Category: Life

  • A Little Bit About Writing

    I’ve been nattering on about politics and related matters for a while now.  It’s crazy-making because no matter how much sense you might make, or think you’re making, there are a lot of people who basically say “I don’t care, I want it my way!” and ignore everything else.

    So I thought I’d talk about writing.

    I’ve had a hell of a week in that regard.  Let me explain.

    Many folks already know that I had a major (I thought) computer issue earlier this week.  It happened this way.  During the really cold months of winter, rather than turn on the space heater I have in my office, I move my writing upstairs, on a laptop.  The change of venue often kicks loose some ideas, it’s a bit sunnier, and we save on the electric bill.  No real inconvenience, I basically save my work to a floppy (yes, a 3.5 inch floppy, Virginia, they are still made) and carry the floppy back downstairs to transfer the file to my main computer when the story is ready to either print out or submit, at which point I save it to the main hard drive and my handy external hard drive.  So a given file, in this scenario, is saved in four places.

    Monday morning was a perfect storm, so to speak.  I’d been working on a novella for about three weeks, a major rewrite, with someone waiting for it, and I finished it Sunday.  Monday morning, early, I made a couple of last-minute grace note touches, saved the final to the floppy, then told the laptop to save it all to its hard drive.  I took the floppy downstairs for the transfer.

    First problem.  Cannot open file.  The disc is corrupted.  I tried a couple of things, but no go.  So I grab a clean floppy, head back upstairs to make a new copy, only to find on arrival that the laptop is dead.  Inert.  A few pounds of useless plastic.

    Now, this is an ancient laptop, as these things go.  It was a gift from a friend to begin with and I use it seldom, although I have written most of two whole novels on it.  (When our first dog, Kory, was dying, I wrote my one and only Terminator novel on it in the living room, next to her, to keep her company.  I know, multiple ironies in that.)  It wasn’t new when I got it—it had Windows 95 on it—but it’s had a cushy life and hasn’t given me any trouble.  Till now.

    Panic, as they say, ensued.  After several more attempts to open that damn file, I resorted to profanity and insane rage against a universe that seemed out to get me.

    I posted my problem on Facebook and got the first of many bright glimmers.  People gave advice (although a lot of it centered around saving my work online, which requires technology I do not have with that particular laptop—it’s not connected or, in any practical sense, connectable), condolences, etc.  (Thank you all again, it was very kind and I needed the chin up boost.)

    A couple of friends called to offer their services.  Suggestions were made to call the Geek Squad.

    I called the Geek Squad, but the $300.00 service call fee stymied me.  I simply don’t have that kind of money just now to spend on spec, on a story that might not sell in the first place, etc.  And we are talking about one story.  Everything else was backed up.

    One friend offered to unship the hard drive and see about transferring its contents to another P.C.  I was set to do this—I would have dropped it off tonight—when another friend called to discuss it and made a simple suggestion.  “Did you pull the battery?”

    “It’s been plugged into the wall all this time, what difference would that make?”

    “Well, most laptops boot from the battery, even if they are hooked to AC.  Pull the battery and it might boot directly from AC.”

    I pulled the battery.  The thing came right back on.  Problem solved.  (Thanks again to Justin Olson.)

    I have two typewriters in the house.  I have my original Remington Noiseless and I have an IBM Selectric, which needs minor repair (which I now intend to get).  I can go right back to the so-called stone age if I feel I must, even though more and more markets are going to strictly email submissions.  But on paper, typed out, I only have to worry about fire or flood to lose the manuscript.

    However, I won’t go that far yet.

    So yesterday, I went back to the gym for the first time in two weeks (working steadily on that novella, in the groove, skipping all nonessential activity) and came home intending to get ready for the next story, and I get a rejection in the mail.  Snail mail, yes, from one of the few magazines still doing it the old fashioned way.  I had submitted the problem novella the day before, so I had made my goal of getting it finished and out the door before another rejection came in.

    Now I am sitting here procrastinating by writing this.  I have a piece of fiction upstairs that has been through three complete drafts already and I am about to gut it totally and do it from a completely different character’s point of view.  Why?  Because it hasn’t been working.  It doesn’t sing, it can’t dance, even though all the parts are there.  It is not wonderful.

    Two things when a story does this—either you have begun it in the wrong place or you are telling it from the wrong perspective.  The first is tactical.  The second is psychological.

    The most dramatic approach to story includes telling it from the perspective of the one or ones who have the most to lose.  The ones who are in the greatest danger, the ones risking the most, the ones who by virtue of just showing up will be in the heart of the conflict because the conflict is theirs.  This is hard to do.  It’s natural to avoid pain and discomfort and writers are no different, so often we pick a main character who is safe or at least safer than the others.  There’s a comfort about this character not getting badly hurt.  But it makes for flaccid fiction.

    So all week, given the mood I was in, I’ve been thinking about this story as it has been written and trying to find a way to make the main character really hurt.  And everything I come up with feels like artifice.

    This morning I wrote the first line from the viewpoint of another character.  The one who really has the most to lose.

    I then came here to write this, because I can already sense the knots I’m about to twist my psyche into writing about this guy.  And I’m avoiding—

    What?  Pain?  Not mine.  His?  Well…

    It’s kind of like bungee jumping.  You know it’s going to be exhilarating, but bringing yourself to take that first step can be very difficult.  Stepping off into nothing, trusting that the way down will bring you what you want—that’s counter intuitive.  Hell, that’s scary.

    But once you step off…

    Time to go back to the edge.

  • Arrogance

    We all use words sometimes in ways not intended.  We don’t, after all, have a dictionary to hand in every conversation and memory plays tricks, not to mention there is always some “drift” in common usage that’s culturally-driven.  Often it’s just sloppiness that becomes wired into daily use and when we go back to the dictionary it’s occasionally a surprise to find out that what we thought a word meant isn’t really what it means at all.

    Sometimes, though, it’s the right word applied to the wrong circumstance or a label correctly remembered but used for the wrong reason.

    Arrogance is one of the biggies.  I looked it up this morning in the dictionary—the Websters Compact Desk Dictionary of the American Language, a book I’ve owned since about sixth grade.  It says:

    “Arrogant—adj. [see ARROGATE], full of or due to unwarranted pride; haughty.”

    The telling word there, I think, is “unwarranted.”  But that’s not how the word is used usually.  Most often, we see it applied in situations where someone feels they have been put down by someone displaying an uncomfortable opinion, superior information, confidence, or making a general statement about things the user feels is intended as a personal judgment against them.  Manner is important, and anything short of self-deprecating kind of visible humility can be taken as sure sign of arrogance.  What is said is less important than whether it contradicts common prejudice or simply a personal belief, and in this situation the term becomes an ad hominem attack—the information being conveyed is thereby discounted because the person giving it is arrogant and therefore need not be listened to.

    Often this is a tactic, a way to discount something disagreeable.  If the person talking can be made to appear self-serving or bullying or ignorant, what he or she says can be safely ignored because it doesn’t actually mean anything.  It’s a defensive posture, accusing someone of being arrogant.  It puts the emphasis on establishing something that has nothing to do with whatever debate brought the accusation about, wastes time, distracts, and often says more about the accuser than the accused.

    The difficulty of defending one’s self from a charge of arrogance is part of the reason it can be an effective dodge.  Now we’re talking character references, examples of past behavior, and an endless definitional conversation about just what that means.  Is someone arrogant because they stand on principles, never bowing to counterarguments?  Maybe.  It depends on the issue and whether or not all that’s being argued is an unsupported principle.  If, however, there is weight to the principled position, evidence, experience, associated support…if the principle is something that has been shown to work in action and not just a matter of opinion…

    See the problem?  It’s been used too often to derail legitimate dialogues about serious issues.  Take for instance education.  We’re having a national debate among several states on a relatively low level about what to include in science curriculum (yes, I’m talking about evolution).  There is a faction opposed to its inclusion, and in order to get their way they have been forced to be devious—assertions that we should “teach the controversy”— which run aground on the fact that there is no controversy in the science, only in the politics.  But a tactic used repeatedly in public debate is, when a scientist, someone who knows the subject, states that something like Intelligent Design is not science, at some point a charge of arrogance is made.  “You scientists are so arrogant, you think you know everything.”  Or some such phrase.

    This, for the lay public, can be a huge distraction.  Because now the scientist has to defend against a personal attack, which has nothing to do with the merits of the argument.  What it is, basically, is an admission that the one making the accusation has run out of anything useful to say.

    The fact is, a charge of arrogance is one of those things best left for historians or for private arguments.  it’s interpersonal, complex, and irrelevant.  Someone can be arrogant as Napoleon and still be demonstrably wrong—or right.  More likely, the one making the charge is the one being arrogant, because they have assumed their rightness regardless of the elements of the argument, and have either not bothered to learn the details or have dismissed such details because they contradict a cherished belief.  Either way, they elevate their personal belief above all other factors and anyone who stands in the way of making that personal belief paramount must, a priori, be wrong.  And if they are wrong and still arguing their point, they must be arrogant.  Hmm.  Got a mirror?

    Ultimately, the charge of arrogance is used by people who feel their own beliefs and opinions are not being given due respect.  They are, possibly, being ignored.  Or they feel they’ve been identified in a way they reject, even though their position may be as wrongheaded as a Flat Earther.

    But, tempting as it is to then label such people themselves as arrogant, it serves no purpose to make the same countercharge.  Often, if arrogance is involved, it’s “borrowed” arrogance.  It’s not a personal arrogance, but an aspect of the opinion or belief they hold, and as such personal arrogance gets displaced onto the source.  Otherwise modest, humble people can come across as arrogant because they are not, by their lights, speaking for themselves, but for this set of ideas.

    Which brings us right back to the pointlessness of the charge.  Recall the definition:

    full of or due to unwarranted pride; haughty

    The operative word is “unwarranted” and that leads us right back into the dialogue to determine what is unwarranted.  To do that, it’s necessary to concentrate on the topic, not take side trips into personality.  We might all do well to bear that in mind.  We might get farther and understand more.  I believe most people are capable of understanding a lot more than they’re given credit for—even what they believe themselves capable.

    Of course, that may be an unwarranted assumption.  Is it arrogant of me then to think people can do better?

  • Words Don’t Matter

    The message being put forward, especially by the Right, in the aftermath of the shootings in Arizona, is that it is absurd to blame the rhetoric of violence and hatred for the actions of anyone, let alone Jared Lee Loughner.  Words don’t matter.  The man is a loon, his actions cannot be laid at the feet of anyone else.  Taken far enough, by this reasoning he acted in complete isolation from all influences.  Maybe so.

    But really—words don’t matter?

    In 1774, Goethe published his novel, The Sorrows of Young Werther, a seminal work in the so-called Sturm und Drang movement.  It was a bestseller.  Napoleon himself declared it an important work.  It is intensely romantic, in many ways Gothic, and it ends with a suicide.  The book had such an impact that it affected fashion, mood, language—and sparked a rash of suicides in imitation.  Many young corpses were found with copies of the book on the bodies.

    But words don’t matter.

    Charles Dickens was so popular that upon arrival in New York for his American visit, throngs gathered on the docks demanding to know the fate of Little Nell.  They were so caught up in the narrative that they suffered true anxiety over her fate.

    But words don’t matter.

    Salman Rushdie lived in hiding for years after publication of his novel The Satanic Verses because of the presumed blasphemy in the book.  He was under death threat for writing about something that is, in fact, recorded in history and mentioned in the Koran.

    But words don’t matter.

    The oratory of Adolph Hitler spurred his country into a manic frenzy of conquest and murder and made many of his countrymen proud.  Later, many could recall little of what Hitler actually said, but whatever it was, they knew it was true.  He ordered them to burn books that might have presented an alternative argument, as most dictators ban anything written that might offer criticism of their programs.  It is vital to silence the opposition, more important sometimes than anything else.

    But words don’t matter.

    For centuries the Catholic Church maintained an Index of forbidden books, books which they feared might turn people away from the church—which you would think, if they were right about being the only true church, could not happen.

    But words don’t matter.

    Attempts to ban certain books from libraries are common.  Something in “those books” must, according to the arguments, be kept from people because it might do them harm.  Now we see an attempt to produce a new edition of a beloved classic with a certain word expurgated, because it is a hurtful word, and some people would like to erase history and pretend that word no longer exists.

    But of course, words don’t matter.

    Abraham Lincoln, when he met Harriet Beecher Stowe, greeted her by saying  “So you’re the little woman who wrote the book that started this great war.”

    But words, of course, don’t matter.

    People dedicated their lives to the cause of liberation, many after reading the Declaration of Independence, which has come to be almost a national prayer, more important to some than the constitution.  The Declaration of the Rights of Man led to the overthrow of a monarch and the subsequent bloodbath that was the French Revolution.

    But we all know, words don’t matter.

    Daily the Supreme Court hears debate over laws and how they accord with the constitution, arguing constantly over what the words mean and what they intend and how they may be interpreted, and rights rise and fall accordingly.

    Yet words don’t matter.

    How many times have we heard someone say “That book changed my life!”  How often has a book or a poem or a story brought us close to tears?  How many characters mean more to some people than the flesh-and-blood people in their lives?

    Here’s the uncomfortable truth.  When a set of words results in a good thing, no one takes offense, no one dismisses it as meaningless, no one shies away from taking credit if the words were theirs.  But when something bad results, suddenly words don’t matter, we can’t lay responsibility on the author or the text.  Under certain circumstances, we have laws that address the negative effects of certain words—we call them libel or slander.

    The problem is that we’re terrified that if we admit to the real power of words, someone might try to take them away from us, and we’ve all seen how that goes.  It’s worse than the problems such actions would redress, because it shuts out the possibilities of dialogue, of wonder, of betterment, of beauty.  Which is why the solution to bad words is more good words.  Cast a wide net, gather in a multiplicity of words, taste them all.

    If, as the Right claims, words don’t matter, attempting to distance themselves from the consequences of something like Gabrielle Giffords’ shooting, why do they hasten to label the shooter a liberal?  Why bring up what he has in his own library?  If words don’t matter, it would be just as telling if he had nothing but a collection of old Archie comics and a set of Oxford Companions.  Words don’t matter, so what if he has a copy of The Communist Manifesto?

    If words do not matter, then we should be able to say anything and see no effect at all on anyone.  No one would get angry.  No one would get sad, or hurt, or embarrassed, or baffled.

    But no one would be enlightened or delighted or assisted or reassured or inspired, either.

    Can’t have it both ways.  You can’t take credit for words doing great things and then pretend they can’t do bad things.

    But the only way to counter the negative effect of certain words and not destroy ourselves is to listen to other words, better words, words that tell the truth, words that aim to educate.  The conversation must go on, but we have to listen.  But we also have to own up to our expectations and our understanding and acknowledge that if we seek to influence with our words, sometimes that influence will go awry.

    Unless, of course, words really don’t matter.  Then, what is it we’re all doing?

  • Crazy Is As….

    I’m not sure where I’m going with this, but bear with me.  A bit of confessional time.

    It’s no secret to anyone who knows me that I’m an atheist.  To put it simply, I basically grew up and got over it.  Religion, to me, is historically and psychologically interesting, but does not represent any kind of reality.  The world, the universe, what have you, just doesn’t work that way, and for every example you can pull out of your hat of supposed “miracle” I can equal or better it with “shit happens” and just plain human synergy.  That anecdotal game can go on and on with neither side really running out of examples, leading no where, but just the fact that most miracles can be explained by mundane models suggests to me that the miracle is actually occurring inside the witnesses skulls.  (There’s this new one that is the presumed basis for the rapid beatification of Pope John Paul II concerning a nun with Parkinson’s Disease going into full remission two months after the Pope’s death because she prayed to him.  Now, if I remember my Catholic history and so forth, a miracle that qualifies someone for sainthood is supposed to have taken place during the recipient’s lifetime and he or she had to have been in some way directly involved.  This is clear evidence that the Catholic Church is undergoing a P.R. crisis and needs some new popular saints to bolster a flagging image.  The swift beatification of Mother Theresa is such a case, because anyone who really looked at the way she ran her organization would have to have serious doubts that this woman was “saintly” in any way, shape, or form—but she appears saintly.  Anyway.  Remission from disease happens all the time, just most of it never gets to the level of being considered a miracle—the human body is a dynamic system and we still have a lot to learn about it.)

    The more complex answer is, that the more I learn the less I am able to suspend incredulity that anything like the cosmogony suggested by religions—any of them, and I stress here that I see no valid reason why any one should be given preference over any other—makes any sense given the evidence at hand.  Over time I saw religion as a strictly human enterprise, a kind of Swiss Army Knife approach to explaining the inexplicable that relied on fear and the human capacity to be amazed to instantiate a programmatic acceptance of authority-through-divinity.  Basically, it’s a business.  Not always to make money, you understand, but always to exercise power.

    So I walked away.  I became a student of history and an amateur appreciator of science and the more I see, read, and discover, the more I am convinced that religious acceptance is a pathology.  It has become so deeply wired into human culture, that it appears normal and functions often quite benignly.  It only becomes a problem when situations arise and questions are asked which religion is unsuited to deal with.

    One of the great and, of late, underappreciated and often derided truly cool things about America is that we—you and I—don’t have to put up with that crap.  We can walk away.

    Now for most people, this translates into an easy freedom to change our stripes.  There are no legal or, often, social barriers to moving from, say, Catholicism to Presbyterianism.  Even among those two groups, eyebrows may rise, some tut-tuts may occur, but after an adjustment period, I imagine most folks even keep the same friends and might even go to each other’s church socials.  (For some of the more aggressively evangelical religions, this gets a bit tougher, but the law does nothing about it*.)

    For some of us, it means we can just stop believing what we regard as nonsense.

    This morning I went to the grocery store.  At my checkout lane, the cashier and another employee were engaged in what I quickly understood as a religious discussion, but one of those that make even some mainstream believers reflexively wince.  The one was explaining how ardently she had been praying, while the cashier—clearly in the higher position of authority in this—was saying  “It doesn’t matter how you pray, it’s that the Enemy attacks.  You got to be aware that he’s always there, attacking.  You can pray but you got to watch for the Enemy.”

    I paid and left without saying a word and, I hope, without my face betraying my reaction, which was “Oh, a couple of nuts.”

    Here’s a test.  Next time any of these situations come up at a party or in casual conversation, see how you react in the first few moments.

    “My cousin was abducted by aliens.  They ran all kinds of tests on her.  I wonder what it is they’re looking for when they do that?”

    “Oh, I never use traditional medicine. It’s all poison, you know.  I trust homeopathy.”

    “There were at least two other shooters, one on the grassy knoll.  It was a CIA plot.”

    “The world is going to end in 2011, May, in fact.”

    “My astrologer said my stars are badly aligned for a move to a new job.  I hate where I’m at, but I don’t want to make the same mistake twice.”

    Even if, within a minute, you recoup enough to either steer the conversation away from this or form some kind of cat’s cradle response that allows you to see this in some way other than at face value, I would bet you thought, however briefly, “Oh no, one of them.

    Which is interesting, because I realized that over the years my reaction to each and every one of these, plus the score more I didn’t mention, has been identical to my reaction to someone who feels compelled to testify to me.  They are indulging a fantasy, basically, possibly one born out of a particular neurosis, and it is important for the maintenance of that fantasy that they co-opt others into supporting it.  Either by politely agreeing to the possibilities implicit in each world-view being presented, or by buying into their argument.  Either one lends credibility to their delusion, strengthens it, and reassures them that they are not, in fact, nuts.

    To be sure, most of them likely aren’t nuts.  Not in any clinical sense.  Nothing medication will address.  They are simply indulging the power of interpretation and organizing the world according to a set of precepts that allow them to navigate.  And for many, many people it works just fine.  In fact, at least in the case of religion, because these ideas are so entrenched, so much a part of what is generally called Culture, it works better than just fine, it is almost psychologically wholesome.

    Except we seem to choose what level of it we’re comfortable with.  I imagine even people with a regular religious component to their lives get uncomfortable when approached by some glassy-eyed evangelizer wanting to talk about their personal relationship with Jesus.  Because, I suspect, on some level we all know this isn’t quite rational and the irrational troubles us.

    Now, what I do—fiction writing—can be readily described as irrational.  I find it interesting that some splinter religions deride fiction as sinful.  It’s competition, in a sense, an attraction to some other form of exactly the same pathology that doesn’t have the same telos as religious fable.  And I will cop to the charge, that making stories up is not, by certain metrics, rational.  Humans are not wholly rational.  If we were, there likely would be no art of any kind.  What we are is aesthetic.  We are beings of the senses.  And what I do speaks directly to that.  As does music and painting and sculpture, and dance.

    And religion.

    What are all these depictions of the after life if not confabulations of the ideal sensual experience?  (And by sensual I do not mean sexual, although in some religions that is very much a part of the whole Paradisical aesthetic.)  It is the perfect embrace of the aesthetic, often without the filtering of the flesh, so to speak, which seems sometimes to transmit the signal incompletely or with unpleasant noise.

    What I do in my head, though, when I create characters and world is very much like the whole architecture of a religion.  The difference is, I do not then say my characters are Out There walking around.  Their existence is in my head.  And I do it for a specific and limited reason.  I’m trying to share a given experience.  The experience is the totality of it, though.  (We have run into people, some of us, who have taken it the next step and so personified favorite characters that they really do think they live in the same world.  What, may I ask, is the difference between that and the whole acceptance of religious constructs, other than in the former case we see these people as slightly off-beam and in the latter just “normal” folks?)

    I will stipulate here that I think, for many people, as individuals, religion provides a quality of experience that is therapeutic.  Whatever gets you through the night, as the song says.   And as such it is not my place to criticize anyone’s choice of paradigms.  It’s even clear that religion serves as a functional component in community activity.  What is communal identity but an agreed-upon way of seeing the world?  And agreement is the first step toward cooperation.  So on and so forth.

    But I also suggest that most peoples’ level of acceptance of religious claims is wholly conditional and contextual.  We can see this in the negative reaction to claims that, by some quite literal interpretations of religious codes, disasters and tragedies are the direct result of a failure to embrace a given claim.  New Orleans was swamped because we bar prayer in public schools.  9/11 happened because we tolerate homosexuality and some deity doesn’t like that.  We know this is crazy talk.  But it’s based on some of the same fundamental structures as the religion we may claim to believe.

    So what does this, ultimately, have to do with the so-called real world?  Well, by this point you should pick up on where I’m going, but let me be perfectly blunt:  according to some religions, some people are second or third class citizens, not permitted to enjoy the same rights and privileges of the chosen.  This is the real world manifestation of a pathology that draws its authority from a delusion.  When it gets to that point, it’s no longer harmless.  Or therapeutic.  As when someone tells you, basically, that there’s nothing you can do, that no matter what your efforts may be, the Enemy is going to get you.  Consequently, you live a life constantly constrained by fear.

    We only get one life on this planet.  It’s a crime to have it wasted being afraid of boogymen and ghosts and feeling like crap because of something that probably never happened.  And, in some places, being forced to live your whole life severed from all the wonders of the world simply because of your genital arrangement.  This is not wholesome, not therapeutic, and not right.  Someone else’s pathology should not limit your life.

    I should wrap this up now.  If I continue, Vishnu may come down in his spaceship and abduct me and subject me to a severe audit with his E-meter.

    ——————————————————————————————–

    *Although, sometimes the boundaries blur.

  • Taking Cues

    I’d intended to give this a little more thought, but the events in Arizona have prompted a response now.

    In the last post, I opined about the atmosphere in the country generated by overheated rhetoric and the irrationality that has resulted from seemingly intransigent positions.  Some of the responses I received to that were of the “well, both sides do it” variety (which is true to an extent, but I think beside the point) and the “you can’t legislate civility or impose censorship” stripe.

    As it is developing, the young man who attempted to murder Representative Gifford—and succeeded in killing six others—appears to be not of sound mind.  We’re getting a picture of a loner who made no friends and indulged in a distorted worldview tending toward the paranoid.  How much of his actions can be laid on politics and how much on his own obsessions is debatable.  Many commentators very quickly tried to label him a right-winger, based largely on the political climate in Arizona and that he targeted a moderate, “blue dog” Democrat.  This in the context of years of shrill right-wing political rhetoric that fully employs a take-no-prisoner ethic, including comments from some Tea Party candidates about so-called Second Amendment solutions.  It’s looking like trying to label this man’s politics will be next to impossible and, as I say, if he is mentally unbalanced, what real difference does that make?  (Although to see some people say “Look, he’s a Lefty, one of his favorite books is Mein Kampf ” is in itself bizarre—how does anyone figure Mein Kampf  indicates leftist political leanings?  Because the Nazis were “National Socialists”?  Please.)

    Whatever the determination of Mr. Loughner’s motives may turn out to be, his actions have forced the topic of political stupidity and slipshod rhetoric to the forefront, at least until Gabrielle Gifford is out of danger of dying.  Regardless of his influences, in this instance he has served as the trigger for a debate we have been needing to have for decades.  This time, hopefully, it won’t be shoved aside after a few well-meaning sound-bites from politicians wanting to appear sensitive and concerned, only to have everyone go right back to beating each other bloody with nouns and verbs.

    But while it may be fair to say that Mr. Loughner is unbalanced and might have gone off and shot anyone, the fact is he shot a politician, one who had been targeted by the Right.  Perhaps the heated rhetoric did not make Mr. Loughner prone to violence, but what about his choice of victims?

    There is a dearth of plain speaking across the political spectrum.  That is as far as I’m willing to concede the charge that “both sides” indulge the same rhetoric.  They do not, at least not in the same degree, and this is one time when the Right has more to answer for than the Left.  The rhetorical shortcomings of the Left are of a different kind, but nowhere near as divisive as what we’ve been hearing from the folks who bring us Fox News and the national pundit circus.

    “Why don’t we hear congressmen talking about banning Wicca in the military?  Or banning the occult in America?  This shooter was a stone-cold devil-worshiper!  A left-wing pot-smoking lunatic!”—Michael Savage.

    That’s helpful.  Now we’ve dragged the supernatural into it, something I don’t believe anyone on the Left has done yet.  Mr. Savage seems not to have understood the call for “toned-down rhetoric” for what it actually means, but somehow something to be responded to as if it were an attack on his freedom to make outrageous assertions.

    The fact is, the majority—the vast majority—of assaults over politically sensitive issues in the past three decades have come from a perspective that can only be characterized as supportive of the Right.  It may be that such issues attract the nutwings.  It may be that more nutwings find themselves in sympathy with conservative issues.   But it is more likely that the apocalyptic messaging coming from the Right has the correct tone and resonance to provide nutwings with proof that their personal paranoias are correct and they are justified in acting upon them.

    In his excellent book, Talking Right, linguist Geoffrey Nunberg chronicles the shift in language in our public discourse and shows how the choices made by pundits, think tanks, speech writers, and politicians themselves have pushed the discourse further and further to the Right and making it a battle, for some a war, to stop Liberalism.  Increasingly, right-wing rhetoric has adopted a “take no prisoners” intransigence.  Even when cooperation occurs, when bipartisanship happens, and compromise is achieved, the Right makes it look like they won over the Left, to the point where the Left appears to be not only ineffectual but a burden, a drag on society, and in some instances a scourge to be expunged.

    For the most part this has been carried out by the well-honed machine that is the right-wing media.  Republican politicians don’t have to say the truly objectionable things because there is a cadre of talking heads who will do it for them.

    It is fair to say, however, fair to ask: why can’t the Left do this?

    In a fascinating passage in Nunberg’s book he describes the problem:

    “I happened on a striking demonstration of the right’s linguistic consistency back in 1996, when I was playing around with one of those programs that produces an automatic summary of texts by analyzing their word frequency and recurrent syntactic patterns.  out of curiosity, I ran it on a collection of all the speeches that had been given over the first two nights of the Republican National Convention in San Diego, and it promptly distilled them into five key sentences…but when I tried the same experiment a month later on the combined texts of the speeches from the first two nights of the Democratic National Convention in Chicago, the software returned pure word salad.  Because Democrats are chronically incapable of staying on message, no single group of phrases rose to the statistical surface.”

    The five sentences?  Here:

    We are the Republican Party—a big, broad, diverse and inclusive party, with a commonsense agenda and a better man for a better America, [insert politician’s name].  We need a leader we can trust.  Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for being part of this quest in working with us to restore the American dream.  The commonsense Republican proposals are the first step in restoring the American dream because Republicans care about America.  But there is no greater dream than the dreams parents have for their children to be happy and to share God’s blessings.

    (Lundberg traces the current demonization of Liberal to 1988, when in a speech Ronald Reagan—the Great Communicator—said “The masquerade is over.  It’s time to…say the dreaded L-word; to say the policies of our opposition are liberal, liberal, liberal.”  The Democratic candidate that year, Michael Dukakis, rather than counter the charge, ducked it, and the expression “the L-word” entered the lexicon of public discourse the same way as other unmentionable epithets have—the N-word, the F-word, etc.  So Liberal was reduces to a slur, something not said in polite company.  We have not recovered since.)

    It’s interesting to look at those five sentences and parse what they actually seem to suggest.  The word “dream” is in there four times, the word “commonsense” twice, the word “America” three times.  The question to ask is, what comprises the dream and what do they mean by commonsense?  And do you have commonsense dreams?  Dreams by definition are in some way outside the practical, and usually commonsense refers to some species of practical.

    But for the moment, let’s look at that American Dream so oft mentioned and so seldom examined.

    James Truslow Adams, in his book Epic of America  in 1931, first coined the phrase:

    The American Dream is that dream of a land in which life should be better and richer and fuller for every man, with opportunity for each according to ability or achievement. It is a difficult dream for the European upper classes to interpret adequately, also too many of us ourselves have grown weary and mistrustful of it. It is not a dream of motor cars and high wages merely, but a dream of social order in which each man and each woman shall be able to attain to the fullest stature of which they are innately capable, and be recognized by others for what they are, regardless of the fortuitous circumstances of birth or position.

    This more than a year and a half into the Great Depression demands context.  The “dreams” of millions of Americans had been thoroughly dashed in the Crash of ’29.  People were out of work, losing their homes, with little or no possibility of relief.  At that time there were no safety nets.  No unemployment insurance, no welfare to speak of, nothing provided in the event that private enterprise failed to absorb the majority of available workers, who depended on wages to maintain themselves and their families.

    President Hoover stood resolutely opposed to providing any kind of direct aid, fearing it would sap the will of workers to seek employment.  He was, along with most “conservatives” of his time, willing to see millions destituted rather than risk undermining the vaunted “work ethic” that had fueled American industrial and economic ascendence to that point.

    This was also the era in which unions were still struggling to make inroads in the struggle to achieve fair labor practices.  Unions were opposed by the conservatives of the era because of fears that giving workers power to determine the conditions under which they labored would undermine the entrepreneurial spirit.

    What is most striking, however, about Mr. Adams’ words is his downplaying of the material in lieu of a kind of independent self value, a notion that people have a right to be treated equally as worthwhile, and to be free to pursue their own vision of improvement.  This kind of appreciation for what might be called a basic right of civilized life has been talked about and worked toward through most of  Western history, no less elsewhere that here, but seldom more polarized and equivocated than America.

    Consider:

    Self rule via a popularly elected government subject to recall—liberal idea.

    Recognition of individual value regardless of station—liberal idea.

    Emancipation of bond slaves as a fundamental human right—liberal idea.

    Electoral franchise available to all adults, regardless of race or gender—liberal idea.

    Recognition that women are individuals unto themselves with all the rights and privileges pertaining to a fully enfranchised person—liberal idea.

    Protection of children from exploitation through child labor laws—liberal idea.

    Right of workers to be free from arbitrary dismissal without cause from jobs—liberal idea.

    Limited work week—liberal idea.

    Universal public education—liberal idea.

    The list could go on.  And by Liberal I mean the notion that progress to achieve social egalitarianism is a positive value.

    It also means, implicitly, that people should not judge others according to myths, stereotypes, or prejudices.  This is embodied in the old maxim that in this country “anybody can become the president.”  The truth of this maxim is debatable, but underlying it is Liberal concept of egalitarian value.

    In each of the aforementioned instances, the conservatives of the time opposed—sometimes aggressively, even violently—the changes necessary to make these ideas a reality.  And by conservative I mean a philosophy of stasis, the maintenance of status quo, or at the very least the preservation of privilege among the propertied few.

    Whether it is true or not in every instance, conservatism has been the ideological partner of the well off.  It has stood generally in opposition to change, often for good cause (Speaker Reed of the House of Representatives during the McKinley administration stood in opposition to a change in policy that allowed for America to become an imperial nation by launching a war on Spain.  He was a conservative by any definition and in this instance he saw the manipulation of rules of procedure by those eager to go to war as an unsupportable change), but also quite often simply to preserve the privileges of those viewed as successful.

    So what is it Liberals have to be ashamed of?

    It is this:  for being unwilling or unable to define progress in such a way that the general public can support it and to stand up for their support of such progress.  Liberals have often been unwilling to take stands.  The Left does, but usually it is a Left that is even farther left than Liberal comfort allows.  Radicals.  Extremists.  And by their efforts, everything on the Left has come to be vilified.  Liberals ride the wave in to progress and after the achievement claim to support what has been accomplished.  Liberals tend to be accommodationist to the point of letting conservatives—or the Right—define them, usually to their detriment.

    What is fascinating is how after every period of explosive progressive change, the new order, sometimes quite rapidly, becomes the status quo and defended by conservatism, so that Liberalism almost always loses credit for what it has accomplished.

    But that seems now to be just an appearance.  The Right has been trying to roll back progress for some time now.  Missouri is about to vote on a Right To Work bill—again—which sounds reasonable on its face, but is just one more attempt to break unions.  Unions have lost ground since the Seventies and in many instances they have been their own worst enemies.  Any long-established entrenched power system becomes corrupt and, yes, conservative, and can become unreasonable.  But if anyone thinks getting rid of them will redound to workers’ benefit, they are delusional.  Right To Work has in those states where it has been in force for a long time, translated into lowered pay, lowered benefits, lowered standards, and higher abuses—many of which have been countered by Federal laws prohibiting certain practices.

    By Mr. Lundberg’s analysis, the Right has taken control of the language and ridden that control into power more often than not since Reagan.  And those five key sentences of Republican solidarity seem to attract people, if not to join them outright, at least to demand some kind of compliance to them by their own ideological spokespersons.  But just what is it that those five sentences promise?

    Nothing.  They are an acknowledgment of sentiment, not a program.

    What the Right does speaks for itself.  Lower taxes, gutting of education, reduction of resources to basic research, and, since 9/11, an increase in domestic paranoia that targets an enemy it cannot clearly define but has resulted in restrictions on all of us.  A support of big business (and by that I mean corporations so large as to constitute de facto  governements within themselves, many of them functionally stateless), and an opposition to secularism.  A promotion of the idea of American Exceptionalism based less on actual achievement than on birth-right (hence the current discussions over revision of the 14th Amendment) at the expense of the very commonsense approach they tout.

    Lay on top of all this the superheated rantings on the part of their mouthpieces, you have an atmosphere in which anything that equivocates, that seeks to reflect, that calls for honest debate, that might require rethinking of positions, any compromise is seen by the faithful as treason.

    But against what?

    I have some thoughts on that.  Stay tuned.

  • That Book Is Finished…2010

    I read, cover-to-cover, 72 books in 2010.  I’ve read more in other years and considerably less in still others.  It’s an average of six books a month, which, given all the other stuff I read (and write) is a fair amount.

    The last one was Ian McDonald’s River of Gods, which I’d been putting off.  I love Ian McDonald’s work, but I am way behind.  I, at least, cannot read him quickly.  His lines are such that require attention, appreciation.  I have half a dozen others on my shelf to get to.

    Among others of note, I read Michael Chabon’s Kavalier and Clay,  which so wonderfully captures the essence of an age that I can’t recommend it too strongly, especially to all those mothers poised to toss out their children’s comic book collection when they aren’t looking (although such parents might be disappearing by now).  I also finally got around to reading Connie Willis’s  Doomsday Book, which can be heart-rending.

    I found an obscure book called Faust In Copenhagen  by Gino Segri, which recounts the history of the physicists gathering at Neils Bohr’s house before WWII, and explores the relationships between the 20th Centuries greatest physicists.

    It was a big year for mysteries.  I read a string of Ross McDonald, who I consider an underappreciated master—all the strengths of both Hammett and Chandler, few of the weaknesses.  Laurie R. King and Rex Stout.  I read a few older SF novels I’d either never picked up or had forgotten.

    Oh, yes, and the brand new biography of Robert A. Heinlein by William Patterson.  Not to be missed.

    2010 was also the year I decided to reread all of Dickens.  Didn’t make a huge way through, but I will be continuing that in 2011.

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    2011 will probably be an apparently low reading rate year.  I intend to read some very fat books waiting for me.  I have two large Thomas Pynchon novels I want to get through, more Dickens, the newest Iain M. Banks, and I have some large history books I need to get through.  (Right now, though, I’m reading a Cara Black mystery, Murder on the Isle de St. Louis—so much for fatness.)

    I also have a couple of my own novels to finish, so that will require research, especially for the second book of my alternate history.  I’m going to have to schedule things carefully as I may find myself back in day job la-la-land.

    Anyway, I hope everyone had a safe and happy New Year’s party last night and that 2011 will be magnificent for everyone.

  • Reading and Lists

    By now, I’m sure, many if not most people on FaceBook have encountered the so-called BBC list of books “everyone should read” but likely haven’t.  It’s an interesting meme, both for what is on it and for what is not, but also for the apparent idiocies it contains.  For example, Shakespeare’s Hamlet is listed and then, separately, The Complete Works of Shakespeare.  What, is Hamlet suddenly no longer part of the Complete Works?  Also, the first book of C.S. Lewis’s Narnia series is listed and then—again separately—The Chronicles of Narnia.

    Aside from the obvious lack of editing, this raises the number of books (or, in the case of Shakespeare, “books”) quite a bit above 100.  So the question is, did the BBC actually have anything to do with it?

    Well, yes and no.  Here is a  good explanation of both where the list came from and how memes like this get going.  Note that there was a list which was then opened for voting from BBC viewers.  An amended list, comprised of an amalgam of lists, ended up making the rounds via the internet and primarily on FaceBook.  As these things go, this one at least has the virtue of getting people thinking about and talking about reading, which I count as a good thing.

    But it does open the question about canons and reading lists and what counts as “worthwhile” reading.  Part of the BBC meme is the assertion that “most people” have only read six of the listed titles.  (My own score is slightly north of half—I haven’t read the Harry Potter novels, nor most of Shakespeare,  and several of the more recent novels listed are not even on my radar [Dan Brown?  Are they serious?] )  Going down the list caused me to look at my own shelves, wonder why I hadn’t read some of these books, and perhaps look to acquiring others.

    As a list of noteworthy books it would be good for more people to have read, it has its flaws, but it’s not terrible.  It did, however, get me pondering what I would include on my own such list and why.  So I came up with a syllabus and posted it.  To my delight, it attracted a lot of comments and may eventually become its own meme.  (Is that one of the great ambitions of the modern age? To have one’s own meme?)

    My list is composed of those works of fiction which, in my estimation, would act as a solid ground upon which to build an even greater reading life.  These books—to me—embody eras, styles, concerns, and show a history over time of the evolution of the novel, not to mention offer what are, in my opinion, some of the richest reading experiences possible without utterly exhausting or discouraging the less than wholly committed.  By that, I mean people who read but may not have read in the classics or who may not read for the highest aesthetic reasons or who have limited experience with what Harold Bloom calls Deep Reading.  For this reason, I did not include works like  James Joyce’s Ulysses, which I feel rests at the far end of a bell curve of difficulty.  There are other novels that fit this category which, if anyone goes through the rest of the list would still be there to offer an even greater experience.  I did not, for instance, include Thomas Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow, which is arguably his best, certainly his most famous.  I did include his V. because I felt it to be essential to that period of American literature (along with William Gaddis’s   The Recognitions).  I likewise did not include  Dhalgren by Samuel R. Delany for the same reasons.

    My view in creating this list was to represent the best writing at its most entertaining.  The challenge of “deep reading” is a different kind of pleasure.  For my part, often in the past I’ve cracked a book I was simply not ready for.  I read Ulysses when I was 18.  I assure you, it was a ghost-like experience—there was the sense of passing through something, but what it was I could not grasp.  I reread it, in a group setting, a few years ago and discovered a rewarding experience.  There have been other novels with which I’ve had the same realization.  Some works you have to build up to.

    My choices, of course, elicited curious responses and quibbles, as all such lists will—and should.

    One of the statements by which I live concerns book burning, which I consider an odious practice, just shy of genocide.  A book—especially a novel—is not A Thing in the sense of other objects.  A book, once engaged, is a life relived through access.  Someone put an essential part of their being into the making of the book, it reflects that person’s ambitions, desires, fears, hopes, loves, passions.  To destroy it is to kill them again.  It is a kind of murder.  Reading, to me, is not an avoidance of people, like many of my peers as I grew up tried to tell me, but an engagement with a person not present but who has left something of him or herself for me to know.  Seen like that, close reading of so-called classics is an act of regeneration—indeed, resurrection.  Bringing the characters to life allows the author a chance to tell what was important to him or her at that time, to have a conversation of a special sort with someone impossible to know any other way.

    The writing of a story is a process of encoding the imagination, which is in many ways the distillation of who we are.  When someone picks it up and reads it and experiences the imagining encoded, that distillation opens up and suffuses the reader.

    I could compose a few more lists like this one, each with books that would tell a story of lives and adventures, customs and tragedies, dreams and loves, and be just as valid.  The whole purpose of such lists, though, should be seen as presenting opportunities.  Read these and find friends, learn about strangers, let someone live again for the space of a few hundred pages.  They are gateway documents, in no way proscriptive.  Just because something isn’t on such a list doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be or couldn’t be on someone else’s list, and certainly doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be read and valued.  Doing this has me thinking about some of the books I still haven’t read.

    Interestingly enough, I’m currently reading a novel I really ought to have read 40-plus years ago.  Rite of Passage by Alexei Panshin.  It’s one of those “seminal” novels we hear about, a novel that encapsulated something for its time and did what it did better than most.  It’s set in a time long after the Earth has destroyed itself and concerns the life of a girl growing up aboard a starship.  She is 12 years old when the story opens, two years from the Trial—a period she must survive in order to become An Adult, a rite of passage—and told from her perspective as she approaches the trial.  (I’m enjoying it, which is a bit surprising, because it really is one of those novels one should read at the “proper” time of life–great for teenager, not so much for a 56 year old.  Still.)  I came across a brief discussion in the book of old novels, which the main character reads and enjoys—and then observes that no one writes novels anymore, as if living on a starship has somehow fulfilled the need novels once filled.  This surprised me, especially coming from a writer who clearly knew what he was doing.  The need for story will never pass.  Even in places and times when storytelling has been suppressed and denigrated, it thrives.  Because it is not the novelty of the story that matters, though this is an important feature—it is the preservation of lives and imaginations.  Stories about certain Things may well pass from our interest, but story itself is as integral to being human as the need for other people.

  • On Reading As Travel

    I have close to 6000 books in my house.

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    Now, this is not a lot compared to some I know.  Harlan Ellison has over a quarter million.  Of course, he has the space for it (barely).  But for an average library, 6000 is more than respectable, and many of those are collectible (which is not why I acquired them originally, it just turned out that way).

    I’ve read maybe half of them.

    I’ve known for a long time that I will likely never read all the books I own. Given that, owning them seems pointless.  The trouble is, I also never know which ones I will read (or when), so divesting myself of them defeats the purpose of having them—keeping them nearby on the off chance that I’ll pick one up.

    (I have a hard time using the library.  The peculiarity of my habits doesn’t fit me to read books “on schedule” or on a timetable, so borrowing them knowing I’ll have to take them back in three weeks means that two days before they’re due I might start reading them.  I’ve bought books that have sat on my shelves for years before I finally picked them up.  This frustrates Donna for a number of reasons.  But for me, also, owning a book is my symbol of personal wealth.)

    I don’t lose sleep over what I’ll never read anymore.  Some time in the last four or five years I stopped fretting.  I signed onto one of those online reading pages—Goodreads—and began adding in all the books I’ve ever read and the fact is, I don’t remember at least 500 of them that I should, no doubt many more that just fell through the cracks, possibly by virtue of not being worth remembering.  My current total is over 2600, but I know that’s short, and if I add in all the partials, the magazines, individual articles, etc, then my lifetime total to date is probably over 4000, maybe 4500.

    And I don’t remember over a third of them.

    I do not reread.  There are a handful of books I’ve read twice, maybe four or five more than that.

    For a few years I did book reviews, which forced me to read books I would otherwise not have bothered with, and this provided some great pleasures.

    But the fact is, for the dedicated reader, it is impossible to read everything worthwhile, never mind everything.  So you can either stew in anxiety for all that you will miss or immerse yourself in what you can.

    On FaceBook one of those lists has been going around, one I’ve seen in various forms for years, the 100 books the BBC thinks everyone should read but of which most people have only read 6.  The list has some remarkable books on it–-Les Miserables, Of Mice and Men, Middlemarch, War & Peace, etc.—but also some “huh?” moments, not so much because the choice is bad but because there are better books by the same author.  So while I could tick off 42 on the list, I could make a separate list of my own with over 200 that should have been on that list that I did read.

    I read—many people read—for two purposes (three if you wish to specify that “for fun” is its own category, but I think that is implicit in my reason number two).  The first is obvious, for information.  I have a sizable reference library, many of the books of which I would never recommend as “pleasurable” reading, a good number of which I never intended to read cover-to-cover when I bought them.  But a lot of people who are not, by definition, Readers read for information.  I’ve known many people who devour technical books and the like but would never think to pick up a novel or a book of essays or short stories.  They do not read for the second, and in my opinion more important, reason.

    I read to be more.

    It’s nebulous stated that way.  What do I mean More?  Those who have a lifetime of deep reading behind them understand.  Reading enlarges our internal landscape, widens the horizons, gives us a sense of scope we would otherwise not have, matched possibly by the seasoned world traveler, the sort who picks up enough local language to function, and lives in a country long enough to dive into the parts not on the official tour.  By deep reading, my sense of my own Self has grown, and I apprehend more of the gestalt that is the world.

    But also, the act of reading physically increases the connections in the brain, increases the brain’s capacity, not in a specified way, but in such a way that the world is both less surprising and more amazing when we encounter new things.  There is an excellent book about this that I recommend—Proust and the Squid: The Story and Science of the Reading Brain by Maryanne Wolf.  In it, Dr. Wolf details the physiology of reading in a way that convinced me that my long-held belief  is correct that, of all the forms of “entertainment” that affect us, reading is fundamentally different.

    So it ultimately doesn’t matter how many books we end up getting through before we die.  What matters is the attention, the exposure, the fact that we read, steadily and widely, and through that become more of ourselves than we would otherwise be.  In this sense, each good book is a country we visit.  Widely traveled is still widely traveled, even if we don’t get to all of them.

    Perhaps instead of talking about the books we haven’t read, we should instead talk about the books we’ve been to.  Who we have become from having visited these places is not lessened by all those places we have not and perhaps never will go to.

  • Coming Back

    We’ve been on the east side of the Mississippi often the last few weeks.  Good friends over there, and last night we had Thanksgiving Feast at the house of some very good ones.  Smoked turkey (my favorite way to have it—frankly, I’ve always found turkey a problematic bird to east, much too dry to be really tasty, but a good carrier for other flavors, so it behooves one to stuff them creatively and add spices as necessary) Brussels sprouts, potatoes, stuffing, three kinds of desert four kinds of wine, coffee, and some excellent conversation, not to mention a large, cheerful hearth with a substantial fire…ah, it was almost a Norman Rockwell moment!

    It rained and snowed most of yesterday, stopped right before we left to go over there, and had cleared up completely by the time we left, which was after midnight.  Where they live, few lights compete with the night sky, and the stars salted the dome.  We listened to Santana on the way back.  We did not overeat to the point of pain, but we were well satisfied.

    This image was not shot last night, but a week ago returning from another party with some of the same folks.  Still, I thought it was worth posting—it should go with Thanksgiving.  Life should always have great beauty for us to appreciate at least once every day.  If we’re fortunate, that beauty comes mostly from the people we call friends and lovers.  But occasionally we have to notice that which serves as backdrop.  So…

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    Coming home on Highway 55.

  • Charcoal, Stone, Water

    Back to the visual.  I had forgotten that before Advance closed down and I lost access to a full lab, I’d made some 4 X 5 transparencies of my over-sized art pieces, works that simply won’t fit on my scanner.  So I found these the other day and have been turning them into digital files, so if perchance I sell the originals I now will have a record, at least, of some of my doodlings.

    Here’s one I rather liked.  It’s a composite of a few images, sort of done along the lines of a steampunk aesthetic.

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    I did this on a slightly textured piece of mount board with charcoal and pencil.  No title, but I often don’t title my images.  After the previous grim post, a bit of grimness of a different sort, and possibly more pleasant.  Enjoy.