Jan Carson's Blog, page 27

Dear Portland…

Dear Portland,

I’ve left. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed yet, but yesterday morning I packed my bags -they are mostly full of books and vintage dresses- and caught the train to Vancouver, (BC not Washington). I don’t blame you for overlooking me. You’ve a lot going on at the moment: fancy new apartment blocks to build, coffee shops to open, a hundred thousand bearded indie bands to launch upon the unsuspecting public and most surprisingly of all, Division to divide and conquer, so it’s no longer the sketchy side of town we once avoided late at night. I’m impressed. I’m always impressed by your endeavours, Portland.

I’m on the other side of the border now and it’s easier, as it always is, to cultivate perspective with various cities, (Seattle, Spokane, Tacoma), cushioning us one from the other, like well-meaning mutual friends. I still love you Portland. A little bit of my soul feels stuck to the intersection of Burnside and Grand; you know the spot where the shouty people congregate and the 7/11 eyeballs that pharmacy no one ever seems to enter or leave? I’ve spent so many evenings there, scarved and gloved, stamping the ground for circulation as I peered into the drizzle praying for the two round lights and the yellowing rectangle which preempt the arrival of a Trimet bus. I’ve seen the best bands of my life in your clubs and venues, drank, from your bars, the holy beer of American gods and brunched my way from NE to SE with hotcake stacks and sunny side eggs. Portland, you have been gracious to me. Your people have become my people. Your books, my pillars of cloud and fire. Your streets my avenues and open-handed boulevards, ushering me firmly into the next adventure.

Portland, I have left you. I am ready to be elsewhere now. I am not angry. Neither am I disappointed. You were a good place to be for my beginning years but there is a sadness which settles over me, as pervasive as the Pacific rain, each time I try to imagine myself staying with you. In the years to come I will continue to return; annually or perhaps bi-annually. I will marvel at how you have managed to maintain your youth.”Still cycling,” I will exclaim, “still excited by electronic music, by piercings and independently published books, by brewing your own coffee and growing vegetables with your next door neighbours; still charmed by outdoors, organic living and four dollar movies with beer and graphically designed everything.” I will be pleased but not entirely surprised to find you, just as I left you, only more so.

Do not judge me for leaving you, Portland. I have moved on to another city. It is older by far with brick houses and fewer bicycles. It suffers rain, on a composite level. This city is not without its problems and I know there will be fragile days to come when I will wish to return to you and imagine that everything was neater, easier, alivelier when we were together. This, I will come to realise, is the sort of lie offered to children who will not eat their vegetables. I have not forgotten a single song you taught me, though some of them might be better forgotten. I hope that you can be happy for me. I hope that you will be kind enough not to notice me older or more settled every time our paths cross on the pages of a book or a movie screen. I hope you will wonder where I have gone and, with time, come to permit me a sentence, a word, a single print exclamation mark in the story of how you managed to make it through.

Yours, with kind and distant regards,

Jan

Postcard Project- Salt Lake City

Everyone likes getting postcards. Very rarely does anyone send postcards any more. So, on this trip I’m going to be posting home miniature stories, inspired by things I’ve seen or overheard on my travels, to people who’ve signed up for the project. I have almost 40 folks who asked for a postcard and I’m going to be writing the stories in the order people signed up so I’m hoping, but not promising, to get something to all 40 of you before I return to Belfast.

I’ll also be posting the stories on here so everyone gets a chance to read, but I’ll wait a few weeks first to ensure the recipients get first read at their own short story. These first two are from Salt Lake City. I have to say it took me a few attempts to get into writing such very tiny stories so they’re definitely not my best work but every project has to begin somewhere. Next instalment will be from Los Angeles.

3rd September 2014: Sara Browning

“There were three birds on the fence outside his window. He took this as a sign for there were also three years between them, three steps leading to her door, three letters in the name he had come to know her by. Later he would come to realize this was not her real name, but rather a sign of how the years had reduced her from eight to three, to a negative space, pausing between yes and no.”

4th September 2014: Roger and Michelle Porter

 “Finding herself suddenly alone, she began to explore the room. In the centre was a rug, and beneath the rug, a small, ankle deep pond containing a single goldfish.

 “You didn’t expect to find a friend here, did you?” asked the goldfish.

The girl chose not to answer. She rolled the rug back into its original position and returned to her solitude for she had never appreciated surprises.”

I Left My Heart In Powells

This one time, about four years ago, I wrote a poem about second hand bookshops. It was only four lines long. I left it in a hotel somewhere. I think it slipped down the side of the bed and was forgotten in the last minute panic of catching an early morning flight. It was, quite fortunately, the last poem I ever wrote and though I can’t recall exactly what it said, I know, for sure it was about bookstores and how I am much more comfortable in the company of high-stacked books and journals than I have ever been in church. I half meant it. I’m not a church hater by any means but I have always felt a strange, almost religious kind of comfort, in the presence of books. I know what to do in a bookstore, how to act and what to say, where to go for humour or pathos or wry travel advice on negotiating European cities. I am among my own kind in bookstores and more likely to linger in their well-papered aisles than anywhere else on the planet.

Chief amongst my independent bookstore crushes is Powell’s of Portland, Oregon. It is not just a book store. It is a city of books; one block wide and three storeys high with shelves which require wheeled steps to access their upper echelons. It has staff members who know their shit, (specifically and within particular genres), when it comes to books. It has a hot concrete and cardboard aroma all of its own which, when first encountered upon entry, renders me utterly incapable of maintaining my “just look, don’t buy” policy. It has book-themed stationary and accessories and a better class of literary-based graffiti in the ladies’ bathroom. It is where I first heard Greil Marcus, Jonathan Safran Foer and Douglas Coupland read, (though the latter left me with no desire whatsoever to repeat the experience). I edited my first novel in the coffee shop at Powell’s and wrote part of my second in full view of the romance section. It’s fair to say I’m reasonably fond of the place.

As we all know there are very few independent book stores left in the world. The book selling industry is increasingly corporate, nasty and electronic. Whilst most people appreciate the service and experience offered by bookstores like Powell’s and our own wonderful, No Alibis in Belfast, ridiculous price undercuts from online retailers mean, more often than not the average customer choses low cost over a lovely book buying experience. As I traipsed around the aisles of Powell’s tonight trying, and ultimately failing, not to spend any money, (or more importantly increase my excess baggage situation), I thought about why independent book stores are so important. Yes, it’s vital that authors are properly supported financially and the little writers don’t get lost in the avalanche of corporate consumerism and yes, it’s wonderful that independent stores like Powell’s allow readers firsthand access to writers as they read from their own work and yes, of course, (a hundred times and more), everyone deserves to buy their books off informed booksellers who will say things such as “great choice” and “surely you must know more about Bob Dylan than anyone else in the Western world” whilst bagging their purchases.

However, more than any other reason we need to hold on to our independent bookstores because, (British library aside), they are the only places on earth which poke the reader in me, squarely in the eye and insist I read every book ever written, immediately, with scant regard for other responsibilities. Good bookstores make for good readers and we need to hold on to them while we still can.

The Portland, Weird List

This list could easily have been an awful lot longer, (I purposefully left out at least half a dozen different pedestrians dancing as they waited for the cross lights to turn because I simply couldn’t choose between ballroom, ballet and street style), but here are my top 5 weird Portland moments/observations of the last week. Never a dull moment on the banks of the Willamette.

1. Middle aged man boards the Burnside Bus wearing a business suit and a Flash Gordon era space helmet. No one bats an eyelid.

2. Eight bearded transvestites enjoying their Frappucinos and Lattes in a downtown Starbucks.

3. Drunk woman unsuccessfully attempting to enter house, (not necessarily her house), via the dog flap.

4. Man at the next table in Russian restaurant burps so loudly he buys our entire table vodka as an apology for his rudeness.

5. Woman on downtown bus with half a penis tattoo’d on her thigh, am imagining she sobered up half way through the procedure and decided against the other half.

(Keep them coming PDX I still have 36 hours to be astounded).

Reading Aloud, Stateside

I’ve done a lot of readings in the last six months. At a conservative estimate I’d guess maybe around 50. Some have gone gloriously well. I’ve sold books. I’ve been complimented by strangers. I’ve moved myself to almost tears at the profundity of my own words, (mostly when I override my own rules and partake of the free glass of writer’s wine before, rather than after, my reading). Other readings have been nothing short of character-building. They have, in no particular order, included reading to two people on stackable plastic chairs, competing to be heard over a wide variety of background noises, (air conditioning, babies, hip hop acts), audience members falling asleep, forgetting to bring the last page of the short story I’m reading and that one dude in the High-School shooter outfit who hounded me afterwards to tell me about his very, very dark story. I’m not complaining. Any opportunity to read is an incredible chance to hone down the edges of your writing and I almost always come away from the experience chastened and improved in equal measure.

This tour is giving me the chance to try out reading for an American audience in a variety of different settings. I wasn’t too sure what to expect when I left Belfast. Without the stalwart support of Mickey, Emma and Stephen Sexton to depend upon, I wasn’t sure if anyone would even come to hear me read. I had practical concerns. Would people understand my accent? (the answer is mostly, with the particular exception of the word mirror which I now say once in Norn Irish and once again in high, nasal American for all my audiences residing outside Mid-Ulster). Would people, culturally removed from thick Belfast sarcasm, laugh at the funny bits? Would the sad bits be too sad? Would I be able to fool Americans into believing the Vietnam and Civil War sections of Malcolm Orange Disappears, when the extent of my research into the afore-mentioned topics had been half an hour scrolling through Wikipedia? Would I sell any books or spend the next seven weeks lugging dozens and dozens of unsold copies round American airports and paying excess baggage charges for the privilege? I had a lot of fears.

I’ve read four times now to an audience of around 120 people in total. I’ve read round a fire pit in Salt Lake City, in a back yard with musical accompaniment in LA, in a church in Portland and a library in TriCities, Washington. All my fears have evaporated, (though the coward in me has yet to chance reading either of the Wikipedia-based excerpts). People have been wonderfully receptive and generous with their feedback. Books have been sold, signed and swapped for other writers’ books, (what a treat! I haven’t had anything worthy of exchanging since I completed my My Little Pony sticker book in 1986). The questions have been fabulous and for the most part insightful; not once has the old chestnut, do you write on a computer or a notepad, even been hinted at. Connections have been made and horrendous bumble bee business cards distributed liberally, (even outside LA). New friends have been made; old friendships revisited. And perhaps most wonderfully of all, Malcolm is slowly and steadily finding a second home in the USA. I can’t wait to see what the rest of the tour holds. Onwards towards Canada next.

Los Angeles

I’ve never been to Los Angeles before. I’ve been to LAX airport any number of times and recently watched both Sharknado 1 and Sharknado 2, (while the sequel is not strictly set in LA, I feel the general coping mechanisms highlighted in the movie -i.e. chainsaws and super soakers filled with napalm- could still be applied to dealing with West Coast, shark-based weather patterns). These experiences were quite enough to leave me reasonably terrified of LA culture. Most of my assumptions about this little bit of California have been drawn from movies and books. As such, I assumed it to be a frantic, fickle and rather fake kind of city. I thought everyone would look supermodel perfect, everyone would be hankering after a career in film and everyone would drive absolutely everywhere, in very large cars. While I did see quite a few people who helped to reassure me that most of our European preconceptions about LA are not entirely ill-founded, (solitary Hummer drivers, very disturbing plastic surgery victims and any number of amateur actor turned bar tenders), and I have to say I could never get used to the prevailing culture of driving everywhere in barely moving traffic, I do think I experienced another, entirely more positive, side of Los Angeles during the three short days I spent in town.

The first thing which struck me about LA was just how enormous the city is. Unlike London which feels big and crowded, yet somehow centred, Los Angeles sprawls across miles and miles of coast and freeway with no clear sense of a downtown area so it’s impossible to tell whether you’ve actually arrived in LA proper or are still circulating round the peripheries in one of the very many LA satellite neighbourhoods which each have their own very distinct identities. The second thing which hit me, like a hundred full force hairdryers to the face, was the heat. I arrived into Long Beach airport, the tiniest, cleanest and most outdoorsy, (baggage claim is actually outside), airport I’ve ever experienced at midday. It was excruciatingly hot. I was wearing three layers of clothes and a coat. Having packed for an East coast autumn, I’m beginning to realise that i’ll be carrying most of my clothes around unworn for the better part of a month before I arrive anywhere warm enough to wear them. I instantly began to sweat all over, including my ears, which have never in my experience perspired before, and continued to sweat constantly for the duration of my stay, my excessive perspiration only occasionally pausing to give brief precedent to involuntary shivering brought on by the Arctic strength air conditioning.

The first thing we did upon leaving the airport was eat. Octavio, (my lovely and very stylish host), took me for tacos, after which I continued to eat constantly for the duration of the visit. It should be noted that LA people are extremely generous and, much like Mid Ulster housewives, will attempt to force vast amounts of the local cuisine upon their visitors every time they pause for breath. Much of my LA experience was therefore food-based: the best salad I’ve ever had at a restaurant where people leave poems tucked inside the table, something called a wacho, (I believe it to have been a hybrid waffle/nacho type construction), shaved ice in a cup with blue flavouring, (not your best effort, America), the best cheeseburger I’ve had in a very long time, and a pot luck which was so vast and varied in content I counted around nine different chocolate based deserts alone. You can get every variety of ethnic food you can imagine here and eat in a different place every night for the next decade. LA is, in this sense, very similar to the Harryville district of Ballymena.

 

We did a lot of driving around in the three days I was in town. Doing anything in LA requires a lot of  driving. We saw the Hollywood Sign, Redondo Beach, Sunset Boulevard, Amoeba Records, the Capitol building and any number of other iconic sites which, when viewed in the flesh, rather than in their more familiar onscreen format, were so familiar that the whole city took on an unreal quality, like being caught up in one, giant, all-encompassing film set. Perhaps this isn’t so far from the truth, asI counted four separate film units out on the streets recording at different points in my weekend, I even stumbled upon the Spanish language newscasting version of our own Jude Hill, hanging out with her fluffy mic on Redondo beach. It’s a strange city, not a place I could see myself living, but absolutely fascinating for a visit.

Despite my reservations the people were the very best part of my visit to LA. I think I might have met upwards on 150 Angelinos in the last three days and each one of them was incredibly warm and incredibly generous, (apart from one bartender and a lady who nearly ran over me with a flat screen TV in Costco). One bouncer even knew that Belfast was in Northern Ireland. He remains the only American in thirteen years of scuttling backwards and forwards across the pond, to have understood the subtle difference between North and South and this alone might be enough to draw me back to LA. People drove miles out of their way in sluggish traffic to pick me up and drive me round, indulging my inner tourist. Tim and Miiko hosted a wonderful evening soiree in their backyard where I got to read Malcolm Orange Disappears to about four dozen of their friends, neighbours and family whilst, (of course), eating vast amounts of incredible food. I got to worship with the community at Mosaic Whittier and get to know a few of of them as we enjoyed the food trucks after church, (I definitely see food trucks as integral to the future of the church in Northern Ireland. Please note this those of you who have the power to make it happen). Best of all I got to go hear a lovely singer songwriter called John Torres perform in a bar off Sunset Boulevard and have him dedicate “Girl from the North Country” to me. It was a Dylan-shaped blessing over the first week of my adventure and only tempered by the stranger who approached me shortly afterward to ask after the book I was writing about Bob Marley. Oh LA, I couldn’t be living here. I don’t have the metabolism for it but one weekend was just perfect.

Salt Lake City

I have a lot of sympathy for Salt Lake City. It’s a city, much like Belfast, which has a bit of a single identity reputation. Most people outside of Utah, know nothing about Salt Lake aside from its high proportion of Mormons. Their assumptions aren’t exactly ill-founded. There are an inordinately large amount of Mormons in Salt Lake. Making your way from one side of Temple Square, (LDS Disneyland), to the other without being stopped by a pair of earnest lady missionaries is a triumph akin to successfully running the gauntlet of Royal Avenue on a Saturday afternoon and not being offered a Titanic bus tour. The downtown area of the city is dominated by Temple Square, which is beautiful in a very clean and slightly Pleasantville-esque kind of way. There are numerous large, temple-type buildings and a statue of cosmic Jesus, open-armed in front of a stars and planets mural. It is kind of glorious, like a cross between Catholicism and the Grateful Dead.

 

Even though I know it places me in that horrible bracket of insensitive visitors, (the kind of Troubles Tourists who take pictures of the Peace Wall and go to Famine Land for real and not just to take ironic Facebook photos), I always like to go and see the Mormon sites when I’m in Salt Lake. Previously I ranked being thrown out of Brigham Young’s house for asking why there were so many doors into his bedroom, (the answer, of course, being that the poor desolate women he sheltered in his house, often needed to be comforted with prayer during the night), as my favourite moment with the Latter Day Saints. This trip however, I happened to stumble across Comic Con SLC which was taking place just two blocks from Temple Square. It will be a terribly long time before I see anything as weird, or utterly wonderful, as the image of three badged and be-suited Mormons waiting to cross the road outside Nordstrom in the company of a Stormtrooper, Thor and two Game of Thrones extras. What a treat. This is my new favourite Mormon Moment.

However, I have to say Salt Lake City is so much more than Mormonism. Once you dander out of the downtown area, Temple Square, non-alcoholic beer and the bank of Zion, (where my credit card was denied, here’s hoping this wasn’t a sign of God’s displeasure), quickly slip out of mind and you find yourself surrounded by great little book stores, plaid-shirted men on bicycles and coffee shops offering coffee to rival anything offered by the best of Portland’s espresso snobs. It’s a wonderful, friendly and incredibly accessible city. And if you take the time to look up, beyond the cute little porch-fronted houses and turn of the century apartment blocks, you’ll see that Salt Lake nestles snugly in the palm of some of the most stunning mountains you’ll see outside Colorado.

 

The library is wonderful, (they have floating book sculptures, an indoor fire with armchairs and a whole floor of leather clad men who seem to play World of Warcraft, round the clock, in shifts). The people are earnest and extremely welcoming and it was wonderful to meet a few local writers and gather with some of them for a fire pit reading on my last evening. My host Heather tended my soul with great conversation, endless cups of tea and a patchwork pineapple quilt and I am grateful to have had such a gracious welcome back to America. I had the best scrambled eggs I’ve eaten in years. On the downside the elevation did make my nose run like a garden hose for three days straight and the contemporary art museum is a bit shite, (I think we’re all over video installations of people speaking in breathy French as they pour yogurt over their car), but you can’t have everything you’re own way.

 

This was my third visit to Salt Lake and each time I leave I inevitably wish I’d stayed longer and think to myself, this is one of the very few US cities I could actually picture myself living in. And, I want to whisper quietly in the ear of all those holidaying friends who like beer and scenery, bikes, coffee, beards and beardy music and therefore seem to think that Portland is Lourdes and Mecca and Disneyland all rolled into one, “you should consider Salt Lake City for your holidays instead. It is less crowded and Jesus is here waiting to meet you under the cosmic stars.”

 

Traveling Mercies

It’s 5:30am Salt Lake City time. I’ve only been here for twenty four hours and jet lag has already sunk her cruel teeth into the back of my head. I’m wide awake. I’m sweltering. It’s 26 degrees and the sun hasn’t even come up yet. Seems like a good opportunity to write my first American blog.

Yesterday almost killed me. I’m not sure whether I’m getting too old for this kind of long distance jet setting but 26 hours with two bags crammed full of books felt less like luxury travel and more like penance for past sins. I’ve always loved airports and airplanes for many of the same reasons set out in Chuck Palahniuk’s Fight Club: single serving friends, anonymity, transience. However, I like to take airports at my own pace; half an hour for coffee, an hour at the departure gate to read a novel and scrutinise my fellow passengers and then board the plane as soon as is human possible so there’s plenty of room to store my luggage in the overhead bin which is actually positioned over my head and not fifteen rows further down the plane. Yesterday, (and I have no one to blame but myself for this), I had less than 2 hours between each of my connections and because I was traveling on Labor Day, (no “u” in Labor as the Americans invented this holiday and therefore retain the right to spell it as they see fit), and the airports were all stuffed to the gills with returning long-weekend vacationers, this made for a mad, sweaty dash between terminals with dozens of books in tow.

In Dallas, after running from the plane to Homeland Security so fast the heat and humidity gave me heart palpitations, I made the front of the Visa checking line, only to be scuppered by the six, (no exaggeration at all here), elderly Nicaraguan women in wheelchairs who were whisked to the front of the line in order to confess that their hand luggage was stuffed full of strange South American vegetables. Because of the vegetables, I made my Dallas connection with mere seconds to spare and had to endure the shame, (for I’m usually an extremely conscientious flier), of being paged to the gate; that annoying last passenger who’s holding the entire flight back. I had to make the walk of shame all the way down the aisle past row after row of glaring American faces. I’m not sure if it was punishment or fate which allocated me the back seat for the flight from Dallas to Salt Lake City. Regardless, there was no hope of sleep for the seat wouldn’t recline and between the crazy, two-hat-wearing lady to my right and the Austrian man in front who, for 3 solid hours repeatedly asked his neighbour the English words for a truly bizarre list of German phrases, ( raised flowerbed, sirloin steak and Egyptian being amongst my overheard favourites), it was impossible to drift off. Arriving in Salt Lake City airport, it was something of a relief to see the familiar late 70s carpet and the spattering of Mormons and returning American soldiers who always seem to be lingering by the baggage carousel. It had taken 26 hours from my front door in East Belfast to my bed, (with its beautiful 100 year old patchwork quilt), in Heather’s apartment, and I’d felt every single one of them.

All complaints aside, I do love traveling alone. There’s a space which always opens up inside my head when I’m in an airplane, hanging between here and there, and it’s less cluttered and more honest than anything I can approximate when I’m anchored to a specific place. Somewhere over the Atlantic I had three new ideas for stories. I didn’t have to wrestle for them as I usually do. They just popped into my head like half-remembered dreams and I quickly jotted them down for later consideration. I always have me best ideas in transit, but I’ve learnt that if I don’t record them they tend to slip down the side of the seat and never make it off the plane. I read a lot. I always enjoy reading more when I travel. With no distractions and a huge chunk of guilt-free time- time which cannot be more usefully spent on house cleaning or sending business emails- it’s easier to focus on a book and relish the act of reading more than the drive to get a book finished. I noticed people. Traveling alone is a fabulous way to be legitimately nosy. I always tend to be hypersensitive to the people around me when I don’t have anyone specifically to distract me, and there were definitely some interesting characters on yesterday’s flights. Finally, I took some time to anticipate. It’s going to be a big adventure and while it would be easy to get swallowed up in the giddiness of travel and Dylan and open roads, I don’t want the little things to get swallowed up by the bigger picture. So, as this journey begins I look forward to the small pleasures and experiences: American breakfasts, warm weather, time with old friends, at least 14 separate bedrooms I’ve never seen before, any number of airport revelations. I’m glad to be here and already breathing more deeply.

A Fond Farewell

Belfast is a hard wee city to leave behind. I’ve been winding down for the last week or so, making piles of clothes and travel books on the bedroom floor, printing plane tickets, stocking up on miniature bottles of shampoo and saying goodbye to lots of people I really love. I actually quite like leavings. Over the last fifteen years or so I’ve had more than my fair share of them. I’ve moved house, city and continent with the kind of frequency most people reserve for haircuts. More often than not I always find myself, in the final instant, ready to go and also blessed by the honesty friends dole out when they realise you’re not coming back for a very long time. In my experience, a good leaving will provoke the same sentiments which usually circulate at funerals, with the added bonus that the leaver is still alive and able to receive these lovely compliments. Belfast people are particularly good at leavings. Leavings here are accessorised with cards and mix cds, wee presents and pints. I have felt extremely loved and well sent in the last few days. There’s something deeply comforting in beginning a journey, knowing that there are good people waiting upon your return.

The last season has not been the easiest for me. I’m tired and more than a little weary as I head off for almost two months travelling around the United States to promote Malcolm Orange Disappears and carry out research for my next novel. Emotionally, creatively, spiritually, I’m ready for something new. So I’m officially drawing a line beneath the summer and heading hopefully into the next chapter. I have so many expectations for this trip and so much excitement bubbling up as I stuff every item of black clothing I own into my one small suitcase, (have decided to look authorial throughout my adventures). I’m excited about meeting new creative people. I’ll be keeping record of everyone I meet and if there’s anyone you think I should grab a drink with in any of the towns i’m visiting please do put us in touch. I’m excited about buses and trains and planes and the space for reading afforded by travel. I’m excited to complete the manuscript for Roundabouts on the other side of the world, where I’m hoping distance will give me a fresh perspective on 1980s Northern Ireland. I’m excited to spend time with old friends and heal up in the company of people who know me really well. I’m excited to introduce Malcolm to some Americans. I’m excited for all the new art, music, literature and film I’m going to encounter during my travels. And I am, more than anything, excited to scare myself a little, safe in the knowledge that Belfast and all its good, good people will be waiting for me at the end of October.

I leave on the 7am bus tomorrow and I won’t be back ’til almost Halloween. There will be photos. There will be postcards. There will be almost daily blogs. Keep in touch. Keep me in your thoughts and prayer. Let the adventures begin.

Why I Love Murakami

You should choose your idols carefully. At the last count I have about ten. Most are dead. All are remarkable. Some, such as Truman Capote were incredible writers but somewhat debatable human beings. Others like Dylan are so very iconic it’s impossible to pull them down from the pedestal upon which I have placed them and attempt to emulate any aspect of their creative process. And then there is the Japanese writer, Haruki Murakami.

My first Murakami book, intensely recommended by just about every bookish person I knew in Portland, was The Wind Up Bird Chronicles. It blew my mind and much like many of Murakami’s best-drawn characters, I clearly remember finishing the novel and immediately thereafter, finding the world a slightly different and kind of slanted sort of place. I had, honestly, never read anything like Murakami before. I didn’t understand parts of the novel and other parts of it affected me in ways I could not explain or ignore. Murakami, much like early Paul Auster has an incredible knack of making the hairs on the back of his reader’s neck stand up without giving him or her any concrete excuse for such a visceral response. He fuses detailed, oftentimes pedantic reality, with a spattering of fantastical and cerebral incidents which draw you so deep into the story it’s almost impossible to explain what you’re experiencing. Trying to describe a Murakami novel to someone who hasn’t read him, you will inevitably end up making it sound much duller, much more ordinary than the actual reading experience. Murakami is a magic realist par excellence and yet he is also, in some ways a very traditional, almost old-fashioned writer.

Much of Raymond Carver’s writing has been translated into Japanese by Murakami and perhaps in his lifelong devotion to the American short story writer, one can find small traces of his own peculiar style. Murakami’s writing is cool, logical, often stripped bare of emotion or literary flourishes much like Carver’s. He describes situations and characters analytically, no matter how fantastic they may be, and this can be a disconcerting experience for a reader used to the elaborate and occasionally bloated writing usually associated with fantasy. His sex scenes can come across as rather explicit as they are clinically described, often more biological than emotionally focused, and just as precise as his descriptions of food, geography and clothing. Murakami’s writing voice does not waiver nor change whether writing miracles and unbelievable realities or describing the noodles his protagonist is preparing for dinner. I have always envied his ability to maintain his authorial reserve throughout his novels. The talking cats, imaginary creatures and other dimensions are all the more chilling because the author coolly addresses their existence with the same unwavering voice he uses for the more mundane aspects of life. There’s a disturbing believability about Murakami’s fantasy. As such, it has always felt more prophetic than metaphorical.

    

There is also something determined and plodding about Murakami’s writing which I have always admired. It came as no surprise that his wonderful non-fiction book about running, What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, compared the marathon running experience with its need for focus and perseverance, to the novel writing process. Murakami himself writes, “writing novels to me, is basically a kind of manual labour. Writing itself is mental labour, but finishing an entire book is closer to manual labour.” This is something I have often felt, particularly as I hit the half way hump when writing a novel. Every time I approach the manuscript I have to summon up the resolve to keep going and pursue the final full stop. Murakami writes big novels. I’ve just finished the third volume of 1Q84. It’s excellent but at 1250 odd pages is also a significant commitment. As a writer who dabbles in the fantastical I’ve always struggled to maintain my energy and enthusiasm for the magical parts of my story across 100,000 words or more. After a certain point my imagination feels a little tired and realism begins seem like the easier option. Murakami is one of my idols, and deservingly so, simply because he does not make a fuss about writing. Quietly and persistently he continues to write incredible novels, sustaining the imaginative impact from page 1 right through to page 1250. His canon of work is incredibly intimidating and yet, unlike some of my more lofty idols, Murakami’s discipline and attention to craft, lays a frame work for other writers which, if not entirely achievable, is at least extremely inspiring.