Searching for Meaning in the Modern Novel

     The second major essay for the Study of the Novel at Rogers State University for the Spring 2015 semester.

     World War I was proclaimed as "the war to end all wars". In theory, that sounded great. In practice....it really did not work that way at all; creating far more problems that it solved. Most people had no idea how to cope with this terrifying new landscape they found themselves in; as their former lives had been vaporized by the devastating war. So the survivors were left restless(Fitzgerald 3, 6, 64), idle(Hemingway 180) and, in some cases, hopeless. In general, Daisy Buchanan spoke for her generation when she described herself as "pretty cynical about everything", as did Brett Ashley when she complained of being "so miserable" (Fitzgerald 16, Hemingway 32). Some people tried to discover or create new meaning to their existence, while others were content to drift along.
     Once Joyce had led the charge into literary modernism, many other writers jumped on this chance to play with language in seeking the Holy Grail of placing reality-as-it-was onto the printed page. Some succeeded more than others, but most often remembered of the group are William Faulkner, F. Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway. Albert Camus was greatly influenced by this group of writers in his work about twenty years later. Journalists like Camus and Hemingway did well with this new style; as they were used to telling the facts as accurately as possible with as little opinionated ornamentation as necessary. Questions abounded in the post-WWI world, and answers were difficult to find. So modern novels do not typically provide answers, instead they get readers to grapple with the problems presented and come to their own conclusions. Part of the modernist language experimentation take place shifted the focus of the novel gradually inward; conflicts within oneself rather than in the world one inhabits. Also, in The Great Gatsby, by Fitzgerald, The Sun Also Rises, by Hemingway, and The Stranger, by Camus, the narrator was allowed to observe and take some role in the events of the tale; but he was no longer exclusively the protagonist. Nor were these first-person tales told with an explicitly educational or moral focus in mind; they were just stories that must be told.
     Among other things Nick Carraway observed about his neighbor, Jay Gatsby had an extraordinary war record, perhaps because in part due to his equally extraordinary gift for hope(Fitzgerald 150-151; 2). Combine this gift with incredible faithfulness in all things, and you understand how he found meaning; in the lost hope of reclaiming Daisy (Fitzgerald 98). Because she is so achingly nearby yet distant at the same time, his possessions derive meaning from their associations with her memory(Fitzgerald 45-46, 91), as does the green dock light(Fitzgerald 20-21, 93, 180).
     Machines were on the rise during this time, too, and that was hard for people to deal with. As Meursault states in Stranger, they "destroyed everything" (Camus 112). And in that destruction, mankind no longer mattered. One met their demise violently and without total finality; machines like Gatsby's car or the guillotine ruthlessly and without error cut the Fates' string of life. Though Meursault is talking of the machine which will bring about his own death in this passage, Gatsby's Myrtle Wilson was also "killed discreetly, with little shame and great precision" (Fitzgerald 137, Camus 112). Meursault is, in a way, a machine himself; with his abject apathy to anything outside his own phsyical well-being and his incapability to feel remorse (Camus 100). As the prosecuting lawyer states, he doesn't really have a soul and moral principles are foreign objects (Camus 101). Because machines are without souls, they do not seek a meaning or reason for their existence. And so the closest Meursault ever comes to a life philosophy is when he says that life is absurd (Camus 121).
     Strange thigns are part of life, yes. Besides killing you, the machines could woud or maim, as it is implied that Jake Barnes' injury occurred due to a plane crash (Hemingway 120). Jake manages to adapt to the postwar world best of anyone we meet in these three novels. He has a steady job(Hemingway 19-20) and gets along with folks well. In some ways he might have replaced religion with his ardent following of bullfighting(Hemingway 136-37), which seems like a common response in the small Spanish town we visit (Hemingway 157-73). That seems to be a very modern sentiment; as our football stadiums and basketball arenas have been described as our American cathedrals. Perhaps our 21st-century society is one filled with domestic expatriates (Hemingway 120).
     While Meursault obviously could not care less about religiion, because he lacked the understanding of what it is to be human, and Brett has the rather hopeless substitute of "not being a bitch" (Hemingway 248), perhaps the answer is the church. Nick and Jake and readers can't help but be a little interested, confused and disgusted about the careless people(Fitzgerald 20), and while Jake may be "technically" a "rotten Catholic", he still strives to be a better person (Hemingway 128, 103). Nick wishes the world would stay at a sort of moral attention forever(Fitzgerald 2), which is understandable. There will always be careless people in the world like Jordan, Tom and Daisy(Fitzgerald 58, 179), but on the other hand, there will also always be people like the magistrate or the priest(Camus 66-71, 115-122).

WORKS CITED
Camus, Albert. The Stranger. 1942. Trans. Matthew Ward. New York: Vintage International, 1989. Print.

Fitzgerald, F. Scott. The Great Gatsby. 1925. New York: Scribner, 2004. Print.

Hemingway, Ernest. The Sun Also Rises. 1926. new York: Scribner, 2006. Print.     

Free-Verse Poetry Experiment

     One of the things the teacher for Creative Writing has really stressed, besides the process of creating poetry and short stories, is getting outside your comfort zone and climbing along limbs you wouldn't normally try testing. I really don't much like free-verse poetry, because I don't understand it most of the time. And it doesn't have a set rhythm or tell a story or anything. It's just atmospheric. So I experimented with a type of anagram, rearranging the letters of "ROGERS STATE HILLCATS" into as many words as I could think of, and then using as many of those words as possible in a long string that still makes sense. What came out of this was a one-sided conversation at dinnertime by a nine-year-old narrator. The teacher didn't quite understand it.

"What’s for dinner, Mom? …TATERS and SHALLOTS?

THAT”S swell….(I STILL HATE TO REHEAT THOSE STALE SLICES…)

…What did you say you and Mrs. Wilson had a CHAT about?

…Right, THE GHOST HOG doesn’t wear collar TAGS….HE shouldn’t, no…

(THIS IS what happens when your mom’s a writer.)

Yes, Jenny should be AGHAST THAT THE HOG STOLE THE SCALES!

…Hmm, good question. No, CLASSES are going fine enough.

How about the radio show’s LISTENERS change the GEARS of the mower?

The mower’s SLICER could TEAR into the SHALE, cause a landslide and that

Could be the climax? (…) No problem!

Uh…Mom? Aren’t you going to finish – never mind.

Oh, well. Not everyone is a lucky enough to have your mom be a writer." 

Flashfiction - Red

     Five hundred words or less is an extremely tight box to tell a story in. This flashfiction story was a Creative Writing assignment, I'll probably expand it later on, because I like these characters. It clocked it at exactly five hundred words.

     They say some colors have emotional impacts – for whatever reason, they’re especially communicative. Red’s exciting and dangerous, like fire trucks or burns. Maybe that’s why we associate it with love. Blue is calming and restful; it means importance. “Royal” blue and all, and the carpet of the Oval Office. Green can be mysterious and/or fun, depending on the shade.

     I’ve been working at Dale’s music store for a while; Glenda was visiting her twin sister and he was picking up lunch. There was a middle-aged guy named Ron coming in for a lesson, so I was working with him on barre chords with the Rascal Flatts song “My Wish”. He was using a cat-tongue pick; Southern Cross was the only place I knew of to get them. They were easier to hold on to, didn’t get lost that much. Near the end of the lesson, Taylor tripped lightly in. “Don’t hurry, I’ve got time.” She scrounged around for a bit, checked to see what was on sale this week. She tested out a used ganjo while Ron and I finished the lesson before she got a couple dollars’ worth of fingerpicks and a new capo for her orange Ibanez acoustic-electric. She was a regular, too, and so got Dale’s discount on everything. He liked having both of us around, and we often leaned on him or Glenda for advice.

     It had been a couple weeks since we’d had a real good chance to talk; she’d been on vacation and then our work schedules made it difficult to hang out. We were fixing to team up on a duet when we headed up to Springfield with Josh and Eddie. Nina wasn’t coming this time; that was another part of the reason Taylor and I hadn’t had a chance to talk much. Nina was dropping off the deep end pretty quickly, and Tay had her hands full trying to slow the fallout. It was one of those facts everyone knows but nobody talks about, but we all knew college was going to eat her alive. She was missing….It. Whatever that “it” was. Pretty sad, but that’s life. C’est la vie, the Chevrolets would say. They were coming along the trip, too.

