Tremors & Earthquakes: Surviving The Big One

I am reading that out in Reno, people are getting nervous. Maybe not everybody, but enough that the media's finding some of those "I am afraid" stories. But the folks in Reno have had a lot to deal with recently, with tremors and the potential of a strong earthquake just around the corner. And in California, boy, we're hearing lots back East about the "next big one," and how inevitable it is. And that, too, is scary.

*

It's very early on the last day in April, and I'm feeling my own tremors, with the "next big one" coming at any moment. I don't feel so much afraid as uneasy. It's that sense of not being in control of, well, much of anything. Of the words that are begging to be written ... of today, of next week or next month ... and it is a strange feeling, indeed, to be living in a state of flux.

Writers who want to remain working writers (i.e. to put the descriptor "writer" on your tax forms) sometimes need to take on extra outside work to make ends meet. Along this journey of revision and new words, I've done exactly that, and with nothing fancy or high paying, but the kind of job that gets your face in front of a lot of people every day. Rather, a lot of people's faces in front of your face -- working at a convenience story/slash/gas station.

This is one of many odd jobs on my resume; a resume that resembles at times a weird career track of professional "everyman," and at other times looks like a mish-mash that's less of a Renaissance Man (or everyman) -kind of thing, and more of a, "working for a living (almost) digging ditches" listing of experience. (I actually once considered digging ditches, because I thought it'd be good exercise, and that I might learn something that I could put into my writing. I've also always wanted to work on the docks because of some twisted Steinbeck-ian fantasy.)

From most, if not all, of my jobs, I've taken something with me after my last day, along with bits and pieces of all of the "honest-to-goodness characters" I encountered along the way, and a whole lot of genuinely fine people I've worked beside. I'm grateful both to the characters, and to my current and former co-workers.

From grant-writing for non-profits -- the "9-5 desk" job, to the "front desk" job at a hotel -- it's all worthy work in the end (my Grandfather would say), as long as you do it well, and with conviction and plenty of humility, and as long as you keep your eye on the real prize -- which, in my situation, is "time." Because time evolves into the rest of everything.

Time:
-- to have enough money for another sabbatical, until that first book sells enough copies or the film rights that you can truly take even more time off (dare yourself to make your dreams a reality)
-- to understand how difficult it is for some people (your co-workers, especially in the lower-wage jobs) to make ends meet, in any economy, and to listen to their stories about the day-to-day struggle, as well as listening to their equal sense of well-being
-- to reaffirm that belief that there is a humanity that listens, and cares, and -- in the form of individual people who might have nary an artistic bone in their bodies, teach you that what counts is how you feel about yourself, and then, what you feel you can accomplish with the talents you've developed and that have led you past the point of ever giving up on your dream. Because you can't really ever let go, can you? You can take a break from your dream, but it will nag at you, and claw its way into your psyche until you have to say: "Enough already -- I get it! And I will follow you!"

Now, I know that I don't need to write best-selling books to fulfill my dream. I just need to write. Simple as that, with a period at the end of the statement.

And I need to feel good about what I write -- that, as I often suggest (suggest more for me than anyone else) that the words do matter, that people still read and can be affected in positive ways by what they read, and that books can inspire and change, even in the smallest, microscopic form, a day in the life of -- that one person (reader) I will never meet.

*

As I continue this trip (as well as avoid tripping and become a cog in any machine), and document the creative process here on This Side of Paradise, I am immediately cognizant of how lucky I am. I mean, really really lucky.

I have a path, see, and no question it will twist and turn in ways I can't predict or imagine, and that I might feel tremors along that path, and even experience an internal earthquake of intense magnitude that I am forced to seek shelter, deep within myself, like hibernation or retreat, but always with the intent to resume -- to move onward and ever forward -- to keep writing until the words form the sentences that make sense, and then polish those sentences into something that the stranger who might be affected by my work, this person I will never know, never meet ... might describe as "beauty." (Or in some variation of that word, and personal for my "necessary stranger.") (Ah, you necessary stranger, how integral you are to my existence!)

*

You can write your pain into beauty, I am convinced.

You can write your tremors away, but you should never ignore that they're happening. (Keep extra rations of hope at the ready. Always be sure you have the hope.)

And you have to believe that you can survive the "next big one" when it hits you.

How do you do it? You survive by doing what you can to get your feet back on the ground. Forget about anything else until you have the sensation again in your feet, and the ground beneath you. And then you survive by waking up (figuratively or literally) at any odd hour of the day or night and going to the door of your Little Room, closing it behind you, and locking yourself inside.

This is a good thing, the closing of the door, the locking yourself in. Oddly enough, it's not exile, but freedom.

*

The road to my own freedom wanders through part of my current days, along the aisles of the convenience store, and in the faces of the customers who, while in a hurry to get on to the next stop in their own lives, have enough time for a smile or nod -- and to convey the sense of: we're in this together, even in our seemingly separate lives and worlds.

We do connect, somehow.

Really, we do connect. We have no choice in this. And that's why a world that's filled with however many people and places can seem so small. This isn't a ride at Disney World. This is where you are, right now. You are here. And so am I.

Post 100

(this post is created over three days, in three parts, beginning with the beginning, of course)

*

St. Therese provided me with a small blessing yesterday -- perhaps it was a small miracle. I can't decipher a blessing from a miracle -- just that they're both very good things, indeed. The flowers I picked for my co-favorite Saint (St. Christopher being the other) seem to be happily enjoying the Green Light of The Little Room.

Thank You, St. Therese, for looking out for me. And St. Christopher, Thank You as well!

*

Is it strange that I like the Saints so much, and I am not Catholic? Perhaps I get this from Eleanor. I think she might be Catholic, but we haven't discussed religion, strangely enough. Not in a formal sense of author to character.

*

Okay, an update on the novel. New words are stumbling over themselves to be first in line at that typewriter in my head, and then to the computer page. So I anticipate a rush a manic creativity. When it will fully strike me, during these next 24 or 48 or 72 hours, we shall see. April 30 is a new self-imposed deadline, as much as I said in a previous posting that I was through with self-imposed deadlines.

Truth is, it's the discipline. It's the getting up at 4:30 in the morning, or staying up all night. It's putting everything else aside so that nothing BUT the words are left. And then, allowing the words to expose themselves -- in a burst of sentences and paragraphs, and then chapters. But I'm ahead of myself. The typewriter in my head is steaming, beginning to smoke even, that's for sure.

Post 100 will continue.

We are not finished, are we, Eleanor?
(Not even close.)

*

"We are cups, constantly and quietly being filled. The trick is, knowing how to tip ourselves over and let the beautiful stuff out."
-- Ray Bradbury

*

SUNDAY, APRIL 27, 2008

Post 100, Part Two

11:27 a.m., The Little Room

I was just thinking about St. Therese and her miracles (and also the recent film, La Vie En Rose, in which Edith Piaf cries out for St. Therese in the face of every calamity -- and St. Therese seems to answer her, albeit in some roundabout ways, or perhaps comforts Edith Piaf through the act of crying out), and looking at the recent flowers I picked for my co-favorite Saint ... and one of the tulips let go of a petal.

