Sunday, March 31, 2013

April Experiment

Things at work have been steadily, stealthily getting busier...and the creeping sense of the onslaught has finally materialized. What that means is that it has been harder than usual to carve out the time for writing. My writing group disbanded for the time being, throwing another wrench into the writing efforts. So I'm embarking on a (hopefully) fun experiment to keep the creative juices flowing: for the month of April, write one new sentence each day.

This is certainly not a novel idea. There are movements dedicated to asking participants to create a certain amount of words per day, etc. I once saw Jimmy Buffet on a late night talk show, and he mentioned that he produces his books by writing one page a day. It can still take an agonizing amount of time to get one page down (love my typewriter!), but I figure I should be able to stick to one sentence a day.

Stay tuned, faithful readers! I'm planning to return to the world of Laura and Wren, and build the next scene (previously tumbling around in my head) here on the blog - sentence by sentence. A Frankenstein project; carefully considering, measuring words, taking the time to stitch together that "perfect" arrangement of words.

Focus on the sentence itself...

Friday, February 8, 2013

Odds 'n Ends

Before Nemo really kicks in and we (hopefully don't) lose power, here's a quick update on some things I'm working on:

CURRENTLY WRITING: I'm planning to enter a short story competition with an upcoming March 1 deadline. The competition asks writers to submit stories inspired by specific paintings from a Maine artist. It was a good exercise scrolling through the paintings, waiting for the seed of inspiration to sprout. What I came up with is quite short in length (about 2,000 words under the 5,000 word limit), but I really wanted it to be a snapshot of an intense moment in time. I sent it off to my writing group, for  critique this Wednesday. I don't want to jinx myself by posting it here, but depending on how things shake out, this piece may make a blog appearance in the future.

Donald Ray Pollack. I just started Knockemstiff.
CURRENTLY READING:
Oh, the joy of finishing a book and deciding which one to start next! Back in October/November, I had a birthday coupon for Longfellow Books. I went in looking for Growing Up Dead in Texas by Stephen Graham Jones. They didn't have it, but through some back-and-forth with the bookstore guy, he recommened Knockemstiff by Donald Ray Pollock. It's always interesting to get recommendations, particularly if someone suggests something because it reminds them of your own work or personality. In this case, I think it was just something that the bookstore guy had recently read and loved. Either way, Knockemstiff has been un-opened on my nightstand for much too long, and I'm excited to dig in.


JUST FINISHED READING: Is anyone sick of listening to me talk about David Foster Wallace yet If so, you'll be happy to know I finally finished A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again. I've always had a borderline obsessive tendency to write down quotes, and what better place to collect them than on the blogosphere? It was a little surreal going back to the pages I'd folded down, kind of like opening a mystery box, not sure what I would find. Trying to remember what drew me to those sentences in particular, especially since I did most of my reading right before bed, with my mind in a strange and lucid, dream-state. So, without further ado, below are some DFW quotes from A Supposedly Fun Thing...

"...the very most important artistic communications took place at a level that not only wasn't intellectual but wasn't even fully conscious, that the unconscious's true medium wasn't verbal but imagistic..."

This thought was offered in relation to Lynch's Blue Velvet. What I like about it is the verbal and imagistic implications. In writing, I think the primary goal is to create effective images, though the medium itself requires use of words, which is a kind of verbal device.

"Lynch's movies are not about monsters (i.e. people whose intrinsic natures are evil) but about hauntings, about evil as environment, possibility, force."

"Darkness is in everything, all the time - not 'lurking below' or 'lying in wait' or 'hovering on the horizon': evil is here, right now. And so are Light, love, redemption (since these phenomena are also, in Lynch's work, forces and spirits), etc."

It's interesting to wonder if there are forces that cause a person (real or imagined) to commit certain acts. I saw a news segment over the summer that linked heat to violence. When temperatures skyrocket to their hottest, crime rates also surge. It makes a good backdrop for a story. How environment can weigh on a character, push them into acting in a way that's more aligned with the ever-present darkness or light.

"Day to day I have to make all sorts of choices about what is good and important and fun, and then I have to live with the forfeiture of all the other options those choices foreclose. And I'm starting to see how as time gains momentum my choices will narrow and their foreclosures multiply exponentially until I arrive at some point on some branch of all life's sumptuous branching complexity at which I am finally locked in and stuck on one path...But since it's my own choices that'll lock me in, it seems unavoidable - if I want  to be any kind of grownup, I have to make choices and regret foreclosures and try to live with them." 

