| halfway under the dome |
[Nov. 18th, 2009|07:58 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | coil--horse rotovator | ] |
So I'm 600+ pages into Under the Dome. It's roughly 1100 pages long (maybe just a bit shy of that, I don't have it handy at the moment) so I've knocked over half of it out. Some random thoughts:
Through the first several hundred pages I was really wondering if I was going to get much out of it, mostly because I found myself saying "Ok, yeah, Stephen King has done this all before and frankly he's done it better." I kept thinking of other books by him instead of the story itself. Not that I wasn't enjoying it--like all SK books, it's a breezy, easy read--but I couldn't help but wonder if it was SK on autopilot. In some ways, it didn't feel like he was engaged in his own story. But then, around page 250 or so, the story began to click and get compelling and the book began to carve out its own niche in his canon. While I've got a ways to go yet, I've every reason to believe Under the Dome will be a solid entry in SK's vast body of work.
One of the greatest things is how downright nasty and evil a couple of the characters are. Part of the problem with the book in the early pages is these same characters feel hollow and cliched, but they pick up steam soon enough and now they are as fascinating as they are repellant. SK is not holding back here--there are bad people doing bad and weirdly wrong things, there are scared people doing bad things, and the good people, desperately trying to remain good (or sane) are either dying or totally fucked. He's brought in a couple of characters that were thoroughly enjoyable and then abruptly killed them; a neat trick. But it's the weirdness of the boy called Junior I thus far find the most compelling; he reminds me of a darker shade of Todd from Apt Pupil, dumber but just as obsessive. Favorite line of the book so far: "He didn't want to be around Junior any more. Junior was weird now."
My god but is he taking good ol' Pentacostalism to the cleaners. I could argue that he's painting with too broad of strokes at time but frankly it's far too much fun to read; I can't complain. I love it.
Despite the presence of iPods, MacBooks and the Internet, the book still feels very 1985 to me. I mean that in a good way. When you are Stephen King, you need not reinvent the wheel.
I like that halfway through we still don't know jack about the dome...and that the dome itself is a very minor character thus far. It's all about the disintegration of the town. Mr. King, he is a wee cynical about humanity, I think.
Except that of course there a few characters who are fighting the good fight despite not wanting to do so at all. There is always hope, however slim.
SK is seriously bothered by the Iraq war. Despite that, all of his references to it in Under the Dome portray the war and the people fighting it in a complex manner that doesn't play politics. It's very much in the background of the story, but for some reason, I'm really noticing it. Perhaps it's because I recently read a short story by Joe Hill entitled "Thumbs" that was centered on the Iraq War...and it was one of the more compelling short stories I've read this year. Dinnertime conversations around the King table must have been fascinating.
I don't think it's possible for me to *not* enjoy a SK book.
And that all said...it's time to go back under the dome. |
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| burroughs |
[Nov. 16th, 2009|08:16 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | agalloch--ashes against the grain | ] |
Thinking a bit about William Burroughs tonight.
Burroughs as a writer is a tricky thing. He will open completely new avenues of thought, but you have to commit to getting there. You have to do all the hard work yourself. And I think you probably have to be predisposed to his black, dry humor and the overall aesthetics of disgust, particularly in regards to the body. You also have to deal with misogyny, bleakness, and hopelessness.
If you can do all of that, though, his best work carries the power to turn the very notion of reality inside out. Note that I say "reality" and not "rationality"--his works are extremely rational, to the point of being conservative. Oh yes, there's a conservative streak a mile wide in Burroughs. And when I say best works, I mean just that--because, as so often happens with a celebrity celebrated more for his life than his art, way too much of his stuff has been published that should have been left on the cutting room floor.
That's a whole lot to deal with, but given all that, I'm not sure there was a more important writer in the 20th century, nor one more insightful about the power writing has. That's the thing with Burroughs--writing was a magical act, and a dead serious one at that, and this is reflected in his works, which speak more of the process of creation than any "writing" books I've ever read.
I haven't read Burroughs at all for at least a decade, but the impact he made on me is so deep that I feel it every day. He changed my whole concept of art. If you can read Naked Lunch, The Place of Dead Roads, or The Ticket That Exploded and not have your world shaken, then you are made of much different stuff than I. Those books are gonna be studied for centuries. I believe they will come to be seen, along with Dada and a few other works of art (primarily musical) as a point where we began to evolve to the next stage. No one said evolution was pretty.
...or maybe I just did too many drugs as a teenager. Regardless, while I might have wrote had I never read Burroughs, I would never have become a writer.
"Artists to my mind are the real architects of change, and not the political legislators who implement change after the fact." |
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| metaphysics and violence, oh my! |
[Nov. 15th, 2009|10:29 am] |
| [ | music |
| | swans--soundtracks for the blind, disc 1 | ] |
I'm getting fairly close to being done with the first draft of a story. It is the most graphically violent story I've yet written, though the violence does not occur until the last quarter or so. It did get me to thinking a little bit about graphic violence and my approach.
First, let me define what I mean by graphic violence. When I'm using the term, I'm essentially talking about gore, about violent and nasty things being done to the human body. In general, my writing attempts to create an unsettling, strange, even downright weird vibe, but rarely does much with graphic violence. This is not because I'm loathe to include it, but because in what I'm doing it generally hasn't had much of a place. When I started writing again in the early part of this decade, the third story I wrote was pretty graphic--and also not very serious; the ending was essentially my homage to the Evil Dead movies. And outside of that, while there have been occasional scenes of violence in my work, it rarely comes to the forefront.
This current story is different though. And while I'm not uncomfortable writing the violent passages, I do sometimes feel a little funny as I'm trying to figure out the logistics of these terrible things happening to a human body. It's one thing to see such things in a movie, particularly hanging out with friends, where you all go "Oh man!" "Dude! Did you see that?" "That's sick!" etc. In essence, the experience is a shared group experience. Writing it, though, is a solo act. I actually think this is why sometimes my work disturbs me more as I'm creating it than afterward when reading it; living through that experience, even though it's pure fantasy, can still be pretty intense. The ghost of my mother: "But why can't you write about nice things? Happy things?" (Yes, she actually said that to me, before she burned some poetry I'd written, and it wasn't violent at all, just bleak...but that's a story for another day.)
Last night I had the opportunity to watch Fulci's The Beyond, which was a pretty great film. Essentially a bunch of set pieces lacking a real linear plot, I found the movie a pretty obvious exploration of Artaud's concept of the Theatre of Cruelty (I bought collecting all of Artaud's work when I was 15; it still sits on my shelf. Fascinating stuff.) And as with all Fulci's horror work, it's the violence/gore that is talked about the most. And the deaths were elaborate, and there were certainly several times L. and I went "Dude! Brutal!" at the screen, but what most fascinated me was the way the incoherent, luridly nightmarish quality of the "plot" felt like a metaphysical meditation on what would happen if the living and dead crossed worlds. I've often thought that such a thing would destroy our concept of logical and rationality as we know it, and that works of art exploring this concept should, by their very nature, be incoherent. Not because the dead aren't rational; they just aren't rational in a way that we can conceive of. So though I cringe and strangely admire the violence in the set pieces, I take something else away from the movie, something that will stick with me long after I've forgotten the way the tarantulas ate a guy's face (because, you know, tarantulas are quite the flesh eaters...what was that I was just saying about different concepts of logic?)
People I know that are really into these kinds of movies take something out of them that isn't always readily apparent on the surface. And the rest of the world just doesn't get it: "Why on earth would you want to watch something like that?" It's even more suspicious when you are an adult; in adolescence it's understood as a way of testing your limits. Ritual in a world that has none. I think cinema is an excellent vehicle for this--the best, really--but, in my latest story, I feel driven to try and do the same thing in words. I won't pull it off, because I'm simply not that good of a writer, but it won't stop me from trying.
Writing this post is an attempt to clarify some of these things for me; my apologies if it reads ragged and incoherent. But just maybe that's the point... |
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| sunrise |
[Nov. 14th, 2009|08:03 am] |
A morning like this makes me miss home.
I look at the sentence and think, "But I am home, I'm in my house, my wife and children are here." And these facts are true, and this certainly is home, but I often still think of it as just the place I live, not home. Though I've now spent almost as much of my life living in Seattle and environs as I have in Chewelah, Chewelah will always be home. When I watch the sun break over the trees, the frost on the ground, and think of work in the yard I should do today, I am reminded of mornings of my childhood. Waking up and immediately going outside to feed the pigs and give hay to the cattle. My feet crunching on the frozen ground before the sleep was even out of my eyes.
How quiet and reflective the world always seemed to me then. How beautiful. My life was oriented by physical tasks to be done and the rhythm of life on the farm. The spectacle of mountains all around, the sound of the creek that ran by our house (one of two on the property.) So very different from the rhythm of my adult life, driven by the noise and bustle of the city, by computers, by rarely feeling the day as part of a natural wonder.
Apples to oranges, perhaps. Yet still I find myself needing to align my rhythms to those of the natural world, something I've written about ad nauseum. I've written about it so much because I've never successfully done it as an adult. I can't simply blame my living situation; sometimes I wonder if I broke something in my bad years that can never be taped together correctly again. How hard it is for my insides to shut up and just exist for a moment. A jagged restlessness in everything I do, no matter what I project into the world.
There is no time of the day I love better than dawn, when most folks are still asleep, when the quiet is still. To be the first in a day to see the sun rise always feels like a precious gift. If it makes me feel nostalgic and just a little broken, a little sad, I'm ok with that, because being reminded of who you really are from time to time is important too. |
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| bloodbirds |
[Nov. 12th, 2009|07:20 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | the post will clue you in | ] |
I enjoy these, our little chats after my nightly writing sessions. I can ask about the wife and kids, you ask me how the job is going, what do I think of the economy, how are those cello lessons for the oldest going, anyway?
