Assignment for September 26: Doodling for mosaics for the long essay

As I prepare to go to China, I am James Bond—always comfortable in any new culture.  The first morning in Istanbul he orders breakfast: research—I find the screenplay of From Russia With Love. I am getting better at this—it takes less than a minute to find what I am looking for. “Breakfast for one at nine please. Green figs, yoghurt, coffee, very black.” I seem to remember that in the movie the coffee is ordered “double sweet.”  That is how we drank it in the Arab section of Jerusalem during the summer of ’69.

Unfortunately, mirrors interrupt.  I am not James Bond, but an overweight, over-the-hill adjunct professor of English without enough money to do Beijing right.

China has been, for some time, on my reverse bucket list—things I know I will never do before I die.  The first: be a member of the United States Olympic Soccer team—a dream that died around 1971.  Sleep with a Playboy Bunny—also 1971; become President of the United States—1980; Justice of the Supreme Court of the United States—1991. In fairness to me, I have completed the New York City Marathon, and eaten croissants for breakfast in Paris (although I did not think that at age 16 it would be the last time).

I am approaching the age at which Ernest Hemingway died.  I am nearly two Charlie Parkers and more than two James Deans.

The NorthPole! An unexpected, incidental reverse bucket list item.  I watch the flight tracker on the monitor in front of my seat on the Boeing 777:  Due north from Detroit, across Hudson Bay and Greenland; the latitude rising from 85 to 87 to 89; the heading still due north.  There it is: 90 degrees north latitude, heading north, and suddenly, heading south.  I move to the window.  The midnight sun is blinding.  Nothing below but clouds and pure white.  I don't know what I was expecting-- a pole, maybe, like a one thousand foot flag pole.  Yet –research again—Robert Peary only knew he had reached the North Pole in 1909 by consulting his sextant and other navigational instruments. Plus, I had never wanted to go to either Pole anyway—too difficult—being here at 38,000 feet, sipping a Dewar’s White Label (the flight attendants did not have Johnny Walker Black), is fine with me.

Stirred, not shaken, I anticipate Siberia and then Mongolia.  Who am I kidding?  This comfortable seat might as well be the couch in my living room, where the view from the television set is better than what can be seen for real from 38,000 feet.

 

*  *  *  *

Continue with arriving alone in the middle of the night in Beijing, trying to communicate with a taxi driver—thinking I will be sleeping on the street—learning that "Oy" is the same in all languages.

This is fun—but it is not me; not my style.  I am annoyed at Root’s assumptions: that linear presentation creates “insidious" demands; that “in an age of increasingly shorter attention spans” readers have “little patience for leisurely development of plot and character and theme;” that “associations that come so readily in the memory and in the imagination often defy simple linearity.” 

 And there was a natural disaster movie based on the movement of a glacier—it was called “Ethan Frome.”

*  *  *  *

Free write in class:  I know I am going to have to select vignettes from China.  I want to include getting ripped off by the young woman who invited me to a tea ceremony; the Great Wall was interesting, but maybe not for this piece, the theme of which is a middle aged man pretending that he is still young enough for adventure. Meeting new friends from France—a mathematics professor and his wife—not really, they are not married—with whom I had breakfast every day.  Certainly, I want to talk about traveling every day by subway from Peking University where I was staying, to various neighborhoods to walk by myself to explore. The issue is to select those incidents that reflect upon my semi mid-life crisis. 

Every time I write “midlife” or middle-aged” I am keenly aware that I am past even that—I need a word for what I am—not exactly old but past mid-life.

The food—I do want to talk about how surprising the food in Beijing was.  The name of the place—used to be Peking, then BayPing, now Beijing.  How about the pronunciation of Chinese—four tones create subtleties that change the meaning of the word.  “Jie” is street if you pronounce it one way, but something entirely different if you vary slightly.  I kept asking for “Mao” and was met with puzzled looks, but if I said MOWZEEDOONG quickly, I was immediately understood.  I practiced and practiced to get “thank you” right—initially it was like “shay shay” but it is really “tshayuh tshayuh.”  Peking duck was served just as I know it in New York, but most of the rest of the food was nothing like what we are used to in Chinese restaurants.

Addendum to Assignment Two

Five in the morning: I awake with a start. I may not have been able to dream in class, but I am nightmaring* just fine now. What has been bothering me for three weeks suddenly makes sense.  “Creative Nonfiction” is not merely creative nonfiction.  From now on I will refer to “Creative Nonfiction” as CNF to distinguish it from creative nonfiction.

Here is what has been bothering me: Why the preoccupation with a definition of CNF? Strange. I know what “creative” means and I know what “nonfiction” means. So, what is the issue? “CNF police?” Why is this even being discussed? I suppose we have grammar police, but we certainly do not have fiction police or poetry police or drama police. Ah, fifteen years ago a new phrase was coined by putting together two words that already exist to mean a specific new thing.

Suddenly I understand that when AWP (Association of Writers & Writing Programs) conducts a contest for submissions in four genres—Poetry, Short Fiction, Novel and Creative Nonfiction—it has something in mind for the fourth genre that I was unaware of. I now also see why the fuss about A Million Little Pieces.

I have been working with several people who like my piece and are trying to get an agent and/or publisher for me, including Saul Cohen, recently retired from our department, Peter Archer (Linda’s husband), and Jim Broderick (a professor at NJCU); all have been very encouraging.

Based on our class, I am going to re-think my book. It will be quite easy to more completely conform it to my new-found understanding of the genre. Some “corners that I rounded off” do not have to be quite so round.

*Turning “nightmare” into a verb? You can do that in CNF.

Assignment # Two: Toward a definition of CNF

The following are my ruminations as I continue to consider a definition of “Creative Nonfiction.”

I have been writing creative nonfiction for years without knowing that there was such a thing.  I wrote a 75,000 word manuscript about my early experiences as a lawyer.  I changed my name for fear of being Googled—major skeletons lurk in my past, many of them publicly documented. [I also liked the literary quality of my pen name—“Lewis Lerner."]  But each of my characters is real, and I use their real names—cowardly of me.  So, I began the “Afterword” with,

“Is this fiction or memoir?  The narrator’s name is fiction; other than a few minor exceptions, each other name is real.  The exceptions are either because I can’t recall the real name or I want to avoid confusing the reader by mentioning peripheral characters with similar names.  A few minor events are consolidated or condensed.  Other “fictions” may result from faulty memory.  I have tried, however, not to engage in what Tim O’Brien lauds as the benefits of fiction—describing what might have happened or what should have happened.”

I did not know at the time that I was grappling with the central issue of CNF.

I wrote the “Afterword” because I was entering the manuscript in a competition in a category called “Creative Nonfiction,” again, not knowing what the heck that was.

What is bothering me about everything I am considering—the four stories from week one, the Lott and Gutkind essays, my own essays and stories—is that all of them are autobiographical or deal with the author’s self.  Before taking this class, my concept of CNF was that it was more broad—that  it might include journalism—reporting about events, as in “Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil” or “Almost Famous”[oops—fiction by Cameron Crowe—I Googled it]  or “Shattered Glass.”  What about Norman Mailer covering the Garry Gilmore story in “The Executioner’s Song,” or Truman Capote’s “In Cold Blood.”  Or how about the Star Ledger’s sport columnist, Jerry Isenberg’s writing about the Kentucky Derby or the career of Muhammad Ali?

I guess my question is, Is CNF limited to memoir?

Parenthetically, in my search for the “truth” regarding my own memoir, I did some research to find the name of the judge sitting in Hunterdon County during the winter of 1978.  I finally contacted the president of the Hunterdon County Historical Society, who gave me the names of the three judges who fit the bill—as soon as he mention Thomas Beetel, I not only remembered that he was the one, but that I had pronounced his name as John, Paul, George and Ringo and had been admonished that it was Buh Tel.

Reacting to Gutkin’s suggestion, I have shared my manuscript with some of the people I mention—a few have provided valuable insight and feedback—but I have not sent it to Herb Stern, a judge I describe extensively, and I think, in a flattering way.  But I am worried about his reaction.  I sent a copy to Barry Albin, an associate justice of the New Jersey Supreme Court, who was a friend of mine back in the day.  It is a year later; he has not responded. Another real character I described as “having a bad complexion;” thinking that she might someday read the story, I changed the description to a “ruddy complexion.” 

OK, I accept Lott’s rambling definition.  But in response to Professor Chandler’s question of what is left out, I would assert that well written journalism that uses the novelist’s techniques in retelling a true, third person account, ought to be included.

Assignment # One: Determining the features of CNF

Creative Nonfiction, Assignment # 1:

List the features of creative nonfiction gleaned from the first four readings:

From the notes I compiled, below, coupled with my own notions of what creative nonfiction is, the essential features of CNF appear to be:

·         Subjective self-appraisal

·         Dealing with the alienation we necessarily feel as part of the community while also being unique individuals—coping strategies for being out of sync with our surroundings

·         Dealing with crisis

·         Tension between how we perceive ourselves and how others perceive us

·         Contrast between subjective and objective

·         Active participation in our own experience

·         Interest in typical literary concerns of clever use of language, figures of speech, allusions

·         Self-reliance

·         Understanding where, how and whether we “fit in”

·         Writing as a way to come to grip with ones insecurities and limitations.

1.       “Out There,” Jo Ann Beard

a.       The author is in crisis

                                                               i.      Splitting from her husband

                                                             ii.      Physical difficulties of travel—old car; hot weather

                                                            iii.      Rebels by disregarding societies conventions—no bra with shirt gaping open (Who cares, she says)

b.      Tension between the author’s view of herself and the way the world sees her

                                                               i.      Husband sees her as unattractive

c.       Attempting to function as an alien in a hostile environment

d.      In the midst of a long-term crisis—splitting with husband—she experiences an immediate threat—what doctors might call a chronic problem versus an acute problem—divorce versus being stalked with rape and murder real possibilities

e.      Not paranoia when someone is really trying to get you

f.        Husband’s lack of concern, lack of sympathy and lack of empathy for a moment of crisis in her life

The world is a cruel, lonely place—the threats are real and the only one to be relied upon is oneself

2.       “Some Things About the Day,” Debra Marquart

a.       Author immediately introduces a sense of threat, of danger, of alienation: Are we in a mental hospital? No, an abortion clinic.

b.      It is obvious before it is made explicit that this is an abortion

c.       Treated brusquely and impersonally

d.      6^th paragraph—using key words only: …husband…pregnant...is it mine?…” Shockingly quick changes of emotions:  If she has a husband, why is she getting an abortion? Answered by “Is it mine? Leading to “so that is how it is with these two”—skillful, insightful, clever example of “show/don’t tell”

e.      Husband’s lack of support—again, the feeling of being alone in a hostile environment without traditional support mechanisms

f.        “you had a procedure”=euphemisms are inadequate

g.       “a room of sleeping beauties” evokes a fairy tale—but this one is a nightmare

h.      “my car started just fine…” as if she has an expectation that the world would be as out of kilter as she is, and is surprised at normalcy

i.         “what a brave girl I have been.” How one would speak to a child—resonating with the fairy tale allusion

j.        The pharmacist is kind, in contrast to the condescending, patronizing and unsympathetic attitude of her husband—depending upon the kindness of strangers as in a Williams play

3.       “Portrait of my Body,” Phillip Lopate

a.       Evokes Dostoyevsky’s Underground Man—the unreliable, highly self-critical, contradictory narrator

b.      Immediate suggestion of alienation

c.       Clinical self-appraisal (but is it accurate?)

d.      Interactions with others are strange, but clinically appraised

e.      “because we are all in the same comedy together”—if it is the same play, we are all quite different characters

f.        Appearance versus reality

g.       “a cultivated man who is often embarrassed  for others”: strange use of “embarrassed” and the second time the word is used—usually we are embarrassed by others

h.      Use of “for all the world” as both a figure of speech and as a literal statement of being seen by the world

i.         “I…cut a fairly impressive, elevated figure…” is his subjective appraisal of how the world objectively sees him

j.        Nice turn of phrase: “the more life’s setbacks make you inclined to fill the hollowness of disappointment with the pleasures of the table.”

k.       Similarly, nice double meaning of the word “dull” as uninteresting and as the quality of the ache of a low back—literary quality

l.         Double meaning of the word “asses”—derrieres and pompous fools—literary quality

m.    Talking about Kennedy in a motorcade inevitable evokes the Zapruder death film, but here it refers to Kennedy in life—literary quality

n.      As much as describes his strangeness, he is reaching out to our shared sense of community

o.      His back and his toes are both strangers to him

p.      Insightfully writing universally of every man’s anxieties relating to his own penis

So what have we got?  A self-aware contradictory assessment of an attractive man who tilts—others admire him, but he has his doubts.

4.       “I Think I am Musing My Mind,” Roger Ebert

                Here is a story of a different sort than the other three.  Personally, I had long watched Siskel and Ebert—one now dead; the other muted by a stroke.  The story resonated with me, because writing is a way to come to grip with ones insecurities and limitations.  Like a deaf person with acute vision, or a blind person with enhanced hearing, Ebert finds that being unable to communicate—speak, has made him better able to communicate—write.  Ebert’s ability to cope in a world that has suddenly become “different” from what it was is similar to Lopate’s clinical appraisal of his body—both focus on both the strangeness and the advantages.

The commonality between these stories is the authors’ shifting between their own perception of events and self, with how others appear to be perceiving the authors and the events.  I stress “appear to be…” because the stories are subjective, even when the author is talking about others.

A second commonality is the sense of alienation—of being alone in a hostile world.  Even Roger Ebert, who is writing more self-consciously about the act of writing (although they all seem to suggest that the act of writing itself is part of their virtue), suggest an alienation from the world that caused him to write more deeply.

There is a disconnect between how these people see themselves in the world and how the world sees them, or so they each think.

All four stories suggest a feeling of alienation—of being out of sync with the surroundings.

The first three contrast the subjective with the objective.