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It’s funny but AWP coincided with a couple other writing-life things. On the first day of the conference my story “Live Action Regret” was on the fiction Podcast No Extra Words. Considering the fact that I haven’t been writing much and that I didn’t have anything published at all in 2015, this was a much needed dose of encouragement. And it finally feels like it’s time to get back to work. Back to my book. Again.
Since my last post (nine months ago) I’ve spent most of my time just learning how to take better care of myself and how to be okay with not writing. I’ve been wanting to talk about this process but it feels all gross and self-helpy every time I do. So I guess I’ll just say this–in case you’ve got faulty brain chemistry like me and are looking to be not so miserable all the time–here are three things that helped: 1) Happify 2) Headspace 3) Going for walks out in the sunshine like it’s my job. (Endorphins and Vitamin D are for real!)
But back to getting back to work. In one of the guided meditations on Happify there was this women who talked that moment in meditation when you realize you’ve become distracted and it really stuck with me. She said: it’s important not to berate yourself for getting lost because it is in that very moment–where we recognize our wandering off–that instance is actually the most exciting part because that’s where we have the opportunity to truly become different.
I think my little story “Live Action Regret” is about experiencing those moments of formation where we try to become something else. Change is uncomfortable and big changes always feel so false. To me trying being positive has always felt false. The fact that I use a website called fucking Happify on a daily basis is absolutely ridiculous to me. In the past whenever I’ve tried to buy into the Elizabeth Gilbert/Oprah Magazine view on life it’s always felt like I was denying some truth about my nature that seemed to spring from my deepest sense of self. I’ve always been fascinated by the dark recesses of human psychology and existential dilemmas are pretty much my jam, so how the hell am I supposed to embrace positivity and still feel authentic?
Uncomfortably. Very uncomfortably.
Still, the bottom line is that everything is a construction, including the very idea of the self, even that convincing whim that says that the depressed version of myself is the “real me.” So why not bend the narrative in a way that’s useful? I guess that’s what I’ve been thinking about a lot lately and that is what I was trying get at in the story: the sheer power of the stories we tell ourselves about ourselves. I’m a bad mom. I’m a hard worker. I’m an imposter. I’m doing the best I can. These things become who we are. And we can change them. Plasticity isn’t limited to brain function, the stories we tell are also malleable and there are several that we cling to without realizing it.
At AWP, “We The Animals” author Justin Torres was on a panel about coming-out narratives and I think he illustrated this dichotomy (of wanting to be positive but authentic) perfectly. He was talking about the “It Gets Better” campaign and how it’s great and all but then he sort of paused and shrugged his shoulders and was like “Does it get better? Really. Does it? Or is it better to say that was hard?”
I think the ability to sit with both feelings is essential though and that’s where the Oprah/Elizabeth Gilbert/Martha Beck acolytes drop out.
Right now in our culture of status updates this divide, between people who focus on the positive and those who live in less pleasant mind states, is more pronounced then ever. As a culture I’m sure we’ll get better at status updates eventually, but right now it’s like we’re still trying to figure out the point of it all. One of the best books I read last year was Clive Thompson’s “Smart Than You Think: How Technology is Changing Our Minds For The Better,” in it he addresses this perceived lack of value behind the status update. He explains that taken on its own a single status update seems rather benign. But if you take all the updates from one individual into consideration together over a period of time they can paint a picture or at the very least give you a sense of what’s going on with a friend who you might not have thought about otherwise, he calls this sense of perception ambient awareness. He discusses how this ambient awareness can also augment our real life interactions. Like when I met up with my MFA friends at AWP we had all read the same articles and seen the highlights from each others lives so we could cut to chase when it came to conversation.
But Thompson’s whole ambient awareness thing doesn’t work if we’re only broadcasting positive shit all the time and this bias is so prevalent on social media it’s hard to imagine life without it.
I also read Patti Smith’s “Just Kids” recently and have been thinking a lot about becoming. I learned two new literary terms in the process (definitions below are lifted directly from Wiki):
- Bildungsroman In literary criticism, a novel of formation, novel of education, or coming-of-age story is a literary genre that focuses on the psychological and moral growth of the protagonist from youth to adulthood (coming of age), in which character change is extremely important.
- Künstlerroman, meaning “artist’s novel” in English, is a narrative about an artist’s growth to maturity. Such a work, usually a novel, tends to depict the conflicts of a sensitive youth against the values of a middle and upper class society of his or her time.
The week of AWP I got a Facebook memory notification of an update from six years earlier. In a status update I had written: “Cynthia is going to class at UCLA Extension before she get any dumber.” (Typo on purpose I hope).
I was on my way to my first creative writing class downtown when I had posted that and the memory popped up on my phone right as I was headed up to AWP. I’ve never really known what this blog is supposed to be about but I like the idea of it being a place to chart some sort of formation. Becoming a grown-up. Becoming a writer. Each tiny step forward and all the delays.
If the 26-year-old girl driving to her first writing class could have flashed forward and glimpsed at the unpublished 32-year-old on her way to AWP–let’s be real–she probably would have been disappointed. Six years? No book? WTF?
It made me think of that quote from Joan Dideon’s essay “On Keeping A Notebook”:
“I think we are well advised to keep on nodding terms with the people we used to be, whether we find them attractive company or not.
…We forget all too soon the things we thought we could never forget. We forget the loves and the betrayals alike, forget what we whispered and what we screamed, forget who we were. I have already lost touch with a couple of people I used to be; …”
It’s hard to imagine what the 38-year old me is going to hate about the 32-year old writing this post but at least she’ll have this notebook to fuel the fire (or perhaps extinguish it).
I haven’t blogged in months because life has been busy. I started working on a travel/coffee table/photography book about DTLA with Yennie Cheung for En Ville Publishing. I have the 2nd Tongue & Groove OC show coming up. I started mentoring through WriteGirl. I spent December in Palm Desert and Virginia where I scrambled to make my annual reading goal, like most things in life I limped over the finish line.
But busy is good. This kind of busy is good.
So I wrote this article for Lit Central about my favorite author YouTube videos. For the article I also transcribed a few quotes from the videos. They were supposed to go with the article but they got lost in the shuffle so I’m going to post them here.
In between the quotes are doodles from lectures I recently attended at UCR’s residency Palm Desert. Here you go:
“…we know for a fact, totally verifiable, that in x number of years we’ll all be rotting corpses…we know it! Why are we so happy?…What’s weird is the habitual position of being okay with that…” – George Saunders (on finding wonderment in the mundane)
“As a general writing principal your job is to do something and then notice it and then adjust accordingly. And then notice the thing that you’ve done and adjust accordingly and then kind of rinse, lather, repeat a million times and then weirdly, in time, the story will adjust itself morally to be more fair.” –George Saunders (on balancing sympathy between characters in a story)
“There was a feeling of pushing it and forcing it, which to me is a big clue that’s it’s not working, and the better space is to be in is to feel like it’s messy but I’m interested.” -Amy Bender (on how she realized a novel wasn’t working)
“I’m very much interested in how we use local phenomena to access larger things…I always use the same example: Melville ain’t just talking about whalers…”-Junot Diaz (on how his characters discussing their Dominican-ness is a shorthand for larger issues)
“I think people experience time differently. I tried to make a case in this book that women experience it differently then men…we have a different biology and it moves in a different way and that’s the bottom line…it doesn’t mean that things need to be set-up in an inferior way for women but that biological time piece within us is real and it is different then it is for men…The existence of a thing called menopause, which is like an enormous lighted sign saying things are ending, never happens to men, which I think is a great advantage for women and a disaster for men because they don’t notice and then they’re 65 and their girl is 22 and it’s all a shock to them. It’s good to have some warning.” -Zadie Smith (on replicating how we experience time within a novel)
And just for fun here are some of my favorite George Carlin quotes (totally unrelated):
“The very existence of flamethrowers proves that sometime, somewhere, someone said to themselves, ‘You know, I want to set those people over there on fire, but I’m just not close enough to get the job done.”
“Isn’t it a bit unnerving that doctors call what they do “practice”?”
“Give a man a fish and he will eat for a day. Teach him how to fish, and he will sit in a boat and drink beer all day. ”
“The caterpillar does all the work, but the butterfly gets all the publicity.”
“If four out of five people SUFFER from diarrhea…does that mean that one enjoys it?”
Last month I went to my first Vermin on the Mount reading in San Diego. It was excellent. Now that I’m trying to curate a reading series I’m really interested in how each creator/host puts their own spin on it and this one definitely had its own vibe, like how Dirty Laundry Lit has its own distinct vibe. I learned a new phrase: Mexi-goth (courtesy of Lizz Huerta). Now I want to live San Diego.
My friend Maggie met Vermin creator Jim Ruland that night (author of “Forest of Fortune”) and he tagged her in this blog tour. Then she tagged me. Here are my answers. Scroll to the bottom to see who I tagged!
1) What are you working on?
I’m working on a linked short story collection called “Torches In The Ashtray.” The stories revolve around characters who have all had their early adulthood disrupted in some way. Unplanned parenthood, mental disorders, sobriety, etc. It’s not as heavy as it sounds–I’m still learning how to talk about my book, it still feels awkward.
Most of my characters are female and they’re all really raw. It’s a wild group of girls to follow around, lots of self-sabotage and attempts to pick each other up after.
2) How does your work differ from the other works in the same area/genre?
My book is probably most similar to Victoria Patterson’s collection “Drift” and Lisa Glatt’s novel-in-stories ”A Girl Becomes A Comma Like That.” There’s a lot of thematic overlap but while Glatt’s book takes place in Long Beach and Patterson’s takes place in coastal Orange County, my characters are from working-class neighborhoods in what I like to think of as the forgotten cities of OC: the cities by the cities-by-the-sea… if you will. The collection is also punctuated by a series of flash fiction pieces that are more experimental, most of which are in second person, though they are probably the first thing an editor will make me cut.
[Other more recent books in the same realm are: “Normal People Don’t Live Like This” by Dylan Landis & “Blueprints For Building Better Girls” by Elissa Schappell and “I Want to Show You More” by Jaime Quatro. These are my heroes.]
3) Why do you write about what you do?
I pretty much write for the same reason I read. When I pick up a book, I’m looking to have an emotional experience with a character. I write because I like the idea of being on the other side of that exchange. So I tend to write about things that I’ve seen friends and family grapple with and things that I’ve struggled with in one way or another. It’s the only way I know how to tap into that emotional landscape in a way that doesn’t feel contrived.
4) How does your writing process work?
Um, so I have no life. No kids. So I have a lot of rituals when it comes to my writing routine. First, I walk to the library. It’s like a 20-minute walk and it gives me a reason to get dressed and leave the house, which is crucial. I write better when I have pants and shoes on. On the walk, I listen to music and don’t look at my phone and focus on fiction.
When I get to the library, I always allow myself about ten minutes to browse the new release shelves. It’s silly but I do this every time to remind myself that this is what it’s all about. This is why I’m at the library: because I love books and want to write one. That takes pressure off in a weird way and it also lets me cool down from the walk and like literally stop sweating. Yeah, It’s gross.
I work for a few hours and then walk home–again sort of meditating on stories and characters. Then when I get home, I read my work aloud over and over like a crazy person.
As far as rewrites, I take long breaks in between stories. I send work to friends and then sit on their notes for a while and think about their suggestions on my walks. Then, going into a rewrite, I go back over the notes in a systematic way and put together a loose list objectives/things to address. I think the long breaks allow me to be ruthless in a way that is necessary for the editing process to work but I do hope I get faster at writing and rewriting.
Still pretty new at all this.
Okay I would like to tag…
Cheryl Klein is the author of “The Commuters” and “Lilac Mines.” Her fiction and essays have appeared in The Normal School, Mutha Magazine, Literature for Life and The Whistling Fire. She enjoys the internet and carbs. http://breadandbread.blogspot.com
I’ve been a little obsessed with both of writer/director Sara Polley’s most recent films. The latest is “Stories We Tell” (2013), which deserves it’s own blog post, but the one I’ve been studying is “Take This Waltz” (2012). It’s about a young married women (Michelle Williams) who decides to leave her husband (Seth Rogen) and the comfort of their so-so relationship to take a chance with the more arty/mysterious guy she’s drawn to (Luke Kirby). It’s on Netflix.
Needless to say my live-in boyfriend was a little concerned about me watching this somewhat glorified tale of adultery over and over again. Actually, scratch that, technically there is no adultery–the character leaves her husband before anything physical happens—it’s just that her flirtation and infatuation with the other guy is so intense it feels like cheating.
My boyfriend’s got a good point. This film could easily be interpreted as a form of wish fulfillment for someone who is unhappy in their relationship, which I am not. I am however rewriting a story called “Part Of A We” that explores some of the same issues.
Like the story I’m trying to write the movie is teeming with sexual tension. In the movie the climax is an uninterrupted four-minute sequence where we see what becomes of the lusty couple, complete with nudity and the Leonard Cohen song whirling in the background, while the camera spins around the couple like a marry-go-round through a montage of their new life together.
If you haven’t seen it and don’t want to spoil it don’t watch this…
I use the phrase “wish fulfillment” because in the real world I do not think the majority of people in a so-so relationship would leave. Unless something is really wrong at some point it just seems easier to stay. Contentment beats loneliness.
The character in this film seems rather content but she wants more. We all want more and we will always want more. We will always long for something, which makes it feel as though we’re always settling for something.
In an interview about the movie Polley says that in order to make a film she has to be deeply interested in the question it asks. In this case the question is: what happens to lust when it comes to long-term relationships?
Everyone believes in love and its capacity to shift and morph into something wonderfully intimate and complex with time. But what about lust and sexuality? What are reasonable expectations in that realm? These questions are difficult to ask directly because they make people uncomfortable, which makes them perfect for fiction.
For however grand and romantic and satisfying the climax of the movie initially is, the final wrap-up is just as interesting and much more complicated. After all the great sex and abundance of lust between the two we eventually we cut to the new couple in an unexceptional moment. Michelle Williams is on the toilet and the new guy is brushing his teeth and you can feel the monotony between them. The relationship has become ordinary.
This month there was a fascinating article in Time about how millennials were surveyed to be open to “Beta Marriage” contracts, which is basically a two-year trial period in which either party may terminate the contract.
It seems reasonable right? Test the relationship and minimize risk.
If there is a lesson to be gleaned from “Take This Waltz” it’s essence is conveniently summed up in a fabulous line delivered by Sarah Silverman’s drunken character:
“Life has a gap it just does. You don’t go crazy trying to fill it like some lunatic.”
There are some moments in life where you have to pick a side. Who to marry. Whether to marry. Whether to have kids. You can try to ensure your decision with trial periods and pros and cons but ultimately you have to come terms with the decision, whatever it may be.
My favorite quote on the matter is from Cheryl Strayed’s Dear Surgar column on The Rumpus:
“I’ll never know and neither will you of the life you don’t choose. We’ll only know that whatever that sister life was, it was important and beautiful and not ours. It was the ghost ship that didn’t carry us. There’s nothing to do but salute it from the shore.”
It is no accident that the female protagonist in this story has a fear of “being in between things,” like connecting flights. She’s not afraid of missing a flight she’s afraid of wondering if she’ll miss it.
I’ve spent a lot of time wondering what I’ve missed and what I will miss. In the end you eventually just have to act. And when it comes to the permanent decisions you have to find solace.
In the same interview above, Polley explains how we like to believe that if we could just make this one change or do this one thing then everything else in our lives would magically fall into place. In the film we see this play out. In the very last scene the protagonist returns to the carnival ride where she and the mysterious/artsy guy had their first outing together, when longing was at an all-time high. The first time we see the ride is it a magical place but in the end she is there all by herself. When the music starts and the colorful lights begin to flash and the ride begins to move she looks lonely and disappointed but eventually she smiles. She closes her eyes and enjoys the dizzying circular movements. She’s okay.
In the last three months I’ve been to three writing retreats. The first was Lit Camp a small four-day deal in Calistoga, California. Then I was a teaching assistant at UCR’s ten-day residency in Palm Desert where I workshopped with other alumni. And finally I just got home from the Squaw Valley writer’s retreat.
I’ve put 1,109 miles on my car, have sat in over 50 lectures, have read 21 workshop submissions and have critiqued about 330 pages of other people’s work.
Needless to say I am so ready to get back to ACTUALLY FUCKING WRITING.
