Introduction to the 3rd Draft

First Note: Pay no attention to the date stamps on this blog.
I've re-arranged everything so that the chapters appear in order as you read down the blog, and that the various drafts read in the order they are written.
Because blogger publishes new posts at the top of the blog, it was necessary to re-arrange all the dates.
So pay no attention to the date stamps.
The real dates are that the first draft of this story was written in 1999-2001. The second draft of this story was written around 2005-2007. And this blog post right now I'm writing in 2017.

After having given up on this story for about 10 years, I'm going to start fooling around with it again, and I'd like to briefly set down my reasons for doing so.

A brief history of this story is as follows:
I worked on it from 1999-2001, at which point I gave up.
Aside from the usual burnout associated with long projects, my primary reason for giving up was I began to doubt my abilities as a writer.  I felt like the basic premise of my novel was still really awesome, but that my prose was so awful that I couldn't pull it off.

While going through my old computer discs in 2004. I was pleasantly surprised to find that my prose wasn't quite as bad as I remembered it.  Okay, sure, it wasn't great.  But it wasn't quite as awful as I had remembered.  In fact, maybe with just a little bit of re-writing, it could actually be readable.

So I worked on it again from 2005-2007.  At which point I gave up.  Aside from the usual burnout associated with long projects, I gave up because I started to think that not only was my prose pretty awful, but in fact the whole premise was pretty stupid.
Bad prose could potentially be saved by re-writing, but if the whole premise is awful, then you might as well just give up.

But then, in 2017, while re-arranging my old computer discs, I started reading parts of my story again and... maybe it wasn't so bad after all.  Maybe I gave up on it too quickly.

While I was thinking this, a number of other things hit me:

1).  After reading Tonoharu, I watched Lars Martinson's video:



Lars Martinson talked about the importance of failing faster.  (Lars Martinson was himself borrowing from Extra Credits).

I was struck by the idea here that most of our artistic endeavors are failures.  But we learn from the failures.  So rather than being obsessive perfectionists about stuff, we should just get it done as soon as possible, accept that we are going to fail, and then learn from the experience.

Had I heard this back in 1999, it might have impacted my life more.  I could potentially have failed faster on this story, gotten some feedback, and used it to improve my writing.
At this point, I'm 39, and I'm accepting that I'm never going to be a professional writer.  (That ship has probably sailed.)  But I'm going to try to fail faster on this story anyway.

Part of the reason I never finished this story was because of perfectionism.  My prose was never good enough for me, so I kept trying to re-write parts of it, or I eventually gave up.
Also, on Stephen King's theory that all good writers are voracious readers, I tried to read as much as I could so that that would improve my prose, and I spent so much time reading that I didn't get around to actually writing.
Also, in order to make this book line up with the actual history as much as possible, I spent a lot of time researching the Paris Commune and Karl Marx, and  worrying if I had all the details exactly right.
This perfectionism stopped me from ever finishing the story.

A couple other things popped up on my radar.

I read American Gods by Neil Gaiman .  In the afterward, Neil Gaiman said that he knows the book was flawed.  It struck me that this is how novelists have to finish their first book.  They know it's flawed, but they just finish the thing anyway and hope for the best.

And then, shortly after that, I saw this Youtube Video from Folding Ideas:



I was struck again by how he said perfectionism is your enemy, your pet projects will kill you, just get them done as soon as possible, and move on to something else.

All of that combined made me think about this story.

I know my prose is terrible.  I know the whole premise of this story is flawed.  (It seemed like a great idea when I was 23, but now I realize how stupid the whole thing is).   But I'm going to try to finish it anyway.

In my 2nd draft, I basically started re-writing the first draft from scratch, because I realized how flawed the first draft was.

In my 3rd draft, however, I'm going to basically just take the second draft and run with it.  Yes, I know how flawed some of the scenes are.  Yes, I know how flawed the characters are.  But I'm just going to try to finish it, and then move on to something else.

There's an additional reason as well for me returning to this project.

