My wife* and I like to take long-ish walks around sunset in the summer. Sunset walks have the advantage of beautiful skies, the occasional firefly and a cricket orchestra. The temperatures also dip in to double digits, which is probably the real reason, even if that explanation lacks in poetry and romance. Last night, our discussion (and we always talk on these walks) wandered off into the distant future. We talked about where we’d started when we first got together, where we were now in terms of employment and finances, and where we’d like to be down the road. We talked about getting a second car (#NecessaryEvil), about long-term job plans, 401K’s, savings, and eventually home ownership. The word “retirement” even came up at some point. It’s a little strange to be talking about what your plans are for when you’re eighty years old, even when you’re talking to the person you expect to turn eighty with. It turns out that we were very much on the same page as far as how we viewed the road map. We’re both adults, but we’re not really the sort of adult you’d trust with Serious Adult Things. We’re kind of making it up as we go. The thing that struck me about this oddly practical conversation was how utterly confident I was in our ability to make our plans work. That may sound like a very small thing, but I don’t have a stellar history in the planning department. I’ve always been more of a “vague notion of where I’m heading but hey things change so let’s not get too attached to this particular outcome” kind of guy. But last night? It all felt gloriously solid. * Technically speaking, she isn’t my wife quite yet, but she’s getting there. The line of demarcation isn’t nearly as clearly-defined as it once was and, in some contexts, we are married and in others, we’re not. Rather than continue to refer to her as “beautiful girlfriend” (although she is both of these things), henceforth, I’ll just call her my wife. I like the sound of that better anyway. -RK Pictured: Not really a sunset, but pretty.
Category: Journal
Why I Write
Note: This is in response to Wendig’s Flash Fiction Challenge from last Friday. This week’s challenge has nothing to do with fiction; instead, he’s challenged folks to write about why they write. That felt more bloggish than storyish, which is why I’m putting this in the “journal” column. Now, on with business: “Why do you write?” I’m an oblique fellow. I like to sidle up to things rather than address them head-on, but this was a direct question, so I’m going to give you an uncharacteristically direct answer: The only thing that I consider meaningful is doing things to make other people’s live better and this is the one creative tool I have in the toolbox which gives me any hope of doing so. I’ve been working for American corporations for over thirty years now and I have long since made peace with the fact that I’m not going to find meaning or purpose in my work. I get to help people out, and that’s the part of the gig I enjoy; the rest is bullshit. My job is mechanically important to the business, but if my position disappeared from all companies tomorrow, the world would be no poorer for it. I don’t hate my job, but it is a job and it provides me a decent living and some, but not nearly enough, time away from work to do the things that are important to me. I’m in awe of people who can make things. I’ve tried my hand at more creative pursuits that I can describe and stick to the thousand word limit for this challenge. I’ve tried my hand at both piano and guitar. I’ve done a little painting. I have some marvelous old Soviet-era film cameras which I’ll dust off and lug out into the field from time to time I am a dilettante in both the worst and the best senses of the word. I’ve pursued these things right up to the point where they became difficult, up until the point I noticed that people who were not jut better than me, but better than I would ever be, were playing in cover bands on Wednesday nights at tiny bars. It’s different with writing. I can read writers who are so much better than me that I cant even really judge how much better they are, and instead of discouraging me, they inspire me. Reading enriches my life* and I can’t talk about writing without talking about reading any more than you can exhale without inhaling first. Books, like any good art, contain a hint of magic in that they can change your, can literally alter your perceptions, without you being quite aware of how they managed the trick. Have you ever read John Steinbeck’s East of Eden? If not, you probably ought to do something about that. The first time I read it, I didn’t sleep for two days after finishing it because it messed me up so