Display by Label: Writing

There are a million and one reasons not to do something. But they all usually amount to one thing: fear. And let me just say that I've got some of the fear and some of the dread when it comes to this thing I've started, Fiction Fridays. I've gotten used to writing certain types of posts in a certain voice. It's gotten comfortable. I write about particular topics. I poke fun at myself. I try to be humorous, when I can. I've begun to whittle down the focus of things here. And so it's become somewhat safe and easy for me. Which isn't necessarily a bad thing. But I'm never one to ride the wave of "safe and easy" for very long. Safe and easy waves are usually short-lived ones, low and close to the shore. And so last week I decided to throw this Fiction Friday thing in the mix to stir things up and generate some big surf. And, you know, I think I've succeeded because, I have to admit, what I'm looking at here—these waves—they're awfully big, and I'm apt to fall off of these crunchers—and often. It was, in fact, a real challenge to stick to Fiction Friday this week, but not for the reasons I expected. I'll explain ...

I just got through reading Bret Easton Ellis's Lunar Park. There's some interesting stuff in that book that I want to flesh out in another post, but for now, I just want to cite this one quotation that touches on the heart of what I'm struggling with here. The main character of the book is "Bret Easton Ellis," and this "character self" says early on in the book: "I could never be as honest about myself in a piece of non-fiction as I could in any of my novels."(25)

In the book, there are many levels of irony with that statement, which I love. But what struck me most about the comment is how strangely accurate it is with my writing on this blog. I feel much more vulnerable posting fiction than I do the non-fiction riffs I usually write, even though, as I've written about before, there are definitely elements of fiction in most of my posts, which I call the "exaggeration license." And maybe it's that ability to fictionalize the non-fiction that makes it "safe." Along with the ability to pick and choose what I write about. The stuff that's true, that I don't mind sharing, is just what it claims to be: fact. (At least as much as anything filtered through the psyche—the id, the ego, the super-ego—and written down is "factual.") And the stuff I don't want to share is conveniently left out, glossed over, or otherwise hidden.

But with fiction, the entire thing is open to interpretation. It's not "truth," per se, because none of it actually ever happened, at least not exactly the way it's described. But there is truth in it. And sometimes that truth is more true than anything else I write. Sometimes that truth is the scariest thing to put on paper (or screen) and show to people.

Which brings us back to "the fear." We live in a world of fear. And, I'll tell you, I'm scared. A lot. I'm scared of dying. I'm scared of things like cancer. Of bacteria. Of the crap in our oceans poisoning our bodies. But I'm also scared of living, brother, and I'm sometimes scared of myself. Because with all the standard set of fears that got instilled in me as kid, it really is true that "my mother never warned me about my own destructive appetite" (thanks Jenny).

When it comes to my writing, I'm scared like hell of using cliché, of being trite or boring. But I'm also scared that if I don't indulge in cliché at least a little bit, I won't be understood. And more than anything else, I'm scared that the stuff I'm putting down is just plain bad. That's a big one. I had a short story from college I was going to post this week, but yesterday I got cold feet. Because it's really weird looking back at things you wrote almost 15 years ago, even for me, let alone you guys. It needed a heavy edit.

So, for now, I think what I'm going to do is use Fiction Fridays as a way to post short "writing exercises" that I get from this book called The 3 am Epiphany, which I bought about a year ago, but haven't done much with until now. In my college creative writing classes, my professors always kind of frowned upon writing exercises. Their feeling was just that we should write what we wanted and bring it to class for a very public lashing and embarrassment in front of our peers. Good times. But that approach really leaves things wide open, and tends to fuel a bit of the "writer's block." Because when everything is possible, it's difficult to focus on just one thing. Sometimes the restrictions put on you by an exercise can be oddly "freeing."

For the purposes of my posts, using the exercises will, I think, take some of the pressure off and makes the posts more "casual." I won't have to feel the pressure of "finishing" a story and biting my nails wondering how it's going to be interpreted. Okay maybe, I'll still have some of that, but having the rules of the exercise there (along with a self-imposed length restriction) will put a little more separation between me and it. I also think it'll make for more bite-sized (read: "blog-able") stuff, frankly.

