One of the amazing side benefits of working with Shaping Sound was my chance to reconnect with Our Lady J. She also moved from New York in the relatively recent past and used to work with Steven at Rosie's. She's also one of the best live performers I've ever seen. Her concerts are truly something special and I don't know any musician like her. That's an all around statement, in fact. I don't know anyone like her at all, ever. Period. She has a breathtaking version of Dolly Parton's "I Will Always Love You," which Jaimie and Teddy dance to in Shaping Sound and I used the track in my favorite promo video. Her fans have been clamoring for a studio album for years and now we're finally getting one! (As long as everything goes according to plan. And that's where you come in.) She's raising money on indiegogo to do this thing RIGHT. And by right, I mean, ON PINK VINYL!! AH!!!!! I want one so bad I can't stand it!! There are also a million other cool things you get when you donate-- like a makeover from Lady J (also, I want.) and boob art!! I just came from lunch with the Lady herself and I am so inspired. I think she's going to teach me a lot about being a woman. Check out everyone else who's been inspired and lending a hand to help this amazing piece of work come to you! This video is star-studded to say the least. (And she was sweet enough to use a section of my video in the video as well.) Help fund Picture of a Man here.
Ihave huge soft spot in my heart for Pippin. It was the first musical I ever had a non-acting creative role on back in college. (Prepping me for an entire career in under-appreciated, non-acting creative roles in theatre.) I always thought the Leading Player should be played by woman, as a jealous woman. Basically, I wanted a female Ben Vereen. And lo and behold! It's all that plus Cirque du Soleil! It looks about as high concept and spoof of high concept and meta as it could possibly be. And that's just how it should be!
The positive buzz on this is off chain and I can't wait to get back to NYC in June to see this little jewel. I'm super jealous of my old friend Sonny who's playing keys on this. With the exception of the terrible cheat lyric "Doodle-ee-doo" (wisely edited out of this promo video) this is one of my favorite scores. Some of Schwartz's best. I still get pretty misty-eyed in the most classic musical theatre-y way when I hear "Morning Glow" in a capela harmony. And I've been known to throw a little "Spread a Little Sunshine" around after an alcoholic beverage or two.
After a week spent in a fictional revolution, in chaos, in shock, in the air, in rehearsals, in awe, in despair, in gratitude, I am returning to this song, which is one of my favorite numbers from the upcoming Shaping Sound tour. Watching dancers apply energy to this. I wish you could see what I've seen all week. Soon you will. This is how I feel about this week. Get it all out.
Iremember with utter clarity the moment Sophie first performed "Something Old, Something New" for me. She had just finished it, Mama Louise was consulting on the newest additions, and we were at Bamff in the Morning Room. Everything was cast in a kind of golden/pink light. It was one of the happiest moments of my life. It came to symbolize something. Something old and something new-- and all the "splendid times that would probably ensue." (And they did!) I beamed, still stunned and still wondering how I had fallen into this surreal crevice of people who seemed to be just embracing me all the time. And I remember thinking that I needed to pay attention to this moment because Sophie's album was going to be something so special. So unlike anything in contemporary song writing. Looking at the landscape of music during my lifetime, I have a hard time naming many, if any, lyricists who leave their guts on the table the way Sophie does. F. Scott Fitzgerald said that price you pay for doing first rate professional work is that you've got to "sell your heart." Sophie does that and somehow manages to keep it too. She is unflinching from the grief she's experienced. And even though I missed that darkest chapter in her life, when Fred was quickly and unexpectedly taken from her, I can't help but know -- because she has succeeded in conveying to me through song and soul-- the strange dark place she journeyed through. In "Something Old, Something New," the vivid New York she experienced in the aftermath of Fred's death is perfectly etched, and we see the city as a perfect conduit to move her into the alternate version of her life without Fred. And the friends who would help her. The upside down bridal imagery is arresting. It breaks and eventually raises my heart to think of her re-imagining her wedding and her future. "Song I Never Wrote For You," was the first original song off the album I heard. And also, the last song I heard Sophie play live on my last day in Scotland. She was just wrapping up recording the album. I heard some not-quite mixed tracks. And on Dublin street, as I went through clothes to give away, her simple, pure piano version echoed down the hall to me as she played. I thought about Fred and I thought about Sophie and how I would miss this part of my life so dreadfully. No part of my American life is as simple, or bare, or uncomplicated, or earnest as any moment I spent with Sophie. Except for when I listen to her album from my house in Hollywood. Sophie Ramsay is a blessing to this or any life.Add her to yours.
