Writers Two: Turgenev and Flaubert

I've been reading a book with the letters between Turgenev and Flaubert. They were instant friends and colleagues, peers driving at the purity of literature from their respective countries, Russia and France. They often met up in Paris. Amidst political turmoil, war, great distance, writing struggles and the everyday problems of life (Turgenev had recurring bouts with gout, which sometimes crippled him for weeks at a time) - they managed to keep their very cordial friendship intact.

It's rather amusing and intriguing to read about their foibles and tribulations, the tedium of their lives, the depression, the despair, the strife -- while they wrote great works.

All men, it seems, at least at times, live lives of quiet desperation -- even the Great Ones!

Russian Novelist Ivan Turgenev, "My friend, return to literature!"

Last week I happened upon a copy of "Father's and Sons" by Ivan Turgenev, the 19th century novelist, playwright and short story writer. Here I thought Russian literature was all Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, and Chekhov, then this guy shows up!

As I read, slowly, deliciously, each morning, I traveled to rural Russia in the mid-1800s, into the lives of his exquisitely drawn characters. That's what stood out most: the characters. I had them so firmly imagined that I knew who was speaking each line of dialogue -- it was just that great. The descriptions were simple and detailed and so perfectly consistent that you felt them.

It's a story about a son who comes home from college with an older friend, almost a doctor, who was scientifically-oriented and questioned everything, absolutely everything, causing a stir wherever he went. The story essentially debates, "nihilism" and explores the differences between generations, the differences that are always there. It was fun and interesting, yet deeply philosophical, and Turgenev accomplishes this almost without the reader noticing, it is so deftly done.

It was pleasant reading -- not what everyone says about Russian writers having too many characters and convoluted plots.

I was putting myself there with them, riding in a carriage pulled by a troika of horses, sitting in the garden reading, or spending the afternoon listening to someone playing classical music on the piano. No TV, no radio, no Internet, hell -- no electricity! Up at sun up, lighting a lamp at dusk, asking for a woman's hand in marriage, announcing your arrival at an estate, this is how they lived. I thought of what steadiness and peace and tranquility that would be!

But I'm sure the less romantic side of their existence would make the reality perhaps unlikable for a Modern Man. I remember Henry Miller saying in "Tropic of Cancer" how absolutely frustrating it was to not be "at the machine" (typewriter) when some of the most brilliant thoughts hit. They didn't have laptops or voice recorders or portable HD video cameras, no, they had to remember, sift through it and write it down by hand.

They also defended honor with a duel (you know Tolstoy once challenged Turgenev to a duel?), with both men honestly following the ground rules (8 steps, or 10 steps? One or two shots? You load the guns or shall I? Until death or only wounding?)

So at first I had imagined how easy they had it -- no distractions, no buzzing electricity, no electronic music, no big screen TV. But then I thought of just how easy we have it: online dictionaries, thesauri, quick and easy reference searches on Google to find facts. There are no excuses. And we can always go off to the country and camp out, if we want to.

Back to Turgenev: he was such an influence in Russian literature -- world literature -- on his death bed he pleaded with Tolstoy: "My friend, return to literature!"

Which is what I, and all of us, need to do.

Artistic Purity

When you watch live music -- like I did all the time in New Orleans -- sometimes you come upon those rare artists and rare moments when you can feel the "artistic purity" of the musician or singer shining through like pure moonlight skipping across the ocean's waves. I've seen it in other artists too, like painters, sculptors, poets, and dancers.

You see them connecting -- maybe it is their soul connected to God -- and losing themselves in their art, in their performance. It isn't rehearsed, not an act. You can't fake it.

Sometimes I have felt it in myself when I'm writing. It's what Tennessee Williams called, "purity of heart" which he said was about the only noble aim, in the end.

I witnessed this type of artistic purity last night when I was strolling along the boardwalk and observing the beach scene after dark. It turns Bohemian, especially on Sunday nights at Latitude 32, the cafe and hangout on the beachfront, next to another newer cafe, down the block from a pizza joint, and next to a new upscale lounge.

Javier Cabanillas was playing his set of bongos, madly, feverishly, in complete control. Sometimes the speed and precision of his hands became superhuman. He led the campy crowd through the grooves and beats, at times standing to clap and sing, bringing the crowd to its feet. Javier was so lost in his art he didn't notice me standing in the window, transfixed. I scanned the crowd and drank it in. A girl in skimpy shorts dancing awkwardly, couples rocking to and fro, people milling in and out, sipping coffee and smoking cigarettes. Another man, shaved bald, arms bulging from his sleeveless shirt, stood and squeezed in and pulled a few bongos from behind the piano and sat and joined in. A younger man kept time with a cowbell and rimshots on a drum set, and a pretty young girl sat back on a sofa and chimed in with tambourine.

