Three Cups of Tea (Greg Mortenson and David Oliver Relin, but mostly Relin, I’d guess) – I read this because everywhere I went — muni, the doctor’s office, work, the gym — someone was carrying around a copy. Because so many people were reading it, I figured the circle on the front cover (not shown here) was for Oprah’s Book Club. But it turns out the circle is for the Kiriyama Prize (a $15,000 prize) recognizing “outstanding books about the Pacific Rim and South Asia…”

Basically, this is Mortenson’s story: He gets lost in the remote reaches of northern Pakistan after a failed attempt at K2 and because of the local hospitality promises to return to the village and build a school. He goes back to the States without a clue about how to do this, lives out of a car (called La Bamba) and a storage unit in Berkeley, and ends up starting his own non-profit and building all these schools (with an emphasis on girls’ education) in Muslim areas of Afghanistan and Pakistan that we (those of us who are dumb that is) associate with American-hating terrorists. Seriously, this is an uplifting, inspiring story. Mortenson for president! As long as he takes Relin as his speech writer.

My guess is award winning journalist, David Oliver Relin, did all of the writing. This is some high quality narrative nonfiction, a page-turner of a story complete with the contextual depth that comes from tying the story into current events (9/11 occurs during the span of the story) and the climbing history of the area. The landscape of northern Pakistan is described with such precision and beauty (who knew ice could be so magical?) it makes me want to risk life and limb and 3-4 days worth of travel to get there. Some of the writing about the area is forced (especially with climbing metaphors), but there are really only so many ways to describe the crags on the mountains and the endless snow fields. I also have some gripes about the story itself, which had all the elements of a summer movie blockbuster — romance, action, a happy ending – all tied up with a nice litle bow. But in a buyer’s market, this is what passes for good salable narrative.

Motherless Brooklyn (Jonathen Lethem) – I guess I was on an award kick, because this novel won the National Book Award in 1999. While I’m sure I missed half of Lethem’s brilliance, his play on the lineage of hard-boiled detective stories, I was impressed by the protaganist. The guy had Tourette’s. Can you imagine writing an entire book from the first-person perspective of someone with verbal and physical tics and not driving the reader nuts? With his words, Lethem can express more in one paragraph than I will ever ever be able to in my career as a writer.

Dreams From My Father (Barack Obama. Potentially with the help of a ghost writer?) I read this because I’d heard it was especially “literary,” and it is. The memoir is broken up into three parts — childhood with mother and grandparents and step-dad in Hawaii and Indonesia, post-collegiate community organizing in Chicago, soul searching visit to Kenya to meet his father’s side of the family. For the most part, the book reads as Obama’s story to reconcile his mulitracial, multiethnic, multicultural heritage; a quest for an identity that feels authentic, all-encompassing, and honest; and the search for a life purpose that takes identity, family, and community into consideration. All things that are universal human endeavors, and throughout most of the book, truly resonated with me.

One of my issues had to do with the remarkable amount of detail, and perhaps this is my issue with memoirs, in general. This memoir had hundreds of scenes. And in each one, the clothing, facial expresssions, haircuts of characters met only for seconds are perfectly rendered, as is the wallpaper of rooms, the trim of the buildings, and the number of steps on houses. Either Obama kept a damn good journal, or a bunch of researchers pulled pictures and found all sorts of facts for him, or he is like Augusten Burroughs, who claims to be able to relive his scenes as he writes them, capturing every element with factual accuracy.

Aside from reading this article and this one about Obama’s books, I don’t know much about his writing process, like how long it took, how much help did he have? Is he just one of those uber-smart individuals who can figure out how to write a book simply by calling upon a lifetime (or in his case, 30-something years) of reading. When I first picked up the book, I was naive enough to think Obama wrote it without presidential aspirations in mind. The official occasion for the book was that he was the first black president of the Harvard Law Review. But as the Obama article in the recent issue of the New Yorker (the one with the “satirical” cover) makes clear, he’s been thinking about his political prospects for a long time and a great deal of thought probably went into this memoir as far as building a future political platform, especially as sets in print, now and forever, his journey to a racial identity.

