Bedtime stories

You know, I read a lot of fiction that some folks would consider junk. I don't consider it junk. It's entertaining: characters that work their way into my geewhiz and stories that give me palpitations. Not particularly literary. And after a day of research reading and writing and The Job, I don't have much left over for literary fiction, anyway.

But I need my daily fix of fiction, so in my last hour of consciousness for the day, I try to read something just for pleasure. This is an extension, I think, of the fact that I've always told myself bedtime stories before going to sleep since...well, I can't remember a time when I wasn't telling myself bedtime stories.

There was a stretch of about four or five years when I didn't tell myself stories before going to sleep. This corresponded with a period when I found it impossible to read fiction for pleasure. I'd been studying and struggling with writing so intensely that in every piece of fiction I picked up I could see all the mechanisms and gears working. It ruined it for me. I don't think it's a coincidence that this was also the time I had one of the worst periods of writers' block in my life. And I don't think it's a coincidence that I started reading fiction and telling myself bedtime stories and writing again all at the same time. Some mechanism in my psyche apparently needs all of these things to feed each other.

And I'm not going to look into that too closely. These mechanisms are delicate, easily broken, and as long as the little machine of creation is purring along, I'm just going to accept it for what it is and enjoy the ride.

Which is what I eventually decided to do with fiction, too. I may still see the gears whirring, but I say to myself, "Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain," and move on.

Push the button, Frank

Quote of the day:

"Gods are great. But the heart is greater. For it is from our hearts they come, and to our hearts they shall return . . ."

—Neil Gaiman, American Gods

Things I thought of blogging today: The fact that this new movie, The Island, is a remake (or rip off?) of a horrifically cheesy scifi movie (The Clonus Horror) from the 70s that wound up being parodied on Mystery Science Theater 3000. Why anyone would want to remake such a turkey is beyond me, but the current moviemakers seem to have given it a high-gloss finish.

God, I miss MST3K.

One of the great ironic highlights of my writing career was when I realized that one of the stink bombs being parodied on MST3K was written by a writing teacher I had at UCLA whom I loathed—not because he was a stinky writer, but because he was a pretentious bully and control freak.

God, I miss MST3K.

Just the thought of the poopie suit scene in Starfighters has me laughing until I...

Random pretentious thought of the day: Poetry, it seems to me, is about the willingness to be naked in front of strangers.

No, that's not quite right. It's about the willingness to appear to be naked in front of strangers. It isn't confessional, not the good stuff. No, it's more like doing a strip tease, but when you get past the point of your skivvies what the audience really sees is a marvelous body suit that gives the breathless illusion of skin.

Odd discovery of the day: One of my ancestors showed up being discussed on a mailing list called CIRCUS FOLK. Imagine my delight! I had so hoped he'd been a two-headed man or a wildman of the woods—or at least double-jointed—before converting to Mormonism and acquiring nine wives back in the 19th century before the church outlawed it. But no, the wildest he got (before the wives) was playing clarinet in the band. Of course, the nine wives were a bit of a feat—and makes for some amazingly tangled genealogy, I can tell you.

Fortunately, I'm descended from the black sheep line of that family.

Of course, he also spent time as a ship's carpenter. I like to think of his polygamy as a formalized and sanctified extension of his seafaring days.

Here's a verse for Kevin of the day: From today's Edward Gorey calendar:

The seaweed on the shore cries out,
But only it knows what about