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.