Each month The Monarch Writers, here on our .com and also on our Discord, will focus on a specific theme. This month it is CHARACTER. And specifically how to make strong characters.
First, to sum up the issue:
So what is the issue of character?
A character must have DESIRE. And a character, in the course of a story, must CHANGE.
That clip is from the incredible film ‘Adaptation’ (2002) of course, written by Charlie Kaufman. He specializes in kind of meta- self-dissecting arthouse turmoil, rainbeaten soil of the frustrated honest soul, everyday absurdity, the transcendent beauty of… mundane revelation-avenging angel of humanity kind of thing. Not your typical writer, perhaps, but he goes to a screenwriting workshop in his own film, as himself, and listens to one of the master teachers, Robert McKee, played by Brian Cox.
Here’s the real Robert McKee’s thoughts on signing on for a script that was written quoting him, using his name, which he had his own conflicts with the screenwriter about before their individual characters came to terms on a workable resolution that became the film, incidentally changing the ending to the script of said film!
This month I plan to look into and discuss a few pieces of art related in an interesting way to character and its specific relationship to the author, to tease out some interesting themes that might spark something in your process as you build up your own characters.
Well, as McKee said, he doesn’t want to be loved, on principle. He wants a redemption scene. Perhaps as writers we have to go from wanting to be loved by the reader to wanting something similar… To find that redemption through the connection.
After McKee yells at Charlie in the seminar scene, Charlie, wanting redemption and daring to change, sticks around after the show and hassles McKee, says ‘remember me, I’m the guy you yelled at’ and asks him to get a drink with him in the bar. This is the ensuing scene.
So, I’ll leave you with the advice of Robert McKee, a writer, about adapting a book about flowers ‘The Orchid Thief‘ by Susan Orlean (“that sprawling New Yorker shit”) into the enigmatic and blissful film ‘Adaptation’. Robert McKee telling it like it.. when life hands you orchids… or, doesn’t. Again, McKee being played by an actor, as a character in a movie about a writer playing the writer who wrote the film about adapting a book that he has trouble writing into the movie script he needs help making into the movie he’s in…
I am a regular listener to a lot of old radio drama type shows, with favorites including Sherlock Holmes (Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce), CBS Radio Mystery Theater, and classics like The Whistler, The Creaking Door, and others. Last year around Halloween I listened to a much more recent radio drama style podcast titled ‘LIMETOWN’ and it was great! Ever since I’ve been looking for new ones to check out. Right now I’m a few episodes into ‘The Left Right Game’ which is also very entertaining and cool. Spotify is recommending me a few others, so I thought I’d post some of them here. Let me know if you know any others that are worth sharing!
Bring Me the Head of Quentin Tarantino by Julián Herbert translated from Spanish by Christina MacSweeney Graywolf Press, November 2020 Bookshop / Amazon 192 pages – fiction, short story
Review by Felice Arenas
An ode to, inspired by, or Western Unioned from the same morality-subverting center of its namesake’s films, Bring Me the Head of Quentin Tarantino, Julián Herbert’s short-story collection, emerges from magical realism to crash the penumbra of the depraved. A photographer’s most gruesome work might be his unborn son. Smile! There’s a magnum opus in a conceptual artist’s mouth. Impersonate a literary great and make thousands of pesos to score crack. It’s obvious Herbert enjoys examining the corruption of his native land, Mexico—“there’s no human experience beyond the reach of a bribe” and “most Mexicans are genetically incapable of distinguishing between a criminal and a policeman”—and he excels at rendering memorable, oftentimes apologetic characters who dwell in tightly constructed worlds that feel weirdly unobjectionable and totally nuts at once.
FIYAH is a quarterly speculative fiction magazine that features stories by and about Black people of the African Diaspora. This definition is globally inclusive (Black anywhere in the world) and also applies to mixed/biracial and Afro-appended people regardless of gender identity or orientation.
We publish poems and stories between 1k-5k words in January, April, July, and October. We also hold monthly flash fiction contests between the 1st and 15th of each month. Flash stories must be under a 1000 words and be inspired or based on the chosen theme. Full details for submission guidelines at https://apparitionlit.com/submissions/.
I am at a point in my work on my novel project right now where I am having a lot of ideas, and want to keep track of them.
I already do multiple bulletin boards and note taking methods, from notebooks as I read to apps like Google Keep which is easy to stay on top of. There is so much going on in the world it seems and so many ideas going through my head each day that my main issue is getting back to all these thoughts later on without losing track of them. Taking notes is great and facing the fresh insights of the ever-passing moment all good, but the content of a lot of these thoughts involves the dilemma itself I’d like to address here: The need to remind myself to spend time with yesterdays ideas. To not just chase after the fresh and new but to sit down and spend time with things in a deeper, more resolved way.
Does anybody have similar issues with keeping a course and making your inspiration turn into practical output?
This essay by Nobel Prize winning poet Octavio Paz addresses the idea of feeling like we are always on the cusp of a new tomorrow while being pursued by both the plagues and the consolidated wisdom of all that has come before. Past fault lines rolling up onto the idea of a modernity that is different, exciting, and new, but is also an aplification of what already is; I invite you to experience it with me and respond with your thoughts in the comments or in a reblog with commentary. How does this feeling of being alive in interesting times affect your calling and role as the artist/shaman of the tribe?
Marshall McLuhan believed artists see the future before it arrives as they are attuned as a type of living antennae of the race to changes and shifts in media, technology, and art. More than translating an interpretation of things half-perceived coming from the future, the task of the artist is trying to set down future values for the world in flux, I believe. And thus the artist needs to be ahead of the game on knowing what she or he wants, and what world one would want to bring about. With that in mind, please enjoy this piece by Octavio Paz written on acceptance of his nobel prize, titled ‘In Search of the Present’.
I begin with two words that all men have uttered since the dawn of humanity: thank you. The word gratitude has equivalents in every language and in each tongue the range of meanings is abundant. In the Romance languages this breadth spans the spiritual and the physical, from the divine grace conceded to men to save them from error and death, to the bodily grace of the dancing girl or the feline leaping through the undergrowth. Grace means pardon, forgiveness, favour, benefice, inspiration; it is a form of address, a pleasing style of speaking or painting, a gesture expressing politeness, and, in short, an act that reveals spiritual goodness. Grace is gratuitous; it is a gift. The person who receives it, the favoured one, is grateful for it; if he is not base, he expresses gratitude. That is what I am doing at this very moment with these weightless words. I hope my emotion compensates their weightlessness. If each of my words were a drop of water, you would see through them and glimpse what I feel: gratitude, acknowledgement. And also an indefinable mixture of fear, respect and surprise at finding myself here before you, in this place which is the home of both Swedish learning and world literature.
Languages are vast realities that transcend those political and historical entities we call nations. The European languages we speak in the Americas illustrate this. The special position of our literatures when compared to those of England, Spain, Portugal and France depends precisely on this fundamental fact: they are literatures written in transplanted tongues. Languages are born and grow from the native soil, nourished by a common history. The European languages were rooted out from their native soil and their own tradition, and then planted in an unknown and unnamed world: they took root in the new lands and, as they grew within the societies of America, they were transformed. They are the same plant yet also a different plant. Our literatures did not passively accept the changing fortunes of the transplanted languages: they participated in the process and even accelerated it. They very soon ceased to be mere transatlantic reflections: at times they have been the negation of the literatures of Europe; more often, they have been a reply.
In spite of these oscillations the link has never been broken. My classics are those of my language and I consider myself to be a descendant of Lope and Quevedo, as any Spanish writer would … yet I am not a Spaniard. I think that most writers of Spanish America, as well as those from the United States, Brazil and Canada, would say the same as regards the English, Portuguese and French traditions. To understand more clearly the special position of writers in the Americas, we should think of the dialogue maintained by Japanese, Chinese or Arabic writers with the different literatures of Europe. It is a dialogue that cuts across multiple languages and civilizations. Our dialogue, on the other hand, takes place within the same language. We are Europeans yet we are not Europeans. What are we then? It is difficult to define what we are, but our works speak for us.
In the field of literature, the great novelty of the present century has been the appearance of the American literatures. The first to appear was that of the English-speaking part and then, in the second half of the 20th Century, that of Latin America in its two great branches: Spanish America and Brazil. Although they are very different, these three literatures have one common feature: the conflict, which is more ideological than literary, between the cosmopolitan and nativist tendencies, between Europeanism and Americanism. What is the legacy of this dispute? The polemics have disappeared; what remain are the works. Apart from this general resemblance, the differences between the three literatures are multiple and profound. One of them belongs more to history than to literature: the development of Anglo-American literature coincides with the rise of the United States as a world power whereas the rise of our literature coincides with the political and social misfortunes and upheavals of our nations. This proves once more the limitations of social and historical determinism: the decline of empires and social disturbances sometimes coincide with moments of artistic and literary splendour. Li-Po and Tu Fu witnessed the fall of the Tang dynasty; Velázquez painted for Felipe IV; Seneca and Lucan were contemporaries and also victims of Nero. Other differences are of a literary nature and apply more to particular works than to the character of each literature. But can we say that literatures have a character? Do they possess a set of shared features that distinguish them from other literatures? I doubt it. A literature is not defined by some fanciful, intangible character; it is a society of unique works united by relations of opposition and affinity.
The first basic difference between Latin-American and Anglo-American literature lies in the diversity of their origins. Both begin as projections of Europe. The projection of an island in the case of North America; that of a peninsula in our case. Two regions that are geographically, historically and culturally eccentric. The origins of North America are in England and the Reformation; ours are in Spain, Portugal and the Counter-Reformation. For the case of Spanish America I should briefly mention what distinguishes Spain from other European countries, giving it a particularly original historical identity. Spain is no less eccentric than England but its eccentricity is of a different kind. The eccentricity of the English is insular and is characterized by isolation: an eccentricity that excludes. Hispanic eccentricity is peninsular and consists of the coexistence of different civilizations and different pasts: an inclusive eccentricity. In what would later be Catholic Spain, the Visigoths professed the heresy of Arianism, and we could also speak about the centuries of domination by Arabic civilization, the influence of Jewish thought, the Reconquest, and other characteristic features.
Hispanic eccentricity is reproduced and multiplied in America, especially in those countries such as Mexico and Peru, where ancient and splendid civilizations had existed. In Mexico, the Spaniards encountered history as well as geography. That history is still alive: it is a present rather than a past. The temples and gods of pre-Columbian Mexico are a pile of ruins, but the spirit that breathed life into that world has not disappeared; it speaks to us in the hermetic language of myth, legend, forms of social coexistence, popular art, customs. Being a Mexican writer means listening to the voice of that present, that presence. Listening to it, speaking with it, deciphering it: expressing it … After this brief digression we may be able to perceive the peculiar relation that simultaneously binds us to and separates us from the European tradition.
