Q: To tweet or not to tweet. And not to tweet is to be left behind.


A: And that raises a question: What is this? What are the kinds of prose, and the kinds of thinking, that result from the imposition of the tweet form and other such brief reactions to extremely complex realities? My feeling is that there are millions and millions if not billions of words in tweets and blogs, and that they are not getting and will not get the critical attention that prose anywhere should have unless we find a new form of criticism.

If a novel is published, we have a novel review. If poetry is produced, if a play or a movie or a TV show is produced, there are the forms of criticism we know. With the new social media, with much of the content of the Internet, there are very few if any critical forms that are appropriate. They are thought to be somewhere partially in a private world. Facebook is a medium in which privacy is, or at least is thought to be, in some way crucial. The premise, at least, is that of belonging to a family, a circle of friends. And there’s another premise, that any voice should have its moment. And so there seems a resistance to intrusive criticism.

But this means that billions of words go without the faintest sign of assessment. And yet, if one cares about language, if one cares about the sensibility in which language is expressed, and if one cares about the values that underlie our use of language, such as affection, privacy, honesty, cogency, clarity—then these media, it would seem to me, should qualify as the subject of criticism. We seem at the edge of a vast, expanding ocean of words, an ocean growing without any critical perspective whatever being brought to bear on it. To me, as an editor, that seems an enormous absence.

Here’s a concern I wasn’t expecting to encounter this year in a Q & A with Robert Silvers, founding editor of The New York Review of Books. New York Magazine, April 7.

International Tweet Grace Paley Day, December 11

All that is really necessary for the survival of the fittest, it seems, is an interest in life, good, bad or peculiar.


Recently, I set out for a short stroll through Twitter. I follow too many people, for too many reasons I’ve long since forgotten. I’ve made lists to filter my feed and increase the odds of productive loafing, but my general feed has become a sometimes scary, ugly thing, closer to a stroll down my neighborhood expressway. Soon, I’ll sit down on the side of the road and do some curating.This week, however, I’m contemplating the possibility of some kind of twitter muse because I cannot fathom the odds of my logging in just as this tweet appeared.

@emilynussbaum Monday night drunk Grace Paley tweets are the best.

— Jason McBride (@jasonmcbride68) November 26, 2013

Jason is like an old camp friend, who I know from the month we spent in the Banff Centre Literary Journalism Program. Nussbaum is the TV critic for the New Yorker. I don’t know her, but I shared her suffering at HBOs ending of Enlightened, so I feel a certain bond. And Grace Paley is, pretty much, my favourite writer.

As testimony I offer the above sketch, from the cover of her collected poems Begin Again. I did this that summer I decided to finally learn how to draw (and enjoyed this exercise so much, I don’t think I’ve ever drawn anything since.)

Paley is best known as a much anthologized short story writer, but her stories seem so autobiographical at least one has been listed as an essay. I was fortunate enough to interview her when she visited Montreal for the Blue Metropolis Literary Festival, and I suspect she identified mostly as a poet, but this is just a hunch.

Whatever she is, I was in:

And so was Emily,

@JulietWaters It’s true. There should be a whole Tweet Grace Paley Day. The maybe one for William Blake.

Next exit Wikipedia, where I discovered Grace Paley’s birthday was December 11. (Blake’s was November 28. I love him too, but not enough to have spent American Thanksgiving as the lonely Canadian tweeting to tigers on turkey day.) This seemed like a great day to declare a sort of pre-Christmas virtual holiday on which to honour the writer who inspired me to be a writer, and gave me advice I have tried, though too often failed, to follow. “Keep a low overhead, and never live with anyone who doesn’t respect what you do.”

So, if you hear from me on Twitter over this week or next, it’s probably because you seem the kind of person who might be interested in participating in this project with me. I don’t expect anyone to take the day off. But if you want to take an hour off to read a story (or even a half hour, some of her stories are very short), or even just a minute to read a tweet, I’ll be there.

On December 11, my plan so far is to:

  • Tweet links, factoids, best lines, and tweet by tweet, at least one poem.
  • Live tweet, during my personal viewing of Grace, a documentary produced by her friend Sonya Friedman.
  • Re-read “Wants” for the hundredth time. I already tweeted a few lines of this last week, but forgot to hashtag them, so I’ll re-tweet those.
  • Head out to La Grande Bibilotheque de Montreal where I will return, on time, Ray Kurzweil’s How to Create A Mind: The Secret of Human Thought Revealed. And NOT take it out again. (Read “Wants,” if you haven’t)
  • Think fondly about all my co-workers in the mother trade, and the men, the rock of whose reason, I have not always been able to “get under” (Yes, this includes you, Ray Kurzweil.)
  • Re-read “An Interest In Life” for the thousandth time.Then drink at least one beer, while making a list of recent lucks I hope might bring a smile to God’s eye, if he has a minute.

And finally to pretend, for this one day at least, that Twitter is not all that different from an urban park, and that we’re not all that different from Faith Darwin sitting in a tree, thinking, “What a place in democratic time!’

Prize Season

I was a book critic for many years, so I know November is a heady time in the book world. Because December is the month where the vast majority of books are sold (Merry Christmas!) if you can get a book noticed in November, through a spot on a shortlist, or better yet, a prize, you’ll sell more copies during that all important post publication window period. Writing federations and granting agencies often cooperate by holding awards when they’re likely to do the most good.

I’ve been through this cycle many times as a journalist, and even a jury member. This is the first time I’ve actually been on the receiving end of this ritual. Not with a book, but last week a non-fiction story I’d abandoned about a year ago was nominated for a prize at the Quebec Writers Federation gala. It was a story about my son’s little known learning disability, visual motor dyspraxia. For whatever reason I couldn’t seem to find the right place for it. I received several  thoughtful and sweet rejection e-mails, but no one willing to publish it. So, I shelved it. And as often happens, got drawn into some new subject.

Then late last summer the editor of Carte Blanche, QWF’s literary journal, prodded me to submit something. I sent “Bluefooted” (which, if you’re curious will also explain my website’s header.) And to my delight, not only was the story short listed for the journal’s best story of the year, but a couple of nights ago I won.

I even got a trophy, which I would not now have, had it been accepted in any of the magazines or newspapers I’d pitched it to.

In my acceptance speech,  I thanked the editor who prodded me, and vowed that I would use this huge trophy to prod everyone at the gala to remember those abandoned stories and projects and get them back out there.

And now I’m doing the same with you. Here’s the trophy (designed by urban sculpter Glen LeMesurier). Imagine me wielding that pointy trowel looking part, somewhere in the vicinity of a place you best be moving back to your favourite writing chair. I know it’s hard, and I know the rewards seem increasingly scarce. But when they come, for however long, it all seems worth it.


A Personal Glossary of Writing Disorders

An example of “alien handwriting” courtesy of www.abduct.com

We’ve all heard of post-partum depression. But after giving birth to premature twin boys, who later died, Alice Flaherty developed a rare case of post-partum mania, and with it hypergraphia, a chronic, compulsive urge to write.

“The world was flooded with meaning. I believed I had unique access to the secrets of the Kingdom of Sorrow, about which I had an obligation to enlighten my –very tolerant–friends and colleagues through essays and letters.”

In time it subsided, and the grief thawed. She became pregnant again, this time giving birth to twin girls. The hypergraphia returned. Soon she had wallpapered her house with post-it notes. But this time she was better prepared.

Flaherty is a neurologist at Massachusetts General Hospital and also teaches at Harvard medical school. She decided to curb the second bout of hypergraphia with a prescription for mood stabilizers.

But this gave her writer’s block, leading to a depression severe enough to hospitalize her. In the comfort of a psychiatric ward, where her credentials gave her access to certain privileges like “how to get into the room with the Cap n’ Crunch”, she discovered a culture of manic-depressive writers.

“…the hospital had a literary tradition–and a physical campus–more impressive than that of many liberal arts colleges. One day a staff member gave me a virtual tour from my window. He pointed out buildings where two famous poets had stayed. If I pressed my nose against the window’s steel mesh, I could just see where a third had taught poetry to patients soon before being admitted herself. All three, manic-depressive. The scientist in me can quote the study (the single study I must point out) that finds manic-depressive artists to be more productive when they are adequately medicated. The residual psychiatric patient in me is not convinced–it thinks I wrote better when I was a least a little bit ill.”

Flaherty went on to write The Midnight Disease: The Drive to Write, Writer’s Block, and the Creative Brain, a book about the neurological basis for both writing disorders and writing talent.I’ve drawn from this book for the first few writing disorders presented here. The others I’ve drawn from my own life.

Hypergraphia: As described above, an overwhelming urge to write. Hypergraphia may seem to be the opposite of Writer’s Block. But that depends on how you define writing. People with hypergraphia don’t usually write well, though they often think they are.

What’s significant about this disorder is what hypergraphic writing lacks, that special substance that compels a reader to keep reading. We know what’s happening in the brain when someone writes compulsively. But what is happening in the brain when they’re writing well? What’s the difference between mania and the productive drive and disassociation better described as “the muse.” Forget all those right brain, left brain self-help books. Flaherty’s book suggests that this is still almost as much of a mystery to modern neurology as it is to us.

Writer’s Block: “Dissecting writer’s block” is according to Flaherty as easy “as carving meatloaf at the joints.” The problem is we don’t often know if we’re blocked. Maybe we’re just procrastinating, maybe we’re processing an idea. Flaherty uses two criteria as a basis of diagnosis. First that the blocked writer is not writing, despite being intellectually capable. And second that this writer is suffering from not writing. If it doesn’t bother you that you’re not writing, then it’s not really writer’s block.

But it’s not only a question of output. Writers can be both hypergraphic and blocked if they’re not writing the kind of writing they love. Coleridge was a hypegraphic journalist, but struggled over his poetry. Oliver Sacks writes about an agonizing block while writing Uncle Tungsten, where he trashed 2 million words of writing for 100,000 word book.

Sometimes the block is a result of being hypercritical. Think of all the self-help books on de-fanging the inner critic. Still, no writer ever progressed beyond mediocrity without the willingness to endure at least a little fang.

Graphomania: Often confused with Hypergraphia, sometimes deliberately because it sounds scarier. Graphomania is actually the chronic urge to publish.

Flaherty claims it was coined by Milan Kundera who argued that this condition arises from emotional isolation and ennui, and

“Takes on the proportions of a mass epidemic whenever a society develops to the point where it can provide three basic conditions: 1) A high enough degree of general well-being to enable people to devote their energies to useless activities. 2)An advanced state of social atomization and the resultant general feeling of the isolation of the individual. 3) A radical absence of significant social change in the internal development of the nation. (In this connection I find it symptomatic that in France, a country where nothing really happens, the percentage of writers is twenty-one times higher than in Israel.)”

Ithink we can now safely add one more condition: the invention of technology that enables quick and easy publication for anyone with a computer:

Dysgraphia: My son has this disorder, which affects the ability to master the muscular co-ordination needed to write quickly and legibly. I discovered this when he was five. His neurologist caught it two years after he was diagnosed with mild temporal lobe epilepsy. Now you know the origins of my fascination with writing and neurology.

You might think that handwriting is a separate problem from the cognitive process of writing. But a kid struggling with the mechanics will soon learn to detest everything involved with the demands of writing. I’ve seen this with my very bright eight year old who has plowed through four Harry Potter books since Christmas. Every time he starts a writing project he does best to convince me that he can’t because “I have no ideas, Mom. Really. None.” If you can successfully block your imagination on demand, no one can ever make you write. This would be my strongest argument against Flaherty’s second criterion for diagnosing writer’s block. Just because someone doesn’t admit to suffering, doesn’t mean they’re not.

And there are other problems linked to dysgraphia, which is typically only the most obvious manifestation of:

Dyspraxia: This is a disorder that affects the gros motor-skills. People who have this often have a hard time with hand eye coordination, sports, anything involving muscular planning.

What does this have to do with writing? They typically have poor posture making it uncomfortable to sit for even small periods of time at desks. Children with dyspraxia who are sitting on a chair that is an inch too high to plant their feet firmly on the floor will have a tendency to experience a low grade vertigo that will make it difficult for them to concentrate. They become fidgety and seek sensation.

Because dyspraxics have a poor sense of space they are typically messy, chaotic, and slow. Bright dyspraxics usually get labelled as lazy, unmotivated and slovenly. It is not unusual for kids with dyspraxia to fail or abandon school around grade nine or ten when projects become too long for their poor organizational skills. It’s estimated that about 2 to 10% of the population suffers some degree of this.

But sometimes they compensate for their problems by becoming actors, storytellers and choosing professions that allow them to develop their oral and performance skills. Daniel Radcliff suffers from dyspraxia. He fell into acting because he was failing school. His mother figured he needed something to boost his confidence. The next thing he knew he was on his way to Hogwarts and a hero to school aged children around the world. _______________________________________________________________

So what about you. Anything here strike a bell? Aware of a disorder I haven’t included?

And are disorders necessarily a bad thing? As Flaherty mentions time and time again, it is rare to find a writing genius who hasn’t struggled with some form of writing imbalance. Correctly naming your disorder, if you have one, can be the first step to curbing its excesses and maybe even taping its power.

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If you haven’t read anything yet on Twitter’s new blogging platform, Medium, here’s a nice place to start. Finnish HCI student Jussi Ahola contemplates the various ways that e-readers don’t, and could better exploit the design concept of “socio-pleasure,” the social pleasure we take take in objects beyond their use value.

Designing for socio-pleasure

Rakoff Revisited

Last week I saw Sarah Vowell on Stephen Colbert, there to publicize Love, Dishonor, Marry, Die, Cherish, Perish: A Novel the posthumous book by the brilliantly acidic, but always self-aware David Rakoff. I interviewed Rakoff for The Montreal Mirror in 2010. He was here to visit the city of his birth, and to talk about Half Empty, the last book he lived to see published. This was the second time I’d interviewed him. He was a difficult interview, not because he wasn’t forthcoming, but because as the son of psychiatrist, he never stopped asking me questions. Listening back to the first interview there was way too much about me and too little about him.  To protect against this,  I scrawled at the top of my notebook “DON’T TALK TOO MUCH!!!” Needless to say he noticed it and  teased me about the whole time. But I did manage to get him to talk. 

Painfully Funny
David’s Rakoff’s latest collection is not as negative as it claims

David Rakoff’s book of essays Half Empty skewers optimism, utopian thinking, and positive psychology. It champions the less popular emotions, like anxiety and grief. Whoever wrote the back cover promises “his sharp observations and humourist’s flair for the absurd will have you positively revelling in the power of negativity. On the cover there’s a starburst sticker that reads: WARNING!!! No Inspirational Life Lessons will Be Found in These Pages.

But right now, eating brunch with Rakoff at Beauty’s, it seems like a bit of false advertising. Rakoff is hilarious as ever in Half Empty. He reminisces about group think at the turn of the millennia, his brief and ill-fated acting career, and serves as an acidic tour guide through Disneyland. Midway through writing this book, however, Rakoff discovered he had a malignant tumour in his shoulder. He’s currently undergoing chemotherapy, and there’s a possibility he’ll lose his left arm.

Considering this, he’s surprisingly upbeat as he wolfs down a normal sized plate of eggs. “My left arm is not the world’s best left arm right now, but it’s still attached. So that’s good.” I ask him for the prognosis. “I don’t know. I’m in this chemo right now that does seem to be working, or by my estimate seems to be working. But there are things where I’m as good a judge as anybody. Like, I can now sleep on my side, which I couldn’t do for a year and a half. At the top of my breath, in the left lung, there’s less pressure. So that would suggest it’s getting smaller. But is it getting smaller in the way my surgeon needs it to get smaller? I’m not a surgeon or an MRI machine, so I don’t know. I hope. I’d love to keep it. It’s a roller coaster I have to say. But it’s okay. It’s better than it’s been.”

When I point out that his relaxed attitude seems, frankly, a little inspiring, Rakoff explains that the starburst warning on the cover was mostly just a compromise with his publisher. It got him off the hook for the standard trite non-fiction subtitle. “It’s always a true story of three nouns. Money, madness, or murder. Or how the blank is blanking the blank. How the socialists are ruining America, or how the right wing is fucking you up the ass while you sleep.”

In fact, his book is not meant to advocate negative thinking as a way of life for everyone. “One size doesn’t fit all,” he says, happy to take the middle road here. “Some people are just going to be that way. Some people aren’t. It’s like having brown eyes. But I would advocate for a more realist thinking and more detail oriented thinking. It’s very nice to think in those sunny broad strokes. But eventually you do have to have detailed thinking. And optimism doesn’t really make room for that. Not on any level and not cognitively. That’s not a value judgment. That’s literally the way the brain works in an optimistic mode. It opens up, it widens, and it dilates. Which is great, but you’ll be fucked if you’re only on dilated mode.”

And being anxious, Rakoff insists, doesn’t necessarily mean being unhappy.

“I couldn’t tease apart those threads in the first chapter, about how one could be happy and anxious. And then by the end of the book I understood. When they test for sadness, anxiety may be something that they’re testing for, but it’s not the same thing. Anxiety is a sensitization to the world at large, but it’s not the same thing as fear. True fear is completely unproductive in that it leads you nowhere. At best it can evoke a kind of evolutionary flight response. So you don’t end up as somebody’s dinner. But if you’re actually not in the jungle, and you can’t fly—if the predator is in your own body, it’s useless.”

Maybe not the most feel good life lesson, but a valuable one, whatever the cover says.

Authors on the Importance of Writing the Final Chapter First

Originally posted on Flavorwire:

Writing isn’t necessarily a linear process. History shows that authors frequently composed their novels by writing or conceptualizing the final chapter or sentence first. Today marks the 77th anniversary of the publication of Gone with the Wind by Margaret Mitchell. She famously wrote her best-selling story of the Old South backwards, penning the saddest parts of the Rhett Butler and Scarlett O’Hara saga before figuring out the details of their tumultuous relationship. After the jump, we explore why eight different authors worked from end to start. May they inspire you to consider an alternative approach to your next narrative.

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