Counterbalance

When A Writer Gives Up

I may have mentioned to you that this was going to be, for me, the year of "getting shit done."  Shit, in this case, meant writing. Writing and submissions and rejections. One could argue (and I have been for two months) that the following commitments count towards the "shit" that needs getting done:

• Taking two writing courses at UCLA -- one about character development & one about journalism as I'm now also...
• ...writing for the LAist on a regular basis.
• Any reading, research, attendance at author events, guest blogging, intense scrutiny and overall enjoyment in multiple daily visits to other blogs and the like, all in the name of extending the breadth and depth of this blog.

I have become so adept at avoiding the writing of fiction that I've allowed myself to believe the above counts as the actual writing of fiction. Or that it will in some way contribute to it, even if only tangentially.  Worse, I've gotten so comfortable with being so busy at these and other things (like paying work), that in the past two months I've actually said to myself (at least nine times): "Maybe you don't really want to be a writer after all. Maybe you can just be a really great blogger. Maybe that's enough." (I never said this was going to be pretty.)

Perhaps worse still is that after I rejected this thought again and again over these past eight weeks, I started to succumb to it. I even grew to like it a bit. The weight off my shoulders. The sudden freedom from guilt at not writing enough, freedom from frustration at not being good enough, at not having enough work I'm pleased with to send out. So much easier to just deem it not for me. Dream not so much deferred but more like, left on the side of the road, thrashing in the wind. I began to imagine -- and then actually live it in real-time -- my life as if I didn't want to be a writer. It didn't feel great, but it didn't feel as bad as the guilt of not writing when I was supposed to.

I was just about to start month three on this I'm no longer a writer plan when the universe knocked me down flat. Flat on my back, facing up. I'm still writhing around on the floor trying to catch my wind-knocked-out-of-me breath.

It began slowly, as most one-two punches from the universe seem to, and has swelled to unseemly proportions. It started yesterday with an innocent post from Gwenda about "What you do every day counts more than what you do once in awhile."  I liked it, but in my new i'm not a writer state, I thought: nice but not for me. Something about it hit straight to the core of it -- if you aren't writing all the time you aren't a writer. Yet I resisted, left a comment, moved on. No longer for me to worry about. For the rest of the day I toyed with the idea of setting up a writing spreadsheet, maybe giving it one more go. I wavered. I waffled. I picked up a book instead, reminding myself that I should finish this next book, attend the author's reading next week and do an excellent write-up for the blog. I gently reminded myself of my revised dream: good blogger, not writer. 

Upon waking, I felt no different. I went about my non-writing morning and didn't even feel guilt about skipping my writing time, so far I was down my own spiral that it would seem unnatural to do so.  I busied myself with work, with wedding hoo-hah that must be planned, with things other.  Simply other. I flipped through the stack of literary journals on my desk, not really taking anything in.  I then began making my morning blog rounds.  I don't even remember which blog I went to first, because they were all proclaiming the same news: Mark Sarvas sold his book to Bloomsbury. Excellent, excellent news.  My pulse quickened, but then I moved on.  I busied myself with work throughout the day, but kept coming back to this notion of finally being published, after so much focused, dedicated work...over years of consistent production...over years of showing up and making it happen every day, without fail.

Again, I reminded myself, this is no longer for me. But when the universe wants to have its way with you, small inklings & seemingly unrelated things start to snowball pretty quickly into one large tumbleweed careening toward you.  I opened Poets & Writers tonight to read the Tom Bissell piece I mentioned on my blog today.  In truly uncharacteristic fashion for me (as I always jump around when I read P&W), I started at the beginning. Here is what I found:

