A Definition of Duty

By Anonymous

I sit, wait, and wonder.

Terrorists on trial now. Shift change. Condemn those fuckers to death.

I count the hours until today is over. 13 hours. 10 hours. Eight hours. Four hours. I want go home. Find a job; a job that fits me.

Will I die today in Iraq? If I did, would anyone care? I wonder what's for dinner tonight.

Should I cut my hair? I grow tired of holding this pose. I put my pen up my nose, counting the drops of sweat dripping down my back.

Sunrise. Sunset. Swiftly go the days. Deployment is glorious in Guantanamo Bay. My uniform is still.

Attention on deck! At ease and good morning. Flag call again (run inside). I wish I was fucking deaf.

Smoke a cigarette. Pack a lip. Go to chow, then the gym. Take a swig of chew spit.

Fuck you. Fuck this and fuck that. I'd fuck her.

What should we do today?! "Yo, let's drown that cat?!" 

Formation. Hydration. Protein shake. EO complaint. Tons of segregation.

The beach is nice. I'll kill you if you touch my phone. Can I have a cigarette?

Take a shit and masturbate.

Maybe today I'll kill myself.

If you’re early, you’re on time. If you’re on time, you’re late.

This is what it is. The military life I live. No airborne jumps, no medals, no glory.

Sign up and make a difference. Serve your country and be really hungry. A good way to find out you're worthless and mean nothing.

Just a number with a job to do with endless hours of you learning the true meaning of duty.

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Imagination Station: The House My Father Built

Photo by Kerri Liss

Photo by Kerri Liss

By Kerri Liss

Cradled in “The Loft,” I'd dream, write, play, and think about how I ended up in the highest elevation of my house. It’s a 20-square foot rectangular space under the roof of the house my father built in the 1980s. It is in my bedroom and is accessible by the sturdiest ladder I've ever seen. My father was never a fan of climbing ladders, so he made this one with extra solidity.

You climb up the ladder and crawl into The Loft, which still to this day contains pillows, stuffed animals, and some old drawings hung up like a miniature art gallery. One façade features oak railings, with spaces wide enough to feel open, but placed close enough to trust when you rest against them. The left façade is thick plywood, with hearts and teddy bears carved into it for a fun, decorative appeal, but also to let light in and to look out of like a princess in her turret. In the center of the plywood is a large, handcrafted heart with an arrow through it, etched by my father. That was my favorite part of The Loft because it wasn't a cookie-cutter carving, but rather one specifically dreamt up, planned, and delicately made just for me. I imagine that if one carving got messed up, my father would have started over to ensure any mistakes were invisible. This was for his little girl and even if I was the only one to ever look at it, he was going to make it the best he could.

But I wasn't the only one to see it. My friends loved The Loft and it was always our preferred place to play Barbies, tell stories, have sleepovers, and spy on those down below or outside in the backyard. Because not only did I have a loft, but I had a balcony too. And from The Loft you can peer through the hearts and the sliding glass doors to the balcony and then out into the woods in the backyard. The balcony was fun to show to friends, but its true value lay in the nights when I used to go out to stargaze or camp out and anticipate the solar eclipse. I had an astronomy journal and would write about what I saw. I now know I was really contemplating God's great love with awe and wonder of all good things much, much bigger than me.

I used to do my homework alone in my "office," which was a small sectioned off part of my bedroom where my desk was located. I had quiet time here. This is where I would write my essays, study Spanish, painstakingly work through physics, and eventually apply to college. All of this was done after cross country practice or karate, sometimes both. I remember getting my first bed that wasn't even a twin. It could barely fit in my bedroom, but, oh, how I really felt like a princess again.

Although I would work alone, I never felt that way because I always noticed what everyone was up to in the house. The floors to my bedroom are wooden, with little to no insulation, so I could hear every time someone walked into the pantry below to grab a snack, or when my father would turn on baseball talk radio in the bathroom, or when my mom started the laundry. Through the vents I could even hear down into the basement. The clanking of weights meant someone was working out in the gym. Live drums signaled my brother was in his element. And I could work in peace knowing everyone was happy.

My father gave me permission to paint my room however I pleased. I picked the brightest orange on the Electro-magnetic spectrum. He was less than thrilled, but allowed me to have the pleasure of decorating it myself. I had a vision and he allowed me to see it through to reality. How I laugh every time I come home to the country-style decor and walk upstairs only to find a blinding room of illuminating rays that shouldn't be allowed inside.

Around the corner of my bedroom is an open hallway, at the corner of which lay a space I'll call, "The Perch." The Perch is an overlooking area, sectioned by more oak railings, which you can lean over and look out into the dining room. This is the where my father comes out of the master bedroom in the morning and observes my mother and me having coffee and asks what we are whispering about. The Perch reveals any attempted secret, taking “open concept” to a whole new level.

Adjacent to The Perch is an area that used to be a catwalk, but has since turned into another bathroom. It seems some part of the house was always under construction. This bathroom was one that my brother and I mainly would share. We had a ritual of washing our faces and brushing our teeth at the same time while making up songs or telling funny stories before bed. This happened pretty much until I moved out. We'd make strange faces while grooming ourselves and sometimes still do if we're both home for a holiday, just for old times’ sake. My self-image was often healthiest here, but my vanity would also participate.

The front porch, with the boulders that my father had specifically selected and bulldozed out from the yard, is another noteworthy facet of the house. It is an extension of the foundation upon which sits The Loft, The Perch, and everything in between. Its boulders are a stronghold; not only do they balance the entrance way symmetrically as if to hug the guest inside, but they integrate nature and structure in a way that makes a statement. I remember playing on these rocks like Pocahontas, leaping from one to another and jumping off at the end, as if I could fly.

It wasn't until recently that my father shared with us some personal insight into his vocation as a carpenter. He said if being a carpenter was good enough for Jesus, then it was good enough for him, and he doesn’t exactly sit in the front pew. Another time at dinner, he said that he is thankful that he can do what he loves (building things) and in doing so, make others happy.

I can only wonder what it truly is like to give your all for a child—to physically and figuratively build your life around them so they can have the very best and pour out your life so that someone else has the opportunity to have an even greater life. But I do know that if my father can build a house so intricately, then my heavenly father has surely prepared a place for each of us, with even more hiding places, lofts, balconies, lookouts, rooms, and heart carvings than we can imagine.

As I walk down the stairs, hand on the banister, to the open space capped with wooden beams, I observe my father opening the bird cage before he knows I’m there. I smile at the site of a grown man finding such joy as the little bird cradles itself into the palm of his strong, blistered hand.

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Lorraine’s Sunshine

Photo courtesy of Kerri Liss

Photo courtesy of Kerri Liss

By Kerri Liss

You are my sunshine

Hi, pumpkin! You are so beautiful. You are the prettiest girl in that picture. Do you want to see a funny picture of when I was a cheerleader at St. Mary's? Oh those nuns were just awful! They used to make girls sit in the boys’ room if you did anything wrong. I used to walk to school every day up Mount Vernon Street, you know Mount Vernon Street, with the big hill? I'd walk up every day with my curlers in my hair bouncing up and down, up and down, and then I'd go straight to the locker room and set my hair with the pins and everyone used to say, “Oh Lorraine! You have beautiful hair.” Really they did! You wouldn't believe it now. Jeez, I'm lucky if I can even get a clump big enough to put one pin on my head! You must take after me, beautiful.

My only sunshine

You see we were poor growing up and we just didn't have what you people have. You don't know how lucky you are.

You make me happy

Remember that time that you fell down in the snow when you were hiding the Easter eggs in the backyard? Ha, we'll never forget it. I remember you looked back laughing at yourself and it was beautiful. You kind of gave away the hiding place though, Gram. Or what about those times I would dress up in your fur coat and heels, or better yet, dress the boys up in your coats and dresses! We laughed so hard. I know you thought I was so clever. I was though! On Saturday nights when you all were watching television in the den, I was busy at your round kitchen table memorizing the alphabet backwards just for fun. Then you would brag to everyone how smart I was. We'd soon end up getting everyone involved and then busting out Connect Four. You loved games and loved to have fun. Almost as much as you loved me. And shopping.

When skies are grey

That night we got the call. I just knew things weren't good. What do you mean she gave it all away? Well, how much? All of it? Well isn't there anything you can do?

You'll never know, Dear

I never saw the way he looked at you, but I know he loved you and I know you loved his blue eyes. I didn't know him, but you told me he was the sweetest, most kind man. He would work all day and then study his engineering at night in the den. And he would drive to Boston every day! He would leave at four in the morning! He was a great man. I sometimes wish now that we could have talked more about him. I think we would have gotten along really well. I can't wait to meet him.

How much I love you

Hi, princess! Do you know how much I love you? Grammy loves you so much! And don't you ever forget it! I know everything you did, every worry you had, every thought, idea, phone call, and intention was only for love of us. I love you too. I think you're marvelous and I think you did your very best. You were a strong woman and I wish you didn't try to convince yourself so.

Please don't take

It was hard to see you leave your house of 50 years. Though I couldn't wait to take that wallpaper down. It was hard to hear you say that you didn't think we cared for you. It was hard to hear you talk like that. But the hardest was when you forgot. The day you didn't know who I was. Your best friend. Or when you couldn't be at my graduation. Not because you didn't want to. Just because you couldn't and it isn't your fault. I wanted you to meet my kids someday and you would love them even more than you loved me! Can you believe it? And you would be proud of me, of course, you were always proud of me. And maybe, just maybe, you would be proud of yourself for being a single mother for many of your parenting years. You raised a good man, the first man I ever loved and ever will love.

My

You showered us with gifts every December. You didn't just give us what we wanted, you gave us more. You showed me how great His gifts are and will be. You showed me a glimpse of heaven with every Christmas. I know it isn't about the gifts they say, but it actually was. Because you were there and you are a gift to me. And then we would wake up and have a birthday breakfast just to do it all over again! Your love was as close to infinite as humanly possible.

Sun

I knew it was about to happen, I could hear it in mother's voice. That's why I drove up that night to see you. Can I just have a few minutes with her? Hail Mary. When I looked at you, you seemed so peaceful and I remembered our song. Do I see a smile? Can you hear me? I only hear my voice this time. It's nothing like that voice of yours.

Shine

Hand squeeze.

Away

Release.

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How ‘Goodbye to All That’ Convinced Me to Stay in New York

By Lindsey Wojcik

“I am going to die in New York City.” As morbid as it might seem, it was the answer I gave to my friends and family when they asked when I was going to come home to Michigan before I had even left. I wouldn’t touch down in the metropolis for months, but I had resolved that once I moved there I would be there for good.

Five years later, I’m living in Astoria, N.Y., with my boyfriend in the nicest apartment I’ve rented since first moving to Manhattan in 2009. My journey through the boroughs of New York hasn’t always been comfortable or satisfying, nor has it been what I expected. I can no longer say with confidence I will die here. 

Last year, during a particularly rough time, I picked up Sari Botton’s Goodbye to All That: Writers on Loving and Leaving New York, a book of essays inspired by Joan Didion’s 1967 essay of the same name. Botton’s collection features 26 essays penned by women, including Botton’s own (“Real Estate”), who have loved, lived in, and left the city I call home. Some of the writers have eventually found their way back to New York. The book’s authors, from born-and-raised New Yorkers to transplants that hail from the Midwest (like me!) and elsewhere, present the perfect mix of relatable, yet very different, perspectives on only-in-New-York experiences.

The first line of the first essay, Hope Edelman’s “You Are Here,” pulled me in just like New York had. “Like so many New York stories, this one begins with real estate.” Edelman’s got that right, I thought, recalling the first apartment-related essay I penned at the start of my New York tenure.

During my slow read of Goodbye to All That, I was closing in on my five-year anniversary in New York, feeling drained from urban life—financially, at least—and stuck in an uninspired editorial career. However, after finishing the book’s last essay, “Minnesota Nice,” I realized I was not quite ready to say goodbye and here’s why:

An aerial view of New York City

An aerial view of New York City

Because I still get a New York high.

New York has a super power. The sights, sounds, and smells give its explorers a sensory overload equivalent to a euphoric high that leaves its lovers wanting more. I experienced it the first time I visited the city as a tourist seven years ago and each subsequent visit I made before moving.

I am not alone. In her essay “Crash and Burn,” Eva Tenuto writes: “From my first hit of New York City, I was hooked. I got high off the energy and craved it when I returned to my quiet, boring country home.”

Tenuto’s words were a gentle reminder that, after five years, I still get that high. I get it every single time I decide to walk to my destination instead of taking the train. For example, a few weeks ago, I walked from my apartment in Astoria to Central Park. My legs wanted to stop, but Manhattan’s skyline and George Gershwin’s “Rhapsody in Blue” blaring through my headphones gave me a high that lured my tired body over the Queensboro Bridge. When I reached my destination, the park was speckled in autumn’s colors, giving me the highest of New York highs.

Because I still haven’t found what I’m looking for. 

Everyone comes to New York in search of something. Most are looking for success in a career or in love. In “A War Zone for Anyone Looking for Love,” Liza Monroy expresses the fear that “living anywhere else meant you’d given up,” and “the successful people were simply the ones that stuck around.” Monroy adds that she was determined to become one of those successful people, and I am too.  

Of course, success is subjective. In many ways, I’ve crushed it in New York City. I found love and a home, however, my professional choices haunt me every day. I moved to the city hoping to eventually see my name on the masthead of a glossy, consumer magazine. The years and the desperation for steady income have led me down another path—one I’m very grateful for in this economy—but that does not meet my creative needs. I don’t want to leave the city until I’ve rectified that by either “going consumer” or finding another creative outlet.    

Socrates Sculpture Garden in Astoria, N.Y.

Socrates Sculpture Garden in Astoria, N.Y.

Because I’m still up for the challenge.

Do I sometimes get tired of the grind? Absolutely. Otherwise, I would not have questioned my ability to last another year or two here. New York shovels a lot of shit into the faces of its inhabitants. Sometimes, it’s literal shit. However, New Yorkers take it all in stride, and I have learned to do the same.

Goodbye to All That helped me realize that the inevitable challenges of life will ultimately follow me anywhere I go. I will have to find affordable, comfortable housing in another town. Instead of frustrations that come with the MTA shutting down an entire subway line, I’ll have to navigate closed roads and construction. And crime, similar to the apartment burglary I experienced during my first year in New York, happens everywhere.

At this point in my life, I am not searching for anything else, like I was when I first moved to the city. If anything, I’m looking to improve my New York life, not escape it. So, no, I am not ready to say goodbye to all I’ve got.  

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Urban Escape: 7 Photos New York City Slickers Will Love

By Cristina Cianci

Since moving to New York City for the first time this past summer—post-college shenanigans, of course—I've learned a few new things about the city, while others were like a trip down memory lane from yesteryear.

1. Nothing compares to that feeling of pride in downtown Manhattan, especially in September.

2. It’s still one of my life goals to jump down from a fire escape. This one was my grandpa’s in Little Italy.

3. The Metropolitan Museum of Art on the Upper East Side never disappoints for inspiration. I can get lost for days, which I did on this day and wound up on the roof.

4. My morning view ensures I never take this life for granted or too seriously. I pinch myself daily.

5. Brunch, brunch, and more brunch. Three times a day if needed, and, most certainly, per weekend. I found this is a gem of an alley in the Lower East Side after eating at Freemans.

6. Always carry an umbrella, or run to the nearest Duane Reade to invest in one, or else you will Mary Poppins down Third Avenue. I learned this lesson the hard way during a typhoon this past June.

