Back to the Well

I've taken a bit of a break from blogging lately. Not really on purpose...it's just a factor of inspiration. I can't write these things unless it's welling up inside me (that old writer's tale about writing for your very survival), and the well has been running fairly dry these days.

Actually, that's not quite true. The well, in fact, is as water-filled as ever -- perhaps more so -- but I feel like I've dropped the bucket. I told a friend the other day that I've been having a hard time lately translating my internal thoughts into external dialogue, and I think that's a pretty apt description. I'm looking for the connecting rope -- and believe me, when I find it, it's all going to come rushing out -- but for now there's no pulling water from this well. (As you'll be able to tell from this post...I've been trying and trying to write a focused, fascinating, topic-driven post for the past week, and all I'm coming up with is the current stream of conscious nonsense.)

My beautiful photographer friend Jessie recently gathered a bunch of us together for a shoot. (I like the sound of that..."I was at a photo shoot." Very artsy-bohemian of me.) We had a lovely time, and that's an understatement. There's no one I know as good as Jessie at making you feel beautiful and photogenic (oh and believe me, I'm not)...like you are a fascinatingly sexy subject for her to train her camera on. She's a talented photographer no doubt, but I secretly (or, at this point, not so secretly ) think that it's her camera-side manner and ability to coax out something unexpectedly gorgeous that is going to truly set her apart from the rest.

She's been subtly (and at times not-so-subtly...love you Jessie!) hinting that the photo shoot would make a great topic for a blog post. I think she's right, but I've been bumping up against that inspiration thing. I write because I have to, because I feel I will just explode if I do not...and as wonderful and memorable as that day was, there was no imminent explosion.

Until she posted a picture from the shoot on her website...from my quasi-topless shoot.

Actually, she posted the picture a week or so ago. She asked me to look at it to make sure I was okay with it being up, and I did check from my very dim computer at work. Looked discrete and tasteful to me. In fact, you could barely see a thing except for my face. Okay by me.

And then tonight, out of curiosity, I decided to check it out from my much-better computer at home.

Yeah, wow, that's my breast.

Which is, you know, cool. It's very artsy. Very tasteful. I feel like a much more exciting person than I probably actually am for having posed semi-topless for my soon-to-be famous photographer friend, and to have that broadcast to the world. And it's not like I didn't spend half my time at college coming up with new and creative ways to wear as little as possible in public (read: Safer Sex Night), anyway.

But I've been toying with the notion of exposure and vulnerability lately. Thinking about what it means to open myself up, flaws and all, and say to the world, "Here I am. Take it or leave it." Thinking about what it means to let people in, and to keep people out. Thinking about what it means to trust others with your vulnerability. Thinking about what it feels like to be exposed. All sorts of esoteric, big-picture ideas, right?

Turns out, there's nothing like a half-naked public picture of yourself to remind you what exposure and vulnerability really feel like.

So anyway, world, here I am. Flaws and all (though Jessie covers them nicely.) Take it or leave it.

Novel-ty

"The very reason I write is so that I might not sleepwalk through my entire life."
-- Zadie Smith

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about The Perfect Novel. Reading articles lamenting the lack of Great Literary Works being published these days and the paucity of Bright New Young Talent (young, in the literary world, being defined as anyone under 40). Wondering where the Voice of My Generation is, wondering what they would sound like, what they would write about, what they would say. Wondering if there can even be a Voice of My Generation anymore, especially after reading some article somewhere that pointed out that the previous Voices of Generations all tended to be white and male…not at all in vogue in today’s climate of multiculturalism…meaning that the whole concept of a Voice of a Generation may well be bunk to begin with.

Then along comes Zadie Smith, who just wrote an absolutely brilliant article on the act of judging literature, the uneasy relationship between truth and fiction (and between the writer’s truths and the writer’s communication of said truths), and the real reason why there are so few Great Literary Works published in any generation.

It’s a long article, but if you have any interest in literature (or, say, were an English major in college) read it in its entirety. It’s one of the more fascinating and spot-on essays I’ve read in awhile.

Here’s one snippet:

It is impossible to convey all of the truth of all our experience. When we write, similarly, we have the idea of a total revelation of truth, but cannot realize it. And so, instead, each writer asks himself which serviceable truths he can live with, which alliances are strong enough to hold… In what form, asks the writer, can I most truthfully describe the world as it is experienced by this particular self? And it is from that starting point that each writer goes on to make their individual compromise with the self, which is always a compromise with truth as far as the self can know it. That is why the most common feeling, upon re-reading one's own work, is Prufrock's: "That is not it at all ... that is not what I meant, at all ..." Writing feels like self-betrayal, like failure.

