Category Archives: Personal Stories

Length DOES Matter (When it Comes to Books)!

The entire back-breaking first draft of THE LIBERATORS, 1600 pages handwritten!

The entire back-breaking first draft of THE LIBERATORS, 1600 pages handwritten!

I’ve always been a fan of well-rendered novels that push (or even shatter) the norms of scope and length. The standard advice is that a novel should be between 80,000-120,000 words. For a printed book, that tends to fall in the range of about 250-400 pages. Good advice. Given the feverish pace at which life runs these days, a lot of readers may shudder just at the heft of a book much longer than 400 pages. But not me. I like a story that I can really sink my teeth into, with a complex and ambitious plot, an extensive cast of memorable characters, in which a detailed, full-hipped world is erected—a place you don’t want to leave any time soon. This is probably why I vastly prefer novels over short stories (for reading and writing).

So it’s no surprise that Stephen King’s The Stand (~1,053 pages) was my favorite novel from the age of 14 through well into my 20s. Another King epic topped it in length, and upended it from my top spot: 2010’s Under the Dome (~1,074 pages). I read the latter three times over the course of just 18 months in prison! And even on the second re-read, I still found it a thrilling page-turner. That’s indicative of a spectacular tale, indeed. Also in my top five is the late genius David Foster Wallace’s unequaled masterpiece Infinite Jest. That one exceeds 950 pages if you include the extensive endnotes.

Given the above, I guess it’s also no surprise that I’ve become a page-cranker myself. The third novel I wrote, Redwood Falls, was well over 600 pages in the first draft. My sixth novel, The Liberators—which I handwrote in prison because there were no accessible word processors—turned out to be a staggering 1,200-plus pages when typed. Over 360,000 words. And my current project, a fiercely unique prison memoir called Rebel Hell: Doin’ Time for Barely a Crime, is already over 500 pages. And I’m not even close to done with the first go-round.

Don’t worry; I cut a significant portion in the subsequent drafts (usually about 20-30 percent). During first drafts, it seems like I’m feeling around, writing my way to what it is I want to say. During revisions, I cut unnecessary scenes, shorten others, and sometimes eliminate entire subplots or characters. Some great writers—notably Kurt Vonnegut and Tom Robbins—weren’t/aren’t heavy editors. They work on a page until it’s as close to perfect as they can get, so after a draft is finished there’s little editing to be done. Other juggernauts—like David Foster Wallace and John Irving (who’s said that something like 75 percent of the time spent on his novels is in the edits/rewrites)—were/are feverish first-draft-revisionists. Infinite Jest, which as noted is still a carpal-tunnel-danger, was at one point about twice its final-draft size.

One thing is certain: whether you crank out massive tomes or minute, straightforward speed-reads, length should be an important consideration both for burgeoning writers trying to break through, and for already-established scribes. We need to consider our subject(s), our intended or probable audience, costs of production, and a multitude of other factors. In any case, the adage Length Does Matter happens to be true when it comes to writing novels.

***What are some of YOUR favorite heavyweight tomes?***

Dream-Sequence Excerpt from my Prison Memoir

This dream sequence occurs after I’ve been in prison for about 9 months, from my memoir-in-progress, REBEL HELL: DOIN’ TIME FOR BARELY A CRIME.

I’m back home in California, the only place I ever belong to live. No—not back home—I never left in the first place! The whole incarceration-thing was just a terrible, and terribly vivid, dream. A nightmare that went on for an absurd length of time. But now it’s over. I’ve told Rebecca about it, and now the three of us—Rebecca, Rikki, and I—are running along a path through the towering old-growth redwoods of Humboldt County. We’re laughing at the idea that I’d ever go to prison. And yet there’s immense relief there in the laughter—relief that I’m not in prison, that it was just a terrible nightmare. Rikki’s running around joyously. Being Forest-Rikki, as we say. She’s bolting in and out of the thick vegetation, appearing for a second on the path and then disappearing again into the bush. A fog bank is rolling slowly into the forest and it brings with it the smell of the nearby Pacific. The air is so clean, fresh, moist, invigorating, life-giving. I close my eyes and hold out my arms as the fog swirls around me and breathe deeply, so deeply, inhaling hard and long enough that it brings a spike of pressure into my chest—but it’s good, oh so good, everything’s good, it’s perfect. I’m with my two favorite people in the wide world, in my favorite place. I’m smiling so much it’s starting to ache, my lips are, but I can’t stop. To stop would infringe on the magic of this moment.

Rebecca comes to me, wraps her arms around my back and presses her body to mine. Our faces are inches apart. She’s smiling, too, that amazing toothy grin of perfect, pure happiness that just lights up her face with an almost-visible aura, a ghostly reflection of her inner state, like she’s encased in it, like the whiteness of a fresh Polaroid that’s just starting to reveal its subject. She kisses me. Then she’s saying something, but I can’t hear her. I can’t hear anything anymore.

