2:12

Feeling good about the band and the new songs and the video, despite our impending lack of a drummer. Feeling good about music as an art form in general. Feeling hopeful about adult life after my talk with Shelby. Feeling good and hopeful about the future of the human race, if Shelby’s any kind of an indication. Feeling good and hopeful about the future of television thanks to Party Down and Parks And Recreation. I am feeling great tonight.

The State I’m In, Part One: Reclamation

Note: this post and the next were meant to be one, but my thoughts and ruminations about the state of my writing life and the state of my musical life expanded further than I’d anticipated—especially the latter, due mostly to a long electronic latenight conversation with Eric, during which I listened to The National’s entire discography (or at least all of their full-lengths; some would call this too much melancholy indie rock; I would call it not nearly enough, never nearly enough). I decided to break this “state of the personal union” address into two parts.

Reclamation

Today reading Door Wide Open (letters between Kerouac and Joyce Johnson) (found at fantastic new Kilgore Books & Comics–we’ve [Denver] been needing a place like this for ages) was inspired to track down my old Smith Corona electric typewriter, covered in a layer of dust in the closet in my old bedroom (now Adam’s) at The Attic on Pearl Street. After a trip to Goodwill to look at what they had to offer–two beat-up, heavy things, overpriced, ribbons dry or missing–remembered my old electric in my old room; luckily Julie still lives there (there where the ceiling in the lobby has gone missing and where the fake-punk kids still hang out on the porch with their delicate hairdos and their black jeans and their piercings and their sneers, oh you look the part kid but your late-model green Volkswagen gives you away) and so found her at the laundromat with Adam, kidnapped her and forced her to take me back, open up the door, hold things I pull out of the closet—Adam’s black dress shoes, a cap, my (mom’s) old broken record player until unearthed old Coronamatic, on which I’ve written several letters (or maybe just one?—might be overnostalgicizing) to C. and as many school assignments as I could get away with (generally they want a generic barebones 12pt Times New copy, no imagination or sentimentality). The typewriter is lifeless and impotent, now; ran out of ink years ago, but managed to track down correct cartridge (not just a ribbon like old typewriters, more like an ink cart; even when I’m trying for older tech I can’t quite reach back as far as I’d like), ordered two cartridges, which should last me some time, and then—

Here’s the thing. Writing—it’s come slowly, painstakingly to me, recently, if it’s come at all. I haven’t written anything of substance since finishing school in December, and can feel it. I’ve entered into a strange relationship with the written word, like taking a lover whom I can’t stand to be away from, but when we’re together I just don’t know what to do, where to start, so I panic, retreat, send her away. You see, even my metaphors are in a sorry state—shallow, shaky, suspicious. I haven’t been reading enough, either, and that shows, too; Christopher, chance encounter’d at the grocery store, once quite satisfied with my recommendation of an Eggers novel, asked for a tip on something else to read and I had naught for him, couldn’t dredge up a thing; in the last four months I’ve read maybe three books (count ‘em: Golding, Lord of the Flies, which somehow I’d missed; Christopher Ross, Mishima’s Sword [excellent part-Yukio Mishima biography, part-travel writing, part-exploration of violence in Japanese culture---recommended---should have slipped him that name?], and Kate Tower Williamson’s A Year in Japan, which is beautiful but not really a read, proper), all in Boston, all too few-and-far-between. Writing productivity and creativity is of course linked directly to the quality and quantity of incoming inspiration via others’ books; hardly is it a self-sustained, renewable-fueled-from-within craft, writing, unless you’re Joyce, maybe, mind too full of brilliance and inspiration already to clutter it with anything else, or Kerouac himself, who needed only life (and of course booze and bennies) to inspire him to pour it all out (and even then we know he was reading Kierkegaard and probably Balzac all along). When I’m reading actively I’m developing actively as a writer, at least as a writerly mind, because I’m seeing things “Oh, I didn’t know you could do that, or never thought to do that—I see” or “See? It worked for him, it could work for me” or “If they published this surely I’ve got a great fighting chance—” because even drivel is good to read, to remind you what not to do and what to do much better.

It hasn’t helped of course that my life has been in constant upheaval recently; haven’t had a stable writing environment—I’ve barely had a stable living environment—for the last four months. Half of me says That’s an excuse, you’re lazy, you should be able to write anywhere, as long as you’ve got you’re laptop or better yet a typewriter or a pen and paper or a cocktail napkin you should be writing, you fool, and something tells me Rebecca Gorman and countless other writing teachers would agree; but then to a certain extent it’s true; when you’re negotiating the terms of whose couch will I be sleeping on next week and do they have a spare key or will I have to coordinate with him or her each time I want to exit or enter the apartment and will this ruin our friendship? (in my experience it will, at least, strain every one), it’s difficult even to remind yourself that not writing is not acceptable and you have no excuse, difficult to find the time, even, to scribble on paper, let alone sit down and get some proper word counts on paper or screen.

