First week of the New Year. So much looms ahead of me: this year, I'm moving to a much bigger city, attending a much bigger school, driving in much more frightening traffic, making choices that will affect the rest of my life. Family members and holidays and birthdays will be missed. Relationships strained. Self-doubt eminent. Resolves will be tested and anxieties will run amok. It's exciting and frightening simultaneously, all this inevitable difference. So much is at stake, too.
I'm fine about it, mostly. Except at night when I find myself fading into sleep and suddenly my mind's eye is freight-trained by all the questions and realizations, all balled up because I can't face them individually, when I'm fully awake. Can I afford to live on my own? Have I grown complacent here in my parents' house in this little tiny town? Do I have what it takes? This last w/r/t writing, school, driving, socializing, determining a career, making a living, supporting my future hypothetical family, "Making It." Et al. All this comes at me, just as my body sleep-limps and my breathing becomes deeper. This anvil of anxiety. Then I get up. Shake it off. Read for half an hour. Then I'm okay. I know my family loves me, and so does Brittany. I know nothing can ever come between Brittany and me. I know this will give me strength. And then I sleep.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Best Fiction/Poetry of the Year Extravaganza!!!
So, as promised merely yesterday (see how on the ball I am) here is the list of fiction/poetry books that most impressed me this year. Turns out that there was some pretty great stuff put out this year; who would've thought 2010 would be such an exciting year for readers besides the whole e-reader phenomenon (maybe we should face the music, though, and just call it the Kindle/iPad phenomenon)? And so well anyway, all these books, of course, are highly recommended, so give your eyeballs some exercise and check one out.
Poetry
3. Nox, Anne Carson, New Directions Publishing, Apr 27, 2010. This is sort of difficult to call poetry, or anything besides really beautiful. It may arguably not even be a book. It comes in a box and is printed on an accordioned strip of paper. It's made up of quotes, letters, photos, historical data, and jottings relating and dedicated to the author's late, globe-trotting brother. It's an elegy, and the work of a survivor, as Carson puts it; "It is when you are asking about something that you realize that you yourself have survived it, and so you must carry it..."
2. Winter's Journey, Stephen Dobyns, Copper Canyon Press, July 1 2010. Dobyns is an old favorite of mine---in fact, it may be argued that he inspired my attempted literary career---and Winter's Journey is his first work in a long time. And it's different: the pieces are more like political essays than poetry (does it say something about me or about poetry that my favorite books of the subject have so far been rather unlike most poetry?) though Dobyns is as wordy and playful as ever. I'd give you a quote if I had the book on me, but I lent it to my sister, so there. Just suffice it to say that Dobyns has some of the most intelligent things to say about American politics that I've read recently, and the poem in which he fantasizes about being a rhino is pure gold.
1. Human Chain, Seamus Heaney, FSG, Sept 14 2010. Before I get into Heaney's new book I would like to recognize the Anthology of Modern Irish Poetry published by the Harvard Press this year: it's great. Huge and full of everything. Heaney is, obviously, represented in the 1000-plus-page volume, which I didn't put on here because I want to focus on individuals rather than anthologies. Anyway, Human Chain has garnered quite a stir in the literary world, being the work of such a master, and this always makes me happy. Perhaps what I like about it is the accessibility, which is a terribly unsexy thing to say, but. Heaney writes about lost friends, remembers days past, reflects on simple daily occurrences, such as refilling a pen or taking joy in the sound of a gust of wind. I applaud the work of recent American poets-- like the Dickmans-- who really aspire to simplify poetry and take it away from the austerity of academia, but all you have to do is look at the Irish for a lesson of how to make poetry an everyman's passion.
Fiction.
