Daniel Clausen's Blog, page 50
August 22, 2016
Statue in the Clouds (The Tease)
The Intro
I’ve just finished a sketch draft of a new novel, tentatively titled “Statues in the Cloud”. The novel is pretty ambitious. Who knows if I’ll ever finish or when I’ll finish (four or five years is my best guess). But it’s important to celebrate the completion of things -- even small steps. So with that in mind, I present you the first two paragraphs from the sketch draft.
*For those of you who are interested, a “sketch draft” is the step before a first draft. It is just a series of scenes and explorations in a somewhat organized format to help understand what plot elements and characters work.
The Tease
Once upon a time, perhaps ten years ago, perhaps longer, the states of waking and dream became more and more similar. Then, suddenly, I was healed. I thought perhaps that it was the telling of a particular story that made the difference between the awake-state and the dream-state clear.
Now I wonder, Am I dead? It was hard for me to ask this question and not smile just a little. I wasn’t dead. I was older than I ever thought I would be, and in my own small way, I was happy. I had my books. I had my stories. I had a rich internal life where people -- real people -- lived and played. But every once in awhile, I would be going for a walk and I would feel in my bones that I had already died.
I’ve just finished a sketch draft of a new novel, tentatively titled “Statues in the Cloud”. The novel is pretty ambitious. Who knows if I’ll ever finish or when I’ll finish (four or five years is my best guess). But it’s important to celebrate the completion of things -- even small steps. So with that in mind, I present you the first two paragraphs from the sketch draft.
*For those of you who are interested, a “sketch draft” is the step before a first draft. It is just a series of scenes and explorations in a somewhat organized format to help understand what plot elements and characters work.
The Tease
Once upon a time, perhaps ten years ago, perhaps longer, the states of waking and dream became more and more similar. Then, suddenly, I was healed. I thought perhaps that it was the telling of a particular story that made the difference between the awake-state and the dream-state clear.
Now I wonder, Am I dead? It was hard for me to ask this question and not smile just a little. I wasn’t dead. I was older than I ever thought I would be, and in my own small way, I was happy. I had my books. I had my stories. I had a rich internal life where people -- real people -- lived and played. But every once in awhile, I would be going for a walk and I would feel in my bones that I had already died.
August 17, 2016
Review - New Beat Newbie
Disclaimer: I wrote a book with this guy; so, I can’t even pretend that I don’t have a bias toward his artistic talent.
Long ago, I wrote a short story called “The Lexical Funk.” At the time, I thought I knew exactly what it was, but didn’t understand that it could take many forms, one of the most obvious was beat poetry. From the very first poem, that’s exactly what you get -- funky beat poetry.In the very first poem, Harry writes, “Join a new determination to speak from the soul with words high on wit and wonder./ Stop the devils dragging us under.”
That’s exactly what how I feel about writing and the necessity of writing.
As I read poems like “Mother Nature”, I’m sure that this book needs its own bongo drum. In fact, I’m so sure that this book needs its own bongo drum that there should be a warning on the cover that says, “Bongo drum sold separately.”
Much of this poetry would go very well with a Jazz quartet.
Warning: the book has a social message!
Is it preachy? Yes, but let yourself be preached. You’ll like it.
Poems such as “Hard Luck Hardback” made me nostalgic for the almost-but-not-quite bygone days of used book stores and used books. (I don’t own a Kindle yet, but the day is fast approaching.) Poems such as “Two Steps” made me admire poets, and make me want to give them a dollar. “The Poet Pops his Performance Cherry” was a poem that connected with me because it expressed intimately that pure writerly moment, a subject I have been exploring as well.
This short poetry collection was an awesome way to spend an afternoon.
Long ago, I wrote a short story called “The Lexical Funk.” At the time, I thought I knew exactly what it was, but didn’t understand that it could take many forms, one of the most obvious was beat poetry. From the very first poem, that’s exactly what you get -- funky beat poetry.In the very first poem, Harry writes, “Join a new determination to speak from the soul with words high on wit and wonder./ Stop the devils dragging us under.”
That’s exactly what how I feel about writing and the necessity of writing.
As I read poems like “Mother Nature”, I’m sure that this book needs its own bongo drum. In fact, I’m so sure that this book needs its own bongo drum that there should be a warning on the cover that says, “Bongo drum sold separately.”
Much of this poetry would go very well with a Jazz quartet.
Warning: the book has a social message!
Is it preachy? Yes, but let yourself be preached. You’ll like it.
