Archive for March, 2013

In Which I Discuss Brian Eno, Poetry, and My Own Horrible Work

March 29, 2013 Leave a comment

A little hidden secret among writers is that they actually do get writer’s block. When they say, “Oh, I don’t believe in writer’s block,” they’re full of shit. Why? Nine times out of ten, when you ask them where they get ideas, they say “I honestly have no fucking clue.” The other one times (that works, trust me), they’ll give some sort of version of this answer:

“I [read a lot/watch the news/keep a mental file of subjects], and when two things slam together just right, that’s usually when I start writing.”

And that’s all fine and well for those who can do such things. But the rest of us mortals sometimes have problems with those things slamming into each other, let alone “just right.”

A slight tangent:
Back in the ’70s (when he was still having his good ideas), Brian Eno and Peter Schmidt came up with a thing called Oblique Strategies. Essentially, it was some number of cards–I don’t remember exactly how many right now, and honestly you can check it out on Wikipedia yourself if you want–with phrases on them intended to push through, y’know, writer’s block. Some of them were obvious, like “Work at a different speed”, but some got pretty cryptic, like “Ask your body.” Essentially, it came down to generating an idea out of basically nothing. Sometimes, that idea was enough.

Another tangent:
Before that, people like Stockhausen and Varese and Lucier and Glass and Reich were creating generative music; that is, music created from procedural rules and repetition, rather than traditional music theory.

This all comes around, I swear.

In my poetry writing class, our professor likes to split between self-generated poems (that is, poems without limitations) and programmed poems, which have a specific goal in mind. (Use a certain form, use a certain kind of word, etc.) Our most recent assignment was to create a poem in which two people, living or dead, meet in a situation they might not normally. This was based on the John Bradley poem “Two Tangos with the General”, in which the narrator has some… interesting experiences with Gen. Augusto Pinochet.

How hard could that be, right?

Pretty goddamn hard, in my case. It was pretty hard to come up with only two people, and dump them in only one situation, and make it both reasonably believable and utterly surreal. I told my professor as much, and told him that I was getting to the point of just throwing names into a hat.

And he said “Yeah! Do that!” I about peed myself. And then I thought about it for a minute. (The hat, not the peeing.) What if I actually did it?

“I suppose I could; that’s a pretty Eno thing to do,” I said.

“It’s a VERY Eno thing to do,” he said. (Sometimes he speaks in both italics and caps.)

So, in the spirit of experimentation, I made it a little more complex. I made a list of twelve people whose work I admire:

  1.  David Bowie
  2.  TS Eliot
  3.  Hunter S. Thompson
  4.  Jon Stewart
  5.  Trent Reznor
  6.  Warren Ellis
  7.  Ludwig Mies van der Rohe
  8.  Frank Lloyd Wright
  9.  Alestair Crowley
  10.  Stephen King
  11.  Lou Reed
  12.  Andy Warhol

(Yes, yes, I realize they’re all men. I’m working on it, okay?) Then, I took a twelve-sided die, and eliminated the result from the list, leaving eleven names, then ten, then nine, and so on, til I only had one left. Then, I took all twelve names again, and did the same process. That way, I had two quasi-random people with absolutely no decision-making on my part.

After that, I made a list of twelve mundane/bizarre situations:

  1.  Bowling
  2.  Stopping at McDonald’s
  3.  Arguing opposite sides of a murder case
  4.  Watching television
  5.  Attending a baseball game
  6.  Being stopped by the TSA
  7.  Playing a used car salesman and a shopper, respectively
  8.  Visiting a morgue
  9.  Doing laundry
  10.  Waiting in line at the DMV
  11.  Watching Reservoir Dogs
  12.  Sitting in the same book club

Then I rolled a d12 again, eliminating one each time, until I ended up with a scene.

I’m not positive on my math here, but if my numbers are right, there is a 1 in 1.4 billion chance that these characters and this subject would have come out in this specific order. And the weird part is how well it all worked! (At least in my mind. You’re free to think it’s bollocks, of course.)

Once I had finished, though, the whole process seemed odd to me in a really meta sort of way. For example, Bowie not only worked with Eno, but he’s also been caught on film literally picking lyrics out of a hat, or cutting up and simply rearranging words. Stephen King talks about his own idea generation in his book On Writing, which basically boils down to taking a walk (hopefully not getting hit by a van) and letting his mind wander until he gets two things that stick together and seem compelling enough for him that he can keep the idea til he gets home to start writing. And of course, I thought it was odd that they are/were both simultaneously high-brow and low-brow, they’re both former cocaine addicts (Bowie doesn’t remember making a few albums, specifically Station to Station; King doesn’t remember writing a single word of Cujo) they’re both morbid and hopeful, and so on. The morgue was just perfect, though McDonald’s would have been amusing as it’s the specific reason Bowie wrote “I’m Afraid of Americans”.

And really, it’s these sort of interconnections that I’ve been intrigued by my whole life. The musicians I pay attention to are all related somehow, the authors I read all read each other, my favorite non-fiction book is Warren Ellis’ DO ANYTHING, which itself is about interconnectedness in creativity. (I pimp that book constantly, I know, but it’s THAT GOOD.) Honestly, some of this shit isn’t coincidental, even when picked at random. Even the list of people I chose didn’t come out entirely at random, as there are interconnections between all of those people, too.

But what does this all come down to, eh?

Well, for starters, it’s really me trying to look more creative than I probably am. Any mook could pick two names off a list and write a poem about them. I happened to like the results, but it wasn’t hard once I got down to work.

The other big takeaway is to try methods that others have used to break out of their own ruts. Staring at a white page or blinking cursor is scary. Getting your fingers to play different patterns on guitar takes effort. Flip a card over. Read a book. Roll a die. The idea is probably in there, you just have to coax it out. This is how I got mine out in this instance.

Note: I discovered while writing this that Philip Glass is writer/producer/radio personality Ira Glass’s first cousin, once removed. I recently (late November/early December) started listening to This American Life as a podcast. There’s another one.


Letters to My Youth

March 12, 2013 Leave a comment

Ahoy! Time for the somewhat-annual blog update!

Not gonna bore you with the apologies and the promises to write more. That’s shit blogging. Everyone does it. I’ll just tell the truth: I haven’t had much to say in the past year. Yeah, I’ve written things, and I probably have novels’ worth of words up on Facebook and Twitter and Tumblr (not really that last one so much), but I haven’t had the reason to post anything long-form in quite a while.  But I do have this (which I’ll explain in a second here) and a piece of criticism kicking that’s getting shunted around in my brain right now.

Probably the most pertinent thing–at least to this post–is that I started a poetry creative writing class this semester, after nearly twenty years of stumbling through intuitively. My professor is super awesome; the tough-but-fair, excited-to-teach, actually-concerned-about-your-work type. It’s pretty awesome, and I’m liking it so far.

Also, I’ve been slowly getting more involved in my friends’ awesome projects, which is the purpose of this post. My friend Libby Walkup dreamt up what I thought was a pretty compelling art/literature/bookmaking project called Letters to My Youth. I’ll let you check it out here for yourself. So in the interest of sharing, and because I promised someone I’d get more of my work online, here’s my submission. There’s only one printed copy and, for now, it will remain the only copy in existence. (If you want to get in on the project yourself, the deadline for postmark (you know, that thing that says when you sent your paper letter through the postal system) is this coming Friday. Get to it!)

Letter to My Youth by Rick Cummings

Get out. Get away from here,
away from the infinite rows
of sugar beets. Flee the fields
of intolerance and fear.
Some people wear their fear like mail,
each tiny iron loop guarding against
novelty, and the new.
Some people mistake foolishness
for character, and ignorance
for strength, abiding always
in complacence and “tranquility.”

Men are beautiful.
Your neighbor is not a terrorist.

Trade the endless expanse of nothing
for a book of magic beans.
Trade sprawl for opportunity;
implicit, nonexistent comfort
for community.

Love yourself.
Love will find you
in many packages, filled with music
and innocent, unknowing howls.
Guilt is knowing.

Your poetry sucks. Ira Glass
knows this, and so do you.
It will get better in fits and starts,
and you will write this same poem forever–
The same whirlpool poem gurgles
down my brain today.

(I did make one tiny edit for this post. The double-hyphen/em-dash used to be just a period, but we’ll say I’m channeling Dickinson tonight.)

So that’s that, at least for now. It’s a little schmaltzy, but it’s also to Me from the Past. Everyone knows that Me from the Past is kind of a turd anyway, so it doesn’t matter if it’s schmaltzy or funny or whatever, because it’s not about him.

Bu anyway, I’ll hopefully have a new essay up in a couple weeks, and from there, who knows. School is hectic this semester (6 classes/18 credits) and we’re working on Real Actual Vacationing this year. But I’ll keep you hip to the hop if and when I post something more up here.

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