Man, I've got it bad, and that ain't good. So much research to do, and so little time. I barely have time to read or do any of the writing exercises I listed below. The thought of having to do the research is so daunting that I don't even want to start, yet I don't feel like I can write more of the story 'til I've done the appropriate research.
I had great momentum on this story until I hit the really big research bit. I dove right in, got a good start, then just plain ran out of steam. I should really re-read the story, so I can get excited about it again. Sometimes I just go ahead and write, but it's frustrating knowing I'm going to have to go back through later and fill in so many gaps. This is why professional writers have research assistants. I have a cat. He's very cool, but not so great with the details on rural life in the 1950s South. I have a great lineup of books assembled that I think will help flesh out most of the missing detail, but good lord, there are a lot on the list. Ah well, it's a nice problem to have, I suppose...
23 May 2007
22 May 2007
Much Of A Good Thing
I'm taking a break from the Vonnegut binge. As my friend so aptly pointed out, he's a lot like a truffle, and I've gorged as much as I can appreciate for now. It's interesting how differently he reads now than my last marathon Vonnegut binge, which was about 9 years ago. He's still phenomenal, I'm just realizing how my own perspective on life has changed. I suppose that's not a bad thing.
It's tough trying to decide what to read next. Like the bumper sticker so wisely says - "So many books, so little time." (And really, what wisdoms are there outside the bevy of bumper stickers used to express our innermost thoughts and beliefs?)
The Finnish mythology is definitely calling me. I also have a lot of good books I need to read for research for my own book. But I'm sort of hankering for Thomas Pynchon's "Mason & Dixon", one of my all-time favorites. Still, it's another saga, and I'm sort of liking the idea of something more brief.
There is a Studs Terkel book I bought a while back and still haven't read. I love Studs - if you've never read "Working", may I strongly suggest you navigate over to your favorite bookseller's site and purchase it right away. The one I'm going to read is "Division Street: America", his first book. Aside from "Working", my favorite Studs book is his most recent, "And They All Sang". It's a remarkable work, whether you're into oral history, music or American history. Studs Terkel is a national treasure!
It's tough trying to decide what to read next. Like the bumper sticker so wisely says - "So many books, so little time." (And really, what wisdoms are there outside the bevy of bumper stickers used to express our innermost thoughts and beliefs?)
The Finnish mythology is definitely calling me. I also have a lot of good books I need to read for research for my own book. But I'm sort of hankering for Thomas Pynchon's "Mason & Dixon", one of my all-time favorites. Still, it's another saga, and I'm sort of liking the idea of something more brief.
There is a Studs Terkel book I bought a while back and still haven't read. I love Studs - if you've never read "Working", may I strongly suggest you navigate over to your favorite bookseller's site and purchase it right away. The one I'm going to read is "Division Street: America", his first book. Aside from "Working", my favorite Studs book is his most recent, "And They All Sang". It's a remarkable work, whether you're into oral history, music or American history. Studs Terkel is a national treasure!
15 May 2007
Ode to Used Bookstores
Is there anything better than a used bookstore? I confess, I get excited when I see a crowded parking lot at a big-box bookstore, thinking of all the folks inside whose minds are about to expand. But go into a used bookstore and breathe the peaceful, slightly musty air of the last repository of America's intelligent culture.
Maybe it's because my mom's a librarian, but I find the very presence of books soothing, let alone that wonderful smell in an older library or bookstore. To me, it's the smell of books waiting to be read. Or as Homer Simpson might say, "Mmm... books. (drool)". Okay, or he might not, unless the books were covered in chocolate sauce. I need no such additional temptation.
I recently found a great used bookstore in Colorado Springs, called The Bookman, at the corner of 31st Street and Colorado Ave. The owner was really helpful and kind, and the selection was fantastic. In less than 30 minutes, I was back out the door with a collection of poems published in the New Yorker over 50-plus years, two books of essays by T.S. Eliot, a Vonnegut book that I'd loaned out and was finally replacing, and a thick tome of Finnish mythology. Y'know... a little light reading. I was practically euphoric that I'd come away with such a haul.
I don't think it's just the eclectic inventory that I love, or the out-of-print or hard-to-find editions. I think it's the soul of the books. They've already got personality. Sure, a new book is fun to make one's own, but a used book can inspire great speculation on its former owners' lives, and evokes the feeling of being part of a larger tradition.
Props also to The Renaissance Book Shop in downtown Milwaukee, which for me was one of the highlights of our Thanksgiving road trip. This is one of those incredible bookstores that upon approach, you aren't entirely sure is open, but upon entering, you find yourself in freakin' Biblio-Paradise. Six floors and two buildings of books, books, and more books, the lopsided wooden shelves reaching to the tops of tall ceilings, huge boxes of books stacked in the aisle waiting to be shelved. A word to the wise: use the buddy system, or you'll never leave the store. Make sure you take someone with you who will want to leave in an hour or so, just to ensure you remember to eat again that day.
Maybe it's because my mom's a librarian, but I find the very presence of books soothing, let alone that wonderful smell in an older library or bookstore. To me, it's the smell of books waiting to be read. Or as Homer Simpson might say, "Mmm... books. (drool)". Okay, or he might not, unless the books were covered in chocolate sauce. I need no such additional temptation.
I recently found a great used bookstore in Colorado Springs, called The Bookman, at the corner of 31st Street and Colorado Ave. The owner was really helpful and kind, and the selection was fantastic. In less than 30 minutes, I was back out the door with a collection of poems published in the New Yorker over 50-plus years, two books of essays by T.S. Eliot, a Vonnegut book that I'd loaned out and was finally replacing, and a thick tome of Finnish mythology. Y'know... a little light reading. I was practically euphoric that I'd come away with such a haul.
I don't think it's just the eclectic inventory that I love, or the out-of-print or hard-to-find editions. I think it's the soul of the books. They've already got personality. Sure, a new book is fun to make one's own, but a used book can inspire great speculation on its former owners' lives, and evokes the feeling of being part of a larger tradition.
Props also to The Renaissance Book Shop in downtown Milwaukee, which for me was one of the highlights of our Thanksgiving road trip. This is one of those incredible bookstores that upon approach, you aren't entirely sure is open, but upon entering, you find yourself in freakin' Biblio-Paradise. Six floors and two buildings of books, books, and more books, the lopsided wooden shelves reaching to the tops of tall ceilings, huge boxes of books stacked in the aisle waiting to be shelved. A word to the wise: use the buddy system, or you'll never leave the store. Make sure you take someone with you who will want to leave in an hour or so, just to ensure you remember to eat again that day.
05 May 2007
For the Love of Translation
I'm not fluent enough in any other languages to translate very well, myself, but I'm slightly obsessed with comparing translations to find the best one. Anyone who loves books from other cultures has got to do a little work to make sure they're finding the best rendition of their favorite works.
I realized this most emphatically during my sophomore year at Sarah Lawrence College, when I was reading Tolstoy's "War and Peace" for a class with my favorite professor, Fred Smoler. My fellow classmates and I were absolutely loving the book, devouring it; it was for a lecture class, and everywhere you went on campus, people were engrossed in it.
A vacation break came while we were reading it, and during my drive back home to North Carolina, I stopped by my dad and stepmom's then-home in Annapolis to visit for a couple days. I forgot my book when I journeyed on to NC, but I knew Mom had "War and Peace" on the bookshelves at home. (As a child, I'd sometimes stared at the immensely thick tome and wondered when I would read it.)
So my first night home, I pulled the book off the shelf and curled up on the couch to enjoy it. After I realized I'd read the same paragraph ten times and not retained a word of it, I thought to look at the translation credits. Sure enough, it was a different person than the translator of our version, which is Ann Dunnigan (Signet Classic, 1968). If you've ever tried to read "War and Peace" and found it as enthralling as eating sawdust, I urge you to pick up Dunnigan's translation and discover one of the greatest classics in literature.
In other cultures, if you like Eastern literature, Red Pine is an incredibly talented translator. He has an extensive body of work, and his version of the Tao Te Ching is remarkable.
I realized this most emphatically during my sophomore year at Sarah Lawrence College, when I was reading Tolstoy's "War and Peace" for a class with my favorite professor, Fred Smoler. My fellow classmates and I were absolutely loving the book, devouring it; it was for a lecture class, and everywhere you went on campus, people were engrossed in it.
A vacation break came while we were reading it, and during my drive back home to North Carolina, I stopped by my dad and stepmom's then-home in Annapolis to visit for a couple days. I forgot my book when I journeyed on to NC, but I knew Mom had "War and Peace" on the bookshelves at home. (As a child, I'd sometimes stared at the immensely thick tome and wondered when I would read it.)
So my first night home, I pulled the book off the shelf and curled up on the couch to enjoy it. After I realized I'd read the same paragraph ten times and not retained a word of it, I thought to look at the translation credits. Sure enough, it was a different person than the translator of our version, which is Ann Dunnigan (Signet Classic, 1968). If you've ever tried to read "War and Peace" and found it as enthralling as eating sawdust, I urge you to pick up Dunnigan's translation and discover one of the greatest classics in literature.
In other cultures, if you like Eastern literature, Red Pine is an incredibly talented translator. He has an extensive body of work, and his version of the Tao Te Ching is remarkable.
03 May 2007
Favorite Writing Exercises
I've been taking writing workshops for nearly 20 years now. As you can imagine, I've come across quite a few good writing exercises.
Why do writing exercises? Creativity is like a muscle; frequent use keeps it in good shape. You'll be amazed at how easily the words start flowing when you get into a writing "workout routine". Other times, writing exercises can help you work through a tricky bit, when you can't quite figure out the problem but you don't like a sentence, word, line of poetry etc.
"Yeah, yeah," you're saying. "We've all heard the recommendation to write at least 15 minutes a day, but even when I can find the time, it's hard to get into it." The problem could be that you're trying to be too focused. Muzzle your inner editor, and just let the words flow without worrying about getting them right. You'll be amazed what great stuff comes out.
DISCLAIMER: I am a total hypocrite. I don't write every day, unless you count email and work. But writing every day remains the goal.
Some days, you may want to write in a line completely different than your current work in progress, just to keep your brain from stagnating over the subject.
Every exercise has a thousand variations. This is just a general road map.
Writing Exercises
When (character) woke up this morning, little did he know...
...destiny was about to bring him:
...he was about to make the most amazing realization:
...his worst nightmare was about to come true:
...his lifelong dream was about to come true:
...during the night, his pet had:
...his (family member) was about to arrive on his doorstep:
...he would meet his future spouse that day:
...his significant other had already left him:
Describe in detail (character)'s...
...favorite chair
...kitchen table
...closet
...bedroom
...yard/garden
...hometown
...first/current car
...first/current pet
...first time drunk/high
...first/current crush
...first kiss
...first sex
...first breakup
...most embarrassing moment
...greatest triumph
...recurring dream
...very good or very bad day
...favorite or most hated chore
...favorite or most hated teacher
...favorite or most hated food
...favorite or most hated holiday
...favorite outfit
...sunglasses
...treasured piece of jewelry
...favorite shoes
...favorite alcoholic beverage/drug
...favorite work of art
...favorite book
Describe the first time your character's best friend met his significant other.
Describe a parent-teacher conference between your character's parent and his favorite or most hated teacher.
Describe where your character dreams of traveling. What would he do when he got there?
If your work-in-progress has a word, phrase, sentence, paragraph etc that just doesn't feel quite right, but you can't identify why, use this exercise from phenomenal poet Suzanne Gardinier, from whom I took an amazing workshop in college. Take that item (a line of poetry, in my case), start a new document or get a fresh piece of paper, and write an entire page (or poem) just about that item. Expound to your heart's content, then take the best parts of the result and work them back into the original document.
Why do writing exercises? Creativity is like a muscle; frequent use keeps it in good shape. You'll be amazed at how easily the words start flowing when you get into a writing "workout routine". Other times, writing exercises can help you work through a tricky bit, when you can't quite figure out the problem but you don't like a sentence, word, line of poetry etc.
"Yeah, yeah," you're saying. "We've all heard the recommendation to write at least 15 minutes a day, but even when I can find the time, it's hard to get into it." The problem could be that you're trying to be too focused. Muzzle your inner editor, and just let the words flow without worrying about getting them right. You'll be amazed what great stuff comes out.
DISCLAIMER: I am a total hypocrite. I don't write every day, unless you count email and work. But writing every day remains the goal.
Some days, you may want to write in a line completely different than your current work in progress, just to keep your brain from stagnating over the subject.
Every exercise has a thousand variations. This is just a general road map.
Writing Exercises
When (character) woke up this morning, little did he know...
...destiny was about to bring him:
...he was about to make the most amazing realization:
...his worst nightmare was about to come true:
...his lifelong dream was about to come true:
...during the night, his pet had:
...his (family member) was about to arrive on his doorstep:
...he would meet his future spouse that day:
...his significant other had already left him:
Describe in detail (character)'s...
...favorite chair
...kitchen table
...closet
...bedroom
...yard/garden
...hometown
...first/current car
...first/current pet
...first time drunk/high
...first/current crush
...first kiss
...first sex
...first breakup
...most embarrassing moment
...greatest triumph
...recurring dream
...very good or very bad day
...favorite or most hated chore
...favorite or most hated teacher
...favorite or most hated food
...favorite or most hated holiday
...favorite outfit
...sunglasses
...treasured piece of jewelry
...favorite shoes
...favorite alcoholic beverage/drug
...favorite work of art
...favorite book
Describe the first time your character's best friend met his significant other.
Describe a parent-teacher conference between your character's parent and his favorite or most hated teacher.
Describe where your character dreams of traveling. What would he do when he got there?
If your work-in-progress has a word, phrase, sentence, paragraph etc that just doesn't feel quite right, but you can't identify why, use this exercise from phenomenal poet Suzanne Gardinier, from whom I took an amazing workshop in college. Take that item (a line of poetry, in my case), start a new document or get a fresh piece of paper, and write an entire page (or poem) just about that item. Expound to your heart's content, then take the best parts of the result and work them back into the original document.
02 May 2007
A Little Prehistory
I owe it all to my mom, really. She's a librarian. She retired this past November, but in some ways librarians are like Marines; once a librarian, always a librarian. Some of my fondest memories of spending time with Mom are of reading together before bedtime. Sometimes she would read to me; sometimes I would read to her. It was great together-time. (By the way, I don't care how old you are, you need to read "The Pushcart War" if you haven't already. It was our all-time favorite.)
I learned to read when I was three years old. I've always been fascinated by words, and the fact that they could be captured by these markings on a page seemed like magic. I still remember the first book I read by myself, "The Wolf and the Seven Kids". It was during free time in preschool one day. Surprised the hell out of the teacher - I still remember the look on her face when I walked up to her afterwards, held up the book, and said, "I read this."
Sometime in the next year, I learned that books were written by people. I think this again was thanks to my mom. Before that, I'd assumed books were just there, like trees and cars and people. To find that people created books was like being struck by a lightning bolt.
Close upon the heels of that epiphany came the realization that I was one of those people who created books. Brimming with the certain knowledge of my destiny, I ran into the kitchen. "Mom," I said, my voice urgent. "I know what God wants me to do when I grow up." (My notions of God were a lot more clear-cut at age four.)
Mom looked surprised, then tolerant, as adults often do when kids make their life-changing discoveries.
"What's that, honey?"
"He wants me to be a writer."
She half-suppressed a smile. "Oh! Okay, honey."
"I know it, Mom. That's why I'm here," I insisted.
"Okay, Ann. Be a writer."
I learned to read when I was three years old. I've always been fascinated by words, and the fact that they could be captured by these markings on a page seemed like magic. I still remember the first book I read by myself, "The Wolf and the Seven Kids". It was during free time in preschool one day. Surprised the hell out of the teacher - I still remember the look on her face when I walked up to her afterwards, held up the book, and said, "I read this."
Sometime in the next year, I learned that books were written by people. I think this again was thanks to my mom. Before that, I'd assumed books were just there, like trees and cars and people. To find that people created books was like being struck by a lightning bolt.
Close upon the heels of that epiphany came the realization that I was one of those people who created books. Brimming with the certain knowledge of my destiny, I ran into the kitchen. "Mom," I said, my voice urgent. "I know what God wants me to do when I grow up." (My notions of God were a lot more clear-cut at age four.)
Mom looked surprised, then tolerant, as adults often do when kids make their life-changing discoveries.
"What's that, honey?"
"He wants me to be a writer."
She half-suppressed a smile. "Oh! Okay, honey."
"I know it, Mom. That's why I'm here," I insisted.
"Okay, Ann. Be a writer."
01 May 2007
The Never-Ending Story?
Ever have a story that just won't go away? It could've lain dormant for months, you've nearly kissed it good-bye, and all of a sudden, WHAM! A character pops into your head and says something pithy that sends you on a desperate hunt for scratch paper, regardless of where you are and what you're doing.
Those darn characters. No consideration at all, I tell ya. The worst is in the shower; writing with soap works so much better on cars than it does on bathroom tiles. Especially if you use liquid soap.
I've been working on a story for, oh, a couple of years now. (In ink - much more permanent than liquid soap.) I like the story, and I'm absolutely devoted to the main character. He can be a tease sometimes, hanging around on my mind without particularly offering any great insights or the abovementioned pithy comments, but I keep researching the times and settings of his life and kept plugging away at the writing. I thought I'd made a pretty good draft of Part I, and then the new Thomas Pynchon book, "Against the Day", came out. Reading it, I just wanted to shred my Part I into a million tiny pieces.
What a fool I was for pursuing such a linear plotline! What was I thinking, using omniscient third-person narrative so restrictively?! And on, and on, and on. Dammit, Pynchon, you're a genius, but that long shadow of yours sure can be a bitch when it falls directly on my feeble attempts at literature.
Eventually, I got over it, remembering that every story has its own best plotline and narration. Whew! What a relief. Beware comparing yourself to the writers you love; you really are your own worst critic.
But I think self-criticism is something that happens to writers when our brains aren't occupied enough with the actual work of writing. I probaby wouldn't have been nearly so self-flagellant if I'd actually written anything for my story within the few months previous to reading "Against the Day". But I hadn't, so I was already feeling somewhat unworthy, research aside.
The trick here is to celebrate the daily victories. I mean really, when you work a forty-hour-plus job, and with all the other demands on people's time, just be happy that you even have the energy to think about writing. Pat yourself on the back for doing some research. Reward yourself with chocolate for doing a ten-minute writing exercise. Did you actually write some of the story? Good lord, go out and get laid!
Okay, so I'm exaggerating for comedic effect. But the point remains. I'm not going to berate myself anymore for not having the Great American Novel written and published by the time I'm 30. I'm just glad that I'm working on a story at all. Let it take years, if it has to; this character rocks!
Those darn characters. No consideration at all, I tell ya. The worst is in the shower; writing with soap works so much better on cars than it does on bathroom tiles. Especially if you use liquid soap.
I've been working on a story for, oh, a couple of years now. (In ink - much more permanent than liquid soap.) I like the story, and I'm absolutely devoted to the main character. He can be a tease sometimes, hanging around on my mind without particularly offering any great insights or the abovementioned pithy comments, but I keep researching the times and settings of his life and kept plugging away at the writing. I thought I'd made a pretty good draft of Part I, and then the new Thomas Pynchon book, "Against the Day", came out. Reading it, I just wanted to shred my Part I into a million tiny pieces.
What a fool I was for pursuing such a linear plotline! What was I thinking, using omniscient third-person narrative so restrictively?! And on, and on, and on. Dammit, Pynchon, you're a genius, but that long shadow of yours sure can be a bitch when it falls directly on my feeble attempts at literature.
Eventually, I got over it, remembering that every story has its own best plotline and narration. Whew! What a relief. Beware comparing yourself to the writers you love; you really are your own worst critic.
But I think self-criticism is something that happens to writers when our brains aren't occupied enough with the actual work of writing. I probaby wouldn't have been nearly so self-flagellant if I'd actually written anything for my story within the few months previous to reading "Against the Day". But I hadn't, so I was already feeling somewhat unworthy, research aside.
The trick here is to celebrate the daily victories. I mean really, when you work a forty-hour-plus job, and with all the other demands on people's time, just be happy that you even have the energy to think about writing. Pat yourself on the back for doing some research. Reward yourself with chocolate for doing a ten-minute writing exercise. Did you actually write some of the story? Good lord, go out and get laid!
Okay, so I'm exaggerating for comedic effect. But the point remains. I'm not going to berate myself anymore for not having the Great American Novel written and published by the time I'm 30. I'm just glad that I'm working on a story at all. Let it take years, if it has to; this character rocks!
The Best Day Ever (The Wedding Poem Post)
One of the most incredible ways I got to bring my writing into my practical life was for our wedding. Sure, all my childhood dreams involved the "til death us do part" rote, but when it came down to it, I discovered that I couldn't possibly get married with another's words.
Thankfully, my now-husband agreed. Well, he wasn't quite as self-righteous about it, but he was cool with me writing our entire wedding ceremony. Woo hoo! Talk about a captive audience. I knew no one would dare facing the wrath of my mother if they got bored in the middle of it and wanted to walk out.
It was a ton of fun to write the ceremony; my stepmom helped with research on different wedding traditions from relevant cultures - largely Irish, German and of course American. Writing it was by far one of the most fun parts of planning the wedding. (At one point, I probably would've said one of the only fun parts, but happily Time has dimmed those memories.)
Among other ceremony components, I knew I wanted to include a reading of a love poem I'd written for my Best Beloved. But when I got to the point of deciding which poem to include - and after nearly seven years together, there were a lot - I found that none of them were quite what I wanted to say on this occasion.
So I wrote a new poem.
Here it is, in all its copyright-protected glory. (If you want to use it, just post a comment to ask.) Thanks and love to my maid of honor, Kate, one of my best friends from Sarah Lawrence College, who gave a really good reading of it during the ceremony.
true love
how to put words around the truth of love
the looks, the smells, the small private joke
how to say what we are, what you mean to me –
my own tongue is too clumsy.
let the stars put it into words for us.
let the wind sing the truth of love
as it whips round the corners of our home,
battering against the walls
behind which we curl, in shared sleep.
let the curving road, sun-dappled, disappearing under our car
say where the path of love may lead.
who knows but we may best know love
changing a flat tire by the side of the road.
and perhaps it is the impossible definition of love
that makes us all long to know it,
for the only chance
to understand love
is to live it.
let the next adventure take us
where it will, my love
I will go with you.
Thankfully, my now-husband agreed. Well, he wasn't quite as self-righteous about it, but he was cool with me writing our entire wedding ceremony. Woo hoo! Talk about a captive audience. I knew no one would dare facing the wrath of my mother if they got bored in the middle of it and wanted to walk out.
It was a ton of fun to write the ceremony; my stepmom helped with research on different wedding traditions from relevant cultures - largely Irish, German and of course American. Writing it was by far one of the most fun parts of planning the wedding. (At one point, I probably would've said one of the only fun parts, but happily Time has dimmed those memories.)
Among other ceremony components, I knew I wanted to include a reading of a love poem I'd written for my Best Beloved. But when I got to the point of deciding which poem to include - and after nearly seven years together, there were a lot - I found that none of them were quite what I wanted to say on this occasion.
So I wrote a new poem.
Here it is, in all its copyright-protected glory. (If you want to use it, just post a comment to ask.) Thanks and love to my maid of honor, Kate, one of my best friends from Sarah Lawrence College, who gave a really good reading of it during the ceremony.
true love
how to put words around the truth of love
the looks, the smells, the small private joke
how to say what we are, what you mean to me –
my own tongue is too clumsy.
let the stars put it into words for us.
let the wind sing the truth of love
as it whips round the corners of our home,
battering against the walls
behind which we curl, in shared sleep.
let the curving road, sun-dappled, disappearing under our car
say where the path of love may lead.
who knows but we may best know love
changing a flat tire by the side of the road.
and perhaps it is the impossible definition of love
that makes us all long to know it,
for the only chance
to understand love
is to live it.
let the next adventure take us
where it will, my love
I will go with you.
At the Very Beginning, There Was Vonnegut
Kurt Vonnegut gets credit for this entire blog, little though he'd want it, were he still alive. Am I the only one still mourning Vonnegut's death? Surely not. I bet John Irving's still pacing his halls, if no one else.
When I heard the news, I felt like I'd been punched in the gut. I focused on finishing the new Pynchon book as fast as possible, so I could start 'tribute reading' all the Vonnegut books I had. (Neither easy tasks, by the way. Have you seen the new Pynchon? It could stop a bullet! Likewise, tribute reading a prolific writer like Vonnegut is not a task for the faint of heart.)
So now, a week or so and a Cat's Cradle, Deadeye Dick, Player Piano and introduction to Breakfast of Champions later (with many more books yet to go), I am forcibly struck by the absence of the love letter I never wrote to Kurt Vonnegut. It was the force of this realization that drove me to start a blog, so I could tell the online world how much Vonnegut meant to me, since I never told him while he was alive.
Vonnegut is probably doing triple axels in his grave right now, assuming they buried him wearing ice skates and he's somehow magically online reading this post. I can just imagine him: "Good Lord! Why are you cluttering up the collective consciousness with odes to an absurd, deceased writer?" Maybe he'd quote a relevant Bokonon poem, or maybe he'd just say, "Hi-ho."
Regardless, here it is:
O Greatest of Kurts,
This letter's been a long time coming. Half my life ago, my hands cracked open the cover of "Breakfast of Champions", and when I closed the book again, I was changed forever. I suppose part of my love for you will always be the fourteen year old who was so astonished to find that somebody else out there found the world as funny and pathetic and hopeful and sad as I did.
I think that's where your greatness lies - and don't scoff, because you truly are a great writer. Your books are incredible, the way you interweave humor and pathos, effortlessly, naturally, with a brutal harshness and a sweet poignancy.
It is remarkable. It is, in fact, purely Vonnegut.
Maybe that's what I admire the most - that your style can't be imitated, and you imitate none other. Maybe it's the honesty that shines through your work, even as you protest that everything you say is untrue. Maybe it's the kinship I feel reading your mockery of mankind's pretense that we're better than human, and your celebration of the fact that we are, after all, only imperfect, blundering, frail, self-delusional humans.
Really, that's all we need to be. Thank you for pointing it out, again and again and again. Thanks for all the laughs, the sorrow, the catharsis. Thanks for being you. I can't imagine a world without you, but thank god you wrote all you did, because even after your death, you are still in the world with us.
I love you, Kurt Vonnegut. You are greatly missed.
When I heard the news, I felt like I'd been punched in the gut. I focused on finishing the new Pynchon book as fast as possible, so I could start 'tribute reading' all the Vonnegut books I had. (Neither easy tasks, by the way. Have you seen the new Pynchon? It could stop a bullet! Likewise, tribute reading a prolific writer like Vonnegut is not a task for the faint of heart.)
So now, a week or so and a Cat's Cradle, Deadeye Dick, Player Piano and introduction to Breakfast of Champions later (with many more books yet to go), I am forcibly struck by the absence of the love letter I never wrote to Kurt Vonnegut. It was the force of this realization that drove me to start a blog, so I could tell the online world how much Vonnegut meant to me, since I never told him while he was alive.
Vonnegut is probably doing triple axels in his grave right now, assuming they buried him wearing ice skates and he's somehow magically online reading this post. I can just imagine him: "Good Lord! Why are you cluttering up the collective consciousness with odes to an absurd, deceased writer?" Maybe he'd quote a relevant Bokonon poem, or maybe he'd just say, "Hi-ho."
Regardless, here it is:
O Greatest of Kurts,
This letter's been a long time coming. Half my life ago, my hands cracked open the cover of "Breakfast of Champions", and when I closed the book again, I was changed forever. I suppose part of my love for you will always be the fourteen year old who was so astonished to find that somebody else out there found the world as funny and pathetic and hopeful and sad as I did.
I think that's where your greatness lies - and don't scoff, because you truly are a great writer. Your books are incredible, the way you interweave humor and pathos, effortlessly, naturally, with a brutal harshness and a sweet poignancy.
It is remarkable. It is, in fact, purely Vonnegut.
Maybe that's what I admire the most - that your style can't be imitated, and you imitate none other. Maybe it's the honesty that shines through your work, even as you protest that everything you say is untrue. Maybe it's the kinship I feel reading your mockery of mankind's pretense that we're better than human, and your celebration of the fact that we are, after all, only imperfect, blundering, frail, self-delusional humans.
Really, that's all we need to be. Thank you for pointing it out, again and again and again. Thanks for all the laughs, the sorrow, the catharsis. Thanks for being you. I can't imagine a world without you, but thank god you wrote all you did, because even after your death, you are still in the world with us.
I love you, Kurt Vonnegut. You are greatly missed.
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