Novel: Plan

In constructing this story, I am following a particular set of exercises. The following list describes the exercises. Hopefully by the end of this project, all of these exercises will be complete.

"A bit behind schedule"

1. Character sketches
—–What-if questions
—–Casting charts

2. Chronology of key dates
—–Back stories
—–Wants lists

3. Character dreams
—–Symbols list

4. Character attire and habits
—–Dressing room
—–Ritual activities
—–Alternative viewpoints

5. Storyboarding
—–Content scene notes
—–Direction scene notes

6. Staging
—–Props
—–Setting scene
—–Moving scene

7. Conversations
—–Recording conversations
—–Dialogue scene

8. Action
—–Action scenes
—–Action word lists
—–Rewrite scenes with stronger words
—–Rewrite scenes with (1)characters, (2)dialogue, (3)stage setup
—–Large action list

9. Perspective
—–Tri-perspective scene
—–Exploring distance
—–Rewrite scene with stage setup
—–Rewrite scene with different point-of-view

10. Chapter planning
—–Identify chapter climax
—–Purpose of chapter
—–Character motives in chapter

11. Scene outlining
—–20 scenes
—–6 key scene summaries
—–Key scene sketch

12. Key scenes
—–Write key scenes into Incline
—–Copy other scenes under each key scene

13. Storyline table
—–Problem-solution dialectic
—–Note key scenes in dialectic

14. Scene motives
—–New character wants lists
—–Write scenarios for leading scenes –> key scenes
—–Rewrite leading scenes focusing on deep motives

15. Opening scene
—–Storyboard
—–Dialogue
—–Action
—–Rewrite

16. Closing scene (1/2)
—–Storyboard
—–Wrap-up

17. Closing scene (2/2)
—–Rewrite using images from opening scene

18. Catharsis scene
—–Chain of events –> climax
—–Storyboard
—–Catharsis scene

19. Mid-point scene
—–Chain events to midpoint; then away from it
—–Storyboard
—–Midpoint scene

20. Plot point #1
—–Chain events to PP1
—–Storyboard
—–PP1

21. Plot point #2
—–Storyboard
—–PP2

22. Scene writing [Act I]
—–Scene list
—–Storyboard scenes
—–Write four scenes

23. Scene writing [Act I]
—–Storyboard scenes
—–Write four scenes

24. Scene writing [Act I]
—–Storyboard scenes
—–Write four scenes

…to be continued


Timeline

The following is a tentative timeline for my novel, “The Bridge of Rain.” General Plagues LADON RUBY WAND OTHER ^500 Falling of the Twin Stars ^500-^301 Great Darkness ^426: the Cliff-Mother is born to Haven and Azure ^300-^181 The Age of Heroes ^201: Firedancer is ensnared to the Cliff-Mother; ^180-^31 ^180: the Cloaked Man is


Character notes: Wand

Character notes: these posts are pre-released information on a novel I am writing. WAND Half-brother to Ladon through his mother Aura, Wand’s father is supposedly the Starry Man, when he first fell to the Earth hundreds of years ago and caused the sundering of the Ether and empowered the first Gods (including his mother). Considered


Character Notes: Ruby

Character notes: these posts are pre-released information on a novel I am writing. RUBY A woman of extraordinary beauty and enchantment, even to her own downfall. Bountiful red hair, pale ivory skin (as opposed to her dark sister Mary). With her sister Mary, she is one of the only people to live with the unique


Character Notes: Ladon

Character notes: these posts are pre-released information on a novel I am writing. LADON Well-built. Strong. Iron jaw. Curling, wavy hair. Stone eyes. Calm under pressure. Calculating mind. Stands on the prow of the ship, his hand gripping the rail, staring straight ahead. At home relaxed, pressure down, collapsing into a chair. Tired but disciplined.


A Splendid Peroratio

This month has been one of learning: I’ve gone through both Durant’s “Our Orientatal Heritage” and “The Life of Greece” and I’ve learned more than I can possibly remember, and I’ve forgotten more than I know I could ever learn. Nevertheless, it’s creating a map in my mind of one way of looking at the


Towards a new categorization

In reviewing the New York Times “Notable Books of 2011” I started compiling what I hope to be a different kind of categorization of fiction and nonfiction. As a writing teacher, I find it imperative to teach how good writing can flow from the classroom into society, and so in this categorization I am looking


unClouds (4haikus)

Trying on a gown, she decides against the blue, falls asleep once more. Dreaming of songbirds and two little white girls, balancing two cups. One: riverwater, Two: memories of sunlight; symphonies of hope. Western winds blow west, but before they can conjoin, Eastern winds blow east.


On the wall

Voices from the distance, an insect chorus mends the air and I sit here in silence, loving the world as it slips past. The sound of my own voice startles me, and among my collapsing thoughts, the wind is little comfort, singing in my ears, bringing the twinkle of birds in his breath. Ants crawl


Rules and universal things

I tell myself I have no say, my mother tells me not to say, and so silent I am, supposed in time, frozen, living my life one day at a time, Waiting for that beautiful moment when you are there, your figure in the mist, me in the mist, us surrounded by dew, but I


An Acmeist Wordmonger, unspoken

(I speak not elegies, nor mind the right and wrong) Oh deist, mine own, eternally in the sky. They say your son is a devil, shining in the moonlight, his grimace a shimmer and his laughter gone. (The elegy crows through me, riveted to the now) The edge of the mirror, pock-marked, studded with rust,


The Avenues

Poetry has fled for a moment, replaced by the grinding of gears and a shiny new cover. It has returned, though, much to my surprise. It is perhaps more common, more heady, touched with the necessitudes of a life not yet lived. To dream is divine, yet to live is somewhat benign, unless one walks


tomorrows

men with gloves cook lamb by moonlight you are with me, beside me, around charcoal smoke fills the tent dusty and burnt sticks are crushed into the ground the dull sound of the street from outside the cold envelopes us you are with me, beside me, around tv light from apartments flicker inside windows a


Lyrics to a birthday

the old men in the park remind me of children they play their games and laugh and drink the old days fade into dusty yellow books they smile at me, their teeth askew the old memories, they never go away I am a year older the morning brings cats, hiding in the bushes they meow


In Retrospect of a week, of winter change

Beside the cold creek, the wind blows, pulling my face northward, towards clouds.


At a Starbucks, Overlooking a busy street

In midst of a crowd, he wheels past, fast, blazing like a blur.


Five Statements of Being at a Local Park

I. Steam; boiling mist spills over rusty, black bikes; bushes, withered, dry. II. Moving arms; palms wave; red brick apartments surround; twilight exercise. III. Spaceship trains, guns raised, children at the helm, silent, winter on their face. IV. Monkey temples rot, thrashed by time’s terrible war, while old men play chess. V. Windows reflect sun,


诗 (Poem)

今天是秋天, 很 冷; 千落叶; 我睡在花的床里。 Jīn tiān shì qiū tiān, hěn lěng; qiān luò yè; wǒ shuì zài huā de chuǎng li. Today is autumn, very cold; many leaves are falling; I go to sleep on a bed of flowers.


Waking up to my roommate in the kitchen

Blue sky, a roof edge, alien tongues glibbing good mornings, chilled, through glass.


Harbor-song

Those golden lights grace our harbors of memory, imbued in blue. Night lampposts diffuse ephemeral threads, hushed in chiaroscuro. Waiting by the road, listlessly taken by the nevermore of stars. * My peace comes in breaths, stolen from the cold, ripe air; dreams dream of dreamers. My own, slashed, gutted, fed to monsters of the


Birds

Wind blows on framed trees, outside, birds flock on rooftops, black shades upon white.