I can't stop listening to Agalloch. Here's the single verse from the ten-minute song (actually, the first two songs of a trilogy but I consider them one piece) I love so much, "Bloodbirds":
The god of man is a failure
Our fortress is burning against the grain of the shattered sky
Charred birds escape from the ruins and return as cascading blood
Dying bloodbirds pooling, feeding the flood
The god of man is a failure
And all of our shadows are ashes against the grain
Now, reading those on the page, you might think, "Yeah, ok, whatever, that's kinda pretentious." And I suppose I might agree with you, were I only reading them on the page. But hearing them shouted and growled (amazing, doing both at once) at the climax of a song that's been building for nine minutes, they have a completely powerful effect, akin to standing at the edge of a roaring sea and feeling the pull of the waves. When the end of the world comes, we should be lucky if it is so full of deep universal drama.
I also find it quite lovely imagery, the type of thing I'm drawn to on a level that's difficult to describe. Casting aside "The god of man is a failure" line, which ties the verse together but is not all that interesting or unique on its own, I want to point out the beauty of images. "Burning against the grain of the shattered sky"--this paints a wonderfully vivid picture. The picture of charred birds escaping can be read metaphorically or literally and be just as potent either way. And that closing line is the killer, like all closing lines should be. If I had to choose one line that sums up pretty much everything for me, right now, that would be the line.
Ok, but it's nothing divorced from the music. This is some of my favorite music in the universe. I could listen to it all day, hypnotized. This is what I almost exclusively write to, right now. This is what music is for me, pure forceful beauty, transcendant of all cliches, of pop culture, of anything but channeling the purest energy of existence. This omits the first part of the trilogy, but...it's all in the music.
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| still |
[Nov. 11th, 2009|07:49 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | agalloch--ashes against the grain | ] |
Still writing. Still a slave to the awesome overwhelming beauty and power of the music I love. Still reading: new King right now, previously a host of short stories by various authors, a Goodis novel (still tell everyone in earshot that David Goodis should not be forgotten), Kiernan.
Still wishing that I had a stump next to my desk. Still not playing in the dirt enough. Still desiring to build, to build, to build.
Still full of too many thoughts that are too disjointed. Still laughing with my kids. Still in love with my wife. Still not exercising enough. Still able to make a mean pot of chili. Still challenging myself in my job and facing the challenges it provides.
Still looking forward to beer, tunez and Fulci movies with L. on Saturday. Still looking forward to visiting Lopez Island in two weeks for the first time in far too long. Still retaining fond memories of my wedding there, of vodka before the ceremony and jumping over the broom. Still amazed to be part of a union and yet still undeniably myself. Still fascinated by the work that goes into marriage. Still amazed by the rewards it brings when the work is put into it.
Still an unapologetic fan of Indiana Jones and U2. Still listening to 95% metal, the tunes growing more extreme and strange every day. Still like really hot baths. Still believe that everything looks far more beautiful by candlelight.
Still get overwhelmed by the darkness at times. Still have trouble sleeping for a host of reasons. Still on a first name basis with the ghosts. Still not sure if that is good or bad. Still get thoroughly annoyed at Food Network and then watch shows on it anyway. Still think Iron Chef America has went from entertaining to borderline pathetic. Still working on a story about a Food Network obsessive. Still can't believe I just wrote that much about Food Network, which is still not that important to me.
Still buidling an altar atop my writing desk. Still think about the waves. Still look at the scars on my arm. Still love hugs from my kids better than anything. Still like alcohol. Still miss cigarettes. Still wonder if I'll ever figure out how to say what I want to say. Still become still at random intervals, when the noise is too much.
Still writing. |
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| sunday morning writing notes |
[Nov. 8th, 2009|08:31 am] |
| [ | music |
| | katatonia--night is the new day | ] |
Hey there, Sunday morning. Just finished a writing session. In another hour and a half, the family will go see the nephew's last soccer game of the year. The weather doesn't appear as miserable as it has been the last three days. Which I've thoroughly enjoyed.
I'm on day 8 of the writing every day plan. Thus far it's a sucess, in that I have managed to write every day. I've yet to have any marathon sessions, but sometimes a steady trickle is all you need. I've been working on the same story most of the time, I'm approaching the conclusion. It has flaws, but I think the core is workable. The biggest flaw so far is the pacing, which is completely messed up. I think. Or it might not be. The funny thing about writing in small bursts is that sometimes you think you are really dragging a story out. Then you read the whole thing and it's the complete opposite.
I continue to do little things to keep the creative channels open. Last night I brought a notebook up to the living room (the main room of our house.) For awhile I've been playing around with the idea of a character who watches too much Food Network. I want to see what happens if I do some longhand while in the midst of the normal family frenzy. I need to make sure I'm not becoming dependent on a bunch of circumstances in order to write--it becomes too easy to box myself in (and that leads to lame excuses.) So I started the piece--if you can even call it that--last night, and I'm pleased with the results so far. It's so different to write longhand. Plus, it was actually funny...and no one would accuse my work of being loaded with humor (except, occasionally, of the blackest and sickest kind.)
As my writing really jumped in quality over the last couple of years, I think I've become afraid to just...write. To not worry if something has a place or is usable. Once my stories began to really work, I felt like everything I wrote had to work, or had to be for whatever story I was working on at the moment, all toward that goal of a final, complete story. Discipline is good, but as I said above, boxing myself into a corner is not. Particularly when struggling on a story, it's good to sometimes just write, even as an exercise, something that you have no vision for. Writing in its most basic form, you know? And sometimes those pieces become pleasant surprises. So I've committed to doing these little things, to make sure I'm not becoming limited or stale.
Back in the heyday of LiveJournal, I think having this journal (and my other, now defunct) helped with that...if I couldn't delve into my hardcore work, I could at least do a little something here, tie words together on the page. As awesome as Facebook is, it just doesn't mentally provide that option to me (I know there is the Notes function, and I've used it, but the whole vibe is just different...and way more people are friends with me over there.) So another avenue might be to mess with this journal again, especially because the readership is so small, so it's "safe." Maybe I'll test drive excerpts or orphans that I like but don't fit anywhere. It's a thought.
Alright, the youngest is demanding breakfast and I'm rather hungry myself, so onward!
Oh, and Tuesday the new Stephen King book comes out...but I'm not counting. |
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| it sounds not unlike the waves |
[Nov. 3rd, 2009|06:07 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | agalloch--bloodbirds | ] |
Hey look, it's me again. Two posts over two days. Must be something in the air. Or maybe just a need to write.
I wrote again today, continuing with my determined plan to write every day this month. However, Susan's had the last two days off. Tomorrow she goes back to work and it gets trickier, I work a full day and pick up the kids, dealing with dinner, homework, and all the resultant daily stuff. It's not that I can't carve a bit of time late in the evening, it's just that I'll be exhausted by then. But I'm not sure that's a bad thing. Sometimes I think I work better exhausted, I don't have the energy for any bullshit and I just sit down and do it.
It does feel so very good to be working like this again. Last night I even wrote by hand in bed, just some journal writing, something that I'd not done for awhile. I will do whatever ritual it takes to bring that energy down again.
It helps when you are inspired, I suppose. Last Friday I saw my friend's band, Agalloch, play. Agalloch's music is just moving me on so many levels right now. It's been my favorite music to write to for the last year (and I've done my best writing listening to it and another band called Nadja) and to see them live--well, cliched as it sounds, was magical. The concerts that move me the most have an element of ritual to them, and Agalloch's certainly did. The music tends to ebb and flow, with lots of dramatic (but slow and subtle) builds. The kind of thing where a ten minute song is standard. No pop hooks to be found (which isn't to say it isn't catchy; I find it extremely so.) Having a friend in the band is just a bonus. I think, more than anything, being around other creative people is inspiring. I don't really know any other writers (outside of ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) jtglover who, sadly, I've yet to spend time with in "real" life), but I know musicians, glass artists, a playwright, a couple of painters...and plenty of people who are creative in their chosen professional fields. There is an energy commited artists bring to their lives, which helps me channel and commit to my own. And to, hopefully, get better.
I don't want to sound like anyone else but me. But the sounds others create help unlock the doors. And isn't that the best thing art can do? |
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| unlock the wooden doors |
[Nov. 2nd, 2009|07:22 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | agalloch--the mantle | ] |
In November I resolve to write every single day. Even with the weekends filling up again, my job busy and a bit draining, my kids active, and a house that looks like a tornado hit it, I will write every day.
It's that time of year again, the deeper things restless, the shadows ashes against the grain. As I fix up my writing space I wish for a stump of wood to sit next to my desk, rocks to scatter atop the shelves, extra candles to eliminate the need of electrical light. I think of what else needs moving, inside and outside. Wondering if this is the year I perish on the mountainside.
There are things that inspire me still, things that push me to do better, to keep creating. I draw inward. Things keep appearing inside my head: the skull of a deer, animal tracks in the snow, the talk amongst the trees, a town where you can never find the border. I smell woodsmoke.
I draw my circle, prepare the fires, and turn to the ritual of writing words, the only thing that connects me to the cosmos. The solitary act that is also universal.
I am uncomfortable. I work. |
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| work. |
[Oct. 22nd, 2009|07:51 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | opeth--blackwater park | ] |
It’s been quite the week at work. One firing, one near-medical emergency, and today was spent doing yearly reviews with my staff, one employee at a time. That I came home completely exhausted tonight is, I suppose, no surprise.
My last three years in retail (specifically, the natural foods grocery world), back in the nineties, were spent in management. That experience ended badly, and I was pretty much convinced that a) I would never be a good manager, and b) I never wanted to work in management again. But a funny thing happened. After roughly seven years of reinventing my career in a brand new field, I found myself filling in for my manager when she was on maternity leave…and not only did I kind of enjoy it, I found myself in possession of a confidence level I had completely lacked before. Nevertheless, I felt I desperately needed to grow my technical skills, and so I made a job switch for that express purpose (and, truthfully, after seven years at the same place it was time for a change.) It was good for awhile—a tremendous learning experience—but then another opportunity came my way, and now, as of last May, I’ve been in the role of a manager once more.
And you know what? I like it. Sure, there are aspects I could do without, as would be true in nearly any job…but a lot of the stuff I’d never thought I’d enjoy doing I actually do. In particular, my job affords me the opportunity to mentor people fresh out of library school, getting their first taste of the corporate world, and often of work in the library field, and that’s awesome. Throughout my career, I’ve never had a mentor. I’ve learned in many diverse situations, but I’ve never had anyone really take the time and interest in my career and help it along. I always swore that, given the opportunity, I’d do just that. And I really try to, for my staff. I want to see these people succeed, whether it is at my place of employment or somewhere else down the road. That’s important to me.
In the course of the reviews today, I got some feedback from my staff that I was doing just that…and that was rewarding to me in a way they will probably never know. That’s not to say it’s all rosy; I have some difficult people on my staff, and some of the reviews today weren’t fun. But I take a larger view of it; nothing is ever perfect. I’m reaching the people I really want to reach, and that means, when we work on issues that are difficult, they seem to hear and respect what I have to say. And I can’t stress what a huge validation that is for me. Because frankly, I still feel like I’m making this stuff up as I go.
I love the library world, and I love passing that enthusiasm on to other people. I feel that too often in corporate culture an easy cynicism settles in. This is understandable; there’s a lot that’s simply not right in corporate culture. But I think you can still love your field and its possibilities. I guess I often feel like I don’t really have the credibility to talk much about it; I came into this profession—and really, everything I do—bassckwards. My entire life I have struggled tremendously with self-confidence (i.e., I’ve often not had any) and that makes it pretty hard to, well, mentor people. Yet this has changed over the last few years, and that’s huge. I mean, HUGE. I’ve even been referred to as “the new Paul” because people think I’ve changed that much. It’s a bit odd, but maybe that’s a beautiful thing about getting older—you actually do get better at a few things.
There is still so much for me to learn, of course. Not enough hours in the day. Etc. etc.
Regardless of everything else that my job involves, and the end of the day I’m reaching people. Getting to mentor them. Making a tiny difference. And as far as the professional world goes, there just isn’t a cooler feeling than that. |
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| sanctuary |
[Oct. 14th, 2009|07:42 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | agalloch--not unlike the waves | ] |
Well, here we go. This is the first thing I’ve written on my new computer, minus passwords and the like. It may not seem like an exciting thing, but it is. See, I’ve been nursing a dying computer along for several years now, and to say it was giving me ulcers would be an understatement. I might sit down to write, only to have it frozen for the evening. Or it might just stop displaying words. Or say I wanted to a quick search to find the population of Beelzebub, North Carolina so I could be factual in a story I was writing. To do so could take 10-20 minutes, during which time the computer was mostly frozen, and I’d completely lose the thread of the story.
So this—this is special. And not only do I have a great new machine to write with, I ponied up for a large flat screen monitor, so if I really need to see a horror flick, I can retire to my writing desk and pop on the headphones, and proceed to watch without scarring my children or wife for life. It seems like a simple thing, but it’s huge for me, to know that escape exists. Yes, we have a family laptop in the family room—but like most writers, I need solitude and a space to write, and the family room provides neither. To really create, I have to leave my everyday life behind. And I find that as the kids grow older and our house seemingly shrinks, I desperately need my space, even if it’s just a corner of the room. I have no hours during the day in which I’m alone, unless you count my commute. My wife gets around this by staying up super late, but neither my body nor my work schedule can really do that much anymore…and if I stayed up that late, I wouldn’t be alone anyway—she’d still be up. So I’ve worked over the summer to really create a small space in our “downstairs” that houses my books, music and writing desk—a place that is mine. Getting an actual working computer was the final touch.
There’s still some stuff to do—install the docking station, pick up an adapter to hook up the speakers, get a good pair of headphones, figure out the monitor settings so it’s not quite so blurry but still BIG—but this truly feels like my refuge now. Where I come to leave my world and create new ones. Where I live another life aside from “dad”, “husband” “librarian”, etc. Where the only boundaries are the ones I create. Where I can have a modicum of control, while the rest of the house remains a constant mess and stacking up of things to be done.