One of the reasons I gave up on this project in 2007 is that it was consuming too much of my free time, and I was at an age where I should have been putting more of my energy into my professional development.
Writing, if it is done well, takes up an incredible amount of time.  You need to write a certain amount of words just to find your rhythm.  And then you need to read a lot to be a good writer.  Then the research, and revision, etc.  It's a hobby, but sometimes it is hard to keep this hobby in its box, and it can take over your life.

So I stopped doing it to focus more on my career.

However, now I find I'm at a stage in my life where I feel I've put so much into my career that I'm beginning to lose my own identity.  I need to carve out a space for myself.
I want to start writing again just as a form of self-expression.

But at the same time, I need to keep this hobby in its box so it doesn't take over my life again.

In reading this interview with S.E. Hinton, I was struck by how she worked through her writer's block by only writing 2 pages a day.
I'm going to adapt this as my model.

Admittedly, this is slightly paradoxical.  I'm taking inspiration from the "fail faster" videos, but also adapting a snail's pace.
But I simply don't have the time to pour all my energies into this story.  I have a full time job, and I'm also doing a lot outside of my job for professional development.
So, I'm going to try to fail faster on this story in the sense that I'm going to keep it moving forward.  I'm not gong to obsess over re-writing, or accuracy, I'm just going to keep the story going.
But at the same time, I'm only going to work on it a little bit each day, because I recognize that this is just a hobby, and that I need to devote my primary energy to my job.

From that combination, hopefully a 3rd draft will emerge.  It will probably be terrible, but at least it will be something.

The 3rd draft can be found in this Google drive folder HERE.

I've also gone ahead and finally chosen a title for this story.  (The story has never had a title.  Ever since I've set this blog up in 2004, the title of the blog has simply been "Working Title".)  I've decided to go with the title: "Tragedy and Farce."

The title comes from Marx:
Hegel remarks somewhere that all great world-historic facts and personages appear, so to speak, twice. He forgot to add: the first time as tragedy, the second time as farce.

It's a somewhat pretentious title, and perhaps doesn't even fit the themes of the story exactly but... again, I've decided perfectionism is my enemy.  The key is to just chose something and go with it.

Thoughts on Writing a Novel When You're Completely Untalented

This is somewhat a continuation of the previous post, and was written at about the same time (2017).

Let me set down a few thoughts here on my expectations for this novel.

I know full well I have no literary talents.

I will never be famous as a writer.  I will never have this book commercially published.

It's likely that no one will ever even read this whole novel.
I say this with no false humility.  I have ample experience over 10 years of blogging.  Most of what I publish is not read by anyone.
And I don't blame people.  I understand that in this day-and-age of short attention spans, it's hard to find the time and concentration to read something actually worth reading.
No one takes the time to read bad writing.  Maybe people might put up with a short blog post, but nobody's going to read a whole bad novel.

In other words--I fully know that this book will never get published, and in all likelihood will never get read.

So why am I writing it?

Because it helps my sanity to be able to escape into this fictional world for a little bit every day.

Arguably it's a waste of time, but then so many things are a waste of time.  (Television, video games, youtube, twitter, etc.)

I think it's a harmless enough hobby, if it's kept in perspective.
That is, if I keep in mind that the majority of my time and energy should be spent on my career.
And if I keep in mind that I'm never going to get famous writing this story, and that it is only a hobby.

Sometimes it's a hard thing to keep in mind, though.

When I started the first draft of this story in 1999, I started off with a very clear perspective--i.e. I knew I had limited talent, but I thought this story might be fun to play around with.  And I had spent much of my  -childhood writing stories, and I missed indulging myself in that fictional world.

It is remarkable how quickly I lost perspective, however.  I quickly began imagining that I was working on the best story ever, and that this would make me famous one day.
When I finally did realize that what I was working on was absolute crap, this made the realization all that much harder.

The same thing happened in 2005--2007.
I rediscovered this story when I was going through my old computer discs.  I decided that it wasn't great, but it wasn't as bad as I remembered, and it might be fun to finish up, just as long as I kept perspective and remembered it was just a hobby.

And then I lost perspective and began imaging myself as a potentially famous writer working on a future masterpiece.