5. Horns, Joe Hill, William Morrow, Feb 16 2010. Joe Hill's work makes me so happy, what can I say? Everything from his first novel, Heart-Shaped Box, to his short stories and especially his absolutely great comic series, Locke & Key. Maybe it's just that there's finally a guy who's not Stephen King (yes, I know) who understands what makes horror work, or just his lovable personality (read his blog, follow his twitter,) or that he's actually getting attention while being a genre-writer. Horns is a horror/romance/surrealist romp that is unnerving and often very funny at the same time. One of my other favorite things about Hill is that he's not afraid to be absolutely surreal, and yet talented enough to not let this get in the way of the story. Not that any of this should be your concern. Just buy Horns and enjoy the hell out of it, pun intended and all.
4. The Unnamed, Joshua Ferris, Back Bay Books, Jan 18 2010. I didn't originally think that I would put this book on here because, frankly, most of it kind of sucked. Or rather, the first third of it. Or thereabouts. The third of it from around page 5 to wherever the third ends. The point being, I didn't really start enjoying this book up until around just before the halfway mark. And then, it was only intermittently great and beautiful. So I returned it to the library, glad that I hadn't wasted a twenty on it. But then something happened. I kept thinking about it. It haunted me. The efficient prose that occasionally dipped into poetry was some of it; the man can describe a scene and capture a mood like a motherfucker. But it was also the story: a man is plagued by a disease that makes him walk. Compulsively. Come hell or high-water or marital stress or job-loss. The problems come in the execution, I think. Ferris doesn't lead the reader into the story as smoothly as he could have; we just aren't interested at the beginning. The really haunting thing about the story, I think, is the ideas it represents. Insurmountable problems, compulsion, addiction, the strength of loved ones. This is what makes the novel great: it talks about something important.
3. Freedom, Jonathan Franzen, FSG, Aug 31 2010. You saw this coming, no? For a while I was going to make some sort of statement (I imagined, as if anyone cares what I think) by not including this book on here. But I must. I'm compelled. If this book was terribly written, if the characters were stale, if the dialogue stilted or unrealistic, Franzen would still deserve credit for having the courage to tackle such enormous issues. I mean, this book is about everything. But of course, this book is incredibly well-written, and the opposite of everything else I hypothesized up there. I know, everyone who isn't Jodi Picoult or Jennifer Weiner absolutely raves about this book. Even Oprah. Hell, even n + 1 loved it, and n + 1 doesn't like anything. But I honestly believe that it deserves every bit of praise it gets. Yes, it is the most important novel of the decade, which is to say the century. So I'm not really going to say anything else about it because it's all been said already. (N + 1's symposium on Freedom is great.) Now, you may understandably be thinking how can you say Freedom is the most important book of the decade but not the best book of the year?! My answer is, the last person who tried to quantify me, I ate his liver with a nice Chianti.
2. The Thousand Autumns of Jacob De Zoet, David Mitchell, Random House, June 29, 2010. Okay, so. Imagine Mitchell proposing this book to his publisher: "An' so, there's this Dutch bloke in the year 1799, yeah? [for Mitchell is British, and they all talk like that] And he goes to Japan. And then, goings-on ensue!" Because that is pretty accurate. And most publishers I think wouldn't touch it with a 39-and-a-half-foot pole. But then they read it. And they were blown away. Then they published it. It was a huge success, because the perhaps initially reluctant readers were blown away. Much like myself. Wow. What an amazing, unusual, and utterly beautiful novel. It's a hard book to talk about, because it covers a lot of territory, and isn't necessarily about anything especially. It is partly about devotion to a cause, be it love, God, country, money. Freedom. So, what's great about this novel? I think it has something to do with the fact that Mitchell couldn't write a bad sentence if he was drunk, high, and had to type with his toes. He does everything right, even the stuff they say you shouldn't do, like write dialogue in accents. But he writes the accents (working-class Dutch islanders talk like pirates!) and it's great. His imagination is limitless; he writes it all like he was there. This is historical fiction, and he writes it effortlessly and fearlessly. This is a beautiful, stand-alone work of art. A work of pure devotion to literature, and that's why I enjoyed it more than Freedom.