Seriously. If I have to sit through on more panel on “the future of the publishing industry” I think I might spontaneously combust.
I’m planning to write an essay for Lit Central about all this but in the meantime I have an entire notebook filled with bits of information–yes, I’m that dorky girl who takes out a pen and writes down the book you mentioned while you’re talking at a party.
What follows is just a random list of some of the things I wrote down and some doodles from the margins.
Quotes (I’m paraphrasing here):
“I’m severely relieved when I find out that the people I need to talk to are dead” –Glen David Gold on researching for his memoir
“In American fiction nobody works” – Al Young (talking about giving your characters jobs)
“Poetry is to writing is what the piano is to music” – Al Young
“Workshopping should be for rough pieces, if not then that’s like cleaning up for the maid.” -Al Young
Three great statements from UCI professor Ron Carlson:
1) “Stay in the room.”
2) “Type yourself into the dark.”
3) “If you don’t know where you’re going why hurry?”
“Writing is about building ramps to moments that matter. Then when the reader is in mid-air you slow down.” –Steve Almond
“You don’t get three adjectives you get two. It’s like accessorizing, you don’t want people to look at you and think “wow you’re wearing a lot of stuff” you want to look good.” –Susan Straight
“I don’t want to take 15% from a poet.” –Mollie Glick (in response to the question of whether poets have agents)
“You don’t have to drink the whole carton to know whether the milk has gone bad” – Jennie Dunham (literary agent on reading submissions)
Recommended Reading (things people told me to read):
Story Collections: Last Night At The Lobster by Stewart O’Nan, Spectacle by Susan Steinberg, Stay Up With Me by Tom Barbash, Twenty Grand: And Other Tales of Love and Money by Rebecca Curtis, Binocular Vision by Edith Pearlman, The Last Chicken In America by Ellen Litman, The Collected Stories of Deborah Eisenberg, Like Love But Not Exactly by Francois Camoin, The News From Spain by Joan Wickersham, Nimrod Flipout by Etgar Keret, The Commuters by Cheryl Klein, Wearing Dad’s Head by Barry
Stories: Rock Springs by Richard Ford, Honeydew by Edith Pearlman, Incarnations of Burned Children by David Foster Wallace
Novels: Telex From Cuba by Rachel Kushner, Duplex by Kathryn Davis, Gardening at Night by Diane Awerbuck, Tinkers Paul Harding, The Butcher Boy by Patrick McCabe, Shards by Ismet Prcic, Henderson The Rain King by Saul Bellow, The Sense of an Ending by Julian Barnes, Confessions of a Teenage Jesus Jerk by Tony DuShane
Nonfiction (essays & books on writing): Rose Metal Press: Field Guide To Writing Flash Fiction, The Lonely Voice: A Study of the Short Story by Frank O’Connor, On Swarm by Tom Scocca, The Empathy Exams by Leslie Jamison, Metawritings: Toward a Theory of Nonfiction by Jill Talbot.
Folks I actually got to meet/chat with: Janet Fitch, Karen Joy Fowler, Michael Jaime-Becerra, Tara Ison, Rachel Fershleiser, Steve Almond, Susan Straight, Casey Jarmen, Tony DuShane, Rebecca Rubenstein, Al Young, Edan Lepucki, Glen David Gold, Amy Williams, Molly Glick, Elise Capron, Danielle Svetcov, Michael Carlisle, Andrew Tonkovich, D.P. Lyle, Andrew Sean Greer, Joanne Meschery, Christian Kiefer
Random Factoids and One-Liners:
Amy Tan was working as a business writer the first time she attended the Squaw Valley Writers Conference. It was 1985 and she was thirty-three years old. The Joy Luck Club was published in 1989. File Under: Things That Make Me Feel Better.
Here are two of her rejection letters that were on display at the conference. There was a poster board filled with them.
-Edan Lepucki attended Squaw for the first time in 2007 and it wasn’t until this year, seven years later, that her debut novel “California” came out. File under: Patience Is A Virtue.
-Micheal Jaime-Beccerra says he tries to write 500 words a day and that he’s lucky if he’s kept all 2,500 words by the end of the week. File under: How To Eat An Elephant.
-The first story in a collection is a statement piece.