All this to say I’m acknowledging, finally, that I’ve been sorely neglecting what is probably my one (also, only) shot at real creative expression (where music, tragically, falls flat–see next post) as a human being, and it’s time I started doing it again. I’ve had too many people tell me I’m a talented writer to just let it go (not that I’d ever intended to drop it altogether, but things have a way of disappearing from your life when you’ve told yourself they’re just taking a vacation), and I’m not citing the encouragement as egotistic proof that I owe it to the world to keep writing or anything like that; it’s just enough to know that not only do I think I’m good enough at it to have a shot at a proper writerly life, but others see it in me, too.

I think I’ve made this decision—to reclaim what I once considered my primary creative pursuit, and my favorite at that–at just the right time; once those ink cartridges arrive I’ll have the months of September and October (autumn months already—a quarter of a century has already gone by just since I’ve been alive—time is strange and untrustworthy) to compose some long-overdue (and some recently-necessary) letters, hammer out skeletons for a short story or two, and then November will have arrived, and with it the task of writing another novel (because if you remember, National Novel Writing Month 2006 was one of my most triumphant writing moments—or series of moments, rather, thirty days’ worth—and I aim to do it again). This means by December of this year I’ll have two skeletal novels and a handful of short stories in various stages of completion with which to move forward, and that’s not a bad place to find yourself after a re-start such as this one.

There’s also the graphic novel idea, involving another Patrick—more on that in time.

That also means that a number of people should be expecting letters from me, finally, and real ones; and since this first wave of letters is one phase of the rough-hewn plan for a kind of personal resurgence—if not renaissance—of the written word and the story told, be glad, if you’re one of the individuals listed below, to receive a letter and be a part of this. You’ll do more, also, to help push this thing along if you respond and we construct a correspondence. I can bang out a hell of a letter, as some of you know, especially with a typewriter, and odds that I’ll include a mix CD or other extras are high, so it’s rarely a burdensome pen-pal kind of affair. The list of likely letter recipients, as of today—whatever today may be—:

S.—cousin-like-a-sister, the person I’ve regularly described as “my absolute favorite in the world”—because now we live in the same city again is no reason we shouldn’t exchange letters, still, according to plan, especially because we still don’t see each other as often as I like; we could hand-deliver them, that would be nice—?;

C.—you know I’ve always got plenty to say to you, especially now; rumor has it (by which I mean you told me) there’s one on the way here from you. I’ve been scheming a new letter to you since reading the Burian book, so it’s about time. I’ve got notes scattered everywhere—in my scribble-book, on my laptop, in my head—about what I want to write this time. Always.

L.—new friend. As I said, I’m sadder, now, to have left Boston, because we could have made something happen; at the very least I would have had someone to go with to see Why? and The Dodos. But letter-writing and mix-making would be most excellent; indeed, your mention of doing both coincided perfectly, as you can see, with my newfound resolve and my intention to begin another series of epistolary adventures. I have more to say to you directly, before this correspondence begins; expect another message soon.

That’s off the top of the head. If you, reading this, think that the two of us could or should write some tremendous letters to one another, or if you feel there’s more between us that ought to be said, but somehow it never gets out—is denied either the time or the opportunity, or both, to be expressed—Mike, I’m thinking in your direction?—let me know. You’d only be doing me a favor with the request—it’s all practice, after all, and it’s all for real, at the same time.

Likewise, if you’re one of my patiently supportive friends, who’ve been waiting for new things I’ve written—Shea, for example, who requested something to read long ago and all I had to share was that half-baked “Aubrey” scene from an as yet imaginary novel—you should be seeing something, soon. First signs will probably appear here, so keep reading.

It’s been a slow process, coming back around to this writing business, but I suppose, all things considered—with all that’s happened in recent months—eight months from the time of my release into the world (loosed from the comforting womb [or, less graphic, the cradle] of undergraduate education, with its assigned writing exercises and mandatory peer criticism and the natural competitive spirit that comes with being in a class full of other aspiring writers spurring me to action, pushing me to excellence) to now, when I realize, again, I need to take this thing seriously, is not such a bad turn-around. I could have lost years to idleness and tremendously-ambitious-but-ultimately-failed music endeavors (again, see next post) and the demon television (which is not to say I don’t plan on devouring The Office season 4 as soon as it arrives via that wonderful red envelope in the mail [and if you’ve been following my saga—by which I mean this blog—carefully you’ll note that last it was mentioned I was downloading the entire season; obviously it goes without saying I gave up and resorted to Netflixing the damn thing—but that will only be a luxury I allow myself, entertainment on the side—no more neglect, o stories in my head, o movies in my head!).

I’ve said (more than) enough. Wish me luck, and come back soon to read about the other side of this creative restructuring; after all, something had to give.

Until next time (when I will have probably listened to another 50 or so songs by The National in a sitting—I just acquired both the Cherry Tree and Virginia EPs and I’m excited to hear them)—

P