Writing

I recently read one of Camus’ notebooks and jotted down some lines that arrested me. My comments are in parentheses after the quotes.

Sex leads to nothing. It is not immoral but it is unproductive. One can indulge in it so long as one does not want to produce. But only chastity is linked to personal progress. (Where is the evidence for this assertion? He doesn’t provide any examples.)

There is a time when sex is a victory—when it is separated from moral imperatives. But soon after it becomes a defeat—and the only victory is then won over it: chastity. (Chastity as victory?)

Unbridled sex leads to a philosophy of the non-significance of the world. Chastity on the other hand gives the world a meaning. (It does? Massive and unnatural repression of instinct I would think)

Any life directed toward money is death. (I don’t know a single person who has ever directed their life toward money. But there are legions of them out there and they are killing the planet.)

Heat ripens people like fruit. (Great line.)

A literature of despair will never be universal. (I’m not sure I know what this means, but happy endings don’t seem to endure as well as sad or indifferent ones.)

It requires buckets full of blood and centuries of history to lead to an imperceptible modification of the human condition. (So true.)

Write everything—just as it comes. (This is the way I have been writing lately. Nothing is planned. It’s led to some surprising results.)

The sea: I didn’t lose myself in it; I found myself in it. (This would go on my gravestone if I was ever to be buried anywhere, which I won’t. When I know my time is up, I will walk or plunge into the ocean.)

Those who write obscurely have great luck: they have commentators. The others will have only readers, and this, it seems, is worthy of scorn. (This is certainly true for some writers and musicians.)

What ignites a writing idea? Sometimes they magically appear in the most mundane of moments. Sometimes they emerge from a totally unexpected encounter with a bird, song, person or book. And at other times, they reveal themselves through writing activities and discussion with other writers in a workshop setting.

On Saturday September 19 in Astoria, I will teach a writing workshop called “Igniting New Writing via Richard Hugo.” The workshop will run from 1-3:30 pm and cost $50. It is based largely in part on the poet Richard Hugo’s influential book about writing titled, Triggering Town: Lectures and Essays on Poetry and Writing and feature writing and discussion exercises based on Hugo’s unique ideas about how to bring about good writing.

Weather permitting, the workshop will be held outdoors on a lawn of a private residence and adhere to social distancing protocols. In the case of inclement weather, the workshop will be moved indoors and participants are encouraged/required to wear masks. (More on this as the story of the virus unfolds and protocols change.)

The workshop is ideal for beginning or advanced writers of any genre: poetry, fiction, essay, memoir, even songwriting, It can help launch a new project or inspire a refresh of an existing one.

The class is limited to ten participants. To register, send a private message or email to me.

Now is the time to write more than ever.

I sat in the rear of a loud bar waiting for a friend. I wrote in my journal.

Ten or fifteen minutes elapsed.

A masked and rotund bar back wearing a black hoodie and shorts came up to me and said, “Who do you work for? People said you’re taking notes.”

“I’m a writer.” I turned the notebook for him to see my handwriting, which of course he couldn’t read because I have perhaps the worst handwriting in the world. I can’t even read it after a week or so!

The man turned abruptly and walked away briskly without saying a word. I went back to writing in my journal (notes for a story about the last remaining mom and pop drug store in America) and watching others watch me write. Who had ratted me out? Why? If I had been on my phone or tablet ruining the bar’s reputation with a review or reporting their shaky social distancing set-up, not one have given me a second glance. Or first.

But that act of writing with pen on paper!!!!!!!!!! Spy! Rebel! Freak! Luddite!

This episode confirms a theory I postulated a while back: writing in longhand in public places has become an unnerving and possibly dangerous act in the eyes of some people. It is so extremely rare an occurrence, that some people react with instant fear and paranoia. It is a reaction I have seen ratcheting up in the last year. The last time something like this happened to me was when another bartender accused me of being an OLCC narc. I was writing a letter to my father at the time. She didn’t know how to respond to that and just melted away without saying a word.

Not that anyone really wants to spend too much time in indoor places where people are gathered, but as an interesting cultural experiment, try taking a notebook and pen, sitting down in a place or even a park bench outdoors where people are milling about, and start writing. Watch what happens. Perhaps nothing. But perhaps something worth writing about.

I am writing this from a picnic table 30 feet from a mountain lake and in the last five minutes a family with two kids and a female couple moseyed by and gave me THE LOOK as I scribbled.