shadowkat: (writing)
I'm afraid I got some bad tuna or something. My stomach is having a conipition fit. Keep jumping to the stool. Not pretty. Am hoping it completes itself before 10 pm. Also thinking I might want to just take yogurt and an apple to work tomorrow or maybe make a quick salad, ditching the tuna nicoise salads I made. Not sure if it was tuna nicoise salad, the five chocolat coated brazialian nuts, the chocolat milk, two small pieces of milk chocolat, or something else. Ugh, I hate my stomach - it gets in the way of my love of eating. Am going to have to give up chocolat, I suspect. Also cut back even further on eating. Drinking herbal tea in the hopes of calming it all down, since I have to go to work tomorrow.

On the writing front - read a rather interesting article by Malcolm Gladwell in the New Yorker. (I went on a bit of magazine buying spree today). The article is entitled Late Bloomers: Why do we equate genius with preocity?. In the article Gladwell compares two writers and two artists. The writers are Ben Fountain, the forty-six year old, who wrote "Brief Encounters with Che Guevara" (no, I haven't heard of it either) and Jonathan Safran Foer - the nineteen year old author of "Everything is Illuminated" (which I did hear of but had no interest in). The artists are the child prodigy Picasso (whose early works are his best) and late bloomer, Cezanne (whose best work was in his fifties and sixties).

Gladwell quotes a statement from David Galenson, an economist at the University of Chicago.
Galenson did a study on whether age played a factor in genuis. What Galenson discovered was there were two types of creative genuis's - the prodigy, who has everything formatted and planned ahead of time, and the late-bloomer who discovers it over time. He said the late bloomer unlike the prodigy, learns by trial and error and rarely makes a specific preparatory sketch or plan for a painting.

"They consider the production of a painting as a process of searching, in which they aim to discover the image in the course of making it; they typically believe that learning is a more important goal than making finished paintings. Experimental artists build their skills gradually over the course of their careers, improving their work slowly over long periods. These artists are perfectionists and are typically plagued by frustration at their inability to achieve their goal."

In the comparison of the two writers - Gladwell describes Fountain as taking sixteen years from the time he quit his job at the law firm, to get his first book of short stories published. While Foer had instant success - Foer was never interested in writing until he took a creative writing class with Joyce Carol Oats, who took him aside and told him she was a fan of his writing. Foer visited the Ukraine once to write Everything is Illuminated. Fountain had to visit Haiti twenty times to write his novel.

What helped Fountain and what Fountain has in common with Cezanne is a necessary ingredient that most of us do not have - a patron who is willing to financially support us until we get our work perfected and published. Fountain's wife - also an attorney, supported Fountain, let him be the stay at home Dad, and allowed him to visit Haiti and supported them both. Cezanne's father and several friends supported him. The prodigy's don't require it - they have their books published instantly. And have instant success. But the late bloomers do.

Other late bloomers - include Mark Twain - who took nearly ten years to write Huckleberry Finn.

Here's literary critic Franklin Rogers on Mark Twain: "His routine procedure seems to have been to start a novel with some structural plan which ordinarily soon proved defective, whereupon he would cast about for a new plot which would overcome the difficulty, rewrite what he had already written, and then push on until some new defect forced him to repeat the process once again." Twain apparently gave up on and revised Huckleberry Finn so many times - it took ten years to complete.

According to Gladwell: "The Cezannes of the world bloom late not as a result of some defect in character, or distraction, or lack of ambition, but because the kind of creativity that proceeds through trial and error necessarily takes a long time to come to fruitation."

The prodigy's creativity is considered "conceptual" and the late bloomers - "experimental".
English art critic Roger Fry writes of Cezanne: "More happily endowed and more integral personalities have been able to express themselves harmoniously from the very first. But such rich, complex, and conflicting natures as Cezanne's require long period of fermentation."

Gladwell states that prodigies are easy, late bloomers are hard. "On the road to great achievement, the late bloomer will resemble a failure: while the late bloomer is revising and despairing and changing course and slashing canvases to ribbons after months or years, what he or she produces will look like the kind of thing produced by the artist who will never bloom at all. Prodigies are easy. They advertise their genius from the get-go. Late bloomers are hard. They require forebearance and blind faith..."

