I’ve been writing fiction again since the summer of 2009. I have learned, by concentrated effort, that I have no idea how to do it. I would say, given that it took me 40 years or so to sort of be able to play a musical instrument, that I know something about learning an art form the hard way. My so-called hard way is in keeping with my notions about learning anything, which runs in parallel with such knowledge, mostly based on my own experience as a child and now as a childish adult, and involves a few simple steps. Step one: make a mess. As a child, you shit in a diaper. If you get a chance, you’ll explore fecal matter in a less focused, more creative way. Step two: you are informed that that’s not how it’s done. You get you some toilet training. Step three, you master the toilet training. Step five. I’m skipping step four, it’s too embarrassing even for a blog. Step five, you are now an old man. They put you back in diapers. You’ve earned it.

I think you can see how this directly, analogously, relates to my method for learning an art form. The important fact, in the context of this doodle, is that it takes a lifetime. I’ve already used a good percentage of mine, so I’m pressed for time. I need to get onto an accelerated learning curve. As for learning to create fiction, I’m still in the making a mess phase, but I’ve also been told that that’s not how it’s done. I’ve got the two stages running side by side. If I put blades on the axles, as in Roman chariot combat, I could have the two things do battle, and they are indeed doing it. I wrote a long, unreadable book. At first I had hope, but now the parental scoldings have dissolved that hope. So I wrote a shorter book. I am choosing my parents a bit more carefully this time. I’ve also developed some critical tools of my own based on the Internet crash course in how fiction is properly done, and what the bottom line test of success is. Somebody picks it up and can’t put it down. Fiction should work like crazy glue. If it doesn’t, you’re just messing around. Joyce? Forget about it. I don’t really have the time to get to the late stage mess making where you get to do what Joyce did.

So here’s just one bit that I’ve learned from the purveyors of fiction: in fiction, you have to believe that the action is possible and is in fact something that somebody would reasonably do. In life, however, the plausibility factor is often missing. Example: