Throwback Thursday: Everything's a story...

This post first appeared in slightly different form here on 13 March 2012 under the title "Stories to tell."

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Everything is a story. Everything. Given sufficient supplies of coffee and time, I will prove it to you.

A psychologist I used to know told me that making stories is a defense mechanism, a game our psyches play to help us make sense of trauma. A story is a box to put things in, a safe place to keep things until we unpack them carefully in front of our loved ones and let them be amused or thrilled.

Then they go back into the box and get put away for a time.

I have a lot of those boxes stored away, my own and some I’m holding for others. The only difference being that I view them all as spare parts boxes, to be opened and plundered as the need presents.

For writers, all boxes are spare parts boxes. We riffle through them for the bits and pieces from which we invent new stories or retell old ones. Thus, we allow our stories out into the breathing world, as Frankenstein's monsters, with bits of this and bits of that, and an aspect which -- if we are good enough -- will inspire our readers to the churchyard to dig up their boxes, to check that everything is still there. And to ponder how the writer knew these things, these secrets we never tell anyone, and to ponder anew a world where stories live in the open air even when we are certain they are nailed into a crate and buried as deep as ever we could dig.

The best stories, of course, are usually made from the parts of our lives that we actively tried to avoid. That's just the nature of the thing.

All stories are reflections of one another because they are all part of the same larger picture, the same overarching story that we call our 'culture' or our 'society' but really mean 'our shared story'.

Stories are going on all around us all the time, and though we may fancy ourselves the hero of our own tale, in reality we are bit players in someone else's story. It's the strange and awesome truth that we are not always in the story we think we are. We are not always playing the role we think we are playing. And we are not always fully aware of the endings, the beginnings, or who the heroes and villains around us truly are.

When a story is happening, it's just life.

It's the writer's role to understand that, to recognize it, and to choose the arbitrary points of initiation and conclusion so that the stories we tell reflect the ones that you don't tell. Because when we walk through the world, we're the ones whose eyes are up and looking around, filling their boxes with spare parts.

Ask a writer where they get their ideas and you will get a panoply of answers, most of which are untrue. Because the simple fact is that while appear to be trying to come up with an answer, for the most part we are really trying to imagine how anyone could walk through this world of stories and not trip over at least a few.

Drinking from the font of ideas (Also Laser Sharks!)

This morning, I found out that some brilliant and/or daft people mounted a laser on a shark just to prove that they could. I rushed over here with every intention of telling you all about how I was right and we really are living in the future. I mean, flying cars are all well and good, but after laser sharks, everything else is just gravy, right?

And then my inner geek became my outer geek and I said: "Heh. Dude... Laser Shark!"

Talk about a gift that just keeps on giving; you could do almost anything with a premise like that. Almost any story can be grafted on. Science fiction? Of course; c'mon, that writes itself. How about something hard...
Military Fiction: The brave men and women in uniform who labor shoulder-to-should to bring together the ultimate weapon, lasers and sharks!
Techno-thriller: Terrorists (there are always terrorists) hijack the laser sharks and threaten to loose them upon an unsuspecting world.
Mystery: A body washes up on a desolate stretch of the Australian coast, burned and bitten beyond recognition. Was it murder? What could possibly have committed such a heinous act?
Spy Thriller: A foreign power is developing a secret weapon at their base beneath a volcanic island.
Romance: A handsome marine biologist meets a winsome laser engineer with a dreadful secret.
Steampunk: Aetheric amplification of Sol's brilliant light reaps unexpected rewards in the submarine base of the nefarious Doctor Villainous Deeds!

The list goes on and on and on. Ideas tumbling over ideas in a rush to get their hands on a real-live laser shark. And it occurred to me that this week, of all weeks, was the perfect opportunity to talk about where ideas come from.

Are they delivered to me by Laser Sharks?

Sadly, no.

I started thinking about this when thriller writer Joseph Finder said this:

Then, he said this:

And got me thinking about just how fertile is the daily news crawl that crosses my screen. Not just for things like digital organ thieves and shark-mounted lasers. Take that same Facebook-borne logic leap that Joe was talking about and graft on a story about an MI-6 codebreaker found locked in a bag in his locked apartment and you have the material for quite a thrill ride.

How about a conservator in the rare book room at Brown University that found an engraving signed by Paul Revere stuck in a medical book? How did it get there? Who put it there? Were they hiding it from someone? Historical fiction, thriller, romance, the world's your oyster with a core story like that. And how about a 400 year old map that was found to have a fortress marked in invisible ink that could lead to a lost city in West Virginia? Really! Where can't you go with a lead like that?

Historical fiction and thrillers aren't your thing? Want something that's sweet, but just a little creepy? How about this story from NPR about how a baby's cells lurk in mom's tummy long after the baby is born.  If you're not interested in sweet and want to focus on the creept, there are cannibal shrimp are invading the gulf coast, Iceland is sending tourists into the heart of dormant volcanoes,  and scientists are getting blood samples and DNA from 5,300 year old Alpine mummy.  

That reminds me, there's a GIANT statue of Anubis, the Egyptian god of tombs, being carted around Seattle like a parade float.  That's either a horror story, the next Indiana Jones movie, or a lawsuit waiting to happen. Maybe all three.

Speaking of lawsuits, I found out this week that space lawyers are apparently a real thing. My high school career councilor really dropped the ball on that one. But you want a comedic legal thriller? Fine. A bear fell out of a tree and led to a lawsuit that could literally change the face of copyright law in America. yes, really.

Mysteries? A guy carrying a big bag of money had a heart attack on a train platform at Penn Station and no one knows where the money came from. And how about those thieves that staged an elaborate movie-worthy heist in Connecticut to steal a few truckloads of pharmaceuticals? Heck, just today I found out about a robot petting zoo and a hexapodal walking car that will, oh yes, it will be my next ride.

But I write Children's books you say? This week provided me with a harmonica-playing pachyderm, a kidnapped penguin, and an escaped Tokyo parakeet made it home because it could tell the cops its address. No excuses.

So where do I get my ideas? I pay attention. Because in the end, it's not coffee, or my favorite pen, or a special table at the coffee shop, or mystical muse that brings me my stories. It's not even the friends and news sites that dropped those leads into my inbox. I bring me my stories. I get them by paying attention, by collecting all the various bits of the history that came before me and the world around me right now. And I find the bits that fit together but don't fit with anything else.  And the glory of this weird enterprise of writing is that anyone else can take in the same elements from the same news items and they will create entirely different stories from the same ingredients.

So that's it. And the next person who asks me where I get my ideas gets poked in the eye. Seriously. Safety glasses are advised.  Don't worry, you can get a new bionic eye to replace it. Because this is the future we're living in. 

Oh, and I'd stay out of the water until the batteries on that laser run dry. 

Just a thought.

Write Everywhere & Everywhen: A pocketful of ideas.

Sitting at dinner among other writers, I am often struck by the number of times someone says "I'm going to write about this as soon as I get home!"

I usually hear this as I am tucking a scribble-covered napkin in my pocket and wondering why they're waiting.

I once told someone that I started a new book whenever I didn't have anymore room for my wallet or keys. And it's not far from the truth.

I would imagine that in a world where almost everyone carries a tiny computer in their pockets, we could stop waiting until we get home to write something down. The sad fact is that even with the ubiquity of smart phones and other devices, we still rely on our memories to preserve the ideas that spring fully-formed into our heads at the drop of a word.

