15 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 1”

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The Stupid 365 Project, Day 1
October 1st, 2010
In the great tradition of historically stupid decisions (“I’ve got it — let’s invade Iraq!”) I have just this
moment decided to blog right here here for 365 consecutive days.
That means every single day for the next year. The more thoughtful among you might ask whether a
commitment like this one will interfere with my life. Actually, I’m thinking of it as an alternative to
my life, parts of which are not, as the New Agers might say, Ideal Scenes. In circumstances like this,
what’s called for is a futile gesture. This is the one I’ve decided to make.
Obviously, I’m going to run out of material long before I run out of days. That’s part of the charm,
actually. There will be days when I have to write about things I don’t want to write about, just because
I’ve used up everything I do want to write about. And, to make this a little more suicidal, I’m pledging
that no blog will be shorter than 300 words. So in the next year, I’ll bloga minimum of 109,500 words.
A good-size novel. Just for you, and you won’t even read it every day.
Of course, committing to entries of a minimum length is miles from committing to entries of a
minimum quality. I expect to scrape bottom quite soon and then to scrape through the bottom entirely
and get into the interesting stuff that’s actually under the stuff that’s under the stuff that’s under the
bottom.
Up until now, blogging here relatively rarely, I’ve managed to stay in charge of what I wrote. At the
rate of a blog a day, though, I expect, in a relatively short period, to be scooping stickum from my
subconscious because my conscious mind, while it can accurately be described as encompassing a wide
range of issues, doesn’t really have expertise in any of them. It can be said of my mind what someone
said of Victor Hugo’s — that it’s as broad as all the seas and a foot deep. That should, fairly quickly,
bring me up against the central problem: Three hundred words a day, about what? The only thing I can
talk about endlessly is myself, so I also commit that this won’t always be about me. A lot of the time,
probably, but not always.
One other thing this project has in common with the Iraq War is that the only exit strategy is failure.
I’ll either make it or I won’t. In that regard, the relatively low readership of this blog is comforting.
Relatively few people will actually see me fail.
Here goes. Look the other way, please.
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1. Lisa Kenney Says:
October 1st, 2010 at 8:00 pm
Woohoo! This ought to be good. I’m all in. And despite your predictions of
scraping through the bottom of the bottom of the bottom, I suspect this project is
going to yield some great things. Go on!
2. Laren Bright Says:
You’re such an exaggerator. You don’t have to write 365 blogs. You only have to
write 364. Well, after this one, that is.
Besides, you could write about all kinds of vital things — like why the words I
had to type to convince your system that I am an actual human being were rextile
taileed, both of which sound suspiciously sexual, if you ask me. In fact, I think I
got 3 emails just today dealing with that condition.
Now send me my goddam decoder ring.
3. angel Says:
4. Alton Koren Says:
October 2nd, 2010 at 2:56 am
There is absolutely no way that you cannot make 365 days of blogging anything
but witty, informative, creative and fun. The sea is pretty expansive. I’m sure
there’s a LOT floating around in that one foot deep that we’ll all enjoy. And who
knows, maybe you’ll be surprised by periodic dropoffs. A great experiment for
you and those who appreciate you.
5. Jean Henry Mead Says:
Best of luck with the new project, Tim. I’m sure you can fill quite a few pages
with good writing tips and advice.
6. Timothy Hallinan Says:
Well, I’m impressed with all this optimism. It buoys me up, lifts my spirits, and
gives me a short but growing list of people to whom I can turn as ghost-writers
when the words stop coming. Thanks to LISA for the woohoo and her sunniness
about what might actually be at the bottom of the bootom, and to LAREN for
pointing out that there are really only 364 to g (what a relief!) and to ANGEL,
who I think may try something like this on her own blog, and to ALTON for his
faith that there’s a lot floating around in that shallow sea (of course, we all know
what floats) and to JEAN, a dauntingly good writer in her own right for dropping
in with encouragement.
And Laren, my Captcha is NUD GARIPEK, which sounds like a Romanian
soccer player.
7. fairyhedgehog Says:
I’ll look forward to this!
I’ve just finished A Nail Through The Heart and I’m waiting impatiently for The
Fourth Watcher to arrive. Now I’ll have something from you to read every day!
8. EverettK Says:
“As broad as all the seas and about a foot deep,” huh?
Let’s see, there are about 139.5 million square miles of ocean on this planet. One
foot is 1/5280th of a mile, so that equates to roughly 26,420 cubic miles of ocean.
One cubic mile of ocean weighs about 151 million tons. That’s almost 4 million
million tons.
That’s heavy.
I’d say you have plenty of subject matter to carry you a paltry 365 days.
October 2nd, 2010 at 9:11 pm
Hi, FHH, and thanks for stopping by. So glad you liked NAIL — of all of them,
that’s the one I’d be least likely to recommend to you because of the subject
matter. WATCHER is, at least, lighter.
Everett is the high fast one over the plate the universe delivers much less
frequently than we batters would like. He e-mailed me after THE FOUR LAST
THINGS came out on e-book with about 900 typographic fixes (all of which we
promptly made) and he’s given similar assistance on SQUEAL and SKIN DEEP.
And he’s — my God! — reviewed them on Amazon. AND he designs games and
has serious numbers of brain cells, as his computation of the size of my
metaphorical mind illustrates.
Aaaarrggggghhhh — you guys are all smart! And I have to get up tomorrow and
write something.
10.Pat Browning Says:
Hi, Tim:
300 words a day? That’s a lot. Good luck! You don’t have to write about writing,
you know. In fact, everybody and his dog is writing about writing. Maybe you
could just tell us about your life.
It all depends on why you’re blogging. If you’re blogging to sell your books, then,
obviously, you have to talk about your books, and how and why you write them
— et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, as the King of Siam (or Yul Brynner)said.
If you’re blogging just to keep from going to seed you can talk about anything
that comes to mind.
I’d rather you wrote 300 words a day on a new Simeon Grist mystery, but that’s so
selfish of me.
All best,
Pat Browning
Author of ABSINTHE OF MALICE,
and half-finished with METAPHOR FOR MURDER.
11.Phil Hanson Says:
October 3rd, 2010 at 11:22 am
Hey, Tim, if you can commit to writing your blog every day, the least I can do is
commit to reading it–every day. We all have our challenges. Personally, I don’t
recommend beginning a project with the expectation of failure, although it’s a
strategy that seems to be working for you. Maybe I’ll just shut up now and watch
and learn.
12.Timothy Hallinan Says:
October 3rd, 2010 at 12:11 pm
Pat — I’ve responded to you at some length in the third post, “El Sombrero,” but I
don’t deal with your speculation about why I’m blogging. I decided to do this
with no real motive at all. I was sitting at the keyboard and I just wrote the first
post. If I have a motive, it’s to get myself started writing earlier, since I write these
as I drink the morning coffee that makes the day possible, and in fact I’ve gone
right on from the blog to the new book (which IS a Simeon — sort of) all three
days. I talk about writing not so much to sell books as because it’s pretty much all
I think about. But, sure. Part of me hopes that this blog will go viral and attract a
million people and that they’ll all migrate directly to Amazon and buy everything
I’ve ever written. But do I think that will happen? Well, no.
Phil — I begin everything in the expectation of failurer because it turns successful
moments into pleasant surprises. And, to be honest, I expect either to write some
terrible drivel here in the next year or to come to my senses and walk away from
the project. But I hope you enjoy whatever the hell comes out.
13.Larissa Says:
October 4th, 2010 at 12:20 pm
Good luck. I may try something like this on my blog if only to get myself writing
more and writing just for the sake of writing something. I usually babble about
myself on the blog..so perhaps my challenge would be to write an entry on
something other than me…narcissus would be ashamed I know but it could work.
It’s hard to be interesting enough to warrent posting everyday…
14.Beth Terrell Says:
Tim, I look forward to reading all 364 remaining posts. You know I love
everything you write. And I will commit to commenting on all of them–but not,
alas, on the day they are written.
You should have a character called NUD GARIPEK.
Mine’s 129 nopert.
This is perhaps excessive devotion, which is not to say I won’t accept it. NUD
GARIPEK could be an inhabitant of one of the worlds behind my mother’s finger.
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 2: Manual Transmission
October 2nd, 2010
Second day of the rest of my life, or at least the rest of my year.
Those of us who write for a living possess manual transmissions where words are concerned. We learn
almost mechanically to shudder our way into motion each day in first gear, caffeinate and twiddle the
keyboard into second, and then hit our stride in third. At that point, on good days, we can go into
cruise control and allow the material to arrive, going straight from the bright cloud of unwritten
possibility through our fingers and onto the page. Sometimes it barely seems to pass through the mind.
(That’s a pretty accurate representation of my relationship to the story material I put on the page. It
actually does seem to exist somewhere outside me, in already-complete form, and it arrives like
yardage, in bolts –at least, when the Muse is feeling helpful.)
But of course, when you’re writing a novel you have the advantage that the pieces are already in play.
Every day when you sit down, Tony is just about to jump off the ledge and Dahlia is trying to get the
gun out of her purse and little Duane is painting the puppy red. They’re right where you left them the
night before — or (ideally) by the time your fingers hit the keyboard, they seem already to have moved
beyond the point at which you signed off the previous day, and the first stage of writing is catching up
with them.
The problem with this potentially suicidal project is that I’m going to be starting from zero every day. I
can envision a blog, and not too far in the future, either, in which I describe home movies to you.
Back to writing a novel for a moment. The discovery that your characters are already in motion by the
time your laptop has booted happens (for me, at least) only when I write every day. If I stay away from
the book’s world for any length of time, it turns into a crummy little diorama with dusty, miniaturerailroad trees and cardboard buildings and weensy, crudely-formed action figures that I have to reach in
and move around by hand.
Which, actually, is sort of how this feels. The fundamental equation for the year to come is bp x
a(squared) x 365 = E, where bp stands for blank page, a stands for anxiety (squared), and 365 = well,
we all know what 365 stands for. So, blank page times anxiety squared times 365 equals E, which
stands for eeeeeek.
My family’s home movies, by the way, were largely made up of a large, fuzzy pink area representing
the tip of my mother’s index finger, which fit almost perfectly over the camera lens. There — I’ve
already gotten to home movies.
And the picture at the top of the page actually is a wooden laptop, built by some inspired Japanese
steampunks. I would LOVE to own one.
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12 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 2: Manual Transmission”
1. EverettK Says:
You’re lucky your family HAD home movies. All I have are stills. Home movies,
for us, didn’t start until the early 80s when OUR kids were born about the same
time as home VCRs. Damn that first portable VCR and camera combo was
expensive …and big! (and heavy!)
2. Sylvia Oliver Says:
I decided that Im going to follow this…I want to see what you have to say on day
362….or if you have words left….Love your work, love what you say and also
that you dont confuse the reader by putting toooo much information.
3. Sharai Says:
Whew! Two notches nicked! Aren’t we having fun? I love to read your thoughts
on writing, but I’m hanging in to at least day 150 because when you get desperate
you get REALLY funny. I can’t wait.
pineizzl olphar!
Everett, if you remember what the tip of your mother’s index finger looked like,
just imagine it, and you can use my home movies, at least on the fantasy level. We
saw Hawaii past my mother’s finger, Yosemite – you name it. Anywhere your
family ever went, anything you ever did, just imagine your mother’s index finger
in front of it — voila! home movies.
Sylvia, if you’re still around for day 362 (and I am, too) I’ll write it just for you.
And if I were to confuse the reader with too much information, I’d use up
everything I know by the end of the second month. My God, I’d have to learn
something.
Sharai, two down and, ummmm, 363 to go. Boy the time is just flying. Oh, and I
should tell you that my rules for this thing say NO STOCKPILING — no sitting
down some day and writing 12 of these things and then doling them out. They all
have to get written on the day they appear.
I’m doing this again, why?
5. Gary Says:
Hang in there, Tim. It’s going great so far.
Hey, how about blogging 300 words per day about Poke and Rose and Miaow for
the next 363 days? And at the end of the year, there’s your next book.
No stockpiling? You’re being very hard on yourself. It’ll be interesting to see how
your relationship to blogging develops when you’re doing it every day.
At least you have a sympathetic audience!
7. EverettK Says:
Tim, are you a “morning person” or an “night owl?” Your method of getting
yourself in gear in the morning sounds like you’re a “night owl.”
When I’m working on a new game, I’m best first thing in the morning. I get up,
and I’m ready to start right in, and work feverishly until about noon or early
afternoon when hunger and tired butt drive me from the keyboard. When I was
25-35, I could work all day at my day job, then come home and program until
midnight, no problem. Now, I’m lucky to keep my brain from fuzzing on me by
mid-afternoon, so I HAVE to get my work done in the morning and not waste any
time about getting started. But then, I’ve always been a “morning person.”
Of course, programming is a little different than writing prose, but as I mentioned
on another occasion, I suspect that it’s not ALL that different in terms of habits,
work ethics and methods.
Tim –
You really screwed up this time. You covered 2 subjects in one blog (writing &
home movies). What were you thinking? Oh,. wait, I get it, YOu had one subject
in blog 1, two subjects in blog 2, and by the end of the year you will be writing
one word each about 365 subjects. How cool.
“by the end of the year you will be writing one word each about 365 subjects”
Laren, that’s brilliant!
I should hand off this blog to one of you every week. You’re better at it than I am.
Gary — I responded to your comment in Blog #3, “El Sombrero, and I also
commented on Laren’s very funny note there. (Might as well use you guys for
material, since I’m going to need all I can get.)
Everett, I’m a whenever writer. I actually embarked on this blogging project
because I thought it would be a good way to get me started in the morning rather
than wandering around changing perfectly good light bulbs as a way of dealing
with the anxiety of the empty page. And it’s working, pretty much. It’s getting me
to the keyboard earlier and keeping me there longer, and that’s all to the good. As
long as there’s coffee, my mind doesn’t know what time it is.
FHH, Laren is a very, very funny guy and a good friend. I’m fortunate in that
respect.
The only home movie of ours I remember shows me in a frilly blue dress and my
new “baby’s first steps” shoes toddling after and playing with a pet rabbit in my
great-aunt’s yard.
Tim, the cool thing about yours is they can be ANYTHING. “Oh, that was taken
on Mars right after my father converted our old Cadillac to FTL travel.”
I have no idea what the captcha says…
It’s true — new and previously unseen worlds could be on the other side of my
mother’s index finger. In the few shots of me that are actually visible, when I was
seven or eight, I seem to have developed an unfortunate mannerism of saluting the
camera. The kind of thing that can make me blush decades later.
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 3: El Sombrero
October 3rd, 2010
Boy. Yesterday was only two days in, and people were already carping.
“Use the 300 words a day to write the new Poke,” says Gary. Laren’s on me about using two subjects
in a single blog, which suggests that he shares my skepticism about whether I’ll be able to sustain this
mindless marathon. Pat says, “I’d rather you wrote 300 words a day on a new Simeon Grist novel . . .”
She also says, ” . . .everybody and his dog is writing about writing. Maybe you could just tell us about
your life.”
Breathe deeply, Tim. They mean well.
Gary, Poke is taking a break right now. He and the family continue to marinate in Bangkok, and I
make notes on them from time to time. I know what the next two books are, and they’ve even got
tentative titles: The Fear Merchant and The Growing-Younger Man. But it’ll be a bit before I begin to
write them, because (are you there, Pat?) I’m writing a new Simeon, Pulped, which is unlike anything
I’ve ever written. It’s going to be published as an e-book because the first three Simeons are doing so
well on Amazon and there’s obviously a readership, hard as that is for me to believe.
Okay, Pat, you want my life? I’ll give you my life, a childhood incident that scarred me for years. It
even has a title:
El Sombrero
When I was in elementary school, there were no intercultural sensitivity issues because there were no
other cultures to inter with. Where I lived, we were all white except for the relatively small number of
us who were black, and we all spoke English, with varying degrees of proficiency and verve. What I
learned about Mexico can be summed up in a single sentence, paraphrased from one of my secondgrade textbooks. Mexicans used something called a tortilla instead of a spoon.
There was no picture, which would have helped. There may have been Mexican restaurants where we
lived back East, but my parents, who were whiter than Moby Dick, wouldn’t have frequented them. I
conjured up probably hundreds of mental images of what a tortilla was and how it replaced a spoon.
(Remember, I was in second grade and my experience of the world was somewhat limited.) And then I
learned one more thing about Mexico: It had a dance that was really easy to do and it was danced to a
catchy tune called “La Cucaracha.” My teacher either didn’t know or didn’t think it was necessary for
us to know what a cucaracha was.
So, in the darkness fate moved its heavy hand and the Mexican Hat Dance was selected as the second
grade’s contribution to the annual School Show, which — now that I think about it — must have
seemed decades long to the parents who suffered through it. The choice of the dance meant I needed a
sombrero (I’ll dispense with the italics), and that, in turn, gave my mother a jolt of inspiration.
My mother dabbled in oils. She painted either the sea at night under a full moon or vaguely Hawaiian
mountains, all steep green slopes and pillows of fog under a sky the piercing blue-green of a Korean
pottery glaze. And, once in a while, she did a still life because fruit and vegetables don’t move around
much. So, in an imaginative breakthrough, my mother decided to paint a still-life on the front of my
sombrero.
She decided to do this on the night before the show, and oil paints take a while to dry. When I got on
the bus the next day, wearing my gaily decorated sombrero, I was in the center of a pungent sphere of
linseed-oil fumes that cleared the seats on either side of me, in front, and behind. That was the first
indication that the day was going subtly wrong.
And then came the performance. All the boys were wearing sombreros, although none was as
distinctive or as aromatic as mine, and all the girls’ mothers had gotten them white peasant blouses
from somewhere, perhaps a failing little boutique called La Peasante or something, because I never
saw another peasant blouse again as long as I lived there. We second-graders gathered backstage in our
orderly little lines, the music started — da dump, da dump, da dadadada da dump — and we trotted into
the light for our moment of glory.
It was immediately obvious that we should have rehearsed the dance with our sombreros on. The hats
made the boys a good four inches taller, and when boys and girls faced each other so the girl could
curtsy and the boy could bow, there was a lot of whoops, and a couple of hats hit the stage, knocked off
when they brushed against the front of some little girl. My sombrero was fastened beneath my chin,
and I suppose I was congratulating myself on not losing my hat as I moved down the line to the next
little girl, and the girl to whom I’d just bowed began to cry.
I bowed to Girl Number Two and looked over my shoulder at Girl Number One as Girl Number Two
also started to cry. They both had vivid streaks of oil paint in the most primary of colors down the front
of their white peasant blouses. From then on, things got blurry. I remember girls scurrying backwards
to get away from me as it was my turn to bow to them and seeing them bump into the kids behind
them, and one or two kids doing impromptu sits on the stage, and then someone in the audience (me, if
I’d been old enough and fortunate enough to have been sitting there watching instead of up there
dancing) began to laugh. Laughter is, of course, contagious. Even the boys onstage were laughing.
The girls were not. I was not.
Kids teased me about that damn hat until fourth grade, when something much worse happened — but if
you think I’m wasting that now, you’re nuts. 362 days to go.
You want life? I’ll give you life. Life at its rawest.
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11 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 3: El Sombrero”
1. Beth Says:
I have been laughing for an hour. As a mother who figured out how to make
clothing for the apostles and for medieval knights from bath towels, I know full
well that those school productions are the source of nightmares.
I have been the teacher trying to keep the kids in line until it is time to dance, then
pray that while they are dancing they don’t fall off the stage. I have been the
mother told by her daughter that I have to make a costume for her that represents
her favorite character in a book, request coming two days before she needed said
costume.
This entry will be worth reading countless times over the year. Maybe I can get to
the point that I can read it without laughing so much my eyes tear.
Do you know, I didn’t laugh at all I felt too sorry for you. Maybe it’s the wine.
Yes, I’ll blame it the wine tonight.
3. Phil Hanson Says:
That’s okay, Tim, give us life at its rawest. One day at a time. The countdown
continues.
Beth, I’m glad it rang true. At the time it was appalling, especially because I was a
really, really shy little kid, but I have to admit I laughed out loud when I wrote it.
FHH — well, I felt sorry for myself, too, at the time. And I was furious with my
mother, whom I blamed for everything. She didn’t make things any better by
laughing when she saw me after the stage. But my mother was a lot tougher than I
was.
Phil, I’ve got material so raw it makes Chuck Pahlaniuk read like Louisa May
Alcott. This is just a sample –even grittier stuff is on the way. After all, I’ve got a
YEAR to fill.
5. Pat Browning Says:
ROFLMAO. About those peasant blouses — believe it or not I was still wearing
them my senior year at Okla. A&M College. And for what it’s worth to anyone,
Oklahoma is still about 50 years behind the times.
Jumping from Mexico to the boot known as Italy, are you sure about La
Cucaracha? Doesn’t “cucaracha” mean tarantula? When I was in Sorrento
umpteen years ago, I attended a tourist special at a local hot spot and heard that
the dance began when a local beauty tried to escape from a tarantula.
Of course, I also have learned that tourism guides and hawkers will tell you
anything as long as it’s a good story.
But enough about you,let’s talk about me –
I loved your blog, and am glad to know you’re working on a new Simeon Grist ebook, and jealous to know you have 2 other books with titles awaiting your
attention. Don’t know how you do it! But keep it up, and write faster.
Pat Browning
October 4th, 2010 at 3:50 am
Abject apologies. The Italian dance I misremembered is the tarantella. That’s what
I get for being such a smart aleck. I’ll sit down and shut up now.
7. EverettK Says:
I both wanted to cry (as I for-saw the coming troubles) and burst out laughing as I
read the actual denouement. The best humor is rooted in the pain of someone else.
What is it about pain that makes us laugh so hard? The ability (or need) to do that
must have evolved as a psychological survival tool, to keep us from killing
ourselves before we managed to procreate.
8. EverettK Says:
I, too, am happy to hear of the new Simeon Grist you’re working on. As for eBarnes & Noble setting up their program for authors to “self-publish” in e-book
form:
http://news.cnet.com/8301-17938_105-20018394-1.html
Amazon is great and will likely remain your major seller of e-books, but no sense
locking yourself into just one distribution channel and losing out on a few sales.
It’s something to keep your authorial eye on, anyway.
Pat — you caused me a queasy moment of uncertainty (three days in and I’m
wrong already) but then I remembered the tarantella and relaxed. The city in
which I lived at the time was the (then) lily-white suburb of Chevy Chase,
Maryland, and peasant blouses were in short supply, possibly even scarcer than in
Oklahoma.
Everett, just remember what Mel Brooks said: “Comedy is when you trip going
downstairs and tumble all the way down and break your neck. Tragedy is when I
get a paper cut.”
We’ll see how the new Simeon turns out. I’m becalmed at the moment, about
35,000 words in, and the fact that this happens every time I write a book doesn’t
make it feel any less terminal. And I’m looking at all e-book venues, although
Amazon and Apple, together, sell about 85% of them.
Tim, what a charming story. Charming, yet subtly horrifying. I’ve done a few oils
in my time and could see the potential for mayhem as soon as you said your
mother had decorated the sombrero in oils. Ah, the smell of linseed oil.
I loved your description of your mother’s paintings.
I still have a couple of my mother’s paintings, and the description is pretty much
literal. I wish I’d foreseen the havoc. I would have faked the stomach flu, which I
was very good at, and stayed in bed all day.
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 4: Stars
October 4th, 2010
In an earlier stage of my life, I had the opportunity to interact with a lot of stars.
And I don’t mean the sitcom flash of the season or the newest substance-abusing paparazzi target
(although I dealt with a few of those, too). I mean REAL stars, people who had made it — which can
happen to the undeserving — and had stayed there, which can only happen to the very small number of
performers whose personality and talent engage audiences for years and year.
And I learned something that will come as a surprise to none of you: Stardom is not actually good for
personal development.
Take someone, put his/her face on a million screens, blow it up to 40 feet high, surround him/her for
decades with people whose job description is to say, “Yes,” kowtow to him or her on the set, and you
eventually get a monster. Or, if not a monster, at least someone whose disregard for others is leviathan
in scope. There are plenty of these wretched people, and I think they’re the ones who went into it
without a fully formed, fully independent sense of who they were. Without that, you’re no match for
stardom. To survive, you have to be bigger than stardom from the get-go.
One of the great exceptions, in my personal experience, was Katharine Hepburn, with whom I had the
privilege of working several times. Hepburn was Hepburn, and she would have been Hepburn if she’d
been the wife of a country doctor. She had a strict New England code and she both lived by it and held
others to it.
The first time I met her, I went up to her house, formerly the gardener’s cottage on the estate that long
belonged to the director George Cukor. She came in from the garden, hands dirty, started to shake
hands, looked at the hand she’d extended, and laughed. ”Look at me,” she said in That Voice. ”What
you must think of me. I’ll be right back, and Phyllis will bring you cookes.” Phyllis was Hepburn’s
long-time secretary and assistant. From the kitchen (it was a very small house) she called, “Many
people prefer eating Phyllis’ cookies to chatting with me.”
Phyllis brought the cookies, and I took a quick, nervous look at the copy I’d brought for her to read —
copy that would be used as a promo on NBC television for the production of “The Glass Menagerie” in
which she was starring. She came back in, drying her hands on her pants, and said, “Are those my
words? May I see them?” I handed them to her, and she read the page once and beamed at me and
said, “But this is marvelous. You’ve caught me very well. Do you have a pencil?” I did, and I gave it
to her. ”If I could just make one tiny change,” she said. She paused and looked at me, eyebrows
raised, pencil poised over the paper. I assured her that she could make one tiny change. She made a
tiny change, showed it to me, said again, “This is really quite good,” and asked if she could make
another tiny change. Twenty minutes later, I’d been praised unceasingly and not one word of my
original copy remained.
She read her version into a microphone once and said, “That felt like a minute.” It had been exactly a
minute. ”Good,” she said, “so that’s done.” I asked her to sign the page and let me keep it, and she
wrote “Good work!” on it and scrawled a big, looping signature. Ten minutes later, we were each
drinking a glass of white wine, and talking a mile a minute. She told me stories about Spencer Tracy,
which I found extraordinary because she had broken with a lifetime friend, Garson Kanin, when his
book revealed the Hepburn/Tracy relationship while Mrs. Tracy was still alive, and I realized with a
little start that she trusted me. The talk was mostly about acting, but there were some very personal
elements as well.
I had just seen “Pat and Mike” in which she knocks half a dozen golf balls straight down the fairway in
a single tracking shot: the balls had been cued up about four feet apart, and she got the club swinging
and simply moved from ball to ball as the camera followed: no cuts, no tricks. I asked how she’d done
it, and she said it was all in the rhythm and got up, took a poker from beside the fireplace, and started to
swing it. ”The big problem,” she said in deadly seriousness, “was not hitting myself on the leg with the
driver. I would have looked an awful pratt.” And she traveled the length of the living room swinging
the poker back and forth.
After three or four hours, I left. The next day I found that she’d requested that I be her liaison for much
of the production, and I went on to work with her on three shows, including the extraordinary “Love
Among Ruins,” in which she starred with Olivier. I met her often, usually either up at the Cukor
cottage or in her New York townhouse, and there were always cookies and usually a glass of wine.
I was more than half in love with her, which probably shows.
More stars, both bright and dark, to come.
This entry was posted on Monday, October 4th, 2010 at 9:27 am and is filed under All Blogs. You can
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13 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 4: Stars”
1. Beth Says:
” Hepburn was Hepburn, and she would have been Hepburn if she’d been the wife
of a country doctor. She had a strict New England code and she both lived by it
and held others to it.”
The key is the code of behavior. Her New England background, especially when
she was young and setting her values in stone, would have demanded that she
acquire a stiff backbone and self-reliance. Being born into money, old money,
brought with it obligation. She earned her stardom and reputation through hardwork and discipline.
There are some very talented people in the acting profession, Meryl Streep, being
the only example I can think of. Streep and Hepburn knew how to mature, to grow
old gracefully. And there is that indefinable but easily recognized talent. The
spoiled children, especially those who waved goodbye to childhood many long
years ago, don’t have the talent that Hepburn and Streep were born with. They are
the products of publicists who make a fortune off them, keeping their names
always in the spotlight, even if it destroys personality and the self-respect. There
are some really sad cases in the news like the poor soul who is before a judge on
what seems to be a weekly occurrence. When parents turn their child into a cash
cow, that child has little chance of developing the qualities of a Hepburn.
Hepburn recognized talent in you. Everything I ever read about her made it clear
that she didn’t suffer fools gladly. She certainly wouldn’t have wanted anyone on
any project to which she attached her name if they couldn’t make her better. If her
name was on a project, it became important and the expectations of her fans were
high. She wouldn’t cheat her public by being anything less than her best.
It’s that old Yankee pride in work that has been accomplished.
This is wonderful. I’m so glad for your mad decision to blog every day!
It’s fitting that you chose a “class act” as the subject for a post so early in your
latest project. You do both yourself and Ms. Hepburn proud, Tim. See you
tomorrow.
4. EverettK Says:
“There are plenty of these wretched people, and I think they’re the ones who went
into it without a fully formed, fully independent sense of who they were. Without
that, you’re no match for stardom.”
Or much of a match for anything else in life! Sturgeon’s Law: 95% of
EVERYTHING is crap. That applies somewhat to people as well as all of the
things they say, do and create (as a group, not as individuals). The PR machines
are excellent (in the sense of action, not in the sense of quality of product)
magnifying crucibles, and they certainly magnify and purify whatever was there
to start with. They have no interest in IMPROVING what was there to start with,
and people rarely change a great deal once they’ve reached adulthood (in terms of
their basic personality).
5. Suzanna Says:
I’m so happy you are blogging daily and that your scope is wide ranging. I love
learning about your early childhood, however pitiful or funny as you want to
make it.
How fortunate you are to have spent time with the great Ms. Hepburn. I bet it took
someone as smart and charming as you are to keep up with her! Thanks for
sharing!
My brother said he’d once run into Hepburn walking into his apartment in NYC
when he was managing George Shearing. He said all he could do was sputter,
“Miss Hepburn, you’re wonderful.” Had I ever run into her I shold hope I would
have been half as eloquent.
Hi, Beth — You’re right on both counts, I think. Hepburn was a Yankee in the best
sense, and the only current star who approaches her in talent or deportment is
Meryl Streep. I don’t know why she liked me, but once it was clear that she did, I
was on tiptoe all the time not to let her down. She did me the favor of assuming
that I would do things right, and I did whatever was necessary to live up to that.
Thank you, Fairyhedgehog. So far, it’s fun — and what I hoped would happen is
actually happening: it’s opening me to writing earlier in the day. We’ll see what
happens as my tank begins to run dry, which is ABSOLUTELY in the cards.
Phil what a nice thing to say. She was unique in my experience, although I did
work with some other extraordinary people, but Hepburn was always at the top of
the list. One thing I left out was that she was totally without vanity. During a
photo session, she asked for a mirror to be stationed next to the camera and looked
at it before every shot but rarely did anything but rearrange the scarf she was
wearing. When she caught me looking, she said, “I have a neck like a leg of
poultry.” Hope to see you tomorrow.
Everett — PR, a which is sort of what I was doing while I was working with
Hepburn, is the art of making mutton look like lamb. It’s almost disorienting when
a PR person is handed something real. But with someone like her, all you can do
is get out of the way. However clever you think you are, she’ll leave you in the
dust, But then, being Hepburn, she’d compliment you on your creativity.
Suzanna — I’m so happy you’re reading it. My childhood was a long way from
being Dickensian (and I’ll write about your house some day, I’m sure) and the fact
that it was so generally sunny makes it easier to remember the miserable bits as
funny. If it had been all miserable, I’d probably have been arrested by now as the
Sombrero Killer. Although it took me years to be able to stand the smell of linseed
oil.
Laren, that’s a great story, and I’m sure she said something gracious. Last year in
the Green Room at the West Hollywood Book Fair, a little tiny woman with steelgray hair came toward me, walking carefully, and I saw that it was Carol
Channing. All I could think to do was applaud. And she said, “Why thank you,”
and toddled on past. She’s weeeeeeensy.
Thanks for stopping by everyone.
8. Jaden Says:
Tim, you make me wish I’d met Ms. Hepburn. I’d have been too tongue-tied to
speak.
You have a Beth posting, so I’m switching to my new pen name and will be Jaden
from now on.
The Sombrero Killer…Love it!
Hey, Jaden — She was used to people being tongue-tied, and she broke through it
pretty fast when it suited her to do so. Other times she hid behind the barrier.
Nice to have both of you here.
10.Sylvia Says:
<3
Exactly.
12.Vicky Says:
So very happy I went to Scottsdale’s Poisoned Pen for your talk and signing.
What a delightful man you are! Just came across this from another email. After
knowing Hepburn I am so surprised you are uncomfortable writing in a woman’s
viewpoint. Since I am reading these in order and late at the starting gate. I can not
wait until i get too the odd jobs. I have a feeling that picture is going to remain
with me.
Thanks, Vicky — that was a terrific day, and I was much more delightful than
usual.
I really was uncomfortable about writing from a woman’s perspective. It scared
me silly all through QUEEN OF PATPONG but now I can’t seem to stop; two of
the three books I’m writing right now are from a female point of view. Thanks a
lot for dropping by, and I hope you come back.
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 5: Odd Jobs
October 5th, 2010
One of the rites of passage faced by all teenagers whose families don’t have entire neighborhoods
named after them is a series of truly rotten jobs.The Universe, having the rich, multifaceted sense of
humor it does, takes kids when they’re at their most imaginative, most energetic, and least hampered by
self-perceived limitations, and puts them to work aimlessly sorting oddly-shaped objects, flipping
burgers, stacking dishes, lifting things, and being forced into other boring, unchallenging, repetitive,
underpaid activities that seem designed specifically to stifle the spirit.
My early jobs were a case in point. My first employee was a restaurant chain called DuPar’s which
still survives in a sort of depressive, vestigial form in California. Once they were everywhere, but now,
DuPar’s has been left behind by restaurant evolution, stepped on like sidewalk snails by the big chains
and eaten alive by restaurants with nimbler, less artery-clogging menus. But at the time I first entered
the “job market,” DuPar’s was everywhere.
I was designated a bus boy. I can’t believe that such an insulting job designation still exists in the P.C
Age — if I had the job now, I’d probably be a Tableware Relocation Engineer or something. But in
those days, I was a bus boy, and that meant I wore white pants, a white T-shirt (both my own) and an
apron (DuPar’s) that had probably been white when giants roamed the earth but was, by the time I
inherited it, a sort of imaginary map, ghost-spotted with grease continents and ketchup archipelagos,
smudged in places with the black schmutz that accumulates on grills. The overall effect was a picnic
cloth that very sloppy mechanics ate lunch on. Under cars. Oh, and a white paper hat, just in case the
rest of the outfit wasn’t soul-shriveling enough.
In this getup, I carried enormous loads of dirty dishes from the tables at the front to the kitchen at the
back, invariably past booths jammed full of pretty girls who sneered openly at the dork in the filthy
apron. During the rare moments when there were no dirty dishes calling my name, I washed the dishes
in lukewarm water with so few soapsuds floating on it that I could literally count the bubbles. When
the dishes came out, they were the legal definition of clean, which was dirty enough to prevent me from
ever eating in a DuPar’s again.
But none of this was the bad part. The bad part was the cook. The cook knew one song and sang it
endlessly, and I mean endlessly. It was a very short song. It went exactly like this:
Ohhhh, me and my baby went huckleberry huntin’
She leaned over and I saw somethin’.
The 57,834th time he sang it, I took off the apron and submerged it in the sink, wadding a plug of the
cloth down into the drain opening. Then I turned the water on full and went and got my coat and drove
home. I don’t know whether anyone turned off the water before the kitchen was flooded and even
now, after all these years, I don’t care. I never picked up my pay.
I had learned three valuable lessons. I had learned that I was a snob and that sometimes there was good
reason to be a snob. And I had learned that there was no such thing as a free lunch, and even if there
had been, you wouldn’t have wanted to eat it off one of those dishes.
More awful jobs later, I’m sure. Eventually, I’ll use up everything that’s ever happened to me.
By the way, what do you want to bet that the guy who’s getting paid most in the photo above is the one
standing around doing nothing with his hands on his hips?
This entry was posted on Tuesday, October 5th, 2010 at 7:51 am and is filed under All Blogs. You can
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18 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 5: Odd Jobs”
And I had learned that there was no such thing as a free lunch, and even if there
had been, you wouldn’t have wanted to eat it off one of those dishes.
You always find the humour in the most awful situations!
I haven’t done many jobs I didn’t like, luckily, but four weeks working in a small
chemist shop was one of those few. Not only was it not very busy so I had to dust
shelves a lot but also people came in for condoms and lube and I was very young
and shy. The chemist would take over for me, but I could feel my face heating up.
2. Suzanna Says:
Ewwww…I can’t even begin to imagine the purpose of the human elephant probe,
and I don’t want to know!
I for one applaud you for your imaginative act of revenge on the singing cook and
substandard hygiene at DuPars.
Restaurant work was never my favorite. I once worked at a chain that served a
huge variety of cheesecake. After a few weeks of serving obnoxious customers
sickeningly sweet slabs of caloric suicide my final act of revenge was aimed at the
drunken customer who wondered why his cheesecake didn’t have a chocolate leaf
on it. I promptly found a chocolate leaf and jammed it into the top of his cake like
a shovel. Management did not approve and I was out of a job.
I pity the poor souls who for whatever reason are trapped in menial jobs. I
suppose unless you’re born a prince or princess at some point you will work a
few. But can you imagine how dysfunctional life would be without the folks who
work these jobs?
3. Beth Says:
One look at the apron should have sent customers running, bus boy or not. It said
something about the management I didn’t want to hear.
The term used now is “bus person”. I have three children; my son is 6′, my older
daughter is 5’10″, my younger daughter is 5’1″. Guess which one was the bus
person. The trays weighed more than she does. I couldn’t watch. I had nightmares
about her dropping a full tray on a table that had babies in infant seats. She was
insulted by my fears, telling me she is stronger that she looks. Her fingers are bird
bones and she got hired to carry heavy trays.
It worked in her favor in that she was quickly promoted to waitperson and a bus
person carried the tray from the kitchen. She had to tip her bus person very well
each shift.
4. Robb Says:
Well you’re making me feel better about my decision to stay out of longform
prose. It would have taken me a month just to write the Hat thing and to save time
I would have left out the funny. So… I think what we have here is: wait til all 365
are written, press them between two pieces of cardboard, call yourself
Notcavintrillin… I smell nonfiction!
By happenstance or some other quirk of fate, I managed somehow to avoid
looking for menial employment in the food industry. But please, someone tell me
in what way service station attendant is superior to bus boy. Grunt work is grunt
work; to my way of thinking, during times of inclement weather, it’s best done
with a roof over one’s head. So far the score is 15-love, bus boy’s advantage.
In trying to recollect my worst job ever, I find that I can’t. Probably because it was
so demeaning that I’ve repressed the memory. I’d tell you about my favorite job,
but I can’t do that without incriminating myself. Much can be said in praise of
meaningful work, but for the most part jobs really suck.
Courage, Tim. Onward.
Hello, all –
I’m actually embarrassed by the gentle implication in Suzanna’s note that for
many people, these rotten jobs aren’t rites of passage but life sentences. And she’s
right, we couldn’t get along without them. On the other hand, one way to look at
human society is that it evolved as it did in order to guarantee employment for all,
even the least, uh, promising. Cars were invented to allow guys to change oil for
others. Fast-food restaurants are a social organism that functions as a symbiotic
entity among 15-20 people, none of whom could run the whole thing but each of
whom can do something. I know life isn’t fair and that some ethnic and social
groups have a more difficult time than others rising above this kind of
employment, but that’s really a different issue. SOMEBODY has to flip our
burgers, or vegan nut patties or whatever. It’s just too bad it can’t work
backwards– put kids in positions where energy and imagination are needed and
put us older, less interesting folks on the floor buffers and leaf blowers.
Phil — if you’re me, any indoor work is preferable to any outdoor work. I’d rather
be a bus person (doesn’t that term actually denote a person who rides buses) than
a snow shoveler or a traveling minstrel any day. There are bugs outdoors. It stops
being light at a certain time each day. There’s no air conditioning. The hell with it,
I say.
Robb, I keep thinking that maybe some grand theme will emerge and I’ll have
something when I’m finished, but so far it’s a box of pieces from different jigsaw
puzzles that accidentally got thrown together. At this point, the only thing I can
say with any certainty is that it’ll be long, and even that won’t be true if I don’t
finish.
Beth, in my day no “girl” would have been allowed to bus dishes. It was guy
work. So you can chalk one up for gender equality that your daughter got to
stagger around under those big trays — and I remember how heavy they were.
Whenever I think of restaurant work, I remember the obsequious maitre’d in one
of the Monty Python movies who imperiously orders the waiter to position the
bucket better every time the enormously fat customer vomits on the floor. Just
sums up the whole gestalt for me.
7. EverettK Says:
I was 5 or 6 when I started my first paid job: picking strawberries (soon to be
followed by picking green beans). I did those two jobs every summer, pretty much
all summer long, from that age until I was 17 or 18. Up at 5:30am to catch the
berry (or bean) bus at 6:00, in the field by 6:30-7:00am and picking until 2:303:00 in the afternoon. Back then, the strawberries were mostly grown up in the
foothills of the Cascade Mountains. The ride up there in the old, broken-down
school bus probably contributed to the ringing in my ears that I suffer from today
(well, there were all those high-school dances in the late 60s…)
Some days the boredom drove me to sit there on my row rubbing strawberries into
the thighs of my jeans, followed by dirt, followed by more berry, followed by
more dirt. By the end of the day, with a little help from the hot sun, portions of my
jeans were magically transformed into something very akin to black leather. My
mom didn’t appreciate it.
The strawberries were Marshalls, THE standard for strawberries from the late
1800s until the mid-1960s when Hoods and many other varieties started being
introduced. Hoods had a white center and were hollow when you pulled out the
stem. The old Marshall variety was all berry, solid goodness all the way through,
and WONDERFUL flavor. No one grows them anymore, and good luck finding
plants.
A year ago this past spring, after reminiscing about the old Marshalls, I decided to
try to find some plants. An internet search and some e-mail exchanges eventually
got me in touch with the nice folks at the USDA National Plant Germplasm
Repository in Corvallis, Oregon, less than 20 miles from where I live. They still
had some, assured me that I could acquire a couple of samples after filling out the
proper forms. In September of last year, I received two runners via Priority Mail. I
carefully planted and cared for them, and this spring I had two strong plants and
one weak one. I got a few wonderfully delicious berries off of them this spring,
but even more importantly, this fall I’ve gotten enough runners to start SIXTY
new plants. I’m anticipating a marvelous trip down ‘memberry’ lane next June.
After all those miserable summers picking strawberries, I still love those
wonderful fruits! (But please don’t try to make me eat green beans…)
8. Gary Says:
What is it with this correlation between youth and mundane jobs? It seems to be
universal. My first job was working in a mobile kitchen, serving roadside snacks
and coffee to drunks late at night as they came out of the bars to go home. And
yes, I was the one who got to wash the dishes.
It is sobering to reflect on how many are condemned to this stuff for the terms of
their natural lives, instead of just experiencing it and moving on. I guess it’s only
some of us who are privileged to work at something more interesting. (My
SECOND youthful mundane job was in tropical rain forest, measuring fallen
giants after the evil loggers had struck them down… But that’s another story.)
Well, Tim, I know it’s only Day 5, but the quality of your writing shows
absolutely no sign of flagging. If anyone can make it to Day 365, my money’s on
you.
9. Rachel Brady Says:
10.fairyhedgehog Says:
I’m thinking, if you saved your replies to comments and used them for your blog
the next day, you’d be well ahead! I know OldKitty (http://ten-lives-secondchances.blogspot.com/) does that and it works for her.
Everett, picking strawberries seems almost idyllic, compared to DuPar’s until I
think about the working hours and how low to the ground srawberries grow. I’m
amazed, frankly, that you can still stand the smell of them. (I’ll write at some
point in the future about my revulsion toward the fragrance of gardenias, and I
didn’t spend half as much time with my nose stuck in a gardenia as you did
yanking strawberries.) Interesting about the varieties grown then and now — it
seems like everywhere you look, better-tasting fruits and vegetables are being
replaced with bigger, waxier, more tasteless varieties that would be better in still
life paintings than on the dinner table.
Gary, your second job sounds like my idea of a nightmare. Snakes, spiders,
headhunters, the possibility of running into a Michael Douglas film shoot (he used
to specialize in getting muddy in forests), and evil loggers, lurking behind big
trees toting chainsaws. You’ve got the makings of an eco-thriller there. And
thanks for the nice words about the quality of the writing –we’ll see where I am
in, say, three weeks.
Thanks, Rachel — I’d probably like it even more if you were the one who was
doing it.
Fairyhedgehog, I don’t know — it kind of feels like cheating. If I’m going to do
this at all, I might as well go full suicidal with it and commit myself to starting
from scratch every single day (360 left!). I am thinking, though, about soliciting
topics — and I mean ANY topic, even challenge topics, and also asking whether it
would be kosher for me to use this space once in a while to preview first chapters
of new books.
I think what you include is really up to you – you made the rules in the first place!
It’s an amazing experiment.
14.Sarah Says:
Oh my gosh …this is NOT relevant to this blog but I have got to come here more.
I came here looking for some reference to the garden in Breathing Water which I
still will always reference in my brain whenever I am seeing things about gardens
that I like. So I said on FB that I want to see the garden in Breathing Water and I
link to here and I get that photo of the boy and the elephant. Nobody makes me
laugh more Tim than your comments. Wryness hits a new level with you and
Thailand. A new meaning with an Asian eye opening awareness. Thank you. Will
be back.
15.EverettK Says:
Tim says, “I am thinking, though, about soliciting topics — and I mean ANY
topic, even challenge topics, and also asking whether it would be kosher for me to
use this space once in a while to preview first chapters of new books.”
It seems to me that soliciting topics would be fine, as you still have to write about
them (and that’s the point of the blog-challenge, isn’t it, to get you started writing
earlier in the day?)
The posting of first chapters, while wonderful for US, would sort of go against the
“getting started writing earlier” goal, wouldn’t it? But then, if you only did it once
in a great while (no more often than once a month, say), then that would have
minimal effect on achieving your primary goal.
But then, it IS your blog and your challenge, so as fairyhedgehog said, “…what
you include is really up to you…”
As for picking strawberries, yes, somewhat idyllic, beautiful setting, mountains,
trees, views. But yes, back-breaking work for any but the young and stout. There
were several picking stances: standing, straddling the row; on one knee and one
foot, still straddling the row; on two knees, sitting on your feet beside the row,
struggling along under the seemingly endless sun. But hey, most folks had one of
those hot new techie toys, you know, the thing EVERYONE who was ANYONE
just *HAD* to have: the transistor radio, sitting right there in your carrier,
listening to the latest music all day long. The poorer of us had to settle for a 2transistor radio, but the better-heeled had 6-transistor and a few even the boombox of its day: the TWELVE-transistor radio (with telescoping and rotating
antenna, too, of course, for pulling in those exotic AM stations from 60 or 70
miles away!)
Hey, Sarah, and how are you? Absolutely ANYTHING is relevant to this blog,
and if it isn’t now, it soon will be as I ransack my consciousness for new topics.
You’ve given me a good idea — writing about little things dropped into my books
(Pan’s garden is a great example.) Come back whenever you like.
Everett, I agree about the chapters — but it would probably only be twice in the
(already seemingly endless) year. In fact, I just wrote about this in the next blog.
And in a pinch, if I suddenly went all Puritan, I could add on to the end of the year
the days I filled with chapters. But I’d like to introduce new books to people
without demanding money first, and this would be one way to do it.
Ahh, the transistor radio/boom box and high-tech of yore. It’s amazing how fast,
in this period of accelerated change, things can go from futuristic to Flintstones in
the time it takes to blink. My friend Shadoe Stevens did a long string of insane
commercials for an electronics chain in the 80s and 90s and recently screened a
compilation of them in a theater in Hollywood. People laughed at the
commercials, but some of the biggest laughs were reserved for the tech. VCRs
half the size of refrigerators, TVs as thick as a double-wide.
17.Jaden Says:
I was once the world’s worst Taco Bell employee. I was pretty good at actually
making the tacos burritos, etc., but I was very meticulous, which means I was also
very slow. The thing I was worst at was filling the squeeze bottles with sour
cream. The sour cream came in large plastic bags, and we had to snip a bit off one
corner and then squeeze it into the plastic bottle like cake icing. The first (and
only) time I did it, I brought the full bottles of sour cream out to my manager, who
took one look at me and said, “I was going to put you on the cash register, but I
can’t let people see you like this.” I had sour cream from top to bottom–even in
my hair and eyebrows.
My career in fast food was a short one.
Slow is death, Jaden. Offered a choice between one perfect Matisse of a taco and
five lumpy, misshapen, dripping mystery objects, they’ll vote for the five every
time. Would have loved to have seen you encased in sour cream.
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 6: Rediscovering Me
October 6th, 2010
A long time ago, two eminent American writers exchanged the following brief notes:
HenryDavid Thoreau: ”Simplify, simplify.”
Ralph Waldo Emerson: “One ‘simplify’ would have been sufficient.”
I’m reminded of that as I prepare for ebook publication of THE MAN WITH NO TIME, one of the
Simeon Grist books I wrote back in the nineties. The first book in the series (there were six in all) was
written back in the dim mists of time, in 1989, when some of you were still in diapers and some of the
rest of you hadn’t yet returned to them. I hadn’t opened any of the Simeons in fifteen or twenty years,
depending on whether the book was early or late in the series. There may be writers who spend their
evenings beside the fire, sipping sherry and lovingly re-reading their own work, but I’m not among
them.
My impressions of the books, after all these years, were a little on the vague side. In fact, I barely
remembered some of them at all. I was a drinking writer then (or a writing drinker) and I started each
session with a couple of beers and ended it with my forehead on the keyboard. I stopped drinking
while writing the third book, EVERYTHING BUT THE SQUEAL, and essentially had to learn all over
again how to write a book. Alcohol, whatever its weensy drawbacks, is great for reducing blank-page
paralysis.
But I didn’t really remember the titles I wrote sober, either; they were written a long, long time ago, by
someone who seems to be remotely related to me, and what I remembered most were the covers,
almost all of which were dreadful.
So when I thought back on the series, I saw the books as hard little objects, devoid of details like plot
or character, sort of like stepping stones across a lawn. They were in an inflexible order — the order
in which I’d written them — but other than that, my impressions were vague, beyond a certain sense
that I had preferred some of them to others. To prolong the stepping-stones metaphor to an
unreasonable length, three of the stones seemed to gleam as though they’d been polished, two were sort
of drab and inconspicuous, and one was probably a trap-door that would drop anyone foolish enough to
step on it into an abyss that would take a long, long time to fall through.
Now that I’ve read most of them, I realize with a great deal of relief that some are better than I
remembered them, and some are arguably worse. None of them was as bad as the one I’d thought of as
a trap-door; in fact, I had a great time editing it.
But the biggest surprise for me was The Man With No Time, the book that’s coming out in the next few
weeks. When I proofed it, I just flat-out loved it. It lacked the patches of overwriting, of trying too
hard, that marred some of the earlier books, and the characters totally convinced me. I seem to recall
that when I wrote it, I had some doubts about bringing Dexter Smif back, but this wouldn’t be the same
book without him. He comes in late, but he’s on his game all the way through, and he brought the
Doodys with him. You’ll meet the Doodys when and if you read the book. This seems only fair, since I
didn’t meet them myself until Horton Doody suddenly sat down in the dire light of a late-night
McDonald’s. One of the delights of writing without a net – with no clear sense of where the story is
going – is that you meet some very unusual people.
I overwrote mercilessly in the first few books in the series. I tried wayyyyy too hard. If one joke would
have been good, I wrote three. If I had six good adjectives, I used four. Whole pages look like
someone sneezed adverbs onto them. I had no idea that — as the exchange above, between Thoreau
and Emerson, suggests — simpler is almost always better. Most of the time in these books, I’m visibly
standing on tiptoe, probably trying to convince myself that I could actually write a novel, that the threebook contract the first Simeon won for me wasn’t a fluke. It took me years, and some long patches of
bad writing, to get me to the point where I realized that I could write the books I could write and that I
couldn’t write, say, James Lee Burke’s books. But I could write mine, and if the world didn’t want to
buy them, well, then, that was the world’s problem. Maybe its teeth hurt.
I’d write the damn things anyway.
This Kindle project has been a kind of voyage of rediscovery, and the person I’ve rediscovered is
someone I’m just as happy not to be any more. But it’s been interesting to watch the workings of the
mind of my younger self, all the uncertainty, all the confidence about all the wrong things, all the little
sizzles of excitement when someone like the Doodys happened by. I’m glad to have had the excuse to
revisit these books. I’m even glad I wrote them.
This entry was posted on Wednesday, October 6th, 2010 at 9:56 am and is filed under All Blogs. You can
your own site.
12 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 6: Rediscovering Me”
1. Suzanna Says:
Really like the cover art on “Man With No Time.” Is it new?
Well, silly me, I loved your Simeon Grist books for precisely one of the reasons
you may have thought that you were trying too hard. Your Grist series could have
been over the top on the number of jokes but they were tremendously entertaining
jokes. While I may not be the best judge of the delicacies of simple prose I really
loved these books! I hope your Rafferty readers will treat themselves to this
excellent series and read the Grist series as well. Funny and suspenseful — great
combo if you ask me.
2. EverettK Says:
One of the true joys of advancing age: getting to look back at what you’ve done
(and not done), and valuing it for what it is (or was). Everything is perfect in its
moment, because it allows us to move on and become who we want to be in the
next moment.
As a side note, I have some of the same feelings regarding some of my earlier
games. After not having really looked at them for some number of years, I’ll fire
one up and think, “Good God! I RECOGNIZE this, but it’s almost alien, as if it
were something created by someone else entirely.”
3. Beth Says:
Tim, I don’t know how you could have forgotten the Doody brothers. They are
truly memorable, especially as Simeon directs their activities.
I read the Simeon series as it was published. I am very glad I decided to do a reread; I think I find them even funnier now.
Warning about blog promotion:
THE MAN WITH NO TIME was reviewed on Murder By Type on Monday. If
interested, go to the home page and scroll down to the third entry. The review
doesn’t do justice to the book. I couldn’t mention most of the book because it
would spoil the story for those who haven’t will be reading it soon.
The genius in Tim’s writing is the way he slips things in at unexpected moments.
Despite your frequent mention of the Simeon Grist series, Tim, you haven’t
named The Bone Polisher as one of the books in the series. I assume that’s
because it’s one of the later books (if not the last book) in the series. I liked that
story a lot; so far, it’s my favorite of the series. But then, it kinda has to be, as it’s
the only one I’ve read. My promise to you is that given time, I’ll read them all.
5. Gary Says:
I liked Simeon Grist. OK, so some of the Raymond Chandler one-liners you could
see coming half a page away. But they were FUN. And the villains were
deliciously villainous, like the Chinese guy in loud suits who got all his English
idioms wrong.
Tim, you have a great opportunity to legitimately revisit Simeon. Courtesy of
Kindle, God bless it! So many of us fiddle obsessively with our earlier work – My
God, did I write THAT? Quick, let me edit it and delete the original – and
castigate ourselves for having grown as writers in the interim.
We need to reclaim the freedom, don’t we – not just to be ourselves, but to have
been who we were.
Suzanna, the cover art is the work of my 17-year-old graphics guy, Allen Chiu,
who has a great career in front of him unless he decides to become a dentist,
which is what his father wants him to do. About the books, having just read four
of them — THE FOUR LAST THINGS, EVERYTHING BUT THE SQUEAL,
SKIN DEEP, and THE MAN WITH NO TIME, I agree that they’re funny. And
that they hold up pretty well, and better than pretty well in places. (One of the big
surprises for me was SKIN DEEP, which is a hell of a lot better than I thought it
would be.) But there are times when I feel myself straining, see myself setting up
for a joke that gets a laugh (or not) but doesn’t necessarily contribute to what I
really should be trying to do in the scene. In a great book of interviews, Buster
Keaton talks about tossing jokes that are just jokes, no matter how funny they are.
I was still learning how to make anything work, and I went for the jokes in part
because I knew how to write them and, I think, in part because I distrusted my
ability to do the other stuff, like plot and character and setting. When in doubt,
make a joke, and I was in doubt a lot of the time.
Everett, I’ve sent the first paragraph of your response to half a dozen people.
Absolutely on target. And it’s right that our early work should seem to have been
created by another person, because essentially it was.
Beth, I’ve forgotten practically everything about the series. I actually forgot I’d
brought Dexter back for this one. But you’re right — the Doodys are memorable,
although not everyone liked them as much as you and I do. I sent a partial
manuscript of the book to my editor at the time and got a panicked phone call, the
point of which was that he “did not want to see Horton Doody, or anybody like
Horton Doody, take over this book.” I’m pretty sure that’s verbatim. And thanks
for your phenomenal review — here’s hoping you’ll put it up on the Kindle page
when the book finally becomes available.
Phil, THE BONE POLISHER is the last in the series, and that and
INCINERATOR are the only ones I haven’t read again. The silly thing is that I’m
just as nervous about dipping into them as I was about reading each of the
previous four. I’m glad you liked it, and I hope you read the others, although I
seem to remember that you’re not an ebook guy.
Gary — your last sentence ranks with Everett’s first paragraph as material I’ve
sent along to others. I’m glad you liked these, and the Chinese gangster, Charlie
Wah — whose sherbet-colored suits are made for him by pregnant girls in a Thai
nunnery — is in THE MAN WITH NO TIME, and I had a GREAT time
rediscovering him. Wish I could bring him back for a Poke book, but it would
require a miracle that, according to Christian doctrine, has only happened once in
the history of the world.
Great responses, everyone, and thanks.
Okay — I tried entering the comment below and got a message that the reCaptcha
was entered wrong. So I typed the comment again, typed in the new words (which
were scintillating and titillating at the same time ) and got a message that said my
comment looked suspiciously familiar to one already submitted. But my original
message did not appear to have been accepted by anyone excepth the guy who
comes up withthe bizarre words.
So, since I’m now having a dysfunctional relationship with the reCaptcha writer, I
thought, maybe if I type something in addition to my real comment, I can sneak
past him. Thus, this long, stupid and pointless discussion to only make my point,
to wit:
I broke away from my Sci-Fi addiction many years ago to read the Simeon Grist
books. I liked ‘em. I’d do it again.
I’m kind of envious that you have something to look back at that you created
when you were younger. It must be very strange because we do change so much. I
remember visiting my Mum’s once and finding the Spirograph kit that I’d spent so
much time with when I was a teen – I can’t imagine now what I saw in it.
I’ll give those books a go once I’ve finished Fourth Watcher, which I’m still
waiting to be delivered. I really like the characters in the Poke books.
9. Suzanna Says:
Your current work is a lot more refined than your earlier books, that’s true. And I
really like the way the work has evolved.
Are there aspects of your work that get any easier the more you write?
10.Cliff Stanford Says:
Just finished Skin Deep, the first of the Simeon Grist stories I’ve read.
I very much enjoyed it. It was a good story, tightly told. The descriptions were
good enough that I feel like I’ve seen a film at the cinema rather than read a book.
But, if I had to pick out one thing that really worked for me, it was the accents.
Each character has his own way of speaking so that when Wyl is reintroduced,
you can just hear the campness coming over the phone.
I’mmmmm baaaaack!!!!
Laren — Two hints about Captcha. First, block and save your message before you
fill in the blanks and push SUBMIT. That way, if something goes wrong, you just
out the cursor in the new blank message spot and past it there. Second, if the
words are too hard to read, use the little circle of arrows just to the right of “Type
the two words” and it will give you a new set of key words. Third (yes, this is a
bonus) if you ever get that “already submitted” message, just type a new opening
word. And I’m flattered that you turned your back on all those Heinleins and
Herberts and Delanys to read old Poke.
FHH — It really is strange to revisit work that’s 20 years old, but it’s been much
less dreadful than I thought it would be. By and large, they hold up pretty well. If
you haven’t got WATCHER by, say, Tuesday, let me know. It was sent more than
a week ago by Priority Mail and I know someone in Canada already received her
book.
Suzanna, it’s nice to hear someone say my work has evolved. I always feel for a
writer when someone says, “I really like your first book best.” No, nothing gets
easier except the first ten pages, which I can now jump into blindly, secure that
I’ll land somewhere safe. But everything actually gets more difficult because, as
Elmore Leonard said, “We get harder to please.”
Cliff, I like that you saw SKIN DEEP cinematically because I do try hard to
supply all the visuals I can without slowing down the story. And thank you SO
MUCH for saying that the character voices were all different. That’s praise I’ll
accept gladly.
12.Jaden Says:
I agree with Everett’s observation that re-reading old work being like discovering
something alien, written by someone else entirely. I love that feeling of reading
something I wrote long ago and thinking, “My God, that’s actually good. I wrote
that?”
On the other hand, I hate it when I think, “My God, that’s terrible. Don’t tell me I
wrote that!”
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 7: The Dance
October 7th, 2010
For some reason, the sight of snow descending on fire always makes me think of the ancient world —
legionaries in sheepskin warming themselves at a brazier; mountain altars where offerings glow
between wintry pillars; centaurs with torches cantering beside a frozen sea . . .
An Englishman of a certain age sees a group of road-workers gathered around a fire they’ve built in a
bucket as the London snow pelts down, and the sight triggers these Classical images, which, in turn
lead the observer back to the time he was in school. That’s the opening of A Question of Upbringing,
the first of the twelve novels that make up Anthony Powell’s monumental A Dance to the Music of
Time, which — at this time in my life, when I’m approaching the age of that Englishman — is probably
my favorite novel of the 20th century.
(By “novel” I mean the entire twelve-novel sequence, which actually comprises a single, monumental
story.)
Reading books, I realize now, is more complicated than I used to think it was. The reading of a book is
an exchange between the book and the reader, a kind of mental and emotional jigsaw puzzle in which
the book supplies some pieces and the reader offers up the rest. Either the pieces from the book fit into
the spaces formed by the reader’s tastes and desires and experiences, or they don’t. That’s why, in my
experience, anyway, we can love at 50 a book that bored us senseless at 21 or wonder at 60 what the
hell we saw in a book we practically built a shrine to at 30.
I’ve read A Dance to the Music of Time four times and loved it every time, although I’ve loved it
differently. That makes sense, since Dance does nothing less ambitious than to follow four English
boys of just-below-upper-class status through the entire course of their lives, a swath of time that
includes bits of World War I and ends in the improbable Sixties. In telling the “boys’” stories, Powell
charts the course, over five decades, of a whole world.
The American publishers, possibly attempting to clarify the overall organization of the series, released
it in four thick paperback volumes, entitled “Spring,” Summer,” and so forth, later changed to “First
Movement,” “Second Movement,” etc. I was in my mid-twenties when I stole the “Spring” volume. (I
stole a lot in those days.) I was unhappy,working an unsatisfying job, barely speaking to people I had
long regarded as my closest friends. I was also just beginning to drink too much, living alone in the
house Simeon Grist later occupied, and feeling — in all — treacherously abandoned by my youth. I
was prematurely nostalgic for the days when I was always part of a group and no one seemed to have a
subconscious: We all told each other everything. Powell might have written the first three books
specifically for me at that point in my life.
Those books, A Question of Upbringing, A Buyer’s Market, and The Acceptance World, follow the four
boys through school, university, and their entry into the wider and colder world beyond. The narrator,
Nick Jenkins, and his two closest friends, Peter Templer and Charles Stringham, are from good
families, although only Templer’s has real money; and the fourth, Widmerpool, is the only son of a
widowed mother whose hold on gentility is grimly precarious. Jenkins, Stringham, and Templer are
attractive, amusing, and adaptable. While at first, as boys, they seem similar, they become more
individual as they grow up and (inevitably) apart. Widmerpool, on the other hand, never seems similar
to anyone. He’s the boy in every school whom all the others look down on. The only thing that his
schoolmates admire about him is his doggedness, a characteristic that will, over decades turn him into
the greatest and most complex comic monster I know of, outside Shakespeare.
The rise to considerable power, and the ultimate fall, of Widmerpool — often at the expense (and
sometimes to the horror and/or amusement) of his former schoolmates — is one of the primary threads
of the series. Widmerpool is a Sacred Monster, utterly self-involved except for his slavish devotion to
his widowed mother, and ultimately he shrugs even her off as he climbs higher and higher. One of the
things that dazzles me about the series, which was written and published over a span of 24 years,
between 1951 and 1975, is the foresight with which Powell wrote the earliest volumes. The poisonous
Pamela Flitton, for example, makes her first entrance in one of the first three books at the age of four,
creating an indelible impression during a society wedding by vomiting into the church’s baptismal font.
Ten or eleven books later, Pamela is a primary architect of Widmerpool’s hellacious and very public
humiliation.
But what captivated me on my first reading of the three books combined into Spring was the story of
the creation and partial dissolution of three youthful friendships — and especially the deterioration,
mostly through drink, of the most brilliant of them while the odd boy out, Widmerpool, glumly claws
his way into the world of influence. Every reading since has reinforced the power and the remarkable
humor in those three books, but with each successive reading, a new “season” opens itself to me as I,
like the characters, progress from Spring into Summer, Autumn, and Winter.
It’s art of a very formal kind, like the Poussin painting from which the series takes its name, but if you
can put up with the formality of the narrative and Powell’s lack of pretense that he’s doing anything but
writing a novel — he’s not aspiring to naturalism or even realism — you may love these books as much
as I do. And, really, what’s to lose? You can get them free at any decent library. And they’ve
illuminated my life.
Wow — we’re a whole week into the project. Only 51 weeks (and a day) to go. Thanks for reading
along.
This entry was posted on Thursday, October 7th, 2010 at 11:23 am and is filed under All Blogs. You can
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9 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 7: The Dance”
1. EverettK Says:
You’ve mentioned several times (well, two come to mind, at least) the concept of
a book being “an exchange between the book [or author] and the reader.” This is a
concept that I’ve read other authors put forward (Lois McMaster Bujold is one, in
particular), and must be a rather common realization that most authors arrive at, at
least, those who are at all aware of the craft that they wield.
Amazingly, I don’t think I’d ever heard of Anthony Powell’s works. The books
sound quite interesting. I’ll have to give them a try. Thanks!
2. Kaye Barley Says:
I’m very much enjoying and finding your project fascinating and hope you’ll keep
it up for at least another 51 weeks (plus a day).
3. Suzanna Says:
This sounds like a masterpiece and I reallyl don’t want to miss it.
What is it about the English and their knack for great character names?
Widmerpool? And since I couldn’t recall specifics I looked up a few from
Dickens: Pecksniff, Sweedlepipe and Chuzzlewit.
Thanks for the great review, Tim!
Everett, I’m actually more aware of this as a reader than as a writer. David Sedaris
once said something like, “Writing gives you the illusion of control, and then you
realize it’s just an illusion, that people are going to bring their own stuff into it.”
And that’s undoubtedly true, but I rarely think about it except to make sure that
things are as clear as I can make them. In THE QUEEN OF PATPONG, though, I
worked hard to make it difficult for anyone to read the book for any kind of
titillating experience. Anthony Powell is a great novelist, but very much a
mannerist, and some people want writing to be a little less literary and a little
more naturalistic.
Hi, Kaye, and thanks for dropping by. We shall see where we are in a month or so
— although I have a great Halloween story in mind, probably continued over
three days.
Soozie, the Brits are the best at names — Dickens is the all-time champ, but
Trollope is no slouch, either. Trollope opened to me the whole world of England
between the wars — the Bright Young People, the cult of aestheticism, writers like
Maugham and Cyril Connelly. (Incidentally, there’s a whole cottage industry of
trying to guess who some of the real-life models for the characters in the DANCE
were — there seems to be a sort of consensus that the dreadful Pamela Flitton was
based on Connolly’s wife, and Aleister Crowley is certainly the basis for the
amazingly fraudulent Dr. Trelawney.
One of the best ways to read Powell is out loud, if Morgan would stand for it. The
sentences are immensely long at times, but the punctuation will guide you through
them even at first out-loud reading.
I’m fascinated by your take on these books but I think I prefer something a little
easier to read. Some books seem to read themselves to you, it’s so effortless, and I
enjoy that.
Oh, and The Fourth Watcher has arrived. I can’t wait to read it.
FHH, it’s definitely lit-fic, and definitely in the classical mode, but it’s also one of
the greatest and funniest soap operas ever written. The “Dance” of the title refers
to the way characters meet, interact, separated, re-meet, group differently,
separate, etc., etc. over a lifetime. When I read it out loud to my wife, she went
nuts every time a character glimpsed briefly turned out to be Widmerpool.
And I’m really glad WATCHER has arrived.
8. Larissa Says:
Congrats on making it through a week. I think you’ll find this all very meditative
when it’s over (c: And yes, keep it all up. I’ve never heard of these books but I’m
interested in going to check them out. I’m currently reading an old classic that I
missed somehow in earlier times and it’s a brilliant experience. It might even be
worth a post on my own blog. Maybe.
Riss, thanks a lot. Meditative — well, not yet. It feels a lot like weight-lifting,
except that you never know, until you pick up the bar bell, how much the damn
thing weighs. The whole discipline is essentially, “300 words, right now, on
whatever idea seems to work.” No tossing it and starting over, no stockpiling
them, no cheating and writing them the night before. Come downstairs, turn on
computer, make coffee, drink first cup, sit at computer, write, then post the damn
thing. Then go out and run or go to the gym, and write books for the rest of the
day. It actually has gotten my word count on the current book up.
If you try DANCE, let me caution patience — it takes its time to weave its spell.
But, boy, is it worth it.
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 8: Week 2 Begins
October 8th, 2010
Let’s see: watch, wallet, glasses, shirt, trousers. I appear to be intact.
So far, this has been a lot of fun for me. My hope was that the discipline of sitting down every morning
with my first cup of coffee and hammering out 300-500 words about whatever occurred to me would
get me writing earlier, cutting short the hours I wander around aimlessly every day summoning up the
courage to plunge into the icy snowbank of the blank page. And it’s working. I was dead stuck on the
book I was writing, and since I started this project I’ve moved the story along by about 7500 words.
It’s still pretty limp, but at least I’ve got something to work with.
And I’ve thought of a ghost story I want to write in the three days leading up to Halloween. It’s called
“Spirit House” (with apologies to Christopher G. Moore, the thriller laureate of Bangkok, who used the
title several years ago for an excellent novel). I pretty much worked the whole thing out during my run
this morning after writing the Anthony Powell post. I may start to write it (or write at it) tomorrow,
which would sort of break the rule of no stockpiling, but I think I could make an exception for original
fiction.
What does anyone else think? Seems to me that a story requires a little more polishing than a daily
rant.
One other thing I’d like to do is use this space to share opening chapters of books in a new series of
comic thrillers that will be going up on Kindle shortly. The continuing character is a crook — a
burglar, to be specific — named Junior Bender, who works as a private eye for crooks. He’s the
divorced father of a 13-year-old daughter, Rina, whom he loves more than anyone else on earth, but
since a great many people on both sides of the law would like to see him sporting more holes than a
colander, he lives an evasive life — one dreadful San Fernando Valley motel after another, reachable
only through voice mail — and can see her only when it’s completely safe. Which is almost never.
Anyway, the first book is called CRASHED and the second is titled LITTLE ELVISES. The third,
which is about 60% written, is as yet untitled.
What do you all think? Would it be okay to put up some pre-written material in the form of preview
chapters? This would probably happen no more than twice (or, if I suddenly go electric with
inspiration and stay that way for months) three times during the coming year.
Any suggestions for other areas I might write about? (And no, this isn’t desperation yet — I’m just
looking to make the experiment a little more interactive.)
This entry was posted on Friday, October 8th, 2010 at 7:38 am and is filed under All Blogs. You can follow
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12 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 8: Week 2 Begins”
I vote a definite: it’s your blog — I don’t care what you post on it. I only read it to
see what the reCAPTCHA words will be each day.
2. Beth Says:
Tim, I just want you to keep writing so I can keep reading your always terrific
stuff.
How you do it is entirely up to you. You made the rules so you get to break them,
twist them, bend them, or throw them out and start all over.
The only thing I would like to hold you to is a piece everyday. Re-cycled is fine.
As I re-read Simeon I enjoy him more the second time.
Beth
He who writes the rules gets to . . . rewrite the rules. Revise! Revise! Revise! Go
for it, Tim.
4. EverettK Says:
As for this silly exercise helping your “day job” writing, I’ve read many authors
who’ve said that a writer should sit down and write, write, write EVERY day.
Don’t wait for inspiration to hit, don’t wait for your Muse to speak into your ear.
If you’re not sitting there at the keyboard (or pen and paper…) when the Muse
speaks, the Muse will take longer to come back and speak again, and then longer
and then longer. But every time you’re there working away when your Muse
whispers in your ear, that encourages that silly being to return more swiftly the
next time, and then more swiftly and… well,
you probably have caught the drift by this point, and were probably already aware
of this anyway. But hey, this is what the comment section is here for, isn’t it? (Or
is this the peanut gallery?)
Regarding Junior Bender, are these books that you wrote some time ago, or are
Laren — Captcha has gotten a lot weirder over the past six months or so. It used
to be things like “elementary penguins” (no, not that, I guess — that’s proprietary)
— but at least words that often made a sort of surreal sense. Now, God knows —
they seem to be snippets from some parallel universe. Hey!! There we are — a
distant civilization, trying to speak to us through . . . . naaaahhhhh.
You’re right, Beth. They’re my rules and I can tie them into knots if I want to.
And I probably will. Things are going to get desperate eventually, and probably
sooner rather than later. I’ll do everything I can to turn out a piece a day — and
thanks for saying that about the Simeons.
Phil — I’m going for it and not yet regretting it. Writing is writing is writing.
Everett, OF COURSE, I believe everything you wrote above; as Picasso says,
“Inspiration exists, but it has to find you working.” And I do work every day,
seven days a week. But that doesn’t mean it’s always easy. I’m currently writing a
book I haven’t got any idea how to write, and I’m in the Dread Middle, the part
where things always go off the track, so I have lots of anxiety about sitting down
to move things along. But I do. And, no, the muse doesn’t arrive more swiftly if I
write daily, and sometime she doesn’t arrive at all, but she NEVER shows up if
I’m not meeting her halfway.
I wrote the first Junior about 18 months ago, in between Poke books, and finished
the second about four months ago. Still writing the third, although it’s sort of
parked at the curb right now while I try to get through the stone wall on the other
book. We just didn’t get good enough offers ($$$, in other words) to make it
worth giving up the ebook rights. So they’re going straight into ebooks.
6. EverettK Says:
reCaptcha is used to do two things at once: provide “proof of human-ness” for
things like these comments, and also (at the same time) to digitize documents. By
now, they should have finished digitizing (and proofreading, essentially) the entire
run of the New York Times from way back in the 1800-somethings through the
present. They’ve probably switched over to digitizing something in a non-English
language, hence some of the bizarre ‘words’. It’s a cool, VERY inventive idea.
Whatever you choose to write, I’ll read it.
I’m on chapter 18 of Fourth Watcher and loving it. I don’t want to get to the end
and have to stop hanging around with Poke, Rose and Miaow!
Yes, yes, yes! Looking forward to that ghost story, and the preview chapters of the
Junior Bender series!
Everett, it does a terrible job at demonstrating anything even faintly resembling
human-ness. I had no idea about the digitizing aspect — why and for whom? And
that explains the occasional floating punctuation mark.
FHH — You’re so nice. We’ll see whether you still feel that way around Week
Four. Glad you’re enjoying WATCHER — I like that one, myself.
Pat — the ghost story is at about 1200 words right now, and I’m laughing myself
stupid over it. Unfortunately for the rating, the central character/villain is in the
music industry and his vocabulary is rich in ancient Anglo-Saxon four-letter
words. Oh, well. I was in that world for years, and that’s how they talk.
10.EverettK Says:
RE: reCaptcha.
The ‘human-ness’ verification is based on the fact that it’s incredibly difficult for
computers to figure out exactly what the spelling of the words is, because of the
distortion of the graphic. Therefore, if you enter the word correctly, it’s highly
likely you’re a human and not a computer spamming the blog.
The digitization project works like this: they always give you two words. One
word has already been digitized and verified before, so they KNOW what it’s
supposed to be. The other one is unknown or not yet verified. If you enter the
KNOWN word correctly, then it’s highly likely that you entered the UNKNOWN
one correctly, too. But it’s not yet verified at that point, until someone ELSE also
enters the exact same spelling for that unknown word. Once two people agree on
the spelling of the unknown word, then it’s accepted as the correct spelling.
The first big project was to scan in all of the New York Times newspapers from
beginning to present, break them up into individual words, and then use them in
the reCaptchas. There are tens of MILLIONS of these done EVERY day, so in a
very short time LARGE amounts of material can be very reliably digitized and
proofread. You can read more about it (should anyone be interested) on this page:
http://www.google.com/recaptcha/learnmore
and/or on this wikipedia page:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ReCAPTCHA
Some of the words are non-English, but some are just the back end of a
hyphenated word, which happens VERY often in newspaper columns.
11.Larissa Says:
Everett: That’s really cool about the reCaptcha stuff… I had no idea.
And yes, Tim, you can change the rules if you-however, I do think that the
Riss — I’ll write some kind of framing stuff, but there’s no way I know of to
attach the chapters, so they’ll just be the body of the blog for the 2-3 days they
appear. Anyway, at most I’ll do this twice in this year to which I seem to have
sentenced myself.
Slave driver.
Great “QUEEN” Review from Mystery Scene Magazine
October 8th, 2010
From the current issue:
Patpong, Bangkok’s most notorious district, is where Thailand’s infamous sex trade thrives. Poor girls
from rural villages are lured there to become “bar girls” working solely to satisfy men’s sexual desires.
Rose, one of those girls, is able to break free of the life when she marries Poke Rafferty, an American
travel writer. With their adopted daughter Miaow they live a relatively quiet life, until one night a man
from Rose’s past appears and shatters this existence by threatening to kill them all. It is up to Poke to
stop him.
Hallinan writes action scenes as good as, if not better than, any thriller writer in the business today, and
the beginning and ending of this exciting book belong to Poke. But it is the middle section, the heart,
which grabs us and keeps us engrossed. Rose tells her story from the time she was a teenager in a poor
village, through her “recruitment” as a bar girl, to her rise as the “Queen of Patpong,” where she meets
Howard, a farong (foreigner). Rather than the hero she believes him to be, Howard is a serial killer who
gets his kicks by murdering the girls he pursues. How Rose fights him off and escapes death is one of
the most exciting, page turning episodes of this fast-paced book.
This is the fourth Poke Rafferty thriller and probably the best. Descriptions of the bar girls’ lives are
beautifully and sympathetically done; depictions of village life is authentic yet depressing; action
sequences are fast-paced and realistic; and the final face-off against Howard is edge-of-your-seat
exciting. All in all, one hell of a fine book.
This entry was posted on Friday, October 8th, 2010 at 2:46 pm and is filed under All Blogs. You can follow
own site.
8 Responses to “Great “QUEEN” Review from Mystery Scene
Magazine”
1. Beth Says:
Every word is true. May I copy and paste?
Thank you, and absolutely. You can carve it in stone and drop it on the New York
Times, who didn’t see fit to review the book.
I love the last line.
3. Beth Says:
If THE QUEEN OF PATPONG makes it to the silver screen, that last scene with
Howard will have people out of their seats cheering for the good gals.
There is nothing bad that can be said about the book. Every good review is no
more than it should have.
I can’t believe it’s better than Fourth Watcher and Breathing Water!
It’s a great review and I’m sure it’s deserved.
5. Kari Wainwright Says:
I just finished getting caught up on your last three blog entries — sometimes I get
behind.
First of all, congratulations on another great review!
But my main comment is on yesterdays’s blog (my mind keeps wanting to call
them columns, as in newspapers of old). I sometimes experience writer’s block,
especially mid-book, but never thought writing about just any ol’ thing would
actually be of value.
Thanks for my inspiration of the week. I’m not currently bogged down, but if it
happens again, I’m going to blog, essay, or simply rant–probably in private–but
just to see what the action jolts out of me.
I especially wanted you to know that your comments did somebody a specific
good after seeing some rather negative remarks on DorothyL.
As far as I’m concerned, keep blogging. And I really look forward to any fiction
you put here as well. I’ve already got all the Bangkok books, although I haven’t
finished them yet, and I’ve downloaded to my new Kindle your “older” works.
Now I’ll quit rambling and go check out the captcha for today.
P.S.
Arrrgggghhhhh!
Please don’t take offense about my “just any ol’ thing” comment. I didn’t mean to
imply that’s what you write.
Sometimes I wish there were a way to rewrite and polish e-mails and the like.
Now I’ll return to my life and try not to stick my foot (or typing fingers) in my
mouth again today.
Tim — One of the things I found most intriguing about Queen was how different
it seemed from all the other books you’ve written. I’m still noodling on why that
is and my current thought is that you’ve always said that characters are everything
— if you don’t care about the characters then you don’t care about the story.
Usually you tell the characters’ stories as the story unfolds. In Queen, the
character’s story is the story.
Interesting.
Beth — the funny thing about the last scene in QUEEN is that it was born out of
desperation. I originally thought Rose’s story would be about 5000 words and
come early in the book, and the final struggle would happen back out on the
rocks. But as it worked out, Rose’s struggle with Howard out there took place
only about 25,000 words before the book’s ending and there was no way to get
them back there that wouldn’t have seemed contrived. Also, the scene of Rose in
the water is the longest action scene I ever wrote, and I had pretty well used up the
possibilities of the rocks. The final scenes came to me (like all good ideas) in the
shower, about two weeks before I wrote them.
FHH — I don’t know whether it’s better, but it’s newer, and we always like the
new one best. I sometimes think mothers feel the same way. My mother certainly
favored my youngest brother. Would have scarred me for life if I were more
sensitive.
Kari — “Just any ol’ thing” is precisely accurate. That’s the challenge: get up,
drink a cup of coffee, grab the first half-assed idea that floats by, and see whether
I can make anything interesting out of it. Sometimes, by accident, I get an idea
that’s inherently interesting, but most of the time it’s a sort of nearsighted
alchemy, turning base metals into fool’s gold — looks okay on first reading, but I
wouldn’t want it in the Library of Congress. And there isn’t a person among us
who wouldn’t give an inch of height to rewrite at least ONE e-mail.
Laren, that’s very perceptive, especially for a guy who only reads me for the
reCaptchas. You’re exactly right: I followed Rose and the others through that
whole section of the book. I didn’t plot it at all.
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 9: Disapproval
October 9th, 2010
On the very first day when I truly had nothing to blog about, the universe stepped into the gap and
served up someone called Elena Santangelo, who doesn’t approve of what I’m doing here and wants
people to know it.Ms. Santangelo felt compelled to share her opinion on a mystery group called
DorothyL, which is read by literally thousands of thriller and whodunnit fans. Here’s what she wrote:
I don’t see the point of blogging 300 words per day. I blog (on my writing blog) when I have something
to say. Tends to be about once a week–anywhere between about 200-500 words, roughly. Word length
depends on if I think I made my point, but I try to cut out extra words and keep it tight. If I’m stuck for
a topic, or my roof leaks, or something else distracts me, then it waits a week or so. Just giving
yourself an arbitrary word count and deadline may, at some point, make you a reliable editorialist, but
it sounds more like an indulgence than sharing something that matters.
Well! At first, I was taken aback by the blunt force rudeness of the note, but then I realized (a) that Ms,
Santangelo had just given me a blog topic for the day — and one I didn”t even have to write all of –
and (b) that a lot of what she says is true, although I see it from a different perspective.
To deal first with her most valid point: I don’t pretend to be “sharing something that matters.” What
I’m doing, as I said both here and on DorothyL, is committing to write a blog of 300 words or more for
an entire year. Only a megalomaniac would believe that he/she could think of something that matters
every day for a year. A lot of what’s here (and what’s going to be here) would have to go on tiptoe to
qualify as trivial. But I try not to make it boringly trivial.
I mean, come on. The series is called The Stupid 365 Project. Does that sound like the work of
someone who thinks he’s Friedrich Nietzsche?
When she criticizes, sneering openly behind her hand, the idea of giving yourself an arbitrary word
count and deadline, all I can say is that I’ve done that pretty much every day of my life for the last
twenty years and so far it’s produced eighteen novels, ten published under my own name and three in
disguise, with another three that have never been let out of the house, plus two that are going up on
Kindle in a month or two. If I didn’t “give myself an arbitrary word count and deadline,” I probably
would have spent most of that time sitting around and hoping that the roof would leak. And, although
it may not be obvious from the writing I release into the world, I too try to cut out extra words and
keep it tight. Ms. Santangelo might be surprised to learn that most writers regard cutting out extra
words to keep it tight to be an essential part of the writing process. Otherwise, the writing gets, well,
loose.
This has energized me. I’d like to encourage all of you to jump on, preferably wearing both boots, and
just tear this effort to shreds. I’ll have something to write about for weeks and weeks. (Whoops: cut
out that second “and weeks.”)
You may think this isn’t fair — attacking Ms. Santangelo when she’s not here to defend herself. All I
can say in reply is nyaaa nyaaa nyaaa. She started it.
By the way, a bunch of people have leaped into the fray on DorothyL to defend me, and that makes me
feel really, really good.
This entry was posted on Saturday, October 9th, 2010 at 11:07 am and is filed under All Blogs. You can
your own site.
27 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 9: Disapproval”
1. Peg Brantley Says:
You rock, Tim Hallinan.
I can’t promise I’ll read all of your posts, but I will pop in now and then.
CR: THE QUEEN OF PATPONG
It is to laugh. Or weep, depending on your mood. When I first read the DorothyL
post you refer to I kept wondering if she really meant to be so rude. But never
mind.
Many blogs are so much blather, which is why I don’t read many. Mostly I read
my own. But The Blog Cabin is neither boring nor trivial. Oh, heck, it’s fun to
read.
I especially liked your Katharine Hepburn blog, most especially the part where
she kept making teeny tiny changes to a script. Lord, she must have been an
interesting person to know.
Love the photo, by the way! Is it copyrighted? I could use it myself this month.
High fives all around!
Pat Browning
O.K. – so you’ve finally found just the thing to say to get me to stop calling you
“Mr. Hallinan.” It was the “nyaaa nyaaa nyaaa” that finally did it. How do you
call someone who says “nyaaa nyaaa nyaaa” Mr.??!! BUT. As in everything else
you’ve written that I’ve read – I loved it. (question. Would 1 nyaaa be considered
tight? 3 loose?)
I can’t see the need to defend you to Ms Santangelo. She’s entitled to her opinion
even though she’s wrong.
Seriously, I wonder what bugged her so much about your blog. Maybe she’s
envious at the apparent ease with which you write.
If she finds writing to a deadline causes her to write trivia, then that’s useful
information for her. It doesn’t mean that it applies to everyone else.
5. Kyle Davis Says:
Periodically I go to book signings and what I really enjoy is listening to the author
tell the audience how/why he came up with a story, particular characters, or what
moved him/her to tell it in the first place. Maybe you could blog about that some
time.
6. Kathleen Taylor Says:
My blog actually has the word *blather* in the header. Also *nonsense* And I
write about American Idol, during that season- so if there was an actual 365
Stupid Blog, it would likely be mine. But this is my first visit to yours, and I can
see that it’s far from stupid. Thanks for the fun!
Geez, Tim, I’m glad your blog doesn’t need Ms. Santangelo’s approval. She’s
either an anal-retentive snob or a critic–not that there’s any real distinction
between them–who labors under the false assumption that she is the decider of
what matters to the rest of us. Ignore what she has to say; your publishing record
and growing fan base render her opinions irrelevant and insignificant.
8. Colleen Says:
Thanks to this blog, I can get a daily Tim fix. It’s my little indulgence. I concur
with Pat on the Katharine Hepburn blog. Lovely piece. With blogs being ongoing
narratives, they’re annoying to follow when the author arbitrarily waits a week or
so to publish again. So for goodness sakes, Ms. Santangelo, if you don’t like
Tim’s blog, don’t read it.
9. susan streib Says:
this puppy dog is precious. I can easily see 365 photos taken a year, and
comments per each. Absolutely delightful! Don’t get mired down in criticism
when you have such a cutie at hand.
10.Eric Stone Says:
I, for one, am very pleased that you neither are, nor think you are Friedrich
Nietzsche. During my misspent youth I read a great deal of his work – much of it
hidden behind geometry textbooks during class in high school. I would far rather
read anything you’ve written
Now on the other hand, if you were Jack Nietzsche you’d play a mean piano –
though you wouldn’t be a very nice person.
Peg, welcome and thanks. No one should stop here daily, unless he/she is a
dedicated masochist. These blogs are like a package of life savers: every now and
then you get one of the green ones.
Hi, Pat, and thanks for the spirited defense. I’m amazed how many people suited
up for me. Yours was especially nice. The Hepburn picture is undoubtedly
copyrighted. I bagged it off Bing, and one day I’ll hear from someone about all
these pix. Hepburn herself was truly one of a kind. And thanks also for the nice
words about the blog.
More later: My reCaptcha is Rezula bodgety
12.Lil Gluckstern Says:
Hi, just another note to tell you how much I like your writings, and this blog-not
sure how stupid it is, for me anyway. I am just a reader, but I have long been
fascinated with the craft of writing, and everything I have ever read on the subject
says to write everyday, no matter what. This exercises the “muscle.” Whether it is
great or not, whether you cut and paste, all I can say I am enjoying your
perambulations, here and on DorothyL.
40 lashes with a wet noodle! I committed a confusing comment. The photo I’d
like to use is of the dog, not the glorious Ms. Hepburn!
Pat Browning
14.EverettK Says:
“No one should stop here daily, unless he/she is a dedicated masochist.”
Au contraire. You’re now one of 3 authors whose blogs I visit regularly (and one
of them just posted for the first time in over a YEAR! sigh.) So, it’s great having
someone who actually posts regularly, and so far mostly interesting stuff to read
“My reCaptcha is Rezula bodgety”
‘Rezula’ is very probably a proper noun, the name of a person or place. ‘bodgety’
sounds like it could well be a ‘real’ word that has long since dropped out of
common usage (since 100-and-some years ago), but could also be the back half of
a hyphenated word (God knows what the first half would have been…)
Well, I’m back — just went to dinner with people who don’t know anything at all
about this blog, and I didn’t bring it up.
Kaye, you were the first person to write me about Ms. Santangelo, and I thank
you. I think, in the interest of “tightening up” the writing, that we could either
delete one nyaaa or else drop the third “A” from each of them. And if it takes
getting trampled on DorothyL to get you to drop the “Mr.,” it was worth it.
Fairyhedgehog, you are really wicked. You start out so Quaker pacifist and then
close with a line like, “If she finds writing to a deadline causes her to write trivia,
then that’s useful information for her.” Ooooohhhhhhhh. When all is said and
done, I should be grateful to her — she gave me a blog that you all responded to,
and I really WAS blocked this morning.
Kyle, I’ll talk about the origins of the characters and other apects of my books
eventually — I’m sort of holding those in reserve for the days when I hit the wall.
That topic always interests me, too, especially when it’s a writer I admire.
Kathleen, I really want to read your blog but you didn’t give us a URL. I wouldn’t
watch “American Idol” with someone else’s eyes, but I LOVE to read about it.
JLO? Stephen TYLER? Are you kidding me? Oh and good luck to him showing
up for all the shows. Please write back and share your URL with us.
Phil, in the fifties an American writer named Harry Golden wrote a line I cherish.
He was asking why he and his fellow Jews wondered what was wrong with them
when anti-Semites got unpleasant, and Golden said, “Maybe it’s not our problem.
Maybe it’s the other guy’s problem. Maybe his teeth hurt.” Maybe Ms.
Santangelo’s teeth hurt. I’m sure she’s a perfectly nice person most of time.
Colleen, there’s not much danger of this becoming an ongoing narrative. It barely
exists on this sort of stutter and sputter basis. But when I write stories or put up
the occasional first chapters — I think those will span 2-3 days. And thanks for
suggesting that a daily Tim fix is desirable.
Susan, I do have a cute (even glamorous) dog, but the puppy at the top of the blog
is not she. That picture was just the best illustration of disapproval I could come
up with. Please come back and visit again, though, and I’ll post a picture of my
real dog.
Eric Stone (who is an absolutely terrific novelist) is undoubtedly the only person
in history who used his geometry book to shield a volume of Nietzsche. Mine was
usually unopened, which did not help the old grade point average (God, I’m glad
we don’t have grade point averages as adults) but when it was open, it was hiding
something racier than Nietzsche. But I have, in fact, worked much of my life to
have a more approachable prose style than Nietzsche. And Gesundheit.
Thanks again for commenting, everybody. Oh, and for those of you who have
come this far and could possibly read one more syllable from me, I just did my
weekly blog over at MURDER IS EVERYWHERE, and I really like it. There are
five other very good writers over there, by the way.
16.Mary Says:
Came here out of curiosity from DorothyL and will stay. I won’t be checking out
Ms. Santangelo’s bog as I don’t care for snobs.
I do love a good book and lots of laughs.
Mary
17.Gary Says:
You see, I just KNEW that you were going to dry up on about Day 9. So
impersonating Ms Santangelo and being as offensive as possible was just my
friendly way of keeping you moving.
Hang in there, Tim. Nil nisi carborundum. (Don’t let those born out of wedlock
grid you down.)
18.Kathleen Taylor Says:
Here’s my blog address: http://kathleen-dakotadreams.blogspot.com/
My daily hits go up during American Idol season- I think there are a few who
would never watch the show, who like a bit of snark about it.
19.Elena Santangelo Says:
This is the “someone” named Elena Santangelo. Until now, I had been considering
myself a fellow writer of Mr. Hallinan’s.
I apologize if my post came across as rude. I didn’t mean it to be. I only meant to
make an observation about blogging. My opinion. My point of view. Not meant to
be a horrible attack of any sort. Maybe it was flu shot reaction this week making
me sound grumpy. Ask my friends–I don’t sneer. Especially at writers, who have
one of the hardest and least appreciated vocations in the world.
I wish Mr. Hallinan all the luck in the world with his blog.
Let me know when you need another topic for your blog, Tim. Happy to oblige.
20.barbara macdonald Says:
Wow, just got caught up on my dorothyl digests (i like to save them up for days at
a time just – well just because i guess…)
I have often thought that folks on dorothyl tend to not READ posts but skim them
without giving too much thought to what the original poster actually said as
opposed to what THEY think was said and then they pop off posts themselves
without the requisite cooling off period or asking themselves in the overall
scheme of things does my cranky reply accomplish anything? Then once those
posts have been popped off others read the popped off posts and formulate their
own opinions on what they think the controversy is and they weigh in on the
subject, again without asking the requisite question, and so it goes until even they
get bored with the sound of their own “voice”…..
As long as I’m not the original poster i find it fun to follow the bouncing ball so to
speak, the world has SO many authorities out there doesn’t it…here’s the odd
thing about human nature, I posted about hearing Louise Penny speak and how
funny she is and it generated not one whit of a comment from anyone, nothing,
nada and I have to admit for a quick minute or two my nose was semi seriously
i like your books tim and i like your blog – big thanks.
hmmm, recaptcha vast augorshi, read into that what you will.
barbara
To take these responses WAY out of order, Elena, I really appreciate this note and
I apologize wholeheartedly if my reaction was just totally blown out of
proportion. I can be a little thin-skinned, and I probably was. Anyway, now that
we know each other, I can put the whole thing behind me and hope you can do the
same. I’m going to post one more short one on DL, just thanking James
Thompson and expressing some awe at the woman who said she writes on two
(two!) blogs daily, but that’ll be it, except I’ll say that you and I have been talking
and I probably overreacted. Does that sound okay to you? You can e-mail me at
thallinan@gmail.com if you want to weigh in. I’ll wait a bit before I post.
Lil G., there’s no such thing as “just” a reader. For one thing, all writers begin as
readers, and for another without readers we wouldn’t turn into writers. Ummm . . .
you know what I mean. Glad you enjoy yourself here and hope you come back.
Pat Browning, the picture of the dog is also a steal. I steal all of them, although at
some point I plan to put up a photo my wife took of me at work, looking all
pensive and writerly between a laptop and a wall full of books. Very literary. New
York Times literary. I don’t look like a genre writer at all.
Everett, with all due respect, it doesn’t take much time to keep up with someone’s
blog if the guy only posts once a year. At least I give you a workout. Maybe I
should charge for admission, call this a reader’s boot camp or something. By the
way, I’m going to pull together the two things you wrote about Captcha and send
you some questions and then make that a blog topic if it’s okay by you. And I’m
actually feeling a bit blodgety myself today.
Mary, so glad you came over. Elena Santangelo and I are friends now and it turns
out she’s a terrific writer who’s won an Agatha and a bunch of other awards and
been published in “Alfred Hitchcock and some other first-rate magazines and can
write a first paragraph as dead-on as this one:
“One minute I was weaving my Harley in and out of rush hour traffic, the next I
was floating up around the high tension wires, looking down on what was left of
my health club physique. All that power-lifting for nothing.”
I’d be thrilled to have written that and, in fact, I may, if I can find anything to use
it in.
Gary — you’ve penetrated the wall of deception Ms. Santangelo and I erected as
part of a demonic plot to increase my web traffic. You’d like her writing, by the
way.
Kathleen, great blog and I LOVE your seatcovers as well as the bracelet your
friend made. Why “Dakota?” My closest friend came from Jamestown in one of
the Dakotas, and he hates it that I can never remember which. Will come back
regularly.
Barbara, you’re probably right; I probably over-reacted to Elena’s post. I was
surprised to see any comment at all, and when it ended (I thought) negatively, my
reaction was, essentially, well, who asked you? I wasn’t looking for either
approval or disapproval, although I should have known I’d wind up getting both.
Louise Penny is hilarious and also a writer of considerable power. I only read the
digests about 2-3 times a week, but I’ve also had the experience of posting
something I thought was pithy and interesting and thought-provoking and a bunch
of other positive adjectives and gotten nothing but a collective yawn in response.
(One of the reasons I was taken aback by Elena’s response.) On the other hand,
get into a minor pissing match, and the whole world chimes in.
22.Jaden Says:
I’m so glad you’re doing this, Tim, because if you hadn’t, I would not have gotten
to read about The Sombrero, and that has made my week.
Barbara, I had the pleasure of introducing Louise Penny at the Southern Festival
of Books on Friday. She is funny, warm, and utterly delightful. I loved her sixth
book (BURY YOUR DEAD) and will now have to run out and buy the other five–
along with Tim’s novels about Simeon.
Hi, Jaden. Some people (Fairyhedgehog, for example) thought the sombrero story
was really sad. It took me the better part of 50 years to be able to laugh at it, so
I’m glad it entertained you. And I love Louise Penny and hope you like the
Simeons. I liked them better than I thought I would.
24.EverettK Says:
“…with all due respect, it doesn’t take much time to keep up with someone’s blog
if the guy only posts once a year. At least I give you a workout.”
Well, he USED to post much more frequently, but has lead a “storied life” for
the past decade. I’m talking about Daniel Keys Moran, who wrote 4 knock-yoursocks-off science fiction books back in the 80′s and early 90′s, then turned to
computer jobs to earn a living. I keep following him now and then, hoping to see
more from him. He has a novel he wrote WAY back that fits in with the others,
but’s never been released. He now has the rights back to it from Bantam, and
hopes to publish it some day. He’s that good that I’ve waited 15 years for just one
more book from him!
“By the way, I’m going to pull together the two things you wrote about Captcha
and send you some questions and then make that a blog topic if it’s okay by you.”
I’ll be happy to help out any time in any way I can.
“And I’m actually feeling a bit blodgety myself today.”
I know the feeling. But trust me, it’s FAR better than feeling bloodgety, and you
CERTAINLY don’t want to get lost on the guetrail (one of my reCaptchas this
time around).
25.Suzanna Says:
My goodness, this blog has blown UP! Thanks Ms. Santangelo for sparking this
lively discussion, and thank you Tim for the great job you’re doing here!
i see i need a p.s. to my comment the other day – and the p.s. is, you in NO way
overreacted in my warped sense of humour opinion – spot on i’d say.
but on the other hand we have a lot to thank ms. santangelo for as suzanna
mentioned – being the adults we all are we can now smile and say – wasn’t that
fun….
barbara
27.Sylvia Says:
If I didn’t “give myself an arbitrary word count and deadline,” I probably would
have spent most of that time sitting around and hoping that the roof would leak.
You owe me a mouthful of wine and a clean keyboard.
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 10: Creative Weight Loss
October 10th, 2010
About ten years ago, I let my weight get up to almost 300 pounds. (I would have used a photograph of
me from that time, but honesty goes only so far.)
Realizing that a family of four could have lived in my trousers, I lost 115 pounds and maintained my
weight at approximately 185 for about eight years. Then, 18 months ago, I quit smoking. (Yes, I
actually smoked.) And over the next 14-15 months, I gained almost 50 pounds.
So now I’m losing again — about 16 pounds so far, with about 35 to go.
All of this is to qualify, as they say in AA, that I have been fat and lost weight. During my periods of
expansion and contraction, I have embraced every conceivable diet plan, gimmick, visualization
technique, mantra, dodgy drug, and approach to exercise. Ultimately, I’ve created four approaches of
my own. These are all trademarked, but you’re free to try them.
These are, by the way, absolutely guaranteed to work.
So first I’ll state the basic principle of each and then I’ll illustrate it with an actual recipe.
ALTERNATIVE CONSUMPTION: Simply put, this involves eating the foods we love, but
differently. Sound complicated? Not at all. Love eggs? Try this tomorrow for breakfast.
Eggstravaganza
You’ll need: A mixing bowl and a whisk; plastic wrap; and a muffin tin.
Ingredients: Six egg; 1/2 cup heavy cream; 2 tbsp finely chopped chives; salt and pepper to taste.
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Break eggs into mixing bowl and add heavy cream. Sprinkle chives over
surface of egg mixture. Add salt and pepper and whisk eggs briskly; the secret to fluffy eggs is beating
air into the mixture. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and refrigerate. Put eggshells, broken side up,
into muffin tin, put tin on highest rack in oven, and reduce heat to 325. Leave it for eight minutes.
Remove tin from oven and allow shells to cool. Lick inside of shells.
The beauty of this recipe is that the eggs will remain fresh all day and the shells are still intact after
you’ve enjoyed them the first time, so you can repeat this recipe, without even having to mix and
scramble the eggs again, for both lunch and dinner.
DECONSTRUCTION: As we all know, in literary criticism, “deconstruction” is the term used to by
the French (naturally) critic Jacques Derrida to describe his generally incomprehensible approach to
textual analysis, which the American scholar J. Hillis Miller has thoughtfully explained as follows:
Deconstruction is not a dismantling of the structure of a text, but a demonstration that it has already
dismantled itself. Okay? Can we move on now? In dieting, that’s not what Deconstruction means.
This is what it means.
Which Sandwich?
You’ll need: A bunch of stuff you’ve already got, and if it’s not at hand you’re probably not in your
kitchen and should change rooms before proceeding with the recipe.
Ingredients: Two pieces of warm, oven-fresh sourdough bread; two tablespoons of high-fat
mayonnaise; 1/3 pound of chicken or whatever you like in the middle of a sandwich, so whenever I say
“chicken,” you just mentally replace it with whatever you like in the middle of a sandwich unless that’s
tongue, because if you eat tongue sandwiches you can’t use my recipe; two thin slices of ripe heirloom
tomato; mustard to taste; two peeled carrots.
Smear the mayonnaise thickly on both pieces of bread, on one side only because if you put it on both
sides the sandwich is likely to squirt out of your hands when you pick it up. Layer the slices of
chicken, or whatever it is other than tongue, so the edges protrude over the bread crust; this is an
important visual symbol representing “bounty” by demonstrating that there’s a bunch of real stuff in
this sandwich and it’s not some sickly little English tidbit with a transparent slice of cucumber hidden
in the middle; place tomato on top of chicken (or etc.) and add mustard to taste. Then put the top piece
of bread on, umm, on top and squeeze the sandwich gently to make the mayonnaise fluff out a little
around the edges the way that lethal near-cheese does in photographs of a Quarter Pounder with
Cheese. (McDonald’s understands visual symbols of plenty.) Voila! as Jacques Derrida would
undoubtedly say. Regardez le sandwich! Now carefully remove the bread, thickly coated with
mayonnaise, and say out loud, “Five hundred and ninety calories.” Drop bread into garbage disposal.
Remove chicken (if it’s tongue, skip this step because you have to eat it as a penalty for using it in the
first place and I don’t want to hear about it) and say, “Three hundred and eighty-eight calories, high in
fat,” and drop chicken into garbage disposal. Repeat with tomato, but don’t bother saying anything
because, hell, it’s only a tomato.
Turn on garbage disposal. Eat carrots.
SHAKE AND BAKE
Well, this one is a really innovative exercise/recipe combination, but I’ve gone on too long. I’ll do
Shake and Bake and my other surefire technique next time I haven’t got anything to write about.
This entry was posted on Sunday, October 10th, 2010 at 11:13 am and is filed under All Blogs. You can
your own site.
14 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 10: Creative Weight
Loss”
1. Jeri Says:
Thanks, Tim. I have now completely finished the daily project and am eating my
carrots.
I met a young man this morning. His name is Oliver and he is four years old
today.
Oliver informed me that because today is his birthday, he gets to stay in the
provincial museum for AS LONG AS HE WANTS TO, today.
There is hope for the planet. Love to Rose. Raspberry to Elena.
Jeri, in beautiful Victoria
2. Jaden Says:
I can’t wait to read your Shake ‘N’ Bake diet, Tim. But for now, I’d better go find
some carrots.
reCaptcha: Ovemen unlove
First of all, congrats on quitting smoking. Been there, done that. Been there, done
that. Been there… But at least the last time I was there, it finally worked and I
haven’t been a smoker for over twenty years.
But now, I’m in need of a diet. Earlier this year, I managed to break both legs (not
something I recommend) and was laid up for quite a bit. Thing is, people brought
me food and I thought it was rude not to eat it, so now I’m plumper than I was
before.
