Ask the Author: Raymond St. Elmo
Answered Questions (20)
Raymond St. Elmo
I apologize, Liam; I didn't see this question till now.
I read two books by Michael Davidson; paperbacks from years ago. "Daughter of Is', and 'The Karma Machine'. I found both to be creative and thought-provoking, but not top-level writing.
Doing the same google-searches that you no doubt have, I find a fog of authors with the same name. The Sci-Fi encyclopedia identifies the name as a possible pen-name for a Michael Zeik; but goes no farther.
I read two books by Michael Davidson; paperbacks from years ago. "Daughter of Is', and 'The Karma Machine'. I found both to be creative and thought-provoking, but not top-level writing.
Doing the same google-searches that you no doubt have, I find a fog of authors with the same name. The Sci-Fi encyclopedia identifies the name as a possible pen-name for a Michael Zeik; but goes no farther.
Raymond St. Elmo
The key on my car key chain that does not fit any lock in the house or the car or the office. It's always been there, car after car. Heavy duty brass, slightly scratched; has 'not to be duplicated' writ on the wide end.
I've no idea where I got it, what it opens.
On good days I imagine it opens a room of my house I've never noticed before. A room full of toys and kittens and amazing books, with a stained glass window that glows like the sun turned to a kaleidoscope.
On bad days... it's the key to the lock of a trunk in the back of the basement; a trunk that smells of dust and mold, filled with bad memories turned to cloth and paper, moth and faded photographs.
Either way, the real mystery is not 'what does the key open'. But: why did I forget?
I've no idea where I got it, what it opens.
On good days I imagine it opens a room of my house I've never noticed before. A room full of toys and kittens and amazing books, with a stained glass window that glows like the sun turned to a kaleidoscope.
On bad days... it's the key to the lock of a trunk in the back of the basement; a trunk that smells of dust and mold, filled with bad memories turned to cloth and paper, moth and faded photographs.
Either way, the real mystery is not 'what does the key open'. But: why did I forget?
Raymond St. Elmo
Poor writing done badly is awful to me. I doesn't like ever doing such, and I feels the most poetical and insiteful prose is spoiled when oblivious mistakes are maid.
That said: I get the main story done in draft #1. What I clean up afterwards is spelling, grammar, punctuation*. Not much 'polishing' of narrative. I think the reason is that I am writing what I like, entirely to please myself. Not constructing a term paper to please some insanely demanding professor.
____________________________________
*Copyediting a novel is like trying to smooth a sheet of tin-foil with your fingernail. You get so close; but there is always one last wrinkle.
If we had to compile the manuscript and then run it like a computer program, we wouldn't be able to get away with mistaking 'breath' for 'breathe'. A terrible shame; possibly, possibly.
That said: I get the main story done in draft #1. What I clean up afterwards is spelling, grammar, punctuation*. Not much 'polishing' of narrative. I think the reason is that I am writing what I like, entirely to please myself. Not constructing a term paper to please some insanely demanding professor.
____________________________________
*Copyediting a novel is like trying to smooth a sheet of tin-foil with your fingernail. You get so close; but there is always one last wrinkle.
If we had to compile the manuscript and then run it like a computer program, we wouldn't be able to get away with mistaking 'breath' for 'breathe'. A terrible shame; possibly, possibly.
Raymond St. Elmo
Hi Chris!
It has been noted that I chuck out new ingots of fiction faster than Steven King on coke. Almost as fast, anyways.
I think it's because I have the day job of an application programmer.
Coding has burned from my brain any hesitation to sit down and come up with a solution; often at 3:00 in the morning while high on allergy meds, NOT coke I emphasize.*
Cool question; and very encouraging.
Thank you much!
_________________________
*but: I still do my best to wear the trappings of the 'traditional' writer.
A tweed jacket (with leather patches on the elbows); a pipe, an Irish setter and an eye patch, not to forget the distant dreaming expression I practice in the mirror twice daily.
To complete the picture I just need to ride a motorcycle but 1) mom says nope and 2) it is hard to steer wearing the eyepatch and holding the damned dog.
It has been noted that I chuck out new ingots of fiction faster than Steven King on coke. Almost as fast, anyways.
I think it's because I have the day job of an application programmer.
Coding has burned from my brain any hesitation to sit down and come up with a solution; often at 3:00 in the morning while high on allergy meds, NOT coke I emphasize.*
Cool question; and very encouraging.
Thank you much!
_________________________
*but: I still do my best to wear the trappings of the 'traditional' writer.
A tweed jacket (with leather patches on the elbows); a pipe, an Irish setter and an eye patch, not to forget the distant dreaming expression I practice in the mirror twice daily.
To complete the picture I just need to ride a motorcycle but 1) mom says nope and 2) it is hard to steer wearing the eyepatch and holding the damned dog.
Raymond St. Elmo
In the beginning, that WAS the book. A compilation of one-or-two page stories in the style of Borges, Calvino and Kafka. That was 'The Origin of Writing in the Footprints of Birds'.
But I felt there needed to be an outer frame, the way that made a connection. I explained the 'translation' of the stories. That grew and grew till it became the novel 'Origin of Birds'.
Let me go up into the attic, see what is in the trunk of old manuscripts.
But I felt there needed to be an outer frame, the way that made a connection. I explained the 'translation' of the stories. That grew and grew till it became the novel 'Origin of Birds'.
Let me go up into the attic, see what is in the trunk of old manuscripts.
Raymond St. Elmo
I like to write short things.
But I need to think about 'em first.
Talking fast or writing at speed gets me in trouble. With cops, editors, bosses, etc.
You may note that it took me 43 days to compose an answer to your question. Let's not call it flash. Call it... geological fiction.
I have not read much Barthelme. But he was director of a museum I used to visit often. I am sure I've stood next to him, maybe insulted some piece of art he chose. Also I might have used his reserved parking space.
But I need to think about 'em first.
Talking fast or writing at speed gets me in trouble. With cops, editors, bosses, etc.
You may note that it took me 43 days to compose an answer to your question. Let's not call it flash. Call it... geological fiction.
I have not read much Barthelme. But he was director of a museum I used to visit often. I am sure I've stood next to him, maybe insulted some piece of art he chose. Also I might have used his reserved parking space.
Raymond St. Elmo
The truth? You think you can handle the Truth, capital 'T' that rhymes with 'D' that stands for 'Damn', not the hydro-electric utility but the mild explicative obscenity as in "Damn, man"?
Well, the truth is that you have been filing my books incorrectly, parking your beat-up Yugo in MY reserved parking space, and tossing your empty bottles of cheap wine over the cubicle wall practically into my face which starts with 'F' and leads to 'effing' which is what Mr. Tulip kept swearing in the Truth.
Well, the truth is that you have been filing my books incorrectly, parking your beat-up Yugo in MY reserved parking space, and tossing your empty bottles of cheap wine over the cubicle wall practically into my face which starts with 'F' and leads to 'effing' which is what Mr. Tulip kept swearing in the Truth.
Raymond St. Elmo
When the moon is full, and the tide retreats to reveal drowned men playing cards upon the strand... when geese bark and dogs scream, when poets code while coders dream, when bells below the earth toll thirteen chimes and eagles of the air circle the sun full thirteen times...
-then go to Amazon's St. Elmo page and there you will behold what is wrought with fatal click upon the button 'submit'.
Next book out Jan or Feb, I think. The fifth and last of the Quest series. After that I think I will do a few stand alones. I like clicking 'submit'. I'm a gonna do lots, lots more.
-then go to Amazon's St. Elmo page and there you will behold what is wrought with fatal click upon the button 'submit'.
Next book out Jan or Feb, I think. The fifth and last of the Quest series. After that I think I will do a few stand alones. I like clicking 'submit'. I'm a gonna do lots, lots more.
Raymond St. Elmo
Life... is a cold tomb, Charles. We are but dust in the wind of a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury. I mean the tale is full of sound and fury; not the idiot. No, he's full of elegant and eloquent quiet. Look at that face! It says 'behold a saint of literary expression and patience, even revelation'.
Just, you know, still an idiot.
Just, you know, still an idiot.
Raymond St. Elmo
What a nice question! I shall forego habit and give serious answer*
None of my books really embarrass me. I admire my own writing-voice as a parakeet adores his mirror.
But Origins is long and weird, full of jokes about programming, languages and literary jokes. Not for any but select customers such as yourself, H.M.
If I wanted to show off my heavenly writing style, I'd go with Stations of the Angels. It's St. Elmo distilled to fine essence. In fact I carry the tincture in a little glass bottle. Smells like vanilla but that's only 'cause it used to hold vanilla.
____________________
*also its after lunch and I can't think of anything funny except knock-knock jokes. Knock-knock, who's there; misapplied object form; Misapplied Object Form whom?
This seems hilarious to me.
None of my books really embarrass me. I admire my own writing-voice as a parakeet adores his mirror.
But Origins is long and weird, full of jokes about programming, languages and literary jokes. Not for any but select customers such as yourself, H.M.
If I wanted to show off my heavenly writing style, I'd go with Stations of the Angels. It's St. Elmo distilled to fine essence. In fact I carry the tincture in a little glass bottle. Smells like vanilla but that's only 'cause it used to hold vanilla.
____________________
*also its after lunch and I can't think of anything funny except knock-knock jokes. Knock-knock, who's there; misapplied object form; Misapplied Object Form whom?
This seems hilarious to me.
Raymond St. Elmo
I have had many interesting book signings at bookstores where I set up a table, put a stack of books in front of me, borrow a pen and I get going. When someone comes up and says 'I think you're a genius then I write 'from a genius, to a connoisseur' in the book front. If they say 'Mr. King I thought you'd be taller' or "You aren't Joyce Carol Oates' or 'what are you doing in my store and that's my pen!' then I write 'from a genius, to a cynic'.
Raymond St. Elmo
"I hold your hand all night in a the dark of an abandoned house in a storm, telling you its going to be okay, and you accuse me of ignoring you?"
"You never held my hand once."
"You never held my hand once."
Raymond St. Elmo
The Wood between the Worlds, from the Magician's Nephew (C. S. Lewis).
It is a quiet, sleepy forest where nothing happens. It is between the places where things happen. Like a secret room within the walls of the universe.
Dotted with little pools that take you to strange worlds. I'd sit under one of the trees and read a book, enjoying the quiet.
I could sleep there, I think.
It is a quiet, sleepy forest where nothing happens. It is between the places where things happen. Like a secret room within the walls of the universe.
Dotted with little pools that take you to strange worlds. I'd sit under one of the trees and read a book, enjoying the quiet.
I could sleep there, I think.
Raymond St. Elmo
Sybel and Coren.
She is an enchantress, with a household of magical animals. She lives alone on a mountaintop, with all she needs.
He is a soldier, and a seventh son; wise yet simple.
Oh, people; when they meet, they are so young, and neither really knows what they have, nor what they want; and yet whenever they pursue a dream they keep meeting.
And each meeting is like music rising slowly to create a theme of love and longing, tragic and sweet, a dance of magic beasts with wise eyes that know the heart.
Ha!
The Forgotten Beasts of Eld, by Patricia A. McKillip
She is an enchantress, with a household of magical animals. She lives alone on a mountaintop, with all she needs.
He is a soldier, and a seventh son; wise yet simple.
Oh, people; when they meet, they are so young, and neither really knows what they have, nor what they want; and yet whenever they pursue a dream they keep meeting.
And each meeting is like music rising slowly to create a theme of love and longing, tragic and sweet, a dance of magic beasts with wise eyes that know the heart.
Ha!
The Forgotten Beasts of Eld, by Patricia A. McKillip
Raymond St. Elmo
I was walking down the sidewalk when the ground shook. The sky went black-purple as though the Heavens had rolled back to reveal a giant ugly bruise.
A choir of angels flew in choreographed swooping above me, shouting 'Yo! Hey! You!'
Eagles flew past shouting 'Tidings! Tidings!' Bells rung across the city, dogs and cats played video games together while the trees of the park PULLED FREE OF THE GROUND and walked towards me on their tippy-roots.
They circled about me singing 'Ray should be a writer, Ray should be a writer, la, la, la.'
The rest, as they say, is history. That is, mostly fictional, mostly dull and mostly unread.
A choir of angels flew in choreographed swooping above me, shouting 'Yo! Hey! You!'
Eagles flew past shouting 'Tidings! Tidings!' Bells rung across the city, dogs and cats played video games together while the trees of the park PULLED FREE OF THE GROUND and walked towards me on their tippy-roots.
They circled about me singing 'Ray should be a writer, Ray should be a writer, la, la, la.'
The rest, as they say, is history. That is, mostly fictional, mostly dull and mostly unread.
Raymond St. Elmo
"Stations of the Angels"
This is a vaguely 'YA' magic-realism novel inspired by Italo Calvino's 'Invisible Cities', Louis Sachar's 'Wayside Stories' and the Spoon River Poems'.
That might seem a bizarre mix; but consider. Each is composed of small, humorous, self-contained stories of a few pages, describing some scene, some life, some imaginary place.
But the total creates a story with a narrative clear as any regular novel.
It's a challenge; but it is fun to write.
"Stations of the Angels"
This is a vaguely 'YA' magic-realism novel inspired by Italo Calvino's 'Invisible Cities', Louis Sachar's 'Wayside Stories' and the Spoon River Poems'.
That might seem a bizarre mix; but consider. Each is composed of small, humorous, self-contained stories of a few pages, describing some scene, some life, some imaginary place.
