Making Hay While the Sun Shines

In the afterglow of having composed my first post in months, I found relaxing to be a great deal more difficult than I would have thought. I thought I might spend the remainder of the night working at overcoming the current sticking point in the narrative outline of my work in progress. Unfortunately, I allowed myself to become perpetually distracted, and eventually resigned myself to the fact that my attention span simply isn't geared toward crafting fiction at the moment. So, I figured I might as well seize this newfound blogging momentum, and subsequently created the Book Reviews page. Hopefully it's formatted well enough, although I do still struggle to achieve the uniformity that my OCD so desperately craves. I've yet to strike upon a satisfactory method of handling the reviews that were lost in The Lit Asylum's temporary demise; nor have I yet convinced myself to either lump Page to Screen Reviews in with the standard Book Reviews, or create for them a separate page. I also need to get my Links and Contact pages in order, so I can improve networking and begin a proper blogroll. Any and all suggestions and opinions would be most welcome. All in all, I feel this represents a tremendous amount of progress, and hopefully it, along with this open analysis, will prove useful to the blog's readers. 

In Which I Discover That No Writer is an Island...

Russian writer Evegny Chirikov, by Ivan Kulikov, 1904

It's been a long four months since my last post, and longer still since I've posted something fresh. I've heard it said that "as man proposes, God disposes", and though I'm not much for believing, I can see the aphorism's truth well enough. Now, I can pretend at a great many excuses as to why I seemed, for all intents and purposes, to have completely abandoned the cause, but the truth is it wasn't the cause I'd abandoned, but the comrades, my brothers- and sisters-in-arms. True, I'd let the various slings and arrows of not-quite-so-outrageous fortune lead me to a rather dismal place, but it was my own foolhardy decision to read these events as omens which heralded a season of solitude. It is perhaps instinctive, particularly for those who make a habit of exploring their injuries, to feel that compulsion to hunker down and tend to the wounds. But in that abysmal, lonesome sulking, I found no comfort whatsoever. Worse yet, I found no art. 

Many of us need, from time to time, to be disabused of the old myth regarding suffering and art, as if the latter cannot exist without the former. It seems so simple, as so many across every field of artistic achievement have seemed to rely on the transmutation of pain to create the masterpieces of old. And, to be sure, there is something to be said for the degree to which the agony and angst of existence inform the artist's vision. But just as man does not live on bread alone, neither does the artist need merely to suffer sufficiently for his or her art to be born. Despite my best efforts to play the alchemist and turn my languishing into skillful language, I can only claim to have discovered new depths to the curse of writer's block. It seemed to spread, until it pervaded my being entire. At the worst of the winter season, my entire life became similarly frozen, and I despaired such that I could never imagine writing so much as a grocery list again. What I found lacking at the heart of the matter, apart from my agency as a writer, was a proper environment in which to work. For all my romanticism, the existence I'd shaped for myself during those months was inadequate to the cause. I had all the tools of my trade, but no fellow tradesmen. Sadly, it has taken me far longer than I should like to realize I cannot, and likely will never be able to, do this alone. 

The Algonquin Round Table, from L-R: Art Samuels, Charlie MacArthur, Harpo Marx, Dorothy parker, and Alexander Woollcott

As a friend and fellow aspirant recently paraphrased, "Writers should never write in a vacuum." I should like to go a step further and suggest that, by and large, most writers could never write in a vacuum. Whether we rely on each other for technical advice, anecdotal input, or the simple camaraderie of sharing the same passion for language and its myriad uses, we writers need each other, as much as we need our favorite novels, our handy style guides, or the very pens with which we write. In my isolation, I felt as if I were stranded in a world which cared little, if indeed at all, for me, my thoughts, my imaginings. It became the most self-centered of perspectives, and yet also the most self-defeating. Now, having recently reached out to the aforementioned friend and others who answer to the same vocation's calling, I've felt myself warming, much as the weather has finally begun to do. Gone is the crushing weight of pressure which I'd placed on myself, supplanted by the gentle urgings and encouragement of others. It no longer seems impossible to think that I might have something worth saying, or better still, worth reading once it's been said.

