The Next Chapter

my writing permission slip, 2003

Tomorrow I'm going to try something I haven't done since 2002. I'm going to write a short story. I've made a fuss over the past year about my choice of medium, loudly proclaiming that I was leaving playwriting, which I've pursued for nearly a decade. I guess I'm now doing it softly, but I'm appending the announcement with this: I may return again.

After that last short story I wrote, I wrangled for a year and a half with the idea of becoming a serious playwright (i.e., doing it and not just talking about it). The work of Harold Pinter, Samuel Beckett and Joe Orton had captured my 26-year-old imagination, and I took a write-by-mail course through the University of Iowa, spending months crafting a play that I ultimately never finished. Regardless, by Christmas 2003 I finally decided to go all in.

I began my new creative writing career in earnest, making an attempt to work on my laptop every evening — usually in the basement of the coach house where I was living at the time. I haven't always succeeded, and much of the first year was a battle with myself to stay in the seat, but I'm proud to say that I've never let a break go on too long, unless it was an allowable one for a finished draft (a week) or finished play (a month).

The Poet Laureate of Humboldt Park

In the past year I've become a big fan of Saul Bellow. I feel bad that it took me that long to read him, but as I often say about important bands I missed when I was younger: There's only so much time and money. With books it's even more of a time commitment.

I consider Bellow America's greatest post-WW2 novelist. For me, it's also a bonus that he grew up in Humboldt Park — the neighborhood where I lived when I first moved to Chicago and now very close to my current home.

If we're to believe Charlie Citrine in "Humboldt's Gift" (my favorite Bellow novel) is a stand-in for the author himself, then Bellow lived near Kedzie and Division. Erika and I often take the kids on a jog to this intersection because there's a nice playground there.

In the book, Citrine says that by the mid-70s his old house had been torn down. Today there's a very conspicuous vacant lot on Kedzie just north of Division between two brownstones.When I'm at the playground, I like to look at that lot and think it was where Bellow's childhood home stood. Maybe it did, maybe it didn't.

The park itself makes appearances from time to time in his books — often as a symbol of the rough but uncomplicated nature of youth. Over five years of living about four blocks away, we've grown to really love the park as well: as the backdrop for a run, a kids' pumpkin-picking or a late-night drive down the boulevard, the moon on the lagoon and the skyline in the distance.

Right now I'm reading "Dangling Man," Bellow's first novel. At one point the main character, Joseph, visits the old neighborhood. And there he remembers a bit of his childhood doings in the park. This is in 1943, but I was happy to read it was much the same then as it is now:

Sunday was warm, hinting at spring. We visited the Almstads. In the evening I walked in Humboldt Park, around the lagoon, across the bridge to the boathouse where we used to discuss Man and Superman and where, even earlier, with John Pearl, I pelted the lovers on the benches below the balcony with crab apples. The air had a brackish smell of wet twigs and moldering brown seed pods, but it was soft, and through it rose, with indistinct but thrilling reality, meadows and masses of trees, blue and rufous stone and reflecting puddles. After dark, as I was returning, a warm, thick rain began to fall with no more warning than a gasp. I ran.

The Novel Question. Again.

Writing a novel. It's something Americans are supposed to try once in their lives so they can feel more truly American. For folks not inclined to write, it's usually a passing fancy — maybe a few pages before quitting. But for many actual writers it's a seductive, haunting dream that can lead to feelings of inadequacy, even self-torture. (I'd say that's pretty American, too.)

Now there are many kinds of writers who don't need to have their inclination and livelihood justified by some big, dumb fiction task: journalists, memoirists, historians, scientific researchers. I guess who I'm really talking about is your good old-fashioned creative scribbler.

These come in many flavors, too. There's your short story writer, your poet, your screenwriter and your playwright (like me). Of course it's not so set in stone. Most writers stretch out across these lines and try their hand at more than one form. That includes the greats: William Faulkner was a Hollywood screenwriter, Samuel Beckett wrote abstract fiction and James Joyce once had a play produced.

However, one thing you should notice about those names — I apologize for being male-heavy — is that they're all in the Writing Hall of Fame primarily for their novels. These giants have set some kind of magic bar in our minds that we must try to high jump. Forget the Eugene O'Neills and Seamus Heaneys on that hallowed Nobel roll call, there's just something about a novel that says Legit.