badly. Steinbeck destroyed every excuse I’d every used for being less that decent to other people, and that was more self-awareness than I was prepared to deal with at the time. Somehow, Steinbeck managed to smack me like that and still write an entertaining story, which seems like one hell of a stunt. Once you’ve read it, the next thing you need to do is pick up Journal of a Novel. There were, of course, no blogs or laptops or anything like that in Steinbeck’s day. Instead, he wrote his novels in longhand on the front side of large sheets of loose paper. On the backs of those sheets, he kept a journal, and the journal is almost as amazing as the novel itself. The journal was his warm-up for the day’s writing. He’d write about personal things, about the weather, or the his family, or somesuch. He’d also write about what he was planning for the novel and that’s where it gets really interesting. He’d write about what he was trying to accomplish during the day’s writing, and how he would accomplish it from a technical standpoint (‘This next section is extremely action-packed, so I need to remember to use short sentences, just subject-verb, to accentuate this) and I remain impressed by how aware of his craft his was. His books read as though they “just come naturally,” but the truth is that he knew exactly what he was doing and how to accomplish it. On a broader not, he saw East of Eden as his legacy. It was the sum total of everything he knew, passed down in the form of fiction, to help his children deal with the obstacles life would throw at them. It was his road map for future generations, written in hope that they wouldn’t make the same mistakes he had. If you want to understand why I write, you have to understand how incredibly powerful Steinbeck’s goals for East of Eden were. I’m under no illusion that I’m “destined” to write a novel as great as even his lesser works. I’m going to work as hard as I can, as well as I can, and improve as much as I can, and I hope that something I write will help someone or someones get through something they might not have navigated successfully otherwise. I want to do this and, at the same time, write entertaining and maybe even fun stories. This is why it’s important to me. This is why it has meaning. This is why I keep practicing, even when it gets difficult. This is why I write. Thanks for asking the question, by the way. It’s not a bad thing to have to remind yourself why you’re doing it from time to time. -RK P.S. I also aspire to write something as goddamn beautiful as this: Oliver Sacks: My Periodic Table. The world is going to be measurably less awesome without Sacks in it. He’s a brilliant scientist who also has the ability to write in a way that somehow conveys the awe-inspiring contents of his mind in a deeply touching fashion. Oh, and he was really, really hot too. * Fun fact: I don’t really dream when I’m not reading. When I am reading regularly, I dream vividly every night. I’m unsure as to why, but it’s a remarkably consistent.
Like an aspirin in your advent calendar
#@$%#$ The last Flash Fiction Challenge should have been a cakewalk. It turns out that cakewalks are more challenging than I thought. 1) Generate random title: “Sustainable Greediness” 2) Giggle, because it’s a marvelous juxtaposition. Imagine doing something based on an Ayn Rand story. 3) Immediately discard any Ayn Rand related ideas as cheap and not as much fun as they initially seemed. 4) Get an idea stuck in your head linking the title to the game “Monopoly.” 5) Spend a day trying to get that connection out of your head. Fail. 6) Start writing. Create a potentially fantastic setting involving a hidden Atlantic island, trained Monopoly-playing animals, and a cast of professors and students at a secret university. 6a) Research the setting in great detail, including triangulating the latitude and longitude of the university and fabricating the secret history of Monopoly. 7) Two drafts later, fourteen hundred words into a one thousand word story, realize that all you’ve done is create the setting and introducing the characters. Recognize that there’s no actual story in anything you’ve written. 8) Save as draft. Hope that you can salvage something. 9) Spend another day trying to get the Monopoly thing out of your mind. Fail again. 10) Start anew, simplifying the setting and the characters but retaining the basic “idea.” 11) Write it. 12) Realize that it’s seventeen hundred words and it’s not going to get any shorter and it’s probably still not properly a story. 13) Link it anyway, because it’s stubborn and the way to get the blasted thing out of my head is to hit the “publish” button. That is to say, this one wasn’t fun, but it was a good workout. I’m suspicious of any story so good it just writes itself. I’m not thrilled with the result, but it was good for me to get through it and I think there are some salvageable bits in there. As a wise man once said, “They can’t all be winners, kid.” -RK
