Jamie Iredell's Blog, page 12

next big thing thing

I've noticed this next big thing thing that some friends have been doing. I read some of these posts, in particular by Matthew Salesses, Laura van den Berg, and now Molly Gaudry, who tagged me to do this shit. Thanks a lot. Actually, it's fun. I like to talk about the book(s) I'm working on; it helps me figure them out sometimes.

What is your working title of your book (or story)?

I'm always working on more than one project, so I have a collection of essays, titled either "Fat," or "What Can Happen to You When You Read." Haven't decided yet. Then I have a novel called "The Fat Kid." Last, there's this weird kind of nature writing thing called "The Trees of Atlanta."

Where did the idea come from for the book?

The essays are all things I've written in the past year or two that have been published in a variety of magazines, like Thought Catalog, The Rumpus, The Nervous Breakdown, The Good Men Project Magazine, The Chattahoochee Review, etcetera. 

"The Fat Kid" started from me writing out dreams I had that seemed to feature a set of characters. 

I always wanted to write about the trees around Atlanta that I watch change through the year as I jog. 

What genre does your book fall under? 

Fiction and nonfiction.

Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

Making a movie based on a collection of essays sounds like a stupid idea. But if someone were to play the Fat Kid, and the Fat Kid's Daddy (the main characters) I guess they would be this guy
 who's not an actor, but he's got the right look. And this guy:
He's probably the best and worst actor ever. 
What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?
Essays: I thought about things and whoops.
"The Fat Kid": A guy leaves his old life behind to live in a mountain town where he ends up having a kid whom he ridicules his whole life, until his now-adult son tortures then murders him.
"The Trees of Atlanta": A depressed and lonely man contemplates the universe through native and invasive arborial species. 
Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?
 These books all already have publishers. 
How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?
Essays: 2 years.
"The Fat Kid": 1 year.
"The Trees of Atlanta": underway now for ~ 3 months.
What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?
Essays: The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman.
"The Fat Kid": "The Payback" by James Brown
"The Trees of Atlanta": Trees of North America: A Guide to Field Identification + Walden
Who or what inspired you to write this book?
Essays: See answer to "What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?"
"The Fat Kid": Felt like writing about a fat kid who gets revenge.
"The Trees of Atlanta": Wanted to learn all I could about the trees around me, and that's how that learning is manifesting itself. 
OK, tag you're it! (and sorry in advance)
Kevin Sampsell Christopher Higgs Mary Miller

So what I mean is that I write about things that probably...

So what I mean is that I write about things that probably no one in his right mind would want to write about, like the awful relationship I had in college in Reno, where I was with this woman and the two of us together were drinking a lot, and I was also doing a lot of drugs, and I'm pretty sure there was some chemical imbalance going on, too, because, while things have changed significantly for me, they haven't for her (I mean, I saw her mugshot on the internet recently), and the whole time my parents and brother and sister were worried about when they would get a middle-of-the-night call from the Reno Police Department about where they'd found my body. One time, when I attempted suicide, I ended up sneaking out of the hospital because my girlfriend told me they were going to take me to the state mental health hospital and keep me under observation. Anyway, most people, I don't think, would want to go back to relive those moments in their lives--not that most people have such moments, but I'd be surprised if there weren't large numbers of people who have similar experiences. The thing I'm saying is that I'm not unique. But the way to talk about all this is to be honest about it, and part of that honesty is explaining that it was mostly my fault. I mean, I know that my girlfriend at the time wasn't a good influence, but was that her fault necessarily? I should've gotten the hell out at the first sign of trouble (like, before we even started "officially" dating, because, you see, she was dating a friend of mine and, well, it's complicated, but that right there is the trouble), but I didn't get the hell out because I was too insecure to go after another woman because I knew that this one liked me. And my insecurities are what led me to using drugs and drinking way too much and those insecurities are what led me into many an emergency room. Fortunately, I had these strengths in other places. I was really into school, and I worked hard at it, and did well, and I graduated and started graduate school (at my undergrad alma mater) and that was one way I kept focus. That and I already knew at that time that I wanted to be a writer, so I was always focused on that. So I let myself fall apart in some areas and built myself up in others. Ultimately, the only thing that really saved my ass was getting the hell out of Reno. But what I'm trying to say is that in order to be honest about all that, I have to admit to these shortcomings: that I was insecure because I was overweight, and I drank alcohol and did drugs because I was able to have friends by doing these things, and having friends made me feel better about the fact that I didn't have a significant other because I was overweight (and, nevermind the fact that I was like 21 years old and didn't know what the fuck life had in store for me!), and when I ended up with a significant other I continued on the same path and that led to the other problems that I really only ever overcame by leaving that town and moving on with my life. That's the kind of stuff I think that's worth writing about, I guess. 

So, what I was trying to say in that last post is that, t...

So, what I was trying to say in that last post is that, to truly be an artist worth anyone giving a shit about, I think a couple things: 1) you shouldn't give a shit about people giving a shit about you. This sounds at the same time both obvious and ridiculous. On the ridiculous: why make art if no one gives a shit about it? On the obvious: how can you make serious art if you give a fuck about what anyone else thinks? You have to believe in your own vision, right? But I think that that tension is what makes someone capable of being a good artist: you can't ignore an audience no matter how hard you try; if you're worth anything as an artist, you're aware of the artists working in your medium, so you know the market, and you know what other people are making. Otherwise whatever you might make might be useless or, worse, redundant. 2) You should be the person you are at whatever time that is. If you're anything like me you change pretty regularly. Sometimes you like iambic pentameter and sometimes you like prose fiction in the third person omniscient. You don't know what the hell you're doing most the time. But discipline is important if you ever plan to get anything done. To that end I've immersed myself in projects, many of them at any one given time, so that if I ever get bored, or decide my mood puts me somewhere else, I can switch there and I've always got something to work on. 3) Don't censor yourself. This is different than revision, in other words. What I mean is that who you are and what you've been doing your whole life is good stuff, provided you can describe it as such. Anyone can do so, but there's a mastery of storytelling that comes into it, and that I think you can only gain from reading a lot, or from listening to many storytellers. What you don't want to do is put up some kind idealized version of yourself in your writing. save that for fiction, if that's your thing. But in nonfiction, it's probably best if you just tell the truth, and it's especially good if you're able to see your shortcomings and exploit those for storytelling purposes. I mean, who wants to hear a story about someone who's really great and thinks that way about himself and is reinforcing that upon you? The only times where that strategy works is when it's unintentionally tragic, as in David Carradine's unintentionally amazing book. In general, intention, I would say, is a guideline. certainly, happy little accidents occur. But be honest with yourself. Anyway, that's what I feel like I'm trying to do. I'm a go into more detail in a minute.  

Feeling really anti-internet lately. Oh, I know the irony...

Feeling really anti-internet lately. Oh, I know the irony of saying that here, blah blah. But, really, I'm trying to focus on writing stuff that I'm writing for books I'm going to publish, and I'm feeling like the internet is this giant distraction/timesuck. It's always felt like that, but I guess I used to be better at participating online and getting my work done, but now it feels like whenever I'm posting anything on Facebook or Twitter or here, it's like, why the fuck are you wasting your time writing this bullshit when you could be spending it writing or revising something that matters? Maybe it's because I have a kid now? I don't know. But I've also generally been really bored with Twitter and Facebook lately, and, god, I hardly ever even do anything on this blog anymore. Not that anyone gives a fuck about that. I'm thinking: just make this into a regular log/journal/whatever. Who cares? Maybe some people read this and if they do, sorry--maybe, because I guess that I've kind of tried to make who I really am the artist. Okay, yes, that's what this post is going to be about. So starting last spring or summer, I don't remember when, I started writing nonfiction in earnest. I didn't know that was going to happen. Actually, I didn't start writing it then, I wrote a nonfiction book first. Forgot about that. Anyway, then I started writing essays that I was publishing at Thought Catalog and The Nervous Breakdown and The Rumpus and stuff, and before that I was working on this book-length nonfiction that just wasn't as public, I suppose. Anyway, I kind of decided at a certain point that the more idiosyncratic I can make what I'm trying to do as a writer, the more "real" it would be, and it would only be more "real" because it was coming from some authentic place in me, in that it truly was me. I mean, I revise and everything, but that's almost entirely to try to get sentences right, not so much meaning, and not the "reality" of a situation. Although, I'll be the first to admit that writing nonfiction for the "truth" of whatever it is that you're writing is more important than any kind of idea of "objective truth." That feels like a whole other thing. I guess what happened was that I started writing about things that I went through while living in Reno, and I started writing about things that I'm going through now, and all of those things were real, and I felt that that was me, and that that particular way of seeing and talking about things was worthwhile--at least to me, if it wasn't worthwhile to someone else--say, a reader. I feel like this is too long already and already quite a bit jumbled, but I think I'm going to try to keep writing here about these ideas for the heck of it. Maybe one day 'll actually solidify into some semblance of coherence here and elsewhere.

And so it is that Carl Sagan would kill us

Just watch Cosmos. Cheesy, but so right.

Funny

Sometimes that's just literary agents. Literary agents are silly silly things.

THE TREES OF ATLANTA

Cercis canadensis
I was jogging the other day in Atlanta, and as I jogged underneath a particular tree’s foliage, I looked up to discover it was a lovely eastern redbud that in the July heat retained its seed pods, and these dangled from the branches like grayish-brown ears that had been severed from a people likely slaughtered, like those of the natives who once inhabited this vicinity, and these seed-ears were all lined up and drying. Eastern Redbud is becoming more popular in the nursery trade in the Deep South. I suppose this is because in spring, eastern redbud sprouts beautiful pink flowers all over. It’s one of the earliest splashes of color after a long and dreary February. It’s a birthday party in a tree, like it’s the tree’s birthday, and the tree is celebrating. I cannot help but think of celebrating trees. Thanks for that eastern redbud. Here’s something fun: This tree is also known as the "Judas-tree" because it is thought that the Apostle, Judas Iscariot hung himself on a branch of an Eastern Redbud. Also: Native Americans consumed redbud flowers raw or boiled, and ate the seeds, roasted.

THE TREES OF ATLANTA

Betula nigra
After jogging the other day in Atlanta, I went to work where I helped people learn to read and write. I stood in a cinderblock building and looked at faces. The faces held expressions you might expect, should someone tell you the importance of words, words, words. It was like finding yourself subjected to an accountant’s rendering of her daily play-by-play. But this morning, after submitting to this reality, I saw two magnificent river birches. I stood on a bridge that spanned between the cinderblock building in which I’d taught, and the next cinderblock building, through which I’d pass on my way to the blacktopped parking lot below, where I’d enter my Toyota and speed away on endless highways full of others speeding away to other places. I’d paused here, on this bridge, once before, but I faced the opposite direction, east, when the sun was about to rise, and I photographed the red and purple clouds with a cell phone. But this day, the day I’m talking about, I faced west, and faced these river birches, which forked out of mulched ground twenty feet below me, and spread their toothed leaves so they canopied above my head, and I did not take a photo, because it seemed to do so would only indignify what appeared to be the only living thing in this vicinity.

THE TREES OF ATLANTA

Magnolia grandiflora
I was jogging the other day in Atlanta’s Piedmont Park, and there I spied a magnificent magnolia tree. One of the branches of this magnolia, thicker than a fat man’s girth, swept like a couch upon which a fat man had sat for many years, and upon this branch children had clambered, their legs swinging toward the ground. Parents took photographs. The flowers had opened on this magnolia, like stars shining in a deep green sky. The leaves are dark, stiff, and leathery, and often scruffy underneath, with yellow-brown pubescence. Did you know that at one time the English sold small magnolia trees for five guineas each (but later the price fell to half a guinea)? Once, a movie was made about magnolias. Or I assume that’s what it was about, since it had the word magnolias in the title. I never saw that movie. But I had a magnolia tree in my backyard while growing up. That magnolia tree is still there, just like this one here, and it does not look like either will be going anywhere for some time. Sometimes I wonder what a guinea is, and sometimes I wonder if I should see the magnolia movie, but likely I’ll remain ignorant on both accounts.

THE TREES OF ATLANTA

Quercus phellos
I was jogging the other day around Atlanta when I came across a willow oak. Hello, willow oak, I said. How is it that you are among the last of your deciduous brethren to lose his leaves? I admit I did not know that you were always an oak. You do not look oak-ish, what with your willow-like leaves. Haha, that's why you're called a willow oak, I get it. In all my jogging I never once paid attention to your acorn fruit. You start acorn production around fifteen years of age, earlier than many oak species. I have read this. I have read about you. Despite being massively planted in the Southern United States (such as in Washington, DC and in Atlanta, Georgia) around malls, along roads, etcetera, you tend to grow larger than planners expected, which often leads to cracked sidewalks. One intriguing solution being tried in D.C. is to use “rubber” sidewalks, made from recycled tires. Would you like a rubber sidewalk, here in Atlanta, willow oak? I would. I would like rubber sidewalks for all this jogging!