Your diet plan sounds like a real winner so I’m off to lick some eggshells because
I think Jeri ate all the carrots.
Jeri, remember, it’s only two carrots. And on a young man’s fourth birthday he
may do anything he wants. Rose says “Sawatdee, kha.”
Jaden, the Shake ‘N Bake diet is truly revolutionary. Some day soon, I’m sure.
Kari, I also quit and quit and quit. At one point I’d been tobacco-free for six or
seven years and I was in my apartment in New York about ten in the morning
when someone called to tell me my house in Los Angeles had burned to the
ground. I said, “I’ll call you back” and went down to the deli on 55th and bought a
pack of Marlboro Lights and smoked the whole pack by about 2 PM.
But this time it’s for quits. And if one ever needs an excuse for putting on some
weight, breaking both legs is really persuasive, even without the extra pathos of
having to eat people’s food so you don’t hurt their feelings.
5. EverettK Says:
Smoking: haven’t been there , never did that (well, okay, ONE PUFF when I was
11 years old… I was smart enough even then to know lungs were not designed to
contain anything you can see).
Weight loss: I was 145 lb. in high school, college, and 15-20 years after that, then
went to seed and put on 10 pounds. I’ve been looking for a weight-loss program
that could guarantee results, and I think I’ve found it. Fortunately, it’s not yours.
But thanks, anyway, as I and my wife haven’t laughed so much since our ticklefest last week…er… wait, I don’t think I really wanted to mention that in a public
forum…
6. Beth Says:
My brother’s two year-old grandson has already found a plan similar to your’s.
He requests a ham and cheese sandwich without the sandwich and chicken soup
without the soup. He also asks for cake without the cake; my husband prefers it
that way, too. Cake is only an excuse for frosting.
The baby has the advantage of being active so even some cake without the cake is
okay for him on occasion. He has the exercise part down perfectly. That’s the part
I can’t manage.
I’d rather read.
I have never smoked but I have heard nicotine is the most difficult thing to quit.
Everyday not smoking banks a few good breaths for tomorrow.
As you said, been there, done that. My good old family doctor told me for years
(back when even doctors smoked) that he’d tell me to quit but I’d gain weight. At
the time, he considered gaining weight a cardinal sin. After smoking for years I
did quit cold turkey because I got tired of hearing my husband nag — and yes, I
did gain weight. And I haven’t been able to lose it. Too old to run around the
block, and I like to cook. Can’t lose for winning. But good luck with your diets!
I need to lose about a stone (14lbs) but I’m not desperate enough to try your diets
yet!
At the moment I’m using the “only eat food” diet. So chocolate, biscuits, cakes
and pudding are out. Watch this space!
9. Jeri Says:
And sawatdee, kha to Rose. Thank you for the quick language lesson, and thanks
be to all gods for the internet, where I can look the phrase up without leaving my
desk chair.
Small world report: Yesterday I was scrounging around a grotty little bookstore in
James Bay village, on Vancouver Island, Canada and found a copy of The Man
With No Time, written by Timothy Hallinan, copyright 1993. It came home with
me. it’s on my TBR pile.
People who never smoked are so INFURIATING (he said to Everett) and it’s even
worse when they talk about it. And poor you, ten pounds. I’ve had fingers that
weight ten pounds. (Glad you thought it was funny — you and I seem to be alone
in that opinion. I laughed myself stupid writing the sandwich.)
Beth (another “never smoked”), first, your nephew is my kind of kid. Cake is,
after all, just a medium for frosting. And I’ve quit EVERYTHING except the
substances delivered by hypodermic (the only ones I never used), and cigarettes
are ten times harder than all the rest put together.
Pat, the first time I was fat it was gluttony spurred by dissatisfaction with my life.
The second time it was just calories instead of cigarettes. All day and all night.
You can get it off, of course — it’s just probably more trouble than it’s worth if
you’re not in heart-damage territory.
FHH, a stone is a really substantial-sounding measure of weight. My diets are for
the desperate, that’s for sure, and I haven’t even written up the other two. I
actually got so fat at one point that I had to wear a seat-belt extender whenever I
flew (and I was flying almost weekly) and there are few things more humiliating
than watching the stewardess come down the aisle with that thing and knowing
she’s stopping at your seat. Never again.
Jeri, what happened, before Google, to the estimated three billion queries Google
receives each day? I don’t recall living in a state of benighted ignorance, but I
must have. Sooo amazed there’s a copy of THE MAN WITH NO TIME anywhere
in the world, much less in Vancouver. I really liked it when I reworked it for
Kindle — hope you do, too.
Captcha is “ofooks came.” Everett????
11.EverettK Says:
Obviously, Tim, your “standard photo” that you post everywhere is not current,
based upon your moaning and groaning about how deep your feet sink into the
earth as you walk…
As for “ofooks came,” any normal, sane, well-educated person would understand
that ofooks is an African prince who was celebrating his marriage to his 14th
wife…
Either that or it’s a run-on of “of ooks.” A google search for ‘ooks’ finds that Ooks
pins have, for decades, been a popular way of hanging photographs of African
princes celebrating their marriages…
But, seriously, in this context it’s almost certain that ‘ofooks’ is a phonetic
transcription of what was shouted when the African prince was caught in bed with
the 23rd wife of his father. It’s well known that African princes have difficulty
with the ‘uh’ sound, which usually comes out as ‘oo’.
Now I have to go see what kind of ice cream I have in the freezer. It’s been almost
45 minutes since supper, and I’m STARVING!
No, TRULY seriously now, the reCaptcha page says, “Currently, we are helping to
digitize old editions of the New York Times and books from Google Books.”
Google has scanned in hundreds of thousands of books of all kinds, from fiction
to non-fiction, English and non-English. Statistically speaking, at least SOME of
those books had to have been written in Africa.
Oh, and along the line of your books, I picked up “Incinerator” and “The Man
With No Time” at the local used book store today. They also had “The Four Last
Things” but I left it for someone else. You said you didn’t remember liking
Incinerator much, so I figured this way I’d have a copy in case you decided not to
release it in an e-book version, and now I’ll have a copy of “The Man” to crosscheck with when proofreading the e-book version of it. (But I’ll still buy the ebook versions of those two when they are available. We have to keep you in
enough cash to buy food, as we don’t want you starving to death…)
12.Sylvia Says:
I think not-smoking is much easier when you come to the realisation that you
can’t be trusted with a cigarette. I *know* that if I have one, I’ll have a pack and
then I’ll be a smoker AND fat.
I gained weight when I quit and I need your shake and bake recipe ASAP please.
13.Jaden Says:
I smoked for one week in college, because I was in a play, and the director
thought my character should be a smoker. After that week, I said, “I can either talk
or smoke, but I can’t do both.”
She said, “I think your character would smoke.”
“I said, ‘Well I think my character is a control freak and would have quit.”
She sighed and said, “Well…if you think you can do it without smoking…”
Of course, no one in the audience ever said, “Gosh, what a great play…if only
there had been somebody smoking!”
I was the worst smoker in the world, though. I could never figure out how to
inhale–just sucked smoke into my mouth and blew it back out–and I could never
get the darn things put out, so they would sit in the ashtrays and smolder, while
the stage slowly filled with smoke.
Everett — I’d love to know what you think about “Incinerator.” I liked it when I
wrote it, but it got one of only two really bad reviews I’ve ever gotten and it
scarred me for life. I don’t know, maybe it’s fine.
Exactly right, Sylvia coughing and fat. Not a move in the right direction. I’ll get to
Shake and Bake as soon as I think it when I’m starting a blog. I actually do have a
system, but I don’t know what to pair it up with. Maybe it’ll be part of a sort of
catchall post.
Love the story, Jaden. How things have changed — imagine anyone insisting on
smoking in a college production these days? The director would have been tarred
in melted politically correctness and run out of town on a wave of righteousness.
I’m glad I don’t have to be around smokers any more, but I am heartily sick of a
society based on righteous disapproval. The classic facial expression of the 21st
century thus far is pursed lips.
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 11: AlieNation
October 11th, 2010
This is one of California’s remarkably unattractive gubernatorial candidates, Meg Whitman, making
her popular horror-movie claw gesture.
Such a choice we’ve got. Whitman’s opponent, former governor, Jerry Brown, is an old political
gasbag long lampooned by Garry Trudeau as “Governor Moonbeam.” Whitman is the Executive from
Hell who terrorized her workforce at eBay and refuses to take a coherent stand on illegal immigration,
which is a matter of some concern in this state. (She says one thing in English and another in Spanish.)
It is of no consequence whatsoever to me which one wins, but the illegal immigration issue has grown
surreal.
“Meg,” as her campaign insists on calling her, apparently employed a nanny for nine years who, it turns
out, is in the country illegally. Prodded, or perhaps bribed, into action by Brown’s state worker’s union
flunkies, a local attorney/alligator named Gloria Allred — the same Gloria Allred who introduced us to
all those tragic women who were so horrifically victimized by Tiger Woods — called a news
conference to say, in essence, shame on Meg Whitman. Bad Meg! Imagine. Employing an illegal for
nine years and then firing her when the truth about her status came out.
In her defense, Meg pointed out that the nanny came from an agency that was supposed to have
verified her legality and that she arrived in Meg’s home clutching a driver’s license and a social
security card, and that it was reasonable for Meg and her husband, Dr. Harsh (I’m not making this up
— but it’s easy to see why Meg kept her own last name. Harsh for Governor? Elect Harsh? California
Needs Harsh Leadership?) – where was I? Oh, it was reasonable for the Harshes to assume that the
nanny was all square with the INS.
But she wasn’t, and therefore we have here in California the idiotic situation that some exhausted
newspaper scribbler inevitably dubbed Nannygate.
Look, I don’t care if the Harshes provide electricity for their home by having two hundred illegals run
eight-hour shifts on giant hamster wheels. Here’s what I care about.
First, it’s perfectly okay with the Federal government if 300,000 undocumented aliens walk into the
country every year.
Second, the Federal government signals its approval of this mass migration by actively not enforcing a
whole bunch of laws passed by Congress, signed by presidents, and upheld in the courts. Okay, maybe
the laws were only passed to give Congress something to do and maybe the presidents who signed
them just wanted to try out a new pen, but they’re the law.
Third, in the face of all these unenforced laws, it’s a crime for Meg to have employed her illegal nanny.
It’s a crime for any individual or business to employ illegal workers even though their presence in
America is sanctioned by the Federal government’s refusal to enforce existing laws.
So, what that means, in a nutshell (and if ever a nutshell were called for, it”s called for here), it is up to
the individual to enforce the law of the land by not employing the people whom the government has
allowed to come here and stay here. It’s a crime if the individual gives employment to, and thereby put
food on the table of, an illegal immigrant.
Excuse me, but didn’t we used to look down on the taking of the law into one’s own hands? Wasn’t it
called vigilante behavior or something like that? I mean, didn’t it used to be, like, illegal?
It’s down to Meg to enforce the law? Down to me? You? We know it’s not down to the states, because
the Federal government is presently attempting to protect illegal immigrants by suing to prevent
Arizona from enacting as state laws exactly the same laws the Federal government passed but won’t
enforce. Is this confusing, or is it just me?
And, of course, the Federal government (currently headed by the most disappointing political figure of
my lifetime) doesn’t come out and say to Arizona, “We want you to leave these people alone,” because
it would be an unpopular stand. Most American citizens, including a very high percentage of Hispanics
who are here legally, disapprove of unregulated, wholesale illegal immigration. And, of course, there’s
an election coming up, and leadership and principle go out the window when votes are at stake.
Instead, the Feds sue Arizona on a constitutional point — essentially, “All immigration law belongs to
us, not to the states.” In other words, only the Federal government is allowed to pass dozens —
hundreds — of laws restricting illegal immigration and then decline to enforce them.
By the way, I’m not fulminating against illegal immigrants, nor is this a slap at Obama. The country’s
agricultural economy is predicated on inexpensive transient labor, and God knows Bush was as bad on
this issue as Obama. What upsets me is the total absence of logic and coherent policy that’s been
created by a bunch of vote-sucking professional politicians from both parties who have created a
situation in which there are whole books of legally enacted statutes that go unenforced – that, in fact,
everyone is forbidden to enforce. Except, apparently, Meg Whitman and small-business owners, who
are instructed not to pay these immigrants wages so they can feed their children.
The sight of the American government transferring its legal responsibilities to the shoulders of
individuals is not an encouraging one.
More about professional politicians — the bane of the 20th and 21st centuries — later.
your own site.
14 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 11: AlieNation”
1. EverettK Says:
I will, however, give you props and acknowledge the size of your cojones for
Ahh, well, Everett, I think about politics all the time, so I’m going to wind up
writing about them. I’m even thinking of forming a political non-party that would
have as its goal the elimination of professional politicians from American
government. I’m only about 25% kidding. Let’s see what the reception to this post
is.
And, yes, I want to explore doing a piece on Captcha – let me thing about it; I
might interview you about it.
Hey — The reCAPTCHA words today were Jermeg Whitbrown. Do you think
that’s significant?
4. Gary Says:
Fret and strive no more, my child. Fundamental cosmic laws ensure that we
always get the government we deserve.
5. David Jenkins Says:
I take some comfort in knowing that, no matter who wins the governorship, things
will remain just as f***ed up as they are now. If you have a car that’s a complete
lemon, you don’t just replace this part, that part… you get rid of it and start over.
That’s what it would take with our broken political system, but it’ll never happen.
Laren, I think it means that Whitman, who has put $114,000,000 into her
campaign, bought CAPTCHA. Plain as day. Subliminal messages all day long. If I
get “megalopolis,” I’ll know it’s true.
Gary, I guess that’s true. But what I want is bread and circuses, and what I get is
“American Idol” and war. And boneheaded vote whores selling the country to get
an edge in a primary. This country is in trouble, and I have no problem at all
pointing to the spineless hypocrites in charge of our decline.
7. EverettK Says:
Tim said, “I’m even thinking of forming a political non-party that would have as
its goal the elimination of professional politicians from American government.
I’m only about 25% kidding.”
I was just thinking today, as I was talking to my buddy on our way to play disc
golf, that the American experiment in Democracy has been quite wonderful, but
seems perched on the precipice of disaster, and that there needs to be some serious
house-cleaning (in terms of the basic constitutional structure, not just “throwing
the bums out” which a change in the basic structure would achieve as a sideeffect). I’m not sure what form would work better, and I fear that ANY form
Lawrence Lessig has been organizing a movement to try to “change congress”
(see http://action.change-congress.org/page/s/amendpetition), to come up with an
amendment to allow for the limitation of big-money in elections, so that the
Supreme Court can’t declare such laws as being First Amendment issues.
Interesting stuff, but I fear they’ll never get anywhere with it. Too much apathy
and too many people trying to hang on to what they’ve got. Big changes require
big desperation, and I don’t yet think the American people are nearly desperate
enough.
Okay, Tim, if this keeps up, I may go over to the dark side. reCaptcha this time,
looks SOMETHING like “nææ gondak.” Sigh.
David, there’s no question that both these candidates will ride California even
farther down the long slope. We’ve got some of the highest taxes in America and
we’re one of the most deeply indebted states; our school system is a parody of
what public education should be; the asshole Democrats in the Assembly have
gerrymanded the state so effectively that their perpetual re-election is assured (the
Republicans would have done the same thing); and we’ve locked ourselves,
thanks to Gray Davis, into a suicidal state workers’ pension system that will
bankrupt the state entirely unless something is done about it. Pant, pant. And I’m
just getting started. Neither of these earwigs will do anything about anything that
matters. I’m voting Libertarian, just as a gesture.
Everett, exactly right. When George Washington stepped down peaceably and was
replaced peaceably by John Adams, it was a first in the world. The country was
founded on a great ideal (which has been corrupted), and was given the gift of a
great reserve of untapped resources (which have been squandered), and offered its
citizens previously unparalleled freedoms (which have been leached away). I
don’t know about changing the constitution, which seems to me to be the one
thing we’ve got left– if those in power would observe it — but the lockstep
between big money and big government needs to be broken (thanks for nothing,
Barack) and the educational system needs to be revamped beginning (literally)
with Kindergarten and first grade because an increasingly stupid electorate will
elect increasingly venal politicians. And I’m serious about getting rid of
professional politicians. I’m going to found the Ixnaycrats non-party with the
slogan, “Just Say Ixnay” and the intention to vote out all incumbents, to vote in
those with the least political experience, and a bunch of other things. I’ll blog
about it later, along with my ideas for fixing the schools. (I’m serious about that.)
9. Eric Stone Says:
In reality our country thrives on the status quo with regard to illegal immigrants.
Our economy benefits from having a large pool of workers without legal
protections who we can exploit. Our politicians benefit from having them to kick
around during elections. Any number of political action and advocacy groups raise
millions of dollars to support their cause on behalf of or against illegal
immigrants. What no one ever owns up to is that we like the way things currently
stand and that as much as we rant and rave and carry on about wanting to change
it, we don’t really want it to change. At least most of us don’t. We’re as addicted
to illegal immigrants as any junkie is to their fix.
I agree that we need an inexpensive and essentially transient labor force, and
pretty much all that goes with that — and that’s always included occasional
exploitation. What I have trouble with is that the government refuses to enforce its
own laws. We have the largest unsecured border in the world and the highest rate
of illegal immigration in the world, and the government’s proposal to solve the
problem is amnesty, without making even a peremptory attempt to control the
border. So on the one hand, you’ve got people having their baggage searched and
their papers scrutinized as they land in America’s international airports, and in the
other hand, you’ve got 300,000 people a year just walking in. I know men who
have been married for years to women from the Philippines or Thailand who can’t
get their wives into America. In the meantime, absolutely ANYONE can walk in
from Mexico. Insane from a public policy perspective.
11.Kevin Says:
I am amazed that JB is the best the dems came up with. I have a bet with a coworker in NorCal (A dozen bagels) that Whitman will win.
I wouldn’t give a stale bagel, covered in tainted cream cheese, for either of them. I
don’t know who’ll win and really seriously couldn’t care less. They’re both train
wrecks waiting to happen.
Hard to believe this was once a great state.
13.Jaden Says:
Great post, Tim. And so timely.
I think our constitution is the best in the world, so I’m not throwing in my lot with
those who want to scrap it, but I do agree with those who want to say goodbye to
career politicians. Back in the early days of our republic, politicians served for
awhile and then went back home to work in their communities.
Too many politicians have forgotten what the words “to serve” mean.
Well, Jaden, I have the answer to all the nation’s problems. I just need a platform
from which to lecture and a fast-flowing stream donations coming in. And I could
do without the donations.
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 12: Art, Money, Books
October 12th, 2010
The more expensive an art form, the more conservative it is.
Of all live art forms, the most expensive is opera, the beached whale of the performing arts. Taking a
creative risk in opera means Wagner on roller skates or “La Boheme” set in the Tokyo underworld — in
other words, hanging ornamental parsley on the same old cuts of meat. Does that mean that artists —
composers and librettists — aren’t trying right now to turn opera upside down? Of course, they are.
It’s just highly unlikely they’ll ever get produced.
Film, the most expensive of all art forms, is more conservative than opera. Once every 4-5 years, an
accident occurs and a really different film (a) gets made, and (b) is a hit. And does the film industry
say, “Aha, we need more really different films”? No, they say, “We need to imitate the film that made
the money,” and they do until the imitations flop.
In art, the equation is simple. Money equals stodge. The more bucks at risk, the fewer chances taken.
One of the reasons the pop music industry has so often been creatively ahead of other popular art forms
is that it’s comparatively cheap to make a recording. And now that the major labels (big-money
institutions) are losing their stranglehold in favor of digital distribution, there’s a new universe for
independent artists such as Arcade Fire or The Libertines (when Pete Doherty was with them) or James
McMurtry or Bird and the Bee or Rilo Kiley or Mary Gautier or Tegan and Sara or, or, or.
Historically, the artists whose work provides the earliest signals of changing perspectives and attitudes
are painters. Pigments and canvas are relatively cheap, and a painting also costs little in terms of time;
a painter can turn out dozens of canvases in the period required to write a novel.
Which leads at last to the point I’m moving toward with such agonizing slowness. Up till now, it’s
been expensive to produce and sell books. There are dozens of reasons for this: design, printing, and
paper aren’t cheap; books are heavy and expensive to distribute; booksellers are allowed to return
unsold books; and 95% of all books published lose money. Some of the money-losers turn out, years
later, to have been more important than the big hits. So a high-priced best-seller subsidizes the
publication of a lot of other books, some of which may be prove to be much better than the best-seller.
But still, publishing is an expensive and therefore a relatively conservative enterprise. Publishers want
books with undeniable sales potential. They want certain genres. They don’t, by and large, want
experimental or revolutionary books. The costs of publishing make risk-taking potentially disastrous.
Now, though, all that has been turned on its head. The skyrocketing expansion of the e-book market
makes it possible for literally anyone to write and publish a book. Good, bad, awful, brilliant,
hackneyed, inspired, pornographic, prudish, right-wing, radical, subliterate, or pushing the envelope of
structure and language — anyone’s book can come into being and be offered to a global marketplace in
exchange for an investment of time and a very few dollars. Is most of what’s put out there going to be
great? No. Is most of it going to be junk? Sure, and I’ll probably write some of it.
To me, right now, it means I can write the book I want to write, PULPED, even though my agent, in
exquisitely polite euphemisms, has said that no publisher will buy it. The success of the Simeon Grist
books in e-book form got me thinking about Simeon again, and also about discontinued series. What
happens to series characters when the last unsold copy of the last book in the series is pulped and the
contract is not renewed? It’s the publishing equivalent of death — no more new adventures, no more
love affairs, no more getting injected with vodka by a Chinese gangster in a custard-yellow suit.
Nothing, nada. But is it really? I mean, fictional characters have their own energy (ask any writer
who’s been possessed by one). What actually becomes of them after they’re pulped?
Is there some kind of fictional afterlife? Is there a literary heaven for good characters and a somewhat
warmer destination for bad ones, or would that be unfair, since even the worst characters can claim that
they’re not really bad — it’s just (to paraphrase Jessica Rabbit) that they were written that way. So do
bad and good mingle there — wherever it is — the same way we do here? Are the afterlives segregated
by genre? Is the thriller afterlife cheaper and seedier than the Literary Fiction afterlife? If there’s an
afterworld for mystery and thriller characters, do tough, hard-drinking male private eyes hang out with
the heroines of quilting cozies?
Is there any way, up there, they can interact with what we so amusingly insist on calling “real life”?
Are they aware in any way when someone “down here” opens one of the increasingly rare copies of
their books? What happens when someone who’s reading, say, a Simeon Grist book, gets murdered?
Really murdered, not stabbed with a noun or verbed through a 9th-story window.
All this struck me as interesting and possibly even funny in places, but, I’m told, not enough people
would want to read it for any major publisher to be interested. But I know of several thousand people
who would want to read it, because they’re paying good money right now (although not much of it —
such a deal) to buy the Simeons as e-books. HarperCollins or Minotaur might not be interested in
“several thousand” readers, but I am.
So, from a purely selfish viewpoint, this global revolution in publishing — something I think could
change the world — means to me that I can write the book I want. It means that anybody can write the
book they want. Write it, put it out there, hope people like it. If they do, great. If they don’t — well,
the whole project hardly cost a thing. One global creative explosion, coming up.
your own site.
11 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 12: Art, Money, Books”
This is a bandwagon I’ve missed, unpubbed and unknown. But that doesn’t stop
me from spotting little glimmers of light up ahead that will benefit my meager
efforts as well.
About to begin acquiring your Simeon Grist serieson my Kindle, and already
antcipating PULPED.
Not to put too much of a flattering twist to things, but I’ve learned to trust you
through Poke Rafferty.
Pretty sure I’ll like Tim Hallinan, unplugged.
That puts a very positive spin on it; I just hope that the good stuff rises to the top.
I’ll be in the market for PULPED anyway!
Well, Peg, there’s no question that people who have established their names to
some degree have an initial advantage when they go to e-book, but it doesn’t
always mean much. Debbi Mack who never (so far as I know) published in paper,
was the number one Kindle mystery for quite a while, and even now she’s #4 in
hard-boiled and in the top 600 titles for Kindle overall. Selling a hell of a lot
better than I am.
We all know what floats, Fairyhedgehog. The big problem, I think, is going to be
a massive glut of titles. But I’m sure the people who love junk will find plenty of
books to satisfy them, and so will the people who like quality. We are going to
lose the filtration system of the professional publishers — screening out the really
hapless material — but we’ll also get books that simply didn’t fit within their
marketing parameters.
Still resisting an iPad & don’t want to be chained to my monitor to read e-books (I
do enough reading all day for clients). So on this issue (along with lots of others,
I’m sure) I’ll be a luddite.
Nonetheless, one day I’ll break down (budget willing) & get an e-reader &
discover what I’ve been missing.
Of course, when all the print books have disappeared and everything’s electronic,
you’ll have to come up with a new word for “pulped.”
Laren, LOL . . . assuming pulped somehow relates to publishing. But even then it
could be tres interesting.
I adore my Kindle 3. Am gifting my Kindle 2 to my husband. I still covet an iPad,
but no longer for reading. It doesn’t come close to the reading experience on a
Kindle (which is about as far away as reading on a computer screen as well . . . a
book). Amazon is quite good about returns, so when you’re ready to make a
move, check out a Kindle.
Speaking of what floats and what’s junk . . . when you think about it, there’s
plenty of junk in print. There will probably be more of it in electronic form, but it
won’t take me more than a sentence or two for me to recognize stinky stuff when I
see it.
6. Cliff Stanford Says:
Laren: I am reading the Simeon Grist series using Kindle for the iPhone (even
though Tim seems to think I’ll go blind).
If you have an iPhone or an Android phone, it’s a great way to read eBooks.
7. Gary Says:
What happens to fictional characters after they’re pulped? Ray Bradbury’s given
you the answer to that one. In “The Illustrated Man”, his 1951 collection of short
stories, there’s a story called “The Exiles.” Fictional characters from Earth
literature are living in exile on Mars, and as the last book about each character is
destroyed back on Earth that character vanishes – forever.
Everybody laughed at you, Tim, but you were right. Those garbled English words
in reCAPTCHA – they’re the last faint, distorted cries of help coming to us
through cyberspace, as each former fictional character shudders on the edge of
extinction.
As if any further proof were needed, my CAPTCHA for today is “trobits
curtains.” I rest my case.
And now that you know the truth, what are you going to do about it?
Laren, I’ve been resistant too — I just love books as physical objects. But you
could put every book in your house on a Kindle and take it with you, and it still
wouldn’t weigh a pound. The screen is great. It’ll even read to you, in kind of a
robotic voice, while you’re driving. Just amazing technology.
Peg, “pulped” is literally what happens to returned remaindered books: they’re fed
into the maw of a machine that pulps them, mixes them with other paper and some
starches, and turns out expensive recycled paper on the one hand, and newsprint
on the other. I guess it there’s ever an e-book term it’ll be “de-pixelated” or
something. As far as e-books go, I think we’ll all continue to be able to recognize
the right books for us, but there will soon be so many of them that some sort of
sifting mechanism — big review sites, maybe — are going to have to come into
play.
Cliff actually read one of the Simeons on his iPhone so long that the phone got too
hot to hold. An entirely new kind of compliment for a writer. And thanks for the
review, Cliff.
Gary, once again you’ve managed to suggest a graceful unified field theory to
explain seemingly disparate phenomena: Bradbury, out-of-print characters, and
reCAPTCHA. Actually, I will have to change something in PULPED as a result of
your note because I had a similar phenomenon with characters disappearing
forever. Well, if I’m going to be anticipated, it might as well be someone as good
as Ray Bradbury.
By the way, the offer Cliff took advantage of is open to all: Buy a Simeon in ebook form and review it on Amazon, send me the URL when the review appears,
and I’ll send you a free Simeon e-book.
9. EverettK Says:
There is no doubt in my mind that you’ve framed the issue perfectly, Tim.
Cheap=Flood, no two ways about it, and NoPublisher=GreatFreedom (both to
succeed in strange new ways, and to fail in very big flames).
New authors will have to give away for free their first effort or two, quite likely,
just to get heard above the noise. If they’re good enough, following books will sell
quite well. If they’re not, they’ll have to continue to give them away (if they want
anyone to read them).
Reviewers will take on a whole new importance (“Siskel and Ebert – At The
Novels” anyone?)
Fun times are a’comin’!!!
Thank you, Everett — it’s going to be very interesting to see what happens. This
is being spoken of mainly as a business revolution, threatening the very existence
of traditional publishing, but I think of it primarily as a creative revolution.
Capitalism at its most Darwinian,
11.Jaden Says:
Tim, you can count me as one of the readers for PULPED when it comes out.
Considering the number of aspiring writers out there, the book might have a
bigger audience than you imagine.
More proof for the reCaptcha theory: mine is fictifi moeurs.
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 13: Gardenias
October 13th, 2010
My mother was born into gentility, or at least the Los Angeles version of it. Fourth-generation (very
rare here in the 1940s), social register, coming-out party, Hancock Park mansion — the whole littleprincess-many-maids-engraved-invitation world. No one talked much about the fact that the guy who
made all the money, four generations back, did it as the city’s biggest plumber. ”Trade” was far behind
and forgotten by the time my mother was a troublesome teenager, tiptoeing off to the movie studios to
work as an extra and sneaking the first of what would eventually be hundreds of thousands of
cigarettes.
My grandparents were worried about her, and they were right to be. At the age of 21 or 22, spoiled,
imperious, and ridiculously beautiful, she married a penniless Irish adventurer from Chicago who had
already, in his middle twenties, run away to sea, lived in China, fled the Communists to the Philippines,
and had a vision — on the deck of a ship in the middle of the China Sea — that told him he should fly
airplanes. So he came home to risk his neck for a living and stole my mother from her parents on his
way to the airfield.
By the time I was nine or ten, my father was a successful aerospace executive and we were living in
Washington, D.C. where my mother adorned Republican circles and was frequently photographed with
people like Pat Nixon. As a slumming aristocrat, which was how she always saw herself, she decreed
that my brothers and I should learn proper social graces, and Miss Courtney entered our lives in a cloud
of Parfum Guerlain.
Miss Courtney undoubtedly had A Story but I never got to hear it. Born to a manor house somewhere
well south of the Mason-Dixon line, she had been shipwrecked on the rocks of financial necessity and
had, as my mother once put it when she didn’t know I was listening, come down in the world.
Still,with a combination of exquisite manners and the iron hand of a Prussian general, she was perfectly
qualified to run a Cotillion.
So: the Cotillion. I believe it ate up most of Saturday afternoon and evening. Twenty or thirty kids,
simmering with resentment at being all dressed up and in the company of the opposite sex on a
weekend day, ate a dainty meal with fearsome gentility — much dabbing of lips with linen napkins —
and then, as if that weren’t torment enough, adjourned to some big room with a wooden floor and a
record player, where we boys paired up with girls to learn dances that no one had done for 20 years.
And therein lay the rub. When I was nine, I was short. Most of the girls were tall. All of the girls wore
vaguely menacing corsages made of fresh gardenias, pinned above the left breast.
Gardenias are not a lightly scented flower. That blossom-bedecked spot above the left breast was just
about level with my nose. The music would start, we would do a simultaneous bow/curtsy, and I would
take the girl of the moment into my arms and spin away with her on a bright swirl of music. And into a
queasy, heavy, reeking cloud of gardenia fumes.
The room in which we danced was tightly closed against drafts. The heating system was fearsome.
Thirty sweating boys and girls supplied a level of humidity I wouldn’t experience again until I went to
Bangkok. And then there were the gardenias.
Generally speaking, I made it to the Fox Trot. At the opening bars of the Fox Trot, I wove my way
drunkenly between the couples, found my way into the boys’ room, and lost my elegant lunch. Then
I’d rinse out my mouth and go back for the next partner, the next dance, and the next nose-full of
gardenias. By the end of the Cotillion, I’d lost all of lunch and part of the dinner I hadn’t even eaten
yet. For years afterward, I could smell a single gardenia all the way across a football stadium.
That which does not kill us, however, makes us stronger. I survived. I even, after several decades, got
over my loathing for gardenias.
I just wish someone would ask me to Fox-Trot.
your own site.
11 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 13: Gardenias”
1. Eric Stone Says:
“That which does not kill us, however, makes us stronger.” See, maybe you are
Nietzsche. But then, I’ve often thought that sentiment doesn’t leave much room
for that which doesn’t kill us, maims us.
Oh well.
By the way – your ReCaptcha thing is a pain. More often than not I need to try it
several times before it works.
2. Suzanna Says:
Sorry about the traumatic Cotillion experience. Is there a pattern emerging here?
The Sombrero Dance and now this?
It’s a miracle you still want to Fox Trot but if you teach me a few steps I’ll take a
crack at it.
Thanks for another great little read.
Eric, Neitzsche R Us. That which does not kill us can also amuse us, bore us onto
a stupor, or teach us that it’s not a good idea to snatch food away from a pit bull.
We have a GREAT interview with a reCaptcha expert tomorrow — all about it.
But in the meantime, block and save your message before typing in the characters.
Also, if the characters are just totally out of the question, you can use the little
circle of arrows just to the right of the space where you’re supposed to type —
just click on it, and you’ll get something else.
Zanna, dance has been a recurrent nightmare in my life. In the original ending to
Cinderella, the wicked stepmother and the awful stepsisters were made to put on
red-hot iron boots and dance until they died. (This touch didn’t make it into the
Disney version.) That’s sort of the way I feel about dancing.
At one time I thought I loved the smell of gardenias. Until I bought a packet of
gardenia-scented bath powder while on a trip. First, I simply placed the shopping
bag with the powder on the back seat of my car. After driving awhile and being
overwhelmed with the aroma, I decided to open a suitcase and put it in there.
It was still overpowering.
Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore and wound up tossing it in a trash can at a rest
stop. I probably ruined the whole rest area for everyone for a day or so.
But at least I didn’t lose my lunch!
That which doesn’t kill us makes us wish it had. Some things are worse than
death; dancing and aromatic suffocation qualify.
6. EverettK Says:
Loved your memory of gardenias and the fox trot, Tim. Mine are happier. I love
the smell of gardenias. One sniff transports me back to my junior-senior prom at
Oklahoma A&M College. I never did learn to do a proper fox trot but my prom
date was a good sport about it.
Thanks for a good laugh. Your blog and the Chile miners rescue (now almost
over) are the best things that happened all day.
Pat Browning
8. Gary Says:
Tim, thank you for a fascinating glimpse into a past world. Considering what most
of endured during our upbringing, Nietzsche must be right about it making us
stronger. Or perhaps Heath Ledger was right, when he said it makes us stranger.
To have survived house servants – I had them too, in colonial Papua New Guinea
– and still be happy to do your own housework. To have survived Miss Courtney
and the Cotillion – in my case Miss Debbye and elocution lessons – and still be
able to relate to people. To have survived the foxtrot – in my case the quickstep
and the waltz as well – and still be able to look at girls without squirming.
Well, Kipling must have been right too: It’s made us men, my son!
Ahh, Kari, so nice to know that someone else is gardenia-intolerant. I think they
should be banned on airplanes, along with cigarettes and peanuts. As for losing
lunch, it wasn’t much of a lunch.
Phil, that’s very funny — that which doesn’t kill us makes it wish it had. I often
wished I were dead as the hour for Miss Courtney drew close.
Everett, dancing is not something I willingly do. See the original ending of
“Cinderella” in the answer to Suzanna, above. Sort of sums up how I feel about it.
Thanks, Pat. I was up until 1 AM watching live feed of the rescue without a
translation and, at times, crying like a baby. God bless them all, and I hope the
ones whose wives just learned they have mistresses, and whose mistresses just
learned they have wives, stay alive even longer above-ground than they did below.
The fox trot was simple if one was not doing it in a gelatinous cloud of gardenia
fumes. And I promise to send you any gardenias anyone sends me.
Gary, no one who spells Debbie as Debbye can be trusted about anything, and
she’s probably the reason you sound like you do. (Gary is an Aussie who sounds
like Mayfair.) And I didn’t actually see the girls. All I saw were the gardenias.
10.Jaden Says:
Learning the Fox Trot is one of my lesser goals in life(way below the rich-andfamous-or-at-least-marginally-successful-author goal and the Clint-Eastwoodjust-called-and-he-wants-to-make-your-movie fantasy). Sadly for my own
blogging efforts, I have no unfortunate dancing experiences. Even with my
current partners, my little dogs Luca and Willow, who are learning canine
freestyle moves with me.
Jaden, thanks for stopping in. The Fox Trot is so simple you can practically do it
with one foot, a real white people’s dance. And you may not have tragic dancing
stories to share with us. Who, for example is teaching whom the freestyle canine
moves? And is YouTube in your immediate future?
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 14: GOTCHA, reCaptcha!
October 14th, 2010
Many of you, like me, have wondered about those bizarro wordoids you have to enter before
WordPress will accept a comment. So today, we’re going to let someone else write most of the blog in
order to explain reCaptcha. I personally think it’s fascinating.
Everett Kaser has been kind enough to look at all the Simeon Grist books as they’re formatted as ebooks, and he’s pointed out literally thousands of mistakes that Kimberly Hitchens, my long-suffering
e-book producer/factotum, has then fixed. A graduate in Arts from Oregon State University, Everett
spent 20 years working at Hewlett Packard, where he rose from an entry-level production job to being a
software engineer in the R&D lab. After writing many trivial games for fun through the 1980s, he
started releasing shareware games for MS-DOS and later MS-Windows (and now Mac OS X). This
hobby grew sufficiently until, in 1997, he quit his day job and has been in game-programming heaven
ever since. He reads, he plays disc golf, and sometimes (he says) he even sleeps.
He’s also one of the few people in my world who understands reCaptcha. So he said I could ask him
some questions.
When I last went to post a response, I was commanded to key in ores; prepolty. I mean, what the
hell?
Ores; is perfectly reasonable, even in English. Think of an article about mining containing a compound
sentence: ”They were digging for rare earths and metal ores; little was found.” Modern newspapers
don’t use the semicolon nearly as much as papers did 100 years ago.
prepolty IS a strange one. But strange reCaptcha words can be one of several things.
– A word from a non-English language.
– The name of a person or place.
– The beginning of a hyphenated word (from the end of a line)
– The end of a hyphenated word (from the beginning of a line)
– A technical term.
– Slang. (Think how some of today’s slang will look to people in 100 years.)
– An acronym.
– An actual mistake in the original document.
– The middle of a word. (Nothing says the reCaptcha system has to use entire words. A word may get
broken down into several pieces because it’s best that reCaptcha terms be kept to a reasonable length.)
– Etc.
There are always two groups of characters. If you make a mistake, are you less likely to be
bounced if it’s in one group or the other?
This I don’t know for sure, but ONE of them has to be spelled right, and the other one doesn’t matter.
But you don’t know which is which, and if I were the one writing the reCaptcha code, I would
randomize which one you have to spell right. Otherwise it would eventually be known which was the
important one, and people would start screwing with the system, which would defeat the second
purpose of reCaptcha. The first purpose is to make sure it’s a human who is making the comment (or
whatever it is that reCaptcha is evaluating), not some spamming computer program. It is still VERY
difficult to program a computer to figure out what these mutated graphical words say, while a human
can do it quite easily. The original system was called a “Captcha” and had only one word or series of
characters you had to enter to prove you were human. ”reCaptcha” was invented to do that AND
something else, and that brings us to the next question.
Where do the character groups come from?
The second purpose of the reCaptcha system is to rapidly, cheaply, and easily digitize and proof-read
scanned-in documents. So the words in reCaptcha come from documents that have been scanned in.
They’re digitizing what? And how does this relate to the zillion other digitizing projects that are
underway?
Documents, like the entire run of The New York Times from the 1800s up to the present and the
hundreds of thousands of books that Google has scanned in from libraries. Scanners and OCR (Optical
Character Recognition) software can do a pretty good job of converting printed text to ASCII text
computer files, but they’re not perfect and many little errors creep into the text. So every time you
correctly enter a Captcha you’ve helped this process by proofreading ONE word, or part of a word,
from one of those documents. It sounds like a slow process until you realize that there are tens of
millions of those reCaptchas filled out every day on the Web. That’s a lot of documents every day, day
after day after day.
The way it works is that one of the words in the Captcha is already known to the server that provided
the graphic, and the other is being proofread. If you enter the known word correctly, then the system
assumes you entered the other one correctly, too. But errors could still creep in, because sometmes
you’d luck out and get the known word right while making a mistake on the unknown word. So the
system requires the unknown word to be typed in the same way by multiple people before it’s accepted
as the correctly proofread version of that word.
There are many digitization projects underway, but most of them have no good proofreading associated
with them. For example, Google has scanned in hundreds of thousands of books and converted them to
ASCII text files, but they also contained many OCR errors. Hiring people to proofread all those
volumes manually would be expensive and time-consuming.
How is reCaptcha capitalized? Or, to put it in language I actually understand, where do they get
their money?
Initially, they were probably being paid by The New York Times for digitizing and proofreading the
papers. But in September 2009 Google bought the reCaptcha company, and Google is now applying
the technology to improve the quality of the digitized books — making them more useful and more
easily searched — as well as continuing outside projects, such as The New York Times. Some folks may
think that Google is becoming the new Evil Empire, but having available high-quality scanned versions
of all those old books is really a good thing and is a huge step forward into our information future.
We’ve all at one time or another written a brilliant, eloquent, perfectly articulated and very long
comment, and then seen it flushed when we screwed up the reCaptcha. And ideas on how to
avoid that or recapture our lost brilliance?
The best thing to do is select all the text you entered and copy it to the clipboard before you enter and
submit your reCaptcha words. That way if something goes wrong and your submission fails, you can
easily paste your brilliant thoughts back into the edit field and try, try again. If you don’t know how to
select and choose “copy,” you should learn.
If you failed to have the forethought to select and copy your text, you may be able to recover it by
selecting the BACK button on your browser. Sometimes this will work and sometimes it won’t,
depending on your browser and the implementation of the specific web page you’re viewing.
Thank you, Everett. Just really fascinating information.
your own site.
14 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 14: GOTCHA,
reCaptcha!”
1. EverettK Says:
Sheesh! Who is this guy? I wish I knew HALF as much as he does! Err… umm…
no, wait a minute… where the hell’s that BACKSPACE key???
2. Sylvia Says:
Captcha: shilang thought
I think generally it’s pretty clear which one is the “needs confirmation” word. But
that of course requires a human to look at them which is the whole point, right?
Neat stuff.
BUT Tim, did you write your 300 words today? I don’t recall you negotiating
days off!
Sylvia — I KNEW someone was going to do this to me. Actually, I probably
didn’t — but I thought up the idea, wrote the questions, pestered Everett to answer
them and then, because of a bug in WordPress that wouldn’t let me block and
copy the interview, I had to key the whole thing in. So my conscience is clear.
Yeah, I have a question, too, about the word fragments like “shilang” that aren’t
recognizable as part of any word I know, but it’s a fascinating explanation for the
fact that reCaptcha is there in the first place.
Everett, you ARE one of the smartest people I know (virtually, anyway — and my
in-person friends aren’t all that bright, so . . .) And I loved the post and thank you
for all the effort.
4. Gary Says:
Thank goodness, Everett, you’ve solved the puzzle!
I had read that reCAPTCHA was being used to help proofread OCR, but what I
hadn’t understood was this: if the system needs us to tell it what these scanned
words are, then how will it know when we get it right? And you’ve answered that.
Thank you so much.
(Of course, we all know where these strange words REALLY come from. My
recent reCAPTCHA “trobits curtains” was obviously just a distorted broadcast of
“Oh, it’s curtains!” as another fictional character winked out of existence on
Mars.)
But if people won’t recognize the truth when they see it, what can we do?
5. Suzanna Says:
Hi, Tim and Everett
Always wondered how I could post something with reCaptcha when I could only
recognize fragments of some of the letters and just guessed. Didn’t realize the
system allows you to get by with only one correct word or um part of the text.
This is not really related expect that it has to do with computers. If anyone is
interested in computer programming or just really well written/directed/acted
movies take a look at “The Social Network,” a movie by Aaron Sorkin and David
Fincher about the founding of facebook. Really well done.
6. Sharai Says:
Well I just spent the last hour getting caught up! I had no idea this Stupid Project,
or stupid project was going to be so intense. Guess I’ll have to check in more
often, it’s too good to skim! Thank you for day 10, that was the real Tim Hallinan
at work, I felt a sisterhood with Sylvia because apparently your writing makes us
both leak.
Everett, thanks for the brains and the humor, I love it when you two team up!
Gary — Actually, trobits are small, nitrogen-breathing life forms from the planet
Xenu, launched into earth’s atmosphere by L. Ron Hubbard some 40 years ago.
Since earth is low on nitrogen in the atmosphere, Hubbard mutated them to
breathe hot air manufactured by politicians. Naturally, they’ve thrived. The
Church of Scientology was furious to see “trobits” in a Captcha and tried to buy
the company, but, as Everett explained, Google outbid them.
Suzanna, you know you can change the Captcha you get if it’s really illegible.
That’s what that little circle of arrows is for. And SOCIAL NETWORK is just
about the only move I want to see right now.
Sharai — these are not meant to be read in one setting – they’re far too rich and
full of, um, meaning. Glad you liked Day Ten. I laughed really loudly when I was
writing about the sandwich. And I agree — Everett nailed it.
reCaptcha: are crattate. Everett — crattate?
8. EverettK Says:
crattate obviously falls into the acronym category: Crap Recaptcha Always Tries
To Assign To Everyone.
See: EVERYTHING can be explained. (Don’t get me started on the JFK
assassination…)
9. Gary Says:
But that’s just it: JFK was never assassinated. His body double was saluted and
buried, and the real JFK lives and breathes to this day on the grassy knoll.
10.EverettK Says:
re: CRATTATE
Actually, I think I’ve found the real reason why we’re getting all of these bizarre
‘words’ in reCaptchas. If you do a Google search on CRATTATE, it brings up a
list of possibilities, and the second one (for me) is a pointer to a book written in
Latin and printed in VERY old germanic script:
Tractatus de questionibus in quo materie maleficorum pertractantur
By Ippolito Marsigli
When you follow the link, it brings up a page of that book and highlights a word
that, to me, looks like: ciuitate. By the time that got run through their reCaptcha
distortion code, it came out looking to Tim like crattate.
The reCaptcha process is GREAT for digitizing and proofreading documents that
are written in the native language of the user, as you then ‘see’ the right word. But
when you don’t KNOW the original language, you’re purely guessing at each
individual letter, and then errors will creep in. And very likely, several people who
speak the same language (none of whom speak the original language) will
proofread the word in the same way, thus ‘verifying’ the proofread of it
incorrectly.
11.EverettK Says:
.
After a word has been “reCaptcha’d” by multiple people, if there is a
disagreement in their transcriptions, then that word is highlighted in the original
document, and a human working for the reCaptcha project looks at the original
document to arrive at the ‘official’ transcription of that word. In this way, the
human proofreader only has to examine maybe 1% of the words in a book rather
than proofreading the whole thing.
Aha. In fact, multiple ahas. This is one of those “aha” moments. I have to say,
with no offense to Everett, that only a first-class obsessive would have come up
with that explanation for “crattate,” which is actually an obscure sexual perversion
involving white lace gloves and a stuffed panda. (Not obscure to those who
practice it, obviously; to them, it’s all-involving.)
Gary, when you see JFK next, please give him my regards. Is Bobby okay, too?
And GREAT acronym, Everett.
reCaptcha (I love it) noodisma Herald
13.Jaden Says:
I must be missing something, because I’m still confused. How does it help
profread anything to have me COPY funny-looking letters I see on the screen. I
will copy them as I see them, even if they’re incorrect–and have.
Jaden, would you like Everett’s e-mail address? There are still lots of things I
don’t understand, either, I mean, in addition to the human condition. As I get older
I understand less and less. I’ve read a couple of articles on reCaptcha, and some of
it remains impenetrable.
The Stupid 365 Project: Week Three
October 15th, 2010
This baby is two weeks old. Together, we’ve covered one-twentysixth of the year. Go ahead,
congratulate each other. Pet the dog. Thanks again to Everett for stepping up to reCaptcha yesterday. I
know, some of you, Sylvia, felt like it was a cheat. But it fascinated me, and it would have been really
dishonest to pretend that I understood all that stuff.
When I started this, I hoped it would invigorate my writing. I was in a negative space, feeling
PULPED go stale on me, not very inspired about anything. Feeling, in fact, like maybe writing was
kind of over for me. I go through this on every book and I fall for it every time, no matter how many
books I’ve written. I was getting to the keyboard later and later, which is a game I play to avoid
writing at all. I write to music and coffee. I don’t drink coffee after six PM. If I haven’t started writing
until, say, 5:20, there’s not much point in even sitting down. I can do it tomorrow. At Tara. And I
never get to Tara.
So I asked myself how to force myself to the keyboard earlier, and instantly the idea of a blog each day
for a year entered the room, simpered, and curtsied. I wrote the first blog in about nine minutes,
slapped it up online, and went out and promoted the project so I couldn’t change my mind an hour later.
And boy has it worked. Here’s my writing day yesterday:
Up at eight, finished Everett’s interview, put it online.
Wrote 1500 words of PULPED. The young female character who had me stymied has suddenly grown
unpredictable, which means the magic is working. Since she’s the primary character for a good chunk
of the book while Simeon is sidelined in Series Limbo, it’s important that she’s able to surprise me.
Went and ran for one hour and twenty minutes — maybe five miles. (I’m slow but I keep going.)
Came back and revised (lightly) four chapters of CRASHED, the first Junior Bender book, which will
come out in November on Amazon and iBooks and wherever superior pixel-lit is sold.
Had an online conference with the person who’s designing the CRASHED cover.
Took a break and did things like shower and eat.
Wrote 1200 words of SPIRIT HOUSE, the ghost story I’ll put up in three installments, concluding on
Halloween.
Did a little more work, mostly tidying things up, on CRASHED.
Compare that with my average day three weeks ago, when I got out of bed as late as possible, ran,
drank coffee, walked, drank coffee, read the new William Gibson novel (my downstairs book), drank
coffee, cleaned house, washed towels, drank coffee, read a biography of Mabel Normand (upstairs
book), showered, shaved, made coffee, turned on the computer about 4:30, played Mahjong Titans,
looked at the Huffington Post to get scurrilous, wrote 400 words of pure drivel, and went back to the
William Gibson novel. As usual, when I can’t write for beans, the book I’m reading turns out to be
brilliant.
Also pleased to say I’ve lost 16 pounds in eight weeks, so I’ve only got 44 to go. Shake and Bake diet
coming up.
I’m falling in love with the female lead in PULPED. And she was totally inert ten days ago.
And this astonishing reaction to the Poke series from novelist Peg Brantley popped up as an alert
yesterday, too: http://suspensenovelist.blogspot.com/2010/10/timothy-hallinans-poke-raffertyseries.html
How about that?
This entry was posted on Friday, October 15th, 2010 at 7:44 am and is filed under All Blogs. You can
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12 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project: Week Three”
Wow, Tim thanks for the link.
But even more important, can I just say I love your angst? Uncertainty is
something I drag around with me every day, so it’s especially wonderful to see it
happens to the Big Guys too.
And totally stoked to hear you seem to have blown right through it. For now.
2. EverettK Says:
If you can accomplish this much with only TWO weeks of ‘medicine’, think what
literary mountains you’ll be leaping over after FIFTY-two weeks!!!
Game on! uh… Book on!
I’m glad your blogging has had the desired effect. I’m certainly enjoying reading
it.
I’m definitely putting the Queen of Patpong on my Christmas wishlist! There’s no
way I’m not reading it. So far Breathing Water is my favourite but they’re all
good.
I’ve read all of William Gibson’s books (well, I read all of Tim’s books, too, so
that makes it okay). I think I understand about 40% of what Gibson is talking
about. I figure this is probably impressive.
As for yesterday’s post about reCaptcha, if we collect all the reCaptcha words
ever posted I presume we would have the entire works of Shakespeare — or
maybe William Gibson.
5. Suzanna Says:
Tim, I am so jealous of how much weight you’ve lost in 8 weeks. I’ve only lost
three in about a month and I eat like a bird, which is to say mostly stuff that’s
green.
So happy that your writing is buzzing along.
Thanks for the tip about refreshing the reCaptcha.
Anyone here have any tips for a mom (that’d be me) who just learned that her just
turned 18 year old daughter is planning a bus trip from Minneapolis to Chicago?
She already bought her tickets! I’ve combed the internet and sent her a lengthy
dos and don’ts list. I pray she at least reads the darn thing before she deletes it!
Should I spring for an airline ticket? Help ;-\
Peg — Always happy to share my angst. It’s on-again, off-again, but when it’s on
it’s totally persuasive. This young woman, who has to shoulder about half of
PULPED, was a mannequin. I was reaching into the story and moving her around
by hand. And I thought maybe I wouldn’t be able to write the book. But then, in a
scene where she’s being interviewed by a cop who has his own agenda, I thought
it would be interesting to look at her purely from outside (up until now she’d been
written in the kind of 3rd person — let’s call it “insight third” — in which we get
glimpses of what she’s feeling and thinking). When I started writing her purely
from his eyes, I saw the things she was doing to cover up her uncertainty and her
strength and her emotional insight (she plays him like a harmonica), and all of a
sudden, there she was. I’m half in love with her now, and I think Simeon will fall
in love with her, too, to the absolute extent that a fictional character can love a
real-life human being. Well, of course, she’s actually fictional, too, so . . . No.
That way madness lies.
Everett — It’s been pretty startling, I have to say. And, of course, it’s a circular
process — the more and the better I write, the better I feel about writing and,
therefore, the better I write. Until the day I don’t.
Fairyhedgehog, thanks for putting me on your Christmas list. If I were to create a
graph of people’s favorites, compiled from all the letters to my site, QUEEN
would rank highest, but not by much, with BREATHING WATER and NAIL sort
of tied for second and THE FOURTH WATCHER in third, which is funny
because that’s the one people keep wanting to make a movie of. It is the most
straight-ahead thriller in the bunch, though. I felt something like that was needed
after the darnkess of NAIL.
Laren, the new Gibson, ZERO HISTORY, is his funniest book and just totally
compelling. It’s making me want to stop, actually, and go back and read
PATTERN RECOGNITION and SPOOK COUNTRY all over again since some
characters move through all three books. I might just do that.
Thanks for tuning in, everybody.
7. Gary Says:
Now, at last, I totally get the disapproval reaction from Day 9.
What’s the point of all this blogging anyway, when all it does is get fascinating
inputs from people like Everett, completely reinvigorate your current writing, and
link us to awesome book reviews from Peg Brantley.
Oh, so well done, Tim! Don’t know where you got the inspiration to start all this –
probably from some character on Mars – but it was a really, really, really great
idea.
Suzanna, people survive riding the bus all the time. I think the big question is
where in Chicago she’ll get off. She needs to know she’s not going to be all alone
in a dangerous neighborhood. But she’s pretty smart — I’d imagine she’s working
it out. As far as the weight’s concerned, I’m on the diet I described and running 6
days a week, anywhere from 3 to almost 5 miles, and doing some abdominal stuff
in the hope of seeing my feet again soon. I miss my feet.
Gary, this really has worked better than I ever thought it would. The funny thing
was that the MOMENT I had the idea, I committed to it — literally not one
second of reflection. And it’s absolutely opened up my writing.
9. Sylvia Says:
That’s awesome! And I love Gary’s summary.
10.Suzanna Says:
Hi, Tim
Thanks so much for the input on the bus ride. I’m just glad she told me well
enough in advance so we can help her stay safe and have a great visit.
Bravo on your running!!! I think your running schedule has me beat by double.
That would be a great thing for me to try next.
11.Jaden Says:
Tim, you’re an inspiration. As Peg says, it’s reassuring to know that even someone
with your incredible talent has these angsty feelings about writing. It means
there’s hope for the rest of us!
Also, kudos on the weight loss. That’s something I struggle with every day of my
life.
Thanks, Jaden. Writing, for me, is acres of angst broken by the occasional
meadow. But I’d rather do it than anything else in the world. As far as weight is
concerned, it’s a struggle for everyone except the people who never have to think
about it, and they’ve all got other problems.
I hope.
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 15: The 10,000-Hour Rule
October 16th, 2010
Malcolm Gladwell, in his somewhat interesting new book Outliers (interesting enough for me to read
some but not all of it) talks about the magical threshold of 10,000 hours that appears to be the necessary
cost of genuine mastery. Ten thousand hours, he says, is the amount of practice required before an
individual can aspire to master much of anything. This idea is liberally illustrated with a broad
spectrum of examples, including hockey and soccer players, classical musicians, mathematical and
computer programming prodigies, even the Beatles.
And that’s ten thousand hours of concentrated, focused doing whatever it is. One thousand, two
hundred fifty eight-hour days of balls-to-the-wall, pedal-to-the-metal whatever it izzing. Almost four
years’ worth with no weekends free.
To be candid, it actually doesn’t seem like enough. On the other hand, all the 10,000 hours really does
is qualify you for possible “master” rating which, along with two dollars, will get you a cup of
something really basic in a Starbucks. It’s still not the thing that makes the difference between Yo-Yo
Ma and the third cello in the Seattle Philharmonic. Or between Kobe Bryant and a great pick-up player
on the outdoor courts of New York City. Between Mozart and Salieri.
By the way, Gladwell goes out of his way to point out that Mozart, usually considered the greatest
prodigy in musical history, got in the requisite 10,000 hours before he wrote anything really
worthwhile. That stuff he cranked out when he was four and five was, well, pedestrian.
My problem with Outliers is precisely that. It skips the miracles. In attempting to explain the
existence of the Yo-Yo Mas, John Lennons, and Steve Jobs of the world, Gladwell looks to nurture,
coincidence, good fortune, and practice. (“How do you get to Carnegie Hall? Practice, practice,
practice.”) The book seems to me to be consistent with a general trend to diminish really startling
individual achievement, to say it would never have been possible without all these invisible shoulders
for the achiever to stand on. And I’m sure that’s accurate, to a point. It would do no one any good to
be a piano prodigy in a society that hadn’t invented the piano. But to explain the accomplishment of a
Rachmaninoff, an Isaac Stern, or a Rudolf Serkin by saying, well, they were fortunate that they had
access to good musical instruments at an early age and that their parents supported their study — it’s
true, of course, but it doesn’t explain the only thing that really matters. Everybody’s born with ten
fingers. All pianos come off the assembly line with 88 keys. All the sheet music for the “Kreutzer
Sonata” is identical. Take 500 pianists and violinists who have put in their 10,000 hours, and a very
small number of them will turn the fingers, the keys, and the notes, into magic, a distillation in sound of
the highest and the most beautiful aspects of the human spirit. The rest of them will make pretty music.
There’s something about our age that’s uncomfortable with the idea of individual genius. Even our
school system, which should be the incubator for genius, has for decades taught to the slower pupils in
the class, valiantly attempting the impossible — to leave, as Bush the Lesser said, no child behind. But
what about the kids at the other end of the spectrum? The kids whom, arguably, we need the most?
They’ve been bored into a state resembling plant life. The minds that should have been devouring raw
material in order to combine it in some startling new way have instead been diverted for stimulation to
games and increasingly stupid media.
A society that sees genius as a sort of populist collaboration, a bunch of anonymous hands
manipulating a single puppet, won’t give succor to its budding geniuses. A society that doesn’t provide
light and heat for its geniuses isn’t going to have any. Hi, future.
As a somewhat creative person, I can measure the difference between what I — even with my ten
thousand hours and plenty of good luck — am capable of producing, versus what’s produced by
someone like David Mitchell or William Boyd or even Salman Rushdie, whose work I don’t even like.
And it’s the difference between a good, sturdy flashlight and the northern lights. There’s magic at work
in certain intellects. There’s no equality about it. And we deny that at our peril.
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10 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 15: The 10,000-Hour
Rule”
1. Gary Says:
But could “mastery” just mean that you’ll become competent at whatever skill
you’re trying to master? That you can play the right notes at the right times, or
sing on key with the proper phrasing and breath control, or write grammatical
prose with a reasonable rhythm to it.
It doesn’t have to mean that you’ll be a genius. Because as you’ve rightly said,
they’re born, not made.
2. EverettK Says:
Too true. I was thinking of Bush’s “No child left behind” about a paragraph before
you mentioned it. My wife is a teacher, a good fried was a school principle, one of
his daughter’s is a teacher… I’ve had a LOT of exposure to the internal workings
of modern American school rooms, and “it ain’t pretty.” All too often it comes
down to “lowest common denominator” and baby-sitting.
I think much of our culture’s attitude springs from the early founding days, and in
particular from the phrase, “…all men are created equal.” Which is fine and
dandy, except for two things: all people (nod to modern politically correct
attitudes) are NOT created equal, and ‘created’ (past tense) has been perverted
into ‘are’ (present tense) or “should be” (ideally). The anti-aristrocratic sneer:
“You ain’t no better than me!”
Some folks, naturally, DO win the lotto, and are born with SO much skill and
talent at [name your favorite human endeavor] that there’s just no hope of mere
mortals competing. Yes, to paraphrase Edison, it’s mostly perspiration with a little
inspiration, but some folks can just naturally do a whole lot more inspiring with
[hmm.. reCaptcha failed. Then trying to resubmit, it said it had already been
submitted. Sigh. Well, I'll add this note to change the text, and submit again. If
you get this twice, please delete this second one.]
3. Suzanna Says:
Of course genius or being gifted without doing the required practice is just genius
in idle but genius nonetheless is a special ingredient that no matter how hard you
try you cannot duplicate.
For example, a great vocalist has probably practiced the necessary hours to perfect
their instrument but the instrument they are given had a lot more to do with their
particular genetics than how many voice lessons and scales they’ve performed. If
the miracle of being born healthy and having all the necessary physical qualities
of producing a beautiful vocal sound isn’t a miracle I don’t know that I understand
what a miracle is.
Gary — Exactly. Suzanna — Exactly. Everett — Exactly, and I think it’s hilarious
that reCaptcha failed on you. There was a period of time when I had to close down
comments completely because it failed on everyone, every single time.
More sweat, more experience, more practice (until the artist lets it degenerate into
routine) is good for everyone. It makes us more competent and more confident,
which means we take more chances — pretty much the only way to grow. But
real, burning talent is, I think, the sole possession of the people who have it. The
rest of us can appreciate it but not claim credit for it in any way — we didn’t
facilitate it, make it possible, ease its way. We’re just lucky it exists.
I was reminded of a book I purchased, but haven’t read all the way through. (I
have a lousy track record with non-fiction). TALENT IS OVERRATED by Geoff
Colvin talks about “deliberate practice” separating peope who are great at
something from the rest of us.
I’m guessing that “deliberate practice” is akin to 10,000 hours. But to equate that
either will create genius is absurd.
One day, I hope I might be close to great. Genius? The idea (and the
responsibility) makes my stomach hurt.
That’s precisely what I’m talking about, Peg — an almost Orwellian need (in the
sense of Orwell’s villains, not Orwell himself) to downplay individual talent and
inspiration in favor of grunt mechanics like practice.
Do I think talent can find its way out without practice? Only in very rare
instances. Do I think people can practice forever without developing talent. Yes,
although they can develop a kind of virtuosity that a lot of people will mistake for
talent. It’s the difference between Bach and Telemann.
7. Larissa Says:
Gladwell has some interesting points but I do tend to agree with all of you that
there is some sort of mojo at work in true geniuses. However, it’s sort of a deadend argument because we can’t really prove that Rachmaninoff is higher up on the
intellectual food chain than so and so-maybe with brain scans or something to see
how their different neurons fire so there has to be something else…something not
tangible. I had a friend who was surrounded by music and opportunities her whole
life-she’s a decent singer in her adult life but there’s something missing. It could
be the way she was brought up-tumultuous at best-or it could be that her vocal
chord genes just aren’t as profound as Etta James.
I’m a mildly creative person-I’d like to see what would happen if I put 10,000
hours into anything. Not that I think I can reach “genius” status but the real-life
comparison would be cool.
Now if I can just be bothered to focus long enough to get there…hm.
Riss, I think that talent, as opposed to virtuosity, is immediately apparent and
impossible to pin down. I believe you could be a very good writer, and that’s not a
term I sling around. Would you be a great writer? I have no idea. You’d have to
put in the 10,000 hours and fail a few times, then recover from the setback and try
to do better. And even then, you might stall out at “very good.” But very good
writers have written some very good books and given a lot of pleasure to people.
9. Larissa Says:
Well Thank You Tim. (c: And for some reason in my previous post all of my
formatting was eaten…so I apologize for the very long run-on sentence hehe. (c:
Anyway-I think I’d be ok stalling out at “very good”. One thing that seems to be
true of “geniuses”-they continue to return to their medium of choice again and
again-as a coping mechanism, as a way to communicate, celebrate, etc.
I’m wondering if the “genius” by societal standards isn’t really just someone who
found the only voice they really know how to use.
I dunno-that might be a little hokey and it’s a blatant blanket statement (say that
three times fast) but maybe.
Hey, Riss, I like that idea. I’ll probably steal — I mean, use — it in the future.
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 16: Junkie
October 17th, 2010
Addictive personalities tend to go overboard. After a lifetime of addiction to various substances and
behavior patterns, I now have more than 20 years of freedom from drink, drugs, compulsive behavior
— well, most compulsive behavior — and it’s been two-and-a-half years since my last cigarette. But
that doesn’t mean I’m no longer addictive.
See the bookshelf? That’s where I put the books I haven’t read yet. And the picture doesn’t show you,
just to the right, a stack of books lying on their sides that, if they were turned horizontal, would just
about fit onto one of those shelves. With maybe a dozen books left over. If the shelves were empty.
Which they’re not. And it doesn’t show you the books downstairs in the living room, either.
Or the ones on their way from Amazon.
So, okay, I’m the teensiest bit addictive about books. I don’t think about money very much, but I feel
rich when I have lots of unread books, lots of firewood, and lots and lots of unused frequent-flyer
miles. (Current balance: 364,290 miles.) These things soothe me.
The most awkward of my socially acceptable addictions used to be music. I need music all the time. I
write to it, I fly to it, I live to it. When planning a long-term trip, say to Bangkok, 25 years ago, I filled
an entire carry-on with cassette tapes, including two-hour mixes I made myself. Then, when portable
CD players got cheap, I had a piece of luggage hand-made for me out of black leather — almost three
feet long, the diameter of a CD plus breathing room, with little vertical dividers every ten CDs or so.
And a zippered compartment at each end for a player and a spare player in case I should find myself in
some country — North Korea, maybe — where CD players were unavailable. Inside, just below the
zippers were cartridge loops that held 20 AA batteries, just in case — oh, well, you know. Full, the
thing weighed maybe 30 pounds and I got on plane after plane with it slung over my shoulder despite
the fact that no overhead compartment ever designed would accommodate it. But this was back in the
day when airlines actually wanted your business, and being a flight attendant wasn’t a second career for
people who had burned out at being a dominatrix.
And then, bingo. The iPod! And I now carry almost 8,000 songs in an object the size of a pack of
Luckies. Along with four sets of ear buds, two sets of headphones, and a backup power unit that
contains four AA batteries and will run the iPod for 12 hours in case it should run out of juice over
Guam. And a Zip-Loc bag full of AA batteries in case the landing gear gets stuck and the plane has to
circle the world until it runs out of gas. And a complete iTunes backup on a 32-gig flash camera card
in case I lose the iPod and also my laptop, which has the master iTunes file.
I’m free as a bird. If you don’t count the suitcase full of books.
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22 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 16: Junkie”
I always wondered why nature didn’t come up a soundtrack. Beaches do have the
sound of waves and gulls, but the right music could really add to that. Of course,
not everyone on the beach would be likely to agree, as I’m sure many of us have
already found out when being forced to hear someone else’s “alleged” musical
choice.
But other than needing constant music or needing to be surrounded by reading
material, I couldn’t identify at all with today’s blog.
One of God’s uncharacteristic slips, Kari, although, like you, I prefer to be in
charge. Right now it’s “The Suburbs” by Arcade Fire or a completely random
playlist from my music library — scroll down the page without reading and take
whatever title you land on. Random #1, which I’m listening to when I’m not
listening to “The Suburbs,” has 470 songs on it.
3. Lil Gluckstern Says:
I now am less embarrassed by my TBR bookcase. It has gotten so bad my local
bookseller tells me to go home before I add one more to the pile. I love your
writings.
4. Suzanna Says:
Tim, if God put you in charge of the soundtrack of life I think I would be very
happy with that arrangement.
Your book addiction provides me with a healthy mental list of books I should
read.
My luck was with me today when I found a gently used copy of the 1st Movement
of A dance to the music of time at our local book shop. The only one in the series
that they had on the shelf. Yay!
I quit smoking. Don’t ask me to quit drinking . . . red wine, at least. In fact, I had a
nice Chilean the other day in celebration of the rescue of the miners.
In the old days, when my addiction to books was a little more under control, if I
got down to two or three unread, it became hard to breathe. When I walked into
the local bookstore, they immediately dug out their largest shopping bag in
preparation for my purchases. Today, my TBR pile is also in a bookcase (although
not as large as yours), with the more exciting ones on my nightstand. Don’t kid
yourself, a Kindle (or other e-reader) will not eliminate the piles of books. Which
is a good thing, in my estimation.
I got lucky with the drug thing. Even though I experimented, I never really got
hooked on anything.
Now, it’s a battle against weight. And, btw, congratulations on your weight loss.
Off to enjoy a glass of wine and cheer the Broncos on . . . I hope to a victory.
6. Beth Says:
I am ruled by “what if”. It started in February, 1978 when the northeast was hit by
a blizzard that carried all the moisture of a hurricane that occurred at astronomical
high tide.
My husband didn’t get home for five days. It was me and my 8 month-old
daughter and two dogs. My husband accused me of over buying when I heard
about the storm but what if people couldn’t get home and cars were abandoned on
the highway and for a week after the storm only emergency vehicles were allowed
on the roads? All of the above happened and from that point on, what is the basis
of all my planning.
What if I didn’t have enough to read? Besides the books we own I have 67
checked out from the library. I have master lists of books in three places. I never
leave the house without two books in my bag and three in the car.
Is it about addictive personalities or is it about control? I have a family history of
people ruled by addiction so I made a decision when I was young that I wasn’t
going to take a chance. Maybe the need to be prepared to the nth degree grows out
of not being in control when young.
7. Gary Says:
I can’t relate. I’m not addictive at all.
Just to check, I photographed my own bookcase and loaded the photo onto my
laptop and enlarged it so that I could read all the titles. But some of them were a
little hard to read because they were dark print on black spines, so I opened the
photo in PhotoShop and adjusted color and contrast until I could read them. Then
I checked on the internet to see if there was a better way of doing that, and there
were several interesting ways and I spent a few hours researching and testing
those. And then it seemed too simple to just type a list of book titles, so I looked at
ways of using OCR for titles at different angles and different levels of contrast
and the results were OK but I’m sure there have to be better ways of doing that
and if I just did a little more research…
Sorry, what were we talking about? No, I’m not addictive at all.
8. EverettK Says:
Tim says, “After a lifetime of addiction to various substances and behavior
patterns…I’m free as a bird. If you don’t count the suitcase full of books.”
Well… that and your new addiction to blogging.
Gary, knowing you as I do, I know you’re the farthest thing from addictive.
Compulsive, perhaps, even at times one who will pick a nit beyond its picking
season, but addictive, never. Photographing one’s bookcase and then putting the
photo through various refinements in order to read titles that one could read
simply by walking over to the case — perfectly normal behavior.
10.Gary Says:
I’m not too addicted to recognize mockery when I read it.
Well, listen, buddy – if you think I’VE got problems, how about this poor pathetic
creature:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DAC3ocagVWs
I am surrounded by books too but hardly any of them unread! I’m always
desperate for new things to read.
For going on planes, you could do with a Sony reader or similar. Then you can
carry as many books as you do music tracks!
Lil, when your dealer — I mean, bookseller — shakes his/her head whenever you
come into view, it’s a message from the world. Is there a Readers Anonymous
meeting near you? Thanks for the kind words, and — as they say in 12-step
progrsms, “Keep Coming Back.”
Peg, putting the TBR “pile” onto shelves is very satisfying. Gives you a sense of
having gotten things under control when, of course, all you’ve really done is
gotten them onto shelves. You’re lucky about having dodged the addictions; I
have a naturally addictive personality and have given myself over to practically
everything you can think of that didn’t have a delivery system involving a needle.
(Cigarettes were the hardest by an order of magnitude.)
Beth — “what if” is, I think, one of the hooks addiction uses to clamp itself on,
especially when the host is an essentially rational person. Addictions work in part
by ratcheting up anxiety levels and then presenting themselves as the cure. And,
of course, it works for a few hours. The most pathetic addicts are the one who
think they’re controlling it (“I’m a functional drunk”) which, of course, they’re
not, which is why giving up all illusion of control is essential to a cure.
By the way, I’d like to say right here that I am TOTALLY PISSED OFF to see that
a facsimile version of a heavily edited manuscript of the AA Big Book — with
emendations that reveal some schisms among the fathers of the 12-step movement
— is being offered for sale by Hazelden, a “nonprofit” organization that uses the
12 steps – designed to be free to all — in a program that costs $23,000 per month.
At the risk of offending the more delicate among you, fuck Hazelden and the
horse they rode in on.
Sorry.
Gary, puhleeeeze. Me, mocking you? Farthest thing from my mind. And that’s a
very funny video.
FHH — Isn’t it interesting that when we’re “surrounded by books but hardly any
of them unread,” it almost never occurs to us to reread one? If we haven’t read it
in years, we’re essentially bringing a new us to the book. I know about the ereader — I’m even selling books for them now. It’ll happen. Honest.
13.Beth Says:
Not being in control just leads to chaos because if something as simple as paying
a bill is left out the snowball starts rolling fast.
My mother, who was far more of a problem than my father, pretty much ceded
control of the “details” when I was 10. Fifty years of having to always be prepared
for what might happen is a hard thing to unlearn.
12 step programs are the only thing with any proven long term success. But,as
they say, you have to want to want to.
14.Brent Says:
Ha – Tim – your TBR shelf is nothing! Mine is bigger than yours! Much much
bigger than yours my friend.
How much bigger is mine than yours you may well ask? Well, I guess if I were to
read 100 books per year and didn’t aquire more (fat chance of that) – I would
probably finish them all sometime around the year 2022. Then I would only have
the books I’d accumulated in the previous 12 years (at the rate of say, a couple of
hundred at least per year). At this rate I will need several reincarnations to finish
but what the hell – it’s a beautiful obsession (as some tunesmith once remarked).
Cheers y’all.
Brent — I’m not ABSOLUTELY certain that this is something to be proud of. Not
that it keeps me from buying every book in sight. How old will you be in 2022?
Have you given thought to whom you might want to leave the unread ones to?
That way, when you’re reincarnated you could just knock on my door, present
some kind of hard cold proof that you’re Brent’s new go-around, and I’d
cheerfully return them to you. The ones I’d read, anyway.
If I was in a good mood.
16.Brent Says:
Tim – You are ABSOLUTELY correct that this is not necessarily something to be
proud of – actually I’m not and sometimes it makes me somewhat anxious about
the whole situation. Not as disturbing however as the fact that my retention or
memory/remembering what I’ve read is not very good. Which reminds me that I
didn’t add in to the equation(of number of unread books)the ones I would really
like to re-read (keeping track of the ones I want to re-read is accomplished by my
own personal rating system that I apply to books as I read them – the highest rated
books are ones that are eligible for my re-reading program). One thing I have
started doing is cutting authors out of my herd of writers that I buy books by -the
ones that upon finishing one of their books you think – “that was pretty
good/allright/not bad”. There are simply too many authors that upon finishing one
of THEIR books you think – “Wow/Incredible/Fantastic/Bloody Amazing”.
I like the sneaky way you are trying to accumulate more books Tim – not quite
sneaky enough though my friend – I’ve already thught this out and I intend to put
tracking devices in my books before I kick de’ bucket – then when I come back I
will go to Radio Shack or some such place and purchase a “Tracker” or whatever
the hell they are called and find every last one of said books and pry them loose
from whatever hands they happen to be in. Ha – that should do it.
Enought of this frivolity – I have to go build another bookcase.
October 21st, 2010 at 8:42 am
Brent, you have to look on the bright side. When your memory gets worse, you
can get rid of all but about three books and read them over and over since you
won’t remember them anyway. But before you reach that state, you might want to
leave written instructions about to whom you want the books to be sent. Vis a vis
the rating system and the tracking devices, does the word “compulsive” pop into
your mind, or is it just me?
18.Brent Says:
Tim, actually the word that pops into my mind regarding the post reincarnation
tracking device is “prudent” and this applies to my book rating system as well
since once I’m back and have tracked down my books and liberated them from
whatever hands they were in and they are once again ensconced in their old
familiar bookcases, I will simply have to consult my “Ratings Of Books Read” list
and read only the best ones.
PS I expect to have a fully functioning memory on the next go round (at least for a
little while).
Well, Brent, a man who’s plotting before he dies how to get his books back from
the person who LEGALLY INHERITED THEM seems to me not so much
prudent as barking mad. Anyway, my house is screened by a masking device
specifically set to screen out vengeful reincarnates, or I would have been gone a
long time ago. Heh. Heh. Also, if your memory when you come back is as good as
all that, what do you want with a bunch of old dusty books you’ve already read —
Hey, WAIT!!! I’ve GOT IT. You send me a list of everything you haven’t read that
you know you’ll love, plus your credit card number, and I’ll build that library
right now, and when you come back, it’ll be right here, waiting for you. Behind
that masking device, of course, but a guy like you . . . should be no problem.
Pardon me while I laugh openly behind my hand.
20.Brent Says:
Tim, I now have to wonder just exactly why it is that you have deemed it
necessary to resort to such a diabolically ingeniuous bit of cutting edge
technology as the Residential Masking Screen – it would seem to me that there
must be SOMETHING very nefarious lurking in your basement or closet, on your
bookshelves, or under your bed. Let me see now – a fellow who is a writer, has a
somewhat compulsive relationship to books and is concerned enough about it
enough to decide to write about it while squirreled away in his (b)log cabin? What
could it possibly be? I’m thinking that by the time I come back and I make that
trip to Radio Shack to get my Tracker, they will have some brand new device that
will make child’s play of thwarting the Residential Masking Screen and I should
be able to slip into your abode whilst you are busy working on the Stupid 365 Day
Project (Year 20 or 30 something)and uncover what lies beneath if you know what
I mean.
Regarding your compulsive music habits – again, mine is bigger – much much
bigger my friend. They have not yet built a device with enough capacity to hold
my collection of tunes. I too used to travel around with crates of cassette tapes,
boom boxes, batteries (C+D Cells yet!). Now that the cassette has gone the way of
the Dodo bird what do we do with all those things? I guess they can mostly join
the scrap heap along with the reel to reel compilation tapes from our wedding
party that I recently threw out. (WOOPS – I could be dating myself there).
Oh, right oh, right — when you’re just the teensiest bit frustrated, move right to
McCarthyite name-calling and personal insult. “I have in my hand a list of
communists working at the White House,” and it was his grocery list. Well, we’ve
seen your type before, and there’s no way we’re letting you claw your way back
into the limelight. And the “reel to reel compilation tapes” PROVES that you were
around to fall under McCarthy’s spell. A piece of purely disinterested advice: if
you really expect to be reincarnated, you have to shed this negative karma, and the
best way to do that is to give — freely and joyfully — to someone, me, for
example, all the possessions that are weighing you down, beginning with those
books. Otherwise, you’ll be reincarnated as a truffle. And we know what happens
to truffles: pigs root them out and then they’re flown by jet plane to fancy
restaurants where they’re eaten by poseurs. If I could snap my fingers in type, I
would. Who even needs that Residential Masking Screen? I’ll just frequent
pretentious French restaurants and eat truffles, buy truffles for my friends, until,
eventually, you have to be reincarnated again, and truffles ALWAYS come back as
pigs.
And pigs can’t read.
22.Brent Says:
Tim – OK, OK, I know when I’ve been bested – and you are right about the
negative Karma thing – I’ve decided I must give – freely and joyfully at that. I
have some books I would like to send you (the only catch is I am sending them
without postage – you will simply have to pay the First Class Express rate when it
arrives). Let’s see now – I’ve got one here by Dean Koontz, another by James
Patterson, a Peter Straub, a couple by Harlen Coben, and a few dozen others that I
somehow have on my shelf – I believe they were mostly passed on to me by
others who were done with them. I’m afraid I’m not yet ready to part with my
Michael Gruber, James Carlos Blake, Andre Dubus III, Rick DeMarinis, Ken
Bruen, Ron Rash, Tim Gautreaux, or Joseph Boyden books (amongst a goodly
number of other authors). So, look for delivery slip in your mailbox, then rent
yourself a pick-up truck (the box will be rather large) and go to your bank and
take out most of your money so you will be sure to have enough to pay the
Postage Due charges. I’m quite confident that this action will put me on an even
keel Karmawise. Let me know how you like the books!
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 17: My Shorts
October 18th, 2010
If there’s an outstanding characteristic of the Stupid 365 Project (TM) thus far, it’s been a total lack of
foresight. I went into it without a moment’s thought, almost literally in the time it took to have the idea.
When the specter of disastrous failure presented itself, about 90 seconds later, I embraced it — people
love a train wreck, I thought. This will bring them in droves
And the part of me that’s a drama queen was thrilled by the thought of prolonged public humiliation.
My inner Gloria Swanson emerged, fully made up and trailing tragedy behind her, ready for her close-
up.
And then, in one of the earlier blogs. I wrote a sentence without thinking — this is a continuing theme
— about the consequences of what I was writing. I don’t want to go back and find it, but it said
something about posting a three-part short story to culminate on Halloween. I even named it, on the
fly: Spirit House. That’ll get their attention, I thought, ignoring the fact that it hadn’t actually gotten
mine.
Well, it has now. Spirit House is suspended in amber. I can see it, but I can’t even get at it to fix it. I
don’t know how to fix it. The salient fact I ignored when I promised you a short story (on a deadline,
no less) is this.
I don’t know how to write a short story.
Spirit House, which is pretty much at full stop for the present, is exactly the second short story I’ve
written since eighth grade. The first, I wrote about six months ago in response to a request by
Christopher G. Moore, the title of whose wonderful novel, Spirit House, I stole for my possibly
abortive Halloween short story. Chris wanted a story for a book called Bangkok Noir in which a bunch
of really good writers (Pico Iyer, John Burdett, Colin Cotterill, Stephen Leather, and others) are taking
a slap at a slice of darkside Bangkok life in 5000 words or less. I managed, and I mean just barely, to
turn out something called Hansum Man, so dark that I have no idea where it came from, and Chris was
nice enough to say he liked it. Of course, Chris has been living in Thailand for a long time, and his
manners are exquisite.
So – Spirit House. It’s only 3800 words long at this point and it’s already endless. I could plunge
ahead and finish it, but it would stink. So instead, I’m dithering around with the middle in the hope
that there’s something there that might rekindle my energy or regenerate the illusion that it’s a terrific
story. I’m currently working on four things — rewriting parts of Crashed (the first in the Junior
Bender series) so it can go up on Kindle (etc.) in November; putt-putting into the 40,000-word range on
Pulped, the first Simeon Grist book in 15 years; and finding my way into a (so far) completely
acceptable first chapter on The Fear Artist, the fifth Poke Rafferty book. And then there’s Spirit House,
the only one of the four that gives me a cold little ball of dread way down in my belly.
So there may not be a Halloween story. I may put up pumpkin-carving instructions or the secret of how
they keep the colors separate in candy corn. Maybe I’ll make myself up as all seven dwarfs and put up
photos.
Or the worst-case scenario: put up part one of the story without having written all of parts two and
three, thereby forcing my own hand. And maybe giving you a big plateful of carefully worded,
perfectly punctuated tripe. But you’re too old for treats anyway.
This entry was posted on Monday, October 18th, 2010 at 1:03 pm and is filed under All Blogs. You can
your own site.
17 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 17: My Shorts”
1. Suzanna Says:
No worries, Tim, please know that whatever tricks or treats you have to share are
welcome whenever they manifest and in whatever form they appear on your blog.
There’s certainly no harm in receiving a little tripe now and again.
Another Poke Rafferty book. Music to my ears.
2. Larissa Says:
ha ha. Now you know how I feel all. the. time. I think it’s why I just spew wordsmaybe something brilliant will happen along the way.
I think you should force your hand. isn’t that how we all got started down this
road anyway? with the Dicken’s Challenge? (Ok, me at least and getting to know
this blog and you a bit and all that jazz)…
I’m terrible though-I expect way more out of people who know what they’re
doing than I do myself. I’m going to go hide behind that for a while. (c:
Whatever you decide to do for Halloween, I’m sure it’ll be brilliant. (I’m actually
all about seeing you as all 7 dwarves..)
Oh! Here’s my trick . . . candy corn and peanuts. About half and half. Tastes like a
Payday candy bar. Probably at least as many calories, but maybe not. And
definitely clever, at least I think so. You really did get my attention about how
they keep those colors separate.
Your inner Gloria Swanson also got my attention, but I don’t think I want to go
there.
Poke Rafferty . . . even though I kind of have an idea what he looks like, until you
mention it in a little more detail, I have a completely different picture in my head.
And I thoroughly insist on returning to MY concept of Poke as soon as you let me
go. Blog post here?
Short stories? I actually came in with an honorable mention with one. Max words
allowed were 1000. Taught me I do not want to even try to build a career in flash
fiction.
4. Beth Says:
This is the end of a post left by Lenny Kleinfeld on the Mystery Cafe discussion
on Amazon. Lenny was writing about meeting writers at Bouchercon, all of whom
have written more books than his one.
The Ina he refers to is his wife.
“The next morning Ina and I were walking over to a dim sum place for breakfast
and she started telling me how much she was enjoying Tim Hallinan’s most recent
release, QUEEN OF PATPONG. What an incredibly gifted writer Hallinan is. She
even quoted some of her favorite lines.
It’s something like his twelfth book.
I am now going to lock myself in the word factory and not come out for a while.”
–Lenny
5. EverettK Says:
I say force your hand. That’s what your blog-deal is all about, right? To encourage
you to write, write and write some more?
And if all else fails and you can’t find a middle or end, then you could turn it into
Suzanna, I can’t possibly offer you tripe. And I also can’t possibly flunk this little
pop quiz life has set for me. Oh, dear, oh, dear. Yes, Poke will live again, probably
as long as I continue to write. I have to watch Miaow grow up.
Riss — you and Everett — “force your hand.” Have you guys been talking? I
suppose that’s what I always do — I mean, writing is primarily a matter of
painting myself into a corner and then tiptoeing out of it somehow. Why should
my approach to life be any different? The dwarf I like best is actually the eighth,
Floppy. Floppy was always behind the door when the Disney animators looked
into the cottage, and for good reason. But I’m not certain the world is ready for
Floppy.
Peg — Candy corn and peanuts? Brrrrrrr. More calories than Hershey,
Pennsylvania. I’ve wondered about the colors, too. And if I weren’t very
comfortable with my inner Gloria Swanson, I wouldn’t have flourished her at you.
What does Poke look like to you?
Beth, how amazingly sweet of you to share that with me. And how sweet of
Lenny to share it online. Of course, neither Lenny nor Ina has read Spirit House.
Everett, maybe we should write a serial novel — everybody writing either a
sentence or a paragraph. Talk about a free-for-all.
A new Poke Rafferty? Squee!
Oops, sorry, ahem.
I have no idea what you should do about Spirit House but I’m enjoying your
musings about it. It’s odd, I find that the really short stories are so much easier
than longer ones and I’ve yet to write a novel.
8. Christopher G. Moore Says:
Tim,
Your story for the Bangkok Noir is an inspired piece of well-crafted fiction. I
know that the many fans of your terrific series set in Thailand will be delighted to
read it. They can look for Bangkok Noir February 2011.
9. Sylvia Says:
WAH!
Your recatcha wipes the comment if the response is wrong?
I was terribly witty and clever, too.
I tried to resubmit (by going “back” in the browser, where my comment lay
waiting) but now it says I’m repeating myself. Now even my comments are
critique! *sniffle*
10.Larissa Says:
hehe, yes it seems that Everett and I were on the same page there for a bit. (c:
And Tim, I think the serial novel is a brilliant idea-we did it in my high school AP
class actually and it was surprisingly erudite. Or at least it seemed that way 10
years ago…(jeez!)hehe.
11.Susan Phend Says:
Just want you to know that I recently discovered you via Poke Rafferty. What
exquisite writing! I feel like I know the characters personally. Next I’ll dig into
the Simon Grist series and, by the way, I’m happily addicted to your blog. If
you’d like to write perfectly punctuated tripe, bring it on. I’m sure that I’ll enjoy
every word.
Susan
12.Helen Simonson Says:
Hey Tim –
Queen of Patpong was as wonderful as I’d hoped and deserves all its great
reviews. I also love watching Miaow grow up. Just want to be sure the blog
odyssey is not getting in the way of the next Poke book – we need another
installment. I’m back to trolling your web site as I try to write. “Breaking rocks”
again, as you would put it. Have to keep reminding myself to keep butt in chair
and write until it gets better.
13.EverettK Says:
Tim said, “maybe we should write a serial novel…”
).
The sun through her bedroom window warmed Kat’s blankets. Spring was the
best part of the year, the brown-gray world suddenly exploding into brilliant
greens and the number of days of sunny, warm weather increasing quickly. The
sun and blankets perfectly balanced the coolness of the air in her room, and at 15
there’s not much more you need to stay happy. Then she heard Pud for the first
time, a jolting voice that seemed to bounce off the walls of the room.
“Kat, get up!”
14.Larissa Says:
Hm…where are we going to store this Serial Novel?
’cause I could go next.
Kat lingered a moment longer in her haven. Maybe he’ll think I’m still asleep.
“Kat! I know you can hear me! Get up!”
Well, so much for that thought. She extricated herself from the blanket concoction
and set her feet on the wintry floor. Noises from the kitchen crept through the
walls and she could hear the other kids talking downstairs. She grabbed her hand
wraps and gloves. It was going to be another long day with Pud.
I guess this could be a test of Tim’s server’s capacity to store data. (c:
Okay, all. My, my, my. I must have been a good boy to get all these nice
responses.
FHH — Squee??? I like that as much as I like Sylvia’s Wah and Riss’s heh heh.
Let’s do a completely nonverbal blog and responses. I wish this software would
allow me to construct a rebus. Yes, there is a new Poke on the assembly line, and I
think it’ll be killer. It’s got the best villain I ever wrote and a trio of retired spies
— guys who would have killed each other on sight in the 70s — who are Poke’s
only allies and one of them, Vladimir, is in danger of taking over the book. We
shall see.
Chris — thanks for the praise, and now you all know how polite he is. Chris is the
author of the Vincent Calvino articles, terrific books without which I never would
have written Poke. His newest book, “9 Gold Bullets,” comes out on November
10.
Sylvia, the thing to do with reCaptcha is to block what you wrote and click COPY
before you key in the words and hit SUBMIT. That way, if you get minced, you
can just put the cursor back in the box and push PASTE, and you’re back in
business. By the way, this ONLY happens when you’ve written something
brilliant.
Riss, I like the serial novel, too, and also your addition to Everett’s really
crackerjack first bit, but I don’t know how to do it. We could devote an ongoing
blog to it, but every time I post a new one, which is to say daily, that blog is going
to get pushed down one slot. Within 7-8 days, it won’t even be on the second
page.
I’m up for it, if we can solve it. Suggestions, anyone? And does he REALLY have
to be named Pud?
Thanks, Susan, and welcome. I’m so glad you like Poke — the books are so much
fun to write, when they’re not killing me. They’re often killing me. But I love the
family and the setting and Arthit, so I guess I’ll write them as long as anyone
wants to read them.
Hi, Helen, glad you liked QUEEN. I’m certain you’ll solve whatever problems the
new book is throwing at you. Isn’t it interesting that something that’s so hard to do
can (sometimes, anyway) come off looking like it wrote itself? “Major Pettigrew”
was a blithe book, and it’s very difficult to believe, reading it, that it so stubbornly
resisted telling. There will be a new Poke within a year, and this daily writing
requirement has actually gotten me writing earlier and longer than before, which
is sort of what I’d hoped it would do.
Everett — we need to figure out not how to store it, but how to keep it easily
retrievable. See answer to Larissa above.
17.Sylvia Says:
I’ll be sure to recover my brilliance next time.
Also, I’ve used your name in vain over on my blog – I’m moving forward with
revision. *argh*
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 18: Leatherface
October 19th, 2010
For the past two and a half weeks, I’ve mostly stayed home, not out of any homing instinct but because
I look like Freddy Krueger.
As a result of 30 years spent zoning out at the edge of various oceans (six that I can name right now) I
have what Estee Lauder would describe as “sun damage” and my dermatologist described as
“precancerous areas” all over my forehead. The word “precancerous” got my attention. I mean,
anything-cancerous is grim, but “pre-cancerous” has it all over “cancerous.”
My dermatologist, who is whiter than Morticia Addams and has obviously never been in the sun in his
life, saw the panic in my eyes and gave me the soothing smile he probably reserves for just such
moments. He informed me that fortunately, in this day of medical miracles, there is a topical
chemotherapy cream that I could use every day for two weeks to chase those little suckers right back
into the ultra-violet end of the spectrum, where they belong. In my addled states, I heard the sentence
selectively, grabbing onto “topical” and “cream” and letting “chemotherapy” slide right by.
So, several hundred dollars later, all but 30 of which were paid by Motion Picture Health and Welfare
(thanks, guys), I arrived home with an innocuous little white tube containing four ounces of something
called Carac. The brochure had an absolutely brilliant graphic on the cover: a lawn completely covered
by dead brown leaves, with a perfect “C” raked out to reveal luxuriant green grass. A little raking and
then bingo, everything is fresh and new.
My first indication that it might not be quite that easy came 30 seconds after I spread the stuff over my
forehead. If you’ve ever wondered what it would feel like to be deep-fried, I can describe it to you.
And beyond the heat, there was a sensation I can only describe as a gathering and pulling of the skin, as
though some duffer plastic surgeon had given me a face-lift simply by cutting out most of the skin in
the center of my forehead and then yanking together what was left and knotting it off, like a balloon.
And then the experience really began. Burning, tightening, itching like I’ve never felt in my life. If
Dante missed the section of Hell called the Itch Circle, this is what happens there.
Of course, that was only the first 30 minutes of Day One. I got to kick off every single day this way for
two weeks.
But it’s over now — at least the part that involves smearing the stuff on my face every morning. I’m
now in the third day of what the brochure cheerily calls “recovery,” although it does warn that “some
symptoms may persist.” It’s thoughtful of them to tell me that what I have are persisting symptoms,
because otherwise I might mistake it for permanent damage. From the cheekbones up, my skin is
bright red, cracking like the surface of those mysterious frozen oceans said to cover some planetary
bodies I don’t want to visit, and thick enough to use as a potholder. And it still itches. And it’s peeling.
What I look and feel like is someone who sleeps with his head in a microwave. I keep searching for
that lush green lawn, but with my head as red as it is now, it’s probably better for the lawn to remain in
abeyance. It’s too early in the year for red and green.
Kids, the moral of this story is that the sun is not your buddy. It’s a seething mass of hot,
supercompressed gas spinning around in space and throwing off radiation in all directions like there’s
no tomorrow, which, of course, for the sun, there isn’t. It wants to hurt you. If I had a child in
elementary school, I’d be talking to the teacher about not letting the kids draw those big yellow suns
above their crooked little houses. Make the sign of the cross at it. Carry an umbrella when it’s not
raining. Wear a Vietnamese coolie hat. You do not want Carac in your future.
your own site.
16 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 18: Leatherface”
1. Larissa Says:
Wow. That sounds nasty. And a bit like what my mom got done for her facial…
maybe she could just borrow some of that stuff from you and save the rest of her
money. (c:
I’m working on being good about the sun…but c’mon. We neeeed that Vitamin D!
(c:
2. Suzanna Says:
Jeez, Tim, thank goodness that’s over with!
How did you manage all of your writing projects, run six times a week, and
endure Carac with such grace? You are amazing.
As someone whose face resembles an inkblot from a Rorschach test if I don’t
wear big floppy hats and the highest SPF sunblock known to man, I can
appreciate your disdain for the damage too much sun can cause. I most certainly
do not want Carac in my future and after reading this I’m sticking to my silly hats
and sunscreen. Thanks for posting this.
3. Beth Says:
You are part of the generation of men, who like my brothers and my husband
when they were kids, left the house early in the morning and didn’t come back till
dinner time. Shirts off, no hats, playing baseball all day, the perfect summer in the
fifties and sixties.
And then….. My husband resembles a hornless unicorn. He has a perfectly round
scar right in the middle of his forehead courteous of the pre-cancerous lesion he
had removed. He sees a dermatologist twice a year and there is always a new crop
for her to harvest.
I escaped the sun damage because if I was in the sun for too long I fainted. I
missed out on those perfect tans girls worked so hard to get. After all, a tan made
you look healthy. Irish skin and Irish coloring kept me pasty white.
Conan O’Brien says the Irish were bred to live in a bog. It is good that I actually
like the rain.
Riss, I’m sure that your mother, however strenuous the facial might have been,
didn’t get assaulted daily for two weeks. If she did, I hope she looked a hell of a
lot better when the was finished. You’ve got kind of goldish skin, which means
either you were slightly tanned when I met you or you probably don’t have to
worry about it quite the way we Irish do.
Zanna, I ain’t never seen no blots on your face, but don’t throw those hats away.
Beth, see how unfair the world is? Girls can faint and get away with it. Let a guy
faint, and he’s marked for life. Sorry about your husband’s scar. I’ve been really
lucky in that I’ve had some cancerous stuff removed with great skill (including a
chunk of my nose) and no one can even see it, unless they know to look and are
standing much closer than I’m comfortable with anyway. Consn’s got it dead to
rights.
Doesn’t sound like fun to me. Since I’m in my sixties, common sense came late,
and I have nose issues. Hope you recuperate well; what interesting things you’ve
seen.
Yeah, and I’m whiter than your dermatologist, but that didn’t keep me out of the
sun (much to my regret). The sad part of this story–okay, the pathetic part, if you
prefer–is that it took me 40 years and four or five fairly severe sunburns every
summer to learn that the sun is not necessarily my friend. I may go to my grave
looking like shoe leather, but thanks to my resolve to never again suffer the pain
of a sunburn, I won’t go there looking like tanned shoe leather.
As for keeping those cancer precursors at bay, you might try hemp oil (made from
the flower tops, not the seeds). Cannabinol targets cancer cells and kills them
without the high costs, pain, discomfort, and physical damage associated with
conventional treatments.* You live in a medical marijuana state, so access
shouldn’t be much of a problem for you.
*Disclaimer: I am not a doctor.
7. Gary Says:
On the beaches of South East Asia, from Phuket to Sihanoukville, you can see
crazy foreigners stretching out their lily white bodies to fry in the full sun. (I
usually witness this sight from the safety of a large beach umbrella.) And back in
town the local girls, with glorious, safe skin the color of honey, are in beauty
clinics having treatment to make themselves white.
I try. I say, “See this chunk cut out of the back of my hand? See these excision
marks on my forehead? White skin bad, brown skin good. Be grateful!”
People in southern Oz live under a huge gaping hole in the ozone layer. Children
aren’t allowed outside at school recess unless they have large, wide-brimmed hats.
And pretty young things STILL lie baking themselves on the beaches.
Tim, I’m so glad they caught you in time. (I’m glad they caught me in time!) I just
hope we don’t fall prey to the universal law of dermatology: the reason
dermatologists are so rich is that their patients never die, but never get better.
You have my sympathies!!
I too am of that generation that got up early in the morning and went outside to
play ALL day every day. The sun was our friend! And I was lucky enough to grow
up in a wonderful little town on the water. A sandy beach was THE perfect
playground. Am I paying for it now? Oh my, you betcha. Going to see my BFF
dermatologist next week. big sigh.
You’ll be your handsome self again soon enough; not to worry.
I can’t believe you’ve been going through all that and yet keeping up a
humourous, chatty blog all the time. I hope it finishes healing up soon.
It’s rather scary. I used to lie in the sun when I was a kid – we didn’t know any
better then. And now we’re told we need the vitamin D, but sod that if it comes
complete with cancer.
10.EverettK Says:
Sounds like a fun time in sun city! Our skin is our interface with the universe;
great care should be taken with it, and it is the source of many joys and tragedies.
When I was 13, I began to exhibit “The Heartbreak of Psoriasis.” Within a year I
looked like I belonged in a leper colony. I left flakes of skin scales wherever I
went. I wrestled all four years in high school. I wore a t-shirt under my wrestling
outfit, but still, you could see it in the eyes of my opponent all too often: “I’m not
sure I want to touch that…” The head coach used to crack funny all the time at
practices, “Who’s been eating crackers up here on the mats?” One of the other
wrestlers once asked, as we were changing in the dressing room, “Don’t you
worry that no girl will ever want to touch you?” Of course, by that time, I’d
already been going for a couple of years with “the girl” who would become my
wife, and I simply told him, “No.” I’d never even thought about it.
Back then, sun (a moderate amount) actually used to help it, so for a while I’d lay
under a UV light. I made the mistake of coming home late one Friday night and,
thinking I’d lay under it for 10 minutes before retiring, I woke up over 2 hours
later. The next day I developed a blister on my chest, and by Sunday morning it
was the size of small country and weeping like a country music star. At the
hospital that morning, our family doctor had me lay on a bed, then took some
gauze and in one swift motion grabbed the blishter and yanked about 8 inches of
skin off my chest (my upper body easily cleared the bed by a foot, but he still had
to clean up the edges and dress it). Our family doctor back then was “old school.”
Fortunately, as I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned to mellow out and take care of my
body, both internally and externally, and the psoriasis is now a minor annoyance
that most folks don’t even realize I have.
You can either cry, “Woe is me!” or get on with life. I’ve always been a “getting
on” kind of guy.
11.Larissa Says:
Well, Tim, it’s like this. I was born to my mother who is Casper’s distant relative I
believe and my father, who is the color of all things Mediterranean…being from
that part of the world and all…so I get this in between stage where I don’t really
look tan next to the “tanners” but I’m not exactly fair skinned…
I do have freckles of all things though. It’s silly.
Lil, it’s less fun than you can imagine. I’d rather spend a weekend with Simon
Cowell. Sorry about your nose issues, but the only thing to do is face up to them
(no pub intended) and do what needs to be done.
Phi, why does it not totally surprise me that your treatment involves hemp? By the
way, the smokable version of hemp will soon be legal here in the Molden State,
although our liberal president and some other jerk Fed say they’ll enforce the
Federal law out here. Maybe Arizona and California could secede together, and
we could all get loaded and mow our own lawns.
Gary, I have baked myself on some of those very same beaches. What’s most
amusing is to see the sex tourists get all bronzed up to impress the girls who hate,
hate, hate dark skin. The Germans are the worst, I think. They go around looking
like just-pulled corks.
Ahh, the beach, Kaye (and hi!) Surfboards. Sand. Wahines. Beer. Skin cancer.
Basal cell carcinoma. Ummmm. Come on in, the water’s fine. If I’d known then
what I know now, I would have moved to the Seven Dwarfs’ mine.
Hey, Fairyhedgehog, I have no choice but to remain good-natured. Otherwise I
both look like a catcher’s mitt AND my wife is mad at me. No question that there
are worse things than looking like a catcher’s mitt.
Everett: AAAARRRRGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH. NEVER tell the blister story
again anywhere I might come across it. Nevernevernever.
The country star/country song line is pretty damn good. Promise me you won’t
read my next book, and if you do, slip page 258. Nothing happens on it, anyway.
The Heartbreak of Psoriasis. What a brutal ad line. God, people will do anything
for money. One of my current favorites is the ad about “palmar hyperhydrosis,”
which is (fake?) doctor-speak for sweaty palms. Oh, the shame,the shame.
Larissa, it’s a great mix. You’re a wonderful color. And freckles rock fulltime. I
always figured freckles were an epidermal jigsaw: if you could put them together
right, you’d have a tan.
13.Sylvia Says:
We see the same tourists here in Spain – the ones that really make me wince are
the beet red families who are out in the sun *despite already being burnt to a
crisp* because “We only have a few days holiday” and so they have to make the
most of it.
Luckily, I get bored too quickly to actually tan.
Tim,
What a scary blog! I inherited moles from my mother and developed roseacea late
in life so my skin is not what it used to be — but neither am I. I lay it all off on
old age and hope that’s all it is.
Pat Browning
Hi, Pat — I wouldn’t recommend Carac in preference to, say, a cruise, but it
seems to have done the job. I’m a little less lobstery now and things are looking
pretty good. I know all about roseacea, and I’m sorry you’re saddled with it. Have
a couple of female friends who are enduring it. But you know, compared to some
of the things “later life” can present us with, it’s not sooooo terrible.
Sylvia, all those years George Hamilton spent under the UVA lights, you’d think
he’d be a radioactive raisin by now. There’s a guy with a high boredom threshold.
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 19: iPod, Therefore I Am
October 20th, 2010
I write to music. I do pretty much everything to music.
When I tell musicians I write to music, they look at me with disapproval. ”I’d be too interested in the
structure of the piece,” several of them have told me.
When I tell writers I write to music, they look at me (most of them, anyway) with disapproval. ”I need
to focus on story and character,” several of them have said to me.
And to musicians and writers alike, I say: Bite me. I like music. It energizes me. It seals out the rest
of the world. It makes it possible, when I’m writing in public, to ignore the people who come up and
say, “Writing something, huh?” I can pretend I don’t hear them. If they’re persistent, I can do the
idiot’s defense, look up at them, smile, and point at my ear buds. It’s amazing that people who are
insensitive enough to come up to someone who’s obviously working and say, “Writing something,
huh?” will back away apologizing when I point at my ear buds. There’s some sort of mystical line
there. EARBUDS. DO NOT CROSS.
My iPod has maybe 8.000 songs on it, arranged into about 20-25 playlists. At the moment, I’m
listening to a playlist I made about six months ago, and I’m using it for “Pulped.” Just to give you the
flavor, here are ten song in sequence about a third of the way in. (I organize playlists by song title
because it mixes up the artists, and I hate knowing who’s next.)
“Bright Side of the Road” — Van Morrison, one of his late-career gems. I have no idea how someone
this grumpy could sound this happy. This cut could cheer up The Cure.
“Brownsville Girl” — Nine minutes of mid-eighties Dylan, a masterpiece from any perspective: “We
gonna go all the way, till the wheels fall off and burn.” There are at least three movies in this song.
“Call It Off” — Tegan and Sara, to whom I wrote most of the middle section (Rose’s story) of THE
QUEEN OF PATPONG. Girls on girls.
“Camelot Motel” — low-life, low-rent country heartbreak from the electrifying Mary Gauthier.
“Can’t Stop Feeling” — Franz Ferdinand, from “Tonight,” just all guitars and all good.
“Can You Hear Me Now” — Emmylou Harris, America’s greatest natural singer, making sadness sound
like something to look forward to: ”I send up my S.O.S/a message in a bottle, sent out to sea/It just
reads ‘soul in distress/and nobody ever got back to me.”
“Can’t Stand Me Now” — The Libertines, with Pete Doherty at his most energetically fragile. Pray for
Pete – he’s got more talent than all the Lohans and the other glitter-casualties put together. He’s got to
stop shooting up.
“Cape Canaveral” — Conor Oberst. Nobody since the first 3-4 years of Elvis Costello’s career, has
written so many songs in such a short period and kept the standard so high.
“Cape Cod” — Vampire Weekend, light but fun, Cote d’Ivoir League, which is a really strained African
pun on “ivy league,” which these guys are, via Paul Simon’s “Graceland.”
“Carpetbaggers” — Jenny Lewis from “Acid Tongue,” with a riveting one-verse guest turn by Elvis
Costello, and I give Lewis credit for keeping it on the record, because it’s so brilliant it almost erases
her from the song.
“Celluloid Heroes” — Head Kink Ray Davies with a big fat church choir behind him, and boy does it
work. The whole LP is worth it just for “Big Sky,” Davies’ song about how God doesn’t give a shit
about us. One of my musical moments of the yeas is when the choir sings, “Big Sky’s too big to cry.”
Whoa.
“Choctaw Bingo” — James McMurtry live, doing an insanely propulsive, insanely funny, and very
long song about the “Oklahoma-West Texas metamphetamine trade,” as he introduces it. I’ve driven
across Texas to this song for hours. Put this and “Brownsville Girl” on a loop, and you’res good for a
thousand miles of sagebrush.
Okay, so that was twelve because it was fun. But it gives you an idea. This is a whiter selection than
most 10 or 11-song stretches would be, since I’m heavy on African and African-American but that’s
what came up when I picked a random starting point. Good energy, something to put up a wall against
the world, and when things aren’t going well on the page, something to lift my spirits.
Anyone who disapproves can bite me.
your own site.
10 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 19: iPod, Therefore I
Am”
1. Shadoe Says:
Another great blog. You are an inspiration. Does anyone know more about music
than you? A great selection. 8,000 songs? Damn. So…writing something, huh?
Now? Right now? How about now?
“I’ve driven across Texas to this song for hours.”
Back in the days of the double nickle, many truckers called driving across Texas a
career. It was real hardship in those days, Tim; no iPods, and a somewhat smaller
selection of great music to choose from, but somehow we survived.
3. murphy Says:
Hey nothing wrong with being white. Can’t really write to music. Always seems
like a good idea. If I am really into the writing I don’t even know if the music
stops.
Maybe you ought to writ mystery songs. That would explain to musicians and
writers why you write to music. Nail Through My Achy-Breaky Heart. The 4th
Watcher Theme (written for Django Rhinehart). Queen of the (Patapong) Road
(okay, that one’s a stretch.
5. Suzanna Says:
Thanks for the list. Lots to check out since I haven’t heard of about half of these
artists.
Have you heard of Jackie Greene? He is a young Bay Area singer songwriter that
I think you might like. Saw him at the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival a few
weeks back. Very impressive.
I am not one of those who disapproves of your use of music but I have to admit I
was a little dismayed by Maya’s absolute obsession with music while she studied
during high school. Only because she insisted on hunting for new music while she
worked which must have added hours and hours onto her very late night study
sessions. I’m pretty sure she would argue that music is what helped her manage
her heavy work load.
Shadoe — Yes, you know much, much more about music than I do or ever will.
Writing the new Simeon (feels so weird to say that) plus the currently-stalled
Halloween short story, the new Poke, and a stand-alone thriller based on
Sheherazade.
Phil, before I went on the first really big tour, I bought a new car, which was a
matter of life and death, and had them install an iPod dock so I had my own radio
station wherever I went. 9000 miles and I never heard “Stairway to Heaven.”
Murphy — I listen to a lot of black music, but there wasn’t any in this dozen
songs. I know what people say about music distracting them from writing, but to
me it’s a magic carpet.
Laren, that’s the worst reply in the history of this site. I’m speechless with
admiration that you would put that out here where everyone can read it. And I’m
going to go right on excoriating it until I can come up with my own mystery song,
and all I can think of is “The Long Goodbye Mr. Chips,” and that’s not even a
song. I give up.
Suzanne — there is something just the teeniest bit pinch-mouthed about “I am not
one of those who disapproves” line, but I’ll let it pass. And I agree — listening to
music while writing is an entirely different proposition from shopping for music
while writing. I’m sure it’s why Maya turned out sooooo badly.
Hey, Tim, the soundtrack from “Miami Vice” and just about anything by Tina
Turner make the best. Driving music. Ever. Crank up the tunes, put the hammer
down, and you’ll soon find yourself establishing a rhythm to your driving that
puts your speed somewhere to the north of 80. (Don’t forget to keep an eye open
for smokey bears.)
Wow, Miami Vice — haven’t heard that in years. Tina’s a force of nature. I met
her a couple of times, and she was amazingly nice and very low-key — that whole
personality if reserved for the stage.
9. Sylvia Says:
I’m jealous of people who can write with music on. I have to actually leave and
go somewhere else. I’m not very aural – I don’t listen to podcasts and although I
have a number of fun playlists, I only listen to them now and again. Usually when
cooking. I *can* cook to music. That’s a skill, right?
Sylvia, if you can cook to anything, that’s a skill.
The Stupid 356 Project, Day 20: The World According to Arianna
October 20th, 2010
GOP CANDIDATE CAN’T SHAKE PUPPY GAS CHAMBER BILL HE SPONSORED
Quick — how many times did you read that before you understood and/or believed it? Is the screen
swimming before your eyes a little bit?
Well, that’s news, according to Arianna Huffington.
The socialite millionairess with the eternally unchanging epoxy hair style is, of course, an online media
czar. Her creation, The Huffington Post, is an interesting cross between The National Enquirer, the
Democratic Party National Committee’s daily talking points, and the red-carpet material Joan Rivers
thinks better of. It’s supposed to be a news site, but the slag quotient is uniquely high. They seem to be
going for “edgy” but they can’t tell it from absurd.
KIM KARDASHIAN POSES TOTALLY NUDE. Whoa! Stop the car. First of all, why is anything
Kim Kardashian does news? She could cover herself in mayonnaise, wrap herself in a tortilla, and
offer herself up to feed the starving masses, and it wouldn’t make a dent in my day. Does anyone
actually care what Kim Kardashian is up to? And if someone out there does care, do you think he or
she is going to be surprised that Kim is posing not only nude but totally nude? I mean, isn’t that what
she’s been leading up to through all these years of bad mascara and booty shots?
Also, just a nit: are you actually nude if you’re not totally nude? I mean, “Nude except for a
strategically placed kitchen sponge” is pretty nude, but it’s not actually, you know, nude. And what’s
old Kim going to do top this? Do I have to look forward to KIM KARDASHIAN TURNS
HERSELF INSIDE-OUT ON DR. PHIL? It’s enough to keep me in bed for weeks.
ADRIANA LIMA RESPONDS TO GISELLE’S BREAST-FEEDING BELIEFS. Okay. I read it
twice, and it still says that someone I’ve never heard of is “responding” to the “beliefs” (about breastfeeding — cool way to get “breast” in the headline) of someone whose last name is not provided. The
very definition of news. I’m going to make a wild guess and say it’s not the Giselle the ballet is about.
So that leaves me with the fact that no one in the world named Giselle is of any interest to me. And it’s
unlikely that I’ll ever breast (teehee) feed. Pass.
RUSH LIMBAUGH HITS KARL ROVE. That’s more like it. Short, to the point, even punchy.
(Sorry.) There’s just this one little detail. It’s completely untrue. Here’s what happened: Rush
Limbaugh, during an uncharacteristically clear-minded moment (probably ran out of Oxycontin), said
something unpleasant about Karl Rove, who really does look like the Pillsbury doughboy. The accurate
headline would have been MAN WHO SAYS UNPLEASANT THINGS FOR MONEY SAYS
SOMETHING UNPLEASANT ABOUT MAN WHO DESERVES TO HAVE UNPLEASANT
THINGS SAID ABOUT HIM. Or how about RUSH BITCH-SLAPS ROVE FOR PUBLIC
BREAST-FEEDING. If you’re going to make up the news, at least make up something interesting.
HANDLESS MODEL RECREATES WONDERBRA AD. I have to meet the person who wrote this.
If the poor woman had stepped on a land mine, would the headline be ONE-FOOTED MODEL
RECREATES WONDERBRA AD? If, oh, I don’t know, the Taliban disliked the way she ululated
and cut out her uvula, would it read, UVULA-FREE WOMAN RECREATES WONDERBRA AD?
Let’s face it: for this headline to make any sense at all, there’s only one thing the model could be
missing (teehee). Not that I wish it on her. But, pleeease. It’s what we in the word biz call a nonsequitur. ESKIMO CAN SING BASS, CONDUCTOR SAYS. (I made that one up, but see what I
mean?) REPUBLICAN HAS PET DOG. You can go on like this forever.
Try though Arianna may, none of these can touch a real headline from the LA Times that I had taped to
the door of my refrigerator until it disintegrated: CAN’T STAND PAT, NIXON SAYS.
Now that’s a headline.
This entry was posted on Wednesday, October 20th, 2010 at 10:02 pm and is filed under All Blogs. You can
your own site.
10 Responses to “The Stupid 356 Project, Day 20: The World According
to Arianna”
I lost my comment due to recaptcha. I think it said something like:
Your headlines are better and probably more accurate.
Something like that anyway.
2. Gary Says:
NAN SEES FUTURE WITH REAGAN CLAIRVOYANT
YOu forget to mention the way they do their teaser headlines to get you to click
through to the story: (Not that I ever read HufPo, of course.) Obama says he
absolutely won’t… Or, GOP admits they were responsible for… So you click
through and find out Obama absolutely won’t vote Republican in the 2012
election. Or The Republicans admit they were responsible for all the good things
that ever happened to the economy. Still sometimes the teasers are pretty
compelling. Like: Tim Hallinan’s next novel is sure to…
Funny! I had Karl Rove pictured as the Michelin Man. Oh, and who the hell is
Kim Kardashian, a character out of Star Trek?
“Ambivalent” is the word I’d use to describe my feelings about Arianna;
sometimes she pleasantly surprises, but more often than not she disappoints.
I am rapidly becoming a groupie, Tim. Lo-o-o-ve this post. I had to call my
daughter one day to ask her what a Kim Kardashian was. She couldn’t explain it
to me. I remember that headline; guess that dates me. I’m delighted that you put
into words my creeping uneasiness with Arianna Huffington. Yuch.
6. Larissa Says:
If I had a rifle and an invisibility cloak…ahem.
7. Beth Says:
Tim, if you lived in New England you would know that Gisele Bundchen is the
supermodel married to three-time Superbowl winning quarter back Tom Brady.
Tom is the reason we won. Everything Tom does is news, especially because
every weekend before the game Belichik lists Brady as one of the possibly sick or
injured who can’t play. It is the coach’s little game but a lot of ink is spent on
speculating whether Tom is or is not game ready and whether the masses should
panic.
People outside of New England have no idea how many oceans of ink have been
used in the “why doesn’t Tom cut his hair” discussion, especially since it has been
revealed that Gisele won’t let him.
Surely you can appreciate this as news.
Fairyhedgehog — First, thanks for the glowing mention on your blog. Whooooo!
Second, ALWAYS block your text in Captcha and highlight it, and then go to edit
and pick COPY. Then you can send it off, and if there’s a problem, it’s waiting for
you to use PASTE to put it into the box again. If what you wrote is kind of dumb
and poky, don’t bother because it won’t get eaten, but if it’s brilliant, it’s a goner.
Gary: MAN SWALLOWS WIFE’S FALSE TEETH (actual headline).
Laren — oh, I left out soooo much. The ones in the blog were all online yesterday,
when I wrote it, and all on the front page. I didn’t even have to go to the really
bent zones, such as Entertainment, where we get to critique the clothes of fouryear olds with famous parents or compare “baby bumps,” which is a phrase I’d
like to see vanish at once from the language. Here’s a real provocative one from
today: KNOW YOUR ONIONS. That’s it. And thanks for the plug for the next
book, whatever that may be. (Probably “Pulped.”)
Hi, Lil, and groupie away. We all need undiscerning approval, and anyone who
says he/she doesn’t is not being candid. I’m impressed that your daughter couldn’t
explain Kim Kardashian — says a lot for your parenting skills. And “creeping
uneasiness” is exactly right: when the sire first came online, I thought, Another
biased, highly selective news source, except it’s one I can agree with occasionally.
But it’s gotten creepier and creepier.
Phil, Kim Kardashian is one of three tarted-up daughters or former OJ Simpson
buddy Robert Kardashian, whom you may remember from the trial. Their mother
is now married to Bruce Jenner, former Olympics guy, and they’ve brassed their
way into a (what else?) reality show, although I have to say — although I haven’t
seen it — it undoubtedly stretches the meaning of the word “reality.” I know all of
this courtesy of ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY, orphaned copies of which show
up completely randomly in our mailbox.
Riss — you don’t mean that. A nice girl like you. Anyway, it’s easy to get a rifle.
If you find an invisibility cloak, e-mail me privately.
Beth, you have the SPORTS GENE!!!! I’m sort of amazed, although I remember
you went on at some length once about baseball, over at MURDER IS
EVERYWHERE. So Gisele Bundchen is a supermodel married to a superbowl
quarterback. How super for them. Bet they still argue, even if it’s just over his
hair.
It certainly IS news.
9. Larissa Says:
lol. You’re right. I’d never ever do anything like that. Ahem. Mainly because it’s
way too much effort for someone like that. (c:0
And I’ll send you the details on that cloak…just as soon as I find one. (c:
I’ll need it in large, Riss. And I’d like it to have the Burberry plaid lining so I can
wear it in Japan and fit in.
NOBODY embraces “brands” like the Japanese.
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 21: Does Length Matter?
October 22nd, 2010
So what’s the difference between short and long?
This question has impressed itself on me with increasing force as I battle to salvage something
(anything) from “Spirit House,” the three-part Halloween story I so blithely promised would close out
the first month of this project, which began at the end of September.
The thing is, I have to remember, when I sink into the Slough of Despond, that “Spirit House” is very
different from all the other writing I’ve done over the decades. To hammer on the obvious, “Spirit
House” is a short story, and it’s in a genre — ghost/horror — that I don’t really read much and have
never written. And I undertook it for purely external reasons: to hang a Halloween lantern on the site
for three days.
For me, short stories are a whole new challenge. I find my way into a novel (Pulped, for example, or
any of the Pokes) by coming up with a few people in a situation in which the stakes are reasonably high
and the potential exists for things to get more complicated rather than less. Then I let the characters
loose on the page and allow them flail around for 10,000-20,000 words, listening for their voices to
begin to sound authentic and seeing how they relate to the situation — and, most important, how the
way they react to the situation (and to each other) reveals character. Once character begins to be
challenged and to emerge, I forget all about the situation and just essentially follow the people.
Well, that method is a lot better-suited to a novel of 100,000 words than it is to a story of, let’s say 4500
words. ”Spirit House” is 2600 words long right now and the midsection is kind of sparse and the final
act doesn’t yet exist on the page (although it’s a real window-rattler in my imagination). There’s only
one actual (read: living) character in the story, so it’s mainly about being a camera following along
right behind his head as things go very wrong. And the thing is, that whether it works or not, I only
have to go so far with it: 4500 words is a short enough piece to get away with a couple of good ideas,
some okay lines, and maybe a cheat or two. I hope.
(I know — none of this is making you eager to read the story.)
But I can’t help it. It’s true. The sheer length of a novel makes it impossible to get by on tricks. If you
try, you’ll run out a third of the way through, and the only way to keep going is to go deeper. Sooner or
later, working at novel length, you’ll use everything you think you know, feel, or can imagine about the
story and the characters, and that’s the point at which you reach wayyyyy down and come up with
whatever it is that you actually mean. For me, that moment usually comes about 30,000 words in, and
it’s when the real writing begins. At that point I just hold on and keep hammering away, knowing I’m
going to have to go back and rewrite the first part because I was just circling the drain when I wrote it,
trying to figure out what the book is about.
Obviously, a short story has to be written differently.
None of this is meant as a knock on the short-story form. There are lots of extraordinary short stories,
and I’m sure they were written by artists who arrive at the first page with their imaginations already
wide open, who see to the center of an issue or a character much more quickly than I do. It’s like the
difference between a sprinter and a distance runner: one is right there from the moment the starting gun
sounds, while the other takes time to develop his or her race.
As much grief as “Spirit House” has given me, I’m glad I’m writing it. (Confession: to get the 2600
words I’ve got now, I’ve written probably 10,000.) This is a whole new kind of challenge. Even if it
fails spectacularly, I’ll keep working in the short-story form. We all need to do, on a daily basis, things
we don’t know how to do. Nothing is deadlier for a creative person than staying in the comfort zone.
It feels so good there and it stretches us so little.
Oh, and I’m sorry about that headline; I was under the influence of the Huffington Post.
This entry was posted on Friday, October 22nd, 2010 at 8:49 am and is filed under All Blogs. You can
your own site.
18 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 21: Does Length
Matter?”
1. Bonnie Says:
Whew! I was afraid you were talking about something like this:
http://lafamilylaw.typepad.com/
Seriously, it astonishes me when a good full-lenth novelist can also crank out
decent short stories. Lawrence Block comes to mind. And Marcia Muller/Bill
Pronzoni. I think you are right that it is a different beast entirely.
2. Larissa Says:
So granted you’re not knocking the short story genre exactly but I don’t know if
you’re really taking all there is to them into consideration…ahem. If I may be so
bold. (c:
The real gem about a short story is exactly the fact that the author only has 25
pages or 10 pages or hell, 1 page to tell you *exactly* what they want to say,
choosing not just the best word but the “only” words to say what they mean and
how the characters are feeling…without the luxury of the reader having a chance
to get to know the characters for the first 200 pages, or the chance to figure out for
themselves how the environment is actually a character. A short story is the
equivalent, I think, of a really stellar PSA. (Yes, they exist, I swear)…when
they’re good, they’ll actually make you think before you text and drive again, and
when they’re bad, well, they fade from memory and you never think about them
again. The same may be true of a novel in the general terms but with a short story,
the stakes are higher-most people will finish a short story because well, hell, it’s
only 15 pages. Anyone can read that. But will they remember it…that’s the tough
part.
Not to get all high-horsey here but I’ve read some seriously stellar short stories
that left me with more of a lasting impression than some (daresay, most) novels
I’ve read.
The pain about short stories is that you can really really tell when the author is
trying waaaay too hard. Every word sounds like it was picked out of a thesaurus
because it means “Big” and “Round” (!) Or something.
reCaptcha: ponbuxea clad
If that ain’t the name of a novel or a short story, I dunno what is (c;
I’ll take my soapbox now.
3. EverettK Says:
Jeez, Tim, now besides using up 3 days of the blog with the short story itself,
you’ve spent about 2 1/2 days talking about WRITING the short story. Just manup and write the damn thing already.
If you’re long enough. Er.. big enough… um, I mean… where’s that reCaptcha?
4. Gary Says:
They say the great thing about country music is that you can tell a whole story in
four stanzas. (OK, so “El Paso” goes on forever, but surely you’re not a Marty
Robbins fan.)
Shorting is a whole different craft, isn’t it? Even harder if you write one featuring
the characters from your full-length novels.
For those of you who didn’t click on Bonnie’s link, it led to a news account about
the refusal of a divorce court in Taiwan to order a doctor to measure the husband’s
penis. His wife complained that it was so long it made sex painful for her. In a
ruling that will be applauded by men the world over, the court formally denied the
request, saying that “the length of a man’s intimate part is very subjective.”
Thanks, Bonnie — this was the most reassuring thing I’ve read all day.
Riss — I stand before you, ponbuxea clad (and in my best ponbuxea, too), to say
that I wasn’t in any way attempting to knock short stories, just to say that I lack
the skill set to write them. They are, as Bonnie says, a different beast entirely. I
admire them. I just don’t know how to write them.
Jeez, Everett, who handed you the whip? “Take up three days” with the story? Do
you have any idea how much easier it is for me to just set the spigot to natter and
let it drip until I’ve got 300-400 words, instead of actually trying to make
something good? And where’s all the praise for the fact that ALMOST ALL of
these have been 500 words or so. I get no credit. Just carping, carping carping.
reCatptcha: recente, imbetely Let’s hear one of you smarty-pants use it in a
sentence.
6. EverettK Says:
re: whining about writing 500 word blog entries instead of 300-400.
You’re a NOVELIST, we EXPECT you to run long. Big. Whatever…
Gary, shorting is indeed different, and (for me) much harder. I was in agony over
the one that will be in “Bangkok Noir” but Chris Moore has been very nice about
it, so we’ll see. I used to love “El Paso,” but my current favorite long song in the
world is Dylan’s “Brownsville Girl.” It begins, “I saw this movie one time, and it
starred Gregory Peck . . . ” and goes into one of the great musical narratives ever.
And the background singers, three African-American women, are playing with
him (musically, I mean) and the whole thing just works.
Everett, you’re just mad because I can’t figure out how to do the group novel. I
think it’s a great idea, but it would require a new, dedicated area on the site and
my web guy has apparently been disintegrated into subatomic particles because he
hasn’t answered an e-mail or a phone call in forever. Go look at the home page.
Do you see THE QUEEN OF PATPONG on it? It’s my latest book, isn’t it, and
you’d think it would be there, but . . .
I could probably figure out how to change things myself, but I’d have to back out
of the 365 challenge. Hmm . ..
9. EverettK Says:
Nope, no Queen on your home page. Your site (in terms of home page and
individual book pages) doesn’t look too complex, and I could probably help (or, at
least, mess it up royally), but unfortunately I’m deep in the depths of trying to get
my new game put together in time for the Christmas rush. So I’m afraid I can’t
offer to help with that one. But yeah, you really need to get your latest novel on
there! I think maybe you need to get a new “web guy!”
And no, we will accept NO excuse for backing out of 365!
Gee, I saw a crack of light there for a few seconds.
11.Gary Says:
But the home page distinctly says “A Message from Tim,” not “A Message from
Tim’s Web Guy.” If you use a ghost writer shouldn’t you at least mention him in
the acknowledgements?
And, while we’re on the subject, “A Message from Tim” falls far short of 300
words!
12.Bonnie Says:
Tim, I was wondering why Queen was missing, too. If you need some help, I’d be
happy to give you a couple of hours–only fair in exchange for the hours of reading
pleasure you’ve given me. This assumes you have the info on logging into your
website; a frightening number of people don’t have any idea, or where their
domain name is registered, etc. — and what if your web developer gets hit by a
bus?
I find short stories much easier, especially flash fiction. So writing my first-draftof-a-novella in a month for Nano is always a challenge. And I’ve yet to work out
how to edit something that size!
Recaptcha didn’t like me and lost my comment. Luckily I’d Ctrl+Cd it. Then it
didn’t like me posting the same comment again, even though it hadn’t actually
posted. Argh!
Gary, have you met Everett? I’d be happy to supply each of you with the other’s
address, and you could collaborate on new ways to attack me as I work my fingers
to the bone to provide you with a fleeting instant of pallid entertainment. And by
the way, I actually wrote the blog credited to Everett.
Bonnie, that’s a really sweet offer but ehr admin password, etc., are in the hands
of the missing. I am, in fact, among the frightening twits who don’t know
anything about anything. And he may already have been hit by a bus, for all I’ve
heard from him.
FHH — that makes you very different from me. I could dither around with “Spirit
House” for the rest of 2010 and still be reluctant to loose it upon others. And
whenever that happens — Captch doing that duplicate mention thing — just add a
new first word –”Tim,” for example. Then, no problem.
15.EverettK Says:
Tim said: …as I work my fingers to the bone to provide you with a fleeting instant
of pallid entertainment.
‘pallid’, huh? Well… you said it, not me. But that seems to indicate some amount
of lack of self-confidence, doesn’t it?
Tim said: And by the way, I actually wrote the blog credited to Everett.
Whew, thank GOD! That takes ME off the hook for any idiocies and inaccuracies
in that piece of fluff! Tell you what: you take credit for my writing and I’ll take
credit for your “pallid entertainments,” and we’ll call it even. Talk about the “Deal
of the Century!”
16.Sarah Says:
No one was more scared than me while reading when Kwan had just walked her
teacher and the man out to their motorcycle. I was right there on that road and the
bushes and the motorcycle coming up the road … everything … just scared me. I
can only imagine that this Halloween writing you are doing will produce
something great. This book is my favorite of all time. It is the best. Nobody gets
females talking to each other better … I know .. I go on and on but I really am
going slow because I do not want Queen of Patpong to end. This book has got to
be talked about more. It is JUST GREAT! Please do not thank me for writing this.
It is just the truth. It is now linked with being the only reason I feel like going to
the gym. And that USED to be about the music … but now I have Queen of
Patpong to look forward to so it gets me there. Thanks again for it.
17.Larissa Says:
Wow. Everett and Tim…you two are killin’ me over here…and if we’re not
careful, ya’ll might kill each other too! (c: It’s great.
Now then, do we need to step in and put you both back in your corners before
starting the next round?
Thank you, Sarah — I like that part of the book, too. In fact, the center section of
QUEEN might be the best thing I ever wrote, and it’s not even really a thriller.
Riss, I’m fighting manfully (Everett’s implied phrase when he ordered me to
“man-up”). Everett’s just sulking.
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 22: Passionelle
October 23rd, 2010
Nobody who’s seen “The Birth of a Nation” would call D.W. Griffith — the first great director, the
inventor of the moving camera, of the close-up, of the “literary” film — a social progressive. But he
wasn’t any more advanced in his views of women.
Lillian Gish, so ethereal in the photo above, was Griffith’s greatest star, followed closey by her equally
wispy sister, Dorothy. This was good for Griffith and the advancement of film, since one of the first
performers ever to be caressed in closeup by a moving-picture camera was, almost incidentally, a great
actress. But Gish wasn’t just an actress to Griffiith; she was an ideal, the embodiment of a thoroughly
19th-century view of the female sex.
Griffith divided women — young, attractive women, anyway — into two categories: passionelles and
spirituelles. The dividing line between the categories was pretty much what it sounds like. To simplify
(but not much), those who did and those who didn’t.
As you’d expect, Griffith was a strongly visually oriented man, and he knew exactly what he wanted to
see. The passionelle was “a restless, passionate, dark-haired girl with a red rose in her hair.” The
spirituelle “a mere flaxen-haired girl as carefree as a May morning.” Stifle the gag impulse for a
moment and look at that: brunette vs. blond; ”girl” vs. “mere” girl. A little racism (especially in a
country that was uneasily accepting millions of dark-haired immigrants from Southern and Eastern
Europe) and a little — well — pedophilia. Or, at least, infantilization. Women who remain children are
never threatening, especially not sexually.
And just to make it a little more explicit, Griffith elaborated. ”The voluptuous type, blossoming into
the full-blown one, cannot endure. The years show their stamp too clearly. The other type . . . ah, that
is different.” In short, I guess, thank heaven for little girls and let’s keep them that way. This was, by
the way, the prevailing view of men in upper-class Victorian England. Dickens, with his virtuous girls
and his fallen ones, with the saintly Little Nell and a bunch of others, goes for it completely. Trollope,
and Thackeray, the other great novelists of the day, knew better.
If the Gish sisters and, to a lesser extent, Mary Pickford, were perfect Victorian
spirituelles, the paradigm of the passionelle, for Griffith, anyway, was the screen’s first great
comedienne, Mabel Normand.
Enormously intelligent, spirited, careless to the point of self-destructiveness, independent, and darkhaired, she was everything Griffith disliked (or, perhaps, feared) in a woman. Griffith made sparing
use of her, casting her a couple of times as the passionelle to the spirituelle of Mary Pickford, who in
real life, despite the dimples and flowing curls, was tougher at ten years old than Normand was at
twenty. Frustrated, Normand went to California to become a star working and living with Mack
Sennett, cranking out one great comedy after another until she figured in a notorious Hollywood
murder case, burned out, and died (largely of the bottle) at the age of 38, barely photographable
because of the booze and occasional dope – the passionelle’s inevitable fate. The years, as Griffith
would have had it, showed their stamp too clearly.
But by the time Normand died, Griffith was a has-been. The moguls had taken over the film business
and turned it into an industry, and – who knew? –with the appearance on the scene of Jean Harlow,
blonds were allowed to be bad. Harlow kicked off a long line of blond baddies that stretched down
through Carole Lombard and Barbara Stanwyck to Veronica Lake, Marilyn Monroe and all her
imitators, all the way to the tiresome flounderings of Madonna and (I suppose) Lady Gaga. These
blonds were permitted to grow up — physically, at least — and Griffith’s beloved spirituelles (and all
they stood for) faded, with occasional exceptions, in the harsher light of the late 20th century.
And it’s a good thing, too.
This entry was posted on Saturday, October 23rd, 2010 at 8:07 am and is filed under All Blogs. You can
your own site.
10 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 22: Passionelle”
1. Bonnie Says:
Gee, thanks for that, Tim. :-/ Suddenly visions of the young Mia Farrow dancing
in my head, with thoughts of Mr. Allen’s subsequent… ugh, reaching for brain
bleach.
Mia Farrow is a great example of a latter-day spirituelle. Although I knew exactly
what Ava Gardner meant when she said, after Farrow married Frank Sinatra, “I
always knew Frank would end up in bed with a boy.”
Both Griffith and Woody Allen are proof that there’s no relationship between a
healthy sexuality and vigorous art. Griffith was a genius, and Allen, among other
women-centered films, made “Hannah and Her Sisters,” one of the best (for me)
ever written and directed by a man, if you leave out most of Ingmar Bergman.
3. Sylvia Says:
This is fantastic. One of the things I love about the Poke Rafferty books is that
you don’t retreat into the easy stereotypes for the women.
Thanks, Sylvia — I really appreciate that. Since QUEEN, I seem to prefer writing
women – one of the protagonists of PULPED is a woman, as is the hero of the
standalone I’m writing, based on Scheherazade.
I don’t think you would ever take the easy road. What strikes me about Griffiths’
women is there seems to also be a class difference that has endured for some
years. The pure “spirituelle,” rich woman as opposed to the passionate, read
sexual, poorer working woman-shades of Theodore Dreiser in “A Place in the
Sun.” Madonna and Lady Gaga are cartoons to me, as are those who relentlessly
ape them. I like real, far from ordinary women.
Yes, it’s a class difference, too, although the discerning eye, like Griffith’s, for
example, can pick out the untouched spirituelle even living in a slum. Heightened
sensitivity, doncha know. But he rarely put the passionelle in furs. I’m with you in
liking real, far from ordinary women, and men, too.
I just thought it was interesting to see such a 19th-century sensibility at work in
one of the creators of the supreme 20th-century art form. And Griffith really was
great.
7. Gary Says:
It’s interesting. Eisenstein’s 1925 film The Battleship Potemkin is supposed to
have pioneered so many film techniques, like montage, mixing wide shots with
close ups, and so on. And yet Griffith had already done so much of this stuff ten
years earlier.
My CAPTCHA for Passionelle is “for hottems.” The system is intelligent, I tell
you!
But still nobody believes me.
Yes, Gary, Griffith was certainly the first really great film story-teller. I think the
only American director who gave him a run for his money in the early days was
Buster Keaton, and that’s not a joke. Keaton was one of the great directors in
American film. He invented more techniques on “The General” alone than almost
anyone other than Griffith ever did.
Not knocking Eisenstein — Both Potemkin and the two Ivans are amazing. Gee, I
wonder whether anyone else directed from the 20s to the 80s.
9. Larissa Says:
Neat post. Ah, those precious little Lolita’s…gag.
I’d love to do a film studies class that looks at how these ideas are still lingering
around in our modern day era…then again, there’s so much variety out there now
that you can make whatever argument you want…sort of funny how that works
out.
There were then and will probably always be men who are threatened by adult
women, for whatever reason. (In some cases, a woman in the man’s childhood
might even bear some of the responsibility.) But at least it doesn’t seem to be
quite as prevalent a preference as it used to be.
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 23: Curtains?
October 23rd, 2010
Today I learned from a reader of this blog, Bonnie Riley, that the guy who manages this site, and who
has apparently dissolved into a cloud of subatomic particles for all I’ve heard from him, has not
renewed the domain registry for the site, and that tomorrow is the last day the domain will remain
registered to me. Since the web-guy handled all the startup in the first place, the people at Dreamhost,
where the site is registered, don’t want to hear from me about anything. Even though the name of the
site is timothyhallinan.com and my name is Timothy Hallinan and this is the very site whose address is
printed on all those tens of thousands of books with not only my name but my picture on them.
I’ve e-mailed him and his boss, a friend of mine who founded a site some of you probably know,
Fictionwise, but haven’t heard anything back from either of them. So it’s possible that no one will ever
read this blog because the site could literally disappear tomorrow, taking with it all my hopes and
dreams and hard work and all those images I pirated.
On the other hand, I won’t have to finish “Spirit House,” and you’ll never get to know how marvelous
it was.
“Seam-rippingly good” — Stephen King
“Scared me onto the path of righteousness.” – Dean Koontz
“This is the story I was trying to write.” — Edgar Allan Poe
And if this disappears, old Everett won’t be able to mutter about how I’m using up yet another post to
talk about that [brilliant] story. Awwwww. I’ll miss that.
Well, here’s my promise to you all. If the site vanishes, I’ll keep my commitment to the letter. A piece
a day, complete with occasional seasonal short stories, honing the blade of my intellect on the hard
whiteness of the blank page. Honest. You won’t be able to read them, of course, but wherever you go
in the world, you’ll at least know that somewhere a lonely writer is laboring in obscurity, turning out
great stuff you’ll never see. For you.
Cross my heart.
This entry was posted on Saturday, October 23rd, 2010 at 9:41 pm and is filed under All Blogs. You can
your own site.
25 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 23: Curtains?”
1. Gary Says:
Quick! Get Everett’s advice on how to download and save the whole of your site.
Then when you find a new hoster you can just upload it all again, and voila!
Quick!
2. Gary Says:
$50 software:
http://www.inspyder.com/products/Web2Disk/Default.aspx
Good for regular website backups too.
3. philip coggan Says:
Just to let you know that someone read it. Surely it can be transferred to another
host? Blogger, WordPress?
4. Susan Says:
NO, No, NO!!! This just can’t be! I just discovered your blog and, not too terribly
long ago, you through your Poke books. Is there someone I can write to or call to
help out with this problem? Please let me know if there is. I’ll do what I can.
Susan
Oh my word. I do so hope you can sort this. You can’t just disappear!
And your wonderful advice to writers! That’s pulled me through many a writer’s
block.
This is really, really bad.
Well here it is, Sunday October 24th.
Nice to see you’re still around.
For now.
Well, this is embarrassing. We’re still here. My friend Scott Pendergrast got hold
of my erstwhile Web guy, who learned that the credit card used to guarantee
renewal of the site had (ummmm) expired. So thanks to Gary, Philip, Susan,
Fairyhedgehog and Peg, who hung in for the Last Days. It’s good to know who
the core constituency is. But now I have to finish “Spirit House.”
8. Beth Says:
I’m here as well, Tim.
I suppose we common folk can take some comfort in learning that people with
important things to protect do as poor a job of it as those of us who post daily
drivel.
It really would be a shame to have this end; it is just too good. Would it be
inappropriate to send it out too the people from whom you have email addresses?
That would be even better than the monthly newsletter – thirty of Tim’s views
versus one. No brainer there.
Thank goodness it’s the credit card that expired and not your blog — nor our
chance to read the upcoming deliciously frightening and scary Spirit House so
admired by dear Edgar.
10.EverettK Says:
VERY sorry to hear this!
Just a quick note to everyone who follows Tim, his site and this blog: if it goes
dark, don’t lose hope. I’m sure Tim will be back eventually. So just keep Googling
him periodically (or email him, or even email me), and eventually you’ll get
linked back up when he gets his shit back together. Ummm… I mean, gets his
website up and running again.
But hopefully things will get straightened out, sooner rather than later!
Kinda leaves you feeling all hollowed out inside, doesn’t it, Tim, thinking that
your site could go down at any moment? When my site went down a few years
ago due to confusion over where the invoices/reminders were going and where the
payments were coming from, it took an act of Congress, a majority vote of the
UN, and a unanimous vote of the Intergalactic Council on Cyberspace Affairs to
get the site reinstated, but that’s only because I was able to prove that I’d payed
the annual domain name registration renewal fee on time. It could have been
worse. Life’s a bitch when you don’t own your domain name.
While it looks like you’re good to go for another year, just in case this wonderful
blog goes down for any reason before you get to Day 365 of the Stupid (but
delightful) 365 Project, you can e-mail your daily random ramblings and
miscellaneous musings to me for the duration.
12.Bonnie Says:
See, Tim tricked a blog post out of me with this, too. Though I’m preaching to the
choir in here, apparently, this is what I was inspired to post a link to on DorothyL
— lest, heaven forfend, this happen to any other favorite author of mine!
http://pixeledplums.blogspot.com/2010/10/oh-dear-is-it-october-already-offtopic.html
P.S. My captcha words should inspire *someone* to write a short story: vicers
granted
Can you get the site backed up so that we don’t have this scare again? It really is a
very good site and I’d hate to see it go dark.
Hey, Beth, thanks for hanging in. We seem to be out of danger for the moment. I
don’t know about e-mailing these things — my monthly newsletter goes out to
about 2500 people, and most of them put up with it but I think I’d lose a ton of
them if I sent them a blog a day. Especially as the quality begins (or continues,
depending on your perspective) to drop.
Hi, Kari — well, the domain name had expired, too, and the problem was that
they couldn’t renew it because of the credit card. That would have been terrible
for this site, but arguably even worse because it would have cut off my contact
with readers — I get a LOT of mail from people who read the books and go to the
website on the flap. It would be really the sh*ts to have that line cut, and even a
similar-sounding site still wouldn’t work. There are probably 50-60,000 books out
there with this URL on them, and another 100,000 if you count e-books. Yikes.
And it was really hard to get that quote out of Edgar.
I’m here, Everett. And tickled pink to be here. Really would have been awful.
Thanks again to Bonnie Riley who spotted the problem and to both Bonnie and
Everett, both of whom made emergency backups of the site.
Phil I wish I had your connections at the Intergalactic Council. I’m going to take
over ownership of the domain name and make sure that the card the auto-renew is
keyed to is still active by making it my Amazon card. I know the INSTANT
something happens with my Amazon account, and I’ll be able to fix it and go
immediately to Dreamhost.
Bonnie – da HERO!!!!. Although that “tricked me” line could use a little work.
Why do I sense a certain amount of skepticism about this enterprise when I’m
working my fingers to the bone for you?
FHH, it is/will be backed up. The real problem is the domain name, which I have
to keep active because of all the books referred to above.
Glad y’all are still here. Glad I’m still here.
15.Gary Says:
“It is/will be backed up.” And it is/will be done regularly from now on.
Won’t it?
When a man is about to lose his website it concentrates his mind wonderfully.
16.Sylvia Says:
Well, dammmit, come to the old hands if you get in trouble!
Seriously: I’ve bitten my tongue about redesigning your blog (I dream of the day
when we could actually browse back to see previous posts) but if it comes to
being worried about losing your domain – please email me! Because you
shouldn’t have that kind of stress and domains aren’t that hard to keep hold of
(once you have one. I’m not suggesting you can grab bangkok.com)
And wtf – my word ver is Seditte Committee. I am saying nothing more.
17.Laren Bright Says:
Well, I for one am glad that this is all straightened out now. It would have been
tragic to have lost those scintillating and fascinating words, And I am referring to
reCaptcha.
18.Larissa Says:
Ha. It sort of drives home how temporal the whole “internet” thing really is,
dudn’t it? We get to used to having “our” blog, but really it’s 1′s and 0′s that
pretend to act as we want them to act…and then we forget to pay for the things or
we don’t have our login information *Slap on the wrist* for that Tim! You should
always, always, always, have your own login information so you can FTP your
stuff over….I’m sure I’m going to get a clever comment about FTPing anything
but yeah…yes you pay Joe Schmoe for making the website…but…but…but…(c:
I’m glad you’re still here. What else would I do when I’m bored at work?!?! I
mean…on lunch…ahem.
19.Chester Campbell Says:
Glad to hear things have been cleared up, Tim. I’d been meaning to drop by and
check out your Dumb 365 Project (Sarah won’t let me use the “S” word) but had
neglected to until I read Bonnie’s post on DL. You are, as usual, absurdly
entertaining. Keep up the good work.
Wow — the lesson is clear. You want attention, develop a cough. On the other
hand, it’s pretty obvious that there are those who run to the cougher’s side with
vitamin C and cool compresses and those who simply sneer about people who
haven’t got enough sense to come in out of the rain.
In the sneering faction we have Gary (big surprise) and Laren (even bigger
surprise), and the old wrist-slapper, Riss (although it’s redeemed by “dudn’t,”
which I’m trying to work into “Spirit House”). Chester, thank you for dropping by
and aligning yourselves with the Nightingales instead of the Whipsnades, and
Sylvia, thank you for the offer of help. Thanks again to Bonnie Riley for calling
my attention to this, making an emergency backup, and averting the whole thing
and to Everett for making his own backup, just in case.
And I reread Beth’s post way, way up there and think I should rename this project
The Daily Drivel.
21.Larissa Says:
hehe…I’m sorry! I repent! Though it looks like I’m in good company over here
with the…what’d you call us? Whipsnades? I love it. hehe. In fact, maybe I’ll just
stay on this side of the fence. It could make my sweeter side seem all the sweeter
in the end. (c:
Riss, while I love you dearly, your sweeter side goes only so far.
23.Larissa Says:
hehe. Seems I’ve heard that somewhere before…once or twice…ahem. Well, I’ll
try and keep an even balance of things ’round here. (c:
24.Cynthia Mueller Says:
Um….you have a monthly newsletter? And this how I find out? Not by opening
my email and finding it there?
captcha: 317. manknop
Oh, I thought it said ‘knob’ and it made me wonder if you’d gotten a new sponsor
for your site.
Cindy — you’re on the mailing list — I just checked. I sent you the October one
anyway and put you on again. You may get two, but they’re easy to delete.
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 24: Curtains, Part 2
October 25th, 2010
Okay, so the world didn’t end.
No, that wasn’t a play for attention yesterday. Although I have to admit that it was interesting to see all
that response. Sort of like the adolescent fantasy of dying so you can see who cries at your funeral.
Few things are more embarrassing than being wrong about the end of the world. And people have been
wrong about it over and over, almost since the beginning of the world.
The first big Western panic about Final Days arose in the last years of the 10th century, which
(remember school?) concluded in 999. The first millenium caused widespread panic, at least in the
Christian world. Muslims, Jews, and the people of the East and the as-yet unrumored New World were
unmoved, for the obvious reason that no one except Christians began counting time at 1 AD.
The next big miss followed quickly, in 1054, terrifying even more people because the precipitating
event was visible all over the planet. That was the year that the light reached earth from a cataclysmic
event that had actually occurred 6500 years earlier — the supernova of a star in the area of the
constellation of Taurus. One of only a handful of supernovae visible to the naked eye in the history of
modern humankind, it was viewed with awe and profound misgivings by the Chinese, the Arabs, and
the Christian world alike.
But the world spun on unaffected until astronomers turned their newly-invented telescopes toward
Taurus and discovered the most active identifiable radio object in the sky, the Crab Nebula. This
gigantic, pulsating interstellar jellyfish is the remains of the star whose spectacular immolation
frightened so many million people here on earth. Of course, the event also immolated any worlds that
might have been circling it, so if anyone on one of those had predicted the end of the world, he or she
would have been spot on.
Probably the most embarrassing wrong call occurred on October 22, 1844, in upstate New York, an
area of the state that had seen the fires of religious revival so often it became known as The BurnedOver District. In less than fifty years the District gave rise to the precursors of the Mormons, the
Seventh-Day Adventists, and the Spiritualist Movement, and strengthened the conviction of the
Shakers. One group, the Millerites, determined that the world would come to an end on the 22nd.
They took food and a few worldly goods, said farewell to their neighbors and friends, and trudged to
the top of a hill to meet the end. Then, the next day, they trudged back down again, which was
probably harder than going up in the first place. They eventually moved on and became the SeventhDay Adventists. (The Burned-Over District gets some play in my Simeon Grist novel, The Four Last
Things.)
There was a lot of end-of-the-worlding during the radioactive fifties and sixties, but in this increasingly
secular century, fewer people take so seriously a deity-commanded End of Days — the bearded man
with the sign proclaiming THE END IS NEAR has become a staple of magazine jokes, and some very
profitable films have thrilled people by allowing them to sit safely in the dark while everyone else on
earth (except whoever was top-billed) ate the big one.
Many people seem to anticipate the end of the world with a certain muted glee, perhaps because we’ve
been wrong so often that the big, total-planet, all-involving, wall-to-wall Destructo Supreme seems a
lot less likely to us than the much smaller, much more personal, and much more certain end that will
come to each of us. I don’t subscribe to any religion that involves a return ticket, so for me the world
will very definitely end at the same precise moment I do.
If I can make it through 2012, I mean.
your own site.
23 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 24: Curtains, Part 2”
1. Larissa Says:
hehe…it’s all rather brilliant isn’t it? There’s all these people out there claiming
that the end is not only nigh but that it’s Here. With a big ol’ captail H and that we
have to jump on this bandwagon or another to be “saved”…except that that I don’t
subscribe to any religion that says you get to live in the whispy white world above
as one of the clouds with a little harp and a bird’s eye view…and even if I did, it
still seems like a very sweet Hallmark publicity scheme. Great marketing on their
part.
2. Larissa Says:
A random addition not at all related really…so I typed my last reCaptcha word
(Ponbuxea) into the dictionary, just to see. Nothing. So then I typed it into Google
and it pulled up my comment on your blog…the machine is getting too clever for
me.
Ahem.
That’s all.
Hopin’ that the Mayas are as incompetent as the Millerites, eh, Tim?
Well, Riss, I actually think the world ended last Saturday night but since it was on
NBC, no one noticed. The harp, by the way, is generally acknowledged to be one
of the most difficult, and most painful, instruments to learn, so no, thanks.
But I am grateful for your forgiveness, even if I’m not crazy about the term “fearmongering.”
Hey, Phil — whenever anyone gets going on Mayan prophecies, I just remind
myself that they didn’t foresee their own extinction by the Spaniards. But I have
fundamentalist Christian friends (I do, really) who are also lined up for the exit in
2012.
There was the Millennium Bug too: that was all set to get us in the year 2000. Or
doesn’t that count as it wasn’t religious?
6. Larissa Says:
FHH I think that could count. People were pretty worked up over it…it was nearly
religious at the very least. (c:
I’m glad the world hasn’t ended just yet. That would really put a kink in most of
our plans I think.
7. EverettK Says:
Oh, there were plenty of fundamentalist Christians (is that redundant? What’s a
‘dundant’ anyway?) who thought the world might end in 1999-2000, kind of an
echo of the 999 fears that Tim mentioned. Fortunately, the Constitution still
protects us from the worst of their activities.
Anway, glad you’re still with us, Tim! (unless, of course, you’re really an
advanced computer AI. hm…)
And let us not forget Y2K, which turned out to be only the end of 1999.
FHH, I think it counts. I left out a bunch, actually — the appearance of the
bubonic plague in Europe, a couple of total solar eclipses — a whole bunch of
them. In some corner of our being, we’re yearning for the end of the world, even
if it’s just as a way to get rid of reality television.
Riss, I’ve got airplane tickets to Asia already paid for. I’ve got 400 books I
haven’t read and 200 DVDs I haven’t watched. Good Lord, I haven’t finished
“Spirit House.” The end of the world right now would be massively inconvenient.
Even though it WOULD get rid of reality television,
Everett, don’t know about “redundant.” It’s one of those words. My wife said to
me this morning that she was handling something gingerly, and I thought that you
can replace “carefully” with “with care,” but “with ginger” doesn’t communicate
much. Explanation? Oh, yeah, your point. Yezzz ittt izzz stillll meeeeee.
Laren, Y2K? Y2K not?
I missed Saturday ( SF baseball fan), and I’m here today, so I am pulled back from
the edge of the abyss before I knew it was there. I like the the idea of you having
way too much to do for the world to end. Me too. Glad you are still here. I am a
subscriber to your newsletter, and I don’t know if I could handle the richness of a
daily email from you. BTW, add “gingerly” to “unkempt,” and “unruly.” You
inspire a lot of fun.
Hey, Tim, if it will get rid of reality television, then I’m all for it.
Lil, I’m shocked. Shocked, do you hear? To learn that the playoffs in which the
Giants won a ticket to the Series, was more important than my blog. Shocked. I
doubt whether there are many people who could put up with the — “richness,” I
think you said? — of a daily e-mail from me. So I’ll just be ruly and hope y’all
stick with me and Dreamhost doesn’t pull the plug.
Phil, I’d probably vote for it just to get rid of Snooki.
13.Bonnie Says:
Oh, no!! I flunked my reCaptcha typing. Time to start again: Please don’t diss my
reality TV. I live for the next episode of Project Runway! (In fact, when re-reading
Queen of Patpong yesterday, I was picturing Tra La — yes, I know he has black
hair — as Austin Scarlett, snipping away at Rose’s hair.)
14.Gary Says:
I went into a bookshop a month after Y2K. They were trying to sell off unsold
Y2K survival kits at half price.
15.Catherine Says:
I’m impressed you managed to pull a lazarus Tim.
Y2K in my town was sort of fun because some people decided to provide
permaculture gardens for the local co-op. You gave them $25 and someone would
come out and discuss with you the prime garden aspect and take an order for what
vegetables you wanted. Then a couple of days later some guys turned up with a
ute(pick up truck) and a heap of cardboard and mushroom compost, and cane
mulch…and some seedlings. All you had to do was a little bit of weeding, and
watering. The idea was if all the normal food distribution channels were disrupted
by Y2K we could manage for our families and probably have excess to share or it
would be all ok and we’d still have a great yield of organic vegies.
Bonnie, it’s not really reassuring that reCaptcha challenges you. Hmmmm. When
I say “reality TV” it should be understood by all that I exclude “Project Runway.”
There are a couple of chef shows, too. But see, the difference is that those shows
are about skills, while the others are about trailer trash. They remind me of a great
New Yorker cartoon years ago: A small curved horizon, black sky, no foliage
anywhere, a sagging park bench and some empty tin cans, with the caption “The
world without Mozart.” And so glad to hear you’re reading “Queen.”
Gary, what would a Y2K survival kit have been? A fresh copy of DOS? I guess
I’ve forgotten (because it seemed so bogus at the time) how sweeping Y2K was
supposed to be — another gift of the global media, right up there with swine flu.
Everybody over their swine flu by now?
Catherine – Welcome. An organic garden for Y2K. Sounds like we should do a
blog about people’s Y2K experiences. I just remember being deeply cynical about
it and then thinking it would be great if everything went down at the moment Dick
Clark said “Happy —” And then blank screens. I was so convinced it was a nonissue that I didn’t even back up the unfinished books on my laptop. Looking back,
that was probably foolhardy. So — what did you plant?
17.Bonnie Says:
“Bonnie, it’s not really reassuring that reCaptcha challenges you.”
Well, it’s more of an eyesight thing. I still type at least 100 wpm, in spite of
computers and delete keys.
” Hmmmm. When I say “reality TV” it should be understood by all that I exclude
“Project Runway.” There are a couple of chef shows, too. But see, the difference
is that those shows are about skills, while the others are about trailer trash.”
I have sunk low enough to watch The Rachel Zoe Project and the train wreck that
is Millionaire Matchmaker. But I have weaned myself off them again, since I have
better things to do with my time, such as sticking red-hot needles in my eyes.
However, apart from trailers, I’ve not stooped low enough yet for any Real
Housewives. There are depths to which I will not sink.
Am now going back to curl up with the latest Jack Reacher, even though I could
be watching Patti Stanger.
Oh, no no no no no no not Rachel Zoe. Oh no no no no no no not Millionaire
Matchmaker. The very NAMES of these shows make me feel like Mr. Bill when
Mr. Hand shows up.
Jack Reacher is okay, though.
19.Catherine Says:
Thanks Tim.
It’s ten years ago…so it’s mostly the stuff that really worked that comes to mind.
It was pretty basic.
I had cherry tomatoes for months. I started using them fresh in salads and then at
the point where I couldn’t even give them away, I started roasting them and
turning them into pasta sauce.
Bok Choy was good young. Lemon grass, and basil thrived too. Basil turned into
pesto with a little intervention. I think there was capsicum too. Coriander blew to
seed fast. Italian parsley was also hard to kill. Most of it was handy to throw into
whatever else was going. I swapped some of it with friends and we’d wander over
to each other’s places to get a handle of herbs or whatever and end up sometimes
combining meals…and sharing some wine.
As for Y2K I was jaded pretty fast too. I did find a lot of the blather hilarious
though. I have an Aunt Kit in London who was a computer programmer in the
70′s and she was big on saying ‘This isn’t a new thing, people knew about this in
the ’70′s…followed up with ‘It all went to shit when those focking (it’s absolutely
how she said it) Americans came and took over.’
20.Catherine Says:
Ok handle of herbs isn’t some weird Aussie slang or alluding to anything sinister
and or illegal…I’m not sure how my typos are morphing… My intended phrase
was a handful of herbs.
Hi, again, Catherine. Amazing how what I thought was a vigorous and fascinating
discussion of disposable razors got side-tripped into organics. Oh, well, I asked
for it. As one who has grown tomatoes, I know exactly what it’s like to have a
house that’s absolutely full of tomatoes, to the point where one’s friends begin to
avoid one. And I’ve also had the humbling experience of slaving for months over
my tomatoes only to be outgrown by a factor of 100% by a couple of plants that
seeded themselves from fruit that landed on the ground. My God, how those
things produced.
Your Aunt Kit — by “Americans,” did she mean Microsoft? As I remember, Bill
Gates was widely pilloried as having created the whole disaster by developing a
global platform and achieving total control of an entire industry without ever
having looked at a calendar.
22.Catherine Says:
Your disposal razor post harnessed the zeitgeist in this household. I’d only just
bought another pack ( and for some reason it mattered that they be pink) and I had
stood there in the supermarket thinking this is madness. I’d had all the
environmental guilt roil around and still bought them.
I was amused to see the discussion divert by way of Y2K to organics.
My Aunt’s company that she had worked for was taken over by an American
company. I don’t think it was Microsoft. I’m pretty certain she saw Bill Gates as
the devil though. It amuses me when people rant about Americans as though there
is this great hive mind of attitudes…anyway she was much more specific than just
ranting against the entire population of the US,or a large company…it was just the
ones that crossed her path.
Ohmigod I’m leading people astray. Pink. huh? You know, that involves the dye
called red-32, which kills absolutely everything, from the garden snail up
I’m just messing with you. And Americans can be quite objectionable, especially
abroad. But who can’t?
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 25: The Razor’s Edge
October 26th, 2010
The disposable razor is an ethical dilemma.I know about the widening continent of plastic trash floating
in the Pacific. I know about the millions of tons of crap shoveled into increasingly toxic landfills every
day. I know about the chemical runoff from plastics manufacture.
I’m keenly aware that we have discarded something like a trillion literally razor-sharp little pieces of
steel over the past twenty years. And all those weensy, rusting sharpies give me the heebie-jeebies.
We’re courting a global outbreak of tetanus.
Speaking of which, “tetanus” was one of the medical words that most frightened me when I was a kid
— along with “yaws” (picture of a young woman with her left cheek eaten away to expose her teeth)
and “elephantiasis” (picture of some poor African guy pushing his testicles in a wheelbarrow). It was
the elephantiasis picture that first got me speculating — at the age of eight or nine — on the
frivolousness of God. The only thing to be said for yaws and elephantiasis was that they seemed to live
on different continents.
But tetanus was right outside the door. Tetanus was waiting on a rusty nail, buried in the grass. On the
edge of an old hoe. It locked your jaw. So you got tetanus shots, which can’t be as bad now as they
were back then, when your arm and then your entire torso went toothache-sore for days.
But I digress. Environmentally, I try to be reasonably green. I don’t drink bottled water (for one thing,
most of it is tap water marked up literally 20,000 percent) and I recycle what I can. We compost our
organic trash, or at least give it to someone else to compost. We both of us, my wife and I, buy organic
when we can to reduce pesticide use. We restrict our driving, starting the cars only when we need to
go somewhere. Jeez, I take a bag to the beach and pick up trash.
But I can’t give up my disposable razors. They’re among the great exceptions of the 20th/21st-century
rule that says that everything is going downhill. Never in history has it been possible for a man (and a
woman, too, for all I know) to get such a clean, comfortable, sanitary, cheap shave. I remember my
father, when my mother forced a package of disposables upon him after they first came out — he was
not a man to change his habits without a struggle — saying, “They last so long I get to feeling guilty.”
He regularly threw one away while it was still sharp and started on the next.
This is the new cornucopia. Now that we have plums and nectarines from Chile in February, now that
melons are ripe all year long and pumpkins come in cans (memo to self: carve scary faces into empty
pumpkin cans, claim as conceptual art), the 21st-century Horn of Plenty would be, for me, a tumble of
disposable razors, with the new four-bladers in front. (Four blades! It makes my head swim. If they’d
had four-bladers in the Sixties, Richard Nixon would have won that television debate.) I buy the damn
things whenever I see a new brand, I buy them at Costco in packs of twenty.
By the way, the best disposable razor in the world is the Old Spice four-blader, which existed for like
seven heartbeats last year. I literally bought out the entire stock of a Walgreen’s drugstore and I wish
I’d bought out two. Now it’s not even featured on the Old Spice website.
I do feel guilty about this. I know that I should be using an old straight-razor with no disposable parts,
stropping it daily, using whipped lard or some other biodegradable substance in place of aerosol foam,
assiduously avoiding veins and arteries, keeping a styptic pencil right at hand. But then I think about
just stepping in the shower, getting my face all wet and hot, pushing the button on that reassuringly
heavy can, whipping an Old-Spice four-blader over my follicular output for the night, then emerging
pink and gleaming, my face as smooth as the proverbial baby’s behind. And I find myself sending up a
variant on St. Augustine’s prayer: ”Oh, Lord, grant me chastity — but not yet.”
your own site.
15 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 25: The Razor’s Edge”
Who’d have thought disposable razors could be so interesting?
2. Sylvia Says:
One of the things I like about this part of Spain is that vegetables are still
seasonal. Sure, I crave asparagus like a mad woman now but that does mean that
next Spring I’m much more grateful for their appearance.
I have a vegetable garden here and there’s a gardener who likes to help me out
with my annual plantings. But he kept putting pesticides on the plants and weird
blue stuff and god knows what. I explained to him that I wanted it to be organic
and that I didn’t want pesticides etc etc. He gave me a withering look and said “If
I did that on my plot, my family would have starved a long time ago.”
It did give me pause to realise that my little organic vegetable garden works
because I have plenty of food and can afford to supplement it or even lose a full
crop. Another thing to be grateful for!
(I have to admit though that now I pretend not to notice when he sneaks stuff into
my garden to get rid of specific pests.)
3. Gary Says:
Organic/sustainable is good. And virtuous. Most of my sense of virtue arises from
the financial pain involved – paying $6.95 for a small loaf of sprouted grain bread
that tastes like paraffin, versus $1.79 for a large loaf of tasty multigrain bread
produced commercially. On which one spreads – of course – expensive salt-free
butter from yet another organic farm.
I one knew a hippie farmer who kept a cow in a small field, so small that any
preexisting grass had been trampled into mud long ago. You could count every
bone on that cow – it looked like a wooden frame with a hessian bag hanging
from it – because the worm eggs were being recycled again and again within the
confines of that tiny field. When I suggested he worm it before it died, he
explained that it wouldn’t be organic to use nasty worm medicine. Cows out in the
wild weren’t wormed, were they?
Hi, all –
Well, I warned you I’d be scraping bottom soon, but I hadn’t thought I’d go down
as far as disposable razors.
I admire the resourcefulness of those who responded — FHH asking who would
have thought disposable razors would be so interesting despite the evidence that
no one does; and Sylvia and Gary going straight to organic farming, which at least
has potential.
Both of those comments are, in fact, more interesting than the blog. And wait until
tomorrow when you see what I have to say about buttonholes.
We have friends who buy organic venison. Did anyone know there was any
venison that isn’t organic?
5. Maureen Says:
Only four blades? Pity. Mine have six. We use the old four-blade ones to shave
our organic moose. Makes it easier to see their buttonholes.
Six????? Six?????? (Nose in air, sniffing.)
Ahhhh, I know who this is. This is Maureen Sugden, unsplitter supreme of split
infinitives, the only person in the world who can tell me that I got wrong in the
fourth Poke Rafferty book the number on the badge Rose was described as
wearing in book one. Six, my nalgas.
Six? Seriously?
7. Maureen Says:
Fourth try at posting this. I hate that Captcha thing.
Seriously. Six. And it’s only the cheapy supermarket brand, too. I just fished the
packaging out of the bathroom wastebasket to make sure I was right. (That’s how
I do most of my research on your manuscripts, by the way. Never underestimate
the scholarly value of loo trash.) I’d post pictures (or video! how cool would that
be, my disembodied hand rooting around in soggy Kleenex and empty pill bottles
looking for razor detritus?), but I’m much too lazy.
I’m a little surprised–I thought everything high-tech started in California and
moved east. Who would’ve thought that Maine would be on the cutting edge of
disposable-blade technology? (I made a razor joke–did you catch that?)
So is this what you do to avoid getting copyedited?
8. EverettK Says:
Safety razors? SAFETY razors????
C’mon, Tim. You KNOW you should be using a straight-edge.
Do you REALLY expect to be able to slit your throat with a SAFETY razor when
you fail to give birth to Spirit House???
May as well use your chopsticks to try to club yourself to death. But, to each their
own. Me? When the time comes, I plan on swallowing my keyboard.
Maureen, let’s just ignore Everett’s display of lack of faith for the moment and
talk calmly among ourselves.
SIX????????? Which brand? I googled it and found two I can order online that are
sold in Target (not that someone of my refinement ever goes into Target) but there
were no customer reviews and, like all writers, I live or die by customer reviews.
Oh please? Or are they those little-bitty women’s razors? Remember in North By
Northwest when Cary Grant shaved his big face with …
(I’ll get around to you in a minute, Everett. Subside.) … with Eva Marie Saint’s
little bitty razor? Great stuff. And that joke you made was really (wait for it)
sharp. (razor? cutting edge? sharp?)
Everett, there’s no need to reveal yourself quite so nakedly. In fact, “Spirit House”
has been finished for three days, and Parts One and Two are exemplary — well,
they’re okay. I’ve even found pictures for them. Part Three is a mess, but I’ve got
five days and Sunday morning to make it better. Actually, this response is
tempting me to drop the next blog, More About Disposable Razors, Part Three,
and do yet another about writing “Spirit House.”
10.Kaye Barley Says:
Tim. You are never ever going to run out of topics.
Trust me on this.
Just re-read this piece and you’ll know that you’re safe.
Forever, my friend!
(I loved this!)
and yes, I love disposable razors.
AND razor is a great Scrabble word .. .
11.Maureen Says:
Six.
One, two, three, four, five, six. VI. Seis. Roku. Sechs.
I already told you it’s the generic, unbranded supermarket kind. Have I ever lied
to you before?
Speaking of Eva Marie Saint, remember in On the Waterfront when Marlon
Brando puts her tiny white glove on his big boxer’s hand? Swoon. I wonder if this
is a theme in Eva Marie Saint movies. That could be your next blog topic. I think
this disposable-razor thing may have played itself out.
Although Everett seems to have very strong feelings on the subject.
Hi, Kaye, and welcome back. For mystery fans, Kay’s current Louise Penny piece
is absolutely worth reading (and then some) and you can find it FREE, do you
hear, FREE at http://meanderingsandmuses.blogspot.com/2010/10/lucky-pennyby-louise-penny.html
Well worth the time. I don’t know about not running out, Kaye — I have to tell
you, the three-day respite due to “Spirit House” looks awfully good to me right
now.
Maureen, let me see if I follow you here. It’s the generic, unbranded supermarket
kind. So that means it carries the supermarket’s brand? Well, what supermarket?
Or is it some off-brand, niche New England-obscure snowshoes-and-pemmican
store we’ve never heard of out here in Big Sky country? That’s interesting about
Eva Marie Saint, although I’d have been more likely to swoon over her glove than
Brando’s hand. I met her several times in the 1980s and 90s and she was really
delightful. Everett has strong feelings about everything. It’s the gaming mentality
— everything is win/lose.
13.EverettK Says:
Oh, by all means, give us more on the gestation of Spirit House. Can’t get enough.
And, no, I don’t have a gaming mentality. VERY logical. No luck involved, there
is NO losing. It’s all win. As long as you’re perfect. Which I am. But most folks
don’t like to hear that.
However, some folks HAVE found me to BE a bit gamey. Whatever that means.
14.Maureen Says:
I gave up and took a photo of the package it came in. Check your e-mail. (Try not
to be offended–the place mat is from Target.) And don’t think I’ll let you forget
making me dig around in icky bathroom garbage not once but twice over this
issue.
I’ve never seen pemmican at our local Hannaford’s, but the moose mousse is to
die for.
Very impressed that you’ve actually met Eva Marie Saint. I just checked her
IMDb page and am thrilled to see she’s still with us. I loved her as Cybill
Shepherd’s mom in Moonlighting. (Apropos of nothing.) Could you find out if
she happens to have that glove? I would pay big money for it.
Other than that, I really regret butting into this discussion. ;o)
Oh, Everett — this cynical tone just doesn’t fit you. We all know you’re just a big
pussycat trying to come on all James Woods when in any real movie you’d be
played by Robin williams in wet mode, meaning with the awful beard and the
more awful sincerity. But we’ll all pretend we don’t know that and go,
“Oooooohhh, look OUT!!! Everett’s here.” And of COURSE, you’re perfect. Isn’t
he everyone? You can’t hear them because they’re nodding.
Got the photo, Maureen, and that is one tacky bathmat. I’d shower in my shoes,
knowing I’d have to step on that. (Just kidding. It’s fine, although the moose
prints are a but much.)
I haven’t seen old Eva Marie in about 20 years, but she really was tremendously
nice. I’ll be sure to ring her up tomorrow about the glove. And you did not butt
into this discussion. It had gone into pause mode, waiting for you.
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 26: More About Disposable Razors
October 27th, 2010
The feverish response to yesterday’s post convinced me that there’s much more to be said about
disposable razors.
But not today. That was a cunning trick, a sifting mechanism designed to eliminate the thrill-seekers
who are actually looking for interesting content, so I can speak privately with the small coterie of taste
and distinction who clicked their way here to spend some quality time with me. Virtually, of course.
Let’s not get any creepier than we need to.
Which is already pretty creepy. Here I am, pouring out thousands of words a week to people I can’t
see, essentially alone in an exceptionally fine room in my extravagant but tasteful abode — think
marble everywhere, but without too much gloss, arched ceilings, leaded windows overlooking the long
fall of lawn to the lake (isn’t that a euphonious phrase?), past the swans’ nook and the unicorn pen —
where was I? Oh, yeah, me, sitting here all by myself in this dump, scraping desperately for content,
and the first month isn’t even over yet.
Okay, I’m used to conjuring words with my fingertips and following them toward whatever I mean that
day. But usually, they’re in the service of an ongoing story with, you know, characters and stuff. Most
of the time I can get away with leaving lots of space on the page by writing long exchanges of short
dialog. But not in this case. No, this is density city, every page overpopulated, filled only by a more or
less continuous dredging effort. It keeps reminding me of something, and the something it keeps
reminding me of is analysis.
There, I said it. This is like getting shrunk, except a lot cheaper. To be specific, this is like the earlymiddle period in analysis, when you sense that you’re losing the doctor’s interest, no matter what hairstraightening, shameful secret you’ve hauled up out of the dark, so you begin to invent stuff.
The shrink I saw longest had sat through Montgomery Clift in “Freud” 273 times and he had the whole,
full-press Sigmund thing going: the couch that put you at an awkward angle so you couldn’t see the
doctor, the professorial leather chair for him. Oh, and a couple of modern touches: the discreet box of
Kleenex and the absolutely requisite bad abstract-expressionist prints that looked like a triangle had
vomited onto the canvas.
The thing was, when he was interested, he sat forward, and when he sat forward his leather chair
creaked. Well, even at fifty minutes, an hour of analysis is a long hour. I didn’t need the Kleenex, and
the abstract expressionists (was there ever a more desiccated artistic movement?) held no interest, so
the whole experience became an exercise in making his chair creak. He’d sat motionless through some
of my most harrowing material, so I began to see whether he had limits. And once or twice an hour, on
a good day, some wretched invention would produce a creak. Twice, over a span of about a year and a
half, I actually got him to clear his throat. I was pumped for a week.
I’ve written perhaps a million and a half words of fiction, so my powers of invention are (at the very
least) well-exercised. But shrinks are a hard audience. They’ve heard everything. (This is why
psychoanalysts’ conventions don’t book standup comics.) I gradually became aware that the chair
wasn’t creaking any more, so I did what you have to do, sooner or later, in analysis: I told the truth.
And I mean the whole truth. For forty minutes I lay there unwrapping my soul to its diseased and
moldering core. I held nothing back. I released the inner Hieronymous Bosch. I touched the third rail,
psychologically speaking, part of me squirming in embarrassment, part of me seeing myself as Patient
X in the paper that would change psychology forever (“an act of courage on the analysand’s part that
literally brought me to tears”), and part of me listening for the chair to creak.
And I heard snoring.
I was the doctor’s last patient of the day. My sessions ended at seven. This was February, so it was
dark at seven. I got up off the couch and turned off all the lights in the office and very quietly let
myself out. I took a piece of paper from my briefcase, since I had come direct from work, and wrote
DO NOT CLEAN on it and closed the door to trap the page at eye level. I went home. I had a beer, or
four.
The best of all possible worlds. My analysis was over. I had gotten it out of my system, and no one
had heard me. But don’t think for a moment I’m going that far here. I’ll write about disposable razors
before I do that.
your own site.
13 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 26: More About
Disposable Razors”
1. Beth Says:
Instead of analysis, Roman Catholics have the Sacrament of Reconciliation,
something of which few Catholics take advantage.
Like the psychoanalyst, there isn’t anything a penitent can tell a priest that he
hasn’t already heard.
I suppose, in both cases, we should take comfort in knowing that we aren’t
responsible for an original sin. We are normal in our abnormalities and predictable
in our weaknesses. That has to be better than shocking the people who have heard
it all.
2. Bonnie Says:
Funny, I always felt I had to entertain my first therapist. Of course I see now it
was an avoidance technique. Luckily I found one later who was better at getting
me through the difficult stuff. Reminds me of something the fictional Dowager
Duchess said about Peter Wimsey, something like he would charm and entertain
his executioner.
Sounds like hi brain was freud by the end of the day.
Beth, right, confession/reconciliation was the first analysis. I’ve always attempted
to sin in an original fashion, although I’m certain there’s nothing in that area that’s
new under the sun.
Well, of course, you’re right, Bonnie. It is an aversion. I once went to a therapist
for about six months and then my wife went to him, and all he wanted to talk
about was how entertaining I was. I felt like I should have sent him a bill.
Laren, if you were capable of feeling pun shame, you’d be shriveling right now.
And once again, I can’t think of anything to top you.
5. EverettK Says:
Damn. I was SO disappointed. I was really PUMPED for some more dish on the
best razors (I’m getting tired of electrics and am looking for some real slice-n-dice
action!)
TIM SAID: This is like getting shrunk, except a lot cheaper.
In proofreader mode, I thought there for a second that you’d written, “This like
getting DRUNK, except a lot cheaper.”
Sheds a whole different light on the blog…
6. Larissa Says:
Yeah…I’ve been there too-the act of saying a lot of nothing but doing it in such a
charming and energetic (read: fast and loud) method that the average person has
no idea what hit them…but they think they liked it?
Glad to see you made it through the whole ordeal-I think if I had bored my
Oh, Everett, I’ll be returning to disposable razors over and over again in the 11
months (and counting) that remain to me in this foolhardy enterprise. I actually
went to a shrink drunk a couple of times and had a much better time than when I
went sober, but I couldn’t remember what I’d told him. (I did practically
everything drunk at one long stage of my life.)
Riss, the thing isn’t so much what you say as how you say it, but in print you lose
all those lovely tools — no matter how fast you write it, they’ll read it at their own
speed, no matter how you modulated your voice, they can’t hear it, no gestures or
body language carry. You’re stuck with the word in neutral type. Would someone
remind me why I’m doing this?
This was hysterical.
It’s odd though. When I read fiction I just read it for what it is but when I read
autobiography I’m always wondering which bits are made up – or in this case, if
any bits are not made up! Who cares, though, when it’s so funny.
9. EverettK Says:
Tim said: “…but in print you lose all those lovely tools — no matter how fast you
write it, they’ll read it at their own speed, no matter how you modulated your
voice, they can’t hear it, no gestures or body language carry. You’re stuck with the
word in neutral type.”
It’s definitely true that it’s a problem, but there ARE tools that can be effectively
wielded to combat that. Some authors, of course, are better at it than others. I just
finished Lois Bujold’s latest release, and was once again reminded of how good
she is at that. She tends to write in a “close 3rd person,” almost giving you a firstperson account. She frequently intersperses italicized thoughts from the viewpoint
characters, uses m-dashes (double hyphens) to insert disjoint phrases or sidethoughts, and uses relatively good (and brief) descriptions of hand motions and
head motions that really help to convey the characters attitudes. Once familiar
with the characters, much can be conveyed with a simple tilt of the head and a
raised eyebrow, or a hand turned palm-up. True, there’s not much you can do to
control the SPEED at which the reader reads, but you DO, to a great degree, build
the road that they walk upon.
Thanks, FHH — every word was true. I may sugar things here and there, but
they’re factually true unless clearly marked as otherwise. For example, SPIRIT
HOUSE, which begins here tomorrow and continues through Halloween night.
Hey, Everett, it’s true that you can color the way a reader encounters written
prose, but I personally find it much easier in fiction, where the attitudes and
actions of the characters create sort of filters and you have so much lovely leeway
in dialog — hesitations, false starts, obvious lies, etc. I’m still finding my way
into this form, though. Maybe, by the end of the year, I’ll have more sense of how
to shade the prose for maximum reader affect. Right now I’m concentrating on
forming complete sentences.
SPIRIT HOUSE begins tomorrow, and I didn’t do another blog about it. Aren’t
you proud of me?
11.EverettK Says:
Ah. You were talking about writing in the BLOG, not fiction in general. My
mistake (first one this year…)
As for being proud of you about not blogging again about Spirit House, I’ll
Curses! Foiled again! I intended to do a full week’s follow-up to “Spirit House.”
First? First mis- FIRST MISTAAAAAAAAAAKE????????
HawhawwwwHAAAAAWWWWWWWWWWW. (Choking and wheezing.)
HAAAAAWWWWWWWWWWHHHHHHAAAAAAWW
HAAAAWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW
WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW
WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW
WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW
I’m sorry. Was that rude?
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 27: Sir Laurence
October 28th, 2010
Yes, that Sir Laurence. It’s star time again.
Somewhat late in Olivier’s career – he was around seventy — his adopted son, David Plowright,
became head of drama at Granada Television, up in Manchester, which was owned by an old-time
mogul named Sir Lew Grade. Grade had bulldozed his way into national carriage, meaning that
Granada was essentially its own British network, like the BBC but substantially livelier. Olivier was
not as strong as he had once been, and he and David dreamed up a project that would keep him acting
and producing without having to fly to film sets all over the world or do long runs on the stage.
It was called Laurence Olivier Presents, and the idea was to take some classic American plays and
some major American talent and make a bunch of shows that could air not only in England but also in
the States. It’s a measure of how different things are now (this was in the late 1970s) that NBC jumped
at a bunch of videotaped theater pieces, some of which would star the world’s greatest living actor. To
get that on the air today, Olivier would have to be cast against Snooki. (On the other hand, not to be
unduly pessimistic, Pamela Anderson is behind us.)
The first time I went to Granada, they were doing William Inge’s “Come Back, Little Sheba,” with a
cast that included Olivier, Joanne Woodward, and Carrie Fisher, still Princess Leia in most people’s
eyes. I went onto the set with a certain amount of trepidation — the man was one of my idols and had
been since I first saw “Henry V” at the age of twelve — and introduced myself to Olivier, who
promptly told me to call him Larry. That was clearly impossible, so I sidestepped it and invited him
and his costars to dinner either that night or the next. Olivier seemed delighted. ”That sounds
marvelous, Boysie,” he said. And I was Boysie from then on, for a couple of years, in fact. (I wasn’t
all that young, but I looked young to him.)
That night, Larry — whom I still avoided addressing by name — Miss Woodward, and Miss Fisher and
I all went to dinner in some ancient, cavernous restaurant that had once been a cotton mill, back when
Manchester was the cotton capital of the world. I asked everyone about wine, and Olivier lit up a bit
said, “Why don’t I take care of that?” and then he leaned across the table, locked eyes with me, and
said, “Drink a little, do you, Boysie?” There was an unspoken but unmistakable challenge in the
question. I allowed as to how I could hold my own, at which point Joanne Woodward, who had been
there for a couple of weeks, said, “Oh, dear.”
With Sir Larry topping up my glass and then – to be fair — topping up his own, we had a three-hour
dinner that was the greatest one-man show I’ve ever seen. Miss Woodward and Miss Fisher barely
spoke. Sir Larry talked about his youth, his lifelong “rivalry” with Sir John Gielgud, horrific and
hilarious mistakes he had made onstage, an endless series of anecdotes about Peter O’Toole, the
difference between film and stage acting, and why he always wore either a false nose or used makeup
to change the shape of his forehead. (When he auditioned, as a very young man, for the Old Vic, Lilian
Baylis, who ran it, passed her thumb over the center of his brow and down his nose and said, “Some
weakness there.”) Miss Baylis had been dead for forty years and Sir Larry had been generally
acknowledged the world”s greatest actor for thirty, and he was still trying to overcome that weakness.
And always, he was pouring for me. The white wine gave way to red wine which gave way to a
different red wine which gave way to a sweet dessert wine which gave way to cognac, and he poured
for me, watched me, matched me drink for drink, did his virtuoso performance, and, over the course of
those three hours, drank me under the table. I mean completely under the table. Seventy something,
having put in a full day’s work both acting and directing, he intentionally out-drank, by a large margin,
a man in his early thirties who could throw it back with the best of them, in his provincial neck of the
woods. But now I was in the Bigs, and I was hopelessly outclassed.
I dragged myself out of a coma around ten the next morning and crawled on my hands and knees to the
Victorian bathroom of the hotel I was in, which was dominated by a tub seven feet long. I sat on the
floor, my forehead against the cold porcelain, while the tub filled with water and then — somehow —
got myself into it. After about 30 minute, with nothing but my nose above water, I began to get cold
and found that I could use my left foot to turn on the hot spigot, which was about all I did until noon.
Then I got out, puckered all over, dried myself with trembling hands, took a dozen aspirin, and
shuddered my way over to the studio.
It was a big stage, mostly dark, with a small living-room set very brightly lighted in the far corner.
Olivier was on the set with Woodward, every hair in place, face gleaming with health, going at it
hammer and tongs. I stayed about twenty feet back during the take, not wanting to make a noise while
sound was rolling, and the moment the lights went down, Olivier turned to me and said, in a theaterfilling voice, “HOW YA FEELING, BOYSIE?”
I worked with him on and off for a couple of years thereafter and was never again challenged to a
drinking match. To be candid, I still don’t understand why he did it in the first place — in retrospect, it
feels almost like a territory-marking exercise but good Lord — I was who I was and he was Laurence
Olivier. Through the remainder of our acquaintance he was unfailingly pleasant, even when he was
having frail days, and, beneath the jokes and the gloss of bonhomie, unutterably remote. And he
continued to call me Boysie. I think he’d just been forced to learn and remember too many names in
his life. I never did bring myself to call him Larry.
Later on, I’ll write about the star-crossed production of “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof” he did for TV with
Natalie Wood and Robert Wagner. After the next four or five posts about disposable razors, that is.
your own site.
19 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 27: Sir Laurence”
What a brilliant story.
My only brush with fame was to get Terry Pratchett to autograph a book for me.
That’s not exactly in the same league! (It’s still a treasured memory, though.)
I’m enjoying seeing what you come up with every day.
2. Suzanna Says:
Great story, Tim!
I am glad Sir Laurence never had to endure Snooki or the likes of her, or witness
the lamentable direction television has gone.
Not with you on the plastic disposable razors though. Never found one that
doesn’t wound and permanently scar.
Looking forward to Spirit House and anything more you want to write about Sir
Laurence.
3. Lisa Kenney Says:
That’s a fantastic story! You have certainly led a wildly interesting life. I love
hearing stories like this. More please!
4. EverettK Says:
LOVELY story. You know, Tim, there’s going to be a book in this blog eventually.
into an e-book.
I know you said you started this blog as a way to get you writing earlier in the
day, but that doesn’t mean you can’t major double use of the effort.
5. EverettK Says:
Not ‘major’, ‘make’. “doesn’t mean you can’t MAKE double use of the effort.”
Also, I can see you getting a package of the “celebrity blogs” (mini-memoirs) sold
to a magazine.
6. Karen Carter Says:
Oh yes, definitely a book in progress. Heard a Peter O’Toole interview recently
during which O’Toole talked only of Sir Laurence. Don’t think I’ll ever forget the
Hi, all — glad you enjoyed it. It was a privilege to work with him and to get to
know him, to the extent that anyone really got to know him. He’s supposed to
have said once, “Inside every actor, there’s another actor.”
FHH, I’m enjoying seeing what I come up with every day, too. The whole time I
was slaving over “Spirit House,” I was kicking myself for ever having promised
it, and now that it’s time to put it up I’m looking at the next three days like they’re
a year off. (Although I’m still dicking around with the ending to the story.) This is
a fascinating experience, I have to say.
Zanna, He missed a lot by exiting when he did, much of it definitely not good.
That whole generation of actors — him, Gielgud, Richardson, Redgrave — had
their feet in another world completely, the theater of the 1920s and 30s, when
people read and talked and went to plays and there was no television and
(obviously) no online. And Shakespeare mattered and good writing mattered, and
people cut themselves with old-style (brrrrr) razors. If I ever find a way to get
back there, I’ll skip that part.
Thank you, Lisa — it’s been wildly interesting, although most of the time it’s felt
like Shelley Berman’s famous definition of flying: Hours of boredom interrupted
my moments of stark terror. But I’ve met more than my share of fascinating
people, including you and Scott.
Everett, if there’s a book, it’s probably about the emotional curve of doing this day
by day, with some of the pieces dropped in. But once it’s over, I’m not sure I’ll
want to revisit it — there have already been a couple of times when it got a little
desperate, and we’re not even finished with the first month.
Hi, Karen, and thanks for stopping by. O’Toole is one of the few people I’ve never
met whom I’d really love to meet, although I think I would rather have met him
30 years ago. I’d say, from my own experience, that everything was a competition
where Olivier was concerned.
I’m waitin’ for ya to hit on disposable lighters, Tim.
9. Sarah Says:
Drink a little do you, Boysie?
Loved it … thank you much.
10.Gary Says:
Fascinating stuff, Tim. Talk about rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous…
Would you friend Larry be the only actor who has acted posthumously in a
Hollywood movie? (Excluding, of course, Bela Lagosi in Ed Woods’ timeless
classic “Plan 9 from Outer Space.”) In the equally classic “Sky Captain and the
World of Tomorrow,” Olivier played Dr. Totekopf some fifteen years after his own
death.
I was just wondering if you got to meet up with him then.
Coming up, Phil — I’m planning an intercultural piece on how their use and
image varies from continent to continent — thinking a 12-parter. After that, a
history of the scrunchie, those elastic things women use to make pony tails.
Almost limitlessly interesting.
I USED to, Sarah. Hard to believe, but it was YEARS after this that I quit.
Hey, Gary, are you upside-down? (Gary’s in Australia.) He might hold the
“longest dead before release” title. I think Heath Ledger is the current winner of
the post-death rave reviews derby.
Why was “Sky Captain” delayed for so long?
12.Gary Says:
Not understanding how you can call me obsessive or nit-picking, I insist on the
nice distinction: between (a) completing a movie and then dying before it’s
released, and (b) starring in a movie produced after you’re dead.
Bela Lagosi appeared in scenes of “Plan 9″ which were filmed after he’d died –
oh, I know, some say it was just the chauffeur hiding behind an upraised cloak and
trying to LOOK like Lagosi, but you and I know the truth, don’t we? And Olivier
appeared in a film made in 2004 after he’d died in 1989.
So that’s the difference. And all of this just so you can you evade the question?
Did you catch up with Larry again in 2004?
13.Larissa Says:
Great story Tim-I think I would have been dead if I’d tried to drink “Larry” under
the table so more power to you for, well, not dying. (c:
With little casual gems like “…so this one I got shitfaced with Laurence Olivier”
Gary — didn’t mean to assault you (this time, anyway) — we’re all impressed
with how well you cope with being upside-down, down there in Australia. But I
don’t understand how that happened — I’d assumed that he shot the film while
still living (obviously) and the thing then sat on some shelf for 15 years or so.
How? Did the digitally repurpose old footage? (Here’s a melancholy note about
our times; a producer had put together a script to star a digitally repurposed Steve
McQueen, painstakingly stringing together moments that could be lifted and
altered from his films only to drop the project when a survey determined that no
one under 35 knows who Steve McQueen was.
Riss, wish I had a bunch more stories of this caliber, but they’re not really thick
on the ground. This is like analysis, though, in that the more I write, the more I
remember. So there may be one or two of these a month for the (gulp) eleven
months that remain.
15.EverettK Says:
Tim: Did the digitally repurpose old footage?
I almost fell out of my chair laughing. I started out this morning by reading a
chapter of Crashed (and damn near ruined my entire morning of work…the damn
book is like a bag of potato chips: “I’ll bet you can’t read just one!”) and in
Chapter 7 (the one I read), JB is giving Trey a hard time about ‘repurposing’. And
then I log in here and just happen to check some of the old blogs comments, and
here you are using ‘repurpose.’
Sheesh.
This blog is slowly turning into a repurposing of my entire life. Although, of
course, I already do that writing books.
Glad you’re enjoying CRASHED. The first three readers to respond have been
very nice – of course, they’re not going to say they hate it, but their pleasure was
at least convincing. Now I need a cover.
17.EverettK Says:
Oh, if I hated it I would say so. But au contraire, I love it so far. Admittedly, I’m
only through 7 chapters of the 45, but I can’t wait to get back to it, and that’s a
pretty good sign of a pretty good book.
As for the cover, I might attempt something, but not until I finish reading the book
so that I know should BE on the cover. However, don’t get your hopes up: I’m
quite busy for the next month, and I’m not really an artistic fellow (which is odd,
given that my college degree is in art, but that’s a much longer story…)
18.Book Bird Dog Says:
How fortunate, lucky, karmic, providential and more, to have worked with Sir
Laurence!
Absolutely, Phil. I’ve had a more interesting life than I probably deserve.
More star pieces coming up, some of them not so positive.
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 28: “Spirit House,” Part 1
October 28th, 2010
“In four hundred yards,” Doris said, “turn left.”
Peering through the windshield at a dark tangle of scrub and forest that looked like the last hour of
“Deliverance.” Artie said, “Aww, fuck you, Doris. This can’t be right.” The road had gone from
blacktop to gravel, and now it was muddy and pitted with potholes, filled with rainwater that reflected
the moon. The moon glimmered up at him in a dozen places on the surface of the road, like a cluster of
fireflies. A ragged Lon Chaney cloud briefly ate half the moon and then moved on.
“In one hundred yards,” Doris said, “turn left on Cherry Street.”
The front right wheel of the big SUV plunged into a hole, rocking the vehicle hard enough to make the
bobble-head doll of Bozo the clown on the dashboard nod its head a little frantically. “She’s nuts, isn’t
she, Larry?” Artie said to the bobblehead. “Nobody in his right mind would live out here.”
“Turn left on Cherry Street,” Doris said. “Then turn right.”
“There isn’t any goddamn Cherry Street –” Artie said, but then broke off. The sign in his headlights was
rusted, perforated with bullet-holes, and leaning wearily to the right, but it said CHERRY STREET.
“Okay,” Artie said, “So you were right. Whaddya want, a cookie?”
He cranked the wheel to the left, bounced onto Cherry Street, and used the steering wheel control to
turn on the radio. Instantly one of the hundreds of unforgettable guitar riffs created in the 1950s by
Buck Cherry filled the car.
“Ernestine,” Artie said, his spirits lifting. “There’s a radio royalty check, a dollar in the bank. Hey, how
about that, Doris? We turn onto Cherry Street and we hear Buck Cherry.” The road bent left in front of
him and he hit the brights and leaned forward, squinting ahead. “Old Buck, that jerk. Hey, Doris,
imagine escaping through here? Tiptoeing out of some plantation in the middle of the night, heading
north, copperheads under your feet, water moccasins in the trees. That’ll put some guts in your blues,
huh?”
“In two hundred yards,” Doris said “turn right.”
“These streets get any narrower, I’m gonna be driving through somebody’s living room,” Artie said.
“All these goddamn woods. You see the South in the daytime, everything’s so thick and green and
friendly. You can almost forget it’s the nitrogen from all the blood in the ground.” He jerked upright as
the red lights bloomed behind him. “Great, great, this is what I need. Some redneck cop in the middle
of nowhere.”
“Turn right on –” Doris said, but Artie had pulled to the right and cut the engine. He shifted his weight
to get at his wallet, stuffed into the pocket of his sharply pressed jeans, and by the time the cop was at
the window, Artie was holding his license up between thumb and forefinger.
“What did I do?” Artie said. The cop looked past the license at Artie, so Artie sort of jiggled it up and
down a little to get the cop’s attention.
“Ran the stop back at the turn,” the cop said. He was thick-headed and fat-necked, with several patchily
shaved chins undulating down to the top of his shirt. One of his eyes was bigger than the other. A fringe
of dead-looking, curly hair peeked over his forehead as though trying to wriggle out from under from
the cop’s cap.
“There was no stop sign,” Artie said.
“Wul, Mr. – “ The cop peered at the license but still made no move to take it. “Mr. Feffer –”
”Pepper,” Artie said, mostly teeth. Feffer was his real name, and he hated it, “Not Feffer, Pepper. Those
are Ps, not Fs”
“So they are,” the cop said. “Wul, Mr. Feffer, sayin’ there ain’t no sign back there, that’s not gone be a
productive argument.”
“I suppose not.” Languidly, Artie turned the license around so the cop could see the folded hundreddollar bill behind it.
“That a bribe, Mr. Feffer?” He smiled, revealing a large number of what appeared to be silver teeth.
Artie barely felt the bill slip from beneath his finger.
“Pepper, not Feffer. Is what a bribe?”
“Nice music, huh?” The cop pocketed the bill and leaned in and looked past Artie at the empty
passenger seat. He smelled like potting soil, and Artie leaned back. “At’s a Buck Cherry tune, right?”
“Great stuff,” Artie said, stifling a yawn.
The silver, or perhaps steel, smile appeared again. It made the smaller eye even smaller but left the
larger one untouched. “Ol’ Buck, he died poor, didn’t he? Shame, huh? Wrote all them good songs and
all.”
“Couldn’t manage his money,” Artie said. This did not seem like a good time to announce that ol’ Buck
had involuntarily paid for the SUV.
“Lotta them ol’ boys died poor.”
Without thinking, Artie said, “How about that.” But then he said, “Listen, do you know where Lamar
White lives?”
The cop leaned back on his heels and pushed the cap up. The fringe of hair went up with it. “Lamar –
oh, Lamar White. ‘Nother one, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” Artie said. “He is.”
“Turn right up here just a spit or two and watch the rocks on the downhill. Bridge might oughta be
washed out, all this rain. You never know. ‘At’s some license plate. What’s SPRT HZ mean?”
“It stands for Spirit House, my record company,” Artie said, starting the car. “Spirit House, where the
spirit of rock ‘n roll never dies. Listen, it’s been nice chatting with –”
“You got a record company?”
Artie exhaled slowly. “The sentence I just spoke contained the words ‘my record company’ as I recall,
and, yes, that would suggest I own a record company. Is that bridge going to be washed out or not?”
The cop gave him a big steely grin and backed away into the dark. “Might be, might not be,” he said.
He faded into the gloom. Artie waited for the sound of the patrol car starting, but when he looked back
it was already gone. On the radio, the Buck Cherry song died away and Artie was surprised to hear the
traveling bassline that opened Lamar White’s “Mississippi Mojo.”
“Listen to that, Doris,” he said. “Tonight they’re playing our songs.”
“Recalculating,” Doris said. ”In 50 yards, turn right on Freedom Trail.”
This entry was posted on Thursday, October 28th, 2010 at 10:24 pm and is filed under All Blogs. You can
your own site.
26 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 28: “Spirit House,” Part
1”
1. Sylvia Says:
Ooooh. I can’t wait for tomorrow!
2. Gary Says:
Not a bad start, Tim!
So what are we all gonna gripe about, now that you’ve actually written it?
3. Larissa Says:
heehee…reminiscent of a particular road trip I believe someone took (c: I love it.
Keep going! So…perhaps I should only ask this sort of question in an email
because I’m sure it’ll do two things: 1) make me look like an idiot 2) make me
look like an idiot…but Buck Cherry? Like the modern day mediocre rock band?
Or literally a character named “Cherry, Buck”?
Just wondering…it’s also very early on a Friday..that could just be it.
4. Bonnie Says:
I was going to hold out until day 3, but what can I say? No self-control.
Wondering if you heard the Guy Noir skit on Prairie Home Companion a couple
weeks ago where Guy is arguing with his GPS. It’s a riot.
I’m loving this!!!!
Sylvia, it gets better tomorrow. It’s part three that worries me.
Gary, I’m sure Everett will think of something. (Just kidding, Everett!)
Riss, yes, Doris is named after my own Doris, and yes, the inspiration for this
story came from the book tour through Kansas and down into the deep South.
“Buck Cherry” is my cunning, lawsuit-avoiding transliteration of “Chuck Berry.”
Is there a modern-day mediocre rock band?
Bonnie, no, I didn’t. This story is based in part on my real-life relationship with
my GPS — although you’ll see later how “in part” it is.
Kaye — glad to hear it. Short stories are an alien form to me. This is the product
of several gallons of angst.
7. EverettK Says:
Proofreading, as always…
“trying to wriggle out from under from the cop’s cap.” Has an an extra ‘from,’ I
believe.
As for the story itself…
8. EverettK Says:
Sigh. The blog’s comment processor obviously doesn’t care for less-than and
greater-than symbols, it must process http codes. The above “As for the story
itself…” was supposed to be followed by:
Oops, sorry, that’s the end of Part 1 of my comments. Stay tuned tomorrow for
Part 2 of my comments.
To be continued…
We don’t have a Doris – we have a Seamus. We chose the Irish guy’s voice for our
TomTom, because it was the warmest of the ones on offer.
Whereas our BMW has a rather harsher and choppier voice so she’s simply
referred to as “her”.
10.Suzanna Says:
Love this, Tim. Not sure how you can possibly be worried. But then again, I’m
not the one doing the work that makes this story seem so fresh and easy to read.
Like this little gem:
“It made the smaller eye even smaller but left the larger one untouched.”
This line in your story gave me a good belly laugh. I’m a teensy bit ashamed of
laughing at this character’s facial peculiarities but I can’t help it, you wrote it so
well!
Enjoy your time off from the Stupid Project! Looking forward to Part II and III.
11.Larissa Says:
Everett-you crack me up. I end up reading the comments just to see what you’re
going to say next. (c:
Tim-yes, there is a modern day rock band called “Buck Cherry”…they are known
for such brilliant music as “Crazy Bitch” among other classics….and no I’m not
kidding. So-you might want to come up with a different name?
Hi, again, everyone — what a handsome group!
Except Everett, of course. Thanks for the proofing catch. You couldn’t have left
me in ignorance? And if you think that’s bad, I discovered last night that I’d
renamed the character “Marty” throughout most of Part Two and all of Part Three.
By the way, Everett e-mailed me after the first of the Simeon books came out in ebook format with some very nice comments and 132 single-spaced pages of typos.
He is single-handedly responsible for our having to take every book in the series
down, make hundreds of fixes, and then put it back up again. And he won’t even
let me pay him. I finally got smart and sent him the first Junior Bender book,
CRASHED, in Word so he can fix it in advance. So I got an e-mail from him this
morning saying he’d done digital alchemy over the Word file to get it on his
(obscure, off-brand) reader and that he hadn’t had time to read it yet, but I had a
typo on page 112.
Thanks, Everett. Oh, yeah, and I’ll get right to work on the comments software to
fix that “lesser-than” and “greater-than” problem.
FHH — did you know/did everybody know immediately that Doris was a GPS?
(Those who have been reading the blog for a long time have already met Doris,
but did the rest of you?) Seamus is a good name, lots of character. Yours is warm,
huh? Warmth is not a characteristic I’d apply to Doris, but there was something
sort of panicky and clueless about the British voice, as you’ll see in Part Two.
Thank you Suzanna — the worry arises from my deep conviction that I have no
idea what I’m doing in the short-story form. I’d go into it in more detail, but I
know that Everett wants to see a bunch of posts about SPIRIT HOUSE long after
the story itself has been forgotten, so I’ll just jot . . . a . . . note . . . right here.
Riss, SO glad to know that what brings you here is Everett. Fortunately, my ego is
secure. Completely secure. On a bedrock of confidence. Really? Everett?
Well, I’ve never heard Buck Cherry, but no band that records a song called “Crazy
Bitch” can be all something or other.
13.EverettK Says:
Tim said: Oh, yeah, and I’ll get right to work on the comments software to fix that
“lesser-than” and “greater-than” problem.
Honestly, if I thought you were capable of it (snicker), I’d harangue you not to do
it, because then I wouldn’t be able to put in these nifty formatting commands that
I just realized I could do, thanks to my earlier mistake…er…discovery.
Now, I can convey much more emotional meaning in my comments, the lack of
which you were just bemoaning yesterday. Don’t you wish you knew a little more
html now?
Bwaaaaa-haaaaaahaha-HA!
Oh, nooooooooooooooo, as Mr. Bill (whom I increasingly feel like) says. Not
emoticons. NOT EMOTICONS. I’m going to start with the punctuation faces if
you’re not careful. And just remember, this comment is visible to the world for
one reason and one reason only: I pushed a button marked APPROVE.
Who’s Bwaaaaa-haaaaaaahaha-ing now?
15.EverettK Says:
I agree, you’re in control. You push the button. I’m sure it feels good to know
you’re in control of something.
By the way, are the rubber underpants working for you?
They’re marvelous, Everett — you look MUCH better when I have them over my
head.
17.EverettK Says:
Oh. By the way, I wasn’t talking about the emoticons. I was talking about the
more subtle bold and italics attributes, as well as other potentially useful stuff like
inserting links to pages (like as the Amazon page for A Nail Through The Heart
Kindle edition and other useful things. There are no controls available for this
comment edit window that easily let you put those things in, but if you know the
http, you can insert them and they’ll display properly in the posted comment.
For those who don’t know http, you can italicize a word or phrase by placing ‘<i>’
in front of it (minus the single-quotes) and placing ‘</i>’ after it. Bold is done in
the same way with ‘<b>’ and ‘</b>’.
Hopefully, I entered all of that right so that it formats and displays right in the
final comment, but given my luck lately, I’m not counting on it. And another thing
this silly comment editor field is lacking is a ‘preview’ function. Could you get
right on that, Tim? So much obliged…
This story is very funny. The comments are vying for equal credit. When is the
next installment? I missed this last night due to the World Series; I won’t make
that mistake again. Do the rubber underpants have anything to do with your face
which I hope is all better? Or did miss something?
Hi, Lil –
How nice to have a response from someone I’m speaking to. The rubber pants are
a recurring fantasy of Everett’s that we generally try to keep from public view. My
face is fine now thank you (see, SOMEONE is concerned) and I no longer look
like I was bobbing for apples in a deep-fryer. And even better, all the area that was
treated is completely free of damage — the treatment seems to have gotten
everything.
The story will continue tomorrow AM or late tonight and conclude on Halloween
oooOOOOOooooOOOOOOOooooo.
Oh, I’m sorry — did someone else say something? By the way, I’ve recently
figured out all by myself how to do boldface and italics in these responses, and
even how to insert links. This is dangerous knowledge, but I’ll share it by private
e-mail.
And I thought I’d follow Part One with Part Two, in case anyone is still reading
the story, as opposed to the comments.
20.Gary Says:
Thank you, Everett. I’m so glad I know how to format my comments.
They’ll look much more intelligent now.
21.Gary Says:
And repeated use of bold and italics seems to confuse the system. My two earlier
posts were meant to have alternating words in bold or italics, not the whole post
bold plus italics.
But without preview feature I couldn’t see that – except by repeated trivial posts
like this one.
22.EverettK Says:
Gary: you have to make VERY VERY sure that you properly match up the
opening and closing format codes AND don’t make any ‘spelling’ errors. If an
open format isn’t properly closed, then the whole rest of the message will
continue in that format.
And here I was thinking your posts couldn’t possibly get any more intelligent!
Guess that was my second mistake this year…
Geez, would you guys just get a room?
24.Gary Says:
Wouldn’t a preview feature just be sooo useful.
25.Sylvia Says:
I suspected Doris was a GPS from the very first line and her next statement
confirmed it.It was really clear.
Real mendon’t need preview
Sylvia, you get the Giggler Award for funniest comment.
October 29th, 2010
“You may find this difficult to believe, Mr. White,” Artie said, “but you’re a rich man.”
Bozo nodded agreement on the dash as the car hit a bump in a road that seemed to be all bumps. The
road, Freedom Trail, was crowded on both sides by forest, and the moon had vanished three bumps
back. “That’s why I’m, here, Mr. White,” Artie said, having given the imaginary Mr. White time to
make some appropriately servile response. “I’m here to help you get what’s rightfully yours.”
The imaginary Mr. White gabbled something, possibly cynical. That old clown Buck Cherry had been
all cynicism, but in the end, it hadn’t mattered: Artie was still driving the car Buck paid for, with
millions more of Buck’s bucks buried fathomlessly deep in a Swiss bank. “I know you’ve been cheated,
Mr. White, believe me, I know.” Artie was using his business voice, deeper and more polished than his
natural voice, the New York sidewalk-irritation voice he’d used on the cop. Artie had practiced this
voice, his money voice, in a tape recorder, fine-tuning it until he could finally say, without
misrepresenting the truth, that it made him sound almost honest.
“Certainly, Mr. White. I have the figures right here.” Artie reached back and tapped the immaculately
slim black eelskin briefcase, made for him by the dozen in Korea and always used brand new. “One
million, nine hundred seventy-three thousand in the accounts of Big Chart Records; three million, six
hundred and – oh, say, forty thousand at Artemis Music Publishing; and the big one: nearly seven
million, minus a few pennies, at Diamond Entertainment Aggregate, Inc. That’s the music holding
company that bought Plonk Records, your label for eleven years.”
“Them fuckers,” said the imaginary Mr. White.
“So that’s a total of twelve million, six hundred thirteen thousand dollars. And I’m the man who can get
it for you.”
“In 200 yards,” Doris said, “turn right onto –”
Artie snapped off the GPS. “Goddamn it, Doris shut up.” Doris could break his concentration like
nobody else. The first Doris, Doris Koppel, had been his secretary for 24 years, ten months, and 28
days. She’d been there every day, rain or shine, from the day Artie opened the office until the day his
accountant told him that Doris was coming dangerously close to vesting in the firm’s retirement fund:
25 years, and a pension for life. Artie had put the plan into place to attract competence, secure in the
knowledge that no one would ever be able to put up with him for 25 years. And then he learned that
Doris was just a little more than a month away. So he’d fired her.
Six weeks later, Doris Koppel had been diagnosed with cancer of the liver. Alone, unemployed, without
medical insurance, she’d hung herself. Artie had skipped the funeral out of sensitivity to her family’s
feelings. If she had a family, which he wasn’t certain about.
So four more years had passed without a thought of Doris, and the first time his new GPS had talked to
him, Artie’s spasm of terror had almost driven the top of his head through the roof of the car. The unit
had a second voice option – an Englishman whom Artie called Clive – but Clive measured things in
meters and called traffic circles “roundabouts,” and Artie always had the feeling that Clive was
mentally correcting for the fact that they weren’t driving on the left, and that one day Clive would have
a lapse and kill them both. So he’d gone back to Doris, and gradually he’d grown fond of her voice, or
as fond as he got of anything.
He pulled the car over and turned it off, listening to the engine tick as he put himself back in the chat
with Mr. White. This was the Golden Stretch. If he got through this part of the conversation, he could
grab White’s money, bury it offshore, divorce Linda, give her almost half of almost half of everything
she knew about, and still hold a permanent seat at the end of the rainbow. The right end. The end where
the gold was.
“As a lawyer, I know how to get that money back for you,” Artie said. He was talking to the imaginary
Lamar White but looking at the Bozo bobblehead on the dash. “As the chief executive office of Spirit
House Records, where the spirit of rock ‘n roll – real rock ‘n roll, Mr. White – never dies, I can put you
back on the radio. Get you all the money you’re owed. All the respect you’re due. All I need is a
signature on a few pieces of paper. What do you say, Mr. White? Do we have a deal?”
Artie thwacked Bozo on the head with his index finger, and the clown nodded. “That’s right, isn’t it
Larry?” Artie asked the clown. “That’s what you taught me, isn’t it? The perfect business plan. Steal
the art, stiff the artists. Like you did with Laurel and Hardy, buying the movies for nickels, promising
the boys you’d make them rich again if they’d sign off on the deal, and then making millions selling
them to TV stations all over America. Poor Stan, living in that little apartment in Santa Monica. Poor
Ollie, dying young. Rich Larry, aka Bozo.”
“So, your publishing, Mr. White,” Artie said, just to hear it out loud. “So, your royalties, Mr. White. So,
the title to your songs, Mr. White. Mine, Mr. White.”
The sky fractured and cracked open to reveal a jagged line of brilliant white light, visible for an instant
and then gone, followed a few seconds later by a BOOOOOM so deep the SUV vibrated on its springs.
A random handful of fat raindrops splattered the windshield, and a second later, Artie was inside a
waterfall, looking out.
“Just what I need,” he said. He turned on the ignition and put the wipers to work, whackwhack,
whackwhack, carving transparent crescents in the windshield. On either side of him, the forest glinted
hard and wet in the headlights. “You couldn’t wait, huh?” Artie demanded in the general direction of
God. “Had to get the New Yorker wet, didn’t you?’
“. . . on Lynch Drive,” Doris said, brought back to life.
“Right or left?” Artie asked, pulling slowly back onto the rutted road. Even with the wipers on high, he
had moments of visibility interrupted by a world of shining ripples.
A couple of bounces later, Doris said, “Turn right on Lynch Drive.”
Lynch Drive had the bridge the cop had talked about. It was just a bunch of planks as far as Artie could
see, barely wide enough for one vehicle, with no guardrails on either side. He slowed to a stop and
glared at it, trying to get a sense of its integrity in the glimpses allowed by the windshield wipers. Rain
pocked the top of the car like a giant drumming its fingers.
“In one hundred feet,” Doris said, “arrive at address 100 Lynch Drive, on right.”
“You say one more word,” Artie said, “and you’ll be in that fucking creek.” He pulled the SUV slowly
forward, feeling his front wheels hit the first plank, and at that precise moment the rain stopped as
though it had been turned off. He took the bridge carefully, his fingers wrapped so tightly around the
wheel that the muscles in his hands cramped up.
As he crested the top of the bridge, Artie saw something glitter off to the right: his own headlights,
bouncing off glass. A window, maybe. He eased the big vehicle down the other side of the bridge and
left the raging creek behind. Couldn’t see anything where the glitter had been.
“In fifty feet,” Doris said, “arrive at 100 Lynch Drive, on right.”
The SUV was creeping now, brights on, and suddenly the brush on the right side of the road retreated,
and there it was. Maybe 200 feet from the road, at the far end of a U-shaped, unpaved drive, it stood.
Sort of.
Artie said, “Are you kidding me?”
The moon threaded itself between the clouds, and there it was: one of the biggest houses Artie had ever
seen in his life. Its perfect symmetry – two long wings bisected by a grand porch with four Conrinthian
columns holding up the cornice – had been spoiled by the almost total collapse of the right wing. The
farthest-right porch column had fallen with the wing and now leaned outward at a forty-five degree
angle, its top resting inside a shattered second-story window that had been stopped on its way down by
some interior masonry, still miraculously intact.
Scattered over the muddy ground in front of the house were ten or twelve low, leaning structures,
kennels or chicken coops or outhouses or – Artie raised his eyebrows as the penny dropped – slave
cabins. All dark, just angular shadows against the paler eminence of the house, which had probably
been white a hundred years ago.
Artie sat there, staring at the ruin, unwilling even to take the car up the drive. The left side of the place
was still standing, although darker patches on the roof announced cave-ins here and there. He pulled in
a few tentative feet. His headlights were bouncing off the windows that still had glass in them, so he
turned them off and saw, in the first window to the left of the porch, a faint yellow glow. And then
someone was standing there, tall, high-shouldered, and thin.
The figure at the window lifted an arm in greeting.
Doris said, “You have arrived at your destination.”
This entry was posted on Friday, October 29th, 2010 at 9:20 pm and is filed under All Blogs. You can
your own site.
2”
1. EverettK Says:
“…give her almost half of almost half of everything she knew about…”
Is that supposed to be half of half, or is that one “almost half” too many?
Loving the story so far! Can’t wait for the big finale…
2. Gary Says:
That’s scary. Like really scary!
(Thanks, Everett….)
3. Bonnie Says:
Boy, when you make a bad guy, you make him really bad!
Hi, Everett — Yes, half of half. I like the rhythm of the line — especially capped
with “everything she knows about.” And glad you’re liking it. At the risk of
spoiling the big finale, this is my favorite installment.
Gary, even Malcolm Gladwell would have to acknowledge now that mastery is
yours. It’s not really a skill set with global implications, but you’ve mastered it.
Hi, Bonnie — No point in messing around with half-bad bad guys. But yes, Artie
is pretty appalling, as were the three or four guys he’s based on. What Artie’s
doing here was a growth industry in the 50s and 60s. And my guess is that old
Bozo inspired some of it by robbing Laurel and Hardy blind in plain sight. (I
should do a Stan Laurel post at some point.)
5. Bonnie Says:
If we ever get a chance to chat over a beer, I’ve got some fun stories in the family
law arena that approach that kind of scuzziness.
6. Suzanna Says:
The scary guy in the window and the state of the house have me guessing that
Artie just may get the pooh scared out of him before you’re done with him. At
least I hope so.
Now, please clarify for my fuzzy morning brain. Regarding your reply to Bonnie,
do you mean Bozo, as in THE Bozo the clown, ripped off Laurel and Hardy?
Checking back here later tonight to see what happens next.
7. Maria Yolanda Aguayo Says:
Really enjoying Artie’s wrenching travel down the road to meet his very needed
karma. Can’t wait to see what happens manana. Thanks Tim.
I feel like I’ve entered the world of “Waiting for Godot.” Between Bozo and
Doris,collapsing mansions and slave quarters, money that may or may not
exist(?), reality seems to be bending. Very odd indeed. (Glad you’re better by the
way). You are a very funny man. Looking forward to tomorrow’s installment.
Always on the lookout for material, Bonnie, so that could happen some day,
depending in part on where you live. I’m in Santa Monica when I’m not in Asia.
And you?
Hi, Suzanna — First, your prediction is aces. Secondly, yes, Larry Harmon, who
was the last and most famous Bozo, grabbed the rights to the Laurel and Hardy
films and made a fortune selling them to TV stations while San Laurel lived in
declining circumstances in a small apartment in Santa Monica. (Harmon also
claimed to have created Bozo but had to relinquish that claim after the original
copyright holders sued him.) He just appeared on the dash as I was writing and he
seemed like the perfect role model for Artie.
Maria, thank you for the vote of confidence and if anyone has karma building, it’s
old Artie. Thanks also for coming along for the ride.
Hi, Lil — Bozo may be a distraction — he just fit so well when I thought of him
that I went ahead and wrote him in. I began this story with only the idea that the
guy who was going to get it (a) stole from black musicians, who have been being
stolen from for at least 70 years, and (b) talked back to his GPS, which is based on
my relationship with my own, which is also called Doris and who led me down
some very peculiar roads in Kansas, Oklahoma, and Mississippi. Everything else
just happened as I was writing.
10.Bonnie Says:
I live in Castro Valley, which like Sacramento, was founded by a European who
later went bankrupt. It’s the town that time forgot, which can be nice but limits the
dining out options. I work in downtown Oakland. Next year I probably have to go
down for a meeting in June, and to Long Beach in September for the State Bar
convention.
On a completely different topic, I will never hear the words “body temperature” in
the same way. Nice of you to follow immediately with some comic relief from Mr.
Smif. Still shuddering.
Not Bozo the clown!!! Noooooooo!
12.Sylvia Says:
I’m glad I’ve fallen behind on my blogreading for once, because I get to go
straight to the grand finale!
Sorry, Laren, but look at it this way: Learning our childhood idols had feet of
concentrated, sun-dried dog shit is an important part of growing up. And I’m
proud to tell you that as of today, you’re a man, my son.
Sylvia — welcome whenever you pick it up. I have my own doubts about the
Grand Guignol elements in part three, but they were the best I could do. This is
just emphatically not my genre.
Bonnie, thanks for the “body temperature” praise. I actually remember writing
that, which is very unusual for me.
We’ll meet up when you come down here or when I go up there.
October 30th, 2010
Artie swore a string of words that were foul even by his standards.
The driveway was slathered in a particularly vile kind of mud, so slippery and malodorous it might
have been mixed with petroleum, The SUV lost traction again and again as he coaxed it up the curve of
the drive, the rear wheels swinging out so suddenly that Artie’s stomach seemed to be in the seat next to
him until he could bring the car under control again.
The yellow-lighted window grew larger as he approached, but the figure had retreated.
He pulled up in front of the porch and punched up his brights. A fallen tree clawed its way out of the
darkness, lying across the drive forty or fifty feet away. The only way out was the way he’d come in.
He sat there, the engine running, looking from the tree, which was skeletal and darkly wet and had
obviously toppled years ago, to the empty yellow window. Then, with much grumbling and cursing and
a few unsettling moments when his wheels spun uselessly in the muck, he got the car turned around. It
seemed like a good idea to be facing out.
After a couple of moments of nothing, just listening to the reassurance of the engine, he turned off the
lights and ignition and climbed down. The slave cabins were silent, so dark inside that the darkness
seemed to be flowing out of them to fill the night. The yellow window flickered at him: candles, he
thought, or a lantern. No sign of the figure, and from what he could see of the room – the window was
six or seven feet from the ground – it was empty. Peeling walls and yellow light. Artie had never liked
yellow.
He got back into the SUV and turned the engine back on. Sat there again for a minute or so. This time,
when he got out, he left the driver’s door standing open and the headlights on. He would have to run
around the back of the vehicle to get to it, but –
Run around? What the hell was he thinking? He shook his head at himself but left the engine running
anyway, popped the seatback on the driver’s side, and removed the slender, gleaming black briefcase.
Feeling better, somehow, with it in hand – it’s my weapon of choice, he thought – he picked his way
around a big puddle behind the car and climbed the six high, white steps to the front door.
It lolled on one hinge, open about eighteen inches. Beyond it, the house was very dark. Artie closed his
eyes to widen his pupils and put a shoulder to the door. As it groaned open, he called, “Hello?” and
looked in.
Better. With the reflected light from the SUV, he could make out a grand entry hall, a broad, partially
collapsed stairway climbing halfway up the wall to the right before coming to an abrupt end. Longstanding damp assailed his nostrils and dirt gritted beneath his shoes: the floor was stone, possibly
polished marble a century ago. Darkness beyond darkness, the hall broadened into an enormous sitting
room twenty feet in front of him, a few crippled, unidentifiable pieces of furniture still staking their
mildewed claim. To his immediate right was a closed door, and another was to his left. Beneath the one
to his left he saw a thin line of pale yellow light.
“Mr. White?” He cleared his throat. “Mr.White? It’s Artie Pepper. You had somebody call me in New
York.”
A wordless rumble, lower than a swamp bottom, came from the room to his left, the lighted room. With
a certain reluctance, he stepped the rest of the way through the sagging door and into the hall.
He knocked on the door with the light beneath it. Waited, knocked once more. “May I come in?”
The rumble again. Artie took it for assent and pushed the door open.
The light came from two candles stuck into mountains of wax on the floor at the far end of the room.
Layers of thick wallpaper hung in rigid, diagonal sheets from the walls. Between the candles was a
cane rocking chair, and in the rocking chair was the tallest, thinnest black man Artie Pepper had ever
seen.
“Mr. White?”
The man in the chair said, “Uuuuuuuuh huuuuuuuuuh” in a voice so deep it made the doorknob in
Artie’s hand vibrate. He sat forward slightly and opened the biggest hands ever created, fingers so long
they could have wrapped themselves around the neck of a guitar twice, and grasped the ends of the
rocker arms. Those two black spiders opening to engulf the chair arms made Artie swallow, so loudly
he was afraid that the man – Lamar White? –had heard him, but there was no reaction, no change of
expression. The man’s eyes were deeply shadowed in spite of the candles, just ellipses of darkness in
the dark face. Not a glint of reflected light.
When in doubt, attack. Artie closed the door behind him and stepped into the room. “It’s a pleasure to
meet you, Mr. White,” he said. “Longtime fan, longtime fan.”
Lamar White said again, “Uuuuuuuuh huuuuuuuuuh” and the elongated fingers flexed once more
around the arms of the chair, which emitted a squeak that might have been protest, and then White was
pulling himself out of the chair, unfolding himself toward the ceiling, and his eyes, Artie saw, were no
longer dark but instead were gleaming gold, reflecting the candle-light.
As White reached his full height, Artie felt an internal wave of cold roll through him and he realized
that the golden color of Lamar White’s eyes was actually the wall behind the man and that the eyes
were simply tunnels through his skull.
Artie said, “Ohhhhhhhh.” and backed toward the door, and then turned to grab the knob and heard the
back of the rocking chair snap against the wall as White stepped away from it. The doorknob was slick
in his hand, turning, turning but not moving, and he heard a scrape of shoe on the floor behind him and
then, for the third time, that vibrating “Uuuuuuuuh huuuuuuuuuh” and he grabbed the knob in both
hands, the briefcase bouncing onto the floor at his feet, and this time he heard a click as the knob
turned, heard the mechanism ratchet inside, and then the knob turned all the way and he bolted through
the door and yanked it closed behind him.
And froze.
The hallway was awash with light, the marble floors gleaming. The walls were hung thickly with
poster-size photos, three feet by two feet, dozens of them, huge glossy black-and-whites, posed fortiesstyle, the subjects leaning in at an angle in their best clothes – the best clothes of their lives – their hair
marcelled and gleaming under the studio lights, the eyes in their young, dark faces full of hope that the
change had finally come, that the miracle was at hand, that the music had delivered them at last: Buck
Cherry, JoJo Hopkins, Midge Finn, Elmore Swain, Etta Wright, Big Mac Morris, a dozen more. The
founders, the inventors, the –
The victims.
The black-and-white head of Midge Finn, framed in her trademark dangling jet earrings, turned toward
Artie and slowly put out a long, lascivious, very un-black-and-white tongue. It curled toward him as the
door at his back, the door leading to Lamar White, began to open.
Artie was at the front door in an instant, finding it shut, hanging plumb-straight on its strong hinges,
good as new, thick, gleaming, closed closed closed closed. With a squeal of feedback, the Buck Cherry
lick from “Ernestine,” the one Artie’s radio had delivered as he turned onto Cherry Street, kicked in,
and then Midge was singing “Fool’s Heartbreak” and Elmore Swain counted off to the unplayable 12string flourish that opened “’Bama Far Behind,” and the all the songs swirled together into a single
deafening smear of noise and got louder and louder, and the door would . . . not . . . open, and with a
bang the other door, the door to the yellow-lighted room swung open and Lamar White – whatever
Lamar White was now – stood there. Artie could see the vertical line of the door-jamb through Lamar
White’s right eye.
One of the photos fell from the wall, lay flat, and began to bulge in the middle. With a tearing sound
Artie could hear even over the music, a hand broke through the shining surface.
The door to the right of the hall. Maybe he could open the door to the right of the hall.
He reached it in a leap and felt it swing open behind his weight, and then he was through it, and on the
inside he found a metal latch, an honest-to-God metal latch, strong, well-made, not even rusted in
position, and he threw it home and leaned against the door’s hardwood solidity, gasping. The music
through the door stopped, and Artie listened to himself breathe.
This room was dark, although a silvery light announcing the return of the moon fell at a slant from
Artie’s left. The front windows, he thought, and he checked once more to make certain the door was
secure, and turned to face the room.
At first glance, the thing dangling from the huge chandelier was a bunch of rags, but then the remainder
of the moon cleared the clouds and poured more silver into the room and Artie saw Doris. Her feet
angled straight down, like a dancer’s on point. Her neck was almost a foot long.
Artie screamed. He was still screaming as he fumbled at the door, trying to open it even if Lamar White
was on the other side, still screaming as he realized it would never open, still screaming as he ran to the
other door in the room, the one that had to lead into the big sitting room he’d glimpsed. As the knob
turned in his hand, he stopped screaming just long enough to hear the crystals on the chandelier behind
him begin to tinkle.
The door caught, eased, caught again, as though someone, someone strong, was holding it closed from
outside, playing with him, and the tinkling increased and stopped. And then the floorboards creaked.
Artie put his foot through the bottom panel, hauled back and kicked it again and again, and dropped to
his hands and knees to force himself through. Scraped and filthy, his shins bleeding, he stood blinking
in the sitting room, dark again, the remaining bits of furniture decayed and sloping as though soulsickened and unutterably weary.
Something soft and wet-sounding struck the other side of the door he’d crawled through. Again.
There was one other door in the room, beside the archway leading to the hall and Lamar White, and
Artie yanked it open, not recognizing at first the flood of small, neatly-wrapped packages that tumbled
out, that had been stacked in the closet, so many of them the closet must have stretched two or three
stories high, and he took a leap back as they pooled around his feet and rose around his legs.
Transfixed, he bent down and picked one up.
Hundred-dollar bills. One hundred of them, he knew from long experience. A ten-thousand-dollar
packet. An avalanche of them, knee-high by now, still pouring out, and he stooped to grab ten or twelve
packets more, and something hit him hard on the back of the neck and then an iron weight was planted
on his back and he lay there as the money cascaded down, and when the weight was removed from his
back, he remained perfectly still, waiting against all hope for whatever it was to go away. All the while,
he heard the feathery sound of bundles of paper sliding over each other.
The money pressed down on him, so heavy he could barely breathe. Eventually, the sound stopped and
all he heard was his heart, slamming against his chest in triple-time. Nothing else. No music, no voices,
no – no soft, wet thing hitting a door. He counted to a hundred.
Silence. He counted to a hundred again.
He tried to get up and found that he couldn’t.
His arms were splayed out, stretched to either side. He couldn’t get any leverage against the floor. The
pile of money was very heavy.
Just relax, he thought. It’s only money. The phrase lifted his spirits, almost amused him. Slowly, slowly.
He could work his way out, of course, he could. An inch at a time, he edged his arms closer to himself
and managed to get one beneath him. Pushed up, but couldn’t raise his shoulders with only one arm.
Smelled smoke.
Only a rumor of it at first, but almost immediately it grew sharper, nearer, more insistent. He couldn’t
see anything at all beneath the heap of paper – no, money – in the dark room, but the smoke was
thickening. It snaked its way through the bundles, seeking him out. He coughed twice, and then he
heard the fire.
The snapping of burning wood galvanized him. It took him a few seconds to get his other hand beneath
him, to work his elbows to the outside in pushup position and then slowly, agonizingly, lift himself.
Against the sounds of the fire he heard packets of money sliding, tumbling, down the pile, lightening
the load, and he dropped to the floor again, breathed in twice, and thrust himself upward to the limit of
his arms, and heard more money flutter downward, felt that the weight was lighter to the right. He
lowered himself to the floor again, grabbed the deepest breath of his life, and forced himself up, to the
right, feeling the pressure lessen, and a moment later he was sitting, clawing away the packets of bills,
and his head cleared the pile.
The sitting room was ablaze, long peels of wallpaper flaring up, the remnants of century-old curtains
almost blindingly aflame, a shallow cloud of fire, blue and patient as a gas stove, gnawing away at the
ceiling. The heat was a blow in the face. He shoveled at the money two-handed, tossing it away from
him until he could stand, and then he was running through the flames toward the darker, cooler
entrance hall.
The door once again hung on one hinge. Artie grabbed it two-handed and pulled it open, then plunged
through, into the cool of the night, barely registering the lights flickering in the open doorways of the
slave cabins as he tumbled headfirst down the marble stair, picked himself up and ran behind the car –
–into a pool of water bottomed with soft, soft mud. His feet went out from under him and he landed
belly-down in the mud behind the SUV, fighting off the impression that something had grasped his
ankle. Spitting filthy water, he got his arms under him and pushed, but his hands skidded away in the
slickness of the mud and he was gathering himself for another try when he heard something that almost
literally stopped his heart.
Doris said, “Recalculating.” Then she said, “Back up ten feet.”
The backup lights brightened and the SUV began to move as Artie fought the mud, saw the red of the
taillights grow farther apart as they came closer, saw the gleam of the bumper, saw the letters spelling
out SPRT HZ get bigger,
saw
*
When the engine company got there, just after dawn, they found that the fire had somehow leaped from
the gutted house to torch the slave cabins, leaving untouched the driverless, mud-caked SUV in the
drive, leaving untouched the millions of dollars scattered over the mud, each bill bearing the
meticulously engraved likeness of Jefferson Davis. The SUV’s driver was nowhere to be found.
This entry was posted on Saturday, October 30th, 2010 at 10:02 pm and is filed under All Blogs. You can
your own site.
3”
1. Sylvia Says:
I love the inevitability of this and how is one chance to save himself involves
leaving the money (so for Artie, isn’t a chance at all). Your descriptions of the
house and the photographs are chilling: horrifying details that shall no doubt haunt
my dreams the next time I eat cheese before bed.
Bravo!
2. Gary Says:
Uuuuuuhhhhhh…!!!
3. Gary Says:
Now that my heart’s stopped pounding…
Everett, how come the other HTML text formatting doesn’t work here – stuff like
ins for underlining, big, small, sub, sup, etc.?
And you were right about my ageing intelligence. Back in my day (he said
wheezily) of steam-powered FORTRAN compilers, a toggle command to turn
something on was the same as to turn it off again. So I overlooked that you need
to use i and /i to turn italics on and off, instead of just i and i.
And if THIS discussion wouldn’t terrify Artie, then I don’t know what would.
4. Bonnie Says:
@Gary Boy, this takes me back. When I was working for IIASA in the 70s and
80s, we used an editor “preprocessor” on big mainframes, so you had to type
/fIword/fR to italicize a work that then reverted to Roman. When I came back to
the States in 1985, there were already dedicated word processing programs, but
boy, was Word Perfect a gift when it finally came along!
5. EverettK Says:
[Lights fade to black. Explosion of applause bursts forth to fill the void left by the
departing stark raving, pant shitting, mind blowing terror.]
Or, as the beatniks used to say in the 1950s and early 60s: [snapping of thousands
of pairs of thumbs and fingers]
Bravo, Maestro, bravo!
And who said you were JUST a novelist???
Thanks, Tim! You may not be a gentleman and a scholar, but you’re one hell of an
entertainer!!!
Minor proofreading items:
…petroleum, The SUV…
Period instead of comma, or lowercase ‘t’.
Artie said, “Ohhhhhhhh.” and backed toward…
Comma instead of period? Or capital-A?
6. EverettK Says:
Gary: usually these kinds of “comment fields” only support a small set of html
fields. One, that’s cheaper and easier to do (from a programming point of view),
and two, it prevents hackers from entering javascript and other nasty chunks of
code into comments in order to hack into the blog data base and do things they
shouldn’t be doing.
But back to the subject at hand: Did I say how much I loved your short story,
Tim? If you ever make it to Oregon, I owe you lunch!
7. Beth Says:
Another piece of genius, Tim.
I am not a fan of horror stories; never read Stephen King although there is at least
one copy of each of his books in my house. I read the first installment of your
story and thought about reading the second. Then I read the second and thought
that I might not read the third. But, of course, I had to read the third.
Am I going to start reading Stephen King? No, but I will read another short story
you write should you decide to make a three-part Halloween story every year a
new commitment.
So Arnie didn’t know what was in store when “Spirit House” took over his life.
The slave quarters should have been a tip-off about the antebellum south. I don’t
think Jefferson Davis has been a character in any other horror stories. It was a
very inventive use of history.
Congratulations.
Thanks to all of you, and especially to those of you who were more interested int
the story than in the topic of how to format these replies. I’m with Sylvia, in
response to an earlier post: Real men don’t need preview.
And, on the topic of Sylvia — I’ll take it as the supreme compliment if you have a
nightmare about any of this. Where should I send the cheese?
Gary, glad it chilled you a little, even if Fortran beckoned so quickly.
Bonnie, I actually still miss WordPerfect, if only for that “reveal codes” switch.
And Everett, while I appreciate the spirit in which your comments were made, I
am widely regarded, among a very small circle, as both a gentleman and a scholar.
Glad you enjoyed it, and thanks for the proofing catches, although I doubt I’ll ever
do anything more with this. And lunch in Oregon sounds great, even though it’s
Oregon. Rain, people on bicycles, rain.
Beth, thanks as always. Great reaction. By the way, I’m writing a blog, perhaps
tomorrow, that’s inspired by your response to the Thai Ghosts thing I wrote today
on Murder Is Everywhere. Thanks for the idea.
Edgar would be sooooo proud.
And now I will never be able to go down a country lane in the South in the dark
ever, ever again.
Which is pretty much okay since I live in the west. Still — I can almost feel the
kudzu crowding out my pine trees as I write.
10.Paul D. Brazill Says:
Wonderful writing. A classic chiller!
11.Bonnie Says:
@Tim Having just finished Four Last Things, I’m not sure this story measures up
in the scary department to your earlier novel. So as not to spoil it for others, let me
just say that Psycho now has competition for scariest shower scene!
The creepiest part of this story for me was suddenly realizing he was looking right
“through” Mr. White’s eyes. But I liked “Doris” getting her double revenge, as
well!
Oh, dear, my CAPTCHA is swinany magnesia. Knew I shouldn’t have stopped at
the dim sum place on my way home from Costco.
Kari, the South was spooky enough even before kudzu, which is truly a vegetable
monster. But, of course, the South is also beautiful and hospitable, and absolutely
choked with ghosts.
Paul, thanks a zillion — from you, that’s very high praise.
And Bonnie, glad you liked the shower in FOUR LAST THINGS. When I went
through it again prior to putting it online, I was completely surprised by that scene
— I had no recollection of having read it.
I liked Mr. White’s eyes, too –felt like it was actually the only original thing in the
house sequence, although I really do like the long, long resonance of injustice to
African-Americans that the story takes as its real background. But I thought most
of the Grand Guignol stuff was imitative, so I was very pleased with the eyes,
which I hadn’t seen before. And, like you, I like that Doris ends the story.
This was actually a lot of fun to write, although I wish I’d had a week more to
make it better. I’m now thinking of doing stories for the major holidays, maybe
even as soon as Thanksgiving. If not, then definitely Christmas.
I’ll call your swinany magnesia and raise you an initial purecky, which is what
I’ve just gotten from Captcha
13.Gary Says:
Tim, my scholarly and gentlemenly friend, how can you suggest that our
comments are not on topic? The inane chatter about codes and formatting is just
our way of trying to sound desperately normal, against a looming shadow of
mind-numbing horror.
Besides, if I told Bonnie that I actually wrote a word processor in 1976 she
wouldn’t believe me. Especially if I told her it was written in FORTRAN.
And it was a great story, Tim.
Well . . . if you say so. I mean, if all this tech-chatter was just a frantic scramble
away from the madness of terror, well . . .
Ahh, horsefeathers. But I love you anyway, all the way down there in Oz.
15.Suzanna Says:
November 1st, 2010 at 2:33 am
When I knew I wasn’t going to be home to read your story until yesterday
afternoon I printed it out to bring with me to Morgan’s race. We left the house
way before sunrise so he could get a good spot to park his bike.
I dropped him off at the entrance and went back about a quarter of a mile to park
and wait for the sun to come up before I walked back to the race.
It was Marin county for goodness sake, no big deal, right? And yet….YIKES!!!
Naturally as I read your story and the images got creepier (Lamar White’s see
through eye sockets were particularly creepy) I was checking my locks and
wishing I wasn’t sitting there by myself.
So why’d I read a scary story in the car alone in the dark? Well, no offense, but I
really didn’t think it was going be that bad, and besides I wanted to see what
happened next. Also Artie wasn’t someone I was exactly rooting for and I
suspected he was gonna get what he deserved.
You didn’t disappoint me. Good job giving me the heebie-jeebies and giving Artie
a fitting end.
But next time if I know I’m about to read one of your scary stories I’ll be sure to
wait for sun up.
Like your idea for writing holiday themed short stories. There’s only 25 days til
Thanksgiving, just in case you wanna get crackin’ on Turkey Day.
16.Larissa Says:
What’s wrong with people on bikes? hmmm??? (c:
Love the story By the way-and I’ll have you know that I visited the page today
just to see how it all ended-it had nothing to do with Everett’s comments.
Well done as always.
17.Maria Yolanda Aguayo Says:
November 1st, 2010 at 1:10 pm
Enjoyed the last installment and concur with all about the see through eyes.
Loving your blog.
Wow, late to the dance, but this ending was totally creepy, and yes, I thought the
eyes were particularly, um, scary. You did have me, at the door knobs. I am a tad
claustrophobic, so this really got to me. So I thought this was funny until it
wasn’t. Great. So you will do something Thanksgiving spirited? Should be
interesting.
Awww, Suzanna, I didn’t mean to scare you. Well, I mean, I did, of course, but not
so much. It actually never occurred to me that anyone would read it alone in a car
in the dark. And you know, The Hook has been marauding in Marin County, too.
Look out for the Hook!!!
(Does ANYONE remember that?)
“Get crackin?” on the Turkey Day story? “Get crackin’?” Actually, while I was
writing that, I thought of a Turkey Day story situation, even if it’s not a story.
Hmmm.
Larissa, there’s nothing wrong with people on bikes unless they’re in Portland,
Oregon, where city law mandates that 237,409 of them have to be out at any time
of day or night and they have a lane of their own on the right and TOTAL right-of
way, so any car that wants to turn right or (horrors!) park, had to deal with an
unending stream of smug, over-entitled bicyclists blowing those infuriating
whistles or ringing those goddamn bells, and . . . Okay, I’m breathing, I’m
breathing.
Maria — Everyone likes the eyes, and I do, too. I like that and the fact that it’s
Confederate money in the light of day, and the whole racial background. But most
of the “terror: is pretty derivative, I’m afraid. I don’t read or particularly like
horror, but some powerful imaginations have worked that literary seam.
Lil, I also hate doorknobs. We have a downstairs bathroom, and I com
CONSTANTLY washing my hands in it and then rubbing them with an especially
nice lotion my wife buys and then being completely unable to open the door, my
hands sliding with no effect at all on the doorknob. Drives me crazy.
Thanksgiving. Maybe.
20.EverettK Says:
November 2nd, 2010 at 5:53 am
Sheesh! I’m starting to think you have something personal against Oregon, Tim.
First the rain, now the bicyclists, next I suppose you’ll be complaining about all
the trees.
Well, fair’s fair, I guess. After all, we native Oregonians complain all the time
LOVE the story!!!
and, I really love the photo.
There’s nothing wrong with Oregon if you like mud and plaid shirts.
As for the Californians who have moved up there, they’re clearly lemmings and
not worthy of notice.
Ahhhh — Oregon’s okay. There’s actually not a state in the union I haven’t
enjoyed, although there are lots I’d rather visit than live in.
23.RJ Baliza Says:
November 4th, 2010 at 10:25 pm
descriptions are vivid yet short and powerful enough that it moves
the story along really smooth. there should be more of these, Tim! or maybe, a
good amount of more of these that could be published both on paper and e-book.
thanks for the read.
November 5th, 2010 at 9:04 am
Thank you, RJ — this is definitely not a form I feel comfortable in yet, but maybe
if I write another ten or twenty of them, I’ll get to the point where I actually
understand what I’m doing. I think this one works (to the extent that it does)
because Artie is a triple-dipped shithead and deserves all he gets and more.
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 31: Dogs and Ghosts
November 1st, 2010
In response to a Halloween blog about Thai ghosts I wrote over at Murder is Everywhere, where I
natter about something or other every Sunday, Beth Crowley wrote about a dog of hers that could see
ghosts. The ghosts apparently liked to hang out in the upper corners of rooms, because once in a while
her dog, a Samoyed, would stare fixedly at a specific corner for about five minutes, which is, as Beth
said, “a very long time in a dog’s life when not sleeping.”
Her note reminded me that our (my wife’s and my) Lab mix, Torrei, also saw ghosts. (Torrei is
pronounced “Tory.” She was named after an absurdly romantic hotel in Verona, the absurdly romantic
town of Romeo and Juliet, where we once stayed in an old, round, stone tower room that was probably
packed with ghosts.)
Torrei’s ghosts, like Beth’s dog’s, preferred high corners. Torrei lived with us in a whole bunch of
houses: a semi-shack in Topanga Canyon, a beautiful 1930s duplex in Hancock Park, an astonishing
Spanish house built originally by Charlie Chaplin high above the Sunset Strip, an old mansion up near
the Hollywood Bowl where we lived for about eight months while the Chaplin house was being rebuilt,
and then, finally, a cottage just off the beach in Venice. (She lived to be seventeen.)
That endless list of houses is included for a reason. Torrei saw ghosts only in the Charlie Chaplin
house, and only in the living room and the room in which I wrote some of the Simeon Grist books.
Nowhere else, not even down in the abandoned and somewhat spooky maid’s quarters, which we used
for storage. And after the house burned down and was rebuilt (a structure pathetically inferior to the
original), she didn’t see ghosts there any more.
And that reminded me of another dog and another house, this one in Maryland, just across the
Washington, DC, city line. The dog was named Lumps, and the house was an older (maybe 40 years)
Colonial, all used brick and white wood, two and a half-stories high, It was common knowledge in the
family that it was haunted. Twice, walking home at night, we saw pale lights moving behind the
windows of my parents’ room, and with monotonous frequency, late at night, we’d hear something start
to climb stairs in the basement, go right past the first floor, and then climb to the second floor, where
the bedrooms were. Then it paused and, after a breath-catching moment, went up a nonexistent flight of
stairs to the permanently closed attic.
My room was at the head of the stairs, making me the appetizer if the ghost was really hungry or the
whole meal if he was just feeling peckish. For the first few months we lived there, I grew used to
having my blood run cold as the thing made its way toward me. After I realized that I might not be on
the menu, I got accustomed to it. Midnight, and here’s old Duane. Thump, thump, yawn, yawn.
But then one night I heard the first footfalls, and Lumps, who slept in my room, turned into a dog
possessed. Barking, growling, slavering — and absolutely terrified, as far away from the door as she
could get. Well, that got my attention. I sat bolt upright and listened as the footsteps drew nearer and
then stopped at the head of the stairs. Lumps’ barking had gone falsetto, and I heard my father yell at
her, and then the door to my parents’ bedroom opened, and he stalked into my room, furious, only to be
met in mid-air by Lumps, so happy to see him she ran circles around him yapping in pure exhilaration.
Old Duane kept climbing the stairs, but only once more in the three or four years we lived there did
Lumps go nuts. I have no idea what the difference was between the Duane whom Lumps ignored and
the one that horrified her, but I was willing to take her word that it was significant.
When we put the place for sale, we got the original plans for the house, and there, outside my
doorway,we saw that there had once been another flight of stairs to the attic, which had been removed
in the 1940s.
I made that up about the extra flight of stairs. Should I have told you, or not?
This entry was posted on Monday, November 1st, 2010 at 4:36 pm and is filed under All Blogs. You can
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18 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 31: Dogs and Ghosts”
1. Beth Says:
I vote for not. It is imperative that stories about ghosts not include too much
information.
Lumps?? I thought Edna was a bad name for a dog. Edna was about thirteen when
she went to join the ghosts. We had a second dog when we had the ghostbuster
and since then we have had two other pairs of dogs. Edna was the only one to find
the ghosts on the ceiling. We have even had a dog dumber than she was so lack of
intelligence wasn’t the key to her clairvoyance.
Whatever Edna’s ghost was it was not as scary as thunder or as dangerous as the
cat next door. She didn’t bark or howl; she just sat and stared.
Some people think that Samoyed’s look like they are smiling. Maybe the ghosts
just wanted to hang out with a happy-looking dog who didn’t bother them.
Edna and I thank you for our brief moment of fame.
I agree. I just had a conscience cramp.
And the dog’s name was really Lumpkins, but Lumps evolved as her nickname.
She was a great dog, one of about 15 I’ve had and up in the top four or five. Every
day at three o’clock when school was out, she’d be sitting at the edge of the
campus and she and I would walk home through the woods. This was when kids
could still experience the magic of the woods. What a crappy world we live in,
3. EverettK Says:
Sorry, I can’t comment on this blog. I’m WAY too busy reading about Junior
Bender, Thistle Downing, Wattles, Hacker, Rabbits Stennet, the slavering hounds
from hell, Trey, Jimmy Dean, Kathy, Rina, Tatiana, whats-her-name Ellie and all
of the other memorable members of the cast of Crashed. I may not get any sleep
until I finish this damned thing. Who’s got time to read a miserable daily blog, let
alone work, eat, sleep or …well, let’s not go into bodily functions.
4. Sharai Says:
Where exactly was your old mansion near the Hollywood Bowl? The HB was one
of my favorite Haunts as a child. One of the reasons I love the Simeon Grist
novels is that you realy capture the neighborhood I grew up in.
It was up on Outlook, north of Franklin and in between Highland and La Brea.
Built in the 20s and VERY ornate, with dark red walls in some rooms and
furniture left over from the Spanish Inquisition.
I don’t think I ever put Simeon up there — maybe I will in a new book, since I’m
writing him again.
6. Larissa Says:
November 2nd, 2010 at 12:23 pm
I’m in awe of how many cool places you’ve managed to live…and no, you’re not
supposed to tell us what’s true and what isn’t…i couldn’t have slept *ever* if i’d
heard footsteps outside my door…i have a seriously overactive imagination
though…it’s absurd. Luckily, my dog never saw ghosts.
This is fascinating. I lived in a 100 year lod house with a cottage dating from the
1880′s. This was supposed to be inhabited by the ghost of a fisherman(this was
Half Moon Bay, CA) who had lived there selling his fish and eggs etc. People
would come to the house wanting to walk through it and “sense” Peter. I never
heard him, but just to hedge my bets, I would say hello to him. I think he was a
gentle ghost, and didn’t like a lot of company. Please forgive the font-I’m on
Firefox and haven’t yet learned to work with it.
The font is fine on your blog so ignore my last comment-unlike others, I am a
technological luddite.
Very Halloweenie!
I’m having trouble getting into your blog: I keep being told that it’s down, or
moved, or never existed. Every time that happens I wonder if it’s gone forever but
so far so good.
10.Sharai Says:
Oh well, not my mansion. My mansion was as low as you can go and still be in
the Hollywood Hills, on Holly St. SE of the Bowl. There are two huge white stone
lions guarding the front. My cousin rented the servants quarters in 1960 to ‘write a
novel’. No signs of being haunted that I ever saw but stories of the great Rudy
Valentino living there in his youth as the boy toy of the famous actress who
owned it fueled my imagination just fine. Sorry to say the novel never saw the
light of day.
Simeon trying to solve a crime in a haunted HH mansion would be great. So as
some like to say, “Get crackin’”!
Hi, Riss — When I was a kid my parents moved ALL THE TIME — I’d lived in
something like 20 houses by the time I moved out at 18, and I’ve moved a lot ever
since. The period when I had Torrei coincided with the period when I first began
to be paid more than I was worth, so I was upwardly mobile, rising rapidly
through the mortgage stratosphere into a position of truly exalted debt. Which in
turn was corrected by an abrupt cessation of all income of any kind for about a
year, which I recommend highly to anyone whose perspective needs adjusting.
Lil, your house sounds like something I could covet without even trying. And
Half-Moon Bay is a place I’ve always wanted to live. Just the name makes me
jealous. Too bad the ghost didn’t show up for you, though.
FHH — WordPress was down for about five hours today and has been up and
down intermittently ever since. I was still feeling Halloweenie, and then, of
course, Beth gave me an idea and at this stage (Day 32) any idea looks like a big
slice of chocolate cake, so I grabbed it.
Sharai, when/if you ever come down here, let’s go find that house, and I’ll show
you the one I lived in. Very peculiar neighborhood because of the proximity of
Hollywood Boulevard — $2 million houses with bums sleeping on the sidewalk
in front of them. The first thing I did every morning was to go out with a broom in
case someone had thoughtfully broken a bottle in my driveway.
And this “get crackin’: thing can expire whenever it wants. It’s not bad enough
that Everett is on me all the time, without you and Suzanna hectoring me in such
rural terms.
12.Suzanna Says:
Simmer down now sonny Jim, I mean, sonny Tim. Shar and I ain’t tryin’ to hector
you none. But if you insist I will retire the C word.
Like the CRASHED cover by the way.
13.Jaden Says:
You were right to trust Lump’s instincts, Tim. Dogs know these things. Maybe the
scary Duane wasn’t really Duane–or maybe those were nights when he woke up
reeeaaaalllly hungry.
I went to see a play about the Bell Witch two nights before Halloween. A friend
was in it, so I drove out to Adams, where the play was performed in an outdoor
pavilion on land that was once part of the Bells’ property. Two of the Bells’
descendants were in the play, which gave it an erie tie to the past. So on the way
home after watching this creepy, creepy play, my GPS took me home via a tiny,
winding, lonesome road that would have been at home in any slasher film. By the
time I reached the main road, I was pretty spooked.
I’m glad my dogs don’t see ghosts. I have too vivid an imagination to deal with
that.
I heardja the first time, Samantha, uhhh, Suzzana, uhhh, Soozanner. Ya go my
name wrong. You may have thought ya slipped that by me. Butcha hafta get up
pretty early in the morning to whip one past ol’ Jim. Glad you like the cover, but
that don’t make us even.
Jaden — okay, most intriguing comment of the week — I found the Bell Witch
website and it’s really fascinating. I’d love to see that play. And you didn’t read
SPIRIT HOUSE or you never would have trusted that GPS. All GPS units are
under the direct control of the devil.
November 3rd, 2010 at 4:47 am
I’m glad it wasn’t just your blog then!
16.Suzanna Says:
Okay, Mr. H, didn’t mean to upset you. I won’t hector you no mo’.
By the way, I don’t do no whippin’ early in the mornin’. Too hard on my shoulder.
And there ain’t nobody named Jim ’round here so just SIMMER DOWN NOW!
Oops there goes my hectorin’ ‘gain. I’ll try to make it up to ya sometime real
soon.
Yer pal,
Soozanner
November 3rd, 2010 at 6:15 pm
Yikes. I seem somehow not to have responded to Everett’s enthusiastic reaction to
CRASHED, for which I was very thankful — and even more thankful now that
he’s finished it and likes it ever better.
By the way, I’LL SEND A WORD FILE OF CRASHED to anyone who will
review it (candidly) when it comes out on Amazon at the end of the month. Just email me at thallinan@gmail.com, and I’ll send it to you by return e-mail. Just let
me know — I’m feeling pretty good about the book, especially since four early
readers, of whom Everett was one, have weighed in with some enthusiasm.
FHH — naw, it was the whole WordPress operation. Couldn’t get into comments
or the admin’s area or anything. Very frustrating. I would have blown it off, but
then there wouldn’t have been a blog and some readers (WE KNOW WHO,
DON’T WE?) would have bitched for days.
Suzanna, enough of this backwoods back-and-forth. Iffen ya don’t start ta talk like
a slicker, the ol woodshed is awaitin’.
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 32: Cover Story
November 2nd, 2010
This is the jacket for CRASHED, the first Junior Bender mystery, coming to the world of e-books right
after Thanksgiving.
Since a picture is worth a thousand words, let’s quit here and call it even.
Okay, I heard the boos and hisses, plus the occasional whip-crack from Everett. Three hundred words
or nothing.
The designer of this terrific jacket is Maria Sandamela, who also designed the website you’re looking
at right now. Maria is not only talented, but also a pleasure to work with, something that can’t always
be said for talented graphics people, who tend to think they’re smarter, at least in terms of graphics,
than I am. And they’re usually right.
But book design is different since, in addition to catching the eye, it’s also supposed to convey
something about the story. In CRASHED, Junior, a burglar who works as a private eye for crooks, is
hired to figure out who’s sabotaging the production of a very expensive porno film and becomes
involved instead in trying to save the film’s unwilling star. Thistle Downing, who was America’s
biggest TV star between the ages of eight and fifteen is now — at age 23 — broke, drugged out, and
half-unaware of what’s being done to her. And she’s also the target of a murder attempt.
Junior has to walk a tightrope between betraying his very dangerous client’s interests and protecting
Thistle from herself — and a surprising number of others. There. I got the plug in, and wasn’t it done
cleverly? But it’s very cool how Maria has captured so much of that — the battered door, the tarnished
star, the bottle of candy-colored pills.
I’m hoping Maria will be able to do all the Juniors, including the next one, LITTLE ELVISES, with
this sort of painterly approach, while the amazing Allen Chiu continues his magic with the Simeons.
Allen is already at work on a font for PULPED, made up of teensy bits of paper.
It’s very gratifying to me to have these two wizards work their magic on my books.
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8 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 32: Cover Story”
1. EverettK Says:
Lovely. Perfect. Absolutely captures the essence of the core of the story. Well,
okay, maybe she could have worked in something from the burglar angle, but let’s
just throw the nits out the window. A wonderful job! (And you can tell I said so.
I’m sure that will mean a lot to her.)
So now I suppose we’re going to have three or four blogs about how you’re going
to post the first chapter, etc.
2. Jaden Says:
Beautiful cover, Tim. And what a well-placed and eloquent plug. The book sounds
terrific.
Tonight’s reCaptcha: informal painden
An establishment in which people in casual clothing engage in S&M?
Thanks, Everett — You’ve read it (or at least some of it), so I’m glad you liked it.
I don’t think the graphic could have dealt with one more story element. And no,
there won’t be three or four blogs about posting the first chapter, there will be
three or four blogs about whether I’m going to write a Thanksgiving and/or
Christmas story. And I’m not going to run the first chapter at all — I’m going to
run the chapter where he and Doc have to walk Thistle back to consciousness.
Thanks, Jaden. I like it myself. Maria is terrific. Very funny Captcha — maybe we
should save a bunch of them and have people suggest translations.
I like the name Junior Bender. For many yearsI’ve been collecting names from
signs I see while driving. I don’t know why I’m doing that because I don’t ever
expect to write a book that has actual characters.
But if I ever do, it will have a character named Crenshaw Fish. Or possibly Object
Aribessi, which is the recaptcha code for today.
It’s a great cover. I like the overall look of it and the combination of items invites
curiosity.
Nice one!
6. Bonnie Says:
Who did the Poke Rafferty covers, Tim? I like them a lot, too, though I don’t think
they are as effective on my Kindle. Thistle Downing, by the way, sounds a lot like
a reCaptcha, too!
Wahh, don’t have an e-reader, but I love the cover, and would love to read it.
Maybe for Christmas…
Umm, Crenshaw Fish, Laren? Can I have that? I’ve been meaning for years to use
a genuine Koreatown acupuncturist named Dr. Ow or a Venice surgeon (he has a
little surgical center on Washington Boulevard) named Dr. Fillet.
Thanks, FHH — I like the painterly feel of it. Very different from the Simeons.
And I agree that the objects are kind of provocative.
Hey, Bonnie — the Poke covers are done by the art staff at William Morrow and
they’ve gone through a couple of changes of emphasis. The first three were all
sort of architectural — Bangkok at a remove — and each featured a shadowed
man, which was taken directly from NAIL in a piece of dialog when Poke says to
Arthit that the missing Uncle Claus has left no footprint; he’s like a cut-out in that
the only reason you know he’s missing is the space where he used to be. Then my
most recent editor rethought it and set the covers at street level, which is what
you’ve got in the paperback of BREATHING WATER and the hardcover of
QUEEN. He also kept the shadowed figure of a man. Of all the conventionally
published books in my career, these are the jackets I like most.
I’m sorry, Lil. The Kindle, at $139, is the greatest electronic gadget in the known
world at present, especially since there are THOUSANDS AND THOUSANDS of
free books available for it, and tens of thousands more (maybe hundreds of
thousands) that are available at substantial savings over the paper prices. It pays
for itself in less than a year. You know, you can order one, see how you like it, and
send it back for a full refund within 30 days. (You can also demand a refund on
individual Kindle books, which isn’t so widely known.)
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 33: Rethinking Hell
November 3rd, 2010
Hell has gotten a bad rap.
The main problem, as I see it, has been a lack of restraint. You go to Hell, it’s agonizing. You go to
hell, it’s eternal.
Where’s the wiggle room?
As we’ve moved toward a more secular frame of mind, all this has begun to feel excessive. Okay, sure,
Hitler. Stalin. Pol Pot. Torquemada. Dracula. Eliot Spitzer’s barber. The guy who designed those
plastic bubble packages it takes half an hour to cut apart.
But that’s like a handful of people out of the billions who have passed through this vale of woe, and
they really, really deserved perpetual immolation in lakes of fire or being gnawed from the knees up by
piranha or being passed for all time through one of those machines that slices pastrami so much more
thinly than you’d like it to be sliced.
Most bad people just aren’t that bad. You wouldn’t wish an eternity of writhing upon them. And that’s
led to a credibility gap for Hell and, not entirely coincidentally, a substantial drop in the profitability of
churches that depend on hell to keep people showing up on Sunday. (Crystal Cathedral, anyone?) And
Hell no longer packs (for most of us, at any rate) the old I wouldn’t do that if I were you punch that
undoubtedly kept millions and millions of not-overly-good people from raping and pillaging over the
millennia.
Without Hell, everybody loses.
What we need, I think, is a more measured approach to Hell. First of all, geographically. Okay, we’ve
already got the Lake of Fire, the Seven Circles, and all that. What about some suburbs? Places of
varying degrees of unpleasantness where you could park people for eternity with a relatively free
conscience. The Rush Limbaugh Smoker’s Lounge, the Endless Bad Standup Comedy Club, the Zone
of Perpetual Tickling, the High-Volume Commercial-Free Talk Radio Torment, the Tourist-Class Seat
over the Endless Ocean With the Baby Behind You, the Headache Behind the Right Eye That Never
Gets Bad Enough for Aspirin But Never Goes Away Either, the Kardashian Pinball Gauntlet, the
Infinite Mystery Library With All the Final Chapters Torn Out, the Fox News on the Fillings
Experience, the Being Siamese Twins With Bill O’Reilly Punishment. I mean, I’m just getting started.
Get half a dozen malicious people in a small room with a lot of coffee, and we’d have thousands of
them.
And then there’s the issue of time. Who says Hell has to be for eternity? I mean, is it written in stone?
And if it is, anybody got a hammer?
Once you build a little give into the notion of Hell, all sorts of possibilities open up. For the moron
who habitually leans on his horn when someone actually stops at a stop sign, ten minutes every year of
being fired from a cannon head-first into the side of the Queen Mary to acquaint him with the concept
of Full Stop. For Lorne Michaels, for the sin of not turning “Saturday Night Live” over to someone
who could have kept it funny, a month every century trying to find a way out of the Jerry Lewis
Telethon. For Gloria Allred, on general principles, thirty years with her teeth wired together, shackled
in front of a live radio microphone. For white guys who wear their baseball caps backwards or white
women who say, “You go, girl,” six weeks trapped inside the body of Vanilla Ice.
Work with me on this. Hell still has an upside. All it takes is a fresh perspective.
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15 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 33: Rethinking Hell”
1. Larissa Says:
Brilliant! (c: Dante was a bit foreboding with all his Murder and Infidelity and all
that jazz…so then for all those people who just cannotmanage to tip their servers
at restaurants (or perhaps the jackass who decided 2.15/hour was a fair wage…)
they could spend 6 months digging for change on the streets of Azerbaijan to pay
their rent…which will continue to increase by 25 dollars a day until they can pay
it. (c:
I like the idea of a special little spot in Hell for all the douchebags out there who
probably aren’t actually bad people but who seem to forget from time to time how
to not suck.
2. Eric Stone Says:
I’m kind of looking forward to hell. I wouldn’t know anyone in heaven and I
really loathe harp music. I will almost certainly, for instance, see you there. We
can take a dip in the lake of fire together.
Hell, hell is a trendy place to be; how else are us commoners going to have a
chance at rubbing elbows with the rich and famous?
4. Suzanna Says:
This is hysterical, Tim. So lucky to get to check in here and laugh like a crazed
hyena in the middle of the day. Thank you!
5. Gary Says:
My object all sublime
I shall achieve in time
To let the punishment fit the crime,
The punishment fit the crime.
And make each prisoner pent
Unwillingly represent
A source of innocent merriment,
Of innocent meriment.
What punishment worse than being forced to watch endless D’Oyly Carte
performances of Gilbert and Sullivan?
For eternity.
6. Dana King Says:
I forget who came up with the idea–it was a pre-Onion outlet, either the Lampoon
or Mad Magazine–but they thought Heck was a good concept. It was for people
who couldn’t get into heaven, but didn’t deserve hell. It was described as being
like a southern bus station at 3:00 AM in August.
My idea of hell? Locked for eternity in a million book library made up entirely of
cozies and Dan brown.
7. Glenn w. Says:
Where were you when I most needed these clever insights during my squandered
years in seminary while studying Barth and Tillich and Augustine? I have the urge
to forward your brilliant treatise to the Dean of Academics.
On second thought, they may demand I return my degree. Well, if they do, I’ll just
tell them to go to……
I was going to join you on this,. But then I though, “The hell with it.”
Dante was a serious guy, Riss, and in his day Hell was a much more serious
proposal, although it says a lot for the literary taste of that presumably devout
time that then, as now, pretty much everyone thumbed straight to the Inferno, just
as people in the fifties used to thumb through novels to the “bad parts.” My
mother was deeply impressed by a library copy of “Peyton Place” that literally
sprang open in her hand when she pulled it from the shelf, and not to any finely
crafted piece of landscape depiction, either. Azerbaijan offers ALL SORTS of
good bits to borrow for Hell’s new suburbs. We should solicit from everyone a
type of sinner and a just punishment.
Eric — I’ve already ordered Asbestos Speedos to protect the only part of the
anatomy that really worries me. I wonder if they’ll have inner tubes?
Great to hear from you, and I’m reading, I’m reading. (Eric is the extremely
talented writer of the Ray Sharp thrillers, set all the hell over Asia. Great stuff.)
Phil what I’m worried about is which rich and famous. I’d choose Heaven over
Paris Hilton or Snooki or David Hasselhoff or any of the other major pieces of
cheese who seem to interest us these days. Imagine spending eternity shackled to
Dina Lohan? Or Joe Biden, who’s allotted a lot of coffee so he literally never
stops talking, instead of stopping for the 10-12 minutes of daily silence he
observes here?
Suzanna, all crazed hyenas are welcome, but especially crazed hyenas who get my
name right and don’t repeatedly order me to get crackin’.
10.Larissa Says:
I think we would find some extremely hilarious punishments are out there
waiting, especially if this is the public you tap for ideas. (c:
And yes, Dante was a dreadfully serious guy-though there’s this random chapel in
Florence that is attributed to him for no real distinct reason that is probably the
most moving place I’ve ever been. Makes no direct sense but I guess things of the
spiritual nature really don’t a lot of times.
I’m currently reading The Once and Future King-between TH White and Sir
Thomas Mallory, I’m sure a lot of “Nearly Hell” type punishments could be
conjured.
11.Stephen Cohn Says:
How about a full hour and a half of listening to Michelle Bachman answer
questions?
12.Catherine Says:
I got a little chill reading Dana’s personal hell…and for some reason I thought
maybe a mix of all three, would be particularly hellish – a Vatican cat solving
crimes….
Growing up, Mum used to talk to me about Limbo. The way she described (or
how I chose to understand…) it was like a holding cell for relatives that we
needed to pray for to get them to move on up. Relatives not bad enough for hell,
not quite cutting it for instant heaven without some heavy duty prayer and or paid
for masses said in their name by the descendants.
I think I read somewhere that Vanilla Ice has his own reality show now….a
different type of hell I’m sure.
Hi, everyone — I was out all day for a medical procedure — don’t ask — so I’m
just now catching up with you. And, yes, everything is fine.
Gary – you win the prize for Most Literate Hell Suburb. I’ve long used a taste for
Gilbert and Sullivan as one of my criteria for declining further acquaintance.
Wouldn’t it be great if life were like Facebook and we could simply take a look at
someone’s preferences on, say, the subject of G&S, and simply decline friending?
Everything would be so simple.
Come on, Laren. We could use your creativity on new Hell suburbs. PUNishment,
for example, where people are subjected to bad puns for eternity. Don’t know why
I would think of that while responding to you. It could be next to The School of
Hard Knock-Knocks, where people are subjected to knock-knock jokes for
eternity.
How come no one’s come up with a punishment involving Tom Jones?
Dana, “Heck” was EXACTLY what I was searching for. Leave it to The Onion to
think of it first. By the way, this whole discussion has led me to rethink Heaven,
too, and I may blog on that, like, immediately. Or maybe not.
I’m just rereading Good Omens where the authors point out that Hell has all the
good musicians.
(I’m also reading The Man With No Time but only when I’m on my pc and not
nanoing.)
I’m baaaaack. (Wish someone would explain how to italicize or bold words in
these replies so I could make that read right.)
Glenn — Your comment reminds me of the famous Woody Allen line about
failing metaphysics because the teacher caught him looking into the soul of the
student next to him. Just give them your degree — I can’t imagine it opens many
employment doors. Almost as useless as a degree in English. Like mine.
Larissa, you raise two things I love — Florence, which is perfect, and THE ONCE
AND FUTURE KING, which is pretty close. I read it to my wife, who has an
enormous amount of patience, and she also loved it. Tremendous book.
Stephen, isn’t it great that it’s over? Even though it went as it did, it’s over. No
more Meg and Carly. Not meaning to pick on female candidates, but God, they
were awful. Unfortunately, so are the people who beat them.
Hi, Catherine — Limbo sounds a lot like
Birmingham, Alabama, except in Birmingham you can’t figure out who
bribe. The Chinese, ever practical, burn Hell Money for their departed, giving
them the wherewithal to bribe their way out. I love that. Of COURSE, Hell would
be corrupt.
FHH, nano away — tomorrow I may take on a woman at Salon Magazine who
lifts her ever-so-well-bred nose at the idea of all those . . . unqualified . . . people
daring to write a novel. Another twit, although not quite as offensive as Judith
Griggs.
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 34: Crook’s Source
November 4th, 2010
My day is never complete unless I get an opportunity to express a certain amount of umbrage. So my
thanks to Bonnie Riley for calling to my attention something that is freeing up umbrage all over the
Internet.
There’s a magazine called COOK’S SOURCE that is edited by an appallingly arrogant, appallingly
ignorant semi-human named Judith Griggs. If you doubt that she deserves all that censure, and more,
read on.
Seems a writer/cooking expert named Monica Gaudio put up a historical piece, with recipe, about apple
pies/tarts on a site called Gode Cookery and was surprised, as well she might have been, to see it
appear, almost word for word, on the site of Cook’s Source, which I will not dignify with a link. She
wrote the editor of Cook’s Source, an appallingly arrogant, etc. semi-human named Judith Griggs, to
complain. When Judith Griggs briefly peered down through the clouds veiling Olympus to ask what
Monica Gaudio wanted to make things square, Monica asked for a printed apology and a donation of
$130 to the Columbia School of Journalism.
To anyone with any sense of moral pitch, the donation request would have been a dead giveaway that
Monica Gaudio was a good person, uninterested in profit or personal aggrandizement. Judith Griggs,
however is morally tone-deaf. This is the reply she sent to Monica Gaudio:
But honestly Monica, the web is considered “public domain” and you should be happy we just didn’t
“lift” your whole article and put someone else’s name on it! It happens a lot, clearly more than you are
aware of, especially on college campuses, and the workplace. If you took offence and are unhappy, I
am sorry, but you as a professional should know that the article we used written by you was in very bad
need of editing, and is much better now than was originally. Now it will work well for your portfolio.
For that reason, I have a bit of a difficult time with your requests for monetary gain, albeit for such a
fine (and very wealthy!) institution. We put some time into rewrites, you should compensate me! I never
charge young writers for advice or rewriting poorly written pieces, and have many who write for me…
ALWAYS for free!”
Just to boil it down, all writing on the Web actually belongs to this piece of tattered gristle who goes by
the name of Judith Griggs, and anyone who is fortunate enough to be ripped off by Judith Griggs
should send money to her — the tattered gristle called Judith Griggs — to pay for her divine editing
touch.
By the way, whatever happened to the notion that women, when they gained power, would run things
differently? Well, maybe Judith Griggs is a man.
This has not gone down well on the Internet. In one of the moments that actually gives me hope for the
21st century, thousands of people are putting on their heaviest boots and jumping up and down on
Judith Griggs and Cook’s Source. And, the Internet being what it is, someone immediately found other
pieces on Cook’s Source that were simply cut-and-pasted from other sites.
If you’d like to express a little umbrage of your own, here’s what you do: Go to the Facebook page of
Cook’s Source, friend them, leave a message, and then unfriend them. If you’ve been missing lately
that feeling of being absolutely, morally in the right, here’s your chance to regain it.
On the plus side, this little flare-up has given me the first lines and a title for my new book. The
opening: ” It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.” And I’ll call it A Tale of Two Large
Urban Areas.
This entry was posted on Thursday, November 4th, 2010 at 12:32 pm and is filed under All Blogs. You can
your own site.
15 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 34: Crook’s Source”
At the risk of being serious, I think this is a period in history where winning is
everything, and how you do it-by lying, spending, cheating, and being
supercondescending-doesn’t matter.
There are exceptions-your readers, and bloggers, most of the voters in California,
and my beloved San Francisco Giants, who are the most diverse collections of
characters that were still good enough to win the World Series. But in my
everyday life, supercilious, nasty folks are winning, and I find it very disturbing. I
will try to slam Cook’s source on
FB-my turn to be nasty.
Judith Griggs seems to have her minions prowl the internet for content for her
magazine. Is that what she is suppose to do? Why not contact the author of the
original article and pay a fee. Isn’t that the usual way it works.
I’m ignorant. But clearly, her snotty remark deserves my umbrage.
Tim, the opening of your new book should be revised to reflect the reality of the
times: “It was the worst of times. It was the worst of times.” Update the names
and the scenery and you’ve got a bestseller on your hands. You probably won’t
even have to worry about the copyright infringement issue; surely Dickens’ classic
tale is in the public domain by now.
4. Suzanna Says:
Judith Griggs, aka, Tattered Gristle, is begging for a smackdown.
She definitely needs to go to good old fashioned Hades, no Heck for her.
5. EverettK Says:
Unfortunately, when things become easier, they become easier for EVERYONE,
crooks included (JG above, Nigeria, etc).
Fortunately, things have become easier for the good-guys, too. They can discover
these things that are stuck to the bottom of someone’s shoe, alert everyone else,
and then holy Hell (to link into yesterday’s blog…) can rain down on them.
Unfortunately, it’s pretty much a zero-sum game. Plus ça change, plus c’est la
même chose.
Thanks, everybody, for responding. This one is almost too easy. Since I put this
up, Judith Griggs has deleted her personal website, and apparently most of the
magazine’s advertisers have announced that they’re pulling their ads.
I hope this doesn’t negatively affect the people who had the misfortune to work
under Ms. Gristle. It would be terrible if a bunch of blameless peons lost their jobs
because of this imperious twit.
Tomorrow I’ll go positive, maybe. And, Phil, I do like the new opening. “It was
the worst of times. It was the worst of times.” I can do something with that.
7. Gary Says:
“Recalled to life.” Well, this particular issue has certainly invigorated your blog,
hasn’t it? And a blazing strange issue it is, too.
But is it so blazing strange after all? The rise of the internet is coupled with the
demise of sub-editors: anybody can write anything, as ungrammatically as they
like, and it doesn’t matter.
If you doubt me, try wading through the hundreds of badly written comments on
news stories. I mean, who reads all this stuff?
Gary, how did you do that boldface? Can you do italics, too?
Few things are more depressing than reading the comments on the Huffington
Post, and it’s all the more distressing because many of the comment-writers more
or less agree with me about things.
I’ve rarely seen such arrogance on public display. “You should thank me for
stealing your work”? It’s mind-boggling.
10.Bonnie Says:
The ignorance of copyright could have been forgiven; it was the world-weary
condescending tone of the response that gave everyone so much satisfaction in
bashing her. I hope a bunch of schoolteachers are jumping on this opportunity to
explain the concept to the generation that is growing up on Facebook.
11.EverettK Says:
Tim said: Gary, how did you do that boldface? Can you do italics, too?
Sheesh, I hate the inflectionlessness (there’s a blog entry for you, Tim, how much
you hate the butchering of the English language…) of this written medium. I can
almost never tell when you’re being sarcastic and when you just have a flea
infestation in your shorts.
Ms. Griggs is actually too easy. If I do another full frontal attack, it’ll be on
someone whom some of you might defend.
To pick up on some responses:
Everett, very impressive with the French. But you’re right in that the Internet has
probably given rise to more scams than it’s exposed. And as to your second post, I
don’t find this medium inflectionless, just a challenge to rite a little better. (Quick,
get Judith Griggs in here to improve that.)
FHH and Bonnie, I agree — the copyright violation was bad, but the tone was
literally insufferable. And she’s paying heavily for it.
There must be a moral lesson here somewhere.
13.Bonnie Says:
Here is a follow-up–not to call it an apology exactly:
http://www.cookssource.com/index.html
As Sarah tweets: “This is still a big What Not to Do. Avoiding the issues of theft,
copyright, and “internet=public domain” with whining is not apology.”
It’s better than nothing but I notice it makes no mention of the tone of the
response and also doesn’t name Judith Griggs, which leads me to believe JG
wrote the apology and Cook’s Source may be a one-woman show,
15.Bonnie Says:
http://tinyurl.com/23xen3w A funny take on the “apology” by a well known food
blogger.
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 35: The End Is (Not) Near
November 5th, 2010
Thirty-five days in and still above the ground.
This has been very interesting thus far. For years, my writing method has been to paint myself into a
corner and then find a way out, and that’s exactly what I seem to be doing here. Every time I put one
of these up, I ask myself what I could possibly write about next. Pretty much every time I finish a
sequence in a book, I ask myself what I could possibly write about next.
The difference, of course, is that in books I have characters who lead me around, whereas here it’s just
me. All writers have multiple-personality disorder, but it’s easier to let the little buggers loose when
you’ve given them a name and a physical identity that makes it clear that they’re not . . . really . . . you.
Working in the first person, without even the luxury of a fictional narrator, it’s a bit more difficult.
I suppose I could do that — invent fictional first-person narrators for some of these pieces. In fact, I
will. Starting some time this month.
The aspect I’m really not sure about is the short story commitment. It’s a lot like writing. I’m afraid if I
volunteer too many of them, they’ll become yet another reason not to write the things I have to write in
order to be allowed to continue pretending that I’m a novelist. So I’m going to take a crack at the
Thanksgiving one and if it’s too demanding I’ll blow it off. I do promise a Christmas story, though,
because I have an idea. In the absence of a stream of stories, I guess I’m just going to have to rely on
the fact that I’ve had an interesting, varied, and somewhat far-flung life, that I’m a skilled liar, and that
I’ve read tens of thousands of books. If I get too sententious, I’ll rely on you all to bring me up short.
And I promise, not too many of these pieces where I talk about the project itself. I might do it at the
beginning of a new month, since months offer easy signposts to tell me how far I’ve come and how far
I have to go. (I owe 330 more at this point.) The interesting thing — interesting to me, anyway — is
that I’m beginning to feel for the first time that I’m going to make it.
So let me kick it to you. What kinds of posts would you like to see? Either things along the lines of
pieces I’ve already done, or entirely new ideas. Hell, suggest a theme. Or challenge ma. Suggest
something you dare me to do. The worst that can happen is that I’ll fail spectacularly, and that’s always
been part of the appeal of this project.
One more thing. We need to get some more readers. It’s not fair to ask all of you to check in and
comment day after day. We need about 100 more, so that each of you can take days, even weeks, off.
You’ve been carrying a lot of the weight, and it makes me feel guilty. I’m going to push this project in
my November newsletter, but I’m wide open to ideas.
So far, against all expectation, this has been a lot of fun, and it actually has energized my writing. Who
knew?
This entry was posted on Friday, November 5th, 2010 at 8:46 am and is filed under All Blogs. You can
your own site.
13 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 35: The End Is (Not)
Near”
I love to know that the way you write a book is to paint yourself into a corner and
let your characters get you out of it! I feel less anxious about my nanomuddle
now.
Tim, whatever you write you put an interesting slant on it. I like your whimsical
posts (Rethinking Hell) and hearing about your exploits with famous people. You
could just open the newspaper one day and shove a finger on it and see what
inspiration it gives you. Unless like me you don’t read a paper. Poking the screen
doesn’t feel the same.
I’ll Tweet one of your posts and see if anyone wants to join us.
Heh! I usually paint myself into a corner, then wait for the paint to dry. Whatever
works for ya, I guess. But, hey, Tim, I’ll give a shout out on my blog this weekend
(that paint-drying thing, again) to see if I can entice anyone to join in. Oh, yeah,
and I do like what you’re doing here. Tim Hallinan, daily blogger. Who knew?
3. Eric Stone Says:
Lurid posts about your bachelor days in Asia. There just isn’t enough sex on the
internet.
4. Larissa Says:
So I’ve always been a fan of dramas and satires so I love to hear a) your spins on
what’s going on in the real world and b) to actually seeee some of that struggle
you keep mentioning-like with the short story and all-I’m a process person is
really what it is-I like to see the way something starts off and ends up and all the
roadblocks in the middle.
So yeah, just write and have fun with it and put some stuff up that scares you
every once in a while. (c:
5. EverettK Says:
In lieu of a newspaper to poke your finger into, here’s a challenge (of course, how
do we know that you’ll accomplish it truthfully?)…
Ask for ONE word from each person who cares to provide one in a comment.
Then pick THREE of those words (your choice) and do a Google search on them.
Pick one of the first 10 listings and bring up that web page, and THAT is the
subject (or inspiration) for your “challenge blog.”
Should you decide to accept this glove across the face, my word is: pasties.
If you’re asking what people want to see here,I suggest the answer is: if a picture
is worth a thousand words, you could just post a picture every 3 days. As long as
it’s a naked picture. And as long as it’s not a naked picture of you (shudder).
Would probably also serve to increase the hits to your blog. No, don’t thank me.
BTW — If you write enough short stories, you could have your next e-book.
7. Gary Says:
Everett, I suggested Tim write stories at one word per day. I even sent him a
tutorial video. But you know how it is with authors and advice.
Oh, and BTW, from yesterday’s blog: rather than being awed and humbled by
your brilliant discovery on how to format comments, Tim seems instead to be
mocking and dismissive.
Would you have expected that?
Of course, it doesn’t stop him formatting the heck out of his own entries when he
wants to – October 20, for example. But let us lesser beings try to do something
like that and then, well… scorn isn’t in it.
Ah, well – the more things change, the more they stay the same.
But seriously, Tim, it’s great that this daily blog is doing good things for your
writing. The rest of us can probably put up with a lot for that outcome.
8. Sharai Says:
Tim, I love reading this blog! Although I can’t believe you wrote, “I’m going to
take a crack at. . .” in today’s post.
You’ve asked for input, but the best part is seeing where your twisted mind
wanders each day. If your ever really stuck just fall back on your weight loss
regimens. Or . . . if your REALlY desperate take Everett’s challenge. I’ll add a
word if he tells us whether it’s ‘pasties’ as in Cornish meat pies or those things
used by striptease artists.
I’d like to know which posts you’ve enjoyed most so far.
9. EverettK Says:
Sharai said: I’ll add a word if he tells us whether it’s ‘pasties’ as in Cornish meat
pies or those things used by striptease artists.
Intentionally multi-meaning for more fun with Googling.
Whew! I turn my back for one day and look at all the people I missed. (Had a
meeting most of the day with the TV people re: Poke on cable — very
interesting.) Anyway, I’m back now.
FHH — That pretty much is the method, that plus following any character who
threatens to hijack the book to find out whether they’ll take it someplace better
than the place I had in mind. I am glad you like so many of the posts, and I’ll poke
a paper for you sometime soon.
Hi, Phil, and thanks for the shout-out. Tomorrow’s going to be a good one, I think,
the first I’ve written from a fictional first-person perspective. Seems like it’s going
to be pretty funny, although I won’t know until I actually write it. Anyway,
anything you and FHH (and anyone else) can do will be appreciated. And if we
have more readers, it would relieve you of the moral responsibility to fall by day
after day to keep me from getting depressed.
Eric, my bachelor days in Asia at their wildest can’t even compete with cable TV
these days, much less the Internet. I write adventures primarily to make up for not
having had any.
Thanks, Riss — I’d write more about writing and process, but people tell me
“everyone” does that, so I’ve soft-pedaled it. I could pretty much write about
writing every day of the week. I’ll continue to scare myself from time to time, if
only because it keeps me awake.
Everett — you’re on. Not tomorrow, because tomorrow you’re going to read a
top-secret memo to President Bush about Iraqi weapons of mass destruction, and
that’s much more important than my accepting some dare. (Feh.) But Sunday I’ll
write a post based on a page that I Google using pasties and three other words,
chosen by me from today’s comments. To calm your fears about my honesty, I’ll
list the words and you can Google them yourself to verify that the site comes up.
What I don’t promise is that I’ll get anything out of it you might actually like to
read, but that’s the nature of a dare, isn’t it?
Laren, thank you. Naked pictures it is, beginning with the presidents, and, if
anyone’s atill alive after Grover Cleveland, moving on to opera stars of the 19th
century, when poundage ruled the stage. You are going to be soooo sorry you
suggested this. I don’t know about the short stories. Am still considering (not
writing, just considering) Thanksgiving.
Whoa, Gary, bold and italics in the same sentence? I would have gladly followed
your advice, but there are people in this group who would have seen it as a dodge,
pointing out that each of those blogs was 299 words short. Also, writing at that
pace would paralyze me; the secret of my method is that I write too fast to think
about it. If I thought about it, I’d get paralyzed.
Sharai, I love that you love reading this blog. I’d rephrase “take a crack at,” but
it’s too late. The ones I’ve really loved are the truly desperate ones (Hell, for
example) and the ones where I went back and opened up a memory I hadn’t
thought about in years — El Sombrero comes to mind. I also liked writing about
Hepburn and Olivier. Actually, most of them have been fun.
My blog. Now why didn’t I think of that? Thanks for the idea, Phil, and I’ve
mentioned The Stupid Project today.
12.Bonnie Says:
I seem to remember reading that at one time Google had a full-time attorney on
staff whose job it was to ensure that Google did not become a lower-case verb, as
it were. The example I recall was that the proper form should be “I looked up the
cute guy I met last night on Google,” not “I googled that hottie.” Looks like a lost
cause.
I for one would love to read about the process of writing, and some of my favorite
writers are very inspiring on the topic. In the end, though, I suspect it’s like
reading books about exercising and losing weight–just gets in the way of doing it.
To that end I have taken the plunge and signed up for an annual “competition” the
goal of which is to write a 50,000 word novel in a month. Since it is already the
6th and I’ve written not a single word, I’m reluctant to do the math; it’s too
frightening. As it happens, within a day or two of hearing about it I noticed a
snarky piece in Slate (http://www.salon.com/books/writing/index.html?
story=/books/laura_miller/2010/11/02/nanowrimo) begging us all not to do it.
Miller complains that the participants (who “win” if they complete the project,
regardless of quality) fail to understand that their “shitty first drafts” are not ripe
for publication. Snobbery? Perhaps, but I was struck by her observation that many
of the wannabe writers aren’t really readers. Struck, hell, I was baffled and
perplexed. Personally, though I would love to be the next Jim Harrison, I’d be
happy to be able to create the kind of book that I myself would like to read (which
forunately encompasses a pretty broad spectrum).
Anyway, that was a long-winded way of saying I would love to read here, Tim,
about authors you like and what you like about them. Burningly curious to know,
for example, whether you, too, read Report to Greco as a hot-blooded adolescent.
Well, first, for the next blog (Sunday), I’m accepting Everett’s challenge. I’ll start
with “pasties” and if Sharai or others volunteer a word, I’ll use theirs, too –
otherwise, I’ll pick three more words at random. God knows where it’ll take me.
FHH, thanks for the mention on your blog. You may refer to this as the Blog du
Jour project if you think Stupid 365 Project is vague or pejorative.
Gee, Bonnie, you’d thing Google would be smarter than that — although I guess
widespread use as a non-proper noun can endanger trademark. Let’s just hope
they don’t go the way of such infuriating idiocy as “Kleenex-brand tissues” and
“Clorox-brand bleach.” I worked for IBM for about 20 years as a consultant,
helping them with television, and they were hypersensitive, although for a
different reason, to my using “xerox” as a synonym for “photocopy.”
I was going to write about the extraordinarily snotty Laura Miller and her
wretched Salon piece but it seemed meanspirited on the heels of the Judith Gristle
COOK’S SOURCE piece. BTW, they’ve pulled down their Facebook page and
moved to another one in which they repeatedly threaten libel suits against
negative posters, complete with having retained a geek to trace the e-mail
addresses of those who post anonymously. Talk about digging the hole deeper and
deeper and . . .
THE STUPID 365 PROJECT, DAY 36: TOP SECRET — SADDAM’S WMDs
November 6th, 2010
TOP SECRET ** EYES ONLY ** TOP SECRET ** EYES ONLY
TO: President Bush
FROM: Mr. Wolfowitz
RE: Saddam’s WMDs
Mr. President, this memo is intended to provide a factual context in which to view the “loyal”
opposition’s cynical reaction to our so-called “failure” to find definite evidence of weapons of mass
destruction in Iraq.
Allow me to make the following points.
In fact, we did find definite evidence of several Iraqi WMD programs.
First, we discovered absolutely enormous quantities of sand — so much sand, indeed, that Saddam’s
lackeys abandoned all attempts to conceal it and instead scattered it around the desert, hoping we
wouldn’t notice it. As we all know, the most devastating low-tech WMD is the so-called “dirty bomb.”
It is clear to any thinking person, other than those petit-point doilies at the New York Times, that the one
indispensable component of a dirty bomb is dirt. And to the Iraqi mentality, “dirt” means “sand.” I’m
telling you, there was sand all over the place. It must have taken years of slave labor to get all that sand
into Iraq. I can see you shaking your head now, Mr. President, but I assure you: nothing short of tens of
thousands of slaves, some of them no doubt scantily-clad young females perspiring beneath the lash,
could have put all that sand there. An effort demonic in intent, Mr. President, and enormous in scale.
Second, while exploring the cavernous basements of Presidential Palace Number 4, many of the rooms
of which were clumsily disguised as bowling alleys, several of our soldiers came down with the
sniffles. The conclusion is inescapable: these “bowling alleys” had actually been home to the Iraqi
Biological Warfare effort, which was on the verge of producing a really nasty head cold. Given
sufficient time and resources, they would have moved on to a terrible sort throat — you know, the kind
where those little lumps near your jaws get all tender and swollen? Glands or something. And from
there, the pathway to the lungs yawns open, just inviting pneumonia and whooping cough and other
debilitating illnesses. Uninterrupted, Saddam would have pursued this course until no one in American
could have drawn an easy breath. Tell that to Jim Lehrer.
Third, buried well out of sight and behind locked steel doors in the deepest basements of all the
Presidential Palaces we discovered massive quantities of a thick, sticky black substance labeled Hair
Dye that was obviously actually pitchblend, an unavoidable by-product of the uranium refinement
process. Can any of these pantywaist libs say atomic bomb?
And finally, you will notice in the aftermath of Saddam’s execution how easy it is to find hangmen in
Iraq. This is obviously the result of a national hangman’s offensive conceived to train thousands of
men, and, undoubtedly, some scantily-clad young women wearing short white latex gloves to protect
against calluses, to develop expert hangman’s skills so they could be infiltrated en masse into the
unexpecting heartland of this great nation. Gives new meaning to the old phrase, “Give ‘em enough
rope.” And you, Mr. President, can take pride in having denied them that rope.
Sir, when the final list is made of freedom’s greatest triumphs, for permanent engraving on the wall of
human memory, these accomplishments will be at the very top, so high that slightly-built young women
in filmy summer clothing will have to go up on tippy-toe to read them. Mr. President, America sleeps
more soundly because you are in the White House.
This entry was posted on Saturday, November 6th, 2010 at 8:02 am and is filed under All Blogs. You can
your own site.
10 Responses to “THE STUPID 365 PROJECT, DAY 36: TOP SECRET
— SADDAM’S WMDs”
1. Beth Says:
I am afraid that the memo to the president is nothing more than another attempt to
disguise the real reason a war was declared. There was provocation. GHW Bush
had two wars. One, while he was president, was successful in that Iraq changed its
mind about invading Saudi Arabia and best friends stuck up for each other.
The other was noble. As soon as he turned 18 GHW Bush enlisted and, although it
was near the end of the war, he was shot down. Daddy really was a war-time pilot.
His flight suit wasn’t a costume.
W needed his own war. If Mr. Wolfowitz found it necessary to give him some
paper that could be floated as reasons for declaring a war without provocation, he
was only doing his job. If the president says “make me up some lies I can use to
convince Congress that there is a need for war” what else could he do?
I do wish someone with a conscience had presented a document with the names of
all the Americans who died for nothing. But that would have required dealing in
truth and it would have left no room for “Mission Accomplished”.
That was masterful fantasy. A president who didn’t win the election but got
appointed to the job by judges who got their jobs from his father, climbs out of a
billion dollar plane in a pretend flight suit, to stand under a sign declaring success
had been achieved is worthy of the Magic Kingdom. Of course, kids at the Magic
Kingdom would have been too smart to fall for it.
In a post this week there was discussion about hell. There are a few people who
should be candidates. At the top of my list is the CEO of the company who sent
adulterated baby formula to Africa and then provided education for the mothers,
teaching them that the formula was better for their babies than their own milk.
I won’t condemn W to hell, but it would be nice if he had to spend some period of
time gazing at the impossibly young faces of the American soldiers who died for a
lie.
2. Bonnie Says:
(Sigh.) Sometimes I miss Molly Ivins so much!
The scary thing about satire is that it is often close to the truth. And I agree with
Beth. Only more so. When was the last time a man of so little intelligence-never
mind the pun-had so much power. And if we aren’t careful, we could get more of
the same. Everybody knows the name of Rush Limbaugh, how many know the
name of, say, Thomas Friedman? Anyone with a sense of the whole world would
have more sense.
Now I totally understand.
If the US President had to be mad to believe that WOMD existed, what are we to
make of a UK Prime Minister who would blindly follow an insane foreign
dignitary into war?
Tim, if our minds weren’t so much alike, yours would scare me.
Beth, agreed on W — although, I actually like Poppy less than you do. If I had my
way there’d be a law barring former CIA heads from the Oval Office. And then
we could extend it to people with double-digit IQs, and we’d have removed the
name Bush from presidential history. Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished.
Bonnie, I’m with you on Molly Ivins.
Hi, Lil — I was going to write a preface to this and claim I got it from WikiLeaks,
but I was afraid people would think it was real. That administration was so far into
nutcase territory that people will believe almost anything about them, and with
good reason. More of the same seems to be on the menu, since the Democrats are
too clueless to prevent it.
FHH, good point! I guess even madmen have lapdogs.
Phil, it DOES scare me that your mind and mine are so much alike.
7. Gary Says:
What was this post about again?
For some reason I couldn’t get past all the scantily-clad young women.
8. Bonnie Says:
Gary, having started Star Island last night, I wanted to edit your entry to read
skantily klad. Am happy to report that Skink has already made an appearance,
shower cap and all.
I’m shocked you were both diverted from the important content by the images of
scantily clad (skantily klad?) young women. Shocked. Hiaasen really is funny.
10.Bonnie Says:
Yes, Skantily Klad is the name of the hot new CD being promoted by the
talentless, constantly high “heroine” of the story. Of course, she lip-syncs all her
material.
THE STUPID 365 PROJECT, DAY 37: Everett’s Challenge
November 6th, 2010
This is what Everett said:
“Ask for ONE word from each person who cares to provide one in a comment. Then pick THREE of
those words (your choice) and do a Google search on them. Pick one of the first 10 listings and bring
up that web page, and THAT is the subject (or inspiration) for your “challenge blog.”
Should you decide to accept this glove across the face, my word is: pasties.”
He then went on to suggest (in advance, no less) that I would cheat. So here’s the deal, spelled out so
even Everett can follow it. 1. I took his word, “pasties.” 2. I took the word “roadblocks” from
Larissa’s response to the same post. 3. I took the word “naked” from Laren. 4. I finished off with
Gary’s word, “humbled.”
5. I went to Google and entered the string “pasties roadblock naked humbled.” feeling like a total idiot,
and hit enter.
I got swill, garbage, the floating plastic gyre of the Internet. Except for the third URL The Goog
fetched up: http://david-mcmahon.blogspot.com/2007/09/naked-ambition.html
I’ve bookmarked it. David McMahon is a Melbourne-based journalist, born in India, and the author of
two (clearly India-set) novels, Vegemite Vindaloo and Muskoka Maharani, both of them titles I deeply
covet. Muskoka Maharani was published by Penguin
Vegemite Vindaloo tells the story of Clive, an Aussie sailor who in 1848, through a terrible trick of fate,
is mistaken for a convict escapee from the penal colony at Sydney Cove. Escapees were dealt with
brutally, and Clive is clapped into irons and thrown aboard HMS Manomuerto, an ancient hulk of a
scow originally built for the Spanish Inquisition and known far and wide as a bad-luck ship
(Aaarrrggghhhh), to be transported to Norfolk Island, where he will labor for life beneath the sting of
the lash.
But a fierce storm arises and HMS Manomuerto is blown wildly off-course, some, ummm, 8,000 miles
off course, threading perilously through the clashing rocks between Sri Lanka and the tip of India
before becoming becalmed in the Arabian Sea. For weeks the vessel is dead in the water, adrift in the
merciless sun. The captain ties groups of prisoners to ropes and tries to force them to pull the ship
forward by swimming, but shark attacks bloody the waters and soon the prisoners prefer the cat o’nine
tails to the jaws of the sharks. Aaaaarrrggghhhhh.
And then, under the unremitting heat of the sun, the ship’s flea population explodes, and with it comes
the grimmest fate of all: plague. One by one, the sailors and their prisoners sicken and die, until only
Clive survives, alone and gibbering in the merciless sunlight, hallucinating green shorelines and cool
surf and beautiful brown –
Blimey. It’s no hallucination. HMS Manomuerto runs aground on the inhospitable coast of Goa.
Moments after the ship hits a sand bar, dozens of dark-skinned people clamber aboard, and Clive finds
himself bound hand and foot and dangling head-down from the ship’s deck. Meanwhile, the, uh,
indigenous population strips the ship of every piece of iron she possesses. They’re prying out the long
four-penny nails that hold the hull together when the ship begins to shudder and slowly, with a strange
and cumbersome grace, to disintegrate. With a terrible crrreeeaaak and a sudden whump, the deck
plank from which Clive dangles, bent in position since Torquemada himself drove the silver spike that
was the ship’s final touch, straightens with the pent-up energy of centuries, and Clive is flung outward
as though by a catapault.
He arcs over the cool green shimmer of the water, heading toward a massive palm tree that he knows
will snap his spine like the wishbone of a Cornish game hen, but the rope around his ankle stops him
suddenly and then breaks, and he’s tumbling head over heels across hot white sand until he strikes an
obstacle and looks up into the most beautiful pair of brown eyes he has ever seen, the deep, reassuring
brown of really good coffee, drunk the way it’s supposed to be — black, without any of that frappe
crap — fringed by tropically luxuriant lashes of the purest midnight.
She blinks.
And screams. Instantly, a blade is at Clive’s throat.
The vision stumbles back from him, hands upraised in terror. But Clive can see, in the depths of those
pools of darkness (her eyes, okay?) the tiny spark that he first saw when he was twelve and a buxom
chambermaid led him up the . . . .
Okay, obviously, I can’t tell you the whole book, but it’s a firecracker. See, they’re going to stake him
out and skin him alive and then cut him into strips and let the sun cure him into jerky, but they don’t
have anything to spread on it — Clive knows this because he’s a dab hand with languages, and because
Princess Leia, no not Leia, Princess Looomia, whispers it to him, or rather mouths it from across the
beach since she wouldn’t be close enough to whisper in his ear, and Clive is a dab hand with lipreading, and he offers to bring them something to eat him with, so they tie long green vines to his
ankles and he battles his way through the surf to the ship and dives down to retrieve four jars of
Vegemite, which the ship was carrying to the torturers on whatever island that was back at the
beginning of this thing, and he swims back and emerges from the sea, a very god with diamonds of
water sparkling on his chest and offers them the Marmite and the chief opens it and tastes it and makes
a terrible face and beats Clive over the head with the jar and when he comes to they’re heaping burning
coals over him as punishment for attempting to poison the chief, and that’s why no one in India eats
Vegemite. That plus the fact that it tastes the way cat piss smells.
What a book.
My apologies to David McMahon. Blame Everett, David.
This entry was posted on Saturday, November 6th, 2010 at 10:45 pm and is filed under All Blogs. You can
your own site.
23 Responses to “THE STUPID 365 PROJECT, DAY 37: Everett’s
Challenge”
1. Gary Says:
This post leaves me completely speechless.
So I won’t say anything.
2. Bonnie Says:
This should have a soundtrack. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5PYt2HlBuyI
3. Sylvia Says:
Sometimes you scare me!
4. Bonnie Says:
On further reflection, with only 49,001 more words you can win Nanowrimo. I,
on the other hand, have 49,750 or so to go. Yikes.
And, inevitably, when you type in that string now, it is your blog post that comes
up first in Google.
5. EverettK Says:
What was the deal with this blog again???
By the way, I’m sure you’ll be tickled pink and chartreuse to know that NOW
when you do a Google search on “pasties roadblock naked humbled” YOUR
name is the first entry that comes up!
Bwaaaahahahahahaa-ha!
Oh, and by the way, I’ve now picked myself up off of the floor. It’s a pain in the
ass trying to read your blog from that position, but it’s easier than trying to stay
still in my chair while doing so.
Boy, you guys got up early (those of you who aren’t upside-down on the bottom
of the world, anyway).
I’m shocked that Gary, who is, after all, an Aussie, hasn’t leapt to the defense of
Vegemite. It seems to me that we may have actually discussed Vegemite face-toface across a table in Phnom Penh, although I may have Gary mixed up with
another Aussie, since they’re so much alike. (Except you, David McMahon!)
Sylvia, do I scare you in a gooooooooood way or a baaaaaaaad way? (He wrings
his fingers together obsessively.)
Bonnie, I figure I’m actually about 3700 words in, so far, this November. It’s kind
of depressing they’re not all in a book somewhere, but I’m having too much fun to
quit. And I love the Ravel, although I think the action scenes call for something a
little jumpier — Clive is, or rather was, before they baked him, pre-eminently a
man of action. What a guy, huh? A dab hand, no two ways about it.
Everett, you suckered me. Why didn’t I foresee that? How can I get some use out
of it? I suppose I could retitle CRASHED as PASTIES ROADBLOCK NAKED
HUMBLED, and that way the tens of thousands of people who accidentally load
that search string every day will be directed to my new book.
Hmmmmmmmmmm.
I was too busy laughing to realize how-um- game you are, Tim. What a hoot-with
apologies to David McMahon-but this was sooo antic. And then I listen to the
Pearl Fishers, Bonny, which immediately sobered me up, and brought tears to my
eyes. It is so damn beautiful. Then I read the rest of the replies, and laughed out
loud again. All this on a gray Sunday morning. Could any one ask for more? Yeah,
I know-lots, but it was great!
8. Gary Says:
I HATE Vegemite.
If I had ever discussed it with you – what was your name again? – I would
certainly have told you that.
Hi,Lil — Glad you thought it was funny. I did, too, but I never know. I thought the
memo to President Bush was funny, but everyone acted like it was the real thing. I
AM sorry for any inadvertent offense I might have given David McMahon — I
tried to buy his books today as an apology but couldn’t find them on Amazon, and
“Vegemite Vindaloo” is out of stock at Book Depository UK.
Also loved the “Pearl Fishers.” Bizet, of course; don’t know what I was thinking
when I said Ravel way up above.
Great to have you reading the blog and commenting — thanks a lot.
10.Bonnie Says:
Funny, since Bizet wrote so much dreck, that he managed to come up with what is
arguably the most beautiful male duet of all time. Goose bump/tears territory, like
the part of Florestan’s solo when his voice is chasing the oboe and he sees
Leonora in a vision. Boy, I miss the days when I could just go down to the Vienna
opera on a whim and grab a standing room place for–what was it then, a buck and
a half?
Bonnie-the third act of Carmen is better than the others, but I think the other stuff
is way overplayed. Were you actually in Vienna? How incredible. My parents
were raised in Vienna and later left due to You know who, But they gave me the
gift of music, and, of course, books. Sorry to take your blog space,Tim. I didn’t
know how else to reply. I told you, I’ve become a groupie.
Gary, my man. So glad to know you hate Vegemite — although, if you’d defended
it I was going to blog about it tomorrow, and now I’ll have to do something else.
This project is a bit wearing at times.
Bonnie, you’re right — in fact, the music of “The Pearl Fishers” in general is
much closer to sublime than I usually associate with Bizet — probably why I
called him Ravel above. Speaking of opera, there’s a wonderful book about
Bach’s cello suites that makes the point that Bach was relatively unknown in his
life because he never was in a position to write an opera, and the only celebrity
composers were in opera. (I had thought he was a little early for that, but I was
wrong yet again.)
13.Bonnie Says:
Lil, As a long-time figure-skating fan, I would have voted to ban just about every
aria from Carmen from the airwaves for about a decade. I went to Vienna on a
“junior year abroad” when I was 19 and didn’t come back until I was 34, so I used
to know the city well. I miss a lot of things about it, no least of which is talking
down-and-dirty Wernerisch.
Tim, one of my boyfriends there worked for a music publishing company, and he
knew some good stories. But I guess it was from him I learned that until fairly
recently musicians operated pretty much in a historical vacuum; there was
apparently little awareness of those who had gone before, so to speak. Seems
strange to me, for sure, as I’m just as likely to be in the mood for Anonymous 4 as
for Miles Davis or just about anything in between except 12-tone stuff.
Lil and Bonnie — I actually enter this conversation reluctantly because you guys
are really raising the tone here. I could listen to the two of you talk about Vienna
forever. It’s one of only about five cities in the world I haven’t visited that I want
to visit. The whole ambiance, which is probably nothing like I imagine it, is
totally seductive. Glad to hear, Bonnie, that your junior year lasted fifteen —
that’s the approach to life I appreciate most because it’s the way I write: have a
plan and be always ready to abandon it if something better comes along.
Really happy the two of you are here.
Bonnie-I totally commiserate with you about hearing way too much Carmen as a
figure skating fan. Weinerish is funny-although I didn’t learn the down and dirty, I
speak a German that is not understood in Frankfurt, or heaven help us,
Switzerland. I tried but I was told that it wasn’t “high” enough. I think Vienna is
lovely, and just shouts culture. I haven’t been there, but I have been to Innsbruck,
and attended a piano concert in a 17th century church. Just lovely, living history.
Tim, when I first read Poke, i wrote a really gushy letter about the landscape and
how you captured a place I knew very little about. That is very much part of the
pleasure in your books.
Naked?! I wrote millions of words and you picked naked?
Good man. I would’ve picked it, too. Or I might have picked Clomat express,
which are my reCAPTCHA words for today. I think
17.Bonnie Says:
Lil, you might find that your German is too high, rather than too low. Contrary to
what a lot of Germans think, “high”in a historical context applies more to the
language used in Austria, and as you go north, the more “low” (and the more
similar to English) it gets. An example is the word Pfeife (pipe), which loses its f
as you go north, and changes from what we would call a long I to a long E in the
stressed syllable.
As for Swiss, well: the Alemanic dialects (spoken also in Vorarlberg, Swabia, and
northern Italy) are unintelligible to all other German speakers, I think. The Swiss
should be grateful for television; otherwise, they’d not understand each other at all
from Canton to Canton.
[Tim, if this is getting too off-topic even for this blog, feel free to ask Lil and me
to take it öff-list, so to speak]
Tim and Lil, you do owe yourselves a visit to this intriguing city. Of course it’s
changed a lot–when I was first there in 1972 you couldn’t even buy peanut butter.
And as the “grantige” old folks die off the character will change. Its combination
of sensuality and morbidness is certainly unique. A great writer who can give you
a flavor of the Kaiserliche und Königliche period was Joseph Roth. I doubt a lot
of his stuff has been translated into English, but I’m pretty sure you can still find
Kapuzinergruft (Capuchine tomb?) and Radetzkymarsch in English.
There’s nothing too off-topic for this blog unless it’s a prolonged bout of geekspeak about italics and boldface. Actually, I’m enjoying reading along with you,
and every word just makes me more determined to get to Vienna. And that’s
saying something because the continent at the center of my heart is Asia.
BTW, Laren, Clomat Express leads via Google to a Chevrolet model. Thank God
that’s not the search string I was working with yesterday.
20.Larissa Says:
Holy Crap. I leave for three days and I come back and there’s…yet more geniusly
funny and clever posts to read…even if Everett did sort of sucker you into one of
them.
I love it! (c:
You=awesome.
21.Bonnie Says:
Tim said: “because the continent at the center of my heart is Asia.” Guess you are
in good company with your “yellow heart.” Not only all those Somerset
Maugham characters, supposedly before he married his second wife and became a
father, Tony Bourdain’s most serious ambition was to move to Vietnam.
This reminds me to ask whether you’ve read Ann Fadiman’s book The Spirit
Catches You and You Fall Down. When I say it’s about a Hmong girl with seizures
and her interactions with the medical community in the southern Central Valley of
California, you may think, “Oh, yeah, right, that sounds sexy.” But trust me, 50
pages in you will not want to put this book down. And given your a-foot-in-bothworlds life, if you’ve not read it yet you will get a lot more out of it than most
people.
You can’t leave, Riss — we move mercilessly on, at least until I run out of gas.
Everett did indeed sucker me, but I’m working out a retaliation that will cunning
and merciless.
Bonnie, I keep thinking I’ll run into Anthony Bourdain, and would I ever like to.
He’s made me laugh as frequently as anyone who’s writing now. I have actually
read SPIRIT (nice italics, by the way) and loved it. Loved it.
23.Sylvia Says:
In a crazy way!
And I want to second Bonnie’s recommendation for The Spirit Catches You and
You Fall Down. It’s an amazing book.
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 38: Piano Forte
November 8th, 2010
In the 1970s it became politically correct to downplay the cultural accomplishments of Western
civilization, especially in those citadels of bone-headedness called universities.
In tandem with this wholesale junking of much that’s great in our world, people began to speak, with a
certain amount of scorn, the phrase, “Dead white men.” The idea, if it even qualifies as an idea, was
that education was a zero-sum game and the only way to make way for a broader curriculum was to
dump vast tracts of cultural acreage. So Sophocles, Cervantes, Bach, Shakespeare, Galileo, Dante,
Beethoven, Darwin, Freud, and hundreds of other underachievers were shelved in favor of left-handed,
transgendered, minority haiku poets translated from the Farsi, and we all benefited greatly from the
exposure.
Sorry. I really didn’t mean to go there. What I wanted to do was much less argumentative. I wanted to
explain why I would choose the piano as emblematic of the best of pre-Industrial Revolution Western
culture, and why I think it deserves to be placed near the pinnacle of human achievement.
I make this sweeping statement because of what the piano is and what it implies.
Mechanically, the piano is a highly evolved harp that traces its roots back to the ancient instruments
that are found on Egyptian paintings more than 6000 years old and mentioned in the Book of Genesis,
probably written around 1450 BC. In the West, harps were refined by the Greeks and then branched
off into hundreds of variations, including ancestors of the guitar, until the 15th century when brilliantly
designed bowed string instruments began to be produced in Italy. So at that point, strings had been
plucked, as in the harp and the earliest ur-guitars, and bowed.
By the Middle Ages, some unknown genius had the idea of attaching an organ keyboard to a set of
strings and arranging a lever system that would pluck a string when a key was pressed. One immediate
effect of this was substantial range — harpsichords, spinets, virginals, and other early keyboards had a
range of anywhere from four octaves to five and a half. But they all had limited dynamics – no matter
how hard the player struck the key, the string was plucked with the same force. Pounding a chord on a
harpsichord produces the same volume as coaxing it with the fingertips.
Enter the hammer, and the modern piano. The clavichord — essentially a harpsichord with hammers
that struck the strings rather than plectrums — had been in existence since the14th century, but it
couldn’t be played loudly enough to be heard by large groups. Then, around 1700, Bartolomeo
Cristofori created what he called the pianoforte, which he called the Gravicembalo col piano e forte,
Italian for ”harpsichord with soft and loud.” The fact that the keys were hammered instead of plucked
gave the performer an ability to thunder or whisper, and the hammer mechanism, unlike the plectrum,
also allowed notes to sustain as long as the string vibrated. The modern piano, with its 7 1/3 octave
range, was only a short way off.
By the way, forte not only means loud, but also “the strong point, that in which one excels.” The
pianoforte met both definitions.
So what?
So over centuries, artists, crafstmen, woodworkers, metalworkers, priests, kings, and upstart musicians
collaborated to create this extraordinarily complex object — not to win battles or conquer territory or
triumph in disputes, but to play music. This obviously implies the existence of a Klondike-rich vein of
music in the Western heritage, an ever-evolving cloud of imagination and aspiration that supported the
development of the piano, making it both possible and necessary. Once the instrument appeared, it
became the primary tool of composition for more music as it replaced Bach’s harpsichord and opened
new possibilities for Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven. And virtuoso artists arose to play the instrument,
and following Beethoven orchestras grew in size to create even richer tone colors and take advantage of
the piano’s ability to be heard over pretty much anything.
I see the piano as a physical manifestation of much that’s best about humanity — a concoction of
wood, metal, gut, and resins, the beneficiary of a broad range of skills, the repository of centuries’
worth of problem-solving, and the simultaneous tool and voice of creativity, often present at the center
of the holy moments when people are at their finest: one group, pouring their hearts, souls, and skills
into creating art as the other group loses itself in listening to art. And the art is pure, abstract beauty,
free of argument, comparisons, enmity, anxiety, negativity. It proposes nothing and denigrates nothing.
It exists only as it’s being created, in the very air, and when it’s over, it exists differently inside those
who played and those who listened. There is absolutely nothing wrong with it whatsoever.
I’m not knocking any other culture. All I’m saying is that the piano is eloquent testimony to much
that’s best in the Western one.
This entry was posted on Monday, November 8th, 2010 at 10:05 am and is filed under All Blogs. You can
your own site.
11 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 38: Piano Forte”
1. Bonnie Says:
I don’t really have anything to add to this except that a series of mysteries I
recently discovered, thanks to DorothyL, written by Steven Havill and taking
place in New Mexico, explore in the last couple of volumes a child prodigy and
his relationship to the piano. It’s very imaginative and enjoyable to read.
And that forte is probably one of the most mispronounced words in English when
used in the context ones strength or ability. I always assumed it was like the
Italian music loudness modifier, but apparently when used in “That’s not my
forte” the word is from French and thus the final e is silent. Who knew? Pedantic
as I am, I forge ahead and assume most people think I’m saying it wrong.
I’ve never looked at pianos like that; I have a mild dislike of them (sorry Tim!).
What I really love is woodwind and I need to get back to learning my clarinet
again. Nothing beats the feeling of the column of air starting deep inside you,
travelling through you then down that wooden column and making music!
“By the way, forte not only means loud, but also ‘the strong point, that in which
one excels.’”
To clarify what Bonnie said, Tim, forte, as used in the context of loud or forceful,
is pronounced “for-tay. When referring to one’s area of expertise, it’s pronounced
“fort.” Wait! What? The student schooling the master?
It took most of the weekend, but the paint finally dried and I was able to get your
appeal for more readers posted to my blog. All one of my regular readers is now
on high alert.
This was really interesting; I never knew that about harpsichords. To me the piano
is liquid music, very pure, and beautiful. (My own attempts not withstanding).
How does this relate to “dead white guys?” Well, again, it’s a matter of purity, and
accessibility, and universality-those guys speak to truths with the beauty of the
English language. While it is fine to introduce new forms and language to make a
point, I guess beauty is very important to me. As far as language is concerned, I
think that people who have lived in other cultures, and particularly in Central
Europe, like you, Bonnie, develop an ear for dissonances, and pronunciation. My
parents went to Haiti from
Austria, so my second language was French, and I shudder when I hear folks
mangling words. I imagine it must be hard for you because you were exposed to
so many languages. This is the beauty of Europe and South Eastern Asia, small
distances, and instant exposure to different cultures. What this has to do with
anything is a question, but I think exposure to other peoples, customs, food, and
language makes us far richer as human beings. Whew, I will stop now.
5. Suzanna Says:
My daughter has a piano sitting mostly unused since she ended her piano studies
in her junior year of high school. That was about two and a half years ago. It now
acts as a reminder of all that it brought to our lives, and a pretty fancy piece of
furniture to put family photos, our shell collection, and a recently acquired
humming bird nest.
It is my hope that either she will one day have the time and interest to return to her
piano studies, or even less likely, but nonetheless just as possible, that I will one
day be inspired to learn how to play even half as beautifully as she has.
One thing that I was able to acquire through proximity was becoming acquainted
with some of the most beautiful music I have ever known.
While my daughter learned complex classical pieces by Chopin, Beethoven, and
Mozart it demanded a lot, from all of us. From her, the countless hours of practice
when she had mounds of homework waiting for her, and finger biting, sweat
inducing recitals, as well as enduring, the nagging, and idle threats from her
parents to get her to practice. Add to that the countless mad dash drives across
town during rush hour to get her to her teacher’s house on time with some sort of
half-ass dinner churning in our bellies, and you begin to get the less romanticized
version of what it takes for a young girl to learn how to play the piano.