The Dread
EDIT: I changed the image at the bottom because sonntagsleerung is exactly what I’m trying to describe here. My sister and I have an informal yet surprisingly well-developed set of theories concerning The Dread. Most of the people I know are aware of The Dread, even if they have never called it by that name. It’s not universal, but it’s a commonly experienced by people who work regular schedules and/or go to school. “The Dread” is the feeling of dreading going back to work (or school) you get on weekends or vacations. When it hits, you know it. You stop enjoying whatever it is you’re doing and are preoccupied with the resumption or your work or school week. The Dread theory posits that, the longer the time off, the longer the duration of The Dread. You might think that it would hit the day before returning to work regardless of the length of the time off, but The Dread does not seem to work this way. If it’s a regular two-day weekend, The Dread might not kick in until Sunday evening. If you’re on week-long vacation, it might start on Saturday morning and last for two full days. If you’re off for two weeks, you could be looking at four days of The Dread. How early The Dread hits you on regular weekends is a reasonably accurate measure of your happiness with your job. Stressful times might see The Dread creeping into Sunday morning, ruining half your weekend. If The Dread makes it to Saturday, it is probably time to consider seeking employment elsewhere. In spite of how it probably appears, it’s Saturday night and The Dread is nowhere near me. Seasoned observers of The Dread and Its Many Manifestations have found that having a wonderful partner sleeping softly next to you is, while not proof against The Dread, then at the very least a pretty strong deterrent. On an unrelated note, the Flash Fiction Challenge this week is a simple one: Use a random phrase generator to come up with your title and proceed accordingly. My result is fascinating, but I’m not completely sure there’s a non-non-fiction story in it: “Sustainable Greediness.” I mean, “challenge accepted” and all that, but while it’s a fantastic title, it’s not quite as inviting as it might look at first glance. I’m not planning on chickening out and re-rolling, but I’m not 100% saying I won’t either. -RK I changed the image on this because, well, read the definition. Perfect!
Grackles are a lot cooler than I thought.
So this happened last night: Beautiful girlfriend and I were eating dinner on a restaurant patio. The restaurant had recently secured its waste disposal against birds, which had done nothing to reduce the number of birds trying to get an easy meal. Instead, it just made the birds stare at diners even more intensely with their just-this-side-of-reptilian eyes. We were next to the parking lot and, as fate would have it, so were a couple of grackles. One of them was a fine specimen, with deep purple-black feathers reflecting a spectrum that suggested he had enough oil in his diet. The other one was in worse shape. He had a badly maimed foot that couldn’t bear any weight. He didn’t seem to be getting his share of the leftover morsels and it was starting to take a toll on him. Beautiful girlfriend, being beautiful in all possible definitions of the word, tossed a few chips out into the parking lot to distract the bigger bird. She then tossed some to the maimed grackle. Strangely enough, the wounded bird ignored her offering and, loudly (as if grackles did things any other way), followed the larger bird. This frustrating dance went on for a short while until beautiful girlfriend stopped tossing and just watched. I wish I had video evidence of what happened next because it was one of the most goddamn wonderful things I’ve ever seen. The bigger grackle picked up a piece of chip in his beak and stood patiently while the bird with the bum leg took it from him. For no obvious reason, the healthy bird just sat there, picking up chips, and feeding his wounded…friend? I don’t know how else to describe it. Maybe they were related, maybe they were a nesting pair, maybe they were just friends. Regardless, it was unexpected and surprisingly touching to see. I’m not a big fan of bird in general, but after seeing those two last night? I think I need to reconsider. Like I said, I wish I’d thought to take some video or at least a picture. This is pretty much what it looked like, though.