There's magic in places where different minds meet. Conversations in real life are fertile ground for ideas.  We're told to keep our eyes open and watch for the stories all around us, but what good does it do us if we don't write it down?

We spend a lot of time on writing blogs and at conferences reminding aspiring writers to keep a notebook on their nightstands for those 3 am epiphanies. (I've moved mine down the hall to the bathroom cabinet because turning on the table lamp wakes up my wife and I got tired of using a headlamp.) But I think we don't spend enough time stressing the need to carry a notebook (or equivalent) at all times where we're out with friends.

Not that I should throw stones; I don't always have a notebook with me either. That's no excuse to let the ideas slip, though. I'll use a napkin or an envelope, or my hand, or a patient passerby if necessary... pretty much anything that will take ink will suffice.

They're not all gold, of course, but they're not all dross either. And the only chance I get to decide which is which is if I stopped for a second to jot a note and shove it in my pocket. Ideas are transitory things. They'll slip away from you if you don't get them down while they're fresh in your mind.

I've never had anyone tell me they find it rude, but I accept that some people might. It's all part and parcel to befriending an author, I'm afraid, occasionally we'll get that far off look in our eyes and start searching our pockets for a pen.

I think that it's a goal we should all have: to come home at the end of the day and find that our pockets are full of ideas.

Writing isn't a major, it's a lifestyle choice: Advice for Aspiring Writers

Because I work in a college writing center (and maintain this and other writing-related blogs) a question I get asked a lot is "What do I major in if I want to be a writer?" Because I'm online in several places, those questions now come more often as emails and messages.

Here's an actual message sent to me on Tumblr the other day...

"I'm a freshman in college with an undecided major. What do you think my major should be if I want to be a writer for magazines and websites maybe eventually write a book one day?"

The correct answer is: Whatever you want to major in is fine. Writing isn't a major, it's a lifestyle choice.

I've said it before and will say it again: Unless you want to teach, the schools aren't going to teach you anything you cannot learn much better and at less expense by sitting down and doing it. Major in business; it's more useful to an artist than an art degree, I assure you.

Ignorance of business principles is the number one reason why artists starve.

If I had my way, everyone who wanted to be a writer would get a business degree. In other words, major in something that pays the bills and minor in something that stimulates your soul. Because the 'starving artist' thing is overrated.

No, I'm not kidding.

YA authors, because of the age of their readership, get asked this question constantly. Let's see what New York Times bestselling YA author Maureen Johnson has to say on the topic.

I've heard dozens of bestselling authors give the same advice, MJ was just nice enough to put it on Twitter in her usual charmingly emphatic style.

Does Maureen Johnson saying it make it true? No. Neither does it make it true because Ann Patchett said it. Certainly, majoring in Creative Writing or English isn't going to hurt you. But as Ms. Patchett points out, this isn't medical school we're talking about here; you're not very likely will never recoup the cost of your degree by working in your field.

As I've noted before, I majored in journalism and then left that program to go to art school. Art school taught me nothing about art and a lot about finances, mostly student loan interest and structured payments.

Everything I actually know about art or writing, I taught myself or learned by doing it. Everything.

I think anyone interested in becoming a writer after college should read an essay by Lawrence Block called "Dear Joy" (you can read it for free by following that link). It is written as a letter to a college freshman who wants to become a writer and should be required reading for anyone else who wants to do the same. It's worth noting that he doesn't tell her not to major in a writing-related field. He just tells her the pros and cons.

It really is a great essay and I wish I'd read it as a high school senior.

Which brings me to this: If you're in college right now, majoring in writing or English, I am not advising that you change your major or drop out. For heaven's sake, finish your degree. No one is going to look down on you or refuse to publish you for having completed a college degree. I work in a college writing center; I know how hard it is to get from your admission letter to your diploma.

When you walk down the aisle in your cap and gown, you'll have genuinely accomplished something. You have every right to be proud.

But in all honesty, an arts education isn't something that happens at an institution, it's something that happens in your head. The ivy covered walls, the brick paths, the echoing classrooms... it's all stage dressing for the artist. That what I mean when I say that art and writing aren't majors, they're a lifestyle choice.

When you're majoring in the visual arts, your college admission garners you access to valuable and expensive studio space and things like ceramics kilns that you cannot afford on your own. But for a writer, it's all about what's between your ears. And you don't have to pay for the privilege of using that space, you just have to do it.

Reading is the only education a writer gets. The only thing you need to get access to that education is a library card and those are usually free.

Read. Write. Experiment. Pack your inner art studio with all the supplies you can get your hands on and then sit down at a keyboard and see what you can do. When you type The End on your first novel or short story, that's a graduation of its own. No professor required. The story is your diploma. You have genuinely accomplished something. You have every right to be proud.


That diploma is not what allows you to call yourself a writer or an author. Like Ms. Patchett said: This isn't medical school. You don't need a license to practice (and no one dies if you do it wrong).

The only thing that qualifies you to be a writer is writing something.

10 Tips to Get You From Idea to Finished Novel

For all those who are on the NaNoWriMo marathon, here are 10 things that I keep in mind as I progress from the idea I scribbled on a napkin to the moment I sit down to turn it into a book.

Ten Tips to Get From Idea to Finished Novel

1. Be interested in your story. Writing is hard work and before you commit to spending long hours sitting in a chair stringing tens of thousands of words together to tell your story, you'd better darn well be sure it's a story that interests you enough to make that worthwhile.
   
   
2. Feed your brain. Your brain generates stories from the stuff you cram in there. Give it the fodder it needs to make new and interesting stories and well fleshed-out characters. Interview everyone you meet, explore every place you go, try new things.
   
   
3. Everything is research. Accept it. Pay attention. Take notes and snapshots. You never know when you'll need the story about the kid who accidentally ordered a Harrier fighter jet on eBay.
   
   
4. Ideas are not sacred. Don't get so attached to an idea that you're unwilling to allow it to evolve. A story idea is less like the directions from a GPS and more like finding your way through a new city with written directions scrawled on the back of a coffee-stained napkin.
   
   
5. Write now, edit later. Just sit you butt in the chair and put the story on the page. Editing is inevitable, but it is a stage of its own that can wait until later. Your initial goal is to get the story out of your head, everything else follows that.
   
   
6. Take little bites. A big idea can choke you if you try to eat it all at once. Writing anything long form is a lot like the old adage about eating an elephant: Start at one end and take it one bite at a time.
   
   
7. Make stuff up. Research can be a very addictive drug. It's easy to get so wrapped up in the intriguing minutiae of your subject matter that you forget to write a book about it. If it ever gets shelved in a library or bookstore, your novel will be in the fiction section, this gives you license to fake it... within reason, of course.
   
   
8. Keep everything. Create a file on your computer (or in your filing cabinet if you're a luddite like me) of the random ideas or characters that occur to you as you're writing. Not everything you create while writing will fit the story you're working on. Hang on to those tidbits for later use in this or another story.
   
   
9. Step away from the Television and/or the Internet. That might sound odd coming from me, but these mediums are specifically designed to catch your attention and hold it. I've recently begun doing my writing on a computer that is isolated from the internet to combat this. My writing output tripled when we got rid of TV and as a bonus we saved a lot of money each month.
   
   
10. Write with the vocabulary you have. Put away the thesaurus, it's just slowing you down and making self-conscious. Finding your authorial "voice" is about telling the story the way you tell it, not the way Roget would tell it if he were writing it. Your vocabulary will grow organically on its own and in a way that is unique to you as you research and read. Language is a fragile thing and it will break if you try to force it.

