Eat, pray, shove it: Response to a reluctant blogger

This post is cordially and humbly submitted in response to Torchier, who insists he is "kinda embarrassed" about blogging. You may read his original post here.


I started reading Gilbert’s memoir, “Eat, Pray, Love,” but I couldn’t finish. It’s probably revealing that I read through “Eat,” mostly for the descriptions of Italian cuisine. I read diligently through “Pray,” knowing I’d feel guilty if I gave up during the author’s spiritual awakening. I read halfway through “Love,” before throwing the memoir down in exasperation.

“Feelings schmeelings!” I growled at the discarded book. “What’s your POINT?!?”

Admittedly, I am not the world’s most sympathetic person. I would like to live in a world of right angles and complete sentences. I am logical, rational, sensible, and pragmatic. When I watched BBC’s Sherlock, I knew I was supposed to roll my eyes and groan at the detective’s cold, inhuman reactions; instead I nodded and thought, “Yes, exactly!”

Even so, my trouble with Gilbert’s memoir was not only her preoccupation with emotions; it was the assumption I would share her preoccupation. As if navel-gazing isn’t painful enough for a cold-hearted crank like me, I was expected to enjoy staring  at someone else’s gut-hole. More appropriately put, for me, Gilbert neglected to connect her feelings to a broader context. By displaying (exploiting?) her emotions without establishing their relevance, she fabricated a flimsy intimacy between herself and 10 million anonymous readers. If you were Martin Buber, you might say she gave us readers the old “I - It.”

This is the struggle I sometimes have with blogs as well. There is a strange dichotomy created between intimacy and anonymity when a blogger blindly launches internal monologue into cyberspace and leaves virtual strangers to make sense of it. To borrow the words of a reluctant fellow-blogger, in blogs “we have something to say because people are listening.”

Blog.com tells us, “A blog is your best bet for a voice among the online crowd.” I suppose this is intended to encourage a gang’s-all-here type of camaraderie. But for an introvert like me, it initiates my power-down sequence. I’ve seen this “online crowd,” and it’s pretty sizeable. And verbose. And opinionated. And sometimes mean and incendiary. If this is my best bet for having a voice, count me out. My silly musings cannot compete with the tedious play-by-play of FredSchnieber.blogspot.com’s sweaty-palmed eHarmony date, or the uncomfortably intimate details of SoManyBabies.wordpress.com’s breast-feeding schedule.

But, wait. Unlike the memoir I tossed aside, I can’t simply opt out in the name of Reason, and here’s why: Although the blogosphere may seem like a Pathos free-for-all, where success is measured in Clicks, Likes, Reposts, Retweets, Comments, and Shares, blogging is undeniably a part of contemporary culture’s dialogue.

To put it in McLuhan-ese, this is the conversation now.

Yes, blogging’s Amateur Hour aesthetic can chafe compared to our well-worn and comfortable media – our perfectly-constructed speeches, our painstakingly-edited essays, and our time-tested literature – but, at least for those of us who spend time thinking about human communication, to file blogs under “Social Media Nonsense” is to opt out of an opportunity to connect these goofy little symbols we call letters with our ability to influence, persuade, explain, enlighten, change, move, shake, stir … and create meaningful things. It’s taking a back seat during a broader conversation in which we are actually entirely invested.

I recognize this medium and its message/massage certainly has its limits. It is vacuous yet noisy, overpopulated yet solitary, data-driven yet highly-personalized. But, friends, this is our new frontier. You can bet it’s going to be messy as we continue to figure things out here – boundaries will be negotiated and fought for, and some of them will be summarily ignored (to my chagrin … More feelings, yyyuck!). But we have an opportunity to help shape this rhetorical landscape as it evolves from nothing into something.

The challenge, then, is to be the ones to help spur this evolution forward by participating in the conversation with purpose and intent. Some important ideas will congeal, crystallize, and rise to the surface amid all of the babble, and they will do so as a result of pointed discourse. This is to say, among the quacks who have something to say simply because there is an audience, there is ample space – perhaps even a responsibility – for good, old-fashioned Logos, Ethos, and, yes, even a little Feeling Schmeeling.

XO,
JM

The art of YOLO

Two months ago, less than five miles from where I live, a 19-year-old young man brought a shotgun and two explosive devices to the mall, shot two randomly-selected mall employees, then shot himself. Thankfully, the crude explosive devices did not detonate.

Whoa, what? I live in the lazy, boring suburbs. I worry about accidentally colliding with one of the ever-present and vapid deer that wander around unfazed by cars, buses, people and dogs of any size. This is not a world in which I have to think about whether Macy’s will install metal detectors in time for the next One-Day Sale.