Mercury Anterograde
I feel as though my life is making unusually good time, if not record progress, plowing against whatever metaphorical waves one might wish to imagine. My illness has not subsided in any meaningful sense but it isn’t paralyzing me as it did for most of the last eighteen months. I’m doing things more in line with what I want to be doing and spending less of my time doing things to distract me from my own nagging internal narrative. This week, the past, with its peculiar gravity, has been tugging at me with greater insistence. My sister and her husband have spent the last decade a couple of time zones over. They returned to their old home town, just a few hours from here, this afternoon They drove back, and on the way, met up with our aunt and her considerable tribe. I haven’t seen that side of the family in decades and the photographs of people I knew only as infant embracing their spouses was jarring. I knew, abstractly at least, that I needed to see them, but it’s a more concrete imperative. At the same time, I spent the day chatting with an old friend of mine who I’ve not seen in over a decade now. The fact that we fell right back into conversation as though we’d be close this whole time made me want to carve out some time to see him next time I visit the north. Which is all to say, it’s been a little melancholy around here this week. Nothing bad, but just some events which have left me a little preoccupied with the past. For a brief while, the romantic in me wanted to believe that clusters of travel, change, and setbacks occurring during a period of backwards movement by the planet Mercury represented a meaningful coincidence. I don’t think I ever really bought in to it, and I surely don’t now. Regardless, that romantic facet is reminding me now that Mercury is currently moving reliably forward and I would do well to take that hint. It’s been good to look over my shoulder and enjoy some memories and let them inform my plans, but my it’s good to feel the sense of forward travel these days. “Two auxiliary telescopes (1.8m diameter) and UT1, one of the 8m unit telescopes of the Very Large Telescope (VLT), looking quietly at the Moon, Venus (brightest planet on the picture), Mercury (Between Venus and the Moon) and Mars (redish point above Mercury and Venus). ” No comment on the direction of Mercury’s apparent relative motion.
Four comics and some very disturbing fairy tales
Yesterday, I mentioned that I got to see the works of some of my beloved impressionists. What I didn’t tell you was the the highlight of the day, hands down, was the Natalie Frank Grimm’s Fairy Tales exhibition. I’ve always known, on an abstract level, that the original versions of these stories were very dark and extremely carnal in nature. I’ve never read the originals, but I’ve read several which hinted at the more adult version of the stories. The second collection of Neil Gaiman’s “The Sandman,” The Doll’s House, changed the way I looked at the Red Riding Hood story. Natalie Frank takes that to a whole ‘nother level. She is a visceral artist in the most literal sense of the word. She doesn’t merely illustrate the stories; she gets at the disturbing, gut-level…horror? Is it horror? That’s not quite the right word, but it’s in the ballpark. Her work is unflinchingly bright and she borders it almost like a circus freak-show poster. Rather than listening to me continue to try to describe it, I urge you to check out her work for yourself. I found it unforgettable in the way a really excellent nightmare is hard to shake. This weekend’s comic book haul was the most literal representation of a “mixed bag” one could hope for. The first one I read was issue 6 of Grant Morrison’s “Annihilator.” This final issue was classic Morrison in that I’m not going to be certain I’ve understood what was going on until I go back and re-read the previous issues. Re-read them several times, in all likelihood. With most writers, you might think that this was meant as a complaint, but if you’re at all familiar with Morrison, you know that this is part and parcel to reading his work. Frazer Irving’s art is stunning. I didn’t much care for his earlier work with Morrison on Klarion the With Boy, but that as more do to with the specific book than Irving’s ability. He produces almost psychedelic images that are very much his own, which, given the history of comic book art, is very impressive indeed. I’m very nearly certain that this book is a work of genius. The next one in the pile was issue 3 of Warren Ellis’ “Injection.” We’re only just now starting to get a tiny peek at what’s going on and it looks like it’s going to be spectacular. Ellis reminds me of one of my favorite sci-fi authors, Larry Niven, in that he can take a really weird idea or two and craft a compelling story around it. Add in the fact that Ellis has become a true craftsman at telling the story, which isn’t at all the same thing as having a compelling story to tell, and you get the start of what promises to be a hell of a book. The dialog crackles without getting corny, the beats land reliably, and you find yourself really wishing the whole thing were already available in a collection. Oh, and Declan Shalvey’s art fits like a glove He and Ellis worked together on a spectacular Moon Knight run which featured some of the best art the character has every seen (and Moon Knight has always been more about look that story.) This is a very different story with sprawling locations, huge exteriors and tight interiors. It’s got to be a challenge and he seems very much up for it. It’s been far, far too long since I’ve been able to pick up a new Jhonen Vasquez comic book, and