Well, this winter break has not been nearly as productive as I'd hoped. In my naivete I foolishly believed that I would be able to get some writing done while I'm at home in Georgia. Not so. Perhaps its the absence of routine and familiarity that's got me all constipated creatively, but I've grown pretty good at reassuring myself that it's alright. I'm just pulling a Hemmingway and letting things build in my unconscious for a little while before I get back to Colorado and let them explode on paper!
I've tried to compensate for my flagging creative output by doing a lot of reading and thinking, so to speak, about fiction. I'm very interested in manifestos at present, and in my spare time I've been compiling a list of what I deem to be fiction's 'responsibilities'. I'm not sure my attitude toward art and literature is really conducive to a manifesto--I've always been more interested in process than with form--but I'm trying. One thing I've discovered is that writing intelligent non-fiction is INFINITELY more difficult than writing fiction. Maybe it's because I haven't done it in so long; the process is all hazy and less intuitive. But once I finish my little manifesto I will be sure to post it here. Happy Holidays until then!
Friday, December 31, 2010
Monday, December 27, 2010
Biggish News
It's only obliquely related to my literary life, but as of 8:30 am on Dec. 23 I am engaged to be married. I'm really excited about it. Shannon and I are both at home right now in Newnan spending time with our families and trying to get used to this new way of looking at each other.
Fiancee. Fi-anc-ee. Crazy...
Just to establish a literary connection here (which, in this case, is admittedly a superficial one) in his book on writing--BookLife--Jeff Vandermeer has a section on relationships in which he talks a little bit about spouses and the kinds of interactions that are healthy between creative people. Now I'm paraphrasing from memory, but he says:
"It's good to have a partner who values writers, and who thinks that trying to be one is a good thing."
Check.
"Because of the focused and solitary nature of writing, writers tend to have a lot of extra energy and can be quite silly at times; it's good to have a partner capable of dealing with that."
Double check. If only artistic greatness was measured in silliness. It's one thing Shannon and I both have in spades...
No details on the wedding yet, but they're coming. Thanks to those who have expressed congratulations.
Fiancee. Fi-anc-ee. Crazy...
Just to establish a literary connection here (which, in this case, is admittedly a superficial one) in his book on writing--BookLife--Jeff Vandermeer has a section on relationships in which he talks a little bit about spouses and the kinds of interactions that are healthy between creative people. Now I'm paraphrasing from memory, but he says:
"It's good to have a partner who values writers, and who thinks that trying to be one is a good thing."
Check.
"Because of the focused and solitary nature of writing, writers tend to have a lot of extra energy and can be quite silly at times; it's good to have a partner capable of dealing with that."
Double check. If only artistic greatness was measured in silliness. It's one thing Shannon and I both have in spades...
No details on the wedding yet, but they're coming. Thanks to those who have expressed congratulations.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
What is Story?
Story is an engine that combusts our sacred objects. Memories, beliefs, fears… Everything we hold and cherish in darkness, burns brightest there.
Story is a physical event. There are some things you cannot recognize from a distance. Some things you only know by touch, and, if you could see them clearly, would never pick up to begin with.
Zen Buddhists tell a Story of a caterpillar who suddenly becomes conscious of his many legs. What happens? He stumbles all over himself. The human mind is a fragile thing; it is a language machine that works best when you’re not looking.
Story is transparent. The best meta-fictions are still fictions: environments we enter into. And the best poetry is that which is still carried by the breath.
I am being contentious.
Story is contentious.
Story is greater than literature, it is greater than language, in the same way that a human is greater than flesh and bone. It is these things, but it is also something more that can only be grasped in darkness.
Storytelling is a carefully-constructed accident.
It is the Zen monk who wakes after thirteen hours of meditation and cannot say where he has been. It is the werewolf who rises in the morning in tattered clothes, his mouth all smeared with blood. How many hours did the monk spend staring at the wall, waiting? How many nights did the werewolf spend watching half-moons drift across the sky, until finally a full one arrived?
Story is alive. Story is life.
Story is a physical event. There are some things you cannot recognize from a distance. Some things you only know by touch, and, if you could see them clearly, would never pick up to begin with.
Zen Buddhists tell a Story of a caterpillar who suddenly becomes conscious of his many legs. What happens? He stumbles all over himself. The human mind is a fragile thing; it is a language machine that works best when you’re not looking.
Story is transparent. The best meta-fictions are still fictions: environments we enter into. And the best poetry is that which is still carried by the breath.
I am being contentious.
Story is contentious.
Story is greater than literature, it is greater than language, in the same way that a human is greater than flesh and bone. It is these things, but it is also something more that can only be grasped in darkness.
Storytelling is a carefully-constructed accident.
It is the Zen monk who wakes after thirteen hours of meditation and cannot say where he has been. It is the werewolf who rises in the morning in tattered clothes, his mouth all smeared with blood. How many hours did the monk spend staring at the wall, waiting? How many nights did the werewolf spend watching half-moons drift across the sky, until finally a full one arrived?
Story is alive. Story is life.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Checking In
Apologies for letting this blog run stagnant for a while. There are a couple of pieces I've posted below that are a little more recent and have made their rounds with the publishers... suffice it to say that I feel comfortable consigning them here for now.
I'm just finishing up my first semester in the MFA program here at the University of Colorado. The friends I've made have been great, and though there are aspects of the program that have not exactly lived up to my expectations so far, there are at least some writers whom I've been able to connect with and whose work I respect. Most of the stuff I've been working on is longer, and is still making its rounds publication-wise, so I have little to share here other than news.
The Man-Eaters of Tsavo, the novel I've been working on, sort of went stale during revision and just as I was on the brink of putting it away I've begun working with it in a way that is once-again exciting for me. That's probably what I'll be working on this winter break. I'm finding out that sometimes not-giving-a-shit gives you a degree of critical distance necessary to take risks you otherwise wouldn't. I originally wanted to have it done by...well, now... but clearly that's not going to happen. My revisions so far have been changing the text quite a bit without really bringing it any closer to completion, so now I'm hoping to finish it sometime this summer.
Lately my work has been exploring mostly The Terrible (i.e. terror) and The Fantastic (i.e. fantasy), and it's about time. Much of it has been terrible for a while, but in a different way. Rainer Maria Rilke said: "Beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror we're still just able to bear." That's something I'm trying to keep in mind these days.
Here's a link to my latest publication at Ghost Ocean Magazine (which was actually some time ago). Beautiful site. My story is in issue 1.
I will try to keep posting news and works of fiction here. I'm finding it tough to balance it all right now, but that is not an excuse. Just a plea for patience! Thanks to those of you who still check in from time to time.
I'm just finishing up my first semester in the MFA program here at the University of Colorado. The friends I've made have been great, and though there are aspects of the program that have not exactly lived up to my expectations so far, there are at least some writers whom I've been able to connect with and whose work I respect. Most of the stuff I've been working on is longer, and is still making its rounds publication-wise, so I have little to share here other than news.
The Man-Eaters of Tsavo, the novel I've been working on, sort of went stale during revision and just as I was on the brink of putting it away I've begun working with it in a way that is once-again exciting for me. That's probably what I'll be working on this winter break. I'm finding out that sometimes not-giving-a-shit gives you a degree of critical distance necessary to take risks you otherwise wouldn't. I originally wanted to have it done by...well, now... but clearly that's not going to happen. My revisions so far have been changing the text quite a bit without really bringing it any closer to completion, so now I'm hoping to finish it sometime this summer.
Lately my work has been exploring mostly The Terrible (i.e. terror) and The Fantastic (i.e. fantasy), and it's about time. Much of it has been terrible for a while, but in a different way. Rainer Maria Rilke said: "Beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror we're still just able to bear." That's something I'm trying to keep in mind these days.
Here's a link to my latest publication at Ghost Ocean Magazine (which was actually some time ago). Beautiful site. My story is in issue 1.
I will try to keep posting news and works of fiction here. I'm finding it tough to balance it all right now, but that is not an excuse. Just a plea for patience! Thanks to those of you who still check in from time to time.
Story: A Place to Sleep
It’s been a long time since they slept in each other’s arms, but he wakes at night with her clawing against his chest. It is their first in the new bed. “What’s wrong?” he asks. She murmurs something and he rubs the back of her neck. Shhhh he says softly, until she is awake enough to speak.
The dream is of him dying—not once, but twice. She can’t remember how it happened the first time, only waking in a sweat and pacing at the foot of the bed, questioning whether or not she should wake him. She stands beside the bed and shakes him by the shoulder, although he doesn’t respond. She shakes him with two hands, but still he does not answer. She feels alone in the room. She tries to scream but all that comes out is a weak stream of air. She climbs back into bed still screaming, unable to control her limbs, and lays her head on her pillow. Her legs grow numb, then her arms. She knows she is dying, and then she wakes.
“I thought that people weren’t supposed to die in their dreams,” he says, lying beside her in the dark. He listens with his eyes closed, and the way she describes it, he feels almost as if it were his dream.
“Maybe I didn’t,” she suggests. “Maybe I woke up just before.”
They go back to sleep and when they wake the next morning he is squeezing her. She asks what’s the matter. He says he can’t remember.
She has an interview today, and he sits drinking coffee all morning on their balcony, waiting for her to return. The set of patio chairs is their only furniture besides the bed, and now they cannot sleep. She returns at noon and says they’ve invited her to a second interview on Monday. They have the weekend to themselves.
At night they lie awake. Most recently, he’s died and gone to hell. She cut her wrists to follow, but landed in heaven instead.
“You’re not allowed to do that,” he insists. Something is wrong with her dreams. He gets up and fetches her a glass of water from the kitchen. She takes a sip and asks what he was dreaming about, but again he doesn’t remember.
Saturday and Sunday pass with him in the apartment. She wants to go to the farmer’s market. She wants to try the church. He does not want to go to either of these places and does not want her to go either. He stays home and draws the blinds, wishes the walls were thicker, that there were more padlocks on the door. He does not want Monday to come, but Monday does come, and she silences her alarm clock without waking him. She has slept through the night. This is a good sign. She kisses him on the forehead before dressing.
At noon she returns with a bottle of Andre and a smile, searching for him on the balcony although he isn’t there. She pours them both mimosas, and takes them into the bedroom where he is as she left him. She sits his drink on the nightstand and tries to wake him. He does not respond. She sits her own drink down, and shakes him with both hands, but he just frowns into his pillow. She begins to panic and remembers the dream from several nights ago. She wonders if she is dreaming now. She lies down behind him and wraps her arms around his torso, shuts her eyes and recites a prayer to herself, trying to remember what she dreamed of last night. She cannot. Last night she slept as soundly as a stone, and no matter how hard she tries now, sleep will not find her.
The dream is of him dying—not once, but twice. She can’t remember how it happened the first time, only waking in a sweat and pacing at the foot of the bed, questioning whether or not she should wake him. She stands beside the bed and shakes him by the shoulder, although he doesn’t respond. She shakes him with two hands, but still he does not answer. She feels alone in the room. She tries to scream but all that comes out is a weak stream of air. She climbs back into bed still screaming, unable to control her limbs, and lays her head on her pillow. Her legs grow numb, then her arms. She knows she is dying, and then she wakes.
“I thought that people weren’t supposed to die in their dreams,” he says, lying beside her in the dark. He listens with his eyes closed, and the way she describes it, he feels almost as if it were his dream.
“Maybe I didn’t,” she suggests. “Maybe I woke up just before.”
They go back to sleep and when they wake the next morning he is squeezing her. She asks what’s the matter. He says he can’t remember.
She has an interview today, and he sits drinking coffee all morning on their balcony, waiting for her to return. The set of patio chairs is their only furniture besides the bed, and now they cannot sleep. She returns at noon and says they’ve invited her to a second interview on Monday. They have the weekend to themselves.
At night they lie awake. Most recently, he’s died and gone to hell. She cut her wrists to follow, but landed in heaven instead.
“You’re not allowed to do that,” he insists. Something is wrong with her dreams. He gets up and fetches her a glass of water from the kitchen. She takes a sip and asks what he was dreaming about, but again he doesn’t remember.
Saturday and Sunday pass with him in the apartment. She wants to go to the farmer’s market. She wants to try the church. He does not want to go to either of these places and does not want her to go either. He stays home and draws the blinds, wishes the walls were thicker, that there were more padlocks on the door. He does not want Monday to come, but Monday does come, and she silences her alarm clock without waking him. She has slept through the night. This is a good sign. She kisses him on the forehead before dressing.
At noon she returns with a bottle of Andre and a smile, searching for him on the balcony although he isn’t there. She pours them both mimosas, and takes them into the bedroom where he is as she left him. She sits his drink on the nightstand and tries to wake him. He does not respond. She sits her own drink down, and shakes him with both hands, but he just frowns into his pillow. She begins to panic and remembers the dream from several nights ago. She wonders if she is dreaming now. She lies down behind him and wraps her arms around his torso, shuts her eyes and recites a prayer to herself, trying to remember what she dreamed of last night. She cannot. Last night she slept as soundly as a stone, and no matter how hard she tries now, sleep will not find her.
2 Stories I Wrote For Halloween
Dust to Dust
The plastic jack-o-lantern rests on its side, propped against a tombstone and grinning into the ground. Candy is pooled around it in the dirt, and she lies nearby on a damp plot of earth where the ground was struck but the grave never dug. The boys search for her among the stones.
Yoohoo. Come out wherever you are.
