Sometimes one feeds on the art of others. During busy times it becomes grazing--poking around to see what might satisfy an urge, balance out an exhaustion, offer up sweetness. This has been a time of grazing, balancing out the intensity of teaching. On my bedside table, just to settle me, as I really do not read in bed:
The Pilgrim Hawk by Glenway Wescott, given to me last summer by the brilliant English writer Sarah Salway, a book I didn't know, my bad--and now I have hunted down all his work and have a stack of it. I'm reading it, one paragraph at a time, again.
A Regular Guy by Mona Simpson. I have read this one a few times, it has some scenes that are breathtaking. There is some Steve Jobs in this book but never mind that. Mona is great.
What I Talk About When I Talk About Running by Haruki Murakami. This is a very loose book, loose in the writing, maybe a runner's stretching. It is the only Murakami I have ever read. Larry Dark is reading 1Q84, which is heavy enough to break a few bones.
( ) Hold Everything Dear by John Berger. I love him and always feel braced when I read him. And sad.
Native Speaker by Chang-Rae Lee. I am teaching it again, both in my undergrad course and as a book to discuss in an independent study with an MFA student. So I have read it twice again in the last four months and listened to the audio book. All the stitching and hemming and basting has become very clear to me, but seeing how it is put together hasn't ruined it--this is a good book. IMHO Mr Lee is a great writer. The conceit of this book is very smart indeed--the man figured out a way to write about the alienation of first generation Americans metaphorically. I shall not give the plot away because the small mysteries at the beginning are best experienced. I am not sure if this book really moves me, or if I am jarred by it--the many beautiful sentences and the moments of wisdom have yet to make me cry or ache, but I remember them. I stand in relation to the book much as Lelia, the wife, stands in relation to the protagonist, Henry Park--I make lists of observations about it, I find it a turn on, I pick up on its accent in spite of its effort to be undetectable, and I want it to feel for me as I feel for it, but we're not quite there yet. Maybe that will happen when I teach it yet again.
I needed to graze some art today so went with a pal to Asbury Park to see the Shepard Fairey, a.k.a Obey, wheat pastes and murals recently put up around town. They were like old blacklight posters. Very very fun stuff that hit the spot. And the ocean churned wildly! Wind blew hard down the boardwalk! Thrilling.
Shepard Fairey
Saturday, November 5, 2011
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Hours and Hours
When I was young I used to read all day. The habit began because of a fear. In the summer of age eight I refused to go to the beach because of a man who terrified me. When I saw him I lost all sense of breath and safety and sometimes fainted. Soon enough it was decided I could stay back at the house--even if the adults thought it a waste of beautiful beach days. Having a near death experience on a daily basis rendered me oblivious to anything beautiful about the beach. So while everyone else went off I stayed home and read.
I lay on an old horsehair sofa on the upstairs porch and raced through book after book--sometimes three in a day. I kept a list of all the books and handed it to my teacher on the first day of school. I was proud of the numbers but more than that I'd created a waking dream space inside myself where hours could pass without my noting time. Look down at the book at 9 a.m.; look up and it is lunchtime. Same for the afternoon. I could spend hours doing other things with equal engagement but I never lost sense of time in the same way. In my reading I traveled to the world of the characters who did not live in time. A scene could take me a minute to read but I'd know it took an hour to live. Weeks might pass in a nanosecond. Nothing was the same as in my world. This going back and forth between temporal realities offered a pleasure and a release from the boredom of child time--waiting and waiting. I could go into books and get away from that oppressive constraint. Not to mention being entertained and surprised. Books didn't hurt me or cause me turmoil or sorrow. I didn't cry unless I wanted to. I could choose to participate in the author's prompt for tears--or I could skip the pages if I didn't want to feel that way in a particular moment. I had I had a sense of my own agency when I read in a way I had nowhere else.