it’s been too long since we’ve had any new Invader Zim material to devour. Both of these problems are now official solved with the release of Invader Zim #1. The weight of expectations made me a little nervous about picking this one up, but it’s a worthy successor on all levels. That is to say, it’s funny. It’s really, really funny. Now, I suspect it’s even funnier if you’ve seen the old Nickelodeon show a gazillion times. You won’t be able to read the dialog without hearing the voices from the show in your head. But, I suspect this would work for readers who’ve never seen the show. If anything the tone and voice of the characters is even stronger than in the original. I’m not 100% sold on Aaron Alexovich’s and Megan Lawton’s somewhat streamlined take on the art, but I’m pretty sure it will grow on me. Vasquez’ visual style has always been busy to an almost distracting degree, and I suspect that once I get used to the change, I’ll grow to like it. The last book wasn’t anywhere nearly as successful. I picked up issue #1 of J.G. Jones’ and Mark Waid’s Strange Fruit. Let’s start with what’s good: Jones’ art is absolutely stellar. It evokes an era and a point-of-view beautifully. It’s been compared to Norman Rockwell and the comparison has some merit. I think that the intent here is to write a powerful story on race relations and I think that this is a project the writers believe in deeply. Reading it, though, it didn’t work for me. From a standpoint of mechanics, it was very much a typical superhero origin story: Set the stage, identify the villains, identify the need for the hero, and then unveil the hero at the end. However, trying to paste tropes that work in ,say, Superman’s origin into what is meant to be a very serious Book With A Message On Race feels off to me. There’s a better, more thorough discussion of the problems with this book over at Women Write About Comics. J.A. Micheline makes a powerful argument that Strange Fruit shouldn’t have even been made. I’m torn on that conclusion. I’m suspicious of arguments that tell writers what subjects they may and may not cover, but I do think when you’re wading out into the realm of other people’s experiences, you have an obligation to get it exactly, perfectly right. I’m not familiar with “The Six Swans” I think I ought to rectify that.
As I Get Older, Museums Are Somehow More Exciting
I got to see an impressionists exhibit today and I was as giddy as something that is a cliche for giddiness. I know, I know….the impressionists are the pop music of the fine art world. They’re well-known, they’re everywhere, and they’re accessible as can be. I’m fine with that. Just like I love a good singalong chorus, art which is just obviously beautiful and doesn’t require a long explanation as to why it’s beautiful is very appealing to me. The funny thing, to me, is how exciting today was. I was actually giggling at times at how delightful it all was. I don’t remember reacting that way in my twenties. Back then, it was something I had to try to appreciate, like jazz fusion, rather than something I got any real joy out of. I could tell people “I saw a van Gogh,” which sounded pretty cool, but I can’t say I got a great deal of joy from it. Today, there’s was a big ol’ Monet in the middle of the exhibit, just as obvious as could be, like “well, you really can’t have this kind of exhibit without at least one Monet,” and I’ll be damned if the thing wasn’t absolutely glorious. The thing seemed to give off a light of its own. I’m at a loss to explain exactly why seeing these exhibit hit me the way it did. My tastes are certainly no more refined than they were. Maybe it’s just a “where I am in my life right now” kind of thing and the lesson is to keep trying things you weren’t wild about before because you’re not the same person you were twenty years ago. At least, I hope you’re not. If you are, you might want to consider changing things up a bit. ————————————————– Reading the Sherlock Holmes short stories for that last writing prompt I did, the character’s view of women was a real distraction. He’s rude and condescending to almost everyone, but he seems to think of women as barely human. I don’t remember that from my first reading of the books decades ago, but I think it’s safe to say they haven’t aged well. That made it a good deal easier to take the piss out of Holmes’ smug generalizations, so it wasn’t a complete loss by any means. ————————————————— Apropos of nothing, I hope things are going well for Rebecca Black. I was trying to think of something Friday-related for a subject line yesterday when Rebecca Black’s Friday popped into my head because I am nothing if not fluent in past their sell-by date cultural references. It’s been a good five years since I’ve thought of that song and I’ve heard nothing about what came next for her, but I hope it’s something good. Fame sometimes happens to people who aren’t prepared or equipped to deal with it. The results aren’t always pleasant to look at. I’m not going to do any poking around, but I hope Rebecca Black is doing OK. —————————————————- I got to see the first episode of Comedy Bang Bang with Kid Cudi tonight and I’m pretty sure the show won’t miss a beat. That isn’t to say I won’t miss Reggie Watts, who was very much the heart of the show and one of the most likable comic performers I’ve ever seen. Cudi, though, is very canny choice for a replacement. He’s got a similar skill set, but a very different tone, and I hope the writers make as good use of his energy as they did of Reggie’s laid-back goofiness. -RK This one wasn’t in the exhibit, but I love it’s one of my favorites, so I wanted to use it anyway.
Warren Ellis and why “Book Reviewer” ought to be something one can make a career of
Let me be blunt: Warren Ellis writes about books in a way that makes me want to read them. This is an exceptionally rare skill and it ought to be the sort of skill which provides one with a comfortable income, homes on several continents, cars so rare that racing games have never even heard of them, several ponies (because who wouldn’t want a pony) and the absolute best chemical amusement aids money can buy. You probably think that I’m exaggerating, but I’m dead serious. The ability to make people make a point of seeking out and reading books is like alchemy in that it’s a both a lost art and probably impossible. I’ve always found most book reviews strangely bloodless. If you’re passionate about something, you ought to feel compelled to bust out a few superlatives. Instead, you mostly get a generic plot-summary, some historical background, a personal anecdote, and maybe a few sentences on something like “voice.” I’ve read very few reviews that made me more interested in a book than I already was. I don’t want a book report; I want reasons to read it (or avoid it). Check out this Warren Ellis write-up of Don Winslow’s The Power of the Dog. Does that make you want to read some Don Winslow? I know it sure as hell works for me. I’ve never read Don Winslow, and now I feel like this is a serious failing on my part. Thomas Pynchon’s Against The Day wasn’t really on my radar until I read what Mr. Ellis had to say about it. After reading that (and if you haven’t, go back and please, please do so), how could I not read it? I’m halfway through it and it’s utterly spellbinding. See? “Spellbinding?” How does that make you want to read a book? That’s what I’m talking about. It’s not as easy as it sounds, is it? It’s an under-appreciated talent that deserves more respect. And cash. Lots and lots of cash. EDIT: Here’s another one: Warren Ellis on The Water Knife No, not this Warren Ellis. The other one. Don’t feel bad; they get this sort of thing a lot.
When Life Gives You Lemons In The Form of Randomly-Generated Titles
I remember Larry Niven writing a little piece about how working within an arbitrary restriction can be a handy creative tool. He and Jerry Pournelle decided to use a plastic model space ship, the AMT Leif Erikson, as the basis for the INSS MacArthur in The Mote in God’s Eye. It was a neat exercise: Start with the plastic model and then justify the functionality of the various design choices of the model. Why were the engines arranged thusly? Why were their aerodynamic features? Stuff like that. I mention this as a way of getting myself psyched for a writing prompt which feels less than promising at first glace. We’ve been directed to a random title generator which and told to only roll the metaphorical dice one time. Six possible titles were generated, and while they are each plenty plausible, none of them jumped off the screen, grabbed me by the shoulders, and shook me vigorously, as if to say “Me pick me I am the one can you imagine the adventures we’ll have!” Bother. But, one of them stuck in my skull and I’ve decided to go with it. It’s both awkward and obvious at the same time: “Wife of the Woman.” Not exactly in my wheelhouse, is it? But…I think, I think I have a direction I can take it. Otherwise, I may have to try to do something with “Prince of Slave,” a prospect which should provide ample motivation to make literally any other title work. So, tomorrow, off to work. Oh, and mental note to myself: Try to keep it around a thousand words this time, ok? -RK