Bryan Joiner

Why then I

Category: Writing

Time to get personal, computer

There are three things I damage with regularity: cars, computers and my liver. I’ve tried to minimize the first problem by living in New York, where a car is not really necessary, and the last one I treat with antioxidants, vitamins and such.

The middle one is pesky. I haven’t had a brand-spanking-new computer since I went to college, and that one broke in about six months (it was also a PC, so fuck it). Since then, I’ve lived off a steady diet of office computers, girlfriends’ computers, friends’ computers and hand-me-ups from my brother. My last two laptops came straight up the genetic pipeline, first a MacBook, then a ThinkPad from Grantlesworth. They were both serviceable. The first one kept malfunctioning but was covered under an Apple warranty until it wasn’t, and was shown the door, and the second broke on and off until July when I really destroyed the thing by putting it in my checked luggage on my 15 1/2 hour trip to Hong Kong. That’s more like murder than anything else, so we’re best not to speak of it. Since then, I’ve been computer-less except at work, where my ample free time has been a nice complement to my non-computer-owning habits. But as a “writer,” this was a temporary fixture, and for my 30th birthday, someone who shall remain nicknamed NILS, KINS, NILES CRANE, THE CRANE, THE CREEZIE, etc. was kind enough to purchase me a brand new MacBook, which I am in the uncomfortable position of trying not to kill. Finally, a computer of my own that might actually last a while. It’s very strange, and I’ll adjust to it eventually, but to show you how kid-gloves I am with it right now, I’m typing this from work. Or maybe that’s because all my computer time at home is reserved for [deleted].*

* “Playing Scrabulous,” which a large percentage of work is reserved for, actually. (Mom, Scrabulous = Scrabble on Facebook. Facebook = nevermind, I’m sure you know by now, right?)

Yay

I am told my essay on Alex Rodriguez will be posted tomorrow on this site. I’ll post here again when it is. In fact, this is just to jog your brain to remind you that even when there’s a lack of Boston sports news, bryanjoiner.com is open for business.

Yes, there was a joke in the last sentence.

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.

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.

Process

It is Wednesday night, and I was going to write this tomorrow morning at work, until I realized that I absolutely abhor writing at work. The tripe I write for our magazine doesn’t count – I could do it in my sleep. I mean writing – stuff that you’d be proud to show your mother (hi mom!) or wife or girlfriend (hi everybody!) without the feeling of – what did I feel at the Chronicle? – complete and total existential dread. Life is good now, as long as I keep work and the real writing separate, which is why it’s good to have a job that doesn’t make me, when I see my computer at night, want to take a pickaxe to it in latent work frustration. Come to think of it, I don’t even own a pickaxe, as far as I know (there’s a shed out back, and God knows what’s in it).

With nothing else really to talk about, let’s have a short discussion of how what you’re reading – this – ends up on your computer screen. It goes a little something like this: after coming home from work, I will decide to write at times it appears that my roommate will not be home within the hour. These days, that’s pretty much all the time, so tonight I had the “luxury” of doing the necessary two loads of laundry before eating, showering and taking out the computer. The specifics may vary, but that’s pretty much the prelude. I will write in one of three places: on the living room table, facing the television; in my bed or on the sofa, as I am writing now. Once settled, I will attempt to come up with a topic but will usually end up writing about what happened to me today or what I’m thinking at the moment and go off on a tangent (see?). I will write nonstop for about 20 minutes and wrap it up in somewhere between 30 and 45 minutes. That’s when the real fun begins. That’s when I get to play with the flash-drive that’s on my keychain. When I first bought the drive it didn’t work with my computer, because it includes software that’s only readable on newer models, and this baby’s an old clunker. Sorry, lovable old clunker. A friend had to remove the software for me, but the drive still didn’t work, only this time it was a result of jamming the stupid thing into the USB jack like any sane person would plug anything into a USB jack. My flash drive must be inserted gently, and only into the bottom jack, and hee hee har har, isn’t that a hoot? I usually get it on the second try, and the thing lights up to tell me I’ve done a good job. Then we order dinner (just kidding).

When I’ve finally got the “green light,” which is actually orange, I drop the word file I’m using onto the icon for the drive. Sometimes the word file will be a single entry, sometimes several of them, but I’ll tag them all as UNEDITED so y’all can’t read the shit without my cleaning it up first – which I will do in the following day whenever I remember I have them, which could really happen at any point between 8:45 and 4:45, and maybe not at all, given my general spaciness when I’m in an office. Strangely, the more work I have to do, the more likely I am to remember. That’s the way I’ve always been: the more on my plate, the better I am at dividing up my time both while completing the project and when taking a break. An idle mind, plus the Internet, makes for a playful day for me where I can accomplish almost nothing except to work myself into a lather over the rosters of fake sports teams in my name and take breaks from this excitement by getting coffee or having instant chats with friends peppered across the city. The only thing I will both create and post at work are the Great and Funny Quotes you’ve doubtless seen by now – I say doubtless both because my readers are loyal and there is a great quote posted just above this entry. I read it on the way home from work today and knew it was a keeper. Why I’m reading a book devoted to someone competing in a ruthless fantasy baseball league is another question altogether, though it would seem to be happily akin to a priest reading the Bible, and despite my hazy knowledge of religion I am fairly sure this happens. In the book – not the Good one, the good one – there is an anecdote about a pastor in Arizona who routinely wins his fantasy baseball league because all the spring training umpires use his church, so I guess God does play games. But you know what? If there are two things I shouldn’t be talking about (and for completely different reasons), it’s religion and fantasy baseball, so it might be time for me to fall back on the third foundation of this country: taking pills. This has been an absurdly bad allergy season, and as my bedroom is virtually outdoors and my new office is caked in dust, I’ve been getting killed every day. Today was just about as bad as it gets, and after a long weekend-plus of staying up late – I had a 9 p.m. basketball game yesterday – I’m gonna pop a Benadryl Severe Allergy and let the antihistamines work their magic.