Counterbalance

DFW On the Installment Plan - Installment Three: The Things We Do For Love

The microphone was handed over heads and around chairs...as people craned their necks to see...and even before the painful reality of the moment set in, Lovely #1 was given the microphone.  Now, mind you, Lovely #1 was a man.  But no matter -- he met all of the Lovely contingent criteria.  While he may not have been applying lipgloss and clacking about the arctic courtyard in his high heels and formal short shorts, he was playing with his hair-gelled hair, secretly wondering if his highlights were still showing and worrying about the cut and colour of his cashmere sweater. Possibly, he even had a dab of Khiel's lip balm on.  It was hard to tell from my front/centerish seat.

Feigning intelligence with a low, serious, challenging tone, Lovely #1 said something like: "You mention that you go to church in the piece you just read. Religion plays an important role in my life. I'm wondering what role religion plays in your life, what it means to you, and how it applies to your work."  Now.  I won't just come out and say this is a bad question.  I'm just going to say that with only ten minutes for a full question & answer session -- with a writer who rarely appears in public -- it would seem that asking him the meaning of the universe or why the sky is blue might not be the best course one could take.  It would seem a bit...hogging the writerish. But that's just me.  The audience, however, did seem to agree with my reasoning.  There were audible groans.  Most notably, from Mr. DFW himself.  This is when I started to just plain swoon (smitten as a by-product).

DFW (not an exact quote, obviously): Well, hmmm.  (Eye rolling, a bit of mock shock and mostly, looking at us like "You see! THIS is why I don't like to do readings!):  Why don't I just ask what role religion plays in your life.  Kind of like saying "ditto" to you. Sort of like a test.  They always give you a sample answer on tests.  Why don't you give me a sample answer of what you're looking for and then I'll answer...because clearly depending on the role religion plays in your life, you are going to be looking for a specific kind of answer from me.  I'd hate to get it wrong.

The audience was a bit surprised.  DFW is sassy.  There's no other way to say it. His quick quip drew smiles and laughter.  Also, a bit of nervousness.  How was Lovely #1 going to reply?  I hoped he would laugh a bit too.  Realize the silliness of such a serious question in this venue. But, of course, as the Lovelies take themselves WAY too seriously, he replied, in earnest (can you feel the collective cringe?): "Well, I'm not religious per se...but religion is very important to me. All of my friends and all of my family are very liberal people, and I agree with most of what they say. Yet...yet.  Well. Um. (Here people started sitting up in their seats, friends were rolling eyes at friends. No one could believe this guy was really going to spend our ten minutes thinking aloud....but it appeared that was what he intended to do.) Yet....well....um.  Well. I think its important to spend time among people who see things differently from you, to find a community outside your own community, if you will. Even if you don't believe every tenet of religion, that community is important. Seeing how other people are joined together by something that you question is important to me." (And, yes, as you may have guessed, some Lovelies have a depth we cannot anticipate.  The cliche of not judging a book by its cover and all that...)

DFW: Ditto.  (Audience laughs loudly.) No, really ditto. I asked for sample answer and your answer is how I would have answered.  (More audience laughter. Then...) Gosh, I guess I just killed it for anyone else who was going to ask a question right? I won't answer them all like that.

Now, I get the point. It DID surprise me to learn that DFW went to church on a regular basis, although he does mention in the piece he read from that in Bloomington, Illinois, there are so many churches "there are even churches for agnostics."  I found it surprising that someone so clearly liberal in so many ways would find community in a church.  My own strong feelings aside, and not willing to incite any religious wars in blogdom or elseware, I thought this exchange was interesting.  What I realized was that as cheeky as DFW was with his "ditto", he did agree with this person.  Which was unexpected. Because as soon as Lovely #1 asked the question, we all hated him. Hair-gelled-lovely ruining all the fun with some question -- to a liberal writer -- about church! But then, strangely, DFW made it work. And I glimpsed, for a second, the workings of the man that he is.  He seeks understanding and community in unexpected places, looking to understand those that he does not understand.  Perhaps now you see why I swoon. Then the funny comment about more questions. Swoon. Swoon. Swooning.

