A little while ago, I indulged in something for which the internet is perfectly suited: namely, being a hateful jackass. I tore apart five of the songs from the musical group who, more than anyone else, has shaped my tastes in music since I discovered them about twenty years ago. John, Paul, George and Ringo could produce some stinkers, to be sure, but they also had amazing, amazing songs. You probably know the big hits, even if you don't (they're just in our collective subconscious). But what about the album filler that doesn't get the same love? Surely even the less-successful stuff has merit. Well, here are my five picks for the most underrated Beatles songs:
5.) And Your Bird Can Sing (Revolver)
This is a song that John Lennon referred to as a "throwaway," but that's unfair. On an album that saw the group experimenting, laying the groundwork for the much-hyped (and lesser) Sgt. Pepper, this was almost a throwback to early-period pop tunes, back when Lennon and McCartney really did write together (lyrically it's all Lennon, putting down someone who thinks that fancy belongings could bring them happiness, but musically it's sweet and rocking like an optimistic Macca rocker). It's a standout track on an album that is so much more satisfying than just about any of the albums that came after (and yes, I'm slandering the late-period masterpieces, but honestly who listens to The White Album all the way through, beginning to end?).
4.) Blackbird (The White Album)
I could be wrong about this song being "underrated," because I'm sure I'm not its only fan. McCartney in the late period of the group could be awfully syrupy in his lyrics (and indeed in much of his solo work), but this is a beautiful acoustic tune that, much like its side-mate "Mother Nature's Son," makes the first half of the second album in the double-album set (and on the same CD) a nice mix of relaxing and weird (if I'm not mistaken, "Helter Skelter" is also on the second disc). I tend to look down my nose at McCartney for his sentimentalism and cloying lyrics, but for once he gets it right.
3.) I've Just Seen a Face (Help!)
Remember the last time you saw someone, just a pretty face in a crowd, and immediately you started wondering what your lives together would be like? No, it's just me? Well, I don't know if I believe that, but this is the perfect song for that moment when you either see someone you want to get to know better for the first time, or when you finally realize that you want to with someone you've known for a little while. What sells the song is Paul's breathless vocals (I dare even the physically fit among you, with refined breathing control, to sing along and not get winded trying to keep up) and the slight country feel to the song. It's a beauty.
2.) I've Got a Feeling (Let It Be/Beatles Anthology 3)
I first encountered this on the Anthology 3 CD, and then there it was again on Let It Be. As contentious as the latter-day history of the group was (from the death of Brian Epstein in 1967 on, it was not a matter of "if" the Beatles break up but "when"), when they came together on a song that deserved it, the Fab Four could still blow the roof off the competition. This has the added bonus of being among the last times Paul and John alternated lyrics, with Paul taking on the gusto of the first set and John crooning about "everybody had a wet dream" in the second set. Either version is amazing (the Let It Be version is complete, while the Anthology 3 take descends into chaos and a premature halt but is still a beauty to listen to).
1.) The Ballad of John and Yoko (Past Masters, Volume 2)
"Christ you know it ain't easy...the way things are going, they're gonna crucify me." The balls of John to sing that some years removed from his "bigger than Jesus" controversy. It's a great look at John and Yoko's stormy wedding-and-honeymoon-period, during which they had "bed-ins" for peace, love, and to take the piss of the international press. Yoko Ono famously got blamed for breaking up the band, but any historian of the group could tell you that factors beyond her were the driving force for the group splintering when they did. I used to casually refer to her as a "witch," but then this little thing called "maturity" kicked in and I realized that she brought some much-needed happiness to John's turbulent personal life. This song, almost a solo project (the only other Beatle on the track, surprisingly, is Paul), is an absolutely great song from beginning to end.
Thursday, May 21, 2015
Friday, May 15, 2015
Mad Men-Boys
There is a movement afoot online that you may have heard of, which seeks to address the concerns of a community long used to seeing itself marginalized and reduced to stereotypical depictions in mass media. It's a movement that has many legitimate concerns, and I for one am proud to count myself as someone who hopes that this particular movement has an impact beyond the narrow scope of simply reforming its image and has an opportunity to effect real change in the world at large.
That movement, of course, is #BlackLivesMatter.
There's another movement online, either identified as "Gamergate" or "Men's Rights," that is just fucking stupid. Do I really need to expend more time on it?
Okay, maybe I should (really short blog posts aren't my thing, anyway): Men's Rights is a movement that prides itself on addressing a problem that doesn't really exist (much in the same way Fox News has been beating the drum for Benghazi, or your local preacher might against marriage equality). The problem, according to MR activists, is that feminists are taking over the cultural landscape and turning men into emasculated "female men" who can't possibly live up the exalted ideals of men of America's past. Men of valor and courage, like John Wayne (draft-dodging-during-WWII John Wayne), perhaps. I have to admit, I'm not terribly familiar with the core beliefs of the movement, but I kinda feel like I can bash them anyway. Because they sound to me more like whiny little shits than actual men.
The Men's Rights movement is like Al Bundy's "No Ma'am" movement from Married With Children, only even less funny. It sees a world in which men (rugged, heterosexual, tree-chopping-down men) are "under assault" from forces beyond their control. And they'd better best stand up for themselves, because those forces might just win and eradicate everything that's wonderful about men. The Nazis had the Jews, Men's Rights Advocates have women (or maybe "Women") to blame for everything that's wrong with their world. Yes, I just compared the Men's Rights thugs to Nazis. No, I don't take it back.
I am a product of a household with strong maternal figures (particularly my grandmother, who will absolutely cut a bitch if she has to). I have, at times, wondered if my lack of ability to land a relationship is somehow a result of having strong females in my life and finding them intimidating as a result (it's the old Freudian concern of whether or not I "want a girl just like dear old Mom"), and I'm not saying I've figured any of this out enough to change my relationship status anytime soon. But I think I'm better than the Men's Rights advocates in this respect: I don't blame my lack of a relationship on women. Also, I can actually hold a conversation with a real, live woman, even one that I'm attracted to. I'm pretty sure a lot of the Men's Rights thugs can't say that.
By the way, I'm using "thugs" pretty loosely here, but I think for once (as opposed to Fox News's overuse of it re: Baltimore recently) it applies here: these guys are bullies. A bully is, of course, someone who feels disenfranchised, and they lash out in response. A bully online is even worse than a bully in the flesh: at least a "real-time" bully has the stones to be a shit to you to your face. What I see when I hear about death threats against female game designers (the origin of the Gamergate thing seems to be insinuations that female gaming journalists slept with designers in order to get their information, or some other such nonsense) is a scared little boy lashing out with his keyboard at all the perceived slights of the world. I recognize that scared little boy because, sometimes in my past, it's been me. I think any internet activity from my darkest personal times can testify to that.
The internet can be an empowering tool for the voiceless, or those who feel that way. But it can also be a bullhorn which is employed to silence other voices even more. I'm not inclined to say "Men's Rights advocates should be shut up," or banned, if only because freedom of speech is the most important right in our constitution (no, being able to shoot off a gun is not as important). But there should be consequences for when speech crosses the line. I think also that the more someone I disagree with speaks, the more likely they'll say something that even their followers might find reprehensible. Men's Rights advocates have a forum, and I'm sure it's as batshit insane as I think it is. Eventually their sense of entitlement will be their downfall. I have to believe that, because it's often proven the case in the past.