It is possible I think this article is so brilliant because it addresses quite directly a few intellectual quandaries I've been having. She sums up it up pretty neatly -- the essential problem of writing something that is real and authentic and true, but is also fiction.

Perhaps I should back up.

I’ve been picking, very casually, very occasionally, at a novel. Ooh, that felt weird to type. It’s not really something I talk about. It’s nowhere near anything yet, and it may well never be. I’m just picking at the edges right now...chiseling a little at the corners, curious as to what shape the marble may hold.

I’ve always assumed I would write a novel someday. (The fact that I have no real experience, or talent for, writing fiction being only a minor obstacle.) I know it in the same way (I think) other people know they will have kids. Not sure when, not sure how (well, they might technically know *how*….), not sure in what way kids will fit into the overall plan…but part of the plan nonetheless. That’s what my novel feels like to me.

It’s inside my skin. There are times I can feel its physical presence inside me…can almost make out its contours. Sometimes, when I’m feeling particularly inspired to write, or when I can’t get certain phrases or ideas out of my head until I write them down, I think of my novel like a splintering bone. I think these phrases are bone spurs, digging their way through to the surface of my skin, and my only job, at the moment, is to pick them out, write them down and hold them for safekeeping. I have files and files of random sentences I’m keeping safe.

I’ve gone through a lot lately that has been inspiring random phrases, paragraphs, or even whole pages. And so I’ve been thinking a lot about writing as the revelation of truths. Writing fiction as an act of figuring out my own, real-world, life…of analyzing its patterns, of making it feel meaningful, of subjecting it to a poetic standard. Like Smith, writing keeps me from sleepwalking through my life. But also like Smith, I wonder which truths I pick. Where is the line between fiction and autobiography? What truths do I – can I – reveal, and what truths do I mix with what lies?

Any introductory creative writing class will tell you to “write what you know.” I want to write something that will ring true, that is an authentic representation of a real experience. And yet I also have a sense that a novel should be a little grander – reach more, aim higher, dream bigger. The stakes need to be higher and the themes bigger than just the tiny experience of one individual. A great novel lifts us up.

And therein lays the problem, as Smith points out. When we write to communicate Big Ideas and Grand Themes, we lose touch with the truths we know. We stop representing a real experience and start representing a clichéd conception of that experience. It’s Baudrillard’s simulacrum (that one’s for you, E.) – we start to think that this clichéd representation of experience is the real thing, and that experiences that do not fit this pattern are inauthentic…when, in fact, they are the most authentic of all because they are real.

Which brings me back to all this Voice of Our Generation stuff…because, of course, that’s the real hidden dream here. To write a novel is one thing, but to write a novel that speaks to the dreams and yearnings and questions and problems of whole generation…well, that's the ultimate, right? But in striving to represent those Great Themes, you risk running afoul of all the Great Clichés that are out there.

Such as, for example, the Great Cliché of the young writer dreaming big about her Great American Novel (which, once published, would propel her instantly into Voice of Her Generation status)... but not actually having a clue what that novel would be about or, for that matter, how to write even halfway decent fiction in the first place. Yep, walked right into that one.

Dance, Magic, Dance

WFUV out of Fordham (which is, by the way, my new favorite radio station, a permanent desktop fixture in my 8:30 to 5:30 life now that I have some speakers in my office...check it out) is running a David Bowie tribute today. Turns out, Mr. Bowie is the big 6-0.

Which I find incredibly creepy, because David Bowie was my first sexual crush, back before I even knew what sex was. My third-grade self really wanted to do Bowie (not that I knew what wanting to "do" someone would actually entail), and now he's 60. I know I have a penchant for older men, but c'mon...this is a bit ridiculous.

Not that I think I'm the only pre-teenage girl in the world to get the hots for Bowie. Have you seen Labyrinth? David dancing around, swiveling his hips in those skin tight pants, revealing a, well, bulge bigger than one might think possible? Glammed out with make-up and bigger hair, looking oh-so vulnerable and available while cuddling a baby? Still wearing those, um, pants? In fact, I can't recall a single conversation with anyone about that movie (and being one of my all-time favorites, I've had more than a few such conversations) that didn't center on the state of Bowie's lower body. It's so damn obvious, how could you not talk about it?

10 year old me, staring at the TV, trying not to stare at Bowie's package, not even knowing why I wanted to stare at his package but having a vague feeling that I wasn't supposed to (but why, I also wasn't sure), and thus wanting to all the more so. Ah, the lure of the forbidden.

And now Bowie is 60.

And all the third-grader left in me can think is, "ewwwww."

A Wild Yea-Saying Overburst of American Joy

As a voracious reader and literature-junky, I like to talk about books with people. A lot. I love finding out what others are reading, trading favorite authors, discussing well-loved books. I like to think who I am and how I think and what I do are, in many ways, shaped by what I read. ("I am well-read, therefore I am.")

I just finished a conversation with a good friend about this topic, and I've been mad to blog about it every sense. (The phrasing of being "mad" to do anything being a direct influence from Kerouac, for example.)

I was talking about Erica Jong, one of my favorite writers in a slightly guilty-pleasure sort of way. (Why a female writing about sex, even if it is profound, well-written and moving, should be a "guilty pleasure" is a whole other topic of conversation. Or, if I were more influenced by Ms. Jong, psycho-analysis.)

I went to see Jong speak at the Brookline Booksmith a few months ago, hoping and expecting for some form of transformation and salvation. See, I've been reading her since I was 17, when I first found a battered old copy of "How to Save Your Own Life." In many ways, that book changed my life (more on this later), and I felt a deep need to tell her this when I saw her. (I'm sure she gets that all the time and is, in fact, sick to death of hearing it. Still, I think if someone has changed your life, you ought to tell them if you get a chance, and I was determined to do so.) For a variety of reasons, her attitude and demeanor not being the least of them, this plan was a flop, and I left feeling incredibly disappointed.

But that's a minor side point. What this whole conversation got me thinking about is what books have literally changed my life. Not influenced my thinking, not made me reconsider my position on issues, not thrilled me or made my life more enjoyable. These things are nice, but not the big prize here...I'm talking about books that have very literally caused me to change my actions, to change the way I live my life, to change the course of my destiny.

Being a literature snob, I instantly want to bring up Blake, whose "The Marriage of Heaven and Hell" I thought revolutionary sophomore year of college. I want to bring up Kundera, who made me reconsider my relationship to politics, to power, with sex, with love, with others, through his writings in The Unbearable Lightness of Being. I want to bring up Faulkner, or Hemingway, or Morrison, writers whose collected works I have generally devoured and who I like to think of as pretty damn influential on...well, something in me, since I've read so much of what they've written. I want to bring up Kushner and Albee, whose plays I have read, watched, and worked on for hours and hours and hours, the lines of which I can still quote in my sleep. I want to bring up Kerouac, who (besides injecting the word "mad" into my vocabulary in a new sense) gave me Dean Moriarty and his yea-saying ways -- a constant reminder and inspiration to say yes to whatever life offers. Or Anais Nin, which I'm reading now, and is affecting me in many ways as Jong did when I was a teenager.

But I can't. As much as I've loved these writings, pondered and analyzed these words, and absorbed these concepts into my thinking, I can't honestly claim that any have changed my life.

To my mind, two books have: Erica Jong's How to Save Your Own Life and Rob Sangster's The Traveller's Toolkit. Sort of an embarrassing list, actually, but these are the ones.

I picked up Jong at 17, and I read about sex and relationships in a way I never had before. I think this was one of those second wave feminism books that came out in the 1960's and 70's, words that revolutionized and scandalized readers by talking about female orgasms (gasp!) and sex before marriage (double gasp!) and even multiple partners and lesbian affairs and all the rest (can't-breath-i'm-gasping-so-much). I wasn't terribly scandalized by any of this (well, maybe at the age of 17, I was a little scandalized by the orgies.) But I was intrigued and amazed by Jong's frankness when it came to relationships -- and, in particular, the way sex did and did not relate to love. Perhaps most of all it was her entirely rule-breaking, totally nonjudgmental, experiential-based approach to sex and love that resonated the most with me. I hadn't read Kerouac yet, but Jong was a yea-sayer, too.

I won't get into too many sordid details here, but I will say that I am positive that being exposed to Jong's philosophy of living changed my life.

Book number two I picked up at a used bookstore in Washington DC. (Right next to Eastern Market...and if you are ever there, I highly recommend a visit. The shopkeeper makes a point of insulting everyone that comes into the door...it's really quite a sight to watch. ) They had a great selection of used travel books, and I picked up a whole collection of late 90's Lonely Planet guides to all sorts of cool places in the world. I was planning my Watson fellowship application at the time (for those of you who haven't heard of it, it's a program that allows you to travel around the world working on a special project of your design. Fucking awesome, and I didn't get it. But things work out, regardless.) I had originally been dead set on doing the Europe thing...until I picked up this book by Rob Sangster. It's basically a how-to book for first time travelers, although I would highly recommend it to anyone thinking of planning a long trip, especially to less developed countries, even if they've traveled before.

Sangster made going to third world (sorry to be less than PC, "less developed" is just such an awkward phrase to use) countries seem accessible, doable, and far more fascinating than anything I could see in Europe. He took the fear factor out of it. His book opened me up to the possibility of going to places a little more off the beaten trail...leading me, eventually, to plan a six month backpacking trip all on my own through India, Thailand and Japan. He not only convinced me that I could do it, but that I had to do it.

And his philosophy of travel -- seeking out adventures, traveling cheaply so as to get to know the culture, but not so cheaply that you ended up miserable, being flexible and able to roll with the punches, focusing the trip on meeting people and learning the culture rather than seeing specific sights, not losing sight of the bigger picture whenever the traveling got frustrating and rough, and being a responsible traveler -- became my philosophy of travel. I not only chose my destination and made my trip happen because of what he had to say, but I had a far more enjoyable and successful trip because I had read his book.

So there it is -- sex and travel. The true impact of literature on my life!

I'm still trying to come up with other books that make the cut, but those are what I have thus far. I'd love to hear from others, though...post and tell me what books have truly changed your life. I'm betting it will be a fascinating list.

I'd Like to Vote on Your Marriage

Sometimes you've got to go with your gut.

I've been agonizing for months over whether or not I thought the Legislature should vote on the gay marriage amendment. (Okay, so agonizing...maybe an overstatement. Even I'm not that obsessive, nerdy, or angsty.) I've been considering it. Going back and forth. Trying to figure out my opinion on the topic.

(I'd like to assume it goes without saying that I absolutely 100% think gay marriage should be legal and, indeed, is a civil right, etc etc etc. I also think the concept of "letting the people vote" on a civil right is absolutely abhorrent, a tyranny of the [potential] majority, and the reason we have things like Bills of Rights. I'd hope that was blatantly obvious to anyone who stumbled across this blog...but in case you're not a regular reader, let me clear that one up right away.)

I also have a great respect for process, and a good liberal loyalty to its sanctity. Ever since Politics 105 (Obies, you know it), I've thought process over product was a pretty sound theory, a method of policymaking that led, in the end, of the overall best product and the best protection of individual rights on the grander scale.

So this legislative vote has been a tough one for me. I thought Sam Allis wrote a great essay on the topic. He calls himself a process liberal, and I think I agree with him. But I also thought
Dan Kennedy got it right when he made an analogy between refusing to vote to put gay marriage on the ballot to refusing to vote to put slavery on the ballot. In other words, I've been all over the place on this issue.

But really, debating whether or not they should of voted isn't the point of this post. (After all, it's been done ad naseum in the Globe, the Herald, and on the blogs (just go check out
Blue Mass Group if you're really not sick of it yet.)

My point is that the second I heard that the legislature had voted to advance the anti-gay marriage amendment, I knew instantly where I stood. I was angry, I was upset, I was swearing in my office. (My co-workers, I'm sure, think I'm insane.) I didn't give a damn that they "upheld the sanctity of the process" or whatever bullshit language I was quoting to friends a few weeks ago. The bastards decided it was okay, actually okay, to vote on whether my friends, me, or anyone else I know can marry someone they love. I don't even care that most of them voted against it. They put it to a vote. They thought it was something they had the right to decide. I've got two words for them -- and for Mr. Senate President in particular -- fuck. off.

Even better, they didn't, in the end, give a whit about the process anyway. They refused to vote on the Health Care Amendment, which faced a similar fate as the Anti-Gay Marriage Amendment. (But I bet you aren't going to hear the editorial staff at the Herald or the leaders of the Vote on Marriage groups complain about that, will you?) Turns out, they (or at least some of them) only cared about the "process" when they were getting a little public scrutiny on the subjects. There was no practically no media attention given to the health care amendment, and, hence, no vote.

Oh, the hypocrisy.

On the other hand, nice to know public outrage counts for something.