A poca gente le resulta indiferente saber que algún desconocido está hablando de uno. Y siempre es noticia el que un periódico de talla mundial le dedique un editorial a nuestro país. El New York Times del día 6 lo publicaba con el original título de Olé! This Spanish Summer. El artículo, que habla del buen momento del deporte español (lo pone por las nubes, y no sin razón) justo cuando nuestra economía se va dramáticamente al garete, no tendría ningún interés si no fuera por su enfoque. Nos compara con Italia, pero no de la manera que al presidente Zapatero le gustaría, esa que certifica que estamos mejor que ellos económicamente (porque Italia se está hundiendo más rápido), sino de una manera que pone a España perdiendo en algo que casi nadie podría admitir, excepto Sánchez-Dragó: en lo bien que sabemos vivir.

El artículo dice literalmente: los italianos tienen el arte de la vida, los españoles el arte de la muerte, y señala un hipotético sentido del honor del que hablaba Hemingway como fuerza que ha propiciado las victorias deportivas una vez que no hay alegrías respecto al dinero. A Arturo Pérez-Reverte, con sus Alatristes y sus batallitas, le encantaría el editorial del Times, que, también comparándonos con los italianos, dice que mientras ellos se acostumbran a sus diferencias, nosotros nos matamos sin dudarlo en una guerra civil.

El Times también dice que mientras en Italia la vida está dedicada al placer, en España nunca se puede llegar a separar de lo trágico. ¿Cuántos españoles podrían admitir eso? Pocos hay que no digan eso de como se vive aquí, en ninguna parte, aunque la latitud más extrema a la que hayan llegado sea La Manga del Mar Menor. No sé si los estudios sobre la felicidad tienen mucha validez, pero España nunca está entre los primeros países, y aunque esto escandalizaría de los españoles, no nos llevamos medallas en ser felices, estas son para Dinamarca, Puerto Rico y Colombia.

Una persona de Boston, Helsinki o Tokio que lea un poco del mencionado Hemingway y otro poco de García Lorca se hará la misma idea sobre España que la que tiene el autor del editorial, una idea que se convirtió hace muchos años, más bien décadas o siglos en el estereotipo oficial. Y, no sé, lo mismo tienen razón, y quizás deberíamos fiarnos más de lo que dicen sobre nosotros un par de norteamericanos que de la imagen que tenemos de nosotros mismos.

Got tight last night on Absinthe. Did knife tricks."

The depth of emotion is certainly there, and there are moments of truly elegant and poetic writing.

Overall, it seems rather mixed as reviews go, somewhere between encouraging and constructively critical, with far more positive than negative. I'm still new to writing and publishing and books, and I know the general position is that one shouldn't discuss, much less respond, to reviews, so I think I'll refrain. Overall, while she seemed to have major aesthetic issues with my style, she still seemed to enjoy the read and ultimately rated the collection as a whole a 7 out of 10 (which puts it above average so far as POD People reviews go, if narrowly), and she specifically cites six pieces that she enjoyed.

One thing she's brought up, both in the reviews and in some correspondence with me, is:

there is always reason to re-evaluate the work. And as we mature as writers, re-evaluation is a necessary evil.

Which is true in some ways, I think, but I wonder about in others. Now that it's a year and a half later, I've considered making more explicit certain reasons for certain choices I've made: the cover for one (Gardner hated it, but it's often one of the first thing reviewers or readers tell me they liked about it), as well as some of the content. And there is a point that, a year and a half later, and now with a Master's degree under my belt, I think I've gained a little more objectivity about my writing--I'm certainly better at it, I know that, which is nice considering all the time, effort, energy, and money I invested in the past few years alone. I'd have to reread the afterword to see if there's anything new I might say about the work, but I've certainly learned a lot through the book that I obviously couldn't before I put it out there.

One specific choice I'll note now is that, while I might re-evaluate the work, I won't, as Cheryl suggests I might, revisit it; Entrekin is not perfect, certainly (there are a few typos, for one), but then again, what is? In the past year, however, I've come to look at it as a sort of chronicle of a place I was and experiences I had, nearly a record of sorts, and as such, I've come to see it for what it is; a book that closes a period of my life. If I revisit any of the themes that appear in it (I think I probably do, in The Prodigal Hour), I will do so in other stories (and there's a huge change right there: when I first published my collection, my novel was tentatively titled A Different Tomorrow).

As for talking about a lot of it and discussing the review, I'm not certain. Hemingway I think said: "Fuck 'em all; let 'em think you were born knowing how to write." Then again, one of the reasons I've always said I blog is to show the nuts and bolts of things in ways that haven't been seen before.

What do you think?

Anyway, this was just mainly to note the review and allowed me to note some things I'd wanted to. Like I said, the review's a bit mixed, but why take someone else's word for it, anyway? You can still download it as a free digital file readable not just on any computer but even on iPhones and certain other .pdf capable smart phones, so why not make up your own mind about it?

And if you like it, tell a friend. Heck, if you like it, buy a copy for one.

What Hemingway has created, I hope you agree, is anticipation of what is going to occur when the explosive device does its job. As readers, we now want to read further to see what the outcome will be.

Hemingway's exciting beginning of his book meshes perfectly with the words in On Writing Well by author William Zinsser. He writes: “[Your] lead must capture the reader immediately and force him to keep reading. It must cajole him with freshness, or novelty, or paradox, or humor, or surprise, or with an unusual idea, or an interesting fact, or a question. Anything will do, as long as it nudges his curiosity and tugs at his sleeve.”

There is no doubt that Hemingway, in For Whom the Bell Tolls, has "nudged the curiosity" of the reader. Is this what your book does? Or does it fulfill any of the other suggestions Zinsser makes? If not, attempt to formulate another beginning for your book with story ideas and prose that leap off the page. The hard work will be well worth it.

Just finished reading The Postman Always Rings Twice by James M. Cain, so I started thinking about stripped down prose in general.  There's just something so appealing about it.  I find myself reading authors who write in simple, short sentences—the kind that punch you in the gut, and then right when you think you're going to get some air back into your lungs, another comes in and hits you again.

Hemingway usually gets credited for this style, and, yeah, that might be true.  He was certainly one of the early practitioners of it, but I don't thinks he's the best example of it.  Having just read Cain, he's fresh in my mind, and I have to say that I think he had way more knowledge of how to use and pace sparse language than Hemingway ever did.  But while Hemingway's stories were of more 'literary' pursuits, Cain wrote hardboiled stories about betrayal.

Today, they call it minimalism, and a lot of the authors I read get lumped into this 'ism' by critics.  Chuck Palahniuk, Amy Hempel (random side note: I'm going to a reading of Chuck's at the end of the month in NYC, and Amy Hempel's the moderator *jumps in air from excitement*), Will Christopher Baer, Craig Clevenger, Stephen Graham Jones (to some extent; his shorts definitely), Raymond Carver, Brett Easton Ellis, etc.

What is it that appeals to me?  Some might call it a lack of style, but I think really it becomes its own style.  Reading any of these authors, their writing takes it own form of fluidity.  It's streamlined.

Now don't get me wrong, I love the wordy bastards (Nabokov, Pynchon) and the guys in between (Fitzgerald, King), but I do often get drawn back to the minimalists.  When I read their stuff, I want to write my own stories in that style (which usually doesn't turn out well, but, hey, I'm just getting started).  There's something in that stripped down, just-the-facts voice.  Suddenly a period or a comma becomes much stronger than in other stories.

And I think that voice is a great way to learn how to write well.  It teaches you to write clear, well constructed sentences in the active voice.  Minimalist writers should be used in teaching high school and college classes how to write.  If writing teachers and professors want to get young people interested in writing well, than it wouldn't hurt to use the inherently interesting (and good) writing of authors like James M. Cain and Chuck Palahniuk.  I'm sorry but maybe it's time to update The Old Man and the Sea to something like The Postman Always Rings Twice or Fight Club. It might just get more kids reading for pleasure, which really, is far easier (and better) than getting them to read because something should be read.  Canonical works are great and all, but, come on, there's more out there.

Now that I've done some Cain, I guess I have to track down some Jim Thompson.  God, my to read pile will never go down.

Why has The Shack rocketed to number one on The New York Times novel is packed with important things to think about regarding the characteristics we call care about, admit it or not - being loving, being forgiving, and especially being one with Jesus, God, and the Holy Spirit. paperback fiction list? The yarn, about a decent fellow named Mack who must endure the tragic loss of his youngest daughter by a dasdardly killer, provides "stop and think" issues regarding how to deal with the above subjects. This is especially true regarding the issue of forgiving, something paramount, Young believes, to having any chance to become free. But Mack must learn the hard way whether he might forgive both his abusive father, and the man who slaughtered his daughter. Those who help him - yeah, it's God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit in person, one might say, dive into Mack's head and help him resolve the age-old question as to why pain and suffering occur to the best of human beings. In the end, Mack understands better not only this question and potential answsers, but himself and how he wants to lead the rest of his life.

One of the finest books I have ever read, The Shack is a must-read for everyone whether Christian, non-believer, or believer in another spiritual entity. It will scare you, warm your heart, and cause you to touch tender issues you may have deep within. Above all it will teach you that forgiving is arguably the greatest human emotion of all. If you may forgive, then you are free in every sense of the word.

Young's book has certainly struck a nerve, and whether you want to buy his message or not, do at least use the book for inspirational purposes. A traditional self-published book (subsidy publishing is a no-no) can and does have a chance these days of breaking out and becoming a bestseller. If you can't find a publisher interested in what you have written, try traditional self-publishing. Information as to how to proceed are contained in my book "How to Become a Published Author: At to Z." You may download it or copy it free of charge using the icons above.

Hemingway might not have agreed with Young writes, but I damn well believe he would have admired him for writing the book. And for his belief that one day it might be a bestseller.

Te koop: babyschoentjes. Nooit gedragen.

AvondjeWeg's kortste kort verhaal:

Te koop: brilmontuur. Eigenaar blind. Nooit gedragen.

Sometimes the words won't come and the closest I can be to paper is to play with it and after drawing in my journal (an utterly ridiculous pasttime because an artist I am not) and still, nothing to write or say, I play with my photos and scissors.

Such was the occasion several weeks ago. Card-making. Something to do with photos that were laying about without album, shoebox or anywhere to call home. Often I'll tuck the orphan photos into a letter. But when words won't come, letters to friends and family don't, either.

HM was working at the dining room table (he refuses a desk at home though I'd love to get him a "Hemingway" desk) and I sat down with him, surrounding my corner of the table with various papers, a cutter, a pile of homeless photos and glue, and started sticking things together.  It seemed like a good thing to do at the time and I have seen many a fine card rendered by others on the Internet (check out Etsy, too). They seem to tap into something magnificent somehow, be it minimal or maximal. I just kept going that day at the table with HM and came up with a few very very homemade looking cards.

One day at work, weeks later, RWick showed me stationery a friend had made for her. It was stunning. Simple. Classy. And packaged in tissue in a large box. A lovely gift. Inspiring. This week I looked at my "paper" stuff.  I have a significant amount of it, collected, and laughed conspiratorially when I saw the piles of quilt stuff Redness showed on her blog.

I shall rage on in an attempt to create something useable. I am surrounded by creativity. It is now only a matter of tapping into it...somehow.

Perhaps the key is two-fold. Clean up my (at-home) office and start better time management, not in a strict way, but in such a way that allows for thinking my way into "create time."

I will begin today with getting rid of piles of stuff (again) on my writing/craft table.

So many of you manage multi-interests brilliantly. Maybe you plan. Maybe you don't plan. Maybe I should set a "loose" schedule. Any tips on juggling a full work week, family and productive creative time? 

signed,
(momentarily) Stymied

Despite my having been been published nearly twenty times (See the Mark Shaw Books icon above), I just hired a literary consultant to evaluate a book proposal I wrote. His opinion will be most helping in considering whether I am on the right track with my book concept.

When people hire me as a mentor/consultant to help them, I usually provide a sketch of what services I will provide. It includes:

Initial evaluation of the book project regarding topic, uniqueness, publishing viability, and strategy - idea to publication

Suggested research techniques and use of preliminary book outline

Evaluation of first manuscript draft with notes re content, grammar and punctuation accuracy, and theme projection

Evaluation of subsequent manuscript draft with notes

Evaluation of final manuscript draft with notes

Reference of line editors to examine manuscript for completion and submission

Consultation regarding form for first book proposal draft

Evaluation of subsequent book proposal draft

Evaluation of final version of book proposal

Consultation regarding first query letter draft

Evaluation of subsequent query letter draft

Evaluation of final version of query letter

Consultation regarding publishing alternatives

Consultation regarding selection of literary agent potentials

Assistance with submission procedures to literary agents and/or publishers

Legal consultation regarding literary agent and/or publishing contracts

Of course, I never guarantee that someone will be published, only that the strategy/advice suggested will optimize the chances to be published. Check the icon above that lists many authors who have used my assistance if you wish to do so.

No matter, locating a competent, professional consultant is easy to do using a Google search, etc. Carefully check out credentials and if you have the time, contact references the consultants mention to make certain they were pleased with the advice provided.

So, hemingwaywantabes, don't be shy about asking for help with your first book, or even a subsequent one. The cost is reasonable and the advice worth the cost.

Me parece una gran plantilla, aunque tiene limitaciones, como todo, no puede ser perfecto. Voy a probarla un tiempo a ver si me termina de agradar. Se aceptan comentarios al respecto.

Actualización [1 Agosto]: Regresé a Kubrick, no terminó por convencerme Hemingway.

* * * * *

He came into the room to shut the windows while we were still in bed and I saw he looked ill.  He was shivering, his face was white, and he walked slowly as though it ached to move.

"What's the matter, Shatz?"

"I've got a headache."

"You better to back to bed."

"No.  I'm alright."

"You go to bed.  I'll see you when I'm dressed."

But when I came downstairs he was dressed, sitting by the fire, looking a very sick and miserable of nine years.  When I put my hand on his forehead I knew he had a fever.

"You go up to bed," I said, "you're sick."

"I'm all right," he said.

When the doctor came he took the boy's temperature.

"What is it?"  I asked him.

"One hundred and two."

Downstairs, the doctor left three different medicines in different colored capsules with instructions for giving them.  One was to bring down the fever, another a purgative, the third to overcome an acid condition.  The germs of influenza can only exist in an acid condition, he explained.  He seemed to know all about influenza and said there was nothing to worry about if the fever did not go above one hundred and four degrees.  This was a light epidemic of flu and there was no danger if you avoided pneumonia.

Back in the room I wrote the boy's temperature down and made a note of the time to give the various capsules.

"Do you want me to read to you?"

"All right.  If you want to," said the boy.  His face was very white and there were dark areas under his eyes.  He lay still in the bed and seemed very detached from what was going on.

I read aloud from Howard Pyle's Book of Pirates; but I could see he was not following what I was reading. 

"How do you feel, Schatz?" I asked him.

"Just the same, so far," he said.

I sat at the foot of the bed and read to myself while I waited for it to e time to give another capsule.  It would have been natural for him to go to sleep, but when I looked up he was looking at the foot of the bed, looking very strangely.

"Why don't you try to go to sleep?  I'll wake you up for the medicine."

"I'd rather stay awake."

After a while he said to me, "You don't have to stay in here with me, Papa, if it bothers you."

"It doesn't bother me."

"No, I mean you don't have to stay if it's going to bother you."  I thought perhaps he was a little lightheaded and after giving him the prescribed capsules at eleven o'clock I went out for a while. 

It was a bright, cold day, the ground covered with a sleet that had frozen so that it seemed as if all the bare trees, the bushes, the cut brush and all the grass and the bare ground ahd been varnished with ice.  I took the young Irish setter for a little walk up the road and along a frozen creek, but it was difficult to stand or walk on the glassy surface and the red dog slipped and slithered and I fell twice, hard, once dropping my gun and having it slide away over the ice.

We flushed a covey of quail under a high clay bank with overhanging brush and I killed two as they went out of sight over the top of the bank.  Some of the covey lit in trees, but most of them scattered into brush piles and it was necessary to jump on the ice-coated mounds of brush several times before they would flush.  Coming out while you were poised unsteadily on the icy, springy brush they made difficult shooting and I killed two, missed five, and started back pleased to have found a covey close to the house and happy there were so many left to find on another day.

At the house they said the boy had refused to let any one come into the room.

"You can't come in," he said.  "You mustn't get what I have."

I went up to him and found him in exactly the position I had left him, white-faced, but with the top of his cheeks flushed by the fever, staring still, as he has stared, at the foot of the bed.

I took his temperature.

"What is it?"

"Something like a hundred," I said.  It was one hundred and two and four tenths.

"It was a hundred and two," he said.

"Who said so?"

"The doctor."

"Your temperature is all right," I said.  "It's nothing to worry about."

"I don't worry," he said, "but I can't keep from thinking."

"Don't think," I said.  "Just take it easy."

"I'm taking it easy," he said and looked straight ahead.  He was evidently holding tight onto himself about something.

"Take this with water."

"Do you think it will do any good?"

"Of course it will."

I sat down and opened the Pirate book and commenced to read, but I could see he was not following, so I stopped.

"About what time do you think I'm going to die?" he asked.

"What?"

"About how long will it be before I die?"

"You aren't going to die.  What's the matter with you?"

"Oh, yes, I am.  I heard him say a hundred and two."

"People don't die with a fever of one hundred and two.  That's a silly way to talk."

"I know they do.  At school in France the boys told me you can't live with forty-four degrees.  I've got a hundred and two."

He had been waiting to die all day, ever since nine o'clock in the morning.

"You poor Schatz," I said.  "Poor old Schatz.  It's like miles and kilometers.  You aren't going to die.  That's a different thermometer.  On that thermometer thirty-seven is normal.  On this kind it's ninety-eight."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely," I said.  "It's like miles and kilometers.  You know, like how many kilometers we make when we do seventy miles in the car?"

"Oh," he said.

But his gaze at the foot of the bed relaxed slowly.  The hold over himself relaxed too, finally, and the next day it was very slack and he cried very easily at little things that were of no importance.

* * * * *

Schatz는 독일어로 'my pleasure'라는 사랑의 말이라고 한다.  자신을 그렇게 부르는 아버지가 자신의 죽음 앞에서 'Just take it easy'라고 말한다.  아홉 살 소년은 어땠을까?  소설이 아버지의 나래이션이기 때문에 아버지가 한 상황 해석이 써있는 그대로 맞다고 믿으면 안될 것 같다.  아버지는 아들이 좀 괜찮아졌다고 생각하고 밖에 나가 사냥을 하지만, 그동안 아들은 자신이 곧 죽을 거라고 생각하며 아버지를 하루종일 기다린다.  처음에는 아픈 꼬마 아이가 왜 저러나 궁금했는데 이야기를 두 번, 세 번 읽다보면 내가 그 아홉 살 아이가 되어 무섭고 두렵게 느껴진다.

아버지가 아들에게 읽어주는 Howard Pyle's Book of Pirates를 통해 이 작품을 읽은 essay가 하나 있다.  Susan F. Beegel이 1993년에 쓴 글로서(Studies in Short Fiction, Fall, 1993, by Susan F. Beegel), 이 작품의 대화를 심리적/사회적으로 분석했다.  소년을 <킬리만자로의 눈The Snow of Kilimanjaro>에서 죽어가던 Harry와 비교한 부분, 해적 이야기를 읽어주는 아버지의 행동, 아들의 반응을 분석한 부분이 눈에 띈다.  특히 'you don't have to stay here with me, Papa, if it bothers you / it doesn't bother me'에서 아버지와 아들이 말한 'it'의 의미가 어떻게 달랐는지.  그래서 아들은 심적으로 어땠을런지를 노골적으로 번역translation했다.  영어에서 영어로 한 번역인데 그 둘이 말한 의미를 좀 더 직접적이고 새로운 단어로 다시 말했다.  S. F. Beegel의 해석대로라면 아이와 아버지의 대화는 정말 소름끼친다.  어떻게 이 짧은 이야기를 읽고 몇 배나 긴 논문을 똑부러지게 잘 쓰셨는지...  위의 이야기를 다 읽은 사람에게 한번쯤 꼭 읽어보라고 추천하고싶다.  요거 →  'Howard Pyle's Book of Pirates' and male taciturnity in Hemingway's "A Day's Wait." - Ernest Hemingway

실제로 나도 살다가 저 아이처럼 듣지는 않는지.  내가 받아들이는 세상에 대한 인식이 완벽하지 않다는 것을 알기 때문에 - 완벽할 수 없다, 완벽함이 뭔지도 모른다 - 아이의 공포는 충분히 공감하고도 남는다.  단지 섭씨와 화씨를 몰라서 생긴 일이라고 해버리면 아이에게 미안하다.  그게 아니다.  또 내가 아버지처럼 '아들을 위해' 책을 읽어주고 약을 먹여주고 열을 재고 토닥토닥 하는 말들이 아들에 대한 충분한 이해를 바탕으로 한 것일까?  맨 마지막 문장은 'he cried very easily at little things that were of no importance'로 끝난다.  이 부분이 아버지의 아들 관찰지 결론이다.  간단명료하다, Schatz의 하루에 비해.

I admit to not being certain whether Ernest Hemingway ever permitted anyone to look at first drafts of his books (if you know, please let me know), but I'll bet he thought it was a good idea for aspiring authors and poets. Another fine writer thinks this makes sense. His name is Stephen King and perhaps you know he has sold a zillion books during the past twenty years or so.

In On Writing, King's terrific book about the craft, he writes, "When you give out six or eight copies [drafts] of a book, you get back six or eight highly subjective opinions about what's good and what's bad in it. If all your readers think you did a pretty good job, you probably did . . . If everyone who reads your book says you have a problem, you've got a problem and you better do something about it."

Currently, the two books I am working on, a biography of spiritual guru Thomas Merton, and one presenting a fresh look at the JFK and Lee Harvey Oswald assassinations, are being read by others. I try to pick a variety of people re age, knowledge of the subject matter, gender, etc. so opinions will be received from a variety of viewpoints. Each person hopefully will be direct so that I may learn a number of things about the books.

If you have finished a workable first draft of your book, consider some critique. You might stay away from family or close friends since they will inclined to tell you what you want to hear. Instead, try to find some people who will be frank with you so you may truly learn from their comments and suggestions. Constructive criticism is a great learning tool. Try it on for size.

On the surface, the book seems to be a "man's book," but it is much more than that. Through Carlson's perspective, we learn about three men who have hidden secrets but meet in the Rocky Mountains with different agendas towards their future. Each must battle demons haunting them, but through work and friendship, they learn what is really important about life. Above all, the book is a terrific love story, one that you will read as quickly as possible to learn what occurs to Carlson's compelling characters.

And, perhaps best of all, Carlson's writing technique, certainly "Hemingwayesque" in manner, is terrific as a learning tool for all aspiring authors. Don't read it once, read it twice!!

The deadline's approaching.  What do you do?  What will you do?

My suggestion is to read, take a walk, and drink.  In that order.  Let me explain.

I like reading.  I love knowing what other people have to say.  Thankfully, today we have one incredible resource at our fingertips in the Internet.  Call up your favorite search engine and type in keywords related to your topic.  Start reading what others have already said about your topic.  Don't steal their ideas!  Just read about the topic and explore the different angles those authors have taken.  Typically, these Internet articles have links to other topics and ideas.  Follow the links down the rabbit hole.  Explore new topics.  Read the fresh perspectives.  Read read read.

But remember, you're on deadline.  Once you're gotten a good base in your head, take a walk.  Think about what you read.  Think about different angles people have taken on your topic.  Think about your own experiences and how they may differ from what you read.  Take mental notes which might only be free form thoughts, but may also serve as jumping off points to help get the creative process started.

And drink.  I've found things with sugar and caffeine in them to work the best.  Stay away from alcohol.  You're no Ernest Hemingway.

What's worked when you've been besieged with Writer's Block?  Ever been forced under deadline to have to find your way through the Block and still deliver the goods?

To say I am in an awkward point in my life is a gross understatement. Funny how amused we are by familiar stereotypes like "the awkward teenage years." It's almost a relief to look back at that time and marvel at how lanky we were, or clumsy or somehow disproportionate in an acceptable still-growing kind of way. I've passed those years and the awkwardness of my life has made those close to me very uneasy. In a stink bomb kind of way.

About a month ago I watched a documentary on PBS about young African women who have developed fistulas after a difficult birth. I would never attempt to draw parallels between their destitute lives and my American modern-convenience-filled life. But their words, translated to English for me, struck a nerve. Or more like a lot of ragged charged nerves. I was frozen on the couch at 2:00 a.m. realizing that it really could be worse, that I could be leaking excrement involuntarily and outcast from my community as a result. But I'm not sure I was that fair. I might have been visualizing my effigy, wallowing in my isolation.

My life's formula over the past year has been one step forward two steps back, or better yet an algorithm that could explain the "Little Engine that Could." Not a straight 1 + 1, but something that allows for strange jaunts and undeniable deductions, but still ends up in the general vicinity of forward.

And somewhere along the way I became a superhero.

"Los dioses no estaban ya, y Cristo no estaba todavía, y de Cicerón a Marco Aurelio hubo un momento único en que el hombre estuvo solo". Esta frase de Flaubert que Marguerite Yourcenar leyó en 1927 fue uno de los desencadenantes de las "Memorias de Adriano". "Gran parte de mi vida - dijo la novelista - transcurriría tratando de definir, y luego de pintar, a ese hombre solo y, por lo demás, unido a todo". Labor constante, transpiración perpetua. Cuando se imparten cursos de creación siempre se divide en dos la gran esfera: por un lado, antes de nada, la inspiración; por otro lado, después de todo, la realización, es decir, la disciplina, el quehacer, la tenacidad en encontrar soluciones a los inevitables  problemas; en resumen, la transpiración:  dedicación y  concentración.  99 % de talento, 99% de disciplina y 99% de trabajo, decía Faulkner. Muchos hallan de improviso la inspiración y muchos también abandonan o empobrecen la realización porque la disciplina les parece ardua y les supera.

La exposición "Adriano, imperio y conflicto", abierta en el British Museum de Londres hasta el 26 de octubre, nos lleva otra vez a esta enigmática figura a la que Yourcenar hizo hablar, creando unas Memorias inventadas, y alcanzando con ellas una cumbre en la novela histórica. Seguir el rastro de la transpiración de la escritora es algo apasionante por los vericuetos que nos presenta, por los atajos que recorre, por los logros que consigue. "Este libro tiene una larga historia - dirá ella en 1951, en una de sus Cartas -. Lo empecé hará más de veinte años, en una época de la vida en que aún se padecen ciertas suficiencias, ciertas imprudencias... Lo volví a coger en 1936, dándole su forma actual, las memorias de un hombre que hace un repaso de su vida desde la perspectiva de su próxima muerte. Pero no escribí más de quince páginas. Aún no estaba lo bastante madura, en aquella época, para llevar a cabo este proyecto tan amplio".

En febrero de 1949 reemprende la redacción de "Adriano" donde la interrumpió en 1937. Tiene que tomar el tren para Chicago, luego para Santa Fe, en Nuevo México, y durante un viaje de dos días escribe sin parar. "Me llevaba las hojas en blanco conmigo para empezar de nuevo ese libro, como un nadador que se tira al agua sin saber siquiera si alcanzará la orilla. Hasta muy tarde en la noche, trabajaba en él entre Nueva York y Chicago, encerrada en mi coche-cama. Y todo el día siguiente, en el restaurante de una estación de Chicago, donde esperaba a un tren bloqueado por una tempestad de nieve. Luego, de nuevo hasta el alba, sola en el coche de observación del expreso de Santa Fe, rodeada por las grupas negras de las montañas del Colorado y por el eterno dibujo de los astros. Los pasajes sobre la comida, el amor, el sueño y el conocimiento del hombre fueron escritos así de una sola tirada. No recuerdo haber vivido día más ardiente ni noches más lúcidas". Esta es la transpiración de Yourcenar como transpiración era el escribir de pie de Hemingway, creando sobre la superficie de un atril a causa de sus problemas de espalda o transpiración era la de Thomas Mann, viajando también en tren a Chicago y escribiendo allí, en el mismo vagón,  el capítulo catorce de Doktor Faustus.

Toda profesión humana lleva consigo un esfuerzo y él arrastra consigo un natural cansancio. La creación es un quehacer más. En el caso de las Memorias de Adriano (Pocket Edhasa), los Cuadernos de Notas de la autora reflejan parte de esa constancia y de esa paciente elaboración. "Solía escribir en griego durante una o dos horas - confiesa - antes de ponerme a trabajar, para acercarme más a Adriano". O también:  "Había tomado la costumbre, cada noche, de escribir de manera casi automática el resultado de esas largas visiones provocadas donde yo me instalaba en  la intimidad de otros tiempos". Y en otras ocasiones al no trabajar: "Hundimiento en la desesperación de un escritor que no escribe". Al fin su personal hallazgo, el tono esencial:    "Retrato de una voz. Si decidí escribir estas Memorias de Adriano en primera persona, fue para evitar en lo posible cualquier intermediario, inclusive yo misma. Adriano podía hablar de su vida con más firmeza y más sutileza que yo".

Tal fue la transpiración de Marguerite Yourcenar - como la de tantos otros seres humanos. Fue la transpiración, el tesón, la elaboración constante de esta autora, aquella que firmó una gran definición: "Una de las mejores maneras de reconstituir el pensamiento de un hombre es reconstituir su biblioteca".

(Imágenes: Adriano.-Museo Bitánico/ Marguerite Yourcenar)

If anyone ever reads this and is wondering what followed those last meetings, it's that I asked around and found a way of contacting Hemmingway, online. And we've spoken to each other several times since the Club finished. We had really good conversations :)  However, the latest development is the problem. Hemmingway has found someone... So I guess it's over now.

There might be a new/old person in the picture but it's early/old days (I make NO sense do I?)

In conclusion, it would be cheesy to link this with a song, so I'll just leave it here :)

I think in future I'll be writing about different things..  x

I find that among the most intelligent teenagers and twenty something's are smokers, alcoholics, potential drug addicts, and people who buy water; essentially just reckless self-destructive people with no sense of moderation but intelligent nontheless. This pattern of behavior has led me to the conclusion that there is a negative correlation between "intelligence" and "common sense."

Take smoking for instance: Never in all my 19 years have I heard a rational argument in favor of smoking; it's an expensive, unhealthy, and inconvenient habit. Nobody looks at a pack of cigarettes and upon reading the surgeon generals warning says, "What!? These things are bad for you!?" Intelligent people don't smoke because they're unaware of the health risks. I believe, like anyone who engages in any type of self-destructive activity, they just don't care.

Ernest Hemingway said "Happiness in intelligent people is the rarest thing I know" which seems to hold true to an extent; the more you find out about this world the less the wish you knew, and in most cases, the less you begin to care. I'm going to call this "intelligence" secular intelligence: where your existence is as random and inconsequential as an extra pinky toe. For the sake of humanity, there has to be something beyond than that.

During a writing and publishing seminar last week, I made sure the audience knew about a great resource tool, Publisherslunch.com. There wasn't such a thing in Hemingway's day, but now it is almost a must for any aspiring author since the daily information sent via email is critical to understanding what is occurring in the publishing business. There is news on every deal being completed, info on the author and book concept, details about the literary agent who sold the book, and mention of the editor at the publishing house who optioned the book. Wow, all you need to know in one installment.

Also, Publisherslunch.com provides resource material on literary agents, editors, etc. that is invaluable to assisting a writer's search for the right agent or publisher for his/her book. So take a gander when you have time. There is a free email service, or a monthly subscription at a reasonable price. Either way, you will be linked into the publishing world like never before.

Am nächsten Morgen starteten wir Richtung Key West um die 200 Kilometer lange Strecke abzurollen. Wunderschön der Ausblick auf's Meer, aber auch sehr monoton nach 1-2 Stunden. Bei Robbie's auf Islamorada gab es eine Pause und wir fütterten die Tarpons. Riesige Fische die über 1,50 Meter lang werden. Der Eimer Fisch kostet 5 $ und die fressen einem wirklich aus der Hand. Man sollte sie also rechtzeitig wegziehen, sonst ist die Hand auch weg ;) . Und aufpassen auf die Pelikane; die wollen nämlich auch ihren Teil abhaben. Weiter auf Marathon wollten wir zu den Delphinen. Aber leider war es schon ausgebucht. Pech gehabt. Vielleicht klappt's auf dem Rückweg. Also weiter stur geradeaus bis Key West und unserer Pension Angelinas Guesthouse. Eine kleine, ruhige, super schöne Pension mit tropischen Garten und Pool, zentral gelegen nur 2 Blocks von der Duval Street. Besonders erwähnenswert sind die Zimtrollen, die es zum Frühstück gibt und die Tatsache, dass es keinen Fernseher im Zimmer gibt (man soll sich wirklich erholen). Für Key West sollte man übrigens immer vorab reservieren, sonst kann es einem am Wochenende oder in der Hochsaison passieren, dass man auf der Straße steht. Die Preise sind allgemein recht hoch, aber die Nachfrage ist da und die Leute zahlen die Preise, weil Key West halt immer noch ein Highlight ist.

Die nächsten 2 Tage absolvierten wir alles was so in einem Reiseführer steht. Erst mal zum Most Southern Point (der südlichste Punkt Amerikas, nur 90 Meilen bis Cuba) und Fotos gemacht zum Beweis, dass wir auch hier waren, dann kreuz und quer durch Key West, Hemingway Haus, Leuchtturm, Little White House, Sonnenuntergang am Mallory Square und Abends über die Duval Street schlendern und Kneipen, Harley Davidsons, rosa Taxis, Fahrradtaxis und Amerikaner mit einer Flasche Bier in der Hand (oder einen Drink im Plastikbecher) bewundern. Das ist nämlich nur hier auf Key West erlaubt, Alkohol auf offener Straße zu trinken. Für die Amis ist das die große Freiheit und Urlaub pur. Wir sagen dazu einfach mal; ganz normal wenn man auf Malle oder Ibiza im Urlaub ist. Außerdem ist Key West nach San Francisco das zweite El Dorado aller gleichgeschlechtlichen Pärchen. Auch eine Ausnahme im sonst eher konservativen Amerika. Einen Amtsgang erledigten wir auch noch am Vormittag des zweiten Tages und beantragten unsere Social Security Nummern. War perfekt, denn es war absolut nichts los im Social Office und so hatten wir alles nach 30 Minuten erledigt. Den Nachmittag verbrachten wir dann absolut relaxed an unserem Pool und konnten frische Kokosnüsse knacken, weil an diesem Tag ein paar Männer die Palmen abernteten, damit keiner von den Dingern erschlagen wird. Schmecken lecker so ganz frisch von der Palme. Erst trinken und dann das Kokosmark verspeisen. Bounty ahoi

!!!

Auf der Rückfahrt versuchten wir noch einmal unser Glück im Dolphin Center und wurden belohnt. Waren extra früher losgefahren! Für "Meet a Dolphin" waren noch Plätze frei und so konnte Anja sich ihren Herzenswunsch, endlich einmal einen Delphin anzufassen, erfüllen. Die Gruppen für jede Veranstaltung bestehen immer nur aus max. 8 Personen, und so ist es ratsam rechtzeitig dort zu sein. Für knapp 70 Dollar p.P. konnten wir die Tiere beim Training beobachten und es wurde allerhand zu den Übungen und der Geschichte des Centers, den Delphinen und natürlich dem echten Flipper erklärt. Denn hier wurde damals die Serie gedreht mit Flipper, seinen Kindern und Enkeln. Am Ende konnte Anja dann ihrem Delphin die Hände reichen und war total happy. Die Bilder sagen glaube ich alles. Nach weiteren 2 Stunden Autofahrt erreichten wir unser Motel in Homestead und genossen den Sonnenuntergang mit Parkplatz-Feeling. Der nächste Tag sollte endlich zu den Gators gehen und ca. 40 Kilometer über die berüchtigte "Loop Road" mitten durch die Everglades.

to be continued

!!!

]]> http://molokoplus.wordpress.com/?p=39 Wed, 23 Jul 2008 03:10:54 +0000 blloydblog http://molokoplus.wordpress.com/?p=39 I've reached a point in my life where I'm realizing that there is so much I could have been reading, so I've been making a concerted effort to read more than ever. I'm trying to keep it up, because even though it takes patience and a considerable commitment of time to read a book, the mind is much more stimulated than when in front of the television. One must actually excercise the mind, rather than have the story and images projected for you. Yes these are obvious statements, but I think it's largely forgotten.

I've had issues with fiction lately though. I've gotten it into my head that fiction is a waste of time. I don't know where I had heard someone say that....I want to say it was Condoleezza Rice...I could be wrong. But anyway, I thought about it and felt that in some respects that statement is correct. Why would I want to waste my time with these characthers? They're not real, and therefore can have no real lasting influence on me since they never existed. Why should I be interested? I'd much rather spend my time reading something from which there is an experience shared that I might benefit from.

Or maybe the whole not wanting to spend time with fiction is just that. As I've stated before, one needs to spend time and energy to sit and read a book, so what if the novel is a bad one? How do you get that time back spent on a story and characters that were poorly written? This is coming from someone who spends a lot of time watching movies full of fictional stories and characthers. But with movies, one doesn't need to spend any energy to be entertained...you just sit and watch, and at worst, on average you're out about two hours.

Maybe I'm just full of crap.

I did try some Hemingway this year. The first novel I've tried since DaVinci Code. I got through "DaVinci Code" a while back because that was such a quick read. I have never read any Hemingway and figured I should get some under my belt, so I picked up "The Sun Also Rises." I had a hard time caring about any of the characters, as I knew that none of them were real. Oh sure they may have been close representations of people that Hemingway experienced in his post-WWI days in Europe, but 50 pages in, I couldn't stand it any more. All they did was stagger around Paris drinking, and I thought, "Who cares?" So I've shelved the Heminway until I decide to give him another shot.

Maybe I'll have a change of heart when the right novel comes my way

So these are the books I've cracked over the course of the last few months (In no particular order):

State of Denial by Bob Woodward
Dead Certain: The Presidency of George W. Bush by Robert Draper
John Adams by David McCullough
Clapton: The Autobiography by...Hey, it's an autobiography....figure it out, jackass.
The Sex Lives of Cannibals: Adrift in the Equatorial Pacific by J. Maarten Troost
The Post-American World by Fareed Zakaria