"On Writing"

When I found out we would be reading Stephen King’s book “On Writing,” I was annoyed partly because I’m not a big fan of his, partly because I had to buy it, and mostly because I have read how-to-write books before and they are all tripe -- filled with jargon and abstract nonsense about coming up with story ideas, writing ten-page character sketches, and developing plot structures…ugh. Besides, I had come to the conclusion that writing is like singing or sex appeal; you either have it or you don’t.

But, when I started to read, I found that King does it differently. The first chapter doesn’t explain how to unlock the treasure chest of stories hidden in my mind or tell me how to write from the heart. In fact, he explains in his forward that most books about writing are “filled with bullshit.” God bless you, King. I think I will read on now.

So, with King avoiding the metaphorical and symbolic jabberwocky that plagues other books of this type, “On Writing” instead is filled with practical examples of what he does before, after, and during “his daily work” of writing. The book has a conversational narrative and is enjoyable to read -- traits I find necessary if I want to learn anything. Here are just a few of the gems King bestows.

Gem one: Write, write, write.

I don’t write nearly enough, and I don’t have a set time for writing-- two things that will change from now on. As for King, he writes 2,000 words every morning and doesn’t get up from his chair until it’s done. He writes on his birthday. He writes on Christmas. He writes on the fourth of July.

“If I don’t write everyday…the tale’s narrative cutting edge starts to rust and I begin to lose hold on the story’s plot and pace. Worst of all, the excitement of spinning something new begins to fade. The work starts to feel like work and for most writers that is the smooch of death. Writing is at its best -- always, always, always -- when its kind of inspired play for the writer,” writes King.

I think its important to note here that, with the exception of a few short stories, I mostly write nonfiction news or feature pieces. Nevertheless, I feel what King says still applies to me. If I’m working on a feature piece, I will write until I am happy with it. If I’m not happy, I will write some more. I will no longer let it spoil on the shelf.

Also, by writing everyday, no matter if it’s fiction or non-fiction, I am practicing. I am finding new ways to transition. I am strengthening my vocabulary. If you want to learn to cook, get in the kitchen. If you want to learn to juggle, start throwing some fruit in the air. Whatever it is, you just got to do it.


Gem two: Read, read, read.

I think it is safe to say that King is modest when he says he is a slow reader-- he takes in about 70 books a year. 70. I read about 20 in that time, and, during the school year, I reserve my reading for mostly text books and newspapers, using the excuse that I just don’t have the time for anything else-- so lame. I am going to school to be a writer. Reading should be, and from now on, will be one of my top priorities. I will use King’s advice and listen to audio books, read in waiting rooms, read with food in my mouth, and read before bed. The excuses are over.

As King puts it:

“The real importance of reading is that it creates an ease and intimacy with the process of writing…constant reading will put you into a place…where you can write eagerly and without self consciousness…the more you read the less apt you are to making a fool of yourself with you pen and your word processor.”

Gem three: 2nd draft = 1st draft - 10%

Formula: 2nd draft = 1st draft -10% was scribbled on a rejected story submission King received when he was senior in high school, and he has heeded this advice ever since. Although some writers are natural “taker-outers,“ King says he has always been a natural “putter- inner.” I am also a “putter-inner. I have a tendency to over explain and to think that adding more will make it better -- like throwing shit on top of a shit pile is going to take the smell away. So, I am making a commitment to try and follow this formula (most of my stories usually go over the recommended word count anyway). From now on, if it isn’t moving the story along, adios.

“What the formula taught me is that every story is collapsible to some degree. If you can’t get out 10 percent while retaining the basic story and flavor, you’re not trying too hard. The effect of judicious cutting is immediate and often amazing -- literary Viagra. You’ll feel it,” King writes.

There are so many more insights in this book There are so many more things I could bring up and mention. Instead of running this on and on, I think I will end by pouncing on one of my favorite passages in the book.

“I never set a single word down on paper with the thought of getting paid for it… I have written because it fulfilled me. Maybe it paid off the mortgage on the house and got the kids through college, but those things were on the side-- I did it for the buzz. I did it for the pure joy of the thing. And if you can do it for the joy, you can do it forever.”

(Photo credit: this is your brain on lithium. Flikr)

Number Two Sold Meth

Since We moved to Corvallis, my girlfriend and I have had an apartment at Sycamore Towers- a funny name really because the two-building complex is only two stories high and in no way resembles a set of towers.

We chose to live here because of the cheap rent and the nearly non-existent application process--a key point in the decision making process due to me not having anything near an acceptable line of credit. The complex is located all the way out Ninth street in the heart of the festering box-store sprawl, which is the closest thing to a ghetto in Corvallis. Anyway, none of this mattered when we grabbed the place. The living arrangement was and still is going to be just temporary.

