Сергей Огольцов – The Algorithm of Chaos (страница 4)
. . .
e). Welcome My Cat Out Of The Bag, Please!
Blessed we are having a chance to live at so enviable time.
‘Happy’s who comes to this world
at its fateful moments…‘
The world has shifted, globally. Countless streams of refugees tread along the roads on this planet, assisting to spin it about the axis. Chaos and snafu take turns at the rudder.
Yet, there can still be found spots connecting peoples as well as persons. One of such contact points is proza.ru, to which I bow low and shout ‘Long live!’.
The meeting place with the compatriots dear to my heart… er… I mean, sorry… It’s where I spread it too thick… on proza.ru I can’t see anyone qualified for being my compatriot.
Yes, the majority of us share the mutual historical past. In the same khakied columns, our ancestors marched on their long treks to the front lines, to the extermination camps, and to the demonstrations on May Day, and the day of Great October Revolution.
They knocked on each other to the murderer-investigators at NKVD, lined each other over the pits and against the walls for executions en masse.
The same chromosome has been added to our genes, useful for composing ‘bullshit’ reports and bribing the auditors from ‘above’. More than anyone, and much deeper, we were moved by N. Khrushchev's memorable address to the UN General Assembly —
… and then the good fellow hero, took his shoe off his to drum with its heel on the polished podium, shrieking, ‘I'll show you Kuzma's mother!’
That’s when the synchronous interpreters had to scratch their poor heads!
(A note for the generation M eggheads: Nikita the hero was the head of the Soviet Union. A genius accomplished! Even when fighting a severe hangover. At one of such matches he promised the USSR population to enter the paradise of communism in exactly 20 years. Another of his brushes with the same opponent saw the birth of his famous slogan, ‘US will be caught up and surpassed by us!’).
After the USSR collapsed, and fate scattered us across the far-flung remainders of the indestructible Union, I had no compatriots left, only fellow language users writing on proza.ru, each to the best of their familiarity with the grammar rules and spelling.
It is to them, my dear fellow LU with their acutely pronounced graphomaniac addiction, that my question is addressed:
How should I write? Eh?
‘Write’ as not tapping away at the poor thing, aka keyboard, with 2 fingers to reach the glorious EOF, but in terms of quality – how?
So that it shoot thru me in a hot wave to reach right down to my heels, to extort, on the way, a scream of self-admiration: ‘Oh, what a son of a gun! You did it!’ That's the kind of crap I want!
No, well, of course, it's all fine and dandy these days: the gaudy certificates, diplomas, master classes, and webinars. However, compatriots with a keen understanding of the subject won't buy into candy wrappers, we are not to get hooked on cake – it stirs our winds.
I think (even if rarely, but then for a long period) that a forum-like approach and a voluntary exchange of experience are needed here.
Everyone has their hard-won trick discovered in the process of their literary work, a gimmick that simply works!
And with this, like, preface, in my right mind and in sober (as yet) memory, I lay the cornerstone of a free distribution of know-how, accumulated while writing. It is called for assistance to the folks in love with writing: how to write so that you won't be ashamed later.
There are different approaches to the task: sober, drunk, muscular-motor…
(The third method is when such a motor takes a pen and a stack of A4 paper bought for the purpose, and starts scribbling, without even looking at what exactly he's writing there. No plan, no system, not to mention a plot. The muscles, he says, will figure it out themselves, and his task is to train himself and plunge into a state of ‘automatism’ (which term, by the way, is a shorter name for this approach).
The next morning, the writer checks what he's scribbled when his hand, equipped with a pen, danced independently over the sheets of unlined paper. Similar to figure skating performed by a pair (hand + pen) of doped-up sleepwalkers.
A close look – shit! He's churned out the fourth volume of ‘War and Peace’ in one night! Oh, my! The fourth volume, for the fourth time in one calendar month!
But what else could you expect letting things drift uncontrollably?)
I'll disappoint you right away – the tricks of such kind don't work for me, I’m forced to resort to ‘hand training’.
The idea itself was stolen from a venerable writer of the stagnation period.