This consciousness of being separate is a constant feature of our spiritual history. Separation is sometimes experienced as a wound that marks an internal division, an anguished awareness that invites self-examination; at other times it appears as a challenge, a spur that incites us to action, to go forth and encounter others and the outside world. It is true that the feeling of separation is universal and not peculiar to Spanish Americans. It is born at the very moment of our birth: as we are wrenched from the Whole we fall into an alien land. This experience becomes a wound that never heals. It is the unfathomable depth of every man; all our ventures and exploits, all our acts and dreams, are bridges designed to overcome the separation and reunite us with the world and our fellow-beings. Each man’s life and the collective history of mankind can thus be seen as attempts to reconstruct the original situation. An unfinished and endless cure for our divided condition. But it is not my intention to provide yet another description of this feeling. I am simply stressing the fact that for us this existential condition expresses itself in historical terms. It thus becomes an awareness of our history. How and when does this feeling appear and how is it transformed into consciousness? The reply to this double-edged question can be given in the form of a theory or a personal testimony. I prefer the latter: there are many theories and none is entirely convincing.
The feeling of separation is bound up with the oldest and vaguest of my memories: the first cry, the first scare. Like every child I built emotional bridges in the imagination to link me to the world and to other people. I lived in a town on the outskirts of Mexico City, in an old dilapidated house that had a jungle-like garden and a great room full of books. First games and first lessons. The garden soon became the centre of my world; the library, an enchanted cave. I used to read and play with my cousins and schoolmates. There was a fig tree, temple of vegetation, four pine trees, three ash trees, a nightshade, a pomegranate tree, wild grass and prickly plants that produced purple grazes. Adobe walls. Time was elastic; space was a spinning wheel. All time, past or future, real or imaginary, was pure presence. Space transformed itself ceaselessly. The beyond was here, all was here: a valley, a mountain, a distant country, the neighbours’ patio. Books with pictures, especially history books, eagerly leafed through, supplied images of deserts and jungles, palaces and hovels, warriors and princesses, beggars and kings. We were shipwrecked with Sinbad and with Robinson, we fought with d’Artagnan, we took Valencia with the Cid. How I would have liked to stay forever on the Isle of Calypso! In summer the green branches of the fig tree would sway like the sails of a caravel or a pirate ship. High up on the mast, swept by the wind, I could make out islands and continents, lands that vanished as soon as they became tangible. The world was limitless yet it was always within reach; time was a pliable substance that weaved an unbroken present.
When was the spell broken? Gradually rather than suddenly. It is hard to accept being betrayed by a friend, deceived by the woman we love, or that the idea of freedom is the mask of a tyrant. What we call “finding out” is a slow and tricky process because we ourselves are the accomplices of our errors and deceptions. Nevertheless, I can remember fairly clearly an incident that was the first sign, although it was quickly forgotten. I must have been about six when one of my cousins who was a little older showed me a North American magazine with a photograph of soldiers marching along a huge avenue, probably in New York. “They’ve returned from the war” she said. This handful of words disturbed me, as if they foreshadowed the end of the world or the Second Coming of Christ. I vaguely knew that somewhere far away a war had ended a few years earlier and that the soldiers were marching to celebrate their victory. For me, that war had taken place in another time, not here and now. The photo refuted me. I felt literally dislodged from the present.
From that moment time began to fracture more and more. And there was a plurality of spaces. The experience repeated itself more and more frequently. Any piece of news, a harmless phrase, the headline in a newspaper: everything proved the outside world’s existence and my own unreality. I felt that the world was splitting and that I did not inhabit the present. My present was disintegrating: real time was somewhere else. My time, the time of the garden, the fig tree, the games with friends, the drowsiness among the plants at three in the afternoon under the sun, a fig torn open (black and red like a live coal but one that is sweet and fresh): this was a fictitious time. In spite of what my senses told me, the time from over there, belonging to the others, was the real one, the time of the real present. I accepted the inevitable: I became an adult. That was how my expulsion from the present began.
It may seem paradoxical to say that we have been expelled from the present, but it is a feeling we have all had at some moment. Some of us experienced it first as a condemnation, later transformed into consciousness and action. The search for the present is neither the pursuit of an earthly paradise nor that of a timeless eternity: it is the search for a real reality. For us, as Spanish Americans, the real present was not in our own countries: it was the time lived by others, by the English, the French and the Germans. It was the time of New York, Paris, London. We had to go and look for it and bring it back home. These years were also the years of my discovery of literature. I began writing poems. I did not know what made me write them: I was moved by an inner need that is difficult to define. Only now have I understood that there was a secret relationship between what I have called my expulsion from the present and the writing of poetry. Poetry is in love with the instant and seeks to relive it in the poem, thus separating it from sequential time and turning it into a fixed present. But at that time I wrote without wondering why I was doing it. I was searching for the gateway to the present: I wanted to belong to my time and to my century. A little later this obsession became a fixed idea: I wanted to be a modern poet. My search for modernity had begun.
What is modernity? First of all it is an ambiguous term: there are as many types of modernity as there are societies. Each has its own. The word’s meaning is uncertain and arbitrary, like the name of the period that precedes it, the Middle Ages. If we are modern when compared to medieval times, are we perhaps the Middle Ages of a future modernity? Is a name that changes with time a real name? Modernity is a word in search of its meaning. Is it an idea, a mirage or a moment of history? Are we the children of modernity or its creators? Nobody knows for sure. It doesn’t matter much: we follow it, we pursue it. For me at that time modernity was fused with the present or rather produced it: the present was its last supreme flower. My case is neither unique nor exceptional: from the Symbolist period, all modern poets have chased after that magnetic and elusive figure that fascinates them. Baudelaire was the first. He was also the first to touch her and discover that she is nothing but time that crumbles in one’s hands. I am not going to relate my adventures in pursuit of modernity: they are not very different from those of other 20th-Century poets. Modernity has been a universal passion. Since 1850 she has been our goddess and our demoness. In recent years, there has been an attempt to exorcise her and there has been much talk of “postmodernism”. But what is postmodernism if not an even more modern modernity?
For us, as Latin Americans, the search for poetic modernity runs historically parallel to the repeated attempts to modernize our countries. This tendency begins at the end of the 18th Century and includes Spain herself. The United States was born into modernity and by 1830 was already, as de Tocqueville observed, the womb of the future; we were born at a moment when Spain and Portugal were moving away from modernity. This is why there was frequent talk of “Europeanizing” our countries: the modern was outside and had to be imported. In Mexican history this process begins just before the War of Independence. Later it became a great ideological and political debate that passionately divided Mexican society during the 19th Century. One event was to call into question not the legitimacy of the reform movement but the way in which it had been implemented: the Mexican Revolution. Unlike its 20th-Century counterparts, the Mexican Revolution was not really the expression of a vaguely utopian ideology but rather the explosion of a reality that had been historically and psychologically repressed. It was not the work of a group of ideologists intent on introducing principles derived from a political theory; it was a popular uprising that unmasked what was hidden. For this very reason it was more of a revelation than a revolution. Mexico was searching for the present outside only to find it within, buried but alive. The search for modernity led us to discover our antiquity, the hidden face of the nation. I am not sure whether this unexpected historical lesson has been learnt by all: between tradition and modernity there is a bridge. When they are mutually isolated, tradition stagnates and modernity vaporizes; when in conjunction, modernity breathes life into tradition, while the latter replies with depth and gravity.
The search for poetic modernity was a Quest, in the allegorical and chivalric sense this word had in the 12th Century. I did not find any Grail although I did cross several waste lands visiting castles of mirrors and camping among ghostly tribes. But I did discover the modern tradition. For modernity is not a poetic school but a lineage, a family dispersed over several continents and which for two centuries has survived many sudden changes and misfortunes: public indifference, isolation, and tribunals in the name of religious, political, academic and sexual orthodoxy. Because it is a tradition and not a doctrine, it has been able to persist and to change at the same time. This is also why it is so diverse: each poetic adventure is distinct and each poet has sown a different plant in the miraculous forest of speaking trees. Yet if the works are diverse and each route is distinct, what is it that unites all these poets? Not an aesthetic but a search. My search was not fanciful, even though the idea of modernity is a mirage, a bundle of reflections. One day I discovered I was going back to the starting point instead of advancing: the search for modernity was a descent to the origins. Modernity led me to the source of my beginning, to my antiquity. Separation had now become reconciliation. I thus found out that the poet is a pulse in the rhythmic flow of generations.
The idea of modernity is a by-product of our conception of history as a unique and linear process of succession. Although its origins are in Judaeo-Christianity, it breaks with Christian doctrine. In Christianity, the cyclical time of pagan cultures is supplanted by unrepeatable history, something that has a beginning and will have an end. Sequential time was the profane time of history, an arena for the actions of fallen men, yet still governed by a sacred time which had neither beginning nor end. After Judgement Day there will be no future either in heaven or in hell. In the realm of eternity there is no succession because everything is. Being triumphs over becoming. The now time, our concept of time, is linear like that of Christianity but open to infinity with no reference to Eternity. Ours is the time of profane history, an irreversible and perpetually unfinished time that marches towards the future and not towards its end. History’s sun is the future and Progress is the name of this movement towards the future.
Christians see the world, or what used to be called the siècle or worldly life, as a place of trial: souls can be either lost or saved in this world. In the new conception the historical subject is not the individual soul but the human race, sometimes viewed as a whole and sometimes through a chosen group that represents it: the developed nations of the West, the proletariat, the white race, or some other entity. The pagan and Christian philosophical tradition had exalted Being as changeless perfection overflowing with plenitude; we adore Change, the motor of progress and the model for our societies. Change articulates itself in two privileged ways: as evolution and as revolution. The trot and the leap. Modernity is the spearhead of historical movement, the incarnation of evolution or revolution, the two faces of progress. Finally, progress takes place thanks to the dual action of science and technology, applied to the realm of nature and to the use of her immense resources.
Modern man has defined himself as a historical being. Other societies chose to define themselves in terms of values and ideas different from change: the Greeks venerated the polis and the circle yet were unaware of progress; like all the Stoics, Seneca was much concerned about the eternal return; Saint Augustine believed that the end of the world was imminent; Saint Thomas constructed a scale of the degrees of being, linking the smallest creature to the Creator, and so on. One after the other these ideas and beliefs were abandoned. It seems to me that the same decline is beginning to affect our idea of Progress and, as a result, our vision of time, of history and of ourselves. We are witnessing the twilight of the future. The decline of the idea of modernity and the popularity of a notion as dubious as that of “postmodernism” are phenomena that affect not only literature and the arts: we are experiencing the crisis of the essential ideas and beliefs that have guided mankind for over two centuries. I have dealt with this matter at length elsewhere. Here I can only offer a brief summary.
In the first place, the concept of a process open to infinity and synonymous with endless progress has been called into question. I need hardly mention what everybody knows: natural resources are finite and will run out one day. In addition, we have inflicted what may be irreparable damage on the natural environment and our own species is endangered. Finally, science and technology, the instruments of progress, have shown with alarming clarity that they can easily become destructive forces. The existence of nuclear weapons is a refutation of the idea that progress is inherent in history. This refutation, I add, can only be called devastating.
In the second place, we have the fate of the historical subject, mankind, in the 20th Century. Seldom have nations or individuals suffered so much: two world wars, tyrannies spread over five continents, the atomic bomb and the proliferation of one of the cruellest and most lethal institutions known by man: the concentration camp. Modern technology has provided countless benefits, but it is impossible to close our eyes when confronted by slaughter, torture, humiliation, degradation, and other wrongs inflicted on millions of innocent people in our century.
