Sherman Alexie is back.... so go buy his new book

I remember the first time I saw the movie Smoke Signals, how I felt humbled by the humour, the beauty, the delicate respect. And it was only by fluke that I learned it was based on a series of short stories penned by Sherman Alexie, who happened to have been born and raised just outside of Spokane Washington, a few hours across the border from my home town. We used to drive to Spokane all the time as teenagers, stopping at the Indian Reservation to purchase fireworks. That had been the extent of my interaction with American Indians.

Alexie's short stories were published in a collection called The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight In Heaven and to this day I consider this book to be some of the finest works I've ever read. There is so much honesty in his writing, a willingness to both laugh and rage at the changes his culture has undergone over so many years. And there is a keen sense of spirit too, an almost metaphysical element woven between his words. I try to read it every year.

And now Mr. Alexie, a man I have never met, has a new book out called Flight This has me excited, of course. I assume I am similar to most of you out there when I say that there are certain writers whose books I buy without question or hesitation. Like film, where certain directors illicit the same response from me, once I've read an amazing book I am always looking forward to the next release by the author. Flight will be by next book purchase, to be sure.

So, if you are looking for a new author to check out, a new book to add to your afternoon reading material, or just to expand your reading base (it's so easy to get stuck in a rut when you read) I offer my humble suggestion of any of Sherman Alexie's works. Just use the Amazon link to the right. Or perhaps you want to rent Smoke Signals first, to get an idea of what his writing is about. I have yet to come across someone who has been disappointed by the experience. Here's a final link to CBC's interview with Alexie, regarding his latest novel:

http://www.cbc.ca/arts/books/alexie.html

Epistlary Humour is Good Writing Too...

As some of you know, I grew up in a conservative Christian family. As with any religious upbringing, there is a fair amount of baggage attached, usually fully recognized when you enter the real world as an adult. But the reek of shit rises just as high as the reek of piety... and wouldn't you know it, they seem to smell really similar. And I love when someone writes a letter or essay or article that reduces one of the many absurd aspects of fundamental theology (of any religion) to the absurdity it really is. Case in point: a letter was recently written to Dr. Laura Schlessinger (popular American radio host) regarding one of the comments she made on her show. Can you imagine if her and Rush Limbaugh hooked up? The world would probably implode with stupidity.

What follows is just a "cut and paste" by me. I take no credit for it and am just posting it for the sake of humour, and the tongue in cheek attack on literal theological interpretation. Normally, I wouldn't do so on this blog, but it struck a chord with me. In other words, I think it's good writing. Here goes...

Recently, she (Dr. Laura) said that, as an observant Orthodox Jew, homosexuality is an abomination according to Leviticus 18:22 and cannot be condoned under any circumstance. The following is an open letter to Dr. Laura penned by an east coast resident, which was posted on the Internet. It's funny, as well as informative:

Dear Dr. Laura:

Thank you for doing so much to educate people regarding God's Law. I have learned a great deal from your show, and try to share that knowledge with as many people as I can. When someone tries to defend the homosexual lifestyle, for example, I simply remind them that Leviticus 18:22 clearly states it to be an abomination. End of debate.

I do need some advice from you, however, regarding some of the other specific laws and how to follow them:When I burn a bull on the altar as a sacrifice, I know it creates a pleasing odor for the Lord - Lev.1:9. The problem is my neighbors. They claim the odor is not pleasing to them. Should I smite them?

I would like to sell my daughter into slavery, as sanctioned in Exodus21:7. In this day and age, what do you think would be a fair price for her?

I know that I am allowed no contact with a woman while she is in her period of menstrual uncleanliness - Lev.15:19- 24. The problem is, howdo I tell? I have tried asking, but most women take offense.

Lev. 25:44 states that I may indeed possess slaves, both male and female, provided they are purchased from neighboring nations. A friend of mine claims that this applies to Mexicans, but not Canadians. Can you clarify? Why can't I own Canadians?

I have a neighbor who insists on working on the Sabbath. Exodus 35:2 clearly states he should be put to death. Am I morally obligated tokill him myself? A friend of mine feels that even though eating shellfish is anabomination - Lev. 11:10, it is a lesser abomination than homosexuality. I don't agree. Can you settle this?

Lev. 21:20 states that I may not approach the altar of God if I have a defect in my sight. I have to admit that I wear reading glasses. Does my vision have to be 20/20, or is there some wiggle room here?

