The Writing Life: reflections by a working writer.

The Writing Life: reflections by a working writer. The Writing Life

Reflections of a working writer, a university screenwriting professor, and the editor of Oregon Literary Review.

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Charles Deemer

Editor,
Oregon Literary Review

MFA, Playwriting, University of Oregon

Writing faculty, Portland State University (part-time)

Retired playwright and screenwriter.
Active novelist, librettist and teacher.

Email: cdeemer(at)yahoo(dot)com

The eagle flies!

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Literary archive

The Sextant Press

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Electronic screenwriting tutorial

References

Bookstore
Highlights:

Finalist, Oregon Book Award

Practical Screenwriting

Love At Ground Zero

More books.

Blogs by (mostly) creative writers:

"Can We Talk About Me For A Change?"
Playwright Debra Neff Nathans

Inkygirl
Debbie Ridpath Ohi, a weblog for writers (resources)

Silliman's Blog
Ron Silliman, contemporary poetry and poetics

Maud Newton
literary links, amusements, politics, rants

Darren Barefoot
Technical and creative writing, theatre, Dublin

Rob's Writing Pains
Journey of a struggling writer.

Mad, Mad World
Cara Swann, fiction writer, journalist, "reflections on humanity, random news & my life."

Writeright
Random musings on a writer's life and times.

Flaskaland
Barbara Flaska's compilation of the best online articles about music and culture.

Write Of Way
Samantha Blackmon's written musings on writing (composition and rhetoric).

Alexander b. Craghead: blog
Writing, photography, and watercolors.

Rodney's Painted Pen
Rodney Bohen's daily commentary "on the wondrous two legged beast we fondly refer to as mankind." His pen runneth over.

Frustrated Writer
This one named Nicole.

scribble, scribble, scribble
Journalist Dale Keiger teaches nonfiction scribbling to undergraduate and graduate students at Johns Hopkins University.

The Unofficial Dave Barry Blog
The very one.

The Hive
The official blog of science fiction / horror author Terence West.

William Gibson Blog
Famed author of Neuromancer and Johnny Mnemonic: The Screenplay.

The Word Foundry
Joe Clifford Faust's "blog of a working writer: tracking writing projects, musings on the creative process, occasional side trips into music, media, politics, religion, etc."

A Writer's Diary
By Cynthia Harrison, who has the good sense to quote Virginia Woolf: "The truth is that writing is the profound pleasure and being read the superficial."

Bow. James Bow.
The journal of James Bow and his writing.

Ravenlike
Michael Montoure's weblog about writing, primarily horror and speculative fiction.

Globemix
By David Henry, "a poet's weblog from Aberdeen, Scotland."

Modem Noise
By Adrian Bedford, a "fledgling Pro SF Writer, living in Perth, Australia."

boynton
"A wry writerly blog named in honour of a minor character in a minor Shirley Temple film."

Real Writers Bounce
Holly Lisle's blog, "a novelist's roadmap through the art and ordeal of finding the damned words."

2020 Hindsight
By Susan.

downWrite creative
Phil Houtz's notes on the writing life.

Vivid: pieces from a writer's notebook
Blog of Canadian poet Erin Noteboom.

The Literary Saloon
The literary weblog at the complete review.

Rabbit Blog
The rabbit writes on popular culture.

This Girl's Calendar
Momoka writes short stories.

Twists & Turns
Musings by writer Michael Gates.

Plays and Musicals -- A Writer's Introspective
A blog by John D. Nugent - Composer, Playwright, and Artistic Director of the Johnson City Independent Theatre Company

The American Sentimentalist
"Never has any people endured its own tragedy with so little sense of the tragic." Essays by Mark W. Anderson.

Screenwriting By Blog
David C. Daniel writes a screenplay online. "I've decided to publish the process as a way to push myself through it. From concept to completion, it'll be here."

SeanAlonzo.com
Official site of occult fiction author Sean-Alonzo, exploring symbolism, alternative history, philosophy, secret societies and other areas of the esoteric tradition.

Crafty Screenwriting
Maunderings of Alex Epstein, tv scribe, about life, politics, and the tv show I'm co-creating.

Letters From The Home Front
The life of a writer, 21, home schooled, rural living.

Venal Scene
The blog of bite-sized plays inspired by the news (by Dan Trujillo).

'Plaint of the Playwright
Rob Matsushita, a playwright from Wisconsin, "whines a lot."

I Pity Da Fool!
Glenn's adventures in screenwriting.

Time In Tel-Aviv
Hebrew modern literature at its best, by Corinna Hasofferett.

Big Window
Robin Reagler's poetry blog.

John Baker's Blog
Author of the Sam Turner and Stone Lewis novels.

The Writing Life With Dorothy Thompson
What goes on during a writer's busy day?

The Rebel Housewife
Not just a housewife!

Barry's Personal Blog
A running commentary on writing and the writing life.

Bonnie Blog
Maintained by Bonnie Burton of grrl.com.

Writer's Blog.
By easywriter. "From the walls of caves to cyberspace."

Flogging the Quill
Pursuing the art and craft of compelling storytelling, by an editor, Ray Rhamey.

Man Bytes Hollywood
Sharing tools, strategies and resources for the screenwriter's journey.

Mad for the smell of paper
A writing journal.

The Writing Life
A blog by Katey Schultz.

It Beats Working 9-5
A screenwriting blog by a young Canadian screenwriter.

Stealing Heaven From The Lips Of God
Writer & Artist, Dee Rimbaud reflects upon politics, religion, art, poetry, the meaning of life, the nature of God and why toast always lands butter side down on carpets.

Robert Peake
Heart and Mind, Fully Engage ... a poet's website.

Sidestepping Real
By Ren Powell, poet, children’s writer, essayist and editor.

Suggest a writer's blog

The Writing Life...

"An artist's only concern is to shoot for some kind of perfection, and on his own terms, not anyone else's."
J.D. Salinger

"All my best friends are writers and are dead."
A friend over beer, Berkeley, winter, 1959

"And it came to pass that all the stars in the firmament had ceased to shine. But how was anyone to know?"
The Half-Life Conspiracy

After October 31, 2006,
new posts are published at

The Writing Life II

(Posts archived here are from 01/10/03 - 10/31/06)

Tuesday, September 02, 2003

Love in the Ruins -- Chapter 6
Not every family gave a missing loved one a funeral. Not every family buried its missing and presumed dead. Testimonies to the human capacity for hope against all odds sprang up throughout the city in makeshift bulletin boards on building walls and kiosks on utility poles, in window displays and sidewalk memorials, and New York was awash in photographs of persons missing since the attack. None of these photographs was of Mike, of course, who had been put to rest. Evelyn still prayed for a miracle but did so secretly, not wanting her more logical husband or son to believe she had lost her mind.

Even stronger than hope was the capacity of New Yorkers for survival. The best defense against those who want to destroy our way of life, they were told by their mayor and their president, was to live life normally, steadfastly, doggedly refusing to let grief and fear destroy the freedoms Americans held most dear. Of course, there must be more security precautions now. But as much as possible, life must continue on as normally as possible. Americans gamely tried to follow their President’s advice.

Classes at NYU, which had begun the day after Labor Day, started up again. Wes had a meeting with his advisor. He was in the second year of his M.F.A. program in Fiction, and this year most of his energy would be devoted to writing his thesis, a novel. Two days prior to the attack he had given his advisor an outline of his proposed project, an historical novel based on the life of the great French playwright Moliere, a story Wes was calling The Comedian In Spite Of Himself. There had been a rumor during Moliere’s lifetime that he had married his own daughter, and the novel would focus on the psychological consequences of this in Moliere’s life and work. The meeting with the advisor was brief, the professor’s only comment being “Most ambitious,” and Wes walked away with his thesis proposal approved.

Walking across campus after the meeting, he saw a woman in traditional Arab dress ahead of him. Could it be her? Wes trotted up beside the woman but when she turned to face him, he saw that it was not Hayaam.

“What do you want?” the woman said, her voice shaking with fear in the new America.
“I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else.”
Then the next day he did see her.

Wes was working in his carrel in the library. Hayaam hobbled in on crutches. Today her hijab was red with a white head scarf. As she passed the window of his carrel, he smiled but she didn’t notice him.

Wes put down his pen and stood up. He left the carrel and followed Hayaam into the book stacks.

He found her trying to fetch a book that was on a shelf too high for her. Quickly he came to her rescue.

“Let me.”
He brought down the book and handed it to her.
“Thank you.”
And then she recognized him. She lit up.
“Hello! I was wondering if I might ever run into you.”
“How’s the ankle?”
“I’m supposed to let it rest. Not so easy when you are a student. And are you also a student?”
“I’m studying for my M.F.A. in writing.”
Wes noticed the title of the book he had fetched for her, The Puritan Way.
Seeing his expression, Hayaam said, “I’m majoring in Comparative Religion.”
Wes cleared his throat.
“Listen, if you’re not busy, I was about to grab a cup of coffee.”
“Tea would be nice.”

Wes fetched his book bag from the carrel, and they left the library together. There was an awkward silence as they walked slowly across campus. Wes let Hayaam determine their pace toward the student union.

The coffee shop was on the ground floor. Wes told Hayaam to get a table, asked her what kind of tea she wanted, and got in line to order their beverages.

An hour later he couldn’t believe how easily he had opened up to her. He had, in fact, monopolized the conversation. He told her about how disappointed his mother (but not his father) had been when he decided not to go to law school, choosing the graduate creative writing program instead. He told her about how guilty he felt that Mike had died in the south tower when he himself had survived. Somehow knowing how irrational these feelings were didn’t reduce their hold on him.

“You didn’t kill anyone,” said Hayaam. “Quite the opposite. You saved my life.”
Wes looked puzzled.
“If you hadn’t come along, I could have still been in there when the tower collapsed.”
Wes never had thought of it this way. He certainly didn’t feel like a hero.
“You are my life saver,” she repeated. “Thank you.”
Wes felt embarrassed and wanted to change the subject.
“Where are you from?”
“Indonesia.” She read surprise in his expression. “You thought I was an Arab, didn’t you?”
“I guess I did.”
“There are more Muslims in Indonesia than in any other country.”
“I didn’t know that.”

She talked about growing up in Jakarta but the more she talked, the more confused Wes became because nothing she was sharing fit his preconception of a Muslim woman. She was verbal and smart, with excellent English skills, and she showed no hesitation in expressing her opinion. Was this because he was an American? Would she talk so freely in the presence of a Muslim man? Although Wes had never studied Islam, he had grown up believing (learning by the osmosis of American culture) that Muslim women were weak and subordinate to their men. Yet there was no sign of such gender reticence in Hayaam.

Finally Hayaam said she had to go. Wes accompanied her outside, figuring to go back to the his carrel.

A small crowd had gathered in front of the library. At first Wes thought nothing of it but as they approached, it was clear that some kind of commotion was going on.

“Abdul!” Hayaam suddenly cried out. She made an effort to move faster on her crutches.
“What is it?” Wes asked.

Then Wes understood what the trouble was: half-a-dozen guys, jocks and fraternity types by their varsity jackets, had surrounded a foreign student, whom Wes assumed was Abdul, someone known to Hayaam, and the American students were clearly harassing him.

“Foreign fuck,” said one.
“A-rab asshole,” said another.

Abdul looked frightened as he turned quickly around, looking for an opening in the circle surrounding him.

“Let him go!” Hayaam shouted.

She stopped, put her weight on her good leg and raised one crutch high over her head in a gesture of threat.

The jocks thought this was very funny.
“Hey, sweetie pie. What do you plan to do with that?”

Another said, “Why you got that scarf covering your hair? I bet you got pretty hair.”

This one stepped forward as if to see for himself, and Hayaam swung the crutch to keep him away.
“Oh, my!” said the intruder, stepping back.
Wes came forward.
“Hey, fellas, what’s going on?”
“You tell us.”

With the jocks distracted, Abdul slipped out of their circle and hurried beside Hayaam.

“Hayaam, this is not your fight,” he said.

A jock said, “Who said anything about a fight? We just want you to go the fuck home where you belong.”

“I am student here,” said Abdul, “so today this is my home. Hayaam, let’s go.”
Wes, staying behind, wondered if Abdul was her boyfriend.

“Something we can help you with?” a jock asked with menace, as if one confrontation was as good as another in the new America.

“No. I was just leaving.”
He caught up with Hayaam.
Abdul asked Hayaam, “Who is this?”

“He’s the one I told you about.” To Wes she added, “This is my brother, Abdul-Hakeem.”

Her brother! Wes couldn’t help but smile.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Wes.”
He offered his hand. Abdul hesitated before shaking it briefly.

“I give you gratitude for helping my sister,” Abdul said.
“I’m sorry for what happened back there.”

“Your countrymen decided I am a terrorist.”
Wes didn’t know what to say.
“Hayaam, we must go.”
“Thank you for the tea,” she told Wes.
“Maybe we can do it again sometime.”

She gave him a sweet smile. Abdul clutched her arm, a gesture repeating that they must go. She turned, balanced her crutches and took the first swing of her leg to move away.

Abdul glared at Wes as if he were about to say something unpleasant. Then he, too, turned and left.

Wes watched them go. Her brother didn’t like him. But it could have been worse, much worse. He could have been her boyfriend.

9/02/2003 08:11:00 AM | 0 comments

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__The Writing Life

After October 31, 2006, new posts are published at

The Writing Life II

After October 31, 2006,
new posts are published at