It's easy to end a list with the words "And it's as easy as that!" but it really isn't all that easy or everyone would do it.

It's not as easy as that and I think that's an important thing to keep in mind at every stage.  Writing is hard.  It's supposed to be hard.  So don't beat yourself up when you find that it isn't easy.  This is job, a task like any other -- a task that must be performed before you can enjoy the results.  

Because at the end of the day (or the end of November) it's the person who puts their butt in the chair and puts the words on the page who will win the race.

Best of luck to you all!
-Scott

The Research Phase :: The limits of memory and the joys of learning something anew.

I'm fond of quoting Werner von Braun: "When I don't know what I'm doing, it's research."  It's a great quote and often gets me out of a jam when someone is pressing me to tell them what I'm up to ("Staring out the window" is a bad answer, especially when the inquisitor is ones spouse. Just trust me on that.)  

To be brutally honest, though, research is generally a process of reminding myself how many things I used to know and re-teaching myself how to do things I once knew. When I decided that I wanted to write a character who was a mathematician, for instance, I found myself at wits end when I dug below the surface of my math skills to discover some of the more basic portions of my education had escaped under dark of night.

Story Prompt :: Writing through the Monday doldrums

No matter what you've heard, not every picture is worth a thousand words.  Just cruise through Flickr if you don't believe me.  Among the many thousands that are worth many thousands of words, there are all too many that simply are not.


Many of my stories were inspired by a photo.  The main character in my next book was inspired by a photo I saw at my wife's grandfather's funeral.  He was in training during WWII and rolled a tank.  The photo was of this young (and by all accounts quite wild) guy standing atop the belly of this upside down tank, grinning like a hunter who'd just killed the biggest bear in the land with a toothbrush.

Some photos beg the imagination to run wild. 

One of the things I do if I get stuck is go looking for a photograph to tell a story about.  Beyond describing the photo, these tales can be the story of someone else finding it in an unexpected place, or a story of the people just outside of frame. Sometimes it's just a setting, but a photo can anchor a thousand daydreams.

Today I invite you to join me in a writing exercise to shake off the Midwinter Monday doldrums.  Take a photo, any photo that fires your imagination, and tell a story about it.  It can be your photo or you can use the one below.  If you want to insert an element of gambling to exercise, >>click here<< and choose one of the random Flikr photos that appears.  Your story has no limits except that it must in some way deal with or spring from the photograph -- it can range from a one-liner to a thousand words or more if the mood strikes you.


I'll post my story here on Wednesday and I encourage you to post yours somewhere along with the photo that inspired it if you can.  See you then!

10 Places to Find Stories Waiting to be Told

Where do Ideas come from?  It's the question every writer dreads and emphatically answers with "I don't know".  Honestly, I suspect that for most writers that's a bit of a fib -- we may not know where ideas come from in the cosmic sense any more than we can tell you the meaning of life, but we generally know where a specific idea came from, or at least what prompted it. 

If you put enough of those answers together, you begin to see major features of the landscape of this mythical land of ideas forming in the fog.  But I suspect that in truth we don't like to talk about it because either we're all a bit superstitious, or because we're afraid that these private reserves should be held for us alone and anyone caught visiting there treated as poachers of the King's deer. 

Probably a bit of both.

Culled from conversations with hundreds of writers, books on writing, and my own private hunting grounds, here's my list of ten places where unused ideas scamper and play, just waiting for you to snatch them up and turn them into stories:

1. Have a Nose for News.
   Subscribe to news alert services of every political stripe.  Online or on the television or in one of those old-fashions thingies that leave ink on your fingers, I think they're called "newspapers", the news is chock full of ideas.  The other day I got a news release from DARPA about the formation of a committee to promote interstellar exploration within the next 100 years.  My wife sent me a story about a kid who accidentally bought a retired RAF Harrier Jumpjet on eBay!
   
   Case in point: On one day several years ago there was a front page story in the Seattle Times about the University of Washington arguing that they didn't need military-level protections on the lab where they would be studying the 1918 Spanish Flu virus that killed half the country.  On page three of the same paper was a story about a clemency hearing for a militant environmentalist who had expressed repeatedly the idea that humanity should be eliminated from the ecosystem by any means necessary.  That's an eco-thriller waiting to happen.  Or perhaps a great backstory for a dystopian post-apocalyptic epic.  Find the connections that everyone else missed.
   
   
2. Watch TV
   We've all done it.  We were watching a show and thought we knew how the show was going to wrap up, or said "I wouldn't have done it that way".  Guess what: that was a story idea you had there.  The moment your version of the story moved away from what was actually happening on screen, it became a new idea.  I'm not talking about fan fiction; I'm talking about finding a story in someone else's premise that they missed. 
   
   OMG, Seriously, Is that okay?  Yes.  It's not plagiarism because the idea is yours, not theirs.  And ideas cannot be copyright protected anyway.  (Characters can, at least their names and likenesses can anyway.) You're not stealing their intellectual property because your idea will call for significant changes and different characters (you don't want their old characters anyway) and you are going to put it in a new setting and when you're done there will be no doubt in anyone's mind that it has nothing to do with that episode of Grey's Anatomy that annoyed you last night.  Right?  Right.
   
   
3. Talk to People.
   Not just your friends, but people.  On airplanes, in coffee shops, in the queue at the checkstand, you are constantly surrounded by people whose lives are fascinating and diverse.  Develop interviewing skills and employ them.  If you read an article about someone who does something that fascinates you, make a phone call.  The worst they can do is say no, but in my experience, if you are honest with them about what you're doing, they usually won't.  If you use what they tell you, remember them in the author's note or afterword.  Don't rip off someone's entire biography, though, we're talking about idea generation, not literary cloning.
   
   A brief aside about talking to people: Every time I hear of some writer getting their royalty check and retreating to a cabin in the back woods of Maine to write their next Great American Novel, I know that I'll never hear from them again.  Much like technological innovations, with very few exceptions, the great stories and compelling novels come from the field, not from the laboratory.
   
   
4. Daydream.
   It has been said that the greatest difficulty a writer faces is convincing their spouse that staring out the window is work.  Your entire life someone has been telling you to knock it off.  I'm here to tell you they were wrong.  Don't knock it off.  Develop the habit.  Call it meditation and buy a mat and some incense if it makes your loved ones feel better, but however you do it, make it pay for itself by writing them down.
5. Look at photos.
   Whether you go to your mother's closet and take down a photo album or go to Flickr and start clicking on random images and coming up with the stories that are behind them.  I've been known to buy old copies of Life magazine just to page through them and imagine the stories behind the photos.  Sometimes you'll get a character, sometimes you'll find a setting, sometimes the story will spring from the image, whole and ready to be told.
   
   Honestly, this works better for me if I don't know the story behind a photo, so I avoid doing this with family albums unless the photos are so old that even the oldest family members are uncertain as to who they are or what they're up to.
   
   
6. Buy a Map
   The map may not be the territory, but it is a source for many, many stories. I've spent so much time poring over old maps and daydreaming about them that it's practically a second vocation.  I cannot count the ideas that have been generated in that way.  Here, there be dragons.
   
