Ah the Holidays. The time of year when tastes in entertainment wildly fluctuate between traditional (when you're trying to offset the deluge of commercialism, and rekindle the childlike wonder of innocent Christmas's Past) and non (when too much traditional leaves a saccharine taste in your mouth). And so, to indulge both polarities of mirth I offer my list of alternative Christmas films, and favorite quotations from A Christmas Carol.
The Top 5 Alternative Christmas Films (in no preferential order):
1. Die Hard 1
2. Die Hard 2
3. Lethal Weapon
4. Love Actually
5. Brazil
Honorable Mention (for those films that feature Christmas but aren't exclusively set during Christmas)
-About a Boy
-Ronin
And the Dickens' passages, starting with the Spirit of Christmas Present, an angel...
"There are some upon this earth of yours," returned the Spirit, "Who claim to know us, and who do their deeds of passion, pride, ill will, hatred, envy, bigotry, and selfishness in our name, who are as strange to us, and all of our kith and kin, as if they had never lived. Remember that, and charge their doings on themselves, not us."
163 years after its publication, and still as relevant as if it were written this year...
and finally,
"No fog, no mist; clear, bright, jovial, stirring, cold; cold, piping for the blood to dance to; golden sunlight; heavenly sky; sweet fresh air; merry bells. Oh, glorious! Glorious!"
Magnificent.
Sunday, December 24, 2006
Thursday, December 14, 2006
The Idea of My Home
One of the downsides of living in your basic boring suburb is that you can never fully relate to the settings and scenes in literature. Sometimes it's all too only present in the imagination, when sometimes you would like to be shown something you know well in different lighting.
I have only had the thrill of a writer dipping their hot pen into my memory of place twice: first, an offhand reference in John Steinbeck's East of Eden, where the character Lee tells an uncharacteristic story of getting drunk and waking up in the belltower of The First United Methodist Church in San Leandro - where I once attended (I remember feverishly asking my wife, "They have a belltower?"); and second, in Curtis White's The Idea of Home, which takes place (mostly) in my burg (actually, it's more of a step-burg, since living here was a thrust of circumstance), of San Lorenzo.
Above and beyond ample references to local events, the names of known streets, and the inclusion of local figures (especially David K. Bohannon - the developer who supposedly resembles Walt Disney, though the portrait Mr. White refers to in the novel no longer adorns his namesake middle school for me to confirm; and the Mervyns of department store fame), this novel affirmed for me how history festers under the thin topsoil of time, so that discovering what faction of your identity is related to the places you have lived requires not only defining an area's zeitgeist or hidden curriculum, but discovering and evaluating great bloody stains across the landscape, even here in a relatively quiet post-war suburb. While I don't agree that one can be judged by the history of your town/state/nation, I can't ignore the influence of latent angst from others that have gone by the label of San Lorenzians, Californiansm, Americans.
That, and The Idea of Home is one of those rare examples of consistently readable experimentation. Check out this novel and others by Curtis White recently re-released by the venerable Dalkey Archive Press (http://www.dalkeyarchive.com/)
I have only had the thrill of a writer dipping their hot pen into my memory of place twice: first, an offhand reference in John Steinbeck's East of Eden, where the character Lee tells an uncharacteristic story of getting drunk and waking up in the belltower of The First United Methodist Church in San Leandro - where I once attended (I remember feverishly asking my wife, "They have a belltower?"); and second, in Curtis White's The Idea of Home, which takes place (mostly) in my burg (actually, it's more of a step-burg, since living here was a thrust of circumstance), of San Lorenzo.
Above and beyond ample references to local events, the names of known streets, and the inclusion of local figures (especially David K. Bohannon - the developer who supposedly resembles Walt Disney, though the portrait Mr. White refers to in the novel no longer adorns his namesake middle school for me to confirm; and the Mervyns of department store fame), this novel affirmed for me how history festers under the thin topsoil of time, so that discovering what faction of your identity is related to the places you have lived requires not only defining an area's zeitgeist or hidden curriculum, but discovering and evaluating great bloody stains across the landscape, even here in a relatively quiet post-war suburb. While I don't agree that one can be judged by the history of your town/state/nation, I can't ignore the influence of latent angst from others that have gone by the label of San Lorenzians, Californiansm, Americans.
That, and The Idea of Home is one of those rare examples of consistently readable experimentation. Check out this novel and others by Curtis White recently re-released by the venerable Dalkey Archive Press (http://www.dalkeyarchive.com/)
Sunday, December 10, 2006
Quotations Various # 1
My wife was looking for something to bring the industrial revolution alive for her classes, and coming up with "Oliver Twist" I set off to see if I had any pertinent quotes for her to use.
