Bryan Joiner

Why then I

Month: June, 2007

Fiction And The Personal Essay (largely unedited)

I read a fascinating article in The New Yorker last night about the Ransom Collection at the University of Texas Library. It is, by the account of the author, the single biggest repository of the collected papers of fiction writers in United States and probably the world. It includes the papers of Don DeLillo, Normal Mailer and Ezra Pound, among thousands of others, many of them British (It was something of a big deal in British literary world when native archive materials began retiring in Texas). The author, D.T. Max, focuses helpfully on the extensive collection from DiLillo, a contemporary author who uses a typewriter, and who thus creates far more printed material than most writers. He uses the typewriter to create single paragraphs which he pencil-edits on the page, typing the “corrected” paragraph immediately below it. He sometimes repeats this process for four or five pages until the paragraph is, in his mind, ready. His entire thought process is recorded on sheets of 8 ½ by 11 inch paper.

Tom Staley, the director of Harry Ransom Humanities Research Center, studies the minds of literary “masters” the way some people study law or, say, podiatry. The difference is that in law and podiatry, there is a right and a wrong answer to every question (insofar as he have mastered the study of foot medicine), whereas in literature the rules are created by each individual author. The study of literature is not one text compared to another; it is the study of each text itself. At some point, every book, newspaper or magazine you’ve read was a dead tree. To see literature as a science, and not as a form of entertainment, is to see how the human mind creates stories. Does the perfect story exist? In Jorge Luis Borges’ story “The Library of Babel,” the central character, the librarian, is searching through the infinite space described by every possible letter combination in every book. There are books that vary from each other with only one keystroke, and books composed of nothing but gobbledygook. He searches because in the library, there is said to be one book that perfectly describes all the others. The study of how literature is created — the author’s search for the perfect story — is the search for that book, but with the prior knowledge of what’s in it. The book describes the search for the book itself. The study of literature is without end.

For this reason, the process of creating fiction differs decisively from the creation of non-fiction. As someone who has never had a fiction class, and has spent a life writing non-fiction, the immediate differences between the two processes are striking. (Or, at least, DeLillo’s process is far different than mine.) DeLillo first molds the sentence like “Look at the kid with the with the empty pockets”; it becomes “Look at the kid with the lively eyes,” then “glimmerglass eyes,” the “shine in the eyes”, then he completely changes its emphasis. “He speaks in your voice, American, and has a shine in the eyes that’s half hope, half fear” he writes, and “half hope, half fear” eventually becomes “halfway hopeful”. The process we are witnessing is his search for the perfect sentence, the sentence that will get his reader one step closer to Borges’ fictional perfect book.

This is the mystery of fiction. It’s unpredictable, dangerous and sexy. The danger in non-fiction has already passed, no matter how compelling the situation (Non-fiction on a life-threatening basis is ‘journalism’.). In non-fiction, every sentence is the author’s attempt to describe in something that happened in the right words; the process of creating a non-fiction document is the process of combining words with research and memory. In fiction, words describe both one’s imagination and one’s process. The study of non-fiction is similar to the study of law; it can be done correctly or incorrectly. Fiction certainly can be done poorly, but nothing is ever wrong. None of this is to be an assault on non-fiction. I read mostly non-fiction. When it comes to fiction, I’m picky. I only read novels that are recommended to me, or ones that garner such critical acclaim that they cannot be ignored (The Bonfire of the Vanities would be a great instance of these two lines intersecting). I’m learning when I read non-fiction. When I read fiction, I’m doing something else.

Which leads me, at last, to the third type of writing. The rules of fiction are not 100 percent different the rules of non-fiction; in both fiction and non-fiction, the writer is attempting to describe something external to the narrator. The world that is described has a place and time, be it real or imagined. Underworld or White Noise, though created in DeLillo’s head, occur in a place and time, just as Into Thin Air or Krakatoa, works of non-fiction, occur somewhere outside our brains. Fiction’s antonym is, instead, the personal essay. In the personal essay, noting is external to the narrator: it’s all about what happens in our heads. Fiction is the fruit of the writing process by way of imagination; the personal essay is the direct connection between the mind and the page. Stripped of outright lies about oneself, the personal essay is a perfect reflection of ones self-awareness .Your personal essay will only be as good as you can make it. Stripped of lies, it will be a perfect reflection of how well you are able to describe yourself and of how well you know yourself. If fiction is the search for the perfect book amongst a universe of imperfect ones, the personal essay is the fruit of constantly finding the perfect book to describe oneself. Once you find the book, it’s not perfect anymore. You’ve grown. Time to write again. I’m intrigued by fiction, with its incredible degree of difficulty and the enormous imaginative capacity involved, and in awe of non-fiction writers like Robert Caro, who have written works like The Power Broker, that are literally monuments to human work ethic and the printed word, but at the moment, I see no purer piece of writing than the personal essay. I’m not yet ready for fiction, the endless science, or non-fiction, its diligent cousin. I have too much to do here first.

Feel free to leave comments and editing suggestions. All help is appreciated.

Really?

To the guy who honked at me when I was in the crosswalk yesterday… really? I was walking across 29th street on my way to the park for lunch when I heard you honk. Since I’ve been on cold medicine all week, it didn’t immediately register that you were honking at me — there were several people in the intersection, and none of them were cars. When I got to the other side of the street, I looked back at you in attempt to make a snap judgment as to What Your Problem Was when I saw it: the address on your side door. “Etc., etc., Scranton, PA.”

So here’s the little backstory I invented while mouthing the words “Fuck You” in your direction: you don’t come to the big city that often, and you hear everyone else honking, so you figure, “Hey, let’s give this a shot.” Only here’s what you don’t realize: you don’t honk at pedestrians in the crosswalk. It is your job to sit there and Keep Absoluely Quiet, unless I’m on some sort of conveyance, in which case you have Mayor Michael Fucking Bloomberg’s permission to play that funky music, white boy (approved conveyances include a bicycle, segway or your mother). You probably learned your lesson from my stares and those of the other crossers around me, so hopefully you’re good to go from now on. Unless you’re just pissed off that NBC emasculated your hometown. Can’t help you there.

To my cold… really? Four days and counting? I could barely pull myself out of bed this morning and I’ve done nothing but mend to you since Sunday evening. On Monday I tried to deny your existence, because I had unimpeachably better plans that were a long time coming, but in the end I had to cancel them. Fine. I received a slight life Monday evening and Tuesday morning, leading me to believe you were a 24-hour bug… but no. The rest of Tuesday and all of Wednesday were completely hellish. All this for what, playing a little softball in the rain on Sunday? Please. That’s hardly fair (especially considering we won the game). Then I biked home, which surely exacerbated the problem. Would you rather that I had driven, destroying your Earthly paradise, God? (Or whomever?) I didn’t think so. Let’s cut me a little break here and end this right now.

To The Wire
really? You’re really this good? I started season three last night, and you continue to amaze me. I had watched seasons one and two at breakneck pace, which was a mistake. The Wire, it has often been said, is like a novel, and I burnt myself out on it too quickly. Now I’m ready to handle more adventures of McNulty, Stringer and the gang. It’s really the second-best TV show I’ve ever seen, and the least repeatable (The Sopranos is the best, but it’s more easily digestable). I took an hour break between the episodes last night, and that made all the difference. To top it off David Simon is a (far-flung) family friend, to the point where my beloved mother told me recently, “So-and-so Simon is doing this, so-and-so Simon is doing that, David Simon is still doing The Wire…” which was a hoot. I’m on it. Gotta love mom, though. Hi mom.

Allergies

I just took an allergy pill. I have been taking allergy and cold pills for the last two days, as a combination sore throat and stuffy nose has sidelined me from any real activities. Thankfully there has been nothing to do at work – and I mean quite literally nothing – so all I’ve done is pester friends via chat and make updates to my Verizon phone plan. I need more text messages, especially when my voice sounds like it does. It hurts to talk, and every conversation quickly morphs into, “Wait, are you sick?” Given that I’m naturally verbose, I will respond with some babble followed by my standard answer: “Yes, but I always sound this way.” And I do. I have a naturally scratchy voice, as do both of my brothers, but mine is unsurprisingly the worst. Maybe the allergy pill will make it better. We’re about to find out.

One thing the allergy pill will almost certainly do is knock me the fuck out. Every day for the last three days, I’ve taken one of these pills in the late afternoon, and every day I’ve taken an involuntary nap that has ended around 8 p.m. I’m beginning to think that this particular dosage – for “Extreme Allergies – is less of an allergy cure than a full-blown sleeping pill. Okay, now I’m fairly sure that it is a full-blown sleeping pill: I have to rest my eyes between every sentence. It’s a beautiful day outside, and I would like to spend it doing something, but no: I’m pasted to the couch. In the long run, I’ll be happy I did this. But in the short run, it’s quite galling.

Now I’m losing it, quick. My allergies have almost gone away completely, which is great, but any sort of movement is hard (I paused between “great” and “but” to rest). At least I know dinner will be cheap tonight – there’s no way I’m going out to get anything. I’ll make do with whatever mishmosh is around here. That means rice and beans, macaroni and cheese, canned vegetables or cereal. I realize that at age 29 I should not be eating cereal for dinner, but it is so easy and delicious that it’s hard to resist. Of course, all of this is contingent on my getting off the coach. This is not likely.

(Whereupon the author fell asleep for two hours)

Also, just as quickly as it was created, The Sox Page was deleted to make more time for Barajas.

New Stuff

I think I am a reasonable person, so yesterday I started a Red Sox blog called The Sox Page. It was my intention to write on the site every day. We’ll see. I only say “we’ll see” because minutes later my friend Ben and I began Rod Barajas, a sports-humor blog, that has the potential to really monopolize time in its overwhelming awesomimity. Please check them both out if you’ve got the time. I promise at least Rod Barajas will be worth it, unless you don’t get the joke. Then it will be a bunch of nonsense.

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