It's part of a larger narrative that has taken hold particularly since Obama took office, this idea that we need to "get America back" from the socialists, feminists, or other such groups who are trying to render the America we grew up in irrelevant. Fact is, I think that's more dangerous than letting these idiots speak. Ask someone who wasn't in the majority at a particular epoch in our history what it was really like, and chances are it won't be all sock-hops and soda fountains. Americans have a tendency to not see what their actual history is, but what they want it to be. That's why Reagan could appeal to the notion of the Fifties being placid and bucolic, when in reality that decade was a time of upheaval (and also the birth of the modern Civil Rights movement). Men's Rights seems rooted in a "me, too" notion of oppression, as if suddenly being a (white) male in American society is a handicap. I'm a white male, I can tell you that I've never been harassed by the cops simply for standing out in a particular neighborhood. It's a counter-argument to people with legitimate beefs about the way that society and authority have treated them, and it's a false narrative rooted in paranoia and a fear of losing whatever power you have.
Did I also mention how fucking stupid Men's Rights guys are?
Anyway, some advice to my brothers in the movement, assuming any of them can read: chill out. Relax. Try actually talking to a woman for once in your life. Don't get mad, bro. Do get out more, and let the rays of the sun shine upon your pale, asshole exterior. Keep talking smack, because eventually you'll run off everyone who even thought about supporting you by being a dick. And finally, just fuck off already.
This is your kindly Uncle Trevor, signing off.
That movement, of course, is #BlackLivesMatter.
There's another movement online, either identified as "Gamergate" or "Men's Rights," that is just fucking stupid. Do I really need to expend more time on it?
Okay, maybe I should (really short blog posts aren't my thing, anyway): Men's Rights is a movement that prides itself on addressing a problem that doesn't really exist (much in the same way Fox News has been beating the drum for Benghazi, or your local preacher might against marriage equality). The problem, according to MR activists, is that feminists are taking over the cultural landscape and turning men into emasculated "female men" who can't possibly live up the exalted ideals of men of America's past. Men of valor and courage, like John Wayne (draft-dodging-during-WWII John Wayne), perhaps. I have to admit, I'm not terribly familiar with the core beliefs of the movement, but I kinda feel like I can bash them anyway. Because they sound to me more like whiny little shits than actual men.
The Men's Rights movement is like Al Bundy's "No Ma'am" movement from Married With Children, only even less funny. It sees a world in which men (rugged, heterosexual, tree-chopping-down men) are "under assault" from forces beyond their control. And they'd better best stand up for themselves, because those forces might just win and eradicate everything that's wonderful about men. The Nazis had the Jews, Men's Rights Advocates have women (or maybe "Women") to blame for everything that's wrong with their world. Yes, I just compared the Men's Rights thugs to Nazis. No, I don't take it back.
I am a product of a household with strong maternal figures (particularly my grandmother, who will absolutely cut a bitch if she has to). I have, at times, wondered if my lack of ability to land a relationship is somehow a result of having strong females in my life and finding them intimidating as a result (it's the old Freudian concern of whether or not I "want a girl just like dear old Mom"), and I'm not saying I've figured any of this out enough to change my relationship status anytime soon. But I think I'm better than the Men's Rights advocates in this respect: I don't blame my lack of a relationship on women. Also, I can actually hold a conversation with a real, live woman, even one that I'm attracted to. I'm pretty sure a lot of the Men's Rights thugs can't say that.
By the way, I'm using "thugs" pretty loosely here, but I think for once (as opposed to Fox News's overuse of it re: Baltimore recently) it applies here: these guys are bullies. A bully is, of course, someone who feels disenfranchised, and they lash out in response. A bully online is even worse than a bully in the flesh: at least a "real-time" bully has the stones to be a shit to you to your face. What I see when I hear about death threats against female game designers (the origin of the Gamergate thing seems to be insinuations that female gaming journalists slept with designers in order to get their information, or some other such nonsense) is a scared little boy lashing out with his keyboard at all the perceived slights of the world. I recognize that scared little boy because, sometimes in my past, it's been me. I think any internet activity from my darkest personal times can testify to that.
The internet can be an empowering tool for the voiceless, or those who feel that way. But it can also be a bullhorn which is employed to silence other voices even more. I'm not inclined to say "Men's Rights advocates should be shut up," or banned, if only because freedom of speech is the most important right in our constitution (no, being able to shoot off a gun is not as important). But there should be consequences for when speech crosses the line. I think also that the more someone I disagree with speaks, the more likely they'll say something that even their followers might find reprehensible. Men's Rights advocates have a forum, and I'm sure it's as batshit insane as I think it is. Eventually their sense of entitlement will be their downfall. I have to believe that, because it's often proven the case in the past.
It's part of a larger narrative that has taken hold particularly since Obama took office, this idea that we need to "get America back" from the socialists, feminists, or other such groups who are trying to render the America we grew up in irrelevant. Fact is, I think that's more dangerous than letting these idiots speak. Ask someone who wasn't in the majority at a particular epoch in our history what it was really like, and chances are it won't be all sock-hops and soda fountains. Americans have a tendency to not see what their actual history is, but what they want it to be. That's why Reagan could appeal to the notion of the Fifties being placid and bucolic, when in reality that decade was a time of upheaval (and also the birth of the modern Civil Rights movement). Men's Rights seems rooted in a "me, too" notion of oppression, as if suddenly being a (white) male in American society is a handicap. I'm a white male, I can tell you that I've never been harassed by the cops simply for standing out in a particular neighborhood. It's a counter-argument to people with legitimate beefs about the way that society and authority have treated them, and it's a false narrative rooted in paranoia and a fear of losing whatever power you have.
Did I also mention how fucking stupid Men's Rights guys are?
Anyway, some advice to my brothers in the movement, assuming any of them can read: chill out. Relax. Try actually talking to a woman for once in your life. Don't get mad, bro. Do get out more, and let the rays of the sun shine upon your pale, asshole exterior. Keep talking smack, because eventually you'll run off everyone who even thought about supporting you by being a dick. And finally, just fuck off already.
This is your kindly Uncle Trevor, signing off.
Monday, May 11, 2015
Summer in the City (of Clemson)
This semester just wrapped up a couple of weeks ago, I am happy to report that my grades were really good (better than I thought in one of my classes, to be honest, based on my admittedly half-assed final project because of exhaustion), and I am currently in the grip of a book-reading frenzy that will cause me to push close friends and family members away in the pursuit of sweet, sweet literature.
I'm being completely serious...
Since the semester wrapped up, I've managed to read all the way through at least five books (off the top of my head) and I'm in no danger of stopping anytime soon. Summer is great for reading, what with everyone else off back to their hometowns and you stuck in your hometown which is only a short drive from countless great bookstores. "The Needle and the Damage Done"? Hard drugs have nothing on books in addictive qualities.
(Note: to anyone who read that and is a recovering drug addict, please know that I am a master of hyperbole and exaggeration. I also frequently name-drop, as my good friend President Obama could tell you)
Anyway, it's summer break (if not officially summer-time: the actual season itself doesn't kick in until the end of June, much like my online Spanish class) and I am at a loss for things to do that don't require spending of money (I have a nest egg squired away and hope to keep it from going exceedingly into the red. But I *do* think my car could use gold plating, now that I think about it). So I'm riding around using "freedom fuel" and looking for cheap thrills (literally). I may look into a summer job, to be honest, more just to have something to do than to get any extra cash.
