Too Much Kirsch in the Fondue

Waiting and Writing

On May 22, 2011, I finished my first novel.  I am still waiting to hear back from a number of people.  It is a big book.  It is the end of the summer.  And these people who have asked to see it are all very busy.

It is now September 2, 2011 and I am halfway through writing my second novel.  At the rate I’m going, I should have a draft finished by October. 

This confuses me.  Because the first one took four and a half years to write. 

I’m not very good at waiting.  Because the more that I wait, the more than I start to develop silly theories about the level of hostility that one of these people I’m waiting on holds for me and my writing.  Even though they asked for the manuscript and they were all very professional about it. 

This probably has something to do with a bizarre rejection letter I received from a guy who insisted that, were he a novelist, he could write better than me (even though he is not a novelist and he has never published so much as a story) and that this was the reason he had to pass on the manuscript.  An agent friend told me that it was the craziest letter he’d ever seen.

Of course, all this is just business and my job is to write, not pay attention to how “marketable” my manuscript is or how much people hate what I do.  I simply can’t control what happens on the business side.  The one thing I can do is carry on working on the thing that I’m now working on, which is somewhat wicked.

The only thing that I can do to avoid waiting is to write.  I am having a great deal of fun with this second novel and laughing quite a lot.  (I laughed quite a lot while writing the first novel too.)  Unlike the first novel, the second novel is written in first person and is different in many ways.  I also have an idea for a third novel, which will be as big as the first one and will involve lots of research and take me, in part, out of the 21st century.  And I suspect that I will work on that one for at least two years.  Assuming, of course, that I will have the same amount of time I presently have to devote to fiction writing.

I also have an idea for a fourth novel, which will involve some research, will be the furthest I have ever traveled back in time (more than a century!), and is designed to build off the lessons I have learned writing the first, the second, and the third novels and become a better writer.  (There is also an idea for a fifth novel that takes place about fifteen years ago.   In fact, all of these novels are connected in small but pivotal ways.  I am creating a little universe here, although I have designed it so that you don’t have to read all the books.  However, should the second novel prove to be a success, the second novel is actually designed for sequels.)

It is absolutely strange to devise such a plan (although I didn’t really devise this; it just sort of happened; the subconscious is an amazing thing) and have absolutely no clue about the number of people who may want to read my novels.  The degree to which my plan is carried out depends upon whether or not I can even get past the present stage. 

I can say that I absolutely love writing and that I am seeing myself improve in ways that I did not think possible.  To cite one small example, I am learning how adjectives can be used as nouns.  I am learning to be as taut as I am expansive.  I have learned to trust my gut. I have learned that I have a better ear for dialogue and description than I thought possible.  But I don’t want to get cocky.  I still have a great deal to learn.

If I knew that there would be all this waiting, I probably would not have spent four and a half years working on a novel.  The one thing I can say if you want to write fiction is that it’s absolutely essential to work obliviously.  Because if you become aware of the glacial pace of waiting after you’ve written something especially large, or the very possibility that it may take you multiple novels before you get published, then you’re not really writing to write.  You’re writing to wait.  You’re writing to have written.  And I don’t really trust you.  If you want to wait, arrive several hours early for an appointment and knock yourself out.  If you want to write and you can’t talk yourself out of it, then chances are you’re meant to write.

Inconsiderate People

In the past few days, I have spent an inordinate amount of time being combative, both on my behalf and (mostly) on behalf of others, against inconsiderate people.  And I don’t like it. But I don’t believe that one should respond with silence towards an inconsiderate person.  That would be offering a tacit acceptance of their inconsiderate nature.  Unless that person is an attention-seeking troll, in which case silence is always the best option. 

When you confront an inconsiderate person with an airtight case in which you outline every inconsiderate detail, the inconsiderate person very often fails to comprehend the possibility that he’s been inconsiderate.  Even if there’s a wild and angry look in your eyes.  Our passive aggressive age of cell phones and social media has permitted numerous escape routes.  So sometimes there’s no way to get these inconsiderate people to confess that what they’ve done is inconsiderate, even when they only remotely understand the inconsiderate nature of their actions.  They have no idea that their inconsiderate behavior is often in response to something that another person has worked very hard on or that is an affirmation of their identity. 

If someone tells me that something I’ve done is inconsiderate, the first words out of my mouth will be something along the lines of “I’m sorry you feel that way.  I didn’t mean it that way at all.  But here’s where I was coming from.  Let’s talk this out.”  And I’ll follow this up by finding a common point that we can agree upon.  But the inconsiderate person very often doesn’t want to find a common point.  And the inconsiderate person certainly doesn’t want to offer an apology.  The inconsiderate person would rather get you to acquiesce to his way of thinking.  And this perpetuates a cycle of sustained inconsiderate behavior.  At some point, you have to tell the inconsiderate person the truth — even if it means calling them “a fucking liar” on the phone (as I did recently to one such inconsiderate person).  But when you do this, the inconsiderate person can turn around and call you inconsiderate.  So you’re faced with two choices: (a) you accept the shifted (and false) burden or (b) you end the relationship with the inconsiderate person.