In the third place, the belief in the necessity of progress has been shaken. For our grandparents and our parents, the ruins of history (corpses, desolate battlefields, devastated cities) did not invalidate the underlying goodness of the historical process. The scaffolds and tyrannies, the conflicts and savage civil wars were the price to be paid for progress, the blood money to be offered to the god of history. A god? Yes, reason itself deified and prodigal in cruel acts of cunning, according to Hegel. The alleged rationality of history has vanished. In the very domain of order, regularity and coherence (in pure sciences like physics) the old notions of accident and catastrophe have reappeared. This disturbing resurrection reminds me of the terrors that marked the advent of the millennium, and the anguish of the Aztecs at the end of each cosmic cycle.
The last element in this hasty enumeration is the collapse of all the philosophical and historical hypotheses that claimed to reveal the laws governing the course of history. The believers, confident that they held the keys to history, erected powerful states over pyramids of corpses. These arrogant constructions, destined in theory to liberate men, were very quickly transformed into gigantic prisons. Today we have seen them fall, overthrown not by their ideological enemies but by the impatience and the desire for freedom of the new generations. Is this the end of all Utopias? It is rather the end of the idea of history as a phenomenon, the outcome of which can be known in advance. Historical determinism has been a costly and bloodstained fantasy. History is unpredictable because its agent, mankind, is the personification of indeterminism.
This short review shows that we are very probably at the end of a historical period and at the beginning of another. The end of the Modern Age or just a mutation? It is difficult to tell. In any case, the collapse of Utopian schemes has left a great void, not in the countries where this ideology has proved to have failed but in those where many embraced it with enthusiasm and hope. For the first time in history mankind lives in a sort of spiritual wilderness and not, as before, in the shadow of those religious and political systems that consoled us at the same time as they oppressed us. Although all societies are historical, each one has lived under the guidance and inspiration of a set of metahistorical beliefs and ideas. Ours is the first age that is ready to live without a metahistorical doctrine; whether they be religious or philosophical, moral or aesthetic, our absolutes are not collective but private. It is a dangerous experience. It is also impossible to know whether the tensions and conflicts unleashed in this privatization of ideas, practices and beliefs that belonged traditionally to the public domain will not end up by destroying the social fabric. Men could then become possessed once more by ancient religious fury or by fanatical nationalism. It would be terrible if the fall of the abstract idol of ideology were to foreshadow the resurrection of the buried passions of tribes, sects and churches. The signs, unfortunately, are disturbing.
The decline of the ideologies I have called metahistorical, by which I mean those that assign to history a goal and a direction, implies first the tacit abandonment of global solutions. With good sense, we tend more and more towards limited remedies to solve concrete problems. It is prudent to abstain from legislating about the future. Yet the present requires much more than attention to its immediate needs: it demands a more rigorous global reflection. For a long time I have firmly believed that the twilight of the future heralds the advent of the now. To think about the now implies first of all to recover the critical vision. For example, the triumph of the market economy (a triumph due to the adversary’s default) cannot be simply a cause for joy. As a mechanism the market is efficient, but like all mechanisms it lacks both conscience and compassion. We must find a way of integrating it into society so that it expresses the social contract and becomes an instrument of justice and fairness. The advanced democratic societies have reached an enviable level of prosperity; at the same time they are islands of abundance in the ocean of universal misery. The topic of the market is intricately related to the deterioration of the environment. Pollution affects not only the air, the rivers and the forests but also our souls. A society possessed by the frantic need to produce more in order to consume more tends to reduce ideas, feelings, art, love, friendship and people themselves to consumer products. Everything becomes a thing to be bought, used and then thrown in the rubbish dump. No other society has produced so much waste as ours has. Material and moral waste.
Reflecting on the now does not imply relinquishing the future or forgetting the past: the present is the meeting place for the three directions of time. Neither can it be confused with facile hedonism. The tree of pleasure does not grow in the past or in the future but at this very moment. Yet death is also a fruit of the present. It cannot be rejected, for it is part of life. Living well implies dying well. We have to learn how to look death in the face. The present is alternatively luminous and sombre, like a sphere that unites the two halves of action and contemplation. Thus, just as we have had philosophies of the past and of the future, of eternity and of the void, tomorrow we shall have a philosophy of the present. The poetic experience could be one of its foundations. What do we know about the present? Nothing or almost nothing. Yet the poets do know one thing: the present is the source of presences.
In this pilgrimage in search of modernity I lost my way at many points only to find myself again. I returned to the source and discovered that modernity is not outside but within us. It is today and the most ancient antiquity; it is tomorrow and the beginning of the world; it is a thousand years old and yet newborn. It speaks in Nahuatl, draws Chinese ideograms from the 9th century, and appears on the television screen. This intact present, recently unearthed, shakes off the dust of centuries, smiles and suddenly starts to fly, disappearing through the window. A simultaneous plurality of time and presence: modernity breaks with the immediate past only to recover an age-old past and transform a tiny fertility figure from the neolithic into our contemporary. We pursue modernity in her incessant metamorphoses yet we never manage to trap her. She always escapes: each encounter ends in flight. We embrace her and she disappears immediately: it was just a little air. It is the instant, that bird that is everywhere and nowhere. We want to trap it alive but it flaps its wings and vanishes in the form of a handful of syllables. We are left empty-handed. Then the doors of perception open slightly and the other time appears, the real one we were searching for without knowing it: the present, the presence.
A quote that caught my eye, particularly since I make a joke of telling people I dropped out of a college whose motto is ‘If something is worth doing, it’s worth doing well’, is this quote by G.K Chesterton:
“Anything worth doing is worth doing badly.”