But the pay off for her is so much greater than all the sacrifice. From her time at
the piano some of the more obvious benefits were that she developed a profound
love of music and a confidence few other activities have even come close to
giving her.
There is a piano piece by Brahms that I am currently obsessed with. I heard it on
the radio one day and as soon as I got home I hunted down every version I could
find on youtube. As I listened to each one it became clear that each pianist had
their own unique way of listening and learning and being inspired by this
beautiful piece. One day I hope to hear it live.
Clearly, developing an appreciation for global cultural accomplishments is the
ideal, but to subjugate the masterful accomplishments of Western Civilization in
order to broaden our global cultural awareness is something, I hope for everyone’s
sake, is a tendency of the past, and no longer has a legitimate platform at the
institutions we entrust to help educate and shape our society.
Bonnie — will read the Havill books. Few things interest me more than prodigies,
Malcolm Gladwell notwithstanding. Just finished writing a book (CRASHED)
that deals with one of the tragic prodigies, the ones whose miraculous talents
begin to fade. Since these poor kids have no idea where the gift came from in the
first place, they also have no idea how to reclaim them.
FHH, no problem with preferring a woodwind. I mean, it’s incomprehensible to
me and, I’m sure, to all people of taste and discernment, but, geez — wait. Let me
begin again. Music is the king of the arts, as far as I’m concerned. And without
woodwinds we wouldn’t have woodwind players, and without woodwind players,
who’d play all the woodwind parts? Whole orchestra scores would have to be
gone over heavily with white-out. Tootle away — I’m just being insufferable.
Phil, I don’t actually recall prounouncing the word in the post. I just ASSUMED
that people would ASSUME that I knew the difference, but no – I have to prove
myself to you day after day after day. Beating my head against this keyboard until
blood fills the screen. Oh, okay. Forget it. And thanks for the plug — I can use all
the readers I can get.
Why is EVERYONE talking about how to pronounce the word in its various
meanings? You would think I got up on live global TV and said nucular over and
over. I swear, I silently pronounced it right EVERY TIME I wrote it. And in the
headline, when it could have been either way, I pronounced it twice. Silently.
Right.
Et tu, Lil? Well, I’ll agree that exposure to other cultures, other viewpoints, and
other art forms makes it more difficult for us to remain narrow and parochial and
even makes it more likely that we’ll know how to pronounce “forte” under
differing circumstances. In fact, apropos of almost nothing, I’m always amazed
that some Islamic extremists have been all over the place, including Western
Europe and the US, without any of it filtering through their tiny, pitiful, bigoted,
misogynistic, benighted perspectives.
Beautiful story, Suzanna, and how fortunate for Maya that you guys were willing
to make room in your lives for all that — the furniture, the lessons, the frustration,
the wrong notes — all of it. Music is a different way of using the mind, and I
think it opens up neural pathways that might not be opened any other way. And I
hope you’re right about the educational future, but post-secondary educators are
often the first to embrace, and the last to renounce, flawed perspectives.
7. Larissa Says:
Check this out: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5Zjt9QTj6V8
You may have already heard the piece but just watching these two play is enough
to add new interest. (c:
8. Sharai Says:
Bravo #38!!!
Makes me think of hearth baked chewy bread(your blog) encased in ‘upper crust’
(the comments)! Together you’ve covered so many evolutions of our humanness.
If only it didn’t take soooo loooong! Evolution not the writing. I only ask that we
leave some DWM lie. The chaff must always be winnowed from the grain.
I know you know the difference, Tim, hence the “disclaimer” following my
pedantic comment. I posted it for the benefit of the millions of readers who will
soon visit your blog, and who may not know the difference. That there is no
difference seems to be a common misperception; too often, I hear someone say,
“That’s not my fortay.” It’s just one of those irksome things that drives me
batsquat crazy.
Oh, Phil, I was just messing with you, being a jerk. To tell you the truth, I’ve
never in my life give a moment’s thought to how to pronounce it. It’s one of those
words (“tenebrous” is another) I’ll probably never say out loud. And if I did, I’d
probably get it wrong.
Beautiful, Riss — BTW, Amazon has Rach’s piano concerti 3&4 for $3.99 as a
download right now. They’re on my eyepod.
Yayyy, Sharai, and bravo back atcha. I think of the comments as upper crust, too.
This is an extraordinary micro-demographic.
11.Sylvia Says:
I never knew that about how to say forte.
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 39: Hell’s Playlist
November 9th, 2010
I’m not done with Hell yet.
You got your flames, your chains, your devils with pitchforks, perpetual bad hair days, your boring
conversationalists.
But what about the playlist? Music is an essential aspect of life. Shouldn’t it be an important aspect of
afterlife, too? For Hell, which is, of course, eternal, I think the main characteristic of the music should
be that it makes the time spent there even longer.
With that in mind, I suggest a few songs to kick off Hades’ Greatest Hits, and I would appreciate
further suggestions. Why should I have to do all this by myself?
In no order of quality, since “quality” hardly applies to these records:
“Honey,” by Bobby Goldsboro (pictured): “See the tree, how big it’s grown/But friend, it hasn’t been
too long/It wasn’t big . . . then some twaddle about a twig, and then rhyme and probability go out the
window . . . “And when the first snow came/She ran out to brush the snow away/So it wouldn’t die.”
Okay, and having rescued the twee, I mean, tree, she runs back in and slips on the ice and falls,
probably heavily, and the narrator “laughed till I cried.” I mean, what a guy. And, of course, you’re
not hearing the most insipid melody since “Happy Bithday”: DAdaDAdaDAdaDAdaDA (Repeat until
water flows uphill and birds fall from the sky.)
“Tie a Yellow Ribbon” by who the hell knows: This is one of a mercifully small number of songs
that I remember as being sung by Wayne Newton, even though I know perfectly well that they weren’t.
But it’s a Wayne Newton kind of song: not rock, not pop, not folk, just pure margarine, something that
seems to have been written by someone who never saw the light of day and who probably had to have
the tree in the song described to him. Songs with trees in them are rarely very good. And the story.
I’m amazed it hasn’t been the basis for a TV movie on the Hallmark Channel. Pan through bus
window as it rounds the corner; barren tree waiting in yard; flash of yellow between the branches; tree
beyond is festooned, do you hear, festooned, in yellow ribbons. Music WAY UP. The sound you hear is
people all over America flailing frantically for the remote.
“MacArthur Park,” by Richard Harris: Just a total load of codswallop from a songwriter (Jimmy
Webb) who knew better and an actor who probably didn’t know which way was up. If there were an
Olympic Gold Medal for pretentiousness, they would have retired it the year this song came out —
1968, a year that was rich in pretentious songs. It clocked in at the longest seven minutes in history, so
long that they could have established a three-tier admission policy for live performances: one price for
those over eighteen, one for those under eighteen, and a third for those who turned eighteen during the
song. Count your blessings, because Webb originally wrote this as the last section of a 30-minute suite
that The Association, mercifully, decided at the last moment not to record.
And speaking of The Association . . .
“Windy,” The Association: “And Windy has stormy eyes/That flash at the sound of lies . . .” I mean,
visualize it; is this chick a drag, or what? And to make it worse, “And Windy has wings to fly/Above
the clouds/Above the clouds.” Fortunately, she’s grounded when the sun is shining. And the way she’s
introduced to us” ”Who’s trippin’ down the streets of a city/Callin’ a name that’s lighter than air/Who’s
reachin’ out to capture a moment/Everyone knows it’s Windy.” Okay, she trips down the street calling
her own name, capturing moments, and waiting for someone to tell a lie so her eyes can flash. Man, I
know a million girls like that. And what do you suppose they did with all those dropped Gs?
Come on, suggestions, please.
This entry was posted on Tuesday, November 9th, 2010 at 10:20 am and is filed under All Blogs. You can
your own site.
22 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 39: Hell’s Playlist”
1. Larissa Says:
Luckily the only one I’ve ever even heard of on this list was “Tie a Yellow
Ribbon”…which is truly awful. I think we should add the song “Morningwood”
to the list…sung by the band cleverly named…Morningwood…in which they sing
about nothing but, well, you get the point…and they even spell it out! Just in case
we were all too stupid to spell either the word “morning” or “wood” all by our
widdle selves…
Ahem.
Any song where all the “artist” does is sing their own name in conjunction with a
bunch of one syllable words should be thrown into the Hades Greatest Hits…
2. Bonnie Says:
Oh, god, with Honey I think you’ve nailed my personal hell muzak. Let me offer,
however, for further consideration:
Red Roses for a Blue Lady, which I think actually was by Wayne Newton,
and
To All the Girls I’ve Loved Before by the diabolical duo Julio Iglesias and Willy
Nelson
3. Suzanna Says:
Okay, I cheated, and looked online at a few worst songs list.
SOORRRRRYYYYYY! I don’t have very good instant recall when it comes to
song titles and dates.
However, I have personally been assaulted by each and every one of these songs.
But anyone who is deserving of ETERNAL HELL FIRE and DAMNATION
would probably agree these songs are awful.
From earliest to latest record release date:
“I am Woman” Helen Reddy, 1972
“Ebony & Ivory” Paul MacCartney, Stevie Wonder, 1982
“I’m Too Sexy” Right Said Fred, 1991
“Achy Breaky Heart” Billy Ray Cyrus, 1992
“Macarena” Los Del Rio, 1995
“Gettin’ Jiggy Wit It” Will Smith, 1998
“She Bangs” Ricky Martin, 2000
“I Write the Songs” Barry Manilow, 2002
Please insert your own Manilow, um, favorite here.
“My Humps” Black Eyed Peas, 2005
“I Like the Way She Do It” 50 Cent, 2008
Phew, gives me the creeps just writing the titles.
4. Eric Stone Says:
Strawberry Fields – The Beatles. Although it is useful if you get a song stuck in
your head and you can’t get it out – it is so vacuous and so forgettable that
whistling, humming or singing it out loud will drive anything else out of your
brain and yet leave you alone as the moment you stop it disappears.
5. Beth Says:
I went back to the 60′s for some truly awful songs:
“Big Bad John” – Jimmy Dean
“Ode to Billy Joe” – ???
“Sugar, Sugar – The Archies
“Wooly Bully” – ????
“Roses are Red” – Bobby Vinton
and I think the all-time winner……
“The Ballard of the Green Berets” a real Green Beret who would likely have been a target of other Green Berets
when this song came out.
6. Catherine Says:
I haven’t had coffee yet, so for the moment I can only contribute my agreement
that ‘Tie a Yellow Ribbon’ is a song worthy of hell.
In some personal foreshadowing this was the song that had me quitting the local
community gym. This gym had a large ratio of older people. On one level I would
look at all the older people working out as a healthy proactive approach to health,
with the understanding that with luck we all get that old.
I managed to maintain this level of positivity even when watching a man who
looked like a gnome work out with a lot of attention getting sounds. I broke when
they started playing ‘Tie a yellow ribbon’, loudly, to work out to.
Wow, Riss, I really am old. I hadn’t for a moment realized that all of these turkeys
came out before you (and, probably, most people) were born. “Morningwood” is a
worthy addition (and see? By implication, it’s got trees in it. I’m telling you, a
song with trees in it is a rotten song.)
Bonnie, put your fingers in your ears. AAAAAGGGGHHHHHHHHH. “Red
Roses for a Blue Lady?” AAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHH. There were
not one but TWO records, both hits — the aforementioned Fig Newton and the
appalling, but at least forgotten, Vic Dana. “Por ahh da girss I lobbed bepore” —
you don’t like that? What the hell was Willie smoking when he agreed to do that?
Oh, right. Never mind.
Suzanna, cheaters never prosper. But THANK YOU for adding to the Playlist of
the Damned “I am Woman,” “She Bangs,” “Macarena,” all of Manilow, and “My
Humps.” I hate the others, too, but these I hate with a special, even radiant,
intensity.
Eric, I disagree about “Strawberry Fields” being Hellworthy, but you get the
biggest thanks of the day for pointing out its erasing powers. I had “I Write the
Songs” embedded in my head until I read your note, and “Strawberry Fields”
promptly replaced it. I WILL remember this for the next time I get “The Ketchup
Song” surgically implanted. Funny Los Ketchups haven’t had a follow-up, isn’t
it?
Beth, sterling suggestions all, except I have to admit a sort of sneaking
appreciation of “Ode to Billie Joe” by (I think) Bobbie Gentry. But “Sugar Sugar”
occupied a rarefied position in the awfulness spectrum. And I was going to
include “Green Berets” myself, but I got caught up in how much I hate the others
and forgot it.
Catherine, thanks for seconding “Tie a Yellow Ribbon.” It really is almost
uniquely wretched. (And I’m one of those old guys grunting at the gym, so careful
or I’ll sing “Whip My Hair” to you for half an hour.)
Boy, you guys came up with some real stinkers. My kind of people.
8. Beth Groundwater Says:
I can’t believe no one’s mentioned this yet: Barney the purple dinosaur’s
obnoxious “I Love You” song:
“I love you
You love me
We’re a happy family …”
Gag me with a spoon!
I can’t believe it — I thought Tie a Yellow Ribbon was recorded by Tony Orlando
& Dawn and, son of a bitch, Wikipedia (which I don’t like at all) says I’m right.
Now, as for songs with trees, while I am inclined to agree with you in general you
must remember Trees by Al Hibler (we won’t get into who’s old enough to
remember that), which inspired me to write this poem when I was old enough to
know better;
I think that I shall never see
Said Helen Keller once to me
She tapped the message on my knee
And then she walked into a tree
(This is not a nice poem)
So, what do you think. Do I have a future?
10.Gary Says:
(emotional voiceover):
“There’s a guard and there’s a sad old padre;
“On and on we’ll walk at daybreak…”
Is it just me? Am I the only one who thinks “The Green, Green Grass of Home”
should be right up there near the top?
11.Bonnie Says:
Beth: I admit I kind of liked Woolly Bully (Sam the Sham and the Pharoahs (sp?)
IIRC); in fact, I think I fell asleep during one of their concerts at the Fillmore. But
I had just arrived on a plane from Vienna (give or take 12 hours back then). My
best friend was married at the time and living in a hairy-leg-and-armpit wannabe
hippie colony in Berkeley, and I think her husband scored tickets because he was
something in the music industry.
She now has a much better and I hope final husband.
Oh, and just thought of some more bad songs:
Havin’ My Baby (need I say more?)
These Boots by Nancy S.
Summer Wine by Nancy S. and…gosh, was it somebody like Lee Marvin?
12.Bonnie Says:
This is terrible; I had to get these songs out of my head so went to Youtube and
listened to some old André Heller and Erika Pluhar chansons, then wrapped up
with Hair. Love the songs from that musical.
Heck, compared to some of the monstrosities you guys are coming up with, give
me Falco and Rock me Amadeus. Or Kate Bush’s Wuthering Heights.
Thanks, Beth — You could have jammed my receptors for weeks with that
f*cking Barney song, but now all I have to do is sing, “Let me take you down . . .”
and bingo, “Strawberry Fields.” Thanks again, Eric. It’s like magic.
Laren, you definitely have a future, and all this music is in it. Anyone who makes
a Helen Keller joke gets to hear all this stuff in stereo.
Ahh, Gary — TOM JONES!!!!!!! WHAT WOULD THIS LIST BE WITHOUT
TOM JONES!!!!
Just sayin’.
However, I think Bonnie tops us all. The single worst record of all time, and
therefore the top of the Hell Playlist (for the moment, anyway) is (You’re)
Having My Baby.” Can you BELIEVE that “You’re” is in
PARENTHESES??????? Like she’s a LAMPSHADE or something??????
AAAAAGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH. Of course, this is the same highly sensitive
Lothario who opened his first big hit with the words every woman dreams of
hearing: “I’m so young and you’re so old.” How did he live so long?
14.Bonnie Says:
I believe the you’re is in parenthesis because as initially conceived (ouch) the
song is a duet between the, er, donor and the, ah, vessel. (Shuddering)
Damn you all, see what you made me do? Just just 1-click ordered a 3-CD set of
André Heller’s 1967-2007 hits from amazon.de. When it comes, I have something
fun to share, though I’ll have to translate it. Heller sings about the souffleur, the
guy in the box at the front of the stage who prompts the actors. He criticizes all
the performances and in the chorus he dreams of how much more enthusiastically
he would be received if he were up there performing Faust. It’s a tour de force for
sure.
Of course, I will also be undergoing about a month of nostalgia when the darned
thing arrives.
Heller, who at least at one point had “poet” (not Dichter, which would be the
German word) in his passport under profession, was briefly married to Erika
Pluhar, a popular actress. They both recorded Jacques Brel chansons, translated
and performed in the vernacular Viennese that was just being revived in the late
60′s, and Heller wrote a good many, some of which Pluhar performed, as well.
I think “These Boots Were Made For Walkin’” by Nancy Sinatra could provide
many wonderful hours of agony…and if Hell can’t afford the rights to that
recording then perhaps we can get Sarah Palin to record it.
16.Suzan G. Says:
Hi Everyone, I’m one of those new readers Tim’s been asking for, although I’ve
long been a fan of the Poke Rafferty series and am currently tracking down Tim’s
other work. I love ths blog and would would like to make my own modest
proposal for the Hell Playlist. Does anyone remember Seasons in the Sun by Terry
Jacks? It gets my vote for most appalling piece of drivel of the decade and Tim…
wait for it…it has TREES in it!
17.Gary Says:
Speaking of Paul Anka, here’s the actual live origin of that celebrated showbiz
phrase “The guys get shirts”:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2LsnW0WZlKQ
Not to mention the other classics: “Don’t make a f***ing maniac out of me,” and
“Slice like a f***ing hammer.”
Those of us who grew up to the moving strains of “Diyanah” were a privileged
generation indeed.
18.EverettK Says:
I hesitate to jump on board with this one, as I’m sure some of the songs I hate
others love, and vice versa.
But regarding using Strawberry Fields as a de-ear-wormer, any time I get a song
stuck in my head for days, I start singing “Midnight At The Oasis.” Works for me.
The words are totally silly, and the tune has NEVER gotten stuck in my ear. But
it’s a little like the medicine our mom’s used to make us swallow… cures worse
than diseases, and all that. Anyway, a few minutes with the sheiks and I’m usually
cured. If that doesn’t work, I move on to “The City of New Orleans.” I actually
like that one, and it CAN get stuck in my ear, so it’s a good back-up cure.
Speaking of Arlo Guthrie (weren’t we?), I went to a John McCutcheon concert
several years ago, and in between songs he was describing how he’d been
complaining to some other singer once that he was REALLY tired of singing
“Christmas In The Trenches,” as everyone always requested that one at EVERY
concert. The other singer, I forget who it was now, told him, “John, you should be
happy. Imagine being Arlo Guthrie. His fans DEMAND that he sing Alice’s
Restaurant every time, and if he gets one word or nuance wrong in that damn 30minute song, they give him hell.” From that point on, he didn’t mind having to
sing his little 3 minute song at every concert.
I first read this in the AM, and I have had “Tie a Yellow Ribbon” in my head ever
since. I had to take care of business so now I’m back.
Thank you, Suzan G., for naming a truly maudlin, saccharine song that I was
trying to remember-when I wasn’t humming. I have a friend and we like to sing
together. She was delighted with this as an exercise. Your blog, Tim, is truly
bringing a lot of fun to a lot of people. (And if I offended anyone yesterday, I
apologize. I can get rant-y at times).
My, my, we never know what subject will open the Pandora’a box, do we?
The idea that Anka conceived the song as a duet is interesting, Bonnie, but I cling
to my initial interpretation that the only important people in his world are him and
the infant carrying his DNA. What a putz. It would seem, Bonnie, from the rest of
your post, that this discussion has somehow put you in a nostalgic frame of mind,
which I find extraordinary. I would gladly erase all the bits of my past that have
these songs in them.
Stephen, I’ll buy Sarah Palin’s record of “Boots” if she’ll keep walking for a long,
long time. Eight or ten miles beyond the coastline would be nice.
Gary, THANK YOU for the link. Everyone who wants to know what kind of an
(fingers in your ears, everyone) asshole Anka is should look at the clip. The video
is a restaging but the rant is real — that’s just how Paul Anka is. What a flaming
piece of fecal matter.
Hey, Everett, two more earworm remedies, and thanks. Imagine being Don
McLean. He’s been singing “American Pie” every night for — hold on — FORTY
years; it came out in 1971. It amazes me that he can still get through it. In fact, I
just finished Keith Richards’ autobiography (I read it in between snatches of
Stendahl, of course) and they’re still playing “Satisfaction,” but they only tour
every 3-4 years. One of the nice things about writing novels is that no one ever
yells, “Hey, Tim — write THE MAN WITH NO TIME.”
21.Bonnie Says:
The nostalgia is not for these songs. Ugh. Rather in self-defense I had to go back
and find some good music. Which led to the nostalgia, etc.
As for the duet concept, I am not making this up:
After more than ten years without a hit record he signed with United Artists and in
1974 teamed up with Odia Coates to record the number one hit, (You’re) Having
My Baby. They would record two more duets that made it into the Top 10, I Don’t
Like to Sleep Alone (#8) and One Man Woman/One Woman Man (#7).
(from Wikipedia)
I wonder how sorry Odia Coates is, whoever she may be. Hmm…would make a
good captcha.
22.EverettK Says:
Tim: One of the nice things about writing novels is that no one ever yells, “Hey,
Tim — write THE MAN WITH NO TIME.”
Well, writers (of series stories) have their own problems. The most famous, of
course, is A. Conan Doyle, who got SO tired of writing about Sherlock Holmes
that he finally killed the character off… and then had to resuscitate him later when
the outcry became too great.
But, better to weary of success than to forever toil at failure, I suppose.
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 40: Mr. Coffee
November 10th, 2010
“When you have produced the finest grind with the least water possible, you double the dose by
drinking two cups at a time; particularly vigorous constitutions can tolerate three cups. In this manner
one can continue working for several more days.”
We all know that writers are coffee hounds. But the grandpére of them all was Honoré de Balzac.
Given his prodigious output, it’s not surprising that Balzac relied on stimulants. His magnum opus,
The Human Comedy, alone comprises more than ninety novels, novellas, and stories totaling millions
of words and featuring hundreds of major characters and thousands of one- or two-scene walk-ons.
There is literally nothing like it in the world; the works are layered over one another, the heroes or
heroines of one subordinate (or just glimpsed) in another, the characters rising and falling through all
the levels of society, from the fields and huddled houses of small provincial towns to the palaces and
grand hôtels of Paris.
The Comedy is studded with individual masterpieces: Pére Goriot (a variation on “King Lear”),
Eugénie Grandet, Lost Illusions, A Harlot High and Low, Cousin Bette, and others, short and long.
Many of them were published in installments, as he wrote them, meaning that he was pantsing on a
grand scale, making it up as he went along, absolutely stuck with what he had already written. And, of
course, “The Human Comedy” itself, written over a remarkably short span of 14 or 15 years, was
perhaps literature’s supreme feat of pantsing. He did it all, writing session after writing session, by the
seat of his pants.
And on coffee. Lots of coffee.
Balzac’s entire life was arranged to accommodate his writing and his coffee. He ate dinner in the
afternoon and went to bed around 6 PM. At midnight he was up and knocking back the first in an
unending bucket brigade of cups of strong black coffee. He wrote through the night and into the
following day, sometimes straight through, without going back to bed. Pounding that caffeine, he
occasionally worked for 48 hours uninterrupted, conducting the imaginary orchestra of Paris.
He wrote (probably after a couple of cups) about how it affected him: ”Memories charge in, bright
flags on high; the cavalry of metaphor deploys with a magnificent gallop; the artillery of logic rushes
up with clattering wagons and cartridges; on imagination’s orders, sharpshooters sight and fire; forms
and shapes and characters rear up; the paper is spread with ink – for the nightly labor begins and ends
with torrents of this black water, as a battle opens and concludes with black powder.”
This is a serious jones. But I have to say I’d take coffee intravenously if it would allow me to write
like Balzac. I’d bathe in it. I’d snort instant. Problem is, for coffee to help you write like Balzac, first
you have to be Balzac.
This entry was posted on Wednesday, November 10th, 2010 at 8:11 am and is filed under All Blogs. You
from your own site.
13 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 40: Mr. Coffee”
1. Suzanna Says:
I know how much you love coffee, Tim, and you’re a great writer so you and
Balzac have more in common than you think : )
I’d drink it by the gallon if I could because I love the flavor and the effects of a
strong cup of fresh ground coffee. But over and over I have learned that coffee has
its downside as well. Wakeful nights, snappy behavior toward my poor husband,
and then the way the glorious high from the morning is lost by the afternoon and I
sleepwalk through the rest of the day. More coffee doesn’t help, it only reinforces
the same miserable cycle.
I’ve downgraded my caffeine fix to one cup of black tea in the morning. I’m still
waking up at night sometimes, but no afternoon slump, and fewer snappy
remarks.
BUT I MISS COFFEE!
2. Bonnie Says:
Folks, my moniker on Twitter, Chowhound, and a bunch of other, less frequented
places is kleine Mocha. That should say it all!
3. Beth Says:
Tim, you have never, nor will you ever, have the experience of being pregnant.
During my pregnancies, the consumption of coffee was on the list of forbidden
things. I thought it would be difficult but my brain accepted the responsibility and
I didn’t have any desire for it.
Immediately after the baby was delivered, I wanted coffee, lots of coffee. My
grandaunt started me on coffee when I was about seven years old. College is
unending coffee. Now my husband and I go through three pots of percolated
coffee a day.
I am not going to count how many months I have been drinking coffee since I was
seven, but I do know I was coffee-free for a total of about 21 months in all those
years.
Living in New England, we drink vats of iced coffee, too. I didn’t know that iced
coffee was a regional thing until my husband ordered it when we were in Florida.
The waitress knew we were from New England because people from our section
of the world are the only ones who ask for it.
What I remember about coffee (well, and other stimulants) from my college days
(right after the invention of fire) is that the absolutely brilliant papers I wrote in
the middle of the night turned to poop when the sun came up. I think it had
something to do with the sunlight atoms adulterating the typewriter ribbon ink.
5. Larissa Says:
Mmm…coffee. (c: I am actually rather proud of how reasonable the amounts I
ingest now seem in comparison to Balzac…the rest of society not withstanding.
(c: A wonderful ode to a wonderful drink. Now, if we can just make it all fairtrade
and produce it without all the nasty consequences, we’ll be golden….
6. Gary Says:
I once went on a professional tour of community forestry in Europe, starting in
Dover. A consultant friend of mine was conducting it.
The night before I was tempted by the very nice coffee that came with the very
nice dinner at our Dover hotel. And that night, for the first and last time in my life,
I spent the entire night utterly sleepless, finally lying there watching the sky get
slowly brighter and brighter as day arrived.
So for the whole of the first day of the tour my poor friend Pat had to stand in the
bus saying wise things to us all about European forestry, while I slept soundly in
front of him. And I was leading a delegation of Pakistani foresters, and
supposedly setting a good example.
And the Swiss government was paying for it all!
SORRY SORRY SORRY — have been insanely busy all day with changes to
CRASHED (thanks, Gary) and trying to push past a point of resistance in the new
Simeon book. Sat down at eight this AM, posted the Balzac piece, and worked
straight through to now (5:40 pm). Only this minute looking at the blog responses.
Zanna, I admire but can’t emulate you. Somewhere in QUEEN (I think) there’s a
scene in which Poke takes his first sip of morning coffee and feels logic and
volition (or something) returning to him. I feel that way all day. In fact, I just
finished the last cup of the day, about an hour later than usual, so maybe I’ll do a
Balzac tonight. And thanks for the “great writer” line. I could use more of that.
Bonnie, Kleine Mocha is is. In Vienna, I gather, they know from coffee.
Beth — you started on coffee at seven? Lucky you — a jacked-up childhood.
Three pots a day is a respectable consumption. When I’m writing or revising, I
make three a day, although I can’t honestly say I drink it all — some of it gets to
the point where the smell changes radically and you know that whatever is in that
pot, it’s seething with carcinogens and mutation inducers.
Laren, coffee is nothing compared to, ahem, “other stimulants” when it comes to
illusion of brilliance. While I usually write loonnng on coffee, I’m rarely fooled
about how good it is or isn’t — just how it maintains its interest value at that
length, which is easy to fix later. But “other stimulants” — a friend and I once
wrote a screenplay under the influence of the hundred-dollar-bill stimulant and the
end — we’d known it from the beginning — was a giant parade that was
supposed to bring all the story lines together. By the time we got to it, we had no
idea why it was in the script or what we could to to make it any different from any
other parade, and parades are, by definition, boring. So we had it go by at about
65 miles per hour. A fast parade. Seemed brilliant until we ran out.
Hey, Riss, do you guys have Trader Joe’s? They’ve got half a dozen fair trade
coffees that don’t require consumers to sell their blood to be able to afford them.
The Pajaro blend is a great dark coffee, and if coffee isn’t dark, don’t get it
anywhere near me.
Gary, how much of the very nice coffee did you drink? Up the whole night? You
must have knocked back several quarts, or else you have a finely tuned nervous
system. But what an example you set those Afghanis. No wonder they’re afraid to
go to war with us.
“for coffee to help you write like Balzac, first you have to be Balzac”. How very
true.
Also read something by Somerset Maugham the other day, to the effect that no
writer can write about anyone but himself (not convincingly, anyway). The
greatest writers simply contain more alternative selves.
And finally, there’s procrastination – I could write heaps about that. Obviously
Balzac couldn’t. Nor could Willy Maugham. Disciplined men, both of them.
9. Gary Says:
Well, the foresters were Pathans. But thanks to the colonial wisdom of the Durand
line, they were technically Pakistanis rather than Afghans.
I don’t want anyone to try to get between me and my coffee. Not ever never ever.
I thought that after a while you needed more and more caffeine to get the same
effect?
I prefer tea, and I’m on one cup a day at the moment. Reading this I thought that
all I needed to do was up my coffee consumption till I saw “for coffee to help you
write like Balzac, first you have to be Balzac”.
Never mind.
12.Bonnie Says:
Not that anybody cares, probably, but the grandpère has an accent grave, not aigu.
Just finished Skin Deep (this is seriously not à propos) and I have to say I’m
leaning towards turning Simeon Grist in to the SPCA. I mean, first he has this
kitten who no longer exists in the next book, in the 2nd book he inherits a dog,
who never is heard from again, and now in the 3rd book (which we learn is really
the first), he lets his parakeet be slaughtered. This is not good karma!
Ah, back on topic, my grandmother used to let us kids drink “coffee” out of a
water glass that was half full w/milk and severely sugared. No matter how good,
of course (I favor the Trader Joe’s Columbian w/the Toucan on the label), coffee is
among those things that never tastes as good as it smells.
13.Larissa Says:
We have access to Trader Joe’s stuff in some stores. They’re getting pretty good
about being eco-friendly though GreenPeace busted them a while back for not
exactly following their own rules…I’ll have to try it-it sounds tasty! Right now
I’m drinking a Kansas City company’s coffee (Parisi)-they make a pretty good
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 41: Crunched
November 11th, 2010
There’s no such thing as too many cooks when it comes to finding mistakes in a book.
When a book is conventionally published, it’s put through a series of indispensable checks.
First, the editor responsible for shepherding the book through the publication process takes as long as
she needs to worry the manuscript to pieces and put it back together again. While the editor’s main
responsibilities are the integrity, quality, and consistency of the story and characters, she also looks for
blebs and glitches, ranging from the old This chronology is hopelessly confused to Were you thinking in
English? to Who the hell is Edith? to It would be nice not to totally embargo the comma from this
manuscript to This is the fourth time in this chapter that you’ve used the word “tenebrous” and
everything in between. And she also catches typos, misspellings, bad grammar, and whatever else
snags her censorious eye.
The writer, his (in my case, anyway) face burning with shame and occasional homicidal resentment,
makes the changes he can live with, in the course of which he notices 8213 other small mistakes, often
of the subject-not-agreeing-with-verb variety or the ever popular I-know-I-meant-something-here-butdon’t-know-what-it was category. When he is finished, the book is presumably stronger and more
readable.
At that point, the copy editor goes to work on it. And she finds thousands of things. I have the best
copy editor in the world, Maureen Sugden. I know she’s the best copy editor in the world because
every single writer who’s ever worked with her says so, and because she’s the seventh I’ve worked with
and she’s a different species entirely from the other six, who contented themselves with snickering
openly as they pointed out that Dumpster is a brand name and therefore requires the capital D or that
the correct spelling of “lasagna” is “lasagne,” complete with italics, since it’s (mirabile dictu!) in
Italian. (I kept changing it back to “lasagna” and the proofs came back “lasagne” until I wrote in the
margin, “This is bologne,” and then they backed off.)
But Maureen — Maureen tells me when, in the fourth novel, I’ve mistakenly changed the number on
Rose’s badge I cited in the first novel. Maureen tells me when I have Poke give Rose an engagement
ring with his, her, and Miaow’s birthstones in it, that I got Rose’s stone wrong because he gives it to her
on her birthday and there are monsoons in the book, and there are no monsoons in the month for which
that stone (a ruby) stands. Maureen is She Who Is All-Wise, and also funny as hell. So the copy editor,
as long as it’s Maureen, exerts a purifying influence, burning away mistakes of all kinds.
And then the proofreader comes aboard and, you know, proof-reads (I don’t mean that to sound
dismissive), and after the proof-reader is done, the people in production, in the act of setting the type
and laying out the book, raise questions of their own, which my editor sends back to me. I’ve yet to put
out a book through HarperCollins when the production people didn’t save my butt.
But when you publish an e-book, those people aren’t there. It’s mostly down to me and my estimable
e-book producer, Kimberly Hitchens, and we’re not anywhere near enough. So on CRASHED, the first
Junior Bender book — coming to soon to Amazon and all other purveyors of superior pixel-lit — I
asked about half a dozen people to read it and got valuable responses from all of them.
The enormously sharp-eyed Everett Kaser, known to all of you for his contagious fascination with
italics and boldface type in responses, spotted perhaps 150 typographical errors and raised some good
questions. (Everett has tuned up all my e-books so far.) CJ West, a terrific writer (The End of Marking
Time), got back to me with clutches of correx and more intelligent questions. (I don”t mean that CJ’s
questions were more intelligent than Everett’s, just that they were additional intelligent questions.)
And Gary Archer, Everett’s collaborator in the inconceivably lengthy exchange of responses on how to
integrate (yaawwwwwwnnn) modest (Zzzzz) html markups into responses identified another few dozen
mistakes and — did I already say mirabile dictu!? — spotted a plot hole one could have flown a 747
through. Thanks to all of you.
And there will still be mistakes. In a book published by a major company I once wrote an auto chase in
which the cars kept taking the first right for God only knows how many pages until they’d chased each
other from Beverly Hills to downtown LA, and it went into print that way. I got at least twenty letters
pointing out that they’d been going in a circle. Let’s hope we’ve done better in crunching CRASHED.
This entry was posted on Thursday, November 11th, 2010 at 8:31 am and is filed under All Blogs. You can
your own site.
26 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 41: Crunched”
1. EverettK Says:
[EDITOR's NOTE]: This section is overly verbose and doesn’t move the story
forward. It could be replaced by a simple, “A half-dozen of you, together, make
up a passable editing team that doesn’t cost an arm and a leg.” Get’s the job done
and saves electrons.
Also, you misspelled yaawwwwwwnnn. There should only be one ‘n.’
2. Beth Says:
Tim, I know nothing about the mechanics of putting a story together so that it is
ready for publication.
What I do know, having read your books, is you get the one thing that really
matters correct to the nth degree. You write fantastic stories.
I read somewhere that the best way to edit something is to read it backwards so
that the story doesn’t bury critical thinking. I get so buried in the story I might not
recognize that Poke and Rose have moved to Idaho without telling anyone.
3. Suzanna Says:
Good! Closer to getting my hands on another great read.
I had no idea that the editing process involved so many different levels of editing.
Thanks to your trusted circle for getting CRASHED ready for its debut!
Everett, I tried to pass this by you, but you were tied up in your nightly HTML
markup Skype conference call and couldn’t be disturbed. And when I yawn at
you, it’s got lots and lots of “n”s in it. But thanks anyway for all your help —
you’ve been enormously generous with time and expertise.
Thank you, Beth. See what a difference a sympathetic personality makes? All
right, class, let’s compare Beth’s comment with Everett’s, and let’s have three
ways in which they’re different. Do I see any hands? Yes, Jenny? That’s right,
Jenny, Beth’s comment is nice and Everett’s isn’t. Very good, Jenny. Other
suggestions?
I really do appreciate that, Beth. And you’ll know when they move to Idaho
because they’ll be eating potatoes and wearing plaid shirts.
5. Larissa Says:
lol. There is something about not being able to catch your own mistakes…I have
this problem. My brain knows what I think I meant but the rest of the world never
will because every time I’ve proofread something my brain fills in the gaps…the
value of an editor is really priceless. Well, I’m sure Crashed will be brilliant…and
as well polished as 6 people can make something. (c: I look forward to it.
There are people who are good with the “bits,” as I call them, and people who are
good with ideas. Thank goodness for all of them. I didn’t realize how many
people it took to make a story coherent and plausible. My respect for the creation
of a good book grows as I learn more. And still there are mistakes which really
bother me when I love the author.-You can have as many “n”s as you want,Tim,
it’s your blog.
7. CJ West Says:
Too funny Everett. We are a passable editing team that doesn’t cost an arm and a
leg.
This is a great read Tim and I was delighted to be one of the first to see it. I know
how difficult it is to work without a net and you did a fantastic job with Crashed.
CJ
8. Gary Says:
Everett, now he wants us to be nice to him! Does he want his damn mistakes fixed
or not?
Seriously, I felt it an honor to be asked to look at CRASHED, as if my opinion
mattered or something. Anything I did represented about 0.001% of the effort Tim
put into the book.
And it’s a great book. Thanks, Tim.
“the ever popular I-know-I-meant-something-here-but-don’t-know-what-it was
category”
It’s funny how familiar that is!
Some of those edits are amazing but I mustn’t think about editing now because
I’m busy writing my nanomuddle.
Fortunately, I nevr need a proofraeder.
(But the person who writes the reCAPTCHA story sure does.)
11.Bonnie Says:
It sounds like you are really lucky with your team. I’m continually astounded at
the number of typos and mistakes in J.D. Robb’s books, and she makes literally
millions for her publisher.
I’m always happy to throw a jaundiced eye over your stuff, too, by the way. It’s
my day job, though in a less entertaining context. Though I agree with Larissa
about how hard it is to find your own mistakes. When I was a secretary I used to
spellcheck and proofread a letter 3 times, only to overlook a blatant typo in the
address.
12.EverettK Says:
Gary: I’ve heard that when people get older, they get crotchety and grumpy. Don’t
let Tim’s touchiness get you down.
CJ: I’m happy to be together with you on the Old Fart’s editing team. Couldn’t
ask for better company!
Tim: Skype? I still have two land-lines and hate carrying a cell phone around (and
don’t, most of the time). I’m an old fart, too. Skype. Huh. But crusty as you are,
I’m happy to be able to help in any small way. Us old farts have to stick together,
like…uh…ummm…shit on a shingle…or…uh…no, wait…that’s not right.
Hey, Suzanna — If CRASHED is a great read, these guys get a fat chunk of the
credit. I can’t believe I thought the manuscript was clean. My standards are
obviously precariously low. But the good news is that they all liked the book.
(Yaaayyy, Junior — strong debut!!)
Exactly right, Riss — when you go over something you wrote yourself (unless it
was a loooonnnnnngggg time ago) you gloss it to mean what you wanted it to
mean, which often results in your skipping over not only typos but also stretches
of text that simply aren’t clear, dialog that’s obtuse — you know. We all forget
that the reader only knows what we put on the page and it DOESN’T MATTER
how profound the underlying material is, if it’s not right out there, it’s not
anywhere. That’s why Gary spotted the plot hole about the diamonds, which I’ll
explain some day after the whole world has read CRASHED and paid me $2.99
for the privilege.
Dead right, Lil — I’ve NEVER put a book into the editing process that didn’t
come out improved, even the one time my editor and I disagreed about
everything. and having people like Maureen and Gary, CJ, and even Everett
available just makes it that much less likely that readers will be pulled out of the
story by some stupid mistake or some impenetrable paragraph or the sudden
appearance of a character named Edith. (Back in the old days, which I will blog
about eventually, I frequently inadvertently changed characters’ names partway
through a manuscript.)
CJ — I NEVER called you guys “passable.” Or if I did, I meant to write
“unsurpassable” and accidentally blocked and cut the first two syllables. If I’d
only had you to proof the blog, this would never have happened.
FHH, I have that reaction all the time. “Is this a joke? What does ‘it’ refer to?
Why is this in here?” And I don’t even drink any more. All the best with
NaNoWriMo — I think it’s a terrific exercise, that snotty woman at SALON
notwithstanding.
Gary — You were invaluable, even if you are friends with Everett. Seriously the
plot problem you pointed out was a mother, and the fix actually made the whole
second chapter twice as suspenseful (and also more fun). Any time you want to
read LITTLE ELVISES, just give me a toot.
Laren, dead right. The CAPTCHA story represented the nadir of quality control
on this site. I wouldn’t say that except that I know Everett has stopped dropping
by.
Oh, Hi, Everett. Um . . . how long have you been there? Well, how nice. Uhhh.
Wait, are you referring to moi as an Old Fart? Ohhhh pleeeeeeeeeeeease. I’m
younger at heart right now than you were on the day you were weaned, I mean, if
you were — no, let’s not go there. You know you’re always welcome here,
Everett. Just clear your throat next time.
Bonnie, I’d be happy to include you in the Ring of Fire, especially since I sense
that Everett is about to drop out. And I know about typos. Back in an earlier life, I
commissioned the design and printing of a HUGE classroom poster about
Dickens’ GREAT EXPECTATIONS, and proofed every one of its 150 or so words
literally forward and backward. And when the 150,000 copies arrived, I took a
look and saw, in type ten inches high, GREAT EXPECTATATIONS. Fortunately
my client on the project, a VP at AT&T, who were sponsoring the show, had a
sense of humor.
15.Hitch Says:
So, HalliMan:
HOW many books is it we’ve done together? HOW many times have you seen my
Ye gods, I feel positively diminished. I’m going to go sulk for a while now. Oh!
The Humanity! In a column about typos, no less. It makes me wonder if the error
was nefariously intentional. – H.
16.EverettK Says:
I’m going to shut up now (for fear that the copy of “Little Elvises” that I get for
‘editing’ will have been run through a text-munger first).
No, wait, erase that. No sense planting ideas…
But, speaking seriously (yes, I do, at least once a month whether I feel it’s
appropriate or not), I absolutely agree with you when you said, “Junior — strong
debut!!” Without a doubt!
17.EverettK Says:
Damn. Forgot something else I was GOING to say until, of course, two seconds
after clicking on “Submit Comment.” Always the way it is. Sigh.
You said: after the whole world has read CRASHED and paid me $2.99 for the
privilege.
Really? I understand, and fully agree with, pricing the older books at $2.99, but a
brand-smacking-new book? Personally, I would expect $4.99 or $5.99 as the price
for the first 6-9 months, then lowered when initial sales started to flag. But then,
I’m not a marketing guru (else why would I still be pumping away at the ol’
grindstone?). I know pricing is ALWAYS a delicate issue, trying to figure out the
best marketing strategy to maximize revenue over the lifetime of the product, and
I’m far (FAR) from an expert. So take all of this for what you paid for it…
But I’d really expect to pay more for a brand new book than for a 15-year old one.
Just my half-cents (adjusted for inflation) worth.
18.CJ West Says:
Tim, the passable editing team comment was from Everett, not from you. We are
all glad to contribute (in a very small way).
I’m laboring through a published book and wishing I was reading one of yours.
CJ
19.Gary Says:
Well, we all look forward to reading CRISHED, after Kimberly Hitchins has
finished producing it for you.
Don’t take it too hard, Kimberly. Tim once called me Fred. And in mixed
company.
Hi, Hitch –
Glad to see that your mood’s improved. Whadya mean, your name’s misspelled?
H-i-t-c-h-e-n-s, right? Checks out for me. People, can you believe I work with
someone this touchy?
Thanks, Everett, I appreciate the (rare) kind words. LITTLE ELVISES won’t go
up until February or even March — CRASHED is November, I’m skipping
December and possibly January, and then it’s Simeon #5, INCINERATOR, and
after that, LITTLE ELVISES. And I have to do an editing pass before I send it to
anyone, so it’ll probably be a little while. But anyone who wants to read it with an
eye to improving it is certainly free to do so. All offers of help are eagerly
accepted.
Everett (again) — I don’t know about the whole pricing thing; business has never
been my strong suit. My $2.99 books are selling pretty well, and Simeon is a
known quantity, at least to some people. Junior is completely new. I’m not sure an
increase in price might not discourage some people from trying a new series.
CJ — I always do that (confuse the comments) because I answer them in batches
— for example, I credited Bonnie with the link to the Awful Anka Clip when it
was actually Fred, I mean, Gary, who actually suggested it. But I think THE
PASSABLES is a great title for a modest super-hero film, where the super-powers
are things like really superior vacuuming and absolutely perfect address
memorization. God, the ideas I just throw away.
Fred, I never called you Gary, did I? If so, I apologize. And when were you ever
in mixed company?
21.EverettK Says:
I wasn’t trying to twist your arm to charge more for CRASHED, just giving you
feedback that I was surprised. I’ve wrestled with the whole pricing issue many
times over the years (with my games) and have probably lost as many times as
I’ve won, so I’m certainly not a person to listen too on that subject.
I’ll be happy to read through and give you feedback on any of your projects at any
time, not just “final proofreading.” I know that you don’t need people mucking
around in your head until you have a pretty firm foundation “on paper,” but
anytime you need a sounding board…
Hi, Everett — I’m completely clueless. If Hitchens were still speaking to me, I’d
ask her, but this is pretty much a new field, and the Simeons have been selling
surprisingly well, so I’m inclined to hold the price. But I’m sending the question
to a couple of people with a LOT more expertise than I have.
I appreciate the offer, but the way I write often means that I wind up throwing
away almost half of every book, and I think I need to let my process work its way
through the material before I burden anyone else with it. In fact, I want you to
read LITTLE ELVISES, but not until I’ve given it an editing pass.
Great post, and a bit scary!
Scary? Me? It’s the people who respond who are scary.
Welcome, and I hope you come back. It’s too bad this is at the tag end of the
comments because I’d like to plug your site. To anyone who comes back to this
post, Paul has a GREAT site on reading and writing, with an emphasis on hardboiled and stories, at http://pdbrazill.blogspot.com
Paul — will do this again later.
Thanks for the hat tip, Tim.
It’s the process that scares a newby like me! Just finishing a pice of writing is hard
enough!
Ahhh, Paul, I doubt it. You’re pretty damn proficient. I’ll call attention to your site
earlier on in a response chain sometime soon.
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 42: Messages from Madison
November 12th, 2010
Last night I stayed up late, writing a first draft of the Thanksgiving story, so when I went to bed I didn’t
even have a subject for this morning’s blog.
The Thanksgiving story, most of you will probably be happy to know, will only be one day long — it’ll
begin and end on Thanksgiving Day. I should also say, well in advance, that it’s the dumbest
Thanksgiving story ever written, so dumb that it’s not completely impossible that I’ll have second
thoughts about it. But now that I’ve said out loud (so to speak) that there will be a Thanksgiving story,
I’m committed to having one. So that’s progress. Of a kind.
Anyway, I went to bed with no topic for this morning, and all night long I had awful dreams. No
monsters or scary houses or anything kinetic, but numb, static dreams of inaction and inertia, and I
woke up a couple of times on the verge of despair. The details of the dreams had faded, but what
remained was the sense of having been powerless to change anything, of having failed.
When I went downstairs this morning, my wife, Munyin, asked how I’d slept and I told her about the
dreams. She said, “Maybe they’re messages from Madison.”
Well, how come she’s so smart?
Madison (last name Jefferson — her domineering father was a patriot) is the female protagonist of
PULPED, the first Simeon Grist book in 16 years. Since Simeon is (for the first part of the book,
anyway) stranded up in literary limbo, the half-imaginary hinterland to which series characters are sent
when the last book in their series is pulped, someone on earth needs to solve the murder of Ferdy
Carvalho, one of Simeon’s last readers. Characters up (or down — nobody knows) in limbo can see
their readers on earth when a book in the series is open and being read, and Simeon is actually
watching — as though he’s looking up from the page — when someone wraps a pair of very big hands
around Ferdy’s neck and squeezes the life out of him.
So — with Simeon up there, participating only through the glimpses he’s catches when someone opens
one of the six books in which he appears, someone down there needs to track Ferdy’s killer.
And that falls to Madison, who works in the used bookstore in Joshua Tree where Ferdy worked, who
was the largely unwitting object of his affections, and who discovers the body. And, bang, just like
that, I walked into the trap I’d set for myself, I was sentenced to write my least favorite kind of
character in all detective fiction: the amateur sleuth.
I hate amateur sleuths. First, because there aren’t any. Amateur sleuths are about as common as
amateur brain surgeons. For one thing, if people yielded frequently to the impulse to become an
amateur sleuth, many of them would probably be dead in short order. This is the topic of a talk
between the cop in the book, Detective Barnes, and Madison, when he first suspects she might be
nosing around on her own.
“Maybe we’re not.” He raised an admonitory finger. “Here’s what I don’t want it to mean. I don’t want
it to mean that you have aspirations to play amateur sleuth.”
“Of course, I’m not –”
“Breaking into a crime scene. Questioning witnesses. No amateur sleuthing on my patch. Clear?”
“Fine.” Madison knew she was good at icy, and she gave him the full arctic version.
“Forget what it says in the books Mr, Carvalho was pushing at you. Do you know how many actual
amateur sleuths there are in the world?”
“It’s not of the slightest –”
“None. And you know why? Because the only real amateur sleuth is a dead amateur sleuth.”
(And then there’s a footnote leading to the bottom of the page, where the reader will find this data
point:)
Vocational data from the 2010 Census — Amateur sleuths : zero. Dead amateur sleuths: 217
But still, mortality rate aside, why would any sane person become an amateur sleuth? This question
pushed me into writing a young woman who is agonizingly conscious that she’s a passive peoplepleaser, someone whose approach to life so far has been to go where she’s been kicked, who came to
Joshua Tree in the first place because she fell for a totally useless man, and who remains there out of
the inertia that’s been her defining characteristic as long as she can remember, a woman who gets hit on
the Achilles tendon every day by her screen door when she comes home and can’t be troubled to fix it.
But she’s entering a new stage, in which she is consciously questioning herself, about pretty much
everything. Here she is, coming home the day she finds Ferdy’s body. The screen door has already hit
her Achilles tendon, prompting her to swear aloud.
Madison said a word of which her father heartily disapproved. Then she shouldered the front door
open and scooted through it before the screen door could attack again.
She stood there, centered in the rectangle of yellow desert sunlight falling through the door, feeling the
weight and heat of it on her shoulders, and surveyed her once-tidy living room. But what she was
thinking was, Poor Ferdy.
A quick internal hyp-check rated the thought as 70% hypocrisy and 30% sincere. But, she thought,
since she hadn’t said it out loud, and since there wasn’t anyone around to hear it even if she had, it
wasn’t real hypocrisy. It was faux-hypocrisy, not meant to fool anyone. Except herself, she thought,
observing herself thinking, except herself.
“I am spending too much time alone,” Madison said out loud.’
And she is, too. Way too much. And Ferdy’s death — and her dawning awareness that he’d been
sweet on her while she was languishing over the worthless blue-eyed cowboy who’d brought her here
in the first place — gradually leads her to the conviction that she can’t sidestep Ferdy’s death,
especially since she doesn’t respect Detective Barnes. That, in fact, it might be the event that would
take her out of her passivity.
The temperature in the room had dropped into double digits, and she went to the cluttered couch,
cleared a Madison-size space, and sat, the book on her lap. It definitely did not exert the solid,
reassuring pressure of the Balzac she was reading in the bedroom. The evening yawned in front of her,
as featureless as the desert on the other side of her windows. Dinner presented itself as one timeconsuming possibility, except that she’d overeaten at lunch and felt like her entire lunch, plus the
lunchbox she’d carried it in when she was a child, were lodged sideways, just below her breastbone.
The Fatal Lunch. She’d turned the shop over to Ferdy at the usual time – Poor Ferdy – and gone to the
Carousel, as usual, for the usual lunch, hoping, as usual, that she wouldn’t run into Jake there, and she
hadn’t, and that had upset her so much that she’d had a piece of peach pie.
That’s right, she thought, watching herself think it, I didn’t want to see Jake and I didn’t and the
disappointment at not seeing the person I didn’t want to see made me overeat. There must be a medical
name for this condition. Maybe it’s something new. Maybe it’ll be called Madison’s Dementia. Maybe
I’ll be famous. I’ll have a reality show with other people who have a disease named after them. We
could call it “Sick and Famous.”
Other people, she thought, real people, didn’t worry about how to fill their evenings. Other people
didn’t have enough time left over from the fascinating, all-engaging, world-changing things they did.
They leaped up at the last moment and ate standing at the sink, their minds still engaged in something
bigger and more interesting than they were. Or than she was, at any rate. She gazed ahead into time,
thinking it was probably straight but hoping it was actually curved so that the thing that was coming
toward her, the thing that would change everything, that would broaden and enrich her life, was just
around the bend, just barely out of sight. Coming into view any minute now.
Without even looking down, she opened the book.
The book is Skin Deep, and Madison is on the cusp of committing to becoming an amateur sleuth.
Everything you just read is first-draft and I have no idea how much of it will appear in the book, if I
ever finish the book. But Munyin was right — for the past few days, Madison has been languishing
unwritten, just at the moment she’d finally put her foot down. So today belongs to her, and I have to
say this: even if none of this winds up in the final draft, I’m having a wonderful time writing it.
This entry was posted on Friday, November 12th, 2010 at 12:03 pm and is filed under All Blogs. You can
your own site.
14 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 42: Messages from
Madison”
1. Suzanna Says:
Tim, I find Madison very intriguing, and I love that you are writing another
female character who has her limitations but is working on them so to speak. No
real amateur sleuths, I ask somewhat kiddingly? But what about Nancy Drew?
The Hardy Boys? I know they are not real but they were amateur sleuths.
2. EverettK Says:
It sounds like you’ve entered the Twilight Zone, Tim, leaping from straight
mystery/adventure into fantasy. Not that I have a problem with that, it just caught
me a little off-guard, since the other Simeon books have been firmly grounded in
L.A. fantasy land. Unless, of course, your lead-in about Simeon being stranded in
limbo was just your literary device for the purposes of this blog. (You would
never lie to us, right. Right?)
As you say, the above is first draft, but I LIKE the direction it’s going. I WANT to
know more about Madison, what her reading of Skin Deep brings forth, and I
want to watch her collision with the stern Detective Barnes. The fact that these
short snippets have already started to suck me in is a good indicator!
Of course, one must remember that ALL sleuths were amateurs at one point, even
Simeon…
I like Madison, her self deprecatory sense of humor, and her (hinted at) sense of
fatalism. If you are having fun writing it this, think of what your readers will do.
By condemning amateur sleuths, you have consigned a whole ton of books to the
devil, so this Madison book may be your just desserts. Am I mixing all kinds of
metaphors here? Anyway, a lot of this requires a lot of suspense your disbelief,
and I am prepared to do just that.
Thanks Suzie. I think — to the extent that I know anything about what will
happen in the book — that by the time Simeon finds his way down to give her a
hand, she won’t need one. She’s changing every time she does something she’s
afraid to do and lives through it. And I know she’s female (surprise! I wasn’t
planning that at all) but there’s a lot of me in her — that whole thought-bound,
over-analytical thing.
Hi, Everett, Hi, Lil –Yes, this one is different, with an overlay of fantasy, since
Simeon is aware of the fact that he’s a fictional character and there’s a barrier of
sorts between fictional characters and the real world. But at the center is a good
old-fashioned murder, one that will have to be solved in order to work out all the
other story strands, of which there are far too many at the moment.
I’m amazed that Madison has come to me as she is, because I feel about her the
way I feel about Miaow in the Poke books — I know everything she’s thinking
and pretty much everything she’ll say. She’s tremendous fun to write.
And I know, Lil — lots of people love amateur sleuths. I’m just not one of them.
One of the funny things about the mystery/thriller limbo where Simeon lives now
is that it’s inhabited by every kind of detective there is; in fact, his primary ally in
the book is a woman who was featured in a series of cooking mysteries with a
paranormal overlay, and Simeon, who is nothing if not a cynic, has to put up with
all of it because, after all, it was all true in the world of Lobelia’s books, so
Lobelia brings it all with her even when she visits Simeon in his Topanga shack.
I am WAAAAAYYYYYYYYY over my head.
6. EverettK Says:
This sounds like it’s going to be FUN!
The purple type made me remember why I enjoyed the Simeon books so much.
Very funny, Laren — made Munyin laugh out loud.
If it isn’t fun, Everett, it’s going to be massively embarrassing.
9. Larissa Says:
Reading your first draft makes me want to start writing again…and I say this
because I can see that it’s a first draft-not in the “this is crap” way (never, never,
never!!!) but I can get a sense of feeling your way around a little bit. The idea of
Madison is obviously very well formed by the way that she acts and the little
things that she does-they seem natural-and it’s awesome (again, as always) that
you’re willing to post the first draft stuff…great reminder that they really can be
fun to write…:D
Thank you, Riss, and sorry it took so long to get back here the Ixnaycrat and
suicide responses were overwhelming although I’m grateful for them. What I like
about what I’m doing is that it’s the first time I’ve felt free to move in and out of a
character’s consciousness like that — if I’d done it a few years ago, I would have
torn it up. And if I hadn’t written all the women in THE QUEEN OF PATPONG,
Madison would be a guy, and I don’t think it would work at all.
This is actually enormous fun to write — so much so that I find myself avoiding
scenes in which she appears with other characters, where I’d have to do dialog.
This is very unusual, because normally I’m racing through narrative, trying to get
to the dialog. Oh, well, different pleasures for different books.
11.LC Evans Says:
Timothy,
This is very funny. I have an amateur sleuth in my Leigh McRae horse mystery
series and I agree with you. No real human in their right mind would be one, but
they are such fun to write. I mean, so over the top. Since the amateur sleuth
doesn’t exist, I’m free to put Leigh McRae and her sidekick Sammi into all kinds
of outlandish situations.
Thank you, LC, for not taking offense. The way the book is shaping up, this is
going to be a transformational experience for Madison, in ways she doesn’t expect
at all. I think it’s going to be hard let go of her when the book is done.
Love it, love it, love it — as is. Do I make myself perfectly clear? This one has
best-seller written all over it. Full speed ahead.
Pat Browning
Author of ABSINTHE OF MALICE,
featuring another one of those damned amateur sleuths
Thank you, PAT!!!! High praise from the author of s seriously good amateur
sleuth book with the year’s best title: ABSINTHE OF MALICE, now selling very
well for the Kindle.
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 43: The Fannies
November 13th, 2010
I have a confession to make.
Back in the old, bad days, I wrote for the fannies. And I don’t mean the upscale fannies like
Entertainment Weekly or Vanity Fair. I mean the down-and-dirty, crowded-cover, primary-color, barechested teen idol fannies. Fannies like Tiger Beat. Fannies like the one in the awful scene in Skin
Deep in which Toby Vane humiliates and sexually harasses the young female editor who’s come to do a
photo session with him.
At the time, I was still in college and working in the promotion department of a local rock radio station
which shall remain nameless. My boss was a very strange individual who shaved his head, had a Fu
Manchu mustache that ran all the way on either side of his mouth down to his jawline, wore Nehru
jackets, ate Pepto-Bismol tablets literally by the handful, and was writing a musical based on the
relationship between Adolf Hitler and his teenage niece, Geli Raubel, to be set to a score (he hoped) by
Joni Mitchell. Hitler being at heart a flower child and all. He twice showed me an interminable slide
show of Hitler, interspersed with pictures of Young Things With Bare Breasts Through the Ages, set to
“Ladies of the Canyon.” This is all true.
So, Mr. X — we’ll call him Doug — called me into his office one day and said he had an assignment
for me. I was to write a story about some teenage idol, no fewer than 1200 words and no more than
1500. I said, “What’s it about?”
Doug said, “Anything. Bobby Cries, Don’t Forget Me.”
I said, “Excuse me?”
“That’s your headline,” Doug said. ”Write it.”
So I wrote it and gave it to him and he gave me three more headlines and I wrote three more stories and
he gave me $400, for what was essentially 90 minutes’ work, minutes for which I was already being
paid by the radio station that shall remain nameless. From then on, I wrote six to eight a month until
Doug got fired for many, many things, and a few days later the phone rang and it was someone at Tiger
Beat or one of the others (I’ve always remembered Tiger Beat because it’s so totally meaningless)
asking for Doug and telling me, when I said Doug was no longer among the corporate living, that he
needed to reach Doug about doing his stories for the month.
I said, “I’ve been writing all of those.”
The person on the other end of the line said, “Oh. Well, we need six.” And I wrote them and they paid
me not $100 but $500 for each of them, and six months later I was writing full-length novels, mostly
teenage love stories (I was something of an expert on teenage love at the time).
For the novels, I developed a set of work habits that would get me through a few dozen novels, first for
teens and, later, for adult detective series published as paperback originals. (If I’ve written about this
before, please forgive me. It’s getting hard to know, with this one-a-day scheme, what I’ve written
before.) They would call me and we’d settle on a title over the phone. Then they’d give me eight
weeks or three months to write the book. Then I’d forget all about the book until the Friday before the
Monday it was due, at which time I would tear my house (Simeon’s Topanga shack) to pieces looking
for the title, and then go down to the Fernwood Market and buy two gallon jugs of Gallo Hearty
Burgundy and a carton of Marlboro Lights. On the way back up, I’d stop at the home of a freeenterprise pharmaceutical salesman to pick up some speedos, and I don’t mean swimming trunks. Get
home, open a ream of paper, fire up the Selectric, pop a speedo, light up, and think of five words in a
row that seemed to go somewhere.
Forty-eight hours later, red-eyed, seeing triple, and reeking of cigarettes, I’d drive into LA, drop the
manuscript off, and go home and sleep for two days. Once in a while I’d get a call from the editor,
demanding, “Who the hell is Edith?” and after we talked for a while — since I had no recollection of
anything about the book, and certainly nothing about anyone called Edith — we’d determine that Edith
was the female lead, who had been called Ellen for the first 140 pages but had been transformed into
Edith by some of that speedo.
I actually learned a lot about storytelling doing this, although it took me several years to remember
what it was. And every time I heard the Beatles’ “Paperback Writer,” I knew exactly what they were
talking about.
This entry was posted on Saturday, November 13th, 2010 at 7:33 am and is filed under All Blogs. You can
your own site.
9 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 43: The Fannies”
1. EverettK Says:
Don’t worry, college was designed as a place to do things that we’d later be
embarrassed about.
It certainly sounds like you put in your time “learning your craft.” But fer cryin’
out loud, leaving yourself just TWO DAYS to write a novel? No pressure here!
What kind of challenge is NaNoWriMo, anyway. Heck, counting the two days of
sleep in between, you could write 6 or 7 novels in a month!
2. Suzanna Says:
Whoah,it wouldn’t be an easy thing to invent a more, um, interesting character
than, Doug, but somehow I have a feeling that he has wormed his way into your
author’s palette here and there along the way.
I really do have a lot of respect for the way you worked your way through school.
Writing teen romance novels and stories for the fannies at least took you out of the
realm of low paying far less interesting jobs that most folks need while they’re
working their way through school, and clearly it allowed you to work your
imagination and speed writing skills. No pun intended.
You’ve come a very long way from those days. Phew!
3. Beth Says:
Everett wrote – “Heck, counting the two days of sleep in between, you could write
6 or 7 novels in a month!”
Isn’t that what James Patterson does?
4. Bonnie Says:
Beth: I think Patterson has some help.
Everett, I was a lot younger and stupider then, and also much more tolerant of
mind-altering chemicals. And, of course, the books were drivel, although they
taught me an enormous amount about unfolding a story and about structure, by
which I mean not letting the reader nod off for too long. In the end, this was
probably my way of overcoming the fear of the blank page — wait until there was
no choice, and then get cranked and write. NaNoWriMo is actually fairly leisurely
— I wrote CRASHED, which is about 100,000 words, in a little under four weeks.
More about that later.
Zanna, the trouble with Doug is that no one would believe him in a novel. He’s
still alive, to my surprise, and was interviewed on TV, looking grandfatherly,
when Michael Jackson died. Thanks for the respect, but it was a relatively easy
way to make a relatively large amount of money (for my age, at that time) and
speed was my middle name.
Beth, Bonnie is right. Although Patterson does come up with the story ideas and
titles and, in some cases, an outline for all those books.
Doug sounds like the indispensable central character for a murder mystery. Loads
of suspects.
7. Gary Says:
Ah, you were the guy!
You wrote “Springtime for Hitler” for your old boss Doug. And then promptly
forgot about it. And then “The Producers” made a fortune out of it.
Do you realize how much you could be owed in back royalties?
While this is definitely fascinating and fun to read, I need you to know that when I
see “Fannies” in a headline, I’m not thinking magazines. I wonder why that is.
Philip: yes, the victim for which everyone had a motive. Very Agatha C.
Gary, wish it were true. In retrospect though, Joni Mitchell’s music and Adolf
Hitler’s sublimated (maybe) love (maybe) for a young girl who’s related to him —
it’s a natural, especially with Joni’s music.
Laren, I refuse to be held responsible for the turns your imagination takes,
although I do admit to enjoying them.
captcha THE swoofing
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 44: Mann, oh Mann
November 14th, 2010
“Be ashamed to die until you have won some victory for mankind.”
That’s Horace Mann, speaking to graduates in a commencement address at Antioch College in 1859.
(Some sources quote him as having said, “humanity” rather than “mankind,” and if that’s a political
correctness edit, I hope whoever was responsible is condemned to saying and writing “he or she” for
any person of unspecified gender for the rest of his or her life and that he or she develops a stutter
whenever the words occur.)
What an audacious thing to say. ”Be ashamed to die . . .” Wouldn’t it be wonderful of our current
blighted crop of political hacks and gasbags had that kind of audacity — or, more important, that kind
of conviction?
Not “You’ll never find fulfillment unless you . . .” Not “You won’t find the road to happiness until you
. . .” Not “This great nation needs people who will . . .” Forget you, your fulfillment, your happiness,
this great nation (which is a phrase that should be embargoed for all politicians). BE ASHAMED TO
DIE, the man said.
And he lived it.
To most of us (to me, anyway), Horace Mann is the name of every other junior high school in the
world. But the historical Horace Mann was a member of the more or less vanished breed who used to
be called “public servants” before that term was corrupted to disguise the pigs who presently feed at the
public trough — and, yes, I mean both Republicans and Democrats. Mann lived to serve, to win
victories for mankind.
He was raised in poverty on a farm, embraced Unitarianism (Hey, guys! No dogma), and — like a lot
of others in that age — believed profoundly that human beings were improvable, given knowledge and
a wider spectrum of choices in life. At the age of 31 he was elected to the Massachusetts State
Legislature, where he was instrumental in setting up a state mental hospital. After serving as the First
Secretary of the Massachusetts Board of Education, he QUIT POLITICS to reform, advance, and
enrich public education. (Sound like anyone from present-day political life? No?)
Mann not only revamped the schools completely but formulated some principles that should be reexamined today, rather than paid lip-service to. Public education should be non-sectarian, he said.
Public education should be tax-supported, he said. Improvements in education lead to improvements in
society, he said. Students from all backgrounds and classes should be educated together, he said.
Every school should have its own free library, he said (and then he did something about it).
And he said, Education is a natural right for every child.
Later in life, he accepted the presidency of Antioch College, where he literally worked himself to death
trying to raise the funds the school needed.
Let’s see: earmarks? Nope. Private voter polling? Nope. Introducing legislation to ram corporate
agendas into law? Nope. Little emoluments accepted under the table and hidden in the freezer? Nope.
A career based on the quest for higher and higher office? Nope. Fearmongering for votes? Nope.
What was wrong with this guy, anyway?
Oh, yeah, he also said, “A house without books is like a room without windows.”
Hell, I’d name a school after him.
This entry was posted on Sunday, November 14th, 2010 at 10:37 am and is filed under All Blogs. You can
your own site.
15 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 44: Mann, oh Mann”
1. Bonnie Says:
You had me worried: I thought you were going to talk about Thomas Mann, the
guy who never met a subordinate clause he didn’t like.
Hell, Tim, I’d name the planet after him. It seems pretty obvious that Mann had a
terminal case of ethics. Too bad that more of our political elite (notice that
nowhere did I use the term “leader”) don’t share the same affliction.
Bonnie, you’re safe from Thomas Mann here.
Phil, one of the saddest things I know is that American politics has turned into a
fight among vultures, jockeying for a bigger piece of the nation’s corpse. The
crooks, hacks, and cowards we elect from both parties — again and again and
again — are in the process of killing this country deader than Ancient Rome and
feasting on the remains.
Time for the Ixnaycrats. I’ve been avoiding writing about the Ixnaycrats, but I
can’t avoid it any longer. Things have GOT to change.
4. Suzanna Says:
Someone recommended the film INSIDE JOB to us sometime last week and if my
insides could talk they would have groaned back, NO!!!!!
I was so sick of reading and hearing about the financial crisis there was no way I
was going to sit in a theater for anything less than the usual escapist entertainment
I normally seek to soothe my overwrought heart and mind that generally agonizes
over the state of our country, our planet, our future.
Well, I was dead wrong. I did end up seeing INSIDE JOB at a time when I felt
buoyed by a relatively good mood and the sense that I needed to know more, even
if it hurt.
Charles Ferguson, the filmmaker who tackled this subject with great veracity,
confronted some of the very same self-serving A-HOLES who put us in this
position in the first place, fed at the trough, continue to do so, and have no shame
about it.
Hank Paulson, Timothy Geithner, Larry Summers were no where to be found but
he didn’t let you forget about them.
Ferguson left some stuttering with surprise that anyone would dare ask them the
pointed intelligent questions that he did. Others asked him sharply to end the
interview, another pointed to the camera and desperately asked him to TURN
THAT OFF!
Yes, I felt very satisfied that he made them squirm, but also great satisfaction that
an individual like Ferguson devoted a few years of his life to make a film that will
help educate many people like myself who may not know how to make sense of
this historic crime.
It is my contention that seeing movies like INSIDE JOB, or reading, or talking to
each other about what happened, about why it happened, can help empower us to
begin to see a way out of this mess. Not by giving us easy answers but by raising
our awareness, and pissing us off to the point that we do not tolerate the actions of
the corrupt, greedy, self-serving, individuals and institutions that got us to this
place and who remain in power.
There’s simply no relief in site if we continue to look to a democracy strangled by
greed and corruption to solve all of our problems.
Horace Mann was right about education, it can most definitely “lead to
improvements in society.”
I think as members of this society we have a responsibility to stay informed, even
if it hurts, and to make choices that disempower those who have screwed us over,
and let us down, and to work equally hard to find ways to help each other through
this very dark time. There is no Papa Democracy that will come to the rescue.
5. Bonnie Says:
Since most of you are unknown to me, I don’t know whether I’m among fellow
old farts or not, old enough to remember Neil Postman
(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Amusing_Ourselves_to_Death).
“Postman asserts the presentation of television news is a form of entertainment
programming; arguing inclusion of theme music, the interruption of commercials,
and “talking hairdos” bear witness that televised news cannot readily be taken
seriously. Postman further examines the differences between written speech,
which he argues reached its prime in the early to mid-nineteenth century, and the
forms of televisual communication, which rely mostly on visual images to “sell”
lifestyles. He argues that, owing to this change in public discourse, politics has
ceased to be about a candidate’s ideas and solutions, but whether he comes across
favorably on television. Television, he notes, has introduced the phrase “now
this,” which implies a complete absence of connection between the separate topics
the phrase ostensibly connects. Larry Gonick used this phrase to conclude his
Cartoon Guide to (Non)Communication, instead of the traditional “the end.”
I think Postman was prophetic and what he predicted is even more true now. It
seems that almost everyone who has real money to throw at the problem is more
interested in raising compliant little
consumers than in developing thoughtful, questioning, responsible citizens. It’s
painfully ironic that here in the bastion of free speech there is so little worthy
discourse. I guess you could say it’s worth what we pay for it.
Thanks for the reminder of another time and another perspective, Tim.
“A house without books is like a room without windows.” I love that. My personal
belief is that a bathroom without magazines is like a library without toilet paper.
So, do you know all this stuff about these cool people or are you getting help from
google? Knowing you I would not be surprised if you keep this information in the
nooks and crannies of your brain. But how you fid them in there is the real
mystery.
7. Sharai Says:
This is in no way a straight across comparison, but Al Gore jumped into my mind,
and yes it hurt. He is an odd guy and so much fun to make jokes about: “They
could tell he was lonely as of late because when he’d hug a tree he’d linger”. (Bill
Maher on Al’s marriage problems. He was a huge disappointment until he quit
politics and put great effort where his passion was. That’s when he really
accomplished something.
Bring on the Ixnaycrats! But what do they drink? I’m guessing organic fair trade
coffee with a shot of brandy.
Suzanna, it’s bad times, all right. There’s not an ounce of difference between the
parties — they’re all bought and paid for, and more to the point, they’re all
whores, political hacks whose sole objective is to get re-elected, who will abandon
the convictions they proclaim and turn themselves inside out, like the increasingly
pathetic John McCain, for a few lousy votes. And all around them are the money
men and women, just stretching their dry corporate paws in the direction of our
pockets. This is the Age of Gimme, and it’s all flowing from us to them. If I hear
the word “entitlement” one more time, I’ll scream. They’re entitled to our money,
the sweat of our brows, our freedoms, our rights, our property if needed for
“eminent domain” — on and on and on. Whoops. Take a deep breath. Will see
INSIDE JOB and am NOT waiting for Papa Democracy. We need to vote this
scum out of office at all levels.
Bonnie, I’m older than many giant redwoods, and I remember Neil Postman.
Television is the worst-used great idea in history. It’s vulgar, brainless, bloodspotted, stupid, and pitched exclusively at the lower chakras — and that’s the
GOOD stuff. News is so Neanderthal that it takes two or three stories to make up
a sound bite, and the “sound-bite” image says it all — it’s been cut and chewed
for us so nothing is hard to get down. Anderson Cooper’s “Keeping them Honest”
is about the only journalism on television today, and it’s ten-minute segment. We
need a “Keeping them Honest” CHANNEL, 24 hours of pointing up the broken
and impossible promises, the pandering, the paucity of vision, the fiscal
irresponsibility, the cowardice, the blame-gaming — all the things that make
professional politicians the most reprehensible life form on earth.
Very funny, Laren. Or a fish without a bicycle. I know enough to know what to
look for — I knew, for example, who Mann was and most of what he did, and I
knew the two great quotes and looked up the rest. I’ve had the “Ashamed to die”
quote banging around in my head for the past week or two as I watch the abject
shamelessness of the whores and clowns who call themselves our leaders, and it
just seemed like a good time to think back to when there were people in public life
who actually wanted to make a difference. (And also, when we had an educational
system that actually educated.)
9. EverettK Says:
I’m in total agreement with pretty much everything said in today’s blog and
comments. You guys are great, and I’d just be repeating were I to add anything.
So, I’ll say instead that in just two days, when Day 46 has been posted, Tim will
have passed the 1/8th mark in his year of blogging. Everyone should prepare to
celebrate on Tuesday by reading a book!
Right. Preferably one of Tim’s books.
Hey, Sharai — This post got me to write the first Ixnaycrat post, which I’m
hoping will turn into a series; it’s a very general overview and more serioussounding than I’d like it to be, considering that it might be the movement that
elects a ballerina or a dog trainer as president. And Ixnaycrats drink whatever they
want. It doesn’t have to be fair trade, it just has to taste good. Poor old Gore just
had such a stick up his butt, and as much as I hate Bush, I blame Gore for losing
that election: it NEVER should have been so close that any one state could swing
it.
Everett, really? 1/8th? I had no idea. Ummm, does that mean that I’ve still got
7/8ths to go?
And Laren, thank you for saying what I wanted to say. In fact, everyone should
wait and read CRASHED when it comes out. You can read it on your computer if
you’re not going to buy a Kindle or an iPad — Kindle for PC is free and quite
cool. And I’m loving the book as I work through the ePub version,
12.EverettK Says:
1/8th FULL, man, 1/8th FULL! (Sheesh. Somehow, I never pegged you for a
7/8ths EMPTY kind of guy…)
there is no way i am qualified to enter into a discussion about the politics of the
USA but it is refreshing to read some opinions that display “critical thinking”
i’m hesitant to mention the book Game Change, which was a jaw dropping page
turner for me even though i knew how the story ended and currently i have matt
taibbi’s “smells like dead elephants” on the go – although i can only take small
doses otherwise i’d have to jump in front of large trucks….so for comic relief (or
just plain relief)i’ve turned to listening to NPR’s Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me on the
computer, I’ve worked my way from 1998 up to 2004 programs now and also
keep the current ones on my mp3 player, the hesitancy is in displaying from
whence i get my “political information”…..
here in Canada we have our own political boneheads and control freaks, don’t get
me started!
b.
and proof reading would be a good thing – by reading refreshing opinions i meant
the ones made here, today and yesterday…..
b.
Hi, Barbara, and welcome to the ongoing nonsense. I don’t know why you should
feel any more unqualified to enter this discussion than any of the rest of us. Just
because most of us (not you, Gary!) are United Statesians, it doesn’t mean we
know anything about anything. Geez, look at the last election. I LOVED “Game
Change,” which is probably the book more people have mentioned to me in the
past year than any other. Jaw-dropping barely begins to describe it.
Hang in here, even if I respond to you late (you got sorted into spam by
WordPress, which happens about once a week) and CERTAINLY don’t worry
about typos. Major mental lapses, perhaps, but not typos.
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 45: Just Say Ixnay
November 14th, 2010
No more professional policiticians. Ever.
When the United States was founded, the vision was of a republic governed literally by the people, for
the people. By the people meant that that private citizens, feeling a need to serve the nation, would
declare themselves for office and, if elected, would serve and then return to private life. This was
consistent with the example of George Washington, whose return home after two terms as president,
followed by a peaceful transition of power to John Adams, electrified the Western world.
The strength of such a system was that leaders were free to lead. They could make difficult or
unpopular decisions because their priority was to govern well and then say goodbye to politics. Even
the relatively early rise of political parties didn’t mess up the model too much: in those days, the parties
actually stood for conflicting philosophies about how the country should work.
The nation’s downfall has been predicted many times: secession would end it, the Civil War would end
it, the abandonment of the gold standard would end it, Communism would end it. And all the while,
the thing that might really end it was happening right before our eyes.
The rise of the professional politician.
We are governed now by a completely unforeseen class of people who clamp on to the public trough —
at all levels — and feed there. The primary objective of American politicians now is not to lead, not to
solve the nation’s problems, not to make the country better, stronger, more solvent, more just. The
primary objective of American politicians now is to get re-elected.
Instead of implementing sound policies, American politicians now poll ceaselessly to identify popular
policies. Whatever you do, don’t lose a vote. The average senator or congressperson devotes much of
his or her time in office to creating federal budget deficits by diverting pork — federal dollars — to the
folks back home. State legislators do the same thing, creating state deficits, and for the same reason: to
buy votes. Result: deficits at every level.
Campaigning has become prohibitively expensive, so candidates and the parties who select them have
made unholy deals with corporations and unions alike. Politics is now all money; the politicians buy
their constituents’ votes and then sell their own votes — in Congress, in state legislatures — to the
highest bidders.
The system is rotten from top to bottom.
We need a new party, and I’ve got one in mind: The Ixnaycrats.
It’s easy to be an Ixnaycrat. Here are the rules:
Just say Ixnay. Vote against all incumbents.
Vote for the candidate with the least political experience.
Vote for people you’d like to sit next to on an airplane: schoolteachers, massage therapists, landscape
gardeners, college professors, violinists, dog trainers.
Organize for term limits. Two terms is the maximum for all offices.
Just say Ixnay. Vote against all new taxes, no matter how they’re sold. The government has too much
money as it is. It’s overpaying itself, it’s bloated, it’s wasteful, it has three times more employees than
it needs. It spends enormous amount of money on programs designed to buy votes.
The Ixnaycrats’ ultimate goal is government by amateurs, each amateur capped at two terms. A
secondary goal is the destruction of all the current political parties. It would be very difficult for
corporations and unions to preserve the sweetheart deals they have now, where, year after year, the
Republican or Democratic party structure can just accept their bribes and funnel them to a slate of
candidates. One of the primary Ixnaycrat objectives is to break that unholy alliance.
But what about experience? Two points. First, experience got us into this mess, where the laws don’t
make sense and aren’t enforced half of the time anyway, where we’re trillions of dollars in the hole,
where the average citizen’s voice counts for nothing. Second, that’s what cabinets are for. That’s what
staff is for. That’s what the judicial branch is for.
But won’t it be chaos? Maybe. But it might be a creative chaos, as opposed to the bone-wearying,
repetitive, cynical, hypocritical, uninspired, deeply larcenous chaos we’re living in now.
Just say Ixnay.
This entry was posted on Sunday, November 14th, 2010 at 10:02 pm and is filed under All Blogs. You can
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22 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 45: Just Say Ixnay”
1. Robb Royer Says:
Okay you finally got me. I’ve been reading all your blogs and pretty much all the
comments without saying anything; feel pretty much like one of the kids in
Porky’s… but this subject brings me out of my wormhole. I don’t know if voting
for a new idiot at the expense of a current idiot is a practical or even a serious
suggestion but I understand exactly where you’re coming from. By the way, let
me introduce myself to your posse, I’m Tim’s college roommate, and since,
longtime friend. At the time my politics were pretty much Tom Wolfe and
his,somewhere in the vicinity of the Ohio SDS,(at least it seemed to me) but we
seemed somewhere along the line to have merged like…(I’ll skip the metaphor).
Anyway, Tim, my own particular variation on your point is… I’m looking for just
one politico who wants to balance the budget AND take on the Wall Street trough
feeders. Can’t find one! Seems like all we have is Dems who throw borrowed
money around like water or Repubs who are running interference for the
beleaguered billionaires.
On the budget-balancing side are these tea partyers who think we can reach
solvency by throwing grandma off her food stamps but don’t seem to mind the
hogs who took bonus billions out of the public bailout money… 2.4 billion just
for the Merrill Lynch execs who were rewarding themselves for destroying a 150
year old financial company cause they’re so indispensable and all …sputter
sputter… and I wasn’t going to go off on a rant.
Anyway Id be happy to join the ixnays. I haven’t been able to vote for a major
party candidate in 20 years, so might as well try something.
But why have a judicial branch? Every American has a gun, let them shoot it out
between them.
Brilliant. Where do I register?
4. Bonnie Says:
One of the key roadblocks to this kind of solution is the entrenched bureaucracy
that does the actual work of government. A humorous depiction of this that I used
to enjoy was a (BBC?) show called Yes, Minister.
Sometimes I could almost prefer the frank avarice of the old-time Soviet era
officials: just grab as much power and as many goodies for yourself and your
supporters while you’ve got the chance, while speaking the empty words.
Whereas we not only get f*cked over, we have to listen to self-righteous rhetoric
and have our patriotism (a questionable virtue in any event) questioned when we
dare protest.
Carrying the model further, the same sort of short-term gratification (of
stockholders) is what keeps the big corporations (who in the end constitute at least
one of the villains of the piece) from making tough but necessary decisions, either
for their own or god forbid for the common good.
Believe it or not, this takes us back full circle to the speculation I indulged in a
couple of weeks ago on DorothyL about how an honest “hero” can approach
justice when he (Poke Rafferty, Guido Brunetti, Lisbeth Salander) know that the
system one should be able to depend on to mete it out has long gone over to the
dark side.
5. EverettK Says:
First three planks of the Ixnay Party:
1) NEVER vote for an incumbent until the U.S. Constitution has been amended to
limit ALL persons from serving more than two terms at local, state and federal
levels.
2) Amend the U.S. Constitution to limit ALL persons from serving more than two
terms at local, state and federal levels.
3) Amend the U.S. Constitution to declare that spending money is not speech
protected by the First Amendment when the amount exceeds one-tenth of the
current poverty level in the U.S.
Get rid of career politicians.
Get rid of big-money in politics.
Long live King Tim! Long live King Tim!
Err…umm…wait a minute…
6. Suzanna Says:
Ixnay to the lobbyists and the Ixnaycrats might have a chance.
Campaign Finance Reform has been all but nullified by the Supreme Court
decision to allow corporations “freedom of speech” so now they can get into the
act with unlimited amounts of cash for campaign advertising.
You gotta dig out the corruption at the root. New representatives to replace the
more experienced ones may only go so far if you don’t figure out how to throw
the lobbyists out.
Something like 65 lobbyists to every representative are hounded and plied with
cash and prizes and in return the more weak minded reps spew out whatever
rhetoric they’re handed and vote like they’re told to. Probably many without even
reading the legislation they are trying to shove through.
Where do over half of our government officials head when they leave office?
They become lobbyists. It’s a never ending feeding frenzy.
7. EverettK Says:
I should add that plank #3 needs VERY careful thought and some amendment
itself, in order to be VERY clear that we’re only talking about elections. Crafting
this type of amendment needs VERY careful thought, to prevent abuse of the
electoral and legal systems while not allowing abuse of all other forms of free
speech. It’s one of those “walking talking duck” scenarios, very difficult to
describe, but you know it when you see it.
8. Suzanna Says:
Oh, no, egg on my face!
I meant to say…
There are something like 65 lobbyists for every representative. Representatives
are hounded and plied with cash and prizes…
9. Helen Simonson Says:
What is this – the I-would-join-the-tea-party-but-I-don’t-wear-appliquéd-sweaters
party? Just lay off government workers people – they get less than their private
sector peers and occasionally people fly small planes into them and nobody even
cares. Government work has provided a route of minority upward mobility that no
private sector business can match. Oh – I’m English so I’m a subject of a
constitutional monarchy. Wanna trade?
What the country needs is not smaller government, but better government–you
know, government of the corporations, by the people, for the planet (or something
like that). Never gonna happen until corporate money is removed from the
political process. Sorry, Tim, starving government won’t solve any of our nation’s
problems; however, punishing bad behavior will. Those who wield political power
must be held accountable for their bad acts.
Hi, Robb — Exactly right. All the pros are in various pockets, and the Democrats
are no more likely to take down the fat cats than the Republicans, as President
Obama, a/k/a Captain Disappointment, has proved. The only difference is that the
Dems want to throw money at ineffective short-term social programs (vote
buyers) while the Repugs want to throw money at the military (vote buying by
pandering to “terror”). Neither side is willing to stand up for fiscal responsibility
because it’ll lose votes, on the one hand, and corporate bucks on the other. We
really need to start from scratch while preserving the basic outline of our
government, and the way to do that is to elect people who aren’t in anyone’s
pockets, who won’t be in office long enough to get bought, and who won’t be
pandering for votes because they can’t be re-elected. So, yeah, I’m more than
three-quarters serious. I really do believe that expertise is overrated, especially
when it’s bound to mendacity and cynicism.
Easy for you to say, Philip, about letting us shoot it out, since you’re in Australia.
Rachel, I wish I knew. I’m thinking about a website, but not really sure I’m the
guy to do any of this. Thinking about the whole thing.
Bonnie, I agree about the entrenched bureaucracy, and thinning it is a priority of
any plan to reduce government spending. I’d do it through a hiring freeze across
the board for, say four years — as people leave their jobs, they can’t be replaced.
Then look at the way things are/aren’t working and extend it, or not. Gradually,
over time, as people stop passing legislation tooled specifically to win votes, but
which requires new public workers to carry out the new regulations, we’ll see a
shrinkage there, too. Here in California the city of Los Angeles, which is
deeeeeeeeply in the hole, has one-quarter as many employees as the entire state of
California, which is also billions in the hole and has twice as many employees as
it needs. (I’m probably going to write about this tomorrow.)
Everett, I’m for planks one and two, but plank three needs thought. Obviously, we
need to elect nonprofessionals before enacting term limits because pros will never,
ever vote for term limits. But absolutely — Get rid of professional politicians and
get rid of big money in politics.
Suzanna, lobbyists will always be a problem, but their job would be a lot harder if
they had to deal with a changing cast all the time and if the central money funnels,
by which I mean the Democratic and Repuglican parties, weren’t in charge. Also,
lobbyists are investing in what they think of as longterm alliances, which would
be much more difficult if people just weren’t going to be in office for the long
term.
Helen, you and I are just on completely different sides. First, I think it’s specious
to say that a call for a smaller, nimbler, more accountable, more solvent, more
efficient, and less corrupt government is “conservative.” In fact, I think the old
“conservative” and “liberal” labels are hopelessly out of date. Nixon expanded the
federal government, introduced wage and price controls, and oversaw the setup of
the Environmental Protection Agency; Reagan and both Bushes expanded the size
of the federal government. Bush signed the prescription drugs for seniors
legislation, the biggest expansion of government health care since Medicare. The
last time we had a balanced budget (and that was the first time in many years) or a
re-evaluation of entitlement programs was under Clinton. who’s the liberal and
who were the conservatives? What we need are leaders who are not in the pockets
of big money, who won’t prostitute themselves for votes, who believe that nations
need to be fiscally responsible, and who CAN’T turn elective office into a lifelong
career. In other words, American government as it was originally envisioned back
in the 18th century. And while I will agree that many government workers are, as
individuals, delightful and meritorious people, there are waaayyyyy too many of
them, and in most cases I would dispute the contention that they earn less than
their private-sector counterparts, and certainly that their pension and health
programs are superior to those of most workers in the private sector.
Maybe I should go back to to writing for fan magazines.
12.Bonnie Says:
Also, just to play devil’s advocate some more, we kind of got our
“nonprofessional” politician in the Gubernator, and though he didn’t bomb as
completely as I expected, and even pleasantly surprised me sometimes, on the
whole it wasn’t a big improvement. (Must say I do like the commercials he and
Maria do for the state tourism board or whoever puts those on, though).
13.Suzanna Says:
I see what you’re saying, Tim, but I am probably a lot more cynical than you are. I
think anyone can fall prey to the seemingly unstoppable lobby machine no matter
how short a time they hold office.
Helen, I would much rather wear an appliqued sweater, and a doily on my head
than have anything at all to do with the Tea Party.
Pretty sure I wouldn’t want to have a monarchy sapping the US treasury instead,
but a nice extended time in Britain seems VERY appealing to me after almost
every election we have here.
14.Sharai Says:
Sigh!!!! I was expecting something much more humorous from the Ixnaycrats. I
prefer to get my political analysis from the Stewart/Colbert camp. But since you
started it. . . you’ll have to do better than “people you’d like to sit next to on an
airplane”! They have to be really, really smart. And I don’t mean Trickie Dick
type smart. I’m talking Eisenhower, Teddy Roosevelt, Clinton, Obama type smart.
Yes let’s get rid of all the labels. Suzanna and I get to shoot all the lobbyists. But
the bottom line is we have to start nurturing and mentoring our kids to be problem
solvers who can’t be swayed by the money when their ray of hope begins to dim.
My final fantasy is a world of young critical thinkers schooled by elders who have
studied history and lived through many changes during their own lives. Their the
ones who will lead us to something beyond capitalism, socialism, or communism.
And you, Professor Hallinan, would be on that council!
15.Sharai Says:
Wait! Please let me take Clinton off that list!
16.Suzanna Says:
Sharai, I like your vision for creating critical thinkers, but please, I’m a nonviolent type!
I’m sure we could revisit some of Tim’s very amusing punitive measures which he
wrote about a week or so ago when he addressed the benefits of hell.
Or one suggestion I have that you might consider instead of gun violence, make
the lobbyists wear, as Homer Simpson once said, tight “Stupid itchy church pants”
on a hot arduous hike through the Amazon forest for several weeks with no
mosquito repellent and a useless map.
Clinton may have been a failure on some of his policies and had some pretty
embarrassing personal behavior but if you’re looking for smart, I think he is a
very smart man.
Hi, Phil — I think “starving” the government is not an apt way of putting it. For
decades, the government has been fiscally irresponsible, operating on the
assumption that (a) more tax money was always available, and (b) that deficits
didn’t matter. Well, the one thing I agree with the Tea Party about is that taxation
is way out of line and that the government (at all levels) needs to prioritize its
spending, to stop pork and wastage, to guard against duplication and massive
billion-dollar investments in (for example) weapons systems that are never even
taken to final. Governments at all levels need to be put on a fiscal diet, and I think
that voters across the conventional liberal/conservative spectrum are concerned
about the way our governments spend.
Hey, Soooz, i’m with you, and actually I’ve always secretly wanted to wear an
appliqued sweater, although I can dispense with the doily. I don’t actually think
the Ixnaycrats line up tidily either as liberals or consevatives, and in fact I think
the whole thing of conservatives claiming “fiscal responsibility” as their exclusive
trait has been a brilliant piece of Orwellian Newspeak, since it effectively
categorizes liberals as “fiscally irresponsible.” We’re not about liberalism or
conservatism — we’re about breaking the professional politicians’ stranglehold on
governance and eliminating big-money politics, returning government to real
people, not an aloof professional elite whose members have often never held a
real job in their lives.
Hi, Sharai — I’m sorry it wasn’t funnier, but there’s no way I’m going to compete
with Steward and Colbert on that front. I don’t even thing absolutely everyone
elected to office has to be really, really smart. I’d settle for modestly smart and
highly principled, who could contribute something, even if it’s small, to the
building of a new approach (which is actually the old approach) to American
governance. And I agree that the ultimate goal of any nation should be to create
the best possible environment for its young to grow and flourish, since they’re
going to be the next ones in the engine room anyway.
Suzanna, stupid itchy church pants for all lobbyists, all oily, dishonest pols, tor
example, Charles Rangel, walking out of his own hearing today, finding it hard to
believe that his years of privilege and greed may be ending. These crooks and
demagogues are on both ends of the political spectrum, and some are in the
middle. And we have to find a way to clear them out, regardless of party
affiliation or where they stand on the old index. The old index is increasingly
meaningless, since the only thing these people actually care about is getting reelected.
18.Larissa Says:
Wow. I wish that we could come up with a sort of “Etch-E-Sketch” political
policy that allows us to backpedal to a time right before it all got hosed…but
that’s not realistic. We can’t unlearn all the things that have happened to the point
where people will stop caring about money and votes and all the superfluous
metrics that we use to measure “success” and “values”. I have a similar plea for
going against devils like Technolgoy as a whole and the de-evolution of the
human ability to think for themselves instead of letting google do it for them.
Ahem. Before that pot gets boiling, however, we’ll trade it for this one: (legal or
not…hehe.)
I agree that we need to raise critical thinkers who can sort through their moral
conflicts with some mental deftness so as to make a better decision. There is no
such thing as the purist idealistic thinker out there right now because, well,
frankly, those people can’t afford to be heard let alone fed or clothed or housed.
If we have to play along with a certain amount of fucked up rules (really no other
way to say it) then so be it-we can at least live the rest of our lives that aren’t
dicated by those rules (humor me in thinking that Big Brother really isn’t out there
in full force just yet) with the integrity we’re prescribing for our politicians-that’s
how you end up with better politics-by changing the PH balance of the cesspool
they come from.
Breed a better society starting with ourselves and we’ll breed better politicians.
Period.
Hi, Riss — I certainly applaud your optimism, although I think we’re farther
down the road to Big Brother (and Sister) than you seem to. But I love the image
of changing the pH balance of the political cesspool. In fact, I want a T-shirt that
says that on the front, and on the back says, JUST SAY IXNAY.
20.Larissa Says:
lol. I could make that happen. Speaking of happenings-where’s yesterday’s post
hmm?
IXnay! IXnay! Certainly a worthy pondering. The sleek and offending politicos
have been the norm and acceptable for so long. The genuine and courageous
generally hide or are scared to participate in the obviously doomed experience that
is a quagmire of non-action. I only wish IXnay could be the emerging sanity to the
chaos. If a bright new star is in the horizon, should he wear an armored body suit.
Bucking the greatly entrenched political mafia is a dangerous undertaking.
I’m witchoo, Riss. We need to turn this boat around somehow.
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 46: Post-Ixnay
November 16th, 2010
This is not about politics.
I actually had no intention of getting into the Ixnaycrats yesterday — it just came naturally out of your
reactions to Horace Mann, an unfortunately outdated example of what political leadership should be. I
was going to get to the Ixnaycrats eventually, but in a piece that had gone through a couple of drafts,
rather than a fifteen-minute spew like yesterday’s post.
And then I wrote maybe five times as many words, each of them equally off the top of my head, in
response to your responses. I need a little time before I come back to this, because I actually do take
the Ixnaycrats seriously.
So for now, a miscellany.
First, thanks to Everett for pointing out that this post marks the point at which I’m one-eighth of the
way through this insane commitment. WOOT! And I’ve only really scraped the bottom of the barrel
a few times. There’s a lot more stuff down there. I haven’t even written about Cary Grant yet, or my
extraordinarily unpleasant experiences with Henry Fonda. Or my other weight-loss approaches. Or
putting Janis Joplin or Sly and the Family Stone onstage. Or astronomy or art-forgery techniques. Or
the books I’m writing, since this blog is presumably at least in part about writing.
And speaking of writing, if we take 400 words as an average length for these pieces (and don’t count
my responses), by the time I’ve finished this one, I’ll be at 18,400 words — almost one-fifth of a
100,000-word novel. And, while I’ve been writing these words, I’ve also written about 12,000 words
of PULPED and about 3,000 words of warmup on Poke book #5. Also about 3,000 words on my
Scheherazade thriller. The blog actually has gotten me writing earlier in the day and (obviously)
turning out more words per day, and that in turn has led to a lessening of the incipient writer’s block
that actually kick-started this whole thing.
The photograph above, brought to my attention by the wonderful Emily Bronstein, shows a bookstore
in Beijing that has the taste and discernment to offer THE FOURTH WATCHER as an alternative to all
those David Hewson books. (Hi, David!) David is a friend of mine, and I have to talk to him about the
way his books are hogging that shelf. This photo raises to 19 the number of countries in which I know
Poke to be on sale in English. And then he’s also in Spanish, Italian, and (coming soon) Finnish.
Back in the late 60s, the women’s movement took exception to being identified by their marital status
and introduced “Ms” to the vocabulary. They also took exception to “he” and “him” being the
language’s default indefinite third-person pronouns. I understand and sympathize with the impulse, but
it’s given rise to the dreaded” him/her” and “his/hers” and “he/she” ratatouille that now defaces so
many pages, as well as such horrors as “Each student brought their homework.” I also fail to find
“she” to be any less sexist than “he” when used the way “he” used to be when it was the default.
Thus, I suggest, half-seriously, the Third Millennium’s versions of “Ms.” Instead of “he or she,” why
not “se”? Instead of “him or her,” why not “hir”? I know, I know, it’s awkward as hell, but to was
“Ms” at first, and at least you can actually pronounce these words the way they’re spelled. Plus,
they’re compromise spellings, using equal number of letters from each pair of pronouns. Thus, “Each
student brought hir homework.”
And back to politics for a moment: Why don’t we just elect Arcade Fire to everything? There are
enough of them. Oh, wait, they’re Canadian. And in response to Helen Simonson’s suggestion that we
should be glad we don’t live under a monarchy, all I have to say is that they’re talking about Jeb for
president.
I know, I know, this is a pretty pathetic post, but after yesterday I needed a vacation.
This entry was posted on Tuesday, November 16th, 2010 at 10:48 am and is filed under All Blogs. You can
your own site.
24 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 46: Post-Ixnay”
Timothy, you are always tres informative
and tres amusing. I’m not sure of the se or hir. I get confused with the normal he
and she. I don’t even use Ms. The idea of Jeb Bush horrifies me or the repulsive
notion of Sarah Palin.
I guess I’m going to be under my rock for the rest of my life.
Well, Maria, it’s a very stylish rock.
3. Bonnie Says:
If you want to indulge in some more work avoidance that is still marginally
related to politics, go on Twitter and search for #TSAslogans over the last day or
so.
Some are predictably juvenile, but some are pretty funny.
4. Suzanna Says:
I remember one author mention that the way they dealt with the he/she gender
bias problem in hir (heehee) writing was to simply alternate the use of he or she
throughout their work. I dunno. I don’t pay too much attention to that stuff.
This is not a pathetic post!
Since you brought up the topic of how the blog is helping you, I wanted to give
you my appreciation for the great job you’re doing.
Day to day I don’t know where your blog will take me, or how your readers will
respond, or how you will respond to your readers.
And I love the mixture of topics that you bring to us. From silly to serious in tone
I never tire of reading about your personal stories, work experiences, or your take
on our pathetic political system.
Who else could make Hell a funny topic?
Just a lot of fun, Tim, so thank you!
5. Trevel Says:
A friend of mine made a very good pro-monarchy case. Let me summarize it:
1: A monarch could be bad or good. They’re generally raised from birth to rule, or
at least with that potential. Having been arbitrarily assigned the role, we don’t
know how good or bad they’ll be.
2: We *know* that politicians are corrupt liars, who will do anything for votes and
to stay elected. That’s the nature of the game we make them play, and with the
way things are now they really can’t succeed without it.
So, under a monarchy we have the possibility for a Good King. Under a
democracy, we don’t. Whoever is elected will have been corrupted by the system
that elected him.
Awwww, Sooz — you got a lot of class. I figured if it did the 1/8 thing LOTS of
people would take the opportunity to tell me how great I’m doing. So who does?
Two sisters. By the way, day to day I never know where the blog will take me,
either.
Bonnie — very funny tip. I might do a blog about it, but not tomorrow’s.
Tomorrow’s is about suicide. (Because only two people said nice things about me
here at the 1/8 landmark. If you could see my lower lip trembling right now . . .
Hi, Trevel — You I forgive because you’ve never been here before. But I bet, if
you come back, you’ll say something nice on the day I’m 1/4 of the way through?
Won’t you? Come on, you can show all these people up.
The arguments for monarchy are powerful. I agree with each of the three points in
turn. On the other hand, there’s North Korea, where the Kims have declared
themselves king, complete with inherited succession, and are methodically
starving, freezing, and beating their people to death. And then look at Great
Britain, where the Queen is apparently immortal and the Crown Prince has
entered and exited middle age without getting any closer to the throne than a
tourist does — and look how sad he looks.
But not as sad as I look on this day when I dangled compliment bait, and the only
people who rose to it are related to each other.
7. Larissa Says:
lol. keep fishing…I think I see a compliment coming! (c: There it is! Good catch!
You’ve done some great stuff here Tim. It’s not that each blog post is the next
coming of a sacred text (I know, I’m sorry…) but that they are real, honest and
above all, entertaining. And, they persuade us slackers to get on our game and
start trying out our own voices-either in writing or whatever media we pursue. So,
8. Suzanna Says:
Hahaha!
Believe it or not, Tim, I had made up my mind before I even read your blog this
morning that it was about time that I tell you how much I am enjoying your 365
Stupid Project. So although you may have dangled the compliment bait I was
already heading your way.
It was a happy coincidence that you mentioned how much it was helping you,
because it really has helped me to read it. So thanks again.
9. Richard Delman Says:
I have read the 4 Poke books and they have given me immense joy. Why isn’t
Patpong on the website? I bought two of the Simeon Grist books, but Poke is just
such a fantastic creation that it’s hard to read Simeon last. I am a psychologist. I
have been in nerve pain for 7 years (!) and you have lifted me out of the pain for
just a while. When do you think #5 will be done? Don’t give up; your talent is
limitless.
This is embarrassing, Richard. You come saying such extravagantly nice things
and find me groveling for approval. I’m thrilled that you like the Poke books so
much and amazed and touched that they’ve distracted you from the pain. There
will be a fifth Poke book – title to be determined — sometime this fall, and a sixth
behind that. I sort of agree about the Simeons (I was learning how to write when I
wrote the first three or four) but a lot of people have enjoyed them, even though
they lack the emotionality and the family ties that (I think) make the Poke books
different. Thank you so much for writing. Can I add you to the distribution list for
my monthly newsletter?
Riss and Suzanna, is it any wonder that, generally speaking, I like women more
than I do men? You guys are so sweet to put up with someone who fishes so
transparently for compliments.
11.EverettK Says:
I’m VERY happy that the blogging seems to blown away your log-jam. We’re all
direct beneficiaries of that!
As for gender neutral pronouns, who gives a rats ass for Political Correctness. I’m
fine with Reasonable Correctness, and to hell with trying to destroy our language.
It’ll self-destruct soon enough on its own…
12.Gary Says:
I still say you can’t use person as a gender-neutral noun. Has to be perchild.
RICHARD — I forgot to answer your question. The site is being updated now and
will have QUEEN on it in a couple of weeks. I kind of let it get away from me.
Everett, I have a trillion topics but most of them are dull, so it’s really a matter of
staying away from the Twenty Uses for Lint and A Trip to Van Nuys topics. WILL
be writing about political correctness, though, right after suicide.
I am just catching up with your posts (I’ve been under the weather), and I just
want to tell you that reading your blog is the highlight of my morning tea. I like
your humor, and your take on a lot of things, including politics-not sure about the
se and hir though. You may feel that this post was lightweight, but the trouble with
politics these days is that it is so dispiriting, and anything feels lighter than that. I
actually feel a little privileged when authors trust enough to share of themselves.
Your talents don’t just appear; I expect they come out of who you are, and I like
hearing about how you do things. Enough shameless pandering-I look forward to
tomorrow, I think. (Suicide ? )
Finnish? Whoa.
Gary, perdottir is the Norwegian variant. (Have you ever read Kristin
Lavransdottir by Sigrid Undset? Has anyone here read it?)
Everett, thanks for the great words about CRASHED on DorothyL tonight.
Lil!!! I’ve never been the highlight of anyone’s morning tea before. I’m honored.
And I was the one who was shamelessly pandering. The suicide piece will be
great with tea.
17.Bonnie Says:
Goodness, memories. I have read Kristin Lavranstochter, though it may have been
in German. Someone has been circulating a list of 100 books (from the BBC?),
asking you to tally up how many of them you’ve read, on Facebook. I had read
about 90% of them, which makes me feel very old, but K.L. was too obscure for
them.
In informal writing I tend to use “they” as the polite form of “he or she”. Plurals
are often used as polite forms in other languages, why not in ours? I know some
people may assume I’m simply uneducated but it’s the way that appeals most to
me, partly because it doesn’t involve any new words and everyone knows what I
mean even if they don’t like it.
19.EverettK Says:
Just tryin’ to spread the joy, Tim!
Laren, whoa indeed. Lots of “o” with slashes through them, unless that’s Swedish.
The things I don’t know would fill the seven seas, and then where would all the
water go?
Bonnie — so glad someone has. I just ordered it, my copy having gone to that
great Unreturned Loaned Books Library in the sky. Can’t wait to read it again, all
nine trillion pages of it.
FHH, it bothers me when the subject is singular, as in “each student brought their
homewlrk.” But that’s just me. And I know my suggestions are silly and
cumbersome, but no less so than “herstory” instead of “history.” Of course, that
never caught on, either.
Everett, Joy is like manure – it’s no good unless you spread it around.
(Paraphrasing Thornton Wilder, who said it about money.)
21.EverettK Says:
Well, I’m plenty good at spreading manure, so I figure I should work on the joy
part.
22.Jaden Says:
I’m going to have to do a better job of keeping up with the blog, Tim. I can’t
believe I missed your 1/8 mark and let it pass without complimenting your
wonderful blog.
I don’t think herstory is any less sexist than history. Thank goodness it didn’t
catch on. It was a lot easier when “he” was assumed to mean all of mankind–er,
personkind. I hate the cumbersome he/she and its ilk. The plural works if the
sentence can be structured so the subject is also plural (“All the students brought
their homework.”) Otherwise, I hate it.
I’m glad the blog is helping you so much, Tim, because the rest of us are getting a
lot out of it.
23.Richard Delman Says:
Tim: Please put me on the monthly list. I am delighted to be able to correspond
with you, in any form. I have been wondering whether it’s time for Poke and Rose
to have a baby. Might be very treacherous to have an infant involved in the kind
of dangers that Poke gets into. But expanding the family in that way would
progress in a way that many series writers don’t do. And you’d be the perfect
author to do it.
24.Richard Delman Says:
I forgot to ask another. Is it terribly difficult to get your books narrated and then
published as audiobooks? Due to the pain, my eyes get strained at night, and over
the past 3 years I have read about 500 audiobooks. This is a huge audience that
has not been exposed to your work. It’s not just for blind people. Commuters
listen to books rather than the ridiculous radio, or music they’ve heard over and
over. A good narrator turns the book into one’s own private movie: I get to
imagine what the characters look like, etc. Your books seem perfectly suited to the
medium. I regularly search for you at the Audible website, and thus far they have
no idea who you are. I imagine it costs money to produce, to pay the narrator, and
so forth, but the audience out there who could see your work for the first time in
that format is truly large. If it’s doable, go for it. You’ll be a smash hit.
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 47: Quality of, um, Life
November 16th, 2010
One of the many things that irritates me about The Huffington Post (see Day 20) is that it insists on
finding new ways to tell us which countries offer the best “quality of life.”
Why does this irritate me? First, because it’s stupid. I know people who would be happy anywhere,
and people who couldn’t have a good time if someone handed them a lamp with a genie in it. And let’s
face it: for a statistically significant number of people, what’s desirable is simply what they don’t have.
Many Swedes would like to live somewhere with palm trees, and lots of Peruvians would probably like
to try a few hours at sea level.
Second, the winner always seems to be Liechtenstein or some other off-brand country you need
spellcheck for, some place with mountains. Mountains are good for falling past, good for collecting
(ughhh) snow in the winter, good for passes that funnel icy winds down on perfectly nice people, good
for yodeling and lederhosen and goats. But to live with? Please.
It seemed to me that one index of how much people actually enjoy life in a country might be how often
they end it by their own hand. It’s hard to come by statistics about what percentage of people living
somewhere wished they lived somewhere else. Hard to identify a threshold – does a mild longing
qualify? A frequent flip through National Geographic? The occasional semi-erotic daydream?
Suicide, on the other hand, has a clear threshold. So I asked myself, which countries have the highest
and the lowest suicide rates? Surely those with the highest incidence of citizens offing themselves have
to acknowledge a certain malaise. This being the age of the Internet, here’s what I learned.
The nation with the highest suicide rate in the world today is South Korea. (Numbers are not available
for North Korea.) This is generally attributed to the rapid rate of economic and social change in Korea
and the personal and professional pressures South Koreans impose upon themselves. Alcohol use,
which is pretty liberal, may also be a contributing factor.
Ten of the fifteen countries with the highest suicide rates — Belarus, Lithuania, Kazakhstan, Russia,
Ukraine, Hungary, Latvia, Slovenia, Serbia/Montenegro, and Croatia — were previously members of
the Worker’s Paradise of the Soviet Union. So that’s yet another reason to be thankful to Communism;
it left behind a perfect environment for suicide. Can there still be anyone who feels that Soviet-style
Communism was a good thing? As Orwell recognized way back in 1945, some pigs were more equal
than others.
Japan, where suicide is, so to speak, a way of life, is fifth. (By the way, fifth place translates into 49
suicides per 100,000 people.) Guyana and Sri Lanka are the only tropical countries in the top 20, and,
in fact, colder countries generally seem to rank higher. (A lot of them have mountains, too.) This is
especially striking in view of the fact that all four of the countries with point zero (.0) suicides in the
most recent reporting year are in the Caribbean. (One of them is Haiti, and more recent data may be
markedly different.)
Surprises? Some countries I tend to think of as miserable — Iran, for example — are pretty low on the
index. The United States, at number 40, has fewer suicides than Switzerland, France, Austria, Sweden,
Canada (!), Portugal, and Norway, but more than Australia, Germany, Denmark, and the United
Kingdom, to name a few. Thailand is higher than I would have thought, at 57.
Across the board, no matter where they are, men are much more likely to kill themselves than women
— often ten times more likely, more usually four to five times. (The sole country in which there were
more female than male suicides is Sao Tome/Principe in western Central Africa, but the numbers are so
low it may be a one-year anomaly.) Beyond Sao Tome/Principe, the exceptions are rare: the numbers
are almost even in Tajikistan; three quarters as many women as men kill themselves in India; more than
half as many women as men in Kuwait, Singapore, and the Philippines; and a little less than half as
many women in Turkey and Hong Kong, and a few other places.
I have no idea what any of this proves and would be thrilled to get some suggestions. (The chart I used
is here.) When I first started thinking about this, I believed it might earn me a blog in The Huffington
Post, but no. It’s too complicated and there are no pictures.
Something lighter tomorrow, I promise.
This entry was posted on Tuesday, November 16th, 2010 at 11:07 pm and is filed under All Blogs. You can
your own site.
26 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 47: Quality of, um, Life”
Never trust official statistics: Japan has one of the world’s highest suicide rates,
and one of the lowest murder rates. This is entirely due to the desire of the
Japanese police to have a high clear-up rate – hellovalota suicides in Japan would
be otherwise if the poor unfortunates took their lives in New York.
But within countries, there are intriguing blips. Suicide is higher in the
countryside than in the city (in Australia at least). Why? Maybe the access to
guns, which are far more readily available in the country (in Australia at least). Or
maybe life amidst the gumtrees is really tougher – incomes are certainly lower,
and isolation greater.
Since you’re American, and since the others here are mostly the same, I wonder
what a closer look at US figures would tell us? Is suicide more popular in the
South or in the North? Amongst professed Christians are free-wheeling liberals?
(Christians have higher murder rates, higher divorce rates, and higher rates of
illegitimate births). How about socio-economic status – does greater wealth lead
to greater happiness and therefore lower suicide rates? So much to do, so little
time to do it…
2. Gary Says:
The last four countries on your list have a zero suicide rate. It follows, therefore,
that all the countries not listed must be off the end, i.e. also zero.
So if I were to move from Australia to, say, Cambodia… I’d never die!
3. LC Evans Says:
Interesting post, Timothy. I think you’re right–a few good photos and you may be
discovered by The Huffington Post.
I often think it would be fun to go live in some other country, but I know myself
too well. I’d be so homesick for the home I have now. Not that it’s paradise, but I
would miss all the familiar things around me.
4. Bonnie Says:
Tim, do you know how your statistics treated legal assisted suicide?
LC: I went to live in Austria (after being raised on the West Coast and in Arizona)
when I was only 19. Though I did miss certain things, I ended up feeling more at
home there than in the US for many reasons. Even now, after being back for 25
years, I feel a bit alien here.
Some people can visit a country and think how quaint, this is lovely, good-bye.
Others find in another culture or geography –or whatever that magical mix
consists of–the home of their heart. Many words have probably been expended
trying to explain it…
5. EverettK Says:
Good points, all. Of course, what makes one person suicidal might prevent
another’s suicide. All those suicides in the outback, many might not have
despaired had they more social contact. In the cities, those suicides might have
survived with LESS social contact.
Complex situations. But definitely one interesting way at looking at the “best and
worst places to live (or not).”
6. Suzanna Says:
Hi,
There are definite factors at play in terms of suicide and where you choose to live
according to a recent study done at the University of Florida, which in 2004 had
one of the very highest suicide rates in the U.S. Three factors contributed
significantly to higher suicide rates according to this study: greater access to guns,
(overall the number one method of suicide) living in a sparsely populated area,
and having little or no access to a mental health facility.
Tim, I am sure the National Suicide Prevention organization would be happy that
you brought this subject into the light even if the Huff Post wouldn’t appreciate its
complexity.
And, thanks, I look forward to your lighter post tomorrow. Until then time to get
outside in the sunshine and muck around in the garden.
7. Suzanna Says:
Oh brother. Here I go again. The University of Florida did not have the highest
suicide rate in 2004 but the state of Florida did.
8. Suzanna Says:
More. Egg. On. Face.
In 2004 Florida had ONE of the highest rates of suicide in the U.S., NOT the
highest.
Top three were Alaska, Montana, and Nevada.
GOOD MORNING, everyone!!! How nice to chat about suicide over the morning
coffee, or tea in Lil’s and Suzanna’s case.
Philip, very interesting — Japan ranks #5, but you’re saying the Japanese police
call some murders suicides if they don’t/can’t solve them, so the actual rate is
lower, even though if there were one country in the world identifies with suicide,
it would be Japan. My, my. Re: the US, I doubt stats are kept by religion or
income level, but geographically, the West has the highest level of suicides and
the Northeast has the lowest, so there goes the warm-weather variable. Also,
despite the east coast cliches about the pistol-packing West, this is the only region
in which guns are NOT the primary bye-bye of choice. And I’ll bet, once you get
outside Australia, that in most industrialized countries the rates are higher in the
cities than in the sparsely populated areas.
But what do I know?
Gary. it hadn’t occurred to me that Cambodia wasn’t on the list at all. Perhaps it
has a lower than .0 suicide rate as a result of especially intense reincarnation
activity. No matter how many suicides there might be, there’s a net gain. Or
something.
Hi, LC, and glad to see you here. I envy you being happiest at home. I have two
homes on two continents, and whichever one I’m in, I constantly want to be in the
other one, or — best of all — someplace I’ve never been at all. I’m exhilarated
when I’m somewhere where I don’t even know how to buy toothpaste.
Fortunately, it’s still a wide world.
Bonnie, I don’t know whether legal, assisted suicide was in the stats, although in
the enlightened countries where it is allowed by law, there’d be no reason to
suppress the numbers. One thing I’m pretty certain of is that it’s unrepresented in
the U.S., except for a few humane states — wonder if Oregon is one reason the
West ranks highest? And I know a lot about getting hijacked by another culture —
Southeast Asia was for me what Austria was to you. The best check of the strength
of a country’s spell, it seems to me, is whether it persists when all the surface
glamor and exoticism have faded, and you realize that what looks so fascinating
and fresh to you is, to the people who live there, just Tuesday.
Everett!! My man!! Okay, that’s enough of that. Great point — what makes one
suicidal might prevent suicide in another. The index I’d like to look at are the
correlations between suicide and overall life expectancy, and suicide and the
frequency of certain diseases.
Also, of course, this is all deeply flawed data, since governments manipulate it or
fail to collect it or collect it but don’t report it. And I’m sure the less-developed
world’s data is sketchy at best.
10.Eric Stone Says:
Part of the problem in some of our more highly developed countries is that they
are making it more difficult to commit suicide. The 80-something year old father
of a friend of mine made a valiant attempt last year. First, he swallowed a huge
number of sleeping pills. Then before they took affect, he trundled out to the
garage, got into his car, rolled down the windows, made sure the garage door was
closed and turned on the engine.
Eighteen hours later he was discovered by a neighbor – dehydrated and a bit out
of it, but very much alive. An overnight in the hospital later and he was just fine.
Turned out that the sleeping pills were Ambien – which is nearly impossible to
overdose on unless you choke on it.
And the car was a new super low emission vehicle that didn’t crank out enough
carbon monoxide to kill him.
Foiled, yet again, by modern technology.
11.Trevel Says:
To add, are these numbers for successful suicide or attempted suicide? I suspect
the former, and I would think the latter would have more to do with the
contentment levels of the population.
I’d also be curious about separating teenage suicides from other suicides. Those
have more to do with the educational system than the rest of the culture/country
— all part of quality of life, mind, but different slices.
Incidentally, congratulations on being slightly more than a quarter of the way
through your project.
12.Trevel Says:
I must apologize for my lack of math skills; I, too, have been working on a writing
project, if less public than yours, and I’d apparently shut down the part of my
brain that uses math to conserve power. (And the logical parts are, naturally,
reserved for Everett’s games.) One eighth. Not one quarter.
Is it too late to claim I’m a time traveler, back from a few months in the future?
Oh, well Suzanna, it’s nothing to kill yourself over. You look great with egg on
your face — you might consider it as a fashion accessory. It’s also interesting to
me that everyone blames the availability of guns and I’d love to see a global study
broken out by weapon of choice.
Eric, I would hate to fail at suicide because everyone would get irritated and see it
as “a call for attention: when what it really was, was an attempt to die. But your
friend’s father’s attempt reminds me of the only poem I actually know by heart,
by Dorothy Parker, who tried several times:
Razors pain you
Rivers are damp
Acids stain you
And drugs cause cramp.
Gas smells awful
Nooses give.
Guns aren’t lawful;
You might as well live.
Parker (as I think I’ve written earlier here) was in the habit of slashing her wrists
and after her release from the hospital would tie trailing black velvet ribbons over
the bandages. Talk about a conversation-stopper.
Trevel, thanks for the congrats, and I have to admit that my heart leapt when I saw
“one-quarter” and then dropped like a stone when I realized it wasn’t so. There are
no statistics easily available on global suicide attempts (it’s entirely my fault that
I’m having this conversation, and I have to keep reminding myself of that) and I
likewise don’t know of a database that separates teenagers out, although I’d bet
anything that there’s one that sorts more generally by age. I think teenage issues
are teenage issues everywhere and, as you suggest, might not relate much to the
national averages or even the causes of adult suicide in those countries.
SO . . . What are we all doing tomorrow?
Most of the prime indicators for suicidal tendencies point to social isolation as a
major factor. Now one can be as lonely in a crowd as in the outback, but I do think
it has something to do with the sense of isolation, rather than the fact. None of this
clears anything up, of course, because ultimately it is the feeling of being at home
that matters, no matter where you are. Also I wonder how these countries line up
in terms of optimism, and hope for a better future. This is an unending topic for
discussion, so I will get my tea now, and think of better things. BTW, I saw
Everett’s posting DorothyL, and just smiled. See how nice your blog is-you make
me smile.
By the way, kids in the U.S. between 5 and 24 commit suicide at the rate of a little
less than 12 per 100,000, which is a comparatively low rate. White guys are way,
way out front — 19.5 per 100K, compared to 9 for black males and 4.6 for white
females.
16.EverettK Says:
I suspect that much of the anti-suicide sentiment stems from religious roots,
selfishness, and fear. Some folks think killing yourself is morally wrong, because
God reserves that right for himself (itself? sheself? seself? heh-heh) Some hate
suicide, because they don’t want to lose loved ones. Others hate it because it
makes them think of their own mortality, which scares the sh*t out of them. Yes,
there are many reasons to think it’s wrong, but…
We all share two things in common: we were born, and we are all going to die. It’s
just a matter of timing. I, myself, me, myself and I, have plenty of joy and desire
left to live, and can’t say I’ve ever come anywhere close to be in enough pain
(physical or mental) to think of ending this reality. But I’ve known enough people
who have been in sufficient pain, or old and tired, or both, that they could see no
reason to keep sucking in air…
Yes, assisted
suicide can be abused, but there’s no sense throwing the infant human out with the
cleaning medium. (Now doesn’t that bring to mind a picture of a psychic housecleaner?)
For those who may be too young to have seen it, an excellent movie on the subject
is 1981′s “Whose Life Is It Anyway?” with Richard Dreyfuss, in case anyone feels
like spending MORE time thinking about this subject.
17.Larissa Says:
Colorado-which means I can appreciate a real landscape when I see one…aka one
that has MOUNTAINS! (c: Ahem. Besides, what else am I supposed to ride a bike
down? Oh the pains of living in the midwest.
I think all the semi suicidals out there should move to the happiest places and then
off themselves-just to screw up the numbers.
18.Suzanna Says:
Ha Ha, Tim. No worries, I won’t be resorting to any drastic measures to relieve
myself of my EGG ON FACE moment from this morning. Nor will I figure out a
way to turn my egg on face moment into a fashion statement, but I’ve heard that
egg whites make a great facial so at least there’s that.
I remember that movie, Everett. The Sea Inside is another good movie about the
same dilemma.
Curious about a lot of the questions raised here and discovered that the National
Institute of Mental Health website covers most of the issues people are wondering
about.
Tomorrow, you ask? I hope to be reading an amusing story by my favorite writer.
Hint. Hint.
Lil, Everett’s point — “what makes one suicidal might prevent suicide in another”
— is definitely true of me. Like a lot of writers, I can not only endure, but enjoy,
almost endless periods of solitude, which is, of course, because we all have a kind
of mild multiple personality disorder. My idea of a great month is one that
stretches absolutely empty in front of me, where all I have to do is feed myself,
shower, and write. I’d be more likely to kill myself in a crowd. I don’t know about
the factors at work in any broad sense — it amazes me, for example, that Canada
has a higher rate than the USA. Almost the only thing I find predictable is that
rates are unusually high in the wasteland of desolation and mistrust the Soviet
Union left behind it. And I’d be interested to see a breakdown of German suicides
devided into East and West.
Everett, I’m completely with you. Surely, of all things in a life, nothing should
belong more completely to someone than hir death. (See how I sneaked that in?)
The various churches can keep their ecclesiastical paws off my life and my death,
and I’ll also worry about my conscience, thanks very much. And don’t hand me
that donation plate.
Omigod, Riss, I knew someone would defend mountains, but I never thought it
would be you. I mean, I normally don’t associate the word “mountain” with the
word “Kansas.” So you’re from Colorado, huh? Why’d you leave? Why’d you
leave?
Glad to hear you’ll be with us tomorrow, Suze. The old place wouldn’t be the
same without you. But tomorrow’s story is faaaarrrrrr from amusing. (Foreboding
music — maybe the Winged Monkeys theme from “The Wizard of Oz”) It’s very,
very, very . . . I have no idea, actually.
But one thing I CAN tell you: The Thanksgiving story is deeply, abysmally stupid.
20.Larissa Says:
Hehe. I never moved as a child-ever-and I tend to be of the wandering spirit type
so when it came time to go to college I booked it. I didn’t really choose MoKan
because of the scenary or night life but because they happened to have the art
school that taught the kind of art I wanted to do–and it was just far enough away
that “going home” was a roadtrip.
We make do out here-there’s actually a great set of mountain bike trails both in
KC and just outside of KC. Not Colorado but fun.
Nice conundrum, Tim; .0 suicides in Haiti, yet it seems suicidal to live there. Go
figure.
On the matter of death, whether by suicide, murder, accident or natural causes, my
outlook becomes ever more philosophical. Death, by whatever means it takes,
frees us to explore parts of the universe that are inaccessible because of our
current state of being.
That’s not to say that I’d gladly welcome death’s early arrival; I wouldn’t. But
mine is more of a desire to witness the collapse of empire than it is to prolong my
life to the point of absurdity (some will argue that I already have). For me,
avoiding the pain that often accompanies death seems more desirable than
avoiding death itself. But there are apps for that.
22.Bonnie Says:
Suzanna, how about this for an accessory:
http://www.etsy.com/listing/55373971/fried-egg-earrings-nickel-free
Forget Suzanna, Bonnie — I want a pair. They’re adorable.
Phil, you’re right, of course, about the difference in the rate between the US and
Haiti, but I think the more people have, the more they want. It’s about the only
point on which I agree with traditionalist Islam — all that greasy abundance isn’t
necessarily good for one’s character.
Death, unless, of course, it’s painful, is just not getting up in the morning. Maybe
you continue to dream, maybe you just become an interesting source of nitrogen,
which is why I want to be cremated and then have a rose planted just above my
ashes. In fact, there’s a cemetary in CRASHED based on that idea, and I’d go for
it in a moment if the option were available to me. The hardest thing about death,
of course, is watching others die, the people you once hoped you would be with
forever. Wish there were apps for that.
24.EverettK Says:
Larissa said: there’s actually a great set of mountain bike trails both in KC and
just outside of KC.
A mountain bike in Kansas or Missouri?
That’s just ….WRONG!
25.Suzanna Says:
Bonnie, for only 5 dollars a pair I could afford to buy two pairs. One for each of
us, if you like.
You too, Tim, if you really really want a pair of tiny fried egg drop earrings.
Or if you’d prefer:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/roscata/4186995296/
I love etsy by the way. Great stuff.
26.Jaden Says:
I suspect the reported suicide rates in places like Haiti are far removed from the
actual rates. Many people there have an understandable distrust of the government
and wouldn’t necessarily report a suicide. So many deaths occur outside of
hospitals and without a physician in attendance.
And…I wonder if spending most of one’s life in survival mode makes a person
less likely to commit suicide. If you’re always in danger of losing your life,
maybe you tend to hang onto it more dearly. Or maybe there’s no need to
officially commit suicide when all you have to do is give up the struggle to stay
alive.
Tim, I totally agree with you about the former Soviet Union.
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 48: Remarkable People
November 17th, 2010
Just some thoughts about two remarkable people.
My wife and I have a friend, Shirley Levy (a remarkable person in her own right), who saves up copies
of Vanity Fair until there’s a stack big enough to sit on, and then calls us to come and get them. This is
an optimal way to experience the magazine.
Vanity Fair is 90 percent asinine twaddle and ten percent fascinating journalism, but when you see only
one issue each month, it seduces you into reading long sympathetic pieces about the trials of minor
European royalty, people who never have and never will hold a job but whose ancestral millions,
derived from centuries of persecuting peasants, are dwindling, and isn’t that a shame? Well, no.
But when you get a whacking great bucket of them, you can flip through and read only the quality stuff
(and the twaddle that appeals to me personally, of course, since the only real twaddle is stuff that
appeals to other people).
So. I was flipping through the current (November) issue, with Marilyn Monroe on the cover, and in the
lower right-hand corner of page 139 was a photo of one of Monroe’s diaries. In it, she had written,
quite largely, “Rupert Allan,” and a ghost walked into the room . When I co-ran my television
consulting firm, we were privileged to have Rupert working with us. A man of tremendous warmth and
dignity (the two don’t often go together), he’d been the editor of Look magazine before going into
public relations. As a P.R. man he was primarily an interested and always-honest friend, and he served
in this capacity to a remarkable assortment of classic-Hollywood stars: Marilyn, James Stewart, Bette
Davis, Jeanne Moreau, Marlene Dietrich, Rock Hudson, and many, many, many others. The one with
whom he was personally closest was probably Grace Kelly.
One Sunday, Rupert invited my wife, Munyin, and me to his house for a luncheon for Albert of
Monaco, Grace Kelly’s son. The back yard was terraced, with tables on every level, and Munyin and I
sat at a round table with six other people, one of whom was Ms. Kelly’s one-time co-star, Cary Grant.
Few things are usually less inspiring than meeting up close someone you’ve always admired, but Cary
Grant really, actually was Cary Grant. He famously said once, in response to a fatuous question from a
reporter, “Everyone wants to be Cary Grant, including Cary Grant,” but he really was Cary Grant —
charming, urbane, perfectly dressed, absurdly beautiful in his sixties, with the knack of making you feel
that you were the only person there who interested him. So, thanks to Rupert, we can say we had lunch
with Cary Grant.
Later, when Munyin and I went to Italy, Rupert fixed us up with an American socialite who lived there
and who got us rooms in the Hotel Danieli, one of Venice’s most beautiful palaces. But the real angel
of that trip was Jonathan Miller.
Most of you are too young to remember “Beyond the Fringe,” but it was the first (so far as I know)
semi-improvisational comedy troop, made up of Jonathan Miller, Dudley Moore, Alan Bennett, and
Peter Cook, all of whom had met while at Cambridge University. They were insanely funny; they set
the tone for Monty Python and a lot of the best British humor of the eighties and nineties.
Jonathan is many things: a medical doctor, specializing in neurology; a film and (famously) opera
director; an art expert; and a television personality (“The Body in Question” and other programs). I
met him, with a certain amount of foreboding, when he took over the BBC Shakespeare project, on
which I was working. I had no idea what to expect — he’s known as someone who doesn’t suffer fools
much, if at all, and quite bluntly at that. (He once publicly described the works of Gilbert and Sullivan
as “boring, self-satisfied drivel.”)
What I wasn’t expecting was one of the warmest greetings I ever experienced and an offer — made
after I’d only known him two days — to use his one day off during the week to drive Munyin and me
all the way to Cambridge, where he gave us a grand tour, concluding with evensong in Trinity
Cathedral and tea with the master of Trinity. A couple of days later, Jonathan learned we were going on
to Italy and sketched out for us an itinerary that took us into tiny, out-of-the-way churches from Venice
all the way down to Florence, in which we saw the development of Italian Renaissance painting. An
unforgettable trip.
Later, I had the great good fortune to be stranded with him in what was then my company’s New York
apartment during a blizzard that closed pretty much everything down. Jonathan hadn’t seen much
American cable television then, and for days I wept with laughter as he took it apart and put it together
again for hours at a time. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so continuously for such a long time.
There’s not much point to this. The picture of Monroe’s diary started me remembering, and I just
decided to remember out loud, so to speak. It’s kind of like Vanity Fair.
Oh, and I want to warn you again that the Thanksgiving story is so far beyond stupid that it’s in new
territory — it exists in an absolute vacuum of wit or intelligence. So don’t expect anything.
This entry was posted on Wednesday, November 17th, 2010 at 10:03 pm and is filed under All Blogs. You
from your own site.
16 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 48: Remarkable People”
1. Gary Says:
My God, are you old enough to remember “Beyond the Fringe,” you youthful
chap you?
The clip I still remember was the one about nuclear war. The narrator was
explaining the “special relationship” between Britain and the USA at the height of
the Cold War, and how Britain would in fact have a veto over the US’s use of
nuclear weapons. (And if you believe that, you’ll believe anything.)
He explained how the American President would in the event of a red alert have to
phone up the British PM – then Harold Macmillan – and say, “Please, Mr.
Macmillan, may I press this button?” And Mr. Macmillan would then say yes… or
no… as the mood takes him.
It was a lot funnier in the original audio.
I like hearing about your meetings with famous people.
Sorry I’m not commenting much. Nanowrimo has eaten my soul. Or something
like that.
3. EverettK Says:
Considering that I’ve never read a SINGLE issue of Vanity Fair (don’t think I’ve
even cracked a cover), this was SO much better than my experiences reading
Vanity Fair (although they DO have nice covers now and then…)
And sheesh! We’re not down-playing the Thanksgiving story just a WEE bit, are
we? I knew that a lot of writers tended to be an insecure lot, but this is… the sign
of a writer doing something they don’t feel comfortable doing. Stretch, man,
streeeeeeeetch. Doesn’t that feel GOOD?
4. Suzanna Says:
Thank you, Tim. This piece is more than a breath of fresh air.
How fortunate for you that you met Cary Grant and that he lived up to his
reputation for charm and good manners. I wish we could bottle his extraordinary
listening skills. The world is sorely lacking in good listeners.
Sounds like you shared some wonderful times with Jonathan Miller, who seems
like a riot of fun, and quite a gentleman himself for guiding you around
Cambridge and helping you with your travel plans.
I agree with everything you said about Vanity Fair. It is my one guilty pleasure to
buy a copy whenever I fly. Well, it beats the Sky Mall magazine, anyway.
5. Larissa Says:
Well, it’s not every day you can say you know somebody who got to have lunch
with Cary Grant. It’s fascinating in a way the value we put on people..and meeting
people…in your case,the people you’ve met really do seem to (according to your
accounts) deserve to be awed over a bit-because they had that something that sets
certain people apart.
Hi, Gary — I actually looked into “Beyond the Fringe” sort of retroactively, after
I realized I was going to have to meet and work with Jonathan. I don’t think I’ve
heard anything much funnier in my life. Jonathan and I were in the old Tower
Records classical shop years later when Dudley Moore suddenly appeared, and
the two of them slipped right into gear, Dudley a clueless social climber who
wanted to know JUST ENOUGH about classical music to pick up a girl at a
cocktail party and Jonathan as a compulsively detailed professor who found no
tiny bit of information too trivial to emphasize at great length. Really, really
funny, and (harking back to the piano) taking for granted a hugely rich cultural
heritage.
FHH, I know how you feel — I’m going 12 hours a day and not happy with the
progress I’m making on PULPED. But whoever said we’d been automatically
granted a license to be happy?
Everett, after the Thanksgiving story, a copy of Vanity Fair will look like
FINNEGAN’S WAKE in terms of the amount of intelligence required to (a) write
it, and (b) find something to enjoy in it. But, yes, I am somewhat concerned with
managing expectations, and you would be too if you’d written it.
Sooozzz, that’s what VF is for — airplanes. I usually take three of them (total
weight: 120 pounds) on my Asia flights and dip into them in between books.
These are LONG flights. My problem is the perfume strips. In the second Junior
novel, LITTLE ELVISES, we meet a high-level fence named Stinky Tetwiler, who
came from the family that made a fortune by inventing the perfume strip. As
Junior says in his narration, “Without Stinky’s family, global fragrance sales
would be substantially lower and it would be possible to sleep in the same room
as a copy of Vanity Fair.” And Jonathan is at the very top of the list of most
interesting people I’ve ever met.
Hi, Riss — I wouldn’t expect you to know anything about “Beyond the Fringe”
— in fact, I’m impressed that you remember Cary Grant at your tender age. (Riss
is eleven, everybody.) Some time in the not-too-distant future, I’ll tell you my Bill
Clinton story, which is really good. Wouldn’t it be terrible if I’d actually lived my
entire life in Sheboygan and had never met any of these people? But I didn’t, and
I did.
7. Suzanna Says:
Hilarious! A perfumers son named Stinky!
Very funny line about not being able to sleep in the same room with a copy of
Vanity Fair.
On the other hand, if you fancied the revolting fragrances they normally push in
high gloss magazines you’d never really need to buy a bottle of the stuff. So long
as you bought the magazines that is.
Thanks fo da laff, Soozie. It’s true, the cheapest perfume is made by soaking
twelve old copies of VF in 35 gallons of water and then distilling it down to an
ounce. C’est magnifique.
Captca: Funhude action Why does that sound so obscene?
9. EverettK Says:
I got to thinking about all the pity you’re asking from us for your Thanksgiving
story, and that got me to thinking about what kind of story you COULD write for
Thanksgiving. And this is what occurred to me:
Junior’s daughter and ex-wife, due to some mess-up at the last minute, are stuck at
home by themselves for Thanksgiving without “the fixings.” They invite Junior to
come over for the day, but ONLY if he can bring “The Bird.” Well, this is VERY
last minute, and Junior’s only option is to steal a bird. But being the ‘decent’ guy
he is, he’s not going to steal a bird from just ANYONE. So, he manages, via some
entertaining method, to steal the bird from some suitably nasty bad guy.
“Thanksgiving” could easily be
changed to “Christmas,” too, and “turkey” to “goose.”
10.Larissa Says:
Lol. Eleven eh? Well, it’s tough to find interesting places to go online when
you’re not considered a legal adult yet…ahem.
On the note of interesting people and things and politics-go here:
http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2010/11/13/weekinreview/deficitsgraphic.html?hp
It’s fun. We had a surplus when I was done! And I’m a bleeding heart hippie!
I also haven’t decided which is worse-having to walk through the perfume
department at most “fancy” stores or opening a copy of Vanity-Glamour-FairPeople.
This link is fascinating, Riss, even though it leaves out a lot of ways we could
save money — but still, it’s an enlightening way to look at some of the cold facts
behind the hot air that got the Repugs voted in. And age doesn’t matter on this
site, since it’s in unerring good taste. You just have to be too tall to fit in an
overhead compartment.
Thanks, Everett. I might do that for Christmas. I’m thinking about 2-3 stories for
the end-of-year season. Maybe this is one of them. Maybe to play it safe he’ll
steal a Cornish Game Hen.
13.EverettK Says:
Certainly easier to slip a Cornish Game Hen into your pocket…
Yeah, well, he’s not stupid.
Unlike my Thanksgiving story.
15.Jaden Says:
Tim, thanks for sharing these glimpses into famous people. It allows me to meet
them vicariously.
Thanks, Jaden — I’ve been lucky enough to meet some amazing folks. Next up (I
think) is Chuck Jones, the genius behind the Roadrunner and the Coyote.
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 49: Near-Vermeer
November 18th, 2010
Hard to believe, but this pallid, enervated Supper at Emmaus was once widely believed to be a
Vermeer.
In fact, it was the work of Han Van Meegeren a journeyman Dutch painter who was deeply aggrieved
that his genius had not been recognized. He felt himself to be the equal of the old masters, and so he
became an old master: the most successful art forger in history.
Why Vermeer? Because fewer paintings by Vermeer survive than by almost any other great painter
whom we know by name. Since the age-old law of supply and demand dictates that scarceness equals
value, Vermeer was the guy to imitate. And, from a forger’s perspective, there’s a great deal to be said
for a relatively small body of work, especially when the surviving pictures have thematic and
compositional elements in common: a domestic room, one subject or a small group of subjects, light
falling from a window on the viewer’s left, draped clothing, a sense of stillness and calm.
Van Meegeren approached his forgeries seriously. He bought 17th-century canvases and stripped
second-rate paintings off them, keeping the old wooden stretchers. He mixed his paints using (by and
large) natural pigments available in Vermeer’s time and made his own paintbrushes from the fur of
badgers and sable, as Vermeer had.
The biggest problem he faced — other than a shortage of talent that was somehow invisible to the highranking Nazis who bought his paintings or the world-renowned experts who authenticated them — was
age. Two challenges taunt all forgers of supposedly old oil paintings. The first is that it takes
anywhere from 100 to 300 years for a thickly-painted work in oil to “dry” to the point at which the
paint gets brittle, and the second is craquelure, the network of tiny cracks that develops when the paint
finally does turn brittle.
Fortunately for him, Bakelite, the first widely available plastic, had just begun to be manufactured. Van
Meegeren found he could grind Bakelite into a fine powder and mix it into his paints, do his picture,
and then pop the whole thing into a 100-degree oven for a day or two, and the pigment would harden
and grow brittle. Then he just wrapped the picture around a pipe, first lengthwise and then widthwise,
and rolled it around on a table, which made lots and lots of cracks. Craquelure in an old picture is dark
because it’s accumulated dirt, so Van Meegeren made up a solution of water and India ink, poured it
over the painting, and sponged it off, leaving dark material in the cracks.
But what it meant was that this sudden flood of new Vermeers had been painted in plastic.
The Supper at Emmaus looks like a caricature to us today, but Ven Meegeren was working as the power
of Nazi Germany was on the rise, and patriots were buying up old masters as quickly as possible to
keep them out of the hands of Hitler’s henchmen. Many of the actual Vermeers had been yanked from
the gallery walls and bundled out of the country, so there was little basis for comparison. Still, it’s hard
to look at Van Meegeren’s work today and believe anyone with half an eye took it seriously as
representative of Vermeer — much less the world expert Abraham Bredius, who declared the Emmaus
not just to be a Vermeer, but the greatest of all Vermeers.
Ultimately, Van Meegeren found himself selling old masters, some of them still wet, to Hermann
Goering himself and to Herman Hoffman, who bought personally for Hitler. At a time when most
Dutch citizens were cold and hungry, Van Meegeren grew rich and fat. But then the unthinkable
happened: the Nazis lost. One of Goering’s “Vermeers” was recovered and traced back via a bill of
sale to Van Meegeren — and Van Meegeren was arrested and charged with selling national treasures to
the enemy, the penalty for which was death.
On the other hand, the penalty for forgery was a year in jail. Van Meegeren’s trial took a sensational
turn when he volunteered to paint a Vermeer in court — and did.
It was awful, but persuasive. He was sentenced to one year in prison, but he’d pulled off a personal
triumph — he’d transformed himself from a loathed Quisling who sold treasures to the Nazis into a
wily Dutch patriot who’d fleeced them by selling them worthless painting for hundreds of thousands of
dollars. In any event, he never went to prison because he was killed by a heart attack soon after being
sentenced.
Had he lived, he might have enjoyed a brief vindication in the 1950s when an “expert” sued to force reevaluation of The Supper at Emmaus. A panel of scholars was convened, looked at the picture with
straight faces, and ultimately declared that the dark material in the craquelure (i.e., India ink) was too
“uniform” to be convincing. Not until the late 1960s, though, did Carnegie Mellon University in
Pittsburgh take a critical look at a few of its own Vermeers. Yup. India Ink.
This entry was posted on Thursday, November 18th, 2010 at 10:23 pm and is filed under All Blogs. You
from your own site.
14 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 49: Near-Vermeer”
1. Gary Says:
There are, in fact, no genuine Vermeers – anywhere.
They were all painted some eighty years before, by Sir Francis Bacon. Or possibly
even earlier by Christopher Marlowe.
The jury of experts is still out.
2. Larissa Says:
Hmm…I’m going to have to think about this whole post for a bit. I can’t say I’m
really on board with you on this one-granted, the guy is no Jan Vermeer but to say
that our forger here had no talent is a bit rough. The whole business of selling to
the Nazis-without actually doing my own research into the whole mess-sounds to
me like doing what you have to do to get by…if we had a tyrant lording over us
and I caught the mood of things to come, I can’t say I’d be above forgery to save
my hide.
Also-if you look back at the Chinese culture-their entire artistic philosophy was
based on nothing but copies and copying and recopying the great Master’s work.
It was considered the only way to both preserve history, better oneself as an artist,
and be able to create your own work with integrity.
It sounds like good ol’ Van Meegeren never got so far as creating his own work
for his own merit so he loses some points there…
Regarding “World Experts”…most of them are retarded so it doesn’t surprise me
that they would classify these works as genuine. Also, in the life of an Art
Historian, a great find is the ultimate–it’s the Sangreal of finds–it’s the only way
to get paid half the time–so really, I think it’s those guys who should be skewered.
Perhaps I’m missing some huge piece of this puzzle but I just can’t see Van
Meegeren as this nefarious villain for copying paintings and duping a bunch of
Nazis….desperate and clever and delusional, perhaps.
Also, most of the great renaissance painters started off copying, well, great
painters. He just never evolved like the rest of them.
You should read “The Lost Painting” if stuff like this interests you.
Gary, actually, all the Vermeers in existence have been traced to a two-car garage
in Surrey, owned by a match manufacturer who began with a fascination with the
lamp/candle paintings of Georges de la Tour and gradually toned it down until he
got to Vermeer, the most modest and least showy of masters. In his house, he
bricked over all windows except the ones on the left.
Riss, I didn’t think that my dislike for Van Meegeren showed that much, although
he was a deeply disagreeable man. For one thing, he was an unrepentant Nazi
sympathizer. For another, he sold many of his “Vermeers” to patriots who were
trying to spirit Dutch masterpieces out of the country. And it’s one thing to learn
by copying (and even stalling at that stage) and another to sign your name to them
and pass them off as antique masterpieces.
I completely buy your point about the experts; their “discoveries” briefly made
them famous, and Bredius, the most prominent of them, was at the end of a long
and illustrious career and desperately wanted a big final act. I also take your point
about the Chinese artistic tradition, but I would suggest, without having thought
about it much, that the West prizes originality and individual achievement more
than the East does and that in the East, artists are more content to be what Ingmar
Bergman described as “the anonymous craftsmen who contributed over the
centuries to the cathedral.” I’ve read “The Lost Painting” and loved it, and I
omitted to say that this post was inspired by “The Forger’s Spell,” a riveting book
on Van Meegeren by Edward Dolnick.
4. EverettK Says:
While most forgers and thieves are scum of the earth, so, too, are… well… let’s
just say they’re not lonely in their category.
As for those who are “taken in” by the forgers, I can’t say I have TOO much
sympathy. You covered some of this ground in CRASHED. But basically, an item
is only worth what someone will pay for it. $1,000,000 for a comic book? Sheesh.
Not that I haven’t enjoyed plenty of comic books (excuse me, graphic novels) in
my life, but that’s a definite sign of someone with more money than they deserve.
There’s FAR better uses for a million dollars. And if you pay a lot of money for a
painting and it’s not because you LIKE the painting that much, but rather because
you think it’s rare… well, that’s just snobbery, conceit and narcissism.
One of my favorite tropes in literature and film is the thief or forger who’s smart,
talented and yet has a moral compass that’s limits where and upon whom their
damage is wreaked. For example, Cary Grant in “To Catch A Thief” (film) or
Daniel Keys Moran’s “The Long Run” (book). Escapism, every one of them.
People who steal don’t generally have much of a moral compass. But that’s
probably one of the reason I enjoyed CRASHED so much!
5. Larissa Says:
I’ll have to go read “The Forger’s Spell” because it sounds like it’s going to be
right up my ally (c:
Ok, being a Nazi sympethizer does change the perspective. And, I will agree that
pawning his knockoffs to the Dutch who were trying to save the actual
masterpieces is cheap. So as a person, he fails.
As for the Chinese-I think that mind frame is true right now perhaps more than it
was in, say, the Tang or Song Dynasty. Even if you follow the path farther down
to the Ming and Qing Dynasties you can see these crazy, expressive and
independent artistic examples. (just because everyone should look at it, go find
“Poet on a Mountaintop” from the Ming Dynasty if you haven’t already seen it (c:
)
I think the idea of “group over individual” has been strongly in the political realm
for a long time and is obviously the case now-but artistically they’ve been
tenacious about their individuality. (exit soapbox stage left).
So, even though Van Meegeren was a schmuck, I still have a small inkling of
respect for the level he went to to dupe the public in his emulations…definitely
not lacking in cunning and perserverence if in ethics.
Good post. (c: Must go finds me that book!
6. Suzanna Says:
Whatever crimes and misdemeanors Van Meegeren committed in his career as a
forger this makes for an interesting glimpse of history.
Van Meegeren was obviously talented enough to outwit the Nazis.
A pretty gutsy maneuver, if you ask me, even if he was a sympathizer to their
cause.
By painting something in court as a demonstration of his passable skill as a forger
he escaped the more serious charge against him, but it’s hard to imagine how such
an action in his defense was tolerated in a court of law, unless he worked very
quickly that is.
Your honor, if it pleases the court, let me demonstrate my forgery skills and paint
a masterwork before your very eyes.
Did the court actually just stand by and watch while he worked?
A humiliating punishment in itself if you ask me, but maybe Van Meegeren didn’t
really care what people thought of his fakery. He was only interested in escaping a
stiffer sentence, which he nearly did.
Given the public interest in liars, crooks, and general all around “bad guys” (pick
an arena), I find that this guy is reprehensible in many ways. Especially since he
chose one of my favorites painters to copy. There are some interesting questions
here-is crime forgiven because of the skill? Does being a gifted con artist
admirable? Do we ignore our moral compasses in bad times? I like it when a post
becomes a jumping off point for thinking. I’m also curious what made you read
this book?. I may have to rethink my rules. I don’t like to read books about people
I don’t like. Is that an Ostrich in the sand attitude? Or that I have limited time to
read-nah, that sounds too practical. I don’t have an absolute answer, I afraid.
Maybe I’m getting older and more rigid-heaven forbid.
It’s interesting that so much of the commentary has hinged on morality. To me,
Van Meegeren is a jerk, but if he’d ever demonstrated even the slightest amount of
humor about what he did, I’d probably feel differently — although it’s hard to
sympathize with someone who was a racist, an anti-Semite, and a wanna-be Nazi.
Everett, I think that all the businesses that grow up around the creative arts are
especially rich in scoundrels, frauds, and poseurs. Artie, in the Halloween story, is
based on half a dozen people — when the Stones went in to record at Chess
Records in Chicago, one of the pioneer white-run labels specializing in blues, they
found Muddy Waters painting the ceiling. (Forgive me if I’ve told this already.) If
Waters had collected one-fifth of the money he was owed, he’s have had a guitar
in his hand, not a paintbrush. True of writers, filmmakers, and (especially)
painters. The gallery business is just a concatenation of sharks.
And thanks for all the subliminal allusions to CRASHED.
By the way, anyone read Jonathan Gash’s Lovejoy mysteries? Really strips the
veneer off the antiques trade. (Clever? No?) I should get a bunch of them for my
(ahem) Kindle. Except that NONE OF THEM IS ON KINDLE. Where DO
publishers keep their heads?
Riss, you’ll love “The Forger’s Spell.” Funny thing is that another book on Van
Meegeren came out at the same time, but I heard of Dolnick’s book first so never
read the other. I will stipulate that you’re better informed than I am about the
Chinese creative ethos over the ages. And really, I should have known better —
my favorite novel, THE DREAM OF THE RED CHAMBER, is all by itself — I
mean, there are lots of precedents for the storytelling conventions and even the
subject matter, but no one in Chinese lit before or since undertook this kind of
story on so broad a scale as Cao Xueqin. It’s as original as “Ulysses” and a lot
more readable. “Poet on a Mountaintop” is ravishing but I don’t see it as a
departure — maybe it’s earlier than the variations I’ve seen; maybe it inspired
them.
Hi, Suzanna — There’s always something very interesting to me about talent
misused. Van Meegeren was competent and, if he’d had a passion or an original
vision, he might have done better than competent work. (His most famous piece
under his own name was a monochrome fawn that was so cloyingly sweet it could
have been on a Northern Tissue package. But still, the psychology of a faker
fascinates me, and it also fascinated Orson Welles, who made a film — not one of
his major efforts — called “F for Fake,” about Elmyr de Hory, another forger.
Probably the funniest thing about the film is that the person playing de Hory’s
biographer is the American writer Clifford Irving, who was revealed partway
through the shooting as the actual writer of Howard Hughes “autobiography.” So
Welles turned the movie inside out, including comparing Irving’s bio of Hughes
with his, Welles’ fictionalized biography of William Randolph Hearst in “Citizen
Kane.” In a memorable shot, de Hory signs a forged picture for Welles with a
forgery of Welles’ own signature. Hard not to think of the house-of-mirrors
shootout in “The Lady from Shanghai.”
The court did indeed sit there for a week or two (or however long it took) and,
what’s more, you couldn’t get a seat in the courtroom for love or money.
Hi, Lil I’m going to use your comment as part of the next blog, okay?
9. EverettK Says:
Tim said: By the way, anyone read Jonathan Gash’s Lovejoy mysteries? I should
get a bunch of them for my (ahem) Kindle. Except that NONE OF THEM IS ON
KINDLE. Where DO publishers keep their heads?
The RIAA and MPAA still haven’t figured out that the game has forever changed.
You expect publishers, who are at least 10 years behind the other two on “the
learning curve,” to be more willing to come to grips with reality? Things won’t
change until some of the publishers start to go under, I suspect. It’s human nature,
for FAR too many humans, to resist change at all costs… until the Borg take them
over (“Resistance is futile.”)
Fortunately, while this change will undoubtedly cause pain for some authors,
over-all I have NO doubt that, in the long run, it will be VERY beneficial to
writers and readers both.
It truly IS too bad. There are many, many books that I’d give perfectly good
money to buy in e-book editions, even though I already have paper editions. I’ve
scanned in, proofread and made my own ebooks of the first 4 or 5 Travis McGee
books, which also aren’t available as ebooks. I’ll probably do more of them as I
get time, because it’s been many years since I’ve read them. They’re a little dated
(and certainly NOT politically correct in some of the attitudes), but still great
reads. But I’d rather just spend a few bucks than spend all that time scanning and
proofreading!
10.Bonnie Says:
Dream of the Red Chamber is actually available for Kindle at the Gutenberg
Project. Simeon has inspired me to take a stab at it, though having ploughed
through way too much of the Tale of Genji I’m leery of Asian epics.
Tim, it may be coincidence that Amazon have brought out almost all the old Nero
Wolfes this year, after I inundated them with “I want to read this book on Kindle”
requests, but it’s worth trying for Lovejoy, too. They claim to want to eventually
bring everything.
I haven’t had much to contribute as I’m not that much into the visual arts, but I
did enjoy the Diary of Franz Hals a couple years ago and like the art-centered Iain
Pears novels set in Italy. Certainly it’s a ripe topic for whodunnits and thrillers.
Sure, Tim, You always make me think, and now I am curious.
Hi, Bonnie — The translation Junior (and I) read was by David Hawkes and was
titled THE STORY OF THE STONE and is unfortunately published by Penguin,
meaning that when they become available at the end of the year they’ll be about
%13-$15 each — and there are FIVE of them. The one on Gutenberg is probably
Arthur Waley and it’s very very much condensed. The actual book has about 100
characters, everyone from tramps to Buddhist and Taoist monks to servants to
members of a once-powerful family in precipitous decline. It’s a masterpiece, but
it will take you months to read it. I’d suggest you look for a used paperback of
Volume One, “The Golden Days,” and see whether it holds you. It stopped my
world, but I love really, really long books; my favorite novel in English is
probably the six PALLISERS books by Anthony Trollope. And I’ve already talked
about Anthony Powell’s twelve-volume DANCE TO THE MUSIC OF TIME.
Everett, I think this may actually be the end of the traditional publishing business,
and certainly of New York’s domination of the industry and stranglehold over
what we read. The problem with e-books is that there’s no sifting mechanism. The
publishers at least weeded out a lot of ineptitude, as well as turning away people
whose voices should have been heard. In the end, I think this is not so much a
business or financial revolution, but a creative revolution.
13.Jaden Says:
I can see I’m going to have to read THE FORGER’S SPELL. It sounds like a
fascinating book, although Van Meegeren sounds like a pretty despicable
character.
I don’t generally enjoy books about unpleasant people, but the subject in
intriguing enough to make up for it.
It’s fascinating Jaden — Dolnick is a fine writer and the story really moves.
And how’s the new book coming??
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 50: More Near-Vermeer
November 19th, 2010
The response to the Van Meegeren post was interesting to me in part because so much of it focused on
moral issues.
I thought I’d made my dislike for him clear, but I guess I got sidetracked in admiration for his sheer
effrontery — painting Vermeer in plastic, selling wet “old masters,” turning the tables on the court and
emerging a hero, at least temporarily. I’m a sucker for deeply fraudulent people who have the courage
of their (assumed) convictions.
I also think I have an instinctive sympathy for forgers because they lift a middle finger to authority —
all the dreary experts issuing pronouncements on this and that. This is especially true in the arts,
where the expertise is all academic, most of it from people whose idea of creativity is skipping a
footnote. (I know that’s not always fair, but it’s fair sometimes.) So it’s a form of cultural slapstick to
have some pompous crusty-dusty like Abraham Bredius pronounce a truly dreadful painting, a literally
plastic imitation of one of the greatest colorists who ever lived, not only a Vermeer but “the
masterpiece” of Vermeer.
No question that Van Meegeren was a disagreeable man — an unfaithful husband (to his first wife), a
wanna-be Nazi, an embittered egomaniac, a con man who thought nothing of profiting from his own
country’s desire to preserve its cultural heritage. It’s also easy for me to dislike him because I’m a snob
and he was a truly terrible painter — a paper-thin sentimentalist whose technical competence failed to
disguise a complete lack of original vision. The pathetic little fawn at the top of this post is the most
popular image published under his own name. It’s two steps above a Northern Toilet Tissue package.
And then, of course, he had the gall to attempt to forge the work of the art snob’s favorite old master
and one of history’s most inimitable painters. Nothing is harder to imitate than simplicity. Vermeer’s
domestic pictures, unlike those of more florid artists (Rembrandt comes to mind, but that’s nothing
against Rembrandt, whom I worship) are distilled to the essentials: a room, a floor (almost always
checkered tile), light falling from the left, stillness, a person or two (or more) who seem wrapped in the
moment: reading, writing, pouring water, the clock stopped by the arrival of a love letter. There’s a
sense that these moments happened thousands of times in Vermeer’s world, each one unique.
Lil asked me what made me read the Edward Dolnick book about Vermeer, The Forger’s Spell. I read it
in part because forgers fascinate me, and also because forgery opens up some interesting questions
about what we find beautiful. Van Meegeren’s paintings haven’t changed by so much as a brush stroke
since they dried, but we see them completely differently today than they were seen by his
contemporaries. Once the pictures had been confirmed as Vermeers, they were Vermeers. Only one or
two worldwide experts (Bernard Berenson among them) dared to call them rubbish. To the vast
majority of people who viewed them, many of whom had seen multiple Vermeers, they were beautiful
in the way that Vermeers are beautiful.
Which they clearly are not.
Those people weren’t stupid. Some of them were cosmopolitan art lovers, perhaps even connoisseurs.
What does that suggest about the things we find beautiful? Not just paintings, but literature and music
— you name it. To what extent do we experience the beauty or power of a work of art directly and to
what extent does a “brand name” such as Vermeer or Bach interfere with the work we experience, and
shape our reactions to it? Or even a whole movement — would so many wretched painters have
prospered if not for the power of the brand, “abstract expressionism?” Forgery, I think, can remind us
that our critical faculties aren’t infallible. But it also raises another question: the people who went into
raptures over Van Meegeren’s terrible Vermeers were experiencing a kind of beauty.
Weren’t they?
your own site.
11 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 50: More Near-Vermeer”
In case anyone watches TV, the series White Collar celebrates forgers for pretty
much the same reason you mention — their fictional guy(s) do it right & we
admire them for it.
Not that we would celebrate those who break our laws — or those who make
them. Oh, wait. Same thing these days.
2. Gary Says:
Speaking of TV, is anyone old enough to have been watching it in 1956? There
was a mystery series called “Colonel March of Scotland Yard,” starring Boris
Karloff – pardon me, William Henry Pratt – based on the detective stories of John
Dickson Carr.
One episode was called “The Second Mona Lisa,” involving a real painting and a
forgery. In the final scene the real painting has been sold to a Texas millionaire for
$750,000, and the discredited copy sold as a consolation prize to an Arab sheikh
for $20,000.
“That would make a difference of $730,000,” says Boris Karloff. “Well, there they
are, gentlemen. Look at them both. I wonder if you think it’s really worth the
difference.”
“Sure it’s worth it,” insists the Texas millionaire. Then, peering at his prize: “Isn’t
it?” he adds doubtfully. And the episode ends.
3. Bonnie Says:
Yeah, there’s kind of an Emperor’s New Clothes aspect of the whole value-of-art
thing.
Not that literature has been spared: Think Thomas Chatterton. Who’s to say his
creativity in producing the fake wasn’t equal to or even superior to the supposed
original?
Can’t think of a serious musical equivalent, though surely it’s tempting to “find” a
hitherto unknown Beethoven or Vivaldi?
4. Suzanna Says:
Your blog often has me searching for more information about the interesting
topics you raise. Or the pathetic figures you occasionally introduce us to. So I read
a little bit more online about Van Meegeren and what he says about what
motivated him to become a forger.
I know the sources online aren’t always 100% accurate so feel free to correct any
inaccuracies.
If an egomaniacal profiteer is to be believed he says that after his own work was
panned by critics he wanted to prove them wrong by showing that his work was
so good that you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between a painting
Vermeer created or a Vermeer that Van Meegeren reproduced.
After he was convicted of forgery it was his belief that once he was dead and gone
the Vermeers that he painted would once again become “original” Vermeers. He
said he created these forgeries not for money but for “art’s sake.”
Wow. Now that’s sick.
So partly, we admire the bad guys’ chutzpah? And it doesn’t hurt to be humbled
once in a while. I will say that I was raised in New York City, and the people I
knew made a career deciding what was “good.” The latest in any of the arts was
chewed on and then judged, and boy, you had better agree. Some of these people
were my relatives, and I realize today how much baloney was spread around in
those decisions. It was a revelation when I finally grew up and I realized that I
could make my own judgments regarding quality. Which brings to mind another
(sometimes pretentious, but interesting) book popular in the 70′s, “Zen and the Art
of Motorcycle Maintenance.” There is a quote from Plato, which in essence says
we decide what is quality and what isn’t. In music, all I could think of Salieri’s
frustration because he simply could not produce the kind of music that Mozart
did. But then no one ever else did. Interesting tea this morning.
And welcome back all, and thanks for sticking with me through another post on
(sort of) the same topic.
I’m going to be bumping this early today to put up a sample chapter from
CRASHED that will remain up all day tomorrow — the book officially went on
sale today and I want to push it a little.
Those who break the laws are those who make the laws — thanks, Laren. Another
reason to hoist high the flag of the Ixnaycrats, if they had anything as organized as
a flag.
Gary, another William Henry Pratt fan. It’s good he changed his name; the credit
MONSTER: WILLIAM HENRY PRATT lacks gravitas. Grest story, and exactly
what I was trying to get at. He’ll never look at that picture with unalloyed joy
again,
Suzanna, Van Meegeren was fraudulent all the way to his bone marrow. “I know:
let’s create art for art’s sake and then sell it to the Nazis.” Also, I named the thread
near-Vermeer in tribute to the person with the worst depth-perception in the world
— whoever named near-beer. Only bad vision or megalomania could lead him to
thing his paintings would ever become “real” again.
Hi, Bonnie – good question about the music — I’ve asked Stephen Cohn, who’s a
classical composer about it, and I’ll put up his response once he gets back to us.
There have been literary deceits aplenty, including “manuscripts” of missing
Shakespeare play, scraps of Sappho, and a few years back someone drew J.D.
Salinger out of his web by publishing something purporting to be a sequel to
CATCHER IN THE RYE. Sort os misses the point that when Holden grows up,
he’ll be just like the rest of us, only possibly more so.
Thanks, Lil and I loved the finger sandwiches. The first I’ve ever seen made with
real fingers. I would have LOVED to have been in some of those conversations —
I’ve tried to write them but I can’t find the tone without it sloping downhill into
condescension. Chekhov said critics are a kind of mold — they grow on art like
mold does on bread. I’m not that bad — I think good critics help to sift the
morning’s junk from the morning’s trash, sort of giving posterity a head start. I
envy you that experience.
7. Stephen Cohn Says:
The question of forgeries in classical music has always been a hazy one although
much discussed. Forged compositions are usually revealed by a musicologist
years or centuries after the fact and are based on a stylistic analysis rather than
hard evidence. However, there are some that have been confirmed. Marius
Casadesus, born in the 1890′s admitted to forging a “Mozart” violin concerto, a
“Handel” viola concerto and a “Bach” cello concerto. The pieces were accepted as
being authentic and recorded by artists like Yehudi Menuhin – then later
questioned by a musicologist and eventually Casadesus admitted the forgery
shortly before he died. Bach had a “workshop” with apprentices – some of his
works have been attributed to his workers although this is a foggy area. There are
also many cases where a composer died before finishing a work and the work was
then completed by another composer. Mozart died while working on his Requiem.
His wife, Constanze, hired other composers to finish it – probably for very
practical reasons like needing the money. These days, with digital sampling,
plagiarism and forgery have become very easy. Many pop and rap recordings
begin with sampling anything from a bass line to an entire rhythm track and
building a new song around it.
VERY interesting, Stephen — am I correct in assuming that Casadesus didn’t
make money off his forgeries but did them just because he thought he could? That
seems to be the motive for many forgers, although others, such as Van Meegeren,
do them for money. The whole “workshop” thing is a source of confusion in the
field of old master paintings, too, where scholars argue over which pair of hands
or which face the master actually painted. By the way, the completion of the
Mozart Requiem is one of the plot devices in a very interesting thriller by Kevin
Guilfoyle called THE THOUSAND.
Thanks for helping out — this has been very interesting.
9. Jaden Says:
Oddly, I kind of like the horrible little fawn–but then, I also like the Northern
bathroom tissue pictures, even though they are cheesy, sweet, and sentimental.
The real Vermeer portrait, of course, is in another class altogether. Utterly
beautiful and almost translucent. I love the way he used light in his paintings.
Hi, Jaden — I think that painting, “The Girl With the Pearl Earring,” is one of the
most beautiful human-made objects on earth. It’s all light and spirit.
Tim – Casadesus was the editor on the published editions of the faked
masterpieces. So there was probably some financial motivation but to go to all the
trouble it would take create whole concertos, it must have been like you said –
because he thought he could do it. Perhaps also a deep envy of the genius of the
real masters and a desire to partake in some small, twisted way.
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 51: Hello, Junior
November 20th, 2010
Today is Junior Bender’s birthday.
As of today, CRASHED is officially for sale for the Kindle on Amazon. Barnes & Noble and iBooks
will follow, but Amazon is the thousand-pound gorilla so it gets the banana first.
This is a triple first: Junior’s first outing (to be followed in a couple of months by LITTLE ELVISES),
the first time I’ve ever published directly to the e-book format, and the first time I’ve ever been
halfway through the third book in a series when the first one comes out.
What follows is a rather long chapter from the book, Chapter 19, the first time we meet the book’s
intended victim. Here’s what’s going on (and this is not a spoiler, since pretty much everything that
matters below is on the table by the end of Chapter 3):
Junior Bender, a burglar who moonlights as a private eye for crooks, is being forced under threat of a
particularly vivid death to figure out who’s trying to sabotage the shooting of a big-budget porn film
and make sure the movie makes it all the way through production.
The problem is the film’s star. Thistle Downing is a drugged-out, impoverished 23-year old who is
committing slow-motion suicide but who — between the ages of 7 and 15 — was one of the biggest
TV stars in the world, an instinctive and inspired comic actress who single-handedly lifted an ordinary
sitcom to the top of the charts, until her talent slowly deserted her. Junior is instinctively revolted at
the whole idea of a porn movie starring a former child actress,and there’s also the fact that his 12-yearold daughter, Rina, discovered the young Thistle through reruns and is crazy about her.
Ultimately, Junior has to thread his way between his very dangerous clients and his conviction that
Thistle will NOT make the movie. In Chapter 19, he goes with Doc, a one-time doctor who now has “a
clientele limited to the criminal community,” to pick up Thistle for her first day of filming — the day
she’ll understand for the first time what kind of movie she’s signed up for. Doc finds her comatose and
calls Junior in to help him. What they don’t know yet is that her state is the aftermath of a failed
murder attempt.
So here it is, and it’s LOOOONNNGGG.
“She got her hands on something,” Doc said. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead. “I
need help.” He tugged me inside, toward a stairway.
“You need help?” I said. “What skill set do you think I possess?”
“You can walk,” he said, pulling me along. “She needs to be walked.”
“How could she have gotten anything? I thought you knocked her out last night.”
We were most of the way up the stairs now, and the second story yawned in front of us.
“I did,” Doc said. “All I can figure is that somebody delivered. Come on, pick it up. I’m
afraid she’ll heave and then aspirate it. It’s remarkable she hasn’t already done that, the way
she’s been living.”
The second-floor hallway was dim, barren, and windowless: just filthy linoleum, fingermarked walls, and doors on either side, most of them absolute arsenals of locks. It smelled
of damp wood, with a sharp note of urine. The door three down, on the right, stood open.
Doc towed me the rest of the way down the hall, and we went through the open door into
Thistle Downing’s world.
The door opened into what I supposed would be called the living room, although there
wasn’t much on view to recommend the life that was being lived there. It was cramped,
maybe ten feet by twelve, and haphazardly furnished with a threadbare, blood-red Oriental
carpet in an abstract pineapple pattern, set crookedly on the linoleum floor, and a sagging
couch, missing one front leg, all of it covered, except for the arm nearest me, with a dirty
bedsheet. The carpet, the bedsheet, and the exposed arm of the couch were pockmarked
with cigarette burns, as though butts had been laid down anywhere and everywhere to
smolder forgotten. Big water stains surrounding some of them announced the places where
fires had been doused. More water stains created a map of ghost continents on the ceiling.
Grit scraped beneath my feet and dust rats huddled in the corners. It felt like the room had
been sealed for a long time. The air smelled like cheese gone wrong.
Other than the sofa and a badly abused coffee table, the only pieces of furniture in the
room were four old-fashioned standing floor lamps, probably rescued from Dumpsters.
They stood in the corners or leaned in exhausted poses against a wall. Scarves of red and
orange had been draped over the shades, along with bright, cheap plastic beads that looked
like the ones thrown from floats in the Mardi Gras. Between the scarves and the beads, the
lamps reminded me of old Gypsy women. On the wall opposite the door, two small
windows had been sloppily covered with aluminum foil.
“Through there,” Doc said, pointing at a doorway to our right. The room on the other
side was darker than the one we were in, and I realized that Doc or someone had turned on
one of the floor lamps in the living room. I followed him through the door and found
myself in an even smaller room. This one had no furniture at all except for two more
standing lamps and a mattress on the floor against the far wall. On the mattress I saw a
crumpled form wrapped in something white and shapeless.
One arm was outthrown, the hand hanging over the edge of the mattress, dangling palmup from an almost childishly slender wrist. Doc ripped a scarf off one of the lights and
turned it on, and the blue veins in the wrist leapt into sharp relief. The figure did not move.
White and tightly curled, she looked like something that had been wadded up and tossed.
“You’re sure she’s not, um –”
“Nope.” Doc pulled out the flask and took a nip, then screwed the top back on. “If she
were dead, we’d be long gone. She’s out, though, and I mean out. Right through the
transparent wall. You could set off firecrackers and she wouldn’t hear them. Heartbeat is
steady, nothing wrong with her breathing. Skin’s not cold, so the circulation is all right. Her
pupils are dilated, but it’d be a surprise if they weren’t. If she were conscious, she could
probably see through the floor.” He bent over her and wrapped a big hand around the small
wrist. “This is either gonna work or it isn’t and if it doesn’t, we’ll have to get her stomach
pumped.” He looked up at me. “You gonna stand there, or you gonna help?”
“Right,” I said. “Walk her.”
“Get her other side.” I paused, reluctant to step onto the mattress wearing my shoes, and
Doc said, “For God’s sake. When do you think was the last time these sheets were washed?
Don’t be so fucking delicate. Just get her.”
So I got in between her and the wall and took her other arm, which was folded under her
face, straightened it, and imitated Doc’s actions, putting the arm around my shoulders and
grabbing the dangling hand. Throughout all of this, the unconscious woman never moved,
groaned, or gave any sign that she knew she was being manhandled. I crouched there, her
arm around my shoulders, and Doc said, “Up on three. Careful to come up with me, or I’ll
put my back out, sure as the sun rises. You set?”
I allowed as how I was set.
“One . . . two . . . three,” Doc said, and the two of us straightened in unison. Doc grunted
with the effort, but I had been anticipating much more weight and I came up too fast, so
that for a moment it felt as though she and I were going to topple over onto Doc.
“Jesus,” Doc said. “You want to carry both of us? Now come on, just haul her off the
mattress and get her into the middle of the floor.” One of her feet squealed on the
linoleum, and I winced. “Toughen up,” Doc said. “You’re not going to do her any good if
you treat her like she’s some kind of goddamn fawn. She’s tougher than you are. If she
wasn’t she’d be dead.”
The two of us now stood in the middle of the small bedroom with Thistle Downing
dangling between us, limp as a Slinky. She was tiny. I’m 6′ 4” and I was at least fourteen
inches taller than she, so she couldn’t have been much above five feet, and she was light
enough to be porous. Her arms and wrists were so slender I could close my hand around
her forearm, with room to spare. The white garment she was wearing proved to be a
terrycloth bathrobe that had burst through the barrier marked dirty and was well on the way
to filthy. It said Plaza Hotel in a crimson cursive script on the left, beside the lapel, and its
bottom hem brushed the floor. Both it and Thistle had come a long way from the Plaza.
“Walk,” Doc commanded. “Not fast, but steady. And don’t lift her so much. Let her feet
drag, or she won’t try to move them.”
And so the two of us walked, Thistle’s feet trailing behind, her head hanging down,
veiled with hair. The hair was snarled but fine, slightly curly, a little past shoulder-length and
the reddish-gold color of flax. It had been chopped any old how – I guessed she’d done it
herself – and it smelled of cigarettes. I hadn’t actually seen her face yet. Her hand was cold
and damp in mine. Doc kept up a stream of words, encouraging, cajoling, challenging
Thistle to start walking, but her feet just dragged along the floor, no livelier than the robe’s
hem, until we hit the edge of the carpet in the living room, and some impulse – probably an
automatic reaction to a possible stumble – brought one of her feet forward, and she took
two steps and sagged again.
“Turn around,” Doc said. “Drag her off the carpet again and then back onto it.” We did,
and when we hit the carpet this time Thistle managed four steps. We reversed direction to
get back onto the bare floor and repeat the procedure.
“That’s it, darlin’,” Doc said. “I knew you could do it. Boy whatever you took last night,
you ought to put it on your do not do list. Another couple of whatever they were, you’d have
gone out of here in a bag. You know what they were? You know how many you took?” No
response. “That’s okay, it’ll wait till later. That’s right, sweetheart, walk, you’re not a goddamn
mermaid. You’ve got a big day ahead of you, lots of people waiting for you, half a dozen
of them sitting around with mirrors and brushes, just can’t wait to make you beautiful.
This’ll be an easy day, honey, five or six little shots, a few lines, and you can come home.
Nothing compared to what you used to do. In the old days, you’d have done all of that and
more before breakfast. You know Lillian Gish? Maybe a century before your time, but the
first great American film actress, right? Wonderful story about Lillian Gish, somebody told
me yesterday. She’d been working on a movie with D. W. Griffith back in the twenties, when
they just went outdoors and shot in sunlight and nobody had to talk, although the great
ones always did, always played their scenes like everyone would hear them. Even the
indoors sets were just three walls and no roof, so the sunlight could come in, did you know
that? So Lillian Gish had been working her elegant ass off for months, all over California,
and then they had the big premiere and she went with Griffith, since he was her director.
And when the movie was over, you know what she said to him? She said, ‘Did I do all that?
All I remember is the waiting.’”
Thistle made a choked sound and it took me a moment to recognize it as a laugh.
“That’s good, baby,” Doc said. “Keep those feet going, and let’s see if you can’t get your
eyes open for a couple of minutes. By the way, the tall ugly guy on the other side of you is
named Junior. Hey, Junior, do you know any movie stories? I just told the only one I know.”
I wasn’t exactly a film encyclopedia – none of my books had led me to it – but I knew a
few things, one of which I had picked up that morning, courtesy of Rodd Hull. “Um,
Claudette Colbert,” I said.
Thistle said something that was all sibilants, and Doc said, “What, sugar? What did you
say?:
“Shaid . . . she’sh . . . good,” Thistle said, very slowly.
“She, um, hated the left side of her face,” I said, trying desperately to remember Rodd’s
story, “and she always –”
“Timing,” Thistle said. ‘Had, uhhhhhh, timing.”
“Yeah, timing,” I said, and glanced over Thistle’s head, still hanging on her chest, at Doc,
who made a rolling gesture with his free hand that meant, Keep talking. “So,” I said, “her
face,” and Thistle said something. “What?”
“Side . . . moon,” she whispered.
“Right, far side of the moon.” I considered and rejected a bunch of stories that suddenly
came to mind, and then remembered something else about Colbert. “She had one of the
funniest lines I ever heard,” I said. “In a movie made in the middle thirties. I don’t
remember the name of it, but she’s a poor girl who’s working in a hat shop and having an
affair with an unhappily married older man, and the man’s unpleasant wife comes in to try
on some hats. Colbert chooses one for her and helps her put it on, and studies her for a
minute, and then says, ‘That hat does something for you. It – it gives you a chin.‘”
This time Doc laughed, too, and Thistle managed a couple of unclassifiable sounds,
more damp little whuffles than guffaws, but progress. I was ready to talk about Bogart in
‘Casablanca,’ how George Raft turned the part down, but I remembered how young Thistle
was, and my chat with Rina the prior afternoon came to mind. I did ten or fifteen
reasonably interesting minutes on dead wet girl ghosts, on the derivation and iconography
of dead wet girls in Asian film, and by the time I’d used that up, Thistle was almost keeping
up with us, although she still hadn’t lifted her head, and without us she would have fallen in
a heap.
“Keep it up,” Doc said. “You’re doing great.”
“That’s it,” I said. “I can’t think of anything else.”
“So make something up. Talk about whatever comes to mind,” Doc said. “How’d you get
your face so banged up? Have you seen his face, Thistle? Looks like somebody thought it
was a piece of beef and tried to grind it. Go on, take a look. You can do it.”
The head turned a few inches, and the flax-colored hair parted just enough for me to see
an eye, surprisingly deep green, uptilted at the end, and heavy-lidded. Then she let her head
drop again and stumbled, but we had her in our grasp, and a few steps later her feet were
moving again.
“Isn’t he ugly?” Doc said. “Tell her, Junior. Tell her what happened to your face.”
So for the third time in two days I described my encounter with Rabbits’ chandelier and
rottweilers. Doc got so interested he almost walked us into the couch, and I had to pull us
left to avoid a stumble. I could feel the energy returning slowly to Thistle’s body; she was
bearing more of her own weight and walking less erratically, so I stretched the story out,
elaborated on it, exaggerated the number of marital aids and the size of the dogs, turned
the swing on the chandelier into the kind of adventure Tarzan might have had if Tarzan
had been an interior decorator. She laughed two or three times, although they could have
been coughs. By the time I finished, she was walking relatively well, and we stopped, in the
center of the carpet.
Thistle removed her arm from Doc’s shoulder, wobbled once, grabbed my hand to
steady herself, and turned her body slightly toward me. Her head came up slowly and the
hair fell away from her face.
I bit my tongue.
Drug-battered, stoned, muzzy-eyed, exhausted, debilitated, undernourished, Thistle
Downing was still fundamentally ravishing. The elfin qualities in her face, the tilted eyes, the
high cheekbones, the puckish mouth with its surprisingly full lower lip – they were all still
there, older and more blended, and maybe even more beautiful than before. Clean up her
system, feed her, put her to bed for six weeks, give her a haircut and a reason to live, and
she’d be stunning.
She smiled at me, and the whole awful room brightened.
“You’re funny,” she said, and then her eyes rolled to the ceiling and she went down like a
stone.
“Okay,” Doc said. He took in a deep breath and blew it out. The flask made another
appearance. “Shower time.”
your own site.
17 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 51: Hello, Junior”
1. Gary Says:
Oh my God.
This chapter UTTERLY blew me away the first time I read it. And it hasn’t lost
ANY of its punch.
2. Jaden Says:
Oh, man. You are too insanely good for words.
I think Poke will always be my favorite, but from what I’ve seen, everything you
do, you knock out of the park.
Well done.
3. EverettK Says:
Shit. Now I’m going to have to read this book again.
The pain I go through for you. Sigh. What can I say? I’m a masochist. I’ll just
have to throw myself on this grenade, I guess.
(Write faster, write faster!)
Thanks, Gary, and thanks, Jaden. I’m fond of this chapter myself. There are bits of
books that are actually fun to write and bits that are sort of actively horrible. This
was as much fun as anything I can remember.
But the whole book was fun. I was writing BREATHING WATER but there was a
voice in my head that wouldn’t leave me alone, and it was Junior’s. I took a break
and sat down and began to write it, and the whole book came in about five weeks,
which is very fast for me.
The second one, LITTLE ELVISES, took only about a week longer. I could
probably write two of these a year, at least until I burned out.
Everett — THANK YOU for the first Amazon review. Killer!
6. Gary Says:
Yeah, Everett, write faster.
Finish proofing LITTLE ELVISES for Chrissake. So I can get my turn to say
nasty things about it.
I can’t wait.
7. EverettK Says:
In this case, Tim, I was very happy to be able to call it the way I saw it! Killer
book!
8. Bonnie Says:
Ahem! Only those who have read the book can review it!
Certainly an intriguing excerpt.
9. Suzanna Says:
Tim, I just love this! Just when I thought you were at the very top of your game
with Poke Rafferty here comes Junior Bender. Can’t wait to read the rest!
Crap! I’m gonna have to buy a Kindle. Great story, Tim.
Bonnie — while it is true that only those who have read it can review it
accurately, ANYONE can write a rave without ever having opened it. Thinks of
the time that saves. I don’t think Harriet Klausner Amazon’s #1 reviewer, reads
half the books she reviews. If you want to save a LOT of time, I could write the
review for you and send it to you. Might begin with “Masterful . . . dazzling — an
unforgettable display of seriocomic pyrotechnics unmatched since the supernova
of 1054, which jump-started several religions . . .” I could go on. Or, if you can
read a mobi or an ePub file, I could send you the book.
Zanna, thanks as always for the frequency and quality of the support you give me.
I’m your Number One Fan.
Phi, Thanks sooooo much. You can go to Amazon and dl Kindle for PC (free) and
read it on your computer screen if you like. I have to say, though, the Kindle is
awfully sweet.
12.Bonnie Says:
I actually looked up Ms. Klausner on Wikipedia, and apparently she’s a retired
librarian who is also a speed-reader. She does seem to lack discrimination, but if
you could make a living doing nothing but reading and writing reviews, I’d
murder her for her job.
Phil, at $139 I think the Kindle is a no brainer (I paid $259 and some extra for the
warranty). It pays for itself the first time you go on a trip, and in any event you
can load it up for free on everything Conan Doyle, Dickens, Austen, and Tim’s
beloved Trollope wrote, not to mention some more obscure favorites of mine I’d
be happy to share if I knew more about what you like, including Jerome K.
Jerome. Having given away more than 3,000 books when I exchanged my 3bedroom, 2-car garage house in Sacramento for a 1-bedroom condo in Castro
Valley, I swore I’d not let myself accumulate such a huge pile again. And my
middle-aged eyes really appreciate the clear type and the ability to re-size (as
opposed to my old paperback Amelia Peabody and Georgette Heyer books whose
pages are yellowing and whose type seems to get tinier by the year).
Tim, the deal was supposed to be, I thought, that the Junior Bender book was a
“prize” for reviewing Man With No Time, though of course too much quid pro
quo starts to look funny, and in any event at $3 I’m not holding out for a freebie.
I’d not have bothered to write the review, even so, if I hadn’t really liked the book.
Must warn you though that the new Sara Paretzky and the latest Louise Penny are
waiting for me at the library, and they might bump Junior aside for a day or so.
I did get a quick flash in the piece you just posted of what the little girl with the
kitten in Four Last Things might look like at 20ish. Did you have her in mind at
all when drawing Thistle? They certainly seem to have in common that being
controlled by things outside their own power, though I’m curious how her story
will unfold now.
Maybe I’m weird, but I don’t like reading middle chapters because then I go crazy
wondering what came before & after. Nonetheless, awesome! Just the names
Junior Bender and Thistle Downing made it worth it.
14.Suzanna Says:
Ahhhh, shucks, ain’t never had no fan B4 : )
Hi, Bonnie — The Kindle is indeed a no-brainer, one of the most pleasant ways to
read — and I’m a guy who owns literally 4500 books (or more). And sorry about
stiffing you on yr copy of CRASHED — it’s in the mail, as they say, but in this
case it’s e-mail, so none of the usual excuses applies. JEROME K. JEROME?
What is there beyond “Three Men In a Boat”? And that’s interesting, about Thistle
and what’s-her-name from FOUR LAST THINGS. Could be. Visually, I had
either of the Olson twins in mind — not, I hasten to say, because of anything I
know about their lifestyle, but just as interesting casting. The funny thing about
Doc, who has been singled out for praise in a couple of reviews, is that he’s an
example of something I almost never dom which is to write an actor. All I had to
do was envision Milburn Stone and hear his voice, then add an overlay of glibness
and danger, and I had Doc. His scenes got written at warp speed and I don’t think
I ever changed a line.
Laren, no one would argue with the idea that you’re maybe weird. I thought about
compressing the first two chapters, which comprise a single almost operatic action
sequence with a lot of dangerous slapstick, but this is the chapter I loved writing
most. And I’m with you about Thistle’s name. I have no idea where it comes from,
although someone pointed out that it’s two plants, thistles and dandelions, and I
like that.
Suzanna, you have a vast and extremely secret fan base. In various times they’ve
been known as the Thousand, The Illuminati, and The Stephen Foster Rediscovery
Chorus and Coffee Shoppe.
16.EverettK Says:
Tim said: Suzanna, you have a vast and extremely secret fan base. In various
times they’ve been known as the Thousand, The Illuminati, and The Stephen
Foster Rediscovery Chorus and Coffee Shoppe.
Uh-oh. You’d best run for cover, Tim. You’ve blown their cover, and these secret
organizations have myriad ways of silencing those who break the silence…
Yes, but they don’t know that this is an assumed identity and that I’m really you.
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 52: My Inner Woman
November 21st, 2010
Lately, I’ve been writing women all the time.
This is unexpected, because for most of my writing career, I wrote women only at gunpoint and only
because it was absolutely necessary. I figured it would be noticed if 100% of the characters in my
books were male. It might provoke comment.
So I found an approach: describe the female characters, give them something to say (usually reactive),
and get the hell out of the room. Under no circumstances allow them to get together with no men
around, or if they do, don’t go with them. Write them as attractive, interesting, mobile, occasionally
verbal, furniture.
In short, I was terrified of writing women. The biggest difference, I think, between the six Simeon
Grist books and everything that’s followed them is the role women play in the stories.
I believe that what made the difference was Miaow in the Bangkok books. I don’t have any sisters and
I’ve never had a daughter, but for some reason she is the character who comes fastest and most easily,
in part because she always thinks two or three exchanges ahead.
Like a lot of kids, Miaow relies on her wits to make up for her lack of power, even in her relationship
with Rose and Poke. I think right along with her (and with everyone else, of course) and that means
that almost every time I write a line for her I know what her next two will be unless Rose or Poke can
derail her. And that becomes part of the challenge of writing her scenes.
This really is a form of multiple-personality disorder.
When I wrote BREATHING WATER, I put two women together in a room without a man present for
the first time, and bit my nails all the way. Rose and Arthit’s wife Noi have a brief scene about the fact
that Rose has finally accepted Poke’s marriage proposal before they’re rudely interrupted by someone
(male) who does not mean them well. As I was writing BW, I also wrote the first Junior book,
CRASHED, and two things happened: I discovered Junior had a 12-year-old daughter, Rina, and I
found that the character in the book I most liked writing was the drugged-out, hapless, but still very
smart Thistle Downing.
Then I took the big leap. THE QUEEN OF PATPONG contains a 45,000-word stretch that’s
essentially all women. I survived it. And now that I’m writing what I thought would be the seventh
Simeon, PULPED, it’s being taken over by a woman, Madison Jefferson, a character I would follow
anywhere, and am.
So what happened? Damned if I know. (That’s actually why I’m writing this.) I feel now that women
are more like men than I used to believe they were, but different in ways I can’t elucidate. In the act of
writing them, it has more to do with how these characters see the world, somehow, than it does with the
way they handle things.
I know how vague that sounds, but the world of the book looks different to me when I’m seeing it from
a female perspective, and the male characters look very different. (And they behave differently, too.)
Okay, I give up. Does anybody know what I’m trying to say here?
This entry was posted on Sunday, November 21st, 2010 at 11:28 pm and is filed under All Blogs. You can
your own site.
18 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 52: My Inner Woman”
1. Gary Says:
Am I being simplistic here? If I think people are just people? And if you put them
in situations they react like people?
I once wrote 180,000 words entirely from a woman’s perspective. Women said I
nailed it.
And because I used an androgynous pen name the editor thought I was a thirty-
something lesbian, instead of a sixty-something heterosexual male.
When she found out, she had to sit down and have a cup of tea.
2. Jen Says:
Long-time stalker, first time commenter. I just wanted to say ‘yes’! Except as a
woman trying to write men. Or as a straight person trying to write gay characters.
I think with enough practice you can separate ‘here is some human behaviour’
from ‘oh my god dude this dude is different waaaaaaah’ I find I’m becoming
better at imagining how people would react to the world based on where they
come from vs. the cartoony surface characters I used to do… a combinatinon of
practicing writing and just plain getting older and actually listening to more
people?
Thanks so much for your finish your novel series, by the way. It is awesome, I
recommend it all the time.
3. Bonnie Says:
Having dreamed last night that I had a long visit with Nora Roberts, I’m feeling
rather blessed in a writerly way today, and so will take my courage in both hands:
what you are describing is what I imagine it must be like to really be “in the zone”
as a writer. Not being very athletic, I’ve seldom had that sense of letting my body
take over and do what comes naturally, trusting it to be right–since the
prerequisite to that is way more training than I’ve ever had (a few brief illusions
of it, maybe, when skiing a couple decades ago). But I imagine this transcendental
moment when you move from dogged plotting and planning and your characters
take on a life of their own. Mannerisms of speech and gesture that you may have
been unconsciously observing all your life animate your characters and imbue
them with personalities you never dreamed of. At least that’s how I imagine it
might work when you’re having a really good day!
It’s Simeon’s ultimate irony, maybe, that he has the capacity to deeply love, but
what he fears is how that love makes him vulnerable. Poke isn’t afraid to love but
has enough sense to still fear women, in a different, more realistic way.
Some writers can adopt a “foreign” voice and do it well, whether it’s a different
gender, ethnicity/class, sexual orientation. Some do okay, some blow it
completely, some are amazing. If you haven’t, read Woman Lit by Fireflies by Jim
Harrison. It’s just a novella so doesn’t take long, but I am astounded that such an
uebermacho guy can write from a woman’s point of view so well.
The all-female part of Queen worked for me, for what that’s worth, and as I think
I told you I had a mental picture of Austin Scarlett cutting Rose’s hair! It’s
probably harder for me to access the point of view of a person whose parents
would sell her into prostitution, but I didn’t question the femaleness of the
characters for a moment.
4. EverettK Says:
Thank you, Tim, for making me laugh the first thing in the morning. Not by what
you wrote (sorry), but that picture you chose for the column. Yeesh.
As for what you WROTE, I’d say that it’s a sign of your growing maturity (note
that I didn’t say ANYTHING about your advancing age) as a writer. As I was
reading CRASHED, my interest definitely perked up when Trey, Rina, Thistle or
Doc were in the scene. The other characters were fine, but when I think about the
book now (about three weeks later), those are the characters that stick in my mind
Yes. You’re saying that women are not just men in dresses, that no man can really
know what it’s like to be a woman, but you were willing to see if you could
somehow channel a woman’s consciousness such that it was real an believable.
Having ready all your books and not thought about it until you brought it up, from
a male perspective, you seem to have been successful. However, it will be
interesting to see what the women think.
6. Larissa Says:
That’s a tough one. I tend to feel the same way about guys sometimes thoughthere is a character in my one attempt at writing that makes sense to me-and he’s a
boy. I also found that the boyfriend of my main character is easier to write than
my female main character.
I don’t know why that is for me either exactly-maybe I feel more comfortable
writing someone who feels or acts in ways that I inherently believe could never be
attributed to me so therefore I don’t have to worry about what people will think of
the character aka me…
maybe I’ve spent more time analyzing the opposite sex than I have women
because I’ve had to to be able to read their emotions, judge what they’re saying,
etc. without putting the “female twist” on things that sometimes happens…
Maybe it’s a Freudian thing and it goes back to the basic relationships and feelings
of understanding between parents and family dynamics…
Who knows. It could also be that the characters we’re writing that happen to be
male or female are just the “right characters” and it’s not actually about gender.
It’s just what needs to happen for the story. Which sounds a little bit touchy feely
especially in relation to your previous post about visual arts….which I’ll be
commenting on later (c:
Writing characters or split personalities, however you want to put it, is a strange
process. Thoughts and ideas don’t really have genders I don’t think(unless you’re
first language isn’t English-go read that study sometime. It’s cool.)-but they can
be molded by the minds that get a hold of them into something identifiably male
or female.
I dunno. Now I’m going about in circles. (c:
7. Suzanna Says:
Hi, Tim
When I was studying child development about six years ago the research behind
gender differences was very interesting. I learned that there are some very distinct
differences between the sexes. How they see the world, how they act has been
studied and completely mapped out.
But the way I see it there are men and women who defy all of the academic
research. Traits that we assign a specific gender are less pronounced or more
pronounced depending on the individual person. So in that sense I think that it’s
probably a good idea to stay flexible in your perspective about those gender
differences. I hope this doesn’t confuse you more!
Over the past year whenever you have brought up the fact that you feel unsure
about how you portray women in your books I have to admit I’ve been a little
confused. Because while I understand that writing from the female perspective
probably is very intimidating to you since you feel that for the most part you’ve
only portrayed women in roles as useful as “furniture,” to borrow your word, I
have to vehemently disagree with your self-assessment.
You may not have had any sisters, or daughters but you have a remarkable power
of observation, a fertile imagination, and your writing talent to give all of your
characters, male and female, a high degree of believability.
Perhaps it’s just the simple fact that featuring females more prominently in your
work feels like new territory that makes you feel unsure, but I also think that
feeling a little unsure is a great thing for an artist because it’s exciting to push
your limits and tackle something that is a little scary.
I think that over time the more female characters that you spend time with on the
page the more your female characters will come to life as effortlessly as Miaow.
At least that’s what I’m betting on!
Okay, I’m about to second many of the others in this. You have been observing,
and writing, and living for some time, and what you call your “multiple
personality disorder” is really a result of empathy. The ability to get into the skin
of another doesn’t necessarily follow gender lines. You are married and you know
women, and you have a great imagination. Miaow is delightful, and very real and
refreshing, even if you haven’t had a daughter. Somewhere you have seen
someone like her, and she is now one of your “pearls” as it were, grown from
some part of your vision. All this is my humble opinion, of course.
Wow, I had NO IDEA this post would ensnare so many of you. But now that I
have you, and the doors are locked — Are they locked, Igor? — yes, at last I can
tell you my (heh heh heh) plans for you. (Regard those italics and weep, Gary and
Everstt.)
Okay, too much coffee.
Gary, you’re NOT a thirty-something lesbian? Wait until Ursula finds out. Well,
maybe it’s just my hangup, but I never felt that I had any idea at all what women
were like when we (I) weren’t (wasn’t) around, and having lived through the Sex
Wars of the 70s and 80s, I was a bit — which is to say, totally — intimidated. And
I’ve never actually felt like I understood women other than the amazing one I
married. So it’s a great surprise that all these female characters seem to have lined
up for me to write them.
Hi, Jen, and welcome to cyberspace’s most polite melee. I love your line about
“imagining how people would react to the world based on where they come from
vs. the cartoony surface characters I used to do . . .” Boy, that’s growth, to be able
to look back on earlier writing and see its shortcomings without getting all nuts
about OHMIGOD I DON’T HAVE ANY TALENT and WHY AM I
BOTHERING and other drama-queen (king>) negativity. Probably the bigest step
to improvement is being able to do that and taking the ability to live with
occasional failure as a license to write on tiptoe all the time, trying to do things
you don’t know how to do. Congratulations. And I’m so glad you like the stuff on
the site.
Riss, great response. I also am sometimes more comfortable writing a character
no one would mistake for me. In QUEEN I originally wrote a couple of short
chapters first-person as Howard, and I absolutely could not allow them into the
book. My editor rescued me with the brilliant suggestion about writing him in
close-up third person at the very end of the book — one of the best suggestions
I’ve ever had. And clearly you’re right about the characters being, from one
perspective, just what’s needed by the story, although they’re also the people who
create the story — plot is, after all, what characters do — and that’s another
reason I think the women I wrote in the old days were primarily reactive. I didn’t
feel I understood them well enough to hand the plot to them.
Laren, right, they’re not just men in dresses but neither are they another species.
Channeling a woman’s perspective was precisely what frightened me, and for
some reason Miaow was the thin edge of the wedge that opened the whole thing
up for me. The reactions to my writing that have made me happiest this year were
the reviews written about QUEEN by female critics, every one of whom bought
into Rose’s world without qualifications, or at least without any qualifications
they expressed.
More to come, including everyone I seemed to skip — it’s an artifact of how
seriously this computer takes the PAGE UP key.
Tim, I know you’re always open to new challenges and to testing previously
unused “literary muscle” as a means of extending your range as a writer, so here’s
a challenge for you (if it seems familiar, that’s because it’s based on an old
challenge, but with additional requirements):
Write a full-length novel, told from the 1st-person POV, centered around the
exploits of a strong, 30-something female protagonist. Raise the level of difficulty
by making her bi-sexual (writing her as strictly straight or lesbian is too easy) and
giving her sexual encounters with both men and women (not necessarily at the
same time–get your mind out of the gutter).
To successfully meet the challenge, your character’s thoughts and actions and
dialog must be believable to men, straight women, lesbians and bi-sexual women–
in other words, pretty much everyone.
I’m sure you can do this, Tim; the question is, dare you?
11.Sylvia Says:
The first time I wrote a story from a male perspective, I was lucky enough to have
a very good friend (male) who read it and said straight out that I’d done a bad job.
Since then, I’ve improved a lot (I HOPE) and I’ve also read some totally tonedeaf characterisations by men writing about women or women writing about men.
So although I like the idea that “people are just people”, my experience is that it is
very obvious when someone tries to write about the opposite gender without being
very careful about their portrayal. It’s not just about attitudes – speech patterns are
*very* different and what’s left unsaid is really a giveaway to me about how well
the author is able to portray the gender.
I think that I specifically mentioned to you that I liked the way you portrayed your
women of Patpong as being both straight-forward and complicated. (If I didn’t, I
meant to!)
Hi, Bonnie — So did Nora have any good advice? Ask her to drop in on me some
evening. Regarding being in the zone, it happens to me ONLY when I’m writing
daily, or at least five days a week. The problem is that when the characters start to
talk and move around on their own, they’re sometimes no more interesting than I
am. The trick (for me) is to give them their head and see where we all wind up.
Invariably in the act of writing, say 15 pages, there will be a dozen places where
things could have gone one of two or three ways, and if what I wind up with is
dreck, I go back in the scene and take one of those alternatives. Sometimes a
purely technical approach will make things better: once the scene is written,
decide to start it halfway through, which forces you to confront just how little
information the reader needs to understand what’s happening. Often, in deleting
the setup for a scene, you’ll lose a false start on a character’s part, and suddenly it
all works better. But do my characters ever just start talking to me? All the time,
and I think that’s true for most writers. The problem sometimes is getting them to
shut up. And I’m very happy the women in QUEEN worked for you. I can’t tell
you how many times I almost tossed the whole book.
Everett, thanks for being so nice about the women in CRASHED. I keep
forgetting about Trey, but when I was writing her I liked her a lot. I especially had
fun writing the scenes where she and Thistle locked horns. They were so different
and so alike at the same time. It’s funny about Thistle — as dumped-on as she is,
she was still a star for much of her life, and stardom really does change people.
She has that button available to her in her dealings with other people, but it’s
useless when she’s alone with her fears. I laughed at the photograph, too.
Suzanna, why are you so nice to me? What have I done to deserve all the things
you say? (Full disclosure: when I met Suzanna, she was four years old.) I
appreciate your kind words about the women in the earlier books, but I really have
to remember that I wrote them through Simeon’s first-person, so any
shortcomings in the way they’re treated is really his fault. He’s learned a lot about
women since his last outing, though — he hasn’t even met Madison face-to-face
yet in PULPED and he’s already looking at her differently than he did the female
characters in the first books. I also have to say that part of my issues with writing
women was probably rooted in hearing many, many women say that men couldn’t
write women, although most of then weren’t willing to concede that some women
also have trouble writing men.
Hi, Lil, and thanks to you, too. I love Miaow, and writing her definitely opened
me up to the possibility of writing more girls and females — even the central
character of the big stand-alone thriller I’l be writing in six months or so is a
woman. I still find it interesting. (Miaow is, by the way, based on a real child, a
homeless girl I met in Bangkok 25 years ago. I’ll tell her story in a blog some
time.)
Hey, Phil — Gosh, why not have her speak Urdu and be burdened by an
exoskeleton, too? It’s enough of a stretch for me to have this whole gallery of
women who seem to be waiting for me to write them (I’ve even been thinking of a
thriller with THREE female protagonists. Maybe I could divide those
characteristics up among those characters instead of giving them all to one.) But
you don’t mention their politics or their religious backgrounds or their . . . Well,
you mention quite enough. Seriously, it’s a stretch for me to get to the end of
every page I write. And I’m flattered to think you believe I could pull that
challenge off, because the very prospect makes my palms perspire.
Sylvia, it’s interesting that you think you failed on the basis of just one reaction.
Characters are pretty complicated, and gender is only one aspect. I really do like
the idea that what’s left unsaid is different for men and women. That’s something
to think about, since I seem to be writing a high-IQ woman who uses her
intelligence mostly to second-guess herself and who passes judgment not only
about the things she says but even the things she thinks sometimes. I have to think
about that. Writing is so much about what they say and so little (for me, anyway)
about what they don’t say. Hmmmm.
14.kathleen lockhart Says:
Here’s my thought on how men and women differ: men are about things–that’s
what they talk about. Women are about people and about feelings. If you want to
make a man squirm, ask him how he feels about his daughter, son, wife. The room
goes silent. Sometimes, just to be difficult, I wait the man out, staying silent
myself. I’m sure men have their own version of this game, from the other side.
But how can I relate to a CAR, for pete’s sake???
15.Debbi Says:
Elayne Boosler once said, “I’m just a person trapped inside a woman’s body.”
I think that pretty much sums up my feelings.
Hi, Kathleen, and thanks for coming by. I think the trick of writing either men or
women is finding a character who contradicts just enough of what’s expected to
make them hard to predict, but who are recognizable enough to be “realistic,”
whatever that actually means — realism is just convincing artifice, I think. But I
haven’t given it that much thought.
Debbi — NOW YOU TELL ME???? You’re partially responsible for my being in
this position in the first place. Debbi is the reviewer, everyone, who gave
BREATHING WATER a great review but had reservations about Rose, calling her
“arm candy” — and, partially as a result of that comment, I wrote THE QUEEN
OF PATPONG. If it hadn’t been for that, I might still be writing about characters
named Biff and Spike.
17.Debbi Says:
LOL! I guess I’ve never been big on defining people based on gender. The way I
see it, everyone’s different and it’s hazardous to generalize simply because
someone is male or female.
And if my comment contributed toward your decision to write THE QUEEN OF
PATPONG, well, that just kind of blows me away.
Debbi, it absolutely did. I knew I was going to go back in time with Rose sooner
or later, but your review persuaded me that sooner was a good idea. So you can
blame yourself for all this whining I’m doing about female characters.
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 53: Loose Bits
November 22nd, 2010
Just some disconnected pieces.
The worst night’s sleep of my life was in a hut on the Krueger Game Reserve in South Africa. I was
working on a television show called “Scientific American Frontiers” with Alan Alda, with whom I was
sharing the hut. It had thick whitewashed walls and a thatched roof and looked just fine by daylight.
At night, however, the 124 trillion occupants of the thatch directly above us– things with more legs
than there are stars in the sky — began to rain down upon us in an orchestrated effort either to eat us
alive or else to scare us to death and then eat us. We wound up under tents of suspended sheets,
listening to the little aliens hit the cotton, until the sky began to pale, at which time we were outside in
less time than it takes to decide not to buy broccoli. I have to say, if I ever again have to be trapped in a
verminous tent with a star, I hope it’s Alan Alda. An amazing guy.
The first time I ever went to the Philippines — working on the worst movie ever made, and that
includes “Showgirls” — I was just dropping off to sleep in my hotel room when I heard something hit
the floor in the bathroom with a sound like a palm slapping a wall. I went in, and ambitiously trying to
get over the lip of the shower stall was a centipede eight inches long. I could actually hear its 13 zillion
legs scraping on the rough-tiled floor. I called down to the front desk, and they sent up an armed guard
who looked at it, looked at me as if I were the wuss of the world, and then pulled out his enormous
pistol and pointed it at the centipede. Then he laughed uproariously, releasing into the air the hearty
fumes of a fine Scotch. Ultimately, he stepped on it, making a sound I will carry to my grave, grabbed
some toilet paper, and flushed it. Not much sleep that night, either.
But enough about vermin.
When I was nine and living in Washington, DC, I was on a Saturday-morning TV show called
(anyone who rags me about this is roadkill) “Ask It Basket.” It was hosted by a very nice woman
whom I retroactively realize was a vigorously out lesbian and produced by her partner. This was pretty
early for lesbians to be totally and comfortably out. Anyway, I was one of four unendurable little
smart-asses on a panel, and every week they’d bring in an expert of some kind who would answer five
minutes’ worth of questions from the host — just enough to prime the four little camera-hogs in the
corner, and then we’d ask questions.
In one corner of the set was a big basket with one of those bubble machines in it and once or twice each
show they’d turn on the bubbles and the station announcer, who was up really early for a Saturday,
would ask a question — as the basket, you see. Have I lost anyone? See, the bubbles would start and
the voice — the announcer’s voice would seem to come out of the basket. Okay? Good. Forget it.
One morning we had an actual rocket scientist as a guest and he was talking about super-cold
environments, and the basket (the announcer, remember?) asked him something about something, God
only knows what. The important thing is that he answered by taking a carnation and dipping it into
some liquid nitrogen and then knocking it against the edge of the demonstration table, and it shattered
with what seemed to me like the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard in my life. I wanted to hear it
every morning forever.
This could go on forever, but I won’t let it.
This entry was posted on Monday, November 22nd, 2010 at 10:57 pm and is filed under All Blogs. You can
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9 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 53: Loose Bits”
1. Larissa Says:
lol. I dig it. What a random little collection of events-I think–correction–I know I
would have actually died staying in that hut all night. Perhaps it would have been
ruled Insect-icide? (c;
Regardless-you should save up the rest of the odds and ends and use ‘em for
whenever you get really stuck on day 362…(c:
2. Suzanna Says:
I hope this isn’t treading on thin road kill ice but I would pay anything to see a
clip of you on Ask-It-Basket.
Your centipede and verminous thatched hut story way outdo my one vivid
encounter with, um, wildlife. I’ll tell it anyway. We were in Kauai in this
otherwise wonderful little house when I was just dozing off and felt something,
something really big, skitter across the tops of my feet. I screamed, threw the
sheets back and saw the culprit, a roach the size of an ashtray. I screamed, it ran
off the edge of our bed, and I ran in the opposite direction like my life depended
on it. Don’t normally get so worked up about bugs when I see them but this was
big and ugly and it touched me!!!! In the tropics no insect is dainty.
3. EverettK Says:
Well, I know you’re an old fart, but “go on forever” is kind of stretching it…
Question: is CRASHED only available on Amazon? Or is it available at some
other stores in ePub format? I did a search of Barnes & Noble and didn’t find it,
and have tried several other ebook search engines with no luck.
Riss, I like writing these little pieces of bric-a-brac; not everything that amuses or
interests me is worth a whole post. I’ll probably do this once ever week or two. (I
keep thinking a bunch of categories will suddenly emerge and make things easier,
but they don’t.)
Suzanna, vermin in the tropics are really ambitious. I’ve seen spiders the size of
teacups, eight-pound rats, moths with a six-inch wingspan and the horrifying
hissing cockroaches. This is why I avoid in the tropics budget hotels I wouldn’t
think twice about in colder climates.
Everett, I’ll bet I can write this stuff longer than you’re willing to read it.
CRASHED is Amazon-only now but soon to be on B&N and Apple. Won’t put it
on Kobo.
5. Susan Says:
OK . . . I feel out of my league here, but I’m going to tread in anyway. I’ve never
been to the tropics and I’ve certainly never shared a tent with a star (not yet,
anyway). I recently learned that I can kill a 2 inch centipede and not die of fright
in the process. Tim, I enjoy your ramblings and I intend to read them as long as
you can write them.
Susan, if Everett feels at home here, no one is out of her/his league. Sharing a tent
with a star is a variable experience, depending on the star. Sometimes I’d prefer
the cockroach.
Welcome, and please do come back.
That frozen carnation thingy is how the congressional panel investigating Morton
(when it rains, it pours) Thiacol found out why the O ring ruptured on the space
shuttle causing such a catastrophe.
As I understand it, after hearing a bunch of dissembling blather designed to
obfuscate, one of the panel took (I forget what), dunked it into his ice water and
shattered it on the desk– illustrating that the temp was too cold on the morning of
the launch, those in charge knew it but went ahead with the launch anyway, and
the result was the spectacular fireworks in the sky.
Maybe he was one of the kids on your TV show.
8. EverettK Says:
Close Laren. I saw that broadcast of part of the panel, where a famous (and
delightfully entertaining) physicist, Richard Feynman, took a piece of the rubber
O-ring dunked it in a glass of ice water for a few minutes. When he took it out the
O-ring was clearly non-pliable, very easily demonstrating that the O-ring material
was not ‘qualified’ for use in the freezing weather conditions at the time.
A brief recounting of the sad state of NASA at the time, and Feynman’s part in the
Roger’s commision, can be read at:
Rogers Commission and the role of Richard Feynman
He was an incredibly smart man, a great teacher, and a very witty writer. I have a
book of his around here somewhere, wherein he recounts his experiences as a
young man on the Manhattan Project, and how he used to drive the government
security guys crazy by cracking the safes that were used to store sensitive
documents. It may have been, “Surely You’re Joking, Mr. Feynman!” but I’m not
sure.
Very entertaining stuff anyway.
Hey, Laren, hey, Everett. Play nicely. Feynman was an amazing guy. I heard a talk
by Herman Wouk, 98 years old or something and still writing, and he told two
Feynman stories. When Wouk was writing THE WINDS OF WAR, he went to
Feynman to learn about the science behind the atomic bomb. He apparently got a
little wound up explaining his novel, because eventually Feynman said, “Mr.
Wouk. As long as you’re talking, you’re not learning.”
Later, in preparation for another book, he consulted Feynman again, and Feynman
asked Wouk if he knew Calculus. When Wouk said no, Feynman said, “Too bad.
Calculus is the language God thinks in.”
He was also an enthusiastic drummer, I think.
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 53 1/2: BREAKING NEWS!
November 23rd, 2010
We interrupt our usual programming for this important bulletin.
This is my wife’s birthday.
I am now fortunate enough to have traveled once more all the way around the sun with the woman I
love.
Munyin is my best friend on earth, the person I think about most often, my companion even when I’m
grumpy, frustrated, miserable, and dangerous to be around. She was recently awarded the prestigious
Presidential Medal for Forbearance for not having shot me even once over the past thirty years.
As essential as she is to my personal life (I actually do have one, despite the ongoing psychic surgery of
this daily blog) she’s equally essential to my creative life.
She’s the imaginary person sitting opposite me at the table, even when she’s thousands of miles away,
to whom I tell the stories I write. When things are going well, I can feel the tug of her attention pulling
me deeper into the story. When that line goes slack, I know I’m just writing writing and it’s time to
pull back and take a fresh look.
She’s the first listener for all my books, sitting patiently for hours and hours and hours as I read raw,
unedited, overlong, overwritten drafts aloud, and every time she asks a question (or begins to snore) I
know I have a problem area. I’d say the books improve 30%-40% because of the way she listens.
She’s my mood elevator when I hit bottom and decide I’m written out forever, which happens all the
time. She’s the person who reminds me that I fall apart on every book, usually more than once, and
that I’ve managed to finish them all anyway.
She’s the only person in the world I’ll travel with. We’ve been to Asia, Europe, and all over America,
from New York to Hawaii, with side trips everywhere else. I now have in my head a personal and
highly specialized GPS that tells me exactly how far I am at all times from the nearest clean bathroom.
She’s who I come home to, and whom I miss when I’m not home.
She makes me laugh.
I love her, and I want you all to join in — wait, I’m still screwing with the candles. Okay — one, two,
three:
This entry was posted on Tuesday, November 23rd, 2010 at 9:17 am and is filed under All Blogs. You can
your own site.
31 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 53 1/2: BREAKING
NEWS!”
1. Suzanna Says:
Happy Birthday Munyin! You are an angel. Hope you have a wonderful day of
celebration! xoxo Zanner
3. CJ West Says:
Happy Birthday Munyin! What a wonderful tribute, Tim. I’m not sure which one
of you is luckier, but I don’t think that really matters.
I hope you are blessed with another happy 30 years.
CJ
Happy Birthday, and enjoy the day!
Tim, that’s a lovely tribute to your lovely wife (Happy Birthday, Munyin). I wish
for the two of you to enjoy many more trips around the sun together.
6. Mitch Bower Says:
Have a great birthday Munyin – even after a short meeting at a book signing in
Thousand Oaks I am very happy to know both of you.
7. Bonnie Says:
Happy birthday, Munyin! And many more!
8. Larissa Says:
9. glenn w Says:
Birthday greetings to you, Munyin, and best wishes from a fellow Sagitarian. Tim
is a fortunate man, indeed, to have you in his life.
His words about you are beautiful and, of course, well deserved!
It was a treat to meet you when I was visiting Tim a couple summers back.
Enjoy your Day!!
10.EverettK Says:
And CJ, I have NO doubt which of them is the luckier. It’s really kind of unfair,
for someone to get both buckets of talent AND buckets of luck.
Hmmm…. maybe it’s not all luck???
11.Munyin Says:
Dear Suzanna, Rachel, CJ, Lil, Phil, Mitch, Bonnie, Larissa, Glen and Everett–
What a wonderful surprise this is. I looked at the blog for the first time about 10
minutes ago and it’s a great ending to a wonderful birthDAY. Thank you all so
much for your kind wishes & for taking the time to write. I wish you were all here
for cake. Love, Munyin
Thanks to you all — I had to prod her to read the blog because she gets quite a lot
of my writing, but she got all girlie about it when she finally read it. Thanks for
helping me make it a great birthday.
My Captcha is “expectis hightech,” which is what Hermione says when she turns
Voldemort into a transistor radio and then tunes him permanently to Radio Disney.
13.ShadoeBeverlyAmberChyna Says:
HAPPYBIRTHDAYHAPPYBIRTHDAYHAPPYBIRTHDAYHAPPYBIRTHDA
YHAPPYBIRTHDAYHAPPYBIRTHDAYHAPPYBIRTHDAYHAPPYBIRTHD
AYHAPPYBIRTHDAYHAPPYBIRTHDAYHAPPYBIRTHDAYHAPPYBIRTH
DAYHAPPYBIRTHDAYHAPPYBIRTHDAYHAPPYBIRTHDAYHAPPYBIRT
HDAYHAPPYBIRTHDAYHAPPYBIRTHDAYHAPPYBIRTHDAYHAPPYBIR
THDAYHAPPYBIRTHDAYHAPPYBIRTHDAYHAPPYBIRTHDAYHAPPYBI
RTHDAYHAPPYBIRTHDAYHAPPYBIRTHDAYHAPPYBIRTHDAYHAPPYB
IRTHDAYHAPPYBIRTHDAYHAPPYBIRTHDAYHAPPYBIRTHDAYHAPPY
BIRTHDAYHAPPYBIRTHDAYHAPPYBIRTHDAYHAPPYBIRTHDAYHAPP
YBIRTHDAYHAPPYBIRTHDAYHAPPYBIRTHDAYHAPPYBIRTHDAYHAP
PYBIRTHDAYHAPPYBIRTHDAYHAPPYBIRTHDAYHAPPYBIRTHDAYHA
PPYBIRTHDAYHAPPYBIRTHDAYHAPPYBIRTHDAYHAPPYBIRTHDAYH
APPYBIRTHDAYHAPPYBIRTHDAYHAPPYBIRTHDAYHAPPYBIRTHDAY
HAPPYBIRTHDAYHAPPYBIRTHDAYHAPPYBIRTHDAY TO ONE OF THE
GREAT ALL-TIME INCREDIBLE HEART-WARMING WONDERFUL
CHARISMATIC CHEERFUL AND HIGH-MINDED PEOPLE WE’VE EVER
KNOWN! NOTE THE ALL-CAPS. WE’RE SCREAMING!
14.Strummed Words Says:
What a lovely tribute. I feel a song coming on….Happy birthday, Munyin!
15.Gar Haywood Says:
Happy birthday, Munyin! And thanks for helping make Tim’s great writing
possible!
16.Gary Says:
Happy Birthday, Munyin!
I hope we can meet some day.
Very best wishes from Gary
My Captcha for today: The munint. Obviously a slight mistranslation of: the one
and only Munyin!
17.Sharai Says:
Happy Birthday Munyin!!!!!
Beautiful photos of you both, looking happpy!
18.Leah Says:
Munyin, Although I have not had the pleasure in seeing either of you two these
past few years, I think of you two often. Munyin, for you, a wonderful person, I
wish you, a wonderful birthday!
Love,
Leah
What book is this from? Wait…
And who’s the young chick in the photos?
20.DeAnn Says:
Anyone who gets such a very nice B day missive from her partner must be doing
something right. Big Happy B
Happy Birthday, Munyin, and congratulations to both of you on a blissful
marriage!
Pat Browning
22.Sylvia Says:
Happy Birthday Munyin! I hope you know how much we appreciate you and all
your efforts at keeping Tim sane and writing!
23.Annelie Says:
Happy Birthday! Munyin
24.Penelope Bright Says:
Munyin, Happy Birthday! It’s a day late that I am seeing this; however I wish you
much loving and continued great health. It must be nice, ’cause look at you!
Happy Birthday Munyin! May this be the best year yet!
26.Munyin Says:
Dear ShadoeBeverlyAmberChyna, Strummed Words, Gar, Gary, Sharai, Leah,
Laren, DeAnn, Pat, Sylvia, Annelie, Penelope, & Stephen: This is an incredible
response to a hermit like me!!!!! You’ve all been so sweet & generous. What a
great way to start my personal new year. Munyin
Wow, everyone — I second Mun’s thanks and add one of my own. This is a great
birthday present.
28.Peg Brantley Says:
A belated birthday wish, Munyin. Somehow I think you are the heart of Tim, and
without you we wouldn’t have the thrill of him.
The LoML’s birthday is just a few days before yours, and like you and that writer
fella, we have traveled to a few places.
I can only guess at your patience, your understanding. But I’m pretty sure I’m
right on target with your love.
Happy Belated Birthday, LoTHL.
29.Debbi Says:
Wow! That was beautiful.
Happy belated birthday, Munyin!
Thanks so much, Peg and Debbi — wow, a lot of good writers — Rachel, whose
second novel, DEAD LIFT, I just read and loved even more than her first, FINAL
APPROACH; CJ, whose THE END OF MARKING TIME is on Kindle right now
and well worth everyone’s time; Gar Haywood, whose CEMETERY ROAD was
one of the best books of 2010; Gary Archer, who writes under several
pseudonyms, and for good reason; Pat Browning, whose ABSINTHE OF
MALICE is getting the kind of sales on Kindle I want, and richly deserves them;
Stephen Cohn, a classical composer whose music has won him an Emmy; Peg
Brantley, whose blog, http://suspensenovelist.blogspot.com/ is an online campfire
for the inkstained wretches who — what? what’s ink? — sorry, the carpal-tunnel
sufferers who write the books that keep people up at night; and Debbi Mack,
author of the two crackling-good Sam McRae mysteries, IDENTITY CRISIS
(available now) and LEAST WANTED (coming soon and killer in several senses
of the word). Pretty impressive lineup of writers. Munyin will be reading for
weeks to catch up with you all.
31.Louise Says:
December 5th, 2010 at 7:43 pm
Happy Birthday Munyin… so glad to have “found” you and Tim again thanks to
the internet. Somehow it helps me feel more grounded. You look as terrific as ever
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 54: Dithering
November 24th, 2010
Should I or shouldn’t I? Run this story, I mean.
You guys have been patient and supportive through all the dithering of the past 53 days, and more than
sweet in wishing Munyin happy birthday. (That really did make the day.) But I just don’t know about
the Thanksgiving story.
It’s so unforgivably dumb. It’s so dumb it doesn’t even have a title.
You’ve sat through first-draft bits and sample chapters and half-chewed pieces of my subconscious, but
this will be the first time I’ve been intentionally, let-it-all-dangle-in-the-breeze dumb. I’m afraid you
won’t like me any more.
And then there are Everett and Gary, continually running the knife-edge over the whetstone. They’ll
eviscerate me.
This feels, I know, like someone attempting to lower expectations. But it would be literally impossible
to get your expectations low enough for this story.
Maybe if I frame it accurately, that’ll help me rewrite it. When in trouble, a writer friend of mine
advises, do the TV Guide log listing and see where your book deviates from it.
Okay. TV Guide log listings begin with a title, so I need a title. THANKSGIVING WITH ALL
THOSE DOUGS. ”Dougs” as in plural of the guy’s name, “Doug.” Dees that interest you? I thought
not.
Here goes: THANKSGIVING WITH ALL THOSE DOUGS: A gritty, noir look at America’s feasting
day, told from the perspective of a pen behind the farmhouse, with a view of the chopping block.
Well. That really lifted my spirits.
Maybe the thing to do is regain some perspective. In the larger analysis, this is just one blog out of
365, written by just one person out of some 5 billion, a single member of a species whose entire history
takes place in a single blink of the cosmic eye, on a small rocky planet that will ultimately be
incinerated, just an ash orbiting a black hole in the emptiness of space.
I feel much better.
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18 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 54: Dithering”
1. Robb Royer Says:
I don’t know about no turkeys but…
BAPPYHRUTMITTAGDUJOURANNEENAVIDADJOLIEFRUEICHEGUTEN
GLUCHFRLIZ… uh… Happy Birthday Mun.
Always late always late.
2. Suzanna Says:
Sounds intriguing. Especially the bit about the Dougs. Chopping block? Yikes.
Don’t worry about the story not being perfect. Your loyal fans will NEVER desert
you!
3. EverettK Says:
Look at it this way, Tim:
1) We’re not paying you for this stuff.
2) You’re doing this for YOUR benefit, not ours.
3) To tie into my reply to an early blog, follow Richard Feynman’s lead. The title
of one of his books was, “What Do You Care What Other People Think?”
4) Our expectation can’t GET any lower, so you may as well stop trying.
5) No matter WHAT we think, it WILL fill one of your 365 Days of Hell.
Of course, you could always give up and write about Junior stealing a Cornish
Game Hen…
Ever notice how much a turkey looks a peacock? A peacock that couldn’t afford
the costume and got it’s mum to run one up…
.
Do you think I could get away with a character called Aaron A. G. String?
6. Munyin Says:
Hi Robb: Good to see your name on Tim’s blog. Happy Thanksgiving to you,
Maddy, and your beautiful children. & thanks for your well wishes for yesterday.
We can’t title a story without reading it. So run the story and then the next day’s
blog can be a contest for naming it. Now doesn’t that sound like *fun?!*
Hi, Robb and thanks for the display of polylingual pyrotechnics. Impressivo, as
they don’t say in Spain. And whaddya mean, you don’t know about no turkey?
You’re the guy with the ranch. You should think about raising poultry, actually —
you’d get a much better look at foxes.
Suzie, I know my loyal fans will stick with me through thick and thin but this is
really going to push it. At least I have a title now, even if it does stink.
Everett, I’ve been thinking about that. About how you’re not paying me, I mean.
If I were to send you an SASE would that make it easier? Alternatively, I accept
PayPal and empty promises.
Hey Philip — Very funny. Turkeys are sort of entry-level peacocks, and I never
saw that before. Mun says thank you.
You could probably get away with it, and most people would miss it completely
because I don’t think many readers hear words as they read them. I like it,
especially the double-barreled middle initial. Maybe a musicologist, someone who
authenticates recently discovered musical manuscripts attributed to Mozart and
his ilk, if anyone ever was of Mozart’s ilk, which i doubt.
So,Tim . . . anyone can have an off day. (Sorry, still love you. Still waiting to read
the Grist stuff on my Kindle. But just sayin’.)
Munyin, once again, happy belated birthday.
And okay . . I’m looking at this Captcha crap and wondering if maybe I’ve had
too much wine. I don’t think my computer keyboard has these things. . . .
10.EverettK Says:
Tim said: Alternatively, I accept PayPal and empty promises.
Far out! As soon as I finish this comment, I’ll hustle right on over to my Paypal
account and send you 100 empty promises!
(Does that make it A Hundred and One Empty Promises???)
11.Debbi Says:
http://mackthewriter.wordpress.com/2010/11/24/happy-thanksgiving-and-buynothing-day/
Hi, Peg — SKIN DEEP is winging itself toward you right now. Captcha looks like
that to everyone — what I can’t stand is when one of the words is in Cyrillic or
something. Byt that’s what the little arrows-in-a-circle are for: hit them, and you’ll
get a new code.
Everett, What does one more empty promise mean to someone who’s spent 20
years working with mainstream publishers? (Everyone but you, HarperCollins.)
Empty promises are the currency of publishing. Isn’t that dramatic?
Debbi — I like your piece just fine, and it’s a lot shorter than mine. I have to learn
to write shorter. Debbi, everyone, just wrote a terrific book called LEAST
WANTED that I’m 85% through, in an ARC. It marks the return of her tough but
good-hearted (and smart) female lawyer, Sam McRae, first seen in IDENTITY
CRISIS, and it’s as good or even better than the first.
Laren, you got trashed by accident. No, it doesn’t sound like fun, even with quotes
around it. I’m putting this story up and behind me simultaneously.
14.Debbi Says:
I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it, Debbi — both books are first-rate.
Wow, Tim. THANKS! SKIN DEEP is now on my Kindle. Wahoo . . . and very
generous of you! Made my day.
My pleasure, Peg — I hope you like it, but remember it’s actually the first book I
ever wrote for publication. Theoretically, at least, I’ve gotten better since then.
It’s my pleasure, Peg — I hope you like it, but remember it’s actually the first
book I ever wrote for publication. Theoretically, at least, I’ve gotten better since
then.
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 55: “Thanksgiving With All Those Dougs”
November 24th, 2010
Once upon a time . . .
. . . there was a cheerful, plump, adorable little turkey named Billy.
No. No, there wasn’t. I mean, maybe there was, but not in this story.
Deep breath.
Once upon a time, living behind a run-down farm in Massachusetts, there was a grumpy, unpleasant
male-chauvinist turkey named Doug.
Well, he thought of himself as Doug, but Doug wasn’t his real name. The truth is that no turkey knows
his or her real name. When a lady turkey lays eggs, she names her children by whispering a name over
each of the eggs. That’s fine for Mom, she can rest content in the knowledge that she’s done her job,
but the kids, so to speak, are still pretty much yolks and whites, and they’re a long way from their
cognitive peaks.
So when they hatch, they don’t know their names.
Now, turkeys have deep-seated and richly deserved insecurities about being, well, dumb. They are,
after all, the only species ever to drown by looking up at the rain for too long. And when a turkey
doesn’t know something, he or she pretends to know it. So this turkey pretended it knew its name and
the name it pretended its name was, was Doug.
No other turkey called him Doug, of course. All turkeys are secretly afraid they thought up a stupid
name, so they keep their made-up names a secret all their lives. In fact, turkeys go through life pretty
much calling each other, “Hey! You,” and also answering to “Hey! You!” If you doubt this, just
memorize “Hey, You!” in turkey and go to a poultry farm and yell it out. All the turkeys will look at
you. Honest.
And, as any turkey expert will tell you, they might as well call each other, “Hey! You!” because they
all decide to call themselves Doug. Hard as it may be to believe, only one name ever occurs to a
turkey. The result is that every turkey has the same secret name.
Got it? It will cease to be important immediately, as the story leaps forward.
Doug (the Doug we’re talking about, not any of the other Dougs) was the king of the herd or flock or
whatever a bunch of turkeys is called (they secretly think of themselves as “a cluster of Dougs”), and
very used to throwing his weight around. He was also nearsighted, with the result that he mistook most
things for turkeys and, since he was only interested in female turkeys, he mistook most things for
female turkeys, tried to have his way with them, and often succeeded. He was especially close with
Farmer Brown’s Airedale, Sporting Life, a relationship that Farmer Brown, a flinty, tradition-minded
New Englander with a rich vein of Old-Testament morality, did not look upon with favor.
Let’s see. Oh, yes, wait, I was right the first time, there was a cheerful, plump, adorable little turkey
named Billy. (He thought of himself as “Doug,” but we’ll call him Billy. All the characters having the
same name presents even the most skilled writer with certain sophisticated technical problems if the
reader is to keep the characters straight.) All the young female turkeys tried to keep old Doug at wing’s
length, but whenever Billy went by, they blushed becomingly beneath their feathers and called out in
melting, tremulous voices, “Hey! You!” and all the other turkeys, including Doug, turned around, so
nobody felt left out.
The warm weather was barely a memory by now, especially to a turkey, and many of the leaves had
fallen from the trees, a sequence of events that fills turkeys everywhere with a vague, nameless
uneasiness. In the farmhouse, Farmer Brown’s two tousle-haired children, um, Bob and Norah,
couldn’t understand why their father didn’t want them to go out and play any more with Billy, their
favorite turkey. ”Whywhywhywhywhywhywhywhy?” they cried out, “we love Billy.” But their father
just glared at their mother and said, “You wouldn’t listen, would you?”
The next morning, Farmer Brown was up early, long before sunrise, wrapped in a heavy coat and
carrying an axe. As Bob and Norah slumbered innocently, Farmer Brown unlatched the gate of the
turkey pen and went in, pushing his way through the torpid birds until he found Billy. Quick as a wink,
he swooped down and grabbed Billy by the feet, trying to move quietly. But all the young female
turkeys woke up and started yelling after Billy, “Hey! You!” Hey! You!” and the other turkeys woke up
and said, “What? What?”
The clamor pierced the night, and a light came on in Bobby and Norah’s room, and threw a pale beam
in front of Farmer Brown and revealed Doug, who had escaped through the open gate, in the final
stages of a lightning courtship with Sporting Life. Farmer Brown stared at this violation of nature and
said, “Gol-dang it,” and tossed Billy over his shoulder, grabbed Doug, and with a clean downward
gesture over the chopping block, made a widow out of Sporting Life.
Billy lay dazed on his back, staring at the pool of blood already cooling on the dirt as the young female
turkeys ran toward him. But then there was a silver shimmering in the stars, like a pool of mercury
rolling around, and a long-fingered pale Hand came down out of the darkness and pointed at Billy, and
a calm. clear Voice said, “You are blessed, Doug.” (Remember, Billy actually thinks his name is
Doug.) ”Every Thanksgiving,” the Voice continued, “in expiation for the wholesale slaughter of
turkeys, one turkey is granted Transformation, deliverance from turkeydom.” Since the Owner of the
Voice was used to dealing with turkeys, it concluded, “And this year, that’s you.”
And with a mystical gesture there’s absolutely no point in describing because you wouldn’t be able to
do it anyway, the hand turned Billy into a pure white swan — and what’s more, a swan that spoke both
English and French and was inclined toward the existentialist view of life, and Billy rose into the air on
strong white wings and flew to Paris, where he bought a beret and learned to smoke cigarettes and
trained his right eye to wander off to the side, and everyone called him Jean-Paul, and he never heard
the word “Thanksgiving” again.
Back behind the farmhouse, for eight or nine days — which is how long it takes for half of a turkey’s
brain cells to die and be replaced by new ones that don’t know anything – the other turkeys
occasionally asked each other, “Whatever happened to Whatsisname and Whatsisname?” While, in
Paris, Billy raised an eyebrow and lit a Gauloise.
The End.
Told you it was dumb.
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from your own site.
17 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 55: “Thanksgiving With
All Those Dougs””
1. Hitch Says:
Okay, Doug:
In the time-honored tradition of turkeys on Turkey Day…you came through.
Although I rather liked the Gauloise.
Hitch
2. Gary Says:
Good. But sadly misguided.
Billy didn’t end up in Paris. He actually ascended to the Heaviside Layer. Singing
all the while “Memory.” In a voice that sounded exactly like Barbra Strident.
3. Gary Says:
Well, we were talking about turkeys, weren’t we?
4. EverettK Says:
Dumb, all right. Dumb like a fox.
It gave me a good laugh, but I can see what you’re doing. You realized that there’s
more money in childrens’ books than in adult novels. Most of the time I was
reading this, I kept thinking, “This reads JUST like the best childrens’ books:
interesting and exciting at the childrens’ level, but with an over-their-heads level
of humor for the adults.” Just like the classic cartoons from the 1940s.
You really should consider a second line of endeavors. All you have to do is find a
suitable artist and a publisher, and you’re in business! Of course, you might have
to be a little more… obscure? veiled? in some of your references so that they DO
go over the childrens’ heads. But other than that, you’re good to go!
Honest.
(But I still enjoyed it! I’d place it in the top 25% of the 365 blogs so far.)
5. Colleen Says:
Awe, gosh, Tim, thank you. That was a fun way to start turkey day. I’m sure Billy
Doug lived happily ever after in Paris, gorging himself on escargot. Happy
Thanksgiving!
6. Suzanna Says:
Just think if Billy, aka Doug, had been Transformed into a female Airedale he and
Sporting Life woulda had a happy ending. Oh well, livin’ in Paris as a beretwearing-shifty-eyed-smoking-swan named Jean-Paul ain’t so bad though. At least
he didn’t have to face the chopping block anymore.
Gol-dang, I sure hope you don’t know anyone named Doug.
Happy Gobble Day y’all.
7. Robb Royer Says:
Voila! an instant classic. Given the current state of turkeys in America (that
nettlesome, heartwarming tradition of slaughtering them ceremonially once a
year), existentialism among Dougs is a must! What other literary effort, be it tome
or Bon Mot, makes that point? You, sir, have leapt into the breach. As far as my
farm goes, I have no turkeys, except for the wild ones that run occasionally
through, so my ignorance of them remains encyclopedic.
I’ve just stopped laughing so I can write this. It’s a lovely story; how can anything
that ends in Paris be dumb. I love the visual of a beret wearing, puffing swan (!?!)
Why are so many Thanksgiving stories filled with redemption for turkeys? Ah,
enough heavy thoughts, have a hearty, happy Thanksgiving all.
Oh, no, no, no. You’re too kind. Please, please stop applauding. You’re
embarrassing me. Just a little something I whipped up while I was waiting for a
bus, since, like all serious artists, I like to maintain contact with the little people.
No, please, really. Hey. Why’d you stop?
I’m pleased you all haven’t sold your computers or decided on a life watching
nothing but the silent films of Carl Theodor Dreyer. This was actually an
experiment, in that I really did include many of my feelings as I wrote the story,
including realizing, one sentence in, that this was NOT going to be a story about
an adorable young turkey getting served on a platter to the children who loved
him. As you can no doubt tell, pretty much everything is first draft except for
three things I went back and changed: the mercury image about the Light, because
I thought the Miracle needed some pewetry; the line about turkey eggs not having
reached their cognitive peaks, which I took three slaps at over three days; and
Billy raising one eyebrow, which I thought would divert critics from the general
shortcomings of the story by giving them a whole new level of ineptitude to deal
with, since swans don’t have eyebrows.
I do have to admit that I laughed a bunch of times while I was writing it.
Hi, Hitch — I like to think that on Thanksgiving Day we all owe the world a
turkey, and this was my contribution.
Good call, Gary — In the animated version (Oh, I forgot to mention that
DreamWorks called this morning and bought the story) all the female turkeys will
be voiced by Barbara Streisand. Johnny Depp is going to voice Billy, and for the
Voice from Above, they’re attempting to resurrect Orson Welles. Boffo!
Thank you, Everett — My wife keeps saying I should write children’s books, but I
don’t know. This was an enjoyable hour, but six months or a year of it . . .
hmmmm. Anyway, my brother Pat owns the children’s book franchise in my
family. But I’m glad you liked it and would rate it so high relative to such sublime
blogs.
Hi, Colleen — Actually, I’m sad to report that Billy entered a long phase of
depression when, as he was seated in a trendy patisserie eating a heaping plate of
fois gras, a companion told him where it came from. He began by sipping
absinthe and now staggers the streets of Paris, beret askew, improvising blank
verse and occasionally begging from tourists. Very, very sad. There are few happy
endings in The City of Light.
Sewzanner, Gol-dang it all, wouldn’t that have beat the band? Well, if I were a
turkey and someone offered me to choose either getting humped regular by a big
ole male Airedale or living in a fashionable garret in Paris with a large collection
of berets and a carton of cigs, ‘twouldn’t take me no time to go fer Column B. I
gave old Billy the best I could conjure up on the spur of the moment, and he’s
stuck with it. If only no one had told him about foie gras.
Robb!!! Happy Thanksgiving! I have rather leapt into the breech, what? And the
“Voila!,” in acknowledgment of the story’s French happy ending (tragically
temporary) plus the phrase, “An instant classic” put you right at the top of the list
of people I like.
Hey, Lil, glad you liked it. Billy was briefly one of the most memorable
boulevardiers of Gay (not that way) Paree, until the Absinthe got him. I think most
Thanksgiving stories offer redemption to turkeys because they’re written by
turkeys. Who else would write a story about Thanksgiving?
How very Zen of you, Tim; you’ve given me much to think about. But, damn it,
man, my whole face is starting to ache and I can’t seem to stop laughing.
Wait. What? You’re saying that Billy-Doug was Jean Paul Belmondo or Jean Paul
Sartre or maybe Maurice Chevalier. And this is where French people come from?
Did the swan like the dog, too? Was the airedale sad? I’m so confused.
Great story (but don’t send it to your agent).
12.Gary Says:
Orson Welles would be perfect for the Voice from Above! What was his famous
line again? “Turkey, little turkey, will you not stay with me one more night?”
Or was that Bing Crosby? I forget.
13.Debbi Says:
How awesome. You will be doing a Christmas story, too, I hope? The noir version
of “Miracle on 34th Street” perhaps?
My day ending, I found your story.With each sentence I could picture you
laughing out loud. Chuckling to yourself thinking this one will get them going. I
have good images to lay my weary head. I especially liked the the shimmering
silver mercury hand reaching down from above and blessing the beheaded turkey
in order to transform him to his next life. Hope you had a Good Thanksgiving,
Tim. Enjoyed your story. Thank you.
15.EverettK Says:
Debbi said: You will be doing a Christmas story, too, I hope?
Oh, sure Tim will be doing a Christmas story (it’s almost finished already). I’ll
give you a sneak-peek: It’s Junior’s day to be with his daughter, but suddenly the
two of them get dragged to the seedy estate of the corpulent Grinder Pinks, who
wants his very own nativity scene on his front lawn for Christmas Eve. But not
just ANY nativity scene, he wants the one from the local archdiocese. If the
nativity scene isn’t setup on his front lawn by sundown, his daughter’s pinkies
will be hamburger. Junior hot-foots it to the local Catholic Monstrosity only to
find out that nativity has been “redecorated” by local graffiti artists and now looks
more like a street scene from the red-light district.
Mayhem ensues. I don’t want to reveal ALL of Tim’s surprises, so I’ll just stop
with the final line of the story:
“How do you like being a woman, Grinder?”
Phil thanks for laughing. I have to admit that I laughed myself. I especially liked
the line about Doug being “in the final stages of a lightning courtship with
Sporting Life.” I can say I like it because it really didn’t feel like I wrote it — it
was there, and I just typed it. Anyway, thanks.
YAAYYYY, LAREN!!!! I wasn’t sure anyone had paid attention to the line about
Billy training his eye to wander — Jean Paul Sartre, indeed, with a touch of
Belmondo. He might eventually have turned into a Chevalier-like figure (although
Chevalier was a terrible man) if it hadn’t been for the Absinthe. Poor little bird.
And the last thing the world needs is more blank verse.
Gary, exactly — “Turkey, turkey,” etc., followed by “Pa-rump-a-pum-pum.” Bing
and Orson recorded it on their only album together, Two Guys, Twelve Songs, and
You. Now a classic.
Hi, Debbi — That’s a great idea. I am almost certainly going to do a Christmas
story, and “Miracle on 34th Street” is the perfect place to start. I could do a lot of
damage to it.
17.Post-Thanksgiving Web Regurgitation « Random and Sundry Things Says:
[...] this really cool story about a bunch of turkeys (or a cluster of turkeys, if you
will) named Doug. (Because all turkeys are secretly named Doug. [...]
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 56: Desert High
November 25th, 2010
Tomorrow I go up to Joshua Tree to try to kick-start PULPED.
Eating Thanksgiving dinner last night felt like a betrayal of Doug and Doug and Doug and Doug, but
traditions die hard. Tomorrow at 10 AM I’m hitting the road to Joshua Tree, which is essentially two
hours uphill, into the high, high desert. Joshua Tree is where Gram Parsons’ stolen body was
amateurishly cremated, where there are more Volkswagen vans than anyplace this side of 1969, and
where the desert is, well, stony. In all possible ways.
Back in my misspent youth, I ingested many chemicals, some of them seriously misrepresented, up in
the Monument, and no matter how raggedy they were, the day was fine. The place is overpowering;
you arrive with your tensions and preoccupations and little niggling worries, and the terrain
says,HEY. WHAT ABOUT ME? and there’s no arguing with it. Joshua Tree is to
landscapes what Beethoven’s Ninth is to symphonies.
There are places where quartz crystals come up through the ground. There are boulders three stories
high. There’s a hidden lake, build by cowboys a century ago and now ringed by palms and home to
every waterbird within 200 miles. There are lookouts from which you can literally see all the way to
Mexico when the air is clear. There are caves with petroglyphs. If Shakespeare had been a desertdweller, he would have set “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” there.
And, although I’m not comparing myself with Shakespeare, for some reason I’m setting a lot of books
up there. Junior Bender drives up in the middle of the night at the end of LITTLE ELVISES, the second
book in that series. A stand-alone thriller with three heroines but no title (yet) begins there as a woman
hikes across the desert to dig up the can into which her recently murdered father dropped a new penny
on every one of her twenty-three birthdays. And, more to the point, Joshua Tree is where Madison lives
in PULPED, and it’s where Simeon may or may not ultimately meet her if he can learn the secret of
leaving Limbo for a short period of time.
I’m once again having postponement issues with writing PULPED, which I don’t understand, because I
love Madison and I like the book. I’m hoping that being up there, eating lunch in the Carousel, where
Madison eats lunch, shopping for books in the dumpy little used-book store I’m calling The Pack Rat
— that, plus a few hours in the Monument every morning — will help me break through the resistance.
I’ll be posting from there until maybe Tuesday or Wednesday — longer if I’m suddenly doing 3500
words per day. I have a very good feeling about this book, and I don’t want any of my little you can’t
do that demons to screw it up. But no illegal chemicals. Those days is long past.
This entry was posted on Thursday, November 25th, 2010 at 8:39 pm and is filed under All Blogs. You can
your own site.
8 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 56: Desert High”
Have a safe trip and a productive adventure. Sounds like you’re in a good place to
re-energize.
It sounds like an absolutely amazing place.
3. EverettK Says:
We’ll be e-Right-behind-you all the way. While high desert (or desert of any kind)
is not MY preferred environment (I’m more of a Douglas Fir semi-rain forest kind
of guy… but then, I live in western Oregon), but it DOES have a stark beauty all
of its own.
Clear your mind, relax the mental tendons, and let the good times roll…
We’ll be here, no matter where you are.
4. Suzanna Says:
Hi, Tim
Joshua Tree is a magical place. Have a great trip. Looking forward to hearing
about your adventures out there.
See, through you I get to see stuff I never will (health issues-boring). Have a safe,
productive trip. As Everett said, we’ll be here.
Hi, all — I’m here safe and sound and the sky is an impossible blue. It’s
apparently been dipping into the 20s at night, but I won’t be out in it.
For those of you who haven’t been here, you should try to come. I don’t know
anyone who wasn’t captivated by it, except for the rare person who’s nature-blind.
Woody Allen, for example, wouldn’t appreciate it.
Lil, I’m here in your stead. will post some pix later.
7. Bonnie Says:
When I was in 4th grade we moved from lush, green, Davis, California, to
Tucson, Arizona, where my dad got his first teaching job after obtaining his Ph.D.
in animal husbandry (don’t say it!). At first I hated it. But the desert grows on you.
Right now, Tim, I can hear the rain on my roof and drizzling out of the drainpipe
outside my bedroom window. For your sake, I hope you get some too. Joshua is
not the Arizona-Sonora desert, but I’ll bet it has its own amazing vegetation that
Joshua smells amazing, Bonnie, even when it’s dry, but there’s something about
the crackle of ozone and wet dust immediately following a desert rain that’s
unique. There’s a chance of rain, but that’s all it is, in the next 4-5 days.
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 57: Setting the Setting
November 26th, 2010
Okay, I’m here.
Despite the picture up there, the sky is as blue as a bachelor’s button. That little flock of clouds is over
to the West, where the sun is in the act of packing it in for 12 hours. In the past 30 minutes, the
temperature has dropped 15 degrees.
I’m in one of the world’s nicest coffee houses, the oddly named Wonder Garden. Everything I could
want: great coffee; fast, free wi-fi; a view of a mostly empty desert street in one direction and those
hills up there in the other. Comfortable chairs, tables of the right height for a keyboard. Unfortunate
music, by which I mean big-hat country. I love country, but not this country.
By the way, anyone who condescends to Taylor Swift needs an ear transplant. She wrote “Invisible”
and “The Best Day” when she was eighteen, okay? She was writing great songs at fourteen. If she
keeps it together and stays away from John Mayer and all the other John Mayers (John Mayer was the
model for Doug), she’ll amaze us (well, me, anyway) for thirty years.
One of the things I’ve left out of PULPED is the quality of the light up here, how hard it is. Details are
sharp, shadows have edges that look pencilled, the sky is China blue straight overhead, paling toward
the horizons. The sun feels closer. I’ve been here two hours and I’m already feeling the difference
between the amount of work I put into describing Bangkok in the Poke books versus the effort I’ve put
into Joshua Tree (actually, Twentynine Palms) in PULPED — or, for that matter, the San Fernando
Valley in CRASHED.
I think it might be because I still have the “lookit” impulse about Bangkok — as long as I’ve been
living there, it still makes my jaw drop. But so does Joshua Tree, and, in its own way, the Valley.
Maybe I should imagine that I’m writing about those locations for a Thai readership, just to prevent
myself from taking for granted a shared frame of reference that would make me skip, or miss entirely,
the single detail that might make a whole page work better.
This might be a writing principle I should follow: Write the setting as though no reader has never seen
it. Why not? If I over-describe, there’s always the delete key. Thinking about CRASHED, there are
only really a few descriptive passages of the valley, the best of them on the drive from Wattles’ place to
Trey’s, a nice conjunction of an awful little strip mall with some pepper trees — hold on while I find it:
I made the turn, past what has become a normal Valley strip mall: dry cleaner, Mexican restaurant,
Korean restaurant, liquor store, massage parlor, check cashing outlet. Then there were pepper trees on
either side of the road, old ones, trailing long green streamers to the ground.
There should be more of that. Unless a book takes place entirely inside the characters’ heads, there
should probably always be more of that. Place should be a character, and if it’s not, then that should be
a conscious decision on the writer’s part, not just a thoughtless omission. Material isn’t that easy to
come by, and it’s stupid not to write the physical environment, not only because it provides a sort of
visual lattice for the reader, but also because it’s full of story potential.
I’m talking to myself here — this isn’t intended as advice to other writers. It’s something I should just
keep in mind. The question is valid at all times: Where are we? Just because the location isn’t
“exotic,” just because it’s not something I’d instinctively point a camera at, that doesn’t mean it’s not
interesting. In fact, if it’s not interesting, why the hell am I writing about it?
This is an important message for PULPED. I’ve put a lot of effort into describing the mystery/thriller
limbo Simeon is stuck in, in part because you’ve obviously never seen it, in part because describing it
in detail helps me to see it, and in part just because it’s fun. But the Twentynine Palms Madison
occupies is a sandy, dusty, fragmentary, ugly little town that just happens to be over a rise of hills from
one of the world’s most spectacular landscapes. But the reader needs to see Twentynine Palms just as
clearly as se (remember se? I thought not.) sees Simeon’s limbo.
So I’ve already had one insight about the book, and I haven’t even unpacked yet.
your own site.
9 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 57: Setting the Setting”
I think you made a great point about writing for readers as though they’ve never
seen the place. That was my first though when you said how much you described
Bangkok. Yeah,w e take the Valley for granted. Obviously, we shouldn’t.
Go forth & be productive.
2. Gary Says:
More descriptions.
More photos.
More!
(please)
I couldn’t have said it better-actually, I couldn’t begin to say it, but the landscape
and setting is so important to me. I get to travel, and then “see” places I won’t,
and get a feel for the place and story in how they play out together. Your pictures
are awe-some. I read somewhere that Joshua is a place of magic. It certainly looks
that way, and thank you again for doing this.
4. Suzanna Says:
Hi, Tim
Happy the desert scenery is stimulating a new way of thinking about your work.
Thanks for the pic and the update!
Hi, Laren, and thanks — I don’t think we should take anything granted if we’re
going to all the trouble of writing it. What I don’t know is why this didn’t occur to
me 20 years ago. And obviously, one can go overboard on this – setting should
frame and be integrated into the story, not elbow it aside for snapshots. (Sorry to
be so didactic — I’m sort of thinking out loud.)
Thank you, Gary — I just came down out of the Monument with some more pix
and will post them later this evening.
Hi, Lil — It’s hard to take a bad picture of Joshua Tree. The big problem is scale
— the rock structures are insanely big and there’s no easily available yardstick to
demonstrate that short of posing someone in front of it, and (a) I’m alone, and (b)
that turns the photo into a snapshot. Will think about it.
Sana, at least I’m writing. I had really ground to a halt in the past 4-5 days, and I
get really grumpy and anxious and, yes, unendurable when I’m not writing.
6. EverettK Says:
And of course, as I’m sure you’re aware, everyone will see the same scenery
differently, and HOW they see it (ie, how the narrator describes it) casts a shadow
upon the viewpoint character.
Right, Everett. And even if you write a description that’s at the absolute top of
your reach, there’s no guaranteeing that it’ll mean the same thing to the reader that
it does to you. David Sedaris says, “Writing gives you the illusion of control, and
then you realize it’s just an illusion, that people are going to bring their own stuff
into it.” Absolutely. The writer can control the order in which the reader
sees/experiences something, but not the emphasis se gives to it, no matter how we
try. (I’m going to keep using “se” until people get really irritated.)
8. Jaden Says:
Tim, this comes at absolutely the perfect time, as I’m at that stage in my new book
where people are floating around in a gray haze (or maybe in front of the blue
screen) and I really need to bring them down to earth and PUT them somewhere.
(Sigh) Oh to be able to do that as well as you do.
December 6th, 2010 at 10:21 am
Hi, Jaden. Boy, do I know about that. It’s like when people die in a Thirties movie
— they stumble around in a fog until the Big Destination Question is answered.
Not that dissimilar at all, now that I think about it.
I have total faith that you’ll put them right where they should be, if emphatically
not where they want to be. That would really be the end of fiction, wouldn’t it?
All the characters exactly where they want to be. “How are you?” “Fine, and
you?” “Just fine.”
Not exactly a pulse-pounder.
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 58: The Stone Seat
November 27th, 2010
Spent a couple of hours in the Monument today.
There are half a dozen places I go every time I visit. Today I went to what I call the Stone Seat, just
about fifteen minutes into the Park on the main road. (It takes hours and hours to drive the whole
thing.)
To get to the Stone Seat, you pull off onto an inconspicuous shoulder that’s been scraped at the edge of
the road and then you hike about ten minutes. There’s an enormous rock shaped like a bishop’s hat a
quarter of a mile away, on the the other side of the road, and I use that as my landmark for getting back.
The terrain here pitches up and down, and you find paths wherever you can, but they end suddenly, as
though whatever made them simply evaporated. You want to turn around from time to time and make
sure your return landmark is still in sight.
This is the path to the Stone Seat. Looks easy, but it disappears just around the stone to the right. After
that, it’s a slow upward slope that leads you about twenty feet above the desert floor. It narrows as it
rises, until it turns into a ledge about nine feet wide with a nice flat rectangular stone, the Stone Seat,
on it, a reassuring distance from the edge.
This is a view from the Stone Seat. At the bottom of the picture is the edge of the ledge. The rocks
down below are about fifteen feet high. The one angled to the right in that cluster in the distance is the
bishop’s hat.
I sat there for about an hour, thinking about the book and letting the sun pour itself over me. It was
perfectly quiet except for a constant breeze, until half a dozen beautiful teenage kids burst into the
picture and started climbing everything in sight. They saw me and waved, and I pointed out the way
up. Five minutes later, they were all up there, and it took about ninety seconds for the chatter to die.
After three or four minutes of silence, one of the boys said, “Shit.” He said it like a prayer.
Here’s a view to the left. Balancing stones like the one at the top of this structure are everywhere in the
park.
I said goodbye to the kids and climbed down, took the lichen picture below, and went into town to
write at the Wonder Garden.
This is a good place to be.
your own site.
11 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 58: The Stone Seat”
1. Munyin Says:
Saying “shit” like a prayer. What a wonderful description of the non-stop awe
Joshua Tree elicits. Since my phone is broken I thought I’d post a reply. Thanks
for sharing your experience & the great pixes!
Well, hello, Wifey — This is a first. The kids were adorable — maybe 14-16, with
a couple of older guys (fathers, probably) acting as shepherds but mostly standing
around on the desert floor and shouting, “Are you sure it’s safe up there?” I loved
it. I’d had almost an hour of total silence, and they were so cute and so blown
away by Joshua Tree. It was a great ending to my pre-writing day. You’ve got to
go to the Stone Seat with me some day; you haven’t been.
3. Suzanna Says:
Hi, Tim and Munyin : )
Great pictures. Thanks for taking us along to the Stone Seat.
Wonderful pictures. I can imagine the sheer immensity of the structures. I love the
rocks, so strong and silent. Nature has a way of humbling us, and quieting us
down, like those neat kids you saw. Just lovely.
Sounds like this great place has put you into a great space. Wonder how Joshua
trees got their name. (Maybe I’m just uninformed. Or maybe, just maybe, I’ve
provided a topic for a future blog. Or maybe, just maybe, you need a character in
an upcoming book named Joshua Tree.)
Hi, Everybody — Glad you like the pitchas.
Joshua Tree is ridiculously overwhelming, immense and silent in a way that I’ve
never experienced elsewhere. You just don’t hear anything. Lil, the kids were
wonderful. Their parents must really be something.
Laren, they were named after the prophet Joshua, his arms upraised in prayer. As
far as I know, they’re unique to this region.
7. Larissa Says:
I want to take a mountain bike down it. (c: It looks like a beautiful place. So how
do I get there again?
8. Shadoe Says:
Wow. I haven’t been to the chair in years. Obviously, it doesn’t change and is still
as stunningly beautiful as it was all those years ago. Thanks for the trip. And
revisiting all those trips somewhere lost in time. I’m happy for you.
Hey, Riss –
First people bike the Monument all the time. The best entrance is in 29 Palms. Get
to the 10 and go west until you’re approaching Palm Springs, and there will be a
ramp to US 62, a little freeway/glorified highway that says OTHER DESERT
CITIES. That’ll take you up a long, long, long hill through Yucca and Joshua Tree
to Twentynine Palms. From there you have a long uphill slog on the bike to get
into the Monument, and then it’s all good. (If you seriously decide to go, let me
know.)
Hey Shadoe — Glad you took a look. It hasn’t changed one grain of sand — still
the stoniest place and the most silent I’ve ever been. We should go up together
again some time.
10.Larissa Says:
December 1st, 2010 at 8:27 am
I definitely will. We’re looking for some place warm to go ride a mountain bike. It
looks beautiful and fun and just about perfect. (c:
We’re also considering Hawaii…
How long does it stay viable out there to come and play? I’m used to, well,
Kansas…and Colorado for winters.
December 1st, 2010 at 4:42 pm
You want to be there in the spring or early autumn, Riss — it’s colder than hell
right now and 110 in midsummer. But April/May/June it’s astonishing.
Although cold in Joshua Tree isn’t cold in Colorado or Kansas. Too cold for me,
though, especially on a bike.
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 59: The Cholla Writing
November 28th, 2010
Stephen Gipson, a virtual friend, e-mailed to say he’d recommended the FINISH YOUR NOVEL
material to two friends who were having trouble completing their own books.
(Before I continue, the photo above is a cholla, the meanest little bastard cactus in the desert. It’s kneehigh, making it easy to walk into, and Madison walked into one today. Cholla is pronounced “choyya,” so the title is a labored pun on “The Joy of . . .” Ya know?)
Stephen made a point of telling me that his friends were very intelligent but still hadn’t been able to
navigate to the end of their stories, despite years of working at it. I answered him at some length and
thought, hmmm. Adapt that some, and it’s today’s blog. So here it is:
Being smart is no guarantee against getting stuck. In fact, it may make it more likely a writer will get
stuck. Smart people tend to question everything and also to be unwilling to let go of anything — a
book, a chapter, a paragraph, a choice of a verb — until it’s perfect. Guaranteed dead end, from my
perspective.
Writing a novel, as nearly as I can describe it, is like herding a daydream for however long it takes,
getting down as much as you can as the story arrives and the characters lead you in unanticipated
directions. I think it’s anathema to try to polish each word, or even each page, as the story is arriving;
you can miss some of it.
Writing sometimes feels to me like reading and trying to hold a conversation at the same time. You
can’t do both with full attention — one of them (in my case, usually the conversation) is going to
suffer. It’ll descend to the level of place-keeper grunts: Umm, huh, really. He did? Jeez. Wait, sorry,
what was that again?
In this tortured simile, the story that’s arriving in your head — often, as I sometimes say, in bolts, like
lengths of fabric — is the book you’re reading. The place-keeper grunts are the writing, the minimum
amount necessary to get the broad strokes onto the page. Then, when the story stops arriving for a
while, it’s time to go back and write it better.
The flaw in this simile is that the story we’re reading moves on sometimes when while we’re looking
elsewhere (or polishing our writing), and you can’t always back it up to the point at which you stopped
paying attention. You just do whatever you can to get it while it’s arriving.
And then, of course, there are the times when no story arrives at all, and you venture a word at a time,
hoping to pick up the scent. Those are the days when writing 500 words feels like Finnegans Wake.
But sometimes, the best pieces of story arrive this way. I think it’s vital to keep in mind one of my
(very few) Absolute Rules of Writing, which I have to put into a list one day: We never know
whether we’re writing well or badly. Just because it’s coming easily, it isn’t necessarily any good;
conversely, just because every word feels like ten pounds of sludge, that doesn’t necessarily mean it
stinks. Those “bad days” have produced some of the writing I like best, a few months later.
So that leads to another of my Absolute Rules: Keep writing anyway. You never know when you’ll
hit the vein of quartz that leads straight to the gold.
This entry was posted on Sunday, November 28th, 2010 at 7:30 pm and is filed under All Blogs. You can
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17 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 59: The Cholla Writing”
1. Bonnie Says:
Another name for the cholla is “jumping cactus.” Not that it really jumps, but all
those little segments are just lurking, waiting to attach themselves to a passer-by.
When we first lived in Tucson, relatives would visit and we would take them out
to Saguaro National Monument for hiking and picnics. Inevitably one child would
get a cholla segment stuck on a sleeve, and another child would try to remove it,
and somehow a tennis shoe would get stuck, and eventually an adult would have
to come along and detach a pile of screaming kids.
2. Gary Says:
Keep writing anyway. Oh, yes!
As someone once said: The process of editing presupposes a text to be edited.
I’ve always found producing the stuff – good, bad, or lousy – to be much harder
work and much less fun than editing and polishing something I’ve already written.
Because once it’s there and you’re reading it, you can say along with Mario
Lanza/Fred Cocozza: “Ah, Mario, Mario, you sing[write] like the son of a
beetch!”
But it’s kind of hard to admire an empty page.
3. Sylvia Says:
Keep writing anyway.
BUT I DON’T WANNA! *wail*
I mean, what if it’s just simply the case that I’m not good enough to finish this
story? Staring at the document and whimpering quietly is a sort of progress, right?
(I’m still trying to do this revision. It’s um… not going well.)
4. Gary Says:
The Choy Ya Writing. Oh, that’s good.
Almost as good as the guy who submitted ten puns to the humor competition, to
see if he could win a prize. But no pun in ten did.
(Munyin! Did you know your husband completely lacks a sense of humor? I tell
him these HILARIOUS jokes, and he doesn’t even smile!)
5. Glenn W. Says:
Tim,
Your thoughts on the writing process/life couldn’t have come at a better moment.
A new day, a new week, a blank monitor, pages written sitting beside me on my
desk ready for yet another editing and I wonder if it’s all worth the effort. Then
comes today’s blog and I am grateful for your insights. I take all the
encouragement that comes my way.
Hi, Bonnie, and thanks for that. I think I’m going to use the “jumping cactus”
thing in the story to fairly horrifying effect. I’d forgotten that the little balls of
spines stick to passing animals and people — that’s how the cholla spreads. All I
can say is that whatever is in the middle of all those spines must taste really good;
it’s the best-protected plant in the entire desert.
Gary, thanks for appreciating the pun — and you don’t know how I really react to
your jokes. When I get up and leave the table, it’s not to avoid hearing more of
them, it’s so I can go someplace private and laugh and laugh and
laugh
So . . . where was I? You and I are on opposite ends of the stick about the phases
of the writing process: I love discovering the story and then doing the immediate
rewrites — either the same day or within 2-3 days. Sitting down purely to revise
gives me the heebie-jeebies. That’s why reading the MS to Munyin is so important
— I’m working at it, trying to make the story interesting, and the bad patches and
lapses in logic or causality become extremely clear. (One exception — the plot
problem you pointed out in CRASHED.)
No pun in ten did? Excuse me while I change rooms for a moment.
Hi, Sylvia — Whimpering counts. Almost anything counts as long as you’re still
rooted in your story. I wrote that piece yesterday and then proceeded to have one
of the no-words-will-come days, but I sat there and laid down one tentative word
after another until a corridor of story opened up, and by the time I got up I had
done just a few words over 2,000. Probably 1200 of them are bad, but they can be
fixed and will be fixed today. Of course, you can write your story. You just have
to do it one word at a time.
Hey, Glenn — your day sounds like mine. Just remember the most frequent piece
of guidance in the I Ching: Perseverance furthers. I wrote a thing yesterday where
Madison sees a photograph of herself in a T-shirt that says UNRELIABLE
NARRATOR, and she remembers that her useless boy friend hadn’t understood
what it meant. I’m going to have one made up, and while I’m at it, I’ll also do one
that says PERSEVERANCE FURTHERS.
7. EverettK Says:
Tim said: I wrote a thing yesterday where Madison sees a photograph of herself
in a T-shirt that says UNRELIABLE NARRATOR, and she remembers that her
useless boy friend hadn’t understood what it meant. I’m going to have one made
up, and while I’m at it, I’ll also do one that says PERSEVERANCE FURTHERS.
I’m a T-shirt guy, and I love those. If you weren’t just joking and DO have a Tshirt made of those, have an extra set made for me (LARGE), and I’ll pay for the
shirts and shipping. I like having things on my shirts that make people wrinkle
their forehead for a while. And beyond that, I LIKE those!
I am really enjoying your writings on writing. I have felt for years I have an idea
sitting in a room somewhere in my brain, so while I wait for the light to go on, I
write letters, and non-fiction stuff. The trouble is that I read so much that every
idea I have seems to have come from a book that I’ve read. Any cure for that?
9. Gary Says:
Oh I agree, Tim, that sitting down purely to revise is like sitting down to eat threeday-old bread. But I find I have to reread what went before just to launch myself
into the next bit. And then I usually self-correct before starting the next bit.
But in the full knowledge that something I’ve corrected and admired now (“Ah,
Mario, Mario…”) is going to look like a turkey by next month.
10.Bonnie Says:
http://www.cafepress.com/make/custom-t-shirts
11.RJ Baliza Says:
hi tim,
since highschool, i have been collecting books on writing that now sit collecting
dust, and i have, most times, forgotten to write. i would say that if you were to
publish your writing essays in book format, i would buy it and keep it in my bag.
you give quite practical advise.
Hi, Everett — Will do, if I have them made. I’ve been thinking about those two,
and also THIRD-ACT TROUBLE. But who knows? I don’t really do anything
except write.
Lil, there are only supposed to be six basic plots. Or maybe it’s twelve, but
anyway, it’s a finite number. But you and I could sit down separately with a basic
situation and maybe even a rough outline, and write completely different books.
It’s all characters in the end (I think) and your characters would be completely
different from my characters. Just write it. If it isn’t any good, write another one.
No one’s first novel is really any good except for maybe one in ten thousand.
Hi, Gary — that’s the way I do my first revisions, too — I back up about three
days’ worth and fix things so I’m already writing when I get to the blank page.
Then, reading the whole thing to my amazingly patient wife generally produces a
number of revelations, most of which are not wholly positive. So those get fixed.
Then I put the whole thing away for a month or two while I work on something
else to let the fat rise, and go through it on paper, as opposed to onscreen, and
that’s usually the last pass until my agent and/or editor get at it.
Bonnie, that’s a GREAT resource. $19 for a personalized shirt? Might do
something on the back, or maybe just the words, TO BE CONTINUED. That
would be a cool thought to leave people with. Wouldn’t it? No? Okay, got a
suggestion?
Hi, RJ — I’ve been thinking seriously of doing just that — taking everything in
the writing area and adding to it all the stuff I’ve written in individual blogs
(including blogs on other sites, and putting it up as an e-book. Maybe I could
work with Hitch to figure out how to do print-on-demand for those who want the
physical object as opposed to the text. Glad to know you’d find it useful.
Whenever you talk about writing I get tons of value. Much appreciated.
(And everyone knows that cholla is Jewish egg bread, you goy.)
14.Sylvia Says:
Thanks for the support. I feel better today and I will just keep telling myself that it
is all progress of some sort.
You are in one of my favourite places in the world, by the way. I’m jealous.
Thanks, Laren — I LOVE cholla with mayo and ham.
Sylvia — glad to know it. Hope you weren’t appalled by the excerpt from
yesterday’s writing I put up. It may not be great, but it got me moving again, and
that’s the point. I can make it better AND I’ve got more than 4000 new words,
going in a direction I like.
16.Larissa Says:
I gotta love a bad pun…they’re just so cute and punny…and they are just all
around en-cholla-ble….ahem. sorry.
I hate writing crap…and while it’s true that the stuff that felt painful and word by
word, letter by letter is not ever as bad as it seems at the time…it’s nearly
impossible for me to stay interested during those parts…because I’m babbling.
And I’m over describing and I’m not coming up with any real answers to the
questions..mainly because my character is only a shadow right now…and I can’t
catch her.
Bah. (c:
I’m going to leave all that writing shoved in the drawer for right now until it’s
actually screaming at me to let it out. There are moments, aka right f’n now, that it
literally makes me sick to think about having to go back to that piece of work.
That’s probably a sign of something.
Hey, Riss — back it up and write about the problems with the book Give yourself
30 minutes every morning to answer in writing questions like, “What’s the
problem with the story?” “What’s the problem with my main character? Who do I
want her to be?” “What’s the aspect of my story I like best/readers will like best,
and am I presenting it?” More will occur to you as you write. You can discover a
lot doing this. Another possibility is simply to look ahead 10,000 words and do an
outline of scenes, almost arbitrary, that might get you there. Once you’ve got one
that doesn’t actively make you want to scream, start to write it (remaining open to
new ideas as they come to you) and see where you actually wind up.
I don’t know how long you’ve been working on this project, but there can also
come a time when it’s a good idea to put it in a drawer — but ONLY if you’re
going to go immediately into writing something else.
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 60
November 29th, 2010
When I wrote yesterday about different kinds of writing days, I didn’t yet know what kind of writing
day I was going to have.
As it turned out, it was one of the days where no ideas whatsoever sashay into view for approval or
rejection. It was one of the days when you feel like you’re dragging marionettes around from situation
to situation, and not very skilfully. It was one of those days when your dialogue sounds like a
conversation between a toaster and a clock radio.
It was one of the days when you want to quit.
But I couldn’t quit. I’ve dragged myself up here in order to move PULPED forward. If I walk away
from a session up here, I’m going to be asking for real trouble.
As Annie Dillard says, writing a book is like taming a lion. Every day you stay out of the cage it grows
more dangerous to go back in. Quitting yesterday would have been an admission that, for now,
anyway, the book had beaten me.
And when you think about it, that’s an insane concept. A book that you are creating, that’s coming out
of your heart and mind and onto the screen (or page) is not only opposing you, but beating you. You
are, in other words, beating yourself. It makes a kind of grammatical sense but it has nothing at all to
do with the world of possibility and experience.
So I wrote crap. I wrote crap until I remembered the old trick of finding a small detail and describing it
fully, letting that be the point of attack for the scene.
Here’s where I was. Madison (you remember Madison) has fled her house and rented a car because she
doesn’t feel safe. She’s spent the morning drinking weak coffee and driving a spiral around the places
Ferdy frequented (Ferdy is her co-worker in the bookstore who’s murdered while he’s reading
Everything But the Squeal), trying to work up the nerve to go into his apartment. By the time she pulls
up to the rundown apartment house, she has to pee so badly that it takes precedence over any intention
to learn more about Ferdy and the mysterious baggies of white powder she found in his car. She has
his keys, but the door to the apartment is standing open, and it’s been trashed.
Also, the walls are covered with big blowups of photos of her. I got her into the apartment, seeing the
wreckage and pictures and blah and blah and making sure it’s empty and blah and blah, and then I saw
Ferdy’s yearbook. Madison would find that, and she would open it. And Ferdy would be in there, but
so would Jake, the worthless guy she’d followed to Joshua Tree. I wrote this:
He looked out from the page of the yearbook with an expression simultaneously expectant and steeled
against disappointment. His eyes announced that he knew all about disappointment. Already fat at
seventeen, with a stiff bird’s-nest of hair that looked like he’d put it on crookedly, ill-conceived
sideburns of different lengths, and a really unfair case of acne. Surely, Madison thought, surely the acne
could have skipped Ferdy, who had lacked only pimples to hold a royal flush of teenage afflictions.
Beneath his picture were five words: Ferdy. Big Bird. Tries hard.
High school heartbreak in one-third of a haiku.
His whole life had been spent in this merciless, cheerless sunlight, rolling around alone in the high
desert as the world bleached itself bone-white around him. The kid no one remembered two years after
graduation. The one they’d pass without a flicker of recognition in the Stater Brother supermarket.
Never one of the stars, one of the ones who gathered the light.
Wait. How old had he been? She looked at the cover of the yearbook: 2000. Just about right. Feeling
faithless – how many other people had turned away from Ferdy to look for someone else? – she flipped
through the pages until she found him, grinning knowingly up from the page, a beacon of confidence.
Jake. Hmm. Real name, James; she hadn’t known that. Among other things, she thought. And a knot of
type beneath his photo as long as a paragraph in Finnegans Wake: Jake. Dreamboat-in-waiting.
Whistle bait. ‘Don’t ask me – I was born this way.’ Bats 320, and that’s in the daytime. Class
president, junior year. ‘Lemme see the pictures on that phone, Jakey.’ The reason they invented
Facebook. And on and on.
The kid Ferdy would have avoided in the halls, the kid who was a funhouse mirror: This is who you
could be if God liked you.
I’m not claiming that as great writing, but it got the book moving. I did 2200 words yesterday and
about 2400 today, including a 1200 word outline of a possible ending that came to me as I was driving
the Monument to Beethoven’s Seventh. I wouldn’t have had any of this if I’d gotten up from the
keyboard yesterday.
I’m telling this story mainly because of Sylvia’s and Glenn’s comments yesterday. Any day you get up
without doing your work could be the worst day to quit. It could be the day you miss the idea that
moves the book forward, maybe even changes or deepens the emotional tone.
So there.
This entry was posted on Monday, November 29th, 2010 at 10:14 pm and is filed under All Blogs. You can
your own site.
1. Suzanna Says:
Hi, Tim
Seriously, why wouldn’t you consider what you just shared from PULPED great
writing???
It was funny, smart, and makes me want to read MORE of what you have been
working on.
It’s really fascinating to see how your creative process works. And when you talk
about it, even though I am not a writer, you make it all too clear hard you work at
it. As a writer you are fabricating a living breathing story out of thin air. What a
difficult thing to do!
Which raises another question. Do you think there is a writer alive or dead who
wrote something great without slaving over it? And if so, who?
2. Larissa Says:
So I should have read this post before posting yesterday…all I have to say is,
yessir. Point taken. (c:
3. Beth Says:
I can’t write a book; I do read many books. I have said many times, in other
places, that you write prose like poetry.
It would be unfair to offer this much of the book to readers of the blog and then
not finish the book.
A bad day’s writing for you is far more than the best day’s writing for the rest of
us.
Hi, Suzeeee — Well, it’s a first-draft sketch of something that will probably make
it into the book because it opens up the issue of who Ferdy really was — we only
see him alive for a minute before he gets strangled, and we never see him speak.
But this put Madison onto the track of Ferdy’s past, as well as an internal
realization that at a time she felt alone and isolated, someone really cared about
her, and he was obviously pretty fragile, and just how self-involved is she,
anyway? If I write this right, she’s going to change a lot during the course of the
book –although she’s already who she changes into; she just doesn’t know it yet.
There’s a four-line stanza in a Sara Bareilles song that says it all, but I can’t find
the first couple of lines in my memory right now.
Riss, please post whenever and whatever. Always good to see you.
And Beth, you really are too sweet. I’m just hacking along trying to make a daily
word count. And if I DON’T finish the book, it’ll be because I didn’t make my
daily word count.
5. Gary Says:
Tim, I can only admire your bravery in putting stuff up as you write it. Talk about
the Dickens Challenge.
There’s only one of my readers I would dare to do that with, knowing that what
I’m showing him is probably going to be changed out of all recognition by the
time I’m done. But he’s so uncritical and he thinks I’m so wonderful that I could
show him anything!
6. EverettK Says:
Tim said: There’s a four-line stanza in a Sara Bareilles song that says it all, but I
can’t find the first couple of lines in my memory right now.
Lyrics to her songs are at: Sara Bareilles lyrics
Without knowing exactly what you were thinking about, the one that sounds like a
good possibility is “Let The Rain”…
I wish I were pretty
I wish I were brave
If I owned this city
Then I’d make it behave
And if I were fearless
Then I’d speak my truth
And the world would hear this
That’s what I wish I’d do, yeah
If my hands could hold them you’d see
I’d take all these secrets in me
And I’d move and mold them to be
Something I’d set free
7. Bonnie Says:
Tim, are you staying at the 29Palms Inn? That’s where I sent my English friend
who wanted to cruise SoCal after attending an Adobe conference in LA.
Oh, and I reviewed Crashed on DorothyL. Hope you’re not too displeased. I loved
the book but had a few nits.
Gary, I appreciate your posting this. I feel like the people who read the blog know
what first draft is and will make the necessary excuses. I put this one up not
because it was elegant or surprising but because it illustrated exactly the point I
had been making: one word after another, and sometimes a corridor of story will
open in front of you. That’s what happened here. Don’t know how much of this
will be in the book, but the yearbook itself, and the path it puts Madison on, will
certainly be in it.
Everett — thanks for the link. Her new album and Taylor Swift’s new one are
pretty much all I’m listening to right now, and I have to say that Bareilles is the
most exciting new singer I’ve heard in years: great equipment, enormous
musicality, superb taste, major songwriting skills — on and on. And Swift just
kills me on about half the songs on SPEAK NOW. The lyrics I was thinking of for
Madison are:
All my life
I’ve tried
To make everybody happy while I
Just hurt
And hide
Waitin’ for someone to tell me it’s my turn
To decide
Now she’s stopped waiting, and the murder is part of what moves her out from the
life she’s let other people create for her. I really love her, and I love the hell out of
writing her.
Hi, Bonnie — No I was at a Motel 6, one of the best in America, where I’ve been
staying forever. I read the review and I thank you for it, although I have about the
same number of nits with the review that you did with the book. On the whole,
though, it’s a good one.
9. Bonnie Says:
Well, don’t feel shy, Tim, happy to have my nits nitpicked. One of the things I
wish you had on this blog is a place where we could discuss your books. Not just
what you’re working on now, but all of them. Although I guess it looks better if
the fans have their own website. I have to think a bit on that.
Ha, and a fellow Motel 6 fan, great! It seems to ironic to me that these days Motel
6 is usually providing free Wifi, as are many rock-bottom budget hotels. I travel a
couple of times a year on business (where someone else is paying) and almost
without exception your high-end Marriotts, Hyatts, Wyndhams, etc., charge $1215 a day for Wifi access. That and $6+ for designer bottled water. I’m pretty
happy to have free Wifi and clean sheets, all the other stuff is pretty much
optional.
10.Suzanna Says:
Hi, Tim
Thanks for chatting us up about Sara Bareilles. I’d heard her on the radio many
times but until now never really gave her much more of a listen. She is really
good. I especially like it when she pares down the arrangements to simple voice,
piano, and strings. Always have been a sucker for ballads like GRAVITY.
11.philip coggan Says:
“the mysterious baggies of white powder she found in his car.” Bags of white
powder are rarely mysterious.
May I reccommend to your attention, when all else fails, Saint Expeditus. He’s the
patron saint of procrastinators. On hearing the word of God he was instantly
converted to the Truer Faith and resolved to take baptism. But the Devil appeared
to him in the form of a crow (which in Latin says “cars, cras,” as in
“procrastination), and the Devil told him to chill out, leave it till tomorrow (cras,
cras). But the saint-to-be stomped on Satan (he was a Centurion and wore hobnailed sandals) and went off and got baptised that very day, upon which the
Governor had him crucified. And so Expeditus achieved conversion, baptism,
martydom and sainthood all in the same day. Go thou and do likewise.
(There’s a story, spread by the wicked, that the saint got his start in the year 1781
when a package containing human bones was received in a convent in Paris. It
was marked “Expedite”, and the good nuns naturally assumed that it contained the
holy blessed martyr so identified. And they prayed, and theiur prayers were
granted (Sister Agatha’s sinitus cleared up just like that, and you know what it
used to be like with her and her sniffles at Matins every bloody morning), and a
saint was born; in fact, or so say the wicked, the bishop had been cleaning out the
crypt under the cathedral and these were the bones of good but anonymous
parishioners from ages past which he’d sent the the convent for storage, the
Expedite bit being merely an instruction for swift delivery – but we don’t believe
that story at all. So whenever you’re dithering over the keyboard, whisper a quick
prayer to Expeditus of holy memory).
Oh, Bonnie, I was just being flip. I’m happy for any attention — writers are all
insecure egomaniacs who need praise but don’t think any of it is sufficiently
enthusiastic. The one thing I questioned (and this wasn’t anything negative) was
the idea that Thistle was my surrogate in the book. Except for the press
conference, where I agree with every word she said — I think most broadcast
reporters have to stand on tiptoe to qualify as vertebrates — she’s pretty far from
me. I’m actually more like Trey, and that’s not really a joke.
As far as Motel 6 is concerned, I’ve been in some great ones (the longstay ones
are especially nice) and a couple that were crack headquarters (Memphis and St.
Louis) with the doors open and guys sitting on beds with little vials of product
next to them. Had gunfire in the middle of the night in Memphis. But some are
great.
Sana, Sara Bareilles is amazing. The new album is colossal but overproduced —
you’re right, with that voice she doesn’t need 80 string players, kettledrums, and
bells. But the SONGS are astonishing. “Shotgun,” about a truculent bully who
gets mad at everything, going into the chorus — and way, way up in her range,
“Maybe nobody loved you when you were young/Maybe when you cried nobody
would come” — whooo. Made me tear up. STILL makes me tear up.
Philip, I don’t know how to say this nicely, but I doubt the literal truth of this tale.
I even doubt its truthiness, a term for which I will be forever grateful to Stephen
Colbert. The centurion’s hob-nailed sandals are a truthy touch, and it’s interesting
that you took it from bags of white powder to Sister Agatha’s sniffles, hmmmmm?
You had me laughing, but I couldn’t quite coax myself into credulity.
I do, however (by reading between the lines) deduce that you have a
procrastination problem, and THAT I have no trouble believing in.
Captcha “Hygelac Prooding.” I do so not want to know what that means.
13.Sylvia Says:
I’ve been backtracking to read posts I missed while I was busy and also to catch
up on comments (you have some great conversations going here). This was really
what I needed to read today, to remind me to stay with it each and every day, even
when it feels pointless.
I think I’ll reread Annie Dillon, too.
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 61: Chuck Amok
November 30th, 2010
Chuck Jones was someone I was incredibly privileged to know for a long time.
Chuck, of course, was the creator of the Roadrunner and Wile E.Coyote; as well as Pepe Le Pew, Daffy
Duck, the amorous skunk; and a co-creator of the immortal Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd. He was also
an adult who retained the best aspects of childhood: spontaneity, enthusiasm, openness, and an
unending willingness to be entertained.
He used to say of himself that he wanted to be as Bugs, but he never evolved beyond Daffy.
Chuck was the kind of guy who transformed philosophy into classic cartoons. He once summed up
Wile E. Coyote by quoting George Santayana’s definition of a fanatic: “Someone who doubles his
effort when he’s forgotten his aim.” That’s a quotation I think of often in these days of underwear
bombers and suicide vests.
When he was in third grade, his teacher — a woman who should never have been allowed in the same
room with children — told him he couldn’t draw. And he didn’t. He never drew again until college,
when he nervously signed up for a drawing class. He got to the classroom, took a seat, and waited. A
couple of minutes passed, and students started talking among themselves. Five minutes passed, and
some of them were up and moving around the room. About eight minutes into the hour, the door flew
open and banged against the wall, and the teacher was standing there.
“Why aren’t you drawing,” he demanded. ”You’ve all got one hundred thousand bad drawings in you,
and you’ve got to get them out.”
That’s something else I think of frequently — two days ago, for example, when the words wouldn’t
come. I’ve got a hundred thousand bad scenes in me, and I’ve got to get them all out. A bad day just
lowers the number.
I have only one regret from our friendship. Late in life he began to paint imitations of old masters, but
with his characters in them. He did a breathtaking version of Van Gogh’s self-portrait after cutting off
his ear — a really remarkable rendering, except with a bandaged Daffy. It was funny, audacious, and
heartbreaking. I loved it, and he offered it to me for $3,000. ”I’d give it to you,” he said, “but I cling
to the idea that I’m a professional artist.”
Like a complete and absolute idiot, I kept the money, which is now, of course, long gone. If I’d bought
the picture, I’d love it every time I looked at it.
He taught me (and most people he interacted with) a lot. I might write about him again.
I really do miss him.
This entry was posted on Tuesday, November 30th, 2010 at 6:49 pm and is filed under All Blogs. You can
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13 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 61: Chuck Amok”
1. Bonnie Says:
This is really sick, but just the other night I was thinking of Disney characters
only in the context of what if someone used them to make porn-type drawings?
God knows what kind of cesspool is in all those layers of our minds when I
thought of that, slowly regaining consciousness from some dream or other. But
Bugs Bunny with an amputated ear doesn’t seem less grotesque, really.
Don’t know if you remember the porn cartoon full-length movie that came out
when I was probably in my late teens, so you in your late 20′s? You’d think
cartoon porn/gore would be less effective than “real” but somehow it was worse.
Felix the Cat? I can’t remember, but it was seriously gross.
Anyway, too many people are teachers for the wrong reasons, and the fact that we
pay them chickenfeed probably doesn’t help. I remember an assignment in junior
high school to write a story based on a piece of music, and it was the first time I
heard Smetana’s Moldau. The teacher didn’t like my story, she said it was “too
imaginative.”
I love these reminiscences.
I got rid of 50,000 bad words during Nano. I wonder how many more I have to
go…
3. Gary Says:
Bonnie’s story too imaginative, eh? That’s the problem with modern society – all
this imagination nonsense.
Plenty of real problems out there in the world today, without wasting time on all
this airy-fairy wool gathering. REAL problems – like how I’m going to raise all
those millions I’ll need to get re-elected.
Imagination… Fiction… Boil them in their own puddings, I say, with stakes of
holly through their hearts.
Bah! Humbug!
4. EverettK Says:
Chuck Jones has always been one of my heroes. Thanks for the memory, Tim!
On a totally different note, you’ve mentioned Anthony Powell’s 12-volume A
Dance To The Music Of Time in the past. The University of Chicago Press makes
a free e-book available every month, and this month’s is the first volume, A
Question of Upbringing. The other 11 volumes are available from them at $8.00
each as e-books. You can also download the first volume for free from Amazon at
A Question of Upbringing, and Amazon has the other 11 volumes from the U of
Chicago Press at a discount price of $6.40 each.
I’ve not read it yet, so can’t give it my PERSONAL recommendation, but since
Tim’s brought it up here several times, I thought others might be interested in the
opportunity to try the first volume for free.
5. Bonnie Says:
Everett, I read DTTMOT aeons ago, when I was also reading C.P. Snow. Though
they are not at all alike, I think of them the way I think of Thackery: something to
fill a lot of leisure time, a bit self-indulgent, erudite, enjoyable. Thanks for the tip–
it might be time to revisit them.
I like your memoir. To me, the thing propping up humor is always a lot of
intelligence, perceptiveness, and, of course, a sense of the absurd. Somewhere
I’ve heard that the words aren’t bad, they just need to be rearranged.
7. Larissa Says:
I love the idea that we have to treat our mistakes like an exorcism. Purging
ourselves of all the crap words and pictures and line drawings sounds refreshing–
so why does it always seem so daunting when we’re actually doing it.
I should go find an artist leach…
8. Suzanna Says:
Love the story about getting the bad drawings out. I had a ceramics teacher who
told me something similar. He said that the first 20 things that you make should
probably just be thrown out. I think he must have been too generous, maybe it is
more in the thousands.
My father-in-law tells a story about a very tough professor in art school who he
had heard made all of his students labor over a clay replica of their big toe for a
number of days. When they were finished he had all the students stand around in a
big circle with their “toe” in front of them. He then went around and wordlessly
squashed each toe with his shoe. Terrible thing to do to beginning students but I
think it says a lot about how our work will always be challenged by external or
internal forces and we have to be prepared to keep going no matter what. That
professor really put himself in an awkward position with his students though.
Bonnie, Felix the Cat was absolutely puritanical compared to Fritz the Cat, whom
I believe is the cat you have in mind. Raunchy, for sure.
And Tim, is there anyone in the entertainment/publishing business you don’t
know? Delightful stories, all.
God, have I really not responded to any of these? All I can say is that I’m back in
Santa Monica and writing as fast as I can.
Bonnie, it was “Fritz the Cat” by a pervert named Ralph Bakshi, and it was crude
in every meaning of the word, as well as taking a truly disgusting view of
sexuality. Revealed more about Mr. Bakshi than he probably knew. A real welt on
the history of animation. And, yeah, as much as I’d like to believe Chuck’s teacher
was unusual, it’s not always easy to do so – as your own teacher, may he/she rot in
hell — makes clear. Gotta fight that imagination wherever it pops up. Let them eat
multiple choice.
Thanks, FHH — they’re fun for me to write, too. And CONGRATULATIONS on
finishing NaNoWriMo — I keep wanting to do it, but not this year, thanks. I doubt
your work was that bad — although I still seem to get rid of about 1,000 bad ones
every day or two.
You’re right, Gary — imagination is the bane of modern society. And it’s being
successfully driven out in places — look at Jay Leno, for example. And very
appropriate to quote Dickens, maybe the greatest defender of the imaginative life,
especially for children.
Thanks, Everett — I went on one of the Kindle forums and talked about DANCE,
and about 15 people backed me up, all competing for the title of who loves the
books most. I want to hear the audio books from Audible and will probably
download them just to hear what the narrator (who is apparently tremendous) does
with Kenneth Widmerpool and the character, Dr. Trelawney, who’s based on
Aleister Crowley.
Bonnie I read all 12 every 8-10 years and have since my mid-twenties. They
change as you grow older, which makes sense since Powell himself grew older as
he wrote them. BTW, I’m reading the Letters of Kingsley Amis right now, and as
waspish as Amis was, Powell and Philip Larkin are the only two people in all of
England Amis never says an unkind or unadmiring word about. I would have
loved to have met Powell. (Amis would have scared me, but God, do I love his
books.)
Thank you, Lil. Chuck was an amazing guy. His default setting was amusement. I
haven’t met many people I can say that about.
Hey, Riss — you bleed yourself enough without finding a leach. (If that’s an
inappropriate comment, I apologize — I’m talking about a trait of my own that I
think I see in you.) The only thing to do with writing is to write. Good, bad, awful,
boring, rapturous, ringing with truth or duller than Brazil nuts, at the end of the
day, it’s just your daily words. Sometimes great words have no place in the book
for which they were written. Sometimes the scene toward which the whole book
builds is flat and unconvincing. It’s just your most recent book, and it’s infinitely
malleable; it can always be improved or even ruined. I’m going to write a blog
about knowing when to quit — I’m not sure I’ve read many writers talking about
that.
Zanna, Clif and I both had a teacher in theater named William Schlosser who got
up at the beginning of every semester and gave his “Theater is a demanding
mistress” speech in which he essentially told us there was no way we were going
to be able to live up to the enormous commitment of time and energy, coupled
with a brutal lack of reward, that theater was going to demand from us. This from
a guy who never missed a lunch in his life, who ended his rehearsals at 8:30 no
matter what was happening so her could get home, etc. etc. etc. I think some
professors in the arts hope to discourage any student who could challenge their
frail claim on competence. Sounds like this jerk was a member of that club.
11.Bonnie Says:
How can you not like the guy who wrote this (of a hangover):
“A dusty thudding in his head made the scene before him beat like a pulse. His
mouth had been used as a latrine by some small creature of the night and then as
its mausoleum.”
(from Lucky Jim
12.Larissa Says:
Lol. No, you’re right. I don’t really need any help. Hopefully I don’t come across
as too emo around here hehe…that’d be bad. (c:
I do have to make a sticky note or perhaps a tattoo that reminds me not to take it
all so seriously. Not. All. The. Time. It’s an easy way to burn out. The truth is if
you write crap or draw crap or whatever it is you’re doing-you just start over later.
I’ve been hooked on these road biking videos put out by the Cervelo bike
company for a while now-they’re all about their test team riders and their journeys
and attempts to win and all that jazz that you don’t see when you’re watching
cycling in real time-and the owner said something to this effect:
If you set out to test yourself there are two things that can happen-you can
succeed or you can fail. But if your goal was to test yourself, then it is always
success.
That’s a fair paraphrase I believe. And it’s true.
December 2nd, 2010 at 6:15 pm
Bonnie, nice to see another Amis fan out there. He’s one of the unshowiest and
funniest really top-drawer writers I know, although he was certainly a difficult
person. His son, Martin, has inherited some of the talent but not much of the
humor. I accidentally stole from him in THE FOURTH WATCHER — just a
straight lift, and no, I’m not going to point it out.
Hello, Riss: You definitely don’t come across as emo. Obviously, I take writing
seriously, too. It’s just that I’ve done enough of it to know that no single day, or
week, or even an entire book, means that much. What matters is that we keep
growing and learn from the times we don’t achieve what we aimed for. I think the
only way to learn to do something new is to try to do something we don’t know
how to do. Writing growth (this is off the top of my head) is of two kinds: getting
better at the basics, and stretching toward new territory. Raymond Chandler once
said of his own development, “It was a year before I could get his hat off.”
Learning how to write a character walking across a room is the beginning of
understanding that there are ten thousand ways to write a character walking across
a room, and the better you get at that level, the better qualified you’ll be to go on
tiptoe and have the person who is walking across the room someone you don’t
know how to write, crossing the room to get to a scene, a situation, you don’t
know how to write. And the only way to get there is to write and write and write.
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 62: Keeping It Up
December 1st, 2010
This is Day 62, meaning I am more than a sixth of the way through this insanity. It’s also a day when I
feel written out. But I have to keep it up.
So this is a nothing blog.
I keep seeing ads for products that treat constipation, bloating, erectile dysfunction, and other Things
One Did Not Used to Discuss In Public. Am I the only person in the world who remembers when some
topics were personal? Is anything personal any more?
“If your erection persists more than four hours, call your doctor.” I mean, really.
Why not, “If your erection persists for more than eight hours, call The Guinness Book of World
Records?” Or, “If your erection persists for more than forty-eight hours, seek employment as a
community Christmas tree.” Is this stuff we really want to talk about? In prime time?
I like that use of “persists,” by the way. It’s . . . gentle. Redirects the mind from things like learning to
enter rooms backward or having all of one’s one’s trousers retailored.
And apparently, if you buy enough Cialis, they throw in two bathtubs on a beach. Doing “it” on a
beach, in public, in not one but two bathtubs, might be the cure for the erection persisting.
What happens if you have to call your doctor? What does he/she do? Say “Gloria Allred” over the
phone and send you a bill? Try to explain Dark Energy? Remind you of Dick Cheney?
And, speaking of curing a persistent erection, is it just me, or does somebody really need to punch
Nancy Grace in the nose?
“Hello, I’m Nancy Grace taking an hour off from my day job at The Parlor of Pain and Pleasure to
bring you sixty minutes of details you really do not need about the murder and dismemberment of an
eleven year-old girl down in the inbred South. We have with us Dr. Peter Wagner, creator of the Wagner
Pain Index. Dr. Wagner, just how much did this little girl hurt? Mmm-hmm, mmm-hmm. Isn’t that
awful. And what about this study that says that what men everywhere most want to do is dismember
small girls while watching Total Bareknuckle Smackdown? Mmm-hmmm. Let’s get Gloria Allred in
here.”
I quit. There are things I refuse to keep up.
This entry was posted on Wednesday, December 1st, 2010 at 7:08 pm and is filed under All Blogs. You can
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16 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 62: Keeping It Up”
1. Debbi Says:
I can’t believe I’m leaving the first comment to this one. Did everyone else run
and hide after seeing the photo or what?
2. Larissa Says:
Hopefully you just meant the daily blog topic and not the whole project. About
things you refuse to keep up…that is….and yeah, what the hell happened to “this
is my life and I don’t need everyone telling me what to do or hearing about my
problems?”
It’s absurd how much we are bombarded by these persistent (there’s that word),
glossed over, candy coated bullshit marketing plans to get us to be more accepting
of our problems (?)–which translates to spend more money on stupid shit.
I’m a fan of keeping things like four hour long erections where they belong…
ahem.
(seriously!?!?! Recaptcha: joyints member)
3. Suzanna Says:
Tim, this is very funny. I’m glad we don’t have a TV in our house. For the most
part I’m spared the intrusion of pharmaceutical ads and weirdos like Nancy Grace
and Gloria Allred. It’s not just you, those two both deserve to have duct tape
permanently afixed to their pie holes.
Glad you’re back safe and sound.
Larissa, yours is the best ReCaptcha yet!
4. EverettK Says:
Sheesh. After that column, I just hope you can get up in the morning.
Or maybe tomorrow’s column will be better if you stay up all night.
Remember: when you fall off, it’s best to get right back up on your horse.
Hmmm… maybe that was one image too far. I give up.
5. Robb Royer Says:
Now we’re getting somewhere. Ranting is good. Ranting is funny. And – since
you brought it up – whoever wrote that ad copy for Cialis has to be the most
disingenuous sumbitch on the planet. First of all when are you likely to get get a
four hour erection from the malfunctioning of their product? Right! In the middle
of the night! Are there ten people in this entire country who can get their doctor on
the phone in the middle of the night? I doubt it. If I call my doctor in the middle of
the DAY I get a recording saying ‘if this is an emergency, hang up and call the
emergency room. If I decide to push past that point I have to talk to fifteen nurses,
leave a message and, if I’m lucky I’ll get a call back in three days. So what
they’re really saying is ‘if you have an erection lasting more than 72 hours….’
The same lying bastards who would have you believe that these twin cast iron
tubs just show up on a beach, a gladed forest, or the top of mount Everest without
having been lugged there by a five man crew. Which leads me to my point, which
is: the direct marketing of prescription drugs to the public is immoral and if
congress wasn’t directly in the pocket of the drug companies, would be illegal.
Shit, now you got ME ranting…
December 2nd, 2010 at 8:26 am
Actually, that line about if your erection persists is one of the most successful
lines in advertising. (Seriously, I believe that’s true.) Also, while stuck in a
bookstore one day waiting for the clerk to get me some information and I was
browsing through s book on a new & notable table and learned that an unintended
side effect of Viagra is… divorce. Apparently women who breathed a sigh of
relief when their husbands were no longer able to, uh, perform, suddenly found
themselves being chased around the kitchen table by their newly adolescent
husbands. So maybe the statement ought to be, “If your marriage lasts more than 4
hours…”
December 2nd, 2010 at 9:56 am
Hi, Debbi — Very courageous of you to step right up like that. As I reread this in
the cold light of day, I can see why it might have put people off a bit. But, you
know, one a day for a year — there are going to be occasional dips. Even as I
struggle to keep it up.
Tell it like it is, Riss!! Great to see a kindred spirit out there. What’s next, a
remedy for persistent female dryness? (Whoops. My wife says that’s already on
the air.) And you win, in advance, the Sneakiest Line award for “in the right
place.”
Suzanna, if it made you laugh, this soul-searing personal crisis will have been
worth it. I DID NOT want to blog last night. i DID NOT want to write yesterday.
But, in keeping with the posts of the past few days, I did. Most of what I wrote on
the book yesterday is (to be kind) claptrap, and you already know about the
quality of the blog. But I moved Madison — and in a parallel sequence —
Simeon, from Point A almost all the way to Point B. I hope SOMEBODY likes
this book, because it’s getting pretty strange.
Sheesh is right, Everett, although it’s funny to hear you respond to that disjointed
rant as a “column.” If I’m writing columns, where’s the 7-figure offer from
NEWSWEEK. Oh, wait, sorry – what was that again? No NEWSWEEK? Once
again I’m pouring my energies into a literary form that the parade’s wadded up
and tossed aside. If I could just figure out what’s next . . .
Hey, Robb — stirred your old ranting soul, did I? I’m proud of that, because
you’ve done several of the most inspired impromptu verbal rants I ever had the
pleasure to hear. Yes, the whole dynamic of drug companies sidestepping doctors
to tell us directly what drugs we should be demanding from our doctors is another
gleaming example of the total suckiness of the times in which we live. But
Congress — in the company of the drug companies???? so WHAT ABOUT THIS
–THE FUCKING OBAMA ADMINISTRATION LENT TRILLIONS OF
DOLLARS OF OUR TAX MONEY TO THE BANKS AT .00078% SO THEY
COULD (A) LEND OUR OWN MONEY TO US AT 24% AS CREDIT
CARD DEBT AND (B) USE IT TO PAY THE PEOPLE WHO ARE
FORECLOSING ON US.
Sorry. I’m breathing slowly and regularly. Obama — Captain Disappointment, the
most disillusioning political figure of my time, and that’s saying quite a bit.
8. Suzanna Says:
When you shift to politics, Tim, just expect I’m gonna weigh in here. I just can’t
resist an opportunity to vent so bear with me please. Our country is effing ruled by
the financial industry. No doubt about it. I share your rage and disgust with the
unrestrained power Obama has not only allowed but lobbied to give the financial
industry while the rest of us are screwed over on a daily basis.
The so called Father of Peace Studies, Johan Galtung, said Obama’s downfall is a
product of his “slightly” megalomaniac belief that HE will be THE ONE to end
partisanship. How does he do this? By becoming more and more like those I
presumed were his opposition. Huh?
Here’s what Galtung said if you’re interested:
“I think that I sense something slightly megalomaniac in him, which is disturbing.
The idea of being able to unite all of the US, just as he unites skin colors and
faiths and origins in his body, and for that reason, leaning over backwards to
negotiate with the Republicans and taking on Republican points, whereupon the
Republicans vote no. Now, maybe the Republicans will now change from being a
“no” party to some couple of “maybe” or “yeses,” maybe. But in the meantime, he
has lost the support of the people who are voting for him.”
I think many if not most of Obama’s previous supporters feel that he has managed
at least one thing with unwavering consistency. He has completely squandered
what little hope there was to make a huge difference. Unlike Galtung I believe
there will be zero cooperation from the Republicans for any policy that aims to
assist the disenfranchised, the needy, the middle class, or the planet. Business as
usual.
So what are we left with? No sweeping change this time around. Just the
minuscule incremental appearance of change. ARGH!
From little blue pills to politics-see how interesting your blog is. Unfortunately,
there are too many bad jokes evoked by Viagra and Cialis, and yes, there are
solutions to female dryness. Personally, we are so sex obsessed in this culture, it’s
surprising we get anything done. Wait a minute-are our dear politicians getting
any? Maybe they wouldn’t be so dour. Or maybe they are getting too much,and
they have no energy left to do the job? I think I’m losing it here. I’m interested to
see more of Madison and Simon. And Tim, I don’t see you exactly loafing around,
you know.
One and all –
First, Laren, I had no idea that was the most successful line in the ad, but now that
you’ve pointed it out, OF COURSE, IT IS. I can see the group of ad guys
(probably guys) who thought it up, just falling off their chairs laughing. It’s
brilliant. And I’m not surprised at the marriage statistic — I’ve never understood
what women find attractive in men.
Zanna, this is the worst of times, no two ways about it. The country is in
precipitous decline, dumber and further in debt by the hour, the prostitutes who
masquerade as national leaders (and that’s unfair to prostitutes) are different only
in how low, or how high, their price is, and beetle-browed Americans, glued to
their TVs, still think in terms of “liberal” and “conservative” or Republican and
Democrat. We’ve been bought and paid for, and the only topic still on the table is
whether we have any change coming, and that’s guaranteed to be taken “to lower
the deficit” and then spent on pork. I buy completely and mournfully the line that
Obama has ” has completely squandered what little hope there was to make a
huge difference.” Meet the new boss. Same as the old boss.
The Ixnaycrats are the only way out.
Lil, if we have anything here, it’s a broad frame of reference. I think it’s a
foregone conclusion that most politicians are much more interested in power than
they are in sex or food, and the ones of whom that’s not true — Bill Clinton, for
example — are to be treasured. Did you think MY Cialis and Viagra jokes were
bad, too? (Puddling up.) And I slaved over a hot keyboard all day to make you
laugh, and — oh, I can’t stand myself. I want to see more of Madison and Simeon
myself, but I want to see them DOING SOMETHING, and that’s the problem
IXNAYCRATS RULE. NO PROFESSIONAL POLITICIANS. VOTE AGAINST
EVERYONE.
11.Debbi Says:
Well, of course, you’re entitled to the occasional dip. You’re trying to write one
really great original post a day for a year (that’s amazing or crazy or stupid or all
), so needless to say they won’t ALL be equally fabulous.
To quote you in your previous post (ahem), “I’ve got a hundred thousand bad
scenes in me, and I’ve got to get them all out. A bad day just lowers the number.”
Just substitute the word “posts” for “scenes” and there you go.
12.EverettK Says:
Lil said: Personally, we are so sex obsessed in this culture, it’s surprising we get
anything done. Wait a minute-are our dear politicians getting any? Maybe they
wouldn’t be so dour. Or maybe they are getting too much,and they have no energy
left to do the job? I think I’m losing it here. I’m interested to see more of Madison
and Simeon.
HOLY SH*T! Madison and Simeon are DOING IT???? Apparently those little
blue pills don’t just keep you up all night, they’ll suck you right of literary limbo!
13.EverettK Says:
Tim said: We’ve been bought and paid for, and the only topic still on the table is
whether we have any change coming…
This brings to mind one of my favorite (out of about 20 or 30) John McCutcheon
songs, “Going, Going, Gone.” You can read the lyrics at:
Going, Going, Gone lyrics”
And you can listen to a brief slice of the song on Amazon at:
Live At The Wolf Trap
(And this song is almost 25 years old.) If you’re not familiar with him, John
McCutcheon is an excellent folk singer, and the above mentioned “Live at the
Wolf Trap” album is a guaranteed pleaser for everyone (unless you’re one of those
who just HATE folk music, but even YOU might enjoy some of it…) It’s just a
WONDERFUL album!
What am I bid for the White House? Come on, boys, don’t be slow
They’ve overspent their credit so they’ll just have to go
If they can’t learn to manage it’s time they’re moving on
The leaders of this country are going, going gone!
Come on, let’s start the bidding with that Congress on the hill
They’re awful fond of spending, they just don’t pay the bills
But with a little honest work we’ll make them good as new
I hear they’re handy on the farm if you show ‘em what to do
Hi, Debbi — I think personally there have been a LOT of dips, but people here are
very nice to me, in part because most of them know that I cry easily. You want
dips, just keep coming by. Although I think tomorrow’s is going to be pretty good.
Everett, without giving (much of) anything away, Simeon is fictional and Madison
isn’t — well, I mean, she is, but you know. And there are unseen strictures (which
may well be tested) against coupling between fictional and nonfictional
characters. I CANNOT believe I’ve gotten myself into a position in which I’ve
just written the sentence that precedes this one.
Great song, Everett. It’s actually reassuring to know that the whores on the Hill
have been at it for decades, except that we’re now seeing the result of decades of
squandering and vote-buying and mendacity and boneless bending over for every
corporate donor with some bucks in hir (remember hir?) hand. Honest to God,
they’ve taken it up the butt so often they could rent it out as a wind tunnel.
December 3rd, 2010 at 10:40 am
oh, laws – i love it here. hysterical
16.Jaden Says:
Tim, I came to this post after working the day job ALL freaking weekend. Thank
you for giving me a much-needed laugh.
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 63: Raising the Tone
December 2nd, 2010
Kelly Corrigan is a contributor to Oprah Magazine, but I don’t hold that against her.
Some time back, realizing how little she remembered of her own childhood, she began to write long
time capsules in prose for her elementary-school daughters about their lives together. These pieces
gave rise to a book called LIFT, which my wife loved.
I didn’t read more than about twenty pages, but it made me realize how often we (I) walk through
especially blessed periods of our lives without even pausing to take it in, much less remember it later.
People take pictures or video at celebratory moments, but they’re essentially external documents, good
for triggering memories that have probably faded. It seems to me that it would be a good idea from
time to time, when it feels as though the world is being especially nice to us, to sit down and write
about it.
As I’ve said here, one of my favorite movies is Hirokazu Kore-Ida’s AFTERLIFE, in which a group of
recently-dead people are put through a week of trying to identify the moment from their lives in which
they’ll spend eternity. All of them have trouble identifying moments of transcendence — one poor guy
spends days surrounded with stacks of videocassettes, fast-forwarding through his life in search for
anything he could mistake for happiness.
So here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to try to hold on to the best things, not by clinging to them
because there’s really nothing you can cling to, but by writing them down. Tomorrow, I’m buying a
blank book, and whenever I feel especially blessed, I’m going to get it onto the page.
Among other things, this should make me more aware of just how much gratitude I owe. And it’ll
force me to acknowledge that I’m loved and that it pretty much means everything.
I have to figure out what to call the book. Any suggestions?
And how come it’s always women who come up with this kind of stuff? What are men, emotional
amputees?
Maybe we need an emotional Viagra. The other one addresses the wrong chakra.
And as sensitive and New Age as I sound right now, the very thought of Oprah gives me motion
sickness, which is why that “no” is up there in the middle of her Omnipresent initial.
This entry was posted on Thursday, December 2nd, 2010 at 9:13 pm and is filed under All Blogs. You can
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12 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 63: Raising the Tone”
Tim’s Times?
2. EverettK Says:
A title for your book? How about a tip of the hat to William Goldman and The
Princess Bride? The Good Parts.
And an excellent idea, by the way.
It seems to me that, through the admitted ups and downs of this daily slog…er…
blog, that you will very likely end up getting far more out of the exercise than you
had originally hoped. Perhaps not in the original WAY that you hoped, although
that, too. But in many unexpected ways as well.
3. Bonnie Says:
I read this post during a short bout of insomnia last night. This morning, after
catching up on newsgroups, comics, email, etc. I returned to my current mystery,
Forbidden Fruit by Kerry Greenwood. Almost the first thing I found on the page
where I’d left off was:
It was a lovely dinner. It was important, Meroe [Wiccan neighbor]
said, to enjoy good things when they happen, because otherwise you
might miss them, and the Goddess would be displeased.
4. Suzanna Says:
Hi, Tim
Having a gratitude journal sounds wonderful.
After my emotional dive into the political wasteland yesterday I could use some
gratitude reflection myself.
Words you chose in your post, THE BEST THINGS, may make a possible title.
I’m sure you’ll find just the right one.
Men and women are wired a little differently sometimes but you, my friend, are
no emotional amputee. A softy if ever there was one.
5. Robb Royer Says:
I’ll get around to the point in a minute, but this all reminds me of a classic Tim
moment from college… after a dud joke you stared off into space and said ‘ah…
humor… I understand it when I hear it but the essence of it escapes me’. Of
course it’s an ironic comment since it was funny enough for me to remember for
half a century (yup it’s been that long) BUT! it’s kind of like how I feel about
happiness, bliss, gratitude et al. I can count my blessings (usually upon the
recommendation of those wiser than I) they’re just so damn hard to EMBRACE…
I agree with Susanna, and I don’t even “know” you, but you are no emotional
amputee. Your feelings come through everything you write; it’s just, IMHO that
guys are not trained to “talk” about it. I love your idea of a bliss book; Robb, it
may just be my mood, but your post brought tears to my eyes, sometimes it is hard
to remember our blessings. Darn, Tim, you always manage to engage me.
7. Sylvia Says:
I would just call it Moments.
8. Bonnie Says:
December 3rd, 2010 at 1:35 pm
I think you should call it “dead wet girls”; that way no one could tell what tender
thoughts and feelings were inside.
9. Susan Says:
How about “My Best Self”? I used to keep a gratitude journal, but then got out of
the habit. I’m going to start one again. Thank you, Tim.
Hi, everybody — SORRY not to have responded earlier — this is an all-out
writing day. I’ve done 2100 words on PULPED, and am very happy with the way
the story seems to be going. Also, I’m in love with Madison. Simeon’s going to
have to fight me for her.
Laren, good title. Munyin is going to buy me the book tomorrow — she has
something specific in mind. I’m in a pretty good period right now from about 30
perspectives, so I’ll have something to write immediately. As you know, Laren the
blessings already are.
Everett, “The Good Parts” works, too. As to what I’m getting out of this daily
slog, I mean, blog — well, I’m taking a lot less time to warm up to writing
because it seems like all I do is make sentences, and the sentence is after all a
basic unit of the novel. I don’t know whether I’m writing better because of
blogging daily, but I do know:
1. I’m getting started more easily.
2. I’m writing well at the moment, but I don’t know whether that’s because of the
blogging or just because the character of Madison has me so engaged.
3. I’m good and tired at the end of the day.
Absolutely right, Bonnie. Missing the blessings (or good moments, or glimpses of
beauty, or whatever) as they occur is like being tone deaf while great music is
playing or like taking extravagant gifts for granted. The Goddess would have
every reason to be displeased. And re: your second comment, people who haven’t
read CRASHED should know that this refers to the book, not some esoteric
necrophiliac fixation I’ve developed.
Suzanna, why are you so nice to me? I’m not used to this. (You know I’m
kidding.) Once again, everyone, I’ve known Sooozie since she was (literally) four
years old.
Hi, Robb — I’m amazed you remember that after all these decades. I have a
feeling I was smoking something because I was never that good unassisted. (Now,
of course, my system is as clear as spring water.) I love what you said. There
absolutely is a big difference between recognizing your blessings and embracing
them. I haven’t really given that anywhere near enough thought.
Lil, Robb teared me up, too. He and I have been friends since we were (I think) in
our teens, and he’s never stopped surprising me. And he’s a marvelous writer, one
of the best lyricists ever and a terrific screenwriter. And thanks for being so sweet
about this somewhat patchy enterprise, Lil. It’s probably best that men talk about
their feelings less than women do. It’s kind of grisly to imagine a room full of
guys talking feelings.
Sylvia, there’s a lot to be said for simplicity. Moments is a great title. I’m also
thinking I might put an image on the front. I’ve actually had a great time digging
up the 60-some images I’ve used at the head of these messages, and it’s been a bit
of a stretch for me because I’m more a word guy than an image guy.
Susan: First, HI!!! We’re all glad you came by. I was going to start my book today
but my wife wants to buy it, and she can’t do it until tomorrow. Maybe we’ll start
on the same day. See what I mean about women? You had a gratitude journal
years ago, and it takes someone’s book to give me the idea.
11.Jaden Says:
Tim, I love this idea. I’m going to start one of these myself.
I like the title THE GOOD PARTS. And the others are right when they say you are
no emotional amputee. When people tell me Jared is too emotional and
compassionate to be a man, I think of you and know they’re wrong.
I’ve got it, I’m writing in it, and I haven’t named it yet. I’m thinking perhaps an
image of some kind.
But it’s an interesting way to look back on a day — just noting blessings, gifts,
kindnesses, forgiveness, missed bullets, etc.
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 64: Czechs and Balances
December 3rd, 2010
This is the flag of the Czech Republic, which is refreshingly free of symbolism
The colors, according to one website, have no significance whatsoever. I like that. They’re nice colors,
if a trifle familiar, and it’s energizing to see them free of any saber-rattling meaning.
The choice of design, however, was packed with the kind of diplomatic chicanery that gives WikiLeaks
its best material. When Czechoslovakia agreed to the 1993 separation that produced the Czech
Republic and the state of Slovakia, the big issue was not (as you might have expected) over who got to
use the front part of the name, but over the flag. Czechoslovakia and the incipient country of Slovakia
finally agreed that neither of them would use elements of the old Czechoslovakian flag in designing
their new banners. They shook hands on it and retired to their respective portions of the map.
But the Czech Republic promptly adopted the entire Czechoslovakian flag, reasoning that since the
country of Czechoslovakia, which had been a party to the agreement, no longer existed, the agreement
was null and void. Ah, politicians.
I didn’t know any of this until about 25 minutes ago. I was looking for a visual for this blog and found
the flag and read all of this stuff and came right back and shoveled it at you. I’m nowhere near as
smart as I pretend.
And all of this is by way of an overture to my news of the day: A Nail Through the Heart is going to be
translated into Czech. This fulfills me in some obscure way that’s impossible for me to describe. It just
feels great to know that Poke and Rose and Miaow will be speaking Czech, in addition to Italian,
Spanish, Finnish, and English. I can’t wait for the cover design and the moment when I get to read the
first paragraph.
I’ve been getting a lot of effusive fan mail from Italy lately, much of which I can’t read, although the
Italians’ English is much, much better than my Italian. Enthusiasm in Italian is so filigreed. Makes the
book sound like something I’d like to read.
I have no idea what Czech fan mail will be like or, indeed, whether I’ll get any. But in advance, to all
the Czechs who will follow Poke’s little family through the streets and alleys of Bangkok, a resounding
sawatdee khrap and also dobrý den.
And please pass the goulash. (Don’t write to tell me goulash is Hungarian. They’ve got in in the
Czech Republic and Slovakia, too. I czeched.)
This entry was posted on Friday, December 3rd, 2010 at 8:37 pm and is filed under All Blogs. You can
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15 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 64: Czechs and Balances”
The opportunity for puns is so overwhelming that I estimate there are not enough
bits & bytes to hold them all. Therefore, I refuse to participate.
Awwww — I aimed this whole thing at you. Wasn’t my parting shot smashing? “I
czeched!!!” HaaHAAAhaaaHAAAA. No, it’s all right, I’m okay now.
