PROLOGUE

Before I get into the main body of this month's newsletter, congratulating a friend of the feed for her recent marriage! I'll avoid personal details, but you know who you are. Wishing you warmth on this special month.

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I have to admit, I was rather disappointed with my writing for much of this month. I was in the sort of rut where I felt like I had nothing to say and everything I put to page was stale. I’ve been drafting and redrafting a play that, for a time, felt agonizingly tepid no matter how I approached it, but I’m absolutely desperate to finish a full-length piece so I can actually shop my work around. I’d been feeling very disconnected from my discipline. Concerned that my writing here is just rehashing the obvious while I avoid what feels like an inability to actually finish a project in some manner that is compelling. Wondering if I should just go wander off into the woods and live feral.

I’m happy to report I had several enriching experiences this month that helped me overcome that stale sensation, attending a writers’ circle as well as having some great conversations with friends. Turns out, the salve to frustration in this solitary craft of writing is maybe to make it less solitary.

With regards to that bit about “regurgitating the obvious,” I want to think deeply about things; I'm also preoccupied with having the appearance that I think deeply about things. I'm worried—I know—that I rehash things that are compelling to me often before I've considered them thoroughly. Critical thinking is a muscle, is the sense I get, one that I hope to exercise in writing this newsletter.

Let me be clear here: I would love if this newsletter struck upon something profound for folks. Simultaneously, I'm aware that writing to that end is futile. I'm going to go on a bit about things that have been on my mind, I'm going to seek to frame them in a palatable way, and I'm going to trust you, dear reader, to engage in a way that suits you. Is that contradictory to what I just wrote about developing critical thinking? Ideally, after all, I spend as little a portion of my writing time on this, a portion that I think allows me to produce something of some degree of value to you, while maximizing the time I spend on creative projects. I do seek to write in a way that encourages dialogue. This serial, for me, is about connecting with folks over these ideas as much as anything else.

I made the mistake recently of telling a friend that I think I know I'm a good writer. I try to hold myself, though, to the fact that people do, not are. Someone who might be called a “good writer” is just, I think, someone who produces good material reliably and/or consistently enough. I think I have produced good writing before. I'm fairly confident I'll do it again. I need to dedicate more time to it—and stay engaged with the people and experiences that inspire me and challenge me.

ART

It’s all in the story.

There’s been a storm of recent experiences I have had recently that have reminded me of one thing and one thing in particular—Story is paramount.

The sort of philosophical pillar of this sentiment is one I was reminded of in rereading the brutally-prescient 1984—the origin, to my knowledge, of such terms as “thought police” and “doublethink.” One of the central ideas behind George Orwell’s novel is the notion that control of information about the past is, in effect, control of the past itself, and thus control of the course of the future. What are our ideals and identities but our actions fit to the context of given events? And what determines the veracity of that context when photos can be manipulated and voices can be faked and the human mind itself is a distorted vessel for the storage of memories, vulnerable to emotions and biases?

The gym I attend has telescreens that frequently freeze and lose connection, leaving whole channels unresponsive while others blithely broadcast on. Most recently, CNN got stuck on a story about a space launch out of China and left Fox as the only source of world news in the gym. Now, given that the TVs run on silent and I don’t spend my time with my eyes glued to them anyhow, the primary manner by which I absorb information from them tends to be in the form of the news chyrons that scroll at the bottom of the screens and the headliner graphics that indicate the current segment. Obviously I’m saying nothing new when I make the observation that news media is biased (whaaaaat??); it’s just an element which has been driving the point home to me about Story. George Orwell was right back in 1949: we believe the things we see and hear over and over and over again. And if we don't? Well, how much does it matter, lacking a more salient message?

When laying the groundwork for this edition of the newsletter, I realized I hadn’t actually captured any of these headlines I had talked about—no longer. Here’s what I saw when I looked up the past week or so, presented without comment:

FOX
"FBI raids fmr NSA John Bolton's home, office" 8.22
"Vance hits back at protesters in DC" 8.22
"Ukraine marks Independence Day as strikes ramp up" 8.24
"National guardsmen set to mobilize in 19 states" 8.24
"Trump: average American wages are rising" 8.26
"Trump: factories are booming in America once again" 8.26
"Trump: domestic auto production is booming" 8.26

CNN
“Former California Senator on the redistricting battle" 8.22
"Aug. 29 marks 20 years since Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans" 8.22
"Now: FBI searching former Trump advisor John Bolton's home and office" 8.22
"What states will follow Texas, California in redistricting war?" 8.24
"Will New York redraw its maps, join redistricting war?" 8.24
"Lawyer: Fed Governor Lisa Cook will sue over attempted firing" 8.26
"Trump holding Cabinet meeting at the White House" 8.26

I wonder if these media corporations pay Planet Fitness to broadcast their content.

There's a resource I aim to use more in examining news stories called Ground News that parses how frequently outlets of various affiliations propagate a given story, the idea being—again, nothing revolutionary I'm saying—that what isn't said by one entity is just as important as what is.

I recently listened to an episode of Today, Explained that examined our modern return to a primarily oral culture, wherein information is transmitted through social contact and repetition rather than immutable transcription. “In an oral world,” the podcast voices say, “information needs to be verbally repeated in order to survive.” In the modern day, this repetition takes the shape of rote restatement, epithets, catchy sayings, memes. 

There’s a quote in the episode attributed to Socrates regarding writing-as-a-medium that the philosopher apparently framed as a proverb about two men from Egypt:

“You have not discovered a potion for remembering, but for reminding; you provide your students with the appearance of wisdom, not with its reality. Your invention will enable them to hear many things without being properly taught, and they will imagine that they have come to know much while for the most part they will know nothing. And they will be difficult to get along with, since they will merely appear to be wise instead of really being so.”