As a musical theatre lover of the first order, I have to
tell you, though I’m always in eager anticipation of the next show-to-movie
musical adaptation, I’ve never come out of one and not been a little
disappointed. Basically, when you’ve been that close up to musicals, it makes
it hard to enjoy-- seeing the places where their seams show. (And they all have seams.
Even the classics. Sometimes especially.)
The close up of film normally removes the immediacy of
singing. And something is lost. Tom Hooper was essentially always asking for a
world of dilemma by taking on one of the world’s most beloved musicals—a show
that has always walked a fine line between gut-wrenching and melodrama. (Or as
Steven might say, “High, high retro drama. Get ready for it.”) When I saw the revival on Broadway, though I much loved it, and met some of my best friends from that show, I felt it lost something in a smaller house. The barricade didn't intimidate me. It was just a set piece. I was simply too close to believe.
My personal
attachment to the show, coupled with my long standing reservations about it, made my viewing of Les Miserables full of anxiety. (“Almost NO Broadway
people. Only Aaron. All London people. On principle, this felt like another
snobby British moment. And would it prove to be too stunt cast-y? Remember that minute when Taylor Swift was almost going to be Eponine? Yeah.)
But Tom Hooper—who pointed out in conversation after the
film that this was technically ‘low budget’-- made several huge, game-changing,
instinct-driven decisions. First is the much-discussed live singing. I won’t go
into that in much detail, because everyone else has, but I will say this. We
should never make movie musicals any other way ever again. Ever.
Second-- and in some ways, I think this one might be more
important-- is a decision about perspective. The camera is always somewhere I
didn’t expect it to be. It holds longer than you’d think. It never cuts when you think it will. It zooms in and stays
there. This movie is unflinching.
Tom Hooper chose to shoot all the solos in extreme close up.
Anne Hathaway’s rendition of “I Dreamed a Dream,” plays without cuts, and in a single
take. You’ve probably heard whispers or grumblings of this, but it’s true:
throw everything you’ve ever thought about Anne Hathaway out the window. She’s
fine-to-good in everything leading up that song—one of the best in musical
theatre history. But, while no vocal power house, I assure you, you will not
care. It’s the rawest thing I’ve
ever seen filmed.
A close second is “Look Down.” The images of that opener are
still with me. And it’s where Hugh Jackman won me over completely which helped
as the movie went on. Because, for me, Jackman gets less compelling as the film
goes on, until his death scene. (Spoiler. Jean Valjean dies.) The biggest let down of the film for me was his "Bring Him Home."
But the Hugh Jackman of “Look Down” is arresting. All bloodshot
eyes and soaking wet and patchy hair with visible scalp scars. From that song into the convent section
where he experiences a redemption at the mercy of the priest and prays at the alter
to his own transformation, it's a juggernaut. And then, the scene is immediately transformed in the way that
shows Jean Valjean’s vision of the world and his place in it. When he leaves
the convent--a place we had previously a bleak, tight scope on-- to reveal the full
world, and Valjean casts his ripped up convict papers and scatters them to the
wind... that shot is…. Magnificent.
And here's the real and deeply satisfying revelation of choosing to shoot the film this way. Not only does it trust the actor to tell the story plainly, it trusts the song. Just typing those words, I well up a little, because isn't that the point? Isn't that what every musical theatre writer hopes for? A trust that the song is enough. That the song is the ultimate expression. And I smile, thanking Tom Hooper for knowing that it is.
