When Do Writers Peak?

The June 14th edition of the New Yorker contains a list of "20 Under 40"; that is, 20 authors under 40 years old handpicked by their editors exemplifying the best the world has to offer.  If you have time, give it a read.  The stories are a mixed lot.  Some are stand-alone works, others are excerpts from larger pieces.  All are worth your attention.

My initial reaction to the stories was jealousy tinged with admiration.  They all write far better than I, and now they bear the New Yorker stamp of approval.  How I wish to have made such a list, to have produced something of such worth!  But time is on my side, for I only recently celebrated my 26th birthday.  Writers take a while to peak.  Right?

Wrong, says Sam Tanehaus of the New York Times.  His article brings up a depressingly large number of authors who wrote their masterpieces while they were under 40:

 "Unsurprisingly, in youth-obsessed America, writers have often done their best work early. Melville was 32 when “Moby-Dick” was published (after the successes of “Typee” and “Omoo”). The writers of the lost generation found their voices when they were very young: Fitz­gerald (28, “The Great Gatsby”), Hemingway (27, “The Sun Also Rises”). Faulkner lagged slightly behind. He had just turned 32 when “The Sound and the Fury” was published. Then again, it was his fourth novel.

The celebrated post-World War II generation was just as precocious. Norman Mailer was only 25 when “The Naked and the Dead,” his classic, and enormous, war novel came out. And James Jones’s even longer work, “From Here to Eternity,” was published when he was 29. The indefatigable warhorses who grew up in the 1950s were also good very young: Joyce Carol Oates (31, “Them,” her fifth novel); Philip Roth (26, “Goodbye Columbus”); John Updike (28, “Rabbit, Run”); Thomas Pynchon (26, “V.”)."

  

I have no illusions of being the next Roth, or Updike, or Pynchon.  Still, one of the reasons I left the music industry is its relentless focus on youth.  I envy my girlfriend her slow development as a fine artist; she is not likely to produce masterworks in her twenties.  Instead, her early years are supposed to be full of struggle as she searches for her voice and vision.  Only later, after mastering her craft, will she produce her greatest work.

Perhaps this is another boneheaded bit of conventional wisdom; perhaps all our flames burn faster than we would prefer.

Still, I am heartened by Tanehaus' following list of writers who found their genius late.

"Joseph Conrad didn’t become a major writer until his 40s (after long years at sea). Katherine Anne Porter was 40 when her first short-story collection was published. Virginia Woolf entered her prime in her 40s. Norman Rush’s first novel wasn’t published until he was in his 50s. Nor is it to say that brilliant young novelists don’t mature into greater ones. Henry James peaked at about 60. Roth reached an extraordinary phase in his 60s. The Bellow of “Herzog” (49) is a greater artist than the Bellow of “The Adventures of Augie March” (38), which itself introduced a wholly new aesthetic to the English-language novel. And the Don DeLillo of “Underworld” (60) far surpasses the DeLillo of “End Zone” (35)."

I would be honored to be part of that list.  Perhaps my late turn to writing prevented me from blossoming into the next Normal Mailer.  But maybe it gifted me with a wealth of experiences to become the next Virginia Woolf.

The turmoil of my late teenage years and early 20s have left me with less prose but more memories than many writers my age.  I have walked in many shoes in many cities around the world.  With diligence, this straw can become gold.  Because, as Tanehaus closes, "Now, as then, the most meaningful 'fight' waged by literary artists is interior. Their principal adversary is not a noisy culture or inattentive readers. It is themselves."

That's a fight I can win, no matter what my age.

Reckoning

"Reckoning" birthed itself, as most worthwhile ideas do.  I had been sitting at my computer all day, taunted by a blank screen and terrible dead-end beginnings.  So, in desperation, I turned to an old exercise from a high school writing class; I re-imagined a childhood memory.  It was easy to find the right one since my writing room is frigid.

The next step was to find out what kind of person would have such a memory.  Sean came into being, and I pitied and admired him from the start.  He is not an exceptional man (except for his outstanding navigational skills) but he is a good man.  Unlike some of the other characters, he does not desire glory or power.  He is not suited for extraordinary times, although those are the times in which he lives.

This week, please enjoy the first section of "Reckoning."  Taste the bite of its dead air; blink back the blinding light of its endless winter.  We won't stay there forever.  Next week, we'll head back in time, to the beginning of The End.

The Goblin King

I am not particularly enamored with corporate holidays like Mother's Day and Father's Day.  I'd like to think that my parents know how much I love them every day, with or without presents, and certainly without horridly unfunny Hallmark cards.

This Father's Day, though, has particular meaning.  A few months ago, I started writing "The Goblin Prince."  The idea appeared in my mind during a bus ride.  It felt true and right, and I almost started crying.  Luckily, I stifled the tears lest my friends discover my insanity and/or menopause.

As a children's book author, much of my time is spent thinking parenthood.  What does it mean to be a parent?  What do we teach our children, and what do we let them discover for themselves?

The title character of "The Goblin Prince" is Agorot.  He, like all children, has wild dreams.  Hetsi, the goblin king, is Agorot's father and rules their subterranean kingdom.  They disagree about the direction in which the goblins should dig.  Hetsi wants them to dig down as they always have, while Agorot wants to see the sky and stars.

Many families find themselves at this crossroads, when the dreams of children and parents diverge.  I know my grandfather wanted my father to follow in his footsteps and become a doctor.  He never let go of this, even on his deathbed, even though my father became a successful attorney.  It is hard for parents to watch their children head down unfamiliar roads, into worlds with unfamiliar dangers.

But as Hetsi realizes, a parent's role is not to tell a child what to dream but to give him the tools to achieve his dreams.

So, on this Father's Day, I would like to thank my father for a rare gift.  Throughout my short but blessed life, his love has carried me toward the sky.  Together, we have tunneled through the long dark to see the stars together.

Thank you, Dad.  I love you.  I will always be your goblin prince, and you my goblin king.

Fanboy! Sneak Peek! Ten Cents!

If you haven't seen the international trailer for Scott Pilgrim vs. The World, do yourself a favor.  Click the link, load the video in high definition, turn on your speakers/plug in your headphones, and watch it.

Back?  Pretty sweet, huh?

If you've spent any time around me in the past few weeks, you're probably ready to murder me with a giant hammer, flaming sword, or telekinesis.  My gigantic crush on this movie starring Michael Cera and directed by Edgar Wright ("Shaun of the Dead" and "Hot Fuzz") borders on obsession.

Ok, so it careens through the border of obsession and ends up barely short of mouth-breathing fanboy cyberstalking.  Deal with it (but please still hang out with me)!

The comic by Bryan Lee O'Malley upon which the movie is based caught my attention with its punchy black and white illustrations, silly dialogue, and complete disconnect from reality.  Sure, it's written by a Canadian but I'll give him honorary American citizenship and maybe build a theme park in his head.  I'd pay to watch this guy's dreams.  Ten bucks says they put any acid trip to shame.

I did find time between my fifteenth and sixteenth viewing of the trailer to think about how much of our identities are caught up in the media we consume.  My younger self was never fully comfortable with his geekdom.  Maybe he thought his soccer teammates would shun him, or his bandmates would mock him.  Neo-Matt (a term I've been using since about five minutes ago) has no clue as to the why.  But I hid my obsession with my Dad's yellowing sci-fi books from everyone outside my family and closest friends.

Something changed as I got older; just yesterday, I told my sublet-roommate about the countless days of my childhood spent in silent communion with those ten cent books.  They are objectively awful, filled with misogyny, colonialism, and horrid, stiff prose.  But instead of being shameful wives locked in the attic, they are eccentric uncles whose stories you ate up as a kid.  And as an adult, you smile during the tellings for different reasons.

Most of those authors couldn't write.  The weakness of their words hampered the power of their vision.  But even at their worst, they conjured desolate worlds orbiting dying suns.  Brokenhearted bounty hunters limping after their last big mark.  Alien geniuses plotting for the thrones of celestial empires and the hearts of eight-breasted princesses.

I am not ashamed to count myself among their fanboys.  No matter how old I become, how withered my body and brittle my bones, I will always dream these impossible dreams.

With this in mind, I proudly present a H&K exclusive sneak peek of my newest short story, "Reckoning."  It follows the last days of Sean, the sole survivor of a failed mission to an icy wasteland and maybe the last human in the universe.  You can find the first few lines under the tab at the top labeled "Reckoning" or by clicking here.  There will be more to follow on Monday.

Have a great weekend and enjoy the sample!

The Why and Where of Writing

When people find out I'm a writer, there are two major questions that always seem to crop up.  They are "Why do you write?" and "Where do you find inspiration?"  While these queries may seem cliche, no artist or writer or musician is going to honestly answer in the same way.  So this seems like a good place to mark the true start of H&K Redux.

I write because I have stories to tell, and telling them brings me joy.  I am not content to only consume the thoughts and dreams of others; the urge to create is too strong.  Even my music, such as the yet unfinished "Ballad of Roger and Rose," tells stories.  There are worlds within worlds inside and outside the universe proper.  Why not explore them?

Like all storytellers, I am an inveterate liar.  My recollection gains embroidery through the years, not because of malice (at least, no longer), but from the sheer joy of weaving a more interesting narrative.  Our memories are the messiest of oral traditions and are wonderful because of, not in spite of, this casual inaccuracy.  In truth, none of us are ever fully the hero, nor others villains.  Yet who is not the hero of their own story?  So I take this human impulse, the telling of tales, and formalize it.

Inspiration for these stories comes from everything.  This not a cop out or deflection; it is the unvarnished truth.  There are characters leaping out of the newspaper, hiding behind shady oaks, and screaming in your basement.  Stories rest in every handshake, car ride, and commercial for weight loss pills.  The writer's art is to distill this chaos into something real, something true, even if that something involves invisible weather gnomes wearing bowler hats.

So, faced by this bounty of inspiration, the question I wish more people would ask is "How do you manage to write day after day?"  Thomas Edison had it right when he said, "Genius is one percent inspiration, ninety-nine percent perspiration."  The evidence of this small statement's truth is everywhere.  How many talented baseball players fail because they are not willing to sacrifice everything in the pursuit of winning?  How many world-class artists burn out after toiling endlessly in poverty and obscurity?

Writing is no different.  Failure is the neighbor who tap-dances on your ceiling at night and mangles his ukulele at your moment of greatest calm.  Words, sentences, and paragraphs stubbornly refuse to work; they howl and flail like rabid donkeys as you desperately traverse a rope bridge over a bottomless ravine.  And as rejections make not-so small piles on your desk, the tap-dancing grows infinitesimally louder.

The answer is simple albeit a bit recursive.  Writing is the cure to its own suffering.  There are moments in every day when despair seeps into my fingers and my eyes lose focus.  A bit of dialogue limps to a comma and tries to commit hara-kiri.  But before I hurl my keyboard away in disgust, a small voice calls my name.

The goblin prince strides onto the screen and points up.  To the sky, he commands.  We must see the stars!  My eyes sharpen and fingers dance.  Pull yourself together, I tell the dialogue.  There is no time to waste!  There are worlds to discover and never enough moments to explore them!