Yesterday, Bastille Day, is the day I celebrate the birth of my one best cat, my familiar, Houdini Gatallini Bambini Baby-ini. She was a cat in a million.
In the poetry workshop I’m taking at the AWW, there is a lot of talk about cats, within poems and without. Shadows of cats against walls, rare breeds, can you really love a cat as you would love a child? Big questions. I’m still sorting them out.
I miss her, still, always.
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Embroiled fully in this year’s Antioch Writers Workshop. I love being around writers, talking about writing, writing with writers, the world cracking open before me.
Last year at the AWW, I met Kate Gale of Red Hen Press, and from that encounter, my first novel will be published.
Before the keynote on Saturday, I was driving to campus and feeling guilty, semi-taking a week off from child, home, life, to do the workshop, because sometimes it seems like choosing to be a writer is a silly luxury (but is it even a choice? I ask myself).
However.
Then I realized (it’s so easy to REALIZE things while driving, isn’t it?) that all writing is really about life. Whether fiction or nonfiction, poetry or prose, a person (who is alive) puts something on paper (or screen, or sand) and it means something to at least one person. What else is life, if not that?
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Tagged: Antioch Writers' Workshop, truth in nonfiction, writing, sentences, fiction, books, words, Interdisciplinary Aesthetics, poetry
As long as I can remember observing the phenomenon, the “act” of listening to someone talk on a cell phone has annoyed me. On the other hand, unless the participant voices are overly loud or grating, listening to two people talking in a cafe rarely bugs me–in fact, it’s often good ambience for writing. (Especially at a place like The Underdog Cafe, where it has been scientifically proven that 99.23% of all conversations are exceedingly intelligent.) But I find overhearing half a conversation irritating.
As far as back as when cell phones first became the fashion, my theory has been that the act of hearing one side of a conversation forces my brain to fill in the other side of the conversation. I can’t not guess at what the other person is saying. I don’t think it’s exclusive to writers, but maybe writers (thinking about dialogue in a very intentional way) are more susceptible to this irritation. I’ve told friends about my theory over the years; they can back me up here.
Turns out I was right, that’s just the reason it’s maddening! Cornell University researchers found this to be true.
I love being right, even if it confirms a reason for something that I’ve always hated. Yes, I said hated. However, being that I am human, and therefor a hypocrite, I own a cell phone. And have talked upon it. I try not to have conversations where there is a captive audience–usually I go to a hallway or go outside, away from other people. Partially because I value privacy (so why do I blog? Hmmm…) but also because I know how irritating it is to hear others’ conversations.
Just trying to do my part to be a good, community-minded citizen.
But I do love being right.
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Tagged: writing, luddite, Interdisciplinary Aesthetics, Writing in cafes, Community
There’s a very nice review of my husband’s novel at OF Blog of the Fallen. The reviewer, Larry, really seems to get at what I observed when I watched Robert work on the novel, when he says,
“Wexler’s novel felt as though it were a briskly-paced story that had been stripped of any extraneous fat, leaving the reader with a story that moves at a falsely languid pace until s/he realizes just how quickly things have developed and how engrossed s/he is with what has transpired.”
Gratifying!
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Tagged: books, fiction, Interdisciplinary Aesthetics, Robert Freeman Wexler, The Painting and the City, words, writing
I really like to have a clean house. This is challenging because I live with a toddler. I never knew how much of a control freak I was until I involved my two and a half year old daughter in cleaning the bathroom.
Working with a toddler, my first lesson is that getting things clean becomes less important than keeping the walls dry. Trying to keep her (and me) from slipping on the wet marble, visions of us both cracking our skulls haunt me. But while she happily scrubs the walls with a terribly soppy sponge, she’s having fun while I freak out. I try to keep it to myself, though. I smile and encourage as much as I can. Because: I want her to learn that we clean the house sometimes. I want her to see that it’s not just a chore, that it’s fun. And she wants to help. I know that some day she will lose interest, so I try to savor the mess we’re making under the pretense of cleaning.
When I was in graduate school and working full time, I got used to watching my standards drop. It was not comfortable at first, but then a simple equation developed: The floor didn’t always need to be clean AND I definitely needed to read, write, etc. I’d clean when the semester was over.
Now, I have to decide how we live, I have to model things. To show my daughter how we should take care of our home. When I have the energy, I try to make tidying up the million pieces of Lego and the salad of doll clothing strewn on the floor (for the third time today) a game. I announce that she is not allowed to put away the red pieces, but only the yellow ones. (She stops what she’s doing and comes over. ”Can I put green ones away?” she asks. ”Well, I guess so,” I say, binning another piece, marveling that for one moment I am actually ahead of how her little mind works.)