But, you say, isn't reproducing a moment in time with so many well-chosen words in a poem the hardest thing a writer can do? Well, this is America, and we like size and volume. There's all that sitting and typing and sighing when you write a novel. And it's BIG. That must mean it's the pinnacle achievement, right?

It does seem to at least be a lot of work, grinding out 500-plus words a day. For those of us looking in the mouth of the cave before entering such a project, a secret, insecure voice may begin to ask, "Do I really have what it takes for this Ultimate Test?"

Case in point: Erika and I had some "us time" yesterday and used it for a very sweet couples writing session. We don't get to do this often, so I was excited. Erika is working on a novel this summer. I'm finishing up my sixth play. Sounds like an accomplishment, sure. But side by side at the dining room table, I began to feel the insecurity bubble up. There was Erika, plugging away, writing so much. And so many of my own keystrokes were, well, for manual formatting in script style, not actual text. Gee whiz.

Despite all the work I've put into my writing since I "got serious" in late 2003, I've always had a bit of an inferiority complex — firstly, when I'm around fiction writers, and secondly, when these people have studied creative writing in college.

Aside from a few classes taken and a few how-to books read, I'm a self-taught playwright. People with creative writing degrees — my wife included — kind of intimidate me, at least until the chip on my shoulder speaks up. There's that nagging belief that these Chosen Few were selected by the Academy because they have the Talent, and they were given the Tools in an intensive setting, becoming holy vessels who transmute the human experience into deep, well-ordered, moving prose. Unlike me, a writer of stage directions, single-word answers, pauses and loud swear words.

For many years, we hosted a friends' writing group. And at some point in each evening, all the college-trained people, cigarettes and glasses of wine in hand, would slip into the classic Creative Writing School Group Feedback formation and riff for long minutes on plot mechanics and believability. I usually just stared into my can of Old Style and wondered if I should specify there's blood in my main character's vomit when I write that particular stage direction. These folks seemed to have something I didn't.

"Now, don't beat yourself up, Woundup," you might be saying right now, if you're nice. "You're probably not as bad as you think. If you can write plays, I bet you can write fiction, too." Well, as it turns out, I've written quite a lot of short fiction since I was a kid. I've even had some published. Just yesterday I was combing through the Word files on my first laptop and was shocked at the amount of unfinished prose. And you know, it wasn't all bad. Even the maudlin novel fragment written by 22-year-old me. Maybe I'm not a lost cause after all.

Erika is always telling me my chances of getting published/seen are better anyway as a fiction writer. And sadly, after five years of submitting my plays to theaters and contests, I see her point. Granted, I've had some unexpected success for an unproduced playwright just by doing mass mailing campaigns, but I can see now that I won't be produced unless I do it myself. And with two little kids, that's just not going to happen anytime soon.

So I feel conflicted. On the one hand I'm wrapping up work on what I believe is my best play yet and could do even better on the next one. I'm approaching the 10-year mark at my craft — a pretty important milestone as far as mastery and dedication go. On the other hand I want to challenge myself and try something demanding and new, have deeper conversations with my wife about writing and sip from that $4 wine once I'm admitted into the "real" writers circle. Kidding aside, a novel would indeed be a personal achievement, as a writer. And an American.

I know many people in the world are starving right now. I don't pretend my dilemma is an important one. I'm just thankful I can find the time to write. That said, I have a new idea for a story about four young people. By September I'll know if it involves long blocks of descriptive text or blood-tinged stage vomit. Wish me luck.

Reset button

Wow, a two-week break here at Woundup Corp. It was our early summer furlough. But now we're back. Last week's playwriting conference was a blast. I'm sorry it had to end in some ways, but I'm very happy to again be with my family. The weather in Chicago is mellow and bright, and we have plans to visit Green Bay and our little Michigan hideaway very, very soon.

Now is the time, June, to ready and launch the next marketing campaign. I've almost got the synopsis for the new play polished off — never an enjoyable task. Soon I'll be spending a lot of time at the Fort Dearborn Post Office. I'm happy because we've drifted apart these last three months.

Speaking of furloughs, we're into our summer slate of forced three-day weekends here at the Cracker Factory. Not all that bad, as the salary hit is negligible and they're encouraging us — imploring us — not to even look at our work e-mail. Fine by me. I'll be taking care of the baby solo tomorrow, which I love to do. We'll have some fun.