Summer in a college town has changed for me over the years. Back when I was an undergrad at Clemson, it meant that my peeps were leaving the area to go back home (a reasonable thing to do) while I stuck it out in Hogwaller, because that's where I'm from and continue to live. I'd come down to the library (I was working there at the time) and see several international students who either didn't want to go home or couldn't afford to, and we'd have a passing acquaintance. When I graduated and subsequently got a job downtown, I looked forward to the summer break because it meant that the annoying little kids (none of them my friends from my undergrad years, as most of those had long since left school by that point) were no longer standing between me and a reasonable expectation of getting food and eating it within the thirty minutes allotted for lunch. But again, a lot of the attractive girls that worked up front would leave for the summer and, well, that sucked. Some remained, of course, but it was always a bit of a crapshoot.
That reminds me: when I was working downtown and my cohorts and I would take a break or get lunch, we might spend some time sitting on one of the benches downtown checking out the girls walking by. I merely did this out of peer pressure, of course, and from a purely sociological standpoint. Okay, maybe not. But girl-traffic also went down during the summer time. Mostly it was dudes riding their bikes on the sidewalks after about the first of May. And those weren't what I and my chums looked forward to.
Anyway, now I'm back in the position of being a student (i.e., one of those "annoying little kids" I used to sneer at when they took their time trying to decide what to get at Moe's, as if there are enough options there to boggle the mind and keep one from arriving at a decision). And I'm in town more or less, while a lot of my peers (both in grad school and undergrads) are gone off back to their hometowns. A college town in summer is a bit depressing, if not also relaxing: you don't have to be anywhere in a hurry, but the odds of you running into anyone you know are slim to none. It's an interesting sociological concept to consider, if you're not busy contemplating the very sociological survey of attractive females who walk by your perch on the side of the street.
Because, you know, sociology...
I read Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage in one sitting, and it's gotten me to thinking: like the title character, I've often times let traumatic experiences get in the way of present or future happiness, from time to time. I like how Murakami ends the book on a note not of certainty but of possibility. Great book, highly recommend it.
I'm being completely serious...
Since the semester wrapped up, I've managed to read all the way through at least five books (off the top of my head) and I'm in no danger of stopping anytime soon. Summer is great for reading, what with everyone else off back to their hometowns and you stuck in your hometown which is only a short drive from countless great bookstores. "The Needle and the Damage Done"? Hard drugs have nothing on books in addictive qualities.
(Note: to anyone who read that and is a recovering drug addict, please know that I am a master of hyperbole and exaggeration. I also frequently name-drop, as my good friend President Obama could tell you)
Anyway, it's summer break (if not officially summer-time: the actual season itself doesn't kick in until the end of June, much like my online Spanish class) and I am at a loss for things to do that don't require spending of money (I have a nest egg squired away and hope to keep it from going exceedingly into the red. But I *do* think my car could use gold plating, now that I think about it). So I'm riding around using "freedom fuel" and looking for cheap thrills (literally). I may look into a summer job, to be honest, more just to have something to do than to get any extra cash.
Summer in a college town has changed for me over the years. Back when I was an undergrad at Clemson, it meant that my peeps were leaving the area to go back home (a reasonable thing to do) while I stuck it out in Hogwaller, because that's where I'm from and continue to live. I'd come down to the library (I was working there at the time) and see several international students who either didn't want to go home or couldn't afford to, and we'd have a passing acquaintance. When I graduated and subsequently got a job downtown, I looked forward to the summer break because it meant that the annoying little kids (none of them my friends from my undergrad years, as most of those had long since left school by that point) were no longer standing between me and a reasonable expectation of getting food and eating it within the thirty minutes allotted for lunch. But again, a lot of the attractive girls that worked up front would leave for the summer and, well, that sucked. Some remained, of course, but it was always a bit of a crapshoot.
That reminds me: when I was working downtown and my cohorts and I would take a break or get lunch, we might spend some time sitting on one of the benches downtown checking out the girls walking by. I merely did this out of peer pressure, of course, and from a purely sociological standpoint. Okay, maybe not. But girl-traffic also went down during the summer time. Mostly it was dudes riding their bikes on the sidewalks after about the first of May. And those weren't what I and my chums looked forward to.
Anyway, now I'm back in the position of being a student (i.e., one of those "annoying little kids" I used to sneer at when they took their time trying to decide what to get at Moe's, as if there are enough options there to boggle the mind and keep one from arriving at a decision). And I'm in town more or less, while a lot of my peers (both in grad school and undergrads) are gone off back to their hometowns. A college town in summer is a bit depressing, if not also relaxing: you don't have to be anywhere in a hurry, but the odds of you running into anyone you know are slim to none. It's an interesting sociological concept to consider, if you're not busy contemplating the very sociological survey of attractive females who walk by your perch on the side of the street.
Because, you know, sociology...
I read Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage in one sitting, and it's gotten me to thinking: like the title character, I've often times let traumatic experiences get in the way of present or future happiness, from time to time. I like how Murakami ends the book on a note not of certainty but of possibility. Great book, highly recommend it.
Sunday, April 26, 2015
The Five Worst Beatles Songs of All Time
Recently online, I commented to a thread on a friend's Facebook page about my long-standing (until a few years ago) distance from anything to do with the Rolling Stones, based on the asinine notion that one could not be a Beatles fan and a Stones fan at the same time (I believe in stupid things). Anyway, I made the comment that, pound for pound, the Stones often put out songs much better than anything the Fab Four was doing at that same time, much as it pained me to admit. Well, naturally I got to thinking which songs from the Lennon/McCartney gang didn't measure up at all, much less compared to Jagger/Richards. Having been a Beatles fan for twenty years or so, owning all their albums and reading as many books about them collectively and individually as I could, I think I'm in a position of authority when I declare the following five songs (in order from five to one, in terms of increasing awfulness) the worst Beatles songs ever. I stick to originals, that is non-covers the Beatles did, because for every "Twist and Shout" there's a "Mr. Moonlight" or "Boys." Most of the covers came and went before 1965's Rubber Soul, so I felt it was wiser to stick with the stuff they had written (mostly Lennon and McCartney, though George and Ringo did do an original song or two when they needed something to fill out an album side). So, without any more ado:
5.) Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da (The "White Album," 1968)
The Beatles (better known as The White Album) is an interesting snapshot not so much of where the Beatles were at this point than of where they were going once they went their separate ways. John was all experimental and weird; Paul was saccharine and pop-savvy; George was a mix between both; and Ringo was Ringo. I could go with the more obvious candidate of "Revolution #9" if it weren't for the fact that I've never listened to it all the way through or, if I did (like with "Within You Without You" off Sgt. Pepper), it didn't make enough of an impact to register on my disdain-o-meter. I used to really like this song, which I put down to the insidious instincts of one Paul McCartney, i.e., the One Who Should've Gotten Shot or Cancer (not really, as I wouldn't wish either of those on anyone...but then, the world might have been spared "Freedom"). This is such a catchy tune, even though the words don't do much you can't help humming along (and it was used as the theme for the TV show Life Goes On, which is probably what people know it as). It's just an absolute goddam mess of a song, and the fact that it's stuck in my head as I type this is no comfort. The cross-dressing bit at the end feels "naughty" in quotation marks like that, not sincerely naughty (and I don't think a claim could be made that the Beatles birthed glam rock because of it, though I'd be interested to see the thesis). Since a lot of this list is going to be more Lennon than McCartney, I wanted to start with the one that got a knighthood so that I could get the bile out of my system.