We all do, and from that meager monosyllable of "we" do I find the bitter season running, as murky darkness rushes off in the presence of new light. No writer is an island, and had I known that sooner, I may have had something to read for those who have visited this site despite the dearth of new material. With any luck, and the usual amount of effort, I hope to remedy that, for whatever it may be worth. Maybe some writer, struggling as I had been, will stumble upon this very post, and the realization will spread. Maybe I'll read his or her blog next. And maybe, instead of the erstwhile season of bitter and paralyzing cold, this will be the beginning of a new season of warmth, of welcome, and most importantly, of writers.

Reflections on the Season

This article previously appeared on the PaperBackSwap Blog on 19 December, 2011

The last few months of each calendar year are positively riddled with holidays. It’s a time in which we find ourselves touching upon our own unique patterns of behaviors through which we hope to weather the darker, colder months of the year, as we also say goodbye to it and turn to welcome the coming of another.  These various traditions, both institutional and familial, all seem to possess, at their cores, a theme consistent with one another.  The universal aspects of the many holidays in which we participate spring forth from, and speak to, the very heart of our shared humanity.  It is in light of this perceived interconnectedness, this pervasive and perennial celebration not only of the passage of time, but of our truest inner spirits, that I approach the end of each passing year.

The holidays celebrated as autumn sets in are rooted in remembrance, of times past, as well as people who have passed.  The traditions we perform offer us some semblance of permanence in a world that is anything but.  Whether it’s the baking of a treasured family recipe handed down over several generations, or the passage of such traditions from one living generation to the next, the many feasts we enjoy are fraught with remembrance.  Whether or how we decorate for each passing holiday is often done in honor of the ways of the past.  Those of us who move on to forge new traditions have no less of an eye for reflection, investing now in similar nostalgia yet to be experienced.

We begin to take stock of the year as it enters its penultimate month, pondering how this year’s experiences compare to the summation of years that have preceded it.  In areas in which it may appear worse, we wax nostalgic, recalling with warmth and fondness days which we deem to have been better; in areas which have improved, we look proudly upon the distance traveled, the hardships successfully traversed and, with hearts abundant in hope, look excitedly to a future all but certain to begin once our ritualistic goodbyes to the past have been said to yet another year.

As the pace of time itself seems to quicken, these days of significance rush to meet us with fierce rapidity, we find ourselves clinging ever more desperately to our days, even as they nevertheless slip through our fingers as always.  In those moments, however, those all too brief, shimmering instances of clarity, we look at our lives, and hopefully each other, and see the innate value in even the least we behold.  Despite the winnowing of time, we experience small bursts of timelessness, of the Here, the Now, and the wonders that make life so worth living.

We approach the winter solstice with no small amount of eagerness.  On the day of that celestial event, as the Earth finally crosses the threshold of our shortest day, even without realizing it, we breath a collective sigh of relief.  Huddled together, in spirit if not in person, we await the moment at which the hours of daylight begin to grow again.  We forge ahead, across the whole of the northern hemisphere, thankful for having once more survived the darkest of months.  And, while the coldest months still lie before us, with that darkest day of the solstice behind us we raise collective cries of gratitude and joyousness, affecting our happiest and most generous personas for the festivities with which we bid farewell to the year.

As we reach what is to the West the bridge between the fading year and that yet to be realized, we continue our appreciation for the good things, and beloved peoples, in our lives.  And yet, at the doorway, we say our last goodbyes to all that has passed, and thusly unencumbered, turn hopefully and anxiously to face the impending year.  So it is that so many of us, peering into January from the precipice of December, sing out tearfully “Should old acquaintance be forgot…”  Ultimately, the year’s gloaming heralds the culmination and inevitable conclusion of another chapter in each of our lives.  Having spent months preparing for the darkness and cold, girding ourselves with warm thoughts and hearts, the focused and combined energies of our remembrances and regrets, our traditions and nostalgia, our hopes, dreams, triumphs, failures, gains, and losses, merge into a single feeling, one cathartic singularity, from which erupts the momentum that carries us through to the birth of another year, another chapter, and another trip around the sun on this curious blue island we all call home.

As the last few weeks of the year wind down, I am humbled and honored by the relationships I’ve had with those whom I have known, and look forward to those I will come to know in the future; I am grateful for the passage of time and all with which it has presented me over the years, and for everything it may yet hold in store for me; Smiling wide, I shake my fist at the cold, from the warmth of my heart; with eyes fixed on the future, I salute the year that has passed, and everyone who shares this purview. Wishing everyone the happiest of holidays, and the brightest of new years!

NaNoWriMo 2012 - Yeah, About That...

By all appearances, this year's National Novel Writing Month is going horribly for me. I've got about 333 words, jotted down hastily in a small notebook, which is well off the pace of 1,667 words per day. For my first WriMo last year, I had signed up as early as possible, and had a solid outline with which to work. This time around I didn't sign up until October 31st, and up until this past weekend I didn't even know which story I wanted to write. Unlike last year, I'll be participating in NaNoWriMo while also continuing my work as a reviewer. Despite all of this, I'm more confident in my chances of success. The Reason? 333 words is actually ahead of my personal pace; last year, November 5th was the day I scrapped over 6,000 words and started from scratch.

Starting over isn't something I'd recommend. There's no shortage of arguments against it (my favorite can be found here, courtesy of author Jamie Todd Rubin). For me, however, it proved to be the best decision I made all month. I had begun the WriMo in earnest, with a full head of steam, and was surprised by how quickly the word count increased for me. But by the fourth day, I developed serious misgivings about the direction in which I had taken things. The tone was off, the characters flat, and nothing about what I had written seemed capable of shouldering the burden of the concepts I'd hoped to explore. True, NaNoWriMo is, strictly speaking, just an exercise at writing consistently toward the goal of 50,000 words. My heart wasn't in it, though, not with the story I'd begun shaping. I didn't see how I could possibly have continued. So I didn't.

Instead, against all advice to the contrary, I started fresh. The first sentence I wrote convinced me I had done the right thing. The first attempt had the feel of a YA novel; the second was darker, mature. Two dimensional characters were renamed and reworked into entities that seemed to think and act for themselves. The plywood, high school theatre backdrop became a fully functioning, dystopian metropolis. I will admit, catching up with the pace and reaching the goal required a concerted effort which culminated in a burst of nearly 16,000 over the last three days of the month. But they were exhilarating days, at the end of an indescribably exciting month, a month I'm all but certain wouldn't have happened without the decision to reboot my story.

This year, owing to an inordinately difficult run up to November, I wasn't sure until the last moment whether or not I'd participate. I'd seen many discussing it on Facebook and Twitter, and Mr. Rubin's posts on the subject made the prospect more and more tempting. While discussing my hesitancy to sign on for another harried month of writing, a colleague raised an interesting point: How could I not? And somehow, that was all the argument I needed. So I registered this year's novel, and then set about the task of getting all my literary ducks in a row. Rebooting worked wonders last year, but it's not something I want to do again. I may only have 333 words at the moment, but it's more than I had at this time last year, and this time I'm sure they're words I can live with.


Click here to view my NaNoWriMo profile page

Post Script - Falling Under

Reading and reviewing Falling Under, Canadian playwright, stage actress, and novelist Danielle Younge-Ullman's debut novel, was a far more personal experience than any other review thus far. As someone who has struggled with agoraphobia in the past, I found myself all too easily identifying with Mara. Given her interpersonal struggles in dealing with friends, partners, and parents alike, the empathic comparisons didn't end there.

One aspect of the story which hit particularly close to home was Mara's role as an artist. Though her efforts to develop her talents in the backstory portions of the novel were fascinating, it was her work in the present that really stuck. Mara's story is a playing out of the age-old dilemma between creating works that sell versus creating works that satisfy one's artistic passions. I believe this is something with which creatives of any milieu can relate. 

In facing and overcoming both these artistic challenges, as well as the emotional obstacles which bar her path to happiness, Mara becomes a truly inspirational example to any young adults striving to find themselves, and their way, in an increasingly troubling world. 

The experience of having read Falling Under, and watching Mara's fears and heartache wreak havoc on every ounce of her being, will no doubt stay with me for years to come, as I imagine it will for anyone who ventures to read it. It was a privilege to be given the opportunity to review the novel, and an honor to have had the chance to interview its author.

My review of Falling Under 

My interview with author Danielle Younge-Ullman