Shoddy workmanship left me scratching my head last week...
May 28, 2007The Jacuzzi repair man hobbled up the steps like Quasimodo; his son, a pimply teen, followed, carrying the tools. “I had a car accident, disc problems,” Quasimodo said, grimacing. “I also need a hip replacement operation.”“Jesus,” I said. “Can I get you guys some coffee or juice?”“No thanks.”The son opened up the Jacuzzi door and poked around with a wrench and voltage meter. I said to the Quasimodo, “You fixed a leak two years ago at the end of the season, and it went bad within a month. I kept calling, but your wife said that you’ve been going through a bad patch, that for a year you were out of business.Quasimodo nodded.“Are you sure you don’t want a drink?”“We’re fine.”I went back into the kitchen to do some work. About ten minutes later Quasimodo called out, “You need a new pump.” Damn, I thought, thinking it was just a faulty repair that he’d honor and fix at no cost. “How much?”“Three hundred to six hundred depending on the size, plus installation.”“Jezz. That’s why it’s leaking?”“Yup.”I grabbed the receipt from two years ago for five-hundred bucks and reread the work he’d performed. “Look at this,” I said, “pump repair. You fixed it last time; it hasn’t had an hour’s worth of operation since you did that. How could it need a new pump?”“Hmm,” he says and instructs his son to check something with that meter. The Jacuzzi makes a buzzing sound. “We got lucky,” he says, averting my eyes. “We can fix this.”Earlier in the week I refinanced my house to lower my payment and pull a little cash out to cover expenses. I’ve lived here fifteen years and have refinanced three other times. In the process of getting this loan I discovered that all the prior mortgages were still attached to the house title. Although the banks got paid, the title stated that I still had five mortgages. “The lawyer who did those refinances was sloppy,” this new attorney said. “He should have cleared that up. You’re lucky it didn’t wreck your credit. “Folks tend to do what you inspect, not what you expect. If I hadn’t had that receipt, Quasimodo would have stuck me for another pump repair. And a lawyer at two-hundred-and-fifty an hour should do what he’s paid to do.As Quasimodo drove away in his banged-up Ford pickup, I wondered what he was saying to his son. Perhaps: If that guy hadn’t kept the receipt, we’d have made an extra five hundred bucks. But what I hoped he had said was, “Son, I should have fixed that damn pump the first time.”Either way the son was probably figuring out how to tell his dad that he was hanging up the tool belt -- he was heading for law school.

good news in the bad news...

The Weekly Journal
Is there good in bad news?

May 20, 2007

This week I considered throwing in the towel after a promising lead for an agent went south. Rejection is part of the publishing process and I've had lots of it; I often spiral for a few hours after getting zinged -- this time was different.

I'm not a quitter. I'm Mr. Confidence. There is nothing I can't do, and I have a track record to back up the bravado, but to date, I have failed to get an agent to represent my fiction. This week I had enough.

"What you need to do," a good friend suggested, "is get the manuscript printed, then die."

He wasn't kidding. Go to ebay and you'll find lots of deceased authors fetching princely sums for unknown books.

This week's rejection was awful because of how positive it was. Here's what happened:

After sending out tons of queries in January for my novel, I finally connected with someone that got me. The agency was a solid, mid-tiered NY group. In early April they wrote via email:

Dear Mr. Williams,I've spent the last two days completely absorbed in your novel. Chuck's candid, raw narrative left me breathless; I felt as if I were mourning with an old friend in the comfort of my living room. .This is a quick note to spread my encouragement to you and let you know that I'm passing your manuscript on to X. I will be in touch with you soon.

You can imagine my excitement. No one has ever been this enthusiastic. And yet, I've had many encouraging notes over the years; none panned out. X was the decision maker here, not the note writer; I knew better than to get my hopes up.

But I did. I mean why would anyone send this if they didn't think X would like it? And each day news did not arrive, I grew less hopeful; then this showed up:

Dear Mr. Williams,Thank you for letting me read MY YEAR AS A CLOWN. I apologize for the length of time it’s taken to respond; this was a difficult decision for me. I’m also sorry to say that I just fell short of falling in love with this. You’re clearly a talented writer with a keen eye for character development, but for some reason I failed to connect with it fully. I know that’s the most frustrating thing a writer can hear, but I trust that you’ll find (or have found!) a representative who’s whole-heartedly passionate about this.

Thanks for thinking of me and best of luck on your path to publication. Please feel free to send me any of your future projects. Sincerely,X (dictated, not signed)

I was talking on the phone when I read that email. The person on the other end thought we'd been disconnected. I had indeed gone mute. My head was spinning. There was bile in the mouth. I ended the call quickly, walked out on to my deck and tossed the cordless phone into the woods.

I didn't sleep for two days. I barely ate. I talked to no one. The end of this month marks nine years of trying to make a living as a writer. My creative progress has been nothing short of miraculous, but I'm no closer to getting a novel published than I was in year two, when an ICM agent requested the manuscript of my first novel after reading fifty pages (ICM is a top-tier agency).

That book didn't sell either.

I've climbed higher mountains. I moved out of the house before I was 18 and haven't taken a dime from anyone since. I was the first in my family to finish college. I published a non-fiction book, selling 15,000 copies before I turned 30. I once saved a baby raccoon from certain death, but I can't get an agent to represent my fucking fiction.