My only concerns with the film are the concerns I have about
Les Mis as a stage show as well. Namely, its pacing in the second act and the
very nature of a sung through show. For the record, I think that device works
better in a film adaptation than a stage show. In the medium of the close up, it’s harder to justify the
intense emotion that necessitates only one method of release: song. That’s why
they sing on the stage. But in film, you have the close up. That much emotion
close up…. it can be overwhelming. It can backfire and make you uncomfortable.
My issue with an entirely sung through show—particularly
this show—is that it becomes too sing-song, that it feels naked and not in a
good way, was largely washed away when I heard director Tom Hooper explain it.
Rather than make a deal with the audience that asks us to
forgive or understand why sometimes the characters sing and sometimes they
speak, (sometimes a contradiction that’s easy to forgive and sometimes not) or
a trope like fantasy (Chicago) or the confines of a performative group of
people (Dream Girls) instead you create an alternate reality where singing is
essentially the only way that people communicate.
Other takeaways for me: Eddie Redmayne was exactly what
Marius should be (though watch out, they’ve cut the instrum intro to ‘Empty
Chairs.’) but nevertheless, Enjolras is the more compelling character, and I
think Aaron steals the scenes away from Eddie a lot. Maybe I’m bias. Samantha Barks
was just okay. BLESS Anne Dudley and Stephen Metcalfe for giving us a Les Mis with red-blooded orchestrations. I need never hear those synths again. Gavroche has always been the coolest kid to ever run Paris, but this Gavroche is so blued-eyed and vivid and alive that he's almost too real. Sacha Baron Cohen & Helena Bonham Carter as the Thenardiers seemed like they were from another movie, but I nevvvvver cared.Bonus points for Colm Wilkinson's cameo.
The packed theatre was audibly sobbing at multiple moments.
Even the men. Normally, when I recommend a movie musical, I do so for the
people who don’t love musicals, thinking: oh, this is removed enough. Maybe it
will give them a way in. But it is with pleasure that today I say, I’m not sure
what non musical theatre people will think of this movie and I don’t care. But
we geeky musis of the world, this is a film for us. And a film we can be proud of. Go see it. Though I know I
don’t have to tell you that.
When I spend a lot of time around Rice people, no matter which Rice people they are, I am reminded by what a special place it is-- how weird and neurotic and striving. At least, that's how it was in the early aughts. I think we're all scared it's turned into just another homogenous smart people place. No matter what kind of place it is now or may ever becomes in the future, in 2000, when I showed up there, I got to live with the beautiful, self-conscious girl who would someday do THIS at the New York Metropolitan Opera. This moment remains one of the most beautiful things I've ever witnessed. Some days, I just like to dress up and listen to some beautiful performance like this. I'm not at the opera today. I'm at a Starbucks in the East Village writing. But I'm a bit dressed up. I've got my red lipstick on. And I'm luxuriating in all this rich Sasha-ness. I think the world could use more dressing up and going to the opera. Even if it's only in our inner worlds. Hope you're having a beautiful Saturday.
This light is thick with birds, and evening warns us beautifully of death. Slowly I bend over you, slowly your breath runs rhythms through my blood as if I said I love you and you should raise your head. listening, speaking into the covert night: Did someone say something? Love, am I in your light? Am I?
One week ago, my dad and his surrogate (my surrogate) family, in addition to some culture-shocked Scots, were rocking out to Steamboat Springs at the Myrtle Beach Depot. There was free New South Beer (Red Ale = delicious) and Red Velvet cake and brisket and pretty much everything amazing. Dad rocked out in all ways, as usual, but most especially, Statesboro Blues. And I got a little teary, as I always do, when they played Music Man in honor of Jeff. His son Hunter is practically a man now, and I hope a few more of these concerts and we'll have that college fund of his taken care of. My family's never quite been the same since my Grandfather died. It's hard to know what to rally around. But these gatherings somehow always clear up the confusion for me. I am enormously grateful for them. And for all the effort of so many people to make it happen. I'm not sure that my Scottish friends really appreciated what was going on. Perhaps its kind of an inside joke. But for some just off the boat Scots (And one who's reluctantly heading back) I can guarantee they witnessed some some m-f-in' Americana, Man.
Today, let's celebrate the flawed man and the weird, wild, amazing mind of Roald Dahl. I've said before that Roald Dahl is perhaps the largest influence on my writing. I wonder if it shows up to you all, but his work is always looming large in my own mind as I write. As child, his stories used to frighten me, but tickle my mind into insomnia, where I'd spend all night in the dark dreaming up and playing at my own stories. In my darkest moments, his stories felt like what my childhood felt like. Also in my lightest. And I suspect, most children. Because I think, fundamentally, there is something fantastical and also something spooky about what it means to be a child.
Dahl is also the source of one of my favorite quotes about writing: "A person is a fool to become a writer. His only compensation is absolute freedom." Amen, brother.
I cannot pick a favorite story of his. Though James & the Giant Peach is up there. Along with Matilda. Both of which have been turned into musicals. Matilda being one of my favorite musicals I've ever seen. Man, I wish I were working on that show... I digress... I eagerly look forward to its arrival here in NYC, so that everyone else can experience the strange glee I felt every moment of those hours in London watching those Revolting Children.
You can trip and fall into a magical New York evening. In a way that almost never happened in London, there's always some unexpected place the night will take you. On Thursday, I know I mentioned we went on a boat cruise with Dion and Tyler. (I'm sort of feeling like a professional boat cruise taker these days.) We wore captains hats (Tyler gave his to a kid from Kosovo who got made to stay late at work and missed the boat) and traded glasses and got into trouble back on land later with some liberal pours at Pizza Pub, and most memorably, Tyler stopped the concert to reflect on Lady Liberty as we passed. And then he sang this. I think he should release it as a single. I'm just going to keep bugging him to do that once I'm in LA. What do you think?
PS- Happy 30th Birthday to my protege--hahaha-- Brandon Blackwell. Love you, dude.
Even though I get pretty wound up about the state of things-- personally and worldwide, there's also a lot that's right. I'm completing things, I'm spending time with the people I care about and making new friends. Last night, I was on a boat cruise on the East River, listening to Dion and Tyler Hilton. When we got near the Statue of Liberty, Tyler stopped singing and we all just appreciated our surroundings. It was a gorgeous New York night. The sun had not quite dipped below the horizon line and Lady Liberty was washed in a rose colored light. Once we had passed, he didn't go back to the song he was singing before. He went into one of the best renditions of "What a Wonderful World" I've ever heard. I'll upload it. You'll see. Have an awesome and safe Labor Day weekend, you guys. I want to spend the weekend reading in a big chair. Here are your links. - Everything Has Its Way. - What Americans actually do all day long. - I was just in Italy last month (feels like a lifetime ago) and I want to go back. -Sooooo many things about the politics of being a woman these days. Bic can help. Read the comments. - Even Fox News thought this speech was full of lies. 'Cuz it was. - One-Conditional Love - Excerpt from Michael Chabon's new novel, Telegraph Avenue. Oooh! - Excerpt from Zadie Smith's new novel, NW. Oooh!
Once again, it's the time of year when I spend a whole weekend geeking out over Broadway's finest at the Tony Awards! I hate to miss all the excitement in Hell's Kitchen in June. But being separated from the Tony's by an Ocean has only increased my rapid love for them and this year is no exception because I have nominated friends!!
It's been a musical-y kind of time lately, as Steven and I are working hard on our Nic & Alix album. More (slightly more fanfare-ish) info on that later. Let me just take this moment to remind you all and myself that there's a reason I love writing musicals more than any other of my humanly activities. That reason is located somewhere around the solid core center of an instrumental track slice o' bread with french horns, harps and cellos that I know is soon to buttered with vocals from my favorite performers in all the land.
People always want to hate on musicals. I just think they aren't paying attention. Bring on the links.
Of all the songs we had on deck (and of all the songs we PREMIERED!) at Lincoln Center, I was perhaps most excited to let this one out of the bag. I'm super proud out it. Perhaps because it did not come easy. I'm normally a fast writer. I edit for a long time, but the primary chunk, the main idea-- the heart and soul of what the song's lyrics are going to be-- pretty much all happen in about fifteen minutes. That sort of makes me feel like a brat just saying it, but it's mostly a "don't force it" kind of situation.
Anyhow. This was not one of those fifteen minutes get in/get out kind of things. We knew we wanted a song about a certain feeling of change that Alix feels when she's brought to the brink. Years of stress and hiding her son's illness and just in-your-bones fear that she'd lose the son and heir she waited ten years for. The political scene is precarious and relies heavily on her son being perceived as the future of Russia.
Also, she's a bit of a religious zealot. Highly interested in mystics, etc, but I mean, cut her some slack. I'd probably be pretty desperate to put my faith in anything I thought would work if I had a sick kid too.
When the song begins, she's been told it's basically the end for Alexei and only a matter of time before he's gone. She's essentially begging for grace. And then, mid way through the song, she receives a telegram from a mystic who would change the course of her family's lives. The telegram was simple: just to leave the boy alone; to not fuss over him too much. And sure enough, his health improved and from that moment on, Grigori Rasputin was adopted into the Romanov family with catastrophic results.
We wanted to simulate the feeling of a telegraph and morse code signals, so listen for that. And Steven and I kept circling around what the central 'idea' of the song should be. I kept saying, nope, nope, not quite right; a little too general. And finally, I had it and went away to birth this one. A difficult labor. But happy with the results. I felt a bit like the emotions expressed in the lyrics themselves by the time I was done.
I wish I'd filmed the sound check which was pretty much flawless. This is marathon, labor of love five minute anthem to sing. And we're still streamlining scansion and tempos. Also, it's a good lesson to not have favorites in your own lyrics. Lyrics will always be flubbed for the rest of time and eternity. And chances are, if you have favorites, it'll be those. "So many prayers unanswered, bargains made and nights unslept, your words fold the space between promises broken and kept" will turn into a repeat of the last line. And no one will know but you.
The best thing about Autumn is that I cease to care about what I wrote and only feel the emotion of her performance. Which is... the point, actually. Which she has always, always been a master of. Every time. I look forward to much much more of this song and Autumn. And this show and Autumn. Just...one of the most beautiful people all around, of all time.
When you have to do something sort of scuzzy (like, say, cram all your belongings into a small estate vehicle and drive them South to London on an ugly sort of scuzzy Scottish morning) I find it's best to mentally project yourself somewhere else. Today, I choose the Fairy Pools in Glen Brittle by the Cuilins on the Isle of Skye.
As you dear readers will know, Skye is a special place to me-- homeland of my friends, spot for good times, and setting of my novel. But I think it's easy to see why pretty much everyone is a bit in awe of the Fairy Pools. There's not a lot of modern day magic left in the world, which is why these little glittering things seem like a little portal to some more medieval time. In fact, they probably are, if you swam deep enough into one of the caverns.
I'm about to wade in pretty heavily into Skye folklore and fairytales, so I'll let you know what magical stories about the Fairy Pools and the white witches I think you need to know about. Hope you're having a dreamy Saturday!
You guys. We need to talk about Matilda. I mean, it's been a while since I've had that glorious feeling of going to the box office to pick up my comps to see the culmination of years of work, the best thing in the world-- a new musical. So I was riding high just to be there. And it's an understatement to say that tonally, Roald Dahl is one of my biggest inspirations-- Matilda, the story of an abused little girl with sort-of-superpowers who finds a surrogate mother, most-especially close to my heart and close to home.
