BitLit

excuses, excuses (continued)

Well, hello. It seems I've happened upon some downtime at the library, so I figured I'd rant about another excuse to not write...

3. The Fear of Appearing(/Being) Self-Indulgent:
As some may have guessed already, this problem plays a huge role in my own menagerie of writing-related anxieties. Even as I type these words, I find myself recoiling at the number of times I've had to use "I" in this entry, and I wonder if anyone else will consider this apparently necessary degree of egocentricity as unfavorable as I do. Despite my attempts to cautiously leave each of my statements open to (complete) negation, I realize that even self-deprecation can become a form of self-absorption. So, where does it all stop? How does one find a genuine balance between the lofty pulpit of self-righteousness and the dank, lonely sinkhole of self-loathing? Why so many "selves"?

I'm not sure how others react to this anxiety (or if that many people even experience it), but my first instinct tells me to respond with utter indifference. This apathy not only overshadows the desire to write, but it also brings into question the ability to communicate anything adequately. It seems that I'm not capable of expressing any pride in anything I've written, save for the occasional admission of "I suppose it wasn't too awful" that seems to rapidly fade from memory anyway. Is this an extreme, unusual reaction? I know that I'm supposed to be my own worst critic, but shouldn't I have some small amount of control over that little, nagging voice in my head? Maybe I'm going crazy or something.

Moving on from questions of mental health, I believe that the role of the ego (or self...whatever you'd like to call it) in writing remains disturbingly unclear. Is writing about one's own experiences an easy way out of creativity? Some poets (Charles Bukowski, Leonard Cohen and David Wojahn to name a few) can get away with it without a hitch, but aren't they "so much cooler" than the rest of us? I have an inkling that these writers weren't even consciously trying to fix the ego problem. Maybe they were just saying what they felt needed to be said.

Is it just me, or does that seem really brave and really simple at the same time?

RAD

excuses, excuses

Before I say anything else, I feel compelled to enumerate my reasons for not updating in a while:

1. My new toy has taken over most of my "free time" at home.
2. I've been driving all over creation to see shows (Tilly and the Wall/The Ruby Suns/Exit Clov @ The Black Cat...swangin'), giant pandas, my parents, etc.
3. I've spent the majority of my time at the front desk reading this.
4. I've been very lazy lately because I just turned 20 (an age at which, I'm told, young men begin to fall apart like used cars).

Okay, enough of that. Today I'd like to babble (just a little bit) about how easily one can create reasons NOT to write. I'm definitely guilty of manufacturing such excuses, so I don't plan on speaking from any conceivable type of high ground. Since I'm list-making mode, I guess I'll just hit return and let the form take over the content (or something).

1. Writing Doesn't (Usually) Make You Rich:
Most of us, whether we consider ourselves "writers" or not, want money. Unfortunately, the words "writer" and "lots and lots of money" don't generally go together unless you find some magical formula to sell tons of books (i.e., J.K. Rowling and that Mormon lady who wrote those books about the vegetarian vampire that are going to be movies soon), so it seems fairly reasonable to categorize writing as a "hobby" or "something I just fool around with occasionally" instead of an important part of one's life. I guess this results from the assumption that one has to reach a certain level of fame before becoming a writer, but that's just a part of the whole immediate gratification deal that keeps everyone from doing what they'd like to do.

2. Writing Can Be Embarrassing:
Even though I find the possibility of humiliating oneself by writing poetry especially daunting, I suppose all forms of writing pose a similar threat to an author's dignity. To save time, I'll focus on two polarized ways in which it can go wrong (always a fun choice, right?)...one is either mocked for expressing too much sentimentality (emo much?) or labeled as a "cookie-cutter" writer for placing too much emphasis on an existing form. Rather than feeling free to experiment, the young writer (when overly conscious of these extremes) fixates on "getting it right" the first time, which is usually impossible. So, following the failure to produce an instant classic, feelings of inadequacy will almost inevitably take over the writer's creative process, further blocking one's ability to self-express.

Ew, that was really snooty, wasn't it? Sorry. Hopefully it did some good. I'm going to stop for the moment, but I'll definitely meditate on more of these obstacles in the future. I'd also love to hear from all of you writers out there (at least the ones who happen to read this)...what do you think about this? Am I getting it all wrong? If so, please set me straight. I am your spaniel.

RAD

coming out of it?

Morning, all. I apologize in advance for not making much sense.

As you may have guessed, I'm in the midst of another day as a surface-dweller, and I'm becoming somewhat bored. I shouldn't complain, though. No news is good news, especially when said news involves my having to exert myself in any way. I faced a similar situation yesterday, but I decided to just go home and spend the rest of the day in bed. Today, however, I've mustered up enough determination to stay at work. Lately, I've been having some major problems with motivation (staying awake was hard enough), but this may been a good sign. I mean, I actually had some idea of what I wanted to write coming into this entry...which hasn't really happened in a long time.

From what I can remember, this feeling emerged sometime yesterday evening when I decided to sit on the balcony while the lady finished doing some leftover work on my laptop. The decision to move from the reclining position seemed momentous enough, but the departure from my usual tendency to wallow in my lack of productivity proved especially uplifting. Sure, I was still feeling drained and depressed, but at least I had made some attempt to distract myself. To that end, I spent about twenty minutes watching a bee unknowingly romance all of the flowers in our makeshift garden, and I wondered if the bee felt cheated or satisfied afterward. While this period of observation didn't yield any noticeable moments of zen, it actually caused me to step outside of my usual, self-deprecating sphere of thinking. It felt particularly nice to forget about how wrong I usually am about most things (a subject that occupies about 90% of my brain's schedule). In this moment, I didn't worry about the accuracy of my internal running commentary, and I felt a little bit of the usual weight dissipate.

Of course, I'm not trying to document anything of real significance. I guess I'm just starting to think that feeling numb and/or "spaced out" is a slight improvement over constant self-pity. Who knows? Maybe this means I'm coming out of it.

I suppose that this had nothing to do with writing, but I think I'm on the verge of being able to do that again. Maybe next time.

RAD

RE:RE:RE:RE:We Have No Manuscript to Discuss Yet

So, I'm in Philadelphia Albany.

It's sort of like Baltimore. Except with no harbor. And more crime. But really it's a pretty cool city -- very eclectic, great music scene (I'm going to see The Ting Tings Saturday, and The Police & Elvis Costello in two weeks), coffee that will make the hair on the back of your neck stand up, and Fence.

I didn't even know what Fence was until about six months ago. I was searching for internships, and Josh kindly pointed me in their direction. I've been a faithful reader since. And, as of May, I've also been an intern.

Fence is more than a magazine, though -- or, should I say, "literary journal." It is also a book publisher. A corporation. A place for young writers to be discovered and for established writers to experiment. And, according to the letters that I've been sending to booksellers all week, it's a "superlatively relevant source of new writing." A "Holy Grail."

But hey, it's 5:40pm on a Wednesday and I'm finally done emailing and reading submissions, so I have to head back to my gloriously messy apartment and prepare for a showing of Project Runway tonight. I'll post later about some of my exploits (i.e. book release parties, Aaron Kunin's new novel, and my new tattoo!).

Meanwhile, check out what I've been doing with my weekdays: fenceportal.org

-LC

sleepy thought #1: lyrics and poetry?

Yawn.

Good morning, BitLit. It's been a while, but I have a pretty good excuse for my recent shortage of updates. You see, I work in a magical place called the campus library, and I spend most of my time working with periodicals in the basement. Aside from its lack of natural light, this environment isn't exactly conducive to sitting down and blogging. Today, however, my supervisor has fallen ill, and I have been permitted to dwell on the surface (at least for now). With that in mind, I will use this time to do what I do best...sitting at a computer and losing track of time.

