David Klein's Blog, page 52

7 Thoughts on Listicles

1. A listicle is a short form of writing hugely popular on the web that uses a numbered list as its structure but contains enough copy to also be an article. I can’t tell you how many listicles I’ve written for clients over the years. Some have been substantial, but a lot of them I […]

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The Secrets Bookshelves Hold

One thing I’ve missed during the pandemic is going into other people’s houses and examining their bookshelves. If I enter someone’s house and I don’t see any bookshelves or if the only bookshelves I see are decorated with objects d’art and not lined with books, I get tense, as if I were entering a dangerous […]

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KLARA AND THE SUN, Kazuo Ishiguro

I remember talking many years ago to my dear, departed friend Patrick about a Kazuo Ishiguro novel. He said, “You start reading and you think there’s no way he can pull this off. And you keep going and you’re still thinking no way. And then you get to the end and you’re astounded because he […]

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The Big Lie, Revised

How long a shadow the Big Lie casts conceived and perpetuated by the Fuhrer and his minions Keep it simple, keep it outrageous, keep it repeating Blame everything on the Jews, they did And the Big Lie surfaces again from another would-be Fuhrer A stolen election! People will believe People will believe a simple, outrageous […]

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Weather Report

If I hadn’t ended up a writer, I could have been a weatherman. Better yet a weatherperson. Although the profession never did make the list of my brilliant career.

What appeals to me is the careful blending of weather data, facts, and analysis with the creative presentation of the weather report. What to leave in and out. How to make the dull day interesting, the horrific day not so apocalyptic. Knowing what matters to the audience: the temperature, precipitation probability, wind speed.

Right now I’m tracking the weather in Birmingham. The entire area is under threat for severe storms and tornadoes throughout the night. As of this writing, several have passed through. There’s a lull now, but more are forecast for later. It’s like you know at some point, late in the night, the artillery will start up and you’ll stay huddled in your foxhole.

I might have a weatherperson temperament: seemingly confident in my forecast, yet still end up wrong about half the time. I also I admire the weatherperson on the front lines. Bravely reporting on the conditions we could all see as viewers:

“Folks, that is rain driven by Category 4 hurricane force winds lashing my face.”

“This full-body-uncontrolled shiver that you’re seeing now is what you get in minus 40 degree wind chills.”

“If you’ll notice, I’ve chained myself to this lamppost so as not to be blown away.”

I’ve seen weatherpersons lean into blizzards, snarl in the face of hurricanes, lick their lips in desert drought conditions. But I’ve never seen one of them stand up to a tornado bearing down. But I would do it. I would face the funnel if I could alter the course of the storm.

Which reminds me. It’s time to check the Birmingham weather. I’ve got three weather apps open. There are alerts, there are warnings. Update coming later.

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Ask Dave: Andy Writes Back

Not every day does someone follow my advice and then write back to me. So I can’t help but publish the response I got from Andy following our original correspondence. I’m sure he won’t mind my sharing this with you.

Dear Dave:

I don’t know you or what your credentials might be for dispensing advice. You were just a random online dude and I clicked submit before I meant to because I happened to be in the midst of a deep personal crisis.

And yet, I followed the recommendation you gave me: I asked my daughters for their views.

What did my twenty-something daughters think about a 63-year-old guy asking her if she liked to sleep with older men, or if she would enjoy a surprise kiss on the lips, or a hand unexpectedly exploring the curve of her breast?

They didn’t like any of those ideas.

They also talked to me about the complexity of the situation.

My daughters said context and consent are extremely important in any romantic or sexual exchange. They said the woman might have felt vulnerable, even intimidated by my overtures, and have had zero romantic interest in me. She might have been shy and unable to respond. She might even have felt curious or intrigued by the man or by proximity to power, at least until that question got thrown in about sleeping with older men. That was basically a request for a sexual relationship, said my daughters. And that’s true, because I didn’t know how else to approach the subject.

My daughters also said a woman will signal her interest in a man, if not verbally, then through expression and body language—the universal language of flirtation. They also said my position of power throws the entire situation out of balance, that there was no way we could have been on equally footing. I understand that. I’ve always had a way of getting what I want, one way or the other.

So I may have crossed the line—I did in fact cross the line, but it wasn’t due to a sense of entitlement, Dave. It wasn’t because of my position of power.

Honestly, it was pure desperation.

I can’t tell you how lonely I am.

Andy

Yes, desperation. I can’t tell you how lonely I am. How worthless I feel inside. I know you’d never think that of someone like me. But I’ve made many mistakes and I’ve driven away many people. You’ve heard what they said about me—that I don’t have any close friends. It’s true. I’m a bully. I’m alone. I’m in pain. I’m getting old and I wanted a beautiful, younger woman to find me fascinating, and virile, and special. Is that so awful?

As for a woman signaling her interest: You can’t always tell whether a beautiful woman is really interested. You can be clouded by hope, by your own fantasies. You can misread that dazzling face of hers. It’s possible. And that alleged kiss—it wasn’t entitlement, it wasn’t ownership or a brute display of power. It was a Hail Mary. Nothing but a desperate heave on my part.

And about that groping accusation—I can’t comment on that. I don’t remember that event at all. If it did happen, I’ve blocked the experience from my consciousness due to deep shame. If it didn’t happen, well, then I might have to start questioning things. Maybe my memories aren’t right. Maybe hers aren’t. It’s all very confusing, going through life a lost and lonely soul.

People are calling on me to resign from my position. Even C and K have turned against me. Everyone has. This could cause great harm to my brand. I’m presidential material! What should I do, Dave?

–Andy

Read Part 1 of my correspondence with Andy.

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Ask Dave: Vol. 8, Number 11

Sometimes I post letters here that I’ve received at my other website, the advice column, Dear Dave. Recently I shared one about a fellow who almost set himself on fire. I got a huge number of emails saying I had missed the point of the letter. Maybe I’ll do better this time with a letter I received yesterday.

Dear Dave:

I’m an important and powerful person and have many people working for me. I’ve proven myself a true leader in my field and have achieved the highest level of success. But suddenly I find myself confused about the most ordinary of endeavors: the game of love.

My love life is in tatters these days and I just don’t understand how this could have happened. I used to be quite adept in the ways of love, if I may be honest. I might even be descended from that greater lover himself, Don Juan.

And yet recently, I’ve been accused of romantic mishaps. For example, I went in for the first kiss with a woman I was attracted to and was later accused of giving an unsolicited kiss. I don’t understand. How can the mystery of the first kiss be anything but unsolicited? Who would ever ask someone for consent first? Is that not a romantic moment-killer?

Another example: I’m 63 years old but happen to be attracted to younger women. I let my preferences be known by asking a woman in her twenties who I found very sexy if she liked to date older men. She accused me of sexual harassment!

Do you see what I’m saying? I’m damned if I go in for the first kiss and damned if I ask first.

I’ll share with you one more incident to demonstrate just how befuddling my situation is. I’m not the most tech savvy person in the world (63 years old, right?) and a younger assistant came to help me with a computer issue I was having. She leaned over my desk to point out something on my screen and her breast was right there, within inches of my face. If that’s not an invitation I don’t know what is. And then she accused me of groping! I looked up the word groping and its definition is “moving or going about clumsily or hesitantly.” Believe me, I was anything but clumsy or hesitant in my move.

What’s going on here, Dave? Am I missing something? Have the rules of attraction changed? What should I do so that I’m no longer misunderstood when it comes to the ways of love? I almost feel like my membership in the club of romantic men has been canceled.

–Andy

Dear Andy:

No, the rules haven’t changed since you were a younger man, but as a society and culture we’ve decided it’s time to enforce some of the rules that might have been previously overlooked. If you insist on dating younger women, to be on the safe side, you might turn to younger women for dating advice. If you happen to have daughters who are in their twenties you might ask them what they think. “Daughter: how would you feel about dating a man my age?” Or: “Daughter, do you have any issues with old guys coming up to you and kissing you on the lips?” Or: “Daughter, is it romantic for an old guy who has power over you to unexpectedly feel you up?”

Good luck, Andy. You’re going to need it.  

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Safe Travel in the Time of COVID?

I just finished watching the Netflix six-episode series “Behind Her Eyes,” a supernatural psychological thriller based on a novel by Sarah Pinborough.

The series was entertaining enough, but it tried to pull off a genre-switch halfway through that strained credulity. You may or may not appreciate the big twist at the end.

What did capture my attention in the series was the astral projection elements. Astral projection assumes we have a soul called the astral body that is separate from our physical body. The astral body can travel throughout the universe, leaving the physical body behind.

Sounds fun, right? A great way to travel in the time of COVID.

The concept of the “astral body” is explored in the Qur’an and Hindi scriptures, along with other religious and spiritual texts, but not surprisingly, there is no scientific evidence to support the concept of astral projection.