I’ve long believed a writer should be able to write anywhere. And I have, over the course of my life. But frankly, I’ve worked my ass off over the years simply so I could create a space like this. It’s romantic to scribble in someone else’s bed when you’re twenty. I’m not twenty. I’ve been there and done that. All day, all night I belong to the rest of the world—to my family, to my friends, to my employees, to all of the work that has to be done. When I’m here, I belong only to me. Here I can listen to whatever strange metal album I want. Here search never has any filters like “moderate” or “safe.” Here I can write these images down that come from some other place, some place that doesn’t appear in my daily life. Here I can create.
I cannot wait to see what words come from this sanctuary, my strange temple. |
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| autumn afternoon |
[Sep. 27th, 2009|05:22 pm] |
The first melancholy of autumn hit this afternoon. Perhaps it was the activities I was engaged in—cleaning out the carport so the cars could fit, packing away the BBQ and summer deck stuff, stacking wood for the fireplace. It was slow in coming this season. Usually it hits me during the random fake autumn week in late August, when the weather teases you into thinking fall is nearly here. But we didn’t really have that this year. It was only in the last week the crispness really starting hanging in the air, making the morning and evenings slightly chilly regardless of how warm it got during the day.
I pulled out some of my autumn music this afternoon: Sugar’s Copper Blue and R.E.M.’s Murmur. I listened to them while making a chicken artichoke bake, another sign that autumn is here. Heartier meals, soups and stews, breads. Perhaps next weekend I will make the first batch of hot spiced cider. Doing so makes the house smell so wonderful, so home, that every cliché about home is where the heart is/cooking is love/etc. becomes true.
I want to just slow down and enjoy these days; my work calendar and my children’s calendar suggests that such a thing will not happen. There are leaves to rake in the front yard, but I like looking at them carpeting the grass and feel no desire to rake them…unless it is for my kids to go jump in the leaf piles. More clichés? Certainly, but joy erases the need to categorize everything and autumn melancholy does not sit in a box, but breathes--the change in the air, the change in the colors, the feeling of mortality contrasting with the richness of life so deeply complex and meaningful as to transcend my feeble attempts at describing it. Fortunately, I need to finish putting dinner together and thus will be removed from further temptation.
There are no days more beautiful than those in October and late September. |
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| productive |
[Sep. 7th, 2009|06:59 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | nadja--bug/golem | ] |
Well. That was an unexpectedly productive weekend, writing-wise. I had hoped to get some writing done, but by no means did I expect to get this much done. Sometimes, when everything is flowing, you have to stop everything else in life as much as possible and go with it. Not only did I finish the second draft of a story yesterday (and to be fair, it was more of a first draft, so completely did I change the story from its original form), I revised over 3/4 of it today. That may have been the biggest revision I've ever done in a single day, relative to story length. Only the final section is left, and that's what got me so excited yesterday, so I can't wait to go back to it. I'm hoping to somehow work on it this week, but with it only being a three day workweek and my folks coming into town on Thursday, chances aren't real good. Still, how wonderful this sense of accomplishment feels.
It's kinda hard, after a weekend like this, not to dwell on what I might accomplish if I, say, could work four ten hour days each week and have three days off. It always takes me at least a day to really unwind, and by then you are halfway through the weekend, which leaves one productive day at the most. I do try my best to scrape aside some writing time a couple of evenings a week, but what the days off do is allow me the space to truly sink into my story, to live and breathe with it. Sometimes it's not just about the time you spend typing at the desk, but about the time you spend in the writing frame of mind. I can't really be in this frame of mind during the work week. And what happens then is that while I might sit down and write for a bit in the evening, I often feel like I'm not quite sinking into to my story, really grasping it.
Well, it is what it is. Glad to have a weekend like this under my belt. Excited to finish revising the story and see what I really think of it. |
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| words and such |
[Sep. 6th, 2009|04:03 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | nadja--stays demons | ] |
Story draft #2 complete! Yay! Needs more revision, of course, but...I just freaked myself out with the ending. That's a good sign, right? The ending was completely uncomfortable and difficult to type and sick and strange. The buildup needs more polish but there is nothing more satisfactory than feeling like you nailed the ending. Especially when you had no idea what was going to happen. I had a vague feeling but I really didn't know until I wrote it. Until I wrote that final sentence.
Man, is that ever a good feeling. I've been struggling to get there for awhile. Proof that all I need are rainy three day weekends and an extra cup of coffee.
I am, sometimes, surprised at the sheer darkness in some of my work. How very bleak it can be. On one hand, it makes sense, but on the other...the older I get, the darker the work gets. And the better it gets too, at least I hope so. I *think* it's getting better.
Anyway, it's been awhile since I felt this good about a piece. Perhaps I just needed to get through the summer. Hello autumn, I've been waiting for you... |
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| lucky |
[Sep. 3rd, 2009|09:20 pm] |
I think that I'm a lucky guy. I know a lot of interesting people doing interesting things, but more importantly than that...they are simply good people. I feel blessed by the scope of my life. Nothing in particular brings this topic up today, just a desire to express how incredibly cool I think life is.
