Counterbalance

I Feel Like Kafka, But My Trial Is a Little Something Called Escrow

We are moving, moving, moving.  That would sound glorious if not for the painful fact of the ten-month escrow we have already endured. Yes. You heard me. Ten month escrow.  I don't even want to get into it.  I have tried to reach my zen buddha place and I've come up short.  The bookstore high doesn't even work.  Yes. It's that bad.

• There was the waiting for five months -- which we expected.
• There was the waiting for five MORE months -- which we did not.
• The scheduled & rescheduled & rescheduled-again walkthrough.
• The "Hi! I know you are at work and most likely do not carry such items on your person, but do you think you could fax us your passport, social security card & birth certificate in the next five minutes so we can get it to the bank in time?" 
• The "Yes, I know it's our fault the building we are restoring is not ready on time, but it is YOU who will have to pay many, many dollars a month to keep your interest rate locked. Yes, that's right, YOU must pay for every month WE are late."  (Wherein, the developer is WE, and I, the lowly YOU.)

We wanted to do something we believed in. Live in an old building in the gutted section of downtown that deserves to become the hub of LA once again.  Just blocks from skid row, we will be in the first building on city record for converted residential lofts in the Artist's District.  It was an old factory.  82-year-old bricks and hardwoord floors that have many stories to tell, I'm sure. It is imperfect. It is adaptive reuse. It is unpredictable. It is lovely. There are still remnant tracks where trains would pull through the building to pack and unload cargo.

It will make a difference, possibly.  It will be challenging, definitely. The other artists who live in this community are sure to enrich our lives and our work. I have been thinking and dreaming and planning this space since I first laid eyes on it well over a year ago. It makes the writer in me want to write -- indefinitely.  It is the light . The vast open space and all that light just streaming in, threatening to crack me open and listen to me while all my stories come spilling out onto the page. I am ready to crack...small fissures are making themselves known. My stories, all of them, are waiting to be told.

If we could just get in the damn thing.

Any Bookstore Will Do

What is it about the bookstore?

The complete calm that comes over me at once -- at once.  As if it is my shrine, my altar, my place of worship, my Zen Buddhist temple and my yoga/massage all in one.

What if someday this should all go away? What would I do? It is my sanctuary. My respite from the world. 

In the bookstore, anything is possible. Any fact can be found, any story revealed. Ideas reign supreme. I see the books lined up on the shelves and I am filled with hope.  Pleased to see so many books that have made it onto the shelves, with their lovely covers, all lined up alphabetically by author. Ready for purchase.  Hopeful that one day my own book may be found among them.  It is where I belong.  There’s no other way to say it. Am I alone in this worship at the altar of books? Does this make me, somehow, one of the mass consumers that I dislike so much?

It doesn’t even have to be a 100-year old building with creaky wood floors and musty, moldy books. Of course, I do love me a good 100 year old book store.  But when it comes to books, and any structure with four walls that might contain books is in my proximity, my quality meter goes on the fritz. It could be a Barnes & Noble for crying out loud. With a Starbuck's. I don’t care, I’ll take it.

When I’m feeling blue, hit the bookstore.  When I’m giddy with excitement, hit the bookstore.  When I’m just in the middle, bookstore. When I don’t have anything else to do, bookstore. When I have too much to do, bookstore. Need a gift, bookstore. Don’t need anything, bookstore.  Even – if you can imagine – when I need an actual book. Yes. Bookstore.

I’m the same way with libraries. Gorgeous and new, stinky and old, it doesn’t matter. I commune among books as Thoreau did among nature. They are my breath, my air, my life.  (Yes, I know, it sounds ridiculous.  I avoid and even frequently mock books that have sentences like “my breath, my air, my life.” Yet my romance with books has rendered me a Richard Paul Evans emulator. I'm not sure what this says about my character and I'm not willing to examine it further at the moment.)