Poems such as “Hard Luck Hardback” made me nostalgic for the almost-but-not-quite bygone days of used book stores and used books. (I don’t own a Kindle yet, but the day is fast approaching.) Poems such as “Two Steps” made me admire poets, and make me want to give them a dollar. “The Poet Pops his Performance Cherry” was a poem that connected with me because it expressed intimately that pure writerly moment, a subject I have been exploring as well.
This short poetry collection was an awesome way to spend an afternoon.
August 15, 2016
An Interview for ReejecttIIon - A Number 2
Check out this game show style interview for ReejecttIIon - A Number 2.
Here's the link:
https://freerreds.wordpress.com/2016/...
https://www.facebook.com/AmalgamistBo...
Check out ReejecttIIon right here:
Here's the link:
https://freerreds.wordpress.com/2016/...
https://www.facebook.com/AmalgamistBo...
Check out ReejecttIIon right here:
August 10, 2016
The Exalted Fogey
Details about my dad stand out now in ways they didn't before.
He played the harmonica; he sang the munchkin song from the Wizard of Oz to make us laugh; always cereal and yogurt, usually in front of the television.
When he got older he got really buff as a way to offset the look of his face from the laser surgery to cut out the cancer.
He watched the Price is Right and daytime TV and liked to hang by the pool.
Long after he passed away, I still continued to believe he was around living another life. I believed that he had faked his death so that he could live beyond our judgment -- a free life as a fogey, wearing torn jean shorts and playing the harmonica, going to the thrift stores and hanging by the pool, he would give his money to strangers freely.
I was looking out the window one day from my car when I saw a man in an old, sun-worn t-shirt and jean shorts. Few were as skinny and sunbaked as my dad.
But there he was.
I followed the man for a long time. Eventually, I lost him. But I thought that that really could have been him. Just some guy somewhere, living his life. I might not even recognize him until it was too late.
This was around the same time I was reading Shane Joseph’s Fringe Dwellers. In the story, the main character smells a dirty old man and says, “So much for cultural disparities--we are all one, at least in our filth.”
I thought about what that would mean for us, his family. What does that mean that he faked his death? What did it say about us and how he felt about what we did for him (to him) in the later part of his life?
It seemed entirely logical to me though that he might try to fake his own death just so he could live as a kind of fogey, in a world, apart from us, where fogies are exalted.
Like fogies? This short story collection has a story about one. Check it out
He played the harmonica; he sang the munchkin song from the Wizard of Oz to make us laugh; always cereal and yogurt, usually in front of the television.
When he got older he got really buff as a way to offset the look of his face from the laser surgery to cut out the cancer.
He watched the Price is Right and daytime TV and liked to hang by the pool.
Long after he passed away, I still continued to believe he was around living another life. I believed that he had faked his death so that he could live beyond our judgment -- a free life as a fogey, wearing torn jean shorts and playing the harmonica, going to the thrift stores and hanging by the pool, he would give his money to strangers freely.
I was looking out the window one day from my car when I saw a man in an old, sun-worn t-shirt and jean shorts. Few were as skinny and sunbaked as my dad.
But there he was.
I followed the man for a long time. Eventually, I lost him. But I thought that that really could have been him. Just some guy somewhere, living his life. I might not even recognize him until it was too late.
This was around the same time I was reading Shane Joseph’s Fringe Dwellers. In the story, the main character smells a dirty old man and says, “So much for cultural disparities--we are all one, at least in our filth.”
I thought about what that would mean for us, his family. What does that mean that he faked his death? What did it say about us and how he felt about what we did for him (to him) in the later part of his life?
It seemed entirely logical to me though that he might try to fake his own death just so he could live as a kind of fogey, in a world, apart from us, where fogies are exalted.
Like fogies? This short story collection has a story about one. Check it out
August 6, 2016
Movie Pitches! Cuz a Writer’s Gotta Eat
As we all know, Hollywood executives are constantly on social media scouting for prime script-writing talent. At this very moment, they are developing algorithms to mine the internet for cinematic gold.
So, here you are executives! Sign me now, before another film studio snatches me up.
Leprechaun 8- Air Conditioner Repair
An air conditioner repairman named Larry opens up an air conditioner to repair it. A leprechaun appears and tells him that no leprechaun has ever mastered the art of air conditioner repair. He teaches the leprechaun and receives a pot of gold. However, now that the leprechauns have taken over the air conditioner repair business, Larry’s friends are now out for revenge.