For someone who wouldn't define himself as a social person, I love spending time with people. I'm happy talking about my professional life, my creative life, my family life, my love of music and literature and hearing other people talk about the same as well as other things that would never cross my radar otherwise. In some strange way, my professional, work and family life are all connected. What I love about storytelling is not that far removed from what I find fascinating about information communication and experience in general. And getting to watch my children learn every day--that's an amazing thing. Watching as those dots connect and being part of that process.
I've never belonged to a community, and I've felt on the outside my entire life. And to a degree that's still true, but I think I've built a neat network of people in my life. It's sad that it took me so long in my adult life to get there, but better late than never. Most importantly, I've achieved this while still feeling true to myself, my ideals, my hope and dreams.
After all of these years, I've come into this amazing and blessed life. I just can't believe how lucky I am.
Now back to the Scotch. |
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| thomas wolfe |
[Aug. 16th, 2009|09:49 am] |
| [ | music |
| | angels of light--how i loved you | ] |
This column, A Drag, a Sip, a Labyrinth, by one of my favorite writers, Michael Ventura, is a fun, late-night riff through some of the great American writers. The kind of conversation you have over a few drinks, tossing ideas and opinions out, trying to make sense of the psychological history of this strange, amazing country we live in. Many of my favorites are touched on here: Poe, Fitzgerald, Henry Miller, Hammett. But one paragraph really stands out to me:
"Thomas Wolfe (1900-1938) overflowed with a nameless faith. Look Homeward, Angel (1929), one of our best novels, isn't a book people talk much about anymore. Its intensity and lyricism are looked down upon by university-stamped literati who speak and write with snide superiority and are made personally insecure by anyone who doesn't. (Am I being superior to them? Oh, well, I suppose.) Wolfe's whole concern was with an unknowable mystery he saw in his family and everywhere, and his wild capacity for experiencing our wild America, which he loved as a lover loves, unreasonably and completely. Unashamed of his gift for love, he registered every curve, scent, color, and word of what he loved. His pages glow with a lover's heat. The visions of Poe, Fitzgerald, and Hammett were not for Thomas Wolfe. What Wolfe saw in everyone, everywhere he looked, was loneliness, an irreducible loneliness, a loneliness that nothing could assuage, and he sang our loneliness unrelentingly, determined to make of it a music, not caring if he went down in flames. Which, of course, he did."
I rarely hear Thomas Wolfe mentioned, and I can never recall a time when he was. I discovered this most American of writers via Jack Kerouac, in my youth when I was consuming everything by the Beats. Without Wolfe there is no Kerouac and arguably no Beat movement, but it's more than that: as Ventura mentions above, no other writer captures the whole of America, not just the physical space but the idea, the very expansiveness that is America as a concept, better than Wolfe. His prose is certainly dated, but his exuberance shines through every word he wrote in that great book, as does the loneliness. He is a writer that I never felt got his due--at least in part, I think, to not easily fitting in to a comfortable set of academic ideals or historical literary movements--and he is well on the road to being forgotten entirely. Which is a shame. Look Homeward, Angel is a national treasure, and a novel that is worth re-reading every couple of decades, if only to remind yourself of the possibilities of this grand experiment called America, and the loneliness within. Wolfe never caved to the easy cynicism that is our common shared language now. And that, I think, is perhaps the biggest reason he's forgotten today. Which is sad. |
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| thoughts on the re-vamped cemetery dance |
[Aug. 10th, 2009|07:59 pm] |
Cemetery Dance has gone through some changes with the new issue. I believe they've had an editorial shift, and they've redesigned the magazine. For the most part, I think the changes are good (and if they manage to publish on a more regular schedule, so much the better.) There are a few things I'm not super crazy about, but for the most part, they did a good job.
They are going to focus more on "special issues" that spotlight an author. This issue is a focus on Peter Straub and while I'm a fan, I'm not crazy about this as a regular thing, because--if this issue is any indication--it cuts into the amount of fiction they publish. The way I look at it, though, is they probably need to do this with "name" authors to survive. And I can live with that. I just hope they find room for more fiction, there were only three stories (one of them by Straub) and one novel excerpt (also by Straub.) That was disappointing, especially as neither Straub piece was very good (Guess what! The main character in his new novel is--wait for it--a novelist!! Can you believe it?) I did really enjoy the interview with him, though. I have to say, I find it interesting that the next author they are focusing on is William Peter Blatty. Do people in the field consider him relevant at all as an author? I can't say I ever thought he was a very good writer, but maybe I'm missing something. Does he even still publish books?
With the reduction in fiction there is a renewed emphasis on non-fiction columns. Most of these were pretty good; Ellen Datlow's column especially was most welcome. A couple were thin and didn't seem to offer much of anything.