So my head starts working overtime here, and I'm thinking, these are the flowers from the heavens St. Therese wrote about, and if not the full flowers, at the very least flower petals raining down. The first flower petal perhaps.

Symbolism is everything today.

Also -- connections -- as in, the last long Eleanor excerpt I posted on this page, when Eleanor's father, Jay Spain, is worried about his daughter, and wondering if, one flower petal at a time, she is disappearing before his very eyes, and the guilt he feels because of whatever it is that he's done (and he has no clue, of course, what he's done, or even if he's done anything at all). Such is guilt.

But such, too, is thinking about St. Therese, and looking up as that single flower petal drops.

This is too -- much -- for words alone.

So ... I'll be thinking the rest of it ... all day.

*

MONDAY, APRIL 28, 2008

Post 100, Part Three

9:13 a.m., The Little Room

*

"I was put into jail as I was going to the shoemaker's to get a shoe which was mended. When I was let out the next morning, I proceeded to finish my errand, and, having put on my mended shoe, joined a huckleberry party, who were impatient to put themselves under my conduct; and in half an hour -- for the horse was soon tackled -- was in the midst of a huckleberry field, on one of our highest hills, two miles off, and then the State was nowhere to be seen." -- Henry David Thoreau

Sources: A Duty of Civil Disobedience [1849]. See: http://www.cs.indiana.edu/statecraft/civ.dis.html, La Désobéissance civile, translated by Micheline Flak (Montréal: La Presse, 1973), p. 95

The above research is courtesy of: http://quotes.liberty-tree.ca/quote_blog/Henry.David.Thoreau.Quote.AB4C

*

"Personally I believe that man's fascination for art lies in our unsatisfied desire for identity. I believe that our unarticulated longing for freedom, our painful and impractical and completely unreasonable longing for freedom derives simply from the fact that we are shut up inside that system of apparent necessities which is called our personality, or which we call our personality, because we need to fasten a fine-sounding name to the cage in which we have shut ourselves up. … We live a crippled life, shut up inside the narrow cage of considerations, caught in the net of expectations."
-- Novelist Johan Borgen, Words Through the Years (1966)

It's Johan Borgen's birthday today (born in 1902) ... from the "The Writer's Almanac."

*

And the above two thoughts seem the perfect way to finish up Post 100.

Thoreau and Borgen -- between them, they're telling me that my own Little Room is just right, and whatever you call your "Little Room," or your space, is just right for you. But you need to find that space, if you don't already have it -- and don't allow anyone or any entity to corrupt it. It's yours -- and you own it because you believe in it, and within this space (and then, beyond it) you can accomplish anything. Nobody else has to understand what goes on inside this space. Nobody else has to believe in it, but you. You'll make it come to life, like the toys in the toys shop, after the doors close for the evening, when everyone else's eyes are diverted, or sleeping. (And when your eyes are wide open to all of the possibilities.)

You create more possibilities as you go along, and that's what is so -- dare I say -- "beautiful" about the process. You need to create your own way, and you need only take one step at a time. Just keep those eyes wide open.

We may be "required" to exist within a certain set of rules or boundaries, need to pay the rent and all of those other "life" things, but our creative works can take us far outside of the world where so many others seem to be perfectly content in remaining, and into the new world or worlds of our choosing.

I think that Virginia Woolf would be cool with this variation on theme, too. It boils down to the "room of one's own," whether it's physical or mental space ... or both.

I tip my writer's hat to an inner peace for each of us, and then to the words -- and ultimately to creativity in all of its forms! -- Geoff

(Eleanor is nodding her head right now.)

(And next she says to me: "Go!")

The Post Before Post #100: 20% Toward The Goal

If you're reading This Side of Paradise for the first time, or if you're a returning reader and don't have us bookmarked yet, please do.

Sure, part of that's completely selfish -- we want (and need) readers.

But the second part is this ... The next post will be Number 100, and a full 20 percent into our project goal of 500 postings. This particular journey will end at 500 postings. That's more or less nine months from now (kind of about right, when one considers that we're working on "birthing" some better-than-good words for the novel called Eleanor, at least in her work-in-progress mode, and another novel, in the wings).

*

I'll use the word "journey" again. And along this journey to 500 postings, you'll see a little bit of everything, as you did in the first 100 postings (rather, almost 100 postings). There will be good days and days filled with despair. There will be guest writers and interviews (like our recent feature with author Erin O'Brien).

Nearly every day will have at least one posting. That's a promise. If we miss a day, it could be because we're writing so diligently that the following day you'll see fruits of that labor in two or three posts in a fit of mania.

Feel free to comment on the posts -- feedback is part of the creative process.

But the most important part is returning to it. The process stops if we don't work at it. Like life and everything within life -- it's a joy, and it's work, and sometimes a bit of each.

*

Now's the time to pass this link on to friends, or anyone you feel might "get it." With 401 postings to go, there are lots of words and images yet to fill this one long page. And yes, it will stay on ONE long page.

THE "SCROLL DOWN"
Following Kerouac's model, and using the technology of his time, we won't make it necessarily easy for you. You'll need to scroll down (unless you're in a real hurry, and use the "search blog" feature, or find something in the archives and click on that).

But try scrolling down. You don't need to read everything.
Find something that speaks to you.
Something will, we promise.

That could be a poem by Cher Bibler, or David Shevin, or Robert Gibbons.
Or it could be Eleanor.

*

Today, on the "Post Before #100," we just want to say, "Thanks for reading."

Writing & Discipline: Simplify The Process

1. Out of clutter, find simplicity.
2. From discord, find harmony.
3. In the middle of difficulty lies harmony.

-- Albert Einstein's three rules for work.

*

We must discover our individual inner peace, and then make it all happen.
That's one "process," at least.

A Bipolar Day, & Another Flower For St. Therese

This is one of those days when everything feels right and everything feels wrong, and between the two extremes, there's nothing.

It's a bipolar day.

And yet the day itself is absolutely beautiful outside The Little Room -- sunny, temperatures in the low 70s. My neighbor and her granddaughter were outside a little earlier, sunning themselves, and just spending time together.

I remember spending time that I now treasure with my own grandparents -- three of them at least. My mother's father -- I never knew him. He died before I was born. But sometimes I wonder what it'd be like to talk with him. He left my Mom, and her Mother, and a family that included three other children. Just took up and left. But my Mom and my aunts and uncle, and my Grandmother -- they were incredibly strong in the face of adversity and the not-knowing, and in dealing with that sense of abandonment that I can only imagine, and that I'm also sure was different for each of them.

*

Yes, we must get back to the words, to the writing, but being outside for a bit, on this bipolar day, just made me realize that sometimes you need to breathe. Simply breathe it all in.

It's amazing how many people forget to breathe at all. Any of it. And then they shrink deeper into their worlds until it's too almost too late.

I wonder if the young girl was asking her grandmother questions -- the two of them under the sun, mostly quiet all around them. I wonder what questions were on the girl's mind, and if she had particular "grandmother" questions, or lots of questions in general.

Perhaps she simply "thought" the questions, and that's okay, too.

She's old enough that she'll remember how good it was, to sit outside on those lawnchairs, summer fast approaching, a cool breeze and the strong sun above them ... even on such a bipolar day as this.

She'll remember this day.

As will I.

(And for St. Therese -- I found you another flower. I hope you like it.)

William Shakespeare & Birthday Cakes

The year I was born, the Post Office issued a stamp commemorating the 400th birthday of William Shakespeare. A few years later, and we're both a little older. And, of course, this might not even be Shakespeare's actual birthday, but you have to celebrate sometime, so: "Happy Birthday, Mr. Shakespeare." (Imagine a Marilyn Monroe-type singing him a sweet birthday song.)

*

4 a.m., and Eleanor came into one of my dreams, and shouted, "Wake UP!" To which -- I awoke.

Zelda the Cat is still sleeping.

But Eleanor -- maybe she wanted to bake Shakespeare a cake (sort of rhymes, that just written).

And it is, indeed, always nice to have a birthday cake, even a small one, on your birthday. That way, when nobody's around, you can still feel that just maybe, you mean something. Birthday cake is wonderful like that. Eleanor gets it, she really does.

And Eleanor says that for Shakespeare's birthday, she wants to go and see her magic clock, so she can have some words with Olive Thomas. So, yes, we'll pick up the birthday cake on the way.

Exhaustion

1. will write for Red Bull.

2. will busk for coffee.

3. will keep my eyes open for a few more pages tonight.

stay with me, Eleanor, stay with me.
save me, if I can't save myself.
you know what to do.

Crisis and Failure: Bumps In The Road

The 50 pages are not yet finished. I have missed way too many self-imposed deadlines. My characters are growing restless, and I am very tired.

How much longer will Eleanor be patient with me?

Crisis.

(Are crisis and failure part of the creative process? I think so, but that doesn't make things any easier.)

The Open Promise

"I release myself from fear."

Part Two.

-- Geoff

"Speaking In Tongues"

from Eleanor,
a novel by Geoff Schutt

*

"Speaking in Tongues"

"Your mother's gone,” he said.
“You should not be sad,” he said.
Maybe Jay Spain was pretending he wasn’t speaking to anyone in particular, least of all his little girl, Eleanor, least of all so matter-of-factly about something so awful. Maybe he was speaking to the air itself, and all of the invisible things the air in the room held, these invisible things he wished he could see. Maybe he imagined this was what he was doing. If he closed his eyes, Eleanor would be back in her bed, sleeping, dreaming, not knowing -- not knowing for now anyway. If every invisible thing were suddenly made apparent, there might be answers. Or explanations for the bad things. Or maybe not explanations, like excuses, but substantive reasons.

It was three hours now since Nina left, since she walked out that door, the one right over there, the door he couldn’t take his eyes off of, the door which burned a hole in his head before the last drink. What was he to do except sit in his favorite chair and pour himself another? Not a question. Another matter of fact.

Eleanor sneaked in and had been staring down at him. The alcoholic stupor was caressing his mind the way fantasies about Nina eased his tension in the early days when they had to be apart and he couldn’t understand why they had to be apart so much if they were young and in love, and especially when they had a little girl to take care of.

Jay tried to sit up but he was too far slouched and he spilled his drink as he gripped the sides of the chair. He finally was able to set down his glass and get up. He put his hands on Eleanor's shoulders and waited for her to burst out crying or something, something to give him an excuse to hold her tight. But she wasn’t crying. He could not understand why she wasn’t crying. He knew that she knew. Had Nina clued her in? God, he thought, he could come up with all kinds of conspiracy theories, but he needed to be here for Eleanor, and yes, this too, he needed Eleanor to be here for him.

"I'll get you some milk," Jay said. He took her hand and they went into the kitchen. He was thinking like a maniac. This sudden drunken fixation on milk. He poured each of them a glass.
"Milk will give me bad dreams," Eleanor said.
"I don't want bad dreams," she said.
"That's an old wive's tale," he said.
"Orange juice is better for me than milk," Eleanor said.
"Milk will give you strong bones," Jay said.
"I want orange juice," she said.

But Jay Spain was angry, see, like pissed off angry, because his little girl had the nerve to demand things from him just a little more than three hours after the only woman he'd ever loved or would ever love walked out of his life.

"If you want orange juice, get it yourself," he said, and he forcibly took the cup from her hands and poured out the milk in the sink.
Her eyes were welling up. "I'm sorry," she said. She was shaking, her entire body was shaking.

Eleanor wasn't wearing socks. He wanted to tell her to put on socks so she didn't catch her death of cold. That would be a fatherly thing to do. He stared at her toes.
"What have you done to your toenails?" he said. They were jagged, as if she had ripped at them instead of snipping them evenly. He wondered if this were somehow related to the invisible things he couldn’t see in the air that hung so heavy around them, the air that seemed so much heavier since Nina left, as if it were about to rain, and then -- then perhaps he could finally see, see what he did not see coming, and the rest of it. Like why his daughter should rip at her toenails.
"Daddy?" she said. He felt her moist cheeks against the side of his neck, where her head was nestled. "Mommy isn't coming home ever again, is she?"
"No."
"Can I have a real drink?" she said into his ear.
"Orange juice?" he said.
"Vodka," she said.
He allowed some space to come between them so he could look at her again.
"Mommy lets me," Eleanor said.
"Do you know what you're saying?"
"I've had booze before."
"Your mother does not let you," he said, correcting himself to past tense: "Did not let you." (But Nina had to come back, didn’t she? He couldn’t believe she was gone for good, he just could not believe that. The truth was one thing, but what he believed was completely different.)
"An actor learns by experiencing," she said, as if this was a line she had memorized. "An actor lives life the way an artist lives life, by experiencing, by trying to understand how things work."

Now they were not touching at all. Eleanor had taken on a combative stance, Jay thought, which was exactly how Nina would do it. Stand her ground after making a demand. Stand her ground until her demand was met. Arms at her sides. That plain expression, the straight-lined lips, the eyes, which although not narrowed, glaring and unforgiving. Those wonderful, powerful eyes. After just a moment of this, however, Eleanor dashed past him into the living room. He followed her but wasn't quick enough as she grabbed the bottle of vodka he'd stupidly placed beside his chair, stupidly put in plain view. He always drank secretly, or so he thought, always making sure the bottles of alcohol were kept on the top shelf of the cupboard, behind the boxes of crackers and the baking cocoa and a variety of baking mixes. They purposely did not keep a liquor cabinet. Nina had sworn off alcohol, she said, claiming she didn't want to be a Barrymore drunk, but Jay knew better, smelling the stuff on her breath when she made it home after cast parties. Now she was off to Hollywood, or Topeka at least, on the vague promise of a former big-shot show business manager trying to recapture old glories through a new, young discovery. The dinner theatre circuit, first stop Topeka, then Hollywood!

God, he laughed, maybe he didn’t want the invisible to rain from the air after all. Just maybe he didn’t want any more hurt, or love, just anger. Just to be angry.

"Eleanor!" Jay said. "Put that down!"

She just grinned at him like a little monster, a little Nina monster, and made him chase her. She was good. Fast like a rat, able to dodge him easily as he ended up lunging for her, his head still dulled from the vodka. She stopped in the hallway, slouched down along the wall, uncapped the bottle and put up this brick wall of a defense: "If you love me, Daddy," she said, "you'd let me, like Mommy does."

And before he could think properly and reach to take the bottle away, she had swallowed a great gulp and now was gagging, so he grabbed hold and would not let her escape, though she tried, but then she relented and he felt Eleanor's body wilting to his touch like a dried flower.

All of her petals are falling off, he was thinking, couldn't stop thinking this way. All of her precious petals, and I'm somehow to blame.

When it's 3 a.m., and I'm staring at words ....

"In the real dark night of the soul it is always three o' clock in the morning, day after day."
-- F. Scott Fitzgerald

*

My birthday scares me. It's not so much the age part -- I can deal with what age is doing to my body and mind. I can face a new metabolism as I grow older. But my birthday scares me because I feel that I have not done enough. It's a measure of time -- my time on this Earth, and yes, I am hardest on myself.

Tonight is "birthday eve," and tomorrow, I turn another year older, in that invisible stretch of time that is marked real by a single date on the calendar. A box with an "X" through it.

*

I like celebrating other people's birthdays. Maybe I just like celebrating the people I care for -- and a birthday is a great excuse to do that.

These past few years, I have been celebrating my parents on my birthday. Without them, literally and figuratively, I am nothing, would be nothing, would not have this chance, the opportunity, to "accomplish."

*

I used to want to be a wunderkind. Really, I did. Overachiever and then some. I wanted to be a prodigy. I really worked at it, too. Later I realized that wunderkinds are quickly forgotten. They peak too early. And a prodigy usually doesn't realize at the time what the hell is going on. It just happens. And then, in most cases, it just stops happening. Stops like a brick wall.

*

I know I have not peaked yet.

Rather, I hope that I have not peaked yet.

Rather, I have no idea if I have peaked yet, and isn't that a horrible feeling, to think that you might have peaked, and not noticed anything, while it was happening?

Tonight, and leading through tomorrow, the 21st of April, I will try to pretend that time is not moving a bit. Not one second. I am neither getting older, nor younger.

*

50 pages of my novel go to my agent via email by midnight Eastern Time Monday. That's my self-imposed deadline.

Today is the Full Moon, so by the light of the Full Moon, at least my imagined view of it from beyond the Little Room, I will work. I will write.

*

To my parents -- Mom and Dad -- Thank You, for having me. I am your first born. I know that I should have more on my life resume by now -- the stuff that goes beyond jobs and what you do for a living and the relationships you have. I should have more, I know that. I hope I can make you proud.

Creation is indeed a process. You have a child. You develop a character. Or rather, you develop your character. And yes, life goes on, with or without you.

*

My friend Cher sent me an email about my birthday, and why I should celebrate it. It is the best email -- the best words on this subject -- that I have ever received. So for Cher, I am thankful, too.

For my friends -- I want you to feel that you can count on me.

For the people I don't know, who read this, I want my words to speak to you. My legacy is beyond my control. But I want the words to mean something, to connect. I want that connection. I need that connection.

*

Eleanor is the child I do not have. She is my most trusted and beloved character. We can celebrate Eleanor's birthday on April 21. It's not really her birthday, but hey, why not. Happy Birthday, Eleanor. What kind of cake would you like? Would you like to go to some fancy restaurant on your birthday, or have a quiet dinner at home? What presents do you want? Tell me, Eleanor -- and I will give you everything, and more.

*

To my parents, again -- Thank You.
To my friends, again -- Thank You.
To you, the reader -- again -- Thank You.

The journey will continue.

*

After a short while, we come to know that we are anonymous on this journey -- or will be, eventually. My birthday is a eulogy to all that I am, all that I was, and everything I have yet to become. I don't know how much time I have left.

When it's 3 a.m., I'm staring at the words, and I'm trying to think of more.

When it's 3 a.m., I am thinking of you, whether you know it, or not. Can you feel me thinking?

21 Questions With Author Erin O'Brien

Process, Part Four

*

Introduction: My friend, Chris, and I had been talking about going to see this movie that was getting a lot of buzz. It was called Leaving Las Vegas. Nic Cage was starring, and Elisabeth Shue, a favorite young actress of ours, was in the film too -- an added bonus. It was 1995. Neither of us had ever heard of John O'Brien, who wrote the novel that became the movie. It was some time later that Rolling Stone magazine printed a long article about the young writer, the people he was friends with, his battle with alcoholism that mirrored the book and film, and the sad fact of his suicide. The surface story of John O'Brien seemed perfect for the movies, but maybe that was part of the point of Leaving Las Vegas, and what made it so poignant. There was lots of sensationalism in the Rolling Stone article -- lots of blame, and "what-ifs," and the usual sort of thing with these investigative pieces.

When Chris and I left the movie theatre, we each had the same thought. "Let's go get a drink somewhere." That probably sounds strange -- but such was the impact of the film. It did not glamorize drinking or being drunk or killing yourself through drinking in any way. Just the opposite, of course. And yet, we were so numbed, we didn't know what else to say, or do, other than be thinking about a drink. (In fact, we did not get a drink. The thought was enough.)

Some years later, I was living in Chicago, and another good friend of mine was telling me abut her favorite movies. Leaving Las Vegas was near the top of the list. Her reason for liking it so much had little to do with entertainment. Her husband had an addiction. He wasn't an alcoholic, but in Ben Sanderson, the lead character, she recognized her own husband, and his demons that she was unable to fully understand. Somehow, the fact that Ben Sanderson was so sick that he ended up dying gave her hope that her husband might get better. Nobody could be that bad off. Clearly, this was a classic work of really great fiction, and though reflective of real life, just a made-up story.

About a month ago, an aspiring screenwriter living in a small Ohio town emailed me. He said he was reading a book by John O'Brien, and had I heard of O'Brien, because he was supposed to be some kind of genius who died way too young. Well, yes, I had heard of John O'Brien, I said. In fact, I was quite familiar with his work, as well as the film made from his first novel. And then I began to do some further research. I came across Erin O'Brien's blog. Erin, also a writer, is John's younger sister. I was curious. No -- more than curious. Leaving Las Vegas had been a part of my life for more than 12 years, and at times when perhaps I needed to see or read the story again -- times when I was at my personal low points -- John O'Brien's work lifted me back up. And it has lifted up friends of mine during their own struggles.

A lot has been written about John O'Brien, but certainly not enough.



And Erin O'Brien is writing these wonderful new words each day.



There's something to this "O'Brien family," I thought. And I contacted Erin, and asked if she'd be willing to answer a few questions about the creative process -- hers and John's. Erin said okay, almost immediately.

The interview below barely scratches the surface of the "Amazing, Incredible O'Briens." But if you read my interview with Erin, and then visit all of the links she's provided, you'll get a clearer view of a whole lot of things.



If I had to choose one word to describe what you're about to experience, if you choose to go all the way that is, and this means reading beyond this site -- that word would be "humanity." The creative process is all about humanity -- and how the words on the page, or the pictures on the walls, or the images on the big screen ... it's how all of these help us to see ourselves better.



Most of us will survive and grow and evolve and (we hope) live long, eventful existences. But those who don't survive, like John, they indeed do make a difference (present tense intended), and in ways they could have never known, nor imagined.

This has to be, then, the best result of what we term "art."
-- Geoff Schutt

P.S. I gave Erin 21 questions -- some with multiple parts. She was kind enough to answer 17, including one via YouTube. I then thought of one additional question, which she also answered. I kind of like the idea of three or four missing questions -- and yet you'll find everything answered through Erin's links to other material.



THE INTERVIEW:

This Side of Paradise: When you were growing up, what was it like in your household -- especially with an older brother and a five-year age difference -- did you look up to John as a younger sister to older brother, or was there any competition?

Erin O'Brien: John always used to call me "Dad's last hope." I was sort of popular and had very good grades, tons of dates and boyfriends. John was brilliant and excelled where he chose to. But he was also very rebellious, refusing to attend his high school graduation or go to college. Although I never felt competition between us, John may have.

John left home at 18 and got married at 19 when I was still a young teen. He and wife Lisa took off to follow their wanderlust, which led them around the country and eventually to the West Coast. So by the time I was really paying attention, he was gone. Strangely, my relationship with him has grown much since his death. My window into his life is the work he left behind. It is unfair though, I age and mature and he stays the same.

(For more on this topic, see this essay:
http://www.freetimes.com/stories/15/50/leaving-las-vegas-rearview)


2. You and John both became writers. At what age did you begin writing, and did John or your parents or anyone else encourage you to continue writing? At what age did you know that you were a good (or better than good) writer?

--I am still waiting for the age when I know I am a "better than good" writer.

I've been writing all my life. Everyone has. I always tell kids that when I speak at schools. Everyone writes all the time. We are all writers. Some of us elevate it to a craft, which is what I try to do. I started writing in earnest in 1995--about a year after John died. That's when I abandoned my career as an electrical engineer in order to immerse myself in learning to write. I've never looked back. But if your readers would like to, here is a glimpse at some of my earliest writing:

http://erin-obrien.blogspot.com/2007/07/my-very-first-novel.html

3. When we talk about the creative process, I know that every writer is different. Many of your topics may begin as seemingly mundane -- or the everyday life stories that are common to all of us, and yet you have a way of turning these experiences into not only entertainment, but art. Before we get to the writing itself, tell me what your morning routine is like, if you have a routine.

--If my husband has the day off and my kid has school, we screw our brains out for about a half hour. Then maybe some coffee as I poke around my computer. Then I pull up whatever I'm working on and start poking at it. Eventually, the momentum picks up and I'm working at a good clip.

Maybe that's a bit too much information, but it's also truth. I detest it when writers act all artsy-fartsy and self-important, talking how they work on Their Work in Total Silence for solid eight-hour blocks. I'm like anyone else at their job, except I do mine at home and that has certain (ahem) diversions like the one I cited above as well as the laundry, the unfinished jigsaw puzzle, and that pot of chicken stock simmering on the stove. The sweet call of "mmmoooOOOOoooOOOOooommmmmm" is yet another distraction.

However, if I am under deadline or working on something hairy, I do nothing but work. I don't cook or clean or anything. I just work with disturbing intensity. Those are strange days, but wonderful too. When my kid asks what's for dinner, "Self serve," is my answer. Oh well. She's pretty good about it too. When she was little, if the pimento light in the big olive in Mom's martini glass lamp was on and glowing red, it meant no interruptions unless it was serious business. Now she is 11 and pretty good about respecting my work time. Sometimes she'll come in and watch me just like I used to watch my dad tooling away in his machine shop when I was a kid.

4. Is your husband a writer? If so, or if not -- how does he "support" your "habit?" I like the word "habit" in this sense -- that writers feel the "need" to write, rather than it being just another profession. But you may disagree with that assumption.

--I don't think of it as a habit, but more of a complex compulsion. Writing is mathematical process for me. It starts with a single word or idea. Add a pound of work, and you get a 10-percent draft, add another pound and you're up to 20 percent and so on. I HATE it when I know I must turn something in under deadline that I don't think is properly drafted. Knowing there is more in the material that I haven't fleshed out drives me up a wall. I will work ceaselessly to avoid it. When I do publish something that isn't quite done, it's usually on my blog because I am battling another compulsion: the need to update.

My husband is a Sports Illustrated sort of guy. I cannot assign enough gratitude to his support. I am really weird sometimes, but he tolerates it all. He knows that I must write or I will fuck up in the worst way. We've been through a great deal of tragedy and we have deep appreciation for our lives. That sounds trite, but it's not. I am so thankful for a Tuesday meatloaf dinner with my family that I could weep. I would choose that over a bucket full of diamonds without one moment's hesitation.

5. You've written about your "favorite, magic hat." I create little mojo bags. It seems to me that writers, the good ones at least, seem to have their share of eccentricities (eccentric as viewed by the rest of the world). With my mojo bags, I try to channel positive energy. It's not witchcraft, as you noted in a column about your hat (see: http://www.freetimes.com/stories/15/20/wear-it-well). I think it's more about how we use or recognize this positive energy and turn it into words on the page, or how anybody can channel positive energy for good in their life. Have you found a replacement hat for the one that was stolen?

--It's funny that you ask about the "Wear it Well" column, which was immensely popular. People loved it. And yes, someone did send me a hat.

And now that I wrote it and saw the way it spilled out over everyone, I think it was magic--real magic. It was so sincere and so non-fictional. I set out to write a funny short blog entry bitching out whomever stole my hat. Then I stopped and thought, that's really not who I am or who I want to be. Then I thought of that dumb Frosty cartoon and the energy and the good will I felt right then was palpable. I was just thankful that I was able to successfully articulate it.

I could never have summoned that column. It had to be born in the most organic sense. And when it was, it was one of the moments that make all the miserable parts of being a writer just fade away. I have to note here, though, that I was not confident about that column at all. I thought, who the hell wants to read about my dumb-ass hat? And when my editor said that he loved it, it was the greatest feeling.

6. Your brother was an alcoholic, and committed suicide. That's a blunt statement, but you've addressed this in other interviews. I'm one of those many people who were introduced to John's work first through the film version of Leaving Las Vegas, and then I think I read a Rolling Stone article that had all kinds of "conspiracy" theories among his friends about "who" might have been responsible for his killing himself. But when it comes right down to it, John had sold Leaving Las Vegas and the film was in production, and most writers would say, "Hey, with this money (however much it was), I'm set for a while to keep on writing." And yet that didn't happen with John. In fact he left an unfinished manuscript that you completed. Was he in contact with your family in the days before he died? Did he realize that he'd already created a legacy for himself? To make this a three-part question, how did John feel in general about his writing, and its acceptance (or rejection)?

--John was very proud of his work and humble successes. He was not good with rejection or being edited. He surely held grudges. He was furious over the edits that were done to Rugrats episode #37 "Toys in the Attic," which he authored under the name Carroll Mine (the main character in Stripper Lessons) because he didn't want his name associated with the edited version. But when I read John's original script and compared it to what eventually ran, I thought the edits were completely appropriate. In fact, they had to be done in order to fit run-time constraints. But John sure saw it differently.

Although Leaving Las Vegas wasn't quite in production when John died (that "production was stopped temporarily" when John died is a Wiki/Internet myth), he had signed over the rights about two weeks before his suicide. I guess it just didn't matter to him at that point. As far as conspiracies, that's just bunk. John put the bottle to his lips. John put the gun in his mouth. I'll always have guilt and regret, but in the end, I know these things are true.

7. We know of lots of stories of artists who suffered (or continue to suffer) from alcoholism, or other illnesses. If John had suddenly decided to stop drinking, what do you think this might have meant for his writing? Did the alcohol and writing go hand-in-hand for him? As something to compare this to, in terms of the creative process, what would have happened if Van Gogh, for example, would have been "cured?" (Such an easy word to use.) Do some artists "need" to be tormented in order to create?

--John's novel Stripper Lessons is booze-free. It is a funny, sweet, wonderful piece of work and I imagine the world would have seen more of that side of John had he successfully kicked the bottle.

Of course, that is just conjecture. What's so hard for me is that I've continued to grow and mature in the craft, yet John is frozen in time. It makes me so sad to think of all he missed out on.

8. How difficult was it for you to complete John's last novel -- and was it your idea to complete it?

--That was so many years ago. I guess it was part of the grieving process. I absolutely hate my contributions, but what's done is done. Yes, it was my idea. I remember feeling utterly drawn into doing it and studying the book. Tony's means a great deal more to me than probably anyone else in the world. I see things and details others do not. I wrote extensively about it here: http://www.freetimes.com/stories/15/50/leaving-las-vegas-rearview

9. How do you think John would like to be remembered? (If he could write his own epitaph, after finding his peace, what do you think he would say about himself?) And how do you remember John -- what qualities come to mind first? What kind of person was he to his friends, wife, and other loved ones?

--I remember John was talking about his book (Leaving Las Vegas), specifically the copyright page and the "Library of Congress" text, which at the time included this line:

O'Brien, John, 1960-

He thought that was so funny--that the birth year was followed by a hyphen, as if filling in the year of death was unfinished business. "I wonder if it's some guy's job," John said to me. "I wonder if he's sitting at a dusty desk in the back of the Library of Congress with my file open in front of him. He's probably yelling over to another guy who looks just like him and asking, 'Hey, Crocker, anybody know if this O'Brien guy kicked yet?'"

That doesn't answer your question, but it's what I thought of when I read it.

10. As a follow-up, how would you like to be remembered?

--We once lost power for four days, but I managed to keep the kitchen going with coolers and our gas stovetop. I told my husband that my headstone should read:

Here lies Erin. She kept the beer cold.

11. You discuss John as a writer who didn't need the "alcohol" to write. As we're discussing process, and you've talked about your own process, do you know what John's writing process was? For example, did he carry around little notebooks, was he always scribbling dialogue, did he have set times he wrote best -- or something completely different? Did he talk about his work-in-progress as he was writing?

--During his most fertile writing years, John was in Los Angeles and I was in Cleveland, so I can't really comment first-hand on his routine. I do remember reading something a friend of his wrote that indicated John was diligent and regimented. He said something about how he struggled with every handful of words while he watched on with amazement as John put out 10 pages of pristine prose a day.

I have wondered for years about how John balanced the booze and the writing. I have no idea if he kept the two completely separate or if they sometimes flowed together.

12. You've already written one novel, and you're writing all the time, it seems -- on your blog, for your newspaper column, and speaking on issues related to "process." When you wrote your first novel, were you afraid at all that it would be compared to John's work? That said, are you working on a new novel?

--For years I was worried people wouldn't see my writing because of John's shadow. That doesn't bother me anymore. I've paid my dues and have the scars to prove it.

I am not writing any long fiction these days. I want to write a memoir or a collection of essays. I do still write the occasional short story. (see: http://www.erinobrien.us/shortfic.html)

13. Do you keep notebooks filled with ideas for your columns and blog entries, or do you find that writing is a spontaneous kind of process for you? I'm wondering if the discipline of writing each day feeds you ideas on its own -- just by existing -- living another day.

--I do carry a notebook and jot ideas when they come to me. Some flesh out, others fizzle. Some pieces are long in the making, with much external research others are about me or something in my life and are therefore internal, although external research is always required. In "Wear it Well," for instance, I had to fish around and make sure I was getting the details from Frosty the Snowman correct.

Here is an example of what I consider to be an externally driven column regarding research/preparation, but it was also personal and internal. It has a few subtle nods to John and was a real mother to write: http://www.freetimes.com/stories/14/25/morning-shift

14. What is one book by another author you wish you could have written (or books), and why?

--Um … The Bible?

Okay seriously now, I am not envious or even desirous of other writers' works, but I do get disgusted at the insider business of publication for all of it's pretentious sniffing, who-you-knowness and incestuous connections. My novel Harvey & Eck was a good book. It was worthy of more attention than it got.

15. When you write, do you listen to music -- do you require silence -- how do you get into that "zone" that writers/artists often experience? This is more a question about preparation than anything else.

--I need quiet. I am susceptible to distractions and try to avoid them by turning off all email alerts when I'm hard at work. I often shut my office door.

16. What is your favorite food? An weird question to ask, but it beats favorite color, unless you want to disclose that as well.

see: http://www.youtube.com/v/yuhYGANN6o0

17. Where do you see your own writing career 10-20 years from now, figuring in as well your domestic life?

--No way to tell. I find the path as I travel it.

18. The writers I know are filled with passion for their craft/art, and this can lead to moments of mania as well as depression (without being clinically manic-depressive). How do you deal with a down day -- or is it easier to deal with a down day than an up day (for example, is writing a kind of therapy, as it is with me)?

--It's great when writing feels good. But writing is also my work. I am very fortunate to be a columnist and get paid to write what I want, but it's still work. To that end, there are days when it just feels like work--but always work that I love.

I roll through the bad days as best I can. Sometimes a rejection evokes only a heavy sigh, sometimes an emphatic string of profanity, other times it will put me down for days. In such a case, I just try to get through it.

Actually, I have a whole website dedicated to this topic, "The sad writing chronicles of Erin O'Brien," which is sort of a big, bad YouTube self-pity party.
http://writingchronicles.blogspot.com/

A Note From Erin:
I know I haven't answered all your questions and for that I apologize. Sometimes I'm not very good at following directions. For Everything Erin, though, I invite your readers to visit http://www.erinobrien.us/.

I also referred to my April 16, 2008 feature in the Cleveland Free Times a couple of times herein. I wasn't trying to pass anything off, but I didn't want to repeat myself. By way of introducing that article, I posted an elaborate blog entry with many photos and links to things I've written about John. I invite your readers to stop by here if they're interested in reading more: http://erin-obrien.blogspot.com/2008/04/leaving-las-vegas-rearview.html

*

PHOTO CREDITS: Top, John and Erin (1968). Middle two, Erin and John (1986). Photographs used with the permission of Erin O'Brien, and may not be otherwise reproduced without her written permission.

INTERVIEW CREDIT: Copyright Erin O'Brien and Geoff Schutt, April 2008

"I am thinking of the day you said ..."

by Cher Bibler

"Safe"

I have it safe in my pocket
You needn't worry
I've kept my secrets buried and
I can keep yours, too
Winter may come and freeze my soul
Spring will thaw my heart
but I won't be careless and let it slip
I love you too much for that

"About Face"

I am thinking of the day
you said hold this between
your teeth and handed me your
dream which I never wanted
to begin with

poems from the novel, About Irene.
Published with permission of the author.

Leonardo da Vinci: Celebrate Creativity!

You'll notice a number of quotes/thoughts from the Master, Leonardo da Vinci, on This Side of Paradise. We want to wish the Master a Happy Birthday today (born this date in 1452).

It's a good day for Creation! So here's to the Muses, and to Leonardo da Vinci. -- Geoff

*

"For once you have tasted flight you will walk the earth with your eyes turned skywards, for there you have been and there you will long to return."

and

"There are three classes of people: those who see, those who see when they are shown, those who do not see."

-- Leonardo da Vinci

"Get My World Whole Again," Part Two

Note to self: forget rational thought, whatever rational is left. You have every right to hold her accountable. I mean, for God’s sake, stop accepting that the world has to sit on your damn shoulders that already hurt so much, and get angry at someone who hurts you, okay? Love will win over hate any time, but you’ve got to let the hate out. Sometimes, you’ve got to say, I hate you for doing this to me, for making me do this. I overheard this next bit of wisdom at a coffeehouse, or on a bus, or in a crowded elevator. Doesn't really matter. I can’t recall where I heard it, but I sure recall the words. "You don’t fall in love. You stand firm in love. Because you never know when your man is going to be out of work, or get into some trouble, and then he’s on the streets and needs you most." You can fall out of love as quickly as you fall in love, but standing firm in love, that takes something else entirely. That’s love made real, as in tangible, as in something you can put your fingers around and hold and rock like a baby and kiss and tell it, hey, everything is going to be fine because I’m with you and I don’t intend to let you be alone. We can face this thing together. That’s standing firm in love, and that’s why I will find a way myself to stand firm in love – for the two of us. That's why, you know? Are you listening to me? The disconnect is happening again. There are voices, but the sound has been turned off. -- an excerpt

William Faulkner: "Try to be better than yourself."

"Always dream and shoot higher than you know you can do. Don't bother just to be better than your contemporaries or predecessors. Try to be better than yourself."
-- William Faulkner

*

"Yes, yes -- try to be better than good!" Eleanor is shouting.

Eleanor To Her Prospective New Boss

Eleanor to her prospective new boss:

"You want sexy? I can be sexy. I can be provocative. I can give your customers any message you want them to hear. That’s how good I can be. Want me to prove it? Hire me. Give me a chance. Unless of course you think I’m a bit too much for what you have to offer. I can be sweet too, but even better -- I also can be every other thing you can imagine. I’m not talking naughty, or vulgar or anything like that. That’s how good I can be, sweet and sexy, and nobody will notice just how good I am until you've sold them something. So – am I hired?"

*

"Thine Image Dies With Thee"

William Shakespeare

Sonnet III.

Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest
Now is the time that face should form another;
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
For where is she so fair whose unear'd womb
Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
Or who is he so fond will be the tomb
Of his self-love, to stop posterity?
Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime:
So thou through windows of thine age shall see
Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time.
But if thou live, remember'd not to be,
Die single, and thine image dies with thee.

And Eleanor Said, Something Crazy Is About To Happen

And Eleanor said to her writer, "Something crazy is about to happen, isn't it? This is the week?"

Her writer nodded. "This is the week everything happens, including crazy," he said.

"Get My World Whole Again"

"Love"
-- excerpt by Geoff Schutt

Okay, I’ll tell you all about love – my version at least – how I see it. And I’ll tell you about life, and death, and lies, and deception, and what it means when your world is turned end over end because you, meaning me, me – because I love more than the average man ever could, and I feel more than the average human being, and I hurt – I hurt myself and I hurt others, including you, with my lies and my deception, and then your world is turned over and over like mine, and over and over again, our world, until neither one of us, you – me, can see which way leads toward the top, and air, or the bottom, or which way is death, and which direction is back to living again. Who makes it out intact from this love? Now you really want to know about love after I’ve said this much, because if you do, I will take you there, to where love ends and begins and simply stays put. It will be true, this love. This love will be filled with lies and deception. This love will be addiction. My addiction to you. If you want to know of love, that is, of where I will take you, to let you see and experience and decide for yourself. Love is all about these many disparate qualities and things, and if I am supposed to lay myself bare to you, like a gaping wound, as if my life depended on you to understand – do you understand your responsibility in this? – to understand me, and all of my frailties, as well as my strengths, my passions, and the life in me that refuses to die, for you – you – I must be addicted, to you, so that you can save me. I cannot save myself without your love. I hope you want to know about love, because if you do, I might live, and my hope will become yours to share, and then returned to me – to us – ten times over, or twenty times over, and maybe even a hundred times over. You’re my long shot, see? If you’re my hope, in wanting to know, in becoming my addiction. If I can dare hope to live and love and go on, you must – and I cannot stress this enough or put this fully into expression – you must be a winner. You must finish first, ahead of everything and everyone else, a clear winner, no objections, no steward’s inquiry, a clean finish. I must be able to take you to the teller’s window and cash you in and get my world whole again, like it was.

Death Comes To Eleanor's Dreams

Three times in the past week, Eleanor has dreamt her own death. The third time was the most vivid. Something was wrong with her brain. The doctors were messing around inside her brain.

She was trying to think but they were screwing with her thoughts.

"Olive!" she screamed, but there was silence. There was no screaming for Olive, as much as Eleanor tried to scream. An there was no Olive. There was no scream at all.

This was really screwed up.

I have to wake up, Eleanor thought. I have to wake up now.

Won't somebody help me? Thelma Todd, are you there? Carole Lombard, are you there? Lupe Velez, are you there? Olive, where are you? Olive!

Please, somebody. Somebody -- anybody.

Olive Thomas Instructs Eleanor, Already Sleeping

from Eleanor,
a novel by Geoff Schutt

*

Eleanor was already sleeping. Olive Thomas came to her and said, "Yes, sleep, my sweet child Eleanor. Sleep for three days more. And then we shall talk."

The room was suddenly cold. Eleanor opened her eyes. She tried to remember what Olive told her. She was careful not to move, to remain on her back, hands crossed over her chest like a mummy, or perhaps, an angel.

"Sleep for three days more. And then we shall talk."

Eleanor closed her eyes. Her dreams were vivid. They were in black and white. There was no color. There was no sound. She was indeed in Olive's world.

*

"The High-Bouncing Lover," or Gatsby

What if F. Scott Fitzgerald had named The Great Gatsby "The High-Bouncing Lover?" -- one of his alternative choices? Good thing Max Perkins was around.

Today in literary history: The Great Gatsby was published -- April 10, 1925.

*

This remains my absolute favorite novel. I think I like Gatsby so much because I can play most everything else off of it -- other books I read, music, film, the visual arts, affairs of life and of the heart ... all of it. And then the "everything" seems to make a bit of sense.

My writing hat is off to Gatsby, and this definitely deserves a Guinness and perhaps a shot of Jameson for writing strength today. (Please drink responsibly! It's said that Fitzgerald preferred gin. The "bathtub gin" period during Prohibition wasn't called that because of some fancy bubble bath.)

*

ON BRILLIANCE:
We each have a Gatsby inside us. (Call your Gatsby by another name, that's fine.) So it is our "responsibility" as artists, in whatever our medium, to work hard and long enough to find the gem, polish it up, and show it off to the world. But never discount "Hope." Hope is a driving force all its own, and people tend to forget this. Without hope, we are doomed.

*

"The world only exists in your eyes. You can make it as big or as small as you want."
-- F. Scott Fitzgerald

"Risk"

My cousin Cyndi, also a writer, passed along the following poem, which seems fitting in these days of heavy writing and deep introspection. Thanks, Cyndi! -- Geoff

*

"Risk"
by Anaïs Nin

And then the day came,
when the risk
to remain tight
in a bud
was more painful
than the risk
it took
to Blossom.

*

I think St. Therese would like this poem, too.

*

"The Man In The Arena" & Eleanor, 18 Years Old

It's been nearly 98 years since Teddy Roosevelt gave a speech that is today commonly known as "The Man In The Arena" ... for one particular passage. A friend, who happens to be a painter, gave me Roosevelt's words some years back, and mentioned that many in the artistic community live by them. For these artists, it's a necessity, and not a choice, to live by them -- else they would cease to create.

(There are other friends of mine who have read Roosevelt's entire speech, and take some issues with certain statements, but I'm content to believe that Roosevelt was a product of his time, as all politicians are, and that his words on "The Man In The Arena" are strong enough to stand alone. It's like getting two speeches in one, really.)

This afternoon, Teddy Roosevelt's words are speaking to me in a very strong and loud voice, urging me -- pushing me -- forward

*

I have 12 days, give or take, to put the rest of the polish and revision on the first 50-page section of Eleanor. Then it goes to my agent.

The novel has been "in-progress" for 18 years. It's seen many versions -- too many to count, and I've probably written a few thousand pages of text. But Eleanor won't let me go until I get her right, and to that level of "better than good."

*

When my agent, Stephanie, first signed me as a client, we worked for months to get a draft of the novel we both were pleased with -- and then out it went to every major publishing house in the industry. For two years, Stephanie tried to find a publisher for the novel, and her dedication and belief continues to amaze me. In the meantime, I started work on another novel.

We got a lucky break last Fall when I met with a couple of editors in New Orleans, who asked to see a new version of Eleanor. (Even after the many "kind and polite rejections" from those in the industry, I kept myself in Eleanor's universe ... went on writing and tweaking; she's one of those characters who won't let a guy go, let me tell you.)

Timing is (almost) everything. And a bit of that "luck." But I truly believe that if you stick with your art, it doesn't matter if you create something wonderful and meaningful in two weeks or 20 years. The time it takes is -- well, the time that's needed. And so it has been with Eleanor.

As for Teddy Roosevelt's words, I'm back in that arena, and Eleanor is right there with me, as well as all of the other characters in the novel. We'll be sure the new beginning works, and then continue until all of the words have their chance to speak. Some will make the new final cut, and some won't. But each will be heard. Every character deserves a voice -- living characters, or those so-called imaginary ones.

*

I admire any artist who has the pluck to stick with his or her vision.

As for this writer, Eleanor will prove that I do exist, and that my own existence has been worth the "dust and sweat and blood."

To the words! -- Geoff

*

"It is not the critic who counts, not the man who points out how the strong man stumbled, or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena; whose face is marred by the dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs and comes short again and again; who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions and spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best, knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who, at worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly; so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory or defeat."

Theodore Roosevelt
University of Paris, Sorbonne
April 23, 1910
from his speech, "Citizenship In A Republic"

"Yes God Is Sweet - My Mother Told Me So"

My Dad began writing poetry in his sixth decade. He'd always talked about wanting to write -- writing seems to be in this family's genes. Finally, after years of talk, and years of hard work as he and my Mom made sure that they'd be able to enjoy their retirement years in comfort, my Dad put pen to paper.

He's in many ways an old-fashioned writer, and makes no apologies. He generally uses the small versions of yellow legal pads. When he types his poetry, it's usually in all caps, each of the letters deliberately tapped with his fingers -- and in all caps not because he's trying to shout the words our way, but because that's how he started typing. He's not about to change now, and why should he.

This magnificent and often-times mysterious creative process -- how we are influenced by the people we are closest to, as well as those people that will forever remain strangers -- this process digs itself into our skin, and our blood, and ultimately into our heads and hearts.

My Dad's poetry is always a treat. Now he's writing like a man possessed by the creative spirit. There's no "commercial" goal. He feels the words, and he gives them life. Plain and simple. And beautiful.

The favorite thing for me about my Dad's poems is discovering that one line that says the world -- my world, his world, my family's world. It's our lives, in one shiny, neat thought. I look for that one line in each of his works, and then I find that I'm reading every word, hanging on the sentiment, trying to envision myself in his mind as he gets into his personal creative flow.

Here, for the first time anywhere, is one of my Dad's complete poems, posted and published. And it's an absolute honor for me. -- Geoff

*

"A NEW YEAR"
BY RICHARD SCHUTT

HAVE YOU EVER HEARD THE SEA WHEN IT SINGS
WHERE IT SLEEPS ON THE SHORE IN THE NIGHT OF TIME?

HAVE YOU EVER HEARD THE HYMNS THE BREEZE BRINGS
TO THE CLOUDS SHE SEES TO BE ONLY A SONG OF A SHADOW ON WINGS?

YES GOD IS SWEET -- MY MOTHER TOLD ME SO --
WHEN I KNELT AT HER FEET SO LONG LONG AGO

AH, ME -- THAT MEMORY STIRS MY SOUL PROFOUNDLY --
YES, THEN I WAS A CHILD.

HOW QUICKLY THE YEARS GO -- LIFE’S MANY YEARS --
WITH THEIR WINGS OF WOE
AND THEIR STORMS OF TEARS.

LET THE NEW YEAR SING AT THE OLD YEAR'S GRAVE,
OR WILL THE NEW YEAR BRING WHAT THE OLD YEAR GAVE?

LET THE NEW YEAR SMILE WHEN THE OLD YEAR DIES,
OR WILL IN A SHORT WHILE THE SMILES BE SIGHS?

AND WHY NOT, SO THE OLD OLD YEARS --
THEY KNOW ALL OUR HOPES AND FEARS

HOW SWIFTLY THE YEARS GO,
LIFE’S MANY YEARS WITH THEIR WINGS OF WOE
AND THEIR STORMS OF TEARS.

BUT THE FLOWERS OF THE FUTURE
FRAGRANT AND FAIR --
THE PAST: THE PAST MAY NEVER COMPARE.

THE OLD, OLD YEARS
WE WALKED BY THEIR SIDE
AND THEY KISSED OFF OUR TEARS WHILE THEY WHISPERED RELIEF
AND THEY KISSED OFF OUR TEARS AS WE TOLD THEM EACH GRIEF.

BUT WILL THE FLOWERS OF THE FUTURE BE FRAGRANT AND FAIR,
AND MAKE THE PAST -- THE PAST, AND NEVER COMPARE?

HAPPY NEW YEAR.

Theme For Today: "Eccentricity"

"Eccentricity has always abounded when and where strength of character has abounded; and the amount of eccentricity in a society has generally been proportional to the amount of genius, mental vigor, and moral courage which it contained."
-- John Stuart Mill(1806-1873)
Source: On Liberty, 1859