By stark contrast, I was recently making small talk with someone at work, and I casually dropped in the statement, “Well, as they say, you only live once!” My co-worker, who happens to be Asian, replied nonchalantly, “Actually ... I don’t believe that’s true.”

Again, I thought -- under admittedly different circumstances -- whoa, what? This phrase, “YOLO,” which has become pervasive, even intrusive, has been used to justify everything from skydiving lessons to pricey impulse purchases to third helpings of dessert. And it is so obviously, essentially, terribly … ethnocentric!

These moments -- the Whoa, What? moments -- make me feel like the guy snoozing next to Lake Michigan in that 70s film you probably saw in middle school science class called, “Powers of Ten.” The camera zooms away from him at a rate of 10 meters every 10 seconds, shrinking the man smaller and smaller until he is a teeny tiny speck that is virtually invisible in the middle of the swirling galaxy. These moments make me feel not just small but feeble; silly; impotent; worthless. Stripped of self-importance.

These moments rock my world. 

As well they should -- because compared to the universe, I am, in a word, nothing. And to be reminded of this is to be reminded that there is not a single thing I can do that will make me more significant. But I firmly believe there are some things that -- done consistently, purposefully, and mindfully -- may be somewhat significant. These things won’t make me bigger in comparison to the universe; but perhaps they may initiate a pattern of goodness that, if I leave any legacy at all, may resonate behind me as I go -- a ripple of good intention that spreads farther and farther away from me, like a boat’s wake.

To some, the concept of reincarnation might sound like a warning: “Don’t do anything that will make you come back as a slug.” But even for those who don’t believe in it, and are YOLO-ing through life making decisions for the here and now, reincarnation carries an important point. Without getting into the nuances of rebirth -- because I am not an expert by any stretch -- the essence is that each choice leads closer to an ideal. To be pithy, you will eventually reap what you sow.

To be even clearer: choices are important.

But we know, while choices are important, they are rarely simple.

The young man who recently ended his life and the lives of two others made a decision that was rotten with complexity. Since the shooting, it has been determined he struggled with an undiagnosed mental illness. If you’ve ever loved or lived with someone who wrestles with this particular demon, you might understand this man's ability to make reasonable decisions was undermined by an engulfing sense of disorientation. His world was chaotic to its core, and so his viewpoint was skewed. It is true, he chose poorly; but it is also true there were many, many other variables in play.

My suggestion is simply this: Every day, we fold decisions into the paper of our lives such that, in the end, what is left is a small and fragile token. Whether yours is a crane, a lotus flower, or a tiger, it is truly your choice.

Maybe you only live once; or maybe you get more than one chance. Either way, it is essential to recognize that each decision is predicated on the decisions before.

Life is not strictly chaos, though sometimes it certainly feels chaotic. But, like origami, living is an art of making choices, recognizing their consequences, and, ultimately, discovering our own transformation.

XO,
JM

Cat wearing shark costume chases duck while on Roomba

This post isn’t really about cat videos, I’m just working on my search engine optimization.

Just kidding! But not about the cat videos. We’ll definitely get back to cat videos, or their titles, at least.

One of my dear friends, who is brilliant and talented and hilarious (and a Writer! Please read her blog) is kind enough to indulge me when I ask her questions like the one I asked the other day: “What makes writing funny?”

When I think of funny writing, I think of stand-up comedians, whose jokes by nature are generally visual or aural, or both. (That is to say, there is an emphasis on Delivery, for you Aristotelians.) Some comedians have schticks, like Sarah Silverman, whose potty-mouthed girl-next-door persona manages to be relentless, offensive, and endearing at the same time. I’d link you to a clip of Silverman in the “The Aristocrats” -- a documentary about the joke whose sole purpose is to offend -- but, if you haven’t seen it before, I don’t want to be responsible for making you feel THAT uncomfortable today. Suffice it to say, it is the perfect material for Silverman’s schtick. 

Melissa McCarthy blends precise physical comedy with blink-and-you’ll-miss-them one-liners. If you haven’t seen her 2013 SNL monologue, you must, it is a gem.

I happen to like Bo Burnham’s timing. This set is a good example of the way he can speed up, then draw out his jokes. The haiku at 2:45, for example, is only funny because of his timing.

But humor isn’t exclusively seen or heard.

More importantly, for writers anyway, technology has changed the way readers experience content. We’re in an environment of limits. There are character limits in social media; physical limits imposed by technology (I happen to know, for example, that the majority of you who read my last post did so from the tiny window of your iPhones); and time and attention span limits. In fact, this infographic says there are more than 150 million blogs on the internet! So, practically speaking, how can you convey humor, in writing, within limitations like these?