Hands

It’s a different way of thinking. Picture this: A man, his face torn and bloody, sits on the bottom of a dark and dusty shaft. He believes himself forgotten, displaced, so when he cries out (which he does) his voice is silent. He is like this for many years. And then a hand is placed


The Passing

They sit on their temples, songs passing over heads, swimming with the clouds, vanishing among the stars, faded moon, and the sun-filled heavens. They watch the multitudes, in their bright and wild colors, pass. They remark to one another: How strange they are! How remarkable. When midnight comes, and the darkness envelopes even the light


Meditation on Face

The river, quiet. Clouds sparkle, shadowed by thick mountains. A lone tree, shivering. The breeze is slight, traveling on a breath. The man sits on the grass. He has green eyes, like the forest’s bloom. He lies on his back, asleep. Peace fills his face. Birds speak in the leaves. The grass, the dew, the


Fall

What is in a name? By what glory do you stand before me, and shout your radiance? What right have you? I am among the dead men; they breathe and die, are reborn a second time, and quest for the eternity of the horizon. They smile plastic smiles, pure smiles, lustful smiles, mad smiles, all


Girl of Sacrifice

Above the azure haze, where the crown meets a maze of light, little children sleep on beds of oak, leaves browned by the summer sun fly between shafts of light, raining upon shattered dreams and sworn hopes, and the little girl lying on the grass with her heart in her teeth and a blaze across


Ages

Did you forget, my son? Did you forget when I held the sky for you, and stopped the storms? Did you forget when I blew the wind to make you cool, and grabbed a bit of the sun to warm you on a cold night? Did you forget? Do not forget, my son, of the


slave

Barren woods, the realms of lofty dreams all measured next to nothing when compared to the light of the future; the light that drifts from home to home, carried by a star, carried by a torch, carried by the glimmer of a man’s eye; he keeps this light in his pocket, in his purse, in


night maestro

we laugh and play by the rocks at the sea, we dance to the sound of the earth, it washes against us, and we feel the tug of time. somewhere on the beach, there is a song, it is soft like sand, but echoes among the cliffs, a fire roars into the night sky. from


Children sent by heaven

stars are among us. we are the dancing comets, the heralds of the future, constellations make our name, we are the children of the past, and the descendents of our grandchildren, we cry out to lost stones, raise our fists to the irony of the wailing road, and ponder the mystery of time’s last repose.


a wedding of particular peculiarities

waveforms on a wave, flying through the air, curling beneath the sand, our legs drenched, filled to the brim with starstones, dying of crystals, we are the memory of time, slip-drunken and fled, silenced by the moment in which we fail to understand the intricacies of the inlaid moon, with her silver lines and mysterious


the mystery of the shadows in fields

Piddlesticks, fiddlesticks, cats on a popsicle, Swing low, swing high, swing sickleful, Words are a merry band of high browed zen, drunk on their own men, filled to the brink now and then, but on their own they are waveless as sorrowful crows, spilling onto a field in bombastic blows, fleeing into the silence of


time has flown

left alone, left alone, beside the tunnels of the soul, we sing among the golden alleys and lift the thorns from heavenly melodies, but too late, too late, the time has come for mocking’s sweet sigh, cradling in high, the unborn waves upon the sand, the wind and tails of a forgotten land.


free again


traveling to solitude

I. Locked in, transparently held by my own hand; wearisome, the toil of eyes placed over and around my throat. II. Vapid smiles, rancid rolling laughter: in the fog, corporate steeples pledge their souls to alien words. III. Lifted slightly, sunbeams crashing into the shore; sand grown on the back of kings; scepters lying in


glorious, vain glorious

when you go to sleep, sleeply dream, dream of berries bright, heavy with delight, dream of blessings, son, don’t ever play the sun, for earthly things are mortal, mortals be, away from darkly lit, the skies are hallowed see, mill the words of old, and seek the holy fawn, who sleeps in sleepless dreams, among


Dew

Generations come and go, but we remain. We remain silent, the ones behind, the ones with the philosophy of wayward souls: but words like this mean nothing, they care not for weary tirades or serendipity and souless skies. It is like a dark blade of grass under a new morning, the sun shedding her light


Clappity-Clappity

Alive and well, it seems. I stamp in the ether, my feet making fog-holes, the clappity-clappity muck sound frogging the effervesence. Wherefore art the single-minded? Where has the poem gone? Into the netherworld, the solemn and dark land of delights, chocolate, and cream fingers.


