Like Fire Balloons in the Sky: The Inspiration, The Courage, to Share

"I see me, my eyes filled with tears, because it was all over, the night was done. I knew there would never be another night like this.

No one said anything. We all just looked up at the sky and we breathed out and in and we all thought the same things, but nobody said. Someone finally had to say, though, didn't they? And that one is me."

— Ray Bradbury, Zen in the Art of Writing

My fixation with Zen in the Art of Writing has probably spiraled out of control, into a strange place. (Not probably, clearly: after all, inspired by said book, I’m writing things like THE LAMP and THE MOUSE.)

But lately, I keep opening the book, in a desperate search for some inspiration, and keep feeling drawn back to the passage above. Out of context, it can mean anything and nothing. To give you the actual context, though: he's describing a final memory with his grandfather, lighting a fire balloon and releasing it into the sky on the Fourth of July in 1925. It's incredibly beautiful. It even inspired him to write a story called "The Fire Balloons," many years later. Bradbury also wrote about that night, and about his inspiration for the story, for The New Yorker:

But I could not let it go. It was so beautiful, with the light and shadows dancing inside. Only when Grandpa gave me a look, and a gentle nod of his head, did I at last let the balloon drift free, up past the porch, illuminating the faces of my family. It floated up above the apple trees, over the beginning-to-sleep town, and across the night among the stars.

We stood watching it for at least ten minutes, until we could no longer see it. By then, tears were streaming down my face, and Grandpa, not looking at me, would at last clear his throat and shuffle his feet. The relatives would begin to go into the house or around the lawn to their houses, leaving me to brush the tears away with fingers sulfured by the firecrackers. Late that night, I dreamed the fire balloon came back and drifted by my window.

Fire balloons or no fire balloons, I'm still drawn to this idea from the passage in Zen, of sitting quietly, looking up at the sky and relishing the moment. Not sure when, if at all, to say something.

It's like how I feel about writing; how I feel, specifically, about this blog. As I've strayed from posting on this blog—even neglecting my beloved Monday Mix Tapes for months, gasp!—I found myself losing inspiration in general. After only publishing a post here and there every couple of months, it's easier to think, maybe this blog has almost run its course. I don't know. But the more you wonder when is the right moment to say something (to write, rather), the more you continue to merely sit quietly. (In my case, this means getting an idea, thinking about it, and watching Frasier instead of writing, and sharing it.)

Maybe, like many things, this blog, and what I get out of it, is just not quite what it was before. And that’s okay. Maybe it’ll just be exactly what it is. Whatever that may be. Ultimately, though, I hope to never lose the inspiration to write, and to share, however that happens. And wherever it goes on the Internet, or even if it just stays in my journal.

Would releasing a fire balloon into the night with his grandfather have remained such a poignant memory for Bradbury, had he never written about it? Probably. But luckily he shared it, so we could see, if only for a moment, the way he saw it, looking up in the Illinois sky in 1925.

I’m certainly no Ray Bradbury, but I like the idea of saying something. There may never be another night like this, after all.

Like he wrote:

“And, after all, isn’t that what life is all about, the ability to go around back and come up inside other people’s heads to look out at the damned fool miracle and say: oh, so that’s how you see it!? Well, now, I must remember that.”

The Writing Experiment, No. 4: Embracing the Writer Within

I was looking for some inspiration for my 4th post in my 10-part writing experiment, and bless you, New Yorker, you gave it to me. (Do you think when my New Yorker subscription runs out, I’ll have nothing to write?)

What great timing for my favorite issue of the year to be sitting patiently in my mailbox waiting for me! It’s the Summer Fiction issue! New Yorker geeks everywhere, rejoice!

And of course, it’s packed with big name writers: Jeffrey Eugenides, Junot Diaz, Vladimir Nabokov, and Jhumpa Lahiri, to name a few. Not surprisingly, it was Pulitzer Prize-winner Lahiri’s personal essay, “Trading Stories,” that inspired this post. Lahiri happens to be one of my favorite authors—her novel, The Namesake, and two short story collections, Interpreter of Maladies and Unaccustomed Earth, are some of the most beautiful pieces of writing I’ve ever read.

In this essay, she writes about her love of reading and writing, but more specifically, about her journey to becoming a writer. For anyone not familiar with Lahiri, I think The Atlantic interviewer Isaac Chotiner describes her well, naming her “the acclaimed chronicler of the Bengali-immigrant experience”:

Both of her previous books—Interpreter of Maladies (a 2000 story collection that earned her the Pulitzer Prize), and The Namesake, a 2003 novel that later took shape as a popular film— explored the cultural dissonances experienced by immigrants caught between the culture of their Indian birthplace and the unfamiliar ways of their adopted home. In Unaccustomed Earth, a collection of eight short stories, Lahiri continues to explore this theme, this time with a focus on the lives of second-generation immigrants who must navigate both the traditional values of their immigrant parents and the mainstream American values of their peers.