Speed 3 - A Writer’s Workshop
A man finds himself in a writer’s workshop. “Whoa,” he says. Suddenly he’s talking like Keanu Reeves. He gets a phone call from a sinister mastermind. “I have sent you 12 years into the past. You’ll be in a workshop with Stephanie Meyers where she will have to explain the value of the first chapter of Twilight work to a classically trained writing professor with French postmodernist leanings. If you don’t defend her novel chapter, a bomb in the class will explode; if you allow any member of your workshop to slander her work without defending it, the classroom will explode; if you try to play Tetris on your phone while they are discussing her work, the classroom will explode. Say, ‘whoa’ once if you understand.” “Whoa!” the main character replies. And thus, begins the adventure of “Speed 3 - Writer’s Workshop.”
The Pitchman
An old school salesman with the motto “Always pitch them hard!” lands in heaven, but just barely. He tries to pitch the almighty on projects and products to improve things -- including introducing classics such as “Shake Weight,” “Shamwow!” and “Bowflex”. Mayhem ensues as residents of heaven are dissatisfied with the proliferation useless crap to their simple Garden of Eden. The G-man decides that where he really needs the pitchman is on the shoulder of the guys about to stray from good. Finally, the pitchman is back in action -- this time for the good of the G-man himself.
Baby Vampires
A baby is dropped on the doorstep of an unsuspecting Transylvanian couple. Little do they know that the baby is the son of Dracula. In day care, the baby Dracula bites the other babies. With an epidemic of baby vampires on the loose, who are they going to call? Baby Van Helsing! With his onion-flavored milk bottle and baby-rattle stakes, he attempts to save the world from this adorable scourge!
IKEA Furniture (A Dreamworks Picture)
An animated movie about IKEA furniture that attempts to solve geopolitical problems. As more and more countries fall apart as a result of famine, disease, civil war, and extremism, who has the courage to put it all together? IKEA furniture!
The IKEA furniture go to Somalia, Syria, and the Congo to take on the warlords. But the warlords don’t know that these IKEA furniture have manuals to put together everything. Despite their best efforts the IKEA furniture can’t quite put it all together -- until the find the missing piece not in their IKEA manuals: love.
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory vs. Grampa Joe
Several years after the dramatic events of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Grampa Joe has been muscled out of the business for various misdeeds -- like trying to harvest the organs of Oompa Loompas. Now, he’s out for revenge. He’s suing Charlie and his Chocolate Factory with the help of Slugworth and the families of the deceased children -- and one other ally: Johnny Cochran. Charlie must field a crack team of Oompa Loompa lawyers and a new creation of the Chocolate Factory -- extra chocolatey Johnny Cochran.
Well, that’s it for now, Hollywood. I await your calls.
(Dear reader, which of these movie ideas would you greenlight?)
If you like random word stuff, then you have to check out "ReejecttIIon -- A Number Two"
ReejecttIIon - a number two
So, here you are executives! Sign me now, before another film studio snatches me up.
Leprechaun 8- Air Conditioner Repair
An air conditioner repairman named Larry opens up an air conditioner to repair it. A leprechaun appears and tells him that no leprechaun has ever mastered the art of air conditioner repair. He teaches the leprechaun and receives a pot of gold. However, now that the leprechauns have taken over the air conditioner repair business, Larry’s friends are now out for revenge.
Speed 3 - A Writer’s Workshop
A man finds himself in a writer’s workshop. “Whoa,” he says. Suddenly he’s talking like Keanu Reeves. He gets a phone call from a sinister mastermind. “I have sent you 12 years into the past. You’ll be in a workshop with Stephanie Meyers where she will have to explain the value of the first chapter of Twilight work to a classically trained writing professor with French postmodernist leanings. If you don’t defend her novel chapter, a bomb in the class will explode; if you allow any member of your workshop to slander her work without defending it, the classroom will explode; if you try to play Tetris on your phone while they are discussing her work, the classroom will explode. Say, ‘whoa’ once if you understand.” “Whoa!” the main character replies. And thus, begins the adventure of “Speed 3 - Writer’s Workshop.”
The Pitchman
An old school salesman with the motto “Always pitch them hard!” lands in heaven, but just barely. He tries to pitch the almighty on projects and products to improve things -- including introducing classics such as “Shake Weight,” “Shamwow!” and “Bowflex”. Mayhem ensues as residents of heaven are dissatisfied with the proliferation useless crap to their simple Garden of Eden. The G-man decides that where he really needs the pitchman is on the shoulder of the guys about to stray from good. Finally, the pitchman is back in action -- this time for the good of the G-man himself.
Baby Vampires
A baby is dropped on the doorstep of an unsuspecting Transylvanian couple. Little do they know that the baby is the son of Dracula. In day care, the baby Dracula bites the other babies. With an epidemic of baby vampires on the loose, who are they going to call? Baby Van Helsing! With his onion-flavored milk bottle and baby-rattle stakes, he attempts to save the world from this adorable scourge!
IKEA Furniture (A Dreamworks Picture)
An animated movie about IKEA furniture that attempts to solve geopolitical problems. As more and more countries fall apart as a result of famine, disease, civil war, and extremism, who has the courage to put it all together? IKEA furniture!
The IKEA furniture go to Somalia, Syria, and the Congo to take on the warlords. But the warlords don’t know that these IKEA furniture have manuals to put together everything. Despite their best efforts the IKEA furniture can’t quite put it all together -- until the find the missing piece not in their IKEA manuals: love.
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory vs. Grampa Joe
Several years after the dramatic events of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Grampa Joe has been muscled out of the business for various misdeeds -- like trying to harvest the organs of Oompa Loompas. Now, he’s out for revenge. He’s suing Charlie and his Chocolate Factory with the help of Slugworth and the families of the deceased children -- and one other ally: Johnny Cochran. Charlie must field a crack team of Oompa Loompa lawyers and a new creation of the Chocolate Factory -- extra chocolatey Johnny Cochran.
Well, that’s it for now, Hollywood. I await your calls.
(Dear reader, which of these movie ideas would you greenlight?)
If you like random word stuff, then you have to check out "ReejecttIIon -- A Number Two"
ReejecttIIon - a number two
August 2, 2016
The Pure Writerly Moment Continues!
Where do these reflections on writing take me?
They take me to a place. The second floor of the Sumiyoshi arcade in Nagasaki, Japan. There is this cafe on the second floor. I'm the only one there.
This cute college student hovers over me.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm writing," I say in bad Japanese.
"Sugoi!"
Is there any better word in the world for what I'm doing?
*
When it's good, it's very good. But writing will also break your heart. At times, when I write I'm as cold and hard as Sam Spade.
I think of that small cafe the same way I think of my writing. So much love put into every decoration -- decorations from all over the world. Pictures of graffiti in Vienna. A trophy on the wall of a traveler.
Can you get beyond a point of fear? Can you get to a point where everything becomes a source of joy?
There is an old tin print of Elvis when he was younger. This young Elvis reaches past the tin and tells me, "Don't let your passion be derailed by a turkey club, ya' hear?"
"Yes, Elvis!"
The Japanese waitress is still hovering over me.
"What was that?"
I understand the question, but don't know enough Japanese to answer.
"Writing!" I say simply and continue.
She wouldn't understand the part about Elvis and the turkey club.
*
What was a writerly moment of joy for you?
I remember this moment in Nagasaki when I started writing about very personal things -- about my experience with the world, my experience with moralists. My thoughts about “shit” and what “shit” meant to me. The cleansing nature of it.
But I wasn’t writing scenes -- that’s something I’ve avoided. What if I could write these confessions as scenes and not just corny scenes, but as real scenes?
I have to think that people in the theater often feel a pure performerly moment. A moment when their performance becomes sublime.
The young waitress looks over at me. "Anything else!"
"Latte!" I say. It's the same in English and Japanese. I wink at Elvis.
The thoughts I'm writing in my journal -- joyfully -- will end up in my novel "The Ghosts of Nagasaki" some year later. Hopefully, they end up as a scene, but I don't think they do.
The owner is a middle-aged Japanese "dude." His salaryman days are behind him. He wears a Hawaiian shirt and an apron. His ownership of the coffee shop has to come from love, right?
I want to tell in Japanese that I had a novel once that I wanted to write so bad that it hurt to pee. I move my mouth but don't actually say anything, and then I'm writing on the page.
"Kaitteriu," I say over and over again as I scribble.
My writing brings me places like coffee shops on second floors overlooking people, hopefully they have loves -- things that work out more often than not.
I hope they have writerly moments, just, you know, in their own ways.
I hope you do too reader. This is not the end.
More odd reflections will take me further and further into a world that becomes more beautiful with every act of wordplay.
Like readerly moments?
Try out
They take me to a place. The second floor of the Sumiyoshi arcade in Nagasaki, Japan. There is this cafe on the second floor. I'm the only one there.
