At least Hemingway would have had a great view to look at as he went about setting up his own demise. When I first started this I thought, how could someone kill themselves in such beautiful country. Yet, I remember now that the great expanse of the sky and the many ridges and mountains crowded together can seem empty and too full at the same time. I imagine those are two feelings many people experience before they do themselves in. On one hand, they feel nothing but a giant black void in their soul but on the other hand the amount of intense feelings before a person pulls the trigger or puts their head in a noose seems like it would be too filling. Too much happening for a life to want to hang around.
I myself drift from one silly extreme to the other with a latency period of boredom. For a month or two I will contemplate suicide almost daily because I am too full with feelings of disappointment. Then I will mellow only to follow it up with an intense period of happiness which is in some instances a very empty feeling.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Walking on the moon
It is tiring to carry so many people and so many memories in my heart and probably more so in my mind. Feels like I carry eight people, dead weight, fully clothed, clothes soaked in water. One day I am going to walk out of a mundane place and just leave them there to die and to never feed them again.
I will seem much lighter in my step and the sun will shine brighter on me than anyone else. People will notice and I will feel accomplished in a much deeper way than I have ever known.
The Little Room
The little room is probably 15 feet by 15 feet. The floor is made of cheap thin and fake looking wood. I don't know how real wood could look fake but it does. The walls are a weird nursing home blue, like an institutionalized government building. The kind that you expect to find in the document and map rooms in the Kremlin. Instead of the blaring red and orange killing rooms and decision corridors that I imagine they have there. Lots of rooms in the Kremlin for many different things.
Getting back to the little room with fake wood and blue walls. Right now the room is cluttered. A big desk (for such a little room) crowds the north wall. A slick little brown leather couch sits very comfortable under the window on the south wall. A fake wooden dresser is tucked away in the corner. A small bookcase, a few bikes, a ditry clothes hamper and some various toiletries make up the rest of the little room. Just enough stuff that the room maintains its small size and not so much stuff that the little room is swallowed up completely.
Surprisingly, the closet of the little room is actually kind of big. A normal sized person can go in there and look and sort and shuffle clothes or shoes or boxes of old pictures, quite comfortably. In fact this somewhat large closet is the room's selling point. A real estate agent showing the house would be sure to note the size of the room in a fake upbeat tone that most real estate agents seem to acquire after the rush of selling houses for small profits wears off. The couple will nod their head and later when over dinner they discuss the little room the wife will say "remember the closet is large and we could fit so many things in there" and the husband will say yes and continue to eat because the only thing he wants to stuff in there is her.
On the east wall of the little room is a medium sized window. From the window can be view the back house. This is a highlight for all those voyeuristic people in our society who like to watch others as if they are watching the nature channel. From here with the right viewpoint and a certain curtain not closed completely a perverted set of eyes can see into a bedroom. The bedroom of a portly middle aged black woman. As long as private areas are exposed when no one else is watching they can get a small thrill in their otherwise boring and near murderous life. We all know how many serial killers develop the guilty please habit of a peeping tom long before they go to mid town to pick up hookers and dump their bodies in all sorts of hiding places in the night.
Back to the little room. There is one other window the one above the couch that I mentioned earlier. This window looks out to a wooden privacy fence. Also cheap looking and also wood but covered in some kind of gross lower income red paint as if to pass it off as respectable when we all know it just lacks the upper class look of real redwood. I guess lame lumber enthusiasts would appreciate this view but not many other people probably would.
The usual technologies of the modern age lay lazily in this little room. Plugged in and ready to be used sucking the life out of the wall for all that mystical and phantom power. Vampiric PDAs and iMacs. Sidenote: do not discuss electronics and robots with people who smoke lots of dope. You will always get an earful about aliens sometime during the conversation whether you want to or not. Somehow with dopeheads it always comes back to, we should smoke and did you know the government is covering up one thing or another.
I will seem much lighter in my step and the sun will shine brighter on me than anyone else. People will notice and I will feel accomplished in a much deeper way than I have ever known.
The Little Room
The little room is probably 15 feet by 15 feet. The floor is made of cheap thin and fake looking wood. I don't know how real wood could look fake but it does. The walls are a weird nursing home blue, like an institutionalized government building. The kind that you expect to find in the document and map rooms in the Kremlin. Instead of the blaring red and orange killing rooms and decision corridors that I imagine they have there. Lots of rooms in the Kremlin for many different things.
Getting back to the little room with fake wood and blue walls. Right now the room is cluttered. A big desk (for such a little room) crowds the north wall. A slick little brown leather couch sits very comfortable under the window on the south wall. A fake wooden dresser is tucked away in the corner. A small bookcase, a few bikes, a ditry clothes hamper and some various toiletries make up the rest of the little room. Just enough stuff that the room maintains its small size and not so much stuff that the little room is swallowed up completely.
Surprisingly, the closet of the little room is actually kind of big. A normal sized person can go in there and look and sort and shuffle clothes or shoes or boxes of old pictures, quite comfortably. In fact this somewhat large closet is the room's selling point. A real estate agent showing the house would be sure to note the size of the room in a fake upbeat tone that most real estate agents seem to acquire after the rush of selling houses for small profits wears off. The couple will nod their head and later when over dinner they discuss the little room the wife will say "remember the closet is large and we could fit so many things in there" and the husband will say yes and continue to eat because the only thing he wants to stuff in there is her.
On the east wall of the little room is a medium sized window. From the window can be view the back house. This is a highlight for all those voyeuristic people in our society who like to watch others as if they are watching the nature channel. From here with the right viewpoint and a certain curtain not closed completely a perverted set of eyes can see into a bedroom. The bedroom of a portly middle aged black woman. As long as private areas are exposed when no one else is watching they can get a small thrill in their otherwise boring and near murderous life. We all know how many serial killers develop the guilty please habit of a peeping tom long before they go to mid town to pick up hookers and dump their bodies in all sorts of hiding places in the night.
Back to the little room. There is one other window the one above the couch that I mentioned earlier. This window looks out to a wooden privacy fence. Also cheap looking and also wood but covered in some kind of gross lower income red paint as if to pass it off as respectable when we all know it just lacks the upper class look of real redwood. I guess lame lumber enthusiasts would appreciate this view but not many other people probably would.
The usual technologies of the modern age lay lazily in this little room. Plugged in and ready to be used sucking the life out of the wall for all that mystical and phantom power. Vampiric PDAs and iMacs. Sidenote: do not discuss electronics and robots with people who smoke lots of dope. You will always get an earful about aliens sometime during the conversation whether you want to or not. Somehow with dopeheads it always comes back to, we should smoke and did you know the government is covering up one thing or another.
Finally...
For the past two days I have been in my room or for a brief hour at the doctor's office. I have only been sick a couple of times this year but each one has been dreadful. My sickness came the day after I had a performance review at work. Not great timing at all. This performance review went well as I am a good worker but it continued in me my struggle with myself and my next step and who I really am and so forth. I remember immediately before my review I was contemplating leaving California and going back home to rest as my feelings about my existence have really exhausted me. This question is still to be resolved and I have a feeling I won't really know until I go home for the week and see how my feelings toward home have improved or changed.
This morning I was finally able to move and at about noon I bathed and dressed myself and headed to Highland Park for a quick breakfast and then a stroll to the library. What was to be breakfast turned out to be lunch, club sandwich and a coke. Not very healthy at all but I haven't been eating well if at all for the past couple of days so I figured I would be ok. Anyway, I walked around Highland Park for a while and eventually chose a seat by the baseball diamonds to continue reading and watching people. For a few minutes I finally felt at peace. Every so often I have these peaceful feelings when I am totally alone and away from my room. I think I learned something today and I know I have a lot of hard works and decisions ahead of me but I think its going to be worth it in the end. I can only come out of this fog a much stronger person and a better version of myself.
Reading List:
Nietzsche - Thus Spoke Zarathustra
Brenda Ueland - If You Want to Write
J.D. Salinger - The Catcher in the Rye
Nietzsche - Beyond Good and Evil
Mark Twain - The Prince and the Pauper
Hermann Hesse - Siddhartha
Ernest Hemingway - Islands in the Stream
Leo Tolstoy - Short Works
Listening to Mozart because its been a while.
This morning I was finally able to move and at about noon I bathed and dressed myself and headed to Highland Park for a quick breakfast and then a stroll to the library. What was to be breakfast turned out to be lunch, club sandwich and a coke. Not very healthy at all but I haven't been eating well if at all for the past couple of days so I figured I would be ok. Anyway, I walked around Highland Park for a while and eventually chose a seat by the baseball diamonds to continue reading and watching people. For a few minutes I finally felt at peace. Every so often I have these peaceful feelings when I am totally alone and away from my room. I think I learned something today and I know I have a lot of hard works and decisions ahead of me but I think its going to be worth it in the end. I can only come out of this fog a much stronger person and a better version of myself.
Reading List:
Nietzsche - Thus Spoke Zarathustra
Brenda Ueland - If You Want to Write
J.D. Salinger - The Catcher in the Rye
Nietzsche - Beyond Good and Evil
Mark Twain - The Prince and the Pauper
Hermann Hesse - Siddhartha
Ernest Hemingway - Islands in the Stream
Leo Tolstoy - Short Works
Listening to Mozart because its been a while.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
What's the worst that could happen?
As I peered behind the small opening in the floor, I could see the doorway in the distance. The entire family would be peacefully resting now in the warmth of the fire. I wanted to be warm too.
I didn't care much for the family. They were far too clean never leaving any scraps of food out. I had to forage always in the alleys at night. However my existance in this house was worth it in the freezing month of January because their house had to be the warmest house on the block. I protected this place fiercely because behind the door of the living room was immense and soul affirming heat. A warmth that would guarantee that I could sleep tonight. Even an animal cannot live healthfully without rest.
I looked left and right and in the darkness tried to detect the family housecat. I didn't see anything but it didn't mean she wasn't there. Every night I try this I am shaking with fear. One good pounce and my entire life ceases to exist. I breathe deeply and press my small ear to the floor above me. Perhaps, if I listen close enough I could detect the cat's movements through the vibrations in the floor.
Nothing.
Damn this cat.
I looked again at the doorway. My whole body ached and I knew I would have to make the decision soon. I make this dash quite frequently so I usually know when I am ready. Everytime, for a few seconds, my body tenses up and I think to myself I just have to run for it. 1-2-3 GO! But then a pause for a second with fear and out of nowhere as if propelled by a force bigger than myself I quickly climb out of my watch post and slingshot myself across the floor, under the door and quickly behind the couch to rest.
Ok. I listen one more time to the floor. Still nothing. I ready my haunches and in one moment I bolt out of the crack and across the floor. As I run I can see nothing but the doorway. I am strictly focused and adrenaline is pumping through me causing my heart to beat quickly. However, still I am focused.
I have heard of death, that one can sense that this might be the last run. I felt something I had never felt before for one moment. An acknowledgement that the cat was going to win this time. Right as I became aware, my life was over.
The cat had hooked me with her claws just inches before the door. As I looked up at her, soaked in my own blood, I did not have fear. I felt a strange amusement that I wasn't going to just die. Instead, the house cat was going to eat me. Probably while I was still partially alive.
I didn't care much for the family. They were far too clean never leaving any scraps of food out. I had to forage always in the alleys at night. However my existance in this house was worth it in the freezing month of January because their house had to be the warmest house on the block. I protected this place fiercely because behind the door of the living room was immense and soul affirming heat. A warmth that would guarantee that I could sleep tonight. Even an animal cannot live healthfully without rest.
I looked left and right and in the darkness tried to detect the family housecat. I didn't see anything but it didn't mean she wasn't there. Every night I try this I am shaking with fear. One good pounce and my entire life ceases to exist. I breathe deeply and press my small ear to the floor above me. Perhaps, if I listen close enough I could detect the cat's movements through the vibrations in the floor.
Nothing.
Damn this cat.
I looked again at the doorway. My whole body ached and I knew I would have to make the decision soon. I make this dash quite frequently so I usually know when I am ready. Everytime, for a few seconds, my body tenses up and I think to myself I just have to run for it. 1-2-3 GO! But then a pause for a second with fear and out of nowhere as if propelled by a force bigger than myself I quickly climb out of my watch post and slingshot myself across the floor, under the door and quickly behind the couch to rest.
Ok. I listen one more time to the floor. Still nothing. I ready my haunches and in one moment I bolt out of the crack and across the floor. As I run I can see nothing but the doorway. I am strictly focused and adrenaline is pumping through me causing my heart to beat quickly. However, still I am focused.