Nice people often settle for (a). But then they feel bad about the fact that they’ve allowed themselves to be used. 

Those who don’t wish to be victims settle for (b).  But if that person has an empathic streak or a sense of humility, they start to wonder why they can’t just accept the person or whether they protest too much.  The only answer to this conundrum is to (1) demonstrate contrition or (2) to take a tough-as-nails “you don’t exist in my universe” approach.  But (1) leads to the predicament suffered by nice people and (2) carries the danger of turning you into a misanthrope. 

What is common to all reactions is that the inconsiderate person wins.  And maybe what I’m trying to argue with this post (I want to clarify that I have plenty of flaws and have committed a few inconsiderate actions, both deliberate and perceived, which I have tried to apologize for if people bring them to my attention or if I recognize it later) is that, at a certain point in life, you really shouldn’t have to take any shit from inconsiderate people — no matter where they stand within a power structure.  If you cut certain inconsiderate people off, maybe it’s a simply a necessary part of existence.  Because existence is about commingling and accepting and encouraging and having a lot of fun and doing great things, and inconsiderate people stand against these amazing human values. 

The End

After four and a half years of work (well, truthfully, two serious years; the first two years involved considerable fucking around learning how to write fiction), I typed THE END on May 22, 2011 at 1:00 PM EST.  170,000 words. The biggest thing I’ve ever done. 

So what’s next?  Slacking off for a week and then getting back to work.  I do have another novel in the works — a goofy noir novel about a lowlife in Brooklyn (no, not me) — that’s decidedly less ambitious than the big bastard I’ve just finished.  But it’s been a hell of a lot of fun to write.  I’m 12,000 words into that.  And I even have some ideas on how to turn that into a trilogy if there are any takers.  I’m going to concentrate my energies on finishing that sucker, which will be a little more than a third of the size of the big one.  I’m doing this because the last thing I need to do right now is to expend nervous energies on the waiting game.  From all of my studies, that (and caring too much about market conditions) is what sinks a lot of writers. There’s little you can do to speed up the market.  Your obligation is to write.

The important thing to do is to keep having fun and see what happens. The one thing I do have at my disposal is a fairly insane work ethic.

RIP Macho Man

As the above interviews demonstrate, Randy “Macho Man” Savage offered a wild element that is presently missing from American culture.  Over-the-top machismo, often genius performance art, and a strange effort to tame this unpredictable id by accomplished straight man “Mean Gene” Okerlund. It’s amazing to think that this type of madness not only played regularly on television, but that it also captured the imagination of kids across the nation. 

Today, in an age in which such glorious theatrical anarchy is ridiculed rather than embraced, we have to settle for the “reality” of Mel Gibson and Christian Bale  (tamed by the remix) and the spectacle of desperate Americans humiliating themselves on reality television.

Randy “Macho Man” Savage demonstrated why it was essential to leave such gestures to the professionals.

First Attempt

I’ve done my best to keep quiet about this, but my big project is about to be finished and I’m filled with a sense of dread. 

I should be clear that I’m not embarrassed by the project. The dread comes from the idea that all this came out of me and that I somehow found the confidence and the focus and the discipline to do it.  That probably sounds like a cliched “tortured artist” pronouncement, but I can say with utmost certainty that I utterly surrendered myself to the process.  I got so caught in the groove that I’ll very much miss it.  Even if I know there will be another groove very soon. 

It’s a huge book.  About the size of Catch 22 (with, I hope, a decent laughs-per-page ratio) and this comes after serious cutting and revising.  But I have no agent.  I have no publisher.  I have no idea who wants to read this.  It’s just so damn big and tackles quite a lot and really confronts serious social developments of the past ten years and is as emotionally true and as risk-taking and as challenging and as entertaining as I can make it. 

But that may not be enough.  I’ve computed that I’ve probably devoted at least two thousand hours (likely much more) of my life over the course of four years (especially the last two) to getting it right.  But that may not be enough. 

My partner has been patient and understanding.  When I did print off the manuscript early in the year, it overwhelmed me.  I’ve written plays and scripts and plenty of lengthy essays in the several thousand words range, but it was just inconceivable that I could write something this big.  I asked my partner to hide it and, after I typed in all of my ruthless revisions, pushed forward with the big thing still trapped in the computer. 

