An Author’s Statement

In the last decade I’ve been writing mostly “fiction.” By that I mean not “non-fiction.” But genres are tricky, aren’t they? To write well, I advocate giving up all genres, and ignoring all the rules and admonitions (like this one), and allowing oneself to submerge in the flow of ideas, images, experiences, memories, and imagination. Later, edit furiously; trim and prune ruthlessly. Or not. Only the writer knows the real purpose of each word; the writer is the only fully qualified editor. Other editors, of course, eventually get their hands on the work, but hopefully they understand their role. We’d never expect a gallery curator to trim off pieces of a painting, or apply a little more green just there, would we?

To achieve real excellence in writing requires more than a passing acquaintance with excellent writing. When I meet writers who are already competent and experienced, but who want to ascend to the next level, by far the most powerful tool available is to read the works of great authors, authors who inspire, and to understand what these writers are doing.

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Beefheart & Gormenghast

Capt. Beefheart played at Goddard, the last summer I was around there, and although memory is inexplicably foggy about goings-on in Vermont in the late 60’s, it may have been the alternative media festival held there in 1970. Somewhere online you can probably find some of young Robert Altman’s photos of the event.

Meanwhile, I’m tempted to revisit The Third Policeman, which was originally lent me by Jerry Jarvis. I have it around here somewhere, with his other works (Flan’s, not Jerry’s or Capt. B.’s).

Oh, I guess I do have a little Capt. B. in the archives of doodah.

Have you read Mervyn Peake? His only noted work is the nearly-finished (and ne’er to be, as Mr Peake is dead) trilogy of Ghormenghast. An exercise in splendiferous (yes, literally) purple prosody, in which the entire many-hundreds of pages of Book One span about a week (the birth) of Titus Groan, 77th Earl. It’s a strange and monumental piece of work, but so extraordinarily eloquent and over the top that you might enjoy it even though it lacks certain conventionally esteemed literary qualities.

Wait. Who am I talking to? This happens a lot.

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Swahili

According to Google Translate, working from the English, the phrase “Unapaswa kula mavi ya tembo!” translates from Swahili into “You should eat elephant dung.”

My Ugandan and Kenyan friends won’t tell me if that’s correct, so I’m not sure if I should use it.

Shouldn’t I work that into a story? Well? Shouldn’t I? I’ve done the leg-work. (“Mimi tumefanya mguu kazi.”)

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Death of The New Republic

Thinking about The New Republic and what perhaps it really was, I’m reminded of the differences between “on-demand publishing” and conventional “traditional” publishing. The digital dissemination of music or writing is spectacularly disruptive, mainly because of the damage (or at least havoc) it wreaks upon extant business models. But how does it damage the creators, the writers, the sources of ideas?

Unquestionably, the publishers, from record companies to periodical and book publishers, have been dealt a heavy blow from which none will recover in any semblance of their original form. Why is this so? It’s primarily because the cost and inconvenience of reproduction and packaging have been almost entirely eliminated. This was the great barrier of entry for all competition, and it was the basis of their business model. We can make records or magazines or books, and you can’t. That’s no longer true, and in the last few years, even digital copies of books and recordings are becoming unnecessary inconveniences because of readily accessible streaming from ubiquitous perennial sources. I don’t have to own one; I’ll get it when I need it.

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2015 Redux

Upon closer inspection, 2015 has turned out to be almost indistinguishable from 2014. At least, the first week of ’15 sure as hell ain’t easy to differentiate from the last week of ’14. Come to think of it, I recall this same observation arising approximately a year ago. It wouldn’t be much of a stretch to extrapolate some years prior to that as well.

Has there ever been a difference? Isn’t every year just a recapitulation of The Year? Are we not all dwellers in the gastroenteronomics of the great Uroboros? Has there ever been an original year? From a post-modern perspective, years are a big disappointment, failing all imperatives from the cult of the new. At least they are consistent. Small consolation.

Further questions should be directed to the Omphalos for revelatory borborygmus.

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Overdue Get-Together in the “New” Year

Thank you all, once again, for the New Year invitations. They brought a strange synergy, augmented by reading your collective Skunk River Review pieces while listening to the Columbia University Orchestra playing the Fratres for Cello.

Sadly, the outer walls of my domicile were wavering too fluidly to contain any forms of synergy beyond those found among the silent multi-legged animals who eat the paper beneath the letters while the dried ink falls to the bookshelf between library bindings and dust jackets and smythe-sewn backstrips, mingling among the tiny sands left by legions of departed roaches. Is it notable that they do not eat the ink, only the fibrous? In their chewing they eschew the words.

Yes, definitely let’s get some gether by 2015 or so—we are all overdue. You name the time and place, and I’ll follow suit, naming my own time and place, and with luck their coincidence will be both temporal and spatial.

The poet came yesterday, demanding a little market research, and I have not left him entirely in the land of sark. My weakness, yes, but the wolf does deposit strings of slather upon the poet’s doorstep and mine now and then, which quickens the accursed mercantile juices.

May the ghost of Flan O’Brien sully your scripts, my friends.

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Leaving for Chicago?

To all my clients, students, tutees, master classers, apprentices, assistants, disciples, and customers who are departing this week to Chicago:

What to do in Chicago — hmmm —

Leave?

Since I’m in a poetry mood of late, I guess I’d look for some café where good poets read. I’m not into the poetry slam/jam/damn/def fubar approach, but there is indeed an interesting performance-art angle glomming onto poetry readings of late. Mainly, it’s much more interesting to hear poetry, compared to reading it. Probably some good independent bookstore would have something like audible poetry, or know of its whereabouts. There’s some kind of poetry thing at the House of Blues, but it’s probably slam.

Yes, later on, after Chicago, after the Fall, let’s explore the book, design, direction, format, scheme, ontogeny, scatology, embryology, mycology, librology, morphology, dichotomy, lobotomy, autonomy, agronomy, and what-all, when you return next year.

But don’t blame me. You asked for it, and some of you paid in Actual Dollars.

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Multitasking

Research shows that prolonged multitasking leads to long-term attention deficit disorder.

Like we didn’t already know that. Jeez.

Gotta run: baking a cake; writing a novel; shooting a video; designing a site; writing an app; building a bunch o’ stuff; fixing a drawer; biting the bawamba.

Damn! Can’t decide whether to a, b, c, d, e, f, g, h, i, j, k — They all look the same.

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Our Floppy Disc Heritage

Reminiscing recently on my wife Mary’s experiences running our first company, Datascan (aka Text Sciences Corporation) in southern California.

We provided a media conversion service — moving documents from brand X word processors to brand Y. In those days before personal computers caught on, only large outfits had word processing, and there were about 50 different brands, using many incompatible types of data discs and internal file formats. Almost none could transfer documents to anything but a printer, much less to any other brand of word processor. Imagine having to package up your documents and mail them physically to a service bureau so they could be read (with some layout distortions) on a different brand of text editing device. It’s hard to believe we ever made it out of the 1980’s.

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Hell

Folks have widely varying views of Hell, ranging from other dimensions filled with fire and torture tech to psychological modes of self-torment and fear. I have a somewhat different view of the place.

If you went there, you’d find Hell is a huge crowded airport filled with foul-smelling travelers with mountains of luggage. You’ve got six large very heavy bags with loose handles, broken wheels, etc. Your flight has been delayed, and continues to be delayed, and the announcements are always wrong so you have to pay attention. Your flight goes to heaven, or so you’ve been told, but it’s a 48-hour flight. You need to buy some snacks but there is no snack shop near your gate. What’s more, the flight keeps changing gates. The delays keep happening at unpredictable intervals. Once in a great while you actually board a plane, with much luggage trouble, but after hours (or days) waiting on the runway with the ventillation off, the flight is canceled and everyone returns to the terminal. There are numerous false alarms about sudden departures from gates at remote locations. You’ve been waiting for your flight for 1,000 years and you need a shower….

 

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