Counterbalance

Lit Bits & A Bit About Writing

• Chris at Escapegrace attends the Martin Amis reading that took place a few blocks from me. And yet, I didn't make it. I must live vicariously.
• The week in LA author readings is rather slow (Book Soup taking a random hiatus with nothing booked for a full week...odd) but some good stuff is coming up tomorrow. If you've got some openings in your schedule to fit a lit event in, check out my Get Your Lit On event roundup at LAist.
• If you don't feel like checking out my LAist link, pencil this in: Vikram Chandra discusses Sacred Games at Vroman's tomorrow at 7pm.  So much press about this massive tome. Aren't you curious? I am, but I can't go so I tag you. 
• And this (with the usual Silverblatt caveat): Dave Eggers discusses What is the What on Bookworm tomorrow at 2:30pm. I'll be listening with partially covered ears and will try to keep eye-rolling to a minimum.
• I've begun writing a new book. Can I just say that ditching the first person has made all the difference? I'm free to run about, to see things differently, to get out of the limited view of my character! So obvious, I know, but here's what always happens: just as I'm about the make the third person jump, I seem to read several excellent first-person books and then fall into the trap all over again. Consider me out of the trap and none too eager to go back!
• I am a promiser of many things that I've not yet delivered: final Julavits wrap-up, Vida (vida! vida!) rundown, Mr Y. love and my response to Michael Redhill's lovely new book: The Consolation.  All in good time.  Working on so many things, I'm falling behind.
• But the reason for the falling behind is the best reason I can fathom: I'm writing!

Lit Bits & A Bit About My Mind

• I have finished The End of Mr. Y and my mind is effectively blown. Blown. I don't really know how to move about the world in the same way I did before.  I find I am standing next to people in line, attempting to jump into their brains to get back to my childhood.  Really. That blown. I have so much to say about this book and Scarlett Thomas and all the brilliance that comes out of her.  I'm walking around in a daze. How does one write such a book?  I can't fathom.  I can clearly see a pre-Y me and a post-Y me.  I am not the same.
• I have finished Let the Northern Lights Erase Your Name.  Mind blown for an entirely different reason -- in a way that is almost the opposite of Mr. Y. Instead of the crazy pace and weaving together of quantum physics and time travel and religion, Vida has created a taut, quiet, beautiful gem.  Truly.  I shiver thinking about her sentences.  And how nice she was at her reading.  A real person and all of that.
• More on both of these later this week -- as I can clearly think of nothing else what with my mind being double-blown and all that. I'm in a fragile state.
• Clearly not that fragile though, as I began Eat the Document last night and I can see that I should brace myself for more mind-blowing ahead.  Her sentences are so brisk, so forceful. I want to consume them before my run to give me extra strength.  Wow.
• As I sit her bathed in all this outstanding writing, I'm feebly attempting to deliver my first chapter of a new book. Ugh. The bar has been set sooooooo high. (But that's good, right?)

Alternadad Conundrum: Should I Stay or Should I Go?

anI can't decide if I should go to this or not.  91% of me says no.  Specifically, this 91% of me that says no really means to say: why on earth would you go, you can't stand him and this whole parenting whooshmagoosh that seems to be faddish as of late.  The other 9% of me feels sort of like I felt when I swallowed all pride and trudged off to see matchy-matchy read.  There is so much angst, so much irritation with Pollack and his alternadading, I feel I need hard (er?) evidence.  Is he really that much of an ass? Is he truly unbearable?  Again, 91% of me says yes.  Yet how can you judge a man's work without having read it and how can you judge a man's level of cockiness without seeing him trot it out during a reading? 

I'm torn.  I'd rather just assume he's an ass from all I've read and move on. Yet all I've read are other people's accounts of how much he irritates them. How much he bugs to the core.  Should I find out if he bugs me to the core before I get any further?  Possibly. But where would that get me? If he does annoy me (which I fully expect, probably a conflict of interests from the get-go), what am I meant to do? Write about it as scores of others have already done more eloquently?  Pointless. The only story here is if I happen to be un-irritated by him or - egads - if I like him.  The chances of this are quite low, but this is the only angle worth covering, right?

Yet, with so many books to read and authors to see that I really care about and believe in supporting, it seems a waste of time to traipse to Skylight on a Friday night to see a writer isn't on the list of "books to read and authors to see that I really care about and believe in."

Sage Advice from AP?

So I'm getting all official and learning (re?) how to clearly reduce my wordage and amp up the accuracy of my punctuation so that I'm not an embarrassment to the publications who ask me to contribute.  I'm not a complete lout, but it's time to bone up, refresh, and renew my flagging focus on all the little things that I always overlook in my writing that make sentences feel long, cumbersome and wholly inappropriate.  Sort of like the sentence I just typed.  Much like an artist fears that going to the therapist will damage their art, I fear that adhering closely to the AP writing guides will damage my rambling nature and make a short, succinct writer out of me. What can be bad about that you ask? I don't know but I find I'm resisting it. Strongly.

More on this later as the effects of my "proper journalism" class will surely take root in mysterious ways on this blog. I worry about it. Rambling posts is sort of my thing, no?  Yet perhaps you, my dear readers, are silently sending thank you's to Buddha. He heard you all along.  He heard your pained cries about my non-salient points and has gently guided me to a class that will rid me of my meandering ways.  We'll see.

It's not all bad though, as the Foreword in the AP Guide to News Writing has offered up this quite lovely point, making me feel the AP can't be all bad:  "The story must be written well if it is to be read well."  No bad, eh?

Bukowski Leads Me to the Kitchen and I Like It

It started small and grew big. It began with the Bukowski: Born Into This documentary.  After re-reading much of Bukowski in a fortnight (but was it really a fortnight?), the next logical choice was the film Factotum. While I didn't love Factotum entirely, the mood and pacing -- the stillness vs. explosiveness of characters -- was divine. Rarely have I seen characters emote so much, a moment evoke so much in simple (but complicated) stillness. The angles and views, the cutaways and the straightaways were different from anything I've seen recently.  I was intrigued, interested. I wanted more. So where has Factotum taken me? Directly to Factotum's director Bent Hamer and his sweet little movie Kitchen Stories.

Kitchen Stories grew out of Hamer's own reading of post-war research books that detailed various studies conducted to determine the efficiency of the Swedish housewife. The goal of the studies was to use the findings to develop a bevy of household items (better oven, more effective vacuum) that would make Swedish housewives even more efficient.  Hamer found these studies quite amusing (and a little disturbing) and bent the concept in another direction - what if these studies were conducted on the kitchen habits of single men?

This premise creates an opening for a very dry, very wry film that not only captures the absurdity of the studies (observers sit in very tall chairs in their subject's kitchens and they are not allowed to speak to each other or in any way acknowledge the other's presence), but captures the need for human connection and equality (the subject devises his own plan to "observe" his observer and is charmed in the process.)  The icy coldness of rural Norway in winter and the painfully slow passing of time chips away at their resolve and the two men begin to form a forbidden connection -- friendship.

Is this a movie that changed my life? No. But as I think of the path that led me to it, I can't help but think there was something larger at work.  I'm knee-deep in my character class, trying to develop fictional characters that resonate.  While I'm drawn to the concept of the big character in the big story, I always come back to these quiet characters in these quiet, human situations.  I marvel at how so much can be communicated with so little (sound familiar?) and I find myself wanting to write characters that are equally eccentric, equally jumbled and equally human in their attempt to find meaning in any situation.  Less fanfare, more substance.  The only question now is can I do it? 

Finally, at the Heart of It All - Does Poetry Matter?

I've said it before and I'll say it again: we have this notion that poetry is somehow only for academics. Only for those properly schooled in the art of verse and its various forms. What I've seen these past two weeks has not surprised me. A great number of intelligent readers and writers who have a so-so relationship with poetry have said that they simply don't feel qualified to participate on anything more than an overview level. The truth is, I don't either.  Yet we are the shrinking few that enjoy the written word in the first place -- what better audience could there be than us? We spend our days talking of 900 page novels and how many we'll read in the next few months. We are an audience painstakingly dedicated to the written word and we make sure our lives pivot around this point.  Yet, when it comes to poetry, we still we peck at it, taking what we need and moving on.  Never really committing to it in a substantial, ongoing way.  Why?

We bemoan the closing of small presses, the lack of proper advances for struggling writers, the lack of book fiction coverage in major newspapers and the shrinking amount of ink new fiction gets unless its sensational.  We should understand better than any other group how important it is to celebrate artists of the written word. Yet it's not on our radar. It's certainly not on mine.

In my searching for an answer, I came across this well-known article by Dana Gioia that you may already have seen. It's a tad dated, but it highlights what I think we've all been dancing around & this feeling that poetry flourishes only in academic communities. Here's an excerpt:

"American poetry now belongs to a subculture. No longer part of the mainstream of artistic and intellectual life, it has become the specialized occupation of a relatively small and isolated group. Little of the frenetic activity it generates ever reaches outside that closed group. As a class poets are not without cultural status. Like priests in a town of agnostics, they still command a certain residual prestige. But as individual artists they are almost invisible. "

Most importantly, Gioia hits on the shift from poetry once being an outward expression to it becoming an insular, inward expression to a select few:

"Decades of public and private funding have created a large professional class for the production and reception of new poetry comprising legions of teachers, graduate students, editors, publishers, and administrators. Based mostly in universities, these groups have gradually become the primary audience for contemporary verse. Consequently, the energy of American poetry, which was once directed outward, is now increasingly focused inward. Reputations are made and rewards distributed within the poetry subculture. "

The article is long, but well worth your read. It is also featured in a book (also published a while ago) I picked up last night: Can Poetry Matter? Essays on Poetry and American Culture.  I'll be back with more later today as I struggle to wrap up this week in a meaningful way.

Lit Bits & A Bit About Vida

• At 768 pages, I can't help but think the latest LBC Read This! selection will be another one I fall behind on.  Yet everyone is so effusive about it, so adamant I must read it. Really? I think I need more convincing. I opted out of that whole Chunkster Challenge thing for a reason.
• If you can stand the whining of Michael Silverblatt, Richard Ford devotees might want to tune into KCRW's Bookworm to hear Mr. Silverblatt in conversation with Ford. Today at 2:30pm.
• Maud's write-up of her Jesus Camp viewing experience gives me chills.  For thirteen years (yes, that's right...13!) I was sent to a very religious school & the requisite Jesus Camps every summer.  It horrifies me that this is still going on and is perhaps, even stronger.  I also realized (thank you Maud) that I have a lot of writing material in me yet!
• Pssst....I'm taking a writing class at UCLA. I've been secretive about it because, well, I'd like to have you believe I'm already a superior writer.  Say what you will about nanowrimo, but it made me realize that I need some help with my characters.  I'm on the fence about sharing more. Can't decide if it's too much like peeking into the ugly machinery you'd rather not see, or if it would be useful.
• Poetry Appreciation Week stumbles on. I keep getting emails about your forthcoming posts and yet...no posts.  Hmmmm.  At the very least, please jump in and comment. Surely I've lowered all bars at this point and so jumping in to the grand poetic discussion should be akin to asking for dressing with your salad. Easy peasy.
• Finally just started reading The End of Mr. Y and I want to clear the decks and do nothing else but sit down and fly through it.  She's good.
• Okay, not a lit bit, but damn good news: Dems are keeping promises. Novel concept, eh?
• And finally:  A full write up about the Vendela Vida reading will be up soon, but let me just say this: Now that is how you give a proper reading.

Allen Ginsberg's Song

A simple, powerful poem that recurs and recurs with me. Phrases, lines, a word pairing or two, spring forth in my mind when I'm going about my day. I don't remember when I first encountered this poem and I'm not sure how it made its way fully into me, able to make itself known whenever it wants.  No matter the day or time or year. 

Song
by Allen Ginsberg

The weight of the world
       is love.
Under the burden
       of solitude,
under the burden
       of dissatisfaction

       the weight,
the weight we carry
       is love.

Who can deny?
       In dreams
it touches
       the body
in thought
       constructs
a miracle,
       in imagination
anguishes
       till born
in human----

looks out of the heart
        burning with purity
for the burden of life
        is love,

but we carry the weight
        wearily,
and so must rest
in the arms of love
       at last,
must rest in the arms
       of love.

No rest
       without love,
no sleep
       without dreams

From The Collected Poems of Allen Ginsburg 1974-1980

What always sticks with my is the rhythm of this: the weight, the weight we carry is love.  The weight, the weight, the weight we carry is love.  A nice (or not so much?) chant, no?

Adrienne Crew's Morning Poetry Ritual

Adrienne Crew of the lovely, quirky and always-informative LA Brain Terrain, offers her thoughts on poetry and her current favorites.  Her post reminds me that some of the tried and true "greats" are called so for a reason:

Virginia Woolf said that people read fiction the same way they listen to gossip. People read poetry the same way they say their prayers because, in essence, poetry is a prayer. Religion evolved from a whispered wish to a full blown incantation. Therefore, I take a spiritual approach to poetry.

I start each morning with a poem--a puja in Sanskrit, really, that starts with "Atma tvam girja matih sahacarah/pranah sariram grham..." Like most poems, it's a song of the self that translates as "You are my Self, Parvati is my reason/My five pranas are Your attendants..."

I also read Rumi on a regular basis. His poem "Guest House" is pinned to my bulletin board at work. I read it every day.

I like to consider the force and rhythm of a poem. I admire poets because I don't write poetically. It's a struggle because i'm writing a novel and I always think my prose should be more poetic and lyrical. I like poets who play with language and include lots of images.

Although she's a musician, I've always considered Joni Mitchell as a poet. I like reading the works of Mary Oliver, Amy Gerstler, and Langston Hughes. My current favorite is:

Sometimes a crumb falls
From the tables of joy,
Sometimes a bone
Is flung.

To some people
Love is given,
To others --
Only heaven.

"Luck" by Langston Hughes, 1946

Pynchon Inspiring More Readers Every Day

I've tried desperately to keep my three dogs out of my blog. I will continue this trend for as long as I can possibly hold out. However: Oscar, my English bulldog, does have a penchant for Pynchon as you can see on my latest LAist posting of literary events in Los Angeles.

In true Hollywood style, I may post outtakes after its been up at LAist for 48 hours. Or not.  Because then it becomes the dog blog instead of the lit blog, and really, who wants that?