I started this as an "intro" to this week's Fiction Friday post, but quickly realized it was going to have to be it's own post because, like most of my posts, it would be too damn long. So there it is. I've got another post ready, but I really don't like to post twice in one day. Other than the weekends, Friday is always the slowest traffic day. It's pretty much universally that way on every Web site I've ever managed. I can't figure it out, because you would think Friday would be a big Web-surfing day. But I suppose it's also a day for "long lunches" and "leaving early" or catching up on the shit that you put off all week. So chances are most people who stop by my blog won't even read any of this until next week, if at all. So that means I sort of copped out of Fiction Friday this week. But not really. Because I had something ready. (Really, I swear!) I just had to say this other thing first. Anyway, if you have any thoughts, speak up. Leave a comment or send me an email. I'd love to hear them.

Now take an early lunch, already! And have a good weekend.

link to this | comments (6) | File:  Writing  Fiction  Chewing  Blog 

I didn't participate in NaNoWriMo this year, nor have I for any of the years since it began. I'm not sure if I ever will, actually. It just seems like I might wind up horribly maimed in some way or, worst case scenario, dead. I think the underlying idea is a good one though: work like hell on your novel. This is Xtreme Novel Writing, man. It's rad and kewl and stuff. But is novel writing really supposed to be any of those things? I kind of think not. Then again maybe it should be, dammit.

For those of you who don't know, the gist of NaNoWriMo is to write a 50,000-page novel in the 30-day window also known as "November." And for this marathon of writing it's all about how much you produce, and not how well you produce it. From their Web site: "Because of the limited writing window, the ONLY thing that matters in NaNoWriMo is output. It's all about quantity, not quality. The kamikaze approach forces you to lower your expectations, take risks, and write on the fly."

I have mixed feelings about the approach. There's definitely something to be said for automatic writing. It helps free up the mind and can take you in some interesting directions. But I'm not sure doing it every day for thirty days is a valuable exercise, particularly when it comes to writing a novel. Any long-form writing needs some kind of cohesion and requires a bit of analytical, left-brained thought mixed in with the intuitive, right-brained free-for-all. So if you go into NaNoWriMo with the idea that you'll have "a novel" at the end of it, I think it can only lead to disappointment. But if you approach it with the idea that at the end of it you'll have a huge pile of raw text — some of it good, most of it crap, but all of it a "launching pad" — then I can see how this could be a really great thing, particularly if you're just starting a new project. And I definitely respect those people who put their fears and reservations aside and committed themselves to this grand display of self-torture, like Lara.

My own writing project, which saw some pretty good progress in 2006 and early 2007 has since stalled. There's smoke coming from under the hood. It's making a hissing sound. And now it also has a flat tire. Damn. There are many reasons I could cite as to why. One is that I got completely side-tracked on a really big Web project this summer and that pretty much consumed all of my creative brain cycles. Then there has been the small matter of selling our newly-purchased home and looking for a new place to live — the second time in six months. But these are just excuses. I have to say that, despite my reservations and multiple reasons why I couldn't do it this year, I'm realizing now that NaNoWriMo probably would have been a pretty good exercise for me at this point in my project and might have helped me out of my dry spell, assuming of course that I managed to stay alive during it. Maybe I can begin my own personal writing month after we move, because after reading these two "Pep Talks," one from Neil Gaiman and the other from one of my all-time favorites, Tom Robbins, I'm feeling kind of, well . . . pepped.

link to this | comments (5) | File:  Writing  NaNoWriMo 

Garrison Keillor came to Baltimore recently to do a live episode of Prairie Home Companion at the Hippodrome. I missed it, which I regret tremendously. If you were to plot my age and my interest in Prairie Home Companion on a grid, the two lines would maintain a steep climb, running parallel to one another. Funny, that. I only hope there's something on-par with PHC that I can indulge in when I'm 82, shoveling spoonfuls of Metamucil into my Guinness each morning, and lining up my heart medications and Viagra on my elbow before drop-catching them in my hand and tossing them back. Something's got to keep old age exciting. And nothing says exciting like regular bowel movements on the pockmarked road to imminent heart attack.

