Tristeza

After many years of not reading for pleasure, I began last year to read novels and books of all kinds. You can see my reading lists (have read/want to read) here if you want proof. I know how some of you are.

So I've finally discovered the work of Michael Chabon. Oh sure, we had a brief flirtation when I listened to approximately eighteen minutes of The Yiddish Policeman's Union (read by Peter Reigert who I loved in both Animal House and Crossing Delancy) on an audio book. MathMan was listening to it during his commute and allowed me into that secret world one day.

The other day at the library, I picked up Chabon's Manhood for Amateurs: The Pleasures and Regrets of Husband, Father and Son. First let me tell you that I can be both enchanted and chagrined by this piece of nonfiction art. On the one hand, I'm compelled by Chabon's side of the story when it comes to telling how it feels to be a guy (in every sense of the word) in today's world.

Born in 1963, Chabon's reminiscences of childhood are very familiar to me. I was born in 1965. I remember the days of Wonderama and Wacky Packages and long, winding days covering the town and adjacent countryside on my orange Huffy bicycle with the "banana seat, sissy bar and apehanger handle bars."

It's only through the backward lens of time that I realize how lucky I was to grow up at that time, in that place. The town was small, along the Ohio River and backed by a hilly rural landscape that always seemed to offer a pleasant combination of security and adventure. And adventure we did. Those were still the days when kids were turned loose on a summer's day. There were no bike helmets, no water bottles, no insect repellent. Childhood hadn't been robbed of its fun by overly cautious adults who were willing to trade their last scrap of sanity for control over their children's lives down to the most minute detail. Shoot, we took off and only came back for lunch and dinner and then, finally and reluctantly, we'd heed our parents' demands to come in and take a bath before bedtime.

Sometimes we bothered to stop in and say hi to my mom at the courthouse where she worked. But more likely than not, we didn't bother. She was busy and we were doing our kid things.

Some days we rode to the other end of town to visit Mamaw Hewitt. You might find her sitting snapping beans or shelling peas on the back porch glider. If you were lucky, she'd offer you a couple of Chips Ahoy cookies. If you were super lucky, you got a half a Three Musketeers bar and an icy cold Coke from one of those little bottles she always bought at the Kroger. Coke is just right served in the aluminum tumblers.

On your way out, you stopped by the barn to see Papaw who would be tinkering around with his lawnmower repair business. You passed the time of day for a few minutes, fetched whatever tool he requested and collected your quarter.

Yes, we were pretty dang lucky.


Now the negative part of reading Chabon is this: I read his beautiful prose and fret about my own writing. I realize that it's all stylistic differences, but I worry that my own stripped down writing will be too lean, too stark, too See Jane. See Jane run. Run, Jane, run to ever actually get published. Like any writer, Chabon isn't every body's cup of tea. I understand that. And I know that any future audience I might have will read my writing for what it is - lean, stripped down, loaded with dialogue, vague on descriptions.

Could I be any more arrogant to even compare my own style to that of a Chabon? I'm so ashamed.

Now you're wondering about that word Tristeza, right? Or maybe not. Well, I'm going to tell you about that anyway because it's from a passage in Chabon's book that struck me hard. It's a great word. It's a theme, actually, for a lot of things. It's the ribbon that binds the book I'm working on right now.

Having studied French, I recognized it immediately (triste: sad) as the Spanish or Portuguese for sadness, but like many of the words in Chabon's work, I wondered about the more nuanced meanings of it. Unlike some of the words (irascible or execrable, for example) that I looked up in the dictionary to get their complete meaning, the nuance (those kinds of words - you generally know what they mean, but you're not completely sure), Chabon saved me the trouble. In reaction to a college friend telling him that he lacked tristeza, Chabon decided to go out and get some. He was good enough to describe just how he could do that:

A study of the available literature - or part of it, since the available literature occupied half the world's library shelves and three fourths of the attention of its poets - seemed to suggest that one indispensable precursor to the production of tristeza was regret. There were others - grief, exile, loss - and along the way, I might reasonably expect to acquire them or at least get a few leads on their whereabouts. Bu regret was the one prerequisite for heartbreak that I could hope to ensure a steady supply of. All I needed to do was start making mistakes, but I must do so diligently and clearly, taking full advantage of all my opportunities. I must put my trust in unreliable people, take on responsibilities I could not hope to discharge, count on impossible outcomes, ignore blessings that were right under my nose while expending my youth and energy in the pursuit of dubious pleasure. I must court disappointment, miscalculate, lie when the truth would serve better and tell the truth when the kindest thing would be to tell a lie. Above all, I would have to stick to a course of action long after it was clearly revealed to be wrong.

After I picked myself up off the bathroom floor (really , people, where do you think I do most of my reading?), I wiped the tears of laughter from my eyes so I could reread it. Did one have to work at tristeza? That someone would seek out those things seems ludicrous. I'm a magnet for them. I've elevated gaining tristeza to an awkward art form. Or maybe a science?

If that passage doesn't describe the last few years of my life, I don't know what does. But then, no....it really describes an entire life of missteps, bad decisions, firebreathing consequences, acquiescence to fear, denying realities, succumbing to inertia, intellectual laziness, and adventure. Yes, adventure. Because this life has been that, too.

Oh, I don't mean the get on a plane and go touring adventure. That would require some level of sophistication and financial means, of which I've never possessed. No, instead, it's been more of a pack your things and move without knowing where you'll live adventure. The oh looky! we have some garbanzo beans, bran muffin mix dated 2005, some left over canned peaches and a bit of horseradish in the fridge. I can make dinner from that.... kind of adventure.

As much as it's been a commercial disaster, my life has provided me with plenty of homegrown entertainment over the years. Here's hoping that the publishing world will see it that way, too.

Amateur Writer

At Saturday's writing seminar, The Cracker Queen suggested I tie some of my blog's content to my manuscript. While this idea thrills me and makes it all seem so much more real, I'm a bit flummoxed as to where to start. I mean, will it be the fast cars, the loose men or the espionage? There's so much to choose from! Kinky sex, recipes for fabric softener, ritual burnings or the random dream sequence....

You're just dying to know more about this story, aren't you?

To be honest with you, this first book may never have its moment with the printing press. It might be the one I write and put away without ever having issued a single query to potential agents. Okay, I lie. I'm going to query the stink off this thing and then? Well, I have a box to keep it in, if necessary.

One of the story's underlying themes is coincidence. For a skeptic like me, the very idea is a conundrum. To even consider the notion feels hypocritical. That broad cliche that things happen for a reason, the concept of destiny or an invisible guide positioning us to be in the right place at the right time? They all seem absurd. And still....

I finished Chabon's book yesterday and it was that which got me to thinking again about coincidence. In one of his last chapters titled Amateur Family, Chabon, a self-proclaimed sci-fi fan(atic), touches on a segment of cultural geekdom that I know a few of you share. It involves Daleks and Cybermen and the planet Gallifrey. Chabon was writing about Dr. Who! And wouldn't you know it? After not having seen it for a couple of months, I just happened to have watched a couple of episodes on BBC America on Monday evening. Coincidence?

Of course, not, right? Completely random.

Anyway, there I was watching Dr. Who and thinking about character development. While movies, plays and television have the advantage of an actor to bring a character to life, it's my job as a writer to create characters that live multi-dimensionally in the reader's head. The idea of what makes a character "good" has as much to do with the reader as it does with the character development. Whether readers take to your characters has as much to do with their value systems and secret desires as it does with your character's background, habits and human frailties.

Of course there are mechanics to character development and all kinds of webpages and books devoted to telling writers how to do so, but it would be far too much trouble for me to actually google them. Google is for finding things like Dave Grohl's birthday so I can settle a bet with Nathan.

When I think about the Dr. Who characters, it's hard to separate them from the actors who play them, but actually, Dr. Who is a perfect example of a character who has outlasted, by design, the actors in the role. And I love him. I love him when he's Jon Pertwee with his lisp or when he's Tom Baker with his scarf or Peter Davison with his leading actor good looks. I was crazy for Dr. Who as played by Christopher Eccleston. I am crazy mad gaga for him in his David Tennant incarnation. Each actor makes him his own, and yet, there are many qualities to the character that thread through each casting.

I mean, I love The Doctor because he does the right thing because it's the right thing to do. He isn't motivated by reward and punishment. He's a Time Lord, for goodness sake. His planet has been destroyed and there is no one else like him (except The Master) and still he carries on, saving planets and sometimes the universe. I love how The Doctor loves we silly humans, even though we are so terribly unlovable at times. I love his inquisitiveness, his way with words and the fact that he seems to enjoy life, even as he carries the weight of all knowledge on his (currently) skinny shoulders. No matter who plays The Doctor, those traits remain constant.

Notice that I'm not inviting too much debate here. I'm going to stay away from the discussion of The Doctor's companions. I mean I like Martha, adore and still miss Rose Tyler, but I L*O*V*E Donna Noble. And her grandad. But I know that passions can ignite when discussing those companions so I'm moving on.

So the challenge for me is to write people without the help of the David Tennants or the Catherine Tates to make them real. My current manuscript is a bit like cheating. Some of the characters in it will be immediately recognized by anyone who has read this blog or my earlier blogs. There's a challenge there, too, in making sure that I'm giving these characters enough life to make them real. Just because I know them, doesn't mean that anyone else will know them if I don't do a good job with my writing.

Which brings me back to my original thought - this book may or may not ever be published. I'm working on it under the assumption that it will. (I have to assume or else why bother?) But it's important for me to recognize that I had to get through this story before I could write any other. I had to address some of my dreams and nightmares so that I can (hopefully) leave them behind and move on to some of the other stories I'm itching to write.

In fact, it might be safe to say that in writing this story of coincidence or random encounters, I'm writing the story of how I finally learned to call myself a writer. Maybe it wasn't an accident that brought me to this place in my life where I would finally cry uncle and admit that I write not for fun or for release or maybe it's for both those things? But ultimately, I write because I have to. It's what I do.