This really reminded me of a part in The Bell Jar, where Esther is imagining all the things she could do with her life, options spreading out and blooming like a fig tree. It has a similarly claustrophobic feel to it. Decisions start to close life around her, and she further wonders if the figs she imagines were ever actually available to her at all.

Saturday, January 26, 2013

Informing Narrative

A few weeks ago, we watched The Informant! This movie is often quite funny, with a touch of the surreal, but what struck me most was the narrative structure. Through first person narration from Matt Damon's character (based on the real life Mark Whitacre), we slowly learn about events that he has kept hidden from both the other movie characters and us, the faithful viewer.

The Informant! has an unreliable narrator 
and a hidden layer of events...
Photo Source


The first hint of secret-keeping comes at the beginning, when the FBI arrives at Damon/Whitacre's company to investigate a possible mole situation. As part of this investigation, the FBI needs to tap the phone lines in Damon/Whitacre's home. On the night the special agent comes over to get the phone tap set up, we see Damon/Whitacre and his wife having a tense conversation, regarding whether or not Damon/Whitacre is going to be honest and tell the agent about this other "thing." They seem to be talking about something bigger than the mole/phone tap situation. As if they have been discussing this matter off screen for weeks, months. Maybe years.

The phone is tapped, the agent in the driveway about to leave. After a few more "If you don't say anything, I will" whispers with his wife, Damon/Whitacre stops the agent and asks if they can speak privately in the agent's car. At this point, we viewers are on edge. Due to all the hush-hush, just-be- honest talk with the wife, we know something big is about to be revealed. The tension is heightened as we realize that a sub-current of plot has been stealthily running under the "primary" issue (the mole) we thought we were supposed to pay attention to. The secrecy also lends a realism to the characters, as if Damon/Whitacre and his wife had truly been going about their lives before the movie started (to make things more complex, they had, as these characters are based on actual people) - having conversations and sharing secrets that we never got to listen in on.

The first hint of secret-keeping 
begins with a conversation between husband and wife
Photo Source
In the car, Damon/Whitacre reveals to the special agent that he and other company executives have been working with competitors to fix the price of lysine. (Don't ask me to explain what lysine is, I really have no idea. As best as I could gather, in the movie, it was an industrially produced corn by-product found in manufactured food, something like high fructose corn syrup.)

As the movie progresses, the viewer gets caught up in the lysine price-fixing scandal via Damon/Whitacre's actions and inner thoughts. We see Damon/Whitacre going undercover for the FBI, helping them record tapes and video of illegal activities. Price-fixing and an impending FBI bust seems to be the plot, what we are meant to focus on. But gradually - ever so slowly at first - the movie reveals that other events have occurred simultaneously to the price-fixing investigation. Events we had no way of knowing about because the camera didn't show them to us; because Damon/Whitacre didn't reveal them to the other characters onscreen; and because the movie never allowed Damon/Whitacre to let us in on the secrets. According to Wikipedia, Roger Ebert had this to say about the movie's layering: "The Informant! is fascinating in the way it reveals two levels of events, not always visible to each other or to the audience."

I'm very interested in using this type of narrative technique in my own writing. In The Informant!, the main device used is an unreliable narrator, who we realize hasn't been telling us everything, even within the inner monologues the movie gives us access to. Maybe he is incapable of telling himself the truth (but that's a whole separate plot point). Though I find unreliable narrators very appealing, I am most interested in having concrete events as parts of a story, writing about them through the character(s), but not necessarily coming out point-blank to tell the reader exactly what that event was/is. Facts and memories so engrained in the character - such an integral part of their own story - that they need no self-reference. And a first-person narration/self-reference would be the only means the reader has for receiving the story. However, within my writing, I do want to drop enough "clues" to give the reader footing to accurately infer what the event being written about was/is.

Can you trust my narration in this post? Just watch The Informant! and let me know if any of this rings true...

Friday, January 4, 2013

Amusement Parks, Fairs, and DFW

I'm still plugging away at A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again. While excited that I finally reached the David Lynch essay/argument, this means that I finished the preceding "Getting Away From Already Pretty Much Being Away From it All."  An all-encompassing view of the 1993 Illinois State Fair, as seen through the eyes of David Foster Wallace, it has been my favorite installment of A Supposedly Fun Thing... so far.

