Daniel Clausen's Blog, page 2

Statues in the Cloud (Book Trailer)

Statues in the Cloud by Daniel Clausen




Hello everyone,

I recently finished a video trailer for the book. Please feel free to share the video and leave comments. I appreciate the support!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AXs3G...

Synopsis:

One day, a writer in Japan receives a letter from a young fan who is dying from a mysterious disease. The young fan, Aya, gives the writer a challenge: “Come to Nagasaki and help me find seven pieces of a statue. If you can help me do this simple thing,” she tells him, “you will have cured me.”

What the writer soon discovers is that finding the seven pieces means telling the stories of seven unique individuals: a future governor of Tokyo, an American soldier from the Second World War, a folk hero from Miami, a young dancer in a future Hiroshima, an artificial intelligence from the far future, the writer’s own story, and the story of Aya.

As the writer and Aya learn more about this group of individuals, it becomes apparent that their stories are connected and that there is more at stake than just Aya’s life. The disease afflicting her has many forms: a vengeful god, a computer virus, and a contagious illness. If they fail to unravel the secret of Aya’s mysterious disease, the very survival of humanity could be at stake.


Here is a short excerpt from the book:

It was about a week, maybe two weeks, before the letter came.

I was writing. But I felt like my characters were numb to me. I would try to put them down on paper, but they would just sit there like lifeless clay – vague, mute...

Then, I was waiting at a train station one day in my city of Fujisawa, at one of the many train stations that dot the traditional rail line that runs along the coast from Fujisawa to the old samurai capital of Kamakura. The old trains of the Enoden had this classic green look to them that made them iconic and recognizable to locals and tourists. If you went into any tourist shop in Fujisawa you were apt to find postcards with animated drawings of them.

So, there I was, just standing in a suit, with a briefcase stuffed full of student papers and other work-related items of various importance. There were two elementary school kids, maybe eight or nine years old, playing “junken” (rock, paper, scissors). A mother with her infant in a pouch on her chest. I looked down the station platform and saw this young man. An American. He had this jacket on that looked one size too big for him. A military jacket of some kind. He was shorter than me and had this way of hunching over. Other than that, details don’t stand out clearly in my mind.
He wasn’t me, but he could’ve been me. I had this image of him in my mind. He was in some old bar in...in...Pittsburgh?...and was offering up a toast, wearing that same jacket...but now, for reasons I couldn’t understand, he was here in Fujisawa, and he had this look like the world had ended and he was about to throw himself in front of a train. I could hear very clearly the thoughts in his head. Ma, oh ma, I loved you but never told you how much.

I started walking down the train platform to get closer to him, as if I were some trout on a fishing line. I was moving toward him, but I was also being pulled toward him. And then I was close to him, and I reached out to him for a moment, and I realized that he only lived in my mind and that I was...not hallucinating, that’s not the right word...the things in my mind were real, just not real the way others think of them.

Nevertheless, I reached out to him as if he were there. I didn’t have a name to call him by. I didn’t know how to reach him. I wanted to just say “Pittsburgh” out loud. But then I became aware of where I was. I was in this little rustic train station. There were about a dozen people on the platform waiting for the train.

Try to focus on them, I told myself. Focus on the living. I found a salaryman starting to fall asleep standing up. He seemed slightly drunk. Focus on him, I told myself. But the more I tried, the more the man from Pittsburgh was there on the platform with me.

He was just behind the salaryman, and I could see he was seriously debating just throwing himself in front of the train. I could see that look of wild desperation in his eyes. The train was coming now. He was no longer just a person in my mind. He was someone I vaguely knew. I was sure if I reached out, I could touch him. And I said out loud, “No, don’t.” And before I could see what had happened to him, I found several people around me asking me if I was alright.

“Daijyobu,” I said to each of them, a salaryman, a young housewife, and some others... but I wasn’t alright. Something was wrong. I was sweating like I had a fever and I had almost toppled over.

Yes, something was wrong, but I couldn’t say exactly what.

In the height of my delirium I actually checked around the track to see if something had happened. I half expected to see the bloody remains of the ex-soldier...How did I know he was an ex-soldier?

There was nothing, though...nothing that I could see yet.



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Float - A Poem

A soda float

Vanilla ice cream

Dr. Pepper

My day tastes a sweetness

That may last beyond this tongue-tied connoisseur

Of things that bubble and float

Like dreams of summers

Under Miami skies

Chasing lightning bugs, dreams

Of free floating

memories

They float.

Sweat as ice cream and Dr. Pepper

Simple comforts and sweetness

Still

That make me float.

Excerpt from "Statues in the Cloud"

This is a short excerpt from my novel Statues in the Cloud.]



The Synopsis - One day, a writer in Japan receives a letter from a young fan who is dying from a mysterious disease. The young fan gives the writer a challenge -- come to Nagasaki and help me find seven pieces of a statue. If you can help me do this simple thing, she tells him, you will have cured me. What the writer soon finds out is that finding the seven pieces means telling the stories of seven unique individuals.   

*

Dear Mr. Writer of the One Most Amazing Books Ever Written that Gives Me Hope:

Long ago, you wrote a true story (not a novel as many believe) about a boy who is able to go to an island to get a new heart. He believes his heart is turning to stone. Now, here I sit on my bed, with a heart that is turning to stone (for real, no joke), and other internal organs that are hardening. I need your to help me find something, anything that will save me. Maybe that something is you and your stories. Maybe it's a person who can show me the island. Maybe it's one of these things, but I think it's something different.

I have an idea.

Are you curious? Do you want to find out what the idea is?

Sometimes writers have to be the heroes of their own tales. It's been a long time since I've seen anything of yours in print. What happened to you? Did your imagination dry up? I don't think so. I think you're just waiting for something. Maybe it's this letter from a sick girl who lives someplace you used to know well. Maybe you need an adventure. I know I do.

Come to Nagasaki and bring all your story-telling power with you. But be warned, it is not so easy to save girls with hearts that turn to stone. It will take more than silly sentiment this time. We must endeavor to learn all we can about evil and virtue.

Oh, by the way, I know that you're probably very busy and don't have time for one lonely fan. If that's the case, just send me a picture of you smiling. I actually have no idea what you look like in real life. Since the book was written many years ago, I imagine that you are an old man by now. If that's the case, just give me an old man smile to ease the heart of a girl who is slowly turning to stone.

Sincerely,

Aya Kobayashi

The Trick is the Thing - A Poem

If poetry be a con

then think of me not in three-year-old sweatshirts

and three-day unwashed pants

but rather a three-card Monte player of words

silk suit and top hat, a feather won

When next I trick you into whiling away the excess coinage

of the day with words that twist

simple truths into fiendish intents

to take the banality of the day and make meaning through word-play

Remember: 'tis only a trick...but when day's air grows stale

the trick is the thing

Review of Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami

ノルウェイの森 Vol. 1 by Haruki Murakami

My rating: 5 of 5 stars


Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami is a book that feels like reuniting with an old friend, familiar and comforting with each reread. I've lost count of how many times I've read the book, likely three or four times, and I anticipate many more returns in the future. This current reading experience, undertaken in Japanese, has been particularly leisurely, allowing me to enjoy each word. The narrative continues to evoke a sense of nostalgic melancholy and quiet introspection. I have approximately thirty pages remaining, and I find myself intentionally slowing my pace. There's a desire to prolong the journey, to make the story last just a little longer before its inevitable conclusion. Each sentence is a gentle reminder of the finiteness of human existence—as the main character, Watanabe, reflects on life and death and friends who will never return. Despite the morbid content, I feel a comforting presence in this book. It's a testament to Murakami's masterful storytelling that the experience remains fresh, no matter how many times you visit this particular corner of his world.



村上春樹の『ノルウェイの森』は、何度も再会する旧友のような本で、読み返すたびに懐かしさと心地よさを感じさせてくれます。何回読んだか正確には覚えていませんが、おそらく三、四回は読んでおり、これからも何度も読み返すことになると思います。今回の読書は日本語で行っており、特にゆったりとしたペースで、一語一語をじっくり味わいながら読んでいます。物語は今でも郷愁を誘う哀愁と静かな内省を呼び起こしてくれます。残りはおよそ30ページほどですが、あえて読むスピードを落としています。物語の終わりを少しでも引き延ばしたくて、もう少しこの旅を続けたいと思っているからです。登場人物の渡辺が生と死、そして戻ってこない友人たちについて思いを巡らすたびに、その一文一文が人間の存在の儚さを静かに思い出させてくれます。内容は決して明るいものではありませんが、不思議とこの本には心安らぐ温もりがあります。何度訪れても新鮮に感じられるのは、やはり村上春樹の語りの力の証だと思います。この物語の世界の一角を再訪するたびに、その魅力は色褪せることがありません。



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Character Sketch – The Folk Hero (Statues in the Cloud)

Synopsis for the Novel – “Statues in the Cloud”

The Synopsis – One day, a writer in Japan receives a letter from a young fan who is dying from a mysterious disease. The young fan, Aya, gives the writer a challenge — come to Nagasaki and help me find seven pieces of a statue. If you can help me do this simple thing, she tells him, you will have cured me. What the writer soon finds out is that finding the seven pieces means telling the stories of seven unique individuals: a politician, a soldier, a folk hero, a dancer, an AI, a writer, and the story of Aya herself.

Character Sketch – The Folk Hero (Statues in the Cloud)

The vision of my dad still haunts me. I think our fathers always haunt us. But what really haunts me is my inability to put him on the page. There was something about him, something that was hard to describe that made him a character like no other.

I can tell you what that character is. I can describe it to you as if he were a Frankenstein’s monster, carved up from the bits of other people and characters.

Mix one part Gene Wilder, the goofiness, the rye sense of humor; then take a little bit of the scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz; mix in a little Peter Pan — because dad never wanted to grow up…take all of those things and make the character tragic. Give the character real-life problems — drinking, debt, the inability to handle the various demands of the world. Mix those together and you have your character.

And yet…

Now having created that character, does he move? Does he move the way a real-life person would move?

I had to look for dirty jokes. I remember my dad telling me a million different jokes, but I don’t actually remember what they were. Internet research comes into play.

You find this website: http://www.jokes4us.com/dirtyjokes/di...

That website helps because when you can’t get the character right, it’s better to let a dirty joke fly. Somehow the old man would have found that funny…when all else fails, make ’em laugh. If nothing else, the process of writing this novel will teach me a few dirty jokes.

But you know…you know…I’m never going to get this right. In the end, I’ll break the old man’s heart.

It seems strange that I would need to watch videos of Gene Wilder on YouTube to get close to a character about my dad. But the sad fact is that memory is fallible. Pictures, too, will only get you so far. The videos I have of my dad have no sound. So, I can only write about him as a fictional character.

I create his ghost through bits of memory, by thinking about others like him, and I try to be frank with the reader about where and when my memory lets me down. And I give myself permission to be frivolous. When all else fails, it’s okay to write fiction.

I think one of the things my dad would not approve about my current novel-in-progress is that I take it too damn seriously sometimes. I take life too damn seriously sometimes…my curse since I was a child. Peter Pan can have his hang-ups, pixie-dust can be an addiction, but what good are imaginary pursuits if they don’t help us enjoy the world the way kids can?

Remembering your dad, creating a character based on him, should be like going to Neverland. As long as you have fun and go on adventures, there is no way you can go wrong.

The Pen Thief - A Short Story

https://youtu.be/Aw0wDUgMfDE


Someone was stealing pens. It was Tom. But Tom had a reason. Rachel loved to chew on the ends when she was nervous. Chew. Chew. Chew. Until her teeth marks were visible. Coworkers used to complain. So, he'd take them home. When confronted about his transgressions by his boss, he explained himself simply: It was a crime of passion.

The End of Veronica and Harold - A Very Short Story

After years of couples therapy James and Veronica finally felt like they were on the right track. Then after a particularly fruitful therapy session, James said, "Honey I think I love you more than ever." Veronica smiled, looked James in the eyes, and then leaned over and plucked one of Harold's many nose hairs. "Got it. That sucker was bothering me all morning. Sorry honey, what were you saying?" At the time, neither of them knew it, but that was the end of their relationship.

Two Seats Behind, One to the Left

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pIfnz...

The view from two seats behind her and one to the left is unbearable. On some days I believe I can actually reach out and touch her. There has to be another name for the color of her hair. It can't just be brunette. It has to be autumn or chestnut or something. And it's straight and just perfect. What do I do two chairs behind and one to the left? Certainly not to learn biology.

Review of John Updike's 40 Stories

The summer of 2021, a wave of heat hit me, sent sweat down my back and somehow made me thirsty for a book of good short stories. I remembered the story "The A&P" from long ago and thought I might try 39 more stories by John Updike. I would read them in the various locales of Nagasaki. The book itself was in my university library. Its pages were brown and yellowing. I was busy that semester, which is why I had trouble concentrating.

I'm sorry. I'm lying. Let me start over. I had started a new job at the university, and I was gripped with anxiety. Would I be good at my new job? Would the coronavirus ever end? What would I do now that I was almost forty? Would I be able to finish my novel?

I always end up okay, but I'm never okay. That's why I had trouble concentrating. Maybe my anxiety is inexplicable.

I had to read the first five stories twice to absorb them. Periodically, I would skip back to the "A&P". That story I had read so long ago.

The other stories were charming and deep. If their content was inconsequential, it made the depth of the prose that much more beautiful. I read one of the stories in a park on a mountainside overlooking Omura Bay, Nagasaki. Omura Bay is a beautiful place dotted with small islands, fishing boats, and the twinkling of sunlight. I would contemplate the beauty of stories like "Alligators" and "Pigeon Feathers" while walking along the Togitsu coast. Idle fishing boats were on my mind, but my mind was also cluttered with many other worries.

I returned the book to the library. Only five stories finished. My reading went elsewhere. The summer grew hotter. I checked out the book again. I thought about that clerk at the A&P sick of authority and hoping for adventure. I took the book to the beach hoping to find girls in bikinis with sand on their butts and attitudes to match. I was growing older, but dreaming of being a short-story writer.

I can make it to forty. Maybe even forty-five. But only if I'm careful. I'm never careful.

And then on July 31st, miraculously I finished the book. The last story is "The Corner". "The town is one of those that people pass through on the way to somewhere else, so its inhabitants have become expert in giving directions." I don't know where I'm going or if I can write another good short story. I'm not at the beach today. It is overcast. I still have the anxiety of three middle-aged men. No one is here to give me directions.

I keep on writing.