4.) Tell Me What You See ("Help!" Soundtrack, 1965)
What's weird is, I kinda like this song, but it's not a great tune and it stands out like a red-headed stepchild amongst a group portrait of brunettes and blondes. The soundtrack to Help! famously includes the World's Most Covered Song ("Yesterday," which it took me ages to admit was as good as it is, due to Macca-hate), and there are a few ground-rule doubles alongside the obvious home-runs of "You're Going To Lose That Girl" and "You've Got To Hide Your Love Away." The title song itself, an actual plea to help gussied up into a pop hit, hints at the darker side of John Lennon's psyche in 1965 (more on that shortly). But this song feels odd, like an experiment that doesn't quite work but still has merit. I include it on the list because, paradoxically, it was one of the first to spring to mind, though I don't have strong feelings against it. I don't have strong feelings for it, to be honest. It just seems like a misguided attempt at something, but what it actually is as a song almost works for me. Almost. But not quite.
3.) Being For the Benefit of Mr. Kite! ("Sgt. Pepper," 1967)
The concept of the "concept album" crystalized with Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, which was also the first Beatles album issued by Capitol "as is" (before this, they'd done the disservice of culling tracks off the British originals and repackaging those songs with singles from the same time as "albums." Shocking to think that a record company would try to exploit its customers like that, absolutely shocking). The "concept" of this being a different band than the Beatles falls apart, depending on your tastes, either right away (on the album it clearly says "Beatles" and you'd have to be a moron to think that the collective facial hair of the previously fresh-faced lads is some kind of genius disguise), or by the time Ringo finishes "With a Little Help from My Friends," but the album itself isn't all bad. "Good Morning Good Morning" seems like insane Lennon but in a good way, Paul even acquaints himself well with the oldie "When I'm Sixty-Four" (hey, I like it, if you don't then go write your own damn list). The aforementioned "Within You Without You" is room-clearing but well-intentioned (George would have more success with Indian-flavored music as the decades wore on). But this song...taken from a circus poster...reeks of filler. I don't care that the sound effects are "startling to hear" on a record album, it's dressing up a pig in silk and pearls. At least "Lucy In the Sky (With Diamonds)" has the naughtiness factor ("LSD," get it?). This is just ugh-worthy, and it's far from the last musical crime Lennon will commit before this list is over.
2.) Run For Your Life ("Rubber Soul," 1965)
If you actually read about John Lennon, his life both with and away from the Beatles, you form two distinct impressions: one, that he was a talented and creative guy who had to overcome a lot of heartbreak in life, and two, that he often took it out on the people around him, physically. Lennon was physically abusive to girlfriends, wives, and those he saw as "cripples," and he wasn't always Mr. Peace-and-Love. That's hard to stomach if you're hung up on the notion that he was always a good guy, but the fact is that he did evolve and (I'd like to think) became a better human being during the decade after leaving the group. But there are plenty of artifacts from his less compassionate period, and this is the worst of them. Rappers get a lot of shit (a lot of it justified) for misogynistic lyrics, but Lennon here threatening to kill the "little girl" he's singing to? Just plain inexcusable. It's a song that really should be listened to once, maybe twice, and then put away. Or maybe it should be revived, if only because domestic abuse (while a hot button issue recently) is not a new phenomenon and likely won't go away just because we don't talk about it. John Lennon may have been a genius, but he could also be an asshole. Granted, that makes him human: we're all human, really. But this song is downright chilling, and such a misguided song that to think that it closes out one of the Beatles' masterpieces of long-playing albums is disheartening.
1.) Come Together ("Abbey Road," 1969)
And in the end, the love you make is equal to making this the crappiest song ever recorded. Ever. Recorded. I can't begin to explain to you how much I absolutely loath this song. It's the worst song ever, and I'm not just saying that because Aerosmith did a cover that occasionally turns up on classic-rock stations alongside the original (though that doesn't help). I could've gone with a number of different songs at numbers 2 and 3, but number one was never in doubt. For those who cite "John's whimsical wordplay," I advise the court to consider the much better (and more tuneful) "I am the Walrus" from two years previously. "Come Together" isn't "playful," it's lazy. Lennon was better than this, even on the same album (his contributions to the collage on the second side of the album are witty and fun), but this is the song that people seem to like. I recognize The Godfather is a great, classic movie, but I just don't like it. I can't say that I recognize any supposed greatness to "Come Together," which makes its continuing popularity in Beatles-fans circles mind-boggling to me. I have hated this song since I first came across it on one of the numerous Beatles tapes I used to buy, before buying the Abbey Road album proper on CD. It's the one Beatles song Lennon performs at the 1972 concert he gave in NYC, his last concert appearance ever. Ever. That's like going out on "My Little Buttercup" when you're best known for "Instant Karma," "Revolution," or "The Ballad of John and Yoko." Lennon liked this song, a lot of Beatles fans like this song. I hate it with every fiber in my body.
5.) Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da (The "White Album," 1968)
The Beatles (better known as The White Album) is an interesting snapshot not so much of where the Beatles were at this point than of where they were going once they went their separate ways. John was all experimental and weird; Paul was saccharine and pop-savvy; George was a mix between both; and Ringo was Ringo. I could go with the more obvious candidate of "Revolution #9" if it weren't for the fact that I've never listened to it all the way through or, if I did (like with "Within You Without You" off Sgt. Pepper), it didn't make enough of an impact to register on my disdain-o-meter. I used to really like this song, which I put down to the insidious instincts of one Paul McCartney, i.e., the One Who Should've Gotten Shot or Cancer (not really, as I wouldn't wish either of those on anyone...but then, the world might have been spared "Freedom"). This is such a catchy tune, even though the words don't do much you can't help humming along (and it was used as the theme for the TV show Life Goes On, which is probably what people know it as). It's just an absolute goddam mess of a song, and the fact that it's stuck in my head as I type this is no comfort. The cross-dressing bit at the end feels "naughty" in quotation marks like that, not sincerely naughty (and I don't think a claim could be made that the Beatles birthed glam rock because of it, though I'd be interested to see the thesis). Since a lot of this list is going to be more Lennon than McCartney, I wanted to start with the one that got a knighthood so that I could get the bile out of my system.
4.) Tell Me What You See ("Help!" Soundtrack, 1965)
What's weird is, I kinda like this song, but it's not a great tune and it stands out like a red-headed stepchild amongst a group portrait of brunettes and blondes. The soundtrack to Help! famously includes the World's Most Covered Song ("Yesterday," which it took me ages to admit was as good as it is, due to Macca-hate), and there are a few ground-rule doubles alongside the obvious home-runs of "You're Going To Lose That Girl" and "You've Got To Hide Your Love Away." The title song itself, an actual plea to help gussied up into a pop hit, hints at the darker side of John Lennon's psyche in 1965 (more on that shortly). But this song feels odd, like an experiment that doesn't quite work but still has merit. I include it on the list because, paradoxically, it was one of the first to spring to mind, though I don't have strong feelings against it. I don't have strong feelings for it, to be honest. It just seems like a misguided attempt at something, but what it actually is as a song almost works for me. Almost. But not quite.
