"We live in an age of instant gratification. We exert our money before our minds and muscles. Consequently our future is drive-thru loiterers with the biggie-size education to go." -M. A. Tailor
Before I could read, I remember pretending that I could. There I was sitting next to my father in front of a newspaper. On the front page, a picture expressed extensive damage from an explosion. It wasn't the common type of explosion that bursts, makes a mess of things and leaves your ears ringing.
The town's one-year supply of fireworks burst out of its overheated storage unit, and ripped into the sky. But it wasn't the happy kind of fireworks display you might think of...imagine if instead of the the credits to the TV show Love American Style ending in happy fireworks, it ends in a nuclear blast. I remember the explosion was that of a large, white mushroom cloud blooming from its stem, and silver stars shooting out of its cap. It initially sounded like our town was hit by a bomb, and proceeded with machine gun pops from the playful shooting stars. People from miles away could hear the sky scream until it was over. I saw it happen.
I pretended to read the story to my father. As I ran my finger across the print and recalled what I saw. Maybe I thought that by touching the words I would somehow know how to read them. The print meant nothing to me, they were merely organized symbols. I wanted to decode the symbols in the newspaper that told the story I witnessed. I didn't want to pretend the words, I wanted to be able to read them.
"Meet Dick and Jane. See Dick run. Run Dick, run. Watch Jane laugh. Ha, ha, ha!" -M. A. Tailor
I learned how to read through Dick and Jane books. I still have them. Dick and Jane were the perfect children that parents can only dream of. There was no cause for punishment when it involved Dick and Jane, maybe because punishment has too many syllables. And I don't think Dick and Jane ever reached puberty becasue I'd guess that it would be impossible to write a series of books about two perfect teenagers. So they never dated, married, or had children, but if either of them ever did I'm sure their vocabulary would have changed through the years.
Dick and Jane was just the beginning. I had some favorites through childhood:
During my adolescence, I journeyed through a patch of prickly pages and decided that all books had thorns. I lost interest in reading as school demanded book reports, oral and written. Reading did not seem to be a privilege anymore, but rather an assignment. I recall that there was an entire summer I was encouraged to read, read, and read. It was hell! Now, I would love to have that amount of time to read.
Then there were the years of reference books - how to do this and that. Some books contained photos or sketches of the proper construction of existence. Sure it's educational, but reading too much information all the time makes it impossible for me to not speak in a monotone voice. I am not a robot; I am a human being!
Then one day I made a reading discovery at a basement sale. As I remember it, the room was a blur and somehow it framed a yellow book on a table. I don't recall much else; I was rushed to the hospital...just kidding. My memory does suggest that the room was framing the book. It was "just wait till you have children of your own!" by Erma Bombeck. Even though I was adolescent, I enjoyed reading the exaggerated stories about her family, including parenthood. I still laugh everytime I read her books.
"Imagery equals interest. Beef up a grocery list with adjectives. Spice up life as you marinade your imagination in the rich, thick and tangy zest of wonder." -M. A. Tailor
If there is one thing that puts me to sleep, it's a math book. Even while briefly opening the book, I inhale the math vapors and am knocked out with numbers. Reading should not have this type of effect. Imagine a trashy love story having that same tiring response:
He removes his rectangular shirt from his three dimensional chest extruding body coolant and sits motionless in the shade. Looking out of her window at 35 degrees north-northwest, she sees his potential energy in the breeze vector below the oak tree. She prepares a cylinder of H2O then applies a compound of pigmented wax to her full lips. While moving in a linear direction out to him, gravity pulls a strand of her epidermis in front of her face. He looks up at the expression integrated behind the strand of hair. She slows her velocity to zero beside him. Their eyes focus in identical lines, their mouths form upward arcs. She timidly offers him the cylinder of H2O, her delicate hand maintaining appropriate force to prevent the cylinder from obtaining downward motion. His hand gains forward momentum to reach for the cylinder, his fingers make contact with her hand, his longing for liquid sustenance is desire for her unaltered beauty. She expels the liters of air from her lungs; her mammaries are heaving semi-spheres within her tight corset. He leans forward at a 20 degree angle, longing to touch her soft skin, and inhale in the molecules of her perfume. His lips make contact with the thin film of saliva on her lips; she begins to undulate. He drops the cylinder of H2O, launches his arms around her circumference and begins to...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Or, imagine what really happens in those love stories:
The sultry day makes it unbearably hot to work in the throbbing sun's heat. He removes his wet shirt from his perspiring, muscular chest and sits in the shade. Looking out of her window, she sees him melting in the stale breeze below the oak tree. She prepares a sweaty glass of water then applies a kiss of lipstick to her full lips. While walking out to him, a strand of her hair falls in front of her face. He looks up at her shy, yet innocent expression hidden behind the naughty strand of hair. She sits beside him. Their eyes meet, they smile. She timidly offers him the fresh glass of water, her delicate hand holding the wet glass. He reaches for the glass, his fingers touch her hand, his thirst is desire for her untouched beauty. She breathes heavy; her breasts are heaving within her tight corset. He leans forward, longing to touch her soft skin, and breathe her perfume. His lips touch her moist lips; she quivers. He drops the glass of water, throws his arms around her and begins to....
....Ten years have passed, nine children later and one in the oven. She no longer wears lipstick, because one of the kids used it to write swear words on the walls, and when her sexy man perspires she doesn't go near him, there's a little thing called body odor. He can go ahead and bake under that old oak tree if he really wants to. The lawn hasn't been mowed in three weeks and the neighbors are starting to talk.
