I had an idea one day that during the times I was wasting my life playing video games on my computer I would, instead of listening to the various sounds the game produced, listen to a book on tape. I can mute specific programs (and I have a six-core computer, so it can handle multiple programs). I now digitally download the games so I don't need a disc, and most of the downloads are cheaper than their CD counterparts. It actually works out pretty well.
A friend, whom I told about this plan, asked me if I would be able to concentrate on the story while playing the video game. I responded with several points. First, the games I play on the computer don't require much thought. I play mostly The Sims and the characters can relatively take care of themselves. Second, my attention can't be that much worse than someone who listens to books-on-CD while they're driving. I can pause my game if I feel the need to listen more carefully to the book. I can't (or wouldn't) pull over to listen in the car. Third, even when I'm reading if I feel my attention slipping I would probably realize after a few pages that I had no idea what just happened in the story. So it isn't any different than a normal reading session. Last, it beats listening to the jibber-jabber of the invented 'simlish' language.
And while it's great for books like Mark Twain or short story collections or the like, today I started listening to a "masterpiece of literature" that is supposed to be stark, real ... naked if you will. It is titled Naked Lunch by William S. Burroughs.
I'm sure it's brilliant. I'm sure it's ground-breaking. It sure is stark. But it isn't a book you listen to when your seven-year-old niece is running past your bedroom and she might catch the narrator describing torture techniques involving a sheep shoved up someone's asshole. You read that correctly - if I heard it correctly, that is. And I think I did hear that correctly. I've actually never heard the word 'fag' used so much in my life, and I grew up in middle-America. There's no story. The book, at least so far, is a string of instances in the narrator's life - a life of drug abuse, murder, torture, and horrible deaths. I don't understand what's going on but that's because it isn't linear nor really a story as far as I can tell. It paints a picture of a time and place, of a culture, a drug culture. I'm sure it was a pioneer for being so brave and raw.
The voice actor used to narrate did a bang-up job. He sounds like every redneck I've ever met, and he adopts a new persona for every new character, which means about once every five minutes. And he doesn't hold back on being very stereotypical for those characters, either. A Hispanic woman? Let's make her sound stupid and a little bit crazy. A cop? Let's make him sound mean and a little bit nerdy. A 'fag'? Let's not even give him a voice but describe how thrilling it was to watch him get murdered by a drug-addled vigilante.
I'm not sure why it's considered so brilliant. I suppose it's the same confusion I find with the beat poets. I'm just not that interested in drug culture. During the book's time period (published in 1959) this kind of naked truth about the horrors of the world was unheard of. So I guess I can respect the book for being honest and daring? I mean, sure I can. But I think I'll try, at a later date, to respect it on paper.
May 31, 2012
May 10, 2012
Sorry Speeches
Whenever I read a review of an author's lifetime work, it often includes certain themes the author revisits time and again. Stephen King, in his earlier work, often wrote about childhood innocence and coming of age. The author I'm reading now, Haruki Murakami, often writes about loneliness. Jorge Luis Borges focused on the labyrinths of time and memory. It's funny, because I think it was in King's memoir On Writing where he talks about hating when people ask him if there's a theme to his writing. That could have been in any number of interviews with various authors I've read over the years, though. Regardless of whether an author realizes it or not, often there is a moral or consciousness the author returns to, and sometimes it isn't recognizable until long after that author is gone.
I think quite often about what the themes of my writing would be. I understand the process of writing to be cathartic, and authors are really working through the issues they have with the world at large, or within themselves. I think one such issue I have is with regret or remorse.
There are often scenes in stories, television shows, and movies where a character, let's name him Bill, hurts the feelings of a second character, who shall be named Sally. Bill makes Sally cry herself to sleep, perhaps unintentionally. Sally shoulders the weight of her feelings for a long time, possibly years. Maybe she only shoulders that weight for twenty seconds, but the point is she shoulders it in a way Bill, at the time, doesn't, because he is most likely unaware or uncaring of how he made Sally feel. Eventually, Sally feels the need to expunge this weight from her chest and so, in a tearful and emotion-filled speech, she unburdens herself in Bill's face. Normally, within the context of storytelling, Bill will reach an epiphany about his actions and apologize, sincerely, to Sally. He will then endeavor to be more careful with Sally's feelings.
I call bullshit.
I call this, because in my own experience no one apologizes even when the injured person shines light on the past behavior. I know I can't base all writing on my own experiences, but personally, whenever I'm the audience for said scene, it just makes me angry and frustrated. I've never received an apology when I've told someone how he or she made me feel. It doesn't matter the situation.
Usually, the other person will instead justify why they performed said behavior. It can never be his fault. Someone else's feelings can never be his responsibility. It has become such a sore point in my life that I actually fear confronting someone who has hurt me because I know it will end in more pain for me. There was a reason said behavior was necessary, and no matter how prepared I am to combat any response, the other person is ready with more justification, or just ends the conversation by walking away, brushing me off, or calling me names. In most instances, instead of confronting the person, I retreat into my bedroom and cry in a ball, mentally enacting the scene from above with that person as Bill and myself as Sally, because the only apology I'll ever receieve is an imaginary one.
Professors in college asked me, time and again, why I had written the stories I had written. Most young authors give a flippant response, or a response that is so intense and pretentious it's almost laughable, because life for them is still a ball of chaos and confusion. I had no idea who I was or what I needed when I was twenty. I still don't completely understrand my own life. Whenever I get a rejection letter from a magazine I often get a hand-written note telling me it's well-written but that something is missing. I'm slowly concluding that something is purpose.
There are other themes I revisit. Imagination, longing, and identity are all tangled up with this idea of regret and remorse. They all seem to go hand-in-hand. I went through a writer's block for a very long time, so long I'm just now recovering from it, because for years I struggled with my identity as a writer, mainly because I was struggling with identity in general. Even now, I regret allowing any other person to try to define me, but that's what happened and why I became blocked. I imagined up a pseudonym, to the point of almost allowing that personality to take over my own personality. I'm leaving that imaginary person behind now and examining what it means to be myself.
I suppose that when I wait for an apology when someone hurts me, really I'm just waiting for that other person to define me. I also suppose I'm waiting to give a definition to that person. I want that person to justify my identity in the same way he or she is justifying his or her own identity by denying the behavior was wrong. The right thing for me to do would be to confront that person, but once I've confronted her, let her own subsequent behavior be what it will be without expectation. But to paraphrase Dumbledore, what is right is seldom what is easy.
I'm sure I will write scenes where Bill apologizes to Sally. I think maybe those scenes are written as some kind of guidance toward what is right. But real people often choose what is easy. But since my writing is, after all, fiction, and in fiction characters don't have to be realistic, I suppose I can try to define a behavior, I suppose I'm really the one defining these fictional people. As a catharsis for defining myself.
I think quite often about what the themes of my writing would be. I understand the process of writing to be cathartic, and authors are really working through the issues they have with the world at large, or within themselves. I think one such issue I have is with regret or remorse.
There are often scenes in stories, television shows, and movies where a character, let's name him Bill, hurts the feelings of a second character, who shall be named Sally. Bill makes Sally cry herself to sleep, perhaps unintentionally. Sally shoulders the weight of her feelings for a long time, possibly years. Maybe she only shoulders that weight for twenty seconds, but the point is she shoulders it in a way Bill, at the time, doesn't, because he is most likely unaware or uncaring of how he made Sally feel. Eventually, Sally feels the need to expunge this weight from her chest and so, in a tearful and emotion-filled speech, she unburdens herself in Bill's face. Normally, within the context of storytelling, Bill will reach an epiphany about his actions and apologize, sincerely, to Sally. He will then endeavor to be more careful with Sally's feelings.
I call bullshit.
I call this, because in my own experience no one apologizes even when the injured person shines light on the past behavior. I know I can't base all writing on my own experiences, but personally, whenever I'm the audience for said scene, it just makes me angry and frustrated. I've never received an apology when I've told someone how he or she made me feel. It doesn't matter the situation.
Usually, the other person will instead justify why they performed said behavior. It can never be his fault. Someone else's feelings can never be his responsibility. It has become such a sore point in my life that I actually fear confronting someone who has hurt me because I know it will end in more pain for me. There was a reason said behavior was necessary, and no matter how prepared I am to combat any response, the other person is ready with more justification, or just ends the conversation by walking away, brushing me off, or calling me names. In most instances, instead of confronting the person, I retreat into my bedroom and cry in a ball, mentally enacting the scene from above with that person as Bill and myself as Sally, because the only apology I'll ever receieve is an imaginary one.
Professors in college asked me, time and again, why I had written the stories I had written. Most young authors give a flippant response, or a response that is so intense and pretentious it's almost laughable, because life for them is still a ball of chaos and confusion. I had no idea who I was or what I needed when I was twenty. I still don't completely understrand my own life. Whenever I get a rejection letter from a magazine I often get a hand-written note telling me it's well-written but that something is missing. I'm slowly concluding that something is purpose.
There are other themes I revisit. Imagination, longing, and identity are all tangled up with this idea of regret and remorse. They all seem to go hand-in-hand. I went through a writer's block for a very long time, so long I'm just now recovering from it, because for years I struggled with my identity as a writer, mainly because I was struggling with identity in general. Even now, I regret allowing any other person to try to define me, but that's what happened and why I became blocked. I imagined up a pseudonym, to the point of almost allowing that personality to take over my own personality. I'm leaving that imaginary person behind now and examining what it means to be myself.
I suppose that when I wait for an apology when someone hurts me, really I'm just waiting for that other person to define me. I also suppose I'm waiting to give a definition to that person. I want that person to justify my identity in the same way he or she is justifying his or her own identity by denying the behavior was wrong. The right thing for me to do would be to confront that person, but once I've confronted her, let her own subsequent behavior be what it will be without expectation. But to paraphrase Dumbledore, what is right is seldom what is easy.
I'm sure I will write scenes where Bill apologizes to Sally. I think maybe those scenes are written as some kind of guidance toward what is right. But real people often choose what is easy. But since my writing is, after all, fiction, and in fiction characters don't have to be realistic, I suppose I can try to define a behavior, I suppose I'm really the one defining these fictional people. As a catharsis for defining myself.
May 7, 2012
The Remedial Honors Class
It may be emerging from my previous posts that I struggle quite a bit with FEELINGS of inadequacy. One constant struggle is the number of books I read in a year. My goal recently has been to read one hundred books or more every year, and to increase that number as time goes by. I've tried diligently to reach this goal, and have almost always nearly succeeded. If you noticed several qualifiers in that sentence, you're a smart cookie. The truth is I've never read one hundred books in a year. The reason is because I can't.
I think I may need professional therapy over this issue more than any other issue I have (some may disagree). Since I just read an article stating the average American reads four books a year, the fact that I read somewhere around sixty should not put me in such a state of anxiety. I read more books each month than an average person reads in a year. Shouldn't that make me feel good about myself?
Well, really, the problem is I'm not out to compare myself to the average person. I'm comparing myself to the average writer, the average scholar, the average "intellectual." I don't know what the average is for those individuals, but I assume it's higher than four. I assume it's higher than one hundred. I know another problem here is with me making an "ass" out of myself at least. Why am I making up an arbitrary average?
I've seen a few websites devoted to clubs where people document the one hundred books they've read in one year, and they form a community with the intention of encouraging each other toward that goal. That's noble and I wish I thought for one second I would be able to carry out that goal, because I would join one of those websites in a second.
A friend once asked me if I read every word. My reply of "of course" shocked her. Her response was that she basically speed-reads through most of the books she reads, and she goes back and reads every word of the ones she finds to be outstanding. She told me her husband reads every word, too, and so it takes him a long time to read, just like me. I wish I could read faster, especially since I find most books to be mediocre. But I can't. Maybe it's the writer in me, searching through the bad and mediocre just as thoroughly as the outstanding, knowing there are lessons in each.
Recently I conducted an experiment where I timed myself reading a page of fiction. I ended up consistently needing nearly two minutes to read one page. When I would try speed-reading I would just end up frustrated that I didn't know what was going on by about two or three paragraphs later, because I have to know what's going on at all given times. I can't just "get the gist" of a novel. Even a mediocre one.
Today I tried to push myself to a certain page goal, because I wanted to be through a certain part of the book I'm reading before I return to work tomorrow. The amount of pages to reach that goal was around 150. It took me nearly six hours. I know a lot of people would glare at me with contempt for whining about this so-called "problem," but it's like when my friend at work complains about having gained ten pounds and so now she has begun needing size 3 pants. It's a problem to her, and though I shush her when someone who is buying, say, a size 16 or so is around, I know that weight gain means something more to her, like it's the symbol of lost youth or the fall of her marriage. For me, the inability to read at a pace I feel is expected is the symbol of medocrity or laziness.
I devoted my entire attention to that book today and still it took me forever to get through it. It isn't the time spent reading that does me in, but my ability to perform. It's like having incredibly high metabolism, so that no matter how much I consume I gain nothing.
I've decided to accept the number of books I can read. I've decided for now to know my limits. That doesn't mean I won't ever challenge them, but I think a major step forward for me right now would be to stop punishing myself, especially for something I've made up in my head. I've decided to try to be happier with myself because ultimately, lately, I've been on a search for whom I'm supposed to be. I don't know entirely yet, but each day I learn a little more.
I think I may need professional therapy over this issue more than any other issue I have (some may disagree). Since I just read an article stating the average American reads four books a year, the fact that I read somewhere around sixty should not put me in such a state of anxiety. I read more books each month than an average person reads in a year. Shouldn't that make me feel good about myself?
Well, really, the problem is I'm not out to compare myself to the average person. I'm comparing myself to the average writer, the average scholar, the average "intellectual." I don't know what the average is for those individuals, but I assume it's higher than four. I assume it's higher than one hundred. I know another problem here is with me making an "ass" out of myself at least. Why am I making up an arbitrary average?
I've seen a few websites devoted to clubs where people document the one hundred books they've read in one year, and they form a community with the intention of encouraging each other toward that goal. That's noble and I wish I thought for one second I would be able to carry out that goal, because I would join one of those websites in a second.
A friend once asked me if I read every word. My reply of "of course" shocked her. Her response was that she basically speed-reads through most of the books she reads, and she goes back and reads every word of the ones she finds to be outstanding. She told me her husband reads every word, too, and so it takes him a long time to read, just like me. I wish I could read faster, especially since I find most books to be mediocre. But I can't. Maybe it's the writer in me, searching through the bad and mediocre just as thoroughly as the outstanding, knowing there are lessons in each.
Recently I conducted an experiment where I timed myself reading a page of fiction. I ended up consistently needing nearly two minutes to read one page. When I would try speed-reading I would just end up frustrated that I didn't know what was going on by about two or three paragraphs later, because I have to know what's going on at all given times. I can't just "get the gist" of a novel. Even a mediocre one.
Today I tried to push myself to a certain page goal, because I wanted to be through a certain part of the book I'm reading before I return to work tomorrow. The amount of pages to reach that goal was around 150. It took me nearly six hours. I know a lot of people would glare at me with contempt for whining about this so-called "problem," but it's like when my friend at work complains about having gained ten pounds and so now she has begun needing size 3 pants. It's a problem to her, and though I shush her when someone who is buying, say, a size 16 or so is around, I know that weight gain means something more to her, like it's the symbol of lost youth or the fall of her marriage. For me, the inability to read at a pace I feel is expected is the symbol of medocrity or laziness.
I devoted my entire attention to that book today and still it took me forever to get through it. It isn't the time spent reading that does me in, but my ability to perform. It's like having incredibly high metabolism, so that no matter how much I consume I gain nothing.
I've decided to accept the number of books I can read. I've decided for now to know my limits. That doesn't mean I won't ever challenge them, but I think a major step forward for me right now would be to stop punishing myself, especially for something I've made up in my head. I've decided to try to be happier with myself because ultimately, lately, I've been on a search for whom I'm supposed to be. I don't know entirely yet, but each day I learn a little more.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