More than once, I have imagined the scene from Indecent Proposal when Demi Moore and Woody Harrelson, drunk with their culpability and the richness it has afforded them, roll about in a bed of money.  Yet in my scene, it is a bed of books.  I love to be surrounded by them.   (I'm also unclear on just what this says about my character, but again, to delve deeper seems a distraction, no?)

Is it the jazz? Piped all through the store as I browse with delight? It could be. A good bookstore makes me feel like a Charlie Parker riff. Like Louis at his best and Ella at her moodiest, all stirred up together for that unique cocktail of sadness and woe that makes your heart swell and let's you know you're alive by comparison. 

I feel more myself around books than I do anywhere else.  Well, except for when I’m writing. Which brings me full circle. The reading of good books engenders the writing. Enough writing may result in the creation of a book.  Good. And. Good. Yet it seems the ratio of reading to writing, if not properly managed, can tilt so much in the favor of just simply reading (and doing very little writing) so as to create a situation (read: this entire week) wherein I consume several books at a breakneck pace and don't so much as lift a finger in the general direction of what would be considered writing.  Unless, of course, you consider proper writing to include the addition of several handwritten entries onto my list of other books to be read.  And the purchasing of many books at various bookstores and the checking out of yet more books at the library. Yes, a stretch. I realize.

It is at this point, late in the week (the latest, really) that I wonder how I will ever get through all the books that I know I must read in order to further my craft and yet all the books I must truly force myself not to read so I can actually practice my craft.

I’m reminded of DFW’s comment about those who worship their intellect and always feel a fraud, stupid. Does this apply to me? Do I want to steep myself in the wisdom of books to compensate in some way for what I feel my intellect lacks? Or do I simply have an insatiable love of the written word, as sandwiched between the two covers of a book?

Spinning Wiki

Wiki is at it again.  Only, this time, it's more insidious.  While easing my way into the afternoon and enjoying the deliciousness that is Maud Newton, I clicked through to her link about Hemingway's "fake" friend as fabricated and posted on Wiki for fifteen months before anyone detected it.  Now, this is not a good thing.  Fake friends, real or imagined, are never fun.  Yet we've come to expect this kind of oversight from Wiki and we'll forgive it. Or at least, we will turn a blind eye because we've been reamed out so many times by those who post on Wiki about how they are all trying very hard and blah, blah, blah. I get it. It's not a perfect system. I believe in what you're trying to do.  I'll be patient while you sort it out.

However, somwhere towards the end of the second paragraph in The Observer article, I came upon a sentence that...well...stood out:

"New entries can now be edited only by registered users, after computers in Capitol Hill offices in Washington were used to doctor political entries."

Hmmmm.  Officials in Washington using Wiki for political gain?  What an altogether unshocking, obvious turn of events. If you will recall, several posts ago, I pointed out the very possiblity of such Wiki use, only to be firmly put in my place by Wiki lovers.  I will not gloat. It was only a matter of time.

Then I found this. Clearly one could argue that the same story was just picked up and run, ad nauseum, which seems to be the case as every news outlet is running it verbatim (a problem in and of itself?)  But the point at hand is this: How can anyone not have expected this from politicians in Washington?

It's all fine and good when hack posters give Heminway an old war buddy (then again, we know about Hemingway and his "war"), turn David Beckham into an 18th century Chinese goalkeeper and supply Tony Blair with the middle name of Whoop-dee-do.  It's even sort of funny.  Except, I'm sure, it is less funny for the high school student who gets a big fat "F" on their latest History report, using Wiki as their only source. It is another thing altogether to for politicians to alter their bios to appear favorably to Wiki users. It doesn't surprise me. But it does disgust me.

