tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30777698015817751262024-02-07T02:47:40.283-08:00Logomancers and LogodaedalistsPosts Along the Path of WritingDavid Driscollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15877118222885127947noreply@blogger.comBlogger40125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3077769801581775126.post-89555055081365815472017-03-08T10:30:00.001-08:002017-03-10T07:39:07.463-08:00Let's Go, Kid, into the Open Field<div class="MsoNormal">
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There will be time, there will be time</div>
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To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;</div>
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There will be time to murder and create,</div>
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And time for all the works and days of hands</div>
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That lift and drop a question on your plate;</div>
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Time for you and time for me,</div>
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And time yet for a hundred indecisions,</div>
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And for a hundred visions and revisions,</div>
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Before the taking of a toast and tea. </div>
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--T.S. Eliot</div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">It’s take your daughter to work day.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Didn’t know that?</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Well, maybe that's because your daughter didn’t collapse on the floor and refuse to move when it was time to put on her jacket for school.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“I’m too tired.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Well, shit, kid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dad
has to go to work.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Only does he have to go to work?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">C'mon, kid. Dad has to go to the coffee shop and maybe work
on another blog post, a writing effort that that will garner him no income, that
will not lead to a book deal, that will not help him sell the movie he’s
writing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">You’re only four, kid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Do you even really need to go to school?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There are experts and judgmental moms the world over who say I leave you
there too long as it is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m sorry
kid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m doing my best.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Why is it that I feel this need to write?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Why do </span>I feel I need to do this thing I do almost
everyday,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> w</span>here I dive into the stream of these
words and every once in awhile send them sailing out into the world?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">So now you are here, sitting next to me in this cafe,
basically watching TV.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Are you rotting
your brain?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is it going to turn to goo
and leak out your ears like I often tell you it will?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We won’t be here too long (I tell
myself).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It won’t be long before you get
hungry or tired or finally get bored of watching Kate and Mim-Mim romp in the purplelicious bubblegum kingdom of Mimaloo.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">But for now I sit next to you, your dad. Your forty-year old
dad with a back pillow to aid his aging spine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This broken-down yogi.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This
discouraged writer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This dad who feels
like he is failing you day in and day out with his lack of patience, with his
insistence on following his own rigid agenda, with his tendency to write about himself in such
self-pitying ways.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Wasn't it a victory, though, that we made it here, kid?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This morning when you were lying there on
the floor, I felt like I was faced with two options: pick you up, jam your arms into your
coat, and carry you crying to your car seat, or go off by myself to sit and sulk. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It wasn’t until it occurred to me that this feeling in my face, this
feeling that my face and maybe my entire head and neck might explode atop my
shoulders, was trying to tell me something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And so I did what I’ve been trying to learn how to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I let myself really feel it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I reminded myself that it, like every feeling, was pointing me towards something, a signal, and so I tried to welcome it as a teacher, and it told me that what mattered was not whether I got to spend my day at the cafe reading Karl Rahner, writing another blog post, or working on that short story I’ve
been hiding from for the past several days.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">What mattered was staying with what was happening at that
moment, realizing that I had a sad kid who really didn’t want to go to school
and a frustrated dad who wanted to go to work, and a newly crawling baby
who was going to fully occupy her grandmother for the day.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Where are the outlets?"</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">So what did I do, in between the Scylla and Charybdis of shutting myself in the office and forcing you to go to school? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I said, "Let’s go to the store."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And you, kid,
seeing with your untutored wisdom that this was a new way, the third way, a never-before-imagined possibility, said, “Ok.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">And we went to the store, and we started to have fun at the store, didn’t we? The field of possibility
was open once again. We were out in that open field beyond the plans and fixed expectations of
how the day was going to go. And as we
drove home from the store, a vision that we might come here, to the
coffee shop together to do our as-yet-uncreated thing, bloomed in the now free space in my
mind.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Maybe you are going to watch too much damn Kate and Mim-Mim today, and
maybe later in the day, I’m going to come up against something where I can’t
adjust, where I can’t let go, and we are going to have a big blow-up fight. But for now, at least, we are here together, co-creating our day, trying to stay in the open field, trying to remember that our
plans aren’t going to protect us from as much as we think, and that we need to
remain ever responsive to the living flux of what is, whatever that may be.</span><!--EndFragment-->
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Thanks for stopping by!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>David Driscollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15877118222885127947noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3077769801581775126.post-29005132551223701282017-03-06T12:36:00.002-08:002017-03-07T11:27:27.738-08:00Writing Down to the Ground of Being<br />
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I just read the first few chapters of Karl Rahner’s* book <u>Encounters with Silence</u>, and it brought me from a place of scattered frustration and confusion to a sort of centered stability in my heart space. Interestingly enough, my experience reading seems to mirror the essays themselves, as in each of the short pieces, which are structured as prayers to God, Rahner's focus seems to shift from a concern with his alienation and insufficiency to a sort of security born of acceptance of his limitations and surrender to the incomprehensibility of the divine mystery.<br />
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It's a subtle shift, one of tone, and I'll admit that I might be guilty of projecting on the theologian. But I found something beautiful in the parallel with my reading experience, and as I reflected on it, it struck me that the “free writing” I’ve done throughout my life--whether I’ve thought of it as literary experiment, a way to warm up in preparation for my “professional” writing, or simply as a private journal--is actually an ongoing prayer.<br />
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It may seem unlikely, but by diving into the compulsive thoughts running through my mind, channeling them through my hands, and marshalling them into sentences and paragraphs, I’ve always had a fairly reliable way to move from a space of constraint to one of expansive freedom. Indeed, it may not be too strong to say this was the primary thing which initially attracted me to writing, and even before I began to think of myself as a writer, I would use a journal at various times of major upheaval. <br />
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When I was younger though, I used to believe that I was actually working out solutions to my various problems, coming up with epiphanies which I would then convert into strategies for changing my life. Why did my girlfriend break up with me? Eureka! I drove her away with my insecurity about our relationship. So all I need to do now is resist any temptation to show her my neediness. Strategy: if I start to call her in tears, I will hang up and punch myself in the face. Of course, these strategies never actually worked--most of the time I’d be lucky (or unlucky) if I even tried them out once.<br />
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But what I’ve come to realize is that something happens in the process of writing itself which helps me to transcend rather than solve the the problems and situations I’m describing. Writing in this free, discursive way somehow reveals the fact that any given set of personal problems are always only limited stories that imperfectly describe a tiny portion of my life’s territory. This is not something that comes through an analysis of what's been written, but a change of being that comes through the act. Through writing, I fall into a vaster perspective that often makes any one take on a given life situation seem so narrow as to be untrue or at least irrelevant.<br />
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This, of course, is also one of the ways silent meditation works. During the practice of meditation, we engage in the practice of not reacting to compulsive thoughts, letting them go, so that we can be open to the transformative potential of what lies below the surface of these thoughts, and over time, this ability spills over into the rest of our lives. But what I saw clearly today while reading Rahner’s book, both journaling and discursive prayer can actually lead to the same type of experience. By engaging with the flow of our words in an intentional and sincere way for an extended period of time, we touch something healing underneath the poor words themselves, maybe even the primordial word, the Logos of John's gospel or the sacred Om out of which the universe arises.<br />
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Could it be that this is one of the reasons in religious education we are first taught discursive prayer and practices like the Rosary? Because the forms help to occupy our thinking faculty while keeping our intention set on communicating something vital, giving us a chance to eventually perceive a deeper, sub-verbal level of discourse with reality that is actually going on all the time? This is what I often experience when I write deeply and freely, and it is not uncommon for the words to fall away altogether as I work, inviting me to let them go in favor of a more profound silence. What would it be like if we could learn to shift our habitual attention from the flashy display of our thoughts, feelings, desires, and aversions to this current of soundless sound? Perhaps this shift what Paul intended when he gives us the impossible charge to pray without ceasing (Thessalonians 5:17).<br />
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Not only are these associations helping me to understand some unforeseen potential value of discursive prayer, I can also now understand why journaling is so often recommended as a companion to psychotherapy as well as various forms of spiritual practice. While I was long ago able to discover for myself that free writing or journaling helped to calm my ass down enough to overcome the terror of launching, day after day, into long-term writing projects, as a form of psychotherapy or spiritual practice, I’d always looked down upon it as weak tea. <br />
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I was critical because I believed that journaling might cause others to do what I used to do, namely reinforce the erroneous belief that we can transform ourselves through our narrow self wills, that we can work out solutions to life situations as if they were problems on a sheet of math homework, and make us myopically chase the shadows of our discontent rather than engage productively with our deeper fears. And while journaling or free writing or even discursive prayer could in fact do this on one level, it may be that given enough time and practice, we will realize that, as with everything else, it is through our engagement with the work itself and not through receiving the fruits of our work, that we find our path to liberation.<br />
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*Karl Rahner, professor of Dogmatic Theology at the University of Innsbruck in Austria, is one of the most influential Catholic theologians in Europe at the present time. His contributions have been highly esteemed not only by his Catholic confreres, but also in scholarly circles outside the Church (From the Foreword to <u>Encounters with Silence</u>).<br />
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-->David Driscollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15877118222885127947noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3077769801581775126.post-74608599941786974152016-10-04T11:14:00.000-07:002018-03-29T13:43:16.056-07:00The Writer's Writer FriendOnce there was a writer who hadn’t published anything in a very long time. When his family and friends asked him what he was working on, he would say:<br />
<br />
“I’m not really sure.” Or, “Sometimes it feels like something, but other times it feels like it is nothing.”<br />
<br />
His family and friends didn’t know what to make of it. He seemed busy when he was writing and content in the rest of his life, and eventually, they learned to accept it.<br />
<br />
Then one day while the writer was working, he felt himself slip out the top of his head, and he died, right there, lying on the couch with his computer open on his lap. He’d been in excellent health. No one really understood what had happened. But his heart had stopped beating. At least he died doing something he loved, everyone said.<br />
<br />
Now the writer had many writer friends, and at the funeral, one of them began to ask:<br />
<br />
“Does anybody know what he was working on?”<br />
<br />
The other writers didn’t know. The writer’s wife didn’t know and neither did his children. And the writer’s writer friend thought this was strange. He thought it was strange that nobody knew anything about the work and strange that no one seemed to care. Or maybe what was strange was that he, the writer’s writer friend, did care. <br />
<br />
Eventually he worked up the nerve to ask his friend’s wife if he could have a look.<br />
<br />
“Sure,” she said and handed over the writer’s computer.<br />
<br />
The writer’s writer friend took the computer home and set it on his desk. He made himself some coffee and paced around the room. <br />
<br />
Why was he nervous? He was only going to read his friend’s work, which he’d done many times before. And it wasn’t that he was afraid of violating his friend’s privacy. No. That would have been a reasonable concern, but the writer’s writer friend was not troubled by that. There was something else, some personal trepidation that the writer’s writer friend felt. It was as if by reading, he knew he would come up against something, something that he… he… he didn’t quite know what it would be.<br />
<br />
The writer’s writer friend opened the computer and began to read. It seemed that the writer had been for years working exclusively on the same document. It was organized as a sort of journal, with dates before each entry, and much of the document was simply that, banal recountings of the writer’s day-to-day, which would often morph into philosophical musings or flights of fancy. Sometimes these would turn into the beginning of a story or a sketch of a story, while at other times, the prose would break down into nonsense—impromptu nursery rhymes with made-up words, stream of consciousness narratives with little or no punctuation, and multiple pages where the writer’s fingers had clearly strayed from home row but had not ceased their flight, as if the writer had been working blindfolded and had not bothered to read over what he’d done. <br />
<br />
“What could have been the purpose of this?” the writer’s writer friend wondered. There were so many snippets of things that could have been, with a little exercise of the will and some discipline, the basis for something interesting—a story or poem or essay. Even some of the nonsense was fascinating and could have, if properly curated, been assembled into something beautiful and strange and entirely publishable. And as these thoughts assembled in the writer’s writer friend’s mind, he began to fear. Had he, by dint of choosing to go through this morass of words and writing, unwittingly signed up to edit all this work? To break it apart and put it together the way it was meant to be assembled?<br />
<br />
The writer’s writer friend was so troubled by these questions that he closed the laptop and tried to go straight to bed, for it was late, and he had things to do the following day, but he lay there staring at his ceiling, thinking:<br />
<br />
“This is the work of a lifetime. I cannot do this. I will not do this. What would become of my own work? My own writing career? This work is not really any better than my own. What would be lost if this writing never saw the light of day? If no one but me ever saw it again?”<br />
<br />
Eventually the writer’s writer friend drifted off, but he woke early the next morning and went immediately to his desk and started reading again. And as he read, little thoughts would flit through his head:<br />
<br />
“You’re just avoiding your own work.” And, “You need to stop this foolishness.” And, “There are more pressing matters at hand.”<br />
<br />
But even though these thoughts were agitating and compelling, they couldn’t overcome the urge to read on, and when he did finally take a break to let out the dog and make his dinner, the writer’s writer friend felt thoroughly flummoxed.<br />
<br />
Among the many troubling aspects of the journal, perhaps the most troubling was the fact that the entries, at least the beginning of each, were often fixated on questions like, “Am I a writer? Am I wasting my time? Should I be doing something else with my life?”<br />
<br />
The writer’s writer friend understood these questions. He’d been wrestling with them since he first began to write in earnest many years ago. But how was it that his friend had still been troubled by them and had yet simply stopped testing his work against the opinion of the world? For the writer’s writer friend, even though he had published books and won awards, knew he was still driven by his ambition to be esteemed and respected, especially by those individuals and organizations that he esteemed and respected.<br />
<br />
That's when he realized something. The very reason he'd begun to read his friend's journal in the first place was to find the secret that had freed the writer from the compulsive need to prove himself. For hadn’t the writer, as he’d let go of his attempts to send his work out into the world become increasingly more peaceful, more wise and accepting and loving?<br />
<br />
No. It had all been a projection on the part of the writer’s writer friend. He’d just assumed that the writer had somehow managed to free himself from this need to beat back his feelings of insufficiency and fraudulence, from the need to protect and expand the writerly identity he’d worked so hard to assemble. The truth was that his friend had never become free. The journal proved that.<br />
<br />
“These are nothing but the self-referential musings of a lost soul,” the writer’s writer friend concluded. And with that, he vowed that he would never read the journal again.<br />
<br />
The writer’s writer friend returned to his usual routine. He kept up with his obligations and did his writerly work. But something had changed. The zest had gone from his enterprises, or rather, he realized the zest had been gone from his life and work for some time. It was as if his life had become a constant striving towards some distant future, as if he’d been perpetually preparing for something down the line that would make or break him, but now it seemed all too clear that his half-conscious hopes and half-hidden fears were nothing but distractions from something fundamental that was continuously passing him by, though he didn’t quite know what it was. One thing was certain though: this was the fault of his friend’s journal, and when he thought about the writer’s work, he was filled with loathing and disgust.<br />
<br />
Days passed, and the tedium continued to grow until it became intolerable. The writer’s writer friend longed to go back to his life as it had been, but there was no going back, and he had no idea how to take a new direction forward. Any alternative future he could imagine for himself felt ridiculous, farcical, a caricature full of hypocrisy and shallow posturing. Lost as he was, he thought to himself, “I have become just like my friend, and I will probably end up like him as well.” And as he slowly became resigned this fate, he decided that he might as well resume reading the journal, and so one afternoon he dug his friend’s computer from the back of his closet.<br />
<br />
He read until late in the evening, and the next morning he picked up where he'd left off and read deep into the night. Each day he did the same thing, and he began to neglect his other duties. He began to fall behind on his deadlines. His friends and family couldn’t get hold of him, and when they did, the writer’s writer friend would be brief, eager as he was to get back to the work of reading his dead friend’s writing.<br />
<br />
It wasn’t that he’d discovered any more meaning or coherence in the journal, but something had changed. For as he was reading, things had started to happen.<br />
<br />
At times it was as if the ebb and flow of the words were carrying him somewhere, like he was bobbing on a raft through an impenetrable fog, headed towards some very important place he knew he would never reach. While at other times, it was as if the rhythm of the words was pointing at something, a sort of silence beneath the words, a silence which at times would paradoxically grow very loud, so loud that the words would fall to the background, like the sounds of a crowded pool when one has sunk to the bottom. At these times the writer’s writer friend could close his eyes and let the rhythm of the silence carry him still further down, a journey into some bright darkness, a journey to nowhere that was somehow deeply satisfying in itself.<br />
<br />
“I could read this document forever,” the writer’s writer friend sometimes thought. Or, “This is all I or anyone else ever needs.” While at other times he would still think, “This is a colossal waste of time.” And, “This is an incompressible mess.” <br />
<br />
But none of thoughts could take hold. And the longer he read the less and less power any of the thoughts seemed to have. It was as if the silence he’d discovered while reading his friend’s document had a way of dissolving these concerns and others.<br />
<br />
Eventually the writer’s writer friend no longer needed to sit for hours reading the document. Some days he wouldn’t read his friend’s work at all. And when he wrote, he would sometimes have the experience of the words flowing high above him, as if he were looking through a glass ceiling at fast-moving clouds. While at other times it was as if the words were welling up out of the ground and passing through him, charging his heart. The flowing words, which he’d so long believed to be his own, became strange and beautiful things, gifts beaming in from some place he would never reach but which was also somehow always at hand, always guiding and protecting him as he rose each day, as he met with his family and friends, as he walked his dog and made his dinner and published his books and continued to win his awards.<br />
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Thanks for reading. See you soon.<br />
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<br />David Driscollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15877118222885127947noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3077769801581775126.post-39489461928967726652016-09-12T11:04:00.000-07:002016-09-12T13:19:13.815-07:00What Needs Not Be Said<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJm26CkwHAaKA6hWhu-O3BDFihGbug-FD9rjgYtBWhtUkKetTR0t8Z5KarmOFZGhLJhlklNoN1SVv4Co7izwu2XVqDu4_WsJccBJIlznfdSg4hb7jUiWFbSWB9BsObE80YwDxKy3aLPSpr/s640/blogger-image--1996296184.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJm26CkwHAaKA6hWhu-O3BDFihGbug-FD9rjgYtBWhtUkKetTR0t8Z5KarmOFZGhLJhlklNoN1SVv4Co7izwu2XVqDu4_WsJccBJIlznfdSg4hb7jUiWFbSWB9BsObE80YwDxKy3aLPSpr/s640/blogger-image--1996296184.jpg"></a></div><br></div>I started a teacher training today at <a href="http://tejasyogachicago.com/">Tejas Yoga</a> in the South Loop. So far I've only been through the asana portion and then found out I had a full two-hour break, which means I have time to write (drat). The afternoon session this week, and all week, is going to focus on sequencing. How to put together a yoga practice so the practitioner can move through the practice safely with maximum benefit.<br>
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Starting the teacher training isn't the only new thing I'm doing. I'm also trying to use this blog a little more informally than I have in the past. Up until now I've mostly used L&L as a place to put rather polished autobiographical essays and as a home for my online writerly identity. I suppose it still will work in those ways, but I'm also working a little with the practice of letting my writing go, of putting stuff down and then sending it out where people can see it, because the truth of the matter is (or at least I believe it to be true) that I've been holding onto too much stuff for too long. I've been too afraid to put things out in the world and it feels like they've been getting stuck in me and rotting, which has led to a defeatist attitude and a sense of being isolated.<br>
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I realize that in trying to work in this other way, I may put out a lot of mediocre or even bad writing, so if you've been thinking about unsubscribing but haven't due to the infrequency of the posts now would be a good time (and the truth is I'll never know if you do, unless of course you're a friend of mine and I come up to you with that longing look in my eyes, waiting for you to tell me you liked my last post).<br>
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Anyway, I'll do my best to consider you, reader, as I write these posts, but you can probably expect a little less polish and some more speculation. Perhaps a few more tpyos and some half-baked or even raw ideas about writing, parenting, spiritual practice, etc. Given how ridiculously self conscious I am, however, I wouldn't expect it to go that far. So it's more likely there will be a surfeit of musings about my process, which at times will probably sound pretty self involved and whiny. But maybe (maybe!) some of this will touch that part of you that's confused and overwhelmed and doesn't really know what the hell is going on despite whatever outward face you're trying to sell to the world around you. That's my hope anyway. And at any rate, you've been warned.<div><br></div><div>And here is a cute photo because people like those:</div><div><br><font color="#000000"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnAXTbgyLUxNUmDOh_7lPK8LfJ7chzISES53ksElx2vpu1iXSeFjx9CTduOWH7vpwo78erEhPFDSNQa2MQdo_OQkV3_IKIG-ygoaw4EcCI2J3P-AW1oWza5WYrOXQzspLJtDdODUCYUtaV/s640/blogger-image-152198600.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXlLPqzwldp0vjhyphenhyphenBq4NyX9oViMAeowKo6SMfc1rploJ64wCS7Qw774iU7oXP-C_8t1LO6X0X1IckTTVVkqk6c8soPJFNR5yWwWjHYS_0PqsozUWCi1xr9rRyDFDpRgmKhuvX6vEjsaNA1/s640/blogger-image-1334759011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXlLPqzwldp0vjhyphenhyphenBq4NyX9oViMAeowKo6SMfc1rploJ64wCS7Qw774iU7oXP-C_8t1LO6X0X1IckTTVVkqk6c8soPJFNR5yWwWjHYS_0PqsozUWCi1xr9rRyDFDpRgmKhuvX6vEjsaNA1/s640/blogger-image-1334759011.jpg"></a></div></font><br>
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<br></div>David Driscollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15877118222885127947noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3077769801581775126.post-86474942389851148532015-11-05T20:23:00.001-08:002015-11-06T08:32:52.478-08:00Are You My Process?Many people may not realize this, but P.D. Eastman's children's classic <i>Are You My Mother</i> is actually an esoteric guide to writing a short story.<br />
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Here is how it works.<br />
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You are sitting around waiting for your next great short-story idea to hatch.<br />
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Nothing is happening.<br />
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In the story, this where the mother bird flies off to get something for her baby bird to eat.<br />
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In your process, this is where you start trolling lists like <a href="http://cliffordgarstang.com/2015-pushcart-prize-ranking-of-literary-magazines-fiction/">Clifford Garstang's Pushcart Prize Rankings of Literary Magazines</a> to find out where your short-story masterpiece should be placed.<br />
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Or maybe you actually get up and go to the fridge to figure out what to make your family--who are all off doing productive things--for dinner. <br />
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Never mind, writer, that you will only get yourself a snack. Never mind that you aren't even hungry. Eating is certainly preferable to sitting there staring at that blinking cursor.<br />
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Then just when you've got out the ham and the mayo and the onion and the lettuce and the bread and two kinds of cheese...<br />
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Out comes the baby bird.<br />
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Your idea is so fragile. Maybe it's just a line or two with a distinctive narrative voice. Or maybe it's a weird-ass situation with a hilarious conflict. It doesn't matter how small it is. Its tiny story heart is beating under its downy chest, and you race back to your desk and write it down.<br />
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And writing that first draft is a kind of free fall. It's fun.<br />
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Down out of the ethereal realm of pure potential, your story falls into the the world of form.</div>
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Down, down, down! It is a long way down.</div>
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Good work.<br />
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You get up and and go back to the kitchen. You make your ham sandwich. You don't even mind that you have to cut it into three parts to share it with your family when they come home for dinner.<br />
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Your confidence carries over to the next day. You get up early and meditate.<br />
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When it's time, you fire up your computer. You pull up your story. <br />
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It isn't done, of course, but like some Platonic ideal, you know its perfected final version--its mother, so to speak--is out there waiting to be discovered, and full of optimistic zeal, you set off into the unknown.<br />
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Surely the essential heart of the story is right there in your first draft, but no matter how long you look at it, you will not see it. So you begin your rewrite, and as you do, you unknowingly pass by exactly what you're looking for...<br />
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...and come up with something that isn't even close.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0vpDiXoIrdnGcUJ5ZQBC9vc62hDc_bHpctCLvE6mwoBApO3e87shm7Ca2tjHmn0C4kG8TK5JlDPg6FMiVIyNRgy5v35tjsNA1gFIovoQfFLI-wt-031ZDMJibC2W1S_UdntkFSjBh8QMn/s1600/IMG_1640.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0vpDiXoIrdnGcUJ5ZQBC9vc62hDc_bHpctCLvE6mwoBApO3e87shm7Ca2tjHmn0C4kG8TK5JlDPg6FMiVIyNRgy5v35tjsNA1gFIovoQfFLI-wt-031ZDMJibC2W1S_UdntkFSjBh8QMn/s320/IMG_1640.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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So you write it again. </div>
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And then you do it again.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvqQ0bwHQXvCR4dTBUGwPLrFba8keL56ltXcTJfrEtVyO_AH7VGef0OOe4XswXrJwnhUheUpVtggAzw7cRGpn9rD702LlfchXBGNopq2baFtesw-Dxu-LgP_kFJHjHp93ZFHsD-OpeCeUM/s1600/IMG_1726.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvqQ0bwHQXvCR4dTBUGwPLrFba8keL56ltXcTJfrEtVyO_AH7VGef0OOe4XswXrJwnhUheUpVtggAzw7cRGpn9rD702LlfchXBGNopq2baFtesw-Dxu-LgP_kFJHjHp93ZFHsD-OpeCeUM/s320/IMG_1726.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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You're starting to get weary, but you're nothing if not persistent. You know you have to be. All the inspirational quotes from famous writers (one of which you are not) have told you as much. </div>
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So you try again.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS8vcJYiLZ9m0hH10JAc7NaGGd88zGVHcj8HDb4_UMj7sig-R9V-aSGhk5LdDUKXCmB_nkz3AB7Lk4bVrap8LZIVX3iIvGLq_yvdxtZRuUc3WseaXCRsWDvakADdoxzOh6OVAWb5dnXto3/s1600/IMG_1641.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS8vcJYiLZ9m0hH10JAc7NaGGd88zGVHcj8HDb4_UMj7sig-R9V-aSGhk5LdDUKXCmB_nkz3AB7Lk4bVrap8LZIVX3iIvGLq_yvdxtZRuUc3WseaXCRsWDvakADdoxzOh6OVAWb5dnXto3/s320/IMG_1641.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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You still don't feel good about it, but you know you've looked at it too long. Maybe you're failing to see its quality, and so you decide to submit it to <i>The Paris Review</i>. </div>
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<i>The Paris Review</i> writes back.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0heeD1hyVJTGf7Y0pyiZ9ZuLbXcCIe3wayhHGAsuZNMxxltiQAr4tMp-iM_rlVfLzYsnvXtPcDX2xa_vm0mvcwzzXv-JmTw78Cearv6abFLytS80CloJgDoo74JZsBUbdF5DggV4T6Sn4/s1600/IMG_1727.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0heeD1hyVJTGf7Y0pyiZ9ZuLbXcCIe3wayhHGAsuZNMxxltiQAr4tMp-iM_rlVfLzYsnvXtPcDX2xa_vm0mvcwzzXv-JmTw78Cearv6abFLytS80CloJgDoo74JZsBUbdF5DggV4T6Sn4/s320/IMG_1727.jpg" width="258" /></a></div>
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"How could I be your mother? I am <i>The Paris Review</i>."</div>
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You take stock. You've written four drafts, and your baby bird isn't any closer to home. In fact, if anything you seem to be getting further and further away. Was there anything to your inspiration to begin with?</div>
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There was. You know there was.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhttygaBCqK2fIOjVV1fcMr_cokpuTk_bjWgtJ-pVawC3HEvgrSCl53S5julcRAw1hAyfHppSHPejENuAy9u6sWYiFoevKSN5PnYBwQ05G6i_GBArp4XNcsKxcIPssOT_bJEpjhv2-BuB5d/s1600/IMG_1729.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhttygaBCqK2fIOjVV1fcMr_cokpuTk_bjWgtJ-pVawC3HEvgrSCl53S5julcRAw1hAyfHppSHPejENuAy9u6sWYiFoevKSN5PnYBwQ05G6i_GBArp4XNcsKxcIPssOT_bJEpjhv2-BuB5d/s320/IMG_1729.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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You will finish your story. You will. You WILL!</div>
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Now you do not walk through the next draft. You run. You change your story's setting to a zombie apocalypse in 1932 Berlin, which is somehow also in the future because it is a parallel universe.</div>
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You write it again.</div>
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And again</div>
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You know you are in danger of going off the rails, but you don't know what else to do, and you've put so much into it already. Maybe if you just keep with it you will figure it out, and that's when you see it.</div>
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This has got to be it. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWX37bz0u0WNeii0gygm8JzAv-3dlTXCbNM7Wy9HlfZOSJl5VCtWqnbBFLiswGESBm0CtGse1tEentn9NT_35hWN_GsuB-ioGswZqVArB_x5PxVr6eKq4KxxHiejNnE8778GhAofamRrc0/s1600/IMG_1738.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWX37bz0u0WNeii0gygm8JzAv-3dlTXCbNM7Wy9HlfZOSJl5VCtWqnbBFLiswGESBm0CtGse1tEentn9NT_35hWN_GsuB-ioGswZqVArB_x5PxVr6eKq4KxxHiejNnE8778GhAofamRrc0/s320/IMG_1738.jpg" width="210" /></a></div>
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Look at it. Look at how complicated it is, how sophisticated. Look how many moving parts. There are magazines out there that publish 80-page short stories, aren't there? It doesn't matter because this is definitely it. Look at it!</div>
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Never mind how it speaks to you.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCZWEmxXOoBJDB8JgNYWncnZTABaWxjmZ-JwtS6_GS7HFj60NiWj6MBpQigKEyzRcuF9lsW9cUfEAkf3BeL9hY2LpbYba875nyQum6qB3amJWJAaNyaQi3po7epPmgaCficGlznaqg-OSA/s1600/IMG_1740.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCZWEmxXOoBJDB8JgNYWncnZTABaWxjmZ-JwtS6_GS7HFj60NiWj6MBpQigKEyzRcuF9lsW9cUfEAkf3BeL9hY2LpbYba875nyQum6qB3amJWJAaNyaQi3po7epPmgaCficGlznaqg-OSA/s320/IMG_1740.jpg" width="236" /></a></div>
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Never mind how it makes you feel! <br />
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Look at its bright colors and the cool teeth on it! Look at all the pulleys and gears! The smoke and the awesome tread! This story has it all, and determinedly, you and your delicate story go up, up, up to new and dangerous heights.</div>
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But now what's happening? The story is driving you, shaking you, running amok. It's completely kicking your ass. You try to fight it, but it is totally unmanageable. You ask yourself:<br />
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"Where is this story taking me? Why didn't I just start a novel?"<br />
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And then everything grinds to a halt.<br />
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Your story is a mess.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNVKkD5T09Hf6v7BmyzdZtrZtiFskE8EowM1yeOZkLD31ZCJZbOMR7RLAyVmI6d36NpKtP8HKHeZAq25X2JBBX2Y6QpPbt9CRyH59xEprinUt_vleCjs-MQiw3bmdUNEvOGYFrS41LPEWf/s1600/IMG_1755.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNVKkD5T09Hf6v7BmyzdZtrZtiFskE8EowM1yeOZkLD31ZCJZbOMR7RLAyVmI6d36NpKtP8HKHeZAq25X2JBBX2Y6QpPbt9CRyH59xEprinUt_vleCjs-MQiw3bmdUNEvOGYFrS41LPEWf/s320/IMG_1755.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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You feel like this.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_SdLDah3bvaf9uYbM_Vf27rSip9O-qAdlhPVRJsUM65anfvDbdZEE3Pr2UeGiF7pK-q4Wx1Gnf5K6IbgHj585E2NqbNQcshMgo9ZjrogkxyQ6FejvsZL8-YWF4TkjTzvQXLO_Pv2J4R0e/s1600/IMG_1751.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_SdLDah3bvaf9uYbM_Vf27rSip9O-qAdlhPVRJsUM65anfvDbdZEE3Pr2UeGiF7pK-q4Wx1Gnf5K6IbgHj585E2NqbNQcshMgo9ZjrogkxyQ6FejvsZL8-YWF4TkjTzvQXLO_Pv2J4R0e/s320/IMG_1751.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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But you are not famous.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5Nyizqj8lEWCFSEwuG5B54TU09nWlXAlYNftAMUGbwqgY79O8ZgyEJ9QZdDGWEQMmuFujFbL8BMtkj3SIvz-Qp26bML8Vis_lm-Mll8P8tjIgdKJq8l4YBXDQuUd19WXdpuevhGgOMhNC/s1600/Photo+on+2015-10-30+at+13.35.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5Nyizqj8lEWCFSEwuG5B54TU09nWlXAlYNftAMUGbwqgY79O8ZgyEJ9QZdDGWEQMmuFujFbL8BMtkj3SIvz-Qp26bML8Vis_lm-Mll8P8tjIgdKJq8l4YBXDQuUd19WXdpuevhGgOMhNC/s320/Photo+on+2015-10-30+at+13.35.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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You cry out. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidlwBTckYpAJLlF_Sfw8MlpmrhyrcWF-orFZW3ffzGdAZTasWZBvAoqnpm57xhyphenhyphen-N0kMK973tN8UfKgcnK1nsrwrPT2dmiOj5Su9EZBN7M2NJdgppoWaPdEwOAC2BPIg2ZTHBP4X2OvM8i/s1600/IMG_1746.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidlwBTckYpAJLlF_Sfw8MlpmrhyrcWF-orFZW3ffzGdAZTasWZBvAoqnpm57xhyphenhyphen-N0kMK973tN8UfKgcnK1nsrwrPT2dmiOj5Su9EZBN7M2NJdgppoWaPdEwOAC2BPIg2ZTHBP4X2OvM8i/s320/IMG_1746.JPG" width="226" /></a></div>
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"What the #@%! am I doing? What made me think I could write anything worthwhile?"<br />
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You want to go home. You want your mother.<br />
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And defeated, you close your document. You shut off your computer and turn off your light.<br />
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There is no way in hell you could possibly write this story again. You've given up. You've given up not only with your head; you've given up with your heart.<br />
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The next morning as you lie in bed, mocking faces appear in the random patterns of your ceiling tile. You do not shower. Even if you cared enough to shave, you could not be trusted with a razor. <br />
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Downstairs, you mumble your "Good Mornings," and as you pack the lunches, sighs well up from your chest. After everyone leaves, you sit in a chair looking out your back window. The sunlight on the leaves and grass is positively radiant. <br />
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Maybe, you think, it's not too late to become a carpenter, just like Jesus. </div>
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And then for some reason, maybe because you want to run off to Africa, you remember that quote from Isak Dinesen, the one that says: "I write a little every day, without hope, without despair."</div>
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And you think, what a dumb quote. But you get up anyway and walk to your desk. You sit down and turn on your computer. You open a new document, and something happens.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp5bNRqhUptFonaizk6yfVdBkPcQsFUu1tKDz8mtHW8WHmdZb5-DY36e0xYUYpT5CIiO_CF5evsEZGRpYP3rrMln6BVSJi66m1e2-LSA179gBKo2yUrZ0jWryDRjYIug3nb2TyTsmT-9cb/s1600/IMG_1747.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp5bNRqhUptFonaizk6yfVdBkPcQsFUu1tKDz8mtHW8WHmdZb5-DY36e0xYUYpT5CIiO_CF5evsEZGRpYP3rrMln6BVSJi66m1e2-LSA179gBKo2yUrZ0jWryDRjYIug3nb2TyTsmT-9cb/s320/IMG_1747.jpg" width="217" /></a></div>
<br />
Calmly and evenly the story starts to pour out onto the page, the words stacking themselves like stones, and a crystalline certainty circulates through your being as your tale takes shape. It's not showy or complicated or abstruse, and it doesn't even feel particularly "literary," but you make it to the end...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY9V8V3K23JWmvRVbaoHAQiLhjO0ezxfM6sVJcp2-lXmLdTu44UVAYXqL-sWB7YvMTl03ygieRvQX2FfPdx-Bki-BE47-mo4WmN0ovfF17yXFv_H7Eqcs3P2fEE8cGPE2snsNaKbe1UFaZ/s1600/IMG_1748.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY9V8V3K23JWmvRVbaoHAQiLhjO0ezxfM6sVJcp2-lXmLdTu44UVAYXqL-sWB7YvMTl03ygieRvQX2FfPdx-Bki-BE47-mo4WmN0ovfF17yXFv_H7Eqcs3P2fEE8cGPE2snsNaKbe1UFaZ/s320/IMG_1748.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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...and it still sucks.<br />
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But you, writer, have made it home, because you finally remember that this is your process, and yes, it is frustrating and isolating and the tangible rewards of money and prestige are so meager, but you do it because it is the only thing you've found that engages every part of your being, because it gives you a chance to conjure up something even better than the best thing you have inside of you, and sooner or later, after rewrites and feedback from trusted readers and tons of rejection, someone will like your story and publish it, or maybe not. Maybe before that happens you will let it fall by the wayside to be dealt with in some distant future project, perhaps even in some future life.<br />
<br />
So there you have it. It's not pretty. It's not neat. It's not romantic, or certain, or even particularly pleasurable to do most of the time. But if you keep with it, you will, over time, begin to feel how fortunate you are to be able to engage the material of your life in this manner, and you will continue to get better and better at loving it, because it is your process, and it, writer, is your mother.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPJfOnCagCn05ymhY6C5ApoHeAa2_g3yTj02VOoV9wuooWmLYbbWLTkmYUYUEe0K-GmJmHc3EBlrGlZkFdjatccoEG3IMjWgXHi78393KMEjJkzaDqw7Kf5rLo3hYf3lLnANfQZ5XUC-rB/s1600/IMG_1749.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPJfOnCagCn05ymhY6C5ApoHeAa2_g3yTj02VOoV9wuooWmLYbbWLTkmYUYUEe0K-GmJmHc3EBlrGlZkFdjatccoEG3IMjWgXHi78393KMEjJkzaDqw7Kf5rLo3hYf3lLnANfQZ5XUC-rB/s320/IMG_1749.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
Thanks for stopping by.<br />
<br />David Driscollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15877118222885127947noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3077769801581775126.post-74803948416695286022015-10-13T09:09:00.000-07:002015-10-13T09:09:36.374-07:00The Nuances of Tic-Tac-Toe<br />
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This is how it began. Three enormous boxes. </div>
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Four million pieces of wood.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbWP0HC0Tv5xMeX2dFOOSX7hhLqoVXxgxL75ot7ojdCaFQJJiRgT41SXXtob1OOPfoHNedkKNtMIlgKB7LV1WfFnOKPcq3ane4a0URRij9UVIYibl2r-bMKLzC9U-ypVK94jFUjCoFlwm1/s1600/IMG_1537.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbWP0HC0Tv5xMeX2dFOOSX7hhLqoVXxgxL75ot7ojdCaFQJJiRgT41SXXtob1OOPfoHNedkKNtMIlgKB7LV1WfFnOKPcq3ane4a0URRij9UVIYibl2r-bMKLzC9U-ypVK94jFUjCoFlwm1/s320/IMG_1537.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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We set out with belief in our hearts. </div>
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We did not possess great skill. But we were unified in our purpose and determined to reach our goal.</div>
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Along the way, some of us got distracted.</div>
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<br />
The manual said it would take a minimum of six hours. <br />
<br />
Bob Villa leading the entire legion of professionals from the DIY Network could not have finished in six hours.<br />
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We quickly realized it would take more than a day, and discouraged, we had to take a step back. </div>
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Some of us needed a hug.</div>
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But the following weekend, we returned to our task.<br />
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Again, we did not finish. </div>
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We took time out for family.</div>
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<br />
We completed great works of art.<br />
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And then one day, the slide went up. A few days later, the swings followed.</div>
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Then in a flurry, the telescope went up, the flags appeared, the rock wall was assembled, and tic-tac-toe was screwed into our ship's cedar hull.<br />
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<br />
Not everyone grasped the nuances of tic-tac-toe.<br />
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<br />
But it didn't matter, because we had started with a vision, and though we encountered improperly pre-drilled holes, various design flaws, and snapped carriage bolts of irregular sizes, we brought our dream to fruition.<br />
<br />
So as you start this week after the long three-day weekend in which we celebrated the intrepid voyage of the explorer Christopher Columbus, I hope you will feel emboldened to set off once more on your own various journeys, trusting that with faith and determination, you will see your project--whether it be the Great American Short Story or becoming a master of tic-tac-toe--through to completion.<br />
<br />
And please, as you encounter the limits of your abilities and patience, try to remember that the ups and downs are part of it and that we must learn to enjoy the ride. Because if we are always worried about reaching some destination or trying to stay in a state of safety or comfort, the present moment will constantly elude us, and we will fail to recognize its eternal face. We will fail to feel its flow and see its simple, direct beauty.<br />
<br />
Don't believe me? Just ask Cubs manager, Joe Maddon.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"I'm always about fans worrying; go ahead and worry as much as you'd like. From our perspective, we have to just go out and play the game like we always do. I'm here to tell you, man, I just can't live that way. The line I've used is, I don't vibrate at that frequency... The process is fearless. If you want to always live your life just based on the outcome, you're going to be fearful a lot. And when you're doing that, you're really not living in a particular moment. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
If you take care of the seconds, the minutes, the hours in a day take care of themselves. So for our fans back home, please go ahead and be worried. That’s OK. But understand that from our perspective in the clubhouse, we're more worried about the process than the outcome.”</blockquote>
Thanks to my brother-in-law for sharing that quote from the Chicago Tribune with me, and thanks to you, brothers and sisters, for stopping by.<br />
<br />David Driscollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15877118222885127947noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3077769801581775126.post-5380940504762450102015-10-08T10:54:00.002-07:002015-10-08T10:54:54.600-07:00Rapping with the Old Courage TeacherOne of the reasons blog platforms make it so easy to publish a new post is that the posts are supposed to be somewhat disposable. This is has not been easy for me to master. Apparently I have been thoroughly indoctrinated by the old-school approach where one must pass through the juggernaut of supposedly impersonal taste makers who apply objective standards in order to determine which content should be shared with the public. If I didn't feel this way I'd be like these crazy kids who just write it down and put it up there. Walt Whitman help me. Is it too late to learn?<br />
<br />
It can't be too late to learn, but still, I want to say that there must be some concern for quality. What is the point of flinging up every few lines I write if they aren't going to make a solid connection with somebody, anybody, at least one person who might come across them? Then again, maybe it's okay to put out something unpolished as long as it contains one bright gem. I dunno. I suppose the fact that I'm at least working for the moment in this blog window as opposed to in a Word document signifies my desire to find a new way out there. Maybe I won't publish this today, but if I do it again tomorrow and the next day and then maybe one day I take a chance and click the orange button up above which will make it available to all of creation. Walt Whitman, are you with me?<br />
<br />
G is sick today. Her coughing kept her up for a good portion of the night, and we were up with her as well. For me it was the proverbial straw after a hectic beginning to the week, and I didn't wake up in time this morning to do my meditation or Yoga asana practice. Now she is home from school with Yiayia after hanging with me all morning. I feel very out of sorts. Even the table I'm working on at the coffee shop is slanted. It reminds me of the commercials where people roam the earth tilting to one side because they didn't have their V-8.<br />
<br />
No doubt I'd rather be home working on my big screen with my height-adjustable desk and my incense and the light coming through the window just so, but there is no way to keep an almost-three-year-old out of the studio, especially if she knows you are easily suckered into hanging out when you are supposed to be writing, and hey, how lucky I am to be able to leave my sick child in the hands of her grandmother and slip away for a few hours to enjoy a decent espresso and dive down the rabbit hole of the story I've been working on? I have everything I need here in my little travel writing kit. My laptop screen lights up nice and bright and my earplug/headphone combo block out everything but the giant Mazzer grinding up coffee beans each time someone steps up to the counter. It's also nice for a change to see people coming and going, to look up every once in awhile and see others going about their days, taking care of their business, trying to do their best as they worry about their sick kids, their jobs, their health, their goals, the responsibilities they feel they've been neglecting, and the things they need to hurry up and do as we all sail along into the future. We're all in this together people! I'm feeling it. Let's each high five the next person we see.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh42oBDJDB7wOzdTQD-sP_O3sonk25gWZJMlVUN28VgTkWToXMggnJBPRl6ihL2FXxzlCAqAh0IkBuk4kz78RtZ7QXOGVa19o321_Scis6Ff_8A2VLy3dOBc7UJEyF0LNFkHEc6it7YgHBK/s1600/photo+%252813%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh42oBDJDB7wOzdTQD-sP_O3sonk25gWZJMlVUN28VgTkWToXMggnJBPRl6ihL2FXxzlCAqAh0IkBuk4kz78RtZ7QXOGVa19o321_Scis6Ff_8A2VLy3dOBc7UJEyF0LNFkHEc6it7YgHBK/s1600/photo+%252813%2529.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Now showing at the Art Institute. Om Shanti.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Thanks for stopping by.<br /><br />David Driscollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15877118222885127947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3077769801581775126.post-356665230972588062014-08-04T15:47:00.000-07:002014-08-04T15:49:35.743-07:00Proficiency and the Results of ProficiencySome joker wrote Karl Marx on the wall. Then some other joker crossed out Karl and wrote Groucho. Then a third joker crossed out Groucho and wrote Richard (which is probably where I would have gone with it). Then some joker who didn't understand the game very well crossed out Richard and wrote Dick (unless maybe I don't know who Dick Marx is). Then the king of all jokers came along and crossed out Dick and wrote Skid, and appropriately no one has touched it since. The editing process at work above the urinal in Cafe Solstice, Seattle, Washington, USA.<br />
<br />
What am I doing here? Thinking about how my parking meter has expired, feeling obligated to go to yoga and write, neither of which I want to do. I've been doing a lot of not-thinking too, curled up in a chair in the corner, half expecting someone to come along and tell me to get my damn shoes off the seat. People sit there, after all. It's inconsiderate, and I know this. It's just that I'm comfortable, and I wouldn't really care if someone else did it--especially if they looked like they needed it.<br />
<br />
Eek the Freak was here a little bit ago. "My thumbs are glowing," he told me as he typed a poem on his phone. He confessed (it sounded like a confession) that he's been seeing halos again. He calls them energy packets. He said he sees them emanating from the head and shoulders of people. He said they look like shadows of light, if that makes any sense, and they're harder to find when he looks for them.<br />
<br />
That last bit put me in mind of the law of reversed effort, which I was reading about in <i>The Wisdom of Insecurity</i>, by Alan Watts. In typical fashion, Watts didn't really explain this "law," but he seemed to take for granted that I would know what it is, and what I took it to mean is that the harder we <i>try</i> to do something, the more we tend to get in our own way, the more we suffer. Seems I sort of got it right. A quick search led me to this quote from Aldous Huxley:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
There is a Law of Reversed Effort. The harder we try with the conscious will to do something, the less we shall succeed.<br />
Proficiency and the results of proficiency come only to those who have learned the paradoxical art of doing and not doing, or combining relaxation with activity, of letting go as a person in order that the immanent and transcendent Unknown Quantity may take hold.<br />
We cannot make ourselves understand; the most we can do is to foster a state of mind, in which understanding may come to us. </blockquote>
I tend to think he's right, and it leads one beautifully to to the inquiry: <a href="http://www.sriramanamaharshi.org/wp-content/uploads/2012/12/who_am_I.pdf">Who am I?</a> If you let go as a person, who is there to even foster a state of mind, let alone employ a will or make an effort? And as I write this, I find myself aware of not trying, and that IS yielding <i>something</i>--not just the words rolling out on the page, but also a feeling of peace and expansiveness and ease. I'd rather not say more about that right now, so I'll share with you the poem Eek just emailed to me:<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
What's experience?<br />
A hot demitasse<br />
Between thumb<br />
And the fingers<br />
You sniff?<br />
<br />
There's synaptic firing,<br />
Massive hard wiring,<br />
Eons of fine tuning.<br />
Contrast up<br />
Brightness way down.<br />
<br />
And we have the nerve<br />
To feel about all this?<br />
Well sure we do.<br />
Go easy you ruthless bastard.<br />
<br />
No one<br />
Gave you permission.<br />
No one<br />
Held out his hand,<br />
And outside came in.<br />
The sky fell on your head,<br />
And the distant train<br />
Rushed through your heart<br />
And blew it into one million<br />
Colorful flowers,<br />
And seeing yourself among them,<br />
Falling,<br />
You found yourself back in the room,<br />
Strangely deceived<br />
By that old bag<br />
Of skin.<br />
<br />
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Thanks for stopping by.<br />
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P.S. I looked up Dick Marx. Wikipedia tells me he was an American jazz pianist and arranger and also the father of Richard Marx. If that's what was intended, it's too obscure for me and not far enough from Richard Marx to really work. Once again, the bathroom editors got it right. There's your Tao, right there.</div>
David Driscollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15877118222885127947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3077769801581775126.post-35037965285092385592014-04-09T16:11:00.000-07:002014-04-09T16:27:07.190-07:00GhostsMy contributor's copy of the Spring 2014 edition of <i>Witness</i> is here.<br />
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It looks great, and it reads great, and I'm pumped to have my story, "Orphans on the Moon," included in such a fine production. The issue's theme is Ghosts, and you can order your copy <u><a href="http://witness.blackmountaininstitute.org/issues/volume-27-no-1-spring-2014/">here</a></u>.<br />
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Thanks to all the hard work from everyone at Black Mountain Institute, and congrats to my fellow contributors, who have seen so much. The modern writer as witness, indeed!<br />
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Thanks for stopping by! Sign up to get the blog by email at the right hand side of the page, and if you're looking for other places to find me, I've been known to haunt<span style="text-align: justify;"> </span><a href="http://twitter.com/davidbdriscoll">Twitter</a>, <a href="http://www.facebook.com/davidbdriscoll">Facebook</a>, and <a href="http://linkedin.com/in/davidbdriscoll">LinkedIn</a><span style="text-align: justify;">. </span></div>
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David Driscollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15877118222885127947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3077769801581775126.post-88999827451451205132014-03-10T05:35:00.000-07:002014-03-10T13:14:09.039-07:00OutsidersHey everyone. I'm long overdue in announcing the publication of my <a href="http://newstoriesfromthemidwest.com/?p=100">conversation with Kate Blakinger</a> over at the New Stories from the Midwest website. The editors at NSM decided to call it "Outsiders" which has a multivalent appropriateness. In the conversation we set out to talk about our experiences writing in and about the Midwest from the position of people who came to the region from other places, and along the way we began to explore how the process of fiction writing can bring you from the outside to the inside of an experience, including the experience of yourself. <br />
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Working with Kate was an absolute treat, and I'd like to thank series editor Jason Lee Brown for his vision and drive to give us this platform.<br />
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<br />David Driscollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15877118222885127947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3077769801581775126.post-21011914426848552662013-09-27T13:24:00.001-07:002013-09-27T13:56:39.146-07:00The Transcendental Nomads of O'Hare InternationalAll these people hitting the gate out of breath. To think I used to plan to arrive twenty minutes before takeoff. There's a kind of crazy hubris in that, but so too is there hubris in expecting any of our plans are going to work out.<div><br></div><div>These days I get to the airport way early, and look at me now. My noon flight got cancelled, and I've been bumped to a four o'clock. At least United gave me a seven-dollar voucher. That <i>almost</i> paid for my salad. There are definite perks to flying the friendly skies.</div><div><br></div><div>But complaining is dumb. </div><div><br></div><div>Earlier today I was reading on gratitude, and this is what Bro. David Steindl-Rast had to say:</div><div><br></div><div><u>If we really had to choose between dependence and independence, we would be in trouble. The choice is actually between alienation and interdependence.</u></div><div><br></div><div>And I have to say, my fellow passengers seem to get it. Sure, we all tried to out hustle one another to get to customer service after they cancelled our flight, but there was no cutting as the line formed, and no one pitched a fit at the counter, and now hours later, we greet each other again and again as we travel from gate to gate, our hopes for standby passage low, our shoulders rolling forward as the day wears on and our bags become a burden. We exchange frustrated looks and pessimistic remarks, but it's obvious we're in this together, like some nomadic tribe following the migratory patterns of the great metallic bird on which our way of life depends. If we had to do this for the rest of our lives, we'd be a family before long, dividing up tasks, selecting leaders, falling in and out of love.</div><div><br></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; ">The Dalai Lama once tweeted,</span> "<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">The many factors which divide us are actually much more superficial than those we share." The truth of this would be so obvious if only we could see what's really going on around us, but most of the time we don't. What we see instead are the projections of the mind, that great purveyor of the atomistic illusion. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Of course I would have rather made my flight, but it's been a good day. There have been babies to wave at, and the light coming through the glass ceiling has been gorgeous, and I've not once felt alone, even though my itenerary says I'm a party of one. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">And maybe best of all, that feeling of presence, solidarity, and kinship has allowed me to build from the rubble of my expectations something I can turn around to share with you. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Plus my salad was fucking delicious. </span></div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7T2kvkxalE8I9Gji_7BXhmY-2tRs3-1Yp3Wk5R7lJaB1ffEjuZ1-PjnBV2PGtQnJnxwYUXjLv8-u1qbawAhEy-a2US5QcC5WO7QVkPjbMx4DSkX5GZOMCSRS749NSdxTi5Fg6-QL73yUH/s640/blogger-image-685846017.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7T2kvkxalE8I9Gji_7BXhmY-2tRs3-1Yp3Wk5R7lJaB1ffEjuZ1-PjnBV2PGtQnJnxwYUXjLv8-u1qbawAhEy-a2US5QcC5WO7QVkPjbMx4DSkX5GZOMCSRS749NSdxTi5Fg6-QL73yUH/s640/blogger-image-685846017.jpg"></a></div></div><div>G, who never met a stranger.</div><div> @@@</div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="text-align: left; ">Thanks for stopping by! Sign up to get the blog by email at the right hand side of the page. </span><span style="text-align: justify; ">You can also follow me on </span><a href="http://twitter.com/davidbdriscoll">Twitter</a>, <a href="http://www.facebook.com/davidbdriscoll">Facebook</a>, and <a href="http://linkedin.com/in/davidbdriscoll">LinkedIn</a><span style="text-align: justify; ">. Om Shanti, Shanti, Shanti. </span></span></div><div><br><div><br></div><div><br></div></div>David Driscollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15877118222885127947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3077769801581775126.post-84041636327899279492013-09-21T11:01:00.001-07:002013-09-21T21:01:11.544-07:00How to Build ShitI've been thinking a lot lately about making things. I picture an open garage, maybe in Southern California, and I'd have all kinds of tools in there and scraps of stuff I'd salvaged from the ocean or maybe just the regular trash, and I don't know exactly what I'd build but probably it would be robots. Mostly I'd like to build robots that don't do anything except love you in an unconditional way, and I'd put them around our house so when people came over to hang out and drink wine, they'd be super impressed. I once wrote a poem about making robots, and this is how it goes:<div><br></div><div><div>How to Build a Robot</div><div><br></div><div>First, you need to get a big heart.</div><div>I recommend an elephant or a whale.</div><div>The bigger the heart the better.</div><div><br></div><div>Next come the arms.</div><div>Travel the world to find the arms.</div><div>If you see many things,</div><div>They'll become a part of you,</div><div>And that will go into your robot.</div><div><br></div><div>Next come the the legs.</div><div>You want very sturdy legs</div><div>So your robot can walk without you</div><div>And do all the things it is supposed to do.</div><div><br></div><div>You can give your robot a tail</div><div>If you want to.</div><div>Personally I always do.</div><div>I find it adds a touch of whimsy</div><div>And helps to keep expectations in check.</div><div><br></div><div>Now you know everything</div><div>You need to know about building a robot.</div><div>I hope you'll enjoy</div><div>The process of making yours. </div></div><div><br></div><div>The way I see it, the biggest problem would be trying to get the veins and arteries to link up with the circuits and the pistons and also the gears. I like my robots to be more man than machine--if you know what I'm saying. </div><div><br></div><div>Another thing I'd probably do in my garage would be pictures of Jesus. I'd like to do one where he looks like I see him when I put my hat over my face and try to take a nap. I see a close up of his face so you can only see one eye, half his nose, and part of his beard. A series of these could be pretty freaking sweet. </div><div><br></div><div>Now that I'm thinking about it, there are probably all kinds of things I could make in my workshop, but before I can get this plan in motion, I have to wait for G to wake up from her nap. She's in the back of the car, and she's out cold. </div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigWq-NT_k_j74CUyCZTZlvwHuHZRHa3bg8FvV0gL0ncv5VQwX3k1dVGWtWVvLbC1ZZJHHTGYa68k2EO2gQuym7StSndOdCFJ_KcCJgIEnUffjproO1bkBQx6Mvxd8opyg8tJtD8ZgaDB5R/s640/blogger-image--1377693100.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigWq-NT_k_j74CUyCZTZlvwHuHZRHa3bg8FvV0gL0ncv5VQwX3k1dVGWtWVvLbC1ZZJHHTGYa68k2EO2gQuym7StSndOdCFJ_KcCJgIEnUffjproO1bkBQx6Mvxd8opyg8tJtD8ZgaDB5R/s640/blogger-image--1377693100.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div>This is us at Venice Beach. Peace y'all.</div><div><br></div><div> !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="text-align: left; ">Thanks for stopping by! Sign up to get the blog by email at the right hand side of the page. </span><span style="text-align: justify; ">You can also follow me on </span><a href="http://twitter.com/davidbdriscoll">Twitter</a>, <a href="http://www.facebook.com/davidbdriscoll">Facebook</a>, and <a href="http://linkedin.com/in/davidbdriscoll">LinkedIn</a><span style="text-align: justify; ">.</span></span></div>David Driscollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15877118222885127947noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3077769801581775126.post-87536215316076141082013-03-19T10:22:00.000-07:002013-03-19T17:34:20.321-07:00Now Who the Type Built to Last?My good buddy <a class="g-profile" href="http://plus.google.com/109443007793587278748" target="_blank">+Jesse Ziegler</a> just introduced me to an awesome <a href="http://www.redbullusa.com/cs/Satellite/en_US/Article/red-bulletin-questlove-021243322097472">interview</a> with Ahmir "Questlove" Thompson, sui generis hip-hop impressario and hurricane x-factor behind the inimitable and unstoppable music act The Roots. Some of you, unfortunately, will only recognize him as Jimmy Fallon's drummer, the guy with the big afro.<br />
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Anyway, he had some great thoughts about creating a sustainable life as an artist, a sort of do-your-own-thing-and-just-keep-doing-it-and-don't-worry-so-much-about-it ethos.<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #777777; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Helvetica, Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 18px;">If you’re not going to compete with what’s winning, like Rihanna, Drake, or fun., then maybe you should just do what you know how to do best and wait for the guillotine to drop. Then you release it, the guillotine doesn’t drop, and you’re like, phew, let’s do it again!</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #777777; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Helvetica, Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 18px;"> </span> </blockquote>
I'd call Questlove a genius, but maybe that's just because he's so embodied this way of working that he's become irresistible. As <a href="http://kpjayi.org/">Sri K. Pattabhi Jois</a>, the patriarch of the Ashtanga Yoga, often said, "Do your practice and all is coming."<br />
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Not that you're going to become Jimmy Fallon's drummer, or go platinum, or win a Nobel Prize, but if you can apply the spirit that develops from your practice to the rest of your life, you will reap your reward for your steady application. Dig one deep hole, as they say in Zen. Could it mean the same thing as "Do your thing, buooyy!"<br />
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Thanks for stopping by! Sign up to get the blog by email at the right hand side of the page. <span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit; text-align: justify;">You can also follow me on </span><a href="http://twitter.com/davidbdriscoll" style="text-align: start;">Twitter</a><span style="background-color: white; color: black; text-align: start;">, </span><a href="http://www.facebook.com/davidbdriscoll" style="text-align: start;">Facebook</a><span style="background-color: white; color: black; text-align: start;">, and </span><a href="http://linkedin.com/in/davidbdriscoll" style="text-align: start;">LinkedIn</a><span style="color: #222222; text-align: justify;">. Peace. </span></div>
David Driscollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15877118222885127947noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3077769801581775126.post-88402171994391400612013-03-11T06:33:00.000-07:002014-04-21T20:47:00.022-07:00The Anthology ArrivesHa, ha! My contributor's copy of <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0253008182?ie=UTF8&&linkCode=as2&tag=indiunivpres-20">New Stories from the Midwest 2012</a></i> has arrived. <br />
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The book looks awesome, and I'm super pumped to be included with this group of oustanding authors, including <a href="http://www.charlesbaxter.com/">Charles Baxter</a>, <a href="http://danchaon.com/">Dan Chaon</a>, <a href="http://english.cah.ucf.edu/graduate/staff.php?id=119">David James Poissant</a>, and one of my literary heros, <a href="http://www.anthonydoerr.com/">Anthony Doerr</a>. These are writers I've been reading and admiring for years. <br />
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Thanks to Jason Lee Brown and Shanie Latham for their vision and persistence, <a href="http://www.bookofralph.com/">John McNally</a> for selecting my story, and <a href="http://www.iupress.indiana.edu/advanced_search_result.php?keywords=new+stories+from+the+midwest&osCsid=prghpughijgv4l0rn9hnc76gl0">Indiana University Press</a> for putting out this great anthology. To find out more go to the <a href="http://newstoriesfromthemidwest.com/">NSM blog</a> or order your copy (paperback or electronic) from either the publisher or <a href="http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_1?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=new+stories+from+the+midwest&rh=i%3Aaps%2Ck%3Anew+stories+from+the+midwest">your favorite online bookseller</a> anytime.<br />
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<br />David Driscollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15877118222885127947noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3077769801581775126.post-87693516720087850802013-02-05T12:13:00.000-08:002013-02-06T13:06:36.297-08:00Who is Going to Wipe My Bottom?Habits of mind<br />
lead to static strain.<br />
Dynamic surrender<br />
leads to perception of the love medium.<br />
The love medium is only<br />
another superimposition.<br />
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We've got the market cornered on Free and Clear baby wipes over here. We get 'em delivered monthly from Amazon, but our last shipment didn't arrive on time, so I bought some more at the store. Then I went from the store to the Post Office to pick up some packages being held for us there. Turns out the wipes were one of the packages. They used to come via UPS. UPS tries to deliver packages to our house. They ring our buzzer. The Post Office never rings our buzzer. Instead we get these salmon colored slips that say, "Sorry we missed you." Are you sorry? Are you really?<br />
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<br />
While I was at the Post Office, I mailed off a story to <i>Santa Monica Review</i>. No, I did not send out my collection today, and I have not sent it anywhere in over a month. I have stalled in this regard. I began to fear that the collection didn't have enough stories, and now, on the recommendation of some trusted advisors, I'm preparing a longer manuscript that contains most of my finished stories.<br />
<br />
I find this terrifying. <br />
<br />
I'm going to do it, though. I'm going to do it even though I'm sure someone is going to pop out of nowhere and and yell at me. This is my fear every time I take a chance, and this is why I hold on so long.<br />
<br />
But I need to stop. I have to stop tweaking and fiddling and adjusting. It may not be your problem--for all I know you may send out emails without even proofreading, you crazy asshole--but I'm not like that. I'd like to be a little more like that.<br />
<br />
Good luck, all of you out there who are pushing back against your fears. I'm not going to give you any advice. I can barely keep it together over here myself.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Fearless G vs. Tummy Time</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Remember how you were telling me you needed more email? Did you know you can s</span></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">ign up to get the blog by email on the righthand side of the page? You can also follow me on </span><a href="http://twitter.com/davidbdriscoll" style="text-align: start;">Twitter</a><span style="background-color: white; color: black; text-align: start;">, </span><a href="http://www.facebook.com/davidbdriscoll" style="text-align: start;">Facebook</a><span style="background-color: white; color: black; text-align: start;">, and </span><a href="http://linkedin.com/in/davidbdriscoll" style="text-align: start;">LinkedIn</a><span style="color: #222222;">. Too much commitment? Why not just tap the "Like" button below then? I mean, here you are just cruising the web, and all of a sudden you get a chance to help someone out, and BAM, just like that you're like a freaking superhero or something, and you barely had to do a thing.</span></div>
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<br />David Driscollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15877118222885127947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3077769801581775126.post-33336796920604186622013-01-01T20:06:00.000-08:002013-01-25T05:17:15.128-08:00Shut Out in 2012It's official. I went O-fer in 2012. <br />
<br />
What? What's that, he said? He's gone gopher?<br />
<br />
What would that even mean?<br />
<br />
No. I've gone O-fer, as in no stories published or accepted for publication throughout 2012.<br />
<br />
Have I been submitting?<br />
<br />
Yes, though maybe not as aggressively as in previous years, and I did make a self conscious effort to try and step up to the the next tier of literary publications. The air, apparently, is pretty thin up there. <br />
<br />
So there are my excuses. Here are some of the highlights:<br />
<br />
1. Longest Reply Time: <i>Fiction</i> sent me a rejection fourteen months after I submitted to them. <br />
<br />
2. Shortest Reply Time: <i>Subtropics</i> sent me a rejection four days after I submitted to them. <br />
<br />
3. Best Infant Rapper: Zoop.<br />
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<br />
We're calling her Baby G and plan to push her hard in this direction. By the way, did you know Justin Bieber got his start busking on the church steps to raise money for a round of golf?<br />
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That was as far as I made it through the article before my father-in-law's rental truck was ready, but let me say that Rolling Stone is really doing some interesting work. Is it too obvious to point out that JB could stand for Jail Bait? As a Family Guy extra says to Lois, "He's perfect. He's like a boy AND a girl!"<br />
<br />
4. Close but No Cigar: Got great feedback from <i>One Story</i> and <i>A Public Space</i>, two top tier lit mags. Both encouraged me to send more work.<br />
<br />
What does all this mean? Probably best not to draw conclusions as I'm not about to stop submitting. I do however plan to spend more time in 2013 making things other than stories. I stained and painted these boxes, one for my wife and one for my sister-in-law, and gave them as Christmas presents.<br />
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It's so much more satisfying to give your work to people you love than it is to punt your stories into the deep space of the literary field and get a rejection in return.<br />
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Then again, stories do get accepted from time to time, and it's pretty effing sweet when a someone you don't know steps up and says, I like your writing.<br />
<br />
Who knows? <br />
<br />
Maybe this year someone will publish my collection of short stories. It's out there now--praise be to William Faulkner--and you should email me if you can help (or if you know a guy who can help). The collection is called <i>Orphans on the Moon</i>, and features work published in <i><a href="http://triquarterly.org/fiction/clarity">TriQuarterly</a></i>, <i>Mississippi Review</i>, and <i>New Stories from the Midwest 2011</i>.<br />
<br />
Or maybe someone will buy the AWESOME movie I'm writing with <a href="http://logomancersandlogodaedalists.blogspot.com/2012/07/conversation-with-jeremy-t-wilson-part.html#.UN3I5onjle5">Jed</a>. <br />
<br />
Or maybe some all-powerful agent will swoop down with her white wings and read to me from her golden scroll: YOU ARE BOUND FOR LITERARY GREATNESS, AND WITH THE AID OF MY FLAMING BLACKBERRY AND MAGIC ROLODEX, I SHALL LEAD YOU THERE. <br />
<br />
In the meantime I'll be here working on my novel, making things, meditating, doing my yoga practice, and playing with my daughter. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gwendolyn - 2 months</td></tr>
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Happy New Year.<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Need more email? Who doesn't? S</span></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">ign up to get the blog by email on the righthand side of the page. You can also follow me on </span><a href="http://twitter.com/davidbdriscoll" style="text-align: start;">Twitter</a><span style="background-color: white; color: black; text-align: start;">, </span><a href="http://www.facebook.com/davidbdriscoll" style="text-align: start;">Facebook</a><span style="background-color: white; color: black; text-align: start;">, and </span><a href="http://linkedin.com/in/davidbdriscoll" style="text-align: start;">LinkedIn</a><span style="color: #222222;">. Too much work? Too much commitment? Why not just tap the "Like" button below then? You can spend the rest of your day buoyed by the knowledge that you helped a brother out.</span></div>
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David Driscollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15877118222885127947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3077769801581775126.post-47391316988650485432012-12-22T06:56:00.000-08:002012-12-22T06:57:54.430-08:00Ray Bradbury is a Heap of TrashI found these <a href="http://www.flavorwire.com/357052/hilariously-self-depricating-quotes-from-your-favorite-authors">self-deprecating quotes</a> by famous authors pretty funny. It's refreshing to see that even the most successful writers struggle with their identity. The last one, Gary Shteyngart's book promo video, is especially good.David Driscollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15877118222885127947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3077769801581775126.post-60375141916820470482012-11-30T06:01:00.000-08:002012-11-30T06:01:47.335-08:00Holiday Messages in Surprising PlacesI found this poem written on the bathroom wall of the coffe shop near my house:<br />
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<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
Grapple
with the false self<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
Until
it falls waywardly,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
Like
a sack mask of flesh.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
Am I
more myself<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
Than
this tangle of limbs<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
And
fur and oddly shaped teeth?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
Who
goes there<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
Beyond
the lamp<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
Of
perception?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
How
to accept the gift<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
Without
the wanting. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
Toodles
to you<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
I'd
like to say.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
I
imagine that place<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
Beyond
preferences,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
A
train running out<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
From
the real thing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
Arise
mighty heart.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
I
pound my chest to wake you,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
To
stand there galvanized<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
With
the gold in the field.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
Words,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
Failed
metaphors.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
I
stitch shut my lips<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
With
the sacred thread,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
The
only thread<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
Of
my making.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
--S.P.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
Could it be that <a href="http://logomancersandlogodaedalists.blogspot.com/2012/06/permission-for-unwillingly-image.html#.ULi3eNPjmaQ">Swami Prajnaparamita</a> is leaving me messages on bathroom walls these days? His transcendental subtlety grows even as type this. Either that, or I'm getting a little more receptive to the signs that everywhere point to our true nature. One can only hope.</div>
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<br /></div>
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This week we took advantage of the cyber Monday holiday and got ourselves a Christmas tree. I looks nice. It's shedding needles like a mutha, but it's still very full and so perfectly shaped it almost looks fake.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDRRQjjS54Aownsnhf_waNFsT8tvTnZRSBj4-D2X1ldCi5sBbvsJWWUrtNYXvAW4dfhpciUzVwDzZyuPhLpkC6sABptqACpIKLHhZPqY6U-lTQTzr8-8tuTnD3qcbN37ggDXqXMHH3lGkQ/s1600/IMG_0240.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDRRQjjS54Aownsnhf_waNFsT8tvTnZRSBj4-D2X1ldCi5sBbvsJWWUrtNYXvAW4dfhpciUzVwDzZyuPhLpkC6sABptqACpIKLHhZPqY6U-lTQTzr8-8tuTnD3qcbN37ggDXqXMHH3lGkQ/s320/IMG_0240.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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That's what you get when you buy a tree from a store, I guess. At home, we used to go up in the hills and drag one down through the snow. They never looked like this tree, but it was still better that way.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
We hung up some the ornaments that belonged to my family. Anyone else out there have a parent who was a Christmas junkie? The day after Christmas my mom would hit the hallmark store right when it opened to get the best deals on wreaths and ornaments and holiday jujubes and gegaws. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
My mom always got a good deal. She knew how to do it. Me? Not so much. I wouldn't say I'm a spendthrift or anything but I'm not afraid to pay full price for something. I guess my fantasies revolve around never needing to buy anything at all rather than getting a bargain. I imagine myself some kind of Spartan hero (by which I do not mean a hero of Sparta). </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
Happy Holidays everyone. I don't know when I'll find time to post this, but I'm sure I'll get it up there soon. It's funny trying to make peace with the holidays. I always get so depressed around this time of year. How much Christmas meant to my mom and the fact that they died on New Year's Eve. It's exhausting, the entire month of December. Actually it starts around Thanksgiving. I realize I'm angry, and a lot of the time I can't figure out why. </div>
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<br /></div>
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For years I didn't even know I was angry. Then I went to psychoanalysis. Turns out I have <i>feelings</i> and they're happening <i>all the time</i>. Don't laugh. You might be surprised by the things of which you're unconscious. </div>
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<br /></div>
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It's dark now. Zoop is in bed and we're hoping it will stay that way for a few hours. We tried to get her down earlier but she was not in on the plan. Here's a picture of her from her one month birthday, which was Saturday.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-a4YOFF0foA5-9zBL6tHH9g-ogBRjgG8iyI9RkNZ7tkEemTgxLc-mzrtJ0ESeEVxifIZmCodKCCoUfy0iWQCu-imGMEePusBvM42fyP5XNzz7XKJPALKN7mN4oEmK323i6sPC0Az_Uklj/s1600/IMG_0239.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-a4YOFF0foA5-9zBL6tHH9g-ogBRjgG8iyI9RkNZ7tkEemTgxLc-mzrtJ0ESeEVxifIZmCodKCCoUfy0iWQCu-imGMEePusBvM42fyP5XNzz7XKJPALKN7mN4oEmK323i6sPC0Az_Uklj/s320/IMG_0239.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Who needs Christmas gifts?<br />
<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Thanks for stopping by. </span></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">Sign up to get the blog by email on the righthand side of the page. You can also follow me on </span><a href="http://twitter.com/davidbdriscoll" style="text-align: start;">Twitter</a><span style="background-color: white; color: black; text-align: start;">, </span><a href="http://www.facebook.com/davidbdriscoll" style="text-align: start;">Facebook</a><span style="background-color: white; color: black; text-align: start;">, and </span><a href="http://linkedin.com/in/davidbdriscoll" style="text-align: start;">LinkedIn</a><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">.</span></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->David Driscollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15877118222885127947noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3077769801581775126.post-75135445956196754622012-11-06T06:20:00.000-08:002012-11-06T06:20:21.393-08:00FatherhoodWriter Friends, Parent Writers, Friend Parents!<br />
<br />
The Buy Buy Baby on Kingsbury in Chicago is finally open! I know you're overjoyed. I know you're flipping your basic wigs! I know you can't believe you've finally got the opportunity to enter this veritable warehouse of baby buying bonanza, this consumerist temple of all things for humans of the tiniest stripe. <br />
<br />
Baby Bjorns, Ergos, hundreds of strollers, thousands of car seats, millions of cribs, wipes of every degree of biodegradability.<br />
<br />
For a week now I've been wanting to let you know that this place is open and waiting for you to shop from floor to vaulted ceiling but I haven't been able to. I haven't hardly done any writing at all, and why?<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-69cQ2z_J8Im6hRw-buC8v9dtQK8yh7OMi4vhXVk5E_oCRZsaBMd-Dr2-1V2UBFIK0V3_QZw0Qip_OFbBJlTKMOhK2PZRG-9wOfFn7XBEH3_2DFz-um1rZ3DWcOXj4wrOlJd7Kih_Sup1/s1600/IMG_0163.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-69cQ2z_J8Im6hRw-buC8v9dtQK8yh7OMi4vhXVk5E_oCRZsaBMd-Dr2-1V2UBFIK0V3_QZw0Qip_OFbBJlTKMOhK2PZRG-9wOfFn7XBEH3_2DFz-um1rZ3DWcOXj4wrOlJd7Kih_Sup1/s320/IMG_0163.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gwendolyn Eleni Bernice Driscoll</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
This very small person is my daughter. She's two weeks old tomorrow. Isn't she cute? For my wife and I, she is perfect, and her perfection makes it very hard for me to go in my office and close the door. It's fine. It's all as it should be, in fact, but still there is that feeling I've work to do. I mean, who after all will entertain the millions of readers who rely on this blog to brighten up their day, to gain a little literary insight into the mysteries of the human heart?<div>
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I know it's not that. I know really it's about my own quest, my own karma, my own strange need to sit down and sink into the penman's trance. So deep is this in me that I'm sure I won't be gone for long. Integrating and balancing this new aspect of family life is the new challenge, and I expect the complexity will offer new opportunities for growth in all aspects of my life (once things settle down, that is).</div>
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Here's to you, Gwendolyn! Everything to you now, my dear!<br /><div>
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David Driscollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15877118222885127947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3077769801581775126.post-68261133669568692162012-10-03T09:11:00.000-07:002012-11-06T05:57:26.479-08:00Poems From Under the BedSome of you may remember that Eek the Freak, L&L's resident poet, was scheduled to judge this year's <a href="http://logomancersandlogodaedalists.blogspot.com/2012/07/results-of-l-first-ever-lyric-writing.html#.UGCbAqRAbd4">lyric writing contest</a> but backed out due to what I described as a crisis of nerves. Turns out he was hiding under my bed, writing poems and crying. I never did find him, but I found the tissues on which he'd been writing (and crying).<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj03mr05_PDp6-is-qLejgBgppvKk46tg-vNq0WzEfj_kqTpxzbG6hEZFK4HIDbO5XI7MuFxHVBYqcY4vP9b8X_Dq3OIxGjlqVDchROZwJs3XPUR55P4IR5mWXOKYyiL_OESwEz2A_VLMde/s1600/IMG_0142.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj03mr05_PDp6-is-qLejgBgppvKk46tg-vNq0WzEfj_kqTpxzbG6hEZFK4HIDbO5XI7MuFxHVBYqcY4vP9b8X_Dq3OIxGjlqVDchROZwJs3XPUR55P4IR5mWXOKYyiL_OESwEz2A_VLMde/s320/IMG_0142.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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It was tricky--and sticky!--business trying to pick them apart, and I've barely made a dent, but I liked a lot of what I read, and I plan to transcribe as much as I can make out. Someday it may turn out there is a whole chapbook there for Eek to publish. Maybe it will be remembered as his under-the-bed period. <br />
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Anyway, here's one, but I'll warn you, you have to loosen up the bolts on your brain. You have to let yourself sink down in there where its slippery and dark. That's usually the way with poetry, though, isn't it? I guess I just don't get enough of it. I imagine most of us do not, even though that slippery-brain feeling is one of the finest around. It's where we surprise ourselves, where we let go of the incessant struggle to marshal our lives into stories that make sense. That process begins with the way we direct our thoughts, and what a strange thing to do, really. I mean, it <i>is</i> what we do, but seriously--try to make sense of life? C'mon, Jackson. You know better than that.<br />
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<h4>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Somnolent Smackers </span> </h4>
</blockquote>
<blockquote>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I found a toothpaste tube you can use. . . If
you want. Never really told anyone about the time the castle made a room out of
me. Bob was there, and it wasn't pretty. Never mind. I never should have told
you all these things. Your design was too intense and then the way you took that corner. That was really too much. I never wanted to tell you the difference
between us was a quater turn to the right.</span> </blockquote>
<blockquote>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I make muffins. I put them in the
oven to bake. </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">What do you do, friend? Do
you call upon the nation? Do you up wreak and toil?
Do you maximize potentialities and turn them over in your mind? How high is this plane of existence? Is it
tabled low and wrapped round the head of Caesar’s bed sheet? Truthfully, I'm
trying to get through truthfully, but I can't seem to find my way.</span> </blockquote>
<blockquote>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Teleportation would seem
to be the easiest. But you never know. The thing about that is we so often lose
the day. To and from the difficult places. I never met a rock with so many
teeth.</span> </blockquote>
<blockquote>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A simple design would hold
more elegance than this. But what is a design? Who wards away the VIP? A
tumbler platters down onto all floors. I taste and recede.</span> </blockquote>
<blockquote>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It's a lucky day, the day
I have you to hold upright and shake until the coins work their way out your
pockets. Drained of the Terrible Fill, you and I will be left still holding
these melted words. And the truth is we may never know the difference between
an antelope and all that came before, but what exactly does that tell us about
the rain that falls inside?</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span> </blockquote>
<blockquote>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">You who are truthful: be
beside yourselves for a minute. Lay down your bodies and see the brutal
insistence is not something you need to even countenance, let alone fear. Words
float around, and it can be fine that they fall in such long, loose patterns.</span> </blockquote>
<blockquote>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Stick
with me and you'll never go wrong. You'll never go wrong and yet one day you'll
see all the differences have faded into a meaningless need that will issue forthily from you as strongly as the ropy snakes you saw shooting out of your
chest.</span> <span style="font-family: Calibri;">Exercised and fed, you stand with your brother ready to tell your lies
and finally not suffer for it.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I have found my way across
the sea. Over millions of legions, I've found my way onto a space drawn up by
the outer bounds of what either of us thought possible, and the result is
surrender.</span></blockquote>
<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Thanks for stopping by. </span></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">Sign up to get the blog by email on the righthand side of the page. You can also follow me on </span><a href="http://twitter.com/davidbdriscoll" style="text-align: start;">Twitter</a><span style="background-color: white; color: black; text-align: start;">, </span><a href="http://www.facebook.com/davidbdriscoll" style="text-align: start;">Facebook</a><span style="background-color: white; color: black; text-align: start;">, and </span><a href="http://linkedin.com/in/davidbdriscoll" style="text-align: start;">LinkedIn</a><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">.</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<!--EndFragment-->David Driscollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15877118222885127947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3077769801581775126.post-1028303925717734662012-09-27T09:49:00.000-07:002012-09-27T10:00:00.922-07:00A Great Perspective on the Artistic LifeThere's an excellent <a href="http://www.themillions.com/2012/08/keeping-the-faith-ten-days-at-bread-loaf.html">post</a> over at <a href="http://www.themillions.com/">The Millions</a> about Michael Bourne's experience at the prestigious Bread Loaf Writers' Conference. He gave me a lot to think about regarding writing, workshops, agents, and publishing. I found this courtesy of the <a href="http://www.nereview.com/">New England Review</a>'s newsletter.<br />
<br />
Here's a snippet:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #010101; font-family: Georgia, Times, Arial; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 20px;">Let’s say that you hold some passionate, but obscure belief. Maybe you believe God will fling a meteor at the earth and all the good people will be sucked up into heaven. Maybe you favor a return to the gold standard. Or perhaps you think </span><strong style="background-color: white; color: #010101; font-family: Georgia, Times, Arial; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 20px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Roseanne Barr</strong><span style="background-color: white; color: #010101; font-family: Georgia, Times, Arial; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 20px;"> should be elected president this fall on the Peace and Freedom Party ticket. Whatever it is, this belief animates your life, gives your daily existence shape and meaning, but no one you know really understands why you care so much about it. Then one day you drive to a mountaintop in the Vermont woods and spend 10 days in splendid isolation with several hundred other people who fervently believe the same things you do.</span></blockquote>
Read the rest of <a href="http://www.themillions.com/2012/08/keeping-the-faith-ten-days-at-bread-loaf.html">Keeping the Faith: Ten Days at Bread Loaf</a>David Driscollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15877118222885127947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3077769801581775126.post-49526347313089346592012-09-20T10:04:00.000-07:002012-09-20T10:19:33.442-07:00A Progression of Author BiographiesI finally got the proofs for the delayed--but still forthcoming!--anthology, <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/New-Stories-from-the-Midwest/165574933489340?sk=info"><i>New Stories from the Midwest 2011</i></a>, in which my story, "Circling in the Air," will appear. After rereading my story and making some changes, I sent it back to the editor, and I found myself trying to remember what I'd put in the author bio when I sent it to them over a year ago.<br />
<br />
Fifty words or fewer. That's what they usually give you. Tell us a little about yourself. Where do you live? Where did you go to school? Where else have you been published? What do you do besides write? These are the things people usually include, as if some reader might flip to the back of the publication and see some truth about the author, something that will enhance the story, poem, or essay, something that might even reveal the strange secret of its becoming.<br />
<br />
I know, I know . . . Bios are a great way to direct people to your other work, but still, it's strange--trying to say things about ourselves, as if we have some sort of fixed identity, as if we could describe anything other than habitual tendencies and patterns that change over time. Get something meaningful down, in fifty words or fewer.<br />
<br />
Here then is a progression:<br />
<br />
<br />
David Driscoll lives in Chicago with his wife, dog, and three cats. His stories have appeared in a number of publications including <i>TriQuarterly</i>, <i>Mississippi Review</i>, and will be featured in the forthcoming anthology, <i>New Stories from the Midwest 2011</i>.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
David Driscoll applied to all the top MFA programs but was not accepted. He is happy to have fooled this publication.<br />
<br />
<br />
David Driscoll can't imagine why someone might try and battle him. His freestyle is the bomb. He is cold as Antartica and flows like the Amazon.<br />
<br />
<br />
David Driscoll writes war stories because he was in wars, two of them. His record is 2-0, even though the wars really effed him up. He doesn't swear anymore because of his religious conversion.<br />
<br />
<br />
David Driscoll's<br />
poems<br />
are short.<br />
<br />
<br />
David Driscoll was once an extra in a Billy Graham movie. He walks by in the background with two adults who are supposed to be his parents. In no other way is David Driscoll affiliated with Billy Graham.<br />
<br />
<br />
David Driscoll's real parents died in a car crash. He inherited some money which makes it easier for him to persist in this literary folly.<br />
<br />
<br />
David Driscoll misses his parents very much. His stories are often about them.<br />
<br />
<br />
David Driscoll tries to make people laugh in his stories so people will like him. He is trying to get love. His other publications have also been an attempt to get love.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
David Driscoll's other stories are actually better than this one.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
David Driscoll has written enough to fill a library but is still learning his trade. Someday he hopes to write a book that will raise the dead but not in a Pet Cemetery way where the dead return as evil, murderous zombies. He is hoping instead for laughter and jig dancing, like we wanted them to do when they were alive.<br />
<br />
<br />
David Driscoll only writes stories about his parents.<br />
<br />
<br />
There is only one thing to write about.<br />
<br />
<br />
There is only one.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU_E5-fGesxzAbYOlaMZJtnHLyDMyqIl8Lz90uWeVEZ56HCx8LsLcUkcDIVRVRv3U6QXfIn3uGy2Z5auvpe0fdA2d-ye62HJgFNTIXS5N_g-AlfnlPAHiZ7jCYpZEFpxyL1KKfK4v2hPze/s1600/IMG_0129.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU_E5-fGesxzAbYOlaMZJtnHLyDMyqIl8Lz90uWeVEZ56HCx8LsLcUkcDIVRVRv3U6QXfIn3uGy2Z5auvpe0fdA2d-ye62HJgFNTIXS5N_g-AlfnlPAHiZ7jCYpZEFpxyL1KKfK4v2hPze/s320/IMG_0129.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I AM THAT I AM - Acrylic on Canvas</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Here's a Rumi poem:<br />
<br />
Your grief for what you've lost lifts a mirror<br />
up to where you're bravely working.<br />
<br />
Expecting the worst, you look, and instead,<br />
here's the joyful face you've been wanting to see.<br />
<br />
Your hand opens and closes and opens and closes.<br />
If it were always a fist or always stretched open,<br />
you would be paralyzed.<br />
<br />
Your deepest presence is in every small contracting<br />
and expanding,<br />
the two as beautifully balanced and coordinated<br />
as birdwings.<br />
<br />
(Coleman Barks, transl.)<br />
<br />
<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Thanks for stopping by. </span></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">Sign up to get the blog by email on the righthand side of the page. You can also follow me on </span><a href="http://twitter.com/davidbdriscoll" style="text-align: start;">Twitter</a><span style="background-color: white; color: black; text-align: start;">, </span><a href="http://www.facebook.com/davidbdriscoll" style="text-align: start;">Facebook</a><span style="background-color: white; color: black; text-align: start;">, and </span><a href="http://linkedin.com/in/davidbdriscoll" style="text-align: start;">LinkedIn</a><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">.</span></div>
David Driscollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15877118222885127947noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3077769801581775126.post-23888135541317934842012-09-06T12:32:00.000-07:002012-09-06T12:32:25.636-07:00A Conversation with Jeremy T. Wilson: Part II
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdMd6_OcpznalYr3SRQOlkEe6Bu29fUSqfQfT7ijBX8XdZcUEbD_1UHt8mgngdTHLoHXa_0kuEaC6F2m1fFzyuSToPr3bqks0WgEegwXZ5VPCcBWRMb7OiDvqSSlBXXWSlR0PBoJ_7Cp35/s1600/JTWHeadShot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdMd6_OcpznalYr3SRQOlkEe6Bu29fUSqfQfT7ijBX8XdZcUEbD_1UHt8mgngdTHLoHXa_0kuEaC6F2m1fFzyuSToPr3bqks0WgEegwXZ5VPCcBWRMb7OiDvqSSlBXXWSlR0PBoJ_7Cp35/s200/JTWHeadShot.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">Welcome everyone to Part II of my conversation with 2012 Nelson Algren Award winning author <a href="http://jeremytwilson.com/">Jeremy T. Wilson</a>. Word from the Wrigley Tower is that his winning story is going to be released in THIS Sunday's edition of <a href="http://www.chicagotribune.com/features/books/">Printers Row</a>, the Chicago Tribune's literary supplement. Can you believe it? Can you wait? You'll have to wait. Until Sunday. Make sure to get your digital and/or print subscription <a href="https://myaccount2.chicagotribune.com/Subscribe1.aspx?pid=791&pc=1">here</a> so you don't miss out.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">For those dedicated readers of Logomancers & Logodaedalists, you'll surely recall that we ended Part I of the conversation with Jeremy suggesting that our half-finished stories end up informing our later work. If you need a refresher--or you somehow, against all odds, missed out on Part I--<a href="http://logomancersandlogodaedalists.blogspot.com/2012/07/conversation-with-jeremy-t-wilson-part.html#.UEjz-aRAbd4">click here</a> to see what Katy Perry's been making such a fuss about on her social media sites for the past two months.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">Sorry to keep you waiting, Katy.</span></div>
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<h3>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">Part II </span></h3>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Logomancers: Yes! Love it.
All the writing we do is interrelated in more ways than we could ever
possibly understand, so in the long view, even when we don't think we're going
to write another draft of a given story, we somehow can't avoid it. I
guess my question was more concerned with the development of your process, and
I was wondering if you've come to feel, like me, that a lot of the resistances
you hit while writing aren't really problems with the story so much as
emotional or psychological resistances inside you, and if through your writing
practice you've gained more tolerance for those resistances and more skill at
working with them so you can avoid either holding on too fiercely to some
particular instance of form and content on the one hand or walking away from a
line of inquiry in the face of some discomfort on the other? I sometimes
feel development along these lines is the key to getting more power into my
work, and I want to say something like: finishing a project is less about
imposing my will and more about allowing myself to be captured by a particular
(though protean) combination of form and content until I feel release, and that
is most likely to happen when the form and content provides a suitable
challenge to my current level of emotional complexity. In more plain
terms, I guess I'm trying to suggest that I don't know what's going to engage
me in the process, but when it does, it pushes me to grow, and along the way a
few pieces manage to get finished. Does that harmonize with your experience,
or do you think about this stuff in some other way?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">JTW: Now we're talking! I
think about this stuff in a similar way, although I wouldn't be able to
articulate it like you do. But this is entirely due to the fact that we've been
writing together and talking about these types of issues for several years, and
I've stolen most of my process from listening to you talk about yours. I
totally agree: "I don't know what's going to engage me in the
process." I think this is crucial, the not knowing, and this is a complete
reversal from the way I first approached writing stories. I planned everything
out, or at least thought of something I wanted to write about, then wrote.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Maybe that works for some people but not for me. (This also
may be linked to my fear of writing a novel because I expect some planning has
to be involved with that project.) And when I say "works for" I don't
mean results in publishable stories. I mean results in a writing process that
keeps me curious and alive and engaged emotionally and intellectually, which is
the most I can hope for. What I don't feel nearly enough of is the
"release" you're talking about, or even the "growth," but
I'm not sure that necessarily results in unfinished or unsatisfying stories.
From the minute I sit down to write I feel like I'm in a constant battle with
those voices that try to analyze a story too quickly or tell me that it's going
in the wrong direction, those workshop voices, old English teacher voices,
Statler and Waldorf. When I feel best about a piece of writing, these voices
usually shut up and I feel what you're talking about. But this is tough to hit
and sometimes untrustworthy. I don't know that I'm really answering the
question or even staying on topic. Are we talking about endings to stories or
finishing stories? They're related, I think. Sometimes I feel a strong release
(and this may not even be the best word here, but I'm using it because it's
been established) early in the process, an early draft for instance. What then?
Is that story "finished" because the necessary emotional weight has
been lifted or I believe I've found a satisfying ending to my inquiry? For me,
most often the answer to that question is "no." No matter how I've
connected to it, the story is not conveying my experience. Being able to
recognize this gap is progress. But it's impossible for me to sit down and
rewrite that story and expect the same thing to happen, the same thing being a
replica of that emotional resonance. So then what? How do we ever feel
something is finished? I don't know. Do you?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222;">By the way, Richard Ford
weighed in</span><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222;"> on our discussion recently in the NYT Book
Review. He was asked: "Do you remember the last book you put down without
finishing?" He answered: "Most book aren't very good, and
there's no reason they should be. Whatever 'talent' may be, it isn't
apportioned democratically. Happily, I don't remember the last not-very-good
book I didn't finish. Although (which is why I don't review books) sometimes I
return to a book I've left unfinished and discover--pleasurably--that it was I,
not the book, that was unsatisfactory." Is it just me or is he getting
more dickish the older he gets?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Logomancers: Ha. Ha. I don't have enough
data points on Richard Ford to know if he's changing in one way or another.
I remember hearing him on NPR a few years ago and he sounded crotchety
and bitter. Full points for your use of the word, "dickish,"
however. That made me laugh.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I think you've teased out
several of the loose threads in my formulation. I think I was being too
cavalier with my use of the words "released" and
"finished." I guess I intended that something is
"finished" when I decide to seek publication with it, but the truth
is I continue to fiddle with it until the galleys are in, and as I ready my
collections of short stories for submission, I find that I've started working
again on some of the stories that have already been published. I guess
the "release" I was talking about really comes in many bursts across
many phases of the process. There is the release you mentioned when
you're working on a draft and the story takes a turn near the end that gives it
that shape, that surprise, that sort of lift in your chest. But you're
right, odds are you shouldn't stop there. It may be you need to throw
that entire draft out and totally rewrite it because on page six you changed
your protagonist from a WWII switchboard operator named Lancelot to a mystic,
long-haul trucker named Benfungali. You can rewrite the story with
Benfungali in from the start, and you can make the same turn with the ending,
but I agree: you're never going to get that lift or "release" from
writing the same thing again without opening yourself up to additional
impositions of novelty. The "release" may still be there for
someone reading it for the first time, but to you it will feel familiar unless
you put it away for a good LONG while. Maybe nothing ever gets finished.
Maybe when you're old and winding down you become exceedingly haunted by
the things you feel you never got right in your stories and books. Maybe
this is why Richard Ford is getting dickish (assuming he is).<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As for the growth, well, I
guess I was suggesting that really working with the emotionally hot stuff that
bubbles up in the process can make you more tolerant of the emotionally hot
stuff in the rest of your life and that watching your mind in a regular
disciplined way can help you keep from getting swallowed completely by your thoughts
and feelings in your day-to-day life because so much crazy shit comes up when
you really open up to it inside the writing process. I'm not trying to
say writing makes you a better person because I think that has got to be a
stupid claim, but I think if you approach the work as a way to learn what's in
your heart and accept it with decreasing amounts of judgment over time then you
can become easier with yourself which will naturally cause you to be more
peaceful and understanding with others. For a long time now I've thought
of my writing process as spiritual practice not wholly dissimilar from my
meditation or yoga practices, so maybe this "growth" thing is a
personal thing for me though I suspect a lot of writers look at it the same
way. We may be kidding ourselves, though. I dunno. It's especially
hard to assign any sort of causality in this case. It's something I'd
like to believe anyway. What do you think? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">JTW: The more I think about this the more I
feel like I don't know. On the one hand I want to say yes, of course, writing
is a spiritual practice that helps me feel better about myself and my place in
the world (a clumsy paraphrase, I know). I think about all the journal writing
I've done, and the project I started after my dad died using the rituals of
writing and baseball as a path to healing, and the initial approach I take with
young students when I encourage them to write what's on their minds or what
pisses them off, and all this makes me think that writing can definitely
provide an avenue for personal growth. But then I think about writing stories
and I'm not sure I would say the same thing. Forgive me if I'm being all MFA-y,
but I want to make a distinction between the act of writing and the craft of
writing (not that they're mutually exclusive all the time, but bear with me).
What "bubbles" up in an initial draft may not be equal to the time it
takes to work that psycho-emotional purge into something resembling a story.
There's a point in the process where I allow myself to be conscious of the
creation, to examine the connections created in the writing process, to shape
the shit. This can't come too early, but whenever it happens it doesn't ever
strike me as very spiritual. It's much more fun. Should I be
ashamed? By the way, I'm all in for your story on the mystic trucker
Benfungali.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Logomancers: What we’re
talking about puts me in mind of something I recently read in a <span style="color: #222222; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Paris Review <a href="http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/4867/the-art-of-fiction-no-17-truman-capote">interview</a>
with Truman Capote</span>. He said:</span></span></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I seem to remember
reading that Dickens, as he wrote, choked with laughter over his own humor and
dripped tears all over the page when one of his characters died. My own theory
is that the writer should have considered his wit and dried his tears long, long
before setting out to evoke similar reactions in a reader. In other words, I
believe the greatest intensity in art in all its shapes is achieved with a
deliberate, hard, and cool head.</span></span></blockquote>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I wonder if Capote maybe
failed to realize the possibility that Dickens was both experiencing the
emotions AND regarding them with a deliberate, hard, and cool
head. This may sound hopelessly paradoxical to a lot of people, but
I don’t think it is. In fact, it’s just the sort of capacity I’m
suggesting writing might help a person develop, and I’m wondering if it can
carry over to the rest of your life so that you can learn to both experience
your thoughts and feel your emotions without getting mesmerized into believing
you ARE them. This is at least one of the functions of meditation
and development along these lines is the very specific sense in which I was
thinking of writing as a spiritual practice, which can be fun or painful or
blissful or banal or just about anything else you can imagine. In
that way, what I’m talking about doesn’t exist along a continuum from the heat
of a first draft to the cold crafting of a later revision but rather transcends
and enfolds all parts of the process by helping us build a place to stand from
which we can witness the products of our mind like images projected onto a
screen while still enjoying the movie.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But perhaps this is getting a
bit esoteric so you can comment on it if you want or we can move on to what I
really want to ask which is: what do you hope to get out of your writing? What
are your goals? How would your writing ideally develop along
personal and professional lines? I know this sounds like many
questions, but I kind of feel like it’s only one.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">JTW: That's what I was
getting at when I said the two aren't mutually exclusive. I don't know that I'd
characterize crafting as "cold" either, but I get it. I'm going back
to baseball here, but the comparison works for most sports. So many elements go
into a good baseball swing, but when you're in the batter's box, you can't
think about every single one of them or else you're doomed. The way you stop
thinking about them is through practice so that all the parts of your swing
become automatic. However, every now and then you're going to be called upon to
hit the ball to the right side (I'm speaking as a right handed hitter here) and
in order to do that you will have to be conscious of the changes in your
approach that help you reach your intended goal of driving the ball to the
right side. This is the same with writing.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">What I hope to get out of my
writing is a career doing something I love doing. I want to continue to
write and continue to teach so that I don't have to sell peaches, even though
selling peaches was one of the best jobs I've ever had. But maybe this isn't
what you meant. Maybe you meant, what are my goals with the writing itself?
Well, I hope to stop using the word "thing" so much. Beyond that, I'm
not really sure. You?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Logomancers: My answer is
similar. The main thing for me is to be able to continue writing.
After that, there are these various parts of me that want
different and sometimes contradictory things. There is the part of me
that wants to be "established," the part that would like to
be publicly recognized as a writer and feel I've got the
credentials to back that up. Then there's the part of me concerned about
connection. This is the part of me that wants to find readers in
that place where we feel things strongly and unapologetically, where we become
more curious about who we really are and what's going on in our hearts and
minds. Then there is another part of me that wants to get so deep into the
writing, the world drops away entirely and I forget about the mundane
concerns of publishing and success and even other people like a literary
monk. I suppose this has to do with notions of truth and freedom.
I’m thinking of truth here as the experience of a sincere, ongoing, and
single-minded pursuit rather than a destination, and freedom as the ability to
give expression without feeling hobbled or boxed in by the fear of what people
might say.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Fortunately as I go
along I pay less and less attention to these idealized versions of what kind of
writer I'd like to be—as if there were some objective standpoint from which I
could define myself—and more willing to accept the ever-changing terrain as I
move across it. That is to say, I’ll take things the way they are because
I don’t really believe the fundamentals are going to change.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This reminds me of a story
Grace Paley tells in another Paris Review <a href="http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/2028/the-art-of-fiction-no-131-grace-paley">interview</a>:</span></span></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I said to Auden, Well, do you
think I should keep writing? He laughed and then became very solemn. If you’re
a writer, he said, you’ll keep writing no matter what. That’s not a question a
writer should ask.</span></span></blockquote>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Do you ever feel tempted to
ask that question?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-justify: inter-ideograph;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">JTW: Unfortunately, I ask myself that question
all the time. But I do agree with Auden's answer, and I believe I'm finally in
a place with my writing where I can honestly say that it's true—that I'll write
no matter what. For a long time I wanted that to be the case. I wanted to be
able to claim that I would write no matter what, because I'm a writer, dammit,
I must write!, but it just wasn't true. I thought of myself as a writer but
didn't write enough to be one (I think many people who have the desire to write
end up here). Now I think I've started a practice that will sustain itself
regardless the answer. So ultimately when this question pops up I try to ignore
it. I might ask myself on a given night out when I know I've had too much to
drink if I should have another drink because I'm having fun and I feel great
and I want that feeling to continue because it's fleeting and now I have hold
of it and don't want to let it go. The answer is no, I shouldn't have another
drink, because one more isn't necessary to sustain the bliss and I'll feel like
crap the next day and I'll probably piss my wife off or say something stupid or
forget how I got home, but I have one more drink (maybe two) anyway. This
strained metaphor is an attempt to articulate how I feel about the question.
Should I keep writing? Economics, self-doubt, the publishing industry,
countless lit mags, obligations, odds of success, Richard Ford, the cost of
daycare, all indicate no. Am I going to write anyway? As sure as I'll have one
more drink.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Thanks, Jeremy. That was awesome. Thanks to you, too, Dear Reader. We wouldn't be where we are today without you.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Thought that was awesome? Thought it was sort of okay? Kind of blown away by how much that sucked and wonder where to find more stuff as eye-poppingly sucky? Sign up to get the blog, for FREE, by email on the righthand side of the page. You can also follow me on </span><a href="http://twitter.com/davidbdriscoll" style="text-align: start;">Twitter</a><span style="background-color: white; color: black; text-align: start;">, </span><a href="http://www.facebook.com/davidbdriscoll" style="text-align: start;">Facebook</a><span style="background-color: white; color: black; text-align: start;">, and </span><a href="http://linkedin.com/in/davidbdriscoll" style="text-align: start;">LinkedIn</a><span style="font-family: inherit;">. I pledge to be authentically weirder going forward.</span></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->David Driscollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15877118222885127947noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3077769801581775126.post-19229581322183925352012-08-17T07:27:00.000-07:002012-08-17T07:27:10.583-07:00Fear Not: Cousin Lars Awaiting Yuvi Zalkow's NovelA surprising letter from <a href="http://logomancersandlogodaedalists.blogspot.com/2012/06/afraid-to-let-it-rip.html#.UC5QXNBAbd4">Cousin Lars</a>:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Dear Cousin, </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Why have you not been writing on your terrible blog? Have you been cowering in the shower with
this other fearful man, Mr. Pantslessness?
Perhaps you have not heard of <a href="http://yuvizalkow.com/">Yuvi Zalkow</a>, but he is the only other
artist in this world who has so much fear as you. But let me ask you this, and
you can ask Yuvi if you do not know the answer, but the answer is NO ONE, and
the question is: who out there is going to hurt you if you show
them the full power of your work? This
is not something your fear will admit. If
it did, your fear would die, and your fear does not want to die. Your fear is
also a coward.<br />
<br />
I am going to read this new book by Yuvi.
It is called <a href="http://yuvizalkow.com/book/">A Brilliant Novel in the Works</a>, and you should read it,
too, because even though he is full of fear, there is much power in this Yuvi Zalkow. Then maybe when I am free of this place, I will come to your house and we
can have a book club meeting, and we will invite Yuvi and the two of you can
cry about how hard writing is and how sad you are that no one wants to read your
writing and how you have to go to therapy when the truth is that this is not
the truth because I will read your writing because there is nothing to do here
except look through the bars on the window because no one will play me in ping
pong anymore because they are afraid to lose and also they are afraid to get
stabbed in the neck with my Blade of Fury which is also a pen that they take away
from me, but they do not know that the Blade of Fury returns to my pocket
because of its magical properties.<br />
<br />
Here my latest painting. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaI5iMBod90SFwahm5x7rVypmTc9EXLOTpsjHyAU2WZKXw3DgTl7TeIlu7Z-kE0-DT2KTSjUl4fk8fPu3JsSdPCoxlQvPnGlDVdEQIJSR0u9b7hYumMjoaMYuXLzYHd202SjtNZAwkj5n7/s1600/IMG_0115.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaI5iMBod90SFwahm5x7rVypmTc9EXLOTpsjHyAU2WZKXw3DgTl7TeIlu7Z-kE0-DT2KTSjUl4fk8fPu3JsSdPCoxlQvPnGlDVdEQIJSR0u9b7hYumMjoaMYuXLzYHd202SjtNZAwkj5n7/s320/IMG_0115.jpg" width="320" /></a> </div>
</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
I
punch you in the face with it even though I am loving you so much my heart is
swelling up and gagging me in the back of the throat. </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Your Cousin, </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Lars</blockquote>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
Wow, Lars. I had
no idea you were also awaiting the release of <a href="http://yuvizalkow.com/book/">A Brilliant Novel in the Works</a>. For you Logomancers and
Logodaedalists out there who haven't yet heard of Yuvi Zalkow, you should go
straight away to his blog and check out his <a href="http://yuvizalkow.com/category/videos/">I’m-a-Failed-Writer Video Series</a>. Yuvi’s got a great perspective, an awesome sense of humor, and creative talent in
spades. I know this book is going to knock Cousin Lars’ hiking sandals off, and I think you'll like it, too.<o:p></o:p></div>
David Driscollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15877118222885127947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3077769801581775126.post-37079910508539138902012-07-30T11:26:00.001-07:002012-07-30T11:26:41.933-07:00Results of L&L's First Ever Lyric Writing ContestThe results are in! After reading thousands of submissions, Logomancers & Logodaedalists narrowed the entries down to a select group of finalists and then passed those finalists to Eek the Freak, L&L's resident poet, who was supposed to choose a winner. Unfortunately, Eek backed out due to a crisis of nerves, but as this is a common occurrence with Eek, I made sure to keep the stalwart <a href="http://logomancersandlogodaedalists.blogspot.com/2012/06/each-creation-invents-its-own.html">Madame Zabaletsky</a> on call in case she needed to fill in.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Before we get to the results, let me just say that if you're ever in the Chicagoland area and someone steals your catalytic converter, you should go straight away to <a href="https://maps.google.com/maps?hl=en&ie=UTF-8&q=Iggy's+chicago&fb=1&gl=us&hq=Iggy's&hnear=0x880e2c3cd0f4cbed:0xafe0a6ad09c0c000,Chicago,+IL&cid=0,0,16561077168771455514&ei=2UX4T8zZNYTlqgH59JiLCQ&ved=0CJkBEPwSMAM&oi=local_group">Iggy's Muffler Shop</a>.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNtxKFcN2LOEizbAT7UJkb2McfilBmYW_JGlS3tptNlAM3NBMD1KOGod004OYCfUpcP-OEKSLqiOJi-90jcYCoGdu-KGeYEzC9P3HovJ_w4rE-Iuu2v8alyfRI3lW3mpUf-4Nm-I0NOZoX/s1600/IMG_0074.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNtxKFcN2LOEizbAT7UJkb2McfilBmYW_JGlS3tptNlAM3NBMD1KOGod004OYCfUpcP-OEKSLqiOJi-90jcYCoGdu-KGeYEzC9P3HovJ_w4rE-Iuu2v8alyfRI3lW3mpUf-4Nm-I0NOZoX/s320/IMG_0074.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="background-color: white;">I rolled into Iggy's around 12:15 on a Thursday with no appointment and they had my car fixed before 2 at about a third of the price Midas quoted me over the phone.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzEd4NIDBxIXQ0DB8jF3fSuPANFMI1xLqtZd2vcK8wW-72ppkfx75MXz4nD9YJZM69mUb0GBPsH6-PQPHNmA_KviOXijqqNyJn52Pb3B90RhT8eR4TVYr8CKxEFs2ZqDMErDZmptlubTHK/s1600/IMG_0076.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzEd4NIDBxIXQ0DB8jF3fSuPANFMI1xLqtZd2vcK8wW-72ppkfx75MXz4nD9YJZM69mUb0GBPsH6-PQPHNmA_KviOXijqqNyJn52Pb3B90RhT8eR4TVYr8CKxEFs2ZqDMErDZmptlubTHK/s320/IMG_0076.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
As you can tell from the photos, the place is classic, though don't expect them to do much more than grunt at you in what I can only describe as a not unfriendly way. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Okay, now for the main event. Madame Z., if you please . . . <span style="background-color: white;"> </span><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<u>Mme. Zabaletsky</u>: There were many fine contributions to this year's contest, but three of the entries stood out head and shoulders above the rest. That is why I decided to award winners in three different categories.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
THE LOTUS FLOWER OF FAILED COMPASSION AWARD goes to Sam Hollander.<span style="background-color: white;"> </span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="color: #6aa84f;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">Wake up in the morning, greet the day with bliss</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">Try to be a better man, strive to be a catalyst</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">But I give up before I start, my car is in paralysis</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">Because my catalytic converter was stole' by some assclown human cyst.</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">--Chorus--</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">Sucks to the assclowns who stole it</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">Sucks to the assclowns who stole it</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">You can help me move my car but we're gonna have to roll it.</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">Oh, sucks to the assclowns who stole it.</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">---------</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">Leaving behind the past, concentrating on my new version</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">Learning from mistakes, avoiding old diversions</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">But it's hard to keep a-moving on when transit is a burden</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">Can't believe some suck-ass clowns stole my catalytic conversion.</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">[Chorus]</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">Buddah says to let yourself go, be an uncarved stone</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">A lotus leaf on water, a cloud without a home</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">But my emissions are toxic, and I'm fuming like a stack</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">My catcon was stolen by some suckass clowns and it ain't coming back.</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">[Chorus]</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">bridge:</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">Like a bear in a truck on a train in a cave on a mic on a PA set to ten all up in your ear. Unpleasant to hear.</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">Stolen to be melted down, by an obnoxious two-bit suckass clown... but baby, don't frown.</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">[Chorus]</span></span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background-color: white;">Mr. Hollander clearly knows his way around a musical score, and while I cannot discern whether he's had classical training or acquired this knowledge as a drug-addled frat boy who spent too much time printing guitar tabs off the internet, I found this submission accomplished and undeniably compelling. The folksy clash between the narrator's desire for transcendence and his unassailable anger at the putative "ass clowns" who stole his catalytic converter drives the song forward with an irresistible comic tension. I was also won over by the virtuosic bravado with which Mr. Hollander integrated the realizations of the nondual schools and the Facebook traffic on Mr. Driscoll's page. Every piece of the puzzle was used, and used to harmonious effect, as in a well-fashioned sonnet. This is a masterful effort, one which will stand the test of space and time (for anyone still bound by those confines to existence).</span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background-color: white;">THE TERRIFYING TWANG OF THE LONELY HEART STRINGS AWARD goes to mmcxl</span><span style="background-color: white;"> for taking the theme and making it his or her own. </span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="color: #6aa84f;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">Her chrome is still shiny.</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">Her paint is still bright.</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">But underneath her beauty,</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">Something isn't right.</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">Swore I would love her.</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">Swore I'd never hurt her.</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">But then I went and stole</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">Her catalytic converter.</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">Chorus 1:</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">Yes, I stole the catalytic converter to her heart.</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">Before she could make me a spare part.</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">I melted it down with our wedding rings.</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">Got a hundred dollars and a thousand knocks and pings.</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">Used to rev her up,</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">Get her running good.</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">I was always tinkerin'</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">Under her hood.</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">Wanted to love her.</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">Wanted to pervert her.</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">Never thought I'd stoop so low</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">As her catalytic converter.</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">Chorus 2:</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">Yes, I stole the catalytic converter to her heart.</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">So, gentlemen, her engines will not start.</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">Turn your key, you'll just hear the roar</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">Of an old wreck that don't love me any more.</span></span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background-color: white;">I found it a delightfully twisted and fittingly desperate choice to tell the story of a lover who has ruined his or her beloved from the perspective of a self-loathing barfly haunted by his or her narcissism, misogyny, and sadistic tendencies. Full points for taking such a bizarre and demented narrative stance and making it ring true. However, it would have meant still more to me had the author not remained somewhat hidden behind the shadowy moniker, mmcxl. When in Rome, indeed, but we are not in Rome. Not that another pseudonym would have been any better--an artist pretending to be a made up person is a distasteful conceit, especially in a case such as this. Here is a subtle work brimming with psychological depravity, a piece that acrobatically defies any attempted critique, and the only mystery here should be how something so marvelously strange could be made by a mere mortal.</span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
THE I'D LIKE TO KNOW MORE ABOUT BADASSERY AWARD goes to Jenny B. <span style="background-color: white;"> </span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="color: #6aa84f;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">Roaring like a GTO</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">(Use Danzig Voice)</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">We have a shameful admission</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">There's a secret we share</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">My 4-Runner has toxic emissions</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">And we're doing bad things to the air</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">-- Chorus --</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">Now we drive and we drive</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">Never felt so alive</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">We ride slow (owow)</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">Roaring like a GTO</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">One night as she slept outside</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">Something was taken from her (erer)</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">Under her sleek backside</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">There's no catalytic converter</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">[Chorus]</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">The neighbors ears are pained</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">At night when I turn her over</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">Her exhaust is unrestrained</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">Hydrocarbon indecent exposure</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">'80's drum breakdown...</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">[Chorus]</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">And we drive and we drive and we drive</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">Never felt so alive</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">We ride slowowow</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">Roaring like a GTO</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">Whoa whoa whoa</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">Roaring like a GTO</span><br style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.333333015441895px; line-height: 12px; text-align: justify;">Roaring like a GTOooooo!</span></span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
A sort of unbridled power courses through these lyrics, and the furious anger of the perpetually wronged stokes the furnace of this churning locomotive. Like the other winners, it is a highly accomplished piece of art, though I did feel at times the author might have been holding something back, perhaps for fear that the full storm of her literary power might have been too much for her mind or the mind of anyone who laid eyes upon it. Though this threat can feel real, it is never something to be afraid of, and the artist must submit to power wherever it appears. I hope the author will continue to let the dogs out, as Mr. Driscoll is fond of saying. If this meaty piece is any indication, I suspect Jenny B.'s inner conflagration will continue to produce a whirlwind of great and towering art.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Congratulations to all who entered and especially those few who rose to the top of the heap. It takes tremendous effort to excavate the creative fire from the belly, and it takes an equal amount of courage to share what you've shaped to be weighed and measured by the world. Thank you for playing your hands. You've each served your art wonderfully well.</blockquote>
Thanks, Mme. Z. For my part I have nothing to say except that each of these winners blew me away, and I'm thrilled that writers of such high caliber arose to display their deep creative capabilities. As promised, there will be a prize, but since each of these winners clearly deserves more than the $100,000 limit--beyond which my backer, the esteemed oil baron, Logodaedalist J.J. Hamperstead, refuses to go--each winner will receive an athletic sock (used but clean) with a forgery of <a href="http://www.katyperrypartofme.com/">Katy Perry</a>'s signature in pink Sharpie. As you may well know, I do a perfect Katy Perry forgery, and I'm sure we can all agree that as this young lady's meteoric rise continues, it won't be long before an individual could sell one of those socks and retire. Sam Hollander, mmcxl, and Jenny B., please send me your mailing addresses so you can get your sock, and once again, my hat is off. You are Logomancers & Logodaedalists of the highest order.<br />
<br />
Next up will be Part II of my conversation with <a href="http://logomancersandlogodaedalists.blogspot.com/2012/07/conversation-with-jeremy-t-wilson-part.html#.UBXkyzFAYdI">Jeremy T. Wilson</a> (unless I decide to post something else first).David Driscollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15877118222885127947noreply@blogger.com1