Interesting. A lot of what he says about Cezanne and Fountain, I identify with. The novel I'm currently revising, is in some respects a by-product of the past four novels I've written. And rewritten. And scrapped the plot of, numerous times. I'm the same way with art, cooking, what-have-you, I keep experimenting, searching for it, I don't know what it is ahead of time, to me the fun is in the search, the experiment. Or as Cezanne states - "I seek in painting".
[Not that I'm a Cezanne, or a Twain, no where near, just that I identify with their process, while Fountain and Mozart and Picasso's is foreign to me. I'm envious of it. But I don't understand. It's as if they aren't striving, there's no challenge, no struggle. Why bother? See drawing came naturally to me, not writing - but I chose writing for in writing I could seek to learn, to find, it was more experimental for me. As a result, I don't understand the prodigy.]

Foer is the opposite, he's a prodigy. He just took it up. Took him three days to write Everything is Illuminated. Gladwell states that he has no understanding of Fountain or Twain's process. Foer states - "I couldn't do that. I mean imagine if the craft you're trying to learn is to be an original. How could you learn the craft of being an original?" (I don't think Foer understands that it's not about that for the late bloomer. )

Gladwell points out that one is not necessarily better than the other. They are just different. And we tend to see more prodigies than late bloomers, because many late bloomers get lost in the process - if they don't have patrons. I'm not sure I completely agree with Gladwell. If you truly want to do art, you will find a way to do it. Even if it is late at night or on spare weekends or holidays. Whether or not it is great art or is seen by anyone else - is, I'm not certain, that important. Those of us who are driven to create, whatever it may be, to express ourselves in a creative manner, do find a way. We have to, in order to stay sane. It just may take us a bit longer than Ben Fountain to get our work out there.

Stomach is somewhat better now. Am going to watch Desperate Housewives and finish my tea.
shadowkat: (writing)
[Posted on this earlier in a flocked post - but continue to be fascinated, so have decided to post more on the topic.]

Just finished reading "Life and Letters: Rough Crossings - the cutting of Raymond Carver" in Dec 24 &31st issue of the New Yorker, otherwise known as the Winter Fiction edition.

The article discusses the relationship between Raymond Carver and his long-time editor, Gordon Lish (of Esquire and later Alfred A. Knopf).

Here's an excerpt: Excerpt from the article )

And here's two excerpts from letters Carver sent to his editor, Lish regarding Lish's edits of his work:
letters from Carver to Lish )

In the letters - Carver's begging his editor to work with him as opposed to rewrite his stories or ghost write. Taking his stories essentially away from him. The letters read like a one-sided tug of war or struggle. Making me wonder to what degree do editors and publishers fall victim to their own egos and own desire to be part of a creation, to leave an indelibable mark or stamp on someone else's work? To ghost write as opposed to edit? I've lost count of the number of young editorial assistants I've spoken with who want every book they read to read like James Patterson, Edith Wharton or what they think sells. Change the plot. Change the style. Change the characters. To the point that the story loses the authorial intent - begging the question is the story the author's or produced by assembly? So when students go to study it later, the authorial intent is misunderstood. One wonders after reading these letters if Carver's intent has been misunderstood? Or on the other hand, if without Lish's edits, if Carver would have even been read by the number of people who've read him. If his stories would have lasted or recieved positive reviews?

Don't get me wrong - I value a good editor. Some books I've read, I cringe at the poor editing job. Stephen King's last few books as well as Ann Rice's ached for editors. But, editing is an art. It's hard to do. And the one thing you don't want to do as an editor is put the writer inside a straight jacket or change their work in a serious way. Writing is about communication. From what I've read of these letters, I'm not sure Gordon Lish was a good editor, even though he obviously furthered Carver's career.