   My second-favorite store in Seattle is Metsker Maps.  It's a source of infinite ideas because they sell not only current maps and travel guides, but also classic and reprints of historical maps, but the local history rooms at your local university or public library are an excellent place to start.  Call ahead, though, sometimes you need an appointment.
7. Read, especially the classics
   Stephen King says (and rightly so) that if you have no time to read, you've neither the time nor the tools to be a writer.  Literary culture is defined as a culture because it feeds itself, evolves and progresses and has specific defined movements.  In part, this is because we get ideas (similar to what I was talking about with regard to TV shows) by thinking about how we would do this differently, or because some throw away aside in one book sparks an idea in your mind and a book of your own.  I say 'especially the classics' to acknowledge that in many ways, Harry Potter is David Copperfield with wizards and wands. Oh Brother Where Art Thou is an unabashed retelling of The Odyssey.  This sort of thing happens constantly and with good reason.  Certain stories are good for all times.  Certain stories just work.
   
   Beyond the current meme for grafting zombies or robots into classic novels, there are story elements to be harvested there that are rich enough to blossom anew in the light of the modern world.  No matter how many times a story has been done, there's always a new twist to be found for the reader/writer who is alert for ideas.
   
   
8. Phone a friend.
   When a bunch of writers bands together, one of two things usually happens: they're just catty and competitive and tear one another down or they form their very own Algonquin Round Table.  When you get a good group of different creative types around a table, people who are receptive, open and witty, ideas just seem to appear out of nowhere and you'll find yourself trading them like baseball cards.
   
   I've experienced this several times in my life in one form or another and when it happens, have your notebook ready and be ready to have so many ideas that you're giving them away.  I've given many ideas away that simply weren't of a variety that I'd be willing or able to bring fully to life and received many others in return.  If you want to do this, chose your circle carefully and do not limit it to just writers if you can help it.  If it's just writers, it will turn into a critique group and in many ways that's a separate thing.
   
   
9. Take it on the road.
   Some of my favorite ideas came to me while I was traveling.  Most of the best came as a result of some odd moment in a road trip, but even if it's choosing to walk instead of driving to school or work or the coffee shop, there's something about the act of traveling that tends to stimulate ideas.
   
   This is number three on my list of writer's block remedies and it's here for the same reason.  Just as a stagnant scene can be renewed by moving it to a new setting, so too can the writer's mind be refreshed by a change of scenery.  Just remember to stop before you get more than ten miles from home.
10. Put it down on paper. 
    This is the oldest writing advice in the world and it's relatively simple: unless your memory is far better than my own, you need to jot down those ideas that spring fully-formed into your brain at 3 AM, or when you're sitting in a boring business meeting.  I sometimes like to imagine all the terribly rude people who are tapping on their Blackberries through every meeting rather than listening to the speaker have just had a great new idea for a story.  Sometimes we forget that this doesn't have to be elaborate or expensive -- for carrying around, I like Moleskines as much as the next guy, but the notebook on my bedside table was bought for $.50 at the local supermarket.
    
    Oh, and one more thing...  I've more than once awakened to find a few meaningless wandering lines of ink on my bedside notebook and wondered what wondrous idea they were meant to capture.  Consider turning on a light or investing in a headlamp if you've someone sleeping next to you.

None of those should come as a galloping shock to you.  Or at least I hope not.  But often it's seeing someone else write it down or admit to it that makes you feel less anxious about the generating of ideas and get on with the writing.  If nothing else came out of that list, I hope you remember this: They really are just day dreams until you write them down.

Do you already have your idea?  Are you wondering where to go from here?  

Try this post from last February: Ten Tips to Get Your Novel Started

Generating Ideas :: Something from Nothing, Part One

As I near the end of the first draft of Howard Carter, I'm already noodling with the next idea in the back of my mind.  I've been jotting down new character and story ideas for the past week or so and preparing a reading list for the next novel as well as preparing myself mentally to begin revisions on the one that's been maturing in the desk drawer.

Which might explain why though I talk a lot about how ideas germinate and how to avoid writer's block and how to get unstuck if you can't, I spend precious little time talking about how to get started in the first place.

Getting started isn't something that I find difficult; usually stopping is the hard part.  

So I don't tend to think about it much.

However, since this blog is about what's on my mind, it might be worthwhile to think about it a bit more than I usually do.  Not only what am I going to do next, but why I chose that idea and how I went from abit of ink on a coffee stained napkin to the beginnings of a story...

Though I have some chapters of Howard Carter to get on the page before I can really focus on the next novel, so here are some past thoughts on the subject, hand-picked for Your Reading Pleasure:

10 Ways To Get Started On Your Novel (A List)

Writer's Block Redux  (Or: I get by with a little help from my monsters)

Writer's Block (The Illustrated Website Edition)

Lost Epiphanies & Cat Toys

It is not my wallet and keys that I worry about;
I will always find those things eventually.
It's the ideas that I should keep chained to my belt;
The 4 am epiphanies that would fix my story,
fix my life, fix my computer, fix my name in the stars!
Those evaporate into the velvety darkness,
Lost dreams that flutter against the windows,
Sweet escape from the grey mists of my thoughts,
Only to get caught and then eaten by the cat.
Though he never vomits the ideas on the rug.
I like to think he's keeping them for me,
Tucked away in his fur against my hour of need,
Purr and play memory, my furry little thumbdrive.
Or a girdle book, its tail tucked in my belt,
Like a medieval student of forgotten classics,
Trying to remember his Latin declensions
Felix, Felis, Feli, Felem...
Oh, but that's not right, I've more than one!
More cats and dreams and ideas and schemes,
In the dark watches when the stars are high,
And whispering cats hunt the laggard thoughts,
The next idea, the new idea, THE BIG IDEA!
Pounced and purred and knocked under the bed
For a furry dragon to sleep atop a magpie's hoard
Of dustbunnies and half-remembered dreams.

-Scott

Exit Stage Left, Pursued By Barrister :: Ideas Are Everywhere - Day Six

Writers get their ideas by paying attention to the things that most people ignore and doing the things that other people avoid.  For the most part, jury duty is almost shockingly boring, but I kept a journal of my time on jury duty back in 2008 and I'm posting it here (unedited) to illustrate how even the most banal days can provide us with all the story fodder we could possibly want.  A more complete explanation can be found here. -Scott

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Day Six

I have been weighed in the scales and found wanting. At any rate, I was eliminated from the jury at the eleventh hour. 12 Jurors, 2 alternates. The rest of us were told to bail. They grilled all of us pretty hard. Asked a lot of personal and penetrating questions. It was interesting, I would have liked to see the trial but I'm glad I'm not stuck doing this for another three weeks.

Mixed feelings...

Incidentally, I've never been in the audience of a talk show, nor do I watch them if I can help it, but that's what this felt like. I think there are people in the world who bottle it all up their entire lives, just waiting for a talk show host or lawyer or someone to ask them these questions. The admissions... the sheer amount of over-sharing that went on in that room that went far beyond the scope of the questioning was... unnerving.

And at some points it felt like a Philosophy 101 class. What would you do if...

For instance: at one point the defense attorney called on me and we got into it about the death penalty and whether or not I should be offended that the governor of Illinois "usurped the role of the courts by commuting all of the inmates on death row in his state to life terms." This was after five death row inmates were exonerated with DNA evidence, mind you. "Usurped the role of the courts..." took the power of life and death out of my hands and commuted sentences. This is a defense attorney who seemed like he wanted me to be offended by that. As if he was... which is odd, considering his role in the judicial process.

This wasn't a death penalty case. It was an identity theft case. Prison, sure. But when did we start executing people for this? Going back to the days of hanging horse thieves? I doubt it somehow. What he was trying to get at, I couldn't say.

