Moleskine #004 -- Fighting Insecurity and Plot Crafting for Fun

 But nothing is really moving in any direction, and the extreme possibility of recognizing that ultimate emotion that was to bring it all very much together became some sort of ridiculous pursuit.  But no, you hold on, you continue to hunt because to you it all makes sense.  You will find the strength to pull yourself together, and know for the first time that things were never all of that flowery stuff you highly spoke about so many times.  Hood is asking you to push the limits of what you know as emotions, but you know deep inside that it is only desperation that you know best.  Your emotions all stem from that—from a severe case of knowing or rather not knowing what exactly is hitting you until it is right in front of your face.  Too many things happen in an inordinate amount of time and there’s little or no way for you to access where everything is coming from.  And this is precisely what you should transfer into J.’s character.  All that confusion that leads to the irrational action—that is what you should convey to J. and, in the process, make him as real as any other character ever conceived.  He is real and with your desperation in trying to make sense of your emotions he will become real to the reader.  The trick that you must learn is to not make things autobiographical.  Hood explains this well and you should pay careful attention to all of this.  ×

            You must keep trying to remind yourself to stay low and not stick out.  This is the best way to see yourself from a perspective that will no doubt help your writing.  Surrender yourself once more to the blessing; this time, however, become even more deep into what you are trying to achieve with J.  He is, after all, betrayed by others, taken advantage of, and used as a scapegoat to carry the blame for everything.  So, give him all of those same attributes that coincide with all the things you have gone through.  Think about how D. wants to make J. believe it is all his fault and that regardless of whether or not he was making a move on his woman, he should have never broken that line.  What line precisely J. didn’t know, but the entire thing began to stink to high heaven and J. knew that when the casualty list began to elongate, his name would find a way to the stacked bodies.  He was sure of this as he was sure of S.’s infidelity before she’d come out clean and told him.  Truly a shame, he thought, and went to his office to see if he could concentrate on some work.  Fifteen minutes later, he realized he couldn’t do any work.

Moleskine #003 -- Writing Exercises and Developing Discipline

 These are the type of experiences that tell you you could do this professionally.  All that material stored in your mind can indeed come in handy at times like these.  This is one exercise you should really concentrate on for J.—show the emotion through events rather than simply make him say explicitly what his emotion is.  Arch those emotions.  For example, that sense of him resigning to his lover’s decision creates later a gamut of emotions with both sadness and desperation at the center of it, but never really anger.  He is sad and by thinking too much about it, it progresses into desperation; that inherent inability to control himself or his thoughts that ultimately culminates with him turning into a stalker of sorts.  Then, of course, is humiliation, complete, collective, irrevocable.  Now all of the emotions continue to boil.  He’s caught in the threshold of insanity and all that is required now is for one more single push that will “nail the coffin” for him.  That nail comes next day when, in the morning, during what he considered a valiant effort to regain normalcy, he shows up at work to find D. waiting for him in the lobby.  They go to the boardroom where the other partners are gathered.

You may or may not have the time to go into detail now about how the meeting develops.  That’s not the point right now.  At the end of the meeting, J. is completely out of control.  He leaves the building in a daze of confusion.  The only difference is that the proverbial tunnel, slow-motion that populates the senses similar to this one do not appear in front of J.  Of course he knows this is not a movie, but he felt disappointment nevertheless.  In a sudden burst of sacrilege and existential angst, he wonders whether God is, to use his words, “fucking with him.”  J. was sure this was not the case, but wondered nevertheless what sort of explanation he could put together right now. 

