Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts

Friday, August 06, 2010

Exceptions Going Up in Smoke

In my continuing quest to post some stuff that I wrote at the Writing Project, I now provide you with a sample of an editorial that I wrote when the op-ed editor from the Pittsburgh Post Gazette came to visit our group. He raved about my piece when I shared it with the class, so I hope you all like it too.

I offer one caveat though. Writers often take liberties with the facts even when writing what most would consider "nonfiction." Stories have to be compressed, situations must be simplified, and specifics might be overlooked for the sake of a coherent and persuasive essay.

Second caveat for stupid people: Editorials, by their very nature, are try to convince readers of the author's point of view. If you think this is biased... well no shit. It's supposed to be.

------------------------------------------------------


Let the Exception Go Up in Smoke
An Op-Ed Article for a Pittsburgh Newspaper

Last Saturday, I journeyed back hometown, a little riverside town that’s neither a cultural center nor a social hub in the area. It certainly lacks the diverse options for entertainment that cities like Pittsburgh have. On that typical Saturday night, seeking to drown my sorrows in alcohol with a few friends, I traveled to the town’s primary watering hole, aptly named “The Saloon.” The air in the bar was thick with friendly banter, music, and of course, clouds of cigarette smoke. By the end of the night, even though I never touched a cigarette, I smelled like my grandma’s ashtray after a Matlock marathon. My eyes were watering, and my throat was dry and imbued with a rich smoky flavor.

Of course, in 2008, Pennsylvania passed a state-wide restriction on smoking in public places—including restaurants and bars. However, unlike many other states like New York or Maryland, our law came with a caveat: any bar, lounge, or restaurant that made more than 80% of its sales from alcohol would be exempt. This exception, of course, meant that most bars could still allow smoking. The underlying reason for this exception was that bars would suffer financially if smokers were denied their vice.

Pennsylvania’s exception to the smoking ban is patently absurd, and it should be eliminated. Proponents of the exception point to bars with thriving food sales whose sales of beer and liquor have plummeted since the ban, and they argue that the ban should be lifted entirely. In fact, I would argue that a universal ban could actually help the bottom line. I spent the better part of my college summers helping my father remodel a local restaurant chain. I lost count of how many repairs and replacements were related to smoking in some way. Ceiling tiles had faded. Wallpaper was stained yellow. Air filtration units had been overpowered and destroyed. One of the managers told us that the smoking ban actually improved profits overall and led to more positive customer feedback.

I understand the owners’ position. I wouldn’t want anyone telling me how to run my business either, but the environment in these establishments has become unbearable. When I’m in one of my crankier moods and complaining about the smoke in the bars, my friend will insist, “If you don’t like it here, you can always go somewhere else.” Well, yes I can, but the smoke-free bars are smoke-free for a reason… not enough people drink there! Is it so wrong to want to drink in a real bar without developing lung cancer?

Smokers may love cigarettes, but they’re not going to love smoking and drinking alone if the ban were made universal. Their black lungs may keep them away for a few days, but their black livers will bring them crawling back.

------------------------------------------------------
"Our numbers are down all across the board. Teen smoking, our bread and butter, is falling like a shit from heaven! We don't sell Tic Tacs for Christ's sake. We sell cigarettes. And they're cool and available and *addictive*. The job is almost done for us!"

Tuesday, August 03, 2010

Wet Blanket

As I indicated in my last post, I've been working with the Western Pennsylvania Writing Project to create some original writing. I come up with some brilliance, and then the group workshops the piece, offering suggestions to make it better. One of the activities we do for inspiration is called a "Writing Marathon," wherein we travel around the city experiencing things that will inspire us. On one such excursion, we stopped to watch some children play in the dancing fountain outside the PPG Building downtown. This following poem is inspired by that incident, and it's an uncharacteristically serious piece of writing from me. I don't really fancy myself much of a poet, but I do fancy myself a self-indulgent egotist. That's why I'm posting this anyway, no matter how little it connects to the overall tone of this blog.

----------------------------------------
Wet Blanket

What do we tell the children
When water shoots from the ground
As they’re dancing atop the fountain?

Do we explain
That these jets are pressurized
Through invisible pipes and tubes
Like sinewy branches
Beneath the concrete?

Do we explain
That these cascading, crisp droplets
Have been carefully chlorinated
And cleansed
And chemically treated
For their health and safety?

Do we explain
That high above them,
In the glass metropolis surrounding this aquatic square
The spires of industry reflect in the noonday sun.
That the employees within
Toil in bourgeois drudgery
To finance homes in fine white middle-class neighborhoods
That their dark eyes will never see.

Or do we experience
Forget
Allow laughter and delight
To seize our imagination
And wash away our rational explanations
Our burden of awareness

Innocence we can never have.
Magic we can never believe.

-------------------------------------
"You can't write poetry on the computer." -- Quentin Tarantino

* JP's NOTE: I can say with certainty that more posts are forthcoming because I already wrote them and published them. They're scheduled to be released by Blogger tomorrow and the next day. You're welcome. Sing my praises with some vigor.

Friday, July 16, 2010

Writer, Heal Thyself

Oh, well look who decided to show up! So you think you can just waltz back in here and pretend that you didn't abandon me for two months?

Look, I was really busy. I tried to make time for you.

Oh, so I'm not a priority for you? I'm there for you every day. I listen to your problems, and I care about your day.

I appreciate that. I really do, but I just had some things I had to take care of.

Why should I trust you again? How do I know you won't just leave? My heart's been broken too many times.

Alas, dear readers, I don't know why you should trust that I'll be timely in this blog. The damn blog is like the monster under my bed that just demands to be fed constantly, which is a reasonable accommodation given the things that the monster must have witnessed from under there. Whenever interesting things are happening in my life, I'm too busy to post. Whenever I have free time, nothing cool is happening. I could always post things like "Hey friends! I took an epic dump today and then played spider solitaire for the rest of the night while eating saltines," but that shit is better suited to Facebook.

Well, I'll try taming this beast again (go ahead and look back over the posts for the least six months. I've made this claim at least 6 times so far). I've made some insignificant cosmetic changes already. Thank you, Blogger for updating your templates. The most insignificant of things can inspire me, so maybe this ridiculously inane change will do the trick.

So for the last two weeks, I've been taking part in the Summer Institute for Teachers, which is a six credit class that will result in me becoming a fellow for the National Writing Project. The program gives me connections out the wazoo (already scored a job interview through someone there), and it can lead to paying opportunities later on. But for the moment, this summer program has actually been providing me with a great atmosphere for invigorating my own writing, an opportunity that I'm relishing immensely.

I've been writing some poems, short stories, and especially creative nonfiction. For the last week or so, I've contemplated posting some of these stories to this blog for your enjoyment; however, several factors give me pause.

1. Some of my stories are about real people... real people who read this blog. One of the important components of writing truthfully and effectively is not censoring yourself because you're afraid of offending people. There are events and secrets from my life that have made their way into my writing, and some of you may find that offensive.

2. Related to the first point, sometimes I've taken liberties with the truth for the purpose of a story. For instance, a moment in my past may not have happened exactly as I wrote it, because I had to compress dialogue, combine characters, or alter events so that the narrative would make sense in five pages. Sometimes I exaggerate character traits because it makes for a better story. This is why the genre is called "CREATIVE" nonfiction.

3. Most importantly, throughout many (if not all) of my work, there's always some element of self-reflection that takes place. I noticed this yesterday (and wrote a piece on the theme with the same title as this post), but it's generally true with all of my writing. My personal flaws tend to become a satirical focus of the stories/poems that I write. Other writer folk might appreciate what I'm trying to do in those poems, but some of you assholes would probably just say, "HA HA!! JP'S A LOSER!" This is true, but I don't necessarily want that thrown in my face.

There are a few stories that I've written that are reasonably detached from reality. I may give those a try first. Yesterday we had a writing workshop with one of the associate editors of the Pittsburgh Post Gazette, and I wrote a sample editorial that received high praise from him. That seems like something that's not entirely mock-worthy.

In reality, I'm probably worrying about nothing. There's probably not anyone out there who still comes this blog. I've created abandonment issues in my readership.

Maybe I'll write a story about that.

---------------------------------------
"Hmmm... I don't recall ever fighting Godzilla, but that is so what I would have done."

Saturday, January 23, 2010

Tales From the Back Burner

Another terrific side result of teaching and taking classes all the time is that my personal writing has taken a back seat to everything else. I have a folder brimming with ninth graders' research papers that requires my grading prowess. Three book chapters need to be read. My teaching portfolio must be assembled. And my burning desire to see Avatar must be sated. I simply do not have time to indulge in the adventures of my stagnant and bemoaning protagonist and his erstwhile attempts to make something of himself. I'm too busy dealing with his real life counterpart: me.