With the first uncomfortable question out of the way, the audience relaxed. Maybe now we would get to proper stuff like writing process and influences and inspirations.  Yet as a hybrid of Lovely + Hollywood Type raised his hand, it quickly became clear that was not to be.  Lovely (masquerading as hollywood type) #2: "You know, I listen to you now and I hear you say you go to church...but...I don't see any evidence of your religious views in your writing." The audience audibly groaned at this point...even the other Lovelies realized this was too much.  The man comes down from the mountain (no religious pun intended) to give a reading, a brilliant reading from his brilliant work...and you are badgering him about his religious beliefs#?!?#?!@@?! Lovely #2 went on: "You know, I've read everything you've ever written (lovely masquerading as hollywood type masquerading as booklugger) and I can't think of one instance in which you address religion at all.  Why do you think that is?" 

The attitude. The swagger. The righteousness.  I was stunned.  If people treat DFW like this, how do they treat Richard Paul Evans (whose writing, I, personally, do despise and I'm not afraid to say it.)  The whining.  The snot-nosed I-know-your-work-better-than-you-do vibe was too much. Perhaps DFW incites this kind of attitude because he is difficult to understand, requires much of his readers?

DFW seemed to agree: Actually, you are wrong.  I won't go into too much detail for those who either didn't read it or who won't get the reference, but in Infinite Jest, I believe there is a character who struggles with religion and praying and realizing that what he has prayed for doesn't happen.  He then has to deal with his disillusionment. That pretty much tracks with my own life experience with religion.

Lovely #2 has the gall to actually mumble under his (microphoned) breath: Hmmm, I don't see it. I've read everything, and I don't see it at all.

Shock and awe (to borrow a phrase from our "presidency") prevailed.  Even the i'm-just-here-to-be-seen people in the audience knew this was too much.  You can't sass the writer.  Can you? I certainly wouldn't.  The whole thing seemed to have gotten off track somehow. I began to hope that the hip Hammer museum people in their black clothing, hand-hammered necklaces and hemp caps could suss out the situation and hand the mike to someone with some sense...but...no. Lovely #3 was handed the microphone.  The audience waited.  Hoping that we could, finally, get on with it now. Surely after two religious questions and DFW's reactions, even the most inane person could see we needed to get to the meat of it now. We only had mere minutes left. 

Lovely #3: "What do you have to say about the latest James Frey controversy?"

Um, let me get this straight. We are here to talk about HIS work -- the work of David Foster Wallace -- the man who is actually standing at the front of the room, after reading his OWN work...and you want to talk about someone else's work, someone else's book? It was so self-important too.  As if she was just trying to prove that she knew how to read a newspaper.  But DFW got her back.

DFW (again, all quotes are vaguely recollected): Hmmm.  Well. I've not read the book at all. So you are asking me to comment on something that I'm not familiar with. Having said that, I, well. Hmmm. I don't want to speak out of turn. I, I'm not in a position to....hmmm. He struggled here.  Harumphed a bit.

If I swooned before, it was here that I just plain fell in love with him in earnest.  If you take away anything from his writing, anything from who he is as a person...it should be this: He cares so much about speaking clearly, accurately...precisely.  He will stop in the middle of a sentence to correct a word and insert another instead. Another word that is just a tad more accurate, more precise.  Writers, take note.  This is what writing is about.  We have all the words in the universe available to us.  We must choose the ones that best suit the moment, the meaning we are trying to convey. DFW is a living example of this.

DFW continued: If you are talking about the line between fiction and memoir, there definitely is one. With journalists, for example, there is a very distinct one and whole teams of lawyers exist to ensure that line is not crossed. But if you are talking about memoir and thinking about how one can look back on their life and accurately remember every detail correctly -- what colour shirt they wore that day and what the sun looked like -- you would have to be foolish to expect every single detail to be 100% accurate in an autobiography.  There is a line there, but there is also a relationship with the reader.  You have to be careful.  But see, now, you have me talking about a book which I haven't read.  Talking about something I don't know. Giving second hand information. This is how much I don't know about this book: someone I care about listened to it on CD. 