1. A Visit from the Goon Squad, Jennifer Egan, Knopf, June 8 2010. This one's going to be harder to write about than de Zoet, even. Read the jacket sleeve; it doesn't have a clue what it's talking about, it's pointless blathering. Basically, this novel is constructed of separate stories, told from different perspectives and formats (PowerPoint!) set in different time periods about related characters. Here's what it amounts to: people are lovable fuck-ups. The world is lovably indifferent. Things are always getting better and always getting worse. I'm not being glib, here. I love this book. The writing is terrific. Egan captures every voice perfectly. It's just a joy to read her. The book, despite a motley cast a characters, is sort of about hope, and this is a good thing. It ends on a hopeful note. A really hopeful note, as opposed to Freedom's slightly sappy hopeful note. (I keep feeling the need to justify placing Freedom at third; I need to stop that.) But, great book. Great read. Read it.
Poetry
3. Nox, Anne Carson, New Directions Publishing, Apr 27, 2010. This is sort of difficult to call poetry, or anything besides really beautiful. It may arguably not even be a book. It comes in a box and is printed on an accordioned strip of paper. It's made up of quotes, letters, photos, historical data, and jottings relating and dedicated to the author's late, globe-trotting brother. It's an elegy, and the work of a survivor, as Carson puts it; "It is when you are asking about something that you realize that you yourself have survived it, and so you must carry it..."
2. Winter's Journey, Stephen Dobyns, Copper Canyon Press, July 1 2010. Dobyns is an old favorite of mine---in fact, it may be argued that he inspired my attempted literary career---and Winter's Journey is his first work in a long time. And it's different: the pieces are more like political essays than poetry (does it say something about me or about poetry that my favorite books of the subject have so far been rather unlike most poetry?) though Dobyns is as wordy and playful as ever. I'd give you a quote if I had the book on me, but I lent it to my sister, so there. Just suffice it to say that Dobyns has some of the most intelligent things to say about American politics that I've read recently, and the poem in which he fantasizes about being a rhino is pure gold.
1. Human Chain, Seamus Heaney, FSG, Sept 14 2010. Before I get into Heaney's new book I would like to recognize the Anthology of Modern Irish Poetry published by the Harvard Press this year: it's great. Huge and full of everything. Heaney is, obviously, represented in the 1000-plus-page volume, which I didn't put on here because I want to focus on individuals rather than anthologies. Anyway, Human Chain has garnered quite a stir in the literary world, being the work of such a master, and this always makes me happy. Perhaps what I like about it is the accessibility, which is a terribly unsexy thing to say, but. Heaney writes about lost friends, remembers days past, reflects on simple daily occurrences, such as refilling a pen or taking joy in the sound of a gust of wind. I applaud the work of recent American poets-- like the Dickmans-- who really aspire to simplify poetry and take it away from the austerity of academia, but all you have to do is look at the Irish for a lesson of how to make poetry an everyman's passion.
Fiction.
5. Horns, Joe Hill, William Morrow, Feb 16 2010. Joe Hill's work makes me so happy, what can I say? Everything from his first novel, Heart-Shaped Box, to his short stories and especially his absolutely great comic series, Locke & Key. Maybe it's just that there's finally a guy who's not Stephen King (yes, I know) who understands what makes horror work, or just his lovable personality (read his blog, follow his twitter,) or that he's actually getting attention while being a genre-writer. Horns is a horror/romance/surrealist romp that is unnerving and often very funny at the same time. One of my other favorite things about Hill is that he's not afraid to be absolutely surreal, and yet talented enough to not let this get in the way of the story. Not that any of this should be your concern. Just buy Horns and enjoy the hell out of it, pun intended and all.
