Quickie

You may have noticed (but probably haven't) that I’ve taken down some of the flash fiction. This is because, after a year of encouraging my writing group members to submit for publication, I have finally stopped being a hypocrite. That is, I am submitting. And it’s addicting. I can’t stop doing it now that I’ve started. I have no expectations (which is a lie, as you know) and will not check my inbox or mailbox for responses.

I am also completing my applications to graduate school. It’s time. More on this later, but for now I will tell you that it is exciting, liberating, nerve wracking.

One other quick bit: If you come across Narrative magazine, please do not submit to them. They are in no way legitimate. Ignore any publication that asks the writer to pay submission fees.

Keepin' it Real

It takes confidence to submit one’s work for publication, to enter contests, to network with other writers, to involve oneself with the writing community, to join a writing group, to start a writing group. It takes perseverance to keep writing and submitting after the first or second or third rejection letter. It takes perseverance and faith in one’s ability to keep on trying after a poor review, or a lackluster or silent audience, or a negative response from one’s peers.

But the difficulty arises when that confidence, that persistence is unwarranted. I’ve met many writers (and one quite recently) with enormous self-confidence, people who believe their work is amazing. They walk with an air of superiority and expound on the writer’s life every chance they get. But their work stinks. It’s absolutely rotten. And though peers and publishers alike have repeatedly rejected their work, they continue to believe in their so-called innate abilities. They self-publish.

They say you just don’t get it. My writing is beyond your comprehension. It is far too experimental or progressive or complex… it’s just out of your reach, and you don’t get it. It’s great to have that confidence, that perseverance, that inner trust in your abilities… I love it. It’s necessary. But delusion is sad. And I don’t ever want to be one of those people.

This week, I sent a short story to a colleague. It was a piece I wrote for my senior project in college. I’ve been considering it one of my best short stories for years, mostly because when I wrote it everyone told me it was my best. I have revised it a few times, and I was about to submit it for publication. I just needed another pair of eyes; I wasn’t sure it was ready. It seemed incomplete, somehow. But his response floored me. He tore it to shreds.

For a minute, I wanted to write back, tell him how much he didn’t understand the piece, how he possibly missed the intricacies of the plot, the subtlety of the writing, the depth. I wanted to call him out on not reading carefully. In the next minute, I wanted to give up on writing altogether, forget it all, and leave it behind me. I lamented that my life was a lie and I was a talent less hack.

Fortunately for me, it only took five or ten more minutes for me to snap out of it. I realized what I needed to do with the story, and why I had felt it was incomplete. I decided to give it another revision, with the knowledge that I wrote the original story five years ago and it might just need a complete overhaul. I've grown a lot since then, as a person and as a writer. I know with my being that it’s got the potential to be great and that I’ve got the potential to make it happen.

I’m keeping it real. I know where I am as a writer and I know where I want to be, and I’m going to do what it takes. The thing is: I know good writing when I read it. And I know why it’s good writing. I am not plagued by self-doubt and I’m not in any danger of overconfidence.

On the one hand, I feel sorry for the person who has tomes of writing and not one page of it is any good. I feel badly for the person who spends months honing a short story that is the literary version of a train wreck. And I take pity on the person (you know you’ve met them) who feels that the angels speak to them the same as William Blake- they have strokes of mad genius, they only write when suddenly the planets are aligned and Khubla Khan flows from their pen-- but reading their work is equivalent to being in Dante’s Inferno.

On the other hand, I’m thankful it isn't me. The only way to keep from deluding yourself is to keep growing. And I'm going to keep on keepin it real.

Treasures

I am enamored of certain kinds of art. Beauty that takes me by surprise, that is uniquely imaginative, that stirs some sleeping dragon or knocks at the door of my psyche makes me swoon. And I am always looking for it, like a junkie for a fix.

When I travel, I am especially on the hunt. Museums and galleries large and small feature all of the old or new masters of visual art. I feel a certain obligation to visit these, and while the collections are inspiring and lovely, it isn’t what I’m after.

Like anything else when traveling, the best spots are little out of the way local gems. They are hidden from the unacquainted or untrained eye. The typical tourist will pass them by unnoticed.

When I visited New Mexico last spring, I found a treasure chest amongst the many distinctly cultural New Mexican and Native stops, a little gallery called Rock Paper (you can look them up at www.rockpapergallery.com). It was like walking into a dream. Imagine a place that displays all of the artifacts from your unconscious, a fairytale frozen in time and space. I wanted to never leave.

Among the fantastic sculptures, dolls, beautifully aged parchment, and glass jars filled with various oddities, vintage keys, and handmade fabrics and other amazing finds, this painting and two more like it were hanging on the walls.

I immediately wanted it, the way a child wants its mother. I wanted to be able to look at it every day. In all honesty, I wanted to re-create the entire store in my home, but I couldn’t. And I couldn’t afford the painting. To suffice, I bought the artist’s book, Day of the Dead. And I asked the saleswoman to tell me everything she could about him.

His name is Brandon Maldonado. He is a self-taught artist, with a degree in Philosophy and Religion. He has been featured in galleries and shows since his early twenties. I pored over his book for days, memorizing each picture. I also bookmarked his website (you can visit, check out some of his other works, and learn more about him at www.brandonmaldonado.com).

His art is clearly influenced by mythology, and the work of Joseph Campbell. It is also heavy with cultural Hispanic references. But there are classical influences as well, especially those of early Renaissance and Netherlandish, or Northern Renaissance, in the controlled lines, rich colors, and formal styling that balance the sense of imaginative abandonment.

I only wish that I could write the way he paints… in a way that takes the reader by surprise, that stirs the psyche, that is vibrant and alive while maintaining a feeling of mystery, of the surreal. I wish I could write in a way that made the reader only want more of the same.

Wrecking Apathy

I like teaching high school. It’s such a great opportunity to inspire passion for life and learning. Recently, someone said, “But it’s high school. How do you deal with the apathy? How do you handle students who just don’t seem to care?” The thing is, I don’t understand apathy. Is it a disease? I don’t think I’ve ever had it. I’m passionate about nearly everything. I love learning and being involved. Typically, I can get others excited, too. I can find a way to draw people out and get them talking. It’s true that I am the icebreaker. I am the official fire starter.

Recently, we’ve had some pretty passionate discussions in this country. This past election, for example, brought out some intense emotions on both ends of the political rainbow. Elections do that, but I have to think it was much more aggressive this time around. Why? We had some personalities on the scene. We had Clinton, Obama…and we had Palin. We had people saying all kinds of ridiculous and outrageous things. Now, in the last few months, we’ve had a remarkable amount of people engaged in discussion. About politics, the country, healthcare, etc… And it isn’t an election year anymore. And the extreme viewpoints, the people saying ridiculous and outrageous things are all over the place again. Thinking back on some of the highlights during his election, I have to think that Obama is staying on point. He is encouraging involvement, ideas, discussion. He is a fire starter.

But, does it do any good to encourage public debate and public discussion if people remain uninformed, if they continue to regurgitate party propaganda? There’s passion galore but what does it matter when people are unclear what they are passionately defending? The same goes for the classroom: What if students are excited about the material but can’t discuss it logically? If people can’t do the work of thinking things through for themselves instead of putting talking heads in charge of doing that for them, then what is the point of starting the fire?

In the past few months, we’ve had several people applying to our writing group. I send them personal, detailed, and specific messages like, “You must submit a five to ten page piece of fiction that you have recently written, a clear example of your current and best fiction. Read before you submit. Make sure it is a representative sample of your fiction. The response has been astounding. I mean astounding. Such as: three pages of random dialogue, or eight pages full of typos, grammatical errors, and poor construction… or a link to a blog filled with childish personal and extremist political rants. And these are adults. Grown people. Does it matter that we are generating interest and receiving submissions if this is the level of skill and comprehension we are attracting?

But here’s the thing: The response of my writing group was intense. We were so adamant about the offenses to our writerly and intellectual sensibilities, that fierce e-mail discussions ensued. The fact that some of these people seemed to care so little about our group, seemed to think so lowly of us that they couldn’t give us a quality submission, infuriated us. The complete lack of ability, the lack of thought, the lack of any substance was insulting (I don't speak for everyone, but that is certainly how I felt). And if the recent headlines haven’t been proof enough, insulting behavior starts conversations.

Controversy, wild accusations, unexpected outbursts, and impulsivity inspire a response. And as we learned from the last election period, the best response to the completely irrational and erratic is to be supremely rational and calm. The antithesis of passionate but off the cuff, or uninformed opinions deriving from self –indulgence is an opinion formed of learning, based on fact and full understanding, delivered deliberately and thoughtfully.

I’m sure for some people it’s easy to be apathetic. It might be any easy option to just ignore or not care or give up. Why bother when clearly we are all bozos on this bus? But I personally prefer to have people engaged. I prefer a climate of involvement and interest. Is there going to be ignorance and hot air and drama? Maybe. Probably. But it is much more satisfying to see all of that as fuel for the fire. Intelligence is the answer to ignorance, not apathy. For example, my writing group has used these past few intolerable submissions as motivation to strengthen our purpose, to clarify what we are about and what we are looking for. We’ve used them to reinforce our image of ourselves as talented, skillful writers.