Cleaning with a toddler is at least twice the work of cleaning alone. For a long time I would only clean when she was sleeping or out of the house. But, if I want her to learn that this stuff is important (at least while she’s not in graduate school) I’m learning the truth inside the cliche: the process is more important than the outcome.
And if it takes twice as long, at least the walls will be clean.
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A couple of weeks ago, I watched “Synecdoche, New York” with the brilliant Phillip Seymour Hoffman leading a delectable cast of independent actor types. I say “types” because the layers of fiction and nonfiction within the film (and the roles reversed and layered and reversed again) were so head-spinny that it made my head spin like a terrible cliché.
But.
The film was incredible. Incredible that what started out as a dire look at what appeared to be the real world cracked open so deliciously and before me stood actors, cardboard cutouts, people, all echoing each other so brilliantly. In a way, it reminded me of the intricate and mostly successful novel called The Way Through Doors by Jesse Ball.
So the film opens with this depressive, apparently hypochondriac theatre director (Hoffman looking really terrible) whose best creative days are behind him. His painter wife (played by the fabulous Ms. Catherine Kinnear) and child soon leave for a show in Berlin without him. From that point on, things (like time, space, etc.) start to crack open. Layers of paint and facade peel off. Hoffman’s character gets involved with a woman who buys a house that is literally on fire. Etc.
Grindingly depressing, maybe.
But.
Phillip Seymour Hoffman holds the work together, like glue for layers of peeling wallpaper that wants to step off the wall and live a life that has nothing to do with two dimensions, thank you.
If you have the time and patience to sit through some grim, horrid, sad “what is the meaning of art?” types of questions, please watch this movie.
The fact of making a movie like this, and the human spirit embodied in a piece of work that sustains the crazy fantasy magical mess that unfolds (and folds back upon itself, several times), to me, proves the point that life is worth living. It is such an incredible work of imagination. This fact: that the filmmaker (Charlie Kaufman) made his film to the end, taking the magic of the world he created seriously is a feat of genius and love. This type of real commitment to something (anything!) magical seems sadly rare in these cynical days.
The mere fact of the film undercuts the miserable character’s quest for meaning, and in a strange way, I found it completely uplifting.
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Tagged: books, Interdisciplinary Aesthetics, movies, writing
As a new faculty person, I am learning about a thing I refer to as “Thesis Season.”
It’s fascinating and exhausting. I’ve read a bunch of creative writing manuscripts in the last few months, sitting right next to to sentences, words, and images. (Luckily, the writing is often beautiful, lyrical, strong, clean, titillating, and compelling. I do love my job.)
One thing, though, that has got me all het up, is the importance of following instructions. Some writers are more comfortable with computers and word processing than others: writers are like other humans in that way. If I could, I would take all these writers into a room and together, we’d go through each step to achieve proper formatting. Margins, line spacing, consistent typeface, point size, page numbering. I know that these details can be really hard to face if you’re not adept at digital technology. I’m lucky that my previous job was all about showing students and faculty how to navigate the word processing jungle. I’m a nerd about this stuff. According to Microsoft, I am a “Word Expert.” (This always amuses me, especially when I’m writing, because the last thing I feel like is a word expert!) For this reason, however, I harp on formatting. My students might be tired of hearing it, but I am trying to help them as they approach the larger world where their work will be judged by someone who doesn’t care about them nearly as much as I do.
As writers, it’s in our absolute best interest to follow guidelines EXACTLY. If a publisher desires certain formatting, we better pay attention. If the goal is to impress the reader with our lovely words, sentences, images, then having the manuscript itself not distract from that seems essential.
Teachers, but more importantly, future editors, are easily distracted by a writer’s inattention to these details. They are looking for a reason not to read our work. Let’s not give them the one that is, in some ways, easiest to avoid.
If a writer wants to be taken seriously, is in her best interest to gain control over the “physical” aspects of manuscripts.
The Word Expert has spoken.
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Tagged: writing, academic writing, luddite, manuscript format, pet peeves!, Thesis Season, being a rule follower
This is an interview that my husband, Robert Freeman Wexler, did with Brady Burkett of Stark Folk. Check out the interview; check out the band!
via Laconic Writer
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Tagged: Brady Burkett/Starkfolk, Interdisciplinary Aesthetics, music, Robert Freeman Wexler, writing
A word I like, that I first learned in high school French, “to work.” Interesting that it has both these ideas in it, working over a sustained period, and giving birth.
Seems about right.
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Tagged: natural birth, words, writing
How can I not swoon, when I see the beautiful cover of the French edition of my husband’s book, The Painting and the City. It’s gorgeous. I wish my French were better so I could gush in the appropriate language…
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Tagged: books, fiction, Interdisciplinary Aesthetics, Robert Freeman Wexler, The Painting and the City
