Text and Hubris

I have a simple rule when it comes to posting. I never post fiction or poetry after midnight.

If I am posting something that late, it is doubtful that the piece has gone through enough of a proofreading process to be worthy of posting. Most likely, I am just trying to pad my post count because I have been far too quiet as of late and that is never a good reason. I would rather post nothing than a half-edited piece of sub-par work.

Last night, I broke my rule. I posted some flash fiction that I had been playing with throughout the day and went to bed. I am regretting that decision this morning. It wasn’t because the piece is especially atrocious (although the more I read it, the more atrocious it becomes). It just feels disjointed and incomplete. I even pulled it for a little bit but put it back as reminder to myself of what not to do.

At first, I was worried that my reaction was driven by a fear of sharing my work, but I don’t think that that is the case anymore. After the workshops I did last year, that fear is largely gone. In fact, of all the things I miss, I find that I miss those workshop critiques the most. Sure, it wasn’t always easy to watch something I had spent a lot of time and energy on get picked apart. There were even times when I felt the critiques missed the mark. It didn’t really matter, though. I was getting honest insight into my work by critical and competent readers. Those critiques are fundamental for anyone who wants to become a better writer and I feel lucky to have gotten them.

I know there are a few sites that offer forms of critique, but I haven’t been really impressed with much of what I have seen.

So I’ll put this out there:

• If you happen to have an online workshop that is looking for people or are interested in being part of one, drop me a note or leave a comment below. If there is enough interest. I will set one up. In fact, I may already have a place in mind if the site owner is okay with it.
• If you live in the Twin Cities and know of or are interested in a live workshop, I am definitely up for that as well. I am still finding all the parts of the community here and would love a chance to get involved in one way or another.

I am not sure who much of response I am going get here, but at least this is a start. I promise it will be better than my last post!

There is a lot that happens behind the scenes in a University town. Often, there are small subcultures that are formed purely from the shifting movements of students and faculty. These people move back and forth, silent and unseen, but they often form an important part of what makes a town like Iowa City run so smoothly. Today, I watched one of these people in action, an appliance and furniture hunter who was looking through dumpsters for student cast-offs.

It’s actually a really good idea. Every year, as the Spring semester comes to a close, thousands of students pack up and head home or head out into the world to seek their fortune. In either case, they are often unable or unwilling to take everything they had with them. What this means is that an incredible amount of valuable and high quality furniture and appliances are simply discarded on the side of the road, near dumpsters, and all across the city. This is especially true where I live. Many of the students here are foreign nationals who plan to returning to their own countries. It’s impossible to take these items on a plane. Early on, we will see flyers for sales but eventually the left over items are simply left discarded and abandoned to the trash heap.

This is exactly what Courtney and I were doing. We’re in the process of moving and our couch is too old and too big. We had no place for it, so we set about lugging that heavy monstrosity to its appointed place near the dumpster. We made it down the stairs and were resting while mourning how far away our final destination still was when what appeared to be a moving van drove by. It was yellow and the lettering on the side was faded and worn and it circled the lot slowly, then stopped in front of us. A pleasant man with a few white hairs still ringing his balding head opened the door and and asked us if we were going to throw the couch away. We told him that we were and he asked if we would rather just have him take it off our hands. Essentially, he was offering to save us from a miserable journey with a couch that weighed more than any couch should. We readily agreed. He came over and inspected the couch carefully. His truck was already full of other finds: two couches, a painting, and an odd assortment of lamps. After his inspection of our old couch, he decided against keeping it but offered to drive it over for us. This alone made him my hero for the day.

He was experienced at what he did. He knew what to look for and he asked us if we knew anyone who was moving out this week. We didn’t and gave him our thanks as he left. As I thought about it, I realized that he probably saves the city millions in terms of discarded trash and waste. He takes these cast-offs and gives them a new life. He isn’t alone, either. Within an hour of our couch landing near the dumpster, it was gone. It had disappeared into another truck ready for another life.

I wish it and all those treasure seekers well.

I suppose it had to happen sooner or later. I went through all the work to get the job and they were kind enough to hire me so I guess I better head in. Yep, on Monday, I return to the work force. Well, on a part-time basis at least. For four hours a day, I will slave away on web code and library research. I know, it sounds like hell doesn’t it?