So, because we knew we would be moving out sooner than later, we never really got to know any of our neighbors on a personal basis. There is the lonely lady next door who feeds all the stray cats, there is the guy who is in the constant state of working on his truck, and their are neighbors across the parking lot who sell drugs.

It's not a hard conclusion to come to-- the fact that the girl and guy in apartment two sell drugs. There is a steady stream of foot traffic coming in and out of the place, nobody ever stays for more then a few minutes, and they all look like the walking dead. The foot traffic has gotten so bad that the fence separating the complex to the one next door has been literally trampled to the ground.

So, I can admit that I have had a semi-obsession with number two and their illegal activities. I’ve been waiting for something to happen. So, to move it along, about a week ago, I’m sitting at my kitchen table typing up a paper for my comparative politics class, and I hear a loud commotion coming from out in front of my apartment complex-- in the direction of number two. Oh,boy.

So, unable to resist my curiosity, I go outside to smoke and see two police cruisers in my parking lot. The officers are out of their cars. One of the cops has his knee on the back of this dude and is pinning him down on the cement. The other cop is searching around by the dumpster and he is yelling."Where did you throw it, buddy. I know you threw something. Where did you throw it?”

By this time, most of my neighbors have come out of their apartments and are all standing around looking at each other. I've called my girlfriend at work and am giving her the play by play. The guy on the ground is screaming mad, screaming that the cops are assholes and he didn’t throw “fuckin nuttin.” The cop has had enough of this guy and pulls his hands up behind his back so he can cuff him.

After the guy is cuffed, they peel him off the ground and put him in the back of one of the police cars. This guy is calling them all kinds of names, names I wont even mention. Just then, an older lady comes out of apartment two and the police instantly ambush her with questions.

She’s telling the cops she doesn’t know who lives in apartment two and, more or less doesn’t know why she’s there, she just is. The cops see through this bullshit and start arresting her instantly. Another cop pulls up and gets out of his car with a white piece of paper in his hand. There is a German Shepard in the backseat of his cruiser. By this time two more cruisers have pulled up —- that makes five.

A motley crew of characters start pouring out of apartment two- there must have been a dozen of them-- along with them is the scruffy dude who lives there. The cops start wrangling them up near the police cars. Then, rwo of the officers, one of which has the piece of paper, head up the steps to the apartment and yells inside. The girl who lives there comes to the door and looks amazed that this is all happening, even though its been going on for nearly ten minutes. The cop shows her the piece of paper and she runs back inside. The cops chase after her. After a couple of minutes, she comes out in cuffs.

When the dog goes inside, I can tell the scruffy dude and his chick are sweating bullets. They know they're fucked.

In the end, im not sure how much was found or how much trouble they got into. I got tired of standing around waiting. I only know they were arrested for selling meth -- at least that is what the guy who works on his truck said. The traffic at number two has stopped. I have not seen scruffy dude or his chick since.

(Photo credit: d70focus)

Will God's Will Pick Up "Octo-mom's" Bill?

Nadya Suleman recently told MSNBC that she believes "God will provide in his own way" for her 14 children -- eight of which were born as octuplets on Jan. 26th.

14. That is two more than the number of players on the active roster of the Portland Trailblazers, three more than the number of players on the starting offense of the Seattle Seahawks.

Well, hopefully God is unruffled with the idea that Suleman received in-vitro fertilization,a process where egg cells are fertilized outside of the womb, after she already had six children conceived by the same method.

She should pray that God's "own way” of providing comes in a monthly living stipend or a blank check, because Suleman professes she has no income, receives food stamps, and plans to "temporarily" raise her children with college loans she'll get when she goes for a masters degree in counseling.

Imagine being counseled by this woman.

Suleman, who was recently dubbed "octo-mom" by tabloids, had both of her fertilization treatments at the same Beverly Hills fertility clinic. The treatments, costing around $48,000 dollars, was paid for out of a disability settlement she received for a back injury obtained while working at a mental hospital.

Well, she may need to return that mental hospital as a patient if she thinks that she'll have enough time to get a masters anytime in the next couple decades, and her idea that student loans are going to provide her enough money to raise 14 children (even temporarily) really just takes astounding ignorance.

The hospital bills of the eight newborn children alone are estimated to cost up to three million dollars. Try to pay that one and still buy your books.

So, as Suleman puts the financial future of her children in the lap of the U.S. Department of Education and the mighty hands of God, I see her children's futures carved out a different way, one that extends past a FAFSA form and falls short of the devine.

Suleman has recently set up a website (www.thenadyasulemanfamily.com/) where she displays pictures of her brood and asks visitors for donations. Huh, I wonder if God has a PayPal account.

Also, other then the Web-begging, I see Sulemans children getting raised by public tax dollars, a book deal, a visit to Oprah and Ellen, maybe a reality show on TLC where she lives in a five-acre compound, buys corn flakes in industrial-sized barrels, and drives her children around Southern California in a small bus.