This cute college student hovers over me.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm writing," I say in bad Japanese.
"Sugoi!"
Is there any better word in the world for what I'm doing?
*
When it's good, it's very good. But writing will also break your heart. At times, when I write I'm as cold and hard as Sam Spade.
I think of that small cafe the same way I think of my writing. So much love put into every decoration -- decorations from all over the world. Pictures of graffiti in Vienna. A trophy on the wall of a traveler.
Can you get beyond a point of fear? Can you get to a point where everything becomes a source of joy?
There is an old tin print of Elvis when he was younger. This young Elvis reaches past the tin and tells me, "Don't let your passion be derailed by a turkey club, ya' hear?"
"Yes, Elvis!"
The Japanese waitress is still hovering over me.
"What was that?"
I understand the question, but don't know enough Japanese to answer.
"Writing!" I say simply and continue.
She wouldn't understand the part about Elvis and the turkey club.
*
What was a writerly moment of joy for you?
I remember this moment in Nagasaki when I started writing about very personal things -- about my experience with the world, my experience with moralists. My thoughts about “shit” and what “shit” meant to me. The cleansing nature of it.
But I wasn’t writing scenes -- that’s something I’ve avoided. What if I could write these confessions as scenes and not just corny scenes, but as real scenes?
I have to think that people in the theater often feel a pure performerly moment. A moment when their performance becomes sublime.
The young waitress looks over at me. "Anything else!"
"Latte!" I say. It's the same in English and Japanese. I wink at Elvis.
The thoughts I'm writing in my journal -- joyfully -- will end up in my novel "The Ghosts of Nagasaki" some year later. Hopefully, they end up as a scene, but I don't think they do.
The owner is a middle-aged Japanese "dude." His salaryman days are behind him. He wears a Hawaiian shirt and an apron. His ownership of the coffee shop has to come from love, right?
I want to tell in Japanese that I had a novel once that I wanted to write so bad that it hurt to pee. I move my mouth but don't actually say anything, and then I'm writing on the page.
"Kaitteriu," I say over and over again as I scribble.
My writing brings me places like coffee shops on second floors overlooking people, hopefully they have loves -- things that work out more often than not.
I hope they have writerly moments, just, you know, in their own ways.
I hope you do too reader. This is not the end.
More odd reflections will take me further and further into a world that becomes more beautiful with every act of wordplay.
Like readerly moments?
Try out
July 26, 2016
Review of Haruki Murakami's Dance, Dance, Dance
Here is a review of Haruki Murakami's Dance, Dance, Dance,
Dance Dance Dance
It's still one of my favorite book reviews from Goodreads. Enjoy!
*
Stay with me for a moment. I’m writing about a scene happening within a movie within Murakami’s book (two or three degrees of separation, depending on how you count). So I’m reading Dance, Dance, Dance, and there is a scene in the book where the main character is transfixed by a scene within a movie he’s watching. The movie itself is pretty terrible—a film about a high school girl who falls in love with her teacher. But he can’t stop watching the movie. He goes to the same movie theater every day to watch the same movie because of this one scene.
As it turns out, one of the main character’s old middle school friends plays the teacher in the movie and the girlfriend is played by his old girlfriend whom he has been searching for for a while. In the scene, the teacher is sleeping with his girlfriend. Up until this point in the movie we’ve come to find out that one of the teacher’s students is in love with him. She bakes him cookies and shows up at his house to give him the cookies, she walks into his house because the door is open (the main character of the novel wonders why the door would be open). The young girl sees the teacher making love to his girlfriend. She drops the cookies and runs out of the house. The girlfriend turns to the teacher and says: “What was that about?” And that is the scene.
And the main character in Murakami’s book wonders: “What was that about?” Not particularly the action of the girl in the movie dropping the cookies, but the odds that he would see his old middle school friend having sex with his girlfriend in a movie. In some way, that is what Dance, Dance, Dance is about, figuring out what things are about. And like much good postmodern fiction we get a sense that there is something that it’s all about. We get a semblance of order…but only a semblance. In the end, things come together only so that things can tear themselves apart again. As I read this book, I’m tearing myself apart and putting myself back together.
Lots of things happen in the book: the main character, struggling with his life at 34 goes to a hotel which plays no small part in the arrangement of his universe; he meets a Goatman who lives in the shadows of his universe on a mysterious floor of the hotel; the main character helps out a 13-year-old girl struggling with her life; love, Hawaii, and everything in between. And the book encourages you to ask: “What was that all about?” But because the asking happens at so many levels—the girlfriend inside the movie about the young girl walking in on them, the main character about the movie he watches where his junior high school friend is in bed with his ex-girlfriend, the main character about his life, the reader about the book—this question tends to migrate further. And soon, days later, you’re wonder about your life up until this point: What was that all about?