She closes her eyes and rocks from side to side, upending the dirt with her shoulders and shifting deeper with each movement. Worms writhe on top of her as the clumps of dirt break apart; centipedes, beetles, and slugs. The boys still are calling and she tries to remain still. A spider crawls along her forearm, eight points of contact. Her hairs stand on end. She can feel each of its legs on her skin—not quite a caress—and the beetles burrow in between her and the ground. Worms twist like curled leaves in the wind.
Her senses rise into her pores, like an electric current on top of water. Her body is a city, a sanctuary, giving shelter to the insects whispering into her flesh, filling it with a language none but her can understand.
Where are you sweetheart? I just want a treat.
Her fingers clutch at the earth by her sides. She feels along each slope and between her legs, at last grasps a pine cone and holds it against the seam of her pants. It pricks her hands. She twists the pine cone against her like a pestle—she is the mortar—and can feel her ashes mixing with the mud. The boys’ voices recede while she grinds it against her. Her mouth is open. She is sand. She is sugar. She disappears.
Hunger
The monster lives in a mansion outside of town, past forests of oak and juniper with high branches, so that your headlights shine a long way before being swallowed in darkness. You arrive at a clearing and the great shadow comes into focus above a steel archway, tarnished brick turrets piercing the sky and black windows flushing from inside.
When you were a girl, your parents would warn you to eat your greens, otherwise he’d come out of the woods and get you. This wasn’t true, but you ate them anyway. You had not met him. All you knew was that he didn’t have a mouth, and who knew what kinds of behavior would offend a creature like that?
Dinner guests arrive around twilight, and the host greets you at the door dressed in an impeccable dinner jacket. His skin is brown and spotty. His eyes are black. He has light blonde hair that is nearly invisible at the temples, and where his mouth should be, there is only a glossy plane of flesh, stretched tight as though there might be a mouth beneath it, though it is sewn up in skin.
You offer him your cheek and he brushes it accordingly with his own. He is a perfect gentleman, although he would not hesitate to swallow you whole if he were able. He is a monster, after all. You know this. When you go to the zoo you admire the tigers, but you don’t have any illusions about their nature. Their nature is what you admire. There is something about being eaten, isn’t there? Something about your blood on someone else’s lips that is… seductive. Not that that’s a possibility here. You pause on the threshold with your hand in his and concentrate on where his claws rest against your wrists, your blood vessels expanding beneath his touch.
Inside the light is scarce. Dark chestnut columns rise into a vaulted arch. The Persian carpet feels like moss underfoot. There’s a dinette table with black, liquorice-flavored cocktails on it, and you take one before entering the dining room where the other guests are mingling. The monster lives alone and prepares everything himself. This impresses the housewives.
“Have you heard about any more animals being discovered?” Mrs. Winston asks. “You know… drained?”
“Two last week.”
“My word! What do you suppose he does with it? The blood, I mean. It’s not as though he can eat it.”
“I don’t know. Bathes in it maybe?”
Mrs. Winston draws up in approbation. “Well good for him, I say. One’s got to cut loose every now and then, otherwise what’s the point?”
You are aware of the host’s presence as he shifts between groups. When he is close you talk of music—he is an accomplished pianist, after all—though when he is not you occupy yourself listening to rumors of his parentage. Some say he was spawned by a coven of witches, others that he’s the offspring of a wolf and earthworm. This last possibility intrigues you, although you know better than to take any of it seriously.
The women all wear rouge and low-cut blouses that cling to their flanks like saran wrap over prime rib. You’ve got on a sequined little number the others think is overdoing it—after all, you’ve got to go back to town at some point—but you don’t care. It’s him you are interested in. You can feel his black eyes stealing glances at your hips and inside your thighs. He does not have a mouth, but if he did you don’t mind fancying it’s you he would covet first.
You take your seat at the dinner table. There are places set for more than thirty, and the couples sit across from one another, alternating men and women. In the center is a row of sterling platters that the host unveils one by one. The menu is an array of forest creatures, skinned and broiled, braised in blood and infused with exotic spices and herbs. Certain morsels like the deer are a tad bit chewy, although the rabbit is succulent and delicious, tender like the inside of one’s mouth. There is another dish too, one you can’t identify, but which is the most wonderful of all. Your palette hums when you take a bite, as though an electric current were passing through it. It has been ages since the last gathering. You can hardly remember the gentleman’s name.
The host sits at the head of the table, elbows resting on either side of an empty plate, and watches the conversations go on around him. For dessert he distributes plates of stewed berries and homemade ice cream, smoked chicory coffee in silver tins.
The ladies eat until identical quarter-portions are left on each of their plates, and the men all recline in their seats from over eating, then follow the host into the drawing room. It is dark there. Long oak bookshelves line each of the walls along with faded portraits whom none can identify. The room is lit by a single set of candles positioned behind the great piano. You gather around in chairs and on stools, and the host arranges a score by Schöenberg on the stand. You are quiet, and resent even the sound of your breath. His spotty fingers rest against the keys and he remains there for a moment, head bowed, taking several deep breaths before he compresses the keys, commences with the melody, the complex descent into minor key. You listen to it with your eyes closed. The music is beautiful. He closes his eyes too and only opens them to glance at the music, and to turn the page when it is necessary.
His playing stirs something inside of you and eventually your eyes open. The guests exchange glances with one another and feel a tension gathering in their bodies. They stand and undress, hanging their clothes on the backs of chairs while the host continues to play, his eyes shut, hammering the keys as if he’s trying to convince himself that you’re still listening. You are listening, but you undress as well, spot a gentleman nearby and grab him by the arms, hold him between your legs and feel his body inside of you. It makes your organs shiver; your blood, your bones, your synapses. You are a flower waiting to bloom. You turn your head and watch the host, listening and regretting that others are not also listening, but then, it is like this every time. You permit yourself to enjoy the gentleman on top of you, knowing that what must happen will happen either way.
The music stops. The host is still for a moment. His chest heaves and he is slow to stand. He gathers the sheets of music and places them inside the piano bench, before facing into the room. The guests all freeze. The man on top of you withdraws, and watches, waiting to find out who it will be. The host walks in between couples, studying each, and your eyes follow after him, willing him to turn and face you. Your organs cry out, your blood is a chorus of longing. His black eyes find you out, and once more you can feel them roving over your hips, your thighs and bottom; all the tender bits. They other guests eye you too, also with hunger. They know a decision has been made.
He strides across the room and stands above you. You take hold of his claw and rise, trying to restrain your excitement. You grin into the carpet and allow yourself to be escorted into the center of the room, where the guests have cleared a space around a sheet of plastic. Their faces are unblinking. They are jealous and happy for you at once. The host stands before you and you meet his eyes, can see that his face is weary. For a moment you’re afraid he will change his mind, but he does not. He steps back. His claws stiffen. You lift your head and turn your palms toward the ceiling, feel your entire body pulsing with light. Air rushes into your stomach and you can feel the guests eyes upon you as a moment of blistering heat takes hold, and your body comes apart. The light escapes and what’s left is consigned to the following month’s menu.
We inch closer in an effort to be near. Our lips are wet, but the host stands still. His face is stern. It is time for us to leave, but we will see you again next month, briefly, one last time.
The plastic jack-o-lantern rests on its side, propped against a tombstone and grinning into the ground. Candy is pooled around it in the dirt, and she lies nearby on a damp plot of earth where the ground was struck but the grave never dug. The boys search for her among the stones.
Yoohoo. Come out wherever you are.
She closes her eyes and rocks from side to side, upending the dirt with her shoulders and shifting deeper with each movement. Worms writhe on top of her as the clumps of dirt break apart; centipedes, beetles, and slugs. The boys still are calling and she tries to remain still. A spider crawls along her forearm, eight points of contact. Her hairs stand on end. She can feel each of its legs on her skin—not quite a caress—and the beetles burrow in between her and the ground. Worms twist like curled leaves in the wind.
Her senses rise into her pores, like an electric current on top of water. Her body is a city, a sanctuary, giving shelter to the insects whispering into her flesh, filling it with a language none but her can understand.
Where are you sweetheart? I just want a treat.
Her fingers clutch at the earth by her sides. She feels along each slope and between her legs, at last grasps a pine cone and holds it against the seam of her pants. It pricks her hands. She twists the pine cone against her like a pestle—she is the mortar—and can feel her ashes mixing with the mud. The boys’ voices recede while she grinds it against her. Her mouth is open. She is sand. She is sugar. She disappears.
Hunger
The monster lives in a mansion outside of town, past forests of oak and juniper with high branches, so that your headlights shine a long way before being swallowed in darkness. You arrive at a clearing and the great shadow comes into focus above a steel archway, tarnished brick turrets piercing the sky and black windows flushing from inside.
When you were a girl, your parents would warn you to eat your greens, otherwise he’d come out of the woods and get you. This wasn’t true, but you ate them anyway. You had not met him. All you knew was that he didn’t have a mouth, and who knew what kinds of behavior would offend a creature like that?
Dinner guests arrive around twilight, and the host greets you at the door dressed in an impeccable dinner jacket. His skin is brown and spotty. His eyes are black. He has light blonde hair that is nearly invisible at the temples, and where his mouth should be, there is only a glossy plane of flesh, stretched tight as though there might be a mouth beneath it, though it is sewn up in skin.
You offer him your cheek and he brushes it accordingly with his own. He is a perfect gentleman, although he would not hesitate to swallow you whole if he were able. He is a monster, after all. You know this. When you go to the zoo you admire the tigers, but you don’t have any illusions about their nature. Their nature is what you admire. There is something about being eaten, isn’t there? Something about your blood on someone else’s lips that is… seductive. Not that that’s a possibility here. You pause on the threshold with your hand in his and concentrate on where his claws rest against your wrists, your blood vessels expanding beneath his touch.
Inside the light is scarce. Dark chestnut columns rise into a vaulted arch. The Persian carpet feels like moss underfoot. There’s a dinette table with black, liquorice-flavored cocktails on it, and you take one before entering the dining room where the other guests are mingling. The monster lives alone and prepares everything himself. This impresses the housewives.
“Have you heard about any more animals being discovered?” Mrs. Winston asks. “You know… drained?”
“Two last week.”
“My word! What do you suppose he does with it? The blood, I mean. It’s not as though he can eat it.”
“I don’t know. Bathes in it maybe?”
Mrs. Winston draws up in approbation. “Well good for him, I say. One’s got to cut loose every now and then, otherwise what’s the point?”
You are aware of the host’s presence as he shifts between groups. When he is close you talk of music—he is an accomplished pianist, after all—though when he is not you occupy yourself listening to rumors of his parentage. Some say he was spawned by a coven of witches, others that he’s the offspring of a wolf and earthworm. This last possibility intrigues you, although you know better than to take any of it seriously.
The women all wear rouge and low-cut blouses that cling to their flanks like saran wrap over prime rib. You’ve got on a sequined little number the others think is overdoing it—after all, you’ve got to go back to town at some point—but you don’t care. It’s him you are interested in. You can feel his black eyes stealing glances at your hips and inside your thighs. He does not have a mouth, but if he did you don’t mind fancying it’s you he would covet first.
You take your seat at the dinner table. There are places set for more than thirty, and the couples sit across from one another, alternating men and women. In the center is a row of sterling platters that the host unveils one by one. The menu is an array of forest creatures, skinned and broiled, braised in blood and infused with exotic spices and herbs. Certain morsels like the deer are a tad bit chewy, although the rabbit is succulent and delicious, tender like the inside of one’s mouth. There is another dish too, one you can’t identify, but which is the most wonderful of all. Your palette hums when you take a bite, as though an electric current were passing through it. It has been ages since the last gathering. You can hardly remember the gentleman’s name.
The host sits at the head of the table, elbows resting on either side of an empty plate, and watches the conversations go on around him. For dessert he distributes plates of stewed berries and homemade ice cream, smoked chicory coffee in silver tins.
The ladies eat until identical quarter-portions are left on each of their plates, and the men all recline in their seats from over eating, then follow the host into the drawing room. It is dark there. Long oak bookshelves line each of the walls along with faded portraits whom none can identify. The room is lit by a single set of candles positioned behind the great piano. You gather around in chairs and on stools, and the host arranges a score by Schöenberg on the stand. You are quiet, and resent even the sound of your breath. His spotty fingers rest against the keys and he remains there for a moment, head bowed, taking several deep breaths before he compresses the keys, commences with the melody, the complex descent into minor key. You listen to it with your eyes closed. The music is beautiful. He closes his eyes too and only opens them to glance at the music, and to turn the page when it is necessary.
His playing stirs something inside of you and eventually your eyes open. The guests exchange glances with one another and feel a tension gathering in their bodies. They stand and undress, hanging their clothes on the backs of chairs while the host continues to play, his eyes shut, hammering the keys as if he’s trying to convince himself that you’re still listening. You are listening, but you undress as well, spot a gentleman nearby and grab him by the arms, hold him between your legs and feel his body inside of you. It makes your organs shiver; your blood, your bones, your synapses. You are a flower waiting to bloom. You turn your head and watch the host, listening and regretting that others are not also listening, but then, it is like this every time. You permit yourself to enjoy the gentleman on top of you, knowing that what must happen will happen either way.
The music stops. The host is still for a moment. His chest heaves and he is slow to stand. He gathers the sheets of music and places them inside the piano bench, before facing into the room. The guests all freeze. The man on top of you withdraws, and watches, waiting to find out who it will be. The host walks in between couples, studying each, and your eyes follow after him, willing him to turn and face you. Your organs cry out, your blood is a chorus of longing. His black eyes find you out, and once more you can feel them roving over your hips, your thighs and bottom; all the tender bits. They other guests eye you too, also with hunger. They know a decision has been made.