And so, I must ask the question again.  At what point do we feel that Wiki becomes a liability? Is it incumbent upon a reader to know instinctively that half the info might be wrong? (Who are Wiki's readers anyway? Smart people like us? Or those who believe everything they read?) Is the resource itself to blame? Or should some general guidelines such as "read skeptically and investigate" prevail? While I realize many people already know they can't believe what they read, see, hear...I can't help but feel that many web readers are naive enough to eat it all up. How else to explain the seeming shock of politicians spinning Wiki for their own gain?

I love the Wiki. I want it to work. But. It. Just. Keeps. Happening.

What Can Happen When the Universe Says "No Thanks!" and You Bask in the Resulting Silence

After a week or two of saving up every little thing to add to the blog once the Installments were over and after being so anxious to post every little thing aside from the Installments, I find that the universe, in essence, is saying No Thanks. A few reasons why I believe the universe is placing me on hold (temporarily?) for now:

Reason #1: I have sent out eleven very important emails to either dear friends or colleagues. Not one of them has replied.  Let me repeat. Not one. It has been over a week.

Reason #2: I reduced my overbearing book collection by 320 books.  Yes, it was painful to pack them up and say goodbye, but it had to be done. Must make space for all the new ones. I took my castaways to the local used bookstore to see if they would like to purchase some for credit or cash.  Out of 320 books, Mr. Bookseller decided that exactly FIVE of my books were worthy.  While I can appreciate the need to pick books that will be "sellers" and that will return a "profit" I must point out that I don't read schlock.  I had (and now, of course, still have) some excellent hard cover, first editions in there. Literary fiction. Five books for 10 dollars. And it took him an hour and half to sort through them all and tell me that. Let me repeat. Five books. 10 dollars.  Perhaps you are beginning to see the "Thanks, but No Thanks" vibe the universe seems to be sending my way.

Reason #3: The number of short stories submitted to various journals in the past few months: nine. The number of rejections from various journals without a single comment or even the form rejection letter -- just returned as if not even opened except to just turn around and mail it back: nine.  I won't repeat it. It's too painful.

Reason #4: Since I've waited so long to post this, my fourth reason is now less germane to my story.  It is about my blog. For reasons that can only be attributed to Ed's link to my last DFW Installment, traffic to my blog reached a shocking all-time high.  Thursday and Friday logged record visitors. And yet. Not a single comment.  Not on Thursday. Not on Friday. Almost not even on Saturday. And then a few trickled in.  This whole #4 carries much less weight now of course. It would have been much more powerful ON Saturday, BEFORE the comments. Had I offended? Was it the Oprah thing? Had I underestimated the Oprah tolerance among my readers? Was it the Frey inference? The obvious irritation with MFA+Phd that I don't possess?  Admitting to a lost and then possibly refound crush for DFW? Such a discrepancy in the traffic to comment ratio can be excruciating.  And, as you can guess I might say by now, smacks of a certain "So take that" attitude from the world beyond.

Reason #5: Even Ed's mention of my site went, and still remains, commentless.  How could so many people have clicked through and then clicked all over my own blog, yet...no comments. Bizarre. Or? The universe saying it's sick of my drivel and could I just be quiet for awhile?

I will say this.  Clearly I will not be quiet. I don't possess those genes. I will also say that so much worrying about what others think (of your writing, of your emails, of your discarded books) is not productive and frankly, is quite sad.  Yet while enduring this special wall of silence the universe has constructed for me, I have found that the wondering is powerful. The "What have I done?" factor coupled with the "Maybe my email and blog comments just aren't working" checking (and re-checking!) left me feeling blank. Stunted. Cut out of a conversation I began. I began to feel an isolation, a cut-off-ness, that I rarely get to experience in daily life (short of escaping to the mountains.)

The results are delicious. 

After resigning myself to having so offended everyone that I no longer had to worry what they thought, I found complete freedom to create. You don't want to email me back? Fine. I'll just write another story. You don't want to publish my three stories? Fine, I'll refine them and rework them so they are stronger. You are miffed at my post about Oprah? Excellent. I guess that means I don't have to post for awhile and can focus on my novel!

