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.

I See Stories

I'm off the writing wagon and back on the street. In the muck, actually, but that's a story for later...(author smoothly changes topic before reader bats an eyelash.)

These past few nights, reading a lot of poker-related blogs and threads--researching, I like to think of it--I've come across stories unlike what you ordinarily see in the literary gamut.

The Good:

Scouring twoplusto, I found a fascinating, honest, and insightful thread: Ask Layzie about Heroin Addiction/Doing Time In Prison If you know anyone who has drug issues, I really urge you to pass this along to them. It's just a dude who's talking openly about his experiences-- getting addicted to heroin, going to prison, getting clean. He will answer any question. Paul Philips' blog also yieleded some worthwhile stuff--a pretty good mix of humor, politics, and poker content.

The Bad:

Overwhelmingly, most of what I found online did not amount to a satisfying, thought-provoking, or even funny read. A lot of stories lacked nuance or any form of redemption.

I'm thinking specifically of three posts I read on Boy of Destiny. I don't even know whose blog this is; I found a link to it on twoplustwo. Two of the posts detail failed dating experiences in which asshole guys try to hook up with girls because of the "challenge" or the promise of large tits. A third story recounts a man's experience in Korea where a prank leads to a man's suicide.

All three stories fail badly, leave a bitter taste in the mouth of the reader.

But these stories interest me because 1) they are real 2) they are of obvious significance to the teller 3) that they are related in this fashion is a unique product of the internet and modern conventions of personal documentary.

I was thinking about these stories in the context of the values they represent. They seem typical, the romance predicaments fairly standard. They carry the assumption that most men desire sex, that this, as the sole driving force in a relationship, tends to workout badly, which I tend to agree with.

So why do the stories fail so badly? Is it merely a case of the author not doing the work to lull us into the fictive dream, to assume the correct position relative to the material to allow us to see the tragedy or the genuine emotion involved? Probably. I think there is a pattern in that the stories seem not to show the narrator/protagonist having complex emotions, or even

Meta-moment: I wanted to invoke the issue of "architecture," to question whether these stories fundamentally have enough conflict to make them succesful, even if they were realized perfectly. But, thinking about it, they clearly do; several of mine don't. Fuck.

Meta-moment 2: this is awesome. I'm workshopping strangers' blogs!

What can I gain from these stories?

I want to read these personal narratives and gain some new intuitive feel for the set of issues confronting man in our time, particularly the poker playing subpopulation (the topic of the story I will write in entirety between now and Tuesday, minus two paragraphs previously posted), but having insight's into the human soul isn't as easy as it sounds.

Or more likely, I could steal them, see if I can tell them with any better luck.

If I can get myself to write, maybe I will.

update and a paradox

Nearly reinstalled Party today. I opened up partypoker.com, and browsed the silky, lime green webpage with all the mouth-watering anticipation of a starving man.

I basically had myself convinced that I should be allowed to play x hours of poker/week, since I'm finding all kinds of new ways to waste the same amount of time. Not to mention, there are drawbacks to renouncing one's profession and only source of income. (But on the positive side, I can now make a gravity water pipe with a 2liter bottle, a knife, and a can. With my hans tied behind my back, in an oversize freezer. Like MacGiver.)

Being a man of principle, I decided I should give it a least a week before making any needed amendments.

I'll keep the updates coming. And, with any luck, stories will follow soon...

---
The Writer's Paradox:

Most of the value of a story originates from insights in the writing.
You don't know what writing is necessary until you have the finished story.

I'm not sure if this is as troubling to other writers as it is to me, but it describes a really annoying dilemma. Do you spend 20 minutes envisioning a space, picking out that perfect detail in the room, only to have your efforts amount to nothing when you trash the entire scene? Or do you write the thing, and try to improve the details later on, only to realize you're far more commited to the crap on the page than you could have possibly intended and that your finished draft lacks originality or even a soul?

More philosophizing and pontificating later...now, it's time to write some masterpieces.

Progress Never Guessed

A solid 26 hours in, and I'm living up to most of the terms of my self-imposed 35-day trial reformation.

I say 'most' because bright and early yesterday I received a phone call from one R. Jahna at 5am, enticing me to go the Buffet for shuffle board and breakfast brews. What resulted, instead--a couple beers at his place, some laughs, some heated debate of economic theory--was certainly worth a small sidestep of the rules in its value to my documentary (in progress), tentatively titled Flamingo Fellow.

Later, watching the travesty that is NCAA officiating, I was forced to down another beer and a half. Washington (and my boy, Appleby) got abused...and Jensen is a bitch!

I did however return home, where I attempted to write and found other enterprising distractions instead of the ones outlawed in my previous post. To the haters (ie Justin) I wrote a whole page and a half in the last 5 hours. Yeah, that page was good! I'll do it again, punk!

I also rekindled my love affair with international currents and read various articles on the art of 'cigarette' rolling, which I then employed to roll my own 'cigarettes.'

Okay, time to catch a few zzz's!