And as if that wasn't all just enough to twist my knickers into confused knots, I sit down at my computer to check my email and a song from the Rushmore Soundtrack comes up on my itunes shuffle. In one of his last chapters, Chabon mentioned the movie Rushmore.

Coincidence?

Booked

Thank you all for your comments yesterday. I love finding out what you read. Right now I seem to be reading the dictionary. The further I go in this Michael Chabon book, the more I need it. When I'm finished with it, I think I'll move on to something with simpler language. All the sudden, I feel really, really stupid.

Not much time for any kind of writing today. We're driving Chloe back to her school. Break is over. Ahem.

Before I go, I should tell you that yesterday's workshop was full of great info about publishing and Lauretta spent some time talking to us about what keeps us from actually writing and how to remove those blocks. It was the boost I needed.

So here's the deal - I'm going to put myself on a schedule. I'm going to continue to blog, but only in the afternoon after I've done some work on my manuscript. That writing must come first. In fact, I'm going to keep myself offline altogether until 11am everyday. It will be like coming off a drug, I think, but it's time.

I heard today on Wait Wait Don't Tell Me about how the Chicago Public School's District HQ now has a shaming device on its computer system. If you log onto any of a list of verboten websites, this mad shrieking alarm goes off. It doesn't stop until you've closed the offending website's window. If this catches on, we all might consider investing in stocks of companies that produce hearing aids. I have to keep this info from MathMan as long as I can. I mean, he's already threatened to strip me of my USB thingy that connects me to our home network until the manuscript is ready to be submitted to agents. Something about being tired of hearing about it.....

I must show some self-discipline, I suppose.

Now I must go. Everyone is medicated and the car is packed with Chloe's things. Five Goldens in a car for a few hours? What could possibly go wrong?


P.S. The Pussies for Peace are decked out as Attack Cats. And they haven't been fed....so.....

The Mournful Bleatings of a Former Middle Class Dreg

"Jesus, if I have to see one more person writing their vacation to do lists or bitching about how hard it is to come back from a vacation, I'm going to fucking cancel my Facebook account and never turn on the computer again.  Shit.  When was the last time we took a vacation?  Not work, not visits to family, but a real vacation?  2006?"

"Was that the year we went to D.C. before we went to Indiana and Illinois to visit family?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, lighten up, Lucy.  Your whole life is a vacation.  Just ask your dad.  Now how about getting out and applying for that job at McDonands he keeps talking about."

Some days the thing that really makes this marriage work is the ability to put the other person swiftly and precisely into their place.  When we are kind, it's done with humor.  When we're ready to take out the long knives, not so much.  The truth is, MathMan knows how to get at that deep, dark, ugly place inside me, make me look at it, poke it with a stick, and then bury it back where it belongs until next time.  It's when we deny that that ugly nugget exists that we get into our horrible scrapes.

He neither indulges nor discourages me when I'm being petulant and whiny.  He shoves, lures, cajoles me beyond it so that I can be less self-pitying and like myself just a bit.  Sometimes to his peril.  He's good for me.  The bastard.

If ever I'm standing on the ledge, please get MathMan.  He, to his credit and his everlasting regret, I suspect, knows what makes me tick.  And he knows my preferred chocolate (cheap), wine (Malbec) and ice cream flavor (chocolate marshmallow).

So it's true.  I've been a bit resentful of the social media exposure I've had to other people's fabulous lives and disposable income.  It's made me chew the inside of my cheek and push back from the keyboard on more than one occasion when I want to lash out. 

But then, I thought no.  We're here because of the mistakes we've made, the bad decisions, the drama I have introduced into the fold.  Suck it up, sister.  Deal. And then I read Betsy Lerner's take on vacations and am reminded that I'm a lot like her.  The idea of a vacation is one thing.  The execution of that idea is something else entirely.  No matter where I go, the compulsion to have things just so, the annoying sighs, the short fuse, they all get packed right along with my smelly sandals and that pretty shawl I never take out and wear because I've never worn a shawl in my life.  They don't go well with the cargo shorts, do they?  Even I know that.

So what if you can't actually take a vacation?  That's what books are for!  They transport you.  Well, at least they used to.  Why not stop feeling sorry for yourself and give it a whirl?

Turns out the still do transport.  I picked up Ayelet Waldman's Red Hook Road at the library last week.  I've never been to Maine, but I'd like to go there.  Why not visit through this novel?  If you can overlook the main premise of the story (death of newlyweds, a real downer), it's got those elements that do take me out of my own dreary housewifery and transports me to the salty air and sandy beaches of coastal Maine where I can sail and listen to the seagulls and eat fresh lobster while wearing a swimsuit without the slightest hint of self-consciousness. 

Anyway, I'll be writing a review of it as soon as I'm finished reading it.  It's time to cut the ties binding my to the computer and read.

Before I go, I thought I'd share with you another of life's tiny ironies.  I decided to follow Ayelet Waldman on Twitter.  She tweets almost daily.  And, of course, this week, just when I decide to follow her, she and her husband Michael Chabon and their children are.......on vacation.

Do you take mental vacations?  What are you reading to escape?  When you close your eyes, where do you "vacation?"  And go on - tell me about your favorite vacation, if you'd like.  I can take it.