They built to a crescendo and then ended a tune perfectly together. There was applause, and laughter, and joy and Javier stood, wiped his brow and took a long pull off his water bottle. He looked over and I gave him the high sign and clapped directly at him, nodding. "Robert!" he cried, and we exchanged smiles. He sat back, and they started up another frenetic beat. I watched and grinned and slowly faded out of the window, cleansed and pleased, and continued my stroll on the moonlit boardwalk.

Tijuana - Its Rough Around Here...

Whenever I speak with someone about Mexico, they always ask if it is safe, or simply overrun with violence.

Well, yes and no.

If you're not in the drug cartel business, it's safer in Mexico than in any American city. You see, the average Mexican does not have access to guns, and most don't own one. It's just that the cartel killings are so sensational, usually involving torture, beheading or mutilation. One musician who banged the wrong girl was found shot with his cock and balls taped inside his mouth.

I just returned to Mexico and there are a few new stories.

Richard and Solomon are dead, Hector the Mexican FBI man is in jail, and Zak is scared shitless.

Apparently Richard, a tall, clean-cut American, was running an escort business, and borrowed a lot of money, and went into shooting porn. He answered the door and a man and woman shot him in the face. Evidently he had filmed the woman in a porn video and posted it on the Internet, and her family found out. Bang - you're dead.

Hector, who works (worked?) for the Mexican FBI, was rounded up with 70 other agents and hauled off to Mexico City for interrogation. Looks like they've got him dead to right on corruption charges (they'd been monitoring his cell phone calls), and he'll spent maybe the rest of his life in jail, and lose his retirement. Now that I think of it, he showed all the signs: a big house, a wife and a girlfriend, drinking in the bars all day and night, and sometimes shooting off his pistol into the ceiling. In fact, a few weeks ago my brother said he needed a gun to shoot the pigeons in the courtyard, and Hector handed him his revolver.

I always thought he was a bit creepy and arrogant, and it seemed he might go off at any moment. But the choices aren't so easy for Mexican lawmen, you see, when the drug cartel men come calling, they say, "Take my silver or take my lead." So they have little choice. Eventually the protection breaks down and it all comes out.

Poor Solomon -- a slightly mentally ill older African-American who was always drunk on the first of the month when his check came. He used to fight and beat his crazy white wife. She died a few months ago and he was saying, "Now I don't have anyone to blame things on!" He seemed lost.

I don't know what happened, they say "he fell," and maybe it was natural causes, but it seems fishy to me that Solomon, who was always scraping by, suddenly was talking about buying some land and hanging around sketchy types and soon he was dead. Maybe he was getting some sort of insurance or inheritance from his wife's death. All I know is that soon after she died, about 4-5 black men began hanging out with him and playing cards. And blacks in Mexico are pretty unusual, even in border cities. So I have my suspicions as to how he died, and why.

Then there's Zak, from Kenya, who runs these escort service-like parties, and basically pimps out women. He speaks perfect English and Spanish, and has a beautiful son by a pretty Mexican woman. He's a dedicated dad, and a bright guy. A few days ago he was sitting and bouncing his knees, as nervous as a cat. "There was this lesbian coming down from L.A. and throwing all kinds of money at hookers; well, she got kidnapped -- but the police found her a couple of days later and arrested the four men who did it. But this other guy, he's sort of in the same business as me, and he got killed. And they know where I live!"

It's the sort of rough-and-tumble environment that surrounds New Orleans. But, like New Orleans, if you're not involved in the drug business, or other criminal stuff, it doesn't affect you.

All this doesn't break my bliss near the ocean, listening to the waves and watching the grand Pacific sunsets.

Maybe there's a book in it.

Why Write?

Whew!

Just got back from a whirlwind tour of Mexico's Caribbean coast and then to my hometown for the big high school "70s Mega Reunion" that I organized. It was a lot of work, but mostly it took time, and right up until the last bank deposits were made I sweated the financial side, hoping it would not lose money. Well, we made it. Nearly 600 attended the Friday night social and dance, and another 200 or so went to the ice cream social for retired teachers and the picnic. So it felt good to put in that effort over the last nine months to make it happen. And to have brought that many people together to share memories and reconnect was a good thing.

After I had all the reunion events on track, I scheduled a last minute book signing with Barnes & Noble for that Sunday. I was exhausted, but I had a hearty breakfast at Ross' and showed up.

