How New York City Killed Halloween

My least favorite holiday has arrived. Yeah, that's right, I can't stand Halloween. It wasn't always that way. Like any other kid, I loved it once upon a time. Free candy was and still is an elementary school dream come true. I remember how impossible it was to believe you could just go around and strangers give you candy, and for that one day of the year, it was okay. (provided you searched apples for razorblades and candy wrappers for syringe punctures.)

Starting in the early teen years, the freedom to run around in a pack of hormonal wildness certainly had appeal. In later teen years, there was a lawlessness that lent itself to a lot of misadventures (readers of Pure Sunshine will know the kind of misadventure I'm talking about). 

Then everything changed come college and my move to NYC. I grew to hate the holiday. In various states of consciousness, I discovered how the day was just an excuse for people to wander the streets in full freak regalia. The whole idea of dressing up became super unappealing. Odd, considering that for a living, I pretend to be other people. But I can't stomach it. My last inspired costume was being Teenwolf in 5th grade. I'm not sure I could ever top that anyway. But I don't even want to try, so much is my dislike for this one day of the year where everything is out of tune with the universe. 

And thanks to my residence in the middle of nowhere, I don't even have the good fortune to enjoy the one possibly fun thing that remains about the holiday. I would enjoy giving out candy and making kids happy. But alas, no trick or treaters wander these hills. So, as far as I'm concerned, it's just October 31st...another day to try and remember to say "Rabbit, Rabbit" fist thing upon waking up tomorrow morning. 

Piecing it All Together

I've been writing, working on my new novel, every day for the past week or so. I've finished the pivotal first two chapters and have started work on the third. It's always around this time in the process, as I'm delving into a new scene, when it hits me...I need an outline. Without one, my character takes too much control. And as all characters are mischievous by nature, I mustn't let that happen. 

I never like to start with an outline, because I like to explore a little at first. But eventually, when working many ideas into one story, there comes a time when all of the pieces need to be arranged properly or risk becoming a mess. 

I have all of these scenes and bits of conversations that will take place over the course of the book. I know where the character is coming from and where she's going. Now I have to decide the best way to dole out this information so that story is compelling. I've always felt pacing to be one of the keys to writing a good novel. And this is the one place where a rough outline can really help. It keeps me from wandering or repeating myself by helping me focus on the scene at hand. I no longer worry about all the other things I want to say...because of the outline, I know they're covered, all in their own time.

So, I'm off to the cafe to sort through these pieces. Hopefully to return with a really good frame with a blank canvas to fill in. (artwork above by the wonderful James Jean).

Nice to Meet You...I Will Be Your Author for This Book (Part II)

So just over a week ago, I wrote about how as an author, you have to spend time getting to know your character. Oddly enough, I started reading a new book the other day that coincidentally relates.

The premise of Raymond Queneau's the flight of is icarus is about an author who has lost his main character after only "10 or 15 pages" and begins a desperate search to find him, as he had high hopes for this character. 

At first he is convinced that one of his colleagues has stolen the character. He hires a literary detective to track down his missing character (who actually blew off the pages and out the window when the novelist carelessly left his manuscript out on morning). Here's edited excerpt from his first meeting with the detective (The ... indicates part of the passage I left out):

HUBERT Well then. Let me introduce myself: Hubert Lubert, a novelist by profession, by vocation, even, and I might add, of some renown. Since I am a novelist, then, I write novels. And since I write novels, I deal with characters. And now one of them has vanished. Literally. A novel I had just begun, about ten pages, fifteen at the most, and in which I had placed the highest hopes, an now the principal character, whom I had barely begun to outline, disappears. As I obviously cannot continue without him, I have come to ask you to find him for me.

 …..

 MORCOL All right, all right. Obviously you haven’t got a photograph.

 HUBERT Obviously not.

 MORCOL Allow me to ask you a few questions. Age?

HUBERT Young, as I saw him.

 ….

MORCOL Special peculiarities?

HUBERT I haven’t given him any.

MORCOL Residence?

HUBERT I intended him to live in the rue Bleue.

MORCOL What number?

HUBERT An odd number.

MORCOL Which one? There are quite a lot.

HUBERT I haven’t decided yet.

MORCOL None of this helps me very much.

HUBERT As I told you, I’d only just begun him.

MORCOL Has he any relations? Any friends?

HUBERT I haven’t thought about that yet, but I have very pure fiancée in mind for him.

MORCOL Does he like her?

HUBERT We haven't reached that point yet.

