Category Archives: Personal Experience

An’ It’s 1-2-3 What Are We Writin’ For? -OR- Para-vice Lost

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A big thanks to Rawrahs from http://rawrahs.blogspot.com/ for starting the new year in a style and voice all his own. Please visit him regularly at the link above. You won’t regret it.  …Zach

Writers write. Different writers write for different reasons. And please, make no mistake, all writers are “different”. The moving writer writes and having writ moves on.

The objective measure of writing success is: Readers? Book sales? Technorati rating? A byline? A paycheck? Critical praise and acclaim? A movie deal? Being aggregated on Huff Po, The Daily Beast, The Great Orange Satan? A six-figure advance on your next work? A Pulitzer? A Newberry?

Where better than a writer’s blog to pose such questions? I’ve attained ONE of the above.

Is it purely money, compliments, and publicity by which we measure?

Biographer, columnist, comedian, composer, creator, dialogist, essayist, freelance, ghostwriter, hack, ink slinger, journalist, novelist, originator, playwright, poet, producer, prose writer, reporter, scribbler, scribe, scripter, speech writer, word slinger, wordsmith, word whore, words-for-hire, will write for food…

Does where one writes matter?
Does what?
Does when?
Who decides what words are seen?

If number of readers is the determinate, does that mean that David Fucking Brooks is a great writer? Any better than the graffiti artist whose work is seen daily, by millions? What about the shithouse poet?

For twenty bucks you can buy the paperback edition of Writer’s Market. For ten bucks you can get the Kindle version. Do you write first, then find a market or do you find a market then write for it? If a particular market is squat upon by a stable of nags who’ve been wrong about everything, by what dint do they continue to get paid to occupy their lofty writing aerie to spew out another thousand words of bullshit?

If one manages to infiltrate the villagers’ circle jerk, does one have to abide by the “say nae a bad word towards another villager” creed?

Is there a more dysfunctional career path than writing? …Anything one could do that is more soul-crushing? Anything more fickle?

Who do you read? How did you find them? I realize these are impolite questions, perhaps unanswerable even, yet I ask all the same.

Is there a hierarchy of writers? A club? A selection committee? A secret handshake?

You are here reading. You arrived, probably expecting to read Zach’s latest insight, but instead find me beebling on about this crap. I’d apologize, but that’s not much help to you, since it’s not particularly heartfelt.

It this occupation too diluted or too deluded?

If you’ve read this far, did you expect an answer? You know the answer for yourself, but how does that apply to those of us who construct words for your reading pleasure?

I look for answers in works that seem to attract readers and find little rhyme or reason beyond the mass-hysteria herd mentality. There isn’t much of a market for anything you don’t want to hear, regardless of how desperately you may need to hear it.

We read to escape. Does that mean that writers who can’t cater to the escapist market are trapped? I read many thousands upon thousands of words each day, and sometimes attempt to distill what I’ve read into a palatable quaff; trying to turn something distasteful or absurd into bite-sized, digestible nuggets. It’s a processing process that ingests, excludes; then extrudes.

I am about to start ingesting a compendium entitled “Deadline Artists” billed and touted as THE best of the absolute best in the fine columnist tradition. Wish me luck.

Should not our daily word-gruel contain a minimum RDA of useful nutrients. Our diet determines our fitness. I am Brussel Sprouts?

A DIGITAL DO

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After months of research and endless internal debate, I bought a Kindle Fire. The act reminded me of a line in one of my books when Matt Jacob thinks that his connection to Jewish ended when the hospital tossed his foreskin into a tray after his birth.

Even though I know it’s not true, it feels as if that one click of “send to shopping cart” severed a connection to hardcover, softcover, coffee table, and every other book in printed form. The Kindle doesn’t and won’t preclude reading any of the above, (I haven’t tossed my vinyl records), but the next step of my evolutionary travel into digital has been taken.

Many friends my age have shied away from e-readers saying they don’t like reading off a screen, they need the feel of a bound book in their hands, and the only time they might ever use one is while traveling.

Not my issues. I spend too many hours at the computer to claim I don’t like reading a screen. I’ve never found myself caressing a leather-bound book, much less a paper one and, I too, think e-readers and their books will make a great traveling companions. So why did I take so long? What’s the big deal?

For me, it’s the feeling that opening up a new door is closing an old one. The image of shoving paperbacks into my rear pocket, the hours under bedroom covers with a small flashlight, the relief books gave me on my boring hour-long bus rides to school, and all the years when the Carteret, N.J. library provided me with a home away from home, replete with its musty smell.

That was then. Now my work life is fully digital. Every penny I earn will come from e-book sales of my original Matt Jacob Mystery Novels (http://zacharykleinonline.com/ matt-jacob-ebooks/) and the new ones in progress. So really, buying the Kindle was anti-climactic; all I did was catch up with myself–and give myself another a tax deduction.

Catching up with myself isn’t easy when it means letting go of what I’ve loved. But I no longer need a home away from home, stuffing books into my back pocket would now give me wallet sciatica, and my days of haunting indie mystery bookstores looking for esoteric authors and titles are over. Hell, Boston no longer has any independent mystery bookstores.

But digital, the Internet, and my turning toward the New Age is much, much larger than Kindles, e-books, and electronic publishing. “The more things change, the more they stay the same” is an old saw that’s often wrong. We live in new technological times which have changed our lives. People debate the better or worse of it; I come out on the “better.” I see the possibility of breaking the corporate stranglehold on what they define as news. I watch information fly around the globe from person to person while governments fail in their attempts to censor because young technologically savvy people find ways around the curtain.

I love the very real probability of developing worldwide communities.

My son has played an international computer game for years. During that time he’s made friends with many people around the globe and learned about their attitudes and cultures–even took a trip to Japan to visit with one of those friends. His do reminds me of my first airplane ride and, I suppose, my purchase of the Kindle. A step into the new.

Given that beasts don’t give up without a fight, it’s way too early to suggest that we live in a “One World” universe, but the glimmer is there. Faint, but there, and that makes the changes we’re going through incredibly worthwhile. Worth letting go of memories or pining for the past. It’s time to take the future–be it a Kindle, online petitions, or reaching large numbers of people with our own personal beliefs in hand to create new memories.

I’d like to believe that my freak flag still flies even though I cut what’s left of my hair and feel pretty good about the look. It is nigh on 2013 after all.

Happy New Year to everyone who has stopped by and I’ll try to keep you thinking, laughing and commenting (and buying some books) all the while I struggle to learn my new machine. Be safe.

“There’s something happening here, what it is ain’t exactly clear…” Buffalo Springfield

WHAT TRUMAN SAYS:

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Capote, that is—not Harry.

I’m taking this opportunity to follow Truman Capote’s genre busting creation of the “nonfiction novel” with nonnovel fiction–an interview with Capote himself. To that end we recently sat down and, I believe, both enjoyed our conversation. We met in a closed small tavern (I know the owner), called The Living Room where Mr. Capote sat on a club chair upholstered in peacock blue with me across a square table on a leather couch. Both of us drank sparkling water.

Mr. Capote: “Frankly, I was expecting the Ritz. Nothing this shabby.” Capote leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, and raised his small hand to his chin.

Me: “I wanted a place where we could talk without being interrupted, Mr. Capote. Plus, I don’t know the owner of the Ritz.”

Mr. Capote: “Just call me Tru. It’s always so interesting to discover who one knows and doesn’t. And I do so much enjoy interruptions. It gives me a chance to observe. And of course, it would mean people haven’t forgotten me.”

 ME: “There’s no chance of anyone who reads forgetting you. Anyone who ever saw you on television either.”

Capote’s hand dropped to his lap, as he leaned forward with a half smile.

Mr. Capote: “I was famous, wasn’t I?”

ME: “Very much so. In fact, so much so that many people believed it was your driving motivation to write.”

Capote chuckled and shook his head.

 Mr. Capote: “I began writing out of loneliness and desperation. I’d been abandoned by my parents and was quite…different than anyone else–so I wrote. And wrote, and wrote. When my mother returned and brought me to New York, nothing really changed inside. Writing was all I wanted to do. To me, the greatest pleasure in writing is not what it’s about, but the inner music that words make. And that music kept me sane. It’s all I ever wanted to do until Perry…”

Capote’s voice dropped to a whisper and his eyes began to rapidly blink.

Me: “Before we go there I want to ask about your statement that the music of words kept you sane. I wonder whether your first novel Other Voices, Other Rooms took it a step further. An opportunity to accept yourself, your upbringing, your sexuality?”

Capote’s eyes kept blinking but he reached for his glass, took a sip and continued to lean forward.

Mr. Capote: “I’ve said many times that the central theme of Other Voices, Other Rooms was my search for who was essentially an imaginary person, that is, my father.”

Capote ran the back of his hand over his forehead.

Mr. Capote: “You do know it debuted at number nine on The New York Times Best Seller list and remained on the list for more than two months!”

Me: “I do. It also seems that the novel helped you come to terms with your homosexuality.”

Mr. Capote: “No, no, no. (Tru vigorously shook his head, almost spilling the water from the glass in his hand) Old news, darling. Frankly, I simply used that theme to make the book titillating. Looking down and back, perhaps it was my first stab at nonfiction novel.  Although I must say, Other Voices, Other Rooms was an unconscious, altogether intuitive attempt to exorcise demons for I was not aware, except for a few incidents and descriptions, of its being to any serious degree autobiographical. Rereading it now, I find such self-deception unpardonable. I did know, however, exactly what I was doing when Harold Halma took my picture for the back cover. I wasn’t completely oblivious.”

Capote put his glass down and laughed delightedly.

Me: “Since you brought up the term “nonfiction novel,” maybe we ought to begin talking about In Cold Blood?”

Mr. Capote: “Not yet, please. It’s been a while since my last interview and I must say I’m enjoying it more than I thought. Also, it would be wrong to simply bypass Breakfast At Tiffany’s.”

Me: “You’re right, Mr. Capote. Though it’s still difficult for me to shake George Peppard’s image as Paul Varjak.

Mr. Capote: “A gorgeous man, Peppard, too bad he spent so much time in the closet. Still, keep in mind I didn’t cast him for the movie. That was out of my control.”

Me: “Of course…”

Before I finished my sentence Capote placed his glass back on the table and sat at the edge of his chair.

Mr. Capote: “As badly miscast as he was, Peppard didn’t annoy me. Tiffany did. They never really appreciated the way I put them on the map. I think they simply gave me some sort of bauble.”

Me: “Do you remember what it was?”

Capote wiggled back in his chair.

Mr. Capote: “I don’t care to try.”

Me: “Not a problem. You know, of course, that after Norman Mailer read Breakfast he said, “Truman Capote I do not know well, but I like him. He is tart as a grand aunt, but in his way is a ballsy little guy, and he is the most perfect writer of my generation, he writes the best sentences word for word, rhythm upon rhythm. I would not have changed two words in Breakfast at Tiffanys which will become a small classic.””

Mr. Capote: “Small indeed. Certainly less pages than Mailer could ever write. And his remark that I’m a ballsy little guy and the most perfect writer of that generation was simply another way to insult me and my sexuality. I know George…”

Me: “George?”

Capote stared at me with rock hard eyes.

Mr. Capote: “Plimpton. George Plimpton. I might have been dead when he had the gall to say it, but I’m not blind or deaf. In an interview, he said I was at the top of the ‘second’ tier of writers and named Norman as being in the top. Now who do you imagine Norman really thought was the most ‘perfect’ writer of his generation?”

Capote raised an eyebrow but his stare remained cold as steel. But I couldn’t help myself and burst out laughing. Eventually Capote joined in as both of us contemplated Mailer’s massive ego.

Me: “Point taken.”

I glanced at the clock.

Me: “This has taken longer than I had anticipated but I’d hate to end now. Would you mind staying longer or maybe meet at another time to finish?”

Mr. Capote: “Oh dear man, I’d be happy to stay. I really don’t get out much anymore.  But there is a condition.”

Me: “Yes?”

Mr. Capote: “I simply need something, uhh, better to drink. Remember, I do live in a dry town.”

See next week’s post for the conclusion of my interview with Truman Capote. Thanks.

Gore Vidal on Truman Capote’s death: “A wise career move.”