Anyway, I told him I was not offended by the executive branch executing their constitutionally defined role. This power of their exists for a reason, to react to new information that the courts did not know, were not aware of, or could not know at the time. When we kept going we ended up getting into the actual nature of the death penalty. He ended it when I mentioned that I was categorically against it.

There were other clashes. The prosecutor's questions were basic and straight-forward. The defense attorney's hypotheticals were torturously mangled. I applied logic to them and he stopped calling on me.

I'm not sure if it was him or the prosecutor that used their challenge to kick me out.
I guess it doesn't matter.

I'm done.  Joke lady doubts they'll call my group in next week with Memorial Day making it a short week.

In the course of my term in the juror-dungeons beneath the Pierce County Courthouse, I think I managed to read more actual newspapers in two weeks than I can recall in the past few months added together. Actual newspapers, not their websites. The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, Financial Times, Tacoma News Tribune, Seattle PI, Seattle Times... the list seems endless. It was almost like old times. Except for the sitting in a bomb shelter part.

I had to brave ink stains to get a glimpse of the world beyond the bunker. Now I confess that on a daily basis, I read a lot of news. I'm a bit of a news junky. I almost ended up a journalist, after all. But I'd gotten away from print editions, drawn by the blinking lights and video podcasts of Google's Attention Deficit Utopia, so it kinda felt good to get my fingers inky.

No, not all of that ink came from Mary Englebreit, don't start with me. (I never did figure out where that stupid cat went. I think it was an errant piece from a different puzzle).

My curmudgeonly griping aside, can you really think of a better place to wile away the weeks of the national Democratic and Republican Conventions than in a bomb shelter?  I can't. (Well, actually, I can, but I'm trying to be realistic and I tend to burn when exposed to that much tropical sun anyway.)

After spending a week, selflessly gifting me with a multitude of things to blog about, the Pierce County courts sent me home. Sort of.

Please, let us not confuse “sent me home” with “let me go”.  I'm on parole.  Each day I have to check in to see if they’ll need me the following day. Joke lady says they probably won't, but nevertheless, every night I must log into the website (which is frequently down) or call and listen to the automated message to see if I'm going to wake up in the morning headed to work or the court house.

Sheesh! How codependent can you get? I’m sorry, Pierce County Judicial System, but I think I need to start seeing other judges, other attorneys. You understand, don’t you?

Don’t take it too hard. It’s not you… it’s me.

Close-in Lunch Counters :: Ideas Are Everywhere - Day Five

As proof that ideas are everywhere if you're just open to them, I'm posting a few days of a journal I kept while undergoing jury duty back in 2008. Note: These are unedited because I didn't want to lie to you or show you anything more polished than it really was.  If you think you can't write Sci Fi from your everyday life, you're really not paying attention.  Read more here.  -Scott

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Day Five

So... I got called in on the big multi-week Superior Court Case. Which is all I can tell you at the moment.

I can’t talk about the case. It’s a rule. I haven’t been eliminated in the first few lightning rounds. One of the lawyers bears an unnerving resemblance to Conan O’brien’s sidekick. I forget his name.  Andy Richter?

Lunch, however… lunch I can talk about. And aliens. I haven’t been enjoined from talking about aliens. Strange how those two subjects tend to intersect.

The judge gave us an hour instead of the usual hour and a half right in the middle of the time during which the sign on the door of the 911 Deli warns that they won’t guarantee a turnaround of less than a half hour on any order.

Gotta love any business that can get away with that.

Instead I decide to run upstairs to the 11th floor cafeteria. I meant that literally. Run. Up. Stairs. It’s an odd fact of life here in the Pierce County Courthouse that the elevators only go up ten floors. To get to the cafeteria, one must walk up a flight of steps.

(How is this ADA acceptable?)

I tromp up the stairs, grab a soda out of the cooler, pour a cup of coffee and order a BLT. Get up to the front and the lady frowns at my debit card. “We only take cash up here.” As proof, she points to a handwritten sign (written with neon highlighters so that it’s darn-near impossible to read) posted on the glass next to the register. She smiles like I’m a street magician about to pull a hundred dollar bill out of her ear.

I step out the door and scan the top of the stairs. The door into the café proper. Cast my gaze up and down the entire front of the line. The walls all around… no signs. Just the illegible one next to the register. Did I mention that it's about 5"x7"? And practically illegible?

Am I on candid camera?
Do they still have candid camera?

“Don’t you think this would be good information for me to have had before I poured a cup of coffee and ordered a sandwich that you’re now going to have to throw away?”

“We’ve never taken anything but cash up here,” she smiles again. I blink at her. I glance down at my jeans and tennies and un-tucked dress shirt, not to mention my red Juror badge and the cheery orange number 42 (they took away my big purple one). Do I look like I work here? Why would I know this? Never? Oh for...
(Deep breath)

Maybe she’s a vogon. That 42 might've been a warning from the universe.  I peer at her teeth, looking for telltale symptoms of alien ancestry. Hrm. No, she’s looks human except for the smile. Maybe she’s under an alien influence. Why is she smiling? Maybe not candid camera, maybe it’s some kind of behavioral experiment. Am I in a maze? If I eat the BLT will I get an electric shock?

I’m on to them now. Stick to your guns, man!

“That sign should be over there,” I point back the way I came.

“There’s an ATM on the first floor.” (Down and back up ten elevated floors and two flights of stairs… and it charges a pretty steep fee, which I noticed earlier.)

“Yeah, I don’t think so.” I set down the tray and walk away. Enjoy my sandwich, lady. And my cup of coffee. If I’d turned left as I entered the maze, would I have been allowed to eat the BLT?

Customer service tip from someone who used to teach customer service skills:  Don’t smile when you say “no.” Smirking like it’s all some kind of elaborate inside joke that you get and they don’t isn’t going to win you any friends on the far side of the counter. I don’t care how often you have to say something or how tired you are of saying it: It’s the first time your customer has heard it. This doesn’t make them stupid, it makes them human. Treat them accordingly… unless you’re an alien. I'm not saying she was... I'm just sayin' someone should keep Sigourney Weaver on speed dial.

First floor lobby and back to the alien experiment-free 21st century and the wondrous aspect of a coffee cart: “Of course we accept debit cards.” I could almost kiss the girl behind the counter but I restrain myself. I’m a married man and what would people think? Surely Kristin would understand.

Definitely not an alien. Unless it’s the Kim Basinger “My Stepmother is an Alien” sort of alien. Ok, she’s not Kim Basinger, but she does have the cinnamon scone, cup of coffee, and someplace to sit, which makes her a perfect 10 in my book.

So here I sit, sipping my coffee and typing this missive to the world beyond these walls. If you should find this bottle adrift on the tides, pause, stranger, and ponder how far into the county’s hierarchy these alien influences have penetrated. If they’ve seized control of the food supply, what’s next?

Darn it. I really wanted that BLT. (I avert my gaze from the demonic gleam of the ATM. Must resist the alien influences!) Oh well. What can I expect from a place where the elevator literally doesn’t go all the way to the top floor.

Klaatu, barada nikto!

That Darn Cat :: Ideas Are Everywhere - Day Four

As proof that ideas are everywhere if you're just open to them, I'm posting a few days of a journal I kept while undergoing jury duty back in 2008. Note: These are unedited because I didn't want to lie to you or show you anything more polished than it really was.  I think today was the day I found a half dozen ideas for a horror novel that I'll never write.  Read more here.  -Scott

 
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Day Four

This puzzle is freaking hard. Can’t find where the kitty goes.