Lovely #3 continued (yes! continued! don't these people understand the etiquette of the writer Q/A in which they are only allowed one question, not one question with sub-questions?):"So you don't have any comment on Frey's denouncing 12-step programs like Alcoholics Anonymous in his book even though people who are reading his book are using it as a way to get through addiction themselves?"  Now, it could be just me, but she seemed to be implying that the 12-step stuff should have particular resonance with DFW.  It was odd. Combative, even. And either way, huh? Are you seriously asking this question? Perhaps you think you are at a different reading. One, possibly, involving James Frey? At this point, whole sections of the audience had their mouths wide open in horror.  Strangers were rolling their eyes at each other.

DFW: "Has any 12-step program gone on record about this book and their concern?"

Lovely #3: "No."

DFW: "Why do you think that is?"

Lovely #3: "Um. Um."

DFW: I'm thinking the "Anonymous" part has something to do with it.

I'll say it again. DFW is sassy.  The audience laughed.  Lovely #3 did not. She probably turned red but it was tough to tell with all that makeup.  DFW said something about her being so much younger than him so she probably wouldn't understand. She cut him off and said "No, I'm older than you."  He then quipped "Hmm. You are well-preserved then." Much laughter ensued. True to his writerly need for accuracy in words, DFW did me proud. Preserved was the most correct word he could have used, implying both a well-kept-botoxness yet also a deadness...as a corpse can be deemed well-preserved upon burial.  She was lifeless and he knew it. His phrasing was subtle yet not. She took it as a complement, yet he implied something more sinister. I wanted to kiss him.

With two minutes left, the audience scanned the crowd.  Hammer-museum guy held the microphone up and cocked his head to one side as if to ask, without speaking, if anyone else had a question. It was clear they were wrapping things up. My heart was beating quickly.  Pounding in my ears. Should I ask a question? Surely we couldn't leave without someone asking something of value, interest, intrigue? Something worthy of the writer's response. But what would I ask? What would I say? I had been so busy silently communing with DFW and rolling my eyes at the Lovelies that I didn't have a proper thought in my head.  I shot my arm up anyway.  Smitten + love clearly equals insanity. Hip Hammer-guy locked eyes with mine and began making his way through the crowd, microphone held high...

DFW On the Installment Plan - Installment Two: Consider Me Smitten-Humbled-Smitten

I was so cold when I finally got in (Yes! I got in, I got in. Seriously you guys, did you think there would be installments if I didn't?) that I couldn't remember my own name for the first 1/2 hour.  All I could do was select my spot, nearish to the front and centerish, and focus on stopping my chattering teeth from chattering and coaxing my frozen block of ice toes to thaw and separate.  Once I was able to think of something other than myself, I was pleased to find that there were many, many others who were filing in after me.  The early arctic expedition had paid off.  I was in, I was seated, and I would even be able to see him at the lecturn when he appeared to grace us with his words.

Of course, even this considerably warmer sitting and waiting was not without previously outlined types flitting about, doing their thing.  People were saving seats for people who had not yet arrived (as in, had not even bothered to come and wait in line) and, true to LA function rules, these seemingly-somebodies did get to edge in, before everyone else still outside, to claim these saved seats.  Irritating, as a word, does not quite capture the feeling.  Loathsome is more to the point.  Coffee and hot chocolate were available from somewhere in the back.  I knew this because I could see people bringing it forth, balancing four or five cups, to hand out to the already warm friends who had arrived just in time to miss the arctic outside waiting.  As I was not with any friends who could do the coffee running and as I was in no frame of mind to risk losing my front-centerish seat, I took myself to a zen-happy-buddha "emptiness is good" place that would protect me from the pain of realizing how much I needed that coffee to warm me up but how impossible it would be for me to secure said coffee.

An announcement was made by someone official.  A flattering introduction was made.  Some words to the effect of "greatest living writer of our generation" were put out there.  And then, poof, he appeared from behind the black curtain.  David Foster Wallace in all his long-haired, black-booted, blue jeans, "golly gee am I that smart?" glory.  All contingents in the crowd quieted at once.  It seemed even they understood the need to stop primping and impressing and air-kissing and talking loudly of their other readerly, writerly, producerly sucesses.  A delicious moment of silence followed, pregnant with all the expectation each of us had placed on the words that were about to be spoken.  And then, they were.

