The whole thing is just exhausting. Yesterday I had a realization that two central characters don’t interact much, and I worried if that was a problem. And if that is a problem, I should probably write more scenes where they do talk, but that seems like a lot of work. The problem with writing a book is that I have to do the whole thing myself. Philip Roth isn’t going to come in and pinch hit a character description for me.
This week I’ve been reading The History of Love by Nicole Krauss. No offense to her, but I’m not into Jewish Magical Realism. I mean, isn’t the state of Israel enough? I kid! Even though I didn’t like it, it still made me feel inadequate because my book is pretty boring. Or straightforward. Either way!
This struggling creative process often leaves me feeling narcissistic. I mean, who cares but me? Last week, I was having a series of self-involved moments and then I saw Breaking Upwards. It’s written, directed, produced by and based on the failing relationship of this one guy.
He also stars.
Seeing this movie taught me a lesson: if I don’t start thinking about things other than myself, I might end up like him.
Fun fact about reading: it’s a solitary experience. You can join a club or have an electronic machine do it for you, but basically, it’s just you and the words.
That’s why it’s so strange to go to a reading. I generally try to hear my favs speak as often as I know they’re speaking, but the experience is inevitably disappointing. I’ve usually already read what they’re reading and the Q&A after is always filled with stupid Qs, like why did you make this character male?*
I bring this all up because I saw Joseph O’Neill speak last night. He was everything I could want from an author: he kept his selection brief, answered a lot of questions and signed my books. But even in the best of circumstances, relating to a fictional character isn’t the same as relating to a person. Perhaps I should stop being disappointed that hearing a writer read his own words isn’t the same as catching up with a good friend.
One of the things I like about trying new sports is being bad at them. At this point in my life, I generally do things I’m good at, incompetency sort of makes me feel like a child again. So on Sunday, when I went rock climbing, I took some comfort in my awfulness. I had trouble getting up the easiest pitch and even belaying was a challenge. The next day, my hands were so sore I could barely hold a pen.
I also banged myself up pretty bad. I hit my legs against the rock several times, a rope fell on me and I tripped. But this isn’t a complaint. I like showing off my black and blues. It’s perverse, but I’ve always been proud of my injuries. I have pictures of 15 year-old bruises from summer camp.
I’m not really sure why this is. Maybe it’s a fascination with my healing body or the chance to tell a story. I know I’m not alone in this, but it isn’t a universal pleasure. Other people hate getting hurt, and for good reason.
What do you think about black and blues? HowIn my blogging experience, I know open threads only work if people read your site. So, my 23 Google Reader RSS’ers, I’m counting on you.
I grew up comfortable. Since everyone around me was also comfortable, I didn’t realize how privileged I was. Even if my parents made me buy CDs myself, they offered me private lessons in anything I showed interest in, if not aptitude for. (See guitar lesson from seventh to tenth grade.) I don’t have college loans, and I know that makes me absurdly lucky. Right now, the idea of having $200,000 lying around for a liberal arts education is kind of astounding.
So now I’m writing a book and I make money in hours outside of 9 to 5. But even though I’m struggling now, I still feel like some type of success is inevitable. My parents set it up that way, and even I have trouble blaming them for that.
One of the things that everyone loves about New York is the diversity, but people only think about it in terms of food. The other day, my neighbor asked me where my shoes were from. I answered Urban Outfitters, and she commented that she had never heard of them. This girl and I have both lived in New York our whole lives, but we were raised in two different worlds.
The next day, I was walking in Manhattan and I passed Urban Outfitters. In the window, was a t-shirt that read, “Broke is the New Black.” See, it’s ironic. People who shop at Urban Outfitters aren’t really poor. Or black.
Perhaps it’s absurd to hinge a social realization on a chain store that no one admits to liking. And I know the inherent unfairness in society is an old observation. But I’m noticing.
I’ve written about my sad tenure at Camp Taconic manytimes, and while it was the most traumatic camp I attended, it was not the only one.
After Taconic, I went to the Maine Teen Camp for two years. As the name implies, the camp was based in Maine and aimed at teens. For some reason, the camp had a lot of foreigners. I suppose wealthy French and Italian families thought a summer in New England was a chance for their teenagers to improve their English while waterskiing, and who could argue with an experience like that?
My first year there, Francesca Versace, niece of Gianni, was a camper. We had one conversation during a tennis tournament, but that was it. It so happened that was the summer her uncle died.
Versace’s murder was a big story, but only made it to the campers because of Francesca. When it happened, she was beginning a four day trip to Montreal. During evening announcements, the head counselor reported the news, as well as her family’s request to tell her themselves.
Her parents’ wish was understandable, if a little impractical. They were asking the camp to keep their teenage daughter in a bubble in Canada’s second largest city for three days. But somehow the counselors succeeded in making sure she never heard the radio or saw a newspaper. I can only assume Francesca enjoyed her visit to Montreal, blissfully ignorant of what had happened to her uncle.
The bus came back from Montreal during evening announcements, and joining our group was a family of Italians wearing silk scarves with a rental Jaguar. As the head counselor welcomed back the campers from Montreal and proceeded to talk about an upcoming fishing trip, we were all waiting for Francesca to learn what we already understood: her uncle was dead, murdered. Her parents told her right away. I know because Francesca let out a horrible scream.
Every year around this time, there’s a big movement for college basketball players to get paid. There’s obviously a lot of money in NCAA hoops and the athletes aren’t seeing any of it.
But I don’t really care about that. The problem I have with the tournament of 64 is that for 80% of these kids, their lives will never be better than it is right now.
The athletes don’t know that yet. They still dream of the NBA or settling for abroad. They’ve been great players their whole lives and it’ll be a surprise when they aren’t fast enough or tall enough for the next level. Or worse, their bodies can’t handle the next level, and they’ll spend the next thirty years cursing their left knee for keeping them from their destiny.
Whenever I catch a game at a bar, I imagine the years of suicides these kids did for this moment. But for them, it was worth it. Most of us will never be as famous or as happy as these kids are now. But the rest of our lives won’t be a memory of something that happened when we were twenty.
I hope my life hasn’t peaked, and not just because I don’t know what the peak would be. I’d like to believe it will keep getting better. Last year at this time, I was really excited about what my life was going to become. Over the past year, I’ve never been happier to answer questions about what I do with my time, but I’ve also never been poorer.
A year ago, I had an idea about my life, and now I’m living it. The technical stuff is less fun than the concept, but at least there’s more to come.
As a woman and a person, I’m often asked to defend my fondness for alleged misogynist, Philip Roth. And here’s my answer:
“What’s a fourchette?” I asked. “The part of the glove between the fingers. Those small oblong pieces between the fingers, they’re die-cut along with the thumbs—those are the fourchettes. Today you’ve got a lot of underqualified people, probably don’t know half what I knew when I was five, and they’re making some pretty big decisions. A guy buying deerskin, which can run up to maybe three dollars and fifty cents a food for a garment grade, he’s buying this fine garment-grade deerskin to cut a little palm patch to go on a pair of ski gloves. I talked to him just the other day. A novelty part, runs about five inches by one inch, and he pays three fifty a foot where he could have paid a dollar fifty a food and come out a long, long ways ahead. You multiply this over a large order, you’re talking a hundred-thousand-dollar mistake, and he never knew it. He could have put a hundred grand in his pocket”
Whatever Roth or his characters think about women, he writes paragraphs like that. If he weren’t such a gifted novelist, he’d make a hell of a copy writer. He’s able to turn the technical into the existential. What’s a little casual sexism compared with a good paragraph on gloves?
I listened to a lot of Pandora. I got really into the video above. I read aloud. I used a calling card. I was in a group situation. I ate cafeteria style. I’ll be home on Friday.
Long before I got here, I had an idea that all the problems I had writing this book would be solved in isolation, as if Vermont were some unknown function that would make x (me) an expert writer.
That hasn’t happened. I made important edits and did a lot of thinking about my characters, but my book isn’t done. If anything, being here has made me realize how much more I have to do.
But some things are facts. This was the first time since I was 22 that I spent more than two weeks outside of New York State. I didn’t die from lack of fusion cuisine. I actually like the country a lot, I just hate driving, which I didn’t have to do here.
I had a studio, which was something I didn’t know I needed in Brooklyn. Usually I write in my living room or a coffee shop. There’s an ideal that material things like space don’t make a difference in art. It’s true that you can be a bad writer anywhere, but having space makes being a good writer easier. While here, I made arrangements to get a studio in Brooklyn.
Before I came, I had a vague ambition to get far enough along in this book to get a job with health care, but I realized that having a real career doesn’t interest me right now. I’d rather focus on the book. I also feel better about my struggle to figure out cash/money and writing/art. Apparently that’s the main struggle of any creative person.
• Artists and writers who think they’re too good for naming a project. Actually, they’re too lazy. Naming things is difficult and diminishing, but this is a keyword age. Without titles, your work gets lost in the e-ether. No one’s creation is above the semantics of titles.
• This quote from a blog Google Reader recommended:
We all know I can’t read fiction anymore but I hope I always retain my passion for writing it.
Actually, that’s a pretty succinct explanation for the problem facing the publishing industry. But why would anyone like writing without enjoying reading? I mean, other than complete narcissism?
• Speaking of narcissism, I hate self-promoting Gchat, Twitter and Facebook statuses. I’m your e-friend, not your mom.