Which means, if you set yourself the goal of doing NaNo, that means you have a desire to write, and giving up on that dream is no plan! If it isn’t working out as best as you thought it might at the beginning of the month, still, stick with it, keep writing as well as you can. Try for less than 50 thousand words. But keep trying. Because abandoning things you want and moving on to a new project, is another way of ending up with a pile of unfinished projects and not finishing anything! Stick with the things you truly want to do. Moving from one project to the next is a great way of finding out more about yourself and what you want, but also, sticking with things is a way of building depth of that dream you know you really do have.
CHECK OUT THE MUSIC PLAYLIST CREATION SITE 8TRACKS.COM
There are millions of user-created playlists for every type of mood and conception. It’s a really great place for artists and music lovers. I made a bunch of playlists back in the day and am just today revisiting my profile. Below is my playlist for writing muse. I definitely recommend perusing their collection and maybe putting together a collection of your own. You can do so in a number of ways and it’s easy and good fun.
My Profile: https://8tracks.com/theneonheart
A Random Smattering of Posts Tagged ‘Writing Inpsiration’
This month the Monarch Writers are excited about the yearly November tradition of National Novel Writing Month, which several of us are participating in this year. You can get a jump on your preparation by following some of the great videos on the NaNo Youtube account and set reminders for those to watch them live. Take a closer look at the Prep-101 section of their homepage. And focus with us on our lead this month which is characterization.
There are literally thousands of CHARACTER SHEETS available online for figuring out your characters deeper story that sets them up with the background psychology, motivations, and flaws that send them spinning through their time in your specific narrative before they go back to living their own lives in their fictional universes.
Good ones have spaces to fill in for their personal flaws, which interact with their motivations, leading to conflict, tied in with the setting. If you can set certain elements out early on, you make it easier on yourself going forward with the plot so you aren’t always rechecking the ingredients and at some point have the oven door closed and can get your brain baking at a steady 425 degrees with your fingers at the keys.
Here are several links to character sheets around the net to get you started, but feel free to add your own categories for your own template.
this was a neat exercise lining up your character with the mental health ‘8 dimensions of wellness’ as an example of things you can do to explore your character
Also, consider whether you are making your character too much like yourself, or just be aware of how your character reflects you in certain ways. It’s not a bad thing, but you can make your character have a more dynamic and dramatic life than your own rather than sticking to just ‘what you know.’
In June 2019, The Monarch Writers are discussing MIMESIS, or Re-Presentation of reality in Literature and Art. Using a perusal of Erich Auerbach’s classic book by that name as a jumping off point, we look at how MIMESIS as a largely mysterious thing, not only because it is such a broad topic- thinking of it encompassing all of artistic endeavor – the Re-Presentation of Reality in some way in Art.. but also because it flows through every key we tap to type a line, and so it flows through us.
The human mind is said to be not just a receiver of stimulus and reactor, but a co-creator of what we perceive, based on past experience and all they have in their consciousness…
And so let’s keep that in mind and move forward with it as we talk about what we take in, what we choose out, and what we put back into our writing. The novel ‘The Moviegoer’ by Walker Percy is a favorite of mine, about a character who spends his time going to the movies most nights in solitude, while having either an existential crisis, or a strange awakening, where he tries to raise his awareness, and note the light coming in through a window at a certain angle, the shadows that it casts and cascades as it moves through its path in the day, and how every place and experience has its own set of feelings and shades, colors and senses that wake when we travel with it.
Good article here summarizing the book we’re using as a jumping off point for our Discussion Theme in the group in June: MIMESIS – (And the book by that title by Erich Auerbach): Here’s an excerpt of the full article linked below!
“The subtitle of the book is The Representation of Reality in Western Literature, which gives you some idea of its scope and ambition. “Real,” of course, is an almost meaningless word in its standard broad use, but Auerbach has a something specific in mind; not the metaphysically real (as opposed to the fantastic) but the socially real—that is, the lives of more or less ordinary people engaged in more or less ordinary activities: the literary equivalent of genre painting.
To be honest, the overarching theme of the book may be its least interesting aspect. Realism of this sort is mostly a phantom concern, from a 21st century perspective anyway; daily life has been a part of our literature for so long that it seems quaint and forced to make a point of it. So, the grand structure of Mimesis is relatively uninspiring; but the readings, chapter by chapter, are magnificent. Time and again, Auerbach demonstrates how literature lives by its details. For example, the first chapter (which is also the mostly widely known and read) compares a fragment of The Odyssey with the tale of Abraham’s near-sacrifice of Isaac. Auerbach’s ultimate goal is an understanding of the contrast between the two cultures’ worldview, and he gets there by dissecting the passages down to their tendons and gristle, the connective tissue from which the body of metaphysics is assembled—the Bible’s use of the word “then,” for example, or Homer’s careful attention to the placement of his characters in space and time.
The book is full of such moments of understanding, such recognitions of what goes into a book, and what can be gotten out of it. A chapter on Dante focuses in part on a single phrase from Inferno, “Da me stesso non vegno”—”Of myself (i.e., of my own free will) I came not”—which Auerbach uses as an emblem of Dante’s reinvention of poetic diction. He goes through a short passage from Montaigne’s Essays almost word by word, showing how Montaigne achieved his air of intimate argument by piling up assertive clauses while leaving out the expected logical connectives (“but,” “therefore,” “because,” and so on), much as one does in a conversation.
What emerges from all this is the idea that prose should be as dense as verse and as welcoming of close reading; that not a paragraph of real writing escapes the context of history; and above all, that style is philosophy, that a decision to use commas where others might use a semicolon, or to elide the word “afterwards,” or to shift narrative perspective twice in a single paragraph, is as momentous as the decision to believe in the infinite, or to act in accord with the Categorical Imperative, or to endorse an inalienable right to privacy. They’re all part of the same will to represent the world: Kings may stand or fall on the point of a period.”
I chose the name ‘The Haunted Typewriter’ to encapsulate a number of meanings. First to say that as writers, when we sit down in front of our keyboard, there is a spirit at our shoulders, that of the whole history of literature and art that has come before. Whether it is there to spook us, intimidating us out of daring to attempt what we might attempt, or whether it might aid us as a steadying hand of fellowship, it also courses through us. There is no way to separate ourselves from it. And also, I think as a cyberpunk author, there is a hint of the ghost in the machine metaphor. That of the hardware and software mixture, where consciousness comes from a complexity and emergence. And the ghost is perhaps a poltergeist who shocks our fingers into action and energy. And finally, there is the curse of the mechanization of the human spirit, the player piano syndrome. Whereby machines may learn to do the things human beings hold as foundational to the meaning of their lives. IF artificial intelligence can write stories just as well, or better than any of us can… Well, do a predictive text with as the beginning of the sentence, and you let me know how it turns out. I’ll be here trying to make my life artful and mean something positive, to me.
This blog will explore issues of literary theory and writing, the mind of the writer, techne and spirit, and cyberpunk philosophy and art.
Here is the transcript of the video above:
THE HAUNTED TYPEWRITER: SOME THEORY, by CYPRESS BUTANE – MIMESIS
(This is the script to the video I have posted. Check the FB page to view)
MIMESIS IS an old literary literary and philosophical term meaning IMITATION. IT IS A POWERFUL MAGIC, akin to painting animals on a cave wall, before one goes to hunt. Its very success in controlling reality, led Plato to suggest banishment for the poets, from his ‘Republic’, putting poets on the defensive ever since. Whether it is a divine intoxication, a madness and possession, a will, or simple distortion of things that are, artists are liars, or demigods. Putting to page their own vision, an interpretation, rather than a true picture of truth.
In the haunted house story of ideology and artistic endeavor, those who seek to overthrow reality, to chase down the mystery of the locked room at the end of the hall, either end up destroying art, or committing what Milan Kundera in The book of laughter and Forgetting called ‘the lost deed’. Pinning a dead ideal on the changeless world, of verity. Telling a truth that in its telling, becomes a lie.
When I turn to look for a theologian of Mimesis,
I first fall in the direction of Jorge Luis Borges.
“I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library.” He said “I cannot sleep unless I am surrounded by books.”
And two perhaps complementary and paradoxical quotes. “Don’t talk unless you can improve the silence.” and “To fall in love is to create a religion that has a fallible god.”
Borges characters are often written without details of birth or origin, but only of character and the thoughts of which they are capable. He creates bizarrely metaphysical plots and strangely reflexive narrative
We’ll look briefly now at two particular stories, that frame the opening shot of the Mimetic war, and, perhaps, its ultimate destiny.
‘The Garden of Forking Paths’ and ‘The Aleph’. (SPOILERS AHEAD)
In ‘The Garden of Forking Paths’ – It is the story of a spy, who is in a dangerous situation, behind enemy lines. He must make escape to a friend of an ancestor, an ancestor who fled public life, to, he said, construct a labyrinth. That labyrinth, in fact, turns out to be the mysterious novel he left behind. And in that labyrinthine work, a single word conspicuously absent, that word being ‘TIME’. Discussions of the friend, the ancestor, of the branching ways we have come to this place, the different people we might have been to make this connection, In the end, the spy, who has fled the enemy camp to try to get word to his network, of the name of a city where the enemy has operations, is about to be captured. And yet manages to KILL a man. A man, whose name is that of the city he needs to telegraph to his network. Suggesting, that when we move forward from the timeless labyrinth, to make a thought into a concretized, action, we also negate all other forking paths. We pin it down, like the taxidermist’s butterfly.
To Name Something… Is to Destroy it.
And then, ‘The Aleph’ a story about the project of completely mapping the territory, as Baudrillard would have it. Of describing every bit of reality so that the description might be stepped into, and the original, discarded. What some say Joyce achieves with Dublin in his novel ‘Ulysses’.
The Aleph is a story about a man, named Borges incidentally, who has just lost his beloved. He continues to visit with her family at her home and eventually is taken into the confidence of her cousin. Her cousin is writing a poem, attempting to write down EVERY PLACE and thing on earth. An exhaustive catalogue of reality.
As it turns out, the reason for this project, is not that the poet is simply inept and artless as the narrator suspected after being read some inept and artless bits of the whole. What is going on is, its author has peered into an ALEPH. The ALEPH, a kind of cosmic viewmaster that shows the peerant everything, absolutely everything that is, is lurking in the basement of the home, and when he is set to be forced to move house, the cousin reveals its existence to Borges.
An aleph, “The only place on earth where all places are — seen from every angle, each standing clear, without any confusion or blending.”
When the character Borges peers into this strange machine, he vows never to speak of it again, but only advises that the poet get more fresh air, and remains thankful when, days and days later, he is able to find sleep again.
Significant that this story takes place on the heels of the loss of life, and ‘The Garden of Forking Paths’ takes place in the moment of a life’s decision.
And what lies in between for the artist?
Between totalitarianism, and absolute freedom.
A struggle for light.
The allegory of the cave, another hidden pocket of Plato’s Republic.
The aleph, a hand pointing to heaven, and a hand pointing simultaneously to earth.
Raphael’s painting of The School of Athens, where Plato points up, to the realm of the ‘Ideal Forms’, and Aristotle gestures, remonstrating, back down to earth, to the immanent being and universality in the world all around us.
And this is why we are artists.
And why Plato, who wrote poems of philosophy,
Was but a hypocrite.
This is why we are all drunk on coffee.
This is why we are the insomniac breed.