Over the Christmas break, I made some minor attempts to toy with the structure of the book. All through last semester, I never touched the damn thing, but I would get ideas for it and jot them down in a handy dandy notebook that I kept in my bookbag. By the time the semester was over, I wanted to jettison everything I'd written up to that point and replace it with a completely new idea. Rough drafts rape your soul precisely because you have to throw away hours of work for your own good. For instance, my initial rough draft began with my main character in jail and having a cliche-ridden conversation with some dimwitted cops. I was thoroughly displeased with this introduction, so I altered the first two pages significantly to give the police officers a bit more personality and provide some necessary conflict for the main character. But now I'm not so sure that I even want my guy starting out in jail. The whole setup may have to go. It's maddening to think about, so oftentimes I prefer to focus on tangible and immediate challenges for graduate school and teaching. When I grade a paper, that's a finished effort that's not changing at all... unless the students can prove how drunk I am when I score them.

There are times when I wish I had a disposable trust fund to live on as I huddle in a seaside bungalow writing short stories and novels for the enjoyment of the masses. But then I realize that I'd only destroy myself with crippling self-criticism and off myself with a toaster oven, a bathtub, and an H. R. Pufinstuf DVD. I can waste time with the best of them, but I kinda like having obligations to keep my occupied. It keeps my twisted imagination from dwelling on my own inadequacies and failed dreams.

But that novel just gathers dust in my C: drive. I want to finish it... mostly to prove to myself that I can. Once I settle into the routine of student teaching, maybe I'll be able to make a schedule where I devote at least a solid two or three hours a week to working on it. Or maybe old Mr. P will do what my ninth grade history teacher did and have my students read the newspaper every Friday and then use the time to write in school. Those are educational principles, my friends.

For the time being, I think I'll just leave Eugene and the Amazing Time-Traveling Tomato to rest for now. I'll focus on my existing challenges for the moment, and I'll leave the writing of my superfluous verbal fluff for another day.

---------------------------
9 out of 10 readers can't imagine how the book would be any good if this blog is the best JP can come up with so far.

Thursday, September 17, 2009

In Which Our Protagonist Creates His Protagonist

Since going back to school, I've been reading books, writing essays, and making lesson plans that would dazzle the writers of even the most inspirational movie about teachers. But one task that has fallen woefully by the wayside for the last three or four weeks is that pinnacle of creative manuscripting... my novel.

I haven't touched the damn thing since moving to Pittsburgh, and I'm annoyed. I was really hitting my stride near the end of the summer. I'd knocked out about 30 typed single-spaced pages, and I'd figured out most of the ridiculously derivative plot. But when instructors cram deadlines up your ass with the force of a sadistic proctologist gleefully giving an enema and prostate exam (I've been working on my imagery), the temptation to concentrate solely upon that which will earn you a winning smile of approval or harsh tongue lashing of scorn becomes overwhelming.

Timing, of course, has a way of putting everything in perspective. Just two days ago while sitting in my Teaching Writing class, the class discussed the importance of encouraging students to write and demonstrating that writing is a continuous process, and we as teachers are constantly working on our own writing as well. The hypocrisy bubbling in my throat tasted of despair and regret (remember: imagery practice). While the discussion continued, I quietly bemoaned the fact that I'd been shamefully neglecting the life of Eugene, the gleeful protagonist from my novel. Through cosmic coincidence, Virgil mentioned just today that she sets aside time to write every week - a writing day as it were - and suggested I do the same. I must admit, the temptation is palpable. A day spent immersed in my fictional little hamlet based rather derivatively upon Morgantown sounds tantalizing.

Somehow though, I have trouble figuring out my main character's deal, which makes the writing process really hard to get into right now. Not understanding the main character's motivations results in my brain crashing head first into the writer's block. Eugene was originally loosely based upon me. Naturally, I made him dashing, charming, wildly intelligent, and a gripping public speaker with a wit that would make Oscar Wilde jealous. He enjoyed blogging, singing karaoke, and discussing the finer points of comic bookery with his Indian friend. Basing Eugene on this admittedly idealized vision of myself seemed fun at the time, but in the greater scheme of the plot, there was nothing for him to do. When your character starts out awesome, he has nowhere to go but down. I had no interest in creating a tragedy in which I destroy the fictionalized version of myself (delightfully masochistic though that may be). So I started adding faults to Eugene. Now he's rather arrogant... and socially awkward... and a milquetoast office assistant with no career ambitions... and he has a string of ex-girlfriends with bizarre character quirks that have left him emotionally battered. Now I have the opposite problem. Now he's too much like real JP. Confronting all of my own crippling social inadequacies on a weekly basis through this written prism (or perhaps "prison"... oh I'm so witty) seems even more daunting than just hammering out a few pages. Why does writing have to be so personally goddamned draining to my soul?

I think I need to split the difference. Eugene needs to be less like me and a bit more fictional... someone who can go through the ringer without it becoming an exercise in self-mutilation.

Then maybe I can leap back on the creativity wagon and churn out this novel that will earn me a Scrooge McDuck-sized money bin full of gold doubloons. Maybe I should make Eugene an angsty vampire if I really want to rake in the greenbacks.

--------------------------------
"Meanwhile, back at the Hall of Justice..."

Tuesday, August 04, 2009

Caution: Genius at Work

As I hinted in an earlier post, I've been tinkering sporadically with writing a book. With ample free time, significant progress has been made. I've written three chapters, amounting to about 23 single-spaced Word pages, which would be somewhere in the ball park of 30 to 40 normal book pages. This doesn't mean that the writing is good or enjoyable... I'm just saying that it exists.

I've been working on it for probably the last six months or so, though my commitment often wanes or shifts to more immediate concerns (like the online class, sleeping in on weekends, and watching game shows). For quite some time, I didn't really want to tell anyone, figuring that I'd just be mocked mercilessly. "How's that novel coming, Hemingway?" "Get that publishing deal yet, Shakespeare?" And since the story had only developed into a pre-infancy stage, hell practically just a used condom stage, I really didn't want to talk about it.

I still don't want to discuss the plot in any great detail, mostly because it seems to change every time I write more of the story. "No, no!" I'll shout to nobody. "Eugene wouldn't do that, and Phoebe CERTAINLY wouldn't do that." So my outline shifts to suit whatever new character wrinkle I've worked into the narrative. For that reason, when you get right down to it, writing is really a colossal pain in the ass. Even though I've got 23 single-spaced pages now, I've probably re-written those pages three times. And they'll probably get re-written again as new stuff develops. Hell, I had an entire first chapter written before deciding that the whole thing sucked a testicle and chucking it into the discard pile.

Tasty Aside: I will hint that the plot was inspired by a blog post that I wrote about six months ago. Take that for what it's worth.

Aside from learning that revision is a cruel but necessary evil, I've taken other lessons away from this project already. For instance, characters are much better when they're wildly flawed. When I started, I imagined a group of totally awesome characters who were badass, witty, and got laid with alarming regularity. Quickly one realizes that you can only ride "total awesomeness" for a few pages before you run out of shit to do with it. So I splatter my canvas with heavy coats of arrogance, emotional turmoil, existential crises, stupidity, and just plain asshole behavior. Suddenly people do stuff that's a lot more interesting. The lesson seems obvious in retrospect, but when you're actually the one writing, the temptation to make all your characters exaggerated fantasies of how you wish you were is extremely tantalizing.

Anothing double-edged sword that I still have trouble wielding comes from using my own life as inspiration. Most, if not all, of my characters are based on people I know. Some of the characterizations are vague or simply draw on people's personalities while changing their life events. Others are complete ripoffs. Batmite, for instance, serves as the the direct parallel for one of the characters, and he wholeheartedly supports my fictionalized creation. He's just too damned colorful to pass up, and I mean that in only a half-racist way.

It should come as no great surprise that I'm creating a comedy. I enjoy making people laugh, and if I may say so, I think I'm pretty good at it in written form (though I envy people who can tell a well-constructed funny story in person). I still need to work on my character's inner motivations (when the narrator tells what the characters are thinking and feeling rather than indicating plot developments or backstory) and some of the dialogue. Dialogue is surprisingly hard to pull off convincingly because you want it to sound natural without including all of the "umms" and "likes," awkward pauses, and trivial small talk that litters real conversations. It has to sound real without being real. I should have been a physicist; it something sounds real without being real, it's probably just quantum mechanics.

Recently, writing this book has become something of a compulsion, and I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing. I think about the damned thing all the time, and I'm convinced that I *have* to write it just to get it on the page. When I started it, I expected to either lose interest in a few days or crap out some trash to sell for a quick buck to a publisher operating out of an old Arthur Treacher's Fish & Chips. But now I actually want it to be good, and I'm beginning to think I could actually do something worthwhile with it. Who knows? Maybe you might see JP (hopefully with a sweet badass pseudonym) as a published man in your favorite bookstore.

Or the plot could be reworked as the script for a B-grade skin flick. I think I might even prefer that option.

--------------------------------------------
"You can't just have your characters announce how they feel! That makes me angry!"