Welcome back, Woundup! Welcome back, Woundup fans!

Wandering

Tomorrow afternoon I'm heading out of town to a playwrights conference in Omaha. I'll be gone for nine days. I'm excited about the opportunity, but I'm really, really going to miss Erika and Ella. At least I'll be able to talk to them on the phone.

This is a kind of symbolic last event of the spring — and what a crazy spring it's been. I hope the rest of the year calms down and people without employment can find it again. America needs a break, in general.

I should be posting from the road. I'll let you all know how it's going.

Outlaster

I finished my third play today. I started it last June. As I've said before in other posts, I've experienced many more changes and ups and downs during the writing of this play than with the last two. I know some of that went into it over the course of things.

What's left to do? Relax for a month. I'll probably work on some marketing materials next week, but for now I'm going to crack open a cold one and toast this play. It's earned its place at the table.

Monday night

Phhheeewww … The high tide of work stress has receded. Tonight I'm going to format-check my new play, drink beer and watch the "Gossip Girl" finale with the ladies. Hold my calls.

Lay down your sword, noble warrior

This month I retired my second play from active submission. My MO is that after a year passes, I stop. I've done about all I can do to let people know it exists. This play, in turn, has performed heroically on the field of marketing combat. I only hope someone takes a real chance on it soon.

I've almost wrapped up my third play — probably by early next week. I look forward to seeing how it will do in Das Grinder. I'm not a great talk-talk salesman. Who knows. Maybe it won't matter.

Never relent (circa 2009)

Tomorrow begins Painful Writing Ordeal 3.0. This play has gone through more rough waters than the two before it, and still it has persevered. Reading back parts of the last revision, I've begun to develop an affection for it hitherto absent. In my own personal awards ceremony, I will give it a medal of honor.

I've also begun to realize that I'm soon going to toss another virgin play into the maw of the Theatrical Industrial Complex — a machine mostly indifferent to new work. It doesn't help I have a writing style the majority of its officers seem unmoved by.

I'll run this poor play through the gauntlet, and if it, too, does not win a full production by next fall, I will have to consider other options. Wearily I wince, knowing that means self-production. I see how others in my shoes have done it, and perhaps I will have to follow them. I'd rather just write these things and have someone else take care of it. But that someone may not be in existence.

All I can do at this moment is apply massive heat and pressure to the last draft until it is a finished piece. Though it's painful, I enjoy this process, and I honor that thing its creates. To me, that thing is unassailable.

His jumper's like a Pound Canto

Hmm … Scanning the headlines here. … Something to write about. … Well, I was reading from the newest issue of SI with Ella — one of my favorite things to do with her right now — and I was struck by the erudition of the Houston Rockets supporting cast, as evidenced in the feature about Ron Artest. Brent Barry used the word "idiosyncrasies" and Shane Battier made a James Joyce reference. Once in awhile you'll get one cultured nugget in a sports story, but two? This piece really raised the bar for years to come.

Of course, Ron Artest remains a bit of an idiot savant. Great player and maybe he's mellowing out, but he'll always be remembered for … well … you know.

Rebels are we, born to be free

Back in Chicago, the sun is shining, and though it's a bit busy at work, a great deal is now behind me and I'm breathing easy. The residency at the college last week went really well, and I was very happy with the staged reading they did. I'd like to bring some of those people to Chicago if anyone ever doubles down on this play. We'll see.

Erika has the week off, so she's enjoying it at home and out and about with Ella. Tomorrow, the two of them are flying down to Ft. Lauderdale with Suzie, whose mom has a time share there. Dad will be left home alone. … Sniff … I've got a great picture of Ella by my desk at the New Cracker Factory, and it really captures who she is. When I look at it now, I wish she were here. It's going to be tough to be apart for nearly five days. I expect they'll find me in my underwear covered in Thai takeout boxes and the hard ends of pierogies, the TV on, Okocim empties all about. It's not going to be pretty.

Well, if I rent "Bananas," I'll probably make it thru the week. Yes, that sounds like a plan. Let's make it happen.

