last post

Dear Reader,

When I undertook to write this blog, I dreamed of a blog where I'd be able to share a harrowing portrait of the artist's inner life, where together we'd revel in the feats of the great writers, their names no more than a reverent whisper on our lips. This was to be a blog balanced by tales of outlandish sexcapades and drunken revelry. Likely with arty photographs of women (very tasteful, or whatever).

I dreamed, dear reader, of a forum devoted to the twenty-year-old's base, hormonal yearnings, and equally, the ubiquitous aspiration to create art, order and meaning from amidst the chaos of existence. Where douchey friends would pop in to tell me that such and such post, title, or idea was the Worst. Ever. But, alas. Alas!

The incessant ramblings of a young, confused mind, the complaints and trivial details from an idle man's routine, have mudied the crystal waters of that once noble dream. The big casino in the sky calls to me, the soft chk-clink of electronic chips stirs on the breeze, echoes in my guesthouse.

Perhaps I have finally succumbed to the view, relentlessly advanced by my professors, that the experience of a twenty-three year old aspiring artist is not fit for art. That such material "can't help but go soft." Perhaps, in putting an end to this, I take a small step toward recovery. Again, to quote my professor: "It's really one thing to have trouble. It's another thing not to get help for it."

And so, with heavy heart, I bid you farewell, dear reader. Though I am saddened by failure, I do not wallow in it, have not lost resolve:

'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.

Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in the old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal-temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Update

Much work to do, so I will keep this short and sweet.

April has been my best month of poker ever. I took a few stabs at the NL 2k games, with good (ie lucky) results.

This past week was one of my most productive weeks in Tucson, reminiscent of productive undergrad days. I cranked out a 52 page screenplay, a few days late (of course!), but the lateness was needed to cement my reputation as least reliable student in the program. Ever. What resulted from those efforts, a comedy with many flaws, but nevertheless a few interesting scenes, is something I'm content with. There is that satisfaction to getting new stuff out, even if it needs work.

I also lived about the least healthy weak of my life, ever. I somehow found myself going to bed in the 2pm - 6pm range, drinking tons of soda, with no idea when to eat or even when to sleep. I definitely had more than a couple light-headed conversations, where I was unable to form sentences. Luckily, several sparks and beers last night seems to have done the trick in terms of kicking me back on track.

Saturday morning I tried to buy Tool tickets, for both the shows at ASU and at the Hard Rock in Vegas. That whole online ticketmaster system is a crock of shit, but there in lies a rant for later. I'm now looking at buying tickets for $300 a pop, if I can stomach that. Not so sure.

The MFA is virtually over. I need to finish a story by Tuesday, and after that, I need to finish whatever I possibly can to show my manuscript adviser. I plan to go out with at least a small flourish, which is why I will be heading to coffee exchange any minute now.

What are the important, unresolved problems in contemporary fiction?

We writers like to believe that any story can be great. Every twenty-year-old has the life experience to write a dozen novels; or at the least, has poigniant stories to tell, if only he possessed the talent and nurtured the skill.

Quite possibly, but is that enought to be great?

Truly great fiction, lasting, amazing fiction (I now believe!) attacks some new problem, enters a new terriroty, or concpetualizes an existing problem in a new way. Am I off base here? Or am I correct in thinking that Joyce, Hemingway, Morrison, McCarthy all treat different, new ideas in their best work?

What I'm trying to say is that: 1) it's worthwhile to regularly contemplate fiction at this abstract, theoretical level 2) it's important to devote one's efforts to the important problems, which means writing stories with a high degree of ambition.

The more I think about it, the more obvious it seems to me.

If you want to write really great stuff, you have to understand what importnat work remains in your field. Which universal stories can still be improved? Which of the best, most moving stories remain untold?

I credit the following awesome speech on scientific research for my epiphany:


http://paulgraham.com/hamming.html

Providence

How rare it is to stumble upon a piece of art that expresses one's inner most feelings! How much rarer, still, when one has studied a lot of art--too much, perhaps. When stories begin to look like variations on the wheel: a shiny rim here, dubs over there, all-terrain tread (yawn...) Nothing to write home about.

Against the odds, this happened to me.

I ordered Fellini's 8 1/2 from Netflix, with the vague recollection that Woody Allen had stolen from it in Stardust Memories. (And, truthfully, because it had the reputation of one of those films one ought to see.)

This Italian film, from 1963, shot in black and white, is probably the best metafictional work I've ever seen or read. The protagonist is a director, Guido, who is struggling to create his next picture.

The center of the film is Guido's struggle to tell a story based on fragments of his memories; to do so truthfully, without lies; his realization that he has nothing new or even insightful to say, but still the strong desire to tell; his ultimate acceptance of this ambiguity.

How the fuck could you ever set out to make a film about this?

Yet Fellini does this. And oh, how fucking brilliantly. Each shot is so skillfully arranged. And the scenes from his childhood, the scenes the character imagines: The wine bath, Asa Nisi Masa, the harem. Those I will not soon forget!

I had to watch it twice.

---

And here I sit, less than 20 hours away from the deadline to submit what may very well be the last story I ever workshop.

I am far, far too young to feel as Guido does.

8 1/2, closely based on Fellini's own experience, titled so because up to that point Fellini had directed 6 full-legnth film, 2 short films (halves), and co-directed one other for a total of 7 1/2, makes sense as a meditation on filmmaking coming from a highly accomplished director.

Though I have made precious little art--surely I cannot have not exhausted my creativity, written all the lies I believe to be true--I have no desire to write and receive criticism on another realistic story.

I doubt, fundamentally, my ability to create a fictional work of great value, honest to my experience of the world, commensurate in insight to the effort it will cost me to write it. And yet, my esteem for great stories remains as high as ever.

I can only hope that this will be enough.