He strides across the room and stands above you. You take hold of his claw and rise, trying to restrain your excitement. You grin into the carpet and allow yourself to be escorted into the center of the room, where the guests have cleared a space around a sheet of plastic. Their faces are unblinking. They are jealous and happy for you at once. The host stands before you and you meet his eyes, can see that his face is weary. For a moment you’re afraid he will change his mind, but he does not. He steps back. His claws stiffen. You lift your head and turn your palms toward the ceiling, feel your entire body pulsing with light. Air rushes into your stomach and you can feel the guests eyes upon you as a moment of blistering heat takes hold, and your body comes apart. The light escapes and what’s left is consigned to the following month’s menu.
We inch closer in an effort to be near. Our lips are wet, but the host stands still. His face is stern. It is time for us to leave, but we will see you again next month, briefly, one last time.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
I Write Like...
Here's a cool new website that uses coding to analyze your writing samples, and tells you which famous writer your style most resembles. Evidently, the two pieces I'm working on, Actor's Guide and 4'33", resemble writing by Stephan King and Kurt Vonnegut respectively.
What can I say? You don't always get the answer you want, but it is still interesting.
What can I say? You don't always get the answer you want, but it is still interesting.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
I Finally Registered for Classes!
I've got to admit that so far the admissions process at CU has fairly frustrated me. For a while I had some sense of which paperwork was coming to me in which order, but now I've got no clue. I'm about ninety-percent certain though that I've done everything I need to before actually arriving there, and most of my efforts currently are being spent communicating with my realtor and finding a place to live in Boulder.
Registering for classes wasn't easy. First I was told I could do it through the online portal, but that didn't work. I kept getting a message that said I didn't have an enrollment appointment. Nobody mentioned anything to me about an enrollment appointment. I called the registrar's office, and the student worker there seemed really confused and transferred me to some other lady's voicemail who then did not return my call. I called again, and after speaking to another very confused worker for a few moments, she interrupted me by saying that I could register at 8 am on Wednesday. Eight am rolled around this morning (twice, in fact, because CO is an hour behind TX), and lo-and-behold, no enrollment appointment. I called back, and the student worker this time listened to me speak for about ten seconds before interrupting me and saying she was going to transfer me to someone else's voicemail. I protested and she answered rather testily: "That's all I can do for you, sir."
Needless to say, my voicemail was not happy, and needless to say, no one called me back. A little while later I called back again, and whoever the student worker was this time put me on hold for two seconds, and when he came back on, told me I could register immediately. He'd just opened me up. Hoila. I think the ease with which he was able to fix it, after all of that, was the most infuriating part! Anyway, the important thing is that I did get registered, and my classes look sweet. Here's what my schedule looks like:
Mon: Contemporary Literary Theory
Advanced Topics in English- Digital Media
Tues: Intro to Literature of the United States
Wed: Fiction Workshop
I am also on a waiting list for Intro to Multicultural Literature. Not sure how many credits I'm supposed to be taking, although the important thing is that I'm enrolled and can drop/add as needed. This all could change anyway once I get there and am able to advise. Also, I still need to receive a schedule of the classes I am teaching. I'm excited though. It's like a fairytale. There is not a single class I'm not thrilled about!
Registering for classes wasn't easy. First I was told I could do it through the online portal, but that didn't work. I kept getting a message that said I didn't have an enrollment appointment. Nobody mentioned anything to me about an enrollment appointment. I called the registrar's office, and the student worker there seemed really confused and transferred me to some other lady's voicemail who then did not return my call. I called again, and after speaking to another very confused worker for a few moments, she interrupted me by saying that I could register at 8 am on Wednesday. Eight am rolled around this morning (twice, in fact, because CO is an hour behind TX), and lo-and-behold, no enrollment appointment. I called back, and the student worker this time listened to me speak for about ten seconds before interrupting me and saying she was going to transfer me to someone else's voicemail. I protested and she answered rather testily: "That's all I can do for you, sir."
Needless to say, my voicemail was not happy, and needless to say, no one called me back. A little while later I called back again, and whoever the student worker was this time put me on hold for two seconds, and when he came back on, told me I could register immediately. He'd just opened me up. Hoila. I think the ease with which he was able to fix it, after all of that, was the most infuriating part! Anyway, the important thing is that I did get registered, and my classes look sweet. Here's what my schedule looks like:
Mon: Contemporary Literary Theory
Advanced Topics in English- Digital Media
Tues: Intro to Literature of the United States
Wed: Fiction Workshop
I am also on a waiting list for Intro to Multicultural Literature. Not sure how many credits I'm supposed to be taking, although the important thing is that I'm enrolled and can drop/add as needed. This all could change anyway once I get there and am able to advise. Also, I still need to receive a schedule of the classes I am teaching. I'm excited though. It's like a fairytale. There is not a single class I'm not thrilled about!
Monday, July 5, 2010
Footnotes in the Age of E-Reading
Like many people, I have long since given in to the attractions of various e-readers. Several birthdays ago my parents bought me a Kindle, and more recently I've started reading on my iPhone as well. They're great in a lot of ways. The Kindle is great for reading long, cumbersome novels like Anna Karenina without have to heft around the actual book, and also for reading outside--no pages to get blown and very little glare on the screen. On the other hand, the iPhone reader, I've found, is excellent for shorter works, stories and poems. It almost makes me look forward to the security line in airports because it gives me just the right amount of time to whip out my phone and read through something. But whether it is the romantic in me or the traditionalist, I still do value the traditional model of reading... You know, books. And I sympathize with those who fear for that mode's future, whether it's from a publisher's perspective, author's, or just the loss of reading texture that many feel the e-reader heralds.
Good news: I have found at least one kind of literature that seems nearly irreconcilable with the e-format, and that is the one which relies heavily on footnotes.
I remember when I first read A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again by David Foster Wallce, all of the sudden I could not resist populating my own writing with footnotes. They were irresistible, providing the perfect opportunity for me to include those clever asides that occurred to me but which didn't actually fit inside the story. As it were, they provided a convenient excuse for me not to have to "kill my darlings" so I've since given them up, but nevertheless, when Wallace uses them they are fun and hilarious, and it's tough to imagine a lot of his work without them.
I read Infinite Jest too as a book and thought the same thing. Although once I started utilizing the iPhone reader and brainstorming things I could buy to read ion it, I made the mistake of purchasing Consider the Lobster as an e-text, and let me tell you about cumbersome.... You have to click on each of the footnotes and it will transport you to the text in question, then once you are finished reading it transports you back. Anyone who has read Wallace knows that sometimes his footnotes go on for multiple pages, and become stories in their own right, and I am not sure why but for some reason reading this way is so much more disorienting than relying on one's eye to shift back and forth. I cannot imagine reading Infinite Jest on an e-reader, and the book I'm reading now, House of Leaves by Mark Danielewski, would also be nearly impossible, I think.
Groundbreaking as e-texts are, it is comforting to know that there are still effects that can only be accomplished on paper.
Good news: I have found at least one kind of literature that seems nearly irreconcilable with the e-format, and that is the one which relies heavily on footnotes.
I remember when I first read A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again by David Foster Wallce, all of the sudden I could not resist populating my own writing with footnotes. They were irresistible, providing the perfect opportunity for me to include those clever asides that occurred to me but which didn't actually fit inside the story. As it were, they provided a convenient excuse for me not to have to "kill my darlings" so I've since given them up, but nevertheless, when Wallace uses them they are fun and hilarious, and it's tough to imagine a lot of his work without them.
I read Infinite Jest too as a book and thought the same thing. Although once I started utilizing the iPhone reader and brainstorming things I could buy to read ion it, I made the mistake of purchasing Consider the Lobster as an e-text, and let me tell you about cumbersome.... You have to click on each of the footnotes and it will transport you to the text in question, then once you are finished reading it transports you back. Anyone who has read Wallace knows that sometimes his footnotes go on for multiple pages, and become stories in their own right, and I am not sure why but for some reason reading this way is so much more disorienting than relying on one's eye to shift back and forth. I cannot imagine reading Infinite Jest on an e-reader, and the book I'm reading now, House of Leaves by Mark Danielewski, would also be nearly impossible, I think.
Groundbreaking as e-texts are, it is comforting to know that there are still effects that can only be accomplished on paper.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Fictionalizing Real People
Here is an article in the Guardian that deals (somewhat) with the ethics of representing real people in fiction. This is particularly interesting for me right now because I currently am working on several things that are based on real people, one of which involves fictionalized scenes from the life of composer, John Cage. The author of the piece, Meg Rosoff, dismisses the subject with a "do what you want, but do it well" kind of position, but to that I would add that he who writes about real people also needs to be aware of the work's political ramifications. Whatever one chooses to say is fine, but to represent real people without giving any thought to how it makes them look, or what that representation says about them seems to me irresponsible. Praise them, burn them, put words into their mouths or take words out... anything goes, but do be aware of the work's relationship to the lives it represents.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
News Update
It's been a while since I posted any personal updates about what's going on with me writing-wise and otherwise. So here's a brief list of things:
1) I finished the first draft of The Man-Eaters of Tsavo today!!!! It is the novel I've been working on for the past four months or so. In it's current (rough) form, it weighs in at about 95,000 words, making it my first legitimate novel manuscript. Right now I'm going to put it aside for about two months, get it out of my head, then come back to it after that time and read it with fresh eyes for the revision. I'm not sure whether I want to work on it as a part of my graduate coursework or not. Still deciding whether a novel is something that should be workshoped. But anyway, that brings me to item number two...
2) In another month or so I'll be packing up my belongings and moving with Shannon to Colorado, where I will be studying fiction at the University of Colorado at Boulder. I've been meaning to post this last bit of news for quite some time, but the delay between when I found out about my acceptance there and when I finally heard from all of the other schools I applied to was so long it sort of lost its motivation. I'm really excited though. I was also offered a teaching assistantship, and just found out that the course I will be teaching is Intro to Creative Writing, which is a huge relief because before that I assumed it would be Freshman Comp or something like that. So yay!
3) I've got a couple of old stories I'm going to return to, revise, and then begin circulating in fiction competitions, so more news on that will be coming in the next few months. It's crazy how many ideas occur to you when you are bogged down by one single project. Since beginning work on MET I've probably had about ten solid story ideas occur to me, and it's taken real discipline not to put it aside and pursue some of these other ideas. My palate is clean though now, and I can start sifting through that backlog of ideas. One thing I'm planning on doing is returning to my first novel attempt, The Body and the Blood, and revising it back into a novella that I will then go on to self-publish and make available through a website I'm going to start designing soon. So lots and lots of stuff! Stay tuned for more details. I'll try to post stuff like this more regularly and not fall so far behind!
Best Wishes,
Nick
Friday, June 11, 2010
Narrative Pleasure = Right v. Wrong
In this Slate article Kathyrn Schultz interviews Ira Glass from This American Life about "wrongness", and how it sub-textually drives each of the stories they do on the show. In it, Ira discusses the collision of expectation versus reality as a narrative convention, and even as a creative discipline. At one point, he's talking about a story he did on The Onion's brainstorming sessions, in which it is not uncommon for them to come up with about 600 headlines, only 16 or 17 of which they actually end up using. That means that they are willing to be wrong 583 times in order to be right 17. He goes on:
"It kind of gives you hope. If you do creative work, there's a sense that inspiration is this fairy dust that gets dropped on you, when in fact you can just manufacture inspiration through sheer brute force. You can simply produce enough material that the thing will arrive that seems inspired. "
It's an interesting idea; one that I probably agree with about 90 percent, but then, the whole interview is interesting and, though it deprives you of Ira Glass's signature voice, I highly recommend that you check it out in full.
"It kind of gives you hope. If you do creative work, there's a sense that inspiration is this fairy dust that gets dropped on you, when in fact you can just manufacture inspiration through sheer brute force. You can simply produce enough material that the thing will arrive that seems inspired. "
It's an interesting idea; one that I probably agree with about 90 percent, but then, the whole interview is interesting and, though it deprives you of Ira Glass's signature voice, I highly recommend that you check it out in full.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
The New Name
I've been thinking about renaming this blog "The Island of Misfit Stories," to acknowledge the fact that generally the stories I post here have been rejected by at least six legitimate publishers beforehand. I cannot post anything here that I hope to publish elsewhere because nearly all publishers want first rights to the work. So usually I end up circulating each of these guys for about five months before I give up, curse the literary establishment's lack of vision, then put the stories up here instead. That's how this blog began: as a way for me to imagine that somebody is actually reading my work.
Originally I named it "Error: You Are Being Redirected" on a whim, because when I try to come up with real--that is, appropriate--names for things, they usually end up being terrible, cheesy, and obvious. When titling works-in-progress, provisionally I assign them either stupidly obvious titles, or off-the-wall absurd ones. Although eventually, if the work means anything to me, I will want to give it a name that suits it. The title, after all, is the reader's first impression of a piece.
(*Side Note*: My poetry professor in college, Sandra Meek, used to have a thing against poems announcing themselves as 'Untitled'. It's like meeting someone for the first time and, instead of introducing yourself, grabbing them by the shoulders and shaking them... which maybe is a good thing sometimes. But even then, you wouldn't introduce yourself as 'Untitled' first, would you? Would you?!)
