Friday, March 9, 2012

Style


Excerpt from “Palm Sunday,” Kurt Vonnegut, 1981. (First used in a pamphlet to support the use of paper for the International Paper Company; he discussed literary style.)

“Newspaper reporters and technical writers are trained to reveal almost nothing about themselves in their writings. This makes them freaks in the world of writers, since almost all of the other ink-stained wretches in that world reveal a lot about themselves to readers. We call these revelations, accidental and intentional, elements of our literary style.
These revelations are fascinating to us as readers. They tell us what sort of person it is with whom we are spending time. Does the writer sound ignorant or informed, crazy or sane, stupid or bright, crooked or honest, humorless and playful -? And on and on.
When you yourself put words on paper, remember that the most damning revelation you can make about yourself is that you do not know what is interesting and what is not. Don’t you yourself like or dislike writers mainly for what they choose to show you or make you think about? Did you ever admire an empty-headed writer for his or her mastery of the language? No.
So your own winning literary style must begin with interesting ideas in your head. Find a subject you care about and which you in your heart feel others should care about. It is this genuine caring, and not your games with language, which will be the most compelling and seductive element in your style. I am not urging you to write a novel, by the way – although I would not be sorry if you wrote one, provided you genuinely cared about something. A petition to the mayor about a pothole in front of your house or a love letter to the girl next door will do.
Do not ramble, though.
As for your use of language: Remember that two great masters of our language, William Shakespeare and James Joyce, wrote sentences which were almost childlike when their subjects were most profound. “To be or not to be?” asks Shakespeare’s Hamlet. The longest word is three letters long. Joyce, when he was frisky, could put together a sentence as intricate and glittering as a necklace for Cleopatra, but my favorite sentence in his short story “Eveline” is this one: “She was tired.” At that point in the story, no other words could break the heart of a reader as those words do.
Simplicity of language is not only reputable, but perhaps even sacred. The Bible opens with a sentence well within the writing skills of a lively fourteen-year-old: “In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.”
It may be that you, too, are capable of making necklaces for Cleopatra, so to speak. But your eloquence should be the servant of ideas in your head. Your rule must be this: If a sentence, no matter how excellent, does not illuminate my subject in some new and useful way, scratch it out. Here is the same rule paraphrased to apply to storytelling, to fiction: Never include a sentence which does not either remark on character or advance the action.
The writing style which is most unnatural for you is bound to echo speech you heard when a child. English was the novelist Joseph Conrad’s third language, and much that seems piquant in his use of English was no doubt colored by his first language, which was Polish. And lucky indeed is the writer who has grown up in Ireland, for the English spoken there is so amusing and musical. I myself grew up in Indianapolis, Indiana, where common speech sounds like a band saw cutting galvanized tin, and employs a vocabulary as unornamental as a monkey wrench.
In some of the more remote hollows of Appalachia, children still grow up hearing songs and locutions of Elizabethan times. Yes, and many Americans grow up hearing a language other than English, or an English dialect a majority of Americans cannot understand.
All these varieties of speech are beautiful, just as the varieties of butterflies are beautiful. No matter what your first language, you should treasure it all your life. If it happens not to be standard English, and if it shows itself when you write standard English, the result is usually delightful, like a very pretty girl with one eye that is green and one eye that is blue.
I myself find that I trust my own writing most, and others seem to trust it most, too, when I sound most like a person from Indianapolis, which is what I am. What alternatives do I have? The one most vehemently recommended by teachers has no doubt been pressed on you, as well: that I write like cultivated Englishmen of a century or more ago.
I used to be exasperated by such teachers, but am no more. I understand now that all those antique essays and stories with which I was to compare my own work were not magnificent for their datedness or foreignness, but for saying precisely what their authors meant to say. My teachers wished me to write accurately, always selecting the most effective words, and relating the words to one another unambiguously, rigidly, like parts of a machine. The teachers did not want to turn me into an Englishman after all. They hoped that I would become understandable – and therefore understood.
And there went my dream of doing with words what Pablo Picasso did with paint or what any number of jazz idols did with music. If I broke all the rules of punctuation, had words mean whatever I wanted them to mean, and strung them together higgledy-piggledy, I would simply not be understood. So you, too, had better avoid Picasso-style or jazz-style writing, if you have something worth saying and wish to be understood.
If it were only teachers who insisted that modern writers stay close to literary styles of the past, we might reasonably ignore them. But readers insist on the very same thing. They want our pages to look very much like pages they have seen before.
Why? It is because they themselves have a tough job to do, and they need all the help they can get from us. They have to identify thousands of little marks on paper, and make sense of them immediately. They have to read, an art so difficult that most people do not really master it even after having studied it all through grade school and high school – for twelve long years.
So this discussion, like all discussions of literary styles, must finally acknowledge that our stylistic options as writers are neither numerous nor glamorous, since our readers are bound to be such imperfect artists. Our audience requires us to be sympathetic and patient teachers, ever willing to simplify and clarify – whereas we would rather soar high above the crowd, singing like nightingales.
That is the bad news. The good news is that we American are governed under a unique Constitution, which allows us to write whatever we please without fear of punishment. So the most meaningful aspect of our styles, which is what we choose to write about, is unlimited.
Also: we are members of an egalitarian society, so there is no reason for us to write, in case we are not classically educated aristocrats, as though we were classically trained aristocrats.
For a discussion of literary style in a narrower sense, in a more technical sense, I commend to your attention The Elements of Style by William Strunk, Jr., and E.B. White (Macmillan, 1979). It contains such rules as this: “A participial phrase at the beginning of a sentence must refer to the grammatical subject,” and so on. E.B. White is, of course, one of the most admirable literary stylists this country has so far produced.
You should realize, too, that no one would care how well or badly Mr. White expressed himself, if he did not have perfectly enchanting things to say.”

Monday, January 23, 2012

Update: 12312

My life's changed in a lot of ways since meeting Tim Meadows. Alright, meeting is a loose term, maybe "oogled" Tim Meadows in person would be more apt. Regardless, I currently find myself sitting on my bed munching down some Cinnamon Toast Crunch's (milk soggs the cereal too quickly and I'm not in a rush) for a fun-filled sugar-fueled writing before I dive into my dextrose dreams.

I was really struggling there for a while, especially at the end of last year. 2011. Keeping busy but barely scraping by, curious and confused as to what I intended to do with all of my activities. I wouldn't say much has changed in that aspect except now I have paid jobs in which I'm establishing myself as awesome, and I'm going to school two days a week to become a clinical massage therapist. It doesn't seem that I'm going to be offered a full-time writing job anytime soon and having other skills is a good thing, especially in a field that I'm interested in writing about - writing around the world about it, in fact. I could be the 'Traveling Touch' -- the name needs some work, but you get the jist of me working and writing abroad.

Teaching.** Where did that go? On the back burner it looks like. And I'm okay with that because it means that writing just got moved to the front. Which is scary, but I'm doing it already: in this, my two other blogs, the songstack, freelancing AP blurbs across the nation, writing trivia questions and occasionally my own personal stuff. Massage will help me keep my financial feet on the ground while my head is in the clouds and my arms are reaching for the stars. It's a growing field.

I'm still very much in the learning process (as I hope to always be, though with different things), but as nervous as I am about hunkering down into America for at least another year, scraping by as I do it, I'm excited for the challenge and to see where all of this takes me. Riding the wave. Or riding the storm out, and there was one last night. (AND A MIGHTY WIND TODAY!!! Riding my bike home up Milwaukee felt like I was in a wind tunnel, a ridiculous, wind from all angles, wind tunnel. Then I thought, oh, I need to get this squeak checked out, so I Uey-ed it to my bike shop. I'm riding west down Division, approaching the monolith of St. Mary's Resurrection (?) hospital, and something happened under that walkway pass - the wind stopped me. I kept pedaling and it kept pushing. A fierce battle that resigned me off my seat. But it didn't stop there. The wind started to push me, straddling my bike, off the side of the road. I had to get off and walk about 25 feet before I could remount. It was wild!! The internet said there were 40 mph winds. 40!! Motor vehicles can drive that fast.