This of course was not for S.’s benefit but rather for himself.  How could a chain of events sparked by something so simple as an affair lead to such an apocalyptic result.  Is this what happens to all people who have affairs?  Is this what eventually will happen to S. and I.?  No, he seriously doubted that.  There seems to be two outcomes for cases of infidelity.  In his case, lack of careful management of the affair (that is to say, his own inability to keep his emotions in check) had brought all of this about.  No, of course it could not be.  People have affairs all of the time and not all of them came to the catastrophic conclusions his did.  Imagine, with so many affairs taking place in the confines of the business world, if even 50% of affairs ended the way this one did, we would be living in an economic collapse of Biblical proportions.  Lives ruined by illicit love affairs would eventually impact American business leadership to such a degree that the trickle-down effect would leave millions unemployed, houses will foreclose, banks would be forced to close down for lack of liquidity, the streets would be filled with the discontented, riots and civil war will envelop the country, the government will be overthrown and anarchy will be the way of the world.  J. knows that all of this is a terrible slippery slope, and that it will never happen; or rather, he knew that the source of all the things leading to that will not be marital infidelity.  And now he hated the fact that the entire idea of the affair wasn’t entirely his own.  Didn’t S. advocate this?  (This is the scene where everything is passing by him in NYC).  He walks half of the edge of Central Park, but doesn’t know where to go from here… the pause makes him think of something and he goes into a long memory scene that takes him back to (       ).

Moleskine #002 -- The Return and the Gift of Creative Writing

 So, now you’ve picked up precisely where you left off about a week ago.  The trip went its own way, the plane didn’t crash, and you are home again.  You begin again where the path is clear and full of possibilities.  You don’t feel pressure, but you know that you have less than one week to finish this notebook.  You’ve discovered it really isn’t that bad a timeline because you can always whip out an exercise out of one of the books and write the quota out of that.  The problem, of course, is that you haven’t even begun reading the book and even if you did now it would take longer than a week.  But it’s fine, it really is.  Last week was something else.  Some nostalgias came to the forefront, and you weren’t sure or even ready to have them so present.  On the other hand, there were other memories that simply appeared as part of a past so long ago, even the places seemed like old stage sets, as if you were an actor returning to play a part on some abandoned theatre.  Sure, it all sounds over-dramatic, but these are the things you can conjure up when one of your characters is under similar circumstances and subject to the same emotion.  

Now on to better things: write about Sandee more.  Figure out what to do with Daniel and the other plot.  Look into the violinist’s plot and outline it all.  All of that must be sort out clearly.  So then, you can see all that this notebook is time; time devoted to it will be well spent and very profitable.  Like you’ve said, all of this stuff will be used some day.  Nothing here is lost or wasted.  Again, you also think of the blessing, of all those things that have come to you.  This past week you were too busy, but your reading was very good.  And now, you must make time for work and for writing.  You must do honor to the blessing and stop wasting all of that time like you did Saturday and Sunday.  Not that it wasn’t all wasted and it helped you relax and all that, but it was way too long a time and it could have been half that time and you could’ve used the other half to write or read.  So, now you must work on discipline which is not as bad a thing because it is ever a lasting struggle to overcome, not just with writing but with any other thing you wish to correct.  Work with this by looking at the clock more often and divide your time wisely.  You will know when it is time.  You will feel the moment to write is the most important time you could ever employ outside of prayer and communion with God.

On Not Taking One's Self Too Seriously: Perhaps a Writer's Best Tool

Books on how to write fiction abound.  One advice that is constant in a great majority of them is not taking one's self too seriously--especially upon finishing the first draft.  I not only find this advice wise, but also see it as a deterrent to writers' block.

This is a pile of draft (some fiction, some academic research) next to my desk.  I printed the "Parish Newsletter" from "The School of Life" from the wonderful online lecture by Alain de Botton "On Pessimism".  The goofy Marx brothers glasses are rather necessary in not taking one's self too seriously.  The idea is certainly not a new one--expect the worst, and you shall be pleasantly surprised.  The trick is to not be disappointed when the rejection notifications begin to pile up.  That, I believe in my non-professional opinion, is more an issue of behavioral/psychological individuality.  How we take on rejection is in essence a matter of managing our tolerance for the same.  We work incessantly and we are not rewarded for our efforts.  It is a matter of perspective, of course, but in America (especially newer generations) perseverance is often spoken about but little applied.  Immediate gratification is the term on the streets.  de Botton explains that we mustn't take anything against us personally, and that not knowing failure signifies for him a half-empty life.  Writing is such a thing.  People who write are often called eccentric, rare birds, among many other names.  Bitterness accumulates and whatever eccentricities emerge from it have little to do with being a writer, or, more precisely, trying to write.  Rejections are not to be taken personal.  Most of the time, we don't even know the person sending the rejection notification.  Frankly, I am more afraid of a jury summons order or my American Express bill in the mail than I am of rejection notes.  It's a matter of opinion, and, as de Botton explains, it is a matter of perspective.

