfelt dog stories out there. I know you have one. 

I had a dog once that continually ran away. All the time! Bolted out the door, jumped the fence, even out the window of a moving car onto a busy street. He was an escape artist. Why? Don't know. I thought he had it good. But despite what I thought, I was on a first name basis with the crew at the animal pound. 

Also, pets are on my mind because of my forthcoming book: THERE'S A HAMSTER IN THE DASHBOARD: A Life in Pets. It's out early summer from Dream of Things. I hope you'll take a look at the essays inside. They're all about our animals, our wonderful pets, the ones that catch us being human. 

But in the meantime: 

Consider reading a little of HAMSTER here: http://www.davidwberner.com/#!new-work/cs7y

And/or take this neat little pet look-a-like quiz from the NYT, I think you'll get a kick out of it. http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2015/02/16/sports/westminster-dog-show-quiz.html

AND --- Write your OWN brief dog or pet story here! Love to read them. Post away!

David 

A Little Help From My Friends

Couple things...

First...

I plan to be better at feeding this blog and get it going with a little more gusto and regularity. New book coming out in summer, 2015:  THERE'S A HAMSTER IN THE DASHBOARD: A Life in Pets, (Dream of Things). It's a collection of essays about how pets catch us being human. I'll be posting a bit of it on my website soon. www.davidwberner.com. I like this collection because it's not your typical, sappy, overly sweet book on pets. There are actually some stories you—my fellow pet lover—will read and find yourself cringing over. I'm not a perfect pet lover. Who is? But the stories are told with love and the reality that we are all very, very human and pets help us understand that. 

Second...

I'm working on a new manuscript, as I have mentioned in earlier posts. Like Joan Didion—and, oh, how I love to equate myself to old Joan in some way, even though I am certainly no equivalent—I don't know exactly what I'm writing about until I start writing; I don't completely know what I'm thinking. I'll eventually get there, but recently I have had some tremendous help from my friends. 

I posted a question on a writers group's Facebook page asking for gut reactions to title ideas. You see, titles, even working titles, help me to figure out what it is I'm writing about. I've been through a mess of ideas, as you might see in earlier posts. The clear winner at this juncture? OCTOBER SONG: A Memoir of a Musical Life. We'll see if that sticks. 

Here's the early, simple synopsis: On a whim, I entered a songwriting contest and unbelievably and unexpectedly was named a finalist. The contest was a pretty big regional deal. I had to travel from Chicago to Virginia to perform my song on stage at a legendary venue with other songwriters, some very good ones. Now, I am a musician, but I am certainly not a professional. I played in a band long ago, played some coffeehouses in my hippie days, but I would never consider myself a true musician. But I love music, I love my guitar, I've written songs, and when I was younger, like every teenage guitar player in the world, I dreamed of singing on a big, important stage—Carnegie Hall, The Troubador, The Fillmore in San Francisco. So, I got to thinking: What happens to the dreams we have when we are young, the ones we don't fully realize? And then many years later when we have a chance to touch that dream again, how do we handle it? What does growing older do to our dreams? For me, what does it do to my musical dream? But honestly, it could be any of our dreams. It could be your dream. 

Lastly, thoughts on the news: 

Brian Williams is never coming back to NBC. He'll be the host of a new cable show where he can lie his pants off as much as he wants. Probably on Fox. He'll fit right in. 

I will greatly miss the writings of David Carr of the NYTs. He was a genius. 

Bob Simon was one of the last of the great broadcast reporters. His death coming at the time of the Williams' scandal seems ironic, or maybe just weirdly coincidental. 

And can Kanye West please just go away!

Best to you, always. 

Titles?

As you know, I'm bouncing around a title. And although you haven't read a word, and I'm only two chapters on first draft, I think I know where I'm going with this new manuscript. Certianly without knowledge of the story, it's hard to make a decision. But just take a look. Do any of these speak to you somehow? Is there one that would make you want to take a deeper look into the book? Read more?

The Song Beyond the River

The Song on the Other Side of the River

A Song on the Other Side of the River 

The Other Side of the River

Shadowboxing

Ghostboxing

Song for the Shadowboxer

A Book With No Name

It's a quirk, I think.

When I'm starting a new project, a writing project, I have to give it a working title. It helps keep me focused, somehow. Although, I truly don't know exactly what I'm writing about until I start writing. The story emerges out of the typing, like drumbeats determining a song's tempo. But since I nearly always write creative nonfiction, personal stories, memoir, then I kind of know, in many aspects, where I'm going. It's like driving on a five-lane highway, I just have to decide what lane to be in.

I have a few pages of writing done on this project. And a lot more research than I've ever done before. Much more organization on this project. This is different than what I've done in the past, so it feels a little strange.

Still, I need that title. And so far, I'm still working on it.

Can you imagine having a child and then many days later, finally giving the child a name? I know one couple who waited weeks after their daughter's birth before deciding on a name. They said they wanted to experience the child for a time before deciding. I was supposed to be named Timothy, but my mother said when she first laid eyes on me she knew I wasn't a Tim. A couple hours later I got my name. I was a David, she said. But it took a little time to make that final decision. I don't think it would be a good idea to give a child a working title.

So, in essence, my writing project was born a few weeks ago and it's now growing, its little eyes opening, its chubby hands grasping, its feet wiggling, and there are the cries in the night, and the dirty diapers of bad prose to be tossed away. But still, this child has no name.

Maybe for now, I'll just call it Ralph.

A Song in the Air

A couple of questions...

Did you know Virginia has a wine country? A serious wine country. Napa-like. Did you have any idea?

Did you know Central Virginia is full of songwriters and great musicians? This is Dave Mathews country. Did you know that?

And did you know that when you ask directions in an old two-tank gas station and convenience store outside Batesville, Virginia in the foothills off the Blue Ridge Mountains, two different people will point in two different directions?

Got a little lost heading to Rapunzel's in Lovingston, the home of the songwriting competition that draws people from all over the region. But we got there! Thirty people were finalists, including me, all the way from Chicago. It was the 12th annual event and it was a beauty. Funky old-school venue; hardwood floors, a full stage, and a backstage kitchen and closet-like green room.

Drove more than 15 hours and played for three minutes and ten seconds. But it was wroth it to hear 28 others play their hearts out, and hear many good songs, but five great songs that were simply perfect. Superb songwriters! Superb! I didn't stand a chance of winning, honestly. I figured my song - TO A BETTER DAY -  ended up in the middle of the pack somewhere. There was no way of really telling this, but it kind of felt like that. So, that's my story, and I'm sticking to it. The winner was a long-time favorite in the region who had always placed but never won until this night. But my favorite may have been a young lady's song, a simple heartbreaker about a broken love affair. Gorgeous.

Oh, and yes, the wine.

Lots of it. There were dozens of wineries in the area, tucked in the shadowy valleys of the idyllic Virginia countryside. And it's good wine. Very good wine. Even the wine snobs could say that.

But what brought me to the area was the music, the love of a great song, and the fact that a song I wrote for my two sons several years ago while the writer-in -residence at the Jack Kerouac House in Orlando was being recognized.

A tip of the wine glass to Rapunzel's, Virginia, and great musical storytellers everywhere.