Queneau is such a fantastic writer of dialogue, I've always been able to hear the inflections in the voices without any effort. And he has a great sense of humor which shows through in subtle word play that I've always enjoyed. This particular passage cracked me up, as just last week, I would have felt much like Hubert trying to describe my main character. 

I'm happy to report that me and my character are much closer now. We've bonded. Then again, she's only about 10-15 pages old, so I'd better be sure not to lose her in a strong wind. 

Weekend Music Roundup

I did something this week that I haven't done in a long time, I bought a bunch of CDs at the mall. Now, living in the sticks as I do, my mall is some forty minutes away and is one of the strangest malls I've ever inhabited. Growing up in Dirty Jersey as I did, where hanging out at the mall is pretty much the favored past time between the ages of 11 years old and 18 years old, trust me when I saw I know malls and I know this mall is bizarre. But I digress...the point is, I was there to do some necessary shopping and see a flick, when I passed the F.Y.E.  Now as far as mall record shops go, it's not horrible. I'll stop in on occasion, but not religiously. But as I passed by, I noticed the banner "All CDs $9.99 or Less" and did a double take. Certainly worth a breeze through. Some made it on this list, but some I'm saving for next week.

Langhorne Slim - Be Set Free: The newest by Slim is another great set of songs in the best Cat Stevens, Jim Croce style of songwriting. An amazing voice, great plucking, what more could you ask. You can't wrong with any of his three albums.

The Raveonettes - In and Out of Control: The Raveonettes are one of those bands that I've always liked, but never really got way into. Their earlier greaser inspired rock is fun, but never stuck too much. Then came their last album, Lust Lust Lust and I loved the shoegazer appeal of it. This album seemed a mix of the old and new sound. On first listen, I wasn't too thrilled. But after the third listen, I realized I really enjoyed this. Not as profound as Lust, but very good. Like a milder Lush which I always thought Lush needed to be a bit clearer and milder. 

Amelie - Dina Dinah: Very much a Joanna Newsome imitation, but not in a bad way. This was a very enjoyable listen of a old tyme ren-folk. I was attracted to it by the catgirl motif (CatKid forces me to check out anything Nekko) Plus, I couldn't help but think there was an Alice reference as Dinah is Alice's cat's name. Not sure that there was, but an enjoyable listen nonetheless. 

Nightmare of You - infomaniac: This is the follow-up to the band's 2006 debut which made a minor splash in the world. I never heard that entire album, but enjoyed the few songs that I had listened to. This was one of $9.99 purchases and it was well worth it. This is a soft sound, along the lines of the Portland bands around, but very expansive in its own way. 

Florence and the Machine - Lungs: The voice is the star of this album. It soars and leaves a trail of emotion behind. In a lot of ways, it's very Bjork in her controlled moments (think Selma Songs) but with more depth. Whereas Bjork's voice comes out her head, Florence's aptly comes from the lungs. Musically, it's catchy, which is nice change. I feel like most bands with a such a powerful singer would hide the music is very simple rhythms. 

Hourglass - Oblivious to the Obvious: This album belongs to new school of prog-metal albums that seem to be everywhere these days. I do love me some prog-metal, which usually depends on the voice and lyrics as to whether it falls under great or corny. Hourglass has all the right components. This album never bored me, but at the same time, it kind of felt like an average Porcupine Tree album. Still though, an average Porcupine Tree album is still better than a lot of the prog metal out there.  

Brand New - Daisy: Unfairly categorized as 'emo' which has become a terrible tag, Brand New is a very interesting band. I enjoyed their last album (though not as much as the demo bootleg that preceded it). In my opinion, this album shows a leap forward to the band. Sure, that makes them more commercial, but at the same time, they've gotten more ambitious and experimental. This is the best that power rock gets these days. 

Natural Snow Buildings - The Winter Ray: This is older album by my favorite drone folk band. Though surely not their best, this is great soundscape record. Over two hours of winter sounds. There's more of a Boards of Canada sound on here (not turntables but more ambient) and I love the mixture of field recordings. It should hold me over until I pick up their new album.

Cage the Elephant: I became intrigued by this band after seeing their rather odd video on Subterranean last week. There was something very '90s Seattle about them, but in a real way, not in a industry "you should try this sound" sort of way. It was natural. And that's sort of what it is, like the Vines or others. If that's your thing, it's a solid effort. I enjoyed it. 

Seatrain: A late '60s progressive folk outfit, Seatrain was a band recommended to me by my mom a few months ago. While in the city two weeks ago, I came across this '69 debut used on vinyl and picked it up. I like it a lot. There's kind of an early Jethro Tull feel to it. Good stuff and a sound there is never enough of out there.