7. Tar Beach should be your new favorite beach in the summer. Become familiar. No more Jersey Shore. Rooftop barbeques, beer, new friends, and kiddie pools are to the Atlantic Ocean as bottle caps are to sea shells.

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In the Presence of Old Friends: How Nostalgia Can Fuel Your Writing

Brothers in arms forever.

Brothers in arms forever.

By Daniel Ford

It was 2 a.m.

I had a cup of coffee in my hand, a black pug on my lap, and an episode of “The West Wing” was playing on a big screen television. I was flanked on both sides by my best friends from college, Derek and future Writer’s Bone contributor Stevo. Several years have passed since we last lived under the same roof (never mind how many!), but for a couple of hours, it seemed like no time had passed at all. We caught up using the only tools that matter: biting sarcasm, inappropriate inquisition, and nonsensical musings.

The three of us started out living in a much smaller apartment not too far from one of the main entrances of St. John’s University in Queens, N.Y. Those were lean years for all of us. Stevo and I would deposit our meager checks from the jobs we worked off campus at the Bank of America on Jamaica Ave. and then proceed to spend it all at the IHOP right down the street. It was a guaranteed night of gluttony, rent check be damned.

Learning how to be a man and hone your craft at the same time is never easy. Throw in student debt, everyday bills, and New York City, and it’s damn near impossible. Which is why it was so much fun. It was a puzzle I constantly had to solve knowing that I was missing several pieces. There’s a rawness I knew I possessed, but I wasn't quite savvy enough of a human being to polish it fully. In my case, it took a lot of time, horrible life decisions, and these two friends.

Stevo and I as college freshmen.

Stevo and I as college freshmen.

Since I use several antidotes from our time together in my novel (which is coming soon, I promise), I can’t rundown my favorite moments that helped shape me as a writer. However, it was more their general presences that fueled my creativity. The easiest thing you can do as a writer is surround yourself with people that are smarter than you. Be in that room and acknowledge that those around you know more than you do. I’m not saying that I didn’t have a good fastball, I did, I just knew that these two men were, at times, operating at a higher level than I could have imagined at that point in my life. There were days that I would bring up a topic just to see how they were going to debate each side and how much fir would fly before our landlord came up to check to make sure we were all still alive. Tempers always cooled down. We never went to bed angry. We loved each other too much to stay mad for too long. While maybe we had trouble completely conceding our individual points, we would often reluctantly agree with where the other person was coming from.

I like to think their sarcasm, wit, and intelligence became hardwired into my own being. Thanks to our coffee addiction, I was awake at all hours and wrote a significant amount. A lot of it was crap. I didn’t know what I was doing yet. But I knew what I wanted to do. And I knew how I wanted it to sound. A little out of control. A little brash. A little bold. A little hurtful like a joke that maybe went too far until you thought about how brilliantly it was formed. My dialogue (which is still a work in process) wouldn’t be as strong as it is without those midnight conversations, Double J’s runs, and scotch and cigars in the driveway.

The last time we were all in the same place was Memorial Day barbeque a couple of years ago. There was a large scrum of people there, but there were moments when it was just the three of us. It was like a jazz band getting together after a long absence. We warmed up a bit, and then we were trading riffs back and forth with ease. Stevo’s brother critiquing Derek’s entire event was an added bonus.

It would take a year and our friend Kelly getting married to reunite the trio. Thanks to a pile of traffic on the Cross Island Expressway, Stephanie Schaefer and I were almost late to the ceremony. We didn’t know anyone else in the crowd. I fired off texts trying to find Derek and Stevo. I looked toward the front row and saw the back of two heads that looked familiar. Sure enough, there they were. They instantly made fun of me for tardiness and my Prius rental (Derek would later admonish me for not introducing Stephanie to the bride fast enough).

Derek and I at a St. John's Baseball event a couple of years ago.

Derek and I at a St. John's Baseball event a couple of years ago.

“You’re not really going to have coffee right now are you?” Stephanie asked as I tucked her in for the night in Derek’s spare bedroom.

“We’re just going to chat like a couple of old wives,” I replied, not really answering the question.

Derek had a full cup of coffee waiting for me when I returned to the living room. It was strong. I drank it. Like the old days, I feel asleep right away despite consuming that fistful of caffeine (the hours of driving in a downpour earlier that day may have counteracted the coffee). There was only one thing left to do in the morning. A visit to our favorite diner in Long Island, N.Y.: Thomas’ Ham and Eggery.

The owner was taking orders at the counter, like always, and didn’t know who Stevo and I were without our much more heralded brother in arms (who, just like old times, had to work). I ordered my standard ham and cheese omelet, which comes in a skillet at this particular establishment, and yet another strong cup of black coffee.

It didn’t take long for Stevo and I to launch into a conversation about television shows, movies, and comic books (much to Stephanie’s chagrin). Plans were made to interview him soon about Godzilla (look forward to that) and meet up again in Boston in the near future.

Stevo and I in front of our favorite N.Y. diner.

Stevo and I in front of our favorite N.Y. diner.

With my belly full of nostalgia, home fries, and cholesterol, I began the drive home over the Throgsneck Bridge (the same bridge my father had traveled to bring me to St. John’s and New York City more than a decade ago). I was awash in old memories and ready to embrace renewed creativity. My mind was working a little sharper, and the ideas I had been hammering away at looked a little more plausible.

For the last two weeks, Writer’s Bone contributors and some of our favorite authors have provided essential tips for how to get your creative mojo back. I waited to weigh in until my muse settled back in for an extended stay. Here’s my advice:

Talk to old friends. Call them up. Go visit. Have a meal at a diner. Drink a lot of coffee and make fun of each other until tears roll down your eyes. Debate important issues. Disagree on everything except for the mutual respect you have for each other. Reminisce about how foolish you were back in the day. Recall the events and moments that got you to where you are now. And then, to tweak author Scott Cheshire’s advice, write like hell.

Works every time.

Keep writing, everyone.

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The Art of the Cruel Joke: A Friendship Defined by Laughter

Batman: Hey, Superman!Superman: What?Batman: I slept with Lois Lane.Superman: Who hasn't?

Batman: Hey, Superman!

Superman: What?

Batman: I slept with Lois Lane.

Superman: Who hasn't?

By Sean Tuohy

Friendship is an odd concept and a strange part of the human experience. As social beings, we crave interaction with others, but there are a select few that we chose to make a daily fixation in our lives. Those few and proud are called friends; people who decided are good enough to join us on the journey that is life. Hey, even serial killers have friends.

I've been lucky to make great friends throughout my life. These people mean the world to me and are part of my extended family. The core to most friendships are shared interests, including movies and sports. There is always something that ties two friends together, a bond that only they share.

I went to visit my friend Aaron, who recently moved from the sun soaked beaches of South Florida to the chilled streets of Bangor, Maine. Aaron and I have been friends for roughly six years. We have spent a lot of time together. We share very little in common. Aaron is a sports nut who can spew out sports facts like Dustin Hoffman in "Rain Man." I am not a sports fan. I like movies, books. and talking about random things. We barely like the same music. We don’t share the same political views. We don’t even agree on beer choices. Despite a canyon of differences between us, we have maintained a friendship that is based built on a similar humor. Our sense of humor is the rope that ties us together at the hip.

Since the beginning, Aaron and I love to make the other laugh. We like to share embarrassing or strange personal stories with one another and try to make the other one crack up. We come up with random scenarios that no sane person would ever think about. We force our minds go to dark corners in attempts to elicit laughter. We have said comments so obscene and out of this world that I've wondered often what is wrong with us. Sometimes our pursuit for laughs leads to us insulting one another by saying cruel and downright awful statements.  

On our most recent car ride to a national park, Aaron and I quickly went to work. This involved a mix of insults, personal stories, and crude comments. Highlights included:

“Your bedroom is like a cancer ward; it only sees awful things”
“I’ll take your mom for a spin.”
“You’re as much fun as 9/11”
“You know what, just kill yourself.”

These comments continued and got worse as the ride went on. We called one another names, compared our sex lives to those of child molesters, and explained the weird and very violent sexual things that we would do to the other’s family if given the chance. It went on and on. Each comment was followed by a wide joyful smile. The goal was to have the other one burst out laughing. Aaron won with one simple and well-timed joke.

We passed a small airfield with prop planes parked out front. A large sign declared the airfield’s name and below it said “biplanes.” Aaron pointed at the sign and said,

“Hey, look those planes are bi.”

It wasn't really that funny, but the tone in which he said it screamed “y’know what I mean?” It was enough to make me crack up. I laughed. I laughed really hard. My voice cracked. I got red in the face. I was really laughing like it was the funniest thing I had ever heard. In that moment, I remembered why we were friends. Aaron was one of the few people who could make me laugh that hard.

I know this doesn't sound like  a healthy or a rewarding friendship, but it is one of the best  I have. The ability to make the other laugh is a great bond that we share. Will the insults continue when we are older and wiser?

God, I hope so.

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Soon Is Now: How ‘The Wedding Singer’ Soundtrack Made Me Fall in Love With the 1980s

This post kicks off Soundtrack Day on Writer’s Bone. Tune in later this afternoon for our compilation of the best soundtracks of all time.

By Lindsey Wojcik

I was a tween obsessed with 1990s pop music, and some of the grunge-y alternative of the time, when the Adam Sandler-Drew Barrymore romantic comedy set in 1985 was released in 1998. I could quote “Billy Madison” word-for-word, but “The Wedding Singer” didn't seem to have that sort of silliness; it seemed softer. I most likely saw it in the theater (I really can't recall), but I do know a VHS copy of “The Wedding Singer” was on my birthday gift wish list that year. I wore out that tape—so much so that my parents moaned when I put it in—and as such, I became familiar with the soundtrack. The film hooked me the moment I heard "You Spin Me Round – Like a Record" by Dead Or Alive in the opening sequence.

It was my first real exposure to a mix of 1980s music. Sure, I had heard Madonna and the B-52s before, but as an 11-year-old, I certainly didn't understand Robbie Hart's (Sandler) reference to The Cure. In one scene, a heartbroken Hart tells love interest Julia Guglia (Barrymore), "When I wrote this song, I was listening to The Cure a lot." The Cure didn't even make the soundtrack, though “Boys Don’t Cry” can be heard faintly in the background of another scene.

Once I really listened to the 26-song two-CD compilation, which was among the first few CDs I ever received, (that would be the year my family first owned a CD player—even in fictional 1985 a confused Julia Guglia had one before my family), my love for everything 1980s flourished. It was more than pop; it featured post-punk, new wave bands like The Psychedelic Furs and The Thompson Twins—a sound I had never heard before. Then, I heard the guitar riff on "How Soon is Now?" by The Smiths. From then on, it was exclusively on repeat.

It would be years later during my angsty teen years, after more 1990s and early Aughts pop music distracted me, that I'd rediscover “The Wedding Singer” soundtrack. “How Soon Is Now?” would inevitably lead me to The Smiths’ entire catalogue and elevate their status as one of my favorite bands ever. Sadly, I'd never get the chance to see them live. Though, seeing the group’s lead singer, Morrissey, perform some of the band's songs at Radio City Hall on my 25th birthday is the closest I'll get.

After relistening to the soundtrack in high school, and consequently around the time VH1’s “I Love the 80s” premiered, my 1980s fixation went beyond the music. Researching 1980s pop culture became a hobby. I wanted to learn about and consume the movies, television, fashion, news, and, of course, other music that defined the decade, and I wanted to have a better understanding of references in the movie like “Franky Say Relax” and “New Coke.” I also needed to know how each song on the soundtrack I loved made an impact on the culture.

I finally understood that George’s character embodied Boy George, and I realized why “Do You Really Want to Hurt Me” by Culture Club was the only song he knew how to sing on his own. And while a granny performing “Rapper’s Delight” was hysterical on screen, I knew it really did not do the historic song justice.

“The ‘80s weren’t that great,” my parents would tell me as my obsession grew. However, “The Wedding Singer” soundtrack made me nostalgic for a time I never experienced but so desperately wish I could have enjoyed. If only I had been born 10 years earlier! The music wasn’t “new,” but it was new to me. I was exposed to a different music genre, and it made me a fan of many of the featured artists. That's what a powerful soundtrack does. It connects a viewer to what’s happening in a film, while creating and evoking emotion that will last long after the credits have rolled. “The Wedding Singer” spun me right round.

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Is A Bar A Good Place To Write?

Is this the bar you should be writing in? (Photo by Cristina Cianci)

Is this the bar you should be writing in? (Photo by Cristina Cianci)

Guest post by Ben Schwartz

Yes.

Of course.

A bar is a great place to do just about anything. Where things get a little slippery is your choice of bar. And why you choose that specific bar—and what you want, consciously or not, to happen at that bar. The question here, then is not really “Is a bar a good place to write?” but “are you being honest with yourself? Really?”

Bar choice says a lot about a person. Let's say the new guy at work and you are getting chummy. He says, “Hey, let's grab a drink.” You give him the choice. He says, “Oh, how about Applebee's. I love their summer apple chimichanga bombs.” Are you going to go? That's an extreme example with an easy answer—but it helps set the parameters for this discussion.

You have a regular bar, that's a given. Even if you're not there every night, or every week, there is a distinct place, a specific stool even, that appears in your head when you get the thirst. That is your regular bar. I'm sure that bar is a great place—but is that the place to write?

Your writing time is precious, maybe a significant other has to take on a larger burden so you can write, maybe you're giving up time that should be spent on something else, no matter how insignificant. Like earning a living. So you need to take a good hard look at that reflection on your blank laptop screen and ask yourself something: Am I going to write? Or am I going to get drunk?

Either answer is fine. As long as you are being honest with yourself. You can kid yourself that the two can happen in harmony, but you know you're lying. You know. And whoever you told that you were going to bang out another chapter tonight knows. And they're not impressed. Frankly, neither am I. There is a time to get drunk. Many. But that is not the bar you're looking for tonight.

If you go to that magical regular spot of yours, you will inevitably see someone you haven't seen in so long and you can't not say hello. Or turn down a free drink, or not reciprocate several times. And you're correct, it would be rude, and to partake is the correct and moral choice. However, that's not going to reveal who the character in that questionable dream sequence is in chapter three. And, dammit, that's crucial character development. You can't handle that after three good beers. And you shouldn't, but maybe you should get drunk. If that's what you came for.

To really nail down the dying heart of the American dream, or truly capture the love that only the eternal undead feel, you need a different bar. The bar you need is nearly empty. It's far enough from home that when, in a moment of doubt and frustration, you can't just pop out the door and head home. It should be a little bit of a hassle and just a little dingy. What you don't want are pretentious assholes telling you your laptop is a piece of shit. It can't be too dingy. You don't want drunken assholes telling you a bar is for drinking. Don't know anyone. Tip well. Don't sit at the bar, unless it's long and you can squeeze into the corner stool. Sit at a small table, close enough to get served when you're empty and far enough so as not to get involved in bar talk. You should listen to the bar talk, throw a line in to your writing, but don't get involved. Even if you know, and you know you know, the answer to the question they're all arguing about don't jump in. That's their business. You have yours.

Stick to it. By all means, write in a bar. Just make it the right one. And don't get drunk. Or do, just don't pretend you didn't mean to.

Ben Schwartz is the author of The Drift of Things, the silver medal winning novel in the 2014 Piscataqua Press Novel Contest. To learn more about Schwartz, or to purchase The Drift of Things, check out his 

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Water Works: 10 Photos To Cool You Off This Summer

Haven't spent enough time at the beach, lake, or any other preferred body of water this summer? Don't worry, Writer's Bone photo essayist Cristina Cianci's latest post is the perfect cure-all for the summertime blues. Feel free to share your own water photos by tweeting us @WritersBone.

By Cristina Cianci

I grew up 20 minutes from the ocean. You can find me on the beach winter, spring, summer, and fall (in the appropriate seasonal wear of course). Nothing beats a quiet beach interrupted by the dulcet sound of waves spilling over the sand. I even have an alarm clock that makes that noise.

I have to get back to my beach towel and brightly colored cocktail, but enjoy my favorite water photos (seagulls and soothing waves not included):

1. A lagoon in my friend's backyard in Florida.

2. The Atlantic Ocean. This was taken during my first trip to the state of New Hampshire! It's also the farthest north I've been in the U.S. Check those off the list!

3. The Hudson River from my new neighborhood in New York City.

4. My pool at my family's home in New Jersey on a sunny day.

5. Lago di Caldaro in Italian Alps.

6. Magical September sun beams on the Venetian canals.

7. Post winter waves in New Jersey.

8. My cousin fully enjoying herself in Lago di Resia, Italy.

9. Post Friday night cocktail with views of lower Manhattan.

10. My favorite home away from home, our summer escape in Wildwood Crest, N.J. It has held many memories and secrets for the past 25 years, and will hold many more during the next 25. 

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Life Alchemist: How Zilla Rocca Cooked Up His Noir Hop Recipe

Zilla Rocca

Zilla Rocca

Guest post by Zilla Rocca

Rick Rubin summed it up for me in an interview last year:

"When you’re a fan from the outside of something, you can embrace it in a different way than when you’re a fan from the inside. Run-D.M.C. could be sort of gangstery in their own way, pre-gangster rap, because they were suburban kids. Kurtis Blow, who was from Harlem and really around gangsters, he didn’t want to be a gangster. He wanted to look above it and wear leather boots and be more like a rock star. Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five were really inner-city, hard-life guys, and they wanted to be from outer space.”

I grew up during the South Philly mafia wars of the 1980s and 1990s, where people's houses were blown up from nail bombs in the mailbox. This kid I went to grade school with was called into the principal's office to find out his mafia father was gunned down. My best friend's wife is the daughter of a capo who just got out of jail after a 14-year stretch. I've been inside mafia bars. I've delivered pizza to mafia houses. I played sports with guys who are now high ranking officials. My mother's first house had issues with property value because a  former mob boss delayed a riverside development near our house—he tried extorting the developer for $1 million and the developer went to the FBI. It took another 10 years for that development to happen.

It was just an accepted part of growing up, but I didn't want to be in it. Most guys in South Philly were in heaven when “The Sopranos” was on the air because it resembled parts of our lives. Same with “Goodfellas,” “A Bronx Tale,” etc. But I'm not Italian, so that wasn't a badge of honor. It's fun to visit those guys on a television screen, but you don't want to live next door to them or work for them. They had no integrity or character. They were also incredibly stupid—none of them finished high school. Like Posdnous said, they were animals surviving with animal behavior. I was never like that.

When I first started writing raps, it was on some super-lyrical shit in 1997 because that was the style—Wu-Tang, Killarmy, Canibus, Big Pun, Black Thought. Even back then, there was a group of all white South Philly rappers named Nostra who wanted to be mafia guys. I thought they were clowns (I just found their stuff on Philaflava). By my early 20s, I was into crazy abstract shit like Camp Lo, Aesop Rock, El-P, and doseone. My mid-20s, I had more stories to tell about women. I was really into Slum Village, Q-Tip, and Ghostface. My late 20s, I start pinpointing what I really liked and left everything behind: nightlife, good booze, the way certain words sound, and stories about crime.

Zilla Rocca

Zilla Rocca

The way I write is a combination of things: most of them start out with notes and phrases I keep on the notepad in my phone. I get those phrases from anywhere—comic books, something I hear an old lady say at the market, a lyric from a different genre, a hardboiled crime book I'm reading. So I weave those in with some personal experiences, but I stray away from being 100 percent open about my life on purpose ("Success is Invisible" off “Neo Noir” is probably the most honest and concise I've been in a while). It's more about quick snapshots of my life mixed in with phrases and notes blended with shit that sounds good.

I edit a lot. I barely do drugs. I work a day job. I'm engaged. I go to the gym. I practice Buddhism. My life is pretty balanced. But there's times when it's not balanced, and there were many years when it was completely out of whack. Once I started focusing on things I always enjoyed though, it started manifesting itself. Last night, I was at two speakeasies then had a steak dinner at an English pub. My fiancée bought me Bulleit rye for Christmas. A dude in New York City at my last show brought four books for me to borrow, and all of them are about detectives, noir, and tough guy writers from the 1930s. This stuff wasn't happening to me in 2008 because I was obstructing and compartmentalizing my creativity: "I make beats for this guy over here that sound like this, then I do weird one-offs for me that get leaked by themselves, then my main album has to have this producer only on it" and so on.

I really connected with John Lennon, because he would write stuff like "I Am the Walrus" and "Come Together," which are lyrically thrilling. Then he would write beautiful and simple songs like "Julia," "Oh Yoko," and "Jealous Guy." Tom Waits is the same to me. What Waits always does, and what John figured out later, is not compartmentalize his stuff like "My love songs go over here, and my drawings go over there, and my short stories stay under the bed, and my love for kazoos stays hidden forever." He puts them all together because they're all him. I try to do that, so my personal stuff mixes with slang mixes with stories from other people mixes with a Daredevil comic mixes with an old phrase my grandmother used to say. The common thread is my enjoyment from all of them. After becoming fans and friends of Billy Woods, Curly Castro and I decided to start putting more sports references in our songs because that's a big part of our lives that we kept out on purpose.

I love Action Bronson because his entire career is based solely off of things that make him laugh, smile, or want to eat. He only follows his joy, whether it's a baseball player from the 1990s he used to worship, or a pair of sneakers he always wanted, or doing something foul to a prostitute. He blends it all together all of the time. He's never obstructed. He raps over "November Rain." He tells crime stories that go nowhere but sound intoxicating. He lusts for roasted elk. He's so open to the world, and what he attracts fulfills his interests because he only pursues his interests. He can't write a hook and he's famous with a major label record deal because he shares with you all of things that make him giddy.

I try to do the same thing because that's the most honest way to write.

Also check out:

 

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How I Went From A Self-Conscious Writer to A Conscious Writer

By Sean Tuohy

I have major difficulties reading and writing. Words get tangled together in an unholy mess on the page when I read. When I write there are several dozen spelling errors and grammar mistakes(In the first draft of these piece there several dozen mistakes that needed to be corrected). Sometimes I see so many red underlined words on my computer screen that I'm scared my Spell Check is going to be so overworked it will give up.

Despite all this, I am still a writer and storyteller. The only difference between myself and most other writers that populate the landscape is I have to work a hell of a lot harder than the next writer to create something that reads smoothly. To put it in the simplest terms my brain is wired differently than everyone else's. I don't take in knowledge and sort it in my mind the same way as other people.

As a kid, this made me very self-conscious. I was different from everyone else, I was a freak, I had "issues." While my fellow classmates stayed in class and read books with the teacher and talked about what they just read, I was pulled out of the classroom and put in a "special classroom" with a "special teacher" and read easier books that were several levels below my grade level.

I was lucky enough to attend school in one of the best public school systems in the country during my early years. Once I was in middle school I began catching up with my classmates, and started reading for myself. I also discovered a love for movies. I would watch the same movie over and over and over again until the tape broke (VHSs were still very much a thing back then), but I also would have the closed captions on so I could read along with the actors speaking. This helped me improve my reading and spelling. After that, I found my love for spy thrillers and hard boiled detective novels, which I ate up, not realizing how these pulpy books were improving my reading and writing skills.

I still very much felt like a freak. Although I began writing, screenplays and short stories, pumping them out like crazy, I never let anyone read them for fear they would see the God-awful spelling mistakes and look at me as if I was a moron. So I kept writing in private and sometimes I would share something with a friend of mine or a close family member. The writing stayed private, it stayed close to me.

