What Do I Want to Write?

That's always the biggest question, isn't it? And yet, for as many words as I've combined together, through keyboard or pencil or pen, it is still a difficult question to answer. Why do I write? Because I have to, I say, and so say the writers. The philosopher in me has to doubt: and he has to doubt that I actually want to write.

Because I have to doubt anything I think I want.

I can only want what I have been exposed to. I can only think I know what I want based on my experiences, which are based on my circumstances, which alas, I have not entirely decided on my own. /enddigression

One key to understanding what I want to write is understanding what I want (or "want") to read. Lit Reactor had a post today about lazy readers ("lazy fuckers") who are too dependent on Amazon. I am not one of these readers. I thought it curious that the writer of this article assumed their readers all depended on Amazon for their next book purchases as opposed to going to a bookstore. Is this really the state of the book-buying public? Perhaps that shows my own bias: I am fortunate to live in a city with a plethora of stores: one Myopic would be more than enough for a single town, yet I can go months (years?) without having shopped there due to going to other bookstores.

Likewise, I travel, and when I travel, I make it a point to visit bookstores (see: St. Louis / San Francisco).

You find books you never knew you even wanted to read. It's the same with record stores as I've made this point before: you don't know what you really want and being surrounded by all of these possibilities is so much grander experience than relying only on Spotify or Amazon. /enddigression

Tim Kinsella - Let Go and Go On and On and Coincidences

May 4th, 2016: The anniversary of the tragedy at Kent State where members of the National Guard murdered unarmed students. The same day, I read a passage of this novel where a radio broadcaster details the fallout of the tragedy.

May 5th, 2016: Woody Allen hates bike lanes. I read a chapter of this novel titled 'Annie Hall (1977)' where the main character, based off the life of actress and model Laurie Bird, has fictional interactions with Woody Allen.

May 6th, 2016: I read the passage of this novel where Laurie Bird and her boyfriend Art Garfunkel have dinner with Ringo Starr. I get off the couch, return to my bedroom, and hear my upstairs neighbors playing 'A Hard Day's Night.'

As any good atheist and/or existentialist, I don't think there's any inherent meaning in coincidences likes these. However, it does force me to take at least some note of these connections. I believe that is the thing that makes a good writer or an artist: to be able to establish connections where there may not seem to be any.

David Sedaris - "Let's Explore Diabetes With Owls: Essays, Etc."

In the intro to this book, Sedaris explains what the "Etc." part of the subtitle means, which refers to the six monologues he wrote from other perspectives as a departure from his first-person essays. These etceteras typically expose the character for a bigoted, small- and/or close-minded, selfish, and foolish individual. These characters are quite disimilar from Sedaris himself, who although not without his readily admitted faults, fail to have a sense of objectivity about their own shortcomings.

We all know people like this and may sometimes recognize ourselves exhibiting these attributes from time to time. What makes Sedaris a generally adept writer is his ability to turn his faults into some sort of lesson or awakening, a cautionary tale, or at the very least, an interesting anecdote that keeps you turning pages and snickering, chuckling, and even, on occasion, laughing out loud.

Unfortunately in his essay about China, '#2 To Go' (originally titled 'Chicken Toenails, Anyone?') Sedaris comes across as one of these characters that he was originally making fun of; his view on the country comes off as ignorant as the comments of a Shanghaiist article. He admits never to liking the food, in Raleigh, in Chicago, in New York. So I won't fault him for hating the food in China (holding back from a "even though that opinion is wrong" comment...oh shit, there it goes!). But it's the way he talks about the people. How he compares them to the Japanese and how pure and virtuous they are, whereas the Chinese are just disgusting and weird and barbarous. And yet, he's the one who pissed in a children's sandbox at 35 years old and holed up in the women's room of an Amtrak after the bar closed to smoke pot and get wasted with a stranger.

Did You Like That Picture?

Did you like that picture? I sent it to you not to show off. I sent it to you to remind you of the god-damned man-made majestic beauty of our world. Of this perfectly primary-colored edge of our world, edge of our country. The perfect golden-red; the cocksure azure water, crisp as the air that breathes ocean mist onto my skin; the typical colored sand: because we no longer need to describe what color sand is (unless it's atypical), because I think about how much sharper writers of the past had to be with their words. But now, we all experience everything from the seats of our desks, and what we used to seek at the top of the world, we seek at the top of our laps. So: typical is what this sand remains. 

