Day 91.2 of the editing process

Nobody ever told me how to write. Nobody said you can be a writer. Nobody thought it was something you could do. I didn’t live in that aspect of the social or academic world and POOF…

On bed. Sleeping for two hours. Shoe hits ground falling from my foot. Bang. Awake.

Two hours was definitely not enough.  The only reason that I’m going to try to plug-in today, even though I probably shouldn’t, is because I believe in discipline when doing what you said you do, and when you said you were going to do it by. Odd trait of mine you wouldn’t expect is that I’m always on time when plans are given.  I’m never late when I want to be somewhere.

I think deadlines are important and in writing they can be worked with a bit; you can move them back but if you don’t come close to your deadline then what was the point of making one in the first place? I’m just saying I wasn’t the most gifted writer to ever be born but I want to be one of the best to ever have written, therefore being a constant student and respecting my work ethic are traits that can set me apart from those to who this comes more natural for. I think…

So I’m writing this as a warm up and usually it takes me about an hour to get into the groove. That’s how I write a book. I just sit down at the typewriter and let the words go and let my mind go, forgetting about the period, the stutter, the comma, and I hope that someday I’ll get good enough with the keyboard that I will be able to edit in real-time and spontaneous prose can be merged with the discipline that the editing process gives your overall body of work.

The keyboard is an instrument and you get used to certain ones and not others and I’m still not used  to the one I’m working on now and it’s been a year, I don’t like it. I hate this keyboard. I like some. I don’t like others. This will be the only book I write with this keyboard. It’s junk. But no, I’m just kidding keyboard, please forget what I said, you tried your best. Ha..I’m talking to my keyboard now. Great…

Seriously need to look into getting a new typewriter for my new projects and a new keyboard for my computer. NOT YET. And I’m not the best typist in the world but when I am in the process and not worried about what I am going to do and nobody is going to see it right away and I can just make a mess of the canvass I’m pretty damn good and fast. SO WHAT?

I’m warming up my mind. I’m listening to the birds wake up. I’m the first one awake today and people will be going to celebrate Easter.

What is this post about. It’s about the moon. I’m trying to go into my head. I’m drilling into the internal thoughts of characters that never have existed for anyone else. I’m going into the world that I made. I’m going to meditate in writing and forget about how tired I am. I’m going to forget about everything but what I’m writing and what I have to finish. Word count and page number and how many words left doesn’t matter anymore because it’s time to get this shit done. I care. that’s enough. This is it. This is the last day or two that I have to work on this and then I can start something new. Get it done with boy and come back later and see how things are. Enough complaining and get this book  done and then figure what is up with the NEXT EVERYTHING.

The sun. Coffee done. Tired. Who cares? Nobody. Exactly. Fight on to live on to type something new. Maybe the next book will be the best thing yet, but for now, concentrate on what is left to complete.

Soft graceful fingers like nails going through the social construction of the alphabet. Sleep will see you soon. You’re awake, but it’s not the same for you as it is to other people. They have church. You have, work. Their story is complete. Yours is just beginning. Peace. 

*During the process of this book I’ve mapped out so much about the writing and editing process and being a writer kind of guy. This will be the last time I do that. It was interesting and a good experience but I’m going to take Hemingway’s advice after this project and not talk about the book I’m working until it’s done other than short completed drafts. I have some changes for this site coming up and how it will run. It will still be spontaneous once in a while, because that’s me, but it’s going to become more organized in ways and focused on various series.

Wanderings of a writer in the digital age or whatever number who gives a bad word

I like these kinda posts even though…but short message.

Nope. I don’t know why I even write this shit , probably somewhere in my brain lost somewhere I must like the act of communication and somewhere people are saying cool or whatever, ha, and so…Strange and so I have to finish a book. Well, I don’t really have to. I am THE MAN. But still, I actually have to fill some orders, did all this publicity and have a small book tour lined up. I’m kinda legit ( or people think I’m insane and  helping me out). HA, What the fuck am I doing? Rule. No. Go. Get it done and keep going and this makes no sense to me. I dont know why,  and What that means is what? I could sell enough books to be poor and I will never stop. It kinda sucks being at it alone all the time but when you choose art your life you go and hey man, maybe I could even buy a nice pair of slacks HA if I just sober my ass up and eat some canned ravioli and mentally prepare myself for an old school 15 hour straight word a thon (with small break of course).

