my boys
i’m really amazed right now at what’s happening to me. i’m becoming a father. i care about these two little boys so much. there’s nothing in my experience to even compare it to. to use words to say you don’t have the words, is that o.k.? especially for someone who believes he has some writing talent. but back to the point. am i a great father? no. but i’m o.k. being home with them every day, day wouldn’t be possible for me. not just financially. i don’t think i could do it. i think my need for ‘peace’ and how i define that is too selfish. work actually is starting to be interesting, and i have to think closely about what i want to do next. writing full time might be an option, but that would come with sacrifices. but the might be sacrifices i’m o.k. with making. i have to do some laundry (mine, my wife’s and some for the boys.)
But Do You Want It?
Last night I went out after work with some people. They were friends, mostly, from work. I talked about reading and writing and books. Questions like: What is your favorite book? Hard to answer, and I probably sounded like a snob in my reaction. That’s a tough question. Pretending to be offended by the philistine that would ask such a question. But I wasn’t offended. Adrienne asked the question, just out of curiosity. Brian handled it well; he’s a smart guy. I didn’t handle it so well. My reaction, my initial non-answer created the illusion that Oh I’ve Read So Many, Oh My Brain Is Such A Burden, You’re Asking Me to Show You The Finest Grain of Sand On Our Planet. I’m an ass sometimes. I got better. But at that point I wasn’t proud of myself, because I didn’t need to show off, or whatever I was doing. Adrienne’s smart, probably smarter than me in some ways. I answered with The Great Gatsby.
Later, Linda revealed to me that she has a secret desire to write. I told her some stuff about me. More than I’ve even told my wife at this point. I want to chuck it all and write a novel. Something entertaining, but with substance. I told her I write every day, which is true. Sometimes it’s just Dear Diary crap, but I’m getting stuff on the page. Linda was impressed, but I don’t really think she should be. Anyone, I think, can explode words on a page. But I guess that’s still a good thing. I don’t think to write you need to (necessarily) write for others. Obviously, to make a living you do. But Get Black on White. Want it. Exercise your writerly muscle with some Dear Diary crap, or floating character sketches or non-sequitors out the yin yang. I should buy Linda a Moleskine.
The Writer’s Life
Am I about to embark? I don’t know. I’ve got an opportunity, or I will have an opportunity soon, to take a big risk. I’ve got two kids. I’ve got a fat mortgage. Do I put it (somewhat) on the line to try and make a living writing? Part of me thinks I have to, because it’s the only thing I think I might know how to do. I haven’t shown anyone anything, but I have a few creations that might become something. They need work. They need focus. But I like parts of them. I’ve got some things to learn, but there are some things I know better than most. I’m old. I’m experienced. And recently I’m so lacking of motivation int he corporate world that it’s almost sick that they pay me. It’s time for a big change. It begins this year. I probably need to talk to my wife.
meta fiction paul auster
3/6/2008 - and this morning i finished paul auster’s book of illusions. it’s an interesting story, and i understand that it explores the meaning of creativity and art and ’story.’ but you’ve got to wonder. why is it so well-received? i think the whole thing happened in the crazy head of author. it’s a wheel inside a wheel. which i hadn’t thought about until now. there’s a story inside a story inside a story. it’s kind of clever that way. the protagonist, david, is fucking nuts. alma never came to his house. he never went to new mexico. that’s the joke. there’s got to be a hint of this somewhere in the text. a woman with a gun comes to his house? it doesn’t make sense. there was no alma. there was no frieda. nothing that happened after makes any sense, it’s too incredible. he wrote a book about a guy who made movies. that’s the only ‘truth’ in the novel. auster is exploring the limits of what we will believe within what an author creates within a story ‘reality.’ it’s a trick in a sense. horace mann existed, but he didn’t go to spokane or sandusky or new mexico. he did something else. and we don’t know what. and neither does david. and neither does paul auster. i like it more now, writing this thing than i did when i was reading it.