He do the police in different voices

This accursed month's almost over, my friend. I'm looking forward to adventure in April and … mirth-making? in May. Well, let's not get ahead of ourselves. April, after all, is the cruelest month — in terms of having to do your taxes. Wait. Maybe that's not what he meant. Dammit.

All kidding aside, I've won a playwriting award sponsored by a college in Iowa, and I will go there later this week as part of a short residency, which culminates with a staged reading of my most recent play. That play has served me well, and I'd really love it if it could get a god's-honest, real-life production in 2009-2010. We'll see. In the meantime, I will enjoy this opportunity. I was a little shocked it came long, but … "enjoy when you can" …

There's another accolade coming my way in May, but like I said, let's not get ahead of ourselves. Mazel tov.

Take a number

The line at the great automat in the sky is really backing up: Harold Pinter, David Foster Wallace, John Updike, Horton Foote and now James Purdy.

I first heard of Purdy in a New York Times article about Raymond Carver's break with Gordon Lish. D.T. Max said Lish was influenced in his editing of Carver by Purdy's spare style. Not long after that I picked up "Malcolm" (which was adapted for the stage by Edward Albee). I can't say I thought it was great, but he certainly knows how to depict the fringe, and I kept thinking of "Fur" as I read it.

Well, I think I'll give him another shot. R.I.P.

White wine did him in

Just when your faith in humanity … ah, I'm not even going to finish that. It's been a heckuva week. First there's the Super Bowl. Okay, it hasn't happened yet and it's not actually the most important … My second play got the nod for a main-stage reading at a national conference. But what's better is that my co-workers threw me a dad-only shower today, complete with cupcakes, brownies and prosecco Yes, I'm buzzed and dammit, it feels great. Humanity's best on display. Just like the scrappy Arizona Cardinals … Better stop there.

And … some good friends are going to oblige me tonight by reading the most recent draft of my third play. I'm buying hoppy beer for the occasion. Hey, I haven't had a drink all week, folks. LET'S FZRKLING CELEBRATE!!!

What's left

I knew there was something up yesterday during the ride to Green Bay when I heard that retrospective-sounding snippet about Harold Pinter. Sure enough ... But we knew he had cancer recently. Still, it makes me sad. Seeing a tiny film snippet of "The Birthday Party" more than seven years ago made me want to be a playwright. His work has been a part of my life since then and will continue to be. If I'm being brief here, it's only because I believe he now joins the ages, and his work stands as a kind of symbol of his immortality … and my appreciation of it is too personal for this space.

Today my mother showed me my baby book, which I've seen before but not in a long time. I was struck by how she so thoroughly filled it up to its designated limits (six years old) and how some of her personal feelings slipped into it. I thought a baby book would be more a piece of family propaganda, only focusing on positives. But my mother let her worry and sadness creep into it, and now that I notice that, I'm grateful. The fact that she chose to express herself in this mass-produced blank book using all the space that was alloted is some kind of testament to how we, of the common population, are only afforded so much time and room to do anything. This isn't a sociological, political or psychological exercise I'm admiring. I just admire her thoroughness in the face of time's passing and the world's indifference. If you can't take a minute to record what your child has done, what's really the point of anything you're going to do? I will follow her example.

Coming and going

Oh, baby. I own all of this stuff in individual editions, but man does it look good all in one place. Who would buy this? Me. I'm sure there are others out there. Erika, please don't get me this for Xmas. I just want to ogle it a little. It's also fucking expensive. Where does that money go — gravestone polish? I have a picture of the gravestone. He's in the same cemetery as JP Sartre and Baudelaire. I should post it some day.

Man, an imperfect animal

Christ, I'm bored today. The last issue of the year went out last week. I have some Web site duties, but between that and my commute (detailed yesterday), there's little to pass the time. I've amused myself with Internet games, sent out some more submissions and even written in a journal to my unborn child.

At least I'm not anxious. Wait, who said that bit about anxiety and boredom? The two states of humankind. I think it was Pascal, but I'm not going to rely on the Internet to provide the answer. Well, man also is a bit of an asshole. Erika was nice enough to take me to work this morning, and I criticized her driving. This situation, I've found, moves me to criticize her driving skills more readily than any other, and I always forget this fact before going into it again. Now I'm thrashing about with guilt.

I did finish up another draft of my new play yesterday, and I've sent it to the Feedback Processing Factory. I'm confident I can wrap this whole thing up by March, April at the latest. My goal is to do it in fewer drafts than the last two, which I hope spells an improvement in my skills (and a break for my sanity).

But none of this is helping my boredom. I can't even listen to the song "Boredom" because my Sprial Scratch 7" is in Detroit. I think it's time to sleep under my desk.

Weequeend Wrappup

November's upon us. Today is my brother Matt's birthday. I suppose it's officially time to put on one's holiday running shoes. We're going to be hosting Thanksgiving at our place, as we did in 2006, for both families. We're still not sure what will happen at Christmas.

We had fun at the beer bar watching one of Chris's bands and the two that came after. I had a little too much Robert the Bruce Scottish-style ale and paid for it on Sunday, but I don't regret a thing. Erika said the baby was moving around a bit, which could indicate a musical tendency — though what person doesn't enjoy music?

I went to a playwriting class yesterday. I don't know what to make of these things anymore. It was nice to hear a playwrights-first viewpoint on writing stage directions, working with actors, etc. So often I have heard the other side of the equation, which can be a bit of a bummer (i.e., less freedom for writers). It was supposed to be a big feel-good session, which I guess is good, but it left me feeling depressed and alone as a writer. In some strange way, I was reminded that my work is really nothing more than programming, that no one knows/remembers my name (save a few) and that my work is often interpreted as crazy by others. And after I've been reminded of this, I have to go home and continue working alone for months. What exactly am I supposed to feel good about?

Well, today is the proverbial new day. It's warm and sunny outside. I have my tea here. I'm going to eat lunch soon. And after that, I will get back to work. Last week I made some significant headway in my latest draft, and I was proud of myself for coming back to it each day and not relenting. That makes me feel good. That, I suppose, is all that should matter.

Quiet village

You know, I never did buy the copy of "Quiet Village" like I wanted to back during the lounge/exotica revival of the '90s. I remember having a copy in my hand at a Hamtramck record store the day after we played a show in Ann Arbor in 1998, but I put it back in the bin, probably because it was a 180-gram reissue that cost $25. Ah well …

We watched "Forgetting Sarah Marshall" last night (and enjoyed it). Maybe that has me thinking about Hawaii and its dreamlike music. Also, the Cracker Factory is a bit mum today; the shifting seasons have muted my normally chattering co-workers. I felt pretty dog dang tired myself Monday night after a full slate of 50 degrees and grayness. But I think this is actually my kind of weather — I'll call it "minutes before sleep." The overcast maritime climate of Continental Europe beckons. I just have to learn French (or brush up on my German).

Some friends read the latest draft of my new play on Sunday. It turned out well, and I'm ready to kick off the next revision with their comments in mind. The pay-to-play service I've used the past two years didn't come through, even though I, yes, still paid for it. But I liked our home reading better. It was very insightful and refreshingly without the usual whining from the kitchen sink crew.

… Listen to that quiet. Just the faint hum of lights and the cycling of the building furnace. Perhaps elevators in the distance. Someone lets out a sigh down the hall … Time for a banana.

A snob concedes

We received the film version of "Look Back in Anger" somewhat accidentally, as I let our Netflix backlog of classics creep up into the top three, normally reserved for contemporary indie movies about disillusioned, balding literature professors and their damaged families. (I think we've seen about eight of these so far.)

Being a snide neo-absurdist, I've harbored a slight disdain for John Osborne for, you know, all the stock reasons. But watching "Look Back" last night, I was shocked out of my abstract stance by a work that strikingly concentrated on the here and now, without any artificial accentuation of hope or despair: a true piece of realism. And I was struck by the excellence of Osborne's writing. It really made me want to read the thing again.

As a snob, I used to scoff at this play for being what seemed like a long personal political rant tacked on to a stock love story. The film version gave it air, moving a lot of the action outside the flat and put some of Jimmy Porter's snarling in different locations that made it seem more varied and even stronger.

Is it better than a play where you don't know anyone's name or their names change or you never find out why they are where they are? I don't know. High marks have tended to go, at least in the last 60 years, to those writers who give less. But Osborne's naked, loquacious work struck me right in the heart last night. And that may be all that matters: what echoes the challenges, with equal sadness and joy, that we face in our lives.