Puzzling Fiction

I recently read an interesting article where a young boy in 1963, fed up with classroom speculation on literary symbols, wrote letters to some of the most prolific and iconic writers of the time asking them several questions about symbolism in their texts. Some answers are comical, others pedantic, but some of them are memorable and interesting. However, besides some outliers like Ralph Ellison, there seems to be consensus on the fact that direct and implicit symbolism stints creativity.

S. by Doug Dorst and J.J. Abrams

For Christmas I received a copy of S. by Doug Dorst and J.J. Abrams. The novel is intricate and tells several different stories at different time periods. The book is not only a great story, but it is a gimmick. From the moment you cut the "library" tape on the box to remove the edition, the reader has started an adventure. A stressful, confusing, dense adventure. The entire novel is a great conceit; the physical book is dressed up as a library book from a fictional university, sporting a dewey decimal call number, library stamps, and appropriate copyright pages for a book published in 1949. The true necessary markings, ISBNs, 2013 copyrights, and Library of Congress subjects are hidden in tiny text beneath the table chock full of real ink stamps from decades of the book being removed from the library. Of course, it's all fake, but it stretches reader imagination and inclusion in the story.

Read S. if for no other reason than to experience it.

However, I digress. The important take away is that a new era of author has emerged. They may have a fancy title like the Romantics, the Modernists, or the Post-Modernists, but that doesn't matter. Writers have begun to cross over into interactive territory. You can read articles on your devices that are enhanced by audio-visual elements. We can download supplementary podcasts to worlds we've fallen in love with. Yet, this isn't the new type of interaction I'm talking about. Videos, songs, and podcasts in electronic novels aren't groundbreaking, they're just new ways to interpret old data.

S. made me think about writing and I started to realize that, at least as I am concerned, I think it's time writing takes a new turn from the article I mentioned above.

I'm a product of the same English classes the kid in the article is protesting. I jested with teachers in high school about the plausibility of some insane symbols, and I've successfully argued for a symbol I  found in a narrative that was made up. I've spent much of my education chasing and finding symbols. That chase, that desire to find the pieces to the author's puzzle has also transformed my writing.

I write like I analyze. I write like I'm writing a game. I think of writing as a game of I-Spy. For the tech-savvy, a point and click adventure. I want my readers to drink in everything and I want them to feel the same elation I felt when I discovered that clever use of symbolism or language in Conrad's Heart of Darkness.

I'm not writing novels, I'm writing mysteries, but they're not the capers of Conan Doyle's day. No, these mysteries occur in the real world, on the page you hold, not in the world I've crafted. Follow the clues I'm telegraphing and you might just get the jump on the action. But it's not cheating. It's piecing it together one chunk of narrative at a time. Everything is a symbol, and everything means something. The fun part is discovering what that symbol really means.

S. is one of the best examples of full reader immersion and the mystery of the novel makes me want to read it again and again to try to unravel and understand one more bit of it. Reading something more than once is an interesting thing to explore: why do we return, what does that return teach us, do we see something we never saw again? Perhaps for another time.

Magritte's "La Trahison des Images" ("The Treachery of Images") (1928-9).

Yet, the power of S. lies in the powerful handle of writing as a craft. Dorst and Abrams are able to tell one story in the margins, another in the marginalia, and the reader is tasked with making that story whole. The novel, in essence, is a massive jigsaw puzzle with no edge pieces and no box art to use as a guide.

It's another tremor in movement towards the gameification of the written word. It's a text adventure in paper form. It is, in fact, not a pipe.

Power Struggles

I heard a quote that really resonated with me a while ago. Usually while listening to Back to Work, Merlin Mann and Dan Benjamin discuss their favorite comic books, talk about "the film" (Scorsese's biopic about Howard Hughes, The Aviator), and from time to time discuss workflow and productivity hacks. What can you get out of these two men during a two hour program full of comical sound-clips and staple radio sketches? Sometimes, just sometimes, Dan or Merlin throws out a gem of wisdom beyond workflow, something that sounds like it's been shaped into a perfect quotable.

"People with power don't yell, they just do stuff."

I forgot what the episode was really about or when it was, but this little nugget of wisdom stuff with me because I found it profound and true. Merlin framed it by trying to imagine people we view as powerful, CEOs, thinkers, truly powerful people: Bill Gates, Steve Jobs, President Obama, etc. These people are busy, they have problems to solve with not much time to do it; they simply don't have time to get on a conference call and yell at someone. In the high stakes game they play, they only have time to fix the problem. Sure, they get angry or have a bad day just like the rest of us, but while many of us allow ourselves to show our anger or be slowed by it, these truly powerful people innovate and create in order to fix what makes them so angry.

Merlin brought up another interesting point that not only reinforces this idea, but makes the quote applicable to the not-founders of Microsoft. The reason these people are powerful isn't simply because they're geniuses, or in the right place, right time. There is something inherent in the people we view as powerful that makes them innovate and create: they want to grow and prosper instead of getting bogged down by problems and set-backs. 

But how does that apply to us, how can it help me live my life? Next time you have that bad day and feel the weight of the world crushing you, take a moment. Ask yourself: how can I make this better, how can I turn this situation into something productive? Who knows, maybe you'll end up making the next great iOS app, the next great American novel, or just think of a new way to be seconds more productive. 

Links for further interest: 

The Forbes list of 71 most powerful people

I finally found the episode!

Check out other 5by5 Shows (you won't regret it)

How Mad Men is Still Right: The Bar

"He doesn't talk for long stretches, and then he's incredibly eloquent."

Coming off of the season 6 finale, I realized once again that the enigmatic, depraved Don Draper deserved more attention. Perhaps it's unhealthy to raise such a dishonest, despicable anti-hero to further heights, but Don's jaded perspective on life merits revisiting. Don continues to be a drunk philanderer who embodies the despair of a time ravaged by high profile assassinations and riots. The summer of love isn't quite as lovely through Don's eyes. In the most recent seasons, Don has continued his dishonest way of life, but remains captivating to audiences; he is still the pitiable character we all are rooting for. Above all though, he is the same weary philosopher throwing out tastes of his downtrodden philosophy.

"It's one thing to be near the bar, another to be under it."

At face value, this moment is a piece of advice for anyone, especially the newly 21 among us. However, by delving a few layers deeper than the obvious statement, Don begins to speak to something else: endurance and survival. This quote recalls a colloquialism I'm sure we're all familiar with: get out of the kitchen, if you can't handle the heat. To put it another way, Don is addressing the feeling of drowning and the feelings of success and failure. In a succinct metaphor, Don is alluding to the hardships of his life: at times he's been near the bar (many times actually), and sometimes he's been under it. There have been times when he has been riding high, sitting on that stool, but, as we know with Don, that night usually ends with him beneath it, hair disheveled and stumbling back home.

The power of his statement is in it's combination of survival and defeat. Don seems to imply that you will never know what it means to be truly "under the bar" until you've "been near it." Likewise, you may never realize what it truly means to be near the bar until you've felt that crushing, swimming feeling of lying beneath it, bereft of your faculties and your inhibitions crushed. Don knows a lot about being crushed by the oppressive presence of the world, and for that matter alcohol.

Don evokes a seemingly simple double entendre to make his audience sit there for a moment, take a pull from a Lucky Strike or down a tumbler of rye and muse. The only way to survive is to scrub the bar's floor with your tie and never forget that feeling, then pick yourself up and never speak of it again. The two are intertwined: had you not saddled up to the bar, you never would have found yourself under it. Where you end up, near or beneath, is solely dependent upon you. Use that feeling of despair and lack of control to fuel your upward climb and maybe, just maybe, you won't end up under the bar next time.

Or maybe that's just me projecting. What do you think?

My Most Formidable Opponent

I've been sitting in the same chair for over three hours. I've been staring at the same stack of scarred and bleeding manuscript pages for the same amount of time. My coffee had ran dry nearly an hour ago. I refuse to step away. Yet, nothing is coming to mind. I have an outline, I know where the story goes. I have the edits and I can fix grammar and spelling. 

There is some incredibly debilitating, crushing force that won't let me: the formidable and nearly unstoppable Writer's Block.

So, I'm taking a break. I'm sitting here complaining and writing about my inability to write. But what to write about? Frustration. 

I'm sure we've all felt it before, that need to pull out the perfect word from thin air: a grandiose display of diction and wordsmithing. It never comes though. Fun fact, everyone: there is never a perfect word. There is only the word you choose and the one you didn't. There are times, like Juliet, that I wonder, "what's in a word." All I can come up with is a series of letters pressed together to create meaning. What makes one word better than another? It's context. If you have the most amazing diction ever, but your story/paper/essay/etc. is flat or unappealing, it doesn't matter what you say: it still sucks. The only validation for a word you need is utility. Does the word do what you want it to? Does it convey meaning and progress the plot? Is it too hard to read or discern meaning? Do you need all those syllables or would "said" work better?

Progress. That's what it's all about. If you can't go anywhere, what kind of vehicle you have doesn't matter. If your engine is all gunked up on your hotrod, you can't leave. So clean out the cobwebs. In my case, that's why I complain. To let my creativity flow, I have to get just a little bit pedantic. I have to act like I can write like Stephen King. 

That's another thing. Maybe you don't have writer's block because you can't find the right word, maybe it's a feeling of inferiority. Maybe you think that your writing is no good, so why keep it up. Let me tell you something I saw once: I am the best writer out there. You can never hope to be better than me. Why do I have such a bold and arrogant claim to perfection? Because if I thought my work was no good, how could I possibly expect anyone else to think so? To get anywhere in life you have to be at least a little arrogant. So yes, I am the best writer out there. Until you realize that, you'll never go anywhere. 

Oh. Wait. Do you feel that? That's an idea hatching. It's about to burst out. It seems while you were reading this post about writer's block, I was busy going places. It's time for me to set down this ironic writing about not writing to actually go do some writing. Xzibit would be proud.

Review: After Visiting Friends: A Son's Story by Michael Hainey

Michael Hainey’s After Visiting Friends: A Son’s Story isn’t your traditional memoir. Hainey doesn’t extoll a long list of his personal accomplishments with hackneyed hind-sighted commentary. In fact, there are very few mentions of Hainey’s position as GQ Magazine’s Deputy Editor. After Visiting Friends achieves its (auto)biographical aims by attempting to solve the mystery that had chased Hainey since the fateful day he is told his father, Bob Hainey, died “after visiting friends.” Hainey asks the question no one seems to ask, “who are these friends?” Interviewing old friends and colleagues of his late father, Hainey finds himself traveling through time, several times revisiting scenes of his father’s life.

After Visiting Friends is a singular piece of long-form descriptive journalism with an ever present voice. The language is rife with profound metaphor which keeps the story riveting, beautiful, and unique. After Visiting Friends is immersive, the vibrant landscapes of 1960’s Chicago and Nebraska feel alive. Hainey’s autobiography is also an intimate biography of his mother, and a sons journey to retrieve lost years with his late father by solving the mystery of his untimely death.

Hainey documents his discoveries with vivid descriptions of the many characters and eras he visits, be it the newsroom of the Chicago Sentinel in the 1960s, the Hainey household during Michael’s youth, or Michael’s modern-day travels. Hainey’s memoir is a tale of discovery. His quest to discover his father’s mysterious “friends” is the vehicle to tell his family’s story, not only his own. Hainey’s curiosity and hereditary journalistic talent propel the story forward in at times humorous and always intriguing ways keeping interest high and the book stuck fast in a reader’s hands until its conclusion.

The verdict? Read After Visiting Friends, you'll learn something about yourself along the way.

Boston 3/27/13

Two T-stops away, tucked under a swanky restaurant is Grendel’s Den, a Harvard pub established by Harvard grads. Like the meadhall in Beowulf, the place is full. The warm lights and aged red brick walls give it an air of friendliness, comfort and class. All around us are Harvard students. On a Wednesday night. We have a few beers, watch the people come and go, and just chat. This is the way to end a trip to Boston: drinking some beers in an ancient building talking about the future. Sure, I don't really believe in Founders worship, but from what all the tourist tours told me this is week, this is how the world changed. I know it's how mine did. Until next time, Boston. Ill be back on your cobbled streets before you know it. Maybe I’ll meet up at the Green Dragon and help change the world.

Boston 3/26/13

We walked into Doyle's Bar and it's obvious it's a blue collar bar. The waitress is old enough to be the owner (she probably was). She forgets the drink I ordered and I get my "chowdah" served with a bunch of it dripping down the side. It's delicious though; the beer still refreshing.

The place is old. Hanging on the walls are black and whites of Bostonians. Three smiling guys in suits hold umbrellas, like carefree gangsters. The painted tiles on the floor have been worn away, showing the bare tread and hardwood beneath it. At the bar are more tourists from the Sam Adams tour we went on, regulars line the bar as well. There's still election posters for Kennedy ’60 on the wall, right next to WWII propaganda posters. It was a phenomenal mom and pop shop and it gave a good feel for the South City.

Besides all that, Alan, the bearded tour guide at Sam Adams, was hilarious. By far the best tour I've ever been on. Plus, you can't argue with free beer. And if you did, you should probably stop drinking and ask yourself why you're arguing with a liquid.