• "The Writer's Triangle" by Caitlin O'Neil about the difficulties writers face in finding a balance between the work they must do to pay the bills, the life they know they must have in order to have anything to write about and then, of course, the writing itself.  Fine, I thought. Interesting. But I'm just here to read the Tom Bissell piece.
• Next Up: "The Art of Reading Joy Williams" by Adam Hill. I've not read much of Joy's work, but Hill's piece focused on her unique characters, their oddities, and the inability  of readers to view these characters as "likeable" which has resulted in many not fully appreciating her work. Throughout the article I kept thinking: yes! yes! this sounds like my characters, this is what i'm trying to do and no one understands them either! yes!  Strange reaction for a writer who is no longer a writer, no?
• This was too much so I skipped to: "All the Things He Did Not Know" (aka the Tom Bissell piece that led me down this tortuous path) by Frank Bures. The quick summary is that Tom Bissell has been writing his entire life and has faced mountains of rejection and almost faltered several times, but still stayed the course. There is a moment when Bissell shows his work to family friend Philip Caputo who tells Bissell: "Anyone who wants to become a writer will not become a writer. The only people who become writers are those who have to, [who] almost cannot do anything else." So. Snowball building. Tumbleweed picking up speed.
• And then, as if all this weren't enough: "The Nothing That Is" by Mary Gannon. A piece about author Matthew Sharpe and his long journey to publication, his even longer list of publishers who wouldn't have him, and what his very accomplished life looks like now.  Fine. Whatever. I get it. Sort of.
• And then the universe pulled out all the stops: Walter fucking Mosley.  I have a weird irritation with him. I'm not entirely sure why but I always found his earlier book titles (a colour craftily woven into each title, the red dress, the blue dress, whatever) to be a bit obvious and cheesy so I've kind of avoided his work on spec.  I know, unwise and misguided, but there you have it. Yet here he is in the latest P&W with an article called "Writing Every Day".  Of course. Now we've come full circle. I surprised myself by reading this article and not thinking "walter fucking mosley" but by thinking "okay, universe, you've got me...i'm pinned down and can't move and so what the hell else would you like to say to me?"

For truly, it would seem near to impossible that all these "coincidences" are simply random. It feels as if the universe actually conspired with all of these article writers and their deadlines and their editors and the rearranging of the issue to ensure that ALL of these pieces were contained in the SAME issue and could be easily read in a complete sitting on the very evening that Gwenda's post and Sarvas' book deal were slowly working on my subconscious, leaving an opening for conversion.  Doesn't this seem odd to you? Convenient? So clearly orchestrated by something larger than myself?

Either way, my response should seem less odd: Alright! I get it! I'm supposed to write and I need to write every day and I just need to stop distracting myself with classes (with their deadlines and other stories to read and assignments that make me feel "writerly" but get me no closer to my goals) and all this other hoo-hah. I get it.

And you know what? It feels SO good to be a writer again. To set my sights on that long road once more. To hold fast to that dream that is as essential as breathing for me. To take up the pen (laptop) and do what it is I know I must do, what I have to do in order to be fully me - write and write and write. There is no other way.

Lit Bits & A Bit About LA

• Heidi Julavits has a piece on improving her posture via rolfing (of all things) in the March Vogue. Vogue being, you know, so Vogue, I can't link you to the piece.  I would scan and PDF if I felt it was mind-altering stuff. My point: It is always odd to me when "literary" writers jump into the pages of a publication like Vogue.   When they begin talking of carrying fancy handbags and going in for expensive treatments.  In one way, I think - ah ha! they are just like the rest of us. In another way, I'm disappointed.  Ahhhh, they are just like us.  Why do we keep wanting them to be somehow other when what makes them so able to capture human emotion is that they are, in fact, human?
• Speaking of Julavits, I've finally gotten my act together and will post a final post on Uses of Enchantment shortly.  Props to Bat Segundo's podcast with her...it reminded me of her humanity and her humor as I stare at my notes from her reading and keep seeing cold, aloof, elitist images instead of warm, funny, happy ones. I'll reconcile these in a separate post this week.
• I'm middway through The Bastard of Istanbul and I'm....nonplussed. It's not amazing, it's not bad. It just is. With a TBR pile towering to the left of me as I write, I feel like I want to jump ship.  On the plus side: the picture of Elif Shafak on the inside flap is...wow. She's a looker, eh?
• There's a delicious (I find I'm overusing this word, yet have not found a sufficient replacement for it yet. Suggestions welcome.) interview with Michael Cunningham in the Spring Issue of Glimmer Train.  Also, a very brief piece on Elif Shafak in the same issue. Again, you gotta buy it to read it. More on both to come.
• The latest Poets & Writers includes interviews with Lawrence Ferlinghetti and Tom Bissel. Such riches. Another buy it so you can read it. (Sorry!)
• Two documentaries recently enjoyed (or, well, enjoyed is the wrong word. put the fear of god in me might be more apt): The Future of Food, This Film is Not Yet Rated.  Netflix them now.
• Downtown Los Angeles is experiencing unprecedented growth, with residents moving here in droves because they also work down here and want to live closer to their work. Very green, very environmentally friendly, smart city living and all that, right? Wrong. They are still driving their cars everywhere! I'll be doing a piece on some of these issues for LAist in the coming week.