Within the past year it seems so many young people and disinterested folks have perked up. I'm excited by the level of interest. The next step is arming oneself with facts and information. After that, one can form an opinion. The last step is to take action.

Ponyo (Gake no ue no Ponyo)

I love Studio Ghibli. So when Ponyo came out I had to go see it. But, I hate Disney. So I was apprehensive. This is the first time that Disney and studio Ghibli have collaborated. As expected, Ponyo is imaginative, rich, and visually appealing. However, it does lack the mystery and depth of other studio Ghibli films. 

The Disney influence is apparent in the film’s lack of subtlety or nuance. The mother, Lisa, says to her son, Sosuke, “That man was a freak show. But we don’t call people freak shows. We don’t judge people by the way they look.” This simple theme is overtly referenced from then on, as a young classmate tells Sosuke, “What an ordinary looking goldfish; that must be the most boring fish in the world." Later, an elderly woman proclaims in a crotchety voice, “Fish with faces like that cause tsunamis. Put it back in the ocean where it belongs."  The plot of the film involves a goldfish, Brunhilda, that wants to become a human because she has formed a bond with Sosuke (who calls her Ponyo). Ultimately, if Sosuke really loves her for who she is whether-fish or child, then Ponyo is allowed to become human forever. If he does not, then she will die. It is a moralistic fairytale. 

Unlike other studio Ghibli films, and perhaps due to the Disney influence, the film does not create a lovely alternate universe, a spiritual plane, or a complete fantasy. It instead attempts to meld the fantastic with our ordinary human existence, a sort of magical realism. When Sosuke incredulously recognizes that Ponyo, the girl, is Ponyo, the goldfish, his mother casually accepts it. She says simply, “the world is wonderful and mysterious,” and proceeds to make them both dinner. When the senior citizens are magically given back the energy and health of their youth, they merely wonder briefly if they have passed over to the other side, and then quickly and easily accept their new state of being. It is a way of forcing the suspension of disbelief… magical realism only works when the characters themselves can accept what is happening as natural. 

Thankfully, the film lacks the cliché Disney portrayal of good versus evil. If anything, it is ambiguity that saves the film from being too sweet or too simplistic. All of the characters are realistically drawn; they are neither good nor bad, but very human. When Sosuke’s father, a fisherman, breaks his promise to be home for dinner, and takes yet another assignment that keeps him at sea, Sosuke’s mother reacts emotionally the way many of us would, without the typical good wife and mother posturing of children’s films. She drives erratically and takes unnecesary risks with her child in the car, but she is willing to stop the car in the middle of a winding road to help a stranger. She leaves her small child home alone at night, but it’s so that she can go take care of people in need. Ponyo’s father reflects the very modern dilemma of trying to maintain parental control over children while giving them the space to develop their own identities.  He doesn’t like humans and hopes that one day they are obliterated, but it’s only because he abhors the way they treat the earth and oceans, and is disgusted by pollution and carelessness. His tactics can seem cruel and vindictive, but he is a loving, protective father who wants his daughter back.  There are no heroes and there are no villians.

Also thankfully, the film lacks Disney’s obsession with romantic love. The film’s innocence is largely due to the age of the characters (they are five years old), but setting this aside, there is an emphasis throughout on caretaking, responsibility, and commitment that is refreshing and honest. This aspect of the film doesn’t feel naïve, nor does it feel preachy. Rather, it seems unconscious. Sosuke’s mother works in a home for the elderly and is very concerned about their safety and well-being. Sosuke has real and loving relationships with the elderly as well. Sosuke is able to make the connection between the responsibility of caring for his goldfish and his father’s responsibility to keep promises to his family. Ponyo’s father demonstrates his commitment to his environment and takes responsibility for all living creatures. It is this lack of superficial relationships, this sense of integrity that almost makes the viewer forget Disney's involvement.

 It isn’t for audiences of all ages in the way of Howl’s Moving Castle or Spirited Away.  It is slightly more on par with Our Neighbor Totoro, the least complex of the studio Ghibli repertoire. Which isn’t to say that I won't buy it. Ponyo is an adorable film, and beautifully made. It is certainly preferable to its sugar coated, trite cousin, The Little Mermaid. And although it is best enjoyed with a child-like companion, adults need no excuse to fall for Ponyo on the cliff by the sea.