Because I’m coming out of the dream.

And I realize it, there with her arms around me and her smile and the fog and the redwoods and the palpable earthy fecundity of the moistened woods, I realize that I’m just dreaming. Everything begins to fade, to drop away, the finished Polaroid in reverse. I try to hold onto the image, the smells, the soft soil under my shoes, the feel of her body’s weight against mine. But I can’t make it stay, no matter how hard I try. I’m shackled, powerless—a slave to reality.

And then I’m awake and the dream’s over, it’s all gone except in flashes that I have to willingly conjure instead of just being there; my eyes are still closed, but the sensations and images appear only in brief flitting pops, like the white veneer over everything in sight that pulses on and off and on in your vision after a bright camera’s flash.

Now I know it was just a dream, that I am in prison, that I won’t be with Rebecca and Rikki again for another year, 52 weeks. But I refuse to accept it. I haven’t opened my eyes yet. I keep them closed tight. I’m willing reality to change; why not? There’s no sense behind any of this. Maybe I’ve awoken in a parallel world, where the threat of prison was real, but where true justice was the norm rather than an aberration, and where Judge Hamer didn’t pretend to believe Trooper Marlow’s blatant lies, where the judge decided that the Fourth Amendment and my life and the truth was more important than political gain and money, a world where I dodged the prison-bullet and I am free, and I’ll open my eyes and see Rebecca’s sleeping face, and Rikki splayed out at her feet. That’s what will happen. If I just want it bad enough, and will it hard enough, reality will realign itself into something sensible and just. Still my eyes are closed. I have to give it just a few more seconds for the shift to occur. And then I’ll open my eyes and everything will be right again—I’ll be free, and we can collect the shattered fragments of our lives and put them back together and move on….

freedom

My NaNoWriMo Challenge

November is National Novel-Writing Month, as many of you know, and many of you maybe don’t know. Every year, aspiring writers are challenged to complete an entire novel in just this one month (50,000 words is the low-end cutoff for a piece to be considered a novel; between 30k and 50k, it’s considered a novella. Fewer than 30,000 words is the accepted range for a short story. Most novels by writers who actually get paid and have agents and editors and other professional-type attributes tend to be between 80,000-120,000 words).  This year I will join in for the first time. But—me being me—I’m going to do it differently than most participants.

I’m currently working on my prison memoir, Rebel Hell: Doin’ Time For Barely a Crime. I started November already about 95,000 words in. Before I started that, I completed a 300,000+ word epic, ultra-militant animal liberation novel called The Liberators. So basically, I’ve been writing the equivalent of a novel a month for about the last 4-6 months, ha! I don’t need the NaNoWriMo Challenge to write a novel—I’ve already completed 6 of them, plus halves of 3 others! But I’m approaching a difficult stretch of my prison memoir, so I’ll play along and use NaNo as motivation to continue kicking ass on the memoir. My goal is to write 40,000-50,000 words on the book this month. I’ll post weekly updates with my progress, and perhaps some juicy excerpts.

I could work on what will be my next actual novel—Aran Kerplowski and the Polish Family Circus—and easily bang out a first draft, or at least 50,000 words of a first draft, this month. I have enough material in my head for it to complete a draft. But I think I need to write that particular novel at a slower, more deliberate pace. It will be of a higher quality that way, and like I said, I most certainly do not need NaNo and a feverish write-no-matter-what challenge to complete any novel. So instead, I’ll just challenge myself to continue my heavy, feverish, dedicated work on the prison memoir—which I think is an extremely funny, heart-wrenching, politically important book. I also think it may be the novel that helps me break out for a wider audience, since prison stories and shows and movies are so popular.

Happy Writing!!  Don’t let it drive you too crazy…

SCARE-EE

Pro-Gay Soapbox Excerpt From My Prison Memoir

Anti-religion/pro-gay soapbox-screed I just wrote in my prison memoir, Rebel Hell: Doin’ Time for Barely a Crime (it’s referring to a book I was skimming through called “Free On the Inside”):

Free on the Inside
Let’s not forget that the bible was written thousands of years ago by men. Men who believed the Earth was flat, and that it was the center of the universe (typical human delusions of grandeur), that giant sea monsters were a legitimate threat, that women were to be subjugated and were ethically and socially beneath men, and so on and on. But oh wait, it’s okay, these men were prophets. God spoke to them. Do you realize, my Dear Reader, that today we would call these people delusional and prescribe them anti-psychotic meds?

Anyway, the parts where people have written about their drug and/or criminal history are entertaining. After I’m finished with those, I turn to the front of the book and read the section for questions frequently asked by inmates (FAQ). They’re amusing, albeit annoying—at first. But then I get to question (21): Is there a way out of addiction (drinking, drugs, sex, gambling, homosexuality)? As my eyes hit that last word, I cry out, “Oh my god!” in disgust. Lip curled, I heave the fat book across the room, its pages fluttering, and it crashes into the cell door with a loud echoing bang. “Fucking scumbag pieces of SHIT!” The implications of it are repulsive to me, unconscionable. As if human (homo)sexuality were a disease, like drug addiction!