I remember being impressed by Kerouac for painting the entirety of America in one simple pamphlet-tome. Now I am the one, within a span of a few months, who has ventured from statues of freedom, arches of note, and finally this bridge, the summation of this country, the end and the beginning of this country, our country, our world. I've heard the blues in Memphis, I've heard the blues in Chicago, I've heard the blues in Austin. And I've seen the blues in all these cities and I see the blues before me: the sky, the waves, my shoes. And I hope this picture finds you back home to help you escape your blues. 

I am wearing a shirt that portrays a sketch of a sewer, a Chicago manhole cover. Our art is about the dirt, the filth, the overlooked, the dispirited, the dispossessed, the disposed, the disks that cover up our dirt, our filth, our waste. Our city works. Our workers make it work. Our civic pride is tied into the fabric of where we deposit our waste, our filth. We recognize the beauty of the sewer system and we're not ashamed to put our names on it. 

On Writing, On Fiction

Here are a couple quotes I saw recently about writing and what makes fiction work.

The first is from Lauren Groff, the editor of the most recent edition of Ploughshares (which I wrote a bit about here already). She rehashes the age-old idea of the lonely, pain-filled writer, with a bit of twist in her words.

"Writers are perennially lonely, and a writer's longing to connect is what fills her work with urgency." 

Key words: longing, connect, urgency. Of course, the other side of the debate, and one I struggle with, is how much importance do I place on making a "connection?" Isn't it more about just getting the story out there that I believe needs to be told, and to express myself in the artful medium I chose (or chose me if you want to get all whimsical about it)? You can read more about Groff and her writing process on Ploughshares ("She writes early drafts by hand, on legal pads. Once she has a complete draft of a novel, she throws the pages away, and begins again, writing the new draft (again by hand) from memory.").

Jessica Hopper - 'The First Collection of Criticism By A Living Female Rock Critic'

There's been oodles of praise for this book. And not without reason. Hopper is a tremendous writer with a true voice of her own. She has an incredible ability to make connections between various artists that I would never associate with each other. She actually made me care about reading reviews of Pearl Jam and Lana Del Rey and Miley Cyrus and Van Morrison. The collection is short, sweet, and rightfully gives her interview with Jim DeRo re: R.Kelley a needed print copy for posterity. The gilded edges of the pages are a bonus snazzy touch.

There's no reason to review the book because everyone else has already harped so much praise about it. So why does this feel like this is me leading up to writing something negative? Because it is...

Finished

Finishing a book is like being in the shower for a year and a half. You hear this constant stream of rushing water, no sounds outside of it really seem to matter, even if you have other fleeting thoughts or hear sounds from the apartment above you.  The shower is your only reality.

And then you turn the shower off.

And it's silent.

And you wonder: "Why the fuck did I just take a shower for a year and a half?"

At least that's how it feels for me.

I just submitted my first ever novel to a publisher. Do I expect anything to come out of this? Of course not. Even right before I clicked submit, I hesitated, wondering if I should even bother. It's nerve-wracking. Worse than being rejected is being accepted, and then actually allowing people to read all of these inane thoughts that have been cultivating inside of my head, especially the real weird stuff within the past couple months. And hope that I was able turn these thoughts into a literary format at the same time.

Either way, it's done. When it's inevitably rejected, I get to submit and submit and submit again. Eventually, I'll start a new one and start the whole process over. Gee. Can't wait...

In the meantime, I'm glad to finally have enough time to read someone else's work. Maybe start posting on here a bit more again. I'm proud of what I accomplished, but I just read the same damn book four times in a row. From now on, instead of editing so much, I think I'll just do it correctly the first time. Makes sense, right?

And don't worry, when it's ready, you can read it. I won't shut up about it. I'll make sure this thing, in whatever final form it ends up in, will end up in the hands or tablets of every last one of you.

Size Doesn't Matter

You know what's fucked up? I've been working on this book for over a year and a half. I'm almost at 64,000 words. I entered super hibernation mode and ignored the entire world for three weeks to write the bulk of this. I've grown narcissistically insane thinking about what a great fucking writer I'm turning into and how this thing is going to change lives.

And this whole document, all of it, all of my random and twisted thoughts, all of the name-dropping and cultural references, all of my pseudo-philosophical meanderings on how technology is threatening (dismantling?!) free will, a fuckton of obscenities, all of it occupy an open office document of 175 KB.

That is such an incomprehensibly tiny speck of data on this machine that can hold 500 GB.

It's nothing.

Now that's what I call an ego killer.

I think I needed that.

Anyway.

Back to editing.