What happened? He threw his arms around her and lost ten years of his life? Perhaps it was the math vapors. When the couple commenced to multiply, it eluded to future problem solving. Later, we wake up to physics. This could be a serious narcoleptic event in the history of reading. The trick is to find stories that appeal to our individual sense of being. I do not like perspiring numbers.
It's a terrible thing to admit, but it wasn't until I was in my college English class that I read any of Maya Angelou's books. Through the years of bringing work home in tailoring or working mandatory overtime at the book warehouse, my day job ate up much of my free time. When I read her words I somehow escaped my own skin. Her words shine like diamonds. I immediately became very much inspired by Maya's imagery when I read her story I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. She reveals herself and her past with such honesty and clarity, that the details of her experiences come alive.
Since then, I have found a number of great books.
A book I ran across only by fluke was America the Beautiful by Moon Unit Zappa. A school returned this book to the warehouse I work for due to sexual content and language. I think the school assumed the book was about our nation. This is another case of do not judge a book by its cover.
Each chapter begins with lyrics from a variety of musical artists, which sets the mood. Her imagery is sharp, graphic, and revealing. Moon Unit has a bold approach in writing honest thoughts and emotions. This book is not about saving our country, or even it's landscape, it's about a woman named America, and her attempt to understand herself through unusual relationships with family and boyfriends. I hope to see more material from Moon Unit.
Then there's The Cheese Monkeys by Chip Kidd. The dust jacket and title of this book caught my eye first. The look of the book is unusual from traditional published books. This is book loaded with imagery. The story takes place at an art school in the 50's. The professors are similar to disgruntled psychiatrists with an art degree. The main character becomes a friend with another student who is a bit off of the proverbial wall. One of my favorite lines in the book is, "Referring to a teacher by first name was odd enough. A nickname seemed like nudity." It is easy to soak into the pages of this book.
While on one of my vacations, I discovered the book Ernest Hemingway on Writing. I read the book in a few evenings. Mr. Hemingway's personality leaped out of the pages with whiskers on it. Prior to this book I naturally assumed that classic authors spoke, lived, and always appeared polished. In other words, they were above imperfections, and in order to achieve this type of greatness, one has to be Teflon coated. What a relief to know that imperfections are the material for writing.
Another book I found worth reading is Stephen King On Writing. This book is not a hair-raiser. It's not about how his muse is a murderer. It is not a nail-biting book on writing. Mr. King tells about how he arrived at some of the characters and places in his stories. Also, he reveals his experiences with writing and publishing through the years. Later he explains the accident that nearly took his life while he was in the process of writing this book. He describes the man that hit him, "it occurs to me that I have nearly been killed by a character right out of one of my own novels. It's almost funny." This book is inspirational, informative and entertaining. It's a "read it again and again" kind of book.
There are many books with writing exercises in them, but in the book Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg, it not only loosens up the creative muscle called the brain, but it is also helps us see things for the first time. If someone were to walk up to you and say, "be an animal," you may think, "what?" or, "what a weirdo!" In this book there is an exercise titled "Be an Animal." It reminds us of how to look at ordinary, everyday things as if it is a new discovery. This is rather a thinking and observing exercise. The book is loaded with writing pushups.
However, there are some "how to" writing books that instill writer's block. What do I mean? Lets imagine a writer using every ounce of free time to write the perfect novel. It takes him months or even years until the novel is ready to be set free. But during those months and years the writer has been a sort of parent to his creation. He introduces his novel (his child) to publishing houses and gets rejected. He sends it out again, and again, and every time the novel is rejected. The writer begins to feel rejected as a person, because his creation is not accepted. He either gives up, or takes the advice from editors by developing the story so it comes alive. After tweaking the plot, cutting some of his favorite lines, and adding adjectives where there weren't any, he sends it out and it gets accepted. The book is then sold in bookstores and he calls himself a published writer. Then he decides to write a "how to" book about the whole writing process, including sending a story to the publishing houses. He begins with his fist coming through the pages and hitting the reader smack on the nose, "I'm going to set you straight right now! You're in for a long haul buddy. You call yourself a writer? I can't hear you! Drop and give me a hundred-you-writer-you. Give me a hundred reasons why you think you are a writer. Come on what's taking so long? Oh, you can't write that fast, and you call yourself a writer? Then you better do your exercises, or you're never going to make it in the world of publishing like I did." This type of brain whipping continues through his "how to" book. He encourages the reader to use his exercises to become the perfect writer that he has become. Every other chapter reminds his readers about being rejected at publishing houses. He suggests that all writers walk the same dirt road that he walked. There are no exceptions. The experience is the same for every writer, because he only knows of that experience.
Early on, I read some "how to" writing books that were so discouraging that I didn't want to even try writing anymore. I didn't want to get rejected. I took a break from those drill-sergeant-writing-books, and began writing for myself. I only wasted time rejecting myself as a writer, because I believed some of the pessimistic "how to" books.
The writing exercises should be fun, not painful. The more practice at writing or with anything, you can only get better. Sometimes it may only seem to take more time than you want, but the end result is the prize. Also, anyone reading those "how to" writing books must remember, the author is writing from their experience whether it was a good one or bad one. But your experience is your own.
You have just witnessed my preachy, gawky side. The End.
Honorable mentions: