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Charles Deemer MFA, Playwriting, University of Oregon Writing faculty,
Portland State University (part-time) Retired playwright and screenwriter.
Active novelist, librettist and teacher.
cdeemer@yahoo.com.
Links:
Literary archive
Personal home page
Photo
Electronic screenwriting tutorial
Online writing classes
References
Bookstore
Highlights:
Dress Rehearsals
A memoir
Love At Ground Zero
Seven Plays
Oregon Book Award finalist
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.
Suggest a writer's blog
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The Writing Life...
"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
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Monday, September 29, 2003
World Cup
My wife and I have tickets for all the world cup women's soccer matches here in Portland, the first two being last night. What a great experience! After the whining arrogance that has become the common personality trait of American football players (none worse than the University of Oregon last Saturday), it was a joy to watch an actual sporting event. I gave up on professional American football a few years ago and am about to do the same with college. I can't stand the characters of the athletes! Soccer, new to me, is a great find.
9/29/2003 07:47:46 AM |
Saturday, September 27, 2003
Update
An agent asked for the first thirty pages of Love At Ground Zero, which went out today. Meanwhile waiting for my copies of Emmett's Gift and the private edition of It's All Material, which should arrive in a week or so. Three Oregon Plays should arrive early next week. Fruits of the summer labor.
I'm ready to go with classes Monday except I still don't have my new office ready. No big deal actually.
Harriet is trying some drawings for Love, which I may use if I end up coming out with this myself. Also, if this happens, it will be the first release of my own imprint that I'll start, Sextant Books, and start doing this "right," or more right than I have been doing. I still don't have much energy for the business of all this, unfortunately. Much more energy for all the stories I still have left to tell and surely not enough time to finish them all. 3 new novels are all screaming for my attention but I am sticking with The Assassination of Swami Kree on the front burner, because it is closest to being commercial, a thriller of sorts, and after that I think I'll do another short one with a screenplay as first draft, and then finally the historic idea I am researching. I figure one a year. Nothing like planning ahead.
But I'm serious about Sextant Books. I bought the domain and hired a designer to do a logo. Love will be the first one if no one else wants it. A home for my discards, ha ha. Onward.
9/27/2003 11:32:57 AM |
Thursday, September 25, 2003
Emmett's Gift
Is now available. Check it out.
9/25/2003 10:22:56 PM |
Monday, September 22, 2003
Prep time
My university class starts a week from today, so much of this week will be preparing for it -- getting my revised syllabus together, moving into a new office, reserving my tech equipment to show movies, etc. Eager to start! Been such a productive summer I welcome the "diversion" of teaching. But I also have a 3000 word start on a new novel, returning to my Swami Kree material, and I'll move forward without pressure through the term. I have a Paul Robeson piece to put together -- that's the only near deadline. Also continuing research to do on a future "historical" novel.
Emmett's Gift is at the printers. It's All Material is at three publishers. Love At Ground Zero is awaiting feedback from colleagues and also is being looked at by one publisher.
I can't recall a more productive summer, which raises my spirits a lot. In fact, I'm thinking next summer I can take more than usual time off -- we want to do another coast-to-coast camping trip like we did a few years back, this time taking the southern route. We'll see how the year goes.
Onward.
9/22/2003 05:35:46 AM |
Saturday, September 20, 2003
Update
A small press in NY is taking a look at Love At Ground Zero (formerly Love in the Ruins). They actually specialize in short novels, 40,000 words max. Unusual. Might not be "cutting edge" enough for them, even though its narrative voice is too "cutting edge" for mainstream. Ah, everything is relative. It's in the hands of the gods, and it's college football weather. Onward.
9/20/2003 12:18:33 PM |
Friday, September 19, 2003
Coming soon!
9/19/2003 05:06:12 PM |
Thursday, September 18, 2003
Finito!
This morning I finished the draft of the libretto to an opera, DARK MISSION. The ball now is in the court of composer John Nugent. Go, John! Onward.
