There is something remarkably terrifying about the ABC network reality TV show, The Bachelor. 
A man searches amongst 26 pre-selected women for the one who is on the show for the “right reasons” and wants to “take it to the next level”. Adding to the difficulty of this quest, all of the candidates proclaim their love for this man and their desire to be with him for the rest of their lives.The process itself is laborious, involving group dates, cocktail parties, hand-holding, heart-to-heart talks and awkward sequences of kissing. Although the show is predictably structured – with pathetic story arcs, villains and insidious repetition – there are some moments which amuse and surprise. 
Tierra LiCausi, the villain of this season, blurted out a ground-breaking deconstruction of the self near the end of last week’s show. In defending her position on how she might have been seen by others when she raised an eyebrow in an insulting manner, she explained: “Raised eyebrow? That’s my face! I can’t help that…I can’t control my eyebrow. I cannot control my eyebrow. I can’t control what’s on my face 24/7.” 
There was no sense of irony, no sarcasm in her position; this was in fact a bold statement attempting to establish a startling new possibility that the face is an independent entity. Dissatisfied with the simplistic notion of the duality of mind and body, Ms. LiCausi sought to shatter the self into billionths, every cell and corpuscle independent of each other, only of itself, self-governed, self-determined, rarely, if ever, attuned to the body and mind as part of a whole. Ms. LiCausi continued, “I know in my own skin that I am not rude…If I could walk around with a smile on 24/7, I would. But my face would get freaking tired.” 
In other words, it is a virtual impossibility for another to understand the consciousness of Ms. LiCausi, or as she refers to it, her “sparkle”. Other selves, or “sparkles”, can only assume and thus interpret; they are incapable of capturing the essence of another sparkle simply because of the face’s independent notion of self and potentially abrasive manner. Predictably, Ms. LiCausi’s revelations left the other faces and bodies on the show dumb-founded, including that of the Bachelor himself, who decided to reject Ms. LiCausi, eyebrow, face, sparkle and all. 
Tag Archives: writing process
Greenland Reading: Gretel Ehrlich’s “This Cold Heaven”
Gretel Ehrlich’s This Cold Heaven provides a first-person account of life in the cold and dark of Greenland. 
She recounts the Early 20-Century explorations of Arctic ethnographer Knud Rasmussen as well as the painter Rockwell Kent’s year-long sojourn there in the 1930s, but most interesting of all are the details of her own travels, including her journey with hunters in the far north:
Ahead, the ice foot narrowed like a waist, then widened again. Snow turned to sun; we slid from winter into summer. 
A glittering lagoon of open water came into view, packed with seabirds, ice gulls, and eider ducks. We stopped an gaped. The pond was a living sapphire and the birds navigated through blue glint, bumping from one beveled iridescence to another. What were we seeing? (180)
Ehrlich does have a tendency to repeat herself and romanticize the harsh elements, but all is forgiven for her moments of insight and enduring adventurous spirit.
Knud Rasmussen
One of the greatest thrills in writing is the initial research. The setting for my upcoming novel will likely be in the high arctic. And so I have come across the life and words of Knud Rasmussen (1879-1933), who led six major expeditions over his lifetime, circumnavigating his native Greenland and crossing the Arctic. 
All true wisdom is only to be found far from dwellings of man, in the great solitudes; and it can only be attained by great suffering. Suffering and privation are the only things that can open the mind of man to that which is hidden from his fellows.
December 21, 2012…and all is well.
Okay, it’s been a pretty windy day, rainy too…but I don’t think that qualifies as the world coming to end. And so…now what? We went through the seven stages of accepting this world’s end, and the planet’s still here. 
What are we going to do now? There are so many battles remaining to fight: getting rid of guns, taxing fairly, bringing peace to Syria, Congo, Palestine, Afghanistan, dealing with our collapsing planet, being honest and decent to one another. I mean, really, are we up for this? Or is to be same old same old? I would like to suggest some things to get us on the right track. Not only is Sufjan Stevens’ voice delicate; so are his words. Listen to Seven Swans.
And will I be a part of what you’ve made?/ And I am throwing all my thoughts away./ And I’m destroying every bet I’ve made/ And I am joining all my thoughts to you/ And I’m preparing every part for you
The Partridge Family: Season One is worth watching too. Yes,The Partridge Family. No one gives better moral advice than Shirley Jones. 
People aren’t as different as we think. We may have different beliefs, but we’re all pretty much alike.
Fyodor Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov is a fascinating examination of free will and morals, and it’s only 796 pages.You’ve got the time. 
Love children especially, for they too are sinless like the angels; they live to soften and purify our hearts and, as it were, to guide us.
And finally, if you’re in New York this week, think about attending Yoko Ono’s Imagine Peace event in Times Square. It is on every night 11:47-12:00 midnight until December 30.
What better way to spend the apocalypse?
Survival Guide: The Last Day
Today is your time for measured reflection. During this, the last of the seven stages before this apocalypse, you must learn to accept the reality of your situation. Acceptance doesn’t mean happiness, but rather a way forward…even though the world is going to end. There is no better guide than Martin Luther King Jr. His final speech in Memphis, Tennessee (April 3, 1968) is an incredible collection of ideas and moments, all of it delivered without notes. 
Another reason that I’m happy to live in this period is that we have been forced to a point where we’re going to have to grapple with the problems that men have been trying to grapple with through history, but the demand didn’t force them to do it. Survival demands that we grapple with them. Men, for years now, have been talking about war and peace. But now, no longer can they just talk about it. It is no longer a choice between violence and nonviolence in this world; it’s nonviolence or nonexistence. He was assassinated the following morning.
Watch My Dinner with Andre, written by Wallace Shawn and directed by Louis Malle. Two men talk over dinner, just that, but remarkable so, reminding us that a good story just needs to be told. 
I wouldn’t put on an electric blanket for any reason. First, I’d be worried if I get electrocuted. No, I don’t trust technology. But I mean, the main thing, Wally, is that I think that kind of comfort just separates you from reality in a very direct way. 
Read the poetry of William Carlos Williams. Yes, poetry! He was a doctor by trade, which provides great insight into the good old human condition. It is almost impossible to state what one in fact believes, because it is almost impossible to hold a belief and to define it at the same time. 
It’s time. Take stock of your life. Are you good? Until tomorrow then.
Looking for The End
I’ve come to the end. My novel, My Bad Side is done. Ending is hard. I’ve worked toward this moment for over four years. I’ve read through some 40 books for research – on everything from zoos and fire fighters to sex work and Newfoundland. 
And I’ve written lots of words – over160,000 – some of them too often (suddenly, everything, turned) and edited those down through four drafts to 99,065. 
And here I am, not as exhilarated as I would have liked – when is it ever like that? It’s almost the opposite actually, like I don’t want to be at this point, finished, like it’s a death. 
I have the ending down to one of three final scenes: a walk with Apollo, a night of music or an ocean swim. 
I have vacillated between each. Each has something, some essence, but then I wonder if it is too much. Is it melodramatic or too damn trite? Then again, I can’t avoid the guts of moment – like The Beatles did in their final album Abbey Road, ending not with The End, but with the lousiest Beatles song ever recorded, Her Majesty’s. 
It’s been a struggle, all of these endings in the mix, and then wondering if there might be another. I’ve considered just throwing it all away and using the Debbie Does Dallas finale where all the characters gather naked and say in chorus, ‘If it feels good, do it!’ 
Something like that. Or I could go with the ocean swim. It’s a tough call to make.
Editing to nothing
The editing process can be grueling. You have to be cruel to yourself, almost masochistic. You have to cut, cut, cut! But first you need a sentence: I couldn’t go any farther and trying to do just that, forgetting which way to turn, thinking of nothing like that, drunk, not what I am in my head, fat in my stupid genius, a dreamed ecstasy with gilded mirrors, neon blue, stars on my hips and in my eyes, gold lines along the ceiling, wisteria, my toes out of their straps, my brilliant life. 
Well, yes, I must admit that does need a bit of an edit: I couldn’t go any farther and, forgetting which way to turn, thinking of nothing, drunk, I was lost in my head, a stupid genius, thinking of gilded mirrors, neon blue, stars on my hips and in my eyes, gold lines along the ceiling, wisteria, all of it, my brilliant life. (It’s a start.) 