DFW's personality really shone through "Getting Away..." (keen observations tinged with human insecurities/vulnerabilities, the way the surrounding environment affects mood) and there was subtle humor sprinkled about. Allow me to list a few standouts:

  • His descriptions of the game booths, how "rows of stuffed animals hang by their feet like game put out to cure."
  • The gluttonous, sensory overload of the food booths. And this is before he eats himself into an unpleasant sounding digestive situation at the Dessert Competition tent.
  • Although his coverage of the Fair is due to a journalism assignment from a "swanky East-Coast magazine," he fails to bring a notebook with him. He then buys a notebook, leaves it in his car with the windows down, and the notebook gets ruined by rain. He doesn't even have a pen. After indulgence at the Dessert tent sends him to the Emergency Room, he ends up in the hospital gift shop to buy another notebook. He buys the only one they have, a kid's notebook, "with that weird soft gray paper and some kind of purple brontosaurus-type character named Barney on the cover."
  • The cacophonous noise from the Poultry Building is "what insanity must sound like."
  • "Clydesdales with their bellbottoms of hair"
  • Throughout the piece, DFW conducts hapazard interviews with various Fair folk. Basically asking random questions, with little more than an eye roll, profanity, or blank stare as the response. At one point he writes: "I ask a little kid to describe the taste of his Funnel Cake and he runs away." I had to laugh out loud when reading this, just imagining a rumpled DFW approaching some kid out of the blue; and the kid, having no idea who DFW is, hightailing it out of there in full stranger-danger mode.
"The Fairgrounds are creepy with everything set up but no one about.
A creepy air of hasty abandonment, a feeling like you run home from kindergarten
and the whole family's up and moved, left you."

- David Foster Wallace

To me, the center of "Getting Away..." is DFW's memory of how as a child, he was convinced that everything he encountered existed just for him. And how this sense of the world is why "special ritual occasions drive a kid right out of his mind." Special occasions such as Fairs. The child counts down, looks forward to this special event, and "every hanging banner, balloon, gilded booth, clown-wig, turn of the wrench on a tent's erection...will present itself as Special-For-Him...For-Him alone, unique at the absolute center."

This reminded me of a sentiment I've tried to capture in my own writing. In a section of my grad school thesis, there was a piece where a female character visits an amusement park (which was a much-anticipated, once-a-summer occasion from her youth), and tries to reconcile her current experience of it with her childood impressions. To bring this blog post to a close, I've included two excerpts below.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The following is from written work by Fiona Clifford:



As a kid, the drive to Funtown was the best part of summer, promised magic as August faded and the beginning of a new school year loomed near.  Every evening darkness arrived a little earlier, the threat of frost and the tips of trees already turning not quite hidden from our attention. Hair matted with chlorine and the ocean, we rode bikes around town, stained our lips red and purple with Freezie Pops. There was still Funtown to look forward to.

It was strange being at Funtown in the middle of the day...

At Funtown, neon bulbs split the night open with endless flashing circles.  Merry-go-round horses spun with boundless energy. Kids like me rushed about, thrilled to be up so late, sandaled feet thumping over wooden bridges and scattered popcorn bags.  

On the way there we shivered with anticipation, all of us in the backseat straining to catch the first glimpse of the dinosaur.  The entrance to Funtown. He was perched on the side of a cliff, ferocious claws captured by spotlight. With the night lingering on the edge of expectation, anything could happen  once inside.

I shifted to the front of my seat as Ethan drove on. I wanted to spot that dinosaur. As we neared the park, my eyes focused instead on a brown blob lumped onto a plastic pile of rocks  A bear, his crafted 
expression smeared into attempted 
wildness, stood in the place of the dinosaur.
“What the hell? Has that bear always been there?” Squinting, I tried to pinpoint where my memory misled me. 
“How should I know?” Ethan pulled into the parking lot. “Does it matter?”

xxx

It was strange being at Funtown in the middle of the day, without night casting its spell over everything. Lights were on – blinking from the seats of the Ferris Wheel, dangling heavily from the tents that promised prizes for all the money in your pocket – but no one noticed. The carousel mirrors were covered in grime and the horses reared up in various expressions of pain. Impaled with a gilded pole, their hard red mouths and glazed eyes remained lifeless. The air was thick with the smell of frying oil. Kids stuffed themselves with onion rings, fries, fried dough; simply dropping their wrappers on the ground when they were through. Cotton candy dissolved on the tongue before they ever had a chance to taste it.

