Joseph Grammer's Blog, page 8
February 11, 2014
Hardbodies
My girlfriend Anna (book cover designer, www.2lch.com) accompanied me to Politics and Prose in Washington, D.C. yesterday.
If you don't know, this place is a mecca for bibliophiles in the area, and features its own damn printing press. The press, called an "espresso machine," is named Opus. There I printed my short story book Cocoon Kids. Watching the little volume pop out was like some weird birthing procedure, happily mess-free, and I felt a dumb glow of gratitude wash over me as I held the pages in my palm. They were hot, and clean, and not misaligned or anything. Good enough for me. Thanks P&P!
So first physical copy, accomplished. It's not for sale yet, but I hope to get a few more out there in the world. Sell them at local stores and book fairs and my website and such. Onward--slowly, painfully, using my face for locomotion.
We also printed a two-volume edition of Anna Karenina, featuring covers designed by Anna Tulchinskaya (my girlfriend). They look sharp and irresistible. Here's a quick breakdown of Anna's design process for the covers. She's not one for literal-minded covers (props to Chip Kidd for that).
If you don't know, this place is a mecca for bibliophiles in the area, and features its own damn printing press. The press, called an "espresso machine," is named Opus. There I printed my short story book Cocoon Kids. Watching the little volume pop out was like some weird birthing procedure, happily mess-free, and I felt a dumb glow of gratitude wash over me as I held the pages in my palm. They were hot, and clean, and not misaligned or anything. Good enough for me. Thanks P&P!
So first physical copy, accomplished. It's not for sale yet, but I hope to get a few more out there in the world. Sell them at local stores and book fairs and my website and such. Onward--slowly, painfully, using my face for locomotion.
We also printed a two-volume edition of Anna Karenina, featuring covers designed by Anna Tulchinskaya (my girlfriend). They look sharp and irresistible. Here's a quick breakdown of Anna's design process for the covers. She's not one for literal-minded covers (props to Chip Kidd for that).
January 23, 2014
Review Day
So Thursday, in my apartment, is supposed to force me to look over past notes, outlines, and musings so I can feel justified in keeping piles of moderately useful paper in a 650-sq. room. Today I reviewed Russian grammar.
I majored in Russian at the University of Maryland, College Park, which does not a proper Russian speaker make. My teachers were great; it's just Russian is an exceedingly challenging language. It takes time and practice to be good. In my case, years, since I am so slow to accomplish anything. And by my standards, I am atrocious.
On that note, here is my attempt to write a story in Russian. No doubt it is riddled with errors and complete nonsense, but it's what I made. Go me?
The story is unfinished, by the way, but I wanted to get at least 200 words in today. For non-Cyrillic readers, I'll post a translation soon. Basically it's about a guy named Zhenya Orgutsov who loses all his money in a card game and goes home to his apartment, which his dog Dog has chewed up. For the first time ever he reflects on his life.
Не сделав ничего полезного, Евгений Оргуцов открыл новую банку Кока-Колы и, в первый раз в своей невыгодной жизни, стал раздумывая про свою невыгодную жизнь. Он только что закончил играть в карты с некоторыми малозубными знакомами -- и проиграл. Ещё неудача в этой жестокой неделе. Бабушка сдохла во вторник. Или умерла -- Женя постоянно забывал вежливо думать о семье. И так о себе, но это было неважно.
Жуком, катающий мяч навоза, Женя ловко скрутил папиросу и сразу вдыхал. Через несколько секунд, задул шлейф дыма. Ароматный. Освобождение стресса. Но, конечно, не вся. Единственного движения, которое могло польностью снизиться тоску -- нету. Даже не смерть. Смерть просто ухудшилась проблему.
<<Пёс, что мне надо? Денег офигонно нету. Деньги надо. Семья меня ненавидет, но я их люблю. Семья надо. Что ещё?>>
Пёс, который не жевал всю полуразрушенную мебель в квартире, пока Женя пришёл домой, взглядил смущенно на Женю.
<<Ах, Пёс, тебе тоже надо. Ты никогда не отвечаешь меня. Ты прав -- мне надо становиться самостоятельным. Но как?>>
Достижение этой благородной цели казалось Жене совершенно невозможно. Трудно было суп готовить. Когда Женя старалось очищать картошку, например, он всегда резал палец. Успех не стоит проливание крови, на его взгляд. Но Женя часто проливал кровь за неудачу. Вот разум.
I majored in Russian at the University of Maryland, College Park, which does not a proper Russian speaker make. My teachers were great; it's just Russian is an exceedingly challenging language. It takes time and practice to be good. In my case, years, since I am so slow to accomplish anything. And by my standards, I am atrocious.
On that note, here is my attempt to write a story in Russian. No doubt it is riddled with errors and complete nonsense, but it's what I made. Go me?
The story is unfinished, by the way, but I wanted to get at least 200 words in today. For non-Cyrillic readers, I'll post a translation soon. Basically it's about a guy named Zhenya Orgutsov who loses all his money in a card game and goes home to his apartment, which his dog Dog has chewed up. For the first time ever he reflects on his life.
Не сделав ничего полезного, Евгений Оргуцов открыл новую банку Кока-Колы и, в первый раз в своей невыгодной жизни, стал раздумывая про свою невыгодную жизнь. Он только что закончил играть в карты с некоторыми малозубными знакомами -- и проиграл. Ещё неудача в этой жестокой неделе. Бабушка сдохла во вторник. Или умерла -- Женя постоянно забывал вежливо думать о семье. И так о себе, но это было неважно.
Жуком, катающий мяч навоза, Женя ловко скрутил папиросу и сразу вдыхал. Через несколько секунд, задул шлейф дыма. Ароматный. Освобождение стресса. Но, конечно, не вся. Единственного движения, которое могло польностью снизиться тоску -- нету. Даже не смерть. Смерть просто ухудшилась проблему.
<<Пёс, что мне надо? Денег офигонно нету. Деньги надо. Семья меня ненавидет, но я их люблю. Семья надо. Что ещё?>>
Пёс, который не жевал всю полуразрушенную мебель в квартире, пока Женя пришёл домой, взглядил смущенно на Женю.
<<Ах, Пёс, тебе тоже надо. Ты никогда не отвечаешь меня. Ты прав -- мне надо становиться самостоятельным. Но как?>>
Достижение этой благородной цели казалось Жене совершенно невозможно. Трудно было суп готовить. Когда Женя старалось очищать картошку, например, он всегда резал палец. Успех не стоит проливание крови, на его взгляд. Но Женя часто проливал кровь за неудачу. Вот разум.
January 11, 2014
London Fields
I am in England. For leisure purposes! My sister and I saw David Tennant perform in Richard II, which is a Shakespeare play I have never read.
Mr. Tennant grew his hair out to an admirable length for the role, and his performance was entertaining, to say the least. Unfortunately, I was so tired during the first half of the play that I kept nodding off, but the intermission woke me up enough to fully appreciate the final few acts. My sister Christa Grammer (https://soundcloud.com/kamaradband, @GrammerChrista) was fortunate enough to give him a CD of Dr. Who songs she made and get a picture with the guy. I stood awkwardly nearby admiring his long, braided Tennantine hair. It seems like a writerly thing to observe rather than participate, but I definitely wanted to shake his hand. However, this was my sister's moment and I was content with watching her flip out with happiness.
Cool quote from the play:
Nor I nor any man that but man is
With nothing shall be pleased, till he be eased
With being nothing.
Mr. Tennant grew his hair out to an admirable length for the role, and his performance was entertaining, to say the least. Unfortunately, I was so tired during the first half of the play that I kept nodding off, but the intermission woke me up enough to fully appreciate the final few acts. My sister Christa Grammer (https://soundcloud.com/kamaradband, @GrammerChrista) was fortunate enough to give him a CD of Dr. Who songs she made and get a picture with the guy. I stood awkwardly nearby admiring his long, braided Tennantine hair. It seems like a writerly thing to observe rather than participate, but I definitely wanted to shake his hand. However, this was my sister's moment and I was content with watching her flip out with happiness.
Cool quote from the play:
Nor I nor any man that but man is
With nothing shall be pleased, till he be eased
With being nothing.
January 4, 2014
Marathons
I'm atrocious when it comes to running. I'm no fan of pacing, consistency, or doing the same thing twice in one week. It's not part of my hardware. But when it comes to writing a book, all that stuff is necessary (unless you're into the avant-garde, but even then you need some patience).
Six months ago I wasn't even writing every day. I was working in an office and only wrote fiction for fun, when I felt like it, to feel creative and inventive and all that jazz. Then my girlfriend Anna (www.2lch.com) created a word-tracking web app called Twords (www.twords.2lch.com) to help spur my writing career when I confessed I wanted to do it professionally (or at least attempt to).
I am not an app person, and I am technologically stunted even though I am 24 years old. Anna frequently giggles at the way I interact with 21st-century devices. But Twords got me writing every day, which made me feel less like a hobbyist and more like a person who actually values writing fiction for dollars.
Sure, I did NANOWRIMO (National Novel Writing Month) a few times, but Twords helped build my habit of writing because I could log in every day. This process felt like slamming my head against a cabinet for a few weeks, and then slowly got easier. Now I get antsy if there's the possibility of me not having Internet access to log my word count. Odd how swiftly you can depend on things that used to enrage you.