Funny, no one else cares much about your writing, except maybe the few close friends and family, and even they believe it's a sketchy occupation (when I was writing my first book, my mother said, "What is it now -- a BOOK?" Like it was a dumb thing to do.)

Most of the people who showed up at the book signing were from my childhood church! Firstly, I felt guilty for skipping church that morning. And one church lady whispered in my ear, "Don't forget Jesus Lord in your life," like she had imparted the greatest secret ever.

Well, I sold some copies, supposedly enough to top the local bestseller list for a week, but I was giggling inside -- and cringing -- at the thought of these 80- and 90-something church ladies reading my filthy, blasphemous book! Oh well, I hope they have a sense of humor. Maybe my mother will be ostracized, or maybe they won't get past page three. I was trying to make some serious points in the book about religion and life but use the story and humor to deliver them. I quoted (and mocked) actual verses from the Bible in it. I also pointed out just one instance of Shakespeare having some fun when he was editing the King James Version (in my first chapter).

But really, the satisfaction from writing doesn't come from acclaim or money, it comes in finishing a piece of work, and being able to look back on it. Few professions can say that: people work and work and work and there is nothing to really show for it. An architect can see their buildings, a musician can listen to their recordings, and an actor can see their films, but mostly, people work without the pleasure of seeing something lasting created.

A couple of weeks ago I re-read my first book, the Hurricane Katrina story, and I will have to say that even though I would make some changes now, I enjoyed the trip to the past. I mean, some of those people are dead now.

Now I am proofing the latest version of my play. I made substantial revisions, cutting out two characters and adding in two more, including James Dean, (who was in the original version). The director who said it would be impossible to cast a "young Brando AND a young James Dean" read and critiqued the play, and told me to put Dean back in since, "this play belongs on Broadway, and in New York you can find those actors." So I did, and I'm pretty happy with it, although I am still making minor edits, and, of course, it will not be the best it can be until I can see it performed on stage and make additional edits.

But again, the satisfaction of holding and reading something you have put years in to is immense. And to know that future generations will be able to read my work long after I'm gone is gratifying too. Not to be arrogant, but the fact that these books are printed on demand, means they will never go out of print. Plus there are the physical copies.

So that's why I write.

Back to the book signing -- when I pointed out what crap is on the bestseller shelves, the manager said, "Yes, but that''s what sells." I told him I write what I want, and in the form I want, based on emotion, not logic (i.e. for the money) and he told me the other authors who come to town say that their agents and publishers will not let them stray from formulaic writing. That sort of makes me sick to my stomach. I cannot imagine having my imagination governed by business decisions.

I write for the passion of it, for the love of it, not for the money or fame. And I think that is the only true reason to write.

That is what motivated the great writers of the past.

Delicious Writing

A couple of weeks ago I dusted off my play, "Brando, Tennessee & Me" which I hadn't looked at in 3 years. I had notes on its structure and characters from the generosity of Perry Martin, the leading theatrical director in New Orleans. I heeded his advice and ripped the thing apart, and replaced two characters. One of the characters I added in was in there in the early stages of the play: James Dean. In fact, I think there were 8 or 9 characters in the beginning, when I did a staged reading of the play at the now defunct (due to Hurricane Katrina) True Brew playhouse in New Orleans. I also had Norman Mailer, Shelly Winters, Gore Vidal and others.

After the 3 day run of the reading -- which was a huge thrill to hear the actors bring my words to life -- Perry (and other theatre-types) said it needed to have a smaller cast, which would sharpen the focus on the characters. What Perry said was, "If it's 'Brando, Tennessee & Me' -- give me more Brando, more Tennessee!"

He initially suggested I cut out James Dean, because, "You want a young Brando, AND a young James Dean? You'll never find the actors for it!"

But after Perry read my re-write (at the time) he said I needed to put James Dean back in -- since this play was good enough for Broadway and "you can find those actors in New York."

Well, I put off and put off dealing with it -- and later discovered I'd lost the earlier versions of the play with James Dean in it -- so I had to go back and re-do my research to build that character's dialogue from the ground up.

I immersed myself in the world of James Dean -- re-reading his biography and researching his life online. It was interesting and delightful, not like work at all.

When I first wrote the play, about 6-7 years ago, there wasn't any YouTube. But now I could watch James Dean in interviews, screen-tests, and on TV and movies, to try to get a sense of how he spoke, and his language habits. It was delicious to be able to create that dialogue, and also to re-arrange things to give Tennessee and Brando more lines. And I polished up Capote's lines, while inserting a new character, the Bartender. I even changed the setting for most of the scenes which I'll keep secret because once others see what I've done, they'll want to steal the technique. It was something I'd thought about way back, and when I told Henry Hood of it (he was the old man I used to help out a bit and he was the inspiration for the play -- and it's central character, the "me" in the title) he sat up and said, "That's GREAT theatrics!" I was going to save that theatrical device and setting for another play I had in mind, but I decided to use it here -- who knows if I'll get to write another play?