As we've mentioned several times on the website and podcast, that is the worst thing in the world to do as a writer. You will never grow as a writer if you never allow people to read your work. You won't know your strengths and weaknesses unless someone tells you. Whatever you write you should have another pair of eyes looking at it. To do this you need to believe in yourself and your work. Believe that what you are doing is good enough for people to read, believe that you have the skills to write a compelling story, and believe in yourself as a writer and you will succeed.

I lacked that completely. I had no trust in myself, my writing, or my skills because of my "issue." This started to change once I wrote a 20-page script about two best friends sitting around talking about movies, girls, and sex. It was a Kevin Smith rip off, but I believed in it. I knew it was funny and I knew people, my friends, would like it if they read it. Guess what? They did read it and they did find it funny. Somehow, I found the courage to share the script. The first few moments of them reading were the most stressful moments in my teenage life. In my mind, I pictured people reading the script and laughing at how badly it was written and me running off crying. Well, that didn't happen. They read the script and laughed because they found the subject matter funny and it was well written. I can remember being in math class and this kid named Robert howling with laughter as he read it. It felt great to have people read my work and really enjoy it. I’m sure people noticed the mistakes, but it didn't take away from the script. To them it was still good despite the mistakes.

We all have something that holds us back from going after our dreams, some force that hinders us from obtaining the greatness we all want. For me, it was my "issues" with reading and writing, but I've learned to let them go. I still have a lot of problems reading and writing, but it no longer holds me back or makes me feel freakish. To be honest, it makes me feel special. I embrace my weirdly wired brain because it allows me to see things that other people don't get to see, write things no one else has written before, and allows me to be me. Find what holds you back from becoming that amazing writer or whatever you want to be and embrace it. Embrace your fear and faults. Embrace who you are and you will succeed. 

A final word on this topic:

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5 Ways You Can Become A Better Writer in the Second Half of 2014

By Daniel Ford

I know some sun and surf left over from the Fourth of July weekend might be clinging to your Monday work outfit, but it’s time to get back to work.

The muse rests for no writer.

I came up with five tips that you can use to improve your writing during the second half of 2014. Feel free to suggest your own in the comments section or tweet us @WritersBone.

Don’t Be Afraid To Be Alone

Being alone sucks doesn’t it? Consider these quotes from writers about loneliness:

“Writing is a lonely job. Even if a writer socializes regularly, when he gets down to the real business of his life, it is he and his type writer or word processor. No one else is or can be involved in the matter.”—Isaac Asimov
“The writing profession is reeking with this loneliness. All our lives we spend in discoursing with ourselves…The loneliest people in the world we writers are. Except that, while we are conversing and laughing with ourselves, we manage to shed our loneliness…to scatter it as we go along.”—H. L. Mencken
“Writing, at its best, is a lonely life. Organizations for writers palliate the writer's loneliness but I doubt if they improve his writing. He grows in public stature as he sheds his loneliness and often his work deteriorates. For he does his work alone and if he is a good enough writer he must face eternity, or the lack of it, each day.”—Ernest Hemingway

Gah. Who would choose such a life?

Well, you did. I did. All writers have.

There’s nothing wrong with being alone. I’m a social writer—one who needs constant stimulation from music, conversation, or noise to get my thoughts down on paper. However, there comes a point where I need to tune all of that out to get down to the actual business of writing. It’s not an easy place to get to because the loneliness of it is so crushing.

But goddamn, it’s worth it.

There’s no need to be afraid of it. You know what happens after you’re alone? You’re not. You’ve got a finished product that you can ask someone about. And you become one with the world again.

“BIC”

I’m adopting a method of writing I learned from author Jeff Shaara during our podcast interview. It's the “Butt in Chair” method, which complements “don’t be afraid to be alone” nicely.

Get in the chair! Duct tape your can to the seat if you need to!

The best part is you can put your chair anywhere. The beach, a cabin in the woods, a park, a roof deck overlooking the city, a five-star hotel, or any other place your muse likes to frequent. There’s no reason to be uncomfortable while you’re lighting your mind on fire.

Longhand Is Your Friend

Writers come up with a ton of excuses not to write. It’s so easy not to write you don’t have your butt in a chair or you don’t have your perfect alone time.

“I’m not near my computer” is something I hear often. Who cares? God invented paper and it’s worked well for pretty much every writer before this generation of computer addicts. Carry around a notebook for when the muse strikes you when you least expect it. You can write notes or write a full story in longhand. Having to type it out later will only strengthen your prose.

Plus, that blinking cursor on the screen can be a bitch. It’s almost like having someone scream at you while you’re writing. If Hemingway had to use a computer, he would have blown his brains out a lot sooner than he did. It’s actually cliché now to say, “I stared at the computer screen looking at the flashing cursor willing myself to write something.”

Longhand writing requires more thought and effort, which is never a bad thing when you’re writing. You want all of your senses and mechanics involved. Besides, you’ll have beautiful pages to fondly look back on when you’re strangling pigeons in a Parisian park à la Hemingway.

Read Your Own Material

You’d be surprised how many writers don’t like editing their own stuff.

I am not one of them. I like to re-read and have others read my material. Your work needs to see a little bit of the world after you’ve been alone with it, labored over it, and churned it over in your mind again and again.

Don’t be worried that it might be crap. It likely is. But that’s okay too. Louis CK said in an interview once that you learn a hell of a lot more from failure than you do from success. He’s right. You find out what kind of writer you are when you overcome bad material. You figure out how to shape your dialogue better, which characters you should stick with, and what settings work better than others. You can’t discover any of that by putting your Word doc in your computer’s trash bin or stuffing your pages under a pillow.

Read, despair, learn, re-write. Repeat.

Have Fun

Writing doesn’t have to be drudgery. In fact, it shouldn’t be. Rebecca Cantrell, one of our earliest interviews and one of our biggest supporters, said it best:

“If writing isn’t fun, why do it? I have lots of fun writing and so do most other writers I know. It doesn’t have to be about suffering.”

Being creative is a gift. Don’t waste it being miserable.

Go write. Always.

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7 Highly Successful and Creative People Who Didn’t Have it All Together In Their Twenties (Or Thirties)

Why can't I just be 25?

Why can't I just be 25?

By Stephanie Schaefer

As I approach my 25th birthday (or as some like to say, “quarter of a century”), I can’t help but flashback three years prior. Fresh out of college and upset with the trials and tribulations of the so-called “real world” I had been thrown into, I called my mother in tears from my tiny New York City apartment.

“I just want to be 25,” I whined similar to the way that Jennifer Garner’s character wished she was older in the romantic comedy “13 Going on 30." I guess I naively believed that 25 is the age when everything falls into place—that perfect moment in time when your skin is free from the acne of your youth and the wrinkles of true adulthood. More importantly, I assumed that 25 was the year in which you put it all together—a blossoming career, a savings account, and a real, grown-up relationship.

Laughing at my naiveté, I know that when I wake up on my upcoming birthday, I probably won’t feel any different than I do now. I know that it’s not necessarily about the milestones, but, as clichéd as it sounds, it’s about your individual journey.

The seven uber-successful people listed below never put deadlines on their accomplishments or limits on their creativity, and neither should we.

Laura Ingalls Wilder

We all know and love her has the creator of the popular Little House on the Prairie children’s books, but did you know that Laura Ingalls Wilder didn’t publish her first book in the series until the age of 65? The original autobiographical work she wrote, which detailed a first-person narrative of her childhood on the frontier, was actually rejected by numerous publishing companies. It wasn’t until Wilder changed her approach to write in third-person that she finally achieved success in the industry.

Stan Lee

Without Stan Lee, Tobey Maguire and Andrew Garfield would just be two scrawny dudes trying to find work in Hollywood. Thanks to Lee’s creativity, we now know them both as Spiderman. Lee created his famous superhero at the age of 43, after working his way up in the industry. During his younger years he took any job he could get, including writing obituaries and selling them to the New York Herald Tribune. Now, his famous characters are still box office gold—“The Avengers” is the third highest-grossing film of all time.