So I was done. Finito. Sayonara. Hasta la vista, baby…

What brought me back was my ability to keep rewriting. Before that first note had arrived, the rest of the leads from my January blitz had dried out. A few agents had made suggestions (a rarity from what I'm told). I was already rewriting when that first note appeared, but I didn't want to send them the new version since they liked what I'd already sent; instead, I kept rewriting. And that's what pulled me out of the muck this week: I had a new and improved Clown ready to go.

On Friday I rebooted the query process with the fresh manuscript.Now that I've started a consulting business, the pressure to squeeze cash out of writing has eased. But I still need to disconnect getting published from success. That's not easy in a world where folks judge the quality of wine by the price, songs by the chart position, books by the number of copies sold. So what was the good in the bad?

Most writers just get a form letter.

X said he'd look at other material.

Someone in the business said she was completely absorbed by my novel.

Blah, blah, blah…

In the end I still got dinged.

This week I was slammed. It was the worst blow ever, almost getting knocked out for good; but I got up before the count of ten. I can't control the reaction to my work; but I can control my response. Next time, and no doubt, there will be many next times, I plan to stay on my feet.

Home is never the same

No wonder Cherry Hill was the base for America's most recent foiled terror attack -- the world's first shopping mall was built there.

May 14, 2007

I think of Cherry Hill, New Jersey as home even though I left in 1976 and rarely returned. My mom moved out in ’81, and I lost contact with friends still in town. But this week I’m thinking about Cherry Hill because several of the men caught in the Fort Dix terror plot lived there.

It’s difficult to imagine seeing your father killed by a dictator, or having your friends blown to bits in a car bombing; not that it excuses terrorist acts, but you can see how a kid sours under such circumstances. And yet these young men grew up in New Jersey. Granted, things have changed in my home town, and these men are of a different generation. Pockets of immigrant conclaves did not exist when I was growing up there, but it’s still difficult to imagine Islamist Extremists blossoming in the same place where I lost my virginity.

One of the families moved to Cherry Hill from Turkey in 1992. Mr. Tartar experienced the American Dream -- he started out as a dishwasher and ended up owning a pizzeria near Fort Dix. Unfortunately, his business is on the brink of bankruptcy because of a boycott, despite being estranged from his 23 year-old son. The kid had left home at 18 and got in with the wrong crowd. What happened in Cherry Hill to make this young man susceptible to such extreme influences?

I can’t imagine anything happening there that could have turned this kid into a potential terrorist. But I’m not Muslim. I’m not Turkish. My father wasn’t a dishwasher. How could I know of anything that this kid experienced? And yet thinking back to my youth, I realized even in my day, there was an underbelly to what was considered a great place to live, home to America’s first enclosed shopping mall; even Muhammad Ali lived there at the apex of his career.

I graduated high school in 1976 in a haze of pot smoke. In my junior year, the son of a high ranking, law-enforcement officer threatened to kill me because I pressed charges against him for throwing a brick through my folk’s living room window – my step-sister had a party and she knew better than to let him in. We were lucky that's all he threw.

A few years after I graduated, one of my high school teachers hacked his girl friend to bits with a pen knife. In the late 80’s, the rabbi that had led our services, got caught for having his wife murdered.

The Cherry Hill underbelly.

Last year my mom and I returned to see the old neighborhood. The blue spruce we’d planted all those years ago towered over the house; the nearby farm was now a shopping center; but for the most part, things looked the same, much like any other solid, middle-class, suburban American town.Although that kid got away with throwing the brick through my folks window, Rabbi Nuelander is behind bars, Otto Krupp, the teacher, also got caught, and these young men will pay the price too, if found guilty for this terror plot.

You just never figure this to happen so close to home; and yet if you think about it, it has to happen in somebody’s home town; this time it was mine…

There we were in NYC...

May 7, 2007

Thanks to all those that came out to see our first NYC appearance in over five years. Where have we been? Well, my marriage fell apart and I dug a hole and buried myself for a while. When I reemerged I wrote a novel. I did a publishing deal in Nashville. I went to Haiti. I had a few short stories published. I made a CD. But I never got back to doing any gigs.

That needs to change…

We had a great time and it seemed like everyone that attended had a good night too. The Rockwood Music Hall is a wonderful venue – low key, friendly, and intimate. It’s in a great neighborhood. I hadn’t been on the east side, south of Houston, in ages. It used to be dodgy around there, but now Whole Foods occupies an entire block just around the corner. New cafes and clubs have sprouted up like weeds.

We did an hour set playing old and new songs, some of mine, some of Gerry’s. Earlier in the year, Gerry and Paul played with me at the Towne Crier Open Mic finals – but that was only two songs. We hadn’t done a real set in a very long time. When I do an open mic, I'm often by myself, and the time just before I go on stage is when the butterflies flutter. It's a lot easier when I'm with Paul and Gerry, they're a distraction. Gerry just had his hair buzzed, and that was enough to keep my mind off the jitters.

When you're doing several shows a week, you find comfort on the stage and hit the ground running, but when you aren't doing a lot of shows, it takes several songs to find that groove. Because the sound at the Rockwood was great, we felt comfortable right away. We hit our stride early, and by mid-set I felt like we were in my studio performing for friends.

Michael Brunnock helped me get the gig and his band played afterwards. Michael is from Ireland and he’s quite a talent – a little Damien Rice, a bit of Jack Johnson, maybe some Waterboys and Paul Brady. The band is tight and showcases Michael’s songs well. He sings about war, Jesus, and his homeland, love and lost. For all those that missed us, we’re hoping to get back in early June.

Michael Brunnock
Rockwood Music Hall

6 degrees

I never met Imus or Reverend Sharpton, but I came close....