4. The Unnamed, Joshua Ferris, Back Bay Books, Jan 18 2010. I didn't originally think that I would put this book on here because, frankly, most of it kind of sucked. Or rather, the first third of it. Or thereabouts. The third of it from around page 5 to wherever the third ends. The point being, I didn't really start enjoying this book up until around just before the halfway mark. And then, it was only intermittently great and beautiful. So I returned it to the library, glad that I hadn't wasted a twenty on it. But then something happened. I kept thinking about it. It haunted me. The efficient prose that occasionally dipped into poetry was some of it; the man can describe a scene and capture a mood like a motherfucker. But it was also the story: a man is plagued by a disease that makes him walk. Compulsively. Come hell or high-water or marital stress or job-loss. The problems come in the execution, I think. Ferris doesn't lead the reader into the story as smoothly as he could have; we just aren't interested at the beginning. The really haunting thing about the story, I think, is the ideas it represents. Insurmountable problems, compulsion, addiction, the strength of loved ones. This is what makes the novel great: it talks about something important.
3. Freedom, Jonathan Franzen, FSG, Aug 31 2010. You saw this coming, no? For a while I was going to make some sort of statement (I imagined, as if anyone cares what I think) by not including this book on here. But I must. I'm compelled. If this book was terribly written, if the characters were stale, if the dialogue stilted or unrealistic, Franzen would still deserve credit for having the courage to tackle such enormous issues. I mean, this book is about everything. But of course, this book is incredibly well-written, and the opposite of everything else I hypothesized up there. I know, everyone who isn't Jodi Picoult or Jennifer Weiner absolutely raves about this book. Even Oprah. Hell, even n + 1 loved it, and n + 1 doesn't like anything. But I honestly believe that it deserves every bit of praise it gets. Yes, it is the most important novel of the decade, which is to say the century. So I'm not really going to say anything else about it because it's all been said already. (N + 1's symposium on Freedom is great.) Now, you may understandably be thinking how can you say Freedom is the most important book of the decade but not the best book of the year?! My answer is, the last person who tried to quantify me, I ate his liver with a nice Chianti.
2. The Thousand Autumns of Jacob De Zoet, David Mitchell, Random House, June 29, 2010. Okay, so. Imagine Mitchell proposing this book to his publisher: "An' so, there's this Dutch bloke in the year 1799, yeah? [for Mitchell is British, and they all talk like that] And he goes to Japan. And then, goings-on ensue!" Because that is pretty accurate. And most publishers I think wouldn't touch it with a 39-and-a-half-foot pole. But then they read it. And they were blown away. Then they published it. It was a huge success, because the perhaps initially reluctant readers were blown away. Much like myself. Wow. What an amazing, unusual, and utterly beautiful novel. It's a hard book to talk about, because it covers a lot of territory, and isn't necessarily about anything especially. It is partly about devotion to a cause, be it love, God, country, money. Freedom. So, what's great about this novel? I think it has something to do with the fact that Mitchell couldn't write a bad sentence if he was drunk, high, and had to type with his toes. He does everything right, even the stuff they say you shouldn't do, like write dialogue in accents. But he writes the accents (working-class Dutch islanders talk like pirates!) and it's great. His imagination is limitless; he writes it all like he was there. This is historical fiction, and he writes it effortlessly and fearlessly. This is a beautiful, stand-alone work of art. A work of pure devotion to literature, and that's why I enjoyed it more than Freedom.
1. A Visit from the Goon Squad, Jennifer Egan, Knopf, June 8 2010. This one's going to be harder to write about than de Zoet, even. Read the jacket sleeve; it doesn't have a clue what it's talking about, it's pointless blathering. Basically, this novel is constructed of separate stories, told from different perspectives and formats (PowerPoint!) set in different time periods about related characters. Here's what it amounts to: people are lovable fuck-ups. The world is lovably indifferent. Things are always getting better and always getting worse. I'm not being glib, here. I love this book. The writing is terrific. Egan captures every voice perfectly. It's just a joy to read her. The book, despite a motley cast a characters, is sort of about hope, and this is a good thing. It ends on a hopeful note. A really hopeful note, as opposed to Freedom's slightly sappy hopeful note. (I keep feeling the need to justify placing Freedom at third; I need to stop that.) But, great book. Great read. Read it.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
15 Dec 2010
With the last of my finals turned in, six-pack of Guinness cooling in the fridge, Mumford & Sons (perpetually) in the CD player, I should be feeling pretty great right now. Except I'm feeling kind of angsty, and I know what it's all about. I need to start writing again, and the angst is my conscience's way of making this apparent.
So here's some writing assignments, straight from my conscience to my shriveled creativity department:
New blog coming up about the better of the publishing industry's output for the year.
Blog about this ri-fucking-diculuosly good album by Mumford, et al.
Perhaps an explanation of why I'm endlessly stalling on my other blog, if there is one.
A story before the beginning of next semester.
But for now, conscience, I just want to unwind. So go away.
So here's some writing assignments, straight from my conscience to my shriveled creativity department:
New blog coming up about the better of the publishing industry's output for the year.
Blog about this ri-fucking-diculuosly good album by Mumford, et al.
Perhaps an explanation of why I'm endlessly stalling on my other blog, if there is one.
A story before the beginning of next semester.
But for now, conscience, I just want to unwind. So go away.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Another book you should read.
This time it's Jennifer Egan's A Visit from the Goon Squad.
This novel---composed of a series of stand-alone stories related by character and interior depth---can and has been described as post-postmodern, something that came from decades of ultra-self-conscious text and literary stunt pilotry. Whereas postmodern fiction is mostly concerned with esoteric reference and characters as stand-ins for concepts and themes, Egan's novel revels in character, and offers a chance to relate to a strange cast of characters. It's readable, but doesn't neglect readers who demand a certain depth and intelligence from their fiction.
If the novel draws anything from postmodernism, it's a disregard for conventional structure. The stories all have an individual strength; they are rife with their own themes and symbols, and yet, they come together to make a powerful statement about aging, interaction with other people, and, surprisingly, subtly, love. There's a heartfelt humanism that permeates through each tale, as different as they all may be. The stories are written in first, second, and third person. Each works incredibly well, against all odds, even (especially, maybe) the story that's written as a power-point presentation. (Actually, that's what other reviewers call it. In the story, it's a teenage girl's "graphic journal," from a near-future that values visual content over verbal. As the narrator [director?] quotes school-endorsed slogans such as "Add a graphic, increase your traffic," and "A word-wall is a long haul.")
Sometimes the stories are absolutely heart-breaking, as in "Out of Body," about a disillusioned young man who drowns in a garbage-strewn river, and the final story, which takes place in 2020, and shows a world of ultra-connectivity, instant-access art, and pure hope. How beautiful and rare.
This novel---composed of a series of stand-alone stories related by character and interior depth---can and has been described as post-postmodern, something that came from decades of ultra-self-conscious text and literary stunt pilotry. Whereas postmodern fiction is mostly concerned with esoteric reference and characters as stand-ins for concepts and themes, Egan's novel revels in character, and offers a chance to relate to a strange cast of characters. It's readable, but doesn't neglect readers who demand a certain depth and intelligence from their fiction.
If the novel draws anything from postmodernism, it's a disregard for conventional structure. The stories all have an individual strength; they are rife with their own themes and symbols, and yet, they come together to make a powerful statement about aging, interaction with other people, and, surprisingly, subtly, love. There's a heartfelt humanism that permeates through each tale, as different as they all may be. The stories are written in first, second, and third person. Each works incredibly well, against all odds, even (especially, maybe) the story that's written as a power-point presentation. (Actually, that's what other reviewers call it. In the story, it's a teenage girl's "graphic journal," from a near-future that values visual content over verbal. As the narrator [director?] quotes school-endorsed slogans such as "Add a graphic, increase your traffic," and "A word-wall is a long haul.")
Sometimes the stories are absolutely heart-breaking, as in "Out of Body," about a disillusioned young man who drowns in a garbage-strewn river, and the final story, which takes place in 2020, and shows a world of ultra-connectivity, instant-access art, and pure hope. How beautiful and rare.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Couple books I'd like to write about:
Firstly, Benjamin Percy's The Wilding. Percy's the author of a couple books of short stories (The Language of Elk and Refresh, Refresh,) many of which deal with issues of what it means to be a man, what it means to be a boy growing into a man, what it means to be a man during a disastrous, fiendishly well-plotted, soul-baring hunting trip in central Oregon. Or so I've heard. I haven't read them all.
I'm certainly going to make that change after reading The Wilding, Percy's first novel, released by Graywolf Press late last month. I picked up the book after reading a smallish blurb about it in Esquire and, sort of shamefully, I was mostly just drawn to the cool cover. But hey, I've discovered some great books that way and this time was no exception.
The novel has received much comparison to good ol' Deliverance, which I'm not qualified to build upon simply because I've never read it. I just know the reference, in which one character hums the infamous banjo line from the film version, is hilarious and rather obvious. I dig it.
The book takes place in central Oregon (surprise) and deals with manhood (ditto.) The essential details how Justin Caves, a schoolteacher, and his son Graham go on a hunting trip with Justin's ur-manly father, Paul, before the wilderness is destroyed to make way for a shiny capitalism-symbolizing resort. The trip turns deadly as the hunters are stalked in the night by. . .something. There's a nifty and creepy side story involving Justin's disillusioned, unsatisfied wife, as well.
Okay, so. The main story line is certainly nothing to go googly-eyed over, and it follows through fairly predictably, but the writing is absolutely superb. Percy writes like a more energetic, literary Stephen King and he keeps your ears perked for what may be hiding in the shadows. Certainly a good nighttime alone-in-the-house book. I hear Percy just signed a book deal to put out a werewolf novel, and this makes me very happy, as he handles an extremely similar theme with expert wordsmithery with The Wilding.
Now for Book no.2: Kizuo Ishiguro's Never Let Me Go. This book was published originally in 2005 and received tremendous acclaim; I'm ashamed of not having read it til this past week, when the movie edition of the novel was released.
This novel is gorgeous and heart-breaking. It burns through your mind like a slow ache. As you read the last paragraph, I defy you to not cry, or at least get that closing-throat feeling.
I'll give away the plot, as it's something most readers have encountered a dozen times before, probably in grade school: It takes place in a re-imagined late-'90's Britain, in which clones are raised as organ donors for transplants. Like The Wilding, the power comes not from the banal plot but from the immaculate writing and the loving handling of the themes.
The novel is told from the perspective of clone Kathy, a 31-year-old "carer," or someone who comforts the donor clones between donations, before they, too, begin donations. She tells the story of her and her friends' live prior to donating: they were raised in a privileged environment at Hailsham, a school for clone children. Eventually they graduate and get to experience the outside world somewhat, before becoming donors. It is within these moments the Ishiguro's perfect pacing and gentle narration really grabs for you heartstrings. The novel deals with love, death, innocence, and the loss thereof. It deals with all these things beautifully and tragically.
Firstly, Benjamin Percy's The Wilding. Percy's the author of a couple books of short stories (The Language of Elk and Refresh, Refresh,) many of which deal with issues of what it means to be a man, what it means to be a boy growing into a man, what it means to be a man during a disastrous, fiendishly well-plotted, soul-baring hunting trip in central Oregon. Or so I've heard. I haven't read them all.
I'm certainly going to make that change after reading The Wilding, Percy's first novel, released by Graywolf Press late last month. I picked up the book after reading a smallish blurb about it in Esquire and, sort of shamefully, I was mostly just drawn to the cool cover. But hey, I've discovered some great books that way and this time was no exception.
The novel has received much comparison to good ol' Deliverance, which I'm not qualified to build upon simply because I've never read it. I just know the reference, in which one character hums the infamous banjo line from the film version, is hilarious and rather obvious. I dig it.
