Tag Archives: Reading

Dear Jon . . . (#20) Re: Reading, Time and Tide

It was somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold. I remember saying something like ‘I feel a bit light headed, maybe you should drive…’ And suddenly there was a terrible roar and all around us the sky was full of bletters reading:

“Dear Jon,

It’s true, I talk a lot about re-reading. One of the reasons I prefer to buy a book than take it out from a library is because the thought occurs that I might want to re-read such a such a book. But it is more talk than action. I very rarely re-read books. This truth is documented. Records – those held in the Archives, walled up in a secret underground facility near Ultima Thule – suggest that the last book I actually re-read was Lawrence Durrell’s Tunc(1968) in April 2015. So not recently. Because, no, apparently 2015 isn’t recent anymore. Time flies…”

Click here for the rest.

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Dear Jon . . . (#16) Re: Crime and Punishment, Trials and Castles

BY JON PILL

The digital flap rings out, and a writhing mass of bletters slap down onto the mat, each one struggling against the dark red elastic band that binds them to each other.

A bletter gets loose and wriggles away so, in order to keep it from slipping down the hole in the skirting board chewed long ago by an ancient king-rat’s many teeth in many heads, you skewer it on the end of your bletter harpoon and chew away the edible flaps to reveal the words etched into the skin of the bletter in rattlesnake venom.

Dear Jon,” the bletter begins. “Being, shall we say, terminally unhip – I too had an angst canon, though the bulk of it came out of the late 1800s rather than the late 1900s. Specifically, Fyodor Dostoyevsky. Crime and Punishment, Demons, The Brothers Karamazov. Yet, the connections with your canon are there, no? Instead of a murderous Manhattanite, there’s the axe-wielding Raskolnikov killing old women in St Petersburg…”

To read the rest of the bletter turn to page 34, or click here .

 

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The Best Books For Writers – Part 5: Books on the Other Arts

BY JON PILL

Previously on… 

Part 1 – Books on Being Writerly

Part 2 – Books on the Craft of Writing

Part 3 – Books on The Writing Life

Part 4 – Books on Reading

This is the last and considerably latest, in this series on books to read if you’re a writer / into writing / want to write. This time looking at a grab bag of books that I and / or humans have found useful in our approach to writing that deal with other art forms topics.

There will also be another post coming soon about all the non-book resources people have found useful. So look forward to that, kidz.

Part 5 – Books On Other Art Forms

1. Silence by John Cage

This collection of lectures by experimental composer John Cage (he of 4′ 33″ in(fame)y), is a collection of lectures on various subjects. Unable to keep from experimenting even in the when typing up his lecture notes, the book is full of odd formatting and the occasional section of apparent word salad.

But as a creative guide it’s served a few of my writerly friends. It might well serve you to.

2. 7 Minutes. The Life and Death of the American Animated Cartoon by Norman M. Klein

This is another Interior Dasein recommendation, covering the history of the short American Cartoon, typified I guess by the work of Chuck Jones. There are parallels between the zany movies and the short story, and you can certainly learn a great deal from the discipline of the artists and the surreal and metamorphosable worlds they build.

For members of the straw poll, it was also a source of inspiration and permission to break the rules of our world in interesting and fun ways in their art.

3. The Artist’s Reality by Mark Rothko and 4. A History of Art by E. M. Gombrich

Visual art has inspired a great deal of poetry and a little prose, but it is also probably the art form with the longest history. Where the stories told by the cavemen at Lascaux are lost to time, their paintings live on.

The Rothko is a collection of essays on art and artistry, and the Gombrich a broad history of visual art from the ancients to us with a ton of colour plates and a lovely binding.

5. How to Read a Film by James Monaco

An overview of the mechanics, theory, business and history of film this book is readable intro to the medium. I consume a lot of story through television and movies, and having a better sense of how to watch closely and think critically about film has improved my ability to do the same for reading and in assessing my own writing.

It could do the same for you.

6. Logical Chess: Move by Move by Irving Chernev

Recommended by Jim MacDonald in an Absolute Write thread on the grounds that Chernev’s approach works for the creation of plots as much as it does check-mating your opponents on the board.

If nothing else, it will probably improve your chess game.

7. Measurement by Paul Lockhart

Measurement teaches maths creatively, and draws comparisons between the formal restrictions of poetry and the logical restrictions of maths. Paul Lockhart empowers the reader to go away and create maths on their own by focusing on the process and on proof. Having given the reader the tools to do maths, he then sets them off with a bunch of questions for them to look into and solve on their own.

The link with writing is pretty tangential but much of what makes maths beautiful is there in literature: those moments of realisation and discovery, and the revelling in patterns. The approaches to learning however, are perfect for the writer.

Enjoy.

If you have any favourite books that have helped you with your writing, especially if I missed them in this series, let me know in the comments.

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Dear Jim . . . (#15) Re: Angst and Anxiety

BY JON PILL

‘Rules are for the guidance of wise men and the obedience of fools.’ – Douglas Bader

Dear Jim,

Christmas came and went. 2016 came and went. I hope it came and went well. I have a horrible feeling 2017 will be a time of reaping what 2016 has sown. But it also looks like it might be pretty good for you and me on a professional level.

As you guessed in your letter, I have been fiddling with the odd reading list for the coming year. You asked a bit about what guides my instinct re reading. I’m not sure I have a very interesting answer to that. I am rarely coming to a book cold, years of Google, Wikipedia and long conversations with book mad friends like you means I have a general sense of who and what out there will fit my given needs.

Plus my reading lists are almost always for a purpose, however broad. Catching up on the classics, research for the novel, sometimes its just: read more stylists, more plot, more nonfiction, more James Bond novels.

There is a certain amount of the should’ves on my lists, but I don’t know how sophisticated a gut instinct is needed to know one should have read some Dickens if you want to be a writer.

 

Your other question re teenage reading is a little more interesting, and one we’ve discussed several times. When you’re a teen you’re in that weird tension of wanting to be part of the group and to be an individual, different. If one of those things wins out you end up as either Molly Ringwald and Emilio Estevez or Judd Nelson and Ally Sheedy. Or that nerdy kid or the janitor. Or something*.

The compromise of being a goth or hipster or whatever is to belong to a little group that dresses funny. Same-same but different.

My cod-sociological theory is that the angst canon of books teenagers read is a way of revelling in that specialness. The Molly Ringwalds opt for manifest destiny as their reason for being weird, so Harry Potter and Star Wars for them. The Ally Sheedy’s are more likely to have a copy of Camus poking ostentatiously out of their pocket. Or as in my case Chuck Palahniuk. Judd Nelson didn’t read very much at all, I suspect.

For me the books that I read and reread (along with Michael Crichton’s whole oeuvre) were: American PsychoFight Club and The Beach. All in some ways were aspirational wish fulfilment. All three are books about outsiders who exercise power (and often violence) in their own sphere. It probably doesn’t hurt the appeal that they all get laid and enjoy freedom from authority (it is no coincidence that the British boarding school produced the inventors of the concentration camp).

What is also odd is that they are all also about mentally ill characters. And I do remember having a very romanticised notion of what it meant to have poor mental health. Think of the pop culture crazies like Donnie Darko and Hannibal Lector dictated my images of madness at the time. Being a teenager is often to be locked in several forms of mental breakdown anyways: , a barely developed sense of empathy, constant crises of identity and purpose, or else monomania and narcissism. or persecution complexes, anxiety, insecurity, paranoia, body dysmorphia, mood swings, sexual obsession and perversion, your average teenager is a grab bag of pages out of the DSM and Dr Levick’s notes on penguins.

The nihilism and existentialism (both in the most vague and colloquial sense) in the Ellis and Palahniuk reflected, and probably intensified, my personal philosophies at the time and that the books reflected and reinforced my dislike for those who feel entitled to authority.

I don’ know exactly how much I saw myself as Patrick Bateman or Tyler Durden (though it would not be beyond my cognitive dissonance to have seen myself as both), but I enjoyed for those years a total condescension and contempt towards all people everywhere. And although I was a very shy child, and am a pathologically anxious adult, in my mid-teens for a few years I felt very little shame or self-consciousness at all. It was around then that I was reading those books.

I still like those books. I haven’t read them in a long time, but their film versions have jogged my memory from time to time. But I like them for completely different reasons**. Where I used to admire Bateman, I feel pity instead. What was revelled in as wish fulfilment as revel as a teen reads as a satire now. Nice flat, expensive suits, and taking what he he couldn’t buy at the end of a nail gun, everything seemed perfect back then. Now he looks desperate and trapped. The horror isn’t in the gore, its in the empty relationships and impersonal flat.

These books are no longer my favourites. But they are still interesting as much because of my personal history with them as anything else. That as a writer is something that is probably impossible to account for in your readers. But interesting to ponder.

I’d be interested to hear about your own teenage readings. But I also wonder if there are any artworks in whatever form, that you’ve had a similar revisions or reversals of your feelings about a text or play and what they were?

Sincerely Yours,

The Breakfast Club

* P.S. I know and also don’t care that the movie was about how they’re not all that different you and I.

** P.P.S. I deliberately avoided talking about The Exorcist, because I could write a whole bletter just on that. Every time I have watched that film, it has seemed to be about something totally different. But that is because the film has so many ambiguities, and so much of the story happens off screen that it allows for interpretive shift. They all feel like natural readings of that movie. American Psycho, on the other hand, I find hard to imagine  missing how unhappy Bateman clearly is. Which I definitely did at the time.

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Dear Jon . . . (#14) Re: On Waste Lands of Straight People

BY JON PILL

‘You’ve got mail,’ said the computer electronically.

‘Read it to me, computer,’ I spoke organically.

‘So many,’ it quothed digitally.

‘So many what?’ queried I fleshily…

I had not thought death had undone so many. -T.S. Eliot

Dear Jon,

Well, I hope you had a merry Christmas time. One way to address your question is to refer you to my very early reading this year in which I made a sally into the 1700s. I read Robinson Crusoe, I read Gulliver’s Travels, I read Tristram Shandy. And the last of these showed me clearly that the madcap and what might be called ‘the experimental’ is inherent to the canon. That cray was there, all the time… Click HERE for the rest of Jim’s bletter.

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Dear Jon… (#6) Re: 9 Reasons Why the To-Do List Life is the Life

I got this, whatever this is, in the ble-mail.

“Dear Jon,

I am much obliged to you for your post. This post comes to you in 9, yes, 9 parts. 

 …2. 

I do not want to write a blog post. It is (figuratively) the last thing I want to do, and yet it is the first thing on my list. I do not know why I write this blog post. The web is clotted with the remnants of dead blogs. You’ve seen these, right? You’re scanning the pages of some blog on recipes or someone’s adventures in Europe to look at the date to see this hasn’t been updated in six months, three years, eight years. Often abandoned without explanations. Something IRL had dragged the writer away. Perhaps boredom. Perhaps forgetfulness. Maybe their IRL had suddenly ended, even…”

Click here to read the rest.

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Dear Jim… (#5) re: When Reasons Not to Write Aren’t Reasons Not to Write

He started his epistle with an epigraph. What a nob.

– Overheard while walking near my own mouth.

Dear Jim,

Firstly, and obviously, get well soon.

Secondly, the answer to your question of when to stop is just as obviously: Never; ‘Starve a fever, feed a cold, but work through both,’ as my mother never actually said, but should have. Which is why my bosses have always applauded me for sitting at my desk hacking up the most infectious parts of my lungs, before passing off freshly moistened files to my soon to be just as poorly workmates. Go Capitalism.

But thirdly – and mostly – I wanted to pick up on your reference to Amis:

“Amis is damn right when he talks about stepping back !!!!!FOR A MOMENT!!!!, and going to do something else: not slamming one’s face endlessly against a wall of words.” 

The emphasis there is mine, and I bring it up because it triggered a particular bugbear of mine.

Far too often people seem to think that art requires some sort of hermetically sealed Ivory Tower with a south facing window and just the right humidity and temperature for your pet muse to whisper in your ear without getting tongue cramp. Which is fine if you are happy just doodling. Like, you can get a ton out of just doing creative stuff every now and again as a hobby.

But if you want to write something good, if you want to be read without embarrassment, or even to read at all… you do actually have to write. And you have to write a lot.

For some reason in the 1800s the view shifted from artist as organ grinder/monkey combo, to artist as visionary. They forgot artist and artisan come from the same root and started thinking of artists as ‘brilliant’ or ‘zeitgeisty’ or ‘so fetch’. Artists are not any of those things, they are the less calorific half of bread-and-circuses.

Stepping away from the words is fine, as long as it is about managing your energy or health. My basic thing is that if your reason for not writing wouldn’t fly as a reason for not doing your actual job if you have one, then it just isn’t good enough.

If you are a writer, and you lack inspiration, so fucking what? You want to protect your precious art? It’s not that precious. Set yourself deadlines and meet them. Hate the work you produce by all means, but produce it. Anyone can write when the muse is balls deep in all your brain holes, but the point of being a writer is that we WRITE. The universe can’t do all the heavy lifting.

If you’re blocked then you need to put your arse back in the chair and work at it. If you have no ideas then sit down and brainstorm, read some non-fiction that looks like it might trigger something, find a specific market and let their guidelines direct you to something. But don’t leave that chair until you’ve written something.

It winds me up no end to hear things like: ‘I can’t make myself write. Writing for money/to a deadline/on cue/every day hurts the art’. When I worked nine-to-five, I would finish the day exhausted, with whatever currency discipline is transacted in spent in not throttling my immediate manager. As a colossally lazy person, it was already excruciating to sit down to the genuinely taxing brain-work of writing. So once I had carved out the time, avoided all the temptations and apathies that lay between me and the word processor I had to write then, because tomorrow I might not have the wherewithal to drag myself to it.

Just try telling that person to wait for the muse.

And that sort of thinking misses the fact that first drafts are not Writing. They’re like 5% of it. What the muse gives you is always half-cocked and half-baked even at the best of times.

Fact: your first draft is ugly. Even at your best it is ugly. Too ugly to live. You have to beat the ugly out of it. That beating is basically 95% of the gig. If you sit around waiting for the muse, it means you’re not even doing that first 5%.

Lastly, writing is not meant to be fun. You shouldn’t enjoy it. Like childbirth it should be a vindictive punishment exacted against yourself for the sins of your ancestors. The whole process should be horrible, a trial by ordeal which leaves you not happy, but somehow satisfied, having been tested and having measured up.

Since quotations are apparently a major constituent of letters, ideally from poetry – specifically James Baldwin where available – I’ll leave you with this poem, reconstructed from memory because as far as Google seems to think Dorothy Parker is the only person to have said it:-

I have a confession,

And this is it:

I hate to write,

Love having writ.

I am willing to admit this last point about self-flagellation may owe more to the Protestant work-ethic of my own conscience, who dismisses anything enjoyable as sinful*, but I stand by the rest no matter how Calvin-inflected your conscience is.

il_fullxfull-306934858

A piece of writing that is a metaphor for what writing should feel like. 

So here’s the cliff notes version of this rant to pass on to anyone you meet whose excusing themselves from writing. After cussing them out tell them:

(1) don’t get prissy about ‘inspiration’, just write daily or close to it;

(2) if you don’t write today, you have nothing to rewrite tomorrow, and rewriting > writing, so write daily or close to it; and

(3) if you enjoy doing anything, you’re doing it wrong; and you won’t enjoy writing daily or close to it.

In the print edition of this blog, I’ll just turn this into a listicle.

Yours curmudgeonly,

Jon

P.S. *Imagine how tragic it must be for this conscientious conscience to be housed in such a dissipated layabout. Only the self-loathing makes all that laziness palatable.

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