I woke up at 9 pm after sleep for who knows. I sleep as much as I’m awake. I either think about writing, drink, write, or sleep or worry about the what-have-you. There is research showing that you can save sleep up, that you don’t need 8 hours a night, and thinking about this what a strange rule we have in society. So yeah, note to self, and work by five 15 I can make this happen, if I get my shit together right now I can begin this day and get the last draft done before I re read it couple more times on Monday. By noon, DONE. I can do this. My back hurts. lol. Nope. rock and roll man. 

Couple more things

Went to the bar and was talking to a pal and he was talking about TV and shows and reruns and what not. Anyway, My life is so fucked up. No. I never knew this. In an episode of Seinfeild Jerry learns he has a fine on an unreturned library book from 1971, Tropic of Cancer.

This might be vulgar, and it’s silly and kind full of shit and what you would call, dramatic but:

and I hate to offend people with sexual metaphors. It’s not the kind of writer I am and that’s why I hardly ever write about it (because YOU KNOW) but finishing a book is the worst part. You drag it out. You drink. You look and mess around and you think and think… you hope for more. Even when it’s done you keep going at it, and what it is, well I’m sorry for my adult language, but yeah, finishing a book is exactly what it is:

it’s fucking without orgasm. HA! But maybe, there’s something to that. HA…oh man..

TIME SLOTS WILL GO QUICKLY (calender cleared up, for summer)

Letter to Society #2

Politics? Society. A world, full of questions?

Lull, the sleepy-eyed boredom of the same ol’ damn status ol’?

Do you see a lack of seriousness and too much of this:

I need you to need me to like you…

Do you really want to know how good or bad things really are? You know, let’s lay it all out there and die showing that we can run this world? Who? Our generation.

Do you think, hey, I’m just a person on the street who likes a backwards ball cap and a pizza party like everyone else, just a dude or a lady who’s only trying to get… by, but at the same time, I (you) would like to know, you know, what’s up?

Yes. No. Not…..Yes?

And the end? The middle. No. No. Yes. The world has been given another chance.

What has happened has not happened, yet.

The journalistic ladies and gents and masters of words born and dead of the past, rest em’, but not good enough. Thank them and say good luck, and I (me) say this because if you want a story about what you do, an honest story of your colors and country and people doing things, your scene and serious looks, maybe your dance moves and tiresome acting and writing zenes and talks; your songs and spins and your grooves and hymns, maybe (wink) your surfing culture?…

Maybe Your underground boxing ring or future apocalyptic gang of fire starters; your craft or trade or band practice (snap snap snap) or even your cubicle well hey, this is your only chance.

What I’m saying is that (three month window) I’ll (official name as the U.S.A is concerned… West Vine Press) will document that real life stuff, ya’ dig?

I’m freeing up the next few months to go anywhere in the milky-way galaxy. You don’t have to pay me anything (for now and probably (unless you work for a larger organization that can pay me, because then you have to pay me before I even consider it). Anyway….so this is it:

Literally, I will go gonzo and investigate any story (Festivals, Cults, Aliens, Beats, Poets, Earth Worms, Space Stations, Moon Masses, Motorcycle Madness, Vampires, Wars, Your average human Mayhem) that you send me.

You say where and when and I’ll be there to tap…. tap… tap, and with a regular working man kinda serious look I’ll say, well what do we have us here?

After that goes down,  well who knows, but people will either say, man, that (you or them or society) person needs to improve and take things a tad’ more seriously  or, I don’t like them, and who knows why they might say that (I’ll explain to you why after the piece is done)….WAIT, or they might just say, holy hot scotch, that lady human or dude man human person (you!) is really super cool and not just another poser (still and always, human).

This is a once in a lifetime chance for you and your children. Ha…(joke) they might not put you in a home because of this.

And NOT for you?

That’s what they call, a subjective choice for the doomed (wink), but still, tell your pals and the gang at the wine party, the bowling league, the wall street high fivers union, the….anything.

What? Listen:

What I’m saying, is that if you can LIKE! what I’m throwing down and you really want to know, well you’ve come to the right place and just have them (or you) message me. I’ll see what it’s all about, and then what? This:

The future will make the decision about what’s up with your spot in the overall, history, of this what-have-you.

Nobody knows really, what is going to happen, other than the story, but hey, this might end up making you feel better about your social goals, save integrity within journalism and literary writing, or it might have you   reevaluating your life as you can’t sleep the night before you say sure why not; the night before the morning you take the Socratic March and go sign up for community college the following Monday. (HA.)