(ahem)

I’m very early. My call was at 9:30 but I wanted to find parking downtown, so I got here at a quarter of eight. Bumming around the area, I spotted a couple of patrolmen exiting a place called “The 911 Deli”. How can you pass up a place called The 911 Deli?

I have a theory: If you want to find the best eats in an area, real stick-to-your-ribs vittles at a good price… follow a cop. When these guys are on patrol, they’re out and about breakfast lunch and dinner. They eat out A LOT and don’t really get paid a whole lot considering. And that means finding the best cheap eats in the burgh. The 911 Deli is just such a place.

Oh... don't follow them too closely. They don't like that sort of thing. Just sayin'.

The sign was lit, the door was unlocked, but the lights over the tables weren’t on and the counter was empty. I looked back, confirmed that the “Open” sign was lit. Am I breaking and entering? In the local cops’ favorite watering hole… great. As I prepare to make my escape and simultaneously prepare my criminal defense (I’m telling you, this place does things to your mind) An elderly Thai lady (I know because she told me) came out to assure me that they’re open, just getting a slow start this morning.

Ah! Good. (Phew!)

I order a ham & cheese omelet and coffee. The coffee’s not ready yet and the omelet will take at least twenty minutes to get it out to me. Is that ok? Um… sure. I’ve got some time on my hands.

The family that runs the joint is very nice to me and brings my omelet out. It only took 19 minutes, but it’s freakin’ perfect. I can’t count the number of quiches, scrambles, and what-the-heck-do-you-call-that’s that I’ve been served with a side of hashbrowns over the years under the dubious moniker of ‘omelet.’ This one is perfect. Light and custardlike innards without being runny, not overly fluffy either, heated-through but not browned, not even vaguely resembling a football. It’s an Omelet.

I knew the cops wouldn’t steer me wrong. The coffee’s not bad either. Not great, but not bad. I’m tempted to come back for lunch and taste their ‘Thai Iced Tea’ whatever that is.

‘Tis an auspicious start to the day. Which comes crashing down as I sit bent over a most pernicious puzzle. That darned cat. I think it might be a piece from some other puzzle. I glare suspiciously around at the other people who have finally succumbed to Mary Englebreit’s puzzling powers. Diabolical.

The room is mostly empty, but there’s still about fifteen minutes until the official call time. My cohorts will surely be along shortly. Surely.

People are filtering in, but I think they’re being eliminated from an early-morning session of truth-telling. Where is everyone? I get that momentary panicked feeling I remember well from gradeshool. Am I late? Did I misremember my call time? Misread the clock? Did I forget my homework? Am I in the wrong class? The wrong School? Where are my pants, anyway?

Get a grip. Is there such a thing as an omelet hangover?

The jokey lady is here, I can hear her laughing in the office. She must be preparing a humdinger for this morning’s standup act. One minute to call. There’s only twenty or so people in the room. Some of them culls from other juries. What gives? Does this mean I’ll get on a jury by the universal forces of attrition?

Side note: Just once, I want to hear a defendant say: “And I’d have gotten away with it too, if it wasn’t for those meddling kids!”

Time to close the laptop. It’s 9:30 and the joke lady is approaching the podium. I think I might see where that cat goes anyway. The joke lady is on my wavelength...

“A man wanted to get rid of his cat. He took the cat ten blocks from home, kicked it out of the car and took off. By the time he got home, the cat was sitting on the doorstep, waiting for him to let it in.

The next day, the man drove forty blocks, turning and backtracking several times, booted the cat out of the car and sped home. There was the cat, sitting on the stoop, waiting to be let into the house.

The third day, the man tried once more. He put the cat in the car and drove all the way across the city, backtracking, turning left, turning right, ending up MILES from his home. Hours passed and the man’s wife began to worry. She called his cell phone and he picked up on the third ring.

“Where are you?” she asked.

“A long way away, is the cat there?” the woman hesitated before telling him, yes, the cat had once again beaten him home. “Good, can you put him on the phone? I’m lost.”

(Ba-dump bump.)

9:35 am. A jury pool they called up yesterday apparently had to dismiss seven of their jurors and they need seven more. The lady calls my name.

I’m number 42.

Now I’ll never figure out where that cat goes! Well, I’m off to get hidden from the world on a case of some sort. Either I will make it through the truth-telling and be sitting on a jury for a couple of weeks or I’ll be back with my nemesis the Mary Englebreit cat on the morrow.

What this will do to my start date for classes, I have no idea. On the bright side, someone just handed me a big purple 8X10 number 42.

Methinks I hear the Vogons approaching…  

Jokes, Damned Jokes & Puzzles :: Ideas Are Everywhere - Day Three

Writers get their ideas by paying attention to the things that most people ignore and doing the things that other people avoid.  For the most part, jury duty is almost shockingly boring, but I kept a journal of my time on jury duty back in 2008 and I'm posting it here (unedited) to illustrate how even the most banal days can provide us with all the story fodder we could possibly want.  A more complete explanation can be found here. -Scott

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Day Three

The Judge tells me that for every 100 jury summonses sent out, only 35 jurors appear. 65 of my fellow citizens have some ‘splainin to do while I and my 34 cohorts sit in the windowless bunker, wondering when our turn will come. Again. I’ve always been told that you show up and if you get on a jury, you’re done when the case is done. Apparently not the case, since I’m still sitting here.

I told mom about the judge. She laughed and told me that she once got called into a jury pool with a judge’s mother. You see: at the beginning of Voir Dire, one of the first questions they always ask (and the judge always seems to ask it) is “Do you know anyone on the court today?”

Here’s your ten dollars, mom, have a safe drive home.
(Wait for gong to sound.)

Your tax dollars at work folks. Well, they would be your tax dollars if you lived in Missouri. Otherwise, it's just a good bit of state-sponsored silliness to amuse you as it did me when I heard it. Where was I?

The light flashes but it’s to call in jurors who have already been chosen. They troop into the room, the weird lady that runs the place walks up to the podium and tells a joke:

“Q: How do you spot Ronald MacDonald on a nude beach?
A: He’s the one with sesame seed buns.”

My dad told me that joke when I was fourteen. Apparently their awe at having the presiding Superior Court judge in the room has waned. She calls the roll, sends the first jury out with an assistant and then returns to address the rest of us. There will be two Superior Court cases and four Municipal Court cases today.

Everyone will get called, just sit tight and take a short break. Watch for the amber light. In the meantime, another joke…

“A ship captain in heavy seas spots a light ahead on the same course and bearing as his ship. He puts out a call: ‘Change your heading ten degrees!’ the answer comes back ‘Change your heading ten degrees.’

The captain fumes. He’s a navy captain in charge of a warship, and by God he changes course for no man! He calls again… ‘I’m a navy captain, you will change your heading ten degrees!’ the call comes back: ‘I’m a navy ensign, and you will change your heading ten degrees.’

The captain is aghast at this insubordination and grabs the handset away from the radio operator. ‘I’m a US Navy captain on the bridge of a warship son! And you will change your heading!’

There’s a crackle of static as everyone on the bridge watches with bated breath. Soon the call comes back. ‘Well, captain, I’m a US Navy ensign sitting at the base of a lighthouse, so it’s your call.”

I think this place drives you a little nuts after awhile, because I laughed at that. Actually, I laughed at all of them. Mass hysteria. Mob mentality. Get enough people in a room and tell them a joke and no matter how bad the joke, some of them will laugh and the others will laugh along with them to keep from feeling left out.