So,I guess the question is will her fifteen minutes of fame be enough to provide a stable future for her children? Well, if not, maybe she could just pop out a few more.

(photo credit: kevindooley, Flikr)

Iraq Veteran Against the War

Benji Lewis laughs when he talks about the trouble he caught from a Marine staff sergeant for a tattoo he got before his second tour, a large peace sign on his forearm. He laughs when he says that part of the reason he joined the military, at 17,was because it was so cold in Minnesota.

Lewis does not laugh when he talks about what war has put him through, during his assignments in Fallujah and Hadita, and the sleep deprivation, malnutrition, and high stress he endured. He does not laugh when he talks about the rocket propelled grenades, the mortar fire, and the fact that he had to kill.

Last October, after being discharged for over a year, Lewis was on inactive reserve and was taking a political science class at LBCC,driven to understand the world events that had such an impact on his life.

One night that October, Benji was woken up by a phone call at 5 a. m. It was his dad. He told him a certified letter had come. Lewis was being recalled.

The next couple weeks were nerve-racking for Lewis. He lived on a diet of mostly coffee, wine, and cigarettes -- results of a previous conclusion that there is nothing good that can arise from war, and he did not want to be part of it any longer.

He decided he would not go back.

The day before he reported to Missouri and proved that he was fit for active duty, Lewis publicly announced at a Winter Soldier hearing in Portland that he was resisting activation due to his convictions. He is set to mobilize June 1st in California.


He is the second inactive reservist, in all branches of the military, to publicly resist activation.

“We are living in a country where things are changing. The war department is now called the pentagon, but certain things do not change. Pride doesn’t change. Greed doesn’t change. Corporate pillaging doesn’t change, and the voice of the people doesn’t change,” Lewis said in his testimony.

Leah Bolger, national vice president of Veterans for Peace, said there were a number of ways that Lewis could have avoided his recall-- one being to simply ignore it and go on living his life without penalty. She admires the courage it took to announce his resistance publicly and the degree to which he has become involved.

“He is now working very hard to make sure that other inactive reservists understand their rights and options and has quickly become an integral part of the peace movement both locally and nationally,” Bolger said.

Since his announcement, Lewis has joined a number of organizations, including Iraq Veterans Against the War, Veterans for Peace, and Courage to Resist, and the peace studies program here at LBCC.

With these organizations, Lewis participates in outreach for Iraq veterans with post traumatic stress disorder. He is setting up a truth in recruitment program, which hopes to limit recruiters on college campuses and is working on a sanctuary city project in Portland, which would turn the city into a safe haven for soldiers who are conscientious objectors.

In an article Lewis wrote for The courage To Resist Web page, he calls out to other inactive reservists who may find themselves called to a war they feel to be morally wrong.

“We can say no,” Lewis writes.

Shepard Fairey

Shepard Fairey, the Pop Graffiti artist who created the red, white, and blue Obama "Hope" poster, was arrested in Boston on Friday night while on his way to an art premiere. Boston police arrested Fairey due to graffiti that appeared in the city.

This is not the first time Fairey's name has popped up in the press lately. The Associated press has cried copyright infringement on a picture of Obama that Fairey used for the famous image.

In addition to the "hope" image, Fairey is responsible for an image of Andre the Giant with the word "obey" underneath. This image emerged in the 80's and received a lot of cult popularity.

Walk the Line.

On the back dock, the day cooks and day preps are sitting by the dumpsters talking --about the breakfast rush, the lunch rush, the wait staff, and the prep list for tomorrow. Chef jackets are strewn on the backs of chairs and cigarette smoke swirls above their heads. They laugh. They horse around. They're finished for the day.

Through the double doors, past the broken-down card board boxes and walk-in cooler, into the kitchen-- the heart of the beast. The clatter of pots and pans are only drowned out by the loud voices of the wait staff yelling for their orders or the line cooks demanding “ more fettuccini to the line."

It’s the beginning of the dinner rush and the cooks are already "in the weeds." Tickets are coming at a constant rate. Mixtures of sliced vegetables and diced meats are being thrown into oiled sauté pans. Burgers, steaks, and salmon, are sizzling on an overcrowded broiler. Plates of food are spun up in the window as an expo franticly grabs tickets and tries to put together each table’s order. The cooks curse under their breath and wipe their brows with the sleeves of their chef coats. Waitresses blame the cooks. Cooks blame the waitresses. The smell of a burned white sauce fills the air. A waitress carries an overcrowded tray in to the dining room.

Follow the tray through another set of double doors. The guests sit with cloth napkins on their laps and sip from their stemmed water glasses. They slice into their steaks. They stab their salads. They chat inaudibly, about their days, about their lives. A group gets up to leave and put on their coats. Their table is cleared as they walk into the front lobby and out the front door.

As their night ends, others have just begun.