3.) Being For the Benefit of Mr. Kite! ("Sgt. Pepper," 1967)
The concept of the "concept album" crystalized with Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, which was also the first Beatles album issued by Capitol "as is" (before this, they'd done the disservice of culling tracks off the British originals and repackaging those songs with singles from the same time as "albums." Shocking to think that a record company would try to exploit its customers like that, absolutely shocking). The "concept" of this being a different band than the Beatles falls apart, depending on your tastes, either right away (on the album it clearly says "Beatles" and you'd have to be a moron to think that the collective facial hair of the previously fresh-faced lads is some kind of genius disguise), or by the time Ringo finishes "With a Little Help from My Friends," but the album itself isn't all bad. "Good Morning Good Morning" seems like insane Lennon but in a good way, Paul even acquaints himself well with the oldie "When I'm Sixty-Four" (hey, I like it, if you don't then go write your own damn list). The aforementioned "Within You Without You" is room-clearing but well-intentioned (George would have more success with Indian-flavored music as the decades wore on). But this song...taken from a circus poster...reeks of filler. I don't care that the sound effects are "startling to hear" on a record album, it's dressing up a pig in silk and pearls. At least "Lucy In the Sky (With Diamonds)" has the naughtiness factor ("LSD," get it?). This is just ugh-worthy, and it's far from the last musical crime Lennon will commit before this list is over.
2.) Run For Your Life ("Rubber Soul," 1965)
If you actually read about John Lennon, his life both with and away from the Beatles, you form two distinct impressions: one, that he was a talented and creative guy who had to overcome a lot of heartbreak in life, and two, that he often took it out on the people around him, physically. Lennon was physically abusive to girlfriends, wives, and those he saw as "cripples," and he wasn't always Mr. Peace-and-Love. That's hard to stomach if you're hung up on the notion that he was always a good guy, but the fact is that he did evolve and (I'd like to think) became a better human being during the decade after leaving the group. But there are plenty of artifacts from his less compassionate period, and this is the worst of them. Rappers get a lot of shit (a lot of it justified) for misogynistic lyrics, but Lennon here threatening to kill the "little girl" he's singing to? Just plain inexcusable. It's a song that really should be listened to once, maybe twice, and then put away. Or maybe it should be revived, if only because domestic abuse (while a hot button issue recently) is not a new phenomenon and likely won't go away just because we don't talk about it. John Lennon may have been a genius, but he could also be an asshole. Granted, that makes him human: we're all human, really. But this song is downright chilling, and such a misguided song that to think that it closes out one of the Beatles' masterpieces of long-playing albums is disheartening.
1.) Come Together ("Abbey Road," 1969)
And in the end, the love you make is equal to making this the crappiest song ever recorded. Ever. Recorded. I can't begin to explain to you how much I absolutely loath this song. It's the worst song ever, and I'm not just saying that because Aerosmith did a cover that occasionally turns up on classic-rock stations alongside the original (though that doesn't help). I could've gone with a number of different songs at numbers 2 and 3, but number one was never in doubt. For those who cite "John's whimsical wordplay," I advise the court to consider the much better (and more tuneful) "I am the Walrus" from two years previously. "Come Together" isn't "playful," it's lazy. Lennon was better than this, even on the same album (his contributions to the collage on the second side of the album are witty and fun), but this is the song that people seem to like. I recognize The Godfather is a great, classic movie, but I just don't like it. I can't say that I recognize any supposed greatness to "Come Together," which makes its continuing popularity in Beatles-fans circles mind-boggling to me. I have hated this song since I first came across it on one of the numerous Beatles tapes I used to buy, before buying the Abbey Road album proper on CD. It's the one Beatles song Lennon performs at the 1972 concert he gave in NYC, his last concert appearance ever. Ever. That's like going out on "My Little Buttercup" when you're best known for "Instant Karma," "Revolution," or "The Ballad of John and Yoko." Lennon liked this song, a lot of Beatles fans like this song. I hate it with every fiber in my body.
Sunday, March 22, 2015
Beware the Idleness of March
How long has it been since I was on here? Long enough for me to almost forget my password.
Anyway, I have a legitimate excuse: I've been busy. Grad school really takes over your life, more so than undergraduate did. For the past month, I've alternated between stuff for one class and stuff for another class and stuff for yet another class (in retrospect, it might have been a wiser move on my part to avoid a fourth class than I'd thought), and what with my responsibilities in trying to make sure the Literary Festival is a success (it's this upcoming week, by the way, you should all definitely come if you're reading this and within a reasonable geographical location what-not), it's a wonder I still have any brown hair left, or hair for that matter.
But it's the kind of stress that's good, believe it or not. There's the anticipation with hoping that I do well in all activities, coupled with my natural and in-no-way-valid fear that I'll screw it all up somehow (unless that fear *is* valid...oh crap), and you mix it all together to get a guy who wore himself out the week before Spring Break running around campus trying to put up posters in various buildings for the Lit Fest (and being sneaky about it in some circumstances). Come to think of it, I needed the rest that Spring Break promised more than anything.
Before I could rest, however, I had to travel: my first-ever conference as a grad student, at UNC-Greensboro. The same weekend that the ACC Championship was taking place...in Greensboro. But we (my sis, brother-in-law, and I) made it up there okay, and while driving around Friday night for what proved to be a fruitless effort to find a Japanese place that allowed to-go orders (they were super busy, of course) and settling for Arby's, we couldn't help but notice an abundance of strip clubs in the greater Greensboro area (one even had a stretch limo pulled out in front...I wonder if it was formerly full of players from one of the teams?). UNCG itself was awesome, a really big and nice campus, and I got to present my paper on my trip to New Orleans (that I turned in for my Digital Humanities course last semester). It was all about associative memory, and I even reached a couple of folks in the room (one of them said they'd never thought of sports as having an association with a place, especially not in the era of free agency, when in my paper I mentioned how Eli Manning was a local New Orleans kid and I'd bought my t-shirt of his jersey while in New Orleans). I also found my way to reading some of Seamus Heaney's poetry when I got back home (one of my fellow presenters did a paper on one of his poems, and I'm more receptive to reading poetry for fun nowadays, so I picked up one of his collections). The conference was about "The Power of Place," and it was a fantastic first-conference experience. My only regret was that we had to leave so early (it was my sister's birthday, and understandably she didn't want to spend the bulk of it in NC, away from her daughter).
Spring Break week, I would've liked to have relaxed more (I did try), but truth is I was and continue to be hyped up about the Lit Fest. I've also got to figure out how I'm going to get to Albany, Georgia, next month for a conference that I've been invited to present at. Oh, and the Jeopardy tryout, also in Georgia (Savannah), also next month.
Shit, I should've relaxed more...
Anyway, come out for the Lit Fest this week, assuming any of you reading this are within geographical distance. If not, just do your best to be literary and festival-y this week. That's not too much to ask, is it?