It resonates with me, the idea that we are now a culture which has returned to oral culture, a sort of “digital orality,” as they call it, where we very often watch and listen more than we read, the latter of which is inherently private and reflective. It’s the easy and enjoyable language, efficient and memorable, that goes viral and survives. The story of the present moment is that which has been communicated in the most compelling manner.

It's not that literacy no longer exists today, it's just that mass communication seems to follow the patterns of orality—the ones laid out to me in this one podcast episode, mind you. It struck me particularly as I was already thinking about the power of a story, a particular one. I'll get to that.

Story is paramount. More than people are moved in the moment by long articles and troves of research, they are moved by a good yarn, especially one that can be told “directly” to them by another person via a screen. It’s something that feels intuitive, if not flawed—my sense is that the core function of consciousness, itself, is to create a narrative for our actions that allows us to pursue our livelihoods to the best of our abilities. An internal autobiography creates meaning and purpose in a similar way to religion. So if we pick up a meme, a soundbite, a short video, that we can assimilate easily into our personal narrative… we’re likely to do so. Same as if we find a long research paper that does the same thing—but what’s easier?

Earlier this month—was it last month, at this point? I had a gut-wrenching experience that I played over and over in my head, turned in every which direction, told and retold and refined the telling of to friend after friend after friend. I can’t say for certain I have the facts of what happened anymore—nobody recorded it as it was happening (thank goodness). What I do have is a story that illustrates my response to events that happened to me, something that took the facts of what occurred and encoded them in an emotive form.

I hope my story of the event is the one that has the most… authority, I think is the word I'm looking for. Maybe “efficacy.” I think that story is truthful. I think that story reflects my experiences, while respecting the experiences of others. I think, after everything happened and the event itself has become speech and memory, that’s what matters.

CRAFT

The use of hurt in writing

My dear friend and writing partner had a mentor who once told them it was good, in a given moment of personal tragedy, that they were upset, because it would make their writing better. Not those exact words, but the sentiment.

What use is pain in writing, hurt as creative fuel? I’ve had some motivation to be maudlin recently—ha ha, as recently as the frantic first draft of these few paragraphs—and it’s always struck me how purple I get. Purple in the sense of “overly ornate.” If I’m driven driven driven, possessed by some spirit of drama, surely that will propel my creativity and open up my soul to embrace some extravagant, collective pain body? Tap into the torment?

But I’ve found plenty of success writing when I’m happy, too—maybe even more so. A lot of the recent writing I've been proudest of, as well as enjoyed the process of writing the most, has been motivated by an absolute love of the style and subject matter.

I wonder if the cathartic nature of artistic expression leads people to think that such art is stronger because it feels so good in the moment to have an outlet. Or perhaps there is something very genuine in the way that grief causes us to open up in a more sincere way as we seek comfort amidst our suffering; maybe it’s vulnerability more specifically, rather than grief.

I mentioned earlier how I’m preoccupied with the performance of profundity. I think if I let go of my hangups and concerns, I'd be leaving more headspace for myself to actually engage critically with things more often. Or maybe not “let go of,” but rather, “made room for,” so that I can engage with them safely instead of being consumed by them. That, I imagine, would yield more compelling stories than simply regurgitating my worries.

Not to mention, sustained grief, even the low-flying sort, strings out our human stress response in an unhealthy way, and you can't write—or what-have-you—if you're dead.

So then, cultivating a great artistic environment is about, I'll posit for now, cultivating a willingness to be vulnerable. In grief or anger, it's about being truthful to that hurt while not performing it. Did I do a good job of that in the introduction this month? 

In happiness, it's about sharing that joy in a thoughtful way and using it as a platform to connect to others. It's also, I'm sure, about developing good editing habits.

I would be particularly curious to hear folks’ insights with regards to this. How does a person incorporate their emotionality into their art in an effective, healthy way? How can we channel our feelings without being lost in them? I'm on, I think, the other side of the anguish that inspired this—time and reflection are other things that aid an artistic process as well as an emotional one.

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Okay, okay, a postscript about Story that didn’t fit above.

Earlier this month, a friend of the newsletter—not our favorite newlywed, different friend of the newsletter—invited me to join them for a Lectures on Tap event in a swanky place in Midtown. We probably should have been paying admission, but nobody stopped us…

At this event, we listened to TV writer James Manos Jr. (The Sopranos, Dexter) talk all about writing. It was fascinating listening to him talk; he’s self-conscious while being confident in his craft, tending to wander and talk around questions while still communicating wonderful insights. At the end of our time with him, he shared one last anecdote:

Young James, at one time, asked his mother about a lake the family used to visit. He had been recently reminded of it, and had cherished memories of the place from having watched his father’s film footage of their trips over and over and over.

When he asked his mother about the place, he tried to stir her memory by recounting his favorite reel from their family chronicles—the time when he, in feeding bread to a duck, had almost seen it choke on his offering. James recalled the duck snapping up the bread, watching the morsel wedge itself almost cartoonishly in the duck’s throat, his appeals to his father standing there filming, and finally! The duck gulping down some water and swimming away.

Mama Manos admonished Young James: “You were never there! That was your brother in the video!”

James, in reliving this story so often via film reel, had positioned himself as his brother—unconsciously wielding humanity’s empathic gift, he had lived another person’s life.

That is what Story achieves. Credit, again, to James Manos Jr. for the anecdote.

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Michael