Most of my male friends get their hair trimmed, including the hair around their temples, even though this is expressly forbidden by Lev.19:27. How should they die?

I know from Lev. 11:6-8 that touching the skin of a dead pig makes me unclean, but may I still play football if I wear gloves?

My uncle has a farm. He violates Lev. 19:19 by planting two different crops in the same field, as does his wife by wearing garments made of two different kinds of thread (cotton/polyester blend). He also tends to curse and blaspheme a lot. Is it really necessary that we go to all the trouble of getting the whole town together to stone them? -Lev.24:10-16. Couldn't we just burn them to death at a private family affair like we do with people who sleep with their in-laws? (Lev.20:14)

I know you have studied these things extensively, so I am confident you can help. Thank you again for reminding us that God's word is eternal and unchanging.

Your devoted fan,
Jim

The Mad Shuffling of Priorities

Guilt is a byproduct of my writing endeavours, desperation too. At 32, I feel a keen sense of urgency to get somewhere with all of this, make something of myself. Right now I can only call myself a writer in the loosest of terms. So I get frantic sometimes, which results in some likely subpar output. It's like there is a magic number in my head, some age limit, that I need to be successful by (and I realize that success is a rather subjective quality). I want writing to be my priority, the focus of what I am about, the core substance which defines my processes as an adult. But I'm realizing that this may never be the case. Life is notorious with its ability to make you take stock and implement changes.

Last year, my wife and I went on a three week backpacking trip through various parts of Europe. By far, it was the single most remarkable thing we'd ever done as a couple. The art, culture, food, drink, people -all left a permanent impression with us, something we value and talk about all the time. Of course, added into the mix was the fact that our first child (still in Sandra's belly as I write this) was conceived. I'd heard that trips to Europe could do this to a couple, but I always thought we'd outside the norm. Not so. Novotel in Brussels will always be held in very high regard.
Throughout Sandra's pregnancy, I've wrestled with where to place writing on my list of priorities once the baby is here. Instinctually, I know the baby comes first. Each time I talk to the grub through dear Wifey's belly and it tries to thump me in the nose I am overwhelmed. But in the back of my mind I get this desperate feeling like I need to keep writing at the top of my list, that to let it take a back seat to anything will ultimately result in prolonged failure down the road. Surely, the successful writers out there let nothing deter them. I grow concerned that I will have to sacrifice one for the other.

A poet friend of mine and I were emailing back and forth recently. He mentioned that when he was married to his then wife, he made the big error of telling her that writing would always be his biggest priority. He wasn't being disingenuous with her (though he did say it was young and stupid of him to say this), just honest about where he was at. He didn't want her to think he would sacrifice his writing for job or relationship. But when his first child came, all of that was thrown out the window. He considered it primal instinct, something you cannot avoid, something deeper than marriage. Your children always come first.

In the Belly to Baby classes Sandra and I attended this past weekend (which I highly recommend), I watched at least six different DVD births. Each and every one of them was beautiful and remarkable. And I get this sense that I'm realizing what my poet friend was talking about. This instinct is so immense and yet I only feel twinges of it right now. Even if I were callous enough to want to put writing in front of my children, I do not think I would be able to. When the bambino finally arrives, after all the labour and work my dear wife will go through, there will not be any doubt about priorities. And it may not be a matter of sacrifice. Writing is influenced by experiences. And this will be an unforgettable one, I'm sure.

Procrastinator Terminus

I've got Beck's Whiskeyclone, Hotel City 1997 (from the album Mellow Gold) playing and it is a lazy song. The music bleeds out slow, an inebriated slick of sound, sunken into the ground with apathy. There's no inspiration in it, but it is good music, the kind that slows you down to a staggering crawl.

The feel of this song, not the words per say, seems to embody my head space for writing these past few weeks. I have two stories in their final stages: peer edits in, red marks scrawled all over the manuscripts, all notes ready for serious concession. And I have not done a damn thing with them.

At first, I chalked it up to having to complete an editing assignment for a course I'm taking. But when that was done, nothing changed. So I considered blaming Facebook and its infernal addictiveness. But that would also mean blaming my wife, Sandra, who started me up on the whole thing. To be honest I value my appendages... all of them. No the responsibility must lie with my own pathetic shortcomings. All the criticism I've levied against writers who look for ways to distract themselves from completing those last steps now comes full circle. And I have it a lot easier than most people.

The funny thing is, I often find the editing process more enjoyable than the actual penning of the first draft. Getting the initial story out can be agony. All the images jumbled in my head, giving me only a murky idea of what I'm trying to convey. Once the story is out on the page and I can start picking it apart, moving paragraphs, changing word choices, finding out what my peer editors have to say --that's when I feel like something of value can be accomplished.
So, I think I'm pulling back from those last few steps because I know that once they're done I've got to go back to square one. I have to start from scratch again, from one concrete image, from the idea of context. It's a trivial thing, really. I should be looking forward to the next editing process, the same way one anticipates a good meal without being too mindful about the preparation involved beforehand.

In other words, I'm being lazy. There, I said it. Of course, now that I've said it, I'll be racing upstairs to hammer away at my stories like a good boy. But I must do it quick, before my garden out front calls me into the sun, before someone posts on my Facebook account, before the hockey game starts, before... crap, too late.

Salvation Through Oprah...

Postured high in lofty realms where God is all sunshine and lollipops, and "Jesus Saves" bumper stickers are both the cause of and solution to all life's problems, another form of religious fervor has bubbled its way into this roiling mess of North American soul searching. In all its greasy, omnipresent power, the manufactured ego-deity of Oprah permeates the media to bless her minions. Her face appears on every issue of her own magazine, her opinion is canonized daily on her television show with bold statements and images, reminding everyone what she does to save the world. People buy into it too, with empty, painful smiles. But surely there must be the occasional suspicious question as to how or why so many nod their heads in perfect, holy agreement.
And of course, how can we forget her book club and its rather gooey mixture of nauseating self-help, flimsy spirituality, and the occasional literary piece, all marked with her name as if she has something to do with their existence. No surprise that I might take exception with that.

The best thing about television is that you can change the channel whenever you want, or just shut the damned thing off. I don't have to spend my afternoons watching Oprah pose for all her camera closeups, reiterating how she spends her money and time saving the souls of (wo)mankind and buying tennis shoes for kids. But I tell you, I almost get an aneurysm when I go into a bookstore and find a sticker bearing her name, pasted across the cover of a book she's had no part in writing. Does her Christ complex give her license to tag everything with her own vacuous approval? What could she possibly have to offer to the literary world?

Right away, I know some of you will jump and and say, "Well dammit Harry, I never would have read East of Eden if it hadn't been for Oprah. Fair enough, but perhaps you could contemplate that statement for a moment. Are you suggesting that your slovenly mind was not intuitive enough to start seeking out good literature on its own? Steinbeck, Faulkner, Morrison... all these great writers' reputations were not enough to compel you to be inquisitive about them? It took the almighty Oprah, someone without any literary background or real education, someone who has nothing to offer but superficial and ultimately meaningless commercialism -- someone you do not even know, to compel you? You would rather concede that you take your cues in life from a network media mogul than your own discernment? Then I wish you would never have read East of Eden at all. Leave all those wonderful books alone. Better yet, maybe you can find a recorded copy of Oprah reading one of those books so you don't have to tire out your poor, poor brain.

Awhile back, Rex Murphy, one of Canada's best critical commentators, wrote a scathing piece on Oprah's book club. Titled The Author Eater, and now found in his book of essays called Points of View, Murphy's article rails against Oprah's book club on two fronts. He observes how she leeches the uniqueness out of good books, making them a byproduct of her "Oprahness", and then marketing them as if they were products of her own ideas. He also comments on the quality of the books in her club, those self-help Tony Robbins, Deepak Chopra and Chicken Soup for the Soul type books that use smiley-face, booster shots of nonsense to lull the masses into happy, generic slumber. In this instance, I think Rex hits the nail on the head. Celebrity is becoming synonymous with intellectual opinion, an absurd nightmare in its own right. We race to bookshelves to read books because glamorous (at least when they have makeup on) people tell us to. And this hurts both sides of the equation. Established authors now grovel at the accursed throne to get their names mentioned, knowing that the majority of readers base their book choices on coerced popular demand. Who in their right mind would want to be mentioned alongside Deepak Chopra anyways?

Ever get that gnawing feeling that something is wrong with the way people perceive the world? That somehow we are moving further and further away from complex thought and dialogue, away from intimate discussion, towards some weird, mechanized form of interaction? How about how difficult we often find it to articulate our ideas or feelings about something personal and important? Or how about how little rationale we use when forming opinion? You can thank Oprah for this, along with a plethora of other like-minded sycophants out there. She has blended weak entertainment with weak commentary, feeding on the ever growing demographic of people who are comfortable to have others think for them, and packaging her ego and need for attention into a massive pandemic of intellectual apathy. Hurrah.

Wrestling the Muse

I woke up early one morning, this past week. I'm not sure if it had to do with whatever dreams were still loitering around, but a memory from childhood crashed into my brain and refused to move on. It wasn't even a memory, really, more a fragmented image, something stark, once forgotten, but now brought to the surface the way the ocean deposits strange and wonderful things on the beach during the night. I lay there, trying not to disturb my pregnant, lightly snoring wife, but I couldn't for the life of me shake the image. Nor could I return to sleep. So, I got up, put my robe on, went downstairs and brewed some green tea. Hot mug in hand, I sat down at my laptop and began to write.

The image itself is personal in many ways, a reference to those strange circumstances that neighbourhood boys find themselves in when no one is looking, innocent enough at first, but always hinting at something more, a self-awareness and awakening. From that image, and whatever fleeting associations I could still make with it, a fictional tale begin to emerge, something honest in its sentiment (at least when referring to the original memory) but well removed from what and how I usually write.
I vaguely remember my wife kissing my cheek as she went out the door to work, and the next time I looked up at the clock it was noon, more than five hours later. Sitting in front of me on my computer screen was the first draft of a short story, and a damn good one at that.

Later on, when I was out in the front garden planting bulbs, I thought about what would have happened if I had ignored the image and just forced myself to go back to sleep. What would I have missed? Would the story have returned at a later time? I doubt it. There have been other occasions where I've felt the muse nudging me in the ribs, waving an image or idea in front of my eyes. On those occasions, I ignored the thought and continued on with whatever I was doing, assuming I would remember later when I was at the computer. That never happened. In fact, I couldn't even conjure up the sentiment associated with the image. Not to say that each of those instances would have resulted in something profound, but there is something to be said for the notion of wasted potential.
Stephen King, whose short stories are often wonderful, mentioned in his book On Writing how he brings a notepad with him wherever he goes, precisely for this reason. You can refer to something you've jotted down and decide it's garbage at a later time, but you cannot revisit an image, thought, or idea that you've allowed to escape your grasp.

I'm not sure if I'm referring to the textbook definition of "muse" here. But, these moments are my muses. They scratch at me when I hear a certain phrase or sentence, witness people interacting in fascinating ways, or not interacting at all. All of it is empirical and I doubt I'm alone with this. Our senses constantly refer back to the archives in our minds, reminding us of things we thought forgotten, certain smells or sounds, words, touches. Most people take them for the nostalgic references they are, enjoying the quick memory but letting it fall away afterwards. For the writer, these moments are much more important. They are intimate glimpses of knowledge, catalysts for future stories and characters.

A part of it is discipline, making yourself take note of those musings that seem important, or at least potentially so. Another part of it is just being willing to listen when the whispers in your ear begin, those images that keep you awake or haunt your thoughts for periods of time. All this has made me wonder whether writer's block really exists, or if it is more a matter of being too distracted to listen. I suppose there are times when the call is too quiet, or infrequent. But we should at the very least be listening for it as often as we can.

The Sorcery of the World

I had the pleasure of attending Patrick Friesen's latest book launch for Earth's Crude Gravities, a collection of poems.It was held at our friend's house high on the mountainside in Abbotsford, which proved to be the perfect location. The sound of the rushing creek, the natural setting, the beautiful concrete home with its large windows overlooking the valley, all contributed to the mood in many ways, and perhaps even a theme: the returning to what is natural, the eclipsing of the divine.

While I am primarily a prose reader, I feel a keen connection with Patrick's work, possibly due to our similar upbringings. Both of us come from strict, religious backgrounds, namely Mennonite (although I am not Mennonite by blood) which has cultured a lot of how and what we write today. Patrick's latest collection moves further into his abandonment of such religious ties. The poems are wrathful at times, affectionate at others. The imagery is visceral, the sentiment honest and sincere.
I feel an emotional connection to what he writes, a bonding with the resentment and refusal, but yet an appreciation for the meaning within the moments.
Click on the links to order the book, which is not expensive. Amazon has it, or you can order it through Patrick's website as well. You won't be disappointed. Those of you who do buy it, feel free to respond here. Always nice to learn what others thought.