SO YOU WANNA WRITE A BOOK? PART 1

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I’m hoping to use this post to create a regular, but intermittent, feature about writing that starts an ongoing discussion between me and any other writers/creative types–published or not–who want to jump in. (I’ve given myself permission to write whatever interests me every week which is why this won’t be a serial series but, if the response opens the door to writing issues, I’ll of course follow up.) Nothing would please me more than a back-and-forth so we can learn from each other. If you have anything you might want to say, suggest, or share, please do. Writing has always been termed “solitary,” and it is. But that doesn’t preclude confabbing about what we’ve discovered during all those secluded hours, which has the potential to enrich us all.

There are a million things to say about writing, but good writing always starts with the same two things: time and effort.

You have no idea how often people would come up to me when I did book tours for my Matt Jacob novels and say, “I have a great story, but I just don’t have time to sit down and write it.” Worse, some would suggest that they tell me their story and perhaps I could write it. I usually nodded sympathetically or politely demurred but, at the same time, thought fuggetaboutit. Wasn’t gonna happen. Not only was I not going to write their story, I knew they weren’t either.

The first thing any aspiring writer needs is a good chair and the guts to keep his or her ass stuck to it. That doesn’t mean all day, every day. But it does mean carving out a regular time to focus and think and dream. A regular time to write. This is true for pros as well as neophytes. From where my ass is parked, it’s the only way to actually learn the craft and keep it sharp. Though, if other people found other ways, I’d dearly love to hear about it.

Gotta read too; it’s the key to understanding what kind of book you want to write. Although reading a variety of types of books can only enrich and help, it makes sense to eventually focus on the ways different authors work in the type of writing you’re interested in.

From an early age, I loved mysteries. Started with The Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew, which, of course, evolved as I grew older. And while I enjoyed what is often termed “literary” fiction, Updike’s Rabbit, Malamud’s depressing take on the world, the comedic genius of Heller’s Catch 22, for example, I kept returning to mysteries, honing in on the “hard-boiled” version of detective fiction.

So, when I decided to leave counseling to try my hand at writing, I already knew what I wanted to do. I understood the parameters of detective fiction well enough to try to push its boundaries, while still maintaining the basic form. Kinda like grammar; you have to know the rules well to break them artfully. When I began writing, I also stopped reading all mysteries because I was terrified of unconsciously plagiarizing. And, I’ve held to it. Do any of you out there do this too? And for the same reason?

A good example of someone who works differently than I do is a musician friend who asked me for feedback on his manuscript. After my usual caveat of “Sure, but I have to be free to tell you what I really think without any bullshit,” I read the work. It was a fictionalized memoir that, frankly, wasn’t all that good. Its underlying premise could have made it truly interesting, but the tradecraft was weak and I thought he had missed the forest for the trees.

I line edited, noting where I thought he hit or missed the mark, where characters weren’t drawn well or their voices distinct enough. We set up a time to meet and I was pretty nervous about it. Basically, I was suggesting going back to the drawing board.

We met for hours and, much to my relief, he was eager for feedback and undaunted by the task ahead. After this meeting, he began voraciously reading many different types of memoirs while he began his rewrite–something I wouldn’t have done but no two people are the same. A few more extensive revisions over the next couple of years and the book is now in the hands of an agent. I don’t know if it will sell, but I do know the quality of his story and work is outstanding.

I started to tell his story as an example of someone who felt comfortable reading in his genre or area of writing, while trying to do it himself. But my buddy’s experience actually confirms both points I’m really making in this post. You have to commit to the project. Despite working full time, he put in the energy and effort on a regular schedule and accomplished his goal. Of course he wants it to sell (as do I), but at the least, he has completed something he is proud of and should be. Plus, he has subsequently gone on to write other stories (which his agent also accepted). He has turned himself into a wonderful writer by understanding and accepting the hard, time-consuming work it takes to create something special.

Writing starts with this commitment–and hopefully, our discussions where people relate their own experiences will too. Then, in upcoming weeks, I’ll talk in detail about various aspects of my personal approach to writing books, hoping others will chime in at those posts as well as now. Please don’t leave me talking to myself.

Meanwhile another dedicated, talented artist needs some help: A good friend of mine, Jim Ohm, an independent film maker who embodies all the qualities I mentioned above and many more, is raising money for his new film Pretend. I’ve read the script, think it’s really, really, good, and hope each of you visit his site (http://www.indiegogo.com/pretendthefilm?c=home&a=1733151) and listen to what he says about the film. Well worth the time.

Do not wait for the last judgment. It takes place every day.
Albert Camus