Cool…

Andrew H. Kuharevicz

leave comment, or, Anrew.h.kuharevicz@gmail.com 

The Neon Wilderness, Nelson Algren (Mixed-Media)

He stole a typewriter and went to jail. That’s all I heard. I knew I found a new friend…

“The great strength of a fighting man is his pride. That was Young Rocco’s strength in the rounds that followed. The boy called Kid Class couldn’t keep him down. He was down in the fourth, twice in the fifth, and again in the seventh. In that round he stood with his back against the ropes, standing the boy off with his left in the seconds before the bell. He had the trick of looking impassive when he was hurt, and his face at the bell looked as impassive as a catcher’s mitt.” (in ‘He Swung and He Missed,’ 1942)

Nelson Algren

“During the post-war years Algren started an affair with the French writer Simone de Beauvoir, Jean-Paul Sartre’s life-companion. At that time she shared Sartre with Dolores Vanetti Ehrenreich, once the mistress of the surrealist poet André Breton. Dolores lived in New York, where Sartre had dediced to spent a few months every year with her. Beauvoir made a lecture tour in the United States in 1947 and the two writers met through an introduction arranged by Mary Guggenheim. “On train to Los Angeles I read one of his books and thought about him,” de Beauvoir later wrote, “he lived in a hovel, without a bathroom or a refrigerator, alongside an alley full of steaming trash cans and flapping newspapers, this poverty seemed refreshing, after the heavy odour of the dollars in the big hotels and the elegant restaurants, which I found hard to take.” (from A Transatlantic Love Affair, 1998) Algren showed Beauvour Chicago’s underside, introduced her to stickup men, pimps, baggage thieves, whores and heroin addicts.  He was the first man with whom Beauvoir ever had an orgasm. On every day they met, they slept together.” (1)

and

6a00e553df64898834011570551390970b-800wi

Nelson Algren’s legacy ebbs

He wrote some of the most compelling books of the last century. So why do so few remember?

By David L. Ulin

April 26, 2009

Reporting from Chicago

The Steppenwolf Theatre feels like a womb. It’s warm, dark, soporific, full of voices barely loud enough to be distinguished, a setting beyond time. Outside, the streets of Old Town are laced with spring afternoon snowflakes; on the South Side, at U.S. Cellular Field (formerly Comiskey Park), opening day has been postponed.

The fact that Comiskey is no longer called Comiskey is a sign of how Chicago has changed, and not for the better. But then, the old Comiskey had a date with the wrecking ball almost two decades ago. The new park — bland, lifeless, another corporate sellout — is the kind of ersatz place marketers and con men try to pass off as authentic in a world that no longer remembers what authentic means.

A long falling out

All this raises the question: Why hasn’t Algren lingered more? Partly, Banks suggests that it has to do with the bifurcation at the heart of his work: “The people he wrote about,” he says, “were different than those who read his books, which is a divide that’s impossible to get around.”

But not unlike Lady Day, Algren flamed out, falling prey to alcohol and bitterness. He left Chicago first for Paterson, N.J., where he moved to write about Rubin “Hurricane” Carter, the boxer unjustly convicted of triple murder, and then for Long Island, where he died in 1981 at age 72. He sold “The Man With the Golden Arm” to Otto Preminger but hated the 1955 movie, reportedly grumbling that “Sinatra shook heroin like he shook a summer cold.” Algren alienated everyone, complaining that he hadn’t gotten what he deserved and then didn’t write a book worth reading for the last 25 years of his life. “Some fighters can only go eight,” Gifford says, “and he got tired, like Kerouac got tired.” And yet, he continues, “He wrote enough.”

Gifford’s correct, of course, although it’s not just a matter of what he wrote, but how. He stood up for what was important, and for what was right. ” ‘What is literature?’ Jean-Paul Sartre once asked in a small volume bearing that title,” Algren declared, invoking his rival for Simone de Beauvoir’s affections, in a 1961 afterword to “Chicago: City on the Make.”

“I submit that literature is made upon any occasion that a challenge is put to the legal apparatus by conscience in touch with humanity.