But I wasn't sold after the first act. I thought.... Billy Elliot + Spring Awakening + Annie + Oliver! In fact, I spent a majority of my dreams on Thursday night rewriting said first act. The parents are sort of a weak link and there's too much of them. (I saw the Mr. Wormwood understudy-- he was like a cross between Pete Doherty and Beetlejuice.) Miss Honey's first act song could (and she deserves) way way better. That's not to say, however, that there are moments where they get it absolutely right. The opening number is amazing and so right for right now. What it isn't, though, is as close to Roald Dahl as it could be. Bertie Carvel, however, as Miss Trunchbull is so pitch perfect, I actually squirmed with glee every moment the character was onstage. At first, in fact, I was convinced the role was being played by Summer Heights High's Chris Lilley. The Lavender and the Matilda were delightful. And there is this adorable Asian child with these prosthetic ears that just... I can't.
After we came back from intermission, we got things started off right and the perfection simply never stopped. The show hits its stride in a way like I have almost never seen. The way it commits to its own vocabulary and insanity and Roald Dahl-ness. There are no less than four perfect numbers. Perfect in every possible way. Lyrically, musically, tonally, conceptually, dramaturgically. I actually COULD NOT contain myself in my seat.
"When I Grow Up" on these swings...dude, the video does not do it justice. Same for "Revolting Children" and Trunchbull's big second act number "The Smell of Rebellion" set in gym class is so over-the-top-wacky that it WORKS like nothing I have ever seen. (I really want the TRUNCH hoodie she wears in the number.) Kudos, Tim Minchin. (And Dennis Kelly & Matthew Warchus & Peter Darling.) Kudos.
So listen. I'm one jaded-ass m-fing theatre-goer. I spend a lot of time analyzing and deconstructing theatre that it's almost impossible for me to let myself go to the point where I get swept up in what the show wants me to feel. But the second act of this show Took. My. Breath away. That is rare. That is precious. That is heaven. See this show.
When people ask me how I manage to be as "normal" or "well-adjusted" as I am given my childhood, I almost never tell them this one key ingredient: Whitney Houston. Therapy is awesome. I pretty much think everyone could benefit from some therapy. It's important to see a professional. I spent time with a few. Some were actual psychologists and counselors, but more were professionals of another kind. The absolute best of the best-- musicians.
It's not even just that Whitney's voice was perfect in 1991 and 1992...or effortless...or that she was an absolute first rate interpreter of songs. And that is so key, isn't it? Perfect voices don't mean much if there's nothing behind the eyes. If you aren't conveying the emotion behind the songs.
It's not even that those songs on The Bodyguard soundtrack or any of Whitney's other hits were so applicable to my life situation as an abused 10 year old. But the depth of feeling behind everything Whitney sang-- that I knew.
When I left my mom's house and moved in with my dad and my cold-as-ice step family in 1992, I had no where but the sanctuary of my own bedroom and my own mind. I locked myself in my room and sang at the top of my lungs to "I Have Nothing" so many times, it's actually no wonder why my stepfamily didn't like me too much. But I guess somewhere in my little kid subconscious, I knew that the only way out is through.
I sang in front of the mirror. I cried a lot. I watched what it looked like and heard what it sounded like for me to feel everything I felt about having an addict for a mother, about being abandoned like that, about not feeling like I would ever belong anywhere. I looked myself in the eye and told myself everything I needed to hear. That's how I learned what it took to always land on the other side of whatever I was going to go through in my life. The cassette tape never gave out, never got sick of me. Whitney never felt that song any less, no matter how many times I needed to feel whatever I felt...at that level.
You cannot opt out of these things if you want to survive.
I suppose that's part of what makes me so sad today, thinking about Whitney's early passing and her own addictions. How could she so precisely feel it all in performing, but need the aid of cocaine, booze-- you name it-- in daily life? I think about how young she was when she got into the business. I think about what makes us secure and what draws us into our insecurities.
Look at that video of the famous "Star Spangled Banner." There are so many levels. It's so rich. But the best part-- the part that reveals what was great about Whitney is everything about the word "brave" at the end there. Not because of the notes or the orchestra but because of how at home she was, how confident, how she knew herself and the world on that last chromatic breakdown. Watch her arms. Watch her face. How she knew exactly what the world was going to give her. And what her voice would do. Control.
Which, of course, is a word I go back to a lot thinking about addiction. The difference between what you can and cannot control. Moments like the end of that National Anthem are so perfect, so perfectly full of emotion, it's hard not to look at her and think she's invincible. It's impossible not to think of my mother. How quickly you can go from an invincible heart to a young death-- either of the body or the soul or both. How unconscious it might be if you aren't just singing your guts out with feeling. And even if you are.
I think about this all the time. But especially on days like today. Do what makes your heart strong. Do what makes you invincible. Do the thing that no one can ever take away from you. Drugs are never that. It's not a coincidence that cocaine weakens your heart. Alcohol is never that. It's not a coincidence that alcohol breaks down your liver-- the organ that filters out toxins. And they lose potency over time. Moments like this, however, do not. They will always make you feel.
Both of these stores glow from that deeply satisfying juxtaposition of the past and the future; the mashup of intricacy and simplicity of design. Maybe I have a weird addiction. I get a serious fix from stuff like this. Not to forget about the UK, London's Regent Street store ain't so shabby either. All this is only to support my old statement that I'd let them design my whole life if they wanted.
Add this TS Eliot Prize to his Forward Prize just a few months ago, and I'm wondering if Burnsy might almost be too cool for me anymore. Of course, I'm kidding. JB is one of the most casual, supportive people I know. And even when others have not been on board with my writing plans, JB has always unabashedly had my back.
So in these bleak winter days of boredom and attempted productivity, the news of his win is a real gift. Congrats and Thanks for the inspiration, JB! Bless you and your creative switch-hitting, and your ability to multi-task to the infinite. Please send a little bit of that magic my way as I prepare a bit of plate-spinning myself.
And finally, RE: the "controversy" surrounding the current state of the TS Eliot Prize. I agree wholeheartedly with Gillian Clarke. The arts most flourished when artists had the freedom and security to create that came from wealthy patron families. The Medicis, for example, were into all kinds of shit. A lot of it was dirty. But they understood that their responsibility was the use their money to enrich the world in some way-- not just hoard it all as profit. When corporations fund the arts, to me, that's just scale balancing. That's what they SHOULD be doing with all that money. Funding something soul-enriching.
It's probably been a really intense 24 hours for you, huh? Well, just in case you're already on the internet (I hear babies have a really serious affinity for touch screens these days) it's your aunt Ryann here to tell you a few things.
1. You have an unbelievably cool mom. She will make you feel at ease all your life. I know this for a fact because she's been making it cool for me to be myself for 20 years now. 2. Even though I'm far away, I feel like I already know you. I felt the same way about your brother. 3. You came at such an interesting time. I really & truly feel like you're a good omen. And a sign of excellent things to come. 4. Going back to your mom, just pay attention to how good she looks up there...right after having given birth to you. I'm telling you, girlfriend has a gift. 5. Know that whenever I am blue, or feel bad about myself, about the world we live in-- whenever I feel like certain things are futile, or...what is point of anything?... I remind myself how you exist. I remind myself of the way friendships echo off each other and result in.... you.
One day, we will meet and I will be really weird and probably really loud. You'll think I am your weird Aunt Ryann, but I won't mind and I will tell you the story that started with a blind date neither of your parents really wanted to go on and a text message to my pink phone the next day: "I heart Joel."
In the meantime, here's the lullaby I'd sing you if I were in Texas. It's the song I'd sing to my own kids. So tonight, it's for you. I wish I was there, but James Taylor does an okay job too.
Sometimes, you get a little gift from the writer gods to let you know that they love you, and they want you to be happy. Jeffrey Eugenides' new novel, The Marriage Plot, and this amazing article from New York Magazine were two such gifts from the patron saint of researchers and academics.