My Shoulders Hurt (and other odd takeaways from liveblogging the Oscars)

Some things I learned about myself & others while liveblogging the Oscar's over at Ed's:

• It is not ideal to "borrow" a low grade wi-fi signal (while watching TV at a friend's house) whilst attempting to blog rapidly, in real time and have any hope that your posts will appear on the intended site in a timely fashion -- for if liveblogging requires anything, it requires snappy posts that are posted at the exact moment it's still snappy; five minutes later and you will find that funnier posts are already up about the same subject and you might as well stop trying to hit publish for the fifth time because if your post does eventually get up there, you seem to be master of the obvious and little else.  Takeaway: Remain near your own very strong wifi. Or, more to the point, do not promise to live blog a televised event when you are not in possession of a television.
• It is not advisable to half-stand/half-sit with your laptop balancing on the unusually high arm of an unusually fluffy couch so that your typing arms must be lifted almost to eye-level, just wavering in the air with no ergonomic support, and then proceed to type for several hours in this position. If this happens to be the only position in which you can access the weak wi-fi, you should possibly call it a night.  Takeaway: My shoulders hurt and I could use a massage. Must ask Ed about blogger's comp packages. I also think this injury was sustained during overtime, seeing as how we were blogging on a weekend, after hours and all.  So is a massage covered? Who do I see about this? Does Return of the Reluctant have an HR department?  Who will treat me? Dr Mabuse? Or the dreaded Bat?
• Liveblogging the Oscars, or any event, with a bevy of talented writers is intimidating. Until you realize that they know just as much about Britney Spears as you and have just as much to say about hemlines and dresses as they do about plot structure and a well-crafted sentence. I was apprehensive about participating, fearful that I'd be found out as a pop culture fraud with my insolent posts dirtying up the literary observations of the other writers.  Such nervousness was unnecessary. We all seem to possess a shocking amount of pop culture trivia -- more than I think any of us could admit without being inebriated. Takeaway: If excellent writers that I admire can make fun of Cameron Diaz's ridiculous dress and read Beyonce's mind as well as I can, I think it is possible that I will write and publish a book yet. Really.
• I am both funnier and less interesting than I thought. In that order. Takeaway: Need to work on the latter.
• The Oscars are best viewed under the influence of...something. Why? They are the same, the same, the same as they have always been. Much like I imagine Days of Our Lives to be. I haven't watched it in over a decade, but I'm pretty sure if I tuned in, I would find that little has changed and I could pick up right where I left off. Or just as easily tune it out again. Takeaway: Liveblogging the oscars + champagne is really the only reason to watch the Oscars in the future. Ever. Really.
• Hollywood is best appreciated when you only have to watch one Hollywood event a year -- and even that is pushing it. Everyone was so busy kissing up to everyone else, I couldn't help but feel I would rather be doing a million other things with my time including washing my dog and scrubbing my toilets. So many important things are going on in the world that it seems strangely remiss for an entire industry to to get dressed up, preen about, and gladhand each other to celebrate, ostensibly, art.  There were some good films that were about real issues, but by and large, the Oscars seem to be quite a large circle jerk and I'm pleased they have passed us by. Takeaway: Read books, they are better for you. Unless the film in question is very good. And how can you know? You can never go wrong with a book. Well, almost never.
• Speaking of my dog, it seems wholly inappropriate that my English Bulldog, named Oscar, was not with me while liveblogging the Oscars. It was a night for the brits was it not? He should have been there. I had even whipped up pithy post titles like Blogging the Oscars with Oscar, Oscar's Oscars and so on. Sadly, he had to remain at home (near the strong wi-fi signal and no tv) so that I could travel down the road to a friend's house for her painful weak wi-fi, her excellent television and her dog (Blogging the Oscars with Hannah doesn't have the same punch). Takeaway: If ever there was a time to celebrate with my own Oscar, it is during the Oscars. I've always wondered how he would respond to hearing his name that many times in the span of a few hours. By famous strangers no less. Perhaps it would have given him an inflated sense of self. One never knows with the bulldogs.
• There are no surprises in Hollywood, despite what Chris Connelly said throughout the night. Can it be called a surprise if you don't really care? Is it really an upset if you weren't invested in the first place? I wonder. Takeaway: Life is far more surprising (and joyful and interesting and complicated and complex) than simple, simple Hollywood.  Life is something to care about, to invest in.
• One bright shining moment from liveblogging the Oscars that stands out above all else (I'm serious now, really): it is lovely to be in the company of other writers. Quite lovely. If it means I have to blog the Oscar insanity again to find myself in such excellent company again, well, then, consider me signed up for next year. Takeaway: Spend more time with smart writers. It is good for the soul.