Anyway, I have a legitimate excuse: I've been busy. Grad school really takes over your life, more so than undergraduate did. For the past month, I've alternated between stuff for one class and stuff for another class and stuff for yet another class (in retrospect, it might have been a wiser move on my part to avoid a fourth class than I'd thought), and what with my responsibilities in trying to make sure the Literary Festival is a success (it's this upcoming week, by the way, you should all definitely come if you're reading this and within a reasonable geographical location what-not), it's a wonder I still have any brown hair left, or hair for that matter.
But it's the kind of stress that's good, believe it or not. There's the anticipation with hoping that I do well in all activities, coupled with my natural and in-no-way-valid fear that I'll screw it all up somehow (unless that fear *is* valid...oh crap), and you mix it all together to get a guy who wore himself out the week before Spring Break running around campus trying to put up posters in various buildings for the Lit Fest (and being sneaky about it in some circumstances). Come to think of it, I needed the rest that Spring Break promised more than anything.
Before I could rest, however, I had to travel: my first-ever conference as a grad student, at UNC-Greensboro. The same weekend that the ACC Championship was taking place...in Greensboro. But we (my sis, brother-in-law, and I) made it up there okay, and while driving around Friday night for what proved to be a fruitless effort to find a Japanese place that allowed to-go orders (they were super busy, of course) and settling for Arby's, we couldn't help but notice an abundance of strip clubs in the greater Greensboro area (one even had a stretch limo pulled out in front...I wonder if it was formerly full of players from one of the teams?). UNCG itself was awesome, a really big and nice campus, and I got to present my paper on my trip to New Orleans (that I turned in for my Digital Humanities course last semester). It was all about associative memory, and I even reached a couple of folks in the room (one of them said they'd never thought of sports as having an association with a place, especially not in the era of free agency, when in my paper I mentioned how Eli Manning was a local New Orleans kid and I'd bought my t-shirt of his jersey while in New Orleans). I also found my way to reading some of Seamus Heaney's poetry when I got back home (one of my fellow presenters did a paper on one of his poems, and I'm more receptive to reading poetry for fun nowadays, so I picked up one of his collections). The conference was about "The Power of Place," and it was a fantastic first-conference experience. My only regret was that we had to leave so early (it was my sister's birthday, and understandably she didn't want to spend the bulk of it in NC, away from her daughter).
Spring Break week, I would've liked to have relaxed more (I did try), but truth is I was and continue to be hyped up about the Lit Fest. I've also got to figure out how I'm going to get to Albany, Georgia, next month for a conference that I've been invited to present at. Oh, and the Jeopardy tryout, also in Georgia (Savannah), also next month.
Shit, I should've relaxed more...
Anyway, come out for the Lit Fest this week, assuming any of you reading this are within geographical distance. If not, just do your best to be literary and festival-y this week. That's not too much to ask, is it?
Saturday, February 14, 2015
Jeopardy 2: Electric Boogaloo
Yesterday, after observing a friend of mine teach her 1030 class (not being creepy, it's a required thing for my "learning how to teach good" class and she was more than happy to help a brother out), I checked my email while eating lunch and saw something in my inbox from "Jeopardy," America's favorite way to "out" as many nerds as possible via a clever set-up in which they are asked to respond to answers in the form of questions. As you may recall, I have a long history of taking the online tests whenever they roll around every year, and a couple of years ago I even got the chance to audition at an event in New Orleans, which was awesome. I hadn't taken the test this past January, however, and I figured my life of "Jeopardy" was over.
So when they said they wanted to know if I could make it to an audition in Savannah, Georgia this upcoming April...I immediately thought "didn't Sony get hacked by the North Koreans last year?"
Because Sony owns "Jeopardy," and one can only imagine what the devious Kim Jong Un could do with my email address handy. I anticipate being asked to rate him in terms of "a great leader, or the greatest" soon.
But supposing this isn't a scam, and supposing I really do hope it isn't ( and I do), this means I'll have that to look forward to amidst a very busy semester that only promises to get busier. I got the responsibility of making sure the Lit Fest goes off without (too much of) a hitch, and while I'm not alone in that (an entire dedicated student group helping to organize the event and make sure no authors wander off too far into the native wilds of neighboring counties, thus avoiding any international incidents) I do feel a lot of responsibility towards the event. I also have two conferences that I'm planning on appearing at over the course of the next few months (one for a paper I've already written, one for a paper that I haven't). And my buddy Will is getting married, thankfully in the first weekend of May (i.e., after the end of my current semester), which means I can attend but which also means that I'm not sure I can perform the duties of groomsman that he offered to me and which I accepted late last year, before I realized that this was going to be my "busy" semester.
Thankfully, classes are going good, and I hope they continue to do so. Just so long as that bastard Foucault doesn't turn up in any of my readings...
Side note: Last week a kid brought in a short story set in a relic of another time, a video store (and he set it during the Eighties, when I was a kid whose mom worked briefly at one or two video stores). The nostalgia this evoked in me has led me to wonder if my memory of riding around the mom-and-pop video store my mom worked at in Westminster on a Big Wheel was accurate or just a misremembering brought about by my later viewing of Kubrick's The Shining. If it's a real memory, then I guess I could say I was Danny Torrance in my youth, minus the homicidal father and the psychic visions. But I do remember the old boxes that the videotapes came in, stuffed with cardboard or other material so it wouldn't fold down but still stand out on the shelves. I also remember looking through the horror section, daring myself to turn the box around and see what mayhem awaited the poor cast members of whatever half-forgotten fright flick had caught my eye. It occurs to me now that a lot of the time, the idea of the movies that I got from the images on the back of those boxes was probably scarier than the actual movie itself. Hooray for late Eighties imagination!
Also, it's Valentine's Day today, I don't have anyone to buy romantic crap for and that's okay because I've never been good at it anyway. I did ride around a bit and end up buying a Clyde Edgerton book that had once belonged to some guy named "Roland" (I know this because he wrote "Roland" in capital letters on the pages-side of the book, not the spine. Your book should be in good hands, Roland). I recently read a short story of his and thought it was funny. Clyde Edgerton, not "Roland."
Anyway, that's all I got for now, peeps.
So when they said they wanted to know if I could make it to an audition in Savannah, Georgia this upcoming April...I immediately thought "didn't Sony get hacked by the North Koreans last year?"
Because Sony owns "Jeopardy," and one can only imagine what the devious Kim Jong Un could do with my email address handy. I anticipate being asked to rate him in terms of "a great leader, or the greatest" soon.
But supposing this isn't a scam, and supposing I really do hope it isn't ( and I do), this means I'll have that to look forward to amidst a very busy semester that only promises to get busier. I got the responsibility of making sure the Lit Fest goes off without (too much of) a hitch, and while I'm not alone in that (an entire dedicated student group helping to organize the event and make sure no authors wander off too far into the native wilds of neighboring counties, thus avoiding any international incidents) I do feel a lot of responsibility towards the event. I also have two conferences that I'm planning on appearing at over the course of the next few months (one for a paper I've already written, one for a paper that I haven't). And my buddy Will is getting married, thankfully in the first weekend of May (i.e., after the end of my current semester), which means I can attend but which also means that I'm not sure I can perform the duties of groomsman that he offered to me and which I accepted late last year, before I realized that this was going to be my "busy" semester.
Thankfully, classes are going good, and I hope they continue to do so. Just so long as that bastard Foucault doesn't turn up in any of my readings...