I had no idea that the universe could have such a harsh, yet knowing, hand.  I will use the remaining silence (but really, how much longer?) to fine tune a few more things. And then, who knows? I might just post them here.  No comments required.

DFW On the Installment Plan - Installment Four: Thank Goodness for Kenyon

Just before hip-Hammer guy got to me, he was nudged-pulled-nudged by another. With seven rows of Lovelies and Bookluggers and Hollywood types  (and yes! actual DFW fans!) sitting between us, he quickly averted his eyes & gave the microphone to the nudger. As my entire body was trembling in double-time, I wasn't sure if I was relieved or ticked.  Ticked with a dash of relief. Then, disappointment.  It seemed the Q/A portion of the evening was doomed to be one that DFW would laugh about with friends afterwards, seething with resentment at our petty, petty minds and our clear inability to "get" his work...or really get anything other than our own self-involved view of the world.  But then, somehow, as the nudger spoke, it became clear that someone with half a brain was standing with microphone in hand! Could it be...could an actual DFW fan who has an actual brain...be poised to speak and ask the final question of the night? Yes, dear readers, yes!  Nudger-puller-nudger was composed (no visible signs of shaking...thank goodness Hammer guy passed me over!) and quietly, simply asked her question: What role does Vollmann's work play in your reading life and your writing life? (And the choir swells in the background, the sopranos high, the altos low, the deep baritones booming...) If I had the physical ability and even the most tenuous shred of presence of mind remaining after thinking for a brief second I would be addressing him directly, I would have high jumped the seven rows of visitors to hug her, kiss her, hug her. A real question, that might garner a real response.

DFW: (With a look that said "Finally you twits!" and then a sort of mock-awe, humbled mumble) Well, I mean. Of course. Vollmann's work is seminal.  One can never have read enough of his work...he's so prolific. But yes, some of his stuff has had a significant impact on my work.  Actually, when I'm really down on myself as a writer, I compare myself to him. It never ends up making me feel better...just much worse.  He has written so much.  He's intense. I once did a joint reading with him. As you can probably tell, I'm a little nervous now, so you can imagine the kind of nervousness about public speaking I had in the early days.  Vollmann went first. I don't remember exactly what he said or how the reading itself went (as I was so nervous, I had my own neuroses to deal with), but I know that he spent some time sending x-rays around the room and then shot a gun off into the gallery.  The crowd was engrossed and scared into a state of awe.  I then had to go on stage after that like "Um, so, here I am. I have a poem to read." That man is intense. He will parachute into Antarctica for material if necessary.  He is just..."

DFW went on a bit and as I'm not exact-quoting anything, I'm loathe to "make up" more of his response. (What with the state of publishing the truth or not truth as it were and all that stuff out there about journalists vs. bloggers and how they are covered and we are not -- it seems I could land myself in some sort of trouble with some sort of group for even attempting to capture his thoughts as they tumbled out and I sure as hell don't want to piss off Oprah, being that she clearly has such a mind for literature and the arts and wasn't at all sucking up to her audience by changing her mind on national television and getting all haughty about the state of the publishing world as if it were wholly owned and created by Harpo Industries).  He did, however, mention some key things. Things that I took with me and still turn about in my head...all these days later, even while still in the midst of driving you nuts with just finally getting to the end of the reading already.