It makes sense that the sort of “cultural dissonances” she writes of in her fiction also played a huge role in Lahiri’s journey to becoming a writer. In her essay, she writes about her parents, “For though they had created me, and reared me, and lived with me day after day, I knew I was a stranger to them, an American child. In spite of our closeness, I feared that I was alien.”

Many of Lahiri’s characters also have these types of fears toward, and relationships with, their parents. What I’ve found most beautiful and fascinating as I’ve read her works, though, is how this is coupled with powerful moments of her characters understanding and feeling close with their parents. While the cultural dissonance she often describes is specific to the Bengali-immigrant experience, I think the parent-child relationships are also completely universal. I think it’s fair to say that the very definition of “dissonance”— “a tension or clash resulting from the combination of two disharmonious or unsuitable elements”—sums up the teenager-parent dynamic. (Not that all of her characters are teens, but you get what I’m saying.)

It’s both astounding and a relief to me that a writer of Lahiri’s caliber has also experienced the same kind of self-doubt I grapple with in life, and particularly, with my writing. She discusses her deep love of books as a child, writing:

In life, especially as a young girl, I was afraid to participate in social activities. I worried about what others might make of me, how they might judge. But when I read I was free of this worry.

While Lahiri says that as an adolescent, she used writing as a vehicle to make friends and connect with others, later, she somewhat rejected the writer in her— “Though the compulsion to invent stories remained, self-doubt began to undermine it”—and instead, she focused on practicing music, performing in plays, and then later, decided she wanted to be a journalist (while also studying literature in college). Sounds familiar! I also “channelled my energy” into studying journalism and English lit. Yet still, as a student, and even now, more often than I’d like to admit, I feel intimidated by the act of writing. Lahiri writes:

At twenty-one, the writer in me was like a fly in the room—alive but insignificant, aimless, something that unsettled me whenever I grew aware of it, and which, for the most part, left me alone. I was not at a stage where I needed to worry about rejection from others. My insecurity was systemic, and preemptive, insuring that, before anyone else had the opportunity, I had already rejected myself.

Luckily, she quit rejecting herself, and embraced the writing.

Insecurity will get you. It’s terrifying to put yourself out there, whether it’s in life, or on the page. I think that, in life, in writing, whatever, it’s the moments when you embrace that fear and just fucking go for it, that the most beautiful things can happen. Like Lahiri writes, “writing stories is one of the most assertive things a person can do...Being a writer means taking the leap from listening to saying, ‘Listen to me.’”

A Story With No End

This week’s New Yorker features an essay by Meghan O’Rourke. You might remember, way back in the beginnings of this blog—you know, years ago, back in February and March 2009—that I wrote about O’Rourke’s Slate series on grieving, “The Long Goodbye.”

In nine well-written, touching entries, O’Rourke wrote about losing her mother, who had suffered from cancer. When I read them, I felt both comforted and sad. In certain ways, I couldn’t believe it: Someone actually got it. Someone else out there felt all these crazy feelings I’d been dealing with since my mother died from an extended illness in 2002. I couldn’t get enough. I read the entries over and over. I emailed Meghan to tell her how much it meant to me. I blogged about it. I talked about it with my brother.

And I was pissed.

This was what I wanted to do with my grief over losing my mother: I wanted to write it. I wanted to share it with others, in the hopes that other young women whose moms had died long before their time would benefit from my story, and it would help them heal. Everything was going to be kumbaya and feelings and butterflies. I would finally think and feel, this is it! This is why I’ve gone through all this. I’m going to share my story with the world! We’re all going to grieve and cry together! Hooray for feelings!

Something like that, anyway. But seriously, this was my new life ambition, to write this book. I even wrote, way back in March 2009, “I’ll continue to love this series unless she steals my book idea.”

I’ve had my book about my mother planned, plotted, and outlined since 2008. I’ve had the title ready since 2007. It’s my secret goal and plan that I will only tell you about if (a) I really, really like you, or (b) I’m drunk. So, not so secret, I suppose. You know, because I really like everyone. I never drink.

Have I written this book yet? No. Well, yes and no. I outline it, write various essays and blogs that I’d like to include in it at some point, then I decide it’s all crap, and start a new outline. This process could go on for years. It already has gone on for years. Yet even so, when Jay sent me the Amazon link to—surprise, Meghan O’Rourke’s memoir, The Long Goodbye—I was furious. I felt like a failure. (Have we met? I’m dramatic.)

No matter that I thought her writing was great. No matter that I was comforted from reading about her mother, and her personal loss. She had done it! My plan. My goal. She had done it, and I hadn’t. What did I think, that no other young female writer had ever had a mother they loved suffer from a terminal illness? Did I actually think no one else had, or would ever, touch on this topic?

Only the Lord Knows, & He Ain't You

Mavis Staples is the shit. Jeff Tweedy produced her new album,"You Are Not Alone," which I clearly need to purchase, as soon as I can afford to buy things. Okay, fine, I'll just watch these YouTube videos.

Can you believe this woman is 71? She's so fierce: "Only the Lord knows, and he ain't you." Sing it, Mavis.



And her cover of this Creedence song is incredible. (Don't make me say fierce again.)



Obviously, I heard about her new album from my New Yorkers, my connection to the outside world. Because I read each issue at least a week late, lately, I'm a week behind on current events as well. Maybe I'll be a grownup again soon, and like, watch the news.

Purveyors of Synthetic Sunshine

This week, thanks to many hours spent in local coffee shops and on my sofa, I have almost caught up on my New Yorkers (a nearly impossible feat!) and read God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater, by the late, great Kurt Vonnegut. It was one of his I'd never read but had ridiculously high expectations of, going in. And God bless you, Mr. Vonnegut! You did not let me down.

I started reading it last Saturday, and had it sitting in front of me while I was talking to my new boss. He picked it up, looked at me, and said, "So, you're in school?"

"Nope," I said. "Just reading. You know, for fun."

"Ahh, you're one of those."

Yes, yes I am. 

I will now take Mr. Vonnegut's genius completely out of context for your enjoyment, and I promise, it will still be be completely genius and wonderful. For instance (and yes, the emphasis on his glorious words is mine):

"In Milford, Eliot told the writers that he wished they would learn more about sex and economics and style ... And it occurred to him that a really good science-fiction book had never been written about money. 'Just think of the wild ways money is passed around on Earth!' he said. 'You don't have to go to the Planet Tralfamadore in Anti-Matter Galaxy 508 G to find weird creatures with unbelievable powers. Look at the powers of an Earthling millionaire! Look at me! I was born naked, just like you, but my God, friends and neighbors, I have thousands of dollars a day to spend!' He paused to make a very impressive demonstration of his magical powers, writing a smeary check for two hundred dollars for every person there. 'There's fantasy for you,' he said."

And then of course, we can't forget Eliot's father, Senator Rosewater, who says in his "fairly famous speech on the Golden Age of Rome":

"And what did the terrible, black-spirited, non-fun-loving conservatives of those happy days have to say? Well, there weren't many of them left. They were dying off in ridiculed age. And their children had been turned against them by the liberals, by the purveyors of synthetic sunshine and moonshine, by the something for nothing political strip-teasers, by the people who loved everybody, including the barbarians, by people who loved the barbarians so much they wanted to open all the gates, have all the soldiers lay down their weapons down, and let the barbarians come in!"

So, if you don't have the guts or desire to be a purveyor of synthetic sunshine and moonshine, if you don't want to put your weapons down and let the barbarians come in, at least remember Eliot Rosewater's one rule: "God damn it, you've got to be kind."

And god damn it, go read some Kurt Vonnegut. Raise your tennis rackets like magic wands, like Eliot, and tell the babies, "Welcome to Earth. It's hot in the summer and cold in the winter."

How Woozy My Eyes

Last night I read Jeffrey Eugenides' story, "Extreme Solitude," in my most recent New Yorker, and it rocked my socks off. Then today I got the "20 Under 40" fiction issue, and I thought, why aren't I spending all my free time writing short stories? Or at the very least, reading them?

So I wrote this kick-ass opening paragraph to a story whose opening scene I can picture perfectly in my brain. Then I realized I not only had absolutely no plan of where I was going with this opening scene, but that it was neither a kick-ass scene nor a kick-ass piece of writing. I used my middle name for the protagonist's name, for chrissakes. I also was about to have my protagonist sitting in a coffee shop reading Black Boy for her lit class. Uggh, Alison. Uggh.

When I made this realization (about 20 minutes ago), I got so annoyed with myself, I closed my Word doc, picked a new design for my blog, and started watching Mumford and Sons' videos on YouTube.

I've got to get it together. Awake my soul, or some such something or other. Probably, I'll just read this fiction issue and think about my dream world where I'm one of the 20 under 40 published in The New Yorker.

The Artist Bets His Life

The January 4th issue of The New Yorker has a really interesting story about Vincent Van Gogh, Paul Gauguin, and what may or may not have really happened on the Christmas Eve in 1888 before a prostitute named Rachel unwrapped a gift that turned out to be Van Gogh's ear.

(God, can you imagine? "Merry Christmas, baby. I got you...my ear. Do you like it?")

I'll admit, sometimes when I get to the end of a New Yorker article, I pretty much just feel glad I stuck it out and read the entire thing. (Sometimes, only sometimes, really.) But I got to the final graph in this article and just thought, Damn. That's beautiful. And then I read it again. And then for some reason I picked up my pen and circled the paragraph. I don't really know why.

Here it is:

"It's true that the moral luck dramatized by modern art involves an uncomfortable element of ethical exhibitionism. We gawk and stare as the painters slice off their ears and down the booze and act like clowns. But we rely on them to make up for our timidity, on their courage to dignify our caution. We are spectators in the casino, placing bets; that's the nature of the collaboration that brings us together, and we can sometimes convince ourselves that having looked is the same as having made, and that the stakes are the same for the ironic spectator and the would-be saint. But they're not. We all make our wagers, and the cumulative lottery builds museums and lecture halls and revisionist biographies. But the artist does more. He bets his life."

The early bird gets the worm

I oversleep pretty much every day. It's a disease. Luckily The New Yorker has a solution for this.

Here's the excerpt that had me giggling uncontrollably at my desk. This one isn't quite as good as bees on blow, but it'll do. Side note: I probably should quit reading the "Shouts & Murmurs" section while at work. The new intern who sits next to me clearly thinks I'm nuts. I mean, I am nuts, but she doesn't need to know that.

If only I had an elliptical:

"Whoever said that the early bird gets the worm could have been talking about me, only I’m a person, not a bird, and I’m not interested in getting worms, more like getting things done. But I do get up early. In fact, the secret to my success could be boiled down to three little words: my quiet time. It begins at 1 A.M., when I get out of bed, check my e-mail, brush my teeth, scan some documents, and floss. Then I’ll surf the Web, maybe order a sectional couch or trade zloty futures. Last week, I bought a Swiss chalet and sold it at a twenty-per-cent profit while I was still in my pajamas. I wanted to high-five someone, but no one else was awake. Sometimes I can’t remember if I’ve flossed already, so I’ll do it again, just to be sure, while checking my e-mail and maybe sending a fax. Did I mention that the early bird gets the worm? That in many ways applies to me.

By 1:03, I’ve had two cups of coffee, I’m down in my basement on the elliptical, and my heart is pounding like a cheetah’s. I know that cheetahs have a fast heart rate because I often watch Animal Planet while I’m on the elliptical, although sometimes I’ll do the picture-in-picture thing so I can watch CNBC Asia while I’m watching the thing about the cheetahs. It isn’t always about cheetahs; it’s about other animals, too, like meerkats. I just said cheetahs as a for instance. I do the elliptical naked. One time when I was on the elliptical, I patched myself into a conference call in Jakarta and accidentally hit the camera thing on my phone, so everyone wound up seeing me in the buff, all flopping around and everything. Another time when I was on the elliptical, I saw an amazing documentary about cheetahs.

While I’m on the elliptical and maybe ordering a hovercraft online, I’ll drain a six-pack of Red Bull. Red Bull Red Bull Red Bullybullybull. Then I’ll call London. I don’t have any business in London, but I have a London phone directory and I like to call people at random. It helps me clear my head. You’d be surprised, though, how some people in London will get totally honked off if you call them out of the blue just to say “What’s up?” It’s not an anti-American thing; sometimes I’ll call them with a fake British accent and say “Tallyho!” and they’ll still get pissed. They’ll act like it’s the middle of the night, even though with the time change and everything it’s already 6 A.M. But even if they tell me to go fuck myself it recharges my batteries."

Bees on Blow

I will never look at a bee the same way again. Please, please read this.

So when you’re at some Memorial Day picnic this weekend, this is what the bees will be saying:

“Oh, my God, you gotta try this pollen. It’s so fucking . . . it’s better than the nectar, even. This is the best fucking pollen I’ve ever had. God, I so badly wanna just go sting the fuck out of someone, you know? Just land on their ass and sting. . . . I’m so fucking jazzed right now. And then I hope they’re allergic and they just blow up! We gotta get out of this hive, we gotta get mobile . . . 'Going Mobile'! The Who was a good band. Let’s go find a picnic or some sunbathers or something. . . . I’d love some coconut suntan lotion or a . . . beer. Wouldn’t you love a six-pack of Stella Artois right now? That’s the best beer. Stel-la!”

I’m sitting at my desk giggling my ass off. Thank you, Noah Baumbach.

“Oh, my God, there’s a picnic. Let’s totally go there right now. . . . I think this fat kid’s allergic . . . I’m so going to sting him! Oh, my God, he’s totally swatting me . . . did you see that dude’s face! Fucking hilarious. He was all, like, 'It’s a bee, it’s a bee!' And his mom was all, like, 'Don’t aggravate him!' Aggravate him is right! I’ll go ballistic on you, tubby! Marlon Brando! Stel-la! Got it. I’m on fire. Let’s do another line. I don’t know, behind that hibiscus, I don’t give a fuck. What do you mean, I did the last of it? I just need a bump.”

It’s a bee, it’s a bee! HA!

I think we now know how Bee Movie could have been a lot funnier.