But the total creates a story with a narrative clear as any regular novel.
It's a challenge; but it is fun to write.
Raymond St. Elmo
They always say 'Aim higher than your target'.
Fools. If you aim too high your arrow will come back down upon your head. Granted, aim too low and you pin your foot to the ground.
True Wisdom is this: to choose a target, and aim exactly for it.
Aim; then toss the bow aside, grab the arrow in both hands and run straight for the bull's eye screaming 'I have you now! DIE DIE DIE'
Unless you can find an agent, anyway.
They always say 'Aim higher than your target'.
Fools. If you aim too high your arrow will come back down upon your head. Granted, aim too low and you pin your foot to the ground.
True Wisdom is this: to choose a target, and aim exactly for it.
Aim; then toss the bow aside, grab the arrow in both hands and run straight for the bull's eye screaming 'I have you now! DIE DIE DIE'
Unless you can find an agent, anyway.
Raymond St. Elmo
As a writer, I have found inner peace, outer tranquility.
No more loud crazy parties. No more mail-box jammed with invites. No knocks upon MY door by shallow Opportunity. Ha! My phone is a stone upon a forgotten grave; deliciously still. My social calendar is an empty arctic plain, free as the wind blowing in the background of a Pink Floyd riff.
I listen to the dust fall, mote by mote by mote, across the silent floor of my writer's life, appreciating a depth of satisfied oblivion entirely untouched by the desire to have someone, anyone call me or email me or read my books or remember I exist.
Entirely.
As a writer, I have found inner peace, outer tranquility.
No more loud crazy parties. No more mail-box jammed with invites. No knocks upon MY door by shallow Opportunity. Ha! My phone is a stone upon a forgotten grave; deliciously still. My social calendar is an empty arctic plain, free as the wind blowing in the background of a Pink Floyd riff.
I listen to the dust fall, mote by mote by mote, across the silent floor of my writer's life, appreciating a depth of satisfied oblivion entirely untouched by the desire to have someone, anyone call me or email me or read my books or remember I exist.
Entirely.
Raymond St. Elmo
I manifest it. Then I deal with it.
Through self-hypnosis and a natural tendency to hallucinate I have trained my mind to see inner conflicts as outer animals, machines and random strangers.
I sit, mediating upon my writer's block. I picture it as a vicious dog growling in the door, or an angry policeman holding up a hand, telling me 'Stop'. Perhaps just a screaming thug waving a nail-imbedded club.
When the 'block' is so real that I see it before me, I turn and run like heck, leaving it fast and far behind.
Hey, just because I hallucinate doesn't mean I'm stupid.
Through self-hypnosis and a natural tendency to hallucinate I have trained my mind to see inner conflicts as outer animals, machines and random strangers.
I sit, mediating upon my writer's block. I picture it as a vicious dog growling in the door, or an angry policeman holding up a hand, telling me 'Stop'. Perhaps just a screaming thug waving a nail-imbedded club.
When the 'block' is so real that I see it before me, I turn and run like heck, leaving it fast and far behind.
Hey, just because I hallucinate doesn't mean I'm stupid.
Raymond St. Elmo
Stuck in an elevator for 3 hours.
It was the freight elevator for Security Floor 20. I'm supposed to use the regular 'blue' elevator but I was in a hurry.
It stalled. So I sat for five hours chatting with patients from 'Security Floor 20'. They twisted about in their restraints, laughing at life's petty inconveniences.
I'm an introvert; don't usually notice others. But that day I saw People. I saw faces flicker with emotions like the shadows of fire. I beheld the human desire to live and love, to create and destroy and rend, mangle and chew. I watched eyes express souls. I watched patients help each other out of their restraints.
Some firemen rappelled down the shaft, opened the ceiling-panel, looked in and then rappelled right back up. Most of them made it to safety. Most of them.
I put it in all in my book.
The docs here on blue ward #5 say it's great therapy.
It was the freight elevator for Security Floor 20. I'm supposed to use the regular 'blue' elevator but I was in a hurry.
It stalled. So I sat for five hours chatting with patients from 'Security Floor 20'. They twisted about in their restraints, laughing at life's petty inconveniences.
I'm an introvert; don't usually notice others. But that day I saw People. I saw faces flicker with emotions like the shadows of fire. I beheld the human desire to live and love, to create and destroy and rend, mangle and chew. I watched eyes express souls. I watched patients help each other out of their restraints.
Some firemen rappelled down the shaft, opened the ceiling-panel, looked in and then rappelled right back up. Most of them made it to safety. Most of them.
I put it in all in my book.
The docs here on blue ward #5 say it's great therapy.
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