Year 6 -- Week 29 -- December 15, 2003
My novel is prepared to weather the cold realities of the market place.
December 15, 2003
It's time for my novel to leave the nest to find its way in the world. Yes, it's my baby, and it seems just like yesterday that it was simply the kernel of an idea in my head, but that was six years ago. And now look at it -- over 100,000 words chock full of characters and challenges.
But if I spend just a little more time, I'm sure it could be better. The problem is, I could rewrite forever, and part of me wants to do just that to avoid facing the inevitable rejection that comes with the process of publication.
Rejection isn't personal and it's subjective, but knowing this doesn't make it any easier to swallow. But this week I will send the novel out, and while I wait for a response, I will continue to write.
Wayne Gretzky claims that he is most grateful for the gift of loving to practice. Yes, he was graced with talent, but it was the hours of practicing that truly made the difference. If he hadn't loved being on a rink every day, his talent would never have blossomed.
I've always known that my gift was the ability to focus and work hard, to recognize what I didn't know and then learn it. It is the journey, not the result that turns me on. What I might lack in pure literary talent, I surely make up for in hustle. I learn, I adapt, I improve, and most important, I don't give up.
And so as 'The Sound of Money' wanders through the cold corridors of the publishing industry, I will keep working. I've got more short stories to write, several ideas for novels to mull, and of course the songs, lots of them, just waiting to be written.
All I need is one person to see the potential, and then look out…
Until then, it is my duty not to give up on myself. And so as 2003 comes to a close, I look ahead knowing that my best work is still to come….
Thanks for reading. See you in 2004.
Monday, December 15, 2003
Monday, December 8, 2003
Fire and a good book
Year 6 -- Week 28 -- December 8, 2003
The perfect day for a fire and a good book.
We had over a foot of snow on Saturday under blizzard conditions. It was the perfect day to cozy up to a fire and read a book. And yet my guess is, most people stuck inside didn't reach for a novel.
Many non-readers claim they'd like to, but they just don't have the time. A novel is a big commitment, fair enough, but why is the short story even less popular?
Perhaps the short story is misunderstood. Even amongst writers there's controversy. Some believe that the short story and novel are so different, one cannot excel at both. Obviously many writers don't believe that; some, perhaps, should.
Beginning writers are often deceived by its simplicity. Many readers are confused.
The short story needs a PR consultant, somebody to explain how it works. It's as if the literati don't want people to know. And yet, the short story could be the perfect ambassador for fiction. Of course, the literati scoffed at Steven King's National Book Award and slammed the Harry Potter series as derivative.
Last week I gave Ed, a friend, a short story to read; his response typifies the short story's PR problem. First let me state that Ed is well educated and reads lots of non-fiction (note: women far out number men in the fiction reading department).
Ed makes a brief appearance in my story and I thought he might enjoy the cameo. Within a week, Ed was back to me. "I only got the first five pages," he said, "but it seemed pretty good."
"Five pages?"
"Yeah, up to the point where the guy is sipping wine."
"Actually," I said, "that's the ending."
"Oh."
I went on to explain the concept of a short story and Ed, feeling rather dumb, quickly added that he loved the writing, the characters, and of course, his cameo. But it was like trying to explain a punch line. I should also note that a magazine has already called, interested in the story -- in theory, this eliminates the possibility that the writing was off base.
This isn't the first time readers wanted to know more about what happened next in the story. Or why did 'Y' happen? Or how come we don't know more about this or that? And even at the Squaw Valley Writers Conference, many of the attendees asked similar questions, as did a few of the instructors.
I've certainly struggled with the short story, endings in particular. In the early days, I dazzled myself with contrived plot lines that neatly converged at the end, or with clever twist to throw the reader off. Looking up 'epiphany' in the dictionary didn't help.
I could have saved a lot of time if Louis Menand's 'New Yorker' comments on the short story had come out sooner. His explanation clarified what's taken me years to figure out. You can find his view on the subject within his commentary of Updike's new collection (the December 1 '03 issue). In the article, Menand quotes Joyce and Poe, and compares the art of short fiction to a golf swing.
For me, a short story is the opening of a window into a world. Fleeting as it might be, in the hands of an accomplished writer, we get powerful insights into the human condition without the burden of knowing too much. It can be incredibly satisfying, more so than ten minutes of Sports Center, a read of 'Time' magazine on the john -- starting from the back of course, or 'Howard" on the radio during the daily commute.
If only more people knew how great the short story was, a writer might have more opportunity to place fiction. As it is, the short story is available to only a select few, and that is everyone's loss.
--------
In just a few days, this posting has generated passionate responses. If you feel strongly about the short story, or have an idea on how to get more people interested, drop me an email. In a future entry I'll share some of those views -- anonymously if you wish. Thanks a lot!
The perfect day for a fire and a good book.
We had over a foot of snow on Saturday under blizzard conditions. It was the perfect day to cozy up to a fire and read a book. And yet my guess is, most people stuck inside didn't reach for a novel.
Many non-readers claim they'd like to, but they just don't have the time. A novel is a big commitment, fair enough, but why is the short story even less popular?
Perhaps the short story is misunderstood. Even amongst writers there's controversy. Some believe that the short story and novel are so different, one cannot excel at both. Obviously many writers don't believe that; some, perhaps, should.
Beginning writers are often deceived by its simplicity. Many readers are confused.
The short story needs a PR consultant, somebody to explain how it works. It's as if the literati don't want people to know. And yet, the short story could be the perfect ambassador for fiction. Of course, the literati scoffed at Steven King's National Book Award and slammed the Harry Potter series as derivative.
Last week I gave Ed, a friend, a short story to read; his response typifies the short story's PR problem. First let me state that Ed is well educated and reads lots of non-fiction (note: women far out number men in the fiction reading department).
Ed makes a brief appearance in my story and I thought he might enjoy the cameo. Within a week, Ed was back to me. "I only got the first five pages," he said, "but it seemed pretty good."
"Five pages?"
"Yeah, up to the point where the guy is sipping wine."
"Actually," I said, "that's the ending."
"Oh."
I went on to explain the concept of a short story and Ed, feeling rather dumb, quickly added that he loved the writing, the characters, and of course, his cameo. But it was like trying to explain a punch line. I should also note that a magazine has already called, interested in the story -- in theory, this eliminates the possibility that the writing was off base.
This isn't the first time readers wanted to know more about what happened next in the story. Or why did 'Y' happen? Or how come we don't know more about this or that? And even at the Squaw Valley Writers Conference, many of the attendees asked similar questions, as did a few of the instructors.
I've certainly struggled with the short story, endings in particular. In the early days, I dazzled myself with contrived plot lines that neatly converged at the end, or with clever twist to throw the reader off. Looking up 'epiphany' in the dictionary didn't help.
I could have saved a lot of time if Louis Menand's 'New Yorker' comments on the short story had come out sooner. His explanation clarified what's taken me years to figure out. You can find his view on the subject within his commentary of Updike's new collection (the December 1 '03 issue). In the article, Menand quotes Joyce and Poe, and compares the art of short fiction to a golf swing.
For me, a short story is the opening of a window into a world. Fleeting as it might be, in the hands of an accomplished writer, we get powerful insights into the human condition without the burden of knowing too much. It can be incredibly satisfying, more so than ten minutes of Sports Center, a read of 'Time' magazine on the john -- starting from the back of course, or 'Howard" on the radio during the daily commute.
If only more people knew how great the short story was, a writer might have more opportunity to place fiction. As it is, the short story is available to only a select few, and that is everyone's loss.
--------
In just a few days, this posting has generated passionate responses. If you feel strongly about the short story, or have an idea on how to get more people interested, drop me an email. In a future entry I'll share some of those views -- anonymously if you wish. Thanks a lot!
Monday, December 1, 2003
Almost Done
Year Six - Week 27 - December 1, 2003
The novel is almost done!
I overloaded on turkey again, which wasn't surprising for those that know me, but this Thanksgiving was exceptional because I had a different event to attend each day of this long weekend.
I'm grateful for the friendship and had a lot of fun, but the writer inside of me was growing impatient, and at times it got down-right ornery. "What about me?" he hollered when I stumbled home after midnight on Sunday. "You've stuffed your face for four days and I'm starving. I can't survive unless you write. Four fucking days. Can you go four days without eating? Breathing? Try a few hours and see how long you last. I need you to get back to the writing -- NOW."
I did feel guilty and there were times when I considered ducking out early, or making an excuse to bail out altogether, but I'm glad I didn't.
My writer doesn't understand that without real human interaction there is nothing to write about. Yes, you can read the paper or watch TV for ideas, but there's no substitute for immersing yourself in all that life has to offer. You have to feel it, taste it, smell it,touch it,see it. You've got to get your hands dirty, in fact, sometimes you've got to roll around in the muck to understand the world and that's got to be a good thing for my writer. But more important, it is essential for my soul.
I can't live from the third person point of view even if my writer prefers staying on the sidelines as the observer. I've told him, "Life is meant to be lived in the first person." He knows this, but he's selfish and insufferable.
Okay, so I ignored my writer over the four-day holiday, but it's not like I totally forgot him. I was collecting scraps for him, and each night before I went to bed, I scraped from my pockets crumbled pieces of paper with ideas scribbled on them. One was on a gravy-stained napkin, another was written across the margins of "The New York Times." So it wasn't like my writer starved this holiday. He got new ideas for characters, plot, and setting. And this week there will be plenty of time to mess around with them to see if anything develops.
And so as the haze from that last glass of Zinfandel clears from head, my writer breathes more easily. He's got renewed energy and fresh experience to draw upon, and ample time to work through an infinite amount of possibility.
The novel is almost done!
I overloaded on turkey again, which wasn't surprising for those that know me, but this Thanksgiving was exceptional because I had a different event to attend each day of this long weekend.
I'm grateful for the friendship and had a lot of fun, but the writer inside of me was growing impatient, and at times it got down-right ornery. "What about me?" he hollered when I stumbled home after midnight on Sunday. "You've stuffed your face for four days and I'm starving. I can't survive unless you write. Four fucking days. Can you go four days without eating? Breathing? Try a few hours and see how long you last. I need you to get back to the writing -- NOW."
I did feel guilty and there were times when I considered ducking out early, or making an excuse to bail out altogether, but I'm glad I didn't.
My writer doesn't understand that without real human interaction there is nothing to write about. Yes, you can read the paper or watch TV for ideas, but there's no substitute for immersing yourself in all that life has to offer. You have to feel it, taste it, smell it,touch it,see it. You've got to get your hands dirty, in fact, sometimes you've got to roll around in the muck to understand the world and that's got to be a good thing for my writer. But more important, it is essential for my soul.
I can't live from the third person point of view even if my writer prefers staying on the sidelines as the observer. I've told him, "Life is meant to be lived in the first person." He knows this, but he's selfish and insufferable.
Okay, so I ignored my writer over the four-day holiday, but it's not like I totally forgot him. I was collecting scraps for him, and each night before I went to bed, I scraped from my pockets crumbled pieces of paper with ideas scribbled on them. One was on a gravy-stained napkin, another was written across the margins of "The New York Times." So it wasn't like my writer starved this holiday. He got new ideas for characters, plot, and setting. And this week there will be plenty of time to mess around with them to see if anything develops.
And so as the haze from that last glass of Zinfandel clears from head, my writer breathes more easily. He's got renewed energy and fresh experience to draw upon, and ample time to work through an infinite amount of possibility.
Tuesday, November 25, 2003
A nibble
I got a nibble this week on a short story.
Confucius said a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, and so too does the path to publication. But it's easy to lose sight of the progress, and it's difficult to take satisfaction from individual steps.
The first part of my journey involved writing and learning. I did this for two years before sending anything to magazines, agents, or publishers. The terrain was gentle and deceptively easy, but it still required stamina to reach that point where I was ready to put work out there.
The path quickly turned rocky. I amassed over a hundred rejection letters in a year or so, most were simply a copy of a form letter written decades ago. Sometimes it was just the manuscript with nothing inside, as if the work wasn't even worthy of a response.
It took strength to continue on.
The drive must come from within and without a fire burning, it's impossible to keep writing. And it's the writing that kept me moving, and eventually the steep grade eased up and I stumbled into Nibble Valley.
Here's what to look for in Nibble Valley:
The nibble might take the form of a handwritten note on one of those form rejection letters, perhaps it's a suggestion on where else you might send the piece. Sometimes it's a hastily written request for more material, and if you are really lucky, it's a phone call.
It's also a lifeline, an affirmation that your hard work is actually being recognized. Getting a nibble means that you are on the right path and if you have the courage to continue on, you will eventually get published. But a nibble can also be intoxicating and it can disappoint, so a writer must not get carried away.
I have been in Nibble Valley for about a year and have come across several nibbles. This week's nibble was a phone call from a magazine. It was in response to a new short story called "Weekend Number Five."
A few more words of caution about nibbles:
A 'but' often accompanies a nibble and it was no surprise to discover that this week's nibble came with a 'but.'
We loved your story, but we have already committed to a similar piece.
Occasionally a nibble contains a second but and that's usually a good sign. And this week's second 'but' was:
But we went to your web site and liked what we saw. We'd love to take a look at more of your work.
And so I forwarded three more stories.
A nibble provides energy and gives me the boost to keep going. But the thrill of hearing that someone likes my work will soon be replaced by doubt and fear.
I remind myself that writing is breathing and without breath, I can not live, therefore I must write.
If I keep true to this mantra, then it doesn't matter if this week's nibble disappoints. What does matter is that I keep writing, because if I do, I will eventually find my way out of Nibble Valley and into the Land of Publication.
Confucius said a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, and so too does the path to publication. But it's easy to lose sight of the progress, and it's difficult to take satisfaction from individual steps.
The first part of my journey involved writing and learning. I did this for two years before sending anything to magazines, agents, or publishers. The terrain was gentle and deceptively easy, but it still required stamina to reach that point where I was ready to put work out there.
The path quickly turned rocky. I amassed over a hundred rejection letters in a year or so, most were simply a copy of a form letter written decades ago. Sometimes it was just the manuscript with nothing inside, as if the work wasn't even worthy of a response.
It took strength to continue on.
The drive must come from within and without a fire burning, it's impossible to keep writing. And it's the writing that kept me moving, and eventually the steep grade eased up and I stumbled into Nibble Valley.
Here's what to look for in Nibble Valley:
The nibble might take the form of a handwritten note on one of those form rejection letters, perhaps it's a suggestion on where else you might send the piece. Sometimes it's a hastily written request for more material, and if you are really lucky, it's a phone call.
It's also a lifeline, an affirmation that your hard work is actually being recognized. Getting a nibble means that you are on the right path and if you have the courage to continue on, you will eventually get published. But a nibble can also be intoxicating and it can disappoint, so a writer must not get carried away.
I have been in Nibble Valley for about a year and have come across several nibbles. This week's nibble was a phone call from a magazine. It was in response to a new short story called "Weekend Number Five."
A few more words of caution about nibbles:
A 'but' often accompanies a nibble and it was no surprise to discover that this week's nibble came with a 'but.'
We loved your story, but we have already committed to a similar piece.
Occasionally a nibble contains a second but and that's usually a good sign. And this week's second 'but' was:
But we went to your web site and liked what we saw. We'd love to take a look at more of your work.
And so I forwarded three more stories.
A nibble provides energy and gives me the boost to keep going. But the thrill of hearing that someone likes my work will soon be replaced by doubt and fear.
I remind myself that writing is breathing and without breath, I can not live, therefore I must write.
If I keep true to this mantra, then it doesn't matter if this week's nibble disappoints. What does matter is that I keep writing, because if I do, I will eventually find my way out of Nibble Valley and into the Land of Publication.
Monday, November 17, 2003
Leaves
Year Six -- Week 25 -- November 17, 2003
To separate the trees from the forest you can wait for the leaves to drop, or ask a friend for help.
Every writer reaches a point where they lose perspective on a story – it could be the characters, the plot, the setting, or just a handful of words to create a falter in confidence. And that’s why feedback from trusted friends and family is such an important part of the process.
I am amazed that anyone would take the time to read an early draft. It’s a huge commitment, and it’s a great sign of friendship that I don’t take for granted. But feedback is tricky.
There’s an old adage in the advertising business – 50% of all ads are wasted, the trouble is, it’s hard to know which half. If a writer gets a 50% feedback hit rate, that would be a hall-of-fame response. Twenty-five percent would be good in my book, but it’s the writer’s job to figure out which twenty-five. And that is what the art of processing feedback is all about. It’s a skill that requires time to develop, and yet it's not spoken about much in the workshops I've taken.
Here’s what I’ve learned:
There is no right or wrong and there is no perfect solution.
Today’s answer becomes tomorrow’s problem.
Choose readers carefully and understand where they are coming from. Knowing who they read will help you sift through the comments. Often someone’s feedback is rife with the person’s bias.
To determine a person’s bent, I put them on a literary scale that ranges from black to white. Grisham is on the left, anchoring black, and Updike is on the right, holding down the white. I place LaCarre and Hiassen somewhere in the gray. Atwood and Sebold are creamy white – Clancy is jet black. I chose colors over a numeric scale to avoid judging writing styles.
I also put my work on this scale. The novel leans to the black, the short stories lean white. Often the comments I dismiss are those that attempt to push the piece toward the wrong color.
Also beware of readers that have just read a new book on writing, or one’s that have recently attended a workshop. Typically the hot topic for them will be the focus of your feedback -- I call that a pot luck critique, sample carefully.
Having several readers will also flush out the bias, but make sure you haven’t assembled a group of clones modeled after yourself.
When the same issue comes up from several people, that’s a good indication you should take the comment seriously. Fight the temptation to think they’ve all got it wrong, but don’t instantly cave-in either. They may have all cocked it up, and that’s what makes writing such a challenge. Ultimately, your gut has to make the call.
Someone at Squaw Valley this summer said don’t be afraid to kill your darlings. A darling is your favorite scene, a phrase or paragraph, something you fell in love with during an early draft that now has lost its purpose. It typically takes two or three readers to flag it before you’ll realize, and even then it’s damn hard to delete.
Phasing in readers is also important. And that’s where I am this week. I can’t believe that some of my readers have stuck at it for five years. I’ve recognized them on this website in the acknowledgment section, but it doesn’t hurt to thank them again – Mom, James, Karin, and Paul in particular -- thank you. And of course, Joy.
Unfortunately they’ve been along for the ride so long, they’ve lost as much perspective as I have. And that’s why this week I asked two folks from Squaw Valley to take a look at the novel – Michelle and Jim.
They were fresh and untainted and not bound by the early drafts. And their comments will help put the final touches on “The Sound of Money,’ but first I must sift through the feedback for those jewels of relevance.
I also spent the weekend raking leaves, which you may have noticed, provided the inspiration for this week’s photo. Now that they’ve all fallen, I can see the trees clearly in my backyard. In the case of my novel, it’s my readers that help separate the trees from the forest, and that's the secret to keeping them in view year 'round.
PS. Thanks to Danette, Phil, the Princess of Darkness and Denny Kingman for their help on the short story Weekend Number Five.
To separate the trees from the forest you can wait for the leaves to drop, or ask a friend for help.
Every writer reaches a point where they lose perspective on a story – it could be the characters, the plot, the setting, or just a handful of words to create a falter in confidence. And that’s why feedback from trusted friends and family is such an important part of the process.
I am amazed that anyone would take the time to read an early draft. It’s a huge commitment, and it’s a great sign of friendship that I don’t take for granted. But feedback is tricky.
There’s an old adage in the advertising business – 50% of all ads are wasted, the trouble is, it’s hard to know which half. If a writer gets a 50% feedback hit rate, that would be a hall-of-fame response. Twenty-five percent would be good in my book, but it’s the writer’s job to figure out which twenty-five. And that is what the art of processing feedback is all about. It’s a skill that requires time to develop, and yet it's not spoken about much in the workshops I've taken.
Here’s what I’ve learned:
There is no right or wrong and there is no perfect solution.
Today’s answer becomes tomorrow’s problem.
Choose readers carefully and understand where they are coming from. Knowing who they read will help you sift through the comments. Often someone’s feedback is rife with the person’s bias.
To determine a person’s bent, I put them on a literary scale that ranges from black to white. Grisham is on the left, anchoring black, and Updike is on the right, holding down the white. I place LaCarre and Hiassen somewhere in the gray. Atwood and Sebold are creamy white – Clancy is jet black. I chose colors over a numeric scale to avoid judging writing styles.
I also put my work on this scale. The novel leans to the black, the short stories lean white. Often the comments I dismiss are those that attempt to push the piece toward the wrong color.
Also beware of readers that have just read a new book on writing, or one’s that have recently attended a workshop. Typically the hot topic for them will be the focus of your feedback -- I call that a pot luck critique, sample carefully.
Having several readers will also flush out the bias, but make sure you haven’t assembled a group of clones modeled after yourself.
When the same issue comes up from several people, that’s a good indication you should take the comment seriously. Fight the temptation to think they’ve all got it wrong, but don’t instantly cave-in either. They may have all cocked it up, and that’s what makes writing such a challenge. Ultimately, your gut has to make the call.
Someone at Squaw Valley this summer said don’t be afraid to kill your darlings. A darling is your favorite scene, a phrase or paragraph, something you fell in love with during an early draft that now has lost its purpose. It typically takes two or three readers to flag it before you’ll realize, and even then it’s damn hard to delete.
Phasing in readers is also important. And that’s where I am this week. I can’t believe that some of my readers have stuck at it for five years. I’ve recognized them on this website in the acknowledgment section, but it doesn’t hurt to thank them again – Mom, James, Karin, and Paul in particular -- thank you. And of course, Joy.
Unfortunately they’ve been along for the ride so long, they’ve lost as much perspective as I have. And that’s why this week I asked two folks from Squaw Valley to take a look at the novel – Michelle and Jim.
They were fresh and untainted and not bound by the early drafts. And their comments will help put the final touches on “The Sound of Money,’ but first I must sift through the feedback for those jewels of relevance.
I also spent the weekend raking leaves, which you may have noticed, provided the inspiration for this week’s photo. Now that they’ve all fallen, I can see the trees clearly in my backyard. In the case of my novel, it’s my readers that help separate the trees from the forest, and that's the secret to keeping them in view year 'round.
PS. Thanks to Danette, Phil, the Princess of Darkness and Denny Kingman for their help on the short story Weekend Number Five.
Monday, November 10, 2003
Heavy Equipment
Year Six -- Week 24 -- November 10, 2003
I broke out the heavy equipment to get the job done this week.
When I near the completion of a draft, doubt sets up camp in the backyard, waiting for the right time to pounce. I see her now through the window. She sits underneath the chestnut tree, staring into my workspace, smacking those ruby lips. She takes any scrap of opportunity, a slight hesitation, a momentary lapse in confidence, and boom, she’s in my head. And once she’s there, I can’t get rid of her. That’s why the last part of the novel is so hard to complete. The closer I get, the more opportunity she has.
At the end of a bad day, I typically reach a point where I think I'm useless. It's best for me to then shut down the computer, have a nightcap or two, sometimes three, and go to bed. The next morning I somehow get it together enough to hack away at where I left off. It’s my version of ‘Groundhog Day,’ but soon this cycle will be broken.
I have hope because the edges of Ms. Doubt are frayed. The realization hit home when my friend, Sloan Wainwright, gave me an excerpt from a letter that Martha Graham sent to Agnes DeMille. Sloan uses this in her songwriting workshops. Here it is:
-----
There is vitality, a life force, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all time, this expression is unique.
If you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and be lost. The world will not have it. It is not your business to determine how good it is: nor how valuable it is: nor how it compares with other expressions. It is your business to keep it yours, clearly and directly to keep the channel open.
You do not even have to believe in yourself or your work. You have to keep open and aware directly to the urges that motivate you.
Keep the channel open. No artist is pleased. There is no satisfaction whatever at any time. There is only a queer, divine dissatisfaction; a blessed unrest that keeps us marching and makes us more alive than the others.
-----
I took a piece of this and scotch taped it to the face of my computer monitor. Each morning I recite it aloud before working.
It is not my business to determine how good my writing is, how valuable it is, or how it compares with other expressions. My job is to keep writing.
If it were only that easy.
I am the King of Judgment and my court of self-criticism is in session daily. I have accumulated multiple lifetime sentences and I am banned from seeing myself as an artist. I am not eligible for appeal or parole. Only publication is redemption, or so I thought.
Martha says, to be an artist is to never be pleased and to be continually dissatisfied with ones work. There is no doubt that I am never pleased, and I am always dissatisfied. So maybe I am an artist.
Neurotic might be a better word.
Regardless, my job is to keep the channel open and be aware of the urges that motivate me. Early on, power, greed and revenge, drove me to write. Six years later, those motivating factors have lost their vitality. There are much easier ways to make a buck and I long ago lost the anger.
I guess I thought I’d just hit it quick. I knew the odds of doing that were worse than winning the lottery, but I was arrogant enough to think I had talent and something worth saying, so I kept at it. For some, taking a year off to write a book is enough. They write it, get rejected, and return to whatever they did before, satisfied that they took their shot. They got it out of their system and believe that if they had really wanted to do it, they could have.
The thing is, if you are a truly writer, you can’t get it out of your system, and there’s the rub, the joy of the affliction. It’s what gets you through years of rejection, it’s that blessed unrest that keeps you marching and makes you more alive than others, and it’s inside me, and I am unable to do anything about it except to keep writing.
And so one day in the near future that novel will be finished.
I broke out the heavy equipment to get the job done this week.