“To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.”
“Come, my friends, T’is not too late to seek a newer world.”
When speaking with his mother about art in the largely autobiographical ‘Stephen Hero’ James Joyce jibes gleefully at his pragmatic mother, who wants to read his favorite author Ibsen to get a vision of some different life, to sample an ideal of a great artist for how one should live this experiment… or to better know her son, and, as Joyce suggests, check up on whether he is reading ‘dangerous books.’
–But that is wrong: that is the great mistake everyone makes. Art is not an escape from life!
–You evidently weren’t listening to what I said or else you didn’t understand what I said. Art is not an escape from life. It’s just the opposite. Art, on the contrary, is the very central expression of life. An artist is not a fellow who dangles a mechanical heaven before the public. The priest does that. The artist affirms out of the fulness of his own life, he creates … Do you understand?” Do you understand?
This month I want to talk about Techniques for getting at TRUTH. Which the Realist and Naturalist Movements were both working on. They were trying to write in a way that reflected Real Life, and depict the struggles of Real People, without the overly fanciful flights of Romanticism or some of the Over Idealisations of the Enlightenment. Many times they were harsh in their depictions, and they had their characters fall into troubles that they claimed were justified by scientific theories, rough chance, ‘the way things are’, or other deterministic equations that reflected the face of reality as it presented itself to their increasingly modernistic minds.
It seems, we’re all doomed in the end to a negative fate. But art, I think, is about knowing the world as it really is, and accepting it for what it is, and fighting anyway. And still putting up a damned good resistance. Art, is about not giving into the inevitable. There’s a bit of madness in the artist, always.
The Realist and Naturalist movements are semi-reactionary movements against Hegel’s philosophy, and his idea that History is progressing towards some positive, absolute good, and that the mind works with reality to create an ideal. For a brief moment it seemed the world might make sense. But the vision falls from such sublime heights into the chaos of fractured ideas about how to make the world ‘better.’
It reminds me of the 1960’s in our more recent cultural history and how the 70’s turned all those great ideals of revolution and peace back on themselves and end up turning everything into marketing and money and jeans ads and from LSD mind expansion and garage rock to cocaine and… Disco.
In the Sixties a lot of writers were experimenting with Fiction and Non-Fiction blends and cross-overs, from Norman Mailer’s ‘The Armies of the Night’, billed as “History as a Novel / The Novel as History”, to Hunter S. Thompson writing ‘Gonzo Journalism’. Going back to the Realists and Naturalists, they took a first step in this direction by no longer making fiction only about Kings and Queens and the Aristocratic Elites, but starting to write about the lower classes, and everyday people, to say that their lives were just as important and full of meaning. That class war in who cuts muster as SUBJECT seems to me to march onward to find itself engaging on the same battlefield in the battle of IS THE TRUTH OF THE SUBJECT worthy of the SAME REGARD AS THE TRUTH OF SO CALLED ‘OBJECTIVITY’. Though, again, that way traverses into MADNESS TERRITORY. Off the edge of the known map, where they mark the unknown, non-terra-firma “HERE THAR BE MONSTERS!”
These are the realms the poet makes their home when they decide to tell their story, though! That is written invisibly on every blank page: “Here thar be monsters!” – Is it not? And the best tools at our disposal for cutting through the jungle are both machete-like, AND mystical. The things that give us the raw energy to attack the page, to hold back our fear and refill the inkwell with subconscious hutzpah, whether it is a writing group that lets you be yourself, the help of the whole community of art and the books you give your faith to daily, as a reader and fellow, and the sheer willpower to tell your story. And also, those divination techniques that free the muse, from the use of tarot cards, or the ‘Cut-Up Technique’, or Dream Journaling, regular journaling, 10 minute writing exercises, all those things that let you get a word in edgewise and continue beating down the blankness of the page. Truth is cumulative, and spreads like fire, fed. The more you add to it, the more it grows strong, and has a hunger for more of itself. But we also must find ways to stay connected to it. To not have those days where we feel disconnected from what we have created, or fall into imposter syndromes from all that we have already accomplished. We need to practice self-gratitude and appreciation for what we have and who we are, then. And this grows with the strength of our voice!
So, this month, let’s start a discussion about both TRUTH and FACT. From the SUBJECTIVE portion, where we spark those flames, and throw our oxygen, and fuel (our sweat, hard work, and will) at the goals we set for ourselves… The things we see behind our eyes, the dreams we envision… to the OBJECTIVE side- The things that for one, we can never know, but only interpret, and yet, keep nagging at us, for they seem to never live up to what we hope to receive. The appreciation and acceptance we want from the world, the publications we want to achieve, the finished book we want to hold in our hands finally. — The history that we remember and want to try to remember in a sharper, clearer way; to make into our truth, that may hurt us to remember. The harshness of that bright reality that makes it hard to try sometimes, which we keep trying to turn into productive days. To be worthy of our own dreams.
QUESTIONS / PROMPTS FOR FEBRUARY:
Is my writing an experiment where I am trying to learn something, to test a hypothesis, to figure out a thought while I write?
Or do I want to present my writing like a magic trick where all the hard work goes on behind the scenes, and I make the telling seem effortless, and all the reader sees is rabbit popping up from the hat, where there was no rabbit before? Will I eventually strive to hide the mechanism?
What is the benefit of each of these types of writing?
It is very important to write on the ‘in-between’ days, when you are working through something, but don’t feel like ‘talking about’ it. Because the thoughts that are churning in your head, happen to be the very conflict of the story, of your personal/character dillema being thought through. Try to at least make a few notes on these days, so that you can flesh out the thoughts that are at the heart of where your story goes through tough changes! You don’t go from point a to point b without a ½ ? Know what I mean?