J.K. Rowling

Prior to hitting it big with the beloved Harry Potter series, J.K. Rowling was a divorced, single-mom living on welfare. She sold her first book—after a slew of rejections—at the age of 32 for the equivalent of about $4,000. Today, there’s a whole theme park based on her creativity.

Sylvester Stallone

Sly Stallone’s journey is the ultimate Cinderella story, as Sean Tuohy has previously discussed.

Before gaining success by writing and staring in “Rocky,” Stallone was so broke that he once had to sell his dog for $50. Luckily, after selling his script, he was able to re-purchase his prized pooch, and the rest, as they say, is history.

Julia Child

Sometimes success tastes sweeter when it’s achieved later in life. In 1950, while Child was in her late 30s, the culinary master actually failed her first Le Cordon Bleu exam. This didn’t stop her from eventually receiving her diploma at the cooking school and going on to pursue a successful career within the industry. Neither did the fact that Houghton Mifflin actually rejected her cooking book manuscript twice. Today, more than 1 million copies of Mastering the Art of French Cooking (published by Random House in 1961) have been sold. Child’s story even inspired a popular rom-com starring Amy Adams and Meryl Streep.

Frank McCourt

A self-described “late bloomer,” the Pulitzer Prize-winning novelist didn’t publish his first book until the age of 66, after retiring from teaching in New York City. McCourt’s memoir Angela’s Ashes details his poverty-stricken upbringing during the time of the Great Depression. The book has sold more than 5 million copies, has been translated into 20 languages, and made into a feature film.

Lucile Ball

The world’s most lovable redhead was once known as the “Queen of the Bs” because she couldn’t break into A-list acting. In fact, her agent recommended that she should find a different career. Believe it or not, CBS was also originally unimpressed with the pilot of “I Love Lucy,” the show which re-launched Ball’s career when she was 40.

As for me, although I may not have it all figured out right now, I’m definitely closer than I was three years ago. And if things don’t magically fall into place on July 14, at least there will be cake.

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Apathetic Noir: Why I Love 1998’s ‘Zero Effect’

By Sean Tuohy

"A person can't escape their nature."—Daryl Zero

The pop culture landscape is teeming with overlooked movies. We all have that movie that we think is underrated or an actor or actress performance that no one took seriously. These are small, personal gems that you want share with the world at large, but that get you nothing but blank stares from unenlightened coworkers.

One of my favorites is a 1990s post-noir film that bleeds Generation X apathy: “Zero Efect.” The 1998 mystery thriller doesn’t play by modern mystery thriller rules. Writer/director Jake Kasdan, son of Lawrence Kasden, penned a tight, well-thought-out caper that would have made Lew Archer and Phillip Marlow stand up and cheer.

The movie follows the world's most private detective Daryl Zero and his partner Steve Arlo as they help find a blackmail artist in Portland. Zero is brought to life by Bill Pullman, who designs a character you learn to love slowly over the course of the movie. He’s a man driven by his work; skilled, resourceful, one of a kind. But Zero possesses no social graces and can be nearly impossible to be around. Somehow Arlo is able to keep the oddball hero on track, despite the issues that it causes with his relationship with his girlfriend. Arlo is played by Ben Stiller, who brings all his trademarks to the role, but with a little something extra. Stiller plays Arlo like a real person. He gets annoyed and frustrated with Zero and his crazy ways, but at the same time respects Zero's skills. The two have a very brotherly relationship, allowing the love they hold for one another to stay under the surface. The pair has great dialogue that bounces off one another and flows with ease.

"I'll shoot you. Really, I will. I have a gun and everything."—Steve Arlo

Now, I will say that Monk had a similar plot line: a detective who can barely operate in the real world, but with the help of a grounded partner he always solves the case. Well, Zero Effect took it a step further and made Zero a very difficult person to like. He snaps and lashes out at others and in one scene talks about how he has stayed awake for three days because of methamphetamines. Zero "lives" in closed off apartment from the world in a mess of paperwork and trash. He believes people listen to phone calls and that "they" are out there. I have no idea who "they" are, nor does Zero, but he believes in them. This over-the-top character produces some great comic moments, and “Zero Effect” as a whole is filled with great one liners that make you chuckle.

Kasden must be a fan of noir mystery because it shows in the movie. Scenes scream noir with shadows and the fanatic lighting. The script was well planned out because every step falls on the right spot.

Why was this movie so unknown? I'm not too sure. It wasn't a blockbuster, nor was it a Shane Black-style bang bang noir thriller. It was a small indie movie that told a compact, but layered story. I want to see more Darryl Zero in a television show or a book series. I would follow him and Arlo for years to come.

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5 Tips For Conquering Your Summer Reading List

A few books on Writer's Bone's summer reading list.

A few books on Writer's Bone's summer reading list.

By Rob Hilferty

Summer is right around the corner and that means most people have a lot more time on their hands. School is out, the days get longer. Most people use the summer as an excuse to travel, go outside, or work on some long forgotten projects. You know, like that book you've been meaning to get around to since Christmas. Or that stack of books you bought last year that you've totally been meaning to get around to once things finally settled down at the new apartment.

Yeah, assuming that you're not just skimming the bolded text like with all numbered lists, you know you're here because you probably need help with the whole reading list thing. I mean, really, what else are you going to for the summer, go outside? Do you know how fucking hot is it out there?

1. Break Your List Into Chunks to Make it Seem Less Daunting

First things first. You want to sit down and actually compile a list of all the things you want to read. Now this may seem fairly straightforward, but you can't just go balls deep on the first thrust. You've got to find and develop a rhythm that's sustainable for at least three months. Look at the list of books you have already. Even with all that Vitamin D from the summer sun, do you really think you're going to be able to read Infinite JestGravity's Rainbow,  and Finnegan's Wake all in a row without wanting to slit your wrists?

Be realistic and spread your books out. Toss in some light fantasy or pulp novels in between the heavier literature to keep you reading consistently. Depending on how ambitious your stack is, separating it into four to six book chunks with good mix of light and heavy reading will drastically reduce your chances of burning out within the first few weeks. And speaking of burn out...

2. Don't Be Afraid to Put a Book Down

Sometimes you really think you're going to like a book only to discover it sucks. Maybe the author pulled a bait and switch on you when you picked up a book about salt only to discover it's actually about cod, maybe reading Mysterious Skin when you're going through a personal crisis wasn't the best idea, or maybe you just really hate this fucking book you're reading right now for no reason.

Hey, it's cool. Put the book down and try something else. You can always go back and revisit that book but for the time being that book, for whatever reason just wasn't the book for you. Put the book down, walk away, and move on.

Cormac McCarthy. This guy.This fucking guy.

Cormac McCarthy. 

This guy.

This fucking guy.

What you don't want to do is grit your teeth and push through a shitty book just because it's on your list. Now that's not to say that you shouldn't push through a challenging book that you like, but sometimes those types of books can kill your reading habit. It took me three tries to get through Cormac McCarthy's Blood Meridian before I finally cracked it. Was it an excellent read? Absolutely. Was it worth my time and intellectual pursuit? Hell yes. Would I recommend it to everyone? Fuck no. The first two times I tried reading Blood Meridian were so demoralizing I actually stopped reading for a month or two afterwards because I felt so guilty about not finishing a book I was really interested in. Admittedly, the book is designed to be arduous for a reason, but not having anything to follow up with just killed my spirit. Had I just dropped the book and come back later I probably would've been able to read it a lot sooner than I ended up doing. However, the guilt was too strong to let me enjoy anything else. If we all followed Kenny Roger's sage advice about knowing when to fold ‘em, it would truly be a better world.