     With her money, she pressed something else into my palm. She took the fingerpicks, capo and change, the door chimes jingled as she walked out. I tucked the whatever-it-was into my pocket and waited on Ron. Dale got back right about then with Braum’s.

     “Ran into Taylor on my way in,” he said after a minute.

     “Yeah, she came by.”

     Dale finished his burger. “She’s a keeper, Justin. You guys…you’re something special. By yourselves, and then when y’all are together, even more. We – we’ve been prayin’ that maybe someday-“ He shrugged.      “We love you guys.” (Pause.) “’Temporary Home’ could be a good one to play.”

     I nodded, thinking, and remembered that whatever-it-was she’d given me, and curiously dug around my phone in my jeans pocket.

     It was a red cat-tongue pick. 

Short Story Thoughts

     Another assignment for Creative Writing; we were supposed to talk about short stories in general.

I’m thrilled that it’s time for short stories; grateful that I’ve learned a lot about poetry, but ready to dive into something I’m more familiar with. The ones I’ve previously written tend to sprawl out a little farther than is typical publishing distance, so hopefully while studying what Mooring Against the Tide says I’ll learn to be more efficient with the amount of words used while still getting all the relevant points of the story covered. I am a little disappointed that only one story will be required, but we’re just learning about the process of creative writing here, so I understand why. Besides, writing fiction is hard enough as it is, and especially while school is in full swing.

            I’m fairly familiar with short stories, but since they can be hard to find on library shelves, mostly they’re told nowadays over the radio airwaves: singer/songwriters whose work I especially enjoy could include Brad Paisley(“Letter To Me”, “Part II”, “Waitin’ On a Woman”), Kenny Chesney(“Don’t Blink”, “There Goes My Life”, “The Boys of Fall”), Garth Brooks(“Unanswered Prayers”, “Beaches of Cheyenne”, “Ireland”), Taylor Swift(“The Story of Us”, “Mean”, “Never Grow Up”, “Long Live”) and Miranda Lambert(“New Strings”, “The House That Built Me”, “Over You”). And others like Keith Urban, Jon Bon Jovi, Avril Lavigne and Bryan Adams. I could really go on practically forever, but who would want to read that?

            So back to the more traditional printed form of short stories, I really love the descriptions and style of O. Henry; the way he could paint either the concrete jungle of New York City or the Texas prairies to where we’d know the locals and the important landmarks. And his endings are amazing. I know it sounds cliché to say that “The Gift of the Magi” is my favorite, but it’s so wonderful. Who can’t relate to the cash-strapped but affectionate pair of Jim and Della Young? You hope to be able to love someone like that someday. Only William Sydney Porter could take the plot of “A Retrieved Reformation” and make it believable. First, that a career criminal like Jimmy Valentine could move to a small Arkansas town and become a leading citizen as a shoemaker. Second, that when Ben Price the detective tracks him down; that he would leave Jimmy alone. And third, that the reader would be okay with Ben’s decision. In “The Last Leaf”, you feel the desperation in the lives of Sue, Johnsy and Behrman, and the magnitude of Behrman’s masterpiece, understanding what it cost to paint. “After Twenty Years” is painfully honest about faded friendships and divergent life pathways while emphasizing the value of loyalty and keeping one’s word.

            Along those same O. Henry-like lines, another favorite is “The Man Upstairs” by P.G. Wodehouse. The look at the behind-the-scenes life of those in the creative fields is part of what makes it great, as well as the playful phrasing and frequent cat mentions. “The Worst Christmas Story”, by Christopher Morley, is similar in tone with a painfully realistic but appropriate ending, surprising in its obvious-ness.