Ah, who am I kidding? It’s exactly the type of job I was looking for. It fits my school schedule, gives back to the world at large and uses skills that I love to use. If the money was better it would be my dream job. As it is, it is the best fit for what I need right now and that is rather nice. Honestly, I am looking forward to going in on Monday. It should be an interesting experience all around.

So, work is handled. School is pretty much settled for fall and I think Courtney and I have figured out our budget for the year. It still surprises me. I know I worked like hell to make it this way but everything is starting to fall into place. Oh, I am sure there will be surprises ahead but there is a real feeling that what we’re doing is right in all sense of the word. I like that.

My writing is the only thing that really suffered over this time period. i just haven’t had the time I wanted to sit and write and when I did, I was too tied up thinking about what had to be done. It wasn’t the best situation for a creative enterprise. It’s also something that I am going to need to figure out how to work through in the future. After all, things happen, that doesn’t mean I can stop writing.

I was able to get another poem out last night. It was a departure from my usual fare and I find that I am still questioning my voice and my genre. Amazon’s little deal with Wylie was horrifying, especially to someone who wants to believe and write in the new media and digital space. Those of us who came here first did so with a sort of egalitarian ideal. This was open space and territory was ripe for the picking. We forgot that the ideals of enclosure were never really done away with and all that was needed was for a company, like Amazon, to set itself up as the sole proprietor. In one move the works of several incredible authors has been locked away behind the walls of a plastic toy. Even then, we have been shown that, at any time, those authors can be plucked away on a whim. It’s a frightening concept to say the least and almost enough to push me solely into print.

It’s sad because we have here, in this interconnectivity, a chance to recreate the storytellers’ circle. We can share stories and poems. We can relate in ways that we couldn’t before and that is exciting. Narrative and poetry can flow, merge and can be shaped by the tellers and the circle. That should be astounding and every author in the world should be grinning at the thought of such a possibility. Instead, the best example of this is an advertising commercial for Old Spice. Really? I mean really? Doesn’t that embarrass anyone, because it sure as hell embarrasses me. Yes, there is no doubt, those guys are geniuses. What that means is that our best talents in modern storytelling work in advertising. It’s not even enclosure at that point. It’s just the marketing of another product.

There has to be a voice for storytelling. People want to tell stories. They want to hear stories. I know that much. I still run a small Improvisational Storytelling Group every other Saturday. In a lot of ways, it’s no different from the tabletop RPG’s I used to run. The difference is that the players all are storytellers. We set the scene and we let it run. It becomes a shared experience. In the best example of this there is no guide, there is only the story. I watch people come away from this experience wanting more. There is a reason for this. Stories and poems feed something deep within the human psyche and no locked gates can keep that desire at bay.

Ah well, as I said, I was questioning my voice and genre but a resolution was found. The truth is, I couldn’t stop now even if I wanted to. This is a part of me that I hid for a very long time. It’s out now and I don’t think I know how to put it back.

And if I did, I never would…

If I have to read one more story about a mid-life crisis, the joy of an upper middle-class life or learning to love a husband or wife, I think I am going to go insane. When did our literature become the equivalent of a reality show? I understand that we are supposedly in the midst of nonfiction’s resurgence but the truth is the nonfiction out there is absolute crap.

What worries me is that we are beginning to see this self-indulgent nonfiction invade the fiction space and I just don’t think I care to deal with that. I like my fiction, oh I don’t know, fictional. I don’t really want to read narratives about the average person living their average life. Nor do I want to read authors waxing sentimental about their “ordinary” lives.

I am egotist. We all know this. I have a space online, one that I pay for, where I sit and pontificate. That requires a serious bit of ego. Hell, part of my job is to convince people to read what I write. Really, though, how truly narcissistic do you have to be to think that people actually want to read about your bullshit life, especially when your bullshit life is almost exactly the same as their bullshit life.

There was a time when I considered nonfiction. Now, I just want poetry and fiction. Give me the world of allegory, of mystery, a world that exists purely in the landscapes of the craziest authors out there. Show me difference, show me something new and maybe, just maybe, let me imagine how things might be different for better or for worse.

Saw this on Pharyngula and had to repost it!