As I was thinking about the idea of naming, I remembered an old religious essay I once read back in my more pious days by George MacDonald, titled The New Name. It was from a collection of Unspoken Sermons, and I remember this one grabbing me because of its unique conception of Heaven, and what it means to abide with one's Creator. MacDonald argued (imagined is perhaps a better word) that the first thing that happens once one enters Heaven is that s/he is given a white stone with a new name on it, one that "no man knoweth, saving he that receiveth it" (the sermon is based on a verse from Revelation; 2:17). This is not a name like any we've received before, like Nick or Error: You Are Being Redirected. This name would reflect who we are, interiorly and exteriorly. Presumably it would be more than just a word, in the same way that 'eternity' is more than just a long time, but I think the point, the powerful thing about the sermon, is the idea of having nothing withheld; no secret to keep or mystery to ponder. To me, it sounds like everything I long to experience in writing; that is, an embodiment of what I am and what I fail to understand about myself. My personal Truth, in a word.
I'm not sure what the linguistic implications of this idea are. It does seem to suggest that, at the metaphysical level, there is a 1:1 relationship between an object and its name, whereas at the non-metaphysical level, there is often a dynamic relationship between words and the objects they signify (see Edward Said); often the name a person or thing is given actually influences that person or thing's behavior.
But to return to the point...
A long time ago--back when I was still selling cable door to door--I was talking to this old woman on her doorstep. Having by that point determined that she would not be changing her cable provider that day, somehow we fell to discussing how I was a writer, and I even told her about this blog (please comment if, by some deranged miracle, this is you and you actually checked it out!). Anyway, I told her the blog's name and her response was, "Oh my, that's really clever! Because then your site will pop up whenever somebody searches for the wrong thing!" This had never occurred to me before, and of course, once I thought about it I realized it was a fallacy, unless somebody out there is actually searching for error messages. But the paradox (which, let me emphasize, was by no means intentional) struck me as oddly appropriate. If you are reading this, after all, it is because for some reason, whether you stumbled upon this blog or know me personally, you sought out the unsought. You are reading what nobody else seems to want to read, and believe me, the fact that you're reading it is appreciated.
The moral of this story:
Sometimes words that begin as bullshit can, in the end, prove meaningful. Compelling even. That is a profoundly positive idea for me.
Originally I named it "Error: You Are Being Redirected" on a whim, because when I try to come up with real--that is, appropriate--names for things, they usually end up being terrible, cheesy, and obvious. When titling works-in-progress, provisionally I assign them either stupidly obvious titles, or off-the-wall absurd ones. Although eventually, if the work means anything to me, I will want to give it a name that suits it. The title, after all, is the reader's first impression of a piece.
(*Side Note*: My poetry professor in college, Sandra Meek, used to have a thing against poems announcing themselves as 'Untitled'. It's like meeting someone for the first time and, instead of introducing yourself, grabbing them by the shoulders and shaking them... which maybe is a good thing sometimes. But even then, you wouldn't introduce yourself as 'Untitled' first, would you? Would you?!)
As I was thinking about the idea of naming, I remembered an old religious essay I once read back in my more pious days by George MacDonald, titled The New Name. It was from a collection of Unspoken Sermons, and I remember this one grabbing me because of its unique conception of Heaven, and what it means to abide with one's Creator. MacDonald argued (imagined is perhaps a better word) that the first thing that happens once one enters Heaven is that s/he is given a white stone with a new name on it, one that "no man knoweth, saving he that receiveth it" (the sermon is based on a verse from Revelation; 2:17). This is not a name like any we've received before, like Nick or Error: You Are Being Redirected. This name would reflect who we are, interiorly and exteriorly. Presumably it would be more than just a word, in the same way that 'eternity' is more than just a long time, but I think the point, the powerful thing about the sermon, is the idea of having nothing withheld; no secret to keep or mystery to ponder. To me, it sounds like everything I long to experience in writing; that is, an embodiment of what I am and what I fail to understand about myself. My personal Truth, in a word.
I'm not sure what the linguistic implications of this idea are. It does seem to suggest that, at the metaphysical level, there is a 1:1 relationship between an object and its name, whereas at the non-metaphysical level, there is often a dynamic relationship between words and the objects they signify (see Edward Said); often the name a person or thing is given actually influences that person or thing's behavior.
But to return to the point...
A long time ago--back when I was still selling cable door to door--I was talking to this old woman on her doorstep. Having by that point determined that she would not be changing her cable provider that day, somehow we fell to discussing how I was a writer, and I even told her about this blog (please comment if, by some deranged miracle, this is you and you actually checked it out!). Anyway, I told her the blog's name and her response was, "Oh my, that's really clever! Because then your site will pop up whenever somebody searches for the wrong thing!" This had never occurred to me before, and of course, once I thought about it I realized it was a fallacy, unless somebody out there is actually searching for error messages. But the paradox (which, let me emphasize, was by no means intentional) struck me as oddly appropriate. If you are reading this, after all, it is because for some reason, whether you stumbled upon this blog or know me personally, you sought out the unsought. You are reading what nobody else seems to want to read, and believe me, the fact that you're reading it is appreciated.
The moral of this story:
Sometimes words that begin as bullshit can, in the end, prove meaningful. Compelling even. That is a profoundly positive idea for me.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Story: New Look
He started telling people weeks in advance what he was going to do. To those whom he’d known the longest, he mentioned it with the least affect, knowing, somehow, that they would be the least interested. “Really?” they would say with a false note of enthusiasm. And sensing that he was still waiting: “Why?”
The girls at work were his favorite. “What? Your hair? No way, you can’t!”
He smiled.
“Guys with long hair,” Marissa, the girl in the station adjoining his said, “They’re just… rare, you know?” She seemed to falter here, and he loved her for that. “It works on you,” she said in summation.
It had been two years since his last haircut. He’d started growing it during a period when he and his girlfriend, Nora, were split up, and when they started seeing each other again eleven months later, the mane he wore seemed to symbolize all the ways he had changed during their time apart. The ways he had matured and the habits he’d grown out of. Nora loved his new look—everyone did—and silly or not, somehow it managed to promise them a new beginning, one absent the flaws that had originally driven them apart. It occurred to him only some time later that during the entire time they’d been apart, he had not been with a single other person.
Three more of his coworkers stopped by after lunch to see if the rumor was true. Two tried to talk him out of it, and one just grasped his locks with a forlorn expression on her face before continuing on her path toward the coffee pot, which he could see had been refilled.
“I’m ready for a change,” he explained to the group gathered at the beverage station.
“You’ll keep the length though, right?” asked Shelly. “I mean, you won’t cut it all off.”
He shook his head. “The way I see it, if I’m going to have long hair, I’ll have long hair. If not—” He made a snipping motion with his fore and index fingers. Theresa, the office coordinator, stared unbelievingly at him for a moment before lifting her hand dismissively and walking away.
At 5:24 pm he drove home with the windows down. Sounds from the street filled his car; the decompression of a bus’s breaks, the static beat of a portable radio on the corner. In the morning time, these were things he struggled to overcome. Every sight and sound somehow seemed to conspire against his one wish, which was to get to work so that he could perform his job and be done with it. In the evening it was different. The hurriedness of the city did not feel like part of a sickness, but something for him to sink back in to. He could feel himself relax the more things outside seemed to whir, disseminated by the variety of forces acting upon his senses. The buzz of commerce, pulse of traffic, the homeward trek of all the other nine-to-fivers out there somewhere in the process of “winding down”.
Nora was waiting when he got home. She arrived home from work an hour before he did, though she left an hour earlier in the morning. She was finishing her first glass of wine when he entered.
“What are you smiling about?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said, and continued to grin. He took off his jacket and laid his handbag (which she referred to as his “murse”) on one of the bar chairs. Under a pot of water he could see that the stove was lit, and on the counter a board of chopped parsley rested beside a box of pasta.
“What is it?” she persisted. He could tell by her demeanor that his silence was making her excited. In truth, he had only told the girls at work to get their reaction. He hadn’t actually been decided until just this moment.
“I’m going to cut my hair.”
“Off?”
“Off.”
He watched her eyes lift and scan the terrain above his forehead, along his shoulders. She would not know it, but it was for her that he was doing this. In the months they had been back together he had begun harboring an illicit sense of vanity, fueled, at least in part, by the attentions of the girls at work. They petted him and made comments, seemed only to be encouraged by his modest appeals. The flirtation had culminated at the company Christmas party while Nora was chatting with his manager, Theresa, and Joanne, his office crush, followed him into the bathroom, claiming to have gotten the girls’ and the guys’ mixed up. Nothing happened. At least, nothing substantial. But it was enough to make him reconsider the kind of relationship he wished to cultivate with the women at work—and with women in general, who were not Nora. The haircut was his solution.
“Are you sure?” she said, still scanning his features, and his expression dropped. “Not that I don’t think you’d still be beautiful,” she said, moving closer. She was holding him now. “It’s just, I don’t remember how you looked without it, is all.”
“I was attractive before I had long hair,” he assured her.
“Oh baby, I know. I remember.” She buried her face in his neck.
“And there have been others who can vouch for it.” This statement caused her to stop, and he waited to see what she would do. She pulled back and looked at him, a slight smirk on her face, which faded as she assessed whether or not to believe him. He wondered if she did believe him. She let go.
“Well, it’s your goddamn head,” she said, evidently not in the mood to humor him. “Do whatever you want to with it.” She moved toward the kitchen and he bowed, defeated, before offering to help with dinner.
***
It was important to him that she believe things about his sexual history that, in fact, were not true. She’d been his first, and barring a few adolescent occasions upon which he’d made it to second, and even third base, there really had been no others. He did not believe in the mysticism associated with one’s first, especially since the novelty was on his end alone. Nora had been with other guys, he knew, and that fact created some issues for him.
There was a part of her that always seemed withheld, mysterious; one which, oddly enough, gave her leverage on a range of issues from sexual positions to grocery supplies. Initially he’d responded with fear. He was jealous, needy, and in general, required a great deal more assurance as a lover than she felt able to offer. But that was before their separation, his maturation, and the confidence he’d gained with his new look.
He began to view the girls around him, particularly those who seemed interested, as a kind of dowry forgone. Deep down he believed somehow that Nora owed him a sexual experience with someone other than herself, for edification, for balance, and if nothing else, so that he might know how unique she was. He didn’t expect to find anything better, per se—the difficulties they experienced together sexually, he understood to be givens—but there was something incomplete, he thought, about an experience that could not be judged relatively.
Despite what sense of entitlement he felt though, he knew that it would never happen, and had decided it was for the best. He loved Nora, and was lucky to have her. He had been given a second chance after things appeared to have been over between them, and that kind of luck could not be measured against something as trite and abstract as sexual curiosity.
The following day at work, the processions of mourners continued to pay their respects. At one point, his coworker, Matthew, leaned over the boarded partition which separated their work stations. “I don’t see what the big deal is,” he said. “I always thought it made you look like kind of a pussy.” Matthew had tried growing his hair out the previous summer, but had given up by mid-July. He was easy to forgive.
On her way to lunch Joanne too stopped by to see him, and he felt instantly uneasy. She stood behind his chair rubbing his shoulders and lamenting his decision, insinuating the impact it would have on her daytime fantasies. He did not react, but accepted her behavior for what it was: dated. His mind was made up. What difference did it make now, how close they came to a line that would never be crossed? In 24 hours it wouldn’t matter; would be like a dream one forgets upon waking.
He spent his own lunch at his computer, surfing images of Edward Norton, Collin Ferrell, and Leonardo Dicaprio. Since most employees left the office during break, he did not feel bad using the printer for personal business. He printed five pages, each with three images on it, and stuffed them into a copy of GQ he’d stolen from the lobby. When it was time to leave for the day, he rose holding the mass of inspiration haplessly under his arm, hoping that his coworkers would notice and make one last attempt to dissuade him. But they did not. A rumor had begun circulating that their office was switching campaigns, from cable to office supplies, and the threat of having to learn yet another product line all but trumped his own concerns.
He sighed, and left the building feeling as though a light had gone out. Take a deep breath, he told himself. You’re not a child anymore.
***
When he came into the apartment he could hear Nora in the kitchen around the corner. She heard him too, and began to speak: “Baby, I’m really sorry.” He stepped into the room and saw that she was stooping before the refrigerator, placing something into one of the produce drawers. He wondered if she noticed that he was later than usual, then saw the empty bottle of wine looming on the counter like an hourglass. She was slow standing.
He imagined she wanted to talk about the other night, how she should have been more supportive. He would tell her that it was Ok, that it didn’t matter anymore because he had finally sanctified himself to their relationship. He now wore proudly the skull-cap of male responsibility and was ready to “grow up”, as she’d so often encouraged.
She turned, and her hand moved toward the sink faucet before she lifted her eyes. They were uncomprehending at first. Both of them felt suspended. In that moment everything seemed suddenly new: their apartment, him, her. Objects looked familiar, but absent of association. A near-lifetime of connections unmade in an instant. Anything was possible. They spent some moments in that freshness and he forgot all about what he’d hoped to accomplish. Forgot his intention, and did not know any longer what he expected of her. Finally though, the rapture lifted, his expression dropped, and he watched with horror while, softly, she began to cry.
The girls at work were his favorite. “What? Your hair? No way, you can’t!”
He smiled.
“Guys with long hair,” Marissa, the girl in the station adjoining his said, “They’re just… rare, you know?” She seemed to falter here, and he loved her for that. “It works on you,” she said in summation.
It had been two years since his last haircut. He’d started growing it during a period when he and his girlfriend, Nora, were split up, and when they started seeing each other again eleven months later, the mane he wore seemed to symbolize all the ways he had changed during their time apart. The ways he had matured and the habits he’d grown out of. Nora loved his new look—everyone did—and silly or not, somehow it managed to promise them a new beginning, one absent the flaws that had originally driven them apart. It occurred to him only some time later that during the entire time they’d been apart, he had not been with a single other person.