I couldn’t go any farther, drunk and, forgot which way to turn. I realized I was lost. I was stuck in my head, ecstasy in my head, gilded mirrors, neon blue, stars in my eyes, wisteria, all of it whirling. (Have I lost it already?) 
I couldn’t go any farther. I was drunk. There were gilded mirrors, neon blue, stars, wisteria, all of it whirling. (Is that what I meant?) 
I was drunk. Neon stars and wisteria spun around me. (Just that?) 
I was drunk. (No more?) 
Drunk. (Uh-oh.) 
And then…a black hole. Not even that. And I have to start again: I saw the wisteria...
Broadway at Night: Canyon of Dreams
Broadway, also called the Canyon of Dreams, is a location for an early morning scene in my novel, My Bad Side:
A flock of small black birds swirled above Bowling Green, hovered a moment, a single organism, and landed in the bare glowing branches of the beech trees. 
Apollo watched, his mouth open, moaning softly. We followed the plaques. 1910, June 18: Theodore Roosevelt, following return from his African Safari; 1926, August 27: Gertrude Ederle, first woman to swim the English Channel. 
Crystal called.
“You’re up early.”
“More like late.”
1950, August 31: William O’Dwyer Upon his Resignation as Mayor of New York. “You remember the Santa Claus Parade?” 
“I was an icicle.”
“I was a workshop elf.”
“They painted my face with silver glitter. I had that crazy hat that pointed straight up.”
I could hear her moving, her mouth muffled, distant from the receiver, and then the tinkling of glass, bottles going into the recycling.
“I sat on a giant wooden mushroom.” I switched the phone to my other hand. 
“We should go on a trip.”
“Where?”
“Las Vegas.”
There was scaffolding on both sides of the street now, the black and silver crossbars, rusted bolts sticking out through broken strands of duct tape. 
“The Galapagos. We could swim with the seals.”
“They would just freak me out.”
“It would be incredible.”
“Rome,” she suggested. “Or St. Petersburg.”
“Really?”
“The Crystal Palace.”
A rat popped out and veered wildly back at the sight of Apollo. “The Winter Palace.”
“Is that what it’s called? The Winter Palace?” There was the snap of her lighter and the intake of another cigarette. “It should be called The Crystal Palace.”
New York City Hall
Good Writing Day
Today was a good writing day. I was very fortunate to suddenly -yes!- getting immersed. Most important was a transition where the emotional weight of one chapter empowered the next, a chapter where there was next to no set up, almost entirely dependent on dialogue, and yet, the feeling had been set. I was sad for this poor girl…and I was almost happy about that.
I don’t know if this is such a great blog, but there is only so much you can say about a good writing day without sounding like an ass. And so I will fill it out by adding pictures of three interesting animals, all of which are briefly mentioned in the book:
Caracal, Kalahari Desert
Red-footed Booby, Genovese Island
Babirusa, Sulawesi
Blogging Interference
There might be those of you who are wondering, “What exactly is this damn blog about?” 
While I may have titled this “a writer’s blog”, I seem to be blogging on everything – music, films, sports, Hurricane Sandy – but the actual writing.
Tatzu Nishi’s “Discovering Columbus”
The idea of this blog is to document my writing process, and that process does come through moments – cultural, disastrous and otherwise. I believe that it can be very effective to focus on what is in these moments – the details and nuances – and build them toward something else related directly to the writing process, along the lines of what might be coming out of the “Prius” posts.
Prius on Maiden: 26 days after Hurricane Sandy
However I have also come to realize that a blog takes on a life of its own. It has certain demands, such as its daily appetite for something new – like now – and this has shifted my focus from my writing to writing for my blog. (I should blog about that. Oh, I guess I already am.)
Flower bulbs ready for November plant
I must also admit to using the blog to get out of the work of writing my book. The drafting process is a slippery one, full of detours and excuses, and I’m pretty good at using them all. This blog is probably the best.
Nick Cave artwork
But that’s about to come to an end. I have given myself eight days to finish my fourth draft. Yes, eight days. I will allow myself to blog, but I can’t blog instead of writing.
Wall Street subway
The writing has to be first and the blogging second. I have to set that straight. Right now. No more blogging. I’m getting back to the book. I am. I mean it. The clock is on.
Primate Exhibit, American History Museum
Okay, that’s it. I’m done. Really. I am.