9/18/2003 11:09:43 AM |
New
I've added a new personal essay, Bucking the Monkey, to my literary archive at the Univ. of North Carolina. Onward.
9/18/2003 06:10:06 AM |
Tuesday, September 16, 2003
Reading words
Aoccdrnig to a rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it
deosn't mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod
are, the olny iprmoetnt tihng is taht the frist and
lsat ltteer be at the rghit pclae.
The rset can be a total mses and you can sitll raed it
wouthit porbelm.
Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey
lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe.
Pttery amzanig huh?
9/16/2003 08:32:51 PM |
Screenwriting
I've assembled a couple years worth of my columns at the Cyber Film School and put them in an order to approximate a "mini-course" in the craft of screenwriting. You can access them at my literary archive. Onward.
9/16/2003 11:24:57 AM |
Sunday, September 14, 2003
Update
It's been a real funky week, part postpartem, part suspended animation or just plain laziness. Only real work I got done was continuing to polish the "voice" in the new novel and outlining the dramatic structure of something lighter I may dash off while I continue research on the next one. Monday need to get back on track! However, I am productive enough, I remind myself, that a week of relative inactivity is not the end of the world. But I still want to finish the draft of the libretto before school starts -- I can do that in only a few good writing days, I think. The end is in sight, in other words. I found a nice competition for "multicultural novels" to enter the new one in ... how many of these are there in a given year any way? Onward.
9/14/2003 04:10:24 AM |
Thursday, September 11, 2003
Thanks
Thanks to those who have written and commented saying this blog will be missed. I'll be keeping the archives up at least till the end of the year. Who knows, maybe I'll get a second wind here. Onward.
9/11/2003 07:05:00 AM |
Tuesday, September 09, 2003
Update
Out of limbo for a quick update.
Emmett's Gift should be released any day now.
Three Oregon Plays is at the publishers.
Love At Ground Zero is in the hands of five readers for feedback before a final rewrite.
It's All Material has been sent by my agent to three publishers.
As I do research on "the next" literary project, I hope to dash out something lighter.
Still hope to finish the libretto before my classes start.
Onward.
9/9/2003 04:27:46 AM |
Friday, September 05, 2003
Limbo
Lucy made an excellent suggestion below -- even if the blog becomes inactive, keep it up so the archives are available. That's what I'll do, at least for a while. So let's call this blog in limbo for the time being.
9/5/2003 09:44:08 AM |
Wednesday, September 03, 2003
Celebration
Just approved the cover proof of Emmett's Gift. Always a good feeling. Should be getting the book soon. Onward.
9/3/2003 12:54:52 PM |
Shutting down?
I'm very close to a decision to shut down this blog. The one sentence reason is that I believe it has out-lived its usefulness to me.
I returned from vacation in a more private mode than the one in which I left. I am more aware than ever that I am in the last act of my writing career, and I feel the need to focus on the only thing left that matters to me in writing, which is getting some projects in mind done and getting them into the library. I have no "commercial" aspirations left. I don't care how much money I make writing any more. I need to write some things for myself and let the chips fall where they may.
The only "sharing" I have left in me is in the classroom, and I'll be retiring from there soon enough. In this context, I'm no longer sure what function this blog serves for me. Yes, I've met some good people through this blog, and I appreciate the nice things that have been said about my work here. But this blog seems far removed from my focus, which has become more consuming than ever.
If I close it down, it will happen before my university classes start on Sept. 29. Onward. Or is it, bon voyage?
9/3/2003 08:08:16 AM |
Love in the Ruins
Temporarily (perhaps permanently) discontinued. A breaking story. Details as they become available.
9/3/2003 05:37:40 AM |
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.
9/2/2003 08:11:23 AM |
Monday, September 01, 2003
Seabiscuit II
Saw the movie again and the narration didn't bother me nearly as much. My wife thinks it's a great movie. She may be right.