Three more of his coworkers stopped by after lunch to see if the rumor was true. Two tried to talk him out of it, and one just grasped his locks with a forlorn expression on her face before continuing on her path toward the coffee pot, which he could see had been refilled.
“I’m ready for a change,” he explained to the group gathered at the beverage station.
“You’ll keep the length though, right?” asked Shelly. “I mean, you won’t cut it all off.”
He shook his head. “The way I see it, if I’m going to have long hair, I’ll have long hair. If not—” He made a snipping motion with his fore and index fingers. Theresa, the office coordinator, stared unbelievingly at him for a moment before lifting her hand dismissively and walking away.
At 5:24 pm he drove home with the windows down. Sounds from the street filled his car; the decompression of a bus’s breaks, the static beat of a portable radio on the corner. In the morning time, these were things he struggled to overcome. Every sight and sound somehow seemed to conspire against his one wish, which was to get to work so that he could perform his job and be done with it. In the evening it was different. The hurriedness of the city did not feel like part of a sickness, but something for him to sink back in to. He could feel himself relax the more things outside seemed to whir, disseminated by the variety of forces acting upon his senses. The buzz of commerce, pulse of traffic, the homeward trek of all the other nine-to-fivers out there somewhere in the process of “winding down”.
Nora was waiting when he got home. She arrived home from work an hour before he did, though she left an hour earlier in the morning. She was finishing her first glass of wine when he entered.
“What are you smiling about?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said, and continued to grin. He took off his jacket and laid his handbag (which she referred to as his “murse”) on one of the bar chairs. Under a pot of water he could see that the stove was lit, and on the counter a board of chopped parsley rested beside a box of pasta.
“What is it?” she persisted. He could tell by her demeanor that his silence was making her excited. In truth, he had only told the girls at work to get their reaction. He hadn’t actually been decided until just this moment.
“I’m going to cut my hair.”
“Off?”
“Off.”
He watched her eyes lift and scan the terrain above his forehead, along his shoulders. She would not know it, but it was for her that he was doing this. In the months they had been back together he had begun harboring an illicit sense of vanity, fueled, at least in part, by the attentions of the girls at work. They petted him and made comments, seemed only to be encouraged by his modest appeals. The flirtation had culminated at the company Christmas party while Nora was chatting with his manager, Theresa, and Joanne, his office crush, followed him into the bathroom, claiming to have gotten the girls’ and the guys’ mixed up. Nothing happened. At least, nothing substantial. But it was enough to make him reconsider the kind of relationship he wished to cultivate with the women at work—and with women in general, who were not Nora. The haircut was his solution.
“Are you sure?” she said, still scanning his features, and his expression dropped. “Not that I don’t think you’d still be beautiful,” she said, moving closer. She was holding him now. “It’s just, I don’t remember how you looked without it, is all.”
“I was attractive before I had long hair,” he assured her.
“Oh baby, I know. I remember.” She buried her face in his neck.
“And there have been others who can vouch for it.” This statement caused her to stop, and he waited to see what she would do. She pulled back and looked at him, a slight smirk on her face, which faded as she assessed whether or not to believe him. He wondered if she did believe him. She let go.
“Well, it’s your goddamn head,” she said, evidently not in the mood to humor him. “Do whatever you want to with it.” She moved toward the kitchen and he bowed, defeated, before offering to help with dinner.
***
It was important to him that she believe things about his sexual history that, in fact, were not true. She’d been his first, and barring a few adolescent occasions upon which he’d made it to second, and even third base, there really had been no others. He did not believe in the mysticism associated with one’s first, especially since the novelty was on his end alone. Nora had been with other guys, he knew, and that fact created some issues for him.
There was a part of her that always seemed withheld, mysterious; one which, oddly enough, gave her leverage on a range of issues from sexual positions to grocery supplies. Initially he’d responded with fear. He was jealous, needy, and in general, required a great deal more assurance as a lover than she felt able to offer. But that was before their separation, his maturation, and the confidence he’d gained with his new look.
He began to view the girls around him, particularly those who seemed interested, as a kind of dowry forgone. Deep down he believed somehow that Nora owed him a sexual experience with someone other than herself, for edification, for balance, and if nothing else, so that he might know how unique she was. He didn’t expect to find anything better, per se—the difficulties they experienced together sexually, he understood to be givens—but there was something incomplete, he thought, about an experience that could not be judged relatively.
Despite what sense of entitlement he felt though, he knew that it would never happen, and had decided it was for the best. He loved Nora, and was lucky to have her. He had been given a second chance after things appeared to have been over between them, and that kind of luck could not be measured against something as trite and abstract as sexual curiosity.
The following day at work, the processions of mourners continued to pay their respects. At one point, his coworker, Matthew, leaned over the boarded partition which separated their work stations. “I don’t see what the big deal is,” he said. “I always thought it made you look like kind of a pussy.” Matthew had tried growing his hair out the previous summer, but had given up by mid-July. He was easy to forgive.
On her way to lunch Joanne too stopped by to see him, and he felt instantly uneasy. She stood behind his chair rubbing his shoulders and lamenting his decision, insinuating the impact it would have on her daytime fantasies. He did not react, but accepted her behavior for what it was: dated. His mind was made up. What difference did it make now, how close they came to a line that would never be crossed? In 24 hours it wouldn’t matter; would be like a dream one forgets upon waking.
He spent his own lunch at his computer, surfing images of Edward Norton, Collin Ferrell, and Leonardo Dicaprio. Since most employees left the office during break, he did not feel bad using the printer for personal business. He printed five pages, each with three images on it, and stuffed them into a copy of GQ he’d stolen from the lobby. When it was time to leave for the day, he rose holding the mass of inspiration haplessly under his arm, hoping that his coworkers would notice and make one last attempt to dissuade him. But they did not. A rumor had begun circulating that their office was switching campaigns, from cable to office supplies, and the threat of having to learn yet another product line all but trumped his own concerns.
He sighed, and left the building feeling as though a light had gone out. Take a deep breath, he told himself. You’re not a child anymore.
***
When he came into the apartment he could hear Nora in the kitchen around the corner. She heard him too, and began to speak: “Baby, I’m really sorry.” He stepped into the room and saw that she was stooping before the refrigerator, placing something into one of the produce drawers. He wondered if she noticed that he was later than usual, then saw the empty bottle of wine looming on the counter like an hourglass. She was slow standing.
He imagined she wanted to talk about the other night, how she should have been more supportive. He would tell her that it was Ok, that it didn’t matter anymore because he had finally sanctified himself to their relationship. He now wore proudly the skull-cap of male responsibility and was ready to “grow up”, as she’d so often encouraged.
She turned, and her hand moved toward the sink faucet before she lifted her eyes. They were uncomprehending at first. Both of them felt suspended. In that moment everything seemed suddenly new: their apartment, him, her. Objects looked familiar, but absent of association. A near-lifetime of connections unmade in an instant. Anything was possible. They spent some moments in that freshness and he forgot all about what he’d hoped to accomplish. Forgot his intention, and did not know any longer what he expected of her. Finally though, the rapture lifted, his expression dropped, and he watched with horror while, softly, she began to cry.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
A Writer's Self-Perception
The fluctuations in my attitude towards my work have become something of a cliche to me. Some days I finish writing and am convinced that what I've written is genius (or at least that there is the seed of genius in it), while others, I think it is crap. Much of that occurs relative to other people's work, depending on what I am reading and how I perceive my own work in relation to it. I was just talking with a friend last night though, and mentioned how it's the stuff I haven't read that is most intimidating to me.
Nothing is more discouraging than to come across some friend-of-a-friend's profile on facebook, who's work I've never read, and to see tons of publication credentials right above a list of favorite authors I have never even heard of. It's in those moments that I feel I must lack some crucial element of what it means to be a contemporary writer, emphasis on contemporary. I worry then that my tastes are outdated, my sense of what's important is cliche. There is no greater fear for a writer (and perhaps for artists in general) than to think you are creating something new and significant and finding out that it's not, and it's not. I imagine other artists sneering around me and it makes me so sick and fed up that I put my nose down and decide to write exactly what I want to write just to spite them, which ultimately leads me back to one of those extremely positive/genius moods, and thus the cycle continues.
It is comforting to observe that such feelings of disappointment rarely come upon me when I am reading something that I actually enjoy. The better the work is, the more inspired it makes me, and the more it encourages and contributes to my own process. That's what it's all about, isn't it? Writing the kinds of books you yourself would like to read? Most moods of discouragment occur while I'm scratching my head over something I don't like, trying to figure out why, if I don't like it, it still is popular. All kinds of Unknowns start to press in around me, and I find myself repulsed by my own work without really understanding why. Maybe my not liking certain kinds of work means that I am behind the times, and maybe it means I'm ahead of them. As with all superficial considerations, the only thing to do is put your head down, accept that there's no way of knowing, keep writing, and see.
Nothing is more discouraging than to come across some friend-of-a-friend's profile on facebook, who's work I've never read, and to see tons of publication credentials right above a list of favorite authors I have never even heard of. It's in those moments that I feel I must lack some crucial element of what it means to be a contemporary writer, emphasis on contemporary. I worry then that my tastes are outdated, my sense of what's important is cliche. There is no greater fear for a writer (and perhaps for artists in general) than to think you are creating something new and significant and finding out that it's not, and it's not. I imagine other artists sneering around me and it makes me so sick and fed up that I put my nose down and decide to write exactly what I want to write just to spite them, which ultimately leads me back to one of those extremely positive/genius moods, and thus the cycle continues.
It is comforting to observe that such feelings of disappointment rarely come upon me when I am reading something that I actually enjoy. The better the work is, the more inspired it makes me, and the more it encourages and contributes to my own process. That's what it's all about, isn't it? Writing the kinds of books you yourself would like to read? Most moods of discouragment occur while I'm scratching my head over something I don't like, trying to figure out why, if I don't like it, it still is popular. All kinds of Unknowns start to press in around me, and I find myself repulsed by my own work without really understanding why. Maybe my not liking certain kinds of work means that I am behind the times, and maybe it means I'm ahead of them. As with all superficial considerations, the only thing to do is put your head down, accept that there's no way of knowing, keep writing, and see.
Friday, May 28, 2010
A Hopeful View on E-Publishing?
Here is an excellent article written by Steven Page, cheif executive of Faber and Faber, posted on the Guardian's BookBlog. I think he has a lot of a great ideas about the kinds of attitudes publishers are going to have to have, and what steps they are going to need to take to adapt and profit in the new e-reading environment. Check it.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Rejection Lite
Here's a list of 50 Iconic Writers Who Were Repeatedly Rejected. Some though, had work rejected on the grounds that it was obscene, which doesn't strike me as real rejection. Don't get me started on real rejection...
Some highlights: Robert Pirsig's Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintainance was rejected 121 times before being accepted for publication; much of Jorge Luis Borges's work was initially perceived as "unpublishable"; Gertrude Stein submitted poems for 22 years before having one accepted; William Saroyan received 7,000 rejection slips before publishing his first short story; and of course, J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter was submitted to 12 publishing houses before it was accepted. The urge to rub their faces in it must be so intense!
Some highlights: Robert Pirsig's Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintainance was rejected 121 times before being accepted for publication; much of Jorge Luis Borges's work was initially perceived as "unpublishable"; Gertrude Stein submitted poems for 22 years before having one accepted; William Saroyan received 7,000 rejection slips before publishing his first short story; and of course, J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter was submitted to 12 publishing houses before it was accepted. The urge to rub their faces in it must be so intense!
Monday, May 17, 2010
Towards a New Novel
In this article on the Guardian's BookBlog, Andrew Gallix uses Alain Robbe-Grillet's defense of the 'New Novel' back in the 60s as a way of discussing David Shields's more recent (though nearly identical) criticism of contemporary novels as "antediluvian texts".
I remember reading an interview with David Shields in the February 2010 issue of Bookslut, in which he discussed his latest work, Reality Hunger. Reality Hunger is, by his own description, a work of appropriation art which consists of an ass-load of quotations that have been organized into "thematized rubrics, otherwise known as chapters; [each of which has] a movement, an argument." He explains that, "What drove the thing from the beginning was that I needed to explain to myself why I don’t write fiction per se anymore, and why with various few exceptions I can’t and don’t read it."
Shields goes on to disparage 'conventional novels'--that is, novels which emphasize narrative over his own much-beloved 'idea'--and issues a call for writers to think beyond the novel's traditional forms and to, in essence, "not be boring". For him, I suspect, that indictment boils down to being formally innovative, but depending on who one’s asking, ‘boring’ can mean a whole lot of different things.
Mr. Gallix too lauds the French proponents of the noveau roman for championing a novel which integrates into its form evolving ideas about human consciousness. Alain Robbe-Grillet claimed that a novel expresses nothing but itself, and that there must be no distinction between a text's content (here: its ideas) and the text itself.
So far I am in perfect agreement.
For Robbe-Grillet, his project was expressing the distance between man/author and the world around him. It was an existential problem, one he chose to address by designing a new prose style that placed the narrator, not as a god interacting with and defining his surroundings, but as a set of eyes that took them in and figured his own position in relation to those objects around him. The ‘New Novel’ is descriptive, exhaustingly so, although in that description one begins to get a sense of the narrator's place in his environment, and also of his narrative circumstance therein.