Stop reading right now if you think I’m wrong.

People don’t have severe physiological cravings for, say, heroin—unless they’ve already tried it. But there are uncountable droves of men and women who were physically attracted to members of their own sex since they were very young, before EVER having homosexual encounters.

Pretty fucking intolerant for people who *claim* to be followers of Christ; you know, the Prince of PEACE? It is this kind of thinking that leads to the routine violence and atrocities committed against gay men and women. Remaining silent in the face of this level of bigotry is a tacit approval of that violence and hatred. The FAQ plainly stated that homosexuality is an addiction, which means that it is a disease.

…..

I’m NOT looking forward to the barrage of conversion attempts I’ll have to fend off during my prison bit.

homophobia

I Almost Died Today

So I went cliff-jumping today—I’ve gone several times as an adolescent and teenager, but I only did a 10-foot jump, at Slide Rock outside Sedona, Arizona.  But today I did one that was over 20 feet and one of 30 feet.  I think it’s important for writers to push themselves to the brink, stand on the edge and look down (or in this case jump), in order to come back and report to the masses what it’s like.  At least it’s important for serious Gonzo-type writers like me, who believe in doing things most people wouldn’t do, both physical and mental (interpret the latter any way you want, but I will say that drugs are bad and I would never take them, especially the psychedelic, consciousness-altering ones that I’m talking about taking, entering that other realm, and coming back to tell you what it’s like).  And by physical I mean stuff like serious cliff-jumping, swimming with deadly sharks, skydiving with or without a parachute, traveling to sketchy places, and just living dangerously in general.

Anyway, the cliff-jumping was utter amazingness.  It was at an old dam somewhere in the mountains of Southern California, and it’s my new favorite spot in this wretched wasteland.  The jumping was nothing; I don’t fear heights—in fact, I LOVE heights.  Here are a few pics from the adventure, and a video of me jumping.

Looking down from atop the dam.

Looking down from atop the dam.

 

With my old high school buddy Marcus, who brought me to this great place.

With my old high school buddy Marcus, who brought me to this great place.

[youtube=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VKEk8pQFDf0&feature=youtu.be]

No, it wasn’t the treacherous rocky cliffs that almost killed me.  It was the path back up to the road.  I was in something of a hurry, as the lovely woman I’m dating arrived sooner than I expected and the path down to the dam is far too difficult and complex for her to do solo.  So I was rushing, and wasn’t paying close attention to traveling back up the way I’d come down.

That would’ve been the smart thing to do.  Which is probably why I didn’t do it.  My dumb Polack ass.  Instead I just took the first path I found, which brought me to an EXTREMELY steep and perilous incline, 20 feet to the top.  It was mostly loose sand, with some loose rocks thrown in for extra fun.  When I say steep I mean like about as much as this:  /  (!!)  There was nothing to grab onto either—all the roots of the surrounding vegetation were tiny.  I tried going up sideways.  Lost my footing and slid down 5 feet.  Screamed obscenities.  Tossed my canvas bag up to the top—missed once and it slid back down.  It didn’t help that I also had my good camera with me, which meant a heavy over-the-shoulder case, which continually threw off my delicate grasp on balance.  I just could NOT gain purchase.  Finally I tried crawling, digging my hands into whatever bits of rock or hard soil I could find.  I made it to within 5 FEET of the top.  Then I slid all the way back down on my ass and arms and hands, scraping off skin, gathering momentum.  I only stopped myself from crashing in a heap on the rocks below by reaching out and clasping an outcrop of rock, Tom-Cruise-Mission-Impossible-2-style, near the bottom.

My arm.

My arm.

Ouchie.

Ouchie. 

Then I went a little bit north, gushing sweat, scraped and bleeding, gasping for air, on the verge of an asthma attack and a panic attack and passing out from heat exhaustion (my water was in the bag that I threw to the top of the incline) in the 95 degree mid-day, and found a much easier way up.  By the time I got to the road and my lady friend—sitting in the turnout on the other side of the road—saw me, I could barely walk.  My arms and legs and shirt and shoes and socks were SOAKED, and caked in paste-ish dirt-mud.  I collapsed onto my knees, feeling like I was going to vomit.  After 10 minutes of rest and almost-passing-out and gasping and some lukewarm iced tea, I felt like I’d make it.  Barely.

And you know what?  I’m actually GLAD it happened.  Given that I have a depressive mind/mood, I go through many of my days not feeling much, sort of drifting, floating.  But after that short stretch of absolute terror, after looking death or at least severe E.R.-level injury in the face, and coming out on top, it made me feel ALIVE.

Now whether being alive’s a good thing or a bad thing…it depends on what minute you ask me  😉

Smitowicz Out!
BarbaricYawpingJan @JanSmitowicz