Sebedoh - Harmacy: I was never a big Sebedoh fan back in the day (ie. the first half of the '90s), but I've always respected Lou Barlow's other projects (Dinosaur Jr., Folk Explosion, solo). My roommate had most of the Sebedoh albums, so there was no need to ever buy them and I never replaced them as I had many other things from his collection. But recently been interested in revisiting. I picked this one up and of course, loved the Lou Barlow songs. Not so into the others which are more or less toss-off punk songs. But then again, that's what makes Sebedoh different from a Lou Barlow solo album. 

When the World Suddenly Seems too Big

There's a moment in life, usually around adolescence, when we realize that our childhood has ended and things can't ever go back to the way they were. We learn that we can't always make everything alright by saying sorry or drawing a picture (not that those things ever fail to help a little). That there are some things that are going to be terrible and cause us hurt no matter what we do about them. 

I was so thoroughly impressed with the way Where the Wild Things dealt with this harsh subject matter. The film uses the imaginative retreat of the book as a metaphor for a child coming to terms with this difficult life lesson. It never strays from the issue, never tries to coat it, and never loses touch with the tough emotional struggle that goes along with it. 

There's a line in the Arcade Fire song used in the advertising of the film that sums up the movie very well. The song, addressed to children, warns "Our bodies get bigger but our hearts get torn up." For many of us, that's how we feel in those years between being a child and finally feeling comfortable with the freedom of our late teenage years. I was surprise how geared this movie was toward that age group...not really at all toward the under 12 crowd. 

Sure, the movie is full of beautiful images, talking muppets, sweeping sets and other marvels. But all of that takes a back seat to the moving performance of the kid playing Max. At its heart, this movie is about a boy dealing with issues of a splintered family, loneliness, and general fears about a world that suddenly seems too big to shut out of the forts he builds out of bedding or snow. And while there is a deep sadness to the movie, there is also a overwhelming sense of hope. Unlike most kid-fare or Hollywood story lines, the message isn't that everything will be okay. The message is very clear. Everything will not be okay or work out how you always want, but in the end there is enough good to outweigh the bad as long as we're considerate and accepting. 

I also just finished a very good book called Ronia, The Robber's Daughter by Astrid Lindgren of Pippi Longstocking fame. I picked up an old hardcover copy this book at my local library's sale two weekends ago for the sweet price of 25¢ -- I felt like I was stealing. Though a vastly different story than the modern tale in Where the Wild Things Are, this light fantasy set long ago in the deep woods of Scandinavia, also deals quite a bit with the end of childhood. 

Like Max, Ronia struggles with a parent's actions that she doesn't agree with, causing them both much pain. Also like Max, Ronia is wild and imaginative and a bit stubborn when the world doesn't bow to her plans for it. Along the way, she learns that compromise is part of growing up. The messages are very different, but then again, I think the audience for this is much younger. It's like an advance warning where as Where the Wild Things is really a document to help kids having already gone through it comes to terms with this period of life.

As childhood gets further away, for some reason many of us tend to look at it as such a free and easy time. Though it can be, I think many people often forget that it's also the time when many of life's most difficult lessons are learned. This is a theme I think about often. It plays out a lot in my own writing and the novel I'm currently working on is no exception. It was nice to encounter two pieces in the same week that dealt with it so well.

The Insect Wars

I hate insects. 

If that makes me a bigot, or speciest, or mammalist, then so be it. But I swear by all things furry that those exoskeleton miniature monsters give me the hibby-jibbies. 

I hate their size. I hate their immense population of astronomical numbers. I hate the way they move in that insectiod way of theirs. I make a fist at the sight of bees. I scream at the sight of spiders (only the real ugly big ones though). I swat skeeters. I kill flies mercilessly. I am a soldier in the good fight. 

A metaphor that has crept up in a lot of my writing (and even more so in a stack of unfinished experimental novels I wrote in the early half of this decade) is this idea that insects are spies in a war against humanity communicating with their masters through those clicking antenna. This idea comes from various sources. Burroughs toyed with it. But my primary fear of the buggards didn't really develop until I moved to New York and had to deal with palm-sized waterbugs (giant, giant roaches for those who are unfamilar...if you've ever played Fallout 3 and beat Radroaches to death with a baseball bat, you have some idea what I'm talking about.) Everything changed one day, in the sub-basement of a building on Broadway, I encountered one of these brutes unlike the rest. It had a diamond shaped pattern on its back and was not intimidated by me. I didn't dare kill it, for I knew it was the leader.