Hills Like White Elephant Poop
I just read Hills Like White Elephants by Ernest Hemingway. Probably the twentieth time I’ve read it. Why did I ever think this was a great story? Hemingway was such a romantic dick. He’s so over-rated, it kills me. Living in Paris in the 1920’s, drinking a lot, hanging out with self-indulgent expatriates, it all sounds pretty cool to be honest. But then he writes a story about two totally unlikable people. I want to re-name the story Rich Selfish Americans Waiting for a Train Hoping to Continue Treating Europe Like One Big Interactive Tourist Experience. What a fucking jackass Hemingway must have been. I know we’re not supposed to like the male character, and we’re supposed to sympathize with the female character, but come on. She’s weak. Neither one wants to take responsibility for their actions. “God, if you would only have an abortion,” he tells her in not so many words, “then we could get back to drinking with our friends and going to bullfights.” And while it’s not clear what she decides in the end (I think she makes up her mind to give up the baby, but I’m not 100% on that), if she had any spine at all, she would say fuck you, don’t call me, I’m going back to Omaha and I’m going to have this thing. But she doesn’t. I don’t know, maybe Hemingway was a Jackass, but this sparse little story has a lot packed into it. I guess I should back off a little, because it was 1927 (or somewhere before that) and oh well.
Who Gives a Fuck About An Oxford Comma?
The best song about grammar is Oxford Comma by Vampire Weekend. It’s not totally about grammar, I don’t think. It’s more about letting go, I think and just living your life without stupid small petty shit like lying to pump yourself up. How can it be worth your time and energy to pretend to be better than other people. The song makes me laugh. Why would you speak to me that way? the singer asks. Why put on airs? Oh no, now I have to look up that idiom and get some history on why it’s ‘airs’ you put on.
Tishomingo Blues by Elmore Leonard
Everyone tells me to read Elmore Leonard. I never had. Good escapist crime fiction, is what everyone says. I read Tishomingo Blues, and it was o.k. It’s not intended to be literature, so I guess I have to judge it differently from other stories. It’s described as a masterpiece, as a great crime fiction novel, but I’m not sure why.
I’m guessing it’s more fun than most crime fiction, but since I really haven’t read much I really don’t have a benchmark. Leonard isn’t one of those procedural crime nerd writers, not by a long shot. He keeps the story moving and is very good at spare writing and keeping the story going. He’s good at quickly giving you a feel for a character and what motivates them. He creates broadstrokes of characters that make them just believable enough to give the reader what he needs to know where the character fits.
Tishomingo Blues isn’t a masterpiece in my eyes, but it was fun like a 1970’s funky noir movie. I don’t even know if that concept exists, but it’s the only tool I have to describe it. He’s a good writer, and he probably can crank one or two of these out a year and entertain the hell out of the faithful. I’m not convinced he’s a genius. But there’s one thing he might do better than almost anyone else: Make you laugh but keep the suspense hanging. And I thought I was really smart and thought I’d mapped out the plot outcome about half way through. I was right about the path taken by protagonist diver character (except for the last minute love interest Leonard threw in). In this story, Leonard made it easy for you to know who The Good Bad Guys are, and The Bad Bad Guys are. I was ready for the The Good Bad Guys to somehow win, but I wasn’t sure how that would happen. I knew that it would climax at this weird Civil War re-enactment evnet that he kept building up (GUNS! STUPID SOUTHERN CRIMINALS!! LIQUOR!!!). And I must admit, it was an entertaining ending, and a little surprising. But the Good Bad Guys didn’t really take any hard hits, except for the un-sophisticated old school mob neanderthal guy that Leonard made you dislike from the get-go. I guess in Elmore Leonard’s world, drug dealers that dress well from the north are better than in-bred drug dealers from the south.
Anyway, if you still think Pulp Fiction is a great movie, then you would probably like Tishomingo Blues. Leonard probably doesn’t deserve that, but he probably also doesn’t deserve to be called a genius either.