When I near the completion of a draft, doubt sets up camp in the backyard, waiting for the right time to pounce. I see her now through the window. She sits underneath the chestnut tree, staring into my workspace, smacking those ruby lips. She takes any scrap of opportunity, a slight hesitation, a momentary lapse in confidence, and boom, she’s in my head. And once she’s there, I can’t get rid of her. That’s why the last part of the novel is so hard to complete. The closer I get, the more opportunity she has.
At the end of a bad day, I typically reach a point where I think I'm useless. It's best for me to then shut down the computer, have a nightcap or two, sometimes three, and go to bed. The next morning I somehow get it together enough to hack away at where I left off. It’s my version of ‘Groundhog Day,’ but soon this cycle will be broken.
I have hope because the edges of Ms. Doubt are frayed. The realization hit home when my friend, Sloan Wainwright, gave me an excerpt from a letter that Martha Graham sent to Agnes DeMille. Sloan uses this in her songwriting workshops. Here it is:
-----
There is vitality, a life force, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all time, this expression is unique.
If you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and be lost. The world will not have it. It is not your business to determine how good it is: nor how valuable it is: nor how it compares with other expressions. It is your business to keep it yours, clearly and directly to keep the channel open.
You do not even have to believe in yourself or your work. You have to keep open and aware directly to the urges that motivate you.
Keep the channel open. No artist is pleased. There is no satisfaction whatever at any time. There is only a queer, divine dissatisfaction; a blessed unrest that keeps us marching and makes us more alive than the others.
-----
I took a piece of this and scotch taped it to the face of my computer monitor. Each morning I recite it aloud before working.
It is not my business to determine how good my writing is, how valuable it is, or how it compares with other expressions. My job is to keep writing.
If it were only that easy.
I am the King of Judgment and my court of self-criticism is in session daily. I have accumulated multiple lifetime sentences and I am banned from seeing myself as an artist. I am not eligible for appeal or parole. Only publication is redemption, or so I thought.
Martha says, to be an artist is to never be pleased and to be continually dissatisfied with ones work. There is no doubt that I am never pleased, and I am always dissatisfied. So maybe I am an artist.
Neurotic might be a better word.
Regardless, my job is to keep the channel open and be aware of the urges that motivate me. Early on, power, greed and revenge, drove me to write. Six years later, those motivating factors have lost their vitality. There are much easier ways to make a buck and I long ago lost the anger.
I guess I thought I’d just hit it quick. I knew the odds of doing that were worse than winning the lottery, but I was arrogant enough to think I had talent and something worth saying, so I kept at it. For some, taking a year off to write a book is enough. They write it, get rejected, and return to whatever they did before, satisfied that they took their shot. They got it out of their system and believe that if they had really wanted to do it, they could have.
The thing is, if you are a truly writer, you can’t get it out of your system, and there’s the rub, the joy of the affliction. It’s what gets you through years of rejection, it’s that blessed unrest that keeps you marching and makes you more alive than others, and it’s inside me, and I am unable to do anything about it except to keep writing.
And so one day in the near future that novel will be finished.
Monday, November 3, 2003
A small forest
Year Six -- Week 23 -- November 3, 2003
A small forest gave up its life for my novel.
How did Shakespeare write without a computer? It seems impossible to me, a writer of the 21st century, a writer whose hand starts to ache after using a pen for more than ten minutes. And how did he make those final revisions with just ink, quill, and parchment? I tinker with words, sentences, paragraphs, and all too often, entire chapters. I add and subtract to a manuscript as if I’m firing a machine gun. I blast away at a page in hopes that at some point I’ll find the target. Eventually I get there, but not before wasting away reams of paper and numerous ink cartridges.
A computer is supposed to make us more productive, but if we are not careful, we will fall into the technology trap. In the sixties, it was “Better Living Through Chemistry.” That industry brought us white bread, TV dinners, and instant coffee, innovations that were all welcomed with open arms. Forty years later, what was simply considered food when I was a kid, has today blossomed into the fastest growing supermarket segment – organic. Will writers one day also face this technological backlash, where pen and paper are considered luxuries that we will pay a premium for?
Some say we have already hit the wall. Just take a look at the best seller list. Technology hasn’t improved the quality of the writing, they say, it has just enabled the industry to increase the amount of trash it publishes. Perhaps writers who came of age before the computer chose words more carefully. They had to, because it was so damn difficult to change and rearrange. Perhaps they also thought longer about what they wanted to say before actually putting pen to paper. I know that I am guilty of doing more thinking after I’ve written, and perhaps that explains the endless loop of editing that I find myself in at the moment.
Does the computer make writing and editing too easy? It’s a bit like the calculator -- you don’t need to know math anymore, just how to push buttons. Is it the same with writing?
It’s too late to do much about this novel, I’m almost done. But the next one will be different. First off, I’m going to use pen and paper for outlines and early drafts. And I will look for other ways to wean myself away from this technological habit. For instance, instead of hitting shift F7 for alternate words, I will pull out my hardcover Thesaurus. When I put a scene in the computer, I’ll print them out more often to edit manually instead of on-line. And to stay consistent, I’ll even pledge to balance my checkbook without a calculator.
Will these changes improve my writing? Not necessarily, but if it makes me feel better, then why not? Perhaps a few more trees will live, and with a little luck, I’ll be able to use a pen for more than ten minutes without cramping up. That's got to be worth something to somebody.
A small forest gave up its life for my novel.
How did Shakespeare write without a computer? It seems impossible to me, a writer of the 21st century, a writer whose hand starts to ache after using a pen for more than ten minutes. And how did he make those final revisions with just ink, quill, and parchment? I tinker with words, sentences, paragraphs, and all too often, entire chapters. I add and subtract to a manuscript as if I’m firing a machine gun. I blast away at a page in hopes that at some point I’ll find the target. Eventually I get there, but not before wasting away reams of paper and numerous ink cartridges.
A computer is supposed to make us more productive, but if we are not careful, we will fall into the technology trap. In the sixties, it was “Better Living Through Chemistry.” That industry brought us white bread, TV dinners, and instant coffee, innovations that were all welcomed with open arms. Forty years later, what was simply considered food when I was a kid, has today blossomed into the fastest growing supermarket segment – organic. Will writers one day also face this technological backlash, where pen and paper are considered luxuries that we will pay a premium for?
Some say we have already hit the wall. Just take a look at the best seller list. Technology hasn’t improved the quality of the writing, they say, it has just enabled the industry to increase the amount of trash it publishes. Perhaps writers who came of age before the computer chose words more carefully. They had to, because it was so damn difficult to change and rearrange. Perhaps they also thought longer about what they wanted to say before actually putting pen to paper. I know that I am guilty of doing more thinking after I’ve written, and perhaps that explains the endless loop of editing that I find myself in at the moment.
