Recommended Readings for Unstable Times


There are usually two ways people respond when I shriek, “THE WORLD IS OBVIOUSLY ENDING, RIGHT?” Some people (my beloved, my close friends) are like “yeah” and then we shiver together over a glass of wine. Others chirp “things are great!” and we stare at each other without saying anything more. If I had any philosopher friends, I like to imagine that they would gaze deep into my soul with their limpid, color-shifting eyes and soothe me with ambiguous wisdom. But alas, I have no philosopher friends. This is a wind age, a wolf age, before the world goes headlong.

But friends, I take some cold comfort in the fact that things have literally never been stable (except maybe in ancient Greece and/or ancient Egypt and/or the ancient Abbasid Caliphate, before the libraries were destroyed??). If, like me, you are quivering on the edge of becoming a full-fledged conspiracy theorist, here’s what you should be reading and why.

The book of Habakkuk: For hallucinatory non-answers to why the world is so violent. Habakkuk was the most mysterious of all the prophets, and (I think) the only one to openly question God:

How long, Lord, must I call for help,
but you do not listen?
Or cry out to you, “Violence!”
but you do not save?

Slouching Toward Bethlehem by Joan Didion: For the amazing way she captures a feeling of generational dread and grapples with the idea that “things fall apart; the centre cannot hold“:

At some point between 1945 and 1967 we had somehow neglected to tell these children the rules of the game we happened to be playing. Maybe we had stopped believing in the rules ourselves, maybe we were having a failure of nerve about the game. Maybe there were just too few people around to do the telling. These were children who grew up cut loose from the web of cousins and great-aunts and family doctors and lifelong neighbors who had traditionally suggested and enforced the society’s values. They are children who have moved around a lot, San Jose, Chula Vista, here. They are less in rebellion against the society than ignorant of it, able only to feed back certain of its most publicized self-doubts, Vietnam, Saran-Wrap, diet pills, the Bomb.

“Explica Algunas Cosas” by Pablo Neruda: Depending on your career, this piece is either a) a heartbreaking explanation of how art sometimes falls silent in the face of violence or b) a guilt-trip for artists who aren’t explicitly political. The ending is like a punch to the face:

…from every crime bullets are born
which will one day find
the bull’s eye of your hearts.

A Google search of the term “folie à deux”: to understand the dark side of love and the fragility of a person’s identity as a Single Self:

Depending on whether the delusions are shared among two, three, four, five and even twelve people, it is called as folie à deux, folie à trios, folie à quatre, folie à cinq, and folie à douze.

Your own childhood journals: To remind yourself that “priorities” are malleable and relative, even the priorities that, today, you consider defining pillars of You Yourself.

“Little Gidding” by T.S. Eliot: Because of the dance that is love/pain/God/the world:

Who then devised the torment? Love.
Love is the unfamiliar Name
Behind the hands that wove
The intolerable shirt of flame
Which human power cannot remove.

[Credit goes to Charlie for discovering this one]: The poem Völuspá: Because it is about the end of a mysterious world:

Do you still seek to know? And what?



A Few Brief Thoughts on Being Legit [Video]

Addicted to iMovie and I’m not ashamed.

After re-watching this movie enough times to realize that it’s totally embarrassing genius bipolar, I have come to several conclusions.

Things I need to work on:

1. Talking loud enough to be heard over the rollicking soundtrack that I totally don’t have the rights to.

2. Narrative arc.

Things I don’t need to work on:

1. My hilarious fake-crying. #noregrets

The Impossible Story


I think every writer who’s not completely emotionally dead inside (so um…Santa?) has one story that they’ve always wanted to write but somehow can’t. Maybe it’s the story of the wreckage of a love, or a family member’s destruction. Something painful and intimate that for whatever reason cannot be touched yet. Blah blah blah cry me a river it’s so hard to be a human being let’s all watch Girls and relate to the Twitter references.

I’m working on a story right now that’s impossible to write. But, um: THIS SHOULD NOT BE MY IMPOSSIBLE STORY. It’s not at all autobiographical (there are autobiographical elements from your life, actually, because I watch through your window every night, sharpening the teeth of a small but deadly kitten). It’s a creepy story about siblings, which is pretty much my  forte. And I have been working on it since a little epoch I like to call the year 2011. Even worse, this is my fourth version. Not my fourth draft. My fourth VERSION. I have deleted the creepily aggressive neighbor who falls into the pool and dies. And I have changed some adjectives.

What is it about this story that is so impossible for me to write? I keep trying to psychoanalyze my way out of this one but maybe it’s just a flawed story. Have I tried to pack too much emotional despair into one character? Should I take out the killer clown, the bride of Frankenstein, and the DUDE THAT TALKS WAY TOO LOUDLY ON HIS CELL PHONE IN THIS COFFEE SHOP (I see you, cell phone dude, and I want to do unspeakable things to your phone)? The problem is–I think it’s a really great concept, insofar as I’m allowed to say that I’ve come up with a “great concept” without sounding like an “arrogant jerk.” Maybe I should make a moodboard. IS THAT WHAT THIS STORY NEEDS? ITS OWN PINTEREST BOARD?

It’s not writer’s block, it’s writer’s WTF. Has anyone else ever experienced this? Am I merely placing a clammy finger on the dying pulse of an art form ahead of everyone else? (THAT WAS A JOKE BUT IT KIND OF FELT REAL, HUH?)