John Steinbeck's "Journal of a Novel" Brilliant Bantering

There are reasons why some of the "not for publication" things authors leave behind are better left, well, unpublished.  The publication of "True at First Light" by Ernest Hemingway in 1999 is such an example of what I mean.  I believe it is the only book of Hemingway's I had to put down and not ever pick up again.  I submit as another example of this phenomenon "Journal of a Novel: The East of Eden Letters," by John Steinbeck.  The volume contains letters the author wrote to his editor and friend Pascal Covici.  The idea came to Steinbeck as he began on January 29, 1951 to sketch his next novel, "East of Eden."  He had a notebook and while using one side of the notebook for sketches of plots for the novel, in the opposite page he would pen a letter to his friend about the novel and about just every topic under the sky.  Steinbeck refers to the letters as if he were "getting [his] mental arm in shape to pitch a good game."  


I had great difficulty getting into the letters/journal style of this book.  The task of writing these letters seemed (at the risk of being sacrilegious) tedious to me.  Of course I understand the premise, but the content of these letters deal very little with the novel and the process of sketching the plots and characters.  On the contrary, they are filled with ramblings dealing with everything about worries over his oldest son, Tom, to venomous criticism of General Douglas McArthur.  There's also quite a bit about Steinbeck's fondness for wood works and inventions.  The rest seemed to be hard to relate to and lacking the engaging power of good journal narratives.

There were, however, a couple of spots I had to laugh at because the amount of detail that goes into making a writer (the little things) were present in this book to the extent that the reader might be tempted to think, "well, at least I am not the only one who is this crazy."  Here's a couple of passages where Steinbeck writes about his preference for specific pencils.

"You know I am really stupid.  For years I have looked for the perfect pencil.  I have found very good ones but never the perfect one.  And all the time it was not the pencils but me.  A pencil that is all right some days is no good another day.  For example, yesterday, I used a special pencil soft and fine and it floated over the paper just wonderfully.  So this morning I try the same kind.  And they crack on me.  Points break and all hell is let loose.  This is the day when I am stabbing the paper.  So today I need a harder pencil at least for a while.  I am using some that are numbered 2 3/8.  I have my plastic tray you know and in it three kinds of pencils for hard writing days and soft writing days.  Only sometimes it changes in the middle of the day, but at least I am equipped for it.  I have also some super soft pencils which I do not use very often because I must feel as delicate as a rose petal to use them.  And I am not often that way.  But when I do have such moments I am prepared.... Pencils are a great expense to me and I hope you know it.  I buy them four dozen at a time.... My pencils are very short now and I think I will celebrate by getting out twelve new pencils.  Sometimes the just pure luxury of long beautiful pencils charges me with energy and invention.  We shall see.  It means I will have to have more pencils before long though.  Would you send me another box?  They are Mongol 480 #2 3/8 F round."


This long passage helps me remember something I read in a Natalie Goldberg book ("Writing Down the Bones") about buying expensive notebooks or pens, etc.  If that's what's going to get you to actually write, then do it.  If one develops some sort of attachment to a specific pen and/or notebook, so much the better.  I know I am guilty (excessively so) of such pleasures.  People don't understand why I do it... but at least I have Steinbeck in my corner of "eccentric" traits.  We all have our private peccadilloes--embrace them before it is too late.

The research work I am doing is going well.  I have little time to work at home and much less at the office.  Nevertheless, the amount of information and things I've learned for the first time is truly wonderful.  I am enjoying it very much.

Faithful "Whity Family" Coffee Mug and Spoon

It was August 1994, the hottest summer in the recorded history of Japan. I was sweating bullets in Hikone, Shiga-ken, studying the fine art of ancient warriors ways, language and culture. This was probably one of the best summers of my entire life. I found a coffee mug with a little spoon resting on a table marked as "FREE." These were the things that people couldn't take with them from the dorm when they concluded their studies. I liberated the coffee mug and the little spoon in the name of the Republic and since never used a different coffee mug.... until January 31, 2010 when I finally decided to retired this faithful friend and confidant of so many secrets.