David began, in his nervous "i don't like public speaking" kind of way, to thank the introducer for such an embarassingly nice introduction and to fumble through some notes about the work he was going to read.  Endearing, I must say.  If it is a ruse, an act, I don't care. I'm hooked and he's only two minutes into his talk.  David explained that he was going to read a piece from his new book of essays Consider the Lobster.  The piece was something he was asked to write by Rolling Stone after 9/11and as it was due only a few short days after he was asked to write it, it was created quickly, in a dash of insight and reflection in a still murky time (not having the clarity of a few weeks or months or years perspective on it) -- the result being that he delivered the piece for publication, but he didn't feel it represented good work.  As such, he didn't like it for some time and only dusted it off, reconsidered it, and found it worthy when pulling pieces together for Consider the Lobster.

His quick notes were interesting, and perhaps said as much about him and his process and his awe-inpsiring attention to detail as anything else he has written. In particular, he wanted us to know that 1) he would be referring to 9/11 even as The Horror, 2) he refers to a certain convenience store as hideous because it is named: KWIK-N-EZ, and 3) that the piece is arranged in the manner of an early Victorian novel.  It was here, at this last point, that he mumbled to himself that perhaps this was not information we would be interested in and laughed a bit at himself. It is here that I became smitten, a sensation that could not be shaken throughout the reading or the ensuing days after the reading. To hell with Considering the Lobster. Consider Me Smitten.

The piece he began reading from was "The View from Mrs. Thompson's" -- a take on the few hours and days during and after the plane attacks when he watched the events unfold on a neighbor's TV in Bloomington, Illinois.  At once, you realize that all of your attempts to write something of depth tempered with humor are for naught.  You see, quickly, that you are a bit of a fraud. You come to understand that good writers notice every detail and find powerful meaning in them. He just does it so well.  Here is an excerpt from early on in the piece:

"Wednesday. Everyone has flags out. Homes, businesses. It's odd: you never see anybody putting out a flag, but by Wednesday morning there they all are.  Big flags, small, regular flag-sized flags. A lot of homeowners here have those special angled flag-holders by their front door, the kind whose brace takes four Phillips screws. Plus thousands of the little handheld flags-on-a-stick you normally see at parades -- some yards have dozens of these stuck in the ground all over, as if they'd somehow just sprouted overnight. Rural-road people attach the little flags to their mailboxes out by the street. A good number of vehicles have them wedged in their grille or attached to the antennae. Some upscale people have actual poles; their flags are at half-mast. More than a few large homes around Franklin Park even have enormous multistory flags hanging gonfalon-style down over their facades. It's a total mystery where people can buy flags this big or how they got them up there or when. .... Even a sort of half-collapsed house down the street that everybody thought was abandoned has one of the little flags on a stick in the weeds by the driveway...."

As he continued reading, his ability to make seemingly mundane observations make sense in a wider context is clear.  He hits the point home with:

"...on Wednesday here there's a weird accretive pressure to have a flag out. If the purpose of displaying a flag is to make a statement, it seems like at a certain point of density of flags you're making more of a statement if you don't have a flag out. Its not totally clear what statement this would be, though. What if you just don't happen to have a flag?"

He then detailed his own search for a flag after no flag could be found in Bloomington, until he takes the suggestion of the KWIK-N-EZ proprietor who "suggests construction paper and 'Magical Markers', which explains my now-beloved and proudly displayed homemade flag."  At this point, all contingents in the audience lovingly chuckled.  Regardless of why we came (to be seen, to prance about, or to hear him read his work and be inspired), everyone, in that moment, relaxed into their chairs, warmth in their bellies, slight smiles on their faces. This is the David Foster Wallace we came to see. The man who makes the simple even simpler, then more complex and then simple again, with new meaning attached.

Once the flag fiasco and potential philisophical meanings of the flag fiasco are behind him, he continues his piece about the events of 9/11 unfolding on the television screen at the home of a good friend and fellow churchgoer.   Laughter rang out in appropriately funny places.  Silence reigned in appropriately sad places.  I will not recount for you minute by ever passing minute of the reading -- but please know that were you there (no matter how you feel about 9/11, about Wallace's work, or about reading and writing in general) you could not help but be sucked into the vortex that is DFW.  To his minutely observed world and the collective meaning of such small, but important, observations.