Now over to writing. How much time? How lost must one be in time and to time? Every writer has to figure this out for herself but from anecdotal evidence it seems that the more time is set as aside and given over the deeper and one is able to go. What's down deep? The symbols; the metaphors; the intuitive connections drawn between words and therefore characters. The skips in time. What is necessary. At some point during the creation of a work the writer must enter timelessness in the same sense as the reader. Most writers have an inkling that this must be true: therefore all the questions at readings about how many hours a day a writer works. This is not a dumb or pedestrian question. It's trying to get at how the magic happens. Though the answer is individual it is useful to hear the experience of others. When do you begin to lose sense of yourself in the world and give yourself over to the work? That's interesting isn't it?
Every writer I know is frustrated when he doesn't have the necessary time. Many wait until they do because grabbing time in between more pressing daily matters ends up being unproductive and can convince you that you cannot write. It can offer the physical release that writers need--the hand gets very dependent on daily exercise--but it's not going to get where the work wants to really happen.
That sensation of timelessness on the part of the artist occurs at some point in the process of creation of all good art.
I used to teach dailiness and habit but now I encourage time. Take a day. Take a weekend. Stay up all night. You remember what that was like. Light the candles. Close the door. Lose track.
That was my plan for today. Unfortunately ...
I lay on an old horsehair sofa on the upstairs porch and raced through book after book--sometimes three in a day. I kept a list of all the books and handed it to my teacher on the first day of school. I was proud of the numbers but more than that I'd created a waking dream space inside myself where hours could pass without my noting time. Look down at the book at 9 a.m.; look up and it is lunchtime. Same for the afternoon. I could spend hours doing other things with equal engagement but I never lost sense of time in the same way. In my reading I traveled to the world of the characters who did not live in time. A scene could take me a minute to read but I'd know it took an hour to live. Weeks might pass in a nanosecond. Nothing was the same as in my world. This going back and forth between temporal realities offered a pleasure and a release from the boredom of child time--waiting and waiting. I could go into books and get away from that oppressive constraint. Not to mention being entertained and surprised. Books didn't hurt me or cause me turmoil or sorrow. I didn't cry unless I wanted to. I could choose to participate in the author's prompt for tears--or I could skip the pages if I didn't want to feel that way in a particular moment. I had I had a sense of my own agency when I read in a way I had nowhere else.
Now over to writing. How much time? How lost must one be in time and to time? Every writer has to figure this out for herself but from anecdotal evidence it seems that the more time is set as aside and given over the deeper and one is able to go. What's down deep? The symbols; the metaphors; the intuitive connections drawn between words and therefore characters. The skips in time. What is necessary. At some point during the creation of a work the writer must enter timelessness in the same sense as the reader. Most writers have an inkling that this must be true: therefore all the questions at readings about how many hours a day a writer works. This is not a dumb or pedestrian question. It's trying to get at how the magic happens. Though the answer is individual it is useful to hear the experience of others. When do you begin to lose sense of yourself in the world and give yourself over to the work? That's interesting isn't it?
Every writer I know is frustrated when he doesn't have the necessary time. Many wait until they do because grabbing time in between more pressing daily matters ends up being unproductive and can convince you that you cannot write. It can offer the physical release that writers need--the hand gets very dependent on daily exercise--but it's not going to get where the work wants to really happen.
That sensation of timelessness on the part of the artist occurs at some point in the process of creation of all good art.
I used to teach dailiness and habit but now I encourage time. Take a day. Take a weekend. Stay up all night. You remember what that was like. Light the candles. Close the door. Lose track.
That was my plan for today. Unfortunately ...
Saturday, September 24, 2011
It Was There All Along
The plot. A plot. To plot.
Some people are born with an innate sense of how to do this and don't think about it at all. For example in Stephen King's otherwise quite enjoyable writing book http://amzn.to/oH47BQ he says very little about plot; I believe he goes so far as to say he doesn't plot (I don't have the book here to check.) Yet he does. He writes plots that keep those pages turning and the money flowing. Every twist he takes on his way to the ending resounds with a ka-ching!