Today, I'd like to mumble incoherently about a subject that's haunted my oversized skull for quite some time now: the literary implications of song lyrics (sorry for sounding pretentious, but I'd rather be concise). I know it may seem somewhat contrived, but I first became aware of this idea after listening to Neutral Milk Hotel's In the Aeroplane Over the Sea. As much as I'd love to enumerate the ways in which I adore Jeff Mangum's zany lyrical genius, I'll just post a link and save some (space-)time. Okay, enough rambling...here's a small (non-Mangum) example that will hopefully bring a few of my muddled thoughts to light:

"And you should always pass
When you get the inside lane.
Don’t pull your hair out;
I won’t pull my hair out.
For I have never seen the sun
That did not bury his head in the side of the world
When the day is done.

You are a waterfall
Waiting inside a well
You are a wrecking ball
Before the building fell
And I will mutter like a lover
Who speaks in tongues, oh he speaks in tongues.
Oh I speak in tongues."

Just in case anyone's curious, that was an excerpt from Sunset Rubdown's "Us Ones In Between," and I won't even try to explain what Spencer Krug (that guy from Wolf Parade without all of the tattoos) meant to say in this song. That would be terribly presumptuous and (more importantly) unfair to the artist, right? Anyway, I'm more interested in the sonic properties of Krug's lyrics...and how the inherent musicality of the words enhances the atmosphere of a relatively simple tune. Despite the fairly predictable nature of the rhyme scheme, the overall quirkiness of these lines (who else would begin a stanza with driving advice?) transcends the expected limitations of the traditional "pop song" format. Krug's obvious repetition of images  (i.e., pulling one's hair out/speaking in tongues) doesn't strike me as particularly lazy or overly deliberate, but rather as a reminiscence of some ancient nursery rhyme for the disillusioned emerging from an uninhibited, dream-like state of mind.

I don't know. Don't trust my opinion. I just use big words because they sound pretty to me. I'd rather leave the ambiguity as it is, you know? The simplicity of Krug's lyrics encourages me, though...I must remember that it's alright to follow my own (seemingly) nonsensical instincts from time to time, whether I'm trying to write poetry or lyrics (both at which I consider myself hilariously inept). Still, it's not going to be easy to let go of my old tendency to constantly self-edit. For example, I rewrote that last sentence about three times in the last minute, but nobody really needed to know that. I guess that's all I have to say today. Hope it wasn't all bad.

RAD

writing about not writing writing about not writing

Okay, this one is for all of you writer-types (a title I don't have the guts to give myself).

For as long as I can remember, the whole writing gig has been (sorry for using the passive voice) dominated by two words: writer's block. How does one avoid it? How does one deal with it if one fails to avoid it? How does one compensate if one fails to deal with it if one fails to avoid it? That was a very ugly set of sentences, but I made them like that on purpose (because I'm a snob). Anyway, I won't even try to provide answers for any of those questions, since that would require an amount of knowledge beyond my own narrow understanding. Actually, I don't think anyone will ever find a universal solution to the problem of writer's block (so sayeth the wannabe philosophitizimer). Perhaps, as long as we believe that we are lacking some source of creative stability, the ability to create anything becomes endangered.

Maybe that's why the whole self-conscious Post-Modernist stereotype towers over contemporary literature. Sure, some authors (you know, like...that guy whose name I can't remember who wrote House of Leaves) can pull it off extremely well, but fixating on the author's relationship to the act of writing can also produce some very heinous writing (or none at all). Of course, the task of creating something "new" and "different" is daunting, but should we really cope with that difficulty by seeing who can form the most complex structures and alienate the most readers? I mean, I spend enough time doubting my own abilities already, so why should I obsess over an endless series of competing "posts" (Post-Post-Post-Post-Post-Modernism) that will eventually cause my head to implode?

Speaking of which, my head is starting to hurt. I suppose I'll stop for now.

Kobe.

RAD

Summer blogging, yo.

Hi, my name is Ricky Davis, and I've recently been given the opportunity to contribute to the BitLit. First of all, I'd like to apologize for using the word "yo" in the title of this entry. I've been in a strange state of mind recently, and I find myself unwittingly spouting expressions such as "holler at your boy" and "let me buy you a drank" at inappropriate times. Forgive me. Please?

Anyway, since this is my very first endeavor in the realm of Lit House bloggery, I might as well talk about myself in the exaggerated, self-deprecating style one would expect from a scruffy, college-age male who wears old blazers and black square-shaped glasses. Although some may know this already, I'm tragically prone to saying "that's what she said" in response to almost any piece of information I receive (even if it's from my mother). I'm also an old man trapped in a young man's body, but I still have all of the fun hormonal brood-fests typical of my age group. Regarding personality, that's about it. In other news, I have an unhealthy obsession with music theory, prose poetry (Rimbaud, Cohen, Bidart, etc.) and rats. I own many instruments that I barely play, and sometimes I just sit in the Lit House holding a guitar that I also barely play. I've been told that I can sing, but I refuse to admit to it because I'm inexplicably embarassed. Finally, I find almost everything I say/do/think wholly redundant and/or pretentious.

That's all for now, folks. Maybe next time I'll write about something relevant.

P.S. I forgot to mention that I'm living in Chestertown this summer. So, expect plenty of exciting accounts of what the haps are on the Eastern Shore.

Let me buy you a draaaaaaank.

RAD

lazy-hazy-crazy days of summer

so, slight detour before i begin this post. something occurred to me as i typed in the title. are the lyrics lazy-hazy-crazy days, or daze? I could look it up, but I think I would rather ponder this on the bitlit blog for a while. Days simply denotes the passing of time during the summer season, but daze brings a whole new idea into the picture. Daze puts you in the mindset--lounging on the porch with a glass of lemonade in your hand, watching the clouds through the dimmed lenses of sunglasses, completely ignoring the passing of time. Oh, semantics.

Now that the warmer weather is here, much of everyone's time is spent on the Lit House porch with a glass of lemonade (that is, for the hour or so after I make it--people don't even wait for it to cool down before they chug it, which kind of defeats the purpose of lemonade in my opinion. What's the point of lukewarm lemonade?). And that brings me to something that's been on many people's mind. We need the awning back. I can't think of anyone who didn't enjoy the awning we rented for the Lit House rededication. The night before the event, everyone gathered outside under the awning and enjoyed the night air. The twinkle lights actually gave off sufficient light to read by. And as Zach noticed, the original plans of the house included an awning (you can check it out, the plans are framed near the front door of the house). It provides shade during the day, and might make it possible to work on a laptop out there. Really, I don't see a downside--Okay, cost might be an issue, but surely we can all brainstorm and come up with a creative, cheap solution (because what are we if not creative people?).

With the semester winding down, it's hard to imagine being without the Lit House and its community for the summer. At home, I am lacking the cast of characters that frequent this place, and as much as i love my old friends, they can't replace these people I've come to call my family. Also, we don't have a juicer, so making fresh-squeezed lemonade is a little harder. It's times like these that I actually wish I lived in Chestertown, so I could swing by and hang out with Kate and help her with the constant goings-on at the house.

Maybe I'll make a regular practice of driving down every weekend from New York. What the hell, it's only four hours without traffic...

I'll miss you all. KMR

PS: In case you were wondering, the recipe for perfect lemonade is equal parts water, sugar, and lemon juice, though i've started using a little less sugar. You dissolve the sugar in hot water and then mix in the lemon juice and refrigerate until cold. A nice touch is putting halves of lemons in the pitcher with the lemonade. Enjoy your summer, and may it be refreshing. KMR

A Brief History Lesson: It's More Interesting Than Finals Anyway.

I’m sitting here in the conference room. It’s warm outside, and I am very tired of working on anything of importance. At the direction of Kate, I have been looking for information on various other writers’ houses, and am now delving into the murky, and largely unknown history of our fine Rose O’Neill House. There is nothing online, not even a Wikipedia entry (which I have taken the liberty of creating.) All I have found is a copy of Washington: the College at Chester, a large, thick book, red bound, all about the history of the college. After only a few seconds of flipping pages, I now have a strong urge to buy it.

There are old photographs of buildings I have lived in, and worked in, and I can’t help but love, love, love sitting on top of history. New things don’t move me in the same way. I feel immensely happy about it.

But it does make me sad to read about history sometimes, and as I read the article in The College at Chester about Richmond House, our structural predecessor, I envy this Martin William’s ’75 and his experience, as I envy most every experience between 1965-1975. I feel that I live at the Lit House. I spend enough time here, lord knows, but it is not the same Lit House Mr. William’s knew. Torn down in ’82, there’s nothing left of Richmond House except the posters Professor Day kept.

My Lit. House, originally Bell House, was dedicated in 1985 as the Rose O’Neill House. I don’t know when it was built, I would probably have to go into Chestertonian records to find that, but it is still the product of that Richmond beginning. That house of fragile writers, breaking down bad prose and struggling with the long, blank verse. But somehow they seemed older then than I am now. They seemed infinitely wiser and freer. Maybe it was just that I was reading about it like a memoir from someone’s long lost best time of life. Everything looks better once it’s past.

There’s a lot about the house to learn, and here’s what I have learned in my searching. Three students used to have the privileged to live in Richmond House each year. It was a dirty place from what I gather, condemned furniture, filthy clothes, but it was also Bob Day’s office and Headquarters for the Associate Writing Programs.

I’m not sure when Richmond House was shut down, it seems to be around the time it was demolished, but O’Neill was opened in ’85 with the Letterpress Room to follow in ’87.

Bob Day served as director since Richmond House’s inception in 1970 all the way until 1997. Professor Mooney then took over until 2005, when Benjamin Anastas became interim director. In 2006 Josh Wolf Shenk became director, which seems to bring the house up to date. Murky history no longer.

So here I am in the future of the house. Is it better? Or worse? I can’t say. Everything nowadays seems to be about going forward and bridging the past, but do we even know what the past is? Well, here is some of the history. And we are still in it. It makes me happy, it makes me sad.

I suggest sitting down with a copy of The College At Chester. It has a lot of interesting info, and it's successfully distracting me from studying for finals.

(Also, please check out the Wikipedia page on the Lit House. Feel free to correct anything you find wrong. I am going to try to put some pictures on it as soon as I can.)

AEF

More Literary Craziness

So much to do, so little time!  Now that Nuruddin Farah's event is over, his broadside designed and 50 printed, the delicious food ingested, the wise words absorbed... there are further demands on my time! 

Next on my plate is the printing of 300 more of the Nuruddin broadsides, which I'll handle this weekend. 

Meanwhile, there are so many events in the next few days to devour my "free" time...

Tonight, the Senior Reading! 7:30-9:00pm

The Literary House, English Department, and Writer's Union present an evening of readings by the seniors, and refreshments aplenty. 

Featuring:  Bobby Bangert, Zach Bennett, Ericka Buet, Juliana Converse, Michelle Cook, Jeff Donovan. Leah Ganse, Caroline Herman, Reilly Joret, Ben Kozlowski, Marielle Latrick, Lindsay Lusby, Marian Robbins, Wes Schantz and Emma Sovich (me!)

I can't wait to hear what everyone's been working on!

Tomorrow, chivalry and zoo madness! 

At the 2nd Annual Jousting Tournament, "Horse" and rider teams compete for Imperishable Glory and Undying Renown in a wheelbarrow jousting tournament on the campus green.  Check out the photos from the innaugural tourny.    4:00-6:00 pm

At 7:00, the Writer's Theatre will release the menagerie at the Lit House in their Murder Mystery production.  With the tagline "Someone has killed the zookeeper, and the animals are loose!" it's gotta be good.  Kudos to the Writer's Theatre for giving balance to a year that began with Hannah Tinti and her Animal Crackers

Tomorrow and Saturday evenings:

[Edit:]

7:00 Another showing of the Writer's Theatre Murder Mystery!   [/edit]

8:00 pm both nights:  Juvenalia, by Wendy MacLeod, directed by Bobby Bangert '08.  This one, about modern college students' antics, is perhaps a bit less "literary" but well, it's Bobby, one of our own Lit House Fellows.  He seems to be directing for the sheer joy of it, since his senior thesis rocked Minta Martin's lounge last semester, which makes this production all the more exciting.  Hooray, I'm in the mood for a comedy!

So perhaps I'll push all my studying for comps, portfolio editing, and bookbinding to Sunday...