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April 7th, 2010
03:51 pm
I've taken a couple of steps in the direction of professionalism in the last few days. The first was to make a Wordpress blog out of my domain, www.paul-kirsch.com
I'll be posting my book reviews and most of my ruminations on writing over there from now on. I still want to keep this blog, if only to stay in touch with beloved friends who scattered to the four corners of the earth. So don't think that I'm abandoning you! I'm just shifting gears, as it were.
The second and more visually enticing step was to create a book trailer on Animoto, which you can see here:
While all of this was a lot of fun putting together, I haven't actually gotten any writing done today. Never underestimate my ability to distract myself :-)
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March 14th, 2010
10:55 pm - "The Ask," by Sam Lipsyte
Senior year of college, I co-taught a creative writing seminar called "Books that Make You Want to Write" with my adviser and the architect of my being, James. When tirelessly poring over what books to cover, we shared the following dialogue:
James: "Dude, we should read 'Home Land.' There's a scene where the main character leaves his girlfriend to smoke crack in a hotel room, and another where he's having sex with her and says 'I'm your dead brother Lenny!'"
Paul: "I have no idea what you're talking about, but I agree wholeheartedly."
Thus I discovered the funniest book of my experience, and consequentially one of my favorites. "Home Land" is told entirely in (unpublished) letters sent to a high school alumni newspaper. The protagonist (Lewis "Teabag" Miner) is a sympathetic under-achiever with a broken filter between his brain and his mouth. Frequently, his inner monologues will bleed into his dialogues and confuse the hell out of everyone he encounters.
"'Some nights,' I said, 'I picture myself running naked, covered in napalm, running down the street. But then it's not napalm. It's apple butter. And it's not a street. It's my mother.'"
James knew about this book because he knew the author, Sam Lipsyte. Sam even visited the class, and gave a stellar reading. He was a hell of a guy, and I was honored to meet him on common ground.
Sam finally released his latest book, "The Ask." It's about an artist who's settled down to work for a university, begging its wealthy patrons for donations. He runs the risk of losing his job if he doesn't convince an old friend to make a huge give, but has to tangle himself in a broken web of illegitimate children, morally bankrupt capitalism, family chaos, and an evaluation of the "American" way to make it work. The character Milo shares many of Teabag's finer qualities, but with the added strain of a family support and the expectations of those around him.
This is a worthy book that had me busting out laughing in some parts and fuming with anger in others. I could compare it to a Cohen brothers' movie for its complexity and absurdity, but the Cohens don't write dialogue this well. Sam is one of the best out there. I get a palpable sense of comfort whenever I submerge in his narrative voice.
Sam has written Home Land, The Subject Steve, Venus Drive and finally The Ask. Pick up any of those titles and you'll come away with a gem that resonates long after you finish it.
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February 2nd, 2010
04:58 pm
The enduring war between me and my computer continues.
Back in November, Dell begrudgingly replaced my video card (for the 2nd time), RAM, mother board, and processor. At that point, I had already been fighting them for several months. Now things couldn't be worse. If I run a game, I get a blue screen of death. If I shift the laptop's position on my desk, the screen goes black.
And if I do nothing at all, the screen goes black as well.
This is a fantastic thing to happen to a writer, much less a gamer.
I've gone ahead and bought "Build Your Own PC Do-It-Yourself For Dummies" through Amazon. Much as I don't like it, my computer is my familiar. It's an extension of my mind and body. As such, I should be able to make the machine that I deserve, and not feel strangled by the apron strings of rude technical beasts on the other side of the planet.
Rage.
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December 10th, 2009
12:21 am - Review for "Interfictions 2: An Anthology of Interstitial Writing"
A collection of short stories is like a box of chocolates.
But we no longer live in the age when you can present a heart-shaped box of unwrapped, unlabeled confectionery to your sweetheart. They might be allergic to nuts. They could take a bite out of something and swell up like a balloon before the first kiss. These days, a box of chocolates comes with an ingredients label, and often a guidebook identifying the contents. We like to know what we’re eating and, in the case of chocolates, what shapes they might take. We don’t open ourselves to surprise.
The same can be true of reading. Slapping the genre onto a book jacket ceased to be a function of organization long ago. Whether it’s food or information, we like to know what we’re accepting into our bodies and minds before our first exposure. I work in a bookstore, and believe me: not everyone likes to experiment.
Collections of genre fiction are the labeled candies of the literary world. Bite into one and savor the familiarity of your favorite type of story. You knew the gist of what you’d taste when you bought it, because the theme of a collection is its ingredients label. Romance has spice. Fantasy has epic flavor. Science-fiction has nuts and bolts. We know what we like. That’s not to say you can’t be surprised by a particular collection and re-imagine your genre in a unique light, but you are working within a limitation.
The summary of Interfictions 2 claims that interstitial fiction “cross-pollinates” and “falls between the cracks.” To flog a dead chocolate, imagine if the Ghirardelli truck rammed into the Godiva train, scattering their contents to the point that no one could tell which chocolate “belonged” in which box. And despite the candies’ long hours spent lying among their alien neighbors, absorbing the odd slice of coconut or foreign sheen of butterscotch, both companies ultimately decided to risk boxing and selling them anyway.
Risk is at the heart of this collection.
It takes a measure of courage to bite into Interfictions 2. Finishing one story, you can make no assumptions about the next. You’re in a different ballpark, a different sport, and speaking a different language. The stories are narrated by sentient houses, or slowly unfolded by transcripts of government surveillance. They halt you mid-step and go sideways in time. They’re told in ways that defy your experience. Interfictions 2 covers topics you haven’t seen before (or often), because stories like these don’t cluster in noticeable groups. They scrape the rim of things. Every time I finished one, I had to put the book down and focus on the lingering aftertaste of something wholly unexpected.
It’s a book that demands active digestion. These stories leave a part of themselves behind because it takes courage and risk to make it through each one in the first place. You bite into a mystery with no assurance of your choice, vulnerable to the depth of the collection’s engagement.
Lick the last of each story off your teeth and try to pin down the flavor. You can’t, but it’s fun to try. That’s an essential reason why interstitial writing needs a voice: it’s a risk for everyone involved, it’s fun, and it won’t rot your teeth.
May contain nuts.
http://www.amazon.com/Interfictions-2-Anthology-Interstitial-Writing/dp/1931520615/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1260432165&sr=8-1
http://www.interstitialarts.org/wordpress/
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December 1st, 2009
01:32 am
The book is done, and that is good. I'm smoothing over inconsistencies and half-aborted plot lines, and that is good as well. I waver between being sick of my own writing and being utterly surprised by what I see on the page. God I love writing. My superiority and inferiority complexes get to cancel each other out and just...be.
In essence, I'm making the book look like I knew what I was doing all along. The joke's on you.
I live and breathe in anticipation for the next residency. The workshops, the re-connection with peers. It's everything. My life away from writing has nearly ground to a halt. Ultimately, I'm happy.
On the periphery, I'm researching the pursuit of technical writing. A viable and, if I've heard correctly, lucrative day job for my kind. The current job is a den of nightmares. The general public is devouring the best of me. I feel diminished for being among them. Cleaning up their messes, accepting their underestimation of my qualities with a smile.
How can one walk into a bookstore and ask after a book for which they know neither title nor author? In what universe of entitlement do they expect me to know what they want? Do they know that I am not a search engine or a number, but a free man?
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September 29th, 2009
01:39 am
I had a few strange days where I couldn't even look at my own writing without feeling sick. It was this strange postpartum depression--as though the "finished" product brought me horror that eclipsed the joy of the process. Dragged myself out of it long enough to fire off the next packet to my mentor.
I still feel extremely apprehensive about talking about my writing. A co-worker was asking me about the book and I suddenly felt like a child describing the rhyme and reason of some finger-painting project. I need to get over that.
Most importantly of all: my manager loaned me an advance copy of Stephen King's new book: "Under the Dome." Synopsis: an invisible dome appears over a Maine town. Chaos ensues. The point being that, upon hearing the synopsis, I immediately underestimated it, too. I expected another "Cell," a cheap twilight zone episode, but jesus christ. This book is a motherfucking tome. 1000+ pages.
Stephen King is the man largely responsible for my reading and writing career. If he devotes that many words to a single project, I trust him. And I must say, 40 pages into those 1000, I'm completely sold. He's really pulled out all the stops on this one.
Meanwhile, I've got 11 pages of my second book written. And, not to toot my own horn, they're *sexy.* I mean actually sexy, as in there is sex implied beyond the boundary of the pages. I know I need to plug up the Swiss cheese-like holes of the first book, but if I'm trying to sell an agent/editor a series, then I have to convince them that it *is* a series. There are also tentacles, airships, and tentacles. Success.
(Edit: Not to suggest that there is anything wrong with the Twilight Zone. That show runs alongside Stephen King in the running of "reasons Paul Kirsch is the way that he is." Credit where credit is due)
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September 9th, 2009
03:50 pm
Writing a novel is like putting together a puzzle. Except, there's no picture on the box. And the pieces are upside down. And you can only flip them over one at a time. And they're all in your head. And there is no puzzle.
That said, the damned thing went and got finished. I had very little control over the decision-making process. Three protagonists managed to make three decent arcs for themselves, and I only realized it once we were over the rainbow.
THAT said, nothing is resolved. The farthest I've gone is that now everyone is mostly aware of the many plots in motion, which is a pretty sexy place to start *drumroll* the next book!
In the meantime, I'm taking my scissors out to "repair" those puzzle pieces that either had nowhere to go, don't contribute to the picture, or need an edge shaved off to fit properly with their neighboring piece. Having a blurry image of the completed picture makes this work a lot easier than it was before.
Happy times!
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May 2nd, 2009
12:58 pm
I've been so stuck on the novel (in a great way) that I haven't had the mental wherewithal to piece together any short pieces, until it hit me: a short piece in the context of the novel. Sexy.
I feel good enough about the world I'm crafting that I *know* the novel isn't the only story I can tell in it. This is a promising prospect. How cool would it be if I published a / some short stories contained in that world as a way of building momentum toward readership / publication of the larger work? I like this. I can't let it derail me from the Ultimate Goal, but it feels good to sink my feet into a different protagonist for the time being while I still have the map (literal and abstract) of the world drawn out for me (by me) already.
I attended a dear friend's grad review where someone posed the question of what words, phrases, or books had influenced her or reflected what she wanted her writing to accomplish. I kept thinking of Stephen King's Dark Tower books and how so much of the setting is conveyed in language. "I set my watch and warrant on it." "You say so, I say thankya." "Have you decided if I'm an enchantment yet?" The care and thoughtfulness put into language does a remarkable job of making a world in our imagination, moreso even than descriptions of mountains or valleys.
My favorite word: Scrimshander.
The definition: one who makes scrimshaw.
That's a damn fine word in my humble opinion. Look at it. Listen to it. Does it sound like a word that came from our world? Isn't it onomatopoetic in a way you feel unequipped to explain?
Some characteristic words from the novel: Stinkshander, Y'ae, Pettiebone, Esren, Razus Vrinus, Pluck, Klakermen, Ungermen, Fishole, Clemgelly, Drel Hindor, Hrathmir, Fransman, Oildown, Gaslight
What about the rest of you? What words, terms, sounds do you latch onto? From what linguistic pool do you sip when you want to convey something?
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April 29th, 2009
12:17 am
Given that on a good day I start out as less than sociable, it can only go downhill from there. My "day off" is when the adoring public leaves me alone, yet I am permitted to walk among them as a spectre and observe their alien ways.
As a result, I overhear a lot of strange stuff. Mostly at work.
Little over a year ago, two guys were sitting outside a coffee shop, reading and smoking. In the midst of this peace, one of them looked up at the other:
"You know, if I was a warlord or conquerer in ancient times, I don't think I would have raped and pillaged quite as much."
I had to make sure this wasn't my future self.
I didn't think another snippet of conversation could even come close to matching that one, but lo and behold, a pair of hobos chatted in the store and dropped this nugget my way:
"In the future wars, they're not even going to need to put boots on the ground. If they have any boots. Less human involvement that way.""Oh sure, well you've got to figure it all depends on who can afford the robots."
Beauty and horror mate, produce twisted offspring. I approve.
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April 21st, 2009
01:32 am
Ye Players in Forthcoming Drama:
PAUL: the handsome novelist, bookstore cashier
HOBO: a filthy individual
DEATH: as Himself
*HOBO is buying a magazine*
PAUL: Have you got a membership?
HOBO: Membership?! Do you think I want to be in your system, with everyone knowing that I'm reading Republican magazines?!
PAUL: I have no idea what you're talking about.
HOBO: You can read, can't you? You've seen what's going on out there.
*DEATH taps PAUL on the shoulder.*
DEATH: WTF?
Maybe it was the heat, maybe it was a full moon I'm unaware of, but people were NUTS in the store. Never seen anything like it. Like the walking dead, they were. Stared into space. Randomly belligerent. Things would just go wrong around the store, some sort of joint zombie poltergeist assault on my being. One of them even took a bite of me. Itches a little. And damn, now I'm hungry for redder meats than what's in the fridge, meats I couldn't normally find in civilized places...Meats with all the soaked up blood of the last lingering life-moment...
BRAINS.
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