We traveled a trajectory so rich on history and detail that a complete memoir could be written about the year after year journey. Now, the Faithful "Whity Family" mug and the little spoon rest on my desk as a pencil/pen holder. Of course, many people will think this is an undignified way to go, but I beg to differ. You see, the mug was always at risk of being dropped, or kidnapped by people who came in and out of my life. Once, a person dear and near to me decided that the mug was "offensive" and "politically incorrect." No such thing could ever be true. The illustration on the mug is that of a family of bears preparing breakfast. The father is shown carrying a frying pan, tripping on something and the fried egg flying through the air as "Junior Bear" tries to catch it with his plate. "Mama Bear" and "Sister Bear" are also there. The Japanese inscription reads: (in Roman-ji, meaning Romanized pronunciation of the Japanese) "Oniichan abunai. Otosan gambette. zyunbionotokikara tanosii wagaya no yugohan." In the Queen's English it means: Be careful brother. Good luck father. It is fun from the time we begin preparing our dinner." Now, you probably have not heard of a website called www.engrish.com so there's the link. The Japanese have tendencies of translating and using very weird Roman-ji print copies. Some of the signs and announcements are simply hilarious.

I never considered my keeping this specific mug a "fetish," or a "personal relationship with an inanimate object". The mug went from Japan back to college, then to graduate school in Washington DC, and back to Ohio with me and in the middle of all those times, the comfort of drinking coffee in the mornings became a ritual of sorts. This mug, with its accompanying spoon, now holds a place of "prestige" next to me on my writing desk. August 1994 -- January 31, 2010. To some people, that's a lifetime.

Kevin Canty: Master of the American Short Story

They appear out of thin air, it seems. You see them at social gatherings and parties. You know enough to avoid them, but eventually you are drawn into their conversation. They are easy to identify, not just because they are loud (they want everyone to hear what they are saying), but because they have "knowledge to impart." These are the pseudo-intellectuals... the know-it-alls who aim to impress by turning a catchy phrase and throwing it around like it's the newest thing to come out of that vastness of stale ideas that is their little brains. One of these phrases (and I have heard it more than once) thrown around, and one that really kills me (literally and figuratively) is "the American short story is dead." They do sound like college professors, and might actually impress the bar fly hanging on their every word, but the statement is plain false and downright idiotic. If you want evidence that the American short story is alive and well TODAY, all you have to do is read Kevin Canty's "Where the Money Went." Kevin Canty proves mastery of the form both thematically (subject matter) and in terms of technique.

Hitting upon this treasure of short stories has been an eye opening event for me. I've never been resistant to the literary trends (for better or worse), and even "chick lit" (a term I find repulsive) begins to show its value eventually.... after it has been "milked" of all of its commercial and marketing capital. Kevin Canty writes insightfully and with realism about the lives of men in contemporary American society. "Where the Money Went" is a tour-de-force of American existentialism and its relation to men of all social classes; the questions it asks and answers through its vivid characters explore the dark and light comedy that is being a man in America today. Consider this "chick lit" for men, or "dude lit" if you really have to draw a marketing ploy to corner the contemporary fiction share. But Canty does not need that sort of help, not from you, or me for that matter. Rather than summarizing the stories, I will share some of the passages from the stories that 1) shocked me for the depth of their artful mastery, and 2) enlightened me to my own reality as an American male.

In the title piece, Canty displays a great amount of technique (I am not sure if he would be insulted if I called it stream of consciousness). Braxton, the protagonist, engages in a sort of Gregorian chant or litany on precisely where the money went after the divorce. The story is brief, but it packs an amazing amount of detail. For example, there are pauses of beautiful imagery that pop out in the middle of the long list of where the money went: "He watched her topple slowly backward into the water, watched her dress bloom around her in the underwater light like some bright colorful flower and in that moment he had not disliked her." I can't think of a more beautifully composed and artfully constructed sentence in the middle of the acutely painful meditation by the protagonist.