As a writer, he reminds me to keep my eye ever open. To see the meaning in those small things.  It is the detail -- the flags and the not flags and what about the flags and how did they know to have flags on hand just in case -- that makes his prose come alive. In his hands, the seemingly mundane becomes the stuff of great storytelling.  I would do well to remember this in my own writing.  Other things that struck me as he continued to read:

• He tells the truth in his work. You hear this phrase bandied about a lot.  Writers are frequently told to tell the truth in their fiction (current events to the opposite not withstanding) -- so much so that it is cliche at this point. Yet, he embodies this in his prose and his fiction.  For the first time, I understand what this means. The truth of a situation (what it really means to have these flags out and what it means to the people who have put them out) must be captured on the page to make it sing, to make the truth known.
• He is very much about being clear, precise in his words. For so long I saw him as other than this.  Infnite Jest and other earlier published work did seem to firmly place him in the verbal gymnastics aren't-I-cleverer-than-you catergory.  With a more experienced eye (less cynical? less insecure of my own abilities?), I see that he is very much about clarity of thought.
• I am humbled. That may not mean much because I say it all the time -- but this time its true. (Can you hear me crying wolf? Wolf?)
• It is possible that in my life I will write a book that is published. However, it is rather improbable that he will ever read it.  He's that good. (A fact that will become more evident in the third installment.)  I can live with this.  As long as I can keep reading his work to keep me aware of the finer points of observation. Of seeing the meaning in the mundane. Of telling the truth.

With the reading over, applause rang out and various contingents began to move into action, shuffle about.  The Lovelies reapplied lipstick.  The Aged Lovlies (thank you Isabella!) adjusted their hats while they considered donating money (only if such donations were made public, in print) to the reading series. The Hollywood Types text-messaged possible offer amounts back to studio heads and The Bookluggers began pulling out their rankmusty books and stacking them on their laps, in order of publication year. The Actual DFW fans sat quietly, secretly hoping for more. 

Another Hammer official of some sort, hipply dressed all in black with a funky sweater cap and oversized retro glasses, announced that there would be time for a few questions and answers.  The crowd quieted again.  We could not believe our luck.  It is one thing to hear the man read from his written work. It is quite another to hear him answer questions, off the cuff.  With a renewed sense of anticipation, the first arm shot up from somewhere to the left of me.  Then another, then another.  Which contingents were attached to most of these arms?  Vapid lovelies.  All of them.  I kid you not.

Hold on to your hats folks, this is where it gets interesting...

DFW On the Installment Plan - Installment One: The Cold, Cold Hammer Courtyard

I arrived 1.5 hours early, just in case such earliness was needed.  An unprecedented public appearance like this required planning and, as it turns out, arctic expedition gear.  The lovely Hammer museum is, of course, a museum.  Given this fact and the additional fact that the reading was to take place inside a lecture hall, I did not prepare to sit outside in uncharacteristic (for LA) gale force winds and icy cold air in a concrete courtyard outside the lecture hall for the early bird 1.5 hours.  When preparing to attend any event at a museum, I frequently think of the opposite conditions. If I wear a coat to the event, I will inevitably become too warm at some point during the event and wish to remove a layer of clothing which I will then have to carry around with me for the rest of the evening.  With this in mind, I left my house feeling overdressed (for an indoor museum event) in a tank, light blazer and a flimsy scarf (the scarf having nothing to do with a need for warmth and having only to do with a need for colour.)  I will say now that this ensemble did not provide the needed protection from the elements.

No matter.  The important thing, in the early 1.5 hours, was to realize upon my arrival (after talking myself out of the idea of abandoning the event altogether due to the shocking ability of concrete to retain cold like no other material I could imagine in that moment) that such an early curtain call was necessary.  There was already a sizeable line.  I had not misjudged his appeal.  I also, it became clear very quickly, had not misjudged the various types of people that were assembled to hear DFW read.  I have promised myself not to get snarky here.  I have coached myself on a way to state this plainly, without trying to be snide and rude and seeming to be above it all.  But, seriously. It can't be helped.  The people assembled outside (and those that arrived and arrived and arrived later and later and late) fell into a few categories:

• The Lovelies -- There were various lovelies running about in tiny trouser shorts and 4 inch heels -- in freezing weather.  Dolled up as if they were going to see a rock show and might slither backstage when the show is over to be selected by the drummer for a hotel rendezvous. Surely these women didn't know how to read at all, let alone read him.  What were they doing here?  While the rest of us read books, wrote in journals, sketched on pads, they teetered back and forth between the espresso cart and the line (and again and again and again) laughing loudly, reapplying lipstick and chatting on cellphones that all had irritatingly hip ringtones.  I am guessing that the "underground", "experimental" and "edgy"-ness of DFW's work is what drew them in.  If they couldn't actually read him and understand him, I guess the next best thing was to be seen at his event.  Welcome to Los Angeles. Land of the vapid. They acted important, and true to LA event rules (be they cultural events or otherwise), they were ushered in under the guise of being "Hammer Members" who receive "preferential seating" in the first-come, first-served LA universe.
• The Hollywood Types -- Various producer-types with fake tans and painfully expensive designer jeans that have been taken to and picked up from the drycleaners by their personal assistants.  I don't think they have read his books either.  I believe they are here to be seen and to possibly obtain film rights to these unread (but much talked about) works.
• The Bookluggers -- These are the types, bless them, that bring every dogeared, water-stained, musty book the writer has ever written in the hopes of having him sign them all.  I hate this.  Isn't it enough that he has come down off the mount to preach a little? Can't we just appreciate him: his work, his words, and let him be? The Bookluggers are the most serious contingent.  They feel they deserve this opportunity the most.  After all, they have read everything he has ever written.  This is their moment, where their hard work pays off.  These are the people who are talking the loudest, about when they read his first book before anyone else, about his background, his history, his philosophies and their philosophies on his philosophies.  They are also the ones who edge people out of line when things start getting dicey.  They have lugged all their books here, they have envisioned this moment a thousand times over the many dark years of no DFW readings and signings, and they mean business.
• The Actual DFW Fans -- Luckily, this contingent was the largest.  These are the people who have read his work.  They have understood it.  Maybe not all of it, but they have stretched themselves to be worthy of it and they are better off for the challenge.  They know this and they appreciate his sprawling mind and all the ideas he puts out into the universe for consideration.  It is no surprise that this contigent is the most well-behaved, the most patient, the most genuinely-pleased-to-be here portion of the crowd.  They meekly get coffee to fend off the chilly weather, they read other books (not authored by DFW) while sitting and waiting and they are just...mellow.  This contingent is also the most diverse.  Mohawks, dreadlocks, red hair, green hair, many earrings, no earrings, corporate types, art-student types, you name it.  Most are alone or have come only with a friend or two.  These are also the people who are likely to listen politely during the reading, who will not ask stupid questions, and who will not bother him with signing any books, even the new one on sale at the event, after the reading is done. I submit to you that I belong in this bunch.

The line grew and snaked around the entire outdoor, cement (did i mention how cold cement can be when you sit on it for 1.5 hours in the cold?) courtyard.  Contingents were sizing up other contingents.  Eyes were rolling, pages of books being read kept flipping in the wind, requiring readers to take their hands out of their coat pockets and fiddle with the pages over and over.  The collective breath of all contingents could be seen in the brisk air.   Various Hammer employees kept emerging from their warm lecture halls and cushy event offices to check on the lowly, chilly fans.  It was determined at some point that the fans were becoming too cold and that they should be ushered into the hall, even though it was still early. 

When the announcement was made, everyone stood, placing books in bags, throwing coffee cups in bins and wiping debris off their chilly butts.  This was it.  The moment of truth.  Who would get in, who would not and who would make a fuss?  As I stood up and took my place in line, my stomach, cliche of cliches, did a little flip.  Maybe, just maybe, I would get in.

Going to See The (Unseeable) Man

It's official.  David Foster Wallace will be speaking at UCLA's Hammer Museum on Sunday the 15th at 6pm.  I hesitate to even post this because I don't want anyone else in LA to know about it.  That's how afraid I am that I won't get in.  Why? DFW doesn't grant interviews.  Doesn't do email. Doesn't do anything except write, write, write with a little teaching thrown in. So you can imagine the madness that will accompany trying to get in.  Shunned journalists and celebrity types that fancy themselves writers will all come out of the woodwork and use their "clout" to get in ahead of lowly unpublished me.  Perhaps I can whip up a credential of some sort to snag a much-sought-after seat. "First come first served" is always a nightmare in this town...because it never really means what it implies.  You simply cannot just sit down if you arrive first. If you arrive late and are important, those who have arrived on time -- or hours early -- will always be bumped. Always. So it is with trepidation that I mention it at all.  I will have to invent a casual, "of course i'm important but i'm so important i don't need to remind you of it" gait and just saunter in.  Shades? No shades? Should I rustle up a bodyguard? Hire a pandering assistant or two?