It's tempting to use these memories to flagellate myself.  "Oh, this is so typical me!  I'm so stupid!"
And believe me, I've done plenty of self-flagellating over the past 20 years on exactly this issue.

But I wonder if this isn't also just me.  If maybe this is a natural human response.

Perhaps, because of Darwinistic survival strategies, or whatever, it's hard to keep our own limitations in perspective.  Our ego desperately wants to believe that whatever we are working on is a masterpiece.  Our ego never wants to admit to ourselves how hopeless our situation really is, and how untalented we really are, because then we'd just give up on life completely.  So, I think evolution has endowed us with a completely unrealistic ego.

And there may be survival advantages to this.  If we didn't have extremely unrealistic views of our own talent, we wouldn't be ambitious.  Nobody would write novels, nobody would dare to submit their novels to publishers, and nobody would have any literary ambition at all.
So, in order for society to function, we need this sense of ego.
But although this ego and drive is necessary for the talented people in society, it can backfire for us untalented people.

See this post: http://www.2blowhards.com/archives/000809.html

Also see Whisky: https://whiskyprajer.blogspot.com/2006/08/tacit-knowledgebefore-i-wake.html

In retrospect, I poured too much of my time and energy into this novel in both time periods.  In both 1999-2001, and 2005-2007.
Actually that's not completely accurate.  I suffered from writer's block, and spent days and sometimes weeks without writing a word during those periods.
But what I did do is convince myself that this novel should be my main focus, and I didn't seriously look into advancing my career, or figuring out what I was going to do with my life.
And I should have.  Because those were key years that now I'll never get back.

Recently, however, I've found myself on the opposite extreme.  I felt like I've worked so hard at my job, and have been so repeatedly disappointed (passed over for promotion, etc) that I feel like I need to regain some sense of my self-identity.  I want to work on my stories again.
Even if no one reads them but me, I want to have this fictional world where I have control over what happens.
But the important thing will be keeping perspective.
I'll need to remember that this is only a hobby, this will never make me famous, and I should never feel that my future is in anyway tied up with these scribblings.
It sounds simple, but sometimes keeping your ego in control is difficult.

The Tragedy

Google Folder Here

Notes: docs, pub
Chapter 1: docs, pub

The Tragedy

by Joel Swagman

Whatever has happened, will happen again; whatever has been done, will be done again. There is nothing new on earth.

--Ecclesiastes 1:9

Hegel remarks somewhere that all great world-historic facts and personages appear, so to speak, twice. He forgot to add: the first time as tragedy, the second time as farce.

--Karl Marx, 1852

Chapter 1

Tonight was Penelope’s big party.  It was her annual moon party.  

Nominally, the  party was to celebrate the first full moon of summer.  In reality, the party was for Penelope to show that she still had an influence on the fashionable crowd.  And, of course, to  show off her big house and her huge garden.

The city of Urbae was an old city.  It dated back to ancient times, and many of the old grand houses still had that cold damp medieval feeling.

But the medieval times were long gone now.  It was the age of enlightenment, the age of progress, the age of steam and coal and exploration.  Silk was coming in from the East, tobacco was coming in from the West, and everyone drank coffee and smoked cigars.

Penelope lived in the center of the city, where most of the ancient medieval houses had been built.  But despite this, Penelope had a new mansion in the modern style.  It wasn’t made of cold,  damp stone blocks, and closed in on itself. No, it was made of beautiful marble, and open to the air.

It stood on one of the highest hills in the city.  An old castle had once stood on the exact same spot, but Penelope had actually bought the castle and had it demolished.  Some of the professors at the university complained about the loss to history, but when you had as much money as Penelope did, you could get away with a lot.  

From the hill, you could see the city below spread out in all directions.  It was quite magnificent.

The first guests to arrive were the Carol family.  The elder brother, Henry, had just turned 40 earlier this year.  Politically ambitious ever since he was young, Henry was enjoying his 15th year as a Senator.   He was accompanied by his wife Pulchra, his 10 year old daughter Flora, and his younger brother James.