Side note: Last week a kid brought in a short story set in a relic of another time, a video store (and he set it during the Eighties, when I was a kid whose mom worked briefly at one or two video stores). The nostalgia this evoked in me has led me to wonder if my memory of riding around the mom-and-pop video store my mom worked at in Westminster on a Big Wheel was accurate or just a misremembering brought about by my later viewing of Kubrick's The Shining. If it's a real memory, then I guess I could say I was Danny Torrance in my youth, minus the homicidal father and the psychic visions. But I do remember the old boxes that the videotapes came in, stuffed with cardboard or other material so it wouldn't fold down but still stand out on the shelves. I also remember looking through the horror section, daring myself to turn the box around and see what mayhem awaited the poor cast members of whatever half-forgotten fright flick had caught my eye. It occurs to me now that a lot of the time, the idea of the movies that I got from the images on the back of those boxes was probably scarier than the actual movie itself. Hooray for late Eighties imagination!
Also, it's Valentine's Day today, I don't have anyone to buy romantic crap for and that's okay because I've never been good at it anyway. I did ride around a bit and end up buying a Clyde Edgerton book that had once belonged to some guy named "Roland" (I know this because he wrote "Roland" in capital letters on the pages-side of the book, not the spine. Your book should be in good hands, Roland). I recently read a short story of his and thought it was funny. Clyde Edgerton, not "Roland."
Anyway, that's all I got for now, peeps.
Friday, February 6, 2015
"What If Your Protagonist Wore a Fedora?"
Last semester, I enrolled in a fiction workshop for the first time in ages. I had taken two or three during my undergrad tenure, sure that I had something important and/or funny to say and that my classmates would recognize my brilliance, praise me to the skies for my creative mind and brave approach to the heart-rending stories of the day, and carry me out on their shoulders as the "champion writer of workshop."
The fact that it's been almost ten years since I even thought about writing fiction should tell you how well that went.
In truth, though, I was arrogant, and not confident (I think of "arrogance" as unfounded confidence masking a deep insecurity, something that I imagine a lot of writers or want-to-be writers have). I didn't want to do what came naturally to me (be funny), I wanted to be serious (or Be Serious). I was trying too hard to fit into what I thought I should be writing about. Towards the end of each workshop, I broke down a little and admitted more of my own particular style into each piece, and was rewarded for it with praise. But I still thought I had to be "serious."
Since then, I've done a lot of reading, very good writers that I'd already liked (Vonnegut, Pynchon), and also new discoveries that I never anticipated or expected (Graham Greene, Jonathan Lethem, George Saunders, and so on). One of the things that I don't think gets stressed enough in most college workshops is that you have to read before you can write. This doesn't mean that you should straight-up rip off the writers you read...well, I take that back: you should absolutely rip off the writers you read, the ones that inspire you or infuriate you, whatever the case may be, because if you see something in their work that sticks with you, that makes you think, makes you weep, laugh, cry, or want to smash a wall, then they've done something right, and you'd be a fool not to try and see whether you have that in you, or if not specifically the thing that, say, makes Salinger "Salinger" or Pynchon "Pynchon," then at least something in you that needs to be said, written, digested by those around you.
Good writing will out, every time, even if you're reading something that is in a genre you don't like or understand. I think back to a workshop many years ago where a girl wrote something very much in the "chick-lit" mold, she made apologies to the guys in our class about "having to" read something like that but I thought she did a good job. In that same class, I turned in an experimental thing which was back-and-forth dialogue between a married couple, telling their daughter how they'd met as a bedtime story (I hadn't started watching How I Met Your Mother yet). One of the girls in class said that I'd somehow known the story of she and her boyfriend (now husband), and I was flabbergasted. I hadn't anticipated that something I thought was "just a story" would actually hit like that. It's a good feeling, and better than unanimous praise from the entire class about any "genius" I might have as a writer.
So I think there are some good ground rules that I'd like to lay down for fiction workshops because, truth be told, I'd love to teach one someday. Creative writing is in my blood, even if sometimes my writing isn't all that creative (you have to do the work to get good, though, so while I dismiss a lot of that work I did in the past I acknowledge how important it is that it's out there). One rule that both of my current workshop teachers have stressed and that I would do so as well: try to find the positive before you find the negative in someone's work. Remember: a lot of the time, the people doing the workshop aren't professional writers, they're new to this or at least not published yet and so a lot of the time you will run into the "praise me, please" aspect of workshopping. Don't be afraid to point out mistakes in grammar or what you think doesn't work in a story, just don't be too harsh about it. A certain amount of sugarcoating is necessary in order for any advice you give to be taken seriously. I've been guilty of being too harsh sometimes, and I'm human, so I'm guessing if I really thought something was bad I'll say so in my comments or in a write-up to the author. But it's not personal, and should never be so.
A lot of younger writers do take it personally when you mark up their story, even when you're praising it. So I would say to refrain from discussing someone's work that you're workshopping outside of the workshop. If you've never had a moment where you were causally talking about someone's story and, even though you were saying nice things, the person accidentally overheard you or it got back to them and their feelings were hurt, I envy you. I think I've been guilty of it. After workshop, by all means, point out the flaws among your peer group if the author isn't within earshot. Because God knows when something is bad, it has to get out of your system one way or another, and it's a healthy release to have your feelings about something validated by others.
Steer clear of the personal stuff when you're writing a story. This doesn't mean "turn into a robot" when you write, but don't use something as a story if it's a part of your history, especially if it's painful for you to think about, at least not in a workshop setting. Unless it's something that you're comfortable with having discussed in class (albeit as a fictional construct), find inspiration a little further afield than your own life. Observation is an important part of being a writer, and empathy; you can't observe and report if you're focused on yourself. This is not a hard and fast rule, of course: sometimes you really will have something in your life that would make for a great fictional story, so go for it. But just be wary of doing it too often.
If you're going to do something, write it for yourself most of all, the workshop audience secondary. It's tempting to try and turn in something that everyone will indeed like and praise, but that's not learning how to write. As with all these arbitrary rules, I fear that I've been guilty of violating this one some times. It's human nature to seek acceptance, but it's more rewarding as a writer to try and push boundaries. Even if you fail, you take a risk, and risk is an important (essential) component to any workshop. This doesn't mean you should try and write a short version of Naked Lunch for your classmates, though I wouldn't discourage you from trying. Just don't be so comfortable that you forget to try. Great writing should make you uncomfortable, on some level.
Be civil. I know from past experience that, for every person who has a genuine desire to grow and learn the craft, there's someone who's just in there for the praise (and usually, it's me). This doesn't mean that, when you find a story so bad, so poorly-written, or whatever, that you should rake that person over the coals. Even professional writers who get paid to do this shit have feelings (something we like to forget in our snarky internet culture). But on the most basic level, a lot of these classmates of yours aren't looking for "How Trevor Seigler would totally re-write this story to fit his particular tastes," they're looking for ways to improve their story, as they see it. I'll be honest, some stories I've read in past workshops have made me laugh without intending to, some have made me cringe, and I would hope that I've been civil in my responses. But again, I'm sure that's not always the case. I remember one guy, years ago, whose crutch was having the protagonist suddenly remember that he had a sword strapped to his back, just in time for the zombies or vampires or zombie-vampires busting down the door to whatever room he was in. Terrible, awful writing...though the fact that I remember it all these years later might cause me to reverse my judgment (how many of my peers' stories, indeed my own, do I remember after all this time?). You're going to have that, and sometimes it's going to be you that gets to be "the person whose work is not looked forward to." Me, I kinda thrive on it (I'm a little stinker), but I would hope that if I find something I can't quite get behind, I can at least not stand up in class and say "this story is terrible and the author should never, ever write again." Because that's not cool.