9/1/2003 07:22:46 PM |
The Five Stages of Beer
One of my former students, Brian Mix, has just co-written and directed his first movie. Learn about The Five Stages of Beer here.
9/1/2003 09:13:27 AM |
Beginnings and Ends
Even as I conceptualize my future writing projects, I also am tying together loose ends in another area of my writing, primarily playwriting. I now consider myself retired as a playwright. I am working on something new to me, the libretto to an opera, and I still dabble in short biographical dramatic pieces for the Unitarian Church but it would take a hefty commission to get me to write for the stage more ambitiously than this. I have a sense of bringing my playwriting career to a conclusion.
I'm putting together two books, not because there is a market for them but because their material belongs on library shelves for future scholars and students. One I am calling Three Oregon Plays, two stage plays and a screenplay, all originally commissioned in the 1970s and 1980s, each dealing with an important Oregon figure or event (the recently produced Wayne Morse play is one of them). I also am gathering together much of my work in hyperdrama for a book I'll call Hyperdrama: Theory & Practice. I hope to have both of these books out within a year. Onward.
9/1/2003 09:05:59 AM |
Love in the Ruins -- Chapter 5
No one found the body or parts of the body or any formal evidence of Mike’s death, but everyone in the family knew and accepted what had happened, and so Mike was given a memorial service and a burial, dedicating a tombstone over an empty grave.
Walter and Evelyn hosted a reception after the funeral, which was attended by over a hundred people, extended family and friends, but Wes found so many people less comforting than distracting, a diversion from facing his grief head-on in order to deal with it. The well-meaning condolences from uncles and aunts and cousins, from long family friends and recent neighbors – I’m so sorry, we share your loss, you’re in our prayers – the rhetoric of grief was repetitive and numbing. Finally Wes retreated in search of silence and found himself entering Mike’s old room, which had not been lived in for almost a decade.
But the room looked like it had been lived in yesterday, his mother having kept the room immaculate. Stepping into it was like stepping back into high school with the school pennant on the wall and several photographs of Mike, the high school jock, winding up for a pitch, shooting a free throw, poised to zing a pass. Wes sat on the edge of the bed and wept.
As he got up to go, thinking he would give the reception another shot, if only for his parents’ sake, he found Roger standing in the doorway. They had been good friends in high school but had drifted apart since then, although both were attending NYU. They still liked to shoot baskets together in the gym now and again.
“You okay?” Roger asked.
“Well as can be expected.”
“Want to get out of here? Go for a ride or something?”
“I’ll be okay.”
“I could use some air.”
That’s all it took. Wes followed Roger out the back door, and they walked out the long driveway to the sidewalk and began strolling through the neighborhood.
“You have any Arab friends?” Wes said after a long silence.
“That’s an interesting question. You mean, do I think they’re spies? Yeah, I’d be worried about that. Why? Do you have any?”
“No, I was just wondering.”
There was another silence.
Wes said, “When it happened in the first tower, I tried to take the elevator up to find Mike. I thought he must have a hell of a view up there. Then the plane crashed into our tower, and everything went crazy, we all had to use the stairs to get out of there. On the way down I heard a woman cry for help, and I checked it out. There were two Arab women, and one of them had sprained her ankle. I carried her out.”
Wes stopped. Roger said nothing, and they continued walking.
Finally Roger said, “And … ?”
“And what?”
“Is there a point to this story?”
“Not really. I was just wondering how she must be feeling now.”
Roger looked at him strangely.
“What’s wrong?” Wes asked.
“Thousands of people get killed. Your brother. Why are you bringing up a fucking A-rab with a sprained ankle?”
The hatred and anger in Roger’s tone couldn’t be missed. Wes had no energy for an argument and shrugged the question off, finally saying he’d better get back to the reception to please his parents, but as soon as they rejoined the gathering, Wes again slipped away, this time to his room, where he closed the door behind him.
9/1/2003 06:13:34 AM |
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__The Writing Life
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