As an idea, I find this approach interesting, invigorating... despite the fact that I have never been able to get through a single one of Robbe-Grillet's 'experiments'. His contemporaries must have had similar issues with the texts’ readability, and thereby prompted Robbe-Grillet to publish a series of essays defending his project, which were later on collected into a single volume, titled Towards a New Novel. Shields too, in his interviews and public statements, seems to be similarly chaffed by audiences' inability to grasp 'what he is doing' (although this strikes me as ironic, considering his own claim that he "didn't think at all about the reader when writing this book". Robbe-Grillet too, though he believed a work and its ideas should be bound up into one thing, evidently had no problem speaking about his work in other contexts).
Reality Hunger, despite its audacious form, Shields describes as his most personal book, having taken him several years to write, and expressing thoughts which he'd been "living with" for thirty years, "and quite passionately for at least the past fifteen." That is fine. It sounds to me like writing the book represents a profound and significant act of honesty on his part, which is what, in the end, art is all about. His existential/ideological assumptions necessitated that book's appearance, as well as its specific form. Though why he should decry contemporary literature's lack of innovation, its idea-lessness, simply because it does not suit his own existential assumptions, remains to me unclear. It is great that past writers like Alain Robbe-Grillet, and present ones like David Shields, are struggling with the novel's form in light of their own unique position in space. Most honest writers, in their own way, do. But to me, when I hear people tell me that "No one should be writing this way," or that realism is an outdated mode, or that some particular style fails to address man's modern condition, my response is: "Who's modern condition are you talking about?"
Really, these kinds of criticisms sound to me like bitter authors trying to justify their own unique vantage, condemning others' shallowness for not being able to see what they alone are in a position to see. Some people’s issues lead them to question textual form, others’ do not. Some little piggies like roast beef, other little piggies have none. I simply cannot take seriously the idea that readers should be faulted for continuing to find significance of 'traditional' narratives. I, for one, have yet to accept that the stories we tell ourselves are without meaning, that the experiences and characters we encounter in 'traditional’ fictions are insignificant, either to ourselves or to society. It seems to me that the novel's great characteristic is that it can be so many different things, and that to any given person it can be (and is) something entirely different. Why hound a person for writing like Chekhov, if writing like Chekhov is what interests him; if Chekhov's is the most appropriate voice for whatever is inside of him, dying find expression? That is what art is about; not 'moving the novel forward', as if it won't move forward on its own, or as if it were bound to move only in one direction. Art is about honesty, whether you're attempting to connect with others, exploring memories, playing with language, or articulating new ideas and forms, it is silly and base for one artist to tell another how she should occupy herself.
I remember reading an interview with David Shields in the February 2010 issue of Bookslut, in which he discussed his latest work, Reality Hunger. Reality Hunger is, by his own description, a work of appropriation art which consists of an ass-load of quotations that have been organized into "thematized rubrics, otherwise known as chapters; [each of which has] a movement, an argument." He explains that, "What drove the thing from the beginning was that I needed to explain to myself why I don’t write fiction per se anymore, and why with various few exceptions I can’t and don’t read it."
Shields goes on to disparage 'conventional novels'--that is, novels which emphasize narrative over his own much-beloved 'idea'--and issues a call for writers to think beyond the novel's traditional forms and to, in essence, "not be boring". For him, I suspect, that indictment boils down to being formally innovative, but depending on who one’s asking, ‘boring’ can mean a whole lot of different things.
Mr. Gallix too lauds the French proponents of the noveau roman for championing a novel which integrates into its form evolving ideas about human consciousness. Alain Robbe-Grillet claimed that a novel expresses nothing but itself, and that there must be no distinction between a text's content (here: its ideas) and the text itself.
So far I am in perfect agreement.
For Robbe-Grillet, his project was expressing the distance between man/author and the world around him. It was an existential problem, one he chose to address by designing a new prose style that placed the narrator, not as a god interacting with and defining his surroundings, but as a set of eyes that took them in and figured his own position in relation to those objects around him. The ‘New Novel’ is descriptive, exhaustingly so, although in that description one begins to get a sense of the narrator's place in his environment, and also of his narrative circumstance therein.
As an idea, I find this approach interesting, invigorating... despite the fact that I have never been able to get through a single one of Robbe-Grillet's 'experiments'. His contemporaries must have had similar issues with the texts’ readability, and thereby prompted Robbe-Grillet to publish a series of essays defending his project, which were later on collected into a single volume, titled Towards a New Novel. Shields too, in his interviews and public statements, seems to be similarly chaffed by audiences' inability to grasp 'what he is doing' (although this strikes me as ironic, considering his own claim that he "didn't think at all about the reader when writing this book". Robbe-Grillet too, though he believed a work and its ideas should be bound up into one thing, evidently had no problem speaking about his work in other contexts).
Reality Hunger, despite its audacious form, Shields describes as his most personal book, having taken him several years to write, and expressing thoughts which he'd been "living with" for thirty years, "and quite passionately for at least the past fifteen." That is fine. It sounds to me like writing the book represents a profound and significant act of honesty on his part, which is what, in the end, art is all about. His existential/ideological assumptions necessitated that book's appearance, as well as its specific form. Though why he should decry contemporary literature's lack of innovation, its idea-lessness, simply because it does not suit his own existential assumptions, remains to me unclear. It is great that past writers like Alain Robbe-Grillet, and present ones like David Shields, are struggling with the novel's form in light of their own unique position in space. Most honest writers, in their own way, do. But to me, when I hear people tell me that "No one should be writing this way," or that realism is an outdated mode, or that some particular style fails to address man's modern condition, my response is: "Who's modern condition are you talking about?"
Really, these kinds of criticisms sound to me like bitter authors trying to justify their own unique vantage, condemning others' shallowness for not being able to see what they alone are in a position to see. Some people’s issues lead them to question textual form, others’ do not. Some little piggies like roast beef, other little piggies have none. I simply cannot take seriously the idea that readers should be faulted for continuing to find significance of 'traditional' narratives. I, for one, have yet to accept that the stories we tell ourselves are without meaning, that the experiences and characters we encounter in 'traditional’ fictions are insignificant, either to ourselves or to society. It seems to me that the novel's great characteristic is that it can be so many different things, and that to any given person it can be (and is) something entirely different. Why hound a person for writing like Chekhov, if writing like Chekhov is what interests him; if Chekhov's is the most appropriate voice for whatever is inside of him, dying find expression? That is what art is about; not 'moving the novel forward', as if it won't move forward on its own, or as if it were bound to move only in one direction. Art is about honesty, whether you're attempting to connect with others, exploring memories, playing with language, or articulating new ideas and forms, it is silly and base for one artist to tell another how she should occupy herself.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Story: Role Play
It started off as a sexual thing. She played nurse and he played patient, she played teacher, he played pupil. She played guy, he played girl... But it became more than that. They had an idea to meet in a bar and pretend that they didn’t know one another; would spend hours, several nights a week, working their way around neon-lit rooms until they found one another, for the first time, again.
At first they made it easy for one another: they joked using inside jokes, allowed themselves to be parodies of what they assumed singles were like (just one word about space pants was enough to woo her in those early days). But they got harder on one another, until there were some nights when they didn’t go home together at all. If one of them was off his/her game, they did the only thing a pair of self-respecting players could do: they went home separately. At the end of the night they climbed into bed together without ceremony, and slept facing opposite walls, though those were just the bad nights. For the most part it was like they were kids again. All they needed was a starting point, a scenario, one far-fetched premise and they were off on an adventure that sometimes lasted entire days.
They would spend the weekdays brainstorming fantasies, writing them down in a journal kept specially for that purpose. Then on the weekends she would hide and he would scour the city for her, following the trail of clues she left and looking in the places he knew to look.
He played hero and she played damsel.
He played chef, she food critic.
She played priest, and he church boy. They confessed to one another, honestly, so that afterwards they could not speak for several days. When they did finally, it was not as themselves, but as Mr. and Mrs. Claus, Wild Bill and Calamity, Odysseus and Calypso.
She played a politician one time, and he wrote to her long naive letters about how they could make the world a better place, which she read and—straddling his lap—dropped quietly into the bin.
He played Adam and she played Eve, though he changed his mind halfway through and decided to be the serpent, then the apple...
Sometimes they had disagreements. For instance, he was fond of moss—entire forests of it; the kind that was thick and dry and reminded one of great terrestrial clouds—and he fantasized about playing the moss on the ground while she, a nymph, walked barefoot across it. She didn’t like that idea. Said she couldn’t “see it”.
Likewise, she was interested in the sub-particle lives of cells. Especially the way chloroplasts transformed light into energy. She dreamed of a scenario in which she would play the light, and he would convert her to sustenance. Although this, he assured her, was not at all practicable.
They spent the entire afternoon one Saturday with him lying very still on the living room carpet, while she stood in the window and allowed the sun’s warmth to seep into her sweater and her skin. After a while she grew tired, and melted into the floor with him, and they reasoned then that even moss required sunlight, though their differences continued.
One time he went around town all weekend, alone, in search of a fire so that he could play the smoke-charred survivor stumbling into the street, and there taste that first clean breath of air. Meanwhile, she deposited herself into one of the drainage ducts at the local dam, to satisfy a strange and inexpressible urge she felt to know what a Champaign cork felt like, just once.
Scene by scene, their various acts began to pull them apart. They would go on benders sometimes, and not see each other for days. They played the people on the street, and trailed after them like wraiths, or like those airy facsimiles you see behind objects in pictures when the shudder speed is turned way down. Sometimes they included strangers in their acts—as lovers occasionally, though not always—and after a while they hardly saw each other at all. When they did, it was by accident, and they would try to ignore one another like you ignore the guy creeping around a party with his camera, who tries to catch everyone in their element but whose stealth always fails him a moment too soon, and all he captures are these vague purgatorial gestures, halfway between natural and pretend. Not quite real, yet not quite imagined.
At first they made it easy for one another: they joked using inside jokes, allowed themselves to be parodies of what they assumed singles were like (just one word about space pants was enough to woo her in those early days). But they got harder on one another, until there were some nights when they didn’t go home together at all. If one of them was off his/her game, they did the only thing a pair of self-respecting players could do: they went home separately. At the end of the night they climbed into bed together without ceremony, and slept facing opposite walls, though those were just the bad nights. For the most part it was like they were kids again. All they needed was a starting point, a scenario, one far-fetched premise and they were off on an adventure that sometimes lasted entire days.
They would spend the weekdays brainstorming fantasies, writing them down in a journal kept specially for that purpose. Then on the weekends she would hide and he would scour the city for her, following the trail of clues she left and looking in the places he knew to look.
He played hero and she played damsel.
He played chef, she food critic.
She played priest, and he church boy. They confessed to one another, honestly, so that afterwards they could not speak for several days. When they did finally, it was not as themselves, but as Mr. and Mrs. Claus, Wild Bill and Calamity, Odysseus and Calypso.
She played a politician one time, and he wrote to her long naive letters about how they could make the world a better place, which she read and—straddling his lap—dropped quietly into the bin.
He played Adam and she played Eve, though he changed his mind halfway through and decided to be the serpent, then the apple...
Sometimes they had disagreements. For instance, he was fond of moss—entire forests of it; the kind that was thick and dry and reminded one of great terrestrial clouds—and he fantasized about playing the moss on the ground while she, a nymph, walked barefoot across it. She didn’t like that idea. Said she couldn’t “see it”.
Likewise, she was interested in the sub-particle lives of cells. Especially the way chloroplasts transformed light into energy. She dreamed of a scenario in which she would play the light, and he would convert her to sustenance. Although this, he assured her, was not at all practicable.
They spent the entire afternoon one Saturday with him lying very still on the living room carpet, while she stood in the window and allowed the sun’s warmth to seep into her sweater and her skin. After a while she grew tired, and melted into the floor with him, and they reasoned then that even moss required sunlight, though their differences continued.
One time he went around town all weekend, alone, in search of a fire so that he could play the smoke-charred survivor stumbling into the street, and there taste that first clean breath of air. Meanwhile, she deposited herself into one of the drainage ducts at the local dam, to satisfy a strange and inexpressible urge she felt to know what a Champaign cork felt like, just once.
Scene by scene, their various acts began to pull them apart. They would go on benders sometimes, and not see each other for days. They played the people on the street, and trailed after them like wraiths, or like those airy facsimiles you see behind objects in pictures when the shudder speed is turned way down. Sometimes they included strangers in their acts—as lovers occasionally, though not always—and after a while they hardly saw each other at all. When they did, it was by accident, and they would try to ignore one another like you ignore the guy creeping around a party with his camera, who tries to catch everyone in their element but whose stealth always fails him a moment too soon, and all he captures are these vague purgatorial gestures, halfway between natural and pretend. Not quite real, yet not quite imagined.
Monday, March 22, 2010
SXSW wrap-up, plus a 'critique' of 'rock' music
The remnants of this year's SXSW festival still linger here in Austin. The chain-linked enclosures to various outdoor venues appear battered and, in many places, defeated, as if in a final gesture of obnoxious enthusiasm, fans had stormed the shows either en masse, or in Land Rovers. The skeletal remains of stages await transport, standing half-collapsed and bare, and the trash that homeless people were originally paid to pick up, has once again descended in the form of broken beer bottles, abandoned T-shirts, and plentious flyers advertising shows, just in case atendees didn't have every moment of every day planned out already.
Personally, I am relieved. For one thing, I can step out of doors at any given moment without witnessing 6-10 traffic violations. I can drive home from work without having to flip anybody off, and I can sleep at night without the steady pulse of bass drums taking over my dreams, or having to worry about vomit appearing mysteriously on my door step in the morning. Needless to say, the, uh, enthusiasm of this year's event has given me ample cause and opportunity to consider my own lack thereof.