I must confess. I couldn’t read about 20-30 pages near the end of the memoir. He was in Kenya and went on and on and on about his brother’s father’s dad’s sister’s uncle, as told by his mother’s sister’s son. It reminded me of really bad creative nonfiction workshop. Someone always comes in and says she wants to record her family story for “posterity,” and it just means I’m going to be subjected to one long dinner conversation from Aunt Maggie’s. By the end of the book, Obama seems to have forgotten the most important point of a good memoir is not to tell your life story, but to make the story larger than your life. This memoir was mostly great, but did not have to be anywhere near 400+ pages. Less is more, buddy.

It’s official. I’m not just writing, but writing writing again. At my desk; at the cafe. In the morning; in the afternoon. On weekdays; on weekends. I’m exaggerating some. I’ve only done one of each of those things. But still, I’m rather pleased with myself.

I even started working on my “book” again. I’m not quite sure if this is the first time I’ve mentioned that behemoth of a word on this blog. It probably is. Sometimes it’s best not to let people know you have aspirations, even if that aspiration is to remove the scare quotes from a 55,000 word document that is floundering somewhere between graduate thesis and unpublishable manuscript.

About three months ago, I shoved the latest of my papers, printouts, notes, and marked up copies into a corner of my workspace where they remained face down and disorganized. I hid the soft copies of everything in the corner of my desktop. I mentally checked out. And when I checked back in a couple weeks ago, I realized what a gift the distance has been.

I’m not as attached. To any of it.

I’ve always thought of myself as a pretty good reviser. It doesn’t torture me to “kill my babies,” or ax four days worth of an opening section to an essay that is nothing more than “throat clearing.” But changing direction in a book is not like rearranging a room; it’s more like moving from one house to another.

You have to pack up all your crap, put it in labelled boxes and try not to break the fragile pieces. Junk is chucked, and only when you arrive in the new house, do you realize you need it. What you once kept in the bedroom is now in the den. You may love that couch, but squeezing it through the doorjamb is not your idea of an enjoyable Saturday afternoon. You need to ask for help. When you switch the couch to the other side of the living room, you need more help. The idea of moving is exhausting. The idea of reinvisioning my book was overwhelming.

I’ve known for some time now that I’m shifting away from a journalistic approach to a more personal take on my subject matter. I’ve been doing it from some time, too. Yet, it’s been more of a crawl, as my fear at losing what I had prevented me from sprinting into unknown territory.

Also, instead of focusing on the writing of my “book,” I got very hungup on my book proposal, the package of sample pages, outline, and marketing hook that seals the nonfiction book deal. With the contract, the writer has the time and advance cash to research and write, as well as the guarantee (that doesn’t always end up being a guarantee) of publication, not to mention the shaping hand of both agent and editor, keeping the writer on track for the version of his vision that will make everyone the most money.

Here’s the problem: I can’t outline the damn thing. Because the voice, narrative, and focus is changing. Because despite receiving constant feedback that I have a “solid draft,” I have a solid draft of a “book” I don’t want to write. What I need is a solid draft of the book I do want to write. Like I told my friend who lived with crack dealers and borderline abusive men in a cheap flat on Haight St, “I don’t care if the price is right, you need to get the hell out of that house and move.” 

Here’s the solution: I’m going to work through my whole damn manuscript, chapter by chapter, and move through it until I start hearing my voice and humor and seeing the shape of a story I like.

For the last three months, when everything related to the book developed cobwebs, the possibility of finishing or of publication was zilch. And I got used to it. It didn’t hurt me. If I spend the next three months working towards a solid draft of the book, it’d be hard to consider that a waste of time. I already wasted enough time to stop caring about it for a while.

I started writing again. Sorta. It really all depends on what I mean by “writing.” I write on this blog, but I don’t revise anything here. And as they say, “writing is revising,” so I don’t usually consider this writing. I did some revising last week, some minor tweaking. It’s also hard to call that writing, even though for three different sessions, I worked on the same essay. Finished it, even. A big deal since it’s something I started  almost 4 years ago, before grad school.

But the real reason I’m calling that writing is that I removed my computer from its home on my stomach, got out of my bed, and sat at my desk like an adult at work.

It’s all about getting to the desk.

Today, that desk is far. Across an ocean, a gorge, Kansas. The coffee didn’t do the trick. Maybe if I shower,  I’ll have the energy to get there.

Approaching the end, or almost the end, thankfully so, of what is my 30th birthday celebration, I’d like to indulge in some decade in review navel gazing.

Turning 30 may very well be my proudest accomplishment, a greater achievement than any graduation or rite of passage, like my Bat Mitzvah or first girl kiss. Last Thursday, I heard, “Happy Birthday,” “It’s about time,” and “Welcome to the club,” but I kept waiting for someone to shake my hand and say, “Congratufuckinglations. You did it.” Because, oh what I did.

My early twenties might as well have been an extension of college, except I received a paycheck. As this was during the dot com depression, even when I didn’t go to work, I was paid, my checks arriving from an organization I never lifted a finger for called the “Employment Development Department.” I passed these post-collegiate years, my queer adolescence, in a state of experimental confusion, evidenced by the many mornings I was still chain-smoking menthol cigarettes at the End Up when the sun rose.

In my early twenties, I concentrated on escapism with an emphasis in drugs. I may or may not have been called “Numero Uno” for my remarkable ability to go to work after a sleepless night. I did many dumb things during this time, but I guess there’s no point in stating the obvious. Better to say I did one, maybe two, smart things. I started to see a therapist who resembled a squirrel and regularly wore red leather pants. She liked to say, “That’s too bad,” and “I’m so sorry,” and somehow this helped me to quit taking anti-depressants, begin working out and lose 25 lbs.

During my mid-twenties, I cobbled together an income from odd jobs, many for friends with small businesses. I worked at a coffee cart, neurobiology lab, and a furniture warehouse; I answered a Craigslist Et Cetera job ad to hand out newspapers at a racetrack; I was a landscaping assistant despite being a city kid who couldn’t identify a weed; I spent a week organizing a Datsun car part junkyard for a paraplegic while the guy who wanted to be my boyfriend fixed his car.

On some days, my alarm went off at 4:50 am. I worked 12 hour days, in the sun and in the wind, manual label and data entry, for whatever anyone was willing to pay me. I took every job having a college degree should have helped me to avoid, and for the first time ever, I learned what it meant to work hard. I learned that I liked it. My squirrelly therapist called me “industrious,” and for those middle years, I didn’t worry about the future, a career.

Every time I had more than $5,000 in my savings account, I stopped accepting odd jobs and went traveling, often alone. I explored, fought through challenges, discovered my independence, built a base of self upon transience and instability. I found out that I’m my own best company and that if I mumble to myself or write down my thoughts, it’s almost as if I’m having a two-sided conversation with a great friend.

In my late twenties, I returned to San Francisco, a place that by default was turning into my home. I invested, committed, followed my passion and disappeared into books, stories, and words. I joined a community of writer’s, a graduate writing program that felt more like summer camp than school. Nearly three years passed this way.

Before the decade ended, I did the one final thing to make my twenties complete. No, not a gender change, although it was certainly under consideration. To cap off the decade, I let another person into my heart, fell in love, floated on the splendor, sunk on the disappointment, and crawled away believing that someday I’ll do it again.

I have plans, or maybe not plans, but thoughts for my thirties. They don’t seem worth mentioning. If my twenties are any guide, I’ll spend the next decade constantly surprised, doing the exact opposite of all that I intend. I do have it in my head that with the soul-searching angst of my early adulthood behind me and the fear of aging still far away, that this will be the greatest decade. I am in the best physical, mental and spiritual shape of my life. I am comfortable and confident. Happy with myself, my growth and development.

Bring on my thirties…

I thought I hated holidays. I was prepared to put on my top hat and swim trunks, go all summer Scrooge and write a ranting post at the end of this long holiday weekend. I expected all to go as planned when the surprise email hit my work inbox on Thursday morning: Office closing at noon!

Bastards! Someone from HR might as well have come up to my desk, asked me to take out my wallet and hand over all my cash before tapping me on the shoulder and telling me to enjoy the day. I’m a contractor, someone who relishes the acceptability and expectation of pre-holiday afternoons of zero productivity. While being paid.

My annoyance lasted about 11 minutes, and then it was time to leave. Pusing through the revolving door of my office highrise, the mid-day Thursday air greeted me in a way that it never had before. It said, “You have no responsibilities. No plans. Nothing.”

Perhaps it was the preceeding month of chaos. Of travel and indulgence and so many days spent in the company of others, but I was relieved that many of my friends were out of town, that both of my roommates were gone. I even felt comforted by the fog that descended upon the city on the 4th. I’m not trying to spite the masses of picnic goers, BBQers, or fireworks lovers any more than my company tried to spite me by cutting my hours on Thursday; I just finally got a holiday on my own terms — no ceremony, no universal celebration, no people bothering me with their general peopleness.

I though a lot this weekend about the timeI spent in Cesky Krumlov, an anacrhonistic town in the Czech Republic with arched gates, a medieval castle and cobblestone streets. Bustling with tourists in the summer, in the winter, or at least the beginning of December, the town is dead. The only other backpackers at my hostel, some Canadian guys, left after the standard 2 day visit, just enough time for us to fire up some absinthe shots and for me puke my guts out. Then there was nobody left in the hostel but me. I, too, was only supposed to stay two days. I planned to head to Berlin before meeting my friend in Paris, the end of a two and half month trip, most of which I traveled alone.

I still wonder what it was that allowed or caused me to stay in Cesky Krumlov for two weeks. I remember reading for entire mornings — The Life of Pi and The Book of Laughter and Forgetting and The Unbearable Lightness of Being (I seemed to think that reading Milan Kundera in his homeland might help me understand it. Maybe it did a little.) I tried several cafes, but started to regularly visit this one decorated with Beethoven themes where I could listen to the river cascade by the window.

Every day in the afternoon, I’d walk up to the castle, across the drawbridge and wander around the grounds. I’d sit by the frosting lake and write in my journal or talk into my mini-tape recording device — the castle chronicles, I called my ramblings. I went on walks — to the local ice hockey rink and along a marked trail into the woods. I cooked simple grocery store dinners — pasta or rice and anything green I could find along with something out of a can — while watching the Simpsons dubbed into German. I read more.

Once a day, I would write a very long email to a friend in San Francisco, our deliberating exchanges building into one long conversation. That interaction took care of almost all of my human contact needs. My only other human contact came from a Brazilian guy with crystalline blue eyes, haunting in their beauty. I saw him when he came for his daily check  in on the Merlin hostel where I stayed. He told me one of the town legends, the one famous to the expats, about those travelers who came and never left: The Curse of Cesky Krumlov.

Maybe it was some type of magic — the supposedly enchanted hollow trees near the castle, the hypnotizing effect of the encircling Vltava River — that kept me grounded in that town until the last possible day.

This weekend, I shifted reading positions from my back deck, to couch, to chair, to bed to cafe. I interspersed my readings with walks and runs and  yoga, with a satisfying conversation here and another one there. I stuffed my face with fruits and vegetables and ice cream. For the first time in a while, I felt as if I’d donned my backpack, my traveler mindset, and had arrived at that place where aloneness is expansive and being occupied has nothing to do with being busy. With all of the junk and distraction cleared from around me, I felt myself back in the hostel, thriving on the solace of Cesky Krumlov, unaccountable to everyone, lost in my own bohemia.

This is probably the best first line of an author’s note I’ve ever read:

“The events described in these stories are realish.”

Can you guess who wrote it?

David Sedaris. It’s on the copyright page (hidden as all such notes are) of his new book, When You are Engulfed in Flames. With all the hullabaloo about lying in memoir, creative nonfiction, etc. I just think Sedaris has the right idea here. While we all now what “realish” means–close to true–my favorite part of using “realish” is that it’s not even a word. It’s a child’s construction, and the result is that it mocks any sense of seriousness or adherence to Truth.

The second line is not so bad either: “Certain characters have fictitious names and identifying characteristics.”

Such a simple note. Perfect really.