Does the computer make writing and editing too easy? It’s a bit like the calculator -- you don’t need to know math anymore, just how to push buttons. Is it the same with writing?
It’s too late to do much about this novel, I’m almost done. But the next one will be different. First off, I’m going to use pen and paper for outlines and early drafts. And I will look for other ways to wean myself away from this technological habit. For instance, instead of hitting shift F7 for alternate words, I will pull out my hardcover Thesaurus. When I put a scene in the computer, I’ll print them out more often to edit manually instead of on-line. And to stay consistent, I’ll even pledge to balance my checkbook without a calculator.
Will these changes improve my writing? Not necessarily, but if it makes me feel better, then why not? Perhaps a few more trees will live, and with a little luck, I’ll be able to use a pen for more than ten minutes without cramping up. That's got to be worth something to somebody.
Wednesday, October 29, 2003
I go with what I know
Year Six - Week 22 - October 29, 2003
When it comes to writing, I go with what I know, but I never let the facts get in the way of the story. Sometimes this makes my life awkward because friends and family can’t separate me from my characters. When they read a story, they assume that everything in it is true. This can be embarrassing, but I can’t let it worry me, otherwise, there will be no life in the writing.
It's this week's topic because a few people read my first post-divorce story called “First Date.” All of the readers thought I was Bill, the protagonist. Of course I feel the same angst about returning to the dating game as Bill did. However, what happened to him is not what happened to me -- but try telling that to anyone.
Here’s the good news. If my readers think the story is true, then I’ve done my job as a writer. It is the honesty behind what Bill feels as a recent divorcee that comprises the guts of “First Date.” Whether Bill goes out with a super model or is afraid to call a girl does not have to happen to me for the story to work. I’ll make up whatever I need to improve it, but I’ll never tamper with the emotional truth.
A lot of beginning writers make the mistake of thinking the story must adhere to the facts. This is especially true with stories tied to family members or close friends. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, that so-called ‘true’ story gets bogged down by the facts.
Folks, it's not called fiction for nothing. And for those that simply must keep to the facts, well, God invented non-fiction for you guys.
When it comes to blogging, my position on the subject of ‘truth’ is not so cut and dry. A few folks contacted me last week, worried that I was going off the deep end. Yes, I’ve had a rough few months, but everything at Old Road is fine. They’ll be no Elliot Smith action here.
The secret is to keep busy. I made good progress on the novel, kicked around lots of new song ideas, and did a photo shoot down in NYC (see my digital shot in the “What’s New’ page of this website).
Next week will be even better…
When it comes to writing, I go with what I know, but I never let the facts get in the way of the story. Sometimes this makes my life awkward because friends and family can’t separate me from my characters. When they read a story, they assume that everything in it is true. This can be embarrassing, but I can’t let it worry me, otherwise, there will be no life in the writing.
It's this week's topic because a few people read my first post-divorce story called “First Date.” All of the readers thought I was Bill, the protagonist. Of course I feel the same angst about returning to the dating game as Bill did. However, what happened to him is not what happened to me -- but try telling that to anyone.
Here’s the good news. If my readers think the story is true, then I’ve done my job as a writer. It is the honesty behind what Bill feels as a recent divorcee that comprises the guts of “First Date.” Whether Bill goes out with a super model or is afraid to call a girl does not have to happen to me for the story to work. I’ll make up whatever I need to improve it, but I’ll never tamper with the emotional truth.
A lot of beginning writers make the mistake of thinking the story must adhere to the facts. This is especially true with stories tied to family members or close friends. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, that so-called ‘true’ story gets bogged down by the facts.
Folks, it's not called fiction for nothing. And for those that simply must keep to the facts, well, God invented non-fiction for you guys.
When it comes to blogging, my position on the subject of ‘truth’ is not so cut and dry. A few folks contacted me last week, worried that I was going off the deep end. Yes, I’ve had a rough few months, but everything at Old Road is fine. They’ll be no Elliot Smith action here.
The secret is to keep busy. I made good progress on the novel, kicked around lots of new song ideas, and did a photo shoot down in NYC (see my digital shot in the “What’s New’ page of this website).
Next week will be even better…
Tuesday, October 21, 2003
Rock Bottom
Year Six - Week 21 – October 21, 2003
I may have hit rock bottom last week. It’s hard to tell because there’s no signpost or map to indicate the point where one cannot fall further. I certainly hit something, but instead of shattering into pieces I bounced, and now I’m writing again. I started a new short story and made good progress on the novel’s final edits. I also went into the studio to tighten four tracks of my upcoming CD.
It’s difficult to explain how or why this was the week the floodgate finally broke. And to be honest, attempting to figure it out might send me right back into the funk, so there will be no navel gazing. The same probably can’t be said for Red Sox and Cubs fans. What a week of misery they had.
I’m a die-hard Philadelphia supporter – Phillies, Eagles, Sixers & Flyers -- I’ve followed them all for thirty years, so I can empathize with perennial losers. The Cubs and Red Sox are more noteworthy, but Philadelphia in the context of the combined result of the four major sports is the biggest loser of them all. Our last championship dates back to the 1983 76ers. Hey Boston, you had the ’01 Patriots and wasn’t there a streak of championships in the 90’s for the Windy City with a guy named Jordan? And how about those ’85 Bears?
You want to just talk baseball? The Phillies did win in 1980 and also made a World Series trip in ‘83 and ‘93, but we’ve only had one championship in a hundred years – no one has a worse percentage. At least Boston won several World Series before they got rid of Ruth.
A Red Sox columnist wrote last week that if the team were a girl, he’d have left her long ago, but you can’t leave your team, it’s in the blood, a lifetime commitment. Some do hop on other bandwagons, but it isn’t nearly as satisfying as waiting for the day your childhood team brings home the bacon. Red Sox and Cubs fans, don’t lose heart, you will eventually have that day in the sun, and you’ll realize that all the losing makes your victory that much sweeter. Take solace in the fact Yankee fans will never experience that (okay, it’s a stretch).
There is something to be said about loyalty and it resonates well beyond baseball, and perhaps that’s how I got back into the swing this week. When things go bad, it’s easy to just walk away. It takes character and fortitude to tough it out -- maybe you’ve also got to be a bit crazy. Regardless, I never lost faith in my writing ability and this week it has paid off.