I have heard of death, that one can sense that this might be the last run. I felt something I had never felt before for one moment. An acknowledgement that the cat was going to win this time. Right as I became aware, my life was over.
The cat had hooked me with her claws just inches before the door. As I looked up at her, soaked in my own blood, I did not have fear. I felt a strange amusement that I wasn't going to just die. Instead, the house cat was going to eat me. Probably while I was still partially alive.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Thinking of something to write this morning.
I should be totally free to write about anything just as I go about my day feeling free to go anywhere or to do anything. I like this ideas of being alone and knowing that the creative process comes forth when one is truly alone to think and feel without judgment from the outside world that I can write whatever I please without worry that it might not sell someday. Doesn't matter because if I worry about money I am letting something beside myself dictate where these thoughts should go and who they should be received by. What do I really love and what do I really want to write about. Granted I don't always want to write about self reflection but rather infuse bits of myself into writing about something larger than myself. The long walks that I take really do help as I am exposed to much bigger than my bubble, this tiny room. Like seeing the small mexican boy climb down the steps from his gray adobe like house to the street, leading the rest of his family to a shopping cart below filled with what seemed to be decaying fabric. He was totally unaware that I looked at him with pity. He latched the dirty H&M bag he was carrying to the cart and looked behind him to his sister who was running to catch up. I remember thinking loudly in my head but of course not saying anything aloud, FUCK. I felt sadness it was true sadness but also a little bit of manufactured sadness like I knew Anglo Saxon society would want me to be sad for this boy and run home to my new imac and type in google volunteer organizations in the city so I could save this poor mexican boy from pushing around a shopping cart on one of the dirtiest streets in LA. However, do I really want to save him from that and what does it even mean to push around a shopping cart. Maybe the family doesn't have a car and the shopping cart is an efficient way to transport their items. I also noticed the family was all women except for the little boy and even then my mind went to, where is the father? The father must be absent from the family but he could be at work. However, it seems obvious that stereotypes are so prevalent because they were found to be true on more than one occasion. Something has kept the societal averages hanging around or more truthfully maybe I am just an asshole to even as much. There are so many interesting parts of my 8 miles walk through Highland Park, Mt. Washington and Cypress Park. The great feature of this 8 mile walk is that there is one prominent hill that I must walk up and then glide down and as always in Southern California, it seems the further up the hill I walk the nicer the homes are and the whiter everyone becomes. This must be their version of white flight. The gangstas at the bottom of the hill won't bother to make the effort to come up because of the concentration of neighborhood watches and ADT alarms. I have to admit that since I have moved here I have longed to live on the top of the hill and I always ask myself what those people must do for a living to get where they are. Most often I assume its the entertainment industry but not everything in California makes its money on a Fox studio lot. Anyway, the walk starts from my house which sits on Ave 42, a dead end. The avenue picks up again in Mt. Washington but on the other side of the light rail track that runs by my house. I go north on Figueroa and continue north past the park and the mural there. I think they just finished it last week. It's basically a visual breakdown of the neighborhood, features plant life and local characters like the guys that walk up and down the street selling fruit and some kind of sweetened candy. Not really sure what it is. Actually with offense to myself but describing this walk in painstaking detail just seems like an exercise in boredom because I really don't care about that part of the walk. I know that area too well now and I just ignore it as I pass by. Probably the most interesting park of the walk is through Mt. Washington and that is only because if I remember to look behind me as I go up the hillside I can see the 134 freeway in the mountainside and the beauty of eagle rock.
I need live plants in my room. My mother used to keep a lot of plants. I am sure she misses that now that she lives with my aunt and then soon my grandfather. I wonder if I am being creative or if I am just writing as if I would talk to someone. Maybe I need a break to get inspired. I want writing to be my job but I am going to have to get more creative than this if I expect anyone to ever pick up something of mine. This is a dear diary if anything. Ok, I'm out I think I might try to write a poem. You know actually think instead of just talk to this typewriter like a fool.
-And so I took a break.
I need live plants in my room. My mother used to keep a lot of plants. I am sure she misses that now that she lives with my aunt and then soon my grandfather. I wonder if I am being creative or if I am just writing as if I would talk to someone. Maybe I need a break to get inspired. I want writing to be my job but I am going to have to get more creative than this if I expect anyone to ever pick up something of mine. This is a dear diary if anything. Ok, I'm out I think I might try to write a poem. You know actually think instead of just talk to this typewriter like a fool.
-And so I took a break.
August 14, 2010
I spent most of my day writing and as I am wrapping up, cleaning my workspace, and putting away my typewriter I though I should look back on something I had previously written. I found a piece from August, which was not very long ago according to the calendar, but seems so far removed from the person I am today. I guess that means in a couple more months I will have survived more growing pains but those pains will have resulted in personal progress and some small accomplishments.
So it goes...
It’s tiring to carry so many people and so many memories in my heart and probably more so in my mind. I feel like I carry eight people, dead weight, fully clothed soaked in water. One day I am going to walk out of a mundane place and just leave them there to die and never feed them again. I will seem much lighter in my step and the sun will shine brighter on me than anyone else. People will notice and I will feel accomplished in a much deeper way than my previous brushes with success. It seems like changing a part of your life should be as easy as switching off one light in the house then turning on another. Seems like there is a wall of concrete reinforced with steel holding me back and trapping myself in my own head. I let society dictate me constantly.
“I can’t do something because of you…I can’t do something because you aren’t sober. I can’t do something because you don’t take yourself seriously…I can’t do something because you are too jealous… It’s hard to live with you…My social life suffers…You drink too much…You work a dead end job…You don’t have any hopes or dreams.”
Have you ever wanted to shrug off all doubt and call it a day and give all the money away you have ever made? Walk into a clear night with the moon out and the cornfield crunch beneath your feet, drop to your knees and slit your wrists and provide the very thing everyone has wanted your whole life.
Your blood
Your heart
Your soul
Spill in onto the ground…
Your dreams
Your desires
Everything you hate about yourself
Belongs to no one. Nobody gets a piece of it.
This is just a tidal swell of anger and resentment built up over years of neglect and abuse of my own self. I will give myself a chance and I will allow myself to express creativity in my everyday life. I am learning about myself everyday and taking the time to appreciate how my life is changing and the changes I am installing and orchestrating and the plans I choose to follow through.
How many times have I sat by a window.
Starring out into the darkness
Questioning myself and my motives
Bored
I could literally peel the paint off the walls
Looking onto the street
And so I marched into the city
And the bikes along the Heorot inspired me.
I dread going home. The other day I fantasized that the plane would experience engine trouble and the other passengers and I will fall to our deaths. I am such a coward though and could never entertain these thoughts seriously. I don’t want to open the front door of my house and walk into my parents divorce. Only six months ago I walked into a familiar setting. My parents watching television together, my mom on the loveseat and my dad on the sofa as they both drink beer, talk to me and talk to each other. My mom would talk about the politics playing on the news while filling the house with cigarette smoke. Usually mom and dad would talk about the news but mostly the weather. The setting was very boring and the air almost toxic but at least everything was harmonious.
I have no idea what I am going to face now. Will they be shouting at each other? I have this vision that they will start fighting, screaming in each other’s faces and I will have to panic and step in. I might say something about respect and in fear stand up to both of them.
The fox, the mole, the beetle and the bat by sweet reserve and modesty get
Fat.
Spend too much time trying not to be creative that I have almost spiritually killed myself. Seems I am just letting myself get fat and dumb by not doing what makes me happy. Thoreau was happy flying solo.
To be honest, most of the time I think ill of people and spend a lot of my day pondering how to keep away from people so they don’t see me and how to keep very quiet so they cannot detect me. That I can pass through the day without too much mindless distraction. Even if no one else notices me I know myself and I know that I am not doing enough for my craft or for myself.
So it goes...
It’s tiring to carry so many people and so many memories in my heart and probably more so in my mind. I feel like I carry eight people, dead weight, fully clothed soaked in water. One day I am going to walk out of a mundane place and just leave them there to die and never feed them again. I will seem much lighter in my step and the sun will shine brighter on me than anyone else. People will notice and I will feel accomplished in a much deeper way than my previous brushes with success. It seems like changing a part of your life should be as easy as switching off one light in the house then turning on another. Seems like there is a wall of concrete reinforced with steel holding me back and trapping myself in my own head. I let society dictate me constantly.
“I can’t do something because of you…I can’t do something because you aren’t sober. I can’t do something because you don’t take yourself seriously…I can’t do something because you are too jealous… It’s hard to live with you…My social life suffers…You drink too much…You work a dead end job…You don’t have any hopes or dreams.”
Have you ever wanted to shrug off all doubt and call it a day and give all the money away you have ever made? Walk into a clear night with the moon out and the cornfield crunch beneath your feet, drop to your knees and slit your wrists and provide the very thing everyone has wanted your whole life.
Your blood
Your heart
Your soul
Spill in onto the ground…
Your dreams
Your desires
Everything you hate about yourself
Belongs to no one. Nobody gets a piece of it.
This is just a tidal swell of anger and resentment built up over years of neglect and abuse of my own self. I will give myself a chance and I will allow myself to express creativity in my everyday life. I am learning about myself everyday and taking the time to appreciate how my life is changing and the changes I am installing and orchestrating and the plans I choose to follow through.
How many times have I sat by a window.
Starring out into the darkness
Questioning myself and my motives
Bored
I could literally peel the paint off the walls
Looking onto the street
And so I marched into the city
And the bikes along the Heorot inspired me.
I dread going home. The other day I fantasized that the plane would experience engine trouble and the other passengers and I will fall to our deaths. I am such a coward though and could never entertain these thoughts seriously. I don’t want to open the front door of my house and walk into my parents divorce. Only six months ago I walked into a familiar setting. My parents watching television together, my mom on the loveseat and my dad on the sofa as they both drink beer, talk to me and talk to each other. My mom would talk about the politics playing on the news while filling the house with cigarette smoke. Usually mom and dad would talk about the news but mostly the weather. The setting was very boring and the air almost toxic but at least everything was harmonious.
I have no idea what I am going to face now. Will they be shouting at each other? I have this vision that they will start fighting, screaming in each other’s faces and I will have to panic and step in. I might say something about respect and in fear stand up to both of them.
The fox, the mole, the beetle and the bat by sweet reserve and modesty get
Fat.
Spend too much time trying not to be creative that I have almost spiritually killed myself. Seems I am just letting myself get fat and dumb by not doing what makes me happy. Thoreau was happy flying solo.
To be honest, most of the time I think ill of people and spend a lot of my day pondering how to keep away from people so they don’t see me and how to keep very quiet so they cannot detect me. That I can pass through the day without too much mindless distraction. Even if no one else notices me I know myself and I know that I am not doing enough for my craft or for myself.
John Steinbeck and Advice for Beginning Writers
Dear Writer:
Although it must be a thousand years ago that I sat in a class in story writing at Stanford, I remember the experience very clearly. I was bright-eyes and bushy-brained and prepared to absorb the secret formula for writing good short stories, even great short stories. This illusion was canceled very quickly. The only way to write a good short story, we were told, is to write a good short story. Only after it is written can it be taken apart to see how it was done. It is a most difficult form, as we were told, and the proof lies in how very few great short stories there are in the world.
The basic rule given us was simple and heartbreaking. A story to be effective had to convey something from the writer to the reader, and the power of its offering was the measure of its excellence. Outside of that, there were no rules. A story could be about anything and could use any means and any technique at all - so long as it was effective. As a subhead to this rule, it seemed to be necessary for the writer to know what he wanted to say, in short, what he was talking about. As an exercise we were to try reducing the meat of our story to one sentence, for only then could we know it well enough to enlarge it to three- or six- or ten-thousand words.
So there went the magic formula, the secret ingredient. With no more than that, we were set on the desolate, lonely path of the writer. And we must have turned in some abysmally bad stories. If I had expected to be discovered in a full bloom of excellence, the grades given my efforts quickly disillusioned me. And if I felt unjustly criticized, the judgments of editors for many years afterward upheld my teacher's side, not mine. The low grades on my college stories were echoed in the rejection slips, in the hundreds of rejection slips.
It seemed unfair. I could read a fine story and could even know how it was done. Why could I not then do it myself? Well, I couldn't, and maybe it's because no two stories dare be alike. Over the years I have written a great many stories and I still don't know how to go about it except to write it and take my chances.
If there is a magic in story writing, and I am convinced there is, no one has ever been able to reduce it to a recipe that can be passed from one person to another. The formula seems to lie solely in the aching urge of the writer to convey something he feels important to the reader. If the writer has that urge, he may sometimes, but by no means always, find the way to do it. You must perceive the excellence that makes a good story good or the errors that makes a bad story. For a bad story is only an ineffective story.
It is not so very hard to judge a story after it is written, but, after many years, to start a story still scares me to death. I will go so far as to say that the writer who not scared is happily unaware of the remote and tantalizing majesty of the medium.
I remember one last piece of advice given me. It was during the exuberance of the rich and frantic '20s, and I was going out into that world to try and to be a writer.
I was told, "It's going to take a long time, and you haven't got any money. Maybe it would be better if you could go to Europe."
"Why?" I asked.
"Because in Europe poverty is a misfortune, but in America it is shameful. I wonder whether or not you can stand the shame of being poor."
It wasn't too long afterward that the depression came. Then everyone was poor and it was no shame anymore. And so I will never know whether or not I could have stood it. But surely my teacher was right about one thing. It took a long time - a very long time. And it is still going on, and it has never got easier.
She told me it wouldn't.
1963
http://www.rjgeib.com/thoughts/steinbeck/steinbeck.html
Although it must be a thousand years ago that I sat in a class in story writing at Stanford, I remember the experience very clearly. I was bright-eyes and bushy-brained and prepared to absorb the secret formula for writing good short stories, even great short stories. This illusion was canceled very quickly. The only way to write a good short story, we were told, is to write a good short story. Only after it is written can it be taken apart to see how it was done. It is a most difficult form, as we were told, and the proof lies in how very few great short stories there are in the world.
The basic rule given us was simple and heartbreaking. A story to be effective had to convey something from the writer to the reader, and the power of its offering was the measure of its excellence. Outside of that, there were no rules. A story could be about anything and could use any means and any technique at all - so long as it was effective. As a subhead to this rule, it seemed to be necessary for the writer to know what he wanted to say, in short, what he was talking about. As an exercise we were to try reducing the meat of our story to one sentence, for only then could we know it well enough to enlarge it to three- or six- or ten-thousand words.
So there went the magic formula, the secret ingredient. With no more than that, we were set on the desolate, lonely path of the writer. And we must have turned in some abysmally bad stories. If I had expected to be discovered in a full bloom of excellence, the grades given my efforts quickly disillusioned me. And if I felt unjustly criticized, the judgments of editors for many years afterward upheld my teacher's side, not mine. The low grades on my college stories were echoed in the rejection slips, in the hundreds of rejection slips.
It seemed unfair. I could read a fine story and could even know how it was done. Why could I not then do it myself? Well, I couldn't, and maybe it's because no two stories dare be alike. Over the years I have written a great many stories and I still don't know how to go about it except to write it and take my chances.
If there is a magic in story writing, and I am convinced there is, no one has ever been able to reduce it to a recipe that can be passed from one person to another. The formula seems to lie solely in the aching urge of the writer to convey something he feels important to the reader. If the writer has that urge, he may sometimes, but by no means always, find the way to do it. You must perceive the excellence that makes a good story good or the errors that makes a bad story. For a bad story is only an ineffective story.
It is not so very hard to judge a story after it is written, but, after many years, to start a story still scares me to death. I will go so far as to say that the writer who not scared is happily unaware of the remote and tantalizing majesty of the medium.
I remember one last piece of advice given me. It was during the exuberance of the rich and frantic '20s, and I was going out into that world to try and to be a writer.
I was told, "It's going to take a long time, and you haven't got any money. Maybe it would be better if you could go to Europe."
"Why?" I asked.
"Because in Europe poverty is a misfortune, but in America it is shameful. I wonder whether or not you can stand the shame of being poor."
It wasn't too long afterward that the depression came. Then everyone was poor and it was no shame anymore. And so I will never know whether or not I could have stood it. But surely my teacher was right about one thing. It took a long time - a very long time. And it is still going on, and it has never got easier.
She told me it wouldn't.
1963
http://www.rjgeib.com/thoughts/steinbeck/steinbeck.html
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