Wednesday, December 19, 2012

Unfolding

"Everything eventually unfolds..."
I have been happily exploring podcasts from YogaDownload.com. Towards the end of a recent lunchtime practice, the podcast instructor guided me, her invisible student, through Figure Four. This pose is a challenge for me, as my hips are always tight, but I was inspired by the instructor's gentle encouragement: "Everything eventually unfolds."

As I focused on opening up in harmony with breath, I immediately latched on to a wisdom within these words.
Everything eventually unfolds.

I love the implication of the word "unfold." It suggests a moment of struggle, confusion, or discomfort. Why can't I touch my toes? Why don't I know all the "facts" about a certain situation?
Why aren't words filling this blank page in a satisfying way? Unfolding hints that these moments may eventually be followed with ease, enlightenment, or release.  Unfolding suggests patience. Not be confused with stagnant inactivity. Continue practicing. Keep stretching, seeking, writing. But don't force it.

A balled up piece of paper, carefully uncrumpling. An opening fist. The meticulous unfurling of a palm frond. Unfolding suggests measured purpose, inevitableness. Seasons ending and beginning again. Lives passing to the next stage. So many possibilities in a simple phrase.


Wednesday, November 28, 2012

Musings on Observing via DFW

"Fiction writers as a species tend to be oglers."
A true lurker, I snapped this photo of two strangers posing for another photographer's lens

My brother loaned me his copy of David Foster Wallace’s A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again, and this is what I’ve been reading for the past month. This is the first work from DFW that I’ve read. The combination of being an extremely slow reader, and doing the majority of my recreational reading right before bedtime, has made this a drawn out process. 

I just started the third essay/argument, and I’m still on the fence about his writing. I think he was obviously wildly smart – probably one of those people too smart for their own good – and his brain may sometimes have got in the way of his ability to solidify his ideas for the reader.

But there have been glimmers throughout the pages. Like this quote from his “E Unibus Pluram: Television and U.S. Fiction” essay:

                                        Fiction writers as a species tend to be oglers. They tend to lurk and to stare. 
                                        They are born watchers. They are viewers. They are the ones on the subway 
                                        about whose nonchalant stares there is something creepy, somehow. 
                                        Almost predatory. This is because human situations are writers’ food. 
                                        Fiction writers watch other humans sort of the way gapers slow down for car wrecks: 
                                        they covet a vision of themselves as witnesses.

This is a nice reminder of a trait most of us would likely associate with creative types. I do enjoy observing people, but it seems to stem from an interest in human nature, rather than a concrete “I’m going to watch a bunch of strangers until I get an idea for my next story” goal (And of course we have to subtly spy, as our social grooming taught us that outright staring is rude/weird/creepy). But maybe the urge to observe stems from the same place that generates the urge to write?

In my experience, very rarely does observing lead directly to an immediate this-could-be-worth-writing-someday moment. More often the attention wanders to the next person, out the window, back to my own hands, and the observed detail wafts gently downstream. Falls soundlessly in line with the endless marching of thoughts, memories, hopes and anxieties parading around. And then much further down the road (perhaps while staring at the ceiling, thinking what to write next; maybe while folding laundry) something observed comes back to life – seemingly without any effort on my part, almost without recollection of having observed it in the first place. And it seems to fit perfectly with my character or the scene unfolding on my half-written page.

We notice the things meant for us...
I’m of the belief that we only notice the things meant for us. Not to imply that we should maintain a passive float through life (we could all stand to be more present, more observant), but if we imparted every detail around us with the utmost importance, it would be too overwhelming. However, what I love about photography – about bringing a camera with me on outings and trips – is that it forces me to open my eyes a little wider. I’m more on the lookout for moments, so I can capture them on film. Of course, you can’t force these things, and sometimes there are no pictures snapped.

Or I don’t have a camera on me, or it’s not practical to take a picture as the moment unfolds. On a bus in England, whizzing past a field where two people kiss on top of a large roll of hay. Walking behind an impeccably dressed old man, hunched with age, as he ducks below the trailing branches of a weeping willow. A yellow convertible pulls up in the next lane on a late summer afternoon, a wrinkled white bulldog leaning out the passenger side. Moments observed, saved to mind film, waiting to come back to life someday.

Tuesday, October 30, 2012

Monster Mash

In college, I took a fascinating course called Monsters: Imagining the Other.  We watched monster movies each week; read novels, as well as texts by philosophers, psychologists, theorists, etc.; and explored the cultural significance of monsters. Our amazing professor bound up each class members' required monster journals and papers, and this artifact has been with me since its creation in 2002. In the spirit of the season, I found my section in the class book and pulled out some sentences here and there to stitch together a Frankenstein of monster musings. Happy Halloween!
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Once the pod people invaded the body of a human,
they retained the appearance and memories of the former individual
.
Invasion of the Body Snatchers was allegedly made to address the Communist paranoia of the 1950s. By studying the way people are drawn to invasion stories, it becomes evident that, even when removed from the issues of the Fifties, invasion stories play an important role in today’s culture. Not only do they help relieve modern concerns, they also tell us about the function of monsters in general.

Slippery anxieties find solid form in invasion films. Invasion of the Body Snatchers features pod people who suck emotions and individuality from their prey. Even if the monster shares the same appearance and actions as us, something dangerous may lurk beneath the surface. Fearing a Communist take over, some 1950s Americans worried they were next in line.

While Invasion of the Body Snatchers examines the nature of the “enemy,” Independence Day shows the country coming together in a time of crisis. A stripper rescues the First Lady, dissolving boundaries that separate social classes. Before the final fight with the aliens, the President addresses the crowd - urging everyone to forget differences in race, gender, status – and instead focus on saving the world. Indeed, the man who ends up destroying the Mother Ship is a drunk from a trailer park – not the typical hero we so often see in films.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In his monster theses, Jeffery Jerome Cohen
states that the monster can act as
"an alter ego...an alluring projection
of (an Other) self."
Fight Club can be considered a monster movie. In his monster theses, Jeffrey Jerome Cohen states that “every monster is…two living stories: one that describes how the monster came to be and another, its testimony, detailing what cultural use the monster serves” (13). Tyler Durden fulfills the Narrator’s psychological need, and carries a cultural message.

Tyler appears when the Narrator’s apartment explodes. The Narrator can no longer define himself with possessions and material objects.  “The monster’s body…incorporates fear, desire, anxiety, and fantasy, giving them life and an uncanny independence” (Cohen, 4). Tyler isn’t disgusted by living in a broken, dirty house with rusty running water. He doesn’t desire money or fear the corporate system. Tyler wears clothes the Narrator could never wear, is sexual in ways the Narrator never dared to be. Tyler doesn’t let others walk on him. He lives in the moment and acts to satisfy himself. As Tyler states, “All the ways you want to be…that’s me.”

"All the ways you want to be...that's me"
Although Tyler is created by the Narrator’s desperation to improve his life, Tyler serves as a cultural message board. This is also the role of the monster; they “demand a radical rethinking of boundary and normality” (6). Tyler’s message is simple: start thinking for yourself, stop surrounding yourself with meaningless items.

The power of Tyler’s cultural message is both liberating and frightening. Through Project Mayhem, the Narrator sees how impressionable society is. Instead of truly integrating Tyler’s lessons of independence, the members of Project Mayhem behave as if in a cult. They lose all ability to think for themselves, and eagerly await Tyler’s next orders. Instead of liberating others, Project Mayhem creates mindless drones. When something as strong as Tyler comes along, the weakness of the system is revealed, as it easily crumbles under his influence.

Although they share one body, Tyler and the Narrator are two personas. Tyler can do whatever he wants, since he exists outside society’s boundaries. The Narrator is the voice of reason, we often see him standing cautiously on the sidelines. Tyler asks us to look inside and see if we are truly happy. "Monsters ask us how we perceive the world, and how we have misrepresented what we have attempted to place. They ask us to reevaluate our cultural assumptions" (20).  The Narrator needed to realize that Tyler's ideals were a part of him, and that he could act upon them - without completely losing his voice of reason - when necessary.  At the end of the film, the Narrator symbolically shoots himself, and thus Tyler, who drops to the floor.

But Tyler isn't dead. He has been drawn back inside the Narrator's mind. He has been integrated. The Narrator has urges for both a domestic life and a life of revolution.  Two conflicting beings lie within him, making it hard for the viewer to ultimately separate one from the other. He won't easily fit into a category of "good" or "bad" because he is both. And this is a terrifying aspect of monsters - the realization that we all have similar capacities for both preservation and destruction.