Running with the Bulls Will Scare the Sh*t Outta You!

Awake at 6AM in Pamplona, first day of the Running of the Bulls, San Fermin Fiesta; breakfast buffet: scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, ham, Swiss, croissant, tepid whole milk, hot coffee, juice. College girl shooting curious glances a few tables over. Shapely, glasses, wavy brown hair. I consider a bold move. Nope. Melons, peaches at the buffet taunting me. Decide to go. Steal a banana and yogurt. Back to room, try to sleep. Fantasize about lusty college girl. Can’t sleep. CNN, shower? No—don my wine-stained shirt, white pants, red sash and kerchief, out in the street.

“Agua! Agua!” Water crashes down from balcony buckets, corks pop and spray rooster tails of champagne into the crowd, sangria wine squirts from leather flasks, staining the delirious revelers. Dancing, music, food, beer and wine, the crowd is feverishly drunk by noon. Spend the day sipping beer and grabbing tapas between happenstance conversations and toasts with near strangers. Head back early since the bull run is in the morning.

6AM, phone rings, “This is your wake up call, sir.” I roll over to catch a few winks, then out of bed. Shower? Shave? No need to, really. Gonna get all soaked in spraying booze anyway. Throw on my San Fermin wine-stained shirt and rest of the white and red garb, tie my shoes and out the door. Coffee? No time.

Following the swelling throngs I make my way, pushing and shoving through the thickening crowd to the central plaza. Fence in front for spectators. No, gotta get closer. Loop around and jump the fence, melting into the crowd of mostly athletic young men, all wearing white with red neckerchiefs.

We mill nervously like animals being readied for slaughter. Some fear, a lot of nervousness, but mostly anticipation and chatter. A few teenage boys guzzle down liters of beer and hand the bottles to a policeman on the safe side of the fence. I'm thinking I’m glad I didn’t have coffee, don’t have to pee, this crowd is stuck tight and I'm penned in. No turning back.

Clang, clang, clang…the church bells ring eight as the crowd silently counts, then BOOOM!! A cannon blast announces the bulls are out, on the loose, starting their charge.

I look over a sea of white and red and bobbing heads. No bulls. Some men jump up and crane their necks for a better look. Some bend and stretch. The crowd mills forward, a little, then faster, like minnows after a bug...

A quick thunder and, “THEY’RE HERE!” The masculine mass breaks and scrambles and scatters and a crooked horn bounces near, I start to run and fumble for my camera but 15 tons of animal muscle and sharp horns rumbles up, frenetic and wild, panting, hooves pounding the street, scraping and slipping as they round the bend, I run, pumping knees and elbows, cut, push, elbow, shove through the chaos and screams; leap onto the wood fence and hang on with hope, the herd tramples and pounds by, surrounded by a blur of white and red.

Laughter, relief, shouting, …they’ve passed.

Suddenly a charging pack of steers roar upon us and another scatter-scramble, and then wild laughter, giggling and giddy; we collapse to the ground in joy.

I stagger to my feet, giddy, goofy, laughing, laugh-crying, my insides electrified. Felt like I’d just jumped out of a plane.

“Are there any more?! Is that it?”

“I don’t know!”

“I don’t see any!

“That was a riot, huh?”

“Yeah, yeah, that was something!”

Ambling deliriously through the crowd, a man in a neck brace is carried on a stretcher, blood trickling from his ear; I search for a beer stand and guzzle one to calm my nerves.

Wow. That was a lot of fun!

Hemingway Was A Marketing Genius

It was my birthday last month so I went to Paris and took the train to Pamplona for the Running of the Bulls (San Fermin Fiesta). It was something I'd always wanted to do and it was my big 5-0, so I went for it.

Quiche Lorraine and a croissant in the Paris summer morning, a cup of espresso, then hopped the train through the plains of France, past Bordeaux, then the mountains of Spain, the salty sea air near Biarritz, then San Sebastian and you're there. I went straight to the hotel and out into the buzzing streets, popping in and out of bars for tapas and beer, and bought a scalped ticket for the bull fight.

I had a good seat, maybe 7-8 rows up, and on the shady side of the ring. Perfect. The first bull went as expected, but the second bull charged the matador and got too low and stuck his horns in the dirt, then flipped over completely and "poof" a blast of dust as he flopped to the ground. Some gasps and laughter, then a few boos among the cheers. The bull steadied himself and took another charge--and again stuck his horns and flipped over completely, rolling down his backbone and plopping to the ground. More boos, some cheers, but the matador turned and left the ring, and the picadors too. The bull was out there alone, tail twitching, confused, looking to charge. Then a pack of steers was let out, they milled around and surrounded the bull, and the whole group trotted out the gate. His life had been spared since he just wasn't athletic enough to put on a good fight. The only other time I'd seen that was in Mexico, but that bull put up such a good fight that they spared him, although he was covered in blood and panting.

After another bull or two and I left and returned to the teeming Pamplona bars for more tapas and beers.

The next day I flipped on the Spanish newscast and among the rapid Spanish gibberish one name came through clearly, over and over, "Ernest Hemingway."

And throughout the week, his name was bandied about. A writer friend of mine even had several dinners with Hemingway's grandson.

The next day was a big party and the following morning I actually ran with the bulls, (I'll detail that later) but then it was off to Barcelona and Prague for a book signing, and what was the first bar I saw when I climbed out of the subway? A Cuban bar with live salsa and a "Hemingway Salon."

So Hemingway created an image, such an enduring image, that it has been spread and exploited throughout the world -- 50 years after he blew his head off.

Now that's PR!

The Thrill of Writing

While planning and packing for my European trip, I'm energized with the thought of writing along the way. You never know where inspired writing might take you -- those scrawled entries may never see the light of day -- but there is always the thrill of thinking about a possible new book.

Writing new stuff is always more exciting than editing the old stuff!

When Science Takes Over the Art of Writing

Tom Robbins said his big knock on MFA programs, and academics teaching writing in general, is that the approach reduces the art of writing to a specified set of rules, and according to Robbins, "In fiction, there are no rules. Whatever works, works."

This scientific quantification of writing is what the current bestselling authors do. There's no art in the art of writing anymore. These charlatans know the plot needs a certain number of characters, that there are certain tricks and techniques to creating suspense, like a ticking time-bomb, and that at a certain point the plot must have a climax and then resolution. Writing like this takes the magic out if, and reduces it to a technical trade. There's no inspiration, no invention, no art.

The typists who "write" like this aren't the ones who are hit with an idea while watching a hummingbird hover, or while walking through the woods, or watching the waves of the ocean roll in. They aren't madly possessed and enthralled with a new idea, and they will never feel the thrill that comes with finding just the right word to "make a sentence sing," as Robbins puts it. No, these types are merely thinking of the bigger new house they can buy, the social ascendancy that wealth brings, the fraudulent fame that they will have.

But then again, no one will be reading them in 100 years. They are a flash in the modern media pan, and although they have sucked all the air out of the literary space, surely their rewards will be temporary and short-lived.

Some apt quotes by writers on writing:

"A writer is working when he's staring out of the window." Burton Rascoe

"Use the right word and not its second cousin. The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and the lightning bug." Mark Twain

"Real writers are those who want to write, need to write, have to write." Robert Penn Warren

"Planning to write is not writing. Outlining…researching…talking to people about what you're doing, none of that is writing. Writing is writing." E.L. Doctorow

"…therein is in writing the constant joy of sudden discovery, of happy accident." H.L. Mencken

"Take away the art of writing from this world, and you will probably take away its glory." Chateaubriand

"You must write for yourself, above all. That is [your] only hope of creating something beautiful." Gustave Flaubert

"To me, the greatest pleasure of writing is not what it's about, but the inner music the words make." Truman Capote

What Passes for Writing These Days

The large, traditional publishing houses have literally ruined literature in the past 50 years. They force-feed the pubic these uninspired, formula "thriller" books, which read like a TV show, or a movie. I think often a movie is better than the original book, these days.

I watched Dan Brown parading around with Tom Hanks on TV to kick off "Angels and Demons," and he must be raking in tens of millions. But I happened to pick up a used Dan Brown book on the shelf of a local restaurant. "Digital Fortress" is a "techno-thriller" Brown wrote 10 years ago. I read the first 10 pages and was astounded at the jaw-dropping poor writing. Yes, there was suspense and intrigue, but it was done in the most amateurish way. And then the writing itself: horribly clumsy sentences, no innovation in language, no lyrical sentences that delight the senses, no light rhythm, just plain crappy writing -- or rather, typing.

I read the glowing reviews at the beginning of the book and I couldn't believe they were talking about the same book. I wondered how consumers could possibly discern when a book is any good, since they are fed such bullshit.

Many people, millions of people, are reading this type of literary garbage, and they think, they believe they are "a reader" but really, they are just viewing a preview of a movie. There's no thinking involved, no profound thoughts. And the writer believes they are a writer, but really they are typists.

Also, last week NPR interviewed had James Patterson who has churned out dozens of novels, and is working on 29 right now. Many times he co-writes -- he provides an outline and someone else writes the book. I cannot understand how these non-books have come to dominate the marketplace. Have you ever read a few chapters? Pure formula junk.

I picked up one other book, and the author had written 28 books and 30 screenplays, and even co-wrote an Academy Award-winning movie. He's published a lot, but I'd never heard of him.

The literature world has no Hemingways, no Fitzgeralds or Tennessee Williams' anymore.

It seems that the strain in the book business is causing a sea change, and new technology is allowing authors to get their books published and made available directly to consumers. This will democratize the book business, and it will again become a meritocracy, rather than this force-fed formula-driven mass market garbage. It serves the publishers right: they've forgotten that they used to discover great writers, and they used to provide real literature to the public. Now they are just uninspired publicity machines looking to maximize short-term profits.

The Great Abysss: Post-Publication Depression

OK, I've finished it, gotten my novel out there into a few Barnes & Noble stores and on Amazon; I've sent out sample copies to a few friends and prominent New Orleans folks; I've sent copies to newspapers in four southern states; I've started to set up a European book tour and sent out a press release.

But nothing.

It's silent.

Books aren't selling.

No one has noticed; no one has said, "This is a great book. A must read. A New Orleans classic."

Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zed.

I flip through the pages wondering, really, was the seven years and thousands of hours and thousands of dollars really worth it? Did I write something of note? Or, at the very least, a 'good' book?

I don't know. I can't judge. But maybe someone, SOMEWHERE will pick it up and rave about it.

I suppose I need to be patient. Some books take 20 years to arise from the heap of pulp.

It's moronic to worry about, since it really doesn't matter. What matters is that an artist does the best work possible at that point in their life.

And I do know that I have done that.

It's Tough Serving Two Masters

Chekhov started his career as a doctor. When he began to write, he was pulled in two directions until his short stories started selling and he was able to be a full-time writer. Later, when reflecting on that period, he wrote of how difficult it was to "serve two masters."

To keep things going economically, to provide capital and time to invest in my writing, I research and publish information technology reports. It's been my primary career for over 25 years, but I really wish I could devote all my efforts to my novels, plays, screenplays, essays and poetry. (yes, poetry, but I will not publish it until I'm dead and gone!).

I was complaining about how serving two masters scatters my mind, how it frazzles me and prevents me from going all out as a writer. But a friend of mine listed all of the horrific life situations many famous writers overcame, and as he went, I realized, really, I ain't got it so bad. I mean, I live by the Pacific Ocean and also have a place in the beautiful mountains of central Mexico. In the last year or so, I've been to three Cuban cities, seen plays on Broadway, went to Las Vegas, San Felipe, La Paz, Cancun, Puebla, Chouloula, Ensenada, and seen bullfights in Tijuana, Mexico. My compatriot writers had it pretty tough: John Fante went blind and dictated his last few books and screenplays; Thoreau and Walker Percy had tuberculosis, which weakened them, causing Percy to write mostly lying down, and sending Thoreau to an early grave; William Burroughs was a lifelong heroin addict; Carson McCullers spent her life in depression; Hemingway was most assuredly bi-polar and an alcoholic, as was Faulkner, Fitzgerald, Bukowski, Capote, Tennessee Williams, Kerouac and many others; Poe was a flat out nutcase; Wilde was sent to a cold, damp prison, even Shakespeare was a pothead.

So you just have to play the hand you're dealt, and do the best work you can. And the craziness, the strain, the strife and struggle can be a great influence on the art itself.

The Publicity Game

I sent out copies of my novel to Brad Pitt, Nicolas Cage and Harry Connick, Jr. They all have ties to New Orleans: Harry is a hometown boy who made it big; Cage had a house there for a while and loves to come into town to party (I've seen him at a local pub and also the Ritz, partying hard); and Brad bought a house on the French Quarter and does some volunteer work in the rebuilding effort. I threw in Tom Hanks and comedy agent Bob Gersh (manages John Goodman) for good measure.

Who knows? Maybe one of them will actually get the book and take an interest in it.

One of the background characters in the novel is based on Cage, and in a movie version, he or Hanks could play the protagonist Hank Clayborn perfectly (washed up high-tech exec comes to NOLA to drink and be an artist). Pitt or Cage or Hanks could play the wild man Lotto from the book, and of course, John Goodman would be great as the Ignatius Reilly-like Cletus Landry, the key fortuneteller on Jackson Square who plays a big role in the story. I'm sort of glad someone talked me out of killing him off at the end of the book.

I also sent off books to the Times-Picayune mysteries book reviewer, and Chris Rose, the affable local columnist, as well as the book review guy at Gambit Weekly. Then I sent a copy to an an arts editor at the Biloxi Sun-Herald and book reviewer at the Mobile Press-Register, and tried to make contact with people at the Jackson and Memphis newspapers.

It's a pain in the ass, and you never seem to be done, but you gotta do it. At least, someone's gotta do it, and when you're a one-man show, you do everything from cooking to washing dishes.

Success, One Step at a Time

This morning I awoke early to call London. Finally I got through to the right person at Waterstones, and he is taking steps to introduce my novel to the UK market, and to set up some promotional events. I also called Prague, (or Praha as the rest of the world calls it), and tentatively set up a signing event to kick off my European tour -- after nearly a dozen previous attempts. So now I have Prague, Berlin, and quite probably London. How about Paris or Madrid?

Then I took my morning walk on the beach and I felt I am making progress, one step at a time, and soon others will see my footsteps, before they are washed away by the tide of time.

That Incubation Feeling

The best part of writing a book is in those first days when ideas flow freely and you are not constrained by such bothersome things as plot, character development or proper grammar. An artist friend of mine in New Orleans called it the "incubation" phase, and I suppose it is common to most all creative processes.

It's when an artist or writer is most alive, when new territory is charted, when there is a sense of total freedom and the only thing that matters is the pure joy of creating something unique and new.

I can't wait to get started on my next book. That's the fun part!

After the Writing

I've finished, or at least I think I have, and the novel is live on Amazon and available for stores to order. It's nice to have that done, I feel good about it, but now I have to change gears. Up early, I called London for the 5th or 6th time, trying to get in touch with the Waterstone's contact who doesn't reply to my email messages or return my calls. This is the part I hate, at least in the beginning, since it drains any creativity from you, and there isn't time for a respite. But even if everything were hunky-dory and a major publishing house had picked up my book, there would still be this promotional phase. Only it would be dictated to me. At least I can craft the promotion of my choosing.

Back to work.

Simplicity and Thoreau

I'm reading Thoreau's Walden, and it imparts some incredibly good and detailed advice, mostly revolving around simplicity and thrift. People today make their lives complex with cars, boats, houses, and all sorts of complex gadgets and services that always cost more than they originally seem. Thoreau stripped his life down to the bare essentials to gain some very deep insights.

He basically tried to keep himself free of land ownership and material things, and only consumed the basics that he could mostly build or raise himself. He didn't even want to raise a cow or pig, didn't want to be tied to the responsibility of it, so, from what I can gather, he was mostly a vegetarian.

He was sort of the original naturalist, being "green" before environmentalism became cool.

Here's what Wikipedia says about his writing: His literary style interweaves close natural observation, personal experience, pointed rhetoric, symbolic meanings, and historical lore; while displaying a poetic sensibility, philosophical austerity, and "Yankee" love of practical detail. He was also deeply interested in the idea of survival in the face of hostile elements, historical change, and natural decay; at the same time imploring one to abandon waste and illusion in order to discover life's true essential needs.

It is amazing how he can write about a theme over and over again, pounding in the tenets, but alway saying something slightly different and wise.

When he went into the woods he squatted on Ralph Waldo Emerson's land (with permission), and built his cabin from the used boards of another man's house which was disassembled once his land rental expired. He bought used windows cheaply, but he bought new nails. He did all the work himself and then he had shelter. And then he planted for food, and kept only the most essential clothing, and, of course, books.

One could take some lessons from Thoreau.

I sometimes have that fantasy of going off into the woods or mountains somewhere, with just some books and time, a lot of pure time, and to be able to read and write all day, to ponder and test ideas, while carrying on only the most basic activities required to maintain vigor and health. Maybe a hike to collect firewood or berries, a swim in an icy stream, or climbing a tree to admire the view.

Thoreau said he was so deep in the woods that the birds were different. He noticed their warbles and harmonies were richer and more joyous than those of village birds.

Maybe at some point in one's life a person should go deep into the woods, at least the woods of their mind, to hear those birds they never took the time to hear before.

What a Writer Really Needs is Time

Some writers are afforded long lives and therefore have the chance to develop and contribute over a long period. Others have died tragically early, perhaps having penned one or two great ones, but they weren't able to gain their proper place in history. And there is some luck, good fortune that plays a role there.

Back when Faulkner and Hemingway were around, it wasn't so uncommon for men to die in their 60s (they both did) and still have lived a full life. Burroughs and Mailer lived to their 80s, but some of the real, real greats, like Fitzgerald, Kerouac and Oscar Wilde died in their 40s. So did Carson McCullers, who was pretty amazing herself. And then there's John Kennedy Toole, who offed himself in his 30s because he couldn't get A Confederacy of Dunces published -- and it was subsequently awarded a Pulitzer.

Wilde particularly got screwed. After his fiasco with that royal boy and hard prison time, he was finished, only writing a few sad and dark pieces and then dying in Paris. He was on track to surpass Shakespeare, I believe, and also, I don't really believe Shakespeare wrote everything he's given credit for -- not even half (and there's tons of evidence to back that).

My hope is that I am granted the time to do the work I know I can do.

Gore Vidal is Still Alive; Mailer Isn't

Gore Vidal said, "I never miss a chance to have sex or appear on television," and he's pretty much lived his life like that. I took his advice to heart a couple of times this week, but I'm still waiting on the TV moguls to call.

Recently, I watched Bill Maher interview an aged, skeletal Vidal sitting in a wheelchair. He was a hideous, scary sight, bony-faced and frail, but he still had his caustic wit. Early on in his career he said, "All writers are rivals" and, "Every time a friend succeeds, I die a little." He has outlived his rivals, Capote by decades, and Mailer, only slightly, as Vidal himself looks on the verge of death. In fact, I think that he would have been better served not to have appeared on TV in such a decrepit state.

I watched a comedian the other night say that Norman Mailer, "Drank, fought, had six wives and even stabbed the second one." He paused and said wryly, "I've never read one of his books, but I'm a big fan." Sadly, I believe this is true for most people when it comes to great writers. They've heard of them, even their books, but they haven't read them.

But what is most disappointing is that writers of note are not treated with much respect by the public in old age. No one was particularly paying attention to Mailer in his last years, Tennessee Williams was shunned and derided for decades, and many others have lived in obscurity or even poverty until years after their death when their brilliance was finally discovered. That's sort of discouraging, but if you are true to the art, you really must care only about the work itself.

Vidal also said, "Many writers who choose to be active in the world lose not virtue but time, and that stillness without which literature cannot be made," which is part of the struggle: one must survive so one must sell books, and to do so you must promote -- which takes away from the quiet and stillness needed to really dig deep and create good works.

On the other hand Vidal proclaimed, "In America, the race goes to the loud, the solemn, the hustler. If you think you're a great writer, you must say that you are."

Where You Write

I would have liked to post blogs while I was in Cuba, but the connections are so slow since they monitor everything, and it can get expensive.

But while I was there I visited Hemingway's house, which is on the south side of the city on a shady acreage, up on a hill. There are gates and a fence that surround it, and plenty of space before you get to the house which is simple, yet nicely-appointed and comfortable. Mostly what you notice are the books -- they are in every room, including the bathroom. And you walk out the back and you can see Havana in the distance.

It gets better. His study, where he wrote, is raised a couple stories higher and separated from the house. When you get up there you see the view Hem had, as he pondered his next words.

I felt humbled, awed by being there. But it seemed like the perfect place to write -- away from it all but not far from a bustling city.

I can't wait until I find that place of mine, my own house on a hill.

Technology and Writing

Technologies impact what is written, what gets published, and even impacts the characteristics and content of the writing. Novels used to be shorter, due primarily to the arduousness of writing and proofreading by hand, and the cost of typesetting the book. Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men is just over 100 little pages, and Fitzgerald's Gatsby isn't much longer.

Today, popular writers churn out books using pretty standard language. There's a lot of copy-pasting going on, a lot of formula writing that is pushed on the public. Basically, popular novels today are like watching TV. Pretty canned. I believe writers in the past created works that were more like watching live theatre where there is spontaneity and risk.

And I wonder if writers like Chekhov or Oscar Wilde would have made it today or if they would have labored in obscurity. I like the purity in their works, untainted by technology (although I know I am losing something with translations of Chekhov).

Technology of the times affected other writers. When portable typewriters became available, Hemingway had one, Tennessee Williams had one, and it changed their lifestyle and made writing just a little bit easier, and more portable. A laptop computer today provides amazing advantages.

But I wonder what is lost by not writing by hand and crossing things out. I don't usually do that, unless there isn't a computer available. But when I started my Katrina book, I wrote on the back of an envelope, then re-wrote that and continued writing in a journal. When I finally got to a computer, I was zooming out 3,000-4,000 words a day, and I was able to edit and improve the work on the fly. Of course, there were many edits after that, but they were rapid-fire, since I completed the book in less than a month.

Technology allowed me to publish my first book, and it is allowing me to post this from Mexico, while listening to the local New Orleans radio station.

But I still wonder what is lost with the rush of technology we have available. Certainly that combined with the oligarchic mass media cuts out many true artists, those who are on the fringe, are being muffled or trampled, depriving the world of, perhaps, some great works.

Art Forms

I was in Havana last week at the national art museum, and I was reminded about the various characteristics and advantages of different art forms. Musicians and singers have it the best: some great songs have been written in five minutes, and they last lifetimes. With modern recording techniques preservation is assured. Also, music is portable, and so when I hear Louie Armstrong playing in various countries all over the world, it still amazes me. I liked a local band in Havana playing at the Hotel Inglaterra a few nights a week, so I bought a CD and brought it with me back to Mexico and I can see the artists and I am there at the outdoor Havana cafe when I listen to it.

Painters and visual artists have it pretty rough: they may work for years on a piece and the very nature of art limits it's portability. The only thing that can be done is to make copies in poster or print form, but still, distribution is limited. Today most art is preserved, but in centuries past we have lost many art pieces.

Writing books allows people around the world to enjoy them, but there are translation issues that may slightly transform the interpretation and it also stifles distribution.

I pondered which art form was the most important, which has the most impact on the world. Music helps shape the world, and can provide a common experience for listeners, but I don't think it changes the world much in real terms, although it is possible to change the music world with a breakthrough sound. I love music. Especially live performances.

Visual art is heralded, coveted, even stolen, and it also shapes and reflects our experience, but it's importance as a historical record faded when modern photography became popular. That said, I love visual art too. I know what I like and just enjoy taking it in and trying to understand what the artist was trying to convey.

Words. Words can change the world. Writers can be heralded but also they can be jailed or killed for their words.

I enjoy trying to be artistic with words. Sometimes that means simply using them in a way they have never been used, such as turning a noun into a verb, sometimes it means creating a sequence of words that have never been put in that order, and sometimes it means trying to invent a new word. A good writer can create "music" with their words, and it can be presented on the page in an artful way, so yes, writing, I believe is the most important of all art forms in my world, although I enjoy and embrace music, art, dance, even a well-presented meal, and all other art forms, with the possible exception of opera.

Can you imagine a world without art?

Languages and linguistics in writing

I took a weekend Spanish class a few weeks ago in Ensenada. I thought it was about time and I was pleasantly surprised that some of my Latin from high school days helped out. The structure and genders are similar. But at first it's a lot to take in and it can be confusing. But I believe everyone should push themselves to learn new things, especially when it involves a culture that is foreign to you.

Now I'm in San Migeul de Allende, and after a wild long weekend that included dancing until dawn, meeting some German, Israeli, British, Canadian and Mexican people, and ending up with a big Super Bowl party at a popular local gringo's palatial home. It was tons of American food, some frijoles, beer, booze and big screen football: Fun, fun, fun!

But today I started a new Spanish class. Not only do I want to learn to communicate with Spanish speakers, but also I want to stimulate the verbal part of my brain.

One thing you soon realize when you start to take a foreign language is that some things just don't translate exactly: they have a meaning unique to that language.

So I think it's good to learn other languages, a writer might find a new word that is just perfect for a particular passage.

How Should You Write?

Aspiring writers must search for their voice. Test, try, experiment, adjust. Finding a voice can be one of the most arduous tasks for a writer, but once it appears and sharpens, (and only then), should a writer go about producing published works aggressively. That's not to say that a writing voice cannot evolve, it most certainly must as the writer grows, learns and develops.

For me, sitting down and writing my Hurricane Katrina book in 3 1/2 weeks crystallized my voice; at least it sent me well on my way.

Today, short bursts, as found in blogs, can help shape a writer's voice too. Sometimes you shouldn't think too much -- just let it flow.

Generally, I prefer an economical style, where significant effort is put into writing concise sentences that convey powerful meaning without wasted words. But also, sometimes, a long, flowery sentence is called for: it is the only approach that will fit for the art of the story, and its rhythm is called for at precisely that point in the work.

Bukowski, if you read his novels, opines that a sentence should be as short and full of punch as possible. He believed that all those extra adjectives and long sentences and paragraphs merely mask the fact that a writer can't find the precise words they are looking for, so they hope the reader will somehow find the meaning the writer intends in a puffy, vague sentence.

If you read Hemingway, his prose is noticeably terse and efficient, but now and then he departs from his usual style. F. Scott Fitzgerald does it naturally and perfectly, only using a few extra words when they are absolutely needed, to add to the richness of the story and lyricism of the sentence and paragraph. Flaubert and Checkov are also economical in their use of prose.

That is not to say that there is only one way to write. Take Tom Robbins, for instance. He developed his own style. He leans toward using long sentences and fabulously obscure words. But it works. And as Robbins said, "In fiction, there are no rules. That's what I have against 'teaching writing' in academia. In fiction, what works, works."

And take Kerouac: he found his voice by writing quickly, nonstop, tapping his brain (and some amphetamines at times) to rattle out stream-of-consciousness truths. Of course, he meticulously revised his work, although he didn't let that fact out much.

A writer should try different approaches. William Burroughs even experimented with physically cutting out words and sentences and moving them around, pasting them where they really didn't belong -- all in the interest of discovering a new way to construct words. I believe it is the writer's responsibility to use words in ways they have never been used, or even to invent new words or forms of words. Hey, Shakespeare did it. Supposedly he used a vocabulary of 20,000 words, some of which hadn't been invented yet. The average person might have a vocabulary of 4,000-5,000 words.

Another unique writer was John Kennedy Toole (A Confederacy of Dunces), who had a brilliant style all his own, full of juicy descriptions that hit the mark. No one can imitate his work!

You should go out and find your style, your voice. And you do that by writing, writing, writing. But the absolute worst thing you can do is to try to imitate another writer. That only makes for pathetic reading.

So, what is a writer? One who writes (not one who quotes others' writing or simply talks about writing).

Chekhov Was A Funny MoFo

I'm reading some of Anton Chekhov's stories. You wouldn't think a Russian author would be comedic, but he weaves his smart-ass dark humor into many of his stories; but also, he seems to write about disease and death quite a bit too. Maybe that's because he trained to be a doctor first.

Here's a funny opening line from Rothschild's Fiddle, a story about a casket maker: "The town was small, worse than a village, and in it lived almost none but old people, who died so rarely it was even annoying."

Another story called, Sleepy really draws you in, your eyelids may get heavy, but then he just shocks you at the end with a horrifying act. Chekhov had a wonderfully sick mind, and he could write with such vividness that it makes his writing very powerful.

In New Orleans when I was talking with the novelist Richard Ford, he talked about teaching a writing class at NYU, and that he really didn't talk about writing; he just had the students read good writing, like Chekhov. So that piqued my interest in reading him -- even if it did sound highfalutin at first.

Another thing Richard Ford said, "You have to leave a place to write about it." He went on to say that when you live in a place you are "too locked in to the grid of it" and that when you get away you remember only the important details, with the proper perspective. I thought about it and figured he was right. Since I was writing my New Orleans novel (something he said he'd never write about because it was "just too hard, too difficult to capture any better than has already been done") I decided I'd leave, for the sake of the work.

And he was right.

Chekhov died young of tuberculosis -- being a doctor he delayed going to one -- and it reminds me of Walker Percy, who also had TB, and wrote most of his works lying down.

Walker Percy, the Pulitzer-prize winner who edited A Confederacy of Dunces, like Ford, said you had to leave New Orleans to write (he moved across the lake into the country) and that the French Quarter was great for inspiration, but you couldn't get anything done there, succumbing to "French Quarter disease," meaning the alcoholic-artistic inertia that hits most people there keeps them from producing.

And he was right.

The Greatest Kind of Writing

More about my new writer/filmmaker friend Roman: about 15 years ago he was the most prominent journalist in Croatia, so much so that the cafes and bars would bubble with discussion about his bold and controversial columns.

Then he wrote "the one" that made him "Public Enemy No. 1" of the totalitarian regime. He called for the political overthrow of the government, a peaceful, legal overthrow -- not a military coup (I read the translated column online). He pointed out their greedy, criminal, murderous ways to the public. And unlike previous columns he'd written, there was dead silence. No letters, phone calls, no discussion or opinions from his readers.

The government stated that his dissent must be stopped, and then they killed his wife with a car bomb. Then Roman had to scurry at night from friendly house to house, hiding while they tried to track him down. When war broke out, he saw his friends killed and wild pigs let loose in the streets to eat the flesh of the freshly dead, while Serbian snipers waited at the ready on rooftops. So the dead could not be retrieved without risking additional deaths. Ten of his friends decided they'd make a go for it, calling him a coward for not wanting to. They ran out, and seven of them were shot dead within seconds.

Some more of his friends were crucified, actually nailed to trees alive, with a booby-trap grenade rigged so they couldn't be moved, or anyone within 100 meters would be killed from the blast. "Can you imagine watching your best friends nailed up there, dying slowly in agony, and there is nothing you can do?" he asked me.

It was not until the Americans came, with advanced technology and tactics, and they were able to drill delicately through the back of the trees to defuse the grenades and let some men down. Even baby Croat boys were killed, or the breasts of the mother were carved off so the baby would starve and die.

Can you imagine what hate would propagate such acts?

He was eventually able to slip out of the country to the United States. To gain US political asylum, you must "prove" that you would be killed if you returned to your native country. So, the CIA agents and immigration officials questioned him at length, and then a CIA agent asked the final question, "How can you prove you'd be killed if you return?"

Roman pulled out an internal CIA report stamped, "Top Secret." It stated, quite simply, that he, Roman "XXXX", the dissident journalist, would be killed by the Croatian government if he were found. The agent asked, "How did you get this document?"

"What? You guys think you are the only spies? It's a war! Everyone is a spy."

His political asylum was granted.

I have the deepest respect for Roman. He had the courage to write the truth, and ultimately, when the totalitarian Croatian government came down, his writing helped change the world.

That is the greatest kind of writing.