When people asked me this past week whether or not I had any "crazy plans for south-by", I generally would respond that I'm not all that in to music festivals. This statement was as much a surprise to me as to those I was speaking to, because after all, I really do enjoy music. For whatever reason, the fact of its being "live" doesn't really add much to what I already appreciate about the music. The allure of live music, as I see it, is not the music itself, but the excuse it gives us to party. The emphasis is not on the "art", but on our collective, communal appreciation of it. And I think that is a distinguishing characteristic of rock music from other art forms; the fact that it often develops as live performance, or anticipation of it. A rock song is a cultural object throughout nearly every stage of its development, and to me, that fact compromises its status as Art, in the upper-cased sense of the word.
My own understanding of what Art is, is constantly developing and redefining itself, although I would say that one critical aspect of artistic experience is recognition. That is, rather than engaging an audience directly, as in rock performances, the artist first delves into his/her Self, past easy emotions and modes of analysis, and attempts to represent what is there by way of visual, textual, and/or musical media. See the difference? The one involves a multi-step process in the way Artist approaches Public:
Step 1: Artist participates in Introspection
Step 2: Artist engages in Creation
Step 3: Artist makes work accessible to Public
Step 4: Public/Viewer-Listener-Reader either does or does not experience Recognition
The process in rock music, I believe, is much more slurred and, as a result, reaches people on a more topical, general level. Thus, we arrive at the distinction between pop art and what I would term, "serious" Art: The one touches many, lightly, while the other touches few, deeply.
I'm aware of how seriously lame I must sound right now. Just to clarify, I enjoy lots of rock music, and live music also. Art doesn't always have to be "serious" in order to be enjoyable, and even then, there are plenty of kinds of music and musical performances that, even by my standards, qualify as "serious" Art. As an example, I'll describe the one show I went to this past week: It was a "secret show" put on by the folks at the Annie Street Arts Collective (the members of which comprise a number of local bands I enjoy seeing here in Austin), and was held in an abandoned building that used to be the Austin State School. There was no electricity, so the room we were in was lit mostly by candles, and the performance had to take place with little amplification. It took about ten minutes hiking across a wet field to get there, and the bands that played were Sunday Parish, Some Say Leland, and this girl from SC named Alexa Woodward (who, by the way, was awesome). As I said, there was little amplification, so the mood was fairly quiet, with everyone's attention directed solely on the music. Yes, there was beer, which we brought ourselves, and plenty of other substances drifting around, but the experience still seemed fundamentally different than that which I described earlier. The principal adjective I would use to describe it is not "fun", or "awesome", but "inspiring". And that is not even to mention the music itself, which was soulful and poetic and in many cases, did seem to spark in me instances of recognition such as I mentioned before.
So, to sum it all up: See? I'm not that lame...
Personally, I am relieved. For one thing, I can step out of doors at any given moment without witnessing 6-10 traffic violations. I can drive home from work without having to flip anybody off, and I can sleep at night without the steady pulse of bass drums taking over my dreams, or having to worry about vomit appearing mysteriously on my door step in the morning. Needless to say, the, uh, enthusiasm of this year's event has given me ample cause and opportunity to consider my own lack thereof.
When people asked me this past week whether or not I had any "crazy plans for south-by", I generally would respond that I'm not all that in to music festivals. This statement was as much a surprise to me as to those I was speaking to, because after all, I really do enjoy music. For whatever reason, the fact of its being "live" doesn't really add much to what I already appreciate about the music. The allure of live music, as I see it, is not the music itself, but the excuse it gives us to party. The emphasis is not on the "art", but on our collective, communal appreciation of it. And I think that is a distinguishing characteristic of rock music from other art forms; the fact that it often develops as live performance, or anticipation of it. A rock song is a cultural object throughout nearly every stage of its development, and to me, that fact compromises its status as Art, in the upper-cased sense of the word.
My own understanding of what Art is, is constantly developing and redefining itself, although I would say that one critical aspect of artistic experience is recognition. That is, rather than engaging an audience directly, as in rock performances, the artist first delves into his/her Self, past easy emotions and modes of analysis, and attempts to represent what is there by way of visual, textual, and/or musical media. See the difference? The one involves a multi-step process in the way Artist approaches Public:
Step 1: Artist participates in Introspection
Step 2: Artist engages in Creation
Step 3: Artist makes work accessible to Public
Step 4: Public/Viewer-Listener-Reader either does or does not experience Recognition
The process in rock music, I believe, is much more slurred and, as a result, reaches people on a more topical, general level. Thus, we arrive at the distinction between pop art and what I would term, "serious" Art: The one touches many, lightly, while the other touches few, deeply.
I'm aware of how seriously lame I must sound right now. Just to clarify, I enjoy lots of rock music, and live music also. Art doesn't always have to be "serious" in order to be enjoyable, and even then, there are plenty of kinds of music and musical performances that, even by my standards, qualify as "serious" Art. As an example, I'll describe the one show I went to this past week: It was a "secret show" put on by the folks at the Annie Street Arts Collective (the members of which comprise a number of local bands I enjoy seeing here in Austin), and was held in an abandoned building that used to be the Austin State School. There was no electricity, so the room we were in was lit mostly by candles, and the performance had to take place with little amplification. It took about ten minutes hiking across a wet field to get there, and the bands that played were Sunday Parish, Some Say Leland, and this girl from SC named Alexa Woodward (who, by the way, was awesome). As I said, there was little amplification, so the mood was fairly quiet, with everyone's attention directed solely on the music. Yes, there was beer, which we brought ourselves, and plenty of other substances drifting around, but the experience still seemed fundamentally different than that which I described earlier. The principal adjective I would use to describe it is not "fun", or "awesome", but "inspiring". And that is not even to mention the music itself, which was soulful and poetic and in many cases, did seem to spark in me instances of recognition such as I mentioned before.
So, to sum it all up: See? I'm not that lame...
Saturday, March 13, 2010
I've got a fever...
and the prescription is... more writing?
It may not be obvious, but what I am trying to introduce with that oblique SNL reference is the sensation of writing. Many writers, as you may or may not know, describe the state they are in when they write as a sort of fever; inspiration as this delerium that sweeps over them, obscuring circumstances, surroundings, and pretty much everything but the work itself. My professor in college said that you know you're writing well when you are afraid of what's coming out. Another friend of mine says that he drools. And all of this sounds really good and inspiring and all, though as for myself, I just don't feel it.
I want to. It sounds perfectly ecstatic, what they describe. For as long as I can remember, writing for me has been a mode of understanding. In high school teachers could ask me questions about literature or philosophy until they were blue in the face, and illicit only a dumb stare until I craftily managed to work my way out of the spotlight. But when they assigned 'reader response' activites I could write for hours, lost in my own musings, fascinated by how much deeper my thoughts ran when filtered through a pen. It makes sense that if you turn that process inward, cease with reader response and begin to examine your own self, that the uncertainty you feel may well seem like fear. Picasso argued that it is not the artist's task to find an answer to life's difficulties, but to articulate its problems correctly (at least I think it was Picasso who said that), and problems are scary. The trance state people refer to, I imagine, is the state one encounters when s/he turns off the logic function in the brain, the part that is always trying to put things together, reconcile opposites, and allows life's contradictions simply to be, in all their incongruity. It is not logic or sense (strictly speaking) which imbues a work of art with harmony, but the yearning that exists beneath its contradictions, and which shines through them.
So where am I going wrong? I have tried to write my way into a fever before. I've done a lot of free association journaling in the hope that if I just keep my hand moving, and try not to think about it, something magical and real will eventually come out. What ends up happening though, is that I immediately, and intentionally, go to the darkest part of myself that I know of, and write from my obsessions. It's really not difficult for me to pen my own darkness, in private at least. Rather than a fever though, the sensation feels more like wallowing; the artistic equivalent of building a house with a wrecking ball.
I often find that, looking back, my richest writing occurs when I am most annoyed with a project. When I am agonizing my way through passages and writing about one sentence every five minutes. When I feel uninspired and pretty sure that what I'm writing is complete dreck, that's when the little moments of magic actually happen. There is plenty of magic to be had in both states, I imagine, although I truly would prefer a trance!
What I would like to do--and I've been saying this for a while--is to put off creative projects altogether, and for a few months just emphasize journaling. The journaling can be anything it wants--reflections, stories, descriptions, dreams, etc--but none of it can be planed. I would like to take a good while and focus on narrowing the gap between my hand and my brain, so that maybe, eventually, I'll know what that whole fever thing is about. Right now though, I simply haven't the time.
It may not be obvious, but what I am trying to introduce with that oblique SNL reference is the sensation of writing. Many writers, as you may or may not know, describe the state they are in when they write as a sort of fever; inspiration as this delerium that sweeps over them, obscuring circumstances, surroundings, and pretty much everything but the work itself. My professor in college said that you know you're writing well when you are afraid of what's coming out. Another friend of mine says that he drools. And all of this sounds really good and inspiring and all, though as for myself, I just don't feel it.
I want to. It sounds perfectly ecstatic, what they describe. For as long as I can remember, writing for me has been a mode of understanding. In high school teachers could ask me questions about literature or philosophy until they were blue in the face, and illicit only a dumb stare until I craftily managed to work my way out of the spotlight. But when they assigned 'reader response' activites I could write for hours, lost in my own musings, fascinated by how much deeper my thoughts ran when filtered through a pen. It makes sense that if you turn that process inward, cease with reader response and begin to examine your own self, that the uncertainty you feel may well seem like fear. Picasso argued that it is not the artist's task to find an answer to life's difficulties, but to articulate its problems correctly (at least I think it was Picasso who said that), and problems are scary. The trance state people refer to, I imagine, is the state one encounters when s/he turns off the logic function in the brain, the part that is always trying to put things together, reconcile opposites, and allows life's contradictions simply to be, in all their incongruity. It is not logic or sense (strictly speaking) which imbues a work of art with harmony, but the yearning that exists beneath its contradictions, and which shines through them.
So where am I going wrong? I have tried to write my way into a fever before. I've done a lot of free association journaling in the hope that if I just keep my hand moving, and try not to think about it, something magical and real will eventually come out. What ends up happening though, is that I immediately, and intentionally, go to the darkest part of myself that I know of, and write from my obsessions. It's really not difficult for me to pen my own darkness, in private at least. Rather than a fever though, the sensation feels more like wallowing; the artistic equivalent of building a house with a wrecking ball.
I often find that, looking back, my richest writing occurs when I am most annoyed with a project. When I am agonizing my way through passages and writing about one sentence every five minutes. When I feel uninspired and pretty sure that what I'm writing is complete dreck, that's when the little moments of magic actually happen. There is plenty of magic to be had in both states, I imagine, although I truly would prefer a trance!
What I would like to do--and I've been saying this for a while--is to put off creative projects altogether, and for a few months just emphasize journaling. The journaling can be anything it wants--reflections, stories, descriptions, dreams, etc--but none of it can be planed. I would like to take a good while and focus on narrowing the gap between my hand and my brain, so that maybe, eventually, I'll know what that whole fever thing is about. Right now though, I simply haven't the time.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
10 Rules for Writing
The Guardian BookBlog recently had a number of authors submit their top ten rules for writing and posted them all online. The results range from the practical to the profound, and though I do recommend reading them all, here is a "super-list" that I have compiled showcasing my ten favorites. (Narrowing them down was no easy task, considering the ones I culled for my own files added up to a document three pages long! Many though were re-phrasings of similar rules, so the ones here I think represent the best cross-section.) Enjoy:
The "Super-List"
10. Do not place a photograph of your favourite author on your desk, especially if the author is one of the famous ones who committed suicide
-Roddy Doyle
9. Read. As much as you can. As deeply and widely and nourishingly and irritatingly as you can. And the good things will make you remember them, so you won't need to take notes.
-Al Kennedy
8. Don't try to anticipate an "ideal reader" – there may be one, but he/she is reading someone else.
-Joyce Carol Oates
7. It's doubtful that anyone with an internet connection at his workplace is writing good fiction.
-Jonathan Franzen
6. Remember: when people tell you something's wrong or doesn't work for them, they are almost always right. When they tell you exactly what they think is wrong and how to fix it, they are almost always wrong.
-Neil Gaimen
5. Jokes are like hands and feet for a painter. They may not be what you want to end up doing but you have to master them in the meanwhile.
-David Hare
4. Interesting verbs are seldom very interesting.
-Jonathan Franzen
3. In the planning stage of a book, don't plan the ending. It has to be earned by all that will go before it.
-Rose Tremain
2. Treat writing as a job. Be disciplined. Lots of writers get a bit OCD-ish about this. Graham Greene famously wrote 500 words a day. Jean Plaidy managed 5,000 before lunch, then spent the afternoon answering fan mail. My minimum is 1,000 words a day – which is sometimes easy to achieve, and is sometimes, frankly, like shitting a brick, but I will make myself stay at my desk until I've got there, because I know that by doing that I am inching the book forward. Those 1,000 words might well be rubbish – they often are. But then, it is always easier to return to rubbish words at a later date and make them better.
-Sarah Waters
1. If it sounds like writing, I rewrite it.
-Elmore Leonard
The "Super-List"
10. Do not place a photograph of your favourite author on your desk, especially if the author is one of the famous ones who committed suicide
-Roddy Doyle
9. Read. As much as you can. As deeply and widely and nourishingly and irritatingly as you can. And the good things will make you remember them, so you won't need to take notes.