You see, about five years ago I got the idea that if I wrote down some of the passages in books and magazines that impressed me perhaps I would, in the act of scribing, remember the particulars of what I read better. I began with an essay by Richard Meier, a thirsty page of college-lined paper, my irascible fountain pen, an empty binder, and the pretentious title of "Collage," (because I was taking the found art of others and incorporating them into something for myself). Now, while the aide it has been to my memory is questionable, at least when asked about a book I've read I have a chance at presenting something concrete.
As I filled my Collage pages, themes began to emerge in what I chose for perserving: beauty, in word play or sentiment; wit; quotes with an aphoristic edge; writing about writing (something I think every writer has a fetish for); and class struggle.
Which brings me back to Dickens. From time to time now I will share some of my favorite quotations and passages, and this one following, from "Oliver Twist" has such a rich blend of my just-stated interests, that it seemed a perfect beginning.
"You shall read them, if you behave well," said the old gentleman kindly; "and you will like that, better than looking at the outsides - that is, in some cases; because there are books of which the backs and covers are by far the best parts."
"I suppose they are those heavy ones, sir," said Oliver, pointing to some large quartos with a good deal of gilding about the binding.
"Not always those," said the old gentleman, patting Oliver on the head, and smiling as he did so; "There are other equally heavy ones, though of a much smaller size. How should you like to grow up a clever man, and write books, eh?"
"I think I would rather read them, sir," replied Oliver.
"What! Wouldn't you like to be a book-writer?" said the old gentleman.
Oliver considered a little while, and at last said he should think it would be a much better thing to be a book-seller, upon which the old gentleman laughed heartily, and declared he had said a very good thing. Which Oliver felt glad to have done, though he by no means knew what it was.
"Well, well," said the old gentleman, composing his features. "Don't be afraid! We won't make an author of you, while there's an honest trade to e learnt, or brick-making to turn to."
Fantastic.
You see, about five years ago I got the idea that if I wrote down some of the passages in books and magazines that impressed me perhaps I would, in the act of scribing, remember the particulars of what I read better. I began with an essay by Richard Meier, a thirsty page of college-lined paper, my irascible fountain pen, an empty binder, and the pretentious title of "Collage," (because I was taking the found art of others and incorporating them into something for myself). Now, while the aide it has been to my memory is questionable, at least when asked about a book I've read I have a chance at presenting something concrete.
As I filled my Collage pages, themes began to emerge in what I chose for perserving: beauty, in word play or sentiment; wit; quotes with an aphoristic edge; writing about writing (something I think every writer has a fetish for); and class struggle.
Which brings me back to Dickens. From time to time now I will share some of my favorite quotations and passages, and this one following, from "Oliver Twist" has such a rich blend of my just-stated interests, that it seemed a perfect beginning.
"You shall read them, if you behave well," said the old gentleman kindly; "and you will like that, better than looking at the outsides - that is, in some cases; because there are books of which the backs and covers are by far the best parts."
"I suppose they are those heavy ones, sir," said Oliver, pointing to some large quartos with a good deal of gilding about the binding.
"Not always those," said the old gentleman, patting Oliver on the head, and smiling as he did so; "There are other equally heavy ones, though of a much smaller size. How should you like to grow up a clever man, and write books, eh?"
"I think I would rather read them, sir," replied Oliver.
"What! Wouldn't you like to be a book-writer?" said the old gentleman.
Oliver considered a little while, and at last said he should think it would be a much better thing to be a book-seller, upon which the old gentleman laughed heartily, and declared he had said a very good thing. Which Oliver felt glad to have done, though he by no means knew what it was.
"Well, well," said the old gentleman, composing his features. "Don't be afraid! We won't make an author of you, while there's an honest trade to e learnt, or brick-making to turn to."
Fantastic.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
A Third-Life Third-Major Crisis
Let me give you this warning: never read Nick Hornby if you're feeling unsettled in life and aren't ready to admit to yourself that you are probably providing the majority of your unsettledness yourself. The unflinching way he presents the attitudes and actions of himself and his characters dares the literate adult quasi-mature man to survey himself for any similar characteristics: to remove the apparatus that hides our flaws from ourselves and address them, even if we can't figure out how to deal with them.
I have been listening to the audiobook presentation of Hornby's "Fever Pitch" on the 45-75 minute (depending on traffic) drive to and from my teacher credentialing program, so I get the dual-fisted grappling of my adjusting to a new schedule (not working late nights anymore), a new school and field of study (education), and entrance into my thirties (I've almost given up on today's radio music), with the constant succession of rejection letters (from agents and journals) ambushing my mailbox, while I listen to Nick describe the progression of aimlessness with his major field post-graduation (sounds too familiar), working a job that lasts an inexplicably long set of years (wincingly familiar), eventually entering a teaching program (ditto), then giving up teaching to write (not a luxury I suspect I will be allowed me), which begins and progresses as unsuccessfully as mine has, all around and about the age I find myself in (oh yeah, and he writes a little bit about soccer there too, which with the problems in his love life are the only things I completely don't relate to). Nick begins as a playwright, and like many other authors whom I admire his first works are rejected and then abandoned, much like I've been recently, fearfully, considering may be the case with my first novel. I then wonder if these parallels I see between his life then and my life now are, actually, valid, or am I just too unsettled for a proper self-reflection?