The Music Men

Where are the juke-boxes? Where are the simpletons in the plastic hats, waving their arms and singing folk tunes while carrying backpacks of rocks and burning the land in their wake? I saw a lad not long ago, he sat by the fire in Tomble-Toe. He drank a glass in one hand-right, and strung his


Hall of Memory

In a world of memorable skylights, of jumping rat-a-tats and chorusing larks, the invisible sits beside the stone, fingers mimicrying shadowmen, the honey oozing from the eyes, flooding the hall with light. We stand beside the invisible, contemplating the source of song. We stand behind desks, holding lightbulb pens, penciling out cursive recitals to our


Birds of Prey

We are the flight-birds, wheeling our cries over a stark and barren world. We have wings of steel and eyes of pale moonlight, and we hunt in the noon-time for chariots and herons, not having slept during the night for fear that our dreams would come and haunt us during the day. After we hunt,


Poetry Written near those Mansions

Morning calls on the zenith of our lives; stars wheel above; the Master watches us in repose, and we are slights to his gaze. Memory serves its purpose… hissing through the clouds, heady on the invisible wine, man speaks volumes of rubies, spilling into a bowl outside of time. Glowing, the fires of manna, they


The sixth: wondering acephalous in free

Upon a night of midnight clear, the Runner fled among the golden tombs, he was a man of ancient and high renown, who by the fate of heaven was scattered below, and left in madness to hear a voice of fire: “Oh Man, who caused the sun to fall, who sleeps beneath the moon and


The fifth: accentual verse

What are you talking about? The sun has risen, The moon has fallen, Daylight has come on a star. Longing for one little spark, You sing in circles, You build your steeples, Yet nothing you do brings me hope. God, in his visage, will watch, You fling sand castles, You have no master, You follow


The fourth: the poet upon a bed

Can’t think. What is a poet without inspiration? I haven’t read any good poetry lately. It’s all a farce, anyhow. I’ve been watching movies all day, and now Richard Gere is on the screen, in a blue bathrobe; the side of his face is profiled, his hair is grey, and although he is trying to


The third: nonesense (or, a pictoral of my room)

line one: a flute on the wall line two: wrapped in strips of black cloth line three: the boy fights long-toothed dragons line four: he holds his sword blazing line five: the world stares down at a wooden floor line six: the panels reflect the names of cities line seven: clothes are draped over a


The second: about a stone

Mesmerized by the inconsequence of a single act of unrequited brilliance the young boy steps forward and while settling his mind on a small stone placed in the palm of his hand, he remarks to himself how beautiful God has made this stone, how the edges are perfect, the color glorious like the end of


The first: green men

Woe upon those men of green, who sink beneath the land, they thrash and wail and scream and haunt, but nothing does ever come of their want. They are the men who live within, who live alone, unfeared, untouched, those men who we forget to see, yet live our lives and daily be. They dance


Words Just Because

Corporeal, we will feel, the bite of life’s last drop. That time comes like a fallen top, rushing to meet our doomed doom zoom. Fantastically, we fling rascally, amazingly, we sight flirtateously, but below the belt of azure’s wrath, within the glare of knife’s bent gaze, we sweep the porch of sightly might, clear the


[Lotus Seedpod Men]

In water-caltrop raiment clad, with belt of floating-heart, you dwell in faerie wonderlands. Such lush jade-green, your perfumed hue – tho’ wind may cease, its fragrance yet expands. Egrets’ reflections grace the pond no more, only the autumn wind’s soughing, a soughing so glum. Alone, but for the rush flower, you bear the nocturne wake