Still Bored

I usually post Monday, but there was this big, heaping pile of lame excuses sitting on the keyboard so I couldn't. Update is on Wednesday instead.

 Last week I complained about how boring most of this literature I have to read is, but I think I was so busy trying to write well I forgot to say the thing that bothers me most; this stuff is too realistic.

The class is about fiction. By definition all of the works we read in it are about things that didn't really happen, so if we're going to lie, why not lie big? Yeah, that's a nice story about racism and manipulation and false understanding about the reality around us, but wouldn't it be cooler if it happened in space? Or maybe with wizards? Heck, let's go the George Lucas route and do both! Instead these stories are placed in familiar settings with familiar archetypes who do familiar things, so familiar that they could be real. Where's the fun in that?

I know I am being a little selfish here, or maybe a lot selfish. I like sci fi and fantasy and paranormal. I like clever world building, and seeing characters take in the bizarre as normal. I love taking a walk inside someone else's imagination, and seeing where (s)he leads me, picking out the familiar in a foreign world.
Alas, judging by the size of the sci fi/fantasy section in the bookstore (because they are pretty much the same thing right?), I am in the minority. Guess if I want more good stuff I've gotta write my own.

The University vs. The Market

It seems to me there is a great disparity between literary writing and the stuff prepared for popular consumption. I like to think of them as the difference between Bruce Willis and Adrien Brody. You can talk about John McClane's struggling relationship with his wife against the metaphorical backdrop of the skyscraper, the significance of the yuletide season, and the contradiction of a New York law officer in L.A., but in the end Die Hard can be summed up with the glorious, unforgettable phrase, "yipee ki-yay mother *****r. In contrast, while some stuff happens in the aptly named Brody's films, they seem to be centered on character arc and subtlety.

Thus cinema reflects its elder form of storytelling. The short stories I've read wield the English language like a scalpel, cutting to the heart of the human condition, laying bare our faults and insecurities, our ill fated hopes along with the bitter dregs of disillusionment. And sex. Always the sex, but not the steamy, exciting sensuousness you'll find in a Harlequin romance or the suave, almost comically seductive charm of 007. No, literary sex is filled with disappointment, and shame and calloused depravity. What strikes me hardest about literature, however, more than its depressing quality or the scent of cheap cologne and regret is that nothing happens.

Well, almost nothing. Nothing interesting, anyway.

I've read ten shorts in the last two weeks (and one day), and there have been exactly two that have taken advantage of fiction's flexibility by exploring the impossible or highly unlikely. One, in which a woman turns into a fox which was just plain weird, and a suspiciously self serving story in which a book critic gets shot in the head. The rest are highly plausible, commonplace, and dare I say it? Yes, yes I do dare. They are boring.

But I wish I could write like these people.

They do boring so well, so artfully, so sneakily, so cleverishly that it isn't until you finish the story that you realize how boring they are. And why? Because they promise excitement the whole way through. They whisper in your ear, suggesting the chance for high intrigue or a twist ending. They leave the door open for happy ever after, then they slam it in your face with a non sequitur and an unresolved arc.

It could be that I am being too hard on these authors. I'm sure that some of these stories are excerpts, so of course there will be no resolution in the middle of the book. Others simply don't speak to me where I am as a person. I am a white American male living in a Midwest suburban paradise; obviously I am not going to find some of this stuff relevant. I'm also shorting them on their positive points. The dark complexity of these characters are a breath of fresh air from the tired tropes and stereotypes that are typically trotted out for the mainstream. In the end, though, I am unsatisfied with both the razor wit of the University and the bludgeoning predictability of the Market. I'm looking to perfect the nuances of both, and then have them make sweet, sweet love to produce a thrilling, fun, interesting novel with a deeper meaning underneath, but only if the reader cares to look.

Shameless

This blog is about my journey to become a published, perhaps professional writer. It is not about going to college, but when I announced my return to school I got quite a few comments from Facebook and the highest traffic day I have logged yet. All of this positive attention might tempt me to wander off topic and talk about my personal life all of the time, but I won’t do that. I won’t casually mention that my wife just delivered our first child this morning. I won’t bore you with details such as height and weight (22 inches, 7 lbs 9 ozs). I won’t tell you what features of his are from me, and which are his mother’s (her nose & chin, my fingers & toes). I won’t tell you that he’s the most beautiful baby in the world because he’s a newborn, and newborns look a little like squishy faced aliens (there are many like him, but this one is mine). I won’t even say how disappointed I am that he lacks any of the fine physical upgrades that I had hoped for in a child (retractable claws, unhingeable jaw, prehensile tail, lycanthropy). If you want the full story you will have to go here. All I will say is that I am now a writer and a full time father, and part time student. Now shower me with adulation, Internet.

I have been attending class for all of one week, and already the words “gastric detritus” and “iniquitous cheese” have sprung from my brain into the processor. I feel like a tiny part of me has been fulfilled by writing these, and I never would have done it were it not for my return to school. I guess I’m easily amused.

Also amusing to me is my master plan for the course. Our assignments are simple; we must write four very short papers with individual prompts, invent one unique personality and “tweet” as that character regularly, and produce and perfect one short story as a final. My plan is to link all of the projects together into one long narrative, and I am terribly excited about it. Not only have I plotted out a story that can fit all of the prompts, but the Twitter aspect allows me to tell part of the story in real time. This is a story that can be told this way only once, and one that only my teacher will be able to fully appreciate since she is the only one who will see all of the course work. Even so, I am frightfully eager to tell this story to my audience of one, because it is freakin’ awesome. I’ll let you know if it works.

Also, there was a phrase from our textbook that I thought quite insightful, and has caused a bit of introspection on my part. It said, “Literature offers us feelings for which we do not have to pay. … for even good feelings have consequences, and powerful feelings may risk powerful consequences.”

That is as complete an explanation of escapist fiction as any, and wins points for brevity. Who doesn’t appreciate the delicious terror of watching the axe swing ever closer to his bared chest, especially when he isn’t the one who is strapped to the table?

I have all sorts of things to say about this, but I am really tired right now and a bit incoherent. I’m afraid I’m going to start whaling on “Twilight” again and muttering about Campbell and the mono myth, and you don’t want that. Instead I think I’ll just take a nap.

A Higher Education

I’m a college dropout. I worked at earning a degree that I didn’t want for three years, stubbornly attending classes I didn’t want to take and memorizing facts I didn’t want to know, complaining about all of it loudly and frequently until it finally happened: an extremely light semester in which I withdrew from one class and got a D in another, just because I hated life and everyone around me. It was the wakeup call I needed. Without any more excuses I was forced to accept that I was not ever going to be a respiratory therapist, that I didn’t want to be a respiratory therapist, and that I was such a miserable person to be around that it would be better for everyone if I just quit. So I did.

It’s been about a year since I left the ivory halls, and I have some fresh perspective. I decided that 90+ credit hours shouldn’t go to waste, but I needed to change my major. There are two schools of thought when it comes to choosing a major. Well, probably more than two, but we’ll keep it simple today. The first is that you should do what you love. The second is to do what is practical.

Now, for a person who actively ponders upon the intricate workings of a hypothetical fairy culture, I am a surprisingly practical person. I know that outside of college people are paid to research (hard sciences), heal (nursing, radiology, pre med) and to make money for other people (accounting, marketing, etc.). They are not paid to think (philosophy), write (English), play (music) or be annoying in public (women’s studies). However, my practical approach didn’t work out so I’m going to go back to the first method. I’m going in for an English degree.

I’m doing this for two reasons. First, I like English. I tend to enjoy the work involved, and I don’t mind investing my time into it. Maybe it won’t directly lead to a career in writing, but it will lead to a degree, and hopefully I won’t be a grumpeteer while I get it. Second, I’m good at it. I was quite angry about that for a long time. Some people are good at lucrative things, like building bridges (engineers) or building businesses (entrepreneurs), or building impossibly sexy bodies (Ryan Gosling). Why couldn’t I be one of those people? Instead I seem to be kind of good at writing, which is not lucrative.* However, I decided that since I’m kind of good at writing, I might as well get really good at it. I’ll do what I was made for and trust that God will take care of the rest.

Today was my first class. I’m taking “Intro to Fiction” at the University of Missouri. The fun thing about college classes is that you never know exactly what to expect when you sign up for them. Some classes have you memorize a ton of factoids, most of them irrelevant to your personal interest; others want you to sit quietly while some old guy brags about his visit from the Queen of Qatar (or Oman or some other tiny Arabic nation with a better GDP than Europe). This class isn’t too weird, but it does require that I open a twitter account based on my own fictional character and “tweet” from his/her/its perspective.

There's a reasonable amount of reading and writing involved, and I have my normal "housewife" duties to attend. In addition, my first kid is due to be born any week now, so I expect that progress on my own work will be slowed. However, I am looking forward to this bright, bright future, and hope that the class improves my future writing.

Here goes.

*You may be thinking “nuh-uh!” and frantically pointing at some of the big names on the NYT best sellers list that have scored movie deals, but may I gently remind you that 99% of the authors in America are not on that list, and that those people are not being paid because their writing is good. They are being paid because their writing is popular, and “good” is only kissing cousins with “popular.”