“Now we all know.” (2)

ManWithTheGoldenArm

“In a 1949 letter to Algren, Ernest Hemingway provided the following review of the novel (which Doubleday chose not to include in its marketing):

Into a world of letters where we have the fading Faulkner and that overgrown Li’l Abner Thomas Wolfe casts a shorter shadow every day, Algren comes like a corvette or even a big destroyer… Algren can hit with both hands and move around and he will kill you if you are not awfully careful… Mr. Algren, boy, you are good.” (3)

1. http://kirjasto.sci.fi/nalgren.htm

2. latimes.com/entertainment/news/arts/la-ca-nelson-algren26-2009apr26,0,1285589.story

3. Wikipedia

 

 

1927 (The Art of Procrastination)

1927

Listening to Bach…

I once had a professor who said if he was stranded on a desert island the only two items he would need would be, Immanuel Kant’s, Critique of Pure Reason & A Best of Bach album. A good starting manifold of perception. One slide to the next coming to be one.

I said, “well wouldn’t you need a WalkMan or something. Record player or batteries or you know, anything, something to play the album.” (not a question)

He laughed and said, “Andrew, please explain to us, in it’s entirety, Kant’s Refutation of Idealism. What I asked to be done, two weeks ago, a paper you have yet to turn in.”

“I’m still working on it…”

“That’s what I thought” He said.

SNAP! PUT IN MY PLACE!

1927 words left…ha!

Even got up at six a.m like I have been. Started reading books and cleaning and looking for my camera, in which I’ve been searching for, for weeks. Nope. Organized and even cleaned floors. Ate toast and then lunch and then played with music  and hell its Good Friday they say, so I can’t even go to the library.

Looked at fat squirrels that I said, that looks like a badger, no, it’s one fat monkey of a squirrel, and then I sat there and listened to some writer’s almanac that I needed to catch up on as my  eyes looked at Bluejays and cardinals and wrote some letters to people who said I’ve been, M.I.A.

The thing is, I don’t think people realize that I take writing letters seriously and then they don’t even read the full letters because they say it has too many words. One time I wrote what I thought was a short letter and the person said, briefly what’s the point? I couldn’t believe it. I actually mapped the point out. In my response I only said, I don’t know. But Oh well, and so what else… oh hell man, I need a shower and a cup of coffee and a clean smoke and then I’ll finish this entry…

In the meantime go listen to some Bach and so yeah, I’ll try to remember while I get myself ready for the night…oh goodness, another weekend of another damn american holiday. Sometimes I feel bad for the deities of the modern so and so world. They’ve been as marketed and used as much as the kids of the nineteen eighties  have, and as much as captain crunch and captain planet and captain Kangaroo. All retired military vets of a war that had no time to…ha, never mind.

SHOWER man while trying to remember that oh yeah, yesterday, I   looked at growing buds on trees. Came down with a cold last night. Damn. Haven’t been sick in so long and man my damn luck as soon as it gets kinda nice I would come down with the bug.

Anyway and so I was sitting by the lake and it was cold, but the birds were darting under the particles and their shadows looked great to my eyes. No camera so I just took it in.

It’s hard to explain how alive I remember feeling. 

Remembering is more difficult than people think, and writing helps with this, but the more you remember the more you think, and then, the more you remember the more you can forget, based on statistical numbers and frequency of your memory and storage allotted by, THE HUMAN BRAIN.

And yesterday I worked so much and drank too much and was eating swiss-cake rolls falling a sleep in bed watching old cartoon from childhood called WIZARDS, a real strange movie that for some reason was my favorite movie when I was a kid. I don’t think my parents knew what I was watching, ha. This is what the film is about:

“Wizards is a 1976 American animated post-apocalyptic science fantasy film about the battle between two wizards, one representing the forces of magic and one representing the forces of industrial technology.”

So I fell asleep in bed watching that just like I did when I was a kid and woke up with face on paper smeared with pencil markings that were made the day gone by when I edited for about five hours downtown (Mr. King says you should edit in public and I kinda agree with this).

The Book. Yeah that number, and it’s all about done but who knows if it will be done on Monday like I said. April fools! Ha.

1927 

Nice Shower and always a good feeling. I Feel much better. Stopped thinking. This is the good part of the day that I look forward to.

1927 

Something I was thinking about that I don’t say much is that I really do like walking around my town, it’s lonely and gutted but full of possibility. Possibility that I’ll never really be a part of, because I won’t live here forever, and if I do, I still don’t know, but anyway, it’s a classic white flight situation where now they are trying to make it look artsy and historical. And it’s nice, and there was a time when this was where one of the richest business-men in the world lived. Isn’t that kinda strange that the lumber barons were once the googles and the apples? I think it is, and maybe ironic and gross, a perversion of life, but I’m not going there today. It’s a good day.