Since that day, the insects are onto me. I have a deal with the roaches, but the roaches have enemies. I fought an epic war with the carpenter ants this past summer. No truce could be reached and I had to call the professionals with the chemical weapons. The front is quiet for not. 

But my war is a two front war. One of the odd things about where I live is that on any warm day in the fall, the sky fills with so many ladybugs, one might think it were raining. Now, I know you're all thinking, Ladybugs! I love ladybugs! They're so cute. And yes, they are probably the only insect that can crawl on me and I don't totally freak out. But when there's thousands of them, the cuteness wears off and they become a plague...you know, kind of like children. 

Apparently, they swarm on warm fall days looking for a place to spend the winter. That place tends to be somebody's house. My house. They creep and crawl over the outside searching for any tiny crack. You can't stop them from getting in. You can't defend from the outside either, because they're everywhere and will land all over you like little parachuters. The only defense is from the inside. 

My war plan is simple. Wait until nightfall. Turn on one light in the loft so that it shines on the ceiling. Then make multiple trips to collect those that fall for the trap. The other day, I spent all evening removing them and tossing them outside (yes, even I try my best not to kill ladybugs, but sometimes, there are accidents). I must have released three hundred back into the wild in this method.

The trick is to get them out as they arrive, or you'll be dealing with them all winter long. It's frustrating, but after the ant disaster, I'm less annoyed. I hope to reach a peace accord with the ladybugs at some point. If I can get them on my side, the larger war might turn in my favor. 

Watch Out for the Mirror Man and Elixir Sue

There's something going on with the moon this autumn which has been lending me its gift of rather epic dreams. One seemed to last an entire summer. Another involved discovering that a friend I've known for nearly twenty years was actually a serial killer. (There was also some weird unrelated blood worms crawling out of a drain grate in the middle of his bathroom floor too, but that's beside the point.)

As odd as any of that might sound, the oddest thing is that in the past four or five days, I've had two dreams where I've looked into a mirror. This is a rare thing for me. I can only recall a handful of such dreams ever, so two in one week is quite an experience.

There's nothing quite as jilting as catching your reflection and it's someone else staring back at you. There's a flickering moment of horror, when that happens. But it quickly fades. Instantly, it's as if you have indeed become that reflection and it's completely normal. You inhabit the role. The imagination is skipping the needle, feeding the plot, and changing the direction of the narrative. 

If you've been following the past month or so, you know I've been dream obsessed lately as part of the book I'm working on. So naturally, I've been digesting this latest phenomenon and wondering how it could be used. The most obvious interpretation is that we are not who we appear to be . . nor who we think we are . . and of course, that others don't see us the way we see ourselves. There's tons of Freudian applications as well. I always love to think about Freudian applications. I've always believed them to be somewhat truth, though I've always doubted the strength of these buried feelings in driving our motivations or actions. It's good fun to think about, but that's all.

If you're still reading, I'm sure you're wondering what I saw. I will share:

Dream 1: I was at a huge party with strangers in this expansive house with a giant courtyard somewhere in Brooklyn that could only exist in a dream. There was a massive organized game of charades going on. We were all assigned into teams and had to perform a scene from some assigned movie. In typical dream logic, the game was being played across global lines as the performances were being televised to another group in China who were the ones guessing. My team of strangers and I were given "Meet Me In St. Louis" (where that came from, I have no idea). When I caught my reflection, I was no longer me. I was Margret O'Brien.  (Talk about a Freudian field day)

Dream 2: This one I blame on video games, but in the dream I blew up a crowd of policeman standing outside a station in some pseudo-Manhattan. It was an accidental act of terror. I had been confused and regretted the action right away. The explosion was intense. I'm pretty sure I felt some sort of pain, or at least, felt like I should have. (Probably my cat pawing at my face, wanting her breakfast). In order to hide, I ditched my gear, and strolled right into the police station. Chaos reigned. I blended in and went to the Men's Room. When I looked in the mirror, my hand was bloody and there were deep cuts all over me. The oddest thing however, was that the person staring back WAS really me. I don't remember that happening before. I've been Margret O'Brien, I've been a Vietnamese soldier, I've even been a pregnant woman, but I can't recall ever seeing my own reflection before. It was in some ways more unsettling.

But alas, these are the great mysteries that surround dreams and why they've always fascinated me. A really epic dream in a way is like experiencing a great novel in that fictional events make lasting impressions. Dreams are fiction that stay with you, makes you think, and makes you consider things differently. Somehow this will all tie together in the new book, but for now...just something to think about.