Writing Exercise

Seven days ago I ate at Denny's, and now nobody will talk to me. At the club on Tuesday, Charlie Silverman, that jowley, Victorian-minded, snifter-wielding fiend didn't even give me one of his legendary diatribes on propriety of men of high social standing. (He believes of course they should all concern themselves with cordon bleu chicken, wine, automobiles; cordon bleu damn-near everything. Even their prostitutes ought to be five star first class). Instead, Silverman decided to give me a frost-bitten shoulder, less broad and angular than his double-breasted suit will have you believe; more blunted and soft, (believe me, I know), but no less scathing. Indifference is one of his lesser-known talents among those who know him. And generally once you know Silverman, he immediately takes an interest in you. So the indifference is even more unsettling. At least with his rants he gave you the satisfaction that he cared enough to scald you and embarrass you with his rapier tongue in front of all the boys with their tumblers and cigarillos. To be crucified by Silverman was one of the highest compliments you could get apart from him wanting to sleep with you. It's very easy to forget, that like everything in the "good life", not every one is fortunate enough to know Charlie. So to be denied it is to be declared anathema. Once he ignores you you are now a leper, excommunicated into the subhuman world where all they eat is hash browns, bacon strips, Alps-sized pancake stacks, and black coffee, the most austere of drinks.

I'm going to try and take a new approach to my writing. I have one last shot at it for my Short Fiction workshop, so I think it should prove beneficial.

I've noticed that a lot of ideas I get are situations, static events that certainly hold great dramatic potential, but then I find myself attempting to force my characters to fit that situation. The characters end up becoming plot-driven, vehicles of an idea, rather than letting them drive the plot. Instead, for this final story, I'm going to start with a person, an image or a scene, not knowing where it's going to go or why the person I'm following is so darn intriguing. I'll let the story unfold before my eyes and enjoy the ride, rather than make all the minutiae work for me and cram it awkwardly into my stubborn framework. I'm doing it this way because I noticed that I enjoy my writing and it's at its best when I'm writing in the few exercises in class where we're given a sentence and we take that sentence and run with it. Like at the beginning of last term, we were given the phrase: "Sunburned, yes. But this is 1945." And somehow from that we had to build a world, a voice and a story explaining it, and even under the time constraint of 45 minutes, my writing felt free and unhindered. Last week we were required to write a scene with dialogue, where the characters are physically doing one thing, while they're talking about something else. It took me a little bit of time to start, but as soon as I did and made a choice, it got easier. I think this has something to do with using external stimuli as inspiration. I must constantly remind myself that creativity does not occur in a vacuum, that art is a reaction to the world, and all it takes are the right conditions to foster creativity, and the right element to catalyze the whole process, whatever that may be. A good artist must keep his or her senses open!

On the bright side, I've gone to the gym 4 times, this week. So I have upheld THAT, at the very least.

I haven't been back a week and I've already broken my resolution. I'm writing now, but now is 2 AM, January 10. I didn't write a thing for the 9th. My story's due in 2 days, and it's really not in shape for submission. It's true that if a class assignment is my biggest problem, then my life's pretty darn good. But it's more than that of course. Just once, I wish I could be someone with integrity. Just once I wish I could follow through with something, completely uncompromising, ruthless and relentless. I want to measure up to my ideals. It's hard to stay strong when the support I get, however much I appreciate it, I can only get from afar. I don't communicate a lot with my Writing classmates, while I'm around my theatre compadres 95% of the time, and there's only so much they can do for me, God bless 'em. It just gets real lonely out here, that's all I'm saying. Oh, and I don't think short fiction is my thing, at least the way they want it. I think I'm better off in poetry or playwriting, if anything. Or you know, just writing for myself. That's always easy. I know what I'm talking about and I don't have to explain to anybody.

Right now as well, I think I have no idea who I am. I am unable to speak freely and truthfully most of the time, and this is a terribly frustrating feeling. A lot of the time I seem to avoid having an opinion just so I don't have to go up against anyone and be shot down. I have little confidence. i wish I had confidence. I wish I had the balls to laugh at myself more, and stand up for what I believe in and who I am. I have no shape. I'm an amoeba. I really want a shape, something to call 'me'. If someone asked me who I am, I don't know what to tell them, besides the basic facts. It doesn't count to want to be these things unless I actually am them. It's not enough to want to be reliable and generous and compassionate and courageous. Everybody wants to have these qualities. It's not enough to want them. You have no idea how much I wish I had a shape.

2009: The Year of Gettin'erdone

These were my New Year's Resolutions from 2008:

-rig the US presidential elections so the democrats win
-be a better listener
-be a better reader
-finish the Harry Potter series
-read more plays
-read more CanLit
-read more contemporary lit in general. I have way too many old
dead guys sitting on my shelves. Not that I mind their company,
I need to spice up my personal library with a little more variety.
-actually give up something worth giving up for Lent. Or just give
something up in general.
-get writing into my daily schedule
-go to the gym
-meditate more
-watch more movies
-submit at least one article to the Martlet
-submit at least one comic to the Martlet
-finish my old sketchbook once and for all
-draw more
-get my freaking drivers license
-get to know my res-people a little better
-write to Grandma and Grandpa
-Learn how to love myself, and judge others less

Of all of these the only ones I achieved were that I read more plays, and I gave up alcohol for Lent. Some of those I did less of. I think I didn't end up doing a lot of those because they were vague and unquanitifiable. I won't make that same mistake. I have a few goals for this year, which I have every intention of fulfilling. I still enjoy resolutions, I don't care how silly people think they are. It's a great notion, to find specific ways to better ourselves and enrich our lives. "But we don't need New Years resolutions to do that" you may say. You're right. But it's one more opportunity to do so actively, and publicly announce it as well, so others who see it can bear witness to your commitment to them, and others can encourage you and call you on it if you don't achieve them. And it's also for the fun of it. I enjoy getting into the spirit of things, so why not? Anyway, here are my resolutions, which are more than just resolutions because they affect my work ethic and how I'm evaluated in school:

1. Excercise every day until March 28. Go to gym at least 4 times a week.
2.Write every day, from now until December 31, 2009. Keep a notebook handy at all times, and at the end of day, write in lap top or notebook. If I have neither handy for whatever reason, I'll have to write as soon as I get the opportunity. And remember, NO WRITING IS WASTED WRITING.

Yes, these seem like unrealistic goals, but honestly, the only thing keeping me from achieving them is myself. They are to become as necessary as eating, sleeping, going to school, and brushing my teeth. As necessary as it is for devout Muslims to say their five daily prayers. It's overwhelming to imagine actually carrying this out. And it will hurt, especially for someone who wavers as easily as I do. But if I can fulfill these, then the reward will more than compensate.

Merry Christmas to one and all!

My dad got me a cook book from Ten Thousand Villages, so now I have one to call my own, and thus no excuse to not cook and bake as much as I'd like to. I want to be able to cook for a few reasons. I like to feel the pride of having made my own nutritious meal, something beyond mac and cheese. I'd rather not die of malnutrition or heart disease, thank you. It may get to a point where I have to fend for myself, so I think the More With Less Mennonite cook book is a good place to start on my road to culinary self-reliance. And besides, the ladies like a guy who can cook. I don't know why I'm so afraid of it. It's fairly straightforward as long as you follow the recipe. I guess it's a question of motivation.

Actually, it's something I've noticed pervades all aspects of my life. My love life, my writing, my acting, my spirituality. In all things, I've been living in my head. It's funny, it feels like only in the past month or so I've realized what it means to work. What it feels like to be growing. If I feel an immediate unwillingness to do something because I'm not in the mood for it or whatever excuse I have at the time, that usually means I ought to do it, and I never regret it. This is something I've touched on many times, because it's plagued me for so long. I feel a strong pull toward some power underlying the universe, quite possibly God, but I can never act on it. I'm too afraid to commit, so that feeling that draws me to the dark centre of the universe is still shapeless. I think I'm too clever, analytical, skeptical, to let myself surrender completely to a higher power. I'm worried about committing to someone, falling in love with someone for fear that they might actually *god forbid* know me. Or that if they were to know me, then they won't like what they see, and by then it'll be too late to get out unscathed. I think so low of myself that I don't feel deserving of the grace of someone's love. And is my opinion so low of the other person to doubt that they love me if indeed they do? For all my faults? I'm never the first to volunteer in my acting class, and only after class is over do I wish I did go first and took that risk and if need be, stumbled. Any idea I scribble down becomes detestable, and I lose faith in it so easily. I don't know why I'm so reluctant to do what's good for me, even if it means failure. I lack faith. I need the faith of a trapeze artist in freefall, or else this will never change.

Seriously now, I have a cookbook, and I will be writing every day of the New Year. In all seriousness. Now is the perfect opportunity, I'm working out a plan, and there's no time left for excuses.

P.S.
My dad also got me Tales From The Perilous Realm by Tolkien. I really appreciate him for this, as I've been looking for it for a year now and couldn't find it anywhere.

On Memory, Continued

I have no reason not to write. Yet I don't. And so here's my periodical self-flogging for it.

I just started reading Charlie Chaplin's autobiography, and it's raised a question in my mind that always surface when I read memoirs and autobiographies: how much of it is elaboration and how much of it is fact? And how is it possible to remember so far into the past about very specific details? It's made me think about the subject of memory, its extreme significance as a part of who we are, and especially as an element of our imagination. My mom pointed out that people used to be more literary; more people wrote in journals more than they do now. I don't know if I agree with her on this, but I have the feeling that both of our opinions are only anecdotal so there's little headway to be made there. All the same, it doesn't change the fact that things like journaling are an extremely valuable tool, to anybody, let alone writers. It sharpens our faculties, it can ward off mental deterioration in old age (or in youth!), since the mind is like a tool that needs constant sharpening to keep it in good use. I was thinking about the novel 1984, and how terribly easy it is to forget if you're not careful. To be erased from all records, and to be convinced by the authorities that any given person never existed, so your memory is in fact edited as is history. This is an extreme scenario, but then it makes you think about all the facts that weren't included by historians through the ages, and what facts were distorted to serve political or personal interests, and you realize it's not all that farfetched.

I was reflecting on my day and I nearly forgot what I had for breakfast. It's not something I'd ever need to know, but just the fact that it was only a few hours ago made it quite alarming. To be fair, the brain works like that, and it has a lot of information to process throughout the day that it's physically impossible to retain everything that happened to you in a day, all at once. But that's precisely why things like journaling is so useful. This practice has no immediate usefulness of course, but if nothing else it allows you to find the story in your existence. It focuses your attention to detail and it can simply amaze you at how rich and eventful even the most mundane of days has been. I did recall after the moment's panic, what I had for breakfast. I had pancakes and breakfast sausages made by my good friend Scott Whittaker. We had Mango Passionfruit green tea to go with it. It was a delicious one-in-the-afternoon breakfast.

I need to journal and document my life and the world for fear of forgetting who I am, and in time, who I was. As the Buddha said, if you want to understand the present, look at the past. What better way to understand who I am and where I am going, by observing where I came from. I feel confident enough in my memory right now in my life that I won't be forgetting these things any time soon, but that alone won't ever explain to me why some details are more significant than others, unless I actually process my experiences, slow down and really think about them, and for me the best way of doing that is sitting down and seeing what my thoughts look like in words. But that's not the only way either. Through photographs and art and newspaper clippings, old book reports, music, etc. you can trace an unbroken line through your life, and see more clearly where you where that line is leading you, like a golden thread out of a labyrinth.