-Al Kennedy
8. Don't try to anticipate an "ideal reader" – there may be one, but he/she is reading someone else.
-Joyce Carol Oates
7. It's doubtful that anyone with an internet connection at his workplace is writing good fiction.
-Jonathan Franzen
6. Remember: when people tell you something's wrong or doesn't work for them, they are almost always right. When they tell you exactly what they think is wrong and how to fix it, they are almost always wrong.
-Neil Gaimen
5. Jokes are like hands and feet for a painter. They may not be what you want to end up doing but you have to master them in the meanwhile.
-David Hare
4. Interesting verbs are seldom very interesting.
-Jonathan Franzen
3. In the planning stage of a book, don't plan the ending. It has to be earned by all that will go before it.
-Rose Tremain
2. Treat writing as a job. Be disciplined. Lots of writers get a bit OCD-ish about this. Graham Greene famously wrote 500 words a day. Jean Plaidy managed 5,000 before lunch, then spent the afternoon answering fan mail. My minimum is 1,000 words a day – which is sometimes easy to achieve, and is sometimes, frankly, like shitting a brick, but I will make myself stay at my desk until I've got there, because I know that by doing that I am inching the book forward. Those 1,000 words might well be rubbish – they often are. But then, it is always easier to return to rubbish words at a later date and make them better.
-Sarah Waters
1. If it sounds like writing, I rewrite it.
-Elmore Leonard
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
(Gay) Theater?
A recent article in the New York Times describes what, to my mind, is a long overdue shift in gay theater away from storylines which address only the political concerns of a particular group, toward more universal themes of love, family, and general tragedy—only gay.
Tony Kushner, author of the very politicized “Angels in America”, which dealt largely with the AIDS epidemic, describes the trend thus:
“The gay community today is definitely in a post-Act Up period, and the theater has begun to reflect some of that.”
This shift is part of an ongoing discussion in gay political circles on whether to “continue fighting at the ballot box and in the courts for gay rights immediately or instead to take a longer view that involves building alliances and giving time for more Americans to come around on issues like gay marriage.” In order to achieve true equality and social acceptance, I think it will probably require both approaches. But speaking on behalf of the Arts, I must say I am pleased with this new direction.
I think the struggle that (for lack of a better word) minority art typically faces is its tendency to utilize artistic mediums solely as soapboxes for social change. Whether or not that is a valid approach to artistic engagement is another argument altogether, but personally—and this is me speaking as a white, straight, gentile male—I find that I often feel excluded from such works. I think that’s because more often than not they are preoccupied with representing gay, black, Jewish, etc., experience, and less so with representing the human experience. Obviously there is no single unified human experience, and all of our experiences are colored by our particular vantages on society and the world at large, but to me a great work of art is capable of acknowledging those ‘peculiarities’ while at the same time digging deeper, and tapping into the collective experience that resonates with gays and straights, blacks and whites (and all the other colors out there!), Jews and gentiles, men and women, and so on and so forth.
I think this is a project the new wave of gay theater is trying to address. Oppression and AIDS and prejudice and discrimination are all still very much present, but as sort of a backdrop to the human drama taking place between characters. To me, political preoccupation in art is a trick. And I am glad to see the theatrical community moving past it.
Check out the article in full here. It is very interesting.
Tony Kushner, author of the very politicized “Angels in America”, which dealt largely with the AIDS epidemic, describes the trend thus:
“The gay community today is definitely in a post-Act Up period, and the theater has begun to reflect some of that.”
This shift is part of an ongoing discussion in gay political circles on whether to “continue fighting at the ballot box and in the courts for gay rights immediately or instead to take a longer view that involves building alliances and giving time for more Americans to come around on issues like gay marriage.” In order to achieve true equality and social acceptance, I think it will probably require both approaches. But speaking on behalf of the Arts, I must say I am pleased with this new direction.
I think the struggle that (for lack of a better word) minority art typically faces is its tendency to utilize artistic mediums solely as soapboxes for social change. Whether or not that is a valid approach to artistic engagement is another argument altogether, but personally—and this is me speaking as a white, straight, gentile male—I find that I often feel excluded from such works. I think that’s because more often than not they are preoccupied with representing gay, black, Jewish, etc., experience, and less so with representing the human experience. Obviously there is no single unified human experience, and all of our experiences are colored by our particular vantages on society and the world at large, but to me a great work of art is capable of acknowledging those ‘peculiarities’ while at the same time digging deeper, and tapping into the collective experience that resonates with gays and straights, blacks and whites (and all the other colors out there!), Jews and gentiles, men and women, and so on and so forth.
I think this is a project the new wave of gay theater is trying to address. Oppression and AIDS and prejudice and discrimination are all still very much present, but as sort of a backdrop to the human drama taking place between characters. To me, political preoccupation in art is a trick. And I am glad to see the theatrical community moving past it.
Check out the article in full here. It is very interesting.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Some Notes on Hemingway's Toughness
Nearly every reference I've heard to Ernest Hemingway in modern literature smacks of parody. Somehow he has become this paradigm for a failed masculinity we just love to hate. When I was in high school, or maybe it was in college, my teachers would talk about his prose style as being like an iceberg: only a very little bit shows on the surface, but beneath the surface, it is vast. And despite what you may think of the metaphor, it is undoubtedly true. The problem is that, today, we have little respect for that kind of posturing. If Hemingway's prose is an iceberg, so too are his characters. The arch of their development is almost entirely sub-textual, and much of their internal dialogue consists of talking themselves out of one feeling or another. "Don't feel this way," they say. "Concentrate on this." "It is your own fault, really." Excuses are the scourge of each and every one of Hemingway's heroes; a mind set not very compatible with our modern one, which wants to blame all our problems on media and advertising.
I wonder what David Foster Wallace and Ernest Hemingway would think of one another?
RIP, RIP
Personally I enjoy the voice much of Hemingway's fiction is told in. There is something dignified about it. Feircely honest. Like he's just daring others to judge him. Though the fiercness of it I think masks another aspect of the human experience. In truth, I identify more with the neurotic/existential paranoia of DFW. There is dignity in both.
One thing though that I am really enjoying about Hemingway right now is how much craft figures in to his writing. Reading a novel by Ernest Hemingway can often feel like a master class, particularly Garden of Eden, and obviously, A Moveable Feast. An idea of his that I am trying to emphasize in my own process is the clear break one makes with a work-in-progress when one is finished writing for the day.
"It was in that room that I learned not to think about anything that I was writing from the time I stopped writing until I started again the next day. That way my subconscious would be working on it and at the same time I would be listening to other people and noticing everything, I hoped; learning, I hoped; and I would read so that I would not think about my work and make myself impotent to do it.... It was necessary to get exercise, to be tired in the body, and it was very good to make love with whom you loved. That was better than anything. But afterwards, when you were empty, it was necessary to read..."
-A Moveable Feast, Ernest Hemingway
Muy bien.
I wonder what David Foster Wallace and Ernest Hemingway would think of one another?
RIP, RIP
Personally I enjoy the voice much of Hemingway's fiction is told in. There is something dignified about it. Feircely honest. Like he's just daring others to judge him. Though the fiercness of it I think masks another aspect of the human experience. In truth, I identify more with the neurotic/existential paranoia of DFW. There is dignity in both.
One thing though that I am really enjoying about Hemingway right now is how much craft figures in to his writing. Reading a novel by Ernest Hemingway can often feel like a master class, particularly Garden of Eden, and obviously, A Moveable Feast. An idea of his that I am trying to emphasize in my own process is the clear break one makes with a work-in-progress when one is finished writing for the day.
"It was in that room that I learned not to think about anything that I was writing from the time I stopped writing until I started again the next day. That way my subconscious would be working on it and at the same time I would be listening to other people and noticing everything, I hoped; learning, I hoped; and I would read so that I would not think about my work and make myself impotent to do it.... It was necessary to get exercise, to be tired in the body, and it was very good to make love with whom you loved. That was better than anything. But afterwards, when you were empty, it was necessary to read..."
-A Moveable Feast, Ernest Hemingway
Muy bien.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Reorientation
Recent News:
1)Yesterday I received my first rejection notice from the University of Texas at Austin.
2) Today I began work on the new novel I have been planning.
As far as I'm concerned, that is the best way to meet the closing of one door: use its momentum to send you full tilt off in another direction. Not that the relationship between these two events is quite so well-defined. I've been planning this new work for some time--doing my research, naming characters, organizing and reorganizing notecards on the giant tables an my girlfriend's shop. I'm excited. I remember in high school, when I was training to be a wrestling champion, how I would sit in class and in my notebook I would create training regiments, even in the off-season, balancing diet, exercise, and sport specific training. I've begun doing that again, only now its more like:
8:00 am - 8:30 Meditation
8:30 am - 12 New Scenes
12 Lunch
12:30 - 2 pm Exercise (exercise is still a vital part of even my creative process)
2 pm Get ready for work
7 pm "Lunch" Break - Revise Old Scenes
To make a long story short, I am feeling organized, inspired, and ready to get in the zone. One thing that I have found over the past week, as I've been corresponding with an old--shall I say collegue?--from college, is that it really helps my focus to have a forum in which to talk about writing. About new work, about process, about publishing. It helps both to keep me focused and to lift my confidence level. I begin to realize, "Hey, I've been at this a while. I actually sort of know what I'm talking about." And for young writers, just having cause to feel as though you are legitimate can be a huge help and inspiration. So I would also like to step up my posting here, as a way of keeping that momentum going.
One of the best ways, I am learning, to move past rejection is to just keep writing. "It's alright," you can then tell yourself. "It's just 'cause they haven't seen what I'm working on now."
1)Yesterday I received my first rejection notice from the University of Texas at Austin.
2) Today I began work on the new novel I have been planning.
As far as I'm concerned, that is the best way to meet the closing of one door: use its momentum to send you full tilt off in another direction. Not that the relationship between these two events is quite so well-defined. I've been planning this new work for some time--doing my research, naming characters, organizing and reorganizing notecards on the giant tables an my girlfriend's shop. I'm excited. I remember in high school, when I was training to be a wrestling champion, how I would sit in class and in my notebook I would create training regiments, even in the off-season, balancing diet, exercise, and sport specific training. I've begun doing that again, only now its more like:
8:00 am - 8:30 Meditation
8:30 am - 12 New Scenes
12 Lunch
12:30 - 2 pm Exercise (exercise is still a vital part of even my creative process)
2 pm Get ready for work
7 pm "Lunch" Break - Revise Old Scenes
To make a long story short, I am feeling organized, inspired, and ready to get in the zone. One thing that I have found over the past week, as I've been corresponding with an old--shall I say collegue?--from college, is that it really helps my focus to have a forum in which to talk about writing. About new work, about process, about publishing. It helps both to keep me focused and to lift my confidence level. I begin to realize, "Hey, I've been at this a while. I actually sort of know what I'm talking about." And for young writers, just having cause to feel as though you are legitimate can be a huge help and inspiration. So I would also like to step up my posting here, as a way of keeping that momentum going.
One of the best ways, I am learning, to move past rejection is to just keep writing. "It's alright," you can then tell yourself. "It's just 'cause they haven't seen what I'm working on now."
Friday, January 15, 2010
Poem: Muse
The posture is flattering
reclined there against the cushions; hips
dipped below the level of her torso
ribs thrust slightly forward.
Thinning.
Light glows on her eyelids, is felt
in every contour of her body,
erases its boundaries
while around her
thirty pencils attempt to re-chart them.
Their scratching fills the air.
She is a fossil being unearthed.
A monk in meditation.
At first all she can feel is
the excruciating pain of stillness, numb
except for her toes
which alone are in range of the space heater.
But then—Release.
She is a patron saint of some kind,
doesn’t even care by now
what their renditions of her look like.
There is only consent; an offering
both of her beauty and her imperfection
to that grayness between sight and page.
She smiles, breathes deep, and a moment later
at least three pencils drop with a frustrated clack.
“You moved,” they inform her, and she tries in vain
to find her way back again.
reclined there against the cushions; hips
dipped below the level of her torso
ribs thrust slightly forward.
Thinning.
Light glows on her eyelids, is felt
in every contour of her body,
erases its boundaries
while around her
thirty pencils attempt to re-chart them.
Their scratching fills the air.
She is a fossil being unearthed.
A monk in meditation.
At first all she can feel is
the excruciating pain of stillness, numb
except for her toes
which alone are in range of the space heater.
But then—Release.
She is a patron saint of some kind,
doesn’t even care by now
what their renditions of her look like.
There is only consent; an offering
both of her beauty and her imperfection
to that grayness between sight and page.
She smiles, breathes deep, and a moment later
at least three pencils drop with a frustrated clack.
“You moved,” they inform her, and she tries in vain
to find her way back again.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
The 'Author Narrative'
In this post on the Guardian's BookBlog, Jean Edelstein examines Costa's recent trumpeting of its award winner, Raphael Selbourne's history as a scooter salesman. Publishers do seem to love those kinds of details when they're writing copy. They impose a sort of romance-novelish arch on the life behind the work, and thus help make the author more marketable. From humble beginnings to literary super-stardom, as it were (although 'beginnings' here is a bit misleading because publication, validating though it is, rarely exempts writers from the ignoble task of bread-winning).
In her article, Edelstein bemoans (rightly, I think) the marketing of a writer's narrative over the narrative s/he has created; the commercialization of the figure as well as the work. What do you think? Will the two months I spent selling cable ever help me make millions?
In her article, Edelstein bemoans (rightly, I think) the marketing of a writer's narrative over the narrative s/he has created; the commercialization of the figure as well as the work. What do you think? Will the two months I spent selling cable ever help me make millions?
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