All comedy manipulates expectations. We know there’s a tension between what is expected and what is presented by the speaker/writer that creates amusement. My rhetorical theory-friend readers are thinking of quoting Kenneth Burke, because, yes, we’re talking about “perspective by incongruity” here. In Shakespearean puns, Dorothy Parker-type satire, or wordplay like Lewis Carroll’s, which I suppose is satire in itself, it’s the surprise that gets us in the end.

My dear/brilliant/talented/hilarious/Writer friend put it this way, referring to the eponymous YouTube clip:

“Maybe that title is all we really need to know about humorous writing. Absurdity is wonderful and if it turns out to be true, even better. Create illogical combinations that will surprise, confuse, provoke, and then present them plainly. Or on the flip, create plain, bland combinations and present them illogically. State the obvious by throwing in a funny word if you can. In this case, cat and duck are both funny ... I truly do not care for cats, but I write about them more than dogs because ‘cat’ is a funnier word.”

In essence, humor happens when you make banality squirm in its seat. And, as she points out, sometimes you can do this with the sound of a word – “cat,” “duck,” and/or “Roomba,” for example.

James Thurber -- you know him, he wrote “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty” -- would agree: “humor is a kind of emotional chaos told about calmly and quietly in retrospect.” Not sure about the “chaos” part (drama queen!), but I like his point: Humor is not just expectations gone awry, it’s in the storytelling too. 

This I like, because what's better than a well-told story? Like a jack-in-the-box, part of the fun -- or the terror, depending on your comfort-level with jack-in-the-boxes -- of a great, funny story, is in the process. You have to work a bit before the little guy pops out.

So, Gentle Readers, after all of this, can I claim to know how humorous writing works? Nope. Can I give you a nice little recipe for hilarious exposition? Also no. Am I going to exploit a tired rhetorical device by continuing to answer my own questions? I hope not.

I can, however, state two things with certainty: (1) Spoiler alert, I am a nerd, and if you have made it this far, you are either related to me (hi, Mom!), or you may also be a nerd; and, more importantly, (2) Sometimes, funny writing is truly just a well-told story about life in a neighborhood on the outskirts of “average.” 

Or it’s pretty much any story about a cat.

XO,
JM

Party crashing, soul crushing, and why I'm not a writer

Sometimes motivation is a middle-aged guy who shows up at your birthday party and crushes your soul a little.

Don (no, not his real name) wasn't technically invited to my birthday party. He wasn't unwelcome, per se, although there was definitely a moment when my only birthday wish was for him to … well … how to put this delicately … eff off.

I had met Don a couple of times before the evening of my party. He teaches creative writing and has published several books, so he seemed like someone who might have Thoughts/Things To Say. Late in the evening, I noticed Don sitting alone, so, being the -- ahem -- social butterfly that I am, I thought to myself, "I will bring him back into the fold. No one feels lonely here, not on my watch!" 

I sat down with him and chatted about the normal stuff -- family, travel, whatever. At one point, I said to him, "You know ... I enjoy writing as well." I thought, surely this topic would begin a lifelong dialogue between us about the aesthetics of self expression, the power of words.

"In fact," I probably smiled self-deprecatingly here, "I wrote poetry throughout college. I found it was a good way to express myself." I was ready to talk with him about Alice Walker's use of repetition; Elizabeth Bishop's sense of orientation; Rilke's lyricism.

Instead, he shrugged. He looked at the ceiling. He said, "Welllll, there are writers..." He frowned at me. He sighed. "And then there are hobbyists." 

Gulp.

There are many, many things I could have said to him in reply (for example, on the milder end, the ubiquitous and all-purpose, "Really?!?"). But instead, I smiled pleasantly and excused myself politely, because I am a Lady, or because it was my flippin' birthday and he was being a jerk. 

Or, maybe, because I knew he was a little bit right. 

Writing, I've always thought, is when my voice is at its bravest and best. But, for a long time, I wasn't writing. And one of the reasons I wasn't writing was because of a paralyzing fear that investing in something that is so essentially ME gives The World something to mess with. Something to diminish, mock, not take seriously … kind of like what Don had just done. And it was annoying, unnecessary, and a bit rude. But it didn't actually make me a poor writer. Maybe I had failed (miserably) to win over Don with my literary prowess, but -- gasp -- my talents had survived intact.

In time, I have decided, no, I'm not a “Writer” -- I’m not published, I don't go on book tours, nobody wants me to autograph anything. And if that makes me a "Hobbyist," cool. I’ll take it, and I’ll own it. I write because it makes me feel human. Because, without it, I wouldn't be me. I can't NOT write just because someone might (by that I mean, will) tell me my writing isn't awesome, or worse, they don't get it. And when that does happen, it doesn't make it true. 

So, Don-The-Writer, challenge accepted! I'd say "this one's for you," but it's not. It's for me, The Hobbyist. 

XO,
JM