I tear my 28-year-old self apart and re-assemble as a 34 year old looking at myself as 13-year-old. After reading the book, this act seems like the most ordinary thing in the world. What would my 13-year-old self say about my 34-year-old self? Would he think the same thing Yuki thought about the main character? Would I be hip or lame? Would I be tolerable or unbearably boring?
It’s been five days since I finished the book and I can already start to feel its imprint begin to fade. But then nothing really fades. Just as the main character says at one point, it’s hard to know where one thing ends and the next begins. Do I leave my imprint on the book? When others find the book, will they pick up a piece of me with it? Where does the book end and I begin?
I wonder if college students will still read 30 or 40 years from now? I have my doubts. If they do, will they read books like Dance, Dance, Dance? Will they pick up the same worn hardcover copy I did? If they do, I hope there is a page in Dance, Dance, Dance like the magical floor of the Dolphin Hotel? I hope I appear in a sheep suit with words of mystery and portent great changes in their life.
“And when I think of books and how they should be read, I think of people leaving them places, strangers picking them up, reading them, and then leaving them again…books are like strangers; they’re for strangers; they shouldn’t be treated as sentimental objects, just straw dogs…” Or, in the case of Murakami, perhaps they ought to be treated like wayward magical sheep men. But one of the things a Murakami book encourages you to do is to treat books sentimentally, or at least the time you spend with Murakami’s characters. After all, they reach out to readers in ways that are in equal parts intimate and casual.
What was that all about? It was about Murakami and me. He wrote a book so commonplace, so ordinary and unusual that everyday life becomes surreal—the book’s nonchalance couldn’t be anything but overplanned. It was about him and me and the place we shared in time. Not a floor of the Dolphin hotel, but not a series of dead pages either. Something lived and living…it runs deep in the fabric of the universe and continues to tie things together.
Dance Dance Dance
It's still one of my favorite book reviews from Goodreads. Enjoy!
*
Stay with me for a moment. I’m writing about a scene happening within a movie within Murakami’s book (two or three degrees of separation, depending on how you count). So I’m reading Dance, Dance, Dance, and there is a scene in the book where the main character is transfixed by a scene within a movie he’s watching. The movie itself is pretty terrible—a film about a high school girl who falls in love with her teacher. But he can’t stop watching the movie. He goes to the same movie theater every day to watch the same movie because of this one scene.
As it turns out, one of the main character’s old middle school friends plays the teacher in the movie and the girlfriend is played by his old girlfriend whom he has been searching for for a while. In the scene, the teacher is sleeping with his girlfriend. Up until this point in the movie we’ve come to find out that one of the teacher’s students is in love with him. She bakes him cookies and shows up at his house to give him the cookies, she walks into his house because the door is open (the main character of the novel wonders why the door would be open). The young girl sees the teacher making love to his girlfriend. She drops the cookies and runs out of the house. The girlfriend turns to the teacher and says: “What was that about?” And that is the scene.
And the main character in Murakami’s book wonders: “What was that about?” Not particularly the action of the girl in the movie dropping the cookies, but the odds that he would see his old middle school friend having sex with his girlfriend in a movie. In some way, that is what Dance, Dance, Dance is about, figuring out what things are about. And like much good postmodern fiction we get a sense that there is something that it’s all about. We get a semblance of order…but only a semblance. In the end, things come together only so that things can tear themselves apart again. As I read this book, I’m tearing myself apart and putting myself back together.
Lots of things happen in the book: the main character, struggling with his life at 34 goes to a hotel which plays no small part in the arrangement of his universe; he meets a Goatman who lives in the shadows of his universe on a mysterious floor of the hotel; the main character helps out a 13-year-old girl struggling with her life; love, Hawaii, and everything in between. And the book encourages you to ask: “What was that all about?” But because the asking happens at so many levels—the girlfriend inside the movie about the young girl walking in on them, the main character about the movie he watches where his junior high school friend is in bed with his ex-girlfriend, the main character about his life, the reader about the book—this question tends to migrate further. And soon, days later, you’re wonder about your life up until this point: What was that all about?
I tear my 28-year-old self apart and re-assemble as a 34 year old looking at myself as 13-year-old. After reading the book, this act seems like the most ordinary thing in the world. What would my 13-year-old self say about my 34-year-old self? Would he think the same thing Yuki thought about the main character? Would I be hip or lame? Would I be tolerable or unbearably boring?
It’s been five days since I finished the book and I can already start to feel its imprint begin to fade. But then nothing really fades. Just as the main character says at one point, it’s hard to know where one thing ends and the next begins. Do I leave my imprint on the book? When others find the book, will they pick up a piece of me with it? Where does the book end and I begin?
I wonder if college students will still read 30 or 40 years from now? I have my doubts. If they do, will they read books like Dance, Dance, Dance? Will they pick up the same worn hardcover copy I did? If they do, I hope there is a page in Dance, Dance, Dance like the magical floor of the Dolphin Hotel? I hope I appear in a sheep suit with words of mystery and portent great changes in their life.
“And when I think of books and how they should be read, I think of people leaving them places, strangers picking them up, reading them, and then leaving them again…books are like strangers; they’re for strangers; they shouldn’t be treated as sentimental objects, just straw dogs…” Or, in the case of Murakami, perhaps they ought to be treated like wayward magical sheep men. But one of the things a Murakami book encourages you to do is to treat books sentimentally, or at least the time you spend with Murakami’s characters. After all, they reach out to readers in ways that are in equal parts intimate and casual.
What was that all about? It was about Murakami and me. He wrote a book so commonplace, so ordinary and unusual that everyday life becomes surreal—the book’s nonchalance couldn’t be anything but overplanned. It was about him and me and the place we shared in time. Not a floor of the Dolphin hotel, but not a series of dead pages either. Something lived and living…it runs deep in the fabric of the universe and continues to tie things together.
July 20, 2016
Guiltless Reading Interview
I did this interview for Guiltless Reading a while back to promote The Ghosts of Nagasaki.
The Ghosts of Nagasaki
Read it! You won't regret it.
http://guiltlessreading.blogspot.ca/2...
The Ghosts of Nagasaki
Read it! You won't regret it.
http://guiltlessreading.blogspot.ca/2...
July 15, 2016
Micro-Author Interview with Libby Heily
The following is a short interview with Libby Heily.
Libby is the author of an excellent book entitled "Tough Girl"
Tough Girl
You can read my review of that book here:
https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...
What does being an indie author mean to you?
Hmmm. Let's see. It means doing a lot of work and research and learning about book promotion and finding your audience. It also means putting out work that you're proud of and not compromising.
Being indie, I can explore and experiment and I have no one to answer to other than my readers. Right now, I'm taking a chance by publishing my first ever serial, "Our Beloved Dictator." It's a darkly comedic somewhat satirical story that will take place over the course of 26 weeks. Each episode is roughly 1000 words. The story follows George, a hapless twenty-something, as he encounters a dictatorship in a small town in VA but it also branches off into the lives of the people living in the town. I think of it as story set up like a flak cloud. I don't think I could do publish my own serial on my website if I were with a big publishing house.
What’s your favorite sentence or paragraph from one of your books? What does it mean to you?
I'm not sure about favorite, but the first sentence that came to mind is from Tough Girl. Tough Girl is the name of Reggie's imaginary friend who is a sci-fi hero and comes from an extremely rough background. When anther character references her he says, "Tough Girl. It's not a name, it's a warning."
The reason I like that sentence is because it's actually about Reggie. When it's said about TG, the warning part is meant to say that she's such a badass, you better watch your back. When it's the tagline of the novel, it means that Reggie is in trouble and people need to look out for her.
What advice would you give other indie authors starting out?
Write as much as you can and put your work out for critique. Learn to write and write well. Read a ton. Start googling book promotion now, because it takes a long time to learn.
What question would you like to see in future interviews?
What else do you love to do besides write and read?
What are your writing quirks and habits?
I keep tons of notebooks. Every project has it's notebook and I take notes, sketch out scenes and plan the plot. I am addicted to notebooks.
What's children's cartoon best represents your personality?
I get told all the time that I'm either Peppermint Patty from the Peanuts (I'm a tomboy) or Daria from Daria–I'm sarcastic and generally underwhelmed.
How do you see the indie scene in 50 years time?
I think it depends on the tech. My guess, we'll see a rise of small pockets of readers that are incredibly devoted to certain authors. It might be possible to have several hundred incredibly loyal fans with only a handful of writers really being well known.
Thank you Libby for letting me interview you.
Libby is the author of an excellent book entitled "Tough Girl"
Tough Girl
You can read my review of that book here:
https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...
What does being an indie author mean to you?
Hmmm. Let's see. It means doing a lot of work and research and learning about book promotion and finding your audience. It also means putting out work that you're proud of and not compromising.
Being indie, I can explore and experiment and I have no one to answer to other than my readers. Right now, I'm taking a chance by publishing my first ever serial, "Our Beloved Dictator." It's a darkly comedic somewhat satirical story that will take place over the course of 26 weeks. Each episode is roughly 1000 words. The story follows George, a hapless twenty-something, as he encounters a dictatorship in a small town in VA but it also branches off into the lives of the people living in the town. I think of it as story set up like a flak cloud. I don't think I could do publish my own serial on my website if I were with a big publishing house.
What’s your favorite sentence or paragraph from one of your books? What does it mean to you?
I'm not sure about favorite, but the first sentence that came to mind is from Tough Girl. Tough Girl is the name of Reggie's imaginary friend who is a sci-fi hero and comes from an extremely rough background. When anther character references her he says, "Tough Girl. It's not a name, it's a warning."
The reason I like that sentence is because it's actually about Reggie. When it's said about TG, the warning part is meant to say that she's such a badass, you better watch your back. When it's the tagline of the novel, it means that Reggie is in trouble and people need to look out for her.
What advice would you give other indie authors starting out?
Write as much as you can and put your work out for critique. Learn to write and write well. Read a ton. Start googling book promotion now, because it takes a long time to learn.
What question would you like to see in future interviews?
What else do you love to do besides write and read?
What are your writing quirks and habits?
I keep tons of notebooks. Every project has it's notebook and I take notes, sketch out scenes and plan the plot. I am addicted to notebooks.
What's children's cartoon best represents your personality?
I get told all the time that I'm either Peppermint Patty from the Peanuts (I'm a tomboy) or Daria from Daria–I'm sarcastic and generally underwhelmed.
How do you see the indie scene in 50 years time?
I think it depends on the tech. My guess, we'll see a rise of small pockets of readers that are incredibly devoted to certain authors. It might be possible to have several hundred incredibly loyal fans with only a handful of writers really being well known.
Thank you Libby for letting me interview you.
July 11, 2016
A Strange and Distant Land (Summer 2001)
I was poor, but not hungry. Young, barely twenty. Now I’m old.
Rainy days make for the best recall days, for that summer especially. There were things about myself that come to me like scraps of paper found in a waste basket.
I read the first scrap: Greatness seemed beyond my grasp.
More scraps come to me: I was lonely but surprisingly content.
I remember it rained a lot. I remember being so beach-starved I would take walks with backpack stuffed full of books, a notepad. It rained, so I wore my rain coat as I walked.
I had a job at a coffee shop. And the beginning of friendships. But my dad was getting worse. But that was temporary. He would get better. Young as I was, I worried that all bad things were permanent. I worried nothing would ever get better.
I loved walking through Pompano Beach. It gave me the illusion that I was a traveler in a strange and distant land. I was too young, poor, naive, weighed down by impossible dreams to ever have the chance to travel. So I enjoyed my walks through Pompano. If you have a deep interior life, normal things can seem strange and distant.
I would write little bits of this and that. As much as a place could impress on a twenty-year-old mind. My future seemed to be rushing at me faster than I could handle. Small walks in Pompano helped to turn the tide of inevitably.
Rainy days make for the best recall days, for that summer especially. There were things about myself that come to me like scraps of paper found in a waste basket.
I read the first scrap: Greatness seemed beyond my grasp.
More scraps come to me: I was lonely but surprisingly content.
I remember it rained a lot. I remember being so beach-starved I would take walks with backpack stuffed full of books, a notepad. It rained, so I wore my rain coat as I walked.
I had a job at a coffee shop. And the beginning of friendships. But my dad was getting worse. But that was temporary. He would get better. Young as I was, I worried that all bad things were permanent. I worried nothing would ever get better.
I loved walking through Pompano Beach. It gave me the illusion that I was a traveler in a strange and distant land. I was too young, poor, naive, weighed down by impossible dreams to ever have the chance to travel. So I enjoyed my walks through Pompano. If you have a deep interior life, normal things can seem strange and distant.
I would write little bits of this and that. As much as a place could impress on a twenty-year-old mind. My future seemed to be rushing at me faster than I could handle. Small walks in Pompano helped to turn the tide of inevitably.