Walking down there though you get a feeling for what is obviously important for a town to thrive, and really those tent-poles for culture don’t seem to be as respected or really understood by the people anymore. The library and glass floors  and huge paintings on the wall and some of the finest collections of books that I’ve seen anywhere in any public library before. The echo of the past, the time that all of this took and walking and sitting in the park, looking at the flags and the seagulls, birds that for some reason don’t get any respect, the writers of the bird family. They wait and fly back and forth all winter and it was cold but warm, a last dance for the winter, and it was cold and I probably shouldn’t have been walking as much but hell man, I walk, that’s my mode of transportation.

I was looking at the tracks that lead to nowhere and the world war two boats that are next to a sign that tells (if I remember) of two war heroes from this town. One that ran back into combat and took on an entire enemy army. And for some strange reason I laugh because I come from the same town and like a wild animal I would do the same to save my friends,  and that makes me feel good in a very strange and american (human) way. 

And I needed to unwind so I got three beers and slowly got drunk and felt good about the whole thing. Told a guy to hold onto his stocks of book face because man, who knows, but you have to wait until the generation grows up first before you make money on them. He laughed and didn’t care, because he had a lady to talk to.

For about two hours I was in the bar I sat alone and read and edited and felt strange but it was good. I looked out the window at the buses of people and thought about my book and if I should tone it down a bit because sometimes I get angry and it is shown in my writing. But this whole world, this society, this human nature, it isn’t easy and clean all of the time. I’m not sure what I’m trying to say, but if people stay polite all the time we could find ourselves in new wars that we don’t even want to be in. I rather be wrong and learn that I’m wrong through years of writing my thoughts out, than to not do a damn thing and say I wish that I would have spoken up and said something, I wish… I wish, I wish that I could have those years back. And yeah, I might disagree with somethings that I’ve written but they have tried to stay objective for the most part, and it’s hard because nowadays people come at you for saying something when they don’t even know what you are talking about. There is an argument here. There is a standard of living, and I think it has something to do with decency. I guess I’ll just have to write more to figure out what this life and the world is really all about. When I’m older, will I know anymore than I do now? Perhaps a little more, maybe not; there’s only one way to find out. To write it down by living and yeah, by writing as the days go on and on and…oh you know just…on.

1927

Drew, 

Postcard received from India. Picture of human. Bhagawan Sri Ramakrishnd Paramahamisa (I may have spelled that wrong) Life happens. Life happens. Like a record on repeat. Peace and happiness.

1927

Messy Notes written in pencil from reading at the library

Old Hemingway book. Esquire article. Old Newsman Writes. Conrad preface to the (night?) of the narcissus. Use of elements of fiction. 1925 Frederic Marryout. Ivan Turgenev. Sportsman spring. Henry fielding  Theories of satirical comedy. Shamela.

Get rid of many things by writing about many things. Pencil dying. Hard to read the correct spelling and what my own letters even are. Close enough is better than not written down at all.

Though Hemingway was real short on money he said, “it’s much more important for me to write in tranquility.—Trying to write as well as I can with no eye on any market nor any thought of what the stuff will bring, or even if it can ever be published –than to fall into the money-making trap which ruins american writers.”

He saw writing as a kind of fiercely competitive literary prize-fight in which contemporaries pitted themselves against the established masters, as well as against each other to surpass what has already been achieved.

“What a writer, in our time, has to do, is write what hasn’t been written before, or beat dead men at what they have done.”

Study the best literary models. Master your subject through experience and reading. Work in discipline and  isolation.  Begin early in the morning. Concentrate on writing for many hours and then make sure to allow yourself to relax and enjoy something else, not thinking about your writing, allowing your subconscious to go back to it.

Just some of Hemingway’s rules that caught my eye and which I will now distort and  implement into my growing rules for writing.

1927 words…

I will get to a thousand of them…

SOON, OK…

HA!

Have a good weekend humans.

Bye! 

1927

newmass

“Hemingway wrote four articles for the left-wing journal New Masses beginning in 1935 and ending in 1939. Other well-known contributors to the journal included Max Eastman, John Dos Passos, and Carl Sandburg.”

Source:

http://library.sc.edu/spcoll/amlit/hemmagazines/hem.html