But then I have these flashing moments of blindered clarity: I realize that Nick is cataloguing his writing's rejection in a successfully published book, and I remind myself that nobody has read more than half of my novel, so the rejection of my first novel isn't quite definitive yet.
And then, even the failure to have my first novel accepted by an agent or publisher puts me in quite a fraternity:
-Franz Kafka never even finished his three novels, much less had them published in his lifetime.
-Daniel Handler's novel "The Basic Eight", was rejected thirty-seven times before finding a publisher (also, it wasn't his first completed novel).
-Stephen King wrote several novels before having "Carrie" published, and at one time had so abandoned that manuscript that he physically threw it in the trash.
There's more, but that's all I have the energy to present now. But I'd love to hear any such stories you readers would like to send me.
I have been listening to the audiobook presentation of Hornby's "Fever Pitch" on the 45-75 minute (depending on traffic) drive to and from my teacher credentialing program, so I get the dual-fisted grappling of my adjusting to a new schedule (not working late nights anymore), a new school and field of study (education), and entrance into my thirties (I've almost given up on today's radio music), with the constant succession of rejection letters (from agents and journals) ambushing my mailbox, while I listen to Nick describe the progression of aimlessness with his major field post-graduation (sounds too familiar), working a job that lasts an inexplicably long set of years (wincingly familiar), eventually entering a teaching program (ditto), then giving up teaching to write (not a luxury I suspect I will be allowed me), which begins and progresses as unsuccessfully as mine has, all around and about the age I find myself in (oh yeah, and he writes a little bit about soccer there too, which with the problems in his love life are the only things I completely don't relate to). Nick begins as a playwright, and like many other authors whom I admire his first works are rejected and then abandoned, much like I've been recently, fearfully, considering may be the case with my first novel. I then wonder if these parallels I see between his life then and my life now are, actually, valid, or am I just too unsettled for a proper self-reflection?
But then I have these flashing moments of blindered clarity: I realize that Nick is cataloguing his writing's rejection in a successfully published book, and I remind myself that nobody has read more than half of my novel, so the rejection of my first novel isn't quite definitive yet.
And then, even the failure to have my first novel accepted by an agent or publisher puts me in quite a fraternity:
-Franz Kafka never even finished his three novels, much less had them published in his lifetime.
-Daniel Handler's novel "The Basic Eight", was rejected thirty-seven times before finding a publisher (also, it wasn't his first completed novel).
-Stephen King wrote several novels before having "Carrie" published, and at one time had so abandoned that manuscript that he physically threw it in the trash.
There's more, but that's all I have the energy to present now. But I'd love to hear any such stories you readers would like to send me.
Saturday, October 28, 2006
The End of an End-Note Era
In the cover letter that accompanies all of the stories I exchange around the country for form rejections, as the conclusion of my little bio, are lines explaining that I am "working in a job only significant for writing fodder, hoping that my freshly completed first novel will rescue me from night work." Well, my first novel still only occupies my shelf, but here I am, having just finished my last night at the last and longest of a string of jobs I was militantly unfond of, rescued by my lovely wife.
Having excelled in her teacher credentialing program and the ancillary tests, she is now a fully fledged California public school teacher, in one of the few districts that pays a decent wage (still not reasonable considering how teachers influence the course of civilization, and with no health insurance; but compared to our usual pathetic yearly gross quite substantial) - and not enough that she will be my sugar mommy - but enough that we can swing preschool, so I can have a reasonably houred job, and take night classes, and have a normal evening together after this four and a half years of 8:30PM - 2:30AM, Monday through Friday.
Let's just hope I don't repay the fruits of her extraordinary work by getting in her hair when she would use that priorly unhusbanded time productively.
Having excelled in her teacher credentialing program and the ancillary tests, she is now a fully fledged California public school teacher, in one of the few districts that pays a decent wage (still not reasonable considering how teachers influence the course of civilization, and with no health insurance; but compared to our usual pathetic yearly gross quite substantial) - and not enough that she will be my sugar mommy - but enough that we can swing preschool, so I can have a reasonably houred job, and take night classes, and have a normal evening together after this four and a half years of 8:30PM - 2:30AM, Monday through Friday.
Let's just hope I don't repay the fruits of her extraordinary work by getting in her hair when she would use that priorly unhusbanded time productively.
Friday, October 27, 2006
VID-agra for my libid-EO
There was a time where I couldn't get enough films to watch. I'd watch two, three times a day. The Alameda County Library has always been for me the poor man's Netflix, and I'd have them pimping out as many vids as I could carry home. I was open for anything: independant, foreign, Hollywood, classic, in all genres; I'd find a director to frequent and wear them out, then move on to another, and another. I'd watch two movies during the day, and then watch another with my wife that night. I was insatiable.