To see a line by line comparison of Raymond Carver's "Beginner's" and Gordon Lish's edit - go to www.newyorker.com.
shadowkat: (Shadow -woman)
Was reading this morning in The New Yorker, Dec. 10th issue, about Diarists - why people keep Diaries and why people read them. Diaries, the essayist points out, are not the same as blogging or journal keeping in that a diarist will keep track of every little thing that happened regardless of how important or meaningful. (Don't know, depends on the blog/journal - I think. Some people online do write every little thing they've done and do it every day. Other's like myself write whatever hits their fancy and that they wish to remember, keep a record of, and more importantly to share with others.) At any rate, my blog as you've no doubt figured out by now is not a diary or a letter so much as a public journal that serves two purposes - one to keep track of thoughts I have for myself and well to share those thoughts to the world at large or in flocked posts to a select group whose journals/diaries I read. Electronic correspondence is not the same as long-hand or letters. It's more edited, cleaner, and yet at the same time, often more spontaneous.

xmas morning )

I went to Midnight Mass last night with my folks, only Mass I go to all year not bein overly religious and more than a tad annoyed with the dogma of the Catholic Church. I did it mostly to support Momster who was singing in the Church Choir. At any rate the sermon based on the Christmas story related in the new testament according to Luke, annoyed more than moved me. It was more or less about why saying Merry Christmas was better than saying Happy Holidays. I found myself wishing the priest had said what my uncle wrote in the short piece of writing he'd sent in his annual Christmas card to my parents. Which is an analysis of the metaphorical meaning of nativity story, as opposed to the literal interpretation that we have become accostumed to.

I know most of my readers or a goodly percentage are either not religious, athesist, agonistic, or not Christian. So I hope you will bear with me while I share what can best be described as a historical and metaphorical analysis of a biblical text; I'm not sharing it to teach, inform, convert, so much as to ponder and discuss because it struck me as unique and interesting. The analysis is the piece of writing that my uncle included in his Xmas card to my parents. Before I share it - I should explain that my uncle is an ordained Catholic Priest, who has been a priest for more than 40 years, working a good percentage of that time on an Indian reservation in South Dakota. He was named after a Saint, the middle son of seven boys and three girls in a poor Irish Catholic family. As soon as he was able he retreated to the sancturary of the priesthood mostly to get away from the chaos at home.

Here's what he wrote:

An Adult Reading of the Christmas Story )
shadowkat: (Default)
[Warning this post is filled with horrid typos and I'm too lazy right now to go back and edit it. So if you hate that? Skip.]

The following passage is from Proust's "Du cote du chez Swann" or "Swann's Way", as translated by Lydia Davis:

[The narrator has innocently conveyed to his parents a pleasant encounter he had with his uncle and his uncle's lady of the evening aka 'mistress'. His parents reacte as one would expect, distressed and horrified. But the passage is in essence about a lesson the narrator learned, a sort of epiphany about human nature and communication. How the information we wish to convey is often not received in the way it was originally intended.]

I imagined, like everyone else, that the brain of another person was an inert and docile receptacle, without the power to react specifically to what one produced into it; and I did not doubt that in depositing in my parents' brains the news of the acquaintance I had made through my uncle, I was transmitting to them at the same time, as I wished to, the kindly opinion that I had of the introduction. My parents unfortunately deferred to principles entirely different from those I was suggesting they adopt, when they wished to appraise my uncle's action.

The passage gave me what can best be described as one of those "AH-HAH" moments last night while reading it. Actually I'd read it the night before as well, loved it so much, that I went back and re-read the last ten pages proceeding it - so I could understand what happened. (Have discovered it is close to impossible to read Proust, when one's mind is worrying over or at other things.) At any rate, what I thought was - oh, yes, that's the problem when watch or read art - we carry along our own experience and baggage and our own expectations. What we think may not be what was intended and what ensues is a sort of battle between the reader of the work and the author of it - over what it means. Leaving the artist feeling a bit befuddled and at times frustrated, wondering, I'm certain, if there is much point to creating the work at all.

Just finished reading an excellent review in The New Yorker regarding the new TV show of the moment, Studio 60 on The Sunset Strip. Why, you ask is this show getting so much critical attention, while other new shows such as Shark, The Nine, Six Degrees, Jericho, the Class, etc are getting so little? Ah. Because of the shows premiering this season it is the only one that is not copying an old motif.
Review of Studio 60 on Sunset Strip, cut for spoilers )
Page generated May. 28th, 2025 07:12 am
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios