Thursday, March 22, 2012

Dear readers,

The strange thing about writing a letter is that you can’t use filler phrases like ‘how are you’ and ‘swell weather we’re having tonight’ to take up air space. A letter has to be all content. That said, I find myself struggling to articulate why I sat down to write this in the first place—and so my mind turns to fluff, possibly in an effort to make me feel productive, and to trick me into thinking I’m using my time wisely, when really I’m just avoiding the real issue. Although, now I realize I’ve done exactly that without the benefit of pretending I didn’t realize I was doing it.

Let me start over. Another strange thing about letter-writing is I feel I have a lot to live up to. Some writers are more famous for their correspondence than their poetry or fiction. You read those letters in English class and dissect them like they were meant for English lessons, not someone’s brother or friend or lover. Those letters are all filled with profound thoughts on life—‘dear you,’ they say, ‘this is what I’ve learned since we last spoke. Thank goodness I have a friend like you who understands, even though so much of my writing is about loneliness.’ Personally, I’m not that close with anyone, nor have I ever felt compelled to write a letter and nor have I ever received a letter of that caliber. Maybe this is turning into one. If that’s true, then you readers are my close but distant friend who is tracking my personal progress from afar, to whom I turn when I have heavy things pressing down on me that can only be lifted by writing them down. That might not be too far off the mark.

It does help to write to an imagined audience—nothing personal, I know if you’re reading this you’re very real—who’s interested in my feelings, not my fiction. I do feel like you’re listening. Strange—this is the first time in years I’ve been able to write what I mean to say. My mind feels unified. Giving voice to confusion is calming. It’s like stepping back and letting the id take the pen, and doing so quiets it, while for years my ego has been struggling to take the reins, and only producing the most insufferable, vapid, tenuous storyline, with no relation to my world or my feelings, which begins the cycle of my feeling disconnected and fraudulent, which makes the subsequent writing worse. Anyway, thank you.

I suppose I should get to the point, even though by doing so I’m nearing the end of this meditative state I’ve found. My reason for writing at all is to tell you I’m going on a hiatus, both from writing fiction and editing the magazine.

Funny, as soon as I mention the magazine, my mind goes blank. I’d much rather stay here in this letter and continue talking to you as if you’re still reading, which may be presumptuous of me to imagine you still are. My mind is calmer when I’m not expected to do anything about the magazine. It is as if it stirs in me a whirlpool of confusion and stress, which blinds and impairs me. Which is why I’m leaving, temporarily, I hope. I do anticipate coming back, but who knows what will happen? Somehow I feel encouraged right now, knowing that I don’t have to choose between writing and sanity. I once thought all writing that mattered was fiction. Maybe this is why the Romantics were so in love with their letter-writing. For someone who is only good at writing, but no longer able to produce fiction, it’s not a bad option.

Gratefully,

Walter S.

Sunday, March 18, 2012

appreciate not fear each other

It was hot out.

'You are gorgeous,' said the man playing banjo on his porch; I went over and talked to him about the role of fog in sunsets, and then later I went home and slept well.

Wednesday, March 7, 2012

25 Random Things about Me, by Jessi Muhr

(protagonist of my alleged novel)

1. If tapioca had no lumps, it would be my favorite food. But it does, so I never eat it
2. When I was 16 I made a pact with myself never to wear a light color without good and documented reason and, strangely, I've kept that pact
3. My favorite album is Hunky Dory  by David Bowie
4. I actually like the way I look, except my hips and nose
5. I like being pale
6. If I could go back in time, I would be nicer to my mom
7. My mom thinks I want nothing to do with her, but really I don't think I could survive what she went through
8. If I could do anything, I have no idea what I'd do
9. When I first met Harlow, I thought she was a little shallow
10. I think my baseline feeling is neutral with a tinge of sadness, and I'm most comfortable there
11. When I was little I wanted to be a ballerina when I grew up, and I still do
12. If I could turn everything in and start over, I would

13. I still think Harlow is a little shallow
14. Sometimes I wish I were born in a third world country so my problems would be more substantial
15. My favorite scents are lilac and raspberry coffee
16. My dream house has a jacuzzi in every room and a jungle in the conservatory, with live monkeys
17. My favorite board game when I was a kid was Clue, and whenever anyone says mustard, plum or body it reminds me of it
18. When I was little I thought Stranger Danger was a supervillain, not a concept
19. I'm afraid of can openers...something about getting my fingers stuck
20. I like making lists, but I never do
21. I think I could be a good mom
22. I don't dream much, but when I do, it sometimes involves me trying to lock the car door before a strange man who is approaching gets in the passenger seat
23. I suppose that's symbolic
24. I almost always wake up before he gets to the car
25. I think there's something sexy about Stockholm's Syndrome, and Russian accents

Tuesday, March 6, 2012

Sometimes people ask me what my novel is about

and naturally I have no idea, because it isn't really about anything, except perhaps my own desire to write a novel. I hope that will change.

I've also been reading a lot of DFW's nonfiction, and learning that he is/was very informed and very up-to-date about trends in contemporary literature and pop culture, from realism onward. He talks a lot about postmodernism as a response to realism that in turn got subverted and involuted, partly by TV, so that it became not a means of expressing something but a subject, which really narrowed people's understanding of art and made them cynical and indifferent, etc. etc. This seems like a rather narrow-minded and cynical view itself - though I realize I am short-changing his argument a little bit. But anyway, I bring this up in order to respond. He argues that current fiction writers are screwed, basically, because of the all-encompassingness of TV, because 1) any attempt at irony to make a point will be sucked up and subsequently ironized and mocked by TV (questionable), 2) any attempt to fight back at TV's irony will be a doomed throwback to fundamentalism. This seems dubious to me, but as I was reading I came upon a third possbility, which is neither postmodern nor hyperrealist but perhaps a new style altogether - possibly called experientialism, if it must have an -ism. What if literature could blur the lines between reading and experiencing? What if reading/writing doesn't reflect or approximate or show what's happening - it gets uncomfortably close, atomically close, to what's actually going on?

It might be unpleasant, tedious, overwrought, impossible, cerebral, prolix, or just not interesting. But maybe it's worth a try.