And now back to the lit life in LA...which is, well, where I live and so perhaps I won't truly be able to escape the Oscar season until the over-analysis and super-analysis has cycled through a few times. I give it until...the LA marathon on Sunday. 

Oscarfabulous

I will be blogging with the delicious Ed & friends at the Oscar Liveblog this Sunday.

Now. You might be thinking that of course I would blog about the Oscars because I'm in Los Angeles after all. What would make more sense than that?

Or. You might be thinking -- you're in Los Angeles! You'll be at Oscar parties. You'll be drinking yourself silly and making fun of fabulous dresses only steps away from the Vanity Fair party. How would you possibly have time to blog it all?

So. Here is where I get all "I live here and you don't" -- which I will only allow for this one post. Or, which I will forever chime when I finally, one blessed day, move back to San Francisco. Here's the thing with Los Angeles & the Oscars -- you either care or you don't. If you live here and care, the caring becomes an all-out life-consuming endeavor ("the in-duh-strrryyyyy" and all of that). If you live here and don't care, the not caring must also become a rather consuming endeavor because you simply cannot escape the billboards, the ads, the stars all shopping and starving and prepping for the big day.  At the bare minimum, you cannot escape the blocking off of many key streets for an ungodly amount of time.  Which is kind of annoying when you try so hard not to care.

The net effect, sum game, what have you: As a writer, I love film. It's a natural, don't you think? I like to see what was included, not included, what choices were made with the story and why. Fine. As a woman with a penchant for excellent shoes and lovely dresses, I can get into the whole red carpet thing. Fine. I can even -- dare I say it -- get into the award ceremony itself (except for the fact that it's a big popularity contest and not ever really about merit).  I just can't get into the idea of Los Angeles turning itself inside out for the whole shebang. It's not that important and it seems self-important for everyone to make it so. (Full disclosure: my magnified hippie vibe may indeed be related to my recent viewing of the mind-blowing film The Future of Food, in which the effects of genetically-modified food are examined with frightening results. Yes. My disdain for Hollywood  nonsense may hinge on this newly-watched film fear.) 

And my point is: A soul this conflicted could only find cathartic release from blogging about it with fantastic bloggers and writers who are likely less conflicted and far more educated.  Right? Right. Also, I make it a rule to not leave the house on Oscar day.  I will hunker down with sweets & drinks (I don't have to squeeze into an Oscar gown on Sunday) and blog away. So, do check the site throughout the event.  I may lose my mind or I might find my soul. At the very least, I will have harsh words for poor dress choices.  That is all.

I Want Names & I Want Titles

As I mentioned during my last few days in Kailua (yes, I'm back, painfully so), I was toying with the idea of reading mostly Irish and Scottish works during the next six months in an attempt to steep myself more fully in Irish and Scottish society before I visit both countries in September.  I realize that such a plan is not foolproof. In fact, it is a little nuts.

As I look at the right sidebar of upcoming author readings in Los Angeles over the next few months, I'm acutely aware of how busy I will be trying to read all the books, attend all the readings and somehow manage to report back on them all in a timely manner.  That would be enough, wouldn't it?  Add in my own writing and, well, that's plenty. One would think.

However, after some consideration and re-consideration, I still think it's a fantastic idea. If I'm ever going to make any progress, I'm going to need to approach this thing head-on, as if I'm getting paid for it. So, my gentle plea becomes serious. My lightly phrased request for "what do you think" and "where shall I begin?" must be re-stated, far more firmly. We have one McGahern request in. What else? Who else? In what order? Who/what is a must and who/what is a nice to have but not a requirement?

Where do I start? I want names & I want titles. Now. (Or will this be like poetry week in which we all must reveal we haven't widely read Irish and Scottish writers? If so, let me know that too. No worries - you won't have to suffer through Irish Writer week if that's the case!)

Visiting Hawaii, Dreaming of Ireland

My fiance and I have been so busy that the only time we have to plan our upcoming honeymoon is while we are on a plane traveling elsewhere.  Since we plan to visit Ireland & Scotland this September, we spent our flight to Kailua steeping ourselves in all things Irish (we're planning this leg first) to be sure we make the most of our visit and understand (the context, the history, etc.) the things we see.  I'm only a few chapters in to my refresher overview of Irish history and I've gotten to the section on the many writers that call Ireland their homeland.

As I sit here in tropical Kailua, staring out at this lovely tiled pool that reflects the sky and the palms above it (see pic above), I'm imagining a much colder, foggier existence in Ireland.  It is an odd contrast. One I relish. As I think of these Irish writers and their work, I realize that for all my own Irishness, I've not read Irish writers as widely as I possibly should have.  I do loathe "should" reading, but in this case, I feel less "should" and more "want" -- I'm beginning to feel that it might be nice to make my way through several Irish (and Scottish when we begin planning the Scotland leg of the trip!) writers before I step foot in their land. In particular, Irish writers who wrote about Ireland.  I can't think of a better way to "learn" about Ireland before visiting.

Of course, there is the ever-growing TBR pile that includes The Echo Maker and Against the Day and The Bastard of Istanbul and Sacred Games and Wizard of the Crow and so many other books I'm desperate to devour.  Yet wouldn't it be yummy to spend the next six months reading Irish authors?  Something about it feels right...although I wouldn't quite know where to begin.  There is the requisite Joyce which I've read and overanalyzed plenty, yet never fully absorbed with a view to visiting the country. There's Shaw and Beckett and Yeats. Then the more recent Irish literati that includes Banville, Toibin, McCann, McGahern, Doyle and Jordan.  Then all those I don't yet know of but am surely missing out on.

Where to start? Where to finish? How to find my way through the maze of Irish-born writers who've made their homes elsewhere, those who've stayed in their country and those who flit back and forth between the two? How, then, to fold in the Scottish writers as well?

It seems a tall task, one that will surely take me away from all the new books piled up on my desk waiting to be read. Yet it is a calling I cannot resist. I feel the cold wet air (yes, even in 82 degree tropical Hawaii) and the brilliant green countryside calling to me and I don't want to say no. 

So: where to begin?

Meet Me in Kailua

Just touched down in Kailua. Not a bad destination if you can swing it. I've been in a good writing groove for a few weeks now and I'm hesitant to wreck it.

Tropical always gets me in the writing mood, so I can't think of a better way to extend the writing mojo.  I'll post while I'm here for the next week.

And I'll write & write & write.  Hope you're all well!

Litty Bittys (smaller than Lit Bits, if you can imagine something as silly as that)

• I've not yet read Brian Evenson's The Open Curtain, but so many have proclaimed it's brilliance that I should at least mention his Blatt Chat today at 2:30pm.
• Tonight in LA, the downtown art walk gets a jolt by the alcohol-induced poet walk.  Must check it out.
• Speaking of LA, Andrea Siegel takes issue with an LA mural. I could not agree more.
• I want to eat Eat the Document. It's pissing me off and I want it to disappear. Why, why must I see the solution so early on in the book? It ruins everything that comes after it.
• Instead of doing the writing for my writing classes, I find I'm writing all kinds of other stuff.  Just not anything that's due. What the hell is that about?  I think I have problems with authority. Deadlines. Things like that.
• Gayle Brandeis will be here next week and I must, must, must finish (and to finish one must start) her poetry-laced novel Self Storage in the next few days. Looking forward to it.
• I owe you many things. I know. I think it's the reader authority that's encroaching me. Or something like that. Is that a valid enough excuse to buy me a pass today?
• Back with new excuse tomorrow.

Elif Shafak's Love of Language

I've been slammed. That's the only thing I can say in response to my cold blog silence these past few days. Work + wedding + sick + writing + two writing classes + nine million other things = no blog love.

But. So.

I was driving to Trader Joe's last night (yes, we still have to drive even though we live downtown because there are no services yet downtown for those of us who live here...all in good time) and heard an interview with Turkish author Elif Shafak on NPR. In light of recent events (the death of Hrant Dink and the recent trials of Turkish writers such as Orhan Pamuk), most coverage of Shafak has centered around her recent acquittal after being taken to trial for "insulting Turkishness" in her latest book, The Bastard of Istanbul.  I expected her time on NPR to be focused on these recent events. Instead, I was delighted to hear Shafak pointedly talk of other things.  Of her passion for words. Of her insatiable interest in other languages. What they allow her to express and not. I got the distinct feeling that despite the recent events in Turkey, Shafak wanted to bring the conversation back to words, to language, to the very reasons she has gotten to this point. A few things that are still with me this morning:

• She spoke of the Islam she learned from her father's mother. An angry Allah who was writing down your sins in a big book. She then contrasted that with the Islam she learned from her mother's mother. An Allah that could be bargained with, that was mystical, that was fluid. She then applied this comparison to language and how it can either be a political thing that is feared and must always be guarded, or it can be something that is a fluid mystery, that you live within and negotiate daily based on your feelings, your experiences, the ideas you need to express at a moment in time.
• She talked about her use of "old" sufi words and other "Islamic words" in her Turkish writings -- something she has been widely criticized for by those in her own country.  Over many generations, Turkish writings slowly did away with all politically charged words, all references to the past. An intentional amputation of the language. Cut off the parts that upset you and keep going. In Shafak's view, this led to a narrowing of the language. To demonstrate her point, she talked about the words for colors. That there are no nuances...no shades...between red and yellow. They now have only the word "red" and the word "yellow" - nothing in between.  All the nuances, the shades, are older words that have been removed by generations of writers, thinkers and speakers that wanted to shed their past. Shafak believes that this reduction in language equals a reduction in thought, in creativity in imagination. When you limit your words, you limit what can be said. What can be thought. Such a powerful idea, no?  Haunting when you think of this systematic reduction of words, ergo thought, over time.
• As a reaction to this narrowing, she has dedicated her life to the study of those lost words. To bringing her Turkish vocabulary back to its fullest, most robust iteration. Her passion for words and her desire to rediscover them and reintroduce them is delicious. Gorgeous, really.
• Shafak also spoke of the freedom she finds in speaking other languages. That learning other languages -- their word systems, their capacity for irony, for self-reflection or not -- is like putting on another identity. That within the system of another language, you can express yourself in a way that is not possible in your mother tongue. Or in yet another tongue. To illustrate her point, she said that it is unacceptable for women in her country to swear in Turkish. Yet, these same women can swear in English without any fear of recrimination. They find a freedom to express themselves in English that is not available to them in Turkish.
• I have always believed there was freedom in language, but it's been awhile since I've had such a powerful, concrete example of it. Listening to Shafak speak of these things in her own beautiful patchwork of words from past, present and future was delicious. She has reminded me of the power of words and language. Most importantly, she has strengthened my belief in the awesome power of writing.

Simply cannot wait to read her book. Do have a listen...