James was now 31, but had still not yet settled on a career.   After several years in the army, and then several more years of travelling, James had come back to Urbae without much of a career plan, and was currently living with his brother at the Carol family estate, where he spent most of his days either hunting, or painting, or smoking.

Penelope was smart enough to know that of the pair, only the elder brother mattered in society.  But Penelope was also smart enough to know that if you wanted to gain the favor of the older brother, you had to pretend the younger brother also mattered.  Henry never forgave anyone who snubbed his brother.

And besides, of the two, James was clearly the more fun at parties.  Henry was stiff and serious, whereas James was relaxed and cheerful.  Henry was prematurely beginning to go gray at 40, whereas James still had all his thick black hair, and his youthful appearance.

So, Penelope greeted both brothers equally warmly.  

As the Carol family walked up the garden path from the gate, Penelope spread her arms wide.  “Welcome,” she said.  As she met the brothers, she first embraced Henry, and then James, and then took each of them by the hand.  “You are the first ones to arrive.”

“I told you we were leaving too early,” James said to Henry.

“Nonsense,” said Penelope.  “Somebody has to be the first to arrive, and I’d much prefer it was someone I like.  You have no idea how awful it is when someone boring arrives first.”

James, let out a short  laugh.  “You flatter us too much.  If you only had any idea of how boring we really are.  Would you believe that we just spent the whole afternoon talking about a land reform bill?”

There was  a slight movement in Henry’s back which showed he was uncomfortable with this information being divulged.  Penelope noticed it. Penelope was skilled at noticing these kind of things.  This was why it paid to have people like the Carol brothers at these parties.  As a good hostess, she needed to know about all the political and social news.  And this sounded like news.

“I haven’t heard anything about a land reform bill,” she said.

“I haven’t proposed it yet,” said Henry.  “I’m still writing it.”

“And since I’m living with him, he’s been talking to me about it all day,” said James in an exasperated voice.

“Is it anything I need to know about?” asked Penelope.

“Everyone will hear about it soon enough,” Henry said.  “I actually thought I might take advantage of your party tonight to bounce ideas off of some people.”

Penelope stopped walking, and turned to face Henry.  “You will not turn my party into another one of the Senate chamber debates,” she said.  “I invite people here to relax.”

A good hostess had to at least pretend to protest when politics came up at the party.  But actually Penelope was only too delighted to have all the major political decisions made at her parties, and so her voice wasn’t as stern as it could have been.

Henry knew his role in the charade, and he dutifully promised that he would keep the political talk to a minimum, but added that he might just quickly solicit the opinion of some of her guests later in the night.

They hadn’t even finished walking up the path to the house when one of the servants announced the arrival of the next guest.  “Go on in and make yourself a drink,” Penelope said to her guests.  “There’s whisky on the counter for the men, and lemonade for Pulchra and Flora.  I’ll be right back.”

Flora had already run ahead to the lemonade bowl, and was eagerly helping herself to a glass.  Her mother, Pulchra, was scolding her not to be too greedy.

Penelope headed back down the garden path to greet the next arriving guest.

The next guest was Justin.

Justin was one of those guests who just barely made the invite list.  He was a minor Senator, but nobody particularly important in politics.  His family had long ago run out of money, and he actually lived in the slums of the city.

But, Justin had ancestry, and that still counted for something--even in this modern world of steam and industrialization .  Justin could actually trace his ancestry all the way back to the founder of the city himself.  

The ancient kings of the city (back in the days when the city still had kings) had left no direct descendents.  (The republican revolution had pretty much wiped them all out).  But Justin could at least claim descent from one of the cousin’s of the first king.

If the ancient titles of nobility had still existed in these republican days, Justin would probably have had a claim to a duchy.  But the ancient titles did not still exist, and so Justin was just Justin--a minor Senator, living in poverty, and getting access to Penelope’s parties based on the strength of his name alone. 

But Penelope was a collector.  Her parties had to include all the categories: the rich, the powerful, and the men with the best ancestors.   And so Justin got his invitation.

When he was younger, Justin had once had ambitions to be more than he was.  He had talked to the crowds, supported the popular causes, and campaigned for the leadership of his party.  He hadn’t been entirely unsuccessful--he was a senator, after all--but he had never risen to the top either.  And now, at 50, he was resigned to his lot in life.  He had a tired look in his eyes.

He could barely afford a suit for these parties, but he prided himself on cleanliness, and his suit was immaculately pressed.

Justin was accompanied by his wife, Janica and their 12 year old son Jeffrey.  

Jeffrey did not have his father’s tired look.  He had very sharp bright eyes.  He was still young and did not understand the disappointments that life brings.

“Oh, how wonderful,” Penelope said to Jeffrey.  “I was worried that poor Flora would be the only child here.  She’ll be so delighted to see you.  I know you’re a few years older than her, but you must go and talk to her.”

“Are the Carol Brothers here already?” asked Justin.

“They’ve only just arrived,” Penelope said.  “They’re inside now having a drink.  You must join them.”

Justin went to the bar to pour himself a stiff glass of whisky.  

Jeffrey ignored his instructions to talk to Flora, and went straight to talk to her father.  “You must be Henry Carol,” he said.  “I’ve wanted to meet you for a long time now.” 

Henry was surprised to see a boy talking to him.  “Do I know you?” he asked.

“I’m Jeffery.  Justin’s son.”

“Justin?  Justin?”  For a second, Henry could not place the name.  Then he saw Justin standing at the bar, and the recognition flooded back.  “Ah, yes, Justin.  He’s one of our party.  A good man.  We’ve always been able to count on his vote.”

“I wanted to talk about the treaty you wrote last year,” Jeffrey continued.  “I know it cost you politically, but I thought it was necessary.  I wanted to tell you that you did the right thing.”

James laughed.  “Well, at least you made one person happy with that treaty,” he said.

Henry raised an eyebrow.  “You’re very young to have an opinion on these matters.  How did you even hear about that treaty?”

“All the public matters are posted.  I read it just like everyone else.”

“Yes, but boys your age aren’t interested in treaties.”

“You’d be surprised,” said Janica, coming over and proudly putting her hands on her son’s shoulders.  “He reads everything political.  He sucks up all the neighborhood gossip as well.”

“He keeps better track of the new legislation than I do,” said Justin, making his way over to the others at last.  “And he’s right about your treaty, by the way.  It wasn’t popular, but it was the right thing to do.”

Henry bowed his head politely to Justin.  “And I appreciated your voting on it,” he said.

Justin bowed his head back in return.  He was a party man.  He always voted for all the party legislation, and so Henry Carol took his vote for granted, and he knew it.  But now that the subject had been brought up, politeness dictated that they both make some small acknowledgement to each other.

This was actually the first time the two had ever spoken.  Henry Carol was one of the leading lights of the party, and so never needed to talk to a backbencher.  Especially one whose vote was as reliable as Justin’s. 

And Henry Carol would never have dreamed of confiding about his new land bill to Justin.  Justin’s opinion mattered for nothing, and his vote was taken for granted.

Justin started saying something, but Henry was already ignoring him.  Instead, Henry was looking across the room to where Livius was entering the party.

Livius was the leader of the Conservative party, and he looked the part.  Every part of him  was dressed like a leader.  He had on a brilliant white shirt, covered by an elegant black vest.  A gold chain connected to the buttons of his shirt ended in an antique pocket watch, which was buried deep in his vest pocket.  He had enough knowledge of good taste not to drench himself in gold jewellery. He wore only two gold rings on his right hand.  He carried a thick fragrant cigar in his right hand.  Henry recognized the brand.  He knew that cigar cost more than most families earned in a month.

This overt display of wealth repulsed Henry somewhat, but he could never criticize it.  After all, he also came from a rich family, and lived in a luxurious house.

Henry approached Livius, and bowed politely.

Livius smiled, and bowed his head in return.  Then, dropping the formalities entirely, he took a deep drag from his cigar, and slapped Henry affectionately on the shoulder.

The two men were political rivals, but politics was politics, and this was social.  They were both members of the upper-class elites, and that bond mattered more than any slight political difference they may have.