First of all, happy Thanksgiving, everybody! I hope you've each eaten many turkeys and gravies by now. Lord knows we can't let them rest after what they've done. (They know what they did). If you're not American and didn't celebrate Thanksgiving today, then I wish you a happy Thursday. Thursdays are pretty fantastic, too!
But that's not really the point of all this. No, I actually wanted to tell a little story, about myself. It's not really a story so much as a description of a train of thought, experienced over the course of about ten minutes.
Like most people, I fantasize. In fact, I fantasize a lot. In the car, on the street, in the shower; wherever I am, even if I seem to be paying attention to something else, my brain is often constructing an alternate universe of thoughts and ideas that everyone else finds very interesting indeed. It's a useful byproduct of my amateur insanity, because it provides me with conversation topics (not usually as useful in the shower), as well as ideas that sometimes find their way into the words I scribble on the computer screen.
About a week and a half ago I had one such story idea. Actually, and improbably, it began with a title. While running bizarre and unconventional sentences through my head, analyzing them for phonetic and metrical beauty (or whatever strikes me as beautiful), I happened upon the phrase "a hundred degrees in my head." I liked it, and my first thought was to use it in a poem. It suggested a lot of things: fevers, obviously, but also uncomfortable buzzing of an overclocked, overstressed brain, or a mind on the cusp of a meltdown. It had that familiar um-DA-da um-DA-da um-DA beat, long associated with some of our culture's finest poetry, and it struck me that I'd never heard anyone say it before, even though it was (I thought) a pretty awesome line.
But before I could think of any accompanying lines, I began wondering, and fantasizing, about what sort of things (apart from spontaneous illness) might make someone's head feel superheated. It struck me that A Hundred Degrees in my Head might make an excellent short story title, and since my record with titles is remarkably dismal, I thought it would be a bad idea to waste this one.
My fantasy immediately sprung into action. Half-thinking, half-mumbling, I assembled the skeleton of a basic plot. I cobbled together disparate snatches of autobiography and furtive melodrama, with an eye to something both fictional and true-to-life. A sequence of progressive vignettes took shape in my mind's eye: a series of misfortunes and disappointments, climaxing in a mental and physical collapse, followed by a slow slide into a jaded paralysis. It was pretty depressing. I liked it.
By the time I was out of the shower (for I'd been there the whole time!), I had practically scored the entire thing to music, having developed grandiose plans to film my newest opus. With a camera and some actors, we could shoot the movie on a modest budget. We would take Sundance by storm. I'd make a million dollars and retire to France, eating all the hot, buttery croissants a million dollars could buy.
I was getting the slightest bit ahead of myself. I decided to stick to what I knew, or thought I knew: the short story form (movie rights can always be negotiated later). But even so, I felt energized. I was genuinely excited by the story. It had potential; it felt honest, expressive, even relevant to today's issues and stuff. I wanted to do a really good job on it. And supposing I did, was it unreasonable to think of finally getting seeking some form of professional publication?
Suddenly, it felt like a hundred degrees in my head.
As it is, I'm still running the story through its paces. Plot details have to be ironed out, characters have to be named. The right tone still has to be set. But I feel really good about it. If its potential holds up, I may try some things I've never tried before. Right now, I've got to focus on getting it off the ground.
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Thursday, November 10, 2011
The Neighbors: A Brief Tale Of Irritation
"Goddammit, I'm working here!" It was two in the morning. He should have been sleeping, but he probably couldn't do any of that, either. Some distractions were simply too profound.
The sound was familiar and unmistakable. He stared at the ceiling for a while, seeing nothing (except the ceiling), but hearing more than he needed; the furtive creaks, the muffled voices, the unaccountable changes in pace and tempo. He could not work, he could only stare. But why stare? Why bother? Creak. Creak. Creak. Creak. Creakcreakcreakcreak...
"Goddammit, got to finish this." The work didn't need to be finished. It wasn't really work: it was strictly voluntary, pro bono, for the good of the people. Just like procreation. And there he went, thinking about procreation at a time like this! He had work to do; he worked harder. What did she look like?
A train sounded in the distance, and that was just ridiculous. He imagined that he could hear drums. He couldn't, but suppose for a moment he could? What the hell were they doing up there? "What the hell are they doing up there?" He knew what they were doing; somehow it just helped to imagine they were doing it in the middle of a massive drum circle. A massive drum circle in their tiny little apartment. Full of hippies taking drugs and eating brownies. Brownies? Special ones. "I'd like some brownies," he thought. Not the special ones, though, because they tasted like shit. Where did the train fit into all of this? Was the train even involved? Of course not, because trains don't fit in apartments. It didn't matter, he couldn't hear the drums anyway. He wished he could.
It was two fifteen. Was she pretty? He focused on his typing. He typed harder. It was almost loud enough. Two twenty. Jesus Christ. The woman said something, and he was irritated at the thought that he couldn't hear it. But why did he care? "I need a drink." There were no drinks to be had. The stores were closing. The bars were far away. He had work to do. The bars were way too far away. He heard some more voices. Why weren't there any drinks in the fridge? What did she say? Wait, how many people were up there?
He kicked the wall and no one heard it. He didn't bother to kick it again. "Now my foot hurts," he said, and he grabbed his foot to show himself he meant it. It didn't hurt for very long. "My foot hurts and it's late and I have work to do. I don't want to do it, but I have to!" He wanted to have to, really badly. What else did he have? Nothing for a sore foot. Nothing at all. Brown hair?
Two thirty. He began browsing Wikipedia; any article would suit him. After a few lines of Flag Day, a sudden realization: the noises had stopped. He looked from side to side, as if there were something to see. He saw nothing. He slowly looked behind his chair; did his roommate hear anything? He scratched his brow and turned his head, ears tuned to maximum attention. Nothing. A voice. Nothing. What did she say? Nothing.
"Thank God," he sighed, "I can get back to work." It wasn't very important. It was only a distraction, a profound distraction. Distractions were unavoidable; at any rate, he couldn't avoid them. No one likes to admit such things, but he had to have been aware; there was nothing in his life except for two in the morning, and "work," and maybe Flag Day. Flag Day was on June 15th, more than half a year away. Did he miss it? "Man, I can't even remember." Was that the day of the barbecue? With the beach and the sand, and the hippies, and all the pretty girls in bikinis? The lithe, nubile, brown-haired girls in the tiny flag bikinis? Was that Flag Day? Did that even happen? He googled it, but he couldn't tell.
Two thirty five, and he heard music. "What?" It was faint music, and he couldn't tell what kind. It could have been opera. It could have been hippies, playing their hippie panpipes. Not their hippie drums, though. It could have been Spanish pop. Music, and then, tentatively, creaking. Creak. Creak. Creak. Creak. "Goddammit."
He couldn't work. It was important, but he couldn't work. "I'll do the rest tomorrow." He went to the living room, where he couldn't hear the creaking, to play some video games. He stared at the television, and the screen was empty. He didn't see a thing. Some distractions were simply too profound.
The sound was familiar and unmistakable. He stared at the ceiling for a while, seeing nothing (except the ceiling), but hearing more than he needed; the furtive creaks, the muffled voices, the unaccountable changes in pace and tempo. He could not work, he could only stare. But why stare? Why bother? Creak. Creak. Creak. Creak. Creakcreakcreakcreak...
"Goddammit, got to finish this." The work didn't need to be finished. It wasn't really work: it was strictly voluntary, pro bono, for the good of the people. Just like procreation. And there he went, thinking about procreation at a time like this! He had work to do; he worked harder. What did she look like?
A train sounded in the distance, and that was just ridiculous. He imagined that he could hear drums. He couldn't, but suppose for a moment he could? What the hell were they doing up there? "What the hell are they doing up there?" He knew what they were doing; somehow it just helped to imagine they were doing it in the middle of a massive drum circle. A massive drum circle in their tiny little apartment. Full of hippies taking drugs and eating brownies. Brownies? Special ones. "I'd like some brownies," he thought. Not the special ones, though, because they tasted like shit. Where did the train fit into all of this? Was the train even involved? Of course not, because trains don't fit in apartments. It didn't matter, he couldn't hear the drums anyway. He wished he could.
It was two fifteen. Was she pretty? He focused on his typing. He typed harder. It was almost loud enough. Two twenty. Jesus Christ. The woman said something, and he was irritated at the thought that he couldn't hear it. But why did he care? "I need a drink." There were no drinks to be had. The stores were closing. The bars were far away. He had work to do. The bars were way too far away. He heard some more voices. Why weren't there any drinks in the fridge? What did she say? Wait, how many people were up there?
He kicked the wall and no one heard it. He didn't bother to kick it again. "Now my foot hurts," he said, and he grabbed his foot to show himself he meant it. It didn't hurt for very long. "My foot hurts and it's late and I have work to do. I don't want to do it, but I have to!" He wanted to have to, really badly. What else did he have? Nothing for a sore foot. Nothing at all. Brown hair?
Two thirty. He began browsing Wikipedia; any article would suit him. After a few lines of Flag Day, a sudden realization: the noises had stopped. He looked from side to side, as if there were something to see. He saw nothing. He slowly looked behind his chair; did his roommate hear anything? He scratched his brow and turned his head, ears tuned to maximum attention. Nothing. A voice. Nothing. What did she say? Nothing.
"Thank God," he sighed, "I can get back to work." It wasn't very important. It was only a distraction, a profound distraction. Distractions were unavoidable; at any rate, he couldn't avoid them. No one likes to admit such things, but he had to have been aware; there was nothing in his life except for two in the morning, and "work," and maybe Flag Day. Flag Day was on June 15th, more than half a year away. Did he miss it? "Man, I can't even remember." Was that the day of the barbecue? With the beach and the sand, and the hippies, and all the pretty girls in bikinis? The lithe, nubile, brown-haired girls in the tiny flag bikinis? Was that Flag Day? Did that even happen? He googled it, but he couldn't tell.
Two thirty five, and he heard music. "What?" It was faint music, and he couldn't tell what kind. It could have been opera. It could have been hippies, playing their hippie panpipes. Not their hippie drums, though. It could have been Spanish pop. Music, and then, tentatively, creaking. Creak. Creak. Creak. Creak. "Goddammit."
He couldn't work. It was important, but he couldn't work. "I'll do the rest tomorrow." He went to the living room, where he couldn't hear the creaking, to play some video games. He stared at the television, and the screen was empty. He didn't see a thing. Some distractions were simply too profound.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
The Smile Sessions
In 1967, the Beach Boys narrowly missed out on the opportunity to become the boldest, most avant garde act in the history of pop music. Fully explaining why they missed that opportunity would take pages upon pages; it's a long and involved tale of contractual problems, drug abuse, mental illness, and personal conflicts between members of the band. However, the opportunity certainly existed. The previous year, the band had begun work on an album that almost certainly would have produced an impact to rival Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, months before that album was even due for release. Brian Wilson, the band's leader and principal composer, was bound and determined to shock the world with his sound. Forty four years later, the fruits of those labors have now been commercially released, and their psychedelic sound can still startle.
The album, Smile, didn't come out in 1967, because it was not finished. In 2004 Brian Wilson finally settled on a running order, and enlisted his collaborator (songwriter Van Dyke Parks) to write new lyrics for tracks which still had none. With a new band he rerecorded everything from the ground up, producing a very successful album that, nevertheless, wasn't really Smile. Now, the Beach Boys have finally released The Smile Sessions, a collection of the most complete and most intriguing music recorded from the time. But that isn't really Smile, either. It's Smile with an asterisk, or a grade of "incomplete," in more or less the state in which it was abandoned all those years ago.
None of this should detract from the beauty of the music, which has been newly remastered. The album's key tracks (Heroes and Villains, Cabinessence, Wonderful, Surf's Up, Vega-Tables, and Good Vibrations) sound excellent, and are as near to "complete" as one could ever ask. Secondary tracks such as Do You Like Worms? and I Love to Say Dada don't carry the same impact without the lyrics added for the 2004 version, but their relative completeness is remarkable. Painfully, you can see how, with another month or two and a clear plan of attack, Smile probably could have been finished in time to really make its mark. It wasn't, so this (generously expansive) collection will have to do.
The sound of Smile, or at least The Smile Sessions, is defined by its eclecticism. Many songs are defined by baroque instruments like pianos, horns and harpsichords, but heavily distorted electric guitars make appearances at surprising turns. Melodic, dynamic bass lines enhance the arrangements, and in some places even try to dominate the mix. Of course the truly dominant sound is of the Beach Boys' unparalleled singing; except when it isn't, and the Sessions present us with long stretches where the words were either never written, or simply never laid down on tape. Thanks to the 2004 album, we now have lyrics to go along with them, but the fact that they were written so late (who knows what the words might have been in the 60s?) helps to preserve a bit of the mystery from long ago.
Smile, as originally conceived, was completely unlike anything ever attempted in the world of rock and pop. It was meant to be constructed like a puzzle; songs would be built from small, separately recorded pieces which could be stitched together to form larger compositions. Pieces of those compositions could then be used to sew the songs together, allowing them to flow with few to no breaks between tracks. The songs themselves were also unique; the bulk of it was new work with highly abstract lyrics by Parks, but mixed in among them were excerpts from classic 40's and 50's pop tunes (Gee, You Are My Sunshine, I Wanna be Around). Put together, Smile was supposed to be serious, humorous, spiritual and spontaneous: more or less, everything at once.
Pieces of the puzzle have always been available for those willing to explore the Beach Boy's 1970s albums, as well as the tapes spread by the noble bootleggers who've kept the legend alive. Now that they've been assembled, it's easier to see the scope of Brian Wilson's ambition, and it helps to take the edge off of mourning for the greatest album that never was. It isn't everything at once, but it is definitely something special.
Embedded amongst the outtakes and alternate versions are tracks that, while properly belonging to Smile, weren't integrated into the 2004 version. The merits of songs like He Gives Speeches may be debatable, but it's obscure ephemera like that that make Smile special, and add to the value of the Sessions. The main event, however, remains the core tracks. They are among the very best work the Beach Boys, or any band of their era, ever recorded, and it's wonderful to see them finally enshrined in their discography where they belong.
The album, Smile, didn't come out in 1967, because it was not finished. In 2004 Brian Wilson finally settled on a running order, and enlisted his collaborator (songwriter Van Dyke Parks) to write new lyrics for tracks which still had none. With a new band he rerecorded everything from the ground up, producing a very successful album that, nevertheless, wasn't really Smile. Now, the Beach Boys have finally released The Smile Sessions, a collection of the most complete and most intriguing music recorded from the time. But that isn't really Smile, either. It's Smile with an asterisk, or a grade of "incomplete," in more or less the state in which it was abandoned all those years ago.
None of this should detract from the beauty of the music, which has been newly remastered. The album's key tracks (Heroes and Villains, Cabinessence, Wonderful, Surf's Up, Vega-Tables, and Good Vibrations) sound excellent, and are as near to "complete" as one could ever ask. Secondary tracks such as Do You Like Worms? and I Love to Say Dada don't carry the same impact without the lyrics added for the 2004 version, but their relative completeness is remarkable. Painfully, you can see how, with another month or two and a clear plan of attack, Smile probably could have been finished in time to really make its mark. It wasn't, so this (generously expansive) collection will have to do.
The sound of Smile, or at least The Smile Sessions, is defined by its eclecticism. Many songs are defined by baroque instruments like pianos, horns and harpsichords, but heavily distorted electric guitars make appearances at surprising turns. Melodic, dynamic bass lines enhance the arrangements, and in some places even try to dominate the mix. Of course the truly dominant sound is of the Beach Boys' unparalleled singing; except when it isn't, and the Sessions present us with long stretches where the words were either never written, or simply never laid down on tape. Thanks to the 2004 album, we now have lyrics to go along with them, but the fact that they were written so late (who knows what the words might have been in the 60s?) helps to preserve a bit of the mystery from long ago.
Smile, as originally conceived, was completely unlike anything ever attempted in the world of rock and pop. It was meant to be constructed like a puzzle; songs would be built from small, separately recorded pieces which could be stitched together to form larger compositions. Pieces of those compositions could then be used to sew the songs together, allowing them to flow with few to no breaks between tracks. The songs themselves were also unique; the bulk of it was new work with highly abstract lyrics by Parks, but mixed in among them were excerpts from classic 40's and 50's pop tunes (Gee, You Are My Sunshine, I Wanna be Around). Put together, Smile was supposed to be serious, humorous, spiritual and spontaneous: more or less, everything at once.
Pieces of the puzzle have always been available for those willing to explore the Beach Boy's 1970s albums, as well as the tapes spread by the noble bootleggers who've kept the legend alive. Now that they've been assembled, it's easier to see the scope of Brian Wilson's ambition, and it helps to take the edge off of mourning for the greatest album that never was. It isn't everything at once, but it is definitely something special.
Embedded amongst the outtakes and alternate versions are tracks that, while properly belonging to Smile, weren't integrated into the 2004 version. The merits of songs like He Gives Speeches may be debatable, but it's obscure ephemera like that that make Smile special, and add to the value of the Sessions. The main event, however, remains the core tracks. They are among the very best work the Beach Boys, or any band of their era, ever recorded, and it's wonderful to see them finally enshrined in their discography where they belong.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Insanity Calls the Bells of Halloween
In honor of Hallowe'en and all of the spirits purportedly rising from their graves, I've written a thematically appropriate poem. It's sort of like a zombie apocalypse, but because zombies aren't really as interesting as everyone thinks they are, I've replaced them with knife-wielding ghosts, driven to madness and murder by the sound of bells on All Hallows Eve. I hope you enjoy!
You say you don't believe in magic spells;
But something's cast and something fell has come
To ring that iron bell. And now it's ringing
So I tell you, playing dead won't end
This hell; just pick yourself up off the ground
And stand alert: you'll know them by their smell.
The iron breaks and tremors shake the walls,
And horrors from the earth are crawling from
Forgotten graves. They sprawl across the city
Streets and call for allies, reinforcements;
All our homes will swarm with evil shapes
and shadows, seizing lives within their halls.
And soon the shades will set about their work;
They start in stages, first by lurking, then
Emerging from the murk to claim their prey.
They go berserk with ghastly rage and sharply
Jerk their frightened victims from their homes,
To menace them with cruel knives and dirks.
Until the night is through we'll be at war;
I fear the bells won't stop before they tear
Our fences down and bore their terrors in
Our skulls! The score is grim: the revenants
Abhor us, their insanity will break
Our flimsy gates and batter down our doors.
You say you don't believe in magic spells;
But something's cast and something fell has come
To ring that iron bell. And now it's ringing
So I tell you, playing dead won't end
This hell; just pick yourself up off the ground
And stand alert: you'll know them by their smell.
The iron breaks and tremors shake the walls,
And horrors from the earth are crawling from
Forgotten graves. They sprawl across the city
Streets and call for allies, reinforcements;
All our homes will swarm with evil shapes
and shadows, seizing lives within their halls.
And soon the shades will set about their work;
They start in stages, first by lurking, then
Emerging from the murk to claim their prey.
They go berserk with ghastly rage and sharply
Jerk their frightened victims from their homes,
To menace them with cruel knives and dirks.
Until the night is through we'll be at war;
I fear the bells won't stop before they tear
Our fences down and bore their terrors in
Our skulls! The score is grim: the revenants
Abhor us, their insanity will break
Our flimsy gates and batter down our doors.
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Feeling Well Enough and More.
Greetings, citizens of the world. It's been a little while since I wrote in first person on this blog, so I thought I'd take a moment to let everyone know how I'm doing.
I can feel your anticipation from here.
As it happens, I'm doing pretty well. Looking back on the last time I talked about myself here, I can see that I was in something of a foul mood. Nobody likes guys in foul moods: they sulk, they make snide comments, and they often refrain from bathing. A guy in a bad mood doesn't even particularly like himself, so it's very important that he find his way out of it as soon as he can.
Anyway, about a month and a half ago I'd just started a regular daily exercise routine at the gym. Since I had hardly ever "worked out" a day in my life, it was rough going at first. My body reacted to the sudden lifestyle change with petulance and pain, and I responded by punishing my body with buckets of sweat. The two of us weren't on good terms for a while, and I suppose that had a lot to do with my unnecessary surliness.
Well, my mood has improved significantly since then. I can do more than handle the routine I set for myself; I've had to increase its difficulty repeatedly. And most significantly, I'm beginning to notice changes in my physique. Shirts that previously fit tightly are hanging a little looser, and some of my looser shirts are even looking a little over-sized. It's a little ridiculous to admit this, but it always seemed kind of abstract before: apparently, regular exercise actually has an effect on a person's shape. Imagine that.
So it's entirely possible that I've lost some weight. I can't confirm this, because I don't have a bathroom scale and I refuse to use anyone else's (because they can't be trusted), but it seems highly probable. I'm not really making a point of counting calories one way or another. I just follow a simple principle: if the day's workout doesn't make me feel spent, then tomorrow's needs to be harder. It can be painful sometimes, and I'm beginning to suspect that "runner's high" is a myth created to entice fat people to move around more. But the joy of realizing that I've poured so much energy into something that's actually, objectively good for me is absolutely thrilling.
Being healthier has obviously been good for my mood. In fact, I've heard it said that the healthier you get, the more likely you are to stay in a happy state of mind. That means fewer episodes of irrational rage and surliness, which presumably makes me a more pleasant person to be around. Everybody wins!
__________
Well, I got all caught up in my passion for aches and sweat and forgot to talk about the blog. Let's have a little word on that now.
In the past month I've put out two short stories which I am very proud of. I've wanted to say a couple of words on each of them, but I kept forgetting to, so I thought I'd say it now. Both of them are significant for me, because they revolve around dialogue. Writers have strengths and weaknesses, and while I like to think I'm strong generally, my weaknesses are very obvious to me. Writing convincing dialogue ranks up with describing clothing as something I hardly consider myself capable of doing. John in the Box, however, is mainly centered around a conversation between two people, while Red Alert is composed entirely of a single conversation. Neither of them were especially easy to write, but they were not as difficult as I thought, and they're both more enjoyable to read than I had hoped. Small successes can make a person very happy.
But even so, looking back on them I see obvious cause for criticism. Even as the author, the omnipotent and all-seeing creator of the universes in which these tales take place, I can't quite distinguish where my voice ends and the voices of my characters begins. This probably results from my method of composition. I often carry on very involved and evolving internal monologues which can turn into the substance of future conversations and stories; when dialogue is necessary, I play it out in my head as if I'm talking to myself. This has a way of making characters who speak at length in my stories seem just a little less real.
I think Red Alert actually plays to this weakness as a strength. You could almost call it a stream of consciousness piece, as I transcribed more or less the conversation I held inside my own head. The two characters essentially are myself, engaged in a transparent metaphor of my creative process. If they both speak with my voice, that's to be expected; and yet, the fact that they disagree and seem to have different priorities creates the opportunity for some interesting interpretations. I of course interpret the story as evidence of my own latent insanity, as I always do, but I wouldn't say that's all there is to it.
It's nice when art can bend to the limitations of the artist and still become something worthwhile, but all the same I really ought to get better at writing dialogue. Limitations can only take you so far.
I can feel your anticipation from here.
As it happens, I'm doing pretty well. Looking back on the last time I talked about myself here, I can see that I was in something of a foul mood. Nobody likes guys in foul moods: they sulk, they make snide comments, and they often refrain from bathing. A guy in a bad mood doesn't even particularly like himself, so it's very important that he find his way out of it as soon as he can.
Anyway, about a month and a half ago I'd just started a regular daily exercise routine at the gym. Since I had hardly ever "worked out" a day in my life, it was rough going at first. My body reacted to the sudden lifestyle change with petulance and pain, and I responded by punishing my body with buckets of sweat. The two of us weren't on good terms for a while, and I suppose that had a lot to do with my unnecessary surliness.
Well, my mood has improved significantly since then. I can do more than handle the routine I set for myself; I've had to increase its difficulty repeatedly. And most significantly, I'm beginning to notice changes in my physique. Shirts that previously fit tightly are hanging a little looser, and some of my looser shirts are even looking a little over-sized. It's a little ridiculous to admit this, but it always seemed kind of abstract before: apparently, regular exercise actually has an effect on a person's shape. Imagine that.
So it's entirely possible that I've lost some weight. I can't confirm this, because I don't have a bathroom scale and I refuse to use anyone else's (because they can't be trusted), but it seems highly probable. I'm not really making a point of counting calories one way or another. I just follow a simple principle: if the day's workout doesn't make me feel spent, then tomorrow's needs to be harder. It can be painful sometimes, and I'm beginning to suspect that "runner's high" is a myth created to entice fat people to move around more. But the joy of realizing that I've poured so much energy into something that's actually, objectively good for me is absolutely thrilling.
Being healthier has obviously been good for my mood. In fact, I've heard it said that the healthier you get, the more likely you are to stay in a happy state of mind. That means fewer episodes of irrational rage and surliness, which presumably makes me a more pleasant person to be around. Everybody wins!
__________
Well, I got all caught up in my passion for aches and sweat and forgot to talk about the blog. Let's have a little word on that now.
In the past month I've put out two short stories which I am very proud of. I've wanted to say a couple of words on each of them, but I kept forgetting to, so I thought I'd say it now. Both of them are significant for me, because they revolve around dialogue. Writers have strengths and weaknesses, and while I like to think I'm strong generally, my weaknesses are very obvious to me. Writing convincing dialogue ranks up with describing clothing as something I hardly consider myself capable of doing. John in the Box, however, is mainly centered around a conversation between two people, while Red Alert is composed entirely of a single conversation. Neither of them were especially easy to write, but they were not as difficult as I thought, and they're both more enjoyable to read than I had hoped. Small successes can make a person very happy.
But even so, looking back on them I see obvious cause for criticism. Even as the author, the omnipotent and all-seeing creator of the universes in which these tales take place, I can't quite distinguish where my voice ends and the voices of my characters begins. This probably results from my method of composition. I often carry on very involved and evolving internal monologues which can turn into the substance of future conversations and stories; when dialogue is necessary, I play it out in my head as if I'm talking to myself. This has a way of making characters who speak at length in my stories seem just a little less real.
I think Red Alert actually plays to this weakness as a strength. You could almost call it a stream of consciousness piece, as I transcribed more or less the conversation I held inside my own head. The two characters essentially are myself, engaged in a transparent metaphor of my creative process. If they both speak with my voice, that's to be expected; and yet, the fact that they disagree and seem to have different priorities creates the opportunity for some interesting interpretations. I of course interpret the story as evidence of my own latent insanity, as I always do, but I wouldn't say that's all there is to it.
It's nice when art can bend to the limitations of the artist and still become something worthwhile, but all the same I really ought to get better at writing dialogue. Limitations can only take you so far.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Red Alert
"So, I had an idea."
"That's an improvement. Let's hear it."
"OK, here it goes. So we start in the middle of the action, to make it dynamic."
"Right, right. This automatically makes it dynamic."
"It damn sure does, now listen."
"I'm listening!"
"Right, in the middle of the action, and the guy is on a space ship."
"A spaceship? Really?"
"Yes, really. You don't like it?"
"Well I don't know. Is it a cliche? I don't know if spaceships are cliche or not."
"Well they might be. They might very well be. But there's no law against cliches."
"There kind of is. That's kind of why they call them cliches. They are things to be avoided."
"Maybe so, but I'm not going to avoid writing about outer space just because Isaac Asimov and Ray Bradbury and whoever wrote about outer space fifty years ago. Space is fertile ground."
"It's a fertile space."
"It sure is. Now, he's on a spaceship."
"Or a space station?"
"It could be a space station, too. I can make it a space station if you'd like. If that's less of a cliche."
"I'm not sure it is, but I think I like it better."
"Well if you like it better, it just might be better. I'll change it, just for you."
"Well, it might not be better, but let's run with it. See where it goes."
"Where it goes, right. In the middle of the action."
"Just what is the action, exactly?"
"I'm getting to the action!"
"OK, OK! The action's very important you see."
"I do see. Anyway, there's an emergency."
"Go on."
"It's a really bad emergency. The spaceship is melting, and there's hundreds of people trapped inside."
"The space station is melting?"
"It sure is."
"Wow, that is bad. Really, really bad."
"Not something you want to stick around for, right?"
"I think I'd try to get far away from that."
"Well here's the thing. This guy can't."
"Can't?"
"Can't get away, you see."
"I do see. Why can't he get away?"
"Here's the deal: he's running through the corridors of the spaceship."
"Running, running, I see it."
"And everyone else is running, trying to get away."
"To the escape pods?"
"Exactly, there's escape pods all along the rim of the ship, all the other guys are running to them, it's super chaotic."
"Very exciting. So, he doesn't make it to an escape pod?"
"No, no, hang on a sec. So you see, while he's running, things are just starting to melt, the air conditioning or whatever's knocked out."
"I don't think they have air conditioners in space."
"They do, it can get very hot. Anyway, there's lights flashing and alarms blaring and shit's melting, everywhere."
"Very tense, very tense."
"It's super tense."
"Do we want to start out that tense?"
"We absolutely do, because it's just one long, slow, release of tension after that."
"Is that a good idea?"
"It is a great idea, which you will quickly see if you let me tell you the story."
"I am listening. You know I'm listening."
"I guess so. So it's really tense, and the alarm is blaring something over and over, like 'Red Alert, Red Alert!'"
"Ok..."
"'Red Alert, Red Alert!'"
"Yeah, I see how that could get very tense."
"'Red Alert, Red Alert!'"
"Ok, stop now. Please, stop."
"Well that's the point, man. It's a verbal refrain throughout the story, and it starts out really frequent, and it becomes less frequent and more distorted as the story progresses and the ship is melting and everything's breaking down."
"I get that. But I think you could explain that without saying it over and over to me."
"Maybe, but I'm trying new things here."
"Do you really want to just write 'Red Alert, Red Alert,' over and over in the middle of the action?"
"Yes, I do. You know, used correctly, repetition can be a very powerful literary tool."
"Is this what you're going for, a leitmotif?"
"Yeah, I guess so. It's very arty."
"Very. So, he's running, and everything's going all 'Red Alert' at him, and he can't make it to an escape pod."
"No, no, man, he gets to the escape pod. You're not listening."
"He does? Why can't he get away?"
"Because the escape pod gets stuck in the tube and can't launch."
"...OK, so he's trapped in the tube, and he's got to frantically find a way out?"
"No, it's pretty much stuck, there's nothing he can do. He's stuck in the escape pod and the escape pod's stuck in the tube, and everything's melting and just blaring 'Red Alert, Red Alert!" constantly in his face."
"How long is he stuck in there?"
"Pretty much right until the end. It's a really small pod, and it's shaped kind of like a bathysphere, with lots of cool rivets and stuff and a little window on the door, so he can still see the interior of the space ship as it's melting."
"You know, I don't know about this."
"Why not?"
"It sounds like you've killed the story halfway through. You start off in the middle of the action, and all of a sudden there's no action whatsoever. The tension's dead."
"No no no, the action hasn't stopped. Let me finish."
"I'm trying."
"So, like I said, the window's there on the door. There's still action going on outside the window. There's pipes bursting and shooting out steam, and there's some stragglers trying to get to the last pods, and the alarms are still going 'Red Alert, Red Alert!' and all kinds of things like that."
"They're still doing that?"
"Yeah, but less frequently after a while, because everything's all melty and malfunctioning. Maybe some of it gets distorted like, 'Red Aleeeerrrrt...' and sparks start coming out of things. Things that shouldn't have sparks coming out of them."
"But the main character's just watching all of this, safe behind a magically heat-proof glass window?"
"Well he's not just watching it. You see, simultaneously, there's a lot of psychological drama going on in his head."
"That's some tricky territory."
"It is, but I've got an idea on how to do it really well."
"Let's hear it."
"So at first, when there's lots of panic and things are breaking and sparking and the alarms are just constantly going 'Red Alert, Red Alert!' the narration is really hectic and clipped and there's all kinds of emotion, reflecting the main character's inner state. It's really fearful and desperate, and he's desperately pressing buttons, but nothing works, so he just gets more frustrated and afraid."
"Alright, alright."
"Then, as things progress, everything outside starts melting into a more uniform state, I guess. Everything's just melting together, glowing red, and the alarms are dying, and everything's flowing together. And when that happens, the narration starts getting a little more relaxed, just like the main character."
"Wait, is the main character the narrator? Is this first person?"
"Well, no."
"So why is the narration reflecting his psychological state?"
"Huh, well...actually, that's an interesting idea."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, it's like he is the narrator, but he 's not narrating it as though it happened to him. He's describing someone else, but it actually happened to him."
"Or maybe some other, more confused and opaque circumstances?"
"Maybe. These are some good ideas, though."
"So what's the point of all that, anyway?"
"Like I said, it's a gradual release of tension. The narrator relaxes, the main character relaxes, even the space ship relaxes as it goes from a solid into a molten state."
"And then, the escape pod is able to get free of the molten tube?"
"Hmmm...I guess it could work that way. Actually, I was having trouble deciding how it would end."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, I had two ideas. On the one hand, like that, the ship eventually melts away, and the pod is free, and he goes off to tell his story to the survivors or whoever."
"Right."
"But on the other hand, the pod could start melting too, right? And right when he thinks he's safe, all of a sudden it's getting hot, and he's starting to panic again, and he still can't get it to move and his own alarm is going 'Red Alert...'"
"Really, this again?"
"Yeah, so?"
"It seems a little... B movie, you know?"
"It's a great twist!"
"Is it? It seems more like you're cheapening what you're going for. Like on the one hand, there's this gradual relaxation and looseness, and then bam, you've got a gremlin on the wing."
"Is that bad?"
"It can be, if you don't do it just right."
"And what makes you so sure I won't do it right?"
"Because doing it right is hard. You seem a lot more committed to this ending than you let on."
"Well, I think it's more interesting. If anything, the 'safe' ending is just an escape hatch if the other one turns out to be too hard to write."
"Well, I can promise you that it will be very hard to write it well. But if you ask me, the 'safe' ending is actually more interesting, from the right perspective."
"From what perspective, exactly, is 'the lone survivor goes off to tell his tale' an interesting ending?"
"Well, not the telling of the tale, that's for sure. But the survival aspect is more interesting on its face than a cheap cliffhanger."
"I don't see suffocating in a melting escape pod as a cliffhanger. Once that pod starts melting, he's as good as dead. Everyone knows he's not getting rescued."
"Alright, fair enough. But does that contrast too much with your theme?"
"My theme?"
"That gradual release of tension you're so excited about. The reason you start in the middle of the action, and then halfway through switch to trapping your protagonist in a box so he can watch everything through a window."
"Well, death is the ultimate release of tension."
"Really? You're going with that?"
"And why not?"
"Look, I don't know if that's a cliche, but it should be. It is cut from the very same cloth."
"I don't think you understand how cliches work. Every cliche was original once, and most of them started off as good ideas."
"Well, going on one long slide from tense to relaxed, then tensing up at the very end with only an implied relaxation afterward, is not a good idea."
"It's a better idea than just letting the protagonist live after all that. What's his struggle? What's he done to safeguard his life? There's no danger!"
"Well, there's no more danger in certain death than in probable survival."
"I guess my story's screwed either way, then? Who'd have guessed I could write a story about a man nearly melting to death in the vacuum of space, and fail to put him in the slightest bit of danger?"
"Look, forget the danger. That's not my point."
"Really? It isn't?"
"No, and it shouldn't be yours either."
"Then what is my point, sir?"
"Look, your story's kind of weird in its structure, but that's probably the best thing it has going for it. You have to commit to that structure and end with a complete relaxation. No last minute change ups, no gimmicks."
"Well, it could be possible to still kill the guy without necessarily tensing the story up again. He could be resigned to death."
"You could do it that way, but if you ask me the story works a lot better as a metaphor for birth than death."
"...Really?"
"Well, you don't have to spell out what corresponds to what. But the journey out of the space station into the vacuum of space is like the journey from the womb into the wider world."
"Suddenly we have shades of 2001 in here. Are you sure this is original?"
"This is nothing like 2001. 2001 was an epic on an epochal time scale. This is all a brief moment in time."
"Alright, I guess I can see it like that."
"But in order for the birth metaphor to really stick, the protagonist has to live. Do you see what I'm talking about?"
"Huh. Well, I suppose the story could be about that."
"It seems a lot stronger to me."
"But on the other hand, not every birth is successful."
"Successful?"
"Things can go wrong, and the baby won't survive."
"You want to throw a stillbirth angle into this?"
"I want the story to be interesting, man. There are lots of stories about birth and new life and all that jazz. Who's ever told a story about an unsuccessful pregnancy, told from the perspective of the baby?"
"I thought it was about a man trying to get off of a melting space station."
"It's about whatever the metaphor is."
"Well at a certain point it becomes about bad taste."
"Have it your way, then. He floats off in his pod, with the melting wreckage receding into the distance, safe and sound."
"Who's safe and sound?"
"The man in the escape pod, obviously."
"That's what I thought."
"That opens up an interesting visual possibility, too. I imagine the space ship would sort of congeal into a gleaming silver ball. Maybe it hardens back into a solid sphere as he leaves?"
"I'm not sure I see how that fits with the metaphor, though."
"People can interpret it however they like. I just think that a giant ball of molten steel would look terrific. It could glisten like a great big jewel, or a pearl or something. It's got to symbolize something."
"I guess I can't argue with that."
"It'll be pretty difficult to do the image justice, though."
"By the way, why is everything melting?"
"You know, I haven't the slightest idea."
"That's an improvement. Let's hear it."
"OK, here it goes. So we start in the middle of the action, to make it dynamic."
"Right, right. This automatically makes it dynamic."
"It damn sure does, now listen."
"I'm listening!"
"Right, in the middle of the action, and the guy is on a space ship."
"A spaceship? Really?"
"Yes, really. You don't like it?"
"Well I don't know. Is it a cliche? I don't know if spaceships are cliche or not."
"Well they might be. They might very well be. But there's no law against cliches."
"There kind of is. That's kind of why they call them cliches. They are things to be avoided."
"Maybe so, but I'm not going to avoid writing about outer space just because Isaac Asimov and Ray Bradbury and whoever wrote about outer space fifty years ago. Space is fertile ground."
"It's a fertile space."
"It sure is. Now, he's on a spaceship."
"Or a space station?"
"It could be a space station, too. I can make it a space station if you'd like. If that's less of a cliche."
"I'm not sure it is, but I think I like it better."
"Well if you like it better, it just might be better. I'll change it, just for you."
"Well, it might not be better, but let's run with it. See where it goes."
"Where it goes, right. In the middle of the action."
"Just what is the action, exactly?"
"I'm getting to the action!"
"OK, OK! The action's very important you see."
"I do see. Anyway, there's an emergency."
"Go on."
"It's a really bad emergency. The spaceship is melting, and there's hundreds of people trapped inside."
"The space station is melting?"
"It sure is."
"Wow, that is bad. Really, really bad."
"Not something you want to stick around for, right?"
"I think I'd try to get far away from that."
"Well here's the thing. This guy can't."
"Can't?"
"Can't get away, you see."
"I do see. Why can't he get away?"
"Here's the deal: he's running through the corridors of the spaceship."
"Running, running, I see it."
"And everyone else is running, trying to get away."
"To the escape pods?"
"Exactly, there's escape pods all along the rim of the ship, all the other guys are running to them, it's super chaotic."
"Very exciting. So, he doesn't make it to an escape pod?"
"No, no, hang on a sec. So you see, while he's running, things are just starting to melt, the air conditioning or whatever's knocked out."
"I don't think they have air conditioners in space."
"They do, it can get very hot. Anyway, there's lights flashing and alarms blaring and shit's melting, everywhere."
"Very tense, very tense."
"It's super tense."
"Do we want to start out that tense?"
"We absolutely do, because it's just one long, slow, release of tension after that."
"Is that a good idea?"
"It is a great idea, which you will quickly see if you let me tell you the story."
"I am listening. You know I'm listening."
"I guess so. So it's really tense, and the alarm is blaring something over and over, like 'Red Alert, Red Alert!'"
"Ok..."
"'Red Alert, Red Alert!'"
"Yeah, I see how that could get very tense."
"'Red Alert, Red Alert!'"
"Ok, stop now. Please, stop."
"Well that's the point, man. It's a verbal refrain throughout the story, and it starts out really frequent, and it becomes less frequent and more distorted as the story progresses and the ship is melting and everything's breaking down."
"I get that. But I think you could explain that without saying it over and over to me."
"Maybe, but I'm trying new things here."
"Do you really want to just write 'Red Alert, Red Alert,' over and over in the middle of the action?"
"Yes, I do. You know, used correctly, repetition can be a very powerful literary tool."
"Is this what you're going for, a leitmotif?"
"Yeah, I guess so. It's very arty."
"Very. So, he's running, and everything's going all 'Red Alert' at him, and he can't make it to an escape pod."
"No, no, man, he gets to the escape pod. You're not listening."
"He does? Why can't he get away?"
"Because the escape pod gets stuck in the tube and can't launch."
"...OK, so he's trapped in the tube, and he's got to frantically find a way out?"
"No, it's pretty much stuck, there's nothing he can do. He's stuck in the escape pod and the escape pod's stuck in the tube, and everything's melting and just blaring 'Red Alert, Red Alert!" constantly in his face."
"How long is he stuck in there?"
"Pretty much right until the end. It's a really small pod, and it's shaped kind of like a bathysphere, with lots of cool rivets and stuff and a little window on the door, so he can still see the interior of the space ship as it's melting."
"You know, I don't know about this."
"Why not?"
"It sounds like you've killed the story halfway through. You start off in the middle of the action, and all of a sudden there's no action whatsoever. The tension's dead."
"No no no, the action hasn't stopped. Let me finish."
"I'm trying."
"So, like I said, the window's there on the door. There's still action going on outside the window. There's pipes bursting and shooting out steam, and there's some stragglers trying to get to the last pods, and the alarms are still going 'Red Alert, Red Alert!' and all kinds of things like that."
"They're still doing that?"
"Yeah, but less frequently after a while, because everything's all melty and malfunctioning. Maybe some of it gets distorted like, 'Red Aleeeerrrrt...' and sparks start coming out of things. Things that shouldn't have sparks coming out of them."
"But the main character's just watching all of this, safe behind a magically heat-proof glass window?"
"Well he's not just watching it. You see, simultaneously, there's a lot of psychological drama going on in his head."
"That's some tricky territory."
"It is, but I've got an idea on how to do it really well."
"Let's hear it."
"So at first, when there's lots of panic and things are breaking and sparking and the alarms are just constantly going 'Red Alert, Red Alert!' the narration is really hectic and clipped and there's all kinds of emotion, reflecting the main character's inner state. It's really fearful and desperate, and he's desperately pressing buttons, but nothing works, so he just gets more frustrated and afraid."
"Alright, alright."
"Then, as things progress, everything outside starts melting into a more uniform state, I guess. Everything's just melting together, glowing red, and the alarms are dying, and everything's flowing together. And when that happens, the narration starts getting a little more relaxed, just like the main character."
"Wait, is the main character the narrator? Is this first person?"
"Well, no."
"So why is the narration reflecting his psychological state?"
"Huh, well...actually, that's an interesting idea."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, it's like he is the narrator, but he 's not narrating it as though it happened to him. He's describing someone else, but it actually happened to him."
"Or maybe some other, more confused and opaque circumstances?"
"Maybe. These are some good ideas, though."
"So what's the point of all that, anyway?"
"Like I said, it's a gradual release of tension. The narrator relaxes, the main character relaxes, even the space ship relaxes as it goes from a solid into a molten state."
"And then, the escape pod is able to get free of the molten tube?"
"Hmmm...I guess it could work that way. Actually, I was having trouble deciding how it would end."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, I had two ideas. On the one hand, like that, the ship eventually melts away, and the pod is free, and he goes off to tell his story to the survivors or whoever."
"Right."
"But on the other hand, the pod could start melting too, right? And right when he thinks he's safe, all of a sudden it's getting hot, and he's starting to panic again, and he still can't get it to move and his own alarm is going 'Red Alert...'"
"Really, this again?"
"Yeah, so?"
"It seems a little... B movie, you know?"
"It's a great twist!"
"Is it? It seems more like you're cheapening what you're going for. Like on the one hand, there's this gradual relaxation and looseness, and then bam, you've got a gremlin on the wing."
"Is that bad?"
"It can be, if you don't do it just right."
"And what makes you so sure I won't do it right?"
"Because doing it right is hard. You seem a lot more committed to this ending than you let on."
"Well, I think it's more interesting. If anything, the 'safe' ending is just an escape hatch if the other one turns out to be too hard to write."
"Well, I can promise you that it will be very hard to write it well. But if you ask me, the 'safe' ending is actually more interesting, from the right perspective."
"From what perspective, exactly, is 'the lone survivor goes off to tell his tale' an interesting ending?"
"Well, not the telling of the tale, that's for sure. But the survival aspect is more interesting on its face than a cheap cliffhanger."
"I don't see suffocating in a melting escape pod as a cliffhanger. Once that pod starts melting, he's as good as dead. Everyone knows he's not getting rescued."
"Alright, fair enough. But does that contrast too much with your theme?"
"My theme?"
"That gradual release of tension you're so excited about. The reason you start in the middle of the action, and then halfway through switch to trapping your protagonist in a box so he can watch everything through a window."
"Well, death is the ultimate release of tension."
"Really? You're going with that?"
"And why not?"
"Look, I don't know if that's a cliche, but it should be. It is cut from the very same cloth."
"I don't think you understand how cliches work. Every cliche was original once, and most of them started off as good ideas."
"Well, going on one long slide from tense to relaxed, then tensing up at the very end with only an implied relaxation afterward, is not a good idea."
"It's a better idea than just letting the protagonist live after all that. What's his struggle? What's he done to safeguard his life? There's no danger!"
"Well, there's no more danger in certain death than in probable survival."
"I guess my story's screwed either way, then? Who'd have guessed I could write a story about a man nearly melting to death in the vacuum of space, and fail to put him in the slightest bit of danger?"
"Look, forget the danger. That's not my point."
"Really? It isn't?"
"No, and it shouldn't be yours either."
"Then what is my point, sir?"
"Look, your story's kind of weird in its structure, but that's probably the best thing it has going for it. You have to commit to that structure and end with a complete relaxation. No last minute change ups, no gimmicks."
"Well, it could be possible to still kill the guy without necessarily tensing the story up again. He could be resigned to death."
"You could do it that way, but if you ask me the story works a lot better as a metaphor for birth than death."
"...Really?"
"Well, you don't have to spell out what corresponds to what. But the journey out of the space station into the vacuum of space is like the journey from the womb into the wider world."
"Suddenly we have shades of 2001 in here. Are you sure this is original?"
"This is nothing like 2001. 2001 was an epic on an epochal time scale. This is all a brief moment in time."
"Alright, I guess I can see it like that."
"But in order for the birth metaphor to really stick, the protagonist has to live. Do you see what I'm talking about?"
"Huh. Well, I suppose the story could be about that."
"It seems a lot stronger to me."
"But on the other hand, not every birth is successful."
"Successful?"
"Things can go wrong, and the baby won't survive."
"You want to throw a stillbirth angle into this?"
"I want the story to be interesting, man. There are lots of stories about birth and new life and all that jazz. Who's ever told a story about an unsuccessful pregnancy, told from the perspective of the baby?"
"I thought it was about a man trying to get off of a melting space station."
"It's about whatever the metaphor is."
"Well at a certain point it becomes about bad taste."
"Have it your way, then. He floats off in his pod, with the melting wreckage receding into the distance, safe and sound."
"Who's safe and sound?"
"The man in the escape pod, obviously."
"That's what I thought."
"That opens up an interesting visual possibility, too. I imagine the space ship would sort of congeal into a gleaming silver ball. Maybe it hardens back into a solid sphere as he leaves?"
"I'm not sure I see how that fits with the metaphor, though."
"People can interpret it however they like. I just think that a giant ball of molten steel would look terrific. It could glisten like a great big jewel, or a pearl or something. It's got to symbolize something."
"I guess I can't argue with that."
"It'll be pretty difficult to do the image justice, though."
"By the way, why is everything melting?"
"You know, I haven't the slightest idea."
Thursday, October 13, 2011
WFJ Book Club # 7: Less Than Zero
Prejudice should never be something to take pride in. It's hurtful in many instances, and intellectually lazy in most others. However, we all have prejudice, and the best way to deal with it is to lay it out in the open. Finding out what triggers our prejudicial instincts can take us a long way in understanding our reactions to anyone or anything at all.
In my case, I carry two formidable prejudices: one against the city of Los Angeles, and the other against the mass culture of the 1980s. In my mind, both represent the best possible case for the notion that hedonism and decadence lead to the downfall of civilization. I'm no doomsayer, but I have a theory that Armageddon occurred on the Sunset Strip sometime during the rise of Hair Metal; all of history since then has merely been a traumatic hallucination, a collective defense mechanism against the overbearing awfulness of the modern world.
According to my theory, Less Than Zero, the 1985 novel by Brett Easton Ellis, would be an artifact of the end of the world, a graphic record of our civilization's greatest nightmare preserved for the education of its benighted survivors. It isn't, of course, because the world didn't end in the 1980s (we're still living with its ill effects today). But even with all of the references to payphones and Atari and other echoes of the last century, the story still reads like apocalyptic literature.
Truth be told, reading the book is painful. Not stylistically; there's a lot to admire in the descriptions and characterizations, as well as the variety of contemporary references that gives the setting breadth. The plot, however, is excruciating. Scenes range along a continuum of troubling, depressing, disturbing, and abominable, sliding back and forth without mercy. I'd recommend this book to anyone on the basis of its art and craft, but I'd hesitate to promise that they'd "like" it.
Less Than Zero works on a number of levels for me, to the point that I was a little afraid of the book in my hands. As a portrait of privileged nihilism, I recognized a lot more in the characters and situations than I hoped I would. If you disregard the specific trappings of time and place, the actions of characters bear a distressing resemblance to real life. Even ordinary, respectable people spend most of their time doing what they believe they can't help doing. It's a lifestyle that looks ugliest when those imagined imperatives are chemical addictions, but is just as bleak in principle for anyone else. A book like this offers the chance to see the equivalence, in the comforting guise of morbid voyeurism.
I've come to expect tales of hedonistic excess like these from Los Angeles. But in spite of my prejudices, are they realistic? Well, I have heard some things. I haven't seen nearly as much, but I've seen some; I know that humans have an astounding capacity for destruction, whether they direct it at themselves or others. Families disintegrate, friends disappoint, and lovers fall out of love: in ordinary terms, these are the least of our troubles. The collapse of ordinary life didn't happen in the 1980s; it happens everywhere at every time, as soon as our eyes are open enough to see it.
But a "collapse" implies some kind of finality. Somehow, life and civilization survive to endure continuous new collapses, as we continue to surprise ourselves with new lows. It may not make us stronger, but it hasn't killed us yet.
Oh, was I talking about a book? I suppose I was. Less Than Zero is a good one, if you're looking for a good punch in the gut as well. Just take a weekend and watch the world explode.
In my case, I carry two formidable prejudices: one against the city of Los Angeles, and the other against the mass culture of the 1980s. In my mind, both represent the best possible case for the notion that hedonism and decadence lead to the downfall of civilization. I'm no doomsayer, but I have a theory that Armageddon occurred on the Sunset Strip sometime during the rise of Hair Metal; all of history since then has merely been a traumatic hallucination, a collective defense mechanism against the overbearing awfulness of the modern world.
According to my theory, Less Than Zero, the 1985 novel by Brett Easton Ellis, would be an artifact of the end of the world, a graphic record of our civilization's greatest nightmare preserved for the education of its benighted survivors. It isn't, of course, because the world didn't end in the 1980s (we're still living with its ill effects today). But even with all of the references to payphones and Atari and other echoes of the last century, the story still reads like apocalyptic literature.
Truth be told, reading the book is painful. Not stylistically; there's a lot to admire in the descriptions and characterizations, as well as the variety of contemporary references that gives the setting breadth. The plot, however, is excruciating. Scenes range along a continuum of troubling, depressing, disturbing, and abominable, sliding back and forth without mercy. I'd recommend this book to anyone on the basis of its art and craft, but I'd hesitate to promise that they'd "like" it.
Less Than Zero works on a number of levels for me, to the point that I was a little afraid of the book in my hands. As a portrait of privileged nihilism, I recognized a lot more in the characters and situations than I hoped I would. If you disregard the specific trappings of time and place, the actions of characters bear a distressing resemblance to real life. Even ordinary, respectable people spend most of their time doing what they believe they can't help doing. It's a lifestyle that looks ugliest when those imagined imperatives are chemical addictions, but is just as bleak in principle for anyone else. A book like this offers the chance to see the equivalence, in the comforting guise of morbid voyeurism.
I've come to expect tales of hedonistic excess like these from Los Angeles. But in spite of my prejudices, are they realistic? Well, I have heard some things. I haven't seen nearly as much, but I've seen some; I know that humans have an astounding capacity for destruction, whether they direct it at themselves or others. Families disintegrate, friends disappoint, and lovers fall out of love: in ordinary terms, these are the least of our troubles. The collapse of ordinary life didn't happen in the 1980s; it happens everywhere at every time, as soon as our eyes are open enough to see it.
But a "collapse" implies some kind of finality. Somehow, life and civilization survive to endure continuous new collapses, as we continue to surprise ourselves with new lows. It may not make us stronger, but it hasn't killed us yet.
Oh, was I talking about a book? I suppose I was. Less Than Zero is a good one, if you're looking for a good punch in the gut as well. Just take a weekend and watch the world explode.
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