Now that I’m only a few thousand words away from finishing it, I’ve reached a point of near exhaustion.  Much of this has to do with the complicated finale, which has emotionally drained me because I’m confronting feelings I didn’t realize I had.  It’s making me laugh and cry.  Goddam, why did it have to be like this?  Well, I had no choice.  It was the only option my subconscious gave me. 

Perhaps some of my exhaustion has to do with the rain.  Perhaps some of it has to do with the fact that carrying on has been very lonely.  I want something to take my attentions again and transport me into the magical world of being “true” yet oblivious.  PG Wodehouse, one of my heroes, carried on like this.  I have all sorts of research I want to do for another book, and I’ve already created a list of 20 books I want to read for a project that feels more adult, more challenging, more ambitious, more terrifying, more hilarious.  Plus, there’s the remainder of another book I need to finish, which should be a walk in the park compared to this one.

But I also feel that this is a huge gamble.  That this is my one last big throw of the dice before I have to give it all up for good or reconsider my priorities in life.  To say that I’ve made sacrifices to complete this project is an understatement.  It would be very depressing if all this work amounted to nothing.  I think I’d be able to pull myself back up, as I have many times in the past.  On the other hand, I’m getting older and I don’t know how many years or attempts or second chances I have left.  As I have observed more friends and acquaintances my age make more “adult” choices in life, I sincerely hope I’ve done the right thing. 

Vicious Assault on “Journalist” Does Nothing

NEW YORK — The police investigation began shortly after National Frozen Food Day, when a New York Times editor alerted his coworkers to a lurid cellphone video, resulting from a lurid article, that involved one of his regulars.

The video led the police to an abandoned Upper East Side apartment, more evidence and, eventually, to a roundup of 21 muscular men who participated in the gang rape of 48-year-old New York Times employee James C. McKinley, Jr., the authorities said.

Five suspects are journalism majors at Columbia University, who were so driven over the edge by McKinley’s insensitive reporting and the New York Times’s failure to issue an apology, that they felt that ass raping the journalist who promulgated the irresponsible story was the only proper response. Since none of the rapists have previous criminal records, it is believed by authorities and trauma experts that McKinley brought this violation upon himself.

The attack’s details remain unclear. But sources close to McKinley have reported to the Times that McKinley hasn’t bleached his asshole in the last eighteen months. It is believed that this hygienic deficiency was one of the motivating factors behind the crime.

“It hasn’t destroyed our newspaper,” said Danielle Rhoades Ha. “If another Times employee gets ass raped because of an article, we’ll find someone younger and cheaper. Someone willing to go much farther in his reporting. And someone who won’t complain at all if he gets ass raped multiple times. We will say even then that these views, however unbalanced, are simply views that we found in our reporting.”

The Bump

“If life is an illusion, then so is death — the greatest of all illusions.  If life must not be taken too seriously — then so neither must death.” — Samuel Butler

I discovered the bump on Saturday.  I thought nothing of it.  Perhaps I simply bumped myself in some goofy manner after eight miles of walking that day. 

But the bump grew bigger.  And the bump began to hurt.  I have a pretty decent pain threshold.  I have braced serious bronchitis without antibiotics.  (I mention this not out of bravado, but to point to my inherent stupidity.)  If something hurts, then it really hurts. I conducted an interview on Monday.  The consummate professional.  I was in pain as I carried on talking with someone smarter than me.  I was not at my best because the bump kept digging at me, trying to cut me as I was doing my best to listen and respond with smart questions.  She probably thought I was some Yankee dope.

On Tuesday, my partner returned from a trip and asked to see the bump.  At this point, the bump had expanded beyond the circumference of a dollar coin and was quite hard.  My sister, a medical student, was also concerned.  We sent her pictures. Anti-inflammatory cream and some muscle relaxant pills helped.

On Wednesday, the pain had subsided somewhat.  But the bump had spread across my back.  As I sit right now in my seat, I feel the bump’s larger presence against the back of my chair.  It is now part of my physicality.  I am starting to have some vague sense of how Quasimodo felt like.

On Wednesday afternoon, I called a dermatologist.  I was ashamed to call, but my partner said that my voice did not quaver one bit.  I guess I’ve learned how to fake it.  I described the bump to a woman over the phone.   She said I needed to get the bump looked at immediately, but with true professionalism, not hysteria.  I told her I was uninsured.  She told me her rates.  I scheduled an appointment for tomorrow morning.

I don’t know if the bump will kill me or shorten my life.  I have, like any true autodidact or bull-by-the-horns layman, consulted a variety of print and online texts to determine if the bump is skin cancer (possibly), lipoma (harmless but also possibly), or some other cyst that I just don’t understand.  But I am not afraid.  Not even of the possible financial burden.  I like what I do, but it pays almost nothing and often nothing.  I am not a rich man.

I know that there are people who would be happy to see me die.  And I know that there are people who would be mortified.  I know that if I were handed a death sentence, I would get at least three massive projects finished before I met my maker.  Even if I were forced to peck weakly at my netbook in a hospital.  I have faced mortality once before when I was nine.  And even then, as the blood poured out of my shoulder and it looked like as if I might hemorrhage to death and I received eighteen stitches, I was exceptionally calm.  I didn’t want to trouble anybody. 

The bump may be deadly.  It may be benign.  But I cannot take it too seriously.  I cannot permit my prospective last gasps to kill my soul.  Nor can I stop what I’ve started.  If the bump turns out to be nothing, and being an optimistic sort I think it will be zippo, then I will probably love life ten times more.  The bump need not stop me in my tracks.  For while it is very real, it is only a cumbrous illusion.

How Did They Rehearse Radio Drama?

Radio drama hasn’t made a comeback, and all this is a great pity.  This failure isn’t just because several generations remain unfamiliar with it, although that’s one major reason.  I don’t believe people truly understand the time and care with which radio drama was put together.  It may seem a bit silly and quaint in our podcasting age to consider how a regrettably abandoned art form was created.  But in consulting the history books that we do have, it becomes very clear that radio drama worked as well as it did precisely because there was time allocated for preparation and rehearsal.  That’s almost an unthinkable precondition in comparison to today’s radio, in which the whole process is almost instant. But it does demonstrate that if you put in the preparation time, particularly if you use every instant, you may have greater results (or sometimes you just didn’t need it).

From John Dunning’s On the Air: The Encyclopedia of Old-Time Radio:

Amos ‘N’ Andy:  “They never looked at each other during broadcast — the chance of breaking into laughter was too great.  Once Gosden had to douse himself with a glass of water to keep from breaking up on the air.  They did the show cold, with no rehearsal, believing in the spontaneity this gained them.”

The American Album of Familiar Music (music performed, 1931-1950): “The cast alone was almost a roomful: the singers performed in full evening dress, a custom held over from the audience days, and rehearsal was long and arduous.  Each Sunday the cast gathered at 5 PM.  Rehearsal consumed the evening, often lasting right up to air time [9:00 PM for a 30 minute program].”

The Big Show (variety program, 1950-1952, remarkably expensive for radio): “For Dee Engelbach, it was a test of endurance.  His work on the next installment began each Sunday at 7:30, as soon as the show went off the air.  Sunday night he conferred with writers: the search for a premise could take several hours.  The writers sought unifying lines of action, integrating themes that would keep The Big Show from being simply a string of pearls.  On Monday Engelbach met with support people.  Everyone threw in ideas.  By then the writers had come up with rough sketches, which were discussed with the director, and Meredith Wilson was consulted about the musical segments.  Guest stars arrived on Wednesday and Thursday to go over their routines.  The first rehearsal was Friday.  Wilson rehearsed the orchestra and chorus with musical guests.  This could take three hours.  Then came the dialogue rehearsal, the cutting, the revision, additional rehearsal — another five-hour job.  On Sunday came the integrated rehearsal, which ran all day.  That night the show went on, and the routine began again for the following week.”

From Bill Oates’s Meredith Wilson, America’s Music Man:

“Typical of many radio programs of the late 1940’s, considered to be the heyday of classic old time radio, the success of the Burns and Allen Show lay in its carefully choreographed rehearsal schedule.  At 10:30 a.m. on Thursday, dress rehearsal began with two run-throughs, so that last minute adjustments to the script might be made.  At 1:30 p.m. the orchestra practiced its songs and transition pieces.  The cast gathered one more time for a light reading at 4:30, and shortly thereafter, the audience began filling in.”

Here’s some thoughts on process from Don Kisner’s Theatre of the Mind:

“The show director may be in direct control from a position on or off the stage within the visual range of actors and crew, similar to that of an orchestra director.  Many of the old-time-radio directors worked this way.  For the classroom experience, however, I prefer a more distant position.  Rehearsal is the place to iron out all problems including sound levels, distance from the mic, interpretation of dialog, timing, etc. Take sufficient time to get everything just right.  If it isn’t right by performance time, all the arm waving and other gyrations performed by a director won’t make much difference.  During the performance, the director should watch the show and take notes of where things went ‘right’ and ‘wrong.’…When you do your first rehearsal, insist that actors use something very close to the prop or costume they will be working with in performance.  If an actor has been assigned a prop that is heard as SFX, be sure to perform a level check and rehearse accordingly each time.”