Hibernation

Experiment: Take six weeks off of work. Start date: January 19th, 2015.

Objective: Write.

Hypothesis: Failure. Complete and utter failure (in the most optimistic way possible).

Tools: Laptop. Pen. Paper. Various works of already written fiction. Brain.

Procedure:

• Week One: Outside of any emergencies, avoid all social contact. Avoid the news. Sleep a lot. Sleep very little. Writing above all else, even eating. No entertainment, except reading fiction, which is still work. No Twitter. No Facebook. No Netflix. No Groupon. No Skype. No Instagram. No Grubhub. No Spotif...who am I kidding, I'm keeping Spotify, but rocking that private mode.
• Week Two: Keep writing.
• Week Three: Are you deaf? Just. Keep. Writing.
• Week Four: Escape To NYC aka "Where's Waldo" but in Brooklyn. All the museums. All the Chinatowns. All the coffee. All the beer.
• Week Five. Escape to DC.
• Week Six: Recover.
• Week Seven: Reality.

Outcome: ???

I've been thinking about doing this for awhile. The closer it came to actually pulling the plug, the more nervous I got to thinking that I made a really stupid decision. Now that it's finally here, I have to follow through and see what happens. Two recent tweets by two brilliant minds serendipitously boosted my confidence in my decision:

Repeat after me: "Thank you for the invite but I'm gonna stay home and write."

— Sherman Alexie (@Sherman_Alexie) January 5, 2015

It's better to create something that others criticise than to create nothing and criticise others. Play nice everyone. & have a great day :)

— Ricky Gervais (@rickygervais) October 20, 2014

"I went to the woods becuase I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived." - Henry David Thoreau (not currently on Twitter)

A couple people have compared this excursion of mine to Thoreau and Walden. It's not quite that intense (pretty sure he didn't have a laptop), and it's only a week as compared to two years. But a week without any human contact must seem pretty bizarre, unrealistic even, especially living in a city. But this is my woods. Sometimes, it's best to revert into oneself, especially for someone who makes it a point to explore these urban woods so entirely and enthusiastically. For now, I want to make writing the essential facts of life, to write deliberately, and to learn what it has to teach.

How does one define human contact? I will still probably keep up with the news. I'll still read books that others have written. I'll listen to music others have recorded. I might even send out an email or two. But as far as physically seeing, touching, or hearing the natural, unelectronically amplified vibrations of sound from another person's mouth, I'll have no contact with any of it.

I read advice for writers constantly. I read about the habits of famous writers. I read the tips from the woman who wrote 90,000 words in six weeks. Have a routine they say; don't have a routine say others. Have word goals. Don't have word goals. Frankly, I don't give a shit about any of it. There is no one way to write or to type. Even Henry Miller's advice is contradictory. I want to conflate writing and typing (Capote be damned). I want to type pages and pages of material that can eventually be sculpted into a final product. And there may never even be a final product. That's a risk I'm willing to take. That all of this could be for nothing.

I just quit working two jobs six days a week, but this will arguably be the hardest work I've ever had to do. Probably because I've told so damn many of you of my plans. Well, make no small plans right? So, bon nuit for now. Time to hibernate (and if you're still reading this far, you can probably bet on catching me at Yonatan Gat at the Empty Bottle on Feb 2nd).

Clothes Make the Man

We hear these phrases:

"Clothes make the man."

"Dress for the job you want, not the job you have."

I think of routines writers have. I forget who, but one writer would wake up every morning, shower, shave, dress, take the elevator down from his apartment building with all the other businessmen, but instead of getting off at the first floor, continue to the basement where he had a desk and a typewriter. For him, writing was like any other job, and required the same routine.

This is where I'm torn. I can appreciate a writing routine, even though I've found it difficult to get into one. I'm just one of those hacks who writes "when I feel like it." When I have a deadline, or when inspiration strikes. Or when I've had too much coffee. Or alcohol.

It's work, but it's not "work" for me. Maybe because I have other committments and a varied schedule that comes with waiting tables and a penchant for exploring nightlife (i.e., I like to get drunk at the Empty Bottle). But it's hard for me to say "I can wake up at 8 am, shower, eat breakfast and write and write and write til 5," if for no other fact than that I go to "work" before 5 PM.

Maybe it's because I'm unfocused in my writing. I do critical pieces or profiles for Frontier Psychiatrist, while also exploring my mind on this blog, while also working on fiction. While at the same time, some days I just want to read a book. Should I focus more on reading on give up on writing for a bit then come back to it? Do I need to go to such extremes?