It was fun writing - and I was kicking myself for not getting to it earlier!

But it wasn't all fun -- at one point when I had ripped the play apart, and had a bunch of notes and quotes I needed to work in, I felt as if my brain was splayed and I couldn't do anything else until I put Humpty Dumpty back together again.

Then last week I had to get back to work on some tech reports, which is sometimes interesting, but certainly not fun or very satisfying.

In the meantime, Roman, the Crazy Croatian, who is a literary genius, read the play in its new form (last year he read the old version). He immediately saw the improvement and we went through it scene by scene and he pointed out some weak lines and places where I could re-structure the scene. So I've started to address those issues, as well as to work in a few more things I want to put in the play before it's ready.

Then yesterday, over wine, cheese and oysters, Roman said that the play was "really very funny, very good" and "will certainly be produced on Broadway." He said he always has had a knack for these things, for picking out what will be a hit and what will not.

So I am choosing to believe him and suddenly it seems as if the clouds of my recent weeks-long depression have cleared. In my mind, I literally see the name of the play in lights, hopefully at the Barrymore Theatre on Broadway.

A Writer Must Write!

Lately, for, say, three months or so, I just didn't write. I was indulging in the beach scene in the Mayan Riviera, and convinced myself that some R & R would be good for my brain to rest and would give me a chance to marinate it with ideas.

I barely even did enough work to survive for those three months (addressing "the problem of living" as Henry Miller said), and, well, I found that it's hard to let go of a Midwesterner's work ethic. In fact, it made me feel sort of anxious and nervous not to be doing something productive all that time, but I quelled that feeling with phenomenal bouts of drinking.

Maybe the break was good for me; I suppose the measure will be if I get some inspiration and start writing again.

It's not that I have writer's block or anything, in fact, I have at least 4-5 books rolling around in my head. I just can't decide which one to focus on. Because when you write a book, it owns you, or it should; it is in your every thought of the day, you are immersed fully in it, living in it, so as to find every morsel of thought to invest in it. It must be an absolute and total commitment. It consumes you.

I returned to Baja, to the Pacific coast, and on top of feeling I need to get busy again, my writer friend/nemesis Roman, the Crazy Croatian, has finally had some doors open for one of his screenplays at the biggest and best agency in Hollywood. I believe his patience and hard work and single-minded focus is about to pay off.

"Whenever a friend succeeds, a little something in me dies." -- Gore Vidal

And so Roman, feeling puffy and proud, took the opportunity the other afternoon to chastise and harangue me about not writing. Using caustic wit and brazen insults, I'll have to admit, I was getting close to punching him in his pompous, fat face. While I piled up the excuses, he noted, "Yes, and in my country it is said that one can shit in a church, if he has an excuse."

I reminded him of my prodigious output in the last few years and also the global reach of some of my tech publications, but he poo-pooed all that, saying, in essence, "If you're so smart why aren't you rich and famous?" My protestations continued.

But I knew he was right. Yes, I have published four books in four genres in four years -- but I can do more, and my best work is ahead of me. Which was another excuse; in essence, "I am gelling ideas and pondering so when I get going the next one is going to be really good."

I didn't really plan on writing much fiction when I went off to the Caribbean beach, in fact, I planned to get in good physical shape and catch up on some reading. Which I did, (to a degree). But mostly I drank colossal amounts of beer and laid in the sun.

I thought that perhaps the vast beauty of the ocean views might inspire me, but there is something about living in a town that has been mostly constructed in the past 20 years that turns me off. No history, no culture, no muse. And the place I stayed in didn't have a full desk, no place for writing to get comfortable.

Roman joked that my shtick should be "the writer who does not write."

Roman reminded me that about a year ago, when he told me of a brilliant writer friend, one who is well beyond even outstanding writers, a genius, but profoundly depressed and not writing. My response was that this man was wasting his gift, and was committing the greatest sin an artist can commit, which is to shun his gift and simply not provide art for the world to enjoy.

Hypocrisy, staring me in the face.

Then the beer and tequila flowed, on my tab, of course, and we visited other important topics such as high-end whorehouses in Rio, group sex (he refuses to ever again have sex with a single woman at a time, as it is just "boring"), heavy drinking, and Hollywood.