Struggles

I once ran into Matt Damon and he asked me if I had anything to show him. He was referring to my writing. I had mentioned to him that I dabbled in screenplays - we were on the bus together and had somehow gotten on the subject. I told him that I didn’t have anything cooking at the moment. I asked him if I could get his email and send him something when I was ready. He said, “No, no. That’s okay.”

I sometime try and write this opening scene where there’s a close up of spinning bicycle spokes and then we pan out to see the rest of the wheel, then the whole bike and these kicking legs, and then there’s the kid (sometimes it’s a hipster, sometimes it’s just a kid) and he’s focused and sweating, peddling through traffic in New York, or in a neighborhood in autumn. But it never goes anywhere.

When the time comes that I'm making enough money and am under no particular pressure, I would like to start each day by walking down to the café and eating breakfast and reading the Times. I imagine that this would set up a clear mind and a productive rest of my day.

I realize that studying another language would help with my writing.

I’ve heard that Matt Damon plays a lot of Scrabble. I would imagine that this is a helpful use of his time, learning all those funny words and all.

Walking Where Dylan Walked

Jamie pulled a jacket off the Salvation Army rack and handed it to me. I put it on. It fit. My dad said, “That looks so sharp.” Jamie said, “It’s only five dollars.” My mom said, “You should just get it.” I brought it to the counter. The lady said that it was half-off because of the yellow stripe on the tag. I paid her $2.50 and we left.

We continued down Howard St., passing closed store after closed store, half of which were closed because it was a Saturday, and half because they had closed their doors for good. Not until the other end of the six-block drag did we find another store to go into. It was Howard Street Books. There, we met Toby Thompson, the first person to write about where Bob Dylan had grown up, which was here, where we were, in Hibbing, MN. We bought and had him sign reissued, soft-cover copies of his book. Then we left, turning back up Howard St. to our car.

We couldn't believe how quiet everything was. There was nothing, and no one. We had expected this to be a big deal. It was Dylan Days, after all. We drove up here expecting to find the streets clogged with tourists and the stores set up on the sidewalks and for their clerks to be out smiling and telling “back when” Robert Zimmerman stories. But this was it, Salvation Army and a small bookstore.

We drove out to our motel on the edge of town, checked-in and unpacked. I took off my over shirt and tried the jacket again. It felt good and went with the Dylan t-shirt I already had on, so I decided I would wear it for the rest of the night. My dad was jealous that he didn’t have anything that was so “rock’n’roll.” I said that I smelled like a thrift store. They assured me that I didn't.

We drove back into town and parked in front of Zimmey’s, a Dylan-themed bar and grill. We had an hour before the concert and the restaurant was full. They offered us a seat on the patio and told us what food would be the fastest. We ordered and while we were waiting, Ramblin’ Jack Elliott came walking by. He was the concert’s headliner and he was hitting up a bar minutes before the opening act went on. And did I mention that he's 77-years-old?

We finished eating and decided to walk to Hibbing High School, where the concert was going to be. I looked back at Howard St. and at the setting sun. I asked Jamie for the camera and she asked if I was going to do my “walking away” shot. I said that I was and we turned the camera to the auto-timer. I got down on my knees and began setting up the shot. My parents asked what I was doing, my mom made a comment about an oncoming car. Camera ready, I pressed the shutter and jumped to my feet. I took a few quick steps, then slowed to a strut.

And there I am, walking where Dylan walked, wearing my two dollar and fifty cent thrift-store coat.

The Two Writers

The following was taken from Italo Calvino's If on a winter’s night a traveler. As an aspiring writer, I found this passage to be exactly right, and deeply inspiring. Whether you're a writer or not, whether you find this passage inspiring or not, I hope that you will take a moment and read it, and that in doing so you'll better understand some of the anxiety I carry. Enjoy.

