The Absent Blogger, Part 2

All my followers are gone. My friends have folded their tents, headed for pastures where the writers actually have something to say (are those green?).

This is my second blog entry of 2009, and I should be flogged at the post of dilettante writers. I am an impostor, a liar, a cheat. To be a writer, one must write, and I have spent the better part of 2009 not writing--well, I should say not drafting. I've been working on a novel project, taking millions of notes, filling journals, reading books. I have not blogged this year, and I have no answer for that. I struggle with this idea that blogs tend to focus too much on the blogger, and I don't feel like a spotlight should be turned on me. Ideas and opinions, yes, I have many. It's tough to share them. Maybe I'm shy. Maybe misanthropic.

Okay, anyway, what brought me out of the woodwork are the numerous pieces of inspiration I've come across lately: interviews, essays, books. I'd like to keep some of them in one place, so here we go...

A MARVELOUS interview with Pat Conroy, the master, my inspiration, my friend.

What is now considered the greatest commencement address ever, delivered by David Foster Wallace in 2006 at Kenyon College, and has now been expunged from the Internet because Little Brown has published the address in slightly bowdlerized form to cash in on the graduation season.

Another marvelous interview, also from the wonderful folks at Oklahoma State whose Poets & Writers program is nothing but top-notch--this one with the amazing Anne Lamott.

So, yeah, I guess I need to resolve to be a better blogger. Maybe a little more extroverted. Maybe I should venture out into cyberspace a little more often.

Hope you, single reader, are well.

The Absent Blogger

Oh, no, I'm the friend who never writes. I'm the writer who's been staring out the window for a month. I'm the blogger who did two entries in December when he should've done something like what, thirty?

Okay, the horror, yes, I'll try to do better. I'll put it on the list of resolutions (sure to fail). Is it just me, or do you tend to make resolutions until about the age of 30, and then realize you ain't following through on any of the stuff you said in January, so then from age 30 on, you just grin and say, "I'm not making resolutions this year. I'm just going to commit to betterness: being better than last year." Yep, that's me.

I want to get back in the gym. I want to write my magnum opus in three months. I want to become a philanthropist. I'd like to be universally adored. I'd like to do one scintillating, profound blog entry per day. I'd like to live my life with a tear-jerking string arrangement in the background as I push a Redfordian lock of hair from my eyes, my girl by my side, the sun all fire-like on the horizon.

But none of that's likely, is it? I'm bald. My days are full. Fiction is the new poetry (as far as remuneration and readership is concerned), and I'm adored by the dog (the only CONSISTENT adorer of mine).

Somehow, though, that's okay. We're starting a new year. I'm beginning my reading list anew. I'm up to two books already since I was nearly done with both of them last year. I back teaching young people again (just in early mornings), and this makes me happy. I have a Blackberry. The words are flowing. Outlook cheery.

Let's chat soon. Handwritten is best.

Word of the Year

Remember when the word of last year "TRUTHINESS" was all the rage? We can go way back and remember when BLOG was the most looked-up word on the Internet. Then there was WMD and PODCAST and some clever turns like PECKSNIFFIAN, named for an unscrupulous character in a Dickens novel.

So, it's looking like 2008 is going to give us a wicked reminder of our nationalizing government tendencies with the top two finishers (according to Merriam Webster) invoking the economic meltdown of the century so far: #2 SUBPRIME......#1......wait for it......BAILOUT.

I long for the days of Monica Lewinsky headlines and the meaning of IS. The Mortgage Boom, the headlines about French wines appreciating at astronomical rates. Where is Mister Rogers, the Teletubbies brouhaha, the days when Andy Rooney was the most controversial piece on Sixty Minutes?

No need to answer. It's rhetorical. But it is fun to remember.

I'm So Glad Maureen Dowd Was Off

Or else we wouldn't have gotten this BEAUTIFUL piece by Timothy Egan. If you get sick of the celebrity memoirs and fiction that more resembles what my dog deposits, you'll want to give this a read.

Typing Without a Clue

Oops, it turns out that lovely newspaper whence this article comes requires a registered account to read. In case you don't have one, here's the skinny.

Joe the Plumber is writing a book. I will reserve comments about the things he apparently cannot do: pay taxes, hold a legit plumbing certification, etc. There's a good chance we'll discover he can't write either, but it won't stop the juggernaut of money thrown his way for telling us his story (as if John McCain didn't tell us enough about Joe's life).

Timothy Egan tells us Sarah Palin is next in line for a high-profile memoir. Allegedly, a seven figure advance is in the works for her story (I can see it now: Chapter 1 Staring Across the Bering Strait). Mr. Egan in his article points out that a book from her is potentially a verbal train wreck. Case in point (Palin in an interview with Matt Lauer on when she knew they'd lost the election):

“I had great faith that, you know, perhaps when that voter entered that voting booth and closed that curtain that what would kick in for them was, perhaps, a bold step that would have to be taken in casting a vote for us, but having to put a lot of faith in that commitment we tried to articulate that we were the true change agent that would progress this nation.”

His point resonates clearly. Writing is not like teaching. Just because you think you can do it, does not mean you can. And for those of us who ARE doing it, tempers tend to flare when dilettantes swoop in and steal the spotlight--which is in itself inaccurate since writers work in solitude and most of the ones I know prefer to stay there. I think really writers resent people who take the spotlight and don't represent the purists of the craft faithfully.

Egan again:
Day in, day out, [writers] labor to find their voice, to learn their trade, to understand nuance and pace. And then, facing a sea of rejections, they hear about something like Barbara Bush’s dog getting a book deal.

Our columnist, one faithful Mr. Egan, leaves these charlatans with one final piece of advice:

For the others — you friends of celebrities penning cookbooks, you train wrecks just out of rehab, you politicians with an agent but no talent — stop soaking up precious advance money.

Amen, brother! (But what am I getting all self-righteous for? Not like Joe the Plumber stole my book deal or anything. But it is fun to think so.)

The New Pat Conroy Novel

Pages from Conroy's manuscript

It has been almost 14 years since Pat Conroy published Beach Music. 22 years since The Prince of Tides. In the intervening years, he's done a memoir on basketball from his years playing at the Citadel. He wrote his passion project, a cookbook with essays and stories. Yet in the back of his mind, he's always had the idea for the big Charleston novel, a story that's been brewing since he moved from San Francisco back to the east coast in the mid-nineties. He's had things to say about the Holy City since he last left it (fictionally) in The Lords of Discipline in 1980.

South of Broad should be out next September. For those who expect the inevitable delays with a Conroy novel (Beach Music was delayed for years), I would say rest easy. The novel is finished; it's edited (original manuscript weighed in around 1400 pages), and no one is happier about that than Mr. Conroy himself (perhaps Sandra, his wife, is happier).

The novel will be big, epic, like the others (final book weighs in somewhere around 600 pages). Stylistically, Pat remains acute in his sensitivity, sprawling in his images, and is still the overwriting show-off that I love him for--except even better. He continues to grow as a writer, a claim he's shy about, but one I think is true.

Leo, his protagonist, is a newspaper reporter in Charleston, and a large chunk of the plot revolves around a serial killer and a high-profile murder in the 1980s (all invented [no ripping from headlines here]). But Conroy has not morphed into the thriller writer by any stretch. His main character remains the Lowcountry of South Carolina, his story centers more around relationships and his eminently likeable Joycean protagonist. At the height of the novel's intensity is a mind-blowing chapter involving the serial killer and Hurricane Hugo (the still legendary storm that leveled Charleston and several towns to the north in 1989). If you are a Conroy connoisseur, you can look forward to a novel that recalls The Prince of Tides and Beach Music in terms of scope and style.

Note: As a favor, and because I love Pat dearly, I typed the last third or so of the book, but because I am still first a fan (I will do a big blog entry soon on my friendship with Pat), I asked him not to send the final two chapters. I have not read the entire novel and don't want to until it comes out. I want the all-absorbing experience of curling up on the couch on a rainy day, cracking the cover on a big new Conroy book, and swimming in his worlds--just like you do.

Lists

Life seems to be injecting lists into my daily experience. The NY Times has the best books of 2008 (already). Another blog I read has 75 books every man should read. There were the 10 Commandments on Sunday. Another blog I came across has 101 things you don't know about [him the blogger]. And just last week someone asked me about my favorite books.

Lists are hard. But I like them. They interest as much for what they include as for what they don't. They elicit opinions--sometimes strong ones. They force self-reflection, solicit new lists, promote discussion. I'm not David Letterman, but I think I'll try some of these.

Here's a top ten contemporary novel list with a tie for ten:

1. The Prince of Tides (turned me on my head at age 20...had no idea language could do this to a person)
2. Sophie's Choice (a dilemma that leveled me...I was never the same)
3. Lonesome Dove (I didn't know I could love two characters, fictional characters)
4. Pillars of the Earth (epic, beautiful, and what medieval times must've been like)
5. I Know This Much is True (Wally Lamb is a small god that stirs my soul)
6. Shantaram (a true story, haunting, and so evocative I dreamed about it)
7. Middlesex (writing so beautiful I called people on the phone to read to them)
8. The Things They Carried (the best book about war ever written)
9. The Secret History (the most brilliant first novel I've ever read)
10. The Cider House Rules (John Irving is a genius, pure and simple)
10. A Prayer for Owen Meany (I'll say it again...John Irving is a genius)

And how about a top ten classic American novel list:

1. The Great Gatsby (I want to live in Nick Carroway's spare bedroom)
2. To Kill a Mockingbird (Atticus is my hero and role model)
3. Fahrenheit 451 (one of the coolest plots and best titles ever)
4. Crime & Punishment (Raskolnikov is one of the best characters ever created)
5. A River Runs Through It (contemporary, but a classic. A heartbreaking poem really)
6. Of Mice and Men (Lenny--unforgettably tragic; George profoundly just)
7. A Lesson Before Dying (how to be a man, applicable to any generation, any race)
8. Huck Finn (no comment necessary)
9. The Sound and the Fury (Quentin, the existential man)
10. For Whom the Bell Tolls (Hemingway's opus)

Wow, I should've done top twenties. Huge gaps, huge gaps.... Got thoughts of your own? I'd love to hear them.

Dear Friends, Here's a DEAL for YOU!

But first a small rant: the handwritten letter has died. It is no more. I see desks with no pens, no stationery. I receive mail with no handwriting whatsoever on any part, not even the envelope. Why is that? Too many things vying for attention...Frenetic society that allows no self-reflection...unwillingness to handwrite what could easily be communicated by email (w/ all its attendant shorthand, LOL! BFF...GMAB)?

I don't have an answer for you. But I have a solution. Let's not lament. Instead, let's write some letters. Not typewritten, not printed on the laser printer, but handwritten. I confess, it's difficult. But here's the deal.

I'll write you a letter. Just send me your address (for this part, yes, email is perfect). You just have to promise to write someone else a handwritten letter. Pay it forward. Deal?

Write soon.

Love, Sean