I suspect that there are some comedians who base entire careers on this premise.

The real trouble with having a memory like mine is that things like that stick. Perfectly innocent synapses, minding their own business when along comes a really bad joke and SNAP they’re chained to an oar in a creaking galley with a naked Ronald MacDonald beating the drums to set the pace. Yes, I will remember Ronald MacDonald’s sesame seed buns until my dying day but I forget the name of someone I met yesterday. Thankfully, there were already synapses devoted to Ronnie’s buns, so no harm done this time. (Thanks, dad!)

People tell me they wish they had my memory. If you can think of a way to get it into a suitcase, you can have it, but you have to take all of the strange side effects with it: Ronald MacDonald and his buns et al.

Second and third jury selections pass me over but I’m still not allowed to leave. The joke lady keeps sending us on little breaks, “Use the facilities, you’ll be called back in fifteen minutes.” The fifth time I hear it credibility has attenuated to the point of embarrassment.

There are no decks of cards in the bunker. Lots and lots of scary Mary Englebreit puzzles but no decks of cards. Based on the number of older white males in the room, if there were, we’d be up to our ears in a poker tournament in no time. I guess it’s a good thing. I’d hate to get called to my civic duty while holding an inside straight.

I actually don’t know how to play poker, but it’s fun to pretend. I’ve never played Scrabble either. Mine was a deprived childhood, I suppose. We owned Scrabble, I found it in my parents basement when I was visiting last year. It was quite dusty. But it we ever played it I certainly don’t remember it (remember what I said about my memory?). We also owned decks of cards, but at most some rummy or solitaire was their fate. Go Gish in the early years...

A deprived childhood indeed. How do my parents look themselves in the mirror? Deprived, but not depraved enough to want to assemble an entire Mary Englebreit puzzle, however. How bored can you get?

You know, I think the kitty on the front of that puzzle box might be looking at me. I edge away from the puzzle box and open a new document. I have work to do.

Honestly, I don’t “get” Mary Englebreit. Her artwork is a little strange. Like a crossbreed of tole painting and The Busy Busy World of Richard Scarry. So much going on, busy busy busy. Little worms and kitty cats driving cars made out of apples and bananas and stuff.

Work to do. Concentrate. The cat is not looking at you. The flowers in the border are lavender anyway. I’m allergic to lavender. Couldn’t assemble it if I wanted to.

The Judge slipped out at some point. Probably has his own cases to hear, lawyers to frustrate, bad guys to punish. Yes, he’s gone to the bat cave. Or he’s tired of the lady's jokes too and is lucky enough to have an office in the building to escape into.

Work to do. Bye for now...

---

2:30… the amber lights flash again. Everyone files into the room, puts down the piece of the folk artsy kitty they were trying to find a place for in their puzzle, closes their Grisham novel or looks up from their laptops.

Joke lady walks up to the lecturn… and doesn't tell a joke. A miracle!

A new Superior Court criminal case has been called into session! Forty-five jurors will be called up! A frisson of excitement mingled with dread runs through the residents of purgatory. She reads out names. This is a big one. These cases can run days or even weeks to get through voir dire, witnesses, expert testimony, in and out as the lawyers wrangle over minutia. I set aside my puzzle… I mean close my laptop and lean forward. This could actually be interesting. I haven’t seen a big case yet. I notice the judge isn’t in the room.

Ten jurors in a row are called, all of them on the last day of their final week of rotation. Oooo. That's gotta suck. They howl, they complain, they protest. It’s the computer. It’s random. It’s your civic duty. Take your number, citizen. The computer is your friend. Now, get in line.

My name wasn’t called.

The remaining municipal cases have all pled out. No more jokes for today. Go home.
Ten more dollars. Cold hard cash.

---
(NOTE: The title is from a famous quote by British statesman Benjamin Disraeli and popularized in America by native son Mark Twain: "There are three kinds of lies: Lies, Damned lies and Statistics.")

Telecommuting From Purgatory :: Ideas Are Everywhere Day Two

The most ridiculous question any writer gets is "Where do you get your ideas?"  We get them by paying attention to the things that most people ignore and (this is the most important part) by writing it down.  You'd be surpise how many people tell me they want to be writers but don't seem to want to actually write anything.  I kept a journal during my stint of jury duty in 2008 -- the most banal experience I can think of -- and I'm posting it here unedited so you can see that story ideas are everywhere if you're looking for them.  A fuller explanation is here.  -Scott
 

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Day Two

Sitting in the batcave again. We’re told that if there’s an earthquake this is the safest part of the building, built as a bomb shelter. Nice to know, I guess. We spend a lot of time Not Thinking About Earthquakes in Washington. As if they never happen here. There were two in Pierce County over the weekend. Weak and deep, but earthquakes nonetheless. Guess that’s why they brought it up.

A few people have struck up conversations. Nearby a minister is writing his Sunday sermon. I’m on the laptop (obviously) writing this at the moment. I even have actual work to do open on another window, which I will get back to in a minute.

The introductory speech has been given and the orientation movie watched when a man gets up from the middle of the crowd. He’s the only one in a suit. White-haired and distinguished-looking. As it happens, he’s the presiding Superior Court judge (the boss) and he’s been called in for jury duty. He gives a lovely speech about how much all of our participation means to the jury system and how it all underpins our form of government. Tells us about a pilot program currently running in other counties where jurors are paid minimum wage and how he finds the initial results encouraging.

We still just get ten bucks a day here in Pierce County. Sorry kid, maybe next time around.

The people running the room look a little shell-shocked. They didn’t know he was here. I notice thereafter that they’re all moving with a bit more alacrity than yesterday. The boss is in the house. Hope I end up on a jury with a judge. That would be interesting.

The first culling goes by without my being chosen.

Second culling… still no call for me. (Or the judge.)

Question: If you’re an attorney do you want the county’s presiding judge on your jury? I wouldn’t think so, but if you challenge him during voir dire because you don’t think he can set aside his prejudicial feelings as a jurist to render a fair decision... the 22 gets caught, doesn't it? Because aren’t you casting into doubt the single central salient aspect of the whole system, the ability of a judge to leave his or her bias at the courtroom door? Food for thought.

This is why I hope I’m in the room when he’s called. If nothing else, when the judge and attorneys ask if anyone on the jury has a relationship either personal or professional with any of them there, I want to hear how they handle it…

Get up to fetch another cup of coffee and then back to my seat. Open the laptop again. Stare at the screen.

I’m going to be here awhile, I guess. The gears of justice grind slowly. We’re told to stick around. Everyone will be part of the next call. That will be this afternoon. Get some lunch. Take a break. Come back at 1:30.

I brought my own lunch and just enough money for coffee. Nuts. I should get out there and walk around. Run over to the library and check my email. Instead I spend a few hours working on some things I brought with me from work.

I’m writing a manual for the Northwest eTutoring Consortium. Telecommuting from purgatory in a manner of speaking. Hours tick by in the windowless bunker. The minister is discussing the WSU football team with a woman who sat down next to him. A man is talking to a private investigator on his cell phone with a loud voice. (What?) Another man’s on his phone talking to a kid about losing his first tooth. My phone doesn't work in here. I wonder who their carriers are?

Another day in purgatory. Back to work.

It’s almost two o’clock. The people running room confer, mill around near the door. They don't seem to know what the holdup is. Patience, they tell someone who pipes up to ask. The judge isn't here, he's probably holed up in his office. I would imagine he has work to do too.