At any rate, any kind of workshop scenario in which you judge other people's work should be a fun experience, even if it leaves your soul shattered and your confidence as a writer in the trashcan. For a long time, I thought I had no business writing fiction, not because of the comments from classmates but because of my own view of my work. Now I'm a lot more generous with myself, and humble(r) about my abilities. You should feel free in a workshop to try new things, and you'll even fail a time or two. But you'll be a better writer for it. Or maybe you won't want to write at all. But it should still be fun.
The fact that it's been almost ten years since I even thought about writing fiction should tell you how well that went.
In truth, though, I was arrogant, and not confident (I think of "arrogance" as unfounded confidence masking a deep insecurity, something that I imagine a lot of writers or want-to-be writers have). I didn't want to do what came naturally to me (be funny), I wanted to be serious (or Be Serious). I was trying too hard to fit into what I thought I should be writing about. Towards the end of each workshop, I broke down a little and admitted more of my own particular style into each piece, and was rewarded for it with praise. But I still thought I had to be "serious."
Since then, I've done a lot of reading, very good writers that I'd already liked (Vonnegut, Pynchon), and also new discoveries that I never anticipated or expected (Graham Greene, Jonathan Lethem, George Saunders, and so on). One of the things that I don't think gets stressed enough in most college workshops is that you have to read before you can write. This doesn't mean that you should straight-up rip off the writers you read...well, I take that back: you should absolutely rip off the writers you read, the ones that inspire you or infuriate you, whatever the case may be, because if you see something in their work that sticks with you, that makes you think, makes you weep, laugh, cry, or want to smash a wall, then they've done something right, and you'd be a fool not to try and see whether you have that in you, or if not specifically the thing that, say, makes Salinger "Salinger" or Pynchon "Pynchon," then at least something in you that needs to be said, written, digested by those around you.
Good writing will out, every time, even if you're reading something that is in a genre you don't like or understand. I think back to a workshop many years ago where a girl wrote something very much in the "chick-lit" mold, she made apologies to the guys in our class about "having to" read something like that but I thought she did a good job. In that same class, I turned in an experimental thing which was back-and-forth dialogue between a married couple, telling their daughter how they'd met as a bedtime story (I hadn't started watching How I Met Your Mother yet). One of the girls in class said that I'd somehow known the story of she and her boyfriend (now husband), and I was flabbergasted. I hadn't anticipated that something I thought was "just a story" would actually hit like that. It's a good feeling, and better than unanimous praise from the entire class about any "genius" I might have as a writer.
So I think there are some good ground rules that I'd like to lay down for fiction workshops because, truth be told, I'd love to teach one someday. Creative writing is in my blood, even if sometimes my writing isn't all that creative (you have to do the work to get good, though, so while I dismiss a lot of that work I did in the past I acknowledge how important it is that it's out there). One rule that both of my current workshop teachers have stressed and that I would do so as well: try to find the positive before you find the negative in someone's work. Remember: a lot of the time, the people doing the workshop aren't professional writers, they're new to this or at least not published yet and so a lot of the time you will run into the "praise me, please" aspect of workshopping. Don't be afraid to point out mistakes in grammar or what you think doesn't work in a story, just don't be too harsh about it. A certain amount of sugarcoating is necessary in order for any advice you give to be taken seriously. I've been guilty of being too harsh sometimes, and I'm human, so I'm guessing if I really thought something was bad I'll say so in my comments or in a write-up to the author. But it's not personal, and should never be so.
A lot of younger writers do take it personally when you mark up their story, even when you're praising it. So I would say to refrain from discussing someone's work that you're workshopping outside of the workshop. If you've never had a moment where you were causally talking about someone's story and, even though you were saying nice things, the person accidentally overheard you or it got back to them and their feelings were hurt, I envy you. I think I've been guilty of it. After workshop, by all means, point out the flaws among your peer group if the author isn't within earshot. Because God knows when something is bad, it has to get out of your system one way or another, and it's a healthy release to have your feelings about something validated by others.
Steer clear of the personal stuff when you're writing a story. This doesn't mean "turn into a robot" when you write, but don't use something as a story if it's a part of your history, especially if it's painful for you to think about, at least not in a workshop setting. Unless it's something that you're comfortable with having discussed in class (albeit as a fictional construct), find inspiration a little further afield than your own life. Observation is an important part of being a writer, and empathy; you can't observe and report if you're focused on yourself. This is not a hard and fast rule, of course: sometimes you really will have something in your life that would make for a great fictional story, so go for it. But just be wary of doing it too often.
If you're going to do something, write it for yourself most of all, the workshop audience secondary. It's tempting to try and turn in something that everyone will indeed like and praise, but that's not learning how to write. As with all these arbitrary rules, I fear that I've been guilty of violating this one some times. It's human nature to seek acceptance, but it's more rewarding as a writer to try and push boundaries. Even if you fail, you take a risk, and risk is an important (essential) component to any workshop. This doesn't mean you should try and write a short version of Naked Lunch for your classmates, though I wouldn't discourage you from trying. Just don't be so comfortable that you forget to try. Great writing should make you uncomfortable, on some level.
Be civil. I know from past experience that, for every person who has a genuine desire to grow and learn the craft, there's someone who's just in there for the praise (and usually, it's me). This doesn't mean that, when you find a story so bad, so poorly-written, or whatever, that you should rake that person over the coals. Even professional writers who get paid to do this shit have feelings (something we like to forget in our snarky internet culture). But on the most basic level, a lot of these classmates of yours aren't looking for "How Trevor Seigler would totally re-write this story to fit his particular tastes," they're looking for ways to improve their story, as they see it. I'll be honest, some stories I've read in past workshops have made me laugh without intending to, some have made me cringe, and I would hope that I've been civil in my responses. But again, I'm sure that's not always the case. I remember one guy, years ago, whose crutch was having the protagonist suddenly remember that he had a sword strapped to his back, just in time for the zombies or vampires or zombie-vampires busting down the door to whatever room he was in. Terrible, awful writing...though the fact that I remember it all these years later might cause me to reverse my judgment (how many of my peers' stories, indeed my own, do I remember after all this time?). You're going to have that, and sometimes it's going to be you that gets to be "the person whose work is not looked forward to." Me, I kinda thrive on it (I'm a little stinker), but I would hope that if I find something I can't quite get behind, I can at least not stand up in class and say "this story is terrible and the author should never, ever write again." Because that's not cool.
At any rate, any kind of workshop scenario in which you judge other people's work should be a fun experience, even if it leaves your soul shattered and your confidence as a writer in the trashcan. For a long time, I thought I had no business writing fiction, not because of the comments from classmates but because of my own view of my work. Now I'm a lot more generous with myself, and humble(r) about my abilities. You should feel free in a workshop to try new things, and you'll even fail a time or two. But you'll be a better writer for it. Or maybe you won't want to write at all. But it should still be fun.
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