But I have found that one of the byproducts of where I am as a writer now is a cooling of my viewing lust. Now at the most I'll watch a piece of a film that I own - that I've already watched several times - when I'm eating lunch or folding laundry, so that maybe I'll get through a movie a week; most times I just reshelve it after fifteen minutes. Films by my favorite directors - films that I've had a request in on for months - get returned unwatched, and too frequently late and with a fine!
I'd like to attribute this to settling down, to the refinement of maturity. But I suspect it has more to do with an unhealthy obsession with my writing. Whenever the desire to watch a movie pops up, there is an unwanted word-count calculation of what I could accomplish during that two hours, or amount of revision time that would be lost, or research time on markets to submit my short stories or agents to query for my novel or publishers that accept unsolicited manuscripts or inspirational reading that might catalzye a new short story or novel chapter or revisional path. The onanistic nature of my current writing regime has sapped my passion for film as a valid source of stories - of an equivalently influential medium to impel my narratives - and, most of all, a satisfying source of entertainment.
So, how does one temper an addiction to their own creativity?
But I have found that one of the byproducts of where I am as a writer now is a cooling of my viewing lust. Now at the most I'll watch a piece of a film that I own - that I've already watched several times - when I'm eating lunch or folding laundry, so that maybe I'll get through a movie a week; most times I just reshelve it after fifteen minutes. Films by my favorite directors - films that I've had a request in on for months - get returned unwatched, and too frequently late and with a fine!
I'd like to attribute this to settling down, to the refinement of maturity. But I suspect it has more to do with an unhealthy obsession with my writing. Whenever the desire to watch a movie pops up, there is an unwanted word-count calculation of what I could accomplish during that two hours, or amount of revision time that would be lost, or research time on markets to submit my short stories or agents to query for my novel or publishers that accept unsolicited manuscripts or inspirational reading that might catalzye a new short story or novel chapter or revisional path. The onanistic nature of my current writing regime has sapped my passion for film as a valid source of stories - of an equivalently influential medium to impel my narratives - and, most of all, a satisfying source of entertainment.
So, how does one temper an addiction to their own creativity?
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
The Superest of Costumes
My son is a full fledged Harry Potter fan. He has five Harry Potter video games, has watched the four films innumerable times; when his reading level allows him to attack the books I'm quite positive he will tear through them like a rabid badger. Since getting his glasses he even bears a substantial resemblance to Harry, though his facial scar is due to a villinous playground step and young legs moving faster than he could properly control, and well hidden on the underside of his chin.
From the previous Halloween when he and his sister dressed up as Mouseketeers (The cult of Disney is the most fully ingrained at Casa Karaczewski), he has insisted that this Halloween he was going to dress up as Harry Potter. But what came back from our local Target was no wizard robe but the bright primary colored surprise of a Superman costume.
Growing up as a comic fiend - I mean, enthusiast - I was drawn to Marvel comics almost innately. I'd occasionally pick up a Batman comic (and then only after reading Frank Miller's Batman), but I doubt that I have more than a dozen DC titles stored away among the hundreds of Spiderman comics. I enjoyed John Byrne's Man of Steel miniseries, but the first official Superman comic I bought was the one where they killed him, and soon as they contrived him back to life I was out.
I was never a fan of the movies (Superman 2 kinda freaked me out when I was young - couldn't tell you why). So, when my son picked out his costume for this year, he wasn't acting on any kind of influence of mine. As far as I know, before choosing to be Superman, he didn't know that Mr. Kent existed, nor that there were enviable powers to emulate. For him, it was the draw of the costume, a universal draw of red blue and yellow that my Mom reminded me when I informed her of my son's choice that I myself adorned one Halloween at about his age, at a time before I would have known the particulars of the hero I was assimilating.
Pulling the costume from my son's closet to examine the symmetry of the fake muscles, the sharp-edged kinetic energy of the diamond S on the chest, the cape that begs to be caught up in wind behind you, I admit it is striking. But I still feel that what constitutes its exceptional universality is beyond my superpowers of description, and call on you heroes for an articulation, or testimonial.
From the previous Halloween when he and his sister dressed up as Mouseketeers (The cult of Disney is the most fully ingrained at Casa Karaczewski), he has insisted that this Halloween he was going to dress up as Harry Potter. But what came back from our local Target was no wizard robe but the bright primary colored surprise of a Superman costume.
Growing up as a comic fiend - I mean, enthusiast - I was drawn to Marvel comics almost innately. I'd occasionally pick up a Batman comic (and then only after reading Frank Miller's Batman), but I doubt that I have more than a dozen DC titles stored away among the hundreds of Spiderman comics. I enjoyed John Byrne's Man of Steel miniseries, but the first official Superman comic I bought was the one where they killed him, and soon as they contrived him back to life I was out.
I was never a fan of the movies (Superman 2 kinda freaked me out when I was young - couldn't tell you why). So, when my son picked out his costume for this year, he wasn't acting on any kind of influence of mine. As far as I know, before choosing to be Superman, he didn't know that Mr. Kent existed, nor that there were enviable powers to emulate. For him, it was the draw of the costume, a universal draw of red blue and yellow that my Mom reminded me when I informed her of my son's choice that I myself adorned one Halloween at about his age, at a time before I would have known the particulars of the hero I was assimilating.
Pulling the costume from my son's closet to examine the symmetry of the fake muscles, the sharp-edged kinetic energy of the diamond S on the chest, the cape that begs to be caught up in wind behind you, I admit it is striking. But I still feel that what constitutes its exceptional universality is beyond my superpowers of description, and call on you heroes for an articulation, or testimonial.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
The Week in Randomness
An interesting week here at Team Karaczewski. Began in a trough with:
The Awards for Disappointments of the Week
Gold: Revising a chapter of my novel as a matter of honor (I am a cat who left a dead mouse gift on someone's doorstop, who stepped upon it with bare feet and swept it and me off the porch)
Silver: The green chili and potato burrito from Trader Joe's (when I was in Bellingham, WA for my last college roommate's wedding, he took me to a Mexican food restaurant whose specialty was a potato burrito - was intrigued enough to try: wonderful, slices of potato fried in a unique batter, plenty of self-serve green salsa; too many marinated carrots on the side - coins of vinegary fire setting my sinuses to rinse. TJ's potatoes were mashed up with green chilies and jack cheese; bland, paling.)
Bronze: The continued isolation and terrible silences of the writer's life.
But has begun to rise with Thursday morning's email request from a prospective agent to read the "first 150 pages or so" of Alexander Murphy's Home for Wayward Celebrities. Just to know that some of it is being read has sent me up a crest heady enough to bodysurf.
The Awards for Disappointments of the Week
Gold: Revising a chapter of my novel as a matter of honor (I am a cat who left a dead mouse gift on someone's doorstop, who stepped upon it with bare feet and swept it and me off the porch)
Silver: The green chili and potato burrito from Trader Joe's (when I was in Bellingham, WA for my last college roommate's wedding, he took me to a Mexican food restaurant whose specialty was a potato burrito - was intrigued enough to try: wonderful, slices of potato fried in a unique batter, plenty of self-serve green salsa; too many marinated carrots on the side - coins of vinegary fire setting my sinuses to rinse. TJ's potatoes were mashed up with green chilies and jack cheese; bland, paling.)
Bronze: The continued isolation and terrible silences of the writer's life.
But has begun to rise with Thursday morning's email request from a prospective agent to read the "first 150 pages or so" of Alexander Murphy's Home for Wayward Celebrities. Just to know that some of it is being read has sent me up a crest heady enough to bodysurf.
Friday, September 29, 2006
Season's Readings: Summer 2006
Here be an account of the reading I accomplished over the past summer, with meager commentary.
-Lloyd Alexander "The Prydain Chronicles" [only faint flashes from when I read them in my youth, so they remained pretty fresh; an excellent fantasy series: a little contrived perhaps in how they get all the characters back together for each successive novel, but your emotional involvement with the characters supersedes this nicely. I especially liked the arch of Taran in "Taran Wanderer," a fantastic progression of character development.]
-Peter Mayles "A Year in Provence" and "Toujours Provence" [an amusing series of anecdotes; mostly enforced the idea for me that I'm more of an Italy person (after Frances Mayes' "Under the Tuscan Sun" and Bernardo Bertolucci's "Stealing Beauty") than a France person (though I've been to neither)]
-Melissa Bank "Girl's Guide to Hunting and Fishing" [a nice bit of short story interconnectedness; plus I'm a sucker for second-person narration, of which there is one.]
-Rick Moody "Demonology-stories" [Though obviously masterful in their construction, I didn't connect very much with the plots, or characters. Nice run-on sentences, though.]
-Jules Verne "20,000 Leagues Under the Sea" and "Around the World in 80 Days" [Finally got around to reading some Verne (how was my childhood complete without him? Buried under comic books, I suppose); fantastic adventures, particularly 20,000 (with a great Ray Bradbury introduction).
-Vladimir Nabokov "Lolita" [reread this, on audiobook with Jeremy Irons giving an utterly perfect performance. Some Great with a captitol G Great authors inspire by their greatness, but Nabokov is one of those authors that, if I were smarter, I would just throw up my hands and toss in my writing pen, and focus on something practical, for I find that greatness out of my reach.]
-Don DeLillo "Cosmopolis" [The literary equivalent of polished concrete: smooth, cold and hard. Polar opposite to his "The Body Artist."]
-Mitch Albom "Tuesday's with Morrie" [picked this up on audiobook, read by the author, when the audiobook I put a hold on was lagging. Belied my preconceptions by being not too schmaltzy; but only picked at my heartstrings - never quite giving them a tug.]
-Milan Kundera "Immortality" [Vintage Kundera. A great blend of the creative process of writing, self-reference, philosophical exploration and musing, and character. This guy had better get a Nobel some day.]
-Dan Brown "Angels and Demons" & "The DaVinci Code" [both entertaining, "Angels" infinitely more so; Brown, like Tom Clancy and Tim LaHaye, does a good job of pulling a narrative from mounds of research, but I just don't get what all the multi-million printing fuss is all about.]
-Franz Kafka "The Trial" [Excellent: hard to find an adjective to describe it other than Kafkaesque; though I will admit I found it less satisfying than his short work. As I writer, I enjoyed the deleted scenes of my "Definative Edition"; I wish this was a more common practice - I mean, look at all crappy movies released in two-disc special editions with 10 hours of extras! Wouldn't you readers snatch up "The Shipping News - The E. Annie Edition" or "Grapes of Wrath - The Writer's Cut" with running author commentaries, deleted scenes, making of, and on location features?]
A fairly productive Summer. And while I enjoy discussing any of the books I read, I recommend these as the ones I haven't forgotten the particulars of, and may have something interesting to discuss. Have a merry Fall of Reading!
-Lloyd Alexander "The Prydain Chronicles" [only faint flashes from when I read them in my youth, so they remained pretty fresh; an excellent fantasy series: a little contrived perhaps in how they get all the characters back together for each successive novel, but your emotional involvement with the characters supersedes this nicely. I especially liked the arch of Taran in "Taran Wanderer," a fantastic progression of character development.]
-Peter Mayles "A Year in Provence" and "Toujours Provence" [an amusing series of anecdotes; mostly enforced the idea for me that I'm more of an Italy person (after Frances Mayes' "Under the Tuscan Sun" and Bernardo Bertolucci's "Stealing Beauty") than a France person (though I've been to neither)]
-Melissa Bank "Girl's Guide to Hunting and Fishing" [a nice bit of short story interconnectedness; plus I'm a sucker for second-person narration, of which there is one.]
-Rick Moody "Demonology-stories" [Though obviously masterful in their construction, I didn't connect very much with the plots, or characters. Nice run-on sentences, though.]
-Jules Verne "20,000 Leagues Under the Sea" and "Around the World in 80 Days" [Finally got around to reading some Verne (how was my childhood complete without him? Buried under comic books, I suppose); fantastic adventures, particularly 20,000 (with a great Ray Bradbury introduction).
-Vladimir Nabokov "Lolita" [reread this, on audiobook with Jeremy Irons giving an utterly perfect performance. Some Great with a captitol G Great authors inspire by their greatness, but Nabokov is one of those authors that, if I were smarter, I would just throw up my hands and toss in my writing pen, and focus on something practical, for I find that greatness out of my reach.]
-Don DeLillo "Cosmopolis" [The literary equivalent of polished concrete: smooth, cold and hard. Polar opposite to his "The Body Artist."]
-Mitch Albom "Tuesday's with Morrie" [picked this up on audiobook, read by the author, when the audiobook I put a hold on was lagging. Belied my preconceptions by being not too schmaltzy; but only picked at my heartstrings - never quite giving them a tug.]
-Milan Kundera "Immortality" [Vintage Kundera. A great blend of the creative process of writing, self-reference, philosophical exploration and musing, and character. This guy had better get a Nobel some day.]
-Dan Brown "Angels and Demons" & "The DaVinci Code" [both entertaining, "Angels" infinitely more so; Brown, like Tom Clancy and Tim LaHaye, does a good job of pulling a narrative from mounds of research, but I just don't get what all the multi-million printing fuss is all about.]
-Franz Kafka "The Trial" [Excellent: hard to find an adjective to describe it other than Kafkaesque; though I will admit I found it less satisfying than his short work. As I writer, I enjoyed the deleted scenes of my "Definative Edition"; I wish this was a more common practice - I mean, look at all crappy movies released in two-disc special editions with 10 hours of extras! Wouldn't you readers snatch up "The Shipping News - The E. Annie Edition" or "Grapes of Wrath - The Writer's Cut" with running author commentaries, deleted scenes, making of, and on location features?]
A fairly productive Summer. And while I enjoy discussing any of the books I read, I recommend these as the ones I haven't forgotten the particulars of, and may have something interesting to discuss. Have a merry Fall of Reading!
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Introductions and explanations
If you are meandering here because you have read and enjoyed my stories in print and wanted to learn a little more about me, then God bless you for reading independent literary journals and for finding this blog, because it seems you can only access it by search through Blogger.com (at least with my limited expertise).
About me then:
About me then:
- I have been writing all my life, but seriously hunkered down with the intention of publication, fame and riches in early 2003.
- The bibliography so far: "Two Pink Lines" a microfiction story, in Illya's Honey, Fall 2004; "My Governors' House," in The First Line (http://www.thefirstline.com/), Summer 2005, Nominated for a Pushcart Prize; "Afternoon Cowboy," in Thema (http://members.cox.net/thema/) Fall 2005, whose publication was actually blown back to early 2006 by Hurricane Katrina paying an unwelcome visit to their offices; and "From Mamma to Mother and Back," also in The First Line, Spring 2006. Everybody be sure and do a little rain dance to sprout the two dozen other short stories I have tucked into the slush piles around the nation.
- My high score after putting approximately 4,897 quarters in Galaga is 168,540.
- This Spring I completed my first novel, "Alexander Murphy's Home for Wayward Celebrities," a literary novel of the pratfalls of celebrity in America, the challenge of defining yourself through popular culture, and the good ol' fashioned ache for companionship; for which I am seeking a midwife (agent) and doctor (publisher) to deliver it into your hands.
- I have read 442 books and seen 2923 movies (lists available upon request)
- I live in a satellite of the binary system of San Francisco and Oakland, with my lovely wife, a passionate high school History teacher, my high school and college sweetheart who I married immediately after, and look forward to dedicating the book to; a five-year old son and three-year old daughter who are the right kind of crazy; a porcine cat, and the odd couple of a gregarious red beta, and a hermitic plecostomus.
- My favorite Japanese filmmakers in no particular order are: Akira Kurosawa, Hayao Miyazaki, Juzo Itami, Isao Takahata, Hirokazu Koreeda, Katsuhiro Otomo, and Takeshi Kitano.
- My greatest literary ambitions in life are to have a shelf's worth of novels with my name upon them in print, and to have read every book I own, provided I own or can borrow (though you should never lend me a book if you don't want it returned looking well loved) every book by Tom Robbins, Kurt Vonnegut, Joseph Heller, Thornton Wilder, Michael Chabon, M. Allen Cunningham, Nick Hornby, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Annie Proulx, Gabriel Garcia-Marquez, Milan Kundera, Douglas Adams, Nicholson Baker, Don DeLillo, Charles Dickens, Margaret Atwood, Kazuo Ishigoro, Vladimir Nabokov, Ethan Hawke, George Orwell, Ken Kesey, Evelyn Waugh, David Mitchell, John Steinbeck...
- And why Oral Randomly for my blog title? Well, a couple years back I got the idea into my head to publish my own zine, where all of the stories and poems would be released in audio form, to reemphasize the oral tradition of storytelling, hence Oral (I considered Aural, but it just sounded too pretentious); and I figured that instead of a set publication schedule I would just release the issues when I felt they were ready, hence Randomly. I still thought that title had a good flow to it, so I resurrected it here, as the nature of blogs is more conversational that writerly, more in the moment then on a schedule.
and above all you should know that Josh loves to receive mail, so please feel free to comment or converse with me on any of the topics I present in this blog, or upon my stories, or fraternal tales on the difficulties in getting your first story or novel published, or on writing or reading or film or art or music or anything.
Unless you want to brag about a better Galaga score, in which case you are dead to me.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
A Note to My Future Agent
I just wanted to write this in advance as a thank you for being the first to judge my book in the aggregate. Though I have gotten some encouraging feedback from agents who read the first few chapters among the slew of boilerplate and silence, most notably Judy Heiblum at Brick House, who represents the wonderful writer M. Allen Cunningham, who wrote, “The work is imaginative and your writing shows both power and fluidity,” and gave a perfectly respectable, constructive rejection with, “For my taste, there was a bit of a sense of the language getting in the way of the writing, if you know what I mean. Also, I am perhaps a bit too traditional to get really excited about the format you propose for the book,” I congratulate you on seeing the potential in our partnership, especially beyond the terrible copy of my query (I’m assuming it was terrible to be so off-handedly rejected when it pimped something unique, and exceptionally constructed – this is where I’m supposed to be humble and discount how excellent I believe the work to be so I don’t seem conceited, so all I will say is that I wrote a novel I would love to read: innovative, but with a soul; characters that breath, laugh and cry and leave you in similar attitudes; with descriptions outrageous while simultaneously piercing – but then you’ve read the book, so you know how great it is, and I can be an openly proud Papa with you).
Just out of curiosity, would you mind going through my query and enlightening me to the pratfalls I fell into composing it? Thanks:
A victim of rape at fourteen, the songs Lucy Faas initially writes as therapy bring her more fame than she was prepared for at seventeen, so after her second album receives critical but lackluster financial success she enters a self-imposed suburban hermitage.