Wonder if they’ll ask more pertinent questions during voir dire this afternoon? Or is this what it’s always like? I'll sign off and do some real work. Talk to you later.

----

2:30... they finally get word from on-high. They call out a list of names. The lucky ones who didn't just waste an entire day leave in train to go get grilled by defense attorneys and prosecutors. People from the first culls enter, mill around and then leave again. What was that about? The judge's name is called but he's not here anymore. The lady makes a few snide remarks about judges being late for everything, living in their own time zones. The boss is away, we can be silly now, I guess.

Roll call. We're all here. (Except Judge Wopner)
You can all go home, we won't need you. See you again tomorrow.

Shut down the laptop and pack up.
I packed a lunch for this?
Another day, another ten bucks.

Sigh.

Juris Prudence :: Ideas Are Everywhere Day One

As proof that ideas are everywhere if you're just open to them, I'm posting a few days of a journal I kept while undergoing jury duty back in 2008. Note: These are unedited because I didn't want to lie to you or show you anything more polished than it really was.  Read more of my reasoning HERE.  -Scott

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Day One

A hundred and twenty strangers sit in a windowless room. We sip coffee, type on laptops, read books or newspapers and generally ignore one another in the manner typical of such gatherings. Every once in awhile a yellow light flashes. Numbers are called and some depart, leaving the rest to wonder when our turn will come. Some of those called away return. Most do not. Our eyes drop back to our screens and our books, waiting for the next flashing harbinger of a new selection.

We are all of us here, none of us voluntarily, and each getting paid ten dollars for our presence. Plus mileage. Welcome to my very own corner of the Criminal Justice System.

This morning, Kristin packed me a lunch, made sure I remembered to put my MapQuest directions in my bag, patted me on the head and sent me off to do my part in the whole "smiting evil" thing. I didn't know it would entail an actual bat cave... okay, to be honest I haven't seen any bats per se, but that's not proof that they're not here.

To be honest, I’ve never done this before, and the whole thing has a certain ‘down the rabbit hole’ feel to it. Like most people, I really wanted to get a good solid case in front of me, a mustachioed villain facing life for tying a rancher’s daughter to the train tracks. Or a man in a purple suit stammering out a defense and blaming it all on the guy dressed as the giant bat. Real criminal justice is just so… banal.

Most defendants are just normal people in a bad place, at a bad time. Having a bad day. Or a series of bad days. Cause and effect. If they are guilty, then their choices put them here, if not, then our choices will set them free... at least theoretically. Hence the assumption of innocence. And the appeals process as well, I suppose.

With this in mind, was I summoned early by the amber light to endure the oddity of Voir Dire.

Handed an 8x10 number I'm herded into a small courtroom to be asked penetrating questions by savvy lawyers to discern your prejudices and biases. All questions will be general, if you have an affirmative response, raise your number.

Voir Dire, by the way, means “Telling the truth.”

Questions: Have you ever been in an auto accident where you were injured? (Scott’s hand rises) Do you have any problem or have you had a past negative interaction with law enforcement? (Scott’s hand stays down), Have you ever been prosecuted for Wreckless Driving (Scott’s number remains in his lap). Why are you here, why didn’t you beg off like most people do? (Scott is called on and says “If I didn’t do it, who would?” they nod sagely and move on) etcetera, etcetera, ad nauseum.

Some of the questions seem pertinent. Others don’t.

At one point near the end of proceedings, after several rounds of questioning by both parties, the defense attorney singles me out. Consults his jury list, addresses me by name. “You’ve been quiet this morning. But I guess no one has asked you any questions, have they?”

Well, there was the one about why wasn’t I smart enough to figure out a way to get out of jury duty…

“What do you do for a living?”

I tell him.

“Then you can teach me how to write?”

Scott swallows his first smartalecky impulse and says: “Yes, I probably could.”

What does that have to do with anything in a wreckless driving case? Or racing? He doesn’t ask me any more questions. Neither lawyer ever asked me about the accident I was injured in, how I felt about it or anything pertaining to the case.

I’m chosen for the jury. I have no idea why. Maybe they like people who work in education. Maybe because I have glasses. Nerdy guys with thick glasses make good jurors? I assume I’m less offensive to the needs of either party than those who were dismissed. There are seven of us. Five men and two women. A good mix of ages and people pinning down several levels on the graduated scale of melanin. Nice that we’re not all the same age and backgrounds, I like to think that justice is a bit more blind the farther the net is cast across the spectrum.

We’re told that one of us will be eliminated at the end of the case as the ‘alternate’. Like some kind of Jurisprudence Survivor. I wonder if they’ll make us eat anything icky?

Both sides and the judge tell us this one will be over quickly. They repeat it several times. Everyone there says it at least once. One day unless deliberations drag on into tomorrow. They kind of laugh when they say it. Seems odd. Some kid’s criminal record is in the balance but everyone’s being just a little laid back. The lawyers are almost flippant. Everyone seems laid back, confident in a win.

How weird.

The county’s prosecuting attorney for the county is new. Young. Green. I swear he needs to find someone to tailor that suit for him because it looks like he’s wearing his dad’s jacket. He has a senior attorney with him as co-counsel who is acting as a trainer and giving whispered input on everything the guy says. It’s a little distracting, but I’m good at ignoring things. The defense attorney is older, has an earring. Longish hairstyle. Hip old guy.

I squint at the defendant. No curly mustache. No purple suit. He’s just another kid. Young, good looking, wearing street clothes and a determined look. How are you supposed to tell the good guys from the bad guys when they all look like good guys? How do you know when you’re looking at a basically normal person who is having a bad day?

Opening arguments. The cop who pulled the kid over testifies. Cross-examination. The kid testifies. Cross-examination. Jury instructions are given. Closing arguments are given. They each go over the legal definition of racing and one of the women is eliminated from our jury by a random drawing of names.

(No one had to eat anything icky, alas.)

A jury of six? What happened to twelve? Must be different in lower courts, I suppose.

We bid our alternate goodbye. We’re locked in the room. We elect a foreperson by the age-old method of whoever doesn’t say ‘no’ fast enough gets it by default. We discuss things. Two of the older men have a history of drag racing as kids. They tell some stories to illustrate their points. It gets a little too "American Graffiti" at one point and some of us have to intervene to get things back on track.

After some discussion, we find for the county.  It's a very near thing and I don't fell like the case was presented well by either lawyer.

We notify the judicial assistant (which is the new term for Bailiff) and the verdict is read.

Afterward, the attorneys follow us back into the jury room.

This is odd, I’ve never heard of this before. We present our finding and then endure a debriefing? An after-interview?

This is strange. I just want to go home now. "This is voluntary," we’re told, "just a way for the attorneys to get some perspective on how they handled the case."  Poorly. Especially the scribbling on the big sheet of paper that was supposed to illustrate where each car was at what time.  I'm told that I can leave, but I don’t want to be the only one to do so. Awkward. I read the newspaper through the whole thing. I want to quiz the attorneys but I don’t. It was either a strategy that I don’t understand or not in which case… I don’t see any value to knowing. Some of the others ask desultory questions about the young prosecutor in training and then we’re thanked for our service and told we can leave.

Home by four o’clock. Asleep in the couch by five-thirty. Even though I was on a jury I'm to report again tomorrow to go back in the pool. Two weeks of this.

At least I get Memorial Day off.

No idea what happened to the kid. Is he sleep on his couch?
Guess I’ll never know.