He shared (I'm not revealing the guy’s name out of humane motives, but if you have any questions, send me a private message): ‘Chekhov taught me the craft. I put his stories in front of me and just copied them, line by line.’
And although Chekhov didn't bother to make him Chairman of the Writers' Union (it's his own fault; he should have modeled himself on Comrade Sholokhov who did embrace the post), the copyist, nevertheless, rose to the rank of head of the war fiction department.
What is the kernel of his truth?
The chances of getting a leg up increase significantly when you follow someone's back, step by step – your mug is saved slaps from blasts of the wind…
And now the last layers of my circular pacing have been stripped away, all that remains is to sort things out and openly proclaim – who namely will be taken for the model in production of the following fiction, when I will finally shut up with this, like, Prologue which I still can't wind up.
The delicacy of the question is on a par to its importancy.
However, first, another digression:
To just copy line after line (from whom, my naive friend?) is definitely stupid. It will be easier for me to goofily pick up a book and sillily go on with the translation.
And again the question: who?
Agreed, after translating Joyce and Pynchon, taking some 50 Shades of Harry Potter or the like shit would be…
Theoretically, a possible turn, yet, practically speaking, I'll fall asleep earlier than halfway through a page.
Oh, come what may! It's decided! I'm taking on this one The Algorithm of Chaos recently published on Smashwords. Besides, the author, personally, inspires confidence in me, while the Litres platform are, as usual, taking their time at moderating; it's in their DNA…
Off we go!
The link to the ready product will be posted on proza.ru, in the hope for a whiff of criticism.
(I know, I know, I know the result beforehand, but, still and yet, I have to retain my title in the naivety championship.)
2023-05-03
1. Can A Man Bear Monthly Whimper?
The grim croaks of buzzing Viber as always sent Vit’s train of thoughts to an unknown destination somewhere in stressful life of cavemen at the Stone Age. Those ‘zndyz-dvyn’ sounds were vividly restoring a nest of pterodactyl chicks pipping thru their eggshells.
However, Vit never rushed to join the fuss and hassle in flashy trends. There are buffs starting to fumble with electronic gimmicks before those are fully out of the wrappings, you know. The factory settings in his appliances and gizmos mostly suffered no tweaks.
(In this straightforward way we’ve introduced to you the protagonist of our story. Hopefully, you’ve liked the name. Besides, certain information on his characteristic features was also leaked. Stealthily.
What? How can the main hero be as unadventurous as that? I dunno. Yet, there are chances for him to improve and reform before the happy end.
Anyway, the outcome traditionally stays in the lap of gods. Vit may choose to set a trendier ringtone. We will see.
Still and yet, what makes him refrain from adjusting the things adjusted by lots of good guys? Hey! But it’s a good opportunity to play quick sweepstakes! Is it his laziness or aloofness? Place your bets, dudes. It’s 50/50 as yet.)
Settings from the manufacturer, simple grub out his ancient microwave made in the age of… which one came after the Stone one? Well, whatever… unpretentious blondes – he's not overly picky.
No, Vit doesn't put his nose up in the air like a cool tweak connoisseurs do. He couldn't care less about trends among the troop of advanced assholes. They'd buzz and go over to something else, a week or so newer. At least in its wrappings…
He picked up his Samsung and tapped «answer».
The screen got fully filled with a wide pancake of a face. Of course, the delicacy’s supposed to be round, but this one turned pronouncedly rectangular, it didn't fit.
The caller, so was his constant practice, held the phone way too close to the oversized face. Almost touching, like a hankie readied to catch a rolling out sneeze. Yesterday, there obviously were some dreadful drafts someplace…
‘Apch! Apch! Chhoo!’
Blessed with so generous a gift from benevolent Mother Nature (or was it God planned to share it between seven, yet, accidentally all went to only one?)
The guy could have long ago become a comedy megastar. Equipped for the career much more fitfully than Mr. Beam.
Or Boom? But definitely not Bam… but then… hmm…
Yep, Vit gave up on movies a long-long time ago…