Five Objects

Our lives are filled with objects. Some, we attach very high values too. I can determine the importance of any of my objects based on how close they are to me. These are five things I found on my desk, where I spend most of my time when I'm home.



1. I bought this Swiss Army knife when I went away to summer camp. I had a nasty habit of losing things. And a boy can't go away to summer camp without a proper knife. I knew this then, but because I was constantly losing things, my parents wouldn't spring for one. I bought this one with my personal savings at age 11. I still have it today. Though my trusty Laguiole is my pen knife these days, my Swiss Army knife will always be a dependable sidekick.


2. My first smart phone. My BlackBerry Pearl, or as I affectionately refer to it, "The BlueBerry." Lately, I've come to realize what a piece of shit this thing is. The Web browsing capability leaves something to be desired. The keyboard is really difficult to use one-handed. It tends to freeze up. The list goes on... But the thing's gotten me out of more than a few jams when I've needed a quick Google search in a pinch. I'll never leave home without it.

3. Hunter S. Thompson is one of the big reasons I decided to pursue journalism. Little did I know when I departed on this half-baked expedition, that journalism is not nearly as cool as he portrayed it. At least not straight journalism. Now Gonzo, that's where it's really at. I'm just waiting for the right moment to dive headlong toward the edge, make the old man proud. This is one of his books that I'm currently reading. It really goes to show how the American Dream is totally fucked. It was terrible that a guy like Richard Nixon was elected twice. But what's worse is that the country didn't learn. Since then, we've elected a long list of indiscernible, unscrupulous scum-suckers. With Hunter gone, someone needs to chronicle the atrocities and reckless abandonment of power. And if someone doesn't step up soon, it just might have to be me.

4. My iPod Nano. It's a necessary evil. I have stacks of CDs surrounding me as I write this. And a stack of LPs leaning up against a large tower of DVDs. But having it all at your fingertips, anywhere you go, well, that just can't be beat. To kill the boredom on the way to work, I've been listening to each of my albums from start to finish, then posting micro-reviews on Twitter. I just made it to the Bs. Check my twitter page if this interests you.


5. Maybe the most important thing I own. My compass. I own a bunch, but I've come to favor this one. I bought it before my trip to Maine last year. I don't have any tattoos, but if I did get one, it would be of a compass. I'm obsessed with knowing where I'm going. Nothing discomforts me more than being lost or not having a sense of direction, both literal or metaphorical. I can find my bearings with this, and if I can't find my mental bearings, it serves as a reminder that they're out there somewhere. I just need to keep looking.

Soundtrack to a Novella.

Early on in the process of writing "Further Ahead," Christopher Klim directed me toward a useful writing strategy. He told me that while I was writing, I should listen to music that encapsulated the mood of each passage. I immediately recognized the value of this approach.

I have a highly associative memory and thought process (as I think most people do). I associate different books and records with different aspects of my life, or different parts of history. I'm also an amateur musician. A simple chord progression or melody is enough to make me feel something. Add lyrics into the milieu and I could be made to feel anything through a song.

"Further Ahead" deals with the aftermath of Sept. 11. Not only did the day alter the course of American history, it affected the progression of American art and music. On the cusp of this catastrophe is the first record I heavily relied on throughout the duration of the writing process.

Wilco -- Yankee Hotel Foxtrot: On a personal level, this record marks some sort of personal departure. With lines like, "Tall buildings shake, voices escape singing sad, sad songs. ..." you can't help but feel the allusion to national disaster, a national wound. While I wrote chapter one, during which my protagonist, Pat Hensley, takes an ill-fated journey to New York, taking the PATH train through Ground Zero, Jeff Tweedy's words echoed through my head on repeat.

The use of the second record on the list is slightly more contradictory.

George Harrison -- All Things Must Pass: When Patrick has his most materialistic moments, this record is playing in the background, literally. Not only did I listen to this record while writing a few chapters, I wrote it into the book. In terms of record titles, I don't think there is one that rings truer than this. And it is an important reminder. Even in the face of national tragedy, all things must past: "Sunrise doesn't last all morning. A cloudburst doesn't last all day. ..." It's an important message that Patrick -- ever the avoider -- chooses to overlook. He lets the worst parts of his personal life, and greater American life, consume him.

On a personal level, George Harrison struck me as the mysterious Beatle. He kept to himself, and was largely left out of the McCartney-Lennon song-writing equation. But when he finally struck out on his own, he produced a stunning body of music. For someone trying to write their first serious piece of fiction, this record was inspirational.

Bob Dylan & The Band -- The Basement Tapes: If I could sum up the feeling of "Further Ahead" in one song, it would be "Tears of Rage" from this record: "We carried you in our arms, on Independence Day." After reading Greil Marcus' "The Old, Weird America: Bob Dylan's Basement Tapes," I recognized the significance of these strange songs that I'd heard my father's band sing since I was a little boy. Dylan has asserted time and time again that these songs aren't folk songs -- they're political songs, and they're too weird to die. They are the very fiber of American consciousness. These songs are older than the country itself.

Since I was exploring how American identity has changed after Sept. 11, it seemed like a good idea to go to its roots. Dylan and The Band's roots music was essential.

So, if my novella had a soundtrack, this would be it. I'm always on the lookout for good writing music. Feel free to post your suggestions in the comments below. What music do you like to write/work to?

Devotion to the facts.

One of my biggest concerns as a writer is rooted in my methods. A lot of what I write about is based on life experience. In "Further Ahead," for example, I draw heavily on my experiences as a college student at a public school and my middle-class upbringing. While I think that these elements are identifiable for potential like-minded readers (i.e. middle America), I sometimes feel like it's writer-ly laziness.

After all, a good writer is supposed to have a limitless imagination. He or she should be able to invent numerous characters, personalities, motivating factors, settings, etc. I suppose I could do these things. But I find reality much more interesting.

This is probably the result of my training as journalist. I have had no formal training in realm of creative writing. In fact, I never even made an attempt at writing fiction until college. In terms of my writing style, I think it tends to be very concise and direct -- in a word, journalistic. This results in an at times unintentional devotion to facts in my fiction.

The characters of "Further Ahead" are either people I know or have known, or they're an amalgamation of character traits from people I've observed or known only in passing. One of my biggest fears is that, should this work ever get published in any meaningful sense, these people will recognize themselves (and proceed to sue the shit out of me). Hopefully, one of those "Any likeness of these characters/events to real people/events is pure coincidence" will be enough to keep the wolves at bay.

I can't recall who said it (and I'm paraphrasing), but I believe a writer once said literature is 90 percent fact through a thin veil of fiction.

It's hard to write about people you know and love, or have loved, in an unflattering way. But that is my devotion to reality. And though a writer is supposed to be creative, a writer is also supposed to write what they know. The facts, it seems, come in handy.

The halfway mark.

Ah yes, dear reader, the halfway mark. It's a scary place to be. And I'm referring to the halfway mark in editing Further Ahead.

Being halfway through anything always scared the hell out of me. You've already put so much work into something, and yet the possibility of failure still looms overhead. Will all the work be for nothing? When I ran cross country in high school, I always worried I'd roll an ankle 1.5 miles into a race.

I guess what I'm getting at is I'm concerned that working so diligently on this draft will be a complete waste of time. I began it almost a year ago, which is crazy to think about. And twenty years of life needed to go by for it to be written, which is even crazier to think about.

I guess that's the risk any writer takes. You want people to care, but you can't make them care.

And if this thing ever does get published, then in retrospect, this post will fall very short of the actual halfway mark. Time will tell.

The Cars are awesome.

I was going to blog about how terrible my week has been, but that's pretty played. Instead, I'm going to let you all in on a little secret:

The Cars. Are. Awesome.

Over the years, I've been quick to point out that the 1980s was the most culturally inconsequential decade on record. Well, after finally coming to terms with my love of The Cars, I'm starting to reconsider. I submit to you this video as evidence:



Here is a band that clearly doesn't give a shit. They're a lighthearted, poppier version of The Talking Heads. The musicianship is sound -- a decent blend of rock, punk, electronica and definitely a touch of rockabilly. There's definitely some sophistication here -- and I'm not talking about the intricacy of their perms.

But over the top of any real talent is a high-gloss finish. It screams, "We're in this to sell records. We don't give a shit. What of it?"

What of it indeed. The Cars are awesome.

How they managed to keep the sand out.

I'm back from a brief blogging hiatus. I spent last Monday through Wednesday in Cape May, N.J. on a short vacation. After working hard all summer, it was wonderful to get away, even if it was only for a few days. This vacation was especially gratifying because it was the first I've ever paid for on my own. Money, it seems, was a central theme of this trip.

When I was trying to select a destination, I made sure it was somewhere I'd never been before. New Jersey, for its small size, still remains largely unexplored by me, particularly its Southern reaches. Cape May seemed like a good choice.

I'd heard about Cape May's historic, Victorian exterior. When I arrived, I found out that Henry Hudson had discovered the Cape 400 years ago. I'd also heard about its wealth and opulence. These things didn't cause me any discomfort until I arrived.

I stayed with Kelly at the Star Inn, which is owned by Congress Hall. Based on my limited observations, Congress Hall is the crowned jewel of the Cape May resort establishment. It sprawls like a Southern-Gothic plantation over well-manicured lawns. The Stars and Stripes -- several of them -- bedeck its entrance. It strikes me as the place where the American Dream went into retirement. It seemed to be the tonal epicenter of the place.

While time spent lounging on the beach was certainly relaxing, I couldn't help but feel on edge everywhere I went, particularly in and around Congress Hall (I had to check in here since my Inn was owned by the Hall). It must be something in the way I walk, or the clothes I wear (or the distinct possibility that this is indeed all in my head), but everywhere I went, I felt like I was undergoing constant scrutiny. Like these people saw through me to my bank account. The place smelled of money everywhere I went, and I felt like an unwelcome in-law on their palatial estate.

Interesting enough, my hotel didn't cost that much money. And the places we ate were all affordable. But to stay on the plantation, that must cost a pretty penny. You could see it in the restrained sneers of its guests as I strolled in my shabby attire across their immaculate tile floor, as I drank a Manhattan in one of its multiple lounges.

How they managed to keep the sand out, I'll never know.

The sounds of summer.

Summer in the North Jersey highlands has its own collection of sites, smells and sounds. Each season has its own set. Summer, by far, has my favorite sounds.

Right now I'm sitting in my family room, where I do most of my writing. The sliding-glass door is open, with the screen door protecting me from the legions of thirsty mosquitoes outside. I have the lights turned down low, and The Band is emanating quietly from the speakers of my stereo.

The intonation of The Band is refined and soothing. There's something in the music that is reminiscent of Old America -- hundreds of thousands of summers past. And outside is North Jersey summer. My favorite set of sounds.

The crickets are all chirping in the trees. The tree frogs croak quietly their unintelligible replies to the crickets. The Band jangles on as I grow tired.

Summer's almost over.