            Another nontraditional outlet for short stories is those told through comic strips. For being considered so lighthearted and happy, Charles Schulz’s Peanuts dives quite deeply into depression, loneliness, alienation and the trials of being in love. It also showcases unbounded joy in Snoopy’s suppertime dances, the irrational yet vital Gatsby-like hope Charlie Brown has that he can be a baseball hero someday, the importance of loyalty in his pals sticking around the team while they know they’ll be slaughtered, and Charlie Brown’s persistence in getting that kite to finally fly correctly or kicking Lucy’s football this time, surely. We also get the wisdom (and sometimes spacey-ness) of Linus, and Lucy means well most of the time, even if her methods of bossing everyone around can be hard to deal with. Snoopy is amazingly imaginative; aren’t we all part beagle, vulture, Olympian or a WWI fighter ace? Sometimes, at least? Schroeder’s dedication to his music is another virtue we can learn from. Bill Watterson’s Calvin and Hobbes gives us really great insights into the life we live, and what the things we take for granted in society say about us. (TV, junk mail and the boundaries of art are the first examples that spring to mind.) Snoopy has the only imagination that comes close to Calvin’s – we frequently see long, intricately-detailed space explorations or bizarre situations(T-rexes flying F-15’s, deer hunting humans, snowmen committing suicide) in his daydreams or free time. He also has a Linus-like quality of getting right to the real points of life adults like to gloss over. Hobbes is the much-needed voice of reason to counter Calvin’s exuberance, but that doesn’t mean he’s without his endearing flaws; that kill instinct in football, exalting tigers above humans, or napping when there’s work to be done.

            Ernest Hemingway’s “Hills Like White Elephants” is brilliant in its subtlety; as well as near-perfection in capturing dialogue and journalistically telling exactly what happened on several levels. Willa Cather’s work “The Enchanted Bluff” illustrates the power and fragility of dreams and friendships. Dorothy Canfield Fisher’s “In Memory of L.H.W.” shows us how to persevere through adversity and just do the best you can. This theme of perseverance is continued in Hans Christian Andersen’s story “The Steadfast Tin Soldier”, and the death of “The Little Match Girl” tears your heart out, but we would be much poorer without that experience. I’ve always loved the dialogue and the characters in “The Hiltons’ Holiday”, written by Sarah Orne Jewett.   

Of Agatha Christie’s short stories, one of her best(in my opinion) was “Philomel Cottage”, proving that while she may have failed when trying to write suspense-thriller novels, she still was quite good at building tension in shorter form. “Three Blind Mice” and “Witness For the Prosecution” both have been overshadowed by the play and film, respectively, but are other examples of good Christie short fiction.

            Another format short stories exist in, which is quite likely their most powerful form, is children’s picture books. Cynthia Rylant has a way of telling what happened with childlike straightforwardness, which I appreciate, especially in her story “Retired”. In that same vein, Laurie Keller’s picture books Open Wide and The Scrambled States of America teach basic oral care and geography in easy-to-remember terms. Munro Leaf’s The Story of Ferdinand is another that has always been a favorite; Ferdinand is just…different. Aren’t we all in some way? It’s not necessarily bad that he sees fighting as dangerous and uninteresting; and though smelling flowers under his favorite cork tree is an odd way to spend one’s time, he was happy and it didn’t bother anyone else, so…just let him be. Similar to Ferdinand is The Crippled Lamb in Max Lucado’s book. Joshua is lame and lonely because of that, but for that same reason, he gets to be the lamb in the manger when Jesus was born. What a privilege. The Giving Tree in Shel Silverstein’s book shows us what sacrificial love looks like.

            This is probably longer than expected, but the directions said not to hold back. If I would have truly not held back, this assignment would likely be 50,000 words and climbing…anyway, I love literature, in whatever form I may find it in. And so these are some of my favorites. 

Mayday

      One of the poems for the Creative Writing portfolio included a current-events poem. This was the first draft.

What IS going on in the world, anyway?

What shape is this messed-up world in?

Spinning merrily into disaster; someone call a Mayday.

Politicians praying we’ll swallow whatever they say,

Every direction you look, someone screaming their opinion

Still makes you wonder: What IS going on in the world, anyway?

From TV to sports to books to movies, everything is going grey,

“Global warming-!” “Terrorists-!” “Gays-!” “Save the penguin!”

As we merrily spin into disaster, someone needs to call a Mayday.

Mockingbird sequel on the way; it’s important, but – is that okay?

Can the literary significance throw the author’s wishes into the dustbin?

Makes you wonder: What IS going on in the world, anyway?

Scandals in football and racing, movies in the theater repacking old clichés,

Communal experiences not what they were; cheaper now to stay in

Meanwhile, world spins merrily into disaster; need to call a Mayday.

“With great power comes great responsibility.” It’s frozen into our memory.

Why aren’t there more people like Uncle Ben?

What IS going on the world, anyway?

We’re spinning merrily into disaster; someone call a Mayday.

Thoughts on a Poem - "If"

      This was an assignment for my Creative Writing class, to analyze and report on a poem.

     The poem I chose is Rudyard Kipling’s “If”, which can be found in almost any poetry collection; I found it on page 108 of a 1958 paperback called One Hundred and One Famous Poems. On a most basic level, I love it because it’s so incredibly inspirational. And patriotic, almost; by inference. It gives the reader a framework to evaluate the way they live and say, “Now, that was a life well lived.” We all probably have at least one person who exhibits the qualities expounded in this poem, and so we strive as best we can to emulate them. In so doing, we cultivate these qualities in ourselves.

            Enjambment is used throughout; the entire poem consists of two sentences, which is a remarkable feat of writing in itself, attained by the use of frequent semicolons keeping the sentence aloft. But the ideas are really what makes it special: advocating perseverance, reasonable self-confidence, patience, hard work, imagination and care for fellow creatures. In short, it’s a sermon delivered without preaching, taking the form of a talk with your father or grandfather. As far as rhyme scheme goes, it seems to be ABABCDCD, and there are frequent pauses(caesura) skillfully woven throughout, to force the reader to consider the arguments Kipling is making. Also, all these images are highly concrete; making it easy to see and understand his argument. Besides the rhyme scheme, “if” is repeated thirteen times throughout the poem, and these “if” statements are quickly flipped so we see the contrast with the negative behavior implied. The strength of the poem lies in its simplicity.

            “Triumph” and “Disaster” are both metaphorically personified as “impostors”; which is likely true. The common tools used to rebuild your life’s work are likewise called “worn-out”, simply because they’re in use almost every day; these qualities of honesty, patience, diligence, etc. When those structures are built with these worn-out tools, they draw from a much more stable inner core of strength. As Kipling continues, if we can do all this and fill the unforgiving minute with sixty seconds’ worth of distance run, then “Yours is the Earth and everything that is in it.” This is obviously hyperbole; but we get the point. If all this advice and caution is followed(not perfectly, that would be impossible), then the son can become a Man, and in our common lives, his readers can become leaders. 

Tarnished Strings - Revised Version

     After several drafts, this is what the "Tarnished Strings" poem looks like. After this one, I was tired of messing with it.

Ice skating rink is where they first met,

Time goes by – so many stories you could tell…

Flip through the songbook, this one they’d sing as a duet,

The guitars were shields; their coats of mail…

She was a West Coast wild spirit, pocket sized with dye streaks and a big grin

He was a dream-filled neighborhood stray, doggone loyal, barbed-wire thin

There’s still photos from the days of point-and-shoot cameras

Of them talking at the bonfire as the elm tree dropped samaras…

Her painted fingers pick melody on the strings, bead by bead,

Like the jewelry in her spare time she would fix

While his hand played the rhythm, thumb then palm he’d strum,

And together – their music mixed…

Stress channeled over the frets, tension by degrees warps the neck

Environmental changes, untuned preparation and other things

Over time can mess with the sounds of the heartstrings

The rift probably started on a trip back home

Root cause isn’t spoken of, so still largely unknown…

Steve doesn’t get out much these days;

While Abby Lee, she now sings alone

Today she no longer plays,

He feels lost in a desert, wondering at his silent phone…

Those guitars have been well-used,

To their owners’ personal histories they’ve become fused;

Runners by nature, driven to roam,

Hoping to find a not-so-temporary home….

The kids grew up; they’re doing well,

Give their parents news by the occasional email

Shields may be broken now, but they’re mostly in one piece

Ice skating rink is where they first fell…