The Imus affair shows how polarized we still are on race. Even watching Meet the Press on Sunday where a panel of white and black journalists discussed the firing -- the view differed by color. Imus was an equal opportunity abuser, but I'm amazed he did this within the context of serious political debate with a litany of politicians and media celebrities.

David Brooks said Imus often went after Jews, but he could differentiate between an Imus slam and the way a Nazi would say the same words. Gwen Ifill from PBS felt differently. She said Imus went after the very best the black community had to offer, young women who excelled in both sport and academics. To her, it didn't matter whether Imus was a racist or not, a racist comment is still racist (Imus called once had called her a cleaning lady).

Earlier in the week, Snoop Dogg clarified the rapper's position by saying that they never go after college educated black women, just the drug addict bitches in the hood…

Tom DeLay called for banning Rosie O'Donnell for her remarks against conservative Christians.

Clearly, we've got a ways to go before this dust settles.

I don't know Don Imus or Al Sharpton, but I almost met both.

Here's how:

My Imus Story:

It wasn't until Don Imus started pushing the Flatlanders that I tuned in his show. I knew Jimmie from taking his songwriting workshop in '98. The Flatlanders got screwed by their record company back in the 70's and had been ignored by radio ever since. Jimmie built a cult following through the decades, and the unsolicited exposure by the I-man was unexpected, but welcomed.

I didn't like the show or its humor, but at about the same time as the I-man was playing the Flatlanders, I wrote a spoof song about Martha Stewart, called the Martha Stewart Prison Rag. I figured it was worth a shot to try and get it on his show.

Imus has a weekend mansion not too far from me, and a friend had heard that someone had once dropped a tape off at his house -- Imus liked it and played it. So I drove by his beach front, gated home, to drop off the Rag. This was after 9/11 and the Imus mail box was long gone for security reasons. I slipped my CD package underneath the wrought iron gate and hoped for the best.

About a week later a man in a beige trench coat knocked on my door, flashing a silver State Police badge. "Are you Robert Steven Williams?"

"Yes."

"Did you drop this package off at the Imus residence in Southport?" He was holding my brown bag with the CD and promo materials.

"Umm, yeah."

"Their housekeeper called us, thought it was a bomb. Any explosive material?"

"Well, it is a satire." The cop wrinkled his brow. I quickly added, "It's just a CD about Martha Stewart. I was trying to get him to play it.

"The cop shook his head and handed me back the bag. "Next time, do us all a favor, drop it off at his office.

"The Martha Stewart Prison Rag was never aired.


My Sharpton story:

I moved from England to the New York area in 1991. I was head of marketing for a new chain of record stores in the US. My first day on the job, I faced a potential Sharpton led protest against our 72nd & Broadway store.

In those days, music was vibrant, immediate; it still mattered. HMV had made a huge splash in the market.

The week prior to my arrival, HMV had fired an African American store clerk. We were part of the international conglomerate EMI Music. Sharpton planned to protest this dismissal based on racism by leveraging our corporate parent's high visibility.

The kid in question was a bad employee and had been fired properly. But when I showed up for work that first day, I had no idea if this was the case. It was my job to defend the company and mitigate the damage regardless of the facts.

I hired a crisis management PR firm to get up to speed on Al Sharpton. I couldn't believe what I was up against. I marketed records. I loved music. This was the last thing on earth I wanted to deal with. I also knew that HMV wasn't a racist company; but an employee still might have done something stupid.

During the week the rhetoric grew. We were told through the grapevine that if we didn't reinstate this kid, thousands would be outside our store on Saturday protesting. Every major network would be there to cover it.

We conducted another internal investigation and determined that the employee had been treated fairly and warranted the firing. I also discovered that HMV was one of the largest African-American retail employers in Manhattan. We did not rehire that kid.

On the Saturday, I was at the store ready to handle whatever might happen. Fortunately, the protest never materialized, and I went back to marketing music…

Six years later, I convinced EMI and HMV to put the first international record store in Harlem. I left the company shortly thereafter. HMV opened up on 125th Street, across from the Apollo Theater in 1999. Although the store was a success, EMI sold HMV. The chain pulled out of the US market in 2003.

Here's the Secret...

Last week's reference to the movie -- The Secret -- caused several folks to reach out. A few successful business people urged me to continue on the artistic front with a renewed attitude. Paraphrasing -- they said -- One has to smell it, touch it, breath it, and live it completely at all times to realize it -- that's how we made it in business and how you can make it in writing.

In almost all endeavors I would agree, but when it comes to visualizing making art and substantial amounts of cash, the idea is flawed. Some will say that's exactly the reason why I'm not successful in money terms.

Maybe they're right.

But I've been in the trenches for nine years. I've seem immensely talented people struggle to put food on the table. I've seen hacks driving Ferraris. The top thirty or so Nashville songwriters walk the line between artistic integrity and crass commercialism; many songs that rise to number one look simplistic -- that's deceptive. Most successful Nashville writers are extremely talented, highly motivated, and very ambitious.
Those songs are not easy to write.

I spent a year considering Nashville, but I realized that I couldn't taste it, breathe it, or live something that I didn't like. If I wanted money, it made more sense to take a music executive job paying 200 grand, rather than a staff publishing position that paid 20. Oddly enough, I probably wouldn't have gotten the staff job -- thousands beg for those jobs daily (seriously).

American Idol is paying 100 grand for a single song. Why not take a shot, some friends have asked. I won't be submitting anything because I'd be wasting my time. I don't love that type of music; it's not what I do, or what motivated me to return to playing music and writing fiction. I couldn't win that competition, because I don't breathe it.

There are lots of lazy artists out there that don't take on quality feedback, they refuse to rewrite or learn craft. They won't assume responsibility for the business side either. You often hear them diss the industry and make bold declarations about not selling out. They believe there's a conspiracy to keep their art from reaching the world.

That's not me.

I'm not averse to making lots of money from my art, but it's not part of my vision because to factor that into the equation, would force me to alter what I create, and that compromise will cause me to fail.

Fame and glory might not be in my future, but with my business background, I still have a shot at making a decent living at this. Granted, it hasn't been the case so far, but it's still early days. I've been at this less than ten years. I'm just a late bloomer; well, okay, very late…and you know what they say...better very late than never...

carpet anyone?

The Weekly Journal

Foot in mouth this week McCain...

John McCain was on CNN last week declaring the surge a success. "Areas of Baghdad are safe, even General Petreaus can walk without guard or armor."

CNN cut to Michael Ware, in Baghdad, immediately after the McCain interview to verify the situation on the ground. "Senator McCain is off is rocker," Ware said. "McCain's comments were met with laughter down the line from US military sources."

Within a day, McCain's people backtracked. McCain himself, denied saying it, but I saw the actual interview, live. He said that and more. How could a smart guy be so dumb? He's backed into a conservative corner and can't get out. Unless the surge works, he's done.

McCain is in Baghdad now buying carpets.

---------------------

It's been an odd couple of months for me. I rewrote my novel, recorded some new songs, and I did some freelance consulting. I also waited for the result of my MFA applications.

The novel was ready, but that feeling wasn't shared by the publishing community. Several agents showed interest, but I got no takers. I pulled it off the market, and rewrote it, yet again. It's in great shape now. I totally believe in it, and I’m thinking positive in the way that movie, The Secret, says you must; but it's not easy to keep doubt from undermining my vibe.Last night

I saw Ricky Gervais interview Garry Shandling on a new program airing in England -- Gervais, is the genius behind The Office. In this new series, he visits his comedic heroes. It's an awkward and amusing hour at Garry's house. At one point, Garry says in regards to success -- you can't get caught up in the results of your work -- it's meaningless. He's right. The value of my work is not linked to the amount of money it generates. It's so obvious, and yet, it's so easy to forget.

I received an offer for a teaching assistant at Ole Miss. I wanted to accept their gracious offer of free tuition and stipend, but I couldn't make the numbers work. I've deferred the opportunity for a year.

I could have sold my Westport house, but it's not a good time to sell, and I didn't want to give up the last remaining jewel from my life as a music biz executive. I had intended to rent this house out. The numbers were close, but I have outstanding obligations that made this move impossible.

Some say situations are tied to fate, that if it was meant for me to go to Ole Miss this year, it would have happened. I'm not convinced that's true. I think that destiny is forged in real time, that a result is not in stone until it happens. But I do believe it's the culmination of all your effort -- things that occurred years ago still contribute to the future. And so everything I do and think, does affect what happens…

Let's hope I can keep writing, but more important, let's hope someone finds a solution that gets us out of Iraq without starting WWIII…

Mind over matter...

March 26, 2007

I'm in revolved triangle, one of several dreaded postures that forces my body to twist and turn in ways it dislikes. Before I entered the asana, I told myself that I hated this posture, that I couldn't do it, that my body wouldn't turn in such a way, that in three years I'd made no improvement, and ten more years wouldn't make a difference either. What chance do I have of breaking this pattern with thoughts like this?

I had my new novel out to several agents in the past three months. I thought positively. Each day I checked email and the post box in search of good news. When I sell this book, I told myself, everything comes good. It will be validation for all the hard work and sacrifice; but deep inside my head, ran another narrative -- what if I don't sell the book, then what? Must I suffer? Will I be eternally unhappy? Does it mean I suck at writing?

In that story, the answer was yes, yes, and yes. It's easy to fall into the trap of thinking that without external validation I must have no talent, and therefore I will be forever unhappy. And what was worse, I applied this way of thinking to much of my life.

I would say:When I _____, I can be happy.

It didn't matter how I filled in the blank:

get a promotion

buy a new carw

in the lottery

lose weight

No matter what it was, soon after I got it, I'd find new reasons for unhappiness. Sound familiar?

Now I'm trying to break that pattern.In yoga, when this all too familiar discomfort arises in revolved triangle: the burning in my hips, the pain in the lower back, the awkward sense of being off-balance, I now try to eliminate the story that runs in my head. Instead of labeling these sensations with pain, or finding a reason why I must pull out of the posture, I work to stay in the moment. I am observant, aware, present and undivided. With a neutral mind, I hold postures longer. It allows me to unshackle the very limitations that I alone have established.

If I could keep that same observant, non-judgmental mind when a short story is rejected by a magazine, or the novel by an agent, I'd have a better shot at recognizing ways to move forward with a rewrite or new marketing options. This doesn't mean that I'm passive; on the contrary, by not wasting energy on unnecessary emotional diversions, I can focus on what really counts. My mind is free to find creative solutions, tapping into energy that was once squandered on emotional spirals.

My neutral mind creates possibilities.

jugglers

March 19, 2007This week I entered the Kerrville New Folk contest for the eighth year in a row. It's hard to believe that I've been hacking away at this for that long. When I listen to what I was doing back then, I realize how far I've come. Ultimately that's what's most important, but the mountain of rejection I've collected over those years does get overwhelming.

Kerrville is Mecca for many singer/songwriters. It's a two-week gathering in the dusty foothills north of San Antonio, Texas. New Folk finalists have gone on to successful careers -- David Wilcox, Jimmie Dale Gilmore, Lucinda Williams, Nanci Griffiths, and Lyle Lovette, to mention just a few.

I went to Kerrville in 1999. I'd been playing seriously for about six-months. I took the three-day course, and attended a week's worth of concerts. I had a great time, and met a lot of interesting people. I know one person that made the final 32 since I started submitting -- Jan Smith. She got in last year, but didn't make the six finalists. Jan's an incredible talent, and I was surprised she didn't go further. But I've also been surprised at others that haven't made it either.

Back in '99, I heard a lot of good players in the finals, but there were several that I felt were questionable. That's the nature of contests. There's always going to be someone you think you're better than.At this point I've stopped worrying about whether I’m better or worse. I'm focused on being the very best ME; that's all I can do. Contests are money makers for the sponsors and I don't enter nearly as many as I once did. Literary contests are suspect for the same reasons, but I was a finalist in the Raymond Carver contest, and I bagged an honorable mention in a contest up in Canada. Winning is possible.

Recently I've taken on freelance consulting projects to meet the monthly bills. Although I enjoy the work, it does zap energy from my writing. I can already feel the disconnect. Part of that is psychological, my system shocked back into reality. I was blessed to focus the way I have, but I could now easily let the creativity slide, or not.

That's why I got off my butt and entered Kerrville. I'm still a player. And even when I'm not writing, my writer's eye is on the hunt for insight and opportunity. I'm no different than most artists -- lots of balls in the air, smoke and mirrors, juke and jive -- I juggle to keep doing what I love. I'd have it no other way

March 12, 2007A well-regarded British journalist blogged about her sex life under a different name for years; the sex site grew so popular, she scored a lucrative book offer. A week before the publication, a UK tabloid threatened to release her real name unless she granted an exclusive interview and advanced excerpts. After discussing it with her family, she opted to come forward on her own. Its one thing when Tommy Trailer Trash or Sally Stripper tells all, but when an established reporter goes noir stiletto, it does beg the question -- what's going on?

Is blogging about bedroom activities the virtual version of having sex in a public place? Is telling all in print just another fetish? Or is it something deeper?Considering how fixated we are on sex, it's amazing how infrequent honest sex talk takes place. We all tuned in to Anna Nicole-Smith, red and blue states alike, we gawked and stared at her boobs, and yet most of us struggle to communicate what we want from our partners. A writer's job is to push the envelope, to make readers uncomfortable, and make them think. Does the Queen of England masturbate? Does Barbara Bush like it doggie style? Most of us shudder at the thought of our parents having sex.

But is it a writer's job to reveal everything about themselves? I write a weekly essay and strive to be as truthful as possible about my life. Sometimes I talk specifics; sometimes I tackle larger subjects from politics to sports. Annie Lamont, a well-respected Bay Area writer, talks about the necessity of going for the juggler. She's written about her parents, her children; practically everyone she knows. She says those she writes about get mad, but so do those she ignores; they feel left out.

Putting certain things into print would complicate my world and friendships, but I do wonder if this censoring prevents having a wider readership. The more I write and read, the more I realize that truth is stranger than fiction; and yet great fiction is a reflection of truth, and so there's a flaw in that logic. I'm sure Annie Lamont doesn't tell all. She doesn't have to, as long as she stays true to the emotions of her experience. The facts are irrelevant. I too must strive for such honesty, otherwise this won't be worth anyone's time.

A few weeks back I had an epiphany watching American Idol. Honestly folks, I never expected to learn something about my own writing from watching this show, but what surprised me even more, was realizing that this insight applies to all singer songwriters, regardless of genre.

I will admit, when Idol first appeared, I wanted to puke. I, like many music industry dinosaurs, longed for the old days, when true music folks ran the business, and new groups were given more than a few weeks to prove their mettle. Idol represented everything wrong with the music biz. Although some of those issues still plague the program, here's why I've changed my mind.

You can't argue with long-term success. Idol is in its sixth season bigger than ever; few shows of any ilk last that long. Idol has spun-off credible talent. Who could have imagined that an Idol reject would bag an Oscar? The New York Times wrote this week that Idol is the only TV show that brings teenagers and parents together. In an age where kids have the Internet, cellular entertainment, and video games for distractions, this is a remarkable feat.

Now to the epiphany. For those that don't watch the show (which I assume is many of my readers), the 24 finalists are whittled down from a pool of over 500,000. You might not like Simon, Paula, and Randy, but they've been around enough to recognize folks that can sing. When you sift through that many bodies, you'll find 24 who can carry a tune; and yet, all too often, each finalist has a karaoke break down. Many sing off-pitch, lack emotion, and appear completely out of touch with the performance.

Obviously nerves plays a role, but setting that aside, what's the number reason these decent singers derail? Avid Idol fans should know the answer. Song selection. Pick the wrong song, or just the wrong key, and a singer, even a fabulous one, will struggle. The wrong song will put them out of their comfort zone. It makes a singer think, instead of feel. It creates a barrier that keeps a singer from connecting with the song.

Picking the right track, or writing songs in a key that best shows off a voice is not as easy as it appears. Singers of all levels all too often misjudge their abilities. I've done it more than I care to admit, but thanks to Idol, I hope not to repeat that mistake again.

Is the poet an endangered species?

The Weekly Journal





I wrote an article for this month's Poets & Writers. It's great to have something in such a prestigious magazine in the publishing field, but it was never my objective to be a writer's writer. I am a musician who also happens to write. Once upon a time, I was a music-business executive. Although it's nice to be appreciated by writers, I look forward to the day when my fiction reaches the hands of civilians, folks in the real world, people who don't deal with words for a living.

In college I was mesmerized by prog rock -- bands like Gentle Giant, Hawkwind, Mahavishnu Orchestra, Return to Forever, and the Dixie Dregs. These bands were musician's bands. Technically these groups were flawless. They pushed the boundaries of modality, time signatures and arrangements. They often appeared to defy physical laws of nature in their speed and improvisational skills.

Today, most of that music is unlistenable to all but balding male musicians in their fifties.

Writers like Thomas Pynchon and Jonathan Safron Foer are the writer equivalents to prog rockers. There is no denying their technical skills, but their words fail to touch me in the way that Sadie Smith or a Lolly Winston does. Much of it, I can't comprehend; they operate on a different level, but that's doesn't make it better. Gravity's Rainbow was heralded by those in the know as one of the 20th Century's greatest novels. I couldn't get through the first hundred pages. Today, it's almost fashionable to come out of the closet to admit not liking it.

In this week's New Yorker, there's an article about the Poetry Foundation and the brouhaha over the drug money that now fills their coffers to the tune of two-hundred million (that's an insider's joke: it was a donation from one of the Lily Drug Company heirs).

The foundation's president, John Barr, a former Wall Street executive, wants to make poetry more accessible. He wrote an essay that created controversy by saying that poems are written only with other poets in mind.

He's right. Last year I heard the poetry editor of one of the country's leading journals state that he had no interest in expanding his paltry 4,000 circulation. Few others, in his view, would get it anyway. According to him, to expand his readership would require dumbing his poems down. He felt it was his responsibility, as one of the few keepers of the flame, to ensure that poetry upheld the highest standards.

In the days when I listened to Chick Corea, Joe Zawinul, and Stanley Clarke, I snubbed my nose at those that didn't know these folks. I took pride in my chummy, closed circle. Today, you couldn't pay me to listen to an entire Return to Forever Lp. But what if the musical world had decided back in the 70's, that the only viable musical format was prog rock, and that the funding for all lesser forms, like the Village People, and Abba, even Bruce Springsteen, should be eliminated? Where would that leave the music today?

In some ways, this is exactly what the poetry community is doing. It's what the fiction world does when it says Harry Potter is derivative and bad for kids, or that Steven King doesn't deserve a national book award. I'm not saying Pynchon and elitist poets shouldn't be funded, of course they should, but when most of the world thinks going to the dentist is preferable to reading a book of poems, something's seriously out of whack.

I never would have discovered Weather Report if I hadn't first fell in love with the Monkees.

Must poets be forced to choose between writing for the so-called literates and the masses? Isn't there a middle ground? With a two-hundred million dollar base, the Poetry Foundation should be able to support the full-spectrum of voice, from the impenetrable to the whimsical. Broadening poetry's reach won't dilute its power, or its ability to push boundaries, but it will ensure that the poem doesn't become an endangered species, on the road to extinction.

I hate to spoil the super bowl party, but...

The Weekly Journal



It might be dangerous on a football field, but it ain't Iraq.


February 5, 2007

During professional football's biggest week, the Super Bowl, the long-term health of its players came under scrutiny.

Make no mistake about it, today's player is a 21st century gladiator. We as spectators, love the big hit, the sound of two human beings colliding in mid-stride. Players thrive on the contact too and they often push themselves to get ready for the game before their bodies are ready. But much of the physical damage doesn't surface until well after the final whistle blows. Earl Campbell, a Sherman tank of a running back, walks with a cane. John Elway wobbles up the fairway. And a few weeks ago, the former all-pro standout for the Philadelphia Eagles, Andre Water, committed suicide.

Water's was suffering from brain damage and depression caused from concussions on the football field. His death inspired, Ted Johnson, the former captain of the three-time Super Bowl champion Patriots, to come forward with his diagnosis of early Alzheimer's. He's 34, and will soon run out of health benefits. In a New York Times article this week, he claimed that future hall of fame coach, Bill Belichek, had made him take the field before he'd fully recovered from a concussion.

No coach can make a player do anything he doesn't want to do, but the threat of losing one's job is usually all that's needed to force someone to push themselves beyond the pain. Compared to baseball or basketball players, footballers are second class citizens. They don't have guaranteed contracts; their health benefits stop after six years even though the odds of injury are much greater. Salaries are much lower too despite the fact, football generates more income than any professional sport.

Still, it's hard to feel sorry for these gladiators. They are hailed as heroes and make a ton of money compared to the average Joe. And yes, they do put their bodies at risk, but so do lots of other folks. Coal miners in West Virginia don't make in a year what a football player makes for a single game. And lets not forget the men and women in our armed forces in Iraq. The odds of death on a football field are minimal; every day at least one US solider dies in Iraq. Military personnel might get a decent pension if they can survive twenty years, but they still earn peanuts for the risks they take. So before we get too carried away about feeling sorry for our grid iron warriors, let's not lose our perspective or forget the true soldiers of the battlefield and the sacrifices they make for inconsequential remuneration and recognition.

Taste

The Weekly Journal



According to the ads -- it's America's favorite pizza -- now either they're lying, or America has no taste...


January 22, 2007

A friend asked the other day why I don't just write something that will sell. It wasn't meant to be an insult. "You know you can write," they said. "So just write something commercial, so that you can do what you want."

At first I wanted to smack that person. I was insulted. Can you imagine saying to Van Gogh, "Nobody wants sunflowers, paint fruit; that we can sell."

But once I calmed down, I understood that they were only trying to help. I'm not afraid of rewriting, or hearing constructive criticism; in fact, I love taking on feedback and folding it into what I've got. But I can't write what's not me. I wouldn't be any good at it. It's one of the reasons why I'm not down in Nashville trying to crack the country market.

I know too many songwriters trying to sell songs who don't listen to country music. "Can't stand it," they admit. "But it's the only market that buys songs, so I'm writing for it."

They might get lucky, but they stand a better chance of winning the lottery.

The successful Nashville writers eat and sleep country. It's in their veins. I learned a lot about how to craft songs down there, and I often incorporate that structure to support my voice and musical vision, but I know better than to waste my time selling something that isn't right for the market.

My opportunity is doing me the best I can.

The same applies to the writing.

I enjoy commercial fiction and read a lot of it. Often, it’s the overtly literate writing of a Foer and Pynchon, that turns me off. But I'm not mainstream. The same goes for TV. Deal or No Deal, America's Number One TV show, makes me sick. Most of the reality shows bore me. But I will admit -- I enjoyed the first Survivor, the first two Apprentices, and one of the Idol seasons. After that, the category became a blur.

Looking outside of culture for examples might hammer home the point. Subway is the number one sandwich chain in the country. There's a better sandwich shop in almost every American town, and yet, Subway is tops. The same could be said about the cool,local pizza joint compared to a national chain.

I could start a sandwich shop or a funky pizzeria, but the odds of me making money would improve dramatically if I bought a Pizza Hut franchise. But I don't like their pizza. I'd be miserable in all that wealth. If it was just about the money, I wouldn't go into the restaurant business anyway, let alone a chain-pizza joint; I'd go into something that would assure me huge profit, something like what Haliburton does.

The same can be said about my writing. And ultimately, for better or worse, that's why I can't just whip off something commercial. I have to do just stay true to myself and hope that it resonates with others

To surge or not, that's the question

The Weekly Journal



I wonder what Dr. King would advise on Iraq?


January 15, 2007

There are no easy answers for Iraq and the risk of failure is enormous, but most of us go on about our lives as if the fate of the world is not being wagered at a high stakes poker game. Not that the average guy on the street could do anything about it anyway. But it is odd, that here in America, most of us are still not affected by what could become Armageddon.

Listening to the so-called experts last week on TV, most say that 20,000 more troops is not enough. The number is more like 200,000. The generals who believe we should have pulled out, were replaced two weeks ago, by generals who support this new Bush strategy. That doesn’t fill me with optimism about this surge.

The new plan assumes that the Maliki government can function effectively. What are the odds of that? I believe Iraq is already separating into three different countries, like Yugoslavia in the '90s.

I don’t think pulling out fast is the answer either. Regardless of how or why we’re in this mess, a stabilized middle east is in everyone's interest. Therefore, the entire world from France, China to Syria, should play a role in resolving the situation. There has to be a part for the UN too. But this means that the US must share the spoils. Share the decision making. Share the redevelopment projects, and most important, share the oil.

I watched a smug Senator Mitch McConnell, the minority leader, tell America last week that although mistakes were made in Iraq, the Bush policies are working because we have succeeded in preventing another domestic terror attack.

If Al Queda wanted to strike the US, they could do it at any time, any where, and there is little either republicans or democrats could do about it. Not even Jack Bauer could stop them.

That’s not to say there aren’t good people working in the government, or that they haven’t foiled several terrorist attempts already. I’m sure they have, and they’ll stop others too, but the only way to end terrorism is to create a world where people have more reason to live than die. At the moment, much of the planet simply has little hope or opportunity. From Darfur to Port-au-Prince – even parts of the South Bronx, the situation is so hopeless for so many, suicide becomes a viable option, a great career move.

There is enough wealth on this planet to ensure that nobody goes hungry. I'm not so far to the left to think it's all capitilism's fault. But seeing the deposed Home Depot President walk away last week with hundreds of millions is just as disgusting as seeing a deposed dictator live the high-life in South America. The system is broke and it contributes to further this cycle of terrorism by creating another generation of children with no hope.

US policies continue to alienate rather than embrace. Somalia is the latest example. For over a decade, we’ve ignored the plight of those living there, but as soon as an Islamist leadership came to power, we backed the war lords, and now we’re engaging in air strikes. I read an article this week about how the Islamists recruit teenagers for the militia. I’m sure they do, but the war lords have been doing that since the start of the civil war; but that got no coverage. This AP article ran throughout the nation. It was propaganda, a subtle vehicle to promote the idea that Islamist regimes are all evil, that only they would do something so heinous as to recruit teenagers.

Americans don’t pay attention to details. They’re more interested in 'Deal or No Deal,' than to understanding what’s really going on in Somalia. This upcoming week, most of the US will be more interested in getting to know the new contestants on American Idol, than the new generals who are now in charge of our forces in Iraq.

Is it really that surprising that we’re in this mess?

Deal or no Deal -- 20,000 more troops...

Winter Heat

The Weekly Journal



Mild temperatures keeps this woodpile unused.





January 7, 2007

It's been so warm in Yaroslavi, a city about 150 miles northeast of Moscow, that Masha the bear, a resident of the city zoo, woke up last month from his hibernation after only a week.

And here in Westport, CT, I sit on my deck with bandana and shades, writing the weekly essay in mid-January. The low hanging grey-and-white clouds march eastward overhead. The sharp-angled sun breaks through and warms my face. It grows dark again, as if the curtains have been drawn. The wind kicks up. It feels like rain, and then those curtians open up and it's blue sky for as far as I can see. I swear it feels like summer.

The two cats are on the Jacuzzi cover, sunbathing too. I don’t know if this is global warming, but it hasn't been this mild in these parts, at this time of year, maybe ever.

----------------

I’m playing in the open mic finals at the Towne Crier, a hip club about an hour from here. Top folkies often play there. Christine Lavin, Chris Smithers, and Leon Redbone are scheduled in the next month. I’m pumped, but it’s at the same time my beloved Eagles are playing the dreaded Giants in the first round of the playoffs. By the time you read this, the game will be over, and my gig will be done; but as I sit here in the hot sun on my deck, I’m hoping that I can get through the show without hearing the score. I’ll have the game taped and I'll watch it when I get home.

Chuck Morgan, the protagonist in my new novel, My Year as a Clown, is also a die-hard Eagle fan. I chronicle the 2003 Eagle season as Chuck tries to find his footing after his wife leaves for another man. The football narrative is about loyalty and commitment.

Claudia disliked sports and never understood why I stuck with the Eagles. “I don’t know anything about your American football," she’d say, "but I know they will lose."

She was right, but I stayed faithful.

"Why don't you support another team?" she had said when we lived in San Francisco while Joe Montana was tearing the league apart.

I tried to explain that it wasn't that easy.

"Just move on," she had said.


This has been one of the more unlikely Eagle seasons. After last year’s disaster where they failed to make the play-offs for the first time in five years, they got off to a tremendous start. Then they nosedived, losing five of six, with McNabb going down with a season-ending injury in week nine. At 5-6, it could look no worse, but somehow they turned it around, winning their last five games. They won the division, taking three on the road – Washington, New York, Dallas – and now they host the Giants in the playoffs.

No matter what happens Sunday night, the Eagles were entertaining this year, but I’d be lying if I said it I'd be okay with a loss to the Giants. The Eagles have hit their stride and are the hottest team in the league. It's this sort of unpredictable year that results in a trip to the Super Bowl.

Why not?

As a Philly fan, I know not to get too carried away. We haven't won a major championship since 1983. The Eagles last won it all in 1960...

But here I am again, thinking this will be our year...

Happy New Year

Weekly Journal



All the best for a great 2007!


January 1, 2007

2007 is upon us. Y2K seems like another century. It was.

Instead of doing a recap of the year (snzzzz), or resolutions for the upcoming one (ugh), I thought I'd share my experience with the GRE this week, the graduate entrance exam. It's a requirement for MFA programs and I spent the last month preparing.

Thank God it's over. It was like reliving high school -- geometry, simultaneous equations, reading comprehension. All I was missing was homeroom and Mr. Johnson's gym class.

The last standardized test I took was the GMAT back in 1984. I scored in the 96% that year. I'd taken a course, studied my butt off, but in 2006 it was all on computer and I struggled.

Like all advancements, there were pros and cons to this change. Computer tests are offered daily and that's damn convenient. You can still take a paper administered test, but only a couple of times a year. I'd missed the date because I made the decision to apply to these writing programs after my visit to Oxford, Mississippi, back in October.

I practiced at home on my PC to simulate the testing environment and quickly uncovered an issue with the reading comprehension section. The text in reading comp is intentionally dense and obscure. The questions are awkward, and because it is a timed test (you have roughly a minute per question), it is really a verbal scavenger hunt. In a paper based test, I could ace this, but the words just don't jump out at me on screen.

I improved with practice, but the testing center didn't have the nice LCD flat screen that I had at home; they had much older CRTs. My eyes fatigued quick on those screens, and by the time I got through the preliminary questions and tutorial, my eyes were red and throbbing.

I had a splitting headache two hours in, just in time for the most important part of the test, the verbal section. If only I could have popped a couple of aspirin, or drank some water, but everything was prohibited from the testing area including coffee, snacks, even wallets and purses. They actually checked your pockets and there were several video cameras keeping watch.

I was dying of thirst and I've had a brutal bronchial infection for almost two months. The proctor confiscated my water, but he didn't catch the cough drops I'd slipped into my underwear in anticipation of the pocket search. It was tricky fishing them out without getting caught on camera or looking like a pervert, but I managed.

The computer administered tests had other quirks too. The worst was not being able to skip something for later. Once you moved on, there was no going back.

It was also a computer adapted test, meaning questions varied depending on how well you did. If you missed a few early, the computer assumed you were an idiot, and started feeding you easier problems. If you blew the first part of the test, it was impossible to get a top score.

I thought I did well on the first half of the verbal, but I took too much time, and had to rush the 2nd half. And that's where the dreaded reading comprehension section was. I had three passages and by the 2nd I was too far behind. I was forced to guess on numerous questions and made unlucky choices.

When the test was done, I got my scores -- in the old days you had to wait 6-8 weeks. I was bummed, I landed in the 65th percentile on the verbal, a long way off from GMAT '84 -- and yet it wasn't a total diaster.

I didn't prepare nearly as much as I had back then. I crammed using a book I picked up at Barnes four weeks ago, but I still would have done better with a paper test. Hopefully it doesn't matter. The stories I submit are the most important part of the application process. At Iowa, GRE scores aren't even considered.

I'm also hoping to get a break for being an older student.

There were also two essays on the test. That score takes a few weeks to arrive. I'm sure I did well on that part, and I actually did okay on the math part.

Still, it was a humbling experience, one I hope never to repeat.


Happy New Year and thanks for stopping by.





I won't be needing this book anymore.