-You should know how much money is in your character’s pocket.
-The fear of plaid and fear of buttons are actual phobias.
New BFF’s: Penina, Mike, Ian, Janet, Ploi, Becky, Dawn
I am on my knees scrubbing black residue off of jacuzzi tiles at condo complex on Pacific Coast Highway. My hair is pulled back in a bun and I can feel the sun beating down upon my neck. I forgot sunscreen.
I’m scrubbing the tile because this month there’s been record heat in Orange County and relentless Santa Ana winds. Record heat means more swimmers and the wild winds mean there’s more debris in each pool, which can double the time it takes for my father’s employees to finish their daily routes. Being strapped on time, our guys have to prioritize. This means skipping the tile brushing and that’s where I come in.
This necessary neglect, combined with the influx of bathers, results in a thick black residue that builds up on the tiles along the spa’s waterline. It is a stubborn film made of human sweat and oils, as well as sunscreen and tanning lotion and the only way to get rid of it is with elbow grease. Lots of elbow grease.
Over the weekend I went to a writing retreat and the whole time I felt like an outsider. About 80% of the group was middle to upper-middle class white women in their 40’s. They were all very polite, most of them were blonde and pretty and seemed like they were enjoying a much needed break from their hectic lives, lives that I can only assume were filled with children and husbands and careers.
Feeling like I had little in common with these women, I ended up spending most of the four days hanging out with an old writer guy named Mike. Mike is a retired bricklayer/stone mason with the same leathery brown skin and friendly bullshit-detector as my father and every other blue-collar guy I know. He also had a great laugh.
At the retreat the hot tub was a big deal. There was lots of drinking and hot tubbing but I never went in. I tried to be social anyway and spent most nights watching the hot tub crowd from the comfort of a patio chair set near the edge of Jacuzzi. The bright moon and yellow spa light were the only sources of light so I was sort of in the shadows of the pool deck talking to Mike about writing and the perils of working for your old man.
“Why don’t you come in the hot tub!”
I was asked this several times.
I shook my head and scrunched my nose and shrugged. “I just don’t like it.”
But in my head I was thinking: Ugh, because it’s fucking gross!
That was Saturday night and now here I am Monday morning on my knees in front of another hot tub (this one’s unfortunately twice as large) scrubbing off stains.
It’s kind of funny right?
I’m back to working for my dad to save up for yet another writing retreat, the next one is the Squaw Valley Writers Workshop. I’m working on an essay for Lit Central that gets into whether all this stuff seems worth it or not. I do sort of feel like a sucker doing this shit when I just buried myself in debt from the whole MFA thing. We’ll see how it goes.
This week I reviewed Jim Gavin’s short story collection Middle Men for The Coachella Review. It’s a book that is mostly about working class guys living in southern California, guys whose lives haven’t quite met their expectations, who are usually trying for something more but often come up short.
It was really refreshing to read because there were a lot of similar themes that I’ve been trying to wrap my head around since working for my father again. I’ve been working on this sort of jovial flash piece called “A Day In The Life Of Your Pool Man,” as a way into some of these concepts.
Here’s the part I wrote that gets at some of the stuff I identified with in Middle Men:
“Though you may never suspect it, there are times when your pool man contemplates the inconsequential nature of his life. How he’s spent day after day, year after year, picking debris out of water knowing full-well that the wind will blow and undo an hours worth of work in a matter of seconds. He wonders if this is the way life was meant to be lived or whether he should have wanted something more. Other times he feels comforted by the same simplicity.”
It’s probably bad luck to post a piece of a story that isn’t finished yet but there you have it.
I think growing up in a working class family has always made me feel inferior to people that have more professional jobs. People who have to wear nice clothes to work, who sit in meetings and cubicles all day sending memos and shit.
Neither of my parents went to college and it seems like my father and most of his peers wanted something more for their kids. They wanted us to go to college and get jobs that would require us to use our minds–jobs that would keep our hands from becoming as torn up, coarse and weathered as theirs were.
They associated office jobs as the first step toward moving up in the world. Expected us to full take advantage of opportunities they’d missed. So my brother and I did end up getting degrees (the first on both sides of the family) but we both kept working with our dad anyway. So much for that idea… (though I know he secretly loves it).