To say I like his writing would be to understate things.  To say I love his writing would be to overstate things.  So I'm...on the fence. I find his non-fiction and short stories delicious. I find his longer fiction...ambitious in a very "aren't i clever" sort of way.

But no matter.  Several years ago I was at a book party in LA (when I didn't live in LA) and he was standing behind me talking quietly to someone.  He had the expected scrubby look, complete with bandana, and was riding high on the success of Infinite Jest.  He was genius de jour. I strained and strained, but could not hear a word that was said.  Oh how I wanted to hear his deemed-wise words. Selfishly, I was hoping sheer proximity would elevate my fiction to art. As he moved to leave the party, he bumped up against my shoulder and that was that.  So -- I have, literally, rubbed shoulders with him. 

Now, if I'm lucky and I get there early, early, early, I may hear what he's got to say about his new collection of essays, Consider the Lobster.  If, of course, I'm not edged out by all the journalists who did not get previously mentioned interviews...looking for their just reward.  I'll report back. 

Until then...I'll be writing my own collection of stories (okay, two) that are due, conveniently (or not so much?) on the same day.

When A Real Writer Filches from Fiction To Feed His Non

I have been on a delicious retreat from reality for the past several days.  In a place where the desert gives way to snowy mountains. Where the landscape is so severe and so lovely, that I have a million and one things to say and no single thought is fully formed.  I will get there. When I recover from various snowboarding injuries (yes, I was in Mammoth) and have reassembled my writerly brain in a cogent fashion, I will have a million little (and possibly big) things to say. However, in the short meantime, it seems remiss to not at least point out the similarities in one of my recent posts and the brouhaha that is currently burning up blogtime everywhere over someone else's millions of thoughts.  Specifically, James Frey's A Million Little Pieces.

I don't want to burn up blog hours myself explaining and dissecting and rearranging what has been better said and better detailed elsewhere (here, here and here -- Wiki even weighs in here) about the recent Smoking Gun article that strongly questions the "truthfulness" of Frey's memoir.  Fans are jumping ship.  Those inspired by him are calling him a liar.  Writers and editors everywhere are freaking out. I will say only this.  I posted last November, in Filching From Fiction to Feed My Non, about that strange place fiction writers find themselves in when you pull from reality to create your fiction.  Is it any wonder then, that fiction makes its way into your reality?  I struggle with this all the time.   But, alas, I am a lowly blog writer with fictional aspirations.  I am not a wildly successful "memoirist" who has been selected by Oprah's book club (I am convinced she does not read the books she selects...but that is another blog entirely), and has sold millions of copies worldwide -- don't forget film rights -- of my "life story" and painted it as such...as reality, not fiction.

Am I jealous that he has sold millions of copies of a book he wrote? Yes. Do I really, deep down, care if its true or not? No.  He is a good writer.  Maybe not great, but good.  I read his book with interest. Do I think there might be a problem with a publishing industry that requires fiction writers to repurpose their work as memoir so there is a better chance of making money for everyone involved?  Yes. Do I think its a sad state of affairs when the reading public will only buy millons of copies of something that is "based on real events" and has no stomach for a proper novel?  If I felt comfortable swearing in my blog, this is where I would insert said swearing.  ______ yes!!!

What do you think? 

Planning to Plan for the Plan

I've noticed it, you've noticed it and no one's really talking about it.  JV was kind enough to lead me in the direction (as horses to water and all that) with his recent comment on my last post and now its time to examine the madness of the past few days. So let's just get it out there.

What is with the incessant planning and planning to plan and creating systems to ensure we are following the plan and documenting ways to plan better at the same time next year? I want to scream.  As a writer, as a creative individual who needs shades of gray and room to move around a bit, this idea of planning and overplanning and systems and deadlines and schedules sounds like -- well...work.  As in, my day job.  Blech. Am I alone in this? Am I hanging off of my own pompous ledge without a net or anyone to even look up in my direction and notice me hanging there before I fall?

Every blog I read begins with the plans, the plans, the plans.  The plans for the New Year, the plans that were never achieved from last year.  The books that were started but not finished, the novels that were written but then not all the way, the short story collection that was but now isn't. People are berating themselves for failures and placing so much pressure on themselves to achieve big in the New Year, that I can't help but wonder -- what is going on? I get the New Year, New You vibe (albeit suspiciously manufactured by many companies who stand to profit from such a vibe). I get the natural tendency to take stock, to reflect on where you've been, to reflect on where you'd like to be.  But then -- just do it.  Reflect and plan and move on.  Don't tell me about it and whine about it and spin your wheels.  Most importantly, don't beat yourself up. I could handle all the overplanning (okay, I couldn't...but it sounds better to say I might be amenable to it) if there wasn't so much self-abuse in the process. 

For the past few days I've been reading and absorbing, wondering and worrying...looking for a glimmer of hope -- someone who just ...is.  Someone who realizes they are the same person on the 31st that they "became" on the 1st.   Or at least...to be fair...someone who has done minimal planning.  I began to think about this post and to research this whole New Year's Resolution thing -- the history, the evolution, the western vs. eastern take on it all. (Yes, that's it! I'll write a thorough, insightful piece on the social ramifications of this and then, magically, some unknown blog-reader who is also a publisher or editor of a major paper / publication /journal / zine /whathaveyou will beg me to let them publish said piece!)  I even tapped my dear Wiki friend for a nugget of wisdom or two, but none were to be found.  What I did find, however, haunts me. 

Everyone is in on the planning game. Movie studios (best of 2005, must-sees in 2006), publishing houses (best of 2005, must-reads in 2006), curators (best of 2005, must-attends in 2006), diet gurus (south beach out, sonoma valley diet in...buy all the new ingredients in 2006!) and so on.  Is it any wonder, then, that everyone is running around in a planning fog, grasping at things to add to the resolution list, heaping potential failure on top of failure so that next year's moaning will be longer and louder when they review what didn't get done?

Okay. I know. My dear grandmother didn't read Aesop's fables to me as a child for nothing. I realize I sound like sour grapes.  I don't mean to rain on the parade of those who've had a tough year and who need, desperately, to have this year be better.  I don't want to criticize those who are trying to better themselves and the lives of others by giving more to charity, volunteering more, being nicer to others, rescuing more dogs, reading more, learning more, etc.  I don't even want to belittle those who are overzealously planning to take over the world and make millions in the next twelve months.  I only mean to point out (or strongly suggest, you decide how you wish to take it) that in our present-day society of so much world pain and conflict and political corruption, it would behoove us to go easy on ourselves in the planning process.  Pats on the back for trying, no harm no foul for not accomplishing. What happened to just being happy to simply be?  To be in the moment, to possibly create in that moment or not. Why is that not enough?  What about leaving room -- wide open space -- for spontaneity? For the possibility of something you haven't yet thought of, dreamed of, envisioned, or mapped out on your perfect planning planner?

Easier said than done, I realize.  But I do believe, in my heart of hearts, that we could all benefit from lightening up a bit.  Read what you want to read, when you want to read it. Write what you want to write when you want to write it.  See, feel and hear what you want -- or don't want. And then, when the end of 2006 comes barreling down upon us, we can just smile, knowing another year has passed as we lived according to our own rules, not the rules set out for us by Janus in 153 B.C. or by any other leader, thinker, guru of our time. In all the planning and planning to plan, I'm afraid we've forgotten what we actually want.  And, most importantly, that we get to decide what that is.  So few things are really our choice these days...I hate the idea that even innocent planning is now coming from external pressure (the man, the government, your family, your favorite blog, whatever).

So, if not painfully obvious by now, I have no plans.  I want to write and I'm pretty sure I will.  I want to publish this year and I'm pretty sure I will (bold, I realize...see...even I have succumbed to the pressure of the p-l-a-n).  If I don't?  I will still be here and I will be fine. Great even. And I, unlike my overplanned brethren, will have room for the unexpected, unplanned, and unannounced. What about you?