In "The Emperor of Ice Cream" we again meet a character opening up so clearly and agonizingly it bleeds real humanity; I can think of numerous moments of introspection similar to this one: "These were the moments where he felt cut off and stuck inside himself, looking out at the grinning, shouting crowd, smoking and drinking, dancing and flirting away a summer night. Lander thought they looked stupid. This was how he knew how fucked up he was; when happy looked stupid." There's no fault either technically or skillfully in making a character have a philosophical moment; the bad writers over do it... masters like Canty know exactly how to use subtlety, making the reader feel like he is gliding over the surface without realizing he is deep, deep within the character's psyche. Again, this is a matter of technique and art, and Canty possesses both.

Canty pushes the limits of emotion, characterization and just plain humanity in "In the Burn." Just like in "The Emperor of Ice Cream," it is subtlety that makes the complex almost emotionally painful. When I read the following passage, I again felt like all this universality of feelings is both universal and strictly personal. "I'll land on my own two feet, I know it. I was all alone and lonely and sexually deprived when I met her. I can do it again. But just the thought of my little apartment with my little clothes in it sends a willie down my back. One more night of TV, one more night of wondering where I'm supposed to be in this world." When I read this passage to a friend of mine, he pointed out the last eight words as sounding like a broken record; I quickly pointed out that it is the amount of detail that conveys the feeling of both awkwardness and quiet desperation... again, a masterfully written passage both in terms of skill and technique. This is really, without hyperbole, brilliant writing.

I can't recommend this book enough. If you read to explore human questions, of if you read to appreciate good writing, or both, Kevin Canty's "Where the Money Went" is what you need to be reading today. This book should please both readers and readers who read like writers. I recommend it without reserve.

Difficult Time: What Would Teddy Roosevelt Do?

I am leaving the Internet again for a couple of weeks. I am realizing that I am 1) behind on my reading list, and 2) behind on what I had proposed myself regarding my writing. This is not the time for personal issues and overly-sentimental endeavours.... Teddy Roosevelt would have kicked my ass a long, long time ago. So, as a result, I am returning to the "Inner-net" for the next two or three weeks. Wish me luck.

Gender, Creative Writing and The College Race

I am still "milking" the last 20 pages of Paul Auster's "Man in the Dark." I know it sounds ridiculous, but I am afraid of finishing it because I am going to miss reading the Master. If you've never read Auster, please do soon. I went running on Tuesday and promised myself 10 pages if I did 4 miles instead of 3, and ended up stopping at 3 just to prolong the inevitable. Again, I am being silly... but then again that's what love and passion for something makes you act like. It's a rule of life, so why fight it.

Teaching is going well. My poor Seniors are going mad with all those college applications, etc. I do have to say this in defense of female high school students--I think they have more pressure than young men when applying to college. My students... poor souls, and on top of all that, they have me for a teacher. :-) We just finished "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man," and a couple of my Seniors, who are interested in going into the creative writing field, felt that Stephen Dedalus' extremism hurt him more than it helped him. "Just like you all applying for college, now," I responded. "How so?" Well, a discussion ensued as to what hoops we are forced to go through when applying for college entrance. Are those "hoops" necessary, really, and are they the same "hoops" for everyone? Conclusion: I think female college applicants have an uphill battle, really, to prove themselves "good candidates." "Boys," my student seem to believe, "can somehow 'fake it' if they need to, enough to make college interviewers believe." The argument varied in terms of how my students (all girls) think the boys have an advantage. "If a male applicant to a creative writing program produces a sample writing," one of my students pointed out, "then it is taken as a given he is a writer, whereas a female applicant would be an 'aspiring writer.'" I am not quite sure where they get these ideas, and even if it's healthy to think that way, but going back to my own college application process a decade and a half ago I could--to some extent--agree with them.

At any rate. 12 days to go until November 1st. One more book to finish off this month (Murakami's "What I Talk About When I Talk About Running"). A a tonnage of grading and reading for work to do. NaNoWriMo approaches.