The book takes place in central Oregon (surprise) and deals with manhood (ditto.) The essential details how Justin Caves, a schoolteacher, and his son Graham go on a hunting trip with Justin's ur-manly father, Paul, before the wilderness is destroyed to make way for a shiny capitalism-symbolizing resort. The trip turns deadly as the hunters are stalked in the night by. . .something. There's a nifty and creepy side story involving Justin's disillusioned, unsatisfied wife, as well.
Okay, so. The main story line is certainly nothing to go googly-eyed over, and it follows through fairly predictably, but the writing is absolutely superb. Percy writes like a more energetic, literary Stephen King and he keeps your ears perked for what may be hiding in the shadows. Certainly a good nighttime alone-in-the-house book. I hear Percy just signed a book deal to put out a werewolf novel, and this makes me very happy, as he handles an extremely similar theme with expert wordsmithery with The Wilding.
Now for Book no.2: Kizuo Ishiguro's Never Let Me Go. This book was published originally in 2005 and received tremendous acclaim; I'm ashamed of not having read it til this past week, when the movie edition of the novel was released.
This novel is gorgeous and heart-breaking. It burns through your mind like a slow ache. As you read the last paragraph, I defy you to not cry, or at least get that closing-throat feeling.
I'll give away the plot, as it's something most readers have encountered a dozen times before, probably in grade school: It takes place in a re-imagined late-'90's Britain, in which clones are raised as organ donors for transplants. Like The Wilding, the power comes not from the banal plot but from the immaculate writing and the loving handling of the themes.
The novel is told from the perspective of clone Kathy, a 31-year-old "carer," or someone who comforts the donor clones between donations, before they, too, begin donations. She tells the story of her and her friends' live prior to donating: they were raised in a privileged environment at Hailsham, a school for clone children. Eventually they graduate and get to experience the outside world somewhat, before becoming donors. It is within these moments the Ishiguro's perfect pacing and gentle narration really grabs for you heartstrings. The novel deals with love, death, innocence, and the loss thereof. It deals with all these things beautifully and tragically.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
29 Sept 10
Just finished another couple paragraphs of the latest Hector, though tonight's not a great one for writing. I'm feeling a bit depressed and zonked, for some reason. I'll stop promising that it'll be finished anytime soon, it's just ending up being pretty long. I just got to the action and it's already got twice the word count of the first one. I don't know how the humor is. We'll see.
Humor writing has got to be one of the most difficult things in the world. Humor itself is so fickle; a joke I'll tell will sound brilliant til I start deconstructing a few minutes later, then it just strikes me as puerile. Obviously, Hector aims for the puerile, so I'm not too concerned there, the humor is easy and fun. But I get to wondering if I'm a one-trick pony, or that I'll become one, or that there's no trick at all; I'm just a jackass. I'm certainly not a funny person by nature. It worries me a lot, which is odd because I've never had intentions of writing humorous material. It just happens.
Well, that's all I got. Told ya, I'm rather dead-eyed tonight. Ta.
Humor writing has got to be one of the most difficult things in the world. Humor itself is so fickle; a joke I'll tell will sound brilliant til I start deconstructing a few minutes later, then it just strikes me as puerile. Obviously, Hector aims for the puerile, so I'm not too concerned there, the humor is easy and fun. But I get to wondering if I'm a one-trick pony, or that I'll become one, or that there's no trick at all; I'm just a jackass. I'm certainly not a funny person by nature. It worries me a lot, which is odd because I've never had intentions of writing humorous material. It just happens.
Well, that's all I got. Told ya, I'm rather dead-eyed tonight. Ta.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Sept 1st
I awoke this morning to the glorious sound of utter downpour. I forget how blessed the first September storm feels. I don't have a ton to share, except that school is taking up an obscene amount of my time, What the Hell is slowly coming along (it'll be a long one,) and "All Alone in An Empty House," by Lost in the Trees feels like a perfect song to me. Also, I may be going to see Band of Horses in KC next month. Nifty, eh?
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