I've been researching pretty hard core only for several weeks now. It's hard to know if you're getting anywhere sometimes. Sure, I've found a lot of stuff. I have a lot of pdfs set to read on my kindle. I have made a lot of notecards. But are those just fun tricks to convince myself I've got something tangible? Especially when most of it isn't on these post-post modernists guys I'm mostly concerned with.
Part of the reason I'm interested in these guys academically is because, so far, they aren't really being discussed. Up until now, they were just too young. Didn't have enough material. And I was sort of feeling around in the dark about these hunches I had about certain aspects of their friendships played out in their work.
For whatever reason, this article soothed me-- confirmed that I was on the right track. Though pretty stinkin comprehensive for an NYMag article, it kind of scratches the surface of where I wanna go with this research. Just listen to this quote from Wallace in a letter to Franzen:
"You seem so mad at me. Why do you want to be my friend?"
Ugh. Amazing. They were fighting about each other's writing. About the fate and future of the novel. What the post -post modernist novel should be. It's like lit-cat-nip.
My friend Brian (who is a writer, I should point out) says he's absolutely uninterested in anything going on with the contemporary novel. And yet, he's writing one, here in 2011. What I've discovered about myself over the last year or so is that I was either wrong about myself, or I'm in the middle of a bit of a paradox. Because, while I consider myself to be a deeply nostalgic person, nothing-- nothing, interests me more than whatever is going on in fiction right now.
Read The Marriage Plot. I had to make myself put it away last night. I'm up early read it again today-- on a hunt in a post-post modernist roman a clef (even if Eugenides says it isn't. I don't think I believe him.)
For a while now, I've been debating switching to Scrivener from Final Draft, etc for all my writing purposes. I knew from what I saw in the app store that it was definitely cool. Bulletin boards! Multi-media tools! But would I really use it?
So many cool features of so many products (I'm gonna go ahead and say about 80% of my iphone apps, I don't really use. Though I do like busting out my 'Angry Scot' app at parties sometimes and I think Shazam is one of the most genuinely useful and genius things humans have ever created. It's right after music itself, in fact.)
But I digress. I've never really thought of myself as a 'visual person.' I mean, I'm definitely into aesthetics. And I can't work in any ugly environments. But, for example, when I work on musicals, etc, why I've never really gone deep into the world of film or screenplays is that typically, I don't see the camera shot. To a lesser extent, I can't visualize the mechanics of how a particular scene is going to be staged. There are exceptions to this, of course, and I have actually beefed up on that side in the last year or so. Which I suppose leads me to where I am right now with this whole Scrivener thing.
Staring into the mouth of 80,000 words over the next 3-4 years and mountains of infinite research, even here at the beginning, when the stack is small and mostly hypothetical, I'm finding it difficult to wrap my mind around. Two separate but deeply related projects: one fiction, one non-fiction, with photos and videos and just characters and articles til the cows come home. It's too much. I feel too drunk to drive the car. I can't even find the keys in my purse which is full of crap. But! In the span of half a day of importing all my stuff into Scrivener, I feel my anxiety level dropping with every random idea I put and pin on my virtual bulletin board, using adorable virtual notecards. It looks just like my real bulletin board! Except I can copy and paste.
It tracks everything. It splits things. I can move whole sections around like I was born to do it. Listen, maybe I just effing LOVE bulletin boards??! (Does this explain my love of Pinterest??) Or perhaps, I guess I do think visually.
And for like $45 bucks-- which I haven't even spent yet because I'm using Scrivener's badass 30 day free trial (where only days you actually use it count towards your 30!) until that Anthropologie $$ starts rolling in. (Or I suppose I should say ££, but let's be real-- the $$ sign is just rad and so is the word dollar. dolla dolla. Anyhow.)
Any other writer types out there using Scrivener? I have a feeling a lot of my phd compadres are already on board. What are your thoughts? Cool tricks? Gripes?