Anyway, while Keillor was in town, he did an interview with Mark Steiner and I did happen to catch that. Keillor's words on life and writing were really inspirational. The guy is pretty amazing and I think I want him to be my best friend. The word 'man-crush' comes to mind. It would be great. We would sit in coffee shops and be witty and sardonic and use lots of plays on words.

Anyway, I wish there was a direct link to the interview, but I can't find one. But if you're interested you can listen by downloading the Mark Steiner show podcast. Also, Keillor wrote a touching piece about his visit on Salon.

link to this | comments (5) | File:  Writing  Ho_Hum 

I've been reading and re-reading Hemingway lately, partly because I'm just enjoying his style, but partly because I'm hoping to learn, through osmosis, the art of writing while pleasantly pissed. Unfortunately, I haven't had much luck in this pursuit. I've tried varying the type of alcohol, speeding up or slowing down the pace of consumption . . . but the result is usually the same: crap. So I guess I'm doomed to be a sober writer. And while I suppose that's a noble thing to be, it's definitely not as fun, and makes it all the more necessary to be profoundly intoxicated while not writing.

Anyway, I'm currently involved in A Moveable Feast, Hemingway's personal account of his early years in Paris, struggling to make it as a writer. There are a number of passages where he discusses the craft of writing. This one, I think is particularly good:


I think what Hemingway is mainly referring to here is getting past that point where style begins to stand in the way of content. But I also think he's speaking to how discovering the true content can actually give way to style. Good writing—hell, good anything—involves starting with that one true thing. That spark. A feeling, an emotion: bare-skinned and honest. And when you've found that, the rest falls into place. The style, to a certain degree, is secondary. It will unfold around that initial thrust. People are good at recognizing the non-true. People are good at recognizing bullshit. It'll show.

But writing something true—something that rings true—does not necessarily mean writing the truth. One of Hemingway's biographers (and friends) A.E. Hotchner writes in the 1999 preface to Papa Hemingway, "Part of the mystique about Ernest stems from the manner in which he blurred the demarcation between fiction and fact." He adds that Hemingway once remarked that "Fiction is a magnification of reality." And this is particularly interesting in the context of A Moveable Feast since it is something of a memoir.

So I've been thinking lately about these ideas of truth and fiction and how they relate to blogs. To my blog, in particular of course (because it is, after all, all about me, isn't it?) But also to all "personal blogs." Because people kind of have a different standard for these, don't they? They expect them to be . . . the truth. And people tend to get very upset when this does not turn out to be the case. I sat in on a panel at SXSW last March about fictional blogs. The subject was interesting, though the panel itself was way too short. There was one panelist who had maintained a fictional blog for several years and there was a good discussion revolving around how readers of that blog had felt "duped" when they found out the blog was "not real." Because these readers had related to the narrator and had come to see her as a real person. But my take is this: these people were "duped" because they allowed themselves to be duped. It doesn't change the fact that when these people read the blog it spoke to them on some level. And I think it was that "speaking-to," that conversation, that is what was true. Without it, the blog wouldn't have held their attention. And if they had known that the blog was fiction to begin with, would it have struck them in the same way?

Despite the fact that this blog—my blog—is named after a fictional character, I am not a "fictional blogger." That said, I'll be the first to admit that there are elements of fiction in almost everything I write here. I don't see any other way of doing it really. What I'm always trying to arrive at, though, is something honest and unaffected, and hopefully those are things that come across independent of "fact" or "fiction." Either way, you must get to the one true sentence. And that usually involves baring yourself in ways you don't always feel comfortable doing (regardless of the fact that you might be an exhibitionist at heart.) Because sometimes the fear sets in. A fear of offending, maybe. Or a fear of people not understanding or misinterpreting. And the fear tends to be stifling when you allow it free reign. Of course, this isn't necessarily a problem unique to somebody who blogs. It's a problem with any form of public self-expression or art. And, holy crap, I worry constantly that I don't have the courage necessary to be a writer.