I always marveled at people who ran marathons; they were like insane superheroes with tighter clothing. But now I see the appeal, even if my own version has nothing to do with leg muscles or fanny packs of GU Energy Gel.
Every day I push my book forward. Some days suck, and other days fill me with the kind of joy new episodes of Invader Zim used to instill in me. Most days are just OK, which is fine with me. At least I'm stumbling in a single direction.
P.S. It's sad how I felt weird about writing "one direction" because of the band. Did they really have to ruin that phrase for me? Oh well, get over it, Joe. Go eat some GU.
Six months ago I wasn't even writing every day. I was working in an office and only wrote fiction for fun, when I felt like it, to feel creative and inventive and all that jazz. Then my girlfriend Anna (www.2lch.com) created a word-tracking web app called Twords (www.twords.2lch.com) to help spur my writing career when I confessed I wanted to do it professionally (or at least attempt to).
I am not an app person, and I am technologically stunted even though I am 24 years old. Anna frequently giggles at the way I interact with 21st-century devices. But Twords got me writing every day, which made me feel less like a hobbyist and more like a person who actually values writing fiction for dollars.
Sure, I did NANOWRIMO (National Novel Writing Month) a few times, but Twords helped build my habit of writing because I could log in every day. This process felt like slamming my head against a cabinet for a few weeks, and then slowly got easier. Now I get antsy if there's the possibility of me not having Internet access to log my word count. Odd how swiftly you can depend on things that used to enrage you.
I always marveled at people who ran marathons; they were like insane superheroes with tighter clothing. But now I see the appeal, even if my own version has nothing to do with leg muscles or fanny packs of GU Energy Gel.
Every day I push my book forward. Some days suck, and other days fill me with the kind of joy new episodes of Invader Zim used to instill in me. Most days are just OK, which is fine with me. At least I'm stumbling in a single direction.
P.S. It's sad how I felt weird about writing "one direction" because of the band. Did they really have to ruin that phrase for me? Oh well, get over it, Joe. Go eat some GU.
January 3, 2014
Being Peaceful
I like increasing the amount of good stuff in the world in my own lame, first-world, probably hypocritical way. It's only what millions of people around the globe do every millisecond: hold open doors, ask others about their lives and actually listen to the answers, clean up my own clumsy messes, etc. I have no illusions that I am an entirely average and unexceptional human, and that I constantly irritate or hurt people in my attempts to stay in line with my values.
At my core, I feel a sucking emptiness that never goes away. It's like a foot or an earlobe: an integral part of me (yes, I think earlobes are integral; just pull on them — so nice!). Everyone has this weird sense of loss (so I'm led to believe), which is cool to reflect on when I'm not freaking out about the potentially disastrous trajectory of my life.
The best method for coping with the empty tunnel in my belly seems to be peaceful actions towards other people. No surprises there, but I always have to remind myself of this because it's pathetically easy to be swayed by shiny distractions. Like the laptop I'm typing on, or tons of other junk you already know about.
Sometimes I feel like tossing my life away and starting over from scratch. I'm sure everyone contemplates that at one point or another. But usually some tiny kindness from a loved one or stranger intervenes and reminds me that my life is not an endless trench of unpleasantness, but a mostly neutral path filled with joyful and painful bumps.
Being peaceful is cool. Earlobes for life.
At my core, I feel a sucking emptiness that never goes away. It's like a foot or an earlobe: an integral part of me (yes, I think earlobes are integral; just pull on them — so nice!). Everyone has this weird sense of loss (so I'm led to believe), which is cool to reflect on when I'm not freaking out about the potentially disastrous trajectory of my life.
The best method for coping with the empty tunnel in my belly seems to be peaceful actions towards other people. No surprises there, but I always have to remind myself of this because it's pathetically easy to be swayed by shiny distractions. Like the laptop I'm typing on, or tons of other junk you already know about.
Sometimes I feel like tossing my life away and starting over from scratch. I'm sure everyone contemplates that at one point or another. But usually some tiny kindness from a loved one or stranger intervenes and reminds me that my life is not an endless trench of unpleasantness, but a mostly neutral path filled with joyful and painful bumps.
Being peaceful is cool. Earlobes for life.
December 29, 2013
Guilty of Words
I tell people I'm a writer now.
In the past I never did; it was embarrassing. It was like this weird shameful tumor in my belly, and I thought if anyone found out they'd rig me up to a tree or something.
When people ask what I do, I fight the urge to lie and tell them I still work at my old office. I try not to change the subject or point out a mutual friend walking somewhere very far in the distance. I attempt to look the questioner in the eyes and say, "I write for a living now." Then nausea happens.
Why all this unpleasantness? I guess I never thought of writing as a legitimate profession I could perform. In the back of my mind there was always this narrative that people had to work a regular 9 to 5, no exceptions, end of uninteresting story. (Although my old job wasn't even really 9 to 5.)
I'm not an exceptionally innovative human, and it took a long time for me to acknowledge, and even longer to accept, that I was a writer of some kind.
When I read Dr. Zhivago I was like, "Yes, of course, I get it," because he wanted to write poetry but entered the medical profession to earn a respectable living. I'm not as talented as Yuri, so I refrained from medical school and went straight for the words. We'll see how that works out.
In the meantime, my name is Joe and I've been writing for 18 years.
In the past I never did; it was embarrassing. It was like this weird shameful tumor in my belly, and I thought if anyone found out they'd rig me up to a tree or something.
When people ask what I do, I fight the urge to lie and tell them I still work at my old office. I try not to change the subject or point out a mutual friend walking somewhere very far in the distance. I attempt to look the questioner in the eyes and say, "I write for a living now." Then nausea happens.
Why all this unpleasantness? I guess I never thought of writing as a legitimate profession I could perform. In the back of my mind there was always this narrative that people had to work a regular 9 to 5, no exceptions, end of uninteresting story. (Although my old job wasn't even really 9 to 5.)
I'm not an exceptionally innovative human, and it took a long time for me to acknowledge, and even longer to accept, that I was a writer of some kind.
When I read Dr. Zhivago I was like, "Yes, of course, I get it," because he wanted to write poetry but entered the medical profession to earn a respectable living. I'm not as talented as Yuri, so I refrained from medical school and went straight for the words. We'll see how that works out.
In the meantime, my name is Joe and I've been writing for 18 years.
November 24, 2013
Bad Words
Cocoon Kids
Errors. I feel like I made millions of them in my book. My fingernails are still raw from chomping, and my eyes have suffered in hours of sapping laptop light. My mistakes are out there in the world ("the world" meaning the dozen or so humans who know my book exists) and I have to live with them. Which is cool.
I love failure. It's like coffee for me, although I also like coffee. Lattes, which I can get in my apartment for free (well, the cost of my rent, which is high). Failure makes me smile and reflect for a second or two on my long train to a shabby gravestone, whose last stop I can only hope is sometime past 2060.
My book is called "Cocoon Kids" (should I italicize this? who knows) and was totally unexpected to me. I've been writing a book set in Okinawa for the last 6 months, and then these short stories came to me out of nowhere. Or, more truthfully, I'd been whittling them in my spare time over the course of years, and then finally got around to clumping them together one day. Mostly due to the prodding of my girlfriend.
I was obsessed with making the stories perfect. Literary and worthy and memorable and all that jazz. But at some point I had to accept that I am an error-ful young human with a scatterbrained disposition. It will be many years before I am memorable, if I ever become so lucky.
So errors. I'm thankful for them, because they teach my brain useful stuff. Mistakes in plot, pacing, tone, character development, or (gasp) grammar abound in my collection, but that's part of what makes it sort of valuable to me. I'd much rather make a million mistakes in this collection than be writing a PhD dissertation right now (no disrespect to grad students, that is one hell of a hard job).
Anyway, I enjoy making mistakes, and you can too! Slogan.
P.S. Let me know how many mistakes are in this article.
Joe Grammer
Errors. I feel like I made millions of them in my book. My fingernails are still raw from chomping, and my eyes have suffered in hours of sapping laptop light. My mistakes are out there in the world ("the world" meaning the dozen or so humans who know my book exists) and I have to live with them. Which is cool.
I love failure. It's like coffee for me, although I also like coffee. Lattes, which I can get in my apartment for free (well, the cost of my rent, which is high). Failure makes me smile and reflect for a second or two on my long train to a shabby gravestone, whose last stop I can only hope is sometime past 2060.
My book is called "Cocoon Kids" (should I italicize this? who knows) and was totally unexpected to me. I've been writing a book set in Okinawa for the last 6 months, and then these short stories came to me out of nowhere. Or, more truthfully, I'd been whittling them in my spare time over the course of years, and then finally got around to clumping them together one day. Mostly due to the prodding of my girlfriend.
I was obsessed with making the stories perfect. Literary and worthy and memorable and all that jazz. But at some point I had to accept that I am an error-ful young human with a scatterbrained disposition. It will be many years before I am memorable, if I ever become so lucky.
So errors. I'm thankful for them, because they teach my brain useful stuff. Mistakes in plot, pacing, tone, character development, or (gasp) grammar abound in my collection, but that's part of what makes it sort of valuable to me. I'd much rather make a million mistakes in this collection than be writing a PhD dissertation right now (no disrespect to grad students, that is one hell of a hard job).
Anyway, I enjoy making mistakes, and you can too! Slogan.
P.S. Let me know how many mistakes are in this article.
Joe Grammer
