Writing The Pain Down

I can't write pain.

Why?

I think it's because I don't really feel pain.

Let me explain. I am a person who hasn't ever experienced real pain. Muscle soreness? Yes. Toothache? Yes. Bee stings? Yes. Fingernail crushed in a closing car door? Yes.

Broken bones? No.

Serious lacerations? No.

Ruptured organs? No.

I've never been in a serious car accident. I've never even experienced whiplash from getting rear-ended. I have lived a remarkably pain-free life.

So when I try to write about pain, I can't. I'm currently trying to edit/clean up my first novel. There are scenes of vicious physical aggression in this embryonic novel (they'd be called "fight scenes", but this is Literature, and Literature doesn't have "fight scenes". It has "scenes of vicious physical aggression".) The most significant problem I'm confronting in this Augean stable of fiction is making the scenes of vicious physical aggression...believable.

I think the problem is that I can't communicate the weight of the fights. I can't say how it would feel to be punched in the jaw by a strong man, because I have only been punched in the face once, and that was not by a strong man. I haven't really had my head smacked in punching fashion--by a door, say. I can't feel my characters' pain, because I have no point of reference. So when I write down my characters' pain, my readers (probably; there haven't been any yet) don't feel the characters' pain. And the scenes of vicious physical aggression lack weight. The reader might even say, subconsciously, "so what?"

And that's never a question an author wants to hear.

To lend weight to this conjecture, there is the matter of loneliness. I don't think I'm being melodramatic when I say that I know what being alone is. I'm a naturally solitary person; I cultivate a few close friendships, and that's it. And if those few close friends are unavailable, well then, I am alone. I'm fine with being alone; I have  come to know being alone.

I write loneliness well, I think. One of my earliest short stories is microfiction about an old man walking up a hill, pursuing memories. There are all sorts of tangled strands of interrelated theme that squirrel about in the story, but running beneath all of them is a heavy line of loneliness. I still love reading that story. I go back to it, and I say "I wish all of my stories were like this."

My point is this: I know loneliness, and I write it well. I don't know physical pain, and I write it poorly. Coincidence?

...perhaps...

Long live loneliness.

Most Of You Are Welcome, Except That Guy

I was driving my automobile today in the small town in which I live. I drove past a church. It had a sign. I read it. Then I drove past a different church, about a block away. It had a sign too. I read that sign as well.

Then I went home and thought about the signs I had read.

The first church I saw was an Established Church. It had all the hallmarks: membership in a large, historically-rich denomination, big stone building, advantageous location. Its sign read, in part:

ALL ARE WELCOME.

Okay then.

The second church I saw was a Hip Church. It had all the hallmarks: denominationally-indistinct name, logo with a plant in it, building that had obviously been acquired recently. Its sign read, in part:

NO PERFECT PEOPLE ALLOWED.

Both signs communicated a point. A mindset. A tone, if you will. Both signs were in keeping with the worldview of the respective churches involved. Of course the Established Church uses the old-fashioned, literal, weather-worn way of welcome. And of course the Hip Church uses a slightly sarcastic, eye-catching, unique catchphrase.

I don't think there should be a place for sarcasm in the work of the church. I don't think that the old way of doing things is of necessity the best way of doing things. I don't think that the church should shut anyone out, even those who believe they're perfect. I don't think the church should be a shelter for self-deceived people who are unaware and unwilling to be aware of their own shortcomings.

In short, I don't know which sign I prefer.

I'd appreciate input. This topic is evolving in my mind, slowly but very certainly. Leave a comment below, and tell me what you think.

In whatever form it takes, long live welcome.

UNSPOOLING: Hugo

I'll be the first to admit that I didn't expect much out of Hugo.

I saw the trailer, and I saw that it had little kids in it, and I wasn't interested. I generally don't like child actors or actresses, because they seldom deliver convincing, layered performances. I've seen some good movies with child actors, like Let The Right One In, but those good ones are few and far between.

Fortunately, I'm fallible. So I was wrong. I went to see Hugo last night, and I was very strongly affected.

It didn't hurt that Sir Ben Kingsley and Sir Christopher Lee, two of my all-time favorite actors, had important screen time. It didn't hurt that the script was close to perfect. It didn't hurt that the score was even closer to perfection.

To be honest, though, what I appreciated most was how self-referential the film was.

Now, self-absorption and self-reference are almost always pitfalls, vices to be avoided. Even in the right circumstances, the execution of the concept must be perfect. One film that achieves this circular reference is Singin' In The Rain. Its plot simultaneously parallels and links to then-current advances in cinema AND the movie-goer's experience.

Hugo is, in essence, a fable. It sets forth a fantastical tale with magic and a happy ending, one that "only happens in the movies". And it has a moral, which I won't spoil by revealing here. As I finished the movie, I felt no sense of reality in my mind. The film had not asked me to suspend disbelief. Rather, it told me, "What you are about to see is illustrative of truth." In short, Hugo was filmed like one of the films of Georges Méliès: it is intended to prime the dream-pump.

Much may (and perhaps should) be said of Scorcese's vision of himself as Méliès, but that's a post for a different time. For now, I give Hugo Five Reels in Ian's Totally Subjective Film Rating System.

Long live rarity!

This, That, and The Other

Briefly, then:

THIS

The blog of one of my former associates (at least six years ago, almost certainly more) has been thunderstriking me recently with its trenchant analysis of various issues assailing the universe nowadays. And no, I don't really know what "trenchant" means. I'm assuming it means "strong enough to dig a trench", which is actually pretty strong, when you think about it. The point is, this guy's smart, smarter than I am, actually. And he's a good writer--a better writer than I am, actually. And he's not frivolous, most of the time. Check him out at this link.

THAT

The Oscars are tonight, and I really only care about two aspects of the whole pageant.

1. Will the host be stoned like James Franco was last year? (I hate James Franco, FTR.)

2. Will Gary Oldman actually win an Oscar? His turn as George Smiley in the brilliant adaptation of Jean le Carre's Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy is his first Academy Award nomination ever, which is just stupid, because Oldman's awesome. I know a lady who sorta met him once, out in LA. And here's a picture for all of you visually-minded people.

THE OTHER

It's embarrassing to me that right now I don't have anything trenchant to say about anything, really. This blog is supposed to be your one-stop shop for figuring out what the right thing to think is. But I can't even structure a sentence without ending it with a preposition. I suppose you, Valiant Reader, will have to be content with knowing that I have never, do not now, and will never enjoy or respect Sacha Baron Cohen as a comedian, an artiste, or a person.

Ps. Here's something cool: I've been following Mark "The Shark" Titus over at ClubTrillion for many and many a year. I know he left to go work at Grantland, and that's all cool, I guess. I've been missing his trenchant wit, until just last week his name VERY randomly popped up in my local paper. Apparently his book is being released a few minutes from now. (Minutes? Doesn't sound right. Maybe more like "weeks". I don't know...I thought he played for the Brewers.)

Anyway, what I'm trying to say is that I liked The Shark before he was cool, and I'm probably going to buy his book.

I'm hanging up now.

Long live spontaneI'm going to walk to Ecuador RIGHT NOW.

Disgusting Spelled W-O-N-D-E-R-F-A-L-L

Golden Corral, number one destination for impossibly hungry diners, Mecca for worshipers of adequate food, definitive proof that quality, not quantity sells--Golden Corral has introduced their...hold on a second.

*gags decorously behind hand*

Once more: Golden Corral has introduced the Chocolate Wonderfall.

This.




Let's ignore the first comment viewers see after this video, the one that says "So I went to a golden corral today, and I tried this out. Right as I dipped my marshmallow into it, some little kid reached over the little metal railing and just stuck his whole hand into it...never again will I think this looks good."

You know what? Let's even ignore the typo in the reply that Golden Corral's official account posted.

(The response begins "We strive to provide the best possible customer experience for all of our guest." Talk about a Freudian slip.)

What needs to be discussed is the concept that repeating "a nonstop flowing river of chocolate decadence" makes one's borderline health-hazard, crass, step-in-the-wrong-direction "innovation" a nonstop flowing river of chocolate decadence.

I wish it could. There are a lot of things I wish I could change that way. Such as...

"Let's see, to do my NONSTOP FLOWING RIVER OF CHOCOLATE DECADENCE this year, I'll need my W-2s, income statements, pay stubs...actually, looks like I'll need a napkin more."

"Yeah, dude, I totally got my tickets to the concert! Can't wait to see the NONSTOP FLOWING RIVER OF CHOCOLATE DECADENCE live! Especially their hit new single bubbleGlorpSLOSH."

Unfortunately for anyone involved, words don't work that way. What a letdown.

And Golden Corral, just so you know, "food" ≠ "happiness". Helping oneself to food is not the same as helping oneself to happiness, even if we accept Golden Corral's presupposition that what they serve is "food" (a charitable observation if there ever was one). While food can certainly contribute to a feeling of happiness, an equation of the two is manipulatively simplistic.

/rant

Long live grumbling THE NONSTOP FLOWING RIVER OF CHOCOLATE DECADENCE.

There's Only One Rule!

I saw a promotional spot for a golfing event, a professional golfing event, possibly PGA, but it also could have been PBA or NBC or NASA or ROBOCOP, I don't know. In an (utterly futile) attempt to get people excited about watching golf on television, also known as the most monotonous pastime in the history of pastimes, monotony, and superlatives, the far-too-enthusiastic announcer busted out the following gem:

The only rule is "win or go home."


Well, now.

I don't really know that much about golf. Let me amend that: I know practically nothing about golf. That being said, I know that the game does have more than one rule. At least two, possibly as many as three. As far as I can remember, those rules include the following:

-use as few strokes as possible to hit the small round ball into the hole.

-don't pick up the ball with your hands.

-don't kick the ball with your feet.

-don't try to sweep a pathway clear of obstructions in front of your ball when it's rolling towards the hole.

-no hitting other golfers with your golf sticks.

-no hitting other golfers with your golf truck.

-no hitting other golfers with your caddie.

-depending on the persona you have cultivated (i.e. rule-breaking bad boy), you must break at least two expensive golf sticks over your knee. If you have bad knees, you're allowed to wear titanium reinforcements.

-don't kick Phil Mickelson into water traps while yelling THIS IS ST. ANDREWWWWWWWS. It doesn't matter if you're descended from Eglon and you have a hereditary distrust of left-handed men.

-the flag that they stick in the hole where the ball goes is NOT a prop in a massive sneaky game of Capture-The-Flag. Don't treat it as such.

I feel like these rules should be posted at every tee on every golf course in the world. That would solve a lot of problems.

Long live sport!

God in King

I finished reading another King recently. It. The following is not a review of that book. Rather, it is a pontification upon Mr. King's seeming belief in a Deity.

Philosophically speaking, It discusses the tension between plan and chaos. The antagonist, in typical Kingian fashion, actually is chaos personified. Contrary to appearances, however, the protagonist is not the child-later-man who ends up *SPOILER ALERT* besting chaos. Instead, Order quasi-personified is the true protagonist; the humans on whose struggle the story focuses are mere tools in the hands of Order.

As is his wont (and more on that in a future post) King places the final confrontation outside of our plane of existence. The climax takes place in something King calls the "macroverse." (To my mind, the ambiguity of "macroverse" is a cheap sop to relativism, a wild card whose suit Constant Readers get to name for themselves.) Out there in the macroverse, Constant Readers are treated to a slightly-less ambiguous introduction: the Other, the Creator.

What he's touching on is the concept of antithesis. Chaos needs plan to balance it. Without plan, chaos is meaningless. And this is an interesting trait of King as an author: he says he believes in God personally, but God tends to emerge almost organically in King's writing.

I don't believe one's identity should impact one's writing. It can, of course, and if that impact is unforced--well then, so be it. Personal bias sticks closer than a shadow, when it comes to creation. Writers of any sort, however, must beware of forcing their bias into their work. Bias trickles in on its own just fine--it doesn't need any help.

The point of this pontification, if it even has a point, is that I know Stephen King believes in a Deity, because it's an inextricable part of his worldview.

And then I found five dollars.

Long live gutting it out!