• Thing #1 -- He mentioned that You Bright and Risen Angels and The Rainbow Stories were among the first Vollmann works he read and found them influential. He also mentioned that while he has not yet gotten around to reading Vollmann's seven-volume set of Rising Up and Rising Down, he did manage to read the much slimmer compilation cliff-notesque volume of said seven-volume set. I have not read any of these, but now mean to.
• Thing #2 -- He somehow worked it in that he considers Powers to be equally important.  I don't quite remember the context in which it was mentioned, but I remember feeling a renewed kinship with DFW.  Powers is divine.  The thought of the two minds together...or even, DFW reading Powers and Powers reading DFW. Its. Well. A lot for me to wrap my head around.  I could write a whole set of installments on this very topic.  I realize that to do so would cost me the precious few readers I have.  But oh, can you imagine? Either way, I could read more Powers.  Add him to the ever-growing list.
• Thing #3 -- He somehow worked in the phrase "since I'm grossly over-educated" -- which I thought was...well...interesting.  Mostly because it's true. But also because he recognizes it's true. And then, it seemed as if he felt that possibly his extreme levels of education might distance himself from his readers and so he should be humble about it, dismiss it as an aberration, a fluke.
• Thing #4 -- He really IS overeducated. Undergraduate studies at Amherst in philosophy with a specialization in math and logic. Then a quick grab of an M.F.A in Arizona. Then off to Harvard for graduate work in Philosophy, Logic, Semantics and Math.  Lest you feel woefully undereducated at the moment, at least you can find solace in the fact that he left Harvard after a year.  Yes, to pursue writing full time and become a wild success.
• Thing #5 -- Right about here -- when he started talking about his education and someone asked about his extensive vocabulary and he said he didn't at all feel his vocabulary was any larger than anyone else's and the he, too, must read books with a dictionary by his side (I really, really would like to know what books HE is reading that require HIM to look up a word)and he doesn't understand why people think his work is difficult or why they have trouble recognizing many of the words he uses -- it was during all this that my heart began to turn a bit. He was just shy of arrogant.  His over-education was oozing out all over the podium and it just...it smacked a bit of..."Look, at the end of the day, I'm really too smart for all of you, you will never understand my work because you are idiots, so can we just end this thing already?"  But in the most charming way possible.

I've spent the days since his reading wondering where I fall on the curve of those who are smart enough to get his work, those who aren't, those who pretend to get it because it seems to be hip at the moment, and those who really could give a damn.  I'm still sorting it out. I really dig his work.  And 87% of the time I saw him read and speak, I really dug him as well.  I believe smitten and love were tossed about in previous installments.  But then, somewhere, I lost my crush.  His sermon from the mount veered into the realm of too preachy, too misunderstood-genius-artist for me.  And it pissed me off. I began to feel that I had to -- if at all possible -- separate the man from the writing.  But is such a thing possible? Necessary?  Perhaps it was me...was I at fault? Am I lacking in some fundamental writerly way? Too insecure in my own knowledge and reading/writing lineage (read: not a published writer, certainly don't have an M.F.A and definitely no post-grad work in semantics and physics and logic) to be comfortable in his presence? Am I making this about me when it really has nothing to do with me? (I've certainly type the word "me" several times in the last paragraph!)

Perhaps that is why he doesn't do readings & interviews. His self-referential musings that charm on the page seem somehow inappropriate and lofty in person. Almost vulgar. Especially for would-be writers. I can handle some good Vollmann and Powers, but let's be honest...they are sophisticated reads that require dedicated readers. Readers willing to do the work. I can see an entire class structure mapping out before me -- those who read junk (Richard Paul Evans and the like) and those who splinter off into various groups of reading not junk but not quite literary stuff.  Then the class structure expands. There's the not quite literary and then the somewhat literary and then the obvious by now literary and then we get into high brow territory. The high brow stuff then splinters off into a few hundred categories depending on our education, various IQ and Rorschach tests, page count of most books read, philisophical/idealogical leanings and so on. And who decides what is literary? I feel as if we are all lemmings bowing down to the ever-painful Ulysses because it was deemed high-minded by someone who was deemed high-minded. And really, who among us, can honestly say they LOVED Ulysses? And I hate that DFW, writer of so many things that I truly, truly love and wish I had written myself, has made me feel (or has caused me to make myself feel) unworthy.  A kinship and then not. A mutual understanding and then no. 

And yet, and yet.

His commencement speech at Keynon.

And the heart swells again...