Other people need to learn how to plot. It's a point of craft that can be learned--a good answer to all those many who say MFAs are useless and writing cannot be taught. Plot can be taught; practiced; mastered. Amendment--the basics can be mastered. A great plot is a great theme is a great mind. A great mind is a combination of intelligence and self-honesty. Howevs--I would say that learning to plot is a way of developing the self and the mind because it's a way of organizing and choosing that asks for a lot of thought--deep thought. When you are in deep thought you have an opportunity to cast a glance sideways at your emotions and defenses and see what's up. I guess I'd say that self-development for an artist is different than self-development for a monk or a nun--the goal is different. The goal isn't to exfoliate and polish the inside for a God. The goal is to be realistic about what it means to be human. This is why a lot of great artists are also great jerks--one can be a bit too pleased with one's impulses. No harm in seeing oneself clearly but acting a little good.
One reason plotting is a skill to be learned is that in life we are fascinated by complexity so to shift over to simplicity is counter-intuitive to what we think writing is supposed to be about. Aren't we representing the complexity? Not exactly. We're playing off it; pointing to it; asking the reader to remember it exists--but we're working above all with a math formula--not a camera or a paintbrush. This isn't obvious in great books because the math is hidden beneath layers of description characterization scene setting etc. And...everything the author wants to say. Ideally the math disappears for the reader and the characters come alive. But the math has to be there. The math is always there--in the most experimental books it's another formula but it's there. The math is the safe place for an author. Once it's in place the paintbrush can be brought out.
I think though that the basic shape of a plot does exist internally in the drama of how our minds and bodies work. This is why there is a universal response to the basic plot formula. It doesn't only represent the raw experience of the world; it corresponds with our interior patterns. We are living our insides all the time. Whether or not we stop to notice we know.
So learning about plot from a teacher is like learning about who we are from a shrink. There is a mirror involved--maybe not a looking glass. Let's say a reflector.
Some people are born with an innate sense of how to do this and don't think about it at all. For example in Stephen King's otherwise quite enjoyable writing book http://amzn.to/oH47BQ he says very little about plot; I believe he goes so far as to say he doesn't plot (I don't have the book here to check.) Yet he does. He writes plots that keep those pages turning and the money flowing. Every twist he takes on his way to the ending resounds with a ka-ching!
Other people need to learn how to plot. It's a point of craft that can be learned--a good answer to all those many who say MFAs are useless and writing cannot be taught. Plot can be taught; practiced; mastered. Amendment--the basics can be mastered. A great plot is a great theme is a great mind. A great mind is a combination of intelligence and self-honesty. Howevs--I would say that learning to plot is a way of developing the self and the mind because it's a way of organizing and choosing that asks for a lot of thought--deep thought. When you are in deep thought you have an opportunity to cast a glance sideways at your emotions and defenses and see what's up. I guess I'd say that self-development for an artist is different than self-development for a monk or a nun--the goal is different. The goal isn't to exfoliate and polish the inside for a God. The goal is to be realistic about what it means to be human. This is why a lot of great artists are also great jerks--one can be a bit too pleased with one's impulses. No harm in seeing oneself clearly but acting a little good.
One reason plotting is a skill to be learned is that in life we are fascinated by complexity so to shift over to simplicity is counter-intuitive to what we think writing is supposed to be about. Aren't we representing the complexity? Not exactly. We're playing off it; pointing to it; asking the reader to remember it exists--but we're working above all with a math formula--not a camera or a paintbrush. This isn't obvious in great books because the math is hidden beneath layers of description characterization scene setting etc. And...everything the author wants to say. Ideally the math disappears for the reader and the characters come alive. But the math has to be there. The math is always there--in the most experimental books it's another formula but it's there. The math is the safe place for an author. Once it's in place the paintbrush can be brought out.
I think though that the basic shape of a plot does exist internally in the drama of how our minds and bodies work. This is why there is a universal response to the basic plot formula. It doesn't only represent the raw experience of the world; it corresponds with our interior patterns. We are living our insides all the time. Whether or not we stop to notice we know.
So learning about plot from a teacher is like learning about who we are from a shrink. There is a mirror involved--maybe not a looking glass. Let's say a reflector.
 |
| Shane Ruminating On Her Tail |
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Four Hours in Philly
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
The Misbehaving Chimney
I am taking a break from mopping up the basement. It has been a busy morning here at Dark Corners, beginning with a big CRACK at around 7 a.m. What could that be? Hmmm...
We live on a county road, so a guy was here early inspecting the damage. The tree completely blocked passage, so if you were an ambulance or a firetruck and you wanted to zoom along toward the hospital, or either other end of town, you'd have to carve a less direct route along other streets. You'd be slowed down, maybe disastrously. This is a SNOW route! Serious county business. Not a problem to be ignored for long.
It is the kind of problem, too, that requires everyone to come out of their houses and stand around and discuss, and ponder, even your basement is filled with water--or, let me testify, especially then. One neighbor lost power because of the fallen tree. The lines were wrapped all around it, as if the wind had taken its best advantage of the moment of tiiimmmbbbeeerrrrr......Whipping and twisting a hairstyle.
Someone made the powerless person coffee. Neighbors neighbored.
(Me too! It was still during the pouring hours when I got to help saw up some big branches off another neighbor's car. They couldn't, because of health problems. It wasn't heroic but it did feel like that old America where people built barns together. Oh, that reminds me...time to watch Cold Mountain again.)
Now we are moving stuff we moved yesterday to get at all the water on the basement floor. Amazing finds! All my Beatle records, my summer clothes (September is hot, right?), a pair of boots someone had left here and has longed for for years, a beautiful pair of Agnes B. suit pants, and the Christmas Rudolph action figure and tree lights. Also--a dumpster's worth of stuff that needs to go away forever.
I thought, as I always do, of Cape May, and all the hurricanes, tropicaal storms, and Noreasters I lived through there. The Coast Guard would come along New Jersey Ave with a bull horn telling everyone to evacuate. Sometimes they were in a truck, and sometimes, if the ocean had already poured over the sea wall, they came in a little motor boat. Grandad stood on the porch, drink in hand, and suggested they come join him instead. His posture of going down with the ship was mimicked along our row of houses, and all around the town. The Coast Guard seemed to respect this stalwart attitude. I think. Now it is very different, since Katrina. I also think I didn't know enough to be scared. I wasn't being given scared cues. I was a child, watching something new happen.
During the Noreaster of 1962, a house near ours washed away.
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| The house that washed away. Our old house is behind it on the far right. |
My grandmother would come to the door every few minutes. "Come inside!" She'd jerk her hand back toward the interior, and looked vexed and perplexed. Why would anyone want to be outside at such a time? Grandad and I said "Soon." Not meaning it.
He went out though, unfairly. I glared at him from the porch as he visored his eyes and looked up at the damage. "Hey, why do you get to be on the lawn?"
"Wait for Ashton," he said--his friend, the fireman. "When he says it's safe, you can go out."
It took three days. Pure torment.
What did I do at noon today? Called my boy and told him not to wade in deep street water, there could be electric currents from downed wires. I was out in the rain, though. Now I'm the adult.
These old photos are from the CMHS.
These old photos are from the CMHS.
Postscript: It seemed as though it was over. The rain stopped; the sun shone. Then more wind, fantastical tree bending wind. A big branch took all our wires down. So much for the romance of a storm. Four days in the dark, until today when the manly men of PSEG came and hooked me up. I am lucky, but I feel very concerned for those who still have no power, or are flooded out of their houses--and as always, the animals. What happened to all my chipmunks and moles? What happens? Why am I still not convinced to turn against storms?
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