And then there is the reviews section. This is probably what I was most disappointed by. CD is partnering with Horror World for their reviews, and in this issue, at least, it meant almost all mainstream/well-known authors and not very much small press stuff. There were also fewer reviews in general. Again, I wonder if this isn't a move to keep the magazine alive, but I do miss the amount of small press (and sometimes self-published) material that was reviewed in the past. Maybe this balance will even out in the future.
The visual redesign of the magazine is great; it looks better than ever. I especially love the new logo. All in all, I think I understand the rational behind the changes they've made; I don't want my thoughts above to be construed as entirely negative. I just would hate to see the disappearance of new/unknown authors from their pages. I've discovered some great writers via CD; I'd much rather read a new author (even if the story isn't good) than a vanity piece by Peter Straub (and, as I've said, I'm a fan of a lot of the man's work.) I'm really not sure they are going to find a bigger audience by focusing on William Peter Blatty for an issue than publishing unknown authors--this stuff is niche anyway. But that's why I don't publish magazines; what the hell do I know? Regardless, CD is still essential reading for fans of the genre. Let's hope they remain that way. |
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| writing progress and the like |
[Aug. 9th, 2009|01:06 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | soulsavers--no expectations | ] |
The last week has gotten me back on track, writing-wise. Not only am I working steadily again, I like what I'm working on. Thus far, my current story doesn't even have a supernatural/fantastical angle to it...which isn't to say one might not appear. It's certainly character first, though.
Last fall and winter were successful writing months for me. While the volume wasn't necessarily high, the quality was, and it definitely felt like a breakthrough. But somewhere around April, I lost it, and I've been disappointed with everything I've written since then. I've done four stories in that time, some of which have gone through multiple drafts, and yet...it felt like I wasn't writing at all. Either I was repeating myself or the work seemed...stale, I guess. This includes the 12000 words I cranked out the week I had off between jobs. I mean, I wrote a functional story that week...and half of another...and yet, I don't know, it's hard to describe but your gut knows when you are doing good work and when you are treading water. In the period since late April I've written a lot of words, but I'm just not that happy with any of them.
But I'm happy with what I'm working on now.
Even if I end up with nothing usable from the preceding months, the important thing was that I never stopped working, no matter how dissatisfied I was with the results. Much like a baseball player frequently needs a number of at-bats to break out of a slump, so too is it necessary to keep writing in order to get back to where you want to be. I don't like periods like that, but whereas in earlier years I would have gotten tremendously depressed by the cycle, this time I kept working as though nothing was out of the ordinary. I heeded the voice that told me the work wasn't good enough but ignored the one that suggested I wasn't good enough. That's an important distinction to make.
It's good to be working on something I'm excited about again. |
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| my 27 favorite records of the decade |
[Aug. 2nd, 2009|02:31 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | metallica--death magnetic | ] |
(also posted on my Facebook account)
Warning: this sucker is 16 pages in Word.
This exercise started out as an idea while stuck in the endless traffic that makes up my commute. Of late, I’ve been struggling a bit with writer’s block, and I thought a project like this, in addition to being fun, would be something I could use to keep writing when I was stuck on my creative work. It’s important to keep those channels open by any means necessary. Music is, of course, a huge part of my life, yet I generally shy away from writing about it, precisely because it means so much. And the best music doesn’t lend itself to words…that’s why it’s music in the first place. Despite this, I forged ahead. It was a blast pulling out all of these records, setting up an intriguing randomness in my music listening for a few weeks. Each piece was written while listening to the album described. I didn’t really go back and edit any of these because it’s time to be done with this project now, and this is not something professional, just a fun exercise. The criteria was merely that the record was one of my favorites of the decade and released in that time period (2000-present.) A “best” list would be something different and take other factors into consideration. These are, simply, the record I returned to time and time again. I hope you enjoy, I had a blast writing it.
( the list ) |
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| song titles |
[Jul. 20th, 2009|07:54 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | blut aus nord---the work which transforms god | ] |
I think "Procession of the Dead Clowns" has to be the most frightening song title in existence. If ever an image could keep me up all night, I think this would be it. It would be a great story title too, I'm not sure that I'm the one to write it though. (And yes, the song itself is excellent--instrumental, ten minutes of muted drums and distant feedback that sounds as dark as hell. I've always been entranced by the Labyrinth where the Cenobites lived in the Hellraiser films. If the visual of the Labyrinth was made into music, this is what it would sound like.)
On the other side of the fence, I find "Regurgitation of Giblets" to be one of the funniest song titles I've come across in a long while. Giblets is just a vastly amusing word to me. I can take no sentence seriously that features giblets. Also of note, by the same band, is a song entitled "Face Meltaaargh." Has any song title ever said it all so perfectly?
And I must point out that Dethklok (the stars of the hilarious Metapocalypse show) will have a song on their new album entitled "I Tamper with the Evidence at the Murder Site of Odin." Which certainly will be the greatest song ever, right? |
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