The tormented writer watches the productive writer filling pages with uniform lines, the manuscript growing in a pile of neat pages. In a little while the book will be finished: certainly a best seller—the tormented writer thinks with a certain contempt but also with envy. He considers the productive writer no more than a clever craftsman, capable of turning out machine made novels catering to the taste of the public; but he cannot repress a strong feeling of envy for that man who expresses himself with such methodical self-confidence. It is not only envy, it is also admiration, yes, sincere admiration: in the way that man puts all of his energy into writing there is certainly a generosity, a faith in communication, in giving others what others expect of him, without creating introverted problems for himself. The tormented writer would give anything if he could resemble the productive writer; he would like to take him as a model; his greatest ambition now is to become like him.

The productive writer watches the tormented writer as the latter sits down at his desk, chews his fingernails, scratches himself, tears a page to bits, gets up and goes into the kitchen to fix himself some coffee, then some tea, then chamomile, then reads a poem by Hölderlin (while it is clear that Hölderlin has absolutely nothing to do with what he is writing), copies a page already written and then crosses it all out line by line, telephones the cleaner’s (though it was settled that the blue slacks couldn’t be ready before Thursday), then writes some notes that will not be useful now but maybe later, then goes to the encyclopedia and looks up Tasmania (though it is obvious that in what he is writing there is no reference to Tasmania), tears up two pages, puts on a Ravel recording. The productive writer has never liked the works of the tormented writer; reading them, he always feels as if he is on the verge of grasping the decisive point, but then it eludes him and he is left with a sensation of uneasiness. But now that he is watching him write, he feels this man is struggling with something obscure, a tangle, a road to be dug leading no one knows where; at times he seems to see the other man walking on a tightrope stretched over the void, and he is overcome with admiration. Not only admiration, also envy; because he feels how limited his own work is, how superficial compared with what the tormented writer is seeking.

Someone Who Was There

I asked Ramblin’ Jack Elliott if Woody Guthrie had a favorite joke. He smiled and said, “He used to tell the corniest jokes.”

I asked if he could remember any.

“No, it’s been so long now. But one funny thing I do remember is that he used to play his own songs on jukeboxes and stand there, tapping his feet and whistling along, not telling anyone that it was his song.”

“He also used to hold up his beer and say, ‘Good for your wife’s kidneys.’”

My dad asked if Odetta’s mom had really added the Ramblin’ to his name.

“She sure did, though it took some friends to make it stick.”

Lit Here, Lit There, Lit Lit...

A piece of writing passes through many hands before it gets published. This is especially true with book-length manuscripts. But even with short stories and essays, there are still countless people involved. There is, for instance, the writer, the writer’s support group, the agent, the publisher (sometimes more than one publisher), the editor, the copyeditor and so on. But really, there are really only the two sides: the side of creation and the side of completion. At some point along the line of hands-involved, it goes from being about getting it down to being about getting it right.

Over the past five months, I’ve been involved with the publication of my university’s literary journal. The experience provided me the opportunity to spend some time on the “other side.” I went from being the creator to being the publisher. I wasn’t, of course, the publisher. But I was asked to think like one. I was asked to consider the merit and relevance of each piece, and how potential pieces played against each other. I was asked to defend my reasons for advocating on behalf of one piece and my reasons for rejecting another. I was asked to think in terms of the big picture and to simultaneously pay attention to the smallest of details. And by doing all of this—by juggling these responsibilities—I am now certain of two things: publishing is not for me and writing most definitely is.

The brutal reality of publishing is that the odds are against each and every piece. We began with over four hundred submissions and are only going to publish eight. The reasons something gets in are usually simple—the writing is strong, the story is strong, the voice is strong, the problems are few and far between. But the reasons something doesn’t get in are often much harder to define—the first readers didn’t like it, the editors had mixed reactions, there were maybe some problems with craft or grammar, there was a similar and stronger piece.

All of these could be the culprit, but it could also be something else altogether. The one exception to this is stuff that is truly bad. And while very few stories and essays would fit into this category, there are always enough duds in a pile to make this a legitimate concern. What’s tricky is trying to explain to someone (or to yourself, if you’re a writer) that if something is truly good, it will eventually get published, while also reminding them that it’s not just about having a dozen pages double-spaced and tenacity.

In this day and age, with technology aplenty and every reason to chase your dreams, there are thousands of writers-to-be, hundreds of publications and dozens of readers. It’s an unhealthy food chain. Even I, someone who is by most standards a serious reader, must admit that I had never read a literary journal cover-to-cover before getting my feet wet with my school’s. I also have to admit that I have always thought (and still struggle with whether) there are too many places a story can be published—too many literary journals.

I can’t decide, however, where the blame should be put. Certainly, any place that is still fighting the good fight should be applauded, but ultimately, does having all this literature really contribute to the cause? I’d like to think so, but the skeptic in me is inclined to believe the opposite. A hundred years ago, there were no MFA programs and very few literary journals. What got published was the absolute best of the best. And while this would have wiped my future off the board, I think it did raise the overall standard to a much higher level than what we have now. But then again, one hundred years ago, there were no TVs or video games or internet…all of which literature has to now go up against.

Stephen King, as the guest editor of the 2007 Best American Short Stories, said in his introduction: “So—American short story alive? Check. American short story well? Sorry, no, can’t say so. Current condition stable, but apt to deteriorate in the years ahead.”

I have to agree. Maybe there are too many publications—too many literary journals. But I also have to say this: readers or no readers, writers and publishers need to keep at it. This is a noble fight we’re in, and while there are the two sides to what we’re doing—the creating and the completing, let me be clear: we’re all in it together.

Sick or strong, big or small, there will always remain a culture of words and stories.

Maybe there are too many words being sent to too few people. Maybe the standards are lower than they were before. And maybe the future is less than desirable. But I still believe that there are stories out there that need to be read, and that without little journals like ours, and without the hard work of everyone behind the scenes, these stories would disappear into the great and distant silence. So…

Go, Lit Mag, Go!

What's On

There seems to be no rules left for television. It’s an anything goes world of faux reality and über drama. What was racy then is careful now. Violence is to be expected, nipples are to be slightly blurred and loser after loser is to be pushed out onto center stage for your review. Television has become a you’re-never-going-to-believe-this crapshoot, and like much of the rest of the world, I’m a near-junkie.

I sometime hate myself for spending so much time watching television; I’ve even blogged about it here in the past. But now and then, albeit seldom, something comes along that changes everything, and I actually feel grateful for TV. Sometimes it’s a single episode. Sometimes it’s an entire series. West Wing was this for me; LOST and The Office have had their moments. This quality, whatever it is, is not formulaic or definable. It’s something organic. It’s usually of consequence and often imbued with hope. And as rare as these “quality” moments may seem, they are out there.

I give you Boston Legal.

On its surface, Boston Legal is about sleazy hookups and shallow men. But beneath that, at its truer levels, it’s about so much more. It’s about the lives of wealthy and broken people, each searching for purpose and intimacy, and trying when they can to do something meaningful with their lives. It’s about the past and about the future, and it's about the here and now of the world's affairs. Above all, though, it’s about something even greater—friendship.

Simply put: If you’ve lost faith in television, you need a dose of Boston Legal.

Front and center of Boston Legal is the friendship of Alan Shore (James Spader) and Denny Crane (William Shatner). Their dedication to each other is of the ages. It’s what makes the show go 'round, and it’s what makes me want to stand up after every episode and declare, “I am better off having watched this!”

Each episode of Boston Legal closes with Alan and Denny sitting together on Denny’s balcony. There, they share a glass of scotch, smoke a cigar and talk about their days. In these moments, television itself rises above being worthless and becomes something quite beautiful.

Here’s a taste from this week’s episode, “Indecent Proposals.”

Alan: One thing I do love about you.

Denny: Tell me.

Alan: While many people embrace the promise of tomorrow, too few celebrate the joy of now. And nobody does that like Denny Crane.

Denny looks off.

Denny: Well, let me tell you something. When you've got polar icecaps melting and breaking off, and when you’ve got Osama still hiding in a cave—planning his next attack, and when you’ve got other rogue nations with nuclear arsenals, not to mention some whack job homegrown who can cancel you at any second, now gets high priority.

Alan laughs. Denny looks over.

Denny: And when you’re sitting on your balcony on a clear night, sipping scotch with your best friend, now is everything.

Alan: Here’s to that.
Denny: Here’s to now.

As Rooting McGreevy (also from Boston) used to say, ‘Nuf Ced.