Final Part Four

I'm sitting here thinking of 1984.  I can smell it: hairspray (Gen X was solely responsible for the hole in the ozone layer, I contend), Marlboro cigarettes and other things that have a grassy, smoky aroma, Jordache perfume, diesel fuel.  It is my own warrant to speak of this time, and let me tell you, I do and often.  After reading "Tesla Matters (Dude)" all I can think of is this: what are our warrants?  How do we utilize them in our writing?  Do they put folks off? Draw them in?  When, and in what kind of writing, do we use them?

I would contend nonfiction deems them critical to the power of our message.  Let me prove this: how often have you been reading along, innocently accepting the message (or maybe trepidatiously) when BAM.  There it is.  A cultural misstep.  That is NOT what Reagan said, or Clinton, or Bush--the timeline is totally off--no one would have worn those shoes then . . .

(Yep, I totally just used all of the devices we talked about today.)

A professor I had once upon a time (her name was mentioned in class this afternoon) taught me something like this once.  It went something like: never break the suspension of disbelief with your audience.  You lose them.  Badly.

You know the moment.  You read the book.  And then?  There it is, the popcorn halfway up to your mouth, your feet jauntily hooked onto the chair in front of you, and there it is.  Bastards. Sophie (The Da Vinci Code) has a brother?  What the?  That was not in the book.  You look around, expecting riotous indignation from your fellow moviegoers.  Nothing.  Yet you have psychically left the building.  Over and out.  Suspension?  Nope.  Disbelief?  Yep.  The rest is just, well, garbage. I am personally still bitter about every single Stephen-King-book-turned-movie I have ever seen.  (One of the only screenplays he has written is Maximum Overdrive.  The others were Shawshank Redemption and The Green Mile. Stellar.)

No warrant.  You can't  come in.  That is our right as readers, though, I believe.  To refuse entry when we call qualitative bullshit.

And yes.  I have cursed more than once in this blog.  Why?  Because I am about to use a warrant, and there is no way you would buy me if I came off as a pretentious, ivy-league prof.

It was 1984 and the Cradle Will Rock tour hit hard, right on the heels of the Back in Black tour (AC/DC, folks).  I had no intention of ever working for "the man" and had even less intention of staying chemically lucid for more than, well, five or ten minutes.  The t-shirt was black and had SEX DRUGS AND ROCK AND ROLL emblazoned across the front, and it was about two years before most of us had even heard the word "aids."  And I was ruuunnning.  (Little Forest Gump for you there.) Smart kid, lost, angry, scared, with a serious Peter Pan complex and no vision of my thirties.  Kids like yourselves made no sense to me.  How did they study and mind and cut their hair and eat their Wheaties? No way, man.  Sunlight hurt my eyes and Walt Disney was blasphemy to my soul.  Purposefully, vehemently, I threw away my childhood when I threw up my lighter to David Lee Rothe in crimson spandex.  Part of me is still back there, waiting for the lights to come up and force me out into the street.  Strangely, all the songs and all the bands and all the beer-soaked nights add up to this one moment in my teenage wasteland:

And when some local kid gets down
They try an' drum him outta town
They say, "Ya coulda least faked it, boy"
Fake it, boy (Ooh, stranger, boy)
At an early age he hits the street
Winds up tied with who he meets
An' he's unemployed--his folks are overjoyed.

But here I am, Dr. PD, thirty years later, talking about warrants.  I suppose I could have just "faked it," but I think I learned the regret of that decades ago.

And so.  I begin sentences with and.  And do a lot of ---- stuff like that.  Proper English?  Um, no.  But it's in line with the signature on my warrant.  I wonder, do we ever know the voice in our heads without examining the paperwork . . .

Final Part Three

I'm sitting here actually trying to link "Portrait of My Body" and "Why We Crave Horror Movies."  Sober.  I think I've got it, but it all seems a bit too strange for a blog, or for sharing, or for thinking even.    I wonder if several of us were pulled in easily to "Portrait" simply because we wanted to connect to it somehow, have the scars made beautiful or the imperfections justifiable.  What a jolt those of us must have had when it all went wrong halfway in and our tender author betrayed us, made it a bit uncomfortable, and stank up the room.  I wondered the same thing halfway through King's piece.  It was all fine and good until he started saying things like "we" and "madman," and sheesh, so close together like that?

Which brings me to another bit of a loser supposition: what if certain folks are right?  What if there is no "true" us, only the performer on paper?  What if we cannot escape him/her simply because we (the reader) are the intended audience for us (the writer) and, here's the kicker, we know what we cannot bear to hear?  Then, riddle me this Batman, is there any point at all to this academic, masturbatory, narcissistic exercise called writing?

Come on.  You didn't think I was that innocent, did you?

Let's try something here.  Portrait # One:

Long fingers.  Granma loved them, called them piano chasers.  (And they were, years ago, chasers along porcelain sound). Here, a sliver of a scar in the shape of the glass that sliced it, either side of my middle right knuckle.  Hands just beginning to crepe up a bit after years of washing dishes, cleaning houses, working dirt.  They held babies and stroked hair and clasped others and enunciated sentences.  Married by joints that ache when it's going to rain and sometimes just because.  They were the prettiest thing I had and are now the most belligerent sign of my wisdom.  The left one bears a wedding ring so heavy that it has left a permanent, soft dent.  I find comfort in them, the bones and the thinning skin that are the closet thing to my writing, my history, my life.  My hands.

Sookay.  Now.  Portrait # Two:

Cuticles long scarred by permanent teeth, ripped and bit and torn until they bled.  I curl the tips under to hide the flesh when I pay in cash, cut the nails to cripple their chances of self-mutilation.  Veiny and branded by a drop of velvety hot grease -- a moment of self-defense against someone I loved.  Fingers so long that they will have no choice but to become claws in the next two decades, bony things that held cigarettes and formed obscene gestures and slapped a friend once in a drunken rage.  I am terrified of these appendages for they just might one day turn on the rest of me in jointy glee.  Premeditated.  Justifiable handocide.  My hands.

Saalright.  Pick one.  Which portrait is true?  Why, both, of course.  And neither.  Somewhere in the middle.  Whatever I choose to remember or believe or tell.  I think that may be the point, after all: to tell the truth, but to tell it slant (English majors, unite).  Tell it ugly, sometimes, otherwise the writer in you will call bullshit on the whole sweet thing.

And for reasons beyond my own understanding this morning, the following verse just came into my head:

Would you believe in a love at first sight?  Yes, I'm certain that it happens all the time.  What do you see when you turn out the light?  I can't tell you, but I know it's mine.

KPD

Final Part Two

I don't know about you all, but I am thoroughly exhausted.  A fifteen week class is almost too much on the old brain, isn't it?  But we push on . . .

I suppose that's what I am asking you to do.  Push.  Through safe writing and perfect grammar for  something more, something new.  (Look, a sentence fragment.)

Some of you seemed to struggle today, and I may have lost one or two of you after grades were logged.  That saddens me.  The most valuable A I ever earned was with Jon Bolton after believing it would be that horrifying B (after all, that is what he put on my paper).  And the best B I ever earned was with someone much more dangerous and looming--and I learned more in that class than any other.  But, I suppose, that will come in time and retrospect when your "real lives" become your daily lives, or when you have to give a student you are just flat crazy about anything less than a 100.

I've mentioned before: what if this were the last class I ever taught?  What would I give to it?  What would I risk?  Which makes me wonder: what if this were the last class you ever took?  Are you sure you would just want it to slide by?

I remember one of my professors telling me to not be so invested, so close-chested, to my work as to not see its potential to be even better.  So, instead of waxing philosophical in this Monday blog, let me ask you:

Can you?
Push harder?
Write harder?
Be better?

Or do we all sincerely believe that we are "good enough?"

Where do you see yourself backing down from the battle of writing?

And if this is all just a bit too academic, let me insert something more poetic.

I had a student back in 2004, let's call her Susan.  Susan asked questions that others would have balked at, backed away from, and ignored.  Susan revised and revised and revised and bled all over her page, never missed a class, peer-reviewed with a vengeance, and read her assignments with a voracity that bordered on hunger.  I remember that she was tall, blue-eyed, and wore a lot of hats.

On her last paper, I gave Susan an A.  She asked me how it could get better.  Stayed after class and picked my brain and talked about how words were magic and how she wished she could spend every day eating them, crafting them, and making them spin in the air.

Susan had only three weeks left to live.  The brain tumor was taking that spark out of her eyes with every breath she shared with me, yet, she went down fighting with a kind of courage that I have only seen in old men.  And she never backed down.  I went to her funeral, stood in the sweltering heat in Mississippi and listened to poetry she had written as a child--something about peanut butter. Hugged her mother and cried all the way home in an old beat-up Chevy Nova, all I could afford as an English teacher and the best car I ever had the honor of sobbing in.

And I became a better writer.  It was the least I could do.  I had time left. Time.

But wait.  I'm not asking this kind of sacrifice of you, it's not even on the syllabus.  I am asking for more push.  I see those sparks, that love for words, and I wonder--

How far are you willing to go, Advanced Comp?  How "advanced" would you like to be?  Have you, at the end of the day, given it all you had?

And lastly, a quote:

"I'm not ever going to feel that way again. You don't get that twice." 

Investigator:
 "Most don't get it once." Mystic River

Final Part One

Sheesh. After talking about lean writing, verbose writing, soundbite writing, warrant writing, personal writing . . . what to do . . . I wish I was just at the beach where I could think better . . .

Then I saw what I was doing and had a memory. (The class sighs. Dr. PD has a memory. Again.)

I was stuck. Chapter Three of my dissertation had my butt in a sling. Really. Nada. Books piled on the floor, some of which that had become make-shift coffee tables, were crunching in on me. I think they call this writer's block. I tried everything: wine, t.v., calling my bff and running it all down again, re-reading, screaming, pacing, and railing at the sky that I should have gone into another major. My dear friend and mentor, Frank Walters, ran into me in Haley Center and saw that we were quite near a fundamental breakdown and out of mercy sat me down somewhere on a bench. After the wailing and teeth grinding subsided a bit, he offered his well-earned, academic-type advice:

Write crap. (Language cleaned up here for formality purposes.)

Not out of self defense, not as a last ditch effort, but very much ON PURPOSE. Aggressive crap writing. Take that.

Right, I'm with you. An English prof saying write poo? Seriously? What I would have given to have heard that all along.

And so I did. I wrote a load of ka-ka. Laughing all the way. Somewhere along page twelve, I had an idea. My muse grabbed my brain and went: Have you thought of this? Brilliant. Yes. I couldn't stop. And it wasn't ka-ka.

Here's the thing: I had forgotten it was a joy ride, screams and all, and had made it straight up work. Now. That's not what we are in it for, is it? Turns out, I can revise crap and make it gold once the muse starts singing. (P.S. That chapter is still my favorite.)

You ever notice how that paper with all the angst and sweat that you thought was crap got an A? You ever notice how that one that was perfect got a B?

We've talked about risk taking. Yeah, yeah. Gotta stay in the parameters of the assignment, research the field, cite correctly . . . but once you get that, you got it. Sometimes, the risk is worth it. (Says the girl who included The Da Vinci Code in her dissertation.) But wait: isn't this the same as our daily, grinding lives? Lesse--don't speed, don't drink too much, go to class, don't be late for work, brush your hair . . .
Where is the muse here? Does she get to sing off of paper or are we all a bit too pansy to try that out? I'm thinking here that really being awake, really throwing it out there in our lives (even though it may start out as crap) could lead to our favorite chapter, the love of our lives, the job that makes it all worth it, a lesson of unfathomable proportions. Can we revise crap? As long as it's not in print yet, I think so, and that print is pretty much the tombstone, yes?

I wrote this purposefully forgetting rules of grammar and propriety (except for not saying the word shit, which I just gave in on) in order to get something out. I know where the edit button is. Sometimes you just gotta say . .

Writing Crap

Sheesh. After talking about lean writing, verbose writing, soundbite writing, warrant writing, personal writing . . . what to do . . . I wish I was just at the beach where I could think better . . .

Then I saw what I was doing and had a memory. (The class sighs. Dr. PD has a memory. Again.)

I was stuck. Chapter Three of my dissertation had my butt in a sling. Really. Nada. Books piled on the floor, some of which that had become make-shift coffee tables, were crunching in on me. I think they call this writer's block. I tried everything: wine, t.v., calling my bff and running it all down again, re-reading, screaming, pacing, and railing at the sky that I should have gone into another major. My dear friend and mentor, Frank Walters, ran into me in Haley Center and saw that we were quite near a fundamental breakdown and out of mercy sat me down somewhere on a bench. After the wailing and teeth grinding subsided a bit, he offered his well-earned, academic-type advice:

Write crap. (Language cleaned up here for formality purposes.)

Not out of self defense, not as a last ditch effort, but very much ON PURPOSE. Aggressive crap writing. Take that.

Right, I'm with you. An English prof saying write poo? Seriously? What I would have given to have heard that all along.

And so I did. I wrote a load of ka-ka. Laughing all the way. Somewhere along page twelve, I had an idea. My muse grabbed my brain and went: Have you thought of this? Brilliant. Yes. I couldn't stop. And it wasn't ka-ka.

Here's the thing: I had forgotten it was a joy ride, screams and all, and had made it straight up work. Now. That's not what we are in it for, is it? Turns out, I can revise crap and make it gold once the muse starts singing. (P.S. That chapter is still my favorite.)

You ever notice how that paper with all the angst and sweat that you thought was crap got an A? You ever notice how that one that was perfect got a B?

We've talked about risk taking. Yeah, yeah. Gotta stay in the parameters of the assignment, research the field, cite correctly . . . but once you get that, you got it. Sometimes, the risk is worth it. (Says the girl who included The Da Vinci Code in her dissertation.) But wait: isn't this the same as our daily, grinding lives? Lesse--don't speed, don't drink too much, go to class, don't be late for work, brush your hair . . .
Where is the muse here? Does she get to sing off of paper or are we all a bit too pansy to try that out? I'm thinking here that really being awake, really throwing it out there in our lives (even though it may start out as crap) could lead to our favorite chapter, the love of our lives, the job that makes it all worth it, a lesson of unfathomable proportions. Can we revise crap? As long as it's not in print yet, I think so, and that print is pretty much the tombstone, yes?

I wrote this purposefully forgetting rules of grammar and propriety (except for not saying the word shit, which I just gave in on) in order to get something out. I know where the edit button is. Sometimes you just gotta say . .

The Push

I don't know about you all, but I am thoroughly exhausted.  A fifteen week class is almost too much on the old brain, isn't it?  But we push on . . .

I suppose that's what I am asking you to do.  Push.  Through safe writing and perfect grammar for  something more, something new.  (Look, a sentence fragment.)

Some of you seemed to struggle today, and I may have lost one or two of you after grades were logged.  That saddens me.  The most valuable A I ever earned was with Jon Bolton after believing it would be that horrifying B (after all, that is what he put on my paper).  And the best B I ever earned was with someone much more dangerous and looming--and I learned more in that class than any other.  But, I suppose, that will come in time and retrospect when your "real lives" become your daily lives, or when you have to give a student you are just flat crazy about anything less than a 100.

I've mentioned before: what if this were the last class I ever taught?  What would I give to it?  What would I risk?  Which makes me wonder: what if this were the last class you ever took?  Are you sure you would just want it to slide by?

I remember one of my professors telling me to not be so invested, so close-chested, to my work as to not see its potential to be even better.  So, instead of waxing philosophical in this Monday blog, let me ask you:

Can you?
Push harder?
Write harder?
Be better?

Or do we all sincerely believe that we are "good enough?"

Where do you see yourself backing down from the battle of writing?

And if this is all just a bit too academic, let me insert something more poetic.

I had a student back in 2004, let's call her Susan.  Susan asked questions that others would have balked at, backed away from, and ignored.  Susan revised and revised and revised and bled all over her page, never missed a class, peer-reviewed with a vengeance, and read her assignments with a voracity that bordered on hunger.  I remember that she was tall, blue-eyed, and wore a lot of hats.

On her last paper, I gave Susan an A.  She asked me how it could get better.  Stayed after class and picked my brain and talked about how words were magic and how she wished she could spend every day eating them, crafting them, and making them spin in the air.

Susan had only three weeks left to live.  The brain tumor was taking that spark out of her eyes with every breath she shared with me, yet, she went down fighting with a kind of courage that I have only seen in old men.  And she never backed down.  I went to her funeral, stood in the sweltering heat in Mississippi and listened to poetry she had written as a child--something about peanut butter. Hugged her mother and cried all the way home in an old beat-up Chevy Nova, all I could afford as an English teacher and the best car I ever had the honor of sobbing in.

And I became a better writer.  It was the least I could do.  I had time left. Time.

But wait.  I'm not asking this kind of sacrifice of you, it's not even on the syllabus.  I am asking for more push.  I see those sparks, that love for words, and I wonder--

How far are you willing to go, Advanced Comp?  How "advanced" would you like to be?  Have you, at the end of the day, given it all you had?

And lastly, a quote:

"I'm not ever going to feel that way again. You don't get that twice." 

Investigator:
 "Most don't get it once." Mystic River

Blog Two

Potrait of My Body

I'm sitting here actually trying to link "Portrait of My Body" and "Why We Crave Horror Movies."  Sober.  I think I've got it, but it all seems a bit too strange for a blog, or for sharing, or for thinking even.    I wonder if several of us were pulled in easily to "Portrait" simply because we wanted to connect to it somehow, have the scars made beautiful or the imperfections justifiable.  What a jolt those of us must have had when it all went wrong halfway in and our tender author betrayed us, made it a bit uncomfortable, and stank up the room.  I wondered the same thing halfway through King's piece.  It was all fine and good until he started saying things like "we" and "madman," and sheesh, so close together like that?

Which brings me to another bit of a loser supposition: what if certain folks are right?  What if there is no "true" us, only the performer on paper?  What if we cannot escape him/her simply because we (the reader) are the intended audience for us (the writer) and, here's the kicker, we know what we cannot bear to hear?  Then, riddle me this Batman, is there any point at all to this academic, masturbatory, narcissistic exercise called writing?

Come on.  You didn't think I was that innocent, did you?

Let's try something here.  Portrait # One:

Long fingers.  Granma loved them, called them piano chasers.  (And they were, years ago, chasers along porcelain sound). Here, a sliver of a scar in the shape of the glass that sliced it, either side of my middle right knuckle.  Hands just beginning to crepe up a bit after years of washing dishes, cleaning houses, working dirt.  They held babies and stroked hair and clasped others and enunciated sentences.  Married by joints that ache when it's going to rain and sometimes just because.  They were the prettiest thing I had and are now the most belligerent sign of my wisdom.  The left one bears a wedding ring so heavy that it has left a permanent, soft dent.  I find comfort in them, the bones and the thinning skin that are the closet thing to my writing, my history, my life.  My hands.

Sookay.  Now.  Portrait # Two:

Cuticles long scarred by permanent teeth, ripped and bit and torn until they bled.  I curl the tips under to hide the flesh when I pay in cash, cut the nails to cripple their chances of self-mutilation.  Veiny and branded by a drop of velvety hot grease -- a moment of self-defense against someone I loved.  Fingers so long that they will have no choice but to become claws in the next two decades, bony things that held cigarettes and formed obscene gestures and slapped a friend once in a drunken rage.  I am terrified of these appendages for they just might one day turn on the rest of me in jointy glee.  Premeditated.  Justifiable handocide.  My hands.

Saalright.  Pick one.  Which portrait is true?  Why, both, of course.  And neither.  Somewhere in the middle.  Whatever I choose to remember or believe or tell.  I think that may be the point, after all: to tell the truth, but to tell it slant (English majors, unite).  Tell it ugly, sometimes, otherwise the writer in you will call bullshit on the whole sweet thing.

And for reasons beyond my own understanding this morning, the following verse just came into my head:

Would you believe in a love at first sight?  Yes, I'm certain that it happens all the time.  What do you see when you turn out the light?  I can't tell you, but I know it's mine.

KPD