I guess this whole class thing is just something small that has made me feel a little bit different than a lot of writers I’ve encountered lately. Something that makes me seek out Mike the bricklayer instead of the ladies in the jeweled sandals and maxi dresses.
There were actually some of those same types of women by the pool while I was scrubbing that tile. When I finished, I ran the jets to make sure the jacuzzi’s foam wouldn’t overflow (without defoamer that stuff will bubble over like that car in Willy Wonka).
That’s when one of the ladies addressed me in a friendly voice:
“You should’ve brought your suit girl!”
I smiled and tried to think of something equally friendly to say but I just nodded and stared at them behind my giant sunglasses. It was so hot all I could think about was how relaxed they looked laying there all slathered in tanning oil. And conversely how ugly and gross I must have looked sweating in my stained Pool Perfection t-shirt.
I could already see the nice even tans they had going. Then I touched the back of my neck, which was already starting to burn. I couldn’t see it of course, but I knew it was already bright red — burnt by the same sun that had kissed their skin so beautifully.
And I thought: I can’t wait for June Gloom.
For graduation from my MFA program my dad wanted to get me a tropical beach-type vacation (he and his wife are obsessed with Aruba). I chose to go to Santiago, Chile instead, to visit my college roommate — she is from there and is living there again with her boyfriend who is also Californian. I live in Huntington Beach, right in the middle of the burbs and really enjoy trips to big cities more than anything. New York, Chicago, Seattle, San Francisco, Boston, Washington D.C., London, Barcelona, Bogota. I don’t travel much but these are some of the places I’ve been.
For three weeks I looked at art and wrote and read. Listened to music while walking aimlessly and missed my boyfriend. It felt good to miss someone.
I’m glad I went. I ended up writing over 15,000 words. Scribbled notes in a little notebook and did some drawings. Decided that I want to learn how to draw, just for fun.
It was great to see D. We were roommates for about four years and haven’t spent much time together since she moved. We’re both 30 now and everything is different. Not good or bad. Just different. But our friendship feels the same.
I’m not good at keeping in touch with people. I don’t really talk to anyone from high school except my one friend. I’ve fallen away from a lot of people I went to college with, I even owe a few emails and phone calls to some of the people I just went to grad school with. In some ways it seems like a natural progression, you grow up, get a job-job, start a family and the circle gets narrowed down to the essentials.
But I haven’t really done any of these life things besides the narrowing down part. It used to bother me but it doesn’t anymore. I like my small life. It’s quiet. Relaxed. Simple. And it hasn’t always been like that.
I think being away forces you to think about what home is and what is waiting for you there, whether you have something good to go back too. There is something sort of sad about going on vacation and not to wanting to come back. I’ve felt that way before. But this time I’m happy to be back and happy to have a place that feels like home. And I’m trying to appreciate that. Things are good.
1) Poetry is not concerned with fiction or nonfiction
2) If it’s a good poetry reading there is always one person that stinks, like literally one person that smells really bad, halitosis or otherwise.
3) If the super hip dudes who play bass and drums between sets look like they want to slit their own throats you are not doing well, and you probably shouldn’t read a third time or a fifth time for that matter.
4) College kids often think they’re being profound when they are really just being annoying.
5) Vulnerability is underrated, especially when it comes to pseudo-insensitive males ages 20-25.
6) There is something beautiful about the trembling hand of a reader who is simultaneously spitting on mic with supreme confidence
7) It’s not a joke if there’s no punchline.
8) Maybe don’t use things that you just learned a week ago in your set.
9) Feel the room. They don’t want you to freestyle. I don’t care if we’re in Long Beach. (Unless freestyling is one thing you do.)
10) Poetry is no different–like most good pieces of writing emotional resonance is everything (though yes there’s a lot of other stuff too)
11) Zip up your fly homie.
12) Especially if you’re wearing camo pants.
13) Nobody is born with poet voice, it’s something you learn in college.
14) Keep forcing yourself to share your work. This loving environment and kind audience are both finite.
15) Slow down
I love stand-up comedy. It’s my absolute favorite form of live entertainment. I’m much more willing to pay to see a badass comic then a play or sporting event or concert.