3. Gary Says:
And you have the hide – the absolute hide – to stony face my jokes!
4. Suzanna Says:
Good morning, Tim.
I’m sure the people of Czechoslovakia will be very pleased with THE FOURTH
WATCHER.
Here’s a little Czech to warm you up for the fan mail that will surely follow:
Radši české sebe, než mi zničíte sám.
A rough translation of: you betta czech yo self, before you wreck yo self!
Sorry. Just wanted to go along with the pun fest. Silliness intended.
Gary, this this kind of recrimination leaves a sour taste in the mouth. Excuse me
for a moment. Ptui. Much better. You are going to be SO EMBARRASSED when
I tell you that YOU were my model for this post — YOU were the reader whose
sophisticated sense of humor I was trying so desperately to emulate, YOU were
the reason I asked my publishers to make a special effort to get me published in
the Czech Republic and/or Slovakia in the first place, just so I could make those
puns in a pathetic, transparent attempt to win your esteem. I mean, really, Charlie
— what? This isn’t Charlie? Oh. Well, thank you for writing.
Zanna — Wow, Czech in da hood??? Who but someone from Oakland could bring
those two particular battery cables together? Where’s you get the Czech, which
seems suspiciously authentic, and what does it actually mean? Probably “Close
cover before striking.”
Nothing edifying here. I’m too busy laughing with good tears today.
Your Czech is in the mail, Tim.
8. Suzanna Says:
Yo, I’s from B-Town, but I hangs wid all kindza peeps from all ovah da Bay. Dats
how come I can weave all kindsa tings tagettah, know wat I’m sayin’, yo?
‘N, hey, dat translation da real deal, yo.
Czech it out:
http://translation.babylon.com/english/to-czech/
Only ting is dey got da last “yo self” all messed up and call it “himself.” Why dey
gotta go do dat? Whatevah.
Anyways, it ain’t all dat all da time but y’all may wanna use dat site when ya start
ta get dem Czech onvelopes.
Czech ya lattah, T.
Wooo, girl. Where Dexter when I need him?
Near ‘z I kin figger, you is talking bout some webb sight whut turns real talk into
foreign boooshiit. Huh. Got one maybe can help me talk to da copz?
10.Jaden Says:
Congratulations on your Czech translation, Tim. I know whoever translates Poke
and his family will convey the poetry of your language as well as the heart of your
novels.
I would join in the pun fun. but alas, I’m not clever enough to make puns, except,
occasionally by accident.
Hi, Lil — really glad the tears are from laughter. Life is too short to weep for any
other reason. (“Life is too short” is an old person’s sentiment, I’ve just realized.)
Phil, you get Pun of the Week. I’ve had time to think about it, but you also couls
have suggested, “The Czech is in the NAIL.” No? Well, maybe not.
Hi, Jaden — thanks for the congrats. You’re right, of course, the translation could
be awful. The good news is that I’m unlikely ever to be able to tell the difference.
I’m inclined to believe my Italian translator did a good job, though, because the
notes to my site from Italy are full of Romance-language enthusiasm.
12.Larissa Says:
Wow…I don’t even know what to respond to first. I think I’m just going to sit
here and grin. Yup. That seems about right. hehe.
Congratulations!
Thanks, Riss. Being translated is a great, if slightly strange, feeling.
They make the best beer.
The Czechs? Are you serious?
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 65: Shame on US
December 4th, 2010
I’m putting this up early because I’m deeply pissed off.
Okay, let’s breathe deeply and visualize a beautiful meadow.
Many American politicians are calling for the arrest and prosecution of Julian Assange. Some are
calling for his assassination, thereby putting him in a very small club, with Osama bin Laden at its
head, of people the United States of America — a/k/a my country — wants to kill.
Or, given what we’ve learned lately, perhaps I should say, the people it publicly wants to kill.
Assange’s crime was that he flew several billion pixels directly into the U.S.’s self-esteem. He’s done
it three times now, and every time, American political leaders, a/k/a gasbags, have proclaimed with
great solemnity, “This puts lives at risk.”
You know what? Nobody has died.
In the past week or so, the Land of the Free has:
1. Pressured Sweden into bringing rape charges against Assange even though the young woman who
participated (consensually) in the sexual encounter says it wasn’t rape.
2. Pressured Interpol into putting Assange on their “most-wanted” list, an honor usually reserved for
mass murderers and the most sub-human Islamic terrorists.
3. Intimidated Amazon to kick WikiLeaks off their servers.
4. Forced the site’s DNS referrer to kick WikiLeaks out on 24 hours’ notice (given at 3AM on a
Tuesday), thus making it impossible for web users to find it.
5. Intimidated PayPal to stop accepting donations on WikiLeaks’ behalf.
6. Badgered the British, who seem to know where Assange is, to take him into custody immediately,
which, all praise to Britain, hasn’t happened yet.
7. Oh, and a couple of our elected “leaders” are lobbying to place WikiLeaks (a website, for Christ’s
sake) on the official list of foreign terrorist organizations.
Is it just me, or does this feel to anyone else like an elephant trampling on a gnat?
Remember “transparency?” Didn’t “transparency” sound good? Well, “transparency” has just had its
ass kicked once and for all by the president I voted for (can anybody say one term?) at the head of an
administration that still holds a legislative majority. (Can anyone say, we need new parties?)
Remember “hope”? Is this kind of illegal and immoral bullying compatible with “hope?”
Remember the ideal of the “informed electorate?” For that matter, remember the quaint notion of “free
speech?”
I can list a lot of areas in which the America of today falls short: education, long-term planning, fiscal
responsibility, compassion, the all-but-abandoned struggle against corruption in government. But there
aren’t many things about my country that cause me actual physical and emotional shame at being
American. One or two, at most.
And now there’s one more.
This entry was posted on Saturday, December 4th, 2010 at 2:57 pm and is filed under All Blogs. You can
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17 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 65: Shame on US”
Julius Assange should be proclaimed a national hero and given a medal (and
probably a lot of cash) for his valuable service to the peoples of the world. We
need many more like him.
2. EverettK Says:
I’m not AWARE that the US government is behind numbers 1-5 (although it
wouldn’t surprise me the slightest bit). And I don’t know the details of the
accusations by the TWO Swedish women, so I can’t comment on that one, but it’s
certainly highly suspicious. I don’t think Assange is a hero, but I also don’t see
him as a villian. The government’s response to this is typical, no matter WHO is
in office, they never want to have their dirty laundry aired.
The news industry, of course, is trying to paint Assange as a villian (sells more of
whatever they sell). The people of the US (taken as a ‘whole’, which they are not,
of course) are sliding back towards the mentality of the Bush years (how short our
memories, how poor our education, how sad our moral fiber…sigh). Knee-jerk
patriotism is just as bad as mindless I-don’t-care-and-don’t-bother-me attitudes,
although in any given situation one will definitely be more dangerous than the
other.
However, I don’t consider this to be “one more” thing that makes me feel shame
for being an American citizen. It’s just one more example of the same
BEHAVIOR that always causes me shame when I see fellow American’s
exhibiting it. More generally, I’m shamed by these behaviors of all too many
Americans:
1) We’re better than everyone else in the world.
2) We’re the big dogs, so we can tell everyone else in the world how to behave.
3) We’re Americans, so we don’t have to learn about other cultures or religions or
histories or languages or…
4) Everyone else should want to be exactly like us!
5) No one does anything as well as we do.
6) We’re Americans, so we’re always right.
7) We don’t want any foreigners here, go home.
And so on. Need I continue? I didn’t think so. Preaching. Choir.
Of course, you can take my list above and replace ‘Americans’ with ‘Democrats’
or ‘Republicans’ or ‘whites’ or ‘blacks’ or ‘Christians’ or ‘Jews’ or…. and the
same attitudes apply to a vast majority. We’re a clique-ish people, it’s like we’re
stuck in High School Purgatory and can’t emotionally or intellectually grow
beyond it.
Sigh.
3. Gary Says:
Not my place to comment on American politics. But we have a celebrated
whistleblower in Australia called Andrew Wilkie, who blew the whistle on the lies
parroted by the Australian Government to get us into the Iraq war. Our then Prime
Minister had him hounded out of his Government job.
So Andrew Wilkie stood for Parliament as an Independent – and won! And
because our last election left us with a hung Parliament, Andrew Wilkie is now
one of three Independents who hold the balance of power. And the major political
parties now have to listen to him, whether they like it or not.
Whistleblowers don’t always lose.
4. Suzanna Says:
Assange, like Daniel Ellsberg before him, is heroic in the sense that he has taken
great personal risk to lift the veil of secrecy that surrounds the misconduct of
nations around the world, not just the U.S. Of course the U.S. government would
like him to be arrested, and the Wikileaks organization shut down for good. Truth
is power and the U.S. government is loathe to share the power to control how it is
perceived. The secrecy that surrounds the misconduct of our own government is
no less a threat to our national security than the misconduct of other nations.
Hi, there –
I think this goes beyond governmental misbehavior into full-fledged abuse of
power, interfering with the sovereignty of other states, breaking international laws
— you name it.
Gary, as you probably know, Assange is an Australian. In an interview with the
Manchester Guardian this morning he said he’s been told the Australian
government will arrest him the moment he sets foot in his own country — at the
request of the United States. So far, there’s been no denial of that, and it’s also
been said widely (and not denied) that the US government is exerting considerable
pressure on the Brits to arrest Assange. God bless them, they’ve declined to do so.
It’s great when a whistle-blower (or any other kind of populist hero) is elected, but
what we need are 150 million of them to turn these arrogant scoundrels out,
starting with President Disappointment.
Everett, when I see a hand puppet, I don’t need to see the hand inside to know it’s
there. This is a thoroughgoing, organized, consistent campaign to isolate and
destroy WikiLeaks and to put away the guy in charge. I agree with you on all your
points, but many of them characterize individual behavior abroad — I think
German tourists were put on earth to make us look good, something that no other
people can do. But this is a concerted international effort by the U.S. government
to put a stop to an internationally based website that has not caused a single
verifiable death or injury. Assange should spend the rest of his life in jail while
Scooter Libby is pardoned? And the news industry is, to a certain extent,
championing Assange — all except the far, far right. And then you’ve got the
ONLY ELECTED OFFICIAL TO DEFEND ASSANGE — RAND PAUL.
I mean, honest to God — I have to feel proud of a Tea Partier? (But I do.)
Phil, you’re right on the nose. I’m sure he’s a humorless, self-obsessed
egomaniac, but so was Ralph Nader back when Nader was a useful, if not
indispensable, member of society. Assange should be guaranteed safety wherever
he goes.
Can you imagine the reaction of the gasbags in American government if the
CHINESE treated someone like this? Can you imagine the level of outrage, the
cries of “human rights abuse?” The most dread of all politically correct words of
censure would be dragged out: “Inappropriate.”
By the way, could we find a way to erase “inappropriate” from the language?
I’m still trying to make sense of whether he’s a hero or a villain. Jury’s still out
inside of my head because I suspect all countries do similar stuff and also because
I’m really not certain just how diplomacy is conducted in terms of posturing, etc..
However, I will say you forgot one of the top names for assassination heard in this
country: Barack Husein Obama (well, adn Nancy Pelosi).
Suzanna, “The secrecy that surrounds the misconduct of our own government is
no less a threat to our national security than the misconduct of other nations.”
Absolutely, positively. Wish I’d said that.
“Secret” is an interesting word when applied to government documents. Only the
government can declare a document secret, and it can apply the term to any
bloody thing it wants. Nixon’s White House tapes were secret. The Pentagon
Papers were secret. The government says it’s secret, so it is. But what of the
documents that are classified because their publication would reveal governmental
(or military) stupidity or cupidity or corruption or wrongdoing. They’re exactly as
“secret,” legally speaking, as the plans for Victory in Europe were in WWII. Are
the people in power to be allowed a free hand to classify everything that might
reflect negatively on them, that might even put them in jail? Every once in a
while, someone like Assange is absolutely necessary to prevent (or at least slow)
the corruption of good governance.
Laren, no one who was elected to office called for Obama’s assassination. And I
think it’s bewildering that the only person in power to speak up in Assange’s
behalf is Rand Paul. Just convinces me even more firmly that the old left-right
political spectrum has become meaningless, and the only real us vs. them is
between the people who sell the nation to the highest bidder, and the people they
steal from in order to do it.
8. Robb Royer Says:
All right dammit, I’m gonna swim against the tide a little (this won’t surprise Tim
a bit). Surely we’re not claiming that a government has no right to even have
secrets. How would you ever conduct business/diplomacy/negotiations with the
Chinese, Russians, Saudis… whoever, in an atmosphere where they’re allowed to
have secrets and we’re not! This would be like playing poker in a table where
you’re the only one with an open hand. You can bet there are no Chinese,
Burmese or North Korean whistle blowers. (on this subject I would recommend a
book called Bodyguard of Lies). I don’t know much about this Assange fellow
(cept what’s an Australian doing with a French name, ever think of that?) and
there’s no question that the government’s response to him has been way over the
top, but I do have a problem with one man deciding HE in his infinite wisdom is
going to torpedo govt. policy without taking responsibility for any and all of the
ramifications. To me he is neither a hero or a villain, just another guy looking for
his 15 minutes.
I’m pleased but surprised that the UK government isn’t giving in to the US on
this. We usually follow the lead of the US and we’re not above using heavyhanded government tactics ourselves: look at police reactions to recent student
protests, and the Twitter joke trial.
I’m very concerned about the way that both our countries are turning themselves
into police states where the governments can be as heavy-handed as they like.
So yes, I’m pissed off too.
ummm, Robb, then what’s an Australian name?
b.
11.Robb Royer Says:
Kanga-roooo
Hi, Robb — I’m probably overstating my case here (you remember that I always
went about 190% overboard and then had to defend it). I think what Assange did
may well be damaging. I also think that we’ve had multiple instances in the past
50 years where it became clear that governments classify as a weapon, often with
no national security purpose whatsoever. The very statement, “A document is
secret because the government says it is” worries me — especially now that I
believe most political interests are identical; in the old days, the “loyal
opposition” could call out an administration for hiding behind classification, could
fight to get material unclassified. Who’s the “loyal opposition” now that
everyone’s in the same boat, taking money from the same sources?
But what I was really reacting to, and continue to react to, is the Draconian
approach (now we’ve gotten the “neutral” Swiss to close his bank account —
have we managed to get them to close Al-Queda’s? Have we even tried?) I’m
personally appalled by the response. Okay, excoriate him, make it known he’ll be
arrested the moment he sets foot on American soil, assign a special prosecutor to
identify what crimes, under American law, he’s committed and to define the extent
and/or limits of our jurisdiction. And on and on. But what they’ve done reeks of
arrogance and contempt for due process and WOULD NOT pass uncriticized by
us if the Chinese were to do the same. I think what’s being done here is new
territory, and I find it very, very uncomfortable.
BTW, my new post goes on a bit about this and concludes with a riveting excerpt
from an interview in the Manchester Guardian.
FHH — looks like they’re criticizing at any rate — Assange was raked over the
coals today for “exposing the locations” of sensitive sites within Great Britain and
making them potential targets of terrorism. I have no idea whether it’s true that the
nature of these sites wasn’t already widely known, or at least easily discoverable,
but this might be a reasonable charge. Still, so far, it’s statements, not bugsquishing action.
13.Bonnie Says:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/strangepuppy/5230272146/
This is in response to an announcement on a subversive librarian listserv I
subscribe to that the Library of Congress has blocked access to Wikileaks.
Blocking Access to Wikileaks May Harm CRS, Analysts Say.
(Secrecy News)
The Library of Congress confirmed on Friday that it had blocked
access from all Library computers to the Wikileaks web site in order
to prevent unauthorized downloading of classified records such as
those in the large cache of diplomatic cables that Wikileaks began to
publish on November 28.
Since the Congressional Research Service is a component of the
Library, this means that CRS researchers will be unable to access or to
cite the leaked materials in their research reports to Congress. Several
current and former CRS analysts expressed perplexity and dismay
about the move, and they said it could undermine the institution’s
research activities.
Nose, face, spite, cut…
Infuckingcredible.
This isn’t Bush any more. This is Mr. Hope. What a colossal fraud.
15.Bonnie Says:
Same subversive librarian listserv posted this link today with the word “irony”
added to the caption:
http://tinyurl.com/2am7cwm
“World Press Freedom Day”
Bonnie — that is way, way too funny. I think I’ll post the release in the next day
or two.
17.Bonnie Says:
Now, this is the kind of story that makes Wikileaks seem like an unlimited public
benefit:
http://www.npr.org/2010/12/10/131970617/Cables-Suggest-U-S-Knew-Of-SudanArms-Shipments
You can just picture those State Department pinheads patting us on our topknots
and murmuring “There, there, don’t worry your pretty little heads about these
complex, grown-up international relations policies.”
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 66: Clearing Things Up
December 6th, 2010
First, the dates on these little missives from the land of confusion.
Had an an-mail this morning from a friend wanting to make sure I was okay because (a) she hadn’t
heard from me lately, (b) the site had apparently been down for a while yesterday, and (c) I hadn’t
posted for today. Underlying the question was a certain anxiety that perhaps the government had taken
me down (or, perhaps, out) because of yesterday’s WikiLeaks post.
I’m still here, and Julian Assange is still on the loose, as far as I know. And I hope he stays that way.
The date confusion is because, when I started doing this, I wrote the blogs first thing in the morning
and posted them around 10 AM. Then, a few weeks back, I started writing them in the afternoon before
the post date and putting them up in the evening, so they were actually dated a day early. So
yesterday’s fatal post, about Wikileaks, is dated December 4 although it was written for December 5. I
haven’t actually missed any posts. So far.
(Hi, everyone. I’m waving to prove it’s me.)
Second, my support for Assange isn’t so much because I think he’s a world hero (although he may
prove to be). It’s more dismay and disgust at the extra-legal ways the government has taken after him
— someone whose actions, despite all the gasbag whooping about GRAVE DANGER TO
INDIVIDUALS, can’t be shown to have actually harmed anyone. Yes, he caused damage to our selfesteem. Yes, Sarkozy is probably making a stink about being describes as a vain little peacock with
lifts in the heels of his shoes, and Berlusconi is livid at being described as a priapic reprobate, and
Ghadaffi, or however the hell he spells it these days, would rather that attention had not been called to
his pneumatic blond “nurse,” but that doesn’t really qualify as harm.
By the way, my mind boggles in a really threatening way at the image of why Ghadaffi needs her to
dress like a nurse.
But no soldiers, no sources, no “contractors,” no overdressed diplomats, seem to have been bruised in
the aftermath of any of the WikiLeaks releases.
Third, it’s interesting to note that this global manhunt and the massive campaign to discredit and take
down WikiLeaks came not immediately following the release of the “diplomatic” (there’s a badly
chosen word) cables, but rather on what was thought to be the eve of a new release: buckets of
documents detailing the misdeeds of the major American banks.
Hmmm.
Since the Brits have failed thus far to fold, Assange was interviewed two days ago by the Manchester
Guardian, and he let loose this amazingly condensed paragraph of analysis of the current American
political system — which, he implies, has become a financial system supported by both parties, which
are indebted to it. I needed to look at this a couple of times (he did it off the top of his head, but I
couldn’t read it that way), but when you read it, consider this: If this is what he believes, what’s the
story those bank documents tell?
And if what he says isn’t true, why is it that there is no longer a whit of difference between the two
increasingly greedy, increasingly feeble American political parties?
This answer was given in response to a question about why WikiLeaks has focused lately on a nation
with widely-vaunted freedom of speech.
The west has fiscalised its basic power relationships through a web of contracts, loans, shareholdings,
bank holdings and so on. In such an environment it is easy for speech to be “free” because a change in
political leadership rarely leads to any change in these basic instruments. Western speech, as something
that rarely has any effect on power, is, like badgers and birds, free. In states like China, there is
pervasive censorship, because speech still has power and power is scared of it. We should always look
at censorship as an economic signal that reveals the potential power of speech in that jurisdiction. The
attacks against us by the US point to a great hope, speech powerful enough to break the fiscal blockade.
Ixnaycrats — where are you when you’re needed?
This entry was posted on Monday, December 6th, 2010 at 10:02 am and is filed under All Blogs. You can
your own site.
11 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 66: Clearing Things Up”
Wait…Is this December 6th or 5th or 7th? Is that Daylight Savings Time or
Daylight Wasteful Time? Do we receive interest on the daylight we save?
Assange is in the UK because he’s accused of sex crimes in a Scandanavian
country (of all places) by a government that can’t get the persons upon whom he
allegedly committed said crimes to press charges.
And we started hearing Christmas music the day after Halloween.
I don’t remember stuff like this when I was growing up. But, then, shortly
thereafter they invented fire and the rest is history.
2. Suzanna Says:
Hi, Tim
The way the U.S. government is trying to control who reads the Wikileaks site,
which has been widely reported lately, does make me a little paranoid about
stating my opinion about Wikileaks online so I know what your friend may have
been feeling when she wrote to you out of concern.
What the heck, we’re still supposed to be able to speak our minds, right? Not
quite China yet are we???
You know, I get why some people are pissed off at Assange, I really do. He’s
spilling the beans in a willy-nilly fashion, and some more restrained critics would
say, in a very irresponsible manner, but honestly I am not surprised by much of
what has been revealed. Especially what has been revealed about the military
actions in Afghanistan by journalists outside of the mainstream media.
Do I think it’s okay to reveal what targets the U.S. considers most vulnerable to
terrorist attacks? No, not particularly.
But nor do I want some in the U.S. military to kill innocent civilians, and torture
prisoners being held by U.S. forces under the guise of making our country safer,
and having carte blanch to do so. These kinds of military actions generate far
more hatred and revenge against our troops than I think most of us can even begin
to imagine, and maybe telling the world about it is also generating more hatred
and revenge, but when, dear God, is this ever going to end?!
In some ways I think that this is the one area that Wikileaks performed a service. I
for one am not content to let the war go on forever. What I fear is that too few
people really care about any of this because they are constantly being told the lie
that the war is for our own good. This so called war on terror has been a disaster
and no one in the government wants to say so. Argh!
But I digress, back to Wikileaks.
One highly regarded veteran reporter who appeared on the BBC seems more than
a little crabby about the Wikileaks information dumping. He fears that the real
danger of Wikileaks is that whoever is deciding what they leak has got more than
a little say in how a story will be perceived since they are only releasing what they
believe to be relevant to a story. Consequently, he believes that investigative
journalists will be very tempted to get lazy, stop doing their jobs, and instead just
wait for information to show up on Wikileaks.
I suppose that is a real temptation but I hope for everyone’s sake that journalists
who pride themselves on solid fair reporting are not going to wimp out on us,
EVER.
3. Gary Says:
Western troops in helicopter gunships shooting unarmed journalists, for God’s
sake! Including one from Reuters.
Yes, it caused a fuss when it was first leaked. But after that it almost sank without
trace. Isn’t there anyone out there who can SEE what that’s saying? Assange has
done SO much for the public interest that any errors of judgement he might have
made along the way pale into insignificance.
And it’s not Assange’s fault that Government security stinks. The grumbly old
men who run our world are so out of touch that they wouldn’t recognize RSA if
they fell over it.
If Assange hadn’t done it, someone else would have. And rightly so.
Hi, Laren — Yes, and these are charges that were dropped several months ago.
The sex was consensual, according to the record, but there was a disagreement
over condoms. Quelle coincidence that Sweden turns the heat up right now. Gee, I
don’t suppose that . . . naahhh.
Suzanna, that’s a great essay, one I’d almost like to run as its own blog. (Someone
on Twitter tweeted about yesterday’s and our traffic went through the roof. About
80 people, almost all in Europe, signed on to follow me.) I share your, uhhhh,
concern about whether we’re poking our heads up here even writing about it, but
it’s our fucking country, too, or at least it used to be. This is not our father’s
America, and I’m afraid Assange is right when he says that a change in political
party doesn’t actually change anything at all. And the professional media, which
twenty years ago would have broken part of this story themselves, have their
noses out of joint because WikiLeaks is doing it for them.
And what about DickyLeaks — that gremlin Cheney leaking Valerie Plame’s
identity. Didn’t hear the government nattering on about DANGER TO
INDIVIDUALS then.
Hi, Gary — great to hear from someone else who’s as ticked off as I am. And
remind me — has it been nine years that we’ve been looking for a guy in a cave?
What about all this extra-legal firepower we’re aiming at Assange? Maybe we
should get that angry at bin Laden. I agree with you that something is rotten in the
state of Denmark (substitute name of your country, if you live here).
5. Suzanna Says:
DickyLeaks — that was the first really hearty belly laugh of the day. Thanks for
that.
There is so much hypocrisy regarding how Valerie Plame was treated. But then I
wouldn’t have expected anything different from Shrub and his evil side kick.
I thought we were through with all of that nonsense. It was really horrifying for
me to finally realize that Obama isn’t really any different in his thirst for the status
quo. He just sounds smarter.
Can’t say I blame the journalists who feel a little out of sorts about Wikileaks.
Journalists do not like getting out scooped. Especially ones who have had to
literally risk life and limb in battlefields half of their lives to get a story.
So much has changed since the information sharing revolution.
Thanks for keeping up the interesting topics and responses. Lots of food for
thought.
Thanks, Suzy, although it seems to have chased pretty much everyone away. But
zat’s okeh. I’se in bidness 4 mahself. Y’know?
7. Suzanna Says:
Say wat? Shoo, dat weren’t you dat chased yer peeps away. Prolly that gasbaggy
comment I made ’bout da war ‘n all. Oh well. Sorry ’bout dat.
Don’t ya worry, yer peeps’ll come back ‘gain, real quick like.
8. EverettK Says:
Nothing’s chased me away. I’ve just been too damn busy reading some silly book.
I’ve gotta stop and eat breakfast pretty soon (or go to bed, I’m not sure which…)!
Boy, Zanna, this dialect just rings with authenticity. And I started it. You’re better
at it than I am, though. And you’re right — look: EVERETT’S BACK!!!
Hey Everett, thanks for the enthusiasm about LITTLE ELVISES — I had no idea
whether you were reading eagerly or holding your nose. Or, perhaps, both. But
I’m glad you’re back and glad you’re liking the book.
10.EverettK Says:
Oh, I be back, I be back.
And you be bad. You be SO bad. You be SOOOOO bad that you be good. You be
so good, that…
Oh, hell. F-ing GREAT follow-up to CRASHED, man. And I don’t say that
lightly! I just finished and sent you my notes on it. Now I just wish there was
When the hell did this come in? (And thanks, Everett.) This just now showed up
in the in-box, and it’s dated four days ago.
SORRY, Everett. This slipped past me somehow, and it shouldn’t have.
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 67: Aria da Poppo
December 6th, 2010
I hold Whitney Houston responsible for the destruction of American pop music.
Back in 1992, she took a modest little country song by Dolly Parton, “I Will Always Love You,” and
turned it into popera (cute, no? pop+opera= oh, skip it). Since then, it’s become essential for every
halfway-catchy tune to be transformed into the triumphal march from “Aida.”
The trend has been exacerbated by the vile “American Idol,” where lung capacity is regularly confused
with talent. (Yet one more reason — as if one were needed — to give Simon Cowell the Julian
Assange treatment.)
See, the problem is that Houston, back in those days, was good. She was so good that she could turn
that boom on the kettledrum (or whatever it was) and the modulation that followed, and ride it straight
into the stratosphere. Her gazillion imitators ride it straight into louder. And then louder. It’s as
though the dread Streisand virus, long predicted by musically-inclined epidemiologists, has struck at
last.
It’s given rise to what I think of as the “sink” school of record production. That’s when, weeks after the
production is finished, the producer hears the song on the air and says, “Oh, shit, we forgot to throw in
the sink.”‘
Not to mention syllable blight. Every syllable that falls on a long note is turned into a polysyllabic
scale, turning perfectly good words into meaningless la-sol-fa-ing that does nothing for either the song
or, if I’m the listener, for the listener. For an example of this at its most excruciating, tune into a
baseball game and see what the resident “American Idol” semi-celebrity does with “The Star Spangled
Banner.” It’s already an ugly song, but it’s never been this ugly.
I bring this up because I’ve finally stopped listening to Arcade Fire day after day and moved on to Sara
Bareilles’ “Little Voice” and “Kaleidoscope Heart.” She’s providing the entire soundtrack for the
Madison sequences of PULPED, and boy is she fun to write to. She’s an amazing singer (pipes,
muscianship, taste) and a first-rate songwriter. ”Little Voice,” the first collection, is stripped back to
showcase the voice. ”Kaleidoscope” is more bombastic, but I have to say that the songs are stronger.
And although she has the pipes to oversing everything, Bareilles blessedly resists doing it, with one
tragic exception on “Kaleidoscope Heart.” Unfortunately, it’s “Breathe Again,” one of the most
beautiful songs on the CD. But it’s okay — the rest of it is so good it doesn’t matter.
For example: 02 – Uncharted
A little overproduced, but choice.
This entry was posted on Monday, December 6th, 2010 at 9:45 pm and is filed under All Blogs. You can
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17 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 67: Aria da Poppo”
1. Suzanna Says:
I have had to relisten to Sara Bareilles every day since I discovered her solo live
performance of GRAVITY at the Fillmore. Really no wonder why you like her so
much.
The fa la la la la treatment that you attribute to singing divas like Houston and
Streisand, and I would add Christina Aguilera, Mariah Carey, and, ugh, Celine
Dion, must really make some people think they’re getting their money’s worth.
More notes must equal better music right? Give me a strong clear voice with great
tone and feeling and I’m there. My favorites: Shawn Colvin, Patty Griffin,
Emmylou Harris. Angels every one of them.
2. Gary Says:
Doesn’t anyone like Espen Lind? (apologetically): I thought he was good. A little
bit.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=chNdBjz4T6Q&feature=related
And I know it’s been done to death, but they even manage to bring freshness to
Hallelujah.
(very small font): No, I didn’t think my opinion mattered very much. I’l just skulk
away and hide in my cave. So sorry to have bothered everyone…
3. Larissa Says:
I’d like to hear the rest of that cd-it might be worth going and hunting down the
samples on Amazon. I have a lot of friends who would really dig her music I
think. You’re right though about turning every long note into scale practice. It’s a
cop out for not being able to hold a steady note-that takes a lot of practice and
control and all that jazz but maybe they could just try cutting the length of the
note down…to something they could hold with integrity…instead of feeling
compelled to put their “ABC’s” in the middle of a perfectly good song.
And as for Simon Cowell-sometimes I have to applaud him and his willingness to
tell the wanna be singers that they, well, suck. I’ll take a cue from Gary on this
one and just use very small font for that little bit of opinion. Ahem. Any room left
in that corner, Gary?
4. Robb Royer Says:
I have to demur a little bit from any praise given to Simon Cowell grudging or
otherwise. Seems to me his whole act (and joy) is eviscerating moderately or nontalented belters, sort of a musical Vlad the Impaler. Since he owns the show, if
you want to sing on TV you automatically live in his bailiwick and you’re his
meat. You wouldn’t have to listen to these sad sacks in the first pace if it wasn’t
for Simon and his insatiable appetite for blood. He knows if they put on all good
people he couldn’t go be Simon.
No offense to any of my fellow posters, I just have an immediate aversion to any
show that presumes that all talent boils down to some form of an Ethel Merman
imitation.
5. Larissa Says:
Robb-True enough. It’s all part of the gimmick I know, however there is
something moderately satisfying in watching someone get humiliated, even if it’s
all just part of the game. Obviously it’s not a straightforward situation-idiots
singing is considered “better TV” than actually talented people singing. It goes
back to the whole mentality of wanting the guy to lose the bullfight or the
gladiator battle just so we get some good ol’ fashion blood, guts and gore.
First, as much as I love all of you, and as sensitive as I am at this precise moment
to issues regarding freedom of speech, there will be no praise of Simon Cowell on
this site. Robb and I are in total agreement; he’s a sadist who was lucky enough to
be born during the Spanish Inquisition, but I don’t have to watch him or allow him
to foist his appalling taste off on me.
So there. Although I still love you, Riss. In Peter Schaffer’s “Amadeus,” a king (I
forget who) critiques Mozart’s music by saying, “Too many notes.” Where’s that
king when we need him? I’d trade Obama for him in a minute.
And I’m startled, Riss, that you like to see people get humiliated, especially by a
callow bully like Simon. Actually, this is my fault; I’m the one who brought up
“American Idol.”
Gary, there’s no reason to be embarrassed, or at least not until people watch that
video. But you, like Riss, are a good friend, and I will refrain from passing
judgment until I’ve actually closed the lid of this laptop. Who’s next? Abba?
(I actually like a lot of Abba.)
Zanna, you should get “Kaleidoscope Heart.” It’s an amazing collection. And
while I was listening to it today on my run, I realized where PULPED is going,
and it’s absolutely nowhere I had imagined.
7. Gary Says:
Well, I thought if I said Bryn Terfel singing “Where’er you walk” from Handel’s
Semele, that everyone would laugh at me.
So I chose a pop singer.
“Semele” — That’s Handel’s Yiddish opera, isn’t it?
And I love Bryn Terfel — it’s the only lawn foods I’ll use.
Okay, your frame of reference is acres broader than mine.
9. Larissa Says:
Yes well, my halo has been looking a little tarnished lately, my wings a little
tattered. 0:-) It’s really when people deserve it that I enjoy watching people get
humiliated. Even by an overpaid bully like Simon Cowell. Blood and guts I tell
you, it’s what our entire entertainment business is based on.
10.Suzanna Says:
Hello, Tim
That’s wonderful that SB’s music has inspired a breakthrough for your story. I’ll
definitely check out “Kaleidoscope Heart.” Maybe it’ll help me with my dreaded
accounting chores.
I’m grumpy today, Riss, or I would never be snappish toward you. Apologies.
Zanna, you can use a calculator for accounting these days. The teacher won’t
flunk you.
The chunk(s) of PULPED that floated in today are enormous. The questions are
(a) whether I can write them, and (b) whether there’s any way to put them all into
the same book, without losing some of the emotional identification I’ve been
building. But you know what? All the pieces are good, and I’ll just have to answer
the questions as I write.
12.Bonnie Says:
It was emperor Joseph II who committed the “too many notes” gaffe, though I just
skimmed an article claiming that was in fact the general consensus during his
time. And that’s actually the name of a mystery written by Robert Barnard and
Bernard Bastable, believe it or not.
Oh, and speaking of quotations, you posted on a couple of days back about “no
there there.” It’s actually about Oakland, and the phrase has been misused by
countless people to trash the place. However, when Gertrude Stein wrote it, she
was referring to the family’s Oakland house, which had been torn down since she
went to live in Paris. Of course, with G.S., it may be impossible to understand
exactly what she meant. But Oakland had the last laugh, I guess:
Modern-day Oakland has turned the quote on its head, with a statue
downtown simply titled “There.” Additionally, in 2005 a sculpture
called HERETHERE was installed by the City of Berkeley on the
Berkeley-Oakland border at Martin Luther King Jr. Way. The
sculpture consists of eight-foot-tall letters spelling “HERE” and
“THERE” in front of the BART tracks as they descend from their
elevated section in Oakland to the subway through Berkeley.
13.Bonnie Says:
Oh, and when I originally meant to comment here it was with the thought that you
and I seem to share a lot of pet peeves. My Whitney Houston rant is well known
to my close friends, my ire being whipped to frenzy by the fact that, unlike the
huge pack of talentless imposters out there, she can really sing! How dare she
waste her talent on bubble pop?
But she didn’t ever ask me, sadly.
14.Larissa Says:
Tim, it’s all forgiven. There was very little snapping actually. (c: I’m glad to hear
that some huge bits of PULPED arrived. I have no doubt you can write them. And,
if they are all good parts, well, they’ll find a way in to the story if they need to be
there. So, good luck and well done on being open and aware enough to recognize
good story bits while running! That’s tough. I’m usually just thinking about not
dying while I run. Hehe.
(recaptcha: from kruppol…perhaps the knock off designer brand of interpol?)
Bonnie and Bonnie — An Oakland habitue, huh? Meet Suzanna, also a child of
the land beneath the oak. Or something.
Thanks for the info dump, Bonnie. I’ve actually forgotten the context in which I
used “no there there,” but I’ll accept that I did (it’s increasingly difficult for me to
distinguish among things I wrote in blogs, things I wrote in answer to responses,
and things I said to my wife.) I knew it was Stein, whose appeal has always
mystified me, but I didn’t know she was talking about Oakland. I would actually
have to agree with her, although I’m sure you and Suzanna would disagree
vehemently.
And thanks for the “too many notes” info. Very funny, and just tells you to take
ALL criticism with a grain of salt.
Hi Riss. Thanks for the congrats — pieces of PULPED continue to arrive at an
alarming pace – there’s probably actually way more than I can use. We’ll see — at
least it’s all pretty good, and I burst out laughing in the shower this morning when
I figured out how Madison is going to come to believe that Simeon is actually
fictional, as opposed to — you know — crazy. It’ll be one of the funniest
moments I’ve ever written. Keep sending me light and encouragement — this is a
really interesting part of the process on this book, something that I’ve actually
only gone through once before, on BREATHING WATER.
My Captcha: “you’ll Sitionah” which is totally bewildering.
16.ShadoeBeverlyAmberChyna Says:
Hilarious and brilliant observations as always…but for
the ultimate in discreet use of tra la la oversing, I submit Twine Time:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SXneqm3g7Kc
Wo, Shadoe — “Twine Time!” Where DO you find these things? I mean, I know
something about obscurity, having spent many years living in it, but this goes into
an entirely new level of obscurity.
And thank God for the cameraman’s union, because without them we wouldn’t
have ANYTHING from the days of black-and-white live TV. They insisted on a
kinescope, just a film record made by pointing a camera at a monitor, and that’s
why we’ve got “Twine Time” and cultural artifacts of (arguably) even greater
cultural value.
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 67A: Wolf Trap
December 7th, 2010
Feminist critic Naomi Wolf has just posted a hilarious and spot-on piece about Julian Assange’s
problems over at The Huffington Post.
The heading is 1.3 MILLION MEN INTERPOL SHOULD ARREST. To save you the link, it’s below
— but you should go over if only to read the comments.
Heeeeere’s Naomi:
Dear Interpol:
As a longtime feminist activist, I have been overjoyed to discover your new commitment to engaging
in global manhunts to arrest and prosecute men who behave like narcissistic jerks to women they are
dating.
I see that Julian Assange is accused of having consensual sex with two women, in one case using a
condom that broke. I understand, from thealleged victims’ complaints to the media, that Assange is also
accused of texting and tweeting in the taxi on the way to one of the women’s apartments while on a
date, and, disgustingly enough, ‘reading stories about himself online’ in the cab.
Both alleged victims are also upset that he began dating a second woman while still being in a
relationship with the first. (Of course, as a feminist, I am also pleased that the alleged victims are using
feminist-inspired rhetoric and law to assuage what appears to be personal injured feelings. That’s what
our brave suffragette foremothers intended!).
Thank you again, Interpol. I know you will now prioritize the global manhunt for 1.3 million guys I
have heard similar complaints about personally in the US alone — there is an entire fraternity at the
University of Texas you need to arrest immediately. I also have firsthand information that John Smith
in Providence, Rhode Island, went to a stag party — with strippers! — that his girlfriend wanted him to
skip, and that Mark Levinson in Corvallis, Oregon, did not notice that his girlfriend got a really cute
new haircut — even though it was THREE INCHES SHORTER.
Terrorists. Go get ‘em, Interpol!
Yours gratefully,
Naomi Wolf
This entry was posted on Tuesday, December 7th, 2010 at 11:44 am and is filed under All Blogs. You can
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19 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 67A: Wolf Trap”
1. Larissa Says:
LOL. Brilliant! I have a few they could arrest while they were at it…(C:
This actually comes as a complete surprise to me. I failed to see any trace of a
sense of humor in THE BEAUTY TRAP, but I think this is really wonderful.
3. Suzanna Says:
Really, hilarious. I especially like that someone like Naomi Wolfe came out to
poke fun at Interpol and the two Wounded Wilma’s. If the charges she suggests in
her piece are all they have on Assange I have to ask, are these women even for
real? This all sounds so unbelievably petty. I guess it was all they needed to get
him where they wanted.
Wounded Wilmas — that’s really funny. One of them turns out to be anti-Israel
and she’s part of an organization that invites all these pro-Palestinian dudes in to
spread the Word. Yup, this is what the Land of the Free used to cage this butterfly.
5. Gary Says:
Someone should start producing T-shirts with all 500 of the WikiLeaks website
mirrors printed front and back.
Well, it worked for PGP.
I’m still at Wounded Wilmas.
Great idea — and may there be 10,000 of them by morning.
Yes, Laren, I laughed out loud, and I wasn’t really in the laughing vein.
8. Sabine Says:
Hi Tim,
There are not yet 10,000 of them, but 1,005. It’s going to get pretty hard for the
US to close them all down.
By the way, I’m still missing the comment I posted on your Viagra blog on 3rd
December (I guess). Did it jump to your spam file or was it Wikileaks who
captured it?
9. Larissa Says:
Gary-Hell Yes! That’s all I have to say about that.
Mr Assange’s behaviour is clearly shocking and every right-thinking person has to
agree that his extradition is a matter of national emergency. Incompetence in using
a condom! I mean, whatever next.
Hi, Riss — I’m with you (and Gary).
Note that hackers brought down the sites for Visa, the Swedish prosecutor’s
office, and half a dozen others this morning. Note that PayPal said it did indeed
CAVE IN TO US GOVERNMENT PRESSURE.
(Sorry about the caps. I’m really torn between continuing to write about this
outrage and going back to mindless entertainment.)
Hello, Sabine, and welcome. 1,005 is good news, especially since the number is
certainly growing. And I review ALL comments (because the software forces me
to) but don’t remember letting yours slip by. It might have been pre-selected by
WordPress as spam — I get thousands of pieces of spam every day. Will keep my
eyes open for you in the future.
By the way, I take back everything negative I ever said about the Huffington Post.
They and the Guardian, in the UK, are the only global outlets I know of that are
really carrying the torch on the shameful Assange matter. More power to them.
12.Sabine Says:
Tim, thanks for your kind welcome. Yes, indeed, the number is growing – it’s
1241 at the moment. What’s even better: mastercard.com has been inaccessible for
more than twelve hours now. They’ve been under a constant attack by 720
computers. Naomi’s story in the Huffington Post was very funny. But it’s not only
the Guardian who’s keeping track of this matter, but the SPIEGEL in Germany as
well with thousands of comments and hundreds of thousands of visitors reading
their discussion forums.
I just tried to sent my old comment again, but the software said “Duplicate
comment detected; it looks as though you’ve already said that!” That’s true. I said
that several times, but in remained invisible. I hope you don’t mind me putting
this old Viagra comment here:
Hi Tim,
Hi All,
“I’ve never understood what women find attractive in men.”
Nor did I, though I’m a bisexual woman, who prefers men. But I’m trying to find
it out soon (i.e. prior to 2050) as I’m just writing a novel with two gay male main
characters. Hopefully they are going to tell me …
Many thanks to you, Tim, for your “Finish Your Novel” piece, which I discovered
only some days ago. Contrary to your assumption I read ALL OF IT from the very
beginning to the very end! Each and every single letter and punctuation mark!
And I enjoyed it no end!
It immediately cured me from a chronical writer’s block which had kept me in its
clutches for about seven or eight weeks. While still reading your lessons I
continued writing my gay rubbish.
And by the way:
“What’s next, a remedy for persistent female dryness?”
Is this a serious question? Really? Here’s the remedy: Replace your utterly boring
guy with a hot one.
Cheers!
Sabine from Germany
13.Larissa Says:
Sabine: I like the last bit of advice. Stimmt! (c:
Hey, Sabine — You win the keys to the site — you can go anywhere, read
anything, comment on all of it. I’m (a) really glad the writing stuff was useful to
you, (b) tickled you’re writing again, (c) doubting that your book about gay men
is rubbish — if I can get away with writing 45,000 words in which all the
characters are young, impoverished Thai women who have been forced, either
literally of figuratively, into prostitution, you’ll do fine with your gay men. People
are people, and I think we’re much less likely to get into trouble if we focus first,
last, and always on our characters and let the story take care of itself. God knows,
I’ve never had the slightest idea where my plots were going.
And thanks for the news about the WikiLeaks proliferation and the dead-certain
cure for female dryness.
Oh, and Sabine — block and copy your response before submitting it, so you’ve
got it if Catcha eats it. And if you get that insane “Looks like you’ve already said
that” response, just change the first word. Put “well” or something in front of it.
Riss — what’s Stimmt?
(The 16-year-old kid who does my e-book covers just informed me that the new
one is going “to be pretty beast.” Yes! That’s the kind of language I need!) So
what’s “Stimmt”?
15.Sabine Says:
“Riss — what’s Stimmt?”
It means: That’s right.
More tomorrow. It’s midnight here and I had a hell of a day writing millions of
words – no, not for my novel, but about Wikileaks. I promise, I swear not to make
this mistake again.
FHH — in Sweden they call it “sex by surprise.” I am NOT making this up. What
a surprise, to learn Naomi Wolf has a sense of humor that sharp.
17.Larissa Says:
hehe…sex by surprise sounds fun…though not in the way the Swedes mean it
perhaps.
And sorry for the arrant German Tim…I felt compelled to drag it out of the muck
in my brain. (c: I’ve been slacking on my studying of German lately–too many
projects…
18.Bonnie Says:
Ha, we have another German speaker here. Willkommen, Sabine! (Though since I
am not really the host it’s perhaps inappropriate for me to say that.)
Tim, are you using Akismet for spam-trapping?
19.Sabine Says:
Tim – Yes, of course you’re right. My NOIP (novel in progress) isn’t rubbish. It’s
just shit. Because it’s the first draft. I don’t like to produce shit and I don’t like to
read it, but I have to. It’s like torturing myself. And no, my characters are neither
young, nor impoverished, nor women, nor prostitutes, nor anything thrilling like
this. Instead they are ending their thirties, are extremely handsome wealthy men,
who do not even dare to think about prostitutes in their dreams – male ones of
course, the ones who are now officially permitted to use condoms. Why not
female prostitutes? That’s an easy one: Catholic priests are either in need of their
housekeepers – or of male prostitutes. No need for female ones. But what makes
my NOIP really unbearable: these two guys love each other. And neither of them
dies in the end. Shocking.
Larissa, Bonnie – Please don’t destroy your life by trying to learn German. It’s
just too complicated. Not even the Germans themselves know how to speak or
write it properly. Some time ago an innocent guy became a millionaire by writing
funny books with funny situations, all invented to teach Germans their own
mother tongue. This guy is not only selling millions of copies of his several books
– he’s touring the country regularly, filling halls with 20,000 folks. There’s
obviously a need for guys like him.
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 68: Red Skies
December 7th, 2010
When I was really, really little, I watched reruns of a black-and-white TV show called “I Led Three
Lives.”
My father was an instinctive right-winger — somebody who had risen from poverty to success and had
no intention of sharing it with anybody. ”I Led Three Lives,” produced no doubt in craven submission
to the House Unamerican Activities Committee’s probe of Hollywood, was right up my Dad’s alley.
Richard Carlson, grim and square-jawed, played a real-life FBI agent with the unheroic name, Herbert
A. Philbrick. According to the series, Herbert A. Philbrick was America’s last line of defense, our final
slender hope, against the demonic Reds. And the Reds were everywhere.
In every show, Herbert A. Philbrick would infiltrate a Communist cell, almost be revealed, and then
succeed in breaking up the scheme to bomb a Studebaker plant or introduce a lethal strain of
rhododendron to cut American garden club women down in their prime. One of the keys to the show’s
appeal was supposed to be that we, the viewers, didn’t know for sure who was a commie and who
wasn’t.
But anyone whose vision was good enough to see a tree in a field could have told Herbert A. Philbrick
who was a commie and who wasn’t. You see, commies never smiled. They barked orders, they talked
on telephones, they endured third-rate noir lighting and spoke fifth-rate dialogue. Once in a while they
shot somebody. But they never, ever smiled.
I’m afraid the worst has happened. The commies have taken over the government of the United States.
The last funny line spoken by an American president was Bush One’s “I’m the President of the United
States, and I don’t have to eat broccoli.” And even that mild stray into the placid fields of whimsy was
immediately retracted to placate the all-powerful broccoli lobby.
Since then, American government has grown grimmer and grimmer. Much of the material in the
WikiLeaks diplomatic cables was funny as hell. Ghadaffi and his nurse will probably show up on
“Saturday Night Live.” But no one has cracked a smile. Everyone in the government, from President
Disappointment down, has looked like they spent ten years at the Dick Cheney School of Social
Graces. A prunier bunch would be hard to imagine.
(In fact, WikiLeaks has done at least one piece of real damage: they’ve probably eliminated one of the
last forums — the diplomatic cable — where political correctness was not so strangling that it’s
impossible for anyone to say what they mean. Weensy little Sarkozy with his elevator shoes; various
Pakistani officials flying in and out of their “country” with fifty million bucks in their luggage,
Berlusconi with his nieces. All presented as plain, intelligent, slightly malicious gossip. But not any
more. Now them furrin leaders will be “engaged in behavior that is potentially inappropriate.”)
Not that anyone in this administration ever got a laugh out of the cables anyway. Not even a smile.
My father would have recognized them immediately. ”Bunch of commies,” he would have said. And
where the hell is Herbert A. Philbrick when we need him?
This entry was posted on Tuesday, December 7th, 2010 at 10:38 pm and is filed under All Blogs. You can
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12 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 68: Red Skies”
1. Gary Says:
Slightly off topic for this posting (sorry) but apropos of recent discussions. I
thought this was interesting:
http://www.abc.net.au/news/stories/2010/12/08/3088461.htm
Pretty much what I said earlier.
2. Robb Royer Says:
While agreeing with you that humor is sadly absent in American politics (like it
never was in British politics even in the worst of times) what I am afraid the
reader of this post (who didn’t know your father) might glean is that he too was
humorless. Tim, I know what a great relationship you had with your dad so I
know this impression is inadvertent but for the group at large let me point out;
Ken Hallinan was a bright, warm, funny guy who told hilarious stories in which
he was usually the foil (remember the fishing hat story?)
And don’t forget your mother, queen of the DAR, who was also a riot. Let me tell
you, folks, Tim comes by his sense of humor honestly.
I’ll close with a story of my own. During the 1960 presidential campaign I was a
Kennedy worker. The folks at democratic headquarters, quickly recognizing my
talent to antagonize, sent me to Republican headquarters, a block down the street
to argue, convert if possible, and generally harass the Republicans. I hadn’t met
the Hallinans at this point but it turns out Tim’s mom was working inside.
Cut to about a year later, Tim and I by then had met and he invited me to his
house for dinner. We walked into the kitchen where his mom was making an
avocado salad, she took one look at me and screamed THERE HE IS!
I felt like an escaped prisoner who just had an intense beam of light shined on
him, but she immediately erupted into that whisky laugh of hers and we went on
to have a charming (and very funny) meal together
3. Bonnie Says:
Actually, I thought Hillary Clinton was at least trying to be funny when she
described her efforts at damage-control and said her counterparts responded with
“Ah, don’t worry, you should see what we said about you. There was also (nonWikileaks-related) the time Obama introduced John Boehner (he of the permanent
tan) as a “person of color” recently. “’Although not a color that appears in the
natural world,’ Obama added, barely able to keep his composure as he delivered
the dig.” Still, I agree, it’s slim pickin’s.
A humourless bunch indeed. And when humour goes so does a sense of
proportion, sadly.
5. Suzanna Says:
Ghadaffi and his nurse (ho) made a brief appearance on SNLs cold open about
Wikileaks last Saturday. The guy who always plays Obama on the show played
Ghadaffi.
Obama used to wear a smile, and make other people laugh pretty easily too. That
was when he was enjoying the fresh promise of his Presidency.
He’d be mental if he was happy about recent events.
6. Suzanna Says:
Great story, Robb! More, more!
There’s sure little to laugh about in today’s politics — well, except maybe John
Boehner’s skin color. Ah, for the good old days when we thought I Led 3 Lives
was entertaining.
8. Suzanna Says:
More food for thought about Assange by a commentator from The Independent.
He is an obvious supporter and states his case convincingly. He also
talks about some of the terrible things revealed in the diplomatic cables
that I hadn’t read or heard about from other sources:
http://www.independent.co.uk/opinion/commentators/johann-hari/johann-harithis-case-must-not-obscure-what-wikileaks-has-told-us-2154109.html
You know, when I first read your idea about the ixnaycrats I thought it
was sort of funny/half-serious. It’s looking better all the time.
Gary, GREAT LINK, GREAT PIECE. So why has Assange been told he’ll be
arrested if he sets foot in Australia, do you know? And everyone should follow
that link to see the TIME magazine cover — astonishing from a publication that
used to be well, well to the right. “Why [the leaks] haven’t hurt America?” In
TIME? Maybe there’s hope after all. The NY Times and the Washington Post will
wear yellow-stained trousers forever, as far as I’m concerned.
ROBB – Wow, you totally got me. Teared me up like Miss America. Thank you
for saying those amazing things about my Dad, who really was a great guy, and
one of the funniest men I ever knew. (But I don’t remember the fishing hat story.
What was it?) Boy, you caught me completely off guard, as you can probably tell
from this reply, which has everything except a stammer. (It was my Dad who
pointed out to me that the commies never smiled.) And the story about my mother
is hilarious. You even remember what she was making. (For all of those of you
who wonder how Robb knows me so well, he and I were friend and creative
collaborators and tag-team adventurers for years and years, and he went on to be a
founding member of Bread, win an Oscar for Best Song, write a thousand country
hits, and a bunch of great screenplays. He now lives, a member of the baronial
elite, in Nashville.)
Bonnie, I know I leaned a bit heavily on the humorless thing. I’m just too pissed
off (maybe “horrified” is a better word) to give them any credit. Obama’s
comment is extremely funny, and in the great tradition of very funny political
lines with color in them – for example, the usually grim Jerry Brown on Reagan
— “He doesn’t dye his hair, he’s just prematurely orange.” This is a guy who
hasn’t laughed since the day the hogs ate grandma, but he got off one great one.
Probably written for him. Mrs. Clinton, I have to say, strikes me as lacking the
humor gene altogether. If it were the height gene, she’d have to sit on a phone
book at the dinner table.
On the nose, FHH — people with no sense of humor do not see the world as it is.
Allow me to repeat that: People with no sense of humor do not see the world as it
is. WE DO NOT want them leading us.
Awww, Suzanna, SNL beat me to it. I haven’t watched it since it was funny, which
is to say about 30 years ago, but they got to it, huh? Wish I’d seen it, actually.
Ghadaffi is such a clown. Obama not only wore a smile back in the old days, he
went off teleprompter, too. That was before the Seed Pod was placed beneath his
bed.
Laren, thanks for hanging in every day. Boehner (let’s pronounce that very
carefully because otherwise someone might laugh) actually denied that he tans
himself to get that color. Maybe he uses a catcher’s mitt for a pillow.
Suzanna, another great and brave piece, again from the U.K. If we get through this
period okay, I think this will mark the death of the NYT and the WaPO. They’ve
both been absolutely disgraceful.
And DON’T the Ixnaycrats look GOOD right now? Maybe I’ll put the website up
after all. That’s what I need. Something else to do.
10.Suzanna Says:
Hi, Since you wished for it here’s the SNL wikileaks skit link.
http://www.nbc.com/saturday-night-live/video/wikileaks-cold-open/1263417/
It features a cameo by Robert DeNiro as President Karzai. Some funny bits but
not over the top funny.
And by the way, the next time I see you, I would love to show you a few of our
favorite SNL skits that are online that may make you change your mind about the
show. There have been a few really good reoccurring characters along the way.
Well, um . . . I grew up in a house where the phrase “damn democrats” was not
uncommon. But, I are one now. As long as I can smile, does that count?
And, I LOVED Bread.
I grew up in a house where a picture of Roosevelt hung on the wall. Somehow,
after Kennedy my father became less of a Democrat, and I became more
enlightened, I called it. Strange. I loved Robb’s story, and Tim, I think your
parents sound almost as funny as you. One problem, I’ve been singing Bread
songs in my head all day. Actually it was neat ’cause it took me back.
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 69: Break for Commercial
December 8th, 2010
Okay, Crashed is well and truly launched, with great reviews everywhere, and — at the time I write
this — it’s #42 in hard-boiled mysteries on Amazon, not bad when you consider there are roughly a
million Kindle titles. It represents a pretty solid number of virtual copies sold.
There have been some really wonderful reviews by online reviewers (since it’s an e-book, some of the
standard review sites are, for the moment, closed to it).
Here are a few brief excerpts:
“Hallinan’s Crashed is well-written, cleverly plotted, and downright funny all the way through.
Crashed is a true winner” (Novelist Jinx Schwartz)
“When I was in graduate school . . . our professors tried to beat certain ideas into our heads.
Protagonists should want something concrete . . . a great thriller [should] keep readers on the edge of
their seats . . . Tim Hallinan’s Crashed is almost a textbook for this kind of book. I won’t say I can’t
put it down– because I put it down at the end of every chapter to marvel at what’s been done, think
about how Hallinan did it, and how I can try to do the same thing.” (Novelist Neil Plakcy)
“Crashed is one of the best and funniest books I’ve read all year.” (Novelist Pat Browning)
“There have been plenty of great reviews already . . . for this book – I will tell you they are all TRUE!
If you want a good read with plenty of humour – this is the one. Besides Tim’s ability to capture a
character with a few deft lines is amazing.” (Novelist Gina Gilmore)
“Hallinan puts his unique stamp on the hardboiled genre and makes it his own. Whether it’s the
description of traffic on a rainy night in LA or the feeling of being up at three AM, unable to sleep,
Hallinan writes in a way that’s wholly fresh and memorable, as if it were being done for the first time.”
(Novelist Debbi Mack)
There have been about twenty of these, and like a complete idiot I haven’t been pulling them and
saving them for citation later. But Crashed seems to be meeting with enthusiasm from a lot of people,
including, I’m happy to say, writers.
The second Junior Bender book, Little Elvises, will go online in February or March. The only person
other than my wife, the ever-fascinating Munyin, who’s read it is Everett Kaser, who’s just finished
reviewing a manuscript that I thought was perfect and finding 983 mistakes in it. (Everett, as you know
if you’ve been reading his comments, is — ummm — finicky.) But with the correx he sent a cover
letter that helped to make my day. In it, he said, among other things:
“Okay, done now, and what a Fine Ride. A First Rate Fine Ride, Fucking Right! That’s an FR-cubed
award for you, and I don’t hand those out for just ANY old book!”
I’ll take that review any day. More about e-books — a whole new world — in a later post.
This entry was posted on Wednesday, December 8th, 2010 at 11:20 pm and is filed under All Blogs. You
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35 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 69: Break for
Commercial”
I’m glad it’s doing so well!
2. Gary Says:
Finicky, huh?
Everett, should you tell Dr. Hallinan or should I? About LITTLE ELVISES?
ELVIS, as anyone who had finished high school would of course know, is
obviously an i-stem Latin noun of the third declension. So under the parisyllabic
rule, the correct form of the plural would not be LITTLE ELVISES but LITTLE
ELVES.
Not only delightfully ambiguous but, when correctly pronounced el-VAZE, also
slips more trippingly off the tongue.
What would the man do without us?
3. Gary Says:
Oh, and by the way: congrats on the wonderful reviews for CRASHED!
CAPTCHA for today: stoned Ligiew. Meaningful or what?
4. Bonnie Says:
Is there a chance the publisher who was initially cool on Junior may come around
to reevaluating the viability of paper versions in light of Crashed’s reception? I
realize good reviews != sales volume, but they ought to count for something? I
personally am just as happy to read everything on Kindle, especially at $2.99, but
of course as pervasive as that seems to be, there’s still a huge market out there that
doesn’t grok ebooks at all!
5. EverettK Says:
‘finicky’? FINICKY? I take exception to that! I’m NOT finicky. I’m careful. I’m
thoughtful. I’m a detail man (I am a programmer, after all). I’m logical, and I pay
attention to how things link together, how they look. I’m honest, and I’m not
afraid to call a spade a marlowe. I like the paint to cover ALL of the wall,
including the cracks and crevices. And when I’m done with a job, I like to wipe
my butt.
Finicky. hpphhh.
6. EverettK Says:
Okay, I feel better now, having recovered from having my feelings so badly
bruised first thing in the morning. (Sheesh. The sh*t I put up with. I feel like I
need to wipe my butt again…)
I can’t believe there’s anyone who follows this blog who has NOT already read
Crashed, but on the off-chance that there is: What is wrong with you, fool?!?
Crashed is the beginning of the story; get in NOW while the elevator’s still at the
ground floor. Little Elvises does NOT suffer from Sequelitis, as so many series
books do. It also proves that Crashed was not a one-time lucky-ass home run.
Don’t expect the same slap-stick funny scene that opened Crashed, you can only
do that so many times before it becomes ‘schtick.’ But Little Elvises has
everything else that made Crashed so good:
1) WONDERFULLY written characters, ones you love, ones you love to hate, and
ones that are scary enough to wet your pants.
2) Two, count ‘em, TWO great plots that keep you pressing NEXTPAGE,
NEXTPAGE, NEXTPAGE…
3) Lots more face-time with Junior’s daughter Rina. What a kid! I hope to
someday read a story about her when she’s grown up and REALLY come into her
own!
4) The dialog. Did I mention the dialog? I haven’t enjoyed snappy dialog like this
since Cary Grant and Rosalind Russell in His Girl Friday. LOVED the dialogs
between Junior and just about any of the other characters.
I’ve written a review for eventual posting when Little Elvises is released, and it
ends with:
I’d not read any of Mr. Hallinan’s work (nor even heard of him) until four months
ago, but he has now jumped onto my “instant buy” authors list, which has fewer
than a dozen names on it. HIGHLY recommended!
It’s hard for me to believe that it was only FOUR months ago that I first became
aware that Tim and his works even existed. It’s been kind of like one of those
scenes from the old silent film comedies, where you’re walking along happily,
step into what you think is a little mud-puddle, and suddenly there’s nothing there
but your hat floating on the surface. You don’t stumble upon great writers very
often, let alone ones you’d never heard of before.
I won’t say much more, as I don’t want to spoil any of the plot details, and you
can only effuse enthusiastically for so long before people start to yawn and
thinking about possible restraining orders. But I am happy to be able to provide a
small return service to Tim, that might allow him to get a few more minutes of
actual WRITING done instead of doing authorial scut work.
Bravo, Tim, bravo!
7. Robb Royer Says:
Wow, do I get to be the first to congratulate? You’re gonna get another rave here,
not for your book (haven’t read it yet) but for your life, but first! – you wanted to
hear the Fishing Hat Story. (for those who missed the earlier exchange, we were
talking about Tim’s dad’s sense of humor).
The FHS
Ken Hallinan had rented a lakefront cabin and boat to do some fishing. As the day
wore on it got brutally hot so he went back to the cabin to see if he could find a
hat. He found one all right but it was ridiculously festooned and adorned with
every imaginable fly and lure covering the entire hat. Thinking no one would see
him he put it on and went back to fishing. Of course he ran out of bait and,
forgetting about the hat, went to the local bait shop. As he entered, a grizzled vet
at the counter looked up and said laconically “what can I do for you, Sport?’
Followed of course by a huge laugh-at-himself. That’s Ken.
Now, Tim has been regaling me with a lot of compliments most of them
hyperbolic (if I have a thousand hits my BMI is getting lost in the mail) but I just
want to return the favor by giving the gang a glimpse of the experience of meeting
up with a Tim Hallinan in college.
I had come to LA from a small high school in the Sierra foothills where the idea
of a witty exchange might be…
‘Eat Me’
‘Yer ma mouth’
So imagine the experience of coming to college and finding a character not only
unbelievably well read
but at the tender age of 18 encompassing this knowledge into the complex and
ironic world view of a scholar thirty years his senior, often brilliantly stated. Miles
ahead of the rest of us. After we became friends we were Mr. inside and Mr.
Outside. The profs loved him and (with two notable exceptions) hated me. Tim
was a favorite of Prof. James Dickey (yeah, THAT James Dickey). You don’t meet
many people who are life-changers but Tim was one in a number of ways.
(Once I started posting these Tim-in-college flashbacks I was engulfed. So,
without objection I’ll keep doin’ it for a while)
Tomorrow: The first glimpse of Tim.
Fantastic! How did you generate all the reviews? Did you send e-copies to the
reviewers or did they learn about it from some other nefariously brilliant plan you
implemented?
9. Suzanna Says:
First of all, Tim, congratulations! Thrilled for you!!! I hope that your E book sales
just continue to spiral up and up and up. You deserve all praise and great success!
Robb, thank you for telling us Ken’s Fish Hat story. Most guys would have been
too concerned about appearances to have worn the hat in the first place. Ken had
the good sense to avoid getting hammered by the sun, and it’s really endearing
that he forgot to take it off before he entered the macho world of a bait shop.
I would love to hear any of your stories about Tim. No disrespect to James
Dickey, but I have a hunch that Tim could probably run circles around him in a
classroom, even at 18.
Congratulations, Tim, it couldn’t happen to a better person. Reading this blog is
an adventure. Everett, I like your posts on DorothyL. And Robb, thank you for the
insights to Tim and his family. I am picturing Tim running circles around James
Dickey-never mind. Thank you both, for the music and the pictures you write.
WELL, okay . . .
How do I begin. By blushing, which fortunately you can’t see. I’m having a Sally
Field moment, but not on video.
To take these notes in the order in which they came in:
FHH (who’s got a huge jump because her time zone is half a day ahead of
everyone else’s, if we don’t count Gary, and why would we) — Thank you. It
could go on to sell a lot or it could just simmer along for a while, but people like
it, and since this is the first in a new series that’s especially gratifying to me. Two
weeks ago no one had read Junior. Now, he has friends.
Gary, thank you for being so sensitive as to respond to a possible pejorative I
aimed at Everett. And thank you also for the finicky correction on the plural of
“Elvis.” You know, you could also pluralize “Elvis” as “Elvis,” seeing as how he
was pretty much a plural himself in the last decade of his life. (If Munyin is
reading this, I didn’t mean that.)
By the way, the little Elvises of the title refers to all the imitators — same haircut,
same sneer, no talent — that sprang up in his wake, especially the Philadelphia
kids such as Fabian. I know, nobody here is old enough to remember Fabian, but
take it from me, you don’t actually need to in order to read the book.
Bonnie, there’s always a chance, but I think it’s more likely to happen after
LITTLE ELVISES, especially if they both sell. But it would take an absolutely
MASSIVE advance for me to take this series out of e-book originals and put it on
paper. I love the whole e-book thing, especially the degree of control I have and
the AMAZINGLY prompt payment. Publishers can take two years to pay, because
there’s always the potential depth charge of late returns from the stores. Amazon
does an automatic wire transfer exactly 60 days after each month the book is on
sale.
Everett, you’re not finicky at all, and I can’t imagine which errant muse planted
that word in my mind. Finicky?!? Ha. It is to scoff. Obsessive, maybe; persnickety
code-writer, maybe; spotter of inverted single quotes and improper-page-returnsbefore-new-paragraphs, certainly. Until you I didn’t know there was such a thing
as an improper page return, etc., and I still don’t know how you spot them,
although I’m very glad you do because they totally mess up e-book formatting.
I’m accumulating a big Karmic debt in your favor, and you should know that if it
becomes overpowering I’ll have to have you killed.
But not before your review of LITTLE ELVISES goes on Amazon and other
influential websites. Thanks for all that praise. Coming from you, it almost makes
me feel like I deserve it. Oh, and I’ll take a comparison to “His Girl Friday” any
day.
And now we come to Robb. I need to take a break, make some coffee, and
essentially rewire myself before I answer Robb. See you all in fifteen minutes.
12.Bonnie Says:
Just got back from a little book launch party here at work, where we had cake, and
my boss had bought these napkins, which somehow made me think of Junior:
http://www.amazon.com/TROUBLE-STARTS-FUN-BeverageNapkins/dp/B0039L8HJI?tag=dogpile-20
13.EverettK Says:
Tim said: I’m accumulating a big Karmic debt in your favor, and you should know
that if it becomes overpowering I’ll have to have you killed.
All I ask is that, when the time comes, you send Junior, not Fronts. Please, NOT
Fronts!
14.Sabine Says:
“I can’t believe there’s anyone who follows this blog who has NOT already read
Crashed, but on the off-chance that there is: What is wrong with you, fool?!?”
Everett – Please don’t worry, there’s nothing wrong with me. Maybe there’s
something wrong with amazon Germany – they just don’t have it. This doesn’t
bother me at all, though, because amazon became a “you mustn’t buy here shop”
recently. But even this doesn’t bother me at all, because for a long time I’ve been
using amazon only for the reader’s comments, trying to find out which books to
buy, and then buying somewhere else. There are several very enjoyable Internet
book stores in Germany, where English books are usually cheaper than at
amazon’s. Coming to German books – they have a fixed price here, fixed by the
publishing house. Nobody is allowed to sell the book at a lower or higher price.
amazon does. Some years ago they’ve invented a so-called “invoice fee”, which
they aren’t allowed to charge when there are only German books in the parcel.
They don’t care and charge this fee anyway.
Unfortunately other book shops in this country don’t have Crashed either, though
they offer several of Tim’s books.
ROBB — This has been a fascinating Robb Royer day. First, I read your amazing
(if highly inaccurate) description of me and our relationship, and then I read your
album notes to the Jimmy Griffin CD you’ve been working on for so long.
(Jimmy Griffin, everyone, was Robb’s primary collaborator for decades, both in
and out of Bread, a great singer, a great writer, and a twenty-four carat guy.) They
were album notes, as they should have been — they tell you when a cut was
recorded and why, and offer a few words about it, and through all of it — even
though it’s never front and center — comes Robb’s love for Jimmy and the feeling
of loss that he and everyone who knew Jimmy felt/feel at his early and brutal
departure. So Robb’s most deeply nursed secret, that he has a center like a Tootsie
Pop, is now everywhere.
Okay, Robb, First, you have no idea how deeply this has moved me. I don’t
remember myself being anywhere near as cool or as interesting as you do, and it
amazes me that I fooled you so profoundly. If I was a life-changer for you, it
seems to me that you’ve got the two of us mixed up.
I was insecure, loud, capable of improvising complex sentences, and (my saving
grace) well-read. I was also certain that I would spend most of my adult life sitting
on a sidewalk holding a paper cup in the air. (This is not a joke — the idea of
making a living was so alien to me that the secret might as well have been hidden
beneath the cornerstone of a temple in Tibet.) I had seen myself as a bum — this
was pre-”homeless”– since I was eight and had encountered no data to make it
seem unlikely.
So I was doing my tricks, aiming most of my energy at getting laid (it wasn’t
illegal back then), and Not Thinking About The Future, when Robb comes up to
me and says, in essence, that I talk good and had I ever thought of writing lyrics. I
hadn’t, and I told him so. But Robb’s will power is absolutely tidal, and not long
after, we were writing songs. And then we had a contract and we were making
money (although in very small amounts) for writing songs, and then we had a
band and a manager (a guy I HAVE to write about some day) and we were
performing on bills with Sonny and Cher and hanging out at the Troubadour, and
I’m suddenly living with an amazing African-American singer in Silverlake, and
we make an album, and we hear one of our songs on the radio (once, I think) and
we’re playing folk clubs, and my entire life had taken a sharp left, in the direction
of interesting. Robb is the first person who ever got me to work creatively with
any kind of persistence, and even though it eventually turned out that the entire
partnership was based on a simple misunderstanding — I actually couldn’t write
lyrics worth a damn, whereas Robb was sensational at it — my life had moved
into the creative sphere, and it’s stayed there ever since, give or take a couple of
awful but profitable decades. And Robb did that for me. If I hadn’t met up with
him, I’d probably be teaching the Lithuanian Short Story or a seminar on
Shakespeare’s Most Unreadable Precursors in some third-rank college in one of
the flat states (sorry, Riss) that’s got snow. Instead, I live in Santa Monica (yay),
Bangkok (yay), and Phnom Penh (yay), and I write books.
He didn’t help me with any of the books, though — although Miaow’s scorn for
coffee (Bean drink) is stolen directly from Robb. And bits and pieces of him are
here and there through the books. and no, I’m not telling where or in whom.
One of the interesting things about living into Old Farthood is that there are
suddenly people you’ve known forever, and you’re perpetually realizing that
they’re not who you thought they were. Robb has been surprising me since
Thailand lay beneath the ice, and this response is yet another surprise. Thanks,
Robb.
16.Bonnie Says:
Not exactly a propos, ebooks are really livening up the romance market,
apparently: http://www.nytimes.com/2010/12/09/books/09romance.html?
_r=1&ref=julie_bosman
17.Larissa Says:
Late I’m a latecomer to this whole thing, but Congrats on the great reviews. And I
Sabine: Yeah, what’s up with German online books and retailers and all of that?
You’re the second person to tell me about it (I don’t know how I keep ending up
on the subject with Germans…) and it seems sort of strange. On one hand, I don’t
mind that they’ve taken away the whole free market thing but simultaneously it
sort of goes against everything I’ve understood about business. Who decided that
online media can only be priced by the publisher? What do the authors think about
it?
Robb — I’m back. Post all you want, but I reserve the right to go all Rashomon
on you and present my side. I’m actually fascinated to see what else I remember
wrong.
Laren — I pitched some websites, but the trouble with e-books is that there’s
really no review structure in place yet. All the writers came because two people
read the book and posted raves on two mystery groups, DorothyL and 4Mystery
Addicts, and a bunch of other people went and bought the books and wrote
similarly enthusiastic reactions. (The eight reader reviews on Amazon thus far are
all five-star, which is a first for me.) Whoever figures out how to publicize e-
books will make a fortune. I’d work on it, but I prefer writing them.
Suzanna, thanks for the good wishes. You were around when the things Robb
talked about were happening, but you were still too short to get on roller coasters.
The fish hat story is great, and I had totally forgotten it, so Robb brought a piece
of my father back to me. By the way, running a circle around James Dickey took
some time. Despite the stereotype of poets as wan and ethereal, Jim Dickey was a
gentleman of substantial girth.
Lil, you’re the kind of person we all need in out lives. The word “gracious”
springs to mind. Thanks to you for adorning this discussion.
Bonnie, those napkins are really funny, and I almost never like “party humor.”
The one I laughed hardest at is, “My liquid diet is going well. So far I’ve lost two
days.” And the 50s and 60s photos are wonderful. I kind of miss a world in which
it was okay to get smashed and behave badly on occasion and political correctness
hadn’t raised its dreadful head yet, and “inappropriate” referred to wearing a
tuxedo and high heels, or (in certain exalted circles) white after Labor Day.
Everett, I love Fronts. In fact, when you boil LITTLE ELVISES down, the thing I
like best in it might be Fronts. One of the wonderful things about writing Junior is
that people like Fronts are plausible in his orbit. But you’re safe — I wouldn’t
send him after you because he’s too big a softy.
Sabine, CRASHED is a Kindle first edition, meaning it’s available only in the
Kindle store. It ought to show up on a full-site search, but if it doesn’t, try the
Kindle store, and if it’s not there, please let me know, and I’ll send it to you in the
format that’s easiest for you to read.
19.Bonnie Says:
I could be wrong but I think there are still restrictions on buying ebooks published
(even on Kindle in cyberspace) in the US being purchased in other countries. I can
buy a German physical book with 1-click from amazon.de no problem, but as far
as I understand it the virtual possibilities are lagging behind the adaptation of
contracts governing rights that publishers are used to. In other words, if Sabine
tries to buy the book from Amazon.com’s Kindle store, it’s going to look at her IP
address and refuse to play. I’ve read on Smartbitchestrashybooks some folks
trying to work around it by changing their registered address, but apparently that
doesn’t work forever. With any luck a lot of this international copyright and DRM
and other nonsense will eventually get straightened out.
Why, thank you, sir. I’ve never been on a blog with someone who hung out with
so many stars. I actually knew that about J. Dickey, and I imagine you as tall and
thin-hence the image. What a wonderful story you told.
21.EverettK Says:
Gary said: ELVIS, as anyone who had finished high school would of course know,
is obviously an i-stem Latin noun of the third declension. So under the
parisyllabic rule, the correct form of the plural would not be LITTLE ELVISES
but LITTLE ELVES.
ROFL-moment. After reading that this morning, I was just skim-reading through
“Little Elvises” again this evening, when I came upon a scene set in the Marge ‘n
Ed’s North Pole motel at the North end of North Hollywood, a place with a
Christmas theme — year-round. There’s an engraved brass plate on the edge of
the table in Junior’s room (named Blitzen, of course):
Engraved on it were the words, For good elves only. “Whaddya suppose they do
with the bad elves?” Louis said. “Hang them up in stockings in front of the
fireplace and smoke them like hams?”
Kinda funny after reading Gary’s post this morning, and REALLY funny after
having read his post AND the book.
22.Debbi Says:
23.Gary Says:
Well, Everett, I did say that version of the title would be delightfully ambiguous.
And imaging mingling in literary society and asking everyone, “Have you read
Little El-VAZE?” And having such fun sneering at anyone so ignorant as to
pronounce it Little Elvz.
I mean, it would make the whole damn thing so highbrow and exotic. Why
doesn’t he ever take our advice, Everett?
24.Sabine Says:
Larissa – We have this Fixed Book Price law in Germany since 1888. Many other
European countries still have similar laws. Wikipedia has an entry here:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fixed_Book_Price_Agreement.
Simplified it’s about not making blockbusters too cheap, which would lead to
making non-blockbusters (but nonetheless important books) unaffordable for most
of the readers. It’s also about keeping smaller book stores in business. Well, at
least this mission has failed already thanks to the Internet.
“Who decided that online media can only be priced by the publisher? What do the
authors think about it?”
The lawmakers have decided it, though it isn’t totally clear yet whether the fixed
price is also effective for e-books. The Association of the German Booktrade (our
watchdog for these kind of activities) are determined to enforce the FBP for ebooks via courts, should it be necessary one day.
I’ve never heard of any complaints about this law by authors, because we are the
ones who benefit from this law. It’s difficult enough to find a publisher for a nonblockbuster novel. Without this law it would become really ugly. Please keep in
mind that we operate within very small markets with all those thousands of
languages in Europe.
The FBP does not exist for imported books in other languages than German.
That’s why I don’t order English books at amazon but elsewhere. amazon is
always more expensive than their much smaller competitors. Plus the competitors
offer a much better service.
Tim – I could order Crashed at amazon.com, but the software complains that I
don’t have a registered Kindle. How could I? I don’t have a Kindle at all, neither
do I have any other e-book reader. Germany, Austria, and Switzerland are still in
the diaper’s age when it comes to e-books. The available number of titles is easily
managable. What makes matters worse, I cannot afford an e-book reader, as I’ve
been unemployed for some years now.
25.EverettK Says:
Sabine: You can download Amazon’s “Kindle for PC” (or “Kindle for Mac” or…)
for free, and then you can use it as your “Kindle device”. I don’t own a Kindle
either, but I buy a LOT of e-books from Amazon via “Kindle for PC.”
26.Bonnie Says:
Everett, Sabine: I’ll bet Amazon.com doesn’t let her/you do it, though.
27.Sabine Says:
Everett – Thank you so much! You see, I’m a Neanderthal girl from
Neanderthalistan. Sometimes I need some help from civilized humans. Now I’ve
got my “Kindle for PC” installed on my PC, but no chance for getting any books
on my “Kindle for PC”. amazon demands creditcard payment. And as you might
guess, in Neanderthalistan we don’t grow creditcards. We grow potatoes and
tomatoes and we pay cash in Neanderthalistan. Small coins preferred.
I checked with other stores on the net. They accept payment without creditcards
and they offer a lot of e-books, English and German ones, for a whole bunch of
machines. But, we are so sorry, not for Kindle.
It’s just madness.
28.Sabine Says:
Bonnie, they would let me, but only with creditcard payment. And I don’t have
one. Never had.
29.Sylvia Says:
Sabine, download the Kindle for PC (or Mac, if that’s your flavour – or there’s an
iPhone app) and you can order and buy Kindle books to your hearts desire, which
you can then read withuot needing any conversion. The software is free.
I haven’t read Crashed yet (my to-read list is overflowing and Hallinan is only
partially to blame) but I’m certainly looking forward to it. What *great* reviews.
30.Bonnie Says:
Sabine, yes, in banking as well as other things we are lagging sadly behind
Europe. No concept of paying for something by bank transfer here. If you want,
we could try something: I could buy you a gift credit for Kindle (a friend of mine
in Hong Kong did that for me to reimburse me for a T-shirt I purchased on his
behalf for his son, so I know that works internationally). You could use the gift
card credit to see if you can purcahse Crashed, but I’ll bet when they see your
address they will still make problems. Still, it’s worth a try, and you could
reimburse me via Paypal if you’re interested. Heck, I’d give you Crashed just for
the pleasure of it (easy to be generous with a $3 book).
You could return the favor by answering a question for me: When I was still
living in Austria I bought some wonderful books by Strittmatter when I was in
Budapest. I think they got the books (published in German) cheap from what
was then East Germany. Do you know if they are still in print? The series of
about 4 books was called Der Wundertäter. I think Strittmatter’s first name was
Ernst? They were wonderful books but unfortunately I lent them out a little too
enthusiastically and would now love to replace them.
31.Sabine Says:
Sylvia, please have a look at my comment #27.
Bonnie, Strittmatter’s Wundertäter is in stock at amazon.de:
http://www.amazon.de/Wundert%C3%A4ter-3-Bde-ErwinStrittmatter/dp/3746654262/ref=sr_1_3?
s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1292013499&sr=1-3.
His first name is Erwin and the Wundertäter now comes as a bundle of three
volumes.
They send it to the US, shipping is € 14 or approximately $ 19,50.
And thanks for your kind offer. Tim himself has already offered to send it to me if
I couldn’t get it by other means and when I would be able to read it anyhow.
paypal is a nice idea, but I’m boycotting paypal, as well as amazon – out of
solidarity and anger.
32.Bonnie Says:
Good that you will be able to get the book from Tim, then. I enjoyed it a lot
though having read through once I think Little Elvises is even better. Now I need
to “earn” it by trying to be at least half as picky as Everett!
Nochmals vielen Dank fürs Strittmatter-Info.
Sabine — Sorry about all the international complications. You’d think
governments and other institutions would get the fuck out of the way when
somebody wants something as simple as reading a story. Of course, when you add
in no reader (for an e-book), and no credit card (for Amazon), it gets a little
cloudier.
I would still be happy to send it to you, and you can read it on Kindle for PC. And
good for you for boycotting PayPal. Amazon is a little different — it just refused
them server access, but PayPal cut WikiLeaks’ throat. Anyway (DISCLOSURE), I
make money from Amazon, which disposes me more kindly toward them.
Everett, thanks for the blurb from Marge ‘n Ed’s North Pole, which I loved
writing. In MUTHER’S DAY, Junior and Ronnie are staying at Versailles of Van
Nuys, which isn’t as funny as Marge ‘n Ed’s yet, but I’ve only begun to play with
it. It’s got a moat, though, and Marge ‘n Ed’s North Pole didn’t have one of those.
Really glad you like LITTLE ELVISES.
And Bonnie, same for you, especially since you’re as picky as Everett. (But not
quite as picky as Gary). You’re the early readers, and the reactions mean a lot.
Gary, Gary, Gary. You’ve read CRASHED. Did it strike you as “highbrow and
exotic”? Do you honestly think I could pull off “highbrow and exotic”? It would
be as excruciating as Robin Williams in Wet mode, you know, whenever he’s got a
beard. Enough to send small children whose spirits are still pure and uncorrupted
screaming from the theater.
Gary e-mailed me privately to inform me that the ending he proposed for THE
TEMPEST is in fact the ending to Mary Shelley’s FRANKENSTEIN. Something
I didn’t know now and almost certainly never knew.
While I apologize for this chink (sorry, Munyin) in my frame of reference,I’m
saying it here: Gary Archer’s frame of reference is infinitely broader than mine,
and he also has freer access to it. There is essentially nothing that’s even remotely
obscure in Western culture that Gary doesn’t have nailed. He’s even good on some
of the not-so-obscure stuff.
This is a tribute. I used to think that I had a really big bag of cultural marbles, but
Gary can’t even carry his over his shoulder.
35.Sabine Says:
Tim, this thing with boycotting amazon is nothing new to me – I just didn’t call it
boycott before. Not buying there was just more convenient for me. English books
are cheaper elsewhere, and after a seven-minutes walk from my home there’s this
nice little book store, which has a website itself, where you can order every book
that is available in Germany. So I’m reading the readers’ reviews on the amazon
website, switch to the next tab and order it on-line to be delivered to my small
book store across the street. Two days later I go there to pick it up. I could even
order it by phone, but they are short of staff and always busy. So usually nobody
answers the phone. Perhaps I’m oldfashioned, but I still prefer talking to real
people.
I’d be very happy and grateful if you could send Crashed to my e-mail address.
I’m curious to read it because of the praising comments by other writers.
Today somebody in a forum linked to a one-hour documentary named
“Wikirebels”, which has been broadcasted by Swedish television some days ago.
It’s in English and only available on-line until Monday, December 13th. If you
haven’t seen “Collateral Murder” yet, you’ll need a strong stomach to endure the
scenes from it, which they’ve cut into “Wikirebels”:
http://svtplay.se/v/2264028/wikirebels_the_documentary.
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 70 (!): “The Tempest”
December 9th, 2010
Munyin and I just watched an Academy screener of Julie Taymor’s production of “The Tempest,” with
Helen Mirren as a gender-switched Prospera.
It’s dazzling, exciting, jammed with CGI, and Mirren is just perfect. (She lived in my house on Sunset
Knoll for a while, and Munyin drove her to Rent-A-Wreck when she wanted to rent a car.) She’s aged
beautifully; every cell in her body bristles with authority as the sorceress Prospera, who shipwrecks her
enemies on the magical island where she and her daughter, forced out of the Milan she had ruled, have
lived as castaways.
It’s Shakespeare’s last full play. It’s difficult not to agree with the critics (and the artists) who have
seen it for centuries as his farewell to the theater — the playwright as sorcerer, renouncing his magic,
turning his back on “the great Globe itself,” as Prospera says in what I think is the single most beautiful
speech in all of theater:
Our revels now are ended: these our actors
(As I foretold you) were all spirits, and
Have vanished into air, into thin air,
And like the baseless fabric of this vision
The cloud-capp’d Towers, the gorgeous Palaces,
The solemn Temples, the great Globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And like this insubstantial pageant faded
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on; and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.
This production, like every one ever mounted, suffers from the fact that it’s almost impossible to keep
going after this speech. It’s like a gong, and it rings in the audience’s ears for half of the next scene.
The other problems are the clowns (beautifully played by Alfred Molina and Russell Brand) and the
songs. Of course, the songs are always problems, and they’re handled as well here as I’ve seen them
handled anywhere.
And then there’s Caliban, no less problematic a character than Shylock. Caliban is the only character
who was living on the island before the Europeans arrives, and Prospera has enslaved him and treats
him quite brutally. Taymor meets the challenge head on by casting the Benin-born Djimon Hounsou,
as authentically African as any fluent English-speaking actor I can think of. Unfortunately, in a play in
which the action moves from revenge to forgiveness, only Caliban goes unforgiven: Shakespeare
simply didn’t write it. In this production there’s a long shot, after the other actors have left the scene to
return to the ship, in which Mirren and Hounsou exchange a protracted, unwavering look. One of the
emotions Mirren suggests is regret, but even that is from the European perspective. Caliban leaves as
unforgiven as he arrived.
Watching the play was fascinating for me because in THE QUEEN OF PATPONG, which is the last
Rafferty book I wrote, Miaow is playing Ariel in a school production of “The Tempest” that Poke has
been cutting down to a length the student actors can memorize. I directed chunks of the play in my
head, because themes from the play run through the book, and one scene actually suggests to Poke the
way to confront the book’s very, very bad guy, Howard Horner.
I had come up with an ending that would take some of the curse off Caliban, but the way the book
worked out, there was no room for it. But it went like this. The final European characters exit the
barren pile of rocks that represents the island — gray and severe except for the steel-blue sky on the
cyclorama and the shell-like conch/peach light inside Prospero’s cell. Then Caliban comes onstage,
limping and contorted as always, and he stops and regards the island, now his again. As he climbs the
rock, he straightens until he’s walking normally, and everyplace he lays his hand, green plants rise up;
the lighting warms, and by the time he’s out of sight on the other side of the rocks, the set has become
lush and tropical.
So there. I finally got to tell someone about it.
And isn’t it cool to live in an age when you can use a little silvery disk to bring Helen Mirren and
Shakespeare, at the pinnacle of his power, into the living room?
This entry was posted on Thursday, December 9th, 2010 at 9:51 pm and is filed under All Blogs. You can
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11 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 70 (!): “The Tempest””
1. Gary Says:
No, no! Prospero dies; then Caliban is seen weeping for him. “Why do you
weep?” he is asked. “He was my father,” growls Caliban, and carries Prospero’s
body to the top of the pile of rocks and immolates them both.
Much more original.
Seriously, the movie sounds wonderful. How long before it’s out?
I am consumed with envy that you had Helen Mirren living in your house! She is
an extraordinary actress.
I love your take on the end of The Tempest.
I’ve never seen it performed live right to the end, to my regret. My sister and I
went to a performance when we were young but we didn’t realise that it was being
put on by an experimental theatre group. When one of the characters exposed
himself (full frontal) on stage, we were rather taken aback. Bear in mind that this
was before either of us had been in a relationship! And when some of the
characters started drooling long strings of spittle onto the stage and the aisles, we
decided we’d had enough and left.
I’d like to see your more magical version of it! And I shall have to go and see
Helen Mirren’s version when it comes to the UK in March.
Fascinating. This Shakespeare fellow sounds like he has a way with words.
4. Larissa Says:
I love Julie Taymore. As a Fiber Arts major she is basically God. hehe. I’ll have to
get a copy of The Tempest and see it…It was my favorite of all the plays to read
from Shakespeare. (c:
5. Suzanna Says:
Day 70 and still going strong!
You and Shakespeare will always be closely linked in my mind since you were
responsible for first introducing his work to me. So happy you did!
I love this speech, and another oneFull fathoms five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made;
those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade
But suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Shakespeare was indeed a wordsmith beyond words, and one of my friends says
he was the greatest psychologist that ever lived. How lovely to have such a
transformative experience on your blog. Your ending of the play is that too. Thank
you.
Hi, Gary — While it’s regarded as fair game to play Shakespeare any old way —
as circus clowns or on roller skates or with an all-chimp cast — the idea of
actually rewriting him usually brings frowns. In fact, this movie is earning frowns
from the highbrows on NPR (there’s a surprise) and the lowbrows at
Entertainment Weekly, which gave it a B-. Compared to what? “Tranformer 12?”
“Zombies on Broadway?” The fourth installment of the sixth “Harry Potter”
book? So there’s CGI. So what? So Djiman Hounsou is sometimes
incomprehensible? He’s roaring. His one great speech, the only one that’s in
verse, is crystal clear. Ahhhh. It’s “The Tempest,” you know?
Thanks for liking my ending, FHH. I just loved working the play into the book. I
had a sort of brush with theater when I was in college, and the space of the stage
is magical to me, so I got to play both with that and with my favorite play in the
world.
(It’s not that I dislike your ending, Gary — a funeral pyre is a boffo curtain for a
comedy — it’s just, well, you know, the text.)
Laren, he doth indeed have a way with words. That speech I quoted, by the way, is
the first recorded instance of the phrase “thin air” ever being used. He also coined
“catching a cold.” Whatta wordsmith.
Riss, I’m with you. It’s THE play. As beautiful and spiritually renewing as
anything ever written. The whole thing is a journey from revenge to forgiveness.
And the language is incomparable.
Zanna, thanx for the congrats. I actually feel seventy, although this is still fun. Did
I really introduce you to Big Willie? Wow. Maybe I will go to heaven.
Yes, Lil, it’s an amazing speech, one of the most perfect extended verbal images I
know. I focused on it in THE QUEEN OF PATPONG, too. Ariel gets a lot of the
best lines.
Harry Golden, an essayist who wrote in the 1950s and is sadly not read these days
(I didn’t read him in the fifties, folks – I’m old, but not that old), called
Shakespeare’s mind, “The jewel of the universe.” I’ll go along with that.
I’m glad you liked my ending, too. This is one of the plays I always wanted to
direct back in the days when I was fooling around on the stage.
8. EverettK Says:
Gee, Tim, I’m surprised you had the energy or attention span to want to do
ANYTHING else when you were “fooling around” on the stage… Was there an
audience, or was it a “private performance?”
It was in public, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t a form of solo sex. Bad
performances are often masturbatory, even if we only use the word figuratively.
And I am. Using the word figuratively.
Where’s Robb? Didn’t he say he was going to post today?
10.Suzanna Says:
Yes, indeed, you were responsible for introducing me to Billy Shakes.
Remember when you were working on the PBS Shakespeare productions? You
used to project black and white Shakespeare movies from the 40s in your living
room to a whole bunch of us. I think you showed both King Henry’s and Hamlet.
Floor room only!
I do remember. That little shack crowded with people, a 16-mm projector
cranking away, everybody (except you) smoking, lots and lots of wine going
around, plus the occasional hand-rolled cylinder of mystery substance. Some
GREAT movies, including Keaton’s THE GENERAL with Shadoe’s ELO sound
track and John Barrymore in SVENGALI. And then, in the morning, a hangover.
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 71: Christmas is Canceled
December 11th, 2010
Some of you probably remember that a long, long time ago, when I started this thing, I promised a
bunch of original short stories. They were supposed to be themed to holidays (like my first-day-ofsummer story, excerpted above), and one holiday on most people’s calendars is Christmas.
Well, unless I’m struck by lightning, there isn’t going to be a Christmas story.
I had what I thought was a terrific idea, but there’s no way I can make it work in less than about 3000
words, and I’m not going to write 3000 words at a time when PULPED is pushing its way into the
room with me and demanding to be written. This is an interesting situation, because I actually have
more material (for PULPED, I mean) than I can probably use and no idea how to knit it into a coherent
story.
The most pressing problems, other than integrating very different story units into something that looks
like a unified whole rather than random gravel, are:
1. Finding a tone that works for the Madison story, which is quite emotional; the Limbo scenes, which
are a mix of slapstick and frustration; and the concluding story segment in which I (attempt to) bring
them together.
2. Solving the issues of how to handle a budding relationship between a real-life character and a
fictional one, and also what happens physically to a fictional character when he launches himself into
the real world.
3. Figuring out whodunnit, and why, which is an issue of some interest in a mystery, which this book is,
after all, supposed to be.
4. Overcoming massive structural problems with the mystery mechanics, which is always tricky
because the genre demands that you play fair (or almost fair) with the reader.
It’s interesting that I started this book thinking it would be a good light workout — revisit Simeon,
knock out a mystery, and move on — and instead, it’s turned into one of the most complex things I’ve
ever tried to do. I’ve essentially got several books working here, and really no idea how to knit them
into one. And in the meantime, new material continues to arrive.
This past week, my working days have been very, very long. They show no sign of getting shorter. So
my twist on “A Christmas Carol” will probably not emerge into the light of day.
Sorry about that.
This entry was posted on Saturday, December 11th, 2010 at 9:48 am and is filed under All Blogs. You can
your own site.
12 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 71: Christmas is
Canceled”
1. Sylvia Says:
Figuring out whodunnit, and why
It makes me feel so much better to realise that other people suffer from the same
missing pieces as I do, even though those pieces are meant to be the point!
Sylvia — There’s no place to put the point until you’ve made the needle.
Okay, I know that’s flip, but it’s my experience with almost every book I’ve
written.
3. Sabine Says:
Tim, until about some minutes ago I didn’t know anything about a “bunch of
original short stories” you promised to your readers. And I’m personally very
happy when I don’t have to read christmas (no typo!) stories. But I remember very
well that you promised to write a blog of at least 300 words EACH AND EVERY
DAY for one year. So, where is the blog of December 10th, 2010?!
But I like the title of this blog: “Christmas is Canceled”. Wonderful! Geat!
Welcome to the club!
I do like your first day of summer story. Given what else you are doing, I’l have to
forgo the Christmas story. In a totally unrelated direction, I am doing a Hallinan
immersion, and I just finished “Breathing Water” (I know I know, I’m late to the
party again), and I am breathless. Your section here on Asia and the incredible
photographs answer the question so well, although Poke would never leave Rose
and Miaow. From what I read and see, Bangkok is truly wonderful and awful in a
very moving way. I have a friend who commented on the temples everywhere. He
went for the surfing, and I guess he got more than he expected, as have I.
Hi, Sabine –
They’re all there, it’s just that sometimes I post on the evening before the due
date, so it’s dated a day early. And then, to confuse matters further, let’s say I
posted the blog for the 9th on the 9th and then did the blog for the 10th on the
evening of the 9th, giving us two blogs dated the 9th.
WordPress actually does give you an option to go back and change posting dates,
but if I’m going to blow off the Xmas story, I’m certainly not going to spend 90
minutes changing dates.
Thanks, Lil. All my short stories should be that short. REALLY glad you liked
BREATHING WATER. I like all the books in that series because I genuinely love
Poke, Rose, Miaow, and Arthit, but that one has a special place in my writing
memory. And you’re dead on; the two words that best describe Bangkok are
wonderful and awful.
6. Gary Says:
No Christmas story? Oh, what a relief. The Halloween story was bad enough. The
only redeeming feature was that I found out from Everett how to bold and italic.
No, let’s be serious. Please don’t burden yourself with anything that gets in the
way of your real writing. (And that includes this daily blog. As long as it’s helping
your writing then please keep doing it. But the moment it becomes
counterproductive you should have NO qualms about dropping it like a hot brick.)
Oh, and speaking of a year: 71 times 5 equals 355. In two more days you’ll be
20% through!
7. Debbi Says:
OMG, you have my sympathy. I’m working on the third Sam McRae story. Your
situation is different, but I understand the frustration.
It’s a fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into, Ollie.
Well, well, Gary — after all the nice stuff I wrote about you in my pathetic
attempt to get you to stop making me look stupid, you say something awful about
my — oh, wait, you’re being nice. Whew. The problem was that the story was (in
concept at least — I haven’t written a word of it) pretty damn funny, and timely to
boot. And even Sabine would have liked it. On the other hand, I did about 3300
words today, and that feels pretty amazing.
Hi, Debbi — so when will it be finished? I want to read it like tomorrow. (Debbi’s
first Sam McRae book, “Identity Crisis,” was crackerjack — and a Kindle bestseller, and the second, “Least Wanted,” is even better. If you’ve got a Kindle, put
“Identity Crisis” on your list — “Least Wanted” isn’t out yet.
Hey, Laren. It is indeed. We should have a Laurel and Hardy festival — the films
are probably all available from Netflix.
10.Lala Corriere Says:
GREAT post, Tim!
Welcome, Lala, and thanks.
12.Larissa Says:
Thank God there’s not another christmas story in the works…hehe…between
terribly radio jingles and all the other nonsense floating around, I’ll be hard
pressed to remember that holidays are supposed to be fun. hehe. (c: Ok, so it’s not
that bad but it can be sometimes.
That being said, I’m glad I’m not the only one trying to figure out what happens
to a character when they move from one plane of existence to the other…and why
they would do that…I’m stuck on the why.
Anyway-good luck and we’re glad that you’re still hangin’ in there. I look forward
to these daily blog bits. (c:
The Stupid 365 Project, Day 71: A Book vs. Its Cover
December 12th, 2010
So here’s the problem.
In order to have a book published, you assign the publishing company the exclusive right to produce
and distribute it. If they let it go out of print and thereby fail to make it available to an eager, or totally
indifferent, public for a period of five to seven years (usually — depends on the contract), the writer
can request a reversion of rights, and the publishing company legally has to say yes.
If you want to publish your old stuff — I mean, vintage work — in e-book form, you have to get the
rights back first. I did that with all six of the Simeon Grist mysteries I wrote in the 1990s, in order to
give them a new life as e-books. (I also fondly believed they’d earn me some money, and — surprise
— they have.)
But when you get your rights back, they don’t include the cover. The cover belongs to the publishing
company, since they designed and paid for it, and who knows? — they might want to use it for one of
next month’s six new James Patterson books.
That means you have to/get to create a new cover. For me, this was nothing short of exhilarating. I’ve
hated for decades most of the covers Morrow, Dutton, and NAL put on the Simeon books. In fact, back
when I was teaching writing, I told my students that this was how publishing worked:
1. Write your book.
2. Sell your book.
3. Hate your cover.
And then, browsing fonts one day — I’m a font junkie — I found that a lot of the fonts I liked best
were by someone named Allen Chiu, whose e-mail address is pealwah@gmail.com. (You can use him,
but don’t steal him from me.) And there was a link to Allen’s Tumblr site, and lo and behold, he’s like
sixteen years old and he’s a marvelous graphic artist. So I e-mailed him and underpaid him to do the
covers for the first four Simeons. He’s working on number five, Incinerator, right now.
I think they’re brilliant, by the way. Here’s the one for The Four Last Things.
But then we came to Everything But the Squeal. Squeal is a very, very dark book, and I wanted neither
to encourage Allen to read it nor to explain it to him at any length. So I asked him to reinvent the
Morrow cover, which he did very nicely.
But it’s not selling. It’s the ONLY one that’s not selling. The other three Simeon books outsell it two or
even three to one, and Crashed, which is benefiting from a lot of favorable online reviews, is outselling
it five to one. (Crashed is doing extremely okay.) And the oddest thing is that Crashed has raised the
sales of all my e-books, including even the Bangkok books, but Squeal continues to lag, and to lag very
decisively, behind everything else.
So, should I change the cover? Allen says he’ll do it for free, which I would never allow. (For one
thing, it wouldn’t be fair. For another, it might mean I’d have to tell him the plot.) My worry is that
people who have already bought it will buy it again and think I’m trying to be cute and sell them the
same book twice, and I don’t want to endanger reader trust. The issue matters to me not just because
I’m not making much money off Squeal but because it’s one of the best books in the series.
Thoughts, anyone?
This entry was posted on Sunday, December 12th, 2010 at 10:13 am and is filed under All Blogs. You can
your own site.
28 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 71: A Book vs. Its Cover”
Could it be the title, Tim? Don’t know about anyone else, but whenever the title
gets to the “squeal” part, the first image that comes to my mind is that of an aging
and slightly overweight pig farmer clad in blue bib overalls, cupped hands
encircling his mouth, calling, “Suuuuweeeee, here pig pig pig pig, suuuweeeee!”
It’s not exactly an image that inspires me to spend my money on a book.
It may be the best book but maybe the reason it’s not selling is because it’s very,
very dark and nothing to do with the cover.
I think what you’ve done so far with Simon sounds great and in your place I’d
continue to avoid him having to face the darkness in the book. (But you know that
I don’t cope well with too much darkness myself!)
I love the cover of The Four Last Things.
3. Suzanna Says:
This will probably neither help you figure out why this particular book isn’t
selling, or answer your question about doing a different cover for the book, but
what the heck it’s all I have for you on this right now. You are free to ignore this
completely and there’s no need to respond.
From a one person market research point of view I can’t remember ever buying a
book based on it’s cover art. But, when I’m in a bookstore browsing, a strong
cover/title will definitely prompt me to pick it up to give it a closer look.
When I buy books online it’s pretty much the same thing.
If this is the one book in the series that you feel is the best one, why not figure out
a way to promote it as such?
Not sure how you go about doing this in the E book world but that’s as good as
you’re gonna get from little ol’ me pre-breakfast on a Sunday morning.
And by the way, I’m really happy that your progress on PULPED is going so well.
You have your priorities straight. Always put your books ahead of the Stupid
Project. This project is meant to help you with your writing not hinder it, right?
4. Bonnie Says:
Tim, he’s old enough to read the book. I read The Odyssey in 6th grade, and they
“spoke” to me in school for bringing E.S. Gardner paperbacks in…(you know, no
sex, but sexy covers). I was, what? Eleven?
5. Robb Royer Says:
Hi Tim, I’m baaack. I had a shit storm to deal with and I thought I’d skip the
Shakespeare debate ’cause I have nothing to add to a Shakespeare debate (apart
from my thesis Hamlet was a fag) and then I waited for the next blog which was
VERY late as some of your friends have discussed and you’ve already dissembled
about and then I was at the farm which has no internet (!) to say nothing of the
fact that my internet skills are a little like a penguin juggling (the remarkable thing
is not that he does it well but that he does it at all).
I was going to write something called ‘first glimpse of Tim’, so here goes:
From all the bouquets Tim and I have thrown back and forth recently one might
assume we were buddies-at-first-sight; this is not the case. I don’t remember us
even speaking until we were sophomores, by which time I had taken up guitar and
we actually had something to talk about. But I did notice him the very first day of
college, September 1960, in Ellis McCune’s political science class,
For color it should be noted that Dr. McCune was the closest thing we had to Prof
Kingsfield in the Paper Chase, dry, urbane, witty; taught in an amphitheater,
suffered fools not at all. Quick McCune quote… one rainy day he opened class
with “some of my colleagues in the physical science department have asked me
‘how can you call yourself a science when you can’t even tell us who’s going to
win the election’… but after wading through six inches of water on the sidewalk
to get here today I notice that they are not so exact themselves”.
So that was the atmosphere but Tim always managed to attract attention; very
serious look, like he always had somewhere more important to be, engaged
McCune without apparent awe, etc. Naturally I felt resentful.
A few days later, he came to class, this time attended by another fellow and one of
the most beautiful girls I had ever seen and my first reaction was ‘my god, I hope
she’s with the other guy’.
Now, had I not literally just fallen off the turnip truck, I probably would have
noticed that the other guy was unreservedly gay and lost all hope on the spot.
Nope, she was with Tim all right and turned out to be Maria Yolanda who went
with Tim for several years, then married my Bread partner Jimmy Griffin.
The weird upshot is this: without Tim there woul

15 Responses to “The Stupid 365 Project, Day 1”

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