Category: Writing

  • ODDS and ENDS: New Schedule, Rewriting, and August 6th

    (I do less before 9am, than most people do all day.)

    The kid is out of school for summer which means that stay-at-home-dad’s school year schedule has been thrown out the window. I know it isn’t my job to “entertain” the kid every moment of the day, but it does mean that I am her go to person for questions, and just about everything else. The quandary I find myself in is when do I write? I was knocking out blogs in the morning, but as of this week, the time is hard to find. I might have to write at night and publish in the morning. Or, whatever. I’ll figure out the new schedule.

     While I was on vacation, I didn’t do much writing, though I did spend a bit of time thinking about it. What I came up with is that I have to rewrite a story. And it’s a story that I have rewritten three times already. And it’s a story that I have submitted to four different lit journals. Not that it matters, as the chance of it getting published, even if it is rewritten, are slim at best. I just can’t stop tinkering with it. On one hand, I want to get it right, and on the other hand, I wonder if I keep messing with it as a form of procrastination?

    Premiere League starts up on August 6th. Well, that’s when Tottenham’s first match is.

  • I Took A Break From Blogging

    I took a break from blogging because I was on vacation. I think I tipped my hand to this fact when my last post was about the airlines and being at an airport. But, I actually had every intention of writing and posting while I was away. I had even set time aside in my schedule.

    But, clearly, I didn’t post anything. I felt bad about it on the first day, and then I tried to write something on the second day which never materialized, and on the third day I reminded myself I was on vacation and forgot about writing. I took two afternoons to journal, but that was it.

    Now that I am back home, I need to start up again, keep the habit going. And I was ready this morning. I had my computer open, WORD doc ready to capture the magic.

    And then I watched The Drew Barrymore Show.

    The kitchen was kind of dirty, so I cleaned it.

    I went to the drug store because we were sort of low on toilet paper, and really, nothing is worse than running out of toilet paper.

    Then it was lunchtime.

    And I promised the kid we’d go to the park after lunch.

    While at the park, I finished reading Second Place by Rachel Cusk, and I thought I should write about that. But that would take some time and I should do that at home.

    So, I wrote this. On my phone. While kids are running by me at the playground, screaming with joy and throwing water balloons. (It is a pleasant though hot Summer afternoon.) This isn’t a particular important post, but it is the post where I’m stretching out my legs, so to speak. Like a pre-season game, or a friendly match.

    Just getting back into the habit, you know.

    (Say! If this blog tickled your fancy, please consider a gracious act of liking, commenting, or sharing this post. I can’t promise anything, but the last person who did that had five years of good luck.)

  • I Finished “Breakfast of Champions”

    When I first read Vonnegut’s “Breakfast of Champions or Goodbye Blue Monday” I think I was nineteen or twenty. I was eating up just about everything the guy wrote. I remember loving the book so much that I tried to push it off on just about anyone who would listen. My best friend latched on to the book just like I did, and we still will state that “BoC” is our favorite Vonnegut novel.

    I read the book only once, or, at least I have no memory of reading it a second time. I say this because I recently re-read “BoC”, as I am going through all the books that I feel influenced me to want to become a writer. What I remember about the book is that it played with structure, and storytelling. I remember Vonnegut putting himself in his own book, and I thought that was such an interesting choice as I felt that part of the reason for the book was Kurt dealing with his own mental issues and his anxiety over having these issues, just like his mother had.

    Having just reread the book, I had totally forgotten have much the novel deals with racism. I mean, I remembered that some of the characters said some racist shit, but when I was reading the book again, I see that Vonnegut was full force attacking the image of Heartland Midwestern good honest Americans, by saying that these people were just as racist and bigoted as the people in “down south.” It felt like a contempt, a deep contempt for the people that Vonnegut grew up with in Indiana, and America on a whole. There were some things that were very dated from the early 70’s, but Vonnegut’s take on embedded racism, still felt very current. The novel is a dark satire, and at some points felt very nihilistic, yet Kurt’s writing still was hilarious and fast paced.

    And then I started to wonder why I had forgotten about all of the racism? Why had that not resonated, and stuck with me? I know that I am getting older, and the last time I read the book was 25 years ago, so I’m not surprised that I don’t remember all the details. But, if you asked me a month ago what “BoC” was a bout, I would have told you mental health, and I would have been very confident in that answer. I don’t think I would have actively tried to forget that the book was about racism, yet I did forget about it.

    There really isn’t an answer here, just an observation on myself. Just a reading machine who is trying to be a thinking machine.

  • English Language Rules

    You know what I am very bad at? Knowing when to use “maybe” and “may be.”

    I suck at grammar. This blog is filled with type-o’s from here till dawn, and until I get an editor, it will continue to function in this improper manner. God bless the people out there who can remember all the rules and know how to follow them. And in the same breath, you can fuck right off all of you people who use grammar as some sort of cudgel to make people feel ignorant and uncultured.

    Sadly, everyone, even really smart grammar-nazi people, has an innate desire to kick someone around to make themselves feel better. I wish people weren’t like that, but we are.

    If grammar people were honest, they would admit that the rules to the English language are arbitrary at best, and change often. Samuel Johnson, who wrote the first English dictionary, wanted to have a manual of the authoritative rules of the English language. Where did he find these rules? He made them up. The rules were based on his preferences, and for almost 300 years we have been following or breaking them ever since.

    As I am sure you can tell, I don’t like people who use the language as some sort of litmus test of a person’s intelligence. Whenever I hear “proper way to speak” or “proper way to write” it is like finger nails on the chalk board. The word “proper” when used in the context of language, is never meant as a signal that one is have difficulty discerning the meaning from the use of the language. No, when “proper” shows up in the contextual discussion of language, it is meant to signify that one use the of the language is “good” and another is “bad.”

    For that reason, I wish the English language, spoken and written, were treated more like a musical instrument that conveys emotion and understanding, regardless of how it is “played.” The sole question that should be ask is only, “Did you understand the intent and render a meaning?” If the answer is yes, then the language was used correctly.

    Maybe if we accepted more understanding, we would have a better understanding.

    (Say! If you like what you have read, please like, share, and leave a comment. It would help justify my existence.)

  • A Night of Theatre and Being Out

    Last night, I went to see my friends in a puppet show. It was titled SORRY ABOUT THE WEATHER and was performed at HERE, as part of their PUPPETOPIA puppet fest. I loved the show, but my view might be a little biased. Sure, it was a puppet show, I love puppet shows, and it was created and performed by my friends. The subject of the piece is about a woman with dementia, and is an “interpretation of what is in her weather mind.” It’s also about losing a loved one to a disease, which struck a deep chord with me. I found myself reliving the feelings I had during that week in hospice, slowly watching my mother slip away in a haze of painkillers, only to become a husk of a vital person that she was. It made me admit again that there are issues of her passing that I still need to uncover and unpack.

    After the show, I got to see my friends and talk to them briefly. The last time I saw them was back in September 2018 when we did a puppet show together, and I missed being in their presence. It was a nice chance to have a hug, and say it was nice to see you, and to have contact again with people. For such a bittersweet melancholy show, it was a nice that I got to visit with them, and have an honest fulfilling smile as I made my way out of the theatre.

    And this was an evening for me. The wife and the kid were having a mother/daughter night, so dad could go out, and have a break. So, I walked up Hudson Street with this crazy idea that I would go to The White Horse Tavern, as it was a writer’s hang out, and good ol’ Jack Kerouac got kicked out of the joint so often that it was a joke to tell him to go home. But what I thought would be a low-key Wednesday night turned out to be a very happening night in the West Village. All the restaurants were full, as were the bars, and there was no room at the tavern for me.

    But, it didn’t bother me, as I was happy to be out in the City again. Sure, I was in a rich, swanky part of the City, and not exactly my crowd, yet there were people out and walking and talking and it was good to see, or I guess, remind myself of what I liked about the City. It was a pleasant not too warm Spring evening, with conversations floating around and bumping into each other, not unlike the people standing and waiting to get a table or seat at the joint they were in front of.

    What I did was make my way back to the subway, and headed for Harlem. I knew that the chance of me getting seat at one of my local bars was better. And I was right. I was able to camp at a corner seat, so I could watch the Mav’s get crushed by Golden State, and I could also hear a guy complain about his job to the bartender. I had my beer and a bourbon neat, and the windows were open in the place, so the sounds of the City could come in. A nice reminder why I like living in this place.

    (Say, don’t forget to like this post, or share it, or leave a comment. I got bills to pay, you know.)