[So, in this revision of the query I strove to put character first, introducing my heroine Lucy as “the hook,” establishing in this single sentence that she carried the ultimate personal usually private pain of rape heavily upon her back in a too full frontal view to the public; that though talented, and still quite young, she already had significant issues with the byproduct of her expression: celebrity – enough to drop out of her career for a considerable span of time; issues that would make her impressions an interesting mix of insider and outsider.]
Studying creative writing at Westmont College in Montecito, graduating with a degree in Art, my seduction by Santa Barbara County – where encountering celebrities in their sweatpants at the supermarket was a common, humanizing, occurrence – mirrors the character of Lucy Faas. I currently reside in the San Francisco Bay Area with my wife and two children, have had several short stories published in various literary journals, including The First Line, who graciously nominated my Summer 2005 issue story for a Pushcart Prize, and am hard at work on my next novel, which will integrate my experiences as a substitute teacher.
Just out of curiosity, would you mind going through my query and enlightening me to the pratfalls I fell into composing it? Thanks:
A victim of rape at fourteen, the songs Lucy Faas initially writes as therapy bring her more fame than she was prepared for at seventeen, so after her second album receives critical but lackluster financial success she enters a self-imposed suburban hermitage.
[So, in this revision of the query I strove to put character first, introducing my heroine Lucy as “the hook,” establishing in this single sentence that she carried the ultimate personal usually private pain of rape heavily upon her back in a too full frontal view to the public; that though talented, and still quite young, she already had significant issues with the byproduct of her expression: celebrity – enough to drop out of her career for a considerable span of time; issues that would make her impressions an interesting mix of insider and outsider.]
Emerging seven years later with aspirations to revive her abandoned music career, she joins the crazy assemblage of actors, musicians, directors, significant others and an heiress at architect Alexander Murphy’s celebrity haven – hidden and secure in the Montecito hills above Santa Barbara – there to preempt or hide from scandal, or simply dwell in a paparazzi-free zone. Amid her efforts at composing her comeback, Lucy decides to investigate the enigmatic Mr. Murphy’s origins, discovering aptitudes and interests enticingly adverse to musicianship as she learns more than any prior guest, and cultivating love for more than just the character of The American Riviera. But then she stumbles upon the secret that may bring this celebrity Eden to an ignominious end.
[So, here I laid out the unique plot of the book, my heroine’s conflicted journey through it, hinting at the interesting characters she will interact with, presenting setting as an equally rich character, and establishing intrigue behind the titular character driving Lucy through the book, portending an exciting climax.]
Incorporating Lucy’s songwriting, mock nonfiction articles, and sections of pure play-style dialogue into the narrative, and with a cast of celebrities alternately real, inspired, and imagined, Alexander Murphy’s Home for Wayward Celebrities is a literary novel, not so erudite that it will not appeal to a mainstream celebrity-hungry readership, completed at 92,000 words.
[Here I outlaid the singular narrative structure of the book, setting the genre as literary just in case the theme of celebrity left doubts to the seriousness of the novel – but also grounding the novel from the ether of literary works for a general readership, providing an ancillary marketing idea, while conducting the business of a attention-barbed title and reasonable word count. Trivia: I considered qualifying “mock nonfiction articles” with “mock architectural-themed articles,” but decided against it for the reasons of brevity that all the books and websites I researched on query-writing beat me over the head with.]Studying creative writing at Westmont College in Montecito, graduating with a degree in Art, my seduction by Santa Barbara County – where encountering celebrities in their sweatpants at the supermarket was a common, humanizing, occurrence – mirrors the character of Lucy Faas. I currently reside in the San Francisco Bay Area with my wife and two children, have had several short stories published in various literary journals, including The First Line, who graciously nominated my Summer 2005 issue story for a Pushcart Prize, and am hard at work on my next novel, which will integrate my experiences as a substitute teacher.
[Here I gave a bit of biography that concurrently qualified me to express the setting and themes of the novel in a fresh voice; then another bit on my current situation, modestly showing that others have found my work not only publishable, but among the best they had published that year. Then I finished the paragraph with an assurance that I am a working writer, burgeoning with ideas, which interred in your stable, will be a productive, long range asset.]
I am querying you because...[-]. I look forward to sending you the manuscript for review. Feel welcome to contact me anytime from the contact information below. Thank you for your consideration.
[and, of course, here is where I proved to you that I had researched and handpicked you as a potential agent, offering my reasons in a hopefully flattering way. And then wrapping everything up sedately, belying my overwhelming desire to see my novel published because to admit my frustration with the inherently drawn out process of book publication may make me seem desperate.]
So what do you think? Too How to Get Your Novel Published formulaic? As I said, this is just for curiosity sake, so don’t put yourself too out with your commentary. (Blog readers listening in, I welcome your comments as well).
I should let you go; I respect how valuable your time is. I just really wanted you to know how much I appreciate your faith. I’ll have my next novel in soon as I can (how you worried that that was simply a ploy in my query!). Looking forward to all the marketing and touring, and, of course, a long and fruitful partnership.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)