Self Analysis? What's That?

Tucson Weather Today

_____

Below is an attempted reply to a recent query from a fellow writer and longtime online friend.

I wrote:

So you tell me you are a coffee-shop habitue?

Yikes! But there are people sitting around you there. How can you write, or even think, while surrounded by chattering, nattering, coffee-drinking people?

As for myself, I need solitude. I must do all my writing alone. I thought every writer must do so. I am not particularly antisocial, not in my own estimation; I am more of an 'outlier,' I suppose you could say.

You asked me if what you had written to me in your previous note made any sense to me. And you opined that it did.

Well, yes, it makes sense to me, of course it makes sense to me, about as much as anything else in this helter skelter world makes sense to me. Although, until you asked me directly, I probably would not have said so.

You wrote that you'd come to feel from me a deep sense of regret, of sadness sometimes masked by gruffness... and of course the regret is there, it's there in most of us, I suspect. But gruffness? No. I don't think so. I don't recognize gruffness ever emanating from me, unless you mean the rough and tough defensive demeanor I spread about, like the sporadic distant warning cough of the male African lion that covers his tendency toward timidity with seemingly callous contempt in a raucous attempt to hide his inner fears -- as we humans are wont to do.

But I digress. (Of course I digress. I constantly digress.)

Or do I?

You chide me for wasting my time sitting and staring day after day at old TV reruns instead of using that (precious?) time to write of serious things. And I wonder why. Why should you care how I spend my time? (No, I don't wholly swallow your avowed premise of mere self-interest.)

Why on Earth should I willingly enter through the self-forbidden gates of Hell on Earth?

Why should I wish to rake through the sunken muck and dredge up memories of old suppressed afflictions? Those many, many wounds, most of them self-inflicted? Let them lie. Too painful. Why should I want to mine that putrid pit containing the deeply buried ores of grief and pain? Hurts too much. Leave it. Let it all remain dormant within its temporary crypt until it eventually slips away from those hidden regions wherein such filthy sins belong, and move on into some final eternity of blessed oblivion.

There are some things I cannot say. Not properly. It takes too much wisdom, and too much plain and simple courage. There are things I should not write about. For the same reason.

But let me think upon it.

Gene

P.S.
After several re-readings, the above seems, even to me, to be but a self-conscious bit of foggy-minded doggerel. And by doggerel, I mean: loosely styled and irregular in measure, not for its burlesque or comic effect, but by my careful choice of words -- words which are clearly marked by triviality and inferiority.

It was not originally intended to be.

_____

A Washington Post article about love that I was reading yesterday at one point spoke of a romcom and since I had no idea what a romcom was I looked it up.

A romcom, according to The Urban Dictionary, is a romantic comedy. Why conflate those two words? Why form one word from two? For convenience? For economy?

For the sake of saving energy while exchanging information verbally?

I would suggest that the creation of the word romcom came about when someone thought it clever enough to spread it among acquaintances so that they would see how terribly clever was this coiner of new words. To puff up his or her self-esteem, don't ya' know?

Now why, you might ask me, are you, an old has-been, reading about love?

Well, you might ask, but please do not expect a racy or provocative answer.

I'm doing research for a difficult piece I am attempting to write.

That's all.

______

BORN ON THIS DAY

Harvey Korman

Born February 15, 1927

Died on May 29, 2008.

_____

Also Born On This Day

Galileo Galilei

(1564-1642)

___________

"Half of analysis is anal."
--Marty Indik

I Am A Writer Who Reads

When I hear a person say, "I don't read..." it startles me and I wonder how, in this modern age, can that be? How can anyone make that statement? (especially the university graduate that I heard actually 'boast' about it?) So you might imagine my shock when I overheard a writer-wannabe say, "I never read... I want my writing to be fresh and original."

A writer that does not read?

That phrase is a moronic oxymoron, in my opinion.


I do read.

I've been a voracious reader since second-grade in 1946. That was when I got my first public library card and checked out my first book: Little Black Sambo.

voracious
(adj.)
1. devouring or craving food in great quantities
2. very eager or unremitting in some activity; voracious reading

I just ordered two books from Amazon.com and one of them is:

THE FOLLY OF FOOLS: The Logic of Deceit and Self-Deception in Human Life. This is a book written by Robert Trivers. Below is the Amazon book description:

Whether it's in a cockpit at takeoff or the planning of an offensive war, a romantic relationship or a dispute at the office, there are many opportunities to lie and self-deceive--but deceit and self-deception carry the costs of being alienated from reality and can lead to disaster. So why does deception play such a prominent role in our everyday lives? In short, why do we deceive?

In his bold new work, prominent biological theorist Robert Trivers unflinchingly argues that self-deception evolved in the service of deceit--the better to fool others. We do it for biological reasons--in order to help us survive and procreate. From viruses mimicking host behavior to humans misremembering (sometimes intentionally) the details of a quarrel, science has proven that the deceptive one can always outwit the masses. But we undertake this deception at our own peril.

Trivers has written an ambitious investigation into the evolutionary logic of lying and the costs of leaving it unchecked.

The second book is:

AMERICAN SHORT STORY MASTERPIECES

The Amazon.com description:

This highly Acclaimed collection of short stories by American writers contains only the best literary art of the past four decades. With a bias toward realism editors Raymond Carver and Tom Jenks have selected fiction that "tells a story"-- and tells it with a masterful handling of language, situation, and insight.

But what is so special about this volume is that it mirrors our age, our concerns, and our lives. Whether it’s the end of a marriage, as in Bobbie Ann Manson’s "Shiloh," or the struggle with self-esteem and weight in Andre Dubus’s "The Fat Girl," the 36 works included her probe issues that give us that "shock of recognition" that is the hallmark of great art--wonderful, absorbing fiction that will be read and reread for decades to come.


Eclectic is probably not the precise word I would choose to describe my taste is reading material.

Erratic is probably better.

__________

I am the literary equivalent of a Big Mac and Fries.
--Stephen King

The Good, The Bad, And . . .

Tucson Weather Today

_____

Last Sunday At Fry's

Outside Fry's Supermarket sitting on the loafers' bench. Rich tells me the story of the man who died in his arms just a few minutes before I arrived. The EMT truck and the Fire Truck were just leaving when I walked up to the bench. I remember feeling so irritated because the EMT siren was so loud (five feet away from me) that it hurt my ears. It was in the parking lot, Rich told me, that he came across the old guy lying on the asphalt. Foam was coming out of his mouth. He had no heartbeat and was not breathing. Rich said he tried to resuscitate the guy but couldn't. "And to make matters worse," Rich said, "I knew the guy. He was a friend of my mom's"

Rich seemed to be pretty shaken up so I didn't linger as I usually do, but walked away as he began to again relate the story to a Fry's cashier who had just arrived for her smoke break. I went inside the store and got my lottery tickets and talked to the friendly young Customer Service girl as I always do. Then I shopped for a while and finally bought some frozen fish, a box of saltines, and a jar of peanut butter.

When I came out of the store, Rich was again relating his story to yet another recent arrival so I waved and walked on by, beginning my mile long walk back to the apartment.

And it had begun to rain.

I decided to just walk on anyway instead of catching the Sun Tran city bus. A little rain never hurt anyone. And fifty-cents saved is fifty-cents saved. But a nice hot shower sure felt good when I got home. We old people, I have been told, are susceptible to pneumonia. Especially old fools who walk a mile in the rain in late December.

_____

LAUGH! And The World Says, "What's So Funny?"

Here is a short movie clip I thought was amusing:

Woody Allen in Annie Hall

_____

Copyranter says Save The Animals

More from Copyranter

_____

Today's New Word

callipygous

(adj.)

having well-shaped buttocks

_____

So many writer wannabes complain that they are unpublished, and when they are asked, "Have you written a full length novel? Edited it? Revised it? Polished it until you are satisfied that it is the best you can make it, then sent it with payment to a competent professional editor? Again revised it incorporating the editor's suggestions? Polished it again? Sent it to every publisher and every agent you can find addresses for? While doing all that, have you written another novel? A better novel?"

"What? No?" And yet, still they whine about being unpublished.

__________

“Poor intricated soul! Riddling, perplexed, labyrinthical soul!”
--John Donne

More On Writers And Writing . . .

The month of March kinda sneaked up on me... and sank its relentless fangs of unstoppably passing time into my unsuspecting consciousness. I'd forgotten that February has fewer days than the other months. Just one of the penalties of living more than seventy years, I reckon.

_____

Mike Barker asked his writers group the question: "What is horror?"

That three word question has troubled me ever since it first impinged upon my attention (three hours ago) and I still have no quick and clever answer for it.

My problem in finding a suitable answer might be because I am looking too deeply into the mind of the average reader at this specific point in time. And yes, I know that I have earlier expressed my disgust with the term 'at this point in time' -- but that trite and wordy expression seems particularly appropriate in this circumstance. What it is that constitutes horror is changeable with each present-day era, this being dependent on the peer-to-peer transference of modern-day morality, and what is considered acceptable or normal behavior. Then, of course, horror may be seen as the villainous imposing of unacceptable or abnormal behavior on the innocent, unsuspecting, and identifiable, likable characters.

Or is that (the above paragraph) merely a bunch of blathering babble? I will have to give this some more thought.

Although Mike seems to think that Sherrilyn Kenyon could have the answer, I don't agree. Her novels are popular fantasy, not horror. They are the books I could never make myself read, being akin to romance novels.

But, of course, I could be wrong... again.

_____

The overlooked typo is the bane of even careful writers and their editors. How many instances have I found of the repeated word -- (... on the the dark, silent beach...) -- and the grammatically incorrect word choice -- (...there feral and ferocious red-rimmed eyes..." instead of "...their eyes...") -- how many? Too many. And these careless slips have a way of defeating the author's purpose, be it instilling fear, horror, or whatever other emotion was intended. A detail-oriented copy editor can be a real lifesaver.

Here is an actual typo that I caught just today: "I totally confused my cow orker yesterday..." Huh? my cow orker? If this typo had been within a manuscript's final draft and had found its way into a published story... well, you know what I'm saying. Right?

One already professionally edited website I was asked to examine actually still contained nineteen (19) errors... one of them being a repeated word (...the the...) and another being (well... I don't remember what it was but it was a funny error.)

To a limited degree, I can offer a valuable service to certain selected writers. You can read about my unusual FREE service HERE,


Again, the link is: http://www.genechambers.com/edit.htm

_____

My newest project, compiling some of my earlier unpublished manuscripts and interspersing them with selected sketches of my life in the middle and latter parts of the twentieth century, is progressing... but slowly. Why? Laziness, of course. I'd rather read than write.

But I intend to get busy and finish it up. Soon.

_____

Rensselaer Adventures recently featured a piece about the 2011 accumulation of snow. Below is a photo I am including here with permission from the photographer -- a picture that struck me as particularly striking. Probably because I was a resident of Rensselaer for the first forty years of my life, and I recognize the creek pictured, as well as recalling from memory both the beauty and the horror of those Hoosier winters.

Photo reproduced here with permission of Robert Schenk

__________

Writing, Writers, And Critics

I have been freely offering my honest opinions about their latest stories and poems to any and all writers who ask me for them. But lately I've been wondering if this is such a good idea. After all... who am I to give advice? What the hell do I know about story writing? Or creating poems? Perhaps the suggestions I give to potential authors and poets are completely wrong. Maybe I am doing terrible harm to budding geniuses.

What qualifies me to be a critic?

Here is some advice from a famous fellow:

"It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat."
--Theodore Roosevelt.


Right now, at this very instant, I am considering a sudden stop to all of my supposed suggestions for story-writing improvement. For all I know, there might be some slyly clever and knowledgeable scholarly soul out there who, after craftily submitting a work of fiction for my evaluation (as a joke) sits boozing it up with a clutch of his literate friends -- and they all laugh and laugh and laugh at my pedestrian comments regarding his latest effort.

The endeavor known as creative writing is too serious to be taken lightly.

. . .

Yesterday I accompanied Mike to the local public library and while he completed his business inside I browsed the For Sale shelves in the lobby; I bought two books: The Bodies Left Behind by Jeffery Deaver and Wet Work by Christopher Buckley. The were hard cover and in excellent condition, and they cost only $3 each. Didn't even have to go inside to pay for them. There was a small slotted box attached to the shelf with a sign that read: Drop Payment Here.

How about that?

. . .

One line I read in a fiction-story excerpt from a Work In Progress on a Writer's blog: "You need something else to compare it too?” caused me to stop reading, and that damnable inner-editor of mine said to myself: "Should that not be 'compare it to' instead of 'compare it too' -- and I replied to myself, "Oh, it's probably just a typo..."

. . .

Poetry fascinates me, but I am so damned ignorant of its many facets. Some of the older works, the rhyming rhythms of lesser-known poets who wrote of down-home country folks always makes me sigh (in a sickeningly nostalgic way) and murmur (No... mutter) "Now, that's poetry." But much of modern poetry seems, to me, to be nothing more than prose with arbitrary line breaks to signal that it is to be labeled a poem.

I must admit, though, that I like to occasionally try my hand at my own style of modern poetry, trying always to use imagery to illustrate nostalgic but emotionally charged recollections that spring up from some private place in my memory. In doing this I tend to use too many words, to attempt a detailed description more amenable to straight prose than to any form of poetry. And the poems suffer for it.

After receiving helpful criticism from those who are well-versed (pun absolutely intended) in the (formless?) forms of modern poetry I try to pare down my stuff and make it conform to the suggested scholarly formless-forms, but in the process the poem at hand seems to cease being my work and instead becomes the product of the times.

Something like that.

Perhaps I should do what I have done at times in the past: merely write my poems (and my stories) the way I want to write them, then publish them on my website and just not worry and fret with perpetually petulant pursed lips (grin) as to whether or not they are read by anyone else but me... after all, what is accomplished by being a successful highly-read poet, or even a well-known author of prose? A slight heightening of personal vanity? After I am dead and vanity is vanished it will certainly not matter (to me) if my writings continue to be read by the phantom (non-existent, to me) wraiths of the still living.

Right?

. . .

Raggedy Red Wild Flowers Growing Alongside The Road

(Click for larger view)

An eagle was sitting on a tree resting, doing nothing. A small rabbit saw the eagle and asked him, Can I also sit like you and do nothing? The eagle answered: Sure, why not. So, the rabbit sat on the ground below the eagle and rested. All of a sudden, a fox appeared, jumped on the rabbit and ate it.

Moral of the story: To be sitting and doing nothing, you must be sitting very, very high up.

Can't Think Of A Suitable Title

Back in 1994 I subscribed to a Writers Mailing List -- a group of people who shared with each other their creative-writing experiences, both their accomplishments and their failures. It was a large group, at that time with at least one hundred active members and it kept a guy busy reading all their postings and fully-absorbing their sometimes suddenly revealed hidden meanings.

Without getting into blame or the various reasons for what it has become, I'm sorry to say that Writers has degenerated into a mere shell of its former glory, the long-time members reluctant to post and the newer members too unsure of themselves to risk opening themselves up to possibly hurtful criticism. Presently less than ten of the members regularly offer postings. It is now a small group. It's now down to a few diehards like me. See Photo Album

Happily the demise of Writers has been accompanied by a rapid proliferation of aspiring writers who fill the social void (in me) by posting written (also sometimes hidden secret) images of their personalities to individual websites provided by Blogspot.

Separating the wheat from the chaff has been a long process but now I have amassed a fair number of such blogs that I now read each morning before I dive into the (cess) pool of my own mind to come up with something to post in my own blog.

I admit, though, that lately I have been quite remiss in investing sufficient thought into my blog entries. My excuse is that I am immersed in the multitudinous details of getting ready to move from Florida to another state. And doing so is taking a toll, which I am reserving as grist for future blog postings.

Not that it matters. Very few are reading my postings anyway. But that will change one day, of that I am fairly certain.

Until then, though . . .