Can how I dress really affect my mindset? I'm in my pajamas right now, with a t-shirt and hoodie on. It's comfortable, it's forgettable. I will admit that sometimes I feel more professional when I have a button-up and jeans on, that I'm in "the right mode" to write. But inspiration will strike regardless of what I'm wearing. Especially when no one besides the cat is going to see me until I go to "work" tonight.

Here's a fact: I've never been paid to write a single thing I've written. Here's another fact: I have shelves of free books, wristbands from free music festivals, gigs of free (legally) downloaded music, and countless handstamps from free shows. I've gotten out of this habit a bit. I like to support artists with what little money I do have and feel better when I pay for where I'm at (except Lollapalooza, fuck that place). I like to think I can keep myself to a strict deadline, even when there's no real consequences; I like to think I have my atheism to thank for that.

The point is, If something needs to be written, it will be written. I view blogging as practice. Do musicians get paid every time they practice? Do painters get their money back for acrylic wasted on a canvas with a piece that turned out really shitty? No. So why should I get paid for something I choose to do on my own volition? I will say if I'm asked to write something (that'll be the day), I would expect some compensation. But until then, I don't mind spending my waking, caffeine-addled hours chipping away at the keys of this laptop and converting it all into a magical world of 1s and 0s for your reading pleasure.

Now if you'll excuse me, it's time to go put on some pants. 

Here's more routines from famous writers. Surprise, I identify with Miller the most out of these.

Who Pays Writers?

Mark Rothko, Orange and Yellow (1956)

I keep seeing links to this site popping up in my twitter feed. Who Pays Writers? offers writers a chance to anonymously post what websites pay them for pieces, "intended to be informational, not judgmental." In addition to this, we have two points of view of a person who chooses to write for free and that of one who never does. And at the same time, we have two profiles of a day in the life of a freelance journalist in 2013 as well a day in the life of a digital editor at the Atlantic. Finally, an online conversation has been evolving between various people in charge of writer pay rates at well known websites (the Awl, Boing Boing, the Observer, the Atlantic, etc.) and a general discussion of how much a writer should get paid.

As someone with an interest in writing but with no educational background in any form of it (creative or journalistic), I recognize I am already a step behind every other person I have to compete with in either of these fields. I have few connections to people that can support, cultivate, motivate, edit, whatever to my work. Essentially, this is why I have to write for free. Perhaps it is naive on my part, maybe I really am the greatest fucking writer ever and I'm making a huge mistake by not putting myself out there and depriving the world of my unique perspective and keen social wit. Unfortunately, I have little to no ego, so I'm going to assume this is not the case. 

The thing is, I don't really have a problem writing for free right now. I try not to spread myself all over. I could probably have been on a bunch of online publications by now, but I have chosen to stick by a certain few, developing more of a relationship with my editors and fellow writers, instead of jumping from unknown site to unknown site. I think of "Better know nothing than half-know many things" and Badiou's philosophy of commitment and fidelity. 

Perhaps I'm also more patient than I realize. I have time to "make it" as a writer. I have time to go back to school to get a graduate degree. For right now I can work a part-time job that allows me to live in a city that I love, to attend cultural events, to work these writing gigs that aren't entirely without their perks, to take time off to travel, to expand my life experiences before I devote myself entirely to the written/typed word.

I'm also allowed more time before the inevitbale reality of repeated rejection. Right now I am a blank slate, free to explore any silly little ideas that creep into my mind, without a history to remain consistent with (not that I have ever worried about that; "with consistency a great soul has simply nothing to do;" not that I believe in a soul; sorry, tangent).

There is no question that we live in a time where there is more written content than ever before, more writers, and more people that think they're writers. I am currently reading A Tale for the Time Being by Ruth Ozeki, and she quotes Milan Kundera from Book of Laughter and Forgetting (1980): "Once the writer in every individual comes to life (and that time isn't far off), we are in for an age of universal deafness and lack of understanding." That was written in Nineteen-Fucking-Eighty. How prophetic. I want to attain that ability to be so perceptive. Which is part of why I continue to read more than I write. Essentially, I only write in order to read more. Which is why I propose this: somebody pay me to read. It would be much more preferable to writing. I wouldn't have to get into that whole messy business of revealing who I am to the world, exposing my innermost skeletons and shedding light on the darkness that the world inevitably creates in every single human being. I could just read! I wouldn't even need to be paid that much. So let's stop worrying about how much to pay you writers and start worrying how much to pay me, your reader.