Thursday, January 11, 2007
Monday, January 08, 2007
You can never have too much dinner
O.K., you can have too much dinner, but my point is I'm having dinner tonight and I am very excited about it. A friend of mine pitched a collaborative writing project to me and I was sold from sentence one. Tonight is our first meeting--and we're going to have dinner. I wish I could say more, but we're keeping fairly quiet about it until we have a solid draft and talk to an agent.
I have been looking to do something different since September--when my novel was conceptually done (I've got a couple more drafts to go, but it will mostly be cutting and transitions). I have been adrift: I already know the next four novels I want to write, but before I commit to another piece that's going to take two or three years I want to get a few other things written. And I have felt I needed a collaborative project. But who to write with? I knew I wanted to do something different, but what? Now I know.
I am currently writing a memoir with my sister, which I expect to work pretty heavily on into July. This new thing is something I can do at the same time.
I have been looking to do something different since September--when my novel was conceptually done (I've got a couple more drafts to go, but it will mostly be cutting and transitions). I have been adrift: I already know the next four novels I want to write, but before I commit to another piece that's going to take two or three years I want to get a few other things written. And I have felt I needed a collaborative project. But who to write with? I knew I wanted to do something different, but what? Now I know.
I am currently writing a memoir with my sister, which I expect to work pretty heavily on into July. This new thing is something I can do at the same time.
Saturday, January 06, 2007
Oh, why write?
Samuel Johnson once said "No man but a blockhead ever wrote, except for money." But let's put a footnote on that quotation: He spent years laboring on writing the English language's first dictionary. Lord Chesterfield offered to help and then provided no financing. With no money coming in for that project and no assurance that the thing would sell once it got published, Johnson, the original harmless drudge, forged on. After nearly ten years, right before Samuel Johnson finished the work, Lord Chesterfield sent a letter to Johnson saying something to the effect that he assumed it would be dedicated to him. Johnson fired back with one of the most sarcastic letters of all time. The dictionary sold when it was finally published, but did Johnson really just write it for the money?
If you're not only in it for the money, why else write? Make up your own reason. Without attempting to list my reasons here, I will list one of the components of my motivation, which is something I remind myself constantly: Don't quit just because other people are better at it than you (otherwise there would only be one writer in the world, which would obviate the need for William Saroyan's observation that there is always someone better than you--but you are always better than someone).
One writer who is better than me is Orhan Pamuk, the Turk who won the Nobel Prize in Literature 2006. BBC Worldwide has posted videos and transcripts, including in English, of his recent Nobel acceptance speech. I haven't read Pamuk's books, but even his list of reasons for writing are better than my writing. Well, we all have to start somewhere, and, besides, I'm better than someone (I hope).
If you're not only in it for the money, why else write? Make up your own reason. Without attempting to list my reasons here, I will list one of the components of my motivation, which is something I remind myself constantly: Don't quit just because other people are better at it than you (otherwise there would only be one writer in the world, which would obviate the need for William Saroyan's observation that there is always someone better than you--but you are always better than someone).
One writer who is better than me is Orhan Pamuk, the Turk who won the Nobel Prize in Literature 2006. BBC Worldwide has posted videos and transcripts, including in English, of his recent Nobel acceptance speech. I haven't read Pamuk's books, but even his list of reasons for writing are better than my writing. Well, we all have to start somewhere, and, besides, I'm better than someone (I hope).
Friday, January 05, 2007
If young people are going to misbehave . . .
. . . they should be thrown into prison! Yeah, that'll teach 'em:
New York [click here for stream]
New Orleans [click here for stream]
Venezuela [stream on NPR.org page]
New York [click here for stream]
New Orleans [click here for stream]
Venezuela [stream on NPR.org page]
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
So much for the sacrosanct
Last night I went home determined to work on my memoir instead of going to Harold Night. Until last night I had only missed one Harold Night since September--and that was to see an important novelist read.
I was dead tired when I got home but I decided I'd better write something or I would have wasted the entire day (I am doing something amazingly tedious at work these days--a special project). I took a nap and when I awoke it was 7 p.m.--if I went back to Manhattan now I could see Harold Night, and guarantee that I had not wasted the evening.
I did not go out. I fed Jenny. I cooked up a nice little dinner. I put my dinner dishes in the sink and sat in my chair--it's a beach chair--and opened a plastic tub of fresh papaya chunks for dessert. It was 8 p.m. If I went back to Manhattan now I could see the second show of Harold Night. Jenny leapt onto my lap and curled up and started purring. We had spent a lot of time together over the holidays, but as far as I am concerned Jenny can stay on my lap as long as she wants. She purred away and we listened to the radio and I decided I had eaten enough papaya. Then I could feel her fur heating up and she went to eat more dinner--she usually eats in courses.
I washed the dishes--which is also Jenny's cue to ask to be brushed. I feed her twice a day and brush her afterward because she always asks. Getting brushed after breakfast and dinner is her favorite thing in the whole world. I wonder if anything about this resembles the way Herman Melville wrote. I'm guessing not.
Then I brushed my teeth, figuring I would write and go straight to bed, meaning that as I fell asleep I would think of the next thing to write. When I sat in my beach chair again, Jenny jumped on my lap again--actually it was pretty much a repeat of what we'd done about 20 minutes before. Sometimes Jenny stares at me and meows for no reason; so, I pick he up and tell her I have not forgotten her. I think she was glad this night. Her fur got hot again and she leapt off me. Finally I booted up my computer and got to work. It was nearly 9 p.m.
By 9:46 I realized I had been writing solidly--which I didn't expect, because I had spent most of the evening fighting off fatigue and suspecting that I was finding ways to avoid writing. I wasn't sure I could keep going for 14 more minutes. Well, I did, and it was more solid writing. At 10 p.m. I stopped because I still had more to say (Hemingway's technique for making sure he could get started the next day). In that hour I had written a little over three pages. That doesn't sound very productive (20 minutes per page), especially considering my ratio of deleting half my first draft in my second draft. But this is a memoir, and I was remembering details from my childhood that I wasn't sure were there to be excavated, and my articulation of them on the page was strong. They were three good pages. I don't think I'm a person in real life, only on the page.
I was dead tired when I got home but I decided I'd better write something or I would have wasted the entire day (I am doing something amazingly tedious at work these days--a special project). I took a nap and when I awoke it was 7 p.m.--if I went back to Manhattan now I could see Harold Night, and guarantee that I had not wasted the evening.
I did not go out. I fed Jenny. I cooked up a nice little dinner. I put my dinner dishes in the sink and sat in my chair--it's a beach chair--and opened a plastic tub of fresh papaya chunks for dessert. It was 8 p.m. If I went back to Manhattan now I could see the second show of Harold Night. Jenny leapt onto my lap and curled up and started purring. We had spent a lot of time together over the holidays, but as far as I am concerned Jenny can stay on my lap as long as she wants. She purred away and we listened to the radio and I decided I had eaten enough papaya. Then I could feel her fur heating up and she went to eat more dinner--she usually eats in courses.
I washed the dishes--which is also Jenny's cue to ask to be brushed. I feed her twice a day and brush her afterward because she always asks. Getting brushed after breakfast and dinner is her favorite thing in the whole world. I wonder if anything about this resembles the way Herman Melville wrote. I'm guessing not.
Then I brushed my teeth, figuring I would write and go straight to bed, meaning that as I fell asleep I would think of the next thing to write. When I sat in my beach chair again, Jenny jumped on my lap again--actually it was pretty much a repeat of what we'd done about 20 minutes before. Sometimes Jenny stares at me and meows for no reason; so, I pick he up and tell her I have not forgotten her. I think she was glad this night. Her fur got hot again and she leapt off me. Finally I booted up my computer and got to work. It was nearly 9 p.m.
By 9:46 I realized I had been writing solidly--which I didn't expect, because I had spent most of the evening fighting off fatigue and suspecting that I was finding ways to avoid writing. I wasn't sure I could keep going for 14 more minutes. Well, I did, and it was more solid writing. At 10 p.m. I stopped because I still had more to say (Hemingway's technique for making sure he could get started the next day). In that hour I had written a little over three pages. That doesn't sound very productive (20 minutes per page), especially considering my ratio of deleting half my first draft in my second draft. But this is a memoir, and I was remembering details from my childhood that I wasn't sure were there to be excavated, and my articulation of them on the page was strong. They were three good pages. I don't think I'm a person in real life, only on the page.
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
What Tony is dreaming
As you probably know, it has been announced that Charlie Sanders has joined Reuben Williams. I saw this news yesterday and last night I dreamed about 1985. 1985 is performing tonight but I am so tired here at my job I can barely keep my eyes open. I've just got to go home, cook dinner, try to write for an hour, and then sleep--at which point I will probably be so wound up and awake I'll wish I was at the UCB Theatre. The thing is, I dreamed about 1985 last week, too. 1985! 1985!
So what was my 1985 dream? Well, other Harold Night teams were there too, on upper floors, but on the ground floor of my house it was 1985. In the dream all the rooms in my house are kitchens. (In fact, in my dream I have a house.) Anyway, all the kitchens are piled high with dirty dishes and pots and pans soaking in all the sinks in all the rooms. I think it's a three-story house, but after the first and second floors of messy kitchens I go back downstairs. All the sinks are blocked and flooding. None of this is my fault, although my parents blame me--even though it's not their house and they're not there. 1985 and the other teams are very helpful, but it's not their fault either. Actually, they're just doing object work--no one is touching the dishes, but it's the thought that counts. The waste baskets are overflowing and there's no place to throw away the half-eaten scones. I'm trying to be helpful too, but we don't have enough sponges and soap. It is at the point where I notice we are all ankle deep in overflowing sink water that I wake up.
Now the real questions: How does that make me feel? Why 1985? What do kitchens mean to me?
So what was my 1985 dream? Well, other Harold Night teams were there too, on upper floors, but on the ground floor of my house it was 1985. In the dream all the rooms in my house are kitchens. (In fact, in my dream I have a house.) Anyway, all the kitchens are piled high with dirty dishes and pots and pans soaking in all the sinks in all the rooms. I think it's a three-story house, but after the first and second floors of messy kitchens I go back downstairs. All the sinks are blocked and flooding. None of this is my fault, although my parents blame me--even though it's not their house and they're not there. 1985 and the other teams are very helpful, but it's not their fault either. Actually, they're just doing object work--no one is touching the dishes, but it's the thought that counts. The waste baskets are overflowing and there's no place to throw away the half-eaten scones. I'm trying to be helpful too, but we don't have enough sponges and soap. It is at the point where I notice we are all ankle deep in overflowing sink water that I wake up.
Now the real questions: How does that make me feel? Why 1985? What do kitchens mean to me?
Monday, January 01, 2007
Secrets of a Fix-Up Fanatic
My friend Susan Shapiro’s new book came out last week. And she talked about it on Weekend Today yesterday:
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