I wonder...

about something we often do: write from the perspective of another person especially of someone who has lived a different cultural history. Say, I write from the perspective of a schoolboy from this country. From the reader's point of view, this will read even in the best of light, I suspect, as if some central element of the protagonist's life is diffusely portrayed even if the reader can't put her finger on it.

Maybe you object; you say that underlying all our cultural complexity is shared human understanding and experiences and that's what will connect the reader to the author! Harrumph!

But put yourself in my shoes: a cultural interloper trying to glean enough of an understanding of the life of natives, the roads they've walked on, the ditches they've been pushed into and the stores they've visited, just so I can pass of a character as credible. Is that portrayal something you would read? OK, maybe you'd read it to humor me, after all you're reading this blog, but what if I were a total stranger?

My point is that perhaps the most satisfying stories to read about, are from people who share one's same cultural history. Why? Because I can understand in a more subtle way the life of a protagonist described from such a perspective.

Example:

He pulled his lungi up and tied it around his thighs.

What does this signify to you? Nothing, I bet! For me, it would signify that this man is getting ready for some physical activity because the lungi (a sarong-like wraparound to clothe a man waist down), when not pulled up to above the wearer's knees gets in the way of efficient movement.

Without these shared understandings, would you trust the author?

From a postmodernist perspective perhaps, positing such an opinion says more about me: that I give greater value to cultural artifacts than shared emotional and intellectual experiences. Maybe I've started longing for the icing on the cake.

Inconvenient Napping

So we've decided that writing is a worthy pursuit: a great use of time and energy with high reward. A turn of phrase that captures the essence of an experience. A metaphor catapulting understanding. A description of place that transports readers out of their bodies, an astral projection of sorts.

Runners talk about the high they get, an endorphin rush that drives them forward and inspires them to hit the trail day after day. As writers we, too, sometimes can achieve that out-of-the-world experience, especially when we seem to transcribe words flowing from somewhere else. We move our fingers faster and faster to capture it all. And when it's done, we feel satisfied and spent.

Given the opportunities that writing offers - creative expression and surging joy - it is a mystery why it takes true force of will to sit down and get to it every day. We know the formula: Butt + Seat = Pages.

But my butt consistently tries to avoid the seat and cut straight to the satisfied-and-spent moment. An arms-over-head stretch. A yawning exhale.

What happened to my writing today?

Just a little inconvenient napping.

Talking to myself again...

So, as far as news, we have a brand spankin' new website: sbannethology.com

Other than that, I've been thinking about submitting a piece to The Kenyon Review, but you know what, they don't take multiple submissions and they'll do their best to look at your wretched piece within four months.

The Tin House has decided they want to do their bit for bookstores, so they want you, the submitter to go fetch them a receipt of a book you bought from one recently, otherwise explain to them in 100 words why you're such a bastard you don't do your part to save your noble, local besieged bookstore.

Will I get a prize for the best goddamn 100-word apology?

Sorry I am feeling punchy. Sure, it is a worthwhile cause and it will probably make a difference. But will it? Do we really need external saviors? White nights descending from the sky in their shiny armor and magical bullets to slay the cruel, modernistic army of "progress" marketing itself to a frothing populace, incapable of independent thought, slavish in their belief that if only they had things more shiny, more new and different, their miserable lives would be better and set apart as examples by their hitherto seemingly better-off neighbors.

Will it slay the Kindles, the iPads and the Nooks, the Amazons and the Googles of this world?

Really? If only we did our part, us aspiring writers, countless in number, invincible in strength, our wallets bulging with our day jobs' salaries, pouring our wealth into the local bookstores, then, only then, will we save them; only then will we grab the throats of the big boys of books, lift them off their feet and shake them from side to side like a dog with its chew-toy, and then slam them back to the ground.

Will we?

Like the supporters of Julian Assange doing their puny best against Amazon for denying their hero his space in Amazon's cloud?

Uh huh, sure, we will!

Welcome

Welcome, lovely SBAers (& Dan) :)

Now say something about how you feel.

Me? Really? OK.. well, I feel sapped. Sucked dry of all creativity. No, that's not true -- I think I said that just to give myself excuses not to write. I haven't written anything creative (except for a letter to NYT) since finishing my compilation. And then, I've been mostly editing to submit a few stories to writing contests. I still have it as a goal to do more before I leave.

There...see put the quotidian self out there and pick out a few words from that dervish of conscious thoughts flying around you.