I may have hit rock bottom last week. It’s hard to tell because there’s no signpost or map to indicate the point where one cannot fall further. I certainly hit something, but instead of shattering into pieces I bounced, and now I’m writing again. I started a new short story and made good progress on the novel’s final edits. I also went into the studio to tighten four tracks of my upcoming CD.
It’s difficult to explain how or why this was the week the floodgate finally broke. And to be honest, attempting to figure it out might send me right back into the funk, so there will be no navel gazing. The same probably can’t be said for Red Sox and Cubs fans. What a week of misery they had.
I’m a die-hard Philadelphia supporter – Phillies, Eagles, Sixers & Flyers -- I’ve followed them all for thirty years, so I can empathize with perennial losers. The Cubs and Red Sox are more noteworthy, but Philadelphia in the context of the combined result of the four major sports is the biggest loser of them all. Our last championship dates back to the 1983 76ers. Hey Boston, you had the ’01 Patriots and wasn’t there a streak of championships in the 90’s for the Windy City with a guy named Jordan? And how about those ’85 Bears?
You want to just talk baseball? The Phillies did win in 1980 and also made a World Series trip in ‘83 and ‘93, but we’ve only had one championship in a hundred years – no one has a worse percentage. At least Boston won several World Series before they got rid of Ruth.
A Red Sox columnist wrote last week that if the team were a girl, he’d have left her long ago, but you can’t leave your team, it’s in the blood, a lifetime commitment. Some do hop on other bandwagons, but it isn’t nearly as satisfying as waiting for the day your childhood team brings home the bacon. Red Sox and Cubs fans, don’t lose heart, you will eventually have that day in the sun, and you’ll realize that all the losing makes your victory that much sweeter. Take solace in the fact Yankee fans will never experience that (okay, it’s a stretch).
There is something to be said about loyalty and it resonates well beyond baseball, and perhaps that’s how I got back into the swing this week. When things go bad, it’s easy to just walk away. It takes character and fortitude to tough it out -- maybe you’ve also got to be a bit crazy. Regardless, I never lost faith in my writing ability and this week it has paid off.
Monday, October 13, 2003
a thousand miles
Year Six - Week 20 – October 13, 2003
A journey of a thousand miles begins with one step, and so shall my return to writing with a single word. It sounds easy enough, but it isn’t. My mind is pea soup and my fingers are numb. I sit at the computer and stare at a blank screen. Then I realize the cats are hungry, the dishwasher must be unloaded, and the bed sheets need changing. Even phone calls are welcome. Yesterday I spoke to a credit card sales person for five minutes before realizing what I was doing.
When you’ve got a block, they say just write about having nothing to say. Well, who the hell are ‘they’ anyway? I have nothing to say to them, that’s for sure, and even if I did, I couldn’t focus long enough to write it. What good could come from writing about not being able to write?
I can't write. I can't write. I can't write.
How do ‘they’ know you should write about not writing when you can’t write?
Okay, I did manage to get out a weekly journal posting, but it was painful. My novel needs tweaking and several short stories require repair, but I can’t face doing the work. Today I went to the movies. Tonight I’ll watch the baseball playoffs, and of course I’ll feed the cats and unload the dishwasher.
Last week in a bold attempt to avoid doing any writing, I upgraded my Pro Tools Recording Software to the latest Mac operating system called Jaguar. Five days after I bought the package, Apple announced the upcoming release of Panther, Mac’s next version. It arrives in stores at the end of the month.
You can’t win with software, but I put off doing the OS X conversion for over a year and figured now that I was just sitting around moping, I might as well get it done. I’ll skip Panther (unless I’m entitled to a free upgrade) and wait for the next improvement – perhaps it will be called Leopard, or White Tiger in honor of the Las Vegas mauling.
Digressions and tangents keep me from getting any writing done, but it does help me to forget about the divorce. Don’t get the wrong impression, it’s not all fun and games here. I did go to Staples and buy a package of pocket sized notebooks in the event an idea hit. Now I have no excuses. I placed those pads strategically throughout the house. I also put one in the car, the gym bag, several jacket pockets, two briefcases and a backpack. I also a bought case of golf pencils and stuck one inside the wire coil of each pad. Of course the first decent idea I got came while I was taking a shower. Do they make water proof notepads?
Fortunately, since then, ideas have struck at other times and I now have a stack of paper on the desk filled with my scribble. At some point I’ll make sense out of them, but for the moment, it’s just about getting through the day one word at a time.
A journey of a thousand miles begins with one step, and so shall my return to writing with a single word. It sounds easy enough, but it isn’t. My mind is pea soup and my fingers are numb. I sit at the computer and stare at a blank screen. Then I realize the cats are hungry, the dishwasher must be unloaded, and the bed sheets need changing. Even phone calls are welcome. Yesterday I spoke to a credit card sales person for five minutes before realizing what I was doing.
When you’ve got a block, they say just write about having nothing to say. Well, who the hell are ‘they’ anyway? I have nothing to say to them, that’s for sure, and even if I did, I couldn’t focus long enough to write it. What good could come from writing about not being able to write?
I can't write. I can't write. I can't write.
How do ‘they’ know you should write about not writing when you can’t write?
Okay, I did manage to get out a weekly journal posting, but it was painful. My novel needs tweaking and several short stories require repair, but I can’t face doing the work. Today I went to the movies. Tonight I’ll watch the baseball playoffs, and of course I’ll feed the cats and unload the dishwasher.
Last week in a bold attempt to avoid doing any writing, I upgraded my Pro Tools Recording Software to the latest Mac operating system called Jaguar. Five days after I bought the package, Apple announced the upcoming release of Panther, Mac’s next version. It arrives in stores at the end of the month.
You can’t win with software, but I put off doing the OS X conversion for over a year and figured now that I was just sitting around moping, I might as well get it done. I’ll skip Panther (unless I’m entitled to a free upgrade) and wait for the next improvement – perhaps it will be called Leopard, or White Tiger in honor of the Las Vegas mauling.
Digressions and tangents keep me from getting any writing done, but it does help me to forget about the divorce. Don’t get the wrong impression, it’s not all fun and games here. I did go to Staples and buy a package of pocket sized notebooks in the event an idea hit. Now I have no excuses. I placed those pads strategically throughout the house. I also put one in the car, the gym bag, several jacket pockets, two briefcases and a backpack. I also a bought case of golf pencils and stuck one inside the wire coil of each pad. Of course the first decent idea I got came while I was taking a shower. Do they make water proof notepads?
Fortunately, since then, ideas have struck at other times and I now have a stack of paper on the desk filled with my scribble. At some point I’ll make sense out of them, but for the moment, it’s just about getting through the day one word at a time.
Monday, October 6, 2003
Bruce!
I took this photo of Bruce and Southside Johnny at the Meadowlands in 1993.
Year Six - Week 19 – October 6, 2003
I attended the first of the three Bruce Springsteen shows at Shea last week. Not many concerts take place there, so it was fitting to end the tour where the Beatles once held court. I wrote about Bruce here in July after seeing a Giant’s Stadium performance in the pouring rain, so you know what he means to me; but with all the emptiness at the house now, nothing could top going to see the Boss.
The show began with audio clips of George Bush speaking about weapons of mass destruction, war and peace, responsibility. The first song was ‘Souls of the Departed;’ it's about war and urban violence. It was a powerful beginning to what was an evening of political statements.
My divorce seems insignificant in light of the larger issues humanity faces and I was impressed at Springsteen’s effort to remind us. Of course you can turn on the TV and get bombarded with news, but the coverage is such that it feels more like another reality show. It’s so easy for Americans to forget, even with the specter of 9/11 hanging over us. With convenient access to twenty-four-hour diners, sunny beaches, and endless aisles of consumer goods, what’s really changed?
And yet, from the reaction of those sitting around me, not everyone was thrilled to receive Springsteen’s political agenda. This was surprising given the predisposition toward awareness of the human condition a Springsteen demographic should exhibit. But a stadium show attracts all kinds, and there were lots in the crowd that came only to hear the hits and raise their fists in the air when ‘Hungry Heart’ was played.
When the band started ‘Forty-one Shots,’ the yahoos ran to the beer line, some made phone calls, others turned around and yapped to their drunk buddies. Annoying is an understatement.
It’s hard to believe that only a few years ago this was a controversial song. The NYPD got so bent out of shape, some actually refused to provide security for Springsteen’s Madison Square Garden shows. The press also jumped on the Boss – how could he write such a song? But no one had bothered to read the lyric. When word got out on what the song was really about, a lot of people looked stupid. It’s not the first time Springsteen had been misinterpreted.
When the first chords of ‘Born in the U.S.A’ rang out Wednesday night, those beer swillers jumped out of their seats and danced. I am willing to bet most of them still don’t realize this is a protest song. Ronald Reagan certainly didn’t get it when he adopted it for his ’84 campaign. Although I am proud to be an American, too many times I am embarrassed by my fellow citizen’s ignorance.
Toward the end of the show Springsteen spoke about the homeless and the need for each of us to help. A guy with beer belly stood up and screamed – Born to Run. Several others echoed the sentiment. I looked at my friend and we just shook our heads.
Last week, the 2003 Nobel Prize for Literature was also announced. It went to South Africa’s J.M. Coetzee. He often writes about the personal consequences of apartheid. You’d expect the Nobel to recognize such an effort, but at least the coverage of the award will spread the word about Coetzee’s work.
It was yet another Monday morning for me, alone. I read in the paper that Israel attacked a target in Syria. It’s the first time in thirty years that’s happened. As most Americans head off to work this week, how many will even think about what our leaders are doing overseas? Springsteen was right to bring his political agenda to his audience, and as long as artists continue to have the courage to take on the world’s difficult issues, we still might have a chance.
As I sit in my home office now, trying to clear my mind of a personal tragedy, I realize there’s much more at stake than my broken heart. It’s time to get back to work.
Year Six - Week 19 – October 6, 2003
I attended the first of the three Bruce Springsteen shows at Shea last week. Not many concerts take place there, so it was fitting to end the tour where the Beatles once held court. I wrote about Bruce here in July after seeing a Giant’s Stadium performance in the pouring rain, so you know what he means to me; but with all the emptiness at the house now, nothing could top going to see the Boss.
The show began with audio clips of George Bush speaking about weapons of mass destruction, war and peace, responsibility. The first song was ‘Souls of the Departed;’ it's about war and urban violence. It was a powerful beginning to what was an evening of political statements.
My divorce seems insignificant in light of the larger issues humanity faces and I was impressed at Springsteen’s effort to remind us. Of course you can turn on the TV and get bombarded with news, but the coverage is such that it feels more like another reality show. It’s so easy for Americans to forget, even with the specter of 9/11 hanging over us. With convenient access to twenty-four-hour diners, sunny beaches, and endless aisles of consumer goods, what’s really changed?
And yet, from the reaction of those sitting around me, not everyone was thrilled to receive Springsteen’s political agenda. This was surprising given the predisposition toward awareness of the human condition a Springsteen demographic should exhibit. But a stadium show attracts all kinds, and there were lots in the crowd that came only to hear the hits and raise their fists in the air when ‘Hungry Heart’ was played.
When the band started ‘Forty-one Shots,’ the yahoos ran to the beer line, some made phone calls, others turned around and yapped to their drunk buddies. Annoying is an understatement.
It’s hard to believe that only a few years ago this was a controversial song. The NYPD got so bent out of shape, some actually refused to provide security for Springsteen’s Madison Square Garden shows. The press also jumped on the Boss – how could he write such a song? But no one had bothered to read the lyric. When word got out on what the song was really about, a lot of people looked stupid. It’s not the first time Springsteen had been misinterpreted.
When the first chords of ‘Born in the U.S.A’ rang out Wednesday night, those beer swillers jumped out of their seats and danced. I am willing to bet most of them still don’t realize this is a protest song. Ronald Reagan certainly didn’t get it when he adopted it for his ’84 campaign. Although I am proud to be an American, too many times I am embarrassed by my fellow citizen’s ignorance.
Toward the end of the show Springsteen spoke about the homeless and the need for each of us to help. A guy with beer belly stood up and screamed – Born to Run. Several others echoed the sentiment. I looked at my friend and we just shook our heads.
Last week, the 2003 Nobel Prize for Literature was also announced. It went to South Africa’s J.M. Coetzee. He often writes about the personal consequences of apartheid. You’d expect the Nobel to recognize such an effort, but at least the coverage of the award will spread the word about Coetzee’s work.
It was yet another Monday morning for me, alone. I read in the paper that Israel attacked a target in Syria. It’s the first time in thirty years that’s happened. As most Americans head off to work this week, how many will even think about what our leaders are doing overseas? Springsteen was right to bring his political agenda to his audience, and as long as artists continue to have the courage to take on the world’s difficult issues, we still might have a chance.
As I sit in my home office now, trying to clear my mind of a personal tragedy, I realize there’s much more at stake than my broken heart. It’s time to get back to work.
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