Related to, but not as intense or far-fetched as astral projection, is lucid dreaming. When you engage in lucid dreaming, you use techniques to make you aware you are dreaming and possibly take control of the dream state and influence the narrative. I’ve experienced lucid dreaming situations, but the full out-of-body travel that’s astral projection? Not so much.

There was a time in my twenties when I was reading authors like Carlos Castaneda and was still open to such concepts. I remember reading a book about astral projection and attempting to do it. You had to finagle yourself into a deep meditative state and then “lift” out of your body. I tried many times, and on one occasion I experienced a feeling of rising up and “hovering and swirling” just above my body.

It could have been a dream, or an hallucination, or maybe I was stoned. Whatever it was, I never did get to visit my girlfriend who lived in a city on the other coast. My interest in astral projection—and most other pseudoscience—soon waned. I turned out to be more a gritty realist than a supernaturalist. A believer in biology and chemistry more than astrology or crystal healing.

But the astral thing stuck with me and appeared later in some of my writing.

In my novel, “Flight Risk,” when the main character, Robert, is on a plane that is about to crash, he has an out-of-body experience:

He is no longer buckled in his seat. He has risen above the aircraft and is separated from his body, suspended in the sky. He is totally at ease and peaceful, filled with a calm, cottony weightlessness, looking down at the plane, the silver fuselage and wings, the red painted tail fin. He can see the long stretch of runway that remains too far away, the grassy meridians on either side, and in the farther distance the airport control tower sticking up like a mushroom from the terminal. Warm—he is so warm and comfortable. He is wrapped in sunshine, cradled in comfort. It’s like being in a hot tub, jets on full, and lowering your head underwater and you hear the water rushing around you and through you, except instead of sinking he is soaring, all these sensations he can feel so distinctly and yet he has detached from his body and is floating above the imminent disaster below. He can see inside the cabin now, the fear, the terror, the sickness, the lips moving in prayer, the begging, the passengers braced and trembling, and he can see himself alone with his seat belt buckled, sitting up straight with his head turned to the side and staring out the window as if this were any other landing on a perfect summer morning under a cloudless sky, although he knows it won’t be any other landing, and that the plane is going to crash, and he is going to die.He’s accepting of that now. He’s reached that moment of preparation. He’s not going to plead his way out of this, make promises to better himself and the lives of those around him in exchange for survival. He’s done the best he could with what he had. His wife is working again, his daughter becoming an adult. They no longer depend on him as they once did. It’s okay if he leaves. They will be fine. He is ready to accept his fate.   Except he’s not. No! I don’t want to die!I want more life! Which plants him back in his seat at the instant the plane smacks the runway.

Dreaming, too, remains an interest of mine. As a child I experienced night terrors and often had to be comforted by mommy, and to this day I tend to have dramatic and disturbing dreams. I’ve gone through periods of time trying to record and make sense of my dreams, as did Vincent, the artist narrator of my novel, “Still Life.” Our experiences may have been similar:

I know something about being stalked in your dreams. Once when I was short on cash I signed up for a dream study at a private research facility that paid me two hundred dollars to record my dreams for three weeks. There was an orientation meeting in which we learned dream recall techniques, such as keeping pen and notebook right next to your bed, promising yourself throughout the day and just before bed you'd remember your dreams that night, speaking into a tape recorder when you woke up, even setting your alarm for intervals throughout the night so you'd be jarred awake during dream sleep. They said you had to remember the dream immediately, there was a window of opportunity lasting only a few seconds after which the dream would be gone forever. Gone where, I wondered; there was nowhere to go but deeper inside the dark gray matter of your own brain. It was the hardest two hundred dollars I'd ever earned, perhaps the worst three weeks of my life. The recall techniques worked great, unfortunately. I'd wake up at night sweating in terror and aching with pain I'd never known. These dreams—many I've long forgotten now—they were nightmares. Every one of them. Some were about my father. He was the one drowning and I was too weak to row over to him. In another, I was digging a hole in the yard which was actually a grave for him; he stood over me and kept telling me to hurry and dig deeper. Or I'd dream of vicious men hunting me in dark, dead-end alleys. Of former lovers I was relieved to be rid of but whose loss filled me with unbearable regret; they'd make love with other men while I had to watch. Dreams of my hands being severed by table saws, so I'd have to paint with a brush between my teeth. Then this one: my father coming into my room one night shortly after Dr. Abrams drowned. He woke me up. “Vinny,” he said. “Could you have rowed faster? We might have saved him.” No, that one is a memory. I got back a fifteen-page typewritten analysis of my dreams from one of the conductors of the study. It was filled with a lot of psychological language about Jung and Freud and integration of the self, the kind of hooey you find in artist’s statements. I was told my dreams were fascinating to study and indicative of great inner turmoil and isolation. My Oedipus complex was big enough to get lost in. My shadow was a substantial force (More than the man himself?). It was suggested I seek out therapy, which I did not. A few weeks later I stopped remembering my dreams.

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ZONE ONE — Colson Whitehead

Colson Whitehead won the Pulitzer Prize for each of his last two novels (The Nickel Boys, The Underground Railroad), an unprecedented literary achievement. Ten years ago, before either of those novels were published, Whitehead blended literary and genre writing and came out with his zombie apocalypse novel, Zone One.

I’ve long been a reader of literary fiction although have never been a reader of zombie novels. I imagine some fans of the genre were disappointed in Zone One, just as some fans of literary fiction were disappointed as well.

Count me among them.

The novel takes place over three harrowing days, and follows a protagonist nicknamed Mark Spitz as he works from Zone One—a barricaded and fortified area below Canal Street in Manhattan, helping to root out and destroy remaining zombies that an initial Marine expedition missed.

A plague without a specified source created the zombies, of which there are two kinds: skels, who roam around looking for uninfected people to bite and eat, and stragglers, a much smaller population of infected who stay in one place and perform repetitive motions that likely held meaning in their previous lives.

Mark Spitz is a middling, unremarkable person by his own admission, which doesn’t do much to make him especially interesting. He’s fine as an everyman, but lacks agency. My main issue with the novel is there is no plot. There are three days of zombie hunting, with exceptionally graphic details about blowing heads off and zombies chewing on faces and entrails. Highly visual and visceral writing. And then there is a lot of backstory about Mark Spitz and his squad. The novel lacks momentum and I found the reading tedious and the constant digressions confusing at times.

I also found myself having to look up the meaning of a lot of words—many of which I hadn’t encountered before. And I’m not what you call unread (or undead, like a zombie). Whitehead has one hell of a vocabulary, but his word choices did nothing to enhance the reading experience. Was he showing off a bit?

I write this review with some misgivings, because The Nickel Boys and The Underground Railroad were such powerful, compelling novels. I guess there’s a reason those were the prize-winners, rather than Zone One.

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Writing Advice: 5 Cents

I had a strange email recently from a woman I did not know. I usually delete emails from strangers without even opening them. But this person was clever in getting my attention by appealing to my vanity. She wrote a compelling subject line. “I liked your novel Clean Break.”

Of course I opened the email. I could use a little stroking. Who couldn’t?

But that wasn’t the purpose of her email. She said her daughter wanted to become a writer and she was looking for advice. She didn’t explain why she was turning to me for advice—other than the fact that she liked one of my books. I’m sure she’s liked many books, so why me? Unexplained.

In her email, she said her daughter, a high school student, kept a journal she wrote in every day. She was constantly reading books to see how other writers went about their craft. She writes a new short story every week and also writes poems. She takes English electives.

Could I offer advice on how to become a writer that she could pass on to her daughter?

I thought for a while about how to respond. I wanted to be helpful. I wanted to be wise.

I wrote back: Your daughter doesn’t need any advice. She already is a writer.

I didn’t hear back from the mother. Did I respond inappropriately? Did mother not get her five cents worth?

But mother was asking me something else. Such as: How does my daughter become her generation’s Celeste Ng, or Britt Bennett, or Liane Moriarty? Damned if I know. I didn’t exactly become my generation’s Hemingway. Publishing, financial success, and fame are the outcomes of an undefinable, uncategorizable mélange of unrelenting passion, hard work, and a lot of luck.

Sounds to me like the daughter already has the passion and work ethic. The luck part? Hey, say your prayers, perform your rain dance, clutch your talisman.

There are all kinds of writing advice out there. Here’s a website with advice from 42 different writers—over 350 rules and tips!

Some of them are ridiculous—“Don’t have children.” (Richard Ford).

Some are uninspired—“Put one word after another. Find the right word, put it down.” (Neil Gaimon)

Some are hard truths—”Be honest with yourself. If you are no good, accept it. If the work you are doing is no good, accept it.” (Jeanette Winterson)

Many of the tips are good ones. One of my favorites is from Elmore Leonard, who said, “Try to leave out the part that readers tend to skip.”

This one has always stuck with me. It’s a great piece of advice because it forces the writer (at least one who wants to be read) to look at their work critically from the perspective of their audience. Whether writing a novel, a business email, or a love letter, you must keep your audience engaged.

That’s it. What do you expect? I’m not even charging five cents.

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