A couple of years ago, the American Red Cross had this promo where if you donated blood you got two free tickets to the Laugh Factory. My boyfriend and I took full advantage of this and went to the one in Long Beach a few times. Eventually the promo ended and now I never give blood, which is selfish and sad.
Since this “blood for comedy” deal ended my boyfriend and I have paid seen Bill Burr, Daniel Tosh and Chris Tucker live (not at the same time). Each performance was amazing, but Bill Burr was especially awesome, we saw him in Vegas. He got into such a great rhythm with the audience, the waves of laughter were so big and consistent it was hypnotizing.
My boyfriend and I don’t really watch TV shows. Not like we’re snobby or anything we watch sports and Jeopardy but we don’t really watch TV dramas.
And yes, I’m aware of the TV renaissance upon us but no I have not seen Breaking Bad or Mad Men or Game of Thrones or House of Cards or Orange Is The New Black or Girls or Duck Dynasty or Downton Abbey (though I do watch Louie, SNL and Portlandia). It’s not that I don’t like TV I just love movies—in 2013 I watched 67 new theatrical releases 50 of which I saw in theaters thanks to this Moviepass thing.
Instead of shows, we watch a shitload of stand-up. Then we re-watch it and re-watch it again until we’ve memorized entire sets.
I do not think that my boyfriend and I are particularly funny. I can make my dad and brother laugh but that’s about it. But even though we’re not funny we both have the same sense of humor and all this stand-up has given us our own language.
Like if I say:
“I’m in the garage!” he knows I’m quoting Dove Davidoff.
or if I say:
“but it’s the good kind of fat…” he knows it’s Gary Goldberg.
or if I say:
“I played a sloppy first half” he knows it’s Billy Gardell
or if I yell
“I say it! I say it!” he knows it’s Bill Burr.
Or any of these:
“You hope it was a miracle…” – John Mulaney.
“Denise? Have you ever done any security work?” – Aziz Ansari.
“You know, good livin’, good livin’…” – Bernie Mac.
“Now ritch around…” -DL Hughley.
“My rooms got rooms!” – Hannibal Buress quoting Young Jeezy
I could go on forever…
If I had the balls I would try stand-up. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve sat in the audience, mostly while intoxicated and felt a sort of pull, like I could figure out how to do it if I tried. But maybe everybody feels that way…
I know the closest I’ll ever get is probably reading my work in front of people which is so not the same. Two people from my high school are just starting out as stand-ups. I look at how they’re doing it and am so curious as to what it would be like but ultimately I’m a coward. Plus I have bad anxiety and a fear public speaking and even if I’m not speaking I don’t like groups of people looking at me in general.
Sometimes it’s nice just to be a patron of an art form though. It’s nice to be a consumer of stand-up and movies and paintings instead of constantly having to break them down and analyze each one the way I tend to do with books.
But I still think there are a lot of parallels between writing and being a comic. Comics are of course writers and most writers have to consider rhythm and audience and end up reading their words out loud to themselves to get a feel for their material. So in that way some of the preparation can be similar.
The performance element is obviously a key difference. So is the feedback loop. Comedians can try out material in front of an audience and instantly see if it works or not and then edit their material based on the crowd’s reaction. In writing it’s not really like that. The initial “feedback” on a draft comes from the same stupid mind that created the thing in the first place.
Writers also don’t have much interaction with their audience and when they do so much of it is negative. Think about it: an author writes a book, say 250 pages and that takes years. Then they go on a book tour and maybe have what? Twenty stops across the country most of which are less then ten people events. Then when that’s over the primary audience interaction comes from places like Goodreads where people are more awful then they are nice. As an author there is no instantaneous outward expression of satisfaction from an audience but on the other hand there is more intimacy between an author and their audience or at least there can be.
This is not to say that comics have it easy, at least writers don’t have to face the unsatisfied/disapproving audience. Which version of disapproval is more grueling? I’m not sure. Public humiliation is swift and strong but then it’s over. Hateful words on the internet can last longer, even if the reaction doesn’t have the same edge as a face to face encounter it still sucks. Bottom line is this: writing is far less brave and therefore far more suited to people like me. In the end I fall into the category that the majority of people probably do; I’d much rather sit down then stand up.