Time. Where did that go? January 23, already. 



**In mid-December I was invited to interview with the Chicago Teaching Fellows, and while it's a great program and I would be lucky to be a part of it, I think I was more excited about the invitation that the actual program, as if I go back into the education field I would like to work with elementary students. Also, I tend to get really excited about everything and then I find myself at the buffet of life with my plate overflowing, but I don't want to be that greedy waster who takes more than they can eat and so I attempt to savor everything, but then the flavors touch and taint one another, and it's better sometimes to say, "Hey, I know I got the shrimp, veggie lo mein, chocolate cake, cornbread stuffing, black bean burger, applesauce and chili, but I think all of that will make me throw up and I'm going to have to scrape some of this into the garbage, or better yet! I'll box it up and give it to a homeless person." I know I can't give my interviews to homeless people, but it'd be great if I could. One for one. People that is. I have a home. It's drafty, but I rent (and now am a proud owner of a Snuggie).

Friday, December 2, 2011

I SAW TIM MEADOWS!!!

My friend Libby and I saw Tim Meadows today!! In real life. Standing on the street corner, waiting to cross. He was looking out into the world. I looked at him as I look at most people standing on street corners with me, and I thought, Hey, I like that guy's leather jacket, and that's an awesome Chicago flag patch on his shoulder. Then it hit me. I turned to Libby.

"Hey, is that Tim Meadows? I think that's Tim Meadows."

And he looked over as one usually does when hearing their name called out multiple times, and I star-struckingly stuttered, "I've always admired your work, Mr. Meadows. You're a really talented guy. Thank you." (I think that's what I said. I remember "admire," "talented," and I probably said "thank you." Because I believe all of those things; I think the guy's a great comedian and I grew up on SNL.) To which he replied with gratitude and a smile.

It completely made my day; made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside, which made me immediately start sweating. And then I told a guy at the bus stop across the street, "Hey, Tim Meadows is over there." To which he replied, "You don't say?" I do, sir. I do.

While sitting at Sultan's Market over a falafel, I confessed to Libby how I wished I would've thought to talk to Tim in my incredibly awesome Ladies' Man voice. She said it was probably for the best that I hadn't.

He's looking good(!), in case you were wondering. Hints of gray sprinkled in his scruff, but that stuff's normal when you're 50, I guess.

Where he is now, or was a year or so ago.

The Guy Who Played Mr. Belvedere's Fan Club -- totally not good as a clip, but I couldn't find a full one.

Wednesday, November 30, 2011

10-24-11

To put my thoughts into the words of someone else.


Purposely he walked. Without a plan he lived. Mimicking others seen. He thought, if only I could do like they do. He dreamed of living the only dream worth dreaming: recognition. Sometimes he convinced himself he was already dead. Scarce interactions, or none. No one any longer called him son, and so he wandered wondering why.

As he walked he passed a black man in a white suit, flawless, long white coat, and a white heart painted on the back of each hand. Curtis immediately envisioned him with a hat and a cane to match the white loafers - everything - as he passed.

“Life is blessed. Love is blind.” Directed at no one in particular, though they were the only two on the street.

“Excuse me, sir. Why are you dressed this way?”

“What way? This is my way. I wear this everyday.”

“Where are you going?”

The man in hearts kept walking and turned into the park. “My way. I walked this route everyday.”

“Why the white?”

“You sayin’ it ain’t right?” But it wasn’t a question, and he kept on walking. Curtis followed.

“Am I alive? Because sometimes I feel like I’m dying side. It doesn’t hurt, but everything is fading. My organs grow numb. Sometimes when I want to snap I can’t find my thumb. There are days where I speed up the process by drinking and smoking and fighting with unfriendly types, but I keep coming back. I don’t know what to do, mister, sometimes living doesn’t seem worth what they say.”

Hearts on hand, the man continued on.

“Excuse me. Do you have the answer?”

“It depends on the question and the quantity.”

“Oh, I see.”

“I thought the problem was that you didn’t. Your life is worth whatever sum you make it, and there are people out there who will take it if you let them. A life is a blink in the history of the world. It doesn’t matter much regardless of your presence in it, life will bowl over you after you’re dead. But now, here you are, and here I am. If you ever need any help, I’m your man. Just look for the hearts in the near east of the park.”

And with that the man walked into a thick set of bushes.

As dusk was beginning to settle, Curtis felt uneasy and back on his path to nowhere, even more confused to it this life he seemed to be living was even real. Befuddled he turned on his heel and retreated to the sounds of cars busying themselves into night.

Thursday, November 17, 2011

Squash Every Week into a Day

Life's moving fast. And in which direction we're going, I'm not really sure.

I was fired from my restaurant job on Monday. Fired. That's never happened before, and let me just say, it kind of sucks. More a lot than not. Yeah, I brought it up, but I'd rather not go into details... more like, I can't go into details because not being put on this week's schedule was the first sign I got, so I sent an email (because it was too late to call), and the next day a call from a manager came letting me know that they were "no longer in need of my service" regrettably, so they said. When asked why, all I was told was that I didn't live up to expectations. No one ever asked me to do anything differently. How do you improve when you don't know what to improve? That was frustrating. Is frustrating. There's a first time for everything, so they say.

Everything happens for a reason,
When one door closes another door opens.

At least I only cry when I'm alone have trivia... yeah, I'm a two-night a week trivia host. That's not going to pay the bills, though. And so I've been applying/interviewing for jobs like mad. Scheming and dreaming and thinking up new things. I'm not giving up on 'merica. I made the plan to stay here at least a year, and by jove! I'm going to make something of myself while I'm here! Ideally that would encompass teaching and writing. There's a part of me that doesn't feel right teaching in another country because education builds the foundation of a country's success, and we all know that America needs success right now.

There are no rainbows without the rain.
Day by day.
Baby steps.
Breathe.

These are things I tell myself when I think of the position that I'm currently in and I feel the panic begin to rise in my chest. Or, as my late and [am told] great Great Grandpa Fonce said: From the time that you're born, 'til you ride in a hearse, there's nothing so bad that it couldn't be worse.

If there's one thing my family's taught me, it's resiliency, and I will pick myself up from the fall, brush off the dirt and walk on. Repeating as necessary when life knocks me down.

Thursday, October 20, 2011

MUSIC!

I'm  helping my friend, Sammy Joe on his music blog: http://thesongstack.com/ WHEEEEEEEEEEE!!! Check us out!

Now that I have mastered the whole HTML posting I must pack for friends are getting married in St. Louis this weekend!!!

Thursday, September 29, 2011

Perks of the Job

Mark Twain: a true cat lover. (insider info from Cat Fancy's Jan '12 issue. MARK YOUR CALENDARS!!)

It's not all bad. Sure, after taxes I make less than Canadian minimum wage... probably before taxes, too, but the calendar information I enter will provide me with stories long after I've made my nest under the nearest bridge.

I say good-bye to this corporate temp gig tomorrow and move back into the restaurant industry FTish. Oh, the job applications and interviews of the past that I shake my head at, and the ones in the future which I'm trying to remain hopeful for, but am skeptical about with the amount of scams on Clist. I won't start on that.

Basically I just wanted to share the Mark Twain business, and then I felt it necessary to provide some context. Until later, interneters.