3. Read a Book You Wouldn't Normally Read

Now you're probably questioning this one because you're skeptical about finishing books you're actually interested in but seriously this one works. If you're really into a story driven fantasy novels, maybe try a historically accurate biography. Reading the same types of books can start to feel stale after a while, even when you really like them.

Part of the magic of reading is in discovering something wondrous about something you'd never thought to care about before. Books should inspire and educate people about how the world is, was, and can be. Good books should get you interested in something through compelling story telling and prose. Anyone whose ever read an Erik Larson book knows that he's a storyteller just as much as he's an historian. The point is, go read something different. Go learn something highly technical or read something bafflingly fantastic. Worse comes to worst you can always drop it and go back to your safety zone.

4. Find Someone You Can Talk to About Books

Whether it's a book club, a good friend, or an online forum, finding someone to talk about the totally awesome book you just read is exciting. When you're able to discuss books, especially particularly difficult and layered books, everything just feels better. Maybe you missed some big key piece in the novel that's been making you hate it, or perhaps you can just share in the thrill of talking about something brilliant.

Didn't have a book buddy.

Didn't have a book buddy.

Writing is an art, and despite what some people would say, it's an extremely social activity. I can't tell you how many times I've been gushing about a book when someone else completely unexpected joins in and we get to share a moment. Books are shared experiences, on a personal and societal level. It is our shared language and experiences that truly connects us as a people and books are merely an extension of that connection. Find someone who shares the same enthusiasm or loathing for a particular book and you'll not only want to read more but you may end up hating the human race a little less too.

5. Fucking Relax, They're Just Books

Let's be real here guys. I love books and reading. I mean enough that I'd like to involve them into a future career, but in all honesty some people take this shit way too seriously. Now I know I just spent a couple paragraphs waxing rhapsodic about universal connectivity of a good book, but not every book is like that. Sometimes a book is just a book. Sometimes a good story doesn't go beyond the boundaries of the page, but that doesn't mean they're worthless for not attempting to achieve more.

Just don't tell this guy.

Just don't tell this guy.

Certainly books have near infinite potential for how they can evoke, and invoke emotions but that's not the goal of every author. Sometimes books educate and illuminate, often times they merely entertain and that's more than okay. Don't be afraid or intimidated of something you're reading. Go at your own pace and forget about the number of books read and instead focus on the quality of the experience. If you rush through your list just to do it then you're missing out on a major part of the reading experience.

Overall, reading should be an enjoyable experience (or uncomfortable depending on what you're reading) and if you're not enjoying yourself then maybe it's time to take a long hard look at yourself and figure out why. Maybe try reading in the sun or some shit? I don't know.

Rob Hilferty's Summer Reading List 
Group A: 
  • This Is How You Lose Her by Junot Diaz
  • The Redemption Engine by James Sutter
  • The Piano Teacher by Elfriede Jelinek
  • King of Chaos by Dave Gross 
Group B: 
  • An Untamed State by Roxane Gay
  • The Gunslinger by Stephen King
  • Beloved by Toni Morrison
  • The Tipping Point: How Little Things Can Make A Big Difference by Malcolm Gladwell 
Group C: 
  • The Road by Cormac McCarthy
  • How the Irish Became White by Noel Ignatiev
  • No Longer Human by Osamu Dazai
  • American Pastoral by Phillip Roth 

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From Europe With Love: 12 Snapshots of Spain to Spark Your Creativity

Franco-Españolas Winery in Logroño (a favorite of Ernest Hemingway)

Franco-Españolas Winery in Logroño (a favorite of Ernest Hemingway)

By Stephanie Schaefer

Writers often feel restless and for justifiable reasons: deadlines, writer’s block, and a lack of creativity stemming from their day-to-day routine. Solving these problems typically requires a change of scenery—moving to a different room in your home, going outside, or, if you’re lucky, flying to a distant continent.

Writing isn’t known for being the highest paid industry, but they say that “traveling is the only thing you buy that makes you richer.” That’s as good excuse as any to book a ticket abroad, right?

Here are 11 more snapshots from my recent trip to Spain to save for a rainy day or creativity drought:

1. Overlooking the vineyards in Laguardia (not to be confused with the New York airport of the same name)

2. Colorful alley in Laguardia

3. Picturesque ocean view of the Basque Country coast (San Sebastian)

4. San Sebastian at sunset

5. Those who live in Crystal Palaces should not throw stones, they should just admire the view (Palacio de Cristal in Madrid)

6. Snapshot of a Flamenco dancer in Madrid

7. There’s no raining on this Madrid parade—just plenty of sunshine and bright attire!

8. The Buen Retiro Park (translation: "Park of the Pleasant Retreat") on a beautiful spring day

9. How could I not take a picture of the vast literature on the streets of Madrid for Writer’s Bone?

10. How many novels does a writer have to sell in order to live in this castle-like abode overlooking the park?

11. Corner of the Plaza Mayor filled with cafés and culture

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How Amy Poehler Confirmed My Belief That Musical Theater Is Transformative And Not Competitive

How Amy Poehler Confirmed My Belief That Musical Theater Is Transformative And Not Competitive

Never try to impress a former student who asks you about your opinion of “Parks and Recreation” and its irreverence toward libraries with the anecdote about how you had a lead in your college musical and an extremely successful, popular, talented, and wonderful actress in said television show had a less significant role in said musical.

Remembering Poet, Author, and Civil Rights Activist Maya Angelou

Maya Angelou1928-2014

Maya Angelou

1928-2014

By Sean Tuohy

“Love is that condition in the human spirit so profound that it allows me to survive, and better than that, to thrive with passion, compassion, and style.”

In lieu of our regularly scheduled "Badass Writer of the Week," we are honoring renowned poet, author, and civil rights activist Maya Angelou as our “Heroic Writer of the Week.” Angelou died Wednesday and America lost one of the most inspiring and original voices of the 20th century.

Through her writing, Angelou brought a voice to the voiceless and shed light on the plight of African-American women in the United States. Angelou was a fighter for peace and understanding in the world. Although I was most familiar with Angelou from her 1969 autobiography “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings,” I always knew and respected her name and what her work represented.

"I want to write so well that a person is 30 or 40 pages in a book of mine...before she realizes she's reading.”
Angelou being awarded the Medal of Freedom by President Obama.

Angelou being awarded the Medal of Freedom by President Obama.

Marguerite Annie Johnson was born April 4, 1928 in St. Louis, Mo. Her nickname was given to her by her older brother who often call his sister “my” or “mine.”

Her early years were extremely difficult because she was a young black woman growing up in Jim Crow’s South. When she was 7 years old, her mother’s boyfriend raped her, and then he was killed by an angry mob. Believing that her words had killed the man, Angelou refused to speak for many years and began writing.

Despite a rough start, Angelou didn't waste time getting her life on track. She studied dance in San Francisco, but dropped out at 14. At 16 years old, she became the first female street car driver. She returned to high school when she turned 17, and received her diploma. Weeks later she gave birth to a son.

As a single mother, Angelou worked as a waitress, but was constantly developing herself as an artist. By the mid-1950s she toured Europe as a singer and dancer and released her first album. Despite never going to college Angelou was called “doctor” by most people and she spoke six languages.

“I love to see a young girl go out and grab the world by the lapels. Life's a bitch. You've got to go out and kick ass.”
All writers should wear this megawatt smile.

All writers should wear this megawatt smile.

Angelou was friends with Martin Luther King Jr. and Malcom X and built a strong bond with talk show host and media mogul Oprah Winfrey, who was deeply inspired by the author. In 1993, she read at President Bill Clinton’s first inauguration, something an author had not done since Robert Frost in 1961. Angelou also taught at universities and gave speeches the world over.

Throughout her career as an artist Angelou always tried to deliver the same message: love. She believe deeply that love had the power to change so much in this world and make it a better place for all of us. Her name will always stand out in American culture, and it will always be spoken with the utmost respect and love.

Rest in Peace, Ms. Angelou.

“Everything in the universe has rhythm. Everything dances.”

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