I have toyed with the idea of writing out-right fiction on this blog. Because in some ways, fiction would open up some new possibilities. But it has just always seemed out of place here. And so I've been tossing around some ideas for a different blog, something more fictional that I can do alongside this one, and hopefully one of these days it will become a reality. (Oops. No pun intended.) But if it does come about one of these days, I don't want it to necessarily be defined by the fact that it's fiction. Because even if it is fiction, it's going to be based in some sort of truth. Because, to be honest, I'm just not that imaginative . . .

I read a lot of personal blogs. Some of them are written by people who give their "real" faces and names to the Internets. Some are people who prefer to remain anonymous. Some of them are people I know "in real life" others are people I've never met. Some of them are probably entirely "factual" accounts of "real" life. Others probably contain a good deal of fiction. Either way, it doesn't really matter to me. The way I see it, every "true story" has elements of fiction. And any good fiction is filled with elements of truth. The "true thing" —the one true sentence—is what speaks to people. That's what matters. Without it, there's nothing.

link to this | comments (9) | File:  Writing  Chewing  Blog 

In hotels, you find yourself reading USA Today. Because it's there. Anyway, from this article: "The sad thing is, it's easier to get behind the wheel of a taxi than it is to write something other people want to read." You can substitute "get behind the wheel of a taxi" with just about anything.

link to this | comments (1) | File:  Writing 

Articles like this depress me. If you listen to the cynicism, it's pretty hard to plod on. But if you don't read stuff like this, if you aren't at least a little bit cynical yourself, then it makes you out of touch with reality, overly idealistic. Either way, writing about writing is usually pretty useless stuff.

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I thought it would be interesting to jot this down from underneath the fog of a massive headache. It's crazy heavy in here. Like God playing chess with Nietzsche. Because that would be one serious chess match, wouldn't it? And ironically, this heaviness, it makes my thoughts kind of light. Like this one: a pecan half looks kind of like a squished brain. And while I'm on the subject of pecans: p'con, pee-con, or p'can? My childhood in the south leads me to pee-con more often than not. But I've been known to utter all three variations, and maybe a few others, depending on my mood. Language should be flexible, shouldn't it ya'll? Sorry . . . hon?

And . . . oh, look here, I just went to answer the phone and, well, I ripped a hole in my shorts. Not in the ass, though. But down near the end of the left leg. Down where the cuff is. Is that a cuff, that thing? I mean, a cuff - that's usually something you'd envision on a pair of pants, isn't it? Not shorts. But I guess just because it's on a pair of shorts and not on a pair of pants doesn't make it any less of a cuff, does it? Or maybe it does.

Oh, shit. This is why people ridicule blogs, people. Look carefully. IT'S ALL RIGHT HERE.

What's really troubling me isn't the correct pronunciation of pecan. Or the use of the word cuff. What's got me is the lists. And I know I wrote about this last time, but what can I say, these are some massive lists, brother. You don't make laundry with these here lists. These here are dry cleaning lists. Because lists are supposed to consist of tasks. And sure, mine's got a few of those things on it. But mostly it consists of projects. And the projects are sort of undefined, which makes breaking it up into tasks it's own task. So I try writing that one down: break project up into tasks. But making a task like that is kind of silly. I mean, where does it end? You never reach a step that you can execute without actually executing the step. Here's another one that's hard to act on: Determine timeline. When the project is undefined, and the tasks are non-existent, how does one come up with a timeline? Still, it needs to be done. So I put it down. Then there are the tasks that you hope to complete, and they just remain partially checked off. A good example here would be paint bedroom. I got this one mostly done yesterday. But not quite. So there it remains. And the others pile up on top. Making them all heavy. Like God. And Nietzsche.

Sometimes the obstacle to a really good list is that you have to make decisions before you can jot down the task. And I can be really lousy at those things sometimes. Freakin' decisions. For instance, there's the whole issue of a second vehicle. I could easily put on my list, Get truck. Because, good god, I'd love a six or seven year-old Toyota Tacoma 4x4. So I could put it down, and I could work towards that thing and eventually cross it out. But it's not on the list right now. And the reason it's not on the list right now is that in order to put it there, I would have to add a few words in front of the primary action. So it would come out reading something like this: Decide whether or not to . . . get truck. And you can't put a decision on a list. Sure people do it, but they really shouldn't. Because you're just asking for trouble. In my case, I start considering cost and affordability and weighing those things against the benefits and drawbacks, and pretty soon I've reached an impasse with myself and I'm dead center on a rickety old bridge above a huge chasm and walking to either side or staying where I am, none of it seems to matter much. They all seem like bad ideas. And so, when that happens, you have to take it off the list, and hope the answer will come to you in your sleep. Which is unlikely given the amount of that stuff you're getting these days.

But there is this to feel good about: I started this with a headache. A big one. And now it's gone. Sometimes all it takes is sitting down and jotting down some words. Even from underneath it all, writing has always helped me focus. I suppose I should learn from that. Huh. I'll add it to the list.

link to this | comments (4) | File:  Writing  Ho_Hum 

Bloggers tend to blog about this subject ad nauseam, particularly people who have just started blogging. So it pains me a bit to go down this road. But what the hell. At the risk of making people sick, I have to now jot down a few words on this here blog about - here it goes - the act of jotting down a few words on this here blog. Don't you love it? Blogging is so self-referential. It's the perfect medium for a postmodernist-leaning, Gen-Xer such as myself.

I've felt a bit muzzled lately. Muzzled, as in restrained, like the the thing that goes over the snout of a dog. Not muzzle as in a Muzzle of Bees, which is a Wilco song. Or just plain old Muzzle, which is a Smashing Pumpkins song. Sorry, but the Mellon Collie recently found its way onto my iPod for some reason, which might explain some of the Infinite Sadness, of late. And, holy moly, have I mentioned that the new Wilco CD, Sky Blue Sky is really, really good? Really.

Crap. You see? This muzzling - it's got me all crazy-like. Makes me all scattered in the brain. And a bit skittish. I mean, even more than usual.

But let me get back to the issue at hand: the fact that these words I'm writing are up here and out there and every other term you can think of for 'publicly available,' and indexed, and devastatingly searchable, archived - potentially - for years and years. Sometimes that reality is just a little bit overwhelming, especially when you see it backfire on some people in not-so-positive ways. There's so much talk about how the things you write online might turn off an employer or client or, in the case of singles, a potential date. Luckily, I'm not worried about the latter, but the former does cross my mind from time to time - the fact that there may be potential clients out there who have Googled me, found this blog, and written me off because, you know, who wants to work with a guy who writes about having an ultrasound done on his right testicle?

Of course the flip side of this, is that putting yourself out there in words and pictures (no, there are no ultrasound pics, sorry) may help you find people who actually get your personality and sense of humor, and this could lead to some much better working relationships. However, if I were to find a date based on the aforementioned post, I might be a little - what's the word - terrified. The bottom line is you can't think about it. Otherwise, it's hard to write anything at all without editing it to death, which goes for just about any writing, really. But with blogs it's kind of part and parcel of the whole medium, because there tends to be a kind of 'urgency' ingrained in the very style of the thing. It's a get-this-out-there-now, editing-is-for-wimps kind of mentality. But here's a little confession: I edit all of my posts. Here's another: there are many, many things I've written for this blog which I've never posted. And finally: It's not uncommon for me to spend a couple of days writing something to put here.

This all might make me a little uncool in blogging circles (as if the testicle/ultrasound thing hadn't done that already). And it's part of the reason I'll never be an 'A-List' blogger. There are actually several other reasons: I post too infrequently, my posts are way too long, and I'm a male 'personal blogger,' quite possibly the lowest life-form in the Blogosphere. And right now, I'm muzzled. Which makes everything worse.

It's times like these that call for photos instead of words. So here are three new galleries I've been meaning to post for a while now, two final ones from our trip to Japan this spring, and one final 'Before and After' gallery for our bathroom. I will now go back to being muzzled.

Japan Trip - Osaka
Our trip to Osaka, where we come across painted manholes, Panchinko and accidentally venture into the red light district.

Japan Trip - Nagoya
We spend a couple of days with Mitch and Naoko in Nagoya. We catch a baseball game, go to Starbucks, shop at the local Mac store, and eat burgers. Such a strange and different world from being in the States.

Bathroom Remodel - Start to Finish
One final gallery for the bathroom. A lot of people have seen some of these pics already, but I figured I'd put them all in one place, the before, during, and after.

link to this | comments (3) | File:  Blog  Writing 

Brisk fall evening. Sun has set, but there's some lingering light. Night is pressing down hard on the deep blue sky. I'm wearing my corduroy jacket. Fashionable, fall-colored scarf. Hat. It is good to be walking in cold weather, wearing cold-weather clothes, thinking cold-weather thoughts. The wind against my face. Days like this make me feel free. Strong. Like anything is possible.

The small park above Clarenden metro is mostly empty, which seems strange for 6:30 on a weekday evening. I've just written a good couple of pages at Murky and I feel clean. Void of foul spirits. Writing can be like an exorcism, or at least a very effective spring cleaning.

I pass a guy in a wheelchair waiting for the light to change. He nods at me. I smile back. It's clear that others feel the energy - the strange power of this day.

Now down the escalator, into the underground, and the warm gusts below make me loosen my scarf. The metro should not be heated, I decide. Not to this extent, anyway. But it's okay. I'm good with it.

I've got my earbuds in. Winter hat hiding my gray hair. Only the longer brown ends peek out from underneath. Certainly, I appear as the poster-boy for the young urban hipster, which is a nice illusion for a thirty-something dude with a bad back to maintain. Yes. I have command of my surroundings. I know where I am going and I will take the most direct route to get there.

Oscar on the headphones. His fingers touching those ivories like God's does. Painting bold colors in my mind. Propelling me. Gladdening me.

I wave my plastic pass, flick of the wrist, the gates open. As if to say, Enter and go where you must, young urban denizen! This station is now yours!

Over Oscar's playing, I hear the rush of an approaching train. Then another. Two trains entering the station at the same time. Metro has sent them both to me for my choosing. The city is working with me today. I pick up my pace. I shall follow my nose to the right train. No need to read signs. Because this is my turf and I am certain of my direction. It is instinctual.

The doors, waiting for me to board, close gently behind me. They welcome me to this crowded car. A little too crowded, I think. Especially for an evening city-bound train. But I quickly dismiss the thought. Grab the rail above me. A little winded, but still good.

Be careful of moments like these.

I remove my earbuds. Take out a book from my pack. The next station is called: Virginia Square. And what follows is the faint sound of my ego popping. Leave it to a city that gives you everything to just as quickly taketh away and put you back in your place.

Here's the good thing about boarding the wrong metro train: nobody needs to know. Just roll with it. Get off at the next stop. Assertively - like nothing's wrong. You fully intended to get off here: Ah, yes! Virginia Square/GMU. Here's my stop everybody. Excuse me! Now walk with the flow of traffic. Casually, nonchalantly. Make your way over to the other platform. Easy.

The stations may vary, but the technique is essentially the same. Trust me, I've done this more times then I'd like to admit. It's one of the downsides of being a daydreamer.


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Not a huge Stephen King fan, but I used to be when I was younger. This piece on writing is funny, and right on: There is indeed a half-wild beast that lives in the thickets of each writer's imagination. It gorges on a half-cooked stew of suppositions, superstitions and half-finished stories.

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